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... Fioretti: ~ioretti winter 1992 A Literary Anthology volume 51, number 1 1992-1993 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana !Fioretti Staff Editors: Jennifer Miller, Claudia Struewing Advisor: Sr. Stella Gampfer, O.S.F. Collating Editors: Karen Walsh Jennifer Miller Claudia Struewing Artistic Contributions: Claudia Struewing Noelle Gasco Deardra Webb Thanks to: Larry Steeb Joe Doyle Table of Contents Snow/ Patrick M. W~bb ............................................................ 5 The Announcers! Kurt Cleeter.................................................. 6 Haiku! Karen Murphy ............................................................. 13 Wound the Loud Winds! Larry Atwood.................................. 14 Can You Hear the Angels Singing?/ Sarah Riggs.................. 15 Troubled! Karen Hauser.......................................................... 20 The Poetry of the Earth is Never Dead! Joan Peternel ..... ~ ... .21 Can't Judge a Bookstore Owner/ Claudia Struewing .............. 22 Hamlet's Diary/ John Mathis ................................................... 28 High School! John Mathis ....................................................... 29 Beneath the Surface/ Noelle Gasco........................................ .30 One Another/ Brian Sweany.................................................. .38 Variation on a Theme/Greg Knipe ......................................... .39 Stillborn! Karen Murphy ......................................................... 40 Still Life/ Larry Atwood......................................................... .41 Falling From the Second Story/ Michelle Gobin ................... .42 Alligator League/ Zoey Rose.................................................. .47 Another Pretty Face/ Dylan Roahrig..................................... .48 Sailing the Realms! Todd Gavin ............................................. 53 .9ltmeworl( divine perfec but a sfuu[ow of :Fioretti Snow cold inside left alone questions why everyone gone scared dog with other ones but want the people why did they leave where did they go sad dog watch people go by some stop and look none stay crying dog but then one day peole stop people stay come to house meet other animals meet other people warm inside Happy Dog. Home. Patrick M. Webb 5 ~ioretti The Announcers by Kurt Cleeter The noise is almost unbearable. The college students are screaming at the top of their lungs. The television announcers, Charlie Smooth and Billy "Know-It-All" Wimp, are trying to stir up the people at home. Charlie says to Billy, "This is a bell ringer. Almost anything can happen at this point. In my opinion, this is one of the best games that anyone has ever seen. These teams are ready to go." Billy replies, "You bet. Metropolitan has some of the most athletic players in the county. All year they have controlled the boards. Most of the time, they have at least fifteen to twenty more rebounds than the opponents, and tonight they are continuing that record. On the other hand, Podunck Village has finesse players. They.are smooth-they just glide over the floor, and . they have tremendous shooters." , . "You're right, Billy. If Podunck wasn't having a cold shooting night, it would even be closer than it is. It may boil down to a chess game between the coaches. Both coaches are top notch, a little volatile, but both are top notch." The television camera swiftly scans across the crowd and up to the scoreboard. Score: Metropolitan 87, Podunck 63; time remaining; two minutes and thirteen seconds. Finally the camera focuses on the skimpily clad cheerleaders and remains there while Smooth and Wimp continue their analysis. "Charlie, it's a shame that Podunck lost its best scorer, but look who's replacing him, none other than Ox Butterfingers, mister wide body himself. I don't know why coach Badtemper kept him out so long. I know he has four fouls, but with a game this important, you have to go with your winners. He might be 6 ~ioretti the spark that Podunck is needing." "You're right again, Wimp. Let's see, who does Badtemper have coming in after this timeout? There's Axle Damit, Joey Pick, Ample Time, Lets "Fowl" Fowler, and of course, Ox Butterfingers. Like I said, this is going to be a chess game. The coach-is pulling out all the stops and putting in what might be considered his best lineup against this talented Metropolitan team." "You're right. There is plenty of time to go and anything can happen at this point. Ok, it's Podunck's ball-you know, Smooth, it seems like the referees are at it again. As I remember, you were pretty good at that when you were coaching. Here we go, no more time for chit-chat. The game's on the line now." "Here we go folks. Hold your seats. This is a barn burner. Axle Damit takes the ball out-of-bounds and passes it to Joey Pick who passes it to Ample Time. Slowly, he dribbles the ball to center court, looks over the court for an open man, sees Ox Butterfingers and passes it to him. Oh, what a shame at a time like this, he drops it; Metropolitan sends a long pass down court- two more for Metro." "You know, Charlie, that wasn't Butterfingers' fault. Did you see where that ball was when it got to him? Right at the waist. That's the worst place in the world for Ox. These guys have been playing together for a long time, and you would think that by now, they would know where their buddies want the ball." "You are right, Wimp. Sure hope coach Badtemper doesn't get too upset with Butterfingers. You know, that is probably one of Badtemper' s worst faults in his coaching. He tries to control his team too much-he ought to give them a little more freedom to make their own decisions on the floor. Look at those poor fellows; they are all looking at Badtemper for his 7 :Fioretti reaction. Oh, oh, Ample Time held the ball out-of-bounds too long-five second call." Metropolitan in-bounds the ball and passes the ball around the top of the key. "Well, Smooth, it looks as if Metro is going to playa little stall ball. "That's right, Wimp. At this point in the game, they don't need any more points. They just need to hang onto the ball. Look! Badtemper is yelling instructions to his young players. What's he saying? Let's listen." "Foul! Foul! Don't let them run down the clock. Get in there and play defense. Foul!" Fowl, who is guarding the man with the ball, hears his coach yelling instructions but can't understand what he's saying to him. He turns toward the coach and the Metro player dribbles around him and shoots, scoring a basket and is fouled by Time. Three more quick points for Metro. Ample Time and Lets Fowler run down the floor as fast as they can and far away from the coach as possible. Joey Pick . in- bounds the ball to Axle Damit, who dribbles the ball toward half- court. Coach Badtemper is fuming. He is walking up and down in front of his bench. With each step a curse word flows from his mouth. "Damn it, damn it-damn it-damn it!" Axle Damit turns pale as he hears his coach and slowly dribbles the brul over to where his coach is standing. "Yea, coach, you want me?" Badtemper is so mad that he can barely speak. He raises his fist in the air, takes one step toward Damit and the ball bounces off the coach's foot. Out-of-bounds, Metropolitan! "See, that's what I have been telling you. The coach needs to let the boys play." "You are right as always, Wimp. Ok, two more points for II as 8 :Fioretti Metropolitan. Podunck has the ball on their half-court and are weaving the ball around the top of the key. Look at Badtemper yell out instructions to his players. He's the consummate teacher, never lets up. Let's listen to what he is saying." "Pick, damn it, pick. Don't you hear what I'm saying?" At the saIne time, Butterfingers passes the ball in their direction, Damit and Pick look at the coach. The ball hits Pick in the head and bounces to Metropolitan's end of the court-two more for Metro. None of Badtemper' s boys want to spend too much time on his end of the court, so the ball is quickly in-bounded to Ample Time and he starts dribbling up the floor. Badtemper tries to get his attention. 9 !Fioretti ''Time! Time! Can't you hear me? Time!!" Damit runs over to the referee. "Time, ref, time-out. "I don't understand that time-out, do you, Smooth? Why did the coach call time-out?" "Wimp, you know coach Badtemper. He probably saw something that Metro was doing wrong and wants to take advantage of it. He is always thinking. Boy, that's a coach." "All right, you lame brains. I didn't want a time-out, but while you're her, I'm going to draw up a play. This time, follow my directions." "What did I tell you. Look at him. He is always teaching these young players. Man, they are lucky to be going to this school. This will follow them all of their lives. Here they come." "You're right, Smooth. They look pumped up. I'm anxious to see what Badtemper has in mind. Look, that's funny, Ox Butterfingers is almost out to the time line at the center of the floor. What's he doing there? This must be a new play. I . never expected this. Hey, .something must be going wrong. Badtemper is calling time-out again. That's their last one." Badtemper looks straight at Butterfingers. "What the hell do you think you are doing? Why were you almost at halfcourt? You are supposed to be under the basket." Ox Butterfingers looks at his feet and meekly says, "Coach, I was only doing what you told me to do." "I never told you to do that. Show me where I told you to do that!" Ox picks up the coach's tablet. "Right here. See, there between the top of the key and mid-court-Ox. That's where I was." ''That's not you dummy. Those are X's and O's, those are .. .forget it. There's only ten seconds to go. Get in there and run out the clock." II 10 :Fioretti "Wimp, didn't I tell you that this game would be a masterpiece? A little more time and Podunck might have pulled it out." "You are on the money, Smooth. I don't know when I have seen a more enjoyable and tension-packed game. We still have a few minutes of air time left. Here comes the Metro coach and his star player, Taul "Tall" Mann. Let's get a few of their comments on the game. Coach Slicker, what do you think the turning point of the game was?" "Well, it came during the first quarter when we were only up fifteen points. I called a time-out and really got on my players. I told them to execute, execute. That is the whole basis for our win-execution. When they went back in, they stepped it up a notch or two, and from that point on, the game was ours to win or lose." "That's right coach. Sitting here on the sideline, I could feel the inspiration of your players after that time-out. Well, Taul, what do you think the turning point was?" "yeah, ....." "Wimp, raise the microphone up about ten inches. We can't hear what Taul is saying. Go on, Tau!''' "Yeah, the coach is right. That was the turning point. He told us what to do, and we did it. You know, uh, yeah, that's what we done, uh, you know, we executed like the coach said." "Well, thank you, coach and Taul, for your insight to this game. We appreciate these little insights from the participants of the game. It lets us armchair jocks feel what it is like to be out there. Congratulations on a game well played. I'm sure that your school must be very proud of you. Smooth, I'm sorry that we won't be able to have an interview with the Podunck coach and his players, but I heard that they had to rush down to the bus station." "What happened, Wimp?" 11 !Fioretti "You know that tomorrow is a school day, and school is very important to these young men. Their bus leaves at 11 :30, and if they miss it, there won't be another one until tomorrow night. Next year will be different. 1 understand that the town is joining forces and are taking up a collection to buy the team a bus. Then they will be able to stay around for the interview. They deserve it. The country needs to see what a fine bunch of men they are." "This is rather embarrassing, but 1 am not for sure that 1 know where Podunck is. Do you know, Wimp?" "I believe that it is up north; no, 1 got that wrong, it is down south. Yes, 1 am sure that it is south. Yes, 1 am sure that it is south of Metropolitan. The school is small, but well known throughout the state for its academics and sports. 1 heard that last year two-thirds of the seniors on the basketball team graduated. It is a shame that neither of them went on to the pros, but 1 understand that they both have good jobs working as sanitary engineers for the town. As 1 always say, education is the name of the game." "I see that our time is up, and we have to go. Well, goodbye for now, friends. Join us again next week for another exciting game . .It will have to be something to surpass this one today. This is Charlie Smooth and Billy Wimp wishing you a good week, and we hope to see you next week." 12 !Fioretti Haiku A rusted lunchbox Leaves still scattered on the lawn Silent bus rolls by Karen Murphy 13 !Fioretti Wound the Loud Winds Shedding sycamores litter the wind's bright jaws as the old man pins the news to the park bench. Not in the paper again today. A good enough sign. The world falling around him, chitting along the walk like noisome children content in their spinwheeling freefalling hellishness. Time was he would have scooped this autumn chill like a load of choice stoking coal into his chest. Time was a day of fierce light would've seen him sharpening his senses, puting an edge to life blunted and dulled by busyness. The confused, gyreing leaves anointed him the black, steady eye of their whirlwind. He crouched to rake a crackling derelict from his cuff, and straightened, disposing to the world's tumult .a fish belly white slab peeping out salaciously between the gatered black sock and the trousers that grew shorter with each repelled advance. Larry Atwood 14 !Fioretti Can You Hear the Angels Singing? by Sarah Riggs "Can you hear them?" she asks. "The angels. They're singing. Can you hear them?" You listen, straining to hear any sound besides those damn machines whirring and beeping. "No honey, I don't hear them," you say. You reach down and brush the hair from her face. "They sound so beautiful," she mumbles. You know this is a sign that she is going to sleep again. As she sleeps, you study the pale, thin face lying on the pillows. It's not hard to remember the round, tanned face that used to be there. The sound of her laughter is now a memory as well. For the past year, the laughter has been replaced by tears. It was a slow process, but now the laughter is almost gone. The eyes that once sparkled are now filled with pain. The bouncy, shiny hair is now dull and lifeless. You 'sit and remember the car accident that seems to be the start almost four years ago. The doctors had to give her blood to replace what she had lost. They said they had saved her life . . For what? One year later, when she turned twelve, they said something else. You heard the phrase "tainted blood" for the first time. You watched your dreams for her crumble. As you sit there, you remember the gUilt. Why did she get the bad blood and not you? Both of you were in the car, and both had to be given blood transfusions. Why her and not you? You look out the window and see the rain clouds roll in. The sky slowly turns black. Black-the color of her eyes as they look at the doctors and nurses who poked and prodded. Black for her moods when she was feeling especially low. That was when her laughter started to leave. Would you ever hear that sound again? 15 ~ioretti She stirs slightly in her sleep. You check all of the monitors for any sign of a problem. There is none and you rehix and remember more. The pain became a part of her life very slowly. It came first in the form of whispers and stares. People avoided her. They just didn't understand that you couldn't get this disease, this AIDS, from just touching her or being near her. Slowly, most of her "friends" stopped talking to her. Only the true ones stayed. They still visited her often. The physical pain came just as slowly. It would sneak up on her like a thief in the night at first. Now, not a day goes by without her pain and suffering being so visible on her face that you feel her pain just looking at her. You look out the window as the rain begins to fall. It seems like only last week the trees were green and the flowers were bright and fragrant. She still only had to go to the hospital for tests, and then she could come home and try to lead a normal life. Then, as,the heat of the summer hit, she went to the hospital and stayed. She was too sick to leave and too healthy to die. The disease made her even more of a prisoner than before . . She stirs and you see that she is awake. "I can still hear them," she says. "I even had a dream about them. They want me to come to them. They keep saying that it's time for me to go." What she says shakes you to the core. Does she mean what you think she means? Is she telling you that the end is almost near? You have thought about it so much recently. You can still remember how horrible you felt when the thought of her dying first entered your mind. You can remember thinking how much of a relief it would be to have her suffering over. You were so afraid to tell anyone of your thoughts because they might not understand. They might think you were a horrible person for wishing that you own daughter would die, 16 !Fioretti but they just didn't understand, or so you thought. You can remember the discussion you had with your next door neighbor. She was one of the few people who didn't leave you in your time of need. She was always there to pick up one of your other children from school or to listen to your problems. She was telling you how she understood how it felt to watch a disease slowly kill someone you love and not be able to do anything to help. Her father had died of cancer just two years ago. You remember her saying that near the end, she could only think of the relief she would feel when he finally did die. She told you that she only wanted his suffering to be over, and if death was the only way that was going to happen, then she could accept that. You just looked at her for a minute and then started to cry. Someone did understand, and you weren't evil after all. You look back at the face on the pillows. She has an almost serene look on her face. What should you say to her? Are you ready for the end to come? You smile at her as best you can and push 'the hair back from her face. "Why do you think they are telling you that?" you ask. "I'm not sure," she says. "Maybe they want me to get everything in order first. You know, say my good-byes and everything. What do you think?" You look at her and carefully think of your answer. "I think you need to do whatever you want." She looks at you and you can .tell she is considering this remark. "Are you ready for me to go?" she asks. What can you say to this? "I'm not sure yet, honey. Do you think the angels will give me some time to think it overT' She ponders this for a moment. "I don't know, I'll have to ask." You bend over and kiss her cheek. She makes a face at the dry feel of it because of the mask they make you wear when you visit her. 17 :Fioretti "Visiting hours are almost over, honey. I have to go now. I'll be back in the morning and we'll talk more about this then, okay?" She agrees and you gather your things and prepare to leave. You look at her one last time and notice that she is drifting back to sleep. You say your good-byes to the nurses and walk out into the cold, wet night. All night, you toss and turn thinking about what she has said. Are you ready for her to go? You would like it if all this would go away and you didn't have to think of things like this. You would like that, but you know it won't happen. The next morning, after you see the younger kids off on the school bus, you get ready to leave for the hospital. On your way out to the car, your neighbor stops you and hands you something she thinks might help you. You thank her and promise to call if anything happens. As you get out of your car at the hospital, you look at what she handed you. It is a little card that says,"1f you love something, set it free." How did she know? You sit there and read this one line over and over again. You get out of your car and go into the hospital. You have your answer. As you enter her room, you can see that she is not doing well. She looks so worn out. You move closer to the bed and take her hand in yours and whisper to her. "I understand now; I think I will okay if you choose to leave. I want your suffering to be over." She opens 'her eyes and looks at you for a moment, thensmiles. It is the most beautiful smile you have seen in a long time. She closes her eyes again and you sitand hold her hand as she slowly drifts away. The nurse becomes alarmed and calls for the doctor who looks at you and nods his head. He understands. It is time. Nothing can be done to help her anymore. He gives her a pain killer to make her more comfortable and places a hand on your shoulder. You sit and watch the monitors grow quiet. Her breathing slows. Her 18 :Fioretti heart beat slows. She is slipping away. All the monitors are quiet. You strain to listen, not quite sure what you are listening for but knowing you need to listen. Then, for a brief moment, you hear something. You hear the angels singing. then it is gone. She is gone. You cry softly as the doctor turns to leave. Now she is an angel. 19 :Fioretti Troubled The life of those so seldom seen and of voices so scarcely heard, bring forth the feelings of the ones who care to listenand to see. As each day passes forth, the lives of the lucky fewremain unaltered, unchanged. But for others, another day brings more troubles, more pain. There's a thing in this world, deep inside us all that would brighten these heartwrenching daysthat one thing, my friend, is love. Hold this gift not deep within, but let golet others feel its warmth. There will always be the selfish few, but you could save a life, with something so easy, something free. Can't the whole world see what a great gift love can be? Karen Hauser 20 !Fioretti The Poetry of Earth Is Never Dead Northwest winds hiss like cymbals, pound then like ten drums til dissonance is blowing syllables away, and words, and sentences. The poor have always had to improvise. So poets must revise. And with the dead of winter, snow that falls in flakes or floods I try to change to Botticelli, Shelley, and Vivaldi, or to me. Joan Peternel 21 !Fioretti CAN'T JUDGE A BOOKSTORE OWNER... by Claudia Struewing Coming home from work Friday afternoon, I thought I'd stop off and pick up a book. My head had been pounding all day due to stress, I'm sure, but now I'll just go home and read till I fall asleep, I thought. That sounded good. I opened the door to the bookstore hoping to see Mr. Quibbly, the owner. He was a very friendly man who always had a cheerful word to say. Yet, when I reached the front counter, there was no one around. I rang the service bell on the counter, and when no one appeared, I rang it again. It wasn't like Mr. Quibbly to keep a customer waiting. He always greeted his customers at the door and offered his assistance. Finally, from behind the counter, a voice called out. "Hold your horses." "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you down there. Where's Mr. Quibbly? He~ s usually here whenever I come in." "He's not here." "Oh, he's sick today?" "No, he doesn't work here anymore. I own the store now." "Mr. Quibbly sold the store to you?" "Uh huh," was all he said. "Why would he sell the store? He loves this place. It's his baby." "I haven't the faintest idea, Miss. All I know is that he offered it to me one day, and I said I'd take it. I did give him a fair price for it if that's what you're worried about." "Oh, I'm sure you did. I just don't understand why he would sell the one thing that means so much to him," I pondered as I moved away from the counter. I roamed the aisles of books not looking for anything in 22 ~ioretti particular really. Surely something would grab my attention sooner or later. Yet, as I roamed from one shelf to the next, I saw nothing that sparked my interest. In fact, the shelves didn't seem quite the same anymore, or maybe I was just in the wrong aisle. Where were the paperbacks I always read? I wandered up and down every row and couldn't find any- 23 ~ioretti thing looking remotely familiar. I guess the new owner must have rearranged everything, I thought to myself. Maybe he could point me in the right direction. No sooner had I thought this than the doorbell rang and in walked a woman with her little boy. Immediately the child began tugging on his mother's sleeve begging her to find him a book. "I want a book, Mommy. Get me a book. Please, Mommy, please." "Not today, Billy. Mommy needs to find a fix-it book for ~ Daddy before he destroys our home." "But why can't I have a book, too? I want to read." "I said no." "B ut why?" he whined. "Because." "Because why Mommy?" he asked, wailing even louder. "Because I said so. Now, quit acting like a spoiled brat or I'll stop right here and give you a spanking. I mean it, Billy," she said sternly when he began to talk back. "If I have to correct you one more time, your father will hear about it." Her threat seemed to work for the little boy stuck his thumb in his mouth and became silent. "Oh, criminy," I heard the owner mutter under his breath. Not another obnoxious snotty-nosed kid. Why me, Lord, why?" "Excuse me, rna' am," he interrupted before Billy could throw another tantrum, "but can't you read? The sign on the door specifically says No Food, No Smoking, No Bare Feet, and No Children," he said, pointing to the sign posted on the door. "If you'll tell me what you are looking for, I'll get it so you and the kid can be on your way." After recovering from the shock of his rude behavior, the woman asked for a book on how to repair a leaky faucet. He informed her that he didn't sell any repair manuals and referred 24 !Fioretti her to the store down the street. "You don't sell any repair manuals? Why, that's absurd. Who ever heard of a book store that doesn't carry repair manuals? What kind of place is this anyway? First you insult my little Billy and then you tell me you don't have the book I want. What is your name anyway? "Wendell Brooks." "Well, Mr. Brooks, you are terribly rude, and I don't think I will ever come here again. Let's go, Billy," she commanded as she took his hand, dragging him out the door behind her. "I don't think I'll be able to stand the loss, lady," he hollered after her before returning to his work Now I wasn't sure at all whether to ask Mr. Brooks for assistance or remain puzzled. Finally after mustering all the courage I had, I approached the counter. "Excuse me, Sir." "Yes? May I help you?" he asked while sucking on a tootsie pop. "I sure hope so. Could you please help me find a book? The . shelves seem to be rearranged, and I can't find what I'm looking for." "Anything specific?" "Actually, I 'm looking for the latest by Jacqueline Briskin," I decided quickly. "Bzzz. Wrong answer. Thank you for playing anyway." "What about Janelle Taylor?" "Wrong again." "Victoria Holt?" "Sorry. You don't happen to know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie roll tootsie pop do you?" he asked thoughtfully studying the tootsie pop. When he realized that I did not see the humour in his question, he returned to the subject. Oh, I'm sorry. Were you saying something?" "I was asking you for several books, and you said you didn't 25 :Fioretti have any of them," I reminded him in an annoyed tone. "Ah, yes. We don't have any of those here." "What do you mean?" "It's very simple. We don't carry that kind of crap here." "You're kidding me. But that's impossible. What kind of a book store is this if you don't sell Holt, Briskin, or Taylor? They're some of the most famous authors. Mr. Quibbly always stocked his shelves with all the great works of literature." "Well, Miss, I am not Mr. Quibbly, and never confuse that kind of garbage with real literature." "Pardon my ignorance," I apologized, thinking this guy must be out of his tree. Obviously he had no clue how to run a business at all. "Are you aware that over half of the literate population reads these classic tales of the heart?" "Yes, that is one of life's great misfortunes to be sure, but I do not intend to contribute to such an abomination." "But you'll be losing a lot of business." "Who really ~ares about business?" I could see I wasn't getting anywhere with this character, so I asked, "What exactly do you sell?" "Ah, I'm so glad you asked. Follow me," he motioned with his hand. I was left with no choice but to follow. He led me down each row explaining how he had organized the hundreds of volumes chronologically, alphabetically, and finally, according to the author's country of birth. It all seemed too complicated to me, but he assured me that any idiot would be able to figure it out although I still had my doubts. "And this aisle contains works by some of the greatest playwrights like Williams, Wilder, and Ibsen to name a few." He tossed out more names-Keats, Byron, Shelley-all of whom he referred to as people having something to say. I didn't know what they had to say, but they were all names which I successfully managed to avoid throughout my educa- 26 ~ioretti tional career. Just as he finished giving me the grand tour, the door opened again. This time it was the mailman carrying a single letter which he presented to Mr. Brooks saying, "Another letter from your publisher, Mr~ Brooks. When's the next one coming out? My wife just loves your books especially that one with the triplets." "Love in the First Degree." "Yep, that's the one. Hope the next one's as good. Well, I gotta go. A mailman's work is never done." "Okay. Be seeing you, Sam." In the next second he was gone leaving me in total confusion. "You're a writer?" "Yep." Suddenly it dawned on me. I remember that title. I even think I've read it before. That was one of the best pieces of smut ever written. But I don't remember the author being Wendell Brooks. I must be thinking of another one because this 'one was written by a woman, I'm sure. What was her name, I asked myself. Oh, my God. That's it. "You're Desiree Sinclair?" I asked aloud. He simply nodded. I couldn't believe it. "Does that shock you?" he asked with a smirk on his face. "A little I suppose." A little? How about a lot? "But with all your success, you mustbe rich. Why on earth are you working in some dinky town instead of living in New York and attending Broadway shows like the rest of the famous people 001' "Because I enjoy doing what I'm doing." But that still didn't explain why he wrote the exact thing he clearly detested, I thought as I wondered down the street in search of a bookstore with the book I wanted. I don't think I'll ever fully understand people. Maybe I won't even try ... 27 :Fioretti Hamlet's Diary 'Tis a bleak night for my soul, I fear that my heart pumps pitch and bile, While any wholesome thought becomes inexorably lost in the labyrinth of my head . I am lost without my father like a five summers lad in the woods. Yet it seems that the beastliness of the forest has found sanctuary in these hallowed halls and sleeps with the hunter's wife. Zooks! Why do I have to be whole? If a heart did not fill my chest, Hamlet's passing would here and gone, and the shrouds could rid the land of this murderous king and adulterous wife, and fear not the wrath of God. Alas, the news is worse than before. The guards have noticed a ghost on the walls, not speaking but asking all the same. Some say that it has the likeness of the King. I go to see and bring my strength in youth, If it be my father, I'll get the truth. John Mathis 28 !Fioretti High School The Prison Palace of immature adults where learning mixes with education. Concrete and steal, glass and meddle, passing and flailing to make the grade. Sad events, happy daze, Primer of life. John Mathis 29 !Fioretti Beneath the Surface:A Tribute to D.H. Lawrence(The Horse Dealer's Daughter) by Noelle Gasco The worn leather suitcase was packed and sat anxiously waiting by the door. What was left of their valuables was already neatly packed in boxes which were stacked on the ,porch. Mabel came down the stairs just as the marble clock on the mantel piece softly chimed seven times. In her hands, she carried a small box, the last left to be removed, that she had retrieved from underneath her bed. As she approached the mantel to retrieve the clock, Jack, who had been watching her in disbelief from the open door, made his presence known, "Mabel? Why are you doing this?" She turned to him calmly, slowly, even though he had startled her. "I'm doing what I have to. I want what's best for both of us." ."But, last night, when I asked you ... " He reached out to touch her hand still firmly holding the box. The marble clock rested on top the mantel, watching attentively. With each minute, its hands moved ever closer, each waiting for the moment that they would meet. "Mabel, I meant what I said, about marrying you, I mean." "Oh, Jack, can't you understand?" Mabel's voice demanded although her tears softened her frustration and reflected her fears, "I won't have them talking-not my family, not the town." She stopped herself suddenly, afraid that she'd spoken too much already to a man who should've remained a stranger to her. But as Jack's eyes met hers, she felt her thoughts escaping an un~omfortable loss, her willpower drawn from her. "Mabel," Jack whispered soothingly to her, "it doesn't matter 30 !Fioretti what anyone else would say." He removed the box from her grasp and set it down beside her. "I don'tdeserve you," Mabel stated, as if there was no other truth. She couldn't help but see herself as an object of the empathy that Jack possessed as a doctor. But she didn't want to be another patient for him. She remembered how he had lifted her from the lake and gave her back the life she had released. But, marriage was an idea that seemed to be an unnatural effect surrounding one accidental incident and not a result of a driving love. It would be a marriage like her brother's, a marriage that enabled Joe to pull up from the depths of debts that washed over their family. But Mabel had only been saved when Jack lifted her from the lake: she had her debt of despair released from her soul, and she knew that anything she could offer him in return would be insignificant next to that one omnipotent act he had performed. The best gift she had to offer him would be that of his freedom. He kissed her. On his lips, although unspoken, she sensed the yet unasked question. It was tender, a freely surrendered and pleading request, "Won't you believe me, Mabel? Won't you stay?" "I love you," he said softly into her ear. "I truly love you, Mabel." For a moment, the clock disappeared and Mabel fell into his embrace. Jack stood on the porch, watching her leave. An anger . flooded his mi.nd, an anger that he should care at all. It flowed throughout his very being, his heart. It blended and mixed into a kaleidoscope of emotions. He felt a sense of loss, a loneliness in the very air around him. He couldn't wave. But there was no need to, for she herself made no motion but only stared straight ahead. Jack's hands hung lifeless at his side. These were hands of a doctor, hands that healed, hands that 31 :Fioretti saved. They were also hands that he discovered were vulnerable to expression and incapable of suppressing his love. But these same hands could not hold her back. All his efforts had failed to overcome her cold determination to set him free. He was forced to accept a gift he did not want. He knew it was love now. He felt it fill his eyes and stream like earthly rivers down his cheeks. He knew it soaked into the earth, without even looking, where it was suppressed and silently absorbed. He made his rounds that day as if in a dream. He touched, he cured, he prescribed. He smiled and conversed, but he saw nothing. Mabel wandered through his mind, violating and controlling his private thoughts. He felt his vulnerability as he sank below a sea of emotions. He forgot he couldn't swim. He felt Mabel once more as the cold earthly water of the pond surrounded him once more. He remembered reaching, reaching for her, losing his balance and sense of direction, to be dunked below the surface. J-Ie remembered seeing her body floating next to him, lifelessly lost in the pond's pride. She had moved so unnaturally, susceptible to every wave and whim of the water, as he reached out to grab her dress. Together they had resurfaced from the depths that would have otherwise consumed them apart. "Jack. Oh, Jack," his elderly patient said, pulling him back into reality. "How much do lowe you, dear?" "Nothing," Jack smiled, patting her gently on the shoulder. "You don't owe me a thing, Mrs. Murphy." The months went on and the seasons changed. The Pervin house was long since sold. Little children, wrapped head to toe in scarves, skated along the frozen pond. Their slates glided across the rough ungroomed surface of ice. But, under neath, the water was still very much alive, still churning with the taste of Mabel's life it had almost entirely devoured. 32 !Fioretti Lucy was more than hospitable to her humbled sister. She took Mabel in, knowing she had nowhere else to go. When Mabel arrived, she seemed distant. Lucy sensed the preoccupation surrounding Mabel. In fact, on more than one occasion, Lucy had directly demanded that Mabel reveal what was bothering her, but each time Mabel looked up at her with a strange intense gaze. It wasn't, as far as Lucy could judge, a look of anger, but it seemed more of a startled and somewhat confused look, one that might appear on the face of a lost child who, upon glancing up, discovers that she's holding the wrong mother's hand. But the loneliness of Mabel's eyes which revealed everything, yet, at the same time, nothing at all, disappeared with Mabel's careful and immediate control. Lucy eventually became accustomed to Mabel's private yet efficient manner. At times, Mabel was more efficient, in fact, than any servant Lucy had employed. The first letter came about four months after Mabel's arrival. It was from Joe, their brother. Lucy was surprised to hear from Joe. He wasn't, after all, even known to write letters simply for the sake of keeping the lines of communication open. In fact, the last mail Lucy had received from him was his wedding invitation. Lucy read the letter. For a long while, she sat very still at her rolltop desk. Then she read it again, more slowly this time. Joe had run into Dr. Jack Fergusson at a pub. According to Joe, Jack seemed to be drinking quite heavily. They had talked, about Mabel. Jack inquired several times about her, expressing deep concern ... Suddenly, Mabel's silence made sense. Lucy, after reading the letter, knew Jack's proposal and she concluded, from Mabel's obvious reaction, that Mabel, for whatever reason, had rejected his love. Lucy decided to test her theory one night at the supper table. "By the way," Lucy asked between mouthfuls, carefully 33 ~ioretti studying Mabel's face, "Who is Jack Fergusson?" For a moment, Lucy thought that Mabel was going to jump up and run out the door. But, Mabel quickly regained her collected composure as she innocently asked, "Where did you hear about him?" She kept eating casually while waiting for a reply. Lucy pretended not to notice the small ponds of water filling Mabel's eyes. "Oh, Joe just mentioned him in a letter," Lucy said closing the conversation. The evidence on Mabel's face was all that she needed to confirm her suspicions. It was also the only justification that she needed to protect Mabel from heartache and unhappiness. That night, Lucy placed Jack's letter addressed to Mabel in her dresser drawer, unopened. As the year progressed, the drawer's collection of unread letters were transferred into the basement, in an old shoe box, in order to obtain the needed drawer space. It was spring .again. The Pervin house was full of life once more. Its tiny mhabitants frolicked to and fro between the house and pond, watering the flowers along the way with their dripping clothes. Jack stood further up from the pond, watching them. The four of them were all on their knees now, probing and stirring the pond's surface with a stick and looking intently in hopes of finding its hidden secrets. Jack half wondered, and even hoped, that if he wereto peer into the water himself, he would see Mabel's reflection rippling gently. He wished she had answered his letter. He wished that he could see her again. The children interrupted his thoughts as their search continued. They waded into the water. They laughed, talked and pointed to the water lapping around their knees. The pond was full of sunken ships and treasures yet to be discovered. Downstairs, in the basement, Mabel picked up a broom. 34 !Fioretti She didn't really mind spring cleaning. In fact, she quite enjoyed it. It reminded her of being back home, where spring cleaning was a yearly ritual she performed consistently. So, she had sent Lucy off to her friend's to have tea while Mabel searched the basement for supplies and prepared the house for purification. The box was full of dust. Mabel started to pull it out from the shelf in order to reach the cleaning supplies. Suddenly, she lost her grip, and the box fell to the floor. As it landed, the lid opened and the letters it had kept hidden secretly for so long were suddenly revealed to Mabel's incomplete world. Mabel knelt down and half-consciously began scooping the contents back into their proper container. Then she saw her name, faded but eloquently flowing across one of the creamy envelopes. She turned them all over, one by one, and she held each one in awe, in disbelief. They were all for her. Each and every letter had been collected and deliberately kept from her. She sat in the basement, alone, and read the letters. Her tears of recognition dropped, gently on each page, marking them as her own, the ink blending with the tears into little blue ponds of reality. She knew it was love now. She ran upstairs, a letter still clutched in her hand, to find her coat. A candle on the table dripped with the hours. The warm wax reshaped the once smooth candlestick into a unique distorted character. Its flame flickered, leaped and danced before the doctor's unseeing eyes. The warm night air brought life to a scraggly tree branch outside Jack's window. It scratched and tapped the glass persistently, as if frantically trying to draw Jack's attention back to the world and all its offerings. A breeze seeped through the partially open window to seek out the dancing light before him. The fiery flame protested passionately, stretching and reaching in one last attempt to stay alive. A silver razor 35 :Fioretti reflected the candle's noble struggle against the darkness. Like fireworks, it flashed, it flashed with every gasp of the dying flame, until the doctor's hand cast its shadow over the brave blade. All at once, darkness overtook the room. Echoing the tapping tree on the window, came several knocks at the door. They paused. For a moment, even the wind was silent and still. They came again, a crescendo through the night, startling the doctor. He quickly rose from the table assuming it was a patient in distress. He let the blade fall to the floor and into the shadows. He opened the door and saw Mabel. The light from the entryway illuminated her mystic beauty and flowed into the kitchen where he stood, his hand still grasping the doorknob. At first, he thought he was dreaming. He was afraid to look at her, lest she should disappear. Mabel fell forward to embrace him .. He stood momentarily motionless and detached. Then, suddenly his emotions flooded, drowning him, and his body collapsed in her arms . . He fell to his knees like he fell into the pond, his body no .longer his own, helplessly separated from his controlled rational mind. She dropped down before him. With shaking hands, she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the door letter and took his hands in her own. She placed the letter in his open palms and folded his fingers over it, crinkling his endless lines of love within their grip. She firmly squeezed his fists in hers until he looked into her eyes. Then, she motioned to the confirmation of his love secretly hidden within their unified hands. "I never knew ..." her voice finally explained, "until now." She kissed him. He embraced her, the letter still balled up in one of his hands, behind her back. But, she no longer needed to see it to know it existed. For although hidden from sight, she realized it was there all along; words on his lips and 36 ~ioretti on paper were always seen first with the heart. "I love you, Jack," she whispered and her words were not too late. "I truly love you." The light of the entryway shone in on them as they knelt together in the darkness. Outside, the wind carried their whispers to the trees, swaying and entwining them together. In the entryway, a worn leather suitcase rested contently just outside the kitchen door. It patiently waited there, knowing its purpose was finally complete now that it had reached its destiny, now that it had made it home. 37 :Fioretti One Another (Inspired by the film Children of a Lesser God) I am in her world now, she is in mine. We do nothear, but touch, feel, caress, love. I need not hear to be in love with her, Her black, silky hair, her beautiful smile. We embrace, my body close against hers. Separate, yet one, knowing that to love is To live, and to live is all there is. Yes, we can meet in a place together Where there is no silence and there is no sound. It is a place of which we are both part. Together forever in both our hearts. Brian Sweany 38 !Fioretti Variation on a Theme by Greg Knipe The singer stands alone on stage, the glow of her spotlight the only disturbance of the theater's dark, womb-likesilence. Slowly, haltingly, she begins to sing. At first, her voice is rough and the song fragmentary; soon, however, she begins to gain confidence and her song improves. It gradually be comes sweet and lilting, as she sings of beauty, innocence and wonder. The blushing naivety of her performance is enough to melt even the coldest and most cynical of hearts. Sadly, the effect lasts what seems but a moment and is gone. Her voice matures, becOl:ning more refined and polished, yet there is something missing, something that is understood to beforever lost in her maturity. The song,too, undergoes a change as she now sings of romance, discovery, and commitment. But soon the strain of the song begins to affect her, and she begins to look worn and haggard. Her theme shifts to match her countenance, and she sings of heartbreak, of solitude, of innocence lost; no heart, no matter how calloused, could hear her song and come away untouched, unchanged by the experience. Weighted down by her topic, head bowed in exhaustion, she ends her song, and the spotlight begins to fade. As its glow slowly pales around her, she hangs her head and allows the tears to run gently down her weary face. Would the audience applaud? Cry? Care? She will never know, for no audience may ever attend this theater. Here the song is sung not for others, but for the performer, and for its own sake. Singers come and go, and seasons pass (slowly or not, as is their wont); but the song remains the same: the immutable, immortal, inscrutable musical score called "Life." 39 :Fioretti Stillborn A summer bundle of silky skin Once a knotted reminder of midnight sin Another nightmare to now begin? Wake up alone to tiny, frail cries Trudge through empty halls with half-open eyes To endless Gothic lullabies. The plump little face examines you Searching your eyes for the smallest clue Something there to hold on to. But winter has come and done its part Blanketing warmth and freezing out hearts . Another young life doomed from the start. Karen Murphy 40 ~ioretti Still Life Softly now, in dreams she shares with now-forgotten teddy bears standing guard in dollhouse chairs, she slides into a darker world, Safety's sought in staying curled against the demons last night hurled into her fevered little head. Long day's play in turn has fed crouching nightmares round her bed. Larry Atwood 41 :Fioretti Falling from the Second Story by Michelle Gobin I sat on the step, huddled against the comer, puffing violently on my cigarette, an open notebook under the toe of my scuffed high-top. I had been trying to write the world's-bestmost-inspiring-heartfelt poem and had given up when I couldn't find a word to rhyme with "lyric." I then tried to write the great American short story and had abandoned the idea when my writer's block reduced me to beginning it with, "It was a dark and stormy night..." My Marlboros comforted me as I rationalized my habit by fancying myself as a troubled, yet brilliant, writer taken to an untimely demise by the evils of her hedonistic lifestyle. I held my cigarette in my right hand and my pen in the left, every now and again raising the wrong instrument to rriy mouth. I hunched over my notebook and started doodling an upside down train, symbolic of my train of thought. . "I smoke because I'm orally fixated. Was never breastfed as a child. What's your excuse?" I jumped at the voice that suddenly appeared several yards above my head. Rejecting the concept that it was the voice of God finally sending me off on my charter bus to hell, I looked up to see the soles of two graffitied Converse sneakers dangling from the second story window above me. I sneezed as a stray ash from his cigarette fell into my nose. "Sorry, I was aiming for the ashtray. What are you doing outside at one in the morning?" He flipped his cigarette off ~o the side, grinning evilly. "Don't worry. I threw it down wind of you." "What are you doing hanging out of a window at one in the morning?" I stopped sneezing long enough to ask. 42 ., ' " !Fioretti "Hanging out!" He guffawed and slapped what I assumed to be his knee. His position above the glare of the white street lamp prevented me from distinguishing too many details. "What's the matter, leave your sense of humor at home?" "No. I'm writing a story." "Looks like you're drawing pictures to me." I flipped my notebook closed and lit up another Marb. "I get inspired by drawing." ''That's cool. When I get stuck, I sit in my room in the dark with some incense and a bottle of Jack." I strained and squinted myself into a position where I could better see my mysterious midnight partner in insomnia and my reflection. He was perched on the ledge, one leg dangling over my f011l1er seat, the other bent, resting his elbow on his knee. . "You' re going to fallout of the window." "My, aren't we optimistic this evening?" "I just think it's stupid to be sitting on the ledge of a second story window." "Oh, so now you're calling me stupid." "I didn't mean ..." "Yeah, I see how you are." He laughed and swung himself back into the window, closing- it with a bang. I sat back against the wall and tapped my ashes into the ashtray. I inhaled the last puff, feeling the heat of the ember through my fingers, and flipped the butt into 'the ashtray alongside its ashes. I turned and glanced upwards, hoping to see some trace of my former companion. A darkened window returned my gaze. I sighed and picked up my pen and notebook once more. "It was a dark and stormy night? I must say, you are quickly losing credibility as a writer, in my opinion." I jumped again. I chided myself on letting his voice surprise me a second time in one night. 43 ~ioretti "I was hoping to write a really horrendous story in order to inspire myself to write something profound." I looked my critic- friend in the eye. "Don't you have any idiosyncrasies?" "Yeah, but I call them habits, and they don't result from stealing lines from novels I wouldn't regularly admit to reading." "Paint me green and call me jealous. I can only aspire to your obviously superior talent." I lit up another cigarette. "You smoke too much." "You poke your nose in where it doesn't belong." "My name is Trevor, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He extended his hand and grinned at me. I took his hand and shook it. I was too surprised to do anything else. "Do you have a name, or should I call you Agatha Christie ?" "Your sense of humor escapes me. Malinda." "I told you ~y name was Trevor." He burst into another round of obnoxious laughter. "You really must try to contain your bliss, Agatha. You're going to hurt yourself if you keep losing control like that." I stared at him, trying to fix him with my most intimidating glare. He responded by tickling me under my chin. I responded in the only way I would have imagined a woman of the nineties to react, I racked him. He fell to his knees with a noise that resembled the sound my Aunt Frieda made when she choked on a hard boiled egg at the family picnic last September. "You certainly know how to make an impression, Agatha." He crawled over to the wall and pulled himself up, very slowly. I'm beginning to think you don't like me very much." "Fancy that." "I don't suppose you'd let me help you with your story?" 44 !Fioretti "What do you know about writing stories?" "I'll take that as a no." He turned and started walking away. "Wait. How do I know you're not an axe murderer?" "I'm not carrying an axe." "Y9u are a smart ass." "I would rather see myself as an amusing cynic." I laughed, in spite of myself. "Do you have any ideas for a story?" "What do you want to write about?" "Something deep, meaningful and worthy of an A from my creative writing teacher." "Ab. You're trying too hard." "Are you saying I can't be deep?" "No, I'm saying you can't force yourself to be profound. Unless you're Faulkner in disguise you're going to turn out sounding pretentious." "What the hell do you know?" I smashed my cigarette into the ashtray and stared him in the eye. He sat down next to me, keeping a noticeable distance, and took my notebook from my hand. He turned to a page where I had written a paragraph about my love life and read out loud. "'I seem to have cornered the market on sludge, slime and general dregs of humanity when it comes to dating. My last boyfriend was a closet transsexual and the one before that is in jail for shoplifting uncut keys from Ace Hardware.' That's really funny, Agatha. I think you may be a cynic at heart." "I can't write funny stuff for class. My teacher would think I was an idiot." "I hate to break it to you, but if you turn in a story starting with 'It was a dark and stormy, night"', he's not going to commend you for your sage-like wisdom." "Oh." "Don't get pouty. It doesn't become you." 45 !Fwretti "*+** you. Give me my notebook." "Here," he was laughing again. "I'd hate to come between a muse and her destiny." He stood up and offered me a cigarette. I accepted and we smoked in silence. "Thank you for your help." "No problem. See ya." He took my hand, kissed it and walked down the sidewalk. He turned and waved when he reached the corner of the building. "Agatha? It's supposed to storm on Friday. Wanna go see a movie? .. Oh, nevermind. I don't like to classify myself under 'the dregs of humanity. '" I didn't yell after him. I told myself it was because serious writers had no room in their twisted lives for romance. Then I started my second story. 46 1'ioretti Alligator League I used to play in an alligator league. The Vinegar Man would teach me. We'd play for hours. He never got tired. Reptiles, mammals and me. I used to hide under make-believe trees, Sunburnt in spite of the shade. The Vinegar Man always knew where to find me. We sold cups of warm lemonade. I traded my trees for make-believe gardens Grown over with black choking weeds. Alligators changed to big hulking monsters. Gargoyles, tulips and me. Amethyst trinkets and college tuition The Vinegar Man liked to offer. Spoiled rancid coffee doesn't taste any better When served on a gold plated saucer. The Vinegar Man took a trip far away I wouldn't let him take me. All that is left are shadows and trinkets. Memories, memories and me. Zoey Rose 47 ~wretti Another Pretty Face by Dylan Roarhig In Stephen lordeci's home there was a new face. This face had no name that Stephen knew. He had met this new face at The Wasteland, a bar that he would frequent on Saturday nights. It was now Sunday morning. He had seen this face hovering above the bar counter, its lips grasping the tip of a bottle and parting slightly, allowing the fluids within the bottle to pass between them and enter the cavern beyond. The fluid is made by taking the seeds of specific plants, mixing them with water and sugar, then placing them under tremendous heat and pressure. Soon this mixture is transformed into a yellowish liquid that, due to fermentation, contains a metered amount of an intoxicant which is called alcohol. The fluid that contains this alcohol is called beer. Beer, 4ue to its nature, tends to alter the moods of most of those who partake of it. Beer also has the ability to make decisions for people, which is exactly what it was doing to the face that Stephen was then walking towards. The face had drunk several beers long before Stephen had even noticed it floating there above the bar, and it was just waiting for someone to come along and present a situation in which it was required to use judgement. Little did it know, but Stephen was on his way to do just that. The beer, after passing through the lips of the face, followed a passage into a complex system of organs and tissue. It found that it enjoyed one specific organ the most; this organ is called the stomach. It, the beer, would have liked to have stayed there for quite a while, but, due to the fact that more beers were on their way there, this beer had to vacate, and fast. The urgent need for the beer to exit was made aware to the face by an even 48 :Fioretti more complex system of tissue called the nervous system. The face, having received this information, asked Stephen, who was then attempting to communicate with it, if it might be excused for a moment. The face then rose, with the assistance of a rather unsteady body. (This is the same body that contains the roller coaster of organs and tissue and nerves mentioned above, the same body that the beer was now wanting to leave). Steph~n was watching as the body walked in its own intoxicated way toward the bathrooms. He smiled, he knew that, with the correct amount of conversation and well chosen words, he knew that the new face would go with him to his house. This is something that usually makes males such as Stephen smile. But that was Saturday night. When we began it was Sunday morning. What was this new face doing on Sunday morning? Now this was not just any Sunday morning, it was Sunday morning in Stephen J ordeci' s house, and the face was spending this Sunday morning in Stephen Jordeci's house lying, along with the body to which it clung, on Stephen's bed. The sun was out, which should be expected from a Sunday, and the streets were busy due to all of the people who had to go to church. Church is a place where people go on Sundays in order to talk to God. God is a very large being that resides in a place called Heaven, and people go to church with the hope that God will see them there. They want God to see them there so that He will let them into Heaven after they are finished here on Earth. Going to Heaven is very important to people, but nobody is really sure why. Despite all of the traffic and noise going on outside of Stephen's house, the face showed no intention of moving. It seemed to like it there on Stephen's bed. It apparently enjoyed the way that it could stay there without worrying about going to Heaven. The face was very wise, you see; it knew that it 49 :Fioretti didn't have to be in church in order to be seen by God. It knew that God saw it right where it was. In fact, at this point in the story, the face knew God very well. It knew God much better than those people in church right then knew Him. The face was, if you haven't already discovered it, the face was dead. Not just the face actually, but the body that went with it, and the organs, the tissues, the nervous system, they were also dead. The beer that had entered the body was not dead, however, it was saturating the sheets of Stephen's bed. Speaking of Stephen, where is he? Let's leave the face alone for right now (it's not going anywhere) and look for Stephen. There's his bathroom: "Knock, knock?" Nope, he's not in there. Where could he have gone? Wait, I think I hear him in the kitchen- -yes, there he is. Stephen awoke at 6:30 a.m. He was very happy. He had completed his mission. After coaxing the face from the bar, he brought it back to his house. Once there, he and the face had made love for many hours. This meant very much to Stephen, for.this meant that he had "scored;" however, this didn't mean very much to the face anymore. When Stephen awoke, he saw that the face was still sleeping (please, just humor him for now), so he decided to get some breakfast and read the newspaper. (Newspapers were very special on Sundays ... nobody really understands the phenomenon either). After he finished the newspaper from beginning to end, not an easy task with the Sunday paper, he went into his bedroom. He watched the face as it slept (as I said, play along). He smiled because the face was very pretty. That was good; he recalled many Sunday mornings past when he awoke to a face that was not very pretty at all. So, a pretty face was a nice change. Stephen began to formulate a reason to get the face to leave after he made it breakfast. He decided he would tell it that he 50 !Fioretti had to go to his sister's house for her birthday. (This, however, was not true. His sister's birthday was in June; this was November). After coming up with this excuse (he really should have saved himself the trouble; the face no longer cared about excuses), he attempted to awaken the face. As you might guess,' he was not very successful. He worked and worked to wake the face; alas, that face was being very stubborn. Stephen shook the face's body; he yelled; he jumped up and down; he begged; he pleaded, but the face was quite comfortable where it was--thank you very much. Poor Stephen. He went on like this for about two hours while the face did nothing to provoke, nor to stop, him. When Stephen finally did stop, he went back into his kitchen. By this time he was quite aware of . the fact that he face was dead. He felt very uneasy, and he was not sure to what this was due. It may have been the fact that it took him two hours to realize that the face was no longer living. It may have been the fact that he felt gUilty about wanting to make the face wake-up in the first place. It might have been that Stephen was feeling mournful for the deceased. All of those assumptions are fine, but they are also wrong. The real reason Stephen felt uneasy was that he had lost the pretty face to something else besides himself. This was the first time that that had happened to Stephen. He had never lost a face to someone else; a face had never dumped him; no face of his had ever had to leave because of its sister's birthday. Stephen had always been the one to say good-bye, but not this time. This time the face had beat him at his own game. It had left without him having to tell it to do so. It had thrown a monkey wrench into his mission. Well, what does Stephen do now? It looks like he is going to tum on the television. The television, unlike church, is an item that can be found in most American homes. It creates images, and worlds that Americans generally prefer to their 51 !Fioretti natural surroundings. As you can imagine, Stephen was very grateful for a television right then. He was not very pleased with his present surroundings. So, Stephen turned on his television. He was watching it when his telephone began ringing, and he continued to watch it as his phone rang. He was not in the mood to talk to anyone. The face? Well, the face did what any other face would do on a Sunday morning in Stephen's house while lying dead on Stephen's bed-the face didn't do a damn thing. It just stayed right where it was, being just what it was ... a pretty face. 52 :Fioretti Sailing the Realms If it had not been for the candles, The chamber , perhaps, would cease to exist. A fleet of baby flames whose staggering balance atop the wick Kept them alive, and threw forth Some transparent aura into the room; Some touch of candlelight laced with shadow. And when a gleam of that light Chanced to land on some golden object Or ignored the deepest groove in the face of some caNed angel. There seemed a presence in the room Not known in this realm since Pharaoh felt The bloody Nile. I See there at the nearest wall. A rack of green glass wine bottlesEach one glossed with amber candle glare. And there , at the nearest wall. Where the candlelight takes leaveThe dim outline of an obscure wardrobe missing doors , And faintest images of hanging robes That strain the.eye for detail Or charm the mischievous imagination. For deep in the folds of dimly lit clothes Takes place the marriage of Light and Dark So that the robes become cruel illusions Hoary images to torment the believer. I I 53 :Fioretti But this room seems not cruel, Though somehow sad and pale, as all holy places must When glazed with mournful candlelight. Those narrow candles, their fair aroma, Quiet breath and warm reflections had often given comfort To the man sitting alone in this room. But tonight it is not the candles that comfort him, It is the wine. So out of place seems this young man, A priest drunk on wine, alone in the hollow shell Of a mighty cathedral. But to Michael The dark and the quiet and the wine All create a feeble, though welcome opiate. Fair creature! His face is hushed and hidden Save when his head plunges back to drain the wineglass. Thana single candle casts a wiry beam Cross chin and cheekbones. How such eyes, rubbed gritty-raw, must ache. The wine is bitter. And swallowed, leaves the mouth tasting green and unripe, Stings the top of the throat, drains down Slow and hot keeping the gut warm, The limbs thawed, and the brain numb. Numbness penetrating the human foundations Where man is deemed man. Now look! A vision! Who has no such compass and No such direction as he? 54 !Fioretti Michael reaches for another bottle. How heavy is his spirit, yet how provoked . Patience, Michael, for seethe vision, it returns. Caution, Michael, hold your shield. Soon all will be revealed. When fragrant froth of windfall Seems a Realm of beauty, Venal specters kindle thoughts To twist it into mutiny. In Realms of stagnant, midnight depth Below the plasmic waves The Fates wailed in better pain And birthed a satyr babe. Spewed from forth the wicked womb The stygian imp arrived. He sent his sense throughout the Realm And felt the fleet pass by. "Let me command the rainbow fleet," Sayeth now this ill-bred demon. "Fail me, Michael, and I foresee Your death upon this night. That wine of yours, that blood of Christ. What wonders it has worked on you. If I should drink, just think, justthink! The magic it might do!/I 55 !Fioretti How much terror for poor Michael. For what torture withers the soul More than fear? Should death come tonight, What more demonic dreams await him In that sleep called 'death'? Man does not direct his dreams, He dreams when direction is lost. Dreams himself into voluntary exile, Groveling blind through sickening weeds At the bottom of a sunless sea. Michael surrenders up the wine, Desecrating the divine. The babe consumed that holy drink And like blood it trickled down his chin. He laughed and splashed it in his face, Absorbed it through his skin. His eyes burned bright, his beard burned off. He swam from the abyss .Eleventy fathoms through the gloom And landed on the ship. Upon the flagship of the fleet Stood that newborn babe of sin And as he neared the hero child Behold! the two were twin! There the two did duel with swords To run the other through, But which was true and which was false Not one angel knew. 56 :Fioretti Ten hours passed, one babe at last Brings the other to his knees, Hews his neck , hacks his head And hurls it in the sea. Alone, in the trembling cold , On the floor of that unknown see lies MichaeL Looking up. And the sight that fills his eyes Brings such tension to his face That his lips can only form two words , "Tis true" and repeat "Tis true. The sun is gone the earth forsaken , Only an ancient ocean remains Adorned with a few million vessels That bump hulls , and sail circles. II I The candles are almost out now. as the darkness floods them from all sides They become a tiny fleet of brilliant ships. Michael sees them not nor does he rise When daylight comes. The candles give the final sight of that vision , on that night: I The victor babe then led the fleet To a Realm, a promised land That is what we call the Universe Which he would create, and then command. Todd Gavin 57 We ave in a cu{tura{ continuum in wliicli we are free to move 6acl(and fortli tlirougli tlie centuries: r.BooKJ are isfands in tlie oceans of time. %ey are afso oases in tlie deserts of time. --Lawrence Clark Powell ![I09(tPII fioretti We are especially pleased with the amount and quality of the contributions for this issue of the Fioretti. Thank you for your submissions. In our effort to continually improve Marian's literary anthology, we appreciate constructive criticism and also encourage increased student involvement in the Fioretti. For more information contact Sr. Stella Gampfer, O.S.F., Jennifer Miller or Claudia Struewing. The deadline for Spring 1993 submissions is March 1st. We welcome short stories, poems, drama, pen or ink drawings, and photographs. Cfauaia Struewing and Jennifer 9vfiUer, eaitors  ...

... Fioretti Fioretti a literary anthology Volume 50 Number 1 1991-1992 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana staff EDITORS \ Jennifer Miller, Claudia Struewing COLLATING EDITOR \ Kerry Dearth ADVISOR \ Sr. Stella Gampfer, O.S.F. Artistic Design COVER \ Claudia Struewing MOTIF \ ,Jennifer Miller, Claudia Sr. stella Gampfer O.S.F. Struewing, NOTE: This school year marks the Fioretti's golden anniversary. We appreciate all the contributions that we have received and welcome new submitions for our next edition. 2 CONTENTS CANTICLE OF THE SUN/ Francis of Assisi 4 A CHILD'S FAITH/ Deadra Webb 6 ENDEAVORING/ Daniel A. Felicetti 15 GRANDMA'S LAMENT/ John Mathis 16 AN AMISH EXPERIENCE/ Phillip McIntire 18 UNTITLED/ Kent Cook 20 DESTINY/John Mathis 21 TRAPPED BY MEMORIES/ Claudia Streuwing 22 IN MY HEART/ Noelle Gasco 32 THE EFFECTS OF A CROWD/ April Duff 34 . DESTINY TO DIE/ David J.B. Hicks UNTITLED/ Karen Hauser 3 37 38 The Fioret ti de S. Francesco d' Assisi , Little Flowers of Saint Francis, is the name of a classic collection of popular legends about st. Francis and his early companions as they appeared to the Italian people at the beginning of the 14th century. These historic tales recreate the early Franciscan spirit, replete with poetry. The Canticle of the Sun, st. Francis' well-known poem, voices that spirit eloquently. The canticle of Brother Sun a translation Most high, all-powerful, all good, Lord! All praise is yours, all glory, all honor And Yall blessing. To you alone, Most High, do they belong. No mortal lips are worthy To pronounce your name. All praise be yours, my Lord, through all that you have made, And first my lord Brother Sun, Who brings the day; and light you give to us through him. How beautiful is he, how radiant in all his splendor! Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness. All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Moon and Stars; In the heavens you have made them, bright And precious and fair. 4 All praise Wind and And fair moods, By which be yours, my Lord, through Brothers Air, and stormy, all the weather's you cherish all that you have made. All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Water, So useful, lowly, precious, and pure. All praise be yours, my Lord, through Brother Fire, Through whom you brighten up the night. How beautiful he is, how gay! Full of power and strength. All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Earth , our mother, Who feeds us in her sovereignty and pr odu c e s Various fruits and colored flowers and herbs. All praise be yours, my Lord, through those who grant pardon For love of you; through those who endure Sickness and trial. Happy those who endure in peace, By you, Most High, they will be crowned. All praise be yours, my Lord. through Sister Death, From whose embrace no mortal can escape. st. Francis of Assisi 5 A CHILD'S FAITH By Oeardra Webb That summer of 1948 when I was nine began f rom the summers past. Sister C: ~Cel ia told us a month before school ended tha t if we promised to come faithfully to Mass every weekday at 8:30, we would be allowed to learn to sing the Mass and, most importantly, to sing up in the choir loft. What a great lll)nor! Mary Ann, who was my very best friend then, and I promised--and so the Summer began. Before it ended it would prove to be the longest of my life. That first morning Mother woke me at 7:15. "Angi e, time to get up. Are you sure you want to get up every morning? You know you could s leep a little later, now that school is out." "-Ohl Mother, Mary Ann and I are so t::xcited," I said as I j umped out of bed . "We get to be up in the choi r loft . Some of the older kids will be the r e, too. Sister Cecelia said this is the firs t t ime ever that kids our age are allowed up there. Could I wear my new pink skilt and blouse?" While I got dressed, Mother was fixing breakfast for Paul ie, my little four-year-old brother. The baby, Mikey, was as I eep. My fathe~, who worked for the telephone company, was always up and gone before I got up. After getting ready I went to the kitchen. "Angie, are you going to school?" Paulie asked. "No, I'm going to Mass. I'll be home soon and we'll play. You eat all your bLeak,ast like a good boy." "You wai t unti I Mary Ann comes, Angie d :. f ferent I y I 6 and you two stay together and come home togetheL," Mother said. "I wi II, Mother. Oh! I can hardl y wai t ! We practiced in the choir a couple of days, but this will be a real Mass." Mary Ann came and we started off, chattering all the way, feeling extremely irnportant. It was every bit as thrilling as we had imagined. Our small voices blended in wi th those of the other chi 1 dren. Imagine, fourth graders being allowed to sing with fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth graders. A terwdn:.ls, outside the church, one eighth grade girl even told us we had done a good job. We walk~d home about eight feet off the glound. "Can you come over later, Mary Ann?" I asked. "As soon as I eat breakfast and change c 1 oth~s , un 1 ess Mother wants me to do something," Mary Ann replied. At home I found Paulie dressed and playing with his trucks in the dining room. ;lean you play now. Angie?" he asked eayerly. "As Boon as I eat and change clothes. Mary Ann might come over and we'll play house. You can be the little boy." "I don't wanna be the 1 itt 1 e boy. I want to be the daddy and drive a truck," Paulie insi;3ted. "Oh, okay, you can be the daddy today." While eating breakfast, Mother reminded me we were going to Chesterton the following weekend to my grandparents'. I loved visiting them, but probably the biggest ' attraction there was my ten-year-old cousin Joey. He and his mother my Aunt Rose lived with my Grandparents in their big Victorian house . .Joey's father UncI e Frank had been ki 11 ed toward the end of the Second World War. Aunt 7 Rose and Joey had moved back home so Aunt Rose could "get on her feet" as she put it. After three years she had never quite made it. Joey was my very favori te cousin. The thing that always intrigued me about him was that he always thought of things to do that never would have entered my mind. Last summer when I was visi ting, Joey had the idea of taking our notebooks up to the town squ~re and writing down license plate numbers of all the cars parked there. He said we could help the Sheriff out this way. He was fascinated with detectives at this time. The jail, sheriff's office and sheriff's apartment were right across the street from my grandparent's house, a fact that strongly contributed to Joey's interest. So up the hi 11 we trooped, tabl ets in hand, to play detectives. The town square was only a block away. My grandmother had given us money for ice cream and a warning to look both~ays before crossing the street. "Joey how many cars do you think we should do?" I asked. "All of them. How el se can the Sheri f f tell if there are any crooks in town. Police have a special way of looking up numbers in thei r big books, ,i Joey repl ied. "How do you know?" I asked. "Because I heard it on "Superman." Don't you ever listen to it? It tells you all kinds of neat stuff." I had to admi t that that radio program was not part of my weekly listening as yet. It took us about an hour to write down all the numbers, each of us taking turns. When we finished we were in front of Pinky's, a rather unique store on the square. Pinky was a pharmacist and filled prescriptions, but I 8 he also sold cigarettes, tobacco, candy, gum, and ice cream, a rather add combination. There were two regular drugstores in town, but Joey and I preferred Pinky's. He always took time to talk to us and sometimes gave us a two-scoop ice cream cone and only charged us for one scoop. The day we did our detective work was a hot one and the ice cream tasted wonderful. Finished, we left with our important detective work to be delivered. "Joey, do you think Sheriff Klein will be glad we did this, maybe even give us an award?" Joey looked at me as if he wondered about my sani ty. "You mean reward, and we can't tell him who did this. We'll just slip it in the door, ring the bell and run. That's what Superman woul d do! He sometimes does undercover stuff and doesn't tell anyone." Sometimes Joey's thinking confused me, but he was my idol so we ran up the steps, . pushed our pages of license plate numbers under the door, rang the bell and hid in the bushes. The Sheriff's wife came to the door, looked out, saw no one and started to turn away, then she saw the note paper. She picked it up and murmured something we couldn't hear and walked back in the house. After a while it was getting hot in the bushes. "Come on, Joey, 1 et 's go. Grandma wi 11 wonder where we are." "Okay, Angie, I think it's safe now." We crept out and across the street to Grandma's porch. Unfortunately, we never found out if our afternoon's work helped Sheriff Klein in his pursuit of justice. Most likely it did give him a good laugh, though. Another idea Joey had was how to retrieve 9 money f rom the drain grate over the sewer. Grandma had given us money for the matinee at the Boncastle, the nicest movie theater on the square. She had given each of us a quarter-fifteen cents for admission and ten cents for popcorn. We were excited . A new Roy Rogers movie was playing plus the sixth chapter of the current serial, Buster Crabbe in "Jungle Woman." Just as we started t o c ro ss th e street I dropped one of my di me s. I t roll ed to t he g r at i ng and dro p ped t ho ugh. We ran to see if we could se e it and t he r e i t was--ab ou t f our feet b e l ow us . " I know how we can g e t it ," Jo e y sa id. "You g o to Pink y' s a nd b u y some gum and start chewing it . I'll go b ack to the g ar age . Grandpa keep s s ta ke s behind it to tie up toma t o p l an ts . I ' l l b e b a ck. I was bewilder ed at Joey ' s i ns t ructions , When h e return e d I was b ut I fo llow e d them. s t a nd i n g on t he corner , chomping away on the gum . " NOW," he said , "gimme the gum." Obedientl y a nd silently I t ook it o ut and h anded it to h im. He put i t on the end o f t h e sti c k and l owered it i n to t he grate. "Now wa t ch , Angie. The dime wi ll s tic k to the gum a n d we'll pu ll it u p. " It sounded quite logica l when Joey explained it to me . Sure enough the silver we saw stuck to the gum and there it came. We grabbed for the dime, only to find it wasn't a dime after all, but a piece of tin foil. "Well," Joey said, "let's try again." We spotted another piece of silver gl inting at us. We pushed the stick down again--and again only retrieved tin foil. "I think I really see it this time," he 10 said, looking towards the corner of the hole. Pushing the stick down a third time, the gum was losing its gumminess. At fi rst the s i 1 ve r w0 u 1 dn 't s tic k . Fin al l y we got it, feeling at last we had it. Again, however, it was tin foil. "Joey, let's go back and ask Grandma for another dime or we'll miss the movie," I said. "Oh , okay, Angie, but I bet we could get it if we tried just a couple more times," he said hopefully. " Joe y ," I sa i d firm I y , " you h a v ego 0 d ideas, but I want to see Roy Rogers and we'll miss him if we don't get going." Grandma gave us the extra dime and we had a great time watching Roy Rogers who, with the help of Gabby Hayes, put the "bad guys" in jail. So Joey and I had a very c l ose relationship. We were lucky enough not only to be related, but to be good friends as well . told me we were going to When Mother Chesterton, I was very excited. Going to Chesterton was a l ways quite an expedition, even for the weekend. My mother had t o pack the playpen for Mikey , the baby buggy , besides all the diapers and c l othes and baby bottles. It was a real feat of maneuvering on her part. My father was working that weekend so he couldn't go. My job was to entertain Paulie in the back seat for the hour dri ve. I read to him, and we colored. We arrived at about 4:00. Joey and Grandma came out to greet us. "Angie, Angie, glad you"re here,'" Joey yelled. Grandma hugged us all. Grandpa hadn't come home yet. He " had a small pr6dcld~ market 11 about three blocks away where he was kept busy selling the freshest fruit and vegetables in town. "Where's Rose?" my mother asked. "She's upstairs," Joey said. "She has a headache again." "Joey," Grandma said, "help Aunt Katherine carry in some of her things." After we got all of our paraphernalia inside Grandma said, "Joey, you and Angie stay here. We'll be eating soon." "Come on, Angie, I want t a show you something," said Joey. We went upstai r s. Grandma ' s house had five bedrooms. Nine chi 1 dren had once l ived here my father among them. They were all gone except Aunt Rose, either married, working in the ci ty or in school. My father's youngest sister, Anna, who was on ly eleven years older than I, h ad just begun nurs i ng school in the city. Joey's room was so sunny and bright t hat summer afternoon. He had twin beds . In between was a night stand wi th a radio, a lamp, and a stack of comic books--Superman, Donald Duck, and Wonder Woman, my personal favorite, held equal domain her. He pulled open his dresser drawer and pulled out a box. "Guess what this is," he said. "Gosh, I don't know, Joey, show me," I said. "It's a Dick Tracy secret code ring. It has a magnifying glass, a secret compartment and a decoder wheel. We can copy this secret code for you and we can write letters to each other in the code." "Gee, that would be fun, Joey," I said. "Could I see the ring?" "Sure, Angie, but be careful with it. It I I 12 cost fifty cents and I had to eat three boxes of cereal for the box tops." I took the ring and turned it over, looking through the magnifying glass. It was the most intricate ring I had ever seen. In my excitement I dropped it. "Angi e, I tol d you to be careful!" Joey exploded. "I f i t broke, you'll have to get me another one!" Luckily it was intact, but I was stunned. Joey had never talked to me in this angry tome before. I was hurt and bewildered. I handed the ring to him and went downstairs. My feelings were very hurt. We finished dinner. Grandpa took Joey and I for a walk out to the river that wound near the outskirts of town. The evening was lovely--warmer that usual for the time of year . When we got to the river, Grandpa le t us wade at the shallow edge. After awhile Joey said, "Grandpa, I want to go horne. I'm cold." "Cold?" Grandpa said, "how could you be cold on such a warm evening?" He put his hand on Joey's forehead. "You feel hot. We'd better go back," he said. We dried our feet on a towel Grandpa had brought. By the time we got back, Joey said he felt better. We sat on the porch swing awhile, talking and listening to the crickets, then we went to bed. Joey and I slept in his twin beds. Usually we lay and talked after it was time to turn off the lights. Joey talked only a little and fell asleep. He normally was full of plans for the next day . I watched the pattern of leaves on the ceiling shift and sway with the wind. Soon, I slept. I woke up to Joey calling my name, "Angie, Angie, wake up. get my mother. I feel sick." "Whatsa' matter, Joey?' I asked sleepily. "My throat hurts and I feel like I'm gonna throw up." With this I jumped up and went into Aunt Rose's bedroom. "Aunt Rose, wake up! Joey's sick!" I cried. Aunt Rose barely stirred. When I couldn't wake her, I woke up my mother. She went into Joey's room and turned on the light. She helped Joey into the bathroom. "Angie, wake up your grandparents. Joey has a fever. We need the thermometer ," she said. I woke my grandparents . Joey was very sick. His temperature was 103 degrees. My mother hel ped him back to bed and bathed his face and arms wi th cool water . Grandma got him an aspirin. "Mom, I think we should wake Rose. Joey is complaining of pain in his neck and back," my mother said. "Ka therine, I doubt if she'll wake up very easily. She take s sleeping pills to help her sleep," Grandma replied. "She t s sti 11 taking them? Is that why she seems so distant all the time?" was my mother's surprised response. They both looked at me with that "littlepitchers-have-big-ears" look. Joey seemed very restless. Outside the sky was beginning to 1 ighten. I t was the beginning of a very long day. After an hour Joey's temperature was even higher. "I'm going to call the doctor," Grandma said. By the time he arrived 45 minutes later, (continued on p. 39) 14 ENDEAVORING So, do you know, did they show? Left about some time ago. at clevering; Heard they toiled Told they were endeavoring. Did not catch what they were proving. Only saw some blurrring moving. Ear drums beat with chatter patter, Havng heard, "endeavors matter." Process-spent till Monday mourn, They shall return, partly worn. Not intent on outcomes severing; Merely poised for delivering endeavoring. President Daniel A. Felicetti 15 This poem is based on a song my grandma composed approximately seventy years ago. My grandma is afflicted with Alzheimer's disease and coul donI y remember "Take my hand marna dear. " From this phrase and because of my love for her, I have written this poem. GRANDMA'S LAMENT I was one of many children, yet I never felt it so. You had so many chores to do, yet you always let us know, that Jesus was our Savior; In family we could trust, and wi th you Marna dear we would al ways be loved. When thunder stopped our hearts and lightning creased the sky I knew you'd hold my hand and dry the tears that I cried. I Take my hand Marna dear, I'm frightened and alone. I need to have your shelter, I need to be back horne. Many moons have corne and hone yet I sti 11 feel this way. Take my hand Mama dear, from you I will not stray. Take my hand Mama dear, wi th you I want to stay. I Dreamt last night Mama was dying ,just a dream I pray. Awoke in a cold hard sweat, 'bout fifty years too late. Mama's hand's no longer there to hold me in the night. 16 I toss and turn, pray for dawn, and hug my pillow tight. Wish things were like the days of old on the Kansas plain. Wish Mama could come back and help me with this pain. Time has played its tricks but I's still Mama's child. When twilight's thunder comes, still makes my heart beat wild. I's safe in happy memories, when Mama held my hand. I return to childhood days of old in our Kansas land. Things are always clearer there, once again I'm sure. There, I remember everything, I've no need of a cure. Mama, where are you? This storm, it has not passed. Mama, I'm not as strong as you , I don't think I'll last. Mama, you are a guiding light and to your soul I pray. Mama, please be with me tonight, and show to me the way. Mam~, the storm is raging and the night sky is clear. Mama, I'm confused. I really wish you were here. John Mathis 17 AN AMISH EXPERIENCE By Phillip McIntire When one of my teachers asked me how much knew about the Amish people, I laughed out loud. Aside from the movie "Witness," the Amish were as foreign as E.T. However, that was before I went to Lancaster, Pennsylvania last summer to visit an Amish community. After my family spent a few days with my Grandma in York, Pennsylvania, we decided to go to Lancaster. As we travel ed out of the gray, smog-infested city of Yor k, the sly slowly turned blue, and the green fields stood out like a pretty picture . We had crossed the Sesquehanah River, and the land look as sacred as the perfect peopl e. It woul d have been impossible . to capture in a single photograph. As we drove closer, we passed house after house surrounded by beauti ful whi te picket fences which, by the way they gleamed, could have been encompassed by angels. A faint sound of hooves tromping could be heard in the distance . The sound got clearer and clearer until I finally saw a horse and buggy pass by slowly carrying an Amish family, which I watched like a hawk until they eventually rolled out of my view. At that moment, the Amish people were no longer just people in a movie: they were real and I saw them. I was as exci ted as a kid a Christmas time. My excitement stated to flow into a complete calmness as we approached Lancaster. We passed signs advertising Amish tours, and I wanted to go on one. When I asked my parents about the tour. they sai d we woul d go in a couple hours. Two hours seemed like an eternity. My line of thought was interrupted, as my I 18 dad pull ed the car of f to the side of the road. Not a word was said while we all stared out the window. At least fifty Amish men worked like little leprechauns putting up the customary barn the community built for a new bride and groom. Tourists could be seen everywhere watching the group. The rhythmic sound of pounding hammers was in i tsel f a symbol of unity that gave me a warm feeling. Just watching them made me want to become one of them and help with this beautiful ritual. At noon, the clanging of big brass bells could be heard all through the small town. It was I unch time. Men streamed in from the barn site to sit around tables while the women served lunch. The sound of cameras flashing almost disturbed the wonderful sight. the men went back to word after thei r hour break, and soon the women came out of the house in a steady stream which sounded like rolling thunder from the heavens. They all ~at down and started quilting a quilt for the bride. I looked up at my mother, and tears were streaming down her face. The view of the women working was truly amazing. The sun was sliding toward the horizon and the barn was bui It. All the tourists on the side of the road watched a convoy of candle-lit carriages stroll toward home. Not a sound was heard except for the clapping of the horses when they went past. Then, as the clapping of horses faded out, the night was filled with darkness and we headed toward our car. My mom slowly turned around "Phillip, I'm sorry we missed the tour," she said. "No, we didn't," I replied. ~ 19 Falling rain on winter branch Thoughts flee to distant land A foreign place, and yet, more my home than here. Our yesterday in green patchwork; How long ago it seems Through gnarled woods and castle dunge ons . Ancient lives we lived anew. Battles raged for love and crown; Romans march to conquer; Distant ships with masts at full; Another isle yet untamed . Time crumbles turret walls ; ' Forgets the Celtic hero Historic spirits linger on Whispering to me alone In my land I am a stranger, sick for my foreign home. Called back across the sea to the harbor of my soul~ Kent Cook 20 DESTINY Dedicated to the Senior Class of 1991 The road of life is long. I don't know where I'm going. but with me I take this song, ' cause they both keep me growing. Life is always changing, like a sturdy autumn breeze. It shakes the leaves of security , and keeps them from my reach. ' But I've walked this road before. I've been in and out her doors . And it seems to me, that I've found my key. Destiny s twists will set me free. John Mathis 21 TRAPPED BY MEMORIES By Claudia Struewing I remember the first time I met my Aunt Cordelia. My father had already told me that she wasn't at all 1 ike her sister, my mama. She was more quiet and reserved, but I wasn't expecting this. The front door opened, and we were greeted, to my surprise, by a very homely-looking lady who stood halfway behind the door as though trying to hide. She politely gestured for my father and me to come in and have a seat. As soon as we were seated with my father sitting beside Aunt Cordelia and me seated across the room in a corner chai r of deep purple velvet, they began chatting. My father, realizing that his sister-in-law didn't have much to say, took over the conversation by telling her of his plans and thanking her for keeping me while he was away. As she inattentively listened, I glanced around the huge living room, a t the heavy closed drapes, the beautifully carved furniture of pine, I think, and the knickknacks spread throughout the room. When she wasn't looking, I even ventured a glance her way or actual 1 y a stare. She was a pleasant enough looking woman, I suppose, but much too quiet for my taste. She coul dn' t have been all that much older than my father, I suspected, although I must admit that something about her made her seem older than her years. Maybe it was the way she did her hair up on her head or the positively dreadful dress she wore. I wanted to tell her that no one dresses 1 ike that anymore, but I kept silent hoping that my stay with Aunt Cordelia woul d prove bet ter than I imagined at that moment. As was to be expected, to my great 22 horror, Daddy soon announced that he had to be on his way, leaving me and this stranger alone after just meeting. "Goodbye, pumpkin. You mind your aunt now, you hear?" were his final words, and with a peck on my cheek, he disappeared out the door. I waved after him as he walked briskly to his car, but he didn't turn back. Maybe he knew that if he did, he might see the pain in my eyes at having lost my mother and father in only a few short months. But I couldn't let Aunt Cordelia see how After all, none of this was her I fel t. fault, so I just had to act like a big girl as Daddy always said and try to make the best of it. I turned around then to see Aunt Cordelia leaving the room, and I followed her, curious to find out more about her. My eyes bulged in awe as I walked through room after room of high cei 1 ings and more furni ture on fancy legs with large rugs covering every hardwood floor until we reached the kitchen . .It was huge, too, for a kitchen that is. I . just couldn't hold my tongue any longer. She hadn't said a word to me since my daddy left, and the silence in that big old house was almost spooky. "How can anyone 1 i ve in this big old house all by himself? Why, this kitchen itself is big enough for a person to dance in if he has a mind to," I murmured. I was sure that caught her attention for she turned in my direction and proceeded to explain how she grew up in that house and how it was all that was left of her family. "Now, just stop your gabbing, young lady, and sit down before supper gets cold," she snapped as she pointed to the table she had just set. I watched as she dished up the chicken and peas, noticing how proper she was wi th every movement. Then she sat down across from 23 me, spread a fancy lace napkin over her lap, and began to eat her meal in silence which made me feel uneasy again. I stared down at my plate, not feeling very hungry but tried to eat something anyway. "Umm. This is very good. What's it called?" I asked as I scraped up the last few bites with my fingers. For just a fleeting second, I could see a smile pass over her face as she whispered in a gentl~ tone, "It's cinnamon chicken. Your grandmama taught your mama and me how to cook when we were your age. She al ways said that one thing a young lady needed to know in order to get a husband was how to cook. Always was his favorite." "Whose favorite?" I asked. "No one's," she shot back quickly as her tone changed. "Now hurry up and finish, so we can get all this cleaned up and get you settled." After we'd finished the dishes in relative silence except for my occasional questions and put them all away safely in the cupboard, my aunt showed me to a room which was to be mine. I carried my suitcase, which Daddy had brought in earlier, up the stairs and lugged it up on the high bed covered with wha t looked to bea handmade qui 1 t . "Now," she suddenly spoke after she had begun unpacking for me, "since this wi 11 be your room, I expect you to take care to see that it always looks neat and tidy. School will be starting next Monday as I'm sure your father has already told you." She glanced at me, and I nodded. "Well, then I wi 11 expect no trouble from you. As long as you behave and do as well as you can, we'll get along just fine. " She ended then and turned around to go, leaving me to look at . what was now my room. Again there was some more of that old 24 furniture like I had seen in the rest of the house. Not a speck of dust was to be found anywhere as I ran my finger over the top of the dresser and rocking chair in the corner. When I had finished my inspection, I wandered back down to the living room to see what Aunt Cordelia was doing now. As I neared the room, I could hear the sounds of a waltz coming from the old phonograph in the corner. I hid in the doorway to see what was happening, for I didn't want to disturb her. To my amazement she was dancing, and not only that, but she seemed as though she was waltzing with someone else. She moved lightly and gracefull y, acting as though she were a young lady giggling and flirting with her male partner. I thought this odd but watched only a few more minutes before returning to my room and crawling into the big, warm bed for lack of anything else to do. Monday morning I got up early to explore the house before school which I had not been able to do as of yet. I was still a bit . nervous at having to go to a new school with new faces, but I wanted to make my daddy happy and show him that I was a big girl. I thought about this as I strolled through the upstairs hallway, finding more rooms very similar to mine with handmade quilts placed neatly on each bed. I roamed up and down the long hall wi th a rug equal I y as long running down the center. As I turned to go back downstairs, I came to another door, which upon opening I discovered led to an attic. But I didn't have time to explore that just now. I ventured back downstairs quietly to take a peek at the rest of the house. All the rooms here appeared to be lost in time wi th the furniture not having been moved for years or the heavy drapes not having been opened to 25 allow in the sun. Even the knickknacks of bronze or delicate porcelain on the tables seemed to be placed around the rooms strategically and never were disturbed since first being placed there, not even to dust. Also, to my great bewilderment, there were no portraits of any of the family hanging on the wall s or si t ting out. Onl y beauti ful oi I paintings of different sizes hung on the walls. I wondered how anyone could live like this. It was as though Aunt Cordelia had cut hersel f off from the outside world and was cooped up in her own little world right here. However, I would have to continue my journey through the house and Aunt Cordelia's private world later, or I might be late for the first day at school. I heard racket coming from the kitchen as I rounded a corner. When my aunt spotted me entering the 1 arge room, she announced that breakfast was ready and finished pouring a glass of milk for me. "You mustn't start the first day of school without a good breakfast. ' That's what Mama always said." And she again drifted back into her world of memories as I was beginning to rea 1 i ze she usual I y did on the few occasions that she spoke. The next thing I knew she had snapped out of her daydreaming and was scooting me out the door: calling after me, "Behave yourself, and don't start the first day aff on the wrong foot . J ' Well, I did behave mysel f that day as instructed, and I made a lot of new friends along the way which is what I had been trying to do with Aunt Cordelia, only with limited success. Over the next few weeks I had asked her to teach me to cook as an attempt to become more acquainted. She told her stories of when her mother first taught her how to sew 26 and cook and knit, but it always seemed that just as she was about to say something important, she would break off and become silent. I gathered that she didn't like talking about her adolescence. Maybe something had happened to make her want to forget those years, and so she kept hersel f closed off from others. She never left the house except for the necessary shopping or church on Sunday. In the evenings, she would sit in her rocking chair in front of the lifeless fireplace and read thick books of poetry which, judging from their titles, seemed to be very depressing. One particular evening I decided that I would sit with her in the dimly lit room and read. However, I had no books other than school b ooks , a prob l em which was easily remedied as I opened the wi d e doors to the library. I was shocked at the thought of anyone having her own private library right in her home, but there it was. Bookshelves full of gold-trimmed books covered each wall. I climbed up on a high-backed chair to read some of the named--Milton, Coleridge, Shelley, Dickens. I wasn't familiar with too many of these, but I pulled out the collection of stories by Dickens since I had at least heard of him. As I began flipping through its pages the book fell open on its own to a certain page. A 1 et ter addressed to a Miss Cordelia Butterfinger stood between the open pages like a bookmark. Out of curiosity I read the letter, a love letter from an old beau. The way it sounded they must have been very much in love, but that must have been a very long time ago. I read the postmark on the envelope which said June 23, 1942. Why, she must have been only a young woman then. But I wasn't going to question her about it f 27 now. I'd just wait and see if she ever brought it up on her own. Right now I had to get back out to the 1 i ving room before she came looking for me and found me snooping around. One afternoon while Aunt Cordelia was in the ki tchen preparing our supper, I , quickl y ran up to the attic to find a photograph of my family for sharing time at school the next day. I didn't want to bother my aunt with it since she was busy, and besides, she didn't like me going through old t hings that belonged to her family. She said that they were private. but I decided that that was the only place I might find a picture. As quietly as I could, I climbed the at t ic stairs, but they creaked beneath my feet. I prayed that she wouldn't hear me making so much noise. Searching for the light r i ght inside the door, I stumbled over something as I waded through the dust and cobwebs. I t fell to the floor with a loud crash which was sure to bring Aunt Cordelia running. A few seconds later I found the light and switched it on, then tip toed to an old trunk which was sure to have old photo albums. As I opened the rusty-hinged trunk and began shuf fling through the pictures, r coul d hear Aunt Cordel ia s voice, "Cynthia? Cynthia? Are you up there, honey?" But I didn't answer. I just sat there motionless as she climbed the stairs to the attic, grumbling all the while about being an old woman and not needing this kind of excitement. Suddenly there she stood in the doorway looking bigger than ever wi th the light from the stairs illuminating her from behind. She gasped as she found her way through the clutter, and I held my breath. "What on earth are you doing up here, child?" f 28 she lashed out when she saw me. "I \'las onl y looking for a photograph of our fami I y to take to school. I didn't mean to upset you, Aunt Cordelia. Honest." She must have seen the startled look on my face for her tone softened, "Well, you should have asked, that's all. You ought to know better than to be snooping around in someone else's things. Scared the living daylights out of me. But no harm done, I suppose," she said as her anger subs ided. "May I still have a picture to take to school, Aunt Cord e l ia? All the other kids will have one," I asked holding out the box of old photographs to her. Aunt Cordelia took the musty smelling box from me and, b rushing off a dust covered c hai r, sat down and began shuf fling through the box. Picture after picture brought back a flood of memories to her of when her family was all to gether and everyone was happy . She smi led to herself and with tears in her eyes, . she whispered, "Oh, my! Will you look at that? Weren't we a bunch? I remember when this picture was taken," she sighed as she handed me the photograph. I sat qui et I y listening as she went into her dream world again . "That was the summer of nineteen thirty-eight. The church picnic, I believe. That's your grandmama and grandpapa right there on the swing," she pointed out to me. . "Oh Aunt Cordel ia, is that you?" my eyes 1 it up as I spot ted a young woman wi th the deepest auburn hair sitting under a maple tree. She took the photograph back and answered reflectively, "Ah, yes, that was me, and there's your mama sneaking of f behind the church wi th her young man. Your father, of course," she clarified. "They were such a 29 handsome couple." "You were so beautiful then," I said in amazement as I looked back and forth from my aunt to the woman in the picture. "Well, now that's enough of that," she snapped. "You can stop your gawking this minute." Then after a moment of silence, she smiled again. I could see the sudden change in her mood as tears well ed up in her eyes when she spoke, "That was the last happy time we all had together before the war." Sensing her grief, I pull ed out another picture and tried to change the subject by asking, "Was he an old boyfriend of yours?" With my finger, I pointed out a tall, dark haired gentleman standing beside Aunt Cordelia. "That was a long time ago," she answered, but offered no more. "Here is your picture to take to school," she choked out as she sniffled and wiped at her tears. "What was his name?" "Roger Dalton." "Did you love him?" "I suppose I did." "Why'd he go away?" "He was called off for duty in the war if you must know. Now, honestly, young lady, you ask enti rei y too many questions. That's enough remembering for one day. It's time for supper, and my pot roast is probably ruined by now. Come on, missy, put away that dirty box, and get yourself cleaned up," she commanded, back to her usual self again. I ran to catch up with her, babbling all the way, "Did he ever come back?" I took the silence as an answer and continued, "Were you really sad when he left? I'll bet it was terribly tragic when he went away. Just like when my mommy died. But we'll be all right, 30 Aunt Cordelia, won't we? We'll probably miss them and all, but as my daddy says, 'We just have to remember the good times and go on with our lives,' and that's what I intend to do. Just go on and remember all the fun things we did together when Mama was with us. That way there'll always be a little bit of her inside me." At that moment, she stopped in her tracks and turned around to look at me. She had the strangest look on her face, like she had actually heard what I had said. Maybe she had. I'm really not sure what happened , for out of the blue, she pulled me to her and held me tightly. I could hear her quiet sobs just before she l e t me go, and with her arm still around my should ers , she led me t o the kitc hen to enjoy our supper. ~ 31 IN MY HEART You have walked on waters of my heart Danced on rivers of my soul Swam like minnows through my mind, Until I overflowed. In as ocean with the salty tide Which stings my vulnerability I push on by day, towards Images of you. And out just before the sun's first kiss. Yet, like a child, I splash With joy at new discoveries: To touch the starfish which fell From the ocean's blue sky, To join the otters floating Lazily without a care, Not quite sure where they're going So long as it's with you. And all the world is helpless Against the power of the tide. And I reach for a steady rock With which to remain above the waves. But it foams and laps around me Until I've lost my balance. Until order, reality, Dreams and logic Swirl in eddies throughout my mind. The otter and I are pulled, Our hearts' thirst for to quench, Farther still from the shore. But then the sun's first rays 32 Gently touch the surface Until it glistens In the new day's image. A kiss, So warm, so pure, With honesty nature can't deny. It is a world unto itself, A world of inner beauty Unlike all others, Where all the world is helpless Against the power of the tide. Noelle Gasco 33 .----- . . , /\ -, . .... i ) \~~~ THE EFFECTS OF A CROWD ~ ~. \\ .~) By April Duff People are always watching sporting events on television, whether it be Monday Night Football of gol f. These fans si t in their family rooms and watch while their favorite teams go head-to head. Although these home viewers may get hyped-up over the exci tement of the game, it is nothing 1 ike being there in person. Home viewers see the action and hear the commentating, but there is no comparison to the overwhelming excitement of a live game. The fans, the spirit, and even the smell of the popcorn turn an average game into a sensational event. I had never been to a I arge-scal e sporting event in my life until I went to the final National League championship Series game in Cincinnati several weeks ago. It was not unti 1 then that I realized the true excitement of a baseball . game. It was a damp, chilly evening as we drove into the heart of cincinnati. The fall weather was just beginning to show itself, and I had bundled myself up well for the evening . As we grew nearer to Riverfront Stadium, the streets were 1 ined wi th scalpers and gamegoers who yelled and cheered as the cars drove by. This atmosphere only built the excitement that was now growing inside of me. After parking the car, we walked several blocks to the stadium, and every step we took brought us closer to the anxious, screaming crowd that filled the still night air like sirens. Upon reaching the stadium, we were surrounded by even more scalpers and peopl e sell ing all types of souvenirs--hats, shirts, and bumper stickers. there were people all around me. 34 The excitement that had been mounting inside of me since the first Cincinnati radio station was still fuzzy in the car all but overwhelmed me when I first stepped foot into the stadium. I had often seen the screaming fans at a football of baseball game when I watched a game on television, and when I first walked into the stadium I imagined things to be somewhat that way. Much to my surprise, the excitement was exceedingly larger in person; it seemed to smack me in the face as I walked in. As I stepped out of the walkway and over toward the seats, I was knocked over by the number of people I saw. I was standing among fifty thousand people who were waiting with bated breath for the final NLCS game to start. As the Reds came out onto the field, the f ans bolted to their feet and began t o cheer. Ther e seemed to be an explosion in th e air as the fans made their enthusiasm verbal. This frenzy rang in my ears throughout the entire game. I fo und myself throughout la rge parts of th e game simply taking in my s urro und ings--the huge scoreboards and the I ighted signs, the mammoth tel evision screens that brought the action to a more visible distance, the Go odyear Blimp, but most of all the thousands and thousands of people that encircled me. Each time a Reds team member would get a hit or score a run, the crowd would spring up from their seats and cheer, bringing me out of my daze and back into the game. The game eventually wound its way down to one final play. It was the top of the ninth, and Cincinnati was ahead by one point, and the Pirates had two outs. As the final Pirate stepped up to the mound, the entire stadium came to life. The crowd was so loud that my ears vibrat~d with sound. I could feel it in my chest, people screaming, clapping, and 3S pounding the metal rafters above my head with their fists. The anxiety was visible in the batter's face as the pitches began ,to fly, and the sweat poured off his face like rain. after two balls and two strikes, a final stride was made, and the game was over. The already excited crowd now blew up with cheers. As the Reds fans jumped on thei r seats and hugged ne another, neon signs flashed "Reds Won! Reds Won!", firecrackers went off, and the team members ran onto the field. It was as if everyone's excitement had exploded. I had never been a very avid fan of any sport before I went to this game , and the only games I had truly gotten into were high school games. That night in Cincinnati with all of the fans and the stadium that seemed to rock due to all of the spirit was all it took to get me hyped-up for baseball. I wi 11 never agai~ think watching a baseball game on television is anything like being there in person... There is just no comparison. ,,-...,0" 36 DESTINY TO DIE Death is the sentence Murder is the crime Earth is the victim Of man's tormented mind. War is our history The demon we must bear. Power is the wine for which we crave To quench the thirst of our lust filled ways. Pride is an honor we must defend To glorify our existence to all other men. Through battles of justice And the bloodshed of peace We are killing our children Our homes and our streets. Destruction is the wasteland of our past. As planetary genocide is our future task. Paradise abandoned For the taste of f orbidden fruit. War is our destiny The final performance For all to behold A destiny to die. David J.B. Hicks 37 No More Fighting Trivial tiffs, Serious strides, and waging war-and different ways and extents of fighting. Fighting for freedom, fighting for love, Fighting for success-why do we create such a mess by fighting for everything that we want and need? I, for one , am tired of fighting, of living in fear. Peace lies yet so near-don't run away from it but come closer, even if just a little bit. If everyone works as one, maybe the sun will dry up the tears and the anger created by the wounds of war to make all people everywhere realize-that we need no more fighting anymore. Karen Hauser 38 A CHILD'S FAITH (continued from p. 14) everyone, inc 1 uding Aunt Rose, was awake. I was helping Mother in the kitchen with Paulie and Mikey. Aunt Rose came downstairs practically in hysterics. "Katherine, they want to take Joey to the hospital. The doctor thinks it could be polio!" She was shaking violently. "I can't lose him--I can't! He's all r have left! If something happens to him I'll kill myself. I've been almost dead since Frank died anyhow." She s at down in a chair and wept. I was terrified. I looked from Mother to Aunt Rose. r started to run upstairs. "Ang ie, " Mother said, "come back here. I need you here, and you'll be in the way up there." Mother I s face had a stricken look. It was onl y when r got older that I knew the word "polio" was one of the most feared words a parent could hear. The ambulance came and took Joey and Grandma to the hospital. Grandpa and Aunt Rose followed in the car. Mother, the baby, Paulie and I sat around the house, waiting for the phone to ring. As if adding to the gloom, the sky darkened as the afternoon wore on, threatening a storm. It Finally about 3:30 a car pulled up. was Grandpa. I ran out on the porch. "Grandpa, is Joey okay? Can 1 see him? Where's Grandma? When can he come home}" Grandpa's face looked grim and very tired. "Angie, one question at a time. Joey is very, very sick. Your grandma and Aunt Rose are still with him. We don't know when he'll come home. Wha t we need to do now is pray very hard that Joey will get well soon. They 39 won't 1 et you see him because you're too little. Let's go in and see your mother." When we got inside, Mother asked me to take Paulie for a little walk to the corner and back so she and my grandfather could talk. Years later I found out how terrified my mother was that I or Paulie or even the baby might contract polio also. However, I did not know of her grave concern. It did seem strange at the time that whenever we sneezed of coughed she seemed unduly alarmed. My mother had been in a quandary about whether to stay to be of support to my grandparents and Aunt Rose or to leave because of the contagion. My grandfather settled it. "Katherine, you should take the children and go home tomorrow. There's nothing you can do here anyhow and we'll ta 1 k on the phone every day." When I heard we were leaving, I was greatly distressed, " ... but, Mother, Joey will want to see me when he's bet ter. I know he wi 11 . He'll be well soon. I need to be here." "Angie, you can't go to the hospi tal. You're not old enough. When Joey is ... better, we'll come back and see him. Besides, remember your promise to Sister Cecel ia to sing at Mass every morning?" "Oh, who cares about that. I want to stay!" I wailed and stamped my foot. Had Mother not understood how upset I was, I'm sure she would have looked quite unfavorably on my behavior. We left the next morning after Church. It was a very quiet, sad trip home. Joey was no better. My father decided he would take the following Monday and Tuesday off to go to Chesterton to be of any help he could. It seemed my mother was on the phone constantly tal king to him or my grandparents. I 40 continued my daily singing at Mass and praying very hard for Joey, but he was still very ill. One day, about six weeks after Joey got sick, Sister Cecelia asked me to stay after Mass and help her and Mrs. O'Neil. They took care of the sacristy. Whi 1 e I was doing a little dusting and emptying vases, I overheard them talking. Mrs. O'Neil had just come back from Lourdes, a city in France where the Blessed Mother had appeared to a girl named Bernadette, who was not much older than I. "Sister Cecel ia, I can't tell you how moved I was to see that little cave with all the crutches hanging on the walls," Mrs. O'Neil said. "So many people have gone there ill or crippled and come away completely cured. Many don't, of course, but it is truly an inspiration to see the strong faith of all those people." "I've read so much about it, " Sister Cecelia replied, "some day I hope to visit there myself. Do you think the visit helped your husband's heart trouble?" "No," said Mrs. O'Neil, "not in a physical way, but I'm sure the Blessed Mother heard our prayers. God just has His own way of answering them. Tom says just being there made him feel better. We brought some of the holy water from the grotto back with us. It has worked miracles." I had stopped working to listen to this conversation. The words, "it has worked miracles" kept running through my head. In my heart I knew this was what Joey needed--a miracle. I had overheard my mother and father talking and they said he might not survive this terrible illness. Sister Cecelia told me I could leave. I left the Church, but waited outside. When 41 Mrs. O'Neil carne out I approached her. "Mrs. O'Neil," I said, "could I talk to you for a minute?" "Or course, Angie," she said," what is it you want?" "You know I have a cousin, Joey, who has polio and he's awful sick and he might--h~ might--," with that, I burst into tears. Mrs. O'Neil had raised five children and she knew very well how to comfort a child in distress. She hugged me and patted my back. We sat on the Church steps unti 1 my tears subsided. "Now, Angie," she said kindly, "what did you want to talk about?" "You said you had some water from that Lourdes place that helped make sick people better. Could I have just a little bit for my cousin? Just a tiny , t iny b it cause he's really not big like your h usband? " "Of course you can have some , Angie. The onl y thing you must keep in mind is this. When we ask God for something we must be ready . for His answer. Sometimes His answer isn't what we want. It's sort of like if you ask your mother for a cookie. What you want is for her to say yes, but she might say no because you've already had too many, or it ' s near a meal or she might know something that you don't. For instance she might have a special dessert planned and she knows you don't need the extra sugar from the cookie . . In a lot bigger way, that's the way God is. "You corne across the street to my house and I'll give you some of the holy water, then I'll walk you home. I haven't visited with your mother for ages." Carefully, I carried my small bottle of holy water home. Mrs. O'Neil and my mother talked for . a long time. I tried to keep busy 42 with my dolls. Then Paulie wanted me to play trucks with him in the sandbox. Finally Mrs. O'Neil left and Mother came out to sit with us . "Mrs. O'Neil told me she gave you some holy water from Lourdes. You'll want to take it to Joey, I know. I'm going to call Grandma pret ty soon and see what she says. I'd 1 ike to go myself and see how things are." Soon Mother called us in for l un c h . "Grandma says the doctor feels the contagious part of t he poli o i s p as t , " Mother sa id . "What ' s 'contagious'?" I asked . "It means t he time y ou mi ght ge t polio also . We were all very worri ed ab out tha t, but t he t ime has passed n ow . It would be safe f or you and Paulie and the baby . Maybe we c an go this we ek e nd, but don't ge t your hopes u p , Angie, abut seeing Joey. Hospitals have strict rule s a b o u t chil d ren visiting , and Joey i s sti ll so s ick . " " Bu t , Me t h e r , t he Lo u rdes wa t e r will ma k e hi m b e t te r . I kn ow i t wi 11 ! " I s a id fe rve n t ly. "Ma yb e you're right , An g i e , ma y b e you're ri g ht, " Mother si ghed . We arrived in Chester ton late an Satur day morning. Grandma was s o h appy t o s e e a ll of us. Normally we visited more o f t en . "Is Rose at the hospi t al?" Mothe r a sked. "No, she isn't up yet, " Grandma said , "and I feel badly because she hardly goes at all anymore." "Mom, sometimes I just don't understand her," my mother said impatiently. "Well, she has been under qui te a strain. You know all of his with Joey brings back the pain of Frank's death to ' her. I ' know she should be stronger, but she's just not," :43 Grandma said tiredly. "Grandma do you think I coul d go see Joey?" I know he'd like to see me, and I sure woul d I ike to see him. I have something important for him." "You know, Angie, I talked to the doctor when I knew you were coming. He and I both think that Joey's seeing you for a few minutes might perk him up a little. He's going to see if he can arrange something." Late in the afternoon the doctor called. They were going to wheel Joey's bed to the edge of the sun room door and I could see him there for just a few minutes. Clutching the little bottle tightly in my hand, I walked the three blocks to the hospital with Mother. We rode the elevator to the fourth floor, the chi I dren 's floor. We waited in the sun room. It was well named for the afternoon sun streamed in. It was very warm. The ceiling fan was on high speed and a small oscillating fan gently went back and forth, stirring the humid air . Suddenly, I was very nervous. --Please, Holy Mother, I thought. Ask God to help Joey get well. I love him like I love Paulie. Please ... Mother touched my shoulder. "Here he is." , I was totally unprepared for what I saw. Joey was so thin and pale. I walked up to the bed to make sure it was my cousin. For a moment, I thought it wasn't. I couldn't speak. Then he spoke, or whispered "Hi, Angie." I could barely hear him, but . those two words broke my silence. "Hi, Joey! I'm so glad to see you. I'm sorry you got sick. I've missed you so much. I've got something that will make you better. It's some holy water from Lourdes. The I I 44 Bl essed Mother appeared there to Bernadet te who was a kid like us. Lots of people who go there get weI 1-. I just know you wi 11 . " I couldn't seem to stop talking. Mother final 1 y quieted me down. Joey had a very faint glimmer of a smile on his small pale face. "Joey," I said, "could you touch your finger to this bottle of water and make the Sign of the Cross?" Sl owl y almost imperceptibl y, he shook his head. "Okay, . I'll do it for you," I said. I touched my fingers to the bottle and tipped it unti 1 they were wet. I made the Sign of the Cross touching Joey's forehead, heart, and both shoulders. Silently I repeated my prayer. Just then the nurse carne and said Joey had to go back to his room. "Not so soon," I cried, "he just carne!" "He needs lots of rest so he can get well. Maybe in a few weeks you can see him again." Again I saw a faint smile briefly light Joey's face as the nurse wheeled him away. "We'd bet ter go now," Mother said as Joey and the nurse rounded a corner and out of sight. On the way horne I said, "Joey sure does look sick, but I bet in a few days he'll be all better." "I hope you're right, Angie. That's what we're praying for," Mother said. When we got to Grandma" s, Aunt Rose was sitting on the couch, staring off i~to ~pace. "Aunt Rose," I s 'a id, "Joey's going to get well now. I made the Sign of the Cross on him with holy w~ter from Lourdes. He'll be okay I 45 soon." "What a silly child you are," Aunt Rose said. "You think your holy water will make him better? I'm going to lose Joey the way I lost my Frank in the war; then I'll have nothing left." "But, Aunt Rose, he's going to be okay. I told you that. The Blessed Mother will help him. She loves little children. I don't know why you don't go see Joey. He real 1 y needs you, and he will get well." Aunt Rose looked at me with a wild look on her face and ran upstairs. Grandpa had gone to the hospital to spend the evening with Joey. Grandma, my mother, Paul ie and I ate supper after Mother fed the baby. It was so good to be wi th Grandma again, but it was lonesome without Joey. After supper, I went out on the porch to sit on the swing. The evening was so soft and beautiful. A cool breeze had sprung up and the I eaves were rust I ing overhead. I leaned my head back on the pillow and fell asleep. I awoke to hear someone coming up on the porch. It was Grandpa. "How's Joey?" I asked He sat down beside me. His look told me things weren't very good. "Angie, Joey seems worse tonight. Would you pI ease go in the house and ask your Grandma to come out here? and, Angie, please stay inside." Grandma want out and I heard them talking. The word "crisis" was mentioned several times and "Rose" many times. Grandpa went up to Aunt Rose's room and they all left for the hospital after speaking briefly to my mother. A few minutes after they left, my mother said, "Angie, we need to pray very hard right 46 now for Joey." Mother and I sat in the living room, she wi th her arms around me and we prayed for Joey. Like the summer, it was a long, long evening. My bed time came and went, but Mother 1 et me stay up, knowing I'd want to know about Joey. Finally we heard footsteps on the porch. There stood Aunt Rose at the door. She burst into tears when she walked in. --Oh, I thought, Joey can't be worse--he just can't. "Angi e," Aunt Rose said as she gained control, "I ran ahead because I wanted to be the one to tell you. How, I don't know, but Joey's better. For a few minutes, we thought he was gone. It was as if someone said, 'No, not J:hi~ lit tIe boy. He is needed here. ' I still can't believe it. The doctor really thinks that now he wi 11 make it. We won't know for awhile about his legs, but we still have him and I'm goi ng to hang onto that." Mother and I hugged Aunt Rose. Just then Grandma and Grandpa came in. Grandpa got his accordion and began playing songs he knew from his childhood in Italy. Paulie and the baby woke up and we had a very joyful, and noisy, celebration. Our Joey was going to be well again. Many years have passed since that long ago summer. Joey and I have our own families now. We don't see each other often since he 1 i ves two thousand mi 1 es away. Hi s i l l ness left him with only a slight limp; it left Aunt Rose with her faith restored. Joey and I talk of all our other times together wi th much happiness, but we speak of that miraculous summer of 1948 with awe and thanksgiving.~ 47 Be a part of the golden anniversary year of the Fioretti. Submit poetry, short fiction, drama, and pen and ink drawings for our second edition by the end of January 1992. 48 I~ t.;.,. ~ i(  ...

... (JI Fioretti ptJ i " 116 e 711~ 19ft> I Fioretti a literary anthology , . .' '. . Voblme 49, Number 1 Fall 1990 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana ~. ., I Fioretti ArtWork cover \ Betsy UhI p. 13, p. 17 \ Stephanie Pheifer p. 27, p. 33 \ Betsy UhI Staff Editors \ Julie Biltz, Laura Horner Assistant Editor \ Michelle Genovese Production Editor \ Barbara Crock . Advisor \ Sr. Stella Gampfer 2 PrJ ~ IID ~ __________________________________________ t ~7 ff "C Fioretti Contents The Perfect Couple - A Fairy Tale \ Kerry Dearth 4 Love Production \ Noelle Marie Gasco 7 Tomb Essence \ Todd Gavin 9 My Aristocratic Life \ Deadra Webb 10 The Comma, Cal Hy-phonical Conspirasay Daniel A. Felicetti 14 Mythological Puns Holly Fehlinger and Jeanne Lovins 15 We've Come A Long Way, Baby Sandy Barnett-Daulton 16 Beauty \ John J. Mathis 18 Love \ Carrie Rajchel 19 The Reality War \ Noelle Marie Gasco 20 Strobe \ Claudine Elzey 26 Love Incandescent \ Greg Knipe 27 Daydreams \ Kerry Dearth 28 M.Goo Says Nursery Rap \ Alex Swifden 34 3 20 49S Fioretti The Perfect Couple - A Fairy Tale A Story of Love in the Twentieth Century by Kerry Dearth Once upon a time there was a man and his wife. They lived the regular married life that they had lived for more than fifteen years. On one particular Friday afternoon, an unusual episode took place. The man, while in his office, decided that this Saturday he would give up his regular indulgence of sports on T.V. Instead, he would spend the day with nature, the great outdoors, and, of course, a twelve-pack. He discussed his plans with two of his office buddies. They suggested that he go canoeing with them Saturday, but since the two buddies were already committed to sharing the same boat, the man wO':lld have to find his own partner. ' After a long day at the office and a few hours in the tavern, the man returned to his home ~ith a'remarkable i,d ea . and, by coincidence,. still no partner for his Saturday excursion. He thOlightit would be a very nice gesture to offer his wife the excellent opportunity to be his partner on this most wonderful canoe venture. The wife, in turn, thought it to be a nice gesture on her part to say "yes" to her husband, since she knew he would not have a partner otherwise, even though cC;lnoeing excited her not in the least, and it seeme,d more a 1;Jpiher than an amusement. "It'll be fun," said the man. "We'll have a great tim'e. Drink some beer. .. " " , ,So they arrived Saturday ;morning at the :canoe sight. The man thoughtfully chose to sit in the rear of the canoe, considering he was more apt to control th.e"direction 9fthe vessel. Now, the man, being wise in strategical maneuvers stich. as these, had also secretly considered the ~ize of his wife. Knowing that the person in front had the unique task"of power- Fioretti ing the boat, he positioned his wife in front. The buddies, respectfully, took their canoe, and the foursome set off after consuming a sufficient amount of alcohol. Everything went smoothly at first. The wife paddled very strongly, and whenever she looked back, the man appeared to be working just as hard. Soon, however, they experienced a few mishaps, such as running aground or bumping an occasional rock or two. This always prompted the man to give his wife a few pointers on the art of canoeing while at the same time providing numerous adjectives so that she would be sure to get exactly the point. All the while the two buddies snickered to themselves. Now it got to the point where both the man and his wife began to entertain thoughts that this trip was indeed a bother, and at one climactic point, the vessel was misguided somehow and ran smack into a rock. The magnitude of both the jolt and the alcohol caused the man and his wife to lose their balance, turning the canoe and tossing them into the river. There was no escape. After coming out of his ill-fated plunge, the man screamed at the woman: "You stupid ! I told you _ _ (this and that. _ _ this and _ _that). Everytime I take you somewhere, you _____ up. _ _ _ _ !" The woman in tears cried, "It wasn't my fault. You always blame." Then in anger, "That's it! I don't want to see a canoe ever again. I didn't want to go boating in the first place. You can go by yourself if I'm such a handicap. I'm not stepping foot in there again. Never ever!" She started to walk to shore when the man grabbed her. " ! You ! I done _ _ everything for you and you _ _ _ _ ! _ _ _ _ !" And he gave her a powerful shove to her forehead that sent her falling backward into the mucky water on her behind. With that she stood up, went to the canoe, grabbed the paddle, and began 5 Fioretti' swinging at the man. All the while, the buddies chuckled to themselves up river. The man took the blows from his wife undaunted and grabbed her by the neck, forcing her to her knees. "You __' _______," he grunted, as he cast her head beneath the water, as if to drown her. He held her there for more than an ample amount of time to make his point clear, before letting her up. She, panting for breath, ran out of the river into the woods. The man stood for a while with his hands on his hips and stared disgustedly into the woods. Then he went over to talk to his buddies and drink a beer. Meanwhile his wife cried on the trunk of a tree. The buddies, seeing that it would be difficult for the man to control the canoe the rest of the way by himself, convinced the man to talk to his wife. So he did. He thought it to be a nice gesture on his behalf to go all the way into the woods to reason with her. He said things like: "My temper got a holda me," and "It wasn't all your fault," and "C'mon. We've 'gone this far. It'd be a waste quittin' now." , The Wife sobbed, "Okay." So the two returned to their boat and completed the journey without speaking another word to each other. The man spent most of his time steering and conversing about nothing with his buddies, who spend most of their time snickering at the man. The wife spent most of her time admiring the birds and the butterflies. The canoe trip ended in due time, and they all went home. Everyone was content. The two buddies were content that they had many stories to tell behind the man's back at the office come Monday. The man was content. He got to spend the day with his buddies and drink beer, and he still had all of Sunday to watch sports on T.V. and drink beer. The ,man'swife was content. She was the man's wife. So the man and his wif~ went home. They drove off into the sunset in the man's rustyJo. pickup truck and IIved ... together. ' " 6 Fioretti Love Production They say I love you with a kiss good-bye. But these are men who Manufacture peace and protection with weapons, Men whose hearts burn red Like the rose they gave you, Which when plucked from black soil Will soon wither. It will Die a thousand deaths Like the city aflame in the aftermath and when the dark clouds clear, the soil, barren of love, No longer bears roses. Yet, thorns remain like the Missiles aimed to prick your Passionate heart with the accuracy of Cupid's single arrow, Until you cry Pools of blood on red Stained soil. They Promise to write as they sign peace treaties with only true intentions. Some do, but the letters Always stop when the bombs are dropped and dead Silence is your explanation. They promise they'll call. 7 Fioretti Some do, but the phone eventually Stops screaming Numbing your ears to the painful cries . of Hiroshima, and to their Words once spoken, to calm the famine of a broken Nation. But, they were not Enough to satisfy the Hunger for peace and love. Nor were their promises that rested in the arbor of your heart like an overwhelming Fleet of ships, waiting on a calm black sea. Under the white moon they sat and you were so entranced by Their gentle drifting that soothed you into security. You were so intent on searching for the fish that swam like hidden meanings Below the surface, hoping Some deep commitment Motivated their actions. Yet, you failed to notice the smoking guns on deck, Turned in your direction as They said I love you with a kiss good-bye. Noelle Gasco 8 Fioretti Tomb Essence A million men with lover's eyes have spread themselves in deep green grass, and watched the pillowed heavens pass on feathered folds of dreaming skies. In meadows you have never seen I've lain on blankets thick and green, and in me swirl an appetite to dine on clouds of dainty white. A silver spoon! an endless plate of plushy, sweet immaculate! The stuff that angels steal to eat . when God is full, and fast asleep. They hide in heaven's shadowed places, cloud juice dribbling down their faces. Sweet addiction! All their own, a flavor God has never known. So how could one suspect that I would let those luscious lumps roll by? I stood, my mortal tongue unfurled-and licked the candy-coated world. So all the clouds my tastebuds stole. And of their flavor? I cannot say. For one had caught me by the soul, and with her I was blown away. Todd Gavin 9 Fioretti My Aristocratic life by Deardra Webb I usually do not grant interviews, but, confined as I am to the house now, it gets a bit boring seeing the same people day after day. I used to have quite a large circle of friends, but perhaps I'd better begin at the beginning, if you're interested in my life story. My life began quite dramatically, I think. My mother was residing with a family who lived in Canada, Stratford to be exact. This is where I was born. She was quite well-bred, given to quoting Shakespeare, and she simply adored Mozart and Beethoven. I was never completely sure who my father was, but he must have been very "aristocratic" also. As I said, my life began dramatically. It was storming the night my sisters and .I were born. There were four of us all . together. Quite the most lovely litter of kittens for which a mother could hope. Everyone oohed and ahhed over us. Although I couldn't open my eyes at the time, mother told us our first bed was filled with down and covered with the softest velvet. What an elegant beginning! Growing old enough to have a family of my own, I was placed with an acting family. One of the members was part of a Shakespeare group located in Stratford. My mother's fondest dreams for me had come true. I had a very good chance of appearing in a Shakespearean production. I grew to an adult cat and, indeed, I did appear in a play or two. This was exciting for me, of course, but I truly enjoyed best being at home with the family. There were two children who enjoyed playing with me and most importantly had been taught to be gently respectful of my station in life and in the family. One early spring the family visited relatives in the States. 10 Fioretti Of course, they couldn't go without me. We were traveling through Indiana and they stopped for gas. Now here is where the story gets a bit sad. A bird was pecking in the dirt, as birds will do, and I saw it. Being by nature a hunter, I could not resist the impulse to give chase. I jumped from the car toward the bird. Unfortunately, a dog was sitting nearby and the ugly cur began chasing me. I could hear my family's cries for me to come back fading in the distance as I ran for my life. Sadly, I never saw them again. The dog finally grew tried of the game and went home. I of course was lost in a strange and bewilder' .... ,: .' ing city and beginning to grow very hungry. What was I to do now? It was the first time in'illy life I had ever been on my own. How would I eat? Where 'would I sleep? What if it rained? All sorts of worrisome thoughts flew through my head. Well, I knew I had always been very clever with my claws (thank God, my family had never had me declawed). I could snarl up yarn or string in a jiffy and could shred the backs of furniture in record time. Surely I would be able to catch a meal or two, disgusting as this seemed at first. Well, or' course, I did survive this free lIfe I 'h ad been . . forced into. Gradually I almost came to like it. I ihlvelled around neighborhoods begging for food. This ~ight seem quite demeaning to some, but I think it shows the true artistry of a cat. .Cats instinctively know how to approach an individual. Whether it's telepathy or just plain old cat know-how I'm not sure, but I was very successful in gleaning enough food not only to live, but to become a little plump. The real fringe benefits of this vagabond existence was the number of lady friends I acquired. Ah, what a life! Soon, however, the weather began to turn colder and I began to think of settling on one particular family to honor with my affections. I don't really like this term, but this family was a real "pushover" when it came to stray animals. I even saw them feed the birds and squirrels. I kept appearing on their porch, 11 Fioretti mewing. on cue and, in short, endearing myself to them. I knew I had them wrapped around my paw. The would sit on the porch and I would sit on their laps. This really won them over. It was ever so much warmer for me too. I finally made the decision that they could have me in to live with them. They already had another cat, an old codger named Mittens. He was almost as handsome as I. We got along quite well. This new family of mine was very kind to me, but in one area they were not very intelligent. Besides Mittens and me they had two dogs. N ow one dog was very affable. Actually she was quite lumpy and lazy. Her main interest in life was food and fawning over the family; no problem for me at all. The other dog was another matter all together. She had the nastiest habit of barking right in my face. Can you imagine the audacity? She was reprimanded by me and the family, but it did not good whatsoever. We live together in an uneasy peace . . Well, this has'been my life thus far. Since I have used only three of my nine lives, I feel I will live to a ripe old age. It will probably be very ripe and very old since I am not allowed out anymore. My doctor has' advised that cats live much healthier lives if kept indoors. The closest I come to being outdoors is sitting in an open window. Ah well, I suppose I have had a wonderful life (with apologies to Frank Kapra and Jimmy Stewart). If you care to visit in a few years for a follow up story, I would be most happy to oblige. 12 Fiorettl~_ _ __ -.- 13 - Fioretti The Comma, Cal Hy-phonica1 Conspirasay IN POEM - PLAY, THROUGH WHIMS - DISPLAY, ONE COMMA- DAY, HYPHONS - MAY, IMPROPER - LAY, JUST DASH THEIR - WAY, PAST VERSE - DECAY, TO EYES' - DISMAY, AS EARS - BETRAY, PURE LIPS THAT - SAY, "TIS NOT OKAY!" TO GRAMMA- SLAY, FOR POET - RAY. Daniel A Felicetti, yay- 14 Fioretti Mythological PUDS 1. Demeter's still running 2. Myrrha, Myrrha on the wall 3. Hades are cool 4. 10 you ten dollars 5. Paris up together 6. May I have your Creons? 7. Hera am 8. Iris I was in Dixie 9. Hey! Let go! Euripides! 10. Orestes criminals 11. Tallus a story 12. Do you Lycus? 13. Juno what I know? 14. In the Pallas Athena ghost 15. Where Hebe? Holly Fehlinger and Jeanne Lovins 15 Fioretti We've Come A Long Way, Baby by Sandy Barnett-Daulton I was the best looking cow in the pasture. I watched my diet, eating all the right grass and grain and even did extra laps on the hills to maintain my physique. Finally, my time came and I walked proudly into the truck and rode off to the slaughter house. The ride was a little bumpy. You can imagine all of us standing side by side trying to keep our balance around those corners! They stopped and picked up some of my cousins. It was nice to visit with them on the way and catch up on the where abouts of other relatives. Once we arrived and finally got in, the stretching and tanning of my hide felt pretty good. It was the stitching that I didn't care for. I think they needed new needles instead of those square tipped ones! After they stamped my brand on me and added a price tag, I was off to the store. I was just hanging out, complaining to my friends about those bratty kids who were so rough, when another potential buyer came by. I heard her say she finally had to retire her old one. She picked me up, looked me over and tried me on. She commented I was about the right size and she liked the fact that I was already partially broken in. It was a sale. They poked me in a sack and off I went. She was really nice at first, massaged me with oil and kept a ball in my pocket all the time. Finally, the big day came, my first game. Hey, we even started! Luckily, we were in the outfield and I didn't have to worry about getting all that infield dust in my eyes. We caught all the balls and won. Of course, we mitts didn't get the credit! As the season went on, not all the games had that good a turn out. I got thrown on the ground, soaked in the rain and locked in the hot trunk. It was a winning season though, and we 16 Fioretti had a lot of fun. I made a lot of new friends and was even fortunate enough to have cousin Bessie on the team. I looked for ward to hanging around the dugout with them the next year. During the winter, I hibernate in the closet where it's warm. I snuggle up to the cleats and dream of my next season on the diamond, snagging flyballs and discussing strategy with my teammates. We have to be ready because, let's face it, we know who the real stars of the game are! 17 Fioretti Beauty I met a woman last night. Beauty was her name. Her eyes held great wisdom and pain. And yet, the warmth of the Sun was in her smile. She called herself Grace, and rightfully so, for it was the very virtue that I sought, and found. I was pleased to discover the compassion and trust she gave to me. I watched her every move, her sighs, and stretches, and found no imperfections. When permitted to touch Beauty, I found the power of the Seasons. Skin so soft, like the tranquil lake. Cheeks, like flowers' in bloom and the breezes of Spring in her hair. In her caress, I found the steamy summer nights that lovers revel in. She saw through my facade of calmness and proved that she had stirred my blood and fired my soul. And yet, I found Winter in her heart. Cold, bleak and solitary landscapes filled my mind. So strange that here of all places, I found a rose, in bloom. John J. Mathis 18 Fioretti Love To Love another is to accept the most of the least, or so I've been told. To Love another is to see the perfection of the beast, and this tale is old. In the presence of Love the worst can be the best, or so I've been told. In the presence of Love the fate cannot be guessed, and this tale is old. Or so I've been told ... Or so I've been told. Carrie Rajchel 19 Fioretti The Reality War by Noelle Marie Gasco Cautiously, the black nose poked out from beneath the gold armchair. His whiskers twitched nervously. Shy, one of the Hubert's cats, then stuck his head out all the way and frantically scanned the room. The coast was clear. Confidently, he emerged. But, as soon as the last inch of his fluffy tail was in full view, Dylan, who had been waiting patiently on the chair, dropped a brown clothes basket over the unsuspecting cat. The mistake that Dylan's father had made was buying all of that stuff for him in the first place. The camouflage pants, the gloves that were two sizes too big and the wool lined cotton cap--all mistakes, and his father, Richard, as well as everyone else in the house, regretted the fact that they were ever pur. chased. But, by now it was too late. Dylan was already transformed into a soldier heavily engaged in a war. It could have been World War 11, some war that never actually existed, or a war that was yet to come. Whatever the case, his son was in the middle of it all, grenade in hand, hiding behind the barbed wire trench that Richard usually sat on to watch television. The "wars" usually commenced every evening around 6 p.m., a time Richard used to set aside to watch the news. Yet now there seemed to be no point in watching the reports on terrorist bombings when Richard was actually living them right in his very own front room. To Dylan, Richard was simply one of the many enemies. He was greatly outnumbered by two parents, one sister and five cats. Richard tried to convince his son that they were in Switzerland, the neutral country, where there is no fighting. But Dylan refused to believe him since the enemy can never be trusted. Instead, he waited in the trench behind the couch, with his trusting attack dog Bro, until his father became so engrossed 20 Fioretti in his favorite program that he was vulnerable to Dylan's attacks. Every week, Dylan's sister managed to rescue the feline prisoners at least a dozen times from underneath the clothes basket cage that he captured them in. Their parents began to give up hope of ever living a normal family life again. After all, their son never stopped making sound effects long enough to speak to anyone, let alone eat, unless of course he was busy applying fake blood to his many fake wounds. So after all of this built up, they finally threw him outside to release his energy and to give the entire family some peace and quiet. Outside, the sky was dark and gloomy, a perfect atmosphere for a war to take place in. Dylan was quite pleased that it was raining allowing him to test his flowing camouflage raincoat for the first time. However, there was a rip running down the right side like a crack in a window pane that practically sliced the jacket in half, rendering it useless. When Dylan realized this, he began to seek shelter, darting first behind trees then behind an old Ford "army" truck, until at last he slipped unnoticed into an abandoned barn. A crisp, clean smell of hay filled his quivering nostrils as he tried to catch his breath. The rain pounded so persistently on the roof that Dylan feared it would cave in at any given moment. After replenishing himself with a granola bar that he had managed to grab before the enemy had spotted him, he peeked out into the rain. Thousands of tiny droplets stung his tender face and the wind whistled through his jacket, but there was no sign of the enemy. Then Dylan spotted a huge willow tree with its gnarled ancient branches just waiting to be climbed. He burst out of the barn entrance into the rain as if he was shot out of a cannon. When he reached the tree, he stopped momentarily and pulled off one of his gloves with his teeth so that he could undo the button on his coat pocket. 21 Fioretti When this was completed, his hand reached inside the depths of the pocket and came out clasping a garbage bag that was to serve as his parachute. He then began to climb the tree where he felt he could survey the land much more thoroughly. Once he felt he was high enough, not to mention the fact that he was afraid to climb up any further, Dylan began to scan the area for any signs of movement. Overhead, a skywriter flew, its smoky exhaust mixing with the black storm clouds. Nevertheless, Dylan read the message clearly. Bomber planes weren't far behind and the look out tower would be a primary target. In order to survive Dylan knew what he had to do. He firmly grasped his black garbage bag, hoped for the best and leaped off the tree limb. It seemed like he was falling forever. In these few lingering moments, everything was black and silent. Dylan hit the ground hard. His white parachute slowly caught up with him to lay in a folded pile around him. The parachute was the only bright thing for miles around, although . it too w~s now quite- dirty. The rest of the landscape was barren and gray. There was no tree. There was no tower. Signs of recent bombings littered the field. Dylan heard the faint rumble of an engine in the sky. He looked up to see a plane disappearirig over the horizon. Dylan stood up and, feeling nervous and anxious, he decided to investigate his new surroundings. Dylan had no way of knowing how long he had been walking since he didn't have his watch with him. It may have been only hours but it seemed like days. From a distance he must have looked like a small wounded soldier wearily marching home from a battle. In truth, however, the battle was just beginning. He could stand the heat and even the bugs swarming around his head, biting at his flesh any time he stopped moving. But the hunger pains knotted his stomach and his throat ached with thirst. Thorns grabbed at his jacket and scratched his face. 22 Fioretti Finally, Dylan's exhausted body collapsed disappearing in the tall grass. When he awoke, he found himself on a small mat of dried grass in a tiny bamboo hut. Tiny beads of cool water trickled down his face. Dylan stuck out his tongue to catch the drops of water that landed on his dry cracked lips. "There's plenty more where that came from," a sudden voice pierced the silence, "especially since the rains started." Dylan sat up, startled to hear a voice other than his own. But the moment he did so an overwhelming feeling of blood rushing to his head forced him to lie back down. The stranger sat up and addressed Dylan as if he had known him all of his life, "You just lie still for a while. I imagine you're feeling a little queasy from a lack of food. When was the last time you had a decent meal, boy?" But, he didn't wait for a reply. He just pulled himself to , his feet and limped toward the doorway of the hut. Dylan noticed the white bandage wrapped tightly just above the man's knee that was stained with deep red blood, as well as the gun hanging at his side. Out of the corner of his eye, the man saw the way Dylan looked at him. At one time, before the war, he was very handsome and tall with jet black hair. He was still young, but now he felt old and tired. As he turned his unshaven face, his deep brown eyes met Dylan's. Dylan's gaze confirmed his sorrow and he was forced to look away. As the man disappeared through the doorway, Dylan suddenly realized that it was raining. For the first time since he woke up, he became aware of his surroundings. The rain seeped in through the thatched roof and, for a moment, Dylan almost believed that he was back in his familiar barn, and that if he were to look out the doorway, he would see nothing but his own backyard. Instead, when Dylan glanced toward the open doorway, he saw the mysterious man entering the hut carrying a 23 Fioretti clay bowl filled with rain water. For some reason Dylan couldn't understand. He welcomed the sight of this man. He felt no need to ask the man's name, just as one feels no need to ask for the name of his own father. He felt a silent friendship between him and the stranger that was not acknowledged, yet it was understood. "It'll all be over soon." The man sighed as he set a bowl of steaming food down before Dylan. Dylan could not recognize what was in the bowl and he cautiously lifted it to his lips trying to ignore the smell. "It's not poison," the man assured Dylan, "although you'll wish it was when the enemy catches up to us." Finally, Dylan felt strong enough to speak after finishing his meal. "How did I get here?" But the man just sighed once more and glanced out the door as if speaking to the rain. "How did I get here?" he echoed. "How did any of us get here? We don't belong here, you and I. .This is a terfible world. No one is innocent, not even the villager who hid us in this hut. Do you think he won't betray us? . No, No, he has himself to think of, if not out of greed then certainly out of fear." He shifted his gaze from the doorway of the hut, where the rain softly drizzled, to Dylan. "Why can't the rain just wash away all this hate?" After that Dylan spoke no more. The man turned once more to the rain. But Dylan could still se his tired face. His eyes reflected the dark sky and his wounded leg, a losing battle. The man touched the bandage and let out a discouraged sigh, as if trying to find reason where none was to be found. The rain sprinkled peacefully and there was a moment of misty silence. Screams filled the empty air. Dylan realized that the enemy had arrived, although he still wasn't sure why. But, he never had time to ask. The strange man grabbed Dylan, who was still clasping the small clay bowl, and began dragging him 24 Fioretti through the village as fast as his tired body would allow. Dylan closed his eyes, but his eyelids were useless, for he could still see the dead bodies on either side of him in his mind. He could hear the gunshots and he could not escape the cries of the wounded, calling out for death to free them of their pain. The dirt beneath his feet seemed to become a red river of blood that he felt he was drowning in. There was a final explosion as the bomb was dropped. A huge black cloud of death covered the entire village and the screams were silenced. The heavy smoke cleared and Dylan realized that the rain had stopped. The dark clouds still hung threatening over the willow tree in Dylan's backyard. "Oh, Dylan!" His sister stuck her head out the back door and scanned the yard for a sign of her brother. When she saw him lying under the willow, she raced outside to help him, "Dylan," she scolded, "have you been parachuting again? You must have been because you're filthy dirty. How many times have we warned you about that? You're lucky you didn't break yourlet!" She helped him to his feet, "Hey, Dill, gues~ what? I bought you a fake machine gun today at K-mart. Now you won't have to make your own sound effects anymore!" "1-1 don't want it," Dylan mumbled as he leaned against his sister's arm. "Boy, you must have had a pretty bad fall. But, it's all right," his sister gave him a loving squeeze, "I'm sure you'll be back to your old self in no time and you'll be fighting battles and . capturing cats again before you know it!" But, Dylan just shook his head and stared beyond their yard. He wondered if his friend had survived. His sister interrupted his thoughts as she sarcastically agreed, "Yeah, okay, I believe you. No more war ever, that's right." She glanced up and the dark clouds began to release the rain once more, "We'd better go in now. It's starting to rain again and you're going to have an awful cold." 25 Fioretti As she led him inside, the rain began to fall behind them. It fell softly on the old barn roof. It fell on the ancient willow tree. The rain that slipped through the willows branched began to fill, drop by drop, a tiny clay bowl that was lying near a torn black garbage bag flapping ever so gently in the wind. Strobe Small streams of flowing smoke rolling away from the flame In scrolls slashed and broken by darkness emitted 1?y the strobe. dancing . .in slow motion, telling secrets through form; stealing time from the day, to be seized by the heart and swallowed in the flash of the strobe Oaudine Elzey 26 Fioretti LOVE INCANDESCENT I walk through the silent New York streets as the moon struggles to pierce the clouds above. Its beams battle through the darkness which even the streetlights cannot totally overcome, and add their sparkling reflection to the puddles on the sidewalk. Come ... take my hand, and we shall walk together, you and I... one with each other at last, our very beings melding to forge a new reality beyond our single capabilities . .Greg Knipe 27 // /" I Fioretti Daydreams by Kerry Dearth The sower soweth the word. And as these are they by the wayside where the word is sown; but when they have heard, Satan cometh immediately, and taketh away the word that was sown in their hearts. (Mark 4: 14-15) I heard the pastor's monotone preach as I stared at the translucency of the stained glass window. I tried to focus on the confusing shades of blues, yellows, and reds, but my eyes blurred. , I heard, "This is the word of the Lord," before I fell, slipping into a place I kne~ very well. I felt all the twisted thoughts leave my mind, and for now, I was locked in the reality of make beIieve--a place where everything makes sense. Handsomely I sat atop my trusty steed, Abigail, as she strutted confidently across the grassy courtyard. I, too, shifted proudly, high in my saddle. My shiny suit of armor sparkled splendidly in the morning Sun. Women and children tossed daisies along our path; old men stood silently to the side, marveling at our valor, and white doves flew overhead. I honored the crowd with a wave of my left hand; with the other I held Abigail's reins~ On my right arm, I carried my shield of honor, snow white and unblemished, decorated brightly with a large red cross. I held it proudly. As I approached the drawbridge, I waved my hand in a salute to the gatekeeper. He acknowledged solemnly with a nod. The bridge was lowered. I paused for a moment, lowered the mask of my helmet, took a deep breath, then gave the horse a soft kick to the ribs. Abigail responded with a whinny and a quick jaunt through the open gate. I heard the cheers of the 28 Fioretti women and children, and thought I detected a few sobs. We left the fanfare and the blessed castle behind in our dust. I set off on my search for adventure and, more importantly, the search for myself. The gatekeeper, in disappointment, watched us ride off into the wilderness before giving the nod to raise the drawbridge, securing the stronghold behind us. The wilderness was beautiful and diverse. Flowers of every shape and color adorned the fields on each side of the path. Wildlife scampered into the trees beyond, deer and rabbit, wolf and hound. We galloped through the wilderness following a well trodden path, but as we went on, the path became less and less worn, and eventually divided. The path to the right led high into mysterious mountains, the peaks of which were masked by clouds. The other path twisted into a valley and entered a vast woodland of autumn colors. The latter looked more inviting, and by instinct, that is the one I chose. We lessened our pace, taking time to admire the nature, the beauty of the trees, the ~olor of the leaves. The bright reds, oranges, and yellows were magnificent and reminded me of home. But soon the woods began to thicken and close around us. With every step the afternoon vanished, becoming darker and darker. The shade of the trees no longer beautiful, closed out the Sun until eventually all was pitch black. I dismounted and combed the ground, nearly crawling to feel the path; faithful Abigail followed close behind. We stumbled in the dark for what seemed an eternity. The ground became very damp. The atmosphere was cold and musty, and with every breath, the air froze painfully inside my lungs. Finally, at one point, I saw a light far off in the distance. Cautiously we made our way toward the light. As we approached I heard a low rumbling sound that appeared to make . the trees around us tremble. Except for the trembling of the trees and the rustling of the leaves above, the forest was still. 29 Fioreui The air had heated up considerably. When we reached the light, I froze. I could not believe the terror before my eyes. There, sleeping in a wide shallow pit, atop the bones of both men and beast, lay the most hideous of creatures--a fire breathing dragon, black as night, horned and deadly. He slept belly-side up, exposing his underside, smooth like polished stone, yet impenetrable. Rough scaly skin covered the rest of his body. The fire inside his stomach glowed like red hot coals. As he inhaled, the forest shook with his snore, and as he exhaled, wiry flames of fire spiraled forth from his nostrils. All about him lay a hazy cloud of smoke, and the stench of death hung in the air. I thought to myself,"What better way to prove my character than to conquer the dragon, and what better opportunity than wheri he is napping?" I nervously tied Abigail to a nearby tree, and quietly m':lde my way down the pit. The heat from the dragon-was intense. My armor began to singe my skin. I was forced to remove it and go forward armed with sword and . shield, wearing only my undergarments. Iplanned to thrust my sword between the monster's eyes before the dragon awoke. I tiptoed among the charred limbs and skulls of past heroes, careful not to make noise. I was well within thirty feet of the dragon when I faltered in faith. My nerves took over. I trembled at the presence of the beast. It caused me to lose my balance and step on a thin bone. The crack of the bone echoed among the dark trees and sent my heart beating in frantic pace. I stood motionless. All was still. Then, instantly, an eye opened, glaring at me. One single bloodshot eye, the pupil, evil and black, deep and endless, froze me. In one moment the beast rolled over and stood. The creature must have been fifteen feet tall. He stared at me now with two slantedly evil eyes. He reached out with hideous black 30 Fioretti claws, and as he raised his arms, he exposed his angelic wings. He wagged his snake tail back and forth; then slowly, he tilted his head back and opened his mouth, showing off his six- inch fangs, dripping with human flesh. Without warning, he thrust his head forward blasting a cone of red-orange flame in my direction. Quickly I covered myself with my shield. The shield saved me from the onslaught, but a good portion of it melted under the extreme heat of the attack. Abigail whinnied in the distance. The magnitude of the attack caused the dragon to become winded, and before he could recuperate, I tossed the shield asiue and instinctively rushed forward, waving my sword. I leaped at the dragon's heart, but the beast intercepted my thrust and smacked me with his hand. The smack sent me flying upwards, where I became entangled in the branches of the overhead trees. I remained there, calculating my next move. As I hung there, the dragon spoke,"Fool! Those who dare enter my realm die in my realm. I shall kill you and reek havoc upon your brethren. But tell me where your castle is ' located, and I will spare you your life. I replied,"Never will I hand my people over to you. You may kill me, but my brethren will overcome you." "So be it, brave knight," the creature snarled. "Let yourself drop, and I will catch you." "Cursed, foul creature, do not tempt me with false words," I answered. "Climb down then, valiant warrior, and all the riches of the greatest kingdom shall be yours, and you shall never die if you serve me." "Be gone, devil, for I will serve only my king." With that I raised my sword and swung at the branches above my head. The limbs dropped, exposing the Sun. A fountain of brilliant light fell down upon the dragon and his 31 1 049S Fioretti putrid pit. The black beast let out a terrifying roar that shook the forest. I nearly fell but hung on with replenished strength and continued to hack at the trees. I let more sunlight in, and eventually, the evil dragon was forced to retreat into the darker realms of the forest. I climbed down the tree and mounted my horse. Abigail and I quickly backtracked through the dark forest. We passed the trees that we had earlier admired for their beauty. Now, however, they were as dark as the rest of the woodland. In time, we arrived at the split in the road. This time I chose to take the road leading into the mountains; I chose to search for myself on the path to higher ground. "The service is over. Young man, the service is over." An elderly woman nudged me on the shoulder. "Why, if you young kids would pay more attention to the pastor's sermon, the world wouldn't be what it is today. I don't know why you fellas come to church. If I was your mother .... " ..1 stood to walk out. The lady's shrill words ran together. Soon I was a World War II flight commander, heading out on a do or die mission .... 32 Fioretti '. 33 Fioretti M. GOO SAYS NURSERY RAP Monday's child is hungry, Tuesday's child is stoned, Wednesday's full of fungus, Thursday's been deboned, Friday's child is stumbling, Saturday's child is numb, Sunday's child's our only hope And he doesn't want to come. Alex Swifden 34  ...

... Fioretti ~ ----.:. -- - -_ .. Fioretti a literary anthology Volume 48, Number 1 December 1989 MARIAN COLLEGE INDIANAPOLIS Historical Note The Fioretti de S. Francesco d'Assisi, Little Flowers of Saint Francis, is the name of a classic collection of popular legends about St. Francis and his early companions, as they appeared to the Italian people at the beginning of the 14th century. These historic tales recreate the early Franciscan spirit, instinct with poetry. The Canticle of the Sun by Saint Francis voices that spirit eloquently. The earliest known Italian version of the Fioretti ranks with the finest specimens of literary Tuscan. Fioretti Staff EDITORS/Don Vogt, Julie Biltz ASSISTANT/Michelle Leman PRODUCTION EDITOR/Michelle A. Scheidt ADVISOR/Sf. Stella Gampfer, O.S.F. Art Work pp. 10, 33, 43/Heidi Hanson pp. 12, 22, 35, 38/Monica Struing p. 44/Suzanna Schmeltzer 4 Fioretti Contents A MEMORIAL FOR AN OLD RED GYMNASIUM Don Hack 7 THE TEARDROP/Carrie Rajchel 9 MELT MY ICE/Lisa Schmeltzer 11 CATCH OF THE CAMPUS/Aimee Crawford 13 R.I.P./Regina M. Garza 21 "I listen to the forest's music ..."/L. Reinwald 22 THE EVILS OF TIME/Kerry P. Dearth 23 ''The same step squeaks ..."/Drew Appleby 26 FOR THE LOVE OF AUDREY!Michelle Leman 27 "Doors open ahead of me ..."!Mary Weinzapfel 34 THE NEW NEIGHBORS/Katie Carson 36 UNTIL DEATHIDallice Hesselgrave 39 LOVING THE FIRST MORE DEEPLY Stacey Nicholas 40 5 Fioretti photo courtesy of Indianapolis Star 6 Fioretti A MEMORIAL FOR AN OLD RED GYMNASIUM Don Hack Monday, 8-7-89. On this very cool day at Marian College, I learned the sad news that the old gymnasium at the school is going to be torn down. Now anyone that knows anything at all must realize that the side of this old building provided the best place ever for hitting a tennis ball. They also must know that this old construction, obviously designed for what took place on the inside, enabled me to perfect a tennis stroke both on the forehand and backhand that gave me pride. Admittedly, my practicing against this very old tired structure over a period of several years only brought me to the status of a mediocre tennis player; yet, I made no apologies because any onlooker observing me playing tennis with my consistent hitting, instantly knew I belonged on the court. I was not just an average tennis duffer but a genuine player. I was someone whom some of the better players would be willing to practice with until their regular opponent came on the scene. So again this year after a good many years of not playing, I decided to pick up my trusty racquet and head for Marian College where I knew existed the best place in the world to hit a tennis ball. And I had a pretty good session for being so rusty, although admittedly I was not up to my former self. This is what made the old structure, built by Mr. Fisher about 1914, so ideal. It made one look good. It was so forgiving. Even with my erratic stroking, the huge brick wall threw the ball back. It never complained, flinched or refused to rise to the demand of bringing back that hairy covered rubber ball. Maybe not shot at me like a bullet that happened when hitting many years ago, but dribbled in my direction just the same. And the target was so wonderful, so big, that even in my wild shots, which alas have multiplied over the years, never failed to hit something. Or put 7 Fioretti bluntly, even after a layoff of many years, I just could not miss the target of a huge slab of red bricks. Of course, I missed the ball all together a few times, but what can you expect? Even my wild upward bloopers, sailing high up the taller reaches of the ancient gym never reached the dangerous "point of no return." My worn out ball always came back--valid proof of being a tennis player. But I sensed something wrong, a premonition. I looked around the other side of the old gym and saw ominously parked a huge unattended crane. Now a peaceful place like Marian College is not going to park such a dangerous-looking contraption for just no reason. I started observing and thinking. The doors of the gym were wide open, and the smell of death was everywhere, and I knew the terrible truth. There was going to be a killing and my wonderful backdrop was going to be the victim. Of course, I asked others and the "Grim Reaper" was confirmed. Now I feel sad for the end of a personal era has come with a wrecking ball to tear down more than just a ball stop. Actually it knocks down forever, in a most crude and undignified manner, a dream I once held of being a great tennis player. Now I knew these were only dreams, but magic can happen and with such a wonderful thing to hit. With luck I had a chance of becoming the best of the mediocre players. And really, since the name of the game is winning, beating the not-so-good player isn't all that bad. But am I really feeling sad for myself? I don't think so. Surely, my tennis days are over. It must be the demise of the building itself that brings on my sorrow. Yet why should I feel sorry? After all, it's just a case of a building being replaced by something better. And everyone is for progress. Or at least most -- the numbers are slipping -- still believe in the magical land of the holy shrine. Maybe I cry for the past. That's it. Here we find fading away just a little of the glory of a past highlighted by wealth and affluence but class all the same. Still, Marian College remains a pretty campus. All I 8 Fioretti can hope for is that the past I have known will not be forgotten. Allow me to say goodbye to a red gymnasium with the "high up in the sky" curved coping that I grew to love. Oh, it made a wonderful target -- so wide and so tall. TIlE TEARDROP It swelled from within and I followed it. The teardrop clung to her moistened lashes. Then slowly releasing it's tender hold it slid down the smoothness of her cheek. Following curves of beautyit neared the edge. Separating itself from the point of her gentle chin. It fell silently to the end where it shattered into a thousand more. Teardrops. Carrie Rajchel 9 .-. ~ -- -- Fioretti MELTMYICE I think about all that you have given to me And all that I have taken. I used to give until I was drained out of blood and sou!. Now I lie to myself, And I lie to you. I hold hope, when none exists, And I follow blindly. ' I accept without questioning And I answer without searching. You have taught me better than that. And now there is only cold water running through my veins, And my heart is like a freezer that chills my sou!. And all I have to give to you Is ice that cuts like glass And leaves you to Bleed warmth, that Could never melt my ice. Lisa Schmeltzer 11 Fioretti 12 Fioretti CATCH OF THE CAMPUS Aimee Crawford "You can all just kiss off into the air ... " Dave jumped a mile out of bed as his alarm clock's radio blasted the Violent Femmes in his ear, signaling 10 o'clock. He lay on the bed trying to recover, feeling his heart slowly stop pounding and his terror receding. He thought how unfortunate it was that this was the only way he could wake up, especially after a slightly rough night out with the boys. Struggling to clear his head, he tried to remember why he would be getting up so early on a Saturday. Then he remembered. Today was the first day of outdoor practice. He stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as he could stand. As he groggily stretched his tall muscular frame beneath the steaming water, his mind was already racing ahead to the day's activity -- and back to last season. Dave had an outstanding year, winning the team's MVP trophy for the second year. But, typically, he was far more proud of his watch that said, "Michigan -- Big Ten Champs" from the past season. He knew they were capable of repeating the achievement this year, and he had to admit, he was hoping for a major league contract as the highlight of his senior year. He could hear it now: "Batting fourth and playing first base for the Oakland A's, from the University of Michigan -- Dave Simpson!" But enough day dreaming -- his roommate, who also played ball, was anxious to get going. "Hey, Simmer! Get your butt in gear!" "Goodwin, are you in that big a hurry to start another season of bench warming?" Marty, the team's star outfielder and Dave's only real potential competition for MVP, just grinned good-naturedly. They had known each other since kindergarten, and they basically competed in everything until Marty 13 Fioretti moved away in the 9th grade. When they were forced back together as roommates their freshman year, they somehow became inseparable. Back in his room, Dave pulled on a Harvard sweatshirt and green sweats. He threw his gear into a bag -- his mitt, which was held together by prayers but was nonetheless clung to superstitiously by its owner; spikes with holes in each toe, joyfully tossed in; a battered rubber donut, once rumored to have belonged to Dave Parker; and a couple of batting gloves. Baseball was never meant to be practiced inside, and the team was ready to get outdoors. He ran his fingers through his short, black hair and precisely positioned his navy blue cap with its gold "M" on his head at the correct jaunty angle. As Marty bellowed again, Dave snatched up his Wayfarers and favorite bat and raced for the door. They pulled into the parking lot at the field with a few minutes to spare. The top of Dave's '68 Mustang convertible was down and his stereo was blasting the Dead Milkmen. As he climbed over the side and reached in the back for his equipment, he saw a blonde female making a bee-line for him. Since it was too late to hide, he squared his shoulders resolutely and tried not to look too irritated or apprehensive. "Hi, Davy!" she chirped. He cringed -- her voice grated on his nerves, and she was the only person in the world who called him Davy -- well, except for his mom, and she was allowed. "Hi, Melanie," he mumbled. There was a point in time when he would have called her "Mel," but since she started showing such a marked interest in him, and he was totally indifferent to her, he kindly tried not to encourage her in any way. The whole situation was a mess. Why was he the one the coach's daughter had to fall for? She was cute enough, but just a freshman in every sense of the word and a pest to all the guys on the team, always snooping around for information about where Dave was 14 Fioretti and who he was with, so she could strategically "bump into" him. Seeing her everywhere was really beginning to make Dave . nervous -- kind of spooky. He told all the guys not to tell her anything else, but somehow, she still found out. She was driving him up a tree. "I can't believe you didn't notice my new haircut," she whined at him. "Oh ... um, real cute. Well, hey, gotta go. Practice is about to start and your dad's getting mad at me; I can tell from the looks I'm getting." Actually, Coach Mason was beaming at them from the end of the dugout. "Well, Simpson, I think I'll have to watch you around my daughter -- I don't want her corrupted by you!" The coach laughed heartily as Dave forced a chuckle. Opening day for the Wolverines -- the adrenaline was pumping as the team warmed up. The sun shone brightly, yet there was a slight breeze blowing toward left field, keeping things cool. Dave wore a gold turtleneck under his navy blue jersey with its gold "23." He did the splits a couple of times to loosen up. Feeling his muscles pull taut, and the sting of the ball in his glove as he stretched to catch the third baseman's sharp pass, he snuck a look over to the stands -- yep, there they were. He counted nine scouts from different teams -- all eyes intently fixed on him. No, wait -- ten. He swallowed a lump in his throat as he realized there was a scout from the A's -- only the best team in either league and Dave's favorite to boot -- sitting in the visitor's stands. Of course, there was a possibility the A's were there to see Calcalterra, Indiana's outstanding catcher. As Dave headed to the cage to take batting practice, he decided to take a detour by the drinking fountain, conveniently located near the visitor's bleachers, just to see what happened. Sure enough, as he casually strolled by, the man in the green and gold cap rose and moved to intercept him. "Dave Simpson? Allen Callaway. Pleased to meet you." 15 Fioretti "Pleased to meet you, sir." Dave struggled to keep his voice steady. "Had yourself some pretty good numbers in fall ball. Think you can keep it up?" "Thanks. I'm pretty sure I can. Never felt better." "Great, great. How's school? You going to be graduating on time?" "Oh, yeah. I'm coasting this semester." "Well, I better let you go. I'll enjoy watching you play." "Thank you, sir." As Dave got a drink and headed for the cage, he controlled the urge to leap into the air. After talking to so many scouts, he was sharp enough to know the A's were definitely interested in him. That the guy asked if Dave was graduating on time was a fantastic sign. He couldn't control his beaming smile as he was abruptly stopped by the coach. "Simpson! Get out there to the field and hit some to the fielders!" he snapped as he abruptly walked off. Dave slowly walked out to the outfield and picked up a bat. He was a bit confused. Marty shot him an odd look. Coach Mason usually had the second stringers bat for fielding practice, not the starters. Then he shook off his doubt -- it must just be nerves on his part because of the A's scout. Of course he was starting. But later, in the dugout, his suspicion held true. When the coach read the starting line-up, Koons was batting fourth and Miller, a definite weak freshman who didn't have the experience to handle a team like Indiana, was playing first. Dave couldn't believe his ears, but he knew better than to question the coach. He thought, "Great, give the kid a chance, but why today, the first day the A's actually came to watch me?" "Simpson, straighten up those bats!" the coach barked at him. As Dave drooped dejectedly out of the dugout, he caught a glimpse of the A's scout looking wonderingly at him and hurriedly looked away -- right into the narrowed blue eyes and 16 Fioretti malicious smile of Melanie Mason. Suddenly, it all clicked into place. He had run into her at the library a couple of days before. She had been her usual air-headed, superficial self, babbling something about the rush dance coming up in a few weeks for the Tri-Delts, with whom she was rushing. Dave had never had much patience with sororities, and he was in the middle of a paper. On top of everything, he had a tremendous headache. He didn't mean to blow her off, but he suddenly realized that she had stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly. "Pardon?" he asked politely. "I said," she repeated impatiently, "doesn't that sound like fun?" and looked at him expectantly again. Distracted, with no idea what she was taking about, he muttered, "Oh, yeah, Hey, gotta go," and walked off. He supposed it had seemed rude, but he honestly hadn't meant it that way. She just always bugged him at the most awkward times which was actually all the time where she was concerned. She had called him the next night and asked him point-blank to take her. "Come on, it'll really be fun and it'll get me off to the right start." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Oh, nothing. Well, will you?" "I don't think so. Sorry." "But why not?" "I really hate sorority dances. They make me sick. Plus, there's an active walk-out at my frat that weekend." "Oh, that's right. Phi Beta, aren't you?" she asked in a tone of voice that told him that she had done her homework on him which irritated him all the more. "Yep." At this point, he was beginning to get mad. He had told her no and he meant it, and he didn't intend to argue about it -- not with a girl who got on his wires this bad. 17 Fioretti "Well, you could ditch it if you wanted to, couldn't you?" she cajoled. "No, I couldn't ditch it. I'm the president. Besides, I don't want to. It'll be fun." "More fun than going to the dance with me?" she whined. "Yes, believe it or not. I wasn't kidding when I said I didn't want to go, Melanie. I hate those things," he said firmly. He tried to stay patient but blew his top when she said, "Fine! I thought you were a nice guy, but then you lead me on just to make me look stupid. You follow me around all the time and talk to me all the time and ... " "Look!" he burst in. "I do not, nor have I ever followed you around. You lay in wait for me. And as for talking to you, you're okay as a friend -- but leading you on? I know that's a crock because I have no desire to go out with you! Did you ever think I'm just being polite so as not to hurt your feelings?" He stopped, feeling a bit bad, but glad to have it out in the open. When she didn't say anything, he began to apologize. "Look, Mel, I'm sorry I had to ... " "Shut up!" she screamed. "Don't you ever call me Mel again! The only reason I wanted you to go to that dance was to impress the girls. Not because of you. But you're too stuck on yourself to do it. Can't be seen with a lowly freshman. Well, I'll get even. Your image won't be worth anything after I get through with you." She slammed the phone down. As Dave replaced the receiver, he felt oddly hurt. As annoying as Melanie was, he at least thought she liked him for himself and not because of his looks or status. He was well known on campus, that was for sure. The guys on the team had all teased him ever since several sororities had voted him "Catch of the Campus." It was kind or irritating in a way to have all the girls know him and come up to him before he had a chance to make a move. No one used the common openings: "What's your major?" or "Where are you from?" on him. No, it was always "You play baseball, don't you?" He didn't mind the notoriety 18 Fioretti in the least, except he was never too sure why anyone liked him. But Melanie? He had known her all through high school, and he had believed she genuinely liked him. Well, at least now he didn't feel guilty about yelling at her. And, anyway, what could she really do to him? Today, as he stood outside the dugout, sheepishly straightening bats as ten major league scouts looked on, the sickening realization of what she could do dawned on him with crystal clarity. For that one moment that he yelled at her, he had forgotten that she was the coach's only daughter. Or maybe he had given the coach too much credit by thinking the coach would see the truth and refuse to get involved. Obviously, he was sadly mistaken. As the season began to get underway, Dave found himself riding the bench. His play was outstanding in practice, but the coach still refused to play him in a game. The whole team was suffering from the situation. Coach glared at him whenever Melanie was around, confirming his suspicions. Melanie continued to lurk around and smirk at him. He totally ignored her. Slowly the scouts trickled away once they realized that Dave wouldn't be playing. The day he noticed that Detroit wasn't even there, he decided that he had to do something. But what? He imagined his career slipping down the drain, followed by a few choice words for Melanie. As he walked out to his car with Marty, he mused that his uniform was more depressingly clean than it had ever been in his whole life. As usual, when he needed help, he turned to Marty. "What do I do?" "I've been waiting for you to ask me that," Marty grinned slowly. "Since when has that stopped you?" Dave, in spite of himself, found himself grinning back. "Well, you've got me out of much worse, so it's the least I can do, I guess. I've been thinking for you, and I have a solution, a 19 Fioretti devious plot if I do say so myself." "Well? What is it?" "Don't you worry your pretty little head. Leave it all to me." Two days later at practice, Coach came up to Dave and said, "Dave, lowe you an apology. I judged you without giving you a chance to defend yourself. When Marty told me, I understood your actions completely. Thought you might like to know, you'll be back on the roster for the next game. We need you anyway." Dave looked at the coach in wonderment, but before he had a chance to ask either the coach or Marty (why did he have a feeling that sly dog was involved somehow?) what was going on, practice started and Marty left immediately afterwards. Dave hung up the phone, glowing from head to toe. The A's wanted him at their spring training camp. With his speed and bat, he was almost guaranteed a place in their hard-hitting lineup. Anyway, this was his shot, and that's what mattered. He tried to shake the clouds out of his head in order to concentrate on the last two weeks of school and the active walk-out. "Hey, Mart! Let's head out." "Urn ... " Marty walked out of the bathroom, dressed in a black blazer and grey flannel trousers. "I'm not going to make it. " "What?" He suddenly realized what his friend had done for him. He had been so busy and excited with his born-again baseball career that he hadn't even bothered to find out how Marty had accomplished his devious plot. "Okay, 'fess up," he demanded. "Well, I just told Coach that of course you wouldn't go after Mel when I was interested in her." Marty fingered his collar sheepishly as the red flooded to his face. "YOU are interested in her?" "Well, she is kinda cute. So it's for real-- not that much of a chore." 20 Fioretti "How'd you get her to go along with it?" Dave marvelled at his friend's persuasive powers. "Easy. I just mentioned a fact that both of you seemed to have forgotten." Marty volunteered no further information and headed for the door. Dave leapt from his chair to tackle him, crazy with curiosity. "Goodwin! Spill it! What was it, that we both forgot?" Marty's slow smile spread across his face as he opened the door and prepared his parting shot. "Why, I simply informed her what you were too dippy to remember -- the Tri-Delts voted me 'Catch of the Campus'." RIP. We touch again with naked nerves and crumble from the pain. The erie glow of love disintegrated looms beneath my feet, and together we rest in pieces. Regina M Garza 21 Fioretti I listen to the forest's music, an animal sy,nphony, the sound of the wild, The beautiful wild Breathe in Deeply the thin, cool mountain air Share the Emth ExpeJiellce the Rebirth Set yourself Free and Be... .>~ :Y .J 22 ", Fioretti THE EVIlS OF TIME Kerry P. Dearth "Come on! You've gotta get outta here! There's not much time!" I screamed at the coffee shop man. "Hey now. Settle down, son," he said in a calm tone that reflected his old fashioned ways. He slipped me a cup of coffee and moved closer. He rested his elbows on the counter and scratched his wrinkled forehead. "Now what's gotten a hold of you that makes you fret so?" My fingers trembled as I picked up the coffee cup and took a sip. I looked at the old man. His eyes were kind but weary. How could I make him understand? Him -- a man who had spent his childhood on the Depression and had grown up during the "Forties" and the "Fabulous Fifties." Him -- a man who had matured to the values of "Leave it to Beaver" and "Father Knows Best." Him -- a man who knew the warmth of a family, the bonds of friendship and the spirit of individualism. Him -- a simple coffee shop owner in probably the last coffee shop in America. But, it's the year 2009, and things are different now. For some odd reason I had taken time to watch the sun rise on that fateful summer morning. From my luxurious office, high above the college grounds, I watched it shed its light on the city. I was in charge of student relations then, albeit my job had become worthless as I received fewer and fewer visits from the students. I remember the sun was more red than usual, which perhaps foretold the danger that lay ahead. As I looked outside, supertrams, filled with students, began to enter the campus. The trams blasted students to school from their living quarters, lC?cated just outside of Indianapolis, in minutes. Yes, colleges sure had changed over the years, thanks to the creation of the "monster," that is, the "Superversity" -- a 23 Fioretti gigantic structure of rising towers and domed buildings bisected by tram tunnels. No longer did teenagers choose their college; instead, they were relegated to their respected state superversity. Seven hundred thousand students attended Indiana Superversity . The Superversity was entirely solar powered. To accommodate this energy source, changes were made. Terms ran from March to October. Students attended school from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Monday through Friday. Afterwards, they returned to their fraternity or sorority houses which had changed drastically as well. These living quarters served as workplaces for the students, mini-factories, if you will. There was the Alpha Omega License Plate Fraternity, the Tri Beta Auto Plant and Micro Chip Delta Sorority, just to name a few. Students were required to work from 4:30 to 9:00 p.m. The work paid for the students' tuition. The schedule was demanding, but it was the only way we could keep up with the Japanese. Each term was equivalent to two years in the old college system. There was no lunch period; instead, students purchased food from the many vending machines that lined the "people movers." People movers were moving walkways that enabled students to get to class more quickly. Students purchased food while the walkways whisked them to class. The classroom had changed as well. Gone were the oldfashioned schoolhouse classrooms with wooden desks. Gigantic cinemas had taken their place. More than five-thousand students could fill each cinema. They watched giant movie screens and were taught by computer teachers. Each class lasted two and one half hours. There were no tests. They were not necessary. The student merely absorbed the instructions of the computer. The use of hypnosis and subliminal messages 'aided this technique. There was no homework either. ., At precisely 3:45p.m. each day, the computer administered a brain scan to all students to insure they' had properly receiv~,d 24 Fioretti the regulated knowledge for the day. Slow learners received an extra zap of knowledge from the computer teacher. There was no time for social mixing, no individualism. I could see it coming, but who could I turn to? Nobody understood anymore. I was leaving the office when it happened. Don't ask me how, but it happened. Something went wrong during the brain scan. The computer had given its final lesson. All of a sudden, thousands of students poured out of the classrooms and jammed the walkways. Wild-eyed and determined, they destroyed everything in their path. Horrified, I sprinted through the front doors. They totally demolished the Superversity, the creature that had created them. And so I sat there in that old coffee shop, sipping coffee with an old man. "They're coming," I said. "Who's coming, son?" he asked "The children. No, they're not children anymore. They've changed. They're machines. You've gotta get outta here!" "Whoa! Slow down there. What do you mean, the children? The children always loved my shop. Machines? Now what's gotten into you? You look like you've seen the devil." Funny, I thought, maybe I had. Time is the devil's colIa'borator. What was I thinking? I can't save this old man or his old cafe. Time would eventually win out. Everything changes. Why? "Thanks, Pops," I said as I tossed him a buck for the coffee. As I walked away, the old man began to sing a familiar tune that stopped me in my tracks. Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot Auld lang syne. 25 Fioretti For auld lang syne my dear For auld lang syne. We'll take a cup of kindness yet For auld lang syne. And surely you'll pay for your pint And surely I'll pay mine. And we'll take a cup of kindness yet For auld lang. We two have run about the hills And pulled the daisies fine. But we've wandered many a weary foot Since auld lang syne. I walked out. Yes, old man, for auld lang syne -- for "old long since." I took one last look at the old diner then jogged down the street. I heard hideous howls behind me, and even before I looked back, I knew what I would see. An incredible army of a half million kids turned sour by society, crazed with determination, swarmed the old fashioned diner. Quickly, I turned away and began to run. It was getting dark, and I was racing the evils of time. : The same step squeaks As I climb the staircase To my childhood room Drew Appleby 26 Fioretti FOR THE LOVE OF AUDREY Shelly Leman The art building had always held some aura of mystery to Clark. The dingy gray exterior probably inspired students to create something beautiful or at least intersting to look at just to alleviate the grimness. The smell of oil paint, plaster dust, wet clay and miscellaneous cleaners and chemicals lingered from all of the past artists' endeavors. A radio played any time anyone was working on a project. Depending on the person, the music varied from classical to the latest nouveau rage. As Clark and Audrey contemplated her work, strains of Debussy's "Prelude to the Afternoon of the Faun" filled the room. "The proportions look so exact," Clark said after scrutinizing Audrey's latest piece of work. The sculpture was a two foot statuette of a woman in a flowing gown draped sensuously over . her body. The hair was molded in cascading curls that looked as though they would move at the slightest touch rather than captured in the stillness of clay. The features of her face were delicate and exotic; only the hands and feet were unfinished. "Spoken like a true math major," Audrey sighed and th en laughed at the brown-eyed giant who made the room shrink with his broad shoulders. "\Vhat is the assignment?" "We had to take an emotion and portray it with some artistic medium without the use of letters or numbers," Audrey explained. "So I decided to take 'love' and portray it as Aphrodite." "Hmm, seems to me that there should be more to love than a beautiful face and sensuous body." "Clark, is there really any such thing as love? Isn't a physical attraction and pleasant personlity the most anyone can realistically hope for?" 27 Fioretti "Audrey... " "Whoa, Clark. Please don't lecture me now. I'm sorry, but I . need to be going." "Wait a minute, Ijust wanted to ask if you'd like to come to the house for supper with the family tonight," Clark offered. "Oh ... yes ... but... that would have been wonderful, but I have a previous date. Please tell them all that I said 'Hello,'" said Audrey. More quietly she added, "It's been awhile since we've talked and spent some time together, hasn't it?" "Yes, and I miss that, but I think I feel something rather serious in the air, Aud. This is the first time that a man has lasted more than a couple of weeks. What's going on?" "I don't know yet. He's older and cultured and so attractive. I think he finds me interesting, but he's rather reserved. Our teacher-student relationship places us in an awkward position; but if it weren't for accounting, we would have never met to begin with." Almost as suprised as Clark by her unusually open confession, Audrey stripped off her clay-spattered smock and covered her artwork with a wet cloth before gathering her belongings and waving to Clark as she left the art building. ********** Back in her dorm room, Audrey laid out the dress she intended to wear. It was a present that her mother had sent from France. The midnight blue silk was a more mature style than she normally wore but would flatter her already lovely figure. It was ideal for dinner with Alex. Our first "date," thought Audrey. Who would have ever thought we would even be on speaking terms after our first encounter? Audrey had been skipping her accounting class, having no interest in the subject and no sympathy for the overdue pregnancy of her instructor. She did not even realize that Ms. 28 Fioretti Groves had taken her maternity leave until she received a telephone call from the new instructor requesting "Miss Mendenhall's" presence in his office. Mr. Alex Dawson had been somewhat of a surprise. He was tall, slender and handsome with straight black hair combed neatly off his forehead, and eyes that were the same steel blue as Audrey'S. In his baritone voice Mr. Dawson began questioning and then reprimanding Audrey for her lack of motivation, making her feel like a naughty two year old instead of her full twenty-one years of age. He accused her of being apathetic and frivolous with her education. Although Audrey realized that his criticisms were well-founded concerning his class, she still resented his attitude when all she usually received was adoring looks from the other males she encountered. Her fiery red hair and clear, almost transparent complexion often made her the center of appreciative male stares. After the lecture was over, Audrey took a deep breath, and in a slightly acid tone asked, "What do you want me to do about it?" Taken by surprise for a moment, Alex Dawson murmured to himself, "Maybe I musjudged her." Shaking his head as if to clear his mind, Mr. Dawson pulled out the grade book and together they proceeded to map out a plan to get Audrey to at least pass accounting and possibly even pull her grade up to a "B." Because the business department's budget did not stretch far enough to include tutors for students, Alex Dawson volunteered his time to help Audrey catch up on all of the work she had missed. They met for one or two hours on Tuesday and Thursday nights after class to introduce Audrey to all of the information she had already missed. Although these meetings were awkward at first, they both became more comfortable and even found some common interests to smooth over their rough start. Both held a special liking for Mozart's flute quartets and both had lived in France for part of their childhood. 29 Fioretti "When my parents were divorced, Mother moved back home to Nice with her family, and I stayed with her until I was thirteen," Alex explained. "I found the country to be a rich mixture of old and new, and some of the countryside was absolutely spectacular." "I only remember a little of what the country was like because I was five years old when we moved to France and eight when we left." Audrey smiled as she reminisced, "I had a German nanny who wasn't at all fond of the French. She was always bustling around clucking her tongue because my parents were away at some business meeting or formal gathering in another country, and she was responsible for trying to educate and entertain me in a country full of uppity, nasal-sounding French," Audrey laughed. "What happened to your nanny?" Alex asked. "She went back to her Germany when I was old enough to be placed in boarding schools," Audrey expained. "We still correspond, though. I don't think Dorothy ever approved of the way . I was shipped around from country to country, but she was never in a position to say as much." "That sounds rather sad," Alex commented. "I managed," Audrey replied as she began shuffling her ledgers and other various accounting worksheets into a neat pile. "Are we finished with this for the evening?" Alex and Audry's friendship developed further with each tutoring session. She found herself striving to make him laugh, and going out of her way to win his approval. She was also conscious of the way they refrained from touching each other. This spoke almost as loudly of their awareness of each other as if they had purposely held hands. Realizing that she would soon be caught up with the rest of the accounting class and that tutoring sessions would become superfluous, Audrey invited Alex out for dinner to express her appreciation for all of his help, and because she knew she didn't want their time together to end. 30 Fioretti On her way to meet Alex at a tiny Italian restaurant, Audrey felt a pang of remorse for the evening she was missing with Clark's family. Their big ranch-style home was only a fifteenminute drive from campus, and was always full of light and noise. Clark had two younger sisters and a set of twin brothers who were the delight and frustration of his father, large and strong with brown, sun-bleached hair and a warm kind smile. Spotting Alex's black Volvo, all thoughts of regret were banished from Audrey'S mind. ********** At 11:30 that evening, Clark was sitting out on the porch petting one of the newborn puppies that were the latest addition to the family. Without raising an eyebrow or even ques-" tioning Audrey'S presence at that late hour of the evening when she'd already refused his invitation, Clark moved to one side of the porch swing to make room for her. Disregarding the silk of her dress, Clark dumped the puppy in Audrey's lap to offer her comfort. After two aborted tries, Audrey'S usually husky voice spoke in a strangled cry, "He's ... he's ... he's married." Groaning in empathy with his friend's pain, Clark stretched out a powerful arm and pulled Audrey's head onto his shoulder to let her cry the first tears he'd seen in the three years he'd known her. ********** "So this is where you are," Clark exclaimed the next morning as he poked his head into the doorway of the room in which Audrey had been sculpting. As Audrey turned to greet her friend, Clark gasped in horror, "Oh my, Aud, what did you do to Aphrodite?" "Worked out some frustration," she replied with a grim smile. 31 Fioretti What had been the beautiful statuette was now a lump of freshly kneaded clay. "What did you do that for?" Clark asked, still incredulous. "Kneading the clay works out all of the air bubbles;' and depicting 'love' as Aphrodite was a farce that I just couldn't carry out," Audrey said. "Here, Clark, sit down and pose for me and I'll sculpt your bust." Glancing down at his muscular chest, Clark's expression spoke volumes of the embarrassed confusion he was feeling. Accurately reading Clark's face, Audrey erupted into unexpected peals of laughter. Finally catching her breath, Audrey said, "Relax, a bust is only the head and shoulders." Looking a little sheepish, Clark made himself comfortable on the stool across from Audrey's work bench. Taking the time to really study Clark closely, Audrey was struck by the realization that he was actually very handsome. As her nimble fingers pushed and reshaped the clay, she could almost feel Clark's face under her fingertips. His square jaw and firm mouth would quickly take shape, but as she worked Audrey wondered if she would be able to capture the essence of Clark that made him so ... "I'm planning to drop accounting,' Audrey announced, putting a halt to her runaway thoughts. "Okay," Clark shrugged, not offering any resistance, "but you will have to face him eventually." Changing the subject, Clark asked, "Will I have to sit here until you're finished? I have class a 11 o'clock." "No, you can go, but I'll probably need you so sit a few more times to be sure I have a good likeness," Audrey replied. "Thanks for coming by. You'll definitely do more justice to the clay than Aphrodite did." "Gee, thanks, I think," Clark laughed as he left to join his physics class. ********** 32 Fioretti Audrey's legs shook, and she felt decidedly ill entering BA 220. But now class was about to end, and most of her homework had been correct. She and Alex had managed to avoid eye contact, and she did feel relieved that the initial encounter was over. It still hurt to watch him move and listen to the voice that had been such a real part ofher daydreams, but in time, some of the loneliness would pass. It usually did. Gathering her belongings to leave, Audrey dreaded the lonely evening ahead. She usually enjoyed having a room to herself, but tonight it didn't appeal in the least. Glancing up to dodge the other students in the hall, Audrey'S face broke into a smile of quiet joy as she spotted Clark leaning comfortably against the wall waiting for her. Strong, patient, kind, understanding, she thought to herself Maybe Clark was a much better representative of 'love' than Aphrodite could ever hope to be, Audrey surmised. Feeling content and definitely happy, Audrey carefully tucked her hand in the crook of Clark's arm as together they strolled out of the building. 33 Fioretti Doors open ahead of me Yet I hesitate, Afraid of what I might find. Too late I realize I've tempted fate, As another door slams behind. Too many doors beckoning me I'm afraid to choose, Afraid to step forward; To stay where I am, Afraid of what I might lose. Blindly, I rush ahead, Not taking time to decide. Running, running, faster yet And afraid of what I might find. Suddenly, I stop and think; What if I hit a brick wall? I stop, opening my eyes to see, And then I start to fall. Dark voices laugh shrilly at me, They are all around. "You fooll" they shout, laughingly, "You fooll" and yet, triumphantly, Wicked glances glemn at me. Now I can finally see Through doubt I'd lost it all. Mary Weinzapfel 34 Fioretti 35 Fioretti THE NEW NEIGHBORS Katie Carson The Kalis seemed like any other new neighbors moving into the neighborhood. A mom, a dad, three kids, and even a dog -the all-American family. But, day by day, peculiar things started happening that made Mrs. Smith wonder about them. For one thing, the whole Kali family had silvery, white hair -- even the children, and the kids were extremely flexible -- almost seeming to be double-jointed at times. It was as if they could mold themselves into different shapes. But, most peculiar of all, every time the whole family went out, they all wore t-shirts with the same number on back -- 19. This really puzzled the Smiths. Still, Mrs. Kali had a certain softness about her personality, and Mrs. Smith took an immediate liking to her. She baked cookies and brownies their first day moving in as a welcoming gesture for the Kalis. AI Kali seemed to really hit it off with Mr. Smith too. The two men were quickly becoming friends. Once things got settled around the Kali household, Mrs. Kali would make short visits to the Smith house for afternoon tea with Mrs. Smith. She always seemed to be very interested in the neighborhood, the city, even the country as if she were a foreigner. Mrs. Smith often remarked to her husband that the whole Kali family seemed "out of this world;" then the two would chuckle at the absurdity of the idea. Time passed and the winter months soon turned to Spring. The neighborhood took on a whole new vigor. Once school ended, the Smith and Kali children were inseparable -- always playing ball, having picnic lunches, or going on dangerous adventures in the woods. The two women had never seen their children so happy. But, the happiest day of all was when Mr. Smith uncovered the inground pool for the summer dives into the refreshing water. This had always been their favorite 36 Fioretti summer activity as they were like fish in the water. The Kali kids didn't share the excitement, though, because they weren't allowed to swim. They had never learned to swim since there were no swimming pools back from where they came. The whole concept of swimming seemed so foreign to them, yet so curious. The summer days drifted on with the Smiths always in the pool while the Kalis looked on. The children didn't spend as much time together anymore, and the Kali kids grew sad. They wanted to go swimming with the Smiths, but their mom would never allow it. Each day they pleaded, but got the same answer -- a definite "NO!" Even Mrs. Smith tried to talk to Mrs. Kali, but Mrs. Kali's voice would get harsh, and she always told Mrs. Smith to let her raise her own kids. One day, Al Kali's car broke down just outside of town, and he had to call his wife to come get him. Mrs Kali walked Karen, Katrina, and Kevin over to Mrs. Smith's house and asked her to keep an eye on them for a half hour or so. Mrs. Smith gladly welcomed them in and waved goodbye to Mrs. Kali. The Smith kids were in the back swimming. Karen Kali had always been so intrigued with the pool and wanted to learn to swim more than anything. She pleaded with Mrs. Smith to take her into the pool, but Mrs. Smith had to say no; she kept hearing Mrs. Kali's words in her head: " .. .let me raise my own kids". But when Mrs. Smith got distracted with a phone call, Karen slipped outside and walked toward the ladder. She longed just to soak her feet in the water especially on such a hot day. Just as she was taking off her second shoe, Koko, the Kali's dog, came running into the yard and over to the pool. The Smith children laughed and called Koko into the pool. "Dogs like the water," they told the Kalis. With one swift motion, Koko leaped off the edge of the pool and was airborne. Then, it happened. As soon as the Kali's pet hit the water, something terrible happened. A loud fizzing sound brought Mrs. Smith racing out of the house. Koko began to flame as he turned into a little 37 Fioretti silver ball that raced around the pool. It was as if some sort of violent reaction was taking place. The summer day suddenly got hotter as enormous heat was given off from the reaction of Koko + water. Or was it Koko + water? The Kalis returned a few minutes later, only to find that their dog was gone - completely gone. A tear fell from AI Kali's eye as he hugged his wife and said, "At least it wasn't one of the children. We knew there would be dangers here on Earth." ********** A week later, the Kalis said goodbye to their friends, the Smith's, and headed for the woods. Deep inside the thickest region was their space vehicle, the "IA," that would take them back home to Potassia. ~ - ~ '..~ 1. ;;' _ .- . ~ ' - - -....... "".... - .-.~.-- ( ,~ -: -: ~ --' ----=:" :. ~ .- - ., ............ (' - .... ~,,- -~ -- --- -, . . C. . . -. . . '- -:.=.- " '~ - o 38 / Fioretti UNTIL DEATH In the monling we watched the sUllJise in its gl0l10US awakening hand holding hand lip touching lip mind crossing mind words only echoing feelings By the afternoon we were talking a bout the day's events the fun encountered the tears shed the laughter uncontrolled we becoming weak our love only stronger In the evening we were tired we rested by each other "I love you" for the last time that day ''goodnight'' for the last time a kiss and a hug alld then we slept. Dallice Hesselgrave 39 Fioretti WVING THE FIRST MORE DEEPLY Stacey Nicholas A gust of frigid wintery wind blustered in, disrupting the even warmth of the reception room as I rushed through the outer office into the news room. Putting it simply--up to this point had been hell. Actually, it had started last night as I sat in the city hall waiting for the city council to reach a quorum so it could begin its meeting. At 12:30 a.m., I typed in the final period on my 900 words that, in effect, said that the meeting did not officially happen because not enough people showed up. The constant humming of the presses and the stale cigarettes and strong coffee permeated the news room. No one noticed that my jeans, sweater, oxford, and loafers, were almost too casual for business hours. And almost no one noticed I was nearly an hour late. "Hey kid! Whaddaya think, the daily news waits for you to get your fanny out of bed. Well, this is hot off the press--IT DOESN'T." The comments went from loud to louder as the greying city editor stood in his office doorway. Handing me a handful of papers, he continued. "Cut the horsecrap and give me six paragraphs and not six pages . .No city council is worth that much!" Angry thoughts raced through my pounding head.--I wish that he would quit calling me "kid." I'm twenty-six years old. I've been employed here for five years and I'm NOT a kid. That six pages came from my heart and soul; why not just murder me?-Somewhat meekly I responded, "Sure Chief." Pouring a cup of strong black coffee I grabbed the mail from my mail shelf. Two notes from Barry in sports,--I really must confirm our date for Saturday.--an interoffice memo about parking spaces, and a letter from the Plainsmen; the college newspaper that by giving me a chance probably put me where I 40 Fioretti am today.--I wonder what they want?--Themail fell into the "IN" tray on my desk. Sitting at the terminal, I began hacking and chopping at the six page story. Very slowly, painstakingly slowly, six paragraphs emerged from the screen of text. "KID! Get down to city hall, NOW! Reports say that the mayor and the mayor-elect are going at it again. See if you can get a comment on the merit pay for firemen. Take Hollenback for shots." Having presented his decree, he turned on his heel and headed back to his office. "Come on Hollenback, you heard him. We can take my jeep." I said as I ran toward the door. Joan Hollenback followed me with her camera bag slung over her shoulder. I liked Joan because she was down to earth and had a great eye for shots. On the way to the city building she asked, "Why do you think they keep this up? The elections are over, surely this is nonsense." "Well," I began slowly, "For you and me it's settled, but for them it's not. Ole' Bob Glenn has been mayor for the past sixteen years. Mike Sella's victory shocked him. Sella, being so sweet and wonderful. Can't help but rub it in." "Yeah, he sure is sweet and wonderful." Sarcasm filled her voice. "After he won, he tried to tell me how to shoot the victory shot. What do you think happened this time?" "Sella and his decorators were probably in the mayor's office for redecorating. Glenn no doubt felt crowded out before his time." As we pulled into the parking lot at city hall, Joan justly summed up the situation. "Sounds like Sella needs a P.R. man. The next mayor may do the same to him. No elected official can gain anything by acting like a spoiled child." The situation inside the city building turned the grey day even darker. A tense silence engulfed us as we climbed the steps to the mayor's office. Tammy, the mayor's secretary, looked up 41 Fioretti from her typewriter as we entered. "Hey Tam. How's it cookin'?" Tam and I had been friends since before I began covering city hall. Although deathly loyal to Glenn, I could count on her to help me out or at least give me some motherly advice. "I hear Sella and Glenn had another run-in this morning." "Sorry honey, this time it's no comment," she said looking over her half-frame glasses and shaking her head. Her affectionate, but cold reply told me that something was definitely up. "Come on Tammy, you can count on me to be fair, you know that." "I know that, but I must also follow orders. And before you ask, the mayor is not seeing anyone today." Softening her harsh tone she smiled, "I'm really sorry, honey, but it's my job." Her pleading blue eyes told me that the situation was tough on her too. Pushing wouldn't get me anywhere. "Thanks anyway Tam. Don't worry I can find it out. See ya after Sunday Mass for brunch." We left the office and headed for the nearest pay phone. Perhaps Sella's people would fill me in. While I called them, Joan searched the other offices for a lead. We regrouped in half an hour; from the look on her face I could tell that I wasn't the only one to strike out. The chief was standing outside his office when we returned. "Well, what's the story?" he inquired. "Nothing," I replied. "When we got there everyone was a polite 'no comment.' Sella's people were tight too. Even the secretaries were unusually silent. Couldn't get a nibble." "Let it ride. Sooner or later someone's going to slip. Keep an ear open. Get an editorial by five." Having issued more decrees, he told Tim to meet him in the office and he vanished. I grabbed another cup of coffee and a sandwich before sitting down to write an editorial. The digital clock on my desk read three-twenty four, I was plagued with writer's cramp. Having toyed with city and national politics, the mayor\mayor-elect 42 Fioretti conflict, and the need for a strong press, I could still not formulate anything. Maybe my lack of sleep was catching up with me. I reached for the growing pile in my "IN" tray; a break would do me good. Gently, I picked up the letter from the Plainsmen. They were inviting me to their annual banquet as the keynote speaker. Memories that I had thought were long forgotten flooded my mind creating a rainbow of emotions. Count Basie's tunes from my first assignment filled my inner ears. My body warmed while remembering standing in the huge office window as the lifegiving Alabama sun filled me to th~ very dark corners of my soul. We'd spend our nights like old reporters down at Rusty'S Oyster Bar drinking beer and talking shop. Those were the days. Sure our editor, Thorn Botsford, could be just as grouchy as my current editor, but we loved writing. In our idealism the money didn't matter. Only writing mattered--the lead, the ink, the deadline. We were going to change the world all at once. Suddenly, it hit me. Yes, the idealism is missing now. Our . idealism made that first love virgin pure. Putting the letter aside, I turned on the terminal and began: THE FIRST LOVE IS THE DEEPEST The newspaper office was in the basement ... 43 44  ...

... Fioretti fioretti A Literary Anthology Volume 47, Number 2 May 1989 . Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana 11 63 5 5 Marian Col lege Library IndianapoIiS,ind . Fioretti Contents MICROCOSM/Ed Ertel . 5 RAINSTORM/Russell Fox 8 lABOR DAY/Saundra Spencer 10 REAL METTLE/Sharon Murphy 12 THE ROSE!Don Vogt 14 HAIKU!Deardra Webb 17 'A WHITE GIRUBeverly Ward 18 ON THE HEELS OF COLLEGE Pat McKenzie 19 SOUTH/Russell Fox 29 THE VISIT/ MaryAnn MacRae 30 "I BELIEVE ..."/Sharon Murphy 31 A TINGE OF VICfORY Kerry Dearth 32 1HE BEARIDallice Hesselgrave 34 2 PtJ b II t> r ~ 7M ~ ~------------------R-w-n-e-ffl-'------------------ ArtWork cover, p. 4/Suzanna Schmeltzer p. 6ILisa Cottini pp. 7, 35/Roseanna Landolfi p. 12/Sharon Murphy pp. 28, 36/John Brodnik .\ Staff EDITORS/Angie Ameis, Kelly Shaw ASSISTANTS/Julie Biltz, Don Vogt ART DIRECfOR/Susanna Schmeltzer PRODUCflON EDITORIMichelle A. Scheidt ADVISOR/Sister Stella Gampfer, O.S.F. 3 Fioretti 4 Fioretti MICROCOSM Ed Ertel The doctors circled around me in amazement. It seemed that I was somewhat of a rarity in the medical world. Don't get me wrong! I was perfectly fine as far as health was measured. The thing that separated me from the doctors' other patients was my size. I wasn't exactly sure how tall I was, but by comparison, I was about as tall as one of the doctor's pens. Doctor Dugan, my family doctor, stood in front of me along with several specialists. I heard them talking among themselves but couldn't understand what they were saying. Finally, one of the specialists stepped forward. "Hello, I am Doctor O'Brien," he said. "I need to ask you a few questions to try to find the cause of your shrinking." Meanwhile, the rest of the doctors began taking measurements and blood samples, and performing tests to come up with a solution to my dilemma. It seemed that I had shrunk to about one-twelfth of my normal size. As I looked around the room, I noticed that the white mice in the laboratory seemed more like dogs as compared to my size. Doctor O'Brien then began his questioning. "What have you eaten in the last twenty-four hours?" he asked. "Nothing out of the ordinary. I had eggs and miniwheats for breakfast, chicken nuggets and tator-tots for lunch, and bite-size shrimp and a baked potato sprinkled with bacon bits for supper," I said. "Have you been feeling sick lately?" he asked. "Well, I had a case of acute bronchitis a couple of months ago, but I've been over that for quite a while," I answered. 5 Fioretti After about forty-five minutes of questioning and tests, the doctors left the room to confer about the results. To pass the time, I climbed up to the mice cages and taught them how to fetch Q-tips. I thought I may as well make the best of the situation. Fifteen minutes later the team of doctors returned. "We want to perform an emergency operation to correct your condition," said Doctor Dugan with a serious look on his face. A feeling of panic overcame me . . I was going into surgery. Suddenly, the anesthesia began to wear off, and I eventually came to consciousness. Doctor Dugan was standing over me. I looked around the room and found everything to be normal. I wasn't six inches tall, nor was I ever six inches tall. "The operation went well. Your tonsils came out with no trouble at all," Doctor Dugan said. I told him about my dream, and we both got a good laugh out of it. I continued laughing as Doctor Dugan left the room. At that moment, I looked down at the floor. I saw a little'white mouse scamper across the floor, arid I'm sure it had aQ-tip in its mouth. 6 Fioretti \ 7 Fioretti RAINSTORM Breathe a rainstorm. Take a drag of damp delicious. Let an air of anesthesia send Your soul to silent sleep. See a rainstorm, The waterfall that bleeds black To silver white. The overbearing, overdone, Overdriven overcast. The sunrise ofpoets and strange, sad Suburban children. Hear a rainstorm, Thunder splicing somber summer sky Into mean and savage lifeforce. The tender music of tears ofjoy, Diving against your open window, Breezing through your hair and in your spirit. 8 Fioretti Feel a rainstorm. The rage of beauty. The touch of cold, melted satin. The cool warmth of a sensuous stream That makes love to the trees. A long, wet kiss from God. Find a rainstorm. Define the form of An angry cloud, penetrate that long, lost horizon And look for me there. Bum the wind. Taste the sky. Spill the wine into the water And reach your hands into the Rainstorm. Russell Fox 9 Fioretti LABOR DAY Saundra Spencer With sweaty palms and beads of sweat across my brow, I threw the bulging suitcase into the back seat of the car. My anxiety level was at an all time high. Thoughts of the upcoming event raced through my mind causing a nearly hysterical, childlike giddiness. My sister, Terry, two years my junior, sat next to me in the car with her hands folded, resting on her rotund belly. I looked over at her nervously; she had no visual signs of anxiety. "How far apart are the labor pains now?" I asked. "Oh, they are about one and a half minutes apart." "Well, how long are the contractions lasting," I asked, my voice cracking. "About a minute," she replied nonchalantly. I thought to myself: damn, why did I buy that stopwatch . anyway ?.. Our journey began. As we cruised the highway, all landmarks were a blur. We had made this trip to the hospital many times as test runs in preparation for the "big event." Somehow everything around me seemed unfamiliar as though I was on a road I had never travelled. Many times I looked up into the rearview mirror anticipating the appeararice of flashing red lights. Surely we were travelling faster than the speed of light, but yet somehow it felt as though all the world outside stood still. All of the birthing classes we had taken failed to prepare me for the emotions I was experiencing. Quesitons raced through my mind. Will "it" be healthy? Will "it" be a boy or a girl? What if "it" is born in the car ... my car? When my attention was once again focused on the road, suddenly the exit was just ahead on the right, less than one-quarter of a mile away. 10 Fioretti Over in the right lane was a semi truck, blocking the exit lane. When I accelerated, so did the truck. As I slowed, the truck slowed, too. I had to drive to the next exit, which put us five miles beyond the hospital. "Are you okay?" I asked, my voice quivering with anxiety. "Yes, I'm fine," she said calmly, too calmly. "How far are the contractions?" "They're a little less than one minute apart and I'm not getting much rest between them. They're almost constant. They're really strong. I feel the urge to push." By now we were only one block from the hospital. Pulling up to the emergency entrance, Terry hesitantly got out of the car, only after I insisted that she didn't have time to walk from the parking lot. When I walked through the emergency doors, she was being wheeled on a stretcher to the labor and delivery area. I felt a~ though I was in a trance while being led by a team of nurses, doctors and medical students to the birthing room. The room was cool, almost cold, with bright flourescent lighting and the pungent odor of hospital cleanliness. I stood at my sister's side, holding her hand while we performed the breathing exercises we had rehearsed so many times before. My heart pounded and I became lightheaded as the grand finale grew near. Throughout the labor, we performed the breathing exercises in textbook style. Now, the baby's head presented. I saw a glimpse of a head full of light colored hair. I watched as the nurse connected two electrodes into the baby's scalp, explaining that this was a fetal heart monitor. I returned to the head of the bed to resume the breathing exercises. Terry's face was now flush and the tiny capillaries in her eyes had burst. She too was placed on a heart monitor and they began to administer oxygen to her. Suddenly, the bustling crew 11 Fioretti around me became a blur. I felt unsteady and my vision was distorted. I felt distant, somehow removed from my surroundings and the events taking place. I was about to faint. I was rescued from injury by a medical student standing nearby. I awakened and was assured that mother and "baby girl" were doing fine. I was anything but fine. I had discovered the physical and emotional exaustion of childbirth "second-hand." REALMEITLE Real Scooters and wagons are sturdy constructions-created to carry a child of any age , to Adventure. 12 Fioretti No plastic parts allowed! Mettle's the thing-wheels rounding to whirl you anywhere you want to go. "Circle the block, " you say? Why, that is Clear around the world-ifyou Truly Look into the eyes of those you meet. AReal scooter or wagon is a careful Creation-not guaranteed to get you there, but a trusted companion along the way. No plastic parts to crack in the cold or buckle in the heat; Mettle's the thing-wheels rounding to whirl you anywhere you want to go!... Sharon Murphy 13 Fioretti THE ROSE Don Vogt "I thaught it was just yesterday that we braught him hame fram the haspital all wrapped up in that gaudy, knitted blanket Mam made far him," I remarked as my havercraft flaated steadily dawn the cancrete tharaughfare. I stale a quick glance at the beautiful waman who. accupied nat anly the passenger's seat af the craft but also. a huge piece af my heart far the past twenty years. "It's true," she replied as her delicate hand tauched my fingers which nervausly clutched the handle af the craft's gear selectar that separated aur seats. "Yau knaw, sweetheart," she cantinued in her saft vaice, "I rummaged thraugh Ryan's aId things the ather day and faund the same blanket. It has a few hales in it, but I thaught yaur mam wauld lave to. see it when she carnes to. the Open Hause this afternaan. Who. knaws, maybe Ryan cauld use it far his awn kids sameday!" "Whoa naw!" I chuckled as visians af grandchildren raced thraugh my mind. Let's just take ane stage af life at a time, O.K.? After eighteen years, I'm still getting used to. being a father. Let's nat rush 'grandpahaad' just yet!" She loaked at me with her clear green eyes as the carners af her mauth farmed a smile that I had grawn to. appreciate aver the years. As I signaled my turn into. the lat af accumulating parked vehicles, I gazed at the madern schaal building that held so. many fand memaries far my san and me. It had to. be raugh having a father teaching at the same schaal yau attended. It surely was nat a cakewalk far me either because I had to. be bath a teacher and a parent all at the same time. There were maments when I knew abaut excellent papers, bad grades, and detentians befare he ever had a chance to. tell me. 14 Fioretti "Remember the time Mrs. Shumacher caught Ryan and Tina kissing in the hallway?" I blurted, breaking the silence that had settled over the silver interior of the hovercraft. As I felt the climate control spread cold air throughout the craft, I heard my wife give a girlish giggle. "I sure do," she replied. "You know, I think you were harder on Ryan than the principal was." "I did ground him, didn't I? Ryan said I was so old-fashioned. Who would have thought that at the ripe old age of forty I would be tagged as old-fashioned?" "You're right," she smiled, "who would have thought." After searching for a parking space close to the gymnasium, I stepped out of our vehicle and immediately felt the heat of the June sun beat upon the back of my gray tailored suit. As I opened the door for my wife, she again grabbed my hand as we strolled toward the school. While we walked together in perfect rhythm, I stared at the benches that laced the outer walls of the locke~ room area. I could picture Ryan sitting there . as he did so many times after practices, waiting for me to take him home. "Look, hon," my wife said as she pointed with her . free hand to an inscribed signature in the wood of the paintchipped benches. "Ryan must have been bored waiting for you one afternoon." Sure enough, he had added his name to the collection of graffiti that covered the benches. As we took our seats in the section on the floor reserved for parents, I was astonished at the metamorphosis of the gymnasium. Polyurethane streamers lined the walls that had echoed the roars of the crowds that came to watch my teams play. A gray tartan canvas covered the newly waxed hardwood, and flowers decorated a stage area where, in a matter of minutes, my only son would receive his high school diploma. My throat tightened as my face beamed with pride. I'm sure he was not aware of it, but I was always proud of him. As I turned to my companion, I could tell she knew my thoughts. 15 Fioretti "What's on your mind?" she asked knowing full well what I was thinking. "The Jackson Central game," I replied. "Do you remember?" "Are you kidding?" she grinned. "There were two seconds left when Ryan fired from the baseline corner. Lucky for him he made it and won the game, or his old man would have probably grounded him for life, right?" she questioned jokingly, nudging me in the side. "All I remember was the smile on his face as his teammates hoisted him above their heads, and the FACT machine's headline the next day: 'Vogt wins big one for the Kougars! '" "You were never more proud of him, were you?" she asked. "Not until now," I replied. As the modern synthesizer played the old, traditional Pomp and Circumstance, I turned to catch a glimpse of my son's.familiar face in the sea of long, red robes,and black mortar boards. He smiled as he began the long march to the stage. The benediction, speeches, and announcements flew by quickly as fond memories of the past eighteen years filled my mind. At last, he stood before the platform stairs where he nervously fidgeted with the red rose that he had received just minutes earlier. As I stared at him from the distance, I could almost picture myselftwenty-four years prior to this day in that exact place. I clearly recalled the shaky knees, jittery hands, and the fear of tripping just as I reached for the diploma, but they were all his feelings now. "Michael Ryan Vogt," the superintendent announced as I awoke from my trance. The moment was here. It was one we would always share. * * * * "This receiving line is incredible," my wife remarked in disbelief as we made our way through the confusion of the mob 16 Fioretti of well-wishers. Ryan was in sight, and as soon as his mother saw him, she ran to him with outstretched arms. "I'm so proud of you," she said in a crackling voice as she tried to hold back the rush of inevitable tears. "I knew you could do it, Honey!" "Thanks, Mom; you're the best!" he replied in his calm, deep voice. As my wife left their embrace, I realized it was my turn. I moved in front of him as he extended the red rose to me. "I want you to have it, Pop," he said. As I looked into his big, green eyes, I could see the tears that began to form. "I just want you to know, Pop, that I realize we haven't always seen things eye to eye, but... Well, thanks ... Thanks for everything." Upon the last word, he stretched out his long arms and wrapped them around me as he whispered, "I love you" in my ear. HAIKU Spring storms into view Crashing and blowing about Rousing earth from sleep. Deardra Webb 17 Fioretti A WHITE GIRL (written after hearing poet Gwendolyn Brooks) I have tried, really tried. I have watched you struggle But I cannot comprehend. I am not all bad. You are not all good. But we are both alive. And by existing we deserve dignity. I cannot change the world. But I can change me And watch And hope And pray That one day You won't have to struggle And I won't have to try. Beverly Ward 18 Fioretti ON THE HEELS OF COLLEGE Pat McKenzie It was a cold Friday night in February and I was assigned to cover a high school basketball game at St. Anthony's High School for the Detroit Free-Press. I was looking forward to this assignment because it would give me an opportunity to watch David Lakes play basketball. David was probably the best basketball player in the state of Michigan, and he was being heavily recruited by nearly every major college across the United States. Watching this young man play basketball was a pure joy as far as his ability was concerned, but on this particular night, he lost his,temper near the end of the game and was ejected for fighting. He had been the main focus of verbal abuse by the visiting fans and it finally got to him. I had qeard that David was very cocky and had a bad attitude, so needless to say this,incident did, nothing to improve his image in my eyes . .On the bright side, however, David was truly a great basketball player: for his age. He scored thirty-two points in leading his team to . victory on this night, but his ten,acious defense and all-out hus,tle were the things which impressed me the most abouthim. I had never seen such a well-rounded basketball player in all of my ' , years of covering high school basketball. Following the game, I decided to go to St. Anthony's locker-room to get a few comments,about the game from David and l;1is coach, Ron Day. Even though I did not like the way he acted .on the basketball court, I thought lowed it to the general public to get a few words from the brilliant young player. I introduced myself to him as he came from the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, and his six-foot-six-inch body towering above me. 19 Fioretti I then asked him, "David, how do you feel about tonight's game?" With his head down and his dark brown eyes looking toward the wet floor, he replied, "It was a good game." I continued my attempt to interview him, but he was a young man who had very little to say. To be completely honest, I didn't like him very well and I joined the group of many people who believed that he had an attitude problem. I proceeded to Coach Day's office to ask him a few questions. At first, I asked him about the game but then asked him to share a few thoughts on David. Coach Day paused for a moment and then replied, "David is an outstanding player and his talent speaks for itself on the court, but he is very misunderstood off the court. People label him as being cocky simply because he does not talk to them very much. In reality, though, he is a very shy young man who is under a great deal of pressure because recruiters are knocking on his door every night when he goes home from practice. He has a big decision to make concerning where to attend college and it is really taking a toll . on him. If people would just give Davida chance, they would find that he is really a good person." As I walked out of Coach Day's office, lnoticed many of the players standing around their lockers enjoying themselves, but David was sitting on the other side of the locker-room alone. I must say that, in a way, I felt sorry for him. Most basketball stars such as David were normally the leader and the center of attention of an entire school, but David was not even the leader of his team. Perhaps I had jumped too quickly to the conclusion about his having an attitude problem. Maybe he really was just shy. I badly wanted to go over and give him some company, but I decided to leave him alone ~ince I did not know him very well. Several weeks passed and the basketball season was nearing its end. S1. Anthony's lost their first game in the state 20 Fioretti tournament over three weeks ago, but David was in the spotlight again after being named Mr. Basketball in the state of Michigan. I was somewhat surprised he received this prestigious award, not because he did not possess enough ability, but because he was not weIl-liked among the coaches throughout the state who voted for it. The thought of David Lakes lingered in my mind for weeks after that Friday night in February, but I could not really pinpoint why. Perhaps it was his extraordinary talent, or maybe it was his peculiar personality. Ironically, the sports editor approached me one afternoon and asked me to do a feature story on David. At first, I was rather skeptical about this assignment because it would require me to spend a great deal of time with the young basketbaIl star and, after all, he was only a senior in high school. I would have to be around him for nearly a month, and I did not think that his parents would be in favor of a situation such as this. I was right, but I talked to his mother and she finally agreed to let me be around her son as long as it was outside of school. I first arrived at David's house on the west side of Detroit on a Wednesday afternoon following school. I was somewhat nervous as I walked into the old, run-down house which desperately needed a new coat of paint on the outside, while the interior was dusty and cluttered with clothes lying on the faded furniture. I introduced myself to David once again and we sat and talked for about an hour. He was somewhat reluctant to talk in the beginning, but he loosened up after he became more familiar with me. He worked at a local grocery store bagging groceries from six o'clock to nine o'clock every night after school when basketball was out of season. He enjoyed working because it gave him a chance to relax and get away from the pressures of recruiting. David said that he did not like school very,well, though, because he believed that it was boring. He admitted that if he worked harder at his grades, he could have been a 21 Fioretti much better student and he would not be having trouble getting into colleges as he was then. Since neither of his parents was around during my first visit, I was curious as to what type of caeers they had. David explained that his mother worked as a waitress at a small restaurant while his father was a truck driver, which did not allow him to be home very often. I noticed that he opened up when talking abut his father, and it sounded as if he admired him a great deal. "Yeah, Pops taught me everything he knew about basketball. Man, he could really play good when he was my age," smiled David. "Some folks say that he could've played in the N.B.A. if he'd been given the chance. Yeah, lowe most of my success to Pops." It was getting close to six o'clock, so I dropped David off at work on my way home. Even though I still felt he was somewhat of a mystery, I believed that my first visit was very worthwhile because he opened up as time went by and helped me in getting to know him better. My attitude about this young man was als6beginning to change. He was not a bad person. As Coach Day had told me in his office over two months ago, he was just shy. As the next two weeks went by, I felt as if I was beginning to know David much better. Unlike most teenagers who were more interested in having a good time rather than looking at the serious side of life, David was the type who preferred to take care of himself and stay away from crowds of people. He was a very independent young man. He cooked his own meals every evening and washed his own clothes, since his parents never seemed to be around home. In fact, I had met his mother only once and still had not met Mr. Lakes. I could not tell if he really enjoyed doing things on his own or if he was being rejected by his parents. He never talked a great deal about his mother unless I asked him about her, but 22 Fioretti when he did, he usually had good things to say about her. His father, on the other hand, was a favorite topic of conversation. He often told me stories of how he used to help him work around the house, and how they used to spend every Sunday at Memorial Park shooting baskets. It sounded as if Mr. Lakes was a great person, and I was looking forward to meeting him for the first time. David spoke so highly of him, I was beginning to like him even though I had not met him yet. I was very curious about David's relationship with other students at school because he never talked about any friends that he had. One day, I decided to ask him if he had a girlfriend, and his open response shocked me. "I ain't got many friends, just Barry and Chuck who work down at the store with me. They're good guys and don't cause no trouble. Mom and Pop don't let me hang around many other people because they want me to stay away from drugs. They don't want me to ruin my future, so I do what they say and keep my nose out of trouble." . .This statement opened my eyes as to who David Lakes really was. It was as if the fog had lifted and the sun was shining brightly, allowing me to see the inside of this young man more clearly. There was really nothing wrong with David. He had over-protective parents who had scared him into thinking that the entire world was evil. He would not open himself up to others out of fear that his parents would disapprove of anyone new that he met. His isolation had left him with many doubts about his ability to communicate with and be accepted by others. David's openness was also important because I felt that he was starting to trust me. I no longer felt as if I was just a reporter out to get a story for the newspaper. Instead, I felt as if I had made a new friend who was in need of some assistance in life. It was a normal Thursday afternoon one week later, and I was ready to leave David's house because I figured he had to 23 Fioretti be on his way to work. Tonight was different, though. He said that he was not going to work because a recruiter from the University of North Carolina was supposed to visit him. He was extremely excited because he badly wanted to go to North Carolina to play basketball. I was somewhat surprised that David wanted to leave the Midwest to go to college since he seemed to be very close to his father, but North Carolina did have a good basketball program and would be a great place for him to receive an education. David invited me to stay at his house for a while to be with him when the coach came from North Carolina. He also asked Coach Day to come over because he was a good friend of the coach who was interested in David. I had never been around a big-time recruiting session, so I decided to simply sit and listen to what was going to be said. The coach from North Carolina arrived and told David all about the beautiful campus, the basketball program, and the school's requirements which, incidentally, David had not yet met. I was very impressed with the coach because he was a very nice person and very honest with the young star. He told David that he would love to see him come to North Carolina (U.N.C.), but his results from the S.A.T. would have to be above 800 or he would not be accepted into school. David had re-taken the test and was eagerly awaiting the results which were supposed to be arriving in the next week or two. The evening turned out to be fine, but I found it strange that neither of his parents was home when the coach came from U.N.C.. It was such an important evening for David; I felt sure that one of his parents would be home to help him ask some questions and gain some information about the university. Most parents would not have allowed a recruiter into their house unless at least one of them was home. Finally, I got up the courage to ask David if his parents were ever home when recruiters came. 24 Fioretti "No, she's never .. .! mean ... They're never home," David stumbled. His response was followed by a long pause, and then I spoke what was on my mind. "David, I don't want to get too personal, but is there something you're not telling me? I have been following you around for the past several weeks, and I find it strange that I have not met your father at all, and only talked to your mother once." I paused for a moment and then asked him, "Are you living here by yourself?" "No, I live with my mother, but she works during the afternoons and evenings," David quietly replied. "What about your father?" David looked down at the floor and said nothing; then Coach Day told him, "You might as well tell him, David. There is no use in hiding the situation any longer because people are eventually going to find out anyway. You can trust him, and it would be good to get it off your chest." David's eyes began to swell with tears as he began telling the story. "They got along so good for so many years, and then, all of the sudden it was over. They fought constantly for about a month straight. One day they would yell at each other; the next day they wouldn't talk to each other. Finally, Pops got tired of it and got a divorce about three months ago. Right now he's living in Raleigh, North Carolina, looking for a job." I was speechless' after he told me this story. ' I felt very sorry for him and wanted to say something to comfort him, but I did not know what to say. On one hand, I felt bad about inquiring into a matter which was really none of my business, but on the other hand, I was glad that David was able to release some stress from his mind. I thought I had come to know David very well over the past few weeks, but until this night I did not know him very well at all. I came to the conclusion that David frequently talked with great affection about his father because he missed him so 25 Fioretti much. After seventeen years of being very close members of a family, it was difficult for this young man to deal with his parents' divorce. lt was especially tough for him because of his father's decision to move a great distance from Detroit. This also explained the real reason why David wanted to attend college in North Carolina. He wanted to attend D .N.C. so he could be close to where his father was living. The D.N.C. campus in Chapel Hill was only a few minutes by car to Raleigh, where he could visit his father on a regular basis. Almost a week later, I sat on the couch in David's living room as I watched David pick up some articles of clothing which were cluttered about the house. He was usually very relaxed and easy to talk with, but on this particular day, I could tell that he was nervous about something. As the mail arrived, David quickly ran to the mailbox, sorted through some "junk" mail, and threw it down in disgust. "What's the matter?" I asked. "No scores," he sighed. He was searching for the results from the S.A.T. which he had taken nearly six weeks ago. He was worried because the national signing day for college recruits was only three days away, and he needed these scores before he could make a final decision . .He had no doubts about his top choice, for he had decided many weeks before that he wanted to attend North Carolina, but he was not sure if he was going to have high enough scores to be accepted there. He could not cross other schools off his lIst because if his scores were not high enough for D.N.C., he would have to look elsewhere. "If I had only worked harder in high school, I wouldn't have to worry about those stupid scores," David told me. lt was easy to understand his frustration because the last few days had been very tough on him. Recruiters had been constantly visiting him and alumni kept the phone ringing off the hook at all hours of the day and night, wanting the promis- 26 Fioretti ing YO,u ngbasketball player toattend their respective schools. David was exhausted and wanted to put an end to the entire ordeal, l?ut he coud not do anything until his test scores arrived. It was a glorious Saturday afternoon as I traveled to David's house, two days later, for a special lunch that his mother had planned for the three of us. Evidently, her son had talked about me quite a lot, and she wanted to become more familiar with me. David's mother was a tall, slender woman who spoke with a slight southern accent, left from her days of growing up in Macon, Georgia. It was the first time I had the chance to talk with her for a long period of time, and I was impressed. She was an extremely nice lady who worked hard to make enough money to support David and herself. She felt guilty about leaving David on his own so often, but she had no other choice. We had just begun eating fried chicken, baked potatoes, and salad, when the mailman arrived. David asked to be excused to get the mail and see if he had received his scores. Mrs. Lakes, understanding how important the scores were to him, said, "OK, please hurry." The young man rushed through the house toward the front door, and the next thing I knew, David was yelling, "They're here! They're here!" "Well, bring them in here, and let's see how you did," responded his mother. David entered the kitchen quickly, dropped the rest of the mail, and began nervously to unseal the envelope that he had .waited for for so long. He pulled the paper from the enve- . lope and then a smile overcame the worried look on his face. There was no need for him'to say anything because his expression told the story, but he did anyway. "890! This is great! Now I can go to North Carolina! I've got to ,go call Pops." As David went to phone his father, his mother's smile increased to a quiet laugh. "I'm so proud of him," she stated. 27 Fioretti "He's waited a long time for this day, and I hope he enjoys it. His father will be exstatic when he hears about it. I hate to see David leave Detroit because I know I'll miss him, but I want to see him happy." After David talked with his father, he called Coach Smith, the head coach from North Carolina, and told him that he wanted to sign a letter of intent as soon as possible. The following day, Coach Smith came to David's house and signed the talented player. The long ordeal was over with, and David could finally take a few months to recover. There would be no more recruiters or alumni phone calls bothering him at all hours. He could go back to his normal life of school and work without having to worry about making a major decision. He was finally allowed to return'to the lifestyle that he enjoyed most--a life of peace and quiet. 28 Fioretti SOUTH South of where I am -- far below these midwest trees Sunspots rain on cotton fields -.,. and glaze the gallant greenery. And with the wisdom of a woman -- and the water from the well We can warm and soothe our minds and bodies-H eavenize this Hell. The cypress shines a sullen shade -- the clouds are white with hot Forever rivers running like Kentucky stallions trot The dusted haze that stands with every rise and set of sun -The weary streets that wait in vain for anyone So let us play in cheap, exotic wines -Find a county courthouse -Laugh and cry at those who pass us by. Let us find a piece ofpeace -- make a perfect place -Celebrate the life we live -- harmonize the gifts we give And sing a song of water, wind, and wildwoods. .Fall into and through this sanctuary Sacred, sweet and south of where we've seen. Russell Fox 29 Fioretti THE VISIT MaryAnn MacRae "This shouldn't hurt a bit," Dr. Barnes says as the two inch needle, dripping with Novocaine, enters my mouth. As the pressure builds in my gums, the last few drops are ejected and the needle is removed. Numbness begins to overwhelm me and I wonder whether or not I'm drooling. As I sit, reclined and fairly comfortable, I hear the doctor firing up his ominous drilling machine. My heart races and I begin to tremble. Just then I hear his voice echoing in my ears. He asks if I would like a little gas before he starts. But fearing that my innermost secrets will surface under its influence, I pass. Once again, fear overcomes me as the shiny, silver drill inches toward me. The smell of something burning and the vibrating and shrieking of his power tool cause me to wonder if flossing would help. H;alf an hour later, the dentist's assistant removes the paperbib and lowers my chair. For the first time in nearly an hour my legs feel strong enough to walk. The easy-listening music on the radio soothes me as I near the waiting room. The room is filled with children and their mothers, who are occupied with the latest magazines. Thoughts race through my mind as I open the door to leave. I wonder if these children realize the deep, dark, evils that lurk behind that door, and if I am too young for dentures. I saunter to my car, inhaling the fresh morning air, thankful I have survived another visit. 30 Fioretti "I BELIEVE, TINKERBELLE, AND CLAP- YOU-ALIVE AGAIN!" Eternal Mother of Moon glow and Star dusting resews their shadows with Gossamer so swiftly.. . so Lightly.. . The Dance is scarcely slowed, and no evil intent . may tear apart Her tiny stitches of Everlastingly Bright Pattern. Only Peter Pan people Can! get their shadows stuck in-a-drawer momentarily, for having Danced so swiftly.. . so Lightly.. . they out-paced any stationary power which would seek to parade them... pull them... down. Sharon Murphy 11 63 5 5 31 Li L :~, y Ir,tiian2Po lis, I 'l l. Fioretti A TINGE OF VICfORY Kerry Dearth "Steeeeeeriiiiiike waaaaaaaan!" the umpire bellowed. A broad-shouldered young man sprang up the dugout steps and onto the dirt path which led to the on-deck circle. Lazily, he swung his Louisville Slugger and looked into the grandstand. The crowd's eyes focused on the man at the plate. A few eyes strayed. "Twooooooo!" A murmur of anguish filled the stands. The man stepped into the reddish-brown circle of dirt and bent down to pick up the pine-tar rag. As he stretched out his arm, he felt the familiar stiffness in his back that comes from sitting so long on the bench. Patiently, he had sat through twelve and one-half innings watching his teammates field and hit and pitch, playing baseball with boyish enthusiasm. His thumb twitched as he yearned to share their feelings. He routinely wiped the rag across the handle of the bat and tossed it down. He picked up the heavy warm-up bat and swung it along with his own, lackadaisically through the air. Once again he looked at the crowd. Many of them remained, battling the extra-inningduldrums. Some slumped silently in their seats, wary of the stalemate, but the majority recognized the importance of the situation. Sitting on chair's edge, they voiced their biased support. Although their team was one run behind, hope still filled their hearts. He envied them. "Heeeeyiiiiike threeeee!" He dropped the warm-up bat and walked toward the plate. On the way, he passed his teammate, who looked to the ground in defeat. With the jeers of the crowd jostling his mind, he grumbled under his breath. The young man stopped at the plate, kicked the dirt three times with his left foot then made a cross with his right. He ran one hand 32 Fioretti halfway up the bat once, slowly, then glanced in the direction of the pitcher's mound. The pitcher stared back. For an instant that lasted an eternity, the two stared. The pitcher's confidence and determination showed in his eyes. His nostrils flared as he prepared for the confrontation. The batter looked toward the pitcher's mound but through the pitcher. He noticed the centerfield grass was much greener than the day before. The battle of eyes was broken as the batter looked down to check his stance. Then he looked up at the pitcher. The pitcher began his windup and delivered a fastball. "Steeeeeeeriiiiike waaaaaan!" The young man stepped out of the batter's box and quickly looked at his aging coach at third base, who seemed exhausted with the game. Then he stole a look at his teammates, one on third base, the other on second. One had his fingers crossed; the other spat. They both shared a deep concern, expressed in their tense faces and fearful eyes. The pitcher fired another fastball down the middle. "Twooooooo!" A chorus of "boo's" filled the stadium. He, like everyone else, knew the consequences. A basehit here and his team would win the game; and he would be a hero. An out and his team would lose. Again he will have let his team and their fans down. Their gloomy heads would be hung with grief, and tomorrow he would console himself with his best friend, the bench. But isn't this just a game, he thought. The pitcher looked for the sign and gave a quick nod. An evil smirk crept upon his face. He began to rotate in his windup, and he grunted as he hurled the baseball like a fireball down the center of the plate. The ball seemed to grow as it left the pitcher's hand. As it steamed toward the plate, belt-high, it appeared the size of a softball to the young man. This time it would be different, he thought. All eyes focused on the man at the plate. His thumb twitched as he swung, and, for a moment, everyone was silent. ... 33 Fioretti THE BEAR The bear on my bed, the one with no mouth and the raggedy ear that has stuffing coming out. The bear on my bed, who will always be-there, while the seasons pass with never a care. The bear on my bed, who knows all of my wishes, and will always listen, receives most of my kisses. The bear on my bed, who is friend never foe whom I hold tight when the winds fiercely blow. The bear on my bed, whom I'll never outgrow, is the truest offriends that I'll ever know. Dallice Hesselgrave 34 Fioretti Special thanks to Mrs. Spallina for her many years of service! 36  ...

... o / Marian College \ I1djq nctp o lis, Indrqnq Vo\ume 4b No1 1~e7-198S ONLY A DREAM/ Katy Allen 4 HAIKU/ Terence Morgan 7 THE NEW STUDENTS/ John Brown 8 THE EYES HAVE IT/ Teresa Scotten 10 HAIKU/ Deardra Webb 11 ATTENTION ALL MOTORISTS/ Kerry Dearth 12 TAKE A CHANCE/ PattI Mazelin 15 CAUGHT, OUT IN THE OPEN/ Terence Morgan 17 HAIKU/ Terence Morgan 19 .REUNION/ Nancy Thompson 21 THE CRY FOR HELP/ Jennifer Sarakaitis 23 I KNOW AN ARTIST/ Tim Berryman 25 . INVITATIONAL/ Lois Tenbleg Godol1ei 28 AMBER WAVES/ Jim HIllman 29 CATALOGUE 1/ Terence Hanley 30 SUMMER/S PASSING/ P.H. Allen 31 JUST BEING/ Jim HIllman 33 CATALOGUE 11/ Terence Hanley 35 WINTER SUNSET/ Philip J. Mahoney 36 FAREWELL, MAESTRO/ KatrIna Knarr 38 COVER, p. 27/ Terence Hanley pp. 14, 34/ Debbie Broderick p. 20/ Terri Clark p. 32/ Ellen Petralts p. 39/ Kelly Shaw PHOTO p. 24/ JIm McKean LETTERING/ SIster Stella Gampfer, OSF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF/ Angie Ameis GUEST ALUMNI EDITOR/ Terence Hanley ASSISTANT EDITORS/ John Brown Kelly Shaw ADVISOR/ Sister Stella Gampfer, OSF This edltion of FIORETTI is dedicated to Marian College in celebration of 50 years in Indianapolis. To mark the occasion, a special section of alumni contributions is lncluded. * * * This edition is also dedicated to the memory of Forrest Brandon who died on October 11, 1987. ONLY A DREAM? Katy Allen It must have been around two o/clock or later. All I know is that the children were out on the playground for afternoon recess. Because I needed a chance to relax, I was very thankful for the late break. The students hadn/t been any different than usual that day. Matthew had stuck gum in Alicia/s hair. Poor clumsy Rita had tripped over Terry/s feet and dropped her freshly glued sicence project. It took forever to pick up all the toothpicks and clean up the mess. No it wasn/t the children that day. However, something was different. I seemed to be experiencing hot flashes and this strange sinking feeling that came and went. After some procrastination, I decided to spend my brief break in the girl/s restroom. All I needed was a little cool water on my face and hopefully I would be able to catch my breath. When I glanced in the m~ rror, I 'remember th i nk i ng that I somehow looked different, but I couldn/t quite place the change. Maybe some more cold water would help, but it didn/t. My head began to throb. Because of the increasing pain, I began to feel very weak. I must have blacked out. I honestly don/t remember. Suddenly, I felt this tremendous thundering sensation that shook my entire body. My heart began to race. I could feel the adrenaline surging through my veins. What was happening? Where was I? Without thinking, I ran for cover. All I wanted to do was eScape. The noise and vibration were unbearable. I huddled frozen in a dark corner for what seemed like an etern it y-- I dare not move! I dare not look! I told myself. Finally, the noise and movement were gone. In my now weakened state, I managed to muster some courage. I had to find out what was happening. Slowly, I crawled out from my safe little hideaway. In no way, was I prepared for the revelation that was about to confront me. I shrieked! The girl/s restroom had grown larger than was even imaginable. Everything was gigantic. The porcelain sinks hung like haunting white cliffs above me. I discovered that my safe secure haven from earlier danger was an old green trash can that now looked dark and ominous. I turned to my left to view the full length mirror that was towering and glistening above me. It was then that I realized it wa$ not the room the was larger. No, it was I who was sma I I er. Somehow in all the confusion I had not noticed the intruder, but she had seen me. I heard a loud noise and turned just in time to see her sticky hands surround me. It was poor clumsy Rita. She picked me up in one swift movement. The motion was nauseating and Rita/s grip was tight and firm. "Not so tight! You/re hurting me! I yel led as I attempted to release her fat little fingers from around my body. Her grip loosened. "Who are you?" she asked. "R ita, i t i s me, Mrs. AI I en, your teacher." "What happened to you?" "Well, I/m a I ittle out of sorts," I answered calmly. If I were to survive, I had tor ema inc aIm. " Ac t u a I I y, I / m sic k ! I don / t fee 1 we 1 1 . "Oh, sometimes my Mommy gets sick and when she gets sick she throws up and ... " "That/s nice, Rita. Thank you for sharing that with me," I interrupted. I could not believe that I was having this II II 5 conversation. I needed to think. --Where can I go? My desk. That is where I do my best thinking. "Rita. wil I you please take me to my desk?" I asked. Rita left the bathroom with arms outstretched and proceeded to carry me down the hal I as though I were some sort of stiff little kewple doll. As we neared the classroom, I knew I would live to regret my previous request. I could hear the boisterous voices and resounding clatter of the classroom. I attempted to get Rita's attention. R ita, I h a v e ch a n ge d by min d! " Before I knew what was happening, I was falling through the air to my desk. Rita turned and proudly announced to the c I ass, Look! Everyone stopped. Children began coming toward me! "What's that?" Michael, one of my more inquisitive students, asked. "Mrs. Allen," Rita answered. "That's not Mrs. Allen," someone said. Matthew ran up to my desk to take a closer look. He stared directly at me with his huge green eyes. IIYup! That's Mrs. Allen," he said. IIWhat happened?" he asked. "She's sick!1I Rita answered. Matthew stepped back. Tha t' sri gh t, ch i I dren! I am sick. You will need to return to your desks.1I I prayed that they would listen. IIShe doesn't look sick to me," Matthew said as he drew nearer. Now, I stepped back. Paul picked up a huge yellow marker and began poking at me. IIStop that!1I I cried as I attempted to escape his advances. Something in his manner II II II II b disturbed me. It was then that I realized that the entire class was crowded 'a round my desk. I was claustrophobic. I couldn/t breathe. Off to one side, I noticed sweet little Emily. If anyone would help me, it was Emi 1y. "PI ease, Emi 1y, II I begged. IIPI ease go get Mrs. Abrams, the principal!" No response. Various large soft tipped markers, red, blue, and green, came at me. Those once innocent little faces now took on a fiendish, hungry sneer that sent a chill down my spine. I screamed and fell into a sobbing heap. Kate, Kate!" I heard off in the distance. Ka te, wake up, i t / S on 1y a dream. II I opened my eyes to see scattered papers lying allover the dining room and my husband, Les, there to comfort me. IIIt/s past midnight. You must have fallen asleep while gradIng papers. It/s all right," he said as he put his arms around me . . I t was on I y a dream. Come on and go to bed. Exhausted from the busy day and the confusion of my dream, I did not argue, nor did I notice the tiny yellow, red, blue, or green dots that had mysteriously appeared on the clothes that I was wearing!r <=Y II II II II ~~-' ~a j'GH//e 4:4/K4 ~a/~J ~4, U/A4/ M V'/ ,t/E ? eli' 4~Lf~~~ y~ d-i'~n., .:k~I!~C~ 4~~ 7 :kded 4a'4y 17U/LL rh~ ~e. ~ & (!&~ :tk-. t/e 8N t%e ~aU~:m ~k,,~~ ?~-e" ?i4,*~~ 4a.;1 '/Le-1:.t!., ~ d.. ~~ en, U/e a-u 4heC~-ted Cl!YTe u/~~~ !lh~A. ;U t?q/.H- ,dd~~aL Hd~4 a..d4' ~d~ ~d"/~2b4../ b/~ $:f~~Nf fU4,f:d'e~ $eftn . ~eL/...t"d& z!#e d~/~ $y: ML ,f-ea, $4J-aK~e, 4.~d ~~ .. ~e ;' II %~ tfw~daC/Lzn&/;n~ ~a/ h -du/Vneo ,.I4d&//'0/ ~-,~d e//~ ~ ed~a- II ATTENTION ALL MOTORISTS: Kerry Dearth Soon a law will be enforced requiring al I drivers to affix a yellow diamond-shaped sign to their car/s rear window. The sign will warn other motorists of the driver/s driving habits as determined by the Driver Classification System (DCS). Al I drivers will be required to take driving tests at a state license branch immediately and must take an additional test upon each renewel of the license. A license official will accompany the driver and classify him into one of the five driving classes. The DCS sign will state the name of the driver/s class as weI I as a sub-class, which is within each class. The first category of drivers is the Mr. Clean class. There are two sub-classes within this class, AA and A. To be classified AA"a driver must own a luxury type car and should keep it spotless at all times. He nver breaks a law of the road and is never involved in an accident. He must also listen to classical music on his way to work. The other sub-class is Mr. Clean A. On occasion this driver breaks a law of the road but always feels guilty about it. He may also be involved in a minor accident, but he must never admit it was his fault. People say that memory is the first to go in old age; if so, then hand/foot reaction time is second; this is a characteristic of the second type of driver--The Granny. Members of this class drive at least five miles per hour under the speed limit and often forget to switch turn signals on and off. Granny drivers always keep their eyes glued to the road in front of them, J~ disregarding any surrounding traffic; they always steer with both hands (no more than half- a foot apart) and the distance between the wheel and the tip of their nose must not exceed three inches. All Granny drivers fifty years or older are classified AA. All drivers meeting the above requirements but younger than fifty are classified A. The next category of drivers is the Wild and Crazy Guy class. Class AA drivers develop IIcrazy eyes" when they get behind the wheel of their car. Drivers of this class have been inspired by the movie "Deathrace 2000," in which drivers stalked the streets earning pOints for hitting pedestrians. Most of these drivers humble themselves. however~ by substituting animals for human pedestrians. Members of this class can drive through people/s yards, can drive backwards for long stretches, and love to perform acrobatics on ice covered roads. Their cars are usually dented and resemble tanks, and their tires make smoke and screech whenever they leave a parking lot. Class A drivers resemble class AA drivers except they lack that certain madness and wild determination of the latter. Perhaps they have not seen the required movie yet. Most members of this sub-class are high school students who still need a little practice. The fourth type of driver is the Grand Prix Racer. This person takes great pride in his car, which should resemble a race car. To the member of this class, an ordinary drive to the grocery store is like racing in the Monaco Grand Prix. The class AA driver has planned every inch of the route ahead and has every stoplight timed to perfection. He brags on blowing past others on his route and will not al low another to pass him lest it devastate his day. The class A driver has the mandatory racing car but still lacks the 13 gut s to be come a t r ue road r a cer . The last member of the Dri ver Classification Syst em is scientifically named the Ty ranno Au t a fvla 1us bu t i s common 1y c a lI ed a wide variety of names by fel low motorists. These drivers commonly drive onto medians and curbs and often target basic traffic laws. They do not belie ve in turning on red~ are never aware of the accidents they cause. and almost always drive alone. The sub-classes are determined by the number of accidents accummulated. For every ten accidents. major and minor. another A is added to the DeS sign. All drivers must obtain their proper sign before their next birthday; failure to do so wil I result in the offender becoming a temporary 1 icense official in the future where he must accompany a driver of one of the classes above. A fine wi} i be assessed. but duthorities will not. however. take a citizen off the streets by imposing a jail sentence. Drive safely, or at least as we1 1 as you can, and remember to buckle your safety be 1 ts ~ 14 TAKE A CHANCE Patti Mazel-in Shadow and his father meandered along the lazy, green hil Is. Since fall was approaching, the oak, maple, and elm trees were various shades of brick red, bright orange and auburn, all sprinkled with a golden touch. The leaves sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. Within this rainbow panorama was a herd of Black Angus grazing on the pasture. The farmer/s land was separated from the government/s property by a four foot wooden fence painted white. Shadow/s father began to carryon a silent conversation with himself, wondering what to say to his son, but also, what not to say. Fatherhood had its challenges. Shadow, he finally said, "We/re good buddies, aren/t we? I hope you/re as happy about this transfer as the rest of the family and will make an effort to make friends of your own while we are staioned here. You have to reach out too, you know. Shadow simply listened. Shadow/s father was concerned about the timid, small-framed Vietnamese child. But his dad also knew that shyness and the military don/t mix. He clumsily tried to relate to how his adopted son might feel by discussing his own experiences while stationed overseas. But being the aggressive, energetic adult that he was, the Captain enjoyed travelling. He thrived on the rapid outgoing pace of an officer / s life, and the responsibilities involved. Through this freely chosen lifestyle, he considered himself fortunate to see not only various countries around the world but also the vast lands of his own homeland. He truly enjoyed meeting the people within these numerous II II II worlds. IIYou/re not a little boy anymore, Shadow. You/re ten years old. You need to stand on your own two feet and take a chance to make a friend. People are still people wherever you go. The color of a person/s skin or the shape of his eyes is all on the outside. What counts is what/s on the inside." Shadow silently listened. The captain had seen the fragile boy rely on his sister and the security of that relationship. Mary, not being an adopted child and several years older than Shadow, kept a watchful eye on her little brother. The father felt she was ready for more of a social life of her own. He worried that Shadow was too dependent upon his sister. Yet, the time spent with his adopted son was certainly limited by the position he held. An officer/s life required many demands both professionally and socially. II Son, II the Cap t a i n sa i d, II a I I I ask i s that you try. Just say, /Hello, my name is Shadow. What/s yours?/ And it will become easier the more you say it. I promise. Will you try, for me, pal?1I "O.K. I guess 1/11 try for you. But, Dad ... Nevermind." As Shadow and his father strolled back to the Offlcers/ Quarters, a youth with sandy hair and green eyes met them while romping in the grass with his dog. The golden retriever was catching a frisbee which had been tossed in the air by the young boy. The youth said, IIHi.1I and introduced himself. The Captain caught a glance from his son. He nodded slightly, and then Shadow/s father heard a soft voice come back to say, "Hi. My name is ... My name is ;amd I/o CAUG HT, OUT IN THE OPEN Terence I'1organ I thought I was clever. I thought I was good. Turns out, I was right. I didn / t know who the creeps were that were following me. At first I thought they were federal agents or rentai cops trying to subpoena me , but they showed no badges or papers. Aithough I shoul d have been thinking, feds and private eyes are usually smart enough to know better than to try to arrest someone in a crowded shopping mall. There would be too many chances for bystanders to get injured if things got out of hand. After they stopped me and I realized who they weren / t. I decided to choose discretion as the better part of valor. and ran 1 ike hell. It/s not that I wouldn / t have . liked to stay around for a few minutes and bruise them a bit to find out who they were, but the goons had guns. All I had in my pockets were some arcade tokens--not very effective weapons unless you/re going a few rounds with Video Invaders. Remembering my basic escape training, I immediately ran into a crowd to cover myself. My instructors had told me: IIA plan in losing any pursuer is to never al low yourself to be caught out in the open. After slipping around a corner, I noticed a bank of telephones. If I could only get a callout before one of those goons could catch me. I started sprinting through the flock of people around me, knocking over a few on the way. Making it past the crowd, I started SiloIng over some water spilled on the floor. I couldn " t contro l myself as I-Ouch!-slammed into the phone. I threw some change into the 1I 17 machine hoping that at least one of the coins was a quarter. Success! I heard the dial tone and began ringing up IIMother." "Hello, Mother, this is Logan calling. I'm afraid I won/t be home for dinner unless you come to give me a ride,1I I stated in code. Whoever was playing IIMother ll tonight didn/t waste much time. He switched me over to the Executive/s line immediately. " Logan? What/s wrong? Mother said you've got some bogies on your tail.1I IIThat / s right, and if you don't get me now, my tai I is gonna start flamin'." I looked to see if they were still coming. There they were: four goons with big guns. Having no more time to talk, I threw the phone on the receiver and took off running again. There were more people blocking my way than before so that I could barely move. I steadlly built up speed. Unfortunately, I was paying more attention to my pursuers than to where I was going. When I looked to see where r ~as, I found that I was in the center of th~ mall with no one near me. Out in the open. I was in the open with no cover for more than fifty feet in any direction. Then I heard the first shot. The bullet hit the ground about a foot from me. Again I ran, but now I knew where to go. I headed out of the mall through a service entrance in the rear of the building, and to the wooded area behind. . Lots of trees. Lots of places to hide. I thought I was smart. I had lost the gunmen. I thought I was good. I had managed to get a call off to "Mother" that would be traced to find me. I thought I was safe. I had made it to a place to hide. Turns out, none of this was true. They were waiting for me, there out in the woods. Not the four who had stopped me when I left the arcade, but /9 six other armed unknowns. They weren/t hidden in trees, behind rocks, or under bushes. They were just standing there, in the shadows on the far sIde of the clearing. The clearing: an open place. The first four had caught up with the others--I was totally surrounded. Goodbye, Mr. Logan, one said, as they all raised their guns toward me. What they wanted me for was unknown; possibly they were agents of a criminal I had helped send to prison who now sought revenge. Then I heard it: the last shot. It hit me in the chest. If only I had not been caught in the open, I wouldn/t be lying on the ground with a bullet In my chest. That was about five minutes ago. God, I hope that the Executive hurries. This bu 11 et hurts.,. ~ II II ..f~ deal- U/e/.f~ 8f~ the d:L~y dJd ..staUfu~ a/d~- 1'1 REUNION Nancy Thompson Dark clouds swirled above in the angry sky. As the winds began to strengthen, a voice cracked over the little short wave radio. The storm had now reached hurricane strength, and evacuation was to begin at once. All along the Outer Banks, people were preparing to leave and find a safe spot on the mainland. There were only three ways to get out of the area. A ferry on the south end of the narrow chain of barrier islands was definitely out of the question. To the north, the bridge to Virginia was packed with terrified tourists. The only other route was straight west across the causeway to Roanoke Island and then over the Alligator River. This way seemed to be the least congested, but it was also the scariest. It was along this escape route. as they were hurrying across the angry waters of the sound, that the Perkins family suddenly realized that Buttons, the family dog, was not with them! She was nowhere in the car, and little Alison was quite distressed. She had been so intent upon gathering her dolls and sand pails packed at the last minute, that she must have forgotten poor old Buttons. Now the others were calling her a stupid baby. She was only six years old and was very upset by the sudden shock of ending their vacation, as well as losing the dog. Since they had to go on, it now appeared that a certain dachshund was going to ride out the storm! Meanwhile. back at the rental cottage. the winds were howling and so was Buttons. She had just crawled out of her favorite ~I laundry basket, and realized that her family was gone. She was terribly upset, and after crying a little, she looked for a place to hide from the terrible noise of the hurricane. Finding no refuge, she went to sleep in a rolled-up sleeping bag, which was piled in a corner along with some blankets. A warning knock at the door to make sure everyone was out went unanswered. As the door slammed shut in the gale force winds, Buttons rolled over in the "bag" and went back to sleep. Here it was quiet and warm, and she decided to wait for her family. All was now stil I, as the eye of the storm passed over the deserted coast. Then, the other half of the storm battered the shore for the rest of the night. Just before dawn, a man came in and picked up the pile of blankets and the sleeping bag, which included the dog. He loaded them on the big Red Cross truck, and his arms, already aching with fatigue, did not notice how heavy the stack of covers had become; As the truck sputtered over the flooded road to the high school gym, the little dog opened a sleepy eye to view her position among the blankets. Seeing no escape,ahd loving the softness, she crawled back into the sleeping bag. It smelled of home and her family. In it she felt safe and cozy. As they reached the gym filled with hurricane victi~s who had been stranded on the other side of the flooded causeway, the truck slowed to a stop. The blankets and Buttons were unloaded and distributed. As a lady unrolled the sleeping bag, out popped a little brown dog. Across the gym, a little girl squealed with delight and was answered by a joyful bark.~ .z~--~y-k12 2L~ ffo/n2~' ~m d;f~a/h'~ L~ d,/d,t: ~ /e4~ XLI dHe 62n 4e4~ 7nff /7ku. $~ A~p':/ /n4

... fioretti l!iua~$/b1ty7 t#l~$ ~//:f& ..;/~4:~dM, ..qI~n4- ?;~'5 ~2 11'''-1'7 Jh (Jb/dn ~.nzy/@~L~ey 5tJ?nL1n~ ~ /-k:e/ay ~cW v/(ff .$ue:nd/ ./.kdtd~~ :#d6 di'i1-ty '!/Muc/~f;~u J"m 7(;/I;nan d'bndLznd/ {!)n de ~ ~~dL~/.,u~,:,(;zhdU 4ttu/,,~ ...-................... ...........-~~ ~r/e,b./ ~~, .~ 33/ //'~ ~ /d / J&l4:,c Cu-u::, ~/, #:f~d ~' .,27/JAd~n Z/~an:f ~ffb't:-L7z~/ cf4. fL/I~ G/LJn/'fr~ O'SF ~~~ i?!-_(!~~/ ~/~~~ ~YP-?fg~hxjbpe7L-/ .iTkc~ '~~~~if~~?itk.J ~~/~dn- ~~L / eM, J&/fiL Gdhf?ft~/ dJF // \ THE OBLIGATION OF PLAY Cheryl Bailey Michael fingered the shiny gold disk in his pocket as he floated down through the jet transporter to the basement of the library. The first three levels contained the hologram 'computers. The basement contained the real treasures. This was the third time he had won the Literary Imagery Award. He had created the hologram story of "I-man and Terra Ferma," a story of man and his relationship with the nature of earth. The storm sequences were so realistic that even the teacher had ducked when the lightning flashed. The principal had complimented him by comparing Michael/s color flash technique ~o that of Walt Disney/s use of color in his animated storIes. Michael did not remember who Disney was, except that he was a famous animator, one of thef i rst, and that t-he man / s works were mostly pre-war stuff and very expensive. Not too many thrid level working families coul~ afford to purchase a tIcket for one of his showings. Hologram discs for home vIewing cost from one dollar to five dollars, an amount easIly saved from a month's wages, if one was frugal. The discs were first introduced in the early 1990/s, but with a poor production quality and expensive viewers. Paperback books had still been the rage. Since ' the cost of wood pulp and cloth tripled ~fter the war, due to the destruction and inability to regrow most of the world/s forests, the holograms became the only source of literary works. Paperbacks were no longer in existence since they quickly rotted in time. Hardbound books were things of legend for most people. The first level employees had the privilege of viewing one for a hundred dollars an hour. There were those i n the eighth and lower levels who had never even heard the legend of books. ' Michael touched the disc and smiled to himself; he knew the truth behind the legends. He knew the beauty of ,a real story and not the altered, pale reproductions the holograms portrayed. Michael remembered the astonishment he felt when he first read Beauty and the Beast. The hologram had portrayed the Beast as a post-war radiation mutant with huge sores and grotesque deformaties. How such a creature paled to the description of a truly animalistic beast that hunted fresh game and had tragic p black pools for eyes! Holograms left nothing to the imagination of the viewer; they created the picture for him, rather than let his mind create the image from the configuration of words placed before him. Holograms bored Michael, at least the common affordable ones for homeviewing. Holograms were the idiot boxes of the 21st century. The increasing pressure of the Jet stream began to slow his descent and aroused Michael from his reverie. When he became level with the exit ramp, he 'grabbed the handhold and pulled himself out of the stream. The plate on which he stepped registered his arrival and the Jet stream shut down. Michael was pleased to see that Simon was the security guard on duty. He stood behind a huge console to the left of the ramp. Stepping to the deskp he proudly extended the gold disc for Simon/s inspect Ion. "Afternoon, Mr. Jackson." "It/s Just Simon between us buddies, Michael," the guard said. He winked at Michael as he took the disc and hefted it In his left hand. "A quarter of a pound If it/s an ounce." He smiled at the boy as he placed it on the metabolic analyzer. "Nice going, Mike. It must be a humdinger of a hologram to earn you four full hours. When do I get to see it?" The analyzer read out confirmed Slmon/s estimate. a pure one-fourth pound solid gold disc. Simon placed the disc in another compartment and pushed the button above it. A warning buzzer sounded and the top of the compartment slammed down on the disc, then rose back into place. When the buzzer stopped a few seconds later, Simon removed the disc and gave it back to M4chael. Now ImprInted on its surface were the symbols for Alpha and Omega, and the date, March 18, 2096. The InvalIdated dIsc would Join the other three In Michael/s awards case. "You get to see the dIsplay at the Summer Fest 1 va I. MI ne wI I -I be at the center of the natIonal elementar-y exhIbIt. If It wIns out aginst the other school levels, It wIll be entered In the internatIonal compet i-t Ion." MI chae I / S eyes shone w-I-th excItement. "A I If-etime dIsc." Simon/s voIce echoed the awe of such a prIze. The InternatIonal Lifetime Disc Award for entry Into the WashIngton Library of LIterary Works was a prize well cherIshed. It had been awarded on I y., three ot'her t lmes, even though there had been eIght internatIonal contests. A wInnIng hologram didn/t guarantee a lIfetime award; only -monetary awards we~e guaran-teed. As they talked, SImon had led MIchael to the entrance chamber and .helped the boy into a decontamInatIon suIt. The suit was a modIfication of the old twentIeth century radIatIon suits used by the army durIng the war. ~Everi If I don/t win the nationals, thIs Is prize enough." Michael/s words were muffled by the breathIng hood he had pulled over his face. Simon snapped closed the hood and flIpped the coverplate back up. He looked Michael straight in the eye and said in a stern, fatherly voice, "Listen up, lad." HIs smooth brown brow furrowed wIth concern as he cautioned the boy In the suits use. "you have only ten mInutes of breathing tIme left once the Inner door opens, so choose your category quIckly. If you are not sure, hook up and check the lIbrarIan; then move to the right area. THERE IS NO OXYGEN IN THE ROOM! IF YOU DON/T PLUG UP. YOU DON/T BREATHE! IF YOU DON/T BREATHE, YOU/RE GONNA DIE! GOT IT?" "Got It!" MIchael nodded vIgorously. He knew the rules by heart. SImon knew he knew them, but SImon took his responsIbIlIty personally. No one had dIed on hIm yet; not even the lady who got so excIted reading Browning that her heart quIt tIckIng. Everyone, from the president on down, got his safety lecture, some more colorful than others. but they said the same thing. Oxygen was an enemy. Oxygen and time would turn wood pulp into dried and crumbly patches at the touch of a fingertip. A few of the treasures were close to that state now. too close. It had been several years before anyone had thought about saving culture. After the war. they had been too concerned with saving lIving creatures and growing food to worry about savIng history and growing inteJ lectual minds. Simon let Michael into the entrance chamber which resembled the aIr lock of a space craft from the old sci-fi movies. He sealed the door behind Michael and watched him through the plexiglass window of the door. Michael positioned himself In front of a smaller versIon of the entrance door. took three deep breaths. and slammed the faceplate down and locked It into place. On Michael/s thumbs up sIgnal, Simon pressed the large green button above the door. A loud hissing sound followed as the aIr was sucked out of the chamber. A yellow light flashed beside the green button until the hissing noise stopped, then a green 1 ight beside it began to flash. Simon/s poised hand pushed the large red button located Just beneath the 1 first button. The second door opened and a warning buzzer sounded. Michael stepped through and the door slId shut behind him. The buzzer ceased. The whole procedure had taken a little over one minute. Michael knew exactly where he was going and he wasted no time in walking down the third aisle to his left, past the towering bookcase of hand carved oak. The last of the known supply of lumber had gone into the construction of the library. Each aisle of bookcases was made of a different type of wood. Each case had a letter of the alphabet carved into its side. Michael had chose~ the aisle in which the first bookcase had the word "fiction" carved across its front. He stopped at the case carved with an ornate, fourteenth century "T" at its top. On the side of each case was a librarian. It consisted of a chair which resembled a pilot/e seat wIth a computer console attached to its front. At the base of the chaIr was a green outlet into which Michael plugged his air hose. The hose was wrapped around his waIst . and could be unwrapped to a distance of four feet, the approxImate distance between librarians. Michael took a deep breath and Inhaled the stale, flltered breathing mIxture that flooded hIs suit. Each lIbrarian had its own air tank located beneath the chair. From his console, Simon could set each tank for the alloted tIme a vIsItor had been allowed. This polIcy discouraged lingerers and slow readers. MIchael waved at the ceiling camera located a short distance down the aisle and climbed Into hIs seat. He flicked on the computer and waIted for It to come on-lIne. He leaned back In hIs chair and let his eyes soak in the wonder of treasures the case held. From behind the plexiglass shields of the case, rectangles of many different shapes and sizes tantalized hIm. His fingers ached to leaf through theIr ancient pages, to feel the texture of theIr dIfferent graIns beneath his fIngertIps. It was a favorite fantasy of hIs, to take down one of those delIcate treasures and curl up under a huge tree on a warm, sunny afternoon and become lost In another tIme and another world. MIchael sighed; there were very few trees anymore, and the ultravIolet rays of the sun were no longer blocked by the ozone layer, which had decayed. Exposure for more than one or two hours would kIll hIm. Besides, hIs treasures were securely locked away In the bowels of the earth, lIke the lost treasures of the Incas that he had read about on one of his other vIsIts. The console screen lIt up and the display of authors demanded hIs attention. Names such as Taylor, Tennyson, Thomas and Thoreau glared out at him In the eerie green light of the dIsplay case. Names that once, long ago were spoken with respect and awe. The mention of such names had brought ideas and history Into the mInds of the lIstener. These meant lIttle to the eleven-year-old boy who saw them now for the first time, and passed over them with little regard tor their importance. "Who are you picking today?" SimonIs voice crackled over the receiver in MichaelIs hood. " My tea c her thou gh tIm i gh t I ike a gu y by the name of Mark Twain. He said Twain wrote stories about the life of a young boy named Tom. Tom somethIng, I forget. My teacher real ly hadn/tread him, Just heard that he was good. Anyhow, I thought lId try him." While he spoke, MIchael had marked the selection box by the authorls name wIth the console/s I ight pen. There had been only two selectIons brought up under that name, one about a JumpIng frog, whatever a frog was, and one named The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. In a few moments, the book dropped into the plexlgJass reading case Just below the screen. Michael turned the lIght on outsIde the case and reached to the rIght of the book . "One day, maybe I'll really touch one," he thought as he manuevered the hand extenders InsIde the case to open the book. "Ready, Simon?" he InquIred of his friend who always shared his adventures. "Ready and waIting." SImon's voice held a pure smile of delight. "Chapter one." Michael's voice trembled with excitement as he b~gan the trip into an ancient time. A tIme now gone, but lIke Tom Sawyer's great magnifIcent inspiratIon, not lost forever . .'-- .---- , / f ~ _-- ---- -~ .-_l / '-- ." / I I . J\ \ \ '\ 6" ...,.. " ~\ /0 "These kids are pretty good," I thought as I walked among them into school, blinded momentarily by the reflection of the sunlight off the multi-colored lockers. I glanced around the lobby. The usual pairs, trios and groups stood talking, waiting for the flrst bell to ring. And there were the solltary ones as well. This always disturbed me, especially this far into the year; no one should be alone in a school this size. Maybe they didn/t try to make friends. I shook my head as I walked into the office. IIWel1 good morning, Mr. Owens," Mrs. Karen, the school clerk, said. She insisted on calling me Mr. Owens despite my persistent attempts otherwise. "Morning, Mrs. Karen," I countered, even though everyone else called her Joy. "Hell~ Ken," Mr. Wilson, the vice principal, said as he came out of his office with a paper in hand which he gave to Mrs. Karen. "Kristy Brock will be in to see me. Disciplinary problem." He paused and looked at me then back at Joy. "Again." "Don/t ring that bell yet!" shouted a facel,ess voice as its person darted into the office, grabbed attendance sheets and darted out again. "Can/t you do anything about this Kristy, Ken?" Wilson began, sauntering over to me. I knew from his gait that he was Joking. "I mean, can/t you give her one of those psychological tests of yours that will render her incompetent to make trouble?" I scratched the back of my head and pretended to consider his proposal. "Well ... there is one, Mr. Wilson. But it/s not full-proof. I tried it on you last year--" He II turned wIth a smile and walked back Into his offIce. I picked up my attendance sheets and headed for the door to the hallway. Joy sang out her usual "aloha" attached to "Mr. OWens" and. stIll heading out the door. I turned back and gave her a smIrk. Her eyes grew wIde as she watched me collide rather roughly wIth a student who, apparently, wasn~t watchIng where she was goIng eIther. Her books fell to the floor. As I watched them fall. I noticed her fIsts were clenched tightly. I quIckly looked to see who It was, but I dId not recognIze thIs gIrl. "I~m ~orry,U I saId. Her eyes darted to my face and then down to the floor where her books lay scattered. I bent to help her pIck them up. RIght beneath my feet was one notebook facing down. On the back sIde was a poem, the tItle of which was the only thIng I caught. The words stung me--"Someone. Care." Her hand. reachIng for the book, obscured the other lines. Instinctively, my grIp tIghtened. I looked at her. Her face was hard . and her eyes had the same effect upon me as had the tItle of the poem. I released the book and watched her stand and move sIlently away--alone. I saw her several tImes that day. Each tIme, she was alone. She struck me as odd In her blue Jeans and Jacket wIth its collar turned up. Her clothes Just didn~t seem to fIt her. They fIt her outward appearance-clenched fists and determIned walk, but they surely dldn~t fit her eyes. Her eyes haunted me. The next day, I walked to the door of my offIce Just off the gym In time to see thIs gIrl come In from outside. She must have JoIned cross country. Kristy and a few of her frIends sat at the entrance of the girls locker room. This gIrl walked towards them. I . wal ted. "Here comes MIlhouse," one of KrIsty~s /Z friends whined. "She's bad," Kristy Joined in. "Don't mess with her. She's bad." Milhouse, as I now assumed her name was, stopped. "You gotta problem?" she addressed the girls. Her voice was stern. "0-00000," one of them returned. Kristy stood up. "How come you're so bad?" she asked sarcastically. Milhouse took a step towards her. I thought I'd better intervene. "Okay. That's enough. 1I I started towards them. "Don't you think you're in enough trouble?1I I asked Kristy. She walked through the locker room doors. Her friends followed. I looked at Milhouse. She started for the doors also. IIWait a minute,lI I began. "What's your name? II " Tammy II was the curt reply. "You haven't been going here all year?1I , IINo. II IIYou're running cross country?1I I continued. IILook," Tammy answered, "I've got to get changed and get home." 1100 you like it here?" I asked, trying to continue the conversation and find something out about the girl. , lIWho are you?" she asked as if my right to ask depended upon my answer. liKen Owens. I'm the athletic trainer and," I paused, not knowing how this would go over with her, "--and a counselor." It didn't go over well. Her face hardened. "I gotta go," she said quietly as she slipped through the door. "Well you handled that one beautifully, Owens," I said to myself as I walked back to my office. IIJust beautifully.1I Coach Stevens walked into the gym after 13 sending the girls off to run . "Mike," I called as I walked out of my office to meet him. "Gotta minute?" He waited for me. "Tammy Milhouse on your team, what do you think of her?" He fingered his mustache and chuckled. "She's a hard one. Our best runner, Ken. We might make state with her." "I'm talking attitude, Mike." He shook his head affirmatively. "I figured you Were. She's hard there too. Doesn't talk much and isn't hesitant to show she's mad about something." "Such as--" "The other day We were running. I was running with them. We were heading towards some major hills so I told the first year runners, including Tammy, to fall back and watch how the older gals paced themselves. Tammy informed me that she knew how to pace herself. I got a bit perturbed and told her, then, to go ahead and prove it. Ken, I thought she was gonna tucker out by the fourth . hil I. She hit the school grounds two hundred yards In front of our best runner from last season!1I "How does she get along wIth the others?" I asked. IIShe doesn't relate with any of 'em except Mary j o. " I walked down to the office to take a peek at Tammy's records. Mrs. Karen was sitting on her desk. "That's it," I teased, II lounging again." "This has been a long day,1I she said. I opened the file drawer marked "M" and flipped through. IIWho are you searching for?1I Joy asked. "New kid. Tammy Milhouse." "She's interesting. You know she's the one you ran into-- II she started laughing. "Yea, II I answered, IIV/hat do you know about her?" I had found the file and was looking through the papers. "Well for one, this Is her sixth hI ghschoo I . " "What?!" I was shocked. "Why?" "I don / t know," Joy rep lied. II 1/ d love to find out. Probably the father/s in the mili tary or someth i ng." "There/s got to be somethIng more to It than that," I mumbled. As I unlocked the door to my office, someone ran into the gym screaming. I turned around. It was Maryjo. She was talking--or, rather, screaming--so fast, I couldn/t make out what she was saying. "Time out!" I cried. "Now slow it down and tell me what/s wrong." Something had happened to one of the runners. That was my guess, and Maryjo proved me correct. " It / S Tammy," she panted. "She fe 11 down Ole Faithful. She/s bleeding." lsi t bad enough for an ambu lance?" I asked, knowing she couldn/t tel) me for sure. "I don/t think so. It/s not broken or anything." "What/s not broken?" I asked while grabbing a towel and heading out the door. "It/s her leg. She scraped it all up. She might/a twisted her ankle /cause she can/t walk on it." Ole Faithful was a steep hil), infamous to the football and cross country teams who suffered its grade almost daily. Maryjo was walking fast; she broke into a jog as we got outside. I Joined her and decided that this was a good time for a few questions. "Are you and Tall'lTlY good frIends?" I asked. "I/d like to be. She/s kind of distant." "Have you met her family?" "No. Her parents are divorced--or they/re getting a divorce. I don/t remember II 15 what she said exactly." MaryJo glanced over a t me . p r obably wondering why I was asking a t)o ut T afTlIn y. I " She hasn't been here all year," I said. know why I said that. "! know. Something happened at her last don't schoo l. 1i "Did she tell you "Not exactly. She 5 0 I flgJre d something h ap pe ned . that?" I asked. Just says she hates it bad must have II Faithful was steep. By the time we rea ct)ed the top, my legs ached. I looked down the other s ide. Tammy was neatly propped up against a tree trunk with one leg stretched out before her and the other, the injured one, bent backwards. Her face tightened when she saw me. I took a deep breath and started down the hi 11. "MarYJo," I said, realIzing I couldn't get TalP.my ins ide myself, "get Stevens or one of the guys." I continued down the hill alone. "Ar e you okay besides your leg?" "Yes. "Let me take a look at that." She winced as I "wiped away the blood and dirt. " Hold this on there with a little pressure." I kept my hand on the towel, waiting for her to put her hand there. She held her hand above mine as if she didn't want our hands to touch in the exchange. I moved my hand away. She brought hers In. "Tam--," I started and then thought better of it. Stevens was coming down the hi I I . "Ole Faithful scores another casualty !" he said. liThe other side," I suggested. We picked Tammy up. She started to fall back. "You're gonna have to put your arms around us, Tammy," Coach said. I was glad I dIdn' t have to say it. Reluctantly, she complied. We carried her inside and put her Ole II on the table in my office. ~Take good care ot her, Doc," Coach said. ~We're gonna need her." "He's pretty happy about your bei ng on the team," I said after Coach had left. No answer. I began to clean her leg with disinfectant. She winced again. "Last year, he had a pretty good t eam, but they didn't make it to state," I continued. Stil I no answer. I couldn't understand her. The title of her poem h a unted me dally: "Someone, Care." I was trying to show her I cared, but she wasn't res ponding . I decide d on a direct approach. "What gives you the right to be ma d at th e world?" My voice was gentle. I gav e her my undivided attention. Her face wa s s tlll hard. She appeared to be wei ghing her an s wer . Jus t before s he began to speak, MaryJo c ame bounding in the office. ~Your mom 's he re, Tammy. At le a st I think it's your mom. She asked me wher e you we re. I told her you tel I and Doc was cl e aning you up. I told her you'd be ri gh t out. " I wr apped T armn y' sank I e wh i ch was swe lling already. "Kee p Ic e on this tonight," I s aid. I help ed he r from the table--help she heSitantly acc e pted. I walked with he r t o th e doo r. The woman outside couldn't have be e n much more than 30. Ills that your mom?" I asked. Tammy nodded. The woman looked concerned. "Is she al I right?" she asked, looki ng at me and taking Tammy's arm. ~Twtsted ankle." I r~plied, relieved to find her mother concerned and. on fIrst impression. kind. "It's not broken. She'll need to keep lee on that. And, Tammy--" I walted for her to look at me. She didn't. I looked at her mother. She gave me a look which seemed to say "Please excuse her." 11 "See me tomorrow, TaI'TVllY." I considered calling Tal'TVllY/s mother but decided against it. Tammy might reeent that. I thought I/d Just watch her to see if she needed time to get used to us. The first cross country meet came quickly. Tammy brought home a trophy. It was put in the showcase outside the office. Students and teachers commended Tammy for her race; she wasn/t too responsive. The next meet was an invitational. There was a great deal of prestige associated with it. In addition to this. our great rival, Meridian High, was racing. Therefore, we had two good reasons to win. I drove out to the meet with a few other faculty members. A light rain had begun to fall as we pulled up to the track. We got out and huddled around Coach Stevens. "SO, are we gonna pull this out?" "Sure , we are!" he replied. His tone wasn/t as optimistic as his choice of words would have allowed. "This will be our first win in this in vi t'a tiona I . " "Seems like that new kId can pull it out ... "She/s a strange one. Sure isn/t too congen i al . I looked around for Tammy - -the uncongenial one. That made me mad. They should know better. I caught Tammy pushing to the front of the pack in order to get a good start. The gun was fired. Tammy sprinted until she reached the heels of the front runner. She slowed but kept close, so clos e I thought she/d step on the back of the front gir}/s feet. After a while, Tammy sped up . The girl in front did likewise, trying t o retain her lead. Tammy sped up again. Str ain began to show on the front girl/s face. Tammy/s face was rigid, her eyes set straigh t ahead. Suddenly the front girl began to cut II over directly in front of Tammy. Their feet mixed and both went down hard. The others were gaining. Tammy/s knees were bleeding. She glanced behind her and, like a runner bolting from the starting I ine, she headed for the finIsh not two hundred yards away. She crossed it alone. The other girls on our team finished well. The crowd that gathered to hear the final results was large. Tammy was standing with the team, but really apart from it. They were conversing and laughing; Tammy was silent. Someone grabbed a bullhorn and announced Joyfully that we had won it. The result was chaos. The team began to Jump up and down and scream. The crowd cheered. Tammy, I think, smiled faintly. "That/s it," I thought. "I/m calling Mrs. Milhouse." The fol lowing day, my decision to talk to Tammy/s mom was reinforced. Tammy had come down to my office for an ace bandage and had left one of her notebooks. I turned it over to identify it. I saw her name and the poem called "Someone. Care." I felt a cold chill go down my back as I read. Don/t ask me to stand naked before you. without pretence or other selves, with no other name but my own-Just me? Don/t attempt to quiet me, to silence the thousand voices. to muffle the cliches, to drown the actress whose roles never end with Just me. Don/t set up a mirror before me; I/ve grown beyond that game. 1/11 paint an Image. a pseudo reflection and hide from what really shows-Just me. 19 Don/t ask ... don/t attempt .. don/t-but know me well enough to see I yearn for someone to shatter my wall and read in my don/ts a dying plea. I sat down and slowly dialed the number of the place where Mrs. Milhouse worked. She answered the phone. I identified myself. She remembered our meeting the other day. "You must excuse my daughter, Mr. Owens. She/s been through a lot." "That/s why I/m calling you. Can you tell me what she/s been through? Mrs. Milhouse, Tammy relates with no one. I don/t think I/ve heard her say ten words since she got here. Why is Tammy so angry?" "Mr. Owens, Tammy doesn/t want anyone to know what/s happened. She Just wants to put it behind her. She Just wants to start agai n. "She's not doing a very good Job at it," I said firmly. I read the poem to her. She made~ few attempts to respond. I could tell she was crying. "Let me go to a private phone," she said. She put me on hold and, a few minutes later, p1cked up on the line. She had recovered herself. "Mr. Owens, Tammy went to Southwood last year . Becausewe/ve moved so often, she never really let herself get involved In too much ." "Why the moving often?" I asked. "My husband," she said and hesitated, "--well, my ex-husband was in the army. Anyway, Tammy did get quite involved at Southwood. She went out for basketball, volleyball, track. She had so much fun . " He r voice cracked. "She was riding home one day. The coach was bringing her home. She came inside. She was so upset. I asked her what was wrong. It took her 90 long to tell me . II 20 The coach had driven out some and stopped the car. Tammy was so scared. He tried to seduce her. He actually made a pass at a fifteenyear-old girl! "What happened?" I asked quietly, shocked at what I was hearing. "Tammy tried to get out of the car. He said if she/d quit fighting, he/d take her home. He drove her home then but made her promise not to tell anyone or he/d make it hard for her at school. But Tammy tells me everything." She was silent, and the phone line remained that way for long minutes. My mind was racing. I breathed deeply. "Mrs. Milhouse, you are divorced then, correct? How long ago?" "Milhouse is my malden name. We/ve been dlvorced since about a week before this happened to Tammy. After it happened. I pulled her out of there, and we moved. We both wanted to Just start over." "Did you take any legal action against the coach?" IIMr. Owens, you wouldn/t believe the way those teachers stick together down there. I got nowhere with the principal, nowhere with the superintendent. And we couldn/t afford a lawyer." Over the weekend I saw Tammy running on the road. I was driving my car. I thought momentarily of slowing and talking to her but, remembering what that coach had done; I decided against it. That/s why she didn/t want to touch me or have me touch her. My God! I hated him--whoever It was--who dld that to her! The next week, during cross country practice, Tammy suffered a shin splint. I was glad; she would have to come to my office daily for treatment or she wouldn/t be prepared to run, ace bandage or not. I couldn/t tell Tammy that I had talked II 21 to her mom. I wanted her to tell me what happened. She had to break sometime; otherwise, the IInew start" would never come. Maybe I would have to help it break. Wednesday, Tammy came to my office during study hall. She stood in the doorway, waiting for me to speak. I purposely pretended not to notice her. She cleared her throat. I couldn't very well ignore that. However, had it been anyone else, I'd have probably thrown something at him or her. "Hop up on the table," I said. I wanted her to be as relaxed as possIble so I decided to make her get the hot pad out and set it on her leg. She obeyed. I wasn/t sure of the best way to broach the subject. I decided to dive right in. "Where'd you go to school before this?" I asked nonchalantly. Her face tightened. "Southwood." "Did you like It?" "For a wh i 1e . " "For a while," I repeated, trying to keep the conversation light. "Why /for a wh il e '/ ?" Silence. I looked at her. Her eyes had teared. She reached down, picked the hot pad off of her leg, put it back into the bath, Jumped off the table and was out the door. The next day, she didn/t come back. This matter was exploding in my own life. I took it home with me. I took it into the classroom. It crowded in on my thoughts much of the time. I was getting nowhere with Tammy. Coach had told her she had to see me for treatment or she couldn't run so I had gotten additional opportunities. They were fruitless. I only hoped that my willingness to help, my concern would get through to her. I wanted to be that someone In her poem, "Someone, Care." The final cross country meet was Friday. It was on our home course so I planned on watchIng. Tammy was unusually tense Friday--even for her. I walked out to the track Just in time to see the team walk out. Tammy, again, was apart from them. She stared In front of her as if in deep concentration. They all stretched out. "Stretch it out good, Tammy!" I called. I could tel) she heard me only by a slight cock of her head when her name was called. "I'm glad I don't do thIs for the applause," I thought to myself and smiled. Then Tammy did something that surprIsed me. She seemed to be checking out the other runners as they lined up for the race, but she wasn't looking directly at them. She was looking beyond them. Her eyes contInued to search. She looked at me and quickly away. Her searchIng ended. She wanted to know if I was watching! Hope Jumped insIde me. The gun was shot. Tammy darted out ahead; she was sprintIng. Coach stole a look at me and then started yell Ing. "Tammy! Slow it down! You'll wear yourself out early!" Then he crossed behind me. As he passed, he saId, "I've underestimated her before. Maybe I should keep my mouth shut." He continued, however, to yell. Tammy didn't listen. FIfty yards ... a hundred yards out in front of the leading pack. I crossed the field. heading for the two-mile marker. She was out of my sIght now. I could hear yellIng in the distance. A light rain began to fall. The time seemed interminable. Where was she? Had she quit? Maybe she had fallen. Just as I turned to head back, I heard heavy breathing and rustlIng of the grass. She was still running! Her face was etched with pain. II Tammy , you've got It won now hone Slow it down. You've got it won." No sign of her having heard me. She whizzed by, intent on finishing? I didn/t think so. She was running away as she had been all season. I had to stop her, and I planned on doing it right after the race. I broke into a run and took a short cut to the end. Stevens was there with anything but a look of Joy (even though this one was definitely going to set a record). I came up to him as Tammy fell into our sight. Her pace had slowed, but she was still pushing Just as hard, fighting for breath. "What is she trying to prove?!" Coach mumbled as Tammy crossed the finish line staggering. She continued to Jog slowly and then, Just as slowly, sank to her knees, holding her sides. I ran and grabbed her right arm and Coach grabbed her left. We lifted her. "Keep walking, Tammy. You/II cramp up worse. " I don/t thInk these words registered wIth her either. Her eyes were far away. After a while, she straightened up and pulled away from our grasp. Coach Stevens stopped walKing. Tammy continued. He looked at me questioningly. I followed Tammy. "What did you do that for?" I asked rather roughly. No answer. I knew it had to end here. I couldn/t let her walk away like this . It had gone too far. Her poem haunted me. What her mom told me haunted me. She was heading for her car. I tried to think. Someone ran up behind me. It was Maryjo. "Doc!" she called. "What/s wrong?" IIDid something happen to make Tammy mad?" I demanded. She looked confused. "Not unless he changed his mind already.1I Now it was my turn to look confused. She clarified. IIMike Poston asked her out today." I began to understand. "He dldn/t back out," I said assuredly. She/s scared. This had to end. I headed for Tammy. She was nearing her car. I had tried being kind and gentle to no avail. I decided to play this one rough. I ran ahead of her as she was pulling her car door open, and I slammed it shut. She was startled. She turned to face me. Her face was hard . .. You di dn / t answer my quest ion. "What question?" ~he asked harshly. "I asked you why you ran the race that way. "I don/t see anyone complaining." "That/s not my point. Why did you run so hard? You were clear of everyone for two hundred yards! No answer. "What are you running from, Tammy!?" "What do you mean?" "I know your parents are divorced. BIg deal. Lots of kids/ parents are divorced. That/s nothing to run from. What else are you running from?! I kept my voice firm and stood close to her so she wouldn/t get the idea of walkIng away. She 5eemed to grope for words. I saw a weakenIng in her face. This moment had to be kept alive; it might never come again. And Tammy couldn/t afford to wait any longer. She began to shake her head and the weakening increased. "Why don/t YOU,ll she began, her voice breaking, "leave me alone. 1I She started to move around me. I placed my hands carefully on her shoulders and pushed her back against the car. "What gives you the right to be mad at the world!?" "Plenty!" she exp l oded, her voice gaining volume. "This Is my sixth hIgh school: My parents are divorc e d . That happened Just three months a go! I we nt t o a lousy school last semes ter - -" I broke In. "Wh y was it 10usy ?1I She gave me a sarcastic look, one t ha t to l d me s he knew that I knew. "And t ha t makes you a ngr y?" "Yes it makes me a ngry ! Her eye s were II II II II II 25 wide. "Okay! That's natural. You've got a right to be angry. But it's been three months, Tammy! Why don't you try to let the anger go? Why don't you give us a chance?" Her answer was immediate. "Because it's easier not to!" Her words stunned me. I dIdn't think she realized why she was holding on to the anger and keeping herself so closed. Tears were falling down her face. Her shoulders sagged. The hard look had vanished. and in its place wa~ a tired, bewildered, frightened look. I spoke gently. "Tammy, you can trust us. Let us in. Let us help you to start over . Let me in." And for the first time since I met her, she let me put my arms around her. She laid her head on my shoulder and cried. ~J~~ ~#k dd.2--' ~4ff/Xf yda~ CdLL t'~ ddfU :7exc/e $UULd t:Ift4n~ed~dd~ u;/~--' ~a/ e#a/d ~-4P~ #d'Mh(y: r;;-$d/L, ~X 3'~aE&ce~dH?e.;1i/~ b4/~? 0:./ It1h~idd Jfape Lfen ~~~ .7/:zr ~a/4d .!/d/L..[:,

... fioretti /18' - &7 fioretti t#luQ~/~& ..;/HdL4:~d/U, ~ndMJUL 1'#1. 5 f ~1 If'b-J'7 ------,-~ BLOSSOM EVERlASTING/ Tim Berryman 5 MIRACLE/ Nancy Hoeing 6 THE CHALLENGERS/Tim Berryman 10 CHAIN REACTION/ Julia Hilcz 12 HAlKU/ Deardra Webb 17 JOURNEY/ Kelley Ross 18 COMMENC~~~T/ 19 Jim Hillman WHERE ALL THE CRACKER CRUl1BS HAVE GONE/ Bill GuIde DISTANCES OF THE HEART/ Karl Lynn Wolf' HAIKU/ Deardra Webb 20 26 28 GETTD{G FNEN/ David Shaw 29 TOO LATE/ Kelley Ross 31 A TEN -STORY PERCENTAGE/ Mark Johns on 32 ADtlAYS SOMETHING THERE TO REMIND UNDERSTAl\T])ING/ Jon Satehwill MEl J. D. 37 40 COVER/ Tim Berryman pp. 1, p. 4, 11, 27, 39/ Sister St alla Gampfer, OSF 25/ Danny Galvin LETTERING/ Sister St ella Gampfer, OSF Julia Hilcz Mark Johnson Sister Stella Gampfer, OSF %e 4/Ln- ~ .deC /Od de w~c "qan-; :J;j /he d-;ne,.#~ aHbPpd~o/ 0 fyr7L .. JA~d'~ 4/C d'ehLXL U//L ~dd~n 4HL ~ ;Sar ~##d dM;;, d'~ LH..J:Ydad eFfPe~ r46;,7Z- .. ex cAL'.4 eddk.!I4~K4~d M~t!:., ?f~a ~r/u-~&fi,/Lft~nL /K& 7/i7z&.. fa a KELd/Ua'e~ ~ Lf~d7Nd n H eke -iEabn. ~ hdr/EH:/ 4C~L!I~, e/ed~ V?f/~eJ;'L~ ck d~U4 ~d~eu.. W NJ HPl! P/~fi~ ~~.u4'/I!"~ ~44 gar 44~ r~11'Jd!Yfiv ~ r/et:./4J4~f" ~o/K~fiu~ &~ . 5 rn rhtyJdQ/b. ~ LlhACLf: Nancy Hoeing As the youngsters enthusiastically piled onto the buses, Sue Ann Guthrie noticed that Tyler had stuck something in the back pockets of his blue jean cut-offs. While watching the anxious little boy clir.,b onto the bus, sbe remeEtberea the first time she had seen him. Tyler's mother and grandfather had brought hirr; to the Prime Learning Center about one and a half years ago . Tyler was an adorable little boy with sun-bleached hair, dark brO\4n eyes anc~ c: rather f r ightenecJ look on his [ecce. His f,lother \-las sbc)rt and p luTii f: with sa ndy blonde, stringy bair that neeoec2 washing badly. Krs. McDaniels looked ext reElely \ve Ct r y t bat cJ a y.. I n fa c t, t bat Ish ov.,' she looke ci every ti me Sue !mn had net vii th be r. P a Fa Joe v.' a s a bit talI e r but s t i 11 c n tbe stocky side. He had the "tYrica 1 laid-bac k granc1fatherly look." In fact, he was quite the contr as t to his droopy-eyed, unalert daughter." "Good mo rrd. n~l," h is s Guthri.e SolO, trying to be as cheerful as possible. Papa Joe was the mor e cooperative of the two a(~ ults. "Eello," be answered, introducins his daughter and g rilndson, who offered no more than a slight grin. "How are you, Tyler?" she asked, trying to put the obviously tiwic1 younS child's anxiEties and fears to rest. No ZlnS\-,ler. "He are glad to have you here!" still no response. "Tyler, this i~i I'i [ ! ; . Jackson. llo\! about going with her to find some games to play, and I'll corne join you in a minute." Tyler followed timidly while Miss Guthrie went back to talk to Papa Joe and Mrs. McDaniels. Much to her surprise, Papa Joe was standing alone. "Francine had an awful headache," commented the old man. "\t7ent back to the car. Said for me to iron things out here for the boy. " "Well, could you tell me a little about Tyler's background?" she remembered asking the man. He proceeded to give Tyler and his family's life history. Tyler was about five and had various learning disabilities and problems with speech and language development. He rarely said anything, although there was an occasional comment or two. On top of this, Tyler's father had just died a month earlier. He had been an alcoholic. After that, Tyler and Francine had moved in with Papa Joe. Tyler's mother also drank quite a bit, the after-effects of which had probably caused her to return to the car earlier that morning. The bus carr.e to a halt, and the children rolled out onto the grassy area, surrounding Blue Lake. They were fully equipped with tackle boxes, poles and all. As she watched Tyler cast his line, Sue Ann remembered his first few months at the center. After a few months, Tyler had made a little progress. Mrs. McDaniels was rarely seen or heard from, so it was primarily Papa Joe who took care of Tyler and took an interest in his well-being. Tyler was finally relating to the other chldren and teachers. with the help of his speech therapists, he 1 had even begun to speak a little more. Now there was Tyler, excitedly reeling in another fish. If he jumped around much more, she was sure that the bulging pockets of his cut-off shorts would soon overflow. If only he could always be the happy little boy she was watching now. Why couldn't they have just skipped those months in between? Unfortunately, the trauma seemed inevitable. Just when life seemed to be going well, something terrible happened. Tyler's whole world took a turn for the worse, draggins the teachers and everyone else at Prime Center right along with it. Papa Jo~ who had a heart conditio~ had had a fatal heart attack. Death can have a devastating effect on anyone, but to a five-year-old . disabl~d child, the disruption was unspeakable. Tyler's mother, who couldn't deal . with all of he problems, resorted to heavier use of drugs and alcohol. Poor Tyler, unable to cope with the traumatic events in his life, gave up all his efforts with his teachers and therapists and regressed into his own little world of silence and isolation. Back at home, Mrs. McDaniels continued to use dr~9s and alcohol; she soon found herself in a state hospital for rehabilitation. The question at hand was what to do with the child. After numerous meetings, courtroom appearances, phone calls and visits from social workers, they decided that the best place for Tyler was with Sue Ann. Foster homes had been discussed; however, it was decide6 that they would force him to make too much of a drastic adjustment. In the end, Miss Guthrie was appointed 8 Tyler's temporary guardian. An entire year passed, and ~yler had been to several therapists and numerous specialists and child psYChologists, but he still chose to remain in his own little world, refusing to talk. It had been that way, since Papa Joe had died. No one could figure out what to do with Tyler. Sometimes when people tried to talk to him or encourage him to do someth i ng, he would let out a s h rieking how l , and they thought it was best to l eave hi m alone. Luckily , spring had arrived and as she watched Tyler fish with the other boys, Sue Ann realized that she had worried ne e dlessly about how he woul d act today. Mrs. Jackson , who was also watching Tyler, interrupted Su e An n is thoughts . "What is it about fishin g that intrigues him so much?" she asked. "I'm not sure," Sue Ann replied, "but it's sOIllething we 'll have to investigate." At the end of the day, prizes were awarded. Tyler watched excitedly as the announcer called, "Second place, Tyler NcDaniels." Tyler walked proudly to the front and carried his trophy back. Sue Ann watched closely as he pulled the bulk from his back pocket. Quite astonished, she looked on as Tyler held a crum~led picture of Papa Joe holding a huge fish in one hand and a little boy in the other. Tyler looked up at her and smiled, "Fish," he said proudly, "I won!" ~ (.1'/;;[; rh 64:.y/ci.ncdh'/zw ~d~H6 ~Z; ~edCh /hc: /0/&/ed:~ .5CaL~ e.~$r &d d-te: 4d ;Aec; .~%~> &Yd7"Ld eke, &/C'cd //U4U . JUnL~n:Lb dEdLl/'Z fiPHZ LIn h9:f lJ!,d.LU L//z"/y' foLd tVf7/ 4C/f~/, % .7' LUaU:; ekE- ft~EL ~e !y"4ZccL.. cfz1"~L~ ad ea~ Jd ,da--l:C . .7he- ehd-/L~vU ffhd-t& de:.{~ ~d ekdYe., 7/f6 /ke ~ky. _.7h;yJ'LlY /hyu/c& ~./'A,:!~4d; vf- .f~~ hdd 4" dEd~_ 10 $i!k//ar ih.f~ ~t4C'~pc4 . ff~U /Rd'4 rh ~H~ if JH~ fou ~d B/,a/d ndL ULd~ ~ ~~.J4n~ b~~72.. _ Julia Hilcz "Execuse me," the high nasal voice intruded. But the music continued to slow dance the couples in circles around the room. Kendra's heart beat in sync with the 1-2-3 rhythm. Bemusedly, she lifted her head from his shoul ~ er and looked into the hostile eyes of ber" custofller whose bread she had just mangled. "Execuse me, young lady," the stout woman shook explosively, "you've just destroyed my groceries. And," she stood there with her hands crumpling the receipt, "and you've forgotten my change!" Her smirk had a now-what-are-you-going-to-do quality. Kendra's manager, who happened to be hovering ~round, hurried over to personally pacify the irate shopper. "I'm so sorry," Kendra stammered as she tried to open the cash register. She jarred the offending machine and punched all of its keys desperately, hoping it would reopen. Exasperatedly, f1r. Nickels, the manager, escorted the customer to the store office to refund her money. Kendra called after them. "Here's your sroceries, ma'm." She lifted the bag up to hand it to the woman; the bottom of the bag fell through, sending can goods and produce crashing to the floor. "Thank you and corne IZ again," Kendra's generic refrain to der:arting customers interrupted the Dlanager's apologies. "Kendra, why don't you go ahead and clock out for today? It'll probably be the best thing for the both of us." Mr. Nickels rolled up his sleeves and barricaded himself inside his office. Stepping outside into the golden aureole of early evening-late afternoon sunlight, Kendra pulled a crumpled bus schedule from her purse. She shaded her eyes against the glare, looking down the street for the bus. The afterwork push of traffic begrudgingly allowed a neon red convertible to pull up to the curb. "Hey, how 'bout a lift home, Kendra?" The boy reache~ o~er to open to door for her. "Thanks, Jor~an," she slid in gratefully, tossing her books into the back seat. "Well, what do you think of it?" Jordan . gestured at the car. "The ultimate in cruisemobiles. Dad just got a shipment of these California exports at the lot this afternoon." Jordan worked at his dad's car lot after school to save up money for college. "It suits you," she pushed her blowing hair back out of her face, "the Californian look, I mean." She studied the boy seated next to her. Deeply tanned, although the Midwestern sun hadn't yielded ib rays yet, his blond, blue-eyed surfer image seemed out of place in Indiana. 13 lIe t,or:;pe<.l a casset te into the car Ltereo. "Hanna stop at Crazy Horse for sonle nu tritionally worthless junk food?" he asked d uring the lull at a stoplight. "Sure," Kendra agreed. She tried to f o rget that she had 36 algebra problems and an oral report for government due in the morning. The street lights were just coming on when Jordan finally pulled into Kendra's cJr i ve\/ay. "Thanks again," she said, reaching into the back to gather her forgotten books. She was puzzled to find Jordan fidgeting with the stereo. He seeDed to have left his lightheartedness back in the sunset and was struggling with some inner dilemma. "Would you " he paused as his hands played with the keys in the ignition. "Do you think that " he looked straight ahead. "Wouldyouliketogotothepromwithme?" Kendra felt a tremor of excitement. "Yes," it was her turn to look shyly away, "I really would." "Great," he said obviously relieved, "we can talk about it later. I think your Dad wants to talk to you. Bye." "Bye," she called then turned to face her father, who was standing in the doorway of their house. Oh Goa, she thought, please e on't let him be mad. Her excitement fizzled away like a dud firecracker. "Where have you been, Kendra? /1/- W~ were beginning to worry." He moved aside to let her into the house. "Sorry, Dad. After work, Jordan and I went out for a hamburger." She looked uneasily at his unrelenting face. "I'm sorry," she repeated. He waved her aside. "Go and change your clothes. We're having guests to dinner." She was about to argue back when her mother, a silent, slight figure in a dark green sari, shook her head. So Kendra went up to her room to change into the ceremonial sari that was de rigor when the family was expecting guests of Indian nationality. Her father's conversation with her mother -- more like a monologue -- invaded her room. "Ashia, we should have never moved here. I can't even control my own daughter. She's lost all respect for her heritage." Kendra flinched as she heard him slam a door. "Since when does she eat beef? And that boy," he choked off. Kendra closed the door, trying to block out the accusations. After putting on a sari in pomegranate red, she gave a half turn in front of the full-length mirror. The ceremonial costune only heightened her sense of apartness. She lifted a kohl pencil to rim her eyes. The doorbell rang; the point of her pencil broke. She heard her father welcoming their guests. "Kendra," her mother sli~ped inside and sat down on the bed beside her daughter. nOh, Morn. He asked me to the prom!" Kendra hugged her mother. "And I saw tile 15 r c r f c: c t CJ res S 0. t t be ll"i,~ 11. It' S lJ ink t ,-ti~ [ (: l<::, wit 11 11:; c e ." Ii c r Lot h E:: r I S ~:, i 1 en c e cut s 11 0 r t l~cIIC;ra':.:; joy. l1\ i but:' 5 the malter? Jorl;an' s Cl [ e <~ 11 Y n ice 9 u y. Yo u. f d 1 ike b i In, she 1 0 0 ~~ e d c. ;-'i X i Gu;;;ly at be: r I";lC the r 's clovJnca s t head. II lilt's not that," her motber spoke the dialect. I~e ndra \.;ished she \"/ould Ecn r:icJ. i l ea rn to SFE~k 't English. r y, i t I 11 be alI rig h t , 11 reassure her nother. IILook," she lulled al', official-lookir,g letter out of hE~ r Li s tory iJook. "It's fro IO: f.: icLi~Jan Stelte. I S1 0 t Dna c c; ci E: ric s c hoI a r s j d . f..;! It S t i 11 f L e r l1 iothe [' 1 oc l~ c c~ c\,;, c.cy, tv; i st in ~1 t be be.ng 1 e br ,lcelcts arc/ un t. her \'i rist. If I) 0 r" \-/0 l' refiOl." a trieCi to nYour feLLer inviteu t be P2.s ba!:::, to (. inn c: r to n iy Lt ~:, o you coul(~ E!Eet tLeir son." r:: e L \.': r E. 100 l ~ e c1 at t bel e t t e r she he 1 d clenc Lec: in Ler fist. She felt her lunCJ[~ con;,:trictin s like they clid \.ll!en Ebe roJe c, raIl e r c02stcr. " 1'e u r f a tLer \'lants to t"~ if:; CUS S your ('io".:ry L Ii aLii (~' f S f C1 II i 1 Y ." S b est 0 0 c.; u p an 0. 0 P E: r. e cl tbf:: c(Jo r. "It's our \12:1" , I\en(}ra. Don't worry, it'[-; all for: tile best. You'll see." v/ i t t hat?" Ken(l r a \ lOL l l e re d S b e f e 1 the r c h E: e k s bE co ~:~i ng viet . I\D n e \>1110 co U 1 d f!l a k e t b e decision for her. 5 be 16 reread tbe accertance letter once more before putting it away. Hoping for a diversion -- anything so she \~ouldn' t have to tb ink abou t i t -- she turneo on her radio. " and this concludes our exclusive interview with Madame President Aquino. A true twentieth century woman -- Corazon Aquino -- has liberated her people from tradition into the mainstream of life " That decided it. She took off the sari, wadding its silken lengths into a ball that she threw into her closet. Putting on jeans and a college sweatshirt, she \-Jent downstairs where the lions were hungrily awaiting the Christians. ri t {/(;u"L cfi/dekJ , ~ AfZL7z ~ ~HmL~ /he d~ f4.fO/Kf I'4-fEft ~ L/fi ;fEhCU/cd i ~l!Zb:z-_ . .ffbUAa, NJ' t 17 -00 '-..1 ~(\l E Y -------- f'I\ Wi W" J J .. Y\MIl MyWdl My Will 6"\ Y' ( Wi I\ ()'I\ 9 c ) W;/ I GOd'c WII . 6d Will od)s J( I~ KR j COHf.'iEl~CEr:iENT Jim Hillman A coal black darkness envelopes every fiber of my being, embracing mind with spirit. As I gasp for breath, each burning attempt releases the agony of my screaming chest. My only allies exist in memories and even they haunt De as a cesspool of anguish. Like strangers in a large crowd of people, peace and tranquility elude me. Still, I search. Climbing the steep incline, I venture a worn pathway. I find relief from my extreme discomfort in knowing that others have made the same pilgrimage. The path mocks me with her strangling ivy of past lies and thorns of failure. Overcast with the troubled shadows of a tainted soul, the sky merges with the earth in a void of gloom as bugs buzz thickly around my skull, annoying my tired flesh . Still, I must continue. Visions flood ny consciousness, drowning me in a turbulent river of self-pity -- water which I must tread in the name of survival. As if by some poetic insight, my nightmares transform into dreams of promise. I finally envision the termination of my lifelong struggle as I reach level land. Discovering both friend and foe, the reality, which granted ree darkness, now offers me choice. Standing with clutched fists and awkward balance, I am facing reality. I meet tranquility and peace in a scattered crowd and laugh at my past imprisonments. Still, I remernber. \'IHEF~E: ALL 'l'HE CF:I\CKEH CRunES l-ll~VE GONE Bill GuIce What was it about today? Was it the rain? rIhe humidi ty? \llhy did he f eel unhappy? Things were going ok, weren't they? He had no fJ[oblem getting out of bed. His breakfast had been adequate. None of his friends had angered him. He had received a "B" on his economics test. What was wrong? He looked iDpatiently at the cafeteria clock. 12:07. Everything was fine. Just two more classes and he could relax. Naybe tllat' s what he needed--rest. No, he had gone to bed early. "Christ," he said under his breath. What would it take to make him happy? A better lunch? A phone call horne? A note from the president of the college saying that he did not need to take any more classes today? Or maybe a signal from Emily? Emily. Why had he thought of her? Wasn't he over her yet? No. Emily. He tried to push her out of his thoughts and concentrated on eating his chili. Crackers. That's what this bland chili needed--crackers. Of course, crackers would solve everything. Perhaps, they woul d even salt up his already dry discontent. Yes, the chili definitely needed crackers. Reaching over to the bench behind him, he grabbed two packages of crackers that were left behind. "How could anyone leave this bellind?" he thought. "Geez, you are so weird." Crunching them in his hands, he watched the crumbs fall gently into his bowl of meat, tomato sauce and beans. Suddenly, he began to trace a rather banal and futile topic. Where did all the cracker crumbs go that did not land in his chili? Did some cling desperately to his pants after he wiped his hands on tLem? Cid sorlle fall to the floor? Hhere did the crumbs go fronl there? A dust l)an? A trash bag? The Inferno? Obscurity? "God, you really ~ weird." Who really cared where all the cracker crumbs have gone? He felt better. Was that all it took? A strange and meaningless thought? He would remember that. with his chili nearly gone and his cup empty, he decided to opt for more water. On his way to the fountain, he bumped in to sonleone. "Oh, sorry," he said. "That's ok, John," she said as she reached out to touch his arm. His head rushed as he noticed it was Emily. ~fuy? Why had she bumped into him? Even worse--why had she touched his axm? Why did she have to touch him? Why? His mind became juwbled, and he searched madly for an audible, intelligible word. She looked at him kindly and told him to have a good day. He took a deep treath and tried in vain to form a sentence, but it was of no use. The only word that carne out clearly was "crackers." She smiled pleasantly at hint and joined her group of friends at a nearby table. "Damn," he said, "I blew it." His head was whirling and his thoughts were speeding around the track in his brain as he returned very disillusioned to his seat. He was fine. Really. All he had to do was forget her. Forget it had happened. Forget that she had touched him. Forget. He put his head between his arms and glanced :0/ 2lr :ost Gcliriously at tbe clock. 12:27. There \

... ~t, 4/ eIi/ IrS5-{' ~hnz1f ----THE COUNTY FAIR/Teresa Dehart SHIFTING SANDS/Maureen Sheehan 10 FIRST IMPRESSION/Julia Hilcz 11 PROUD TO BE PROSTAFF/Dennis Dietzen 16 A YELLON RAG/Patrick Webb 18 THE FUNDMIENT/James Hillman 21 I SEE YOUR HAND, GOD/Kelley Ross 23 HAIKU/Drew Appleby 25 HAw-r1AvJ'S r1ANY TREASURES/Hartha Guljas 26 JESUS, YOU WERE BROKEN/Kelley Ross 34 HAIKU/Drew Appleby 36 FADED RAINBOW/Kari Wolf 37 THE ECHOES REMAIN/Dennis Dietzen 39 COVER/John Brodnik p. 9/ Mary Ernstes p. 14/Laurie Cressey p. 20/Terence Hanley p. 35,40/Ellen Petraits LETTERING/Sister Stella Ga mp e r , OSF Terence Hanley Julia Hilcz Sister Stella GaDpfer, OSF (THE COUlJTY FAIR ;1bY Teresa Dehart She was waiting outside the big area with the lead rope of her harnessed cow in hand. New sawdust had been put down since the horse show earlier that afternoon. But, Sarah didn't get to see the horses because she was tending her cow which had given birth during the night. Sarah was really tired and still a little bit worried about her cow, Patsy. All the excitement from the other 4-Hers showing their cows filled the air to make her more anxious than worried. The music from the double Ferris wheel played over and over. The contrasting smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and hot dogs tickled her nose and caused her salivary glands . to work double time. She heard the barking of the booth workers. "Fifty cents for two throwsl" "Knock all the cans o~er and get a prize!" "Snow cones, get your snow conesl" The dull murmur of the patient crowd was almost as nerve-racking as the other fair sounds. Sarah knew none of her friends or family were in the crowd. They were in the other building finding good seats for the Queen Contest which started in half an hour. She started laughing out loud when she thought about how she was still in her tight Levis, cowboy hat, and boots around her smelly cow. And in half an hour, she'd be in an evening gown, perfumed and wearing makeup. How her friends persuaded her to be in the contest she'd never know. The only thing tha t was important now was that she wanted to show her daddy a big purple Grand Champion ribbon from the cow show which just started. She bent down and whispered in Patsy's ear as she started pulling the big black cow towards the judges' table. "Come on, Sunshine. Show'em your stuff!" Patsy followed like a big dog on a leash. She was a little annoyed by all the lights and people, but mostly because she had to leave her little one back in the stall. The judges walked around inspecting every inch of pure beef on each cow. They commented and pointed occasionally to a certain cow. Then, they stood back at a distance to get a bird's-eye view of all the animals together. They all gathered for a few minutes at the judges' table to exchange decisions. without trying to be noticed, Sarah sneaked a glance at her Mickey Mouse watch. "Oh my God, only 15 minutes until show time!" . "SARAH MILLIKAN!" She lifted her eyes in delight to see a judge approaching her with a huge purple ribbon~ 1 I "The paper will want to take pictures so could you stay. put please, Miss Millikan. Oh, congratulations!" Sarah squealed with pleasure and tried to wrap her arms around Patsy's neck to hug her. The new mom mooed, proud of the new ribbon, but not quite as proud as she was of her new calf. The flashes from all the 5 pictures didn't the happy pair. seem to bother either one of "Miss Millikan, I heard the cow just had a calf last night?" "She sure did," Sarah grinned from ear to ear. "Hey, how are you going to celebrate now?" "SARAH MILLIKAN!" Her name was heard, not from the reporter, but over the loud speaker. Pulling Patsy as hard as she could, Sarah ran out of the arena. The queen contest was in a building only a rock's throwing distance away. She could make it. Patsy was slowing her down though. The crowd was scampering out of her way as if one girl and a cow were a herd of frenzied, unstoppable beasts. Ladies were screaming and grabbing their little ones out of their seats to the safety of their mon's arms. One man dropped six snow cones and turned tail and ran to get behind a nearby tree. Sarah was laughing~ She could hardly run in the cowboy boots. She had one hand holding down her hat and the other dragging poor Patsy behind her. Sarah had pinned that big purple ribbon on her shirt pocket , and it was flapping up in her face so she could hardly see where she was going. "Patsy, I'm just gonna have to tie you to this door outside. Whoa now, girl!" Sarah ran up the stairs at the back of the stage. "SARAH MILLIKAN!" She stopped to catch her breath as her mother frantically ran up to her. "Where have you been child?" "Look, Ma, I wonl Ma, I'm not going out there. I didn't want to be in this contest anyway. Everybody else w~nted me to be in it. Besides, I don't have a chance in a blue moon. I don't even have time to changel" "Sarah Marie Millikan, if you think you're going to disappoint all your friends out there, you're mistaken. What about your ~ amily, too? And furthermore, you have just as much of a chance as any girl out there. Now, you march yourself out there, blue jeans, boots, ribbon and all, and just be yourself. Due to the circumstances, if those folks are any kind of judges, they'll see true beauty and personality in someone who is natural and being themselves. Now, go on and get out there!" Sarah did~'t even get her last two cents in, because Mrs. Millikan, a little annoyed but determined, walked away in the direction of the announcer. Chuckling to herself as she wiped the manure off her boots, Sarah whispered aloud, "I'll do it!" Walking up the . steps, she straightened her ribbon, tilted - her cowboy hat back and stepped into the lights. "Better late then never, folks. This is Sarah Millikan." The announce continued, "Sarah is a senior at Donner High School " Sarah, as elegantly as possible in boots, strolled down the platform towards the audience, stopped and smiled. "If you'll notice the ribbon Sarah is wearing, she is now the proud owner of the Grand Champion Holstein here tonight!" She spotted her daddy with his arms folded across his chest, shaking his head in disbelief. She gracefully turned and strolled back to the top of the stage. The contest continued as planned after that first walk. All of the other tense competitors took their turns in the not so same spotlight as Sarah. Backstage, everyone changed into their swimsuits, listening wide-eyed to Sarah's story. They laughed and felt more at ease, because they hadn't experienced quite so much to be there. Sarah was a little more at ease too, until they asked for all the contestants to return to the stage. All the girls lined up, jittering and holding hands and whispering good lucks. This time Sarah was dressed in a white gown that revealed her true physical beauty. The gown fit snug over her slender build. Her makeup was perfect, and for the first time her hair was not in ponytails or under a hat. It hung softly over her shoulders, curled and combed in a way that looked as if she had spent hours in preparation. Sarah again found her daddy in the crowd beside her rna. Patsy let out a big moo to let Sarah know that she was still around. "Miss Congeniality Sarah Millikan!" , Sarah laughed and stepped forward to the roar of applause from her friends and family. Proud as a peacock, she pulled that purple ribbon from behind her back and held it up high. Her daddy stood up and applauded even louder. She knew her daddy was proud of hei now. She had won Miss Congenitality, Grand Champion, and had a healthy new baby calf. S d%~6?:f kdr 1J~ baue~/ axd dUfd~~ J/i dad&' ~u d.;fU&.. 2fe, 4/Ln. );t!d.mU aCA'd-.(J tie ;ana! 5ff1:2L~'l 6~ /J'~/Lc~Ed lft't1.7L th& .,4k)0~ 4~ad.. YtU,4~~ 4'u~/d/bt ~n en. $d:Un fd~~Uf ~a;d&V .3j-tu~ tf&zaijd LiaJ?'/t ~zi,c. . a ~/&/ ~r~ d&.fet/ o'~&1~ Sie ~~~e~6;7.Z ?~c~N~t::I' ~bf d- cf'$d4:a/z:d~;: cfq?yu/~ J~eUL~~ ~~and /4-5~~~ 6~/7.l . /0 j FIRST IHPRESSION by Julia Hilcz As Professor Mankerfield digressed into yet another case history, I risked a glance at my wristwatch, a recent graduation gift from my parents. Fifty-two more minutes of enforced boredom left. Although this was _ still the first week of school, the novelty of college had already disappeared. Across the room, I saw my roommate trying to make points with a dress-for-success blonde who inattentively filled her notebook with doodles. All around me, I saw the dilligent bent over their desks, taking copious, voluminous notes on Mankerfield's incessant lecture. They were all alike--those clean-cut, sincere young men and women~-casebooks stacked neatly by their glossed penny loafers and recently acquired attache cases. Slavishly, they took down the prof's every word on which their future mobility was dependent. Unexpectedly, the classroom door opened '. inward, the sound halting Mankerfield's - performance. A waif ish-looking girl stood . poised in the doorway, conscious of the - fifty-odd pair of eyes focuses on her entry. She shut the door gently, almost regretfully, her hand reluctant to slide from the knob. Mankerfield cleared his throat in wonderment that anyone could be so gauche as to cause such a disturbance during his lecture. I cleared my books off the vacant seat 1/ across the aisle for the newcomer, and she sat down--grateful for the anonymity that the seat offered. I watched her as she propped a large sketchpad against the chair. The book resisted her efforts and slammed into the floor. Aware that once again the class' attention was focused on her, she bent to retrieve the pad. Unlike her contemporaries, the girl didn't accentuate her face with artificial color. To me, it was quite refreshing to see a natural blush highlight her cheeks. Her almost waist-length dark brown hair half-concealed her from the cynosure of the class. Then Mankerfield did an unforgivable thing. Perhaps he was just giving in to his biting, abrasive sense of humor, or maybe he was a secret misogynist; anyway, he decided to make an example of the girl. Steepling his hands on the oaken podium, Mankerfield addressed her. "Since you obviously found it unnecessary to attend my earlier lectures, Miss ,~he paused like a fencing maste~ ' in the beginning stages of his deadly dance. "Van Etten," she quickly filled in. "Miss Van Etten. Perhaps you would like to answer a few questions for the benefit of your fellow students? Quirking one of his intimidating b~ows, Mankerfield reeled off a question that even a senior student would have found difficult, if not impossible, to answer. Her lambent dark eyes dilated, and nervously her long tapered hands repeatedly latched and unlatched the flat, squarish case which she held on her lap. "Execuse me, sir," her voice resounded with clarity throughout 1.1., the cavernous classroom. "I don't un de rstand. I don't pretend that I'm any great authority, but with all due respect, what does case law have to do with life-drawing?" "Life-drawing?" Mankerfield repelled the word as if it were a foreign enemy invading his vocabulary. "IMPOSSIBLE!" he snapped, "this is room 151. Beginning case law." And to prove his point, Mankerfield left his throne-like lectern, walked over to the door and let it swing inward so that all could see the stenciled room number 151. Uncomfortably, she shifted in her seat. Her restless hands still fidgeted with the case. The sketchpad once again fell and sideswiped the case, releasing hundreds of brightly colored crayons, pastels, and drawing pencils. The dismissal bell rang--the spell was broken--students thawed from their previous immobility and jostled their way out the door. Silently, I collected all the crayons within reach and handed them to the girl. "My own Sir Galahad," she said, her smile setting alight a glow in her eyes and igniting a fire within my heart. Hy God, she was beautiful. Not beautiful in our commercial, mass-produced Hollywood sense, but she had the high-spirited vivacity of a Romantic heroine. A look that Shelly would have appreciated and- immortalized in verse. "Come on," I returned her smile, "I'll sho\tJ you to the art departnlent. " 13 - . ~-:"' - ~ .J-="":~=->& :::.=~."-'" - -"'..=--~ .-- ---~"'" - - = ~. ~ ~.~--=--~:: ~ ----=--..- J/d/l c/lq/~ ~ /L, YddLTrf $~TL ~1:~ ~~~ 4,/~KffAan .LJY/HJ In M-aK,EN ek//dhddd "# In>>rd~~J ~_,;;HaL day. ~a/~ La~~ t14 dE ~~,dad 6i&/~?N/J' dfdd~n hd~~1' cke C'e~6L'H/y ~che dUH4EC? ..LJ:, z!h& 4C'4MfidE, q;.U ~CL~ 7h-c,f &e ~LK~ qr d- d.-t?J~K t::,/ dH~/k~ ~jJkC ? ~Ay ' .d4t?tZ/d../A~L 4d ~eu~Ed d(;. c~ d/d'a b ~ 4t!d~~ 9h:C ~K4 4/Ub/4(d' e.u~dn o/dN- 4ea., a k~z;/e;u ? u eNd $~ 11/~u tf~~e ~ tie did467/vdj~ kLjPe . $ pur t.fy/X~;~ dAda&cKdreNd.,&;.. Jdx t2fPay ftd/n d ,/~~,d~:/ &~~ a 6/dKL~ dd4d~ 0/ L'HK~eeH~e, tI ~Hd/t!'4C& ~9.t2~KEd, .h'.u64--t'L ~d/eE.H Jfe~ ! PROUD TO BE PROSTAFF .]- by Dennis Dietzen Hey, watch it will you, fellas! Can't a body get any rest around here? Woe, feels like we're off to the course again. I really do hate sharing all this room with so many others. God, that Titleist over there has no manners, leaving dirt and grass all over the place. That orange Pinnacle has cute dimples though. May'be I'll work my way over toward her. Get outta my way, ya' damn Maxfli. You and you balata cover are just about worthless. By surlyn cover and 380 turncated dimple design makes me superior. Yea, you heard me. Read my box: "Scientifically designed for consistent per~ormance, ' tour proven for pinpoint accuracy." That's what the box says, but frankly, this guy carrying the bag couldn't drive a tricycle through the ga te,.,ay arch. Oh no, here comes that ugly hand now. Please, not me, I just recovered fron last weekend. Come on, quit laughing~ guys, you'll get your turn. Wow, it sure is bright out here today. Look at all these geeks. I wish these old men would wear normal clothes. Check out the guy in the knickers. Hey, baggie pants, didn't your wife dress you this morning. You dress about as well as you play. /h Hello, Mr. tee. I see you're back again, too. Here we go again. Aaaoch! Why does this guy use those words, damn this, damn that. I feel sorry for that club when he throws it. That must hurt, too. That's it, sucker, tell me to get left. Sorry, I like these trees over here on the right where it's cool, so there. Maybe I can hide and he won't find me. Be very quiet. Shoot, here he comes with that look on his face again. Go ahead, baldy, hit me again, make my day. 17 ~e 7~Che f~pe ,,{~ dd9'~C& tZ . .dtfand ~~nL~ftt. d15P/~~ r/fc err:en.d?;'~fi7nf~ /n~~~~ ~ . //tld . ;/ecn d ~&:I~~ fot:17d ~d ?2f'~d., t2nd 4EKC ~h 4~crk~ CaJu. JI4-t ZY4 -~e mcc,{c~ o:w~r a

... MARIAN COLLEGE Indianapolis, Indiana LITERARY ANTHOLOGY VOLUME ~L NO. :L 19'83- 8 WINTER/ Sally Lorenz A PASTORAL/ Terence Hanley 5 REClIDrno TIDES/ Ellen M. Petraits 8 HAlKU/ Drew Appleby THE TIES THAT BIND/ Jill Thompson HAlKU/ Drm-1 Appleby HIS CHIEF/ Julie Nigro 10 11 27 29 . ' THE BRUSHES ARE DRY/ Michael Dugan 30 DeVINE JUDGMENT/ Audrey Pearson 32 A POEl1/ Jack Groves THE GREAT WHITE BIRD/ Maureen Sheehan SUMMER SH~~/ Julie Nigro 37 38 ho C()V1ill/ Patrice Will pp. 1, 6, 7, 101 Patrice Will pp. 28, . J.t.ol Julie Nigro LETTERn~G/ Sister Stella Debbie Sears Kent Daniels Sister Stella Debbie Sears Michae 1 Dugan Terence Hanley Sister M. Stella Gampfer, OSF gj{yre c/u-// head,-/ ffi/p;~ .4a/;~ft~9~~ ~d04 eo&& Lfa7'UkH 4&h. J~~~ k~~:J,f:~a/'-o/ .'" 1Vd-f7nz!h 4:enca/~ SPR/A/G ~~nJ cffJb~iat . ~ Jaehee ff~y It uas hot. No one could remember vIhen it wasn't hot. It had rained sometime-- about a month before, bu t i t 1ms only a spit of rain. 'l11e earth ~'ms Grey du st uhcn the rain came. A fe'lv drops foIl and r,lade little pits like moon craters, and then the rain moved on. And all the time, the sun Has shining, even durinG the rain. The sun vmsnlt up yet, but it was hot. The windows ~mro open, but you wouldn It know it. Cooper could feel J.iadge near him. She wasn't more than a foot a'.imy in the dark, lying next to him on the bed. He could feel her heat and smell her and feel the sole of her foot against his leg. It was very still and dark and hot in the room. Cooper got up and the bedsprings squeaked. He didn It hear Badge, so he knew she was at-rake. 'He pulled on his trousers and his boots; he didn't bother wi tl1 a shirt. He felt there in the corner and found the gun and got a box of cartridges off the top of the dresser. "Coop. II He looked over into the dark, but he couldn't see anything. He t-lent out of the room and closed the door behind. "Coop." l'ladGe lay avra!:e in the dark and l.oJai ted. The waitinG tlaS terrible. Her stomach churned, and she s'.mated, but she didn It move. It was almost a relief 1.-Ihen the shot came. She was startled by the suddonness of it. It seemed like it \Vent on for a long time: rushed across miles of dusty earth, struck the fara \my hills and came back again. When the second shot came, she got up and slipped into a gingham dress. She Hent out of the room and into the kitchen. s It was dark, but not as dark as the bedroom. She turned on the stove and put the skillet do~m on the burner. There was still grease in it from the day before. It slovrly melted as she beat the mix for the Hheat cakes. She heard a third and fourth shot. One more. It came. The wheat cakes sputtered in the skillet. She turned them. She heard Coop on the porch. He came in the door and tmnt into the bedroom. He came back Hithout the gun and. sat at the table. Madr,e said, "How many do you want?" He was quiet for a r:loment. Then he said, III don't want any breakfast." trWby not?" "I couldn't eat nm-I." She turned off the fire and put the 'cakes on a plate. She scraped the last of the butter from a piece of wax paper and put it on the cakes. It melted and she sat across from him. She cut them up vr.i,th her fork and took a bite. It didn't taste eood. She couldn't eat anymore. They sat across from one another. It became lighter in the room. ".1hat about the carcasses'?" Hadge said at last. "Jim Feller said he'd haul them aHay for me. II "That's nice of him." "Yeah." 6 't6t4fPee:ad .d;O/44/ ez/en Ikfof,4 bPe ~~-. & L'Uun '7 -1}eedL~ ~d&l b~ E/bh-~/)aa;o "Well, what do you think?" It was a question I felt the anst-Ter to before he drew 011 t one of his lonE; sighs. He "Tas uncomfortable 1-Then he knei-T I was 100kinE; at him. He stared straight ahead. The uneasiness may have come from a lack of social contact or from hearing a familiar question come from someone else. He Has dismissing my presence, tryinE; to regain the security of silence we had driven in for the past half hour. I looked at him again. He shifted gears, slmved down, and pulled off to the side of the road. "You know, t-Te're lost." I hadn't been paying attention to signs or turnoffs or anything. The night had a l-1ay of ma:dng people forget "There they 118re going. All the cars that passed us were simply beinE; pulled by some invisible force creatinE; the illusion of a destination. They were all lost, some just chose not to ackno~'lledge it. "Should 1-1e turn around then?" "Yeah, a long '.-Iays back I must have gotten . conTused, I'll turn around. Sorry about the delay. !I 1 didn't mind but I had the feeline he 't-Tanted to open his door and jump out. \ve started back east and I resumed the one-sided conversation I'd been having Hith myself. "Don't He all possess some potential for human fu1fillment?" In the next f9'l.-T moments I could not imagine the response I would get from him. Something broke from Hithin, a force that had been caged too long. The horn bellowed, a great tenseness came over him and he let out a broad, hoarse yell. My .eyes were fixed on this face I had never seen before. I tool< them off of him long enOUGh to check the road to r:1ake sure 1'1 8 ~1eren' t about to crash. The road ahead l-1aS empty and I noticed for the first time that it had been raining. At that instant 1m ',mre a '. mrld in ourselves. The lira ts of the car vlere all :ve kne'lT, all :-18 cared to knol'1. He began to talk. I listened to this new voice. 'rhe Hords clotted in the l-1ell of his throat and shivered as they touched the air. If it had been sor.le other lanL'1lage I would have understood him no less. TIle words lulled me into his past. The small ones told of the emptiness the death of a brother leaves. Parents grieve for a child and kill the Ii ving one. Bigger t-lords told of the resentment they shoHed tm-lard him and what they sa-a as lack of concern for a child sl