Silhouette Winter 1985

The Shawnee Silhouette is published quarterly by the editorial staff at Shawnee State Coilllllunity College in Portsmouth, Ohio. Subscriptions are available for $2.00 a copy or $5.00 a year. The three issues will be published durinP FA11, Winter and Spring Quarters. Submissions are invited in the areas of prose (800 words maximum), poetry, art, and photography.

~taff

Editor-in-Chief •••••••••••••••••••• Juanita Teeters

Poetry Editor ••••••••.••••••••••••• Teresa Lodwick

Fiction Editor ••••••••••••••••••• Tamela Carmichael

Photography Editor ••••••••••••••••••• Kevin Mershon

Art Editor •............................. Carol Rowe

Associate Editors ••••• Vicci Hinch & William Wright

Printed by the Shawnee State Print Shop

Copyright December 1985

Cover Photo by Darrell Andronis

Thoughts

"on the texture of existence"

Susan Sontag said recently at the NCTE convention in Philadelohia that writers write not so much to communicate or to express themselves--popular conceptions of the art--as to "make new worlds." To create something that has not been before.

That seems very close to my own feelings and understanding about what it is I need to do. But how to do it? How can I make Moore's "imaginary gardens with real toads in them" accurate enough to draw my reader in and believe me? Flannery O'Connor in Mystery and Manners (1969) states the problem (as always) beautifully:

It is a good deal easier for most people to state an abstract idea than to describe and thus recreate some object that they actually see. But the world of the fiction writer is full of matter, and this is what the beginning fiction writers are loathe to create. They are concerned primarily with unfleshed ideas and emotions. They are apt to be reformers and to want to write because they are possessed not by a story but by the bones of some abstract notion. They are conscious of the problems, not of people, of questions and issues, not of the texture of existence, of case histories and of everything that has a sociological smack, instead of with all those concrete details of life that make actual the mystery of our position on earth.

I like that: "the actual mystery of our position on earth." The earth, the physical world is at once both more and less interesting than the world of feeling. As a child reader I often

skipped the description and went on to the characters and to the events they made. Yet in life I paid attention to the physical universe, collecting lichens, mushrooms, stones, birds, birds' eggs, leaves, flowers,--even samples of earth. I watched everything. But it took a while to begin to integrate what I felt about the physical world with language.

June Langford Berkley

Qlarnliut

Listen well of the tale I tell Of the girl whom I defend, She dances in the morning mist She dances in the wind.

She lived in a village by the sea In a land called Wyvengrand, Her dance could charm the sea they say, The waves she could command.

She dreamed of sailors gone to sea, She sang of love divine, She danced each night beneath the stars, They called her Caroline.

She sat each day upon the pier To watch the rolling sea, Out t :1e re somewhere aboard the Quest Her lover, 1.anc-e, mus-t be.

He sailed away two years ago In search of mythic lands, He left his girl, his special girl) To wait upon the sands.

That night she wept and called his name And sang a mournful tune; She danced his dance, his special dance Beneath a lonely moon.

So many days had passed since then And nights that seemed like years, Yet every night she danced alone, Her dark eyes full of tears.

One day while sitting on the beach She heard old Grimwald yell: "Come quick, praise God, and look out there, Upon the sea, a sail."

Dancing down to the water's edge, Dancing down to the shore, Dancing wild in a new found joy To dance with Lance once more.

At midnight's hour the Quest put in, The crew jumped to the shore; She heard the captain call her name And then he told her more.

He told her of a frightful storm That struck the ship one day. A wave came crashing o'er the deck And carried Lance away.

She fell upon her knees in tears And called her lover~ name. Without her Lance, her only Lance, Life wouldn't be the same.

She ran to the pl~~c called Raven's Rock Where sailors laid their graves; She danced his dance, his special dance, And leaped into the waves.

She dances still beneath the sea, A dance that never ends ; She dances in the morning mist, She dances in the wind.

She dreams of sailors gone to sea, She sings of love divine; She dances in my memory, This girl called Caroline.

--Ryan

Hardesty

The horse is dying. It is very cold. My father leads him away from the other horses, not by a tether, but simply going before, and the old horse follows, lazily and tired. He is graywhite and red-brown. His old bones show through his hide like an old squaw in a summer dress.

He has carried my father in the hunt and outrun the buffalo, besieged the wolf that came in winter, borne the load of our migrations, and mother great with child, through the snows of winter, and me, the child she bore, as I grew strong enough to sit astride him. He has carried us one and all and all we own through all the seasons of my young life and now he is dying.

My father bids me stay beside the tipi where leaves are heaped high for play. But my mother isn't watching, busy with her fire, and my heart won't let me stay. I follow and hide in tall grasses as my father and the horse walk away, up the rise, down the other side, to cross the branch of water with the gnarled old willo~ trees at its sides. Father waits as the horse drinks.

"Old Willows," he says the old horse's name. Then the horse crosses and they begin again. Through the leaves they walk silently and slow with me creeping along behind, careful not to splash as I cross the stream. The sun is climbing higher now and scattered clouds are moving high in the blue as on and on we go through the soft, thin, leathery leaves, yellow, red, and brown, and the path leads on and on, on and ever down.

I hide behind the trees, impatiently, and creep from stone to stone. They have stopped in the grassy meadow in the sun. The birch trees on the far side are black and white and grow up from the fertile land and angle up to

switchy ends against the purple mountains of our ancestors where autumn is becoming. My father begins to speak as if they are alone and Old Willows chews grass, indifferently, like the old chief who listens to the frantic words of the young with a knowing heart and an answer already cradled secretly in his hand.

"You will be young again there," my father is saying as he stares and points across the still green meadow. "You will find your father and your mother and run at their sides like a strong young colt of two summers, calling to the wind to catch up from behind," my father says. "The mothers of your own sons and the daughters lost to the wolves of winter will be waiting for your affection, to finally learn the ways of life at your flank. The grasses are ever green and sweet, the waters cool an<l flowing. The sun is warm and night is filled with stars, twice as many as here. The moon is ever full and the wolf can never enter."

I tried to conceive the sky twice as full of stars. On a moonless night it seemed so full that to put more would be to light it up as bright as day, and I imagined a cool, still, glittering day of ice in dead of winter, the moon lost in the center.

''My people will be waiting for your strong back, your swift legs to come up under them. Be strong for them but be strong for yourself, Willows," he goes on, recalling the young horse's name, given when he was still wild and yet to be captured, his voice rising in praise,"for from your strength grew my own and from your will grew my own and from your courage mine was blown high like an autumn leaf in a twisting wind."

The wind is rising now, full of leaves, a twisting wind that sweeps my fathers hair and clothes, the old horses mane and tail, and the shadow of a cloud chills me in a strange way, not just my skin without, but my heart, my bones within. The shadow passes from me, across the meadow, up the birches and is gone.

My father squats to the earth and stares into the grasses, moving in the wind, then looks once more to where Old Willows has gone, and rises slowly. Suddenly,he turns to come back toward me. I can't hide, don't try. I meet the gaze in my father's eyes and see them not suprised. He reaches to welcome me under his hand and we slowly tread the path together. His sadness is not a weeping thing, almost not a sadness but a solenm joy. I feel it, do not understand it but it changes the little boy I have been. The pile of leaves in my mind no longer draws me to the tipi.

As we cross the creek,I see Old Willow's tracks and my father stops and looks up at the sky through the willow trees.

"Old Willow is gone," he says. We stare up at the naked switches and whips of willow, swaying in the wind, the clouds moving slowly like buffalo grazing above the treetops.

"Father," I say, and he looks at me, "someday I will have to bring you to the meadow and let you go to Old Willows,won't I?" He smiles and the light glistens in his wet eyes.

"Yes," he says, still smiling.

"And mother too," I add,and he nods.

"I must stay here beneath the willows a while to remember the words you said for Old Willows." My father puts his hands on my shoulders and, touching my face, leaves me and goes up the path toward home.

-Gary E. Andrews

~prrial Jlarrs

There are many places a person sees in a lifetime. Some are soon forgotten, but· some linger in the memory for years to come. They are remembered because they give what one seeks---peace, quiet, safety, a place to dream. My summer place was like that, giving me whatever I needed, whenever I needed it.

In the summer of '50 I needed to learn to cuss. Climbing to the top of the hayloft, I looked around and found a safe comfortable comer. Resting my back against the newly-baled hay I could feel its rough, sticky surface scratching my shoulders in all the right places. I shut my eyes and took in deep lungsfull of the satisfying odors of timothy and clover.

"Son-of-a-bitch, bastard, hells fire and damnation," the words rolled off my tongue again and again. They flowed easily, like beautiful gems rolling around in a velvet jewelry box. I was nine years old and tomboys had to know how to cuss.

In the summer of '55 I needed to dream about boys. Climbing to the top of the hayloft, I opened the large barn door near the roof and let it crash to the si<le of the barn. I breathed the warm night air and dreamed of growing up and being beautiful. I envisioned dancing the night away in some stranger's arms. I longed for a special someone to call my own. I was fourteen, the age when every girl needs to dream.

In the winter of '68 I needed a place to cry. Climbing to the empty loft, I wondered if I was in the wrong barn, or on the wrong farm. My parents were gone. The farm had been sold. I felt the cold wind blowing through the cracks. Little mounds of snow piled up at each opening like whitefingere<l giants tryirG to pry their way in. Shivering, I looked around. I couldn't smell the clover or timothy. The barren loft offered no solace. It was a perfect place to cry.

-Louise Holsinger

Wimr !larrqrs ®n

Leaving the lot in a shining new sports car, I took a long last look at the old car. It reminded me of faded cords, flannel shirts, ragged sneakers, and traveling every highway. It was comfortable like we were then •••

--Abbra Gray

After rain: behind me, footprints sink into the sidewalk.

John Sheirer

Lori O'Dell

I walk among the gravestone plaques to die with nature and the darkness of elderly ghosts.

To resurrect me the raven calls. I lie in hell with moisture between my toes-only to watch pines grow straight toward heaven.

--Gwendolyn Welston-Rice

iab ~ptrtta

During your flight of fancy, find for me the originality which has been traded for a lifetime of daydreaming by overindulging in the liquid demon that produced lovers from strangers and strangers from friends.

--Rodney Cooper

IDqr

Wa~ing, I find myself adjusting my eyes to the brightness of a white room. Everything around me is white -- white walls, white ceiling, white floor.

I feel physically weak. I force myself to rise and lean on my palms. Hmm, I am wearing my best dress, a silky cream-colored dress with short sleeves. It is one of my favorite dresses. I only wear it for special occasions.

I have no shoes on! Where are my shoes? I don't see them. Everything is so white. I feel like a blemish against the purity of this room. I cannot find my shoes.

Where am I? Am I in a hospital room? It is strange that I don't remember being taken to a hospital. It is a small room -- at least twelve-by-twelve feet. The floor is cushioned like a padded mattress as I walk. The walls are soft and smoothe like satin. There isn't a door. There aren't any windows either! How do I get out of here?

"Hello. Can anybody hear me? Hello. Hello. Help me, please, help me get out of here!" Silence.

It's cold in here. The whiteness makes me feel cold. Why am I here? Is this a waiting room? What am I waiting for?

I pound on the walls. There is only a muffled sound because of the padded walls. I keep on pounding out of my fear and frustration. No one hears me.

"Help me, please! Somebody, get me out of here!"

I feel so powerless. What can I do? There must be an opening somewhere. I must be calm and look closely; feel for something, an electric switch in a crevice -- something must be here. The walls are so smoothe to touch. Still, no opening. Maybe this floor has it. Still there is only the cushiony padded satin against my palms. There is nothing here either.

I must think. Think, why am I here? Look around. My dress it is my best dress. Why am I wearing it? Also, I have no shoes on. What was I doing? or what was happening before all of this? I can't remember. Was I sick? Did I get sick and die? Oh, my Lord, did I die? Is this all there is? Or are you keeping me here in this room waiting until you decide what to do with me? Am I being watched? That must be it. Someone is watching me, watching to see what I will do or say. It is so lonely here, Lord. Maybe he'll put someone else in here with me so I won't be alone. I wonder what time it is. I don't have my watch on either. No shoes, no watch, nothing but me and the sound of my thoughts. Thoughts can be very noisy. My feet are cold. I feel cold. Strange that I don't feel anything else like hunger or thirst. I just feel cold, lonely, bored, and yet I fear. It is the unknown that I fear. Am I dead or just dreaming? That's it! Maybe this is all a bad dream. If I would fall back asleep, I will be alright when I wake again. Everything will be back to normal. I will do that. I will just lie down and fall back to sleep. It's just a dream. I know it is. This will all be gone. Fall back to sle~p, now, to sleep, to sleep •••••

-Catherine Elrod-Liddle

ilrtrayal

Flashes of insight thrash the spirit, burnished with a longing for a lofty trellis on which to hang each hurt. Forgiveness, a thief hard to capture1 lurks behind a grey dawn.

Winter rhythms. ruled by Artie hand, wrap in ermine shawls gray earth.

--Lena Nevison

lakr llqttr C!!qrt!lttttas

When the moon is at its highest, and the stars shine all around, when Lake White glows mirror calm and the lighted windows glow, that's when peace seems all around us reaching far across the land when thE' moon is at i• s highest, that's the time to touch a hand. } .6--Karin Hurt

ID~r Nrm Anh 1Jmprnurh

To all •consumers I offer the following warning: Beware of products labeled "New and Improved" or "Easy to Open Package."

Recently, upon returning home from the store, I found that the products I normally purchase had a new twist. Most of them were labeled "New and Improved" or "Easy to Open Package." Not really giving it much thought, I proceeded with the task of storing the items.

Once everything was put away, I realized it was time for lunch. Off to the panty I went --returning with a can of luncheon meat. That is where my trouble began! The label on the can read "New easy-open can -- To open lift ring and pull." Sounds easy, right? I lifted the ring pulled and like magic there I stood with a ring in one hand and a can of un-opened luncheon meat in the other. Out came the can opener. Say, now, that was easy.

With the exception of a couple of pop-top pop cans that simply refused to pop, the rest of the lunch went smoothly. Now it was time to put away the left-overs. Into the cabinet out with the plastic wrap. Not just any old wrap, but, you guessed it,the "New Improved Super Cling Industrial Strength Wrap in the all new Easy to Open Box." The box read "To open, simply lift the new zip tab and pull. 11 Half way across the box, the zip tab fell off. Once I had finished removing the new "easy open tab" in tiny little pieces, I faced an all new problem, finding the beginning of the roll.

After a few frustrating minutes, the roll was started and ready to use. I firmly grasped the end in my hand --- pulled --- and out popped the roll. My luncheon meat was still un-wrapped; however, my children's pet cat was now securely sealed in a protective layer of new super cling industrial strength plastic wrap.

It was about that time that someone yelled from the other room that my son had just spilled his grape soda on the living room chair. iinon't worry,'1 I said, ..;I just bought a roll of '. .New and Improved Extra Thirsty Paper towels." This should be easy; at least I didn't have to romove the plastic covering; as a matter of fact, it fell off in the shopping bag. Armed with the paper towels, I headed toward the living room. By now, the cat was struggling desperately to free itself.

Once on the scene, I grasped the end of the first sheet. It was at that time I found out how absorbent the towels were. The glue they had used to secure the end of the roll had sucked through to the cardboard tube, thus making it impossible to start the roll. By this time, the grape soda had begun to sink into the chair. In a last ditch effort to save the upholstery, I began frantically tearing strips of towel from the roll and throwing them into the pool of soda. When I finally regained control of my senses, the chair was covered in 89 cents worth of purple confetti, but the worst was yet to come. As I looked across the room from my spot on the floor, I saw the most horrifying object moving towards me. I can only describe it as a 58 inch ball of plastic with a hairy periscope sticking out of one end. The cellophane serpent was none other than my children's cat, who by now was looking as bad as I was feeling,

Just then my wife came home. "What the heck happened to you?" she asked. I replied, "I am suffering from a New and Improved headache; please go into the medicine chest and get out the aspirins. I really don't think I can open the child-proof cap."

-Mike Coles

Lori o'nell

~nrutug 1Jutrustnu

The day dawns gray over the pounding surf; damp sand seems to beg for sunshine. Dark hulks of ships lying at anchor on the horizon are suggesting ghosts of Hatteras' winter victims. The gulls don't want to fly the mist and let us approach them close before sluggish wings protest our intrusion.

---Charles M. Whitt

~tnur 111rurrs

Stone walls go bordering down the road, Then turn aside to take the hill In rocky strides. New England fields grew little else but stone For sweaty hands to carry off And fit together.

They made good fences then, But now the aged stone Goes spilling out on either side (Dotted with jewel weed, home for squirrels.) And though the old surveyor's eye was true He never knew How fine his lines would look In piles of weathered stone.

---Helen Reynolds

The sun had not yet begun its fight through the thick ebony clouds that hung like draperies over the land when Jana woke. She kicked the tattered cover aside and rubbed her aching muscles. She tried to summon the strength to help her face another day in this bleak world. The other members of her group were so excited when the first rays of sun appeared after countless days of midnight. Jana wasn't happy. She had grown accustomed to the darkness. Black thoughts were submerged by a black existence.

Jana's eyes had also grown accustomed to the darkness. She could see the outline of Jason's strong body nestled against the rock. She was thankful for Jason, if for nothing else. He had been her strength through the hours, days, weeks and months of torture. He was responsible for her being alive. If she had not agreed to go with him and several of their friends that fateful day, she would be dead.

Jana and Jason were taking more supplies to the shelter when the explosion came. They watched for a brief moment from their mountain fortress as the city burst in a multitude of orange, red and black. Jana tried desperately to leave the shelter to search for her children, but Jason had slammed the door and activated the time lock. Jana was trapped.

Jana grieved for her own flesh and blood. She blamed Jason. She blamed herself. But the truth of the matter was Jana didn't know whom to blame. "That damn missile;' she thought. "The peacekeeper; •i.hat' s a lot of bullshit, not a very fitting title for something that destroyed my life." She was angry. Jana had pulled herself out of the gutter of poverty and made a good life for herself and the boys. "The boys," she thought. "How I need them." She was even seriously considering Jason's marriage proposals. But all of her work had been in vain.

Her home, business, and her children were destroyed in the wink of an eye.

At first Jana thought her children might have been safe within the school, but Jason received a message from Raven I on the ~ransmitter. That destroyed her prayers • The city had been completely leveled. There were no known survivors. Jana could only hope that her children went quickly and painlessly, not suffering.

Raven I had been the first group to view the new world after endless months of confinement. They ran out of food and water, and they had to venture outside the shelter to search for something uncontaminated. Jana's first visions of her new life came through the messages of Raven I.

Raven I reported radiation levels to them and informed them of the horrible sights they had in store. Some people had survived the explosion but not the fallout. They were mutants, horribly disfigured and scarred from the intense radiation. Many of them were mentally impaired as well. They roamed the valleys in search of food,robbing and killing.

Jana thought to herself, "The killing hasn't stopped~ it will never stop; we'll always have to fight and kill to survive."

Jana hated this existence. She wished she had died in that school with her babies. She was sick of the darkness, sick of the mutants, sick of existing.

The growling in the pit of her stomach told her it was time to venture out in search of food. She shoved her bleak thoughts aside and grabbed a canvas bag. Maybe she could return with enough food for everyone before Jason woke.

Jana trudged among the dim woods. The burnt trees hovered around her like dragons. A few green plants were starting to creep up among the charred ruins. Jana trudged on towards the brook. Suddenly she heard something snap behind her. Jana whirled around. "Jason," she cried. "Is that you?"

However it was not Jason this time. A scarred hand was the first thing Jana saw. The body was twisted horribly. The face was distorted beyond the recognition of human origin. The form moved closer. Jana turned to run but the rock base of the cliff had her trapped. "Oh, God," Jana said. "Please, help me." The form came closer, it's branch -like arm outstretched. "No," Jana cried.

"Please don't hurt me. This life is not the greatest but it's a life. I don't want to die." The figure touched Jana's dirty cheek with its rough claw-like hand, and struggled to speak,"M m mo mo mot mother," it cried. "Mother."

-Elizabeth Michaels.

Joshua Whitt

t sat upnn strps

i sat upon steps and a Jesus Freak (Armageddon Armageddon) sat beside me.

pamphlets with bright red letters

(Jesus Saves Jesus Saves) stared at me.

threadbare coat two dollars to his name he talked to me of love, peace, milk, and honey. then mushroom clouds blocked the sun

(Hallelujah)

--Claire E. Esham

1Jufntuntrh Jnrt

Why do you place portraits of bouffant ladies within your journal? It seems their hairspray and perfume would only stick the pages together---

--Peggy Ann Wilburn

I hear The voice of the river Calling me, Gentle waves whispering In soft tones, "Come, enjoy tranquility. I will give you peace." I walk to the water's edge And find my escape.

--Mary Jane Wilburn

llutttleh

Pegasus wings to the sun, Dorthy finds Emerald City, Beatles visit an Octopus Garden, And I stand with my face pressed to the glass, watching ••• confined to reality.

--Valerie Nesler

Darrel Andronis

i!;augiug 1Jrnu

"Listen, Patty," he said in a quiet voice that I knew meant he was as serious as Dad ever gets. "You can do whatever you want, but if he ever talks like that to me again, I'm going to 'drag up.' I've never let any strawboss smart off to me and get away with it the way I did him. Guess I'm just getting soft in my old age. There was a time when I would have taken the head off any man who insinuated I was afraid to ride the call . .J;

"Aw, c'mon, Dad," I said, "I don't think that's what he meant. You stay here on the ground and I'll go up and take the rest of the scaffolding down."

"Like hell you will," he snapped, "If it's not safe for me,it's not safe for you either. Nodoby's going up there until the mechanics check that crane. That grating noise it's making sounds like metal on metal. I've heard it before and I know it's trouble."

Dad was right and I knew it. Twenty-five years experience as an iron worker had seasoned him into a cautious, smooth, and highly-skilled professional who was always called out of the union hall first when a big job started up. He had worked on major projects all over the country and took great pride in recounting the long list of bridges, buildings, towers, and dams he had "hung iron" on. But the thing he was most proud of was the fact that no man had ever been seriously injured while working on any crew he had led.

He was stubborn, and ferociously independent, like most iron workers. I've known him to drag his tools up and riuit a _iob just because he didn't like the way a boss looked.

Dad's quick temper had always bothered me. I had seen my mom have to put off getting things she needed because he suddenly came home from work and announced in a casual way that he had quit. It was usually over some conflict with a boss or another worker which I considered petty. Uhen

I would try to find out more about them he would always say, "Son, when you get older you'll understand. A man's got to be a man, whether it costs him his job or not."

I had always known the men who hung the "red iron" were different breed. They risk their lives daily doing a job most people wouldn't have for any amount of money. They know that one small mistake or lapse of attention could be their last. With this in mind they are not prone to take any unnecessary gaff from anyone. They usually work in spurts. Long hours of overtime to finish a job and then sometimes laid off for months. During this period they live on money they have saved and unemployment conpensation.

Some are farmers, some...are preachers, and some get elected to county offices. But whatever else they are, you can always count on their being selfreliant and proud.

I had serious doubts that I would ever fit this stereotype, or even if I wanted to. Times change; people change. Politicians and sociologists alike were calling for more cooperation between management and labor. I was inclined to agree.

But Shaun Rupert Kelley, my dad, was extremely aggravated by the upstartforemenwho had practically accused him of using safety to get out of doing his job. His feelings were hurt and I knew he was on the verge of making a move.

I didn't want him to go off half-cocked and do something foolish. We both knew jobs were a lot harder to come by now. We had been laid off eleven months before landing this one, and it seemed to me he could swallow his pride just a little for Mom's sake.

He had been disappointed when I left college and asked him to help me get a union card.

"Patrick," he said, "I've been putting bolts and rivets in steel beams since I was eighteen years old. It's good money but the hours are long and the work is unpredictable. Your mother and I, we wanted something better for you. There's no thanks and no glory for a working man. You just

do what you are told and work your life away puttinP, something together that someone else has already designed, making their dreams come true, not yours. The buildings we're putting up today probably won't even be standing a hundred years from now. We wanted you to get a good education so that you would have a chance to leave a lasting mark in this world in the name of the family, Kelley."

I walked with Dad to the water cooler and we both took long draughts of the cold water. Still holding the conical white paper cups in our hands we slowly walked back to our work area with me talking about everything from fishing to the weather, trying to get his mind off the incident with the boss, but I sensed he was brooding.

As we drew closer to the area we saw the boss grab the cable of the waiting crane and step onto the "headache " ball. He signaled to the operator and was whisked away before we had a chance to ask him what he was up to. I felt the first time I went ten stories up standing on the small metal ball and holding onto the wire cable with one hand.

As the crane started its swing around toward the skeleton of the building I heard a loud "clank" come from its engine and saw him lose his footing and slide his body down over the ball until he was hanging onto the hook below with only his hands and dangling his feet in the air ten stories up.

The crane operator was screaming: "It's broken, I can't get it to move. Oh, my God, please hold on,mister."

I looked into my dad's eyes. They were shifting from the ground to the crane and then to the man dangling from its hook. He had wacted no time in assessing the situation.

"Get me that rope," he said, "I'm going up. You come behind me with another long rope." He paused and glanced over his shoulder

at me. "Be careful," he said, "Take your time and be careful."

The climb up the crane's boom was tough and tiring. The small angle iron it was made of cut into my feet and hands and I wanted to stop and rest a dozen times but Dad didn't stop, so I didn't either.

The boom was standing almost vertical to gain the height needed to work the top of the building. The hook and man were hanging about thirty feet below its top.

As we approached him we could see the cold sweat bead~d on his forehead and the panic in his eyes. At this point he was no more than twenty feet from us, but the twenty feet was wide open space.

We hesitated there and Dad tried to reassure him. "Hang on son," he said, "We're going to get you down."

"You take the end of this rope and stay put, Patty," he said, "I'll be right back."

Dad climbed on to the top of the boom dragging the rope behind him. He tied a loose knot around the single cable and then let it go. It slid smoothly down the cable all the way to the round ball, just above the hook and the terrified man. He then descended to my position. We now had a line from the hook to ourselves and Dad and I began to gently pull the man toward us.

When he was close enough, we reached out and passed a rope around his waist and secured it to the crane for safety--we had him.

We sat on the ground in front of the huge crane trying to catch our breath as the paramedics treated the young foreman's hands for bruises and his shoulders and arms for strain.

When they finished, he came and stood in front of us and said, "Mr. Kelley, you and Patrick saved my life. You can take the rest of the day off."

"I'm sorry, sir," I said, "We don't work for you any more."

Charles Whitt

1Jt Ifas lnu

When chosen to dance, With an air of romance, It was you.

When courted and wooed With excitement my food, It was you.

With promises spoken, Loving friendship its token, It was you.

When my dreams all died, "I don't have time," he replied. It was you.

Love needs encouragement, Memories need nourishment. It was who?

--Gloria Bond

Donna Frost

fflrmnrabil in

I took one look at the Lane full of sheets, embroideries, and quilts.

Laid in the bottom were fragmented memories of our wedded bliss. Pictures, poetic cards, and symbolic tokens turned to tissues from the tears, as each flaming match burned one by one.

--Catherine Elrod Liddle

Walking north with evening wind in my face; my temples reach for sunset.

-John Sheirer

Sidney Marlowe

~~nst llritrr

I know Elinor Wylie's out there Just waiting for her chance To reach us through our fingertips And make the ouija dance.

So I'll not touch the ouija board Nor make a table talk, But if ever I hear Lord Byron (I'd know him by his walk.)

I'd open my mind to receive him And sit down with empty page; He could recreate Don Juan As a man of the modern age.

We'd soon have a new mini-series Filled with incest, adultry, and sex r The thoughts and the words would be Byron's But I would receive the checks.

In a previous incarnation I was probably Mrs. Yates Who dutifully sat and recorded Whatever the spirit creates.

It's good to be a recorder But I want to choose my ghost So whenever you're ready Lord Byron I'm waiting to be your host.

--Betty Hodgden

We were not in love, or anything near it. But the stars seemed to always shine for us, making ours the subject of speculation. We fought them off to keep the closeness and an occasional view from Alexandria. That was enough for usThat, and rhythmic agreement.

-Charles Whitt

Cathy Liddle

Qt nut rib utnr .a

Poetry Contributors

Bond, Gloria-a stenographer at Goodyear Atomic plant.

Cooper Rodney-former SSCC student, guitarist, songwriter, poet.

Esham, Claire E.-student at Morehead University in Ky. Gray Abbra- Columbuspoet,with numerous literary publications.

Hardestv. Rvan-student at Morehead University in Ky. Hodgden, Betty-professor of English at SSCC.

Hurt, Karin -born in Germany, Karin teaches poetry therapy at the VA Hospital in Chillicothe, Ohio.

Liddle, Catherine Elrod-English student at Ohio University.

Nesler, Valerie-SSCC student majoring in psychology. Nevison, Lena-former English teacher and high school counselor.

Reynolds, Helen-SSCC student majoring in education. Rice, Gwendolyn-Welston-a nature poet with numerous literary credits.

Sheirer, John-English student at Ohio University working on MA.

Whitt, Charles-Ky. poet, author of The Free-est Man. Wilburn, Mary Jane-Ky. poet,author of Amber Valleys. Wilburn, Peggy Ann-student at Morehead University in Ky. Fiction Contributors

Andrews, Gary-a local poet and an accomplished musician.

Coles, Mike-business major at SSCC and a member of the Phoenix Writers.

Holsinger, Louise-SSCC student and previous contributor Michaels, Elizabeth-recipient of the Golden Poet Award, the author of A Woman's Heart and -Empty Eyes.

Photography Contributors

Andronis, Darrell-photographer for the Shawnee Star newspaper.

O'Dell, Lori-local poet and photographer.

Art Contributors

Fetty, Winnie May-Ohio native and artist Frost, Donna-former SSCC student now living in Columbus. Marlowe, Sidney-local poet.

Whitt, Joshua--age nine and gifted student at Greenup, KY. Lester, Fred- Journalism major at SSCC.

Jnrtry Qlnutr.at

SHAWNEE SILHOUETTE POETRY CONTEST

Spring Issue

GRAND PRIZE $10.00

2nd. & 3rd. place winners receive Honorable Mention

RULES

1. Each entry must have Spring theme.

2. Limit poems to 24 lines.

3. Any style of poem is acceptable.

4. Enclose $1.00 with each entry.

5. Enter as many timesasyou wish.

6. Author's name must not appear on page with poem.

7. Include a 3x5 card with poem title, your name address and phone number.

8. Include a self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE) for the return of your poem.

9. Shawnee Silhouette staff members may not enter.

10. Deadline is March 1, 1986. Poems recrned after this will not be considered.

11. Mail entries to:

Shawnee Silhouette Contest 940 Second Street Portsmouth, Ohio 45662 GOOD LUCK! from The Shawnee Silhouette Staff