THE SHAWNEE SILHOUETTE
SPRING 1986
The Shawnee Silhouette is published quarterly by the editorial staff at Shawnee State Couununity College in Portsmouth, Ohio. Subscriptions are available for $2.00 a copy or $5.00 a year. The three issues will be published during Fall, Winter, and Spring Quarters. Submissions are invited in the areas of prose (800 words maximum), poetry, art, and photography.
Staff
Mike Coles, Editor-in-Chief
Teresa Lodwick, Poetry Editor
Tamela Camichael, Fiction Editor
Darrell Andronis, Photography Editor
Fred Lester, Art Editor
Assc•ciate Editor: Charles Whitt
Printed by Shawnee State Print Shop Director, Kenneth Powell
Copyright April 1986
All Rights revert back to the authors upon publication
Editorial
Universal Symbols: Cherry Trees and Roosters
Since Jesse Stuart, the well-known Kentucky writer, considered the Portsmouth area as "home", he frequently and generously spoke without charge to local organizations as his health and his schedule permitted. It was therefore my privilege to hear him discuss his writings as he spoke to some Portsmouth area civic organizations over the years.
One of the most vivid recollections that I have of the dynamic speeches of Jesse Stuart concerned his remarks about the use of the universal symbols. Mr. Stuart often said that he was frequently asked how he could account for the popularity of many of his stories which were translated into more than twenty different languages and were published throughout the world. Mr. Stuart stated that he could explain the popularity of his stories by his use of universal symbols. By this term, Mr. Stuart explained that he meant images that would be instantly recognized by readers everywhere. He believed that most people associated similar thoughts with a familiar image. As Mr. Stuart would state in his talks to local organizations, "anyone who has ever seen ripe cherries on a tree or a crowing rooster can picture these objects vividly. Cherry trees and roosters are essentially the same throughout the world."
Keeping in mind Mr. Stuart's explanation of universal symbols, one can examine the works of any writer in any time period to test the truth of his statement. For example,
William Blake, the famous English pre-Romantic poet, in his two poems, "The Lamb" and "The Tyger", created two extremely effective universal symbols. Most people associate the birth of lambs with springtime, even though Dr. James Herriott, the pen name of the Yorkshire veterinarian who wrote All Creatures Great and Small, has stated that most lambs are born on the coldest night in February. The newborn lambs with their wobbly legs and curly soft wool have a universal appeal. The same Dr. Herriott when asked what animal he preferred to treat has said that the birthing of lambs has givea him the most satisfaction of all his veterinary experience.
The tiger (which Blake whimsically spelled with a y) suggests the jungle habitat and the power and force of a large catlike creature. Most of us would picture a tawny animal with black stripes unless we had just recently seen the famous white tigers of Cincinnati.
Are all universal symbols natural ones? No, there are many man-made symbols that are universal. The dollar sign is one that would be instantly recognized world-wide. Back in the nineteenth century, the Dollar Steamship Lines helped to spread the rocognition of this symbol by using huge dollar signs on their smokestacks.
Unfortunately, in some countries the dollar sign may evoke a picture of the brash American tourist who shouts because the tourist can speak only English and thinks that the way to make the meaning clear is to shout; surely if the sound is loud enough, someone will understand. After all, what the tourist usually wants to know is the explanation of any price that is quoted in the currency of the foreign country. The tourist is probably asking in a tactless way, "How much is this in real money?", demanding the dollar sign if it is not there.
But there are more pleasant man-made symbols. McDonalds' arches and the white-bearded Kentucky colonel are present in most large cities throughout the world. To a hungry homesick American tourist or to an urban dweller anywhere, these signs are welcoming.
Mickey Mouse has passed his half century mark and has achieved world-wide recognition. The Disney characters are as familiar internationally as the Mother Goose figures of the past century.
When writers employ universal symbols, they can be most effective in communicating their thoughts to a wide reading public. Most good writers are well aware of the power of symbols that are instantly recognized.
But no writer is limited to the use of universal symbols only. Each writer has his or her own set of symbols that are personally meaningful. Because of this fact, readers may broaden their tastes and deepen their appreciation for the works of a writer after they have read several poems and short stories by the same author. The readers become familiar with the symbols of the author, and the symbols form a verbal shorthand which can convey a thought from the writer instantly to the mind of a reader. For example, readers who are familiar with the writings of T. S. Eliot would never confuse two well-known rodents of the 1920's: an Eliot rat and a Disney Mickey Mouse.
No discussion of symbols would be complete without a reference to the use of color. Although we may perceive various hues differently because of individual differences in physcial vision, we all find that color is a powerful stimulus for a symbol. As Thomas Moore, the
Irish poet stated so well, "Your glass may seem purple, and mine may be blue, but they both are filled from the same bright bowl." Even though we observe colors differently, we are brightened by them, and the symbol in color is perceived more quickly than the drab one.
Although each writer has favorite symbols, most writers experience a time when the well-worn symbols no longer work. What can the writer do when the symbols fall flat? Wallace Stevens had an answer in the poem, "The Man on the Dump". The dump in the Stevens poem is a junkheap of old worn-out syillbols that are no longer effective. First, Stevens said, "One rejects the trash." Then the writer can invent new symbols or give new meanings to old ones. Arthur Clarke in describing a space odyssey has an almost silent ship under the control of Hal, the computer. Milton, in the seventeenth century, pictured Satan's journey through Chaos "with head, hands, wings, or feet" as he "swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies". In Clarke's twenty-first century, the travel must be completely mechanized; Milton's Satan has an individualized personal struggle.
Since we are all both writers and readers, we wish to perform both tasks creatively. My suggestions are that we bring our sensitivities and perceptions to both processes. We realize that no one's mental world is identical to that of another, but by learning to employ and to decode symbols, we come much closer to a true communication of ideas.
-Betty Hodgden
Contest Winner
Joy Of Spring
The joy of spring is obvious in the country, As the first green shoots of the crocus Push through the earth and snow
Searching for the warm sun.
nut the joy of spring is greater in the city, For soon the street people will no l onger Be forced to huddle on the steam grates To escape the winter's cold.
-Sheila Crabtree
Porcelain White
I set my soul free in a crimson flood
Watched it cascade into the sink
Flowing, Pooling, in the old stained basin
As it embraced materialism's sorrows for the last time
My soul's transportation to the lush truth And consolation lies on the floor
In a puddle of liquid life
All of this from an insignificant kitchen knife
My conscience trips through incalcuable waters
Which spill and splash on immaculate porcelain
The stains remind me of my own imperfections
I would embrace myself if I dared To afford myself that solace And neglect my duty of holding my wrist
Over the basin
Lest I difile sanitation's haven
With my unclean blood
-Majorie Hounts
New Flower
Karami is cold. Her dress is too thin for this early spring day. She was hanging wash to dry for her mother when the young men's taunts drove her away. Her lover is dead now, slain by the father grizzly before their wedding day. The young men know she did not wait for marriage but made a bed on Grizzly Mountain one warm day in the last moon and they had joined their bodies as they had joined their hearts. And it was not a bad think; not idle lust but an act of a strong love that could not wait; a gooJ thing. And still the young men taunt.
'Boys!
Mere Boys!'
The older men are taken but they leer anyway and try to coax her into the woods away from their wives.
Now Karami sits in the cold shade of the boulders in the canyon stream and lingers the stem of the dandelion til it is limp and her fingers are stained with its destruction. She thinks she will run away to the tribe in the low hills that stretch westward into the plains. There, some man will want her and no young boys will taunt her. There it will be warm. Here she is cold; cold as the snowwater that trickles from the melting snows high on the mountain and bubbles through the stones below her.
Someone speaks her name and she turns to look into the face of the stranger who lives in the village with her people. His name is Ghia, a strange name with no meaning. He is kind but like a child among her people; a visitor from outside somewhere, from the stars some say he has told them. But he is no god, just a little man learning to hunt and live along with boys not half his age. Did he hear the taunts? Has he come to taunt?
Has he come to try and coax her into the woods? He seems lost, embarrassed. He has not come to taunt or leer. He stands looking away as she does.
The cold, quiet in the sad shadow is broken only by the wind and the water. He is turning to go and her heart says 'Stay'. They look into each other's eyes a warm moment and Karami shivers. He stays. With a gesture he invites her out into the sun and she goes.
The rock is warm beneath her. She closes her eyes and lets the sun warm her face and arms and seep through her dress to warm her breast and belly, and it is warm on her legs and on her toes through her moccasins.
Her lover's face smiles from the redness of her eyelids and his voice bids her well, waves, and turns away.
"Goodbye," she whispers, a sigh.
She has dropped the dandelion and sees it falling away in the depths of her eyelids where her lover is gone. After a moment Karami feels the stranger's hands upon her own, pressing a cool, new flower into her palm and curling her fingers around it. She opens her eyes and looks boldly at him. Then boldness wisps away like smoke from the old men's pipes drawn upward in a shaft of light to the smoke hole at the top of the tipi, and she looks shyly at the strange little lavendar flower in her hand, holds it gently like a baby, like a tender infant in her palms. It is his flower. He has given it to her and now it is theirs.
He sits and leaves the silence unbroken, looking across the canyon where bluebirds nip at the thorny berry bush. He is dark with sun, his strange, furry beard darker than his hair, his eyes shy and yet a strong man behind them. He begins to speak of the beautiful home of her people, here in the sight of the mountains and the grassy plains, the waters abundant,
the fruits and nuts, the gardens, the fish and fowl, the deer and buffalo. Karami sees it as he speaks, like a scene swiftly painted on a buffalo hide.
He praises the art of the women in homemaking, the skill of the men in the hunt, wonders at the laughter of children and the rituals of young love. The words of her people sound strange and stuttering in his mouth but the gentle voice is like poetry, honey on toasted bread. She is hungry to hear it. She watches his lips, his eyes, the wrinkles of his smile, and is shy when he glances at her and she pretends to study the flower, smiling in spite of herself. He looks long at her and she blushes. Perhaps there will be no need to go away.
-Gary E. Andrews
The Aspen
Restless night winds wooed the trees relentlessly. Thunder broke the silence as Thor pierced the heart of an unsuspecting Aspen.
Flames leapt in grotesque agony. The Aspen writhed mightily. Clouds swollen with precious nectar mocked the dying Aspen.
The morning woke exposing an ugly sight. A smoldering stump stands naked. The once proud Aspen dead and forsaken.
-Donna Nichols
Both Faces
Bonds of time in the midnight hours hold my mind in constant thought of you. I wonder now at two if you think of me as I think of you,
My mind and my heart work together never missing a chance to drag forth yet another memory to lengthen an already lonely night.
As the face of the clock stares mockingly at me, time seems to stand still in this lonely room.
If only I could push both of your faces into the darkness my mind could sleep.
-Mike Hannnonds
Honing Their Perceptions, or the Piano Tuner at Work
The primary purpose of writing is not to impress an audience with one's knowledge about some subject. And it may not be to persuade an audience of how logical-minded the writer is. Rather, from my perspective, as a teach of writing, it is to fine-tune one's perceptions.
I've shredded paper, broken glass, and knocked metal trash cans off desk tops specifically that students might hear the differences in the sounds produced by paper, glass, and metal. Not only to hear that the sound of paper is vastly different from the sound of metal, but to articulate those differences. To find appropriate descriptive words or to build graphic comparisons that illustrate vividly what the differnces are.
The awareness of most students I have taught has been pathetically dull. I become increasingly aware of the need to heighten their awareness of the world around them. If ever they are to write/ say anything of consequence, they must have keen perceptions of their environment. Among other things, that implies knowing their environment in ways other than seeing it. (And too few see it all that well.)
Many students never see beyond the outline of an object, and few ever see into it. Sure, they see sizes, shapes, colors, and sometimes even depth. What they do not see, however, is the likeness of its size or shape to other things, where it came from, what it's made of, how it was shaped, or the purpose it serves.
I tell my students that I want them to see what morning looks like from the pinnacle of the highest tree around. And I want them to hear the sounds of day, sitting in a creek. I want them to
know an orange rind not by what it looks like, but what it feels like. And I want them to know a dandelion by its taste. In other words, I want to awaken their sleeping senses and to know things connnon to their world in the many ways it is possible to know them. Furthermore, I want them to have insights.
Nor am I willing to settle for ordinary words like smooth, sour, loud and the like to describe their perceptions. !want them to discover new words-good words--that aptly describe impressions they experience. Words loaded with suggestion. Words with depth and dimension, not mere labels. When they find words that correspond to sensory i~pressions, exacting words, they are then prepared to articulate impressions.
The importance of words is not always what they mean, instead what they suggest--associations they contain. I want my students to realize that not only descriptive words but also action words and name words are important to the communication process. How lifeless to state that the old man walked along the floodwall in search of empty bottles. Better that he trudged along, or sauntered, perhaps. With the trudging, one can clearly envision how laborious the task must have been. He no doubt struggled to put one foot before the other. If sauntering along the wall, he no doubt took his good old time. It was a very leisurely walk. Furthermore, better he be a vagrant than an old~- The former clearly suggests more and adds vitality to the person collecting bottles. His being a vagrant clearly evokes more concern and sympathy that his being old.
Too many people look and never see. They have surface contact only, much less see into or beyond. One needs to look at the man--his movements, his attire, his deportment, his mission, his expression, and so forth. He, like an inanimate object, is a complexity of many things--the product of many forces at work, at once. Once one sees the outside, he needs
to look inside. Why is he so unkempt? What makes his walk so weighty? Why does he look so sad? Why <loes he walk slump-shouldered? Why is he gathering bottles? Questions of this kind · seem almost autdmatic--natural. How can one help but wonder why? In search of answers to these questions, one begins to gain insights. The looking becomes seeing. Objects become m_ore than surfaces. Ideas become language. Language becomes art.
And so it is with all who write. In the medium of language, they paint the tabula rasas of those who read their word paintings in vivid detail. Some are professionally done; others are yet amateurish. But no artist started his career with a mastery of his craft. He began as a novice--practiced, experimented, learned--until he discovered a winning combination. And so it is with writers. They are all artists, of greater or lesser degree.
The greater the artist, the greater his awareness of the world around him--the keener his perceptions. To borrow from Thoreau: the more awake, the more alive he is. Consequently, my task as a teacher of writing is to help students find the waking moment and to be sure they miss nothing of what it has to offer.
-Dr. Robert L. Wilson
Delicate flower blooms solitary yellow in bushes of green.
-Catherine Liddle
Bar Boys
Belly up to the bar boys
Join the watering-hole song. Chug-a-lug away _ the world and everything that's wrong.
Go bar-hoppin' in the singles bars
Set the lonely girls a droolin'; They soon get smart, soon find out that you're the only one you're foolin'.
Tip the cup, lap it up
Drown your dreams and sorrow. Numb yourself for the night Then do it again tomorrow.
When a man does his dreamin' With his elbows always bent His heart's not his own to give It's always out "For Rent." -Gloria Bond
Unexpected Peril
Our true appreciation of the beauty of Vennont, New Hampshire., and Maine was fully realized only when we abandoned the "beaten path" of super highways and, instead, toured the scenic rural roads that lace this tranquil countryside. We shunned these expeditious courses as we commenced our journev from Danby Corners to our destination of Gorham, !-taine .
We proceeded on Route 133 from the obscure hamlet of Danby. As we intersected with Route 100, we discovered the classically-restored village of Weston. Then, passing adjacent mountain ski resorts, we followed our trail to Ludlow and Plymouth, both historical sites.
Changing course to Route 4, we then pursured the Ottauquechee River to Woodstock. Farther along, starting to cross the Queches Gorge, we understood why it is sometimes called, "Vermon's Little Grand Canyon".
At this point, our journey could have ended, due to seemingly insunnountable obstacles, were it not for sheer determination. A stonn suddenly descended as we crossed the gorge. Indeed, the farther we travelled, the fiercer the storm grew; and then a tall pine crashed onto our path. Almost colliding with it, we stopped. We became very frightened. Moreover, the helplessness we felt while waiting for assistance was overwhelming. However, the road crews arrived and cleared the road, which allowed us to continue. As we descended the gorge trail, once again an obstacle threatened our progress. Our windshield wipers stopped working, likewise the defroster, making driving impossible. Furthermore, there was no way to repair them. In desperation, we lowered the windows and attempted to drive, while we prayed for the rain to cease. As we considered turning back, the rain stopped; therefore, we were able to proceed. To be sure, surmounting these obstacles required fortitude.
Following our chosen path, we continued east to encounter our first glimpse of New Hampshire. Rolling hills and lush valleys welcomed us.
Turning northward from Route 118 onto Route 3, we temporarily left our pathway to enter Franconia Notch State Park and to survey the '"Old Man of the Mountain". Parking on the shores of Profile Lake, we glimpsed the truly captivating image of the patriarch whose profile was reflected in the cystally-mirrored lake. Some five hundred feet above us loomed the stalwart visage of this granite formation, which was hewn by nature eons ago. The chiseled features of the monarch spoke of his ongoing battle against harsh elements and time itself. For the present, brilliant sunlit skies warmed him as gentle breezes caressed his weathered cheeks. Russet and saffron-like leaves framed his chin, which jutted defiantly outward. Flowery fragrances rose tauntingly toward the figure's sharp nostrils, almost unnoticed. Severe eyes gazed scornfully over his magnificent domain. In the stillness, echoing winds seemed to carry the lonely and desolate cry of the aged monarch.
Lost in awe of this captivating wonder, we failed to notice that small stones had begun to skip through the treetops. Then, it started.
Massive boulders were loosed from their moors and began hurtling toward us. It was as if a giant had discovered our presence in his playground and had decided to attack his unsuspecting intruders. Transfixed, we stood, unable to comprehend that the impossible had occured. Excitedly, our guide exhorted all to flee to safety. In near panic, we raced to our cars, barely excaping the avalanche that trailed us. Several miles past the danger point, we stopped and tried to regain some degree of composure, still disbelieving the disaster we had encountered.
Once composed, we travelled eastward onto Route 302 and through White National Forest. In the distance, we sighted Mount Washington, the loftiest point in the Northeast.
Commencing the final portion of our scenic excursion on Route 16, we followed the Saco River as it rambled into the "Pine Tree State" of Maine. Route 25 then deposited us at our ultimate destination: Gorham, Maine.
-Donna Scaggs
May It Rain Forever
Why is it that when I'm alone in my house, and the rain falls like thunder outside my window I feel safe and secure?
Do the steadily falling drops keep something away that purges my feeling of security when a rainbow rears its head across the sky?
-Kathryn Sullavan
Preoccupation
Too much thought of missiles in an age of alleyway abortions-intended terrnr . like that of Shiite Moslems on U.S. installations in Beirut. To break the spirit of a man denies him life. · To deny one based on skin, on sex, on moral inclination is murder in the first degree. The starving masses wait in Africa to die. We kill them with denial. Loneliness, RE: Silberman, is a national disease. From it we die.
Too many spend their conscious moments dying, and ensuring death.
-Harding Stedler
Haiku
Rainy morning: the umbrellas follow one another to work.
-John Sheirer
Spirit Lights
Creeping through the darkened nights In howling hollows, phantom lights.
With demon eyes aglow in fog On silent journeys through the bog.
Those demon voices .sound their plight; Share wicked whispers in the night.
And spirit lights, no mortal daunts Their silent dance through Cajun haunts.
-David Potts
Warning
Upon this earth vile terrors walk in human guise And the gaping mouths of private hells seek to devour the unwary
-Peggy Ann Wilburn
The Scented Pillow
Missing you I lie against Imagination cleaving the pillow which still breathes luring scents of you.
-Catherine Liddle
Untitled
Submerged in a sea of "I love you's" I slowly drown Alone.
Valerie Nesler
Haiku
In the park a woman sketches trees; I too have a pen.
-John Sheirer
Fifth Avenue
She was a cute thing cheerleader of the year. Her boyfriend said he loved her, whispered nice things in her ear.
Working hard as a waitress, and any odd jobs she could find; putting him through college was all she had on her mind.
He now has his office on Fifth Avenue. She has her apartment, it's painted depression blue. He sees her every now and then, She's walking home from work, and he's just driving in.
She'll go to her apartment, and cry as if on cue. He'll drive to his office the one on Fifth Avenue.
-Rick Mann
Not Yet
Keep the blankets by the bedside Though spring has surely come For winter is a spiteful thing And may return one night When lovers are away And the fire not so warm
-Gary Andrews
Lost On You
It was my way of sayin' that I love you. It was my way of telling you I care, but it was 1ost on you lost in the blue of your eyes of the sky in the space between you and me.
-Gary Andrews
An Open Letter To ... A Great Father
For far too long I have waited to tell you how proud I am that you are my father, my dad, my pop! You gave me life; I am "seed of your seed"; and I could not have come from a better man than you. How blessed I am to be able to carry your inheritance, your name, and your blood line into future generations. If I can only now also possess your integrity, mental toughness, and perseverance.
My memories of you are all so warm and beautiful. I remember your youth, your strength, and your love for me. I remember how proud you were of any of my accomplishments. Even though you had difficulty telling me directly, it didn't escape me that your chest would swell and your eyes brighten when you mentioned my name. I recall vividly how you played games anrl sports with me when I was a boy. I worshipped your prowess, your manliness, and your enthusiasm.
And, oh, how I "busted my butt" to work along side you ••• trying to just keep up ••• and continually striving to show you I was a "man" you could be proud of. I guess maybe I've spent most of my life unconsciously still doing the same, haven't I? But thank you, Dad, for teaching me the value of working hard and playing hard. I just want you to know I still do both!
I never, ever referred to you as "my old man" because I respected you too much. It seemed you were a friend to everyone and, so help me, I've never met anyone who doesn't like you. You care for people and your tenderness for them and humor with them has had a tremendous effect on my life and personality.
I watched you diligently and unrelentlessly struggle through difficult financial times and work day after day, month after month, year after year
to support mom and us kids. And I saw how you sacrificed so that we could have so many of the things you never had. I was too young to understand how you went without so much so that we could have so much. But I understand loud and clear now, pop!
Sometimes I thought your discipline was a little harsh but now I fully realize that you knew I could not discipline myself if I wasn't first disciplined. But you never abused me; seldom spanked me (but darn those long lectures of yours); you never expected anything of me that you weren't willing to undertake yourself. Admittedly, I sometimes thought you were so "dumb and stupid" but I came to know that you were quite "wise and intelligent." If I had listened to you more often, I wouldn't have had to learn so much THE HARD WAY! Guess who was really the "dumb and stupid" one? But you should know that I also DID listen to you, too, and I have pattered myself after you in so many ways.
Now you are in your golden years ••• the "Autumn of Your Life" ••• and I know how you suffer. Your physical strength and stamina have diminished with your eyesight. Your youth is never again to be, but such it will be with all of us in the human dilema (I, too, see my birthdays flying by). So many of your dreams have been fulfilled and so many others now only turned into memories.
But your life has been highly significant ••• not one lived in vain. It may have passed quickly ••• like a ''breeze over a field of wheat" ••• but it has been meaningful, Dad, and it has been worthy and honorable. In the very truest sense of the word "Christian" ••• no matter how one defines it ••• you are a good Christian man! Don't give up, my man, don't give in. Keep fightin' the good fight!
And know this, my hero: My Mother has loved you for many years, my brothers and sisters love you, and I LOVE YOU! God bless you, beautiful person. You are my Father--into eternity!
As always and forever, A very proud son
-Dr. Herry L. Walke
Guilt Is My Hangman
Guilt is my hangman
Swinging his noose
Constricting my heart. A coarse black hood Covers his face
But his presence is there, Ever tightening the grip On my coil of death. To choke, gasp A dangling tendril Fills him with glee. His sole duty
To squeeze life from me. His sole duty., To loop that noose From a limb And noiselessly fade away As my breath ends.
-Claire Esham
Color
Him Gone
Where is this invisible lover? The one who plays hide and seek with my emotions leaving me unguarded, a prisoner of freedom eclipsing my life.
-Abbra Gray
Whispers
Whispers of wet snowflakes through limbs of almost green willow, and still gray twigs of water maple, settle on nut brown grasses, tufts of foxtail, and wind-beaten horseweeds.
Whispers of riffles from old rivers, melting ice from still eddies and sloughs behind sandbars, rise with the mist into mornings with a hint of pink.
Whispers of duck wings, going north over just plowed fields and greening winter wheat. Traveling with passion in their hearts to mate and replenish the flock.
Whispers from the wind that brings promises of warmth and plenty to those that endured sleet, cold killer rains, hawks, owls, and the white death of winter.
Whispers of spring
-R. Riverbuck
CONTRIBUTORS -- POETRY
GLORIA BOND, stenographer at Goodyear Atomic Corporation. CLAIRE ESHAM, student at Morehead State University in Kentucky. ABBRA GRAY,. local poet, aut h or of The Show Must Go On.
MIKE IW·fMONS, a diesel technology major at SSCC. CATHERINE LIDDLE, published poet, English major at Ohio University. RICK MANN, resident of Mentor, OH and first-time contributor. MARJORIE MOUNTS, Portsmouth native, active in Portsmouth Little Theatre. DONNA NICHOLS, psychology major at Ohio University and member of The Scribblerians. DAVID POTTS, English major at Ohio University; science fiction buff.
R. RIVERBTTCK, SSCC administrator. JOHN SHEIRER, Teaching Assistant at Ohio University, main campus. HARDING STEDLER, member of the Phoenix Writers. KATHRYN SULLAVAN, history major at SSCC. PEGGY WILBURN, philosophy/psychology major at Morehead State University.
CONTRIBUTORS -- FICTION
GARY ANDREWS, local resident of Cherokee descent, member of The Scribblerians. DONNA SCAGGS, a Lawrence County native majoring in nursing at SSCC. JERRY WALKE, member of The SSCC faculty and author of a recent book on foodaholism. ROBERT L. WILSON, associate professor of English at SSCC.
CONTRIBUTORS -- PHOTOGRAPHY
FRANK KITCHEN, Ashland, Kentucky resident, amateur photographer. DARRELL ANDRONIS, a McDermott area native and member of the staff of the Shawnee Star. LORI O'DELL, sununer employee of Shawnee State Park and amateur photographer.
CONTRIBUTORS -- ART
JIM TACKETT, local artist who desigued the set for the Miss Southland pageant. MIKE PENN, electro-mechanical engineering student at SSCC. DONA FROST, Phi Theta Kappa scholarship recipient and advertising artist on the Shawnee Star, majoring in elementary education. FRED LESTER, layout artist for the Shawnee Star, majoring in journalism.
