Phoenix - Spring 1972

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I Had a Friend Once by

David Strang It was late in the third year of m y travels that I met Pike. I was working on the docks in Seattle at the time, and the girl I had seriously considered being serious with had just left for San Francisco with a damned two-bit singer from the bar she worked in.

"I follow the steel rail trails and concrete rivers as doggedly as my ancestors followed their trails searching desperately f or something they took for granted"

I d on't recall just who wrote that passage, whether it was Guillermo Charles Guillermo, or David Strang, or who, but it is a pretty accurate description of my early life. I was a sundowner, searching desperately for something. I couldn't t ell you, though, whether my ancestors took it for granted, because I'm still not sure just what I was looking for in those days.

It has often occurred to me, though, that I ran and hid as much as I searched, I would run and hide from unhappiness and dissatisfaction and search for-what? Consciousness? Love? Freedom? Myself? In retrospect, I cannot say what prompted me to leave home at the age of seventeen to live the life of a wayfarer. It was a comfortable home, I might add, complete with loving parents. Whatever my reasons, they brought me through four years of what would commonly be called "roughing it."

It wasn't a bad life. Sometimes it was cold, and oftentimes it was wet and miserable and lonely. But it is easy to forget the bad times during the good times, and easy to remember the good times during the bad.

Like he says: "you can remember, and smile ,then put your thoughts away for awhile, at least but keep the smile you might meet someone else worth remembering" That's what you have to do when you've got the blues: Keep smiling, and then find a reason for smiling other than insanity. Just thinking about the good times, when my belly was full and I was sharing a bottle or a bed, would make me feel better. Other than that, I could read my way out of depression. I was almost never without a book or two.

Sometimes when I've had a few drinks I'll start to tell stories about my years as a drifter. Invariably, someone who has had more to drink than me will ask, "If you liked it so much, why the hell did you stop?"

If I'm cocky-drunk, I'll answer, "I guess I'm Just masochistic." If I'm pensive-drunk I just say, "I don't know," although I know perfectly well.

Whatever mood I'm in, I usually cease the oration and resume the guzzling because the true answer involves one of those memories that I'd rather not remember when I am enjoying myself. And if Nicholas Pike taught me anything, it was to always enjoy myself when I drink.

It was late in the third year of my travels that I met Pike. I was working on the docks in Seattle at the time, and the girl I had seriously considered being serious with had just left for San Francisco with a damned two-bit singer from the bar she worked in.

I was in said bar when I first saw Pike. I was drinking, and thinking about Karen, but I wasn't enjoying it at all. I was torn up bad inside, but I'd' rather have choked than shown it. As a result I was pretty tense and touchy about any little thing.

Pike, however, was feeling good. I would learn that he always seemed to feel good. It just so happened that he had won a sizeable bet that day and was bent on blowing his winnings.

, 3

I glared at him a minute, but he just grinned. It occurred to me then that Pike was close to forty years Old I was just a boy to him. I never admitted it, though, and he never called me '?Joy" again.

HE did what he could. He hit the clutch, but we still picked up speed.

Then, just before we reached the curve, he slid into reverse in one last effort to slow down enough to negotiate the tum.

It was no good. I screamed "Jump!" just before the truck shot into space, and jump I did. I remember the cold shock of the rain and the greater shock of the earth as I hit and bounced downhill. When I finally lay still, I had a broken arm, several cracked ribbs, and more bruises than I could count. I considered myself lucky. I was in considerable pain, but I was concerned for my friend, Pike.

"Pike!" I shouted. I was on my feet, though prettv shaky, looking wildly around. I heard a moan from down below me. Turning, I could barely distinguish the outline of the ruined truck. I ran as best I could to where the truck lay on its side. From there Pike's broken body was too easy to see. "Pike?" I cried, kneeling beside him.

"Don't worry, I ain't dead yet." Although he was obviously in agony, his voice somehow sounded reassuring.

All I could do was repeat his name over and over. I cried, too, unashamed. Pike was the only real friend I ever had, and I knew that he Was about to breathe his last.

"You go on to Marquette," he whispered, "and look up Jim Skinner. I wanted you to meet him, and he's the only other friend I ever had. He's a good friend; he'll help you. Tell him how I died-that I wasn't alone."

He stopped suddenly and his chest heaved violently. I sat mute, thinking he had died. Then his breathing steadied and he continued. "Settle down-make friends-if you've got friends, it's ... " So died Nicholas Pike, a lonely man, my friend. I think I eased some of the pain of dying by being with him, because for him one friend was worth a dozen priests. As I said, he was a lonely man.

It just so happened that when Pike swaggered up to the bar, he stepped up beside me. "Beer for everybody!" he yelled. Then he slapped me between the shoulder blades and said, "Have one on me, boy."

Like I've said, I was pretty touchy at the time, so I gave the man my tough look and growled, "If you see a boy, give 'im a dollar."

I Pike, being a genuine fun-loving follow, pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and laid it down on the bar in front of me. What could I do?

Thoroughly insulted, I swung, and knocked Pike right on his ass. It was the first and last time for me. He bounced up, not even angry, and knocked me out in about five punches. ( When I woke up, Pike was standing over me offering a hand. "Name's Pike," he said as I stood up. He was at least six-four and two-thirty. My semi-sober mind began to wonder just what the hell my drunk mind had been trying to do when it caused my arm to raise against this fellow in anger.

"Sorry I blew up like that," I said, and told him about Karen and the singer.

"Well, don't feel too bad about the broad. At least she didn't run off with a bag full of your money."

"I don't have a bag full of money."

"Well, no dam wonder she left you."

"N either'd the sonofabitch she ran off with."

"She'll leave him, too. I know the type."

"Ah, what the hell do you know."

"Don't get pissed at me, boy!!" Maybe a little pissed himself.

"Don't call me boy!"

I glared at him for a munute, but he just grinned. It occurred to me then that Pike was close to forty years old, and that I was just a boy to him. I never admitted it, though, and he never called me "boy" again.

The tension faded gradually as we drank b~r, and before long Pike and I were talking quite freely. I told him about the things I'd done in the last three years, and he told me some things about himself. He, too, had been a mover. In his younger days he had rambled throughout the country, but lately he had stayed in the Pacific Northwest and worked as a lumberjack.

I had never done any logging before, but when Pike finished telling stories I was ready to try. So when Pike's pick-up truck rolled into the logging camp again there were two people in the cab. I'd had no ties in Seattle when I arrived there, and I had none when I left. We won't speak ; about the in-between times. I took to logging quickly. It was rugged work and it bred rugged men. I liked the other 'jacks, but Pike was the only one I was close to. We worked togehter, ate together, and drank together. I both liked and admired Pike. He was completely independent without making a big show of it, yet he was deeply concerned with his fellow's problems. I wanted to be like Pike: free, confident, capable, and well-liked by all.

By the end of the fall Pike and I were the best of friends, and it was fairly easy to convince him to winter down in Arizona where it stays warm. I may have exaggerated a little about the sexuality of the Mexican and Indian girls there, not to mention all the cowgirls, but luckily the first girl he met there was a nymph who was even better than I'd described to him. We worked and played in almost equal amounts, until spring came and our money started to run out fast. 路Pike was ready to go back to Washington, but I wanted to angle northeast and go to Michigan or Minnesota. Pike was all for it, because he had spent some time in that country years before. He had an old friend there who would undoubtedly give us work. April found us in the cab of the pick-up, headed for the Great Lakes and Marquette, Michigan.

We never made it.

I suppose I've met a million people but I haven't known five because to know someone you must give of yourself and your freedom because you return eventually to anywhere you've found a friend Once you've known a friendship you always rem em ber it when times are hard you feel the need for a friend and if you are lucky you may find one Most don't they just hurt for awhile then turn cold and hard inside their need is gone but so are the feelings of friendship feelings like generousity compassion laughter and most important love I had a friend once he died and as the years go by I think more and more of giving up my freedom freedom my dear, dear,freedom because I think that is better than dying inside and losing the human being from my being...

If there was ever a monsoon in Colorado, Pike and I were in the middle of it. I still believe that it was the heaviest rain I've ever seen, but the weight of the other events of the day may be playing tricks on me.

We were descending the eastern wall of .the Colorado Rockies. It was a Wednesday, about noon, but it seemed later because of the rain and the heavy cloud cover. I remember betting that it would be pitch dark by five o'clock. Pike was driving, and the road was one of those curvy mountain roads with a lot of switch-backs.

Pike was talking about his friend in Marquette and really feeling good about everything, even the weather, when he put his foot on the brake to slow down for a switch-back. There was just one minor problem. We had no brakes.

To make a long poem short, I did go to Marquette eventually. So rest easy, Pike, you aren't forgotten-sure wish I could rem em ber who wrote those poems.

4

-A short consideration among other matters of the oft-heard remark that students learn more from drinking beer and talking with their fellow students than they do from studying their classes with the purpose of asking if "Aw, b ullsh it, " is an appropriate reaction to that remark

"We're closing now," quoth the library assistant. He left English anfl went to the dorm. The hopes of home lingered longer in his mincL He knew they were distortions and that after the first day or two he wo have to start helping his father with the remodelling-putting up panelling or building and pour cement steps, but mostly just runniIJ.g after the hammer or the nail bag. Hold this and go find that. He "knew that it was boring work, and he knew he would feel awkward the whriJ!e time because there wasn't much to say to his father when they work together. A summer job was just about impossible to find, but still 1m was looking forward to going home.

He had to be careful on the Greyhound, or a black baby would statt crying, and he couldn't get to sieep; or a drunk going to New Yo would sit down beside him and want to talk; or the sonofabitch acro the aisle would wake him up as soon as he had gone to sleep to ask for light. Tonight he had experienced most all of those misfortunes before the bus lumbered into home terminal. He spotted the taillights of the Chevy; they were to meet him on time.

Hi. Hi. Where's Jackie? Got the ticket for your suitcase. Yeah. No, ~ don't know. Who? Greyhound's thru bus to New York now leaving with stops in Hunington, Charleston. Well, what's happened since I've been gone? How'd you do this quarter? Bozo got his rabies shot. He did? how's the cat?

Then the funniest damned thing in the world happened. He had gotten home, but he ran back off somewhat like a scared chicked to summer school. His roommate was Robert who didn't chew,• smoke, or drink, but whose cheap radio razzed on and on, and if it stopped, Robert himseII would start into some of the dumbest conversations anybody ever heard.

One Friday night Robert brought his girl friend to the room during open house. His roommate thought of an excuse for leaving the room but not until he had seen their guilty looks and heard the embarrassed, giggled phrases they spoke to one another. They were acting like they had committed a crime. She was a student nurse, and he was a freshma:l in communications.

At least there was a fall to look forward to. His fall qu~ter roommate was a German-American. He was intelligent and commanded respect. He talked skillfully and shrewdly, read philosophy, and talked to professors.

He was dedicated.

His secret was disclosed that fall. Marijuana in the hills; marijuana with its thrills for every heart and mind that longs to listen quietly and enjoy.

Thou, illegal marijuana, and thou, illegal, lovely girl. What a strange corrupted life and yet so thoughtful and calm for this roommate with a girl's name.

"Mayas well find out about the stuff," he thought, and so this new roommate agreed to introduce him to the pleasant mysteries marijuana. They journeyed through bitterly cold weather toward an apartment just off campus. The wind was slashing them, but they were able to endure until they reached a delicatessen in which they wer-e offered a few moments to warm themselves while they purchased beer and other provisions with which to fight the expected gnawing hungeL They re-entered the cold December night, and struggling against the wind, they mourned the recent death of the roommate's dog until they reached the apartment.

Messy room, sloppy music, fattening beer, soggy sandwiches, card playing, teievision blaring, commode not flushing, and the little cigarette going around the human circle. Just enough to see saliva glistening on it, and it was the flu season.

He went back to the memorization of chemical constituents ann second conjugation verbs in the library. There he was studying one night when a tall, blond male dropped a note on his desk. He ignored the not~ but after the unnecessarily loud, and, some believe, goddamned bell had rung to clear out the library, the persistent male followed him ani! pleaded his willingness to pay up to two dollars for a "beat-off."

He went back to the library the next day and studied. And the next, the next, and the next day. He studied for the Spanish class in which the fat little lady always forgot the lesson after nine minutes and twelve seconds and launched into philosophical, English-language discussions with her willing, little Platos about subways from Boston to Bronx and about temperature controls in ovens and Lard what messes they can cause if they don't work just right. He studied also for the Sociology class, and next day he went to hear the lecturer's lullaby.

by E. B..

Hopes of home flourished in his mind alongside memorizations of chemical constituents and the masochism of exam time he gladly, tediously coped with in order that the ensuing summer weeks would be made more tolerable first by a sense of accomplishment and secondly by words of praise from his father, both of which rewards would be called forth by notice of a high grade-point average being sent to him through the mail and even possibly through the hands of Mr. Vared, his old roommate's father, who was a postman here in Knoxville, the town which Alfred, the old roommate, now pursued his life of converting his college aquaintances, of praying, of repenting, of being permanently miserable and prodigously fat, a condition which made him all the more conspicuous when he almost weekly sojurned to the altar of his home church or of the one he was visiting in order to make those ever-demanded renewals of his faith, and yet, although he did belong and did attend meetings, he could hardly be called a member of the local Campus Crusade for Christ since he often felt and in several cases knew and possessed Biblical proof that many members of that organization were prideful, slothful sinners who did not reach, who, in fact, hardly tried to reach, the level of perfection he himself was striving for in spite of the narrow, uphill passage and drab scenery-scenery which could not have made the trip any more enjoyable had it been lifefully and bountifully beautiful since the vosager's thoughts were turned ever inward in such a glaring, glorious warp that he bowed his head in the restaurants over the most body-deforming edibles that can be imagined while he neglected to bow his head in -thanks for a history paperback, an object which some maintain is more worthy of thanking someone for than is a fatty piece of hamburger.

He thought of this former roommate while he took a brief rest from studying, and the smile that flickered across his face then was provoked by a memory of the Amorous Adventures of Alfred of the Campus Crusade for Christ. He had gained knowleged of such adventures by sitting at a table in Smokey's Palace. He was sitting there when along came Alfred with a girl. They seated themselves one table away, nodded their heads in greeting to him, bowed their heads in greeting to Him, raised their heads cautiously as if to make sure they were not going to be struck dead for failure to genuflect, dropped the lower third portions of their heads so as to produce openings into which went pork and dressing, brownies, and coke and out of which came the following: "The first time I saw you 1 said, 'There's a girl who doesn't have the Lord.' 1 thought you were just like all of the other girls around here--drink on Saturday night and sleep all day Sunday without going to church."

"Oh, Alfred. What made you think that about me?"

"1 don't know, but you can imagine how happy 1 was to see you at Campus Crusade and learn that you were a sister in the Lord."

Then Alfred had to tell her about how he had been afraid that she would never date him. They finished the food and put their coats on. He watched while they walked away with their black and orange badges proclaiming the message of "One Way," and he thought of one other way whose direction was pointed out by the middle finger instead of by the index finger, but how did he tell a Campus Crusader the value of fornication without becoming a crusader?

Having memorized the final formula, he turned to English.

E.B.

5

Jerry Moore

6

ADay in a Nightmare

Steve and

~is

Country

by Tom Travathan

by Bill Sims

Guess what? Steve has new arms. They are plastic and metal. Our advanced technology has created them just for him. They are even cheap.

More life-like than the real thing. They do not rust either.

See Steve. Steve is going to be nineteen. He is 411-96-5842. Send Steve to school. Let Steve fall in love once. Steve is happy. His country is not. His leaders are not. We have got to have a war. The economy is bad.

A war will bring in the money we need. Money, money-we want the money. Kill for money-peace too. Steve's country needs him. Steve, go to war.

We do not know Steve. Who cares anyway? Send him away-far away-we don't want anyone killipg our customers 'here at home. We do not like路 them over there anyway. Their eyes are slanted. See Steve fight.

See him in our war-his war. Bang, bang, Steve is dead. Oh, shucks.

Wait a munute. He is not dead. Steve is just barely alive. Too bad. It will cost money to keep him alive. Save that part of him. Throw the other away. Cut him up neat. We don't like sloppy people. Don't leave any arms, legs or anything like that. Steve will be a hero. Give him a piece of metal and cloth. Call it an award. Make a hero of him. Just do not let it cost too much.

Give Steve a number. He is casualty number 20 this week. We have to keep thepeople at home informed. Hey country! Only 20 casualties this' week. That)s only 3 more than last week. We killed three thousand of them. Weare winning the war.

Guess what? Steve has new arms. They are plastic and metal. Our advanced technology has created them just for him.; , They were even cheap. More life-like than the real thing. They do not rust either.

See Steve's love. We should not have let him fall in love. Steve should have been sent away before he could fall in love. Steve's love can have Steve back now. We do not need him. He has done his patriotic duty.

Besides, there are plenty more like him we can take.

Steve's love loves Steve-what's left of him. She crys. He crys. She works to keep him alive. She buys our products. Ha, ha-Steve is one of our products. Send him a check each rrionth-money. It will make him forget about his arms, legs, maybe even his life. We will get it back in taxes anyway. Tax his pants off! Steve does not wear pants. He does not have legs. Sorry-tax his jock-strap off. That sounds better anyway-more athletic, more American.

Steve has a future. What does he have l).ow? He has his country. His country is never wrong. Steve watches T.V. now. See him see the T.V. See him see his leaders. They are happy. They are rich. They are famous.

What a great country to live in. But we do not want Steve to be too idle or happy. He might question his country. Heaven forbid-Billy Graham forgive.

Is there a heaven? Steve will not see it. His leaders have told him that.

Heaven is theirs. The world is theirs too. What is this? Steve has killed himself. Wonder why he did that? He never was very smart anyway. Hey country! We were wrong. He can still kill for us. He killed himself. Get him back. We can use him. How much will it cost?

7

During the next few hours he experienced the excruciating pain of withdrawal. His eyes watered, his nose ran, and he quivered uncontrollably. A pain, like a saw cutting through his spine, started in his back. He began to feel nauseated, and he thought he might faint.

Alternately, he felt the heat of mid-day in the desert and the cold of a windy ice storm in the Antarctic. Just as the pain was reaching fever pitch, the room began to spin around dizzily and he felt himsf!/f loosing consciousness.

He might have taken a bath l~st week. H~ could not remember. Once in a while, he engaged himself in a flurry of activity. Sometimes he would go the the Young Men's Christian Association and bathe; he might even tie his shoes and change his clothes, but these r~stless periods were few and far between. Most of the time, he was perfectly content to live in his self-made world of euphoric delight. But tonight, something was wrong-terribly wrong. He looked around the basement of the tenement house where he slept between the old, rusty washing machines at night.

The smell of human misery intermingled with the stench of cold wet plaster filled the airless room and left him with a strange feeling of hopelessness. It was not the room which particularly bothered him, nor the uncomfortable feeling of needing the drug; it was the utter degradation of knowing what heroin had done to his body that ripped him apart inside. He was a gray skeleton of his former self. His pallet was a sickly yellow caused by jaundice accruing with liver disease. His arms were co.vered with ugly needle marks and his veins looked like twisted blue rope with frazzled ends. The lice in his oily, unkempt hair were the worst indignity of all because he did not seem to care about them. When he first discovered the little animals, he was appalled; but now he often picked one out of his hair and stared at it benevolently, as if it were a friend. As he thought aboutthe lice, his facial expression changed, and he banged his fist on the cold stone with determination. This time he knew that he was really going to do it. He was going through withdrawal and he would rid himself of his habit if it was the last thing he ever did.-At last he would be part of the world again. Never again would he break into parking meters or rob liquor stores. He was finished with holding up drunks in the street and getting commissions from prostitutes. As he got up to wash and change his clothes, he thought about throwing away the syringe of heroin back in his "room." However, he realized that there was no need to do anything so drastic because he was no longer an addict. Coming back from his shower, he noticed that the people in the "straight" world were giving him strange looks; and he was glad to be back in the security of the basement.

During the next few hours, he experienced the excruciating pain of withdrawal. His eyes watered, his nose ran, and he quivered uncontrollable. A pain, like a saw cutting through his spine started in his back. He began to feel nauseated, and he thought he might faint.

Alternately, he felt the heat of mid-day in the desert and the cold of a windy ice storm in the Antarctic. Just as the pain was reaching a fever pitch, the room began to spin around dizzily and he felt himself losing consciousness.

When he woke up from his sleep, tears were streaming down his face.

He was still crying, but not his tears were tears of relief because he knew that he had been dreaming and that soon he would be all right. He stared at a louse by his face on the floor, and as the sounds of the world awakening to meet a new day filled the streets outside he reached in the dim light for the steel needle that was the harbinger of respite from pain.

cc OJ

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MICHAEL O'BRIEN

DAVID STANSBURY 9

10

11

Mark Van de Brake

•...

There's an old rope Around a tree out back.

There used to be a dog on the end of it.

Just an old yellow dog, That nobody much cared for ...

'Cept me.

But he doesn't live here any more.

Pa said that a man named god took him away .

Now I've never seen this god fella, But I've heard a lot about him.

He takes away people and animals and things.

It's called dying.

But I'm not really sure what that is.

All I know is You're not supposed to take things That don't belong to you.

No matter what you call it.

God must be a real important man For the sheriff not to get after him.

Maybe he's just a hard fella to catch.

Whatever he is ...

I wish he'd bring back my dog.

He's the only one I had .

J. B. Marks

Looking Toward a New Year A flash of fire, a muffled scream, The ground runs cold and red, Too many boys have left their homes, Too many men dead.

A mother sits at home and sobs, A ,letter came today, Now dressed in black, she knows a life Is far too much to pay.

A city lies alone and still And hears a gasping breath, She's burdened with a filthy mist, Until she chokes to death.

Somewhere in this glorious land, A lonely baby cries, And hunger twists and knots its frame Until it finally dies.

A million pairs of staring eyes Behold the land being torn.

While somewhere in man's sense of time Another year is born.

And now alone in foreign graves, Await the grateful dead, For soon the sounds of war will cease, And seas of death wi II ebb.

And soon the soldiers will journey home, They've stopped that man-made hell, But they'll leave behind in pools of red Their brother's empty shell.

Dick Woods

12

Relic The shell lay on the beach remembering.

IIAt one time" it proclaimed "something soft and alive was inside me!"

But now all that's left is the crust.

The shell waited on the sand for the tide to take it to the ocean.

K. Alicia Blaine

13

Jerry Allen

Compare and Contrast A pink demon stands in front of me with its dilluted brains dripping out of pierced ears, and tells me to compare and contrast Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. DuBois.

Shrine

And I ask the pink demon, Compare and contrast, if YOU can, NatTurnerand Huey P. Newton, Richard Wright and Earl Anthony, David Walker and Imamu Amiri Baraka, black and white, the sun and the moon, the finger and the hand, day and night, a star and the universe, heaven and hell, Life and Death. if YOU can.

I am accustomed to bu i Id ing shrines only to have them torn down, I didn't realize that yours would topple at the sound of harsh words.

Next time I shall build more soundly and speak more softly.

K. Alicia Blaine

Compare and contrast?

Heypinkdemon, Ain't you heard, a pink devil named Webster says their one and the same.

Michael Edward Moore Jr.

A Prayer To She Who May Be Fading spirit, do not be dismayed By my human failings, for often the spade Can cover fond memories with inpenetrable haze And sever the ties of bygone days. for he has given life to life and death to death. ask not that he give also death to live ...

I was wrong when I cried to your dreams as they died That forever, as the, we were one.

I shall-cherish the past, but my promise can't last In this new, searching life I've begun.

So do not spoil your afterlife With thoughts you knew as my wife.

You have transcended mortal pain, Do not seek it aga in. beware lest ye in heaven shou Id not accept the higher but seek the lower you once knew.

I cannot hide.

It is fear, not love, which moves my plea.

I can't decide .

If waiting for a gamble is a worthwhile life for me.

Perhaps you're really gone, as my dreams surmise, But I just can't take the chance of betrayal to your eyes.

Stephen Anthony Irving

Avenues of dream, my feet of clay; A picture is one man Laid upon one page-or half a page.

Hold this time entire: Speak the perfect part, Sing your song, Chant the dogma soon, and rest; We are allowed One hellish afterthought-but one.

A sound, The cold-burnt people feel Their primal fear and speak In neon-shone illiteracy.

D avid Powers

14

Open Road I wake up every morning to a dull and dirty greyness, And the strength of its aroma fills my head.

I hear sounds of people choking, people crying, people hoping, And the sounds of people going back to bed.

As these four walls close around me, they send shadow arms to hold me, And I know this horrid mess can never mend.

I see signs of all our hasting, all our progress, all our wasting, I can see the path we're riding, and its end.

Dick Woods

I tossed a pebble into a stream, And it was much likened to my life.

For I made one big splash, Which grew larger and larger, And then turned to illusion, As myrippling hopes died ...

Like the rings of the pebble.

And once again I live in perfect stillness, Knowing there are no more pebbles, And waiting for the eterna1 serenity.

Short Fiction

J. B. Marks Melville ah I think of you and your pet whale as my white candle burns down chased by the flame leaning over to slip the tip home, a light gale from the air conditioner whipping this frenzy on, Not Even Death

but I end abruptly: Ahab and Moby embrace

I am dead, but I want the people who knew me to read what I now write. \ The altar of my country now has my blood to further stain it.

I had my choice whether to carry the gun and shoot to ki II or Be a coward-disgrace the family name.

No man ever called me a cowardNow no man ever will.

I died a hero's death, but it was the easy way out.

Mom was so full of tears at my going to war yet She couldn't have held her head up, had I refused ...

I'd heard all my life WAR KI LLS TO MAKE PEACE (?) but, I had also heard TWO WRONGS NEVER MAKE A RIGHT. What could I believe?

Not wishing to shame my heritage, I came to this country Where my stiff, bloodless body now lies. .

Mom will be heartbroken, just as she would have been if I had said HELL NO, I WON'T GO!!!

Is a broken heart or broken pride more painful?

At any rate, I am now dead, for a cause I never really understood.

My lifesblood cut short by family prideMy aims have been so misunderstood There is no justice, even in my death.

I came for peace.

I died for war.

as the Artie wolf's tongue does the wet hunting knife; howl dead wo If! and wallow 'dead whale and Ahab!

And you sir or madame (or dear reader) do not cheer but speed me to my finish that I put my thumb right on the eye of my spleen and thus push it down quickly without taking a pound of paper, your time and mine, the Pequod, and several oceans to finally cover it.

D. C. Berry

K. AI icia Blaine

16

It was the sort of day to spend walking in the woods.

Tramping over fallen leaves, kicking a pebble along the path.

An afternoon to sit on the hollow log felled across the creek, legs dangling over the water.

Just thinking and doing nothing.

Outside with the crisp autumn leaves, with the sun and the wind.

Not in this horrible room, in bed.

For God, not inside in bed on a day .like this one.

Just thinking. And doing nothing. Never.

Never. No. There's always something to do.

Books to read, letters to write, Sandy's socks to be mended.

There is always something to be done. {Jod. To be well. To be free.

One afternoon just to live.

Locusts in the trees, whirring their wings.

Locust-communication.

Sunlight and leaf-shadows in a filtery pattern on the ceiling.

Smell of leaves burning in

somebody~s

Walt, in an old tweedy jacket, smelling of winter.

It's cold outside.

Chill. Wintery.

Crisp.

Walt's cheek is cold.

Walt, smelling of winter October, hair falling long, boyishly, over h is brow.

bonfire.

Is somebody happy and content with that fire.

Or is it just routine work.

Drudgery.

Getting rid of the useless leaves that clutter up the yard.

Perhaps it is a joyous, bright bonfire.

Blazing and crackling in the late afternoon.

Perhaps it is a meaningless bonfire, They are to some.

Walt smiling, yetlow roses in his hands.

Smiling so very Walt-ish-Iy. I've brought you all that's left of summer, said Walt.

Looking at the yellow roses in his hands.

Walt, tenderly, gravely.

Looking at the petals.

Delicately lined, fragile rose petals.

Walt's voice drifted up through the open window from the driveway below.

Talking to somebody.

Cars going by on the road.

A less traveled road, narrow and woodsy.

Beginning at the village.

Ending at the highway to the city.

(Are the children really happy at their schools.

Perhaps Brown should be in school in the village, she's been talking about it lately.)

Would it be better.

Don't know.

Have to think about it.

Talk to Walt about it.

Walt.

Downstairs the front doors creaked open, banged shut.

Walt's tread in the hall, Walt's step on the stair, .and then Walt in the doorway, in the room.

Eyes downward cast.

Are you counting petals, Walt?

One hand gently touched a leaf.

The smile had left for an instant.

Then came back.

Slowly, thoughtful, somehow quieter this time.

He laid the roses gently on the pillow.

Three of them.

New and young and perfect.

I found them by the side wall where nothing else was growing, Walt said.

They looked lonely, so I brought them to you.

Walt's hair is turning iron gray.

Once dark.

Dark brown.

Dark brown, coffee brown.

The color of coffee without cream.

Dark hair falling like a boy's.

Over his brow, into his eyes.

To reach up with a hand and brush the boyish brown hair off his forehead, and Walt would smile, to reach up and brush ...

Walt's eyes smiled.

His hair turning iron gray.

Winter in October.

Margery Eugenia Weber 17

Of Lurking Ghost Time was when I thought of lurking ghost, of warring tribes, painted red, of me in a forest lost, and of a child who never would be caught doing what he thought.

Life and Men's Mistakes Not every tear can be from joy, Not every smile sincere, Not every song so soft and sweet And gentle to the ear.

On, those days are gone, I'm near a twenty or so now, a master of my thoughts.

Or so it seems until I dream again this night of lurking ghost, of warring tribes, painted red, and me in a forest, so 10st' J ohn Kom' . .sar

Not every day is clear and bright, The sun Gan't always shine,路 And though sometimes we see no hope It passes by with time.

Some people do not understand, They can not see to walk, They stumble through their precious lives With burning, worthless, talk.

Time's endless motion smites their lives, They walk with noses high, They care not for their fellow man, They live synthetic lives.

But common men of work and sweat They count on straining toil, They live not on streets all paved with gold, But their lives are valued more.

Until now I was the clay My world shaped and left to see I don't understand what is and I won't explain to you but if it finishes and I am there when it is thru I'll shape a world for you.

Dick Woods

Luke Henley

Today's Poem your head upon my shoulder breathing easy as you lie with happy in your memory and sleepy in your eyes and only just to comfort, with to never criticize for that is what you're made of, just a soul that's full of wise. the tractor trailer crocker on the highway near our bed passes memr'ys of the travels and the journeys thru my head and in the midst of yesterdays lies sleeping in my soul a gentle fleeting feeling lying tattered, torn, and cold.

Don't be so distant Twilight is only an hour away and the night will hide all your fears and tears and dreams of broken hearts.

your gentle heartbeat bridges gaps too wide to comprehend as my yesterdays I ie scattered thru the highways of the wind and your body lying next to me brings peace into my mind as it causes all the brainstrings to impatiently unwind.

If I could touch you now I'd fill you with the soothing light that glows and throws its rainbow spray around you and me like shells along the sandy beach.

Michael Altizer

Only the night knows what love is.

It's seen it a thousand times before and never once stopped to think that silent vows are only spoken to be broken and forgotten.

So don't be do distant If we are both lost and fou nd at once who's to say where we belong for after all right and wrong are merely states of heart.

W. R. Johnson

18

19

Michael Altizer