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Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis IVIembers and Sloan Foundation 

Ssc-l Briar, VA 24055 




spring 1980 

Cover Photograph 
Debbie Harvey '82 


Spring 1980 

Sweet Briar College 
Sweet Briar, Virginia 


Shrift Amy Campbell 2 

Untitled Leigh Wolverton 3 

Untitled Jim Shoes 4 

Nirvana #3 in D-flat major-opus 2 Jim Shoes 4 

The Last Cafe Anne Renault 5 

Christie Ann Scordas Poetry Contest Winners 6-11 

Three poems from Lessons to a 

Fourth Grade Class Mary Abrams 6 

Abstract Design Jill Steenhuis 9 

Classic Black Amy Campbell 10 

Untitled DebraBook H 

for Page Stephanie Snead 11 

Untitled ToniM. Santangelo 12 

Seasons Andy Aiken 12 

Portrait Jill Steenhuis 13 

Bowing Stephanie Snead 14 

Untitled Kathy Love Taylor 16 


slapboard pavilion, minors' altar 
a smoky cold incensed space 
for the wintering congregation, 
dollar-twenty beer comforts the 
throats of the woollen wrapped, 
others, dancers, begin the slow strip 
tease of gone-to-meeting finery, 
band beaten to false nakedness of the 
dance floor, begging for backseat 
confession, candlecoated walls flash 
steam-dripped glasswork gospel on 
barkeep of boredom counting nickels 
in the offertory ashtray, pushing 
dollar-twenty salvation. 

Amy Campbell '80 

Leigh Woolverton '82 

'Jim Shoes' 

Nirvana #3 in D-flat major-opus 2. 

(a comment on modern poetry) 
For Alison Becker, Martha McCaleb and Lisa Faulkner 

12 exactly beneath ribbons on quilts of stone poured with denim ketchup; 
Waves of aluminum!! Ubiquitous and omnipresent pencils. 
Screaming khaki, cro-magnon tan shag- 
perhaps . . . 

Wine above? Shelved fish slowly creaking through . 

paper greeks 
A suitcase, birth of a tennis racket. 
Blades of cork, chuckles, crumpled consomme. 

Black tin box, vertebrates mirrored beige eyelet-away, 
A splash of vanadium, lead-stained mayonnaise. . . 
Acquiesced grey hnoleum toenails, simonized. 

, suspended 

'Jim Shoes' 

The last cafe. 

I walked in the cafe' that night. 

Only a few people were sitting there. 

As usual, they had not turned on many lights 

And a heavy smoke was drifting. 

On the bar, the bottles were lying empty; 

Nobody had drunk, they always had been empty. 

I leaned against a corner and looked around; 

Raskolnikov was here, pale as he used to be. 

His head tilted, and his eyes looking down. 

And his hands stretched out on the table. 

He was listening to Dostoievsky 

Talking to him. 

I felt like sitting next to them. 

But I knew I did not belong to their world. 

A soft music came up from somewhere 

And then I saw Pierrot and Arlequin. 

Nodding with their black and white faces 

As they played the mandolin 

With their powerless hands. 

I felt like quietly singing with them 

But I knew I did not know their song. 

Against the other wall, in front of me, 

A thin man, dressed in black 

Has laid his arms hke a cross. 

The gaze lost, the eyes mad. 

He was still unconsoled. . . 

El Desdichado! 

I drew near him, I felt like entering his hell 

But I knew against me the door was closed. 

The room was quiet, everyone was whispering; 

Now and then, the empty glasses were clinking. 

I knew that nobody would dance; 

I knew that nobody would party at this place. 

I felt like talking to them; 

I felt like sharing their hopelessness. 

So I took a glass and I dropped it; 

They vaguely turned their heads 

But none of them looked at me. 

Then the world stopped spinning. 

It was my last caf^; they were my last hope. 

My heart ceased beating and I fainted. 

When I woke up, I thought I could see 

Raskolnikov smiling and watching me. 

I shrugged my shoulders and walked out. 

But the next night when I came back 
I saw from their stare, from their hands 
That they were welcoming me in their sorrow. 
And I felt that at last, at last. 
Of their kingdom I was a part. 

Anne Renault 

(Exchange Student— France) 

Christie Ann Scordas 
Poetry Contest — 1st Place 

Three poems from 

Lesson I. 

Our ancestors wandered 
in search of berries. 

Eating lizards on occasion. 

Lifting logs, 

inspecting bark, 

poking fingers, 

panicking insects 

and tasting them at random. 

Our ancestors walked delighted, 
mouths wide open, 
through swarms of gnats. 

Our ancestors ate their way 
across the continents 
in search of berries. 

Eating each other just once in a while. 

Samphng everything that crossed their path. 

Poisoning themselves at times 
and dropping in their tracks. 

Lesson V. 

What a lesson we learned 

when our father's father 

outran Oppression 

and Famine 

only to have them follow 

on the next boat 

to the new land. 

And we were there 
to meet them — 

(There was nowhere else 

to go. 

No place else 

to be.) 

Cornered in the New World 
waving — 

As Distress walked off the ship 
with a red carnation on; 

A picture of 
each of us 
as infants 
in his pocket. 

How we've grown! 

All the feathers 
of all the birds 
in all the world 
flapping at once 

Could not do 
what the wind did 
to the dust 
that was the land 
that was the Midwest. 

The Midwest 
in mid-air 

And when it 



The Midwest 
was still there. 

The same spirit 
that moved the air 
that filled the sails 
and moved the ships 
that brought our people 

The same spirit 
that moved the air 
and made the wind 
that blew 
the dirt 

Brought the people back 
to sit on the Midwest 

To make sure 
it wouldn't go 
anywhere again. 

Lesson VIII. 

They rebuilt Hiroshima. 


if only out of pity, 

rarely strikes 

the same spot twice.) 


when they rebuilt Hiroshima 

they built it where it had been 


They rebuilt London. 

(The misquito bites twice 

and again. 

It buzzes above us 

and ruins our sleep 

while fining its body to bursting 

with blood.) 

They rebuilt London after 

the swelling went down. 

The tissue of the scar grows 
thicker than the skin. 
The earth has learned 
to tolerate the sky. 
And man persists — 
by not adapting, 
rejecting acceptance, 
testing all patience . . . 

And sticks out his tongue 
in the face of oblivion 
and screams: 

Catch me you old gorrilla fart — 

C'mon! MaryAbrams 



Poetry Contest— 2nd Place 

Classic Black 

I never was the pink 

one, fragile dancer with the 

big kicks, I always lost 

my hairbands and 

wore all black. 

but once with the 

mirror, oh, my legs felt 

longer, I was told I 

had a good neck and to 

cut my messy hair. 

I still drag satin shoes 

in the street faking 

practice time, but I 

can put on stage eyes, 

now I've learned to 

wrap a bun. I'm the 

dancer with the long line, 

still wearing classic 

black, often late to 

class, practising 

kicks during dinner. 

wool coated ankles tucked 

under her finally stilled 

thighs, she crouched & rubbed 

the hardened mass of leg that had 

once let her jump. 

under the stage on the 

dusty cold cement, the warm 

friction eased the pain 

to the beat of bodies 

leaping above. 

first to catch her breath and 

smear hpstick on the 

juice glass, her damp 

costume dries into concentric 

salt rings, encircling the arms 

wrapped 'round her cooled down 

frame, first to hear the 

after quiet, an inner sound of 

over, last to leave her 

theatre, in darkness after the fact. 

Amy Campbell '80 


Poetry Contest — 3rd Place 

for Page 

A dot of deep Purple hanging from a vine, 

Painted stubborn Grey untempted to shine. 

Pressed securely in a cluster, 

moistened slightly by heavy rain, 

the Grapes' odor is Elusive Pain, 

its sweetness hidden within obscure Lace, 

veiling the nectar as its Last Grace. 

Stephanie Snead '81 


- ^ei^ 


Snow-flakes fall. 

The season Fall 
is gone. 

Now Winter 
is here, 
And the snow 
will be towed 
By youngsters 
to the fort 
Which will fall 
to the season, 

Toni M. Santangelo '80 

Andy Aiken 
Age 12 


Jill Steenhuis '80 



I was walking to my mother's house one day picking wildflowers 
along the way. A soft wet cushion of grass chilled my bare feet. In my 
hands I carried three yellow dandeUons, a daisy, and two blue blooms 
my mother calls cornflowers. As I came to the road heading into the 
woods, I felt a despairing, quiet unrest. The birds were inaudible above 
the deep drone of crickets, but even that seemed like a silence in itself. 
Under the trees, the air was hot and moist. The tree trunks were covered 
with green moss. Long wooden vines entwined themselves between the 
tree limbs, while some of them hung freely to the forest floor. 

I continued on my way at a slower pace now. Bugs started swarm- 
ing in and around my ears. I frantically smashed them with my fingers. 
But as soon as I stopped rubbing my ears, the high pitched noise began. 
I shook my head violently; still the obnoxious sound persisted, 
"disease, disease, disease." I ran along the riverbank until I came to a 
place where it sloped down onto a large sandbar. Throwing the flowers 
on the sand, I waded into the deep water. I immersed my head and 
swam upstream with open eyes. The water was dark; I saw only the 
agitated particles which flowed past me. I exhaled and came above 

The sky was visible above the river between the dense forest on 
both sides. A greyness seemed to be pushing the thin white clouds and 
blue sky away. 

I had been carried downstream from the sandbar by this time, and 
had to fight the current with all of my strength to make it back. As I 
crossed the sand to pick up my flowers, a flash of lightening illuminated 
the sky above me. I heard the thunder rolling in the distance. I stood 
listening as the wilted flowers drooped across my fingers. 

A thunderbolt broke in the air, "toil, end it, doom, doom!" The 
sky clashed in an electric outburst. I dropped the blooms and ran 
screaming through the woods. The air smelled sour, and my mouth 
tasted bad. My feet stung as I stepped on the sharp twigs and stones. I 
held my hands over my ears as the storm raged on. 

The wind picked up force and leaves whirled past me. Rain poured 
through the wooded canopy above. A bolt of lightening struck a tree, 
"justice!" I froze as I heard the hmb sphnter and fall to the ground. I 
was no longer able to focus on what was around me. The trees swayed 
inward, the trunks seeming to bend and roll. The leaves rushed to the 
ground, distorting themselves in the same manner as the trees. I could 
not feel my feet as I continued my rampant escape from the woods. I 
moved out of the forest and into a clearing, yet I did not seem to be 
pushing against the ground at all. I held out my hands and fell to my 
knees. I sensed the air part in front of me as I dropped. The earth 
stretched under my weight as if I had fallen onto a trampoUne. I was 
suddenly enveloped in a pool of rainwater. I jumped out of the water 
and landed in another spot. Again, I sank into an elastic fold of earth. I 
lifted my legs to my chest, the earth leveled and the water flowed evenly 


over it. I lay suspended in air not more than an inch above the ground. 

I remained motionless as the rain tapered off and the clouds moved 
across the sky. From one white cloud that was left, a beam of colored 
Hght penetrated and descended toward me. I was levitated toward the 
bow as it formed an arc from the cloud to the top of the trees. When I 
reached it, I touched it with my hand. It was rigid. I climbed onto its 
back and hiked to the cloud from which it came. 

Once on top, I could see nothing except blue sky and the brilliant 
white cloud under my feet. I walked a Uttle to my left, and then to my 
right, trying to decide what to do next. Without realizing what had hap- 
pened, I lost my balance and fell into a spongy pillar of the cumulus, 
sprang back up into the air, and down again. This process repeated, and 
I, unable to control myself, bounced from one cloud to the next doing a 
variety of intricate dances in the sky. 

Stephanie Snead '81 



Kathy Love Taylor '80 


Brambler Staff 

Sharmini Luther— Literary Editor 
Jill Steenhuis— Art Editor 


SPRING 1981 
SWEET BRIAR COLLEGE □ Sweet Briar, Virginia 


SWEET BRIAR COLLEGE Sweet Briar, Virginia 


SPRING 1981 



Christina O'Leary 

Nina Brown 

Caroline Hawk 
Margaret McCarthy 

Claire McDonnell 
Allison Roberts 

Myra Merritt 
Ann Evans 
Shirl Carter 

Hedley Sipe 

Gretchen Husting 
Allison Roberts 
Deirdre Piatt 
Sara Greer 
Susan Parr 

Jane Losse, Secretary 
Christina Svoboda 
Susan Parr 

Beverly Blakemore 
Christina Svoboda 

Melinda Weimer 

Gay Kenney "-,,. 
Linda Hauptfuhrer 


Vernice Thompson 
Annelies Kelly 

William Smart, Literature 
Lauren Oliver, Art 

Special thanks to David Abrams for his patient and practical advice, and to 
Janet Coldwater for her help with photography and overall design. 

Thanks also to John Jaffee D Cover Photograph by Debora Harvey. 

Editor's Page 

The Bnvnbler originated in 1923, taking the place of the Sioeet Briar Magazine. At that time it 
was pubHshed six times annually and contained many features that are now printed in Tlie 
Sweet Briar News, The Briar Patch, and the Student Handbook. Yet through all the shifting 
and sorting of materials among the various publications. The Brainbler has retained its in- 
dividuality as our "magazine of creativity." The following editorial, written over fifty years 
ago, is still a valid and valuable reminder of Tlie Branibler's objective: 

// tlie magazine is just a product of the E}ighsh Department, or a by- 
product of college composition courses it will, tiecessanly, lack life... We 
wish to stir up interest in writing, writing which has some tone and some 
maturity. But we do tiot feel that the entire magazine should consist of 
nothing but short stories atid poems. We should like to widen the scope 
of its material to include any subjects of general interest from Russian 
music to outdoor sports. . . . handled in such a manner as to have popular 
appeal. (The Brambler, Vol. 7, no. o) 

Although interest and submissions have been waning in recent years, there was stronger sup- 
port this year from students, faculty, and staff. We on The Brambler staff hope this positive 
trend will continue, to produce a magazine of consistent quality in the years to come. 

C.K.O., 1981 

We appreciate the following exchanges; 
The Washington and Lee Ariel 
The William and Mary Review 
The Yale Literary Magazine 

Errata for The Brambler 1981 

Page 2 Drawing by Barbara Bush 

Page 6 Photograph by Susan Rowat 

Page 25 Photograph by Susan Rowat 

Page 31 Drawing by Martha Freeman 


It's a Dog's Life 

William Shockley Dreams 

The Creation Story 



Rendez-Vous at 10:38 


The Hat Story 



The Earring 

Pilgrimage Sermon 


Three Songs 

The Grey Swan 

Post-Partum Blues 




Words of an Atheist 



About Our Authors 


Cathy L. Cook 
Mary Abrams 
Linda Hauptfuhrer 
Tony Marra 
Hedley Sipe 
Stephanie Snead 
Annelies Kelly 
Stephanie Snead 
Chris Svoboda 
Laura Murphy 
Gay Kenney 
Myron B. Bloy, Jr. 
Annelies Kelly 
Polk Green 
Beverly Blakemore 
Mary Abrams 
Annelies Kelly 
Hedley Sipe 
Linda Hauptfuhrer 
Carol Barlow 
Linda Hauptfuhrer 



Susan Rowat 

Debbie Harvey 
Caroline Hawk 

Martha Freeman 
Barbara Bush 
Debbie Harvey 
Pam Beckett 
Chris Svoboda 




The Jean Besselievre Boley Prize is awarded each year to 
encourage interest in creative writing. The fund provides a 
prize of $100 to the student submitting the best short story 
in the annual competition. It was established after the 
death of Jean Boley in 1957 by her husband and parents, 
since she had attended Sweet Briar for two years, later 
receiving a B. A. from Barnard College of Columbia 
University. She died at age 42, of cancer. 

Two of her books were published during her lifetime; 
The Restless, a book about a crucial year in a woman's 
married life, and The Babu Lcimb. a satirical book on 
American life abroad. She also had numerous short stories 
published in The Saturday Ert-ning Post. Colliers. The 
New Yorker. Harpers. Commonweal, and Good 

Housekeeping. Jean Boley was noted for her character por- 
trayal and descriptive writing. She seems to have been a 
witty character herself, and is recorded as saying the 
following in a letter to Sweet Briar: 

...Hercicith please find enclosed a check 
for 510 from a prodigal daughter who. 
having been so handsomely treated when 
recently visiting the Siueet Briar campus. 
repents her years of irresponsibility. 

The Boley Prize for 1980 was awarded to Catherine 
Cook, class of 1081, for her story "It's a Dogs Life. " 

It's a Dog's Life 

hy Cathy L. Cook 

Every weekday, the yellow schoolbus would 
squeal to a stop at the corner of her house, and 
the girl would step off the bus, arms filled with 
books, and she would cross the street to her 

She would bounce up the driveway, glad to 
be free of school and teachers for the day, 
eager to check the mail. She would enter the 
silent house, in a hurry to kick off her saddle 
shoes and dump her books on the kitchen 
table. Tossing her sweater carelessly on a 
chair, she would then head for the refrigerator, 
intent upon fixing herself an after-school 

However, each day she was temporarily 
delayed. Each day the girl would enter the still 
house in a carefree mood, and the family dog 
would come to the front door to great her. 

Now, after being in school all day with her 
schoolchums, she was in no mood to humour 
an old, sickly dog. She was used to giggling 
and gossiping over which boy liked which girl, 
who was the cutest couple of the week, and 
possible dates for a movie or the weekly 
school dance. Yet every day, here would come 
this dog of theirs, hobbling towards her as fast 
as its thin, arthritic legs could carry it, a glim- 
mer of recognition in its cataractic eyes, feeble 
ears straining to hear her voice beckon in a 
welcoming manner, while its stubby tail mov- 
ed back and forth in greeting. 

Each day she would look at the dog with 
disdain. "Go away!" she would say abruptly. 
"Can't you see that I'm hungry! I have to call 
my friends! " 

The dog, hearing these cross words, would 
sadly slow its wagging tail. It was a bulldog. 

brindled in color, while its square muzzle was 
now covered with gray, evidence of its declin- 
ing years. It was a dog of thin bone structure, 
with just enough skin to warm its brittle 
bones. The dog was nine years old. 

The girl's mother had gotten the dog one 
cold winter morning, after the girl had turned 
six years of age. The little girl had stood there, 
holding the squirming puppy, little puppy 
barks leaving round rings in the crisp January 
air. The puppy had been the mother's choice 
of companion for her only child, and the 
mother loved each dearly. 

As the dog had inevitably aged, the mother 
became very solicitious of its health. She gave 
the dog extra blankets to sleep on. She would 
put a sweater and socks on the dog when it 
had to go out on bitterly cold or rainy days. 
She chopped its food up carefully at night for 
the worn-out teeth to scoop up. 

The girl knew of her mother's concern for 
the old dog's well-being, and so consequently 
never spoke a terse word to it in her mother's 

But each day, as the girl would be in a 
hurry to get in the house and dump her books 
so she could call her friends, she had to con- 
tend with the faithful dog, moving her way on 
spindly legs. 

No matter that the girl would holler at the 
dog in a scornful voice, "Go away! I have no 
time to pet you," the old dog would still come 
up to her, hoping for a kind word or a gende 
pat. It had no way of knowing that she only 
cared about boys instead of the obsolete prac- 
tice of chase-the-stick. Its eyes would spark 
with hope, its docked tail wagging slowly. 

eagerly. Each day, the girl would act in the 
same hostile manner, leaving the dog to slink 
away, head down, its pathetic attempt at com- 
panionship crushed again. 

Occasionally, the girl would feel a slight 
twinge of guilt. After all, the dog was old and 
gray. But soon she would be on the phone, 
joking with her friends, flirting with the boys, 
quickly forgetting the dog. 

One morning, just before hurrying out the 
front door to catch the schoolbus, she passed 
by the dog, lying in the kitchen on the floor 
near the warmth of the stove. She paused to 
look at the mournful dog, who only raised its 
eyes briefly to glance at her, then closed them 
and sighed, returning to a slumber. The girl 
suddenly saw the dog as it had always been— a 
faithful pet, one who, indeed, she herself had 
grown up with. She remembered schooldays of 
coming home to the lonely house as a small 
girl, and the dog was there to welcome her, 
and they would go outside and frolic in the 
sunshine. She recalled laughing at the dog's 
playful antics, amusing her until her mother 
could return from work. 

The girl nodded her head in reminiscence; 
she determined to restore a little more affec- 
tion to the long-standing bond between the old 
dog and herself. Goodness! She would be late 
if she didn't make the bus, and so, grabbing up 
her books, she ran for the door, out to the 
waiting bus. 

That very afternoon, the girl sprang up her 
driveway, a skip in her steps. A new boy was 
in her class and she fancied that he thought her 
cute. Oh, such happiness! She could hardly 
wait to call her friends and tell them. 

She strode into the house expectantly, kick- 
ed off her shoes and waited for the old dog to 
amble up to her. She peered intently into the 
kitchen, listening for the clickety-clack of the 
dog's nails on the linoleum floor. There was 
only silence. She called the dog's name ques- 
tioningly, softly. 

Her mother's voice quivered unexpectantly 
from the bedroom. "Honey, is that you?" 

Suddenly seized with doubts (what was her 
mother doing home from work?), the girl hur- 
ried down the hall, and met her mother 
halfway around the corner. 

Her mother's eyes were red and puffy; her 
mascara was smudged under her teary eyes. 

She sniffled, blowing her nose into a handker- 
chief. Through the handkerchief, she mumbl- 
ed, her voice breaking, "Honey, I came home 
at lunchtime today and she didn't rise to greet 
me. I found her hunched up on her blankets, 
whimpering and twitching in short spasms... 
she barely acknowledged my presence..." 

At this, the mother paused. She swallowed 
noisily. The girl began putting her mother's 
words together. No, she couldn't mean... 

Her mother continued. "Sh*e was in otj- 
vious pain. The vet said that she'd lived a long 
life for a bulldog. There was no sense letting 
her suffer. I brought her in and the vet put her 
to sleep." 

The girl stood, stunned for a moment. She 
felt remorse, guilt, regret welled up deep inside 
of her. She felt her face warm, her eyesight 
blur. No! She wanted to scream. Instead she 
wailed, and her mother reached out to her, 
and the girl ran to her mother's arms, the two 
sobbing on each other's shoulders. 

The mother cried for the loss of a loyal 
friend, while the girl cried for the lesson that 
she had so cruelly learned. As the tears rolled 
down her face and shaking body, she cried for 
her absolute callousness, her complete indif- 
ference, her utter lack of concern for the aged 
dog. What would one moment's worth of a 
cheering greeting, a friendly pat, a gentle 
reassurance to the dog have made to her 
friends' time? After all, she saw her friends all 
the time, called them all the time. 

With each falling teardrop, the girl grew 
wiser slowly but bitterly. She vowed never 
again to let a few schoolfriends come between 
herself and a loyalty of long standing. 

Finally, her sobs began to diminish. Her 
mother patted her consolingly. Regret and 
remorse still tormented the girl. She turned 
from her mother, asking somewhat hopefully, 
still shakily, "Where was she buried?" hoping 
to at least put some flowers on the old dog's 

Her mother asnwered tonelessy, "There 
isn't any. We had to cremate her. The vet had 
no room in the ground." 

Hearing these words, the girl burst into 
tears afresh, grieving and realizing, finally, 
that the knowledge of love often comes too 
late. The dog was gone for good. 

William Shockley Dreams 

by Mary Abnvus 

When everyone resembles Einstein in looks 

Peaches will climb down 

And walk to their crates. 

Broccoli will grow in it's 

Own cream sauce. 

Little lambs will pump 

Mint jelly 

Through their veins. 

When everyone resembles Einstein in looks 

Chickens will walk 

Without squalking 



Starfish will learn how to tap dance. 

Monkeys sing. 

Birds talk. 

' '^Si*:. >■ 

The Creation Story 


Scene I 

SETTING: A blajik stage. Two men enter 
right, dressed in a manner so that one will 
knoir that tlieu are ))iore tlian Gods. 

a) This certainly is not a very exciting exist- 
ence we've been living. 

b) (sarcastically) Really? That's very percep- 
tive of you. 

a) Don't be so sarcastic, please. I don't like 
it any more than you do. But really, there 
isn't anything to do. 

b) Well, we could always create again... 

a) The floor is open for suggestions. 

b) How about a new universe? 

a) Are you kidding? Just think of the last 

b) Don't remind me. That was one of my 
more notable failures, so let's just forget 

a) To continue with your idea, just what 
could we put in this universe of yours? 

b) Oh, you know, stars and planets and 
nebulae, and all of the usual. We can do 
anything to it, really. 

a) And who would look after this universe? 
Not to put a damper on the idea, but you 
know me. I might get bored with the 
whole thing, and wander off and forget 
it. You just can't leave a universe out 
there—somebody's got to take care of it. 

b) (slight pause) Well... we could always 
create another God... 

a) Nice, but what's He going to do when He 
gets bored? I'd hate to inflict that on 
anyone, knowing how badly it actually 

b) (gaining enthusiasm) We could create 
things, like people, to amuse him. 

a) Suppose he doesn't like it? Besides, that 
always backfires. Universes are never 
very exciting, at least, not for very long. 
They tend to run down. 

b) I got it! We'll let this God create his own 
universe. That way, we'll be assured that 
he'll like it, and won't get bored with it. 

a) I must admit, that is a good idea, and 
one that I don't think we've ever tried. 
It might make a good show, for a while 

b) Now I've got a question for you. How 
can we assure ourselves that he won't 
make some mamby-pamby, half-assed 
universe? How can we be sure it will 
have substance? And what's this God to 
be like? What will motivate him to 

a) Well, think of the qualities he will need. 
First, he has to be aware of what exactly 
his powers are. Secondly, motivation... 
hmmmm. Maybe the quality we seek is 
loneliness. Imagine... a ruler of a universe 
with total, unlimited power, able to do 
create all that he wants, but not having 
anyone ever to talk with. This way, he'd 
have to work to keep from thinking about 
what he won't have-a friend. The most 
important thing, and he won't have it! 

b) That just might be an interesting show. 

Scene II 

SETTING: The stage is empty, exeept for a 
white hnnp, off center. It is only revealed in a 
touch of bhie light, barely visible. The voice of 
"h" is heard offstage, slightly echoing with 

a) Let there be a God. (Lump stirs.) Grant 
him the powers to create his universe, 
and to fill it. Give him all-power, and the 
wisdom to use it. Let him be forever, 
eternally alone, with no companionship 
or friend. Let him be aware of it, but 
never let him know. Now... LET HIM 

g) (slowly) I. ..God. Isn't there any- 
body around? Hello? Anybody there? 
No? But... where am I? How did I come 
to be? There is a void. I must create 
to be somewhere. (Louder) Let there be a 
universe. Let there be stars, planets, nebu- 
lae, constellations and all that fills a uni- 
verse. Let there be time, and in due course 
of time, let there be life. (As each is 
mentioned, the stage gets brighter, and 
the objects appear, except for life.) I 
have my universe, (glancing about in 
pleased satisfaction) but something is 
lacking. Wrong. Wish I hiew what it 
was. Well. I'll figure it out soo)ier or 
later. Meanwhile, I wish I had somebody 

to explain tins funny fet-Hng I have to... 
(exit left) 

(a and h enter right) 

b) Well, there he goes. 

a) He's done a nice job with his universe, 
hasn't he? 

b) First rate. 

a) He doesn't know he's alone yet, does he? 

b) Yes, but he'll have to see people before 
he realizes the full significance of how 
alone he really is. 

a) Well, yes sir, this certainly is a nice little 
universe he's made here... 
(a and b stroll off left) 
Scene III 

SETTING; A background of stars, a and b are 
sitting somewhere visible, but out of the way, 
watching what is happejung. Cod is talking to 
a man who will turn out to be Jesus. 

g) You must! 

j) You must be out of your mind. 

g) You have to: if not for them, for me. 

j) You are really out of your bird. 

g) Can't you see? That's why I created you. 
Are you that slow? 

j) Your prophets weren't enough? And what 
about your Jews? A whole damn race, 
following your every whim! 

g) That's just it. They follow, like a herd of 
sheep to the slaughterhouse. Something's 
got to give them the necessary push, and 
that will be you. That is why you are. 
It is what I created you for. 

j) That's easy for you to say. You're God, 
and you don't feel what pain is. I'm not 
immortal like you; I'm just a lousy 
human. True, one who has seen you, but 
still just a human. I feel pain, and I don't 
like it. Slap me, and I hurt. Do you really 
think that I'm going to agree to your 
plan, and let them nail me up on that 
cross? You know what happens? You 
hang there until finally all of your 
muscles relax, and you very slowly 
asphitiate. You can't breathe-get it? You 
have your hands and feet nailed, out in 
the hot sun, on a stupid piece of wood. 
Sorry, God, I'm not a sparerib. I don't 
want that. Just because nothing can ever 
hurt you doesn't mean that it won't hurt me 

g) (getting angry) Okay, now listen to my 

side. One day, I was here. I don't know 
how I got here, or if I was in another 
life before, or what. I was just here. There 
wasn't anything here then either. So I 
created. I created the universe— the stars, 
the life, the time, and most importantly 
for you, I created now. It isn't easy to be 
Goci-I don't have anyone to discuss my 
problems with or anything. I know what 
I have to do. 

j) Why do people have to know that you 

g) Worship is the closest thing I have to 
companionship. If I didn't have at least 
that, I might just snap my fingers and 
destroy everything out of sheer boredom. 

iTlie spotlight moves to where a and b are 

a) Bit touchy, isn't he. 

b) Which one? They're both in a rotten 

a) Well, I guess both. Think it's going to 

b) I don't know. 

a) It could work, if he knows what he's 

b) That Jesus guy, I don't know. How does 
God think that a whole planet will fall in 
line because of a single death? 

(Spotlight returns to Cod and fesus) 

j) I won't do it. 

g) You will because I'm telling you to. 

j) No, NO, NO! I WON'T DO IT!!! 

g) I've been too patient. You will do as I 
say. You will live the life I have design- 
ated for you, you will perform the mira- 
cles I tell you to, you will die on the 
cross, and three symbolic days later, you 
will return. You will do what I say, do 
you understand? You have no choice, and 
this is the way it will be. 

j) (silent a moment while this registers) 
You're out of your mind!!!!!!!!mind. 
You're ready to see me die, just so a few 
people will worship you, even though 
you know that they can't understand you, 
because worship is the closest thing to 
friendship... (Jesus is frozen in mid-speech, 
as is God a few confused seconds later. 
When this registers, the light moves back 
to a and b. a acts as though he had just 
prevented a major disaster.) 

b) Why did you do that? It was just getting 


a) Didn't you catch what was happening? 

b) Nope. 

a) The Jesus guy our God wants to sacri- 
fice was just about to spill the beans to 
God. He was about to tell God what it 
was that motivated him to do everything. 
That would have done it--ruined it! He 
would have understood God, and there- 
fore be the friend that God needed. Good 
thing we, uh, I happened along and 
caught that. 

b) I guess you're right, but what do we do 
with them now? 

a) Well... God wants him on earth, so we 
simply oblige him. Then we arrange it so 
that neither one of them remembers what 
just happened . 

Scene IV 

SETTING: Jesus is on the cross, left 
foreground, a and b are again observing. God 
is sitting with his back to Jesus. 

a) Well, I guess this is it. 

b) Yeah. It's kind of sad, in a way. I've 
enjoyed this go-round. It lias kept up the 
interest. Too bad it's almost over. 

j) Hey God! 

g) What? 

j) It hurts! 

g) They don't crucify people because it's a 
pleasant way to die, you know. 

j) (under his breath) You no good crazy... 

g) (rising quickly and facing Jesus angrily) 
Don't bother swearing at me. 

j) God, you know the difference between 
you and me? You can turn to face me, but 
I can't turn to face you. (forced laughter.) 

g) Don't bother with your sarcastic remarks. 
They're no good. The people can't see me. 

and they only hear you when I want them 
to. You have to do it my way, because 1 
am God. 

j) It must be nice not to feel pain-you pig. 
g) Say the words. 

j) No. 

g) You have to, you know. I won't let you 
die until you do. It's just a matter of 
time until I win. 

j) (shouting) You don't know the meaning 
of pain! How can you sit there and tell me 
what to say? You won't let me die!!! 

g) (softly, almost father-like) Say the words. 

j) I've done everything your way so far. I 
won't do it anymore. I quit. I don't care 
what happens to your stupid human race! 
1 want to die! Just let me die!!! 

g) Say the words. The words contain the 

b) This is it. 

j) You want truth, God? (shouting) There 
is only one thing that motivates you, 
God, and that is that you are alone. You 
seek worship from all these people be- 
cause that's the closest thing to compan- 
ionship you'll ever have. That's your 
truth, God. You can never have a friend! 

g) (pause) I'm... I'm sorry... 

j) (softly) "Eloi, Eloi, Lema Sabachthani." 
(He dies while God kneels on the floor, 
crying into his hands.) 

b) Well, it's all over now. Our God's got the 
truth. I guess this will end up like all of 
those other boring Gods. 

a) Let's go. This is going to be a real drag 

soon. Ya know what? 

a) I don't even think that God is going to 
resurrect Jesus like he said he would. 

(exit, as light fades.) 

Linda J-lauptfuhrer 


by Tony Marra 

The night is long, 

sights of what can be 
are now in view. 

The body is Hght, 
the spirit |-'ree for fHght. 

Things, they pass with such speed, 
i think planets they be. 

Seeing, but not with eyes, 
for they too have limits. 

The body, be not a body at all, 
yet i can touch, using no hands. 

Sound be as light, 
silent, yet there. 

These sounds, be deaf to the ear, 
but not the mind. 

The senses of the spirit 
feel the presence 

of The Creative Force. 
In feeling the surge of Its power, 

i fear the knowledge of my own 

which now summons me back 
to the body 

for i have much yet to learn, 
so i may ready myself for th--^ endless flight, 
yet to come, once 

i am. 



My breasts nestle in the soft grass; 
the sweet smell of my sweater lulls me to drowsiness. 
A spider's view of the world I see- 
layers of life beyond my belief. 

Rejoicing their birth, the baby blades of blue-green grass whistle 

with the wind, 
teasing me as they tickle my feet. 

The showers of yesterday's storm seep up through my cushion of 

dead bush, 
balancing with its refreshedness, the sunny warmth from above. 

But paranoia possesses me as a pompous tick proudly parks himself 

on my blanket; 
I know he's eyeing my waving hair— edging his way there. 
I flip to face the heavens, 

and at my disposal are my dreary daydreams. 
I am being blinded, 

for I am forced to follow the clouds until they smother my face. 
Heavy now, I only wish my lids to serve me - 
to screen me from those threatening fears, 
and carry me with them on their flight into fantasy. 

Hedley Sipe 


Rendez-Vous at 10:38 

by Stephanie Snead 

It was the year 1999, just like any other year. 
Scientists had made yet another big step for mankind, 
Placing them in the avant-garde, leaving the artist far behind, 
Still starving until maybe they were all dead or buried 
In an asylum somewhere. Yes-and it all seemed so unfair. 

She was much too young to hold on to him then. 

And she had forgotten about it... since she had found other men. 

He never entered her mind, at least not as he did way back when... 

She was, though, as a matter of fact. 

Drinking in a bar somewhere in New York, 

In the airport waiting for a plane, of course. 

She ordered another tonic and gin. 

As she sat thinking of the coup de grace from her household regimen. 

"Such tour de force," she said with malaise. 

"Yes-please bring the same." 

Alone and silent she sat cursing her luck and delayed plane. 

"Shit," she exclaimed, under her breath, of course. 

As she wiped her mouth and stared down at her light blue silk shirt. 

Now stained. 

She was a dedicated writer on her way to Amsterdam 

To visit a friend for awhile. 

And then to the South of France to write in style. 

"To sun, inspiration, and -romance-," 

She thought, might just be the thing to be sought. 

So she toasted herself and drank to these things. 

"Quite an annoying little place," she murmured 

As the waitress stepped out of sight. 

"I could so easily be here all night." 

And as she sat staring into the dark shadows of the bar 

She remembered him now, and their naive rapport. 

Just a stray thought, a remembrance of the esprit de corps, 

And their chic appearance, and 

How he put too much lime in his tonic and gin, 

And his nonchalant flamboyance. 

The way he wore his shirt, buttoned only once or twice. 

Those things that he did were all so precise. 

She let these thoughts slip quickly from her mind. 

As she finished her drink one more time. 

She stood and glanced in the direction of the bar. 
Wondering where the bathroon was, hoping it wasn't far. 
She smiled quickly when she saw the restroom light, 
She bloody well was feeling rather tight. 

She pushed open the door to the room that she sought, 
And used the stall for handicaps, "much more sanitary," she thought. 
Washing her hands in the sink she thought of him again. 
Remembering how they had brushed their teeth together over the basin. 


With blurry vision she stared at her face. 
Still looking young, thin, smooth nice skin. 
But what had become of her savoir-faire? 

Returning to the bar to pay her bill. 

She remembered his distate for cigarettes, 

As she stood waiting in the smoke-filled place, 

Thankful she had given them up, even though he was such an obvious martinet. 

She was leaving the bar to inquire about her flight. 
But before she had stepped entirely out of its dim light. 
She was stopped by a voice and a hand on her arm. 
Turning quickly, quite startled and genuinely alarmed. 
She gazed into the eyes of the one she had known. 

Well-dressed and still tall and lean. 

His hair not so thick, but just as handsome as he was at nineteen. 

He held her hand lightly and they stood facing each other 

With a certain casual air. 

They seemed like such an ordinary pair. 

He had been working in London, though he had a place on the Rhone, 

And his marital status was still quite unknown. 

Dedicating his life to science and discovering new cures. 

If it hadn't been for that, they would have made it together for sure. 

"I've caught up with you at last! You look as lovely as ever." 
"Do you have the time for a drink?" 

And with a certain repartee she said, 

"Ah-yes, some time to talk, but my flight leaves at 10:58, I think." 



Debbie Harvey 


#84 I could go on forever looking at the stars 

Monday, December 17, 1979 ^"' '^.^'^^ ''!""' ^^^^^ 

like cottee 

I drank too much and it was bitter 

No sunrise in sight 

I cried 


you said to me 
and smiled 

leaning against the tree 
Taking out your pocket knife 
you carved 

"I live in the universe 

so that's where I belong" 
and walked away 
OK but hey 

What about the stars? 
You took one out of your pocket 

brushed off the lint 

and fed it to your dog 
He rolled over 

played dead 
and shook hands 

He fell asleep with his head on my knee 

you said to me 
and smiled 

leaving me by the tree 
Putting away your pocket knife 
you whispered 

"My dog in in the universe 

so that's where I belong" 
and walked away 
I was left alone 

drinking the bitter black coffee 
but the sunrise was not far away 
and I could see the stars 

you belong in the universe 

I have your dog 

(asleep with his head on my knee) 
and you will come back 
bringing the sunrise with you 

in a jar 

Annelies Kelly 


The Hat Story 

by/ Stephanie Stiead 

My first hat was given to me when I was 
seventeen. It was a grey Stetson which I 
reshaped from a cowboy to an outlaw 
brimmed hat and which 1 wrapped a rose 
colored scarf around. It had been Rick's hat 
for several years when I finally asked him to 
give it to me. Rick was living across the road 
from my parents' house, working on his great- 
aunt's farm. He wore that hat almost every 
day; I hadn't expected him to give it to me. 

It was summertime one year later when I 
realized that my Stetson was a wintertime hat. 
So, I went to the store and bought a nice straw 
hat. I wore that hat almost every day until it 
met its fate on a canoe trip. Rick, Paul, Forest, 
and I went down the Hazel River in canoes. 
Had I known that Forest couldn't navigate 
white water I would have gone down the river 
with Rick. If I'd known he was going to 
swamp our canoe five times, I wouldn't have 
worn the hat. That hat has been in a state of 
limbo ever since. 

The same week I lost the straw hat, I swore 
off alcohol and smoking because my brother 
Otto called me a 'sot' one night at a party. The 
rest of the month he flattered me with phrases 
such as, "You're strange." 
"Strange?" I would ask. 
"You're weird," he would reply, reinforcing 
my already hazy concept of self weirdness. I 
wanted to know in what way I was weird and 
if strangeness was good. No one would tell 

I think Rick talked him into believing this. 
The truth about Rick is that he's from a crazy, 
messed up family, and he is crazy too. Not 
only that, but Rick revels in being redneck. 
The problem with Rick is that he thinks he is 
in love with me. 

Rick got drunk more than once that year; 
he even started smoking cigarettes when Forest 
was around. He asked me to marry him once 
after I refused to kiss him while playing a 
game of spin the bottle. Life with Rick would 
be too limiting. 

At the time, I thought marriage in general 
was a silly idea. He didn't understand, so I 
gave all the obvious reasons for refusing his 
proposal; 1) I wasn't ready for marriage. This 

follows from the fact that I considered mar- 
riage ridiculous. 2) I didn't love him. This I ex- 
plained while assuring him that I loved him 
like a brother-that made it worse. 3) I was still 
in school and wanted financial independance 
before marriage, and 4) marriage was for hav- 
ing babies. I wasn't ready to have babies 
which implied that I didn't want to have his 

When still I failed to convince him that a 
union between us was out of the question, I 
told him that it would never work between 
us-not sexually. So Rick got the idea that I 
preferred women to men. 1 suppose he gave 
the idea to Otto who then thought I was 
strange. It's not true though. I like gay men 
(the ones I've met) better than straight men, 
and I like straight women better than lesbians. 
I don't prefer one sex to the other, it's just that 
I don't like Rick, especially the thought of him 
in bed. 

Some hats are good luck; others just seem 
to bring bad luck. Inevitably the most loved 
and favorite of hats will disappear. My blue 
fisherman's hat was taken from me at a party. 
The grey wool hat almost fell prey to the same 
misfortune although 1 did manage to save it. It 
makes no sense that under the same cir- 
cumstances I should have lost my favorite hat 
and saved my least favorite hat, the grey 
schoolgirlish one. 

The night I wore the grey hat someone I 
didn't even know came up to me and told me I 
had no personality... It was raining outside, 
four o'clock in the morning, I was in un- 
familiar surroundings, and I couldn't find my 
ride home (neither the driver nor the car). 
With this and having a fight for my hat with a 
drunken UVa pre-engineering student an hour 
earlier, I burst into tears, ran outside, and sat 
on the front porch in the rain. 

I bought that grey hat to go with a grey 
pleated skirt (the dry cleaners have since press- 
ed the pleats irreversibly out of the skirt and 
it's hideous in my eyes). The damn thing didn't 
really enhance my appearance anyway. Some 
people told me it looked funny. Some said it 
gave me the Annie Hall look which was fine 
with me because I was crazy about Woody 


Allen. My brother told me that 1 looked like 
Becky Thatcher when 1 wore the hat and this 
amused me because I had a boyfriend in high 
school named Tom Sawyer. I met Tom when 
he came up to me in the hall between fourth 
and fifth periods, handcuffed me, and took me 
to the river with him to go swimming. 
Forest and Paul were good friends that sum- 
mer I wore the initial straw hat. I wanted 
Forest's love. I wanted the close relationship 
that Paul had with me. I was never sure I got 

When the two of them took off for the 
West Coast together, I sat around the house in 
misery. Rick was glad to see them go, but this 
made me react even colder to Rick. One day as 
I lay in the sun mindlessly coping with 
boredom, I received a phone call from a friend 
of mine. It was Tom Sawyer. He wanted to 
know if I would sail to Nantucket with him. I 
was ecstatic; of course I would. 

Tom had been sailing through Europe for 
almost a year when he decided to make the 
trans-Atlantic voyage. When they reached 
Barbados, John, a crew member, decided to 
stay. The other crew member, Buffy, sailed 
with him to Florida. Tom sailed up the coast 
to Annapolis, Maryland, where he recruited 
me. He offered to pay for my food during the 
trip if I would crew for him, and cook some of 
the meals. "No problem," I told him. 

It was our first night in port when I came 
across the blue fisherman's hat. The royal blue 
of the hat brought out the deep blue of my 
eyes and fit my head well so that my hair fell 
back naturally beneath it. The most important 
thing about the blue hat was that it was blue, 
and the significance of this is that it was not 
black. Paul had a Greek fisherman's hat and 
that is why I wanted one. His hat was black; 
mine would be blue. I think that blue hat 
changed my way of thinking about the world. 
I found Tom very exciting. He was intellec- 
tually stimulating and had a good sense of 
humor. Tom was very organic. He had a trim 
body and good health. Wheats, rice, 
vegetables, and fruits were his main staples, so 
that's what I ate too. Life with him was easy. 
If I made a mistake hanging my feet overboard 
for instance, he didn't yell at me; he simply 
told me to follow protocol. 

The sun and the sea affected me greatly. 
There was never any tension in my body; my 
mind was always relaxed yet alert. I felt 

perfectly at ease sunbathing nude when we 
were out at sea. Although there was always 
the possibility of a sexual relationship with 
Tom floating around in the back of my mind, 1 
never let it interfere with our relationship. I 
took the attitude that whatever happened, 

Tom taught me more about the space we 
live in; he taught me what God is, and what 
love is. He said that God is in your head, and 
Jesus is in your heart. He told me I could 
derive energy from the space surrounding us, 
that I could escape the limits and be un- 
bounded by the sea and sky. All I could see 
was the blending of color on the horizon, the 
sea with the sky. Perhaps it was my own stub- 
bornness which prevented me at first from 
knowing what I could not see. 

Tom meditated on the bow of his ship. He 
focused on the light which was reflected off the 
waves of the sea. The colors and images even- 
tually left his head as the feeling of peaceful 
ness and love filled it. The Moon was a very 
big force in Tom's life, it not only controlled 
the tides of the sea, but the inner tides of his 
body, his emotions and moods. It was during 
meditation that he felt the effects of the stars 
most strongly... and as he became aware of the 
forces acting upon his body, he became aware 
of the universe in his head. This was God. The 
knowledge he had of Eastern and Western 
religions, he blended into his own belief. 

Forest was always on my mind during the 
voyage it seemed. Tom believed that once you 
found the one you love, you would love that 
person forever. This gave me hope and con- 
fidence. One night, sitting on the boat wat- 
ching the stars, Tom and I began to talk about 
astrology. He pointed out the constellation 
Aries to me. I am an Aries and so is Forest. 
Tom is a Sagittarius. I asked God for a rein- 
forcement of the love which existed already 
between Forest and me, as Tom fell silent. As I 
did, a star fell across the sky. It passed across 
the constellation Aries where it was joined in a 
parallel path by another star. My heart was 
filled. I thanked God and felt his love within 
me. That night, I believe, was spent suspended 
between the planets and stars, linked by the 
energy of our bodies. Soon after that night, we 
sailed into Nantucket. Tom decided to con- 
tinue his journey further north to Canada and 
I decided to go back to Virginia to study 
Relativity and the universe. 


The next year I spent in school studying the 
basics of physics. I studied all of the time, or 
most of the time; my spare time was spent 
writing letters to Forest. He and Paul were liv- 
ing in California. 

For the next two years I wrote Forest every 
month and he wrote me. I studied physics 
while he studied film-making. Once during 
those years, I saw Forest. It was during 
Christmas. I flew to Colorado at the invitation 
of my Godfather. I spent two weeks there, in 
Denver. Forest traveled from San Francisco to 
see me. My Godfather Asa was kind enough to 
let Forest stay with us. 

Most of our time was spent on the ski 
slopes. Although Forest hadn't skied for very 
long, he could ski the intermediate slopes. He 
spoke of love, devotion, and faith to me. He 
made me fall in love with him all over again. 
Asa, Forest, and I spent the nights sitting 
around the fireplace. Asa is my Godfather 
only by name. I'm not baptized. At the time, I 
was going to an Episcopal church at home, the 
Little Fork Episcopal Church. I hadn't been 
baptized but was thinking I'd ask Asa to really 
take me as his Godchild. I called him my 
Godfather because he had once told me he 
wished for a Goddaughter instead of the three 
no-good Godsons he said he had. I had said I 
wished for a Godfather because I didn't have 

Forest and Asa were very fond of each 
other. I loved them both, but there were times 
when I felt left out of the conversation. I at- 
tributed it to my lack of knowledge of politics 
and the economy. I promised myself to look 
into these matters as soon as I returned to 

When I first saw Forest again, there was 
still that magnetism which had existed between 
us when we first met. He looked the same only 
his hair was shorter. It took him a few days to 
really feel comfortable with me. He kept his 
distance at first. This may have been because I 
was impatient with him on the slopes when I 
wanted to let loose on the better runs and race 
other skiers to the bottom. This problem was 
solved when we finally decided to split up on 
the slopes. 

When we talked, we didn't reminisce, we 
didn't talk about the two years we had spent 
apart; we didn't even talk too much about our 
futures. Most of our conversation was 
philosophical. I found his views a little 

aristocratic at first. He said he wasn t lookmg 
for enjoyment in life, only something mean- 
ingful in his course to his destination. 

I argued that enjoyment was necessary in 
order to fulfill one's highest potential. He 
couldn't understand this. 

A week before we were both to leave, he 
told me at dinner that he believed a man 
should have a wife as well as a man to love. 
The night before we left, he told me that 1 
wasn't to forget that I was to marry him. 

The morning of the day of our departure, 
he came into my bedroom. He wanted to make 
love to me. I knew be believed in God and sin. 
I wondered what his motives were. 

"Forest, that would be a sin," I said. 
"Ask for forgiveness and we will be 
forgiven," he said. 

As I looked at his wonderfully curly hair 
and brown eyes, he reached out and touched 
me. I reached out to him and as he kissed me I 
thought of all the things we had said to each 
other during the past two weeks. I secretly 
desired his child very much and so as we 
kissed I drew him into bed with me. 

While I was in Denver, I bought a maroon 
knit cap to wear at night instead of the three 
pointed ski hat. I wore it all the time when I 
returned to Virginia. I was on my way to the 
house of a friend's friend one day wearing the 
hat and thinking of Forest. I saw a group of 
children playing in a schoolyard and stopped 
by the fence to watch them. 

Five girls were skipping in a circle near me. 
They were playing "Ring around the Roses." 

Ring around the roses, pocket tull ot posies, 
Ashes, ashes we all fall down. 
Ring around the roses, pocket full of posies, 
Ashes, ashes we all fall down. 
The girls fell to the ground screaming with 
delight. They sang, and skipped around in a 
circle until the bell rang and recess was over. 
They sang of death and this, I wonder whether 
or not they knew. 

As I walked on to my destination, I noticed 
the grey sky and found myself singing a song I 
hadn't thought of for years. 

"It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is 
snoring, he bumped his head and he went to 
bed and he didn't get up in the morning..." 

And then I realized that "Jack and Jill went 
up the hill... Jack fell down and broke his 
crown and Jill came tumbling after... ' 

I tried to think of another children's song, 
one that didn't speak of death. All I could 


think of was "London Bridge" and the fact that 
it was falling down. 

I remembered that someone had told me 
the children in London had worn posies to 
ward off the Black Plague. Where I heard this I 
couldn't remember, I had never wondered 
about songs as a child, I had never been wor- 
ried about disease. It wasn't until this day that 
I realized how morbid these songs were. I 
remember singing them as gaily as the children 
in the schoolyard. How much different they 
must be from the children with posies in the 
button holes of their jackets, I thought. 

When I reached the house, I stood on the 
front step for a moment and looked at the sky 
as it began to shower. The sun was still shining 
at the edge of the cloud. The old man is snor- 
ing, I thought. But better yet, the devil is 
beating his wife. 'Trom nursery rhymes to old 
wives tales," I said out loud to myself and 
laughing a little uneasily as I knocked at the 

The house was the house of an astrologer. 
A man with curly white hair and a large mole 
on the bridge of his nose answered the door. 
He welcomed me in. 

We sat down in his living room. He poured 
me a cup of coffee as he introduced himself as 

He went through all of the houses. He told 
me that the Moon was my ascendant; I often 
became bored with projects that I undertook 
but nevertheless finished them. I would have 
many love affairs. With Neptune in the 
seventh house, there was an indication that I 
would have an affair on the side after mar- 
riage. Also in my chart, Lyle read that my 
mind was quick and tended toward criminal 
reasoning. Odd, I thought. 

"And what about children, does it say 
anything about children?" 

He sighed as he studied the symbols in- 
scribed in each of my houses. He flipped 
through a few books. 

"Hum, this looks bad," he said. "I pro- 
gressed your chart to the year 1995. It in- 
dicates a possible suicide over the loss of a 
loved one." 

"No, probably not. You're very capable of 
carrying on a platonic relationship with an 
Aries but not a husband/wife partnership, for 

I thanked the man and left his house feeling 
slightly disappointed and disillusioned. He 

hadn't really told me anything that I wanted to 

One day during the Spring, three girl- 
friends of mine and I went four-wheeling in 
a Jeep, Janie was driving, Caroline was riding 
shotgun, and Amy and I sat in the back, I 
wore a bandana around my head to keep my 
hair out of my eyes. 

We drank Budweiser beer and listened to a 
Sly and The Family Stone tape. Janie was a 
great driver, afraid of no hill and willing to 
spin right through the mud puddles. 

We ended up picking wildflowers all along 
the way, and talking of sex and death. Sex and 
death, two very interesting subjects but I must 
confess that this is all we talked about that 

"There must be more to life," someone 

"More to life than what?" I asked, 

"More to life than sex and death," Amy 

"I'd rather have sex than death," Janie said. 
"How about this road?" 

"Yea, looks good." 

"I would prefer to escape to the heavens 
and float freely, absorbed in my thoughts. I 
anticipate the integration of sex and death 
when my energy escapes my body in death, 
the sum being and eternal orgasm for my 
mind," I said. 

"Oh, sure! why don't you actualize your 
belief?" Amy asked. 

I shrugged my shoulders. "Because I want 
to have Forest's child first." 

"Sex and death, the beginning and the end 
of the same thing, life; Sex is nothing for me. 
Biologically, men are better suited for sex, you 
know," said Caroline, the biology major. 

"God, you look like a hippie," interjected 

"Who, me?" I asked. 

"Look at yourself with that bandana, and 
those old blue jeans," said Amy. 

"Hippie!" Janie laughed. 'Tlower child." 
"With criminal tendencies," I added, 
grimacing at a branch of dogwood in my 

Thus ended the conversation dealing with 
sex and death. 

One question which was posed in 
philosophy class that Spring kept coming to 
my mind: Are dreams real, are they part of 


The only thing that was ever ascertained 
about dreams was that if the laws of nature do 
not hold in a certain instance, then one can 
conclude that one is dreaming. Stated more 
simply, if the world around you suddenly 
hops, skips, and jumps from place to place, or 
dissolves into streaks of color as does a too- 
wet watercolor, or perhaps even presents itself 
upside down, then that world you see is not 
reality. (Why do mapmakers always draw 
north pointing up and south pointing down 
anyway, instead of the other way around? 
Why is Australia always at the bottom of the 

But I want to know how anyone can be 
aware of something that is not part of reality, 
not something real. 

Suppose I dream: I am surrounded by 
nothing but space. I can see by body but 1 see 
darkness all around me. I am not conscious of 
the earth below my feet, or any force acting on 
my body. I am breathing and thinking. 

That is a segment of a dream. There is 
nothing in it that really violates any law of 
physics. Therefore, I wonder if I was really in 

I moved in my space fairly well for the next 
year, making my own propositions and ignor- 
ing those made by any man I met. The truth 
was that I just wasn't interested. I didn't need 
sex. I was on a spiritual and intellectual high 
that kept me busy all of the time. My fidelity 
was reinforced by each letter I received from 

I bought the second straw hat at the end of 
the summer, almost three years after I bought 
the initial straw hat. I was overjoyed to have 
found the exact hat that I wanted and secretly 
felt proud to have waited all summer to buy a 
hat. It was made of a loosely and finely woven 
white straw and banned with a black ribbon. I 
bent the rim down and the hat really looked 

I had a date to go to the Santana concert 
with a friend of mine, Keith. Of course, I wore 
the hat. Forest was a fan of Santana and 
throughout the night I thought of him. 

I ended up wearing the hat all weekend. 
Sunday afternoon, Keith and I went to a 
garden party. We both wore white, and we 
both wore the hat for a while. 

That evening we drove to Howard 
Johnsons in my car for dinner. We ate 
clamrolls, french fries, and drank coffee. He 

talked me into taking him home with me. I 
don't know how it happened, 1 really didn't 
think it was the thing to do. But Keith told me 
I looked ravishing in my overalls and hat. I 
hesitated, he said, "pretty please," and we 
went home together. 

"Shit!" I cried as an eighteen wheeler pass- 
ed us on the highway. 

"Shit, my hat just blew out of the 

So we turned around and circled the 
meridan three times with the high beams on 
and found nothing. No more hat! 

"God," I said, "is this my punishment for 
not doing what is right?" 
"What?" Keith asked. 
"Never mind," I said. 

1 dreamt of blue and green wave patterns 
that night, a dream of water and earth. I 
dreamt that the Moon was calling to me. I 
became conscious of my dream, I could feel 
my body curved around the body next to me. 
The colors and images, however, did not leave 
my head. 

During the dream Keith awoke, kissed and 
made love to me. I was filled with a sense of 

I suppose I wished to have both Keith's 
love and to love Forest at the same time, but it 
didn't work. I developed a guilt complex, and 
started going to church more often. 

Standing up in church and confessing sins 
with the rest of the congregation really made 
more of a believer in the Christian God out of 
me. Previously I hadn't felt I was a sinner and 
thought it absurd to say that I was. Before the 
affair with Keith, I would stand with the rest 
of the congregation and omit from my oral 
participation the lines which acknowledged 

Rick goes to Little Fork Church. For the 
first time since I had been going, I realized that 
he too, was confessing his sins in public. What 
got to me was that he did it while standing 
beside his great aunt and that I confessed sin 
while standing beside my parents. Little Fork 
Church has box pews and usually Rick and I 
sit opposite each other. I knew with this 
realization, that Rick and I would never be 
lovers... not when we stood facing each other 
in church. 

The affair with Keith only lasted a few 
months into the fall when I received a letter 


from Forest saying he would be flying east to Tfiat nigfit, however, he coaxed me to lie 

see me. We were hiking in the mountains when down with him once more. I did so knowing 

I told Keith that I couldn't carry on our rela- that I would be forgiven. And as I drove away 

tionship knowing that in the eyes of God we from him the next day, I began to break out in 

were sinning. He didn't believe it. I assured poison ivy all over my arms and hands. I was 

him quite honestly that it was the truth. forgiven, but I was paying for it. 


We were the chosen ones. 

We had excelled and had 
won. So they sent us to start the new com- 
munity, the one in space. The girl in the black 
raincoat was to lead. But why? It was something 
about the raincoat. And when we got into space 
they sent me outside to fix the engine and I ran 
out of oxygen and I was scared. I scrambled back 
inside, gasping for air and straining for breath. I 
returned with a new tank, to the blankness of 
space. For a while breathing was laborious, and 
then it was impossible. I couldn't breathe. My 
oxygen was gone and I knew I was going to die. 
Once again I rushed to the safety of the inner 
chamber but when I punched a key into the lock, 
the door didn't open. Panic. The sweat was 
soaking, no, saturating, my skin. I pressed my 
face to the window and pounded my fists upon 
the glass. All I got in response was a blank stare 
from the girl in the black raincoat. She had a 
strange glow in her eyes. As the rest of the crew 
turned around, I could see a similar hypnotic 
stare in their eyes. Then smiles grew on their 
faces as they waved to me. It seemed like hours 
until I realized that they were waving goodbye. 
Before I had figured out what was happening, an 
arm emerged from the door and disengaged my 
safety latch from the base. I couldn't move. My 
body was stiff and I floated out into space. 
Darkness. And all was black. 

Chris Svoboda 



by Laura Murphy 

A strong hoist 

from ground to low large limb 

settled gaze up the spiral, 

leaves shake. 

Which branch? 

I reach for another limb 

balanced and high 

tree time, 

Down and around, 

birds glide above, 

sway, bend in the wind, 

trunk faith. 

I held the leaf 

In my palm. 

Fire red 

Orange blend 

A small green tip 

Left of summer 

Moving branch shadow 

Upon the wall 


Rain white window 

Street light 

We feeble leaves. 

Slipping highway stretch 
elements of cement soup 
tout a coup 
soft street smile 
green, summer, and 
clean rain 

velvet impression 
lean easy walk 
gallant and gutsy 
yet one. 


Caroli)ie Haiok 


Caroline Hawk 


Caroline Hawk 




^ ^ '-«*^ 



"Transition" by Martha Freeman 


Barbara Bush 


Susan Rowat 



A moving bank beside me; 

the light darts from behind the towering trees 

and flickers upon my face. 

It's getting monotonous now, 

so I sing a song - I even sing aloud. 

Chase the rhythm. 

The wind toys with the hood of my sweatshirt. 

Just a half hour and three miles ago I was freezing; 

now I'm soaked with sweat. 

I can taste the salt and smell my health; 

It dribbles down my back like obnoxious bugs. 

Feel the rhythm. 

My mind manages to move away from 

concentration - I can't control it. 

Often it wanders way back or far forward; 

I temporarily forget the rocks and hills. 

I think about the most embarrassing moments of my lite - 

things I wouldn't dare tell my dearest friend. 

Or I think about me the hero - the perfect me - 

but this thought soon returns me, 

as my imagination struggles to tell me it's getting tired. 

Conquer the rhythm. 

I'm starting to feel my aching knee: 

the seam of the long crotch of my sweatpants rubs against 

the inside of my leg, 

burning with every step; 

my t-shirt bites at my neck, 

stinging as it mixes with my salty sweat. 

I almost cry from pain and accomplishment. 

Hold the rhythm. 

My pounding feet are sure and even, 

but suddenly lost as my wind forces them to halt. 

Shocked by the jolted stop, I stretch in the coolness. 

Throw me a cold beer- 

I'm damn sure through. 

The rhythm awaits me- 

Hedley Sipe 



I dug the hole and started crying. 

1 cHmbed inside and the tears soaked my 
shirt and the dirt around me softened. The 
hole caved in and the daisies started growing. 
It rained and I was watered. I started to grow, 
and sometime later I pushed my head through 
the dirt, threw my arms out and stretched my 
legs. My soul was warmed by the sun. A boy 
ran through the daisies. He stopped, knelt 
down, and sniffed. Before I knew what was 
happening, his arm swept around and grabbed 
me by my waist. He ran back through the 
daisies towards a large white house hidden in 
the woods. He entered a door and we were in 
a bright yellow and white kitchen. He put me 
in a glass of water and left the room. I was 
alone in the kitchen and for the next few days I 
thought about my life. By Sunday I was tiring. 
1 wilted on Monday, cried on Tuesday, and 
died on Wednesday. The boy took me from 
the glass and put me in the Cuisinart. 

My violet skin turned red. The blood 
erupted from the Cuisinart and engulfed the 
room in waves of red. The door buckled as the 
wave crested and pushed forward. The world 
was covered in my blood and at that moment, 
somebody pulled the plug and the red sea ran 
into the hole and the world was quiet againVz 
But the daisies still grew. 

Chris Svoboda 


The Earring 

by Gay Kewiey 

"Peter, can I have the earring back now, 


"Well?" she said, looking down at her teet 

shuffling in the gravel. 

"Take it out," he said. "You put it in, 
didn't you." Swiftly she reached up to his 6'2" 
ear and pulled apart the diamond stud earring 
from his thin connected lobe almost as if she 
thought he was going to escape before she got 
it back. He forgot to add "please," she thought 
in doing this. She pinched him a little (he was 
so tall), but he didn't flinch. His stoicism sur- 
prised her; before he had always let out a little 
yelp like a puppy whenever the tender skin 
was torn away from the metal post. 

She had pierced his ear when they had first 
met and he had always enjoyed letting her do 
the honors of keeping the damn thing clean 
and uninfected. He didn't ever want a scar if 
he took it out, he had said; besides, his lach 
was queasy at the sight of her blood. She had 
always taken this into consideration and had 
enjoyed mothering him and teasing him 
because it seemed so ironic that a big boy who 
stands tall, has hair all over his body, has 
broken every knuckle playing basketball, can't 
muster enough courage to pull an earring out 
of his own ear. That's what a good Jewish 
mother will do for you, she thought as she put 
the post and the earring back together again. 

There was no teasing this time though. 
There was nothing humorous about this situa- 
tion. She meant good-bye and he knew it, 
although she knew he didn't understand. 
There is only so much you can tell a person, 
she figured, no need to rip him up more than 
you have to. She took the earring back from 
him after all. It was the first thing that she had 
given him, and the last to take away. It had 
been their only link in a sense, she guessed. 
"Is that everything?" the bus driver asked 


"Yes," she called back, turning around, tac 
ing him as much as she could. She felt the sun 
beating down on them and the entire occu- 
pancy of the bus straining to see what was 
going on outside their colored windows. It 
seemed like eternity before he said anything. 

"You will bring my coat and socks out 

tomorrow, won't you?" He never forgot a 


"I will," she agreed, nodding her head. Out 
of the corner of her eye she saw the bus driver 
motioning towards the bus, then disappearing 
into its shadows. The possibility of being left 
with him for one minute longer horrified her. 
She turned towards the bus, then stopped 
without reason. Her heartbeat quickened, fears 
skated through her mind; he wasn't moving. 
She couldn't just get on the bus after stripping 
him like this and leave him forlorn on the side 
of this desolate Wyoming road. She wasn't 
that much of an ogre. But she knew that if she 
stayed much longer they would both end up 
saying ugly things that they would regret later. 
So in her ignorance she began to get irritated 
with the bus driver. 

Hadn't that stupid man just witnessed what 
had happened? She bit her lip. Had he not 
overheard their brief conversation? Couldn't 
he read sign language? Didn't he know that 
they had just broken it off forever?. He was a 
fool no doubt, like Peter, except by the looks 
of his beady eyes and his flattened nose she 
knew he wasn't exacdy as bad as Peter. 

Whatever hatred she felt at the moment, 
however, she withheld from her voice. 

"Guess I better go before the bus leaves me 
on the side of the road, too." 

Nobody will ever leave you unless you 
want them to," he answered, swinging the 
dirty yellow backpack up onto one of his 
shoulders, pausing slightly before hoisting it 
up into full view on his broad back. 

How many times had she watched him do 
that, she thought without thinking, his bear 
bells tinkling after him, she following him, 
struggling along a twisted path up a mountain. 
Their campouts had always been so strenuous; 
he had to always have the best. But what did 
she expect, he was Jewish. 

She watched after him for a minute, replac- 
ing the earring back into her own ear where it 
had belonged for so many years before, and 
then turned, hopping back onto the bus. The 
steps were light to her touch and her ears were 
still ringing. The bus doors swung shut behind 
her, letting off its air pressure release. She ex- 


haled and noticed that she was breathing 
again. The earring felt bulky, it was good to 
have it back. It was like putting the missing 
part back into a car, she was running good 

"Thanks for waiting," she said to the 
driver, looking him sincerely in the eye. 

"Sure, I understand, sweetie," he grinned. 
He wasn't as dumb as she had guessed him to 
be either. 

She walked down the aisle to her original 
seat without glancing at the people along the 
row. She was slightly embarassed about 
holding things up so. She wanted to sit in a 
new seat, but not being able to glance around 
the bus made it somewhat of an impossible 

No sooner had she reached her seat and 
had begun to sit down, when the bus lurched 
forward to get back onto the road, throwing 
her off balance and into her first seat, almost 
forcefully. "God forgive me," she murmured 
as the bus rolled down the hill. 

She was sitting in the seat next to the win- 
dow. It hadn't been reclined before but now 
she could relax, so she pressed the button 
underneath the torn black vinyl firmly and 
took a deep breath. She would be glad to get 
to Jackson Hole; smelling the artificial air on 
the bus was making her nauseous. 

Peter had been in the seat beside her only 
minutes ago. Now there was no one there and 
she was glad. She stared out the green tinted 
glass and watched as the mountains and scrub 
brush blurred by. Occasionally there was a 
sign that reminded her of the distance left on 
her trip, but they passed as quickly as she saw 
them. She became lost, mezmerized by the 
rocking motion and the sound of the low hum. 
The disinfectant from the bathroom had 
escaped through the cracks and had blanketed 
her nose and mouth. She felt like she was be- 
ing suffocated by a rag soaked in chloraphyll. 
Somehow, although her body complained, she 
didn't, because this bus was carrying her 
away, away from him, far away. She'd send 
him the jacket and the sox, but she planned 
never to see him again. 

How had this happened, she reflected. She 
didn't know. He's Jewish, she thought. He's 
just too Jewish. It pounded louder in her head, 
beating her like surf against breakers; Peter 
Goldstein. She must have been crazy; when 
she had told her parents, they had laughed. It 
was a joke. Yet they had spent their whole 
summer together, tangled warm, snug, and 
secure in that one hope. Dreams don't 
last... whoever said that was right, she mused. 

She was the epitome of an upper middle 
class gentile girl. She had a strong Christian 
family, yet she had never been taught to 
discriminate or gawk at those different from 
her. She had always attended a private all- 
Christian all-white school, and an all-white all- 
Christian summer camp. It didn't seem to mat- 
ter to her. 

He, on the other hand, was from New 
Jersey. He went to Syracuse University in New 
York, and his background was much the same 
as hers. 

It couldn't have worked; there were too 
many centuries against them. He didn't 
understand her nor did he try. There was only 
one way to be kosher and that is to be one. 
She often resented his mockery in conversa- 
tions and the way he always had to have 
center stage. He accused her of being a spoiled 
rich brat. But he was so stupid. That's essen- 
tially the way they had met. He had seen the 
diamond earring, talked to her, and decided 
that he wanted both. He didn't care, it seemed; 
he could degrade every non-kosher crotch and 
still would sleep like a baby at night. 

She had stopped him and she knew he 
hated her. Either for that, or for depriving him 
of the earring. If he hadn't thought her to be 
that smart he should have thought twice; he 
had guessed her wrong. Although their sum- 
mer had been fun on the whole, she knew the 
nights he lay with other women and the reason 
why he never really shared it all with her. 
There were just some things one couldn't share 
no matter what the effort. 

Mary pulled her feet up onto the seat and 
hugged her knees and read the sign: Jackson 
Hole. ..4 mi. 


Extending back for centuries in the Christian era is the 
tradition of the literary sermon. As a genre, the sermon 
exhibits certain rhetorical conventions not found m other 
forms of literature. The Rev. Myron B. Bloy. Jr.. serving 

as consultant to the Washington Pilgrimage last October, 
preached the following sermon in Washington Cathedral 
to explain the significance of that ecumenical student 

Preached in 

The Washington Cathedral 

October 5. 1980 

Pilgrimage Sermon 

by Myron B. Bloi/, Jr. 

The first 11 chapters, more than 7,000 words, 
of St. Paul's letter to the Romans is an extend- 
ed description of the mercies of God which 
have been accomplished for human beings in 
Christ. He describes how desperately the 
world needs salvation, then God's responsive 
act of salvation in Jesus Christ, then the new 
reconciled life which entails a release from sin 
and death into a new righteousness and hope, 
and finally how both Jew and Gentile are in- 
cluded in God's redemptive purpose. The 
description of God's mercy is partly a close, 
tight-grained argument us-for example, when 
he exposes the terrible irony of the holy law 
which can only condemn-and partly ecstatic 
hymn of praise-for example, when he sings, 
"For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor 
angels, nor principalities, nor things present, 
nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, 
nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, 
will be able to separate us from the love of 
God in Christ Jesus our Lord." 

But at the end of this fire and ice descrip- 
tion of God's mercies in Christ, he shifts our 
attention, with the key word "therefore," to 
our appropriate response to this glorious turn 
of events. I invite you to look at that key 
passage with me. St. Paul says, 

"I appeal to you therefore, brethren, by the 
mercies of God, to present your bodies as a 
living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to 
God, which is your spiritual worship. Do 
not be conformed to this world but be 
transformed by the renewal of your mind, 
that you may prove what is the will of 
God, what is good and acceptable and 
perfect." (Romans 12;l-2) 
The apostle makes two important points 
here. First, our only appropriate response to 

God's mercies is to offer Him our whole lives; 
no good intentions, no regular religious prac- 
tives, no cluster of good deeds, in fact no mere 
portion of time, space, possessions, spirit, in- 
tellect, feeling, flesh, bones which we call 
"ours" will do-only everything, a total self- 
offering, is truly responsive. Second, our self- 
offering is to be made by not being "conform- 
ed to this world"-that is, by not being sucked 
into the flat, dumb, self-serving, death-ridden 
world of everydayness by media blan- 
dishments, economic pressures, cultural 
habits, and our chronic indolence and fear- 
but by being transformed by a fundamental 
renewal of our inner selves so that the very 
way that we characteristically look at reality is 
transformed and we are enabled to see clearly 
what God will is for us. One of the most an- 
cient symbols of this transformation from fixa- 
tion in the old world of death to participation 
in the new world of real life is the pilgrimage. 
understood both as a sacramental journey 
through time and space-often involving con- 
siderable dangers-to a sacred shrine and also 
as an inner journey, through a lifetime, 
towards a God-matured life. 

That the pilgrimage remains a potent 
means of spiritual transformation is evidenced 
by the fact that this week some 500 college and 
university students participated in a 
pilgrimage-organized by Canon Hamilton- 
though the streets of Washington to this 
Cathedral where they prayed, sang, and 
meditated, led by Bishop Walker, Brother 
Roger of the Taize Community in France, and 
Jim Wallis of the Sojourners Community in 
Washington on the theme of suffering and 
hope. I can witness to the fact that those of us 
who participated in the Washington 


Pilgrimage found ourselves moved significant- 
ly from conformism to this world towards that 
transformed self and vision in which the will 
of God becomes clear and compelling. Having 
witnessed the suffering of this city together, 
slept on gymnasium floors together, prayed 
and sang our hope in Christ together, we 
know better now who we are; we are possess- 
ed more fully by our real life in Christ, and 
thus more able to serve Him in serving those 
who suffer. 

The pilgrimage through the world to a holy 
place as a means of breaking loose from con- 
formism to this world and of transformation 
into real life has, of course, deep roots. Ar- 
cheological evidence indicates that pilgrims 
visited St. Peter's tomb as early as the middle 
of the second century, and Eusebius tells of the 
pilgrimage of Cappadocian bishop Alexander 
to Jerusalem in 212. The Crusades started out 
as pilgrimages, and in the Middle Ages 
millions of pilgrims, singly and in groups, 
criss-crossed Europe to holy places, to 
Jerusalem and Rome, of course, but also to 
Santiago de Compostella in Spain where St. 
James body was presumed to be buried, to 
Canterbury, as Chaucer's pilgrims did, where 
Thomas Becket was martyred and buried, and 
to thousands of other holy places. Pilgrims 
even had a special garb by which they could 
be recognized, including scallop shell purses 
and badges— analogous to car decals today- 
indicating where they had been. Today in 
Europe, especially among the student young, 
the pilgrimage has renewed vitality as a means 
of spiritual growth: each Eastertide some 
15,000 students process from the University of 
Paris to the great Cathedral in Chartres, sleep- 
ing in fields and barns on the way; and the 
Taize Brothers have gathered as many as forty 
thousand student pilgrims for great Holy Week 

Of course, the religious pilgrimage is not 
limited to Christianity; Buddist and Hindu 
pilgrims trek to holy places for renewal, and— 
as you know— every Muslim is supposed to 
make at least one pilgrimage to Mecca before 
he dies. Futhermore, in primitive religions over 
the earth, in every time and place, believers 
would go in devout pilgrimage to sacred 

What, then, is the attraction of this 
perenial and mysterious quest for the sacred 
place to humankind? Mircea Eliade, the great 

religious anthropoligist, says that it represents 
the human creature's never-endmg quest to 
draw close to the mysterious power of creation 
itself and, thereby, to become more deeply 
rooted oneself in and empowered for real life. 
Eliade says, "Religious man's desire to live in 
the sacred is in fact equivalent to his desire to 
take up his abode in objective reality, not to 
let himself be paralyzed by the never ceasing 
relativity of purely subjective experiences, to 
live in a real and effective world, not an illu- 
sion." The point is that the pilgrimage to the 
sacred place is not for some special grace to be 
added to one's life; the quest is far more 
serious, even more desperate, than that. It is 
the quest for the very source of life itself, for 
the bedrock really real in a world of shifting il- 
lusions, for that primal power of creation 
which can empower me to exist more deeply in 
real life. 

While the dogmatic secular rationalism 
which flattens and deadens the world for all of 
us hardly allows us to recognize the sacred 
breaking forth, like the burning bush, in cer- 
tain places or to describe it when we do 
recognize it, we all can probably remember 
sacred places and times we knew as children, 
and— sometimes— even now we are overcome 
with a sudden thrill of recognition. A year and 
a half ago I saw St. Peter's simple grave and 
his bones, deep under the successive altars of 
the successive basillicas which have been built 
above his grave from ancient time, and I have 
to admit that I was transfixed with that over- 
powering fear and fascination of a mysterious 
transforming power which is always the sign 
of the sacred. I think one can hardly come in- 
to this Cathedral, in fact, without being mov- 
ed by some recognition of the sacred, as the 
students discovered when they were here these 
last two days. And its transforming power 
lives on, hardly recognized, in such events as 
the Founders' Day celebration at Sweet Briar 
College, where I am Chaplain. This coming 
Wednesday morning, the splendidly uniformed 
Nelson County High School Band will lead a 
procession of faculty in academic regalia and 
the whole student body, with the seniors in 
academic gowns, over a half mile of dirt road 
up to Monument Hill where the founder's 
family is buried in a grove of ancient, darkly 
lowering fir trees; and there, in solemn wreath- 
placing, prayer, and hymn, we will give 
thanks for their generosity and wisdom. This 


act of deliberately drawing close to the original 
source of our community life feels at least 
slightly "camp" to all of us, but it none-the-less 
situates us more deeply in our communal iden- 
tity, giving us more strength and insight for 
our life together. Instinctively and half- 
blindly, even modern men and women become 
pilgrims of the sacred that they may be releas- 
ed from conformity to illusion and transform- 
ed into their real lives. 

But while Christians will, as all 
humankind, want to enter into the transform- 
ing presence of the sacred in special places and 
times, we also recognize a new thing, i.e., that 
through God's reconciling act in his Son, the 
whole world has been made holy, made 
redolent of the sacred. One theologian puts it 
this way: "Whoever sees Jesus Christ does in- 
deed see God and the world in one. He can 
henceforward no longer see God without the 
world or the world without God." Thus, our 
pilgrimage through the streets of Washington 
was a sustained and focused effort to educate 
our imaginations to recognize a city, in its 
systematic cruelties as well as it exuberant 
joys, already sustained and loved by God, and 
a God, endlessly loving and struggling to bring 
new life to this disfigured city. We all have 
trouble sustaining this essential, paradoxical 
perception of reality; we tend to think of God 
as a remote and detached Power somewhere 
up yonder to be called on for a lifeline when 
we are in desperate circumstances, and we 
tend to walk through the world as if it were a 
dumb, value-neutral machine out of which we 
hope someday to be snatched. Our pilgrimage 
has helped us to recognize the truth that this 
world is infinitely beloved by an infinitely lov- 

ing God, a recognition which has helped us to 
escape in some real measure from our stupify- 
ing conformity to this world and to be 
transformed in some real measure into beloved 
and loving beings ourselves. Praise be! 

But, finally, I expect you have long since 
anticipated the conclusion of this sermon: 
whether we go on a pilgrimage to, say, 
Santiago de Compostella or not, we are all 
pilgrims, all of us-as the writer of Hebrews 
put it-"seeking a homeland, a better country." 
As John Bunyan showed us in his account of 
his hero. Christian, in Pilgniu's Progress, our 
lives are so strewn with seductive lures and 
noisy distractions, and so imbued with our 
own predilection to sloth and fear that we can 
forever remain "conformed to this 
world, "-and, of course, many do-but he also 
showed that, in the power of the Holy Spirit, 
our lives run grow into a positive response to 
St. Paul's challenge to us to become 
"transformed by the renewal of your mind, 
that you may prove what is the will of God, 
what is good and acceptable and perfect." We 
do begin to see and know more deeply, day in 
and day out, the world beloved and sustained 
by God, and God sustaining and loving this 
world, and we are gradually enabled to res- 
pond more truly to that reality in our daily 
lives. We are even vouchsafed, as we are this 
morning of Worldwide Communion Sunday, 
regular brief pilgrimages together to receive in- 
to ourselves, in Bread and Wine, His sacred 
life and, thus, to be "transformed by the 
renewal of our mind" to the single vision of a 
God-reconciled world and a world-reconciling 
God, to be empowered for our lives as a 
pilgrim people of hope and love in this darkl- 
ing world. Amen. 



Thursday, November 8, 1979 

I saw the misty poplars 

But they eluded me 

They were clear across the field 

the football field 

the baseball field 
Across the... field 

I forgot the distance formula 

I could not walk 

The misty poplars waited 

They will wait 

I wanted to shout, 

"The summation of forces does not equal zero! 

But that would be a lie 

I see the misty poplars 

through the mist 

across the field 

across time 

across a continent 
The misty poplars wait 
1 will get there 

I will arrive without a shadow of a doubt 

without a shadow... 
I will get there 

I will travel through time 
across the field 
But wait 

I don't know the distance formula 
Do remember 

Say how it is 
The misty poplars elude me 
But they will wait 

-Annelies Kelly 


Debbie Harvey 


Three Songs 

by Polk Green 



Times are changin' like the seasons 

Each day bringing forth a new horizon 

Adventures proclaim themselves and answers wait 

For the future awaits for those who seek. 

As we leave our friends we've left behind 

All the sad times and all the glad times 

Reveal the spark of friendships true 

So look to the sky and there I'll be 

Waiting and hoping for all your dreams. 

Rivers run where they can flow 

And mountains rise where they can climb 

Amongst the trees and flowers true 

You can find the beauty of all you love. 

Take all that you know and greet the days 

Open your heart and hand for all you can 

And live each day as the last to come. 

Now for you, my friend, I give all strength 

And all my love for days to come 

We've all shared much and all shared none 

So take my love and friendship true and 

Climb the highest peak for all your dreams. 

The wind rushing through the trees 

like a fast river 
Carving in our hearts - memories of 

Why do we come to the mountains? 
Because our love and our friends are here 
There is no way in that fast city -- life 

to feel this way. 
There are times that will never come again-- 

so cherish them in everything you do. 
Let your heart fly with the eagles on high 
And let your feelings float on the wind 

'til they reach your star. 
And there you know your home will be. 
Treasure each day like the last to come 
And treasure your friendships as the truest. 
For your days and your love and your friendships 
Are the things that remain wherever your star is... 


A friend is as the star is to the night 

As the shore to the sea, as the lamb to God, 

come walk with me... 
Come and show the light, take me to the sea 

and wash away all the troubles. 
Make me understand that the lamb of God 
Comes and reveals unto me the beauty of life. 
A simple life that can move and show me 
A type of atmosphere that few can talk about, 
A life that God reveals to few. 
Please reveal to me the secret of the sea... 
But the secret is in me as well as in you. 
The guidance comes from within, 
For all that you want to see is there, it is you. 


The Grey Swan 

by Beverly Blakeniore 

"I'll come back when the grey swan flies over 
Jerusalem; when people will once more listen 
to my pleas." 

He looked into the crowd, and they leered 
at him and laughed. They threw stones at him 
and cried, "Go away and don't bother us! We 
don't want to hear what you have to say! Go 

He looked at the crowd and sobbed, "You 
don't understand, you are killing yourselves, 
not me! No, it is you who are insane, it is not 
me. Be careful of what you do because you are 
destroying everything that you love. You are 
destroying everything!" He began to cry. 

The watchman carried, dragged him away 
to his death. He cried. They slipped the noose 
about his neck. He cried. They strung him up 
on the tree and cut the ropes supporting him. 
He fell with an awful grace into a sickly pose. 
His hands hung limply. The legs with which he 
had once run in races with the street children 
hung limply also. The face which had once 
been so bright and cheerful was now a ghostly 
white; his eyes were bulging out, their 
brightness gone, at the crowd in front. The 
mouth, which had once opened in laughter, 
was now frozen in a deadly grin. One woman, 
thinking that it had opened by itself, threw a 
stone. Another followed, and another, and 
another. The crowd began madly throwing 
stones at him. A young girl, enraged at the 
reaction of the crowd, stepped out. She was 
trampled to death by the people who had once 
been so friendly to her. The mob surged up 
like bees from a hive. Blood trickled un- 
naturally from the wounds in the criminal's 

side. His body was unstrung and torn to pieces 
by the angry mob. As the wind blew away the 
dead leaves, so did it blow away the tatters of 
flesh into eternity. 

The mother of the young girl wailed as she 
picked her child up and held her tenderly in 
her arms. The father walked away sadly, wip- 
ing the tears which trickled down his once rosy 
cheeks. The people in the mob began to wail 
also as they saw the advancing army. With the 
army came death and destruction. 

The next day the town was in ruins. The 
crowd which had once been thick with angry 
people was now thinned out. Those who had 
once been killers were now dead. The hunters 
had been hunted and done away with. In one 
awful second their lives, happy as they had 
been, were turned into nothingness, as the 
man's life was nothing. No children played in 
to streets with the tall, lanky man. No animals 
ran free. Nothing moved. Two people, a man 
and a woman, emerged from their gutted 
shack and looked up into the cloudy sky. 
Nothing was left of their world except the 
memory of it. They watched a lone grey swan 
fly over the village. Though they could not see 
it, the swan had one small patch of red on its 
wing. Its wings flapped easily against the cold, 
biting wind. 

As they watched, the swan flew over the 
mountain and disappeared from sight. They 
suddenly realized that swans cannot fly. As 
they turned to leave their once happy little 
village, they saw a man walking down the 
road. They watched the man walk past them, 
and they turned and followed. 




by Mary Abrams 

He gets up to take a shower and shave. 

She calls a taxi and by the time he yells, 
"there is no toilet paper," she is halfway to 
the train station. 
She brings him a roll of toilet paper. 
He asks if there is more coffee. 
She pours her cold coffee in his plate, floods 

his eggs, and lets go of the cup. 
She says, "No, there isn't," and offers to make 

He leaves. 

She doesn't kiss him goodbye. 
She kisses him goodbye. 
The baby wakes and cries. 
She goes and gets the baby, packs a bag, grabs 
the charge cards, and savings book, and the 
check book. She picks quarters out of loose 
change jar. She gets dressed. She changes 
the baby, makes herself a bologna sand- 
wich, wraps it neatly in tinfoil, and waits 
for the taxi. 
She goes to the room and gets the baby. 
She gives him a bottle of vodka and juice. 
She nurses him. 

She puts him back in his crib and goes out. 
She dresses him, borrows a neighbor's car, 

and goes to the store. 
She leaves the child screaming in the car. 

She calms the crying babe and puts him in the 

She buys a pound of crabmeat. 
She buys bread, margarine, and eggs. 
She leaves the child in the cart in the parking 

She straps the baby in his seat in the car. 

She does not strap him or herself in. She drives 
one hundred and ten miles an hour into the 
most convenient telephone pole on a full 
tank of gas. 

She puts the groceries away. 

She throws the eggs one by one into the 

refrigerator and tosses the bread to the 

She puts the groceries away. 
She puts the baby in the refrigerator. She 

makes herselt a Clorox cocktail. 

She gathers the laundry. 
She pre-soaks the wash with gasoline and 
lights the heap in the backyard. She walks 
into the flames where the rumbling and 
high-pitched whistle of herself and his 
T-shirts burning drown out the cries from 
the nursery. 
She wraps the baby up and grabs the clothes- 
She stuffs his underwear in the child's mouth. 
She stops what she is doing and nurses the 
hungry babe. The child falls asleep, con- 
tented in her arms. She strokes his head. 
She breaks the suction. She spots a flea on 
his neck. 
She puts Drano in the bacon-drippings she 
mixes into the dog's food. She coaxes the 
dog into the car aijd drags her out into a 
field on the edge of town and leaves her. 

She flicks the flea away. She puts the baby to 
bed and powders the dog. She drags the 
rugs out into the yard and powders them, 
too. She beats the dog and the rugs. She 
gives the dog a treat afterwards and puts 
the rugs back in place. 
He comes home. She pours him an ice-cold 
beer she stuck in the freezer an hour ago 
and makes dinner. 
He comes home and she is not there. The 
infant is screaming. The dog is whining. 
There is no cold beer. 
He comes home and she and the baby are 
gone. The dog is begging. There is nothing 
to feed himself or the dog. He takes the 
dog out for a hamburger. 
He comes home. She pours him a beer and 
makes dinner. He goes to peer at the child 
but the child is not there. 
He bursts in, sees her sleeping on the couch 
tiptoes to the fridge to get a beer and finds 
his son behind the left-over tuna casserole. 


He pulls up, ^cts out of the car, and 

hears the child wailing and the dog barking. 
He smells something burning. There is 
smoke rising trom the backyard. 

He comes home. The dog is barking because 
the phone is ringing. She, the child, the 
eggs, the margarine, the bread, the new 
tronf radial tires and the neighbor's car 
are burnt beyond recognition. 

He sips the beer and bounces the baby on his 
knee. She pours chicken drippings on the 
dog's food, serves dinner, sits down and 
nurses the baby. They all eat in peace. 

She does the dishes. He puts his son to bed. 
He plays the music-box long after the child 
has fallen asleep. She gives the dog the last 
scraps and apologizes for beating her. 

He finds his wife in bed, reading. He goes in 
search of something he hasn't already read. 
When he returns, she is already asleep. 

The child cries. He wakes her up and goes to 
sleep himself. 

She gets up and nurses the son back to sleep. 

She puts the child into bed with his father and 

calls a taxi. She puts a coat over her night- 
gown, counts the money left over from the 
groceries, and waits in the front yard. 

He wakes to discover he has rolled over on 
his son, and the dog scratches to get out. 

He gets up to let the dog out. He lets his wife 
sleep and makes himself a cup of "instant". 
The son cries, he gets her up and lets the dog 
back in. 

He has to go. 

She insists he take a slice of toast with him. 

She insists he pack his bags right then and 
take the dog, too. 

She kisses him goodbye. He opens the door, 
the dog tries to slip out, but she grabs her by 
her collar and shuts the door quick. 

She watches him pull away and turns to the 
child who is soaking, screaming, writhing 
with what is nothing but a gas pain again. 

And what she does now comes naturally. 
What she does now is perfectly normal. 
What she does now is expected to happen. 



The world-no the universe- 
running down, down, down, 
and me with it. 

A law, the law 

of thermodynamics number two. 
The result? 
The end? 
Disorder, chaos, randomly dispersed energy. 

Pollution, waste. 

Messy rooms, knowledge explosion. 

Colder, colder, colder 

Have I overlooked something? 

Mind, consciousness, spirit; 

Faith, hope and love. 

Warmer, warmer, warmer 

Anojiymoiis 1980 





V fl^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H^^B| -i*^^ 



PflHi Beckett 


# 79 What a joke 

she said to me 
Monday December 17, 1979 ^^^ (jj^gj ^ack her head 

She laughed 'til she was dead. 

No joke-she did! 
She died 
Not from laughter but from the ironies ol lite 
The ironing board collapsed 
with that heavy heavy burden 
When she saw the joke 
(Life's just a joke she said to me) 
she saw the light 
The light bulb was burnt out 

No joke-I loved her too 

1 loved her and she died 
Not from love but from all the inditference 
The (in) difference of squares 
Or... maybe of social circles 
She laughed all right 
and she laughed hard 
It was a great deep hearty belly-laugfi 
She laughed at life 
And she laughed at death 
(in his face) . 

and pulled the trigger-Lite's )ust a )oke 

she said 

and laughed 'til she was dead. 

Annelies Kelly 



by Hedley Sipe 

A hole in the ground with a body; 
Oodles of noodles - obviously worms. 

Zoom go the wheels of fortune - 
around and boggled. 
A loop in the clover road - 
a circle, spin and boom. 
Doomed to end in obscurity: 
no option open - no way out. 

A wreath of roses and lots of notes; 

notice the sorry surrounding "Oh's". 

The other ring alone now; 

an odd job at the doughnut shop 

and a home at number 10 Orange Grove. 

A pudgy baby and an imaginative tot; 

Oodles of noodles - obviously soup. 

Chris Svoboda 


Words of an Atheist 

by Linda HaiiptfiiJjyer 

I posed a question to you, 

my Lord, 

and you answered it with 

a question. 

To you, I asked another question, 

and you repHed the same. 

My soul was plunged 

into the deep depths of despair, 

where the sky is a 

spectrum of light, 

and the world a 

stranger in black. 

In vain, 1 tried to raise 


but my questions you 

could not answer. 

As I tried to uplift my 


As you pelted me with useless questions, 

I realized that it is 

all inside of me, 

and that I did not 

need you. 

And with that, 

I rose. 



Caroline Huirk 



If 1 were a poet 

I'd have an excuse to daydream 

And look out the window. 

"Leave her alone," they'd say, 

"You'll break her train of thought." 

So what if I never got 

Anything else done? 

They'd say, "She's totally devoted 

To her poetry." 

People would think 1 was creative. 

Not stupid. 

To stay up all night 

Changing stanzas and finding 

Different words. 

But more important than that 

I could remember something 


And describe it 

Or I could look at an evening 

And know what to write 

To keep it all alive. 

Carol Barlow 



by Linda Hauptfuhrer 

the dawn has not yet arrived 
humanity slumbers sweetly, 
like a child, 
carelessly dreaming... 

Susan Rowat 



About Our Contributors 

MARY ABRAMS is the Assistant to the 
Director of Financial Aid and a i^ull time stu- 
dent majoring in American Studies. Maureen 
Owen of Telephone Magazine has referred to 
"Post-Partum Blues" as "the lengthy and 
brilliant poem." Mary says she has no career 
interests as such, but a book of her poetry is to 
be published this summer by the Toothpaste 
Press of West Branch, Iowa (publishers of fine 
limited edition ihand-set, letterpress books). 


Among her literary achievements, CAROL 
BARLOW can count first place in a Florida 
Tech poetry contest, and second place in a 
poetry contest sponsored by the University of 
Southern Florida. Some of her work has been 
published in a textbook by William West of 
USF. A sophomore, Carol expects to major m 
English/International Affairs, and enjoys 
music and travel as well as writing poetry. 

A serious photographer, PAM BECKETT 
plans to major in photojournalism. Now a 
freshman, Pam enjoys photographmg anythmg 

Although freshman BEVERLY BLAKEMORE 
plans to major in Music, she also intends to 
continue her writing. As a high school 
freshman she won a creative writing award, 
and she has previously published stories in her 
high school's literary magazine. Beverly also 
sings and plays the organ and piano. 

Chaplain and lecturer in Religion, MYRON B. 
BLOY, JR. is the author of The Crisis of 
Cultural Change and numerous articles on 
religion and higher education, and on 
technology and culture. Mr. Bloy has also 
edited several periodicals and newsletters. All 
of his writing and editing has been concerned 
to interpret and suggest responses--from a 
Christian perspective-to contemporary social, 
political, and cultural developments, and to 
the contemporary quest for community. 

BARBARA BUSH is a senior majoring in 
Studio Art, who plans to go into commercial 
advertising. "My art," she says, "is the result 
of the filtration of my sensuous interpretation 
of the nature which surrounds me." 

In addition to the 1980 Boley Prize, 
CATHERINE COOK has received a high 
school award as Outstanding Expository 

Writer in 1077, and, in 1975, an Honorable 
Mention award from Scholastic Magazine. She 
has been writing stories since sixth grade and 
has gained experience as a staff reporter for a 
weekly newspaper. Her plan for the future is 
to continue writing fiction, while pursuing a 
career in the airline industry, perhaps in adver- 
tising, public relations, or publications. 

Drawing is a hobby for MARTHA FREEMAN, 
a senior majoring in Music and Culture. 
Martha is a Sweet Tone and head of RAs. She 
plans a career of professional voice perfor- 
mance, but intends to continue developing her 
drawing and painting as well. 

POLK GREEN has been writing songs for nine 
years and playing the guitar for thirteen. With 
junior Kam Myers, she has been performing 
locally for the past three years, and has played 
in various festivals in Texas. She and Kam will 
be making an album in the next six or eight 
months. Now a junior Math/Econ major, I oik 
plans to continue her musical career as a per- 
former, and eventually as a producer for other 

DEBORAH HARVEY is a junior whose major 
is Mathematical Physics. She enjoys 
photography as a hobby, as well as riding, 
reading, and needlework. Debbie's 
photographs generally capture scenes of rural 

"I am not an atheist," says junior LINDA 
HAUPTFUHRER, who is a Psychology major. 
Rather, her play and her poems are expres- 
sions of doubt in a time when she was sorting 
out her beliefs. Linda enjoys the study of 
English literature, along with her interest in 

A senior English major, CAROLINE HAWK is 
also an Editor for The Branibler. She has held 
several student government offices and has 
taken up lacrosse this year. For a career, 
Caroline plans to enter the field of public rela- 
tions, where she can use her skills in both 
writing and photography. 

ANNELIES KELLY is a freshman whose in- 
terests are best summed up in her own words: 
"I love life and everything in it-sports, drama, 
music, nature. I love poetry and writing, but 
my poetry writes itself; I just hold the pen I 
suppose I'll be an English teacher because I 
want everyone to love writing as much as 1 


A sophomore, GAY KENNEY is considering a 
career in journalism or public relations, to 
make the most ot her English and Creative 
Writing major. Photography is another of her 
main interests, and she enjoys outdoor sports 
in between her three part-time jobs. 

TONY MARRA, Head of Audio Visual Equip- 
ment, says he writes his poetry for his own en- 
joyment and satisfaction. He plans to publish a 
book of his works sometime ne.xt year, and to 
continue writing just for the pleasure of it. 

LAURA MURPHY'S poetic imagination stems 
partly from her upbringing in Virginia Beach. 
"Nature absorbs me," she says, which is evi- 
dent in her writing. A sophomore Government 
major, Laura also notes, "I write for myself." 

Although SUSAN ROWAT plans a career in 
the paralegal field, photography has been 
somewhat more than a hobby for her. For two 
years she has served as Photography Editor for 
the Briar Patch, and currently she works as a 
photography assistant for the Public Informa- 
tion office at SBC. Susan is a senior majoring 
in International Affairs. 

HEDLEY SIPE, a senior Sociology major, is 
Business Maneger for The Brambler. Her cam- 
pus activities have been diverse: Chung 
Mungs, Recreation Association, and the Swim 
Team (Captain for the last two years). Hedley 
plans to attend nursing school following 

Readers of The Brambler for the past four 
years are familiar with the wide variety of sub- 
jects and styles that STEPHANIE SNEAD 
employs in her writing. That range reflects her 
broad interests. She is a senior Mathematical 
Physics major who enjoys the study of 
literature, is actively in journalism as News 
Director for WUDZ and roving reporter for a 
Public Television station in Harrisonburg, VA, 
and loves sports, including skiing and caving. ' 

CHRISTINA SVOBODA is a freshman m the 
process of deciding which major she can best 
combine with Mathematics. She is interested in 
journalism and photography in addition to 
creative writing, and plays piano, guitar, 
hockey, lacrosse, and soccer: all with equal en- 









What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, 
or rather indicates, his fate. 

- Henry David Thoreau 

The Brambler Staff 

Danielle M. Herubin 

Editor-in- Chief 

Catherine Adams 

Business Manager 

Lucie H. Stephens 

Assistant Editor 

Hillary Herbert 

Publicity Manager 

Anne Goebel 

Review Editor 

Elizabeth Hoskinson 

Literary Editor 

El Warner 

Consulting Editor 

Laurel Scott 

Literary Editor 


Carol Carson 
Fay Powell 
Mary Jo Ellis 
Katie Hoffner 
Karen Kerlin 
Wendy Chapin 
Sue Husky 
Linda Hauptfuhrer 
Cary Cathcart 
Pam Beckett 
Shirl Carter 
Sharon Johnson 
Reed Krombolz 

Becky Campbell 
Myra Merritt 
Holly Pflug 
Stephanie Sipe 
Kristin Sudholz 
Deb Wale 
Lisa Fracano 
Hannah Davis 
Cathy Cash 
Linda Miller 
Paula Smith 
Betsy Kyle 
Alice Keyes 

Rose Boyce 
Danielle Bielenstein 
Sara Greer 
Nancy Smith 
Lee Vandergrift 
LesHe Eglin 
Patty Madigan 
Debbie Fischer 
Gigi Collins 
Jill Redpath 
Rhoda Harris 
Diedre Piatt 

Editor's Page 

An article appeared in The Sweet Briar News recently 
entitled, "Sweet Briar Women — A Profile." The major 
force of the article came from the last two sentences which 
read. "And this is the Sweet Briar Woman. Would Daisy 
approve?," intending to indicate that Daisy might not 
approve of the facts about Sweet Briar girls that preceded 
the sentence. Most of the facts were rather trivial— how 
much is spent at the Bistro and how many meals the 
average Sweet Briar girl eats in the dining hall. A few very 
important facts were lightly smoothed over— the most 
popular majors and to what use the average woman puts 
her education at Sweet Briar. The article really did not 
"profile" the Sweet Briar Woman: unfortunately its com- 
panion article entitled "Fall Weekend Begins Tomorrow" 
with its theme, "Every Days a Holiday" would be con- 
sidered by many to be the real Sweet Briar Woman. 

This is an unfortunate attitude; Sweet Briar is most 
often known for its social atmosphere and little or no 
emphasis is put upon the wonderful education that one 
receives here. Instead, the average Sweet Briar girl often 
finds herself trying to conform to the stereotype. Daddy's 
little helpless girl, with a wealth of money and southern 
cliches and a poverty of thought, wrapped in a bright pink 
and green package and presented to th^e world with no 
other weapon than her charm and beauty ... is this the 
typical Sweet Briar woman? Is this what reputation pre- 
cedes us everywhere we go? Is this what we want? 

I think that this Sweet Briar image does exist, but it is 
certainly not typical. God forbid that Sweet Briar would 
release some one hundred of these helpless creatures into 
the world every year. Luckily for my argument Miss War- 
ner Informs us that most Sweet Briar women are working 
within five years of graduation in either Business or 
Education. This obviously indicates that the Sweet Briar 

"typical" graduates well-equipped for the dog-eat-dog 
"real world" out there. 

Ah, you ask, but where is this proof of the real Sweet 
Briar Woman? Does she exist only in your theories? Why 
does she hide behind her party-going image and mask her 
quickness of thought and perception? She obviously feels 
somewhat intimidated by the few outspoken girls who 
spend their time doing ridiculous things like trying to 
wipe The Brambler out of existence (yes, the executive 
committee has a few members who claim that there is not 
enough involvement in The Brambler to justify its pres- 
ence at Sweet Briar, and they have spent the last two years 
quietly "representing" us towards this purpose.) This 
year, finally, involvement in The Brambler has been 
tremendous. Not only does The Brambler have a large 
staff (some of whom are so intimidated that they ask us 
not to credit them with the work they have done for us) 
but the volume of submissions this year was so large that 
we had to turn down more than half for lack of room to 
print it on. 

You will notice, as you read the different stories or gaze 
at the artwork, that there is an incredible variety of work 
represented. Very few universities can claim the indi- 
viduality that is Sweet Briar's trademark. An art school 
will, for instance, turn out 800 little photo-realists, where 
Sweet Briar will develop unique individuals after their 
own tendencies. This variety and individuality is unique- 
ly Sweet Briar, and I think that it is time for most people to 
recognize this. 

You may think that some of the work is flawed, weird, 
or obscene. I ask that you keep in mind that all of the work 
here is very honest, and that it comes straight from the 
heart, sometimes without passing through the brain. If 
you are offended by something here, then it is really hon- 
esty that offends you, for nothing that is in The Brambler 
is published in bad taste. Sweet Briar, as isolated as it is, 
reflects very much the feeling of modern society. We re- 
ceived a lot of work depicting the lonely woman involved in 
a bad relationship, or more abstract themes — all of them 
very different from what one would expect from a small, 
private, girl's school in the South. 

I think that this tendency to write in more modern 
terms tells us that the typical Sweet Briar girl is more 
interested in understanding life than in what is the prop- 
er drink to serve after Poulet Jambon. This is not to say 
that the social life at Sweet Briar is not important. A social 
atmosphere is an important outlet for the wit and creativ- 
ity of the "typical" Sweet Briar student. Yet it is time. 1 
think, for others to recognize the versatility of the average 
Sweet Briar student; she can move freely in social and 
intellectual circles alike. She is strong because she is 
unique and well-versed in many areas. The tj^ical Sweet 
Briar Woman is not someone Daisy would have been 
ashamed of: instead the Sweet Briar Woman stands as a 
monument for all other women to look up to and to follow. 
And the men, well, they will just have to make room. 

Danielle Herubin 


strip Mine 

strip Mine (1949) is a small gouache painting by Carl 
Gaertner hanging on the South wall of the Dining Hall 
between the tray drop and the first private dining room. In 
this painting is depicted the gloomy sight of such a mine 
rising above distant gullies and hills on an overcast after- 
noon. The pale, muted green of the rising mounds of 
rubble contrasts greatly with the dark purple and black 
dashed with light pink of the adjacent recessions. Sharp, 
thin, vertical lines of black on white and green and pink 
on black counter-balance the horizontally slanting gullies 
to form a graphlike surface. Such a limited palette also 
works as a unifying force in the potentially overly-busy 
subject matter. By contrast, the expressive application of 
this limited palette adds a vibrancy without which Strip 
Mine would be too gloomy. 

Gaertner's application of watercolors in an opaque 
manner solidifes the fluid quality usually associated with 
watercolors to better suit this more somber subject mat- 
ter. The use of colors generally foreign to this kind of 
subject, exhibits the artist's sensitivity to the soft colors of 
a cloudy afternoon. 

Therese Robinson 

Spanish Landscape 

Spanish Landscape hanging on one of the south 
walls of the Dining Hall is a large oil painting by Alfred 
Chadboum. The composition is largely tints and shades 
of blue, green, red and grey slashes applied thickly and 
with a wide brush in seeming disorder. At a closer view 
and without knowledge of the title, the painting appears 
to be a disorganized, non-objective arrangement of forms 
of color. Each of the abstract forms is an area of flat paint 
modeling in unrecognizable objects. 

As one moves away from the work, it isapparent that 
the composition is lightly constructed of rectangular 
shapes, suggesting the roofs of a Spanish valley town. 
There is also a distinct vanishing point close to the center 
of the landscape from which radiate various and explicit 
lines of perspectives. The areas of dark shades applied in a 
haphazard manner take of the character of distinct 
shadows cast by the buildings in the foregound. The few 
areas of bright, warm hues and tints of these hues depict 
the sharp light play caused by the sinking sun. Distinctly 
rendered decorative roof tops (only Implicit at close 
observance) take on their true nature when seen from a 

There is a live interplay between the subject matter of 
the painting at close range and the subject matter at a 
distance; Spanish Landscape echoes the throbbing 
manner in which Chadboume has applied his medium. 
The almost tintillating play of light and dark is a cheerful 
dimension in the overall feeling of the oppressive 
approach of a storm at sunset. 

This painting was added to the Sweet Briar collection 
in 1965. 

Therese Robinson 

Mark Tobey 

Sweet Briar due to the dedicated work of Susan 
Bandes and the support of the Friend's of the Arts had the 
opportunity to view a dynamic print exhibition of Mark 
Tobey works. The exhibition lasted from September 16 - 
October 9, 1981 giving the Sweet Briar community and 
neighbors ample time to view the works. In addition, 
there was a reception and film on Tobey which gave stu- 
dents and friends not only the opportunity to learn more 
about the artist, but also the chance to discuss his work. 

Mark Tobey in his development realized the impor- 
tance of the history of art. And, held a strong belief that it 
was only through hard work and study that an artist's 
true personality and inventiveness could emerge in his 
art. His work in its simple patterns of form and color takes 
on a lyrical quality. It is in these simple patterns that the 
viewer can see the influence of the Chinese brush work. 

He was a master whose work never conformed to the 
current trends or fads. He remained true to his ideals 
throughout his lifetime. Yet, that is not to say that his 
work and style did not evolve, for he was always open to 
trying new techniques and mediums. In fact it was not 
until 1 96 1 , at the age of 7 1 , that Tobey seriously applied 
himself to the technique of lithography having painted 

since the 40's. 

Tobey who was born in Wisconsin in 1890, traveled 
widely during his lifetime, finally settling in Basel, 
Switzerland in 1960, where he died in 1976. Throughout 
his lifetime he received many honors and awards. Thus, it 
was not only a pleasure for Sweet Briar to have exhibited 
Mark Tobey 's prints, but it is also an honor to have ac- 
quired one for the Sweet Briar collection. 

The Friends of Art's first gift to Sweet Briar in the fall of 
1981 was a Mark Tobey etching. The work is entitled, 
Longing for Community, 1973. It is a print which is rep- 
resentative of Tobey's graphic style in general, and exem- 
plary of his abstract patterning of over-all line found m 
much of his work. Not only is it an important addition to 
Sweet Briar's Graphic Collection, but it will also serve as a 
good teaching aid for students. 

Debbie Rundlett 


An Exhibition of Color Photography 

Benedict Gallery, October 20 - November 12 

Sally Mann's still live's have a sense of timelessness to 
them due to the veiled over quality achieved by her colors, 
use of light, and the objects themselves. Her unique juxta- 
position of objects draws the viewer into the composition. 

Her subject matter consists of things that she liked; 
"Whatever looked good at Kroger's, or the piece of celery I 
didn't use in the salad . . . (or) chiffon Scarves."* There is 
no symbolic meaning — it isn't necessary. Her pictures 
bring out the inherent beauty of the individual objects. 
The lyrically beautiful colors, and the differences in tex- 
tures, make one feel as if they can reach out and touch 

The artist is a graduate of Hollins College and she 
makes her home in Lexington, Virginia. Sally Mann is an 
artist of rare talent and Virginia should be very proud of 

Betsy Kyle 

Horse Power: An Electric Fable 

On October 6, the Sweet Briar community was pre- 
sented with a theatrical treat— an unusual two act play 
performed by The Road Company, a touring troupe based 
in Johnson City, Tennessee. "The Road Company, " so the 
members state, "is dedicated to the production of new 
theatre which reflects the concerns and interests of the 
community in which we live and work." Their shows are 
composed of the works of their own writer-in-residence as 
well as original improvisational techniques. 

The play presented, entitled Horse Power: an Electric 
Fable, did indeed show the company's originality and 
versatility. The show combined singing, dancing, special 
technical effects, and conventional acting to produce a 
delightful experience for the audience. The storyline in- 
volved many facets of life that man must face. Greed and 
selfishness can destroy the dreams of many as Horse 
Power demonstrated. Are technological advances dimin- 
ishing the importance of man? Can man control his fate? 
These and other questions are raised in a fascinating, 
disturbing yet light-hearted fashion. 

The audience was spellbound as the Fates spun out 
the lives of a particularly curious boy and his parents. The 
tapestry represents the dreams of everyone's future; and 
each person sees something different in the tapestry. 
After learning about the tapestry from his parents, Harold 
and Betty, the boy decides to leave the security of the farm 
and see the tapestry himself. Viewing the tapestry, he sees 
a horse. In pursuit of the horse, the boy destroys part of 
the tapestry, thus destroying the hopes and dreams of 
many people. The theme of the play deals with the effects 
of the torn tapestry on the lives of Harold and Betty, and 
the boy. 

The musical accompaniment of the musician Rod 
Stipe on mandolin, guitar and harp provided a wonderful 
blue-grass touch to the play. 

The Road Company brought Sweet Briar a delightfully 
powerful production in its Electic Fable, and left behind 
an audience that was thrilled, electrified— and thought- 
ful. ^ 

Sara M. Greer 

Katherine Kadish Exhibit 

Katherine Radish's exhibition, displayed in Benedict 
from September 16th to October 18th, included paint- 
ings, monotypes and drawings, many of which were in- 
spired during her sojourns at the Virginia Center for the 
Creative Arts. Her works incorporated a variety of media 
such as conte, charcoal, and acrylic and oil on paper. 

Miss Kadish received her BFA from Carnegie-Mellon 
University and her MA from the University of Chicago. 
She has exhibited in many of the museums and galleries 
throughout the country. She has been described as viva- 
cious, outgoing, quick-witted and well-read yet her works 
in the Sweet Briar exhibition have a haunted, desolate, 
disturbing quality. 

The two drawings of nudes, the earliest works in the 
exhibition, appear agonized or terrified by some un- 
known force. This feeling is emphasized by the harsh 
angularity of the jaws and bend of the arms. The mono- 
tone color of both drawings and the darkness of Woman 
with a Mirror enhance the fear and desperation these 
figures seem to feel. 

Even the artist's landscapes are gloomy, definitely not 
the types that would brighten up a bare living room wall. 
Radish's predominant use of blues and greens does lend a 
splash of color to the works, but she has piuddied them to 
the extent that they are neither cheerful nor pleasing. 
Depending on one's aesthetic preferences, these land- 
scapes, particularly the three Garden paintings, may 
seem rather tranquil; I find them isolated and lonely. The 
frame's limitation of the scenes is frustrating and claus- 
trophobic. On the other hand, the landscape entitled HiZf- 
side, with the expressionistic use of bright colors and the 
broader view into depth, is much more appealing. 

Radish's swimming pool scenes are also painted with 
bright, expressive colors, yet, like her landscapes, they are 

mysterious and disturbing. In fact, Swimming Pool, 
Evening is reminiscent of the works of the Norwegian 
expressionist Edvard Munch, whose use of radiating, un- 
dulating lines also gave his works a gloomy air. 

The latest works in the exhibition were three mono- 
types of masks. A monotype is a type of print in which the 
image to be printed is carved on a rock instead of a block of 
wood or piece of metal. Unlike most printing processes, 
only one print is obtainable from each carved image. 
Evidently Kadish was experimenting with monotypes, for 
she painted over most of the surface with oil, leaving very 
little of the print's textured surface visible. The rough 
areas which are exposed emphasize the primitive quality 
of the masks. The vivid, expressionistic colors set against 
dark backgrounds bring the faces forward toward the 
viewer in an almost menacing way. This technique was 
also used by turn of the century European expressionist. 
The bright, unnatural facial coloring of the masks recalls 
portraits done by Matisse, Vuillard and Vlaminck. 

Kadish effectively uses color, space and light in her art 
to create a mood and to evoke a response from the viewer. I 
felt her work was oppressive, disturbing and mysterious. 
However, someone else may have found it appealing. Re- 
gardless of the viewer's reaction, whether positive or 
negative, if an artist's work can stimulate thought or 
emotion then those who see it will not have wasted their 

Mandy Curry 


Located in the Dean of Academics office is an etching 
by Rembrandt Van Rijn entitled "The Return of the Prod- 
igal Son." The etching is not publicly well known to the 
Sweet Briar community, sometimes it seems to have been 
forgotten entirely. This is a shame for the piece is a 
wonderful etching both visually and as a fine example of 
Rembrandt's brilliance. Sweet Briar is fortunate to have it 
and everyone should go to see it and enjoy its beauty. 

Rembrandt was a Dutch artist of the seventeenth cen- 
tury. Highlights of the Dutch artist's innovations may be 
seen in his work for he is considered not only one of the 
best of the seventeenth century artists but of all time. The 
study of the actual visual look of light, motion, and action 
is seen in Rembrandt's work. He found that in the differ- 
ences of light and shade, if rendered subtly, could visually 
read emotional differences. He also felt that light could 
softly and subtly control a sense of quietness and spiritual 


The graphic media process of etching became popular 
during the seventeenth century and was perhaps best 
mastered by Rembrandt. Etching is a process of cutting 
into a copper plate with a knife and when the drawing is 
completed, soaking the cutting in acid. The lines are 
"eaten" or "bitten" to create a visual line of greater free- 
dom of movement than a woodcutting. The medium's 
softness also adds to this feeling of freer movement and 
offers a greater subtly of line and tone. Etching is one of 
the most facile of the graphic arts and is visually appeal- 
ing, due to the emotion created through these "bitten" 


Rembrandt's etching entitled "The Return of the Prod- 
igal Son" is a spiritual subject of man's emotions through 
forgiveness and mercy. The Prodigal Son is the story of 
the son who rebels against his home and father, leaving 

home only to later return a different man, pitifully beg- 
ging for forgiveness and mercy. The emotions of the for- 
giver and the one forgiven are truly remarkable in Rem- 
brandt's etching. Rembrandt's inward turned contempla- 
tion of humanity is seen on the face of the forgiving father 
who welcomes back his son with open arms and mercy. 
The father's powerfully etched lines seem to suggest his 
position of authority. Yet the freer moving drapery and 
the soft drapery folds of his garment expresses his mercy 
and forgiveness towards his son as he embraces the wispy 
figure of the prodigal son. The distorted etching lines of 
the son's face emphasize his position as he seems to cry 
out for forgiveness, while the "biting" lines enhance the 
tone. The etching lines of the son seem to fade into the 
embrace of his father, giving the feeling of relief and 
acceptance. The deeply rendered lines of the embrace 
provoke the feeling of sympathy for the human affliction 
of the son's position. 

The father and son are placed in the center of the 
etching within an architectural background which 
emphasizes the action occurring. A hard textural quality 
is given to the architectural setting by opposing diagonal 
lines, while the shading throughout the work (as seen in 
the drapery of the father and the background figures) is 
created by harmonious diagonal lines. The placement of 
three background figures, one who watches from an open 
window with a contemplative look, and two women who 
seem to be unaware of what is occurring, re-emphasize 
the embrace of the father and son. 'Visually, the figures in 
the background act as a balancing element for the center 

The soft quality and light felt throughout the etching 
is a result of the varying depths of the lines, creating a 
mood which, even in the embrace of the father and son, is 
extremely calm. Rembrandt's brilliant etching technique 
clearly helps to provoke and enhance the work's emotional 
quality. The Return of the Prodigal Son is an excellent 
example of Rembrandt's brilliant style in etching and his 
visual style of beautiful emotional quality. 

Next time you are by the dean's office, slip in and look 
at this beautiful piece of work; it is a real treat to have 
such a high quality of art work around us. 

Hannah Davis 

Growing Up Human 

— Dream? 

— No thanks, I already have one. 

— But do you dream? 

— Certainly. It was handed to me. You know, like living in 
the land of Promise. That kind of story. 

— Land of Promise? 

— Sure. Oh, it wasn't easy at first. I had to lose before I 
could win. I had to pretend I was born again and again. 
But 1 did it 

— It was your father who told you that. You weren't on his 
knee though, that's not the way it works. There is a hall. 
You see a light and you walk slowly down the hall. The 
shadow is your father, you are the image. Make the shad- 
ow lengthen make the shadow lengthen 

— No. It was books. It was school. It was church. See me 
shuffle from building to building. There's a quote 

— Rod Mckuen? 

— No, Patti Smith i think. Should i persue a past so 
twisted/should i crawl defeated and gifted/ should i persue 
should i persue 

— Sex? 

— No thanks, I already have one. 

— How? 

— It was the first pair of underpants. Dainty, flowered, 
fully elasticised waist band. I think we bought them in 
Woolworth s, in the little girl's department. 

— You're lying. Do you mean to say that you didn't have 
your sex from the moment you were bom, that you didn't 
open your eyes and masturbate yourself a woman? 

— Take this bellybutton and call it a shrew. 

— Stop it you're not making sense again. You're lying in a 
bassinet and the radio is on. It's a love song, the kind 
where the girl is utterly and totally in love with the boy. 
The girl is a cheerleader, the boy is a football player. That's 
where you got your sex. 

— We never had a bassinet. Sure, my father was a good 
man. He worked his butt off to keep us well-clothed and 
fed and once in a while we'd all have a night out. He 
worked his butt off and he got ahead 

— Got ahead? 

— He did things. 

— Did he ever sing in a snowstorm or dance in the streets 
of Paris? 

— What are you , some kind of romantic nut ? What do you 
think this is? 

— This is the point of view that asks the questions. Let's 
keep this story in perspective, it seems to me our view- 
points are changing. 

— Sorry. 

— Sorry? 

— Of course I'm sorry, I've spent my life doing one thing or 
another and. Well I've spent my life doing one thing or 

— Constitution? 

— We have plenty of those. There's one that stands out in 
my mind. In elementary school we had a dress code; the 
girls had to wear dresses. One day very soon after they 
changed the code I wore pants. I was the only girl wearing 

— The room is dark but your eyes are closed anyway. You 
hear nothing. Cover your ears. Suddenly your uncovered 
eyes sense light. 

— Exactly. 

— There doesn't seem to be much I can offer you. Land of 
Promise, land of teachings, what can I offer you? 

— Nothing. 

— You went to school. You sat on a yellow bus and the 
desks were always too small. You sharpened a pencil and 
watched a teacher. You learned. What can I offer you? 

— Nothing. 

— You went to church. It's Sunday, your mother is wear- 
ing a new hat. Ride in the car, walk down the aisle. Kneel 
in a pew and know who you are. What can I offer you? 

— Nothing. 

— You read books. The heoine was a nurse, the hero a 
private detective. Or an astronaut. Bad guys smoke 
cigars. Socrates died for his sins, i before e except after c. 

Squares are always equilateral. I pledge allegiance to the 
flag, a lawyer's salary starts at 23,000 a year, Columbus 
sailed the ocean blue, Russia is your enemy. Allen Gins- 
berg is a faggot. A paradox is an unanswerable contradic- 
tory question, truth is merely something which two peo- 
ple agree upon. What can 1 offer you? 

— Nothing. 

— One question? 

— One question. 

— What are you doing with your life? 

— Growing up human. 

El Warner 

(This article appeared in the Chattanooga News-Free Press. Thursday. July 23, 

(Editor's Note: Thefollowing article on the tragic accident at the Hyatt Regency Hotel 
in Kansas City, Mo., were obtained by several phone calls to Kansas City residents 
who were present and excerptsfrom Sunday's special section in the KansasCity Star, 
reprinted by permission oj the Chattanooga News-Free Press.) 


"When the wounded are so plentiful that the dead are 
necessarily treated as cargo, survivors need to touch. 

They cling — to their loved ones and to people like Cyn- 
di Paulson, a hero of modest but unassailable propor- 

What had been a glittering and delightful scene at 7 
p.m. — hundreds of people dancing to the mellow sound of 
Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" at a tea dance in the elegant 
Hyatt hotel — was the scene of carnage and stunned 
puzzlement at 7:05 p.m. 

Two concrete-and-steel skywalks plunged onto the 
crowd below, killing 111 persons and injuring nearly 200 
more. Workers were continuing to clear blood-soaked de- 
bris from the hotel lobby on Saturday morning, as funeral 
homes prepared for the onslaught of unexpected mass 
funerals and as the relatives of victims sat in their homes 
throughout the city suffering grief and despair — and 

Cyndi Paulson is but one example of courage in the 
face of overwhelming adversity. The 20-year-old Kansas 
City native, hostess at the Hyatt Regency's Terrace Res- 
taurant, stayed with a wounded couple during the even- 
ing's horrors until they could be taken to a hospital. 

She experienced shock in the first instants after the 
crash of the skywalk onto the floor below, but quickly 
recovered so that she was able to aid others in need. 
Knowing some first aid that she had learned in a scuba 
class, she did not move any of the victims, but gave her aid 
in another way— by holding hands and giving as much 
comfort as she knew how. 

She found Mrs. Rosetta Koenigsberg who was lying 
injured and unattended. "She wanted her husband so 

bad," said Cyndi. "She said that if she was going to die, 
she wanted to be next to her hsuband. I wasn't about to 
leave her." Mr. Koenigsberg was lying near his wife, suf- 
fering, but in better condition. 

Cyndi waited until the Koenigsbergs could be trans- 
ported to a hospital, slumping against a wall from exhaus- 
tion but never letting go of the lady's hand. "Around the 
three, a deafening swirl of broken lives and panic, of 
shrieking kin and bellowing police. Between them, a brief 
bond that they will never repeat." 

"We feel so thankful — usually at least one of our 1 1 
children or we ourselves attends the tea dances at the 
Hyatt." said Mrs. Jeanne Thompson, wife of United Mis- 
souri Bank vice-chairman Byron Thompson. "The dances 
have really caught on here, and usually huge crowds 

Mrs. Thompson had several friends attending the 
dance, none of whom were injured, except for shock. 
"What everybody felt at first was shock, anger and frustra- 
tion," she said. "There was anger because we just asked 
ourselves how many architects it takes to make a building 
that stays put. A couple of years ago the roof at the Kemper 
Arena fell in and people just shook their heads at that. 

"The arena won an architecture award, and we won- 
dered what the world was coming to. Now we say that we 
hadn't learned by that experience — only now people were 

She continues, "1 guess what we learned is that there's 
nothing you can depend on anymore , but now people here 
have more faith in themselves and want to help. There's 
been a wonderful spirit. The priest at Mass on Sunday 
remarked how the love of man was so apparent through all 
this and how the brotherhood of man came through it all. 
It's an inspiration to all Kansas Citizens. 

"Everyone is saying, 'What can I do?' and the blood 
banks have been teeming with suppliers. There's a reason 
for everything— at least that's the way I feel. 

"Everybody knew somebody it seems like. We were just 
hanging on every word, hoping not to see a name we 


Dr. Dave Fortin is a radiologist at St. Luke's Hospital 
in Kansas City. He arrived on the scene of the tragedy, by 

happenstance, just five minutes after it had happened. 
"We were with a group of about 25 radiologists who 
were scheduled to have a social banquet given by Kodak," 
he explained. "The cocktail party was at 7 p.m. and the 
dinner was an hour later, so about half of us were already 
at the hotel and the other half in the vicinity. 

"When my wife and 1 arrived at the hotel, people were 
pouring out the front door. They had horror on their faces 
and we knew that something terrible had happened. We 
thought it was a bomb scare or that some nut was stand- 
ing in the lobby with a machine gun. 

"I walked in astounded," said Dr. Fortin. "What I saw 
in the lobby was plaster dust everywhere and a waterfall 
on the north wall. Even though the lobby was full of 
rubble, I didn't appreciate the number of people who had 
been killed or injured. 

"The first thing we did was assemble the injured in the 
employees' cafeteria. About 17 doctors from my depart- 
ment were lucky enough to be there. The thing that was 
interesting was that it was almost like working at the 
hospital, because these were the men I see and work with 

"The victims were incredibly calm and everybody was 
helping everybody else out," he continues. "From a medi- 
cal standpoint, the primary medical problem was shock. 
Next came back problems. All of those who were killed 
were mostly crused to death. Everyone was operating on 
adrenalin and training." 

Dr. Fortin explained that his first impression of the 
scene was like watching a movie. "It's something all of us 
have seen a hundred times in the movies, but how many 
times in a lifetime do you see it?" He knew that he wasn't 
dreaming, but he felt as if he were. 

"The second most impressive thing was the incredible 
calm," he said. "It was calm for the rest of the night. The 
horror came later when you had time to think about it." 

Gina Meyers is 1 9 years old and likes to dance. She, 
along with her brother, Patrick, were attending a dance 
contest at the Hyatt hotel the night the skywalk fell. 

"It sounded like a tree that snapped — like a big crack," 
said soft-spoken Gina. "I was about 15 feet from the sky- 
walk. I looked up and it was like slow motion. Pipes were 

breaking, and you could count 'one-thousand-one' 'one- 
thousand-two' while the thing fell down. 

"The boys who were with me were pushing me away 
from it. There was immediate screaming. 1 was literally in 
shock, but I knew I had to help. I didn't know about my 
brother for a while. He was walking on the catwalk, but 
wasn't hurt. 

'"It didn't seem real, but 1 knew it was," Gina con- 
tinued "1 looked down, and there was this guy's body that 
was parallel with his head. At first 1 felt anger-1 didn't 
really understand why it happened. It scared the -- out ot 
me but it gives you a lot to think about. 

"It makes you realize your mortality. And it helps to 

talk about it." ,, . , ■^^ ^x^ 

Gina's brother, Patrick, barely escaped bemg killed by 
the falling structure. When he saw the destruction, there 
was nothing left but bodies everywhere. He thought that 
there was "no way it could be picked up, " so he just walked 
around holding people's hands and praying for them. All 
he could do was stand there and pray for them, said 
Jeanne Thompson. 

Death came— maybe with the hand of fate at its side 
picking unexpected partygoers without discrimination. 
Most of those who perished went quickly, but a few 
lingered on in agony until they mercifully expired. 

One of the dead was James Cottingham. He was the 
city counselor for Independence, Mo., and was known 
during that time as a "political kingpin. " According to the 
Star ''he was known for his self-depreciating wisecracks 
at council meetings and for a tendency to catnap through 
less interesting discussions." 

He was considered by many to be one of the best muni- 
cipal attorneys in the state, according to Independence 
Mayor E. Lee Comer, Jr. At the age of 27 he was appointed 
an assistant city counselor and served as regional vice- 
president of the National Institute of Municipal Law 

Officers. ._> ., 

John Jacob Alder, an attorney and native of Switzer- 
land, was entertaining visiting British relatives at the 
Hyattwith his wife, Gladys. His wife and relatives escaped 
the hotel unharmed; Alder was killed. 

Alder, a 74-year-old senior partner in his law firm, was 
a member of the American and Jackson County Bar Asso- 
ciations, the American Judicature Society and the Inter- 
national Relations Council. A partner described him as "a 
very sweet, compassionate, even-tempered sort of man. 
Those qualities are sort of rare for a trial lawyer. 

"He read nearly everything that came into this office. 
We could always tell if he had read something in the 
library, because there would be passages underlined in 
several of the books." 

She liked the Hyatt, according to her sister, Irene. 
Helen Start, 28, loved the Big Band sound, and went to 
the Hyatt hotel often with her friends. It was one of her 
favorite buildings. 

Miss Stark had lived in Kansas City all her life, and 
worked as an underwriter at Mutual Benefit Life Insur- 
ance Company. 

Her sister said, "She just got back from California. She 
always wanted to go there. At lease she got a chance to do 

The survivors escaped death, but they did not escape 
fear and pain and the eternal questions of "Why?" As 
many of them have repeated over and over again to others 
and to themselves, they will remember that night from 
now on. 

"Ray Lopez was carrying two beers across the dance 
floor when a blast of wind and flying glass threw him over 
a lobby desk. When he got up, he said, a young woman was 
crying, 'Help me, help me, please help me, I'm hurt.' 

'Her leg had been completely blown off, ' said Lopez, 57. 
'She said to rub her leg, and so I did, and she said. Yeah, 
that feels better.' and then she said, 'What's you name?" 
and I told her 'Lopez.' 

'She said, 'Please can you get a message to my kids? 
Tell them that I'm going to be all right, that I'm not hurt 
too bad.' And then she just keeled over and died in my 

Lopez and his family were among the lucky ones Fri- 
day night — they survived to ponder on this July weekend 
the thin line between life and death, between a tea dance 
and a dance macabre." 

" 'I heard what sounded like an explosion,' said Miss 
Linda Lopez, 26, Ray Lopez' daughter. 'And the walkway 
just started crumbling down and people were flying to get 

off of it." 

Miss Lopez said she was knocked down by the panick- 
ing crowd. 

'People rushed to get out, and we were stampeded. I 

was knocked down, and an elderly lady was lying on top of 

me, and it took me awhile to get her to calm down. She was 

.'you know how a cat acts when it's terrified? She was 

clutching at me like that and wouldn't let go.' " 

"One of those who survived the collapse at the Hyatt 
Regency was Mayor Elliott Teters, a retired bureau com- 
mander for the Kansas City. Kan., police. Teters was 
rushed to Baptist Memorial Hospital Friday with multiple 
cuts and bruises. 

His wife, Mrs. Sybil Teters, said she didn't know her 
husband was among the injured until she heard his name 
broadcast on a local television station." 

Several days after the tragedy in Kansas City, the sur- 
vivors are thinking about what happened— each one piec- 
ing together the sequence of events as it happened in 
relation to his own situation and trying to make sense of 
something unexplainable. 

There is hope for those who were injured that they will 
make successful recoveries, according to Dr. Fortin. 
Younger survivors, such as Gina Meyers, will have a life- 
time to think of themselves as "survivors. " They are lucky 
to have a lifetime. 

Lucie H. Stephens 
N-FP Staff Writer 

The Last Hunt 

How unusual it was that we actually met to go foxhunt- 
ing that last day of December — 1 can recall thinking at the 
time what sheer stupidity it was to subject outselves to 20 
degree temperatures, biting winds and the imminent 
snow, as well as subject our horses and hounds to hours 
of galloping over ground so thoroughly frozen that our 
teeth were jarred with every stride. 

But with characteristic illogic. 1 do not question the 
fact that 1 showed up that morning on my little grey 
gelding, with the rest of them. Someone once called this 
sport "the unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible." 
Perhaps we lived up to it that day in particular; our senses 
dulled to the futility of it all, we seemed caught up in 
man's instinctive, primitive compulsion to pursue our 
game with tenacity, as if our very lives depended on it. 

As hounds moved off, I sank deep into my saddle as if 
for some security, and closed my legs tightly around the 
geldings sides, reveling in the resulting warmth. Ice- 
tinged gales whipped about us as we fell in amongst the 
group. It brought water to my eyes and ruffled the horse's 
manes. Occasionally a blast of arctic air would shoot up 
equine backsides, resulting in a lot of frolicking and 
sidestepping before the field, consisting this wintry 
morning of only the diehards, settled down. 

I took this moment to look up toward the head of the 
field at our huntsman, David. 1 knew him well, and today 
he seemed the conveyor of a mood which was prevalent 
among all of us as we moved briskly down the hillside to 
the first covert. There was an ominous feeling in the wind, 
and we all felt it. It was there in the Master's worried 
backward glances, as surely as it was in the noticeable 
lack of a flask in John Rollison's hand. Mrs. Burnett was 
not her usual boisterous self as we cantered over the first 
coop and off into the desolate wasteland beyond. Even our 

horses sensed it and were on edge. The very landscape was 
forbidding, barren and dry. miles and miles of yellow- 
brown crackly-grassed field edged by the skeletal remains 
of trees, and overhung by an oppressive blanket of grey, 
snowfilled sky. 

We rode for what seemed like years in eerie silence, 
hounds running mute on what was obviously a cold line, 
but that for some peculiar reason kept us moving. All 
sense of time seemed to melt away with each stride: the 
dull, monotonous droning of the sea of hoofbeats despite 
the cold, lulled me into an even more dreamlike state. 
Time caught up with us at last as, hours later, we pulled 
up at a check, the Master imploring David to bring 
hounds in and call it a day. As we stood shivering in the 
late afternoon shadows of Mr. Day's woods, there were 
nods of assent on red blistered faces and mumblings of 
agreement from the blue lips of the elders of the hunt. I 
opened my eyes from their defensive squint and my horse 
fidgeted. I looked around uneasily at the field and the 
Whippers-in, and then at David. Just at the moment that 
he spoke, it began to snow— not hard, just the liltingly soft 
snow that you associate with the end of December in 
Virginia. "Ma'am, if you don't mind," he started, a look of 
dehance creeping into his features as I flashed him a grin, 
"I'd like to keep hunting. They're on to something 
alright." So, with some change in format, the hunt con- 
tinued—everyone else would return to their cozy firesides 
and open up the champagne for New Year's Eve. while 
David and I. his whipper-in. continued our quest across 
the countryside and into the dusky evening hours. 

It was nearly six by the time we finally collected 
hounds, and the white flakes were now coming down 
thick and fast. David and I had silently relished the short 
time we'd had together. We had not spoken. Yet it was 
plain to both of us that now. at year's end. the somewhat 
serious relationship that we had enjoyed for the past year 
was no longer. We jogged along stiffly, our mounts sore 
and tired, each of us lost in our own reminisces of other, 
glorious days out hunting. The quickly-melting flakes 
gave the black coat of David's horse iridescent brilliance 
in the fading light. Onward we pushed, numb and tired. 

It was the last old stone wall heading towards home 
that proved my nemesis at the day's end. Out of sheer 
exhaustion, my little gelding hesitated just long enough 
before jumping it to send my well-bundled and equally 
exhausted body crashing to the cementlike ground. 

David pretended he hadn't seen the incident, walking 
ahead slowly and looking back just long enough to ascer- 
tian whether or not 1 was alright. 1 picked myself up, 
brushing the wet snow out of my hair and eyes, and 
remounting, rode on as if nothing had happened. Thus 
we hacked home against the dreary white landscape, the 
sadness of truth in our mutual silence, and at last 1 felt at 

After he helped load my horse onto the trailer, he 
kissed me goodbye. Our hands, warmed by the tackroom 
woodstove, touched briefly, perfunctorially. We voice our 
respective wishes to each other for a happy new year, and 
as 1 drove off, I thought 1 perceived in David's fading smile 
a trace of relief. 

John Rollison called me late that night. I approached 
the phone with a wry smile, recalling the many good times 
he. David and 1 had shared, and wondering what kind of a 
bash he was inviting me to tonight. But it was not an 
invitation. My ears simply refused to hear what he was 
telling me, at first. 1 fell back into my defensive laugh, the 
one that gets me out of almost everything. 1 had to ask him 
to repeat himself. David was dead. Killed an hour earlier. 
In his car, heading west on Springs Road; where was he 
going? I asked insensibly (Why did I want to know?) I 
stammered the news to my family. Must've been the ice, I 
rationalized to myself. 1 needed to make sense of some- 
thing. Went over the embankment, hit the stone wall at 
North Wales' gate, and flipped over, in flames. The voice 
on the other end of the phone seemed suddenly disem- 
bodied, dead. I wanted to know where David h .d been 
going. (Did it matter? Dawning consciousness 
answered.) "John," I had to force myself to ask him one 
last thing, as hysterical as I might by now appear. "Who 
was he with?" I got the answer I so selfishly wanted — no, 
needed. Some sense of reality crept back into my voice as I 
thanked him. He apologized, promising that we'd get 

together and talk very soon. As I hung up the receiver. I 
silently thanked David as well. My eyes slowly, tearfilled. 
turned to the old grandfather clock, more out of habit 
than anything else. It was midnight. Streaming down my 
wind-reddened cheeks now were tears of utter, complete 
relief. Emanating from the downstairs T.V. were the 
sounds of partiers ushering in the new year to the strains 
of that traditional song. I turned to walk upstairs, and to 

Laurel Scott 


Any one not obsessed with the idea of green or have 
their views of people, behaviour, time and religion col- 
oured by green would wonder what it is about green that 
has caused any sane person to think about much less 
write about it. Never-the-less, green, apart from being 
merely the physical emergence of blue and yellow light, is 
also the colour that excites my imagination to make a 
series of associations and judgements that might seem 
desperately unfair to those who sensibly keep green in 

My imagination has been imbued with the concept of 
what is "green"" for as long as 1 can remember. It is first 
and foremost God's chosen colour for there would not 
have been any other reason why he chose to create an 
aesthetically exciting green world. As the Jews believe 
that they are the chosen people, green was chosen for no 
apparent reason to be God's "signature" in his creation. 
The glory of nature would not be if not for the fact that 
green is the sign of life, fertility and hope. In nature, the 
passing away of the green is as significant as the glorious 
regularity of it's renewal. There appears to be an aspect of 
cultured behaviour whereby man is continually in- 
terested in the state of the great out-doors. He would not 
be so fascinated by the weather or the time of the year if 
the country-side stayed the same colour. In fact it would 
amount to a considerable disaster similar to that of grey 
nuclear war if Winter did not give way to the flush of hope 
of green that is the Spring. 

However, God in his infinite wisdom did not confine 
his creation to temperate climates but included tropical 
ones as well. Surprisingly, in a tropical climate green has 
a greater chance to play tricks with the imagination. 
Tropical greenness is the sign of prosperity for the deli- 
cate subtle flush of the young tea-leaves on the old tea- 

bushes probably means more, better flavoured tea. The 
seasonal changes in the tropics are largely undiscernible. 
but the seasons of sowing and harvesting the crops are all 
the more exciting for the varying shades of green denote 
success or failure in the life of a crop and thus the cultiva- 
tors own prosperity. The drama of the Autumn and 
Spring is replaced by the subtle drama of the ever- 
changing green country-side. 

Green is the colour of enduring life, of perpetuity. Grey 
nuclear warfare, we postulate cannot totally obliterate a 
world of greenness: but yet, it may. Has man over-reached 
himself by threatening a grayness of chaos and confusion 
which will wipe out the green of life including the green of 
potential hope? 

Green can be signihcant of despair despite its sooth- 
ing qualities. It was the despair of artists who found it 
difficult to portray a totally naturalistic green in painting. 
In modern times the tendency is to ignore the whole issue 
of attempting a realistic green. One stretches ones imag- 
ination to envisualise what colour the green-as-the- 
magnolia-leaf might be if one could not actually depict the 
green-of-the-magnolia-leaf. Green is my despair for just as 
I cannot reach the upper octaves when whistling, so 1 
despair of ever find the proverbial velvet gown of moss- 
j us t-been- water ed-to-pr event- it-from- dying-by- 
prolonged-drought. If I were to be perfection of perfection- 
ists I would have conquered the influence of green on my 
imagination. 1 would cease to see green as the colour of 
May and June. Whatever any one ever says to dissuade me 
that no. May is pink, followed by a yellow June, my sub- 
conscious would refuse to believe. A lemony green these 
two months are and ever shall be. 

Taunting the imagination with colours is a child's 
game that adults forget how to play. Why are building 
blocks different colours? To teach colour identihcation, 
but what happens if the sub-conscious is side-tracked by 
green and hereafter the castle of King Arthur is never 
more a mysterious dark-grey but an equally mysterious 
green? Of course the caves by the sea-side in the rocky 
cliffs in the tradition of the thrillers of the eight-year-old 
are for evermore coloured a slimy, gloomy, fascinatingly 

murky green, as the devastatingly beautiful red-headed 
heroine of the more sophisticated novel always wears 
either an apple-green or pomona-green dress. 

Green has a history of associations with the imagina- 
tion of the visually sensitive that can be as exciting to 
those with no ability at Studio Art as to those who do. A 
certain prominent Eastern designer observed that the 
dung of cattle fed only on fresh green grass is a lovely dull 
deep green in additon to having an interesting organic 
appearance. This green is now known in extremely ele- 
gant circles as "goma-green." "goma" being the vernacu- 
lar for cow-dung. The irony of it: one talks about goma- 
green, one wears the colour, one decorates one's fashion- 
able parlour with gay abandon in goma-green when even 
ten years ago one did not mention the cow-dung that 
freely embellished the roads and fertilised ones anthur- 

If green symbolises renewal or hope, it is also a symbol 
of jealousy to both Western and Eastern societies. Super- 
stition has decreed that green is unlucky and thus one 
may not get married in green: a custom perhaps not so 
rigidly adhered to now as the connotations of the colour 
have been forgotten as has the importance of the cere- 
mony itself in certain societies. However one might easily 
be green with envy of another's mate (married or not 
under the malignant influence of green) and more pro- 
saically, one is frequently green around the gills. The 
mental images of the latter are unending for one rarely 
does see a person in the throes of extreme sickness or 
mental anguish which makes them actually turn green in 

Not surprisingly green vegetables ("greens" as the 
British say) are healthy for us. Such is my love for green 
that I attempt to like cooked spinach for it's colour if not 
it's taste or healthful vitamins and minerals. Education- 
ists might have difficulty in inculcating a love of deep 
green in children's minds with the ultimate end of en- 
couraging them to appreciate broccoli or spinach. 

The marvel of science that has identified chlorophyll— 
that which makes all things grow— as being green in 
colour is of little surprise to my imagination. My sub- 
conscious always knew that green was the fount of life, 

that science has proved it is a pleasurable clarification of 
the obvious. But it is distressing to find that green is also 
the colour of decomposition and death although it has for 
years been perfectly obvious that when cheese turns col- 
our, it certainly cannot be eaten despite its attractive 
greeny-grey mold. 

Green ought not to be a complex subject for the mental 
associations connected with it can be broken down into 
their component parts. It would not be permissible to 
forget that Green is also significant of the leisure of the 
golf-course, the thrill of swimming in clear yet mysterious 
depths of the ocean or the sense of hopelessness of ever 
achieving the standard of being able to play on the green 
turf at Wimbledon. It appears that in addition to being 
Gods signature on this creation. Green has also been 
associated by man with positive, energetic life. This view 
is however complicated by the fact that my imagination 
persists in seeing the ultimate truths of existence with a 
faint, almost undiscernible greenish hue. which might be 
an accurate indication of how far away I am in really 
coming to understand any thing approaching the truths 
of life. Green is in fact a fascinating marriage of the ele- 
ments of human emotion and aesthetic satisfaction. 

My imagination has run away with Green, but I do 
realise that" other people's might surprisingly run away 
with pink or blue, and that a majority of imaginations 
envisualise mental images in black and white and some 
never get beyond the limitations of grey. I like to think 


that Green is symbolic of the positive and the optimistic 
aspects of life: for to me. an imagination dominated and 
possibly limited by Green is a source of simplification yet 
confusion. With the help of the harsh green or reason 
(which regrettably is not fully abstract) in my relentless 
passage through time (a green avenue of majestic trees!) 
Green has so far. been a source of excitement, happiness 
and fascination. 

Mallihai Lawrence 

Vm Anti-God, What Are You? 

People often ask me how I can stand not believing in 
God. My answer is simply that 1 see no need. I have lived all 
of my twenty years without "God," and I am doing quite 
fine, thank you. My disbelief does not make me a "bad" 
person. From all the life around me 1 have learned right 
from wrong, good from bad. Because so many atrocities 
have been committed in "His" name, 1 have to find some 
other basis for good and evil. 

Since 1 do not believe in "God," I do not believe in life 
after death. No, it does not frighten me. Granted, 1 see 
death as a sad waste of human potential, and 1 do not 
welcome my end. but is coming. So until it's arrival 1 will 
enjoy my life; and I do. Nothing can be better than this life, 
my life. There can be no less pain and no more love than I 
feel now. There can be no greater "Heaven" and 1 will allow 
no "Hell." This life is whatever I make of it. My present 
happiness is enough to supersede any fear I could have of 

The next question is inevitably, "Why can't you believe 
in God?" Firstly, nothing 1 see in this world points to the 
existence of an all-good, all-loving, omniscient, omnipo- 
tent, omnipresent entity. And secondly, there is much to 
point away from "his" existence. 

The strongest argument against "God" is the existence 
of evil. Such a "being" could not allow the vast devastation 
of the holocaust and Italy's cataclysmal earthquakes to 
name a few. 

As for the origin of the universe — matter is eternal. 
Scientist have determined that matter cannot be de- 
stroyed; therefore, the universe always has been and 
always will be. Nix the Creation myth. However, matter 
can change in form: evolution. Contrary to popular belief, 
evolution is not a dirty word. 1 believe in it, and that it 
pretty well denies the existence of God in two ways. In the 

first place it excludes the need for 'God." The Earth takes 
care of herself and her own. In the second place, evolution 
could not have been created by an omnipotent being, 
judging from its inefficiency. The waste of billions of years 
and billions of lives in this process is phenomenal: cer- 
tainly unworthy of "God." 

"So what about beauty? " they ask me. "Such loveli- 
ness could only have been created by "God;" it could not 
have EVOLVED!" (People always choke on that word . . .) 
"God" is not a prerequisite for beauty. There is no need for 
a "supreme being." 1 can create beauty without being a 
"supreme being!" Do not tell me that my creativity comes 
from "God" because I can create ugliness just as easily. 
Surely a "supreme being" could not allow this. It is 
"Satan's" work you say? "He" can go to "Hell!" 

So. if 1 do not believe in "God." "Satan." "Heaven." 
"Hell" or "life after death." what do 1 believe in? If 1 believe 
in anything. 1 believe in what I can see to be true: that 
people can make this life into anything they want it to be 
with what is here on earth and within themselves. They 
need no "divine providence" to guide their ways, to inter- 
fere with their business. As 1 said before. I am doing just 
fine without "God": 1 believe in myself. 

Yes, just as 1 raise arguments against theism, others 
can raise arguments against atheism. It will always be 
that way. Our personal lives, opinions, needs and desires 
will color our views of "God. " The belief is personal to all of 
us. We must all examine the arguments and choose by 
ourselves: I choose not to believe. Who knows. God maybe 
the secret to everything, or "he" may be the greatest com- 
mercial product ever created. 

Sarah Sutton 

The Fly-Away Girl 

Abagail was sitting in a rather uncomfortable imi- 
tation leather chair in the corner farthest from the tele- 
vision. There was a taller girl in front of her leaning 
against its matching footstool. Abagail's view was partial- 
ly blocked when the girl sat up, but most of the time she 
slumped. Neither the chair or the girl really mattered 
though because this was the third time Abagail had seen 
"The Great Gatsby" and she had other things on her mind 
tonight. Leslie had insisted she watch it again though, 
hoping that Abagail would forget some of her problems for 
a while, if she saw Robert Redford. Leslie was Abagail's 
closest friend and they shared many things. One of them 
was their adoration for Robert Redford. The mere sight of 
him sent both girls' hearts pounding. He was starring in 
this verison of "The Great Gatsby" and to miss it would 
have been a mortal sin, especially to Leslie. Leslie led such 
an uncomplicated life, but in her practical ways she was 
right. Seeing Robert Redford again did comfort Abagail 
and she had forgotten Donald for awhile, until she had 
begun to equate her feelings for him with her feelings for 

Redford portrayed a witty and outrageously extrava- 
gant man. He was confident and self-assured. His smile 
was sexy and inviting although his mannerisms were 
rougher. She wished he could be real in her life instead of 
Donald. Donald was too conservative and too tender, 
always considerate and never impulsive, agreeable. She 
wondered why she had dated him for so long when there 
were men in the world like Robert Redford and Hugh 
Patton. Hugh was much more like Redford. "Abagail Red- 
ford, Abagail Patton," that had a nice sound to it. Much 
better than "Abagail Miller. " That was so dull and ordin- 
ary. Abagail did not ever intend to be ordinary. 

"Abby, phone call!" A girl shouted from down the hall. 

■'Excuse me you all" She said stumbling through the 


"Watch the ashtray."' barked one of them. Leslie 
grabbed the wobbling stand that Abagail had grazed. 
"Abby, you're going to miss the best part!" 
■'Its probably Donald. Les. IVe got to . . ."" 
"Please be quiet."" someone whined. "I can't hear." 
"Are you going to tell him?" 
"I don't know." 

"Goodluck!" screamed Leslie after her. "And will you 
grab me another Tab from my room when you come back. 
It's in the closet." 

Leslie's voice faded as Abagail took the receiver from 
Jean, her roommate. Jean left the room, shutting the 
door behind her. Abagail was thankful for the privacy. 
She took a deep breath. 

"Abby?" A male voice said. 

"Is anything wrong?" 

"No. " She said as she moved a stack of books oft a chair 
to sit down on the pile of clothing underneath. 

"I was just watching 'The Great Gatsby, on H.B.O." 
"Not studying again." The strange voice laughed. 
"Who is this?" 

"Who?" Abagail said again trying to cover up her 
embarrassment and relief having realized who it really 


"Hugh Patton." 

"Who, Hoo, Hugh." She laughed nervously but more 
relaxed now that she knew it wasn't Donald. She'd been 
out with Hugh for the first time last weekend, although 
she wanted to accept his invitations before. Because of 
Donald, she's never felt at liberty to do so. Never-the-less 
she and Hugh had remained friends and whenever she 
had seen him she had joked with him about his name. It 
sounded like "Who", with his Bostonian accent, unfamil- 
iar to a Southern girl. 

"All right Ab, that's enough. You seem to be back to 

your old normal sarcastic self. Glad it doesn't take you 
long to recover." 

Abagail remembered their terrific night together. 

"Recover, hell, last weekend was the most exciting one 
I've had in awhile. I didn't need to recover. You just got my 
blood circulating. You know how the song goes, 'I get by 
with a little help from my friends' . . . ." 

"Well, great, what do you say we do it again." 

"Is that like 'play it again Sam'?" 

"Why not?" 

There was a knock at the door. Abagail's heart flut- 
tered; Donald. Caught in the act, she thought guiltily. 

"Hugh, just a minute." She put her hand over the 

"Come on in." 

There was no response. She got up to answer the door, 
letting the receiver fall to the bed. 

"Come in." She repeated. 

The door opened slowly and a head popped through 
the crack. 

"Never mind about the Tab, I got it." Leslie shoved the 
little can though the opening as proof. 

"Great." Abagail turned back toward the bed and 
reached for the phone. 

"Hey, Les, " she called, "will you get me a cig. They're in 
the parlor, by the arm chair next to the lamp." 



She picked up the reciever, what a relief! 

"I'm sorry Hugh," she began. 

The door opened again. Abagail whirled around. 

"Is that Donald?" chirped Leslie. 

"SHH. . ."hissed Abagail, covering up the mouthpiece. 

"Soo sorry." Leslie murmured, ducking out the door 
with a sheepish expression. 

Sometimes Leslie was too much thought Abagail. 

"What's going on?" Asked Hugh. 

"Oh, nothing." 

"Nothing," Hugh repeated absently. "Well, speaking of 
nothing, I met a friend of yours the other night at the 
libr£iiy. " 

"You actually went to the library, I can't believe it." 

Abby laughed, she was more relaxed. 
"No, the Library Lounge, dummy." 
"Oh, yeah, who?" 
"Some guy named Donald, said that you guys had 

dated or something." 

Abagail's heart dropped into her stomach pit. She had 
been a cocktail waitress at the Library. It was a small 
college bar and Donald knew a lot of people there and was 
well liked. He came in often to pick up Abagail after work^ 
When she and Donald had started their problems, she d 
quit and she hadn't been back. It had been too much for 
her with school, a job, and Donald. 

"Ugh. yeah. We dated." Abagail stammered, unable to 
mention that they were still somewhat dating. 

"He seems like a pretty cool guy. He was with a friend of 
mine. A girl named Lizanne. She's from my home town. 

"What!" ^ . J ^ ^ 

"Oh I've known her for awhile. We used to date too. 

Actually, Abagail, the whole thing was outrageously 


Anyway, seems like they had been studying Organic or 
something. Their books were on the table. I think he was 

treating her to a drink." ^ .„ 

Abagail flushed. She remembered Dons low organic 
test scores. He was Pre-Med and Organic was a require- 
ment. She had tried to help him once, but she was an 
English major and had never taken Chemistry. But this 
seemed not to matter. She was angry that Don was seeing 
other girls in public, especially at The Library. Maybe they 
were studying. She didn't know. But there were a lot of 
other bars, why? Everything was so confusing right now 
between them. 

"Listen, Hugh, I really have to go." 

"Wait a minute, what are your plans for this 

Avcckcnd ^ 

"1 don't really know yet, Hugh. I'll call you back; I ve 

really got to run." 

"Sure, I don't want you to miss the movie. 
"Thanks." Said Abagail sarcastically. 
"Okay, bye, don't forget to call. I'll be waiting." 
"Oh, I won't, I promise. Bye, now." 

Abagail listened for his click and then banged down 
the receiver. 

"Shit! That damn SON-OF-A-BITCH! I knew he would 
lie to me eventually. Fucking liar. I should never have 
trusted him. And to think he told me he cared enough to 
marry me. Promising to make me happy, to be a partner in 
my father's office. No, thanks! He can take himself and his 
fucking cock and crow elsewhere! 1 never enjoyed it any- 
way." Abagail flopped down on her bed, realizing the im- 
pact of her outburst, hoping that no one had heard her 

Donald and she had dated for almost a year now. 
They'd gone out for several months before they slept 
together. Donald respected her and she welcomed this for 
it seemed that most guys pressured their girls to have sex 
on the first date. Abby had allowed Hugh to talk her into 
bed last weekend. It was out of character but she felt itchy 
and frustrated and figured that it would have been an easy 
way to break it off with Donald, had he ever found out. 

"Obviously, the bastard beat me to it." She fumed. 

She lay on her back remembering the way Donald 
looked when he came to her. She shut her eyes as she did 
then. She could see the pained expression and hear his 
hoarse voice, feeling the heat of his breath from his dry 
throat against her face. 

"Come on Ab, COME, please try, for me." 

He would keep on so long, trying to please her, but it 
almost never worked. She didn't understand why. What 
was wrong with her, how come she couldn't come? Why 
did that indescribable wave of excitement only wash over 
her before they made love, when they were separate and 
Donald fondled her with his affections. It was then that 
she would ache for him. 

Abagail lay there re-living the scene as she had done so 
many nights before. . . . When the mechanics of their love 
making began, she went through the motions unstirred 
but well rehearsed ... At least, which sometimes seemed 
like enternity, Donald would shutter, uttering something 
inaudible, and wilt like a dead flower beside her. Abagail 
would hardly notice she was so deep in thought. 

"Ab, did you?" He'd ask tenderly. 

"Sure. " She'd reply, reaching up to pull him down to 

her lips, forgetting his quesiton. 

They would embrace and kiss. 

"Hold me," she'd say. 

"I'd love to Ab, forever, if you'd only let me." 

"Just for now's good enough, you don't have to prom- 

"But I'm not. I love you, Abagail." 

"1 love you back Don," she said, smoothing his hair 
back from his damp forehead and looking deep into his 
dark brown eyes. 'Why couldn't she love him back she 
wondered. 'Why didn't she feel anything. 'Why did she lie? 

"Let's go to sleep Ab," he would say then. He knew. 

"Okay." She'd murmur, sliding her arms about his 
glowing neck and chest and snuggling her head against 
his shoulder. Her head fit perfectly there. It was so com- 
fortable. She felt peaceful. She was at her peak then, 
cuddled up against him, silent, feeling his heart pound- 

"Good-night Ab, I love you." He'd say, kissing her on 

the forehead. 

"Goodnight Donald, Sweet Dreams." She would kiss 
his chest and close her eyes, trying to forget. In a few 
hours she knew that her anxieties would start and stop all 
over again. Donald enjoyed having sex in the morning. 

"Abby!" There was a knock at the door, startling her 
from this nightmare of reality. 

"Come-in." She said, getting up from the bed. Her 
palms were sweaty. 

"Here are your cigs. Sorry it took so long; there was a 

good part on." 

Thanks, Les. It's alright." 

Is everything okay?" 

"Yeah, I guess, I'll be back in a minute. Tell Jean that 
she can come back in. I know she has a lot of studying to 


Sure." Leslie said, closing the door softly behind her. 
She had a way of knowing when Abby needed to think. 

Abagail reached for the phone to call Donald. She 
stopped, lit a cigarette instead, and watched the blue 
smoke rings float into the air. Perfect circles, like wedding 
rings. She watched as they glided across the room effort- 
lessly, disintegrating slowly as they were sucked through 

the cracked window. It was like a vacuum. 

Abagail headed back to the T. V. room, stopping by the 
water fountain. She took several swallows and then stood 
up and glanced at her rumpled appearance in the mirror. 
How could anyone love me? 

"Hi Abby, was that Don?" Jean asked as if nothing at 
all was the matter. 

"No, it was Hugh. " 


"Hugh, my date last weekend." 

"Oh, him." 

"Jean, you can have the room back now." 

"Okay, Abby." 

"Thanks Jean" 

Abagail cuddled in the big armchair. It wasn't so un- 
comfortable now. As an afterthought she tucked her feet 
underneath the cushion. The plastic was cool but her feet 
would warm it soon. 

"What did I miss?" she asked Leslie. 

"Not much." Answered Leslie, her eyes were glued to 
the T.V. screen. Abagail could tell by the music that the 
movie was almost over. 

"I never do," she murmured, blowing a smoke ring 
into the air, watching it float towards the gap under the 

"What?" Asked Leslie turning around, "What did you 

"Nothing, never mind, watch the T.V. This part's the 

Leslie's attention was absorbed again by the T.V. Aba- 
gail got up quietly and sneaked away. Her feet were warm 
but she didn't want to disturb Leslie. She was somewhere 
very far away with Robert Redford right now and Abagail 
was on her way back to the room to call Donald. 

Gay Kenney 

On The Metaphysicality of Photographs 

I slid my fingers across the soft paper and the ragged 
edges of the old photograph. The back was worn with age, 
as a dollar bill that becomes soft and creased after many 
years of handling. The shiny front of the paper where the 
image appeared glowed dimly in sepia and yellowish 
tones, although the people in the foreground and the 
objects on the background had blended together some- 
what over the years. 

My grandmother gave me the picture and she was in it. 
She, along with several of her girlhood friends, were 
standing on the porch other childhood home in Virginia. 
A magnolia tree towered over the roof of the porch, and the 
front half of a bicycle— with half of its riders leg— occu- 
pied the lower right corner of the photo. The girls all wore 
white dresses, although the occasion [for taking] of the 
photograph has long since been forgotten. Their brown 
and yellow curls were wound in ringlets, framing their 
faces and reflecting the morning's work of attending nan- 
nies. The girls have stiff smiles. Today, however, the im- 
patience of posing is forgotten: the image of carefree girl- 
hood remains. 

My grandmother saw her picture the other day. The 
reason 1 know it is she in the photo is because she ex- 
plained it to me. But there is more to it than a simple 
explanation of what she was doing on the porch of her 
childhood home on the summer afternoon long ago. As 
she regarded the picture, amazing things began to hap- 
pen. She said, "I can smell the magnolia tree. 1 can still feel 
the starch of that dress. It was so scratchy. I can feel the 
wind blowing those curls across my face. It was a windy 
day. The boy on the bicycle had crept under the porch and 
pinched my leg; that's why he's not in the picture — 
because the photographer was mad at him. 1 remember 
the smell of a country ham that our cook was preparing for 

dinner. I can almost smell it now. Isn't that funny? It's 
almost as though I were there this veiy minute!" 

That photograph was taken when my grandmother 
was still a miss and all her friends were misses and I 
wasn't even thought of yet and she remembered it as 
though she were on the porch again at this moment. 

The photograph brings feelings back to life. It is a 
strange sensation to look at people who are as they were 
but are no more. Even if they were only yesterday. That 
makes the events of the recent past memorable, but epi- 
sodes of the ancient past were just as real, weren't they? 
Only they cannot be re-felt again. What was is no longer 
yet also is because we can still see it. 

That isn't all of history. I have more questions. 

What was present just outside the limits of the photo- 
graph? Whose face is no longer remembered due to the 
simple fact that he was not caught in the split second 
when the shutter blinked? What was happening inside 
the house? Around the corner? Down the street? If that 
was frame number 10, what images life eternally on 
frames 9 and 1 1 ? Was the life in this photograph more 
real than the life experienced by people whose faces are 
lost forever to the memory of mankind? 

A color photograph of the man in my life is sitting on 
my desk. It was taken with the marvelous modern elec- 
tronic wizardry of a Nikon. I saw him just this morning — 
a living replica of the man in my picture frame. He is yet he 
is no more as yesterday. He is not as far removed from his 
photograph as my grandmother is from hers. At 6:00 
tonight I will look at his picture and imagine the feel of his 
arms around me. At 6:05 he will walk in the door — the 
walking image of his photograph — and I won't have to 
imagine any more. 

In fifty years, perhaps, my grandchildren will see his 
photograph and say, "I wonder what he was like." And I 
will still feel him close to me — alive almost — as in the little 
girl my grandmother once was. 

Lucie H. Stephens 

Your Fault 

I hate you. I hate all of you. You stupid, crawling fools. 
You disgust me with your simplicity. I'm glad Fm differ- 
ent. 1 know. I understand. You merely exist. You're read- 
ing this even now and trying to be superior. But you're 
not. You can't even understand yourselves let alone me. 
You want to know more about me, don't you? You want to 
know if I'm male or female. You want to know if my hair is 
red. You want to know if my eyes are brown. I'm not gomg 
to tell you. You wouldn't understand. 

1 walk down the streets, fast, as if 1 were going some- 
where in a hurry. People look at me, but I don't look at 
them. I see them, but they don't see me. Yes, I'm beautiful. 
So beautiful that it's even easier to deceive you. But 1 never 
read Glamour magazines. Aha! You say. You're a woman. 
No I'm way ahead of you. 1 know how your little mmds 
work. 1 never read newspapers but I know what is going 

on. I always know. 

A man stopped and came up to me. The filthy, vulgar 
stinkingness of his person nearly overpowered me as his 
whiney little voice tried to pick me up. Aha! You say. 
You're still a woman. Wrong. Before you think you know, 
remember that it doesn't matter. Only to you. Until it 
doesn't matter, you will never know. Plato felt that by 
looking at many images of beauty you would know beauty 
in concept, in the ideal form of beauty. I know everything 
in abstract. I remember nothing but I know everything. 
You, you take delight in remembering when Roosevelt was 


When 1 was younger I used to catch frogs. Then I'd put 
a firecracker in their mouths and light it, and throw them 
high in the air. I could fancy 1 heard their little scream as 
their rubberish bodies were torn to shreds from within. 
Some of their cells would still be alive as it fell plump to the 
earth a pulpy mass stiU pulsating with struggling life. 

How things cling to life. Women will do anything to save 
their lives. Reduce a woman to a trembling mass and she 
can hear her own life throbbing through her head. She 
will do anything to stop you from killing her, anything. 

I ordered food from a fat greasy waiter and wondered 
how his wife could stand him when 1 saw his wedding 
ring, and then 1 wondered if he were divorced. I glanced at 
him sidelong through my long lashes, and when he stared 
I ran the tip of my tongue along the top of my mouth, 
tasting nothing but the sour sickness of his instant de- 
sire. Sweat began to squeeze through his fattish cells that 
tried to choke all of his desires for life; sensuality was him 
in its most extreme form. The milk that he brought me 
slid over the side of the smooth glass, making little beads 
of fly's food. 

I met a guy once who didn't kiss me until our third 
date. He bored me, as everyone does. He was irretrievably 
good, and he told the same stories over and over again to 
me, and expected me to find them eternally humorous. I 
called him Ned. Ned, you know, is only one letter short of 
Nerd, but he didn't know that because he was a real tough 
guy. His body was something; 1 know you're really into 
that. His mind was so simple; he was so much fun. First I 
made him love me. It was really easy. He was good-looking 
and was used to girls throwing themselves at him. I re- 
mained aloof, and that drove him crazy. Finally, when he 
was really hooked I opened up to him and made him feel 
really special, and he of course then told me all of his deep 
dark secrets that he had never told anyone except me. I 
kept it really intense under this good side of me that he 
believed to be me. Then I began seeing him less and less. 
This of course drove him crazy and finally I went out with 
him again and told him that I was going out with ten guys 
when 1 met him and had never stopped dating them and 
that I really wasn't a virgin but instead 1 was screwing all 
these guys and frankly Ned, you bore me so why don't we 
stop dating goodbye. This took me one year. I'm patient. 
He was really done in. He used to do that to other girls. 

There is a deep, dark abyss that I often visit. It's very 
dark and no one else has seen the bottom of it. I know 
what's down there though, and I love to sit at the top and 
listen to the screams that come out of it. Sometimes I hear 

the muffled screams of frogs above the small explosions 
that happen in a place where no light can ever go. Some- 
times out of the chaos comes a creation, like the secret 
sobbings of Ned or the agonized moans of his betrayal. 
Beautiful tremblings float up from the women before they 
were killed. And softer still steals the milky sounds of the 
future, wafting up from tremulous depths and materializ- 
ing as they rise, gaining weight, and volume until they are 
there before me, gazing at me with large, moist, beautiful 
eyes that echo the soft screaming from the sulferous 
depths, telling me what I must do. 


The Weekend Relationship 

I awoke to the sunlight, glaring and harsh. The 
cheap, scratchy blankets which hung over my bare legs, 
entrapping me, offered a childhood hiding place. I shrunk 
down towards the foot of the bed until my head was cov- 
ered and my toes hung over the end of the mattress. I was 
safe for the moment, in that dark and hot place, breathing 
hard and occasionally tilting my head up to inhale some 
fresh air. Suddenly, I was a small child again, waking up 
early just to lie still in my white lace canopy bed and listen 
to the quiet, self-conscious sounds that our house made 
before my mother woke up and started breakfast. 

Something heavy fell over my head making me jump a 
little, rudely reminding me where I was. It was him — his 
arm. His weight shifted, making the bed creak as he 
pulled the covers off me and laid them around my ankles. I 
shivered in the cold light as he ran his big caloused hand 
down my back, over my buttocks and onto my upper 
thigh, where he let Nausea rose in the back of my 
throat and I concentrated on not being sick: he had found 
me — despite my hiding place — and took me from my 
childhood, leaving me naked in the sunlight. 

"Open your eyes. I know you're awake," his voice 
pounded against my ears, which finally surrendered and 
allowed the words to rush into my head where they floated 
languidly before fading away. 

"No, no, no, no. I don't want to. Please!" the words 
wouldn't come out of my mouth. Instead, they lingered 
shyly where his words had been just seconds before. 

"I don't want to sound paranoid, but you do under- 
stand how very important it is that you never tell anyone 
about me. I'd lose my job if it got out. And, of course. I'd 
never get another job. I'd be finished. I have to be sure 
you understand what I'm saying. I'd get arrested. This is 
all illegal, not to mention being against professional 

ethics ..." 

I rolled over onto my stomach, my eyes open and m- 
voluntarily blinking against the brightness. Turning my 
head to the left, I stared blankly into his eyes. 

"You know, I really wonder about you. Whenever you 
come here you look like a kicked puppy. 1 mean, look 
kiddo, I'm not making you do anything you don't want to 
do. And I really wish you'd open up and talk to me once in a 


He stopped talking and propped himself up on one 
elbow to study me for a moment before reaching out and 
rolling me over onto my back. I watched his face as his 
eyes took in what they wanted and then closed tightly. He 
licked his lips, and swallowed hard as his weight fell on 
me, forcing my breath out in a gasp, which he mistook for 
an utterance of passion. He made love in his usual style 
with no thought to my comfort. Occasionally his eyes 
would focus on mine as he mumbled one of the three 
phrases he liked to use during sex: roll over, open your 
eyes and. Oh God, all of which are punctuated by various 
and assorted gutteral groans. Eventually, he broke out 
in a sweat and then lay stiU and heavy on top of me. I 
struggled to breathe, tilting my head to the side for fresh 
air as I had done while hiding under the blankets. 

Later as I walked down his driveway, enjoying the 
crunch of loose gravel under my feet, 1 felt the sun soften 
for me. In place of the early morning's glaring yellow hn- 
gers poking and prodding my swollen eyes, the sun had 
become a warm orange glow, its warmth enveloping me 
like friendly arms, prompting me to break into a slow trot 

toward my car. 

While parking in front of my dorm, I wondered it 1 
would ever really break away. I walked into my room, 
squinting my eyes against the accosting artificial lighting 
and faced the usual question and answer period. 

"Where've you been? You look like you always do on 
Sunday morning— wherever you disappear to on 
weekends really does you in. Hey, if you ever want to talk 
about it, you can count on me not to tell anyone . . . 

No, I don't suppose I ever will really break away. 



Gloves rarely 
if ever 


they do not reproduce 

or what a mess 

we would have 

on our hands. 

Mary Molyneux Abrams 


the figures etched in empty halls 
lengthen shadow-like, and still; 
but you get used to it after all. 

and sometimes the echoes fall 


then bricks from a toppling 


but you get used to it, after all. 

El Warner 



Give the whole world a radio blasting. 

put a beer between its knees, 

and let it drive on 


to nowhere in particular. 

Picture the entire world 


singing along 

with melodies 

of love. 

What the world needs is 
the thrill of acceleration. 
Let every person alive know 
the joy of moving 
slightly buzzed but 
safely belted in 
past the stars. 

Put the whole world 

in the driver's seat 

where the only fist remaining 

is one of taught knuckle 

and uncalloused palm 
the wheel. 

Mary Abrams 


question as a personal chaUenge. 


In those days 

when the whistle blew 

You could walk out finger 

Pointing to the sky 


See that Billow? 

I made it. 

Mary Abrams 


Your Freedom 

has been made possible 

by no textbook fairy-tale forefather 

by no likeness molded on a coin 

not worth 

the bending over 

to pick up off 

the street. 

Your Freedom is a Boeing flying. 

Your Freedom is a Chrysler gliding. 

Your Freedom is a steel girder 


in a hurricane wind. 

Your Freedom is ongoing. 
It is material and moving. 

Like a spirit captured 
in a Lucite cube, 
it is a weight 
that oppresses 

Your Freedom works overtime. 
It is forever on the phone. 
It is forever traveling 
in a briefcase overflowing 
with reports of goodwill. 

Your Freedom never sleeps. 
It cat-naps in a foreign city 
where it dreams 
of you. 

Mary Abrams 


outside the pigeons are laughing 
at us, silent as we hear words 
in a nine-o-clock class trance 
of a lecture from another world, 
we reduce the korean war to 
three points on an outline and 
nearby the little birds all sing 
in the trees. "War is an instrument 
of national policy" and we know 
nothing of its bloodshed and horror 
here where the squirrels bounce 
across the grass and chipmunks play 
in the bushes, even today, battles 
may be fought far away while we look 
out on fields where cows graze and 
horses trot, the sun shines through 
the window and dust dances in the 
spotlight to the theories which 
explain away realities too foreign 
for us. 

Carol Barlow 

The World Within 

There is a whole world 

in each of our bodies 

Feelings, questions and cinswers 

Float around 


We live our lives 

from the outside 

Listening to the thoughts 

£ind expressions 

that come 

from within. 

Helen Maitland 

personality puzzle 

one must be three people; 
silent, forceful, and creative, 
combination is another secret, 
no extreme is good. 

Rose Lynn Boyce 

If We Could Fly 

We often wish 

that we could fly 

So we could go 

to places 

we've never been 

Over mountains 

and to the end of rainbows 

to satisfy 

the utmost curiosity 

of our minds 

Helen Maitland 


In the presence of time 

there is a need for survival, but refuge 

is only a haven for those 

who procrastinate. Waiting is an aptitude of 


but life and time must go on. Life 

is a sjnnbol of performing one's duties 

in his presence of time, but v^e must accomplish his goals 

not by waiting but by acting. To be held in bondage of time 

afraid of what tomorrow may bring is sacrificing one's 


To act is to achieve, to wait is to dream. 

Reality is survival. Waiting is dreaming. 
The Understanding of both is the beginning, but to 

is miraculous. Sometimes Life is not easy, but waiting for 
it to happen is much harder. To make it to the top of the 
ladder, we must first start to climb it. Thinking of doing 
so will not reach the top. But as time slowly ticks away, 
I sit and wait to act and perform and achieve. I'll build 

the damn ladder. 

Sheila Kennedy 


I didnt ask you to go away, 

but you did anyway. 

You didnt have to go so far, 

but you decided you "had" to. 

You had no qualms about walking out, 

its not so much the distance 

as it is the love. 

You spumed it. 

Well, did you think that you 

could just put me down, 

like an old shoe? 

'cause if you dont want me, 

didya ever think that maybe I dont want you? 

Linda B. Hauptfuhrer 


When they come to bring you down, 
and drag your body away, 
I ask just one thing of you. 
I ask that you forgive my sins. 

When they come to drag you away, 
and bury you in disgrace, 
I'll stay away all night long. 
Just one thing I ask of you. 
Forgive us all our sins. 

When they come and carr}^ you away, 
When you sit on the right hand. 
Lord, one voice calls, 
please forget that you knew my name, 
just forget that you knew my face. 

When they come to open the gates. 
When you stand and gaze at us all, 
just one small thing 1 ask of you — 
just dont tell them that you knew me, 
and let me by. 

Linda B. Hauptfuhrer 

The Guardians 

Doves purring on wings of a poplar tree 

Cooing, gently calling 

from softly swaying swings, 

above the mossy, grassy ground 

and cold gray graves 

in which lies the delicate dust 

of the dead. 

Mourning doves guarding 

the gardens of the gone. 

Softly speaking, 

plumage rustles in the sunlight 

which shines on 

and shadows 

lowly homes of 

lives now lost. 

Sara M. Greer 

Old Fashioned Love Poem 

— dedicau-d witli kniiiy nu-mon,' to Mrs. Ruth Emery Laird and her love of Rudyard 
Kiplini>;'s verses. 

Over the rolling waves, my love, 
where the ocean tides run high, 
a lavender wave laps an opal beach 
and a pearl moon lights the sky. 

Here is where we "11 live, my love, 
and we'll spend delightful days 
making our love on the opal beach 
near the sound of the crashing waves. 

Here we will do as we like, my love, 
all past life will be done. 
We will brown our bodies all day long 
'neath the fiery topaz sun. 

Here there is no strife, my love. 

and we can do no wrong. 

While turquoise parrots on emerald palms 

talk to us all day long. 

I saw your ship sail out, my love, 
over the sapphire sea 
with showy sails a-snap in the breeze 
waving just to me. 

Over the rolling waves, my love, 
where the ocean tides run free, 
an ocean wave ate a tiny ship 
and took my love from me. 

Sara M. Greer 


Valentines were once 
the focal point of my life. 
I can still remember 
the smiling girl hugging 
her doll with her heart 
and the lies she told — 
To the Best Little Girl 
Hey Cutie 
Be Mine — 
and the white lace 
which always clashed 
with my heart, 
redder than 
the color of love. 



the sunset is violent. 


a girl with a valentine 

told me 

you can leave your room 

and fight the sunset. 

you can swing and stab 

and grasp for that sun 

as it goes down fighting. 

I believed her. 

Some nights Fd run for miles 

trying to catch it. 


Robins have red breasts. 

John and I are in the bushes. 

If you win that means 

you are the first 

to catch a red-breast. 

That was my first kiss. 

El Warner 


This poem just came to me. 

Its simple 

Wont get no hassles about 

its understanding 

Wont get bugged about 

no copywrights 

its simple, 

black and white, 

not color 

like your big 

fancy T.V. 

no special rhymes 

no special rhythms. 

just a poem. 

Linda B. Hauptfuhrer 

Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Too 

Ickle Me. Pickle Me. Tickle Me Too 

Went for a ride in a flying shoe. 


"What fun!" 

"Its time we flew!" 

Said ickle Me. Pickle Me. Tickle Me Too. 

Ickle was captain and Pickle was crew 

And Tickle served coffee and mulligan stew 

As higher 

And higher 

And higher they flew 

Ickle Me. Pickle Me. Tickle Me Too. 

Ickle Me. Pickle Me. Tickle Me Too 

Over the sun and beyond the blue. 

"Hold on!" 

"Stay in!" 

"I hope we do!" 

Cried Ickle Me. Pickle Me. Tickle Me Too. 

Ickle Me. Pickle Me. Tickle Me Too 
Never returned to the world they knew. 
And nobody 
knows what's 

Dearickfe Me. Pickle Me. Tickle Me Too. 

Gay Kenney 

Ghosts Following 


at night's heart 
dim moon casts 
shadows dancing 
through breeze-blown trees. 
My footsteps 
bare silent padding 
A shuffle behind 
skin prickling on my 

A quick turn 
to find dry leaves 

across the empty road 

Sudden sound, 
a shadowy dove rises 
from its roost 
watching through soft 
grey eyes 

my apprehension of 
ghosts following. 

Sara M. Greer 



'Study of Mary" 


Louise Newton 

Elizabeth Wassel 

Noel Stupek 

"Boothbay Harbor, Maine" 
Melissa Jo Pruyn 

Lili Gillespie 

"Florentine Sunset" 
Melissa Harshaw 


Roberta Perillo 


Roberta Perillo 


Laura DeHaven 

'Old Man and Dog" 

Robin Piatt 

Pam Beckett 

Molly Finney 


Laura DeHaven 

"Traditional Dress" 
Noel Stupek 

Roberta Perillo 

Laura DeHaven 

Roberta Perillo 


Col. and Mrs. J.E. Adams, Jr. 

Faulconer Enterprises, Inc. 

Drs. Larry and Mary Hoffner 

Mr. and Mrs. Dorr 

Mr. amd Mrs. Lawrence Dolph 

Dr. and Mrs. Donald E. Herbert 

Mr. Edward Drayer 

John P. Daughtry, Jr. 

Brian J. Shelburne 

Mr. Brent Shea 

Alpha Epsilon Chapter of Zeta Beta Tau Fraternity 

Mr. and Mrs. Harold B. Whiteman, Jr. 

Sweet Briar Social Committee 

The Alumnae Association 

Beatrice P. Patt - Dean of the College 

Office of Student Affairs 

Mr. and Mrs. James B. Hoskinson 

Resident Advisors 


The Book Shop 

Country Charm 

The Sweet Briar News 

Executive Committee 

WUDZ91.5 FM 

Mr. Blair Robertson 

Mr. and Mrs. Edward P. Kerlin 

Mrs. Elinor F. Drummond 

Mrs. Harriet Cooley 

Mrs. Viola Inlow 

Special Thanks 


''Building Solid 
Growth Thru 
Better Service" 

Continental Telephone 



Strip Mine 
Spanish Landscape 
Mark Tobey 
Sally Mann 
Horse Power 
Katherine Kadish 

Therese Robinson 

Therese Robinson 

Debbie Rundlett 

Betsy Kyle 

Sara M. Greer 

Mandy Curry 

Hannah Davis 


Growing Up Human 

Tragedy at the Hyatt 

The Last Hunt 


Tm Anti-God, What Are You? 

The Fly- A way Girl 

On the Metaphysicality of Photographs 

Your Fauh 

The Weekend Relationship 

El Warner 

Lucie H. Stephens 

Laurel Scott 

Mallihai Lawrence 

Sarah Sutton 

Gay Kenney 

Lucie H. Stephens 






One World American Car 

Give Me the Smokestack Back 

Your Freedeom 


The World Within 

Personality Puzzle 

If We Could Fly 




The Guardians 

An Old Fashioned Love 



Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me, Too 

Ghosts Following 

Mary Abrams 
El Warner 
Mary Abrams 
Mary Abrams 
Mary Abrams 
Carol Barlow 
Helen Matiland 
Rose Lynn Boyce 
Helen Maitland 
Sheila Kennedy 
Linda B. Hauptfuhrer 
Linda B. Hauptfuhrer 
Sara M. Greer 
Sara M. Greer 
El Warner 
Linda B. Hauptfuhrer 
Gay Kenney 
Sara M. Greer 

■v.ARY K-Lt.w cocHr-AK urasiAm 


APR 1 1 1983 


SPRING 1983 



Copyright 1983. Printed by Central Virginia Printing, Amherst, VA. 

E. Hope Warner 


Elizabeth Wassell 
Mary Abrams 
Noel Stupek 

Amie Listner 
Lisa Rogness 
Cape Morton 
Amy Simmons 
Wiz Eisinger 
Mimi Godfrey 
Leslie Kirkby 
Amy Longley 
Wendy Chapin 
Julie Shields 

Business Manager 
Literary Editor 
Art Editor 


Cornelius Eady 

Thank You 




Editor's Page 


A Poem 

Ode To My Father 


No! Stop That 

Ashely Goes To College 

Geographic Illusion 

Four Poems 


Three Poems 

Four Poems 

Illustration: Seahorse 


Whose Brown Crop? 

The Word Game 




Elizabeth Wassell 
Noel Stupek 
E. Hope Warner 
Jennifer Rotman 
Laura Murphy- 
Andrea Lawrence 
Laura DeHaven 
Shirl Carter 
Gretchen Husting 
Wendy Chapin 
Mary Abrams 
Noel Stupek 
Michelle McSwain 
E. Hope Warner 
Noel Stupek 
Noel Stupek 
Laura Murphv 
Jov Reynolds 

Editor's Page 

I don't know if 1 should consider writing this page an honor, a once-in-a-hfetime 
event or a chore. Honestly, it's a chore, mainly because I sit here faced with a blank 
page and the problem of what to write. There is a lot that I'd like to sa>. Id like o 
address the problems associated with putting out this magazme. which would 
basically amount to a statement on creativity at Sweet Briar. I'd hke to write about 
the problem an artist is faced with in the 80's. I'd like to discuss the state of modern 
poetry. I'm not going to write about any of these topics though, this isn t the place for 
my intellectual ramblings. I'm going to be mundane, and discuss the philosophy that 

went into this year's Brambler. UorHchin 

We worked under certain hardships this year, specifically financial hardship. 
Lacking the funds to put out a slick and glossy book capable of winning beauty 
contests what we decided to do was to concentrate on quality. 1 hope that as you 
browse through, vou will be impressed by the quality of the works we chose^ We were 
very selective (in' fact we only accepted about a quarter of what was submitted). 

The main concern here was in making the Brambler a source of pride. It is our 
literary magazme. and it reflects our community as a whole. We felt it wasn t enough 
for students to hear of us and think. "Oh right, the Brambler." We want people to 
hear of us and think. "Wow. the Brambler!" We warn students whose work is selected 
to be proud to be part of the magazine, and the community as a whole to look 
forward to the Brambler's arrival each spring. 

So look through this issue carefully, and take it seriously. It is fortunate that we 
have a place for people to say so much of what is importam to them, and I think we 
should all remember this. 

Jennifer Rotman 


plastic parts 
shapely snap-togethers 
the naked fallout 
of factory molds 

in dim back rooms 

Jonathan Martin dresses me 

white silk 

and polished patent leather 

a platinum blonde 

hair piled high 

lips red sensuous 

so sophisticated 

for you 

Laura Murphy 

A Poem 
1 have the morality of a germ. 

Andrea Lawrence 

Ode to My Father 

In my Father's eyes 

Reminders of a war 


is still fighting 


Suppressed battles 

Looking for an enemy 


Can overwhelm 

Crashing waves of anger 

Leave him 




Puffy white clouds 


his face 

one small puff 

on my nose 

droplets of dew 

on the 

grass outside 

the fog 




Under the 

Bathroom window 

Post shower 

On the mirror 


Had two 

rifles one 

shotgun and 

Two pistols 




Loved his guns 



Of alcohol 
And W.D. 40 
The soft 
Rich in 
Saddle soap 
I helped 
Next day's 


I became 

An excellent marksman 



This summer 

The daring 



The Golden Gate Bridge 



On the 

San Francisco Bay 








For hours 


"sin pescados" 



A deep hearty laugh 

Laura De Haven 

Shirl Carter 

No! Stop That 
alZ?' ' ''' ^^" '" "P '" "^^ "'""' '^''^- ^'^y ^^^^"'^ he let those poor squirrels 

sa.]^;\';ithe"r ir vlTice" ''" '^"'^' °"^ ^'"^ ^'^^^^'^^ ^'^^^^ ^^^ ^^--1^'" ^ 
;mat? Poor squirrels nothing," said Bill while walking to his chair in the den 
'iL "iT ^^r ^°" '^°'-"' ^ ^^^d f°"«^i"g in his tracks. 


mp'jot "m'lfng.^""^ "'° ""^ ^° "^ ^°" ^" ^°^^^- ^^'^ ^^P^' ^h, Dee- 
helded bro'th^i iu'"' ^ 'i^u' ^.u- '^"^^ '^'■^"Sh '^' ^^^' fi'-^t with his little, big- 

"Just cut it out, J.R.," said Bill 

helTetuTwh "f 'f ^^' ^'"•'''"'^^■^- ^"^^"^^ 

liftr. un h^. TV ?' ^°f ^-^^^ J"^t ^'t^ down beside him sucking his left thumb and 
'^\ L H T ^''^ ^'' ^^^' ^^"Sers, leaving his stomach bare. 

"7w. n?l T f '°'*'^' ■^•^•'" ^ ^"^'^' ^^y^"g t« help him stop crying. 
I we-nt to the farm and boo-hoo oooo " h J' s 

at '] rToV^J^' ^T ^""^ •^'"'"^^^ °°°°- " ^ ^^^ ^'" '°°k sternly over his newspaper 
at J.R. Joe was still just sitting quietly sucking his thumb 

"Let's eat " said Aunt C. in a high pitched tone. ,• „ u 

"When you have finished serving yourself, take you food out on the patio, she 
continued. "Oh, Demps, watch Joe until I get his food. 

Whik Aunt C. was fixing Joe and J.R.'s plate, 1 had fixed a hotdog. 

'TJri thiz," cried Joe, pointing at my hotdog. I reached down and gave him some. 
He took a big bite almost getting my finger. Then Joe started making noises that I 
tausht him smiling at the same time. "Pop, Pop, Bubble, Bubble. 

'llrig" Demps yani can come on." When we got outside, Joe didn t want to walk 
on The pat o because of all the hickory nuts. So, Joe walked very slow. When he 
stepped on one he picked up his foot and raised his hands for me to pick h.m up^ 
Before I could reach him he saw the white bucket and started toward it but I picked 
him up He didn't like that and stretched out on me. 

^hiz, Thiz, Um!" he hollered as 1 put him in his high chair. I then sat down at the 
nicnic table beside J.R. who had stopped crying. 

"^ 'God we thank you for the food we are about to receive for the nourishment of our 
bodies. Amen," said Bill. 
"Jesus wept." 

'?he^ord's my shepherd I shall not want," said J.R. just before he showered 


"When does Sweet Briar start?" said Bill. 

"I don't know - 1 am not going ba-" 

"Here we go again," said Aunt C, smiling. Then everything got quiet. 

'Thiz," said Joe pointing to the trees. He had spotted a squirrel. 

"Yeah I see him," said Bill, looking up. 

'That "squirrel isn't teasing you, is he. Bill," I said laughing. 

"Demps, you want anything else to eat?" 

"No thanks. Aunt C. I am stuffed." r • , • u- v,;„v. 

You could tell Joe was finished because he was doing all sorts of tncks m his high 
chair At one pont he was sitting on the tray part. 

"Aunt C I'm going to let Joe get out of his high chair, okay. 

"Plea e do "said Aunt C. in a pretentious voice. As soon as Joe got down he 
walked quickly "the white bucket, often pausmg to lift his foot up to avoid a hickory 

buckef '°" " '' '"' '" ''' '"'^''^ '^ ^^'^' '^hiz," and put h. left hand in the 

nl«?°'' ^°'{ '""i!^ ^'^ ^'"^"^- ^°' ''^'"'^^ shaking his head from side to side and kent 
playing in the bucket. When I got to him, I tried to pick him up but he just ken 
stretching out on me. Then I tried again, this time with'more strength Ind got ht 
was a dead ' J'" '". '' --^ straight to that bucket. I looked m the buckef'nd there 

re^p^tts^dirruir^^^^^^^^^ -^' ™^'" -^-- - - ^-'- "- 

'^ZV^nl Nannan ''u' 'h"' 7u 'r^'' '" '^"^ ^"^ ^'^ ^'P ^--^ downward, 
bucket ' ^" ^^^^'"^ "^"^ ""^ sot a toy and threw that in the 

^Demn ' "'n'" '''' ^'Vf '°' ^"^^ ^^°°' ^^ere pointing at the bucket. 
Demps, will you watch Joe while I take the food in the house?" 

"Okay" J.R. echoed, getting his play B.B. gun. 
"I'm a shoot you, Demps." 

'Thtl t' Is'-'Rm?';"' ''T 'V: "^""^ ^- ^'"^^^^ -h^^^ g«-g - ^he house. 
shonlH'v. ;, I u "'"'"'^^ ""^''^ '■'^'hing for his rifle on the chair. You 

should ve seen how fast he got a bullet from his faded jeans into his rifle He cocked k 
whie walking off the patio with J.R. following him "Go back J '^ ^ ''''''''^ '' 

J.R., come back," I said quietly ' ' " 


1 got It, Gadie - I killed that squirrel'" 

"Be quiet, J^R.," said Bill, looking around with a smile. Joe and I were iust 

anding on the patio watching the action. Of course, Joe was busy su^ng h 

humb and pointing at the bucket. Bill got a rake and scooped up the squirre tf the 

top o the fence and then brought it by its tail on to the patio-^He spreaderew pape 

'S^ H T ^"'^ '"' ^°^" ""^ S°^ h'^ knife from his back pocket 
blide down some, J.R." 

"Gadie, I can't see'" 

to iz^^'::^::':,:^;;;, '''- ^-^ ^ ""^^•" -^ ^•^- ^'^- -^-ps, you wa. 

tn '?!'I1' J'^^-l ^°''' ""'' sq^i'-i-el/' I said while touching the squirrel's tail Joe 
touched the tan too with his left hand and then went back to sucking his thumb 

"You seeem to be sympathethic to the squirrel," Bill said with a smile. 

I didn't answer but said, "Where did you shoot him at? 

"See, right behind the head." 

'That's good." .u u a " 

"Well most of the time 1 shoot them straight thru the head. 

"PLOP'" f u 

"Joe No' Stop that now!" Bill hollered while getting his kinife sheath out of the 
bucket' "No' You know better, J.R." Bill took his knife and made an incision at the 
neck and tore open the skin and pulled it off the squirrel. He split open the squirrel 
and DuUed the internal organs out. j • • .u 

X " said Joe while pointing to the squirrel as BUI dropped it m the water. 
Immediately Joe went over to the bucket and started pointing, stumpmg and smihng. 
"No! Stop that, Joe!" we said as he put his hand in the bucket. 

Gretchen Husting 

Ashley Goes To College 

Ashley stopped on her way to the hbrary. She was feehng homesick. She let her 

^TJfTl "^ '':^' '" '1' ^'"""^ ""^ ^^^ '^^"^^ ^g^i"^t a brick wall. She wa hed 
a 1 of the boys pile out of the.r cars and drag kegs of beer on to the terrace A tali 
blond boy caught her eye. He saw her staring and walked over. 
Hi there. Do I know you from somewhere'?" 
"I don't think so." 

'That was a great game. Were you there? Hey, maybe thats where I saw you I 

Z no 'T/r '''?"• ?"'' ''" ^""y' ^ "^'"^^" ^-y' p-'^-'^'y ^^" you thai." 

JNo, no - but I wasn't at the game " 

'ZTZ ^T ,^?'"^7^^h all those books? Been at the hbrary? On a day hke this?" 
Yea, 1 ve got lots of work. 

;?vfonsense, come have a beer. You're a freshman aren't you"?" 

on] irm?grg;f;u a tr ^ '''''' '"^ ^"^^ ''' ^^^ ^^" ^^^-^- ^"^-^' ^^^^ 

to thtra\r^home."''^ ^^''^' ^^^" "^" '^"^^^'^'- ^^^ "^^^^^^ ^^"' -^ ^^^- 

"Hi sweetheart, be a darling daughter and unzip me. My girdle is killing me I've 
been shopping all day and I'm exhausted. Quick.- Quick! I'c'an't wait to sh'ow you all 

flufffswraU "'''"^ ' ^ ""'""' ''' ^^^' ^""^ ^''""'* ^''^ '""^ ^^^'^^^" '^"^^ ^"^ ^ "«le 
^^h, Chili, you didn't have to do that." 

in th ''"'' o.^ ^""T: ?"* ^'''' ^""""^ ^^"^ ^^PPy ^t "^^kes me and you'll look beautiful 

Bonwks ^ ^''''^ ^^ '^'''- ^ ^'"'^^' ^""^ '''"'" '^^^" ^'^^^ ^"^ P^"t'^^ ^^ 


"In know, I know. They're positively naughty, but I had to pass through lingere to 


get to the hair salon and 1 saw these horribly over dressed overweight old broads 
buying some and I thought it was such an injustice. The designer would have 
committed suicide! He designed them for young girls with tight little asses and 
bouncy boobs, just like yours! And Ash, you know me, I just couldn t resist! 

'Thanks Chili, come give me a hug." 

"Wait! Wait! 1 bought you some stuffy little loafers at Gucci. After all, a girl can t 
go off to her first year at college without 'em." 

"Oh Chili they're beautiful." ^^ , , u * 

"College shopping is such a gas, but it really is exhausting. Ashley? Sweetheart what 
are we going to do to relax us for tonight? Why don't we order up some champagne 
and sew little name tags into your kilts?" 

"Why don't you take a nap?" 

"Boring boring, boring! Definitely not suitable. Raymond! Raymond! Draw two 
gigantic pink bubble baths. That'll be just the thing to relax us." 

"What time do you have to be at the club?" 

"Early tonight. My new make-up artist takes at least three hours and guess what! 1 
almost forgot to tell you that I lost three pounds and Andora has to take m all my 


'That's great Chili." 

"Bonsoir Mademoiselle Ashley." 

"Bonsoir Charles." 

"Vous etes tres belle se soir." 

'ThTdres^st to die for. Did ChiU pick it up for you? I must have one! Do tell, 

where did she get it?" 

"I'm not sure Charles, but I'll find out for you. ^ , . , ,, ,;,.,p 
"Don't tell it's for me. Chili is such a little turd about keeping her best little 

boutiques a secret." 

"Shit'' rve^got To run. Emile has all us little waiters running around like chickens 
with our heads cut off. Oh baby, I hear you're going off to college soon. I can t 
b ieve how grown up you're getting. Ooooo la la think of all those college boys! You 
lucky thing Gotta run! Hey listen, I almost forgot, can I bring you something to 
drink? Your usual? How about a little Perrier?" 


"No thanks Charles, I'm fine." 
"See ya toots." 
"Good bye Charles." 

Ashley leaned back in her chair to watch the first act 
Hey, tootsey, come quick!" 
"Does Chili need me in the dressing room"?" 

<iZ°' "°- """' """' ""' °' «"«=™' ^"""8 '>™'<=' -"'^ y" '0 jom them for a 

"No Charles, I couldn't." 
"Come on sweetie, don't be shy, they won't bite. Come. Come They're adorable 

"Well O.K." 

Charles walked Ashley over to the table, wmked and walked away 
Hey baby, we were all wondering what a nice little lady like you is doing at a olace 

"LIoTrvT'^'n^'^'^^"- "^"^"^- HeyJd^dn'tLrntHffeidyou 
Look, I m sorry. Come have a seat. Can I get you a drink? What are you doins here^ 

Te e^ cam^ lYoul^^T' ^. 'TT °' ^"^^ "'^ "^ '^ ^^^^ checkZ pTcf o" "f 
ZmJ^lTrw t ^'^u'^'^'^^'^'y- P'-^tty wild, huh? Man am I rude. My 
name ,s Jeff. This is Mark. That's Peter over there and Blair, Rick. That's Rick in thi 
lavender jacket hey, isn't that the funniest looking blazer ^ou've ever sefn7 Jesus 
only Rick would wear something like that'" ' 

;;How do you do? It's nice to meet you. My name is Ashley Pepper " 

loo^n girl."''''' '° """"' ''''" '''''■ "'' '^'' '' '^' '^'' ^^^'' ''^ '^^P''' '^P'^^^P ^ g««d 

h.H^T'.H '^'^^' '^''"2 P^^ ^"^ attention at those slobs. They're great guys but they've 

"Hi R"ck."'° '' ''■'"^- ^'"^'^^'^ ^y name? I'm Rfck '' ' ' 

sm'™ed''''' '""'"'' ''"' "^'^ "' ^PP°>°S^^^ f«^ him. He's a dick when he's 
"No, no, that's O.K." 

crrz?tWnrabout k 2 t' '"" ""T '"^^'"^ '^'^"^ ''''' P'^'^' ^'^ heard a lot of 
SKd fSout ten n "!,"r'' n''"- ^''' ^''"^ ^' ^ell to get in here, the bouncer 
asked lor about ten I.D. s and he still wouldn't let us in. Thank God that guy Charles 


came over he's a pretty nice gu\. He got us in here and then brought you over. Hey 

howdTyou ge, in here'? Is he a fr.end of yours of sontething? D,d he get you tn here? 
"No, a relative of mine owns the club." 

"No kidding'^ Hev listen to this guys - ." t . th^ 

"Shut up Rick you womanizer you, that Chili thing is about to come on. Jesus, the 

crowd il going wild. Man, I've heard some hot things about Pepper. Holy shit, 

there's Chili. 1 can't believe it! Jesus Christ!" 

"Hey Ashley, who does own this place, he must be a wild man. 

"Chili does He's mv father." , , 

Ashlv looked up into the sun. She looked over at the boys standing around the 

kegs laughmg. She picked up her book bag and headed towards the library. 


Wendy Chapin 

Geographic Illusion 


Mary Abrams 

Water Boiles 

Water boiles for 




three-minute eggs 

soup bones 

pinto beans 

pasta al dente 

frozen vegatables 

fresh vegetables 

newborn babies 

and baker's chocolate. 

Water boiles to 
make steam 
spin a turbine 
generate electricity 

travel on a wire 

heat a coil 

to boil more water. 

Water boiles to be 


or rained 

or drained 

or sweated out 



and slurped up again. 

One less thing 
I have to do 
water does. 

Whistling idiot. 



She said the dress 
was definitely 

If that's true, 
why isn't the dress 
in the kitchen 
washing the dishes? 
Why aren't I 
hanging in the closet 
or comfortably draped 
at the bottom of the bed? 



Tired of shopping, 1 take in 

the trees. 

How poised they look, in buckets 

on the Mall. 

Trees in wooden buckets line 

the sidewalk: 

Hke wearing your mother's feet 

for shoes. 


Worse than a great buffalo, 
-for Oscar Lewis 

Worse than a great buffalo 



to a shuffle, 

Or a bald eagle 
low down 
near extinction, 
We stroll 
the Mall 
just looking.... 

Find an empty bench 
beside the waterfall. 
Sit and gaze at 
Tom McAn shoes. 
There is some relief in 
knowing what the future 
will not bring. 

Could anyone have predicted 

that the Western 



unable to defer gratification, 

would use it all up? 

Noel Stupek 


Michelle McSwain 

5 January 1982 

Gravity looses its pull 
and the mindseye is filtered 
by a dot on a tiny page. 

Air bustles about you 

like people in a New York subway 

but nature is transcended. 

Steam on a window 

becomes a little man 

then suddenly explodes into a Hiroshima cloud. 


A Trip Home 

The sunlight 

across morning 

spots the blue jay's flight. 

A ripple 
the old sun's light. 


A Childhood Memory 
for my mother 

Her house shoes shuffle 
across the mahogony floors 
and sound like a carpenters 
sandpaper against soft wood. 
Through the doorway her body 
silhouettes the early morning sun 
that peeks through slits 
in the Venetian blinds. 
"Good Morning" 
"good mornin'" 

She brushes the child's stringy, blond 

hair away from her eyes 

and the blue saucers blink 

and focus on the wrinkles of age. 

The day begins 

for a mother and her daughter. 


E. Hope Warner 

Quiet Masterpiece 

A buddah sits 

half-smiling in my living room. 

Through painted eyes 

and teeth 

he gives me three wishes. 


there is no buddah 

in my living room. 

I was sitting in a car 

thinking of buddahs, 

and the absurdity 

of owning a painted buddah, 

and the buddah sitting 

half-smiling in a living room. 

I wish the wishes. 

To own a Victorian house 

in the country, 

with sunlit porches 

white wood and black shutters, 

leaving for the city weekends 

to bring fresh strawberries 

for my family. 

To sleep in silky 

linen softness. 

yellow curtains waving 

as a breeze brings 
fresh-mowed lawn smells 
through my Victorian 

To live my life 

without thinking twice, 

without trying to find 


on the pages 

of quiet masterpieces 

I buy hopefully 

in stores. 

In the car 

the sun sets on my left. 

We are travelling 


on a back road in New Jersey. 

A painted buddah tells me 
life is like the sun ~ 
the sudden rise, 
the pain of descent. 
The road rises and falls 
beyond windows 
on every side of me. 



It's the time of year 
when evenings turn cool again. 
I bought the children shoes 
up at the K-Mart, Lord, 
for $8.95 a pair, 
but my wife says potatoes 
are up near a quarter a pound. 
You know it's not easy 
working hke this all day, 
and the roof still needs fixing. 
Let me take on the winter 
like the Rock of Gibralter, 
Hke my car shocks pinned 
in just right and steady. 
This is the only life I know. 


Noel Stupek 

Illustration: Seahorse 



Tonight I wanted 
to write something beautiful 
with images Hke dew 
dropping from cherry trees 
in an ocean of spring 
sunshine white and pink, 
but you can't trust an image. 
Aunt Jen showed me 
how a cucumber yellows 
into pickle 
in one of my images, 
but it was soon forgotten 

when Anna showed me 

the brand on her arm 

from one holocaust or another, 

like cattle she was 

in an unpretty image. 

Tonight I wanted 

to write something beautiful, 

to be a seahorse lapping 

the silent sands of dreams. 



and then the detection of metals - 
the tinted glasses etched in chrome, 
the steel-shined propoganda of your arrivals 



Noel Stupek 


Laura Murphy 

Whose Brown Crop 

oranges are hard in the sand, 
damaged trees droop 
left nest on winter cactus. 
bobcat combs the desert scrub 
and crosses cold tracks, 
trails become iron rails, 
Chinese railroads 
rickshaw across the barren plain. 


Joy Reynolds 

The Word Game 

I had only perked my ear to the word because of the word game in Miss Skivens' 
class. At the time I was quke unable to even spell h. The goal o 'the word g me was to 
compose "the longest and most diverse" list of words heard outside sf Tt phan's 
walls which were new to us. At the end of one week we were to bring our Hs^ o Mis 

whoTo' ^ ';.'.'""P ''"P°" '"^ J^^"^ '''' ^«-Pl^^^ -ith meanings. The studen 
who compiled the most outstanding list won a trip to Palamine's forlce cream wth 
Miss Skivens of course. Having only acquired six words to my list in the length of 
two days, I was quite excited upon hearing the word. It was strange to me - it sTruck 

hTed" I heTd r' ^^rtr"''^ '"' ^°""'"^"^^- ""''' ''''''' wa^sure to ; 
heed. I heard the word while in our hay loft, secluded from view by tumbles and 

move"d he 'n h'"'-/ '"' '''" '^"^""^ "^'^^'^^^ ^^ -^ -ho had recently moved 
moved her new-born to a spot that was yet unknown to me. Since arriving home 

unTno f','.'"' "^' ^h--h-ds, waiting for Lockley to appear and 
unknowingly lead me to her litter. 

arllT' ^ '^^V'' early spring; all around one could hear birds fluttering about and 

fS I reTembe'TV"".'^''' '' ""'''' " '""^ "^^^^^ P^^"-" ^ouds were few 
rhvme hTr T^ "^ t'^ ''"'^"^'^ ""' ^^ ^"^^ ^ had seen once in a nursery 

nuTth H Ju"^ ^T ""f'"^ ''''' '°""" halls, fake looking. Weeds had begun to 
t'hem ook"' ul '"''' "' '''■ '''' --^y--^"-g bricks of the front walk m' 
theT was . H. ^T'"' ^'°^'"?' ^'^''^- ^ h^d on tennis shoes. On the rubber tip 
brLhtlr almn f fl" ^'''' '''^" ^'^"^ '^' ^"'^"^^'" h^^^^^" Streaked across it was a 
ones 2chTn H h""'?''"' "': ""'• ' ""^^ "'^^^^ P^^f^^^^d d^^^y tennis shoes to 

mana.7to h-Hlth f ''""l' ^ '^""^" ^''"- ' ^°"'^ "^"^"^ P^-^^ict wash day and 
manage to hide them from her lye soap and scrub brush 

I heard the screen door behind me whine and I turned to my sister Tess her pink 

Lt'enoJ sr '/'r/'^^'l' '^^ ' ''^ "^^"^^"^^ ^'^ ^he cool blackness If the house's 
interior. She let the door slap to its framing and paused to put her hands on her hips. 


Around her head was a wound-up blue scarf tied a. one side. She cocked her head .0 

'"™*her„let^^thT.t;uTdfbrdorg ting YOUR croche. needier 

Shr.urneron he ball of her sneaker, releasing a s,gh. It was one other 
.emperl;^n:rum sfghs She wen, back into the cool darkness and aga.n let the door 

""'1 didn't even know you had one anyway." 1 hollered as her pink shorts 
disappeared. ;, ^,, Wednesday On Wednesday afternoons 

'T;tldil"db7" other ITh's^and s.sters and even though . had heard 

"Ts rsfthru^httXifd'rinTy^ratrk^uT^-chael arrived as he d,d each 


f:reCr tread acr"; the top step. When green pollen accumulated, hestared at .t a 


moment then blew it off in the direction of the sun. He turned his head and looked 
down at me. I thought maybe he had ignored me, but he wrinkled his lips and S 

you pirymTs^^r '" "' ^'^^ ''" "°™ ''' ^^^ ^"^"^h P-^^-^ -^tho 't 

I stared at him, just short of becoming confused, and he went back to tracine his 
finger along the pollinated step iracing nis 

seJn itkLv^litt ""tZZ " '''' "^^ 'Tl I "''• ' ^*^^"^h^ «f ^he last time I had 
seen Lockleys litter. There were eight, black-fuzzed, their eyes closed tight 

Maybe so he answered resting his elbows on his knees. "But she's mavbe a little 
sad because of all her new responsibilities and wants to be left alone That Why h 
probably moved them from you." ^ 

'^^Tv !f'."'''^.' ""' '" ^"'P ^'' '^^' '^'' «f ^hem. There's eight you know " 

He looked at me for a moment, his eyebrows knit. He then sighed as if defeated 

and stood up. Turning to go into the house he wished me luck in my IrVh Hrwem 

in our house, shutting the screen door with a dick. I heard Mama Fran telling him to 

go on back to the side porch where he would find Miss Tess, when suddenly f o kl y 


Lockley led me around to the back of our house and eventually through the back 
pasture to the barn Her belly was heavy with milk, pulled down in eight pink pots 

She shnned'^H ' ^ " ''.'■^'' "^ ^" '^^ "^^ '^' ^^^^^ '' ^^e time to pain'her 
She slipped through a crack in the door and was gone from my view. By the time I 

tT^ir w 7^ "'"^^-l^ ^"'° '^' ''"™' '^' h^^ disappeared. It was dark inside, 

ome me tnT'\ :r''' '''""^- ^ '''''^ *" '^' ^"""^^t of the open barn door fo; 
ntn Tf f? ^^ '"'' ^ ''"^ ^'^ °^ ^h™P^^- When none came I decided to climb 

mto the loft to get an all-over view for when she did emerge 

fnrlZtf^^ru '''''' ^ ''''"'^''^ 'P^^' '^^^^ ^"«"gh to the edge that I could watch 
tor Lockley. The heat was mesmerizing, enveloped the whole of the barn. There were 

nLTrL" L^ ^'f^'^ ''''■'^°" °^ ^^^' '■"^"y ^^'^t^d outside the barn's green 
planks. My eyelids felt weighted. I thought of Miss Skivens and our word game and 

tLauXTu ^ '"^'^ "''°"' ^'' ^'^'^- ^h^" ^ ^^^ her pink shorts disappear 

needk ^^^'" ^^^'^ ^'' ^'^^"^ Paul-Michael if he had her crochet 

When I awoke, the sunlight from the open barn door had diminished somewhat. It 


,„ok me a minute to fuUy awake and "-"^ -j^-'^J-^^jf^^Jri r^^rbe're'd 

threw them back on Tess' lowered head. ^^^^^ ^^^ 

"Rplipved'^i You're crazy - you don t even care now uu ^^ j .u^„ 

und^r^nd' ■ ivl heard abo'ut them - ,t sounds awful, hke a vacuum e.eaner and they 

-"h: S i.:*;; ^r;heta™""a™ ra^d^loo^ed up above h,m before 
He tilled his Che t wun ^,^^ ^^^.^^^ ^_^^_^ ,^1^ ^^^j , ^ 


'T-pss " he continued, "it can't be any other way. 

^Ss turned to one side and he went on. ""°"f ^J^^S^^ r,^,;f .J^c 'a* 
me, Tess. You were always so sure^ ,"=™ h^," .^.^^'^rdtd not underst'and the.r 
:o:^.s*iorTS:"raVoE of'hi^rims to me bu. .sensed a son of 


gazed out the open doon '. .^Yur.h THOUGHT o-^^^^^^ 
"considering everythmg. But it s just the 1 Huuun i oi 

He paused for a moment. "1 can't have you on me for the rest ot my me, 
continued, "You have to get an abortion." 


"But why can't -" Tess blurted suddenly, starting to stand up. Paul-Michael met 

I became lost in the mtonations of my new word and no longer paid any attention 

o me sister and Paul-Michael. My expectations for the word 4re ^ar more nti n^ 

than their argument. They left shortly afterwards, as I sat trying to derwe he wTrd f 

spelling in the air with a forefinger. It seemed like a long word to me -ongr than the 

in^hern '^ "' i"' '' "" '^"' ^°""^'"^ ^°^ ' ' ^ ^^^^^ -^ think off he boar out 
in the pen, ugly and imposing. 

I remamed in the loft long afterwards, occasionally remembering to look over the 

aferSd the' w^d b f "°'^'^" rf ' ^^^'^"^ ^^ "^'"^' ^^^-^ ^° ^^--- 
nad ever heard the word before in my life. I did not think I had 

Dusk had begun to lower outside the barn. The still-open barn door revealed onlv 
a slender tnang e of sunlight. When I treaded back to our house, thrgrass t the 

lenXo^thrd k'')'!'^''; K^^^ ^""^ "^ ^^^- ^ "^^^^ '^^^^^d Lockley's iJttens in the 
wofd mI Sk ' ^"'^ "''" '"'^'^^'^ ^^^^ '^' acquisition of my new word - a 

word Miss Skivens was sure to take heed of. On the thought of writing down the new 
word on my list before Mama Fran gathered us for our dinners ran bick to ouT 
front porch where Lockley sat looking on, waiting to be let m 











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FALL 1983 

Noel Stupek 

Ron Davies 
Cooking l-lelp 

Sara Greer 
Migrant \Nor\ier 

Becca Klauder 
Visual Editor 

Joy Reynolds 
Asst. Literary Editor 

Leigh RIngler 
Business Manager 

Jennifer Rotman 
Literary Editor 


The Brambler continues ,o be published for the students of Swee, Briar College. 

Sf i;pfogrLTp-,nS Co' rnrL,nc..ur.,VA, Design, Noe, S.upeK. 

^^"tained ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ 


The baby cries in the next room. 

I pull open the window 

Fresh oil-puddles span the street 

Signal lights change for no one 

While two little black kids 

Yank at a kitten 

Which cries. 

And then on the window sill 
My dumb fingers find 
Something new. 

A green mantis 

Rising like some drunken boxer 

So pretty in a small glass jar. 


Beating Around: A Sestina 





Dried mitten-hands 

Chatter along the street. 

It is cold, 

So cold 

Husks of crushed red .... ,.^ 

AnH vA/hitP hppr cans wobble noisily in the street s . . , « 

Guuers peoplelingL keys and loose change, blow noses, wa„ to leave. 

I Sit on a bus-stop bench, hands 

Trembling, and think of someplace I could like. 

I think, too, I like 
The cold- 
ness, my hand 
Burrowing in my pocket, red 
And chapped; 1 do want to leave. 
Sick of being here on this street 

Watching one row of houses huddled near the street's 

?a%Ul^ a':S gC^rrc^fol ya. decorated wl.h s.;« leaves, 

Only seeing cold 

Whites and reds , , , u Ar. 

Like packs of cigarettes racked by some clerk s hands. 



Deep in my pocket, my hand 

Cups the ball of change, some plucked from street 

Corners. My fingers re-sculpt the shapes of pennies and a red 

Button off my shirt cuff: a treasure, like 

Some poor pirate's cache buried on a cold. 

Windy island, the only thing to keep me from leaving 

Having so little with which to leave. 

A woman shoves some paper about God into my hand 

But I only concentrate on the cold 

And sleep. The paper crumples easily and rolls along the street 

Past some old man who looks like 

He's just gotten high, leaning against the stark red 

Brick. I walk up the street 

My hands cold like 

The twisted leaves, stuffed down in my pockets, chapped and red. 




I clasp my hands 
Tighten and 
Constrict my fingers 
Into one hard 

And close my eyes 
As equally tight 
Clench my teeth 
My jaw 
My skull 
My mind 

Into the midst 

Of this anger 

Which comes and goes; 

A gust 

Of wind, 

A spiral of dead leaves 

Shooting outward 

Like blood into a dormant limb 

And the spiralling 

Dots I see; 

The very essence 

Of my vision 



Into each tight socket. 

Ruffles Have Ridqes 



You will get used to the 

Tattered edges of 

The shade 

On the window 

In the bathroom 

And enjoy 

Its slight scratching 

Across the chipped white 


And the screen that 

Grids the view 

Of blue mountains which fade 

Like a flat mirage. T pz 

You will wonder if 
They are real 

Reaching your hand 



And meeting 
A black 

Coarse screen. 
The sharp edges 
Of shade 

Capable of cutting 
If you 



I touch my hand 

In this fleshless 



Muscle and bone, 

Cuts, bruises not 


Aware that the round moon 

Reflects the whites 

Of my eyes 

Like it does every 




Deep shadows wrapping 


Around tree trunks, 

I perspire 

Gripping my pocketknife 

Voice repeating 

A name. 

Again and again 

1 twist the silver blade 

In and out of a writhing shadow. 

Leaves brush 

Together overhead 

Not acknowledging me. 

I pull up a leg 

Of my jeans 

Exposing a tight 

Thigh, put knife 

To flesh and 


My initial 


Feeling blood 

Trickle out 





Ed Streeto 





Gloria Stevens. 



Dew scope 



Fairly gravific 


Central ia again 


I [11 



Definition of a wink; An optical flirtation that implies gesturely without con,mitment. 





Being either x or y. 


Rarial oreiudice is an unrelenting nemesis to those who experience it. The odd 
thmq aSou ac a p eTud ce ,s that ,t touches the lives of all of us, but affects some more 
than others Is not everybody an integral part of the systems that go to create racial pre- 
XTyou may not b ^actively involved in ,t. but you are either x or y. Vou may ,gnore 
racial oreiSdice or you may practice it, but you cannot not be a part of it^ Race, they tell 
us has no objectlvl reality.'of course not. Like love or hate ,t merely has physical ex- 
pressions. ^ . ^ „. ..^uinnQ that rpached me in the summer of 1983. I was away. 

The following are excerpts from a series of ^'^'^'"9"^^^^^ '^^.^'^^^^^^^ me in hard words. Let me begin at 

m^nt thewZheris foul, a somewhat belated monsoon, which ,s keeping 

Zyone Zoors and so not in the mood for ^.^rn'n^ ^^''^fJ^Z^s 

for the exams is going on, not in the same sprit as before I m afraid, but its 

cot to be don J The Lire study machinery was ticking over very nicely until 

te Ts put a spanner in the works, so I have ^^^ tojanall overagain^ 

Very frustrating... Anyway, according to the new timetable... I should be 

fini^hPd hv the 5th of October if nothing more goes wrong. .•..„„ 

Apparency qui.a a ,o, had been going w,ong. From a newspaper cutting stamped ''S.biected to Censorship , on 

August 7th, 1983: 

It is this time of the year that has witnessed the ugly communal riots of recent 

leaTZrnid-1977 soon after the General Election communal 

Zread througVt the country and the Commision of >ng-^ f^^f^^^^^ 

cidents had hardly completed their findings when in mid-1981 'tf^'^d again. 

msvearin mid-1983, the worst and most intricate of riots gripped the na- ■. , 

Tn,'Th'Go"Lent and the people. ^^ we emerge from thyubble of not : ■ ■ 

torn cities we now see before us refugee camps of displaced persons... 


A further elucidation comes from a letter dated 9th September 1 qr-^ fr. 
tive frame of mind. '" CDeptember. 1 983, from my mother, writing in an objec- 

^.^Now we come to the long term view of the situation here. It would seem 
that the country ,s on the brink of a social revolutionary era where so fa^ 
racism has been the first weapon to be used. Revoluflary forces frorn the 
norh and south have attempted to overthrow the government and upset the 

cZsZarfZTT'-.''" ''' ''''' '''' '''y '''' "^ '°-- ^^^ violence of 
wealth' nrf^ T^ '?"'^ ^''^9onism against the objects of ''foreign 
wealth Quite apart from the struggle of X liberation, whatever that means 
ellmT '"\'. °''''' ""'''' ''' '''' P'^'^'^'^- ™' ^"-^ination of the x 
fanned rJr ""'"'' '"^ ''''' " '"' ^°'' '° ^o. Now the mobs have 
'^i:^7t^^!b':^d^7::::. "^ ''-''- of a general, eveang to 


the true basis for social revolution ^ ^ °^ '^'^' "^'' differences once more emerge triumphant as p . _ 

In the thick of "the troubles" a short letter dated 10th August, 1983, stated the followino- l ' ^ 

We are now datmg our activities as ante'-bellum and inter-bellum Suchisthe '^'^^ ^'^ f°"°^'"9- ^ 
feeling now, that post-bellum is yet to come. 

Racsm is a ,00,' and no' I^^ZlnZZ, *dXe e'net "" " " " " '' ""' '" ""' "^ '""'''"""' >="«'■ 

n A. ,ru ■ ^u . 31st July, 1983 

Dear Mallihai, The International Telephone lines are closed so I'm writing the 
epic of recent events. Rest assured that we are well and fed on rib-stickers 
Pluto included. Chris and I persist in discussing all this in the light of Greek 
and Roman history - we are not a patch on Alcibiades or Sulla, but Father 
IS not appreciative of our learning... At least I can keep the home front runn- 
ing calmly. It is most strenuous but I feel that seeing familar order and 
organization has a salutary effect on all concerned. It promises security like 
a child's bed-time ritual. I have a saucepan of made up tea to dish out to 
police, security, servant, etc., as there is not a boutique standing 
hereabouts. Similarly there is cooked rice and strangely mixed vegetables 
curry and isthme. Chris is an excellent scrounger and his knowledge of 
basic camp cooking is invaluable. Yesterday we got a deluge of pep talks on 
TV. from l\/linsters and top clergy... Plans for the future will wait till calmer 


by their respective Mums to 9et^r^^'^mc°okable.l^arJvs Aleve^^ au 

country goes up ir^ flames. We have acquired a loaf of b^ead and eggs. 
Three Moscow oriented parties are proscribed. Love, Mum. 

There is seldom a specific beginning or end to ^'^ P-[f l^^'^.f ^ 
can be labeled the goodies or baddies. Through "^^Pf P^^^'^^^^^^^^^ l^o^e is on the 
reflections and prayers, I too, though far ^^J' ^"^ '7f^^*^'y,37,g the sense of terror, 
receiving end, however objective one may ^e. there is no escaping tn ^^ 

the tears, the humiliation, the regret and hopeless ess. Racsm does no ^^^ ^^^ 
be explained or reasoned away. As a "moderate x J honesty feel no a p V ^^^^^^ ^ 
because neither fanatic x nor fanatic V^^^^elp what they do. Howe^^^^ , ^^^^^ ^ 

1 am caught in the middle, and unfortunately, J %P^^°P'^ ''^^^^^^^ 

Ten come 10/eave 9today nine now ^q^i^ stupek 


suddenly . 

sudden truths .,] \ 

from the past , , , ^"' "° 

•^ lazily linger but 

come , 



not satisfied with ^^„^«ro«H t^ k« 

„„„„^ , concerned to be 

concerns of *• x- _, , 

satisfied only 


' now 

'new math' 


We talked 
about religion 

and had some division 

of opinion 
that is. 





Two Poets 



She sat there red curls upon her head, 
And mimicked things that were said. 
A smile on her face, 
Or rather a grin was the case. 

She listened with such thought, 

The reader had her attention caught. 

Her head twitched, her eyes blinked-l don't think she knew. 

What had given me the clue. 

She liked the poem, I could tell. 

But deep down she knew, it wouldn't sell. 

it was envy--bright green 

To me it was obviously seen. 


A Peaceful Moment 


Clover and flowered field, 
like a blanket covering the recent 
winter ground, 

Cushions our feet from the over- 
grown land. 

Pockets are full of clams that once 
lived in the creek running along 
the outskirts of the field. 
Tiny yellow and white flowers are 

grasped in one hand. 

While you hold the other. 

Silence is broken by the trotting 

of horses. 

As we walk back toward the house. 

Cathedral Leslie Mcrae 


The cathedral stands tall. 

The giant ornate belfry 

Overlooks the park. 

The ancient stained glass windows 

Glare down imposingly 

Like stern fathers, 

Frowning fiercely at the goings-on. 

The pigeons nest in the upper rafters. 

Their cooing, making music 

For all the passers-by. 







back when i was young 

just yesterday 

when i was a child 

i knew i would grow up 


so i went to k-mart 

on my last day as a child 

and bought my toys 

to take to the grave 

for the death of me as a child 

toys that only a child could use 

but that was yesterday 

and it is now tomorrow 

and i should be grown up, 

but i am still playing 

with the toys i bought yesterday 

when i was a child 

the toys that only a child could use. 

Fish Love The Rain 



I'Nate, quit it," I said, brushing my nephew away from my legs. "Come on, let's watch this show " 

•u u ■ , •^' ! ^°"'' ''"^^ '*• '^^^^ '^^y'^ ^9'y-" ^^ ^°""d 3 SfTiall fuck beside the hearth and began running it over 
the bricks m front of the fireplace. 

"Nate, that's Julia Child you're talking about. She's my hero." I stretched my feet out onto the coffee 

inn cmi qH of kJr*-. 

table and smiled at him 

"Oh, Robin," he said, 
"it's true. Bucko." 

::S rr nf,tt. .e wa,c. ..s S.OW. M. was .e„,ng ,0 a co.piica.ed pa. o. .e, sou... w.c. 

,Vs goi.g .0 ran.- , -2lVrasV'p>ea°s" please." He stood up and sa, on ,he couch nex, to ,.e. my good 
"Oh come ooooooooon, piease, pieaoc, p 

friend Nate 

"If you let me kiss you." ,;»•■ mp rpached over and pinched my bare leg. 

::£■. r„u=!;^:^;"r ;ln?.^n.. 'bS'o- r^rSr^ou.- , sa. . . ......s »,ce. Besses „ 

causes cancer.' 

::r«n.tnen are ,ou going back ,o ""^.^f^.^^-^^^^SS.'-la^'-onege. Bab,. .mius..v,ng 

a, .„.X1Sr" S'd rr rrle-'^splnTsreUe. s,eep ,n ., own bed. and go „,. ,ou 

,„d s,u;n*e .ba.^'^^^^ ^^^ ,^^„^^ ,^^ „,^^, „„ „, ,„„,, ,„ b,s band s,ow„ around and around. ■Tben you 

""" ''^rab"Tsa'd°as'ues.ed my band on bis s^'^V "^'onde ^ead. ,^^^^^ ,^^ ^„^,„ 

281 •■r Sri'missS brsrSS^:r,L"-^Tbrmel;,on o, .^d seemed .0 a,wa,s ,nsp,re b,m. 

■* "Robin, can I have some cereal? 

...a,e, you„y oyer bere,,",as.ed as we 


^^^ ""^"'Got any Life?" he asked from behind me. 

"I'll take Froot Loops then. 
"How about granola instead?' I suggested. 

::^°r;orb?g ,:"Je°"b';':e"^dayrBr°" -g^red a. me and .o„ed bis eyes. •Tbere. a cbarr, Cmb 

un vourself " i said, opening the refrigerator. ^ ^ ^hg kitchen window to see my 

::S a ::,i:uS''- S iumpmg o« .be counter and .oward .be bac. door. H, Dad. 
■:.?Ur be°s°a'd ::S.iy anT^ised bis ia.ber. gpiden beard. de„ sa. Grace on ,be «oor o, .be ..cbeb and 
looked up at me. 

"Hello, Mom and Dad around?" '^^"^' STUKEY 

"I don't know. Mom's at the store and Dad's somewhere." 
"Somewhere, huh?" 

"I brought Nate's boots over. It's still pretty muddy, but I think it's nice enough to go out doors " 
"We thought we might go fishing later." 

"Yeah, Dad!" said Nate, his blue eyes taking up about half his face. "Can I go out and look for worms?" 
"Sure, Nater," said Jeff. I glanced at the Froot Loops on the table. "Put your hood up." 
"Want some coffee, Jeff?" I asked as I poured myself some out of the Mr. Coffee. 
"Did Mom make it?" he asked. We both laughed. The only coffee worse than the New York Thruway cof- 
fee was our mother's. It was an old line. 

"Where there's smoke there's Mother cooking," I said and laughed again. 
"Sure, I'll have some, Rob." 

"Bye!" said Nate, slamming the back door behind him. Jeff and I sat down at the kitchen table, and Grace 
wandered into the living room. 

"So how do you like community college?" 

"It stinks." I said, smiling and looking into the face that would have been mine if I had been born a male 
and ten years earlier. "It's so mickey mouse, Jeff." 

"What are you going to do in the fall?" 

"I don't know." 

"What do you mean, 'I don't know'." He mimicked my voice. 

"Did you know what you wanted when you were twenty?" I asked. He glanced out the window at the 
partly-cloudy sky and lifted the mug up to his mouth. 

"I thought I did." 

"I don't even know that much," I said. 

"What about what's-his-name? I thought you two were going down south and live happily ever after." He 
held the mug beside his cheek and smiled at me. 

"That didn't work out." I said, pushing the bowl of cereal from in front of me and leaning back in my chair. 
"He's not into commitment this week. You men are so inconsistent." 

"He's a pretty good kid, but I don't like that tobacco chewing business, though. All those little cups of spit 
everywhere were disgusting." Jeff pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. 

"He'll outgrow it, but look who's talking. At least Skoal doesn't cause cancer " 

"Nothing," I said. "Let's drop it, okay." I shifted my weight in the wooden kitchen chair. "How's the 
strike going?" 

I'Shitty," he paused. "No, okay, really; it's going to work for us, it's got to." 

"I hope so," I said, drawing figure eights on the tablecloth with my spoon. "Nate's birthday is next week 
isn t It? 

"Six-years old," Jeff took a long drag on his cigarette. "I have a six-year old son, and I don't even know 
where he came from." Grace walked back into the kitchen unsteadily. I saw that her nose was running. "Hi 
Gracie, beautiful Grade. Isn't she a pretty, pretty girl?" said Jeff, bending over to his daughter's height. He 
looked up at me. "My kids will never have snotty noses," he said in a high pitched voice as he grabbed a floral 
print napkin out of the plastic holder and put it up to Grade's nose. "Blow, Honey." 



"I wasn't thinking that," I said f f^^"^'^ .^'^'.^ „,. ^e nointed his finger at me. "Just wait, Robbie." Jeff 
,„.e. 3^ oTo rfil'dlS s:S - a ^ .™er, ,.a. , Z ne.e. .aa. , wan.e. .0 as. .. 
™!,ere he had learned ,1, bul I couldn't think of any reason to. 

:;l:ra^ rw v^^^i-e'rou'treda. Vo.te - -rrVo;'^e'ra,rd;^di:?sK ds ,0 ,et he, 

'■Come on, Rob, she's not wearing ^^^'l^'^H^ , ^^^^ ^^at it's like to live at home now." Jeff 

.'I know, I just see it more because 1 ^^^^^^^.^'^^^^.^^f^J^ ^^^er ha,r. I swished the coffee around at the 

bounced Grace on his knees and reclasped a ^'^^^''^/^^Jj'^^'^^^'^. ",Xd back?" 1 asked. 

^°^^°-'.rdon\"^k^w,7cru;d1L^:;rV:;h D^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ over Grace's head. "I'll do something, 

Kid, don wry abo^ut m^e^|^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ „, ,,,,, ^f rain on the roof," I said and 

'°'s Saturday." The back door opened and Nate fomped in. 

' 'i didn t fmd any worms, will you come out and help me, Rob? 

"It's raining." u ri " 

:'.rab,'r r, gM^Sg «^sTa;i'n. s°oo cold and wa, outside.'' Nata pu, on hisfavorlte pout tace. 

■•Robin's right. Nata old man. You'd both catch cold. 

•.Mommy s°es«nTat home. Grace and 1 are on the way to tha store. 

'••The'grocerJ'sS?? said Je... standing Grace on the floor as he reached behind the kitchen chair for his 

••ola'y" rnTat'your'tNngs." ^eff paused and looked around. ■•Where's Grace's coatr' 

"Right here." I said, pulling it out from ""''.f '"V '^^ _ . ^^^, ,„ ^e a„<, gave me a wet kiss. 

■•••=rw^y°^'^"sa1dHr ?rr brd?r mT^errpSded to cry,^"Oh. Robin," he laughed. 
"^°"''"Th°anks°';o7thTcoffee. Rob," said Jeff as ha picked up Grace. "Bye." Grace waved, peeking over from 
"^"'""•■^aNrgo hshlhTnex. time, you promise?" said Nate at the door, as he slipped his little daypack over his 
^'""''"Sure," 1 said, halt-smlllng. The door Cosed ' -o-;P -? P",our mugs in the s«^ of ^-J 


"ha sfar-s got into bad, and listened to the rain until sleep came. 

/ Hope This Is Better Than When You Were Twenty 


Sometimes I play quiet music 

Knowing there is somewhere else I ought to be 

Knowing I'm no different from others 

Lying on their beds in the darl<. 

When I wake to dark skies 

Pelting tiny shadows on my sheets, 

I think of other gray days f^l 

At the beach or in my room l^ ' 

And catch the ceiling staring back at me. 

One day when you were twenty 

I sent a boy to sea, and as he went 

He looked into the shaded windows 

Of worlds he did not know. 

Now he's in the box where you keep special things. 

I think I'm in there too. 



Don't forget to take me out 

And look at me sometimes. 

At times you lie alone, 

I know you do. 

Be fragile with me then, 

i am with you. 


Here I Sit 


I could choose a quiet life 

Filled with easy dinners, screws, and songs. 

I could take my rightful share 

Of what 1 fully know I don't deserve 

And perform a subtle duty. 

I could be a dying sacrifice, 

Not so clean, but not yet dead. 

I could own a dog and 

We could run through fields 

and have a perfect time. 

My dog and I 

But here 1 sit, uninspired, 

Without a hope for lack of wanting one. 

Here 1 sit until I will no longer bear 

The quiet's gentle roar. 



a year since the flat 
where the rain fell 
outside the half-cracked window 
in the afternoons- 
Merlin was the Bursar's cat 
exquisite-eyed Merlin 
loved the garden grass, 
the corner library window 
arching his back every hour or so 
proving cats are cats . . . 
another summer soon 

new tenants 
new grass for Merlin 
more warm cream at tea time- 
another unrequited love 


The Dill Pickle Two 


to forget you, 

you'll be a whiskered cucumber 

summer bleached 

back yard garden 

I'll pick you 

with my grandmother's hands 

soak you 
in dill 
pickle you 
with the hands 
like the kettle 
you'll sour in 








For My Mother's Mother 


A line 

is more points than we can imagine. 

You wall<ed biggly, 
carried a soft stick. 

The bed is good, Leonore, 

not the day-room 

or guest lounge 

or nurses in white. 

I find you in bed, remain, 

avoid your eyes. 

Leaves fall. 
Dogs bark. 

Last night, in your sleep, 
the priests came 
and made you a Catholic. 
I want an end for you. 
All this fear. 

Your blood clots sloppily. 
Where are the veins in your hand? 
Blue-black Leonore. 
Take my hand, it is warm. 

Wedding dress. 


You lived here your life. 

Not here, 

another room, another bed, 

a good house. 

Who will remember you, Leonore, 
after me? 

So many lines 
all leading here. 

Crossing Pennsylvania 



Who ever heard of Steubenville 
and why is that where I'm going? 
The man behind the counter said 
what is your destination please 
and I said Steubenville 
like it just came into my head 
you see and I might know 
someone there or may have known 
someone there but don't know now. 
I've got to be going somewhere. 
With a name things are better. 

Better on the bus because 

it is air-conditioned padded red and blue. 

Better on the bus because my mother 

died you know down in West Virginia 

and that's where I got on and 

I've lived with her for oh ten years 

after my husband left me which was I^Q 

after he got the lung. Married young [ w v/ 

which was what we had to do. 

But this is not my story. 

This is the story of the woman 

in Aisle 20 seat A (aisle) 

talking to me in seat B (window). 

Ohio seems so far away from here, 

across this entire state, 

this Quaker state. Amish. The Amish 

are south of here, and I'm going west 

with illusions of manifest destiny 

following the trail of Indians by bus. 

What settlers and prairiemen 

followed first this trail 

dropping off in these coal towns 

one by one, their children going further 

west, their grandchildren further yet? 

Born by the ocean I have no choice 

but to make this choice, to move left. 

I've never known an Indian. 




Well both of us up at the high school then 

him on the baseball team and me 

a Precisionette which was a good thing 

to be you know not easy to make the squad. 

My mamma said I was pretty but 

never anything like Betsy Joe Ritter 

who was a cheerleader but even then 

smoked two packs a day I'd see her 

in the bathroom between classes 

and all the boys liked Betsy Jo 

but Ricky asked me out anyways. 

I'd seen him around the Dairy Queen 

where we all hung out most nights 

and that was oh the eleventh grade 

and that next year my pappa himself 

having come down with the lung 

he just up and quit work he said 

Cora I cain't work no more 

so 1 had to work myself then 

but Ricky saw me anyways. 

These coal towns stretch out 

trying to touch each other 

separated only by a path 

of IGA's and Moose Halls. 

Red brick red clay. Soot marked. 

The woman actually is Cora Lee 

but I can call her just Cora. 

Sunlight hangs like smoke in the air. 

A Russian Orthodox church rises 

like the Taj Mahal beyond the highway. 

In Palmerton the man getting on 

walks back towards us 

wearing a flannel shirt and cap 

that states Chevrolet proudly. 

A backpack on his back his boots 

layered with mud he chews 

something behind his beard. 

He sits in Aisle 16 seat B. 

Now tnat fellow strikes the likeness 

of Ricky might even be him who knows. 

Done up and left me after two kids 

not that I can blame him you see 

but we wasn't even married but four years 

and me not through high scool even. 

You see he wanted to be a mechanic 

and fiddle with cars he was so good 

with cars but quit as I couldn't 

keep on in the factory being so big by spring 

and we were married he went to the mines 

and I can't say I blame him though 

I can't say it was any fault of mine. 

Look out on your left ain't that the town 

where they shot that movie I seen 

the other night on tv it looks it 

did you see it too it was on pretty late 

but was good. 

3. Mount Carmel 

At some point in time 

it became evident 

that it wasn't enough 

to travel over mountains 

they must be traveled through 

they must be traveled underneath, 

that inside these mountains 

there was coal -- 

the prefix to steam. 

Did people settle here 

because they were tired 

and their leather-reined horses 

could go no further west, 

or did the mines come first, 

the mountains underground, 

and then the men to man the mines, 

the women to bear the men, 

the red brick to bear the sun? 





How many years did it take 

to build \U\s town 

and how was it that this town 

grew no larger 

than a span of wood and brick 

car-lined streets half-vacant 

and how is it that in Mount Carmel 

a Christ is kneeling 

in a gas station lot by the highway, 

making a rest stop here 

so we can rest 

while the bus is blessed. 

Every year 

cars must be brought in 

from the country 

and granted life 

for just one more year 

by this statue of Christ 

to the right of the pumps 

kneeling on concrete 

so he can stare through the grill, 

Christ by the highway 

the two-lane highway 

Main Street 

Mount Carmel. 

Cora and 1 buy Tastykakes 

and coffee 

in the 7-11 across the street. 



In July, 

when the strawberry season ends. 

days wrap themselves in heat 

and cornfields grow 

tall enough to piss in. 

We'd run through the fields 

towards the river, 

stalks above our heads 

but conquerable, still-soft green 

and there was a tire swing 

by the river T A r^ 

at the deepest eddy I cL ^ 

right after the rapids I 

swimming with our shoes on 

because to swing you climb the tree 

jump and feel the rope quicken. 

I spent my summers by that river. 

Here there is no river 

here the fields want to conquer 

this bus on this highway, 

that billboard for Marlboros 

that barn and that house 

and the fence that surrounds them. 

In the center of a state 

there is only land, 

and because there is no river 

no lake no ocean 

the people must move slowly 

forced to move over land 

on slow moving objects 

like the yellow tractor 

the bus passes. 



Everything looks just alike I tell you 
people say everywhere is different 
but to me it's just alike even down 
in West Virginia I'd visit friends 
in another town you know and sometimes 
not realize I was anywhere different. 
Now I hope Steubenville is different 
but I doubt it what do you think. 

In the center of a state 
there is only land. 

Did you read this article about Liz Taylor 

she's so old but still so young 

especially around the eyes 

oh I used to dream I was a movie star 

like her in that movie about horses 

and at night I'd act out scenes 

only in my head you see never out loud 

and do it until I fell asleep. 

Then later I'd think I was a star 

to Ricky even though not famous 

but because he loved me I thought 

we were movie stars acting our lives. 

Now I never let the kids watch too much 

of that crap on television it's no good 

for the brain don't you agree 

I wish the kids were here they're back 

at my aunt's until I'm settled 

and there's a factory in Steubenville 

that I hear is hiring why are you 

going out do you need a job? 

Just out of college 

deciding where to go next, 

sitting here pretending 

the woman in Aisle 12 seat A 

might have an answer, 

or maybe you Cora, 

and did you know 

I dated a boy named Rick? 


If there hadn't been a sign EL WARNER 

I wouldn't have known 

that the field split 

right down the middle 

and became Ohio, 

or that the town on the right 

is where Cora gets off. 

It's larger than most. 

She wants to know 

if I'll stop by 

if I ever pass through Steubenville 

and I tell her I will. 

What else can I tell her? 

I'll never be in Steubenville 

but there's so much 

I could tell her if I tried, 

for instance that in my bag 

I have a book about Salome 

and that Salome is no different 

than Eve or myself or Cora. 

No two stories are that different f/l j^ 

being stories, being already decided. I ^ 

I have a bag full of books 

all of them about Cora 

all of them about myself, 

about pioneers heading somewhere 

some succeeding 

and how can I give her 

any of this 

without seeming stupid, 

without letting her know 

that I am Orpheus 

because I look back, 

always look back. 

She is off the bus, 
heading somewhere, 
which is not my story 
having traveled so far 
and going further 
only to return, 
to eventually return. 




i wc.:n't re ly inte- iim'- ^o try anyth-.-ig 
jat 1. to sc ■ taat - dntentir . was 

urii.itended th. ^c. jne night . ars i r-^nx 
hav ha ^ ±e- .'inks th . ir to s^v ; was 
out -\?/c niglit a..d tv .G he was i i-'/ him 

•om be^ . sa.iet .ae althou::!. i K^' 
atr . op5-iio:is,ano st 21 don't really my 
opinio- .-en't at this po"' and so w^ 
were "^ .a and i don't ember much ilse 

^ut riidn't really i -ink it was so slip 
per :ike a a- --r op. - a letter opo - 
r5 .At into f slot V. .t '.vas ^Irea : - ere 
anr~ there's :o detc-miuc^tion no mear 
ends from «hese ways i present no^ ixO 




In the Gray 

I rose 

and walked out into 

the cold gray 

i crossed 

a cornfield 

till grayness swallowed 

the stalky stubs. 

I saw again 
the moon. 
It looked 
white and thin. 

I pulled gray thickness 
into my lungs. 

I watched the gray 
by the moon- 
-I watched the gray 
eat the moon- 


I was- 



with morning- 




I saw you in the rain. 

You asl<ed why I was 

in rain 

without a coat 

and sicl<. Fa q 

You were asleep, 
when the moon died, 
under your quilt 
in the warm. 

I didn't 

try to tell you, 

how much 

I needed 

the cold pricks, 

of that rain 

on my skin 

to remind me- 

I was- 





cantering, cantering 

What was 

to be allowed 


that morning 

when every 

silver-green leaf 

invited hinn- 
to canter on 

and me to 

put him- 

over the gate 

and cantering 

cantering through 

the field beyond 

live as if 

this canter 

were our last. 

Wind moved- 
the leaves- 
I remembered 
what it was 
to be allowed 
and not allowed. 
I pulled my pony up 
and turned him away. 



Night slides quietly 

into morning 

as the moon 

is framed by 

less black blue. 

The a-harmonic creaking 

of metal road gates, 

as they are rocked back 

mixes with the 

equally a-harmonic bird sounds 

as though this morning were 

a refrain of Cage's. 

^ ?/s 








^All of art is a lie tliat reveals the truth. 

published by the students of Sweet Briar College, Sweet 

Briar, Virginia 

copyright 1986, printed by Progress Printing Co., Inc. Lynchburg, Virginia 


Cindy Addison 
Shannon Wood 
Shannon Wood 
Cindy Addison 
Catherine Abbott 
Cindy Addison 
Cindy Addison 

Laura Dean 
Elizabeth Rundlett 
Callie Johnson 
Karen Gonya 
Amy Sinnmons 
Scariett Roitman 
Corinne Neaie 
Andrea M. Kane 
Kathryn Shannonhouse 
Susan Arnold 
Junie Speight 
Julia Andrews 




Gothic Art 






The Widow 
The Bather 
To Nowhere 

The Unborn 
Back and Forth 
Love Poem 
Nantahola God 
An American Hero 
Good Mother 
Emotional Exhibition 

drawings and prints 

Cary Hardin 
Stacy Lee 
Melissa Corrington 
Kira F I ores 
Cary Hardin 

Melissa Corrington 
Kira Flores 
Cary Hardin 
Kira Flores 
Melissa Corrington 
Cary Hardin 


Hoops in Motion 


The Three Dancers 

Women Created 

by Lightning 

Vertical Embrace 






The 1986 Bramblerls dedicated to Janet Sylvester. 






yhkj ' rvjfgi 
















^ _ . V »; 






v.. .t^ 




:l*\.M" •• 


:r^ ^ ^ 



isi 1— rr — 


J 3*7 



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^^ 'i^V 




The Widow 

She sweeps the porch, 

And watches the leaves 

Bounce on the wind. 

She extends the broom 

To knock away 

The hanging cobwebs, 

And remembers 

Another Autumn— 

A hand in hers, 

A child in her arms, 

She leans against 

The broom and dreams of 

Starting over. 

Laura Dean 

The Bather 

He sits on The river bank, 

clothes strewn about him, 

watohing one friend ooll to another, 

OS water ripples, 

and sailboats nnove sleekly by. 

He wonders whether to go in. 
His feet dangle in oool water, 
as it quickly, 
unexpectedly, splashes up. 

The smell of air is good, 
and the sun warm. 
As he lies book on the bonk, 
he dreams. 

Elizabeth Rundlett 




The raking makes me sleepy, but I tell myself 

I look strong on the outside, 

this sword my only protection. 

Each of these leaves is a soldier in my camp. 

Now they hove all come together to form a mountain. 

I climb. 

I sink. , , , ^ 

Mom IS coiling me in to help fold the sheets. 

Come on, that stuff is for sissies! 

I'm nota giri! 

But there's no one else, 

and Jeff and Jimbo are nowhere in sight. 

Football practice lasts until suppertime. 

At ease, I soy to my men. 

I run to the laundry room, 

a knight to my lady's rescue. 

My side won't fold, 

and Mom is trying to be shorter 

without hitting the floor. 

TeomworlK, she says, is the i<ey to success. 

Someday you'li understand what i mean. 

I nod, thinking of my army out there waiting, 

being blown away. 

I wait for my uniform to finish, 

before she'll let me out. 

Then, I spy that old purple pail, 

and like Bond, I plan Mission B. 

I can't wait to win the world. 

Collie Johnson 


To Nowhere 

Riding a bus in a midwestern city. Watching cut the windcw as corn 
rows pass in neat little rows, ready to be picked. Bored with this bus and 
Its greasy upholstery that slides over me, leaving me with thoughts of who 
sat before me. Listening to the conversations around me I can hear oil of 
the boredom hidden in innocent small talk that eventually turns your brain 
into jello. Faces don't mean anything on a bus. They wear the universal 
expressions of ever/thing you could think of but would rather not The tires 
hum on this hot path through Corn County, U.S.A., and I know that what I 
hope to find is actually what i left behind. And I will think of straight lines 
and arrows when I slide off this bus, and not about messy highways that 
intersect and jumble and lead nowhere. 

Karen Gonya 



It is summer 
and 1 step 
onto the porch 
into the night 
clutching o letter 

A letter 

telling me of the 
Southern Cross 
you see 
at night 

I sit 

balled up 


locked around 


ankles pressed against 


And 1 watch 

and wonder 

if you ore watching too 

as I watch 

a moon 

you con 

or cannot see 


And I wonder 
if I see this nnoon 
or feel this night 

And I long to be 

piece of nnusic 
so beautiful 

to nnoke you ory 

If I could bear 
to hurt you at oil 


1 open nnyself 
to the darkness 
to the summer 

to the benign indifference 

of the night 

of o moon 

you can 


cannot see 

And I know 
that you 
will never 
write a poem 
for me 

Amy Simmons 


The Unborn 

1 felT the warmth 

Of her body, 

The small of my back, 

Nestled against its curv'es. 

I imagined 

The bitter taste of her breast. 

The soothing sound of her voice. 

The scent of her hair. 

That 1 would inherit. 


1 waited. 

For her 

Who mode me. 

Nature's shears 

Carving me into what I would be. 

But she who bears me 

Is my God 


I no longer hove these visions; 

Just dull pressure 

Tugging me from the warmth. 

And no voice 

With which to beg 

For the world. 

Scarlett Roitmon 


Back and Forth 

She shivered in damp sheets, 

and stared at four sides of a ceiling. 

Her heart beats speeded 

as she listened to a fan 

blow back and forth. 

Counting from a hundred to one 

kept the sound of his laugh, and her voice, 

from mixing with songs 

that clashed. 

Each time she pressed her hands to her face 
each time, she whispered, 
but none of it stopped. 

When she could tell she believed 
she was a saint and devilish fool, 
she got up, 
forcing herself to move. 

Corlnne Neof 


Love Poem 

What makes you such an experf^ 

You love your '69 converTible CoiveTte, 

You love your green and red striped Gucci watch, 

Your Gianni Versacce block leather jacket 

with gloves to match, your brown Boily's, 

Or your best old pair ot blue jeans. 

You can even love 

The way Pom Grier's tits shook in ' Coffey. 

But me'^ 

You wont me. 

You want my lips so juicy, 

My swollen breasts with hardened nipples 

And my tender rounded hips. 

You want my thighs smooth and fat 

And the thickness between them. 

But there's more to me 

Than my sweet choooloteness. 

When ore you going to learn'^ 

Andrea Ivl. Kane 


NantahalQ God 

Loud, rolling waters 
Tumble over rocks 
Which fling thennselves up 
To the uncut si<y. 
The canoeist strains 
To bnng his conce 
Under some semblance 
Of reasonable, 
Concurrent controL 
Relentless waters. 
However, deny 
The J stroke, breaking 
The K-2 paddle. 
The deafening noise 
Of the waterfall 
Blinds the river guide. 
Numbing panic grips 
His powerful arms. 
The unpassable 
Falls yawn to accept 
The aluminum 
Coffin. God summoned 
Intervenes with death. 
The nylon rope, hurled 
From the precipice above. 
Curls adeptly down 
Into his hands. 

Kofhryn Shannonhouse 

An American Hero 

He was an ass. His family had realized this eorly in his life (and 
mentioned it to him on several occasions] but nonetheless, he thought 
himself quite extraordinary for coming to grips with this startling self- 
realization. He had not gone to college, none would have him. He joined 
the army so that he could have sex and get drunk and vomit for God. 
They mode him run and shoot and fight and heave manly sighs, and he 
was happy— but not very. A man wrote a letter that said it was oil right to 
l<ill the bad people (you could tell who they were]. He was happy, very. 
He killed more people than anyone else, and he used fewer bullets, they 
called him the -conservationist", it was on honest living. He got to hove 
sex and get drunk and vomit for God, and they fed him and gave him 
little pieces of stars and eagles and stripes and babies that were shiny 
when he held them up to the naked light bulb in the barracks. He was a 
hero His face was eveiywhere. People shook his hand, and licked his 
blood stained boots clean. They looked like new. He died in a cool blue 
hospital, that smelled like peppermint Everyone cried and put his face on 
a stomp. And licked it. 

Susan Arnold 


Good Mother 

The living room is voocumed, 
the annual report typed. 
I'm so tired I could sleep 
right here on the floor 
in the corner, I am haunted 
by nightmares they coll life, 
but what do they know'> 
Pancakes, prayers, and computers, 
household words which hove lost 
oil meaning, like of six years, 
waking to find Father's hand 
under the pillow with a dollar bill. 

If you don 't go to sleep, 
the Tooth Fairy won 't come. 
Good night. Prayers? 
Sleep tight. Brushed teeth? 
Don't let those bed bugs bite, 
I curl up holding the teddy bear 
I swear talks, mushing the pillow 
to fit under my neck, 
dreaming of money and teeth 
and sweet things, 
like Mother who gets up of 7:00 
to make silver-dollar pancakes 
that smile and ooze with goodness. 

My daughter thinks I'm perfect, 
my husband knows I'm not, 
Ritualistically, as o tribe dances 
around a circumcision victim, 
I put a dollar 

under the innocent's pillow, 
checking internally to see 
if I hove Aunt Jemima's mix, 
only to know that we intentionally 
hurt those we love. 

Junie Speight 


Emotional Exhibition 

you painted me a picture 
each brush stroke- an emotion 
it hangs over my bed 

even love 

IS public 

Julio Andrews 


drawings and prints 

















8 I 




























Corinne Neale, Junie Speight 

Julia Andrews 
literary editor 

Cory Hardin 
art editor 

Tracy Gil more 
business manager 

Stephanie Jones 

Lee Ma I ley 







SPRING 1985 


Carolyn Bass 


Margot Hackett 


Elizabeth Jones 
Gary Hardin 


Meme Godfrey 
Lewis Lagronne 

Published by the students of Sweet Briar College 
Sweet Briar, Virginia 



Thornton and Sara Adams of Progress Printing. 

Copyright 1985, Printed by Progress Printing Co., Inc. Lynchburg, Virginia 



Pure line etching 









Photograph, Lexington 


Pinhole photograph 










^^9^ ^ ^^N DO SOMETHING FOR 12 
t"t?aH?^™^T would appall ME IF I FELT 




Jennifer Wise 


Gary Hardin 


C.S. Knowles 


El Hope Warner 


Beth Brunson 


Carolyn Bass 


Elizabeth Jones 


Carolyn Bass 


Leigh F. Watkins 


El Hope Warner 


Carolyn Bass 


Meme Godfrey 


Whitney Pardee 


CP. WJmling 


Gary Hardin 


El Hope Warner 


Lisa Fondeur 


Elizabeth Jones 


Beth Brunson 


Beth Brunson 


El Hope Warner 


Lisa Fondeur 


Junie Speight 


Lisa Fondeur 


Leigh F. Watkins 


Meme Godfrey 


Lisa Fondeur 




Again I can hear the distant sound echoing through the long halls of darkness. If 
I close my eyes I can imagine the solitary figure swaying behind the slightly crack- 
ed door. The release of an encaged bird, his captured soul escapes through the 
glowing instrument and swirls broodingly around him. 

The touching sound of the man's feelings and dreams are mainly confined to the 
shell of the gloomy room. The music rises and falls fretfully struggling to escape 
the womb. Beautiful thoughts and feelings, spewing out into the air, slipping 
through the narrow crack and lingering down the long halls caress me. 

Having lured me to the cracked door, the music reveals the wavering of so 
desperate a shadow crooning a lifetime portrait into the stagnent air. With the 
final note of cadenza, his turmoil is over; the portrait crumbles and flutters to the 
ground, leaving the cage empty. Placing his instrument to the side, the musician 
steps towards the heavy door and views the empty hall. With his eyes downcast, 
he drops his hand to the door knob and swings the door to its close. 

Only the tiniest space exists for people to observe and understand; this is the 
narrow opening between the artist and the world. Sadly, little praise seeps 
through the cracks of the cold wall separating the artist from his audience. 

Picking up his saxophone, the artist moistens his mouthpiece, caressing the 
keys and plays ecstasy in the sunlight. 



Things move 

all around me 

every day. 

Take it down 

the slow way, 

feet first. 

Distances fade. 

At night 

the sky reflects 

all our lights. 

A stillness 

that goes 

the way we go. 

Sometimes rustles 

the grass. 

Quick glow 

like cat's eyes. 

Planets orbit 

somewhere above 

even when we 

can't see them. 

Even when 

we sleep 

even when the sun 

whites out 

everything else 

but daylight. 

I have nowhere 

to go. 

My walk 

a circle 

beginning and ending 

at the same 







Fleeting moments go by 

and tears come to my eyes 

when I see my uncle's shaking leg. 

The familiar jerk reminds me of his brother, my Grandaddy. 

He walks carefully now as Grandaddy did. 

My Grandaddy was so kind, 

they say he never met a stranger; 

and he was so good. 

He had such a sharp mind and 

he was a Judge 

and he was a good one, 

so good he was elected to the State Supreme Court 

and Fm so proud. 

But I remember holding his frail hand 

as he slumped in his wheelchair 

and his eyes looked into nowhere. 

And I would hold his cold hand 

and try to make it warm 

and every now and then he would clench my hand tight 

and sometimes his eye would move and look up at me 

and I would try hard not to cry 

but the tears would come 

and I would cry. 

He lay in bed deteriorating each day 
so still and helpless 
as though he had no mind. 
My Grandaddy didn't die right, 
some power had drained his body- 
but his eyes revealed his soul. 
I remember looking at his face so closely 
his watery eyes always dripped 
down his blemished face. 
Those cloudy eyes would sometimes move 
and his hand would sometimes grasp. 

My Grandaddy who loved me so much 

used to whistle that high quick whistle from his porch 

when I had wandered off. 

And he would pick me up on Saturday 

in his grey Buick that always had clean floormats 

and a roll of paper towels in the back. 

And he would take me to Kern's Cafe 

and I would sit with my chin rested on the table 

and the men would be all around us; 

the smell of coffee and the smell of his sweater, I remember. 

And at the register he would let me pick out as many 
Lifesavers as I wanted and I would carry them ravehng the 
paper in my hand as we would walk to the fish market 
where I with red-candied lips would watch 
the man with big tan arms butcher 
the white wet catfish meat. 

And then Eunice would fry it 

and it was always so tender 

ai^d we would sit on the glassed-in porch 

or at the counter in the kitchen 

and the doors and windows would be open 

and the warm noon air would absorb the smell of fried catfish 

and Eunice always made vanilla custard for dessert 

and always every Saturday I spent with Grandaddy. 

And Saturday night he'd sit in his big lounge chair and watch 

Lawrence Welk and Fd be on the floor with my head on my hands 

right in front of the television waiting for my favorite shows 

and everytime Mannix would start to come on 

I'd jump up and kiss his face on the screen 

and Grandaddy would always laugh. 7 

And I remember later when I was older, 

around eleven or twelve, 

he tried to give me a manicure 

because my fingernails were dirty 

and I remember my hand resting on his palm 

as his other hand held the file 

but his hand shook too much 

and he couldn't do it 

and I laughed 

but I knew it wasn't funny 

and he looked up at me so serious 

and his eyes were so hurt and 

he knew he was getting old. 

The night after his funeral 
I cried so hard next to his grave. 
It was the night of my prom 
and I stood in my white dress 
under the tent filled with flowers 
and I touched the fresh dirt 
that covered my Grandaddy 
and I asked that he forgive me 
for laughing that time 
and I felt his assurance. 

And still I cry when I think of him; 

there was never a greater man that I knew 

and never a man so cheated in his last years. 

And now I see my Daddy and fleeting moments go by 

when his face reveals Grandaddy 's features 

and my stomach knots up and sometimes I cry 

when I think of Daddy. g 






I was on a bus once 

and there was a woman 

next to me 

and she talked the whole time 

which was three hours. 

She said. 

"You know Fm poor 

because I was born poor 

my father was a stupid drunk 

and I married one of the same 

dumb fuckers. 1 live on welfare 

but I don't mind 

because I worked for so long 

and the government 

took my money from me 

and gave it to the niggers 

all those years 

so I get what's coming. 

Those goddamn niggers 

and drunks all my life 

my father killed himself 

finally thank God he was worthless 

and they told me to leave school 

after that because we were no good 

my family. No education 

and I eat in restaraunts 

where people with less education 

wearing paper hats take your money. 

We all get what's coming." 1 1 

I sat and listened 

even though the whole bus 

was staring at her, and me, 

because ealier 

at the station 

I'd seen her give 

her last pack of cigarettes 

to a young woman 

who was barefoot 

even though it was raining, 

with eyes not quite right, 

while I had refused 

the same favor 

a few minutes ealier. 





Elanne and Hunter were having diner in a small, quiet resturant in Charleston. The food was good, 
the wine was better. "God, I really love this place. When I went to the Citadel, Bill and I used to 
sneek over here after rugby practice and have a few drinks. Then one day, we got caught. Freshmen 
aren't supposed to have fun, you know." 

"It's kind of funny," he said, "we joined the rugby team so we could get off campus every now and 
then and not have to shine belt buckles all the time, but then we got caught coming here and were as- 
signed to late gate duty for a month which is twice as bad as shining buckles. " He took a sip of wine. 
"I don't think it ever rained so much in the history of North Carolina." Thinking back, he stared into 
the flame of the candle on the table. "There is nothing worse than gate duty in the rain and then stand- 
ing in those puddles for so many hours makes it twice as hard to shine your shoes, and... ugh!" 
He broke the stare. ' 'Bad memories. ' ' Hunter then smiled and leaned in toward the finger Elanne ran 
down the side of his face. "I like it here too." Elanne said, looking around the dimly lit resturaunt. 
"But why Charleston? I mean isn't it kind of a long way from Virginia for just a weekend?" 

"I know... I don't know. I haven't been back here since I dropped out of the Citadel. But I've al- 
ways really liked the city itself. And you 've never beenhere before. " Hunter reached over to squeeze 
Elanne's hand. "And I just wanted to go someplace where we could be alone for a weekend. No 
roommates. No faternity brothers..." 

"Good enough," Elanne said, smiling. "We certainly are far enough away from anybody we know. 
"Oh, wait" she said suddenly. "Didn't your mysterious second cousin Fat Harry move here a while 
ago. . .after they ran him out of Ashville? The one that nobody knows exactly what it is he does, only 
that he makes a lot of money doing it." 

"Yeah, I guess he did," Hunter admitted forgetting he had told her this, and fidgeting in his chair. 

"So have you done any more of those 'odd jobs' for him lately? What is it that you do? Drive here 
and there and then drive back to his place and get handed a lot of money?" 

"Something like that," Hunter said into his wine glass. 

"Come on. Hunter. I mean, do you know or do you just do what you're told and not ask quesdons?" 

"Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea," was Hunter's only reply. "Want some more wine?" he 
asked as he poured her another glass. 

"You know what this place reminds me of?" he said, glancing around the room. 

"Yeah," Elanne laughed. "That little place in Gatlinburg we stumbled into the day you were sup- 
posed to take me home, but didn't." They both laughed, remembering what had happened that night 
for the first time, after they had both had too much to drink in a similar little resturaunt. 

"I bet you had that all planned, didn't you?" Elanne said squinting one eye and looking a little sus- 
picious. Hunter shrugged his shoulders, then winked and leaned over to kiss her cheek. She blushed. 

Just then, Fat Harry appeared at a large table behind Hunter and Elanne. He was sitting there alone, 


bu, taking up ,wo places. Hunter recognized Itim and l,ad already motioned for him to come over be- 

fore he had realized what he had done. 
"Speak of the devil. Look who's here." 

Flanne glanced around and spotted the large man. ,, 

"Fa, Har?y? He-s here? Great! I fmally get to meet this Abominal Green Machine. 

"Shh Here he comes. Be nice." . . u • i. 

AsHarrv waddled over his body appeared to grow and his head seemed to shnnk. 

voice the meanness. , . ,, 

"Well she certamly is a pretty little thing, Hunter, and she seems so nice. 
''ct^,.'it Harrv don't'" Hunter said with a certain determination and anger. 
Th fat man^^; wad led ba k to h,s table which was now fttU of familiar faces, to Hunter 
Ther w rTsl rl ddle-aged ladies all dressed in sequined evening gowns. w„h m.nks -ound the^r 
louder and dilonds in thetr ears, and one fa,-l,pped man in his late "^o was tall, _la^ 
and smoked a woman's cigarette in a ftlter. And all the way back. Fat Harry kept mnmbhng. Pretty 

^'wh:: he^oUo'lS'lce'Te rurneratnnd and shouted. •'She is attractive. Hunter, but then so are 
„.T H sm . °d' fa' sSie to the -And they are *,,, too. And ^^^^'l^^^;^ 
„ the effeminant gentleman. -But of course, you know all that ^°" ' y.°" "™ "I, "^^J" "° " 
yelling even louder, and throwing his drink around as he spoke wtth h,s hands. Then he whtspered 
something to h,s guests and they all began to g'SS'^- , ^^,„ ^, d„,,„-, seem 


"" tZ. could we go now7- He satd staring at *e -b . ^^^^er., ^^^^,^ ^^^^ _^^ ^^^^ 

"But love, you haven't ^-" A"'*;^ ^^J^;' y-^ ^them ThefrLghter had become louder as 


have a dnnk with him later." Hunter ^^^-^It^^ZoH^s^^^inrnci into a round bed w„h red 
again drawn to the scene beyond her. ^^^''^^^^°'^^^^^„^ ,, Qne of the women whispered, 

^" cr rYorltf: te^ilh rVr^n't be, or else you wouldn't..." 
"Tam Yes I am " Hunter squeezed his hands over his ears. 

saying in whispers that were louder than normal voices: 
"You betrayed her. Hunter." 
"You lied to her." ^^ 

"Every time that you're with us - every time you're with her." 

"But I hated it, Harry. I hate it!" Hunter yelled at the fat man. 

In an attempt to make it all go away, he waved his arms and accidently knocked over a glass 

"Sweetheart, be careful. Let me get that up." Elanne reached over the table with her napkin 
"Hunter, hated what? What are you talking about?" 

"You don't understand, I know. But I didn't mean to. I didn't know you when it first I'm so 
sorry, Elanne. I didn't mean to hurt you. It won't happen again. I won't do it again." he repeated 
over and over as the resturaunt grew larger and brighter, and the laughter grew louder and echoed and 
resounded. Hunter began to cry and then let out a scream that made everything stop and go dark. 

Then he rolled over. His arm hit something warm and soft that made him afraid to open his eves ' 'I 
did it again." 

"Did what again, love?" 

"What?" he said. He opened his eyes and they adjusted to he blue and grey interior of a hotel room 
"You said, T did it again.' Did what again?" 

While Elanne was waiting for an answer, she began to stroke his hair. ' 'You must have had one hell 
of a dream." 

"Why? What did I say?" Hunter asked quickly as his heavy breathing began to slow to normal. 

"I couldn't tell much of anything else. You just mumbled a lot, and ... twitched, kind of. Like you 
were scared, or something. What was it about?" 

Remembering the nightmare, feeling the guilt, he answered, "I ...I don't know. I forgot." He turn- 
ed over and faced he wall. "Just a bad dream, I guess." 

Elanne threw one leg over his and began scratching his back. It was late at night. Six cars drove 
through the big puddle in the street outside their door before he turned back over to face her and said, 
"Could you just hold me for a minute, please?" 

"Sure, love," she replied a little confused. 

As Elanne hugged him, he wrapped his arms around her tiny frame and squeezed so tighdy that it 
became almost uncomfortable for her. She was going to ask again about the dream, but she noticed he 
was shaking just slightly. Then, she felt warm tears on her chest. 

"Hunter?" She held his head tighter against her chest and stared into the darkness. 

"Hunter, what's wrong?" 

He only squeezed her again. "Elanne... I love you. I love you so much." 

"I love you, too," she said, and asked no more quesstions. 

But he continued to cry. 

"Shh," she said, patting his head. "It was only a dream. Shh." 







I sit 

alone at last. 
I wait 

and wait. 
I hear 

I hope 

they'll pass. 
They don't. 
They invade. 
I wait 

and wait 

for them to leave. 
I look 

at the ceiling above me 
at the walls around me 
at the floor below me. 
I feel 

the hair fall into my face. 
I blow 

the hair away. 

at my shoes 
at my hands. 
I twist 

the rings on my fingers. 
I close my eyes 

and breathe. 
I clench my fists 
and breathe. 
I wait 

and wait. 






While in Russia my ancestors 
were Bolshevicks and in Germany 
Jews, both my parents are Democrats. 
My father believes the problems 
of the country would be solved 
if Ted Kennedy were President, 
but my mother and I both think 
that his real loss at Chapaquidick 
was just that dream, which has 
all the wrappings of justice 
even if more could always 
be done in that name. 

There must have been a time 
when looking at the moon 
we saw the bald gleaming head 
of Khrushchev, laughing us into 
a race for the galaxies. 
We don't really need nature 
anyway. All those trees. 
We just might be the winner 
as long as we destroy it first. 

I read that under protest 

they banned some books the other day 

in Peoria. Theere are some freedoms 

that I want too. For instance 

to go to bed and get up each day 

whenever I want never needing jn 

to work, aristocrat that I am, 

or to be allowed to kiss anyone 

I want in public, which makes me 

somewhat of a socialist, 

and most of all to only worry 

about myself and noone else, 

which must imply that I 

am a totalitarian at heart. 

We thank God however 

that we live in this great nation 

where there is no need for Sandinistas 

fighting for what they feel 

are their basic human rights 

against people who are fighting 

in return for the very same reason. 

No one owns anything anyway. 
And when it comes right down to it 
we all wanted the same things 
when we were young. To be 
an astronaut, a movie star, 
the richest person in the world, 
or President of the United States. 






Th. hills could be seen only by their blackness sketched against the sky. Like steel beads hanging 

tllZt tries as they swayed on the hill and sent awesome sounds of power down upon her^ She 
tndered why the hi s eeled so dominant and powerful: they were even mystifytng to her. Maybe 
Ts bee-I oVthe old cemetery up there." she though,, "or because those hills have been there so 
ir,no Mavbe that's why they seem to have such authority. 

The h^l s rose abmptly to it^pressive heights lookrng over the towns crumbling butldtngs and Negro 
shLks The h , sTeM he town's last treasure - the cemetery. Under the moss and v.nes 
nes led the rust d but elegant wrought-iron fences separating the family plots. The .h,n. l=^an,ng om"- 
stots Irked each spot of sunken earth and the worn letters etched upon the surface of the ston s 
rrid brely be read Whether it was the cemetery or not. those hills were mysffytng, especally to 
he1a"pLwhomadeupjustabouttheent,repopulat,on. Thehtll^^^^^^^ 
would no. dare venture up there after dark because, as they told t^ Tte-eha,nts up there. 


Sh reached the s'o on the corner of the street, "Mtss Areola's Store" and sat down on the log- 
strm light penetrating its thickness, her figure was barely revealed, slumped agatns, the old grey 

wooden store. 23 

H^father's calling startled her. Jumping up, she ran towards his vague figure in the street 
Where have you been?" he asked. m me sireet. 

"Oh, just walking around." 

wanno hunt '"' '° ^''^^ ''""" '''"' '° ''""' '" '^' "'°'"^"^' ^°" ^'"''' ^^^ ^" *^^^- ^ow where do 
"Daddy, you know where" she replied with an upward glance to the hills 
"Yeah, honey I know But you be careftil up there, it's easy to lose your footing and you could fall 

down m one of those hollows. We'd have a hard time findmg you too. Be sure nof to stay up th re too 

''' TrV' !:' 'T '" "" "^""^ ^^^ ^^^"^^^^ ^^ ^^ey walked backVthe camp 
Daddy, I 11 be careful. As they hugged standmg on the front porch, the voices filled with excite- 
ment drifted from mside. They turned and walked in. 

The draw began promptly at 9:00 as usual. The seriousness hung over the room as thick as the ciga- 
rette smoke curling to the ceiling. Mr. Simpson rattled the plastic jug filled with numbers and handed 
It to one of the men. It passed from hand to hand and deposited a prize or disappointment in a little red 
button, which was careftilly concealed with a cupped hand. She looked at each man's face and won- 
dered what invisible strategies were going on in each of their minds. She looked at Mr Ernest the 
lines on his forehead and between his eyes were deeply engraved; they were more obvious than u'sual 
as he waited his turn. He looked at her; his head tilted and his eyes squinted as he took a drag of his 
Ken cigarette; he winked at her and, smiling, she looked away feeling embarrassed. His calniiess in 
in all situations and his cool gestures were etched in her memory. She could imitate him perfecdy; 
sometimes she found herself unconsciously walking, talking with her head tilted in his fashion using 
the phrases he used often. She had accepted him as her idol ever since he had first taken her hunting 
with him. He used to insist upon having her sit on a stand with him when she had first started hunting 
at the camp with her father and brother. Mister Ernest would tell her everything he thought she needed 
to know about deer hunting and she would sit there, memorizing every word he said, but sometimes 
found herself marvelling at the attention he gave to her rather than his words. She felt very partial to 
the man and he returned her special attention given to him. 

There among the circle of men, thinking back over the years, she noticed that she had become one of 
them - that they had begun to treat her as a deer hunter who had enough experience to be treated as an 
equal. Her thoughts were broken as Mister Simpson spoke, "I think I'll hunt up in the cemetery 
tomorrow!" Clenching his cigar between his teeth he looked at her with a twinkle in his eye and she 
knew he was only teasing her. They knew she felt possessive over the hills behind the camp house 
since she chose to spend most of her time hunting there rather than by the river with them Even 
though everybody had the right to hunt in the hills since it was legally the town's land, she had no 
worry about the man hunting there. She knew they wouldn't want to walk that far to hunt for it was 
hard to climb. They were perfectly content hunting on the flat land beside the river. She smiled at 
Mister Simpson and watched him write her name down with 'cemetery' beside it. 

After the draw, the crowd dispersed into different rooms, most went to bed except for Mister 
Ernest, Mister Nations and her. She propped her feet in the chair in front of the fire and watched the 
flames change into millions of different shapes around the oak log. Listening to the men talk, she won- 
dered why they always seemed to be the last ones to go to bed. There she listened to Mister Ernest's 
authoritative voice as he lectured about some trivial subject to the other man. She smiled, remember- 
ing how she had marvelled at the man. Content, in front of the fire, the scent of their bourbon rising to 
her nose, she knew this was where she wanted to be during the winter months. The only time she felt 
like this was at the camp with her friends. The smell of bourbon, tobacco and the fireplace with the 


relaxed hunters telling stories in sacred tones had merged in the tingling atmosphere of the deer season 
to make the old run-down house a haven and home for them. She knew she had a life elsewhere but the 
camp was all she could have asked for. Hearing the two men walk out of the room, she knew their in- 
toxicated minds were drawing them to the comfort of their beds. The fire swelled and as she watched 
it burn, scorching through her eyes, she knew the times at the camp would be gone. Things would 
change for she knew she was growing up; nothing lasts forever. Exhausted, she went and kissed her 
father's forehead while he slept, breathing heavily. Turning out all the lights in the house, she walked 
to the room where she would sleep. Passing through the room glowing from the fireplace, the smells 
still hovered. She stood in front of the fire watching it burn. Shuddering, she turned and walked to her 
room quietly and crawled in bed. She lay there gazing through tears across the room towards the little 
red glow of Mister Ernest's cigarette as he smoked in bed, and there, in the dark, she felt warm. 








Drunk writing last night, so now I continue with what I was saying. It's like this: today is Melissa 
Gaffney's birthday. I haven't seen her in two years, but I remember. I reiriember those summers on 
the Deleware building the treehouse, swimming in the river, spending nights drunk later, not the first 
summers with the fields and farms and tire swing. When Amy came to Easton I forgot to show her the 
farmlands, around Nazareth and east, across New Jersey and further, to the Poconos and New York. 
Sitting in the car, the sun sets on my left - we are traveling northeast, on a back road in New Jersey. 
An old line from an old poem, that one. About a buddha and Victorian houses and strawberries and 
the feeling driving to the flea market those mornings, alone with the sunrise through the cornfields. 

Melissa Gaffney is all gone. Somewhere in Colorado, I think. I'd like to go there. Seeing the 
country is a dream for me, seeing the country all the way to China. China is rickshaws across the 
barren plain, slanted eyes and everything upside-down. I want someday to write something about 
China. I'd like to dream myself awake and wake myself to sleep also. All literary allusions intention- 
al. I'd like to say happy birhday to Melissa Gaffney. I'd call her long-distance, all the way to 
Colorado somewhere. I'd say, "It's your birthday and I'm listening to the Stones" and she'd remem- 
ber too, those things. I'd like to arrange words on paper. I'd like to take words and bundle them up 
and wrap them and send them somewhere as a present. I'd send them to New Jersey, to the second 
cornfield past the railroad tracks on River Road, marked "Photo Enclosed - Hand Stamp". These 
words would be arranged so nicely on paper the willows would stop weeping just once and listen. An 
old line from an old poem, that one. About exactly that kind of present. 

The truth is I'm not listening to the Stones right now, and the man on the radio wants me to send my 
dollars for a better tomorrow. I should call him and tell him that until recently I didn't evert know how 
to spell the word, and so it would be silly to send my dollars for it. I should be as polemic as possible, 
throw in some trite and maudlin and redundancy, place into pot and stir. Last night I cooked soup for 
myself. Last night I drank a fifth of gin halfway down, ate my soup, lay in bed. This is a journal, 
reader. Last night I went to sleep. I woke up this morning. I didn't remember any of the dreams they 
tell you you've had even if you don't remember them. To be a beautifijl piece of music is a dream for 
me, to actually dream I was all those notes, all those pitches up and down the grand staff To be such a 
fragmented representation of a continuous and fluid whole, but to fell myself played inside and out 
when someone is playing me. 

There is so much I didn't get to say last night. I want to continue with it now. I'm continuing with it 
now. It's like this: I drove for hours today - 1 was traveling on a back road. The sun wasn't setting or 
rising. I was passing through horsefarms, south of Charlottesville, Virginia and west of the ocean. 
Sometimes I dream I'm in a place where there is no way of finding direction and I'm in China, seeing 
the country, and Melissa Gaffney and all the farmlands in New Jersey are there too. Sometimes I think 
of my family at Christmas, a car-ride and picnics, a home in America. That was a Christian missionary 
in Kenya speaking, not me in Virginia who rides in cars so often. An old line from an old poem, read- 
er, journal. I've been remembering what it is I've been trying to say all this time, and didn't get to 
again last night. It's like that. 







"Now Price, be nice to her. She's probably just as nervous as we are. Please, for my sake don't 
get her mad." 

"I'm here, aren't I? I'll be god-damn nice, but she doesn't deserve it. Not after everything she's 

Price pushed the revolving door so it made one revolution. I led the way to the information desk. 

"Um, excuse me. Could you tell me where Mrs. Harcourt is staying?" 

A woman in her middle sixties looked up, and with a loud audible sigh, started shuffling through a 
file. She lifted her gray head, looking over her brown, half-mooned reading glasses. 

"Oh yes. Dr. Stevens told me to expect you. Your mother is waiting in the lounge, right around 
the corner." Pointing with her pen she added, "Is he over sixteen? Because we have rules here... " 

"Yes! I am," Price said, exasperated. He rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Jesus Christ." 

"You're a little short for your age, aren't you?" 

"Price, forget it. Come on, let's get this over with." 

We walked around the corner. The lounge was the size of a basketball court filled with sofas and 
straight-back chairs. The fabric of the ftirniture looked like the seats on American Airlines. The same 
matching print hung around the two windows, which overlooked the parking lot. Newspapers and 
magazines lay scattered on the sofas. On the walls hung sayings like, "Don't Quit," and "I know I 
can do something for twelve hours that would appall me if I felt I had to keep it up for a lifetime." 
A few women sat in their robes, talking to visitors. One lady in a bright pink robe with matching 
slippers leaned against the wall, her eyes closed. I scanned the room for her. 

Price nudged me. "Jackie, there she is. Oh shit. Wait, what are you going to say? Why the hell 
did you drag me here anyway? I don't have anything to say to her and neither should you! She made 
you miserable, made Dad leave and made..." 

"Would you shut-up, asshole, she's coming!" I said with clenched teeth. 

I wiped my sweaty palms on the seat of my khaki shorts and attempted to smile. Price stuck his hand 
in his jeans and nervously shook the change in his pocket. I took two steps foward and stopped. She 
wore the royal blue housecoat that Price and I gave her for Mother's Day. Her wet hair hung straight, 
brushing her shoulders. Her face was creased with worry. 

' 'My babies! Thank you so much for coming. Isn't it nice here? The people are so friendly and the 
doctors are so understanding. And you know, I haven't wanted a drink since I've been here. I know 
I'm getting better. Ijustknowit. You'll see, I'll be out of here in no time. And we'll be family again. 
A real one." She nervously continued, her hand shook as she nervously reached for mine, " and 
you know what? My doctors said I never really had a problem. They said I just couldn't handle alot of 
pressure. I'm fine now, I really am." 
Price shifted his weight back and forth, not once catching her eyes. Awkwardly, I stood in front of 


her while she squeezed my hand. 

"Well, tell me about you, Jackie. How is the yearbook, or is it the newspaper? I can't remember. 
Which is it?" 

"The yearbook." 

"Oh, that's right. And Price, how is wrestling?" 

"Wrestling was over a month ago. I'm playing ice hockey now." 

"Well, um... how's Daddy? Now that I'm allowed visitors, do you think he will come?" 

"I doubt it. He's really busy. Besides, this is the last time I'm coming to visit. I have 
practice every day after school, and I had to cut it to come here." 

"Well... what about you, Jackie? You'll come visit me, won't you?" She pleaded. 

I did not answer. I stared at her ankles. The cuts had not healed yet, and the accident had happened 
a month ago. 

"Oh these cuts are getting much better. I finally remembered what happened. I realize I had had a 
few too many." 

I looked at her accusingly and blurted out. "You had a hell of a lot more than that, Mom! You were 
wasted! You humiliated all of us. standing on the goddamn glass coffee table. And don't think I'll 
ever get over the two years of pure hell you put us through." 

Tears streamed down her haggard face. She folded her arms around herself and sat down on a sofa. 
She rocked back and forth, shaking. 

"Oh Jesus, Mom. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I'm just so goddamn tierd. You do 
look good and I know you're getting better. We're all looking foward to your coming home. Dad is 
too. We'll make a new start and this time if we all try it will work. Right, Price?" 

"Uh huh." 

"And Mom, don't worry. I'll keep doing what I've been doing around the house, so you'll have 
more time to do stuff that you want to do. okay?" 

"Baby, do you mean it? I know this time I'm ready to start living again, constructively. But I can't 
do it alone. If you'll help me, we'll be a family again... I'm so excited, I have a really good feeling 
about all of this." 

"Me too." 

Price walked around the room, looking through the window. I sat down beside her and craddled her 
in my arms. She pulled a Kleenex out of her pocket and blew her nose. 

"Now run along, you need to fix dinner for Daddy. He hates it when dinner is late. Come back 

"Okay, Mom, take good care of yourself." A male nurse led her out of the lounge. 

"Jackie, do you think she'll change this time?" 

"I don't know, I just don't know." 

Price and I started going around the corner, hearing the echo of her voice, and the squeaking of the 
nurse's sneakers on the linoleum. 








I am sitting here wondering if other people sit around and 
wonder if they are the only people who think of certain 
things, or if they realize that I do the same thinking, 
deciding, wondering... And I think there must be a way to 
put all this down in a nice, neat package of words, but I 
can't figure out how to do it. If I could I'd be like all 
those poets who are thinking of things and deciding that noone 
else thinks about them so they put it down in that neat package 
of words and share it with the rest of us if we figure it out. 












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-r«j4^*S.i' ,y"K'' 

Spring 1987 

Composition with Chairs 

Beth Nelson 

Copyright 1987, printed by Progress Printing Co., Inc. Lynchburg, Virginia 

Table of Contents 

Susan B. Arnold 
Paige Shiller 
Monica Mahoney 
Ann Moorberg 
Anne Fiery 
Scarlett Roitman 
Stacy Minjin Lee 
Junie Speight 
Kay Macdonald 
Mary Yorke Robison 
Suzanne Elizabeth Wells 
Robbie Barlow 
Elizabeth Mason 
Ana Marie Liddell 
Junie Speight 
Shannon Wood 
Susan B. Arnold 
Beth Nelson 
Ann McAllister 
Janis Roskelley 
Stacy Minjin Lee 
Angelyn Schmid 
Robbie Barlow 
Suzanne Elizabeth Wells 
Ana Marie Liddell 
Ann McAllister 
Junie Speight 
Michelle Anderson 
Mary Yorke Robison 

Drinking Gran 

Arsenic and New lace 

No Escaping 

Teapot Study 

Morning in Belgium 


Pressured by Time 

It Snowed Last Night 

Just My Imagination 

Tidal Cycle 


A Children's Story 

Institutional Blues 




Cancer Ward B 

Rock of Cashel 

Blues Child 

Contour Study 



Weaving With Graphite 

Vaughan William's Birthday 

House III 

Newbury Street, Boston 


Wind Abstraction 

Home of the Sacred Hearts 

The Main Event 

You Understood Corinthians 
































The 1987 Brambler is dedicated to Margaret Steck 

It has been my pleasure to be Editor of The Brambler for two years. We have at Sweet Briar 
some very talented women. The staff and I agreed to concentrate in this issue on bringing 
together both the emerging and the established artists on this campus to show the creative diver- 
sity of the student body. We have chosen each piece of art and literature because its perspec- 
tives are different: the voice, lighting, and mediums have touched us in very unique ways. Each 
class is represented and we have tried to incorporate as many art forms into this journal as possi- 
ble. We feel that this philosophy reflects the values of a liberal arts community. 


Drinking Gran 

They tell me she loved jazz- 
loved the sweetness of the horns 
and the staccato drum, cool, impersonal. 
Like me, she wanted to sit in the dark smoke 
and lose rhythm 
in the French Quarter forties. 
They say that Gran understood rifts 
needed them like harmony 
to love what she had. 

Gone before music and words found me, 

she was a color like old wood 

and a smell that was only hers 

until now. Now the bartender with a wink 

hands the plastic and ice and bourbon 

to me, and I know before It touches my teeth. 

It's her. Crouching at the end of the bar, 

greedy, I take her up with my hands. 

I sip, lick, suckle Gran, 

letting her warm me. 

Susan B. Arnold 

Arsenic and New Lace 

Tami looked at the man lying next to her. She traced the muscles In his back with her eyes. 
He was gorgeous, there was no denying that. The sandy-blonde hair sweeping over his forehead 
into his eyes, the dancing aqua eyes, the impish grin, and of course those shoulders. The 
shoulders are what had attracted Tami to him in the first place. They were perfectly squared, not 
too big, but not wimpy either. Yes, he was perfect. 

Tami slid out of bed, grabbing a blanket to cover herself as she crossed the room. This move- 
ment disturbed the sleeping god. He rolled over. 

"Good morning uh, uh," he strained, trying to remember. 

"Tami, my name is Tami." 

"Oh, good morning, Tami." 

He rolled over, embarrassed, and buried his face in the pillow. 

Tami went into the bathroom and showered and dressed. She didn't really mind that he didn't 
remember her name. Most of them didn't. Come to think of it, she couldn't remember his, either. 

She walked into the kitchen and began to make omelettes. While the eggs were cooking, she 
went into the living room and picked up the god's wallet from the coffee table. She thumbed 
through it until she found his driver's license. Michael Brian McKay. That's right, she thought, he 
had said his name was Michael. It didn't matter though. She put the wallet back on the table and 
went into the kitchen. 

Stirring the omelettes, she began to wonder who exactly the sleeping god was. She imagined 
he was an important businessman or stockbroker, maybe a banker. He had seemed that type. 
Maybe Mr. McKay was one of those young political-types that Washington was full of. She didn't 
care what he was, but last night had been fun. She finished making breakfast, put it on a tray, 
and brought it to the god. 

"Here ya go." 

"Thanks," he smiled. "Join me?" 

"No, I have some in the kitchen." 

"Sit with me while I eat it?" That was part question and part command. Tami considered this, 
but sat down anyway. 

"So," said the god. "Tell me about yourself." 

None of the others had ever asked Tami about herself. She wondered why this one had. She 
didn't like it. It made her uncomfortable. 

"Well," she began, "there's really not much to tell. Why don't you tell me about yourself?" 
Shifting the focus of the conversation made her feel better. 

"No. I want to know who you are," he said, chewing his omelette. 

This one was persistent, she thought. Tami stood up and began to tidy the bedroom. 

The man's eyes followed her as she moved. 

"You sure are pretty, and smart too. I could tell from the conversation we had last night about 

Why is he trying to talk to me? I don't like it when they talk. Can't he just eat his eggs and go? 

"Thank you. I enjoyed talking with you." 

"You know, I usually-" Here it comes, she thought, "don't do this type of thing." 

Yup, she was right, he said it. Now she wondered whether it was wife problems or a girlfriend 
who didn't understand him. They were all the same. 

"Oh, I don't do this either," she lied. 

"Why did you last night?" She couldn't believe his question, the audacity of him. Tami was 
flustered. Finally, she gathered her composure. 

"I was drunk. Why did you do it?" 

"You were not drunk, or at least you didn't act like it. I have my reasons for doing what I did, 
but I want to know about you." 

Tami avoided the man's eyes as she spoke. It was no one's business what she did. "Are you 
finished with your breakfast? I'll take the tray if you are." 

As she reached for the tray, he grabbed her arm. Tami struggled to pull away from the man. 
He continued to hold her arm and stare into her eyes. She bent her head down. 

"Why won't you look at me? Are you ashamed?" 

None of the others had ever treated Tami like this. Most were happy to have sex, grab a cup of 
coffee and try to get out as soon as they could. 

"Let go of me." 

He released his grip. "I'm sorry. I'm just curious about you. Something in your eyes fascinates 
me. What are you afraid of?" 

"Look, why don't you get dressed and I'll go put this in the kitchen." 

As the man began to get out of bed, he collapsed on the floor. His legs and arms convulsed, 
and his head rolled from side to side. Gasping for air, he tried to scream, but there was no 
sound. Finally, all movement stopped. The god lay in a heap on the carpet. 

Tami went into the bedroom. She covered the man's naked body with a sheet. Lifting him by 
the shoulders, she dragged him down the hall and into the living room. She opened the base- 
ment door on her way back to the living room. 

She grabbed the man's wallet and stuck it in her mouth. Then she lifted the man again under 
the armpits and dragged him to the basement door. Propping him against the wall, she tossed 
his wallet down the stairs. She shoved the man down after the wallet. His head dragged behind 
him, thudding down the steps. He fell to the bottom of the stairs, landing in a pile of twisted arms, 
legs, heads, and bodies. Tami closed the door and latched it. 

Bending down, she picked up her Persian cat, Cleopatra. "Well, Cleo, he was fun last night. I 
can't wait to see how he is in a couple of days." 

She grabbed her purse from the living room and walked out into the afternoon. 

"I could use a new dress," she thought as she closed the door behind her. 

Paige Shiller 

No Escaping 

Linoleum Print 








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Monica Mahoney ^ 


Teapot Study 


Ann Moorberg ^ 

Morning in Belgium 

Anne Fiery e 


The second funeral I ever went to was Sharko Hubert's. The first was Sirene's, my Persian cat. 
Both were important to me, Sharko because she was my piano teacher and Sirene because we 
always celebrated our birthdays together. 

It wasn't that I was too young to realize what death meant, I just wasn't old enough to realize 
that it happened to people you knew. I never did touch the piano keys again. 

Until a year ago, I had learned to forget Sharko and the Thursday afternoons, but I could still 
remember the aroma of the Earl Grey tea bags, the jelly beans and nauseating cigar smoke. The 
triple chin and tired eyes were still there, too, and so were the wrinkled hands that would guide 
mine along the scales. 

Sharko could speak thirteen languages, not because she was a translator, but because she 
was a traveller, a Bohemian artist. Every year she would surprise me with a present. She never 
bought anything, but would always give her piano students an object from her travels, "making It 
more personal," as she would point out. My favorite was an antique china monkey, the size of a 
safety pin. Its eyes were too big for his head, but I grew attached to it. Now I only have its head 
and tail. I don't know where the rest of the body walked off to. Maybe the robbers took it with the 
Venetian glass collection. 

Twice a month, Sharko would get the scissors out and cut my nails. I was so proud of my long 
nails. They were my security of eventually becoming "grown up" and accepted by the older 
boys at school. I was left quite barren after her manicure and would immediately let them grow 
back again. 

Of course, I would never do my homework. My piano was out of tune, and try as we might, the 
piano would not tune. It was too old. Everything in our home was antique, and even if the piano 
didn't work too well, it was beautiful to look at. 

I started to grow older and the excuses came at least once a month. I would tell her the snow 
was too deep for the bus or that I had to stay late at school for a play rehersal. But Sharko knew I 
was lazy and preferred other things than spending an hour eating jelly beans and inhaling cigar 

The day she cancelled our Thursday afternoon class, I was in ecstasy. Later, I learned death 
had cancelled Sharko. To this day, I don't know what really killed Sharko and that coquette spirit 
living in her. Was it the cigar smoke or the exhaustion? 

I put Mahler and Schubert away and recovered them from under the dust years later. My 
fingernails grew but I started to bite them. And in Pere-Lachaise, the ashes of Sharko are neatly 
arranged next to those of many others. Maybe some day I'll go say hi to her. 

Scarlett Roitman 

Pressured by Time 


Stacy Minjin Lee £ 

It Snowed Last Night 

It snowed last night, a sign that something was either wrong, or about to happen. Karen liked 
looking at the snow like a starched sheet on the golf course. There were no footprints or plow 
tracks, just the whiteness. She squinted and turned her back from the window. She had never 
seen the sun shine so brightly after it had snowed; it just didn't look right. 

Karen had argued with her parents about coming to North Carolina, not that she didn't want to 
see her grandfather, but she had wanted to go to the last basketball game of her sophomore 
year. There was also a party where she would see Tom Rice. Her parents had insisted and she 
relented, biting her fingernails on the six hour car trip. 

Karen tiptoed into the kitchen. Her grandfather's house was small in comparison with their 
farm house. At home she had her own room with her own bathroom, but here Karen had to sleep 
in the living room on the couch. Starving, she pulled open the refrigerator door. All she saw was 
a box of baking soda, a mayonnaise jar, olives, three kinds of jam, and a half-filled bottle of cheap 
wine. She guessed the wine was India's, the woman in charge of her grandfather's house while 
he was in the hospital. She shut the door and returned to the window. 

Five months had passed since she had visited him, and her parents warned her of his weaken- 
ed body. "He's just sharp as a tack," her father had said, "but weak from old age." She had 
been relieved. Her grandmother had died peacefully, never suffering, but she had been senile, 
and Karen had hated those visits. She, her older brother, and her parents would sit in the 
hospital waiting room while Nanna was wheeled in. The five of them would sit there for an hour, 
not saying much. What was there to say? Karen watched her father's pained face; Nanna didn't 
even remember her own son, and for the first time her father looked old. Now they were here 
again, to see her grandfather for the last time, she was sure of it, the way her parents prepared 
for the trip. 

"Karen, we don't want to upset you. But Deacon's body is tired and worn out. He won't look 
like you remember. But we think it's important for him if you come," explained her father as he 
packed his weekend bag. "He's just sharp as a tack, though." 

Her father was an attractive man for fifty. His thick black hair faded in and out of the layers of 
gray. He had a creased face, which his wife called expressive. He hid his 250 pounds in his 
height and could have passed for a retired football player turned coach. His uniform of blue 
blazer, white starched oxford, and khakis was appropriate for his professor status but not for the 
weekends on the farm. Karen had never seen her father wear jeans, not even herding cows. 
Their workers were always clad in jeans and her father stood out like a street lamp in the fields. 

Karen leaned back on her parents' queen size bed. "He can get out of bed and stuff, can't 

"It depends on what kind of day he's having," he said, peering over the top of his suitcase. 

Karen's mother added, "Sweetie, he doesn't eat much and he gets weak, like you do when 
you have the flu." 

Karen nodded, playing with the waistband of her sweatshirt. She couldn't look at her parents. 
"What do I talk about? I mean, what do I say to him?" 

"Anything, the things you do at school. You shouldn't be afraid. He'll just be so glad to see us. 
And we think it's important that you see him." 

Knocking her tennis shoes together, Karen nodded again. She liked mesmerizing herself with 
a constant motion, it had become a habit. It helped her not to think. "Why can't he come live 
with us? I mean, it seems logical to me. That way he could always have company and not feel 

"Could you help me with this? I can't get this damn thing shut," her father said struggling with 
the zipper of his bag. 

"It's this sweater that's caught. Here." She yanked the sweater out of the zipper and finished 
closing her half. "Why can't he come live with us?" she asked again. 

Her mother said, "It's too complicated to get into now. We'll talk about it when we get back." 
She combed her hair, bending her knees slightly to see her face in the mirror. She, too, was a tall 
woman, lanky, with large worn hands. It was hard for her to see without her black framed 
glasses. She wore a bob with tufts of hair behind her ears. The style was beginning to look too 
young. The children had inherited both their height and grace from their father, and their in- 
dependence from their mother. 

"Are you all packed? Don't forget to bring the picture of you in the play. Deacon would like 
that. Go tell your brother that we're leaving and to help with the bags." 

Karen moved away from the window and crept to the living room to get dressed. She had mix- 
ed feelings about her brother Frank not coming. He was taking S.A.T.'s on Sunday. She was 
glad not to have to share the small space with him, but he would have taken her mind of Deacon. 
Frank, although a constant source of embarrassment for Karen, was good in situations like this. 
He would have made her lauoh. 

She slipped on a pair of gray flannel pants and a red turtleneck. She sat on the pull-out couch 
and leaned over to tie the laces on her rubbersoled shoes. She hated the shoes, but her mother 
felt they were good all-weather shoes. Karen didn't want to hurt her mother's feelings, so she 
wore them, just not in front of anyone she knew. 

"Morning," grunted her father as he shuffled to the kitchen. He reached for the cupboard 
above the refrigerator and took out the kettle, placing it on the top burner. 

"Dad," said Karen quietly, not wanting to disturb her father's sleep. "You might want to put 
some water in that." She could see her father's stilted movement from the living room. 

"Appreciate it," he mumbled. He placed the kettle under the faucet and turned on the water. 
"How long have you been up?" 

"Just a little while. Did you see the snow outside?" 

He shut off the water, put the kettle on the burner, and lifted his sleepy eyes at Karen. "Forgot, 
you're not awake." She finished tucking the exposed sheet behind the pillows in the couch. She 

squeaked as she walked into the kitchen. "Is it weird for you to be sleeping here after so many 

"It hasn't been that many years," said her mother, coming out of the bathroom, tucking hair 
behind her ears. She looked younger without her glasses but she still refused to get contacts. 
She wore a Black Watch plaid kilt which was stylishly long, and a forest green Shetland that had 
once been Karen's. 

Her mother continued, "Daddy, why don't you go dress and the coffee will be ready when you 
finish." He obliged. She tossed the packets of instant coffee on the counter where Karen was 
leaning. Lifting the kettle she let out a small sigh and poured some water into the sink. 

"Honestly, your father will never learn. Why he always insists on putting too much water in is 
beyond me. I see you have your good shoes on, it's bound to be slick out there." 

Karen gazed down at her feet and smiled. "Isn't the snow pretty? It looks really neat out 
there." She gestured to the far window. "It's untouched, no one's walked on it yet." 

Her mother squinted at her watch. "I don't think we'll have time for this." She motioned to the 
kettle. "We need to get to the hospital before he takes a nap. You ought to go put on a sweater." 

Karen nodded and went into the living room and fished through her bag for the Icelandic 
sweater her mother had knit for her. She pulled it over her head. 

Her father returned from the bedroom wearing his uniform and said, "We ought to get going. 
Deacon will be taking his nap soon." 

Karen grabbed her navy blue peacoat from the armchair. Her father handed Karen her 
mother's coat and checked his pockets for the car keys. He jiggled them and walked out the 
door. After a few attempts, the engine turned over. Karen's mother turned off the stove and put 
on her coat. She opened her purse to make sure her glasses were there. Satisfied, she locked 
the door behind her. 

Karen wanted to walk. It wasn't that far. The hospital sat on top of the hill across the street 
from Deacon's house. But she wasn't going to suggest the idea, and climbed into the middle 
seat of their station wagon. She wrote her name on the frosted window as her father backed up. 
Karen slumped into the cold vinyl snapping her fingers, first her right hand, then her left, then her 

"Karen, please would you stop that. Do you want me to turn on the radio?" 

"No, that's okay." She hoped he wouldn't turn it on. Her mother had an irritating habit of swit- 
ching the stations. 

"Are you getting enough exercise or why do you continually fidget?" 

"I like to mesmerize myself to the movement." 

Her father eyed her through the rearview mirror and shook his head as he drove up the steep 
hill. Karen watched visitors loading and unloading the elderly and the invalid in and out of station 
wagons. He found a space by the entrance, next to a Country Squire, where a man was lifting an 
eighty year old decrepit body into the front seat. Karen quickly looked away as they walked into 
the hospital. Her mother and she followed her father down a muffled hallway. She tried to keep 
from peeking into open doors. 


Slowly, he opened the door poking his head inside, "Dad?" he said. "Dad?" he repeated as 
he cautiously walked into the cubicle. 

Deacon was propped up in bed against three crisp white pillows. He was hunched and not 
moving, almost as if he were hypnotized. Mechanically he turned his head and smiled. 

"Hi Dad, good to see you." He walked over to the other side of the bed and huddled close to 
his father. "Look who's here. Karen." His tenor voice was embarrassingly loud. 

Karen stepped foward and hesitated before she leaned over and kissed him. He smelled 
sweet and sour like the disinfectant the nurses used to clean the hallways. Karen looked four in- 
ches above his eyes as she talked. "Hi, Deacon. Did you see it snowed last night?" she said try- 
ing to smooth her voice. Her father was right, Deacon's body was withered to the bone. He had 
lost more weight than Karen had imagined. She thought of the ads in back of magazines where a 
218 pound woman lost seventy-eight pounds by eating grapefruit for eleven months. Why had 
she thought of that? She wiped some cereal off the collar of his light blue pajama top and bit the 
inside of her mouth. 

Karen continued, gripping the metal frame which trapped his body inside the bed, until her 
fingers lost all feeling. "Frank says hi. He's sorry he couldn't visit, he has to take a test to get into 

Deacon nodded his balding head. At least he understood Karen. She started lightly tapping 
the metal bar, saying without pausing, "I was in this play at school. I had the lead and we had to 
rehearse every night, oh, I have a picture to show you but I forgot it at your house but I'll bring it 
after lunch. Anyway, it was really fun and I met this boy, Tom Rice, and he had to play my hus- 
band, and it was really fun." 

Deacon smiled, showing his yellow-gray teeth. Karen felt her father squeeze her elbow. A tear 
trickled down her cheek across a small scar as her father whispered, "Would you stop tapping 
your hands." 

Karen slipped her hands in her pockets, balling them into fists. 

"I need to talk to Deacon alone for a little bit, so why don't you girls go wait for me in the 
lobby," said her father, nervously rubbing his forehead. 

"Deacon, I'll see you after lunch and I'll remember to bring the picture." She lifted her hand 
and gave a little wave. 

She could see more clearly the resemblance between father and son. She wondered if her 
father would look like that at eighty-nine. She pulled up her turtleneck to touch her chin and but- 
toned her coat. 

"Mom, I'm going to walk back to the house. I could use the fresh air." 

"All right, be careful. Here're the keys." 

Karen took the keys and put them in her pocket and without looking, started down the hill. She 
walked carefully in measured steps across the slick ice, tapping the sides of her thighs with her 
palms, looking over Deacon's house at a man trudging through the loose powered snow across 
the golf course. 

Junie Speight 

Just My Imagination 

Pencil Drawing 

Ruth Taul 13 

Tidal Cycle 

Gray water luffs against the gray of granite. 

Subdued in fog, waves uplift to fall so 

gently, movement barely meets the eye. 

Like hands on fur, fog strokes rocks. 

On ledges, this ebb tide wakens seals. 

Bodies tingling in brine, they grunt, sulking. 

Cormorants stretch wings to dry wet pelts so they can fly, 

patrol the coast in search of fish. 

Screeching gulls, unmindful, dig for clams, 

then soar, bomb them to release morsels 

for an early feast on rocks. 

Walls of surf mount higher through the day 

as waves disperse on rocks, submerge ledges. 

Sea lettuce and Irish moss unfurl their fronds. 

The kelp hold waves its banner. 

Cloud-broken sun burns off the fog, 

sparking light as waves explode. 

A seal extends its head to watch the flying file 

of cormorants. 

Fat gulls bob up the waters. 

Rhythms change, the tide turns, 

inexorable since the first cleft 

of sky and sea evolved. 

Perpetual motion: no pause, delay, or change. 

I am hypnotized, my mind obsessed by rhythm. 

My pulse thuds louder in this company. 

I have a granite chair. 

Kay Macdonald 



As I pulled the sheets tight across my bunk, reveille sounded and twelve girls charged out of 
the cabin. They dropped two broonns and a container of Ajax in midflight. Twirling around, I 
caught Jennifer by the tail of her Lacoste shirt. 

"Slow down, you have five nninutes to get to archery. Finish sweeping." 

"Megan hasn't finished her job, so I don't have ta finish mine." 

Pushing me away, she headed for the door. 

"Jennifer, come back here right now. Everyone has to finish their job, including Megan. Jen- 
nifer! Come here." 

She was racing down the path following the pack of nine year olds. Furiously, I took off after 
her. "Hemlock Cabin, you have fifteen seconds to get back here. And I mean now!" 

They all stopped and sheepishly headed in my direction, exchanging whispers. Pleased I had 
supressed them, I, too, turned and headed for the cabin. 

Rubbing the back of my neck, I walked into Hemlock and sat down on the edge of my bed. 
When the girls filtered in, I pointed to the floor without saying a word. Eleven of them sat. 

"Elizabeth, you're gonna make us late to archery, and I'm gonna tell our teacher it's your 
fault." Both arms crossed, Jennifer stood leaning against the wall. She glared at me without 

"Oh really, Jennifer? Am I the reason you're going to be late? Was it me that dropped my 
broom in the middle of the floor during clean-up? Was it me who tore out of the cabin before the 
work was done? Excuse me, but haven't we gone over this a hundred times? Sally, what's the 
rule on clean-up?" Looking down at Sally, I realized I had startled her. Her eyes opened a bit 
wider and she gulped. 

" rule. .um... is that we're not s'posed to leave the cabin till we finished our 

"You're absolutely right, Sally." 

Silence filled the room as I looked around. Sitting Indian style, each girl held her head low, and 
fiddled with the laces on their Reeboks. "So basically, Jennifer, I don't think I have anything to 
do with the fact that you and your cabinmates are late to archery. Now, do I?" 

"Yes," she said as she dug her nails into her arms. 

"Jennifer, it's not her fault. It's yours, you're always bad, you always get us in trouble," Megan 

The girls stared at Jennifer. "I'm not bad! And it's not my fault. Nobody finished their jobs. 
What about Sandy? She didn't finish her job and you didn't say anything! You always pick on me 
Elizabeth, and I'm sick of it." 

Jennifer's cold stare was growing colder and, although she raised her voice, her complexion 


remained pale. Her outburst, however, silenced the children again. Trying to ignore Jennifer, I 
attempted to focus on the original problem. "Jennifer's right about several things. To begin with, 
she's not bad and it's not her fault. Also, Sandy didn't finish her job, but then again neither did 
Ella, Courtney, or Victoria. And in case y'all didn't notice, I'm sick of that. Unless there is some 
big-time cracking down around here, we may have to go see Goofus." 

At that, eleven swallowed hard. "Do you think we can come up with a better solution, because 
Goofus is a busy lady with a big ole' camp to run, and I'd sure hate to bother her. Who knows 
what she'd do to us if we had to pull her away from something big." 

Suddenly I felt Ginny tugging on my blue jeans, "Oh, Elizabeth, we'll do better. We promise. 
Just don't make us go see Goofus." 

Her pitiful voice was interrupted by Jennifer. "Ah, Goofus is an old sap. She's washed up. All 
she's good for is singing camp songs before dinner. She won't do anything. At least not to me. If 
she laid one hand on me my Dad would come right on up to these mountains, all the way from 
Florida, and rape her." 

Shocked, I struggled to speak as my body grew tense. The children vanished from my vision 
as I stared at Jennifer. Oddly enough, her eyes began to sparkle, and she giggled an innocent 

"Goofus is not an old sap and this place could not manage without her. She is the backbone of 
Ton-A-Wahdah, and has been since my Mother was a little girl." Good speech, I thought to 
myself, but what the hell was I going to do with this nut? Crossing my legs, I bent down, my chest 
pressed to my thigh, and began picking my half-painted toenail. 

I overheard one camper whisper to the next, "What's rape?" 

The other whispered back, "I don't know. I guess he's gonna tie her up with a rope." 

Jumping into their conversation, I blurted, "Good enough, y'all can all go the archery, you're 
not that late. We'll discuss clean-up at rest hour. Oh, Jenn, could you hang around for a sec? I'd 
like to show you something." Irritated, she stomped her foot and with a shrug and a pout dragg- 
ed herself over to her bunk. We both waited for everyone else to leave. "Jenn, where did you 
learn that language?" 

"What the hell is it to you, anyways?" 

Ignoring her comment, I said, "Honey, rape is an awful word, and I cannot allow you to talk like 
that in my cabin." 

"Don't honey me, Elizabeth. I can talk anyway I want. And you wanna know what? Those 
aren't the worst words I know, damn, shit, crap, pissy-bitch, ffuu..." 

Grabbing the back of her head, I slapped my left hand over her mouth, trapping her abuse. 
Almost immediately she began to squirm from me. I pulled her towards me with one solid jerk. 
My violent embrace did not startle her at all. She only wiggled more, trying to scream through my 

As she sunk her teeth into my fingers, I grunted and let go of her mouth. Although I had a 
substantial hold on her, she managed to get loose. As she slipped through my hands, I lunged to 
pull her back within my power. She scooted across the cabin, and I followed her, dodging in and 
out of the other camper's trunks. Realizing that I finally had her trapped, I stopped. Looking at 

her, I recognized that same sparkle in her eyes as before. "Look Jennifer, this is ridiculous. I 
refuse to chase you around this cabin like a mouse. You have made me very angry because A, 
you charged out of here this morning without finishing your work; B, you disrupted our cabin 
meeting with your sassy little comment about Goofus; C, you've tried to act like some big-shot 
who isn't afraid of anything; and D, you've tried to turn me, a level-headed, patient adult, into a 
wild woman." 

"I'm not." Her eyes got dark. 

"You're not what?" 

Looking straight into my eyes she said, "I'm not afraid of you, or your Mother, or Goofus, or 
anybody at this dumb-ass camp. It's just a shitty ole place to send rich kids when there's no place 
else to go. And I'm gonna write my Dad and tell him to come and get me and my money back." 

"Why write? Why not call?" 

"Ha! Yeah sure, Elizabeth. That's another thing about this baby camp. Ya can't even make a 
goddamn phone call." 

"That does it Jennifer! Don't ever use the Lord's name in vain-not only because you're 
blasphemizing, but also because you probably don't have the capacity to understand what you 

Grabbing her hand, I pulled her through the cabin. 

"Let go of me!" 

"Wrong again, Jennifer, we've got some business to attend to." 

"Huh? Where are we going? You gonna turn me in to Goofus? Ha! What a joke!" 

Practically dragging her, I responded, "Oh no, I'm not turning you in to Goofus. I'm going to let 
you call your father." 

Jennifer turned into dead weight. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her flushed face. She 
stood erect and concrete, and she looked like a wave of nausea had swum through her. 

"You what? I can't call. You can't call. How..." 

I stared at her and she stared at the worn grooves in the floorboards. She looked up at my face 
and then at my hands. She reversed my clutch, by reaching for my hands. Squeezing them 
tightly, she nodded her head. 

"No, Elizabeth, no!" 

"Come on, Jenn." 

"No!" Her requests cried louder, and as she squeezed my hands harder, she dropped to the 
floor. She almost pulled me down with her. She wrapped her feet around my legs and cried out, 
"No Elizabeth, no, please. No I can't." 

As I reached out to stroke her head, she broke away and screamed violently. "No, don't hit 
me. Please, I swear I won't do it again. I swear!" 

Standing there, I watched, as her body fell into a rhythm of sobs. 

Mary Yorke Robison 


A Children's Story 

I wake to find mother crying, 

my father standing over her. 

He turns only to order me 

back to my bedroom. 

The wood floor is cold 

under my feet. 

I sit in my bed. 

Moonlight streaks my dresser, 

paints a smirk on my doll's face. i 

I forget to breathe 

as I strain to hear my parents' voices, 

falling, rising. His anger ' 

confuses me. I am frightened ' 

of the choking sounds she makes. 

My brother tiptoes to my room, 

whispers for me to put on 

robe and slippers. Together, 

we escape. 

As we pass their bedroom door, ' 

suddenly, my father strikes my mother. 

Outside and crying too, 

we run in circles in the yard, 

no fantasy, not even bread crumbs, 

to help us find our way. ■ 

Suzanne Elizabeth Wells 


Institutional Blues 

Robbie Barlow 



He was standing in the damp blackness of the subway. He had wandered away from the plat- 
form, away from the cluster of people huddled in their winter coats and wool scarves. There were 
about seven men and five women, all middle-aged and heavy set. Each wore a red wool scarf 
wrapped tightly around the neck. He did not belong in their depressing throng. He turned away 
from the lights and continued walking into the cave. The rocky walls glistened with water, reflec- 
ting the lights from the platform. The wooden planks beneath his feet felt rotten, or waterlogged. 
They seemed to sink beneath his shoes. When he had first stepped off the wooden platform, he 
had been able to hear the drip of water from the ceiling of the cave. When he could no longer 
hear the dripping, he knew that the train was coming, even though he could not yet distinguish 
the sound of the engine. He paused. He felt the vibrations beneath his feet before he could hear 
the engines of the train. He imagined that he could smell the stale exhaust fumes in the moist 
tunnel, but he couldn't remember what kind of fuel subway trains burned. He remembered being 
a child in Pennsylvania. On warm days he and his sister would hike through the fields behind 
their house. There was a single train track built up on a bed of cinders. The black coals would 
dirty their shoes and knees when they knelt to position pennies on one of the silver tracks. He felt 
in his pocket for a penny, but there was only a crushed receipt from a gas station. It was almost 
light enough in the tunnel to see how much he had been charged. Suddenly terrified, he imagin- 
ed that the approaching train was illuminating the tunnel with its white eye. He turned to walk 
back to the platform, but there was only blackness. The sound of the approaching train's engine 
had been steadily increasing. He looked back and saw tiny reflections of light against the sides 
and top of the jutting walls, but the track below him was only black. He searched the darkness for 
a hint of light from the platform, but there was only emptiness. The track of blackness beneath 
his feet began to vibrate with the urgency of the approaching train. He tried to run to the plat- 
form, knowing that it had to be around the corner. His feet were too heavy to move, as if his boots 
had also become waterlogged. He looked toward the approaching train and could see the single 
circle of light that forged through the tunnel in front of the rush of machinery. He waved his arms 
frantically, unable to move his legs or pick up his feet. He lost his balance and fell heavily on his 
side. A damp wooden beam pressed into the middle of his back and his forehead rested on the 
cold quivering track. He tried to lift his head. The steady vibrations of the track mimicked the 
throbbing of his heart. He closed his eyes and welcomed the blackness, but wished for silence. 
When the headlight of the train finally distinguished his inert form on the track, it was too late. 

A whistle blasted and echoed through the tunnel, but his body did not move. Again, and again 
the shrill whistle resounded through his head. Then there was silence. 

"Goddamnit, Michael. Turn off your fucking alarm and get the hell out of bed. I can't believe 
you can sleep through that fucking air raid siren. I'm going to class." 

"Yeah, good morning to you too, asshole," he whispered into his pillow as the front door slam- 
med. For a minute, he thought only of the dream he had just escaped. A part of him wondered 
what would have happened if he hadn't awakened. 

He turned and looked at the glowing red digits on his clock radio. It was 10:15 and he was late, 
but it didn't matter because he wasn't going to class anyway. He tried to remember what he had 
done the night before. Parts of scenes filtered through his memory. He remembered drinking in 
the condominium. He had been taking shots from every bottle on the bar. He remembered dan- 
cing with a girl. He wondered if she had come home with him. He lifted his head in his hands, 
just to see if he was going to be able to stand up. His right fist was sore. He glanced at his 
knuckles, saw that they were laced with brown scabs of blood, and tried to remember. He put his 
head down, closed his eyes, then rolled over and sat up. He steadied himself with his hand on 
his pillow. He stared at the gold spot of his signet ring against the white pillow without thinking. 
Then his eyes focused. He plucked a strand of hair off his pillow and examined it between his 
thumb and forefinger. It was darker and longer than his. He couldn't picture a girl who had long 
brown hair. 

As he stood and walked across the wooden floor to his dresser, blackness spread in front of his 
eyes. He grabbed the cool handle of the top drawer and steadied himself until the rush receded. 
When he opened his eyes, he saw a blue phone number on a fragment of notebook paper. No 
name. Missy's car keys lay beside the number. He pressed the BMW emblem and watched 
the light come on dimly. Missy was a good girl to let him borrow her car. She let him drive it all 
the time, but usually Geoff was with him. Geoff was Missy's boyfriend and his best friend. He 
wondered again why Missy wasn't riding home with him to see Geoff, but it really didn't matter. 
He was glad that he hadn't driven the car the night before. He had already done enough damage 
to it on other occasions. He scribbled a note next to the phone number: Call about car stero. He 
headed for the shower and stood there as the cold water gradually got steamy. 

When he got out of the shower he grabbed a towel, not wanting to step out of the warmth into 
his cold room. The heat never worked, and it was always too hot or too cold. He wondered if he 
could find clean clothes so that his mother wouldn't bitch. There was a pair of jeans under his 
desk that he remembered wearing to class once. And there was a brown sweater in his bottom 
drawer that he had never worn. His younger brother had given it to him for Christmas so he 
figured that his mom had approved it. He wondered if he'd be home in time to stop by the high 
school to say hello to his brother and his friends. 

After he was dressed, he checked the mirror to see how he looked. He'd lost weight. His mom 
would think that it was poor school food, even though he rarely ate at any of the college 
cafeterias. He lit a Marlboro and started throwing stuff into his duffle bag, mostly stuff that need- 
ed to be washed. He carried his cigarette into the living room and cleared off the coffee table in 
an effort to find a clean piece of paper. He left a note for Rob on a can of Miller Lite in the 
refrigerator. Gone to Lex-please don't lose or sell hist, notes before I get back.-Michael. 


P.S. Don't smoke my stuff. I haven't been able to find D. He realized that Rob already owed him 
and he wished that he was there to pay. Putting out his cigarette, he went to the phone to try and 
call D. once more before leaving. While the phone rang he examined his bloodshot eyes in the 
mirror and wondered if they would ever be blue again. An answering machine clicked on so 
Michael hung up. He picked up his duffel bag and his keys. Walking through the apartment, he 
turned off the lights and the television, which Rob had left on without the volume. The "Wheel of 
Fortune" was almost over. The last puzzle was up but he couldn't solve it. 

Outside it was chilly and he wished that he had his jacket. He hoped that it was still in the back 
of Missy's car. It was cloudy, but not cold enough to snow. He hoped that it would snow Satur- 
day so he and Thomas could drive up to Wintergreen for some skiing. They were both applying 
for jobs there during their second semester, hopefully as ski instructors, but more likely as lift 
operators. Either way they would do a lot of skiing. 

His jacket was in the back of the car, but he didn't want to climb to the back seat to get it. He 
put his bag on the floor in the front and scooted on the seat so his knees weren't jammed under 
the steering wheel. He turned the heat on high when he started the car, but it didn't get warm un- 
til he reached the end of the block. He alternately rubbed each hand back and forth on his legs 
because the steering wheel was too cold to hold. 

He pulled into a Stop-In store on his street to get another pack of Marlboros. The black woman 
waiting behind the counter would not look up. She was reading a copy of Teen magazine and 
mechanically handed Michael his cigarettes and change. 

Back in the car he took his radar detector out of the glove compartment. He lit a cigarette 
before plugging the Escort in, then emptied the ashtray into the parking lot. He pulled out and 
crossed the highway. Two blocks away from the Stop-In, he turned off onto the interstate. It was 

11:30 Friday morning. 

* * * 

After the third ring, he reached across the thin blanket and shoved the palm of his hand bet- 
ween her shoulder blades. When she didn't move, he pulled his knees up and leaned across her 
for the phone on the plastic night table. She stirred when his bony elbow pressed into the flesh of 
her hip. Her thick white upper arm twitched as if blood was beginning to circulate through her 
purple veins. Her frizzy white hair lay stuck on the dirty gray pillow. 

"Yeah," grunted the man into the oily mouthpiece of the phone. He needed to shave and wash. 
He held the edge of the orange receiver away from his mouth so he wouldn't smell his own stale 

"Check out time is 1 1 :00 a.m. You will be charged for another night if you have not paid and 
turned in your key by this time. Single rates are four ninety-nine and doubles are ten ninety-nine. 
This is a recording." 

He dropped the phone back into its cradle and moved off his wife. She opened her swollen 
bloodshot eyes and looked at the back of his greasy head. His hair, usually a reddish-brown, was 
black at the roots except for an occasional streak of gray. He wasn't sure what time it was 
because only a little light could filter through the orange and red blinds at the windows. He knew 

that it was close to 1 1 :00. They only called if it looked like you weren't going to leave in time. He 
stood up and stretched. He didn't have any clothes to pack. He had slept in the same clothes 
that he had worn the day before, and probably the day before. But he didn't think like that. He 
picked up three beer cans before he found one that was only half-empty. He lit a Marlboro with 
matches that the man at the hotel desk had given him. The cover said, "Enjoy the flavor. Relax 
and have a smoke." He felt superior to the woman lying on the bed because he could read. He 
looked back at her. Her eyes seemed to be sunken into the sockets. He was reminded of a hor- 
ror movie that he had seen. He imagined her eyes sitting in the middle of her brain pressing into 
her thoughts. It hadn't mattered to her that the blankets were so worn. She was used to these 
motels and she was dressed for winter travel. She had layered a thrift shop blouse over a kelly 
green turtleneck over a small man's long underwear shirt. Under her skirt she wore a torn pair of 
stockings and a pair of dark blue polyester pants that sometimes irritated the inside of her thighs. 
She had closed her eyes again. Her gray eyelashes were stuck together in places with occa- 
sional globs of mascara. They had travelled through a larger city the night before. There was a 
Revco drug store across the street from the Classic Inn. She had gone and looked in the store 
for an hour after they had eaten French fries at McDonald's. Before she left she had stopped at a 
makeup display shelf and put on mascara, eyeshadow, and some bright pink rouge that was now 
lined deeply in the creases of her face. Her body weight was no indication that they rarely ate 
meals. He, on the other hand, had a nervous kind of thinness associated with his height. He was 
always moving, especially his hands, which were unexpectedly clean. 

"Get up," he said roughly as he walked behind the divider to go to the bathroom. "We gotta 

When he walked back into the room she was hunched over her knees at the edge of the bed ty- 
ing her shoes. He sat and put on a pair of worn, stiff boots. She stood and reached for her metal 
cane that she had put under the bed before going to sleep. Her left leg was a useless wooden 
piece that a friend had carved to resemble a normal leg. She didn't mind it, it never got hot or 
cold. And the pain in her hip warned her of impending bad weather. He handed her a torn jacket 
that she patched regularly in an effort to save the stuffing that was dripping out of the holes and 
seams. Lifting their bag over his shoulder, he waited for her to walk out of the door, then he pull- 
ed it shut behind them. It was five minutes before eleven when they stood at the desk and 
counted out bills to pay for their room. 

"I'm hungry. Tommy," she whined as they walked out into the chilly morning. 

"Ain't got time," he snapped, as if they had an appointment to keep. She looked at him 
curiously. He was working his jaw up and down, but there was nothing in his mouth that he could 
have been chewing. 

"It ain't goin' to rain today," she sneered. But he wasn't listening to her. By the time they 
walked to the end of the exit ramp, it was 1 1 :30. A bitter wind was blowing through their layers of 


He hadn't picked up much speed going down the exit ramp because he had been trying to find 
a good radio station. He wished that he could pick up Missy's tape deck at the repair shop, but 
he didn't have enough money. He glanced out his window and noticed a woman's red and black 
checked skirt swirling in the wind. Standing slouched next to the tall aloof man she looked 
helpless. He was still holding their bag over his shoulder with a bare hand that had reddened in 
the wind. Michael decided to stop. 

She moved eagerly to the front seat as soon as Michael moved his duffel bag in the back. 
Then her husband had to squeeze his tall body through the narrow space between the front and 
back seats and the seatbelt. He looked sullenly out the window as Michael accelerated onto the 

"My name's Michael," he offered after turning down the radio. "It's an awful day to be without 
a car." He looked back at the road without receiving a response. 

"Mac," said the man softly from the back seat. His wife turned around to look at him, but he 
was gazing out of his window. 

"I'm Becca," said the woman proudly. She had heard that name on a soap opera that she had 
watched one afternoon when she and her husband had ridden with a truck driver who had a 
miniature television installed on his dash board. She looked at Michael shyly to see if he believ- 
ed her, but he hadn't really been listening. He only wanted to know where they were going so he 
could plan where to let them out. He regretted the extra passengers because of their dirty bodies 
and the smell of them together in the car. Becca asked if he would turn up the heat, so he 
pretended to adjust the buttons above the radio. 

"Where are you headed?" he asked encouragingly. 

"We're trying to make it on up to D.C. by tonight," the man said sharply, as if it were none of 
Michael's business. 

"Well, I can let you off at Lexington because that's as far as I'm going. But that gets you a cou- 
ple of hours closer. And I'm sure there'll be people on their way up there this weekend that will 
pick you up outside of Lexington." After each sentence he hesitated, expecting a reply that 
never came. He decided to shut up. He reached down and turned up the radio again. He was 
mesmerized by the white lines in the middle of the road. He hated to drive when he was 
hungover. He needed to stop and get a Coke, but since he had picked up this couple he didn't 
want to leave them in Missy's car alone. He didn't notice the man in the back staring intently at 
him and his duffel bag. The man reached out and tenderly touched the leather on the seat next 
to him, then he looked out the window again. 

It was 1 :30 when Michael turned off at the Natural Bridge exit. He was already planning to go 
straight to the high school to meet everybody at lunch. People loved it when visitors came and 
took orders at McDonald's, then brought the food back to school. He unplugged the radar detec- 
tor and pushed in the lighter as he pulled off the exit ramp. 

"Well, this is as far as I can take you," he said, looking in the rearview mirror. The woman 
beside him stiffened in her seat, and when he turned to look at her he felt the tickel of something 
cold against his neck. 


"You keep drivin' exactly where I tell you boy and turn down that damn nigger music." 

Michael winced and gripped the steering wheel. He was more shocked then anything. Then 
he started getting mad because he had been trying to be so damn nice. That's all he could think 
about, how he never deserved this. He didn't think about what was going to happen. The 
cigarette lighter popped out of the socket. 

"Turn left here." 

Michael turned off onto a dirt road and continued driving until the highway was out of sight. 
The woman got out first and held the seat up for the man. He ordered her to stand against 
Michael's door, then he pulled the seatbelt out of the passenger side and cut it off as close to the 
end as possible. Carrying the black seatbelt, he walked around the car to Michael's door and 
opened it up for him. He got out of the car slowly and stood while the man tied knots as tight as 
he could. Michael could already feel the circulation start to slow. 

When they got back in the car, the man drove and the woman held the knife against Michael's 
side from the back seat. They hadn't said anything to each other. Both performed as if they had 
rehearsed. The man drove back to the interstate and continued going north. For several 
minutes Michael willed every person to look at him that passed the car. 

"If anybody looks at you, you'll wind up with a hole about that size in your head," he said, poin- 
ting to an opening in the clouds on the horizon. Michael tilted his head back against the headrest 
and closed his eyes. 

At 6:30 they were an hour north of Washington. Michael wondered why they hadn't stopped, 
but he didn't say a word. He had to go to the bathroom more than he had ever had to go in his 
life. He finally asked the man to let him go. He insisted that he could stop anywhere, just so he 
could go. After a half hour of frequent pleas, the man pulled off the interstate and pulled onto 
another dirt road off of the highway. He walked around to Michael's side of the car and viciously 
pulled him out of the seat. 

"Could you untie my hands, just for this?" Michael asked softly. 

"Fuck you, punk." And he unzipped Michael's jeans with one swift motion. Michael's 
stomach quivered, but he had to urinate so badly that he could hardly breathe. He finished and 
waited submissively for the man to zip up his jeans. He looked up in time to see the bony balled 
fist travelling toward his stomach. The punch unbalanced him and his jeans that had fallen 
around his ankles held his feet in postion so that he fell on his side and rolled without being able 
to catch himself. He was wondering how he was going to get up when the toe of the man's boot 
caught the edge of his cheek. Again and again the boot cut and bruised his face until both were 
covered with blood. He wondered if it was cold enough for his blood to freeze, and he lost con- 

* * * 

The husband and wife drove in silence for an hour after putting Michael in the trunk. The man 
enjoyed the feeling of power that he experienced driving the car. The woman had not watched 
him beat up the boy, but she was glad that her husband had put him in the trunk. His presence in 
the car had been nervewracking. She wanted to stop and look in his jacket for money. She 


reached down and toyed with the same buttons that the boy had moved when she complained 
about being cold earlier. Her hip had started to bother her and she suspected that it was going to 
rain before they went to bed. 

"I'm hungry, Tommy," she said softly. He kept driving as if he hadn't heard the suggestion. 
He lit one of the boy's Marlboros and blew the smoke out of the half-open sunroof. He could only 
admit to himself that he was ready to stop, too. 

* * * 

When he regained consciousness, Michael was too disoriented to move. The trunk of the car 

was eerily lit by the glowing tailights. Surprisingly, there was room enough to move and stretch 

his aching body. He realized that his hands had been untied when he tried to move his wrists, 

which felt broken after being deprived of blood for so long. He carefully stretched his right leg 

and kicked something metal. 

* * * 

The man pulled up into a neon-lit bar near the Pennsylvania border. He listened for movement in 
the trunk but knew that the boy was not going to regain his senses that night. He held the car 
door open and helped his wife out of the car. Then he waited while she searched the boy's jacket 
for money. She was almost furious when there wasn't any, she had been so excited. They slow- 
ly made their way into the bar. 

After Michael heard the second door slam, he let his breath out. He waited silently for ten 
minutes to see if they were returning. He guessed they had stopped at a bar because he could 
hear loud voices and music intermittently, as if the door was frequently opening and closing. 
After ten minutes he lifted the spare tire and pulled out the plastic packet of tools. He pulled out a 
small hammer and a pair of pliers before he found a large screwdriver that would fit into the trunk 
lock and release the mechanism. When he did spring the mechanism, the trunk flew open and 
rocked on its hinges. A rush of cold air enveloped Michael, then a strange face peered down at 

"Help," he murmured through bloody lips before losing consciousness again. 

Elizabeth Mason 


Pencil Drawing 

Ana Marie Liddell 27 


Cancer Ward B 

My right side is numb, 

and what's more 

I can't even cry. 

I am poked and prodded, 

asked if it hurts 

like church bells 

ringing endlessly. 

We are like cattle 
with X-rays 
in the morning, 
shots midday, 
and bland food 

I can't get away 

from the stench 

of antiseptic, 

not even when I hide 


in sections 

for healthy people. 

My friends shake 
their heads 
with pity, 
hoping not to say 
what they already have: 
/ could have died, 
scared me to death, 
it almost killed me. 

No longer am I embarrassed 
with those strangers 
whose faces 
I don't care 
to know. 


Inmates sit, staring 

at reruns 

which for me have lost 

all meaning and charm, 

after seeing 

death walk down 

hallways late at night. 

Junie Speight 


Rock of Cashel 

Shannon Wood 


Blues Child 

For Edward 

Yesterday I saw you on the porch, standing 

knees locked, hands pushed hard into jean pockets. 

You watched an old man on the path, who staggered to maintain 

balance as he passed our house. 

He hit out music with a pine stick: 

"I'se been up and I'se lookin' at down 

Got's to get me some lovin' 

while's I'se still around. " 

Alternating looks between sky and gravel, 

you stayed at your post 

long after he was gone. 

I saw your hands fist into your thighs then, 

a reassurance that his body 

was not yet yours. 

Eyes half-closed, you knew for a moment, 

all the inconsistencies 

that lay before you. The sun had faded. 

The lightening bugs began their sensual dance. 

Susan B. Arnold 


Contour Study 

Line Drawing 

Beth Nelson 



Ann McAllister 


'One cuts off everything around one and when quite alone expires, in a word, kills oneself, out of disgust..." 

The woman in the painting 
i slouches over her untouched drink. 

{.' She sees in the air something, 

' nothing. 

She remembers 

when her russet curls 

were sought after. 


one man, one life, one booth 

in a lowly bar. 

His pipe, like wormwood, 
used to sicken her. 
She hears nothing, 
smells nothing. 
Not even a beckoning drink 
" would take the bitter 

this time. 

His favorite dress, 

the new hat 

only charming foliage 

hiding a sickening aroma 


Rising to dance 

I swear to myself again 

this time 

will be the last. 

Janis B. Roskelley 


Weaving with Graphite 

Pencil Drawing 

Stacy Minjin Lee p 

Vaughan Williams' Birthday 

I was beside myself with excitement boarding the train for London. This was not my first, but 
my fifth visit to Westminster Cathedral. I suppose a fifth time would seem an unlikely occasion to 
warrent such anticipation; nevertheless, each visit couldn't be my last. Somehow the frequent 
urge to return was impossible to deny. 

A tour late in the day, such as this one, always promised an additional treat, as the organist for 
the venerable cathedral chose the half-hour before closing time to practice. His skill in 
manipulating the keys enhanced that place of enveloping centuries into a veritable storybook of 
sight and sound. It was understandably difficult not to feel the power of such atmosphere. 

Yet I arrived early and thus the only sound to be heard was the chink of my fifty pence coin in 
the contribution box. The great structure was silent--l suppose other visitors lacked the fortitude 
to brave London's rain and biting cold wind; either that, or I lacked good sense. Evening had 
fallen, and the muted light was swallowed up by the darkness swirling around the columns at 
great height near the ceiling. 

Ah, they had remembered it was Vaughan Williams' birthday. His grave, situated near the en- 
trance, blended into the worn stone floor, smoothed by the feet of impatient visitors hurrying 
toward the tombs of kings. The flowers placed around the composer's grave banished the 
obscurity of its situation. I hoped the organist would play some of his works during practice as a 
special tribute. 

Rather ridiculous, that. I mean, letting the atmosphere of such a place affect me so. But I 
wasn't pondering my psychological condition as I moved toward Henry VH's Chapel. The tombs 
and their solemn effigies, the weight of English history bearing down on me~l was only aware of 
these. The dull light softened the jagged patterns of stained glass, making St. George seem all 
the more pious within the frozen act of killing the evil dragon. 

No, the organist hadn't forgotten the composer's birthday. I smiled in satisfaction as I 
recognized the familiar strains expanding and fleeing outward to all the remote corners of the 
cathedral, even to mine. The serenity of England's countryside that the fantasia evoked warmed 
the cold ancient corridor of England's past. It implied national pride~the hope possessed by this 
country, the world's garden filled with memories of the "the Empire." 

It was almost frightening, the absorption I had with such a place. I was always apprehensive 
that my reverie would cause me to forget the hour and force the warden to come and fetch me at 
closing time. But I still had an hour and I was determined to spend it fully. 

Thus I assured myself while gazing upon the plain iron coffin of Edward Longshanks. I could 
see the tall frame of the Plantagenet king astride his destrier, the lions of England's standard ruf- 
fling in the breeze behind him. Blinking, I turned away and started toward the twin graves of the 
Tudor sisters. I hesitated at the effigy of Henry VII, his wife lying placidly beside him. 


A miser-king, we were told in history class. Yes, but also a king who emerged victorious from the 
civil wars between wearers of roses. His face seemed to reflect the cares of ruling, not the 
avarice of a mercenary. 

Soon, I was gazing upon the elaborate tomb of his granddaughter, Elizabeth I. Hers was a 
golden age in English history, but I couldn't believe this was because of clever ministers. The in- 
spiration of her grandeur and endurance cannot be dismissed. 

"Good Queen Bess," I murmured, my eyes misting from staring at the inscriptions below her 
effigy. Countless books have I read about her-every facet scrutinized. Her youth, coronation, 
government, but what most intrigued me was the conflict between woman and ruler that must 
have existed. She sacrificed love for the sake of power-which makes me wonder if she suffered 
any regret. The only way I could ponder this was to create an imaginary conversation with her, 
asking, why die a "Virgin Queen?" 

"A most distressing fact for historians," I could see her remark with mock dismay. 

"Yes," I could only answer, "but don't you feel, well, perhaps a slight sense of loss? You 
know, maybe you missed out on a full life, with love and all that." 

Chuckling softly, maybe to cover indecision, she replied, "Yet, I had England and her love. I 
grasped a scepter in my hand and manipulated power, guiding my country's destiny. Nothing, 
not even a man's love, could bring me that same exhilaration." 

"But you must have felt at some point frustration, frustration at not being able to fulfill the role 
of being a woman, didn't you?" I insisted. 

"Without a doubt, yes, I did feel the frustration which you are referring to. But I couldn't have 
both, absolutely not. Oh yes, I could have married and my husband would be called 'Prince Con- 
sort,' or some such nonsense, but perception of my power would have changed. At that time, the 
fact of having a husband and higher authority before God's eyes would have been inescapable. 
But you are already aware of that, aren't you? No, you speak from a different age with a different 

"I'm not sure what you mean," was my uncertain reply. 

"I think you do," she answered condescendingly. "You don't have to deal with the same limits 
of society that I had. No, you are able to have both, but you are still a woman as I am. Will you 
have the sufficient time to devote to husband and children? Indeed, will you find an unselfish love 
that understands your ambition?" 

"That problem has certainly crossed my mind, but I have no qualms. I am perfectly capable of 
having both." I said with not a little hesitation. 

She laughed, a great booming laugh that spoke of Tudor vitality and supreme confidence. 
Then she abruptly became silent, gazing at me with measured scrutiny. 

"Of course you are capable of having both. But you must have a care when you set about gain- 
ing them. First, never compromise your ambition, lest you feel the agony of unfulfilled destiny. 
And second, never cease your search for love-understanding love. But most importantly, once 
you have found this love, hold him fast beside you wherever you go, even while ascending a 
throne~as I should have..." 

"Miss! Miss!" 

Startled, I whirled around to face the paunchy warden. He was clearly irritated as he forcefully 
gestured toward the front of the cathedral. 

"Come along, love," he sighed, "me wife is at home waiting for me and it's time to close the 
church. Don't just stand there now, off you go!" 

I hesitated for just a moment before slowly turning away, for I thought I heard a sorrowful 
murmur: "Sweet Robin, my poor sweet Robin..." 

Angelyn Schmid 


House III 

Robbie Barlow 


Newbury Street, Boston 

I sit at the table 

its starched white tablecloth 

red piercing roses. 

A woman wipes her mouth, 

staining the white linen 

with bright orange lipstick. 

Daddy sips his vodka martini, 
Mother orders: 
"sit up straight!" 

When I was younger, 
and they were sober, 
we came here. 
Never for pleasure 
always for lectures. 

Mother squints to read the menu. 
My father's hand 
curled around his drink, 

Suzanne Elizabeth Wells 



Pencil Drawing 

Ana Marie Liddell 

Wind Abstraction 

Ann McAllister 43 

Home of the Sacred Hearts 

Robert, what's wrong? 
says the big-chested nun 
in her uniform of habit 
as Jesus swings 
on her crucifix 
in front of me. 

With my hands folded in my lap, 
I stare up at her as she reminds me 
Christ survived all the arrows 
that pierced his sacred heart. 
But why is he not smiling 
as he hangs on the cross? 

Robert, what's the matter? 

Nothing is the matter with me, 

except Sam, who is wearing 

my favorite shorts, 

says God is dead 

as he sits in the front pew. 

Sam laughs, receiving communion 

while I go to confession 

twice in one week. 

There is no justice here. 
I will say that I'm sorry 
and I shall be healed 
on earth as it is in heaven. 

i grab Sam's truck and run 

behind the oak tree, 

Christ will not see me 

if I sit perfectly still. 

Rolling the wheels over my thigh, 

I am a trucker going home to his Mamma. 

Junie Speight 

The Main Event 

Mom was frying fish upstairs in the kitchen. As I was getting out of the bath tub I yelled, "Mom, 
please hurry and finish frying the fish. My whole body will smell like fish." 

She ignored me. Mom always ignored me, especially when I got excited. I was running 
around the house trying to get dressed. 

"Mom, where are my shoes?" 

She laughed and said, "Enough is enough, Michelle, calm down." Mom was so funny 
sometimes. How could I possibly calm down? I was about to go to my first prom. 

As usual, I waited until the last hour or so to start getting ready. "Why do I always do stupid 
stuff like this?" I asked myself as I began looking for my shoe. Eventually, I gave up the search 
for the shoe and I thought I'd at least start getting dressed. 

"Mom, I only have an hour before he comes and I still have my house coat on." 

Mom jokingly replied, "Well, take it off then." Really funny. Mom. She always seemed to 
make jokes in moments of crisis. 

I looked and looked for just the right underwear. My best underwear was always dirty when it 
was time to go out on a special occasion. And when I'm dressed nicely I can't have on 
underwear that doesn't match my outfit. I had bought a matching set. I couldn't find any of it. 

"Mom, where is my black underwear?" 

"Honey, I don't know. Why does it matter?" 

At this point, I was really pretty pissed. I walked upstairs to the kitchen and explained that 
wearing matching underwear was important, especially when you were going out on a date. It 
always made me feel like I was completely matched. 

"Yes, Michelle, I understand that, but really I don't think anyone will mind if you wear 
underwear that doesn't match." 

At this point, I was furious. I marched downstairs and finished getting dressed. As I was get- 
ting dressed I thought of how Robert would react when he came to pick me up. He was so gay 
that he'd probably say, "Hi, how are you Mrs. Anderson?" All the kids at school thought he was 
rather feminine, but we liked him just the same. You could always get a ride from school with 
Robert. He would do practically anything for a friend. I wished I wasn't going to the prom with 
him. I'd rather have gone with two other guys in my class. But I was stuck with Robert. I figured 
he would do. The only reason I wanted to go to the prom anyway was to get that beautiful dress I 
saw at the mall. 

The odor of the fish distracted me from my daydream. I guess it was just as well because now I 
only had 50 minutes to get dressed. My room was a mess by now. I pulled my pantyhose on my 
legs and they had runs all over. That was pure luck, because everytime I get a new pair of pan- 
tyhose I ruin them before they are on my feet. 


I walked into the bathroom. Next came the biggest challenge of my life: putting on make-up. 
In my case, there was not much that Cover Girl or I could do. My whole face looked like one pim- 
ple. I started witht he cover stick and covered every scar on my face. I put foundation on, too. To 
add color I had to ask Mom. She knew all about that stuff. She fixed me up, but made me look 
like a cute little girl. So I had to start over from the beginning. I looked pretty good-well, I 
thought so anyway. 

Next, I combed my hair. This was a self-fulfilling prophecy. My hair looked as if someone had 
cut one side of it and forgot to cut the other. It was lopsided. I tried smiling into the mirror but 
that didn't help. My hair was still ugly. The ends seemed to twist and turn in the wrong direction. 
It was rolled too tightly. I was scared to blow dry my hair because I knew it would fall. I thought 
that maybe I should go ahead and put on my dress. It would make my hair and face look better. 
By now, I was very anxious to get to the prom. Even though I was going with Robert I knew that 
the evening would be fun, at least with my other friends. 

The shoes I had to wear were the ugliest shoes I'd ever seen in my life. But I couldn't find any 
others. I needed silver shoes to match my silver purse and my black dress. The shoes looked 
like something my grandmother would wear. They had a little hole at the top for the toes and they 
had a sandle-like strap in the back. They were so embarrassing. I thought that maybe they 
would look better with the dress. I was so proud of that dress. It was black and it had a slip which 
made the the bottom part puff out. It hung off the shoulders. It had the cutest bow that tied in the 
back. I loved that dress. I cried for three days in order to get that dress. 

I told Mom she would have to answer the door when the door bell rang. It wouldn't be right for 
me to go to the door. He had to sit down for a while and wait before I came upstairs. Mom agreed 
with me. I think she was tired and ready for me to leave. 

Soon, Robert rang the door bell. Mom rushed to the door, but I told her to wait for the second 
or third ring to open the door. I didn't want him to think I was impatient or waiting on him. Oh no, 
I thought, Mom was still frying fish. I would be so embarrassed. He would walk into my house 
and the whole house would smell like fish. I started smelling my clothes and skin. If I smelled 
anything like fish I was not going to go. Mom was trying to embarrass me. I told her to finish 
cooking that fish before he came. 

I heard Mom upstairs telling Robert to take a seat and make himself comfortable. She excused 
herself and came downstairs. She looked at me in surprise and said, "You look gorgeous." 

"Ah, Mom, come on," I said. She smiled and said she meant it. That made me feel much bet- 
ter, like I was actually pretty. Mom always knew the right things to say. 

I walked upstairs, scared as ever, with Mom shoving me from behind. Robert was standing up 
when I walked into the living room. He was so skinny. He looked like a little pole in a tuxedo. But 
he was nice, I guess. His head even looked like E.T. but he was trying to be nice so I tried not to 

He put the corsage on my dress and after we had talked to Mom, we left. As I opened the door 
I saw the car we were driving that night. It was a '78 Electric Buick, the longest car I had ever 
seen. I could only hope the rest of the night would be less stressful. 

Michelle Anderson 

You Understood Corinthians 

I watch 

and unswollen you sleep. 

To touch your starched shirt, 

is simply a detour 

before I kiss 

your fleshy cheek 

or rub your crossed hands. 

Leaving my affection 


with your body. 

Mother stroked your head, 

and she told you 

we'd be all right. 

I nodded, 


And as the sweet smell 

of gardenias 

soaked the room, 

I began to believe 

in something new and fresh. 

Several days before 

the cancer defeated, 

I thought death 

frightened you. 

From sleep 

you muttered: 

"Through a glass darkly..." 

Devotedly, I convince myself, 

you are appeased. 

Mary Yorke Robison 


The Brambler Staff 

Junie Speight 

Stephanie U.S. Wilt 
Literary Editor 

Brool<e Haw 
Photography Editor 

Suzanne Elizabeth Wells 
Poetry Editor 

Stacy Minjin Lee 
Art Editor 

Maggie Fogarty 
Layout Editor 

Susan B. Arnold 

Martha Bennett 

Molly Heboid 



Dede Connors 
Tom Hartman 
Cheryl Mares 
Susan Scales 
Elizabeth Stoebner 
Susan Stoebner 
The Sweet Briar News 

Published by the students of Sweet Briar College, Sweet Briar, Virginia 


34.1 •• ••■.■•■ AH V^I^^'INIA 

lY 1 1988 

Oa/€^^rwL^ (jo/Ze^^/Y^^ 

Staff of 1987-88 

Art Editor Carol Krajewski 

Literary Editor Scarlett Roitman 

Photography Editor Amber Bennett 

Poetry Editor Callie Johnson 

Editor in Chief Audrey Mullen 

Editor's note: 

A special thanks to everyone 
who made this issue possible. 



Staige Grymes 

Ruth Taul 

Laura Mangus 

Stephanie Wilt 

On Growing Older 

Daddy says the beaches never stop in Panama City. We are staying at the Bare- 
foot Beach Inn, and I think it is the most elegant hotel, like the ones on game shows 
where you can stay for free if you guess the right price of the Rice-A-Roni and the 
vacuum cleaners. I'll bet if I went on one of those shows we could stay in Florida for 
the whole summer. 

Harrison's at Ola Mae and Al's. We got here about two hours ago, a long time 
after Ola Mae fixed us chicken and dumplings, "for the road," she said, "so your 
Daddy won't get mean if there aren't any Burger Kings on the way." 

It's dark, and they're walking out there. He's right, the beaches look like they go 
on forever, and I can't wait for tomorrow, when I'll get to ride the waves, and I'll 
make a new friend, one that I will end up hating to leave behind me when we leave. 
Last summer we went to Disneyworld in Orlando, and I played with Renee and Allie 
from Pittsburgh. I ate pizza with them by the pool. 

It's too early to go to bed, so I check out the snack machines next to the ice 
machines in the hallway and I think that there's more freedom in this place than I 
ever get at home, even though they are always around me here too. They're coming 
back in now. 

"I think I'll go down and see if the lounge is still open," he says. We haven't eaten 
since we dropped Harrison off, and Daddy's temper can get dangerous when his 
stomach is empty. "Lethal," Ola Mae says, but I don't know what that means. 

She calls out to him. "While you're out, why not walk down the street to that 
shrimp place and see if they have anything for tomorrow night?" The door shuts and 
I can't hear him reply; I can tell he's in a hurry. 

Mama is in her robe, sitting out on the balcony where it is cool, the wind pulling 
the curtains away from the window. It's time for bed, but I am not tired. "I wonder 
what Harrison is doing right now. I wonder if he'd like it here too," I say, secretly 
glad that I have them both to myself for the next five days, but unsure if they'll get 
tired of me before the vacation is over. 

She laughs. "Pretty soon he'll be as big as you are, sweetheart... I doubt he knows 
what he's missing... He'll get plenty of chances to make up for this trip later on." 

"I'll bet he's sleeping now." 

"He needs his rest, with all the things she has planned. I hope he goes to bed 
soon. " 

I remember that Ola Mae calls him Little Bit, and how I was jealous when she said 
it. And I am surprised that I miss him already. 

"I think I'll send him a postcard tomorrow - you know, like the kind with all the 
alligators walking along the beach that I saw at Alvin's last year." It Little Bit doesn't 
understand it, Ola Mae and Al will keep it and I'll be able to look at it again when 
we pick him up next week. 

The door opens and Daddy walks in the other room. 

"Why don't you turn on the set in there to help you fall asleep faster after Daddy 
gives you something to eat. You'll have a big day tomorrow." 

The window is open in my room, and the breeze and the sounds of the ocean 
waves from the balcony help me fall asleep. 

I am an excellent swimmer, but Daddy, who wishes I was still seven and safe, is 

"I guess it's all right if you promise to remember not to go out too far. Don't go 
past that buoy over there past the hotel. You need to be pretty close so I can see 
you," he warns. I think of Jaws, but nothing like that ever scares me because I know 
nothing bad could ever happen out there in the quiet water. It seems like sometimes 
he worries more than Mama, who's over there trying not to get sun poisoning under 
the umbrella. 

I sail off in the comfort of this black tire that we never use at home. Little kids bob 
around me, splashing me and each other, some able to stand, others who can't with 
a parent nearby to save them in case they go under. Parents are always worrying 
about bad things happening to little kids, but I'm not a little girl anymore. I'm not 
really sure how deep it is here, but the buoy is far off. I can still see Daddy with 
Mom and the zinc oxide. He's already under the umbrella. 

The words Barefoot Beach Inn with the little feet are on the sign on top of the ho- 
tel, and I close my eyes again because it is so quiet, and out here I am not nine years 
old, but a girl sailing away to another world. I wonder if Tahiti is very far, or if I 
looked hard enough I could see one of those deserted islands they show on TV. I 
wonder what would happen if I floated off to somewhere in the South Pacific, if I 
would be tortured and eaten by cannibals, or worshipped like a goddess. But all I see 
is the same thing like the beach, going on forever. 

When I open my eyes the buoy is nowhere in sight, and thinking I am still close 
enough to Daddy, I see the Sheraton Hotel in front of me, and the people are like 
dots, far away. I think that I am like the beach, and I wonder why no one has tried 
to come out here to rescue me. I can't even see the fat little boys who were swimming 
by the buoy just a few minutes ago. I wonder if they have drowned. 

At home I placed first and second in freestyle this year. The only way that I can 
get back is if I swim to shore, because the waves might carry me further away from 
the sign. I jump out of the innertube and feel the water's chill against my burn; I 
can't see anything under the water. I think of sharks then try not to think of them as 
I begin swimming back to the sand. I close my eyes and pretend I am at home. 

When I open my eyes I am back at the beach and I am safe. Daddy is standing 
there watching me with that look he gives whenever I have done something wrong. 

"Please don't look so worried (I am afraid to say the word mad); it really was fun 
out there. If it had gotten dangerous I would have come back in a lot sooner. See I'm 
O.K! The hotels look so much alike, and so do the people on the beach-" I don't even 
try to say any more, because he looks relieved anyway. We walk back to the Bare- 
foot Beach beach. 

Mom did not even know what was going on, and she asks me if I had a good swim 
- I must be tired after being out in the water for so long. I'd better sit under the um- 
brella and do something about that burn before I start to blister, he says. I wonder if 
it will rain tomorrow. 

In three days I will turn seventeen, and who would have thought that I would be 
spending this summer, my most eventful summer, as a YMCA exchange student in 
Venezuela. I am representing the United States as a young ambassador, and I am 
having a blast. My family has eight children and one grandfather who is the age of a 
century, and they have taken me to more places than I have visited at home in a life- 
time. I don't really know some people in the family very well yet because they can't 
speak English, but Marjory, Judy and Ricardo and their friends have been like the 
older sisters and brothers that I never had. 

Kim, who's from my hometown, lives up the street with a family who knows my 
host family well, and Carlton, who is eighteen, is staying with my family. 
Tomorrow we are going to the beach which is about three hours away from Cara- 
cas. Marjory says she's going to wake us up at six, and we'll all pile in the jeeps with 
Kim and Reinaldo, her brother and Montsie, Judy's friend, and we'll all go to this 
beach that is secluded and far away from any kind of city or commercial activity. I 

am excited because I will be able to touch the waters of the Caribbean Sea. 

It's seven in the morning, and I am intrigued by the Spanish sense of timing. 
Schedules are so relaxed here; I take my time even though I know that we are run- 
ning an hour behind. Marjory is up, and I see her stretch as she goes into Carlton's 
room. Carlton, no doubt, is still asleep. I think this kind of lifestyle was made for 
him and I laugh. 

I fix a glass of juice as Carlton drags his gear down the stairs. "What's all this, Car- 
los? Marjory said there won't be anybody there. Why bother... it's going to be 
crowded enough in the jeep without your junk taking up all the room. Even Miss 
Venezuela would feel cramped sitting next to you." I tease, not really sure why we 
pick on each other all the time. Sometimes I feel like he's just an older version of 

Don't give me that. I've seen that new suit of yours. I saw the way you were look- 
ing at Julio last night." 

"Julio isn't even going. Ask Kim if you don't believe me. I'm going for the sun; in 
case you haven't noticed, I need it. And the fun of getting away..." He's not worth 
the effort of an argument, but I like him. He opens the Rice Krispies and pours the 

The windowless jeep allows the cool mountain air to blow my hair loose from my 
barrett, and I let it. 

The jungle is in front of us, and I feel like I am in a fantasy world, with imaginary 
unfamiliar faces that have so quickly become my family. Caracas is out of sight, and 
what we see is simply a piece of all of the real and unreal that none of us have ever 
seen. The reality of this fantasy has not hit me yet; I still think I am in a dreamland. 

There is more than an urge to go to the beach in the way that Ricardo drives 
through the jungle, and in two hours we have reached our destination. Everything 
that has been said about desert islands comes into my mind as I see the beauty of 
sand, water, seemingly untouched by human hands. It neither welcomes us nor for- 
bids us to leave, but I feel like we are raping this beach. 

Our towels are spread and aligned together. Soon the scent of cocoa oil becomes a 
lingering and separate part of this experience. It is a reminder of what I thought we 
had forgotten. 

The sun gets hotter and they decide to take a break for lunch over by the jeeps but 
I cannot interrupt this feeling of relaxation. 

"After I take a swim - I'll eat something later," I say, not wanting this feeling of 


contentment to end, although my senses are weak from the hunger. "Really, you can 
go ahead and start without me." I am relieved to have a few moments of solitude, a 
little time alone on an uncrowded beach, a deserted reality that no one will ever be 
able to take away. 

The voices of two languages resound from the woods where the jeeps are parked, 
yet the sounds of both are undistinguishable. I walk to the water where the rise of 
the wave is taller than I and the rocks are different, sharper than the Gulf of Mexico. 
I dive in, aware that my friends are too far away to hear me if something happens, 
but I am confident, alone with the ocean. 

I swim, the sea gradually wrenching my soul from by body. I cannot feel any- 
thing; every time the tide goes out the voices become harder to hear. I do not even 
care what they brought to eat; everything that is removed from this ocean does not 
matter. Nothing else seems to be as important as this cool eternity that has allowed 
me to be its guest. I know I should swim back but it carries me further and I cannot 
control it. The ocean is paying me back for invading her privacy, and it will not let 
me leave until she has possessed me. So I surrender, and I am saved. 

By Callie ]olmson 


Ruth Taul 

Sand Dollars 

As we walk down the beach, 
your big hand covering my small one, 
we gather shells, sand dollars, 
placing them in my yellow plastic pail. 
You recite the legend of the sand dollar. 

Impressions on the flat white 
wafer mark the wounds of Christ. 
Three holes in the shell signify 
the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit. 

Each sand dollar, you say, locks away 

the mysteries of life and death. 

I listened to your story, every detail pulling me 

further into an imaginary universe. 

Sitting in the sand, we build a condo 

for sea-monsters to live in. 

We stick seaweed on driftwood for roof-top flags, 

beckoning the creatures home. 

Sitting on the beach today with my portable 

radio and a stack of Beatles 

tapes for company, 

a little girl walks past giggling to her father. 

Collecting shells, he stuffs them into his Bermudas. 

Digging my feet into the sand 

I flip up a white wafer. 

My toes trace the cuts on its surface, 

I hear your voice 

weaving a world for me. 

By Paige SJiiller 

Monica Mahoney 


The Fur Shop 

In Buenos Aires, in the back of an old fur shop, Gabriel is learning his first tango 
steps. His aunt has turned on the old radio with the broken antenna and found her 
favorite station. She is moulded into a tight cream dress and she is wearing red lip- 
stick. He tries to keep up with her steps and the music, but he is too short and Anna 
laughs at him because he is clumsy. When she laughs, she always has red lipstick on 
her teeth. He would like to tell her but he is scared to. 

She turns the radio off and hugs him. He feels the warmth of her breast and the 
texture of her dress. His mother never wears dresses like this; they are always 
coarse; but Anna's are silky. Her hair looks silky too and he would like to touch it. 

The shop smells of dulce de leche and mate'. He likes dulce de leche: it is sweet and 
he does not need permission to eat it. When he spoons it into his mouth, it is soft and 
creamy. He keeps it on his tongue for a while and then swallows it with mate', the 
mate' is bitter. 

In the front of the shop, his father is with Anna. She is talking about the tango les- 
son and she is laughing again. Gabriel wants to cry. Maybe she will hug him if he 
does but she will also call him a baby. He doesn't cry. 

His father is stretching the fur skin out on the table and hammering the nails into 
its corners. When he is older, Gabriel will do that too. His aunt would not laugh at 
him if her were older. 

There are fur coats in all the corners of the shop but Gabriel has never seen his 
father sell one. He always sees his father and his older brother, stretching the skin 
out and hammering the nails into it to make a new fur coat. Gabriel knows that 
Anna has been waiting for one of those fur coats but his father will never give her 
one for free. 

His father stops hammering and Gabriel sees him touch Anna's dress at the small 
of her back. His hand moves down the dress and Anna laughs again, but Gabriel 
knows she is laughing for different reasons. She slaps his father's hand and sees Ga- 

"Gabriel, come brush my hair instead of standing there." 

She always asks him to brush her hair when she comes to the fur shop. He brushes 
and the curls loosen and shine. He watches them as he listens to his father hammer, 
and he smells the taste of the dulce de leche. 


Anna puts on more lipstick and smiles into the mirror. He knows that this means 
shw will be leaving. She is looking into the mirror that all the women who come into 
the shop look into. Anna looks beautiful though and Gabriel wishes she would stay. 
The bell rings as she walks out of the door and she is gone. 

Gabriel's mother is cooking gnocchis. She is always cooking. Anna is coming for 
dinner and she will put money under his plate while he eats, for good luck. That 
means he will be rich when he is older. He will buy many fur coats for Anna. 

"Gabriel, go wash your hands. Your father will be home soon." 

He goes upstairs to the bathroom. He stands on the stool to wash his hands be- 
cause the sink is taller then he is and there are clothes in the bathtub where he usua- 
lly washes them. 

He can hear Anna downstairs, talking to this mother. When he comes back to the 
kitchen, Anna is eating some gnocchis out of the saucepan after blowing on them. 

"Hola Gabriel. Did you wash your hands? They smell good," she says, taking 
them into her hands and kissing their fingertips. "I taught Gabriel some tango, 

His mother doesn't hear. She looks angry. Anna looks pretty. She has lipstick on 
her teeth and he can smell her perfume. He wonders whether there will be some du- 
Ice de leche for desert. 

His father and older brother walk in. They don't say anything but sit down at the 
table, ready to eat. Gabriel is hungry too so he sits in his chair. 

Anna slips some money under his plate. She piles the gnocchis on them and passes 
them around to everyone else. Gabriel's father still doesn't say anything so Anna 
talks to her plate and to Gabriel, her only listener. Sometimes, he sees his father look 
up from his plate and smile at Anna. 

"Anna, why do you always put money under his plate." his mother says, seeing 
the bill sticking out. 

"He will be rich Marta, unlike us. Maybe the gnocchis will bring him some good 
luck. They didn't do much for us, did they?" 

Marta looks down at her plate and throws her fork into it. 

"Very well, Anna. I'm going to bed. Carlos, you can clean up for once," she says, 
looking at Gabriel's father who is laughing. 

Gabriel doesn't know what is wrong with his mother but he is sure it is not Anna's 
fault. Anna is beautiful and soft. His mother never wears lipstick and his father 
never smiles at her like he does at Anna. 


Anna gets up and puts her leather coat on. She kisses Gabriel on the cheek, lifts 
the collar of her coat up, and walks out of the kitchen into the cold. 

Gabriel is sitting on a stool in the back of the fur shop. He watches Anna and his 
father who are dancing tango. They are pressed hip to hip, cheek to cheek, and they 
look happy. Sometimes, Gabriel wishes Anna were his mother. 

He dips his spoon into the pot of dulce de leche and spreads it thickly onto a piece 
of toast. Anna is telling his father that she needs to leave. She has to meet someone. 
His father turns off the radio and looks at her. He grabs her by the elbow and takes 
her to the front of the shop. 

They are shouting and Gabriel is scared. He hears his father hammering again and 
Anna's footsteps. She gives him some money and pinches his cheek. He wonders 
when she will be back and who she is going to meet. He looks at the money and 
shoves it into his pocket. It makes him feel grown up. 

By Scarlett Roitman 



They sit in limbo so they will not be lonely 
Like death, this place is a fire in a pit, 
fickle in its desire to capture 
This time, the trigger is the nurse's habit 
wanting to sedate, 

standing like a god above her. 

Each bit of today fades in her mind. 

Outside, in yesterday, cars string together in traffic 

and look like the noose that tightens, making her numb. 

She watches each passenger before approaching. 

They are her calendar of days. 

/ can make it to tomorrow 

if they keep coming every day. 

How else will I survive? 

All remind her of what must be done during the night. 

Each friend, each sister, 

speaks soundlessly, 

staring in horror and pity 

at her and the mirror of themselves. 

Before waking she sees the walls 


blank without that barred window. 

It is another hoHday here, 

where the screams that surround her are as empty as the darkness. 

The custard and vanilla flavoring taste mass produced. 

Careful not to overdo it, she shares her serving. 

Nurse Kate's black robe could be the grim reaper 

if everyone would just go away. 

Children recite carols back and forth, 

to each other back and forth. 

The hour is over for her, as is the sound of that timeless noise. 

By Callie Johnson 


Sharon Watts 


Cameron Cox 


Amy Burton 


The Intensity of Tennessee 

Two girls, two boys 

hold signs in the streets of downtown chaos, 

reflecting in their heat the sun's intensity. 

It is lunch hour on Thursday, and I drive past them again. 

I cannot refuse today's moment of purification 
as I examine photographs of extreme youth 
standing between me and where I fit inside. 
Moisture soaks them. 

Their faces are covered with rivers of the sun. 
Bared in tank tops, boxers 

they ridicule the lunch hour people who will not stop, 
who are going the same way I am. 

I turn the car, jolting and quick. 

I remember that drink stand Mary and I hosted 

during eternal afternoons of blended days. 

Cherry Grove Road stayed empty unlike the pitchers refilled 

between day and dusk. 

It was a lucky day if there was enough 

to pay Mom back for the kool aid mix. 

Tennessee in summertime was always this way. 

These children are richer, 

more sophisticated, 

I can see the money shaking as they strut 

to the Pancake Pantry arm and arm 


to fill up, so they will be sustained. 

The heat has not changed, 

unlike the exclamation of fashion that I see distorted 

as my car splashes weightlessly 

through the chilling spray. 

The tempest of yesterday and tomorrow whirls, 

and it is too fast, 

too frozen for me to stop and see any of it. 

By Callie Johnson 


Bedroom Jazz 

I lay on the white patterned bed 
spread circHng lace swirls with my index 
finger. The rippling muscles of your back 
etched indelibly in my mind 

haunt me. I still smell your musky 
soap in the pillow. I bury 
my face in deep and drink you in, 
as you drank whisky. 

A scent so heavy I choke, and taste 
musk in my throat. Your shirts 
still buried deep in the closet- 
Brooks Brothers white button down, size 38. 

Records you listened to litter 

my livingroom - David Sanborn, Louis Armstrong, 
Les Brown. You taught me all kinds of Jazz, 
new, old, St. Louis, New Orleans. 

You'd put those records on the player, 
blow your sax and drink Jack Daniels. 
Same routine every night before 
you could make love. I'd wait in bed, 

tracing patterns to the music. Drunk 
with alcohol and rhythm, we'd make love 
sweeter than your sax. You'd turn away 
to sleep and dream of St. Louis Blues. 

By Paige Shiller 


Lounging on a black innertube 

stolen from my dad's garage, 

I watched as waterbugs 

skirted the lake's smooth surface. 

Hair-fine legs made 

pock-marks on liquid glass, just as 

Jesus' must have centuries ago. 

Stretching my hand out to the water, I 

tried to make my own pock-mark. 

I failed; but the ripples kissed my palm. 

B]/ Denton Freeman 


Charcoal Sister 

Empty from the damp encounter of the night, I lay pondering. Journeying my body 
vein by vein, I'm cold. It's like the kind of cold that makes your nostrils flare as the 
wind scurries by, rushing you to meet your destination. No bandages, ointments, or 
salt solutions to soften the terror that awakened me with smiles and delight. Only 
the contractions of my muscle and teeth soothe as I fade into the scene. 

Of course he fit the basic scenerio: tall, dark and handsome but he was also seduc- 
tively mystical. Yes, Antonio was black magic in the flesh; the attraction was intense 
as my eyes became synonomous with his body. I know what you're thinking, infa- 
tuation. Well, you're right. I invited him to my plush condo in Palmer Acres. 

Everything was fine until his touch became icy and unwanting; his eyes glared with a 
depth that could engulf the righteous of righteous; his voice became shortbreathed 
and impatient; He took on the image of a snake hissing at my nakedness as if I were 
obsolete. Violation became my first name. My legs shooked as the thrust stood 
within. His air overpowering with the rancid odor of Jack Daniels. Both entities 
intertwined as cosmic orgasm and rigidity pregnated and became hurried acquain- 
tances; but only for the moment. Scathed and stained in sheets, I laid to pilgrimage. 
Only to surrender myself to the medieval pig parading with fleshy armor waiting for 
that final climax. I was a house of limited chambers haunted by the scared ritual. I 
was his. 

By Paula Lee 


-~^~ ,:dli.^i:^ 


Monica Mahoney 

Monica Mahoney 




splattered across 
the tiny rosebuds 
of my childhood, 

my generic memory, 
Laura Ashley's sheets. 
The stranger 
wanted me 

to fill ' 

the sudden quiet 
with my lifestory. 
I didn't even want 
to hear that voice 
much less 
my secrets. 
I could not 
look at him- 
no longer trying 
to melt ice 
we had broken- 
to be alone. 
He left- 
his name, 

spelled with two g's, 
on my daily calender 

taking with him i 

the white powder ' 

one of us 
had spilled. 


dirty fingers 
surprise tears. 
He stayed. 
October 2nd 
in the trash. 
He stays. 

By Betsy Ayre 


St. Vincent's 

That woman in white has seen it all. 

From behind a steel desk and 

Bulletproof glass she's seen everything you can name, 

And a few things you couldn't. 

And a few things we don't talk about, uptown. 

Since 6 p.m. she's admitted 

A 17 year old hooker who had 

Long, long girl legs 

In cheap lace hose. 

And cigar burns on her cheeks. 

Cheeks delicately rounded with youth. 

But blanched by experience. 

Give her a few years. 

And they'll be hollowed. 

An unusually high number of OD's tonight. Funny. 

She never blinks an eye, and hasn't since 

A hot afternoon in July when 

A cabbie brought in a child. 

The cabbie said that the kid had been 

Playing. In the street. Handball. 

He hit him on his way uptown. 

By Audrey Mullen 


Bed Bugs Bite 

I snuggled down into the Holly Hobby comforter, burying my head in the mat- 
tress. Lifting one corner of the blanket, I checked again to be sure the door was open 
and that my trusty Mickey Mouse nightlight was in place. Then I quickly covered 
my head again. Foo-Foo bear was wedged between the wall and my back, and Slurp, 
my fuzzy green blob, was scrunched between my feet and footboard. I held my 
breath so nothing could see me below the covers. Monsters can't get you if they can't 
see you. 

Mother stood in the hallway. "Elizabeth, did you brush your teeth?" 

I lifted the corner of the blanket again. "Yes, Mommy." 

"Did you say your prayers?" 

"Yes mommy." 

"Good girl. Night night, sweetheart. Don't let the bed bugs bite." 

I covered my head back up and snuggled down further under the covers. Down 
the hall I could hear Mom tucking Jennifer into bed. I must have drifted off to sleep 
because Jennifer came in and woke me up. 

"Bethy, are you asleep?" Jenny said as she climbed into my bed. 

"Yes. What's wrong?" 

"I'm hungry. Mommy and Daddy have people over playing cards. I know there is 
something good to eat in the kitchen. Come down with me." 

"I don't want to get out of bed. There might be something underneath the bed 
waiting to get us." 

"Do you really think so?" Jenny asked as she quickly drew her legs up so they 
weren't dangling over the edge. 

"I'm not sure, but I'm not taking any chances." 

"Please, please come with me. I'm really hungry. I bet Mommy has M&Ms and 
pretzels in the kitchen." She smiled as she tried to tempt me out of the safety of my 

"M&Ms? Are you sure?" 

"You know Mommy always has M&Ms when they play cards and soda too." 

"Well, I am sort of hungry. I'll go with you but only if you go first." 

"Okay. Can I take Slurp with me?" 


"Yes, but be careful. He's sleeping and when you wake him, sometimes he gets 

Jennifer picked up Slurp and jumped out of bed. I followed her, grabbing Foo-Foo 
bear, clutching him tight. We crept out of my room and down the hall. I was right 
behind Jennifer holding on the back of her nightie. I swear, something was watching 
us. I kept turning around to see what would jump out of the shadows. We snuck 
down the steps and through the foyer into the back hall until we finally got to the 

"See, I told you mommy would have M&Ms" whispered Jennifer, pointing to the 

I opened the refrigerator and there was soda inside. Jennifer and I were so excited. 
We could have a real feast now. I climbed on the counter and took down two Flin- 
stone's glasses. While I was doing this, Jennifer was dumping M&Ms into napkins. I 
poured the soda into the glasses and handed one to Jennifer. 

"Hey Bethy, let's sneak into the library and watch Mommy and Daddy play cards 
for a while." 

"Yeah. Mr. and Mrs. Winslow are in there, his mustache is funny." 

"I know, and she talks like she has a clothespin pinching her nose." As she said 
this she pinched her nose closed with her fingers and talked. We both giggled. 

Jennifer and I grabbed our treats and carefully snuck into the doorway between 
the library and the livingroom. We sat down on the floor of the library, hiding be- 
hind the door, listening to the grownups play cards and chatter in the next room. 

"Our Terry is so smart. She's only in the third grade and already she can read her 
own bedtime stories," said Mrs. Winslow. 

"Well, said Mommy "Jennifer is only in the second grade, and she can read her 
own bedtime stories too. " 

Jennifer smiled at this remark. 

"That's amazing, considering she has Elizabeth for a role model," said Mrs. Wins- 

My ears perked up at the mention of my name. 

"Now Marge, I've told you before, Elizabeth is a little slow. Next year, when she 
begins fifth grade, we are going to enroll her in the Emerson School," said Mommy. 

Mommy and Daddy had never said anything to me about going to another 
school. I wondered what they were talking about. 

"The Emerson School, isn't that the school that Bob and Marilyn send their 


Jeremy to?" 

"Yes, they help children who are a little slow to catch up with their classmates." 

"Well, just be glad that Elizabeth has her looks. She always has been the prettier 
of your two girls," said Mr. Winslow. 

"Bethy is my little beauty queen," said Daddy, "she'll be a real heart-breaker 
someday. Jenny is going to be a doctor or something, so she won't need her looks, 
but Thank God Bethy got some." 

Jenny and I sat there, our hearts sinking. We couldn't believe our parents were 
talking about us in this way. They had never told us that they thought I was dumb 
or that Jenny was ugly. 

Jenny and I just looked at each other. We had heard enough. We picked up our 
treats and went back to the kitchen. Neither of us said a word. We put our glasses in 
the dishwasher and threw the rest of the M&Ms in the garbage so that Mommy and 
Daddy wouldn't know that we had been there. Grabbing Slurp and Foo-Foo bear, 
we tip-toed back upstairs. 

Jenny and I climbed into my bed and lay there for awhile without speaking. Fina- 
lly I said, "Jenny, do you think I'm dumb?" 

"No, Bethy. Do you think I'm pretty?" 


"As pretty as you are?" 

"Of course, we're sisters. We look alike. How can one of us be prettier or smarter 
than the other?" 

"I don't know, but Mommy and Daddy said so." 

The tears welled up in Jenny's eyes. I held her close, trying not to cry. But I 
couldn't help it, I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. We held each other and sobbed 
into the pillows so Mom and Dad wouldn't hear us. 

Finally I said, "You better go back to your room so Mom and Dad don't know 
that we are awake." 

"Bethy, I don't want to go by myself." 

"Jenny, go on. You don't want to get in trouble, do you?" 

"Can I take Slurp with me?" 


Jenny crept down the hall back into her room. I lay in bed awake for a long time, 
thinking about what Mommy and Daddy had said. I wondered what the Emerson 
School was like and when they were going to tell me about it. I wondered how dumb 


they really thought I was, and why no one had ever told me before. I wasn't a bad 
student. I did all my work and really liked school. I don't know when I finally drif- 
ted off to sleep. 

The next thing I knew Mom was waking me up, and it was morning. 

"Good Morning, Suzy Sunshine. How's my beautiful little girl today?" 

"Fine, Mommy, just a little sleepy." 

By Paige Shiller 


Cameron Cox 


The Little Negro 

Fingers mould 
Black and white keys. 
Dubussy flows 

And she remembers 

The smell of lemon wax 

And dust colliding in the light. 

And she sees 

The brass samovar 

And herself 

Changing those black and white keys 

into music. 

B]/ Scarlett Roitman 



A woman gazes into the flurry, 
the streets below her unnoticed. 
She sees only the halo of her breath 
upon the shivering cracked glass. 
In the empty darkness 
snow looks like tears set on fire. 

A single drop of water, 
awakened by the evening light 
lingers on the pane, mocking her. 
Its jagged movements seem to laugh 
as she remembers ungrateful times 
waiting to be held. 
Sweeping the kitchen 
her hard, angular strokes 
gather dust and spider's webs. 

"Vacancy" flashes on a neon sign. 

For once, she long s for her lover's approaching footsteps. 

She hears the rusty turning of the door knob, 

the swaying of its chain, 

and the draft scatters rounded piles 

across the floor. 

By Katie Cravens 


Lea Harvey 


Defying Kismet 

I will not die in a grey Paris winter. 

And wait to be buried by indifferent hands 

That despair only at the weight 

Of wet mud on their shovels, 

And the cold rain from skeletal branches, 

plopping into pools around their boots. 

I will not die if I cannot die 

Before the shock of staring in the mirror 

At the still unfamiliar wisps of silver 

Crowning a wrinkled parchment; 

Before the claret filled goblet trembles 

As it ascends towards my lips; 

Before my children start to ease me out 

Of the warm room still billowing 

With cigarette smoke and laughter, saying: 

"It is time for you to rest." 

I will not die, if I cannot die 

The way I have lived, and want to live. 

No passing by like a murmur at a funeral; 

Let it be fantastic: the bright blaze of a shooting star 

Quickly snuffed out by darkness, but remaining 

Etched forever in well-thumbed biographies. 

So they will say: "J. died as J. lived: with flair." 


If I must die let it be swiftly: 

In a Ferrari, hurling off the cliffs of Monaco; 

Or, in the second chukker of a heated polo match; 

Mistral's hoof through my chest; 

Or, better still — 

A cold barrel raised to my temple 

In a toast to family and friends — 

Claret spilled 

Before the hangover. 

By Sonia ]abbar 


Cameron Cox 


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Amy Burton 


Down The Board 

Every day he sat in the second row from the windows, second seat from the back, 
because in fourth grade seats were assigned. He was supporsed to be working on his 
cursive strokes, but he was sketching rockets and exploding stars instead. He carefu- 
lly drew dots, debris from the explosion, falling off the edge of the page. He put a 
few on his desk, his blond head bent over the short stub of his pencil. He heard the 
approaching footsteps of the matronly teacher vibrating on the floor between desks 
at the front of his row. Without looking up, he put the eraser of his pencil between 
his teeth and slid his sketches under a sheet of blank paper. Without pausing, she 
passed his desk and walked slowly around the empty desk on his right. No one was 
seated on his left either. He turned and looked out the window at the bare branches 
that sometimes tapped on the glass, distracting him from his work. He looked at the 
retreating back of his teacher. 

A small black girl that sat in front of him was knocking her foot against her desk, 
sending vibrations back into his desk. He tapped on the back of her neck, under her 
frizzy ponytail. She didn't respond. He tapped on her neck again, closer to her right 
ear. She kept writing without moving. He thought about the tar baby story that her 
mother had read to him when he was younger. Then he ducked his head and began a 
new set of sketches, gripping the pencil tightly and chewing gently on his lower lip. 

After the last bell, he left the building behind the other kids in his class. Carrying 
only his blue backpack, he walked by himself across the edge of the grassy play- 
ground toward the street. He heard the boys coming after him, but he didn't quicken 
his pace. He was looking down thinking about the dying green grass when the first 
blow struck him on his right arm. It came from a running boy who didn't slow after 
he passed. The blue backpack fell with a soft thud in the grass and he wished that he 
could lie silently with it. Instead he stopped walking and waiting for the next boy. 

"Hey little shrimp! What happened to your legs? Did you stop growing when you 
were born?" Laughter followed this taunt that came from a large red-headed boy. 
There were four of them. The tallest one had black hair and had run by first. He 
turned around and ran back toward the small boy, stopping directly in front of him. 
He stood immobile, looking at the boy's chest. The others ran up behind him so he 
was encircled by their crowd. 


"I bet your brain stopped growing too," came from behind to the left. A foot from 
the right struck out at the blue nylon on the grass next to his foot. The foot came 
forward again, this time landing on the round bone on the outside of his ankle. 

"You're such a little baby. You even have baby hair,' mocked someone from be- 
hind. A hand reached forward and tugged at the curls that began at his neck. 

"C'mon you little sissy. Say something." 

He remained silent, staring down at the rubber toes of his faded red hightops. He 
noticed that his jeans folded down and covered his laces. They were too long. 

"Do you do ballet like a girl?" 

"Of course he does! Dance little ballerina, dance!" 

Four hands pushed him between his thin shoulder blades, and he lurched forward, 
tripping over a foot that caught him on his shins. He kept his balance that time. But 
a hand fell on his shoulder, pushing him forward again. As he fell, the toe of a 
leather shoe cut into his cheek below his right eye. Listening gratefully to the retreat- 
ing footsteps, he lay stiffly in the sticky grass. A car drove by noisily, and he could 
smell the sharp odor of exhaust. He opened his eyes and was comforted by the dim- 
ness of the grass. He could already feel the swelling beginning under his eye, but he 
resisted the urge to touch it. He slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, then he 
stood, testing his balance. He bent his knees and reached to pick up his backpack. 
He slid his thin arms through the padded black straps and continued walking toward 
the road. 

He was late to meet his father who was working in the computer office that after- 
noon. He was supposed to go and talk to him about his report card. They couldn't 
talk at home privately. His father had said he wanted a "man to man." The secretary 
wasn't at her desk. He pushed through the door to the inner office when she didn't 
appear after several minutes. He didn't want to be any later. His father was always 
on time, angry when his mother was late. 

Voices came faintly from inside behind the partition. He pulled his backpack in- 
side with him as the door swung shut silently behind him. But then he stopped be- 
cause he didn't want to interrupt his father. But then he heard a woman's voice. 

"I don't know if I'll be able to." 

"Of course you'll be able to. I'll tell my wife that I'm working. Isn't that classic?" 
He laughed quietly. "And we'll go out for a quiet little dinner. And I'll end up work- 
ing late." 

From the corner of the partition the boy saw his father's back, his arms around the 


woman's voice in front of him. He backed behind the partition and turned to open 
the door. Once inside the inner office, the boy hesitated again. But then he left, fing- 
ering his eye gently as he walked outside into the late afternoon. 

I knew that his story about hitting his eye on a desk wasn't true, but he wouldn't 
tell me anything else. I had already been home for a half an hour because the 
middle-school got out earlier, and he was late. Mom made a big fuss about his eye. 
She pulled a plastic bag out and filled it with ice. She tried to make him lie down 
with the ice in a towel on his face. But he wouldn't stay still. She continued bustling 
around the kitchen, talking about how he needed to be more careful. Then she tal- 
ked about what we were going to have with dinner. He remained silent on a stool, 
holding the plastic on his cheek until it burned and then lifting it away. She looked 
at me and said something about being glad that I was a girl that wouldn't be getting 
into any fights. 

"I don't know what you're going to tell your father about that eye. You are so ac- 
cident prone, young man. Your father was never like that; even when he was in col- 
lege he never had any of the bumps or bruises that you manage to get. And you 
know how upset he is about your schoolwork. What are you going to do when it 
really gets tough? Speaking of which, you'd better get up to your room and study 
some before dinner. Then you'll have something for him to look over when he get 
home from work." She pulled open the oven door and checked the roast with a large 
pronged fork. 

He took the ice up to his room without the towel. I followed. I sat down on the 
edge of his bed and curled my sock-feet under my faded jeans. I poked my finger 
through a hole in the front of my sweatshirt and twirled it around carefully inside. 
Then I looked up, expecting him to be seated at his desk with his work. 

I knew that some of the bigger kids had pushed him around. They had before. The 
first time that he had come home with a broken lip he had explained the entire inci- 
dent. Dad had told him that it was his fault for getting beat up because he hadn't 
fought back. After that, his stories always involved "accidents". And Mom and Dad 
continued to believe him. He tried so hard to keep Dad's respect, but I woudered if 
they truly believed his stories. 

He wasn't at his desk. He was standing in front of his mirror, gently pressing at 
the light-purple bruise that was spreading up his cheek toward his eye. I waited for 
him to tell me the story, but he looked down and opened his top dresser drawer, 
pulling out a worn rugby shirt without speaking. 


"If you hit your eye on a desk, the bruise wouldn't be getting so big, "I said, chal- 
lenging him. 

"You've never hit your eye on a desk, so how would you know?" 

"You never have either." I waited. 

He had already unbuttoned his white school shirt and was pulling the large green 
stripes over his head. He pulled the change from his lunch money out of the pockets 
of his jeans and placed it carefully in a wooden box that he kept his monthly allow- 
ance in. Then he walked over to me, but instead of sitting down with me, he knelt 
and reached under his bed. I heard the roll of the ballbearings as he slid his skate- 
board out onto the rug. 

"Mom told you to come up here and work," I accused. 

"I'm going out to the big hill. I'll be back in time for dinner and she'll never 
know." He looked at me as if asking if I was going to contradict this statement, but 
he knew that I wouldn't say anything to her. So he turned and left, going down the 
front stairs and holding the wheels carefully so that Mom wouldn't hear them. 

He reached the top of the hill in ten minutes and reminded himself that he'd need 
that much time to get home. Looking at the black plastic watch on his thin wrist, he 
marked the place in his mind when he would have to leave. He started to walk down 
the steep slope to the starting point, which was marked almost halfway down. He 
noticed that it was getting dark earlier. It was the first time that he had been con- 
cious of it. Then he thought that maybe it was darker because he couldn't see fully 
out of one eye. He stopped and looked down at the bottom of the hill where the path 
narrowed and was finally confined by rusting metal railings that guided it over the 
bridge. Following the black path, he looked further to the other side of the bridge 
where the path started its slow incline. There on both sides of the path he could di- 
mly see the scars in the grass where the wheels of other boards had been imbedded. 
He felt a little unbalanced. He wasn't sure he was really in control of one side of his 
body. He couldn't see anything to his right without turning his head over his shoul- 

Instead of continuing down to the starting point, he turned and almost ran back to 
the top. His board banged noisily against his thigh and it felt rough in his grip. At 
the top, he positioned the board carefully so that its tip was in the middle of the 
black concrete. Then he wiped the palms of his hands on the seams at the sides of his 
jeans. He placed his left red tennis shoe on the red stripe that ran down the middle of 
the board. Then he had to turn his neck at an awkward angle in order to see enough 


in front of him. 

I jumped up to follow him less than ten minutes after he left because I realized 
what he was going to try to do. He had wanted to skate the whole hill all summer, 
but no one had let him. Not even the older kids skated the whole hill, but sometimes 
they would start above the half-way mark. 

When I got to the top of the hill and didn't see him I stopped a moment to catch 
my breath. When my eyes reached the bottom of the hill and saw his distorted body 
in the ditch to the left of the iron railings. I knew that he was dead. 

I started running again. Over the sound of my rasping breath, I could hear the 
scraping of the soles of my shoes in the tiny pieces of gravel that were sprinkled on 
the path, and the sound made shiver bumps all the way up to the back of my neck. 

I stopped running when I saw his blackened eye turned up toward the tree bran- 
ches that were grey against the sky above him. I watched it intently for any flicker of 
movement as I walked toward him. I stepped over his skateboard that was lying on 
its side at the edge of the path. When I was finally standing next to him, I saw that 
his right leg was broken. It lay still, bent at a right angle from the side below his 
knee. I squatted at his side and gently pushed the sleeve to his shirt down over his 
hands, thinking that I didn't want them to get cold. 

"Why did you have to try that?" 

He opened his eyes and looked at me as if he was about to smile. His lips were 
chapped and red around the edges. 

"I almost made it. Look where my board is. Look where my board is. Look how 
close I was to making it across that bridge." 

I nodded. Then I stood to run call to get help. 

"Wait," He said, louder then. "Will you tell Dad that I got my black eye when I 

By Elizabeth Mason 


Monica Mahoney 


Leslie Corrado 


Amy Burton 


I la 


Published by The College Art Asso<:idtior» of Am 


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Spring 1989 

Published by the students of Sweet Briar College 
Sweet Briar, Virginia 

This publication is composed of and for you, the students of 
Sweet Briar, though it is only a small representation its purpose 
and goal is far greater. This year's staff has worked diligently to 
give a varying, thorough depiction of the creative pieces turned 
out this year. Even though we received numerous submissions 
(and I thank each and every one of you) there are dozens of 
nameless, faceless students who, out of shyness or apathy, did not 
attempt to share their work. Our small community is based on 
development, support and comradery. These years are a special 
opportunity to take a risk, share your creations, no matter how 
frustrating it can be. We are here to grow and learn, not to live 
safely in the shadow of our fears. I can only encourage, and I do 
fervently, that each student challenge her potential and share her 
gifts that are each unique. 

In closing I 'd like to thank my staff. Through laborious meet- 
ings each one of them maintained a great sense of humor and 
patience. I cannot go without thanking Mr. Lovel, for his priceless 
assistance and Sara Adams, for her expertise. I hope each one of 
you enjoys reading through this magazine, it's for you. 


printed by Progress Printing Co., Inc 
Lynchburg, Virginia 

Delightful Nuisance 

I am that ever present nymph 

dancing lightly in the comer of your mind, 

forever out of reach, 

yet close to your gladdening heart, 

distracting your eye, 

and calling your name. 

Does it thrill you to hear me laugh? 
If you could catch me up 
in your strong, protective hand, 
would it please you? 

Let me play. 

Let me bring dancing to your soul. 

— Kathryn Johnson 

— 1 — 



Amy Booth 

— 2 


Two days after Christmas. 


Essex Junction. 


She was there with her mother, her grandmother, and her two 
aunts. Hamburger. French fries. Coke. 

"So," her mother asked, "Whaf s new with Pearl?" 

"Oh, her and the girls are still all upset over Joe Fournier's 
will," said one aunt. Dorothy. Dot. 

"I still can't believe that Joe Fournier leaving everything to 
Nancy. After all them girls did for him and Irena that bastard 
doesn't even leave them any of those God blam roosters. That's 
awful. Son of a bitch. If he wasn't dead I'd ring his neck." said her 

"You said it. Mother," said Aunt Dora. 

The girl didn't say anything. She wasn't particularly inter- 
ested in Joe Fournier. Or his will. She didn't like to think about 
Pearl. The woman scared her. She looked like a troll. 

She watched the snow fall in the darkness outside. It was 
heavy, but hard to see through the glare on the windows. She 
thought about Christmas. What a fiasco it had been. All the kids 
grabbing. Mine. Mine. Mine. Presents thrown at her one after 
another and her trying to remember who gave what but not 
having time. She was glad it was over. It depressed her. She 
wanted to go back to school. 

She felt tugging at her arm. "Jacqueline!" A harsh whisper. 

Bewildered. "Yeah, Gram?" 

"You see that girl over there." The grandmother pointed dis- 
creetly toward a young girl. About the same age as her grand- 

— 3 — 

daughter, brown hair, brown eyes, brown polyester uniform, 
brown polyester cap. 

"What about her?" 

"Doesn't she look like that girl that used to live overstreet." 


'The one that used to come over all the time and play with 
you up to the house." 

"What, Angle?" 


"Come on in. Angle, we can go out and play just as soon as 
'Mr. Peabody' is over. I can't miss 'Mr. Peabody'. Do you ever 
watch 'Mr. Peabody'?" 

"No I don't watch cartoons. Mom says I can only watch fifteen 
minutes a day of T.V. so I don't watch 'em." 

"Wow. Fifteen minutes. I probably watch fifteen hours!" 

"I like that one magician guy on thirteen. He's neat." 

"What do you want to do today?" 

"I don't know. What do you want to do?" 

"I don't know." 

"I gotta stay close to home, though". Angle said, "In case my 
mom calls. I'll be in real trouble if I'm not there to answer it." 

"I know!" said the other girl and ran into her grandmother's 
closet. She rummaged for a moment and came out with a big 
plastic bag full of yam. Bright reds. Soft blues. Warm browns. 
"We can fingerknit!" 

"I don't know how." 

"I'll show you. It's easy! Come on!" 

"Gram, that's not Angle. Angle moved to Bennington to live 
with her father. Remember?" 

Aunt Dot interrupted herself mid-story and asked, "Are you 
talking about that one girl used to live overstreet?" 

"Yeah. Angle. The brick house across from grandma's. 
Grandma thinks that that girl over there is her. Why?" 

"She looks just like her," defended the grandmother. 

Aunt Dot looked, not so discreetly, at the brown girl. "Why, 
that's not that girl. That girl killed herself last summer. August, I 
think. So, anyway, Alice told that Nancy that she was not going 

"How?" asked the girl. 

— 4 — 


"How did she kill herself?" 

"You mean that girl." 

"Of course, I mean 'that girl.' Who the Hell else do you think I 
mean for Chrissake?" 

"Hey. Watch it. Sister Sue!" 

"Sorry, Mom." Head hung. 

"I don't know," answered Aunt Dot, "I just heard she killed 
herself. Then Nancy just got up and . . ." 


"Why what?" 

"Why did she kill herself?" 

"How should I know? She just got up and walked away. 
Nancy doesn't care." 

The girl sipped her Coke, not listening. She stared out the 
window again white, flying through black. 


The girl tried to summon the details of her face. Short brown 
hair. Glasses. Much like what she herself had looked like, then. 
What was her last name? 

Sixth grade. 


She was glad it was over. Gladder that she would be going to 
Grandma's in a week to spend the whole summer. She'd see 
Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Anna and Uncle Bill and Uncle 
Joe Foumier and Aunt Irena and all of her aunts, uncles and 
cousins. And Angle. 

She couldn't wait to see Angle. They had agreed not to write 
because neither thought that they could answer faithfully. She 
wondered if Angle hated sixth grade as much as she did. She 
wondered if Angle would still like her. If they would sit out on 
grandma's porch and try to sell knitted things again. 

"Grandma, I'm gonna go over and see Angle, now. O.K?" 

"Why, you can't go over visit that girl." 

"Why not?" 

"Moved." Grandma's voice was impatient. She seemed to 
think that the girl should already know these things. 


"Well, Bennington. To live with her daddy." 

■5 — 

"What happened to her mom?" 

"Oh, she's in prison." 

"What for?" 

"Child abuse, I guess." 

"Child abuse?!" 

"Oh, yes. The men corned and took her away." 

"Did you get her address?" 


She had cried herself almost to sleep that night. Her tears 
faded, though. She kept thinking of going to a party sometime in 
the future. It was being given in her honor to celebrate the Nobel. 
Someone introduced themselves. "Hi, I'm Angle Springfield. This 
is my husband. Rick. Say, don't I know you?" 

"You do look awfully familiar." 

The snow was falling harder, landing softer, as they left 
Wendy's. "Now, don't tell Pearl I told you about that boy's 

"God blam drugs!" 

She helped her Aunt Dot, wipe the snow off the car and then 
stepped in. She was in the middle. Stuffed awkwardly between 
her somewhat large mother and somewhat larger Aunt Dora. 

"Mary, just wait 'til you see Pearl. She's gotten so old." 

Images. Eleven year old Angle on pink tile turned bright red. 
Little Angle hanging on a curtain cord. She's up high. If a boy 
came in he could see her underwear. Angle crushed on pave- 
ment. Angle splatted on the highway. 

"I don't wanna go. Could you just drop me off back at 
grandma's. 'Cause I really don't wanna go." 

"Jacqueline Marie Kjono - you are going to go see your Aunt 

Angle, sleeping far too peacefully in a sunny white room, 
loosely hugging a bear that falls from her grip with no resistance 
to the floor. 

— Jacqueline Kjono 

— 6 

Anne Mitchell 


Often I cry when you say too much, 

you mean too much, and I mean so little. 

My head beats your name as an angry 

fist trembling, shivering, afraid to strike, 

but it does, and I scream the hungering I love you, 

alone, hours after you have gone. 

Tomorrow when we play in the park 

and you push me a little too hard, 

too high, on the swing, and the chains 

where my hands are clutched loosen then 

jerk tight and there's that moment of fear 

that as the chains snap back, into place, 

I will be thrown into the world of uncertainty 

not knowing when or where I'll fall, 

I'll jump into the night 

where you can't see me, hold me, know me, 

and when I land I will cry for you 'til 

you race to comfort me. Then I will laugh, 

laugh at you for loving me. 

— Jen Kemper 

■8 — 

Wesley Powell 

Anne Mitchell 



A grandparent's cheek pinch, a needle — 
it may as well have been a blade. 
White knuckles clench the extended hand. 
I am as pale as this sheet, 
but not as virgin. 

My uterus convulses 

from suction like a Hoover. 

My belly yearns to follow the exiled 

and terminate the pain. A mere 

image of myself remains, as icy 

sweat replaces the blood. 

Bewildered blue eyes question as, as they dart 
from Dr. Luck to the bloodless hand in mine. 
No judgment here, only dollar signs. 
Five women with picket signs condemned 
me a murderer. "You'll burn in hell" 
was their counseling of my actions. 

"Have you ever fainted?" 

I shake my head and grope 

for support from the mobile tool table. 

Eyes closed, I breathe deep, 

regaining composure, but a tear escapes. 

The voice I never heard cries out. 

— Amy Lemieux 



I am a dreamer. 

I live in a magic world. 

I sit on the water's edge 

To let my feet be cooled. 

The sky above my perfect world 
Is filled with wishing stars. 

The music in my flowered mind 
Is filled with glorious bars. 

I touch the petals of hope 

And pluck them from their stem. 

I lay them in the water 

To blow away in the wind. 

But I in my dream world. 
Am afraid to jump in. 

— Catherine Hill 

— 12- 

Jennifer Brennan 


Elliot Pitts 

— 14 

dizzying dreams and slow 
winter revelations 

peering out the winter window often as she did, 

still the things she looked for hid. 

it wasn't over the cranberry balcony bare, 

under the moon in September's doom. 

it wasn't by the slippery sliced green blade 

of grass surrounded by snow that december day. 

the dancing light on the old grey glowing wall 

illuminated none of the secrets that she heard call. 

it had not roosted in the branches bare, 

for all that was hanging there just seemed to stare. 

find it she must! 

for she felt forever lost — 

her seldom smiling spirit bled 

in wishing and willing the instead. 

slowly and meanly she learned to grope 

with patience and hope. 

and the secrets for which she had been searching 

she slowly saw lurking 

in her own hidden and embedded soul. 

peering out the winter window often as she did 
she no longer looked for the things that hid. 
they came to her without expectations 
in dizzying dreams and slow winter revelations. 

— Ruth Taul 

— 15 — 

Sally Croker 



Sitting in the sunshine with her eyes closed, she felt the soft 
dryness of her hair against her damp throat, the scraping caress 
of a gritty breeze on her bare arms. Aunt Emily's house was thick 
and hot with silence in the afternoon; even the canary, weary of 
the heat and his own sweet song, sat desperate and quiet in his 
tight little cage; the musty smell of cracked seed and frayed 
feathers filled the small room. At the base of the stand lay a sun- 
bleached strip of chintz, and Sarah extended one leg a little to 
brush its slick folds with the bare tips of her toes. Above her, the 
canary rustled its feathers, a minute, frantic noise. Sarah hoped 
he would flutter his feathers once more. 

* * * * 

". . . You remember the fire, don't you?" asked the angel , his 
voice sweet, husky, hot. "You remember it, don't you darling?" 
She nodded her head noiselessly, hearing the screams of the 
kitten, the crash of beams, the swift snapping of flames as they 
licked up the canopy of swiss lace and satin ribbons. "What did it 
feel like, little one?" pursued the angel, as she could feel his 
breath between her shoulder blades. "Was it hot . . . was it cold?" 
"I ... don't know." she answered, and a drop of sweat swelled, 
trembled and shivered its way down her temple. "You do know." 
the angel said, his grip tight on her hair. He pulled her head back, 
farther and farther, exposing the length of her neck. "You do 

know," he whispered in her ear. "Tell me," he hissed. 

* * * * 

Aunt Emily settled herself next to Sarah, and lay a fat, sweaty 
hand on her niece's scarred thigh. The smell of the women, 
cloying orchid perfume over the stench of bitter sweat, filled 
Sarah's nostrils as she began to draw her breath in thin, tiny gasps 

— 17 — 

through her mouth. Emily didn't seem to notice as she stroked 
the girl's leg, just above the knee, over and over, as if she'd wear 
away a thin layer of the scarlet skin, and lay bare the twisted 
muscles and brittle bones. "Your mother could grow anything. 
She was a marvel. You must remember the garden, and the grape 
arbor and the peach trees. Oh, the peaches! They were luscious! 
And your mother was tireless in the garden. You girls were 
always out there with her, chasing butterflies and getting stung 
by bees. Seems to me that Julia was always getting stung by those 
yellow-jackets. Do you remember? You were always the quiet 
one, sitting in the dirt, while Julia ran circles around you. She was 
always the lively little one. Terrible pity though," Emily sighed, 
her hand rubbing, rubbing, rubbing the same sore stretch of leg. 
"So young. A terrible, terrible tragedy. Ten years, it's hard to 
believe. You were only seven. Such lovely twins, you and Julia. 
Amazing the fire got everyone but you. No one could understand 
it, how it started. At least you were saved, dear." Emily heaved 
herself to her feet. The thick hand ruffled Sarah's thin hair. "Well, 
dear, I guess I'll go start dinner. I suppose you'd like pork chops. 
What do you think? I think it would be nice. Make up some 
mashed potatoes too, I think. You know , honey, you really don't 
eat enough. Seventeen years old, you should eat more. And your 
always so quiet. Julia ... oh, she was a babbler. Child was never 
silent," Emily shuffled away in the direction of the kitchen, her 
scent dissipating. "Quiet, always too much quiet," the woman 
mumbled, and Sarah heard the heavy crash of the iron frying pan 
as her Aunt dropped it on the stove. 

The sun was slipping from the room, but the breeze was still 
sultry, heavy with dust, and the smell of tar and manure. Another 
hot night. 

Quiet, Sarah thought. Julia's the quiet one now. Quiet for ten 
years. Both of us quiet for ten long years. Mother's peaches. I 
remember her peaches. Rubbing my cheek against their warm, 
furry rounds, biting into one, letting the juice run down my chin, 
drip onto my shirt. Julia, she thought. Julia always got the biggest 
peaches. Mother always gave her the sweetest ones. 

"Well, you know, honey," Emily's voice bellowed from the 
kitchen. "You were the lucky one. Yes, indeed. You had a guard- 
ian angel watching over you. Just swept you up and kept you safe 


and sound. Be thankful for that angel, honey." 

* * * * 

"... Ah/' the angel sighed, his cheek cool against her breast. 
"Ah, this is my favorite time. It brings back memories." The angel 
chuckled softly. Sarah sat still and rigid in her narrow bed. It was 
well past midnight, and the breeze had died. "It was hot like this 
that night," the angel said. "Wasn't it?" "Yes." "It was beautiful, 
you know," the angel said dispassionately. "The flames all red 
and blue and yellow against the night. Yes, very . . . lovely." His 
tone changed abruptly. "Why did you do it?" "What do you 
mean?" Sarah asked, startled in the darkness. "Why did you do 
it?" The angel insisted. "I didn't do it. I didn't do anything. I had 
nothing to do with it." Tears smeared her heated cheeks, and the 
angel licked them from her skin. "You did." "No, no, no," Sarah 
whimpered, shaking her head. She wiped her face with one hand, 
but the angel clenched it and twisted the delicate wrist. "Yes, oh 
yes, you did." The angel released her, cupped her face in his hot 
palms, and said, "You did do it because of Julia. Because she was 
the bright one, the pretty one. Because," the angel paused, "be- 
cause she always got the largest peaches." 

* * * * 

The bathtub was almost full of water. Dawn was close; sitting 
on the edge of the tub, her nightgown at her feet, Sarah could 
smell morning. It was fresh, touched with the scent of the sweet 
pea and honeysuckle vines that feebly trailed up the trellis out- 
side the window. Waiting for the tub to fill, Sarah ran her finger- 
tips lightly over her left leg, the one that trailed behind her as she 
wandered through the house and the garden. The scars were 
smooth in some places, swirled in others, the seams crooked and 
untidy. Her fingers explored the rest of her body: the crumpled 
left shoulder, a mass of chipped bones and knotted muscles, the 
left arm that hung uselessly at her side, the ruined face that once 

had the promise of innocent beauty. 

* ♦ * * 

. . . The angel stood above her. Beneath his glare, Sarah sank 
lower into the cool water trembling. "Why are you shaking?" the 
angel demanded. Sarah shrugged her shoulders and winced; she 
had forgotten how much it hurt to do even as simple an act as 
this. The angel smiled and knelt beside the tub, his hand fondling 


her soaked hair. "You wanted her dead, didn't you? You wanted 
your mother dead, too, didn't you?" Sarah calmly looked into his 
dark, fiery eyes, "Yes." The angel's hand violently clenched her 
face. Thumping her head against the porcelain; timidly at first 
then remorselessly. Blood began to run down the tub, touching 
the water, and dissipating into a pink tint. The hard thud broke 
into a mashing spatter that ceased when Sarah's eyes rolled back 
and her listless body sunk beneath the cool, sullied bath. 

— Kirstie Rothauge 

— 20- 

Katy Wilson 


Amy Booth 

— 22 — 


The heavy iron door grumbles as if s 

fastened between us. 
Puzzled, I sit at the foot of the 

bluestone path I've attentively followed. 
The gravel bites at the weight of my body 
like the riddles that twist my thoughts 

and nag at my reason. 
My mind travels through my eyes, 

like blackened tunnels, 

on to the door. 
Its been a long journey. 

— Sandy Martin 

■23 — 

No Winner ... No Loser 

We were on either sides of each other 

tugging on a rope 

that twined together a part of me, a part of him. 

As we pulled to become closer, 

the rope would resist 

and the distance became a familiar reality. 

Our strength came natural — 

Opponents with the same desire to win each other, 

yet, not shared; yet, not together 

and the rope became knotted with confusion and doubt. 

I knew the game well, 

for love made a participant out of me. 

But, he, in which I am twisted around 

does not shed a single thread of himself 

to tie with the broken strands that had fallen from me. 

And the rope began to entangle, 

for the threads that I have thrown away to him 

leave me without the strength to grip. 

I let go. 

I listen quietly to my heart, 

which speaks of the rope untwined in shame, 

and said, 

"Let go of love for now my child, 

until the whisper you hear 

ties you up again . . ." 

— Susan Georgi 


Sandra Martin 

■25 — 

Julie Brooks 


King of Kings 

The fields run beneath your feet 
The faster you run, the softer 

the voices become. 
Your dreams vanish. 
Turn and find behind you 

your Hfe. 
A web held book 
Of ignored contradictions 

written by a fool. 
And read by a king. 

Try to hide from yourself 
as you always have. 

But now your every dark corner 
is illuminated. 

You are threatened with love. 

Your sword won't strike out 

Your shield fails 

to protect your heart. 

You are conquered. 

— Valerie Brugh 


Dolly Garcia 


The Healing Place 

We arrived in the early afternoon. Driving up to the place, it 
looked the same as it had when I was twelve years old. The 
sunny, white- washed bath houses still looked pure and fresh and 
ancient, the grass was as green and soft as I had remembered, and 
the oak trees still hung over the buildings in the same grand, 
lovely way. I was excited as we pulled into the gravel parking 
area. My plan was working. This plan had taken so long to 
perfect — I think I actually began to form it on the very day that 
the diagnosis was made. 

I remember thinking, "Well, that of course cannot happen. 
There is a way around this that the stupid doctors haven't even 

Warm Springs. A magical name to me. It was a name that held 
all sorts of memories for me, all quiet, all sensuous, all simple, 
sweet, and holy. As the doctors explained the procedures of 
treatment to my mother and me. Warm Springs glowed softly in 
my mind, and I didn't even listen to them. I knew that the chemo- 
therapy would not work. I remembered Dad. Dad had died of 
heart disease. He had had many doctors and lots of medication, 
and it hadn't worked for him. But the water of Warm Springs 
would for me. I was sure. I developed my fantasy of the trip for 
months, and finally convinced my mother to take me there. She 
was wholly against the idea. Mom was against any sort of move- 
ment on my part. 

Always, "Rest, rest, sweetie! That way you can get well!" 

I could always feel her tense up when I got off the sofa and 
tried to go into the kitchen to get something to eat, or out onto the 
back porch for a little scenery. Dad had died trying to make me a 
fried egg one morning. She would try to keep her mouth shut but 

— 29 — 

little gasps and moans would escape her, and nothing could hide 
her anxious brow, wide, terrified eyes, and tight-pressed lips as 
she watched me traverse the floor shakily. Her little half-starts 
out of her seat would make me so furious that I could have 
screamed at her, and she knew it, and tried to refrain. I guess that 
she finally gave in to the Warm Springs trip because she knew 
that I was close to violence and temper tantrums, and she figured 
that a little bathing was better than that. Her theory seemed to be 
The Less Activity The More Likely My Daughter Is To Get Better 
Theory. But I knew that rest does not cure leukemia — only 
Warm Springs could. Warm Springs could cure anything. 

Mom, efficient Mom, popped out of the car and headed for the 
trunk to get my wheel chair. I sighed. This was not part of my 
fantasy. I felt an ache in me that said that Mom was going to 
screw this whole thing up. 

"Mom," I yelled from the front seat in an aggravated voice, 
"Please leave the wheel chair." 

I hated my own tone after saying that. It didn't fit either with 
the perfect day that I had planned. 

"Dear," Mom said in a tense, explanatory tone, a trying to be 
diplomatic tone, "I really think that after this long drive it would 
be best. Your legs will be weak. I don't want you to fall on the 
gravel ..." 

She watched me with a frantic expression as I opened the 
door, pulled my legs around, and lifted myself from the seat. I 
steadied myself momentarily against the car, trying to look confi- 
dent and easy to show Mom, and then began with wobbly steps 
to walk toward the Ladies' bath house. She made a motion to 
grab me, but shrank away at my scornful glance. I did not look 
back again, but heard Mom scurrying behind me with the wheel 
chair, the wheels making a hideous scraping sound in the gravel. 
I tried to walk faster to avoid the vile thing, ominously following 
me. Walking faster made my breath get raspy, and I coughed 
once. I didn't have to look to know that Mom was wearing the 
anxious brow, terrified eyes expression. 

Fury welled up inside me in an instant. My eyes felt hot with 
it. A scream of rage waited in my throat. My day was not work- 
ing. Mom was not letting it work. Couldn't she wait in the car? 
Couldn't she just leave me alone? Why did she have to be so very 

— 30- 

stupid and meddlesome? she did not understand me. No one did. 
Only the water and the bath house understood. I calmed down a 
bit. Soon she would understand me. As soon as I stepped into the 
water. Emerged myself in it slowly, the healing spreading through 
me instantly ... 

Mom caught up to me as I was labouring up the three, wooden 
steps up to the bath house. She looked at me pleadingly but I 
avoided her eyes. I was going to pretend she was not there, 
pretend that I was completely alone and after I was healed I 
would smile at her graciously, forgiving her for doubting me. We 
met the old black lady who ran the Ladies' bath house at the 
doorway, and Mom began fishing through her pocketbook for 
her wallet. Although I was looking down, I knew that the lady 
was staring at my thin hair and emaciated figure — the way 
everyone did. I had come to be very used to it. If anyone did, she 
should know the powers of the water, and should not be staring 
at me like that. I dismissed her as a fool. Soon she would see, soon 
everyone would see, that I was not at all dying, that I was going to 

She let us in, and as I saw the familiar room, the room that I 
had not seen in four years, I knew that I had been right, that I was 
going to be healed. There was so much to see, all so beautiful. The 
bath house felt like a good friend that I was greeting after not 
seeing for awhile. Actually it felt like several friends. 

"Hello water!" 

The blueish, sulphur-scented water waved to me. 

"Hello white-washed walls!" 

Light reflected from the round pool twinkled on the happy 
walls as a form of greeting. 

"Hello skylight! Hello rushing sound from the drain in the 
back! Hello little board walk, and hello little dressing rooms!" 

All of the dressing rooms along the boardwalk that circled the 
room said, "Come and dress in mel" 

I entered one of the little dressing rooms, undressed quickly, 
and got into my bathing suit. 

"Hello, crisp, clean, white towels!" 

I thought of Mom in the next dressing room. Amazingly, I had 
been able to keep her from bothering me for some minutes. 

"Just keep blocking her out, just don't let her even get into 


your head. Don't let her mess it up," I kept telling myself. 

I pulled the little curtain aside to see Mom standing at the 
doorway dressed in a flowery smock and plastic shower cap 
provided by the bath house, and looking wary and nervous. 

"She thinks I'm going to fall off of the boardwalk," I thought 
bitterly, a little of the familiar fury rising into my throat again. 

Block her out! Block her out! 

I carefully skirted her, avoiding her touch the way I was 
inclined to do for the past several weeks. She turned as if to touch 
me, to arrest me, and then stopped, afraid, I thought, afraid of me. 
I was glad. I tried instead to focus all of my attention on the water, 
and the whole place. It was then that I noticed for the first time 
three fat women floating on the opposite side of the pool, staring 
with great interest at the hairless, skinny creature that was me. I 
saw their eyes roll to the sides to see each other and to catch their 
friends' expressions, which I myself noted seemed expressions 
consisting of faintly curled upper lips, and a trace of disgust in 
the eyes. I knew that they were "dying" to talk about "the poor 
little thing. Betcha it's Cancer, uh huh!" 

Block them out! Don't let them ruin it! 

I knew that their presence was jeopardizing this whole thing 
working. It wasn't just the water, it was the whole place that 
would make me better. The whole atmosphere. I mustn't be 
distracted from it, or it wouldn't work. 

It was time. I didn't know how to prepare myself for this 
moment, this moment that I had been waiting for for months, this 
moment that would stop all the pain, this moment that would tell 
everyone in the world that I was not going to die! You were all 
wrong! I knew what to do! I am not typical. Not at all. See? See? It was 
the moment for my triumph. 

The water said, "Come here. Come into me. I will make you 
well. You knew all along I would. Maybe not others, but you. You 
I will save!" 

From five feet down in the clear, blue water, the rounded, soft 
stones spoke to me. "Step upon us! Dance upon us! Come be 

I eagerly began to descend the wooden steps into the water, 
hardly hearing a faint gasp of Careful! from my mother. The 
comfortable, lukewarm water enveloped my feet, my lower legs. 


my knees, my thighs ... I let myself drift into it slowly, savoring it, 
the bliss, the joy... I stepped off the wooden steps and let go of the 
railing, allowing my entire body to be surrounded. The sulfur 
water was more buoyant than regular water, and I felt light and 
energetic in it. I took a step. Oh, it's working! It's working! I am 
beginning to feel it! My strength is returning! Oh! ... Oh! ... I took 
another step, and another. I began to feel so powerful, so healthy, 
so free, oh, so, so good. I pressed off of a large stone with one foot 
and bounded lightly and gracefully. No pain, no weariness. Oh, 
energy ... life! I bounded again. I began bounding around the pool 
joyfully. I smiled triumphantly at the fat women who stared at 
me in amazement and fear. They floated quickly from my path as 
I bounded toward them, and I heard them whisper loudly among 
themselves, "Insanity! A common stage in the disease!" I laughed 
aloud as I watched them flounder up the ladder one by one and 
retreat hastily to the safety of their dressing rooms. 

Healed! Healed! 

My wild journey became faster, a game with myself to see 
how few bounds it might take to get around the pool. I bounded 
on, untiring. My friends the glittery walls, the dressing rooms, 
the little white towels, the rushing drain, all cheered me on. 

Good for you! We knew you would be fine! 

I heard my mother screaming. I had forgotten her. She had 
climbed down into the water and was coming toward me. I 
stopped and looked at her, smiling. Triumphant. But she contin- 
ued to scream. Why was she screaming? Didn't she see? Didn't 
she see that I was healed? My God, was she stupid! I looked at her 
contemptuously as she floundered over to me in the smock and 
shower cap. The silly figure made me laugh. 

" What are you doing?" she screamed with a horrified voice, 
"What has happened to you? You must not exert yourself like 
that! Do you want to die?" 

She said more but I did not hear it, for I turned and dived 
under the water at that moment. I would explain to her later. I 
would explain how I was healed. But I did not want to hear her 
just now. I did not like the way her ragged, piercing voice bounced 
off of the walls and echoed all around me. The sacred walls 
seemed to look at her with disgust — how dared she taint this 
hallowed place like that, this quiet, old magical place so dedi- 


cated to happiness, so dedicated to healing me? How dared she 
fill it with such ugly words and sounds? 

I swam easily down to the bottom with my eyes open. The 
buoyant water caused me to begin rising again, so I held onto a 
large stone and pulled my body down. I looked around me. All 
was quiet. All was hazy and blue. Bubbles rose slowly to the 
surface. I picked up a little stone and let it fall. It landed with a 
muted dick. I would stay here. Here it was good. Here I could live 
peacefully. I was part of this water, part of these stones, I would 
stay here awhile in this quiet place ... 

A jerk at my waist. Something pulling insistingly at me. I 
clung to my stone. Jerk! Jerk! I was torn loose, I was pulled to the 
surface. Angry, I twisted in the arms to face my antagonist. Mom! 
I tried to scream at her tried to thrash at her with my fists, I was so 
furious, so indignant, but instead I started chocking and cough- 
ing and could not attack her, could not do anything but cough. 
Deep, racking coughs. Water spurted out of my mouth as I con- 
tinued to cough. The water before me began to turn red. I stopped 
coughing suddenly. I looked at the red water. I looked at Mom. 
She looked back at me sadly, quietly, and turned her eyes to the 
water, too. I slowly began to swirl a finger though the red. It 
blended into the water and became paler, and gradually disap- 
peared. An occasional drop of red below my chin appeared in the 

"Mommy, I'm not healed," I told her. 

"I know, my darling," she answered quietly. 

"I'm going to die soon, just like Dad," I said. 

"I know, my darling, I know." 

I placed my arms around her neck and gazed around. The 
light reflected on the walls continued to dance merrily. 

— Joan Dabney 


Julie Brooks 

— 35 — 

Dolly Garcia 

— 36- 


Kirstie Rothauge Editor-in-Chief 

Kathleen Sams Poetry-Prose Editor 

Catherine Hill Assistant Poetry Editor 

Kate Haw Assistant Prose Editor 

Carol Krajewski Co-Art Editor 

RuthTaul Co- Art Editor 

— 37- 

cover piece by Ruth Taul — with special 
acknowledgement to Art Journal, published 
by The College Art Association of America 

— 38 —