corning community college
SCOP is the annual literary magazine of Corning Community College. Although it is largely a product of students in a creative writing course, its pages are open to all students in the College, including those who are inmates of the Elmira Correctional Facility. Funding for the magazine was made possible by Dr. Donald H. Hangen, President. Special thanks are due Mary Lee Whitehead for the typing,
Roy Lonnberg for the cover design, and Nancy Dixon and Joyce Hallenbeck for production.
William E. Dolan Professor of English Faculty Editor
scop—Old English word for minstrel or poet.
Tabfre of Contents
Page 4	The Mother Ship	Dale L. Rook
5	The Battling Bear	
	and Sam	Merlin D. Russell Jr.
5	Prohibition	Merlin D. Russell Jr.
6	A Vampire's Nightmare Terry Higgins	
9	For English 250	Joy Amisano
10	Snowflakes	Ellen Stowell
11	That Old Lamp	Walt Hosley
12	Foreplay	Charles L. Dunlap
13	Captured	Lenora Prescott
16	Charnel Charades	Michael L.P. Jones
17	the forgotten	
	rule	Merlin D. Russell Jr.
18	Ten Little Workers	Scott Bunt
20	The Poet	Mary Nelson
21	Helen's Revenge	Urban D. Prescott
27	Easter in America	Joy Amisano
28	Rea 1i ty	Mike Meleski
29	A Tale of Vhen	
	in the Season of the Sun	Merlin D. Russell Jr.
35	The First Patrol	Craig Van Horn
39	Alchemy of a	
	Police Officer, or the Mettle of the Man	Charles L. Dunlap Beverly A. O'Neil
40	Face of Death	
41	Three Views of	
	Death: Three Answers	Beverly A. 0'Neil
42	Logical Progression	Dale L. Rook
44
45
46
47
49
50
54
55
56
57
63
65
66 68
69
71
72
73
73
74
79
80
Where Do Old Birds Go? He's Dead Blue Monday The Boring Man, or the Story that Shouldn't Have Been Told Tomorrow's Land Disillusionment at Four Terrestrially Temporal Stone Fruit A Situation of Some Gravity
Song of Hiawatha Writing a Pome White Sitting at Home
Conflict of the Mind Homeward Bound Please Don't Flush The Toilet Where Springtime Comes From The Doll Shop The Puzzle Ember
Dawn Train Zar
Indignity The Lost Soul
Walt Hosley D.W. Humphrey Ellen Stowell
Mike Meleski Mary Nelson Mary C. Keenan
Michael L.P. Jones Joy Amisano
Charles L. Dunlap Scott Bunt
Mike Meleski Donna Stone Craig Van Horn
Merlin D. Russell Jr.
Lucille A. Smassanow Ellen Stowell D.W. Humphrey Michael L.P. Jones Michael L.P. Jones Terry Higgins Joy Amisano Beverly A. O'Neil
The Mother Ship
by Dale L. Rook
The wind rattles her butchered wood like a thousand battling sabres.
Her tattered sails no longer stand proud, cloud white against the sky she glides
across the green, green sea.
Mars walked hard on frail craft and now the bleeding ship flees Neptune's greedy hands that had grabbed, nabbed all but one
down into the red, red sea.
Onward she flees past the eternal rotting hulls of the black Sargasso.
Like a living, giving thing she runs
across the dead, dead sea.
Down the river of the Moon to the Mar1t1mes she sails.
To where does she run?
"Home," creaks, speaks her timbers preternaturally out on the blue, blue sea.
Cockelshells set out to greet her as harbor's mouth she clears.
Her maternal maiden's head speaks proud, bowed in sorrow as she sinks
beneath the dark, dark sea.
4
The Battling Bear and Sam
by Merlin D. Russell Jr.
The battle's fought on bitter ice, participants arrayed in helmets and like uniforms, trained soldiers, unafraid.
Attack! Attack! and hack and hack! swords flying through the air.
The sounds of shots passed forth and back, upon the frozen mare.
Their shots are aimed, seeking a goal as blood spills on the ice.
The Bear fights fast, for they all know that Sam must pay a price.
Then hand to hand the end is near all time is gone they see, for it was only hockey and Sam won, four to three.
Prohibi tion
by Merlin D. Russell Jr.
Taboos
on
t'booze. 5
A VAMPIRE'S NIGHTMARE!
by Terry Higgins
Picture if you would, in some future time, on a brisk autumn eve, somewhere in a dark and remote corner of the world, stands an old and dying manor. In its gloomy depths lies the coffin of a certain vampire who is just awaking from his suspended sleep. It is time for him to go out into the night and make his yearly feast out of some poor victim. He ventures into the night from his sanctuary, so that he may find a human to satisfy his bloodthirsty hunger.
He travels across the lands by the ways he knows best. On the mist of the fogs or by the wings of the bat, whichever suits his needs. His first stop is at a small farmhouse. Ah, he thinks to himself, the occupants of this dwelling must have retired for the day, for no light burns within. He smiles and laughs to himself, over the advantage he has on his unsuspecting prey.
He enters the house with no problem, making not the slightest sound. There isn't even a watchdog, which is very uncommon in these parts, but to him this is barely worth noting. He has now reached the door of the sleeping chambers and with fangs at ready, he slowly opens the door.
He stands staring at the kingsize bed, almost in a state of dismay. For the first time in two hundred years his findings have proved unprofitable. It seems the members of this household must have lodged elsewhere for the night. For it appears that the only thing resting upon the bed is mere ashes. "Curse the luck," he thinks. Ah! But not to worry.
For the world is full of humans, fat and bulging with blood, ready for the killing.
A small town is next. Arrived at this otherwise typical village, he finds its streets deserted and untraveled. With scraps of paper
6
and brittle dry leaves, blown about the pavement by the cool winds of an Autumn eve. After his brief search through the old buildings of the small town, he again comes up empty handed. Now he starts to wonder a bit, for a whole town without one of its populace to be found is truly a mystery. But he is of proud breeding and such discouragements never hinder him in his yearly mission. He has no time to waste, however. For his hunger grows great and the light of the moon dimmer.
He must now journey with great vigor to the city, where he knows he will find his badly needed meal. A few hours from dawn he reaches the city. He must now work fast so that he may make his way back to the warmth of his coffin before the crimson rays of the sun touch his unholy body and end his existence. He searches the streets with keen eyes, finding not as much as a cat. He enters on what appears to be the main street of the dead city. He thinks, "If there is life in the city, surely this is the place to find it."
But he is proven wrong again. For this street lined with bars and houses of pleasure is as quiet as Sunday morning in the country. "Where are the people?" he wonders, near panic. "Is there no one here?" he shouts aloud. The hunger in his voice falls upon his ears only, as his screams echo through the canyons of the city. He turns down a side street, one lined with fancy shops and clean restaurants. Then he stops dead in his tracks and glares into one of the shop's display windows. There is someone standing in that window! H1s next move is a rampaging charge.
A few feet from the window he leaps into the air and breaks through the glass, dropping on h1s intended victim. He quickly, heedless of what he does, sinks his fangs into the neck of his captive. He breaks one of his fangs as he withdraws them from the neck of a wooden mannequin. Cursing h1s misfortune, he leaves the shop 1n total dismay.
7

He stops outside the door and stares at the moon.
He will not have to give up his search because the time is short and dawn is coming on.
As he travels through the early morning hours, weak from bloodthirst, he chances upon a military base. It looks to be an Air Force base, for it has many large buildings that look to be hangers. There are also great towers. It is now no surprise to him to find it also deserted. He lurches over to what appears to be the runway.
Long and cold, with the night lights still shining bright. No doubt turned on by some hidden computer. He starts to leave but turns back again quickly as he hears a noise behind him. It is the front page of some newspaper gliding across the runway, blown by the breeze of the fast approaching dawn. It brakes at his feet so he picks it up.
He gasps as he stares at the headline. "Russia declares war on China. The end is now!" There is no date. Apparently what happened, he thinks, is that the humans have killed theirselves off in one of their wars. How, he knows not. Either by germ or atom, he cares not. All he knows is that without humans he will die, and he has only one choice left.
As the sun breaks over the mountain peaks, he stands there and smiles to himself as he thinks,
"It looks like it's going to be a good day."
8
For English 250.
by Joy Amisano
The hard-worked word!
Misused, malignant,
Labored in service of the flagrantly fatuous.
Spoken, poor broken word
Falls from the tongue with a plop
Like a turd
In a pasture of careless cows;
Written, wastes the pulp.
Such sacrilege that words should serve The ill-conceived, the imprecise. Preserve their sanctity!
Avoid the heresy Of words poorly employed.
9

SNOWFLAKES
by Ellen Stowell
Softly they fell large flakes of purish angels that turned into tiny glitters of white fluff wet and tender they clung to my hair
while I stood surrounded by their endless beino I walked through it I jumped in it and I held out my hand to catch them one by one and I felt peace within me
I felt I could reach out and touch the whole world because I was caught in their silence and then it stopped and the ground was covered only with a trace.
10
That Old Lamp
by Walt Hosley
I think about that old lamp
as I sit alone in this dingy tomb.
It sits on a wobbly table just across the room.
Once it was new and proud and some grand lady's delight.
Now it sits here and gives me light.
Some of its roses are missing and the base is tarnished and dusty.
The shade is dented
But that's alright, no one sees it but me.
I wonder how old it can be.
It has a plastic cord.
How long have they been using plastic?
Can it be that long? Can I be that old? Oh Lord
There's a tilt to the shade I've considered trying to right it but I won't. It gives it a jaunty look that just seems to fit.
I like that old lamp,
We have much in common.
Dents, bruises, parts missing, and hair dusted with gray.
I too have been rejected because I'm old and worn.
Are we destined to sit here together. Alone and forlorn?
I could try to repair that lamp but how can I make me right?
I wonder how long it will be
before this old lamp ceases to give light?
11

Foreplay
by Charles L. Dunlap
Lean of leg stout of arm length of chain now some harm
to the wall in the cuff not too bloody just enough
now the whip say when dear rip the clothes and not a tear
S and M is the name of our perversion we do it only for diversion
12
Captured
by Lenora Prescott
I didn't hear anything, so I decided to look around, but when I tried to raise my head, it felt heavy. What was wrong with me I wasn't sure where I was or how I came to be there. I tried again to turn my head and this time managed with difficulty. I was closed in on all four sides, but this side was made of glass so I could see out.
"If only I could sit up" I thought.
Why couldn't I get up? What's happening to me? I couldn't remember anything. I was terrified, so I screamed--just once--then reason returned. Luckily, no one heard me, or they weren't concerned with my plight. Since my position was so unsure, it was probably best not to attract undue attention Sooner or later I would discover who or what was in control here.
Reason—logic, I knew, was my hope. Slowly I checked my person as far as I was able in my semi-immobile state. All my personal effects had been taken from me.
I was dressed in underclothes and covered in a blanket. Again I felt like panicking, but forced myself to be calm.
What could I do? How could I get out of here? I must keep still.
I stuffed a fist into my mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to tear from my lips. Someone was coming! Whatever they wanted, I must go along with them until I understood why they wanted me--I must!
Then I saw "it"! A strange being was towering over me! Now nothing could stop my frightened cry for help. This was a creature unlike anything I had ever known.
13
A gag was quickly placed 1n my mouth and I was silenced, but my eyes grew large as they followed the monster around the room.
The creature, many times larger than myself, lifted me from the box.
I tried to kick out at this monster, but my movements seemed puny against Its strength. My arms, flung In self-defense, were easily restrained as I was fastened to a table. Although still terribly frightened,
I began to realize that the monster did not want to harm me.
Why I was here I still didn't know. I must wait, must stay alert. As the gag was removed, it was replaced by strange looking tubes which I sensed were a means of force-feeding. However, there must have been a sleep-inducer in the container as well, for I soon fell asleep to waken several hours later back in the box. At least I felt safe there.
My basic needs were taken care of periodically and I continued to be force-fed since I was very weak and unable to make the creature understand anything. Time passed.
Drowsy through inactivity, I slept for hours at a time. Often, when awake, I heard the creature make strange sounds. Although certainly not music, the sound was peculiarly soothing. I guessed the tone was supposed to brainwash me into submission. The monster was a highly designed creature that would take all my resources to conquer.
I decided my best plan was to befriend the creature and gain its confidence until I found the means to escape.
I tried to talk to the monster, but my attempt was useless, for it couldn't understand me, although it seemed to like to hear me. What could I do?
Perhaps I could learn the creature's language. It was a long tedious process, but I was growing stronger all the time. I
14
studied the formation of the strange sounds the creature made until one day I became desperate.
The stranger had taken me from the box and strapped me into a chair. Fearing what was to happen now, I decided it was time to try to communicate.
The beast seemed overjoyed when I spoke, "Ma-Mai"
15
•**

Charnel Charades
by Michael L.P. Jones
We spoke of his escape plans again
I with serious flippancy He with an intensity of hopelessness
He was here when I came and will rema i n
when I leave
and although his schemes sound pitifully comical
I don't laugh along with him
I just look at the floor or ceiling and
wonder
if this past millennium has been God's seventh day
16
the forgotten rule
by merlin d russell jr
right
red
he passed the
yel1owyel1owyel1owyel1owyel1ow yel1owyel1owyel1owyel1owyel1ow
impatient at the slow old	fellow
65 or 70
and followed those sexy curves along the road and met a vette
&%5
and died
17
Ten Little Workers
by Scott Bunt
Ten little workers Crossing picket lines One met up with union boys Now there's only nine.
Nine little workers Move from state to state The immigration board got one Now there's only eight.
Eight little workers Counting to eleven One wired dynamite for ten Now there's only seven.
Seven little workers Fed up with cheap tricks One told labor leaders off Now there's only six.
Six 1ittle workers One took a dive From forty stories up Now there's only five.
Five little workers
Lined up at the door
One was told there were no jobs
Now there's only four.
Four little workers One got a degree
Packed and left for pre. med. school Now there's only three.
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Three little workers One said he would sue The boss arranged an accident Now there's only two.
Two little workers Tired and on the run One met with the IRS Now there's only one.
One little worker Hoping for a break Joined the local Mafia Now all he eats is steak.
19

The Poet
by Mary Nelson
The poet lives life through verse and rhyme. He gives us much more than thoughts in time.
As he looks beyond into the sky, reaching for heaven his hopes are high
Though he may acquire some faint applause, knows little fame for such a cause
His words are sacred, for they convey the beauty he finds throughout the day.
The poet is proud for he is free to understand life through poetry.
20
Helen's Revenge
by Urban D. Prescott
Mr. Toren slowly laid the pictrafhone down and staggered back, quickly regained his bearing, then checked his body from head to toe. His eyes were fixed on the kitchette as he was certain Helen had heard the pictra, even though she was busy sterilizing the supper disks.
"Oh, jingles! I forgot to cancel the mode," he mumbled and slid his hand across the bulb.
Had he heard Doc Deans correctly? How could Doc have done such a thing to a friend of almost twenty years?
"Slimery Catfish," he thought. "There won't be enough left of me for anyone to come visit."
"Whats that, Henry?" Helen broke in from the kitchette.
"Um...er! good goffers! Stop trying to pry in, will ya?" Nag! Nag! Nag! Henry mumbled. "That's one good thing about the 90’s," Henry thought half aloud. Life would be almost worthless without that nagging from Helen", although right now he was tempted to push the button and retract her into the kitchette storeattic. "Whew! It's enough to scare the fuzz off one's feet," Henry thought.
By now his mind was racing like a tunnel car.
Helen was putting the supper disk and glasses into the shelfboards and he took advantage of the break to reminisce.
To be certain 1999 had brought about some dramatic medical breakthroughs. In some ways he was glad to have been born when he was. He was able to see all the changes come about. Really, he should have been born twenty years later, then he would not be quite so artificial. It had been ten years since anyone had died from cancer in Henry's town. Chickenpox was something children studied about in history, as were all the other childhood diseases that plagued people in his grandfather's day. Hospitals no longer had need for facilities to treat the sick. Pills were
21
out and medicine producting companies by the thousands had gone bankrupt. The hospitals only took accident and special case patients now.
Henry could see the hospital from his sharing-room on the three hundredth floor. In fact, he could see right into the cloning section from his bedroom window. He had to report across from there in just three weeks.
Henry's thoughts were deep now as he reflected on the simple life.
"$2.00 a gallon for gas, an 8-hour work day, a new car for a mere ten grand, a hamburger for $1.50, and even real kids--like my little 'home grown' Julie."
"Yes, sir-ee," thought Henry. "She's no lab baby!" What pleasures she had brought into Helen's and h1s lives. If only he had listened to Julie and her mother a little more when it was possible to still be human! But, no! He had to be the guinea pig. He would like to be able to get sick again like he did in the old days. Then he was able to take a day off once and awhile--even when he wasn't too sick.
"Dumb me! Right now, I should be sick to my stomach!" he thought.
He put his hand on h1s stomach. It felt good--too good. He felt it again.
"Good goffers," he gulped. "No stomach?" H1s mind quickly went to all h1s other parts. He brought his arms up and bulged his huge biceps, a miracle of Japanese muscle shots. His left leg, somewhat bionic, was created by a firm 1n New Thailand. His new baby blue eyes were a discovery of a firm in Rochester,
New York. He now had better than 20-20 vision plus night vision. Henry pushed in on his stomach. Helen called him a camel. He could eat and store food for days or he could skip meals for days. He could drink a gallon of any liquid at one sitting. That came in handy at times.
Henry turned toward the wall mirror. He was scared!
"What's bugging you?" Helen insisted as she walked past him to the sharing-room.
"Aw, nothing...nothing! Will ya quit nagging me.
22
Good goffers! can't a man even answer the pictraphone without getting the 6th degree?" Henry turned away and smiled to himself. "Man, it sure seems good to have a real woman," he thought. She had always been beautiful. Her 5 foot 10 inch frame, fair skin, dark hair and eyes had won Henry's heart some 22 years ago. Henry still could not resist the sparkle in Helen's eyes when she was angry. She was so much like his mother! What a woman! Mother had nagged Dad from morning 'til night, too. Sure was a lot of love in that home. Dad threatened to leave home almost every day, but come bedtime that threat would start to weaken as Mom started to move toward the bedroom. Henry remembered he thought there must have been something magic in that room. He had stood inside the door many times, but it looked exactly like any other bedroom he had ever seen.
Henry swallowed hard. Big tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He brushed them quickly away with his sleeve as he spotted Helen studying him from the sharing-room.
"I'm not going to be able to keep it from her much longer," he thought. "Sure's gonna be lonesome when Helen's gone. She's one of the few good ones left." She had turned down the eternal life shots.
"What's good enough for Father and Mother is good enough for me," she argued.
Actually, Helen was every bit as beautiful today as she was the day he had met her—in some ways much more beautiful. She had such a strong, intelligent poise about her.
"Dumb me," Henry thought. "I have caused her so much pain! I couldn't convince her to take the eternal life shots, but I got mine, even at the cost of a full year's wages at Data Processing, plus 65% of their life's savings." He could afford it, he reasoned, because he had eternal life to catch up.
His cloned friends didn't have to pay a cent for this feature. It was bred in. People born of natural parents could buy spare parts at any supermarket. A
23
kidney cost a mere thousand dollars (just a day's wages). Henry's new heart had cost him only $150,000 as he was a member of the Eternal Life Plan. A growth on his toe had prompted him to order a new one while at the market the other day.
"At least I can keep that," he thought.
Probably, the news now would not have been quite so bad had it not been for the stupid thing he had done a while back in the doctor's office. Doc Deans had gotten a new shot experiment to restore the color to graying hair. Henry expected to hear Helen's protest when he got home, but he took the shot anyway, and he had talked sweet little red-haired Julie into taking the shot too, believing it would redden and preserve her already beautiful auburn hair. To the surprise of Doc Deans, that shot had turned their hair to genuine steel wire. Doc Deans stood the cost, but poor Julie would wear a wig the rest of her life and Henry had an eternity to look forward to fighting the rust whenever he perspired. It would even bleed through their hair pieces. Just a little moisture and trouble started. A special bathing cap had to be designed to make it possible for poor Julie to swim.
"Three weeks 1 Oh now!" Henry cried, his feet nearly leaving the floor. "That's the day Julie's getting married 1"
"Ok, Henry! That's about all I'm gonna take from you," Helen said as she came storming out of the sharing-room "Now out with it! Out! Out! Out!"
"Hold it, will ya, Helen! Eternal life doesn't make you immune to hurt, ya know."
"I'll hurt ya! I'll tear your hair...er...I mean I'll rip your wires out!"
Helen was very close to losing her temper and Henry knew it. He figures it was coming. He had better tell her before she damaged him somehow.
"Ok! Ok! I'll tell you, Helen 1f you promise not to laugh.
"Laugh!" Helen screamed. "What's there to laugh at? I'm so mad I could rip your stupid head off.
24
But I'm game! So go ahead! Try me!"
Helen stood frozen for quite a few minutes. Had she heard him right? Then Helen could stand 1t no longer. She started to chuckle...then giggle...and soon she was holding her stomach. She couldn't help herself. The pressure had finally broken. All those years of mental torture that Henry had put their family through had finally caught up to him. Helen had told him for years that he was just a half a man. Now it was about to come true. Steadying herself against the bar, Helen reached for the tissue-dispenser. "Ha ha ha ha," she giggled. "Recalled!
I can't believe it! Recalled!"
Henry stood dazed—his Helen having the laugh of her life. He really should have retracted her into the kitchette store-attic.
Then all at once he came to recognize another voice laughing. He realized it was Doc Deans coming from the pictra. Doc was laughing so hard he was crying. As Henry turned toward the pictra he tried to compose himself. Seeing the anger in Henry's face helped to shorten the enjoyment.
"Sorry, Henry," Doc Deans chuckled, "but that had to be the funniest thing I've ever seen." "What right you got spying on me? I didn't flip the view mode."
"I didn't intend to spy on you Henry," Doc said apologetically, "but you didn't answer your pictra.
I knew you were home and I thought maybe Helen had really done you in after we had canceled, so I had the operator Intervene. Anyway I have good news for you."
"No more good news,Doc, you've got me in so much hot water now I'll miss Julie's wedding, and who knows what'll happen on that table. My eternal life plan might not be enough to save me this time, but, what's the news?"
Doc cleared his throat, "We can qet rid of the wire," Doc said. "Yep, I've spent every sDare minute on this thing experimenting on a French Poodle, and I've got him looking like a Scotch Terrier."
25
4S.
Just then a shot rang out. Henry turned around and there stood Helen with a still smoking gun 1n her hand. She had shot Doc. The screen was black and smoke was curling out of the face.
"Doc! Doc!, you shot Doc!" Henry cried.
26
Easter in America
by Joy Amisano
my God has not abandoned me, and Peter,
profane, pagan pest, does not occupy His place, pity, poor Cottontail, but Bunny Trail can not approach
Christ's Way to Calvary.
not for bunnies
was the burden borne,
nor was it borne in baskets.
faithless Flop-Ear is forsaken.
27

Reality
by Mike Meleski
There she sits
Eye Contact,
She looks away, then, Back,	Away,
Back,	Away,
Back,	Away,
Back.
She gets up, and starts walking over to me.
What will she say?
My chest is POUND ing POUND This is my dream happening!
Across from me
ing.
What's	her long walk
taking so to over?
She's here.
I'm here.
She'll say the words I want to hear.
Then...from her mouth,
Come words I'm not prepared for.
"Hey, what are you, some kind of wEirDO?
Stop staring at me or I'll have my BOYFRIEND rearrange
your f " a e c
28
A Tale of Vhen in
the Season of the Sun
by Merlin D. Russell Jr.
In land of lort and coo-joo-lot, of mystik merry maids and little men who hide in blooms of psychedellik schades,
there lived a wizard known by none. He practiced deep in dark.
A frothy mixture to conjure was hoped to leave its mark.
"Lyzzard skloam and eye of krow some coo-joo-lot with weed.
Alas! I have forgotten Nag, the verry thing I need."
He turned to his Glas upon the wall, inhaled thrice and spoke with gall. "Boog-noog, Boog-noog on the wall, who's the Nagyrtt of them all?"
From deep inside a voice replied.
"She lives upon the Hi 11e of Vhen, a Nag of only six.
She's guarded by six royal men with pro-marail styx.
"I caution you of evil trade one holds inmortal power.
His name is Merlin, be now quik!
He sleeps this verry hour."
29
So mounted Kaxx his horid beast, behemoth from Below.
Into the Ski is of Brax they flew anticipating foe.
Now Vhen was supernatural, a mountain in the stars, a kingdom of fein will to all, and ruled by goodly czars.
Above the czars there stood but one, the Nagyrtt of the Sun, whose power o'er the universe was second just to one.
Her power, guided by the men with pro-marail styx, was envied by the wizard Kaxx and sought through evil tricks.
The six men, brothers, strong and bold were sent'nels of her court.
Day and night their duty was to guard the sacred fort.
As evil wizard neared the hi lie, he changed into a scop.
He slowly walked upon the stairs that led him to the top.
As he approached the carven door the first of Six spoke out.
"Where came ye from, what seek ye here?" "Pax vobiscum. Please don't shout.
I am a poet, minstral too.
I've come to play for you."
With magic pipe and melodeep, the first of Six was soon asleep.
30
So entered Kaxx the citadel as Schtave slept on the floor.
He peered into his magic bag, new knowledge to implore.
When suddenly from 'hind a cove two of the Six attacked 1 With east Kaxx calmly jumped aside 'cause speed is what they lacked.
"Aha!" cried Kaxx, "My foolery has not deceived your eyes."
He held his black bag out at them and much to their surprise
they schrank, 'till they were of no size.
The wizard's cack'ling laugh rang out and echoed through the hall.
He placed the two men in his bag. Continued down the mall.
Through labyrinth the wizard searched until he found the room, where Nagyrtt sat, quite unaware of chance of sudden doom.
Afore the entrance stood two more, the eldest of the Six.
As Kaxx approached the guards engaged their pro-marail styx.
The wizard froze, he could not move The weapons found their mark.
Then cautiously the guards approached. Then everything went dark.
The wizard's cack'ling laugh rang out
and echoed through the hall
for they had only froze h1s ghost.
Kaxx stood above them tall.
31
"You fools below, now look above!"
'held forth the open bag.
"A trade I offer unto you, your brothers here for Nag."
The two men stood in silence now.
Their brotherhood was dear but Michael spoke aloud and said,
"Wizard we do not fear
"The power you hold within your hands
e'en though you hold the two,
for we have duties, Nag comes first.
We know what we must do."
With that the guards raised up their styx as wizard raised a mirror.
The ray they shot bounced back at them.
No doubt, they'd made an error.
So entered Kaxx into the room.
Sat Nagyrtt 'midst her maids.
Silence fell upon her court.
She summoned for her aids.
The wizard's cack'ling laugh rang out and echoed through the hall.
"0 Nagyrtt, helpless one indeed for you have lost them all!"
The wizard's cack'ling laugh rang out and echoed through the hall.
"0 Kaxx have you forgotten me, the greatest of them all?"
Kaxx slowly turned, gazed at the door where Merlin stood alone,
1n star-embroidered uniform and hat shaped like a cone.
32
The two magicians knew right then their power'd be put to test, a battle fought for all to see which one of them was best.
Kaxx dumped the two men from his bag returned them to their size.
He unfroze Michael, Gari too and wakened Schtaver's eyes.
"Though I be bad and ye be good all wizards must be fair.
I	have a code of ethics too."
His voice rang through the air.
A mumb'ling went among the crowd as Merlin raised his arm.
"The contest must be held away to keep those here from harm."
A site was chosen quite afar amidst the coo-joo-lot.
Kaxx nodded h1s approval as Merlin picked out a spot.
Then suddenly Kaxx turned himself into an evil beast, while Merlin changed into a wind that blew from west to east.
The violent gusts blew piles of dust into the eyes of Kaxx.
Then Merlin took advantage as he raised a sharpened axe.
When Kaxx's vision cleared he saw the blade slice through his head.
Great gobs of gore went spilling forth. He shuddered and dropped dead.
33
Then slowly there appeared a ghost.
It rose up from the beast.
It drifted with the piles of dust that blew from west to east.
And from the ghost a voice was heard. A cack'ling laugh rang out.
"0 Merlin you and I both know you've only won this bout."
And Merlin knew there'd be a day when they would meet once more.
For Kaxx the Evil Wizard, aimed to even up the score.
So back at Vhen, the peaceful place was normal once again, where Nagyrtt sat upon her throne whilst guarded by six men.
34
The First Patrol
by Craig Van Horn
The firefight had started unexpectedly when the squad Pvt. Blackburn had just joined stumbled into an enemy patrol. He had been surprised by the speed of his reactions to the first shots. Without any conscious thought, he had started to return fire and, at the same time, had located a shallow depression in the ground into which he had been able to jacknife most of his six foot two inch frame. He hadn't been able to see any of the enemy. He had just fired his rifle at points from which the enemy fire seemed to come. Quiet had returned suddenly.
Blackburn lay still and decided that the smell of his first firefight was the same as the smell of rolling ten fourth of July fireworks displays together and setting them off at the same time. The sounds had been worse. It had taken him only a split second to identify the odd flat whipping sounds were that were going past his head. The reality that they were the sounds of someone trying to kill him was just now sinking in. The sound that disturbed him the most was the bubbling sound that came from Hodges, the man five yards to his right. A bullet had ripped through Hodges' throat and Hodges was still making the bubbling sounds. It reminded Blackburn of a kid blowing air through a straw Into h1s milk. The sound grated on his already taut nerves, sending shivers down h1s spine.
Blackburn forced h1s mind to stop thinking about the bubbling sounds and concentrated on trying to detect sounds and sights that might indicate the presence of the enemy in the surrounding jungle. At first all he could
35

hear was the rustling of the tree branches over his head. Soon he was able to hear the cries of some birds in the distance. Shafts of sunlight filtered through holes in the green canopy, formed by the trees, casting a surrealistic haze to the surrounding brush, vines, and trees. The men of the squad couldn't spot any suspicious movement in the surrounding foliage.
A few minutes after the gunfire ceased the short, stocky figure of Sgt. Alderman separated itself from the shrubbery at the base of a tree thirty feet to Blackburn's right side. Sgt. Alderman stood, half crouched, trying to decide if it was safe to start the men forward again. A full two minutes passed before Blackburn saw Sgt. Alderman turn and assign two men to stay with Hodges until the rest of the company moved up. The Sergeant then swung his right arm in an arch to start the rest of the squad moving cautiously through the now silent jungle.
Blackburn pushed himself up from the shallow depression and started to walk slowly forward. The squad had quit the trail they had originally been following before the firefight and started through the dense underbrush of the jungle into which the enemy had fled. Blackburn's back was aching from the weight of his pack and flak vest. He wished that he had not rolled the sleeves of his shirt up earlier because the thick underbrush was now poking and tearing at his bare arms. The underbrush started to thin. Twenty feet 1n front of him, Blackburn saw a black-clad body half hidden by the undergrowth. As he started to approach the body, a shot cracked through the silent jungle. Blackburn dropped to the ground and looked for the source of the shot. He saw Sgt. Alderman lowering his rifle. "Blackburn!" shouted the Sergeant, "I'm only going to tell you this once. Just because a person doesn't move, doesn't mean that he's dead. Shoot the
36
bastard again to make sure that he's done for, or one of these days some dead son-of-a-bitch is gonna blow your brains out! Got 1t, kid?
I know you're green, but you can only make one mistake out here. Now search the body.
When Blackburn turned toward the body again, he saw that the top rear two thirds of the head had disintegrated and part of the brains were now lying on the ground behind what was left of the guy's head. The dead man's left eye stared at Blackburn as he came closer. All that was left of the right eye was a bloody pulp that hung by tattered muscles across the bridge of his nose. The Sergeant was one hell of a good shot. Blackburn's stomach was starting to turn. As he got closer, the stench of warm blood mixed with the smell of feces and urine made a hot, sour taste come to the back of Blackburn's mouth. Blackburn set his rifle on the ground beside the body. Then he squatted at the head, grabbed the carcass under the arms and pulled the body from under the bush so that it was completely exposed. In the process, some of the body's brains fell onto Blackburn's bare forearm. Blackburn turned around and vomited.
Beads of perspiration ran down Blackburn's forehead as he turned and started to search the body. A ration pouch and bed roll crossed the man's chest from the right shoulder to the left hip. Blackburn cut these off with his bayonet and examined them. The ration pouch contained rice, which Blackburn threw to the jungle floor. The bed roll consisted of an old blanket and mosquito netting. Next, Blackburn turned his attention to the body itself. He ran his hands over the still warm upper torso. He felt a slight bulqe inside the black shirt, to the right of two neat little holes where bullets had entered the man's chest and heart. When he ripped the
37
black shirt open,he found a thin book that appeared to be a diary. The book hung In a small bag that was attached to a string running around the corpse's neck. The only other Items that Blackburn found were two spare clips of ammunition and a canteen of water. When he was through searching the body, Blackburn took the diary to Sgt. Alderman, who would turn 1t over to battalion Intelligence for evaluation.
Blackburn stumbled through the next two hours of the patrol 1n a state of near shock. He couldn't keep his mind from wandering back to the body search. Every time he thought of the brains falling from the dead man's skull onto his bare arm, he would feel the queasy, hot sensations return to h1s stomach and the back of his throat. When they took a break to eat, Blackburn mechanically opened h1s C ration can. It took just one look at the canned ham and scrambled eggs to make him start retching again.
Three hours after the chow break the patrol reached their pick-up point. The helicopter pick-up of the patrol and the flight to their base camp was uneventful, but it took Blackburn several days to adjust to what he had seen on h1s first patrol.
38
Alchemy of a Police Officer or
The Mettle of the Man
by Charles L. Dunlap
Heart of gold with
character so sterling
Nerves of steel command guts of Iron
Works for nickels tho
fleet as mercury
Wears a badge of tin but
Is known as copper
The only compound man
has ever found
that gets polished
brighter
day after day
from constant rubbing 1n
the wrong way.
39

Face of Death
by Beverly A. O'Neil
Does death wear a frightening face?
Or is it one that's commonplace
Fear or joy Which does it employ?
Death, a hooded skull With empty eyes
or
A smiling friend to lead us On the path from life's cruel lies
Someday we will know Is death an ending or beginning Losing or winning?
40
Three Views of Death:	Three Answers
by Beverly O'Neil
A hooded skull with empty eyes Is the last to hear one's earthly sighs.
I
Cold and lonely Void of light Death 1s a journey through A fog-ridden night.
A bony hand, a sardonic grin A macabre face will show you in.
II
Sunshine and a field of flowers Will be the scenes of time's last hour We will join a smiling friend With hope that this will never end.
Ill
Death will be a deja vu A rerun of what we always do You'll never forget your mistakes and strife For we will be fated To repeat the things we hated In this, an endless life.
41
Logical Progression
by Dale L. Rook
The old man sat alone 1n a green oasis.
His eyebrows shone like two white caterpillars against the dark bronze of h1s skin. Sadness filled his eyes as an approaching cloud of dust resolved into an ant1-grav sled.
"So you found me. Don't look so surprised. I knew you were looking for me, or someone like you. Logical conclusion. I'm the last of rny species, a curiosity, a passing of a way of life. Sooner or later someone had to come.
Yes, I know we're enemies. Everything around me serves to remind me. But here we'll sit and converse. The last native and the curious invader. Just the two of us face to face sitting on the last bit of greenery by the last pool of pure water.
You sure don't look like a conqueror, sitting there in your soiled gold and white uniform. And I'll bet you didn't feel as confident as you look now when we made you pay a life for a life for a now worthless planet.
We knew that you'd win. Does that surprise you? It shouldn't. Your technology overwhelmed us on every level except one. My people died knowing you wouldn't be able to use our world for at least five thousand years. Or possibly never.
That's why you searched this dying planet looking for me. You can't understand the sacrifice of billions of lives and the total destruction of a planet in an effort to defeat you. Why? I'm surprised you didn't figure it out for yourself. We were trying
42
to stop the inexorable turning of the wheel of time.
We failed. Now your kind is on the rise. But 1t's your turn to get what's coming... please put your laser back 1n its holster. I'm just an old man and no threat to you. Here,
I've got some----"
The smell of charred flesh filled the air. Slowly, the alien rose and walked over to examine the old man. Underneath a blanket he found a box that the old man had reached for.
"You shouldn't have moved so fast, old enemy," he said opening the box cautiously.
Inside was a flag made of stars and stripes covering a headdress of feathers which, in turn, covered a wooden club.
43
Where Do Old Birds Go?
by Walt Hosley
From the mother's nest the young birds fly to explore the world.
Do they know why?
When they are grown and take to air do they look back do they really care?
Can they recall their first born or their last?
Have they memories of times past?
Do they mourn for days of yore and pray, oh please, just a few more
Do they feel sorrow for a mate departed Do they brood and cry alone and broken hearted.
If they don't they are luckier than I Where do old birds go to die?
44
He's Dead
by D.W. Humphrey
I didn't realize it before, but he died last night.
The one I was yesterday is gone.
He's been doing that each day for years.
I haven't buried him, for he still lives —
1n the one I am today.
The one I am today is made of all the ones I was.
I've tried to save the pieces of all I used to be.
I use them to be the one I am, and the one I'm going to be.
45
*V
BLUE MONDAY
by Ellen Stowell
The child was waiting to be born.
He wanted to come at the right time, but not yet.
He felt so secure, so independent in his own little world.
The outside one was yet to come The child was growing fast and soon it was time. He would finally see the other world, where he would have a different kind of security and a total dependence on the two people who created him.
The outside world was there, waiting, but he would never live to see it.
The child gasped for air.
The people were frantic.
They called it a Blue Monday.
He died.
He wasn't wanted anyway.
46
THE BORING MAN or
THE STORY THAT SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN TOLD
by Mike Meleski
If you are looking for drama, excitement, humor, or educational value in a short story, don't bother reading this. You will find none of the above 1n any of the below.
This story is about a basically average middle-aged man named John Smith. You say that John Smith is a dull name? Well, what did you expect? This is a dull story.
Once upon a time (all dull stories start like that) there was a man that owned a house. It wasn't a big house but it wasn't a small house. The color of the house was beige. Every weekday morning, this man named John would wake up, visit the bathroom, drink a cup of coffee, visit the bathroom again, and go off to work. He drove his Oldsmoblle to work. He was an accountant.
After accounting from 9:00 to 1:00, he would take a one-hour lunch break. He brown-bagged h1s lunch every day. Every day, he would eat two cheese sandwiches, an apple, and a twinkee. The twinkee was the most exciting part of his day.
After lunch, he would account till 5:00 and then he would rush home to catch the last half hour of Merv Griffin. He would then have dinner, visit the bathroom, and settle down 1n his Lazy Boy to watch Bowling for Dollars on his black and white TV.
At the end of Bowling for Dollars, he would take a nap until 8:00, when he would watch Little House on the Prarie, The Waltons, or whatever was on channel 3. His TV would only get one channel.
At 9:00, if no awards show was on channel 3, he would visit the bathroom, set his alarm for 7:30, and go to sleep. It was a way to pass the time.
The weekends were much the same as the weekdays, only instead of going to work he would mow the lawn, and instead of watching Merv Griffin and Bowling for Dollars, he would watch Lawrence Welk and Celebrity Bowling. The high point of his weekend was thumbing through his stamp collection.
47

After 38 years of perfecting his ritualistic routine, something came up to put an end to 1t all.
He died.
Thus ends the story of the boring man, the story that shouldn't have been told. Why was it told? Because some people are naive enough to read anything Oh, what did he die of? What else? Natural causes.
48
Tomorrow's Land
by Mary Nelson
As we travel through the realms of time, we grow stronger 1n our direction.
Our paths challenge us to make choices, which will 1n turn form our very lives.
Where we are destined Is not yet known, but we foresee some greater meaning.
Today we are pulled towards the light of tomorrow.
Yesterday 1s done.
We learn words of truth when we listen, to the voices of tomorrow's land.
49
Disillusionment at Four
by Mary C. Keenan
I	awoke strangely on that brisk November night back 1n '74. I remember glancing over at the lighted dial on my digital clock.
4:06 a.m. How odd it was to wake up at the hour out of the twenty-four which I hated the most. It was the time that was bleak and grey, a time when the world had to decide whether to wake for another day or die. I sat up and listened to the sounds of the city, or I should say the lack of them. No horns or sirens pierced the cold night air, no dogs barked, not even the eerie sounds of an alley cat could be detected. Just frigid, hushed stillness, the only sound that penetrated this absurd hour.
I lay down and tried to go back to sleep, but my efforts went unrewarded. I got up, dressed, and before even thinking about it, was out the door and down on the empty street below. The air was motionless and icy and I rubbed my hands together and started down the long, unfeeling street.
I studied the apartment houses on each side of the street and wondered if it was true that the dwelling reflected the personalities of those within. I hoped not, for all these buildings were scrubbed, grey, beige and white stone. Although I lived in one of the best parts of town and these buildings were thought by many to be elegant, I was left with a chill that had nothing to do with the cold November morning. I thought about my own life. Was I like all of those barren, faceless characters who lived all around me?
My whole life now flashed before me in
50
its rigid, boring framework. I was born to an upper middle class family and lived 1n a small town 1n New England. I went to a private preparatory school, then graduated from Brown University with a master's degree in business administration.
I came to the city and found a high paying job with a reputable business firm, and that has been life ever since. No friends, few outside interests, not much time for my family, just time for my job.
Up at six, shower, do my hair, coffee, read the morning paper, dress in my crisp, businesslike clothes, put on my smug face and off to work. Always early, lunch at noon, stay late, take the job home with me, and on, and on, and on. Of course I had occasional dates with some of the stuffy business men 1n my office. Nothing serious ever developed, however, since both of us were always too busy trying to impress the other. I never really got to know the other person, sometimes I went home not even knowing the man's last name. It did not matter, though. I was much too busy for marriage or family.
That awful chill returned as I contemplated my routine, sterile life. I was boring, selfish, self-centered and worst of all, alone.
I had lived most of my life in a vacuum and now I knew I had to change things in order to be whole. I myself was just like those faceless characters who lived all around me.
I fit right in because I was one of them.
It took me thirty years to learn the horrible truth about myself.
I started back toward my apartment with vigor and a passion my life had never before known. My brief happiness was cut short when I saw the clock on the bank two blocks from my apartment. 4:06 a.m. How could this
51
possibly be? I left my home at 4:06 and I had been walking at least forty-five minutes I decided n\y clock must have been wrong and again I started on my way.
I ran up the stairs and once Inside my apartment looked at the clock. 4:06 a.m.
I checked the electricity and everything worked. I was back outside and to the bank in no time. 4:06. I ran a few more blocks and peered inside a big store window. 4:06. Now In a frenzy I ran to the town square and looked at the giant clock that loomed up before me, again 4:06. Once more I was so wrapped up in myself that I failed to notice what had been happening around me. Now I looked around, but not one living thing could be detected. Not a cat or a dog not a single policeman, not even a wino. No noise. No traffic. Just a grey, stationary city. The world had died and left me sole survivor, a fate worse than death itself.
I sank to the bitter damp ground below me and wondered"1f this was my punishment for the way I had been living. Oh God, anything but this! I sat for hours in solitude, but nothing changed. It was still 4:06 a.m., still cold, still dead.
I stood up and slowly in a trance-like state walked and walked and kept walking until I came to my final destination. The black steel giant loomed up before me and my thoughts made me shake violently. Realization had come too late for me. My eyes were now open but for what? I now knew that I needed other people, I needed to love and be loved, I needed friendship and I needed passion 1n my life. No one could Uve without these things, not even me.
I looked around me and my senses were
52
wide awake and drinking in everything around them. I saw all the bright lights that stood out from the grey background, smelled the fishy odor of the river, tasted the damp night air and felt the bite of the steel railing as I climbed up on the bridge. I looked up to the dark empty sky and then jumped. The water was icy cold but it enveloped me like a womb. I felt warm and at peace at last.
I sat straight up sweating and frightened. I automatically looked at my clock. 4:06 a.m. Oh, no, it just could not be! I kept my eyes on the clock for what seemed an eternity, then, click, 4:07 a.m. I lay back down and decided to take the day off--and to use it to plan ways of changing my life.
53
Terrestrially Temporal
by Michael L.P. Jones
Rain reflecting white lamps reflecting bl ue
on the glossy surface of bruised red bricks in the dimpled courtyard
like pools of lost thoughts independence colors/neglected promises stilled echoes/stiffled stentorlans njy paces muted 1n veneration of the dance macabre
of cornered leaves meandering enchanted forest of mortar and stone hiding splendid secrets
beneath a sodden sheen like pools of lost thoughts Rain
stealthily escapes to freedom but will grace me again in a distant courtyard
liberally in liberty
54
Stone Fruit
by Joy Amisano
Ripe peach: pink, plump, parted around a bittersweet pit:
fleshy, fruit enveloped
pit molded moistly,
bedded warmly,
pryed away
to reach the
inner core,
sticky,
sweet.
55

A Situation of Some Gravity
by Charles L. Dunlap
Everything comes to meet me, but no one comes to greet me.
Just lately I was discovered to be, and am explained by what you don't see.
Wherever I go I collect my due,
don't come too close, I'll get even you.
Everything has a purpose in being, it's hard to explain when not all seeing
I am a collector of matter and gasses, and take it all in as it passes.
I am selfish and give no returns.
I'm one of spaces expanding urns.
I gobble up everything, leavino no trace I am a greedy black hole in space.
56
Song of Hiawatha
by Scott Bunt
with apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I
On the banks of Gitchy Goomy Homeland of the great Sioux Nation Sat the proud, bold Hiawatha Warrior of God's creation
Far across the barren wasteland Scanned his eyes for sign of craft Carrying his strong white brothers As straight as an arrow shaft
For out beyond the water clear,
In satin shirts and shoes,
Sailed the mighty tycoon brains In outboard rigged canoes
And as they moved into his sight, Proposing business deals,
The last of great red fishing grounds Met with their Fluger reels.
II
On the banks of Gitchy Goomy,
Sight of many bloody raids,
Stood the proud brave Halwatha Who docked this massive boat parade.
The leader of the landing crew Extended hand to shake And from his upper pocket pulled A contract of strange make.
57
Its lines were blurred and oddly typed, In oriental tongue,
Assuring that they would not leave 'Till every brave was wrung.
"Just sign here on the dotted line,"
The spokesman shouted out.
"It's quite a deal; we'll buy your land It's simple! Have no doubt!"
So for each pilfered foot of ground The agents did receive Hiawatha and his tribe obtained ten plastic beads.
No sooner had this good will crew Removed itself from sight Than ten huge ships and passengers Appeared with mineral rights
And pushing all the Indian braves From territorial grounds They purged and ripped the sacred soil Amidst the drilling sounds.
Ill
On the banks of Gitchy Goomy Where once the Sioux were paid Cries the poor, sick Hiawatha An oilman now, by trade
And far as any eye can scan Along its solemn shores Rise derricks up to massive heights Destroying indian moors.
Where once the mighty tee-pees stood An office towers now Where corporation businessmen Recite their greenback vow.
58
Alone sulks poor sad Hiawatha
No longer a giant of power
But now, like all h1s former friends,
A laborer by hour
And out upon the crude filled fields
He stoops across a vat
In place of his chieftain's bonnet,
A yellow construction hat.
IV
On the banks of Gitchy Goomy Where once the squaws did utter Crawls the poor sick Hiawatha From the sludge filled gutter.
The taverns prove his only means To accept his horrid fate Washing all his income down In whiskey by the crate.
"The help you need is here indeed,"
A passerby calls out.
"I'll lift you from this useless life, You'll be saved without a doubt!"
So Hiawatha raises head With shallow, ashen face To see the speaker of these words Who caused him such disgrace.
Towering far above his form
Clutching a snake oil can
Is an ugly face from distant past;
The former Medicine Man.
"Get on your feet, my boy," he called, "And follow me through town,
For I will save your soul tonight Just clutch my tribal gown."
59
And staggering unto h1s feet He stumbled through the street Teetering on the river bank Determined death to cheat.
V
On the banks of Gitchy Goomy Where once his life was pure Lies the grim, cold Hiawatha Waiting for a magic cure.
"For such a special case as yours,"
His savior did decree,
"I'll mix a batch of falcon legs And some of these—Let's see...
"Two robin eyes and mouth of fly A pinch of poison root A hunk of flesh that's rotting green A piece of your own suit
"An eagle beak, a tooth of rat The tongue of yellow snail And now I'll add a pinch of salt To keep the flavour stale!"
With that the wizard did announce,
"It's like an ice cream float!"
And grabbing Hiawatha's head He forced it down his throat
But Hiawatha could not speak
Or comment on h1s plight
His face went blue, h1s eyes turned oranqe
And he passed out that night.
When he awoke the sun was up As light announced the day The liquor ghost had been exhumed His stomach burned away.
60
"I praise you great magician For all the good you've done And soon I will repay you all Our nation will be one!"
And on that note he took his leave Vowing to use h1s hand To drive the vicious forces from His people's promised land.
VI
On the banks of Gitchy Goomy Homeland of the great Sioux Nation Stands the reborn Hiawatha Scanning all the white creation.
In his hands he holds a rifle And on his left and right One thousand braves have formed a line That stretches through the night.
"The hour has come for us to call On those we do despise!"
So Hiawatha calls to them With fire within his eyes.
"The horses may be gone from here But that shall not stop me For from the far hills have I brought A sign of victory!"
And climbing on his sacred mount (A shaggy, toothless bear)
He raises up his muscled arm For all the men who're there.
"This mangy beast is just the thing We need to save the day A trace of courage stands among The chaos and dismay!"
61
The braves all screamed a tribal chant;
A ceremonial cry,
And then they launched their limber forms Across the darkening sky.
Descending on their old home grounds They all increased the roar And raped and ravaged womenfolk Like salesmen, door to door.
They stole the whiskey from the bars And knocked the derricks down They set the city hall on fire And pillaged through the town
And when at last the smoke had cleared There Hiawatha stood A young, white maiden at his breast Amidst the smoldering wood.
The bear was sleeping at their feet But rose without a word And as they clambered on its back The sight seemed quite absurd.
It carried them into the hills To mountains of the stars Of fresh and tasty springs of life And trees that speak of Mars
Of rising moons and setting suns Of birds both gold and red Of radiant warmth from brilliant rays That rest upon the head
Of fields of love and thoughts that bloom Of tales for young and old And to this day they roam this land Or so the stories told.
62
Writing a Pome While Sitting at Home
by Mike Meleski
There once was a girl from Nantucket
No, that's been used. I guess I'm not too deep. Maybe I can fake 1t. Let's see. Poem for English class.
The trees were a vivid grass-like green
No, that sucks.
The sky enveloped my very soul with it's majestic beauty
Come on!
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a Ferrari
True, but still bad. I know what I that word? Who cares? All I have to do or as.
Her life was like a poster, unrolled and yellow tape
That was poor!
Her hair was like the seaweed she
No, that's kinky. Metaphor! That's the word I couldn't think of before. I never did know what a metaphor was used for. Hey, that rhymes. Maybe I can use 1t. How come girls can write poetry so much easier that guys? Oh yeah, back to the poem. I know, I'll write 1n verse.
While she was walking over here,
I could not help myself but stare
need. What's 1s use like
hung up with la fed
in
63
Does that make sense? Who cares? The senselesser a poem is, the better. Oh well, try try again. I know, I'll use the abstract approach.
As time delay and the universal constancy delivers life's own destiny, the strong soul will enter a void of consciousness.
Did I write that? I'd better write more, I'm on a roll.
Meaning is in the mind of a creator,
But a creator's mind may be warped.
I could probably put any nine or ten phrases together and call it a poem and nobody would know the difference. That's it. I've got it!
There once was a girl from Nantucket,
Her life was like a poster unrolled and hung up, with yellow tape,
Her hair was like the seaweed she layed in.
The trees were a vivid grass-like green,
The sky enveloped my soul by its majestic beauty. While she was looking over here,
I could not help myself but stare.
As time delay and universal constancy delivers life's own destiny,
The strong soul will enter a void of consciousness. Meaning is in the mind of the creator,
But a creator's mind may be warped.
I think that I shall never see,
A poem as lovely as a Ferrari.
I think I'll write a short story instead.
64
J
Conflict of the Mind
by Donna Stone
Loveliest is the Springtime LEAVE ME, I have a cold
With eight bits a waltzing you could go YES, But I need a cleanex
You can bait a fish...with a worm! NO, I feel achey all over
The trees are budding in the nark! The flue bug's budded in my heart
COME, fly with me in the Springtime breeze! WHAT!...........I'd catch pneumonia
The sun is shining. The day is bright It hurts my swollen eyes
Five days and nights have come and gone It's time for you to face the dawn
TOMORROW, TOMORROW, I'LL FACE THE DAWN TOMORROW! "Today, I have a cold"
65

Homeward Bound
by Craig Van Horn
It took a few minutes for Danbarry to realize that he was lying flat on his back.
His eyes were closed and he could not seem to get enough strength together to open them. The last things that he could remember were a flash of light, a loud explosion, and a floating feeling. What had he been doing? Danbarry couldn't remember.
The darkness grew deeper. He felt like he was floating and tumbling over and over.
He couldn't stop it. "Oh, God, please stop the tumbling."
The pain in his right foot brought Danbarry out of the shadowy world of darkness. He could see a patch of deep blue sky with a border of dark green leaves. The light hurt his eyes, so Danbarry tried to close them.
He couldn't. His mouth was dry. He wanted to get a drink from his canteen but his arms and hands refused to move. A fly landed on his nose. Soon blackness floated over Danbarry again.
Shouts brought Danbarry back to consciousness. "Medic, over here!" a voice shouted. A dark hazy shape bent over him. Danbarry tried to speak but couldn't. The hazy shape spoke, "He's dead. He must have set off a booby trap. You guys had better watch your step. I'm getting so sick of looking at jerks who don't watch where they step. This is the fifth one I've looked at today that was killed by a trap. You add those five to the twelve that were killed when the chopper exploded and to the seven that were killed in the assault it gives us an even two dozen to send back to their mothers. I'm so sick of blood and guts that
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I can't see straight. Help me put him in a body bag."
Danbarry felt himself being lifted. A warm, clammy darkness descended on him as he was put into the sack. Pain shot through him when a man picked up the head of the bag and someone else picked up the bottom as they lifted him off the ground.
Danbarry's numbed mind had been slow to react to what the hazy shape had been saying. Realization of his hopeless situation started as a sickening warm sensation in the pit of his stomach and radiated over his entire body. I AM NOT DEAD! I AM ALIVE! I'M ALIVE!" screamed Danbarry's mind.
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Please Don't Flush the Toilet
by Merlin D. Russell, Jr.
Here I stand alive in Hell
trying to cleanse myself of all the filth
I have acquired.
And you always try to make thinos worse!
So
please don't flush the toilet and olease don't wash your hands for it only makes me burn.
Why add to my pain?
There goes the rain ana in.
So
to you I turn and comDlain.
PLEASE don't wash your hands and PLEASE don't flush the toilet until my shower's done.
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Where Springtime Comes From
by Lucille A. Smassanow
When the snow began to melt and the robins began to sing and the geese began to return to the north, T-Ha, a mohawk Indian boy began his long journey to find out where springtime came from. T-Ha packed a light load of animal skins to keep him warm, a few pouches of dried fruit and walnuts would be food enough for him on his long adventure.
T-Ha had walked for several miles when he came upon an owl who was cleaning his feathers in celebration of springtime. T-Ha asked the owl if he knew where springtime came from. The clever owl thought very hard for he did not want to admit he did not know. T-Ha told the owl to think about it and if he came up with the answer, to spread the word throughout the forest. The owl said he would do his best!
T-Ha trudged through the muddy, thawing barren woods for many days and nights finding no answer to his question--"Where does springtime come from?" T-Ha sleepily crawled into a large dark cave and fell asleep deeply! In the night a beautiful woman with colorful flowers and green vines in her hair came to T-Ha in his dreams. The woman spoke softly and gently to the Indian boy. As she spoke T-Ha could feel the warmth and sweetness of her breath all around him. Warm, windy spring day. The strange wonderful woman told T-Ha that she was springtime. The touch of her delicate fingers on the cold, damp earth every March awoke all living plants and animals from their winter's sleep.
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T-Ha awoke and headed back to his tribe, his journey was successful. The Indian boy could now share with his friends the exciting news of the strange and wonderful woman who was springtime.
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THE DOLL SHOP
by Ellen Stowell
"Come inside", the sign said,
"look around pick what you want take what you like be sure to leave your blessings on the way out and don't forget it's all for free".
And then I, thought of you as I walked down the aisle among the boxes and shelves stacked with hand-me-downs and leftovers
the discards and the misplaced and as I was leaving I reminded myself I no longer belong there I'm not for free because I found you but come inside
and look around if you'd like.
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The Puzzle
by D.W. Humphrey
It's a puzzle that I'm working on
of the jigsaw type with a billion tiny pieces of time
and space
and light.
I started in the dark no box-top picture for a guide.
The first pieces fit together easily the comers
then the sides.
Then it got more difficult
the emptiness to fill.
I work the puzzle most my waking time.
Some pieces find their place
when I'm asleep at night. The tiny, solid pieces have no depth of their own
no lock
or key
or clue to where they go. It's these that thrill me most
when I find out where they fit. I can close a larger sector
and go on to the next.
When
at last
it's finished; the final piece is in I'll see the total picture and then
this life
will end.
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Ember
by Michael L.P. Jones
Safer the ice melt than its shards rend.
I must stop loving you Since love unanswered - too close to be a memory too distant to ever come true -Hurts
And becomes hateful.
Saner the fire extinguished than its flames consume.
Dawn Train
by Michael L.P. Jones
Piercing the lavender chill with a moan-Tap dancing distances to the unknown-Dodging the morning while fleeing the night-Longing to Unger but forced into fUght-Eternally damned to watch darkness die and helplessly listen to the dew-cry.
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by Terry Higgins
As the sun is just rising, Zar the Vandal looks over the fog-laden field near the Frank-held Black Forest. Standing with one foot on a fallen tree and sword at ready, he surveys the scene before him. There isn't much for him to see because of the heavy fog. But he knows the long battle is finally over. He can hear the groans of pain from his own fallen men as well as those of the defeated Saxons.
His young battle-hardened body is chilled by the coldness of the Frank-held land, as well as by the death all around him. He notices a slight breeze, which starts to move the morning fog and blows his long black hair about his face. He is very cold, which makes his stern blue eyes seem even sterner in his rough face. He and his warriors have never been this far north before, so he isn't prepared for such a climate. He is lightly garbed, wearing only fur boots and a fur loin cloth, and of course the purple velvet cape of a chieftain.
He is a very young chieftain. Barely into manhood, he had become so when his father was killed in a Frank ambush of a Vandal hunting party. This was the reason of his venture. To avenge his father's death as is part of the Vandal custom.
The fog is lifting and his thoughts turn to the gathering of his men and moving on.
He calls out for them, and again, but there is no answer. He knows very well what this means. He has lost all his men in the battle with the Saxons, all thousand of them.
He didn't want to fight the Saxons. It was by sheer chance they met at sunset yesterday. Zar and his men were moving into
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the field to set up camp for the night. That was when they encountered the Saxons, who were already camped there. And since the Saxons are supplied and supported by the Franks, a battle which lasted all night naturally ensued.
Zar ponders what his next move will be. Indeed plans will have to change. With his men gone, or too badly hurt to help or be helped, he is virtually all alone. He cannot venture into the land of the Franks to do combat by himself, even though he has singlehandly slain as many as a dozen men in combat. In this unfriendly land, the odds are too cruelly not in his favor.
Awaking from his thoughts, he turns his head quickly to the forest where he hears an all-too-familiar sound. When his senses return, he is lying on the wet ground in extreme pain. A Frank arrow has ripped through the crotch of his left elbow. A shot clearly meant for his heart. He thanks his luck that the Franks aren't practiced marksmen and that his sword arm has not been hit. However, his arm is nearly torn off because the Frank had used an arrow for killing big game.
Zar lies on the ground not moving in hopes that his strength will soon return and that his attackers will think him dead. Then he hears heavy footsteps in the forest. He can tell that there is more than one attacker. So that he can see when his foes are near,
Zar cranes his neck toward the forest. Coming out of the fog he can see three large figures.
As they move closer to him, Zar notices the rabbit carcasses tied to their belts.
He reasons that they must have been out hunting, when they came upon the battle scene. The furs they wear make the black-haired and bearded Franks look like giants. Their features, as always, are rough and dirty.
Their garb from head to toe is always made of
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K
*>r
dusty furs which are held in place by leather belts. The belts are sometimes made from human flesh, often from one of their vanquished foes. Zar always wondered why he was called a barbarian.
Zar thinks it strange for the Franks to come look at their downed foe. Franks would often leave their foes dead or dying, as food for the birds. They would only search a body when they needed food, weapons, gold, or a finger or ear for a battle prize. Then, Zar realizes, they must have seen his cape, the sign of a chieftain. A Frank chieftain would give them a grand prize for his head, for the Franks hate Zar. To the great delight of these hunters, they must have recognized him.
As they approach his body, they sling their bows over their shoulders. Franks always think themselves to be great marksmen. The one who appears to be the leader steps up to Zar's body. Zar has been lying on the ground so they cannot see his wound. But he is all covered with blood, and this makes the Franks feel secure.
The first Frank draws his huge sword and raises it over his head, so he can take off Zar's head. Zar, with sword still in hand, quickly sits up and drives his sword into the groin of his foe. As the shocked Frank screams in agony, his blood qushes from his mouth, nose, and wound. He drops his sword and holding the destroyed part of his body, falls over backwards. With his screams choked by his own blood, he dies slowly.
In that same moment, another Frank is bringing down his sword on Zar. Zar spins up, raising his sword to block the blow, and its force knocks both of them backward. They can now see each other eye to eye.
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Zar with his left arm uselessly hanging limp by his side, prepares to fight both huge Franks. He knows he can use his skill and smaller size to his advantage against their huge size and lack of skill. Keeping low to the ground and fighting with only one arm, Zar swings his sword as hard as he can. The sword of the Frank to his left misses his head by inches and the unbalanced force of the blow of the Frank's sword drives Zar's attacker to the ground. While still moving, Zar whips his sword around and severs the knee caps of the Frank in front of him. With a terrible scream, the Frank falls on all fours to the ground. Zar, spinning around, lifts his sword above his head and brings it down, splitting the head of the downed foe. The blow is so hard that not only does blood splatter on Zar, but it also breaks off the point of his sword, making the weapon almost a useless nub. While this goes on, the other Frank is back up on his feet. He lets to a tremendous blow with his sword at Zar's head.
The blow hits Zar in the shoulder, taking off his already dead arm. Once again the marksmenship of the Frank proves faulty. The shock of the bloe causes Zar to spin around with his sword at the Frank's head level. He spins with such speed and force that he takes off the top part of the Frank's head, from the nose up. Blood spurts from the remaining part of the head like a fountain. The body then falls to the ground like a sack of flour.
Watching the blood run for a second, Zar then realizes his own pain. He too falls to the ground. He knows he is about to die from lack of blood. Unlike his father, he will at least take his killers with him.
With blood running like water from the 77

nub of his arm, he fades fast. He is blacking out ever so slowly, like the sun setting at night. He can feel the warmth of the sun as it finally breaks through the fog and shines down on his face. As he fades, he can hear a voice calling, calling from the far distance. The more he fades the louder the voice gets. Until he finally dies, and awakes.
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Indignity
by Joy Amisano
Indignity We served up rare Where once we cooked!
We should have followed by the book's
Recipe
And measured out A standard love.
We had to play with herbs and spice:
A dash of greed (Or self pursuit)
A pinch of insult spoiled the soup. Cold tongue
And heart make a nasty meal:
Love's oily leavings lie congealed.
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The Lost Soul
by Beverly A. O'Neil
It was a late Friday afternoon and the sun was just about gone. The room rather dark and dismal. I had the entire day off and had been moping around with nothing to do. This was much like all the other days of the week.
I work as a seamstress in downtown Manhattan--not the best part of town. It seems as though all I do is work in this dingy shop, which is in the cellar beneath an office building, with iron bars and dirty walls, watching all of the city's wretched pass by in an endless stream of woe. I'm nearing thirty years old and haven't found my prince as yet.
I live in sub-standard conditions because I do not make very much money. I can't afford the pretty things a woman likes to wear. I have had to crop off my hair because of the heat from the shop. I'm so disgusted with all the pompous Miss Prissies that parade in and out in a constant procession. Every now and then I glance at the mirror which usually has the reflection of society's beautiful in it, but this time it is me--not so young and not so beautiful.
I was going stir crazy and had to get away. I grabbed my coat and left the room.
This has been happening quite a lot lately.
It's reduced me to the level of a primate on the prowl. I can no longer stand being alone. So here I am night after night in search of my happiness. It's been so long since anything real came about that I've often contemplated suicide but it's those few and in-between encounters that help me hold on to my sanity.
I have a feeling that tonight it's going to be my turn to see a reflection of beauty and to find my dream. I've walked
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and walked for what seems endless hours. I see a small, romantically-lit, French cafe and decide to go in for coffee. Even though it seems to be quite crowded I still order coffee from the maitre d'. I sit there for quite a while sipping my coffee because I can't bear the thoughts of being closed in by the four walls of my apartment. The surroundings I'm in now are much more elegant. There are candles and roses on the tables, plants and ferns in the glass-front windows with velvet draperies, and tablecloth’;. There is a fountain in the center of the room which has cascades of water flowing from it.
As the light from the room hits the droplets of water I can see small iridescent rainbows.
As I look around the room I have the feeling someone is watching me. I turn slowly and see a man in a dimly-lit corner, sipping his wine and looking in my direction. I think I must be mistaken, that he has been searching the room for a silken-dressed sylph who is late for a tete-a-tete. But I glance toward him and he smiles. That one smile seems to unthaw all the ice my soul has been encased in for so many eons of time. The look in his eyes seems to say that he knows all the thoughts, dreams, and pain that are in my mind and heart. I realize that he couldn't know all those things, but in that brief span of time I feel that he did. He comes over to my table and we share some wine. His name is Brian. His eyes have a look as old as time. His words have a wisdom beyond his years and his smile makes me feel that I have finally come to the end of my search.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Saturday morning dawned cold, rainy, and grey. Mr. Marino hated to bother Anna but he needed her rent money. His grandchildren were
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coming to visit and he wanted to buy them some ice cream. Besides he hadn't remembered seeing her for a few days. He knocked on her door, but no one answered. He knocked again. He smelled gas and opened the door. The gas permeated the room. He opened a window and ran to the kitchen. Anna sat slumped in a chair in the small, almost bare room. He was too late! She was dead but he thought her face looked happy and at peace.
*****
Although my body is head, my mind continues to float in an endless search for a real existence----
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