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Chrysalis ;� Ferrum CoUe e

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1977

Table of Contents Bill Thomas (poems] Rain ....... ........ ............ I've Watched a Flower Grow ............3 Debra Martin (poem] Shadows .........................l Lee Ann Whittington [story] The Girl Who Lived in a Thermos. ....... 2 Lee Brooks (poem] Something Left Unsaid.......... ..... 3 Edward M. Foster (poem] For a Season. .................... . 3 Cindy M.Lamm [story] He Came With The Wind .............. 4 Jacki Anderson (poem] Metasend ........................ 6 Jeff Pugh (poem] I Wonder ........................ 7 Gary C.Mitchell [story] Troubled. Waters ............ ... .... 9 Gary Fitzgerald (poems] Sorrow's Sweet Reciprocity ............12 You Never Really Lived ..............25 Brenda Tatum (poem] The Accomplishment of Maturity ........12 Lyn Hayth [story] All Star ......................... 13 Dan Gribbin [poem] In the Emperor's Shadow .............17 James Peters (poem] The Fight With The Cockroach .........18 Dolly Phillips [story] The Long Way Home ................23 Betsy Conway (poem] Spider of Night ....................25 Douglas Massey [story] A Troubled. Night's Work .............26 Susan E. Joseph (poems] The Lady Doe .....................32 Bicentennial Blues ................. .40 Beth Bullington [story] Searching for an Ideal ................33 Bill Cole (poem] One Summer Evening ................36 Janet Lea Bowles [poem] Escape From Freedom ...............36

Thomas Fornasar [story] Like Things Are Cured By Like .........37 Jeanne E. Hooker [poem] Alone ..........................39 Jeanette Heath (poem] Innocent of Dien Bien Phu ............39 Bobby Miller Drawing .......................Cover Drew DeNeal Drawing ..........................l Bill Ameen Photo ...........................5 Jane Stogner Photos ............ .......... 6,7,35 Kathleen Angle Photo ...........................8 Diane Monday Drawing .........................11 Weaving ................. Color Section Rick Tracy Drawing .........................13 Dan Gribbin Photo ..........................16 Steve Nuttycombe Photo ..........................24 Karen Peterson Photo ..........................27 David Eakins Photo ..........................31 Tim Archer Photos ....................... 32, 40 Weaving ................. Color Section Peggy Martin Watercolor & Weaving ....... Color Section Ethel Bowling Painting ................. Color Section Tim Liptak Painting. .......... .... .. Color Section Beth Bullington Painting ................. Color Section Debbie Price Weaving ................. Color Section

- Drawing by Drew DeNeal

Rain

Shadows Tall mystifying shadows slowly Slipping, sliding, slinking, into the dark of night, never again to appear 'til a breath of glowing light creeps leisurely upon them. Debra Martin

Rain falls almost like tear drops For this reason I feel a kinship to the rain I can imagine someone being hurt or confused. And down their tears fall. I'm that same way almost Except that I let it build up And it comes out in one big burst My tears, my rain. Bill Thomas

For A Season

The Girl Who Lived In A Thermos by Lee Ann Whittington I heard a story once, told to me as truth, about a girl who lived in a vacuum. Most people would think that she should have been happy. It was warm and she was well protected, certainly free of drafts. Beautiful too, insulated with silver glitter, as you've seen if you've ever peered into one, as I'm sure you have. As they go, it was a very roomy thermos bottle. Surrounded by silver beauty, comfort and security, she should've been happy. She wasn't. She had a real longing to look another person in the eye and talk of big or small things, while the other person looked back and listened and talked. She didn't intentionally mean to be unhappy; in fact, she tried to make up for it by watching herself and looking at herself in the beautiful silver walls. She looked at herself rather a lot, more than you or I would. But her reflection, distorted by the circular pattern of the walls, showed her to be as ugly, laughable, or at best, odd, depending on where she looked in the bottle. The look that pleased her most was on the bottom, and on the bottom she stayed. 'Two or three people had once seen her on the shelf and had tried to help her. One gentleman befriended her after a long time. It made situations easier, but eventually he had to leave. And since he remained outside her bottle and she inside, her real needs were unmet. Someone else like him had tried to reach her with his long, slender finger and had even touched her briefly. This left her unhappier than before. The very human quality of this experience (she was hurt, yet warmed by it) left her more aware of her poverty. The story doesn't have an ending. I first heard of it years ago, and now and again some news of her comes my way. Someone else I hear is peering in and wants to help. I think she has to come out and leave the silver walls with the distorted images. Maybe she will break down the silver walls and, if she isn't killed by the splinting glass, will use the rubble as a means of climbing out. But to leave the familiarity of the vacuum and to present her distorted vision to the world, well, I don't know. I can only imagine. And as I said, the story has no ending.

- Photo by Bill Ameen

i found a flower

in touching you

through your leaves i 've seen life in your bud ifound love

Something

to reach out

only for a season

i plucked you

Left Unsaid Ah, words!

to share my love your leaves have started to wither your bud no longer opens i will keep you only for a season

Reflections on a pond And people.

Edward M Foster

An echo's hollow ring; Us.

Your words are nice. They comfort. They soothe. They're honest, but incomplete. Words don't see the warmth in your eyes.

Words can't share the joy in your smile Or feel the glow of your caress. Love has feelings words can't express. Feel me! I'm real! I live! Laughter, Tears, Anger, Tenderness.

I've Watched A Flower Grow When I first came to this forest AII I saw were trees and leaves But I've found a flower The flower when Ifirst saw it Had no special quality about it I liked to be around it Then one day something happened The flower started sprouting It grew and grew more beautiful each day All at once it hit me I've watched a flower grow I've watched you

A touch ... Words are nice but words leave something left unsaid.

Lee Brooks

Bill Thomas

He Came With The Wind by Cindy M. Lamm

The sun glistened through the trees in the park, and the robins began the day with their cheerful song. Down the street, old John, as the local people called him, was out walking his dog. The townspeople could set their watches by Old John; Springdale would not be the same without him. Across town, Charlie, who was known as the nice young man by all the little old ladies, squinted at the sunlight pouring in between the blinds and groaned at the thought of having to get up. Outside, a dog barked. Hearing this Charlie knew it was time to get up. "Well, there goes old John, I guess it's time to get the kids ready for Sunday School." Charlie thought to himself. He fell out of bed, and into his robe and slippers. As Charlie washed his face the cool water seemed to wake him a little. On his way through the hall, he banged on the wall to wake the boys. Going down the stairs Charlie leaned heavily on the banister. He just couldn't seem to get going. In the kitchen, he fixed the oatmeal for the boys and then sat down to read the morning paper, which Old John had kindly placed on his door step. As he sipped his orange juice, he glanced over the front page. Sunday, March 29; that date seemed to stand out for some reason but it wasn't until some time later, as he watched his sons play in their already cold oatmeal, that it all came back to him. Now Charlie realized what had been bothering him all morning. "It's funny," he half whispered to himself, "how easy it is to forget the past, especially when it's so painful to remember." It had only been three short years since Ruth had died. The expression of peace and happiness on her face was still vivid in Charlie's mind. The doctors had done all they could, but nothing could be done to stop the suffering Ruth went through those last few months. The night Ruth died, Charlie was by her side. She seemed a little stronger for some reason, maybe it was because she talked more than usual. It was as if her time was up and she wanted to be sure she said all that needed to be said. "Daddy, we're gonna be late, hurry up and get dressed!" Charlie was startled by the sound of Jason's voice, and he hurriedly left the room to keep the boys from seeing him cry. As hard as he tried, he could not keep the tears from coming. With a heavy heart he climbed the stairs to dress. On the way to the church, once again Charlie's mind went back to that night. He held her hand tightly in his own big strong one, and fought back the tears, she was so weak and pale. As she lay there a look of concern swept over her face and she cleared

her throat to speak. "Sugar, don't interrupt me, let me say this while there's still time. We both know the time has come for me to go home, and I want you to make me some promises. I know I can't change your mind about God and the church, but you must see that Jason and Steve go until they are old enough to decide for themselves. I hope that someday you will change your mind about Jesus. I can't stand the thought of this being the last time I will ever see you." Charlie couldn't speak but only shook his head to keep the promise. Again Ruth begged him to think about what she had said, but Charlie refused to promise her anything about his own salvation. Ruth looked hurt, then she spoke her last words to him. "I love you, Charlie, and I'll miss you." As she closed her eyes for what was to be the last time, the express� ion on her face changed completely. The look of suffering and sorrow was replaced by one of total peace, comfort, and inner joy. The sharp sound of a car horn brought Charlie back to the present and he waved at the minister who had sped past him. "Late again!" Steve laughingly said. The side parking lot was blocked so Charlie drove to the front of the church to let the boys out. For a few moments he just sat and watched as the children ran off to find their friends. He couldn't help but notice how very much like their mother they were. Once they were out of sight, Charlie headed for home. Inside the kitchen, as Charlie began to wash the breakfast dishes, everything he touched reminded him of Ruth. The anger within him began to swell. Why, if there is a great God, did Ruth have to die?" Ruth and her close friends were the only sincere people in that church, all the rest were a bunch of hypocrites. Charlie threw the dish cloth down and stormed out of the house. Back at the church, the minister thought he had outdone himself on his sermon. Social injustice and the state of the economy was just what people wanted to hear. He stepped up to the rostrum and surveyed his congregation. It was a much larger crowd than he had expected for such a beautiful day. The Carsons were even here; that was really sur prising after the party they had given the night before. He had even found it difficult to get up after that one. The morning hymn was sung and the minister began his morning message. Charlie pulled up to the curb in front of the church and wondered where everyone was. He glanced at the clock above the bank across the street and realized how early it was. In his rage,

Charlie had left home too soon. The service wouldn't be over for another thirty minutes. So he settled back in his seat to wait. Once again his mind went back to his beautiful wife. They had been so much in love, no one could stop them from getting married. The only major fights had been over religion. Charlie knew he was right. He didn't so much·-as come close to doing the things so called Christians did. At least he wasn't a hypocrite and sitting in church pretending to be a saint after carous ing the night before. He must admit that Ruth and her friends didn't do that. They lived up to their beliefs, crazy as they were. Imagine, streets of gold, walls of jasper and mansions where the sun never set-how absurd! A sudden strange chilling breeze brought Charlie back to the real world. The sky grew darker and the breeze began to grow. Inside the church the minister glanced at his watch, and was glad to see he only had another five minutes to go. Why the board of deacons insisted on having a full hour he would never know, they wanted their money's worth, he guessed. Just as he was winding up his final remarks on the political situation, the doors of the church blew open and a forceful wind rushed in and swept over the people like a mighty army marching to victory. In the distance an unidentifiable sound grew louder and louder. As it neared it resembled the music of millions of bugles sounding the charge and the voices of a million angels rejoicing. Out of the dark sky a brilliant light spread over the church.

The congregation was in a panic; none had witnessed such an awesome sight. Then as suddenly as it had begun, the frenzy ceased. The minister finally recovered enough to come down from the pulpit to try and calm the crowd. It was at that moment that he realized what had taken place. Over half the congregation had vanished, those that were left trembled at the sight. Outside, Charlie fearfully got out of his over turned car and walked slowly up the church steps and through the wind-ripped doors in search of his children. The minister was stunned as were those left in the congregation. No one could tell Charlie what had happened to the children. Frantically, Charlie ran from the building and up the street in search of his boys. Along the way he met others looking for their relatives and friends who had disappeared. Unoccupied cars, some with the engines still running, were scattered over the streets, some crashed and others stopped at the signal lights. Charlie, out of his mind with fear, couldn't find his family anywhere. Blindly he wandered the town. When he finally came to his senses he found himself standing over Ruth's grave. The ground was covered with debris and the chilling breeze swirled around him as he stood there. In the distance Charlie could have sworn he heard Ruth calling to him, "I'll miss you." Now Charlie realized what had happened and he knew it was too late. With a sadness he had never felt before, Charlie turned and started for home to take a last look around, before the wind came again.

-Photo by Bill Ameen

Metasend

It's the depth of the void: so scattered, obscured It touches my being so young, unsure It sends us to Angra to uproot the calm It lands us in Limbo to find calm from the storm. So try and hold back now: don't run, don't fall It's only a state now a change is for sure And in your transition beware of the soul Become with your aura ...it's love you behold. ja

-Photo by Jane Stogner -Photo by Jane Stogner

The Fight With The Cockroach Poets too, you should know must battle these things (and ask what company is Kafka) and ask what company is anything for awhile... I know your corrupted thunder 0 ghetto man with shoe And I know (I have been oar-locked on a slave ship) sailing the river Styx but there is a long - awaited plash (longer than a spider waits for anything) and Walt Whitman and I have sailed the high seas on certain galeless eves when thunderbolt fists knocked up to our knees.. . 0, I groan to bend the wood in the knotted ear of that old house there are things far worse, so foul, de-fatted, limp as the pit of hell. In Hawaii, having seen the black-eyed lizard who turns the globe starless (mute) black and gives up the shriek, howl stomp of live (death) I walked a rum or womanless night. Michelangelo, you may have your look in the pit alone; I sit with it ringing in my ears. And your unredeemed trumpet, Elsie While they scatter over my crumpet, 0 Elsie! I love you. And I know the bubble will never burst. I love your crying as a bird sings.

-Painting by Tim Liptak

...

James Peters

-Weavings by Peggy Martin Tim Archer Diane Monday 19

]

-Painting by Beth Bullington

-Weaving by Debbie Price

The Long Way Home by Dolly Phillips

-Painting by Ethel Bowling

Despite their growing confidence and great expectations, there was a nagging, alm�st imperceptible, dawning realization that while they were beginning one adventure, they were coming to an irreversible close to one part of their lives. Calling their good-byes, everyone finally headed home. The music slowly faded as the bash ended. Mary walked outside into the night air and shivered. Her mom was right. It was going to rain and it would probably turn to sleet. It was so cold! Close behind, her friends Mike, Roselyn, and David, followed to the car. "Hope you don't mind if I drop Rosely_n and David off first,'' Mike told Mary as they climbed into the car. "Of course not." "How do you like my new car?" Mike looked at Mary for her appraisal. Sure she liked it. Everyone at school had commented on the sleek, powerful, silver "streak". It was a '73 Roadrunner, silver with black stripes and everything else that guys put on their cars and Mary knew nothing of. It was a personification of the youth that filled it--brash, untamed, filled with life. "I love it," she replied, suddenly worried that Chuck would see her with Mike and get the wrong idea. "I sure wouldn't mind having it," David commented. Talking of college, more ideas for their graduation party, and the latest prank at school, the quartet rode along in the cocoon-like protection of the car. They were oblivious to the cold, windy, damp, even threatening night. Mike was confident at the wheel of his new car. He drove the twisting country road automatically, almost without conscious thought as the conversation continued. Without noticing, his right foot applied a slight, increasing pressure to the accelerator. The throbbing machine responded so smoothly that the increase in_ speed was hardly noticeable, except by Mary. But Mary felt confident that Mike was in control ofd the situation and said nothing. What did she know of cars? Mary looked out the window as the conversation lagged and Mike turned his new AM-FM radio on. The slumbering countryside was, by now, a crystalized fairyland of ice. Lulled by the beauty of the countryside, she hardly noticed, as did the others, the car beginning to skid.

Laughter and music floated outside from the two-story, brick dwelling. As Mary Paxton returned to the party, after going with some friends on a beer run, she bumped into Mike Knotts. "Hey Mary. Need a ride home?" She s�iled, relieved. "Yeah, thanks, Mike." Worried she'd have to bum a . ride from someone, Mary gladly accepted the_ invitation. Looking around the crowded, smoke-filled room, Mary spotted Donna Parker, her best friend. Dodging the dancers, she made her way across the room. "Hey, girl! How ya doin'?" Mary shouted over the blasting music. "I haven't seen you since the game last week." Setting down her beer to light a cigarette, Donna laughed, "I'm surprised you remember, you were so wrapped up with Chuck." "Surely, you jest, my friend!" Mary Chided. Then, "Can you tell that much?" "You two looked like you were in a world of your own," Donna answered. "Maybe we were," Mary agreed. Both girls laughed. It was common knowledge that Mary and Chuck had a thing going. The party raged on. Couples danced with sheer joy, physically responding to the primiti�e, disco beat. Earlier, before the actual partymg had begun, there had been a meeting to p�an the graduation bash. It was early to be planmng, but the excited seniors wanted this year's party to be special. Everyone having their own ideas, they decided to postpone the decision, giving them another opportunity to party on the pretense that they had plans to make. Mary sat quietly in the corner, waiting for Mike to bring her a beer. Looking around the room at her friends, she realized the game they were all playing. Grown-up kids--pretend aqults. Shaken by this abrupt realization, she readily accepted the beer Mike handed her, turning to hear the discussion of the group gathered in the hall. "You probably won't see me again after graduation until I'm a famous actress or successful model," Roselyn Hampton laughingly stated. "Sure, and I'll be an Olympic track star!" roared David Clark. "That is, if we see each other again," Mike added, jokingly. "Don't say that, Mike. Of course we'll see each other again," Mary quickly included.

-Watercolors by Peggy Martin 22

Time seemed to stand still. The next few seconds were years to Mary. She heard herself scream, and thought, "This can't be happening to me!;; Her father;s face flashed before her. "Mary, won't you ever learn. I should never have let you." And his image was filled by darkness.

The impact was sudden and fatal for all. There was silence over the lonely ccountryside, interrupted only by the low melody of the still playing radio. "We've only just begun to live ... " And the rain fell. Freezing.

You Never Really Lived Ifeel your broken loneliness

Broken voices, empty rooms

Guilty looks, classic books Especially t/v·ough this mist and gloom And the dirty rain falling I bear this loneliness Through all my endless sorrow

Broken promises empty words

Spider Of Night

Boredom's sister locks that blister Endless meaningless last phone calls. Through all these endless sorrows.

Dream!

Have you ever wondered?

Strange Dream! Eternity spins an endless void Unknown to light unhampered by dark A dangling web wet with dew Supports a tiny spider Spider of night!

That to love is to be doomed To son·ow, endless sorrow And sometimes even total regret. Have you ever wondered? These chains do bind me Locked in a remote castle cell You love me, you hate me And I can not go on as well Oh, these chains do bind me.

You area star

suspended Within and without The universe.

To feel this broken loneliness Hurt feelings, bruised passions Lovers folly to be sorry For a love that has been shared And to feel her Loneliness.

Betsy Conway

Gary Fitzgerald

-Photo. by Steve Nuttycombe

A Troubled Night's Work

by Douglas Massey

The streetlamp sprayed light through the dull evening darkness, its beacon carving an accusing path to the gravel road below. Three dark shapes like silhouettes approached and dodged its glare, their feet whisking softly over the dew-soaked grass of mani cured resident lawns. Emerging beyond the glow some three houses down, they resumed their padded footfalls. None spoke. An old model Chevrolet, half green, half white, hugged a curb where the gravel road became the smoother asphalt road of the new section. The three shapes spied the car and stalked it, eyeing the contours of its defenseless metal bulk. As they approached, leary of the simplicity in its appearance, the largest of the shapes said softly, "This one's mine. I called it." And they broke in a well worn strategy. The smallest of them, a boy fourteen, walked swiftly to the next corner, careful to avoid the light. James stopped and listened, his ears strain ing to define the sounds of the night as his eyes scanned each window, door, and yard on the block. Certain no eyes were upon them and their impending activity, he turned and ran on his toes, soundlessly returning to the car. Noises of the glove compartment being searched were already coming from within, and then James could hear Rob's hands rummaging under the seat as its springs relented beneath his weight in popping antique groans. He walked to the rear of the car and leaned against it for support as the last one rose up out of the darkness, returning from the far corner. When he was near they both listened dutifully while the eldest of the three continued his muffled search for unknown valuables. James watched Rick's eyes; they swung nervously from side to side, occasionally catching his stare and smiling, his lips pursed about an imaginary cigarette. A noise like a choking animal, emitting from inside the car, startled them in their calm observance. As they turned, the door on the driver's side swung open and a leg shot out followed swiftly by the rest of Rob's body. He was laughing, squeaking

softly in his throat, begging their audience. "Shhh! Rickie, the goddamn ignition's set!" He cut short their response with short urgent movements of his hands. Prompted by his excited ushering, they drifted quietly and hurriedly away. Questions bubbled forth at the hiding place. In the shroud of shadows beneath the rich green trees of the heavily wooded neigh borhood, they sat and developed a plan. Cigarettes were puffed anxiously as each person pr.epared himself for the deed while one relayed the information. "You don't need the key. It's a slot type ignition. It's not on lock, just on off. But it's a 'standard' shift." The voice was not suited to his expression, sounded young and almost plead ing. "James, you can drive a standard, can't you?" James waited ... waves of excitement flowed through his shoulders, swept along his back and settled with a tingling sensation somewhere near the base of his spine. His legs trembled with anticipation. This was it. A giant step from glove compartments. He was confused. It was a very big wrong. Still he knew he was capable of handling the old relic. He, the youngest, was the only one who knew how to shift the gears. Thrilled at the prospect of being the driver, he nodded his head and spoke, trying to sound sure of himself. "Hell yeah. Remember that old fifty-five Savoy my dad had? He used to let us drive that thing around the back yard all the time!" None spoke as the decision seemed to seesaw in the night. Each looked to the other, nodded assent, and mapped out the plan. They would approach the car through the softness of the nearest back yard. He was to get in the car when they signaled go, mash the gas twice, and turn it over. Once it started, he was to throw it in gear and pull away from the curb with the lights off until he was about three houses down. "Hit the lights, floor it, and circle the block three quarters of the way." The others would wait behind to make certain they were still unnoticed, then meet him a block from where the old four-door now sat, shimmering nervously in the cool autumn air. The engine rumbled loudly beneath him.

-Photo by Karen Peterson

His hands shook with nervous energy on the wheel, which was so large he had to look beneath the top of its' circle. Shifting to second and flooring the old car around the first curve, he breathed loudly and whined to himself, "Oh shit! I did it! ... Oh shit," as the smell of burning rubber drifted into his senses. His heart pounded in relentless thundering fury and his wrists throbbed with the pulsating blood. Never, never had he been so excited. He tore into the corner at the last second, tires squealing loudly, and slammed the accelerator once more as the nauseating stench of blistered rubber mixed with the unsettling odor of the car's interior and filled 'his nostrils with a burning, aged release. He approached the final corner at a high speed and saw the fleeting shapes of his friends emerging from beneath the trees, their legs in hilarious terrified strides. He geared down and braked for them, his mind a fuzzy blur of racing thought. Within seconds they were crammed together in the front seat and once more charging madly through the neighborhood. The voices seemed to be coming at him from both mouths at once. ''Turn your lights on!" "Hey James, me and Rob were standing there when

you pulled away and all you could hear was screeeeee!" "Yeah, man, so we hauled ass; you were raisin' hell!" The words stunned him. He tried to speak but the voices came again. "Is it fast?" "James! Did you have it floored?" "Let me drive?!" "Wait! Wait! Wait!! Dammit, just shut up and listen!" There was a stunned silence broken only by the engine's dull roar as they sped along. His voice had sounded a desperate plea for the order and precision of the moment before the act. "Now look!" He was shaking visibly, clinging to the wheel, asking support rather than lending guidance as his eyes strained out beneath it. "First we've gotta get this car out of our neighborhood. Then we can drive as much as we want. Did any one hear us?" He hung breathless on the answer. The funny, suppressed-sounding laugh squeaked out of the throat by the door as the boy elbowed the one beside him. "Rick; think anyone heard us?" This reduced the boy in the center to laughter, and amidst the chuckles he tried to explain to the driv�r, "James, you made so much noise gettin' outta there, they had to hear you. Sceeeeee!" and he fell back to laughter a second longer.

But he noticed James' antic1panon and tried to assure him, "Don't worry, we'll ditch it before the cops come ... 'I hope!" He said it in a strained joking manner and none of them tried to laugh upon such a sour note. They changed places on the dark road between their neighborhoods. Rob took his place behind the wheel, once he had learned the gears. He let the clutch out and floored it. Rick's voice cracked, pleading on the edge of nausea, "Man, I feel bad about this! I don't even wanna drive!" The words were blurted in spurts as he was thrown about the careening car, his face draining pale in the darkness. "Just drop me off here. I'm goin' home!" All of the terrible retaliations from the world attacked their awareness, and Rob, swayed by the sound of Rick's voice, seemed reduced beneath the wheel and pulled up to a dirt road and stopped. He and Rick sprang out simultaneously as James slid beneath the monstrous wheel once more. They gave him rapid directions. "Drive to the end of Hunt's Landing Road, leave the car in the road, and haul ass home. Forget the night ever hap pened!" He hung desperately on their togetherness but the thought of roaring down an empty highway by himself urged him on and the tingling at the base of his spine became a booming throb. He wanted to drive. Ten minutes hadn't passed since the abduction, and he didn't expect discovery until morn ing. He zoomed out beyond the dropoff point and onto the main road. He figured to get on Outersville Turnpike and try to bury the speedometer. His heart still pounded furiously and seemed ready to burst fr om within its cavity. As he drove beyond his neighborhood he realized how stupid he was being. If the theft had been reported he could be found, at this very moment, not a half 01 a mile from the scene of the crime. To hell with it. He wasn't going to be the one caught with the goods. He spun the car into the parkling lot of an equestrian shop and stopped, working the gears frantically in an attempt to back the car up and return it to the dark road. But reverse and second were located not one inch apart on the column, and each time he thought he had found reverse, he would look back over the

seat and let out the clutch expecting to back up, and the car would lurch forward, slamming off the curb and jarring his senses. The engine stalled and would not start. A rusty pale blue Oldsmobile hurtled into the parking lot and screamed to a halt not a foot from his bumper. His heart seemed to drop to his bowels in fear, and he tried desperately to maintain an air of confidence as he stepped from the car and faced the driver emerging from the blue car, a fortyish fanatic looking man with dark spots for eyes and a gray head of hair. "Yessir?" he asked the man, trying to show that he was a traveler with car trouble. He took a step toward the thin opening between the cars. The man responded angrily, "Get back in the car!" and James knew he was caught. "Sir?" he asked, feigning confusion and taking another step toward the open space. "Get back in the car!" the man shouted as he sprang toward him, suddenly aware of the reason for the timid forward steps. James darted. He was sprinting for life and freedom, over the curb and out into the fields with the man in close pursuit. He could hear the man's feet falling loudly behind him and he was waiting for the fingers to clutch his collar and snatch him backwards off his feet. "Hah Tch Tchaa Tch Tcha Bang Bang!" the man barked behind him, so close James spurted even faster out of fear and shock. "What was that?" and then he knew, for the man had given up the chase. The insane sounding phrases had been a last attempt to trip his footing but they had accomplished the opposite. Something in the man's harsh barking voice had spurred him on and his feet rose and fell rapidly as he plunged blindly into the tall grass. He had no choice but to take the most difficult path home. To the right were open fields where he could be easily sighted, and straight ahead was the street from which he had stolen the car. Behind him was the man, leaving his only remotely safe alternative to be fighting for cover in the unkept bushes and backyards of the older highway lots. It seemed like war. He thrashed madly through the brush as briars scratched his face and tore his clothing. The arteries in his head seemed to press maddeningly against the scalp of his temples as he choked to himself, --011 God!

and then slowly accelerated in the direction of the silver-haired fanatic and the stolen car. His nerves seemed frayed beyond further shock as he shot forward across the gravel road. The roadside was the only direction to take here since the yards were all fenced in with most of them containing dogs. He had to ,move quickly and round the corner he hadn't wanted to turn just an hour ago. It seemed an ironic thought as he plodded towards home through the yards and along the roads. He knew he had the chase near completion, and he felt a relaxation as fatigue took its place and spread into his limbs, coupled with the stinging sticky pain in his abdomen. The end lay over the next fence, a familiar haven for him. He cleared the fence smoothly and landed softly, like a ragged jungle cat, surveying the windows of the house for activity. Quietly, stealthily, he approached the patio. The screen door made a loud grating noise as it swept over the cement porch and had to be tugged by degrees in order to muffle the sound. Standing in the screened semi-light, he listened to his breathing. It seemed to be drawing from deep within the pockets of his lungs, a loud suspicious panting. Pausing to calm the torrent, he peeked in a window. The kitchen was brightly lit with no occu pants, and he vainly tried to check the pulse of the activity in the far side of the house. His mother rounded the corner of the refrig erator and came toward his window. He tried to read her eyes. "Did she know?" ...They looked calm and unaware and he sighed a little. He felt guilty, for he knew his parents would be deeply hurt by such base actions. In the weeks to come, this deed would be an unknown part of him, a mysterious identity which would be his to conceal. They would probably wonder what was troubling him. As his mother walked back around the refrigerator and disappeared, he heard the sliding door to the dining room being pulled shut and his heart leaped. What luck! He grasped the doorknob and began pushing very, very slowly. He knew that when this door was opened the sliding wooden door boomed loudly as it rebounded in its jam, rattled by the disturbed air. The rattle had to be reduced to a minimum if he was

Please help me! I'll never do anything bad again, just please, please help me!" It seemed to take forever to reach the cut grass of the backyards. Dogs in the area barked loudly in protest of his frantic thrashing flight. A ten-foot high barbed wire fence lay between himself and freedom. He hurled himself upon it, his feet and hands trying to climb it as though it were a ladder with rubber bands for rungs. As he reached the top and prepared to swing over he lost his footing and his stomach fell on the top wire, a barb slamming into his gut, mildly impaling him. He forced himself to fall over forward and the barb wrenched loose from his lurching figure and tore his shirt to shreads as he fell, landing on his back in the yard with a dull thud. He lay winded, trying to suppress the loud wheezing of his lungs as they gulped air from the aroused atmosphere. He lis tened to the sounds, crickets chirping, dogs barking, the hooves of a nervous horse ... but no voices. Thank God. But he couldn't stay; he had to keep going. He rose quietly and began feeling his way through the yard. It confused him, for there were as many as three rows of fence in one yard and each time he thought he was free to run in stride again, another one opposed him. Finally he neared the house, rounding the corner in a dead run. Now in familiar surroundings he picked up more speed, run ning wildly between hedges and trees as he made his way home. Sometimes he fell in the coolness of the yards. He would dig in with his fingers, ripping the grass loose as he hurtled himself forward again. At times he had less than a second to heave himself to the dirt for cover when a car's headlights surprised him. Through the protective darkness of a yard, a corner lot by which the neighbor hood road connected with the curving high way, he began to unfold cautiously into the hazy light. He felt a betrayal within himself. Leaving the security of the shadows was like deserting a trusted friend. The sound of softly rolling tires alerted him and he dove for the cover of a bush. He crouched low, very low, as the phosphorescent city emblem of a police cruiser's door drifted to a stop on the other side of the hedges. It paused for what seemed an eternity of listening,

father was thinking up every possible repri mand. A young, blond-haired boy answered the door of the man's home and asked them in, calling to his father as he did so. The man rounded a corner and smiled. "Hi" his voice was friendly and warm. He was wearing a t-shirt and slippers with no socks. James felt as though this was not the same man who had chased him. He didn't even look the same. The three shook hands, and the man gave James a paternal smile. James felt relieved. He had expected the man to be very upset and spiteful, but the man was the opposite and made James feel very strange. Usually when he was caught doing something wrong, he felt sorry only for himself. But for the first time he was truly sorry he had wronged such a person. "Hey, I don't mind you taking my car for a ride, but that car's unsafe. You might have been killed!" James was shocked. He knew the man was sincere. The man turned from James to his father. "You know what these kids need is a private track where they can drive without needing a license. Because that's it. They know they can drive and they're just itching to do it. Right, pal?" He clapped James on the back. He prob ably didn't mean everything he was saying, but James thought it was damn good of him anyway. The man was smoothing over a situation that would otherwise have been tense and belittling for him. James' father spoke to the man in short abbreviated tones, intentionally making clear to the man that he was very disturbed over the crime. "Well, this one won't be driving for a while after pulling this stunt." The man smiled as if to ask James' father if he was serious, trying to calm him in his pent-up rage. "Nahhh, I think he's learned his lesson. Think so, pal?" He didn't wait for James' answer but put his arm around his shoulders, leaning heavily. "And this boy can fly, too. He ran like a deer. I couldn't even catch him. But he was lucky, because I probably would have burned his britches if I had." Then he laughed once more, prompting his father to take in the humor. He gave the impression of a most unusually optimistic mind. His father knew there wasn't much left to say, so he thanked the man for his refusal to prosecute. For the first time the man's

to avoid discovery, for he suspected his appearance of being somewhat grizzly. His dog would probably even bark in alarm at the sight of him. The muscles in his arm and back ached agonizingly by the time a crack of light shone between the door and its frame. He stepped onto the tile, his knees quietly shaking and caught his pet raising his head from the floor. As he walked through the den he hastily reached out and popped him smartly on the snout, assuring the dog's recoil and eliminating the usual noisy greet ing. With the tattered shirt hidden safely beneath a pile of rags and his body sponged clean he slipped through the house to his room, avoiding his family in fear. The sheets of his bed were crisp and clean and grate fully accepted his fatigue-wracked body. But he did not sleep. He lay and listened to the sounds. Once he sprang upright at the ominous sound of a slamming car door. He knew his sleep would be fitful in the coming weeks; that every voice and closing door and approaching vehicle would frighten him, since any of them might be the official bearer of the news of his unlawful escapade. Countless times he would be bolting out of bed and glancing through the venetian blinds to see if the police had arrived. "Sit up in that seat, sir!" His father's voice snapped at him, and he quickly sat erect and looked at the detective. The man's face was impassively studying him. James knew his father was shouting at him to impress upon the police that from here on he was going to be a very harsh disciplinarian, as cold and unyielding as a marine sergeant. He saw nothing but gloom and the confinement of "restriction" in the c0111ing n1onths. "Indefinitely" was the term his father always employed when asked how long he would be required to stay within the bounderies of their yard. The home which had been a haven for him would now become a detested stifling prison. He was not to be prosecuted for his crime. He didn't know the man's reasoning, but he was to find out soon, since his father had insisted they visit him. He was to apoiooize for his actions, ask the man's forgiven�ss, and inquire of any jobs or chores the man might want as repayment. By degrees, his

them looked back, but his stare was for James' father: " ... Don't be too hard on him." And he struck something deep down, standing there in a t-shirt, his eyes piercing and pleading, framed by a noble head of silver hair. He seemed to stand the punish ment up for what it was, grim retaliation. All the theories, and methods behind it were wafted into the afternoon air and were gone. James' father stood for a long second, eyeing the man critically, for he was not one to take advice on how to raise children. But the moment belonged to the man, and he had very definitely given Ii.is all_._ He could not be denied his request. His father said nothing, but nodded his assent, silently approving of the man's advice. To carry out the punishment now would be to ful fill an empty obligation. He threw his arm about James' shoulder, something he had not done in a long time, and together they strode to their car.

voice softened, became confidential. "Hell, I asked the detective how old the driver was and when he told me I said, 'We can't prose cute a fourteen year old kid." He looked once more at James and smiled, "Besides, I don't think he took the car for a criminal reason." He started slapping James on the back and talking simultaneously. "He just wanted to have some fun." James was smiling and partially buckling under the embrace, blushing and looking abashed. He glanced at his father who was smiling grimly. Usually he didn't dare look into his father's eyes. He knew he was supposed to be glum and remorseful but this man had won him over and his m;sk had broken into a toothy grin. The man was capturing the humor in a most understanding way. He also seemed to realize the pending of penalties James was to endure, for as he smilingly ushered them out the door, he said, "Hey!!" Both of

TITLE: PORTRAIT OF A WINDOW'S LIFE -Photo by David Eakins

Searching For An Ideal by Beth Bullington

-Photo by Tim Archer

The Lady Doe Her light angular head jerkedÂ Her huge brown eyes stared Her black shiny nose quiveredÂ Her furry soft ears pricked. Her w hole body fluidly turned, And she gently waved her white Glove, as she bounded from sight. Susan E. Joseph

by. Usually there is an old man chopping wood beside the house; but there was no one now. One time I almost went to help him, but I was in a hurry. I guess I could have taken the time, but to be honest I was afraid he would think I was crazy and come after me with his rifle. Anwyay, the night passed on and I was beginning to get lonely. I lay back in my bed listening to three different types of music coming from each room surrounding me. That can really screw you up, trying to follow all of them at the same time. At times like those I wish I had some ear plugs. As I got up to find something to do, there sat my music staring me in the eyes. If it could have talked, it probably would have begged me to get out my guitar; but I hadn't played it since I had been back to school. Memories of all the good times in high school began flashing through my head as if I were seeing a video tape in my brain. In the midst of my dreaming, I could feel the laughter and joy we all shared. Now I never hear from any of the gang. Everybody's gone his own way. That seems to happen to all good things; when they reach their peak they fade away. I tried to think what happened to all the good times from last year, but the more I thought the more I realized there weren't many good times my first year here. Oh I had a lot of fun at some of those crazy parties, but I never had a close friend. We had fun only when we were buzzing. Come to think of it, I really never had a close friend in high school. I enjoyed the folk group because I got to sing and everyone really made me feel great saying how good I was. Damn, I never thought about how two-faced I was. I thought I was offering a lot to them, but really I needed their praises. The more I thought about it the more I hated looking at the music, so I left the room. She was leaning against the wall for support. "Fred, where have you been?" she called to me. "The party's down here. Aren't you coming?" Sue's one of those chicks that is nice looking, but she sure can't hold her liquor. I had nothing else to do and I was tired of dreaming about the past, so I followed her on down the hall. Those rooms are not meant for parties; it was wall-to-wall people. Most everyone was pretty much gone by the time I had arrived. But that's what made it so much fun; I enjoyed laughing at them without having a drink. You can really mess someone up when they're already drunk and you ask them crazy questions. I had a pretty good time; it was better

It wasn't the rainy weather or the fact that I was stuck here in this hole all weekend or the damned color of those cinder block walls which made me ill. It was everything. I was just tired of life. I was just as out of place as those sunny bedspreads Allen's mother bought for our room. "Hey Fred, What the hell are you doing? By the way, are you going to the party at the lake tonight? Two kegs. Can't beat that." After tossing his books across the room, Allen stooped down to search for some warm clothes in our dirty clothes pile. Some of them had lain there for two weeks. "Fred, what's wrong with you? What is all that stuff you've got there?" "Oh, it's some music--folk music. Nothing's wrong. Why? Can't I take a break every now and then?" As I began to put the music away, I realized I shouldn't have jumped on Al's back. It's just that he seemed to add to the image of the prison I kept seeing inside myself. Life is nothing but one big party to him. When he's not drunk, he's high. But I guess I haven't any room to talk. I did my share of partying. I reckon that's why I am so mad at myself; I don't know what I want. I feel pulled into so many different directions. Not another word was spoken. Al went on his way, and I piddled around the room, rearranging everything four or five times. By the time I had wasted two and a half hours and the rain had calmed down, I decided to walk to town for dinner. I don't know why, but for some reason I began feeling better once I got out. The campus was dead. It's always like that on weekends. Everyone has either gone home or is making plans for a party. No complaints from me though: I like it like that. I get so tired of seeing the same people all the time. Besides, the rain had cleaned things up, and the mountains were really beautiful. The mountains are about the only reason I was glad to be back at school. I can relate to nature and its changes. I'm always ready for the changes of seasons. They are going to happen. I couldn't wait (a few weeks) to see the leaves turn all shades of yellow and red. The colored countryside is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It wasn't a long walk to town at all. One has to pass all the faculty members' homes. I hate looking at them; they're all designed the same, black shutters and a damn eagle on every door. But there's one off on another hili. It's a small white house with a fire going every time I pass

I felt a liďż˝tle sorry for this one. The water kept pushing him off the rock, but he wouldn't give up and kept climbing upon the rock again. I couldn't shut my eyes to the creek, for when I did the son of the rippling water kept singing to me. I couldn't shut off my thoughts of the creek as one might a water faucet. All I could think of was how fast life goes by and how I was wasting every minute of it. I started back to school and found myself headed towards the chapel. People always say when you're in real need, you usually ask for God's ďż˝elp. But I wasn't asking for help; I was searching for something. I walked into the chapel and sat right at the altar. I lay back listening to the air humming through the high ceiling. I stared at the large sculpture hanging above the altar resembling the Christ's body. I thought about how my life was like that sculpture, merely existing, and yet the sculpture represented something. I represented nothing but hopelessness. I heard some voices outside the front door. As I looked out I saw two men talking. One was the old man who lived in the white house. I returned to the altar trying not to catch their attention. The voices faded away, and I thought they had left. But one stayed and entered the chapel - the old man I spoke of. I tried to hide my face and at the same time to follow him. With a gentle voice, cracking at times, he spoke. "Do you come here often?" At first I wasn't sure he was talking to me, but when I looked around the room, I remembered no one else was there. "No , matter of fact, this is my first time in here." He wore old boots, dungarees and a plaid hunting coat. ''Might I ask a favor of you if you have some time to spare? I have a trunk load of firewood to deliver, and I'm not feeling too well today. Care to earn a few bucks?" I just stared at him in surprise. Here I had been afraid to go help him, and he comes right up and asks for help. I spent the entire afternoon with him, delivering firewood to old folks way out in the boonies. He said he had once been a minister, and when he retired he and his wife built the house on the hill. His wife had died a few years back. I could tell he had a purpose and a need. He was lonely and needed to help others to fulfill his needs. We talked about this matter a long time. "It's ok to need people. That's what life's all about. It's all a matter of what we need from people," the old man shared as we stopped for a soda. I could relate to what he said. Later that evening AI kept bugging me about where I had been. Someone told him I hadn't gone to my class, and he was on my back about that. I think it just gave him a reason to fuss at me, because I know he wasn't interested in my

than sitting in my room alone all night. It was beginning to get pretty cold out. Everything seemed really dull, including myself. All the leaves had fallen and everything seemed to have a gray wash over them. Just as the beautiful leaves cheered me up, now the winter months depressed me. I felt even lonelier now because I couldn't escape nature. Then I began wondering why I was so lonely. What did I have to share with anyone anyway? Then the ice cracked. It was the first part of November, and I had gone to wipe the dust out of my mail box. It was a letter from one of the guys in the old folk group. I was so surprised and excited that I ran outside and sat in the grass to read it. I could tell it was bad news from his opening. He wrote "Fred," not "Hey Fred" or "Dear Fred," just "Fred." He got right to the point; I guess he didn't feel like shooting the bull with me. Tony had been killed in a car accident. I couldn't believe it and read over it again to prove I had read it wrong. Tony was one of those guys with a lot of money who could buy all his friends. He sang really well, but we used to always say that he had Frank Sinatra come give him voice lessons. I really felt guilty about it now. I didn't want to see anyone, especially a teacher, so I cut my next class and started walking. I didn't know where I was headed or for how long; I just took off. My mind kept saying it could have been me. Why not me? I don't offer anything to anyone. Why not me? I began feeling ill all over, and my stomach started winding up in knots. I was in such a daze I didn't even realize I had passed the faculty homes. But I did notice the white house. Again the old man wasn't there; only this time there wasn't a fire going either. I was worried that something had happened to him and started feeling guilty again for never going to help. I couldn't stand the thought of something happening to him so I moved on. My mind had drifted into another world, causing me to forget the pain I was feeling. Not far from his house there was a little bridge, big enough to cover a creek. I stood on it for the longest time, watching my reflection in the water. I saw my life in that creek. First there were rocks scattered about the creek, causing the flowing water to form ripples as it passed by. It wasn't a very clean creek, and you really couldn't see much in it. I thought about my life and how cloudy things seemed. I couldn't see any form of life in there; no fish, no frogs, no nothing. And yet I knew they were in there. I don't know what kind of life goes on; all I could see were the rocks and the flowing water. Then upon one rock I noticed a small crayfish. l always thought those things were so ugly, but

feeding him a line, but he would have thought I were crazy if I told him the whole story. It was a nice kind of secret to hold on to.

studies. "I've been watching crayfish and delivering firewood to old folks." I knew he would never understand, so I didn't bother to explain any further. He thought I was just

-Photo by Jane Stogner

One Summer Evening This evening I climbed up a rocky hillside The sun was just ending its daily sky-ride In every direction, a hundred miles I could see The patient, blue ocean lay a quarter-mile beneath me. I knew why I'd come to this barren spot To be alone with my life which was in reality not The stony, warm mask which the world 'round me sees A lost, crying gull sails by on the breeze. The days which had been...so warm in the sun Had ended so quickly with a blast from a gun I'd stood holding her form and feeling so hollow. The sun disappeared in a rose colored splash The stars were reborn, faint embers in ash In the east, a warm light spread with a quiet emotion And the full moon emerged from the depths of the ocean. From the darkness of day had come the lightness of night And the dark of the day had taken my sight As the moon follows sun, so can life follow death I stood very still, inhaling my breath. Bill Cole

Escape From Freedom I flutter around just outside Wings weak and chained down By the expectations of flight Intrinsic bonds are wrapped around me Binding me away from your love I hold much desire to share with you But previous initiation left me in the cold I am sheltered in my own little nest Yet, not at all content being there Uneasiness made me leave my nest To hop on the ground below me Standing so much alone outside You knelt and picked me up To hold me in your hands so tenderly I felt peace and contentment within Then your cage door dropped and crushed me.

Like Things Are Cured By Like by Thomas Fornasar

"Tighter, pull them tighter!" "You don't want to cut off his circulation do you? At least let the boy's blood flow; don't tie that down!" "I don't want him to hurt you or me or anyone else. Come on, Dad, you know as well as I do that another law suit would break us. Anyway...well...it's for his own good; he almost killed himself last time." "Can you blame him," mumbled the old grandfather to himself. "What?" she spat out. . "Nothing, nothing. I just don't think he should be treated this way. Cherie, he's not an animal, he's your son." "Dad, he almost killed Mrs. Owens, so I don't want to discuss it anymore, okay? Now pull that strap there," she said, nodding to it. "When's the lawyer coming over," he said, while only pretending to pull the heavy leather strap tight, letting it slide through his fingers. "He said he'd be coming around by eight," she answered, glancing at the clock. "Oh, it's almost that time. Now, Dad stay with Paul until he's asleep. And for God's sake, don't get him all riled up again, okay?" "Ya, ya," he moaned. She left the small loft room through a darkened doorway. The old man listened as she climbed down the steep steps, hearing each step get fainter as the distance between them increased, until there was silence. "Well Paul " he suddenly said to the body that lay prone uďż˝n the small bed, "how are you this fine evening?" Silence. "Oh," went on the old man, rubbing his bony fingers over the stubble on his chin, "ooh, that's all right, you don't need to answer, I understand, knowing your mother with her straps, she probably tied your tongue back anyway,'' he said jokingly. . The boy winced for a moment, and with weak muscles gave a futile tug at the strong bands that bound his wrists. "Jesus I'm sorry boy, I didn't mean to say that. I juďż˝t thought that after all this time, well. . . ," the old man's voice drifted away until silence again was between them. . "I see she still hasn't done much for this room," he again continued, while turning slowly and letting his eyes survey the nearly total emptiness of the boy's small loft room. "Well, it's good to have a room that's not too cluttered. At least that way you can find everything,"

smiled the old man. But the smile dimmed as it passed through the boy. "Well look here, you've got this nice big window to look out of," continued the man, as he drew the blinds open. "Paul, look it's snowing! Look at that, Paul, the first snow of the season." The boy didn't move. "Here son I'll move the bed so that you can see." With a grunt, he shoved the small bed so that the window was at the boy's feet. "There you go, son, now you should be able to see it." The man stood back, watching for some sort of response. Outside, the snow flakes fell softly to the earth. The boy's eyes continued to stare outward, beyond the darkness of the early night. "Well, maybe you should get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow," said the Grandfather in a defeated tone. "Good night, Paul."He turned and disappeared into the darkness beyond the door. The boy remained motionless for an instant after the old man's departure, then slowly turned his head towards the door. A tear escaped and ran down his cheek. "The boy has got to be put away, Mrs. Watson, he's just to much of an expense for you." "I realize the expense, Mr. Blackmore, you don't need to remind me of that." "Mrs. Watson," abruptly continued the young lawyer, "I've looked into your financial status and at the rate things are going, you'll be all but starving in six months. Now I've..." "All you're worried about is getting paid," bellowed the old man coming into the room. "If all of us shriveled up and died tomorrow, you wouldn't care, just so long as your check was in the mail before we died. Cherie, can't you see this man has no feelings, he's..." "Mr. Steward, I'm just doing my job." "Your job!" yelled the old man. "Is it your job to play God?" "Mr. Steward--Mrs. Watson, please to your father the situation. I am just doing what I'm suppose to. This is what I was hired for." "Dad, leave Mr. Blackmore alone; it is his job," she said softly. "It's for our own good." "What about Paul? Doesn't he count for anything?" loudly persisted the father. "Dad, please!" she exploded. Her chin began wrinkling up, her eyes filling with tears. "Dad," she said sinking to the sofa, sobbing, looking into his eyes, "can't you see? I want a life for myself.

Janet Lea Bowles

The str_aps seemed to tighten on the boy,for he beneath the bonds. The man's now sqmrmed words instituted crushing torture within the boys mind, each phrase further kindling a Jong smoldering flame of freedom, each sentence inciting retaliation for the treatment of past years.Beads of hot sweat poured from his now flushed skin. "I know you don't want to he hurt anymore·' that's why I'm going to help you. Just leave it to me,boy. I'll tell you how to fight it." "I'll have the papers filed first thing tomorrow morning, Mrs. Watson. All the arrangements should be carried through by the end of the week." "That'll be fine, Mr. Blackmore." "Please,call me Bill," the lawyer kindly said. "All right,Bill," she smiled,"and please,call me Cherie." "Fine," he said smiling."I'll be in touch with you. Maybe we can even have lunch some afternoon," he suggested. "You know,to discuss Paul's situation." "Yes, I'd like that," she coyly replied. "I mean,to discuss Paul." They both smiled at one another, knowing what was really meant. "Well, I'd best be off," he said, starting for the door. "Perhaps I'll call you tomorrow,if you're not doing anything." "Nothing," she almost forwardly responded. "Great !Good evening, Cherie." "Good evening, Bill." He turned and left through the doorway.She smiled as she closed the door behind him, breathing a sigh of satisfaction.Things would be all right now; she was sure of it. The clock on the wall reads ten-thirty. "Better check in on Paul and Dad," she thinks to herself; "it's too quiet for him to still be mad--and I know The grandfather looked at the boy who still Jay he's mad." She starts walking through the downstairs in front of the window, eyes open, agape, still of the house turning off lights as she section staring.He walked over to the window and stood, joining the boy with an expectant gaze at the passes lit rooms.With each fading secession of light, the air in the small house seems to become outside world. "Paul," he started slowly, still looking outside, colder. She shakes with a chill while thinking, "I've got something important I think you should "extra blankets tonight." Going to the closet to know about while we still have the time to fix it. get them, she notices a light on in Paul's loft room atop the steep steps."What's Paul's light It has to do with your mother." With the word, the boy's eyes widened; the doing on now," she says to herself. Looking straps upon his limbs grew taut with convulsive further down the hall she sees that her father's light is on also. "What's going on here?" she strain. "Your mother wants to send you some place " questions out loud. Grabbing a couple of blankets, she slowly he continued,"some place bad. Now,you do�'t climbing the almost verticle steps begins want to be sent to a place where sick people are, upward to the small loft room. Midway up, a where they strap you down and never Jet you go give you shots instead of food, hurt you. Paul'. shadow moves across the doorway above her. you don't want to be hurt, do you?" said the old "What the--" she starts, shaking her head. Her steps quicken, climbing faster. man turning to face the boy.

I'm young,I could still get married again." "But he's your son!" he shouted. "I don't want him," she rejoined louder, as though the words cut her as they came out. "I just don't want him anymore." Her chin dipped, head bowed,almost as though asking silently for forgiveness. The tears dripped to her lap. "I see," quietly whispered the father to himself, "I see." His words dimmed the room. After a Jong moment of silence the young lawyer,who still stood between them,made a false attempt to clear his throat. "Mrs. Watson." His piercing voice shattered the silence, making both father and daughter flinch. "I've prepared some papers for you to sign. If you'll read them over and put your signature on the places indicated, all the necessary arrangements will be made." She raised her eyes to her father's, searching for some sign of understanding, of sympathy,at best a small bit of condolence for her. But there was none.The father only stood in front of her rubbing his bristles of his unshaven chin with his fingers,eyes fixed to hers,soundlessly pleading for some compassion for the boy. There was none. "Mrs. Watson," again impatiently broke in the lawyer, "the papers; if you want to sign,I'll get them." "Ah," she hesitated,still held by her father's eyes which still implored her. "Ah, yes ... yes please get them," she whispered. She lowered her eyes away from her father's as the young lawyer began to dig around in a briefcase.She again looked up,"Dad,I. ." she started to say,but the old man was gone. "Here you are, Mrs.Watson, just sign pages two and six... "

maintains his stare into the outside world, as though nothing that shouldn't happen is happening. The pulsations seem never ending,four to each one of her quick shallow breaths.Suddenly she disappears through the door, sucked in, swallowed down,and finally absorbed into the darkness beyond. "Very good, Paul," kindly says the grandfather turning to face the boy, "you did a good job. She won't bother you anymore; you're free of her.Now, how 'bout something to eat,I'm starved. What do you say, huh?!" The boy standing facing the open doorway looks deep into its somber blackness. His face shows no emotion,no remorse, not the slightest qualm of conscience. "Paul?Do you hear me?" A smile comes to his face. "Sure," finally replies the boy in a raspy voice, "I'm hungry too." "Great!" says the grandfather rubbing his unshaven chin with his fingers,"Great,Jet's get going."

At the top,she looks through the doorway into the lighted room and sees her father standing, his back to her, looking out the large picture window,taking no notice of her. Still based on the narrow platform above the steps, she surveys the remaining part of the room that she can see. "Something is different," she thinks. Her eyes wander while her mind checks off the few objects in the room, looking for the change. After a moment,she knows. "Paul,where's,Paul?" she says stepping into the brithtly lit room. "Dad, you didn't--!" Her voice is abruptly halted with a gasp. She falters, feeling a strangely acute throbbing pass through her body,pounding her, causing her to double over. "What?! Paul?!" she exclaims. The room begins spinning around her as the beating pulse within her body continues. Her head lightens,her body numbs,her legs begin a slow and unconscious run for cover. The room seems to darken behind her eyes. "What's going on," she muddles. "Dad,help me! Dad!" The steady pulse goes on while the father

Innocent Of Dien Bien Phu In a lush green valley A midst evergreen Joliage There lies a small thatched hut

Alone Clouds move about the sky so as to achieve geOmetric patterns. The air is filled with sound . .. many different sounds. I am alone-yet sun·ounded.

The inhabitants are earthy folk Of an age thought to be passed They churn milk, tend rice patties And are undisturbed by the present Planes hum overhead; unnoticed Till the shrill cry of the engine Pierces the serenity of the day Dropping its tiny package of destruction

Jeanne E. Hooker

The past is annihilated by the Cruel elements of the present Jeanette Heath

Chrysalis Staff Editor-in-Chief ......................................................Greg Gallion Fiction Editor . ..................................................... Susan Joseph Photography Editor . ................................................... Bill AmeenÂˇ Art Editor . ........................................................ Peggy Martin Poetry Edi-tor .....................................................Jacki Anderson Faculty Advisor . .....................................................Dan Gribbin Editorial Board ................. Tom Duffy, Doug Massey, Dawn Cockerille, Judy Singleton

**************************** The CHRYSALIS wishes to thank Gary Gibson and the staff of Collinsville Printing Co., Inc. for their valuable assistance in publishing this magazine. Many thanks also go out to our contributors without whose dedication this endeavor would not have been possible.

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ďż˝Photo by Tim Archer

Bicentennial Blues Besides Coca-Cola We have holy rollers; Abundant jocks, nylon socks, Apple pie, getting high, Hot cars, faggot bars, Expensive fares, cheap wares, Politicians, poisoned fishes, Aborted babies, too many maybes, Vulgar dancers, rapid cancers, Constipation, meditation, But I do, truly, love you, My inconsistent Red, White, and Blue! Susan E. Joseph

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