Literary Magazine Spring 1988

Home , Why Do You Lie to Me

FTER ORK

CONCORDIA COLLEGE 0 MOORHEAD, MINNESOTA After Work Literary Magazine Concordia College Moorhead, Minnesota

Spring 1988

Editors Nora Markestad Julie Anderson Susan Goplen

Submission Editors Nancy Benson Robert Groven Carla Grover Fredrik Hausmann Steve Wang Sharon Zubke

Art Editor Lisa Pahl

Advisors Marjorie Rush James Fawbush

Submissions Coordinator Elizabeth Yoder

Publicity Michelle Rinke

Typist Nora Markestad

Special Thanks to W. Scott Olsen for his time and ideas The English and art departments for their continued support Tim Carlin for his help with the artwork

11160/SC/0388 FOREWORD During one of our meetings, our guru, Jim Fawbush, asked a question nobody could really answer: why do we write? Nobody really makes any money at it, and there's certainly no glory in staring at a stark white sheet of paper waiting for some muse to strike you with some beautifully simple, original image. But still, people write, and there is no sign that they are going to stop. During the selection process, we, the editors, were privileged to see the sides, the insides, we had never seen in people we see every day. It was these "ordinary" people who provided such a diverse body of work that every editor found something that appealed to a personal literary taste. And it was "ordinary" people whose works often moved individual editors to respond with a profound and satisfied "yeah . . . " The following pages show the skill and promise of artists who express themselves in traditional ways as well as those whose personal styles reveal their visions. So, why do they write? We don't know, but we want to thank them for sharing their insights with the readers of After Work.

The editors

Some winners in the 1988 English Department Creative Writing contest also submitted their entries to After Work. These are noted on the appropriate pages.

1 CONTENTS

I Didn't Plan on Dying Today Anyway 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 4 Fredrik Hausmann

An Mternoon in Paradise 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 5 Bryan Honl

Under the Harvest Moon 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 • 0 0 6 Bryan Honl o

Continuance in Time 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 8 Mark Christopher Hansen

Horizons 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0, 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 10 Susan Caine

Good-bye 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 13 Stuart K. Iseminger

A Frozen Flower in Time 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 15 Bryan Honl

The jaws of Victory 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 17 Nora Markestad

Grandpa 0 0 0 0 0 .. 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 20 Carol Schotzko

A Bath 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 o 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 o 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 21 Melinda Pribbernow -

Midnight Metaphysic 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 25 Robert Groven

Haikus for Heidi 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 26 Fredrik Hausmann

Tucker and the Sparrow 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 28 Daniel Coates

Pinata 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0. 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 030 Robert Groven

.38 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 o • O 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 31 Julie A. Hanson

An Eagle Always Rises (or de Tocqueville's Testament) 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 32 Robert Groven

Antaeus Attached 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 • 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 33 Daniel Coates

2 :

In Parrot Shadows . 35 Fredrik Hausmann

Structure .36 Robert Groven

Rain for Who, Paul? 37 Leif Doerring

Blue Eyes and Black jacket .. . 42 Stuart K. Iseminger

Savage Indifference 43 Stuart K. Iseminger

The Battle. 45 Julie A. Hanson

Transylvanian Cries .. . .46 Jonna Gjevre

Where Tribute is Due . .47 ' Fredrik Hausmann

The Zen of an Earthly Mother .48 Bryan Honl

ARTWORK

Trevor Stalwicke 9

Erik Bakken . 14

Vicky Halvorson 16

Carol Schotzko .. 24

Vicky Halvorson .27

Lisa Heidecker 34

Chris Ann Walsh .. 44

cover by Kari Sue Olson

3 Fredrik Hausmann I Didn't Plan on Dying Today Anyway

It's true, I didn't get out much today As a matter of fact, the only words passed my lips were "a pack of Marlboroughs, if you please" which doesn't necessarily mean it hasn't been a thoroughly exhausting day believe you me. I awoke clean shaved and just barely saw your business suit ass walking out the door, the white door, the embryotic floor me door and somehow I knew that deep underneath those tight pinstripes there lurked my last pair of clean underwear No matter, I didn't plan on dying today anyway and for fifteen minutes I thought of you and Mr. Big possibly being in the same styles which made me giggle and scratch my ribs.

4 Bryan Honl An Mternoon in Paradise

Through a Maxfield Parrish scene I gaze with a sense of wonder As perfection looks my way Untouched by Vice or Sex The androgynous one sits Beyond the cloister wall Awaiting love to wrap perfection In within beauty

Yet these yearning glances Turn from me in clouded pity For I am but half of the whole An apparition blown by the draft of time Whereas Perfection rooted in ideals Is all things in all Neither black nor male, white nor female

Lonely now, Perfection looks elsewhere I am left Alone outside that world to find another Our symbiosis may lead to synergy or dependence And we may call ourselves one However we are still two Never one as perfection Yet, we love.

5 Bryan Honl Under the Harvest Moon

Within the dark hours of twilight I awoke encased in the silken threads of her cocoon Breaking free without vibration I began to see the security of the cocoon As a spider's web within whose false securities I am bound in comfort And then I know that I shall never learn to glide

Obnoxious flashing neon lights Prompt newly formed memories of the evenings chimera Like a ripple in space The door's image fluxuates to the cadence Of a nearby wanton walk Longing to be free I walk toward that apparition And into light of the harvest moon

Walking in cool night air, with a death sick as a crutch Slow inhalations of warm poison vapors Like an ancient ritual of the harvest A kindred consummation of land and humanity Gathered round the flickering light of a bonfire I too feel the primordian need To express my exploits, but no

I see the warm golden globe Whose azimuth changes with my every step Orbiting round my head: a reminder of My mistress's eyes to which it can't compare To the beauty and glow Of the street lamp fiery soul My personal harvest moon

Coming to rest upon a relic Whose ancient writings express The mystery of love In some strange mathematical equation But I do not understand it Because the variables always change And the only thing constant is love

6 I

Upon this well worn bench I rest I can feel throughout my body The seeds of winter Planted by the wind deep in my soul As my nose searches for The delicate scent of the night I yearn for a hint of explanation

The harvest moon presses hard Against my heart that cries To return to its womb And so I return to begin once again In the silken threads of the secure cocoon Somehow someday in my heart I know That I will learn to glide

7 Mark Christopher Hansen Continuance in Time

Blooming Flowers, never die When seen by an eye. Blooming Flowers, never live When nothing is taken, from what they give.

I met a Fox running through a Field He talked to me and I considered him to be wise. He told me a Secret, there is Truth in all things, Even Lies.

I met a Bird flying through the Sky Him I considered feeble minded. He said That all things were radiating Life at all times, Even when they Die.

8 Trevor Stalwicke

9 Susan Caine Horizons She could almost hear "Chariots of Fire" music accompanying the seemingly slow motion atmosphere of the traffic-deserted county road. Her fingers gripped and re-gripped the blue tape of her handlebars as her left foot , clipped onto her pedal, bounced anxiously· her right, touching the ground with only her toes, maintained balance. Before mounting, she had checked and double checked the equipment of her midnight-blue racing machine. The derailleurs of the 12-speed had been freshly oiled and finely tuned. Her brakes were aligned and tight, ready for any split second stops. Tires were firm, and the silver water bottle which matched her tire pump ang the lettering on her crossbar was full of a water/Gatorade mixture desig·nea to replenish precious body fluids that would be lost during ~he race. · Looking around and observing her competitors., she was aware that they too sensed the movie-like atmosphere. The chatter that had filled the air only : moments before was replaced by the sense of competition and the idea that the race was within minutes of starting so don't talk to anyone except your teammates; to do otherwise would indicate your vulnerability and take away your competitive spirit, your desire to win, your desire for the person next to you to lose. · ' ~he wiped away the first trickle of sweat that ran near her eye down the right side of her face. Staring intently toward·the horizon, she realized that the point that looked so far away, where sky meets land and the existence of earth beyond was unbelievable, would soon be as real as the road that now supported her. When this' point is reached, the race will have just begun and a new horizon will prod her on. And so it will go 'all through the thirty-mile course, horizon ·after infinite horizon prodding her on to the finish. It reminded her of adults teaching babies how to walk or swim. They hold out their arms and say, "C'mon, you can do it, c'mon," in that condescending voice, and when the little one is just about there, smiling as she senses suc cess, almost grasping the hands at the end of the open arms, the arms back up a little, taunting the baby, forcing her to continue, denying her immediate suc cess. Or a little boy teasing a kitten with a string tied to a rubber mouse. When the kitten just about has it, he yanks it away continuing the game. The boy giggles and the cat scampers about, yearning for the mouse on the string. They play for what seems to be hours and soon the cat tires out and interest in the mouse that forever eludes it dies away It reminded her of her dad. He would always prod her on, encourage to climb up one more rung on the ladder of success. But not like the adult teaching the baby how to walk. And not like the boy playing with the cat. Dad would let her succeed. He held the horizon in his hand and she could see it, and when she reached him, he didn't move, and she could touch it. Only then would he move it a little farther along, making it a little bigger, and she would strive after it. She could always see it, and when she got there, she could always touch it, and then he would move it a little farther along. The starting gun sounded. She pushed off and secured her right foot in the clip as she had done so many times before. As she gained position in the pack, she crouched on her saddle, her back slightly arched and her head centered above the handle bars. Dad was holding another horizon at the finish line and she didn't want to keep him waiting.

10 The race proceeded as races usually do. Groups of riders packed together to form an eschelon to help break the wind. They would take turns leading, con tinually rotating, always riding at a steady pace, no one trying to beat anyone. Not yet. That would come later. Annie was on the right, close to the shoulder; the inside lane of the counter clockwise rotation. Soon she would slide to the left and become the temporary leader. She hated this position. It lasted only ten seconds, but that fraction of a minute was filled with stress and anxiety It was the leader's job to maintain the pace, to keep the pack together Annie always got impatient. Within the pack, concentrating on her ankling and watching the rider ahead of her, she was kept satisfied. But leading with no one in front of her, she got anxious. She would fill with energy and want to catch the water mirage on the open road ahead of her. Often she was gently reprimanded by the pack as she un consciously quickened the pace, pulling ahead of the others. For her dad, waiting for his daughter at the finish line of each race was as anxiety filled and exciting as waiting for her in the delivery room 23 years ago. Wearing Cinelli touring shorts and a white golf shirt, he leaned against the van with his hat sitting naturally on his slightly balding head. His Minolta hung casually at his side and he shared in the camaraderie of the other observers, making idle, pass-the-time-away chatter, buying each other beer and seeds. Annie was the leader again as the pack reached the Sprint Mile. This time she wasn't called back as she expanded her distance between herself and the racers behind her It was time to break up the pack that had become like a team the past 29 miles. It was time to try to win. The "Chariots of Fire" music started again as the chain moved to the smaller cogged wheel in front and Annie's solid, lycra-encased thighs pulsed constantly competitively. She had a good kick, but that wasn't unique and soon she was once again amidst a pack, this time jockeying for position in stead of helping each other break the wind. She could see her dad now; he was watching her through the telephoto like he always did. When she was young he had taught her how to ride. When she got older, he taught her how to race. The strategies, the techniques, the com petitive spirit, they all came from him. She hoped that some of his compassion and sensitivity had rubbed off too. She put her head down and pumped harder. The cheers increased in number and volume as the pack approached the finish line which was adorned with flags that could have been borrowed from a used car lot. The last 100 yards were always the most exciting. Annie pulled ahead, but two riders next to her wouldn't let her go alone. The three of them gained a slight lead. Now it only depended on whose legs would last the longest; there was no time for strategy anymore. For most observers, this part of the race was the loudest and most energy filled. Not for Dad. The pass-the-time-away chatter had served its purpose and he was quietly intent on the midnight-blue Sekai that was about to be the first to cross the line. ·

11 All three leaders were crouched as far as possible to try to gafn every aerodynamic advantage. Concentration marked each face and four of the six eyes were fixed on a chalk line twenty yards ahead. The other two made con tact with the proud eyes of a slightly balding man wearing Cinelli touring shorts and a white golf shirt. The horizon was waiting. Annie tucked her head and forced her tired legs to make a few more rota tions. Crossing the line, she released the clips on her feet and sat up, coasting for a minute, catching her breath. As she dismounted amidst cheering fans and sprays 'of water, Dad stood with open arms. She walked toward him and he didn't move, and when she reached out to grasp the hands at the end of the arms, they were there.

12 Stuart K. Iseminger : Good-bye

I walk through my attic bedroom - Covers off hot in the summer, Three quilts cold in the winter, Rain tapping erratic time over my head (Santa's reindeer, too, at Christmas). But the walls are empty of •. Achievement plaques and posters, The small closet has grown, stripped of its clothing.

I slowly descend the stairs - Nail holes now instead of baby pictures line the walls . . "' ,. .~ . ~ . Peering into the living room .t see · The window sun has captured the cat one last time. But her favorite ·red· chair is. gone.

My footsteps echo loudly in the bright orange kitchen With memories of play-dough parties and Stay in the lines <;oloring' time. Now grandma's .old clock has stopped and Leaves the fireplace mantel lonely.

And even the backyard is strangely silent Full of dark green shade. Will it miss the kickball games? And the pines and oak stand still Wondering where hide-arid-seeking kids have gone.

I open the gate, .then Shut it behind me.

Honorable Mention Poetry: 1988 Creative Writing Contest -

13 Eric Bakken

14 Bryan Honl f A Frozen Flower in Time

The first frost, the piercing spear The rose brought to its final death Only the crystal branches which once held life Hold firm against the harsh love of nature

Red petals of blood drip upon the snow covered ground All love buried within a frozen grave Haunted by white apparitions which drift past the tomb Left and forgotten except by death

It becomes the darkest time of year As all the colors fade away Pink and purple lost from view All beauty encased in white

The white pure allurement reveals the false beauty Of evil pure as the innocence it portrays The tainted virgin bride of man Prostitutes herself to the exploit of evil

For three long months this death reigns Until the spring takes hold of the reins Driving the earth toward the Sun And the epiphany of all life

Once again the rose now grows Its thorny branches crowned by buds Strengthened by the summer's Sun The perennial rose emanates a bloom

Its beauty stops the world Who passes one by one Simplistic beauty adorned by complex form A singular delicacy upon a small wooden tree

The first frost .

15 Vicky Halvorson

16 Nora Markestad The jaws of Victory

Have you ever been so close to winning that your toes tingle? It's not just a question of it's-so-close-l-ean-taste-it; but so close that you forget you haven't won yet? I know it happens to everyone, but I think I get more than my share. My uncle Martin says I have an incredible knack for "snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory " I'm glad he can laugh about it. I used to think it was funny, too, I guess, in a twisted sort of way He told me that for the first time two years ago. I was on the freshman girls' basketball team, which was a big deal at Franklin Junior High. We were play ing Lincoln, our cross-town rivals. I wasn't a starting player or anything, but I wasn't bad. One of our starting forwards got a knee injury at the beginning of the fourth quarter, and so I went in for her. I wasn't doing too bad. I scored a few points and a couple free throws, so I was pretty proud of myself . . until there were about four seconds left. We had the ball and we were one basket ahead. We should have let the clock run down without shooting, but I got the ball and I got cocky. Nobody was around me and I was right under the basket. I mean, who could miss? So I shot. And missed. They rebounded, passed it down the court and shot a three-pointer right before the buzzer Of all the pissy luck, to be in junior high and to make your team lose to Lincoln. Hardly anybody on the team would talk to me for weeks. Mom and Uncle Martin had been in the stands and met me outside the locker room afterwards. Even though I felt downright shitty (pardon the French) my uncle made me laugh. "Way to go, kid! Way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory!" And he grabbed the ball I carried under my arm and dribbled it down the hall shooting imaginary hoops, missing them, swearing, and shooting again while Mom and I laughed. He always could make me feel better. Most of my friends called me "Custer" after that game. My real name is Katy Huster, so it didn't take much thought to come up with that nickname. I hated it at first, but it stuck, and now hardly anybody knows my real name anymore. I'm a junior at Washington High, now. I don't mind school, but I hate being a junior. You're too old to get any special treatment and too young to be boss. It's like being in limbo. An identity crisis at age sixteen. I live with Uncle Martin in his apartment. It's too small for two people, but we get by. I do the cooking, he does the dishes, I do the dusting, he does the vacuuming. It's like having a roommate instead of living with a relative. But I know he'd rather live alone. I mean, he's 26 and not married, but I know he dates. Or at least he used to. He hasn't been out much since I moved in; I think he's worried about leaving me alone. I found a pair of ladies' underwear the first time I washed his sheets, and nobody' s been over here since I moved in, so I know I'm in the way. He says not to worry about it, but I'm going to move out as soon as I can anyway So why don't I live at home? Well, I'd love to, but Mom and Dad got di vorced about a year ago. I know it happens to a lot of people and usually everyone's better off if somebody has the guts to get out of a bad marriage. But when Mom left Dad, she was miserable. I couldn't figure out why she left him in the first place. They had their arguments, but they always made up. Dad drank a little bit, but I didn't think he was an alcoholic. Anyway, it was nothing to divorce him for. I tried to ask her about it once, but she wouldn't talk. God, I wish she had. All I knew was she was too quiet and she started to sit in the dark alone all the time. It was like living with a ghost. I was sure she missed Dad. I did.

17 I spent a few weeks at Dad's just before summer vacation was over. He hadn't touched anything. The family portrait was still in the same place, her picture was still on the wall with mine, her needlepoint was still on the end table, but the house seemed so different. He kept the curtains closed so it was always dark, and he had started smoking again, so the whole place stank. It didn't look like it had been cleaned since we left. The living room was filled with empty beer bottles and our well-stocked dry bar was really dry I cleaned the place up one night while he was out with some friends. When he got back that night, he asked me how Mom was. I could tell he'd been drinking. It was like he couldn't ask about her if he was sober, so he had to get drunk. I didn't want to talk to him about Mom when he was like that so I told him she was fine. What was I supposed to say- "She's miserable and she spends every night in her bedroom in the dark listening to Motown"? So I lied and told him she was just fine. He started to cry Have you ever seen your father cry? Don't get me wrong- I think it's great that men cry It shows they're not afraid of emotion. But my father? The next morning I asked him how he was getting along without Mom. He told me fine . God! I gave him my !-don't-buy-it look and he returned it with OK-1-know-you're-adult-enough-to-handle-it look and told me he missed her so much and that he didn't know why she left in the first place. He would do anything, he said, to get her back. He also told me that Mom never wanted to see him again. I said I didn't think that was true, but he said she wouldn't even give him our new phone number or address. If there was an emergency, he was to get in contact with her lawyer, who would get in contact with Mom, who would call him back. Well, knowing that Mom was miserable and seeing how Dad was hurting and not knowing why she left him anyway, I did what any good daughter would do. I tried to play matchmaker, or re-matchmaker I guess you'd call it. I told him when summer vacation was going to be over, and when Mom usually worked, and I gave him our address. And I gave him my key. I figured if he came over on a day when she just worked in the morn ing, and he made a nice romantic lunch, and the two of them had some time alone together, maybe they'd be able to work it out. They were both miserable already, so how could I miss? About three weeks into the school year Dad still hadn't shown up, and I was getting a little impatient. Mom was still listing to The Big Chill soundtrack over and over again in the dark, and I was sure she would go back to him if he'd only come over and ask her! All I wanted was for my family to be happy again. I was so close. I just knew every time I came home I'd find Mom and Dad on the couch making up. Well, I told you before how well victory and I get along. Looking back, I don't know how I could have been so damn op timistic. I heard somebody say once that it's better to be a pessimist because then you're never disappointed. I think I agree. When Pandora opened her box, she should have shut it before Hope sneaked out. Of all the rotten pieces of human nature that came out of her box, I swear hope is the worst. Dad did come over. He came the day we had off for teachers' convention. Mom had the day off too, so she was at home. I went to the mall with a friend right after "Days" ended. I came home a little later and Dad was there with Mom, but they weren't getting along like I'd hoped. In fact, if I hadn't come home when I did, I seriously think he might have killed her

18 Uncle Martin's told me a hundred times that I had no way-of knowing what was going to happen. Most of the time, he said, families don't realize what's happening to someone they love, or they deny it. But Uncle Martin's a cop, and he notices things that nobody else would. He said he suspected that Dad had a problem, but every time he asked Mom about it, she either told him to mind his own business or she denied it. When I think about it now, I remember things I should have put together before. Mom had bruises all the time, and she always seemed a little nervous when Dad took a drink. Dad's in treatment now. I guess he's an abuser. Alcohol and coke. When he's high he gets paranoid and accuses Mom of all kinds of things. But he never did anything to me. I can't believe it. How could he beat the shit out of Mom like that? She's lying in a hospital bed right now with tubes coming out of her everywhere. And he put her there. My father. My dad, the druggie. God, you think you know someone.

Second Place Short Stories: 1988 Creative Writing Contest

19 Carol Schotzko Grandpa

I remember lime popsicles from the freezer downstairs, Lawn mower rides in my underwear, Walks to the playground with the jungle-gym tugboat, The red monkey swing tied to the willow tree. And the comic books. Hundreds. Grocery bags full. My eyes grew round with excitement as you brought them out and helped me find Bugs Bunny. When I laughed while reading, you looked at me from your Lumpy, olive green reclining chair and smiled.

I remember when I came to visit you, and the willow tree was gone. Sometime through the years I outgrew the tugboat playground, and riding the lawn mower in my underwear became "uncool." I don't remember the freezer breaking, but my lime popsicles melted. Now, with you gone, all I have are memories. And the comic books. Hundreds. Grocery bags full. Bugs Bunny still makes me smile.

20 Melinda Pribbemow A Bath It was 7:00. Jason, my brother, and I finished watching "Good Times" on T.V Now the Tidey Bowl Man was in his boat, floating in bright blue water. I was five years old. Jay was eight. I heard feet scuffling on the carpet above me. I looked up the stairs to see a figure. Mom. She was bent over at the waist. Her hands were rested on her thighs just above her knees. Her face was illuminated from the light of the T V "Is 'Good Times' over? It is time for your bath," she said. Jay's head turned with a jerk toward me. ''I'll race ya," he said as he lurched for the stairs. Leaving the T V on, I scrambled up fran tically Hoping, by some act of God, I could beat him. I fell running up the stairs, and I got a small rug burn on my knee. Owie, those hurt. I didn't cry because I didn't want Jason to think I was a baby. When I got to the top of the stairs, I headed for the hall closet. Jay was already in his room. He was getting his plastic green army men. I got my bath bucket; it had my toys in it. Mom gave me the bucket so I could carry them better I think she gave it to me so the water left on the toys would not rot the carpet. It held my Rubber Ducky like Ernie's on Sesame Street; Madge, a Bar bie doll, wearing last year's bathing suit; purple and orange sponge elephants; and four plastic tugboats with red bottoms and white tops that Dad had gotten as a gag gift at his office Christmas party He did not like them, so he gave them to me. Jay and I met in the bathroom. Mom was bent over pouring Dreft Baby Detergent into the water A bubble bath! Yea!! The one thing that is bad about Dreft bubble baths is all the little pink flecks do not dissolve all the way They stuck to my arms. They stuck to the side of the tub. Besides that, the bottom of the tub felt like sandpaper - it irritated my butt. Jay and I left our clothes in a heap next to the toilet. We stepped into the mass of bubbles, and they started to pop frantically as we sat down. The soap stung the sore on my knee. I did not tell Jay about it; I did not want to sound like a baby Jay lined his army men up and down the bathtub rim. Some were balanced on the faucets, and some were in the soap dish. One of the men was surfing on the Ivory soap bar I put Madge, wearing last year's bathing suit, into the sitting position, and I placed her on the spigot. She was the queen. My Rubber Ducky, the four boats and the elephant sponges were hidden somewhere among the soap bubbles. The war of the water toys would begin. Soon, water bubbles and little green army men were everywhere. BANG! BANG! KABOOM! AUGGGG! Oh no, Rubber Ducky got shot! Jay tossed him out of the war zone. "HA HA, Rubber Ducky is dead!" Jay said in a mocking voice. Not Rubber Ducky!! Instantly I grabbed one of the purple elephant sponges and squished it into Jay's face. When Jay pushed my hand away his face was purple with anger It looked like the dye from the elephant had stained his face. He grabbed me by the hair and shoved my head under the water I thought for sure I was going to drown. When he let me up for air, I was really angry I started yelling. Jay started yelling. We started to splash and throw the water toys at each other. By the time Mom made it to the bathroom, Jay and I were drenched. The only trace of the bubbles were pink dots on the sides of the tub. Water was dripping down the front of the tub. Water was cascading down the tiles surrounding the tub. The water toys were scattered throughout the bathroom. Madge, with last year's bathing suit, still sat on her throne. She was

21 wet too. "Holysh -!" Mom said, muffling her last word with her hand. "I can't believe this bathroom. Just wait until your father gets home. Since you little stinkers have already gotten your hair and everything else wet, let's wash that hair " We looked at each other like drowned puppies. Wash our hair? "Naw, Mom, that's okay You don't gotta do that," Jay said. Mom, with a smirk on her face , reached for the Suave shampoo (people think we spend a fortune on our hair). "I am not going to wash your hair," she said, changing her mind. We looked at each other with smiles. "You are. And it better be squeaky clean or there will be no T.V. for a month," she said as she walked out of the bathroom. Wash our own hair? By ourselves? Squeaky clean? Oh, boy. I reached for the Suave. I noticed that it was not Johnson's "no more tears" shampoo. Jay grabbed it out of my hand. He pulled the flip top off and squeezed a dollar's worth of Suave on my head. It started to drip down my forehead toward my eyes. "Rub it around stuPID! " Jay teased. Rubbing my hair, I recoiled, ''I'm not stupid. You are! " " No, I ain't. I'm older than you are. That means I'm smarter Being smarter, means you are stuPID," he stated. I did not tell him, but I knew he was right. I just looked at him stupid ly and rubbed the soap around in my hair Jay dumped another dollar's worth on his own head. I stopped and watched him rub the soap around in his hair, because I was not sure if I was doing it right. He looked at me. He started to laugh and told me to let him wash my hair - he could do it better He leaned forward and grabbed my hair. He sepa rated it into two separate locks. He twisted. My hair stuck straight up. " Now you are a bunny or a cow- fat and ugly!" he laughed. He twisted his hair, and made it into six different horns. "Who am I?" he asked. I laughed and answered, "Daddy, when he wakes up?" "No, stuPID. I am a punk rocker!" he yelled as he started to play an invisible guitar and bobbed his head back and forth. "Oh," I said. Madge, looking blankly at him, smiled. A voice from downstairs interrupted our fun. It was Mom. "You two better be out of that tub in five minutes. I mean it," she yelled. Jay opened up the drain to let out the dirty water He told me to turn on the fresh water so we could rinse our hair. Madge, in last year's bathing suit, looked blankly at the far tile wall. Jay rinsed his hair out first. He turned off .the water, got out of the tub and started to dry himself. I looked at him, with my two horns, and asked him to help me. "You can do it by yourself. Are you that stuPID?" The only thing I could think to do was to stick out my tongue. So I did. Jay smiled and told me if he had a tongue like that, he wouldn't want it in his mouth either. I told him to shut up, and I started to turn on the water again as he left the room. Can I do this by myself? I looked up, and I saw Madge smiling at me. Her little voice said, "Yes, you can. I will be here." With my eyelids squeezed and my mouth tightly shut, I rinsed my horns out. I did not dare breathe while my head was under the running water; I thought I would drown. So, I came up every five seconds for air. I could feel the soap trying to pry open my eyelids; it was trying to sting them. I had faith in Madge. She would make sure the soap would not get in my eyes.

22 I stuck my tongue out again. This time to taste the water running down my face. Nope, it did not taste bitter. The soap must be all rinsed out. I rubbed my hair. Hey! It is squeaking. I turned off the water. Pulling my hair away from my eyes, I looked at Madge and returned her warm smile. I got out of the tub and dried myself off. I grabbed Madge, dressed in last year's bathing suit, and went to my room. I put on my pink fuzzy pj 's with built-in feet. Winnie-the-Pooh, with a big jar of honey in his hands, wa& on the left breast pocket. The jar had "HUNNY" written on it. I climbed into bed. With Madge and my baby "nankee" in my arms, I started to drift off to sleep. Just before I went to sleep, I thought to myself, "Madge needs a new bathing suit. Maybe, if I tell Mom how she helped me wash my hair, Mom will buy her a new one. Maybe "

23 Carol Schotzko

24 Robert Graven Midnight Metaphysic

0 Lady, thy presence is stronger than Nature's divine, for my eyes used to turn, the Heavens to find. But now I'll gladly abandon the Moon and the stars, for Earth and the promise of what can be ours. The Heavens, I see now, are but a small favor, as the Moon is reflection, and the stars always waver. Ah, but your bright face could conquer alone, since your heart is steadfast in a light of its own.

25 Fredrik Hausmann Haikus for Heidi

Blooming down with my hand on your hip - an April bird lands on my head.

This morning, 4AM - blankets on the floor and wrapped around you.

Naked with the deers this July night you ran thru the trees.

Falling to my knees at the corner of 22nd and 3rd -little faces in the rain.

The misty morning smelling today like you taste - I've put on your t-shirt by mistake.

26 Vicky Halvorson

27 Daniel Coates : Tucker and the Sparrow Just one time over the bridge, And our many fountains burst in their beauty Just one time over the pond's edge. Weeping willow stills herself over the still olive red. The red bridge under the willow bleeds to the other shore. A park runs the western course of the sun, The park runs with the weeping willows to the west. Grass and cicada cry to one another in silver sun. The brown leaves sleep sleeplessly hidden, speckled against green under the sun's sleep. Sun dashes his silver eyes on pond's face. Pond reflects red and silver under sun's bridge. And there the sparrow opens mouth to plucking sparrow mother, And sparrow shivers the shivering wings to plucking sparrow mother. And baby cries, and baby cries to white-breasted mother.

The pond is speckled of white with speckled lines of geese. And the boy who has passed over the bridge is alone under weeping tree. 0 his kind face, and the sun bathes himself and breathes in boy's face. And bald sun is made weak of the boy's black hair Sun God is made weak breathing of the boy's face, bathing black hair 0 feed, feed to white-robing goose under the weeping tree, Boy, 0 feed, feed white God under dying tree. And black haired bird warbling is dying in dying tree. 0 die, sweet bird, black haired of the warbling tree.

Just once to stare at plucking eyes of goose, White and red, stained moving of a black spirit's moving eyes, White curled about itself, moving of Hell and God, stained of shadow. 0 feed, feed white goose robing under weeping tree, Drest in white robes, robing speckled white with the sun's silver, Gliding between the stained olive shades, beneath the deepening shadow of the weeping tree. Beauty is sublime, wiped in white light, wrapped moving of red, The fire and sun's silver sliding crystal olive, gliding, gliding To black haired boy gliding over silver olive to the other shore. Just once to look into the eyes of goose, And our many fountains burst in their beauty

Tucker said that he would fly over the pond's edge. His mother said, Just go one time over the bridge. Tucker, whom I met at the pond's edge, Just once, staring at the sun's face. Tucker said, Will you be here tomorrow? Will you be here tomorrow? Just once, some kind, the kind face . A wisdom's face, some kind, of the sun's rays. A God's eyes, white bled red, bleeding white curled of red, so clear of the crystal white color. White and black-lashed round, fires fed. And Tucker said, Will you be here tomorrow?

28 I

The wind bleeds the black-splashed trunk of the weeping willow tree, Bleeds boy 'from me, as willows follow in the wind's blade. Leaves me, and the pushing lights in the wind leap once over the red bridge. Dying bird swoops down to trees, sweeping of the warbling trees. The trees are swept in the wind's bleeding. Bird swoops over swept grass, and the fire's fed. The grass and red leaves are soon swept by sparrow, softly sweeping of the sparrow wings. And I am blinded in my line of olive trees. Blinded l;ly sun looking for black haired boy. Eyeless when sparrow wings past me, soft wings, over silver specks, softly Just once over the bridge.

29 Robert Graven Pinata

Blind. They are blind children waving their sticks beneath me. I am stuck. I wish for its end, but they are relentless. I am helpless, prone, dangling on a thread. To fight is futile. To surrender - impossible. To lash out - their goal. They have jabbed out their eyes, so they may not see my pain. They have become truly sightless. So still I hang helpless, battered. Because our vision was not a shared Sight.

30 julie Hanson .38

slipping slowly shrinking sideways slinking souley smiling sadly so wew e e p words when commitment to cooperation with wordlessly weighted life s 1

ps away unseen on the saddled suicide of reality.

31 Robert Graven An Eagle Always Rises (or de Tocqueville' s Testament)

The cock's crow fumbles across ash gray earth, finally tripping and dying on a prairie of green and red. It is a field dotted with clinging green, like hoary mold on stale bread.

In heavy boots, still traced with unwashable red, the planters of this field come and reap. With blades, glinting gold the bread is scraped clean and hard.

At midday the farmers grow tired. Their long scythes are snared by the patches of green. As the grasses catch the blades, their steel ridges become round. By dusk, frustrated farmers abandon their blades, and retreat to their clean, sterile beds.

While deep in the dusk, cushioned by unyielding grasses, three glowing white orbs split open with life, and the screech, of an eagle, swells in the night.

32 Daniel Coates I Antaeus Attached

Come, Antaeus, do you think I could not crush what belongs only to rotting yolk of mother? Diseased time wraps her purple sables about you, And as she is forced, so too will you be raped in her blood when she flees. In the silent but crying chambers, in the hollow and unseen breaths Of creation, where foetid and sallow winds blow against themselves, For eternity, there you will arrive within the still depths, unborn. And pale granite that is strength to you, swinging sword, and suckling Milk, shall also become sordid stability for you, resting. What iron pitch and restless flinch mark you of beauty, as you walk, eyeless and seen, run unknowingly Towards me, with vengeance of spider and black sand, hollow grains and grass left yet dancing in the shallow wind, these things Shall be pitched sanguine hot into your spine, onto your callused hands and into the sockets of your eyes. What you mark of others shall at last mark you in every dimension within its grave. Inward wind removes you from birthless womb, to be smothered In blood in a grove far distant hence, to keep you still, attached to yellow skin.

33 :

Lisa Heidecker

34 Fredrik Hausmann : In Parrot Shadows

From above a finger slowly points at the only child who grins and in parrot shadows takes himself in his own hands.

35 Robert Graven Structure (first line by William Carlos Williams)

So much depends upon long lines of people standing and waiting patiently without even being asked.

36 Lei{ Doerring Rain For Who, Paul? We met him a couple days after getting off the traill in Kapira Mposhi, Zam bia. Hans and I had been dropped off in this town in the middle of nowhere called Mazabuko. A nice rich white lady had given us a ride that far in her air conditioned Mercedes. The familiar rumbles of hunger, such an integral part of Mrica, had set in so we looked for someplace to eat. It was then when we started to realize just where we had been dropped off. We couldn't find a restaurant. Not even street venders or the usual old women selling fruit. We did finally find a place that had bread and sour sugarmilk. We're not talking Hardee's breakfast biscuits and fresh pasteurized, homogenized, Vitamin A and D, pre-packaged milk here either. The bread was old and hard (for lack of more appropriate adjectives). The milk was soury-sweet, though cool(I don't know how) and probably very unsafe, but we drank it anyway. Why? It was hot- Mrica hot. Not Florida-get-a-nice-tan-hot, but dry, draining heat. Thirst, even more so than hunger, haunts you constantly Shade is a commodity Water is life. Mazabuko didn't have much of either one. That's why we drank the milk. After paying, we continued south on foot to the edge of town to start hitch ing again. Mazabuko was like most small towns in Africa (villages, if you will) in that at the edge of town there was a bus stop - usually nothing more than a shade tree and a little kid selling cigarettes. No bathrooms. No candy machines. No water fountains. The bus station in Mazabuko wasn't much dif ferent than normal. It had about 15 people sitting around in the shade of a big baobab tree, and two kids selling cigarettes. The funny thing about bus stops in small towns in Mrica is that no one there is really waiting for the bus. Oh, if it comes, they'll get on it, but in the meantime they flag every car and truck that goes by in hopes of getting a ride. Patience truly is a virtue in Mrica. Even with all the time in the world, waiting for something- anything- can be extremely difficult. This was to be one of those times. In the space of about two hours, one truck (already full of people), one pickup (gave us the "I'm not going very far" signal) and two cars (ignored us) went by. My lips were blistering and literally burning up. I had a splitting headache. I was hungry and thirsty even though I had just drunk some warm water from an outdoor pump at the gas station across the street. It was just about then when we started to get hassled by a man "waiting for a bus." It wasn't fun. It was scary Not only was it getting late, but we were 200 kilometers from where we had come from and 250 kilometers from where we wanted to get to - the middle of nowhere. Hans and I were both fighting down an irrational panic- we'd even started hitching in both directions to try to stop any car that went by It it meant going right back where we came from that was fme with us. This man giving us a hard time didn't help matters any "Hey- you whites!" he yelled. (Hans gives me his, "Oh no .. this is it . we're going to die " look. We pretend not to hear.) "Hey! You whites! Where are you going?" he yells even louder. A nearby soldier looks in our direction. "To Victoria Falls," I said. "I hear they're beautiful." "Why do you lie to me?" he asks. "All you Whites lie. Why don't you just say you're from South Mrica? All Whites are from South Mrica."

37 :

"No, no, no " said Hans. "We're students at the University of Dares Salaam in Tanzania. We've never been to South Africa- we don't even want to go there." "That's what all of you say" he said. "You all say you are coming from Tanzania to see the Falls, but I know you are South African - maybe you are even spies." "Look . You can look at our passports. We have no South African stamp in them. We're American tourists- really " "Even so," he continues, "you have South African accent, but maybe maybe you are American." He shrugs. "It is the same thing. Your president and country support South Africa and Apartheid, and now maybe you go to visit South Africa so that when you return to America you may tell everyone what a wonderful country it is how good the government is. That maybe all the world should become a South Africa." The Afrikaansk South African accent is somewhere between Australian and British. Believe me, it's nothing close to the Midwest American English that I speak. As to President Reagan and America? - Well, sure, he exaggerated, but he did have a point. I didn't say anything. All I did was turn away and pretend to be interested in the activity of the gas station (which amounted to two old men sitting in the shade of the building - doing absolutely nothing, and two children playing in the dusty road with a piece of cloth attached to a string). I can't tell you exactly how I felt right then. I was hot. I was angry I was ashamed. I was tired and still fighting down that irrational panicky feeling. Most of all, I was just plain scared. All around me was Africa - beautiful and seemingly endless, yet always, always, so foreign to me. Sometimes hostile, sometimes friendly, but inevitably new and different with every step I took. Once in awhile, it got to be too much, and I'd get tired of learning, tired of thinking, tired of being in Africa. This was one of those moments. Another car went by I hadn't even noticed it coming, but Hans had. It stopped for him. I don't know if I've ever been so grateful for anything in my life. The car wasn't air-conditioned. There was no room for my legs. The driver smoked. A mouse kept crawling over my feet. And it was the best feel ing in the whole world. The guy who picked us up was Paul - Paul McAdler He had just picked up his daughter, Tika, from boarding school and was now headed home. Home to Kalomo, Zambia, about 180 kilometers down the road. He's a farmer- a white farmer, though his daughter is half Black African. "I came up here years ago from South Africa. It's beautiful country here used to be Rhodesia, damn close to heaven on earth, it was," he rambled. ''That was before all this government and bureaucratical bullshit that they have now. A man was his own master then. It's a bloody shame is what it is." We rode in silence for some time. Tika fell asleep. The mouse by my feet died of heatstroke and excitement. Hans read Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, occasionally chuckling to himself. I found myself enjoying the scenery now that I was in the familiar safety of a fast-moving car. There were so many shades of heat - yellows and browns mostly Baobabs dotted the horizon, sometimes far away, sometimes close by, their huge root-like limbs protecting the spirits that are said to live within. Occasionally, we'd pass

38 : gazelles and some type of antelope, usually so full of energy, now quiet. and mostly unmoving in an attempt to survive the blistering heat. We passed through a few tiny towns, the roadside always full of people walking, too poor to buy a car or even a bus ticket. In every patch of shade, as many people as would fit, sat and rested. There, toothless old men with hair turning white with age sat and smoked anything that burned and vaguely resembled tobacco while they play an unfathomable game with smooth round stones and a board of baobab wood. Children watched or played games - games that were somehow all the same no matter where we went in Mrica. Women sat, braiding or weaving, while they sold fruit or handicrafts. Every eye followed our car as we passed. We provided a passing moment of entertainment, something to talk about for a minute or two. A huge cloud was growing in the east. It and the sun were the only two things in the lacquered blue of the sky. "It's a beauty, i'nt it?" said Paul, breaking in on my thoughts. "What?" "That cloud you been starin' at." "You think it's rain?" I asked. ''Too soon to tell, but I got this feeling - sure could use the rain "Yeah this drought's been bad for you, I bet." "Well, not as bad for me as. for most," he replied. "I got 200 people working for me and I dug my own well and bought a diesel engine to run it. The water's there- you just got to find it." We drove on. Paul invited us home for the night after a beer at the club. He promised us a feast- everything from his own farm. We accepted. (We had no pressing plans, after all- Mrica is like that.) The cloud continued to grow in the east. It filled much of the horizon, and was no longer simply one cloud, but many - black and ominous. ''It's rain, alright '' said Paul, the corners of his eyes wet with foreign moisture from squinting so hard. Kalomo turned out to be smaller than Mazabuko, but I liked it more already. The "club" was a sports club that the rich (white) farmers had built together Membership was limited. The beer was imported and ice cold. I don't like beer too much, especially on an empty stomach - but I had two there, and got just a little tipsy. Paul's friend John showed up, and we got to know each other John was older than Paul -late 50's or so. He was a nice kind of man. The kind of man who's got a big beer belly and wheezes when he laughs: He smoked a lot. A man like him could be sitting on a stool in any smalltown bar or bowling alley He probably has a scary dog, a smelly house, and dirt under his fingernails, but still a very nice man. John was like that. He was about as normal as you can get. He believed the same things his parents believed and had taught him, and, just like most peo ple, he believed he was right, was living as God intended him to, and couldn't understand why the rest of the world didn't believe the same things he did. He was raised a racist and he still was- which isn't all that remarkable. No, John was pretty normal. "We are helping these people," he said. "They may have to use different toilets, but at least they have toilets. South Mrica is a beautiful country, and it supports almost all of southern Mrica. You let the Blacks take over and it

39 j would be like letting teenagers run your government. These Blacks don't know how! Look at Zambia, Tanzania, Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda and a whole mess of other countries where the Whites moved out. They're falling apart. The on ly way they survive is by huge loans and gifts from White countries, anyway. In Uganda and Mozambique, Black has been killing Black ever since the Whites left. Does that make the newspapers? - Maybe a paragraph. Our South Mrican soldiers kill one or two rebels or guerrillas who are breaking the law and killing innocent people, and it makes the damn front pages all over the world! There's plays on Broadway and in London about us, for God's sake! Why? Because we 'discriminate because of color.' Big deal! The whole Arab world, the Hindu world and just about any place that isn't Western discriminates because of sex, and they get off because it's 'religion' or 'culture.' This is my culture! Castro in Cuba discriminates whoever he damn well pleases as do a half dozen other dictators in the world, and nobody cares as long as they don't rock anyone else's boat. You go to South Mrica. See for yourself. Form your own opinion. You'll see. It's beautiful . " I didn't know what to say. I just finished my beer and listened. A little later, Paul drove us to his farm. It was dark, but the moon was full. The cloud was visible - mostly just its outline. It was bigger closer Paul had his cook fix us a feast just as he had promised. I learned a lot about Paul just from being at his farm. He treated Blacks like humans, but still very much below him. I think he probably only left South Mrica so that his daughter wouldn't have to live the life of being a minority within a minority Her light brown skin would have stamped her as trash))y the white half of South Mrica, and that same light brown skin, her wavy black hair and her flawless English without any knowledge of a tribal language would have ostracized her from the other half. I don't know if she was a legitimate child, and I didn't ask. Paul didn't mention his wife, though he said Tika's mother was working on a farm not far away. He treated his servants like servants. They were all Black. He let anyone get water from his well, though they may walk twenty miles to get it - only to have to carry it back home in a bucket on their head. They did this every day in the same heat I thought I was going to die from. Paul had a huge home - a mansion in Mrican terms. It had elec tricity, television, VCR, servants and more. His workers lived in huts with lit tle or no furniture, no electricity, and far from the water he very generously let them have. The whole evening Paul kept going out to the porch to check 'his' rain cloud. It seemed to have stopped moving by the time I went to bed. Paul didn't say anything about it, but you could tell it was bothering him. As I lay in bed listening to the night noises of Mrica, I kept thinking about that rain cloud. It meant a lot to Paul. Outside, a frog joined the chorus of insects chirp ing, whining and calling out to the night. A light breeze whispered through the open window, reaching out cool fingers that soothed my sunburned skin. By the moonlight, I watched a small ghecko on the wall as it snapped up unwary mosquitoes with its four-inch tongue. I fell asleep. About 3:30a.m., I woke up and went to the bathroom. I'll never forget what I saw. Paul had moved his armchair out on the porch, and there he sat with a beer, an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and a lit cigarette in his hand. His back was to me. My first thought was maybe he suffered from insomnia, but then I

40 j -

realized what he was doing. He was watching his cloud. He was waiting for rain. He looked up as I approached, but then returned his gaze to the moon-lit outline of the approaching cloud. "She's coming. " he whispered. I stood there for awhile, lost in thought and the magic of the moment. Then my eyes wandered away from the cloud down to the huts where his workers were sleeping. Two kerosene lamps shone through the darkness. A child started to cry faintly in the distance. I returned my gaze to the cloud again, but the magic was gone. All I could think now was, "Rain for who, Paul? The next morning Hans and I caught a local bus from Kalomo to Victoria Falls. About halfway there it started to rain. Minutes later it started to pour. I Cool, fresh, soothing rain. We didn't even shut the windows It was then, sitting in that bus surrounded by happy, joyous people that I felt it. I can't describe it - I've been trying. I just realized that I was sharing in something very special. I was there. All it was was rain, but it was everybody's. It soothed my dry white skin no more and no less than these people's black skin. It was everybody's rain. It was life.

Third Place Short Stories: 1988 Creative Writing Contest

41 Stuart Iseminger Blue Eyes and Blackjacket

Mumbling and jingling Black jacket and chains He jumps on the el at the Fullerton stop Jabbering to everyone in particular. The others- Ignore in their newspapers or books, Roll eyes, "What now?" or Turn away to stare at passing back stairwells. He dances down the aisle "You girl, gotta liven up!" To silent stiff nun-faced woman and Grabs hands of strangers as old friends. The blonde girl in the stroller stares and Smiles. He spins around at her giggle. She claps- He claps. They communicate with silly faces, Melting the other iceberg walls into a Smile.

42 Stuart Iseminger Savage ·Indifference

She appeared from nowhere Out of the grey-red bricks Straightening her glasses - What did she see? I saw the North Avenue bus approaching As she adjusted her filthy throw away coat And started to mumble to the rush hour crowd That quickly stepped out of her way. Swinging the plastic shoe bag That clanged against the bus stop sign She snarled, "Savages! Savages!" I urged the bus to hurry. Mental patient? • Drug addict? I did not want to deal with her, Come on bus! "Savages! Savages!" Swinging, she spun herself around. The bus stopped with my relief and She retreated to nowhere Into the grey-red bricks, Ignored by an indifferent city.

43 :

Chris Ann Walsh

44 julie A. Hanson The Battle

Am I the one found reaching twice and failing thrice? The promise looks to a future gone bad when re wards are dangled but never reaped, Dreams are smothered into a never forever. Skin deep beauty and a clown white smile take the rewards that seemed meant for the one who reached twice and failed thrice

45 jonna Gjevre Transylvanian Cries

hidden in velvet folds of an oblong coffin, this love waits Mute for a single touch one gentle word or warm-fingered caress.

(these, reassurance for love, that power is not lost and that I have not locked out love by heavy lid for stale eternity.) play me; Give me life cries love - resonant Need. press me to the scarred tissues of your throat, let me drain away bland humanity.

I think about this - reason half-erased By transylvania - and then I say No, putting violin (cradle-like) into a loving new grave.

46 Fredrik Hausmann Where Tribute is Due

It's a cold quality in sadness or maybe a sad quality in coldness. Aw I don't know, but all of 'em had it: Celine, Camus Kerouac of course don't forget F. Scott Wolfe or Thomas.

In the end just poor whimpering sympathy seekers really.

Now if you want the big guns, real pro's, I know this quaint little cafe where Sylvia and Anne hang.

47 Bryan Honl The Zen of an Earthly Mother

Her chest rises and falls in a syncopated rhythm

A Baby (Never knowing mother) is born lives life complete grows old dies

And her chest rises and falls in a syncopated rhythm