«» am he". sfia The Sundial Birthless never to remember the drooping cavern's confines or the startling sun as though squatting in a purse suddenly open tied to an empty cord bundled off on a windowless train from that human room floating floating intoxicated by the bumps and swerves but rolling... Show more«» am he". sfia The Sundial Birthless never to remember the drooping cavern's confines or the startling sun as though squatting in a purse suddenly open tied to an empty cord bundled off on a windowless train from that human room floating floating intoxicated by the bumps and swerves but rolling timeblind and giddy towards the dustwomb of impatient earth waiting unawares the crazed uneven sundial's careening shadow. The hairy nazarite squinting but unchained spreads himself like some great bird swollen oaken arms knotted fingers thrust out marblebound the haunting columns stand too wide apart short-spanned maggotmothered man awaits a hoary god's ancient rage or a weightless sparrow settling witless on the roof to bring the indifferent pillars down John Engman Emmi... ‘lL 5" , A. .' . 4 n y#___‘__- mu‘xr’dmcsrm Show less
The last Things Hear.my prayer, 0 Lord, and with thine ears consider my calling; hold not thy peace at my tears; For I am a stranger with thee and a sojourner as my fathers were. 0 Spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence, and be no more seen. --Psalm 39 The ardent... Show moreThe last Things Hear.my prayer, 0 Lord, and with thine ears consider my calling; hold not thy peace at my tears; For I am a stranger with thee and a sojourner as my fathers were. 0 Spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence, and be no more seen. --Psalm 39 The ardent September sun had risen in a gray mist that morning, leading two sundogs, the portents of rain, be- hind it. How the patriarchs took their places on the pink veranda of the Con- tinental and whispered maledictions of the afternoon rains all that cerulean ‘morning. The Hotel Continental had brooded over the corner of Fourth Street and Washington Avenue for as long as I could remember. In a fit of caprice the owners had painted pink the myriad Vic- torian fancies of the huge, decaying building. 0n the ceiling of the lobby, however, a shade of the Continental's vanisned elegance remained, for there, between growths of rotting plaster fo- liage, were daubed the likenesses of goddesses and cherubs clothed in rose and Ultramarine. A bacchanal could be glimpsed tnere between rows of fading Grecian wood; there sanguine Paris judged three undraped, buxom dames. It was eleven o'clock on a Friday VWIHanifloen morning wnen, from the third floor,from the rooms which had once been designat- ed "les suites grandes,“ through the urown halls, down the green stairs, and into the looby with goddesses and cher- ubs painted on the ceiling, where the neat had lulled the old men to wheezing sleep, came a long hoarse cry. The hearse came and the grandfathers whispered and nodded as the mortuary attendants carried the stretcher across the veranda and through the lobby. The chambermaid was calm enough now to lead them up the stairs to the open door. The ragged transient lay face down on the bed; his corpse had bled profusely from the moutn and nose, and the sheets were dyed with blood. Blood had set- tled in the face of the prone body so that when the attendant turned it over, the visage of the dead man was the col- or of dried rose petals and grotesquely bloated. Although the face did not ap- pear human, I, looking into that face, knew that this was how I shall be. wa it is five o‘clock in the after- noon; the autopsy is over,and the coil- ing, black cloud in the west is swal- lowing tne sun. It is silent in the soiled wnite room, for the autopsy is at last over. Une cannot remain unmoved in the presence of death, and, like an incantation, the ancient words spill out: Lord, thou hast been our refuge, from one generation to another. Before the mountains were brought forth, or even the earth and the world were made, thou art God everlasting and world without end. Now the autopsy is over, and the corpse is naked and Split open like a butcher- ed animal, like a beef carcass. Thou turnest man to destruction; again thou sayest, Come again ye children of men. For a thousand years in thy 1. Show less
tne nefarious delson, moved in quickly 'to cut up tne rest of the story: "The author tells too much." "Ah...yeah...rignt...um...puff,"from nlgren. “The writer doesn't say enough about tne past relationship between the moth- er and the grandmother." "Un-nun---uh---puff---that's true.“ "me didn't... Show moretne nefarious delson, moved in quickly 'to cut up tne rest of the story: "The author tells too much." "Ah...yeah...rignt...um...puff,"from nlgren. “The writer doesn't say enough about tne past relationship between the moth- er and the grandmother." "Un-nun---uh---puff---that's true.“ "me didn't decide wnat attitude the reader snoulu take toward the charac- ters." "Right again...,” flick-flick of asnes. Stupified, I nau ceased to listen to tne voices and tried to imagine why Al- gren snoulu naVe taken such a dislike to the prize-winning story. I was dis- illusioned anu uisencnanted with the conference, the conferees, and Algren. why tnis story? Why? I kept asking myself. Just in tine to hear the now uis- tinctly villainous-looking Algren lac- erate tne last page of nw sister's work, I awoke from my reveries: “An...it's got a prosy, flat tone... un...someone telling you all about the Characters in a monotone," he raSped. “All in all...an, un...it's a dra-a-gi" n drag! I was seething. The class ended, and I vaguely remember leaving the classroom building and seeing nw sister stay behind. A few minutes later I founu myself in the residence hall lobby, and I caught a glimpse of Miss humpnner as I started upstairs. I stopped snort. Algren! I thought, and I turned arounu and headed down- stairs, hoping to overtake him. Hor- mally, my inherent timiuity would have precluded my even greeting such a fam- ous personage. but my wrath drove me on, and I stalked toward Nelson, who was sitting in tne lobby skimming a manuscript. Ifly consternation must have showed in every pore of my face, for upon see- ing my insignificant frame in front of him, Algren remarked a la Miss Humphner “You looked troubled. Is there something I can do for you?“ "I didn't at all agree with your re- marks aoout the story you discussed in class just now,...sir1 I sputtered. “Un....“ he repliEd paternally. "And why not...?," and he wanted to add "little girl," I could see. "I thought it was a good story--well written. interesting,“ I answered al- most peevisnly, his vicious attack on "The Last Enemy“ still fresh in mind. Algren's eyes glinted as he moved forward in his chair. "Did you write the story?" he asked. "No. I did not! I said. descending smile-Vanished. “Uh,...an, er...“ He was off bal- ance. but he recovered. "Nell...I still think tnat story is boring and trite.“ “Boring and trite! That sounds more like 'Mrs. Peters' Paramour'," I coun- tered, recalling that tiresome tale of the day before. "Oh, no," Algren said in his most patronizing manner. "That has real pos- sibilities--and I mean, market potenti- al... Suddenly I realized why Nelson had torn apart my sister's story so thor- ougnly and had left "Hrs. Peters' Para- mour" relatively intact. It was very simple--he had not picked the stories himself but had asked the 'conference director for some representative pieces When he had read “Mrs. P." and “Venus and Adonis“ for the first time the day before, he had decided that the former was tne good story and the latter the mediocre one. Thus by elimination my sister's must be the worst. I turned % E His con- Wei W l%l Show less
career at Moorhead. After my mother re- ceived her degree there in l928, she proceeded to produce nine offspring, seven of whom would become future Drag- ons.* Therefore, when I in the fall of '65 embarked upon my educational adven- ture at Moorhead State with what I thought was a "clean slate"... Show morecareer at Moorhead. After my mother re- ceived her degree there in l928, she proceeded to produce nine offspring, seven of whom would become future Drag- ons.* Therefore, when I in the fall of '65 embarked upon my educational adven- ture at Moorhead State with what I thought was a "clean slate" under my collegiate arm, I was immediately placed into an overcrowded classifica- tion with the rest of my siblings. I became, as my sister's swimming in- structor at Moorhead so aptly phrased it, “another sinking Haugo." The ster- eotype was inescapable. Five of ny brothers had played football for the mighty uragons, and for some reason it just seemed that I,female or not,should also take to the gridiron. Everyone from Vince the janitor to Mr. the football coach looked at me askance and sized me up for defensive left end. Not only was I in danger of losing my identity but my femininity as well. I knew I had to leave. While at Moorhead State I was con- stantly troubled by the fact that I was, perhaps, receiving an inferior ed- ucation. This anxiety arose from vari- ous spirited debates--in which I was always far outnumbered--with students from Concordia, a small private college two blOCKs west of M.S. The debate in- variably ended with nw humble accept- ance of the obvious inferiority of state schools as opposed to private. *Dragon is the name given to the school mascot at Moorhead State. Danick_ The very fact that 1 humbly conceded defeat time after time proved the medi- ocrity of Moorhead State to them and eventually to me. I became paranoid and finally took any mention of the differences that exist between state and private institutions as a direct attack on my school, my education, and finally my mind. The matter disturbed me so much that I decided I had to dis- cover the differences for myself. I not only had to verify the quality of my education but the quality of my mind as well. Thus I sought out a private college. And it had to be away from home and without family precedent. This past summer I was once again a lifequard and counselor at a--excuse the misnomer--Bible camp. Due to the machinations of fate, the Holy Spirit, or the Augsburg Alumni Association our camp was deluged with former Auggies, now gone pastor. Tney shared with me their nemories of past days of glory, viewed through the scarlet-hued glasses of retrospect, and I became convinced that Augsburg was the place for me. It was away from home, private, and untar- nished by the family name. Now when I see a high school student roaming about our unattractive little campus and scrutinizing this building or tnat campus house with a sardonic sneer on his face, I want to walk up, put a guiding arm about him, and with the voice of experience say something to the effect that “beauty is only brick deep.“ However, in the better interest of my stomach and its capacity to eat crow, the already confused state of the high school student and the col- lege admissions office, I restrain my- self. That high school senior will have to decide for himself just what he wants form a college and then, like HE, be prepared to answer that ever-popular question, "Why?" M W. 0% Show less
12 grievances against me yet, however. The indignities have just begun. ...and when I pass my fuzzy-haired draft counselor on the street I shall cast my eyes to the ground and blush. My papers are checked, and I follow, obediently, a blue line that takes me to a locker room. I take down a wire... Show more12 grievances against me yet, however. The indignities have just begun. ...and when I pass my fuzzy-haired draft counselor on the street I shall cast my eyes to the ground and blush. My papers are checked, and I follow, obediently, a blue line that takes me to a locker room. I take down a wire basket and deposit in it my shirt, t- shirt, pants, and socks. I remember the difficulty I had that morning choosing my attire. I mean, what do you wear to a draft physical? 0n the wall of the locker room is a sign saying: "We Cane not Be Responsible for Lost or Stolen Property.“ If they aren't responsible, who is responsible? I enter a line to be weighed and measured. My group stands clad in shorts, shoes with no socks, and papers in hand. The more modest use the pa- pers as fig leaves. There are fat pink bodies, a few lean tan beach boys and myself,a bit conspicuous with red stal- lions galloping across my boxer shorts. My group, a rather curious lot fully clothed, is now totally inane. Also a- bout this time the last remnants of my rational processes escape me. A soldier scribbles down my height and weight. I read the figures, and I am once more a- mazed to discover that... I occupy Space. Farther along the blue line I take a position at the end of a long, slow- moving procession. I finally arrive at a device to measure my vision. My left eye betrays me by not being able to read lines four or five, and I have to settle for the large print in line six. I then take a seat on a long narrow bench for another long wait. At this station groups of seven are led into a large black box. It has a heavy door that swings shut and locks with a metal latch. It looks like a meat locker. I am with the last group to enter. The heavy door swings securely me. There are no windows. from small dim bulbs. I sit on a small folding chair and stare blankly for- ward. So this is it. An inglorious end. I look about for shower heads. Six mil- lion Jews and a Swede. There is a sign on the wall: “Remove the headset from the wall. When you hear a tone, depress the button on the ledge in front of you. Release when the tone ends.“ A temporary reprieve. I put on the headset. Beeeeeep. Presss. Beep. Beep. Press press. Softer. Beep. Press. Softer yet. Beep. Beep. Those clever draft people. No fooling this machine. Press press press. Beep. Press. Almost imperceptible now. Beep beep. Press press. I sit for some time pushing the button in a Skinnerian manner. Where are my food pellets? Must be piling up under my chair. I'm very good at this. There is a tap on my shoulder. Every- one has his headset off and is looking in my direction. I remove my headset and put it back on the peg. I sit star- ing at the wall in front of me. In the silence I notice a faint ringing in my ear, a sound that must have caused me to keep depressing my button. The door opens and we file out. In the next room are more grey benches for more waiting. The corridors and rooms are all painted monotonous cream colors. The ceilings are low. It is very surreal. I am entirely disori- ented. No sense of direction. Wander- ing deep in the bowels of this building I could never find my way out alone. I shut behind Light comes Show less
16 The Common Man While 'standing at a bus stop one evenihg I met a man wno was waiting for a ous. We stood side by side and trad- ed silent glances for nearly ten min- utes. He was a fair complexioned black man with curly brown hair. His face was nicked badly as if he had cut himself a dozen... Show more16 The Common Man While 'standing at a bus stop one evenihg I met a man wno was waiting for a ous. We stood side by side and trad- ed silent glances for nearly ten min- utes. He was a fair complexioned black man with curly brown hair. His face was nicked badly as if he had cut himself a dozen times while shaving. His nicks were scarlet from irritation, and his complexion was slightly ashy because of the residue of what must have been some kind of medicated lotion. Many times you and I have stood next to someone who looked interesting but who remained silent despite occasional penetrating glances. Many times you and I have wanted to say hello to him, just to prove that we were not afraid. But a confrontation of this sort is many times too crucial to be risked. What if we Spoke to him, you and I, and he became offended and stormed away? What if he glared at us dubiously, turned his back, and pretended to be studying the crosstown traffic? 0r,even worse, what if he looked at us with haughty piercing eyes, chuckled softly to himself, and then began to laugh, first softly, but then building to a rapid crescendo of hilarity? What if that happened to us? The man looked at me as I paced ner- vously along side of him. His eyes fol- lowed me as I walked. His glance was steady, as if he was observing a tree instead of a human being. He did not seem to think that I would stare back. He was right. “You still in school?“ he asked as he glanced admiringly at my books. The sound of his voice shattered my securi- ty. "Yes. I am,“ I replied. "You goinf on to college,ain't you?“ "Definitely," I replied. His counte- nance softened noticeably, and he Sleones smiled. "You know, I never even finished junior high scnool,“ he said. "Wow that's bad.“ I noticed his clothes. They hung on him in the sloppiest man- ner, but I was not embarrassed. There seemed to be an excuse for his shabbi- ness.He was a depression baby grown old who had seen plenty of whiskey and more of the world than he cared to remember. His coat touched the bottom of his left knee, the top of his right, because one leg was shorter than the other. The coat was black and housed at least two summers worth of dust. The man wore baggy pants that overflowed at the tOp of his black, unpolished shoes. As I studied him, I caught a glimpse of his zipper. It was wide open. I immediate- ly assumed that it was broken. But he saw my youthful eyes staring, and he noncnalantly pulled it closed. “What are you interested in?" he asked. “Writing. I'm going to be a writer," I said. “You‘ll probably be a good one too. Yeah. that's a wide open field, a wide open field. There's always something to write about.“ he said. "Learn to ob- serve.“ He was very serious. As he turned to look down the street in ex- pectation of the bus, I caught sight of the top of a flask hidden in his back pocket. The top itself was not visible, but it could be discerned through the outline it etched on the coat. He smiled sheepishly and said to me, “Vou know. I wanted to be a mathematician, Show less
Writer’s Crab Nelson Algren was not at all the man I had expected. His penitentiary pal- lor. his electrified grey nair standing in two tufts on botn sides of a shiny forehead, nis square, slightly jowly jaw, and his drab green shirt made him look more like one of his disreputable characters from... Show moreWriter’s Crab Nelson Algren was not at all the man I had expected. His penitentiary pal- lor. his electrified grey nair standing in two tufts on botn sides of a shiny forehead, nis square, slightly jowly jaw, and his drab green shirt made him look more like one of his disreputable characters from boxing circles or Chi- cago's seamier side than like a well- known literary figure. At the sane time he reminded me of my first grade teacner, Miss Humpnner. They shared deep-set eyes, long crescent-shaped dimples surrounding a small prune mouth and a generally oenevolent expression. Thus when I first saw Algren that hot July day at a western American writer's conference, I had a mixed reaction-~I was at once repelled by the common qualities and attracted by tne Miss Humphner traits. Nonetheless. I, along with sixty young (and not so young) writers, waited expectantly for his pontifical pronouncements on short stories submitted to nim at the confer- ence. This day was Special for me. For Nelson was not reading just any story five minutes before class was to begin; it was my sister's Story, “The Last Enemy." And my sister, of course, was the Carson McCullers of the conference, at least so I thougnt and so I thought Algren thought as ne speedread the man- uscript, turning eacn page after a full 7.5 seconds of intense inhalation on his Chesterfield king and sonewhat less intense perusal of the story. This hasty consideration of what I esteemed a piece worthy of katnerine Anne Porter or Tnomas Wolfe caused the first real stirrings of ill feeling toward this prose master witn a dowager's delicacy of features and a flim-flam man's oili- ness of manner. Margit Livingston Still, I was sure that he would judge tne work the best of the three stories distributed to the class for discussion. After all, this same story had gained my sister a fellowship at the conference. Moreover, after rat- tling througn a sleepless night on the train and wiping out our savings, we thirsted to near praise from Algren (even tnougn my sister was now writing plays and never intended that her short story be evaluated at all!) And, finally, tne story had already won Mademoiselle's College Fiction Lom- petition and had been published in the maga21ne. The other two stories, I was sure, had never seen print. The con- ferees had asked Algren to select three stories of varying qualities from the manuscripts suomitted to him and to pass out copies of them to the class. He must nave chosen the others to rep- resent bao and nediocre stories and my sister's to exemplify the successful work, I figured. Nelson had confirmed my opinion the day before wnen ne criticized the poor story, “Venus and Adonis": a bedtime yarn about a neurotic photographer and his lust for a ravishing archeologist wno was digging for artifacts in the Mediterranean. With his mouth twisted downward into a condescending, but not quite sour, smile, Nelson had neatly summed up the story's tragic flaw: "Tnere seems like tnere‘s four people who want to sleep with a lot of other Show less
24 AUGSBURG VIA MOORHEAD "Why would anyone ever want to go to that college?" was the question I asked myself just after having seen Augsburg for the first time in November of l967. With the sophisticated and discerning eyes of a high school senior I had viewed the one-block quadrangle of... Show more24 AUGSBURG VIA MOORHEAD "Why would anyone ever want to go to that college?" was the question I asked myself just after having seen Augsburg for the first time in November of l967. With the sophisticated and discerning eyes of a high school senior I had viewed the one-block quadrangle of buildings that comprises the inner city campus and had firmly decided that it just wasn't for me. To all who asked my opinion on the "involved school" I gave a ten-minute discourse covering everything from its lack of aesthetic quality to its inappropriate location in the heart of Minneapolis. Two years later, after Spending my freshman year at Moorhead State in northern Minne- sota, I find myself a sophomore trans- Patricia Rockswold fer student at Augsburg. the ugly mis- placed little college in the city. The transfer from Moorhead State to Augs- burg has required not only the capacity to eat second helpings of the prover— bial crow but also the ability to an- swer the ever-popular question,"why are you transferring, (or as is now the case) why did you transfer?" Everyone, from the panting admissions departments at both colleges to my appeasing par- ents to several nondescript but con- cerned individuals, seems to be intent on asking that question whenever there is a form to be filled out or whenever tne conversation lags. At first the question diminished me to an inarticu- late, fumbling idiot. and I was immedi— ately passed off as just a spoiled brat who would be dissatisfied with any school. However. after considerable soul-searching Cburses in Aristotelian logic and much,answering practice, I have developed an answer that satisfies even the most ardent interrogator. My transfer can be best explained by the negative aSpects of my college life at Moorhead State. My former alma ma- ter, through no fault of its own, made it very hard for me to cut the ties that held me fast to my now childless home. Moorhead, a lethargic town of 25,000 Norwegians in northern Minne- sota. aside from being the home of the Rancho Ballroom, is also the home of my forlorn and very lonely parents. Due to lack of entertainment in Moorhead, the nearness of Naubun (only fifty-five miles). and various monetary baitings from my parents, I found myself drawn home weekend after weekend. In fact, I was spending more time at home while I attended college than I ever had while I attended high school. The umbilical cord was not severed. Family precedent also proved detri- mental to my short-lived educational Show less
Aquamamt have.been groping through obscure pas- sageways of a giant submarine that has descended to the bottom of a deep, cold ocean. Sitting on the bench, I watch the slow progress of T.S.'s claws scut- tling across the floor. Nine of us line up against the wall. They check our hands for fingers... Show moreAquamamt have.been groping through obscure pas- sageways of a giant submarine that has descended to the bottom of a deep, cold ocean. Sitting on the bench, I watch the slow progress of T.S.'s claws scut- tling across the floor. Nine of us line up against the wall. They check our hands for fingers, feet for toes, mouths for teeth. and asses for holes. The next ordeal is a medical interview. In the front of a large room are tnree glass cubicles, each contain- ing one doctor. You give the doctor your medical papers and talk about any ‘bodily defects the physical has not covered. real or imagined. This is where the four-f's and one-y's are doled out. In the center cubicle we watch one of our group wildly flailing 'his arms. jumping up and down, pointing to various parts of his body. He is in there for about twenty minutes. It is a fine performance. It is kind of a tiger and princess thing. Except that there isn't necessarily a princess at all. I get a bastard. He pages through my doc- uments. scrawls his name at the bottom, and bids me leave. I go to the locker room and dress. My name is called and I enter a short line. The last line. "Hey. did you pass?“ the boy behind 'me asks. “I don't know." "Look down here,“ he says pointing. Across from a box someone has check- ed is the statement that I have been 'found acceptable for military service. "Too bad," he says. "Yeah." I say weakly. I am thinking of Canada. Winnepeg would be nice to see again. I remember sitting in a drugstore next to a park there. I was drinking coffee and listening to three kids who were sitting across from me. Two of them were describing a chicken they had seen hit on the highway. "You should have seen that thing." the boy said. "It was all over." "Yeah," the girl added, "it looked like it was in Viet Nam." Thfiy all laughed heartily. At the sounds of the heresy I quickly looked around for the F.B.I. Wait. no need for that. This was Canada. These people weren't at war. Those kids didn't have to fight foreign intruders. They could just grow up. God. how refreshing! I feel as if my draft card is glowing in my back pocket. It seems to me that I am being watched. “Your papers?“ a man at a desk asks. "Yeah." handing him the papers. “What's this?"he asks paging through a medical report. "I have bad knees.“ “You can't run?“ “I can run but not very fast or for a long time." "You going to school?" "Yeah." “We can't use you till you have them Operated on.“ "on . II I leave the building walking quick- ly. I don't look back. I sit in a dark bar quickly downing my second brandy. I order a beer and ‘watcn the foam slowly settle in the glass. The alcohol courses through my veins and begins its subtle assault on my brain. My head feels warm. Slowly, imperceptibly I cease shaking. .Laz, .{v -’ «r ‘\ \_ l) \pl 9"”; \_”J_» m r \ Son My anxious child is waiting. My living ghost is in the air. He'll shadow my features. like a sheet, and suck the color from my hair. Johnlafirnln 13 Show less
10 The Waning War of Wally N. I step from the bus checking my watcn. A little after seven. Late al- ready. Few people on the streets. Ho friendly faces at this early hour. Morning people to unlock doors, pull up window shades, roll up sidewalks. and oecone invisible when the execs show up at nine... Show more10 The Waning War of Wally N. I step from the bus checking my watcn. A little after seven. Late al- ready. Few people on the streets. Ho friendly faces at this early hour. Morning people to unlock doors, pull up window shades, roll up sidewalks. and oecone invisible when the execs show up at nine. Gnosts. Walking now toward a dingy, neo- classic building. Hy target. Quite of- ficial looking. I take an envelope from my pocket. It reads: Wallace A. Nelson to report to the U.S. Courthouse build- ing at six-thirty a.m. for a pre-in- duction physical. Right building. Wrong time. Seven-fifteen now. marble stairs and in. Deserted halls. Signs and arrows. A Marine salutes me from an enlistment poster. Up more stairs to the second floor. There is a wide corridor with chairs along the sides. Most of the chairs are taken. A few heads turn in my direction. Tired faces. A boy standing in the hall star- ing at some papers. He has on a check- ered flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his elbows. His glasses look as though they will fall off his nose. He glances up when I ap- proach. "I'm here for a draft physical.Where do I go?" I ask. “I don't know. I'm enlisting.“ A smile. “Oh. fl Looking around for directions. A boy sitting between his mother and father. The boy is hunched over some papers in his lap. His father, in a t-shirt, is Wallace Nelson I go up the. leaning back against the wall. staring blankly at the ceiling. The boy points to a paragraph. The father sits up and looks down at the finger. He nods.yawns and slouches back again. I walk into an office. "Where do I go for a draft physical?" “Try room 205." In room 205 there are about fifty people sitting with papers and enve- lopes like mine. There are no smiles. I take a seat by the door. rAre you here for a draft physical?" 'Yes.' "Anything happen yet?" "No. II Huh . II A man in front at a desk. Stripes on his arm. large stripes. Ribbons on his chest. Gallantry, bravery, good sports- manship. cleanliness. He shuffles some papers and stands. "All right. when I call your name come to the front. Take the forms I give you and follow the yellow line on the floor across the hall and up the stairs. Give your papers to the man at the desk. Abbott. Darrel F..." His voice drones through the b's and c's. no d’s, e's and f‘s. I look down at the papers in my lap. I read across the page until I come to a Space where neatly and cleanly my name has been typed in. I read my name to myself sev- eral times and think of many things. "Nelson, Wallace A." PW name. Yes. To the front. My pa- pers, thank you. The yellow line. A- cross the nall. Up the stairs to the end of the line. Slowly the line pro- ceeds. Paging through my papers. I look about at my comrades. My face flushes. Embarrassment. To find myself in such an awkward position. I strip to the waist. The man at the desk. IV papers. Pulse. Blood pres- sure. “Give the man behind the screen this Show less
28 contributors ann ougbee is an art major from minneapolis, minnesota. sally carlson is a french and english major from minneapolis, minnesota. john engman is an english major from richfield, minnesota. anne marie erickson is an american studies major from benson, minnesota. syl jones is an... Show more28 contributors ann ougbee is an art major from minneapolis, minnesota. sally carlson is a french and english major from minneapolis, minnesota. john engman is an english major from richfield, minnesota. anne marie erickson is an american studies major from benson, minnesota. syl jones is an english and Speech major from Cincinnati, ohio. randy just is a psychology major from minneapolis, minnesota. margit livingston is a math major from minneapolis, minnesota. jonn mitchell is an instructor of english at augsburg college. wallace nelson is an art major from minneapolis, minnesota. tom peterson is a communications major from minneapolis, minnesota. pat rOCszold is an american studies major from wauoun, minnesota. william roen is an english major from alexander, north dakota. karen sanuness is a german major from mound, minnesota. Show less
\W/ SONG OF THE REAPER Tne scythe sweeps past and rises, Over the hills like the backs of lions Off through the smell of burning stubble; As Reaper and Steed look back And sigh- And the fell Reaper rises And swings again, and another Falls and I kiss the scythe as it passes And rises over the... Show more\W/ SONG OF THE REAPER Tne scythe sweeps past and rises, Over the hills like the backs of lions Off through the smell of burning stubble; As Reaper and Steed look back And sigh- And the fell Reaper rises And swings again, and another Falls and I kiss the scythe as it passes And rises over the straw-brown fields. Then I forget. Till again the scythe sweeps by, And hurries us to the churchyard who kiss the foe as it passes, Up to the clouds, to the heavens Ascending. Once swung the Reaper his ebon scythe of death To cut me down, but I, too green, Would not be cropped, and though the bitter Scythe once so nearly passed beneath my feet. Yet I still forget- That now again the evanescent Reaper rises And swings again, and another falls and I kiss the scythe as it passes; And it rises over the brown fields As I forget. William Roen /5 ‘ \ Show less
Murphy Square The Farmer Coarse brown hair sprouts above her potato skin face which sort of apologizes out of her black polyester dress. This is the farmer. Barbara. Functional, but dull, like a manure spreader. Inside the dimly lit church obese with a town waiting to escape their monotonous... Show moreMurphy Square The Farmer Coarse brown hair sprouts above her potato skin face which sort of apologizes out of her black polyester dress. This is the farmer. Barbara. Functional, but dull, like a manure spreader. Inside the dimly lit church obese with a town waiting to escape their monotonous lives, the farmer stands below burlap angels and a sequined Jesus hanging from the ceiling. Her hands forget hours spent cleaning the barn, watering pigs, and know only Sonata 56 in B flat major, fingers touching the silver of her flute without error, with respect. Her labor ignites every comer of the church serenading the chandeliers, making stern stained glass disciples smile, while children's eyes follow the new shadow on the west wall wondering who it belongs to. Page 5 Show less
Murphy Square Carpentry I used to bang through life cutting things apart pounding them together Living life inch by inch there wasn't one day I didn't measure something Ffitfifiififvzfififfififlfi I $9552?" I was building myself hell. 63235592W93‘4 f." :r. 4 -. . —m. h. mourning Page 15
Monster The crayoned monster escaped from a little boy’s mind to a sheet of paper where it ate a house, four trees, and a gas station. It entered into the real world accidentally when it slipped off the paper while trying to get to the back side. The monster was dazed, and for a while just lay on... Show moreMonster The crayoned monster escaped from a little boy’s mind to a sheet of paper where it ate a house, four trees, and a gas station. It entered into the real world accidentally when it slipped off the paper while trying to get to the back side. The monster was dazed, and for a while just lay on the table. After it recovered, it jumped off the table and began to rush around the room. It gnawed on the bed and made a mess on the floor. The boy opened the door to see what all the commotion was about. When he saw it was a monster, he went to the kitchen and returned with two lengths of waxed paper and a graham cracker. Coaxing the monster. he caught it between the papers and brought it to his mother. She ironed it into a smashed colored design. The little boy sent the monster to his grandma. She hung it on the wall and said it was pretty. —val lebus Dress Up Days When I was in the third grade the boys in my class were a bunch of idiotic pests and one of their favorite pranks that they played on us girls was to call DRESS UP DAYS and pull our uniform skirts high above our waists exposing our you-know-what so they pulled this quite a few times and the fun of it started to wear off and annoy us and we began to plot our revenge so one day all of us girls got together and decided to reverse their prank so we could have all the fun while the silly old boys would suffer the embarrassment and we all ganged up and got most of the boys cornered and with a mighty ONETWOTHREE ZIPPER DOWN DAYS we pulled their flies down and the boys just shrieked and called us all sorts of horrible names that offended our tender ears but they ran off and one of these punk yellow-bellied sap suckers went to the principal and squealed on us and then the mean old principal called us into her office and she pulled our uniform skirts high above our waists and yelled DRESS UP DAY and gave us a good swift slap on our rears and WE were the ones who got embarrassed and those yellow-bellied sap suckers went scot free. *paula Shelley Murphy Square Page 19 av Show less
