Blame Cm THE MAD END TO LIFE We laughed the night the H man said. "We go to war—hooray!" But who could laugh when dam fled and nid’it turned into day? Some tried to hide. or join the dead the suicidal way: but most Just coupled on the bed as sun came down to play‘ Black night turned purple. and... Show moreBlame Cm THE MAD END TO LIFE We laughed the night the H man said. "We go to war—hooray!" But who could laugh when dam fled and nid’it turned into day? Some tried to hide. or join the dead the suicidal way: but most Just coupled on the bed as sun came down to play‘ Black night turned purple. and then red, and orange in funny shades; a bird stopped on the Window ledge— "How strange," he seemed to say He fluttered his Wings. then melted his head and slowly began to glow, very simply he became an incandescent crow, Around us all was flash and flame— out shadows stuck to the wall; skin and paint burned hlaclt and Halted. as it began to peel The huming air seated and choked— we couldn't breathe too well; "1 black and white. In death and smoke. m the final sickening stench, at last we ltnew that it could come. the mad end to life. Show less
The Man Who Takes Nothing to Bed The Oneman at the far end of the diningroom table, Obsessed with ideas of God, never stops Talking. He wants us to love What he can only Love stoned—the hollow piece of light orbiting Far out in his head—orbiting Like the moon, but it’s not the moon. —Jonalhan... Show moreThe Man Who Takes Nothing to Bed The Oneman at the far end of the diningroom table, Obsessed with ideas of God, never stops Talking. He wants us to love What he can only Love stoned—the hollow piece of light orbiting Far out in his head—orbiting Like the moon, but it’s not the moon. —Jonalhan Stensland -20— Show less
On occasion I found myself sneaking up on a cart with a plastic cover that had been propped open. The cover was intended, I assume, to protect the child should it begin to rain. My timing was exquisite now, so with infinite patience I could approach the cart and bump it ever so lightly, and bump... Show moreOn occasion I found myself sneaking up on a cart with a plastic cover that had been propped open. The cover was intended, I assume, to protect the child should it begin to rain. My timing was exquisite now, so with infinite patience I could approach the cart and bump it ever so lightly, and bump it again, and again if necessary, until the cover finally dropped. I would then drive away. Oddly enough, I saw little about this in the papers or on the television news. Every once in a while, though, I would turn on the television to see another reporter standing before a hospital or a house. The weather was warm now, so the reporters on television only wore light shirts or blouses, though they were still colored red, white and blue. They would shimmer in the heat, and the blocks of red looked more and more like blood. “A child was done to a turn today,” the reporter would say. Then something eerie happened. One day on the news a reporter appeared, standing before a small, neat house. “A grim discovery was made today,” he said solemnly. “A child was found asphyxiated in his bicycle cart after the plastic cover apparently slipped and trapped him." I was shocked. I was feeling under the weather all day, and had never left the house. Soon after, I retired completely from all forms of my work. As a result I learned what I was always afraid to admit to myself: That I was nothing more than a cell in a much larger organism. When I drove through the city I found more and more abandoned carts, though I had long since forsaken that phase of my work. Some small streets were impossible to drive on; they were lit- tered thick with carts, like a bumper car ride at an amusement park. In spite of all this, the bicyclists and the carts still came. There are yet others who, for lack of better terms, have become enormously imaginative and bold. For a time in August tales circulated about figures who waited in trees, waiting for those who walked by or ran by with a child in a backpack. These figures were rumored to be trying to perfect a difficult craft—roping the children and snatching them off their parents' backs without the parents ever noticing. At first I and many others thought these tales apocryphal, but soon we could not help but see an occasional bright blue or green bundle dangling from a tree, like some giant fruit. Now, in late September, we in the city have been graced with what have come to be called, in the vernacular, Baby Trees. Trying to teach human reproduction in schools these days has become quite a challenge. Biology is not nearly as interesting as myth, and myth has become as common as leaves on a tree. It is even parked by the side of the road. Once I walked along a path on the top of a bluff beside the Mississippi, and for a half-mile bundled children by the hundreds hung by ropes from the limbs of trees. Sometimes they yawned, or sighed, or rustled impatiently, waiting for fall to drop them to the ground. It is indeed a most peculiar and wondrous world. —Joe Bodziock Show less
Racing Through the Green Every six months or so we would get a stray dog or eat on the farm. We would go back and forth for about a week arguing whether we should keep it or not. Dad would talk about shooting it and we would wail and cry, knowing that he would never actually do it. By this time,... Show moreRacing Through the Green Every six months or so we would get a stray dog or eat on the farm. We would go back and forth for about a week arguing whether we should keep it or not. Dad would talk about shooting it and we would wail and cry, knowing that he would never actually do it. By this time, the animal would have been given a temporary name, like Puppy or Kitty. Finally Mom would sug- gest, “Why don’t we just take Puppy over to Selma’s. She’d be happy to have it.” We all went along for the ride so that we could say good-bye to Puppy and raise holy hell at Aunt Selma’s. We would get there and Aunt Selma would be stepping out of the porch screened door in her one-inch block heel sandals and short sleeved cotton dress, waving at us with both hands, looking like she was shooing flies from her head. Of course she would take Puppy, she declared, then immediately named it something foolish like Muffin. My two sisters and I lumbered out of the front seat of the pick-up, climbing over Mom, while Dad talked to Selma through his open window about rain and crops. Before long, Selma had coerced my mother out into her garden and they were picking green beans and putting them in plastic bread bags. We would tramp through her rows of cucumbers and cabbages and carrots, asking her what we could pick. She even had flowers, marigolds and zinnias, blooming in bright rows against the dirt. She had an old water pump next to the strawberry patch that we would labor over until the water came gushing out and spilled on the rotted wood platform. We would drench our hot arms under it and splash each other and someone would always call from the garden, “Don't drink that water, it’s rusty.” We cupped the water in our hands and examined it, thinking it odd and silly that water could have rust in it. If we looked closely enough we could see little particles that looked like cinnamon floating all through the water. Later, as the sun was turning orange and spurting through the tangle of trees in Aunt Selma's backyard, we would go inside for Oreo cookies and milk. Sometimes there would be sand- wiches—butter and a single slice of ham on Wonderbread—and cake. Aunt Selma was famous for her devil’s food cake with peanut butter fudge frosting. On birthdays, she made cupcakes and spelled our names on them with pink frosting. The inside of Selma’s house smelled of the richness of black earth, and the plants seemed to grow right out of the woodwork. She had one table by the south window that was covered with potted plants and slips that she would have sprouting in baby food jars. I thought this strange since Selma had never married let alone had kids, and wondered where she could have gotten those jars. Once she told me I could have one of her plants. I chose the African violet with its rich purple petals resting on velvet leaves. Instead, she gave me what she called a wandering jew that had reddish-purple streaks racing through the green. Across the dining room from the plants were these towering mahogany cabinets built into the wall that contained the most peculiar things: china cream and sugar sets with the Queen of England smiling from them; brown-edged photos of people I didn’t recognize but was supposedly related to; and the newspaper clippings. Aunt Selma‘s brother had died after being dragged a mile and a half by a horse and the local paper had written up a little piece on that. She saved that one and then started hoarding articles about other people, strangers, who had been killed or somehow maimed for getting too close to a horse. One day, she sat me down and spread all of these articles before me because she knew that I wanted a horse more than anything else, even a ten-speed bike. I listened to her for awhile, then suggested that we play Scrabble. Aunt Selma was almost as compulsive about Scrabble as she was about God. She would play with all of her nieces and nephews and her great nieces and nephews and her brothers and sisters and I think she even got the mailman to play with her once. And when it wasn't Scrabble, it was cards, Pinochle was her game when she could get enough people together, but most of the time Selma played solitaire. She would teach us all of these wild variations on the game. I used to im- agine her sitting in that house, surrounded by her plants, dreaming up all of these versions. _]g_ Show less
Gud Rezin If ’n You Canna think A any good rezin Yer man ’s A ’stickin ’ aroun ’ Then how ken You 'spec He 's a gunna set ’Bout yer house No Iookin ’ around? Ya 'll gotta hab Yer rezin Deep down you get That feelin’ Sez He go . . . He be missin’ me sore ’Cuz I ’n a kinna woman Don’ be no dime a... Show moreGud Rezin If ’n You Canna think A any good rezin Yer man ’s A ’stickin ’ aroun ’ Then how ken You 'spec He 's a gunna set ’Bout yer house No Iookin ’ around? Ya 'll gotta hab Yer rezin Deep down you get That feelin’ Sez He go . . . He be missin’ me sore ’Cuz I ’n a kinna woman Don’ be no dime a duzin PM like starshine A gif’ to be shore. —-Barb Portinga A Letter Were I to marry you, my now-lost love, Were we not so hard and alone, Not so set on rational, money-lives. Were you not so hateful of my sex And I not so scared and confused by yours. Were the time ripe. Were I able to release you from inside me; To spring from my head as Athena from Zeus, Or as Eve from Adam’s chest. And were you able to stop fearing me Because I care for you. Were all this to come to pass, And were we to marry, both for the first time, My Scarlet Bride; I would still be your second husband. —Kiel Christians-on _.12_ Show less
—Timolhy Sudelh Green Of all the colors in nature, green is my favorite because for me green means survival. Life was simple and peaceful in the green rolling hills of my native country, Laos. As a little girl, I remember looking over the mountains down to the endless green jungle below. Little... Show more—Timolhy Sudelh Green Of all the colors in nature, green is my favorite because for me green means survival. Life was simple and peaceful in the green rolling hills of my native country, Laos. As a little girl, I remember looking over the mountains down to the endless green jungle below. Little did I know that my life would depend upon all this green foilage. If my family would’ve had money to hire a guide to lead us safely as we escaped, we wouldn’t have to suffer from starvation, exposure, and fatigue. Instead, we had to walk barefoot through the roughest areas of the jungle. We travelled in groups, but many old people couldn’t make it through the swamps. My great-grandmother was one of them. Others were shot by the Communist soldiers. We saw them die. In order for us to survive, we ate mostly banana stalks, banana flower buds, green slimy mud, green bamboo shoots, and grass. These were the only edible foods that gave us the strength and energy to keep running and moving. Also, the green trees of the forest protected us from the Communist soldiers. They were constantly on guard along the Mekong River, and would kill us if we were seen. The green trees shielded us from the eyes of our enemy and provided a shelter to cover us when we needed a rest. They sheltered us from the rain and the heat of the sun. Now that I am living in an American city, my survival doesn’t depend upon vegetation, but the color of survival is still the same. Here, survival depends on how many green dollars you have in your pocket. —Bao Kue _15_ Show less
Untitled How many blows can a girl take before self defense becomes bitterness and protection becomes animal psychology to use against the beast Trap him Use him Take what you can and run He’s only subhuman, after all and how many times have you felt his great jaws ripping you apart? But now as... Show moreUntitled How many blows can a girl take before self defense becomes bitterness and protection becomes animal psychology to use against the beast Trap him Use him Take what you can and run He’s only subhuman, after all and how many times have you felt his great jaws ripping you apart? But now as you poison him watch him whimper in your trap, eyes full of pain as you cock the gun, take aim— now you are the hunter, he the hunted and self defense has become vigilante murder —.lody Johnson Show less
The Ha Ha Club Using is being used. They want you, you want that. They want to use you. Boy, they just never quit Laughing. You can’t stop, either. It’s so damned funny. It ’s hilarious, really because it never lasts long enough before you’re used up. You retreat, they do, you’re alone looking... Show moreThe Ha Ha Club Using is being used. They want you, you want that. They want to use you. Boy, they just never quit Laughing. You can’t stop, either. It’s so damned funny. It ’s hilarious, really because it never lasts long enough before you’re used up. You retreat, they do, you’re alone looking for someone to use you Please? —David Biclla Show less
Murphy Square 1988 Editor Anne Panning Literary Board Michelle Boyer Aiiene Cole Doug Chizmadia David Garrison Anne Panning Jonathan Stensland Linda Tuma Art Board Deanna Armstrong David Benrud Anne Panning Cover Art David Benrud Layout Editor Anne Panning All selections were judged anonymously... Show moreMurphy Square 1988 Editor Anne Panning Literary Board Michelle Boyer Aiiene Cole Doug Chizmadia David Garrison Anne Panning Jonathan Stensland Linda Tuma Art Board Deanna Armstrong David Benrud Anne Panning Cover Art David Benrud Layout Editor Anne Panning All selections were judged anonymously by (he an and lilerary boards. Show less
IF ONLY YOU WOULD ASK ABOUT DREAMS By Barbara Arveson Tawah If only you would ask about dreams, I could give you an answer. But I am at the ocean while you are talking about Reagan, and I wonder how many grains of sand are under my feet; I search for the salt in the water between my toes. If you... Show moreIF ONLY YOU WOULD ASK ABOUT DREAMS By Barbara Arveson Tawah If only you would ask about dreams, I could give you an answer. But I am at the ocean while you are talking about Reagan, and I wonder how many grains of sand are under my feet; I search for the salt in the water between my toes. If you would ask me about waves, 1 could give you an answer. You grow rabid as you talk about nuclear arms. I have heard this before, and I leave for the mountains. This peak is tall, but the rock is firm with many toeholds. I reach for your hand. but it slips away in a wild gesticulation. The air grows purer as l climb. I could tell you about earth, if you would ask. _5_ Show less
INDEPENDENCE DAY By Myles Stenshoel “. . . Carl Carlson Died.” We weren’t surprised —eighty-three and cancer Carl lived next door or rather we next door to him and Melba, thin, frail, childless wife of many years. Today we raised the flag for country, and perhaps for Carl, picked up twigs and... Show moreINDEPENDENCE DAY By Myles Stenshoel “. . . Carl Carlson Died.” We weren’t surprised —eighty-three and cancer Carl lived next door or rather we next door to him and Melba, thin, frail, childless wife of many years. Today we raised the flag for country, and perhaps for Carl, picked up twigs and branches, residue of storm last night, July the third. We cleared debris alone-no neighbor near, none out before us. Today we thought of Carl —twenty years retired from Texaco; yardwork, mowing early morning; reading, grousing afternoon; early evening to bed- Carl cut his grass short: Compulsive suburban Republican short, crew-cut Grant Wood short and trim, unlike our own embarrassed and less tended lawn, taller twice when cut than Carl’s uncut. Fenceless yards: one in theory, two in dichotomous practice. This summer down the slope out back Carl’s grass, knee-high, has gone to seed, returns ignored to nature. Man’s life is as grass but, also, grass is as man. Now Carl and grass and we are free. _]5_ Show less
