Junkyard Grandpa owned a junkyard so I was popular. Skinny legged friends followed me like ducklings after their mother through a high ceilinged greasy garage laughing at the norwegian mechanic who always yelled from under a car hi boys (we were girls). Irregular rows of rusting cars burned our... Show moreJunkyard Grandpa owned a junkyard so I was popular. Skinny legged friends followed me like ducklings after their mother through a high ceilinged greasy garage laughing at the norwegian mechanic who always yelled from under a car hi boys (we were girls). Irregular rows of rusting cars burned our feet on sunny days. We played pilgrims under a wormy apple tree next to an old pick-up truck whose windshield was cracked in a million pieces, using its door handles for spoons and hubcaps for dishes. We dared each other to climb into cars we heard people had died in, looking for dried blood or forgotten bodies and when we found a woman’s silk scarf or a child's dirty mitten, we ran screaming out of the junkyard like hungry monkeys and on small town summer nights played moonlight starlight, running from ghosts who wore dirty mittens. —kim mar/zen Page 26 Murphy Square Show less
Footsteps As I entered the hallway from the dim stairwell, my heels clicked too loudly on the tile floor and echoed down the narrow corridor. At the window sat the “Wheelchair Ladies Aide," talking and groaning in the rays of the sun. I smiled nervously at them. Walking down the hallway, I... Show moreFootsteps As I entered the hallway from the dim stairwell, my heels clicked too loudly on the tile floor and echoed down the narrow corridor. At the window sat the “Wheelchair Ladies Aide," talking and groaning in the rays of the sun. I smiled nervously at them. Walking down the hallway, I glanced into each open door. Each room had one person sitting in a chair and another on the bed. Most appeared to be asleep. No one was speaking. I found him in the spacious lounge area, sitting in his usual place at the far comer next to the color T.V. He was resting his head on the back of the bright-colored sofa. He did not open his eyes when I sat next to him. I decided to let him nap for a few minutes and watched the people in the lounge. All the regulars were there. Annabelle, with her feet propped up on a chair, was singing “My Blue Heaven" again. Gus, who was tied to his chair with a dishcloth, was swearing in Polish at a nurse. Elaine was shuffling from table to table, straightening things that didn't need to be straightened. A woman down the hall was screaming. I gently squeezed his liver-spotted arm and slowly he lifted his head. He did not look at me at first, but glanced around the room, confused. He turned to me, said hello and returned his gaze to the rest of the room. I could tell this was one of his “bad” days the nurses so often told me about. I offered him the mints that I had brought and his eyes widened a little. He reached for one with his left hand and I noticed he still clutched the rolled up cloth in his right. I remembered the nurses told me that he screams in pain when they try to take it away from him. He ate the candy slowly, mashing it in his mouth because he again did not have his dentures in. I noticed, too, that the clothes he was wearing were much too big for him and he didn’t have his glasses on. He swallowed the candy and reached for another. Elaine then approached us in her scuffy slippers. She tried to take a mint from the bag where I'd placed it on the table. He grumbled at her, “Go away, will ya!" I had rarely seen him angry. In all my childhood years he had not once scolded me or my brothers. When we came to his big, white house in the city he would take me on his lap, wiggle his ears and let me play with Page 10 his thin railroad watch. Now I watched him scowling at the nurses, the other patients, and even at me. He reached for another mint, chewed, mashed, swallowed, turned to me and crinkled his face in the manner of a smile. “How's your little brothers?" he asked. “Fine,” I answered. My brothers were older than I but he always referred to them as “little.” I was relieved to know that he at least knew who I was. “How‘s Pricilla?" he inquired. “Fine,” I answered again. Pricilla, his daughter, had been dead for four years. This seemed to be the end of our conver- sation. His face was not scowling anymore and he reached for another mint. A nurse came and asked him if he wanted some orange juice. “Bring me a gin and tonic!" he demanded, chuckling a little and smiling his toothless smile. wider this time. Suddenly, I asked him if he would wiggle his ears. He didn't seem to hear me; he was staring straight ahead. I followed his gaze, saw nothing unusual, looked back at him and saw that his ears were moving slightly back and forth. I got up then, kissed his sunken cheek by the scar left from the cancer operation, placed the bag of mints on his lap and turned to go. “Good-bye, Grandpa!" “Good-bye, Christy; be good in school," he answered softly, distantly. At the other side of the lounge I turned to wave at him but he was trying to extract a mint from the bag, looking down at his lap. My heels echoed again, more loudly this time and the ladies aide turned to watch me leave. “Good-bye," they said as I passed. I did not turn to answer. My eyes were burning and my heels clicked faster. —chris halvorson Murphy Square Show less
gray elm posts with blood, Leigh now could not hear the helpless bellowing or see the enraged struggle of the tor- tured animals; dunbly and blindly he obeyed. His father's face, as he com- manded the boy to pull and called for tne iron, had long been empty of ex- pression. Although he was a... Show moregray elm posts with blood, Leigh now could not hear the helpless bellowing or see the enraged struggle of the tor- tured animals; dunbly and blindly he obeyed. His father's face, as he com- manded the boy to pull and called for tne iron, had long been empty of ex- pression. Although he was a gentle man, he was a man of reason and not of feel- ing. The wind changed direction, blow- ing tne smoke from tne fire over them; and the stench. the bl00d and the smoke permitted Leigh to imagine the battle of the centaurs and the Lapithae for tne bride of Pirithous. Leigh pulled, and this calf was snared like the others. Like the others. when the horns were cut off 'neatly from the skull, it struggled in pain and fury, but then suddenly the rope slipped. And as the animal leaped and fell. its legs became entangled in the rough planks of the chute, and its neck wedged in the knee of the cricket; it was strangling. The flow of blood became a torrent. As Leigh‘s father fiercely beat the animal, blue veins standing out on his marble forehead, his eyes were fixed on the hatchet that was buried in a plank of the chute. Leigh's father was a gentle man, a kind man; and yet he pulled the hatchet out and, bending over the gasping animal, shattered the skull behind the left eye. Perhaps the beast was dying in great pain, or perhaps, because the heat was so fierce, reason had withered and something ugly grew in its place. but. as the corpse twitched and writh- ed. to the tall, heroic-looking shape, the look of elegant quietude returned. Altnough the fire went out and the centaurmachy ceased, Leigh sat along between the great square posts with the bleeding head cradled in his arms. He wept for the cruelty of beauty and the right of beauty to be cruel. He wept because there is no truth but decay, because beautiful, heroic life is only the distance between two putrefactions. The blood ran down his arms, dried, and turned brown. The Commons at late Evening Taoles, Each square With slender black limbs And walnut faces Hitn wooden expressions. Chairs, bark, austere, and formal With perfect posture Lontemplating one another In suspended conversation. Salt and pepper sentries, Square-shouldered, steel-helmeted; Buckingham guards, Silhouetted atop each table. Gloves Weathered brown leather Lying like limp hands. A purse - collapsed; A deflated lung With no impulse to breath. A whispered conversation LiSps through the air... uies at the ear. A napkin Bearing an orange-red medal Wounded by tomato sauce, Crumpled and asleep. Christmas bells 0f ruffled white paper, Hanging from the ceiling, Ringing tidings of mute joy. Laughter of departing couples Lightly sails the air And softly sinks down the steps. The glossy, upright walnut piano Slumbers against the brown brick wall. A potted palm, Leaves despondently drooping, Siestas in a shadow. From without- In the crisp Christmas air—- Strains of "Silent Night" Sparkle on the horizons of hearing... Randy Just Show less
A. sane-Len v: ‘ r‘ -1»; “Age-h Jays-m 12- i352”; a—&y.::....&... people wno don't want a lot of other people to sleep with some people....You nave a hero whose cnief deprivation seems to be tnat he can't sleep with the most beautiful woman in the world. Nell. wnat of it? A lot of us can't. I... Show moreA. sane-Len v: ‘ r‘ -1»; “Age-h Jays-m 12- i352”; a—&y.::....&... people wno don't want a lot of other people to sleep with some people....You nave a hero whose cnief deprivation seems to be tnat he can't sleep with the most beautiful woman in the world. Nell. wnat of it? A lot of us can't. I really can't shed a tear over it." The second story, entitled “Mrs. Peters' Paramour," had fared little better. Algren had liked its realistic detail about the female protagonist's radiation treatment for cancer. How- ever. the woman's aging boyfriend, he had said, was not quite convincing-- perhaps because his principal occupa- tion was collecting the shoes that hys- terical female basketball fans threw onto the court during games. The story, he had conceded, might have possibili- ties. But I had known that he was just being kind, revealing a bit of the Miss Humphner in him. Certainly he could not have thought that thirty-page tale publishable--with its stilted dialogue, papier-mache characters, endless des- criptions, and absurd similes: "Giddy with excitement, Mrs. Peters looked at Smith demurely, her voice like a broken pitcher of half-solidi- fied syrup filling the room. 'would you like some more cookies, dohn?‘ Put- ting down his brown sack filled with shoes. he responded, his eyes like black bumble bees, 'Hope. Gotta keep in trim for the courts. Rut I'll have a pinch of coffee.'“ I was confident, therefore, that as Algren finished my sister's story and delicately flicked cigarette ash into the deskside wastebasket, he was pre- paring to extol the piece. “Well, what did you think of it?“ he inquired with a benign smile. A scnool teacher from Chicago ven- tured, "It had a rather slow, uninter- esting oeginning-—and a trite plot.“ Philistine, I thought indignantly. I turned toward Algren, expecting him, as Miss Humphner so often did, to smite the loud-mouth with a verbal ruler. But Algren's eyes were flickering, and they m 5 A no longer looked in the least like Miss H's. His lean, grey cheeks gave him a slightly predatory air. "You're right about that," he said. “Remove the whole first page-—all this business about the ship to Europe and cloche nats and all! In fact, you could cut this story in nalf and not lose a thing." I was horrified. I shot a glance at my sister, who, to my surprise, was calmly writing down Algren's comments. I almost raised my hand to protest: But you need the first page to set the scene. I am naturally shy, however, and by the time I had partially recovered froninw shock, a sweet young thing from North Carolina was spouting off: "I didn't like it," she said viva- ciously. "I didn't believe in the char- acters.“ "Uh--yeah--uh--right--," Algren re- sponded, and for the first time I no- ticed his gangsterish quality of speech--the flat, toneless, nasal words slithering out the right corner of his mouth as a puff of smoke emerged from the left side. "Tne dialogue's unconvincing,“ he continued. "And the writer should have the grandfather cone over to the house or take him out altogether. Ah---yeah-- or have him divorce the grandmother.“ But. my dear Mr. Algren, I muttered to myself, the grandmother has alread divorced the grandfather, or didn't 7.! seconds on each page allow you to catch that! It was now too late to silence the carnivorous critics who, encouraged by Show less
r. egg—EL: _ d x WWWflsfififiE‘gfiJvLC .3 card and take your papers." he mumbles without looking up. The man. The card. cnest X-ray. "Take your card, follow the yellow line to the next room." I go into the room and take a seat at a small cramped desk. Slowly all the other desks are filled. and the... Show morer. egg—EL: _ d x WWWflsfififiE‘gfiJvLC .3 card and take your papers." he mumbles without looking up. The man. The card. cnest X-ray. "Take your card, follow the yellow line to the next room." I go into the room and take a seat at a small cramped desk. Slowly all the other desks are filled. and the door closes. I am alone with my new friends. The diSparate des- perate. The room is rectangular. Along the walls are two rows of desks. Each desk has a partition around it to prevent cheating. The walls are a sickly yellow color and are bare except for two signs. a No Smoking sign and a sign on the front wall saying that by article l2b. section 34, of the military code, any theft or mutilation will be dealt with. I start to consioer the legal as- pects of the latter sign. I can t con- centrate so I ease my consciousness in- to its former state of lethargy. My friends in the room are also rather quiet,except for three boys in a corner giggling. rocking back and forth in their chairs, and punching one another on the arms. Below the No Smoking sign a fat. unshaven boy about nineteen ar- rogantly puffs a cigarette. Menacing eyes. Uull blank faces. Uirty, tatter- ed apparel. I have never seen people like this outside this building. The door Opens. and into the room walks a young. pimply-faced soldier in a crumpled uniform. He is nervous. without a word he walks around the room tossing pencils on the desks. He exits. I page through my documents. Never sign papers without the aid of counsel. I have certain inalienable rights guaran- teed to me by the constitution of these United States. Ah, an Un-American Ac- tivities Oath. A person cannot be forc- ed to testify against himself. Self- incrimination. Never weather a Supreme Court battle. Where the hell are the bright-eyed.ivy-leagued A.C.L.U lawyers in this improbable, far-removed corner of civilization? Another soldier enters the room. He Buzz-click. One "5.1-" a... MA" I » 4-- is about twenty-three and more command- ing than the last one. He casually saunters to the center of the room, strikes a relaxed pose, and raises a fist of documents over his head. "Allllllllrrrrright," he drawls.“re~ move tne paper clip from the corner, place the top document before you and the others in the upper-left hand cor- ner of your desk. In box one print your last name first. first name, and middle name. Present address in box two. The date in box three." I print. "Answer questions one through fifty? I answer. “Sign Un-American Activities form? I sign. “Fill out.“ I complete. "Lastly the armed forces I.Q. exam.“ I find it difficult. wallace Nelson, this day you have flagrantly, willfully, and knowingly compromised yourself. How do you plead? To the above I plead decidedly guilty, in the name of expediency. I fall back on the tried and true behavioral pat- tern of quitting the arena of action in times of trauma. Do not list your 11 Show less
on tne pulseless wrist is wound, but, in deference to an ancient custom, the body will go to the grave bootless. Half an hour before the service, the family come to view the remains,come to peer into a mirror at the placid, pink, and bovine face framed in marmoreal satin, but not to confront... Show moreon tne pulseless wrist is wound, but, in deference to an ancient custom, the body will go to the grave bootless. Half an hour before the service, the family come to view the remains,come to peer into a mirror at the placid, pink, and bovine face framed in marmoreal satin, but not to confront their own reflections. In reliquaries of wood and bronze the dead, with blushing lies in their cheeks and boreal liquors in their veins. rest like roses dipped in wax. and like a waxen rose I lie among them. When the funeral and the graveside rites are finished, the mourners drift away. but I remain and, even as the gravediggers finish their work under the ancient elms and go, I cannot de- part. I cannot depart because this is my house and these are my kin; I must stay and listen to the great elms whis- pering the secrets of another Eden throughout an eternity of ardent Sep- tember afternoons. NICKEL ’$ Until a year ago I was content with my joo at P.T. Nickel's, a department store in a large suburban shopping cen- ter. (Because most of my subsequent comments could be challenged as libel- ous. I have cnanged the name of the store and used nicknames or initialS‘ for all persons mentioned.) The job of a nosiery salesgirl is neither fun nor exciting. but the hours are good and. the work is easy. I began working at‘ Nickel's as a college freshman and ex- pected to remain there until I gradua- ted. I never expected the strange reve- lations that have made Nickel's look like a three-ring circus and have fi- nally driven me to give notice that I'm quitting. This gradual change in my perSpec- tive began nearly a year ago when my boss Mr. T.. a popular and capable man- ager. was mysteriously transferred--not promoted. merely transferred--to a small Nickel's store in a rural Niscon- sin town. Mr. T. was replaced by a new‘ manager, now known as Maddog, and J.M., a management trainee. Through my per- sonal relationsnip with J.M. I gained a‘ source of behind-the-scenes information' more effective than a tape recorder in the executive washroom. I had a front row seat at the P.T. Nickel's circus, not the greatest show on earth but eas- ily the most amusing. Ifly first shock was a belated explan- ation of the transfer of my former boss Mr. T.. a married man and a father. had apparently been working overtime with‘ the divorcee who managed another de- partment. The whole story resembled a Peyton Place re-run. Mr. K.. manager and part-time ringmaster of P.T. Nick- el's. let tne show go on to amuse the spectators but finally had to remove Sally ONO-I 21 Show less
New Year’s Resolutions This year I'm gonna take a walk to my master's house and see 'bout my freedom. He sez it's there, but when I ask where he tells me in God's kingdom. "Master," I sez, "Don't tell me that. You tole me that last year." “I know,“ he sez. "I whiSpered in your ear so the Lord... Show moreNew Year’s Resolutions This year I'm gonna take a walk to my master's house and see 'bout my freedom. He sez it's there, but when I ask where he tells me in God's kingdom. "Master," I sez, "Don't tell me that. You tole me that last year." “I know,“ he sez. "I whiSpered in your ear so the Lord wouldn't hear." And he laughed --like he'd said something funny to a Nigger. I know he lied, but it's cold outside and the snow ain't good for walkin'. I've listened so long to his lying song that time don't matter no more. This year or next year freedom won't get here. Syl Jones Show less
Thinking of Sansea A waterbeggar by tideforce before morning blankets dissolve into the day the feathered Spray of rock and shoreline showers crabbing hungry gulls homeless on the blind horizon fly as scaly water- birds flutter from the current's whirl a newly appled pine hewn down at season's... Show moreThinking of Sansea A waterbeggar by tideforce before morning blankets dissolve into the day the feathered Spray of rock and shoreline showers crabbing hungry gulls homeless on the blind horizon fly as scaly water- birds flutter from the current's whirl a newly appled pine hewn down at season's natural turn is now the rotting dock sagging Soft in the pulse and throw splinterdng a skinny-assed kid to yelp nw windblessed sylvan self of minnow-nipped thrashing limbs algaed and red-eyed Sprout heavenward to dust grasspastor of earthen whelp a sudden swell thunders me cold awake to whiSperings and a foamy-lipped wind wraps me round wringing me out into the hills John Engmm Show less
3 4 10 13 14 16 18 19 21 23 24 26 27 r table of contents ARKAI Winter 1970 -71 of pirithous william roen the commons at late evening randy just the sundial john engman writer's crab margit livingston a kiss in monsoon john mitchell fox fire john mitchell the waning war of wally n. wallace nelson... Show more3 4 10 13 14 16 18 19 21 23 24 26 27 r table of contents ARKAI Winter 1970 -71 of pirithous william roen the commons at late evening randy just the sundial john engman writer's crab margit livingston a kiss in monsoon john mitchell fox fire john mitchell the waning war of wally n. wallace nelson son john engman an eat shop fable margit livingston the common man syl jones news from Chicago john mitchell the last things william roen nickel's sally carlson thinking of swansea john engman augsburg via moorhead patricia rockswold song of the reaper william roen new year's resolutions syl jones Lopxrignt Hugsuung College 1970. All Rights Reserved. Show less
7““... - m :g‘a Amide 3:2: _ i555 932—45... .; A .—:w 1i? -_Ta_-—ga-’ 4;“.éiir-R‘EM a ‘ #4327111“: 1-: 0f Pirithous Leigh stood with the rope in his hands watching the centaur weave through the frightened cattle. Amber curls framed the heroic face; gray eyes flasneo diSdain at «are man, and on... Show more7““... - m :g‘a Amide 3:2: _ i555 932—45... .; A .—:w 1i? -_Ta_-—ga-’ 4;“.éiir-R‘EM a ‘ #4327111“: 1-: 0f Pirithous Leigh stood with the rope in his hands watching the centaur weave through the frightened cattle. Amber curls framed the heroic face; gray eyes flasneo diSdain at «are man, and on the regular features was stamped a smile of animal goou numor and unhidden vanity. Leigh had long been convinced that his father had leaped equestrian from an antique frieze although it was past his boyisn understanding why the centaur had sprung from marble to beget him. Because his hair was straight as a horse's mane, because his eyes were in- visible, and because his complexion was an unbecoming gray, the boy was forced to bear a constant and inevitably un- favorable comparison. And Leigh sus- pected that all unimpressive sons of awesone fathers learn to hate their beauty as he did---a beauty obtained without making any treaty with unmanli- ness. Leigh 5 father was an allegory of active life; he was strong and come- ly and Sybaritic. He was Homeric. Yet he was a gentle man; he was seldom vio- lent and forever indulgent. Leigh stood with the rope in his hands and gazed at the centaur from be- tween the two great square posts that his grandfather had set sixty years be- fore; they were bottomland elm, cut and shaped by hand, and still bore the marks of the adze. From the ground to the height of a man, the gray wood was stained brown. Two pipes--one station- ary and the other hinged to a concrete piling-~stood between the posts at the end of a long and narrow chute. When Leigh's father drove the calf to the end of the chute,as it pushed its head between the pipes, the rope which the boy now held was drawn taut, and the pipes, like the hind leg of a cricket, closed on the animal's neck, neatly accomplishing tne capture. Leigh had great admiration for the efficacy of William Roen the operation, for he believed that there was sane grace in an unpleasant task if it were artfully done. The boy was fastidiously arranging and rearranging his hold on the rope when he heard his father's voice. "Pull!" he screamed. As Leigh pulled up tight, the cap- tured animal fought against the trap. “The iron.“ Leigh ran to the fire and drew out the not branding iron. The sun was ris- ing in the sky, and the heat of the fire made him feel faint. His father neld the iron against the calf's flank until they smelled flesh burning. When the uoy had returned the iron to the fire, he drew the terrible contraption from a pail of lye water. Its two blades formed a diamond-shaped opening in which the horn was fitted, and long handles closed the opening,scissorlike, cutting the horn neatly from the skull. From two veins cut in the operation, streans of blood gushed, giving the beast a chimerical appearance. It was imperative to free the animal quickly because the pain and fright caused co- pious bleeding. The boy fumbled with the knot, wnich was slippery with gore, as a warm stream struck his forehead and the blood ran down into his eyes. His father roughly pushed him aside. Although beast after beast laved the Show less
"But this story today...well now, do you think it would get published?" he asked. "Yes, yes, I most certainly do." “No. no, it wouldn't," he clued me as he snook his head at the poor, naive little fool seated beside him. “A pub- lisher would read the first page and tossuthe whole thing into the... Show more"But this story today...well now, do you think it would get published?" he asked. "Yes, yes, I most certainly do." “No. no, it wouldn't," he clued me as he snook his head at the poor, naive little fool seated beside him. “A pub- lisher would read the first page and tossuthe whole thing into the wastebas- ket. I decided to hold my K0 punch a lit- tle longer. "But don't you think, Mr. Algren, that if it were revised, fixed up a little, it might be published?“ I que- ried innocently. “Not a chance. It's such a drag!" he said as if that settled the matter. I paused to wind up and then deliv- ered a neat body blow. “But it has been published." Algren recoiled slightly from this unexpected news. The self-satisfied gleam re- turned quickly to his eyes. He still thought he had me. "where?" The Springfield Junior Col- lege uill, no doubt he was thinking. Ma emoiselle Magazine."That was it. He sagged in his chair. “0h, well...I guess all that proves is that I shouldn't be the editor of Mademoiselle,“ he chortled lamely. llWould you like some lemonade?" After he returned with the drinks, he said not another word to me but-went back to scanning the manuscript in his hand. Obviously he's trying to recover from having been kayoed by an amateur featherweight, I mused. Perhaps I Should say something soothing. "Ah, Mrs. Rice," Algren engagingly greeted a rubicund and breathless ma- tron who was seating herself between us on the sofa. "I've just read your man- uscript.fi.ah...and it has possibilities ...uh... No need to say something soothing. I left the two huddled together--the ea- ger pupil and the Chicago tough guy.No, he was not what I had expected, but I decided that I liked him a little even if he was a drag. A Kiss in Monsoon I took your tongue sweet to the lip a bitter tooth soured and bit down Split seeds in a slice of lime, a kiss in monsoon a fluke lukewarm to the liSp of gin and quinine, a wet tongue talking love, damp bitterweed in a field of summer storms. Johnnfltchfll fox fire the night is beginning to move, crawling like daddy longlegs all over our mother and the moon is a dead giveaway. it's not just a slow moving train with its soft spoken pain but the swamp our mother and the moon is a dead giveaway. something's got to give one way or another, and I ain't waitin' brother. move it on over lover. the moon is a dead giveaway. Juhnllnchdl Show less
2O sight are but as yesterday, when it is past, and as a watch in the night. An apron of flesh, carved from the cnest, is pulled over the face. The layers of muscle in the filleted belly look like scorched ham and the adipose like beef fat. This is how I shall be. As soon as thou scatterest them,... Show more2O sight are but as yesterday, when it is past, and as a watch in the night. An apron of flesh, carved from the cnest, is pulled over the face. The layers of muscle in the filleted belly look like scorched ham and the adipose like beef fat. This is how I shall be. As soon as thou scatterest them, they are as asleep; and fade away suddenly like the grass. In the morning it is green and groweth up; but in the evening it is cut down, dried up, and wither- ed, For we consune away in thy diSpleasure. and are afraid at thy wrathful indignation. Tne hair is drawn down over the face; the skull is sawed open. There is a Stygian oaor from the punctured bowels, a palling fecal stench. Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee; and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance. For when thou art angry all our days are gone: we bring our years to an end, as it were a tale that is told. On the table beside the corpse the vis- cera are arranged. The gall bladder, like a dusty green gem, coruscates on a towel; the lungs, the color of sandy soil, the breastplate, and the heart lie nearby. The morticians will come in the morning, and in the morning they will put the guts in a plastic bag and carry me away. The days of our age are three- scOre years and ten; and though men be so strong that they come to four score years; yet is their strength then but a labour and a sorrow; so it passeth away and we are gone... So will I be gone. The rain, like the demon of fear, scratcnes at the window. It dawns a gray and turbulent Satur- day; the wind blows from the east: there will be nmre rain. The belly a- gain split open, the boay lies naked on a porcelain table as the viscera soak in a pail of embalming fluid, a formal- dehyde solution with a biting odor. The hands of the corpse are rubbed con- stantly as the body is shaved, and the mouth, after the dentures are fitted,is wired shut. When an autopsy has been performed, the embalming process takes from two to three hours, for the two sides of the head, the arms, and the legs must be embalmed separately. The embalming fluid, which is pink, is pumped into the arteries as the veins drain the blooo into the body cavity; and, as the pink fluid is massaged into the limbs, the livid gray is pushed out and is replaced by a blushing lie. The blooo is siphoned out of the body cav- ity. flows down a rubber hose, and van- ishes in a drain, and in this same way I must understand that my blood will vanish. How the body is sewed up, washed, and covered with a sheet by the enbalmers, who,checking their cuffs for spots of blood, mount the stairs to play cards and drink coffee, abandoning their all but finished art. The road to the grave is all down hill from here on. (Ten days after the funeral, the bill for all these services will be sent out, and the cost, with coffin, will be some five hundred dollars with a three per cent discount if the bill is paid within thirty days.) Inonday morning, before the eleven o'clock oosequies,the corpse is dressed in a jet-black, cotton suit, which has been bought for the occasion; the watch Show less
Roberta, to voice his complaints against Bain. After hearing Larry's side of the situation, the Captain called Bain into the office to present his side. The sergeant informed Captain Roberts that he was paying more atten- tion to Larry than to anyone else because Larry was a slow learner and... Show moreRoberta, to voice his complaints against Bain. After hearing Larry's side of the situation, the Captain called Bain into the office to present his side. The sergeant informed Captain Roberts that he was paying more atten- tion to Larry than to anyone else because Larry was a slow learner and needed special help if he was to graduate from basic training. Larry was dismissed by the captain, who then instructed Bain to ease up a little. Afierall, they wouldn't want Larry to take his complaints through the chain of command. Colonel Moore, the brigade commander, had enough to worry about, said the Captain. "I'll see that it goes no further, sir,” Bain assured his company com- mander. Larry noticed an improvement in the situation during the next week. In seven more days Bain would be out of his life forever. The only major obstacle between Larry and graduation was qualifying with his rifle. He thought he’d done pretty well with the M-16 over the past few weeks, and he felt confident he could pass the test. The Saturday before graduation Larry received a message from head- quarters that he had a long—distance phone call in the first sergeant's of- fice. He thought it must be his parents, or maybe his brother Frank, won- dering how he was doing and when he’d be coming home. He hurried over to the office and knocked on the door. “Come on in," said a voice he recognized as SFC Bain‘s. He opened the door and saw the sergeant sitting on the edge of the desk, holding the telephone receiver in his hand. Larry noticed a nearly empty bottle of Scotch on the desk, partially hidden by Bain’s body. “That for me, drill sergeant?" Larry asked cautiously. “Yea, someone calling from Orshard Lake, Mishhigan,” he muttered. As Larry walked over to answer the phone, the smell of liquor over- whelmed him. He slowly reached for the receiver, which Bain handed to him. “Hello? Hello?" Larry said. He had turned back towards Bain to tell him there was no one on the other end when he noticed that the sergeant was reaching behind his back. When Bain's right hand came back into Larry's view, it was wrapped tightly around a pair of brass knuckles that were bright gold in color. Stunned, not knowing what to do, Larry froze for a second, and then Bain drove the knuckles deep into Larry’s stomach, knocking all the wind out of him. “Ain't nobody squeals on me, fatboy!" Bain said as he gritted his teeth. Larry was doubled over, trying desperately to catch some of his wind when he felt a sharp, devastating pain in his kidney area. Then another in the groin. He tried to yell for help, but only soft groans came out. Bain stood over him, just as he had that first day when he tripped him. Time and again he drove the brass knuckles into Larry’s body, sending Larry into a state of frenzied pain. He passed out or was knocked out—he didn’t know which. When he came to, he was in his bunk. Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed. “How'd I get back here?" Larry moaned, his body a mass of bruises and welts. "The M.P.'s brought you back here, They found you out by the main gate, unconscious. Larry, who did this to you?" Jim asked. There was no response, "Do you know who did this?" Jim repeated sofily. 19 Show less
Sandbox War We manipulated the sands and the rocks into land. We formed the hills dug the ditches and filled the waterways with water from a sprinkling can. We each donated all of the men we could find and the artillery. We even smashed honeysuckle berries for special effects. We gave it a day... Show moreSandbox War We manipulated the sands and the rocks into land. We formed the hills dug the ditches and filled the waterways with water from a sprinkling can. We each donated all of the men we could find and the artillery. We even smashed honeysuckle berries for special effects. We gave it a day from dawn to dusk- the play of our Sandbox War. We positioned the men and checked everything over and over again and again awaiting the moment of glory to fall upon us- to crown us victor of all the Sandbox Countries. The day grew passions as the time drew near. I gave the call. Action began. We dropped rock bombs from four foot-long miles up. Plastic green army men flew and fell. 10 Show less