Reflections 1989

Gardner-Webb University

Digital Commons @ Gardner-Webb University

Reflections

Literary Societies and Publications

1989

Reflections 1989

Melissa Brown

Joyce Compton Brown

Follow this and additional works at:

https://digitalcommons.gardner-webb.edu/reflections

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Recommended Citation

Gardner-Webb University Literary Publications, Reflections, 1989, series 4, Box 4, University Archives, Gardner-Webb University,

Boiling Springs, NC.

lections

*

8

9

REFLECTIONS

Volume

21

1989

STAFF

Melissa

Diann Brown,

Editor

Dawn Camp

Ren

Chaskalis

Deborah

Cravey

Melissa

Henslee

Kathy

Henson

Scott

Lawlor

Michelle O’Brien

FACULTY

ADVISOR

<p

Table

of

Contents

Melissa

Brown

Louise

Anderson

Frontispiece

Henry

Styron ArtistinPain 1

Craig

Lewis

Picture

Memory

2

Stephen

Wade

Gamm

Illusion 3

Michelle O’Brien Reprieve 4 ErnestBlankenship

The

Squirrel

and

the

Hawk

5

Kathy

Henson

A

man

undertooktopaint... 6

Joan

Kyles

a

For

Pam

7

Susan

Bell Elizabethat Twelve 8

Scott

Lawlor

The

Most

Deadly

Threat 9

Deborah

Ann

Cravey

Adobe

Man

11

Billie

Ford

Dixon

Cheated 12

Joan

Kyles

Shadows

on

the

Mountain

13

Dawn Camp

WaterBillowing 14

Ren

Chaskelis

My

Viking 15 Melissa

Henslee

Musing on

Despair 16

Les

Brown

Ocrakoke

17

Mary

Beth

Searcy M_l!

18

Deborah

Ann

Cravey

Lonesome

Thunder

19

Craig Maglii

Jackhammer

20 Melissa

Diann

Brown

Michelangelo 21

Gene

Penner

Unknown

Stranger

22

Anna

Christine

Vaughn

Forsaken 23

Les

Brown

Lawndale-Belwood

Road

26

Joan

Kyles Jericho 28

Joyce

Compton Brown

Mill-town

Sunday

29

Ren

Chaskelis Novelette 30

JLynnCarpenter-Kceter Destinedto

Be

Trapped

30

Gene

Penner

The

Mighty

Hunter

31

Michelle

O’Brien

An

Alternative

32

Deborah

Ann

Cravey

Wise

Words

32

Henry

D.

Styron Jesus

Who?

33

Ernest Blankenship Reincarnation?

34

Michelle

O’Brien

American

Dream

35 Joyce

Compton Brown

Sylvia

and

the

Bees

36

Craig

Lewis

To

the Existence,

"God"

37 LisaJ.Sabbarth

Die

FinalCurtain 38

Christy

Diane Hart

The

51st State 39

Karen

Martin

Die Tower

39

Gene

Penner

Easter, 1970

40

Dennis

Quinn

Long

Thoughts Diatin

My

Mind

Doth

Rest 41

Henry

D.

Styron

Who

Decides What'sReal,

Anyway?

42

Billie

Ford Dixon

Ramesses

43

Dawn

Elaine

Camp

Tall

Wooden

Soldiers 44

Sharon

Nichols DiroughthePages of

my

Mind

44

Craig

Lewis

PrinceWithout a

King

45 Melissa

Diann

Brown

Fig

Leaf

46

Joan

Kyles

Pendulum

47 Melissa

Diann

Brown

Cottage 48

9

CONTRIBUTORS

SUSAN

BELL,

instructorofart

ERNEST

BLANKENSHIP,

associateprofessor ofEnglish

JOYCE

COMPTON

BROWN,

professor ofEnglish

LES

BROWN,

professor of biology

MELISSA

DIANN BROWN,

seniorFrench/English major,art

minor

DAWN

ELAINE

CAMP,

freshman communications major

REN

CHASKELIS,

senior

communications major

DEBORAH

CRAVEY,

juniorcommunications/English

major

BILLIE

FORD

DIXON,

juniorEnglish major,art

min

or

STEPHEN

WADE

GAMM,

freshman French major

CHRISTY

HART,

freshman

biology

major

MELISSA HENSLEE,

senior history/English

major

KATHY

HENSON,

freshman

English

major

LYNN

CARPENTER-KEETER,

instructorofEnglish

JOAN

KYLES,

juniorEnglish

major

SCOTT

K.

LAWLOR,

seniorEnglish

major

CRAIG

LEWIS,

senior

communications major

KAREN

MARTIN,

juniorEnglish

major

CRAIG

MEGLII,

sophomore math

major

SHARON

NICHOLS,

seniorliberal arts

major

MICHELLE

LYNN

O’BRIEN,

seniorsocialsciences

major

GENE

PENNER,

seniorreligion

major

DENNIS

QUINN,

associateprofessor ofEnglish

LISA

J.

SABBAJRTH,

seniorcriminaljustice

major

MARY

BETH

SCARCY,

seniormathematics

major

HENRY

D.

STYRON,

junior

communications major

ANNA

CHRISTINE

VAUGHN,

juniorliberal arts

major

Each

yeartheEnglish

Department

of

Gardner-Webb

College sponsors a

literarycontest forallstudent submissions

chosen

for publicationin

Reflections. Faculty

and

nonstudent submissionsarenoteligiblefor the

contest. All

works

are

judged anonymously by

thefinalcontest judges.

Thisyear’sjudges

were

Dr.

A. Frank

Bonner,

Mr.

Thirlen

Osborne, and

Dr.

William

B.Stowe.

FirstPlace:

Second

Place:

Third

Place:

AWARDS

Shadows

on

the

Mountain

Michelangelo

Prince withouta

King

Joan

Kyles

Melissa

Diann

Brown

Craig

Lewis

HONORABLE

MENTION

Artist inPain

Noticingthe

Green

Pendulum

Fig

Leaf

Henry

Styron Craig

Lewis

Joan

Kyles

ART

CONTEST

The

Art

Department

of

Gardner-Webb

College hassponsored

an

art

con-testforallstudent submissions

chosen

forpublicationinReflections.

Faculty

and

nonstudent submissionsarenoteligibleforthecontest. All

works

are

judged by

thefinalcontest judges. Thisyear’sjudges

were

CharlotteSlice,

Richard

Drye,

and Susan

Bell.

FirstPlace:

Second

Place:

Third Place

AWARDS

Louise

Anderson

All

American

Boy

Ramesses

Melissa

Diann

Brown

Sumi

Watanabi

Billie

Ford Dixon

HONORABLE

MENTION

Jackhammer

Marie

Antoinette'sCottage

Craig Meglii

ise

Amde:

9

Artist in

Pain

Enteradimly-lit

room

Illuminated only

by

a Fluorescentclock

and two

activated

highway-distressmarkers.

Behold

a sullen minstrel

Ablaze

withapathy.

He

and

reality

had

adisagreement,

and

they

went

theirseparateways.

And

so

he

sits,

creating breathtakingly beautiful music,

For

lackofanything

Better

todo.

Henry

Styron

Picture

Memory

Ihavea picture

memory

Of

my

father

and

me

iNlat theonly

memory

ofkirnThave,

LSuttheonly

one

tobringa

glimmer

of recognition;

And

not atrue

memory,

hnl ratherlike

An

old,fading painting,

one

Iperiodicallyretouch

With

occasional glancesatanold

photograph

InthispictureI

am

dancing,

young and

exuberant

Ifaintly recalltheoccurrence

My

checkered

blueshirt

and

brown

shorts

And

the

brown

room

areallinclearfocus

Ivaguelyrecollect

them

all

And

close

behind me,

at

my

left,sits

my

father;

But whether he

watches

me, and

what

hisexpressionshows,

Icannot

remember

--The

picture

shows

onlyhislegs

-I

have

a true

memory

Of

my

father

and

me

The

only such

memory

Ihave,

Culled

from

my

experience withouta

photo

reminder, Distorted

by

time

and

distance

Into

something

surreal

and

unreal

Inthis

memory

I

am

minuscule, holding

some

toy

I

am

looking

up

at

my

father,he’sbig as a tree

Irecollect surprise

and

happinessatseeing

him

here

He

is

by

thecloset,perhapsgettinghiscoat

Iask

him

ifheis

home

forthe

day

He

repliesthatheisnot,he

must go

out again

Irecallrecurrence,

and

disappointment

—

Iharbor

no

such disappointment now,

I

house no

anger, orevencuriosity, atthistime,

For

Ihave only

one

picture

memory,

And

one detached memory,

almostlikea picturein

my

hand,

Of

a

man

I

do

not

know.

Craig

Lewis

Illusion

Gazing

inawe,as

shimmering

crystalwaterflows endlesslyoverthe

emerald

greenrocks.

The

suninitsbeautyradiates

beams

ofcrystal lightthroughthewateras

theripples, likediamonds,rollswiftlyby.

My

hands:

Like

an

illusion

Under

the water.

The

blood

won’t

wash

off...Ican’t

seem

toget

my

hands

wet.

...Anillusion...

I

know

thewaterisreal: Icanfeelthe coolness;Icansee

thesun gleaming, eventastethe crispnessthroughthesmell thatonlya

clean

mountain

streampossesses.

The

blood

isreal:

Dried

like

brown

icing

On

achild’sfingers

Turned

tostone.

Likescales

on

my

hands,

Ithasdried

and

become

A

partof

me.

...A

demon

hasscales...

Still,itisreal.

Iretainthe smellofdeath

on

me.

The

blood

is

wet

on

my

uniform, preservedinthatstate

by

my

sweat.

Itsmellslike

warm

death,cookingslowlyinanoven.

...An illusionit’snot...

Maybe

it’sjust

my

mind.Istillcan’tgetthisbeautiful clearwaterto

dis-solve theclots. Itwon’tevensoftenthem.

Only

you,

Only you

can help

me

now.

Come

forth!

No

feelings.

No

pain. Shield

me

now!

My

breathing

becomes

intense as

my

eyes

open

wide.

Gettingup,I

stomp

inthestream.

A

cloudof soot

emerges from

the

dis-ruption.I

wash

my

hands

and

leave.

Stephen

Wade

Gamm

Reprieve

Call to darkness,

cover

me.

I’llnotsee,

I’llnot

be

seen.

Feelthe

shadows

swallow

me.

Embrace

me

and embraced

be.

The

Squirrel

and

the

Hawk

The

squirrel

worked

diligentlybuildingitsnestinthe fork ofatree.

Itgatheredstraw,leaves,

and

whateveritcouldfind

And

carried

them up

the tree

and

carefullyput

them

inplace

To make

acozynestin

which

tosleep

and

storeitsfood.

Itcarried acorns,nuts,pinecones,fruit,

and

other ediblebitsofgreenery

And

stored

them

diligently foritswinter’sfeast.

Meanwhile

the

hawk

soaredlazilyoverhead

Occasionallywhistlingbutwatchingthe

movements

of thesquirrel.

When

the squirrel

was

finished

and

readyto settle in

The hawk

thoughtthatit

was

time.

He

dived

from

a great distance

Strikingthe squirrel halfin

and

halfoutofitshouse.

The

hawk’stalonsclutchedthe squirrelfirmly,

But

theimpactshattered the house. All the residue of the

house

and

foodfell

And

was once

more

scattered

on

theground.

ErnestBlankenship

A Man

Undertook

to

Paint

A

man

undertook

to painthis

house

one

morning.

Afterseveraldays

he

was

finishedexceptforthe highest gable.

So

he

gota ladder

and

leanedit

up

highagainstthehouse.

And

climbed

up

slowlywithhisbucket

and

brush.

He

was happy and

hiswife

was

satisfied;she’d

been

nagging

him

about

thisfora longtime.

He

whistleda tune

and

hisbrush

went back and

forth rhythmically.

And

a

sparrow whizzed around

thecorner

and

dodged

the

man’s

nose

by

centimeters.

He

lost hisbalance, teetered

and

fell.

And

the paintlay likewhite

blood on

the

man

and

the

ground

and

the

house.

Kathy

Henson

For

Pam

Women

know

what

men

canonly surmise:

thatlove, likethe

moon,

hasadarkside

which

iscold,remote,

scarred.

o

And

we

arebound,fused,

sistersurvivorsofour

own

personalholocausts,

branded by

our

womanhood

like

some

Auschwitz

tattoo.

So

we

bequeath

ourlegacy ofpaintoour daughters

and

pray they

become

warriors, yet

we

cannot teach

them

how.

Joan

Kyles

The

Most

Deadly

Threat

2/22/86

Ican’tthinkofanythingof value to saybutI

must keep

up

withthe

world

in

which

Ilive.

Headlines:

THE

SOVIET

UNION HAS

THREATENED

TO

FIRE

THE

FIRST

NUCLEAR

MISSILE

TOWARDS

THE

UNITED

STATES

TODAY. PRESIDENT

REAGAN

SAYS

"We

willnotdie

without afight.

We

must

stay together asacountry

and

perish as aunion

ofpeople

who

havethecourageto...

The

world

is

no

more.

The

Russianshave destroyedus,

and

we

have

at-tempted

todestroythem.

But

what’s theuseifwe’reallgoingtodie

anyway?

We

thought

we

destroyedeachother,buthave

we?

No.

We

have

justdestroyedourselves.Ishould

know.

I’m lookingatthe

world

from

a

starcallClibus

ZX-21.

It’sastarthatI

found

whileI

was

travelingina spaceship

many

years ago.I

somehow knew

thatthe

world

would end

this

way.

So

Ihave takena

permanent

vacation

on

thisstarthatisfaraway.

Now

Ihave seenthe

world

in

which

Ihaveliveddisappearinasingle flash

of brightcolors.I

know

it’ssad butIguesstheRussiansdidn’tlove

then-children as

much

as

we

had

hoped.

3/10/86

Life

on

thisstarislonely.

Sometimes

IwishI

had

stayedinthe

world

from

which

I

came

soIcouldhave died with

my

people.Ihave

found

no

enemy,

friend,animal, or flower.

Now

Irealize

how

lonelypeople canbe.

I

sometimes

wonder

ifIspent

enough

time with

my

fellowpeople.Ithink

aboutthatquestiona greatdeal outhereinspace.Afterthinkingaboutit

I

know

theanswer.

The

answerisno.

Here

I

am

stranded

on

astarwith

no one

or nothing.

Now

I

know

the true

meaning

ofloneliness.

4/25/87

Gee

I

hope

my

spaceship works.Ihaven’t

used

thisthingina longtime.I

want

togetoffthis

damn

star

and

findlife

somewhere

else.

4/29/87

The

shiphas

been

travelingfora

few

days.

But

now

on

thisdate,(the29th

of April,1987)Iseeaplanet.Ilandthe ship

and

look outthe

windows.

At

first Isee nothing,but then suddenlya large

group

ofpeople surrounds

theship.Ihear

many

voices

none

of

which

Ican understand.

Some

of the

people begin knocking

on

the

windows and

door.

Slowlythe violent noisesof thebarbaricpeopleinthe

new

world

trans-form

intoasofttap

on

my

bedroom

door.This

sound

gently

wakes me,

and

asI

open

my

eyesI

am

aware

that thisexperience

was

a

dream,

one

which

was

triggered

by

astringofwords."Ican’tthinkofanything of valuetosay,butI

must keep

up

withthe

world

in

which

I live."

2/23/86

Afterthe

dream

the fears thatIhave concerning a nuclear

war and

its

potential threat are

more

realthanever.I

hope

that

someday

thesuper

powers

of the

world

will

be

able toput

down

theirtoysof destruction

and

use

words

to obtaintheir goals.

1987

On

the 8th

day

of the12th

month

ofthisyearthe

United

States

and

the Soviet

Union

signeda treatythat

would

eliminatea

whole

classofnuclear

missiles.

Now

my

fearsofthe

most

deadlythreat tothisworldare

reduced

because

of the

hope between

these

two

countries.

Scott

K

Lawlor

Adobe

Man

A

pregnanthush; Twilightbreathes

an

anxiousquiver ofceremonial

pas-sage

As

the

drums

beginto

rumble

And

the scent of mistpursuesthe

shadows

of the jungle

Itpenetrates the

humid

ghosts of time,

Invitesthesweatingfog to writheinrhythmicfrenzywiththe

waves

ofa

torch-fedflame

And

Irumble,feeltherumble.

Islither

down

the

warm

folliclesofyourposture,

Flicking

my

prideabouttomoistentheheatofeachcrevice

While

a thought-evokingtasteofsanctityburnsquietthrough your smolderingpores:

To

view yourstructureisto witness thegrandeurof ancient architecture

My

Mayan

House

ofTruth

How

you

stifflystand

and

beckon—

Bold

and

steady,

you

repeatthe

moon’s

softrhythmsinyourdarkest

window’s

digitalglance

—Making

me

rumble,feelthe rumble...

Iascend

you

slowly toyourgolden summit,

Pausingatthealtarwithadesperate prayerto themotionsof eternity

Tattooed

wallsof primitive

wisdom,

solidwithcenturiesof sun-broiled

magic,

Riseto

break

yoursilence.

Instinct calls

me

once

again,

(Hear

therumble...Heartherumble)

Yearn

totastethedustleft

you

nature’sbreath

You

are thegrandestof

shadows

And

I

must

offermyselfinsacrifice

—If onlyto find the endless

drums

that

echo

therumblingsof

my

own

recklessspirit.

Deborah

Ann

Cravey

Cheated

The

new

skinof

my

bedroom

walls,

(A

rosetintedsemi-vinyl)

Achieves

withitsbusy lace-anddaisy

emblem

A

Victorian nuance.

Traveling Retroverted,

Back

intoa

world

ofhigh-toppedboots, Strait-lacedtimesofstraightfaced

minds

—

There

descends asanity unfeltinhigher-flyingtimesof

Coke

and

coke.

Imprisoned by

a gilded

frame

Grandsire

and

dam

peerout,frozenintime

—

Foreveroblivious to the betrayal

Of

honor,truth

and

Duty.

They

think thebarbershopstilldoes

A

nickel shoeshine.

Billie

Ford Dixon

Shadows

on

the

Mountain

He

had

come

a long

way

from

the

mossy

hollowsof

Appalachia

tothemill village

—

the

row

houses

distinguishableonly

by

the

dreams

oftheirtenants.

Some

dreamed

of

moving

up

atthemill,abetterhouse,

acar.

Some

only ofgoing

home

togreen mountains.

Daddy

dreamed

ofmusic: banjo,dulcimer,

mandolin

woke

from

silence tohisrugged hands.

In theevenings

when

thesky

turnedsoft

and

purplehe

would

sit

on

the

porch

and

playsimple songsofdeath

and

lostloves,

lonesome

mountains

and wandering

sons.

I

would

press againsthispaint splatteredlegs,

drawn

tothe

wild

summer

in hiseyes,

sisterto the

moths

thatfretted

againstthe

porch

screen

straining

toward

the lamplight.

Ilongedfor his

hand

totouch

me

as lovingly asitstroked

thedulcimerresting

on

his lap.

The

music

splintered

around me,

the

sound

oreach note

sequestered.

I

found

other

arms

tohold

me,

seekingthatlove

which

is

sometimes

not

hidden

like

shadows

indarkness.

Yet

there are nights

when

I

am

orphaned by

sleep

thatthefragmentof atuneor thesweetdriftofhoneysuckle touches

me,

and

I

am

comforted by

summer

memories

as

smooth and

worn

asprayer

beads

strung

by

callousedhands.

Joan

Kyles

V^ater Billowing

Dawn Camp

Water-billowing

And

cresting,foaming, then receding

Very

quickly.

Evening

iscoming.

The

Sun

issetting

on

therollingwater.

My

Viking

I

keep

with

me

alwaystheonly picture of

you

inexistence.

You

insist

upon

remainingthat far

away from commonness.

It isthe

common man

that

you

staunchlyserve,using the

same

enormous,

calloused

hands

thateasilyspan about

my

waist,lifting

me

from

my

agonies.

The

sole,fading

and

yellowed

image

freezes

you

foreverinyour

abandoned homeland.

a

Your mask

doesn’teven

acknowledge

thecamera,nor doesitliftforany butthe painfullychosenfew.

Even

then,the

image

we

receiveisasfuzzyabouttheedgesasyour photograph.

Even

my

childhood

knew

your;watching yourstepsso firm

and

sure,

giant’s

body

strong

and

unyielding.

Your

future carefullyplanned,forcefully striding

throughlifewhileIstumbled aboutinyour shadow,

oftenrunning

headlong

intoyourwalls.

I

come

away

bruised

and

bleeding,seeingyoureyes registeringapology but yourlipsofferingnone.

My

last

goodby

ranginOctober.

Imagine

my

shock

when

you

refusedtolisten.

Why

do you want

to

change

yourpicture

now?

To

turnitscold,graylandscapeto

warmer

climates.

You

chose your

backdrop

years ago;it’sfartoolate

toalteryour format now.

Those

carefullystructured

wallscan never

be

torn

down,

noteven

by

theircreator.

Ren

Chaskelis

Musing

on

Despair

Perhaps,I

am

eatingfruit

from

trees

which

willonlybring

me

misery.I

wander

aimlesslythroughthe

garden

of beautifulfruit,but

none

of

them

arefor

me.

The

fruitonly sickens

me

afterIhave

been tempted

to tryabite.Ilay

me

down

atnightto rest inabower, butthe

bower

isfullof thorns,

and

my

body and

my

spiritachesto

move

on.I sit

under

a treetoreadormeditateinthegarden, butthe leavesof the treebegintowither

and

todrop.

Hence

there

is

no

shade.Iattempttopet thelion

who

dandlesa

lamb

in hispaw,

and he

suddenly

becomes

ferocious

and

menac-ing.Ipick a rose

which

I

know

tohavea pleasantsmell,

and

my

nostrilsarefilledwithdecayasthe petalsbeginto

falltotheground. Yes! Paradiseisfilledwithbeauty,but

at

my

touch, beauty,along withvirtue

and

truthdisappear.

Where

are

you

Father,

my

onlysourceoflight

and

truth?

Why

does

my

soullack

wisdom

and

purpose?

Nurture

that

seedof love

which you

implantedin

me

atthetime

my

soul

feltlife.

Melissa

Hens

lee

Ocracoke

Arching

wings breaktheburning sky

astrembling

hands and

eagereyes

trytocapturethegifts

of thedyingday.

Foolishare the eyesthatrefuse to see the

shimmering

blend

ofsky

and

sea,

broken

only

by

thestilted legsof the egret

or the leap ofamullet.

A

trioof

young

yellow

crowns

stands silhouettednearthesilent,

blacksculpture of the tranquil executioner’sblind,

The

heron’sblankred-circled curiouseyefills

my

scope

inuntranslated

communication

as

thesealicks

away

thesands

ofOcracoke.

While

thepathof theskimmer’s hunt

ripsthe quietglasswater before

me,

thesun drops behindthesilentsound,

leaving thetenuous

narrow

landto night. Istherevaluein

my

witness

on Ocracoke?

Am

I

worthy

of

more

thanthe

greenhead

or themutilated crab

that strugglesatthefeetof thelaughinggull?

Les

Brown

n \i

It

was

a stereotype

day

For

avisitwithin the

wrought

irongates.

The

early

morning

shroud

Clung

to

my

clothes

and

limphair

Then

sankinto

my

soul.

An

inescapablechill

echoed

within.

Step

by

step

Row

afterrow,

I

saw

plasticflowers.

Even

thefadedpetals

Of

embarrassed

poinsettiasin

March

Were

clumped

inthathideous green foam.

Ireached

my

destination.

My

pilgrimage

had

ended.

No,

itwasn’t atemple

Or

a holyshrine,

But

only a piece ofwhite marble, Inanimate,coldimpenetrable.

The

name

had

become

Justlettersperfectlychiseled.

As

well,the dates

Were

onlynumbers.

A

lifetime

had been condensed

To

a

n n

Mary

Beth Searcy

Lonesome Thunder

How

subtlethe cry of

lonesome

thunder.

How

itechoestheprideofsolitude,

Rollingthrough mirrorsof the past

As

itfracturestheglassoftime

TonightIfeelyourabsencelikean

amputated

limb

Allaround,the furniturestares,

dares

me

toprove

my

ownership

Silencedrips,

I

am

leftsuspended.

My

mind

is

drowned

inatideof visions—

Sweeping waves

of futuresatisfactionsIcan’tbring myselftospeak

They

shove

me

forward,

They

haphazardlyripthefleshof

my

spirit,

They

straintopullthe

whole

of

me

back

to onlylastnight,

Where we

touched

the raging

embers

of desirewithour innocent tongues

And

swam

toshore unscathed. It

was

a flood;

The

watersrose

and

rose,engulfingevery free-flowing

thoughtinlife-preservingpassion

And

thenslowly,thestormsubsided,

As we

floated topersonalislands,gently linked

by

our

pacificfingertips...

Whispered words

ofsolidarity

permeated

thecoreof respect

—sealed ourdestiniesforeternity

And

ourinsecurities forthenight.

Morning

threatened,

Calling ustofacethe rain of daylight

A

torridembrace,a soul-lubricatingkiss inafutileattempt

to

summarize

emotion,

And

once

againI’m

on

my

own

Now

a

waning

moon

weeps

steadyasI sitinanisolated

vacuum,

Consumed

inan achingvoid

and

watchingtheskyforclouds.

Deborah

Ann

Cravey

Michelangelo

Listen

now

to thesongs

you drew

With

yourpencil singingfreelyacross thepaper,

Though

not

one drunken

line

Was

discordinyourmasterpieces.

Gloatnow,forthefruitsofyourskill

Have

withstoodthe scoldings of theMaster.

Pieta,

once

cuddledinstone,

Was

freed

by

thekissesofyourtools.

Strength

and

beauty harmonize,

And

allthe children

you

carved

Out

oftheir

marble

wombs

Stillthriveto singtheir father’s

name.

Melissa

Diann

Brown

Unknown

Stranger

The

sudden awakening

of

Michael

Jackson screamingof

how

bad he

is

followed

by

the sloshing ofsoap

and

the splatteringofwater

the

monotone

whine

of the hair dryer

and

the crackling ofgrease dancing

around

thehotsausage

themetalbirds

which

pierce the

atmosphere

withthe roar ofaseashella

hundred

times amplified

o

thebellowingthunderof twentiethcentury dinosaurs

ferociouslyburrowing,digging,

and

pushing

mounds

ofsoil

the gargling of

Macks,

Internationals,

and

Fergusons along withBuicks, Cadillacs,

and

Rabbits

the authoritativeinsultofimpatient horns

mixed

withtiresscreeching with pain

crying to stop the scraping

by

the asphalt

sirens,

behind

you,infrontof you,besideyou,coming, going

the seclusion ofbeingina small

room

thelevelof silenceisdeafening

slowlysmall noisesbegin

making

themselves

known

thecrackof

wood

expanding

underneath

the sun’s rays thehigh pitchedflutterof afly’s

wing

your breathing your heartbeat

i’mnotalone

who

are

you

idon’t

know

you

where

did

you

come

from

"I’vealways

been

here,

you

justcouldn’thearme."

Gene

Fenner

Forsaken

She

wearilylay

among

torn

paper

and abandoned, empty

boxes

and was

aware

of only thetickinggrandfatherclock

and

thehypnotizinglightsof

thetree.

The

house

was

stillbutthe excited voices of

happy

childrenstill

echoed

inherears.

Now

a strangetranquilityreigned overthehouse; her

mother and

sisters,exhausted

from

getting

up

at5:30am,

had gone back

tosleep,

and

onlyshe

was

consciousof the mysterious,almosteerie

sensa-tionthat

had permeated

not only the house,butalsoherheart.

Suddenly

the

phone

rang, interrupting the silence ofChristmasday.

She had

no

idea

who

itwas,but

when

she

answered

_{she immediately recognized}the

still-familiarvoice

on

the other

end

of thereceiver.It

was

Him.

"Hello,"shesaid.

"Hello,"said

He.

"How

are

you

doingtoday?"sheasked,trying torelay to

Him

thatshe

real-lydidnotcare.

"I"mfine,

and

you?"

he

askedinresponse.

He

also

sounded

nonchalant, but she

knew

that

He

was good

athidingfeelings,thoughts,secrets.

"I’mdoinggreat,"sheanswered. "Are

you

havinga

merry

Christmas?"

"Yes,thankyou.

How

has yours been?"

"Wonderful," shereplied. Polite

words and

phrases

were

almost depleted

from

hermind,

and

theline

remained

silentasshe desperately searched herbrainforanothersetofwords.

She

tried tothink ofanythingtosay

but kept runninginto

dead

ends.

"How

iseveryonethere?"

He

questioned.

She was

extremelyrelieved that

he had been

able to findanothersafe topic of conversation.

"They

areallfine.

How

isyourfamily?"

"Oh, theyaredoingquitewell.Iwilltell

them

that

you

asked."

She

listened to the cracklingconnection,

and

shehelplessly realized that the500miles

which

separated

them was

only

minute

in

comparison

tothe distancethat lay

between

their hearts.

Moments

passed,

seeming

like

hours.

She wanted

tosayotherwords, butthere

was

nothinglefttosay.

No

more

words

existed that

would keep

herbitterness, hurt,

and

con-fusionlockedsafeinthe

deep

darknessofherheart.

And

there

was

anotherfeelingshe

had

nurturedinside

which was worse

thanany other

emotion

she nurtured inside

which was worse

than any other

emotion

she

had

everexperienced;if

was

evengreaterthanthe bitterness

and

rage

which had hardened

hersoul.It

was

herbest-keptsecret,

and

she could

not,

would

not,sayanythingthatmightrevealthis

hidden

truth

which

tore savagelyatherheart. ₂₃

You

see,the

man

on

theother

end

ofthose500miles oftelephoneline

was

a

man

she

had once

loved

more

thananyotherinheruniverse.

Long

ago she

had

believedthat

he

honestly

and

trulylovedher, too.

She

now

feltfoolishthatshe

had

believed

He

would

actually cherishherasshe

had

cherished

Him, admire

herasshe

had admired Him, and

protectherin

Hisheart asshe

had guarded

Him

inhers;

He

was

herFirstLove.

She

wanted

to kick herselfforblindlytrusting thatit

would

lastforever, the perfectfairytale.Fairytales

were

for beautiful,enchanting

women

like

Cinderella,

Snow

White,

and

Sleeping Beauty,

and

she

knew

she

would

not

awaken

to find

Him

standingabove her

and

smilingwithloveinHis

eyes.

She was

not extremely gorgeousorwitty,nor did shepossessany

characteristicof

grand

caliber,but she

once had been

convincedthatshe

was

special to

Him

simplybecauseof

who

shewas.

Then came

adark

day

when

shefellthroughthe

Looking

glass

and

discovereduglyreality:

He

had

chosenanother.

Although

days,weeks,evenyears

had

passedsince that day,shestill

had

no

otherto takeHisplace.

But

that

was

not

what

causedthestabbing

achetopuncture herheart.

She

had been

rejected

and abandoned,

yet that

was

notthesourceofherterminal agony.This unhealing

wound

(oh, it

appeared

tohealattimes,but then anyincident-_a

phone

call,aletter,

a

rumor

reopened and

inflictedthe sorewithevengreater pain)

was

her

hidden

secret,

and

it

was

simplythefactthatshe could

no

longer share any

words

of truesubstancetothis

man

to

whom

she

had once been

so

veryclose.

She

refusedtolet

Him

realizethatshestillloved

Him

and

wanted

to

be

enfoldedinHis

arms once

again.

She

was determined

notto

reveal thatherfeelings consisted ofanything

more

thanpolite

words and

phrases,although herheart didachetotell

Him

otherwise.

She

did not

want

herhearttocontinueto

grow

hard towards

Him. Perhaps

ifshetold

Him,

her malignant

tumor

ofbitterpain

would

finallydisintegrate.

She

may

even

be

able tohavearealrelationship with

Him

againifshe could putaside the five-year-old

memories

of

one

steelgray

March

day

when

He

saidgood-bye.

Every muscle

inher

body

tensed

and

herheart

pounded

wildly;everypart ofher

wanted

totell

Him

the truththatshestillloved

Him

and

desiredto

be

close to

Him

again.

She

knew

she

would

havetosacrificeherstubborn

pride,

and

takingthat risk

was

scarybecauseit

make

hervulnerable.

But

she

had

totell

Him

inspiteofHisdesertingher.

Her

left

palm was

stick-ing to thetelephone

from

thepouringsweat,

and

her other

hand

played nervously withthe curlytelephonecord.

She

feltdizzy

and

slightly

finally

had begun

toexperiencea

peace

she

had

notfeltfor years.

She

decidedtotell

Him. She

tooka

deep

breath

and

opened

her

mouth,

and

He

asked,

"How

isschool?"

Another

safetopic,she wrylythought."It’s

great.

How’s

work?"

"It’sgoingwell."

There

was

anothersmallsilence,though notforlong;there

were no

other

nicetiestoexchange.

"I

suppose

I

had

bettergo,"

He

stated.

"Yes,

me

too,"shereluctantlyreplied.

"Ilove you."

She

wondered

if

He

only said the

words

tosaythem,orif

He

really

meant

them

and

was

simplyafraidofallowingany

emotion

to leave

His

heartnakedly exposed.

She

thoughtfora

moment

and

thenreplied,"I

love

you

too.

Good-bye and

Merry

Christmas."

She

heardtheclickofthe receiverfollowed

by

the

buzz

of the

empty

line,

but she continuedtohold

on

for

one

moment

longer.

She

thenslowly released the

phone and

inadaze returnedtotheliving

room. She

lay in

thefloor

among

thelitter-torn

paper once

bright

and

shining,

abandoned

boxes

once

filledwithgifts.

She

shuthereyes asifthat

motion would

somehow

shutout thepain,

and

tiny tears

pooled

inthecornersofher

eyesbeforethey gently rolled

down

her

cheekbones

tothefloor.

Her

mouth

formed

silent;words,itdidnot matter

how

loud she

_{spoke because}

the

message

she

was

sending

was one

of theheart.

"Why

did

my

fairy tale

haveto

end

this

way? There

willnever

be

anyothertotake

His

place.

Why

didithaveto

be

likethis?I stilllove

Him.

I stilllove you, Father.

Can

you

hear

me?

I stillloveyou...Daddy."

She

softly cried.

The

L&wmdale-Belwood

Road

"ROCK’S

COUNTRY

STORE"

Look

atthe

good

oldboys

Hanging

around.

Where?

There

inthedark besidethe store

Leaning on

thetruck.

They

were

out there thelasttime

we

came

through. In therain,inthemist.

Ibetthey’re out thereeverynight.

It’sSunday.Itdoesn’t matter.

I’llbet they’retelling dirtyjokes,

Talkingabout guns

and

cars.

Their timeislikethe

road ahead

Vanishingintodarkness everynight.

They

establishtheirtenuous

dominance

In painless vulgar sparring.

The wounds

run

deep

And

asfarintolife

As

theroadintothenight.

Ineverbled.

On

the

Lawndale-Belwood

Road

ahead

The

onlylights reflect

from

signs,

And

from

a

few dim windows

With

framessilhouettedlike crosses.

I

know

thisplacewell.

They came

from

thewindows,

They came

withthedarkness

As

Ididlongago.

Ileanedtheretoo

With

others

no

longerinthe dark,

And

theyvanishintothe night

behind

us.

Les

Brown

Jericho

You

neverspokeof the

one

who

so

wounded

you

withlove,

yetshe

was

there:

aghostinyour

wary

eyes,

inthefaint linesthat

framed

Your mouth

likesentinels

guarding every word.

Your

practicedtouch

and

prettylies

were

enough

forthesmooth-skinnedgirls

you

skimmed

likefoam.

But

I

wanted

tohold

thesuninplaceforyou;

afoolish

Joshua

to think

ifI

found

therightnotes

thatjust likeJericho,

yourwalls

would

come

tumbling

down.

Joan

Kyles

Mill-town

Sunday

We

ride oiled clayroads

Pastthe rusty

combine and Mitch

Jordan’s

hog

pen

blooming

withhollyhocks,

Past sorrel

and chickweed

pushing through

garden remnants

ofcotton farms,

To

ourusualgraveledspace.

Inourstiff

Sunday

cotton dresses

and French

heels

we

walk

thehot,mud-streaked sidewalkintochurch,

Intocoolquiet, intotransformation.

Arching

windows overpower

reality,

diffusing

by

thebeautyoftheirlight.

The

sanctuary glows withold familiarstories,

withholiness

and

order

and

truth

beyond

time.

We

are

surrounded

by

Moses

and Joseph and

the

Good

Samaritan;

the

boy

Jesusinthe temple,

Mary

and

the

empty

tomb.

The

lightshinesthroughChristinthe

Garden.

His

stainedglasswhite

and

crimson robes

glow

with

morning

sun.

His

prayingface turns

toward

bluecobalt lead-fringedsky.

Our

faceslift

toward

radiant Jesus,

Serene

inthebeautyofceremony.

Ina long

low

building

rows

ofsteel

machines

withsharpslit-eyedneedles

threaded

and

poised

waitinthe vastdarksilence.

Today

their

drone

is

deadened by

themightyroar ofBach.

Backs and

fingers

and weary

eyes yieldtoliturgy’s

demands.

Voicesof praiserise in dignity.

Joyce

Compton Brown

Novelette

Once

Istood, proverbially speaking;

One

footinthegutter,the otherinthe grave.

Lifemerely ablur of decision

and

dishonestfaces,

noteven

knowing

mine

own

selfwell

enough

to

stumble withsecurity,keeping myselfto myself,

doomed

to

remain

adevilishmysteryas thepages

of

an

unread

book.

Here

Istand;justas untrusting,justas insecure,

but...

What

made

you

open

thecover?

Ren

Chaskelis

Destined

to

be

Trapped

How

didIfitintothissnug cage?

How

didIgetcaughtinthesteeljaws

ofthistrap?Iranhard

and

fast

And

evengotaway. I

was

successful

and

free

For

suchalongtime.

But

then

Itripped,stumbled

and

fell.

Now

Ihave

been

caught,

Again. Just as sure as

one

getsaway, Willsurely get caught, again!

Lynn

Carpenter-Keeter

The

Mighty Hunter

The

mighty hunterstalks hisprey.

Slowly loweringhis

body

neartheground.

Hiding behind

the thickpatchesofgrass.

His

prey,

unaware

thatdangerisnear,

Continuesto

chew

on

abladeofgrass.

The

mighty hunterreadies himselffortheattack.

He

firmly plantshisfeet

on

theground.

Then

suddenly,

he

leapsforward

Slappinghismighty

paw

around

the helplessvictim.

He

surroundsitwithhismouth,

Gently crushingit,careful nottokillit,yet.

He

releasesit

and

steps back,

Watching

itstruggle,helplessfor safety.

Its

huge back

legs tryingtojump, butcannot.

At

theright

moment,

The

mighty hunterreleases aswiftslap

from

his rightpaw.

Then

another,

and

another,

And

anoccasional

smack

withtheleft,

Untilhispreyisalmostlifeless.

Then

itisreadyforconsumption,

For

no

more

pleasure can

be

derived

from

alifelesscreature,

Except

thesatisfactionoftaste.

Gene

Fenner

Ah

Alternative

Open

youreyes

and

stareatthe sun. w

Destroy

an

irreparable nerve.

That which

is

dead

cannot

be

disturbed.

Michelle

Lynn

O'Brien

Wise

Words

Seekingshelter,

The

RollingStones

encouraged sympathy

fortheDevil

And

John

F.

Kennedy

embodied

patriotism-What

could

he

do

forour country?

Would

Dylan

have

wanted

usalltogetstoned

on

the

same

afternoon?

Neil

Armstrong

nevertoldthe direction ofhisGiantLeap,

And

Iwillalways

wonder

if

Martin

Luther

King

dreamed

incolor

Deborah

Ann

Cravey

Jesus

Who?

Take

sufficient

power

tocreate

theuniversewitha thought;

Shape

itintothe

form and

substance of amortal

man,

Subjectittohunger,thirst

and

fatigue.

Then,askthissuperbeingif

He

iswilling to suffer

Degradation,humiliation,torture,

and

a horribly painful death. Allforapeople

who

will

one

day

place

him

second

in

Importance

behindafat

man

ina

redsuit.

The

answer mightsurprise you.

Reincarnationi?

She

tooklittleforherself

And

gave

me

allshecould.

She

led asimplelife

And

trustedintheLord.

When

she

was

taken with astroke

I

was

many

miles

away

Driving

madly

throughthe

bad

weather,

Stoppingonlytorefuel

and

forthe siren ofa

cop

Who

was

sympathetic

when

Iexplained

my

rush,

I

came

as quickly asIcould;

But

my

presence

was

oflittleuse.

She

laythreedays without a

word

And

then herlife

was

through.

Istoodinsilencelooking

on

With

anger,grief, guilt,worry,

and

confusion

Strivingeachto rise

above

the other.

There

was

nothingIcould

do

but

remember

The

radianceofalifethat

was

good,

though

short.

HurriedlyI

made

my

way

to

where

my

car

was parked

On

the

way

I

met

asmiling

man

Who,

withoutaword,

handed

me

acigar.

Ihelditfora

moment

and

then withfoggedeyes

Ireadthe

wrapper and

then unleashed

my

grief-The

wrapper

simplysaid,"It’sagirl."

She must

have

come

intothe

world

About

the

same

time

my

mother

left.

At

least that’s

what

Itold

myself-When

so distressedwithin,the soulreachesout to find

hope

again.

ErnestBlankenship

American

Dream

Success.

Dry

minds

agein

homogenous

buildings. Conventionality.

Rewards

awaitthose

who

most

efficiently

uphold

thestatusquo.

Diversion.

An

angelcriesbehindthe

mask

of adevil;

Livingcolor characters areimprisonedin

two

dimensionalboxes.

Acquired

tunnel visionironicallyproliferatessterility

ofheart

and

mind

under

the guise ofresponsibility

and

duty.

To

this

we

pledgeallegiance.

Michelle

Lynn

O'Brien

Sylvia

and

the

Bees

'The

old

queen

does not

show

herself,issheso ungrateful?" SylviaPlath

When

thebees

swarmed

todayIthoughtof you.

Did

you watch

fatcarelessdrones tumbling

from

squash blooms, not

burdening

themselves

withthenecessarypollen

Did

you

note

how

theyplop

down

at

random

hives

visiting atwill,

sippingsweet concoctions forged

from

thelabor

ofthin,sharp workers

Did

you

noticetheirarrogance

indismissing asunimportant

the evolution of thepersonalsting

And

did

you

see theflightof thevirginqueen,

soaring, spiraling

upward,

drawing

cloudsofdronestoherwill,

choosing

one

to claspfora

moment

beforehisreturn to earth tocrawl

and

die

So

thatherlifemight haveorder,

thatshe mightliveexalted,the raisond'etreofthousands,

stroked, attended,

pampered,

asshe

bends

secureinhercellular task.

To

the

Existence,

"God"

Idon’t believe

you

actuallyexist asthose

who

do

believe,tell

me

But

Ican’t

deny you

areanexistence

asrealasanything

around

me

I

do

see

you

in

my

classes

aslearnedexpertsrelateyourhistory

And

I

do

senseyourinfluence

asIreadallthewords, viewallthearts

Ihave proofofyour presence

as

my

friends cross thestreetholding your

hand

And

Ihold evidenceofyourexistence as

my

fellowstryconversion, orpersecution

Iperceive

you

asanentity

givenlife

by

acollective will

A

cooperative agreement,like

Zeus and

Odin,

King Arthur and Charlemagne,

oreven Santa Claus

But

to

me, you

have your

own

distinctexistence

becauseI

am

withinyour

domain

Sometimes,Ifeel,

alone- and

Ifind

Icannotignoreyourexistence

away

The

Final

Curtain

..Asthecold

hand

of the night

squeezesthelastbitof night

from

theday...

The

stage curtainrisesto reveal the great

powers

ofDarkness...

"Be

wary oh you

sleepingchild,

Who

dreams

of

darkened

Moon,

Her

temptation,

and

herbeauty;

She’ll stealyourheart

withhersilverspoon."

...Whereinyourcuriositylies,

Itwill

be

found...

Exposed...

And

molded

into that

which you

cannot change.

For he

whose

heartachesfor

power

Hungers

formaterialthings;

You

no

longer belongtoyourself...

"Be

wary

oh

my

eveningchild,

forthetimeis

coming

soon.

That

cloven-footedBeast walks

proud

throughthenight,

And

stronger shines the

Moon."

...Theseventhact

draws

toaclose,

And

slowly

now

the curtainbeginsits

cumbersome march

to centerstage...

Palefacesturn, staring,wondering,they await theinevitable...

"Be

wary

laughinghypocrite,

Of

the victory

you

thinkyou’ve found.

For

where

will

you

be

when

the

Moon’s glow

t^rrnsto red,

And

thefinalcurtain’s

down?"

LisaJ.Sabbarth

The

51st State

Cold

numbs

yourfingers,

frightpiercesthrough

you

assweat

beads

upon

yourface.

Your

heart racesfrantically,

your

hands

shakeinchaoticmotion,

voice chattersinvibrating tones; Feelings rush,nervestingle!

Ah,

thestateof confusion.

Christy

Diane

Hart

The Tower

Climbing

up

towardthe sun,

My

thoughts

becoming

clearer. 'tilatlastIstand

Breathingthe breaths of angels

Flyingthroughtheair,

Feelingfree

from

allbinds,

Allowing

my

thoughtstoroam.

And

endingallasI

meet

theground.

Karen

Martin

Easter,

1970

That’s

me

on

theright,

handsomely

dressed,

with

my

two

sisters.

Notice

how

they

match

withtheircutewhitedresses,

hats,

and

corsages.

Ican’tdresslikethem.

Ihave a

male image

touphold.

Shirt

and

tieonly,dresseswon’tdo.

The

glassesI

wore were

a must.

Without

them

I’dhavefoursisters.

The

couch

inthe

background

is stillthere,

aftersheddingitsskin several times.

The

bare paneledwall,

which

the

couch

rests against,

is

now

litteredwithtrophiesof theforest.

Long

Thoughts

that

in

My

Mind

Doth

Rest

(After

Sir

Thomas

Wyatt

the Elder)

Elizabeth!

My

GloriousLiege,

Thou

Queen

ofagespast,

Hath

heldthy

sway

o’erhearts

and minds

of

men

For

fartoolong!

Methinks

thy reignshouldend!

Thy

gloryshould

be

toldintruthatlast!

Infact,the glory of thy court

was

dast-Ardly

asallthe others’foreit.

Even

though you

spent

some

time lockedin

Yourself,

once

sprung,

compassion

fadedfast.

You

killed

young

Tichborne,Southwell,too,

’Causethey

were

Catholics,but Francis Drake’s

One

million

pounds from

Spanish towns

were

stakes

Which

you,

Your

Pious Highness, calledyour due!

Intruth,

My

Liege,

you were

forsurealiberatedbroad,

But

storiesofyourkindlybeautyconstitute a fraud.

Dennis Quinn

Who

Decides

What’s

Real,

Anyway?

Outsidethe wallsof

Here

and

Now,

yetbeforetheboundariesof

Notquitethen,

therestands apalatialhovel.

Within, the

Old

and

the

New

cavort as equals.

A

veryold

man

withareceding foreheadchatsabouttheweather with ahigh-techwarlock

wearing a

cowboy

hat.

The

impactoftheirdiscussion

will

be

feltfar

and

wide,or,perhaps, notatall.

And

the

Angel

of

Death

sitsmoroselyina corner,

drinkinganotherbeer.

Henry

D.Styron

"Harnesses

5 '

Billie

Ford Dixon

Tall

Wooden

Soldiers

Tall

wooden

soldiersstandingin

Rows.

Linesthatstretch into Eternity.

Never

bending. Just

Silent,straight soldiers.

Dawn

Elaine

Camp

Through

the

Pages

of

My

Mind

Through

thepagesof

my

mind,

Isee countlessmirrors

showing

one

of thesame.

Round

likethe funnel

my

thoughtsgo,uncontrollable

and

colorless...

Serene

and calm

onlyinthe

dreams

of

my

heart...longingto

Become

alivingrealitythoughfrightened

by what

may

be

discovered.

Each

doorway

offersmultiple opportunities ofdark

and

light...

Through

thepagesof

my

mind.

Sharon

Nichols

Prince

Without

a

King

Surrounded by

past

and

present influences,

He

would

bringintoexistence

A

princewithoutaking

A

successor

born

of

no queen

The

nextto

don

a mantle,sit

upon

athrone,

Without

blood-ties,royal or otherwise.

A

peasant

boy

Who

boldly strode

up

tovenerableMerlin,

Proclaimed

himself

and

refusedapprenticeship;

Who

freedsplendid Excalibur

from

thestone Beforethestartled

and

awed

assemblage;

And

who

satconfidently, witha

wisdom

Learned

butuntaught.

Craig

Lewis

Fig

Leaf

Rectitude is

no

excuse

forthefigleaf

thathangs

unsupported

on

a

Roman

Copy.

Melissa

Diann

Brown

Pendulum

Ileave

my

doors unlockedatnightnow,

forperhapsa passing

someone

who

could

want

what you

refused.

For

lunch

today,I

opened

adented canof

mushroom

soup

(as

much

pastits

prime

asI)

prayingfor

some

lurking

ancientplague

which

would

excise

you from

my

mind.

And

lately,

Fve

takentoturning

off

my

carlights

on

dark country

roads: splitsecondsof delicious

fearthat

make

me

liveagain,

ifonlyfora

moment.

Icrossstreets

more

slowly,

too— sometimes

only getting

halfway before

"Do

Not Walk"

bleeds

across thesign-just incase thereis

one

car traveling toofast

tostop

intime.

Joan

Kyles