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Little boys, they have magic
by Bob Putmøn
I always spent my coffee
break behind my desk; either
paging through a fresh run of
the New Yorker or working on
the advertising layout for this
month's copy. My determination in college had paid off. It
had landed me a $25,000 a year
contract with the New Yorker.
Success was staring me in the
face.
The coffee was bitter as an
Remember when we were
young, we used to go down by
the creek and catch crayfish and
tadpoles among the stones and
swirling bubbles. And each breath
of morning sun would kiss the
daisies in the meadow and the
hollihocks behind the tool shed.
And remember crawling through
the cool tall grass with our
imaginary swords, chasing a
garter snake away from the
I'd climb a willow
artic snowstorm. Still slightly
secret cave.
hung-over from last night's
tree to sing a bird my song; and
old lady willow, she'd sing along
with me; she knew all the words.
No one knows little boys have
magic, and I kept mine in my
pocket concealed from everyone.
Do you remember when I buried
an apple core, and prayed that
night for a tree. It's nice to be
young again, I'd love to be young
again and I promise, cross my
heart lady willow, I'11 get back
some day.
cocktail party, I slipped out onto
the balcony. I sat down on the
protective railing, took a deep
breath of what the atmosphere
had to offer, and closed my eyes.
The bustle of ten o'clock New
York continued on the streets
13 floors below, each sound a
dagger to my ears. Then I closed
my mind.
I stirred, looked at my
watch. Five minutes late on
coffee break, I gulped. I looked
down on the street, ants
scurrying about, each one doing
his
job mechanically. I fìngered
lip. The inner office was
busy with the bustle of executives running to and fro
chaotically with articles, editorials, photo layouts, feature stories,
society columns, fashion articles,
"About Town" articles . . .
my
"Can you live in a box,"
I
screamed. With that I removed
my hands from the protective
railings and leaned back. I'm
comin'home lady willow, comin'
home.
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my father
-
Then I fainted
-
scared
-
fainted. (Exhausted, perspiring, breathing
heavy.)
t
(Agreeing.) You fainted. How did your
father get there? I thought I was in the
back seat?
I don't know
-
I fainted. I was lying in
- I opened my
the snow, and you came
eyes, and you came.
From where?
Down the ravine - from the road. You
wore a cap and gown - You had a - a
candle in your hand, and a red rose. You
gave them to me. Then you picked me
up - suddenly it changed - You were
carrying me through the campus - then
you stopped and laid me down in the
street - but the street then changed and I
was lying among flowers in daddy's
gteenhouse - People were staring at me
through the glass - You and Nick and
Honey and daddy and some people from
the party. You were all smiling - not
happy, or laughing, just smiling - nice. I
don't know why I was there, but I saw a
man - a young man walking towards me he was the only one in the greenhouse. He
kept calling my name - Martha - Martha.
I looked around to call for you, but you
were gone. I looked back at the young
man - he was standing next to me. Only
he and I were there - you were gone. The
man then stretched both of his arms out to
me and said - and said - Hold me - Hold
me, mother. (She stops and sits upright in
concerned.) Martha, can you hear me?
(He takes her head in his hands and turns
her towards him. She still stares into
blank space.) Please, honey, say something - dear - Martha - Please . . . please.
(George seems confused about what to do.
He first gets out of bed and helps Martha
lie down in bed. He covers her, and speaks
to her while he is getting dressed. He
hurries about the room, almost frantic, as
he picks up wrong pieces of clothing, then
throws them down in search of the correct
articles.) Martha, everything will be allright . . . I'll call the hospital . . . We'll
get a good doctor . . . Martha, are you
listening, can you hear me . . . You'll get a
private ¡oom - with flowers - and candy and there are nice people there . . . Oh,
Martha, why, why, why? It's not fair drinking, that's all we ever did, we drank.
We only drank with friends - colleagues,
deans, professors, associate professors
-
your father. This can't happen to my
wife - she's not - not sick. (Realizing
what he had just said, angry.) Sick - we're
not sick - (He kneels next to the bed and
holds one of Martha's hands. He kisses her
hand, then he holds it to his cheek . . . He
cries softly.) He said mother? - Hold me Hold me, mother. - Why, Martha, - why?
(He cries softly.) (Lights dim.)
(Curtain.)
bed staring blankly ahead.)
(Somewhat surprised, concerned.) He said,
"Mother?" (Martha continues to
stare
blankly ahead.) Martha, are you all-right?
(He reaches for her hand, but she shows no
response.) Martha, Martha, are you Martha? Is everything O.K.? - (Very
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FACTS
Ronalri
A. Robinson
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Facts
can be
hard as d¡amonds,
spill¡ng with the
clear ring of
rock candy on a counter.
They are the smalt change
of reality:
dead as fossits.
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lv rivel bank, settled tlown
lt..r
siowlv and awesotnelY Ptlt tlre
sun to bed.
Sonr.- wakeful lingering raYs
were darting playfullY across the
water when Ton.r Pointed out
the purple clouds to onr lcft.
They were playing a duet with
shirnmering heat lightning- And
then to our right, the skies above
the little village came alive with
Rcman candle flares, star bursts
and all the other glorious light
ef-fects and cacophonic sounds
man has nrade and the PeoPle
were using io PaY tribute to our
historical spirit.
Mike cracked open scveral
cans of beer and they were passecl
back and lbrth from hand to hand
between the five of'us. The light
show continued, thunder rumbled off in the distance. someone
pointed out a shooting star and
Ed reached across tire sand,
fbund my hand and sqrieezed it
briel1y. The river cirurned below
us wliere it has rnade its trlaslerful cut through the dike and all
the night sounds joined together
in a conlrapunctal serenade
behind us.
Then slowly, reluctantlY we
headed back. Mike leading the
way this tin're and all of us having
to wait every once in a while for
Rick to catch up. When we
reached cur place, no one had
rnuch to say except Rick. Taiking and giggling constantlY then
suddenly sound asleeP. Mìke and
Tom laughed wl.ren they realized
who liad drunk tnost of the beer.
lVe were all relaxed. The
n-ragic had worked again. We
fèhclean and rested. ComPosed
and comfortable. We tèlt good
about ourselves and each other.
We had lìuugered for this
lranqriil serenity and had not
been disappointed. The slow
languid inertia would in actuality
feed our spirits with sparkle and
liveiy vitality Ibr the next days'
activities.
Soon our place was quiet.
Bits of conversaf iori had bour.rced
around {br awhile. A sleepy
question a soft reply. Goodniglits echoed for awhilc and
then all was still. Ed was asleep
beside me. I scrambled up on my
knees and shoved back the curtains. Moonlight timidly entered
the room and then I slept"
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XI
Andrelr¡ Dorner
that glimmet¡ng, shimmering rainbow
of colors glowing before my eyes.
reachíng far into my soul,
and searing a mark within
the innermost crevices of my being.
multicolored particles of many lives
float up into the sky,
into the blackness of infinity,
like sparks or flames that gl¡sten
with a magicat hue which
cannot be dimmed in their
glorious ascent to the stars.
the stars, pinpoints of splendor
in the ma¡estic blackness above.
tiny miracles to guide man
to his final destination
w¡th the wonders of the universe.
floating free among the stars
to follow whatever life may bring
within our grasp today.
ever reaching farther out
and turning darkness into tight.
and still our lives shine and fade away,
whíle small bírds sing in evergreen trees,
and an old fox brings forth more young.
as flowers bloom and wilt,
and from the seeds new flowers grow.
it too much to ask
that there be more than death,
that there is no end to
what has been begun in us?
is
the universe is vast and spac¡ous,
and we are always moving out.
death ís but another step to be taken.
yet, it's so hard to understand.
A COLD FRONT
John DiAsto
A cold front moved through my left ventricte today.
Æ
W
H
TOOTSIE
I WANT TO PAINT MYSELF
Keith Peterson
I want to pa¡nt myself
wíth pleasant tars;
Above the dull, rehearsed slumber
I want to sleep, billowing ¡n the soft
deep eye
of Saturn
And hear the tsetse hum 'round the r¡ngs at night
There is a stone in my throat
It belonç to lshmael; his
twentieth piece of silver,
his
father's diamond wrapped in
a ram's skin dyed red,
his
smallest ruby pulled from the
skin of a goat's kid
I want to anoint myself with strong odours;
Burn myself by the l¡ght of the cressets of Troy
I vmnt to stumble, fall into comas on the black
burnt beaches of Alexandria
And hear the dogs barking as the waves lick at their paws
PaLrl
Rich Arnemann
McCov
MOODY CHILD
Chuck Dickey
Moody Child.
Beautiful face of scorn,
Turns his head slowty
From the light of Dawn,
Lingers in shadows, his head held high,
Watches the absurd crazity dance by,
Everyone living, grasping at straws
Lovers cling as vines on a nnll.
Nobody calls him, he knows alt,.
Stands solemn, alone in the hail.
Don't listen to the moody child's eyes
They telt the truth without disguise.
They tell of life's sorrow without blame
The moody chitd turns away again.
Reach out to him, you've a life long friend,
But then,
You'll never smile again.
[ ¡,rbeth [ìr'¡f¡r
TOMMY
Margi Madding
He jumps out of the car and
trots ovet to the empty basket-
ball court. The court is surrounded by hills of green grass, and tottte sun is brightly shining.
4y
The temperature is very warm,
and a twelve year-old boy is
ready for some action.
His shoes are o1d white
Adidas. _The red stripes are peeling off the sides and the heels are
held together by a few worn
threads. His pale legs are thin,
yet every muscle is evident. The
short cut-off blue-jeans hug his
muscular thighs and rear. An
old ragged short-sleeved jersey
covers his 3houlders, chest and
back. On the back of the red
and white, extralarge shirt is
the name "MADDING" printed
in huge white gothic letters
above the numeral 11, and
Barrington is printed above the
numeral on the front. His arms
are thin, though strong enough
to shoot the red, white and blue
basketball through the hoop
lrom anywhere on the half-court.
His_light brown hair blows gently
in the wind, short enough sõ it
won't bother his playing, yet
still too long for dad-'s taste.
His large brown eyes are blind to
everything around him except
the empty outdoor playing ðourt.
He hears only the sound of the
basketball hitting the black-top,
the swish as it glides through the
hoop, or the sickening souñd as
it smacks the backboard and
drops death-like to the ground
away from the goal.
He works alone, yet weaves
in and out through imaginary
opponents to "lay-up" the ball
and score two points. He
quickly soars toward the basket,
dribbles the ball, right hand,left
hand, between his legs, around
his back, dodging player upon
player to reach his goal. Hì
stops, looks around, then leaps
for the hoop.
His lunge is like a slow
motion picture. His muscles
tense as they launch this long
skinny body toward the sky. His
arms reach for the hoop as tree
limbs reach for the sun. The ball
swishes through the iron rim
Debbie Ouick
barely rippling the net. 'lhen
the young player returns to earth
with an angel-soft landing.
His smile, glance in my
direction and sharp scream, meet
my smile and nod ol approval to
fìll the surrounding atrì-osphere
with our satisfaction. However,
he doesn't stop his work-out
here. He picks up the ball and
bounces it hard against the pavement with both hands and trots
back to the half-court line.
Time and time again he
attempts this stunt, time and
time again he makes it. He goes
right, then left, he shoots and rebounds with a steady flow ofper-
fection. Thc sweat
beads on his
face and the drenched jersey
sticks to his body. His wet hair
is plastered agair.rst his forehead
and drops of sweat fall into his
eyes.
Only dusk forces this basketball player to end his afternoon
sooner than he wants. The sun
steals his last minutes of practice
as it descends below the horizon.
He gazes at the sun with extreme
disappointment, slaps the ball
with an open palm, and spits on
the black-top.
The young athlete shoots for
the last time today ----Swish.
He ret¡ieves the basketball and
walks toward me. His eyes are
red, his breathing quick and
heavy, his walking slow. He resembles a wind-up doll that has
fìnally run down.
He gets into the car but
be-
fore he shuts the door, glances
back at his battlefìeld. With a
smile of satisfaction and a final
wipe of sweat from his face, the
"victor" plops into the car.
Tl"-iF PËDFSîRiAI\
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rii i .l¡l¡;r¡bslrn
Tar hot
ctty
lilílt' ttúy,.
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Streel..S
¡ui ¡ h ha s t l¡..t
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teesinq
for harefoot chiidren
l¡tt!e g¡:
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m irl ity fr izz
ied
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and scraaed knees
ííghis
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tjt.!t the pedesiriar¡ tJi{.!tt'! nÕt¡t:i}
'íhe Ðlay fu ! lauqlìtcr,
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Wii:h eyes lf ;r¡ äuse :rl::
Seart:hing
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And tlte pt:int
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The p¡¡7t is
Empty.
And ali agree
That
it
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Pun ishment.
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and un¡forms decorated
in brass and gold,
and sloppy raincoats,
and seeing-eye dogs.
Sickly sweet perfumes
and afterlunch belches,
rotting garbage hidden in alleys,
and passing drifts of sweat
and stale liquor,
f¡lled the nostrils
of the pedestr¡an
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fotrci ng suppressed tears
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but no one noticed.
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"THf WEDDING"
Bécky Blancha¡d
Dark smoke,; síckly, this evÍl creeping frí*nd
Drew *hackling..waxen {ingers rouad my head,:
Whrích,pressed rny sore, burdened mînd la bend.
.Even my roem atook thii: for my bed,
Tgo..heard the. nois¡rs of voices mocking.
,Attd:mlt:fí¡ed eyes cauld anly rcll.'at
Seeing Him hauJ'tthing; dusty, aornerwisê roçkìrig
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As &t He crook'd of fínger. My
Add}n:thi, padded ceil of twí*ed s9utce". '
tfry tornqntgd'tnri4d yearned,a løzor wtìst deall,
).T9,'doypealtqryy:,,HiççadísticLo¡çd;
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