1 20 1 https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/1913fe8afe3a8cc3f611f4cf8238918c.pdf 54ccce5d23ba1eb1f1e9c4be47c8a315 PDF Text Text �STAFF THE COLD EDITOR Koren Vawdrey ASSOCIATE EDITOR Koren Hunt ADVISO·R Betty J. Allon CONTENTS SHORT STORY !j By Geniel McConkie FIRST PLACE PROSE ART EDITOR PAGE WAITING, Clark Church _____ ---------- -------ONE ROAD, DeAnno Howkins __ ----------GIRL SHY, Gory Snow _____ -·-------·--- STRENGTH, Margery Jennings ------ ---------------------IT HAPPENED THIS WAY, Theresa Houston ---------YOU NEVER KNOW, George McConk,e ---- ---------- -SNOWFLAKE, Ro•,emory Thomas -- - - --- - -- --- - -- - - - - - REPRISAL, JoAnn Lee ______ ----- -- --------------------HAROLD!, Joy Lamoreaux __ __ ------------------------OLD IRONSIDES, Lynne Hamson ------------------ SEAGULL, Alice Bundy _ _ _ _ - - _____ - --- ------ -- -- • - - BETRAYED, Irene Ott ·------__ ----PANIC AT PINE CREEK, Kent Hardy ----------------------- 3 5 6 l0 10 ADVERTISEMENT 14 17 BUSINESS 18 21 22 23 24 23 POETRY A SMEAR OF PAINT, Lynn 0. Freemon A PARTY'S IMPRESSION, Loretto Fre, __ ----- LADY LOVE, Solly Smith ----------------------- _ CARNIVAL, Susan Christensen _____ _________ --------TWILIGHT, Mory Coombs _ _ _____ ___ _____ _ ------AN EMPTY CANVAS, Lynn O Freemon ______________ ------- 7 8 19 20 20 25 PROSE THE COLD, Genie I McConk,e _. _ - - • RANDOM HARVEST, George McConkie __ _ STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE, Marilee Beard SIX OR SIXTEEN, D'on Andrus _ ----- - 4 9 16 COVER Lynn O Freemon 11 12 12 l2 13 13 rell Reynolds Marilyn Noel Rochelle Rollins D01 PHOTOGRAPHER Col Porter TYPISTS Marilyn Haycock Marilyn Noel JoAnn Lee Ruth Ann Hiott Annie Lauro Heaton JUDGES Marion J. Bentley Juanita Brooks Linna S. Paxman Betty J. Allan A. Karl Lorson Viola Cornwall Community Press Orem, Utah 13 13 DESCRIPTIONS INSTINCT, Robert Murry--- -·--------- - ------- --- --- A FACE, Noom, Meservy ______ ------- - ----------------THE CHASM, Loretto Fre, ------- - ------------------- - ---- DeAnno Howkins, Mgr. Joy Lamoreaux PUBLISHERS ART REFLECTION, Gordon Freemon ----- LIFE, Lynn 0. Freemon _ ------ ----------- OLD RUIN, Gordon Freemon---------- ---- ------- ------- EDUCATION, DeAnno Howkins - - - - - CONCATENATION, DeAnno Howkins - ----- --- ----- BROWN STUDY, Marilee Beard ---- ---- ------- • ------AMEBIC LINES, Lynn 0. Freemon ---------------- -- -----SOLITIIDE, Marilee Beard -------------------------------- Lynn 0 . Freemon 16 19 21 THE SOUTHERN QUILL, literary publication of Dixie College, St. George, Utah, 1957. From the rock bound coughs of Moine to the sunkissed sniffles of St. George, everyone, generally speaking, is nursing o cold. Seasonal colds, ond other respiratory ailments cause more misery, loss of money, ond general job inactivity thon oil other diseases combined. Common colds - there is no such thing. Today o virus infection is the layman's pet term for any number of respiratory symptoms, such os chills, fever, stuffy or running noses, sneezes, ond coughs. On the overage, two out of three people hove three ottocks o yeor, costing t";enty-f1ve dollars apiece. Women catch more colds than men. Mon's explonotion-women talk too much and therefore hove their mouths open too often, allowing too many small infectious organisms to enter the body. (Shallow reasoning~) Children under ten hove about twice os many colds os the age group over twenty. The oge group over twenty often refer to those under ten as "germs." Perhaps they ore associating with their peers. Do you hove o heodoche? Does your throat hove that dry, raspy feeling? Do you hove the "International Sniffles"? Chances ore you hove o cold. Most common among cold symptoms ore sore throat, runny nose, fever, red running eyes, swollen glands, sneezes, sniffles, ond general wretchedness. As for os medical knowledge is concerned there is still noth,ng ,n sight of any earthly rise to word off the "common" cold. Some people actually enjoy having a cold, however, because they ore thrilled with the challenge of being o self-doctor. Usually you get more sympathy from others when you hove o cold thon when you ore without one. Most convenient, os for as time ,s concerned, is to catch cold in midwinter when holidays ore few ond for between. Cold showers ore o common form of traditional remedies. Toughening up with on icy shower each morning will not provide immunity ogoinst the cold virus. Are you enjoying your cold to the fullest possible degree? A cold offers all the ottroctions of on illness ond almost no d1sodvontoges. Besides getting o week's leave from school, your phormoceuticol know ledge grows. Many people glory in the foci thot they never hove to go to o doctor. Why should they? Their medicine cob,net is filled to capacity with all the potent medicines on the market since 1888. To the schoolboy, o cold means o vocation, o general run-down of the World Series, o tune-in of Roy Rogers, ond oil the favorite soap operas. There ore three types of cold sufferers: l . The fresh air fanatic, 2. the scientific sufferer, ond 3 . the coddler The fresh oir fonot1c is usually the big, boisterous solesmon type who hos "never been too doctor." Seems os if he is claiming freedom from o n origina l sin. Mr. Fresh Air regards oil illnesses os psychological, but yet he will go to great extremes to get his fresh air. At any time of the day you'll fond h,m doing breathing exercises ond beating his chest. Cold baths come once every two hours, ond as little c lothing os possible is tolerated. Pe rhaps one good thing about the fresh oir fonotic is thot he is so engrossed in himself thot he seldom posses his d,seose to anyone else. The second type of cold fonotic is the Scientific Sufferer. Ordinarily this person is the qu iet, silent type who gargles every twenty minutes, wears red flannel next to the skin, t okes mustard baths, ond carries o brief cose full of pills wherever he goes. Such on orroy of potent medicines con be found in no other home, brief cose, o r drug store. A coddler is usually o woman who hos been taught from babyhood to toke good core of o cold. She hos o greot horror of ony small moving particle. On detection of ony cold symptom she immediately goes to bed ond stays fou r days, in the meantime trying a ll the home remedies suggested to her by anyone. As o result she tokes "good core" of the cold. It usu oily stoys two weeks longer than under norma l conditions. Unfortu na tely for the research chemist, the chimpanzee ond mon ore the only known beings to contact o cold. Since it costs obout $600 for one chimpanzee, it 1s cheaper to use mon for research purposes. One prominent doctor stoled thot the best cu re for o cold is o bottle of whiskey, o hot and o bed On the first sign of o cold go to bed, toking the other above articles along. Ploce the hot on the left-hand bed post. Toke 0 d rink ond move the hot to right-hand post. Conti nue this process until two hots oppeo r. By this time the cold is probably cured. A period, usually of three doys, is required to recover from the ofter-effects. Actually, there is not on official cure for o cold. Complete rest is probably the best possible cure . One consoling foct is that eve ry other human ond chimpanzee in t he world hos the some chance you do. ��RANDOM HARVEST As I hove soid before, o good shore of the book is told to us fro,:,., the "I" point of view, ond I (the author) immediotely becomes interested in Mr. Roniers' inner conflict ... thot of trying to remember whot hod happened during the several years which he could not remember. In on effort to leorn more about whot happened, the author gets him to tell os much of his life story os he could remember. When this happens the author switches points of view. Now he is not just on onlooker, but during these floshbocks, he con not only heor whot the chorocters ore saying, but he con olso reod whot they ore thinking. In on evaluation of Mr. Hilton's choice of points of During th,s time, Mr Hilton hos been developing characters and setting the stage, giving us just enough information (and sometime not quite enough) to keep our interest alive. Nothing seems to fit definitely, yet almost everything ,s related. Then the real action begins. We get action from every side Yet still nothing f,ts And olwoys in the bock of our minds is the question, al though not voiced by any of the characters, "What will he do if he finds the woman he morned during h,s 'forgotten period?" It seems that the story must end in tragedy. It olmost seems that the author is preparing us for it in his converot,ons with Mrs. Ronier Charles Ranier hos finolly remembered h,s post, and hos d,soppeored The reader continues, entranced, wondering and guessing whot w,11 happen next. The suspense is ot ,ts peok. And in this condition the author leaves the reader for almost, but not quite, too long. As the reader begins the lost page of the story, the facts we hove acquired throughout the post three-hundred-and-some-odd pages ore still ot random, uncollected, unorganized, ond we feel almost desperate. Then with the reading of the lost line, the key section of the Chinese puzzle ,s discovered, and the ports foll into place, easily and smoothly. The story is completed os only o master could complete ,t view, I would soy thot the former ,s the most effective for its use; it puts the reader directly into the action of the story. The lotter point of v iew is the only possibility for these port ions. By George McConkie SECOND PLACE CO-WINNER PROSE In his book Random Harvest, Jomes Hilton tells the story of on English gentleman, Chorlies Ranier, who lived in England just ofter the turn of the century. Mr. Hilton tokes the port of on above overage, educated Englishman, who first becomes acquainted with Charles Ranier on a train. The story thot follows is told from the point of view of the outhor's experiences with M r. Ranier and from experiences related to the author by him. Charles Ronier is introduced to us ond we become ocquointed with him olmost entirely through the author's conversation with him. Right from the first he seems to be o completely normal gentleman-businessman, except for the fac t that a certain port of his life hos been completely lost to him . . . he connot remember that period. Our sympothy is immediately aroused for Mr. Ranier when we learn that hi s loss of memory was brought about by o most shocking bit of foul ploy, or ot least that's the way it seems to us. The reason for this _is given by the author, but, as I believe Mr. Hilton plonned, it makes us feel oll the more sorry for Charles Ranier. And thus the s tory beg ins to gain dimens io n. During the most port of the book, the reader gains the fundamental background he'll need for th e development of the moin plot. He is introduced to the Ronier family, and to Charles' wife and friends, mostly through conversation either of or obout the chorocter in question. Since there is such o large number of members of the family ond servants to who m he is introduced almost ot once, o person moy tend to confuse these chorocters. And in the introduction of Sheldon, the moin servant, Mr. Hilton seems to get the ideo thot we olreody know him, and proceeds to corry out conversotion with him, leaving the reader wondering just where this Sheldon fellow come from ond where he fits in. In introducing the chorocters through conversation, ond their reactions to situotions, the outhor often gives such o s tring of tolk between chorocters without identifying either of them, thot the reoder must go bock ond ogoin troce the lines through to find out just who is soying whot. This seems to be o major fau lt throughout the book. Thus the p lot of the story is divided into definite segments . . . the hoppen,ngs now, ot the time of the story . . . ond the flashbacks, the happenings in the post. This, so for as I con see, is the best possible orrongement. It holds bock segments of the plot until the reader is prepared to receive them, ond ,t keeps the reader from knowing enough to guess the ending of the story. This chronological skipping does hove one definite drow-bock, however. It wos often hord to remember whether this port of the story is happening now, or is o flashback. And when the reader hos just gone through o flosh bock, the author often forgets to orient him to whot hos 1ust hoppened-whot events hod token place jus t before the skip he hod token into the post ONE ELECK TOELANE It must be noted that Mr. Hilton did not even once give a complete, or hardly even o partial physical description. Age, build, and sometimes some d1stinct1ve feature ore al l the "looks" he gave his chorocters. The rest he left to the reader to develop os he wished. Chorocters, however, he seemed to introduce personally. The reader knows each one, his faults and strong points, and could almost predict what he would do in any s,tuot,on. Nearly oll this is developed through conversation ond reaction to situations. Setting comes ,nto most of the story. It tokes place on the e xtensive Ranier estate, or in on overage city. Mr. Hilton soys little about this. Descriptions ore short. But s till he makes us feel the set ting. INTER- NATIONAL ART AWARD. A beaming overJOyed gentleman fo lded his news- paper so os to d,sploy the bold headlines, leaned bock in the seat, and looked out the window over the expanse below. "I knew I'd do it! All my life I knew I'd do it! At lost, the great Eleck Toelone--winner of the lnter- Not,onol Art Award! Oh Pons, roll out your velvet carpet, sound those trumpets, sing the sweet song of p raise to the great, accomplished Eleck Toelone. " You oll, all of you, you wonted the prize-Trone, Hydrone, Bowle- Within the sections, Mr. Hilton succeeded admirably well in keeping us posted on chronological tim ing, by re• loting personal events to world and political events. And when he wished to poss time quickly, he would state the world happenings thot took place during the time lapse, thus letting us realize that these years rea lly hove gone by. WINS ROAD ho! But it's mine, at lost, o title to weor for a lifetime. Envy me not, fellow artists, for rightfully I deserved this honor. The poth to glory ,s borren of earthly pleasures. The byroads, trod by foolish, blinded men, sensitive to human desires, distracted not from my gool. Ho! lgnoront youth, how temp ted I wos once to divert. My little Ton, Modom Toelone, sweet ond innocent of any world ly struggle, she was. Sunshine doys, goy, romontic nights, and little Ton, my little, little Ton ..... " His mind wontered bock ,nto time, as though he were there; he feels the presence of the ex-Mrs. Toelone. "Eleck, my silly pointer, must you be on artist while the hands, mony times, go 'round the coo-coo clock? They coll out coo-coo to you, Mr Artist." " Ho! You ' re right, Ton, but only because I do not point as you soy, because I love you, Ton- that is why ,t calls coo-coo to me. Where'II we go today?" "Let 's Just stoy home ond 1mog1ne we're in a for owoy land where po pos toke their little sons to buy popcorn ond hotdogs." "The door, who's there?" " Arden!" Of course there ore o few places where setting is of major importance, such as at Beochings Over, ond ,n the dream wo rld o f Switzerland. Still, even in these locales, little space is given to actual description. "Eleck, down to the center-they're talking about your work. 'He hos it,' they keep saying. 'He hos it in h,m.' You may win the Inter-Notional Art Award, Eleck'" It is interesting to note through all this developmental "Please, p lease won't you put thot brush down, Eleck? Thot's oil you've been doing for days. Okoy, forget about me, but you musl eat, sleep; you can't just po int. I'll go mod' Eleck'" work how Mr. Hilton runs his " random" theme. This man's life is not plonned-noth,ng seems to happen in sequence. Everything just happens as it will. The doys of the week possed quickly by By DeAnno Howkins "Stop it! Stop it, I tell you, Ton! I've got to work, you don't seem to rea lize that I'm on artist-maybe o very good one. Do you know I wont to be the winner of the Award more than anything else in the world? This is my life; this ,s my love; this is what I've a lways really wonted! I'd rather die thon not point! You've been killing me-killing the man I hove 1t to be!" Knock! Knock' " Come in! Come in!" he yelled in his rage. "Your . . your pointings . .. they were very good," the friend wos saying with down-cost heod. The judges hod o hard time . . . Ferne, Ferne won the oword." "By the gods of heaven! I was right in leaving her," he muttured coming out of thot world of some yeors post. " It wos the only woy. I knew the artist I wos; she would hove held me from this, mode me o disgusted failure. I'd probably gone to work as a layman to support her and thot family she wonted, and we'd oil hove ended up in a gutter." He is free of this thought as his goze again rests upon the bold type on the front page. "I think I'll frome this newspaper in o gold, diamond-studded frome. ELECK TOELANE WINS INTER-NATIONAL ART AWARD. Then, under I'll write these words-' Roods lead everywhere, but stonding at the crossroads, you con choose but one rood.' " Hardly hod the plane landed thon Eleck was running down the corridors of the greot art museum. The beat of his heart quickened os opprooching the open door, he heard mony within occlo,ming his nome. Then, thinking to be poised, he paused ond walked mo1est1colly into the room. The flashing of flash bulbs blinded him. "Speak, Speak, Eleck!" Opening his eyes, Eleck started to speak. Another voice broke the silence of the suddenly quiet room, "Gentlemen, fellow ort ,sts." Their attention was upon o young lad in his teens. "Oh, my god!" were the words formed in ghostly murmur as Eleck, within that some instant, recognized the fom ilior form seated near the lad. "I thank you for so great on honor, ond to my mother -my deepest thanks for the love of beauty she instilled within me, for the socnf,ces she hos mode so thot this omong mony blessing may foll my happy lot. Gentlemen, my mother, Ton." 5 4 �Suddenly she turned and started to wa lk post him. GIRL SHY " Lucille!" he said, touching her arm. She stopped and turned around and stood there looking at h im. His mouth felt dry. "I wondered if you'd like to go to the dance Friday," he blurted. By Gary Snow "Oh, I - - I'm not sure, Lo rry," s he said, "I'll hove to talk to my po rents." FIRST PLACE SHORT STORY WINNER Lorry was pouring water into t he pan for the chickens when the rays of the rising sun suddenly shone through the crocks in the coop ond fell across the muck and feathe rs on the ground. Whistling cheerfully Lorry strode bock a long the path to the house, carrying the half dozen eggs in his large b rown hands. The c loudy sky was brushed with orange flame. The crisp morn ing breeze felt good on his cheek. Today he fe lt unusually light hearted, but a little worried. He entered the house, letting the screen door bong loudly and put the eggs in the o ld kelv inotor. Lorry's father was sitting at the breakfast table drinking a final cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette over the morn ing paper. Hi s mother set his plate on the table, sl id the block frying pan into the sink, and wiping her greasy hands on her brown apron, sot opposi te his father. Lorry sot down to the too-done fried egg, burned toast, and cup of coffee. He sot on the edge of his choir and glanced uneasily at his s tern, mustached father. He sipped the hot coffee and twisted uncomfortably. " Looks like it might rain," said his mother, glancing out the streaked window. " When can you let me know?" r Lucille started walking backwards away from him. "I'll tell you tonight at the Sophomore Carnival," she coiled. "We'd better get to class." " Okay," Lorry said. "See yuh." He walked to the fountain and took another drin k. For once he didn't core whether he was late for c lass or not. Lorry really hadn't pla nned on attending the carnival at oil. He'd hod a lot of lessons to toke core of and his father hod wonted h im to sharpen the hoy mower that evening, but he cou ldn't wait until the next morning to ta lk to Lucille. He hod to find out. He could hear the shouts and the buzz of voices when he was st ill severa l blocks away from the school buildings. Two rows of booths lined the sidewalk in front of the shop building. Brig h tly colored lights were strung from one booth to another ond each booth was decorated lavish ly with crepe paper and large signs and balloons and streamers. T hrongs of spirited students crowded the midway and flowed around the booths. The faint odor of hamburgers wafted from one of the stands and Lorry about yielded to the temp- totion of buying one. Then he remembered his dote Friday. He would hove to buy gos for the car and everything. Mingling with the crowd, Lo rry drifted aimless ly until he finally sow Lucil le in the dart booth with Judy. He started to shoulder his way through the throng of rowdy boys and girls. Realizing that talk at present was use less, he gave up and left the crowded midway. He sot down beh ind the row of booths to wait impatiently for things to calm down. After several minutes Lorry left his seat and approached the dart booth from the rea r. The booths cost long dork shadows, shutting out the light and gaiety beyond. The happy hum of conversation seemed to come from another world. Th is was oil his own. The bock of the booth was covered with o tarpaulin. Lorry dropped to h is knees to peer th rough a hole in the canvas. There was no one out front at that moment e xcept Judy and Lucille. Larry was about to dash around in front to tal k to Lucille when he heard h is name. He froze. "Are you goi ng to the dance with Lorry?" J udy was saying. "I can't," blurted Luci lle. "He's so repu lsive. T his morning in the hall he touched my arm-and I - • couldn't help but shudder. Whot 'II I do if he mentions it again, Judy) " "I don't know, Lucille. I know what you mean about Larry rose numbly to his feet, stunned, crushed by the impact of what he had heard. For a long time he stood there in the dark. Slowly he walked away, feeling limp and dead and empty. His father turned a page, "Well, what you got on your mind now, Lorry?" he sa id. "I wondered if I could toke the car Friday, Po. I got a heavy dote. I "A dote!" his father grow led. "Who've you got a dote with?" A SMEAR OF PAINT by Lynn 0 . Freeman "Well, I haven't really got it yet," Lorry answered faintly, "but 1'm asking Lucille MacIntyre." His father grunted and tossed the paper on the floor. He picked up his cup and gulped the lost drop of block coffee. "Go ahead and toke the ca r," he said finally, " if you get a dote." Lorry arrived at school fifteen minutes early that morning and stood out in the hall waiting for Lucille. He leaned against the radiator and, looking blankly at the open pages of his history book, tried to construct the words with which to ask her the important question. Just as the first bell rang he sow her come in the front door with her friend Judy. It was now or never. Watching them out of the corner of h is eye, he stooped over the fountain and took a sip of water. Slowly he moved toward the girls, who were now talking to another boy. He stopped a few feet away and waited for on advantageous time to approach Luci lie. 6 It hangs on the wall, in this place where voices echo, and you con hardly see the vau lted roof. This catacomb. There are other a rtistic things around it It cou ld be alone, For peop le come to see them all, but whe n they come to it They stop and let the rest go unseen. " Who om I?" "I'm that grimy grey s tatue of "Thor" over by the rest-room door." "The painting?" " It must be great. " Peop le come just to stand, sigh, mumb le, and look at it. There's o s lovenly pock of peop le storing a t it now. That poor woman in tattered rags gazing at it, Her child standing by, WAILING. Tugging on her shard of a dress. Unheard. Cumbersome, crooked, Blind beggar, Sitting on the marble floor weeping with s ightless eyes for someone to describe it for him. A young man passing me. Talking to someone . . . and no one "I know she will marry me now," he said. "You ask me what it looks like)" "It's brill iant, sod, lusterous, yet du ll, like the perfection of a black pear l." I hove seen legions of artists? come with their c loth stretched tight on a frame, making quaint daubs with ha irtipped sticks. "Yes, it is a great smear of point." 7 �A PARTY'S IMPRESSION A STREET CAR By Loretta Frie NAMED DESIRE r By Marilee Beard SECOND PLACE CO-WINNER PROSE The rich people there, All so fat and ugly. And they were tired Sick of each other. All the town dignitaries, Oh, so good Doing their shore of ,evil, Evil that's never heard. It was I ike a dr.eom, All those people. And they wefle drinking, All drinking . It was like a bod dream. And they were happy, All those people dancing, Luridly dancing. A young man divorced, Drunk at the bar. And they were such a perfect pair, Such a lovely girl and boy. An exotic model swayed, Looking sexy, And she was making lov,e, Making love to him. All these people sickening, All a ,drunken mess. Loving n ot their own mates, But loving at their best. Her husband was enthralled, Wrapped up m a blonde. And the sensuous music blared, Blared-no one cared. They will all resume their role, Tomorrow, all those people. Senator, wife, banker, teacher, Even ou r own church p~eoche~ A voluptuous girl in red, Her husband gone away, And she trying to forget, Trying in every way. 8 The dirty jokes told there, And all the people laughing, Lcugrmg at the dirty filth, Their lives, all laughing. Tomorrow they will be respected, People in the day. But the night wrought many weird changes, The change from night to day. This is o sensitive and powerful ploy about two girls from o smoll Southern town-Blanche, on old moid school teacher, and Stello, who hos turned from her refined background to find happiness with o sensuous husband, Stanley. The theme is "You can't run owoy from yourself." Blanche refuses to face reality. She is neurotic and unhappy, but she continues to desperately seek happiness, pretending to be refined ond sophisticated. The exposition is subtle and cleverly done. The opening scene is in o slightly faded but ornamental and worm district in New Orleans. The turquoise sky and floating strains o f "Blue Piono," ployed by Negro fingers, suggest o "lyrocsm" and "eosy 1nterm1ngl1ng of roces." Stanley is introduced bellowing to Stello, which suggests o rough humor ond o crude warmth. Stello replies, "Don't holler at me like that," which suggests that she comes from o different background than he does. Blanche oppeors dressed os if to go to a cocktail porty-wh,te gloves and ruffled blouse, but she has o slightly worn and uncertain look that "suggests o moth." Her first line is "They told me to toke o Street Car named Desire." This ,ndicotes that the streetcar has o special significance. Loter she stoles obout the streetcar, "It brought me here- where I'm not wan ted and where I'm ashamed to be." This seems to have o double meaning. It suggests that she ,s a misfit and also that Desire hos brought her in life where she cannot survive. Eunice's questions reveal facts about Blanche. Blanche immediately adopts o superior atti tude toward Stello ond her situation This is the beginning o f the conflict, which is established by Stella's resentment. Also, here, the audience realizes that Blanche has always dominoled Stella. The "bottle" os o ne of the firs! ob,ects that ,s spot1,gh tcd. Here o question comes to the audience's mind. Her order to "Turn that light off! I won'! be looked ot on that glare," brongs the audience to wonder what she 1s afraid of. These two points ore s tressed throughout the play. Blanche is obsessed with ovo1dong strong light II represents to her reol,ty, reality that shows the world what she really ,s. She puts o Chinese poper lantern over the bedroom ligh t. She speaks of her first lave os being like o " Blinding light turned on that which hod been on half shadow before" With Mitch she has sof1 candlelight The bockground ,s very important because it creates the rising and falling tension within the mind of Blanche. The honky-tank piano continues throughout, ploying blues when she is despondent, ond pounding and blorong trumpets and drums when she 1s desperately f1ghten1ng the stark reoloty. When Stanley attacks, the grotesque wavering shadow plus the crazed music heightens the tension. Whenever she thinks of her first love, the "Vorsouv1ono Woltz" ploys faintly. (The scenery must hove been fosconot1ng!) The boys wore "primary colors," row and stork. The third scene, " Poker N,ght," looked like Von Gogh's picture of o b,11,ord parlor ot n,ght. (The one hong,ng above Mr. B's door.) It was o little d,ffocult to determine the signif,conce of the tamale vendor and the Mexican lady that was bl,nd, except that she represented fakery and b lindness to Blanche because she was selling cheap tin flowers. Blanche wo~ like being blind, because she fumbled toward any 1,ke flicker of hope and stumbled owoy, being led by the doctor to the asylum ot the end os ,f she were blind. Stanley was the antagonist, and Blanche was the protagonist; however, neither one completely fitted into these cotogoroes. They reversed pos1t1ons ot tomes. The chorocterizot,on of Mitch was also very good. He was slightly weak, but he was also clutching ot o thin thread of hope, and Blanche represented hos hope. Hos illusions of o sweet, innocent woman was crushed when he found out about Blanche's post He sow her ,n the light, thrusting away the mog,c and leaving only realism. The climax is the attack by Stanley. Th,s ,s the act of overpowering s trength over her that snaps the fine lone between her and lunacy. A smaller climax before the denouement was the scene showing Blanche f,nolly relenting to the doctor and matron, hoping to find protection in them. All she leaves on the world •s "spilt talcum ond empty perfume bottles." This play is like o dissonant piece of progressive jazz -strangely poignant ond expressive. 9 �STRENGTH I swept the d ish-cloth gent ly o round in t he receding tide of hot woter in the si n k, rinsed ond inverted the dishpon. Then I wrung the cloth out and set it on the window sill to dry while I begon to wipe the dishes. The minutes were passing fast . T roubled, I wondered how to tell Jone. I reco il ed when my own Douglos, Jone's father, hod been missing in World War I. Jone and Jim weren't morried yet but planned to be when Jim finished his army duty and Jone graduoted from college. Yes, I knew they were in love and how much this furlough meant to both of them. Jane hod hardly been ab le to eat or sleep for the lost month, and now, with only three days left to wait, this hod happened. Jim's father hod been here earlier, hoping to tell Jone of Jim's illness himself, but she was at Glee Club practice. Jim's family loved our daughter just as we d id their son. We al I felt the ir choice of each other was just right. My thoughts were interrupted as I heard Jone's gay voice col l, "Oh, Mother, isn't this just the grandest day? Even though there ore clouds outside, there's sunshine in my heart. Just think, only three days to wait and Jim wil l be here. This will be my last letter. I wish he were here right now." I couldn't tell her, but I knew I must. She had to know, yet I dreaded the b low to her gay spi rit. Jone was o brave girl, but she loved Jim dearly, and to know of his poin would hurt he r. Jone looked radiant with happ iness as she read her letter; her brown eyes, dork-lashed and st rangely sweet were appealing. Excitement brought o pink tinge to blaze By Marge ry Je nnings in her high cheeks. Near the end of her letter, her expression began to lose its radiance; her innocent face looked troubled. Her voice trembling, she soid, " Mother, Jim hasn't been feeling well. You don't think anything could keep him from coming, do you' He said he'd come and for me not to worry, but maybe we won't be able to dance much. His legs tire easily." I knew I must tell her. "Jonie, Jim's father hos been here. He wonted to tell you. J im asked h im to, but you'd gone. Jim isn't com ing home, dear. His doctor called from the hospital at Fort Lewis. He hos polio." The shock was great; she cou ld not speak; her foce was pained, oddly dulled and wh ite; the radiance of her eyes was gone. Frightened and confused she collapsed upon the bed. I gave her J im's picture; he was strong, handsome and had understanding gray eyes. He was smiling, as he o ften did, when he used to col l her "Cookie," o name that carried o mood of affection and approval. Tears come; I knew she must release her emotions. I let her cry; then I placed my hand in hers and said, "Jonie, if Jim ever needed you, it's now. Be st rong, encourage him. He needs your strength to get well. The doctors can't do it alone. Remember how he loves you. Please understand." Her tears began to f low less profusely. Without a word she rose and wo lked slowly to the window. A rift in the clouds threw a burst of sunlight upon my daughter ond I heard her soft ly whisper os she reached for her pink stationery, "Oh Lord, make me strong, he needs my s trength." \.\ ,,, /f" ) , \ \_\ I \ ~' . ~ t,\\ IT HAPPENED THIS WAY By The resa Houston They hod quarre lled before, but somehow this was different. He hod never talked like this-such strange questions which seemed to come from nowhere, and for which she could find no onswer. What was the mean ing of it all? Was something terribly wrong' Hod she said or done anyth ing to hurt his feeling? They drove slowly down the old dirt rood, post the old mill where they hod spent so many happy hours together fishing, swimming in the cool water, or going for o long boot ride in the quiet evening. Their courtship hod extended into o period of three years, all three of them ful l of fun and happy memories of the parties they hod attended, the noisy bo ll games, the dances, especiolly the Junior Prom, and most of all, the memory of the night he hod asked her to go steady with him. They rode on, her thoughts wondering. She liked him so very much. Oh, yes, th e re hod been o ther boys in her fully pocked nineteen years of life, but none of them hod meant as much to her os he. Now such strange actions; was it oil to end, here, tonight? A cold chil l ran through her even though the fresh spring air was worm. She t u rned on anxious eye towards him, but he was quiet. He stored straight oheod into the darkness of the night. She wonted to slide closer to him, hold his hand in hers and whisper softly to him os she hod done so often before, b u t something he ld h er bock. The car come slowly to o stop. He switched off the engine and they sot in the dark, ne ither speak ing. The night was qu iet except for the humming of o cricket and the faint crook of o bull frog. Her heart stood sti ll. Was this to be the end? Had he grown tired of her friendship? Hod he found someone else? Were those three wonderful years to end as suddenly os they hod begun on that rainy night in June three years ago? She felt sick inside. Then suddenly she felt his cold hand as it enc losed hers and squeezed it warmly. He sta rted to speak, but found words impossible. What was it that was causing this awkward si lence between them? Then, just os she felt she could bear the s ilence no longer, she found herself in his arms, and he was slipping a lovely ring on her finger. " REFLECTIONS" by Gordon Freeman W a tercolor FIRST PLACE: ART J 11 �SECOND "LIFE" by Lynn 0 . Freeman Mixed Media PLACE "BROWN STUDY" by Marilee Beard Pencil 1 J " CONCATENATION" by De Anna Hawkins, Charcoal ART 1 AWARDS .I " OLD RUIN " by Gordon Free man O il " EDUCATION " by DeAnna Hawkins M ixed Media THIRD PLACE "AMEBIC LINES" by Lynn 0. Freeman C harcoal " SOLITUDE" by Marilee Beard Pencil 12 13 �YOU NEVER KNOW By Georg.e McConkie TH I RD PLACE SHORT STORY "Father," gasped the middle-aged Italian. The young priest caught him before he fell. "Save me, Father. Oh, Gad. Forgive me!" The man was gasping desperate ly far b reath. His eyes were wide and hysterical, and he clung to the priest as o drowning man c lings to a log. His whole body convu lsed in sobbing. The young priest was bewildered. "Brother, you know . . . '' "Say he forg ive me, Father. Oh God, God. I didn't mean to." Again he convulsed in spasmodic sobs and jerks. The priest half carried the man to on off ice in the foyer of the empty chapel, and placed him on the couch. He didn't like these ragged Ita lians who were always coming to him crying. He cou ld lave the Irish, the Germans, the Swedes . . all the white people, but he couldn't find it in his heart ta like these dirty, greasy peop le with the brown skin and thick block ha ir. He'd tried . .. he'd tried hard. Maybe after he'd been a priest as long as Father Nicholes he could learn to love these people, but The man looked up, his eyes wide with fright, tears streaming down his wrinkled face. His hands moved wildly cs he talked. "He forg ive me? Soy he forgive me. Oh, Gad, I didn't mean nothing." The young priest stood before h im, trying to look comfortingly at h im, but not wanting to touch him. " There, there, brother. Just sit a minute; you' ll be a ll right. Then you can tell me what happened. Here, I' ll get you same coffee." But as he started out, he remembered that there was none. His wife had gone to town to get same. But that was two hours ago. Oh, wel l, she probably found a sale somewhere. He didn't worry about Dawn. She was the best shoppe r in town. He got a glass of water from the fountain in the foyer. When he returned the man had stopped sobbing and was sitting . just sitting . . staring blankly out the window. He stood a moment look ing at the man, typically Italian, heavy shoulde red, wrinkled, though he probably wasn't very aid, thick black hair that was matted with sweat, and ragged clothes . . . dirty, ragged clothes. If only he'd been sent ta a district where people wore nice clothes. He loved nice clothes . .. shoes that were shined, suits that were well kept, and white shirts and collars. Himself a fastidious dresser, it was almost as if the leaders were plotting against him when they sent him here among the filth and the dirt. And among Italians! The priest touched the man timidly on the shoulder. The man jerked away spasmodical ly and looked up quickly. He reached out and grasped the priest's hand, held it ta his face and began sobbing again. He soon stopped crying and sat upon the couch. The priest took his place beh ind the desk. " Father," he said, his voice still shaking. "I have done an awful thing. Will the Lord forgive me? He must forgive me now. Soon they will catch me. I can't go to Hell." The priest was puzzled. He'd seen this man in the cong regation before, but didn't think h im to be a part icularly rel igious man. "What is your name, Brothe r, and where do you live?" "Venuto. I live in the Eugene apartments, fourth floor." The priest knew the Eugene "apartments." He'd been there once or twice. It was a huge five-story bui lding, built around nineteen hundred, and now old, delap idated, and falling down. "Now, Brother Venuto. What has s tirred you up like this?" "The Lard will forgive me, won't he'" "You know what the Lard says. He will forgive you if you repent. You must confess your s ins, then forsake them. Why, he even forgave the adultress, and told her to go her way and sin no more. Now, tell me what you have done." I have . . . I have ki ll a woman. A nice "Father lady. I must ta have money, Fathe r. Sa I wait far someone to come down street. When lady come, I pull my knife and say, 'Give me a ll you got.' But she wou ldn't, Father. I don' t mean to kil l her. She scream, and I get crazy scare. I was crazy, Father. I wouldn't hurt the lady. But when she sc ream, I got crazy, I was so scared. Oh, Father, I didn' t mean to. I just needed same money. But when she scream . . . "and once more he began sobbing hysterically. "I didn't mean ta. I wouldn't hurt her." The priest was petr ified. What should he do' He was sworn to secrecy. He could tell no one. If Father Nicholes were just here. He breathed a prayer for wisdom, for knowledge of what to do, ta the cruc ifix above the door. The man's tear-streaked face looked up once again. "Father, will he forgive me? Oh, God, he must forg ive me. Wil l you forgive me, Father?" " Who was this woman you ... ki lled?" "I don't know. I not look at her face. But she was nice lady. Say I won't go ta Hell, Father'" He sat, looking into the frightened eyes. What to do? What could he do? The men jumped from the couch, reached across the desk, and caught his coot in his dirty fists. "Gad, Gad. Forgive me. Soy he forgive me!" The p riest impulsively thrust the man from him and jerked bock. "Yes, yes, He forg ives you. Now go!" The wretched man stumbled out the door, mumbling. "He forgives me, he forgives me." Suddenly the priest came to his senses once more. What had he done' Would the Lord forgive a murderer? A Dago m u rderer who had ki lled an innocent woman' Why had this men come to him? Why d idn't he come when Father Nicholes was here? He'd said the Lord would forgive him! Forgive him of murder! He stood, walked into the empty chapel, and knelt before the crucifix, and prayed prayed wi th all his soul. Oh, Father. What is this I have done' Oh, Lard, hast thou seen? A woman. He murdered an innocent woman, and I said thou fargavest h im! He stayed on his knees far almost a half hour. When he arose, he felt ti red, too tired to think, too tired ta see. Just s it. Sit and stand. Stand and walk. He was in a dream. When he moved, he floated. As if he were dead, and were risen again. As if he were o cloud blown by the wind. But he couldn't think; could only live and float and be in a dream. It was dark when he stepped in the door of h is home, next to the chapel. It was da rk, and he was tired. He could think now, but it seemed so long ago, as if centuries had passed since the Ital ian had come running in the front door of the chapel. T he house was dark. Dawn must have gone to the neighbor's. He went to the cupboard, but there was no coffee there. Funny, Dawn must have forgotten to get ony. He wandered where she hod gone. He knew he couldn't te ll her what had happened, but just ta be near her would be comforting. He wondered what he would have done during this last year, had it not been far her. He laved doing God's work, in fact he loved it more than anything, but here among the dirt and the filth . . . he couldn't keep his hands clean, and his face always felt dirty, and the people kept touching him, laying their hands on him, shaking his hands. But a lways Dawn, with her clean white apron and neatly t ied-up hair s tood waiting when he returned home. Home. Home and Dawn, h is one haven from the filth and dirt of the overcrowded city. Where was Dawn? It was dork. He' d told her not to be ou t after dork with all the foreigners around. She'd on ly laughed at him. "A minister's wife?" she'd said. "No darl ing, I'm not afraid," and she'd laughed again. But it was gett ing late now and "time she were home. There were s teps on the front porch, ond the jang le of the doorbel l shattered the evening's si lence. He stepped to the door and opened it. Sergeant Nevens, Father. This is my partner, Barry Dunn. " A cold chill started at the base of his brain and worked its woy slowly the length of his spine. " Oh, a . . come in. Come in, officers, don't stand there in the night air." They entered and took the offered seats. "Well, gentlemen, whet can I do far you?" He said it jovial enough, but there was a slight catch in h is voice, The chill came over him again. Something was wrong. Desperately wrong. Yet al l seemed calm enough. "Father," began Nevens. " Father, we have a bit of bod news for." It hit him like a tolt. Dawn wasn't back yet. "Dawn! Has something happened . . . " He stopped and a strange look came into h is eyes. Nevens looked at the floor. " She was k illed, stabbed ta death. " Barry Dunn told his pal Max about it la ter. "The guy just col lapsed-went, completely. It was awful. I thought priests . . . well I guess you never know. 15 14 �SIX OR SIXTEEN By D' on Andrus TH IRD PLACE PROSE No w a teenoger, Suzonne is a combinotion of people. By the p receding statement, I definit ely do not mean she is two -faced. Instead she is both pea cemaker and confidant, acting as intermediary between he r half-dozen brothe rs and sisters. She neve r seems to side with o ne, but rather tries, instead, to recreate the pea ce which had obided before the fracas started. Even as a tiny, re d-headed, freckle-faced girl, her natural cheerfulness was a difficu lt thing to combat. If she c limbed on the refrigerator and knocked her grandma's cookie jar down, she very easily squirmed out of the p roblem at hand with a grin. Today, the same grin is effective in other situa tions. For instance, the time she unwittingly made a date with two bays at the same time. Now a s all who keep up with Emily Post will te ll you, this is both embo rossi ng ond an unforgivable si n. Evidently Suzonne is not well re ad in the matter o f e tiquette. She simply in troduced the boys (who already k new each other very we ll) and the trio made their way to the movie. Later reports indicate thot each one had 0 wonderful time; howe ver it is not recommended that it shou ld be done too freque ntly, as some people do not seem to mix too well. Recentl y as she reoched the horrible, yet wonderful, oge of sixteen, the main item o f interest in life became that mechanical wonder, the automotive vehicle. She had worn out all but one of he r amoteur instructors. Her mind must hove been on someth ing other than driving that beautifu l summer day as s he p iloted her veh ic le down th e river rood. The ri ver rood, of cou rse, is the main thoroug h fare for a ll beginners. It is, or at least it was, conside red the safest road for any person who has not yet discovered t he difference between the accelerator and the brake. T he calmness of the peaceful day was shattered os a result of a moment's careless ness. As q uoted from a letter by Suzanne : "We were driving me rrily along when oil of a sudden there appeared before me in the rood, a fencepost. Now don 't ask me what o silly fencepost was doing in the middle of the rood, wi th three strands of wire stretching both ways. So I said to myself, 'Am I going ta let a little fencepost stand in my way? No!' Crash and down it went . I wasn ' t p repared for a second fencepost, but there it was, com ing at me faster and faster. I don't wont to be repetit ious, but I must say that there was another crash. Then the car lurched to a stop, practically on its side, ond I heard Jim's voice com ing through the fog ca lm, but commonding, 'Better let me toke the whee l a minute.' Everything about her is not so humorous, however. After al l, s he does have to live up to the reputation of all red-heads, that of f lame-colored hair and tempers. Rather 16 than lose her temper a l I at once, she seems to smolder for awhile. As can be test ified to by eoch member of her family, as we ll os various primary chi ld ren who coll her teacher, when th at fire is kindled in those b lue eyes, it is time to toke heed. When the situation is restored to nor· mal, the fire q u ickly d ies, ond with o quick sm ile, all is forgiven and forgotten. Each day is wonderful, and each day is different. Years f rom now, Suzanne will st ill be doing many of the some th ings she is doing now, but each particulor unde rtak ing will be different in that it hos not yet been done; and each wi ll be greeted with the enthusiasm of a new adventure. "To make o long story short, when we finally got unstu ck, it was much loter; J im's cor wos missing o ch romestrip, although it had o few scratches to make up for it; and lost but not least, Ji m spent the n e xt day replacing four fence posts and adjoining wire to its o rigi nal position around someone's suga rcane field." INSTINCT By Robe rt Murry I awoke from my fitful nap with the heavy, s ticky afternoon heat throbbing in my head. Perspiration oozed from my pores and d ripped from my brow and eye lashes, blurring my vision. Only the sounds of my heavy breath ing and the slow, stroined pounding of my heart invaded the silence. The intense light rays had destroyed all color in the room, leaving only a white haze. I wiped the sweat from my eyes and rose from my bed to shut out the terr ible rays through the open shutters. Suddenly I felt a pain; it was if a small bulb had started to glow in my chest. It remained constant. T he areo of pain was about the size of a quarter. A minute later my arm grew numb. It felt as if I'd carried a heovy we ight for a long distance and had just set it down. I recoiled my thoughts during my last heart attack. If one could tell an unborn child that soon it would be forced to leave its on ly world, he might frantically fight against the thought. Birth must be death. Therefore, it could also be the other way around. Still life is desired more thon death. I wanted to live. Fear gripped me wi th its icy fingers so that the sticky heat become cold and clammy. I wanted to scream for he lp, but reason said res istance is fut ile, you're beyond he lp. It wos the instinct to live that enable me to crawl to the door, reach up and twist the knob. My wife must have seen the door open ond my orm fall across the transom, for when the blackness thot hod enveloped me faded away, I found myself in o hospital bed. The pain hod evaporated. Instinct hod snatched me from death's grip, when reason f led. THE SNOWFLAKE By Rose Mary Thomas The sound from downstairs of the ir happy, excited voices was barely oudib le by the t ime it reoched his eors in the sma ll, stil l room in which he now stood. Yes, it was Christmos morning downstairs, but up here in the quiet room, he forgot the commercialized Christmas. Here he felt a little closer to God. Perhaps today the long-sought answer ta his prayers would come. His eyes glanced around the room and came to rest o n the new, dustcovered basketboll-never used by the sma ll boy who had cherished it so. The bal l was resting at the feet o f the giraffe c lothes hanger, on which hung a small pai r of dirty blue jeans. The hanger, pointed like a giraffe, had been Robbie's most treasured possessionbrought to him by Santa Claus, with the basketball, on that los t Christmas. On the wal l was the pictu re he'd drowna picture of h is fami ly, the giraffe, and the basketbal l on what was to be his lost Christmas morning. If on ly they hod known! His eyse glanced once more at the small blue jeans, and in his mind he saw Robbie, with h is touseled b lond h air and big, searching, blue eyes, mode even bluer by the reflection of h is blue shirt, which he p ro udly wore ove r h is footbal l shoulder pads. Anoth er of his loves-football. He sm iled a s he remembered the day Robbie got his shou lder pads, the biggest moment of his life' W ithout knowing why, he walked across the room and, knee ling by Robbie's toy chest, he opened the window. The chi ll wind sent a rushing poin through him-not a physical pain, but a pain o f memory. In his hond was yes, his vision was blurred, but he cou ld s till see the small glistening snowflake on h is open, out-stretched palm. He examined it closely and . . . . . It all hoppened so quickly that even now it was h ard to believe and understand. Robbie was enjoying his Christmos with his o lder s ister, Brooke, nine, his younger brother, Mike, sis, and his baby s ister whose name he had picked out, Becky. He'd shown no signs of illness ond that was why the attack had cought them so off guord. Dawne, his sweet wife, who never, even ot the lost minute, gave up hope, called the doctor who rushed Robbie to the hospital, never to return. The Christmas tree and other gay decorations in the hospita l lobby failed to take away the smel l o f alcohol and disinfectant and the uneasy s ile nce that was spreod throughout the entire hospital. That Christmas doy he witnessed the most dramatic scene he wou ld ever see, or ever want to see, for in the third room down the hal l, on the left, he witnessed o cycle of life that left h im feeling weak and he lpless. Yes, his son d ied, and it had been hard for him to understand. Now the dazz li ng, glory white of the hospita l changed. The snow was falling quic kly and quiet ly on the trees outside. Millions of sma ll snowflakes! He reached out, and one lit on his upturned palm. T he snowflake was-yes, his prayer was answered. Life wos like a snowf lake, co ming from heaven to earth, sma ll, short-li ved, ond beautiful. Life, like o s nowf lake, didn ' t last too long, but it was beautiful, add ing beauty and happiness to its surroundings. His Robb ie hod been like a snowflake; small, delicate, perfect in every way. At last his prayer was answered! Robb ie, like o snowflake, wasn' t here long, but he had gone back to o ploce so bea utiful that-he brushed o tear from h is eye. "Karl'" He knew now that Robbie knew he had been loved and was missed. "Karl, are you u p there?" God, please bless Robb ie and keep h im safe a lways' " Karl, the children ore ready and waiting to go." Slowly wi ping the tears from his eyes, Karl left h is reverie. It was Dawne calling. " Yes, dear, I'll be right down ." Karl closed the window, took one more look around the room, and went downstairs. As he wa lked to church tha t morning with h is fam ily, another thought came to h im. Snowflakes would come again, but Robbie-no, Robbie would never come again, but his memory would forever be with Kori. He paused o moment ta gaze upward. Mi llions of tiny-what was it ' A sudden warm feeling rushed through h im, and looking down on the lapel of h is coat, close to his heart, was a- a snowf lake. 17 �REPRISAL By JoAnn Lee I hove to kill him! I don't know how but I do know hove to kill him. Horry Woodley hos done every conceivable thing one man could do to another and expect to live. And now as a lost straw he hos stolen my wife, my dear Peggy whom I loved more than my own life. He leaves me with no choice. The thing that hurts me most is tha t I considered him my closest friend. I trusted him, so much that I never suspected anything as he gradually stripped me of everything I valued; my honor, integrity, and finally my wife. Better that he hod token my life, too, instead of leov rng me this way. Yes, I hove no choice left, but to kill him. The only question is how' This question hos been plogueing me, night and doy, for the post month. And still I hove reached no answer. It hos to be the perfect crime! It isn't that I value my own life so highly. I don't. But unless I live to see Horry suffer os I hove, then the whole thing would be in vain. And if something should go awry in its execution, then I would toke my own life without delay. But now my only concern is to find a method with no flows whatsoever by which I con ge t rid of this rot. I hove already discorded all the o rdinary methods, poisoning, stabbi ng, shooting, and so forth, as useless. I hove studied e very crime that hos ever been committe d since the beginning of recorded time, and finally abandoned each of these, one by one. I hove even studied voodoo in the hopes that there might be some hope there. But alas, to no avail, and I hod to toss this aside also. Then one night in my readings, I h it upo n it! The perfect solution! It was in on old book on Yogi. Naturally I had heard a la t about Yogi, but it had never inte rested me to any great extent since I hod put little stock in it, and cou ld see no purpose to it. Being able ta walk an a hot bed of cools hod never been one of my great desires. But here in this book, I discovered a new phase of Yog i; one that was compleely new to me. At first I couldn't bel ieve it. It seemed completely inconceivable to me. But the more I read of it the more logical it become; and I was convinced that, here, at lost, was my answer. In brief, the idea is that through concentration, o person con will his spirit to leave his body and be able to go anywhere- to commune with other spirits. Perhaps you wonder how thi s con help me' Well this is how I plan to use it. I will leave my body and go to Horry and talk to him; not with my voice, of course, but through o type of mental telepathy- tho ught transfer. I will convince him that he is going insane, ond gradually he will, until he is comp letely mod, and then I wil l kil l him. At last I om relieved because I om certain that I hove the best possible solution-the perfect crime' The re is only one drawback . It will toke time; five years at the very least. The whole principle of Yog i is concentration, and to reach the point of concentration to be able to leave the body requires years of ordous troinrng. But I know tha t I con take that time to finally be able to get my revenge. SEVEN YEARS LATER - I om now ot the seventh year of my training and at lost feel ready. I began my training by stor ing into the flame of o candle until ot the end of the first year I attained pe rfect concentration on that one thing. From there I went on to more difficult things. And I om ready to put into execution my p ion. I worked it out to the smallest detail and feel assured of success. I hove started frequenting o certain bar where I will be able to leave my body, which will be slumped over as in o drunk, so that no one will notice anything amiss. Ton ight is the night! At lost I will begin my reprisal. Although, through Yogi, most of the emotions ore repressed, I can't help feeling a marked degree of e lation. It is now 8:00 so that I will hove time to leave and go to Harry and plague his mind for four hours and sti ll return before closing time. Well, I'm ready. I start to concentrate and in ten minutes my spiri t is re leased from my body. Such o feeling of freedom could never be described. But I mustn't de lay. Without further ado, I om in his room, and then in his handsome head, s tarting my revenge! But I can't stay too long. It is time to return to my body. It is now two weeks since I began my campaign. I went every night this post week, and I con see my efforts toking effect. Today I decided for old times soke to pay o visit to my dear friend, Horry. But when I entered his abode, olas, my friend was stork roving mod. Ah, revenge is sweet. However, it made my blood boil to see my beloved wife so concerned over him. So I think that the time hos come ot last to put on end to him. Ton ight I will return for the lost time- to kill him! Before leaving his room, I placed o knife on the table by which he wos seated. This is the best port' He will k ill himself and I wil l be guilty of no crime. Tonight I om in the bar for the lost ti me. I s lump over the table as usual, and this time toke only o few seconds to leave my body. As they soy, practice makes perfect. Soon I om in Harry's room. He is still seated by the toble with the knife within o few feet of his hand. Tonight I whisper only one thing, over and over, pick up your knife, and kill yourself' Obviously he is quite gone since he seems hardly to react ot all to my whisperings. I whisper foster and louder until it finally penetrates. Slowly he reaches for the knife, picks it up, and stabs himself. His head foils to the table and he is dead. My mission is over; my reprisal is comple te. And I will never be suspected. I hove the perfect alibi since my body hos been in the bar al l night. The pol ice will decide that it's on open and sh ut case of suicide. And now I con return to my body and not leave again. I hove come to the conclusion that I much prefer staying in my body, and : know I will be much happier forgetting this who le Yogi bus iness. I con hove Peggy bock again, and we can start all over again. Foster than the speed of light, I om bock to the bar again, to the last table, and to my good old bod . good God! It's gone! It's not there' But it was right there in the lost booth-I'd swear to it! Hastily I look around, and then I notice. The bar is dork-closed. I glance up ot the clock on the wolf, and there is the reason. It's on hour post closing time. I must hove token longer than I expected. But where could my body be' Someone would hove hod to hove moved it, since naturally it cou ld not hove gone on its own volition. This isn't o large city, so qu ickly I go through every store, shop, building, room, and house. Then I go to the police station, the hospital, and o t lost I find it-in the city mortuary. Whew-what o relief! Quickly I s lip into it and try to get up. But I can't. What con be the matter? I try again, but to no ovoil. Finally it downs on me. My body is dead. I must hove hod a heart collapse or something, and so when ot closing time the barkeeper tried to arouse me, he discovered I wasn't breathing. Now here my body lies, full of embalming fluid, and here om I. But what con I do' Surely there must be o n answer! I try to think of something-anything! But ot lost I give up. Horry hos won again. LADY LOVE by Sally Smith TH I RD PLACE POETRY Lo"'e is a lady with schemes in her hair, With eyes that strike f ire and g leam; Y et love is so gentle, so I igh t and ,elusiv,e Star-dust in a si lver lined d ream. Love hos the power to hollow our hearts out, To sear us with stra nge sovag,e pa ins; A FACE Love has the power to make of us slaves, Bowing h,eads, binding hearts with her chains. He r face re minded me of a night Love carries fire and ice i n her h ands more from which I wos trying de s- And uses them each, at her pleasu r,e; pcrately to awaken. Her cheeks were like a bloated toads that had been cent e red with a distorte d t wig mouth ond o greased olive nose. These were topped by two, hard, small tock eyes, Suiting mood with abandon it seems, First selfish, then free without measure: Yet, w,e seek her, implor e her, despise and adore her, Pledge alleg iance and bow at her fee t ; wh ich we re o s s harp os the ir name While she sm i rks and deplores, yet never ignores, implied . Offering wine both bitter and sweet. By Naomi Meservy 18 19 �A CARNIVAL By Susan Christe nse n HAROLD! SECOND PLACE POETRY Joy Lamoreaux tr A carnival is a te nt town of le1ughte r, Whe n the me rry, care free crowds wande r the re . But at dawn in the half- light of day, The painted clown face mocks c:: the e mpty grounds; It laughs at noth ing. ! 4, ~ v(' • .,, r __ ""-- , TWILIGHT By Mary Coomb!. High from o lofty wind-swept croig, Above the earth below; stood and watched the sunset and sow th€ afterglow. Sow golden rays shot heavenward beyond the purple hi Ils, And crimson fl ames t int candy pink-the fluffy cloudy frills. Sow twilight shadows creeping down into the glen, heard 20 c rying of the night birds and wl,,ispering of the wind. The sun's rays beckoned to me-its voices seemed to soy: Come let us toke you wi th us as we go from here today. We' ll toke you where you've never been to horizons old and new, the places where we know for sure your Every time I think about Harold I get sick in the wrong places and try to stop-thinking, I mean. Harold was the bl,nd dote Helen got for me the lost time I was in Gluckston. If you've never seen on ant eater t hat hod Just been hit real hard with a fly swatter, I can' t e xplain what Harold looks like-but if you hove, just odd some glosses, and remove the to,I and you know 1ust whot Harold looks like. Oh, Harold is a good k id I guess, and hos a lo t of bro ins too, I guess. He wonts to be o brain surgeon, which just probably explo,ns why Helen stuck me on him. Now I've got enough smart to know that when a g irl hos a blond dote, she doesn't expect another Rock Hudson or Elvis Presley, but s he kind of likes to flatter herself by thinking she deserves something tha t at leost smells a little better than a l,mburger cheese aging plant. Well, my dote with Harold was on a beau tiful summer night, and Helen hadn't to ld me the facts when I heard "11" knock. My heart was beating furiously when I opened the door and then I sow Haro ld standing the re. My heart stopped-beating modly, I mean. That's what Horold did to me. Then he smiled and showed his big yellow buck teeth and I didn't mind how sick I fe lt . I was too busy deciding which way I wos go,ng to help Helen develop her next heodoche. Afte r the effects o f Helen's sense of humor wore off, I monoged to soy, " How ore you," and Harold started telling me how he was while I menta lly kicked myself o few times. The fresh oor outside helped a lottle, and the battered old pick-up wasn't too bod, bu t then we got to the t icket window of the theatre and Harold remembered he'd forgotten to bring his wallet. I laughed like I was going to throw up and Harold suggested going to the museum. I love to go to museums with squares. Oh, we hod a blost at the m useum. Haro ld got into 0 tizzy over a Eudomus Proteus and I really hod fun counting floes on the ce,l,ng. Anywoy, ofter on hour and o half, Harold somehow got the idea that I was o little bored, and asked if it would be oil right with me if we went and got a c oke. I recovered from the shock of such a normal suggest ion coming from Haro ld, said that would be all right, and we pushed the pick-up a couple of blocks and headed for the Snock Shop. First thing Haro ld did whe n we got to the Snock Shop was to put a nickel in the juke box, so I settled bock for a little of heaven with Elvis Presley and his "Hou nd Dog." I can't imagine why I was the object of so many dirty looks just because Horold ployed Beethoven's Third Symphony. One thing I've got to soy for Harold, though, he's qui te a brain. The reason I know he's got one is he knows so much about it. He told me all about the pituitary gland at the base of the brain. He soys it not o nly hos a lot to do with the blood, but the way o person grows-mentally and physically. Funny Harold would know so much obout that. While we were sipping our cokes he told me oil about hos grandmother who hos o severe cose of art hritis, ond who used to spank him whenever he was caught performing brain surgery on her cats. One time when he was in the middle of on operation, the cot d ied. That was the first t ime one of them didn't co-operate, Harold said. After talking about everything from why Harold li ked to co llect butterflies to why Harold happened to be the smartest one in h is family, I decided on on early curfew as a lost resort. Horold left three cents for the wa itress a nd ten cents for the cokes, and we pushed the pick-up three blocks and arrived al the house none too soon. Well, I told Haro ld what a lovely time I hod, and that I'd bet ter hurry up and get in the house or Aunt Orpho would hove kittens. Then he asked me if he'd ever told me obciut his operation and I said no, and kicked myself again, and Harold told me abou t the tonsil operation he hod when he was only ten. The doctor hod told him there wasn't much chance, but he pulled through. I to ld him I was sorry -that he hod to hove on operation, I mean, and asked if he planned to hove any more in the near future. He said he didn 't think so, but that he might come down with o severe case of pneumonia if he didn't start wearing his heavy coot in the winter. Then Harold asked me what I was think ing and I said about my great-grandfather, who was o horse thief and used to hove a mania for murdering brain surgeons. I sure hated to see Haro ld leave so soon. W e ll, I guess I'd better go now. It's my lost night of vocat ion here at He len 's house this year, and I' ve got to get ready for my dote with Harold. THE CHASM The jaws o f the woman flew ope n a s if they were hinged, revealing a dork chasm from which a little pink tongue protruded. By Loretta Frei dreams will all come true. 21 �SEAGULL OLD IRON SIDES By A lice Bundy She sot alone on a small cliff. The ocean ge ntly ro lled By Lynne H arrison in, rose, b roke, then raced in, returned o nly to ro ll on, rise, SECOND PLACE CO-WINNER SHORT STORY and break again. Just be low her in the sand she could see the imprint She sot the re, wa ,t,ng. He r block e yes darted to the dia l of her wa tc h. 4 :27 p. m. She p ushed on he r wiry, iron g ray hair nervously, forcing it to con form under her hand. For p ity's sa ke, Moy- she reprimanded herself-calm yourself, the girl sometimes d oesn' t poss by he re ' ti l 4 : 45 . . . eve n ten ofte r five, once. Probably stayed a bi t at rhe e nd o' the rood, to lkin' w,th some of them smort-olecky-type friends of hers. She looked a t her forest of el ms; making a thick yellow wa ll be twee n her and the rive r. Funny-she could ha rd ly he ar the rive r any mo re. It m us t be ge tt ing a wful fidd lon'! . . Her eyes contacted the watch again. 4 :35 .. . Th,s was the day! A fter today maybe the g ,rl wouldn' t snatch at a nd ru,n her n,ce c h rysanthemu ms as she scurried post, morn ings. She was sure this was the day The g,rl song ,t garishly as she picked her steps between the c lumps o f foxto ils in the path . . . " And the re's some thing e lse whe re he r wa ist should be . . . " She laughed loudly a t the wo rds and reveled on her cleverness at compos ing the m . She didn't hove to worry about he r hea ring, the river being so big ' n all. She was about the re! She s tarte d wal k ing fast . She didn't won t a scolding from "Old Ironsides" today' Honest' when she wasn't screeching at her for some th ing she was go bbing about how her fa th e r settled here firs t, a nd all. And st il l coll ing he r o tyke whe n she g roduote d fro m grade school ne xt sp ring! She looked up and sow her. Wait ing! . . . -"You ng lady, I hove something to ." "I ha ven't got tome to hea r it o nd I don't wont to hear it! LEAVE ME ALON E AND I'll LEAVE YOU ALONE! " She wos post. The voice was hoorse- "VI NNY 1" And she always talked so loudLordy, ,t'd l,ke to wear yer ear ou t. She h u rried on, ea ger to f,nd wha t was wait ing at home. ~{·~~- *. - She closed the door beh ind her and looked ot the bouquet of salmon colored ch rysan themums ond the li ttle cokes on the table. The block eyes we re dull as they gazed a t the brightly cord insc ri bed Happy Birthday, Vinny. .... ~ ~ • ,..,.__.._, ,/11n "'.li_,llill., ..._""i.i. ... t:r< ~----~ ~ C - )11~~ 22 - ~ ~ . :::--:s . ii7f _,r~:c: ::, - 7:ri _.. -- ' ~ . '._._ $~:_ - =-~-~-==t.,. .. . <>. F~ec,..,..,.,., • a • o f her body where she hod been lying moments before. The wind brus hed her face. Sea gulls soared here and there, now lighting, now flying aga in. They ore so free! A look of hatre d crossed the girl's face. She would never be free! Neve r! Even now the man and woma n who brought her to the beach carefully watc hed every move me nt. The rest of the g roup were fart he r down the beach, a lmost out of sight aro und a small cliff. Why oh why can't I be free? Th is hord someth ing inside of me, pinn ing me in, ma king me wont to scream. I hate Father. He sent me to tha t a wfu l place whe re the man and woman ore. Why those people there ore oil cra zy! I wo uld be all right if only th is tight hardness would go a way. If I cou ld scream or c ry out lo ud ins tead o f just inside me, then maybe it would. T he seo is free. The breeze moy go whe re it wishes. T he sea g ulls look mo re free and happy than anything. I w,sh I we re a seag ull! The n I wo uld fly and fly a nd ne ver re tu rn' Only I' d do something to Fathe r. I would be free and he co uldn' t h u rt me. I would laug h at h im and the n fly a way. If I we re o seagull, I wouldn't hove to s tay in tha t c razy p la ce. I would fly unt il I found Mothe r. We would always stay to gethe r. She wou ld be o seagul l too. I wo nd e r why Mo ther hod to go? Father sen t he r away I think. He so,d she wos o bod, ommo ro l wo man. I love Mo ther. She wa sn' t bod . She was good to me. If Mother and I we re seagu lls, Fa ther would ho ve to be one too. We wou ldn't fly with him though. W e would fly fast and leave h,m beh,nd The wind no w s lopped the girl. The waves b roke harshly, The g,rl s till so t motion less. A gull flew low over he r he ad. It a lig h ted and step by s tep cautious ly come toward he r. Why- why Fathe r's eyes o re on that bird! Fathe r ,s a lready o seagull' W,th o swift moveme nt the g,rl grabbe d the sea g u ll. He r hand c lose d arou nd its neck. The bird's c ry is cut off- its strugg les ceased. I k illed Fa ther! I killed horn! She c rumpled to the sand. Waves o f sobs rose and broke th rough her body-she was free ! PANIC AT PINE CREEK By Kent Ha rdy It started like any othe r summer party. All the in gredients were there : o dozen teenagers, hearts full of song, ha lf o dozen wate rme lons, o case o f pop, hot dogs, o nd a swimming ho le. We hod spent many worm summer nigh ts a t P ine Creek. We would build o fire a t the head of a pool su rrounded o n three s ides by s ile nt, towe ring rock walls, sworn for a while, then eat, laugh, sing, and tell stories u ntol it was time to go. As we left, we mode plans for another get- together. Yes, these hod been t imes of happiness. Yet, as mony t imes as th is scene hod been repeate d, the re hod neve r been on ome n o f disaster. We were young and happy. W hy shou ld we wo rry? Little hod we realized how q u ic kly a life cou ld be snatche d fro m us. The a ffair hod s tarted as a p ractical joke. The girls were getting the food ready whole the boys were swimm ing . The plot was set. Steve was to jump from o h igh roc k into the pool and swim u nderwater to a c ove a t its head. After a fe w moments we were to not ice that he didn't come up . All went well; he didn't reappear o n the surface; so we as ked everybody to help us look for h im . W e dived frantically until those who were n't in on the prank were petrified w,th fear. Then t ired ond laughing silently to ourse lves, we stopped look ing. T he gi rls were so conv inced that they were a lmost hys teric al. By the time we could conv ince the m ii was o il a bog 1oke, I s tarted to wo nder myself. No one hod checke d the cove. With a cold sword of fe ar in my heart, I headed for it. Steve was no t the re . He was n' t b ut he must be. Where e lse could he be? A finger o f ice went s lowly down my spine. What ,f he hod bumped his head? It would be ea sy enoug h to do. I got a g rip o n myse lf and went over the slimy walls oga,n. I cove red every inch o f the cove from top to bottom . Empty! By tha t time, I wa s s tricken with pa n ic. My m ind slowly cleared. I must find Ste ve! I called the boys to· gether. After a brief d ,scuss,o n, we dec ode d he was under wate r. W e b rought to rches and sta rte d to searc h. T h ree o f us took the cove. As I e ntered, I he ld the lig ht h igh . Not o s ign. As I turned in the mo uth o f the cove, I kicked a body. It was in on under-water cre vice I hod missed before. Fo r some unknown re ason, I thoug h t it was Ste ve tryi ng to swim out of the cove. I grabbed h im by the leg a nd p ulled h,m to the surfoce. Yes, ,t wos Steve, but he wos not b reathing. H,s eyes hod rolled bock in to his head, and he wo re o grimace o f agony on his face. His body was co ld a nd life less. My senses told me he was dead, but my mind, trying to escape from that which it refused to believe, told me to slop his face o nd te ll hi m the joke was o ve r. J ust the n, one o f the o ther boys gasped and dropped h is torch. It landed o n Steve· and none o f us hod the presence o f mind to push it o ff. E~e n though we s me lled searing flesh, h is facial expression remaine d uncha nged. T hen and only then did I realize the joke wos ove r. Ycs, it wos over, but a t wha t great cost this practical 1oke I don' t re membe r getting him to shore. It wos a ll a d im b lur. T he re I was sta nding looking down on h im. Yes, that is ho w it happene d. I didn' t know whether lo k ick h,s head in, to laugh, o r to c ry, when he tu rned over and smiled, shook my hand a nd told me how we ll I ho d act ed my part . Then he rubbed h,s burn ond asked if it was necessary to carry the jo ke that for. I know one thing. That little g rin of h,s wo s wo rth a mi llio n dolla rs. I hod not been a c ting. 23 �BETRAYED AN EMPTY CANVAS By Irene Ott By Lynn 0 . Freem an The greedy, glinting eyes shifted uneas ily about the dark room. They moved from the eerie, flickering s hadows cast by the s ingle torc h to the soldier's faces, and then fell to the wooden table where t hey fastened on th irty p ieces of s h ini ng silver. Standing back among the shadows a toll, young sold ier cantempuously watched the traitor greedily scoop the s i Iver into a leather pouch and hide it securely inside his tunic. He watched the nervous man's burning eyes dart from one soldier's face to another. They seemed not quite so sure of themselves as they had a few seconds before. They searched each face carefully, and far a moment the young soldier thought he saw a pleading look in the uplifted eyes. He spat angrily on the floor. A.II traitors were al ike. After they had committed the treacherous sin, they pleaded far confirmation of what they had done. He watched the guilty man hesitantly touch the coins inside his tu n ic, then with fierce determination li ft his head high and motion the sold iers to fallow him. As the group of armored men filed silently into the dark night, the toll Roman wondered what thoughts were win d ing through the weak little mind of the betrayer. Was he thinking of the man he had betrayed, the man whom only a few hours earlier he had called his master? Or was he thinking of the thirty pieces in his tun ic and what riches they would bring? The une xpressive face told the young Roman nothing. The some unreadable expression remained on the s tony face all the way up the sloping h illside. No s ign of emotion showed in the blank eyes unti l they hod reach ed the gate to a garden of o live trees. Here the man fa ltered for a moment. He seemed to be struggling within himself; as though he were uncertain whether he shou ld enter this garden called Gethsemont:. But before the dark little man had time ta think th ings out, the sold iers had the gate wide open and they were o nce more winding their way up the s tony dork hi llside. The man in lead, with o ne hand firm ly clasped around the leather pouch inside his tunic and his eyes focused on the path straight ahead, marched doggedly on toward the center of the garden. Coming in view of twelve men standing in a g rove of alive trees, the young Romon wondered which one was to be bet,ayed and unmercifully nailed to a cross before th e night was over. Moving to the front o f the soldiers he watched the traitor's eyes move slowly over the twelve faces before him, look ing deeply at each one as though to carve it deep in his memory. He g lanced aro und at the restless so ldiers, then began to walk slowly, hesi tantly toward the twelve waiting ~~ ~ 24 --~ men. According to the carefully laid p lan the traitor leaned aver and kissed the white -robed man light ly an the cheek, ..., giving the soldiers the cue tha t this was the man they wanted. FIRST PLACE POETRY Here's a dirty bed, and there a dirty window, and over yonder the cleanest canvas yet; now wait, wait ... I om an artist,,painting is my trade. I need on idea. Tney said I was a genius. Was a genius . Not a genius, was a genius. Will be great, But not great, not now. The canvas like a white window, Empty. I'm ampty. I need. They soy point. Point what? The prune-like man, dry, dead, rich. " I'll pay," he said. If I could think ... Why do I paint? I om on artist, pointing is my trade. If I were a knight, I'd hove me a blade. Give me my sword! What sword:> Why do people bother me? They say paint 1 Point? .... What? A lake? A woman? RING . . . . An alley? Do rk catacomb:> Rusty, evi l oll,ey:> Filled with the carrion of men? Ring, ring. Wi II you get away from that doorbell so I can hear myself think:> People ring at my door. They soy, "Pay." " Point? - Pay?" I almost hod it then. Ring, ring, ring I Ah,, shoddap with that doorbell al ready' Ring, ring? "Whoddoyewant?" Ring? All It does, it rings. "Who is it?" Ring, ring All right you asked for it, I'm going to snatch that door open, I'm going to haul off, No questions asked, And punch the nose that's ringing my doorbell. Twist, the knob. Snatch the door. Knock the ringer. To ti-le floor. Blom A dead ringer. So sometimes a second is as long as a paragraph. The door is open and I'm standing still. Standing quiet. Watching . I watch my hand fly through the door, Making a first on the wcy. It reaches her cheek bone and curls compact there, hard. Her! 1 Back she goes. Across the narrow lighted hall, against the wall. Thud. Beautiful lashes. Opening . Her eyes round and glazed. "Mmmmmmmmm", She soys, and slowly slides down the wall. Slowly. Bends her head to one side. The hair ohong like a broken wing. Why did I hit her:> " I told you to get away." " Mmmmm" she breat hes. So I scoop her up, And up she comes. Light as a leg o' lamb. And common as cabbage. I kick the door closed. Put her on the dirty bed. Crumpled and immodest as a dropped doll. \,\/ho cores:> Not the artist who's seen better, and wastes no time on the likes of this; Not the man. For as the saying goes, He's not quite the same just now. Here's a dirty point rag. To be wet at the sink. And rung out. Pressed aga inst the smooth brow over the lids. Lashes. I will admit. Lashes she hos. And the rag comes away, leaves o stain on the brow. One con pretend she is a braz,en head, draped in o ld silk. And the bronze staining through. But only until her eyes open. She gazes post the green-brown stain. And the anger of her brutalized cheek She hos no fear. But o sadness. " Still nothing:>" she murmurs. And I turn and look with her and it's my empty canvas she is sad for. "Still nothing." Half whispering about. 25 �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_1957.pdf Title A name given to the resource Southern Quill 1957 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie College Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1957 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>SHORT STORY</th> <th></th> <th>Page</th></tr><tr><td>WAITING,</td> <td> Clark Church</td> <td> 3</td></tr><tr><td>ONE ROAD, </td> <td> DeAnna Hawkins</td> <td> 5</td></tr><tr><td>GIRL SHY, </td> <td> Gary Snow</td> <td> 6</td></tr><tr><td>STRENGTH, </td> <td> Margery Jennings</td> <td> 10</td></tr><tr><td>IT HAPPENED THIS WAY, </td> <td> Theresa Houston</td> <td> 10</td></tr><tr><td>YOU NEVER KNOW, </td> <td> George McConkie</td> <td> 14</td></tr><tr><td>SNOWFLAKE, </td> <td> Rosemary Thomas </td> <td> 17</td></tr><tr><td>REPRISAL, </td> <td> JoAnn Lee</td> <td> 18</td></tr><tr><td>HAROLD!, </td> <td> Joy Lamoreaux</td> <td> 21</td></tr><tr><td>OLD IRONSIDES, </td> <td> Lynne Harrison</td> <td> 22</td></tr><tr><td>SEAGULL, </td> <td> Alice Bundy</td> <td> 23</td></tr><tr><td>BETRAYED, </td> <td> Irene Ott</td> <td> 24</td></tr><tr><td>PANIC AT PINE CREEK, </td> <td> Kent Hardy</td> <td> 23</td></tr><tr><th>POETRY</th></tr><tr><td>A SMEAR OF PAINT, </td> <td> Lynn O. Freeman</td> <td> 7</td></tr><tr><td>A PARTYS IMPRESION, </td> <td> Loretta Fr</td> <td> 8</td></tr><tr><td>LADY LOVE, </td> <td> Sally Smith</td> <td> 19</td></tr><tr><td>CARNIVAL, </td> <td> Susan Christensen</td> <td> 20</td></tr><tr><td>TWILIGHT, </td> <td> Mary Coombs</td> <td> 20</td></tr><tr><td>AN EMPTY CANVAS, </td> <td> Lynn O. Freeman</td> <td> 25</td></tr><tr><th>PROSE</th> </tr><tr><td>THE COLD, </td> <td> Geniel McConkie</td> <td> 1</td></tr><tr><td>RANDOM HARVEST, </td> <td> George McConkie</td> <td> 4</td></tr><tr><td>STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE, </td> <td> Marilee Beard</td> <td> 9</td></tr><tr><td>SIX OR SIXTEEN, </td> <td> Don Andrus</td> <td> 16</td></tr><tr><th>COVER</th></tr><tr><td>Lynn O. Freeman</td> </tr><tr><th>ART</th></tr><tr><td>REFLECTION, </td> <td> Gordon Freeman</td> <td> 11</td></tr><tr><td>LIFE, </td> <td> Lynn O. Freeman</td> <td> 12</td></tr><tr><td>OLD RUIN, </td> <td> Gordon Freeman</td> <td> 12 </td></tr><tr><td>EDUCATION, </td> <td> DeAnna Hawkins</td> <td> 12</td></tr><tr><td>CONCATENATION, </td> <td> DeAnna Hawkins</td> <td> 13</td></tr><tr><td>BROWN STUDY, </td> <td> Marilee Beard</td> <td> 13</td></tr><tr><td>AMEBIC LINES, </td> <td> Lynn O. Freeman</td> <td> 13</td></tr><tr><td>SOLITUDE, </td> <td> Marilee Beard</td> <td> 13</td></tr><tr><th>DESCRIPTIONS</th></tr><tr><td>INSTINCT, </td> <td> Robert Murry</td> <td> 16</td></tr><tr><td>A FACE, </td> <td> Naomi Meservy</td> <td> 19</td></tr><tr><td>THE CHASM, </td> <td> Loretta Frei</td> <td>i 21</td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/NoC-US/1.0/"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">No Copyright - United States.</a> Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Public domain in the United States. 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