the

literary

magazine

of

quinnipiac

college

volume three

number two

spring, 1984

MONTAGE

The Literary Magazineof Quinnipiac College

Volume Three, Number Two,Spring Semester, 1984

STAFFMike DusaJill Kaiser

Kathy MurphyEllen O'Brien

Stephen O'ReillyMark Johnston, Faculty Advisor

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

MARK JOHNSTONFaculty Advisor

With this issue, our sixth, Montage concludes its third year as the literarymagazine of Quinnipiac College. This semester, more than 30 studentssubmitted more than 125 manuscripts for the staff's consideration. Out ofthis wealth of material, the staff has selected 26 works by 16 differentauthors, more than in any previous issue. These authors come from all threeschools within the college and represent a broad range of interests andstyles. We hope you enjoy their work.

The deadline for the Fall, 1984, issue of Montage will be around November20. Students should submit typed, double-spaced manuscripts to Montage,Box 49. Please include name, major, and year of graduation.

Two further notes. Montage is now listed in the Catalogue of CollegeLiterary Magazines put out by the Coordinating Council for LiteraryMagazines, which is perhaps the nation's most prestigious organization forpromoting small magazines of all kinds. Also, I would like to thank SteveO'Reilly and Kathy Murphy, the two graduating senior members of our staff,for their dedication and hard work over the last few years.

The Beginning .............................. Karen Kelso .............................. 4

Penn Station 1/8/84 ....................... Shari G. Mirman ........................ 5

big people crying ........................... Shari G. Mirman ........................ 6

The Train .................................... Pete Sutton .............................. 7

Silent Smile ................................. Nancy Meehan .......................... 10

Remembering You ........................ Nancy Meehan .......................... 11

Ignorance .................................... Susan Weber ............................ 12

Darkness .................................... Maria Mangiaracina .................... 13

Ping Pong .................................... Jill Kaiser ................................. 14

The Harvest ................................ Gregory S. Fox ......................... 15

Eating Art ................................... Karen Kelso .............................. 16

The Test ..................................... Sara Schmedingoff ..................... 17

Offerings ..................................... Sara Schmedingoff ..................... 18

Red ............................................ Sara Schemdingoff ..................... 19

Unidentified Falling Object .............. David Jamieson ......................... 20

Drips to You ................................ Stephen O'Reilly ........................ 23

Across the Street .......................... Stephen O'Reilly ....................... 24

A. M .......................................... Stephen O'Reilly ........................ 25

Putting My Best Foot Forward ......... Karen Kelso .............................. 26

This Bitter Earth ........................... Rita Campbell ........................... 27

Plum .......................................... Jennifer Mucci .......................... 28

Transformism .............................. Kathe Grosser .......................... 29

Dust .......................................... Kathe Grosser .......................... 30

A Way of Life ............................... Jill Kaiser ................................. 31

True Happiness ............................ Christopher Jones ..................... 34

Ode to a Friend ............................ Mike Markesich ......................... 35

Acknowledgements ...................................................................... 36

THE BEGINNING "PENN STATION 1/8/84"KAREN KELSOBiology, 1984

SHARI G. MIRMANMass Commmunications, 1985

Dawn greets the ocean silently,while the wind sleeps,

and begins to walk softly across the sandin the stillness that is the morning.

No connection for the 2:09I'II have to stay around...

Dawn greets the ocean slowly,as the sky awakens,

and golden fingers dance lightly on the waterto part the enshrouding mist.

Over by the information stand I saw a sinner speak of loveIt made me think that he had noneAn out of work salesman searching for the sunand living dilapidated dreamsthrough a vision blurred behind a pair of dirty wire rimmed glassesa hat on the ground begging for money

Dawn greets the ocean gently,above the hushed murmur of the waves,

and laughter of the seagulls,to unveil the beauty that is the sea.

My brain is full of imagesof hunger and coldA hungry childs mouthAn old man on the street aloneThe dirt on this city street, it don't remind me of home

A greying lady reeking like the stationstopped in front of me and asked me for changeI gave it to her just so she'd go away

Back through time, through a looking glass eyeEither back or forward there's no connnection for the 2:09I'II have to stay around for quite some timeDon't know where to look no moreSo I'ii just close my eyesto the sinner, the empty hat by his feet, and the filthy city streetDon't bother asking me for changeI'ii just pretend that l'm not here

"Attention, the 3:42 local to New Brunswick is now acceptingpassengers on track four."

I'II walk past and not look downI'II remember the wise man who didn't squander his time on silver liningsand curtains blinding sightStill, I can not look down...and the sinner rambles on.

4 5

THE TRAIN"big people crying"

PETE SUTTONSHARI G. MIRMANMass Communications, 1985

i saw all those tearsrolling through the creases made by twisting facesand fast moving pictures blurred with speedand slow moving pictures of mouths opening wideand heads tilting backyet i didn't understand, why, was i too young?

there are those who stubbornly insistthat i shouldn't remember at allbut on The day he was shotmy grammy cried and held me real tighti was not going to forget

The day he was shotgrammy criedher big blue eyes swelledand huge beads of tears rolled down her faceThe day he was shotgrammy criedi remember this because i had never seen a big person cryThe day he was shoteveryone on the television was crying too

I boarded the train, my backpack slung over my left shoulder and a jacketin my right hand. I walked toward the back of the car and stopped in front ofan empty pair of seats. The coat was thrown up into the baggage rack overthe seat along with the pack. I retrieved a tattered, dogeared paperbackfrom the front pocket of the pack and dropped into the seat nearest thewindow. Outside the window the light was beginning to fade. I leaned backinto the seat and opened the book where a page corner had been turneddown. The train lurched forward.

After about a dozen pages the train began to slow and finally stopped inan illuminated station. I peered out the window at the cold, wet rain that hadbegun to fall. Passengers began to file in following the same sequence ofmotions I had, finding a seat, stowing luggage and settling in their seats. Ihad just returned to the book when I heard a voice, "Got room foranother?" I looked up into the smiling face of a middle-aged businessman.

"Sure," I replied, uncomfortable with the stranger's friendly attitude. Hesettled into the seat beside me as the train once again lurched forward.

"Where are you going," he asked."New Haven," I said, wanting to end the conversation and return to my

fantasy world. "Where are you going," I asked out of politeness."Stamford, l'm on my way to a business meeting, are you in college?""Yes, l'm on my way back."

6 7

"Where do you go?" And so the conversation continued as myrestlessness grew. About the time the conversation had reached his vacationin Maine with his wife Monica and three children, Dave, Jill, and Dawn (thespoiled one), we heard a dull thump towards the front of the train, followedby a rattling noise that traveled from the front of the car under our feet tothe rear of the car. As it passed under my feet, the lights and heaters wentoff in the train. The high-pitched scream of thÿ brakes ripped through thetrain and it gave a quick shudder before it stopped twenty seconds later.

"We hit a car," my seat mate said calmly."Think so?" I had already passed it off as a large tree branch on the

tracks, assuming that a car would make more noise than what we had justheard. The strong smell of gasoline wafted through the train, proving mewrong.

My seat mate pardoned himself and went to the front of the train to see ifhe could find out exactly what had happened. As he faded into the darknessof the aisle, a conductor walked or should I say, shuffled by. He was a largeman, his belly pushing out over his belt. Rolls of fat bulged from under hiscollar. He shuffled by with surprisingly graceful, almost feminine movementsof a man who has been fat for a long time and expected to continue to befat. His voice was as surprising as his movements. This bulk of a manemitted soft, almost cooing sounds as he said, "Please stay seated, we hit acar. We don't know the extent of the damage or if anyone has been killed."As he concluded, he faded into the darkness.

I sat back, looked out the window, focusing my eyes not outside but onthe raindrops on the glass itself. The words of the conductor brought asense of guilt. Up until that moment I hadn't even thought of the possibilitythat we had killed someone. The approaching blue and amber lights Weredistorted by the raindrops clinging to the window.

My attention shifted from my eyes to my ears. Voices of fellow passengersbecame apparent. The accident had given everyone something in commonand lifted the taboo of speaking to a total stranger. The dark interior of thetrain also gave a sense of anonymity. Behind me, what sounded like anelderly man and a college age girl had begun to talk. She was a businessmajor graduating at the end of the semester, he a recently retiredbusinessman. The two of them discussed a woman's place in business andhow it had changed over the years. When that subject ran dry they droppedformalities, introduced themselves and began discussing movies, the oldones with Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart and then new movies like StarWars and E.T. Amazing, I thought, what isolation on a cold, dark train cando.

I glanced out the window again and wondered where my seat mate was.My eye caught a flashlight beam and I watched a workman as he seemed tosearch through the grass for something. The flashlight stopped weaving andthe man walked forward. The beam of the light was extinguished, and aglistening arc of liquid sprayed from the man's waist. I laughed and returnedmy attention to the train's interior.

The conductor shuffled past; flashing blue lights emphasized his baldingforehead. "No one was inside the car," he said, "Evidently the car stalled onthe tracks and the man jumped before we hit."

I relaxed back into my seat again still feeling a little guilty because of thethought that had just flashed through my mind. It would have made a betterstory at school if someone had died.

8 9

SILENT SMILE REMEMBERING YOU

NANCY MEEHANMass Communications, 1985

NANCY MEEHANMass Communications, 1985

I watched your eyesAnd waited for them to openI watched your chestTo see you catch your breathNo twitches, no movementFrightening stillness

I found a photograph of youYou were turning aroundAnd you blinkedWhen the camera went off

Your curls were combed straightThey didn't know youMy lips touched a cold foreheadMy hand clasped a stiff handYou were composed, I was shakingAnd wondered how far away you were

! wondered if you were awareAnd if inside your mindYou were screamingTo be let outTo not be left aloneI hope not

Your eyes were closed tightHeavy powdered made-up faceMotionless mouth sculptured into a silent smileA look of peaceAnd contentmentThey didn't know you

Time has gatheredAnd you've changed your hairDo you remember whenWe started first grade?

Shared secrets rye forgottenLike the blue dress we both hadAnd gossip about boysWe wanted to marry

!t was one for all and all for oneWe don't tell secrets anymoreBut I remember laughingUntil we cried

10 11

IGNORANCE DARKNESSSUSAN WEBERMedical Technology, 1985

MARIA MANGIARACINA

Ah... ignorance is bliss,or so they say,and so it is.How easily life could all be explainedwhen I was uneducated.My beliefs were solid,unquestionable, unchangeable.My answers: short,quick, uncomplicated.People died. If I knew them,they went to Heaven becauseI knew them.If I didn'tthey went to Hell, becauseI didn't care.I was the rulerover the world, becauseit was my world.

Black darkness and annoying stillnessThe broken almost lifeless manHugging the corner of a paint-chipped grey wallGasping for breathClutching tightly at his shaking knee capsRipped trousers, no shirtGrey eyes with almost too much agony to stay openHiding and longing for an escapeScreams from the outside, from children, from allSo loud and terrifying that the chill runs continuously up his spineSo intense that his head feels emptyHe is paralyzed and incoherentConfused with the thoughts of his carefree youthGone for almost forty-five years nowBut his persistent fight is now over and he waitsWaits for them to come and bring the rest of his lifeDeath is two steps behind

12 13

PING PONG

JILL KAISERMass Communications, 1986

Sunday morning drives --Remember?You drove us to the city --

to a gray, solemn buildingwhere doctors marched through halls,clad in disheveled white suits,wearing small, white signson wrinkled lapels.

Others, in faded jeans, draggedworn slippers to a tunethat we couldn't hear.

They stared at tired walls,dirty floors,or sometimesat nothing.

And sometimes when we passed --their swollen lips tried to smilewhile their distant eyesremained transfixed on pictures of childrenthey'd seen ages ago.

We just copied their moods --Smiled when they smiled --Tried to look sad when they looked down at us

and cried.We never asked you why.We never asked Morn why she slept

in this strange bed at the end of a school-like corridorinstead of sleeping home.

Our only question was a whispered,"Dad, where's the ping-pong table?"

Wherever Morn went,there was always a ping-pong table.

THE HARVEST

GREGORY S. FOXMicrobiology, 1985

Steamy weeds entrapped by fallow thorns.

Torn petals, fade in yesterday's orange light.

Once tender runners, flowing in dew moistened green.

Rapid, streaming arms, engulfing all that they touched,climbing tall seemingly friendly strangers.

Chlorophyll, full of bright rays, relentless and directionless.

Full of life were these times, plenty to eat in abundant warmth.

Every pluck of a bud by a mild rain ended in cool, seductivedarkness, only waiting for the familiar cockcrow.

The morning call came early today.What once seemed to dazzle and delight, now seemed dull.

The night's wetness was now colder, almost harsh.

Gone was the warmth after the fertile winds from a nearby field.

The farmer's stone walls clamored with the once hidden berriesof poison ivy, so red and sore.

The once green, friendly stalks, now crash downward, with theirplunging thorns, only to rip and ensnare her in a stark andbleached white ribcage.

14 15

EATING ART THE TEST

KAREN KELSOBiology, 1984

SARA SCHMEDINGOFFPhysical Therapy, 1986

Icy blues and fiery reds runfrom the corners of my mouth.

There is no watercolor like mine.

The museum is quiet.An air conditioner hums

in the distance.Parrots fly through the air,their wings beating in time.

Their vibrant colors mix.with the oils on the walls.

The curator sighs.He is tired andthe colors hurt his eyes.He winces with pain that comeswith age.As I rise into the air,I stretch my wings.Joyfully I flaparound the dazed curator.Then I join the flood of colorand paint the decaying museum.

I have been eating art.The curator sighs.He is old andhis withered leavesare brown.

His paintings are hollowand stale.

On a sultry August day in Missouria little girlwho worshipped her big brothertook a test

and passed.

The bullet embedded in the can,he turned around,waving her from the windowto his side

to try.

Then she aimed the gun and shot,The butt's hard forcedriving into her shoulderabruptly

and sharp.

Lovely pain in her body,her brother's arms-his smile of respect.She had passed

the test.

Watching him stand in the green steamy fieldwith Grandpa's rifleHe aimed it at the green bean can,held it up,

and shot.

Pushing the anxious sweat from her foreheadshe held the gunand pushed it on her shoulder,him behind her

safely.

With the rifle's spiteful blast,she flew back into himstopped by his strong hard hold.The bullet

hit target.

16 17

OFFERINGS RED

SARA SCHMEDINGOFFPhysical Therapy, 1986

SARA SCHMEDINGOFFPhysical Therapy, 1986

A woman mutters and calls for St. MaryOr for a daughter not seen in yearsWhose faded picture dangles over her bedNext to a tarnished crucifix

I would blow her softly far intoGod's caressing skieswhere she may end this deaththat some call life

If only I could take herLovable sickened soul in my palmsThis dandelion-A flower disguised as a weed

J

Looking in those blind gray pools of sorrowIntroducing myself day after dayTo this pathetic creature clutching rosary beadsWho knows me wellBut can't rememberHow I've held her sobbing corpseKissed tears from her weathered skinAnd seen her shameless broken bodyNaked before me.Like a pathetic offering to her GodOf all she has left to give

Through smelly sterile hallsI hear raspy coughs andDrones of Othello sungHuskily in the heavy darkness

Fiery red memories of my earliest daysthe sultry summer evening air that laylike a stifling wool blanket on the earthmy bare toes curling in the cool cultured grassmy fiery red frustration atmy helpless inability to communicate my simple thoughts

Fiery red memories of my earliest stormy expressionof my fatherpoised with the hosewatering the fiery red rosesthat grew like little splashes of lifeup the white latticethriving in the heavy heat

Fiery red memories of my earliest frustrationof my father's helpless eyes watching me--a little fiery ball of fury tumbling in the yardwhile the hose, aimed at me,cooled me off in a shocking splash of frigid authoritycalming my fiery red furymatting my hair and soaking mylittle red dresssitting, defeated, sobbing in the wet grass

Fiery red thoughts of days still with meof torrid frustration still felt at timesof not being able to say what I want to sayof being misunderstoodthe hose of chilly spraywhich I turn on myselflearning now to acceptthose fiery red emotionsin my fiery red soul

18 19

UNIDENTIFIED FALLING OBJECT

DAVID JAMIESONInformation Systems, 1984

Every evening during the summer I sit back and gaze across the shadowysky hoping to view a comet, falling star, or some other unidentifiable design.I sit outdoors on my elevated porch for hours in faithful anticipation of anunknown object to glide across the firmament. At times while becoming sodelirious, I visualize celestial bodies sinking towards earth. After a fewhallucinatory moments I transcend back to complete awareness. Somemight think it a waste of time to sit for hours and stargaze, but I have avision. I know that someday I will encounter an interstellar phenomenon thatwill change my life forever, and probably yours as well. I know not whatexactly might be in store for me, but do know it will inevitably change thecourse of mankind.

My fascination with the universe originated when I was a small lad. Iconstantly dreamt of rocketing from galaxy to galaxy in an immensestarship, my destination being the end of the universe. This preoccupationmust have stemmed from the birth of space exploration during my youth.Although the dream of becoming a space traveler eroded as the yearsflashed by, it was never completely erased by the "you can't earn a livingdoing that" river. Motion pictures in the style of STARWARS, CLOSEENCOUNTERS, and the "STAR TREK" episodes reaffirmed my belief thatthere is still a welcomed place for dreams in life and that one day I couldvery well become a full-fledged outer-space-man. My belief hinges on theidea that people can pursue and inevitably live out their dreams if theybelieve strongly in themselves and their causes. All too often, peopleentangle themselves in the vines of the non-believers of those ungraciouspersons in society who destructively say "your dreams are unrealistic" or"you'll never make anything of yourself if you pursue those unrealisticdreams." Well, I happen to have faith in my dream and know that if I keepon believing it will eventually come true. But unfortunately I have greatdoubt, doubt that scorches my confidence and soul, that is, doubt in thefuture of mankind; that man will ultimately self-destruct through the reigns ofnuclear warfare. To be realistic, how can we possess confidence in our ownexistence and dreams when we are currently on the threshold of nucleararmageddon? My only salvation is prayer and hope that the human race canhold on long enough for my dream to transpire.

In my estimation, man's interest in the universe has evolved from hisunquenchable desire to explain the unknown. Throughout centuries, manhas perpetually pondered with methods of experimentation and logicalreasoning to try to explain the mysteries surrounding him. Past and presentinstances, in such fields as medicine and science, have shown thatexperimental inquiry sometimes provides concrete responses to unansweredquestions. In general brevity, if no experiments are conducted, how can manlearn or find answers? He obviously cannot. On the basis of this notion, Ifind it reasonable to conclude that the human race have promoted theirprogress through the process of experimentation.

Man is blinded by the obstacles of his progress. He seems to lack thecapacity of foreseeing potential hazards or unhealthful implications arising asconsequences of his scientific developments. One such development ispersonified through the generation of nuclear weapons. Please keep in mindthe age-old prophecy that suggests, man has yet to develop a weapon whichhe hasn't used against his adversaries. It is quite obvious that man spentlittle time contemplating the type of warfare and potential suffering thatpresented itself with the birth of nuclear weapons. For a moment paint thepicture of distress and destruction of body and mind. Look at reality: pain,boiling blood, bursting vessels, incinerated tissue, the virulent effects ofradiation exposure deteriorating and mutilating bodies in microwave oven-like fashion. If man had ventured to glimpse this portrait of death, thisperversion of science that resembles the annihilation of civilization as weknow it, he may not have grappled with the nuclear flame. Instead he did,and now we are all burnt and will be scarred forever. This passage ofgrievance against man exhibits the simple ideology that he is blinded by hisdevices. Mankind will live and learn from his chemical pollution mistakes,but how can he expect to learn and live from his nuclear ones. Is mankindstill interested in the universe? If so, he better get it together and workthings out or he won't be here to enjoy all its wondrous intrigue.

20 21

To live the reality of all realities, let us assemble at the initial setting of myporch. Here is a planetary outpost, a fountain for my dreams and realm ofmy current existence. As if to slide through a hallucination I glimpse thetranslucent emergence of some cosmic debris glittering at the apex of thedark infinite sky. A first impression dictates a comet burning and leaving itscrystalline trails behind. Another judgement suggests the possibility of afalling star. But its illuminated fragmentations have fused into a fiery torch,and its descent is quite rapid. A thunderous rumble impregnates the air andsaturates my soul with a sense of uncertainty.

The vibrant roar of this ever-seeming rocket transforms my porch into achorus of chattering objects. Being swept into this cauldron of instability, Ibegin to wonder if my dream is being lived or whether the prophecy ofnuclear armageddon is upon us. ! encounter the realization of the latter; thatno rocket-ship has come for me, but rather a missle of death has come forall, a torch bearing nuclear flame. As the torch strikes the earth, it resemblesa dagger plunging into the skull of a helpless beast. A blinding glazeovercomes all, and an immeasurable wind of fission amplifies the screams ofa million souls in nuclear limbo...

DRIPS TO YOUSTEPHEN O'REILLYEnglish/Mass Communications, 1984

Feelings show, but your lips slideas you attempt speech.

Your heart glows through your pocket,but no shine.

Your mouth is open but out dribbles drivel,along with wine,

Soaking your shirt, your neighbor,and your reputation.

l've got "Thank you" on my collar,"You're welcome" on my tie.

There's a "Kiss me," a "Go away!"An "I like you," a "You lie!"The servant bathes in "Yes ma'ams,"While everyone swims in mouth-watering monograms.

Every tongue's in every cheek,A place where fools rarely go;

l'm dripping "yes's,"While you drip "no's;"

But the party's nearly over,All the slobber-pots are full,

And the stain on my shirtIs from the "Good-bye" flow.

Yes, the time is truly ripe for post-party kisses,Where all the juicy details supplied all the bliss;And a hundred soaked collarsPreach the truth about the timeWhen the heavy-breathing callersSnipped the saturated line.

22 23

ACROSS THE STREET A.M.

STEPHEN O'REILLY STEPHEN O'REILLY

Cold soup and coffee.I throw down my book and slam the screen door.Yellow flowers and bare feet.I wait for the black Studebaker to pass.

Broken screen door and boards on the porch.! wear my knuckles thin.So much mail and the rattling telephone.The tears burn my springtime face.

As I tug gently at your doorTwo small birds fly chaotically past my ear.

I wince.The decaying porch leads into the dry kitchen,

Where along the baseboard lie dead cigarette butt roachesthat peer out at me.

I wince again.Strewn furniture, a rusty tub and a small, neat

Nest from some chaotic birds dominateA once well-kept cottage, a mirror-image

Of my hole of humility across the street.

Boy in car - steering wheel almost an extended part of his body.I, also in car, sunk low in the soft, comfortable bucket seat.

I have no desire to peer over the dashboard.Were those trees?What was that red thing?

Boy in car plunges, races into the abyss.I, in no position to argue, am not arguing.

Boy's feet work rubber-coated pedals up and down.The car thrums.My mind hums.

I begin humming to myself,As boy wrestles with the steering wheel.

Flashing lights, One-way signs,Hugging tires.

I pretend to sleep.Boy refuses oak, me, conscience, and

the image of Clara Barton, instantaneously.Boy's hands on the glistening wheel affect me poignantly.

The trees are closer. Boy hiccups.The red lights - I eagerly watch them spin me to sleep.

2524

PUTTING MY BEST FOOT FORWARD THIS BITTER EARTH

KAREN KELSO RITA CAMPBELLEnglish, 1986

As I look at you I rememberour first encounter.The toe people amused mefor hours as I lingered behindthe walls of my crib.

Entrance through the four red doorsMen slouched across the barBacardi, Vodka, Gin.

Later, as I grew, you were there.In your costume of the day,red rubbers squelchingon the cold pavementcomplaining of the wetness.

You always supported me,leaving your mark everywherewhen we walked on the sand.A funny imprint that wasunique to you.

I do not think of youas I trot swiftly on my way.Yet as I continue to move about,I clutch tightly to the freedomYou've given me without objection.

Striding purposely forward,you carried me.You rarely showed emotion,yet turned ice bluewhile walking naked through snow.

Dark like a tunnelTo the tables more nervous now than everBacardi, Vodka, Gin.

Seating was tight, people back to backMarijuana smoke cluttered the airBacardi, Vodka, Gin.

Sounds of sniffing -- cocaine of course!Voices get louder, tension buildsProstitutes scream, chairs fly, bottles crashBacardi, Vodka, Gin.

Intense profanity increasesProfanity, fists, bullets!Bacardi, Vodka, Gin.

26 27

PLUM TRANSFORMISM

JENNIFER MUCCI KATHE GROSSERContinuing Education

Say the word.., plumDistinctlyPlumAcknowledge the airExhaling from your mouthWhen you sayThe first part of the wordPlumFeel your tongueFeel the moistureWhen your tongue hits your upper lipPlumExperience the relaxationWhen your tongueHits your bottom lipNow feel your lipsClose back together againPlum... plum

BloodRuns

From my mouth in streams.I breathe now of the element of water.The bones I crunch

Belong to swimmers.

The lifeguardStands unmoving,

Eyes open wide and riveted on my sleek form;His arms dangle helplessly at his sides.No swimmers

Remain.

Automatic timers blink the pool lights on.The kickboards slap emptily

On the frothing water.Their users gone, like headstones

They mark graves.

The lifeguardTrembles to motion and begins to edge away.

His eyes dart from side to side in their sockets;As I move towards him,His mouth opens in a

Soundless scream.

I diveDeeply.

When I surface near the lifeguard,My newly formed fin marks my

Swiftdeadlymovements.

28 29

I

DUST A WAY OF LIFEKATHE GROSSER

I sit in Grandma's worn, threadbare rocker;Needles with many different-colored, hanging streams of threadAre stuck in the cushioned, right arm of her chair.Plucking a needle with red thread out of the arm,I run my thumb and index finger along the thread until it slips from

between --There is no knot,And the tips of my finger and thumb feel dusty.The light from her reading lamp/table shines on one of her many western

novels,But there is no reflection - -A thin layer of dust has collected there, too.I shake my head quickly,Smearing tears from my eyes down my cheeks with the backs of my hands.Objects on the folding card table include a shoebox of bottled medications;I reach out and pick one up --"Digitalis," the medication reads --The bottle slips down through my hand back into the box --Again, my fingers feel dusty.In the sewing basket between the chair and table,An unfinished tablecloth lies on top;I shake it out, so it spreads like a blanket over me.The embroidery of the colorful, wing-spread butterfly is unfinished,And motes that had been shaken outSettle once again on the outspread tablecloth.

JILL KAISERMass Communications, 1986

Mannikin like. Dark three piece suit with co-ordinating tie. Midnight(black) hair with fresh comb tracks, complementing a dark, neatly groomedmustache. He could have stepped off a billboard advertising Marlborocigarettes. But you wouldn't see him pasted against a beautiful sun set,surrounded by rolling mountains or rugged country. No. His home's in thecity. A definite businessman. Steady job. Steady money. Comfortable life.Someone you'd be proud to take home to mom. But there's no upwardinclination of the lips. Straight, fiat: serious. Nothing more than a pair of lipshanging out on a young, attractive face.

"Another day of work." Steady rhythm of the feet as his bank accountcompels him across the park to a desk inside a cubicle. His desk, aninanimate slab of metal that leads a life comparable to his own. Nevermoving from a cubicle of structured routine. Buried under name andnumber filled folders, computer readouts, and countless cups of coffee."What a life."

Stagnant eyes examine a folder he is dragging to the office. Fingers fumblewith the lifeless pages of drudgery that keep his pockets filled. A masculine,gold, college stamped ring glistens as he drags his finger down unendinglists. But the ring is the only thing that shines. No smile. No emotion.Nothing. Joseph F. Connolly, another John Brown in the world of routine,rules and business.

3O31

Morning is starting to come into focus as he walks. Sun and shadows playgames on the green grass and weather stained park benches, creating anarray of colors Ansel Adams would be proud to capture. But he doesn'tnotice. A handful of people share the park with him this morning, but hedoesn't see them either. Joe doesn't even hear the harmonica notes floatinginto his ears from ahead. Or the old man wa!king in his direction. (The oldman is a complete contrast to himself. An extreme in the oppositedirection).

Ragged pants, wrinkled, un-tucked cotton shirt. Roughly shaven face.Tree stump stubble covering an aged, weather-worn face. Not much to lookat. Crey thickets of hair wander haphazardly upon his head. Probably hasn'tseen a comb in a while. Worn out, laceless, work boots shuffle him along tothe beat of the blues escaping from his harmonica. An old man with perhapsnothing more than a mouth full of music. But, there's a gleam in the old,hazel eyes that sings along with his music, and contradicts the rest of hisphysical appearance. He pulls the mouth organ from his lips and takes adeep breath. "Bessie Smith, eat your heart out." The old eyes look up, butit's too late. Early morning collision between two pedestrians. Joe brusheshis tailored pants as he lifts himself off the sidewalk. Folder, papers, namesand numbers, scattered. Lucky there's only a slight breeze.

"Christ, old man, gotta watch where you're walkin'." Glistening ringtouches a ripped cotton shirt as Joe helps the old man off the ground. Theharmonica, lying amongst restless papers, gleams in a silver tone in contrastto the ring. The old man looks a little dazed. He puts an aged hand on Joe'sshoulder and steadies himself. The two make an interesting combination,standing together in this slightly chaotic scene. They could have been put ina children's puzzle book, with the sub-script "can you tell what's wrong withthis picture?"

The old man smiles at Joe through hazel eyes and slightly up-turned lips.A slight aroma of sea water and salty air surrounds the man in the samesubtle way that razor stubble surrounds his face. Joe smiles back at this life-size picture of "the old man of the sea." Somewhere in the back of his mindhe remembers such a character living on the pages of some semi-forgottenbook, or smiling at him from a piece of canvas hanging in some art gallery,or perhaps some dock-side bar he may have wandered into. He helps theold man to steady himself, and then bends to retrieve both of their preciouspossessions. A young, strong hand reaches out and places the lip-wornharmonica into the aged hand of its owner. The two men exchangehandshakes. Both firm, strong hands clasped in a brief moment offriendship.

The sun is getting higher now, as one man makes his way to his deskinside a cubicle, and another wanders in the opposite direction, toward thefishing boats and the sea.

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TRUE HAPPINESS ODE TO A FRIEND

CHRISTOPHER JONESMass Communications, 1986

MIKE MARKESICHMass Communications, 1986

One day I asked my Philosophy teacher,the one who talks to us about life,what is happiness and where do I find it?

I visited the movie star down the streetand asked him what he thought happiness was,and could he tell me where to find it.

Next I talked to my good friend,the one who married the beautiful model,and asked if he knew the answers to my questions.

They all shook their heads and smiledwithout giving me the answers.

Then one day in mid-May,I wandered along the beach and I sawa group of teenage boys and girlsdrinking six-packs of beer and listening to music.

Twenty-two frets laid upon a shining maple neckIts surface soft as silkStretching eighteen inches downWhere it attaches itself to the bodyShaped to the style of the classic stratocasterEmbedded in the body are three single coil pickupsTo echo crisp highsOr thunderous lowsAn extended tremelo barMelds into the bridgeA11owing a wavering vibratoReminiscent of a Hawaiian twangThe six steel stringsStretched across the cherry red bodyJangle harmoniously as the pick strikesA soft slide conjures up an imageOf Andy Griffith on the front porch of a farm houseIn the cool evening shadowsA flick of a switch dispenses a monsterScreaming to deafening decibelsHammer-ons, pull-offs, bends and harmonicsMajor ninths, diminished fifths and tonal chordsAre all part of a languageWhich I can transform universally in songAs my friend and I unite as one.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The staff of Montage gratefully acknowledges the support of:

THE STUDENT GOVERNMENT, for their financial assistance

ALL STUDENTS WHO SUBMITTED MANUSCRIPTS ORATTENDED THE STUDENT READING

BARBATO-HUNT, INC. of New Haven, for their work intypesetting, printing, and producing the magazine.

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