the

literary

magazine

o/

quinnipiac

college

number three

fall, 1982

MONTAGE

The Literary Magazineof Quinnipiac College

Volume One, Number Three

STAFFElizabeth Barnard

Leslie BarnesEllen Carreiro

John ChamberlainDebbie Dorio

Stephen O'ReillyMark Johnston, Faoalty Advisor

We dedicate this issue of MONTAGE to thememory of Cynthia Reynolds.

With this issue, the third, Montage begins its second year. I believe that thequality of this issue reflects the intelligence and the hard work of thestudent staff, and attests to the increased interest and sophistication of ourstudents as they continue to support the staff's efforts with their finemanuscripts and their suggestions for improving the magazine.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Special thanks should go to David Martino, Executive Vice President andArt Director for the firm of Wilcox and Martino of Wethersfield,Connecticut. David's gracious assistance greatly facilitated the typesetting,

printing and production of this issue.

I should also like to thank, of course, all of the students who submittedmanuscripts for our consideration, both those whose work we accepted, andthose whose work we did not. You are learning the rewards and frustrationsof trying to write well. Your efforts are entirely praiseworthy, and I knowthat I can speak for the Quinnipiac faculty in encouraging you to continue

them.

The deadline for the spring issue of Montage will be around April 1st.Manuscripts should be sent to Montage, Box 49, and should be typed on81A×11 paper. They should bear the name of the author, his or her campusaddress and phone number, and his or her major and year of graduation.

-- Mark Johnston,

Faculty Advisor, Montage

I hope you enjoy Volume 2, Number 3.

PageOne-sided Conversation ........ Stephen O'Reilly .................... 4

Mass Comm. '84Under the Willow ............. Lisa DeGennaro ..................... 5

Sparkling Air Mass Comm. '86The WavesAsk Me ...................... Claudeth Forbin ..................... 7

English '83Who am I? ................... Margit E. Kaye ...................... 8

Adult Degree ProgramEnglish Composition .......... Bill Kiely ........................... 12

Mass Comm. '83The Abandoned Poem ......... John Chamberlain ................... 13

Aura Continuing EducationCheckout ..................... Ellen Kelley ........................ 16

Adult Degree ProgramThe Fire ..................... Jennifer Ellis ........................ 18

English '83You Tell the Truth ............ Cathy Christino ..................... 19

Mass Comm. '86

A Day In a Life ............... Chris Tagatac ....................... 20

Liberal Arts '84Bedtime Story ................ Stephen O'Reilly .................... 22

ONE-SIDED CONVERSATION

You're a colloquial buzz-saw,

She told me one day.(Oh, do I ride a roller-coaster ofMetaphorical gizmos?)If the world believes anythingYou say, it's daft.

Under the willowA soldier boy lies dreamingIn a crimson pool.Though it is cold, he stirs not;Death sleeps soundly on his face.

Lisa DeGennaro

Consequently, I began toToy with the ideaOf inventing something, Anything.An escalator of sorts,

To take me up and out of thisUsed-up world ofRhetoric and name-calling.

The wavesCrash on the rocksAnd spray them with white foam.The moon (which hides behind the rocks)Approves.

Stephen O'Reilly

And I'll hush, be silent,Don the suit of the mute,I'll even forget the fact,That no matter the content of our conversations,You're trapped in there, and I'm right here. Different shades of blue

Cornflower, midnight, and skySwirling through my mind like the waves of the blue sea.Fill me with gentle power.

Time slipping away,Like the sand through an hourglass.Holding my dreams close, never wanting to let go;But my childhood has to end.

Lisa DeGennaro

Lisa DeGennaro

Lisa DeGennaro

You prove to me, I told her,Beyond the shadow of the spur-of-the-momentOf doubt, that your view, asContinental, pessimistic, cynical, and distortedAs it is, needs not the touchstone ofPoetic license,

Sparkling air, cool breeze,Water slipping on the rocksSunshine evicts gloom.

Lisa DeGennaro

4 5

Dark, violet douds,Sky of rose, turquoise, and gold.Fiery setting sun, earth and sky are one;Now dare to ask miracles of God.

ASK ME

Lisa DeGennaro

O cracked, ancient vase,Lying in the museum on a velvet cloth;By whose hands were you caressed, and what secrets do you know?

Lisa DeGennaro

Silent and twistedFingers that may never moveReaching towards heaven.

Lisa DeGennaro

Whispers in the skyGossamer curtains of airDrifting unguided.

Lisa DeGennaro

Lisa DeGennaro

Captured imagesMemories trapped in gold framesSmiles frozen in time.

"And now a word from our sponsors!"Ah man! Just when things was getting good. Why must these people

always interrupt the good stuff with these stupid commercials. I wonderwhich one it's going to be this time. Maybe the one about the, "Hi, I'm thÿUltra-Bright girl". She's pretty, but damn, she's got so many teeth. Or maybeits going to be the soap commercial. Yea, the one where the kids go rollingdown the cliff getting filthy. Buy Bold, it'll get your clothes clean after a dayof play. What normal kid rolls down a cliff. Boy, if I ever came home thatdirty, I'd be sleeping on that cliff permanently. Anyway, hurry up with it, so Ican find out what's up.

Just as I thought, the Ultra-Bright girl commercial. And here's the onewith the stupid kids, rolling down the mountain and the mother smiling --"It's okay honey, I've got Bold." Hmm. I've never seen this one before. Has tobe insurance though, he's got on a suit. Or maybe some new statistically sig-nificant drug to cure everything but the common cold. No can't be, he's not ina doctor's office. (Fade to Television)

Funny isn't it. Chances are you're a drug addict. In fact, you probably have apill or two tucked away in a drawer.

But drugs aren't something you can stash and forget. If the stuff is going towork for you and your family it has to be the right kind of pill. The rightamount. And fit your changing habit.

Stop and think. Is $10,000 of amphetamines now enough? Or do you need$100,000? $200,000? More?

And what kind of amphetamine should you have? Benzedrine, Methe-drine? So, he kind of combination?

If you have your own dealer, what kind of drugs does he give to keybuyers? Is it better to have two dealers? Or get your own pharmacy?

If you don't know the answers, don't feel badly about it. Lots of addictsdon't.

That's where I come in. I am one of the 12,000 N.Y. Life Agents who havethe solution. I have to. It's my full-time career.

It's my job to keep abreast of the new life drug products. And changes inthe economy that can affect your family's future habit.

What you don't know about amphetamines and drugs, I am ready, willing,and able to tell you.

Put me to the test.Ask how you can perpetuate your family's standard of drug without ruining

your budget.Or how to satisfy the tax man and keep your stash all in the family.Or retire on a cache that will never run out. No, never.

Ask. As a N.Y. Life Agent I'll share my contacts With you.And what I know will help you feel confident and secure about your life

drug program.Put me to the test.

Ask me.

(Fade back) Claudeth ForbinUh! Ohhhh!

7 ,

WHO AM I?

"Who am I?" I could answer, "I am man!" But, who is man? From theperspective of the Bible, Abraham J. Heschel describes man as, "a being intravail with God's dreams and designs, with God's dream of a worldredeemed, of reconciliation of heaven and earth, of a mankind which is trulyHis image, reflecting His wisdom, justice, and compassion. God's dream isnot to be alone, to have mankind as a partner in the drama of continuouscreation. By whatever we do, by every act we carry out, we either advance or

obstruct the drama of redemption; we either reduce or enhance the power ofevil."

How comforting and soothing and meaningful are these words from a Bib-lical connection. Was it my mother's strong belief in God and words from theBible, like these, which helped to preserve her sanity and save her life andmine during the atrocious times of the Russian occupation of our home inOberschiSna (East Germany), and during the year suffered in the BritishPOW camp after World War II?

"Zeigen Sie Ihre Ausweispapiere" (Show your passports)! said the harsh,strident voice of a young soldier who had his automatic rifle pointing directlyat us. I clasped my mother's cold, thin hand tightly. It was clammy and moist,and I wondered how she could perspire on a chilly November day. "We aresafe now, Margit," my mother said in a voice strained with emotion. Shelooked down at me tenderly. Tears were rolling down her pale thin cheeks,and a shine had come into her eyes which she seemed to have lost long ago."We are now at the British prisoner of war camp!" I looked up fearfully atthe young, blond soldier who had a livid scar on his pale high forehead. Hisbrown eyes looked down at me curiously and a trace of smile hovered abouthis thin lips. I lowered my head embarrassed. I was amused to see that theblack army boots he was wearing looked a lot like mine; they had the samesilver hooks and lots of tiny creases -- only mine were a lot smaller andlooked much more frayed and worn. They were the only pair of shoes Iowned, and were about two sizes too large for me. My mother had squeezedtiny paper balls inside to make them "fit", but each walk resulted in ugly redblisters on each toe. Nevertheless, I felt blessed to have a pair of shoes at all,especially since my mother had to do hard labor, cutting full grown evergreentrees for three months; her "pay" was this pair of used boots. They hadbelonged to one of the farmer's children who was killed by the Russiansoldiers when they occupied the small town of Obersch6na, where we hadlived before coming to the British POW camp called Munsterlager (in thenorthern part of Germany) ....

My mother had her papers all in order in a small yellow envelope whichshe retrieved from her shabby black coat and handed over to the soldier. Hekept looking back and forth, squinting his eyes at my mother's passport pic-ture and then at my mother. Maybe he was wondering how that smiling,broad-cheeked, blonde young woman in the picture could look so different injust five years; the hair was totally grey now, her cheeks were sunken, thebones painfully prominent. There were very narrow, large dark circles aroundher light blue eyes and a myriad of tiny lines. Was he wondering whether itwas indeed the same woman in the picture, thirty-three years of age? Or washe suddenly cognizant of how much this woman, who was the "enemy", hadsuffered during these war years?

The soldier silently handed the papers back to my mother and motioned usto go to the "Hauptquartier" (head-quarter barracks). It was there I wouldmeet my father for the first time! I was not very happy at the thought ofsuddenly having to share my mother with a "strange man". He had not beenwith us when we needed him. Why was he fighting in Russia in a war whenhe was needed so badly at home? Had he been home, he might have beenable to prevent the pain of constant hunger, the not being able to sleep, thetorture of thinking of food constantly. The desire to have a large piece ofbread all to myself! Yes! This was indeed my biggest wish, just once to haveenough food so that I could really say I was full -- oh, what a beautifuldream! Why was my father not home to protect us when the Russian soldiersinvaded my grandmother's home where we were staying in OberschiSna? --when they raped the woman and put hayforks through the children, an actwhich my mother and I witnessed from a precarious hiding place. Why dogrown men embroil themselves in war? Is it the wish-fulfillment of a childishdream, like little boys playing with toy soldiers and machine-guns, playing thewar game, and inevitably, inexorably, making it real when they grow up justas little girls play with dolls and become mothers once they are grown up?

We now walked along a narrow dirt and gravel road, stirring up swirls offine dust with each step. White barracks with black roofs were to our left andright and there was not a tree in sight. Looking up, I would see huge walls ofrolled barbed wire around the camp and way up there in the air the littlewooden houses of the prison guards. They looked like little toy soldiers upthere. Long wooden ladders were leaning against these houses and each ofthe white barracks we passed had a Bristish soldier with a machine gun pacingback and forth in front. "Look at this, Mutti, -- look! -- over there! -- a man

without legs!," I shouted. The young man on crutches heard me, looked upand smiled, -- a beautiful smile. He partially let go of one of his crutches andsaid, "Komm mal her, Kleine, ich hab was fur dich! ("Come here, little one, Ihave something for you"). He reached into the pocket of his loose, whiteshirt and pulled out something round and orange in color. I grabbed it hastilyand ran back to my mother to show her the "ball" I had just gotten from thisnice stranger. "No," my mother replied, "this is an orange; you can eat it after

you take off the skin." I thought I was in heaven. In almost seven years of mylife I had never tasted anything so delicious. After having shared that orangewith my mother, I could not understand why they needed these guards withmachine guns around. I would never leave this nice place where they hadsuch delicious food. No, I hoped to be staying there for as long as I lived!

!WHO AM I? cont ....

A medium height, slim, bald man with friendly blue-grey eyes behindsilver-framed glasses came limping toward us out of the Hauptquartier. Mymother let go of me and yelled, "GerhaM, GerhaM!"... it was my father. Hehugged both of us tightly and I could not understand why big tears were run-ning down his hollow, bony cheeks. The tall, slender man in uniform insidethe building must have been an officer, for he had gold leaves wreathedaround his army hat and a display of colorful little ornaments decorating hisright chest. He had black, bushy eyebrows, which frightened me at first, butwhen he looked at my mother and me I noticed that he had kind blue eyes. Ihad the feeling that these people were not really our enemies, that we wereindeed saved. In broken German he asked to see our belongings. All thebelongings we had were the shabby clothing we were wearing, and mymother held up her thin, small hand to show the Officer her shiny gold wed-ding band. The rest of our possessions had been destroyed in Dresden duringthe infamous bombing of that city, my birthplace. I did not even have one toy-- how nice it would be to have a doll with me. How I missed all my beauti-ful dolls and my yellow and light blue parakeet which sang all his specialsongs to me in Dresden. But they were in heaven now and I was sure thatthe cute little baby-faced angels were happily playing with them.

Now my father showed our new "home" to us: one large room in barracksnumber 231 with tiny windows and lots of mattresses partly covered withgrey blankets. The only decoration on the walls was a bare light bulb stickingout from the middle of the ceiling. My father told us that we would have toshare this room with three other mothers and six children, who would arrivein two weeks from another POW camp. He then surprised us with somepiping-hot flour soap which he had saved in his tin can for us from his lastmeal. It tasted sweet and delicious. I made sure that every little drop of foodwas cleaned off my plate. Of course I was still hungry, but I knew that thesepeople would not let us starve. The British were Russian allies, but so muchdifferent. We did not have to fear constant death any more. My father had togo back to his barracks, so he embraced us gently and wished us a good night.The moon was casting bright long beams through the windows, giving theempty mattresses a ghostly appearance. My mother started to shiver andsoon her whole body was shaking. She looked as though she was chargedwith electricity. I collected all the blankets from the other mattresses, placingthem gently over my mother. She could not stop shaking, -- she cried now,she cried out loud, -- louder, -- she screamed .... Two soldiers entered our

room and switched on the light. They spoke in English, a foreign languagewhich I could not understand but both had kind faces. The soldier with thered hair and freckles stroked my mother's hair gently, but there was nocalming her down. She kept repeating over and over, screaming, "Die Russensind hier, sie bringen uns alle um" ("The Russians are here, they will kill usall") . . .

The next morning I was allowed to visit my mother in the camp hospital.My father told me that she had had a nervous breakdown. When I openedher door, she was sitting up in bed with a beautifulÿ thick, white pillow and aquilt covering her legs. Her face was extremely pale and the circles under hereyes were larger now. Our eyes met and I knew that she recognized me.There was silence as we just touched each other's hands. Then my motherembraced my head with her two thin, cold hands and said, "Margit, ich lassedich nicht allein, ich werde wieden gesund. Der Hergott ist bei mir."("Margit, I will not leave you alone I will get better. God is with me.")

My mother kept her promise. After nine months of hospitalization shewas well again, and several months after that we were all allowed to leave the

camp.Many years have passed since my childhood, looking back at these years of

travail, again Abraham Joshua Heschel's words come to my mind. Throughsuch travail have I become "God's partner, with His dream of a worldredeemed, heaven and earth reconciled, praying for wisdom, justice andcompassion -- not to be alone, and by every act to advance the drama ofredemption -- to reduce the power of evil."

Margit E. Kaye,A.D.P.

10 11

ENGLISH COMPOSITION

Trivial cliches and wording is awkwardoverpower my speling errors.My misuse of punctuation?are counterattacked by manny many revisions.Verb tense disagreed with my subject matter.Although my sentence structureIs fragmented.Are my thoughts jumbled.I try to paraphrasebut issue an "exact quote"

omitting minor words.One paragraph is misplaced.

Another is too short.Even my nam is mispeled.Yet my writing, although difficult to understandRepresents me the individualcapable of misteaks.

?

THE ABANDONED POEM

It was a ship built in the light of one moon,launched before the flood,and now it breaks apart in the weatherof its first reading.The best board splinters away,straightening from the curve it was forced to,and the captain puts his foot there,but the whole vessel falls apartand he swims ashoreclutching the one salvagable board.

12

Bill Kidy

To build a boat that survives the seatakes years: one starts

with rowboats, then day-sailers,spending weeks polishing the brightwork,nights screwing the joints secure.One learns to carry less gearso the whole boat doesn't sink,but turns its form lightly on the waves.

One needs to have bartered for teakin the markets of Chiengmai,and pitched down mines in Bulawayo,thieving for chrome at night,to have walked naked

through furnaces where steel is poured,to have been swallowed by a whale,and stay there until he dies and rots on a beach,the hull of bones emerging one day,and walk out and find your way home.Otherwise the ship you build will not be yours.

And one needs others to set the rigging straight,and those who know the faces of the sea.But in its seaworthinessthe poem should take on water,the boards should surrender and drift apart,for nothing we can build will stand up to life.

When it does break upthe captain goes down with the ship,not fighting the whirlpoolbut takes his last breath in the funnel,and hangs onto the railing

as the ship twists and tumbles to the bottom ....13

w

In its watery landingthe thunder multiplies in the turquoise world,then • silence returns.

He records its setting,citing the other wrecks nearby,and seawalks into the hold of the ship,carried by the influx of water.He enters each cabin, swims up to those drowned,still sitting in their chairs,and takes from their lungs the last bubble of air,and goes on, leaving the doors openso they may wander among the ruins,and pass their armsthrough sunlight twisting like ropes of kelp,while fish swim in and out of their mouths.

AURA

He leaves them with a perfect reluctance,forcing out the last globe of airand follows it to what shines above,clutching nothing but the waterthat passes through his hands.

The silence one feelsin the presence of truth

makes you feel small and happyas an ant that stops its hurrying

and crawls inside a blue bell to sleepwithout dreaming

or twitching his legs to keep their pace,only stillness

as the flower's breast stirs in the wind.And he can tell, without investigation,

that fireflies are mating outside,from the rhythms of lightning

spilling across the flower'sskin.

14

John R. Chamberlain Jr.

Among the survivors he findsa general panic, as they struggleto climb aboard the crystal ships,claiming from the debriswhat they must have to go on,and among others who tread the water,a general peace,swimming with nothing but their lives.

15

CHECKOUT

I used to wonder why I did not have the extra time -- to read a book,march in protest, fly a kite -- promised by Madison Avenue's rhetoric, itsglossy hype, even though the newest, quickest, one-step marvels filled my life.It is said that the wonders of technology have eliminated the mundane,improved the routine, freed for the consumer the time needed to concentrateon leading productive, exciting, meaningful lives. Relieved of the efforts asso-ciated with simple tasks, one's energies can be directed toward the ever-changing future, they say, a future filled with opportunity and challenge.True, the technologies are sound; the electronics are in place. My frost-free,ice-cube-making appliance, as well as its mates, waits to be filled with delightsfree of carbohydrates, calories, and cholesterol. However, I have simple,though critical, impediments to overcome before my life will be as they say.

Last week I again turned my hatchback onto the shopping center's stickyasphalt acreage, and amid shimmering heat and blinding reflections fromwindshields and assorted chrome trim, made my habitual attempt to locate aparking place close to the supermarket's door. I drove slowly, hands a bitslippery on the wheel, alert for pedestrians and departing vehicles, searchingfor a void between two measured white stripes. Several times potential spacesproved to be taken by aluminum shopping carts, sprawled at angles thatdefied joint occupancy. Their plastic-coated placards shouted in chartreuse andtangerine SHOP SOOPER DOOPER SUPERMARKET, and the "happy-faces" on the flip sides grinned HAVE A NICE DAY.

I wound the car around scattered baskets that squatted in crooked-wheeledsplendor and obstructed the quick and easy stop and shop service of themarket until a place for the Accord was found. Vexed by the new dent theHonda received from a line-straddling cart that somehow jumped into itspath, I decided to put the offender into service and began the ordeal. I tried toturn the shopping carriage toward the store and then realized that this four-wheeler would operate on only three of its hard black rubber tires. Foiled, Isquared my shoulders and began to search for one of the idlers that hadblocked my path earlier. Zero. They must have been heat-induced mirages;the spots they were in gaped with emptiness. Those harbingers of Sooper'sservice and convenience had fled the scene.

In the shade of the store's overhanging roof I spotted, and marchedtoward, a formation of conveyances, a chain of tenacity interlocked nose totail. It took determination and strength -- yank and jerk effort -- for me tobreak their embrace, but I finally had a wagon.

As fate would have it, a clack, clack, clack, clack sound of protest emanatedfrom its rolling left rear wheel. Knowing that my already tender nerveendings would not outlive the clatter, and rather than further endanger mymental health, I cast off that basket on wheels with a mighty shove towardthe fire lane. Let it play in traffic for awhile, thought I, and returned to grap-ple with another of the cracked plastic crossbars ....

16Ellen Kelley,

A.D.P.

The new carrier was quite free-wheeling, eager to move out. Suspicious, Iglanced down and knew why this one was so available. There, entwined withthe cart's welded lengths of metal, was the frequently seen, always repulsive,mysterious brown-molded green of wilted leaf, clinging in parasitic fashion toits host. I had to reject it. Head pounding, hands shaking, and perspirationstinging my eyes, I grabbed the next cart, no longer concerned with esthetics.With the resolve and rage of a crazed person, I pushed it across the rubbermat that triggered the whoosh of chrome and glass door that gave entry tothe fluorescent glare of Sooper's interior.

I chided myself for being susceptible, for reacting childishly to minorannoyances while prices soared, and fuel ran out, and people starved, andbombs burst. Yet, I wondered, was there any hope for resolutions to thosemajor concerns when simple tools and fundamental services could not beproduced or provided.

I shook the dilemma from my mind and lunged down an aisle, past pro-duce in cellophaned, heat-sealed packages of threes and fours -- I wantedonly two -- their contents resting on yellow Styrofoam, bruises turned under.Readying to make a right turn, I found the flaw in my carriage: it was left-wheeled, and Sooper's aisles were designed for right turns. So determinedlyleft-wheeled was my wagon that once started in that direction it continued inever tightening circles until its nose almost bumped my butt. A quick side-step and applied right-handed pressure kept me from being had.

Although tempted to abandon the entire project, I decided that non-conformity was the order of the day, made left turns, and bucked the flow ofone-way traffic along aisles designed for slow-paced single files. Impervious tothe looks and sounds of ostracism from my fellow shoppers, I searched infrustration among quarts of milk that carried expiration dates of yesterdayand by-passed crimson meats that smelled gray. Instead, I settled for the "picka number" counter that proffered orange bologna, water-injected ham, andfake cheese.

Numbed by conditioned-air freeze and anguish of the mind, I queued onthe snaking line that awaited the lying promise of a speedy checkout. Theyouth charged with bagging ambled off periodically in search of who knowswhat; the checker, boredom personified, entered a hypnotic trance at eachflutter of a coupon; the cash register, winded from whirling, hiccupped andgobbled tape; the manager, needed only for his initials, could not be found.My fortitude was running out.

I was next. The final phase remained. Heartened, I anticipated the egress. Ineeded only to stick the stub-nosed basket into the bumpered checkout chute,unload its contents onto the conveyor belt, move it to the front of the chute,have the items rung up, get bagged, pay the price, and get out.

Too simple. The cart, wider at its mid-section than the chute would allow,became wedged. I tried. Push. Pull. Shove. Yank. Fuck it.

I strode from the scene, passing fellow consumers, stunned checkers, slack-jawed baggers, ghosts of managers past, and tramped over the rubber mat.The closing whoosh of the chrome and glass door separated me from anotherof the twentieth century's fluorescent marvels.

I found the Accord encircled by shopping carts and had to chuckle at theabsurdity of it all. While driving home I thought about the complexity of thetechnology that had created the time-saving microwave and Cuisinart, andwondered when I would be able to effortlessly put them to use.

17

THE FIRE YOU TELL THE TRUTH

This fall the trees have turned earlyBrown-red-gold and gloryFalls to the ground.The sharp smell of their burningIs carried on a tangy apple wind,When I was a childI jumped in the pilesFelt the crisp livesBreak beneath my fall.One day it would be time for burningWill it kill them, Daddy? I asked,And we shivered in the cold blowing wind,But it was only the fire that died.

This fall our hearts have turned coolerLove-joy-pain and laughterFalls to the ground.The sharp sound of their burningIs carried as a harsh word in the wind.When I grew olderI found things more fragileSaw our cracked livesBreak by early fall.Once there was time for love's burningWill it last forever? I asked,And we trembled in the cold empty wind,It was only the fire that died.

You tell the truth but you tell it slantBut to lie is a sin and to lie you say you can'tYou preach ideals you think are trueAnd the rules don't seem to apply to youThe celestial bodies gathered up aboveShine upon you their heavenly loveYou may fool them but you can't fool meI know who you are trying to beYou construct your watch-towers and minaretsOn off hours you run to place your betsYour dreams of gold in shimmering hallsAre concealed by flickering candles upon the wallsYou ask for salvation and give nothing in returnBut take from us young minds to burnYou send them out on the crime-ridden streetTo sell flowers for you for food to eatYou think you're immortal to carry His powerBut He's watching you watch them from a higher watch-towerYou cannot steal an innocent soulAnd crucify him to achieve your goalWhat's wrong for them is right for youTell me how can these double standards be true?You tell the truth at a sharp-angled slantBut ahalf lie's a lie and a lie is just that.

Cathy ChristinoMass Comm. '86

lennifer EllisEnglish, '83

1918

A DAY IN A LIFE A DAY IN A LIFE cont.

Boom, boom, ba-boom, as the cannons fired to free the virgin snow. Onlyto be flattened out later that day. Skiing down "nine Lives", the hardest trailon the mountain. Leaving an unmistakable trail to be admired by those pass-ing over. He is about to stop and rest when the ground begins to crumble.An avalanche, he thinks, as he pushes off with his poles. Unfortunately, hehas realized, that he's pushed himself right into it. The ground begins tomove at an ever increasing rate, faster and faster and faster; until he can bearno more. In a flash, a jolt of some kind runs from his chest outward, to allthe outermost parts of his body.

"Get up, get up, you're going to be late for dass," his roommate yells fromthe opposite side of the room. It's time for class. As his eyes open, he sees theworld at his feet. It's a centerfold he had tacked up from last month's Augustedition of National Geographic, volume one sixty, number eight. There isalso a map of the United States, that spans the length of his bed. As he sitsup, his head goes from Florida to North Dakota, and his legs from Californiato somewhere down in the South Pacific Ocean. Finally he is able to stand onhis own two feet and ten toes. Having nothing on but his under shorts, I cansee what he looks like.

He is not extremely tall or short. His dark hair and skin and nature of hisbody give him the bodily appearance of one of those kids you can support bysending sixteen cents a day to "Care" P.O. Box 10011, Johannesburg, SouthAfrica. The only difference is that he is lucky enough to live in one of theUnited States. He has an omniscient look in his eyes; they are mysterious-looking yet appealing. His mind works quickly but his flat feet make him aslow runner. He might be slow on those feet, but they enable him to be veryagile as he gathers his things for a shower.

He gathers his all-natural shampoo with cocoa butter, conditioner, soap(no deodorant), and Budweiser beer towel, which he sent away for by sendingfive dollars and two proof of purchase labels off the side of two sixpackholders. These are just a few things he brings with him. Wasting no time, heis out in under ten minutes. This gives him more time to eat. GOd knows, hehas to do some of that.

Actually he loves to eat. It just never shows on him the way it does otherpeople. First he poaches some eggs, then bacon and all-natural bread to goalong with it. This breakfast is complemented by a tall glass of freshly-squeezed cranberry juice. Then, as everyone else gets up, he'll pick at what-ever they make, sometimes because he is still hungry, but usually just tobother them. Soon after he is on his way to dass, happy because it is a niceday, but sad because he has to give an oral presentation in his speech class ....

"Hello," he says as he passes some familiar faces in the crowded hallway.As he passes each person, the harmonious gestures seem to stay with himuntil he reaches the classroom. As he walks into the room the teacher giveshim a quick glance of annoyance, not because he didn't bring the teacher anapple, but because the teacher has to change his attendance records fromabsent to present. This is too bad since he is only a shy bit late this time.Today he decides to sit in the front. He thinks he might have to be the firstto do his speech, not to show an example of how they should be done butbecause he has angered the teacher. Just as he thought, the teacher picks onhim without even looking in the dass roster. As I watch him walk to thepodium, I know he will do well. He had been up all night studying for some-thing he already knew about since that first Christmas vacation week inVermont, more than nine years ago. When he is finished with his speech thedass applauds, the teacher whistles, and it is almost time to go. Yes, he spokefor a full fifty minutes. As he walks out of the room he feels good. Speech isthe only class of the day for him, so he begins to head back to his apartment.

Aaaarrr, borrggh, kaboom, as the missiles collided with the alien attackers.Voices in the back yell, "get them", "kill them". He always stops in the videogame room before going back. Right now he is about to pull off the highscore on a game called Zaxxon. After the game room, its on to the postoffice, then the bank, and then back to his apartment. I don't see how one cankeep up with him.

After resting for only an hour he realizes it is time for soccer practice. Heis not that bad of a player; although he was never and probably will never bethe star of the team, he is needed. "Hi Coach, what are we doing today," he.says, knowing that they do the same thing everyday. The coach will run downIthe list of drills and end with a comment like, "Give it all you got" or "Stick itout," just to be nice. Walking into the locker room he'll crack a smile andpick on an inferior player. Before it goes to far he'll end with a joke just tolighten things up. The student takes each practice seriously, as if it were agame situation. He is exhausted, yet relieved that the practice ends. After ashower and chat with teammates he is off.

The hard part is over, the hard part of the day, that is. After finishing hisvery well-prepared dinner, he digests it over a game of chess. The light thatcomes through the window is now coming from the street light. As he goesinto his room, he finds his roommate cleaning and moving things around. "Itis late", he says, with the hope that his roommate gets the hint, as he climbsinto bed. The bed is like heaven to him; he doesn't want to go but he is gladwhen he gets there. As he dozes off he can hear the noises of his roommatemoving his desk, boom, boom, baboom.

Chris Tagatac

20 21

BEDTIME STORY

Dead bodies. Everywhere. Not just dead, no, mutilated. Everywhere. Poolsof blood reflecting overhead lights like shiny table tops in a sanitary roomsomewhere far off in a hospital for crazy people. Soft, sick-purple, discoloredbodies. Freshly dead. No rigor mortis here.

They're all in one room. And in a corner, a lonely corner, gleaming axe inhand, eyes far away in the night, desperately dreaming of spacemen and Satur-day morning cartoons and soft, stuffy, cuddly animals, sits a silent man.

His hands ache from wielding his battle axe. His muscles tighten and gnarlhis strong fingers. His heart is only now beginning to slow its pace, to relax.He admires his handiwork. He surveys a room full of voluntarily admittedpatients. And hospital staff.

His mind searches for reasons, halts, and doubles back to a point where, aslittle boys, we don't need reasons. His mind wanders, fixes on fleetingmemories, wanders again. Rifles through endless catalogues of experiences.He recalls a time when he and his older brother followed a small animal intothe woods near suppertime. They took their first steps of pursuit, and heardtheir mother crowing from the back step. Soon the calls were becomingfainter and fainter. His older brother led the way, dictating where each footwas to be placed, and he followed like a mindless soldier to war. Soon the sunwas but a haze, a glow on the treetops. The animal was scurrying in fleetescape, dodging their outstretched arms, and before they knew it, bolted intoa small hole at the base of a tree. Once inside, panting uncontrollably, eyeswild, ominous creatures kicking the tree from outside in frustration, the smallanimal curled up to wait. The older brother swore, kicked the tree again andlooked longingly at the dwindling sunlight.

Night fell half way home. Little noises they barely paid attention to intheir pursuit of the prized animal became shufflings of huge, hairy monstersand stealthy steps of man-eating tigers. Undecidedly they pioneered a path,hoping it would lead them to the safety of their mother's kitchen. Frightened,now sweating, now chilly, they began to pick up the pace. Their heartbeatsechoed along with various unknown noises in their heads. The elder brotherstill led the way, crushing fine ferns and bending young trees in his haste toescape the dark prison. Noises multiplied. They couldn't possibly ever get out.

The older brother was pulling away, running madly. The younger brother,tears streaming down his branch-raked faced, was screaming for him to wait.The older brother never heard. He just increased the gap between them. Inminutes he was alone. Lost, frustrated, crying, crying, crying. Screaming,alone. Alone in a hostile world where he was the small animal being chasedby sadistic creatures. That feeling, that irreversible, open-pit, heart-wrenchingfeeling of loneliness.

He sobbed in the corner. Alone. Remembering being alone. The axe ananvil in his hands. He reached up. He flicked off the lights. If he was going tobe alone, it was to be dark.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We would like to thank the foUowing, who so generously supported Montage:

All the students who submitted manuscriptsDeans Elkins and Woskow,Deans of the School of Liberal Arts,Romy Hall, Secretary,Depts. of English/Mass Communications and Psychology.

The anonymous donorMark Johnston, David Zucker and John Chamberlain, for daring to readtheir poetry for us.

Typesetting: Totalgraphics Inc.Newington, CT

Printing: P&J Graphics, Corp.Newington, CT

24