One O'Clock 
     
    
   
   
    
     boarded it up, not even both- 
     
     ering to take the old furni- 
     
     ture. Time and dirt were ex- 
     
     tracting their price from all 
     
     that was left, fading it, rot- 
     
     ting it. 
     
    

    
     She reached the old clock 
     
     and the head of the stair- 
     
     case. She began to descend 
     
     the steps. 
     
    

    
     ' At. the foot of the stair 
     
     was a small hall that once led 
     
     to the rest of the house. Two 
     
    
   
   
    
     by Margaret McLellan 
     
    

    
     The old grand- 
     
     father clock at the end of 
     
     the hall ticked slowly, mark- 
     
     ing the passing of the sec- 
     
     onds as it neared one o’clock. 
     
     As it struck, the low chime 
     
     echoed in the empty hallway 
     
     and down the stairs. 
     
    

    
     Her slippered feet made 
     
     no sound as_ she. slowly 
     
     walked through the hall. The 
     
     floor was cold but she did 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     BILLY 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     I saw him die. The car 
     
     came down the street, went 
     
     up on the side- walk, and hit 
     
     -him. The car just kept right 
     
     on going. I saw him-die be- 
     
     cause I was standing next to 
     
     him. 
     
    

    
     There was a lady driv- 
     
     ing. I don’t know if she 
     
     was drunk, or stoned, or just 
     
     plain crazy, cuz she looked 
     
     right at us, and kept on go- 
     
     ing. She SAW us, dammit. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Billy was my friend. He 
     
     didn’t have that many. He 
     
     was the type of guy who 
     
     could blend into a_ crowd, 
     
     but still never be part of it. 
     
     Like, he was a loner because 
     
     he didn’t want to join the 
     
     crowd - he liked to do his own 
     
     thing. The guys that I hung 
     
     around with didn’t like him, 
     
     but I did. Something about 
     
     the guy really intrigued me. 
     
     Billy had a good head on his 
     
     shoulders. He had such a 
     
     stupid laugh - I always teased 
     
     ‘him about it...you know, I 
     
     hate having to talk about 
     
     him in the past... he’s really 
     
     gone. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Tomorrow is his funeral. 
     
     Gonna be put in the ground, 
     
     six feet down. Ashes to ashes 
     
     and dust to dust. Goin’ 
     
    
   
   
    
     e 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
       
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     SPARKY 1S UNA 
     
    
   
   
    
     Pa 
     
    
   
   
    
        
     
    
   
   
    
     7 ie ez 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     ARE, HOWEVER, OF 
     
     WALLY'S ABSOLUTE! 
     
     TOLERANCE aes 
     
    
   
   
    
     to see St. Peter and the 
     
     boys. Damn. Everybody 
     
     from school will be there, but 
     
     only a handful of us knew 
     
     him. I mean REALLY knew 
     
     him, not the ‘I-borrowed-a- 
     
     pen-from-him-once’ type of 
     
     thing. The principal will 
     
    
   
   
    
     make a speech about how he 
     
    
   
   
    
     was so popular, and how he 
     
     was such an all-around, neat- 
     
     o kind of guy.  Hypocriti- 
     
     cal bastard. He didn’t know 
     
     Billy... bet he never even 
     
     met him... 
     
    

    
     It all happened too fast, 
     
     or maybe not fast enough. I 
     
     can still see it, like in slow 
     
     motion or something. We 
     
     walked out of the 7-Eleven 
     
     store. We went to the side- 
     
     walk. The car came down 
     
     the street, went up onto the 
     
     side- walk, and hit him. She 
     
     looked at us, then left. 
     
    

    
     ‘Did you know he died in 
     
     my arms? Yeah. He didn’t 
     
     say anything, he just looked 
     
     at me. Then he smiled. God- 
     
     dammit, he looked ‘at me, 
     
     and smiled. Then he just up 
     
     and died in my arms. 
     
    

    
     God. It coulda been me. 
     
     Four more feet to the right, 
     
     and it woulda been me. God 
     
     help me, I want him back. 
     
    
   
   
    
     —Brian Cormier. 
     
    
   
   
    
        
     
       
     
         
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     ELY MINISCULE ; 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     not feel 
     
    
   
   
    
     it. A layer of 
     
     dust covered the faded car- 
     
     pet, yet the dragging hem of — 
     
    
   
   
    
     her gown did not stir it. 
     
    
   
   
    
     She slowly, almost lan- 
     
     guidly, approached the door 
     
     to the first chamber. 
     
     delicate hand reached for 
     
     the knob and tried to turn 
     
     it. Locked. Dreamlike, she 
     
    
   
   
    
     turned and continued to the 
     
     next door, and the next, and 
     
    
   
   
    
     the next. All locked. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Her 
     
    
   
   
    
     No one lived here any- 
     
    
   
   
    
     more - not in this wing of 
     
     the house. 
     
    
   
   
    
     They had left, 
     
    
   
   
    
     huge white doors 
     
     the entrance. 
     
     nailed from the other side. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Sighing 
     
     she turned from the door and 
     
     climbed back up the stairs. 
     
    
   
   
    
     blocked 
     
     _Boarded and 
     
    
   
   
    
     She pressed her cheek 
     
     against the door crack. He 
     
     was near. 
     
     The one who would set her 
     
     free. 
     
     Soon. 
     
     freed from this task she had 
     
     been compelled to perform 
     
     for over two hundred year. 
     
     Soon. But not this night. . 
     
    
   
   
    
     She could tell. 
     
    
   
   
    
     But not this night. 
     
     Soon, she would be 
     
    
   
   
    
     softly, 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     You talk to me of inhibi- 
     
     tions 
     
    
   
   
    
     of how you think and 
     
     feel, 
     
    
   
   
    
     me 
     
     who you are inside. 
     
    
   
   
    
     I stand at your outskirts 
     
    
   
   
    
     yearning to be in your - 
     
    
   
   
    
     midst, 
     
     your 
     
     empty 
     
    
   
   
    
     eyes desperately 
     
    
   
   
    
     for they have not seen 
     
     you or me. 
     
    
   
   
    
     We share a similar 
     
     sense of sight, 
     
    

    
     for mine have held the 
     
     same 
     
    

    
     aching wisdom; 
     
    

    
     a soul in the seclusion 
     
     of the beings body, 
     
    

    
     a place in which 
     
    

    
     to live and to hide, 
     
    

    
     a manifestation of 
     
     my self 
     
    
   
   
    
     which is curiously unre- 
     
    
   
   
    
     but rarely do you show . 
     
    
   
   
    
     lated to. 
     
    

    
     who'l am. 
     
    

    
     Yet, it is what you see 
     
     and perhaps all you will 
     
     know 
     
    

    
     of me 
     
    

    
     the rest of me 
     
    

    
     is hidden. within. 
     
    

    
     I cannot be seen. 
     
    

    
     I offer you 
     
    

    
     my body 
     
    

    
     hoping you will 
     
    

    
     give me yours 
     
    

    
     then,in sharing these, 
     
     may we remove them 
     
     and see who we are. 
     
     Everything let go, 
     
     praying all is not gone. 
     
     your soul without its 
     
     body . , 
     
     takes a step toward mine, 
     
     my being reaches to you 
     
     and we,in passing, are 
     
     passion. 
     
    

    
     For I know | 
     
    

    
     we will return 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     to our bodies 
     
    

    
     and once again 
     
    

    
     live from there. 
     
    

    
     I watch 
     
    

    
     as you walk away, 
     
     perhaps to save 
     
     ourselves from a Rises 
     
     that is not 
     
    

    
     where we are, 
     
    
   
   
    
     where we are not 
     
     who we are here. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Love seems so far away 
     
     yet,it asks for all . 
     
    

    
     of who we are. 
     
    

    
     And that is why it hurts, 
     
    
   
   
    
     for it seems we do not 
     
     know 
     
    
   
   
    
     who we are inside. 
     
    

    
     And so, 
     
    

    
     I talk to you of inhibi- 
     
     tions 
     
    

    
     of how I think and feel, 
     
     but rarely do I show you 
     
     who I am inside. 
     
    
   
   
    
     —Margo SPaners 
     
    
   
   
    
     i 
     
    
   
   
    
     Thursda February 18th. 1988 = 4