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Cover Design and MagazineLayoutBy Lynette Franz

Do You Beat Your Child WithYour Tongue?By Carol Rusch 2

First WomanAnonymous

Charcoal DrawingBy Tom Sorensen

Charcoal DrawingBy Tom Sorensen

ReflectionsBy Christopher J. Smith

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....3

3

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Pen and Ink DrawingBy Bev Graves .

The Stranger You PassedOn the Street TodayBy Diane O'Dea

EtchingBy Laurie Peterson .

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7 .

LithographBy Carol yn Grazinskas

Writer's CrampBy Rich Giovanoni

If I LiveBy Mary Lou Ghannam

LithographBy Laurie Peterson

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..8

HeatherBy Helen Dieringer .9

LithographBy Rhonda Banett .... 9

The Requited LoverBy Don Bimrnerle

LithographBy Sue Ccdkin .

LithographBy Debie Parotto

DrypointBy Dietmar Spiess

Pen and Ink DrawingBy Marlene Hunt

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. ..... 10

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49cBy Meg Ttubcuden

EtchingBy Lynette Franz .

Our Fairy Tale WorldBy M. Bartsch

My Back PagesBy Scott EllIot

EtchingBy Lynette Franz.

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Prejudice, Perpetuated,Continued. 6. ...By Carolyn Gorr 12

12

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ControlBy Bob Putman 15

Do You Beat YourChild With Your Tongue?Carol Rusch

Much to-do has been madeover the question of childabuse. During the past fewmonths city officials have beenopenly confronted with theproblem of physical childabuse because of the wide-spread publicity on the deathof little Johnny Lindquist.Johnny, a six year old boy, wasbrutally beaten intounconsciousness by his fatherand as a result of the beatinghe died two months later. Thisand other forms of physicalviolence and aggressiontoward children are inexcus-able and intolerable. However,there is another aspect of childabuse that virtually goesunnoticed. The aspect I amreferring to is the psychologicalabuse that results from the wayadults orally communicate withchildren. The effects of physicalabuse are obvious. The effectsof psychological abuse,although not as reodilyapparent, are equally asdevastating.As a parent, I am guilty of notspending nearly enough timetalking "with" my children As Ifind myself talking to them, atthem, or around them, I alwaystry to keep in mind that theyare human beings with thesame basic feelings andemotions as I have. In manycases, the average child hasnot yet built walls around hisfeelings, and because of thishis feelings are apt to be hurtmore easily. Many times I haveheord a. parent or other adult

2

belittle a child for a wrong-doing. Suddenly the act thechild has committed becomesirrelevant and the personalattack on him takes on theappearance of a guerrilla armyout to exterminate a pesty ant."Tommy, if you don't stopchomping when you eat, I'llput you in a pigpen. Just lookat you. Your hair is much toolong. Tomorrow you are goingto the barber," says mother.Needless to say, the barberwon't help Tommy with histable manners and the attackserved no other purpose thanto humiliate Tommy in thepresence of others and todistort his perception of himself.In her anger, mother didn'tstop to think about what shewas saying. As one man put itso uneuphemistically, "Toomany adults have constipationof thought and diarrhea of themouth."

Just as a child experiences loveand hate, he also experiencesembarrassment andhumiliation, shame and guilt.When a parent consistentlytongue lashes a child, the childbegins having difficultydiscriminating between hisparent's general attitudetoward him as an individualand the attitude toward hisspecific behavior or act. Thus,if Tommy is time and againtold he is a pig, he mayeventually become to think ofhimself as sloppy or dirty. Ifbeli ttling him does alter his selfimage, negative behavior and

aggression become evident inthe forms of vandalism,delinquency, and juvenilecrime. No child becomesdelinquent overnight, butconsistent ridicule certainlyhastens the transition.As you can see, the results ofpsychological child abuse areas senseless and equally asdestructive to the child.Criticism should beconstructive, not destructive.As the Chinese have said,"Just as a sharp knife cutswithout drawing blood, so doesthe tongue."

First WomanAnonymous

In the Beginning there was Woman, and She said,I shall create a world ofbeauty and plenty, andpeople it with women after My own image, and nomen shall be allowed.So her Mother took her down to Sears and boughther a Build Your Own Universe kit, catalogue#U235*S96ABS.

50v<'H.$E'r,?J

Tom Sorensen

Tom Sorensen

3

ReflectionsChristopher J. Smith

At one time the Grove was amansion of great proportions,immaculate inside and out withwell-kept grounds. But over thelast few decades it hasdeteriorated so that the outerwalls exist only to reminisceabout what was once the idealhome of an upper class family.The lawns are covered withknee-high grass and fallentrees. The quarter miledriveway is all but impassablefor pot-holes. What was once amagn: ficent and inspiring treeis nov. a worm-eaten log. Itsbeau ty may be remembered bysome. but its present conditionis a picture of time in its mostdestructive character.

The great main door is nowsupported by one survivingrusted hinge The inside is likethe vast space within somehollow mountain. The hall andthe thirty rooms are empty.There is no distraction from thevoid. The house is like adeserted warehouse, immenseand silent and lonely.

One room, however, is still partof the world. It is the librarywhere the parties are held andwhere the local musicianscome to display their electrifiedtalents. The walls are coveredby bookshelves which in moreprosperous times contained theworld's greatest literarymasterpieces. These are nowthe cemetery for innumerablegadgets, tools, and modernrelics of a society based onreplaceability and dispos-

ability. They are the restingplace for the cats, and theshowplace for bizarre objectscollected in junkyards. Twowalls of the four arecomparatively naked. One ofthese is a twenty foot length ofwindows which at night (It isalways night) become a massof black tinted mirrors. Beyondare the invisible remains of thegarden, but this is a matter nolonger of consequence. Theother wall is the one whichcontains the fireplace uponwhose massive mantel standsthe corpse of a clock. The fireis always blazing, casting grimshadows and weird lights onthe room. The windows for allpractical purposes do notreflect these lights. Above themantel is one of the morepeculiar denizens of the Grove.It is the pair of out-stretchedarms which protrude from thewall. What makes thisinteresting is that the armsappear to be a part of theoriginal design of the room.No one questions them anymore. They have becomeaccepted in the spirit of thehouse.

It was midnight (it isalways midnight) when Ientered the room. The firegreeted me proudly,announcing that it was aproduct of the oxidation ofwood rather than the inhumangas which is now so popular insuch homes. I was alone-free. Whatever I would dowould be of no consequence

to anyone else. I could doanything. I did nothing. Thecat awoke as I sat on the floor(there were no chairs). Helooked upon me as an intruder,but one who could beoverlooked. Soon enough heresumed his sleep. Typical catreaction. The fire crackled andsent sparks up the chimney. Iglanced only once at thewindows, but not long enoughto really see them. Timepassed. It was midnight.Nothing moved. For a momentI wished I had a book, butrealized that it would beblasphemy in this room. I satthinking of how the earth wasspinning around and makingtime inevitable. But it was stillmidnight. It was still now. Allelse was nonexistent. I neednot concern myself withillusions which were not withinmy perception. I was contentto deal with those at hand.The door opened. Berniestumbled over imaginaryfurniture in his usual manner.He gr.eeted the cat with an oathand sat down facing me. I wasafraid he'd ask me what timeit was. He lit a reefer andbegan to smoke.

"Do this in memory of me," Isaid. He smiled, then cougheda laugh."'You're a swine," was hisreply. His English accent wasquite forced but nonethelessfitting."You're the first," I said as Irefused a hit of the reefer."You'll never leorn., will you?"

"What's this!" I cried, "Peergroup pressure?"We laughed. He told me theothers would be along shortly.This phrase amused me. Iquestioned him: "Just how is itpossible that they could be along shortly-or did you say ashort lonqly?""Puns are out this year.""I keep trying.""They're bringing a sax playerthis time-he's supposed to bea bitch.""Like the drummer?""I was drunk-I thought hewas a drummer.""This conversation's becominga bit too superficial for a story.I'm in a profound mood. Hey,I found out where you can getCoors in Chicago-""Bullshit.""No really, there's this liquorstore on Milwaukee aroundJefferson Park.""Hmrn."The van and two cars arrived.We knew this by sound ratherthan sight"Well," I said, "Here it goesagain.""Gloomy bastard."

They brought in the drums,amplifiers, p.a. columns,guitars and other implementsof the musical world. A newpiece of equipment showed up:a three hundred watt Marshallamp with two bottoms. Thesession was going to beviolent Introductions weremade where necessary and thepreliminaries began. A pipe, acase of Bullfrog beer, and

various chemicals in little bags.The new sax player offered mea joint."No thanks-makes meparanoid."He gave me a look of distrust,but Bernie came to my defense."He's cool. He's a beer man.It's cool."

I felt slightly nauseated as Iopened a can. I wondered if thebeer was really made frombullfrogs. By this time theorgan had clumsily made itsway into the room. Anothercigarette. There were onlythree more in the pack. Iwondered what my lungslooked like. I presided over thetuning ceremony. Fifteenminutes later (at midnight)everything was ready. Bass,two guitars, sax, drums, andmy organ were all prepared.I dedicated the jam

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,if the women don't kill you, thewhisky must." One, two,three ... Noise. The cat becameupset and left the room. Ienvied his good taste. Themusic went on and on,everyone having his solo,cheap thrills. Then it stopped.The sax player wasn't too bad.In between songs hedisappeared. He returned witha bewildered smile on his face.And, I assumed, a hole in hisarm. We started again, butlouder than before. The wallsbegan to shake. I got up and,with the excuse of a weakbladder, leftthe room. I found

the cat by the door andescorted him into the forest. Hesoon took off on some catlyerrand and I found myselfalone. The music was forcingits way out through the poresof the house. Realizing therewas no escape, I returned andlooked in the window. It wasnow a television. They couldn'tsee me, but I could watch themas long as I liked. I sat down.

There was an old man lying ona cot with his arms foldedacross his chest. His face wascovered with miniature canals.He was smiling. Somewhere ayoung girl was giving birth toa baby. This was of no concernto the old man. The band wasbecoming louder. It seemed theglass would shatter. Slowlv,the old man got up, walked tothe sink and stood there gazinginto the mirror. The babyscreamed. The bass guitar wasout of tune, but there was somuch distortion that no onenoticed. I began to think aboutthe concept of being suspendedin time. It was midnight. Thebaby was now entering juniorhigh school. He was twelveyears old. He had a profoundlove for the Beatles. I realizedthat all events are suspendedin parallel planes of time. Thebass was in bad need ofre-tuning. The old man knewhe was dying. It wasunavoidable. He had only seenone person die in his life, andbecame afraid at the idea. Thetwelve year old was at his

piano lesson. He played a songcalled "Swans on the Lake"and then "The Triad Waltz."The old man looked down athis arthritic hands and wishedthere was someone he couldtalk to. The young boy was ata party. Someone was offeringhim a marijuana cigarette. Thesax player realized thatBernie's bass was out of tune.

"How horrible it is to die,"sighed the old man. Heremembered the dead man inhis past. He wonted to saysomething to him. The boy wasgraduating from high schooland going to work. The musicstopped The old man thoughtof the gun. He saw the murdercommitted in his memory andwished there had beensomething he could have done.The boy was now in college.He was a good organist andplayed frequently at an oldmansion called the Grove.There was lighting inside thehouse. The sax player wasfreaking out about the bassbeing out of tune. The old mancould see the light. If only-The boy was walking out tothe forest with the cat becausethe music was too loud. Theold mori's face grew distortedas he recalled the sound of thegun. Chaos. A shot was fired.

"My Godl Bernie I" cried theoldman.

There was such great confusionin the house that nobodyseemed to know what washappening. I jumped up and

ran to the window. Bernie waslying on the floor curled upwith his hand over his face.The boy was looking throughthe window. His best friendhad just been shot. The oldman sat down on the cotshaking.

I called for an ambulance eventhough I knew it was too late.It was midnight. The librarywas now empty. The firegreeted me as I entered theroom. I sat on the floor. I wasalone-free. I could dowhatever I wanted. I didnothing. Somewhere a younggirl was giving birth to a baby.Somewhere an old man wasdying. The cat looked upon meas an intruder. I stood up andstared at the reflection of theoutstretched arms in thewindow. Then at myself.

Bev Graves

The Stranger You Passedon the Street TodayDiane O'Dea

Like a knifehis tear cut his facea smooth pane of glassnow broken.The feelings,icicles insidejagged points piercinghis mind."At lost!"they cried, "Weare you.What more do you need?Do you need?"Among spikesspongy brain shudderedqui vered and pulsatedoozed together and bubbled.Thoughts sputtered andsplashed;waves of grey flames; lapping,licking, thirsty cannibaLdevoured the spikes.They drained down histhoughtsand his world shookwith his scream.

Laurie Peterson

Carol yn Grazinskas

Writer's CrampRich Giovanoni

Why waste your time writing a poem?It doesn't say nothing that needs to be told.You'd be better off sleeping or picking your nosThan trying to write a good piece of prose.If writing's an art, then I'm glad I'm a clod'Cause Shakespeare leaves me as cold as a coeDon't want to be famous or covered with glorySo I ain't gonna write any goddam short story.

If I LiveMary Lou Ghannam

Everybody called my grand-mother Busia-the Polish wordfor grandmother. Her namewas Mary, but she was Busiato our neighbors, our landlady,and even the laundryman. Itwas as if she were grand-mother to the world. Everyoneloved Busia, especially thekids. She had a knack ofmaking even the youngestknow that he was extra-specialto her Busia never lost herpeasant philosophy of valuingchildren as the wealth of afamily.

A study of contradictions, shewas imp and angel, bawdyand prudish in turn, intelligentthough illiterate. She didn'twaste anything,-whether it bechicken parts or happiness. Herlife's experience taught her toaccept adversity as the norm,so when good fortune made itstransient appearance she'dsay, "God bless," and get themost out of it.

I can see her now in that oldthird-floor walk-up apartmentwe shared; my mother, wechildren, and Busia. AlwaysBusia. Busia walking from thesink to the stove; Busia makingher famous Polish bread,measuring the flour and sugarwith her hand; Busia alwaysthere when we needed her,and it seems we needed herall the time. She was a wholefamily's security blanket, ourresident fairy godmother

Laurie Peterson

In those precious days wedidn't have to wait for Mondaynights for our "Laugh-in."Busia provided that any day ofthe week. Her advice, inbroken English, on how tohandle an errant husband wasbasic: "Take 'urn pot, hit 'urnhead." When a girlfriend ofmine confided to my grand-mother that she was I/32ndAmerican Indian, Busia foreverafter referred to her as "theIndian."

Busia loved to travel and was

always making plans. She'dsay: "Next winter, if I live, I'llgo to California to see Judy,"or "Next spring, if I live, I'llplant some pretty flowers inyour garden." "If I live"-when talking of the future,she'd always add, "if I live."

We'd all laugh at her. If shelived, indeed I Busia wouldalways be here. She was asmuch a fixture of life as theearth we walked on, the air webreathed, the sun in the sky.Busia was immortal, naturally I

One morning, two days afterMother's Day, the phone rang.Busia was dead. The sun wasshining, the mailman wasdelivering the mail, my tulipswere coming up. It was allwronq l Why wasn't the earthshaking? "This can't be justanother beautiful day," Ithought, "my Busia is deed:Tulips, how dare you bloomwhen Busia can't see you?"I watched the children skippingalong to school, and shook withrage at the sight of themlaughing and playing as if itwere the same world it wasthe day before I wantedeveryone to mourn Busia. Itwasn't right that it should bejust another day.

The past mentally reclaimedme. I was a child again andwanted my Busia I could feelher holding me in the rockingchair, singing a Polish lullaby.I could see her dusting thefurniture. She wasn't in thatcoffin All this couldn't be real.

And yet amidst the delirium itoccurred to me that the mannerand timing of her death was ofdivine inspiration, rekindlingmy long forgotten belief in ajust God who now blessed herin death as he blessed all whoknew her in life. Busia haddied peacefully in her sleepwith a rosary clutched in herhand and a look of satisfactionon her face. A job well done?

We cried, though not for her.She had the love and well-earned respect of her family

and friends. Had she lived tenyears longer, she couldn't havebeen more assured. How manyhave that special reward? Wecried for ourselves, selfishlythinking that she no longerwould be there. Now, finallywe had to grow up. No morewould she provide that havenwhere, whenever the pressuresbecame too great, we couldescape into childhood again.

"If I live," she'd always say.A week later I was gratingpotatoes for potato pancakesand noticed the angle of myarm. It might have been hers.Suddenly she was there withme. The pancakes even tastedas if she had made them. Atnight I open a jar of cold creamand the scent conjures upcountless memories of her.I catch myself, oh how often,saying an expressive Polishword she used.

Busia, did you say, "If I live"?If there is a heaven (as youstubbornly insisted) you're upthere laughing at us for

believing that spectacular jokeyou pulled off. You knowyou're living through all of us,through all the love you taughtus to share. Who could staysad thinking of you? We recallsome poignantly cute thingyou'd say or do and laugh outloud."If I live," indeed I What a sillything to say, Busia, you'll liveforever I

HeatherHelen Dieringer

Poodle-framed sun glosses,chic

On cherub child howling.gram

Maw, wanna cookie. Fix sashHanging down. Where's the

gum, booh!Devourer of silentPeace, chafing breathless,

hear herI doan wanna ... yee .

it hurtsKiss owie, gram maw, nice,

mine.Ah sanity ... a card gameTo trump the ace of confusion.I wanna play too. GimmeCard. My turn, pease, gimme,

pease.Bro my broom up-yee ...

gram maw,See cah, cah wannut run, cah.Pri tee, gum, that's good,

that's, awGimme coke, pease, coke

pease, ah.Name Heather age three.

FutureMiss World, present to me,Gram maw, Helen, sixty-threeHang in there world.Rhonda Banelt

The Requited LoverDon Bimmerle

Desperations spur him on as hestrives to reach his goal.

Left with little love for man,only bitter feelings grow.

Darkness mounts within thesoul.

Searching for another man,stealthily through the nighthe goes,

Unaware he's being watched;unaware his quarry knows

And hides in shadows from theblow l

The jealous quarrel scarred thehunter; spiteful vengeancecould not wait.

The lady and her lover new,they had cast this pitied fate

Anci left him filled with onlyhate.

The moment fast approachesnow, confrontation near tothem.

Sue Co dk in

The hunted breathes a singlesigh; wishes lighting not sodim,

Wishes killing not so grim ...The hunter passes quietly,

seeking only his just due.The hunted springs from hiding

place and thrusts knife intoHis neck ... spurts crimson

hue.Hunter's dying on the spot,

wishing that he hadn't foundThe trap; the pain when steel

came down that served tosilence every sound.

Revenge had plunged him tothe ground.

But cackling marks his end tolife. The hunted's vict'ry turnsto fright

Behind him stands the ladydear, the cackler to herright.

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He's the killer of the niqht!His gun is drawn, a shot is

fired. . the hunted now liesstill.

Laughing was the husbandtrue when he spat upon hiskill ..

Seemed to have some madurge filled I

With eyes shot blood he turnsto her, as frozen as she wasin fearl

Her death was next-shecringed at thought

Instead he begged whiledrawing near,

"Arrange another, could youdear?"

Debie Parotto

Dietmar Spiess

Marlene Hunt

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Prejudice, Perpetuated,Continued & ....Carolyn Gorr

Toward mathematics I have no inclination,My head suffers defacto, numerical starvation.My brain, unbiased by indoctrination,Can't cope with an algebra examination.Bigoted, me?Intolerant, silI'm saturated with mathematical discrimination.

49cMeg Thibaudeau

we boughtgoodwill umbrellasiwontedold red with thickplastic handle"no this one's fine,"i liedblue plaid pink detoureda year of raindropsand was a parasolfor a halloween clownthen yesterdayrain kept a ladyon church stepshanding herblue plaid pinki yelled"keep it"knowing this one's fine12

Lynette Franz

Our Fairy Tale WorldM. Bartsch

My Back PagesScott Elliott

He's only 9 months old,he giggles and gurglesPeople smile, care, love a lotand start to build the mind within.He's two years now, the terrible twosHe walks, He talks, He touchesHe questions ',And little does he know of sadness and pain.Today he is four, He can count to twenty, sometimesHe lives in a world of Mouse Factory,Fisher Price toys and fairy tales.Slowly but surely he will finally grow up.But in between he will sadly learn that the biggestfairy tale of allis what he was toldand thoughtand feltthis world was.You see, for some strange reasonHe thinks the world is a beautifulpeaceful place to live.Where people care and love one another.And for Why? must he cry and be hurt?When he learns that that world is only afantasy, never ever to come true?For Why can't this earthstart growing up,open its eyes and see 'The hurt, the pain, the war,the bloodshed, the filth,the confusion ...all of it is real and must be stopped I

And maybe someday a little boy willgrow up and the fairy tale world will behis reali ty.Please God,help this world,for I fear we can't help ourselves.Dear world,just cuz we grew up likethat doesn't mean it's right.So change itlMaybe people will live.

Waking up in morningThe sun flies in my eyesWishing for another timePerhaps a new disguiseAnd as I go and give things upAlmost before they startAn endless stream of hopesand dreamsGoes running through thepagesRunning through the pagesThe back pages of my heart.Waiting, wanting, battlewornPen firmly in my handI sit and fidget, make a songAbout water o'er a dam.And so I sit here stumblingForcing words into a rime,(believe mel)An eternal flow of things I knowGoes running through thepagesRunning through the pagesThe back pages of my mind.But yet I sit and scribbleVoice crying for an earI stand in the sun impassiveAnd not yet shed a tearLegs dangling in the canyonLie on a grassy knollA ceaseless run of things I'vedoneGoes running through thepagesRunning through the pagesTHe back pages of my soul.

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Lynette Franz

14

ControlBob Putman

Leigh just didn't seem to begetting anywhere. It wasalways the same old thing,boredom followed by snackingfollowed by more boredom. Hesat on the bed in his dormnibbling on a handful of Fritos,The crumbs were falling on hisbedspread, which hadn't beenwashed all semester.

"Who gives a damn?" Leighspouted to the mirror in amanner accustomed to him.Frankly no one did give adamn. He glanced out thewindow at a passing chickwith obnoxiously large breasts,which made him think of hispresent ex-girlfriend. "Nodeposit no return, yes that's it,no deposit no return."

She had been a groupie justlike the others; cheeseburgers,cleorosil. and big brownmachine gun eyes. She lovedT-Rex and had a "hubcapdiamond-star halo" whichsounded nice even though shedidn't understand it. Shescreamed in bed, so she hadto go.

"Expendable, recyclable,"muttered Leigh with emphasison the "a bull" part. Boredom.He gave up on his homeworkand went to bed.He woke up feeling raerrn: hisfirst class was history with theold bitch Mrs. Kragg. Shealways talked in eighth notes,waved her hands around,bumped into empty desks withher Hindenburg body, andrepeated the phrase "In this

She was off the subject again.Trivia was her specialty, audiopabulum."And Thomas Jeffersoncollected ... ""Who gives a damn, lady." hecut in. The class chorused ahearty laugh and when itsubsided she just stood therestaring at him red-faced. Hehad been a little louder thanhe'd expected.She cleared her throat andwent on. Thomas Jeffersoncollected large quantitiesof ... ""Brassieres," he suggested.Her eyes lit up, she wassteaming and determined tokeep going."Artwork and sculpture whichhe kept in his ... ""Lower dresser drawer," hecontinued.The class roared."colonial estate at Monticello.Jefferson was a member of thecolonial ... ""Mafia," Leigh added. Thiswas too much."Aristocracy and was wellknown for his writing ofthe ... ""Abortion act." he cut in."Declaration of Independenceand listen young man, you canleave anytime you want." Hervoice never changed tone orspeed, or even paused. "You'redisturbing this class and I'marea." Leigh had mad~ a gameout of counting how manytimes she used the phrase inher lectures," forty-six was thebest.

sure there are other studentswho would like to go over thismaterial.""Who gives a damn, lady?"The class was going insane-chairs banging, booksslamming, and studentsstomping their feet. She wenton."In 1796, Jefferson becamevice-president to John ... ""Wayne""Adams. While in office heauthored the Virginia andKentucky resolutions whichsupported the idea of ... ""Prostitution." It wasn't funnyanymore; it was becoming abattle and both he and theteacher knew it."states rights." She was a littlelouder this time, like she wastalking through her teeth."The resolutions were used forJefferson's platform in theelection of 1800; when he andAaron Burr defeated ... ""Lawrence Welk and KublaiKhan." This time it wasn'tLeigh; it was from the otherside of the room. The teacherlooked surprised. Leighbeamed; maybe he had startedsomething."Federalists Adams andPinkney. Since Jefferson andBurr received the same numberof votes, the election wasthrown into the House of ... ""ill repute." This time it wasfrom the middle of the class.He had started something."Representatives." She lookedworried. Was she big enoughto control a class of twohundred and sixty? She'd never

10

thought about it before. "AfterHamilton had dissuaded theFederalists from supporting."Flintstone.""Frcrr.k Zappa.""Gomer Pyle"The whole class was going,this was great."Burr, Jefferson was dulyelected."Dogcatcher. ""Latrine scrubber.""President." She was getting itin quicker now. "and was ... ""raped.""embalmed.""inaugurated on March 4th,18. ""12," added Leigh who waspacking them in quicker andquicker.

Mrs. Kragg paused temporarilyand the class tapped andclicked in four-four time,building to a crescendofollowed by laughter and moretapping and clicking Someoneon the left started clapping,which quickly caught on alongwith the chant, "Go, go, go,go."

Mrs. Kragg was really worried.What could she do? Hopefullyit would just die away or elseshe'd blow up. She tried to goon: "Jefferson's main objectivesas president, were to ."seduce.""remove some of the socalled

"Dildos.""aristocratic tendencies in thegovernment, reduce thenational ... ""income."debt and""fornicate. "16

"govern as little as possible."It was way out of hand. Shejust didn't seem to be gettinganywhere. By now she waspractically hiding behind thepodium. Why were they doingthis? How could she stop them?And if she couldn't, whatwould it lead to? The class wasgiving her some answers to herlast question. Someone in theback was yelling, "Hang her lhang her," while people on theright side were throwingpennies, shoes, nuts from thedesks, pencils-anything theycould get their hands on.

"You call yourselves collegestudents?" She was practicallyin tears."Do you call yourself ateacher?" snapped Leigh. Hewas standing up now, sort ofin the spotlight. He stepped outinto the aisle and scuffec. hisway down to the podiumRaising his hands in the air hegestured to the class."Is this a teacher? No really,is this what you want to paythirty-six bucks a semesterhour for?"Mrs. Kragg was horrified,frozen.

"Look at her, she's anEnormousaurus, an air bag ofquivering whale blubber." Hegave her a little kick in heroverstocked posterior. Hesignalled to the class to besilent. Sniff, sniff. "Ah he." hewas sniffing in her direction.I detect a sweet fragrancehere." he paused for suspense,"much like my grandmother'ssweaty Right-Guard armpits."He was horribly bitter.

She gasped, her eyes as big asher mouth.

"Also notice the wayeverything is paired, as if inthe normal fashion. Two eyes,"he pointed to her eyes; "twoarms," he pointed to her fattyarms; "two legs," he pointed toher legs, "and two of these."he poked her in the left breastwith his index finger. It justsort of sunk in. She swung toslap him but he'd alreadyducked. He had her pinned upagainst the blackboard withone hand around her layeredthroat and one circlingmenacingly in the air. The classwas on the edge of their chairs.

What would he do next?Would he ... kill her?Leigh stared her right in theeye; he had total control: itwas his game.

"There's something I alwayswanted to tell you, teacherdear," he hissed. The otherhand was now on his beltbuckle.She was too shocked tobreathe, to move, or even tothink. Leigh moved in closer,squeezed her neck a little more,and moved his right leg intightly between hers. He keptstaring her right in the eye."Yeah, that's it, expendable,recyclable," he sneor ed avampire's smile. His breathswere shorter and heavier now.Suddenly he jumped back andscreamed, reehng wildly, "Youbore me to death."The class applauded and Leighreturned to his seat. The gamewas over.