textfiles/magazines/WHIRLWIND/wwv1n2tx.new

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WHIRLWIND

	 An electronic literary magazine striving for the very best in
		   contemporary fiction, poetry, and essays.
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		    Editor: Sung J. Woo (sw17@cornell.edu)
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VOLUME I     NUMBER 2                                                 MAY 1994
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Table of Contents

The Second Issue........................................................xx

_Fiction_

"The Epistemological Uncle," by Charles Deemer..........................xx
Two stories by Jennifer Viner: "September Summer" and "Baby"............xx
"A Say in the Matter," by Garret F. Grajek..............................xx
"It was a dimly lit..." by David S. Dadekian............................xx

_Poetry_

"Automatic Winter," by Stephanie Kay Buffman............................xx
"Cloud-Perfect," by L. Amos.............................................xx
"Insomniatic Conclusions," by Trista Mentz..............................xx
"Heels," by L. Amos.....................................................xx
"Free Thinker, Free Hearts, and Other Nasty Stuff," by Chris Laskey.....xx

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Whirlwind cannot continue without submissions from established and amateur
writers on the net. If you or anyone you know is looking to publish
contemporary fiction, poetry, or essays, please don't hesistate to get a
copy of the work to us.  Mail submissions to: djw5@cornell.edu.
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Whirlwind Vol. 1, No. 2.  Whirlwind is published electronically on a
bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this magazine is permitted as long as
the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the issue remains intact.
Copyright (c) 1994, authors. All further rights to stories belong to the
authors. Whirlwind is produced using Aldus Pagemaker 5.0, T/Maker
WriteNow 2.2, and Applescanner software on Apple Macintosh computers and is
converted into PostScript format for distribution. PostScript is a registered
trademark of Adobe Systems, Inc. For back issue and other information, see our
back page.  Please send any questions/comments to djw5@cornell.edu.
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	Thank you for reading the second issue of Whirlwind.  I 
apologize for not making the deadline of May 1.  As a graduating senior, 
I found many other things (such as my life) to distract me from getting 
the magazine out on time.
	Because I will be leaving Cornell at the end of this academic 
year, there will be a change in my e-mail address.  Unfortunately, I 
have no idea what that would be.  Next year, I will be in South Korea 
teaching conversational English, so I have yet to establish an Internet 
account.  Once I do so, I will let all of you know.
	After July 15, please mail all correspondence and submissions to 
my Assistant Editor, David J. Witkowski, who can be reached at 
<djw5@cornell.edu>.
	Because of my transition, the next issue of Whirlwind will be 
published on September 1994.  As usual, we are looking for submissions 
from all of you.
	I would like to offer much thanks to Amy Moskovitz, who helped 
me proofread, edit, and put this second issue together.
	Enjoy the issue -- there is much good stuff here.


			
			Sung J. Woo
			
			Editor

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FICTION
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THE EPISTEMOLOGICAL UNCLE
BY CHARLES DEEMER

	In the carefree idyll of my youth, when Appletons twenty strong 
gathered at my grandparents' house each Thanksgiving Day, Uncle Buck 
always drank too much and never failed to do something that would 
embarrass Aunt Betty.  He would return from the bathroom with his fly 
open, or belch during grace, or tell a very dirty story, or dribble 
giblet gravy on the tie he wore only on holidays, before grumbling, "I 
knew the goddamn thing was good for something.  Kept the shirt clean, 
didn't it?"
	Aunt Betty, who was my mother's sister, would begin the process 
of coaxing him home then, and she usually succeeded before the pumpkin 
and mincemeat and apple and pecan pies were passed around the table.
	A bit later, after grandfather began to fidget prior to 
suggesting that the men retire to the basement, where whiskey and cigars 
awaited them, the loud backfiring of Uncle Buck's ancient pickup could 
be heard outside and soon thereafter, the slamming of the pickup door in 
the driveway and then the idiosyncratic howling that was my uncle's 
habit whenever he had too much to drink, which was often:
	"Do you really knoooooooooow?" he howled.
	Everyone knew that Uncle Buck was back.
	After shooting a stern glance at me and my cousins, daring us to 
laugh out loud (though cousin Judy, Buck's daughter, always looked close 
to tears), grandfather would ask grandmother if there were clean sheets 
in the guest room, knowing full well that she never let anyone in the 
front door unless there were fresh sheets in all the bedrooms and fresh 
towels in all the bathrooms.
	As Uncle Buck continued to howl outside, grandfather would make 
the habitual suggestion to retire, and so the men would rise in unison 
to head for the stairs to the basement, where they would let Uncle Buck 
in through the outside entrance.
	Before long Uncle Buck wouldn't be the only intoxicated relative 
in the house, nor the only one howling.
	This routine was so attached to Thanksgiving that I looked 
forward to it and was disappointed to learn, the holiday of my freshman 
year in high school, that Uncle Buck had stopped drinking.
	Sober, he proved to be as quiet as a zombie. Although he didn't 
do anything to embarrass Aunt Betty, he also failed to entertain me and 
my cousins, who didn't realize how much we enjoyed Uncle Buck's antics 
until we were deprived of them.  As far as we were concerned, he had 
been the life of the holiday.
	Cousin Judy was the exception to our disappointment: her 
father's new silence seemed to give her a feminine radiance I'd never 
noticed before.  She was, I decided, the most beautiful relative I had.

	Four years passed before Uncle Buck started howling again.  It 
was near the end of summer, and I was getting nervous about going off to 
college.
	One afternoon, cousin Judy phoned and told me, "Dad's drinking 
and being crazy again.  Can you come over?  He's howling in the back 
yard right now."
	Judy and I were the same age but had ignored one another until 
high school.  About the time I discovered she was beautiful, we 
discovered together that we could be good friends.  Soon we were calling 
ourselves Mutually Adopted Siblings, since neither of us had one still 
at home. We delighted in the fact that most of our classmates didn't 
know what we were talking about, "sibling" being no part of standard 
teenage vocabulary in the small farming town of Adam in the Idaho 
Palousse.
	I told her I was on my way.
	Judy was outside waiting for me and quickly led me to the 
backyard.  In the distance was the barn, which had seen better days, and 
acres of grainland stretched around us to every horizon.
	Uncle Buck was clearly drunk, staggering around and groping at a 
pile of canvas that, in steadier hands, would easily have risen to form 
a tent.  With every yank, he had a bigger mess and harder task than 
ever, which frustrated him into loud swearing at the universe in 
general.  Empty beer cans were scattered across the lawn, and a pint 
whiskey bottle stuck out of the back pocket of his coveralls.
	"Mom said she wouldn't stay in the house as long as he's 
drinking," Judy explained.  "She went to spend the night with Aunt 
Milly, and Dad came out here.  He says if she doesn't want him in the 
house, he'll just spend the rest of his life in a tent."
	"Not by the looks of it," I said.  "Should we help him?"
	"I don't know what to do.  He started drinking this morning, Mom 
said."
	I touched Judy's arm and gave her a squeeze, then moved across 
the lawn.
	"You want some help, Uncle Buck?" I called on my way.
	He swore without turning around, another obscene remark for the 
universe at large.
	I reached him as he was pulling the bottle from his pocket.
	"I wish you wouldn't drink any more," I said.
	I reached him and stopped.  Uncle Buck took a swig without 
acknowledging my presence.
	"What are you going to accomplish by drinking?" I asked.
	When he turned my way, I held out my hand for the bottle.  He 
glared at me before before saying gruffly, "Accomplish!  What the hell 
do you think you're accomplishing by minding other people's business, 
Mr. Wise Ass?"
	Uncle Buck took a step backward, almost falling over.  Then he 
cocked his head to the sky and bellowed, "Do you really knoooooooooow?"  
Finally losing his balance from the exertion, he fell flat on his back.
	Judy screamed and came racing across the lawn.  I was already on 
my knees beside him when she arrived.
	"Is he all right?"
	"He's breathing," I said.  "I think he passed out."
	"We can't leave him out here."
	Uncle Buck was a big man, and I wasn't sure we could handle him 
ourselves.  Judy had the same notion.
	"He's too heavy for the two of us," she said.  "Would your dad 
help us?"
	"Maybe it'd be good for him if he woke up out here," I 
suggested.
	I spotted a wheel barrow near the fence that defined where lawn 
ended and farmland began.  Without saying a word, I moved off toward it.
	"Why did he have to start drinking again?," Judy asked, catching 
up with me.
	I hesitated before replying, "I don't know."  I'd come close to 
saying, "Do you really knoooooooooow?"
	It took some effort for the two of us to get Uncle Buck into the 
wheelbarrow.  He was as heavy as a sack of potatoes and just as awkward 
to handle.  We wheeled him to the back door before realizing that our 
problems were just beginning.
	"Mom would have a cow if we tracked up the carpet," said Judy.
	"How about making a bed for him on the patio?"
	Patio was an exaggeration: a small square of concrete, just big 
enough for the gas barbecue set, stood alongside the house like an 
ambitious project long abandoned.
	"I think we should put him in the tent," said Judy.  "He was 
going to sleep outside anyway."
	We left Uncle Buck sprawled awkwardly in and on top of the 
wheelbarrow while we set up the tent.  Then we wheeled him back across 
the lawn, dumping him, as gently as possible, inside before folding down 
the canvas door flap.
	Moving to return to the house, we both turned into one another, 
brushing slightly together, chest to chest.  I could smell her perfume 
and felt a sudden urge to kiss her, which she must have realized, maybe 
even feeling a similar urge herself, because she blushed blood red.
	I could hear myself breathing heavily and wondered if Judy 
could.  I knew I had an erection, which made me feel conspicuous and 
embarrassed.
	"I wish we weren't cousins," she said softly.
	I swallowed and said, "So do I."
	The silence was unbearable.  Finally she said, "You'd better go.  
I mean, I have some chores to do and everything."
	"Right.  I think he'll be okay out here."
	"He was going to sleep in the tent anyway."
	"Right.  Spend the rest of his life out here."
	"Why did he have to start again?" she asked.
	"I don't think anybody knows."  I grinned and said, "Do you 
really knoooooooooow?"
	Her transformation was so sudden, at first I thought she was 
playacting: she glared at me and said, "I hate it when you do that."
	"That's the problem," she went on, "people like you always 
laughed at him when he was drinking.  You just inspired him to keep 
acting crazy.  You don't know what it was really like to be around him."
	But before I could find out, Judy was running into the house, 
crying.  I had no idea what had just transpired, what I had done to 
upset her so suddenly and so strongly.  I gave up the thought of 
following her inside and went home

	I only saw Judy one other time before I left for college.  
Although I telephoned her that same night, and a few times after that, 
Aunt Betty always answered the phone to tell me Judy wasn't home, and 
she never returned my calls.  My aunt also told me that Uncle Buck was 
"in treatment now."
	"What exactly is treatment?" I asked Dad at dinner.
	He gave the question some thought before saying, "If you're 
referring to Buck, ask your mother."
	"It means he's in the hospital to get well," Mom quickly said.
	"What's the matter with him?"
	"He can't drink," she said.
	I wasn't sure what she was getting at.  After all, Dad drank and 
I'd heard him howling in the basement on more than one Thanksgiving.  I 
knew Uncle Buck drank too much but I didn't think he was an alcoholic, 
like the bums I'd seen in Lewiston.  But I also knew the matter was put 
to rest because my parents were staring down at their plates, so I 
looked down at mine as well.
	One afternoon I came outside to find Judy standing in front of 
my house.  I couldn't be sure, but she appeared to have been crying.  
She would look at me, then away, as I walked toward her.
	"Are you all right?" I asked.
	"I came by to see if you want to come with me to visit Dad.  I 
guess you already were going someplace."
	"Just to the store.  Where's he at?"
	"Serenity Villa.  He checked in the day after we put him in the 
tent."
	"It's a long walk," I said.  She hadn't brought the family car.
	"I was hoping you could get the car."
	"I can."  I reached into a pocket and brought out my own set of 
keys to Mom's Toyota, dangling them proudly.  "You want to go right 
now?"
	"Sure."
	We were awkwardly silent during the drive to Serenity Villa, 
which was near the hospital some thirty miles away.  Neither of us 
mentioned that it had been almost a month since we'd talked, which was a 
very long silence for us.  I didn't know how to broach the subject of 
our falling out since I still wasn't sure what had happened.  I vaguely 
hoped she would apologize for being unreasonable, and everything could 
go back to the way it had been between us, cousins, good friends and 
Mutually Adopted Siblings.  But we remained silent during the drive 
through golden fields almost ready to harvest, which made the ride 
intolerably long.  By the time we were there, I was sorry I had come.
	Although I'd seen television ads for Serenity Villa, I knew 
nothing about it.  It looked more like a resort than a hospital, and its 
sprawling size surprised me.  I didn't know there were that many 
alcoholics in Idaho, but the full parking lot gave the impression that 
they were doing a thriving business.
	Judy led the way and knew where she was going. I followed her in 
the front entrance, down a long hallway, and out onto a patio graced 
with shade trees and flower beds.  From out of one of the trees came 
recorded "easy listening" music.
	Uncle Buck sat at a picnic table, waiting for us.  After he and 
Judy embraced, he offered his hand to me, grinning broadly.  He looked 
good, amazingly good, maybe ten or fifteen pounds lighter than I 
remembered him.  But the eyes were the real difference, they looked at 
me with such clarity, in such attentive focus, that it made me wonder if 
Uncle Buck had ever really looked at me before.
	"How you doing, Bobby boy?" he said.  "About ready to head out 
on the great adventure, aren't you?"
	"I leave next week."
	"Glad I got to see you before you go."
	"Me, too."
	There were other families on the large patio, all speaking in 
hushed voices, trying to maintain a sense of privacy.  Although Uncle 
Buck was in pajamas and a robe, he was in the minority, and at most of 
the picnic tables across the large patio it was impossible to tell the 
patients from the visitors.  No one looked like an alcoholic to me - not 
even Uncle Buck.  Alcoholics looked like bums living on skid row.
	Only when Judy excused herself to use the bathroom did Uncle 
Buck reveal a bit of his old self: suddenly he grabbled my arm, leaned 
over the table and said, softly but ominously, "Do you really 
knoooooooooow?"
	He was grinning and staring at me so intensely I had to look 
away.
	"You know the best thing about this place?" he asked out of 
nowhere.  I shook my head.  "I learned I can be crazy and sober at the 
same time."
	Then again: "Do you really knoooooooooow?"
	He slapped the wooden table and said, "So maybe I don't know, 
huh?  But I think I do.  I feel like I do.  But you can never be too 
sure about these things, huh?  What do you know that you know, Bobby 
boy?"
	I laughed, more out of nervousness than anything else.  I felt 
like I was being tricked into going along with some kind of practical 
joke in which I would prove to be the butt.
	"Life is very, very, very short," Uncle Buck said.  Again, the 
remark seemed to come out of nowhere.  "I know it's hard to tell that to 
a young hotshot like yourself.  I think I know that.  Pretty sure, 
anyway.  You're going to do what you're going to do.  But I hope you 
keep away from the booze, Bobby boy, though I know you'll have your 
keggers or whatever the hell it is you call them today.  I had a year of 
college myself, you know.  Bet you didn't know that, did you?"
	"No," I said, my voice involuntarily cracking.  One of the 
family stories repeated ad nauseum was how Uncle Buck became a 
successful farmer despite having only a sixth grade education.  I 
noticed the story was always forgotten when one of my cousins wanted to 
drop out of school.
	"Didn't think so," said Uncle Buck.
	I coughed and smiled, trying to hide how on edge I felt, still 
wondering where all this was heading.
	"Drank my way through one of the best freshman curriculums in 
the country.  Make that curricula.  The University in Moscow.  Wasn't 
always a farmer, no siree.  Actually fancied myself an engineer way back 
in the Middle Ages.  But I liked my toddy, and that cost money, and to a 
youngster, working always looks better than an education.  You're 
different, I suspect.  You got a good head on your shoulders.  Probably 
become a teacher or something.  Know what you want to be, Bobby boy?"
	"I've been thinking of teaching," I admitted.
	"Honorable career.  Just keep your options open.  Now tell me 
about Judy."
	The last remark landed like a grenade from left field.
	"What about her?" I asked.
	"I see how you two look at each other.  Too bad you're first 
cousins, right?  Or does it matter any more?  I mean, we're in the Age 
of Condoms, you get them right there in the high school nurse's office, 
don't you?"
	I could feel myself blushing.
	"I think I said the wrong thing," said Uncle Buck.  "I talk too 
much, don't I?  The thing is, I never realized I could talk sober 
before.  Been a very long time since I did that.  So I sort of indulge 
myself.  The point I was trying to make is, don't let life pass you by, 
Bobby boy.  You've got to make your own mistakes, I realize that, but 
maybe when you look at an old codger like me, drinking most of his life 
away, probably end up with more drunk days than sober days even if I 
live to be eighty, which I doubt - look at yourself in the mirror real 
hard, boy, and always try to do what you really want, what's really in 
your gut.  And if that means pretending Judy isn't your cousin - well, 
talk to a doctor, I don't know all that much about it, maybe they got 
pills to take now so you don't end up with mongoloid kids or whatever 
happens, I'm not sure what the exact problem is with cousins marrying, 
I've just heard the kids don't come out right, but I also know it's real 
important to find the right kind of better half in this life, the right 
kind of partner of the opposite sex, and you and Judy sure do seem to 
get along good.  I think I know that.  Of course, one can never be sure.  
Do you really knoooooooooow?"
	And then he suddenly asked, "Bobby boy, are you still a virgin?"
	I stood up quickly, as if I'd just sat on a pin.  I saw Judy 
heading back from the bathroom and, mumbling my departure, I headed her 
way.
	"He's acting really weird," I said.  "Can we go soon?"
	"Weird how?"
	"I'll explain later."
	I continued on to the bathroom.
	Judy was alone at the patio table when I returned.
	"What happened?" she said right off.
	"Where is he?"
	"He said it was time for his nap.  He seemed upset about 
something.  What happened between you two?"
	"He did all the talking."
	"What did he say?"
	"Nothing that made much sense.  You ready to go?"
	She stood up.
	"I want to know what happened."
	I tried to tell her indirectly, both on the drive back and then 
in her kitchen, where she made us iced tea.  A note on the refrigerator 
announced that Aunt Betty was away until dinner time, giving us a couple 
hours alone.  But no matter how closely I circumvented the truth, Judy 
didn't catch my meaning.  Finally, out of frustration from her 
persistence, I spat out, "He wanted to know if we were sleeping 
together."
	As soon as I saw the look on her face, I regretted saying it.  
She looked stunned, as if this was the last thing in the world she 
expected to hear.
	Finally she said, "In just so many words or what?"
	"No, more round about."
	"Damn it, what did he say!"  She took a deep breath and said, 
"I'm sorry.  I just want to know what he said.  As close as you can 
remember."
	"He said we made a neat couple."
	"About us sleeping together."
	"He asked if I was a virgin."
	She gave me an odd look, as if trying to figure out if I was 
serious.
	She said, "You said he asked if we were sleeping together."
	"That was the meaning I got.  I mean, he didn't ask in so many 
words, but he went on and on about how good we were together, and how 
important it was for a guy to find the right girl and all, and then he 
wanted to know if I was a virgin and if you could get rubbers at school.  
It all added up to the same thing.  I didn't mean to upset you."
	Judy took another deep breath and asked, "Are you?"
	"What?"
	"Are you a virgin?"
	"Jesus, Judy, what a thing to ask."
	"I'm not," she said.
	"What?  I don't believe you."
	She stood up and at first I thought she was going to refill our 
glasses.  But she only moved a few steps from the table and stopped.  
Her back was to me as she cocked her head up and howled, but softly, 
strangely, like a lyric in a dream, "Do you really knoooooooooow?"
	She laughed and howled softly again.  I didn't know what was 
going on.  If this was a joke, I didn't like it.  This was a side of 
Judy I had never seen before. She kept up the eerie howling while 
turning slowly around to face me.
	Her gaze seemed to cut right through to my very core, forcing me 
to look away, forcing me to look at the naked breasts that dropped 
between the edges of her unbuttoned blouse.  Then, as if moving despite 
myself, despite fear, despite any sense of what was the right or wrong 
thing to do, I rose to my feet and moved to her, and so we were in one 
another's arms, kissing passionately, and then going upstairs, and then 
undressing to lay naked together - though within the hour I was being 
told I'd better leave, and then was hearing the click of the front door 
behind me as I hurried to my mother's car, still scrambling to finish 
dressing, all the while wondering what the hell had just happened.

	Judy did not come to see me off at the train station.  If she 
phoned me, she hung up before anyone answered - as I had done numerous 
times.
	And so - as the train pulled away past the encouraging and 
energetic waving of my parents, leaving Judy and the carefree idyll of 
my youth somewhere behind in the vast stretch of harvest-ripe golden 
grainland, and moved forward into the wind to begin the long journey to 
college - I settled into my seat, closed my eyes and for the first time 
began to realize how little I knew and how uncertain would be the 
knowing yet to come; so that by the time the train announced its 
departure from Adam, sounding like the howling of my Uncle Buck, "Do you 
really knoooooooooow?" I knew I didn't know what had really happened 
between Judy and me, or why Uncle Buck drank, or what was waiting for me 
at
college.
	I didn't know much of anything, though I didn't yet know that 
this itself was knowing.

____________________________________________
Charles Deemer's <cdeemer@teleport.com> short fiction has appeared in 
The Literary Review, Prism International, Mississippi Review, The 
Colorado Quarterly, Northwest Review and other literary magazines.

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TWO STORIES BY JENNIFER VINER

SEPTEMBER SUMMER
BY JENNIFER VINER

	Mom asked my sisters, Sarah and Molly, and me to drive down to 
our Aunt Mary's house and pick up a few things Aunt Mary would want with 
her at the hospital. Aunt Mary had cancer and was going in for surgery. 
Mom said she couldn't go to the house herself because she needed to stay 
available should anything happen with Mary over the weekend, but I think 
she just didn't want to go. I wasn't exactly thrilled about the trip and 
I was going to miss play rehearsal Saturday, but since Aunt Mary's house 
was in Cape May, and the weather was supposed to be nice, I decided it 
would be alright. Not that I was exactly thrilled about spending the 
weekend with my sisters. Sarah complained about it the most. She had 
planned to go to the lake with her boyfriend. She'd dragged me with her 
to Victoria's Secret to buy something sexy to wear for him. She was so 
dumb about that kind of stuff. When we found out about Aunt Mary, Sarah 
cried a lot. So did Mom. Molly just went to her room, sat on the window 
sill and watched the cars go by on the street below. I guess the whole 
thing didn't hit me until later on.
	My sisters made me sit in the back on the way down to Cape May. 
They boasted about seniority. I told them that as long as they played 
the radio loud enough to drown out their stupid conversation that the 
back was fine with me. I think Molly went through a whole pack of 
cigarettes on the way and none of us really talked much. I laid down in 
the back and watched the tops of the trees flash past the window. There 
were mostly only pine trees on the New Jersey Turnpike. It was dark by 
the time we got to the ocean and the trees had turned grey and blended 
into the starless sky. 
	Molly was the first out of the car. "Oh, God, the air feels so 
good here," she called down to us over the porch railing, while Sarah 
and I gathered our things from the trunk. "Let's not go back. Let's the 
three of us just stay here."
	"Don't be a fool, Molly," Sarah called to her.
	"Oh, I want to be a fool, Sarah. Let me be for just a while."
	Aunt Mary's house was an old Victorian. Better Homes had shown 
it a few years before when Uncle Jack was still around. The living room 
and dining room were filled with antiques and upholstered in chintz and 
silk. It wasn't much like a summer house since she lived there all year 
round, but we only knew it in the summer when we came down to spend a 
few sunny weeks with her every year.
	We'd been coming since we were little. It was always the same. 
Uncle Jack and Dad would play golf or go fishing while the ladies went 
to the beach. At night, the three of us, crammed into a double bed, 
would listen to the four of them laughing and getting drunk and telling 
old stories. We had heard some good ones. Then, when Aunt Mary was 
divorced and alone, the three of us would stay up and listen to her and 
Mom talk and cry. Sometimes they were up all night. Dad didn't come on 
those later trips. He said he didn't know how to handle Mary after the 
split. She always seemed about the same to me though. She would only cry 
to Mom. Now it was strange being in the house without her. It was 
strange to be there in September. Everything was all dusty.
	Molly found some Cokes in the fridge and we talked Sarah into 
going to the store for some Doritos. After she was gone, Molly and I sat 
on the porch and she let me smoke one of her cigarettes. Molly giggled 
as she lit it for me.
	"You're okay, Hope." She leaned back on the couch and rested her 
feet on my chair. "Thank God my little sister turned out okay since my 
big one's such a tight-ass." She nudged my shoulder with her foot and I 
coughed. We sat there, quiet, for a bit.
	"Are we going to the beach tomorrow?" I asked even though I knew 
we would.
	"I guess," she answered and then we were quiet again until Sarah 
got back.
	Then Molly went inside to call Tom. Sarah told her to call 
collect.
	"Were you smoking with her?" Sarah asked.
	"Yeah, so?"
	"Do you think she's alright?"
	"Molly? Sure." I thought so too, but I didn't feel like having 
that conversation again.
	"I should have gone away to school this semester," Sarah said.
	"So why didn't you?"
	"I guess so I could stay with Michael."
	I nodded, but I knew she hadn't gone because she was scared. 
"Well, you'll go in January," I said.
	Molly was back out. "Are you talking about college?"
	I shot her a 'be careful' look but she ignored it.
	"Face it Sar', you're chicken," Molly said.
	"Hey," I broke in, "Toss me a smoke."
	She threw the pack at my face.
	"Hope, honey, please don't," Sarah said.
	"Get off her back, bitch. She can do whatever she wants." Molly 
had all the answers.
	The night air was soft and in the distance I could hear a 
whisper of waves crashing. There were only a few other lights on in the 
windows up and down the street. The town was empty except for the three 
of us, sitting there, on the porch, wishing we were somewhere else. I 
took a long drag on my cigarette.
	An old man walked past the house, below, on the sidewalk. He 
didn't notice us. He walked with his head down in white tennis shoes and 
a red slicker. I thought he should at least have a dog to walk. When he 
turned the corner at the end of the block I squashed out my cigarette 
and flicked it into the bushes. Molly went back inside to try Tom again.
	"Are you thinking about Aunt Mary, Hope?"
	"I think she'll be fine. She has a good chance at recovery."
	"Mom's real upset about it," Sarah said.
	"Is she?" I guess it was a stupid question but I hadn't really 
thought about it.
	"Well Mary's her only sister."
	"I don't think she'll die," I said.
	"I don't know what I would do if anything ever happened to 
either of you guys."
	"She'll be fine."
	Sarah stood up and leaned against the railing. "Do you ever 
think about dying?" she asked.
	I laughed. "I'm only fifteen."
	"I wish I was fifteen again," Sarah said. "I liked fifteen. I 
didn't have anything to worry about then. Life was so simple."
	"Oh, really, Sarah, shut up."
	Molly threw open the screen door with a theatrical sweep. "Tom 
invited me to go to the Bahamas with him next weekend," she squealed and 
clapped her hands like an idiot.
	She'd been sleeping with this guy Tom Parker for a couple of 
months. He was 25, hot, and drove a Mercedes. Sarah and I thought he 
sold drugs. Sarah was convinced that Molly had come home high the other 
night because she had heard her cleaning her room and falling down a lot 
and the next morning had found her passed out in a pile of socks which 
she'd been refolding. But Molly never said anything about it.
	"You're not going to go, are you?" Sarah narrowed her eyes in 
disapproval.
	"Say, bitch, why don't you relax," and then she did something 
weird. She rolled her head back and closed her eyes. She pressed both 
her palms, one on top of the other, to her chest. Maybe it was just 
heartburn, but it looked like she was praying. I watched her until she 
opened her eyes. She smiled at me before turning back to Sarah.
	"Pete started calling her again," she said, pointing at me.
	"Oh, really, I guess he didn't have any luck with what's-her-
name," Sarah said.
	"Becky," I answered.
	"I'll bet he had lots of luck with Becky," Molly put in.
	"Make him sweat it, little sis, don't give in."
	I told them I was going to bed.
	"Oh, Hopester, sit down, we'll shut up."
	I didn't feel like it anymore though. I was tired, tired from 
the drive, the talk and the sea air. I carried my bags upstairs, into 
Aunt Mary's room. I didn't turn on the light because I knew if I did, 
the room would feel too unnatural. Instead I drew back the curtains and 
opened the window wide. A trickle of light came in with the balmy air 
and I could hear my sisters' hushed voices floating up. Hearing them 
made me feel better. I got into bed and thought about Pete.
	Pete could be a real jerk. Being in the play with him was kind 
of fun though because he could also be really great. The first time he 
met me he told me I had nice legs, which was funny because I was wearing 
old sweat pants and he couldn't see my legs at all. He was big on the 
lacrosse team which was good. He was also a senior which was really 
good.
	The first time he took me out I was super nervous. Molly had to 
do my buttons for me because my hands were too shakey. Then she told me 
this story about how Pete threw up on their seventh grade picnic because 
the leftovers his mom packed were too old. After that I wasn't nervous 
anymore. We went downtown and walked around South Street. We saw a girl 
with pink hair and joked around about getting tattoos. He bought me a 
rose on a street corner. He held my hand on the car ride home.
	That was the beginning of the summer. Until August, when we came 
to Cape May for vacation and Pete had sex with Becky, we spent all our 
time together, taking walks, playing frisbee, going to movies and 
parties and dances. Pete was the first boy I kissed, the first to call 
me pretty, the first to lie next to me in my back yard, on an itchy wool 
blanket and name all the constellations in the summer sky.
	I eventually fell asleep thinking about him and how I didn't 
care what happened between us.
	When I woke up the next morning, Sarah and Molly weren't 
speaking. I went for a walk on the beach. I walked straight down to the 
water to get my feet wet. The water was cold and tingly and goosebumps 
prickled up my legs. I stood there looking out to where the sky and 
ocean met while little waves lapped at my feet and my toes squished into 
the sand. The sun was warm on my cheeks and I was alone on the beach 
except for a few swooping seagulls. I thought about a passage in The 
Awakening, which I'd read for English, the part right before Edna drowns 
herself. She had turned her back on the world, her family. My English 
teacher, Miss Bright, had called her a cowardly heroine but I kept 
wondering what her kids would do without anyone to take care of them. Or 
what if everyone died and I was the only one left. A heroine shouldn't 
kill herself, I thought.
	Sometimes I got the feeling like the world was going on without 
me or that I was watching it all happen on a big screen, seeing it but 
not feeling it. It was all just nothing. And if I'd questioned the whole 
thing, if I'd asked myself why I felt darker on sunny days and more at 
ease on rainy ones - or why I was just as content to watch the changing 
stoplight out my window as I was to count the flowers on my wallpaper - 
if I asked I might have realized that it had nothing to do with Sarah's 
perpetual apprehension or Molly's recklessness or Pete's jerkiness or 
Aunt Mary's cancer. It was that all those things were mixed up together 
inside of me and there wasn't anything I could do. But I didn't realize 
it then.
	Molly walked up behind me. I wanted to ignore her but she was 
singing, "I used to love her but I had to kill her," and changing the 
rest of the words to stuff like, "her butt was too big and her ankles so 
fat" and adding la-la's in the spaces. 
	"What do you say - should we lock her in a closet until tomorrow 
so we can actually have a good time or should we just ditch her and go 
home."
	"What happened?" I asked.
	"What happened was she wasn't given up for adoption at birth.  
She's on her superiority trip, lecturing me like she's the expert on 
life. Maybe if she ever did anything other than paint her nails and 
dream about marrying Michael.  God."
	"Molly, do you think if I go back with Pete things'll be 
better?"
	"As long as you remember that you can only depend on yourself, 
and not to expect much of people, then whatever you do will turn out 
okay," Molly said.
	I bent down to pick up a thick clam shell. I chucked it as far 
as I could. "I'm hungry." We headed towards the street. "Before we lock 
Sarah up lets get her to cook us breakfast," I said.
	We left after breakfast. I guess we all felt the beach would be 
no fun without screaming kids and lifeguards.
	I made it back in time for play rehearsal. Pete gave me a ride 
home and asked me if I wanted to go see Pet Semetery and since I was in 
the mood for a good horror movie I said yes.
	The next weekend Sarah was with Michael at the lake and Molly 
was in the Bahamas. Pete drove me to the hospital to bring Aunt Mary 
flowers. They said the surgery had gone well.  When I walked into the 
room she was asleep, wheezing a little when she breathed. She was pale 
and I realized that I'd never seen her before without lipstick on. I 
stood there watching her for a little while, like I knew my mother had 
watched me as a sleeping baby. Then I set down the flowers by the window 
and left knowing I'd be back to see her the next day with my sisters.
	Pete and I didn't talk on the way home, but he held my hand. I 
watched the other cars on the expressway slip by. Some of the trees 
along the drive were starting to turn. 

* * *

BABY
BY JENNIFER VINER

	Tom sort of came out of nowhere. He was tall, dark eyed, and 
real slick.
	Of course he turned out to be a real asshole.
	Karen introduced me to him at one of her parties. I'd known 
Karen for a couple months at that point. She was in my summer art 
course, a painting class. During our breaks we always went to the diner 
on the corner. She'd tell me about whichever guy she was dating that 
week, the bartender at the A Joint or the photography professor or some 
guy she'd met on the train who had a nose ring and wore all black. She'd 
say, "I have to introduce you to so and so, he's to die for." "To die 
for," she always said that. She'd take me out with her, sneak me into 
bars, let me borrow her clothes. She had great clothes. She was also 
really skinny. I asked her how she did it. So she taught me how to roll 
a dollar bill real tight. She giggled and said, "I can't believe you've 
never tried it?" I was a little nervous the first time, but it turned 
out to be easy and pretty soon I fit into her jeans, size four and then 
she said, "Honey, you look gorgeous, simply to die for." 
	At that party, the night I met Tom, Karen was in one of her 
moods, all giggly and flirtatious with just about every man that walked 
by. Tom walked over to her, on the other side of the room. I was 
listening to a real bore, well not really listening to him. I noticed 
that Karen was waving me over to where she and Tom were talking.
	"Molly, meet Tom," Karen said, tilting her chin towards him.
	I raised an eyebrow and said hi. He looked like he must have 
been about thirty.  "Looks like your glass is empty. Let me do something 
about that."
	Karen blew a kiss to his back as he walked into the kitchen. 
"What do you think?"
	"He's okay, I guess."
	"I think he's hot. Nice ass."
	"What does he do?"
	"Oh, he'll probably tell you he's in sales or something."  
	"Did you tell him how old I am?"
	"Don't be a fool. Anyway, he won't ask."
	He was coming back and Karen disappeared into the crowd. He 
smiled as he came up to me and handed me my drink. "Do you want to get 
out of here?"
	"Yeah, okay."
	He took my hand and led me out the door. "You have beautiful 
hair," he said and when we got to his car he backed me up against the 
door, grabbing the hair at the nape of my neck, and kissed me. Then he 
moved his head down and kissed my neck, behind my ear and slid his hand 
down the front of my blouse. A kid on a bike rode by and whistled. Tom 
stopped and opened the door for me.
	I took in a deep breath. "I think I should go find Karen," I 
said quietly.
	"Shh, Baby. Karen's a big girl. She can take care of herself. 
Come on. I'll drive you home."
	I remember my heart was beating so fast as we flew down Delaware 
Avenue, under the bridge, bouncing over potholes and swerving around 
orange cones. He reached over and took my hand. The whole scene struck 
me as being like some cheap romance movie, so going with the flow, I 
smiled at him out of the corner of my mouth, movie star-like and winked.
	"Don't take me home," I whispered.
	Back at his place, while he was rooting around his kitchen for 
something to drink, I asked if I could use the phone. I dialed my own 
number. Hope picked up.
	"Were you asleep?"
	She yawned. "It's so late. Where are you?"
	"Are Mom and Dad sleeping?"
	"It's almost two."
	"I'm staying at Karen's for the night."
	Tom sat down on the couch next to me. "It's Bourbon. Is that 
alright?"  "Sure, great." I slid down on the couch so that my head was 
leaning against the arm rest. He took off my shoes and began to rub my 
feet. I took little sips from my glass. It was good heavy crystal. "You 
have a nice place, fireplace too."
	He moved up closer to me and started unbuttoning my blouse.
	"Karen tells me you're in sales."
	"Is that what she said?" He laughed, grabbed his drink off the 
coffee table and tilted back his head taking it all down at once. "How 
old are you anyway?"
	"How old do you think?"
	"About sixteen?"
	"Would you bring a sixteen year old back to your apartment like 
this?"
	"No."
	"How old are you?" I asked.
	"How old do you think?"
	"Forty, fifty?"
	He laughed. "You're pretty smart for a sixteen year old." He 
unhooked my bra and kissed me, kissed me down to my belly button. "Does 
you're Daddy know where you are?"
	"He can probably figure it out - he's pretty smart himself."
	He stood up and looked at me.
	"What?" I asked.
	"Come on." He put his hand out to me and led me into the 
bedroom. He lay me down on his bed in the dark and touched my face, 
pushing the hair off my forehead. Then he walked out and closed the door 
behind him without saying anything else.

	I spent all my time with him for the rest of the summer. When 
school started he would pick me up after classes and take me back to his 
apartment. We'd smoke pot in bed and have sex. Sometimes I called my 
parents and told them I was spending the night at Karen's, other times 
he drove me home and we'd fool around in the driveway until the car had 
been running for so long we knew my mother wouldn't buy that we were 
just talking and I'd fix my hair and run inside. Sometimes we went away 
on the weekends. He took me to the Bahamas once and we stayed in this 
tacky hotel with mirrors all over the walls. We stayed up all night 
doing lines and slept it off on the beach. I told Mom I was going 
camping on a class trip. That weekend Tom told me he loved me, loved to 
be with me. I told him I loved his body.
	I told myself I didn't believe him.

	At 10:30 the phone rang.
	"Babe, sorry I'm late. You ready?"
	"I've been ready for two hours."
	"I had some business."
	Downstairs my parents were sitting in the living room. My mother 
was at one end of the sofa, under a floor lamp, making her way through 
her stack of medical journals. My father snored in front of the 
television. Mom looked up as I came in.
	"Molly, do you know that in this study women who's caffeine 
intake over the last 20 years was under, well that's about a can of 
Pepsi, I suppose, anyway their response in this study to radiation 
treatment..."
	"Mom?"
	"Are you going out now, sweetheart?"
	"Yeah, Tom's picking me up," I said.
	"You're going to a late show again?"
	"Yeah, something like that."
	Her eyes swept over me. "You look very nice and very grown-up, 
doesn't she, honey?" The rise in her voice woke my father and he nodded 
sleepily, in agreement.
	"I want you to be in at a decent hour tonight. You haven't been 
getting enough sleep and don't you tell me to mind my own business about 
this. You know I have enough to worry about with my sister back in the 
hospital. You look awful, those circles under your eyes." She smiled up 
at me.
	"Right, Mom." I smiled back at her.
	She looked over to my father. "I think I want you to stay in 
tonight," he said all of a sudden.
	"Dad, what are you talking about. Anyway he's on his way over 
now."
	"Honey, are you having sex with this man?" Mom had her eyes back 
in her journal.
	"Mom."
	"Well, I watch the news. I know what is going on out there. 
Don't think I don't."
	"Mom, honestly, what do you think I am. We're just going to see 
a movie. You really need to relax."
	"Molly," Dad spoke up, "don't worry your mother."
	"She tells me to relax when she could be coming home pregnant?"
	My father said, "Patrice, don't be an idiot." 
	Outside a horn blew. I said good night to my father and ran to 
the door. Hope was standing on the landing. She turned her back to me 
when I saw her and walked slowly back upstairs.

	Like I said, Tom sort of came out of nowhere. He was tall, dark 
eyed, and real slick. He drove a Mercedes and called me Baby. Sometimes 
I woke up with him in the morning and felt lost. I'd get up and wander 
around his room while he was still asleep and I'd look through his 
drawers, the papers on his desk, the receipts in his wallet. I never 
found anything though. When he woke up he'd say, "C'mere, Baby." I'd 
climb back into his bed to let him kiss me on the forehead and rub his 
soft fingertips up and down my arm.
	The time I had with him changed me. I can't say it was for the 
worst, though I could have lived without the whole thing. I think all 
girls go through it though. It's the kind of thing that punches all the 
naivete out of you and gives you that hard edge. The only really bad 
thing about it was that, after he disappeared, I still missed him. I 
didn't want to, but I missed him in the morning, when I woke up alone, 
in my bed with Mom downstairs frying bacon. I missed him when I passed 
the playground where he'd taken me that night or when I listened to Van 
Morrison. But mostly I missed him at night.
	For a time afterwards I guess I sort of fell apart. No one could 
really tell, I don't think. I looked the same on the outside. But I 
could see it, when I looked at myself in the mirror before I stepped 
into the shower. It was there, all over me, inside of me and the soap 
and hot water wouldn't wash it away. The only thing that helped was 
feeling high.
	I'd skip school or come home early saying I was sick. No one was 
around at home during the day. Just in case, I would go upstairs to the 
bathroom. I locked the door and sat down, cutting lines on the back of 
the toilet. 
	It was my little sister, Hope, who finally caught me, knocking 
softly and opening the bathroom door one night when she'd come home 
early from a date. She didn't say anything. She just stood there in the 
doorway, staring at me. I wiped my nose and waited until she walked 
away.
	I found her in her room, lying on her bed, concentrating her 
gaze on the ceiling. She wouldn't look at me when I came in.
	"Don't tell Mom, okay?"
	She didn't answer.
	"There's no reason to tell anyone, Hope. It'll only get them 
worried over nothing and I don't want them on my case right now."
	She stood up and walked to the window.
	I didn't know what else to say to her. 
	"How can you do it, Molly? How can you even come in here?"
	"Don't you get all high and mighty with me, Miss Perfect. You 
never screw up do you, Hope. No, you can just sit back and tell me what 
to do and you're always right, aren't you? You, don't tell me what to 
do."
	Finally she whispered, "I won't tell anyone." She turned around 
to face me and her eyes were teary. She said to me with a kind of 
hopelessness in her voice, "I'm sorry."
	I slammed her door and in the hallway, threw my fist against the 
wall. I heard her start to cry. I kicked her door and told her to shut 
up.
	Then she screamed out to me, "You're the one who's supposed to 
show me what to do, Molly. And you're so stupid. You go out with some 
scummy drug dealer, some old man, and I have to watch you and keep my 
mouth shut and you come home wasted and I have to cover for you. Your 
doing a fucking good job teaching me to be a good liar. Thanks a fucking 
lot. If Tom dumped you it's your own stupid fault so don't you take it 
out on me."
	I got out of there. I drove over to Karen's. I'd been going over 
to her place in the afternoon, while she was still at work. She gave me 
a key so I could let myself in. I folded her clean laundry and did her 
dishes and stuff. I thought about Tom. I couldn't seem to get him out of 
my head. I hadn't told my parents that he was gone. Going to Karen's was 
a good way out of that. I couldn't be home in the afternoons anymore, 
not after I'd gotten so used to not being there.
	So I didn't talk to Hope for a while. To be honest I didn't want 
to have to. I was up in my room, lying on my bed and listening to music 
when Hope came in and sat down next to me. 
	"Hopester, what's going on?"
	"Mom's on to you," she said flatly.
	"Are you happy then?"
	She went on. "At dinner tonight she asked me if I knew where you 
were spending all your time. She knows you're never home. She knows that 
Tom's history."
	"What did you tell her?"
	"That you go over to Karen's a lot."
	"So?"
	"She says Karen's a floozy."
	I laughed. "What are you trying to tell me, Hope?"
	"Are you still doing that stuff?"
	I rolled over onto my stomach, turned my head away from her and 
told her no. 
	"Will you tell me what happened with Tom?"
	I didn't answer.
	"Please, Molly, tell me what happened. I saw..."
	"Get out of my room," I said.

	That weekend, Karen and I went to a concert down at the Strand. 
She was drunk and kept telling me about some guy she'd fallen in love 
with. The music was loud and it was hot. People kept bumping into me. 
Someone spilled a drink down my back. Karen was high and oblivious, 
giggling in her own little world. Then I saw Tom. He was on the other 
side of the theater. I thought he saw me. My throat tightened as he put 
his arm around the blonde standing next to him, still looking my way. He 
kissed her.
	"Karen," I shouted to her over the guitar and drums, "let's get 
out of here."
	"Oh, come on Mol'," she yelled back.
	"It's Tom."
	"Tom? Where? I want to say 'hi.' I think he just got some."
	"Karen." I was starting to really lose it. "Karen I have to get 
out of here."
	"Suit yourself, Hon'." She kept dancing.
	I stood there and stared at her. She stopped and put her had on 
her hip. "Look," she said, "if you're going to play with the big boys, 
you can't let this shit get to you. You've had enough time to get over 
this already."
	I told her to fuck off. I had to take a cab home. Of course I 
cried the whole way and the cabbie wouldn't let me smoke, so after he 
dropped me off I sat on the curb and chained three or four. I thought 
Karen was right, in a way. Why was I letting him get to me? I wasn't the 
kind of girl who got hurt. I wasn't the kind of girl who cried. Its 
funny - the thoughts that come to you in that time, when the tracks of 
salt are still burning your cheeks. A peace comes in, like it's all up 
from here and you start taking some deep breaths and smile to yourself. 
I think I read once that crying releases endorphins, that natural high 
bullshit. I walked up the flagstones, counting them automatically, still 
seventeen. The house was dark and quiet. I locked the front door behind 
me and for the first time since I could remember it felt good to be at 
home.
	I went into the bathroom and washed my face with cold water. And 
then, standing in front of the mirror I began to get undressed. I stood 
and looked at myself. Didn't I know Tom was just handing me a line when 
he told me I was beautiful.
	As I stood there looking, the bruises, which had been scattered 
across my breasts and on my arms where he had held me down at the 
playground, on the sliding board, reappeared. They were there, just like 
they had been on the last morning I saw him. I sucked in my breath.
	There was a little knock at the door and when it opened, Hope 
popped her head in.
	"You okay?" 
	I was standing red-eyed and naked in the florescent light of the 
bathroom at two in the morning. "I saw Tom tonight."
	She waited. 
	"He saw me and kissed the slut he was with right in my face."
	She came in and put her arms around me, "I know he hurt you. I 
saw the bruises too." She stood back and looked with me at the mirror. 
"But, you see, they're gone now. They've been gone for a while. He's 
gone now too." 
	I put my T-shirt and shorts back on and sat down on the edge of 
the tub. I felt so tired.
	"Are you going to be alright?"
	"I guess."

____________________________________________
Jennifer Viner is currently an English major concentrating in 
contemporary literature.  She hopes to go on for an MFA in creative 
writing and a teaching certificate.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

A SAY IN THE MATTER
BY GARRET F. GRAJEK

	I was stewing my thoughts while discussing a mundane case with 
my old friend, Lawrence Hamilton.  Lawrence was a likable fellow, though 
his appearance was a bit morose.  Too tall and lanky to be deemed 
handsome, his shirt cuffs had the habit of hanging from his thin wrists 
like worn dog collars.
	We were seated at the bar in Tony's, a downtown jazz club. It 
was our law firm's regular Friday happy-hour spot.  Lawrence had brought 
the luscious Ms. Kristie Lowell, our firm's new secretary, to the bar.  
Kristie had been dating Lawrence for the last few weeks.  Milking the 
bloke, I should say.  Lawrence was the VISA account responsible for 
everything Kristie sported this evening, from her snug black mini-dress, 
to her oversized Yves St. Laurent purse to the gold necklace she teased 
with her painted lips.
	But now Kristie was making her moves on our office's ex-football 
jock, Mark Thames.  And none too discretely - for she was perched upon a 
barstool next to myself, merrily running one of her polished nails 
across Mark's puffed-out chest.
	Though he refused to admit it, Kristie had no more need for 
Lawrence than my old sailboat needed anti-lock brakes. 
	My mate was out of his league.  He eyed his flirtatious date and 
shrugged his shoulders in defeat.  
	"Well, Ned, how's Lisa?" he finally asked me.
	"Fine, just fine," I sighed.  I had enough on my mind without 
lecturing Lawrence on women.  Besides, I am not exactly the beacon for 
male sovereignty.  "Still in school," I continued.  
	My wife was studying in England for a summer when I met her a 
decade ago.  She was still studying now.  Silently I reviewed the 
regatta of her previous scholastic pursuits: drama, speech therapy, 
elementary education, and now interior design.
	"Lisa's great," Lawrence said and then added with a whisper, 
"straightforward, not the manipulative type."
	I felt obliged to raise my beer in agreement.  Though I thought 
to myself, Poor Lawrence, only a few years younger than me and still so 
clueless.
	"Mark, you really do have a naughty mind!" Kristie said louder 
than I think Mark wanted her to.  "Just like me!" 
	I turned toward the two.  Kristie's firm bottom was practically 
in my face.  She had twisted her torso on the barstool, stretching the 
dickens out of her black knit dress.
	Embarrassed by Kristie's flaunting, Lawrence squeezed between 
his contorted date and myself.
	"Kristie, would you care for another chablis?" Lawrence asked 
feebly. 
	Maintaining her cat-like pose, she said to Lawrence, "I think 
I'm ready for something stronger."  She then picked up a peanut and 
playfully lobbed it into Mark's face.
	Mark shrugged at Lawrence with a cheese-eating grin.  I surmised 
that Mark was not feeling the restraints of his decade-old friendship 
with Lawrence.
	"I think I'll have a Velvet Hammer, Sweetie," Kristie said, 
whipping her radiant black hair across her well-exposed chest as she 
turned on the barstool.  Once facing Lawrence and me, she tilted her 
head and encouraged a dagger of her hair to slide into her cleavage.
	I couldn't help but stare, as I have been since Kristie joined 
our firm last month.
	"Like what you see?" she said to me. 
	"Lawrence," I fumbled for my wallet, attempting to look 
unflustered, "could you get me a St. Paulie's while you're at it?"  
	"Ned, we're running a tab, remember?" Mark and Kristie giggled 
in unison.  They knew that Kristie had unnerved me once again.
	As odd as it sounds, I couldn't help but curse Lisa, my wife.  
If she weren't so busy attending every obscure design class and 
coordinating upholstery patterns, she might have some time to worry 
about being a bit more sexy.	And I wouldn't be so 
easily foiled by 
young vixens like Kristie.  Is it too much for a bloke to ask his wife 
to be appealing, even after seven years of marriage?
	To regain my composure, I inquired where Rick Dawson, my old 
officemate had gone.
	Lawrence replied, "Don't know.  Last I saw him he was by the 
phone, talking to that redhead in the black leather skirt."  Lawrence 
was looking down at the bar, pulling off a long section of his St. 
Paulie's beer label.
	"Should never let a good-looking redhead go to waste!" Rick said 
as he sprouted from behind some tables.  In his tweed sportscoat, 
pleated khakis and white business shirt, Rick was the epitome of male 
confidence without the bravado.
	He slapped Lawrence on the back, "I see you're having a big 
night of label shredding."  Rick was Lawrence's buddy, almost his 
mentor, but he certainly was not above some healthy ribbing.
	Rick made eye contact with the bartender.
	"I'll take a beer."
	"St. Paulie's?" the bartender asked.
	"Nah, make that a Bud and..." Rick paused to look at me. 
	"The same," I responded.
	"Two Buds then."
	"What took you so long?" I asked.  I was hoping Rick would say 
something about the redhead - she reminded me of the Irish girl I dated 
back in England.  
	"Oh...I met a buddy on the way to the washroom and he asked me 
to go sailing with him tomorrow.  So I called Marie and checked if she 
wanted to go."  
	By the tip that Rick stuffed in the bartender's jar, I figured 
Marie had said yes.  But of course, when didn't they?
	"You know Ned," Rick continued, "that could be us out on the 
lake - on the new Sheffield."
	I replied with silence.  The new Sheffield.  Rick knew how to 
get to me.  
	Rick had been trying to get me to go halves on a sailboat.  He 
found a J-22, a racing craft designed for small lakes and light winds, 
for what I agreed was a excellent price.  He wanted to learn to sail, 
and knew that I used to own one.
	I thought of the argument I had with Lisa yesterday, when I 
picked her up at the university.  It was about the boat.
	Lisa said we couldn't afford it - which was not really true.  
Sure, the down payment on our four-bedroom house in posh west Austin had 
cleaned out our savings.  But that was two years ago.  With the extra 
projects I had been working, my bonuses had replenished our reserves.
	Lisa wanted to use the extra cash for a new set of drapes.  At 
$500 a throw.
	"You knew we would have to make sacrifices to build our dream 
house," Lisa sighed, stroking my hair as I drove.  I said nothing.  
	Sacrifices.  Like the Sheffield, my J-22 racing sailboat that I 
had restored from a state of complete neglect.  Buying and restoring the 
Sheffield was the first thing I did when I came to the States.  The 
labor kept me from going insane from my trans-Atlantic move and in the 
process, I met some good blokes at the marina.
	Sold!  We sold the Sheffield for a down payment on the
house!  The fact that the house was Lisa's dream and not mine escaped my 
wife.

	"Ned, feel this," Kristie said hopping off her barstool and 
plunging her right arm into my lap.  Though she was talking to me, her 
curves and voluptuous chest were pointed toward Rick.  Being married, I 
guess I was a neutral zone that allowed Kristie to entice her new 
victim.
	Kristie grabbed my right arm and rolled it across her exposed 
bicep.  I loathed Lisa.  When was the last time I touched such a toned 
female muscle? 
	"You feel that, Ned?  Isn't it weird?"  She squeezed my fingers 
around what felt like a bunch of matchsticks beneath her skin.  "It's my 
implant."
	"Is that for quitting smoking?" Lawrence said gawking over 
Kristie with his Abraham Lincoln body.
	"No, silly, it's for birth control," she smirked. 
	"Thank God she's not a guy, Ned," Rick said from behind Kristie.  
"Otherwise we'd have to look at her condom collection." 
	She spun around. 
	"That was very rude, Rick."
	"How do you know my name?" Rick asked as he stepped around 
Kristie to get a handful of peanuts off the bar.  Rick had left the firm 
before she was hired.  Lawrence had invited Rick to this happy hour.  
Sadly, I think Lawrence wanted to impress his buddy with his new date.
	"Don't you remember me?  I'm Kristie.  I was at your party," she 
said as she languidly caressed her arm.
	"Which one?" Rick asked.
	"The one where you were rude." 
	"That hardly helps, but I think you mean the party where me and 
Lawrence stoked up the yellow fins we caught on our fishing trip."
	I recalled that Rick had asked if I wanted to go with them to 
Port Aransas.  Of course I said yes.  Previously I had only gone to the 
Texas coast once, and that was not much of a vacation.  It was a quick 
trip to Galveston for a wedding of one of my wife's sorority sisters.
	So I was naturally excited about Rick's fishing excursion.  But 
two days before the trip, Lisa came down with one of her many colds.  
	"Don't miss your trip on account of me, Honey," Lisa said with 
puffy eyes and a puppy dog face.
	But I stayed home anyway.  It just wasn't worth the guilt I 
would have had to endure.  Besides, the last time I chose to go camping 
with Rick instead of staying home to nurse one of Lisa's flus, it wound 
up costing me a month's wages in flowers and chocolates.
	"Well, you were very rude to me that night," Kristie pouted 
before pursing her lips around her cocktail straw.  Her back was erect 
and she was looking him directly in the eye.
	The way Kristie looked at Rick I couldn't help but think of a 
similar scene in a Sheffield pub called Chilham's, nine years ago.  I 
was bellying up to the bar to get a round for my mates.
	"You're in my drama class, aren't you?" a sweet voice asked, one 
of those southern-belle American voices I had heard in the pictures.
	I turned to my right and eyed a petite blonde.  I had pointed 
the girl out to my mates before going up the bar.  In her Texas sun 
dress, only the queen herself would have stuck out more in that smokey 
brown pub.
	With a smile, she asked why I was so shy and did not come over 
to say hello.  "Didn't you recognize me?"
	I said that I wanted to say hello but it just wasn't the English 
way.  Which, of course, was a cop-out.  I just never had it in me to 
approach a girl - certainly not one as attractive as Lisa.  Besides, 
there was my redheaded, Irish girlfriend.
	But my girlfriend was not with me that night.  Nor was she there 
when Lisa and I went on our first date.  We went sailing in my old 
Flying Junior around Humber Bay, just north of Sheffield.  And of course 
my ex-girlfriend did not see me off when I left with Lisa to live in the 
States.

	"Oh, I don't remember being rude," Rick replied indifferently.  
"I think I only said a few words to you."
	"That's my point," Kristie said.
	"Which is?"
	"You were the host, you should've conversed with everyone."  
	"Well, Kristie, tell you what," Rick leaned over me and put his 
empty Bud on the bar, "you can throw a party and get back at me by not 
saying a word to me all night."
	I felt like cheering for Rick.
	He then took a step toward Lawrence.  
	"Too bad your were busy last night, ol' buddy.  I met some old 
friends, stewardesses, at Ricardo's."  Rick took a sip of his beer, 
"Trust me, Larry, you should've been there."
	"Sorry I missed it," Lawrence said, smirking at his "date."  
Last night, he had taken Kristie out to dinner instead.
	Our young secretary sighed with disgust.  She then twirled on 
her seat and reached for her Yves St. Laurent purse on the bar.  She 
could have grabbed it easily had she stood up, but instead she laid 
across me, as if perfecting her yoga form.  Her youthful odor was 
enticing and mocking at the same time.
	Finally, after confirming that Rick had seen her sprawled over 
me, Kristie said, "Mark, honey, I just can't seem to reach my purse.  
Could you hand it to me?  I have something I want to show you."
	Lawrence had halted his conversation with Rick to observe 
Kristie.
	I saw Lawrence whisper something to him.  Rick laughed and then 
said out loud, "It is her better half."
	I marveled at Rick's nonchalance at Kristie's flirtations.  I 
toasted him silently as I took a healthy swig of my beer.  I even 
thought it was beginning to rub off on Lawrence.
	But I was quickly disappointed.  For it was Lawrence who fetched 
Kristie's purse.
	I heard Rick mumble, "What a gentleman," before taking a drink 
from his longneck.
	"Thank you Hon, you're so sweet," she gave Lawrence a peck on 
the cheek and then snapped in Rick's direction, "unlike some people."
	"Who?" Rick asked.
	"People who are bad hosts."
	"Oh, for a while I thought I was going to have to defend my 
buddy, Ned.  Him being a married guy and all, he's forgotten how to 
stick up for himself against women."
	"He has a point," I said, toasting my beer to Rick.  "Lisa has 
made me into a silent booster for the male cause."
	"Don't you care at all what I think of you?" Kristie pouted as 
she bent down to rummage through her purse.  Her new pose was more than 
slightly revealing in her low-cut dress.
	"Do I care what you think of me?  Well actually," Rick held a 
peanut in his hand as if he was going to toss it down her dress, "that's 
really a foolish question, don't you think?"
	"You really are as rude as people say."
	"And you have lived up to what I've heard about you."
	"Well to hell with you," Kristie snapped, popping up from her 
kneeling position.  "I'm not going to let you see my calendar."
	Lawrence seemed unnerved by the last statement and touched her 
bare shoulder.  "You didn't bring it, did you?" 
	I wanted to revoke Lawrence's license to call himself a man.
	"Yes, I did!" she flashed a smile to us guys.  "If y'all didn't 
know, I had a naked calendar made of myself." 
	"How exquisite," Rick said as he signaled the barkeep for 
another beer.  "Does it show your tattoo?"
	Kristie looked like she was trying to blush.
	"But of course."
	She let a manicured finger slide down the rear of her left 
thigh, as if to indicate placement.
	I looked at Rick with a how-did-you-know? look.  
	"Lucky guess," Rick shrugged.
	Since I was the only one still sitting, she tossed her purse in 
my lap.
	"Of course I want to know what y'all think of my modeling.  
Artistically, that is."
	The guys fell silent as Kristie slowly ferreted through her 
purse.  She kept one eye aimed at Rick.  He refused to play along.  
Instead, he stepped around her to order another Budweiser.  Regardless, 
she tried to play up the suspense for all it was worth, even pausing to 
pull out a golden tube of lipstick to polish her already well-accented 
lips.
	Eventually Kristie abandon her search with a heavy sigh. 
	"Well I guess I didn't bring it after all.  Y'all will just have 
to drop by my place sometime to get your own copy.  I'll promise to sign 
it." 
	"Makes a great anniversary present for your wife," Rick said 
across the bar.  He then picked up his beer, walked over to me and 
whispered something about Kristie.  I knew he intentionally accented her 
name to peak her curiosity.  Rick then rapped me on the shoulder and 
walked off to another table where he was being beckoned.
	Kristie continued babbling about her calendar, choosing to feign 
indifference to Rick's departure.
	"So what on earth possessed you to make a calendar?" Mark asked 
pumping back his shoulders for the umpteenth time.  With Rick gone he 
was ready to reclaim the pole position in the race for Kristie's 
attention.
	"It was really a lot of fun."  She ran her fingers through her 
hair until her arms were spread above her shoulders.  She held the pose.  
"Erotica is very natural for me."
	As she started to go through her calendar poses, I thought about 
what Rick had said before exiting.
	Her teeth really were too large for her head.  The proportions 
just did not work.  The highlighted flaw gave me an odd sense of power 
over her.  I sat there for a moment, oblivious to Kristie's movements.
	Then, in the midst of her poses, I placed her purse on the floor 
and walked over to Rick.  It was almost time for me to pick up Lisa and 
I had just decided something.
	"Hey Rick, I think we should move on the sailboat," I said.
	"Sounds great," Rick said surprised.  I had interrupted his 
conversation but he wasn't annoyed.
	"What changed your mind, old boy?" he said, turning in his seat 
to face me.
	I just shrugged and said something about rechecking my finances.
	"Well I look forward to learning the ropes from an old hand  
like you."
	"Likewise," I said before departing.

____________________________________________
Garret Grajek <garret@garret.austin.ibm.com> is a 29 year old male, a 
self-employed computer contractor and a non-Pez Dispenser collector.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

IT WAS A DIMLY LIT..
BY DAVID S. DADEKIAN

	It was a dimly lit, intimate room.  John was sitting at a table.  
He was relaxed in a pair of jeans and a dark button-down shirt.  There 
was some silverware on the table next to his hand. Bob entered and sat 
down across from John.  Bob didn't appear very relaxed in his shirt and 
tie.
	"Hello, John," Bob began.
	"Hi, Bob, I'm glad you could make it," John replied, "would you 
like to order anything?"
	"No, thanks," Bob said with a little sarcasm in his voice.  "You 
look good."
	"Thanks, I should be better soon.  How are you?  It's been a 
while."
	"Yeah, it has been a while since I've seen you."
	"Well, you know you could visit anytime you want.  It's not like 
I'm able to get to you much."
	"Yeah, I know I could afford to visit you more, John.  It's just 
hard without Susan around.  I have to take care of Mom and the kids by 
myself now."
	"Yeah, well, I'm sorry about Susan.  I wish I could have made it 
to the funeral."
	A disgusted look crossed Bob's face, "Look, I know you weren't 
well...let's not talk about it.  This is going to be my last time seeing 
you."
	"Yeah," John laughed, "it's going to be a long time before I get 
to see you again."
	A man entered from behind John and unceremoniously placed a 
plate of food and a glass of soda in front of John.  The man turned and 
exited.
	"Hey, see if you get a tip from me," John shouted at the man.  
He picked up his fork and started eating.  "You sure you don't want 
anything, Bob?  I'm buying."
	Bob shook his head no, "I'm sure, thanks, John."
	"Hey, always the best for my older brother.  So, how's Mom 
doing, haven't seen her in a long, long time.  Probably not since I last 
saw Susan."
	"John, I said I didn't want to talk about Susan," Bob paused, 
"Mom's doing well, as well as could be expected.  She has a hard time 
with the crutches, I think I'm going to get her a wheelchair."
	"Well, you know I'll pitch in half."
	Bob let out a little laugh, "Yeah, thanks, John."
	There was a long pause while John ate.  Bob sat quietly.
	"Come on big brother," John said, "talk to me, you said 
yourself, this is it."  He took another bite of his steak.  "So how are 
my two favorite nephews?"
	"Well, little Billy's okay.  J.J. isn't doing too good," Bob 
answered.
	"J.J.?  My namesake is calling himself J.J.?" John sounded 
stunned.
	"Yeah, well his therapist thought it was a good idea."
	"Therapist?  My godson's going to a shrink?  Jesus, Bob, what's 
going on?"
	Bob got slightly angry, "You know what's going on, John, at 
least you should."
	"Yeah, well, I guess so.  So how's he doing in therapy?"
	"Okay, he's going to stop when he turns sixteen in a couple of 
months."
	"Oh, he's turning sixteen?" John became sarcastic again.  "Damn, 
I wish I could say he'd get a card from me, but you know how things 
are."
	"Sometimes I wonder how things are with you, John," Bob laughed 
sardonically, "but, yeah, I understand why he wouldn't get a card from 
you."
	"Hey, it's not like I don't care about family, you know I do."
	"Yeah," Bob was angry now, "I know how you feel about family."
	"You know you'll miss me, right, Bob?"
	There was a long pause as John finished eating.  He looked up at 
Bob and then looked at his bare wrist.  "Would you look at the 
time...I've got to get going."
	John wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood to go.  Bob got up, 
too.  A guard walked over to the table and stood back a little.  John 
stuck out his hand to shake with Bob.  Bob hesitated, but shook his 
brother's hand.  The guard approached John.
	"Well, I'll be seeing you, Bob," John said smiling.  He turned 
to exit and the guard turned with him.
	"Excuse me," Bob said softly to the guard, "When exactly does my 
brother get, uh..."
	"He goes to the chair at five-thirty in the morning," the guard 
replied.
	John turned back to Bob, "Hey, Bob, tell the kids I'm sorry 
about what I did to Susan," he smiled and waved.  "Bye, Bobby."
	John and the guard exited.  Bob just stood there, fingering his 
wedding band.

____________________________________________
David S. Dadekian <dadekiad@vader.egr.uri.edu> is a writer/musician from 
Providence, RI.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
POETRY
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

AUTOMATIC WINTER
BY STEPHANIE KAY BUFFMAN

My best friend and I once laughed,
outside a practically empty Clark station, learning how to use the 
self-serve pump. 

Breath colliding smokey in mid-bitter air, we ignored the indifferent 
cashier
ignoring us from underneath the orange-pink glow of convenience store 
lights.

Instead we chatted of nothings and
no ones as the forgotten nozzle
reeked life into my Cougar.

Through the spider-webbed back window,
the cackling hoard mouthed hilarities
and threw back oblivious heads.

We leaned to examine the progress and,
concealed momentarily by fogged up windows and a back quarter panel, 
hesitated

just long enough to brush indecisive lips before the fragile simplicity 
of one
impulsive moment was left to quake
in the leering hi-beams of a sudden Toyota.

____________________________________________
Stephanie Kay Buffman <chiquita@camelot.bradley.edu> is a junior English 
major from Bentley, Michigan attending Bradley University in Peoria, 
Illinois.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

CLOUD-PERFECT
BY L. AMOS

Today
the weather is cloud-prefect.
It is the recognizable kind of day when 
my mother and I stay outside and tell stories.
The best day to smile and sit on the moist happy grass.

Happy grass
with its blades shiny, fresh and tall
never having felt the whirling blades of a mower even once.

The sun
warm and the breeze is cool and in my face.

Today
I could not tell you the real name, 
what the scientific name is for these clouds - 
whether stratus, cirrus, cumulonimbus or such -
but Mom keeps telling me to remember that they are perfect.

Each one
hangs in the air long enough for us to figure out
what creature or character hides behind the cream whiteness.

She 
sees my dragons, all of them
and I see her laughing faces, each creased cheek.

And then,
before you or I can look away
it changes and is deformed by its own breeze
in the upper levels where it lives and which we will never know.

There
are no colors to worry about -
like white chalk on a blue-slate board -
just shapes in this one world's fluffy heights
much more than we could ever draw, except in the sky.

Today is cloud-perfect.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

INSOMNIATIC CONCLUSIONS
BY TRISTA MENTZ

I can't find the switch
that will stop whatever
it is
that is
projecting images
on the screen.
dead time
dead grass 

dead babies
I can't find the 

stop analyzing trivial
occurrences button.
possible fires
possible words
possible assignations
I can't justify the reasons 

why I think that it only
snows while I am asleep.
I will walk through slush in 

black penny loafers until they 

don't make black penny loafers
anymore.  Then
I will go barefoot.

____________________________________________
Trista Mentz <mentzt@alleg.EDU> is a freshman at Allegheny College in 
Meadville, Pennsylvania.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

HEELS
BY L. AMOS

Inch upon inch,
you add to my height
Squish my feet forward, forming
Elegance, but not quite.

Forced to dance on my toes
and sink in the wet grass
Where can I stand tall
without feeling like an ass?

No matter the style or
color, they're no Keds.
They'll never be comfortable,
so get it through your head.
I can't run very fast
with my calves all tight,
but I can take them off
and put up a fight.

Who made these shoes?
I'd like to ask
If he had to wear them, now
that would be a task.

Make it illegal to
sell even one pair.
Design new ones, you say? 
No, you wouldn't dare!

____________________________________________
L. Amos has just finished her undergraduate work at Cornell University, 
majoring in Education.  She will be working for the YMCA for the summer 
before entering graduate school in the fall to get her Masters in 
Elementary Education.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

FREE THINKERS, FREE HEARTS, AND OTHER NASTY STUFF
BY CHRIS LASKEY

The biggest problem with being a free thinker is that the whole room 
looks at you pretty hungrily whenever they light-up their switches.

The biggest problem with being a free heart is that the whole room looks 
away when you enter. 

The biggest problem with being both
is that you live in a state of grace... 

deliciouly, invisible.

____________________________________________
Christopher Alison Laskey <laskey@server.uwindsor.ca>, usually refered 
to as "that Laskey kid" is a 4th year Communications Studies student at 
the University of Windsor. The combination of small town Canadian life 
and lack of sex has driven him completely insane. This is normall 
percieved as some form of handicap, but is totally acceptable, and even 
encouraged in his choosen field of specialization ... the mass media.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
OTHER MAGAZINES ON THE NET
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

InterText,  a bi-monthly magazine publishing fiction of all types, 
edited by Jason Snell. Back issues are available at network.ucsd.edu, 
under the /intertext directory.
___

Quanta, a science fiction magazine. Each issue contains fiction by 
amateur authors and is published in ASCII and PostScript formats. Back 
issues of Quanta are available from export.acs.cmu.edu in the  
pub/quanta directory.
___

The Sixth Dragon, an independent literary magazine devoted to publishing 
original poetry, short fiction, drama and commentary, in all genres.  In 
addition to 3,000 paper copies, The Sixth Dragon will publish ASCII and 
PostScript editions. For more information, e-mail 
martind@student.msu.edu.
___

Unit Circle, an underground paper and electronic 'zine of new music, 
radical politics and rage in the 1990's. On the net, it is available in 
PostScript only. If you're interested in reading either the paper or 
PostScript version of the 'zine, send mail to kmg@esd.sgi.com.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

BACK ISSUES

Back issues are available in several anonymous Gopher/FTP sites:

gopher.cic.net
etext.archive.umich.edu
src.doc.ic.ac.uk
info.anu.edu.au

You can also get them through out address at djw5@cornell.edu, but it is
strongly recommended that you use the FTP sites.


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FURTHER QUESTIONS

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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

That's it!  Thank you for reading.  The next issue of Whirlwind:

SEPTEMBER 1994