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The Collector
by Mildred A. Rose
Regina, Sask., Canada S4S OS7
Grandmother winds another piece of string
Upon a giant-sized ball, folds grocery bags flat
And squeezes them into a drawer already full.
Empty plastic containers crowd her closet shelves
And in her wardrobe, dresses (outdated, long unworn)
Hang close together. “Some day,” she says,
“I’ll make them over into cushion tops
Or rag rugs –.” Her cedar chest is full
Of bright new linens – patched sheets do for everyday.
Thin towels hang on bathroom racks
And slivers of soap congregate in cracked cups.
You see, Grandmother cannot bear to throw out
Anything – she grew up in the hungry thirties
And now she’s planning ways to save her time.
Blood on His Hands
by Lucy Ellen Eaton
Castlegar, B.C. Canada V1N 1M7
Jim washed the blood from his knife in the stream and watched the waters redden as they left his hand. He hadn’t thought he could do it, but self-preservation is stronger than squeamishness, he’d found.
He sat down for a few minutes’ rest on a fallen log, and lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. After a few hearty puffs he stubbed it out and set about gathering brush for a fire, his thought going over the nightmare he’d just lived through. If only he had taken Elizabeth to the beach as she had wanted, this horrible thing wouldn’t have happened.
Killing! He shuddered. The feel of the knife entering flesh – it was revolting. He’d had no idea that flesh could be so tough.
The bullet wasn’t so bad, not even the jolt to his shoulder, or the acrid smell of the smoke – but the sounds! The throaty gurgle, the kicking, and then the awful stillness. Once more his flesh cringed as he remembered creeping up to thrust in the knife… just to be sure.
He lit the fire and watched it crawl from twig to twig, gaining intensity, until soon the logs were crackling. He arranged poles for a spit, and set the filled kettle over the flames.
He retraced his steps to the mound of soft earth he had so carefully filled in before washing the knife. Tamping down the earth, he rolled back the big boulder he’d displaced, having used the depression it had occupied as a burial place. And after mopping the perspiration from his face, he gathered leaves and twigs & scattered them carefully over the area, then returned to the creek to wash his hands once more, scrubbing them with sand. He felt very soiled.
Returning to the fire, he sighed as he lay the freshly sliced deer steak on the hot griddle, and sat back on his heels to watch it shrink with the heat, and sputter appetizingly.
Next year he’d take Elizabeth’s advice and go to the beach with her. If that brown bear hadn’t cleaned him out of everything eatable while he was trying to catch fish where there obviously weren’t any, he’d never have gotten desperate enough to shoot a deer out of season.
The Predator’s Prey
by Cindy Wardrop
Owen Sound, Ont. Canada N4K 561
A gray form
Fleets momentarily
Over the murky expanse
Of the territory below.
It glides as a rainstorm
Down an eroded cliffside
Descending, beating,
Falling
Further eroding.
It passes secretly,
Noiseless to those who do not listen,
Invisible to those who do not see.
As it moves, parting unseen waves of rampant flame,
A cry of death ascends
From the meek
Who flee in subconscious willingness
Towards it – away from it –
In a chaotic confusion –
Fighting against a flickering shadow
Which looms ominously
Forward
Retreating only
Into the darkness
To wait –
In a moment, it defeats
Predator over prey.
Yet… still other forms
Loom in the darkness
Waiting – expectantly, patiently,
For it to emerge
From victory and
For it to be
Defeated and destroyed.
A Lake Michigan Tragedy
by Maybelle Irene Burke
Paw Paw, MI 49079
The first Coast Guard in our small town was formed about 1900. Made up of husky young sons of pioneers, they were inexperienced and, by our standards, ill-equipped, having only rowboats for rescues.
About 5:00 one morning, a boat in trouble was sighted. A man was lashed to the mast, for this was in the days of sails. The men reported to the Captain’s home, to notify him to come quickly, as no one dared to leave port without his captain.
By 5:30 the ship was sinking rapidly and again the men pleaded with the Captain to hurry.
“No, not until I finish my breakfast,” came the surly reply.
Now the boat was keeling over on her side & the men called their captain for the THIRD time. When he got outside he saw that he had better move fast, and in so doing broke his leg getting into the rowboat.
All on board the ship were lost, & its skeleton lay off shore for many years.
An investigation from Washington, D.C. had followed. The crew of the Coast Guard vessel were lined up on the beach and the first question was “Did you help your Captain when he broke his leg?”
The first man said “Yes,” and every man repeated the answer, until they came to the last man.
“I wasn’t there to help my Captain. No, I did not.” stated the last man. Every sailor was dismissed from the Guard except that last man who went on to become Captain of the Coast Guard at Luddington, Mich. He was my uncle, Henry Curran.
(Her letter accompanying this article explained that the town kept the secret all these 80 years. Maybelle belongs to the Maritime Museum and the Director of it remarked one day, “No one knows why the ‘—–’ went down.” “I told him the story, but gave no names,” she said, “adding that if he wanted facts to look up the Washington records. They would show an old Scotsman’s stubbornness caused a tragedy.”
The Showcase
Being a Presentation of Talents of Members of the United Amateur Press; this issue financed by
Maybelle I. Burke, Betty B. Millar and Mildred A. Rose.
Shady Acre, Roanoke, VA 24014