Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 1
Page 1

The Editor… at Leisure

There are some things in life one never tires of, even though much time, effort and hard work has to be expended. Amateur publishing is my “thing.” It all started back in ‘48 with a Swiftset printing press, tiny rubber type that had to be set into metal slots, a love for the “smell” of ink on paper, and a burning desire to “publish” my very own journal. An active member of AAPA since May ‘68, I literally have had a ball putting out issues of Stylus, Elusion, Writing at Leisure and Sally.

After the January ‘77 issue of Stylus, I had to temporarily defer all my efforts to other projects, and activities in AAPA were placed on secondary priority. But now – it’s time to return. A new format, but the editorial policy remains as before: Variety, Fun, and a publication I hope members will look forward to each month.

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 2
Page 2

The Meanest, Sweetest Four-O’Clock

For those of you who don’t know, the “four-o’clock” is a flower, an annual, that must be replanted each year. It derives its name from the fact that the blossoms do not open up until late afternoon – about 4:00 P.M. Ten years ago or so I planted a dozen four-o’clocks in front of the house. They grew to be big, bushy, beautiful plants with flowers in a variety of colors. The only problem was that rain and wind had a tendency to play havoc and the plants couldn’t withstand the pressures of the elements. The following year I decided on something more suitable for the area.

In the meantime, though, a single seed had found a home by settling down tight up against the brick foundation of the house. It surprised me by coming up “on its own.” Surrounded by other flowers that soon over-crowded, it survived for a couple of months before, due to lack of water and too much shade, it became straggly and had to be pulled out.

But the following year – back again! And the same thing happened. It only saw a short part of the season before having to be removed. This has been going on each year since. A ritual – the appearance of my “perennial” pest. Up it comes, only to be forced into oblivion.

Last year, as I reached over and yanked it out, along with some weeds, I admitted to myself, “I hope this is the last time I have to do this!” The past winter was a severe one. As Spring came I figured my pesty four-o’clock was one of the casualties of the penetrating frost. But lo-and-behold, the warm weather saw the green shoots pop up in their familiar setting. After a few weeks I decided not even to bother and give it a chance. I removed all traces of the intruder.

It seemed like only a few days passed when I discovered it was coming back up for a second time. This fascinated me to the extent that I didn’t interfere – wondering what would happen. I have never seen a four-o’clock grow so fast. One early morning, while the sun was covering the area, I stood and stared at the plant – I had the strange feeling it was staring back and angrily saying, “I’m coming up whether you like it or not – don’t try to stop me!”

That’s when my attitude completely changed. I put in a stake next to the plant so it could be tied up for extra strength and protection. Although some other flowers were planted around it, I left enough space. Throughout the season I have kept it watered, and have nurtured it into a fine specimen. Blooming in perfusion, it has become my “favorite” plant in the whole yard.

As this is being written, the first frost of the fall season is probably not far off. It will be time to say goodbye to my little friend. There’ll be a bit of sadness, because having been only a nuisance so many years, next year I’m going to be looking forward to seeing the tender green shoots make their appearance.

I wonder if they will.

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 3
Page 3

Brenda Starr Gives Birth to a Baby Girl

About six weeks before the baby came I had a chance to meet her – not Brenda, but the person whose hand and mind created, writes and draws the adventures of the beautiful star reporter. Dale (actually Dalia) Messick was a guest at the Chicago Comic Collectors Convention. A wonderful, gracious lady, it was as delightful talking with her as it has been reading the strip.

Dale has been drawing Brenda since 1940. At 72 years young, she’s just thinking “slightly” of retirement and having to hand the artistic chores over to someone else. As I watched her sketching, it was clear to see how much love she has for her work. I guess I always figured someone like that had to be “behind the scenes.” Good luck, Brenda and Dale – take good care of that baby!

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 4
Page 4

The Tribe
by Frank Ortega

“Brrrrr. These rituals seem to get worse every time,” shuddered Malkar, the tribal chief.

The night was dark, as the silent procession marched toward the Chosen Spot. Soon, in the gloom ahead, the altar appeared. There it lay, as it had for as long as anyone could remember. Upon the wooden slab, countless numbers had lost their lives in sacrifice to the Eternal God. And, as always, the sacred fruit – placed by their God in understanding of the sacrifices. Two of their numbers stood placidly by the altar’s side, while the Appointed One marched slowly down the aisle which had been formed by the tribe. He knelt down at the altar while the priest said those same Holy verses which had been said so many times before. Then the Appointed One arched his neck over the center of the wooden altar, and at the command…

“By the Gods!” exclaimed Mistec, “I know not how much longer I can stand and watch these gruesome atrocities – they – they seem so senseless.”

“Now, now, my love,” hushed Kalac, her mate, “you know what you say is sacrilege. There must be sacrifices or we all shall perish.”

“I know, Kalac, it’s just that I’m so frightened – what if, if you were chosen to be the One?”

“What of it? There would be sadness and sorrow, surely – but in the end, it would be eternal happiness.”

“But, Kalac, what if I…

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Page 5

“Quiet now, my dear Mistec. Let us not dwell our thoughts on this grievous matter any longer. The hunt is soon to begin, and I do not wish to go hungry.”

The tribe left the cavernous enclosures of the Temple and set out together for the hunt in the wild forest which surrounded their homes. It was a good day, the prey was easy. Soon they sat among the dry grass and feasted on their kills. Mistec’s sorrowful black eyes looked up to Kalac’s, and she smiled. The rest of the long summer day was spent foraging for more food and other important, life-supporting necessities.

Kalac was arranging his dwelling-place, which lay inside the recesses of the Temple, when Mistec appeared at his door. “Kalac, have you forgotten? It is time…”

“Already?” he gasped.

“Yes, hurry my love!”

He grabbed his bright red feather and rushed out with Mistec at his heels. They ran until they were at the spot where the next Chosen One was to be selected. The ritual was just beginning. Malkar glared at the two belated ones as they scampered to their appointed places – then it began. Each member of the tribe had his own distinctively colored feather which he would cast into the Sacred Urn, along with the others. Soon, the chanting began. The incense was lit and the great chamber was soon laden with heavy and holy scents.

The sacred hood was placed upon the head of the high priest and he began to circle the Urn. Three times. And upon plunging his hand into the receptacle, he withdrew one, lone feather. Upon seeing that the chosen feather was not his, Kalac released a silent breath of relief. But that merciful moment was fated to last only a second, for a stabbing pain in his heart told him the emerald feather which the priest now held belonged to his love, Mistec! The sun set swiftly…

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Page 6

She was brave, she did not cry. She merely stared up with woeful black eyes. There was a strong pull in Kalac’s stomach, and for once – he was tempted to speak out. But a glint from Malkar’s dark eyes told him he best not. Mistec was then bared of her gown and adornments and, like so many, many times before, the ritual began. This time, though, it seemed to Kalac that it was taking much longer for the sacrifice ritual to take place than ever before.

When Mistec passed Kalac in the languid procession, she didn’t even look up – just continued her steady stride. She had never been this close to the altar before and she shuddered. It was inscribed with strange markings which only added to the confusion and darkness which was now growing inside her. Everything began to grow hazy and suddenly she realized she was standing at the altar. Her mind rushed with jumbled thoughts until one message became horribly clear…

It was then she realized something was wrong, terribly wrong. “… this was not meant to be,” she thought, “it’s wrong – it’s…”


It was over. Kalac bowed his head and wept…

“Hey, Frank, c’mere! Look! We got us a nuther one, in the same trap!”

“Yeah, Jon – them mice must really be dumb. Imagine getting’ themselves kilt in the same trap nite after nite.”

“Why Hell, it’s been like that ever since we built this ol’ cabin! None ‘o the other traps ever gets sprung but dis one’s always got some stupid mouse with his skull bashed in!”

“Well, Jon, let’s bait ‘er up with another raisin an’ stick it back on tha shelf – it’s hot an’ I wanna go swimmin!”

“Stupid mice! Really stupid…”

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 7
Page 7

For the Love of Milk
by Paul Burns

February 1943 was a crucial wartime month. Allied leaders Churchill and Roosevelt and Stalin were planning to meet with French leaders De Gaulle and Giraud to plan strategies for invading Hitler’s European fortress. Stalingrad, deep in Russia, was bravely fending off German incursion; and the Nazis were experiencing their first venture with the defeating brutalities of Russian winter.

Rommel was being contained by British forces in North Africa and the Americans had recently landed in Tunisia. At home, meat, butter, shoes, sugar, gasoline, and oil all were rationed, and “Rosie the Riveter” became the symbol of the brave working wartime women. Everywhere the air quivered with ominous yet hopeful expectation and on everyone’s lips were prayers and determinations concerning “The Duration.” Nazi Germany at last seemed to be experiencing something other than total, frightful victory.

Personal victory, of a sort, came to me in February 1943, for that was the month and year in which I discovered milk. A wrenching stomach ache, early in the month, caused me to abandon my nerve-producing cigarette smoking and embrace Nature’s first food. Milk, milk, milk: for breakfast… for dinner… in the afternoon… at night. I felt milk perform its curious white magic. My stomach ailments vanished; elimination problems capitulated; my body, blood, and limbs began glowing in the bath of its calcium beneficiary; my whole being hummed with buoyant health.

I started laughing frequently, where before I had been a constant frowner. I began noticing the stars at night, the sun, the earth, trees, the sky – all those inconsequentialities that, prior to milk, I had so naturally overlooked. All at once, these natural things loomed large with surprising significance. All at once their annoyance turned to golden appreciation.

Under milk’s aegis, I entered the most healthy, natural period of my young life. It couldn’t last; but while it did, I seemed to be existing more in heaven than here on earth.

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 8
Page 8

Under the Covers
by Ken Davis

“Just one idea! Why can’t I think of one measly plot for a story?”

Sonny Lee closed his eyes, repeated the question to himself, then irately shoved the notebook and pencil to the opposite end of the couch. At the same instant, originating from somewhere within the bushes outside the front window, a pathetic cry sent chills oozing up and down his spine.

“Mating season! What a night!”

He sprang to his feet, grabbed a broom from the kitchen closet and raced to the front door. Remembering the sleeping children and how much trouble it had been getting them into a prone position, he gently opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. The breeze refreshed his hot-with-anger face and ruffled his already untidy hair.

As if gathering the needed energy to accomplish the job at hand, he inhaled a deep breath. Then looking toward the bushes, his eyes burned into the darkness, straining to catch sight of the intruders. Two shining eyes, reflecting the streetlight, met his. With a yell and broom raised above his head he jumped off the porch, taking on the precarious composition of a madman.

“Beat it, you flea-bitten vagrants!”

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Page 9

Anyone, or anything, would have obeyed the commanding voice, as it rang with devastating superiority. A sleek, black feline, demonstrating the speed of sound, emerged from the bushes, its tail desperately trying to keep up with the rest of its body.

“Okay, one more! I know you’re there!”

With the broom still held in striking position, he rustled the evergreens. Another fur-ball, this one attempting a diverse escape, quietly eased out behind him. Not to be outfoxed, Sonny spun around and brought his dual-purpose weapon crashing to the ground.

“Ouch! My shoulder!” The once-dominating voice conveyed inflicted agony. Grabbing his upper right arm he yelled, “If I ever catch you, you’ve had it!” The cat disappeared into the shadows across the street. “Just remember – I warned you!”

Mumbling a few additional remarks, he painfully bent over and picked up the broom. Minutes later, inside the house, he stared into the bottom of an empty glass. The wine had gone down like velvet, caressing his jangled nerves. “Boy, I needed that!”

Refilling the glass, he carried it into the livingroom and returned to his previous position on the couch. Disgustedly, he scrutinized the blank notebook paper.

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 10
Page 10

He had promised to write a story for his friend’s fiction magazine, and the budding young editor was faithfully depending on him. With the next issue scheduled to go to the printer within days, time was all-important. And so was a story idea. That was the problem – not one meager idea! This had been a perfect night for writing, too – well, almost perfect: wife at one of her clubs, kids tucked away in dreamland, peace and quiet except for the bit of lovemaking, feline-style.

“This finishes it!” The words were emphatic, and Sonny directed them to the spider meandering across the ceiling. “From now on there’ll be no more promises – no more deadlines! I can’t stand deadlines! Do you understand that?”

Seemingly bothered not in the least by the human’s burning problem, the arachnid just kept truckin’ along without a trace of concern. The disgusted man’s grim determination was suddenly sidetracked with an idea that struck like a lightning bolt – almost knocking the glass from his hand. Emptying it of the remaining contents, his eyes began to shine like beacons locating a stranded ship at sea. No, it wasn’t an idea for a story – but rather, a plan to sally forth on an imaginative excursion – possibly some writing would develop from it later on.

Without further hesitation, Sonny Lee gathered together the necessary items: two of his oldest son’s comic books; a favorite “old” big-little book, Tarzan: Lord of the Jungle, from his own personal collection; and finally, a flashlight.

Next he quietly got into his pajamas and uncovered the bed, then carefully slipped under the covers – all the way under – making sure no part of his body was exposed. It took a few minutes of struggling before he settled into a somewhat comfortable position. Finally relaxing in the confines of the “hideout,” he sighed. It had been a long time since he had last done this. A young boy’s delight – an escape – reading beneath the covers so mom and dad wouldn’t know he was still awake.

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Page 11

As he chuckled snidely to himself, the darkness whisked him away from the world of reality. He hunched up on his elbows, turned on the flash and began paging thru one of the comics. Remarkable! Almost immediately he felt the firm grip on his inner being; something was dragging him away from himself as he now was – stripping years from his life. And, after briefly scrutinizing the second comic, he knew the scene was set for the big sendoff. With the big-little book now before him, he opened it, carefully studied the pages. Story to picture, story to picture – and it happened. By magic, time changed to a Sunday afternoon, many years past. An innocent, dreamy-eyed young Sonny Lee sat on his front porch steps, reading Tarzan: Lord of the Jungle.

Glancing at the brand new watch he had received for his twelfth birthday just days before, he closed the book and placed it up on the window sill of the sunporch. He jumped to his feet, reached in his pocket, counted out some coins, and took off like a bullet down the block, up another, and down a few more. The theatre marquee sprang into sight. Sonny excitedly bought a ticket at the boxoffice and disappeared beneath the signs announcing to the world the names of Tarzan and Johnny Weismuller.

Inside – the smell of popcorn, the spirited wrestling of seats, the energetic chatter of excited kids – then, eventual settling down during the cartoons, suspenseful silence accompanying a chapter of the Zoro serial, and finally, sheer delight as the main feature filled the screen.

Ninety minutes later Sonny emerged from the theatre, his squinted eyes focusing to the bright sun. In astonishment he viewed the strange surroundings, an entirely different world from the one he had left behind when entering the building. There were no automobiles in sight. Instead, wandering about freely were animals of every description – some quiet and harmless, others, savage beasts. The blistering jungle heat beat down mercilessly. Wiping his brow with a forearm, he cautiously searched for the trail that led toward home. Looking in all directions for impending dangers, he then scurried away on the initial lap of the return journey.

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Page 12

Run like the devil! He had to make it to that tree several yards away, ahead of the oncoming car – I mean “beast.” He leaped the final few steps. Made it! If it had been one second later, sure death would have resulted.

Peril after peril filled every step of the way, but he conquered them all with sensational demonstrations of cunning skills. He raced from driveway to driveway, super determination controlling each movement, down one curbing and up the opposite one. The sun kept bearing down – sapping, ounce by ounce, the strength from his body.

The feeling of partial relief was sustained as his house came into view. But an additional phase of his mission remained to be fulfilled. Friends and neighbors were depending on him. Bypassing the path thru the field to his eventual destination, he gathered together all remaining energy and headed instead for jungle headquarters located half a block away.

A vicious brute nipped at his heels. He reached “lookout tree” – the rough bark bit into bare legs as the human-turned-monkey scurried up the trunk. Other monkies scattered in all directions as he made his way gracefully to lookout point number one. Catching his breath, he stared at his snarling adversary below, then continued the final distance to the top station. From this position he could see for blocks. The victory yell announced his presence to everyone within hearing distance.

An abatement of tension tranquilized his mind and body as he sat in his perch near the angels, high in the sky. Before long, as he looked around, the jungle landscape slowly began to dissolve. Trees and underbrush thinned out. One by one the animals reverted back into automobiles. The neighborhood returned to its previously quiet and familiar setting.

It was close to suppertime – the pangs of hunger clearly disclosed that fact. His mother would be expecting him. He descended from his perch and headed jubilantly toward home. The late afternoon sun followed him up the steps and waited while he reached for the book on the window sill. Then it covered him with a blanket of happiness as he sat down, opened to the bookmark, and read a few more pages before going inside.

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 13
Page 13

The noise of voices and a car door slamming awakened little Tommy Lee. Sitting up in bed he drew aside the drapes and saw his mother coming up the front walk. As a surprise he decided to welcome her home. Jumping out of bed he ran into the hallway, stopping at the sight revealed by the dim hall light, he stood motionless. The mound in the middle of the bed moved slightly – a faint glow escaped from beneath a corner of the blanket.

Tommy spun around and raced for the door. “There’s something in your bed!” he frantically announced to his mother as she entered. Grabbing her arm he pleaded, “Come quick! I think it’s got Daddy!”

Shocked by the unexpected greeting, the woman obediently followed her small son into the bedroom. As she flicked on the light, an arm extended from beneath the covers, followed by the sleepy-eyed face of her husband.

“What are you doing? You almost scared Tommy half to death!”

“Hold it, take it easy!” The voice was quivery. “I’ll explain – I think.” He proceeded to get out of bed, clutching the comics, big-little book and flashlight.

“I don’t believe it,” the woman managed to say from a double-up-with-laughter position. She struggled for control as son Tommy stood in silence, bewilderment distorting his face.

Sonny lay beside his sleeping wife, staring hypnotically at the ceiling. His eyes wouldn’t close. The creative mood was there – producing a haunting background music for thoughts which were perched, ready to jump off ledges in his mind. The jungle excursion had set the wheels in motion. Any minute now an idea would materialize, and tomorrow he could get it on paper and win out over the haunting deadline. His friend would be delighted – a story was about to be born.

The babylike crying, originating from within the bushes in the back of the house, began in tones of a lullaby, but like a crescendo, increased in volume.

Sonny Lee clenched his fists.

His mind went blank.

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 14
Page 14

Weird Tales of Nightmares and Fantasy

Hi, there! I’m your host for this feature. Welcome to my inner sanctum. Go ahead, brush the cobwebs off that easy chair and sit down… relax… listen to my gory story. It comes from the imagination of Douglas Frank Scherer… and is entitled –


I don’t really know how long I have hated James Wellington, but it seems as though my entire being has been centered around his destruction. From the moment we first met I despised him with a hatred born of the blackest pits of Hell, as though some deeply buried loathing was suddenly given life on that chance meeting. Perhaps in some forgotten former life we were blood enemies, whose hatred for each other could not be stilled with the mere passing of time.

Every moment I would spend in deep and somber thought on how I might make the existence of Mr. James Wellington more miserable. At night I would lay awake continually plotting the destruction of my nemesis, until eventually I would fall into the sleep of exhaustion. But even in sleep I could not find the peace I constantly sought.

The few hours of slumber I had were spent in a neverending nightmare of emotions – after which I would awaken, only to find myself more fatigued than before. For six years I had lived in this virtual Hell, but finally I am free. Nevermore shall I be bothered by the omnipresence of Wellington. He is finally dead and I am free. I am free!

I was finally able to bring this existence of Wellington to an end through the use of the black arts. Ancient rites so foul that they corrupt the minds of all who should happen upon them. Deep within my mind I wonder if it was mere coincidence that I stumbled upon that volume of mystic rituals in the attic of my grandmother. I knew that my grandfather had been declared an outcast from the family for his preoccupation with the occult, but I never realized the degree to which his involvement carried him.

Whenever his name was mentioned it was spoken of in the same tones used when one speaks of the mentally insane. Only now do I understand that his enlightenment was on such a high level that it could never be fully comprehended by the minds of mere mortals. It was through the use of this gift from my unintentional benefactor that I was able to rid myself of that swine Wellington.

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 15
Page 15

When I opened the antiquated volume for the first time I was struck aghast by the foulness held within. Neverbefore had I deviated from the bounds of social moral acceptance as when I first read of that book. At first the writings seemed to be of some lost soul on the brink of insanity, the psychological journey of some poor demented creature as he wandered from one truth to another and finding all to be falsehoods.

Long into the small hours of the night I would spend pondering the cryptic writings I had read during the previous hours. Slowly the truths began to form until, I no longer found myself bound to the shackles of preconditioned thought. I found myself able to shed society’s veneer concepts of sanity and enter into a realm of being that I never dreamed existed. The powers that I felt surging through me gave me a reassuring feeling of strength that I knew I could use to destroy Wellington.

It was through the use of my newly acquired powers that I was able to penetrate the sleeping hours of Wellington. I haunted his dreams as no one before had ever been tormented in their nightmares. I stepped into his hours of semi-consciousness as the Beast. As this transmutated creature of the night I was able to rip apart the object of my hatred’s mind.

My joy would heighten each successive night as I made Wellington start from his sleep, screaming into the dark with his head ringing from the thundering of cloven hooves within. I knew that he could not endure the strains I was placing on his mind much longer. Soon he would succumb to the insanity I wished of him. Soon he would sink back into the pits of mental and emotional unawareness where he would spend the rest of his days groveling for the sanity he could never know again.

The night finally came when I knew that Wellington’s mind should snap. I haunted him on this eve with more unrelinquished fury than ever before, reveling in delight as his mind writhered like some great maggot. With a sudden onrush of emotions I pushed Wellington over the edge and laughed as he plummeted down the abyss of insanity.

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Page 16

“Mr. Wellington, do you have any idea of why the patient should continuously mention your name in his babblings?”

Turning from the door of the padded cell, James Wellington faced the head nurse. “I don’t really know. You see, I never really knew the man. He came to me one day cursing me for my existence. Then he tried to attack me and he was still trying to when he was taken away by police. He was brought to you to be placed under observation until it has been decided whether or not he is sane. I understand that his grandfather was also quite insane and had to be forcibly committed.”

“Yes,” the nurse replied, “the case history of his grandfather is very interesting. He was under the impression that he possessed supernatural powers. I guess that his grandson believed the same.”

“That’s a shame. You know I never even knew his name,” he said as the nurse turned off the hallway light.

I turned from the barred window of the cell door and walked to my cot. I laughed as I thought of Wellington being led off by the nurse to be locked up. I did it, I thought to myself. I’ve finally gotten Wellington committed. Laying back I laughed and I heard my laughter as it echoed off the walls of the empty hallway.

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Page 17

Well, friends, that story proves something – I guess it’s not too bad “entertaining” a nightmare once in awhile – just so we don’t become a “performer” in a troop of “traveling” nightmares.

Next month, bachelor Ben invites a friend up to his apartment to show him some “novel” decorating. His friend warns of impending danger but Ben refuses to listen. Be here, as Wanda A. Moore and I chill you with… Conversation Piece.

Editor’s Note:

In order to publish a magazine that is entertaining to our readers, we have to hear some of your reactions. Please send a card or letter with comments, suggestions, etc. It’ll be nice to find out if we’re at least doing a few things right.

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 18
Page 18

Ken’s Krossword


1 An attack
6 Part of the heard
11 Disgust
13 Broad piece of level ground
14 Comic book, newspaper strip & TV superhero
16 Comic strip character: Alley –
18 Record of performance
19 No
20 Tiny fish
23 South Carolina (abv)
24 As it used to be
25 Aurum (abv)
26 Flesh-eating mammal
27 Doctrine
29 Indefinitely long period of time
32 National health insurance (abv)
33 Threatening
38 Woodwind instrument
39 Go beyond
41 Claws
42 Wrongful acts

Stylus - Number 64, October 1977 - Page 19
Page 19


1 Plant with edible bulb
2 Natrium (abv)
3 Mistrust
4 Extrasensory Perception
5 European lime tree
7 Vehicle
8 Human upper limb
9 Meadow
10 Flower
12 Turmoil
15 Ovums
17 Tobacco kiln
21 Decorator
22 Shove
24 Small bird
26 Equatorial constellation
28 Obeys
30 Poem
31 Nearest to
34 Master of Business Administration (abv)
35 Hawaiian food
36 Snakelike fish
37 Noncommissioned officer (abv)
40 Eastern time (abv)

Solution on Page 5

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Page 20

The Cover

Our cover, by Elton Dorval, was originally done to illustrate a story called The Snowball by Wanda Allen Moore. It was published in KA-POW #1. Sherri is holding the glass ball with “Brownie” the bear inside it. When she shakes it up, “snow” falls around the little animal.

Stylus is published monthly by Kay-Dee Enterprises, Racine, WI 53406. Ken Davis, Editor & Publisher. Number 64, October 1977 issue. Distributed national thru the American Amateur Press Association.

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