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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 8, 1970)
A Short American Folk Tale PAGE 4 I want to slice off the top of your skull And cat-like curl up in the center of your mind Pulling the top shut behind me. At least ten thousand years I'd live there: , Licking your thoughts clean and sampling their flavor, Scratching my back on your wit and sharpening my claws on your conscience. At least ten thousand years I'd spend curled in a corner Of your mind, snuggled with your soul, Making my home in your head. by Debbie Hulbert the twenties (a poem of lips) in the pink ghost town relic rules with psychic antics the scripts have blown away but chez ziegfield the knees still frill. there are snapshots of chaplin zeroed in on a very hysteric pose; hair erect, plus many verbs, canary yellow queens swish their sacks of hips and hooves into a leggy trauma not with standing. Valentiono sighs o baby moons. by Barry McDonald Everybody in the neighborhood came to Arthur Conley's Saturday night barbecues. Almost everybody that is. The Carpenters al ways came. Art Conley enjoyed his Saturday night barbecues very much and so did the rest of his family. Arthur enjoyed the notor iety. Arthur was still a relatively young man at forty six. He kept himself in good physical condition by playing tennis in the spring and summer and playing handball in the colder months. His wife was eight years younger than he and the type of woman who never started aging until her fortieth birthday. Ar thur was also proud of his children. They were not beautiful or exceptional children, but they were most certainly competent and attractive children. His oldest son, Robert was at his sophomore year at college. Katherine, his oldest daughter, was finishing high school that year. The younger boys, Thomas and Phillip were both in junior high school. He drove up the driveway one particular Saturday feeling good. He had spent a couple of hours taking care of things at his local insurance agency, and since business was go ing well he felt secure. He had delegated three employees to take care of organizing a twen tieth anniversary celebration next Friday. For three years Arthur , had been secretary of the American Legion Post 313. He was also a key member in the city council advisory board. When he was in high school he lettered in tennis and graduated in the upper quarter of his class. His wife Phyllis greeted him at the door with a kiss and he asked her if everything was in order for the evening. She said yes, that all the food was laid out neatly on the table and added that the coals were hot. The guests soon started filtering in through the house and out the back door. They sat around in lawn chairs and talked about the things they had talked about last week. Arthur was dressed in a chef's hat and an apron which had the name Julia Childs em broidered on it. It was a joke. He was work ing diligently, preparing that night's repast, shish kebab. When it was ready to eat he called to the guests. They each grabbed one of the fiery lances suspended above the barbecue and went back to the picnic tables. On Arthur's shish kebab there was onion, potato, lamb, ham, beef and green pepper. Arthur waited, like a good host, until everyone was served. Then he prepared his own. When he finished he took it off the spit and started to walk to the picnic table to join his guests. When he had gone about half the distance he tripped on one of the stones lining the flower garden and fell, impaling himself on the lance. It passed through his heart. The last thing he saw was the onion. -by Gary Carper Snow Swept by Indira Singh What feelings did the pollywog leave behind when he lost his fail? by John Covert Men will make nothing of it R r t i-MJt t. , f - lljt. I ll II H IJ - I am cold, Jesus keeps me warm. Jesus is not here tonight. Gran-papa is standing at the fire making circles with his hands. He is sick and must have faith. I have faith, I am only cold. The fire is small, Gran-papa will ask me for wood soon, to make the house not so cold. I don't like my house it is cold and white and I want to go to school again. Gran-papa tells me with his look that I am to gather wood again. The outside is even colder and the snow lies in hills, it is dark at night and the wood bin is empty. I hurry to the trees and scratch at the snow for wood, the bark is gone and the trees are too high for branches. The snow is like Gran-papa's hair I think, I do not want to think of the cold, it hurts my feet. Gran-papa said that Jesus' feet bled many times, I am hoping I will find wood soon. I am blessed now. I find wood close to the house. Soon the fire will be big and Gran papa will pray loud. I spill some of the wood and will have to make two trips. Gran-papa is on the bed near the very small fire. I build the little fire until it cracks and whistles at me, eating the snow from the wood. When I . come back again Gran-papa is sitting up and has the black book with him. "I'm too old." His voice is sick and his eyes are as if he is crying. "Lord, look after the boy. Take him to your keeping if that's the only way he can live." Gran-papa is looking at me strange like when they brought me back from the school. We are going to read now, and Gran-papa has opened the book. ". . . pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly." Gran-papa is coughing now, it is his sick cough and sounds like the wind at night. Night frightens me, I do not like night or dark, I wish the winter was over. "Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid." Gran-papa is coughing bad now, I bring him the water bucket from near the fire. He spills his drink with coughing. I want faith for Gran-papa, he is sick, I must pray. I take the book from Gran-papa's bed, the funny lines on the yellow pages are the words of Jesus, this I know. Jesus died and rose again. Gran-papa is sleeping, I will sleep here on the floor beside his bed after I put Gran-papa's arms under the blanket and put the book away. In the morning we will pray and maybe it won't be so cold. THE NEBRASKAN THURSDAY, OCTOBER 81970 MU 1a 4rM ikn 4,'mt ,$rpnh A; I I - , . -J . Y-. IE '"7 M - - - - m a, mr. t MM EM mm I - IF I I U'V - 1 . " ... T XS I ML. VV nalMM Br Grill WC3 . fl i i I rl iiT- I do not like lo feel linked with my clothes on, perhaps I would not run if you would speak in some other way than staring, if you would stares and silence let a word slip out he t ween your THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1970 tight-line mouth silence would not strain the air he t ween us with its taunt strings pulling in opposite ways. by Kathy Cain THE NEBRASKAN My conscience is like a wheelbarrow; I push it, yet I still follow it. by Bob Clemmer The Lowlands Reader welcomes any works or poetry, fiction, art work ings, photography, book reviews or any other cre ative endevor. Send all entries to The Nebraskan co Alan Boye, Nebraska Union. Entries may be edited without notification. PAGE 5 -. v..