Nonfiction Commons^™

The Last Word, The Editor

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No abstract provided.

Memento Of A Region, Joseph D. Hopper

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The car sped down the highway. Many familiar hills and houses appeared on either side. The car gained speed as it headed down the hill. At the bottom, the highway leveled of!' across the bridge spanning the deep ravine. The noise of the automobile took on a new, hollow sound as it rolled upon the bridge. I looked over the valley spreading out to the left. How warm and green the valley was! How blue the sky was! How familiar it all was!

Foot Doctor, King Dunbar

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Not long ago in one of those unbuttoned moods everybody has, giddy from cocoa and crullers, I allowed myself to be cajoled by my mother, a mild hypocondriac, into visiting a osteo-something-or-other-- hereinafter referred to as a foot doctor.

The Return Of The Native, Roger Chittick

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In the opening chapter of the book, the heath assumes its role as protagonist and never releases its hold throughout the novel. The heath assumes a character of vast grandeur and although ever changing at any given moment, it yet stands changeless in the fact of time. The heath was, as Hardy states, "majestic without severity, impressive without showiness, emphatic in its admonitions, grand in its simplicity." Like a Sibelius symphony it presented a hard and cold exterior to the stranger or the uninitiated and yet to him who knew and understood it was a broad, loving and powerful mother. …

Sleep, Howard Michaelsen

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No abstract provided.

Emerald, Jack Wilkins

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No abstract provided.

Third Movement, Russell W. Finch

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Sweat popped from his forehead, coursed down the crevices to the light stubble of his beard, gathered weight, itched its way around the promontory of chin, surged in rivulets down the leathery neck, collected in a pool at the base of his throat, spilled over on the breast, was absorbed by clothing, became a source of future irritation-unnoticed at the moment. His tommy negligently tucked in the crook of his right arm, some hundred and fifty pounds of equipment stowed about his person, weight pressed into the cable-guard, he stood with feet spread wide on the loading ramp of the …

Impasse, Arthur E. Graham

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Turning the frame so that the painting better reflected the meagre light filtering through the window, Carl scrutinized his work. It was a still life, dissimilar only in its crudeness from anyone of the thousands like it hanging in galleries and homes; The reds and yellows had been dulled with too much blue, giving the apples and bananas an over-ripe, indigestible appearance; the green cloth lay in folds that only paint and brush could make it assume; the bowl was as unnaturally distorted as the fruit was artificially symmetrical. Slowly Carl moved in a semi-circle in front of the picture, …

The Frenchman, Byron M. Carmichael

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They spilled out over the German countryside in all directions. They stood bareheaded along the roads gaping pitifully at the invaders, still dumbfounded by their sudden release from the slave labor camp. A few hours before, their guards had fled inland to escape the long steel probing fingers of the allied armies. Like wild animals fleeing a forest fire, the prisoners that could still walk had poured forth (rum the hated camp as soon as their guards disappeared. They had no destination. At that moment they were nothing but starved animals putting all possible space between them and their infamous …

There Is Beauty There, Howard Michaelsen

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I turn my head to broad and level plains

And watch the wind force worship of the grain;

Here is a thrill that I cannot explain,

Beyond compare,

For there is beauty there!

Train Nocturne, Allyn Wood

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Upon the wing of Cygnus in migration

Eternal through the systems of the night-

First-Born Of Sorrow, George W. Coffin

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Wanderer, wanderer,

Weary and tired,

Who spoke to Bach

and Massenet

In Komm Susser Tod

and Elegie-

Speak to me now;

Speak to me now.

Eulogy, Richard J.O. Greene

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In cadence matched to mark each falling tear,

Tolls off each step of us, his mourning legions

Oh! that muffled hooves of beasts alone

Should spend my tears, is slighting to my grief;

Fifty Cents An Hour, Carl Henn

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"We'll try to be back by 11:00 o'clock. There's ham in the refrigerator and cookies in the cabinet. Be a good girl, Minnie; take good care of Debbie. Good-bye."

Inside, Edna Hinton

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No abstract provided.

In Espalier, George Coffin

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It's three years now since the hyacinths were set along the gravel walk, and columbine mats in tangled masses in the corner plot this spring. soot-smudged web films veil the hanging rows of bulbs, wrinkled and dried to nothingness in the shed. The tools, their rich patina dust-dulled, die too - die slowly in rich red rust. The formal order's gone now, or going at least, before the writhing, creeping motion of unleashed growing things. The growing things return, as they will, to the abandon of chaotic beauty unrestrained.

The Dilemma Of Faith, Robert Bowles

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When the deadly, billowing, mushroom- shaped cloud signifying the explosion of the atomic bomb surged skyward over Bikini Atoll, it marked the opening of another chapter in the history of man's attempts to control the universe. Small, weak, and insignificant though he appeared when contrasted to the unlimited expanse of the cosmos, that branch of the animal world known as man had now tightened and extended his control over the universe. Is it any wonder that his chest swelled with pride as he contemplated his latest achievement of power? Is he to blame for suddenly wondering if he could not …

Old Man, Mary Alice Kessler

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Marvin walked slowly. His feet felt like two pancakes. He could no longer feel them except they were so hot. Just like a couple of pancakes. Flabby old hot pancakes. Marvin stopped under a big oak all hung with Spanish moss. It was cool here .. as cool as it ever was in Louisiana .. like when he went down into the swamps in the afternoon. Sticky cool like damp rags around his body. Marvin squinted with concentration. There was a broken down shack up the hill a way. Looked like there was a gal on the porch. Marvin laughed …

Dr. Mausdeth, Mary Alice Kessler

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Dr. Mausdeth was a good doctor. Everybody in Partridge knows that he was a good doctor. Why, he brought more babies into the world here in Partridge than you could count - and remember during that storm last spring when he was up for four days and nights without any sleep, taking care of the poor white trash beyond the railroad yards who got washed out? Mrs. Casper had a baby the first night of the storm. Her husband had been dead for only a week. Remember how he took care of everybody so well and all? And how he …

Poems, Frances King

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Frances King's poems won first prize in the poetry ,division.

Front Matter

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No abstract provided.

Volume 14, Issue 3: Full Issue

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No abstract provided.

The Last Word, The Editor

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No abstract provided.

Profile Of A Nation, Donald H. Emrick

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Behind every face lies a story. Behind the profile of Abraham Lincoln dwelled the soulstirring drama of a fledging nation-its tribulations, its triumphs. Every stroke of the artist in painting the President depicted character, hope, life.

Price Of Courage, Barbara Shellhouse

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This is a narrative of the years snatched from a man's life, a young man, a writer. Ramon Larue was his name.

Friendship, Russell J. Zentz

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I am standing in front of the Toddle House one evening when who should drive up in a bright yellow sedan but Georgie Roberts, with whom I am very chummy of late. Georgie is by no means an exemplary character, but it so happens that his old man in recent years develops to a new high the art of separating well-to-do citizens from their potatoes and as a result does not worry much these days concerning the necessities of life. Since Georgie is an only child, Roberts the elder is more than liberal with such material things as automobiles and …

Army Talk, George C. Taylor

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The two soldiers stood under the arch with their legs spread wide after the fashion of men filled with confidence and a sense of well being. The larger of the two men took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair...

"Never The Twain Shall Meet", Robert Bowles

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It has been over a year since I last saw Lu, yet today whenever I pick up a paper and read of trouble in India, Palestine, or China _ especially China - I see again before me that homely yellow face with its broad, friendly grin, and the deep network of tiny, delicate wrinkles crinkling about the calm, slanted, brown eyes which saw so much and told so little. I can see the mild laughter, and maybe a trace of pity, slipping forth from Lu's usually inscrutable eyes, and I can hear again the soft, even tones of his voice …

The Hand, Robert T. Wukasch

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The hand rested on the shelf momentarily, then disappeared. The light was not too good and I could but distinguish it to be a male hand, not a large one, medium, with long fingers.

I won't tell you who I am, nor how I came to be lying on my belly here: I was peeking at someone, spying on him.

An Ode To Night, R. J. Payne

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No abstract provided.