Spriÿ 1988

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° VOL 6Q, Qe.ÿ t i

Ouinnipÿc CoOlege Literar9 MugazLne

i After a year of "rest," Montage isback, much,. I hope, to the delight of theQuinnipiac College community. Thestaff of Montage, led by Christine St.Laurent, deserves particular praise onthis issue. They have raised money andsolicited manuscripts; they have editedand typed the manuscripts; and theyhave seen the magazine throughproduction.

It has given me great pleasure toobserve the initiative with whichthey've attacked these tasks. They havemade Montage truly the students'magazine.

Along with the hard-workingstaff, I hope you enjoy this eleventh

• issue of Montage.

Mark Johnston,Faculty Advisor

Dear Quinnipiac,

Edÿtor-ÿn-(ÿleÿ ................................. Christine St. Laurent

Designtn9 Edttorl Cover Destgnl Tygkst .... Chrlsttng M. StanJord

Destgnln9 Editor ............................... ÿngrtd ÿohnston

Advertkstn9 Manager ......................... Jennifer Anderson

Destgntn9 Edttor ............................... Jnqueÿ Ltwhesl

Treasurer ........................................ Jenn Lebeau

Fundratstn9 Coordinator ..................... Paul Cddÿ

Distrtbutton Coordinator ..................... Jÿosemartg DeFdtce

I regret that It has taken almosttwo years to get Montage back into theQuinnipiac environment. I must saythat I learned a great deal during thetime we spent preparing for thepublication of Q.C.'s literary magazine.Now, I'm excited and looking forward toa bright and promis!ng future forMontage. The publication of Montagewas made possible by the tremendoushelp from my staff. Thank you,Christine, for your incredible artisticabilities and patient devotion toMontage; good luck in your future.Thanks, Ingrid, for your ambition andfor your new ideas that you contributedso much to Montage. Thank youJaques, Jenn, Paul, Jennifer, and Annefor your help and encouragement. Mark,your support is deeply appreciated.Murry and Judy Frank, thanks for youradvice. Sally, thanks for the storagespace for my cans. Finally, thanks tothe other faculty members, staffmembers, and students who madeMontage possible.

Sincerely,Christine A. StLaurentEditor-ln-Chief

Pg.

Sweet Music ....................................................................... 1

AnonymousHunter's Dance .................................................................. 2

AnonymousThe Tale of the Long Tall Poem ....................................... 3-4

Christine M. StanfordObservations of a Telepathic Vegetarian Alien ........... 5

Christine M. StanfordAir Raid ............................................................................... 6

Christine M. StanfordThe Brook ............................................................................ 7

Christine M. StanfordA Piece of Nature ............................................................... 8

Jan Curran

Burned ................................................................................. 9-10

Jan CurranOut of the Dark ................................................................... 10

Eileen RaynorA Silent Pride ..................................................................... 11

Eileen RaynorAdam Without Eve ............................................................. 12

Eileen RaynorThe Lover and the Snake ................................................. 13

Eileen RaynorNighttime ............................................................................ 14

Eileen Raynor(Untitled) ..... , ...................................................................... 15

Joe ZanniSurrender ........................................................................... 16

Sherry MonacoTorn ..................................................................................... 17

Rosemarie DeFeliceBankrupt ............................................................................. 18

Rosemarie DeFelice

Pg.

Aisle No. 7 ........................................................................... 19

Meredith L. HaughI Left the Iron On .............................................................. 20-21

Meredith L. HaughThe California Vacation That Wouldn.'t Leave.. ........... 22

Meredith L. HaughSilence At Dawn ................................................................. 23

Rebecca LedinSanta Claus .......................................................................... 24

Elizabeth CaronShifting Gears .................................................................... 25

Barbara AmoreThe Rape of the Soda Can ................................................. 26

Rebecca RussakovThe Water Fountain .......................................................... 27

Rebecca RussakovOwed to a Teddybear .......................................................... 28

Vincent W. SantamauroReflections ......................................................................... 29

Vincent W. Santamauro

Brings thoughts to my mindmemories of good timesdreams of my future.Do not show me

• the path I should takeI will only go in opposite directions.Let me choosethe roads I wish to follow,my feet do not fitin the path you left for mewhile you walkedoh so steadily.I choose to wanderwhere you treadedwith society's shoesI drift with my own bare feet.If you show me the lightI will live in darkness.If you fill my pocketsI will live in poverty.

--Anonymous

Love watches overas sleep lies on its sideand loveless arms entwinethe rotting brancheswilting from love's debris

where lovers ran rampantupon sacred groundswhere kings and queensnow dethronedwalk aÿlaongstthe peasant field

and chipped jewelsof diamond and rubyare robbed blindlyby nature's foolstoo frightened to danceto the hunter's melody

--Anonymous

The Long Tall Poemrode into the townknown as "StuffyCollege Anthology."He dismounted hishorse in front ofthe nearest CoffeeHouse, so that hemight "read off"his poetical enemy:a big, fat poem who"Sung of Himself"(The egotistical slob)to anyone who wouldlisten and say "wow."So our Hero threwopen the door andstrode into that coffeeguzzling establishment,his spurs a-janglin' tothe rhythm of ven-geance. He foundthe old, white-hairedbearded Lines, sippingColumbian liquid beansin a corner with his"Body Eclectic" (howbrave our Hero was!).Well, Long Tallsidled up to the OldSong Himself andsaid, "There ain't

enough pages in this

town for tile two ofus, so you're jest

gonna hafta be edited,and PRONTO." And withthis, he deliveredsuch a stern, frozen

stare, that the Songcollapsed upon himselfin a quivering massof broken words andphrases. The "BodyEclectic" gatheredup the devastatedSong in variouscoffee cups and exitedhaughtily. So to thedelight of many studentsfar and wide, the "Songof Myself" disappearedfrom their anthologies.(To be replaced by aLong Tall Poem...

the egotistical fool!)

He took the jagged knifefrom a box that slid forwardaway from his table,and he began to saw,gradually pressuring the knifethrough the red, dripping flesh.

I could hear the criesas she was cut through to the dish

--slaughtered all over again,to be finally swallowed and consumedby that cannibalistic beingthat lifts its little fingerwhen it drinks.

--Christine M. Stanford

--Christine M. Stanford

Rolling 'round the skywith military rancor, reaching our earsin evil splendor,reducing the metered minutes to a timeless crawl;the roaring warriors spread their fearas thick as rank swamp mudover our bent figures that resolveto kiss the earlh good-bye.

She rushes through the hills,shaking hands with the leaveswho dash their fingersinto her side as she gushes by.

She shields the rocks from flashing sun,and shares herself by quenching thirsts.She offers herself as a home to fishes,insects, and other playthings for children.

--Christine M. Stanford

Washing the coolness up to our kneeswe wade across her pebbled floor,we exploring her space with the hours,until sunset calls us home.

We come again to her side,and shuffle through the long, soft grass,down to her silver, liquid form,where we see ourselvesin reflective ripplesas I now look at my feetunder the wrinkles in the pool-water.

--Christine M. Stanford

As tile snow falls softly

Outside my window

I sit and ponder

In the glare of the desk light.

I watch the flakes fall

Gently, slowly.

I peek out at the stars shining,

Quietly twinkling.

I see the trees in their

Majestic robes of white,

and wish that for a moment,

Merely a second, even,

I could become one with Nature

And for once know

what peace truly is.

I am mesmerized by the fire,Captured by the flames, the colors,As I was once by you.

I see the paper crumble beneath thePower of the flames. It crumblesAnd burns. It is destroyed.As I was once by you.

The smoke rises into my face.I am blinded and choked,As I was once by you.

Only when I am certain everythingHas turned to ashDo I pull away, to breathThe fresh, clean air.Finally whole again.

You set a fire once,A fire in my heart.You watched as it consumed me,Basking in its warmth.

--J.ÿ Curro.n

You relished my loveBut you never returned it.I could not see that.The smoke was too thick.

You grew tired of such sport.You laughed as you saw the

fire destroy me.

Fhis time, I set the fire.1 watch it burn. I makeSure you and the memories areBurned black.Now I can rejoice and be free.

--Jan CurranWrapped in rags silently he stands.Sunlight streams his worn body,Below his eyes darkness intensifies his expression,it is empty, confused, lonely.His feet are loosely cloaked with bits of rubbish.How ironic--

something not needed is suddenly precious.People pass but nothing changes.

Through his windows I see his secrets,but they are shrouded with hidden intentions.Deep within his dimensions lie his thoughts--

Gingerly he takes hold as if not to make it flicker.Then the shroud is lifted,the corners shine,and his intentions become clear.

--Eileen, Ruynor

11®

How can he see through the black?Knowledge and understanding will provide the light--I reach out to pass the torch.

Although he is still, he says more than 1 need.I understand what he speaks,yet the dark corners have not been touched by the light.

He stands with his head highwhile his hands tunnel his pockets.His eyes are piercingand show little expression.

What does he think?What does he feel?We will never know--

because wrapped in rags--silently he stands.Silently he stands.

--Eileen Raynor

nÿ

A deafening calm surrounds my being.To yell would be to sinto be silent would be questionable.How desolate a place I think to myself--No trees, no water, no life, no sound

there's just a void, just a quiet void.I sit to think, and I stand to answerI yell to be heard, but no one comes.Running blindly I try to escape,at last there is light, but yet no source--the way out is here, or perhaps over there.Again I retreat, retreat to the spot,back to where it beganback to the placeback to the deafening calm which surrounded me.

A venomous snake slithers slylyamist the camouflaged earth-careful not to be seen.As he squirms a whispered hiss is barely heard.

The snake has surfaced many times,in the form of a jealous lover.These two are much alike,their bite can be deadlyand their hiss unbearable.

Many have tried to charm the snake,but the fangs were too sharpand the poison too potent.

--Etleen Raynor

The snake will tunnel to take refugebut the lover will accuse to justify.Time will pass and the snake will shed his skin-the lover will simply shed a layer,only to grow another.

--Eileen Raynor

Companionless I quiver among the fiend,4--ebony ghouls stretch their limbs to engulf me.Silently they lie, to the right, to the left--the wind is an omen, the moon their master.Still I stay, afraid to make a sudden move--I lash out to strike them, but still they remain.Behind my eyes there is peace, I clench them shut--soon sleep overwhelms me and I can be safe.Then sun seeps in and they retreat to the walls.

Who am I to misconstrue?In times that change to start anew.And of these times that seem so cold'tis for the better I am told.

--Eiieen, Raynor

Seem I to you to be so naiiveto relive the time of which I crave.And seem it not to be so real,memories of youth left to conceal.Alas alone my visions dareA world where no one seems to careBut if I lose my dignityit will surely save humanity.

--Joe zÿnni

nÿ

His Adam's appleslowly rises asI clench my thumbsagainst hiswindpipe.His tendons protrudeand his mouth gapesas he stretcheshis vocal chordsin a hoarse voiceto scream

for help.His eyes expandto quarterspleading for releasebut I continueuntil his complexionturns

from purpleto white,as he gasps his lastbreath--

I surrender.

He was made,half from his motherhalf from his father.He is torn between them.

He leans in the doorwayhalf insidehalf outside.Bottles line the shelvesbehind him. His father standstalking to his cronies

His dark eyes steadily gazeacross the street athis mother.

His foot, the one pointed downwants to bolt across the streetso he can be in her armssmelling her sweet perfume.

--Sherry Monoco

His other foot, planted firmly onthe ground, wants to turn aroundhug his father and askhim if they can go home.

He was made,half from his motherhalf from his father.He is torn between them.

n ÿ --Rosemarie DeFelice ÿ

She's so seriouseven in play.Hanging on to that sheepas if they both might run away.George, put down your paper and prayshe'll understand the worldthat will be taken away.No more house,

No more dolls, books, paper and clay.No more freedom to roam the hills.Now is the time and dayTo ask her forgiveness,Before the factory takes her life away.

Fhe cold linoleum floors are topped with bright flourescent lightsand walled in by bookcases of canned and packaged goods.

In each aisle, the NUTRA SWEET symbol glares at me and LITE and LOWFAT scream, in case I dare miss them.

VITAMIN-ENRICHED and LOW CHOLESTEROL chuckle with their self-satisfiedingredients wrapped inside their aluminum, plastic and paper containers.

Then the stopped-up artery aisle (No. 7) comes into view and I can hearthe gluttonous groans of the potato chips and chocolate covered grahamcrackers glistening fatly under their plastte clothes.

Aisle No. 7 lets out commands like bullfrogs in a summer pond at nighl:Eat mel Swallow mel Chew mel while the health food aisle No. 13(thankfully far separate) cries out like a tloly Roller preacher:Remember your thighsl

Gasping and panting, I crawl out of aisle NO. 7 as if ! had spent tilelast forty days and nights in the dessert- whoops-desert, withoutMoses.

I still have to reach a decision, and then my mind gets made up as.tightly as a hotel room bed when my glazed (as in donuts) eyes peelthemselves to an old lady, wider than the length of her shopping cart.

She is wearing a frayed housecoat and fuzzy slippers and her hair isin a cap of unholy rollers while she puts half of aisle No. 7 on theconveyor belt with one hand, as her husband lovingly holds tile other.

--9ÿosemorie DeFeltce --MeredLth L. llough

Hey. Hey. Hey.

Excuse me, is this for Haugh?Pretty big turnout.I'm glad I'm wearing red.It's a good color on me.Mom's crying.You couldn't have taken me?Dad's not.

1 don't think I can hold' it in any longer.Sis couldn't wait to wear my leather jacket.Great, the leather still smells like new.And me not even cold.Funny how I still itch.God, I hope it goes away because I can'tscratch it.It will.Father Stubbs sure is windy.Please turn to page 63 of your hymnalfor another hymn.From this angle, 1 can see up everyone's noses.I need a Kleenex.Pretty gross, when you consider they'vebeen crying.Hi Karen. Glad you could make it.$he looks so peaceful.Tracy, you hypocrite! Crying so hardjust so Michael will comfort you.Can't Michael tell I want him to hug me?I always knew you wanted my boyfrend.How can I go on withottt her?This is pretty comfortable.Although 1 usually sleep on my side.Oh my God7

3®

Yes?It's my second grade teacher, Mrs.Zuckerman. The bitch. Sheprobably comes to these things for fun.Hope the next one is open casket too.Yo Meredith!Yeah. Yeah. Okay Peter.I'm coming.

Hurry !Be right on up.

Goodbye all.

I wonder if I left the iron on?

--Meredith L. Haugh

n

Of yesterday's youth,Dylan Thomas wrote:

"Time held me green and dyingThough I sang in my chains like the sea."

Though the sun still sleeps,I cannot.

Slowly, regretably, I crawlout of comfortable slumber,from under his heavy arm.He gazes up, sleep in his eyesoffering a foggy half-smile.I tip toe across hard wood floorsin warm, socked feet.

Young girl, you can't be twelve!You stick out your baby breastsand wear too muchmakeup.

Take that cigarette from your mouth.Don't you know? It makes a short lifeshorter.

Drinking booze doesn't make you seemolder.

Instead, it makes you act like aninfant, slobbering all over yourselfand tottering when you walk.You know, adulthood isn't a place,like California, that you can visitand then leavewhen you get tired of it.

--Merÿeth L. Hÿugh

Go home and let your parentsholdtheir jobs a little longer.

Of today's youth,I presume to say:

Consuming all the morning,which is mine alone,I breath in every silent detail.The cat still sleeps,unaware of my existence,unwilling to join it.Everything left preciselyas the night before.Late night coffeeleft its circular stain.Pillows thrown,blankets in a crumpled heapon the couch.

The sun gently streams throughthe leaded glass.I peek at the sleeping figure.Covers pulled so high,showing only a whisper of hair.Covering his naked foot,I quietly close the door behind me.

--Rebecca Ledin a

An old bald man with a long white beardliespropped-up by the wall near the corner of a desertedroom. Slouching to his left, his grey hat has fallenoff and remains along-side him--tipped on its side.His bed is made of the fiat, thin piecesof concrete which have fallen from the decayingceiling. Immediately to his left is a window.His back presses against a wall once painted white.Now the wall reveals patches of concrete as the paintgradually peels away. Wearing a heavy black wool coatwith six buttons-- three rows with two per row,grey worn-out pants, white socks, and black shoeswith a quarter-size hole in each sole, he lieswith his eyes closed as an unfinished bottle of whiskeystands hidden at his left side. He appears as a vision--a ghost. The wall shows through him. Any secondhe will fade out and pop into a child's dream wearinghis traditional red suit. In a few years he will comeback to this deserted room when the child loses faith.Then, once again, he will just be a bald man with a whitebeard passed out in a deserted room.

--Elizabeth Caron

the clutch squeakslike an old woodendoor as I pressmy foot upon itand shift the stickinto first gearslowly easing upwith my left foot°affd pressing downwith my rightthe car cautiouslybegins to rollforward then picksup speed and revshigh until itwon't go any fasterI synchronize myright foot to comeoff the gas whilepressing the clutchwith my left footthe car lurchesforward as it glidesin neutral for asplit second thenI pull the stickdown to second gearthe engine stopsscreaming and beginsagain the slowscale of sound

--BarbcLra Amore

Pried open without my permission.Apathetic lips touch my opening.Satisfying his parched throatwhile emptying my being.Tossing my metal shellto the side of the road.

Not like other earth beings.Dressed in silverwith black marks:WESTINGHOUSE.

A year untouched.A rusted formation.Insignificant to the fortunate.Those of ignoranceuse me as a game piece,only to abuse me further.

Another pushed it into conversation;thumb on only eye.Spewing thoughts trapped in liquid.Only having few ideas accepted.And the ones not ready for,filtering back though dented head.

Turned over for a nickle.Other cans surround me.

An enjoyed aromaand stickiness of empathy.Meeting togetheras we are recycled.

--Rebecca Russokov

--Rebecca Russohov

Still, very still he sits,observing all, feeling everyemotion, yet enjoying everyjoyous moment with no smile,and every deplorable crisiswith no tear.

Every day and each night heis there, with a constant warmexpression that brings comfort,and aids in celebration. Hisarms stretch out to help, yetthey only reach so far.

Looking back, life always seems to bedifferent from the past. Simple ordifficult, it never is the same as itwas before.

Looking back, things that made life socomplex now are but a memory thatbrings a smile.

Looking back, things that came so easynow demand an effort.

Looking back, the once opened mind is nowclosed with biased opinions.

Looking back, the crisp, fresh outlookis now covered by a blanket of experience.

Looking back, I wish I knew it all then,but I did.

As time passes, less attentionis given to the once treasuredfriend; his future inevitablywill end up bleak, in a dark placeto reflect on everything that passedhis eyes, for they never close.

-Vincent W. Santamauro

--Vincent W. Sontamouro