MONTAGE

The Literary Magazineof Quinnipiac College

Volume One, Number One

Staff

Elizabeth BarnardLeslie BarnesDebbie DorioMadalyn UgolikMark Johnston, Faculty Advisor

The first issue of Montage is dedicated to thememories of Alice Remail and Olive Kennedy.

Death be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so.

--John Donne, Holy Sonnet #6

We hope you enjoy the first issue of Montage,the new Quinnipiac College literary magazine.The student editors and I have put together aselection of what we considered the best ofthe manuscripts submitted to us. We think you'lllike them too.

Imaginative literature, we feel, should be animportant part of any college student's life.

We believe there's a place at Quinnipiac forsuch a publication, and we hope that you, thecampus community, will continue to support

our efforts.

I

I

Table of Contents

We plan to come out with a second issue in late

Spring, and continue with two issues each yearthereafter. We are soliciting work from all

Quinnipiac students. Send manuscripts toMontage, Box 211, or to any of the studenteditors. Manuscripts should be typed on 8½ x IIwhite paper, and should bear the name of theauthor, his or her campus address and phone

number, and his or her major and year of

graduation.

The deadline for the Spring issue will bearound March 15. Send your work along!

--Mark Johnston

Faculty Advisor,Montage

Sleeping Giant ...... Andy Goodwyn .............. 4

Mythical horse ...... Cindy Ritchie ............. 5

At the Edge ......... Francis Burner ............ 6

Hell Revisited ...... Francis Burner ............ 8

Perspectives ........ Elizabeth B. McHugh ....... 9

Alone ............... Denise Bates ............. i0

Daddy's Gone ........ Denise Bates ............. ii

Late night citystreets .......... Ellen Carreiro ........... 12

when i hear about...debra di piazza .......... 13

My mom sits alone...debra di piazza .......... 14

Cliff-Talk .......... John R. Chamberlain, Jr..15

Cheshire Cat ........ John R. Chamberlain, Jr..16

Sail-Maker .......... John R. Chamberlain, Jr..18

The Parade .......... Gertrude Lyon ............ 20

Uncle Sam ........... Brian Sisk ............... 24

Moon ................ Judith Postupack ......... 24

Her smooth bronzed

face ............. Grace Cole ............... 25

Frame of Life ....... Lisa Dutlinger ........... 26

Acknowledgements ............................. 28

5

Sleeping GiantMythical horse...

The vanity and fear of centuriesLie fossilised in a named landscape.In the long, sloping shape, the jutting headWe figure some ancient giant, sleeping.To the mind's surface come bubbles of tale,Childhood pictures, whispers in the dark past,Till we see him shake off the centuries' dust,

rise,

Towering, volcanic against the sky°

Dormant, beneath shining steel, glistening glass,Lie the Titans still. By babelled landscapeEnraptured, city dwellers mistake their shape,Deaf to slow, vibrant breathing underfoot.

These edgy times they turn, groan and grumble,On beds no bigger than a word's razor,What rest upon contrast's cutting blade thatWhite from black divides, riches poised on poor?

--Andy Goodwyn

Assistant, Writing Lab

Strident men strut their streets, scoff at giants

And such old legend, we are our giants,Our gods, we Olympus emptied. Their wordsEcho in night streets, thin pavements tremble,Titans stir. Still lie the rocks in the sun,Without indifference--but in that are

The lies born and giants too; all godsGrow old, the titans come to make them sleep.

All this, mind, from shape coincidental.The mythy mind that invents NarcissusAnd a pool's excuse, whose history isChallenges to gods, that were never there.Beyond this dozing past man's towers glint,

Mirrored image of his upright power,He scuttles safe between his giants' legs,Tall loomers, sun shutters, complacent gloom.

Mythical horse with golden horn,

the magical, mystical unicorn,

Floating tail, feathery mane,

only memories of you remain.

Maidens chaste may stroke your nose;

soft as the petals of a budding rose,

Unbent blades of shadowed grass,

hide the direction that you pass.

You bow your proud and noble head,

a single tear you sadly shed.

You are the last of an ancient breed;

no one with whom to share your seed.

Disappear into the fog of time,

will anyone solve your ageless rhyme?

--Cindy RitchieLab Animal Tech., '84

At the Edge

A putridly sweet scent hung in the air

about his head. A dim light filtered across

the room from an unseen lamp. His body felt

strangely stiff and chilled.

His body, but was it his? Every limb

and every finger was familiar--yet strangely

alien. His chest had no substance but arched

full--a peculiar thing.

The air's stillness was disrupted by a

sudden draft. Voices, low and dull, could

be heard. Distorted images (as would be

seen through blown glass) flowed before him

in a slow procession. His wife's face

appeared and he tried to greet her but his

body would not respond. Her eyes, red and

moist, searched his face as if expecting to

find in his time worn features the answer

to some perplexing problem.

Her image faded only to be replaced by

that of another. Images of friends and

relatives came and went, each wearing drawn,

saddened faces. What troubled them he did

did not know--no emotion stirred in him. He

longed to ask them what caused their grief,

but he had been suddenly struck dumb.

The images ceased to appear and slowly

all sound was extinguished except for that

of the soft plodding of footsteps. The

footsteps drew nearer and stopped. A door

closed above his head leaving him in

darkness. Silence reigned.

It all became clear--now he must sleep.

--Francis BurnerEnglish, '83

V8

Hell Revisited Perspectives

Again it sounded and again, penetrating thevery core of the void--saturating its furthest

reaches--and yet making it all the more empty.The mind--drained of its very essence--enslaved by the methodic beat--toils endlesslyat the task of sketching elaborate circles forreasons beyond comprehension.

I go to schoolTo survive in the world around me--

Or so they say.But it seems I am

Not here to learn about Darwin, Eliot and Newton.

With the joining of the line, each circleis revealed in its hideousness. Evil oozingfrom its every pore, the demon infects man's

soul. Like a virus entering a cell, itcorrupts him--bending and twisting his ideasto serve its own dastardly purpose.

His will sapped of its strength, thetormented is powerless to refuse the task set

before him. Mechanically he performs hismaster's bidding, and with every stroke heis dragged deeper into the depths of despair.

--Francis Burner

English, '83

Here I must learn about peopleWho did not make history books--

Those who surround my life in this contemporaryTime.

You come--you are free. And

You leave behind a childhood.At first everything is wonderfully new and exciting;But as you continue the game--Complications.

You get close to people.

They can be so beautiful and thoughtful;So critical and judgemental.But they arePeople.

We come from different worlds no matter how close.Thinking of the pastThen the family portrait--

Parents seem so loving, kind...troubledCoping with absence.

But we must cope with our presence.Our parents are old--

They can only fall back on the past.

But we are young and strong.We can live and cope and growTo be able to survive in a worldWhere we must learn.

--Elizabeth Baxter McHugh

Physical Therapy, '83

l0 ii

AloneDaddy's Gone

Alone in my head--Images, splattered but constant.

The world is spinning 'round and 'round.

I must pick out the faces and pieces of timethat I can handle.

What if my mind says--Stop--

and leaps from me to crash to the ground?I sit quietly.Go away, little voices.

Go away, little people.You run around too fast. My head is swirling.

Focus on that dust speck now.See it. Transfix it. Jump into it.

I am alone.The voices, the past, the yelling, the hurt.

They are gone.But the dust speck now sits on a table.The table is next to a bed.Someone sits on the bed.

"What's wrong?" It says.

"Nothing," I say.Crash. Slam. Colors. Too much.

I close my eyes to shut it out.I open them slowly and the voice has become a

person.

The person is worried.I smile at the face, which smiles back.But then I see my dust speck again,

and the person slowly disappears.

Daddy's gone.That's what Mommy says.

He is always going away, but he always comes back too.Mommy says that he isn't coming back this time.

She says that Daddy doesn't care about me or Tommyor even her and that Daddy is rotten and no-good.

I wish Mommy would not say things like that.Daddy gave me Sally the doll and a big fuzzy bearfor Christmas and he said I was his princess

and he said he loved me.I know he loves me. I just know.

Daddy's gone for good Mommy says.She says she hates Daddy and when she says that--I feel so bad inside like when Patty threw the rock

at me,

except it hurts even more.When Mommy cries I tell her I love her

and she holds me tight.My eyes hurt and tears want to jump out but they can't.When Mommy says Daddy's gone the tears get all stuck

insideand then the hurt goes to my throatand then to my stomach, and it stays there

for a long, long time.And sometimes I think that it will never go away.

--Denise M. Bates

Psychology, '82

--Denise M. Bates

Psychology, !82

12 13

"when i hear about..."

"Late night city streets..."

Late night city streets illuminated in neon.In a distorted shadow stands a man,waiting for the perfect moment to appear.My quickened pace becomes faster as I approach him,but I do not look at his eyes in fear of what they may

say.

From his casual stance he begins to stride toward me,and now I see his sinister look, ready to swallow me

whole.

Just keep going, don't look back. . and he willdisappear.

But in my frightened state, I turn and see,the late-night, neon-lit, city streets.

--Ellen CarreiroOccupational Therapy, '84

when i hear about the glories of childhoodor the urge to returnto the joys of one's youthi wonder:who would ever be a child again?who of us would really return to those dayswhen fear could freeze our bonesbecause the lights had been turned out?where king kong or frankenstein lurkedwaiting to tear open our throats

because we stepped on a crack in the sidewalk?or when the two big people who were supposedto love you above all elsecould beat you raw with a strap forplaying in the dirt?and, o[ those innocent young companions

of those happy, happy daysÿwho would cut you dead for wearing glasses,or being fat, or thin, or fatherless, or a jew.little hitlers with new, wonderful best friendsto make you wish you could die nowÿwe don't really remember our childhood livesbut go over and over in our mindsuntil they turn out all right.

--debra di piazzaEnglish, '81

14 15

Cliff-Talk

"My mom sits alone..."

My mom sits aloneWatching "Fantasy Island"Reading Gone With The WindAt commercials

In her lap lies a cap gun"Stranger" I think, and ask why"I need toys tooÿ"

She says laughs like Lon ChaneyPoints the gun at my headAnd says,"Bangÿ"

--Debra DiPiazza

English, '81

Let me show youwhat I'd like most to doto you I whispered as we stood by

the cliff's edgein the high wind that tosses the

dead elm's

branches above us. This night ofcrow's throat,

of lightning like the ripplingof feather-sheen, is darkas diamonds miles below the earth.

Come closer, I said, fighting forbreath,

for voice, struggling to hold backthe water's seethe below. Yes,there's hope, for all I can see

are your eyes now, darkas coal waiting to be diamonds,

miles belowthe deepest mind. Come closer,

let me help you down.

--John R. Chamberlain, Jr.

Continuing Education

16 17

Cheshire Cat

I thought my soul was brown

as a paper bag, even though my parentsloved me. I used to study my baseballteam's photo, taken just after we wonthe championship, and while many of us lookedlike we won, a lot of us lookedas if we were still being poured

from our father's hands, into the shapeof our baseball gloves just thrown highin the air. I looked like one whodidn't understand, and althoughI had hit the winning home run, I still

I could outstare my cats,they would always look away, but notwhen they had gone, or had died. Then

they always looked at me, too long,and I wondered from where.

Not from the bottom of the basement stairs,where they waited, their tails stirringthe dust, and only their eyesglittering in the darkness,

wanted to run home. I felt formlessand wet as a kitten, liked and tossed

in its box, unseeing, unless blursof light blinded my darkness.The world was strange, and people alwayshanded me stones as gifts,and then looked away.I just put them in my paper bag.

but from some other placewhere bones of cats click

in my mind, and lantern eyes swingfrom dark thickets or a field's fence,under stars that will never change.

And tonight, many years later,the cats all gone, the moon risesrust-amber, hugÿ and full, and lookslike a cat we used to have, Amber,

curled up, smiling and dreaming of mice,

Cats were warm,better than security blankets,and would sleep in your arms, unlessyou gassed them too much under the covers.

Petting them was always a curiosity.I used to put my cats in paper bagsand hold them closeduntil they thrashed their way outand fled down the cellar stairs.

until it rose and lightenedand looked more like cheese hanging there.And as I drove east,the tattered clouds of an October night,all the mice of the mind,chased itand nibbled it away.

--John R. Chamberlain Jr.

Continuing Education

18 19

Sailmaker

There must bea seagull's neston the island off our shore,an island with white dunes,footprints in the rocks, scrubpine trees, and teaberry leaves

whose smell I catchon south-windy days. For twice a day

or two hundred times a day,he comes from that island and visits me.

There are many who saythat the seagull has a name,

he is the Herring Gull,the Great Black-backed Gull,but I say he has no name, only mine,and the island only picturesfloating in our minds.

Either calling throughthe darkest boilings of clouds,he skids down the air on soft lightning,and the thunder in my mindturns to sighs.

The seagull speaks a languagewhere words disappearas waves that splash on a rockbecome the water again.His grey wings are the stillest of wavesmoving swiftly through the air,and the light on his chestis brighter than shark's teeth.His eyes send the lightningI long to be struck with.

Or coming to mewhen the light on the leafsurrounds me, and I dancewith the tree's arms in the wind,and he there singing his clear-bursting songs.

Once I visitedthe island when I was young,I built a boat out of driftwood,and let my soul fill like a sailto carry me there.I had no compass for my journey.

I didn't know my way back,and the Coast Guard found me walking nowhere

on the water, laughing and slidingdown the backsides of waves.They took me aboard and questioned me.

We have a pact,I let him shatter his oyster shellson my porch,and in the marketplaceI sell the pearls.

--John R. Chamberlain Jr.

Continuing Education

i

20 21

The Parade

The usual confusion of Friday morning inlate May encompassed the house on Duxbury Road.Clothes were jammed into suitcases inanticipation of the upcoming weekend at theshore, the epitome of the laazy, haaazy daysof vacation. As soon as the three youngchildren returned from school that afternoon,the van would head south, packed to the roof-

top. Diana worked the rest of the daycollecting her own things and those of herhusband, Wayne, who would be flying into thecity in the early evening. His business trips

were numerous and demanding, the price one

pays for that V.P. mahogany door plaque.Typically, Wayne would join the family later.

Whirr. Buzz. Screech, honk, honk. Onthe freeway. Columns moving up, back, in/out/through--endless formation traveling inter-

interstate, intermingled, inter ..... Two hoursand twenty-one minutes from door to door, andthere it°is, the cottage, a mansion-like house

at the edge of the ocean, surrounded by acarpet of green, sprawling lawn. Diana haswent twenty-five springs and summers here.

The smell of salt air remains, filling thenostrils with nostalgia. Home again.

It was Wayne's voice at the other end ofthe ringing telephone. "Get ready for a party,"he said. "I'm bringing home some friends for

the weekend." Party shit I just got here notime to think food booze kids to feed my quietweekend ruined by Mr. V.P. Potatohead getting

in no jet lag everybody's a friend the warmsun always soothes the aches who is he

bringing this time molded ladios, seeeeeeeekingexecutones the older summers innocent excitementJackass. "Okay," replied Diana.

"We'll be there in two hours," blurted

Wayne. "Kiss the kids for me. Love ya." He

severed the connection.

Diana and the girls spent the next twohours talking quietly together and planningthe next day's adventures. The four decided

to row to a nearby island and crab off thejagged rocks. The solitude found on that smallarea of land would only be broken by the plotof the white caps lapping against the rocks, orby the eeeerie cry of a gull. The talkinggrew strained. The girls yawnednoddedsighedall in one. Bedtime.

Jump. Off the sea wall into the sand.Diana and the girls stepped out of their shoesand pulled off their socks. Such confinementsare an unfit necessity for habitation here withthe free flight of the gulls and the swoopingterns. Diana always took these first moments

to relax after the hectic day of preparationand traveling. Though, before long, theritual of unpacking was upon them all.

No respite. Diana heard the stones

crushing together on the driveway and sawheadlights swerving around the circle. Inmarched the herd with Mr. V.P. up front.

Names, faces, blurrrrrred. Wayned showed his

guests the magnificent view and the grandexpanse of rooms. Impressssssive. Snap, ongoes the Sony. Sensuous sound. Wayne openedthe doors of the liquor etagere and exposed thelabels--Royal Crown, Dewars, Jameson, Beefeater,Boodles, Courvoisier, Jack Daniels, Grand Marnier.... Michelob, Heineken. Who would want a

thisone'sforyou? Sensuous feeling.

22 23

Diana, a tt at heart, chose her refreshment.

She mingled with the guests, smiling pleasantlyand listening to the ports of call on the latestcruises, the escapades of the business trips,and the laurels given to the children forparental ego-boosting achievements. Have

another, Wayne was prodding.

From amidst the group emerged a slim, youngwoman who had found a small American Flag, aleftover from last year's Fourth's celebration.

She took her place behind Diana and togetherthey marched, waving and twirling. Diana smiledto herself. Someone else has joined my parade.

In the corner of the room a baton rested

against the wall. Diana picked it up andstarted twirling, faster and faster. Cheerscame from some surprised faces. She twirled

doing backbends and frontbends, swaying sidewardsand upwards, agilely passing the baton betweenher legs and around her back. With her head upand her chest out she began...Brrrrum, Brrrrum,Brrrrrum bum, bum, Brrrrum, Brrrrum bum bum.Diana's high stepping stomp was determined andprecise. All eyes were on her as she marchedaround the house, through the dining room to theliving room and onto the porch. Grand day fora parade my dad always loved to see me twirlthe time in New York was the best Macy's Paradehe came always had everything ready when it waswarm enough to water ski motor was mounted and

the boat was ready and off we'd go sitting onthe porch watching him ski was thrilling Caroland Marty would come over I loved Marty Martyloved Carol I'd swim along in front of thecottages where is Marty now the sandwiches weresometimes sandy who cared relaxing on the warmsand covered with suntan lotion and covering himwith lotion was soothing these frozen faces are

ugly glasses are all glued to their hands likeappendages watch me creeps watch watch/watchwatch

watch.

--Gertrude Lyon

Shoreline Adult DegreeProgram

24 25

Uncle Sam

A baby feeds on its mother's breastHe grows up by her side5, i0, 15 nowBut war is declaredThe mother prays,"Let my son be spared"

But no one listens

No one cares

Over he flies to the battlegroundsHe's shocked by the bloody sightsPetrified by the soundsHe's shot and killed the third day thereFlown home to be laid to restIt's a pity he died.

Her smooth bronzed face...

Her smooth bronzed face

does not show her age, or her struggles

Her back is held straight

Her hands ready for action

But the Lord knows

how much it took

to raise six

--Brian Sisk

Liberal Arts, '84

Moon

luminous seed planted in the darksprouting petals of twilightover the land.

Her speech is cheerful

and is not filled with the sad times

Her smile is held ready

Her heart is wide open

But the Lord knows

how much it took

to keep it going

--Judith Postupack

Med. Tech., '84

--Grace Cole

English, '83

26 27

Frame of Life

What is his mind doing? I hear thephysician, leaning over his body, his handsdecoding signals of life .... "I feel a femoral

pulse[...very faintly..." As if it were a shiplost in the fog, faintly sending out a signal.

"Don't raise your voices," cautions the

nurse in a maternal, protective tone, "his

brother is across the hall and may hear us.He doesn't know what happened." His brotherwas with him, all his senses were filled withterror: screeching tire noises, screams, thesight of blood, the ambulance arrival allfill his consciousness with an image. He

knows what is happening. I hear a scream,

full of terror, fright, anger, pain andanguish. My ears are filled, I can hear

nothing else .... I become numb, and feelanesthetized; not from the pain, but by thepain.

Today is a special day for many peopleall around the world. Today Jesus Christ rosefrom the dead...and yet this boy sinks to thedead on the same day. He is destined to

travel at an early age.

His body lies still as we move around him.It does not appear as bent as the frame of thebicycle which also lies still. I do not speakto him as I lift his head, placing cold steelunderneath it. I do not know what color hairhe has--now it is red. And as I take my hands

away, I feel their warm dampness. They are redwith liquid life that has escaped from him.Catch it, do not let it escape[ I take pictures,

exposures, frames, swiftly and silently.

As I look into the next room, I see a

little girl holding her foot, cradling all 20bones as a broken doll whose bones are

crumpled but held inside by a cloth surroundingit. She does not hear, see or feel the pain

I have just experienced. I smile like a robot,one possessed by an automatic control that has

taken over. As I take exposures of herinnocent and yet unbroken little tarsal bones,one image flashes on and off in my mind, likea warning signal: I see another bent bicycleframe.

--Lisa Dutlinger

Respiratory Therapy, '82

28

Acknowledgements

For aid both spiritual and monetary, we wouldlike to thank the following:

Romy Hall, Secretary, Depts. of English/MassCommunications and Psychology

All the students who submitted manuscriptsDean Elkins, Dean of the School of Liberal ArtsMorris Woskow, Dean of the School of Liberal ArtsThe Quinnipiac College Cultural Affairs CommitteeAntoinette Blood, External AffairsLinda Broker, Assistant to the PresidentMarjorie JohannAnyone who bought our bread