Literature Review: The Fault in Our Stars by John Green (2012)

The Fault in Our Stars was recommended to me by a friend who made the terrible mistake of lending it to me about... oh... February 2012. The awesome person that I am, I put it off for a year and four months until I finally sat down and cracked it open two nights ago. After a tempest of feels which left me clinging to my pillows at eight in the morning desperately trying to squeeze in at least six hours of sleep before I wasted the entire day, I came to the fairly satisfying conclusion. Although I have to admit it left me hanging a little too far. I mean, what happens to Hazel's mother and Bluie the teddy bear? And just how does it all change one Mr. van Houten?

Don't let me put you off your bookly appetite with my misguided questions, however, as the novel does end on a full and final note. The journey is more important than the destination, anyhow. Granted, the importance of the journey reaches right up to the end, but you get the picture. Or maybe you don't. I dunno.

Interestingly, I didn't make the connection between this book and the silly people making silly videos for YouTube to which I have been subscribed for a ridiculously lengthy amount of time. I don't know why, considering the amount of videos in which John discusses signing pages of the book. Somehow I didn't run across those until after spiriting away the tome, and now it all makes much more sense. See, I'd always wondered what John did for a job, and now I know.

Oh by the way, I'm sorry if I come across as very first name basis here. In fact I've never met either of the Vlog Brothers in person, but their videos make me feel as though I'm intimately familiar with them. For those who aren't intimately familiar with them, their last name is not Vlog, it is Green. Despite this, they are the Super Vlog Brothers. You would also be wise to consider becoming intimately familiar with them. Intimately.

So the story focuses on one Hazel Grace, a sixteen-year-old cancer patient who is destined to die at a relatively young age. She soon makes the acquaintance of Augusts Waters, a cancer survived high schooler, and the two are swept into a whirlwind romance. The romantic plot here being more of the primary plot with the cancer being more of a subplot, despite being introduced first. I won't lie: this is a young adult contemporary romance novel with medicinal syrup smeared over it. If you don't dig touchy-feely goodness, go dig a hole.

Actually, I did lie, because it's less of a romance and more of a tragedy.

The Fault in Our Stars is almost a modern day version of Romeo and Juliet with the antagonistic families being replaced by various forms of cancer. It is a tastefully told tale with all the implausible complexities of the average American youth, which are more abundant than the adults with ascended noses would like to admit. The narration is crisp and sprinkled with the quips of our protagonist, which greatly enhances the experience. The characters are all well developed and fairly realistic, which does mean that they are at times unlikable.

Actually, that's kind of a lie, and this is my one complaint with the novel: it falls into as many category stereotypes as it mocks. Almost every supporting character is ridiculously supportive, of everyone and everything. Of course there are a couple of more antagonistic individuals, but they're neither here nor there: one is a C-List character, and the other does do a bit of changing despite remaining an assclown. Besides, them, though, everyone is all happy acceptance for most of the book. I'm actually kind of surprised at what the kids get away with saying right in front of their parents, because in real life they'd be totally roasted for it.

Other than that, though, the book is damn near perfect. It's a little on the sparse side with details, and a little on the telly side as well, but that is all overshadowed by the tone of the narration (which is in first person). What the story lacks in visual exploration it makes up for in character exploration. By the end of it all, you're going to feel like most of these characters are a part of you, and whatever happens to them is happening to you.

Honestly, the book is too good. Half of my bawling was more because John Green's literary prowess is far beyond mine, and it really showed me how I'm just a kindergartner scribbling on the floor with a crayon.

Then again, I like crayons.

The Fault in Our Stars deserves all the praise I'm giving it, and probably much more by people who can better articulate it. Ten/ten, go read.

Don't forget the tissues.

Literature Review: The Very Quiet Cricket by Eric Carle (Board Book Rerelease) (1997)

The Very Quiet Cricket was originally released in 1990 as a children's book, but I'm not reading that version! I'm sure they're quite similar, but the version I have is the 1997 rerelease on thick cardboard pages with a few added bells and whistles. I'm not sure how important that really is, but I thought it was something worth mentioning.

This is a simple children's book which follows the tried and true method of thrusting a protagonist into existence and sending him on a journey where he will encounter a new character on each page who will either teach a lesson or make evident the protagonist's flaws and encourage in some way that he sort out his issues and rise to the top. This story takes the latter approach, giving us a newborn cricket who is unable to sing with his legs (I guess nobody told him to hit puberty first).

It's simple form, and the book does nothing horrendous with the concept. Each page contains about four lines of easy dialogue designed to help kids manage the language and some art which is really hit or miss. While the bugs all generally look fairly decent and are colored with eye-catching prisms, the plants and other scenery is all extremely messy and juvenile. In fact, the grass is nothing more than a series of scribbles. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Carle had a child do the grass for him.

One thing that did bug me about the story was the absolute lack of quotations. I understand what the purpose behind this is (it signifies that the animals are communicating through noise rather than literal speech), it didn't quite feel right. From the perspective of the bugs, they are speaking in actual languages. We don't talk the quotes away from Spanish-speaking characters simply because their noises aren't the native languages of the writer, do we? Particularly not when we're actually writing out what it is they said?

This version of the book includes an added bonus: noise! It breaks all the rules by hitting us not just in our eyes and our brains (and our noses with that delicious papery smell. Oooh, come to me, dead trees!)  but it hits our ears as well. Of course, the noise is only for the last two pages in which our closemouthed cricket finally learns to sing. Unfortunately, the accompanying noise is an awful digital drone which sounds suspiciously like a wrist watch (people still have these, right?) alarm. While it's kind of cute and pleasant for the first loop, after that it really becomes grating and I found it distracting. Made it slightly difficult to concentrate on the last few sentences, despite their extreme shortness. Perhaps it was the repeating of the same sound...

The story is also kind of hampered by a lack of emotional context. Each page greets us with the same pattern: friendly creature says "Hi", Cricket tries to reply in kind, but finds that he is unable to. We're never told how this makes the cricket feel. With all the information we're given, he is entirely indifferent to his inability to speak. I know children might fill in that blank of being unable to do something that they want to do with sadness, but a little acknowledgement that, yes, this is making the cricket very unhappy might have helped the book fall into the trap of being overly detached.

Ultimately The Very Quiet Cricket is an okay book. At the least, it'll be over in five minutes, so parents who absolutely loathe "Reading Time" shouldn't have too much trouble with this one. Otherwise there isn't really a whole lot to it. There's no struggle, no lesson, no consequences, nothing of substance. I suppose it could teach children that crickets sing by rubbing their legs together, and it's simple enough that having it around to help children learn to read is probably a good idea. Still, there isn't a whole lot to digest about this... but it isn't bad. I think this is probably the first neutral thing I've reviewed (although I suspect there will be many more as I go through this vast ocean of children's books I've collected). Five out of ten, Crickety sir.

Literature Review: Animal Ark: Husky with a Heart by Ben M. Baglio (2005)

Husky with a Heart is a book related to Ben M. Baglio's Animal Ark series, though it doesn't appear to be part of the main franchise. Despite this, readers who jump right in with this title having never heard of or read the previous books will definitely feel a little left behind. They may even be tempted to quit after the hundredth vague allusion to a past entry, and they probably should do that. It would save them a four-month slog through a miserable book short enough that it should only take an hour.

I seriously can't understand how a book can be so dreadful. I'd been reading this since mid-January and only just now finished it, which is ridiculous considering its reading level of attempted-Second Grade and its measly 136 pages of larger-than-average font. No part of this book was fun at all, and I found myself staring at the ceiling for hours after each paragraph simply because the cracks in the paint have more life and imagination than this vapid script. Not only are the characters unbelievably corny and not at all lifelike, often becoming irritating by a sense of falseness about them all (probably because the author knows they're being fake and can't make themselves take it at all seriously), but they have absolutely no personality. I'm not sure if this is because the series had already been ten-years established by the time this one came out, but it really does nothing for the reader other than highlight just how empty this book is going to be.

Blank-faced characters aside, the writing itself feels fake and forced, like the aunt at Thanksgiving who acts all smiles and talks in that annoyingly contrived sing-song voice despite the fact that every single person older than the age of fetus can see right through her, and they all would love nothing more than to punch her ass out into the cold. I know this book is written with children in mind, but I don't think that's any reason to be pretentious. At least, not obviously so. I always believe that speaking down to your audience is the surest way to lose them, and no part of this book acknowledges that children are equal, let alone capable of understanding big grown-up words. Remembering back to my youth when I was a much more avid reader, I can remember being very pissed off by books with this talk-down attitude. It was the quickest way to send me running back to the library, and in my busy adult (ha!) life, that translates simply to writing essays warning other people, and hopefully a number of them within the intended audience, not to touch the title with a yard stick. Not even ten of them strung together with a carefully planned construction of pipe cleaners, Elmer's glue, and tape.

Really, though, it's too easy to go on and on about what a book does wrong. It's much more difficult to talk about what a book (or any piece of media) does right. Perhaps as a personal challenge, I'll go ahead right now and try to think of something nice to say about this ghostwritten garbage. Thumper, I'll do ye proud!

Let's see now...

Hm...

Well, there's a family tree at the beginning dating back several generations of Husky and detailing which ones the protagonist will meet during the story. That's pretty cool. I think I looked at it for five minutes or so just thinking about the histories of each dog, which was 500% more exciting than anything found within the actual novel.

I won't bore you with any of the other reasons the book is terrible, because I really shouldn't have to. It's straight up horrible. However, I will discuss one other negative: there isn't a story. There really isn't. Pay attention, because this part's important. Especially if you're a writer. Do you remember that big wave they teach you in elementary school which details the story progression of the book you're reading? They teach you that for a reason. They teach you that because a book that does not have a beginning, middle, and end will not succeed in satisfying your audience. If you think you can spend 100 pages on "Beginning" and maybe shuffle up "Rising Action", but not quite make it to the peak, and then you write the words "The end", you need to go back to school.

--Note: I understand some writers, me among them, do not necessarily heed that advice for artistic reasons or simply because that's the style we write. That's fine and all, do what works for you on a personal level. Just understand that what satisfied your artistic need will not always satisfy the needs of your audience. If you are okay with this (as I am) then proceed with not surfing the entire wave.--

In short: this book is awful. Of all the books I've come across in my years, so far this is the only one I've wanted to destroy or to in some way remove from my existence. I won't be doing that for the simple face that I want my potential future children to be literate and to choose their own interests, but I'll be praying for the rest of my days that their eyes never chance upon this one on the shelf. Speaking of ones, that's what this title has earned. One out of ten. Because it sucks.

--Note: While uploading the 1/10 picture, I noticed that I had made a 0/10 picture! Oh, how I was so tempted to use it!--

Fire Lily, Issue Two

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven

Short Fiction by Anonymous/Unknown Author

  

Short Fiction by Anonymous/Unknown Author: A

Articles by Anonymous/Unknown Author: T

Articles by Anonymous/Unknown Author: N

Authors: A

Literature: Anonymous/Unknown Author

 

Articles by Anonymous/Unknown Author

  

Articles by Anonymous/Unknown Author: G

"About Abbott" by Lou Costello

BUD ABBOTT

A lot of people think Abbott is a jerk. I'm one of them. I've known him for years and years.... without time off for good behavior. He's the closest friend I have. In fact, I don't know anyone so stingy! I'm just joking. Actually Abbott would give you the shirt off his back. Provided, of course, you were the laundry man.

Does this begin to sound as though I don't like Abbott? It does? Good, then I won't have to start over again. Seriously, though, we're great pals. Why compared to us, Damon and Pythias had a mere nodding acquaintance. We've been together so long that I feel better equipped than even Abbott himself to write his life story. Besides, I can spell.

You've got to give Abbott a lot of credit. You really do. Nobody else would lend him a dime. What I mean is look at the big shot he is today. And he came from a very poor family! Gosh, were they poor! But what else could you expect with a crook like Abbott in the house? Yes, Sir, I'll take my hat off to Abbott, but I refuse to let it out of my sight.

I suppose you'd like to know how Abbott started his career. So would the F. B. I. All I know is that he claims to be a self-made man. Maybe he is, but frankly I think he should try again. He's bound to improve with practice. He's always bragging about starting at the bottom, but what's so hot about that? So does athlete's foot.

Abbott likes to boast that he drives the nicest car in town. Be careful. Don't leave your keys in the ignition. However, the automobile he has now is really a beauty. That's one thing you can't take away from him. But the finance company will the first of the month.

Abbott's always beating his gums about what a great physical specimen he is. I wish I had a body like his! The first thing I'd do would be take a shower. Maybe he has got a lot of muscles. But why doesn't he wear them? Last winter he went to Florida for his health. He couldn't find it. It must have been in some other state. I'll never forget the time I went to the gym with him. At closing time the porter tried to tuck Abbott away with the Indian clubs. For years he had me believing that he had played in a big Army-Navy game, all right. But it wasn't football! It was a poker game with two sergeants and a sailor!

People wonder why I always let Abbott do the thinking. It's just that I figure he needs the practice. He's got a nice clear mind. He never gets it cluttered up with any ideas. Abbott says I'm stupid. Maybe I am. But when I look at him, I know I haven't got a monopoly.

I guess I shouldn't kick. Over the years I've had a lot of fun. But not with Abbott! One Saturday night he asked me out on a double date. It really was a double date! I had to pay for him, too! I would have left in a huff, except that a taxi's faster.

Don't get me wrong. Actually I'm very fond of Abbott. Why I have him over to my house every single night. I wish I could remember to close the windows.

"The Bat and the Weasels" by Aesop (Translated by George Fyler Townsend)

A Bat who fell upon the ground and was caught by a Weasel pleaded to be spared his life. The Weasel refused, saying that he was by nature the enemy of all birds. The Bat assured him that he was not a bird, but a mouse, and thus was set free. Shortly afterwards the Bat again fell to the ground and was caught by another Weasel, whom he likewise entreated not to eat him. The Weasel said that he had a special hostility to mice. The Bat assured him that he was not a mouse, but a bat, and thus a second time escaped.

It is wise to turn circumstances to good account.

Ellen Lynn (Author)

Short Stories

                                                 

"The Wolf and the Lamb" by Aesop (Translated by George Fyler Townsend)

Wolf, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the Wolf's right to eat him. He thus addressed him: "Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me." "Indeed," bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, "I was not then born." Then said the Wolf, "You feed in my pasture." "No, good sir," replied the Lamb, "I have not yet tasted grass." Again said the Wolf, "You drink of my well." "No," exclaimed the Lamb, "I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother's milk is both food and drink to me." Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, "Well! I won't remain supperless, even though you refute every one of my imputations."

The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.

"The Horror of the Haunted Castle" by Ellen Lynn

Witches, ghosts, haunted castles! Do they belong only to ages long past. Are they only tales told by tellers of fairy tales. To Alice Martin such things were nonsense. She said she couldn't believe them.

Alice was a typical, fun-loving, American college girl—and besides, she was studying sciences. A scientist knows that every phenomenon, no matter how strange, has its own physical cause and effect. Eerie creatures, apparitions arise from the frightened minds of superstitious people. Science clears away the mists and fog surrounding weird beliefs. So Alice, with her pretty face and charming figure, was quite sure of herself and could venture where most people might tread cautiously. That is until Grinling Castle came into her life.

A group of exceptional students of science were going abroad to spend a year studying at an ancient University near Paris. Alice was elated when she was chosen to join the group and she won the permission of her indulgent parents to accompany the selected party under the supervision of two of the instructors. They were a gay and happy group as they set sail for Europe.

In ancient Europe, Alice found studying most stimulating. In addition, she was very popular with all the male students, French, Italian, German, English. Hans Karel, a young assistant instructor was particularly smitten with her and she had had a few dates with him. He was not unattractive with his blond hair and teutonic stiffness. But there was something—she couldn't quite put her finger on it—that made her feel not quite comfortable with him. Perhaps it was his eyes: they were steel blue, cold and penetrating. She felt that his eyes saw through her and knew—knew—that it was Professor Loring, head professor in mythology, that she couldn't dismiss from her real thoughts, and her heart.

Prof. Loring had requested her to assist him with the manuscript of his book on the Origins and Causes of Legends and Superstitions. She had felt not only proud and honored by his selection of her—but her heart fluttered strangely when his deep, brown eyes looked into hers, and taking his pipe from his mouth, he asked, "Miss Martin, would you care to spend some of your evening hours assisting me with my manuscript?" Hans Karel, the science instructor, was standing nearby at the time, and she noticed how strained he was as he listened to them.

"It would be an honor," she had answered. "I'm on the edge of a great discovery in the supernatural but I need a live assistant to scare the ghosts." They both laughed. He was quite young for a professor and very handsome. And then she had noticed again how hostile Hans had looked, his lips drawn into a thin line and his eyes shooting cold sparks. Suddenly she wished she could break her date with him for that evening. He was such an intense young man. Well, she'd keep it this time—but no more dates after that with Hans Karel.

It was wonderful working with Matthew Loring; but he had been right—it was hard work searching old tomes for proofs of ancient ghosts and like phenomena. "Alice," he once said, "I'll have to give you credit when my book goes into publication. Rather, I should say, it will be a pleasure to give you credit." They were standing close together and she looked into his eyes, flushing at his words. Suddenly, he took hold of her hands, then drew her to him and kissed her lips. A cough broke the silence. They had not heard Hans come into the room. The professor calmly released Alice, said, "I'll be back in a little while, dear. I'm going to my office now." And he left the room. Alice turned to Hans. He was glaring at her and his face was scarlet.

"So," he spluttered, "It's 'dear', is it? And sneaking kisses instead of working. So that's why he picked you to assist him? He makes believe his only interest is ghosts and then he steals my full of life girl."

"Your girl!" Alice exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, Hans, what right have you to make such a claim? And as for the kisses—I'll have you know this is the first time he ever kissed me, and he did so because I wanted him to. I'm in love with him."

"Bah! He loves only ghosts. That's where he should be—with them. The fool, believing in such silly things."

For the first time in her memory, Alice felt a sense of fear as she watched Hans's reaction to her words. From bright red, his face turned pale as ivory. His breath came in short spasms and his fingers were clenching and unclenching rapidly.

When the book was nearing completion, Alice became thoroughly fascinated with the mounting proofs of those who had returned from the graves to haunt the land of the living. But now she and Professor Loring realized they needed personal proof to complete their manuscript and crown it with real success. They believed that the old forbidding and forbidden ghostly Grinling Castle would give the proof they needed.

Then one day the Professor barged in with an open letter in his hand. In a voice filled with elation he said, "Alice, at last I've got permission to visit the Grinling Castle. At last I've gotten through the taboos and red tape. I truly believe that even the government officials believe that the castle is haunted, and know that ghosts must inhabit those musty, decayed walls. They warned me not to go—but finally granted permission. Then will my manuscript be complete."

Alice rejoiced with the professor. Then he turned and grasped both her arms. "My only regret is it is so dangerous that I have to leave you behind, Alice—just when I've found you—fallen in love with you." Happily, Alice returned his kiss as the thought of the strange Hans flitted through her mind when she heard, "and Karel has offered to come along to confirm my findings."

Matthew Loring and Hans Karel departed the next morning for the distant Grinling Castle. Hans sat grimly at the wheel as Matthew chatted gaily about his anticipation of their findings.

"I know, Hans, we can arouse at least one of the famous ghosts of the castle. A personal encounter would show our disbelieving world that the dead do come back at the right time and place."

Hans stared straight ahead as he spoke, "You're in an unusual mood, professor. One would almost think you're in love."

"You've guessed it, Hans," was the quick reply. "I'm sure you know I'm in love with Alice Martin, my pretty little American assistant. When my manuscript is complete, after Grinling, we will marry."

The car shot ahead at a sudden increase of speed. Prof. Loring turned to stare at the man at the wheel. Hans' face was ashen grey and he leaned forward as he stepped on the accelerator. The needle pointed to 80!

The two men remained silent the rest of the trip. When they reached the castle grounds a heavy mist had settled over the thick trees and wild hedges. The grounds had not been tended for many years and a thick maze of branches and vines made it difficult to penetrate to the building. But they finally got through and Prof. Loring started to jot down notes as he mounted the cracked and crumbling steps of the house.

Inside, from the high-vaulted ceiling hung draperies and cobwebs, and huge flying creatures darted about in the dim light. Suddenly a long, thin, scream assailed their ears.

Prof. Loring turned to Hans and whispered, "Hans, I know it. That was the voice of a ghost! The Grinling ghost. Europe's most famous ghost."

"Not quite, Loring," Hans answered. "My reason still tells me it was the sound of the wind through the cracks. And that's how ghost stories arise—from just such sounds in a ruined building."

As the Professor answered, a wild thought darted through Hans's burning mind. Here was his chance for revenge—and for Alice Martin. Yes, he would do it—and have a wonderful alibi to cover himself! That balcony running around two walls, high up toward the ceiling, and the rickety railing...! Hans quickly mounted the steps and called to Loring down below. "Come up, Professor, look recent shadowy foot prints—without weight—inhuman." Eagerly, Loring took the steps two at a time. "Yes, where are they?" he asked Hans. "There, look down there," said Hans. Surprised, Loring leaned over and Hans carried out his plan; with two hands he pushed hard—and Loring crashed through the rotting rail, his body somersaulting in air as he gave one awful scream. It landed with a loud thud on the stone floor below and a cloud of dust mounted high, high up to the gloating face of Hans.

"Now, Professor, you can be a ghost along with the rest of the company here. Perhaps you can let us know from the next world all about ghosts and such. Maybe there you can finish your foolish manuscript." Then Hans left the castle feeling like a conqueror.

Everyone was shocked at the terrible accident that had befallen the popular Prof. Loring. Alice couldn't believe that he was dead. "But Hans," she asked over and over again, "Surely he knew the railing was rotted. Why did he lean against it at such a height? What was he looking for?"

For months Hans tried to win Alice's interest, but she could not get over the tragic event, and she avoided him. Every night she dreamed of Professor Loring—Matthew—and his unfinished manuscript and imagined him falling, falling, over the creaking railing of the balcony at Grinling Castle. Then, one night, in a dream, the dead Loring came back, he spoke to her: "Alice—beloved—make Hans go back to the Castle, and have him bring my unfinished manuscript. Hurry, hurry! Now it can be finished—now I know!" She woke with a start from this vivid dream. Three nights in a row the same thing occurred. The fourth day, Hans phoned her and she told him to come to see her. She decided to obey the instructions of her dream—Matthew's voice was so clear to her.

"Hans," she said, "I want to visit Grinling Castle. Will you meet me there? After I see the place of his death I will be able to forget him. Please take his unfinished manuscript with you. Let us leave it there. Please, for my sake."

"I am not permitted to take you there, Alice, but if you wish it I shall go to the castle and leave the manuscript there. Would that please you?" Hans offered quickly.

Alice felt that would fulfill the orders of her dream. The next day Hans left with the manuscript in his brief case. He said he would return the following day.

A week later, Hans had not returned. Alarmed, Alice notified the police. She accompanied them to the famous old haunted Castle. They found the remains of a new body—Hans, apparently dead six days. On the ground were the scattered pages of the unfinished manuscript. The police permitted Alice to pick them up. To her amazement, there were additional pages—a new chapter written in Matthew's handwriting. But she knew no one would believe her. The manuscript had been finished! And the last paragraph read:

"Yes people have avenging ghosts after all Hans hurled me to my death, but I couldn't die till I was avenged. It was my own ghost that really brought him back to the castle and made him jump from the balcony from which he hurled me. Now the world can know the truth."

"Horror of the Drowned" by Ellen Lynn

The news of Tom's death came to Arlene as a terrible shock.

I loved my niece Arlene as a daughter and tried to take her mother's place when my sister Grace died; I was with Arlene when the tragic news about Tom reached her.

When Arlene fell in love with Tom Bradley she was only sixteen, but she gave her whole romantic heart to the quiet, handsome young man the moment she met him—and he knew he had become equally smitten with her. Their love was a beautiful thing to see—a charming idyll. And I felt sure my dead sister would have been pleased with Arlene's choice of a husband. But, perhaps because she was so very young and romantic, Arlene's love was so intense it worried me. She seemed only to live for the moment when she could be with Tom, and everything else became subordinate to their meetings. Just because she sensed my worry, she grew pale and thin, and I was deciding in my own mind that an early marriage might restore the normal balance of her life. Then Tom came with the news that he was to leave almost at once for—KOREA—with his regiment.

For Tom's sake Arlene knew she had to take this blow calmly; she did not even suggest that they be married before Tom left for Korea. When they said goodbye she was pale and her eyes were red-rimmed, but no tears were shed. Only a soft promise from Tom that he would come back soon and claim his bride.

She waited for Tom's letters as she had previously waited for him. She retreated into herself living only for Tom's return and finally I took her away to my little place in the country where I thought she might better adjust herself to Tom's absence. The long quiet lake on which my house was situated proved a strong attraction for her and every possible day she was out in her canoe or small outboard motorboat, mostly thinking of Tom.

Then the day arrived when the fatal telegram about Tom reached her. His boat had been hit and he had been drowned while they were trying to make a landing near Seoul. I'll never forget how Arlene looked reading that wire. She was very still—then she looked up at me, wild-eyed, frightened, the sheet fluttering from her fingers. A piercing, shrill scream came from her lips, and she rushed from the house. I started after her but could not catch up with that fleet-footed creature as she sped to the lake front and got into the small motorboat floating at the little pier. Quickly she got the motor started and the chug-chug-chug faded into the distance as she rounded a bend.

I was terrified of what she might do and phoned a few neighbors around the lake to keep an eye out for Arlene. I told them the tragic news about Tom's drowning and they understood my anxiety for Arlene.

But toward dusk I could hear the chug-chug-chug once more and rushed out to the terrace to see my niece pulling the boat beside our dock. She walked up to the house slowly but soon I could see she had quieted down. I took her in my arms and kissed her with relief.

The next few days, Arlene behaved very well. In fact after her daily boat ride she'd return in rather cheerful spirits—for her. I knew that somehow she felt closer to Tom, alone on that silent lake.

Then one day she came running up from the lake, breathless, eyes shining. "Oh, Aunt Betty—Aunt Betty! I've seen him! I've seen Tom!"

My heart stopped beating. Had her mind snapped? My poor, poor, little girl! "But darling," I soothed, "how could you? Poor Tom's body is still in Korea..."

"No—no! He's on the bottom of the lake—over in the cove. I saw him, I saw him. He was smiling at me with that crooked little smile I love so much..."

I was heavy-hearted but I tried to divert Arlene as well as I could and one day I suggested we drive over to the state's fine, if small, art gallery where a loan collection was being shown, donated by local townsfolk. Arlene agreed and I was delighted that she would be willing to do anything that would take her "out of herself."

At the gallery I found the borrowed collection fascinating but Arlene wandered about by herself. Finally, just as I wished, I found her staring intently at the oil which I had donated to the exhibit. The artist, Sloan Farraday, was not first rate—but in this particular work he had risen to unsuspected heights of talent and it had actually won the coveted Beardsley Award. The subject was somewhat poetic and nebulous—an exquisite girl with alabaster face and enormous black eyes, flowing black hair, was floating gracefully in the arms of a creature half-man, half sea nymph; he seemed to be drawing her down, down through the jade green waters. Both of them wore ambiguous smiles of great tenderness. There was a disturbing, haunting quality in the picture which had brought Farraday unexpected acclaim.

"Aunt—Aunt Betty. Tell me about this painting, please," Arlene asked, not taking her eyes away from it.

Then suddenly it dawned on me that Arlene may have heard some time the story of the picture and was transferring it to her own experience. Perhaps if I told her the legend behind it she'd realize what a fantasy she was building up in her mind, about Tom.

"Had you never heard the story of your great-great-great Aunt Annalee?" I asked her. "The artist of this picture, Sloan Farraday, had been in love with her and after her—her tragedy, he was inspired to paint this picture."

"I don't remember," Arlene answered, her eyes still glued to the canvas. "Tell me about it, Aunt Betty!" And this time her words were almost a command. A feeling of helplessness came over me and I proceeded to tell her the story.

"When our ancestor, Annalee, was a young girl she was betrothed to Sloan Farraday. Our house was the very house in which she lived and he lived with his family a short distance away. He had always been in love with her but she kept putting off a date of marriage. One day she came crying to her mother—that she would never marry Sloan, that she loved another man. She looked dreamily into her mother's eyes saying, 'Mother, you'll think me mad—but there's a beautiful man—at the bottom—of our lake. He's the most handsome creature I've ever seen and I love him with all my heart. He speaks to me and I know he loves me, too.' Her mother did indeed think her mad and tried to keep her protected from the world, hoping no one would find out. But some of the villagers in town had found out about Annalee's visions at the bottom of the lake. A strange fever spread in the community. People began to accuse Annalee of being a witch. A number of sudden tragedies, inexplicable, hit hard in the Maine village. With no previous illness, a baby suddenly screamed in the night and the next morning died. Cows and sheep were barren—without apparent cause! Fires started up out of nowhere. The superstitious townsfolk became panicky and looked for a scapegoat on which to pin all these terrible incidents. It was the age of witches. Rumor having gotten around about Annalee and her man at the bottom of the lake, the cry of Witch! Witch! began to be heard. Annalee's poor mother trembled for the safety of her daughter and one day a furious crowd, inflamed by a new onset of tragic occurrences, came to this house and tore Annalee from her mother's arms. They tried her. She protested her own innocence, the poor girl begged them to go see for themselves that the man she loved who was at the bottom of the lake, but paying no attention to the ravings of a sick girl they tied her to a stake in the village and threw faggots around the base. Matches were struck and a crackling fire started to roar upward when suddenly a silence fell on the angry crowd and Annalee's lips parted in a joyful smile. A handsome young man, his green silk clothes dripping water, came through as the people, horrified, stepped aside. He loosened the cords binding Annalee, put out the fire with the constantly streaming water and carried the lovely, smiling girl away. Some who had followed them said he walked straight into the lake with Annalee in his arms—until they both disappeared under the water.

"So, dear Arlene," I ended the tale, "that's the fairy-tale legend of our ancestor, which they say, inspired her lovesick sweetheart, Sloan Farraday, to paint this charming poem in oils."

Arlene had listened to the whole story intently. Obviously just as I intended, she was thinking about the strange similarity between her vision—seeing Tom at the bottom of the lake—and that of our ancestor Annalee. I was sure that her mother, or someone, had told her the same legend, perhaps in her childhood, and by some quirk of the mind she imagined seeing Tom in the same way. I had hoped the story would cure her. I found it difficult to tear her away from her preoccupation with the picture. Something else must be done, I decided. We'll go back to the city and see if a psychiatrist can unravel the strange knots in my niece's mind. When I told her we were leaving, I saw her tremble violently.

When the packing was finished I looked about for Arlene, ready to start back to the city. My hand leaped to my mouth in an impulse of fear as I saw her in her hat and coat running wildly down to the boat, saying, "I am coming, Tom." I let out a scream, calling her to come back—but she got in the boat. Just as it was rounding the bend, I saw—I saw—my niece stand up—wave back at me and jump. Her body was not recovered.

The next morning, grieving and wretched, I walked down to the dock to gaze into the watery grave Arlene had chosen when I saw something, bright-colored, drifting in toward me. It was a scarf. Fascinated, I picked up a long twig and pulled it in. I gasped when I recognized the scarf. It was the one Arlene had given Tom before he sailed for Korea!

"Terror in the Stars" by Ellen Lynn

The men in our observatory called us the "three musketeers." Karl Manley, Russ Fenway and I had been buddies since boyhood—but the bond between Karl and me was especially close. We had always been interested in the same things, and as we grew older our interest in astronomy became an enthusiasm. I was even in love with the same girl, Lucy Tremont, but I knew she loved Karl—and I kept my frustrated emotions to myself.

Our new research laboratory was in the middle west, Lucy lived in the East. Often I would hear the low-voiced love-making of Karl as he spoke to her over the telephone. Although he was a scientist—perhaps because of it—Karl had the soul of a poet and the sentiments of love he expressed to Lucy (which I couldn't help overhearing since I was usually seated right next to him) were worthy of a Browning.

The hardest thing for Karl and Lucy was their separation—he in the west, she in the east. "I can't stand her being so far away from me," Karl once blurted out after one of his long-distance phone calls. "It's getting so I can hardly concentrate on my work. And Lucy is unhappy, too. We've decided to get married after this next field trip; she'll have to give up her job and come to live here."

By a lucky chance, Karl, Russ and I had been assigned together to a field trip to our new laboratory on the top of Mt. Crenshaw. The largest, newest, most powerful telescope in the world based on nuclear theories had been recently completed there and we were to spend a month observing the heavens and writing papers on our findings. Russ rushed over to the both of us and boyishly placed an arm around each of our shoulders, bent over our desks. "We're going together, boys," he exclaimed happily. "That's really a break for us! We'll explore the heavens—far beyond what men have seen before. It's our big chance."

I grinned up at Russ, just as pleased as he was that the three of us were to be together on the job. But Karl seemed not to have heard. The pencil in his fingers was not writing, his eyes had a far-away look. Russ, in his jovial way, slapped Karl on the back. "Brace up, fella, Lucy'll be waiting for you—and you'll be back in four weeks." Without answering, Karl had gone to the telephone to speak to Lucy in the East.

The day before our departure, Karl had a wonderful surprise: Lucy had come out, just to say goodbye. The pang I felt at seeing the two dreamy-eyed lovers fall into each other's arms was equaled by the relief that at last Karl could ease up in his tension. The visit from Lucy was just what he needed, so that he could once again put his brilliant mind to work.

I drove Karl and Lucy to the airport to catch her plane back East. As though I weren't even there, they spoke endearing words of farewell before she got into the plane. "Really, kids," I tried to jest, "this isn't the last goodbye—only four weeks and you two will never be parted again. Remember?"

Lucy stared intently into Karl's eyes, and remained silent a moment. Then she said, rather solemnly, "You are right, Steve, Karl and I will never be parted. I swear it. No matter what happens, he and I will always be together."

"Spoken like a true lover," I declared, trying to break the spell of seriousness that had been cast.

Karl insisted on our waiting at the airfield till the plane disappeared like a bird into the heavens.

Back at the lab we put the finishing touches to our packing, and Russ's gay spirits somewhat lifted the cloud of gloom that had previously settled over Karl. He actually smiled a few times and by the time we started on our trip he was as good as his old self. He was even able to speak of Lucy without going into a spell. "Come to think of it," he said with a grin, "we'll be so busy the next few weeks, time ought to fly—and then Lucy and I will be married. I've been in a terrible mood lately, boys. It's been rough on you, I know, trying to get me to do my share of the work. But it'll all be different once Lucy and I are together for good."

Russ and I sighed with relief. It was good to have Karl act like a normal human being again. And when we reached the isolated hilltop, where the marvelous telescope was situated he set to his observations and notes with renewed enthusiasm and zest—perhaps even greater than the zeal Russ and I felt. The three of us looked through the powerful lens and felt an awesome thrill at the panorama of heavenly bodies sparkling brilliantly in the infinite space beyond. Karl worked tirelessly, long through the night—even after Russ and I had retired. For we were able to see far beyond the distances men's sight had traveled before.

One night I stirred uneasily in my sleep and woke up. I looked at the clock: it was three in the morning. Then I was startled by the sight of Karl standing in my room in the dim shadows. What on earth is he doing in here? I thought. Could he be walking in his sleep? His eyes were opened and he was staring at me with a strange expression. Then he whispered: "Steve—Steve—are you awake? I—I must talk to you."

I sat bolt upright. "What is it, Karl?" I asked, considerably disturbed by this apparition in the wee hours of the morning. "Is anything wrong?"

He came close to my bedside and I put on the lamp. His face looked ghastly and I was filled with a foreboding. Had he been working too hard? Was he suffering more from his separation from Lucy than we had realized?

Finally he spoke, in a queer voice. "Karl—I've seen Lucy! Now—don't say I'm mad! I've checked and double-checked."

"What do you mean?" I interrupted. "Is she here? Checked what?"

"I have been experimenting with the new mirror we developed and it's unbelievable. Then a few nights ago, Saturday, at 11:30 I saw her for the first time. It was so vague, I wasn't sure. I thought I was just imagining it. Last night I looked again—and there she was, plainly. My new nuclear sights were trained on Saturn. There she was—beckoning me. She wants me to come to her. She was beyond, even the stars."

I was flabbergasted. I didn't know how to handle this situation. My dear friend, my close buddy, had become deranged. Of that I was convinced. I did the best I could to reassure him, to humor him. "Tomorrow we'll telephone Lucy. That should ease your mind, Karl."

"No, no! I mustn't keep her waiting. She insists I join her at once," he declared.

"Well, get some sleep, Karl," I advised him. "And if you must, you can return after breakfast."

He left my room and I tried, not too successfully, to go back to sleep. A half hour later I was beginning to doze off when a sound outside made me leap from my bed and rush to the window. There was Karl, a knapsack on his shoulders, setting out to climb to the utmost peak of Mt. Crenshaw. I yelled after him. Russ came dashing in and together we called to Karl, but he continued his rapid ascent without looking back. We stood there helplessly watching. Knowing Karl, we both realized it would be useless to try to stop him, even if we could possibly reach him at the pace he was going.

"But what is he after?" Russ asked in bewilderment.

I told him the incident in my room and of Karl's hallucination that he saw Lucy beckoning him to come to her into space. In spite of our anxiety, I understood Russ's outburst of laughter. It was a nervous reaction, true, but it was also ludicrous to think of Karl marching off into space to find his lady-love.

There was no more sleep for either of us. We dressed and kept our eyes on the figure of Karl gradually growing smaller as he mounted higher and higher toward the peak hidden in clouds. Then, when our naked eyes could no longer see more than a dot we each picked up small telescopes and continued to follow our friend's fantastic climb.

Just before Karl disappeared into the mists, he turned around and we saw his face clearly in the lens. He was smiling joyously, and raised an arm to wave a friendly farewell. Somehow, this gesture depressed us and we gave up our vigil. That was the last we ever saw of Karl. He had gone, he said, to join his Lucy in space. How were we going to break the awful news to the real Lucy who would be waiting, waiting for Karl's return—expecting to be married the next day!

When we knew for certain that we saw the end of Karl, we returned to our headquarters. A telegram was waiting for him. We decided to open it. The message stunned us both. It was from Lucy's father. It read:

Mr. Karl Manley
Baldwin Observatory
Mt. Crenshaw

Shocking news. Just learned Lucy killed in accident Saturday 11:30 P.M.

                    Benjamin Troll.

"Saturday—11:30!" I exclaimed involuntarily. That was the exact date and time Karl first saw the vision of Lucy through the new nuclear telescope! They had sworn never to be apart. He had gone to join her! Can we believe that? We are scientists.

But what do you believe?

"Hero or Traitor?" by Ellen Lynn

It was a dark dreary day, windy and rain, as a group of us parachutists waited at the edge of the airfield, in a desolate part of a Korean battlefield. Our very secret mission was a dangerous one and the weather added to the general atmosphere of gloom.

A helicopter was to pick us up here and drop us over a prison camp in North Korea. If we were lucky, we would destroy that new red underground depot, find Tod Lessing, rescue him and bring him back to safety or maybe kill him. But there were many questions in our minds: Was he really held near that particular dump? The supposition that he was there was based on a hunch. Was Capt. Lessing the great hero we all worshiped, or was he a traitor, a renegade?

In spite of our doubts and questionings about Lessing we all were anxious to get started on our mission. And I, for one, had been Tod's closest buddy since we came to Korea. We had been G.I.s together and I knew him from the beginning. I had been witness to many of his acts of heroism. Many of us owed our lives to his courage and presence of mind under fire. I for one couldn't believe that my friend Tod Lessing had turned traitor—even though I heard his own voice making that startling admission over the radio.

It goes back six months. Our forces had cross the thirty-eighth parallel and we were fighting in North Korea. Tod's acts of heroism had won him numerous decorations and promotions to the rank of Captain. He was the hero type and he had been given a merited build up. He was football hero—then division boxing champ—then front line hero. His name and fame were known to every G.I. and every Red. The army set him up as an example to be emulated. Even the American press added to the build up. If any guy deserved it, Lessing did. There was a quality in him that made the men adore him—hero-worship him.

One day, when we were north of the thirty-eighth, in the midst of the constant fighting, the muddy marches, the blood, pain and utter weariness, Tod got a shoulder wound. He was sent back to the hospital, which meant he would see his girl, Carol Trent. She was a Wac driver—sometimes for the hospital, sometimes for the big brass. They had met in Korea and fallen in love. So when Tod was hospitalized they had a chance to see each other every day. It was during this time they made their decision to get married. As soon as Tod was able to leave the hospital he asked and got permission to marry. They went to the chaplain who performed the ceremony. I stood up for Tod. There was something almost sad about the meager happiness these two young people grasped for themselves in between the grim episodes of war. In the traditional custom a bunch of us threw rice at the happy couple as they hurried into the waiting jeep which was to take them on their honeymoon.

Tod and Carol were gone for two weeks. When they returned they were bubbling over with descriptions of the beautiful country they had traveled through—in North Korea where we then were. But the day after their return Tod was saying good-bye to his bride as each returned to their outfits.

The times that Tod spent with Carol were pitifully few, when the Allied forces began to suffer severe blows. The Red Koreans were pushing us back rapidly toward the thirty-eighth parallel. They had acquired amazing strength in equipment and fresh forces and our troops were so overwhelmingly outnumbered there was nothing to do but yield ground and move back, back whence we came. The Reds had built a secret underground tank depot near our lines. It was wreaking havoc on us. It had to be located and knocked out by hand—by parachutists. Tod volunteered to find and destroy it. He took a squad behind the Red lines. He never came back—nor did any of his men. The Reds boasted they had our famous war-hero, Tod Lessing.

It was a cruel blow to Carol. I'll never forget her face as she got the news. All the blood seemed to drain from it, leaving her alabaster white. Her eyes looked like two black pools, as they misted over, and she ran quickly to her quarters.

The beating our troops was taking put a spell of gloom over all of us. More and more men were being captured by the Reds. But the thought of Tod stuck in our minds. It was especially hard to think of a man of his courage and strength being held captive in a Red prison camp. And the sight of Carol's set features as she went about her tasks, or waited for news concerning P.W.s, kept us from forgetting the great war hero, Tod Lessing.

I was stretched out on my bed one day, in sheer exhaustion, when something on the radio caught my attention. My body went rigid as a familiar voice came clearly through the transmitter. Was I dreaming? It sounded like Tod! I sat up and saw that the other men were listening just as intently as I. We exchanged mute glances and continued to listen.

"...and so, friends, buddies, I can only say that I fought hard to win for our cause, as you well know. That was because I knew only one side of the controversy—our side. I knew only what our Democracy would let me know. In the six months I've been in this prison camp, I've learned a lot... the other side of the question. You will be startled to hear me say that in comparison with the democratic way of life, this Communist prison camp is like a honeymoon. You will be shocked at first, and angry, that I, an American officer should speak so glowingly of our enemy's way of life. But I have learned a lot, and I am not given to rash statements, nor snap judgments. Any of you who is lucky enough to be taken prisoner..."

Someone snapped off the radio. Then there was an explosion, like firecrackers, from all parts of the barracks. In the only language in which soldiers can let off steam, they started to give vent to their disgust at what they heard Tod spouting over the radio. As for me, I was completely confused. There was no doubt about it—it was the great hero Tod talking. It was his typical quiet, matter-of-fact style of speech. And there was such conviction, such sincerity in his tone!

I decided to get dressed and look up Carol. I had to find out if she had heard the broadcast by Tod. It was evening before I could get over and I had to wait sometime before she came out. Apparently some big brass was in there having a conference with her. Suddenly it dawned on me! It must be about that broadcast! I was right. After the officers had left Carol hurried out to me and we went into the women's parlor.

"Hank, that broadcast! Have you heard it?" she blurted out.

"That's what I came to see you about," I answered. "So you heard Tod, too?"

There was an odd smile on her lips. "Those officers, Hank, brought me a recording of what Tod said. I hadn't heard it," she explained to me. "Well," I said, "What do you think?"

She smiled more broadly. "You don't believe Tod meant that tommyrot, Hank? Now, confess, do you?"

It was hard to explain my confused feelings. But I tried. "I'd swear it wasn't Tod talking—only, obviously, it was. He didn't sound as though he was being tortured into saying those awful things. But Tod couldn't mean it..."

Carol was looking at me intently, then she placed her hand on mine. "Hank, you're Tod's buddy so I'm going to tell you something confidential. They brought me that recording to identify Tod's voice and to see if any ideas occurred to me after listening as to what he was saying. Hank—I think I know where Tod is imprisoned. When he said "this Communist prison camp is like a honeymoon" he was telling me that the underground tank depot is the town we stopped at when we were on our honeymoon trip."

I stared at Carol in amazement. "Yes," she went on, "I told it to the officers and they're going to send a paratropp mission to try to knockout the depot and make a rescue." Behind her quiet smile, she was tense, nervous, but here was the first ray of hope she'd had in six months that she might see Tod again.

The wait for the helicopter seemed endless but finally the plane came whirling down to the field and we climbed in. We were off to the place Carol had designated. We had been briefed in great detail of our task but we could not help wondering—"Is he really there? Is it just woman's intuition sending us off on this dangerous mission?"

Carol's information, and intuition, were correct. We found the tank depot and succeeded in planting the dynamite. When the explosion went off we knew we had destroyed a dangerous trap to our forces, but we lost half the squad on the mission. We didn't even attempt the rescue of Tod. Our remaining numbers got back to the helicopter by a hair's breadth.

We weren't keeping long in suspense as to Tod's fate. The next day the Red station blared again, announcing that Tod had been executed. Through all the abuse and contempt the announcer heaped on our forces, we learned that the Commies had caught on to Tod's tip-off to us in his radio broadcast. Their revenge was swift—but Tod died as he had fought—a hero.