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pbtaintt t c Piboadotin Aciracit troieidt t + dl / tice everthing: ;deutrians, strollâ€" ing leisurely from storefront to storefront; students, with loads of books warping their spines; the mad cyclist with fluorescent paraâ€" phernalia, deceiving odometers streets are beginning to fill. â€" | _ rounds them, and spreads, inflatâ€" mmum.a in the â€" ing, to encompass me. secondâ€"storey ‘window has "Hello Father ..." bottle of distilled frustration They don‘t address me. They his telescope. Although he‘s a aren‘t speaking to each other. No, their display windows; the workâ€" ers mhs{nflel beneath their :gm‘ey:;.e stores open, the breathing and: fulfilling their selfâ€"inflicted duty. They walk, toting briefcases and cashboxes. The air of cold competition is diluted only by an occasional nod firnfunt. The shops‘ fluorescents icker on.:;ittering lrlamcl musâ€" ic is pum; regulation speakers to m the organic sounds of life. The workers harg the "come in, we‘re open" signs in and special aerodynamic shades that block out anything the cyâ€" clist doesn‘t want to see. Men and women of every age and disposiâ€" tion walk this street, my domain. Now the people come â€" people on the edge of existence, merely I sit here in the corner. The concrete walls converging behind me seem to devour me; my form is lost in their immensity. No one ever sees me. Not that I hide: I‘m simply not worth taking notice of. I let myself slip into nonexisâ€" tence. But from this vantatie point I can see everything withâ€" out ever being seen. My pen skids ceaselessly across the pad. I noâ€" THEWITNESS ment. But they are mistaken. Ali because I skillfully keep it inside. I achieve the fullness of life that t.hgy speak of by wau:hmg ;that T lead no life of my own, that am missing out on everything dant. Indeed say these things to my face, unaware o{my unassuming presence and keen f"k They tl)inkml}l am : shell, acking in personality and judx;» men%ut they are mistaken. All I have a knack well worth acquiring â€" the ability to disapâ€" .R A’Ytlo g_? "ate .Ef ,P.eopleAPY WAENNERS CIRCLE The Waterloo Chronicle presents theâ€"winning entries in our inaugural Short Story Contest. winning e jral Shart street are unusual. They meet with the immaculate timing ofâ€" fered only by intuition. Always a tiifl'a;e:::le time a:fd ul:::ation to avoid gaze antique man. Daily they find a quiet place ~â€" on the roof or in a tree or in the sewer. Today they walk directly toward me, sit beside me. Don‘t fret: they haven‘t even noticed me. This is a prime t?‘;‘;‘Y‘ommit.y. togotm’iurhdd theiru“ 'mnfly , resting their on the other‘s shoulder. They sit still, in silence, b;:athmg An expanding pocket of peace surâ€" rounds them, and spreads, inflatâ€" ing, to encompass me. Watch this man, making his es nipn en grea mp eight leans forward, elling him on. His spider l mthm:duireddmet:onmz Te ons W 4 ied with reading. He holds ;blook] firmly‘ wig. both hands, owly running finger down the page. He reads slowly, but persistently. I see him often, with his finger advanced a few chapâ€" ters, or perhaps beginning a new volume. He goes to the petty gallery across the street, the book poised in front of his face and mammoth black portfolio case suspended from his arm. He enâ€" ing and performing for the curaâ€" tor. ‘He reveals his wares of imagination, only to recover them in a moment. He leaves with the anticipated expression of frustraâ€" tion, balancing both book and bag, and strikes forward. You see? I know this man â€" what he reads and how he lives, and he‘s never noticed me. I can see his vain dreams. Tomorrow I will understand even his motives, genetics, and moral code. I gain his fullness of life without moving ~ without giving anything. through the window, gesticulatâ€" t exodus across town. His height leans forward, propâ€" elling him on. His spider l But the two meeting across the (temlhe qi it e i S s 4 ©2 4c ki calls our jogger for encourageâ€" answers: On the other end wimâ€" ing, and I believe he leads m routine life in the same manner, fleeing. I can hear the phone ring in the booth. It always rings. It‘s always for that poor, dehydrated jogger. And he‘s going to answer it again. f‘Hollofiu. this is he." ‘Yes Father, please ..." " â€" and for all those we see." "All of them. Also for those beyond our limited vision ..." Listen! These people admit to having limited vision. They are concerned with me, the unknown. I must hear more. _ hairs stand on end. Perspiration wells from his open pores and floods down his red blotched face. His breathing is harnessed into control, in syne with his footsteps. This zealous exertion has become ritual. He does this run every The jogger runs into my field of vision. He runs passionately, fleeâ€" ing from the everâ€"present horror that breathes down his neck. His flows, and his cracks to match the rhythm. They are checking the schedule at the repertory cinema again. She hates his depressing movies, but advocates Charles fdanaon. He vows never to tell a ie. This man and woman walk arm in arm. Notice how her bigâ€"boned flesh relates to his fineâ€"boned fragility. They are lovers, of sorts. They are comrades. She moves like a cat, but her breasts are bigger. She maneuvers her lush hair for camouflage and ambush. She is scared of his captive eyes; he trembles always. Her thighs whisper as she preaches on aborâ€" tion and how women must take back the night. He cowers before her unrelenting truth and curses hormonal weakness. Her body Slowly they unfold, disengage their limbs and go their separate ways. They take their spheres of tranquility with them, but leave me an oasis of their peace, engulfâ€" ing me like a bath. Like a gift. generous. Pull your almighty It‘s a qxncle that he always rs his lonely, lost friend. is friend is .m of life and "We This girl, I have never seen her before. Her malfunctioning bike screeches, threatening my earâ€" drums. The bike lurches forward, with books and binders strapped to an iron rack. Her rubber raincoat mocks the morning sun, her track pants defy fashion. Her pasty pale face shines adjacent to her whirlpoo!l hair. I have never say? Quite the smell I‘d imagine. Evacuate? Poor soul ..." I understand them both to perâ€" fection. There are phone booths everywhere; the jogger can never get away. The telenl':ne friend ives for memories, photographs, he'l:nw“ and an: * e kn jogger carefully replaces the receiver and runs with only slightly less passion than before. ‘"Your house is kitty corner from the fire? Rubber tires you WATERL ';'l‘: HHRONICI l! WEDNI !;‘.'m’!!‘ m 1 ernnnnnnnnnneeneieieerennammmes PHILLIP ALAN IRISH Phillip Alan Irish is an actor, artist and writer. Peopleâ€"watching is his favorite sport, but he says, sailboarding is nice too. SECONDARY site she saps my will to live. I feel hollow. My body crumples before her perceiving gaze. She knows all, devouring my life and keepâ€" ing it safely behind her eyes. I am drained, I am finished Those eyes seem to truly see Much lives and breeds behind those eyes. Some are more obserâ€" vant than others. Yet I am confiâ€" dent with my security, my near invisibility . She has seen me. Her merciless eyes settle on me. 'l'hey d:lx:nk in my : my tations and genius, my desires for sex, and pride and breathing, for the fullness of life and for spirituâ€" al truth. The leach! Like a paraâ€" seen anyone like her before. She rides with concentration. I have been seen and under