United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 28 text:

“Stop! I won’t hear any more. It’s treason! Throw it out with the comic books.’’ The mother was screaming now. “Who shall regulate all the mixed con¬ versations of our youth, male and female together, as is th e fashion ...” The book of Milton’s lofty language narrowly missed hitting Oswald’s head as it came flying through the air. It did hit the garbage collec¬ tor’s head, as he pushed in beside Oswald to empty the can. Sundry curses lost themselves in the night. “What’s this, comic books?” queried the gar¬ bage man, who had no business being out at nine-thirty at night, and who obviously never heard of Milton. “Hmm, Dick Tracy, and Pruneface . . . hahaha, what a name. Looks good.” Oswald watched him pick up the book, jump on the wagon and begin reading. The horse turned inquisitive eyes on his driver to see why they weren’t continuing on their route. The driver was too intent on Dick Tracy to notice. Oswald watched the happy grin on his face turn to one of speculation, then to serious¬ ness. A cruel line formed about his mouth. Fiercely he sitood up in the wagon and whipped the horse into action. Stung by this unaccus¬ tomed vigor, the horse clipped smartly down the road. With a writer’s keen insight, Oswald knew that the drama he had seen enacted before his eyes would rapidly develop into a story, a sure seller. He leaped forward and attached him¬ self crablike to the tail-board of the wagon. From this point onward Oswald was sub¬ jected to a tornado of evil events and excite¬ ment, such as would ensure the success of the story. The garbage collector first stopped at his home, set fire to the house, and left the screams issuing forth from the upper story windows to the attention of his neighbours. His mother-in- law’s was the next port of call. He buried her alive. Then he drowned two waitresses whom he had always rather liked, in a silex coffee urn. He pulled out a floorboard in the City Hall so that the whole antiquated structure fell down, killing all the aldermen, who were gambling late in the basement. Then he drove madly along the river bank, the wagon creaking dan¬ gerously, and Oswald’s position at the rear growing more precarious every minute. When he came to a hole in the dyke holding back the river, he did not put his thumb in the hole to save the town from flooding, as they do in Holland, but deliberately stood by watching the hole grow larger and larger. Finally the pregnant river broke ithe dyke and swept into the town. The garbage man’s red eyes then turned on Oswald’s orange hair, and for a mo¬ ment they clashed. Then Oswald turned on his heel and swam for home. He was breathless but not afraid when he opened the door. He sat down at his typewriter and typed ferociously. By next morning the story, titled “The Case Against Crime Comics”, was written and in the mail. Two days later the door bell jangled. Oswald rushed to the door hopefully. A stern-looking individual with a black suit stood before him. “Your name Oswald Hooksetter?” “Yes, yes,” Oswald could hardly contain him¬ self. “I’m from the Federal Government. Depart¬ ment of the Interior. Work as a censor. Come on. You know too much. You’ve seen too much. I’m taking you away before all the chicks in this neighbourhood are dead ducks.” He snapped two fingers imperiously, as only a government man can do, and a squad of strong arm men appeared. Oswald was hustled away in a long red car. They drove for miles and miles. They ripped through the outskirts of the town, leaving it rising nakedly against the horizon in their rear. In the suburban district, they stopped before a long rambling structure, well fenced and well guarded. Oswald was forcibly projected through the front door. “Look after this man for me,” said the De¬ partment of the Interior curtly, but neverthe¬ less regally. After a few formalities, Oswald was led down a long corridor. He was halted before a strong¬ ly barred door. “What’s this on the door?” blurted the guard in surprise. “Wasn’t there before, I’ll swear. Hmm . . . Listen to this: “For having exposed the hitherto concealed truth about GARDEN PLANNING, and thanks to the ungrateful offices of the Rural Iowa Gazette, and the cen¬ sorship division of the Department of the In¬ terior, we are once again the Unappreciated Page Twenty-six

Page 27 text:

fathers are supposed to be so proud of their sons, but you know Bill; he just yawned and said Wordsworth hadn’t been invented yet, but he’s always that way.” “I think you’re amazingly clever, Oswald, and I’m so ” began Bess Jones-Worthington. “Yes, I always said so, and do you know who else I think is clever? None other than Hannah Tightnoose. Remember that old yellow skirt she had: well you’d never know it was the same. . . . Oh Oswald, get the mail will you? The mail-man’s coming.” Oswald turned and glared belligerently in the direction of the door. “Parcel for you,” said the mail-man cheer¬ fully. “Bet it’s an airplane kit.” Oswald gave him a look of the most profound and concentrated disgust, but started forward when he was handed a long, flat parcel. He gulped quickly, grabbed the parcel and ran up the stairs to his room. He hastily fumbled at the seal, then ripped it open. The Hamlet article thudded to the floor, and a sheet of paper fluttered after it. Nervously clutching the let¬ ter, Oswald read: “ . . . we would be pleased to accept your article for publication, providing you make the minor alterations in the second paragraph which we have previously outlined. Upon receipt of the revised article we will be happy to forward a cheque in the amount of $750.00.” Something prevented Oswald from fainting dead away with delirious happiness. It took a moment or two before he realized what it was. He still didn’t have that rejection slip, and without it he could never join the Unappreci¬ ated Writers’ Group of 1950. For the next half hour Oswald fought a private battle, both sides well armed. Eventually the case for the club won out, for even 750 dollars would not buy the prestige such as would be attained by member¬ ship in the exclusive club. Oswald wrote a brief letter requesting a rejection slip. Two long weeks dragged by, but eventually Oswald got his rejection slip. He raced with it to the club house. As he pounded on the door, he became aware of a sheet of paper tacked to the door frame. “This is to announce,” he read, “that the Unappreciated Writers’ Group of 1950 has now become the Associated Best Sellers of Tomorrow, by virtue of the combined efforts of the members of the club having pro¬ duced a treatise on GARDEN PLANNING, and having the same accepted by thfe Rural Iowa Gazette.” This was almost more than Oswald could bear. In utter despair he left the club house and Wandered aimlessly. He neither knew nor cared where he was going. The minutes went hurriedly by, grouped in sixties. Soon street lights snapped on and hung about like isolated eyes, dimly illuminating a poorer section. Yel¬ low lights speckled the fronts of tall, grim apart¬ ment buildings. A garbage can standing sen- tinal beside a doorway awoke Oswald as he clattered unseemingly into it. Startled, Oswald looked at his watch. Nine-thirty! Just then a whining voice floated out of an open window. “But, mother, you can’t make me do that!” Oswald heard. “Yes, I can and I will. Throw every one of those vile comic books out of the window im¬ mediately. I’m not taking the chance of spend¬ ing the next five years in jail for having crime comics in the house,” retorted the irate mother. “But I’ll have to build up a whole new library,” was the moaning reply. For answer a sheaf of comic books were jet- propelled through the window, in the general direction of the garbage can. “But mother, it’s unjust. Listen to what Mil¬ ton wrote in ‘Areopagitica’. He’s writing on licencing books in England and of the harm of doing it. Listen to this: “. . . But of the harm that may result . . . first, is feared the infection may spread; but then all human learning and contro¬ versy in religious points must remove out of the world, yea, the Bible itself, for that oftentimes relates blasphemy not nicely, it describes the carnal sense of wicked man not unelegantly, it brings in holiest men passionately murmuring against Provi¬ dence . . .” “Enough of that!” interrupted the mother. “Anybody who writes long sentences like that should be in jail.” “A wise man, like a good refiner, can gather gold out of the drossiest volume, and a fool will be a fool with the best book ... If we think to regulate printing, thereby to rectify manners, we must regu¬ late all recreations and pastimes . . .” Page Twenty-five

Page 29 text:

Writers’ Group of 1950. Acceptance by invita¬ tion from the Institution Officials only.” . . . What nonsense! What will these loons do next? Thank heaven I’m normal. Oh well . . . get inside there, Mr. Hooksetter.” Stepping into the small cell, where all heroes of the modern short story eventually find them¬ selves, Oswald’s eyes opened wide in surprise and disbelief. Then he smiled. He began laugh¬ ing hysterically. All about him, under the watchful eyes of the guards, sat the members of the club furiously working at their type¬ writers. Oswald was no longer the uninvited. He felt he had come home. At last he belonged. A True Appreciation of Murder Shirley M. Irvin “Really! I haven’t read such an interesting story in the papers for a long time!” Laying down the paper she looked over at her husband. “Oh? More interesting than the one you read two minutes ago?” he inquired, absorbed in the comics. “Oh yes, indeed. It’s all about that woman who was murdered last night. She must have had lots of money because she owned a great big house—where was it now?—oh yes, on Annabella St. Where is that? I’ve never heard of that street before?” Ignoring her question, her husband asked one of his own. “And did she run it too?” “Run it?” she repeated puzzled. “Oh, you mean a boarding-house. Well, I don’t know. It doesn’t mention any boarders living there.” He didn’t mean a boarding-house, but he let it pass. “It says here,” she continued, “that her mother is a French Countess living in Montreal. Imagine that!” “I thought France was a Republic,” muttered her husband still trying to concentrate on Dagwood. “I’ll bet Montreal would be surprised to find a countess in its midst.” “Oh, she really is one. Her name is Countess von Gruff; see—here is her picture.” She held the paper to him and he was curious enough by this time to take it. “That name isn’t French—in fact, it isn’t any¬ thing, but it sure suits her, doesn’t it? She’s certainly a tough-looking old bozo; I’ll bet if she ever smiled her face would crack.” “You’re horrible!” she scolded as she snatch¬ ed back the paper to see if he was right. “Don’t you believe anything you read?” “Just what A1 Capp says,” he replied. Sud¬ denly he inquired, “you’re certainly interested in this dame all of a sudden; even more than in Rita Hayworth or Ingrid Bergman. How come?” “Oh, did I tell you,” she said excitedly, “that I heard last Sunday evening that Ingrid Berg¬ man is going to have a baby?” And she chortled gleefully. “Why must you listen to gossips all the time?” he demanded angrily. “Oh, this was no gossip,” she hastened to assure him, “this was ...” “I don’t care who it was. If you hear these things you don’t have to spread them around. It’s probably not true anyway, so go back to your murder mystery.” The next night she was at it again. As soon as the paper arrived, she opened it up and read and re-read the latest on the murder until she could repeat it all word for word. “I wonder where her husband is?” she asked her own husband as they ate dinner. He groaned, but answered her by asking, “How do you know she’s got one?” “Well, her name is Mrs., so she must have one somewhere, mustn’t she? Unless he’s dead —I never thought of that.” She was too per¬ plexed for words; this idea spoiled all her fancies. “Just because she calls herself—or did call herself—Mrs., doesn’t mean she’s married,” her husband tried to tell her. “She probably found Page Twenty-seven