Two Scribulus JUSTIFICATION Love that must feed upon itself dies of its own inanition; lakes with no outlet soon become stagnant; and unappreciated authorship, potential or realized, very often fustrates itself in the clamor to make itself known. To foster and reciprocate that love of written self-expression most vital to creditably executed literary work so that it shall not lose itself in its incompleteness is perhaps the greatest and most justifiable reason for the existence of Scribulus. Certainly it is the most enjoyable. Man knows no greater comradeship, respect, and co-operation than exist among those with much in common in their striving to attain a worth-while goal. The goal with which Scribulus and its contributors are concerned is artistic portrayal of beauty and truth. But artistry, no matter how limpid and inviting it may be, is soon wasted in stagnacy, should it have no outlet. Beautifully expressed truths and accurately described beauties are but hollow mockeries if they must be forever held within. They must be shared, thus enhancing their enjoyment by their creators as well as enhancing the lives of those who share them. Such an outlet is Scribulus, and modest though it may be, may you enjoy it for what it attempts and for the promise it gives of future greater excellence. Scribulus has endeavored and shall endeavor to maintain such a standard of excellency for publication that the appearance in its columns of the work of those contributing shall be, in itself, an appreciation of their efforts, an encouragement to continued effort, and an incentive to those with latent ability. Such are the reasons for the existence of Scribulus. But Scribulus is on trial to test whether or not that existence is justifiable. Justification can come only with your approval of our efforts. Be as critical as you will in your judgment of them, we thrive or perish upon their merit. We seek approval, not patronage. THE EDITOR. Scribulus Three DEATH ON THE DESERT By Frank McQuowan Joe held himself tense as he drove the Ford coupe along the highway. He felt peeved and a little bit slighted to think that Mary, there beside him, could curl up like a kitten and go to sleep. He wanted her to talk to him so that he could keep his mind from dwelling on the terrifying silence. There were no lights to be seen except the long, tapering streamers of his own headlights reflecting on the dark, oily asphalt. The flats stretched endlessly away on all sides into dreary vistas of sage and sand. Occasionally a jack rabbit darted across the road; the fear of hitting one kept Joe in a dither of perspiration. He hadn't approved of taking the old model T on such a long trip. A hundred and fifty miles of night-driving over a desert was not exactly Joe's idea of pleasure. But Mary had very set notions in that little head of hers. She had said, "Darling, we've simply got to show the baby off. He's getting too cunning for words. He's three months old and Mama hasn't even seen him!'' Well, what could he do? He had four days off from his work; besides, he did want to show the "clan" what a real kid looked like. Then, too, Mary had never known about Joe's driving "phobia". No one knew about it except his own family, and they believed he had overcome it he had tried to, God knows. Whenever he got behind a steering wheel, something inside him seemed to collapse, and his chest would tighten into a heavy ball. This feeling was augmented by a definite fixation of fear. Often in his dreams he drove over a lone- ly road through pitch darkness. A great nameless fear obsessed him. He gripped the wheel with straining white-knuckled fingers, while his terrified eyes tried to pierce through the black pall that engulfed him. Then suddenly, before he could swerve or even slow up, the figure of a man loomed up in front of the car. A lurch, an impact, the thud of a falling body, and then a scream in the dark! It was always the scream that awakened him. He would lie panting and groaning, while beads of perspiration broke out like a white rash all over his body. This habit of dreaming had become a sort of family joke. Only his mother seemed to understand. She consoled him somewhat by saying: "You children hush, now. Joe never had bad dreams until he hit little Phil." That had been a long time ago, but the memory of it was as vivid as on the night it happened. Joe was backing his father's truck out of the garage, when his baby brother toddled out to the driveway. It had been a harrowing experience, even though little Phil had not been fatally injured. Joe's dreams dated from that time, and even while awake, he often shuddered at the memory of the baby's screams. There was something hauntingly familiar about this dark, lonely road. The surroundings, too, were suggestive of his dreams. He gripped the wheel while his eyes tried to pierce the darkness ahead. The tightness in his chest made breathing difficult. A rabbit darted across the highway. Joe repressed an oath and put his foot to the brake. The sudden jolt brought Mary upright. She clasped little Joe tightly to her