Appleby College - Argus Yearbook (Oakville, Ontario Canada)

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AN IDEA FOR A STORY It was 9:30 at night and quite dark, and I was thoughtfully making my way home, when there it was, directly facing me, the barrel of a sawn-off shot gun! Behind it, holding it tightly, the shadowy figure of a heavy set man loomed out of the bush. I stiffled a yell and stood rooted to the spot, my legs feeling like heavy weights. He nudged me with the butt of his rifle in the direction of a small trailer. He didn ' t speak at all, but just looked sort of blank. Then, we came to the trailer, which was quite a small, old thing and looked as though it had been there for quite a while. I wasn ' t really familiar with this area of Lake Scugog, but had been over visiting a cousin and was now making my way back to our family cottage which was a way down the Lake. He shoved me through the door of the trailer and followed me in. I started to speak . . . Sit down and shut up , he growled. I almost fell into the nearest seat. I glanced around; it was a shabby old trailer. There was a stale loaf of bread on the table. I sat there, wondering if he heard my teeth chattering! I ' m on the run , he said. I want money and if you ain ' t got it you had bet- ter go and get me some, mighty quick! I had no choice, but to wriggle my wallet out of my pants pocket. I handed it over to him. In it was $25.00. Not bad, he said. I was saving it for the G.N.E., I muttered. He indicated that his case was more important. Suddenly, the man sat down and told me he was Pete Gundy. I had just been reading in the local paper about a convict who had managed to escape from the Kingston prison and was supposed to be in the Northern Ontario district. For some reason, once he started to speak, he did not want to stop. He even told me about his rough childhood - no father, hun- ting around for food for the family before he was twelve years old. Gould have been you , he said. Vou are just one of the lucky ones! I told him he was a fool to keep on the run, but no way would he listen and told me I was a kid who would never understand what it did to someone like him brought up in the bush, to be shut away. We seemed to have struck up a weird kind of friendship. He agreed even- tually to let me go on my way home and asked me for my promise not to breathe a word about him until the next day. I said I would try. We had no phone and my mother and brother would probably be asleep by now. We left the trailer together, and he made his way towards a rowboat at the edge of the lake. That was the last I ever saw of him. I started to walk b ack down the road, feeling much older and thinking, This would make a good story! S. Gatrell

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THE BEAUTY OF LONELINESS? In conversation, I have felt alone. Yet in soliloquy, strangely surrounded. I have been touched deeply by pain, while among friends. And yet, have rejoiced in the sweetness of solitude. What folly is this? I speak not of madness my friend, but of truth. For true loneliness is a desire. A desire for intimacy once shared, but relieved by absence Which fades the memory. There is a sadness, however, far greater than that of which I speak. The sadness of those who cannot feel loneliness. A. Halliday SWEET VENGEANCE The air-conditioning hummed persistently overhead, typewriters clattered their in- terminable staccato all around him, but Henry Tibbins noticed none of it. Deep within his in- scrutable facade he was shrieking silently in the triumph, pounding himself on the back in congratulations and squirming, just a touch, in apprehension of what repercussions might result from his actions. Two days before, Tibbins had come across a stack of executive memo pads and a rubber stamp of the president ' s signature tacked away in one of the hun- dreds of files in the mailroom, the only room where he was boss, (for even at home he was com- pletely dominated by Martha). At first the discovery had seemed to be of minor importance and then, as his cramped imagination loosened its bonds slightly, the full power with which fate had entrusted him became apparent. Tentatively he tried his new wings by sending a short memo to maintenance, commenting on the fact that certain employee washrooms, the mailroom one, for example, were generally in an unsanitary and unsafe condition. Today, just two days later, the washroom sparkled with a cleanliness it had never known before and there was toilet paper in every cubicle! What power! As the weeks wore on, he developed an instinctive feel for the language and nuances of the executive memo. Life slowly got better for all the mailroom workers, breaks were extended, water coolers and coffee machines were installed, wages were increased and hours shor- tened. Tibbins even got himself a new office and even a pretty, young secretary who wiggled at him (something Martha had never done). In short, everything was just per- fect until that sultry afternoon six months after the great discovery (as he was wont to call it) when he received a memo himself from the personnel vice-presideni commanding his appearance at Slightly tense but still confident, Henry waited outside the office. When he was called in, however, he received, instead of the congratulatory smile he had ex- pected, a look of an indisputably spiteful nature. For three- quarters of one hour, he was harangued by his superior on the dangers of crossing an executive. It seemed that this particular vice-president had received a considerable amount of unpleasant feedback from his colleagues as a result of the ob- vious special interest of the Big Boss in one of his subordinates, Tibbins by name, and so, to relieve himself of this em- barassement, Tibbins was being transferred to the North Dakota office where he would be no longer troublesome. Henry Tibbins was thunderstruck, the whole thing had fallen apart, he was ruined. Like a broken man he returned to his office to clean out his desk. As he did so, just the hint of an idea spread through his subconcious and by the time he left the building, that idea had grown into a self- satisfied smile as he thought of the last memo he had left in the internal mail basket: FROM: THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT RE: PERSONNEL JEALOUSY It has regretfully come to my at- tention that certain of you have been engaging yourselves in a private conflict concerning my attitude towards certain minor department chiefs. If the gen- tleman in question has not sub- mitted his resignation by noon tomorrow, I will be forced to take less confidential action. Needless to say, such things cannot be allowed to continue . . Edward Dickens

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His heart sank as he gazed at the anxious young man who sat waiting in the lobby. Nervously he reached for a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Then, tur- ning away retreated down the long hallway of the hospital. He knew he shouldn ' t smoke there, but he did not care - he needed the relief the cigarette would give him. There was news he must tell the young man in the waiting room . . but he couldn ' t find the courage to do so. He paced up and down the hall, never before had such a problem rested on his shoulders. Why was he, a first year obstetrician, placed in such an awkward position? His brow knitted as he tried desperately to think of a way out . . . but there was none. Eventually, his eyes lifted and he turned around. He was a docto? - a specialist, he had a job to do. He proceeded back down the hall and burst through the doors of the waiting room. The younger man was startled. Dr. Smith! he exclaimed, rising automatically to his feet. Smith looked at the eagerness in the boy ' s face. Poor wretched lad, he thought to himself. He could perceive the question in the young man ' s eyes. Tim , he started, Your wife is fine. Tim sighed with relief, then ad- ded, But Doctor, what about our baby? Smith looked down. His mind was searching for words. What could he say? I have some good news - and some bad news , he finally said softly. The young man peered into the obstetrician ' s eyes. He had prayed for weeks that his wife and he might have a healthy child - surely nothing had gone wrong now. Please Doctor, tell me the good news first , he choked. Smith looked up. Your child is not quite normal , he stuttered, then stopped. Go on. Doctor, please! Tim begged. Your baby seems to be missing a few features . . . . Tim was horrified; what on earth could he mean. He, he ... . what? Well, he has no no arms or legs .... in fact he has no body. Tim was dumbfounded. What sort of a child has no body? Then what is he? he asked, his eyes pleading. He ' s just a big eye. Tim couldn ' t believe his ears. l don ' t understand , he choked, tears collecting in his eyes: then suddenly he added, This is the good news? Then what is the bad news? The doctor gazed down at the floor. He ' s blind . . . . Richard Wilson AT DAWN The brothers stood, and watched the glow that swelled And misted slowly, easily Into the land. Among the branches, secret birds speckled silently in the shadows Chiselled from a heathen frost. For a naked moment, regret quivered in the gloom, but then The day thrust its torch into the East, And pride surged to conceal weakness as The elder squinced, and raised A hand of stone. Behind him, his brother watched the fading stars And trembled. Ten paces marked, ten paces called by each. Off amongst the trees, She cried in the shattered dawn. Victor and vanquished, the first-born followed the dew To where it pulsed with blood. The day encircled him, and exploded in a thousand swirling voices Of ridicule and sorrow, of laughter And lament. A sob, his first, caught and choked in his throat As he drew aside the weeds, and found the pistol: Still charged But yet uncocked. S. Roloff