Austin High School - Castilleja Yearbook (Austin, NV)

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UNTITLED James Frank Wooten was the average, fun-loving weatherman. He was in the demolition department—one expert in his field. The time was two-thirty five. He synchronized his watch with the Captain. You can do the job very easy Jimmy. It's an old people home, the Captain told James confidently. While you're at it there's a coke machine in the lobby; you can rip off the change box. Sure, Cap'n. I got my kit all ready last night, James said. James headed out of the office. He was wearing his white repairman suit. He got into the cream Volkswagen van and drove towards the Monsanto Hills Retirement Home. Nurse, nurse ! Come in here ! Did you read in here where these lousy, long-haired hippies got caught with all that no-good dope? , Old Tony Valentine complained to anyone that would listen. Yes, Mr. Valentine. Now calm down or I'll have to take that paper away from you. Nurse Sandy Lazer spoke sternly to Old Man Valentine. Sandy was 24, bright, pretty, and also a member of the weathermen. She thought to herself, I'll be glad when they blow up that old pig. Sandy checked her watch; two-twenty-three. Jimmy should be over. She'd better go let him in. Jim was wearing a good disguise as Sandy led him into the storage room. O. K. Sandy, you better split. I'll go in fifteen minutes, James whispered into her ear. Sandy hurried down to the main desk. She thought to herself, If this fat ox would hurry. The nurse at the desk kept asking her questions about her dress and dumb stuff like that. Sandy looked at her watch—only twelve minutes to leave. James was sweating furiously. This was the most delicate part. If he cut too far into the green wire it would explode in ten seconds. These wire pliers were hard to use. He slipped and completely bisected the green wire. James Frank Wooten knew he was a dead man. Sandy Lazer walked toward the door and thought to herself, I'll be glad to see these rich old hags gone. Then she thought no more for the Monsanto Hills Retirement Home was leveled to the ground. —Dwight Bennett 8th Grade Spring, 1971 23

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The cleats crunched the gravel as Leo, a leading mountaineer in the Montana Young Athlete Thirty Miles Marathon Enduro, arrived. Leo had come from Washington State University to practice in these hills for the Enduro. He didn't know these roads but he seemed to think he could find his way back. It was hot but this country was beautiful; birds were singing and every once in a while a chipmunk would run across the road in front of him. Leo looked at his run- o-meter—seventeen miles. He looked to what he thought was the east. If he had a compass he would have known it was due south and would have seen a huge thundercloud coming. Leo turned into the sagebrush. He had to be turning back. His watch and his diamond inlay Saint Christopher medal shone in the disappearing sun. Up in a bare saddle watching Leo stood an old man about fifty-five. He wore a brown ragged beard and shoulder length hair. A smile flashed across his face for an instant; then he turned and limped back to his horse. He loped around two rock knolls to a hill where huge boulders sat. Leo ran into a gully. The old man set off a rock. It rolled and bounced down the hill. Leo stopped. He heard sagebrush breaking. The rock hit him. His leg was under the rock. He knew it was broken but he wasn't worried. Leo knew they could track him down. Then he passed out. When he awoke he saw the old man above him holding the watch and Saint Christopher medal. Hey! Wow! Help me move this rock, Leo said. Sorry son, the old man said and left. Leo still wasn't scared. He looked up the hill and saw the rain. He heard the water rushing down the gulley from the cloudburst and he cried. —Dwight Bennett

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The function of poetry is sometimes to be ugly rather than beautiful. Poetry as a whole is concerned with all kinds of experience—beautiful or ugly, strange or common, actual or imaginary. Between poetry and other forms of imaginative literature there is no sharp distinction. One may have been taught to believe that poetry can be recognized by the arrangement of its lines on the page or by its use of rhyme and meter. Such superficial tests are almost worthless. The difference between poetry and other literature is one only of degree Poetry is the most condensed and concentrated form of literature, saying most in the fewest number of words. WHY THEN ARE YOU HERE? You're sitting in your army tent Left alone with your thoughts Mines exploding around you You can't think One of the explosions Pierced your hide Left you bloody and swollen Hurt and almost dead Why then are you here ? Wars don't prove anything So you were inducted—Big Deal They don't care So look at the fringe benefits you get, When you’re out IF you ever get out Alive Freedom is promised to you You get almost decent pay But will you live? Why then are you here ? —Warren Woods 8th Grade Spring, 1971 UNTITLED He saw it happening, He knew it was wrong, He didn't like it But he went along. It's purpose was noble It's intent was good It's accomplishments nothing, While it's failure stood. He watched it develop. He watched it grow; All was turmoil Why, no one seemed to know. He saw it happening, He knew it was wrong. He didn't like it But he went along. —Kyle Farr 8th Grade Spring, 1971