Ashbury College - Ashburian Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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2-I THE ASHBURIAN to contrast more effectively with the deep black eyes that looked like a deep dark void broken only by the glorious flashes that struck novas in the universe. He knew taat the townspeople didn't like the way he was acting but he didn't care. He was determined not to let them destroy what feelings he had left. His gaze drifted uninterrupted slowly around the smoky tavern. How could his father have accepted these people as friends? These people who thought to show any emotion openly was bad manners. He could feel the scorn they felt for him as they sat with their cigars and beer and pointed at him with their pudgy fingers but he didn't care. He was still outside their group. You could see the cold flame burning inside him, a flame that refused to be extinguished. He still had the strength to think, to question, and not to accept anything without fact. How could his father have accepted this for so long? How often had he sat in this chair, staring at these surroundings, drinking, smoking, talking, content with his filthy environment? The whole place painfully cramped the mind and shrunk the soul, cutting down one's scope to a place bordered by pine and oak. This is what he left his own family for? The whole bar was nothing but a dark black box with its key slowly turning in a lock that could never be re-opened. These thoughts left the poor man in misery, for he was looking for an answer and no one was there to fill the gaps. Time would answer everything but first he IHLISI' find his own faith: something he could hold out onto and let time and space flow through, enough for life and death. These ideas had stopped his weeping. His pain had been replaced by curiosity. Last night his father had been late. He was usually late, but this time me was later than usual and our young man had to look for him. lt was still dusk and the evening fog came in clinging to his face. As he crossed the bridge he couldn't see the water underneath but he knew what it was like, brown water shifting and slithering against the beams of the bridge. Ahead stood a solitary figure leaning on a rail, black and terrifying against the crimson sky. A figure with drooped shoulders and between them a weary head staring at the gurgling below him. The young man had screamed, terrified in anticipation, but the other just sadly turned his white face toward him and then back to the water. Below a pale hand receded under the water as the ripples silently rushed away to leave its surface unbroken once more. He could feel the icy water around his father's neck and the burning as it found its way to the nose and throat. The powerful current tugging at his body bringing him down to the muddy bed, sending a shower of filth into the already rancid water. Then the scum settled slowly on and over the body, lying

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THE ASHIJURIAN 3, +0 minutes and thought about a stupid boy who didn't have fun at a dance after spending all week getting ready for it. That didn't sound too exciting, or original, so another period was wasted. Right about now I was getting mad. I kept telling myself that I liked writing stories- but I hadn't written anything al week long. Again, the next day we were allowed to 'continue' our stories. .-Xgainfl sat there thinking of something I could write about. Then I thoughft that perhaps someone might be amused by my trials of finding a subiect to write on. Not new, but it was just about the only thing I eould do. I have not yet thought of something really suitable, but I still like writin stories. ., g J. C.. xi.1Ctif,m1t1 A DREAM COME TRUE fwith apologies to the Readers' Digestj The eyes are diamonds, harsh and straight and bright. The hair glitters and there is not the dullness of gold. The face is the best quality silk. Quite flawless: it goes without saying really that her mind is pure, her touch gentle, her speech soft and modulated. Her smile welcomes all. She walks the streets like a queen waiting for the opening of parlia- ment, apart from the scene and the people who belong to it. She has none of the ordinary aptitudes, such as athleticism, but she has one gift anyone would cherish and that is ctiritas. You can find her doing most things: talking to anyone who wants to talk to her, cheering on a game. She makes no distinction of age, race, colour, or creed. Some look at hands: her eyes are everything. Clearly they belong to her face. Her whole get-up sparkles like the cleanliness of an unpolluted river. Her conversation is never bitchy, so the doors of their houses Cif they have theml are always open to her. She is the finest person I know. J. Roxarns OBLIGATION A DECISION BETXYEEN NIISERY AND PEACE He sat deiected and alone at a corner table. The coffee cup lay be- side his hand untouched and his cigarette slowly burned unnoticed in the ashtray. His face was white, whiter than any word eould describe and the skin over it was stretched taut to produce a skull-like image of transparency. Below one could see the deliclte blue veins, throbbing with the warm blood flowing through them. He hadn't eaten for days and his eyes seemed to bear witness that he had been weeping rather severely. The red swollen sockets just seemed

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THE ASHBURIAN JS' silently on its grimy pyre far below the crests of green above. It would shiver the numbest flesh. Now he knew what was expected of him. lle was to become like the rest. He nmst accept this pain, dilute it with indifference. beer and time, and let the FCSI of his emotions YCgCf1lfC. This is what had happened to everyone else. Now he could see the reasons for their elaborate ceremonies and organizations. They were all moral cowards. Once before they were hurt, so now they hid and refused to acknowledge the pain, hoping it would go away. Indifference was their only hope. Nerves shocked and burnt from the terror of the past now only calmed by that same terror. The point had been reached where the exodus from the heart was a salvation in itself. This was his choice to accept his father's life or salvation. He could stay here and try to become indifferent to the whole issue, or he could try to accept it as it really was and live according to his emotions. But like his father he wasn't very strong. His father built his life from sand. praying for rain to wash away the decay. XYhen the rain came he found his ideas the truth and was so horrified he couldn't face them. He melted into a group, and tried to forget himself as an individual person, until finally he found the time and knew what he had lost. Our youthful friend now placed in the same slot began to under- stand a little the destiny of man. He remembered the cause and reasons for his father's death. He felt horrified and even more terrified for his visualization of himself in the role of his father. The idea destroyed his moral code. Pained and horrified, the role intrigued him. XYhat could his father's life hold for him? VVhat salvation and relief from his own personal torment? A little peace, if only it were possible. His curiosity had broken through its chains and he made the fatal mistake of straying from private reflection to his own private reality. His own private reality now became his own reality. He was now in the role he had previously only contemplated. He stood up, horrified and with a wail of despair ran through the door. The people he passed became snarling, grunting animals. Uutside the day was just leaving. Dusk seemed to beautify the area. hiding the ugliness and illuminating the beauty. A soft rain refreshed his flushed face. The rain was gentle and kind. Behind came only soft sobbings and the silent death of a dozen souls. He stopped. The sky was turning deep blood-red. an old hen's egg. His head drooped between his shoulders. He looked down. A noise softly echoed below him. He leaned wearily against the bridge. Below the green waves played noisily, rising and breaking against the shore. I. lf. Carrigan