Black Hills State University - Eoicha Yearbook (Spearfish, SD)

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MILDRED Mc The car threaded its way skill- fully through the heavy traffic. The man sitting in the back seat stared out at the dreary, rain- soaked City. Under a brooding sky the Capitol buildings loomed dark and ominous; and as the driver swung in sharply at the great gate, the man had a feeling of foreboding. A guard held out his hand for credentials. His eyes, beneath their bushy brows. carefully scrutinized the papers. Finally satisfied, he waved the car on through the gate. In the car, the man raised his head slightly as they swung up the curved drive. His tired eyes swept the imposing building be- fore him. It had been a long time, but there it stood - the same as before. Its whiteness undimin- ished: its stately pillars stood as proudly as ever. He alighted under the shelter of the enor- mous p o r t i c o and hesitated slightly before starting to ascend the wide steps. No. nothing had changed in these past fifteen years - nothing had Changed e nothing. but everything!

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He wears a white face and presents a small outline against the diminishing light. His faithful dog leaps to avoid flailing arms and legs. An anger- laden voice slices the air. I Time has passed and he finds a way to partially control his temper. And what is this? Soft melody of a girls voice. But it is repressed by authoritative and persuasive adult voices almost before it begins. They expound on the importance of education and its precedence over all else. He is persuaded. The soft small voice falls on deaf ears. I School is over and he has a fling at life. He soars through the air in dreams of becoming a man among men in Air Force Blue. These thoughts are shattered with abruptness. The sand obscures those who utter harsh commands that faintly reach the intended quarry. A brief departure, followed by an intense dedication to learning all within his grasp. The authoritative voices are not now heard, but their effect is deeply ingrained. Life moves slowly but smoothly for three years. I He is ready to try again. But where? What better place than an institution of higher learning? Insistent voices again. Two more years speed swiftly, and he emerges to a position in a large West Coast company. Now. NOW! I There are desks as far as eye can go, and they are separated by portable partitions. Then other buildings With similar desks and partitions. The partitions close in and then evaporate. The once ' fast. crowded desks lose human counterparts one by one. a few He has foreseen the approaching day. Seldom is a m a t penny wasted and never on a soft voice. I The books lying, are back again. But there is only hollow laughter ways in his voice. He finds one day to his surprise that here. ' there is no tear in his eye for anyone or anything. ering He searches and finds a soft voice. But the hollow have unfeeling laugh and the soft promising voice van- take ish, no matter how slyly covered. I The suddenness e old with which the dry eye is revealed causes him to .tions reel. What has happened to him? Has be become like ones one of those vague impersonal figures in the build- ival. ing of shrinking partitions and desks? I Where to eling turn? How to bring the tear back to his eye? He r me , turns to one thing he can depend upon; the books he u and carries. Perhaps if he can become involved, he can 5 not transfer the emotional call of the writings to his ome. eye. There! Is that the gleam of a tear? -cted . .. a 3 her, til. ,; lity. g i . ent ' a .. -nce. ' .- any. :3 . time ,, orch, a -' way ' .33.! . m i There IS a fear, w : heir , - die . :52; It wets the face, I ere UCh o h sing there IS ope ion. she ilitlfyl' Terrance Copeland a . :me. ning all. Dick Termes. wood block ow ere iss.

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.;u...-....... . He was ushered into the same room, but was it the same? The homey library atmosphere had changed. The great antique desk had been replaced by a bare table. The rocker was gone. Efficient shutters hung at the long windows, and the now un- filtered glare gave the whole place the barren look of a clinic. Cold, grey light silhouetted the stocky figure of a man sitting behind the table. He looked up. His face creased instantly with a robot smile, and his eyes, un- changed behind the thick lenses, remained twin microscopes. itSit down? he said. It was more command than invitation. ttI imagine you are wondering why I sent for you. Without waiting for a reply, he went on, ttI was examining some old files of your newspaper, the Red Start - I believe at that time it was known simply as ithe Stari - and I was interested in an editorial written for the October 18, 1964 issue. Do you remember that editorial? Again, without pausing for a reply, the voice continued, iiYou should remember it, you wrote it. A very clever one it was, too. You seem to have been much more perceptive than your col- leagues. Perhaps your younger eyes could see farther. We need men of your vision in the Party. But Iim coming to that later. Right now, I want to refresh your memory of this writing. Picking up the newspaper which lay on the table in front of him, the High-One began to read from its editorial page. His Oriental accent at times distorted the English. The title announced simply, NToo Late? Under that, in one paragraph, a young re- porter named L. Jamison had written: itThere have been many re- actions to this weeks earth- shaking headlines. Our com- placency may even have been slightly disturbed for a moment, but we have been immediately lulled into our accustomed state of stupidity. There is no need to worry about the infinitesimal explosion of a tiny atom bomb somewhere way off in the Mon- golian wasteland. tIt will be years, if everf say the high-in- command, before anything of the least possible destructiveness can come out of that primitive culture? No one notices the little pebble which, dislodged by the explosion, rattles harmlessly down from the heights. No one hears the muffled roar of the mighty avalanche behind it. With ears attuned only to What we want to hear, with eyes blinded to all we do not wish to see, with mouths uttering non- sensical banalities we continue merrily on our way? The voice stopped and the piercing eyes again focused on L. Jamison. ttTell me, Reporter Jamison, just why did your so- ciety weaken? You were almost too easily taken over, you know; it was like - the face again creased with mirthless smile t2- like stepping on a bug. Jamison did not answer. He sat as one in a trance, staring into space. He could not give voice to his thoughts, tiYes, bugs! That is just what we had become. Fat, over-fed termites! Blind to all but our physical drivings, liv- ing only to satisfy our greedy appetites. Silly, scuttling bugs! We deserved to be smashed? ISO L AT I O N MILDRED McCLUSKEY What is this sadness that returns again As sun's last ray slants seaward in the west. Guilding that speck of ship which yet remains Poised lightly as a gull upon the crest? What lurks here in the gathering dusk with me As homing bird sends back its plaintive call. And shrouding mist trom rush of surfacing sea Veils stars' cold gazeeexcluding me from all? Night taIIs-the sea awaits more ships. more suns. The sad note ends as bird has found its mate. The new moon rising. with a star communesI And I. alone. am left to human fate. I-l alone, of all. am not attuned. I-I alone. stand sentenced to man's doom