Cheektowaga Junior Senior High School - Centorial Yearbook (Cheektowaga, NY)

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Oh! I feel so good, right about now. Overhead, the sky is a mass of grey and white clouds, with a hint of darker Sky now and then revealing a star or two. Spiderlike fractures of lightning- ecstatic! Low moan of a distant train traveling, endless in my faraway mind. crawly bug on my lower lip. Margie Krakowiak lt descended upon our house in a black fury, Satan's tool-the wind. Shrieking and howling, like damned souls in Hades, it sought entrance to our abode. lt beat against the door- mighty wind, but solid oak barely creaks. No chinks in the walls could it find, no loose fastening on the shutter. Wind, wind, not strong enough, beaten. Moaning, sobbing, defeated, one last shriek of pure agony, and the wind is gone. Silence. Margie Krakowiak Now, there's you and me, together. Nighttime, we drift in our canoe. The lake is calm. Sky encompasses all- vast, dark, countless stars chip the blackness. l'm laying on my back legs and arms-trail, over the sides we beach on a tiny island gathering driftwood to take back. I lie on the sand You lie next to me. We look up at the stars. This is the picture we are in alone, together, alive, together. Margie Krakowiak

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He was a vivacious child, eager to explore every in- finitesimal fraction of the world around him. At that mo- ment his whole being was enchanted by a multi-colored butterfly soaring out of his grasp. ln his straw colored hair there were glints of strawberry. The curly locks en- circled his face, that pallid face which was just begin- ning to take advantage of the sun. The flaxen eyebrows which he possessed curved sharply in a half moon shape over his eyes. As he examined his world, his deep sea-blue, oval eyes glowed with wonder and amazement. His long, curled, midnight black lashes were the kind that made women envious. His playsuit was brown, yet, all the dirt that soiled it was noticeable. His pockets were filled with assorted items, a half squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a frog that he thought would survive being crushed in the sandwich. His legs were colorful with a variety of cuts, bruises and black and blue marks, and his knees were stained green from the grass on which he had crawled. His outstretched hand was waving farewell to the butterfly as it flew out of sight. Cheryl Rucinski Time-my oldest advisary beckons me once again. How often have I mocked her slow and sluggish pace as youth and l ran hand in hand one step ahead of her! Time-unconquered champion, victor of every contest. We were a foolish pair my empty youth and I, as we laughed with smug contempt at the age and endless sage of Time. Mary Wagner As the gun roared, the man stood impassi- vely rubbing his unshaven face, a stub of a cigar hung loosely between his lips. He wore a dark hat slightly bent around the rim to shade his squinted eyes from the bright Spanish sun. The man walked slowly to his perforated target examining his marks- manship. Placing his target down he took a few steps forward. His long tattered poncho swinging loosely, he turned quickly. The gun roared again, the bullet met its mark and the target flew spinning wildly in the air. The man took out a match and scraped it between his fingers. The match blazed into life. He lit his cigar. Now his face seemed more relaxed, less concerned. Nodding reassuringly to him- self, the man walked slowly toward the setting sun, thinking to himself that he just might be able to survive another day. Don Malachowski 169