Durham High School - Messenger Yearbook (Durham, NC)

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THE HILL Beth Robertson It was late in the afternoon when he stepped out into the path. He heard the familiar sound of the key grating in the lock as he walked away from the building. He didn ' t look back, though. He would never look back. It was cold now. He drew his jacket up close to his neck to keep out the bitter wind. Slushy, grey snow was on the ground, trampled by thousands of footprints. Fragile icicles clung to the pine trees, eoch one sending tiny tear-like drops to the ground. All was silent except for an occasional crackle of a branch, as it yielded to the force of the snow that weighed it down. He had reached the hill now. Far below him he could see the city. The miniature cars were moving hurriedly back and forth. He could imagine what it was like. He could imagine the honking of horns, the rough, angry voices, and the policeman s shrill whistle. He could close his eyes and see it all before him. He stopped walking. He lingered at the hill for a few minutes. He put his ragged duffle bag down on the ground, and leaned against the tree. He reached for his cigarettes. The package had been crushed hours be¬ fore, and now only one was left. He took out his matches, and struck one against the worn surface of the matchbox. After two strikes, it burst into a bright yellow flame. He brought the flame up to the cigarette. Long and slender wisps of smoke twisted about before him. He watched them intently for a few minutes, and then drew in a mouthful of smoke. He sighed with deep satisfaction, as he ex¬ haled. He looked at the half-burned cigarette that he held, and then threw it on the ground. The doctors had told him not to smoke. With a mingled feeling of disgust and sorrow, he crushed it with his foot. There were cigarette butts strewn all over the concrete floor of the subway. Many people were walking about, and some were standing walking about, and some were waiting. He walked towards his train. People were staring at him. He tried to ignore their cold, haughty glances, but finally he could not. Why were they staring at himr Perhaps his shirt-tail was out. No, it wasn ' t. Why, then? Why were they all giving him such queer looks? What was wrong? Maybe they even thought he was the convict who had escaped last week. Yes, that must be it. He musn ' t run; he must act normal. He quick¬ ened his walking pace as his heart beat faster and faster. Then he saw the policeman. He must get away quickly. He ran to the train and got in. He pushed his way through the crowd of people in the car. and squeezed into a corner. Surely they couldn ' t see him. But, wait, they could. That lady was talking about him. He could tell by the way she looked at him. She must know. She ' ll tell the conductor. The train screeched to a halt, as it came to its third stop. He got out of the car, and ran up the subway steps. Soon they would be a fter him. He darted across the busy street, barely missing being hit by a truck. The truck driver must know. He must have been trying to kill him. He escaped into a sidestreet. The silence was overwhelming. No-one was there. He relaxed; far ahead of him he could see the tree. They were evil and menacing. Then he realized that he was being trapped. The street was an alley. The long finger-like branches of the trees were beckon¬ ing him forward. He stopped. What could he do? He couldn ' t go back and he couldn t go forward. All of a sudden he found himself crying and scream¬ ing. People came from nowhere. His screams grew louder. The people were talking to him softly. Men were holding him firmly. They were taking him, they were taking him away . . . He shuddered as a cold drop of water dripped down his back. He musn ' t think about it any more. It wos all over now. He picked up the duffle bag and walked down the road. The rusty, iron gate stood before him. He pulled the gate, and it opened re¬ luctantly with a whine. He walked out, ana clanged the gate behind him. For a second he glanced at the battered sign; McLean Hospital for the Emo¬ tionally Disturbed. Then he turned awav and walked down to the city. 27

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Jane Alexander My Sailboat I went for a walk the other day and I passed by a little boy playing in a gutter. His blue and white striped shirt was torn at the right sleeve, and his small blue blue jeans were faded and dirty. But he wore a smile, for he possessed a shiny sailboat. I watched him as he became more and more excited with each new ripple that the tiny boat engraved in the water. He was so engrossed with his best friend, which held so much importance to him, that he did not even notice me standing there watching. I started to approach him and a look of fear appeared on his face. I asked him about his beautiful sailboat and the big smile came back, displaying his untreated teeth. Other children passed by and laughed at my newly- found friend. Tears began to well in his eyes and I tried to explain to him that they were just jealous. I think he understood me. I have gotten to know and love this little boy and I go to see him everyday, while he plays with his little boat; and each day he tells me something different that he has learned. I wish that I could shelter him from all the bad in the world, and I pray that he will never change, for you see, he is my sailboat. 26

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THE COURT-JESTER The court-jester on guard, Wearily watching For the Sign of the Times, Is condemned to wait. Restless, his stance. The Neons are calling. He travels easiest In the lanes of the night. He understands the Shadows And calls them Friends, The gutters are flooding. For it ' s always just rained. The ragged clown and Jesus, The court musician and Judas Are all on drugs And feeling very psychic. The segregated wind sees it And whispers that perhaps. But’ fhe jester will not listen. He is afraid of Secrets. Inert, he waits for his own Maybe. The eleventh hour, and all is well. Intercourse, the malevolent. Walks the streets. Disturb the peace! The night is crying for an end. The jester, too is ready to leave. He believes in the Ultimate. . . Tommy House