Eldorado High School - El Aguila Yearbook (Albuquerque, NM)

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The Military Acoclemy Gold-bricked buildings rise straight, tall, angular, unyielding pointing their noses in the sky. Windows, spotlessly clean filled with straight Venetian blinds framed by unscratched outlines of olive drab. Lawns manicured to a formal stiffness. each crayon green blade forming a perfect row with the crayon green blade in front of it. broken only by the crisp sidewalk grey. Oak trees shower the lawns with clouds of khaki-colored shade. Cadets, like the buildings, and like each other rise straight, tall, angular. unyielding. Clad in dull green khaki, spit-polished shoes with glimmering belt buckles and metal buttons. Shorn hair accents expressionless faces. Eyes, emotionless, reflecting only endless hours of marches and straight corners. My heart longs to yell at them. Run! Scream! Play! Scuff your shoes! Tear your pants! Roll in the grass! Be human! Be alive! But I do not yell for I do not think they would hear through the silence. Lynn Roach Second Place Poem evoid of all, away from sight ternal silence steals the light A lone is ever T ime is never H ear the screams of timeless night. Steve Kula 324 Tomorrows Child A young boy lived in days of old Amongst the forest deep and cold Between tall trees he laughed and played, The scented trees that softly swayed ... I-le lay and dreamt near moonlit pools Or ran in fields the dee passed through Un summer days when cools winds waft Soft dewy scents on every draft. Yet time moves on and never stills Or cares the way a young man feels While youth flies by on falcen's wings So swiftly new to manhood things. The years did pass and brought along This young man's son. so tough and strong Who as a child did go and play About the buildings. cold and gray. With aimless mind he wanders round Or meets his friends near junkyard mounds Or plays beneath the hydrant sprays Yet feels the heat of hot sun's rays. But time moves on and never stills Or cares the way the weary feel While life flies by on vulture's wings So swiftly now to different things. Tomorrows child though yet unborn Will walk upon the streets new worn Brenda Fox

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Night Games Suspended in the cold remote heavens, the stars overhead glittered as they regarded us. We huddled in a large circle-lithe, impatient young bodies jostling each other for space, ex- cited voices ringing through the empty street. A solitary street lamp cast its yellow circle of light on the bent heads of tangled hair. One potato. two potato, three potato, feur, a thirteen-year-old voice decided my fate in a singsong chant. I glanced at the voice: the seniority of seven years was an awesome au- thority in a child's world. Eyes closed in con- centration, I held my breath and hoped desper- ately for the words, You're out! One by one the lucky ones were counted out and they ducked from the circle to congregate in small groups, whispering and giggling in anticipa- tion. At each departure my heart skipped a beat and my fists clenched tighter. Finally the remaining fists were narrowed down to two. I stared with glassy eyes as the definitive You're out was pronounced and the leader passed sentence on me. You're lt. The groups laughed derisively. dispering in all directions. Fragments of speech drifted to my ears, She always gets picked, . . . not really old enough to play , just Danny's tagalong little sis- ter . I walked slowly over to the street lamp, hid my eyes, and began to count in an un- steady voice, One, two, three As the street emptied I continued to count in whis- pers, stretching each number as far as I dared. 48, 49, 50 . I clung to the dark safe haven of my tightly closed eyes for a moment, turned, and in a quavering voice yelled the traditional Apple, peaches, pumpkin pie: who's not ready, holler aye. An encroaching silence greeted me on all sides. I pivoted, surveying the murky street. Then I ventured hesitantly out of the warm security of the street lamp's circle of light. I crept up the street, as if into a certain ambush, casting fearful glances left and right, my tennis Shoes slapping softly on the smooth sidewalk. A twig snapped to my right. I wheeled, my heart in my throat-above me a menacing face leered out of the blank sky. Stifling a scream, I turned to my left. They were approaching me, their outlines faint and wavery in the night. In- sidiously soft voices surrounded me, threat- ened me, murmuring words that I couldn't hear, didn't want to hear. My heart pounded through my worn tee-shirt as my eyes gazed feverishly at the advancing spectral mob. Soon their malicious staring eyes founds mine. Sud- denly, control of my tensely rigid body re- turned, and I raced frantically toward the safety of the light. Wraith-like hands snatched and clawed at my clothes, tentacles grasping to halt my flight. I stumbled and they closed in on me, their whispers low and menacing in my ears, their icy arms reaching for an encompass- ing embrace. Regaining my footing, I leapt away from them and sprinted for the street lamp. Finally I reached the circle of light and hurled myself. panting and heaving, into its engulfing warmth. The other kids stood waiting for me, con- tempt written on their faces. Voices chimed in, Come on, scaredy-cat, everyone's here al- ready. You've lost again. Their mocking voices echoed in my throbbing head. I didn't even have a good hiding place: it's easy to win when she's It. Look at her, she's probably afraid to sleep without a nightlight, too. Yeah. Well, chicken, are you going to play or are you afraid? Silently. I approached them as they made a circle. I gritted my chattering teeth, folded my trembling hands into two fists, and thrust them in front of me. The stars hung in the enveloping night, spar- kling benevolently above the street. One po- tato, two potato, three potato, four, the leader's voice chanted, while I prayed for the magical words, You're out. Debbie Hutchins First Place Story the coming The squirrels told of its coming nervously scurrying back and forth to quietly hide bits of food. The birds told of its coming gathering in the sky like a grey arrow speeding south. The brook told of its coming silencing its gentle murmur with a frozen sheet of ice. The sun told of its coming dimming down its radiant warmth its lights obscured by hazy clouds. Then an almost tangible silence The trees told of its coming told that it had come. releasing bits of golden jewels to pile on the ground. Debbie Bryant The wind told of its coming rattling through barren branches and teasing tufts of thick downy fur. 323

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clCt1,l,S Cactus, growing irregularly, poking spiny fingers into the sky. Cactus, growing wild, without discipline like a large, green, Brillo pad. Encircled by small brown bushes that look like curled porcupines. Separated by sand, soft sand. light sand, loose sand that sinks underfoot, and that blows on eternal winds and in endless dustdevils. With no houses, no roads, no cars. no humans. No civilization for as far as you can see. Only heat. intense, unrelenting heat that's visibly unforgiving to an intruder. The desert deals death to those who try to conquer it and compromises with those who yield and respect it. Iames Dritt I Do Not There glazed and dark unclear to sight They hold things I do not understand Secrets yet to be found. As we grow together Two in one I will uncover the secrets in your eyes. Susan William conformity empty hallways lined with funny-blue lockers, lots of little creatures, with their square heads jammed into orderly little rows: each with an earring hanging from its thin metal earlobe. they all have 2 holes for a metal ID plate H202, H203, H204, the roll call goes-no names, just numbers the other lockers shrink, shocked, from those who bear no number and sometimes the owner pencils in a number to alleviate its shame other than the numbers the earrings and the scribbles each locker bears, they're all the same. we fit our lockers quite well. First Place Poem Music of the Earth The color of the world is played each morning with the rising sun by an orchestra whose instruments play the tints and hues of a thriving earth. The flutes play pink the trumpets orange the cello brown and gold. This symphony lasts until dusk then the instruments are put away all but a few the piccolo to play the stars and the drums to sound the night. Lori Gehrman Third Place Poem dianne phelan 325