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

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O BllBl5l.lfIS Blt l3ltl5Bl,liS HIIISISIJCS a mystcrious slot consumcs BBLIQS a silycry, shiny. piccc ol mctal PLUP! out rolls a lcmon ycllow piccc ol' glowing gum gum a miniaturc hand strctchos and consumos a miniaturc sun. Pl,UP! to thc mouth it llics chcwing Death is a Cat Ilcath isa cat stalking silcntly on vclyct paws Pouncing uncxpt-ctcrlly. lt always catchivs its victims cloath docs. l.urking in our shadow until thc moincnt thcn springing in a singlo motion lloath takcs a lilic in its iaws and pads soltly away. . , ' Chuwiml Lori Ctchrman and hulnhlcs cniorgc lmctwccn partod lips lmclorc cxcitcd cycs. Driftwood Monarch POP! 'W SWIM. mms is mimi fmm Tho driftwood lios. a proud gray hcap im uiwilml I-mm ol' sand smooth hark and ancicnt scars. Again! Again! Tho iaggcd lingcrs rcst in slccp BlII3BlII,:S Bluglglllig Bcncath tho watching silcnt stars. BUl3l3I,l'1S BUBBLICS anothcr cl'l'ort spurts through sticky lips it grows irom a small lmulmlxlo to a giant liaskctlmall. Insido anothcr hulilnlu huhhlo liulililc huhlmlc grows insido. Still anothcr omcrgcs It is truc! lloulmlc huhhlc gum not only huhhlcs douhlc hut triplo huhhlcs hursting hulihlcs hillowing huhhlcs hlowing huhhlos FUN l3UBBl,l'lSl Mol issa Casaus This cndlcss sca ol' sand surrounds 'l'hc solo survivor ol thc land. solitary pohhlc crowns 'I'hc roigning monarch ol thc sand. A court ariscs for thc king A tiny sprig ol' grccn hows down A gilt of loalty llrom thc spring ln shadow grows hclow thc crown. Thc monarch. in his gnarlcd hark rvcys thc sand with pittcd cycs s loyal scrvant sharcs tho dark Tho twisting wind around thom sighs. Bi-ncath thc hot rclcntlcss sun This vassal giyos a final how And sinks into thc wavcs ol' dun B1-noath thc sovcrcign pchhlo crown. Maicstic on his mighty dcscrt thronc Tho gravo and solomn rulcr sits alono. Dchhic Hutchins

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You May Think That I Like You may think that I like you just because You thought that I I was staring at you today in class. But I wasn't. Really, I was staring at the chalkboard and your head got in the way. You may think that I like you just because you thought that you saw me drive by your house yesterday. But I didn't. Actually, I was on my way home from the store and I wanted to avoid the traffic. You may think that I like you just because you thought that You I was keeping Saturday night open so you could ask me out. But I'm not. You see, Mrs. Thompson told me Vanity, in the lives of men a parasite P drawing sa from any accomplishment. rustily he stretches his hand hesitantly eyes closed he gropes. blindly, Debbie Bryant out heart leaping he grasps at love last month that she might need me bitterly, to babysit for her. WUI-fHC9d' it slips through You may think that I like you his fingers But I don't. 38313- Lynn Roach dianne phelan V' ig: . f lj 4 3 i I , t . -,,,, E ' 'lt X I . ., ,,. P-.-. NY, VE. WN if use -fr Q-- ' 1 v. , ji .

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Dallas, Memphis, and the Ford Theater The compartment he sat in was empty. and the five stained leather seats glistened in the weak light. He sat in the traditional place ofa singly occupied coach. in the seat next to the window facing the en- gine. The train moved like a mindless beast on the steel tracks which lay before it. apathetic to its own destiny. The constant sound of its energy pounded in his head. The continual movement of the train felt as if it would never stop. The night surrounded the train. penetrated the thick windows in his coach. seeping into the corners and jelled there. The black. sea' sonless expanse dotted by white scars of passing towns with neons. seemed to go to infinity. and finding no one home. returned to hold him in shadowed arms. lle had always liked the night. Even as a child. he had been comforted by spreading darkness at twilight. The passageway shed small. annoying fragments of light into his compartment. The weak beams caught the hollows in his cheeks and the shine on his oversized shoes. llis dull. brown. Anglo-Saxon-type hair got nothing of it. but his eyes. wide-lidded. heavily lashed. di- lated brown to black in the shaky light. The beige overcoat he wore hid the wiry frame ofa runner. Next to his left arm. right below his heart. an unnatural bulge rocked gently with the metallic sway of the train. He felt the cool metal under his coat. and recalled when that cer- tain ieiness had first become familiar. When he was twelve. and the softness in his cheeks had turned to a practiced clinched hardness. his father had given him a rifle. Loading and aiming. but never pull- ing the trigger. he held the long. smooth. browness in his hands every day after school. Une day. when the trees had almost turned their spring to his twelfth summer. he was quietly aiming at the family dog. The pet. in middle-age. was pacing the traces of the backyard. sniffling at the latest changing winds. The sun was turning hot. and his aim was good. because the dog did not suffer much, but his shock was more from his bullseye than from the dying. kicking animal. He chuckled to himself at the dog's death. The first time he had shot. he had shot to kill. The emptiness of the compartment made it- self known. the seats leered and the many shelves and useful handles shone inhumanely. This trip seemed to go on forever. but he could feel himself coming to the end of the line. to the lit and crowded sta- tion, full of people and smoke. all waiting for their own destinies. He looked out of his window again and caught the reflection of his face which had begun to look ghoulish. as if in horrible pain. the way his cheeks sunk in and out as he breathed. In the darkness. behind the thick glass. he realized. more than he saw. open fields of growing farmlands. The night over the planted rows reminded him of his life in the war. VVhen he was twenty-three. he went to fight. returned three years later. still feeling the surprise of the slaughtered enemies. lle remembered walking into a village at twilight, feeling it empty ex- cept for the smouldering fires of the hiding citizens. The war had not changed him: no shrapnel lay hiding time in his body. His arms. legs. and oversized feet were still with him. He could still feel the warmth at the sight of human love. What had changed were his memories: they now looked at war. not asa way of life, but as a way of death. The whistle for his destination brought him from his thoughts. Ile collected the single small. expensive suitcase from its shining metal rack and straightened himself in the glass reflection of the window, Leaving his compartment. he gently pushed the door closed. As he moved down the passageway. he looked casually into the other coaches. checking for any differences in their cell-like conformity. He left the train. the smoky neons of the brown and steel station pulled him magnetically to an empty bench among the rushing travellers. lle read the paper he found there for hours. till dawn. then he slept. sit- ting comfortable. snoring softly. At noon, pushing crowds swept him from his sleep to a taxi. The city was filled with people- lined streets. and tickertape lay like snow in the air and in the gutter. The taxi delivered him among the crowds. expectant as they. yet he waited for something completely different. Soon. as the sun left the morning behind to wait in the middle of the sky. music played in the blocked-off street. and the people cheered. and be with them. As open cars filled with smiles. black suits and waving hands passed by. he pushed to the front, his right arm tugging inside his coat. When the certain car whose occupants caused the people to jump and yell good. patriotic things passed. he pulled his arm free and aimed carefully as if he were twelve and in the back- yard once again. The sun grew hot. but the shock was from death. and not the bullseye. The crowd around him seemed to breathe all at once. When the shot met its destination. they sprang on him. kicking and punching him with feet and fists propelled by future grief. As the police took him away to some dark place. he gave a tired ltoldyouso smile to the weeping. tickertaped. people left alone on the midday street. Wren Propp Mist covered mountains deep green flecked with gold, Sparkling blue water fed by icy arms in shadow, A wolf tree cuts through puffing clouds, I am here. The timber comes alive, birds warble and soar, A skunk waddles by, Bear turns its back to the bitter wind howling wolves gather, I am lost. The winds call my name in jumbled succession, Trees grasp and cling to my presence, Animals gather drawn by stout strings, Dazed. I stumble. No misty mountains to veil my thought, I have no winds to call my name, th puppets are gone, timbers rot away. Cammie Melvin 331