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Page 67 text:
“
My Last Five Minutes of Life Love is an essential factor in life. Love is life. I was alone in the desolate world, an orphan at eleven. My mother had died when I was born and my father never forgave me for killing her. He hated every bone in my body. My father treated rite as an outcast to society. My heart was empty when the detective brought me news of my father’s death in the automobile accident. I was taken to an orphanage, where I was the oldest member, The people eyed the younger children. I was the outcpst, sitting on the ' sidelines, watching love and happiness enter Into the lives of the selected chiIdren. The younger members Mocked me and labelled me with the name, The Ugly Duckling.’’ At night, when a bliss of silence reigned over the mas¬ sive house, I wept bitterly in my small, sdcluded room. One wintry night, as I watched the birds fly freely in the air, I decided to leave the orphanage. The newly fallen snow cloaked the ground like a white shawl. The imperceptable grass had the appearance of vainly trying to escounse itself. The patterned flakes of snow formed a soft down on the window sill. Feeble gleams of moonlight made their way through the trellised panes and served to display sufficiently the more prominent objects around. This winter wonderland hypnotized me. I hurried out the oaken door and ran desperately into the dark, lonely forest. I wandered for hours, the lure of this wintry beauty drawing me deeper and deeper into the forest. I began to feel terribly cold and I wrapped my arms tightly around my frozen body to avoid the loss of a fraction of the remaining heat. Shivering with agony, I ran faster. I felt the hands of Jack Frost creep slowly around my open neck and strangle me with pain, I grew numb with cold and fear from the haunting voices of the night. I slipped suddenly and hit my head on a rock. As I opened my eyes hours later, I watched the sun¬ light struggle in vain to reach the remote areas of the forest. Dizzy with exhaustion, I rose and walked through the deep snow, stumbling clumsily over my feet. I walked all day and as blackness invaded the blue sky, I stopped by a tree fo rest. The night air nipped at my weary body. I became insane with cold. My eyes opened at o flash of light and a stent of ian voice shouted Darlene, Darlene, where are you?’’ could not answer, my voice:foo weak from the cold. As I struggled to open my eyes, I saw, dimly, figures beside me. I was in bed, in my room at the orphanage. A warm hand touched my face. I fought desperately to sit up, but I was too weak. Overhearing the doctor telling the people I was going to die, my heart trembled, f blurted out a whisper. The people, astonished, turned to me and began talking loudly. The The noise pierced my ears. Then, as silence drew around my heart, I whispered softly through the clamour of voices, Love me. Please, somebody, love me-e-e-e. — Darlene Berringer Un Incident Amusant Dans Un Magasin Je viens de partir du petit magasin au coin de notre rue. Un incident tres amusant s’est passe. Le directeur du magasin a un garcon qui aime a faire les fruits en bo is. Hier, il a fait une pomme rouge qui a I’air d’une pomme ordinaire. Son pere I’a trouve ' e au plancher et I’a mise avec les autres dans une boite au milieu du magasin. Elle y est restee toute la nuit. Ce matin quand j’etais au magasin un policier y est entre. Je I’ai vu plusieurs fois. Toujours si le directeur du magasin ne I’a pas regarde il volait une pomme de la boite et partait a la hate. Mais aujourd’hui il a choisi la meme pomme que le garcon a faite en bois. II s’est mis en co ere parce qu’il a casse ' une dent. Cette fois le directeur, qui Ta remarque a delate ' de rire. Naturellement, e’etait la derniere fois que le policier a vole ' une pomme. Tom Paige I 1-14
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Page 68 text:
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Morituri We Who Are About To Die The man sits alone in a dimly-lit room, he is very old, he is very tired. He rests unafraid waiting for the Angel of Relief to sever the bonds which bind him to the surly world. He remains alone, thinking of his life gone by, his children have gone, his friends have long since departed. He is alone among his souvenirs and memories. Pensively, he reaches into the drawer of the rickety old table and winces as he realizes how much like himself it really is. Once a strong, handsome utility, now chipped and broken in its final stage of evolution, death. Quickly, almost instantly, he dismisses the thought from his mind and returns to reality in complete sobriety. His hand closes upon a musty, leather-bound album. Cautiously he removes it from its place, taking extreme care not to injure its already ancient cover. Passionately he lifts the volume to his breast and holds it there as though if were a person whom he loves dearly. Again he awakens and places it in his lap. Then opens it with the same care expressed earlier for the pages are wilted and the photgraphs ye I lowed. His gaze falls upon a somewhat discoloured picture and instantaneously his heart flutters, for visaged on it is the shape of a fair and comely woman, quiet in pose yet with eyes of blue which express a deep feeling of love. She wore a high-collared, ruffled, blouse as was the fashion of the age. Her hair, long and golden, was drawn back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Mary, his life, his love, his dreams; she is gone now. Slowly he wipes a tear from his eye and reaches out to turn the page. But he cannot, it is like a trance which she has set upon him from which there is no escape. Suddenly, he is young again. Walking, rather, strutting, down the street in his new suit which possesses a slight bulge in the coat pocket. His hand slips down and his fingers caress the stiff velvet case. Inside is a small golden band made to fit only the most delicate of fingers; Mary ' s. The song birds are barely audible over the pounding that resounds deep inside his chest. The clicking of his heels creates a rhythme with which the whole world seems to fall into step. Abruptly the walk is ended and he is ascending the cobbled casement which leads to the front door. The door¬ bell sounds incredibly loud and yet has a note of reassurance in it. The large oak door swings open and there, like an angle from heaven she stands. Her soft voice beckons him to enter. He stands there speechless as she moves to open the large glass doors which adjoin the sitting room and his heart flutters as she asks him to be seated. She then seats herself across from him. The silence becomes unbearable and he sits there trying to work up his courage. Finally after a long debate with himself, the question is asked and she accepts. His existence is complete, his love no longer has to be hidden. Silently, the old man smiles to himself as he remembers the ensuing moments. Then it is gone and he realizes that it was all a part of his memory which so often, fraudulently, gives to him the impression and feelings of youth. Hostility overwhelms him and he scolds himself for allowing himself to be carried away thus. But with what may an old man live if not with his memories? Again he is overcome by self-pity and surliness towards his surroundings. Then calmness comes again as he realizes that this is but the plan of nature. The old are naturally forgotten, they have led their lives, they have borne their children, they are now but a burden to the young of their race. Noiselessly he closes the book and returns it to its original location, with it he closes the doors to his early ex istence until again he feels a sense of loneliness. The man sits alone in a dimly-lit room, he is very old, he is very tired. He rests unafraid, waiting for the Angel of Relief to sever the bonds which bind him to this surly world.
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