Forster Secondary School - Spartalogue Yearbook (Windsor, Ontario Canada)

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‘•THE SPARTALOGUE” 1952 Pago Twenty-One Missing— (Third You stand there on the wharf, looking down into the dead face of your victim, and as you stand there, Mike Zaconi, you feel the first panicky emo¬ tions of a murderer. You have taken breath from the living—you have killed. Your mind sinks back a few minutes to when this form held life. It flickered in him for just a moment. Now he is dead—dead by violence, and his glassy eyes stare up at you. You look around and see the filthy water of the river rushing by and the idea strikes you. You can get rid of the body now. But no, not the river. Bury it then, Mike; do something. If you hurry you can get back to your home, blocks from the scene. You look at the still form and think of your dad. You cannot let him see you or your victim. If only you could turn to someone for help. No. you must face this alone. You are caught now—caught in the circumstances of your own clumsiness and ambitions. You had to show your dad how big you were, but you have failed. You reach down for the weapon and your hand stops as it touches the sharp point of steel. You let it go. For the first time in your life you are ashamed One Life Prize) and frightened. If only his body would move. But it just lies there with those glazed eyes staring— staring at you, Mike. Again you think of destroying the body and you notice that the day is ending. Shadows fall across the pier and the sun sets slowly. The water stops rushing and laps around the spiles. Life on the river ceases. The wind is cold and you pull your jacket around you tightly. You are alone now in the cold with your victim—very much alone. The darkness creeps in around you and the word escape pounds itself into your brain and thoughts. From the end of the dock, heavy steps echo in with the rhythmical pounding. A huge frame moves out of the darkness towards you, and a voice speaks softly yet determinedly. That ' a you Mike? I can ' ta see good in ta dark. Why you no ' a come home for deener, son? Your mama she ' a worry plenty bad about you. You look up, Mike, as you have always looked up to your dad and as he lays his hand on your shoulder, your eyes fill a little with tears. Gee, Papa, yo whisper, I ' m sorry. And your little hands tremble as you hold out your tiny fish. —Jackie Welch, 12A. The Vigil (Third Prize) She stood alone, this happy lass, A-looking o ' er the sea, A-waiting for a ship to pass And laughing out with glee. The first ship passed. ' Twas not the one. Another passed, then three. Her laughter ceased as she watched the sun, But a smile was there to see. She sat alone, this lonely lass. A smile was on her face. She waited for a ship to pass, And touched her skirt of lace. Slowly the sun began to fade. Slowly the moon came out. The smile now left the face of the maid. Its place was held by doubt. Close she walked to the edge of the sea, A pause! A sigh! A leap. The waves rolled in and foam danced free O ' er the lonely maid in the deep. Slowly a ship came into sight. A sailor laughed with glee. For he hoped to see his love that night, A-waiting by the sea. —Pat Kay, 13A Home (Honourable Mention) I miss the sunny open fields, The fields wherein I used to roam. The lonely hill which deftly shields The torrents from my prairie home. I miss the poplars ever swaying. In the breezes gently blowing, And the scattered leaves now playing In the wailing winds of Towling. I miss the warmly glowing sun, Which beats day long upon this land Of babbling brooks and streams that run Among the earth ' s great scattered band. And even as I pine for these, I seem to hear the distant sound Of many voices in the breeze Calling me back to my prairie home. —Shirley Saul, 13A

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Page Twenty “THE SPARTALOGUE — 1952 The Chain (Second Prize) The sun was a molten ball beating down unmerci¬ fully on the miserable galley slaves. Huddled in front of the battered oars, they presented a pitiful spectacle, their emaciated, deformed bodies, wracked with pain, and their bony legs held fast by massive, rusted chains. Antonio winced as he drew back his oar, for his back had been flayed almost to ribbons by the cruel whip wielded by Michael Garth, the malicious guard. Pausing to gain a few seconds’ rest, he was forced back to the oar by the raucous voice of Garth accompanied by a sear of pain ripping his back. He strained in exquisite agony, pulling, pull¬ ing, at the oars. Year after year this had gone on: a pathetic group of men, now become mindless machines, with one goal in life—to pull and strain at those rough splintered oars. Each man thought only of the thick, heavy-linked chain that kept him from a happy life and bound him to suffering and pain. From his appearance it was not hard to discern that Antonio was Italian. A still-powerful, muscular body, swarthy skin, and a mop of thick, black, curly hair set above dark, piercing eyes betrayed his origin. Now he was bent and twisted, his back dis¬ playing half-healed scars mingled with fresh purple welts which oozed great drops of blood. Sweat stood out shining on his brow and upon his body and the bodies of his unfortunate companions. He begged Garth to give him water, but Garth only replied, You ' ll get no water, you filthy swine, until sundown, so keep pulling!” Antonio stared at him, seething with suppressed rage. He stared at the well-fed body with the rounded shoulders and squat legs. Garth ' s face was flaccid and pasty in spite of hours spent in the hot sun and crisp breezes, and his eyes were red- veined and puffy. His broken teeth showed in an evil grin as he put his face close to Antonio: You ain ' t so high and mighty now, are you? I guess me and my whip here took you down a peg or two—thinking you should be fed better food than bread and water and getting the other fools to back you up. Well, I guess we learned you the hard way. As the leering countenance came closer to Antonio and the liquor-laden breath beat against his face, he could endure it no longer. With almost super¬ human strength born of desperation, he tore the chain loose and swung it at Garth. A succession of gaping red wounds appeared on the pasty face where the chain had struck, and the astonished Garth, his mouth open with amazement, fell with a thud on the deck. The other slaves cheered Antonio as he steadily and methodically beat the blubbering, cowering Garth to a gory, sodden mass. When there was no longer any life in the quivering hulk that was once Michael Garth, Antonio took thought for his safety. The galley ' s crew were closing in on him as hunters close in on some animal at bay, for that was what Antonio had become—a frenzied animal at bay. He lashed out with his chain, cutting down the oncoming men like saplings, all the time fighting his way to the edge of the ship and freedom. Finally he dived into the cool green water still dragging his chain. Down, down, down he plummeted to the bottom where for a brief instant he rested, only to be compelled to battle his way upward again to obtain fresh air. The chain was no longer a help to him but a hindrance, yet struggle as he might, he could not free his ankle of the iron clasp and one of the links. However, as he watched the other rust-coated links sink to the bottom, his mind felt as though it had been relieved of a great burden, and wearily he struck out for the distant shore. His surge of super¬ human strength still remained with him, and after what seemed to be hours of endless swimming, he reached the shore of a small island. For the first time in twenty years he was a free man. He lay down, exhausted, on the warm brown sand, pondering his next move. He would find some food, then some fresh water, but first of all he would rest. It was pleasant to be there with no harsh shouting in his ears, without the fear in his mind of a heavy whip descending on his quivering flesh. As he lay there, a gentle rain began to fall, moisten¬ ing his parched legs and cooling his feverish body, until he fell into a gentle sleep. For some inexplicable reason his thoughts centred mostly around the chain. He saw the chain binding his mangled legs to the galley; he saw again the same chain crashing into the bewildered face of Michael Garth; he saw the crew going down before the chain; again he saw the chain, sinking down into the depths of the sea after he had managed to free himsef of part of it. Then, mysteriously, the chain slowly dissolved into nothing and once again he saw the sunny skies of Italy, his luxurious home, his loving parents, his friends. All were waiting and beckoning to him. His tortured soul, able to bear no more, left his body for a land where pain is unknown—where happiness and peace predominate. —Myrna Wright, 13A. The threat of war—the devil ' s shroud Hangs darkly o ' er this doubtful world, Will light ne ' er pierce this ominous cloud And shine on Freedom ' s flags unfurled? The bear awakes—a hungry roar And Hamelin ' s piper of the east, Is edging toward his victory feast. Will peace prevail no more? Freedom (Second Prize) Freedom now must face the test, And rouse the potent, dormant west Against the flood of greed and hate, That surges now at Freedom ' s gate. Has not experience taught us yet? Make ready now! Lest we forget. —Ken Bottoms, 13A.

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Page Tw enty-Two 1952 “THE SPARTALOGUE — Deflated Ego (Honourable Mention) The wind whipped wildly at my clothing. It was a dark, rainy night, but not even the gloom could dampen my spirits. My book had been accepted by the publisher. I was now a full-fledged mystery writer. Absentmindedly, with thoughts of golden royalties, I turned down Blue Street, when suddenly 1 heard a scream. I stopped short. There it was again! I could not be mistaken. It seemed to come from a large black house which stood back from the street several yards. The shades were drawn; it looked very suspicious. Silently I debated within myself whether to call an officer or investigate the matter myself; but curiosity getting the better of me, I bravely mounted the stairs and knocked boldly on the door. No answer. Then as I prepared to retrace my steps, the door opened abruptly. I turned—and almost fainted. Before me stood a character borrowed from the most harrowing mystery story ever written. His dress pro¬ claimed him a butler, but a more unsavoury indivi¬ dual I have never seen. A huge, livid scar rent his dark, sallow face, and his mouth was twisted into a hideous snarl. Blindly I turned and ran. About a block later, reason finally overtook me. What was I running for? There was nothing to be frightened of. Yet I could not explain away the sense of evil that had assailed me as I had looked at that man. He had seemed to contaminate the very air. Then I thought—the scream! The thought of some poor mortal in the clutches of that villain made my blood run cold. There was no time to call the police. I would have to go back; only this time I would use some common sense. The house looked just the same as before. I crept stealthily around to the back, and there, as in the best mystery novels, was a small, unlocked window. With difficulty I crawled through and found myself in a tiny, dimly-lit room, containing assorted photo¬ graphic equipment. Suddenly I heard voices. They were moving to¬ wards the room. Quickly I looked for a place to hide. The closetl Swiftly I slipped behind the cur¬ tain that covered its entrance. I heard the door open. A harsh guttural voice snarled, You stupid blundering fool! Why did you let her get away? She will go straight to the police, and then you know what will happen. Did you take care of that lames girl? Looking through a hole in the curtain I saw a short, swarthy man, who seemed to be the leader, deliver¬ ing this scathing tirade to none other than the butler. The leader stood silently awaiting an answer. No, Evard . . stammered my acquaintance. He got no further. A stinging slap across the face silenced his words. The one called Evard continued in a voice as cold as steel, ' You will attend to it. Now bring me the records. We must destroy them, and leave these premises immediately. The F.B.I. is much too . . Suddenly he stopped, looking towards the curtain. My heart stood still. I stepped further back into the cubicle, pushing against a wooden cabinet. Over it came on top of me, shoving me half out into the room. The curtain fell down on my head. I at¬ tempted to rise. Then my head exploded, and everything went black. The next tiling I knew a voice was saying, She ' ll be all right, just a slight blow on the head. Slowly I opened my eyes. I was in a hospital bed! Where were those men? What had happened? I soon found out; I was a heroine. Those two men had been spies, and the F.B.I. had had a watch kept on them day and night. Then I blundered in, but luckily, I did no harm. In fact, if it had not been for me, Miss James, who was an F.B.I. undercover agent, would have been killed. I had an idea. My adventure would make a good mystery story. Speedily I typed it out and sent it to the publisher, expecting a cheque by return mail. Back came my answer. We regret to have to return your manuscript. Unfortunately we find it lacks the realism of your first work. Please honour us with any other story you may write. Very brief and very polite, yet how it deflated my over-sized ego. —Marilyn Snyder, 12B. Mine Is Forever (Honourable Mention) I love a lass, she loves me not. There was a time when I had thought Our love was sparked with lasting fires, But I found out my thoughts were liars. She loves me not, I love her still, I love her now, I always will. What can I do to make her see Tb ope my heart, she holds the key? But soon she ' ll wed, she ' ll be so glad, I ' ll be a bachelor, alone and sad. She ' ll have children, one, two, three, I ' ll have misery, woe is me! My lonely fate I will not curse I ' ll show my grief in written verse. —Mel Steinhart..