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

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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..

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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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‘■THE SPARTALOGUE 1952 Page Twenty-Three 4 The Ruby Necklace (Honourable Mention) As he gazed aimlessly through the jewellery store window, Mike Velda ' s thoughts were certainly not on the copious display of glittering jewels. The worn, gray suit hung neatly on his short, stocky form, but the usually squared shoulders slumped, and his usually affable countenance was creased in a frown. He was lost in deep and serious contem¬ plation—contemplation, which had been gripping him for the past week and which was surely and slowly robbing him of his will and power. He must save the store! It was the only thing that kept him going now that Emma was gone. At the thought of his sweet, patient wife, the bleak desperation of Mike ' s eyes changed to a fond, wist¬ ful reminiscent smile. However, he thrust himself back into the midst of his troubles and a feeling of suffocating hopelessness seized him. Then his eye caught the penetrating gleam of the ruby necklace. Its fiery brilliance seemed to burn into the black velvet of its case and Mike marvelled at its colour, its beauty, its worth. His eyes narrowed at the thought. Would he dare take the gem? He could pay off the mortgage on the store. But he would be stealing. He would go to jail. He would lose everything. A maelstrom of thoughts whirled through his brain; then an agonized groan escaped him. I must do it! It ' s the only way! The sudden sound of his own voice brought him back to reality with a jerk. He glanced furtively around him to see if anyone might have heard his exclamation, then cursed himself for acting like a common thief—Well, wasn ' t he? That night Mike stayed up late. He sat at the small, round table, his head in his hands, thinking and planning, thinking and planning. His thick, gray hair was rumpled and the harsh light from the lamp mercilessly sketched the deep wrinkles on his face, the dark shadows under his eyes, and the thin strained line of his mouth. There was one thing he did know. The jewellery store had a small window at the back. He’d often seen it when he cut through the alley on his way home. But would it open? Another thought flashed through his mind. Surely the store would have a burglar-alarm, even though it was a small-town store which had never been threatened with robbery. He could only hope and pray that he would not stumble across it, for if he did, there would be no escape. Finally he went to bed, but he found little sleep that night. The next morning Mrs. Brown met a friend in front of the jewellery store. She confided, Did you know that Mr. Velda just passed me on the street, and he didn’t even say hello? Oh well, I suppose he has his troubles. My, isn ' t this a beautiful ruby necklace in the window? That night Mike worked in his grocery store later than usual. It was dark when he cut through the alley on his way home. He approached the window cautiously, and after glancing from left to right, stealthily explored the frame with gloved hands. Here was a latch at the bottom. His desperate lingers clawed at it, its rough, rusted surface burning be¬ neath his hands. He froze. Footsteps were sounding around the comer, coming nearer, and nearer. He shrank against the wall, into the shadows; beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. For one moment his heart stood still; then Officer Kipple passed on down the street. Mike ' s shaky legs hardly carried him back to the window, where he pulled a small chisel from his pocket and clumsily inserted it under the base of the window. Slowly, straining, he pushed downwards. The window groaned and his heart leaped as it moved up. Then he was inside the room, barely breathing, the fear of an alarm engulfing him. Cautiously he felt his way to the front of the store. Yes, here was the necklace. He closed the box and gripping it with one hand, made his way, half-blindly, out of the room, through the window and out the alley. Scarcely realizing how he was able to make it, he arrived home. He laid down the box without opening it, as the realization struck him that he had actually stolen the necklace. When sleep at last came, he tossed fitfully, dream¬ ing that the necklace was around his neck, choking out his life. Gray dawn was streaming through the windows when he awoke and disentangled the covers from around his head. Lagging steps took him into the front room where he spied a letter under the door. Listlessly he tore open the envelope, then stopped, for he saw only the line Dear Mr. Velda: The bank has reconsidered your request for a loan. He sank into the chair, incredulity, joy, then horror, mirrored in his eyes. He grasped the jewellery box in trembling hands, tore open the cover, and gasped. There was no necklace. He had stolen an empty box. —Mary Jane Makar, 13A.