Gordon Bell High School - Purple and Gold Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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JJvl fi Jifsud. £himsL The dawn broke cold and grey. A fine drizzle engulfed the sleeping city and this retarded the bursting through of the sun’s golden rays. Milk trucks moved through the quiet streets like huge animals, piercing the gloom with their beady little eyes. An occasional twitter could be heard from a sleepy robin as he ruffled his damp feathers and tried to keep warm. Downtown the street lights blink¬ ed and disappeared as there seemed to be no more use for them that day. Only an occasional taxi interrupted the stillness of the dawn. Suddenly a patter of feet could be heard approaching down the alley. The noise increased as weary feet drag¬ ged through large puddles of rain that formed in the low lying areas of the lane. Then the noise stopped altogether. The next sound to be heard was that of cautious feet stepping into the doorway of a large building. A moment’s hesitation, then the thief stepped back out into the lane. Quickly, trained eyes surveyed the situation. A gust of wind took advantage of this moment of hesitation to fling a large, damp piece of paper at the thief. But he took no notice of this. Here was the perfect place to commit the perfect crime. A determined expression spread over the thief’s face as he began climbing the phone pole that stood next to the marked building. Silently, foot over foot, inch by inch, he climbed until he reached the top of the pole, which coincided with the top of the building. Grace¬ fully he twisted his wiry body to avoid coming in con¬ tact with any of the wires that transversed the top sec¬ tion of the pole. Nimbly he jumped from pole top to roof top. The roof of the building was covered with loose gravel amid which large patches of tar stuck out showing their exposed areas to the bitter atmosphere. With brisk steps the thief crossed the length of the building, and gingerly leaped over an adjoining building. Cautiously he proceeded to cross its roof top. Suddenly a shadow crossed the roof top. Instantly the thief dove for cover. Here he crouched until the shadow passed by, but a few inches from where he was hiding. With a sigh of relief the thief stood up and cautiously proceeded on his way. A few steps and he came face to face with a large sky light. Through this sky light he was to enter the building. A bit of rapid work and the burglar opened a large crack through which he would enter. Slowly he began to lower his body into the crack. By wiggling and twisting he managed to squeeze through the opening. Once inside the thief found himself confronted by a long plank that was supposedly there for the purpose of blocking the crack. Gently he slid down the plank until he came to the top floor. Al¬ though it was dark the burglar didn’t dare turn on a light. He would manage somehow. With muffled steps he proceeded to make his way down to the main floor of the building. On reaching the ground floor he headed straight for the showcase. How quiet the store seemed now compared to when he had first entered it and made his plans for this daring rob¬ bery. He had little trouble in seizing his prize. His exit from the building was exactly like his entrance. As he jumped from the pole into the alley the burglar let out a sigh of relief. He had just committed the perfect crime. Gradually the drizzle subsided and then the sun came out. A few blocks away from the scene of the robbery sat a big black tom cat. Tightly in his mouth he clutched half a salmon. Now he could enjoy his find in peace. After all, a cat who goes to such extravagant measures to steal half a salmon should be left alone to enjoy it in peace. Bill Haluk, Rm. 19, Grade XII A jCUjA, 1. “My Despair Marilyn Boyd 2. “The Egg-Cracker Suite” Dagmar Falk HONOURABLE MENTION “A Poet at the Football Game .........Mary Fabris 9 Vlip (DeApaVc I am a man! Yet, I am less than the lowest, vilest crea¬ ture which crawls upon this earth. I am a man; yet I am forsaken by men. I am a man, the child of God; yet the God of love has blighted me with his cruel wrath and punishment. Yesterday I looked about me at the world of light, and colour, and beauty, yet I saw it not. To-day I look, and look in vain. All is dark. All is black, black as Calvary, yet without its promise of dazzling light. For I am blind. I once looked on the world, the world of lush green hills, of sparkling water, of brilliant colour, of pulsating movement. And yet my eye, preoccupied with other things, did not see the beauty, the life, the wonders around me. Nature stretched out her soft, loving hand, begging me to gaze with awe and wonder at her miracles, but I shrugged off her gentle touch, for I did not have the time to stop and feel the choking ecstasy inspired by her un¬ defiled beauty. Oh, why did I not stop, and look, and won¬ der at her charms? Why did I not pause and marvel at each blade of grass, each budding tree? Now they are gone, gone forever, obliterated by a sinister, creeping evil—darkness! They say to me, “Be brave. There is nothing you can do. Make a new life for yourself.” Yet, although I breathe, there is no life in me. How can they know the black despair, the crushing helplessness, the clutching fear of the unknown? They lead me here and there like an ani¬ mal, , and their voices drip with loathsome pity. They coddle me, wait on me, cry for me. They push me, pull me, shove me, talk over me as if I were a deaf im¬ becile, and not just a man in darkness striving for a ray of inner light, a moment of privacy and independence. I long to lash out at them and shout: “I do not want your smothering pity, your condescension. I only want to be myself, to be a man among men, to be accepted for what I am. I am as normal, as worthy, as human as you! 68

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(Rnbohu Rugart materialized, dropped six inches to the grass, and began striding down the hill toward the small struc¬ ture that nestled at the bottom. As he approached the building, he was able to see in the yard a lone man sit¬ ting in a chair, reading. “This,” thought Rugart, “is as good a place to begin as any.” Cautiously, Rugart sent a beam of thought towards the figure in the chair. Usually when telepathic contact was first made with a member of a new race, there was a moment of stunned confusion as the being realized that his mind was no longer private. However this one, to Rugart’s surprise, responded immediately, and with a transmission at least equal to Rugart’s in intensity. “Come over and sit down. I’m rather disappointed that you took so long to discover this little planet of mine.” This took Rugart aback. Mechanically, he sat down in the proffered chair, and replied, “I didn’t think . . .” The man smiled genially. “Oh, don’t worry, I know all about you people.” “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” returned Rugart, “I” —he paused impressively—“am an official trade commis¬ sioner of the Galactic League. I have been sent to nego¬ tiate with your planet in an attempt to open trade in this part of the Galaxy. To be sure, this planet is a long way from Galaxy Centre, but the culture here has been deem¬ ed mature enough for contact with civilization, and so if you could tell me where to find someone qualified to bargain on the part of your planet . . .” The man continued to smile. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” he thought back. “You see, I’m the only per¬ son on this planet.” This was a shock Rugart was not prepared for. “What? But I saw others as I came down the hill. And you cer¬ tainly didn’t build this place by yourself.” “Robots,” was the reply, “all of them Robots.” He paused thoughtfully. “I built them to keep me company. It gets rather lonely with a planet all to yourself, you know, even for a recluse like me.” “But what. . .” “You may be wondering,” he continued, “what I am doing here. Well, I’ve never liked people and long ago, life on Terminus began to become boring. Oh, admittedly, I had everything I could possibly want, but I craved a little more. The aimless existence of Terminus high society began to get on my nerves, and, I finally decided to make a go at being a hermit. So with several robots I left Terminus in search of a hermitage. I found this planet and landed.” Rugart broke in, “But all the robots . . “After a few centuries of life by myself,” he continued, “with only a few simple robots to keep me company, I found that I s till needed some sort of society. But mem¬ ory of Terminus was still too fresh to forget; so I created some millions of robots, gave them a slight resemblance to human beings and turned them loose on the planet. The resemblance to life became amazing. You can walk down the streets of one of their towns and swear you were among living beings.” Rugart’s mouth twisted slightly. “I see. Well then, un¬ der the circumstances I doubt that you would want the Galaxy to intrude itself into your private retreat.” The man shook his head and smiled once more. Rugart stood up. “I must warn you, though. The Uni¬ verse is a big place; you probably won’t hear from us again for millenia. Are you certain that you have no de¬ sire for your planet to have contact with the Galaxy?” “None. Thank you anyway, but I’d just as soon not.” “Well, then . . .” began Rugart, but the man had al¬ ready returned to his book. Feeling slightly cheated, Rugart regarded him distastefully for a moment, took a step forward and disappeared. The air closed in behind him with a faint pop. For several minutes the man sat alone in the waning twilight of the garden, until a faint padding in the grass behind him told of the robot’s advance. Turning, he could just make out the shadowy figure of the robot. “I’ve brought your hot milk, sir.” “Thank you, Roger. Just set it down on the grass be- Roger complied. “Almost time for you to come to bed, “I’ll be in directly, Roger.” The robot turned to go. “Oh, yes, and Roger—” “Yes, sir?” “Be sure and remember to turn yourself off tonight— mustn’t waste juice, you know.” “Yes, sir. Good-night, sir.” Leaving the man on the lawn behind him, the robot entered the building, closed the door softly, and hurried along a corridor towards an open door at the end. Roger S. Clifton, intern at the Sylvan Glades Rest Home for the Chronically Infirm, passed through the door and threw himself down on a chair. Another robot, clad in identical white,-glanced up at him. “How’d it go?” ‘Oh, he’s still as whacky as he ever was, still reading those damned nursery rhymes and insisting we’re all ro¬ bots.” “Shame. He doesn’t look like a nut.” “Yeah. Well, as long as his relatives pay the five hun¬ dred a month we can’t complain.” Robot number two nodded in solemn acquiescence. Robert Johannson, Andrew McArton, Rm. 7 67

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Let me breathe! Let me live!” Yet, what is there to live for? I know a man. He too is blind, has been so for many years. Yet, his voice is no longer raised in useless lament and rebellion, for he has accepted his fate; he has found peace on the bosom of the God who took from him his precious sight. He speaks to those who are new to the rough road of darkness, speaks of courage, of faith, of hope. His strength flows into the hearts of the despairing, bringing light to the stumbling soul. He is an example of what is possible, to those who fear all is impossible. Per¬ haps some day, I too may find the hidden well from which he draws his priceless gift of peace. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” This is not easy to say. For I am blind. Marilyn Boyd fcqq-ChacksA. Suite- Ping! Crack! Splish! Those are the melodious sounds of a breaking egg that bring only discord to my memory. Now to most people, these tones are unfamiliar and mean¬ ingless, for these disillusioned folk have rarely been ex¬ posed to the whims of an egg. Ah, once I was also one of the firm believers in the perfection of this delicate, oval-shaped object, but my dream has been most cruelly shattered through painful necessity. During this summer I had the unusual occupation of breaking countless eggs all day long. That might sound like a rather simple task, until you have heard the remaining “movements.” Bright and early at seven o’clock in the morning, I began my first day at work. With almost uncontrollable impatience, I endured the long, elaborate demonstration on how to break eggs most efficiently. Then at last my mo¬ ment as a soloist had come, and filled with enthusiasm, I confidently snatched an egg from the conveyor belt. The directions had been to nick the shell slightly, deposit the yolk gently in a spoon-shaped structure, then smell the egg shells, and sit them upside-down on a chute. Obe¬ diently I followed my instructions, but to my utter amaze¬ ment, instead of just cracking the egg shell, I made a precise bi-section. Several times» I repeated this annoying performance, producing a mess that scarcely resembled the accurate results of my neighbours. Slowly my skills improved, however, and I actually had the occasional egg with an unbroken yolk. How great was my relief at the end of the introduction! Yet, that was only the beginning of future rhapsodies. Every day eggs, large and small, white and brown, danced along in front of my eyes. Not two of them were alike, for each yolk had its own distinctive colour and texture. Once in a while X found an egg with a peculiar pungent odour, and fighting a strong feeling of nausea, I rushed my egg to the garbage. Of course, after every such in¬ stance I wasted some time washing soiled machinery. Not always did my efforts bring disaster, because occa¬ sionally I experienced a rather brief streak of luck. These rare times were greatly outnumbered by spasms of dis¬ gust when I felt the most terrible urge to throw eggs in¬ stead of breaking them. I am not naturally spiteful, but when a supervisor scrutinized me on one side and an inspector peered mercilessly over my shoulder, such vengeful impulses stirred in my mind. After many similar, joyful experiences, I felt much like the listener who can hardly await the “finale.” As I look back upon those weeks of torture, I shudder involuntarily. Luckily I have been able to forget how often I staggered home under the added weight of dried egg splattered on my face. Sometimes I still suffer from terrible nightmares when I am surrounded on all sides by an impervious wall of eggs. In spite of my antagonism, an unseen force compelled me to endure the fumes. How¬ ever, this meagre reward was soon spent; all that remains in my recollection now is briefly said in three words, “Ping! Crack! Splish!” Dagmar Falk, Rm. 17 CL fiosit at thsL J ' DoibalL ' fyamsL It was pouring rain on a Saturday afternoon in Sep¬ tember, but as usual the football game went on as sche¬ duled. In the bleachers sat a lonely, rain-soaked and bedraggled figure who looked as if he was wrapped in all his worldly possessions. Carefully, he watched every move made by the players and every few minutes jotted some¬ thing down on a note pad. I thought he was a sports re¬ porter, covering the game for a newspaper, but then, if he were, he would be in the press box. By the end of the quarter my curiosity got the better of me and I carefully moved to the seat behind him. Craning my neck I looked over his shoulder onto the paper and to my amazement, saw this written on it - The rain was pouring on the field, In endless drenching columns. The players move with lightning speed But the coach sat looking solemn. Our team is losing “ten to one” With a poor chance of winning, But still they grit their teeth and fight While the other team is grinning. Smith has the ball on the “thirty-third” Running toward the goal The other team pursues him . . . I read this far in astonishment. What was a poet doing at a football game? Certainly he couldn’t have much in¬ terest in it. None of the poem was true, our team was winning, the coach was hopping up and down like a rab¬ bit, and we don’t have a player named Smith. The wind began to blow strongly and the paper blew from the poet’s hand into my lap. I slowly leaned over and handed it to him as nervous as a kitten in water. It turned out he was very friendly and asked me to sit with him. We began conversing merrily. I discovered he was writing a poem for a magazine, and had come to get the proper atmosphere. My curiosity was satisfied and I had found a new friend. Mary Fabris, 7-41 69