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Page 48 text:
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Literary Contest Winners PRIZE STORY THE CONQUEST—Merrilyn Ferguson XI-D PRIZE ESSAY THE PATH TO THE LAKE—Bill Harper XII-A PRIZE POEM THE CONFLICT—Harry Taylor XII-B THE CONQUEST “I’m sorry; we could do nothing. Perhaps if it had been sooner, if you had been able to bring him in before. . I accepted these words as if they had been, “I’m sorry, we have no bread today. If you had been sooner. . I let go of his hand, death-heavy, and watched the nurse straighten his limbs, then draw up the white sheet that moulded spectrally over his form. Now, all life was gone. He was just a body. But where did it go? What was it? I hadn’t seen it leave. It seemed so absurd to me. Death. Just a body . . . flesh that soon would undergo funeral preparations. Flesh that, in a satin lined casket, would be lowered into a gaping hole. I could hear, far off, the thud of earth on wood. I had been to a funeral before. I had felt grief then. I had cried with my eyes and with my heart. Where was that grief now? Why couldn’t I find it for the one I loved so much? I felt ashamed. Yet, what did it matter? Was this what we live for—to die? It is all a useless thing. We are just things—no more. We grow, mature, but it is certain we will be struck down. And that’s all it takes. One blow. There are so many failures in life. Why doesn’t everyone stop living now instead of sweating, fight¬ ing, loving, hating—only to meet death in the end? And yet we do everything we can to preserve such a stupid, useless thing as life. We fight on and on, trying to claw our way over the obstacles placed be¬ fore us. We are poor, footless, stupid animals. Sud¬ denly I hated everything, everyone. I hated my¬ self . . . I remembered how much a part of our plans of the future that house had been—that house that helped to kill him. He had worked late, we had done without, assuring ourselves our time would come— but after the house had been paid for. The nurse put a gentle arm across my shoulders. “Come along now, you can rest and be alone in the next room.” I felt sorry for her because she was so kind. I walked passively beside her and she guided me into a soft, green, room. I sat down stiffly on an old. mushy, and comfortable chair. I stared, straight ahead. I realized the nurse would go back, change the bedding, and, quite soon, someone else would occupy the room. And life would go on. No one would stop to mourn his death. Everything would continue as before. “He won’t come home, not ever again,” my mind taunted. The words were obscure. I heard each word in itself and could not connect them together to grasp their meaning. “Something will have to be done with his clothes.” I thought. “I had better phone Mr. Kelly and say he won’t be coming in for a while. Perhaps later, but not just yet.” Something told me I was not making sense but that too refused to make itself clear and understood . . . “I know nothing I can say will help ease your sor¬ row right now,” the doctor was saying. “No.” I thought, “Nothing anybody can say will help. Please leave me alone. Let me die.” “If it’s any help at all, there was a little pain and he died swiftly.” “Birds fly swiftly too, off into the horizon . . .” Again I knew I was not making sense. “Would . ..would you care to talk?” the doctor gently inquired. I nodded. It made no difference. Suddenly I realized it did make a difference—I had to talk to someone. “Why did God do it? I had so much faith before, and now that’s gone and it’s been replaced by hatred. Do you know what it is to love someone with every¬ thing that’s in you? Do you know the times of quiet understanding, of sharing, and of complete unselfish¬ ness and love? God knows because he is God. And yet, knowing, he took everything I had—for Him¬ self! And now, I’m supposed to be full of understand¬ ing and say, ‘It is the will of God.’” The doctor gazed down at me and I felt suddenly weary. A terrible debilitation began to creep into my brain. The doctor was talking soothingly. “I understand that you can feel this way. It may sound hollow and meaningless—what I am saying— but after a while, after you have fully understood what has happened, you’ll find everything coming to you and you’ll lose this bitterness. But you must find your own peace of mind. That’s something you must fight for alone.” 46
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Page 49 text:
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THE CONQUEST (Cont ' d) I let these words roll over in my mind, and slowly I began to understand. Then it all came in a blinding inundation and I felt an overflowing, bottomless grief. Suddenly I found myself leaning impersonally against the doctor, shuddering with sobs . . . As the sedation curled its fingers around my senses, my mind began to retaliate. This was life—all this love, hate, grief. Death is merely a temporary separation. After death, we carry on, only with something far deeper than life as we know it to be. Meanwhile, I must fight, fight to preserve love and everything that is good. I felt helpless with grief, yet paradoxically I felt myself surging with mental strength and voraciousness. I knew I would always to able to carry on. I realized I had conquered death and quietly, shamelessly, I wept . . . —Merrilyn Ferguson XI-D THE CONFLICT Across the vast unkown stretch Of time we struggle to make Our way and etch A mark upon this vastness for the sake Of future generations. These unborn Children—the people of the future—will gaze Back upon our meagre works, shorn Of the gaudy flame with which we set them ablaze. Those who have gained fame Will be studied and remembered. Yet the average man remains but a name Upon a marker in some lonely grave yard. ' This a truth as old as life, A man must work to conquer strife. —H. Taylor XII-B THE PLEASURES OF LOAFING The history of loafing dates back many centuries to prehistoric times. The ancient reptile was among the first to master the art of loafing. Seeing the wonderful pleasures which could be derived from loafing, man was quick to emulate the cold-blooded vertebrates. Throughout the centuries loafing has steadily increased in popularity until it has now be¬ come the favourite pastime of countless millions. Un¬ fortunately there are those who have not yet mastered the art, and deplorable as it may seem, those who are diametrically opposed to it. A proficient exponent of the art is able to dis¬ pel all unpleasant thoughts. Loafing brings him peace, rest, relaxation, and contentment. In our age, the importance of peace of mind cannot be over¬ stressed. Today, more people than ever before are suffering from nervous tension. Why? Because they have not yet acquired the art of loafing. A loafer can occupy time by listening to melod¬ ious strains, by reading hilarious books, or he can simply close his eyes, lean back, and dream of trop¬ ical islands warmed by the gentle rays of the set¬ ting sun, of palm trees swaying in the breeze, of the sound of water lapping against a sandy beach, of the fragrance of exotic tropical plants, of sumptuous re¬ pasts, of orange juice, checkers, and song. Vicariously he can travel to distant lands, to mys¬ terious Africa, to the frigid arctic, to the frozen tundra. He can even cast off the shackles of the earth and journey to the unknown planets, to Mars, Jupiter, or Saturn. Loafing is a boon to man, a source from which he can draw infinite pleasure. —Arnold Deltman XII-C THOUGHTS I gaze from my bedroom window Upon a bright new day. And the beauty of the morning Leaves me with naught to say. I see the gentle dew drops As they lie on the window sill; The wonderful world God created; And I am still. A fresh new day and love Never fail to cause me awe, And I think, “This is just as beautiful As what Adam and Eve saw.” A fresh new day and life— What a lot to be thankful for! As dawns each day, we see More and more and more, Of the wonderful world around us; The stars, life itself, and love, Savage beasts and birds of prey, And then, peace, the dove. And thus, it is that I think, A I gaze at the world this way, “Life is, oh, so wonderful As is each brand new day.” —Lynn Ridley X-D 47
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