New Utrecht High School - Comet Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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he oumey Prize Winning Story By Rum Margareuea THE PASSAGE WAS LONG, narrow, cold and foreboding. There were turns, twisting, winding turns, each as a dancing devil, filling the wanderer's mind with fuel, with the burning desire to conquer the next turn and the next and the next. The young man with open eyes and mouth, pushed onward, stumbling, then doubtfully rising to his feet again, at first doubting whether the next turn would be ample reward for his persistence. Then, as if an angel whispered in his ear to continue, he would conduct gallons of blood, red flaming blood, through his arms, legs and whole body, blood thundering through his body as the tons of water from a dam, invading a peaceful valley. 1 It washed from theacrevices all the evils that tend to decay the yet not strong enough mind. It filled his frame with power, hope and courage. With the mustering of all this aid, the youth was ready to battle and merci- lessly bash to a pulp anything hindering the continuance of his journey. He would gain a sharp fire in his eyes, a sort of guiding light until he could get around the next dark bend, the next milestone, the next step in the ladder. He had, by this time, noticed a difference in the atmosphere. The air seemed clearer when he breathed in deep draughts. The way in front of him seemed less hazy. The level of ground he walked on seemed higher. His feet were more buoyant, as he walked. Was this the reward around the bend that he was waiting for? lt might well be, for what more can one want than an easy road to travel on and easy road in making the journey? The passage seemed to be by no means nearing the end, however, and there were no chairs on which he could rest himself. He must continue, for there was no turning back, nor could be refrain from going on. He felt a gentle wind push him from behind as a signal to proceed, as perhaps also a companion on this journey. He continued. Time had passed . . . much time. Time hadechanged things. The young manis hair seemed slightly powdered, his shoulders a trifle bent. His step a little slower, and his mind and eyes not as keen as at the start. The air had grown heavier, the atmosphere close. He felt himself on an almost underground level of land. Each turn in the maze seemed harder to conquer than the one before it. All power, strength and courage, formerly instilled almost at will, had left his tired body, and even the will to have it return, was so weak, as to have no effect whatsoever. It came to the point where the wind pushing behind him was the only force keeping him going. They went on a few more feet, the wind and he-the wind, a never aging substance, he no FOZl1'l'66'7Z

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And thre was so much to live for, So very, very much, That you died for it. What more to say? What the heart feels when it beats 130 million strong cannot be caught on paper. But treaties can. Treaties are made for paper- Empty words on pretty paper- Treaties that can be broken by little men whose hearts have been torn out by the roots and in whose place there grows an Iron Cross. Oh Lord, if our path must be shown to us with a bloody rod If we must be awakened thus, So be it. For we are marching now, and you are leading us From the salt flats of Utah The black earth of Alabama The sandy coast of Maine. We are coming And we Are not afraid. Thirteefz

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longer a powerful figure but a feeble being, ignorant of what was happen- lng to him and no longer caring. The wind then withheld its force and the man came to a halt, not at will, but because he had no strength of his Own to keep him going. He gazed downward and beneath him he beheld an abyss. It all came to him. He had been going through the passage of life. The feeling of walking on a higher level was his span of youth. The degrading passage was the journey of age. The abyss was the journey's end. He closed his eyes and waited for Atropos to cut his thread of life. The wind, the messenger of its sender gave one blow. The tired body tumbled headlong into the yawning pit and disappeared. A bellowing sound issued forth from the abyss and was followed by deep silence. A bell rangg the bell at the entrance of the passage, the bell that had rung for him. Another one was starting. Another being was beginning the journey of . . . LIFE. P By Renee Littman An hour ago I wanted to write a poem About all the wonderful things there are or ever will be. An hour ago a star seemed beautiful And I was happy and I wanted to write a poem. Now I sit in my blue skirt And remember that someone told me Stars don't really shine. In the next room my brother is shouting A cat is crying outside. I want to cry too. I want to cry for all the stars that don't shine And all the people who believe they donit And all the poems that are never written. I wanted to join the cats and wail aloud to the moon I want to join my little brother, who can look at a star and pluck it and keep it with him always. Fifteen