Pickering College - Voyageur Yearbook (Newmarket, Ontario Canada)

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Short Stffry ENRIQUE AGUAYO HE STREET OUTSIDE was in darkness except for a languid glimmer coming from a Window in the house across from mine. It was strange, I thought, that anything should seem so dead to me on that day, for I had often seen the street, and I had never had that feeling of nausea and unrest. The street, I agreed, was morbid and depressing at all times, especially at night, neverthe- less, I had never felt such a stranger to it as I did that night. Sitting in front of my desk with no especial purpose in mind, I could feel a great heaviness pressing my mind and body, something-something indes- cribable, a pushing that enveloped everything to such an extent that I could not tell what it was. My mood, I thought, it is only my mood, but I knew that it wasn't my mood-it was something deeper, something stuck in my heart, in my soul, in my whole being-something that would not let go or yield, like a burn or a frustrated desire that stings and rots your brain until it decays. Suddenly I felt as if somebody was watching me. I could feel a pair of eyes looking into my mind, searching it, finding things it it that not even I was aware of. I held my breath and quickly looked about me, my eyes straining to put everything into focus. I wanted to find something devilish, to see it, to get it out of my mind, but I only saw my room with all the familiar furniture. I felt an icy perspiration crop up on my forehead and trickle down my temples. I looked up at the ceiling and stared at the light bulb. Its light was curiously waxing and waning, as if at one moment it wanted to leave and the next to come back with more strength and brightness. I looked down at my desk, and felt my head on the verge of bursting. I was going to choke. My whole body was quivering and perspiring. Then, without warning, without being commanded to do so, my right hand started groping for something on the desk. I didn't know what it was looking for, but I tried to pull it back. I couldn't-. I could feel my finger tips throbbing, pulsating with excitement and longing. Quickly I looked up to the left corner of the room, just where the ceiling and the walls meet to form three angles. I didn't want to see what my hand was looking for. I was terrified and weak. My hand wrapped itself around something metallic. Then I saw the left top corner of the room converge upon me, until it was so close that I could see nothing. My hand released what it was holding and I heard a quiet thud on the rug beneath me. The queer feeling had left me, and I sat with my eyes closed, feeling a peculiar warmth running down my chest. Nine

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LITERARY DEPARTMENT RICKY ARNOLD- Editor ATED BOND ALISTAIR MACDONALD HL'GH DAvIDsoN MIKE MOUNTJOX' DICK LEE MIKE PRINCE PHIL ENDICOTT. JACK RIUTHERFORD The Creative Attempt AN wAs BORN to Create something that is the expression of his Own soul, no matter whether a blue kite floating on high or the painting of a masterpiece. Creation binds itself inexorably to happiness. The man who creates is the man who is most Often happy. It is strange that in this age when life is One of material luxury and holidays are plentiful that there is yet the greatest unhappiness. I Can see but One reason. VVe work at work we dislike, and have forgotten how tO play, how to Create happiness out of a few friends around the fire. We do not play, but are played to. We watch, we listen, we admire, but we do not take part. We are a spectator people, and it is for this reason that unhappiness, hollow Cheer and hollow laughs, lie through our land. This literary section has in it the Creative attempts of a few students. It is a thin stream from a large and untapped reservoir. It is my hope that next year and the years following, this stream will become a broad and swelling river. R. ARNOLD Eight

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Intermission Conversation Piece HUGH DAVIDSON Not that! But I would like some Brahms. It should be like poetry. It does not charm me to hear Strident against my rather sensitive ears, Blasting, coursing as it scrambles madly Through the blear-filled ignorance of concert halls. In fact, not at all I Am I pleased to hear modern music. -these mad Russians! Now where was it? The other day I thought I heard a man say That not only their art, but also their music Is that of a fine upstanding race, And that American Art is backward, Bourgeois and uncultured. He was one of these unfortunate men who write Anthologies And Apologies on modern music- Oh yes, the symphony- No my dear, I know that many people consider him a purist, And though he is a great friend of yours I really cannot bear to hear it again. Oh, but no! I'm not a pedantic- But stuff like that makes me sick, You know, this . . . modern music. is the Day ENRIQUE AGUAYO EAH, quite a day it is. A day that differs from others only in so far as we are living it. Yesterday is in the past-5 tomorrow is in the future. We have no conception of what tomorrow will be like, and we think we know what yes- terday was like. The important thing is that we live at this moment, and living this moment we burn a little more off our life. This shall continue until our end, and our end will come with the end of the universe. Yeah, this is the day, the hour, the minute, the second that palpitates by without halting, without falter- ing, always forward, and never past or future, but present always. Ten