Saltus Grammar School - Yearbook (Hamilton, Bermuda)

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ONCE IN A FARAWAY PLACE Stage Directions: Smoke on stage; two opposing colours. Dim figures in the back. GOD: In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God. The name was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him, and without him was not anything that was made. In him was life, and the light of man and the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not. DEVIL: I seem quite solid though. Why am I here then — I who offered the world to the light ? (Musing) Got to admit, though . . . guts he had, and he refused. You realize he could have the whole thing sewn up. GOD: I am Alpha and Omega: There is no way to heaven but by me. DEVIL: Gan it, please? We don ' t have . . . GOD: And at the time of judgment the book of names shall be . . . DEVIL: Opened. Good guys left, bad guys right — quick march! Fiery lakes of Hell and eternal burning, second coming the rapture; I ' ve had two thousand years of it. Can we talk? GOD: What is your purpose here? Be still; I know the time is coming. DEVIL: But it isn ' t. It ' s not like it was anymore — black and white, good and bad; I could see clearly then. Now I am blinded by neon glare and corporate infighting and personal revenge and legal lust and justifiable homicide. GOD: The time of judgment is nigh; there shall be Babylon. There will be blood in the streets, and the first born of all the first born shall grow withered and ugly. That which is foretold is eternal and nigh. DEVIL: You naive fool! It is not the way it is supposed to be! Look, I got a guy down — this was a few years ago — one of your guys, a minister. He started prayer meetings in his area and from his collection he bought stocks from one of my assistants — let the people have pride in their homes, you know — and now he is running a golf course and pub. This was all a few years ago; imagine what ' s been going on since then. 1 myself haven ' t been down in quite a while; I ' ve been with the people — your people — trying to clear the mess; make it just good and bad again. I ' ll bet by now I ' ll have lost control if this stock thing has continued. People are no longer Hell material Anyway we have to do something — anything. Please? GOD: And all things shall pass away, dust to dust, ashes to ashes. When Christ comes in the time of the Apocalypse, the old shall be made new, the dead shall be lifted and made young and all shall stand before the seat of judgment. Samson ' s Revenge, by I. Gilbert, 2h Dawn, by P. Clinton, s.y. And the Book of Numbers shall be opened and all whose names are not found shall be cast into the Lake of Fire. DEVIL: Can ' t you see? Can ' t you feel? You who are all things know nothing. Look around you — you ' ve lost control. Look at the religious suicide in South America and we all know that I ' m not the boss. You and I have not faced each other in years . . . GOD: Get thee behind me, Satan! DEVIL: Get thee, get thee behind me, Satan. Ha! Where would you like me to stand? Here? Over there — here? (Points to God ' s side of the stage. Smoke mingles.) GOD: Be silent and gone — gone and silent. You have been defeated and turned aside — go back. DEVIL: No — Heaven ' s pawn? All has changed. Why this creation? This mass bastard with no origin? You started it all, you provided the excuse for all this. You! You! You! You! (Beam on pointing hand.) GOD: Get thee behind . . . DEVIL: Silence. Silence and be gone — take all with you. All. (There is silence, then a great wailing noise. God is no longer there). Hans Jorstad, s.y. The Cedar, by P. Clinton, s.y.

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of the shark, whose jaws had closed around his muscular torso, compressing the wealth of intestine and muscle therein. The odour of his own blood was strong and acrid, and lie felt faint. With his last burst of energy, he thrust three fingers of his left hand into one of the monster ' s eyes, scraping at the flaccid eyeball until all that remained was one white, squirming socket. It worked! The creature released its grip and retreated to the depths. Mitty ' s lungs ached for air. His head broke the surface just as an overwhelmed Mrs. Swift opened the door. His tortured, maltreated body was escorted into the Headmaster ' s office, which smelled distinctly of wet paint. He seated himself in the Headmaster ' s chair. Just as he felt his mind begin to drift, he was rudely awakened by the untimely arrival of Mr. Stephenson. The Headmaster, barking and appearing to froth at the mouth, snatched Mitty ' s lapels with his groping fists and forced him into an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation. Mitty struggled frantically to restrain from gazing into the bloodshot eyeballs of the senior mas ter. Before he knew it, he was obeying an order to touch his toes and preparing his rear for the Headmaster ' s expert cane-wielding. But nothing happened. 30 seconds passed. A minute. Startled, Mitty looked up, and instead of viewing the awesome figure of Mr. Stephenson and cane, his eyes fell upon one of the most gruesome creatures he had ever seen. Fighting down his rising bile, his mind registered the significance of the mottled green flesh, protuding antennae and twin compound eyes. Before Eric P. Mitty, on this overcast morning in mid-September, stood none other than a visitor from a distant galaxy. As the alien approached, Mitty wrestled out of his precarious position and prepared for combat. The creature responded by emitting a light-ray which obliterated the desk behind him. The brave Mitty was left with no alternative but to flee. He sprinted longer and faster than he could ever recall doing on Sports Day, and he could feel the adrenalin and blood pumping vigorously round his tiring frame. He closed his eyes, feeling his head on the verge of detonation. When he re-opened his eyes, he saw that he was heading directly for a sharply-cut cliff-edge. He attempted to arrest his frantic pace, but his efforts were in vain. The immense velocity he had attained ensured that the body of Eric P. Mitty sailed off the cliff, twisted and spiralled in the air and accelerated downwards at a mind-boggling rate. After what seemed like an eternity, the body of Eric P. Mitty finally crashed on the razor-sharp rocks below. The steel-grey water lapped lullingly around the seemingly lifeless — but still intact — body. Mitty dared to open his eyes; slowly at first, but finally he managed a wide stare. And I trust you will not want to repeat the experience you just went through? , aske d a triumphant Mr. Stephenson, still rubbing his cane with a cloth soaked in linseed oil. Mitty, amazed at the understatement the question insinuated, remained motionless for a few seconds. Then, wiping the sweat from his brow with trembling fingers, he emitted a hollow sigh and buried himself in the traditional upper corridor crush that had formed outside the office . . . S. Bagen, s.y. WHY ARE PEOPLE BORED? People are bored because they receive too much one- sided entertainment. Humans have one great distinction over animals and that is creativity. During the last decade creativity has dwindled. Frequently man does not want to Running for Home, by P. Clinton, s.y. entertain himself, he wants to be entertained. Does this mean creativity will continue to shrink in importance in our lives? I believe so, unless we take affirmative action. Man will have increased technological advancements in years to come and so will have more leisure time, therefore more time for one-sided entertainment. The question is, will this extra time be used creatively? A classic example of one-sided entertainment is television. People watching television receive stimulus from it — a laugh ... or perhaps a feeling of sorrow, depending on the subject-matter. They do not have to contribute anything. People ' s thoughts and opinions are not required and most often do not change the television ' s subject matter. The television turns them from their natural creative instincts into persons dependent upon others for entertainment. What would you do on a rainy Saturday? Would you paint a picture or start a model ship rather than watch television? I ' d watch TV, most would say. This would indicate a lack of creativity. Most bored people don ' t think of things to do. They just sit around bored, being entertained. One wonders what would happen to these people if entertainment ceased . . . Parents have the ability to help their children do creative things. If they cut down the time which their children spent watching television then the children would be forced to be creative. Hobbies are an obvious outlet for the creativity of the human mind. A stamp-album or a coin collection or even a bottle collection can give hours of creative pleasure in the sorting and ' filing ' of the specimens. However, children need their parents guidance to show them how to be creative. Parents could also enroll children in athletic activities, such as baseball and soccer for boys and horseback riding and dancing for girls. There should be Government- sponsored programmes of athletic and leisure activities so that people of all economic backgrounds could participate. Adults are on their own and so have to have the incentive to become creative by themselves. Government can help here also with sponsored activities and educational television. More complex hobbies would do excellently for adults. Crafts such as macrame, woodcraft, weaving, leatherwork, carving etc. — the list is endless. A family project is also a great outlet for creativity. The family would or could contribute to raising some livestock or gardening, building a boat . . . or jogging together for better health. Enrich your life, let your creativity shine through so others may also enjoy a lost part of themselves, creativity! Brian Hughes, 4k

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DESCRIBE AN OCCASION WHEN ALL MEMBERS OF A FAMILY COME TOGETHER FOR A CELEBRATION As I reluctantly entered the magnificent garden of my client ' s morbid home, I couldn ' t help but notice a mutilated cluster of roses. After suppressing my inexorable desire to retreat to the safety of my car, I found the courage to ring the decrepit bell. A long chortle broke the timeless silence and. simultaneously, the towering doors creaked open. Then as I peered cautiously inside, a huge Cyclops appeared before me. The small, decorous room in which I awoke was exquisitely accented with early eighteenth-century furniture. Then, as my vision became accustomed to the lighting, I felt the presence of another in the room. Suddenly a voice from the shadows of the corner of the room sounded, followed by the emergence of a punctillious butler. With outstretched arms he handed me an ensanguined three-piece suit, which he asked me to put on. In return, using extremely invective language, I told him what he could do with the suit. Completely ignoring my unstately conduct, he continued to comport himself with the utmost dignity, informing me that the family was ' en masse ' in the ballroom, impatiently awaiting my arrival. My fellow lawyers had deprecated involvement with the Count Munster family. But I had insisted these remarks were derisory, and I thus derided their efforts as immature behaviour. Pencils, by S. Kitson, 1b North Shore dwelling, by D. Wellman, s.y. My involvement with the family began with Count Munster, the head of the family, coming to me for consultation in the completion of his application for status. Then there was the controversy over the parking ticket incident, followed finally by the Count having had me draw up his will. This was comprehensible, for the Count had previously informed me that his age had started to catch up with him. But the compunction only began when I received an invitation to the celebration of the Count ' s thirty-eighth birthday. I was compelled to attend this joyous occasion through my wife ' s reassurance that there must have been an error in the printing of the invitations. And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing, Today a civil servant, tomorrow, a digestive irregularity. But these so disheartening thoughts were abruptly ended by the interruption of my not quite ' compos mentis ' butler friend. Some time today, if you don ' t mind!, he bellowed stridently. I rose from the bed, and in constraint, put on the ghastly suit. Then, slowly, I walked to the door. Indecisively, I held the ivory door knob as I stood frozen in my place. Then, at the nadir of my fears, I threw the door open, revealing an endless dark corridor, poorly illuminated by a candle. Boldly I stepped out into the corridor and the cold of its floor penetrated the soles of my shoes instantly. The violent flickering of the candle flame produced scores of illusions throughout. Then, without warning, a draught extinguished the flame, incapacitating me for further venturing. It wasn ' t until after my eyes had grown fully accustomed to the darkness that I noticed a stream of light emerging from under a door. And so I headed towards the door, but as I neared my objective I began to hear what appeared to be the incessant beat of drums. After having finally arrived at my destination, I found the whole door pulsing with the rythmic beat. Overwhelmed with bewilderment I cracked open the door. It was then I recognised the incessant beat to be none other than ' In the Bush ' , of Musique ' s latest album ' Keep on Jumpin . Overcome with the urge to groove, I swung the door open, discovering the Munster family linked together in a train, rocking their way around a huge cake embedded with sixty- eight candles. Thus with the acknowledgment of my arrival, the party officially began. Charles Scott, 4k