Saltus Grammar School - Yearbook (Hamilton, Bermuda)

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The Deserted House Glory for the Mother Land, the Red Army, and the great Russian people , the commissar had exhorted. Vladimir Vyshinsky had learned to disregard the commissar ' s speeches and to remember instead the Red Army soldier ' s Golden Rule; Fight, and fight bravely. Indeed, if he didn ' t, he had two options, be captured and be worked to death by the Germans, or be shot by the political police if he retreated. However, you cannot fight an invisible enemy, and this was what faced Vladimir ' s platoon as they searched for stragglers from the retreating Wehrmacht in Vladimir ' s home town of Kursh The platoon, already depleted by sniper fire, was cautiously advancing through an open field toward a deserted looking house. There was a sudden din of machinegun fire, and before Vladimir ' s grenade had removed the gun, ten of the eleven Russians had drowned under the waves of lead. Vladimir waited for nightfall to approach the house, lying amongst his dead comrades to escape German bullets. When the blanket of darkness had descended upon the landscape, the house ' s silhouette showed Vladimir that the house was indeed his own. Vladimir crawled across the grass between his comrades and the house, happy to be on such familiar ground. He slipped noiselessly through a window into the bathroom, the fallen plaster reminding him that a major battle had just ended here. Rifle at the ready, he slithered out of the bathroom door into the hallway. He warily entered the living-room, made sure it was deserted, and swept the room with his flashlight beam. He was saddened to see that shrapnel was embedded above the mantel, where he used to keep the family portrait. Then he remembered that German planes had strafed the refugee column from Kursh, killing his wife Anna, and his baby boy. Saddened by the memory of all that he had lot, and of his future which some trigger happy German pilot had destroyed, Vladimir wandered from room to room forgetting that there was a war on, and that he was a part of it. Vladimir remembered all the good times they had enjoyed in the house, when friends and family made the hard life bearable, even made it happy. But that was all in the past, before his world had been shattered. A past which seemed all the more Utopian and far-away, in this miserable, deserted shell of a house. He wandered on in a stupor of grief, until, too exhausted to dwell on his misfortunes any more, he halted at his bedroom. He opened the door and took a step over the threshold. A sudden movement in the dark brought him back to reality, but, before he could react, he felt something explode in his chest, before slipping into a final darkness. The house was not deserted after all. R. L. Scares S4K ' Daniel in the Lion ' s Den ' — ELWOOD FOX, Senior Year I) 1 c r Record Album design — GREG SCAFF, 4K Sweeney Talks to Vladimir for R.J.G. Death and the Rauen drift above and Sweeney; guards the horned gate. The lonely smoke of cigarettes Is wandering in the air. Each hand around the table holds A cocktail glass with drunken care. 5r The game of cards is over now. But no one can recall who ' s won. The cards upon the table scattered; An unseen image on each one. Our friend, with great good humor, Picks up the cards to do a trick. The hand is quicker than the eye But the tortured mind is twice as quick. I turn and see you smiling up. Upon your eyes a distant stare. Self -Portrait by ELWOOD FOX, Senior Year. Across your face a veil of smoke Is wandering in the air. Exactly where your thoughts have gone I have no way to tell. Such are the terms of our confinement In this our air-conditioned helL And yet our minds go stumbling on Like dmnkards groping in the dark. Do you not see it Vladimir. ' ' That tree behind you. rising stark. It rises up with twisted limb To touch a long extinguished sun. The game of cards is over now But no one can recall who ' s won. John Mnlderig S.Y.

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' Front Street ' by DAVID BENEVIDES 4M The Cave I picked my way down the spiraling, winding passage. My heavy boots continually kept slipping on the smooth, treacherous rock. I pushed myself through the miniature entrance, and then stumbled out into the cave. The sheer size of the thing was enough to make the bravest quail. Thousands of stalagtites and stalagmites, of various sizes, formed complex and bizzare patterns, and completely filled the cave. An underground waterfall cascaded and gurgled down the rocks to my right, and formed a small stream which twisted its way crazily around the pinnacles, disappearing into the distance. The air was damp and chilly, and unnaturally clean. I walked over to the crystal clear stream and idly touched it with my hand. I quickly withdrew it. The water was cold enough to bum. I yelled. Every nook and cranny echoed my cry. In a hundred voices did my sound return to me. Every sound seemed to stand out in that complete, utter stillness; the gurgling of the waterfall, the crunching of my boots as I struggled against the cold, and even my own heartbeat, which I would hardly have noticed in normal circumstances. All these things stood out. In that cave, one could have heard a pin drop. I stood there, awestruck by all of these wonders which had unfolded before my eyes. Suddenly, as I turned to go, it dawned upon me. Man, in all his wisdom and folly, cannot create anything as beautiful or intricate as the architecture of nature. Peter Garrod S2P Wonderworld The sharp point of the needle hit my arm and perfor- ated the skin, the liquid oozed through my veins. It seemed to have no effect. My friends ' grinning faces stared at me to see my bewildered features. Soon, Charlie started growing homs and I could see him ridiculing me. His red skin vibrated and he poked me with his pointy fork. Looking for the wound, I found I was not there. This made the voices around me laugh in a mocking way. They echoed in my head. But where was my head. The echoes didn ' t seem to be coming from over my neck. I decided to search for it, following the hilarious guffaws. Walking through a wall, I found an escalator going downwards. I stumbled onto it and fell flat on my — no, not my face — it must have been my chest. Well, anyway, it hurt. Arriving at the bottom, I found that the ground above me was glass. This was all very sensible to me. There seemed to be a bathroom above and I saw three boys, two of whom were combing their teeth and the other was flossing his hair. Seeing nothing unusual there, I moved under the next room where a remote control colour TV. was changing this head ' s channels. That head looked familiar. It had those bloodshot eyes and that blank expression. It had to be mine! Immediately, I reflected myself into the room and saved my head from being switched to channel 14. Yuch! As my body was being capitated I felt warm blood pump through my systems. I heard cheering as I entered reality, and as my systems cleared I realized what my body was telling me. Anyone who takes a trip on acid has lost their head. Erik Jackson S3H ' Ghoul Queen ' (Frazetta reproduction)KEES VAN BEELEN 5F

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On the Surface of the Moon Damon ' s lead soles echoed dully on the ladder; again, and a third time, until he halted momentarily on the bottom-most rung of the seemingly frail construction. His eyes rolled sluggishly from left to right across the bleak landscape scrawled carelessly before him, and mixed emotions jolted his mind. He was indeed the first man ever to set foot on the moon, and this thrilled him immensely, but the scene laid across his vision was truly depressing. Razor-peaks jutted like warts from the crepe skin, and coUosal crevices ran like giant wrinkles on an ancient face. With a hard swallow and a reflexive upward glance, Damon slid his left foot awkwardly off the ladder, followed nimbly by his right. Both feet hit simultaneously, creating a powdery cloud of light dust, which hung like a curtain about his ankles. He stepped clumsily forward to reveal a pin-point accurate footprint in the silt. Damon admired his historic masterpiece with a warm glow of satisfaction and pride. In a series of comical, clown-like steps, Damon moved slowly away from the module, then turned to admire it, in it ' s mighty technical glory, glowing with an eerie lunar sparkle. His view dropped to one of the four spindley stilts which acted as legs . A cloud of concern misted his eyes, as he noticed a minor buckle about four inches above the inverted dome-shaped foot, nestled lop- sidedly in the earth. Realizing that there was nothing he could do with the infraction, Damon bounced lightly on towards a massive crater. The awesome feature engulfed the remains of the midnight and swallowed approximately fourteen miles of the lunar surface. Far off to the east, albino cliffs, illuminated by the sun as it crept over the western horizon, climbed heavenward against the raven sky and fringed a massive plain of undulating pebbles, smoothed and sculpted through thousands of years of gentle lunar breezes. Tilting his head back on his muscular shoulders, Damon scanned the Zodiacal Corona and stars through his foggy glass face-plate, and turned to observe: Wraiths of luminous gas were rising from a fissure running laterally through an oblong boulder. Indeed, a most barren scene , resounded in his mind. Gary Brangman S3H Surrealistic ' Hey, Ma, Can I keep him? ' — THAN BUTTERFIELD 5F lar dscape — RICHARD AMOS, 5F Tarzan of the Oleanders Kreegahaah! I shrieked, as I sailed through the air, without a rope. It was Saturday morning, and my favourite comic show had just finished. I had only watched one of them: Tarzan of the Apes. ' He had been swinging through the jungle trees with such ease that I thought I would copy him. I didn ' t have vines, but I didn ' t need them; the branches were closer together than his trees were. I got dressed, and left the house at 10.00 a.m. and I ran to the ' jungle ' , bare foot, with a European ' skimpy ' bathing suit on, which I imagined was made of jaguar skin. Into the depths of the trees I climbed like a cat, and I did not stop until I was at the top, overlooking the vast, spread out jungle and plains before me. Then, with a blood curdling yell, that was meant to call Tantor, Barba, and other such animals, I plunged from the tree, meaning to gracefully land on the other branch, but found myself in a different position. I was diving for the ground, at a speed, faster than Tarzan. Thump! The next thing I knew, my mother was bending over me. Tarzan had vanished, and has never appeared again. Robert Jones S2P