Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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FLOOD by Sol Youngworth Run for your lives! The dam has given v ay! Run! Li ke v ild- fire the nnessage spread through the town. Run! The dam has given way! We ' ll all be drowned! Shouts rose to shrieks, screams. People dashed madly, wild-eyed, through the streets, clutching their loved ones and precious belongings. Jostling, pushing, the frightened people ran be- serk. Pandemonium reigned. Dashing up a flight of crooked basement steps came a furtive-looking individual, hatless, tie- less, coatless. He looked wide-eyed at the jostling throng. A struggling police- man bellowed, This way, everybody, this way! Calm now! Take it easy! Hey you, by the steps, this way! Calm now! There are trains waiting to take you out! Stop shoving! Trains are . . . The furtive-looking individual paused for a moment in indecision. The jostling crowd began to thin out. Wheeling, the man plunged back into the basement, three steps at a time. He ran into a dirty windowless little room which contained a battered old cot. The floor was strewn with cigarette butts. Slamming the door violently, the man plunged for a battered valise that was under the cot. Wrenching it open, he looked hurriedly within. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. He slammed the valise shut. Clutching it tightly, he dashed to the door and fumbled feverishly with the knob. The door refused to budge. A muttered damn escaped the man ' s lips. He pulled, tore, kicked the door, but to no avail. It refused to budge. Beads of sweat came out on his forehead. The man pounded on the door, yelled, shouted, screamed — but to no avail. The door refused to budge. The man ran his fingers through his hair feverishly. He looked about him, wild-eyed, hair disheveled. He ran to the opposite wall, pounded, yelled — but to no avail. Suddenly, there came a gushing, tearing sound. The flood, the flood, it ' s here! screamed the man. I ' ll be drowned! With a solid impact, a wall of water plunged down the alley and hit the door. The door was thick. It held. Inside, the man became panic- stricken. Water, coming in through the spaces between door and casement, began flooding the room. Wild-eyed, the man sloshed through the water to the cot. Tearing a blanket as he went, he splashed back through the knee-high water to the door. Gasping ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

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ODE TO A HARRISITE by Lloyd Ulman Oh I could write a saga ' Bout the ships that sail the sea, And I could write a sonnet To a lassie who ' d love me; And I could sing of battles Ot the boys in gray and blue — Or I could pen a line of verse, My Harrisite, to you. Yes I could nnake you handsome In a rhythmic, well-turned line, (And though you ' re four foot ten, my lad, I ' d make you five foot nine!) I ' d renovate you, Harrisite I ' d purify you so. That though your sins as scarlet are. They ' d be as white as snow. I ' d write you such a tribute That when all was said and done, You ' d be transformed, O Harrisite, You ' d be a man my son! And you ' d be greatly flattered (Though you ' d sagely say, How true! ) To see a perfect creature that Most clearly wasn ' t you! Oh, I could sing your praise To a blushing sunset sky — Your noble brow, your brawny arm, Firm chin, and flashing eye. Yes I could make you perfect; You ' d like it lad, but still I love the truth, my Harrisite, So darn me if I will! ONE HUNDRED

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mouthfuls of air feverishly, the man stuffed the strips of blanket into the cracks. Panting, sweating, chest heaving, the man stepped back from the door. The water stopped coming in, except for a scarcely perceptible trickle, which couldn ' t be helped. Climbing on the cot, the man leaned against the wall. He mopped his brow with a wet forearm. His eyes were fastened on a horizontal panel of the door. The panel had just been reached by the water. Breathing in audible gasps of air, the man stood motion- less. The water began to rise, slowly but surely. The man stood in water up to his waist. The air became warm, fetid, sluggish. The water was ice-cold. With fascinated eyes, the man watched the water slowly rise. He was dripping with sweat in the ice-cold water. He lit a candle, which was luckily on a shelf above his head. The flame flickered and then steadied itself, casting a ghostly aura about. The water in the room glimmered. Placing the lit candle on the shelf, the man turned once more and watched the water. As he gazed with blank eyes, his past began to come before him. Yes, he had always been a good-for-nothing, a crook. Remember the time you shot the cop ? Remember the time you pulled that bank job? Remember how you ran over that little boy during the get-away? Remember . . . Faces beagn to appear before him. A stern-faced apparition levelled an accusing finger at him. You killed my son! Another figure appeared, dered my brother! ' You mur- Another apparition appeared. You murdered . . . God, no! screamed the man. It was an accident, I tell you! I ' m innocent! It wasn ' t my fault . . . You made others suffer. Therefore, you must suffer. This is your reward. Give me another chance! I . . . ONE HUNDRED AND TWO