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

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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

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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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You never gave anybody a chance. Oh please, beseeched the trapped one pitifully, Please don ' t let nne die! I ' ll be good! I ' ll never steal again! I ' ll never — look — here — this valise full of money — this cursed valise — here — look — I ' m spil- ling out all the money — look — two thousand thousand dollars! Ha-ha- ha . . . The apparitions vanished. The hysterical man became a bit more sane. The water, which had reached his shoulders, shocked him back into reality. He watched the glimmering waters creep slowly upwards. Through his mind, but in a saner fashion, came thoughts, profound thoughts. I don ' t deserve to live . . . But I don ' t want to die! Oh, if only I had a chance ... I could make good . . . but no, what chance have I . . . even if I don ' t drown like a rat, I ' ll be picked up by the police . . . I ' ll get mine . . . the chair . . . Slowly, the seconds stretched into days, the minutes stretched into years, the hours stretched into centuries. Between fits of madness and fits of cold sanity, the man watched his death creep up on him. This was a torture worthy of the ancient Chinese. The man, for the first time In his life, prayed, prayed for blessed unconsciousness, ob- livion — . But no, as if some power kept him awake, he could not get away from himself. The water was up to his lips. He stood on tiptoe, neck outstretched. The candle began flickering for want of oxygen. The water began to rise . . . then suddenly, it receded. Was that a prank of his imagination? Was that . . . Then came to the trapped man blessed unconsciousness. He came to on a cot in an emergency hospital. Opening won- dering eyes, the man took in his surroundings. Rows of cots were on all sides of him. He looked about furtively. He was a wanted man . . . His photograph was in every police station . . . He put a hand to a throbbing forehead. Wh-what was that on his skin — or was it his skin? It seemed wrinkled. Perceiving a small, round eye- doctor ' s mirror on a table beside him, he leaned over and picked it up. He peered into it. A gasp of surprise escaped his lips. In the mirror he saw — not the hard- ened, young criminal, but an old, wrinkled, gray-headed man. Was he still dreaming or perhaps delirious? No, the face in the mirror was his. Wh-what-how-how was this possible . . . The man suddenly saw the light. Yes, that must be it! He remembered once ONE HUNDRED AND THREE