https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/34921d34bbc51ba1a404572b1fb0fabf.pdf 0f0fc0a67a9968598f2bb2701bf7c696 PDF Text Text search turned up a red, 1964 convertible about 100 yards below the point of entry. The swift current had badly damaged the ve­ hicle. No sign has been found of the occupants of the car, who must have been swept away by the swift current. The next day’s paper contained this terse notice. Hunnesville, Colo. (UPl)—The occupants of the car found two days ago in the Rio Peligro have been identified as Mr. and Mrs. Stanford M. Wright of Mankin, Missouri. They were identified through vehicle registration and the testimony of a motel owner here, who recalled that they had stayed at his place the night be­ fore the accident. Their bodies have not yet been found. Now Stanford settled down to step four of O. P. C.—this time without Eunice’s knowledge or consent. He spent two afternoons in the thick timber a quarter of a mile from the cabin, digging a hole. It measured six feet long, two feet wide, and five feet deep. On the second afternoon Stanford was working in the hole. It was nearly finished. His spade made a chunking sound on the hard earth, then there was a “splat” as he carefully piled the earth on a large canvas. Sud­ denly he heard a noise. He turned, straightened, and looked out of the hole. He found himself staring straight at a pair of woman’s ankles. “You left the pick at the cabin, Stanford,” Eunice said as she brought the pointed instrument down onto his skull. BURDEN Sheala Dunn It was a cold day, a dark day for doing many things, but certainly not the kind of a day to spend taking care of a two year old. The girl sat star­ ing out the window as these, and other thoughts, mesmerized her mind. Children were such a waste of time, always wanting something and jabbering to no useful end. There were so many other things more important and in­ teresting. Her self-inflicted depression was interrupted. “Sissy!” called a sleepy voice from the other end of the house. He was awake. Another day of dressing and undressing, cleaning up messes, reading stupid stories and answering endless nonsense questions. “Hi! Get up?” asked the cheerful, cherub-like mouth of the flaxen­ haired child. His dark eyes glowed with life as the girl stood expressionless before him. “Get-up?” he said again, patiently waiting for a sign of approval from his part-time mother. “Well, get up!” she said impatiently, wishing that there were some way to keep him in bed the rest of the afternoon. Mom would be home —31— �at five o’clock; she had the right idea about kids, they were nothing but a nuisance. Especially this one. Slowly he started to get out of bed, pushing back his blankets and stuffed toys on the way. His chubby, pink legs swung themselves to the floor, and a second later a rag doll tumbled down after them. “Oh! Poor Suzy!” he cried. “Honey, me love!” he consoled as he kiss­ ed her. “Hurt?” he questioned. “No, how can she get hurt? She’s not a person, she’s just a doll,” re­ plied the girl sarcastically. “Boy, how stupid!” she thought. “Doesn’t even know the difference between a doll and a person. And they say kids are smarter than you give them credit for! What a laugh!” “Potty!” he squeeled with delight. It was a new experience and ap­ peared to him to be a fine game. But to the girl it was just another time­ consuming chore. What difference did it make if he wet his pants or not? He couldn’t finish either one alone, someone had to help him either way. He was in the bathroom in a matter of seconds, but evidently not quite soon enough. As she pulled his pants down, a small, wet pool ap­ peared. “John Jay!” she screamed. “What did you do?” a sharp smack landed across his exposed bottom. “Sorry, sorry!” he blubbered through his tears. “Not my fault!” “Not your fault? Well, it sure wasn’t mine! Sit down in that corner!” “More work,” she thought. “Always dressing and undressing. What a waste of time.” She fumbled through his drawers until she found a pair of pants. Carrying them back into the bathroom, she threw them in his lap. “Put these on and go in the kitchen and eat your lunch!” Smiling weakly, he muttered, “OK, Sissy.” It was only one o’clock-four hours! There were so many other things to do, and here she was, at home with him. How could anyone enjoy little kids? They didn’t know how to do anything. “Sissy! Come here!” rang a voice from the kitchen. She walked in to see his face lit up with an expectant smile as he said to her: “Watch. Johnny eat.” He tried so hard to please her, to impress her. He carefully steered his spoon from the bowl to his mouth and back again several times. Fighting all the v'hile his childish impulse to pour it from his spoon and see it splat­ ter. He ate it all; even the mushy pieces of celery. His eyes sparkled with anticipation. His little body was tense. He picked up his glass with two short, chubby hands, and drank it without a spill. Turning his milk-rimmed face toward his sister, he smiled triumphantly over his accomplishment. “That’s nice,” was her cold reply. “Now you’re going to put on your coat and go outside to play.” �“Why, cuz?” questioned the boy, slowly lowering himself from his high chair until his tiny toes touched the floor, and then immediately turning loose and dropping to a solid rest. “Cuz I say so, that’s why,” she called over his shoulder. She returned with his coat and cap. Willingly he thrust his arms into the sleeves; she zip­ ped it up. His coat was a vivid blue with small navy emblems on each side at the breast line. His hat, red with blue stripes, snuggled close to his head, leaving only a small portion of his mouth, a button nose and two big, brown eyes exposed. Suddenly, a thought raced through his mind. “Read?” he blurted. “No! I’m not going to read any more of those silly books. Goodbye. Go play,” she said, opening the door. “Bye,” he quipped cheerfully. He was gone. She could again escape from his world of constant de­ mands to hers of repressed desires and wishes. Needs of a sixteen year old are almost as acute as those of a child. Unfulfillment-searching for some­ one and for herself. But escape could not last for long. Reality was ever present, intruding into her more perfect world. Intruding with the child. Why must he always be there? Why couldn’t he leave? She didn’t need him, he was only a bother. Her thoughts were interruped by the opening of the front door. There was no sound except that of the squeaking hinge. After a few minutes had elapsed, a small figure, clad in a bright blue coat, appeared and walked toward her. He climbed up into her lap, his little body still cold from the brisk winter air. He didn’t look at her; his face was expressionless. “What do you want?” she asked, half irritated and half inquisitive. With a sudden surge of affection he threw his arms around her neck, and with child-like simplicity said, “Love. Johnny, Sissy.” The flaxen hair mingled with the darker blond. There were eyes, brown and blue, filled with tears; but they were smiling, both of them, the child and the girl. It was still a cold day, dark day. But the light was beginning to break through, and there was a promise of warmth. A warmth that would in­ crease with the onset of each new season. HELP III To my money problem, there’s ‘ ''' No answer I’m afraid. All my bills are overdue And I am underpaid. � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Text Any textual data included in the document Print magazine story Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource "Burden" and "Help ! ! !" Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/</a> The Casper College Archives has archived this story and poem to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1964 Description An account of the resource Story and poem published by Sheala Dunn in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine. Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sheala Dunn Language A language of the resource ENG Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Dunn Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 3 pages