277 10 9760 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 https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/ca5c4cbc9700795342f8cc882c06ecf1.pdf ce8685a5723758465243e6e75e5de091 PDF Text Text THE PERFECT CRIME Jane Logan “Stanford, get your feet off the coffee table, and button your collar,” a shrill femine voice called. “Yes, Eunice,” the harried husband replied as he obeyed. Under his breath, however, he muttered, “just you wait.” Stanford, you see, was going to murder his wife; or as he liked to say to himself, “Do away with the old bag.” He intended to make this the crime of the Gentry—the perfect crime. In fact, it would be so perfect no one would ever know a crime had been committeed. That was his only regret—■ he would never win fame for his greatest achievement. But then, peace of mind was worth more than fame anyway. That very afternoon he initiated step one of O. P. C. (operation per­ fect crime). “Eunice,” he said, “how would you like to do some travelling—see the country. You’ve always talked about doing that. Money’s no object, you know. We can sell the house so we won’t be bothered with renters or care­ takers. Then we’ll just start driving—go where we want, stop when we like. We’ll see the country, then settle down wherever catches your fancy.” Eunice hardly took time to say “Yes” before she began making plans for the trip. She found hundreds of errands for Stanford, she made him carry heavy trunks and suitcases up and down stairs, and she talked con­ stantly in her falsetto voice—issuing commands, commenting, complaining, and giving more orders. While Stanford was working, he was planning. Soon he carried out step two of O. P. C. with Eunice’s full consent and knowledge. He trans­ ferred all of their money to a secret, numbered account in a Swiss bank. Only he and Eunice and his insurance company knew the account num­ ber. Then he reworded his will, so that whoever knew the account number would be his heir. At last the house was sold, the goodbyes said, and the mountain of luggage packed into a shiny new convertible, which Stanford had purchased especially for the trip. Off at last! Eunice back-seat drove, complained constantly, ate vora­ ciously, spent money like a corrupt politician, and mailed dozens of picture postcards to her friends. Stanford smiled throughout the continuous ordeal as he planned step three of O. P. C.—again with Eunice’s full knowledge and consent. “Do you realize, Eunice, the tremendous sum of money you and I’ve spent on life insurance? If only there were some way we could get that money now, while we’re still alive.” —29— �“Isn’t there any way we could get it?” Eunice asked. “Well, yes, but it’s not legal, and if we were caught doing it, we’d go to prison.” “What would we have to do? If we were smart, we wouldn’t get caught.” Eunice replied. “Somehow, we’d have to appear to have died, then when things cooled down, we could withdraw all our own money from the Swiss bank, plus that which the insurance company would deposit to our account if we died.” Under persistent questioning, Stanford revealed his plan. There was a little traveled scenic road on their itinerary. The road twisted down a nar­ row canyon beside a deep, swift river. Stanford recalled that he had once read an account of an auto accident in this canyon. The vehicle had missed a sharp curve and run off into the river. The swift current of the river had apparently torn the lone driver’s body out a window, and his body had never been found. Stanford had studied the situation carefully and decided there would soon be another accident in this canyon. The next afternoon he and Eunice checked into two motels in a large town a six hour’s drive from the canyon. At one motel they registered as the brown-haired couple, Mr. and Mrs. Stanford Wright. They were driving a red convertible with a Missouri license plate. At the second motel they registered as Mr. and Mrs. Henry Smyth. They now had very gray hair and wore sunglasses. They were driving a second-hand car with a temporary permit, which Stanford had just purchased under his new name. Then they went out and purchased new wardrobes and credentials to complete their disguises. Late the following afternoon they checked out of both motels and left—Stanford driving the convertible, Eunice following in the other car. Late that night they reached the appointed place in the canyon. It was the work of only a few minutes to transfer all the personal ef­ fects of the Wrights into the convertible and drive it to the very edge of the river, where the bank dropped straight off into the swirling black waters. Then, leaving the convertible running and in gear, Stanford got out, got into the other car, drove it up behind the convertible and gave it a helpful push. There was a loud splash, a gurgling noise, then only the rushing roar of the waters, Eunice and Stanford climbed into the second-hand car and drove off—now officially Florence and Henry Smyth. The next day they rented an isolated mountain cabin and awaited events. Two days later their efforts were rewarded. The following notice ap­ peared in the newspaper, which Stanford purchased at a gas station a few miles from the cabin. Hunnesville, Colo. (UPI)-—Authorities yesterday discovered a car in the Rio Peligro after an unidentified person notifed them of car tracks which appeared to go directly into the river. A —30— �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. (UPI)—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— � 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 "The Perfect Crime" 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 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 published by Jane Logan 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 Jane Logan Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Logan Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 3 pages https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/9835751b3d55970fdd3aa8dbbfc5dd29.pdf 695ed3f81a4a4e3f733deabe1448ea4d PDF Text Text been foreseen by the liberals. The common man’s desires far sur­ passed his abilities. No matter how much was taken from the uncommon man and given to him, he still wanted more. The politicians, wanting to please the majority, obliged. But soon big government was taking so much from the uncommon man, he himself chose to be common. He gave up. His incentive was gone, and now, like in Russia, everyone was equal. “Certainly there were those who had had the courage to point out the similarities between Communism, and the direction we were moving. But they, like me, were quickly branded extremists or crackpots, and were soon silenced.” And after all, hadn’t the majority wanted this? When our country was first formed, he recalled, it was realized that the majority was not al­ ways right, that a democracy would not work. And so a Constitution was written to safeguard the Republic against the will of the majority, so it could long endure. But later the philosophy of “the majority is always right” was adopted along with the concept that all men are equal. “And today, in 1994, man’s freedom is gone, his incentive, his dignity, and his individuality.” The old man looked at the red, white, and blue flag waiving in the breeze, thought of what it once stood for, and wept. ONE HAND CLAPPING A clairvoyant nonentity That unheard applause An unblusterous flush of air That resounds a million times over. A void and different insolence That lies unquenched in a gaping world. The monologue of a revolting and respondent searcher It is that unconsolable osmosis that no one hears And it feels for help in an obscene and noxious world. A blind nothingness flapping its wings toward escapism. That sound .... a discordance between insanity and extinction. A false hope in a world of revolving death and destruction Yet a lucidly painted portrait of a zenith of faith in the unknown. But a schizophrenic fissure of a lost mind somewhere In the vast perplexity and nonexistence of infinity. This is the sound of ONE .......... HAND of CLAPPING —Steve Halverson � 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. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print poem 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 "One Hand Clapping" 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 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 Poem published by Steve Halverson 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 Steve Halverson Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Halverson Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 1 page https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/35a1a603c0f33cea745a41ccacc66918.pdf f8b42b240125253f7673d8a3d608a399 PDF Text Text fore I brought my eyes back to the scene of action, we had recovered a fumble. We had the ball! I was shouting to the players, “Sit on it, sit on it fellas, we’ve got to hold on to that football!” 1 was shaking in my shoes, we were so close to a victory, the first victory in the history of the school. Tick, tick tick, the clock moved on, slowly and surely. Two minutes to go, we still had the ball, then a fumble. Oh God, we had lost the danged thing again! My heart jumped and pounded furiously. This was no place for a weak heart. I watched, anticipating every move. I saw the pass from the opposi­ tion hit the air, I watched the receiver snatch the ball out of the air, and then I watched him carry it in for the winning score. But wait! A flag was down! A penalty, the ball was called back! I was jumping up and down, the clock ran out, we had won! I was so happy I could hardly stand it. One of my players, the same one I had chatted with the first half, came by, took one look, and chimed, “Coach, you’re crying.” I looked at him and smiled, “Yeah, I’m crying.” THE CREEPING JOHNNIES Here they come! Whispering, sighing, feeling Their way through the trees. Here they Come! Veiling, hiding, masking Everything in their way. It was warm before. Now they are here! Turning everything COLD, COLD, COLD, OH, SO COLD! My Singing Tree is silent Oh, so silent. Wrapped in a mantle of Wisping, clinging, grasping Creeping Johnnies. Ah! there they go! The sun is glinting through The Singing Tree, silent no more. Is happy that they are gone. —Carolyn Adams � 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 poem 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 "The Creeping Johnnies" 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 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 Poem published by Carolyn Adams 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 Carolyn Adams Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Adams Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPG Extent The size or duration of the resource. 1 page https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/c64485937bab5c99940c10927bee68b9.pdf 3fa14a757abd9a3d094ccf075696ad47 PDF Text Text Hal Hardy The tanned, white haired man sat in his favorite ehair, his sad eyes scanning the beautifully mysterious desert, which was his home. The year was 1994 and much had changed since he was a young man. The country he loved so dearly had died. Oh, the nation was still all in one piece, no bombs had been dropped but the spirit of the individual who had built the nation was gone forever. He remembered that once the people had died for their freedom. At one time, he recalled, the American people preferred the challenges of life to the guaranteed existence of today. But today there is no freedom in the land, only freedom from hunger and need. “It is true that everyone is se­ cure”, he thought. Everyone has a free meal, a nice roof over their head, free medical expenses, and a car. How ironic that the American Negro had practically the same thing over a hundred years ago when he was a slave. His needs were looked after, and he was secure, yet the highest honor our government could bestow on the Negro then was to set him free of all his security of being a slave.” The American people, slowly but surely, had decided that security was more important than freedom. The Constiution once was a thing to die for, now it was ignored. The old man recalled when law and order had been ig­ nored too, and now those very people who had abused their freedom were today victims of their own selfish interests. It had all started very slowly, this something for nothing attitude of the American people. Surely nothing could be wrong with Social Security, the people had thought. And then came socialized medicine, and urban re­ newal, and federal aid for this, and federal aid for that, and still the people did not realize. Where once the promise of freedom was enough, in recent years the elections had become merely a contest between the two political parties, to see which one could offer the most security. The old man recalled that thirty years ago he had promised the people nothing but their dignity and freedom, opportunity and challenge. “Pretty old fashioned I guess,” he thought, “thinking that the American people were still ambi­ tious enough and proud enough to want to look after themselves.” His opponent on the other hand had promised the people everything, and the next thirty years had proven disasterous. Certainly it was hard for the people to realize the direction we were moving. Business was booming, most people had enough to eat. After all, wasn’t this all that mattered? He recalled the campaign slogan, “take from the haves and give to the have nots.” At the beginning the redistribution of income worked fine, fine that is for the “have-nots.” However, the fallacy of the system had not —27— �been foreseen by the liberals. The common man’s desires far sur­ passed his abilities. No matter how much was taken from the uncommon man and given to him, he still wanted more. The politicians, wanting to please the majority, obliged. But soon big government was taking so much from the uncommon man, he himself chose to be common. He gave up. His incentive was gone, and now, like in Russia, everyone was equal. “Certainly there were those who had had the courage to point out the similarities between Communism, and the direction we were moving. But they, like me, were quickly branded extremists or crackpots, and were soon silenced.” And after all, hadn’t the majority wanted this? When our country was first formed, he recalled, it was realized that the majority was not al­ ways right, that a democracy would not work. And so a Constitution was written to safeguard the Republic against the will of the majority, so it could long endure. But later the philosophy of “the majority is always right” was adopted along with the concept that all men are equal. “And today, in 1994, man’s freedom is gone, his incentive, his dignity, and his individuality.” The old man looked at the red, white, and blue flag waiving in the breeze, thought of what it once stood for, and wept. ONE HAND CLAPPING A clairvoyant nonentity That unheard applause An unblusterous flush of air That resounds a million times over. A void and different insolence That lies unquenched in a gaping world. The monologue of a revolting and respondent searcher It is that unconsolable osmosis that no one hears And it feels for help in an obscene and noxious world. A blind nothingness flapping its wings toward escapism. That sound .... a discordance between insanity and extinction. A false hope in a world of revolving death and destruction Yet a lucidly painted portrait of a zenith of faith in the unknown. But a schizophrenic fissure of a lost mind somewhere In the vast perplexity and nonexistence of infinity. This is the sound of ONE .......... HAND of CLAPPING —Steve Halverson � 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 <em>Hal Hardy</em> 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 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 titled&nbsp;<em>Hal Hardy&nbsp;</em>published in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine. Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Hardy Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 2 pages https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/b3c45b579b55d203717e1af1a4659e1a.pdf c1854a81215735d3bcd0d7b6a5716110 PDF Text Text IT TAKES HEART Bill Bolles I could hear my assistants yelling their heads off. It was the eighth time in two months that I had been here sitting in the corner, on the floor, with my head bowed wondering where I had gone wrong. I was the head football coach at a new high school, and it half time in our game; we were losing 13-0. So far the team had a perfect record, no wins and eight de­ feats. We had come into the game, I felt, with a strong chance of winning, but mistakes, single little mistakes that we had made over and over, time and time again, had spelled defeat. Well, the team was trying very hard, but we were still making stupid little mistakes, and we were still losing. I got up from my lonely corner, where I had been feeling sorry for myself, and went back into the dressing room. “All right,” I quipped, “What’s wrong with you guys?” Quiet enveloped the room, everyone was hanging their heads for they couldn’t face me. “Are you gonna quit?” 1 got a little carried away and be­ gan to yell freely.” “You’re beatin’ yourselves kids, you guys have lost all your respect, half of you don’t belong in a football uniform, you get down and you quit!” The team still bowed their heads, they didn’t like to lose, but a loung team with no seniors, and the rest with little or no experience had a pretty tough fight to stay alive in this fast game of football. I was mad now, I couldn’t stand to see my ball club humiliated and pushed around; we were like ants, we got kicked, stepped on, and killed all at once. “When are you gonna start playin’ ball?” 1 asked. “Lay down and die, don’t fight back, but don’t ask me for sympathy after we lose again. What does it take, an­ other 38-0 stomping like last week? Think about it kids, if you’ve got any respect for yourselve, if you’ve got any guts, if you’re not afraid to go knock heads, go out there and tie that game up.” A few of the players looked up, but for the most part, they were all looking down as we took the field for the second half. For some reason I felt my little lecture might have done some good, but my hopes were soon destroyed, for no sooner had play resumed than we were down, 20-0. We began to rally back briefly, but we couldn’t keep pace, the opposing team hit the board again; we trailed 27-0. As the game ended, I was simply discouraged. I had given up a fine job as assistant in a school system that had been the home of the state football championship for three years. Sure I figured for the worse when I came here, but 1 didn’t expect to get slaughtered every time out. We had played eight games and only hit the scoring columns twice. We scored twice in one game, the rest of the time we had been shutout. We had played a couple of games good enough to win, but other times we played like a �■■■ w group of girls. I was completely down, I was ashamed of my team. I felt maybe they didn’t care anymore. I tried to ask myself where 1 had been wrong, why didn’t we win just a few times? I was beginning to feel that I hadn’t gained the confidence of my players, maybe I hadn’t done my job as a coach. Sitting in the corner at half time seemed to be the only thing to do, for if I had failed the team, I didn’t want to face them. Everyone was chanting win; the school, the team, the newspaper, but we still lost. Twelve boys quit for assorted reasons, mostly my strict train­ ing rules. My problems seemed to mount with each day; we were young, inexperienced. 1 had watched the guys make mistakes we should never have made, 1 corrected the mistake and watched them make another one or the same one over again. I was at the point 1 couldn’t sleep at night, 1 had lost my appetite; I soon discovered why some coaches get ulcers. The week passed quickly, soon the last game of the season would be here. People were asking me how 1 felt about losing and about the next game. The only thing I could say was that we were still trying, as long as we don’t quit, we have a chance to win. If we play good ball, we can win. Good ball, easier said than done, I thought to myself. So many things would have to go right for us to win, we can’t even get one thing for us consis­ tently. Friday night arrived and we took the field against our ‘cross town ri­ vals. No one felt we had a chance, and 1 prepared to resume my position at half time. I was discouraged before the game started, but for the first time, the team seemed to be fired up. The coaching staff, including me, was not ready to quit, we thought we could win. In the dressing room I gave a few words of encouragement before we took the field. “I’m going to leave you alone tonight, this one is up to you. If you want to win, go get it, if you don’t want to win, let’s just stay in here and save ourselves some work.” No one moved, then at the call from the field, we made our way out, full of chatter and spirit. The first half was a sight that I had seen over and over. The opposi­ tion hit pay dirt twice in the first six minutes of play. I kept getting angrier and angrier with each play and the team’s ego shot straight down. Trying to keep my head up with pride, I found that the team was ashamed of themeselves and I was ashamed of them, along with my ill fate. Each time we started to drive into enemy territory, something happened and we blew sky high. Late in the second quarter we stopped a long drive by our rivals, only to fumble, lose the ball, and have another touchdown scored. The half ended, 1 slowly trudged to the locker area trailing 20-0. One of my players came up to me and asked, “What’s wrong with us coach?” “If I knew that, our problems would be solved. We’re not hitting, we have no guts, and no one cares,” I answered. —24— �“We can’t get going, coach,” came a reply. “Get goin’, you guys haven’t moved, this is the last game of the sea­ son and you havn’t showed me that you’re a ball team.” In the locker room, I sat down in the corner again, almost on the verge of tears. I had great respect for my ball team, and I just couldn’t stand see­ ing them beaten this way. It hurt me to see another ball club insult us this way. I sat there for about six minutes, although it seemed as if I had been there for an hour. I heard my staff going over the mistakes in the first half, I had heard the questions, in fact, I had heard all I could stand. I got to my feet and walked into the room. Everyone was quiet now, as they were wait­ ing for me to make my comments. Scratching my head I commented, “Okay, we’re down but not out, I challene you to show me that you are a football team. You can win it or you can lose it, it’s up to you.” The team fired up again as they left the room for the field. I had given up almost to where it didn’t matter anymore. It had been a long season, I wanted to get it over with. We took the opening kickoff, marching up field in four plays to score. I couldn’t believe it, we scored a touchdown. I almost came to life, but be­ fore I could get my bearings, we got the ball back and hit pay dirt again. Suddenly I became hyperactive, I started yelling, my head came up, I sensed something, we had jelled. The defenders couldn’t stop us in the third quarter, we were moving well, and for the third time in eight minutes, we took the pigskin into the end zone to score. The extra point was good, and for the first time in the history of the school, we were leading, 21-20. The third period ended; the hardest part of football was now upon us, we didn’t have the ball, we were in the lead, and we had to hold that lead, we had to stop them from scor­ ing. I found myself running incircles, shouting, “Get tough! Hustle, hustle! Hold tight boys, hold on!” Sweat poured from my head, I was actually excited. Eight minutes remained, they had the ball on their own thirty. First I was up, from one side of the bench to the other, then I squatted down, I could not take the suspense, I was up and pacing again. How much longer could they hold? The opposing forces took the ball to the midfield, seven minutes left. I was scared, we had to hold, we couldn’t let down. The time ticked away, oh, so slowly. I had never endured such a thing, I would never last the ball game; five minutes showed on the clock, my heart flut­ tered with every second of it. The crowd began to get restless, they could not take the actions eith­ er, they wanted someone to score again. I kept eyeing the clock; they start­ ed to move the ball well against my defense when I looked at the board, be—25— �fore I brought my eyes back to the scene of action, we had recovered a fumble. We had the ball! I was shouting to the players, “Sit on it, sit on it fellas, we’ve got to hold on to that football!” I was shaking in my shoes, we were so close to a victory, the first victory in the history of the school. Tick, tick tick, the clock moved on, slowly and surely. Two minutes to go, we still had the ball, then a fumble. Oh God, we had lost the danged thing again! My heart jumped and pounded furiously. This was no place for a weak heart. I watched, anticipating every move. 1 saw the pass from the opposi­ tion hit the air, I watched the receiver snatch the ball out of the air, and then I watched him carry it in for the winning score. But wait! A flag was down! A penalty, the ball was called back! I was jumping up and down, the clock ran out, we had won! I was so happy I could hardly stand it. One of my players, the same one I had chatted with the first half, came by, took one look, and chimed, “Coach, you’re crying.” I looked at him and smiled, “Yeah, I’m crying.” THE CREEPING JOHNNIES Here they come! Whispering, sighing, feeling Their way through the trees. Here they Come! Veiling, hiding, masking Everything in their way. It was warm before. Now they are here! Turning everything COLD, COLD, COLD, OH, SO COLD! My Singing Tree is silent Oh, so silent. Wrapped in a mantle of Wisping, clinging, grasping Creeping Johnnies. Ah! there they go! The sun is glinting through The Singing Tree, silent no more. Is happy that they are gone. —Carolyn Adams � 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 non-fiction 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 "It Takes Heart" 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 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 Non-fiction story published by football coach Bill Bolles 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 Bill Bolles Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Bolles Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 4 pages https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/e413e58e4cca64e74aa15d5d999076b8.pdf 9fa72ff5ab2f377471cc31733a678cc0 PDF Text Text non-white. They waited. The weary, half-starved faces of those around him reflected the dis­ couragement and helplessness he was feeling. It was now almost 5:00 p.m. He had waited through the noon hour, thinking that he might miss a good chance if he left. About 6:00 p.m. the office closed and with its workers left a young Negro father whose wife works irregular hours, whose son dies as he waits. But there is always tomorrow. STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN Jacob. See, Jacob? Staircase, Jacob. Long way up there, Jacob. See the top way up there, Jacob? Listen! I hear somethin’ cornin’, Jacob. Soon there’s got to be a reward cornin’, Jacob. But now you must admit, repent your old sins, Jacob. There’s the only way you’ll ever get to heaven now, Jacob. Jacob Jacob Jacob Jacob. —Tom Norman VICTORY Like a falcon in the sky. Triumphantly passing others by. The victorious chant and scream. And yet, may not know what they mean. Meanwhile, the conquered must bow down. And lose possession of their noble crown. But, who really won in the end? Of course, those who had the most to spend. THEIR GOALS It’s true, the components of this marvelous age. Want it all in black and white on this very page. Not to think, contemplate, decide, and do. But rather, to merely follow through By Plan A, let the flower bloom. That’s what they want — Security of the tomb. —Ronnie Forgey —22— � 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 poems 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 "Victory" and "Their Goals" 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 these two poems 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 Two poems published by Ronnie Forgey 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 Ronnie Forgey Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Forgey Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 1 page https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/9baac3ba0ec77e82995027b5336bd9f0.pdf 9c7280ac669944b370de99f74d3e7d95 PDF Text Text non-white. They waited. The weary, half-starved faces of those around him reflected the dis­ couragement and helplessness he was feeling. It was now almost 5:00 p.m. He had waited through the noon hour, thinking that he might miss a good chance if he left. About 6:00 p.m. the office closed and with its workers left a young Negro father whose wife works irregular hours, whose son dies as he waits. But there is always tomorrow. STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN Jacob. See, Jacob? Staircase, Jacob. Long way up there, Jacob. See the top way up there, Jacob? Listen! I hear somethin’ cornin’, Jacob. Soon there’s got to be a reward cornin’, Jacob. But now you must admit, repent your old sins, Jacob. There’s the only way you’ll ever get to heaven now, Jacob. Jacob Jacob Jacob Jacob. —Tom Norman VICTORY Like a falcon in the sky. Triumphantly passing others by. The victorious chant and scream. And yet, may not know what they mean. Meanwhile, the conquered must bow down. And lose possession of their noble crown. But, who really won in the end? Of course, those who had the most to spend. THEIR GOALS It’s true, the components of this marvelous age. Want it all in black and white on this very page. Not to think, contemplate, decide, and do, But rather, to merely follow through By Plan A, let the flower bloom. That’s what they want — Security of the tomb. —Ronnie Forgey � 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 poem 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 "Stairway to Heaven" 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 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 Poem published by Tom Norman 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 Tom Norman Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Norman_03 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 1 page https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/89621551facfb32247044c8492733c64.pdf 626d75fa3e8c88accd3e19425bda8c7f PDF Text Text TOMORROW Peg Meece He tucked the thin, tattered, blue blanket beneath his son’s chin be­ fore he left the apartment, which was typical of most Harlem apartments— unheated, ill-lighted, and without hot water. The young girl who lived in the next apartment would come in and check the boy if she heard him cry­ ing through the thin wall of the apartments. He walked down 58th street towards the subway, his spirits beginning to lift as the filthy smog and dank atmosphere fled before the morning sun. Perhaps today would be different. Today he would go home with a job. He had been unemployed for over a year now, and was about to give up. He knew he had lost his pride, but he also knew that it would return if he found a job. Before, people had always been against him, but now he was in New York City, the showplace of the United States, where all men were equal as God had created them. Equal to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. “Pursuit of happiness,” he mused. “What chance would a guy like me have for happiness? Millions are enslaved by communism, but I am free, free to pursue happiness. True, I can’t find a job and bills are long over-due, but Bess is working. I’ll find a job soon, and little Billy will be able to play in no time. Pneumonia! What does the doctor know? Billy just has a little cold.” He now turned a side street and reached the subway. He paid from the few coins that Bess had left him, and after a few moments was racing below the streets of New York, showplace of Democracy. When he got off, he then walked the rest of the way to the Unemployment Bureau. After leaving his name at the desk, he was asked to sit down. There he waited. He recog­ nized most of the waiting people. Some children, who had been brought by their parents were chasing balloons of red, white and blue. Others, who had grown weary, were rapidly falling into the sleep of children, peaceful and innocent. Most of the people there were Negroes, like himself, or Puer­ to Rican. They waited. About an hour later a young couple lounged up to the reception’s desk after rudely bumping, and nearly knocking down an elderly woman. “Why don’t ’ya watch what you’re doin’, Spic?” the young Lady sneer­ ed at the bewildered immigrant. Her companion was in the characteristic black leather jacket, tight jeans, sunglasses, and long greasy hair. The girl wore a tight-fitting skirt and sweater, with curlers in her hair which she occasionally replaced. Both seemed to be under twenty. After a few moments, they were interviewed and promised a job within the next few weeks. Still he waited. Still most of the others waited. Three-fourths were —21— �non-white. They waited. The weary, half-starved faces of those around him reflected the dis­ couragement and helplessness he was feeling. It was now almost 5:00 p.m. He had waited through the noon hour, thinking that he might miss a good chance if he left. About 6:00 p.m. the office closed and with its workers left a young Negro father whose wife works irregular hours, whose son dies as he waits. But there is always tomorrow. STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN Jacob. See, Jacob? Staircase, Jacob. Long way up there, Jacob. See the top way up there, Jacob? Listen! I hear somethin’ cornin’, Jacob. Soon there’s got to be a reward cornin’, Jacob. But now you must admit, repent your old sins, Jacob. There’s the only way you’ll ever get to heaven now, Jacob. Jacob Jacob Jacob Jacob. —Tom Norman VICTORY Like a falcon in the sky. Triumphantly passing others by. The victorious chant and scream. And yet, may not know what they mean. Meanwhile, the conquered must bow down. And lose possession of their noble crown. But, who really won in the end? Of course, those who had the most to spend. THEIR GOALS It’s true, the components of this marvelous age. Want it all in black and white on this very page. Not to think, contemplate, decide, and do. But rather, to merely follow through By Plan A, let the flower bloom. That’s what they want — Security of the tomb. —Ronnie Forgey � 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 "Tomorrow" 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 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 by Peg Meece published 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 Peg Meece Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Meece Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 2 pages https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/0967cad7d3cac33b956b4d64aac89412.pdf a53758594ae0b93ea7065744d8174a9e PDF Text Text I’ll be like that soon, Ellis thought, as he watched the hawk skip and bob in the pale, warm summer sky. No fences, no boundaries, no more Uncle George and Aunt Minnie, fat Virgil or bitch Sissie. Just freedom like the sparrow hawk. Ellis glanced at his watch again. Twenty minutes till two. Well, he thought, now is as good as time as any. He reached over and scratched the old brown dog beside him. “A couple more hours and we’re even with them Curly,” he said. “Even for the last twelve years we’ve spent on their rotten, stinkin’ farm. Then Ellis put the barrel of the gun against his temple and slowly squeezed the trigger. Overhead the sparrow hawk screamed. THE ELEGY Richard F. Miracle The town of Holton seemed to be in a trance tonight or so it would appear to a stranger. It was Friday which on a normal week would be very active, but tonight the populus stayed at home and waited. The people had known three months ago it would be like this. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it was supposed to be the last. On the second floor of the hotel a man could be seen looking out to­ wards the end of the town. In most respects he was the average man in every . His only difference was the peculiar smile on his face. Tonight was his night and his alone as far as he was concerned, but then he was not the only one concerned. Then there was a rap on the door and he new it was time to leave. With the moves of a cat he walked over and opened the door. “My escort for tonight, I suppose?” asked Chester. “Yes sir,” replied the guard. “I will get my coat and we can be off immediately, for I do not want to be late,” said Chester. Upon reaching the front of the hotel Chester looked up the street to see no more than a very quiet town. The glummest of feelings could be perceived in the light of a million stars and a full moon. “The town could pass for a ghost town tonight,” said Chester. “Yes, I believe it could,” replied the guard. “By the way, sir, is it al­ ways this quiet when you come here?” “Yes,” said Chester, “this will be my thirteenth trip in the last six years and it is always the same. Also between here and our destination you will find the same number of blocks. Tonight I will finish naming the blocks.” “What names do you give them?” asked the guard. “Well, as I have said, I started six years ago with my first task,” said Chester, “and each time I return I name another block. This first one is �named after Jack Madrid. A home town boy was Jack and the people still remember what he was. Jack being my first I remember him very well, but the others I try to find a symbol in their block.” “Did you ever hear of him?” asked Chester. “No,” said the guard, “I haven’t.” “Well never mind,” sneered Chester. “The next two blocks are quite a rarity in that they are brothers. That is they are named after Earnest and King Hall. I bet I am the only one on record to be accorded the honor of brothers. Now to remember Earnest I think of the big buildings in his block and how the people of this town earnestly believe the town will grow. Now look at the middle house in this third block, doesn’t it look like a cas­ tle?” asked Chester. “It is a big place all right,” remarked the guard. “The appearance of the next block is that of the rough life the town has had to go through. It fits nicely the name of my next person who went by the monicker of Callous Harding. He was a fighter in a way and you might say the same about this block, neither one wants to give up its hold on life. Callous even fought me, but I jolted him into reality. “Number five here is the one that I was given a bigger writeup in the paper than Happy Spedman. After it was over the newspapermen inter­ viewed me for the first time. When the paper came out and every one found out that I was naming these blocks the people here got pretty mad. I was worried that I might lose my job, but the excitement has long been for­ gotten. Looking into the next block there rest the prettiest house and also Artie Maxon the number six man. Now Artie was almost perfect in all his ways except he made that one fatal mistake. He got to the point of being too perfect and finally broke under pressure. I always had great respect for him as I like to be neat in my work too, and take great pride of a job well done. “Never was I so happy though as when I slowed Speedie Johnson down. No one felt sorry for Speed though. 1 guess that was because of the record he had run up and everyone wanted him off his feet. Speed never did have any education and this made the people mad. Speed was number seven, and I guess that is all that can be said about him.” “Don’t you have anything to remember him by, sir?” “Remember Speed? No, but take Hex Tully, he was easy to keep track of. Why his wife was waiting for him, and also about thirty newsmen and even a telivision station. If you ever want to write aa human interest story, look up the facts about him. His wife never gave up hope until she saw the lights. Yes. sir, quite a story there. By the way did you know I had a woman on my honor roll?” “A woman, sir?” “Sure, why that was the biggest honor to be bestowed on me in the past years. Jane Lastly was her name. She was the sweetest looking little thing. �I even felt a little pity, or no, I guess you could say love for her. I even set up the small memorial on the corner of this block. Almost all the people were against it and for a while 1 thought they might win out over the rest of us. They didn’t though, so she became my ninth.” “Did you regret it afterwards, sir?” “Nope, I have never regretted any of my actions. Have you noticed how big this tenth block is?” “Never paid it the slightest attention, sir.” “Very few people do but the size always reminds me of Nope Ander­ son. He was a great hunk of man. A lumberjack by trade and a good one, too. He got sidetracked somehow and then we had to meet. He took it like a man with not even a peep out of him. Now Scape Peerson who happened to be a friend of Nope’s was just the reverse. He cried, pleaded, and then went into a fit. I couldn’t see why Nope even put up with him. “Scape was number eleven for me. It was about this time that I felt I would get the chance to name all the blocks. You just don’t know how it feels to accomplish this great feat. “The last time I was here it was for Tardy Bendal. I was almost late for him. I am like the postman in that nothing can hold me back from keeping my appointments. Tardy was just a run of the mill type person though. I suppose that is why I didn’t place much importance in his case. “I guess that brings us up to the last and final block. In a few minutes it will carry the name Lucky Hartfiels. I hope you have liked my explana­ tions and have taken care to remember the names of the blocks,” said Ches­ ter. “I guess I can always look up the names on the record if I forget.” “Yes, 1 suppose you can. Well, I must get inside and see to my equip­ ment. Sure don’t want to disappoint anyone who is waiting.” The town of Holton was waiting and they didn’t have long to wait that night. The lights of the town all went dim at the same time and they knew. DAILY TIMES May 14, 1952 Early Edition Last night Chester Elegy the state executioner was killed by a short in the lever that sends electricity to the chair. The intended victim Lucky Hart­ fiels will be held over until the electrical system is repaired and a new exe­ cutioner is appointed. This was to be the last excution as it is expected that the state legislature will pass the bill next month to do away with capital punishment. � 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 "The Elegy" 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 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 by Richard F. Miracle published 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 Richard F. Miracle Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. 1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Miracle Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 3 pages