278 10 9760 https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/cb74cdad7a0b88d2eeaa8a43371be4b8.pdf c931d1267a3f33b5814a494046019ea7 PDF Text Text THE REQUIEM OF ELLIS Jerry Peterson Ellis smiled contentedly to himself. It was the perfect day to do it. He leaned back comfortably against a big cottonwood and gazed across the meadows towards the house. Curly, his old brown dog lay beside him and moved only now and then to snap half-heartedly at an occasional fly. Let’s see, Ellis thought and glanced at his old pocket watch. One o’clock, the folks should be getting home from town in two or three hours. Ellis almost laughed. Won’t they be surprised! All these years, Ellis thought, all these years ever since his mother had died and his old man had pawned him off onto his Aunt Minnie and Uncle George. Ellis let his mind wander back to his mother’s funeral. He could still see Aunt Minnie talking to his father. “Harper”, she had said, “Now that Dotty’s passed on, the boy will need more of a home than you can give him yourself. George and me have talked it over and if you want, we’ll take the boy to live with us. We’ll treat him right, see that he gets his schoolin’ goes to church, and besides he’ll have our Virgil and Sissie for company. “I don’t want to go with them, Pa!” Ellis said. “Take me with you Pa, I won’t be no trouble, honest Pa, let me go with you!” Ellis’s father looked down at his young son. “Your Aunt Minnie is right, boy. I can’t give you no home now. Not what with your Ma passin’ and all.” His father looked back up at his Aunt Minnie. “I’m obliged Minnie that you and George will consider takin’ the boy.” The first couple of years Ellis spent with his Aunt Winnie and Uncle George he never doubted that his father would one day come for him. Ellis gave up hope only after he learned a few years later that his father had married a widow woman who had four children of her own and had moved to Wisconsin with his new family. His father had even written him a letter in which he said he knew Ellis would be much happier living with Aunt Minnie and Uncle George on the farm than coming to live with him and his new family. “You stay and work on that farm boy,” his father had writ­ ten. “You’ll get plenty of good air and exercise there so you’ll grow into a big husky man. The city where were goin’ to live ain’t no place for a boy like you.” After the letter Ellis knew he would probably never see his father again. Ellis let his mind drift back to the present and gazed up at the sun filtering through the big branches of the cottonwood. Twelve years, had it been that long since his mother had died? Twelve —16— �lousy, stinking years on this God-forsaken South Dakota farm. Twelve years with Uncle George and Aunt Minnie and Virgil, the fat slob, and Sissie, the bitch. God how he hated them all. Ever since I been old enough to start doin’ a little work it’s been “Ellis, you do the chores this mornin”. Virgil ain’t feelin’ himself and says he thinks he’ll feel better if we let him rest an extra hour.” Or, “Ellis, you load the wagon up with posts and go up and fix that fence on the section line of the south pasture. Rest of us is goin’ to town and do some shoppin’ and mind you, Ellis, don’t go loppin’ around the house just cause we ain’t here. That fence don’t show improvement when we get home you’re gonna be sorely reckoned with.” After Ellis had finished the eighth grade. Uncle George had told him that was enough schooling for him. He said he wasn’t smart enough to go on anyway and might as well start learning to do a good full day’s work and making a hand. Of course Virgil and Sissie were to be sent on to high school but they were brighter than Ellis. Aunt Minnie would always say; “Just look at Virgil and Sissie’s report cards, George, almost straight “A’s.” Too bad Ellis can’t do as well, or at least a little better.” Of course it couldn’t be, Ellis would think to himself at times like this that if Virgil and Sissie would help with the chores he might get a bet­ card. Of course he never said anything to that effect out loud because Uncle George would have hided him for not being grateful to him and Aunt Minnie for putting him up all these years. Ellis let himself think of how they would react when they found out. Uncle George would probably be a little slow in grasping the situation; he usually was. Aunt Minnie would probably start quoting scripture and praying and wringing her hands like she did whenever she got excited. Virgil would probably faint. Ellis laughed outloud. That slob was the spine­ less worm of spineless worms. Ellis laughed again as he recalled the time he had put the little garden snake in Virgil’s bed covers and how, when he’d turned his bed down that night and saw the little snake, he lost control and wet himself. It had caused Ellis a beating but it had been worth every lick of it. He’ll probably just up and collapse into a big nervous mass of Jell-O when he sees what I’ve done this time, Ellis thought. Of, course, Sissie will figure I done it on account of her teasin’ me all the time. Swinging her little fanny around in them tight jeans of hers and always actin’ so cute. The bitch thinks she’s got every boy in the valley slobberin’ all over himself every time he thinks about her. If she only knew I wouldn’t touch her with a vaccinated crow bar unless it was to bash her stupid head in! A sparrow hawk screamed overhead and Ellis watched it for a moment as it lifted and fell on the easy summer breeze. —17— �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 � 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 Requiem of Ellis" 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 Jerry Peterson 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 Jerry Ellis 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_Peterson 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/a62a4f2f3c273694030d5d33749468b9.pdf c8296fe2f85e328da8c26b6c67b7ebbe PDF Text Text ever constructed, but the huge and snarling waves that were driven by mighty winds took their toll after the Titanic struck the iceburg. Then Yzarc decided to snip off one end of the candy wrapper and analyze its composition by use of the gigantic Xyeometer, but he had only cut a tiny segment of the paper when the intercom paged him. Even this tiny segment was enough . . . for Alaska had never seen the likes before. The earth in Alaska was torn by a terrible earthquake. Huge cracks in the surface of the earth appeared as though they had been cut by a pair of gigantesque scissors. But that is quite preposterous, isn’t it? Or is it? SORROW Sorrow is the lump in one’s throat, The wet handkerchief, The reprimanding finger of a superior. The loss of a loved one; Sorrow is recalling, as we open gifts, that a child born this day will die for us someday! Sorrow is the wind, as it comes and goes A young girl’s doll with a broken leg; Sorrow is the death of a president. The darkness of a cloudy night. Sorrow is Chopin’s Funeral March. Sorrow is like the shadow of a tree, with branches grasping for the soul, to tear it out; Sorrow is one’s head in one’s hands. Sorrow is God’s gift to man. Sorrow is darkness, that we may appreciate light — Sorrow is a vulture that mutilates — that mangles — its host; Sorrow is love. BO I NG! I have a rubber ball. I bounce it down the hall. To this I feel you must agree: At time, my rubber ball is me! —Tom Norman —15— � 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 "Boing!" 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. 1954 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_02 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/3521a4b082f89cc40daef5b7142f034a.pdf af0f4b6a25ed7f17c9fd2be6ceb0e718 PDF Text Text "THE CANDY WRAPPER" James A nschutz Zebux is rising lazily over the distant horizon shedding its nourishing rays over the land. Zebux is the equivalent of the earth’s sun, and is located about 109,000,000 miles from the plant Sram. This plant is where our story takes place. It is early spring on the continent of Kappa around the turn of the century known as the fortieth revolution. Our attention is centered this morning on the person walking slowly up the walk to the main entrance of a sprawling series of buildings known collectively as The National Institute of Biological Research at Sufro. The man carries a battered, brown briefcase and is of slight build. He is in his middle fifties and is almost bald save for a wisp of hair on the upper forehead that continually waves to and fro never remaining stationary. His clothing consists of outdated trousers of nithiun, and a soiled apron which should have long since been subjected to the purifying action of soap and water. Such a description is quite incomplete, however. This man is set apart from his fellow beings for one basic reason which will become more obvious as we proceed. He has a reputation as a lunatic and demented being whose name is synonymous with repugnance and abhorrence in most people’s minds. This is because of his work. Yzarc Sapflo is a mad scientist in the eyes of many and his ideas are extremely radical, to say the least. He believes in the existence of microcosms or little worlds that exist on erasers, door knobs or candy wrappers. The work, thought Sapflo, was obviously going unexpectedly well; per­ haps even somewhat ahead of the rigorous schedule, which had been set by the man himself. Ideas lurched and twisted to free themeslves from the confining recesses of his mind—ideas that seemed to take him gently by the hand, guiding him toward his goal slowly but surely. Here is an intelligent being, a scholar, a genius in every sense of that often misused word. Yzarc Sapflo was a creature deeply and inextricably engrossed in his work, which is a trait typical of a genius. Successful as the work seemed to be progressing insofar as Yzarc was concerned, he could not help but remember the manner in which he had been treated by his fellow scientists and by the public in general. Jibes, cat­ calls, and derision of all sorts had been his lot. Even his wife, Sebna, seemed unusually skeptical toward his work of late, and that had been the hardest of all the numerous blows he had been subjected to since undertaking his present project. Dear Sebna, his crutch to lean upon in time of crisis for some thirty years now, was drifting further and further away from the cause he himself was so very much absorbed in day and night. The physical torture of his prolonged, enervating labor —13— �I had been bad enough, of course, but the mental abuses he had suffered at the hands of his wife seemed at times as insurmountable as did the work itself. Through it all, howbeit, Yzarc struggled doggedly onward. His idea was sound; it was plausible; and he, Yzarc Sapflo, would have the last laugh. His work, if successful of course, would be the answer to all things that hitherto had been the subject of mere philosophical theories. His suc­ cessfully completed undertaking would definitely shatter some of the world’s most cherished and ancient institutions. His name would live forever in history as the man who solved, in great measure, the mystery of life it­ self, and whose achievements in the field of biological research shook the very archstones of civilized life on Sram. Indeed, the shattering consequenc­ es often caused even Sapflo to shudder. What profundity! Suddenly, Yzarc’s assistant, Yesnoo, burst into the room carrying a slide he had just finished preparing for insertion under the microscope and subsequent study by Sapflo. “Ha Ha,’’ the older man chuckled, “just an­ other ‘candy wrapper’ you fool.” Then they both broke down in uncontroll­ able fits of laughter, the kind of laughter that seemed to ridicule the ridicule of those who had less faith in the project in which they so unself­ ishly devoted their time, energy and talent. Anxious to work and find the answer that would immortalize “Sapflo,” Yzarc quickly slipped the new slide under the microscope accidentaly bumping a corner of the paper as he did so. The earthquake had been a severe one. Tremors were recorded all along the West Coast, while San Francisco itself was turned into sheer bed­ lam and catastrophe. Buildings were tossed about as if of eggshell; trains became playthings of the mighty forces of nature. It was as if the city was constructed on candy wrapper tinfoil or cellophane that was crumpled by the arbitrary decree of some unfathomable court of law “Mother Nature.” Over four hundred lives were snuffed out in little more than a flash of the eye; mighty structures that had taken years of painstaking labor to complete were leveled in an awesome display of relentless, unmerciful brutality. The whole calamity was not unlike anger meted out by a huge, unseen hand. Yzarc sat entranced and fascinated at his powerful scope, delving into the unknown, perhaps, as many of his contemporaries had stated, the un­ knowable. He carefully adjusted the fine focus to bring whatever it was he was searching for into view, but nothing, not a solitary thing, was evident to his scientifically keen eye. Stains of infinite colors were tried again as they had been before so many times, but still there was nothing to be seen. In the past the blue stain had given some promise of results when applied on the barren areas of the candy wrapper, and so this was tried . . . and the unsinkable ship sank. It was the year 1912, and it was the finest boat �ever constructed, but the huge and snarling waves that were driven by mighty winds took their toll after the Titanic struck the iceburg. Then Yzarc decided to snip off one end of the candy wrapper and analyze its composition by use of the gigantic Xyeometer, but he had only cut a tiny segment of the paper when the intercom paged him. Even this tiny segment was enough . . . for Alaska had never seen the likes before. The earth in Alaska was torn by a terrible earthquake. Huge cracks in the surface of the earth appeared as though they had been cut by a pair of gigantesque scissors. But that is quite preposterous, isn’t it? Or is it? SORROW Sorrow is the lump in one’s throat, The wet handkerchief, The reprimanding finger of a superior. The loss of a loved one; Sorrow is recalling, as we open gifts, that a child born this day will die for us someday! Sorrow is the wind, as it comes and goes A young girl’s doll with a broken leg; Sorrow is the death of a president. The darkness of a cloudy night. Sorrow is Chopin’s Funeral March. Sorrow is like the shadow of a tree, with branches grasping for the soul, to tear it out; Sorrow is one’s head in one’s hands. Sorrow is God’s gift to man. Sorrow is darkness, that we may appreciate light — Sorrow is a vulture that mutilates — that mangles — its host: Sorrow is love. BOING! I have a rubber ball. I bounce it down the hall. To this I feel you must agree: At time, my rubber ball is me! —Tom Norman —15— � 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 and 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 Candy Wrapper" and "Sorrow" Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1964 Description An account of the resource Story and poem by James Anschutz 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 James Anschutz 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_Anschutz Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 3 pages 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 and poem story to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses. https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/24a1f13ded5bcd147947ed26bb47f941.pdf 907b53565f749e49c28ea86c935b7dcf PDF Text Text THE UNDECIDED TOURNAMENT Brad Morton The ball has been bounced, passed, kicked, and controlled many a time before on many a different floor for many a different tournament under many a different coach. And each time the pace has quickened un­ til the entire audience was frenzied to the state where colors and screams are no longer sufficient to satisfy their much too anxious, jealous, and greedy spirits. However, as the ball has been blurred by the speed with which the players have handled it, so too has it slowed to a dismal loft and thud while the assembly thinned to a scanty few. The glorious but vain trophies are toted away and put on display for all to see, but the players have returned to the sweat and callouses of labor only to await the sum­ mons of another play-off. This evening (evening is assumed for there seems to be no clock in this gymnasium) I sit at the mid-court watching the climatic action of the tournament. Although there is no posted bracket or schedule, everyone is confident this is the final minutes of the last game. The game is a see-saw battle as number 4 leads his Councils quite well against number 5O’s Independents. These two centers have been taking the majority of the shots all game, although 4 has been a little more suc­ cessful than 50. 50’s teamates seem a little more than stubborn about throw­ ing him the ball, while number 4’s crew instinctively focuses on its post man. Inversely, the Independent leader is very sharing with the ball, while the “quad” is a greedy maniac. At the moment the Councils have had great success with the particu­ lar play. The ball is moved into the lower right corner on a sneak play which has been meeting plausive success. The applause seems to be the goal of each team, and this is of course directly proportional to the number of people sitting on my left or on my right. No clock ticks off remaining time, nor have I heard a buzzer denote marked periods of time. Although the players never seem to tire, time­ outs are frequent. The Independents call time out every four minutes so that they might decide whether to maintain confidence in their present coach while the Councils change guidance only when his strategy begins to fail. Time has just been called back in and suddenly the tempo is quick­ ening with every second! Every man is making his moves with more pre­ caution and sharper intensity! The ball is now thundering against the floor with a deafening rapidty! Suddenly the crowd has risen to its feet, and it seems certain the ball will explode under the pressure!!! Oh Lord, I pray that it is filled with only hot air. —12— � 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 Undecided Tournament" 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 Brad Morton 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 Brad Morton 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_Morton 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/d50fb3122dc85ba3590f862042664cbb.pdf 1dfaa54a0f145f2ecb83f28ab90d5f8e PDF Text Text “But David! What about interest and terms of repayment?” “Forget it, Paul. We’ll work it out sometime. It was good to see you, Paul.” “It wasn’t very good to see you, David,” thought Paul as he entered the building. He gave the canvas and an envelope to the elevator girl, walk­ ed back into the street, and lost himself amid innumerable shadows. By some chance David was sitting, with a very warm feeling, thinking about his generosity with Paul when Ann brought the paper-covered canvas and the envelope into his office. The envelope had two pieces of paper in it: the blank check he had given Paul, and a sheet with two spasticly let­ tered words, “Self Portrait.” David stripped the paper from the canvas and gazed with his heart in his throat. In the center of the pitch black canvas was a crudely-done solitary tin cup. PASSION FOR THE NIGHT Engrossed with envy. Prosperity besets me everywhere. Comes the sun, I travel to my burrow and stay there. So low, unable to face humanity, They cringe at the very sight of me. Finally! The deep, dark depths of night rain down, Filling the streets with opportunity abound. Yes, this is my life! I love the day blackened. Now they cannot look upon my face, and I am wretched. —Frank D. Neville SMALL the shockproof . . . the irradiated . . . the white and black . . . days when the quiet pen screams to be used days when you want to jump off the world days when the fulcrum of life tips the distorted perspective of late hours plundering my mind . ... and the world sees me and I am small the world’s critics see me and I am smaller yet. —Steve Halversen —11— � 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 "Small" 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 Steve Halversen 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 Halversen 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_Halversen 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/6136ea5bf9e4c37a943253ac94930b9a.pdf 474023d47345433f6e5d7d9131301580 PDF Text Text “But David! What about interest and terms of repayment?” “Forget it, Paul. We’ll work it out sometime. It was good to see you, Paul.” “It wasn’t very good to see you, David,” thought Paul as he entered the building. He gave the canvas and an envelope to the elevator girl, walk­ ed back into the street, and lost himself amid innumerable shadows. By some chance David was sitting, with a very warm feeling, thinking about his generosity with Paul when Ann brought the paper-covered canvas and the envelope into his office. The envelope had two pieces of paper in it: the blank check he had given Paul, and a sheet with two spasticly let­ tered words, “Self Portrait.” David stripped the paper from the canvas and gazed with his heart in his throat. In the center of the pitch black canvas was a crudely-done solitary tin cup. PASSION FOR THE NIGHT Engrossed with envy. Prosperity besets me everywhere. Comes the sun, I travel to my burrow and stay there. So low, unable to face humanity, They cringe at the very sight of me. Finally! The deep, dark depths of night rain down, Filling the streets with opportunity abound. Yes, this is my life! I love the day blackened. Now they cannot look upon my face, and I am wretched. —Frank D. Neville SMALL the shockproof . . . the irradiated . . . the white and black . . . days when the quiet pen screams to be used days when you want to jump off the world days when the fulcrum of life tips the distorted perspective of late hours plundering my mind . ... and the world sees me and I am small the world’s critics see me and I am smaller yet. —Steve Halversen —11— � Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. 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 "Passion for the Night" 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 Frank D. Neville 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 Frank D. Neville 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_Neville 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/dae6f034b5893d06024da64fe583476a.pdf 366fb731ba6e269978c664b5ea8eb9b4 PDF Text Text SELF PORTRAIT Jim Wade It had been nearly six months since the accident. Paul had adjusted quite quickly. He had never really known how he could paint a landscape in his East Side studio, but now, in his total darkness, he realized he had a photographic memory. Now it was as if he were standing on the steps of “The Americana” watching himself walk down 7th Avenue. The scene was like a film of any afternoon in the city, except that he was the only clear image in the picture, he and the unchanging buildings. The people every­ where around him were only shadows on his mental movie screen. He could see himself with the canvas under his right arm, the white cane over his left. He no longer used the cane except during the rush hours when sidewalk traffic was difficult for him. His light fall suit was threadbare, but he knew it was clean and pressed. He had spent nearly half of his last five dollar bill to make sure of that only the day before. It had been a waste of money and he knew it now. Six months ago he would have been thrown out of David’s office if he had come in with a wrinkled suit. But now he knew David hadn’t even noticed his suit yester­ day. David Goldberg had been Paul’s dealer and benefactor. David was a respected art critic and had a luxurious office suite in a large building on 42nd Street. He remembered yesterday’s conversation with David as clearly as he remembered 42nd Street, onto which he had now turned. The words still drummed in his ears. “Hello, Paul. How very good to see you.” “It’s nice to be here again, David.” “What can I do for you?” “I was just out walking, soaking up the sun and the sounds and—” Paul heard David strike the match and smelled the smoke. David never lit a cigar when he was interested. It disturbed Paul and pushed him to the purpose of the visit before he was prepared. “I need a loan, David.” “Of course, Paul. How much?” “Don’t you want to know what I want it for?” “Certainly not. I’m sure you wouldn’t ask unless you needed it. Just tell Ann how much you need and she’ll write you a check.” “I want to go to school, David.” “Good for you. Ann will take care of it for you.” “I never did anything but paint, David, but they are going to teach me.” “Of course they will. Ann, sign a check for Paul, will you? No amount. I’m glad to help you, Paul. Come see me anytime.” —10— �“But David! What about interest and terms of repayment?” “Forget it, Paul. We’ll work it out sometime. It was good to see you, Paul.” “It wasn’t very good to see you, David,” thought Paul as he entered the building. He gave the canvas and an envelope to the elevator girl, walk­ ed back into the street, and lost himself amid innumerable shadows. By some chance David was sitting, with a very warm feeling, thinking about his generosity with Paul when Ann brought the paper-covered canvas and the envelope into his office. The envelope had two pieces of paper in it: the blank check he had given Paul, and a sheet with two spasticly let­ tered words, “Self Portrait.” David stripped the paper from the canvas and gazed with his heart in his throat. In the center of the pitch black canvas was a crudely-done solitary tin cup. PASSION FOR THE NIGHT Engrossed with envy. Prosperity besets me everywhere. Comes the sun, I travel to my burrow and stay there. So low, unable to face humanity, They cringe at the very sight of me. Finally! The deep, dark depths of night rain down, Filling the streets with opportunity abound. Yes, this is my life! I love the day blackened. Now they cannot look upon my face, and 1 am wretched. —Frank D. Neville SMALL the shockproof . . . the irradiated . . . the white and black . . . days when the quiet pen screams to be used days when you want to jump off the world days when the fulcrum of life tips the distorted perspective of late hours plundering my mind .. .. and the world sees me and I am small the world’s critics see me and I am smaller yet. —Steve Halversen —11— � 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 "Self Portrait" 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 A story published by Jim Wade 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 Jim Wade 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_Wade 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/d2b2fd7353d609e3b0cbeac6545deacd.pdf d0e10f6888739990f51b7543c0d6fe68 PDF Text Text ELEGY ON VELVET PAWS Sandi Anderson The rain came down in soft warm drops that flowed together and ran in rushing torrents down the gutter in the street. He could hear it beating on the trash cans; the drops falling off the fire escape, mixing with the odors of tin, brick, and wet dirt. His name was Joe Trujillo, and he was Puerto Rican. He belonged to, and was the leader of, a street gang called the Diablos. Self-remorse filled him when he thought of the stupidity of trying to take the short cut from the bar, through the dead end alley, up the fire escape and over the roof­ tops—especially alone. He remembered that as he had started to run across the street, the hoods had emerged from a tenement building next door and chased him. They cornered him in the alley and forced him into the sha­ dows. One grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall of the restaurant. “Josie baby, you really got careless, didn’t cha’?” Said the big pimpled face. “Thought yo’d take our turf didn’ ya?” They tore into him with the knucks, holding him up and crashing their brass-covered fists into his body. The last punch wasn’t with their fists, for Joe saw the flash of the shiv as it poped its head out of the fake ivory handle like a rat out of a hole and tore its searing way into his guts. He remembered the last thing he saw: two yellow, staring eyes that belonged to an observant alley cat crouched behind the trash cans, under the fire es­ cape. When he opened his eyes the cat was still there, watching him with the unblinking stare of the centuries. The eyes were set in a silvery coat that caught the glitter of the neon lights. Their eyes met—held. The cold, staring eyes of the cat and the pain-dulled eyes of the boy. As he lay, Joe again marveled at how clear everything seemed to be. He heard the honking of a car horn in the street and the screech of tortur­ ed tires. The purr of the motor was drowned by the rumble of the running feet of the hoods. The angered voice of some nameless man cut through the air, followed by the jeers of the kids and the clank of a manhole cover as tires passed over it. Joe screamed inside, but his voice came only as a helpless gurgle. “Jesus,” he thought, “Can’t they hear me?” He felt himself slipping, fading. Jarring himself awake he thought, “I’m dying!” Then put the thought out of his mind. “It can’t be,” he thought, “They alius say if ya want heart, get Josie!” He slipped into unconscious­ ness as his bloody lips formed the words, get Josie, get Josie. Joe awakened to the sound of shuffling feet. An old man was lifting the lids on the trash cans and carefully replacing them. The old wino was �mumbling, his hands shook, and the saliva ran down his chin in streams that caught in his smoke-yellowed beard. “Don’ none dese bastards ever clean dere ashtrays?” He walked over to Joe. “Whasha matter, buddy?” he asked. “Hey! Ya got a cigarette?” The old man fumbled through Joe’s shirt pocket and took the cigarettes. “Thash whacha git fer drinkin’ too mush!” “No! No! Joe screamed, but the old man was gone. Joe turned pain­ fully and looked at the gaping wound in his stomach. The blood ran over the pavement and he could see his innards. All at once the realization that he was really dying came to him, and he was surprised to find that he wasn’t frightened. He regretted having to leave his sister and nephew, but he knew she could manage all right, with her income. “Only,” he thought, “I hate like hell to be lanoe.” Then he raised his dimming eyes and met those of the cat. His gaze was transfixed by that of the cat . . . he went deeper into the yellow-green .... deeper . . . . deeper, until all was a combination of the soothing effects of color. The sun was shining, and the grey sparrows preened themselves on the edge of the fire escape. The cat stepped out into the sunlight and eyed the lifeless form once more. She stretched and uttered a throaty roar. Languidly stretching once more, she licked a velvet paw and bounded up the fire es­ cape to scratch on her owner’s screen door for breakfast. ROSIE See the rose? Smell with nose. As rose grows, This nose knows. As Petals fall, For nose that’s all. So nose must wait, And wait, and wait. As winter comes, And fall now goes; The north wind blows. And nose now knows That winter has Its own sweet smell; And now on spring He need not dwell. —9— � 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 and 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 "Elegy on Velvet Paws" and "Rosie" 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 the Casper College Expression Literary and 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 "Elegy on Velvet Paws" and "Rosie" by Sandi Anderson 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 Sandi Anderson 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_Anderson 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/f8e440da5c87a86902b20f112588f451.pdf 90b1f5b9dbfb316cc64870edcde0a5c7 PDF Text Text THE REDEEMER Leland L. Bush The new morning sun shone partly through the slats of the boardedup window where the Red Clouds lived. Young Johnny Red Cloud lay star­ ing at the opening which allowed the sun to slip into their one-room shanty. It is Easter morning,” thought Johnny. “Yes, Easter morning. I must not be late for Mass so as not to disappoint Father Mannard, for it is my turn to assist in communion.” Sitting up, hunched over on his knees, Johnny gazed bitterly at the surroundings in which they lived, wondering how God could let them exist in this dump—unfit for a rat’s nest. Lifting his eyes to the cots in which Mr. and Mrs. Red Cloud slept, Johnny wondered if they would come home today or the next. “Probably today,” he thought to him­ self. “Today is Easter and Moore’s Bar will be closed. Then they’ll just lie there. Lie there in their stench, too drunk to brush the flies away.” Johnny felt the cold, hard steel of his gun against his bare leg, the eun he had stolen from the rancher near the mission. He smiled to himself as he thought of his crafty trick: “Right out from under his nose, the stupid white eyes!” The rich rancher would never suspect, for he often saw Johnny at Mass, and who could suspect an altar boy—a child of God. No, he would never suspect. I hate them! I hate the white eyes in their fancy houses and big ranches. Papa is no good; he won’t work. He just sits in Moore’s Bar with Mama and begs what whiskey he can from the proprietor, and ...” “Johnny! Johnny! whispered his younger brother Robert, “are we still gonna go hunting with your new gun before Mass?” Startled, Johnny looked down irritably at the questioning look of his seven-year-old brother. “Yah, sure,” he said, “get your clothes on.” “Robert is too young, six years younger than me, thought Johnny to himself, “too young to know what life is all about. No, he doesn’t understand how the white man can ...” “We must get a big deer and then tonight we can have a feast,” babbl­ ed Robert, excited at going hunting. Will you shut up,” snapped Johnny, “you want to wake your sister?” I m sorry, Johnny, I didn’t mean to make so much noise,” Robert meekly replied. Picking up his newly acquired rifle, Johnny led his younger brother out into the early morning light. They were soon picking their way over rocks and boulders and between the brush and aspen trees which encroached in their path. Occasionally a goss hawk would shrill the air breaking the calm­ ness. Suddenly a jackrabbit veered out from beneath a clump of scrub brush. “Shoot him, Johnny!” yelled Robert, “get him quick!” —6— �“No! No, he is too small,” Johnny retorted sharply, “and for the sec­ ond time today, shut up, or do you want to scare everything away?” The brothers silently continued their hunt, weaving in and out of the underbrush; the younger, stinging from the harsh rebuff of his brother, and the elder, gun in hand, burning with triumph at having swiped the white man’s gun. “Look, Johnny,” whispered Robert, his finger pointing toward a dense growth of trees. Something stirred, rustling the quaker leaves. Quickly, Johnny raised the gun to his shoulder and sighted the trees. Squinting his eyes, he squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked through the still morning air. Robert scrambl­ ed over the rocks and through the brush to the spot, only to stare in dis­ belief at his feet. Johnny ran to his side and gazed down blankly at an in­ nocent bundle of brown fur at his feet—crimson with blood. “Oh,” Johnny gasped, “it’s only a puppy.” Sudden compassion over­ came him, and his eyes blinded with tears and trickled down his dusty cheeks. Robert sadly lifted his dark eyes to Johnny’s face, “Yes, it is only a poor little puppy.” Wiping his face with the back of his hand, Johnny said, “Come on Robert we will be late for Mass and Father Mannard will be angry.” Slowly turning, they started back in the direction they had come. Johnny glanced over his shoulder at the little dog stained with blood and shivered under his shirt. “We will bury him,” said Robert. “God says everyone should be buried.” Looking down at his brother’s round, childish face, Johnny soberly nodded his head in silent agreement. Four hours later, Johnny and Robert returned to bury the little victim they had thoughtlessly slain. They stopped at the aspen grove where the little dog had lain. Now all that remained was a dried patch of blood. The two brothers stood stupified, staring in bewilderment at each other. Then Johnny kneeled beside the empty spot and bent his head on his chest, his long black hair hanging in his eyes. He looked at the stolen gun in his hands and remembered the Priest’s words from Mass: “Take, eat, for this is Christ’s body that died for you. Drink, for this is his blood that was shed for your sins.” “Where is he, Johnny?” asked Robert with pleading eyes. Johnny suddenly jumped to his feet and, with all the strength he could muster, threw the gun against the trunk of a tree. Then he turned, placing his arm around Robert’s shoulder “He is risen, my brother.” —7— � 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 Redeemer" 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. Requests to take this story down should be made to the Casper College Goodstein Foundation Library Western History Center. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1964 Description An account of the resource A story published by Leland L. Bush 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 Leland L. Bush 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_Bush Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 2 pages Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available 2 pages https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/d4ff05a5f39b97c1bdc56101b1824169.pdf b1c3a76accf5d0ec688f2c3304d5903e PDF Text Text vague but something about it made me think it was Doug Bitter. With the exception of my one dimly lighted window, the place was in darkness. I watched the figure move closer to the house, and with sudden sur­ prise a beam of light swept out of the darkness, shone for a moment on the house, then vanished. Startled, the figure crouched at the side of the house porch. It appeared that another figure was now making its way along the path. It seemed to float to within a few feet of the crouching form and then it paused. Because of the darkness and the costume it wore, I was unable to see the new stranger other than as a dark form. Again the first figure was illumined in that blinding flash of light. With a kind of gurgling cry, it sprang upright and started to run toward the cliff’s edge. Doug—if it was Doug—paused and looked wildly around. Suddenly that other shapeless form was behind him. There was a shriek, and Doug, if it was Doug, went hurtling over the edge. I blinked my eyes. There was nothing at the cliff’s edge. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself irresistibly pulled out of the house. I stumbled up the dark path until I could see over the edge of the cliff. A dark form lay sprawled on the cold moonlit rocks below. I straightened up, took a step backwards. Hands dropped upon my shoulders and pushed me forward. I lurched around, freeing myself from the pressure, and swung to catch the wrists. I grasped nothing. Nothing! NOTHING. I hear the same familiar footsteps coming down the corridor to my room as they have for the past nine years. There is the usual pause, then the knock and Nurse Brown’s voice asks, “Mr. Weakly, is your script ready? Then she said a curious thing, as if someone else was there. “We have to keep the patients busy doing something, and poor man, he really thinks they are sold each month.” She paused, then went on, “Yes, just as I thought, word for word, it’s the same one he’s written month after month for nine years. After the same story over and over without a word changed, I sometimes wonder if perhaps he’s not crazy; perhaps such a thing could have happened.” "WHAT A DAY IT HAS BEEN" Tom Norman “Mom,” I called. “I’m going now!” “Oh, honey, do you have money?” “Yes,” I said as I slipped on my coat. “Now, if you should have an accident, do you know what to do? There’s an accident report form in the glove compartment.” “Yes, I know.” —2— �Mom always worried when I took the car. I had been driving for two years, and had never had an accident or a violation, and she trusted me with the car, but she always worried. “Drive carefully, and have fun,” she said as I left the house. I slipped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As I backed out of the driveway. Mom stood and kept the kids from running in back of me. I waved goodbye as I drove away, and turned left at the corner. As I drove along, I thought of the many years I had known Martha, and how, five long days ago, I had finally summoned the courage and fortitude to ask her for a date. I had caught fire inside with joy, and half swallowed the happy lump in my throat when she said “Yes, I’d love to John.” To my way of thinking, Martha was the most beautiful, the most “fun” girl in the world. I simply couldn’t imagine any human being who might be more right for me than she. She was simply wonderful. Well, here was her house! “Stop the car, put on the brake, and don’t forget to remove the key in your hurry,” I said to myself. Approaching the door, I hesitated a moment, but in a final spurt of decision, I pressed the bell. The door opened, and I was suddenly confront­ ed by a solid hulk of man — her father. “Good evening,” he said with a deep, booming voice that seemed to shake the very foundations of the porch. “You must be John.” Stammering, I pulled myself together and managed somehow to spit out the words, “Er, uh, yuh-yes! I - I am!” “Well, come in, John!” “Uh,.... Thank you, sir!” “Thank you,” I said, as I untied the knots in my fingers. “How’ve things been going?” I offered as a conversation starter. “Quite well, thank you.” “I like your house. I think this is really nice.” “Thank you.” Our conversation went on like this, until I finally hit upon the sub­ ject that he wanted to talk about—the high school football game that night. We both wanted the home team to win, of course, but he said he would have to put his money on our opponent. I had to agree. I stood as Martha entered the room, quite beautiful, even in her band uniform which hid her more than ample physical assets. She had red hair and brown eyes, and quite a pretty face. She made my heart go pitterpatter just to look at her. As she approached me, she held out her hand, and I, being the ham that I was took it, bowed to her, and kissed it. Somehow, I felt more com­ fortable with her in the room. �We bade Mr. Patton goodbye, and left the house. She was always such a lady. I liked it, because that allows a man to be a gentleman. I enjoy being a gentleman. Something that a boy of seventeen likes vary much is for a girl to move over to the middle of the seat when she enters the car. Martha did this. When we arrived at the school, Martha took her flute, put the plume on her uniform hat, and handed the hat to me. We ventured on into the school building, and into the bandroom, where we picked up music, glockenspiel, and a few other necessary items. Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the football field, and assumed our places in the ranks of the band. The night was cold, and none of the instru­ ments were warm, so everyone was either flat or sharp, depending on wheth­ er or not they tried to compensate. Cold weather has little, if any effect on a glockenspiel, so I wasn’t on key with anyone. The band sounded pretty bad that night. After the game was over, we went to a drive-in hamburger and coke joint, and each of us had a coke. We sat and talked for a while, and then I took her home by way of the park. We sang a few songs, and the last one we sang was “Almost Like Being In Love” from Brigadoon. It begins with the lyrics, “What a Day It Has Been.” This was our song. I think it was that night I fell in love with her for good. By the way, we won the game! CONDEMNED FREEDOM Steve Halvorsen It seemed she would not or could not catch up with herself. As she walked, her shadow caught on a tree, fell to the ground and stretched as if made of rubber bands. She was certainly no china doll about to break. She seemed capable of stretching into any form imaginable. The whole spring scene appeared as a thick green mist. The figure of the little girl blended in with the landscape like the fluid motion of an impressionistic painting. The continual flow of movement created a romantic frame for her awakened innocent body skipping along through the moist woods. And as the early morning rays of the sun produced a repeated sparkle in her eyes, she would whisper to the flowers the natural and slowly vanishing secrets of her liber­ ated morning in her own little private fantasy world. The true expression of those eyes articulated the final irreducible secret of life itself. She wander­ ed alone in the depopulated environment of the non-objective. She was the pure and simple beauty of innocence. And that innocence was free from any prejudice of the discrimination of race, creed, or color. The anonymous morning was painted with yellow sunlight, while umbered shadows melted � 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 "What a Day it has been" 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. Requests to take this story down should be made to the Casper College Goodstein Foundation Library Western History Center. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 1964 Description An account of the resource Story by Tom Norman 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 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_01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 3 pages