THE REBIRTH OF INNOCENCE
The sun burning out of the azure sky,
and people blinded by the glaring brilliance,
seek the shade.
Following the Plan, life for them is simple,
but in the street, on sticky tarmac, with red heat
seeping through his shirt the negro stands
and in his face the tortures of life,
because of his innocence.
Eyes open, mouths gape, all the same,
as a tousled youth with slack belly circles,
a knife flashing in his hand
But life goes on unchanged.

In another land, glistening rays search out
the jungle clearing,
interrupting the black and wet tangle of vegetation.
The invigorating surge is momentary.
For there can be seen a man,
his hands bound to a sapling
and the cloth over his eyes drenched with remorse.
Seeing a delirious prisoner gorging abandoned
faeses,

he had shot the emaciated form,
hoping to close his own mind.
Retribution was swift to follow.
At his head point cold rifles, aimed by frigid faces, waiting for the cameraman to change his film.

And when the skies turn red, the lands barren, this will be my ecstasy, the Rebirth of Innocence
K. Robinson, VI.

THE USE OF ADVERTS
Mrs Ideal decided she hadn't had a cup of tea since tea time. She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the North Sea Gas. While she was waiting, she twisted awkwardly inside her fingertip panels and toned up her lips with coral pink. Drinking her cuppa-cuppa-cuppa she glanced at the ever-right on her wrist. It was six o'clock and time to put her husband's tea. She knew she was not a good cook so she threw six cubes of man-appeal into the stew and hoped for the best. However Mr Ideal was not coming home early that night. He had met the Martini people and was so drunk he could not tell the difference between stork and butter. He tried to chat up this Twiggy sitting next to him, flashing his ultra-brights all the time. She moodily looked at the ladder in her pretty polly hold-ups and when Mr Ideal tried to climb it she casually coshed him with a bottle of Sch—you know who. Losing interest he adjusted his crown topper and hush puppied home. His wife was waiting for him. She sat in the kitchen trying to ward off night-starvation and dressed for Slumberland.
I. Sneddon, VI.

THE WOULD-BE ASSASSIN
I remember July 8th, 1943. I lay on top of a deserted three-storey high building. I was in the City of Berlin. I had come on a mission. It was, to my estimations, 0800 hours. It was a dull but warm morning. My right arm was resting on the butt of a .303 rifle lying by my side. I had checked the mechanism four times already and had thoroughly inspected each and every round, which were, now loaded and ready. I waited nervously and peered down at the building opposite me on the other side of a deserted street piled in rubble as a result of bombing. It was well guarded. I could see eight sentries two posted at each door. On the roof flew a flag, not just any flag, but the "Swastika". I knew Hitler, who was the person I had to kill, was inside. After a long hour of tense waiting the door was opened. I reached out for my gun. Three men came outside. Hitler was not amongst them. A man slowly walked down the street and climbed into a car. He drove it to the building. The two other men climbed in but they never left. Then another person came through the door. Yes, it was him. I raised my rifle and peered at him through the sights. He walked down towards the car. He stopped at one of the sentries. I could see by the gestures he made he was angry at him. This was the time for me. My nervously shaking finger found its place on the trigger. I hesitated for a moment. Then I squeezed it slowly. There was a click. The round, to my horror, had misfired. I quickly opened the bolt and the defective round was flicked out. I closed it again. I took a second aim. He had just begun to walk to the car again. I aimed at his head, but not very accurately for he was moving. Now I squeezed the trigger without any hesitation. A shot rang out. The bullet flung his hat off. He looked at it in amazement. I sighed sadly. I had failed.
D. J. Cockburn, IIA.

SUN  GOD
Cold Cheerless Metallic Dawn, Sears across frozen rocky terrain, Prehistoric man stirs and yawns.

Creeping slowly colour seeps through onto
morning sky
Remote and everlasting orb rises, gives forth life always again.
Hands are raised in silent awe as Sun-god dazzles on high.
I. Sneddon, VI.