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Apotheosis 1967, The Niles West High School literary magazine published several ever-so-earnest prose and poetry pieces.
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Today we are reaching far back in to the mists of time
to a high school in Skokie, Illinois where a hick kid from Cheyenne
first stretched his legs and dreamed of literary glory. I am exposing the world to that pompous young
ass with this selection from Niles
West’s annual literary magazine Apotheosis for 1967. The amazingly patient and encouraging Richard Gragg was the faculty sponsor
but the selections were made by a board of students. I was over represented—four prose pieces and
three poems. I was deeply disappointed
that all were credited to Pat Murfin instead
of the far more tweed-jacket-with-elbow-patches-and-pipe-smoking-dust-jacket-photo
P.M. Murfin under which I had
submitted my work. Did I mention I was
full of myself? This is one of the prose pieces. More may be forthcoming from time to time
unless I come to my senses.
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Niles West High School, a sprawling place with more students than most Wyoming towns.
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A Minor
Miracle
The string was stretched across his path—not a really a string but a hairy-yellow twine of hemp. And a crude paper sign dangled from the string,
“Do not cut String.”
“I’m going to cut
it,” he said as he fished for the
knife in his pocket.
“It’s just a simple rule-don’t do it.” She·pleaded with
him and there was a kind of fear in her
eyes.
“I don’t like rules.” “Please don’t.” “Why not ?”
She searched her
mind briefly then
answered, “Maybe it
holds the world up.”
“A little string ? It’s only a
rule. I hate rules.” He opened the knife and cut the string.
Nothing happened except the string broke and fell and the
paper came loose and parachuted to the ground. “Only a rule.” He took her hand and they walked on.
The road was dirt and when it was dry, they were surrounded by beige-dusty clouds.
When the road was wet, it clung to their boots and could not be shaken. But they did not notice the dust or the
mud. They walked on.
At the end of the road was a big building of grey stone
and red mortar. It had a green tile roof
and gothic-arched doorways. The others said it was a beautiful building, but he
looked at it and only thought it was big. He reached for the heavy silver handle on the
heavy ebony door and with all his strength swung it open. They walked
in.
They were in a long hall with a high vaulted ceiling. Purple tapestries hung on the wall.
The floor was a golden mosaic.
And the ceiling shined of mother-of-pearl. “You are here,” the big man said.
“Yes, we have come.”
“You cut the string.”
“Yes.”
“It was against the rules.” “I don’t like rules.
“It was a bad rule, a stupid rule,
an unbeautiful rule.”
“It was a rule and rules are to be followed.”
“A string
should not fence in a man.”
“Would you rather have iron bars?”
“I would have
no barriers. But iron bars make more sense. To trap
a man you need more strength.”
She saw that the big man was getting angry and started pleading with him, “Please, sir, it was only a small rule. He
didn’t hurt you.”
The big man turned to her. “He doesn’t hurt me when he breaks the big rules. They won’t let him. They will call him a
criminal and kill him. But if he breaks
the little rules—the ones they call silly—they will
call him a hero and break the rules themselves.
That’s what will hurt me.”
“I don’t like rules,” he said.
“The rule has been broken. The rule is dead.”
She was frightened. “Please!”
And the big man only turned and
walked rule away.
—Pat Murfin ‘67
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