The Old Guitarist

By Cooper Heilmann, staff reporter

The old house by the strawberry gardens had its windows open.  It used to be a beautiful house with brick walkways and gardens. But long had it been overgrown with ivy,  long had it been forgotten.  The house was dead.  The gardens no longer flowered, smoke no longer rose from the chimney.  Yet there was life in it still.  From within, one could faintly make out the sound of song drifting out the broken windows.  It was a sweet, sad song, an old song.  Inside the house, an old man sat in a musty green lounge chair in front of a dead fire whose ashes had blown and scattered across the living room floor.  The old man plucked the strings of an acoustic guitar.  The strings had not been replaced in years, yet the guitar still played like no other.  The old guitarist was bent over his instrument from years of doing nothing else but sitting and playing.  His cracked voice hummed along with the song, an old song that had long lost its name and meaning.  But this old man brought new life into it.  This song was the last strand of his life, yet it played of the past and the present.  There was no use for playing and singing of the future.
The old man was so caught up in his song that he barely even noticed the young boy who was trying to sneak closer to hear the song.  His feet became entangled in the vines that entwined the brick and he  stumbled, narrowly avoiding a fall on the broken glass outside the window. He crept to the windowsill and was immediately fascinated by the sight.  The man had a bony figure and white, wispy hair that was once long and luscious.  However, his eyes were crystal clear and as blue as the sky.  The man played and played.  The old man looked so lonely, and the boy wanted to cry out to him, to give him company, but he could not bring himself to do so.  The boy did not know how long he stood there, listening.  
Gradually, his music slowed down, becoming softer and softer.  He ended on a note that was both low and high, plucking the top and bottom strings open.  He looked up from his instrument and stared the little boy straight in the eye.  The boy gasped.  He had thought he was hidden.  But the old man smiled weakly and laid his head back with a sigh.  He died there with his guitar in his arms.
    The boy never forgot that moment of his life.  The sad song inspired him, and the old, yet piercing blue eyes haunted him forever.

Festivus: The Holiday for the Rest of Us

 By Anna Campbell, staff writer

We know the holidays. They come every year without fail, and we’re always pleased about it; the time off from school, the food, the gifts, the family love, the holiday spirit, the food, the food. And we know what holidays we’ll be celebrating: Christmas, Hanukkah, perhaps even Kwanzaa or some other holiday of which I am unaware.

But, this season marks the dawn of a new age, one in which we will all, like it or not, be celebrating a new and worldwide holiday: Festivus.

Festivus marks its birth in a memorable episode of Seinfeld, proclaimed ‘Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us’. But beyond that little rhyme, the ideology and traditions of Festivus are deep-rooted and long ago found their way to the Internet. The spirit of Festivus is one of mutual exasperation, aggressive competition, and boundless joy. Festivus-believers are unconcerned with material goods, but all believe in Santa.

Sturgis Survival Guide: What NOT to Do at the Hyannis Green

by Kevin Agostinelli, staff reporter

The Hyannis Green

1.)  Do not hit anyone with a football, frisbee, soccer ball, empty Sprite can, etc. Believe me, they do hurt.


2.) Do NOT give your crunchy cheddar-cheese Doritos to the tiny, innocent-looking seagull. Once the other 99 well-fed Hyannis seagulls show up, good luck.


3.) Do NOT invite a hobo (or homeless person, if you prefer that term) into your history class. You can laugh all you want, freshmen, but this has happened before.


4.) If the FBI, CIA, or the NSA questions you about the whereabouts of Jeff Hyer, tell them NOTHING. No, he is not your history teacher, and no, you did not hear of his planned escape to Russia.