TheBurg

Clowning Around By CLIFF kuBIAk Stepping off that rainbow-tinted school bus, a river of shame washed over me as I worked my way to the front door. Today was an abysmal failure from start to finish. Watching those clowns glide around on unicycles baffled me. Why anyone would want to spend his free time perfecting the art of balancing on a seat with a single wheel just doesn't make sense to me. It's not fast, and it's not comfortable. It takes two useful objects, with great purposes, and throws all that out the window. What you're left with is a chair that puts you in a constant state of discomfort and sadness. Furthermore, I was too small to be able to rodeo with one of the bulls, and too large to be able to fit into the clown car. While I'm at it, here's another bit I never quite understood in the comedy routine: Why do people like it when I cram my body into a car with four other dudes? You have no idea what a horrifying process that is. I almost broke my arm the other day because Bozo bent it back weird so we'd all fit. en there's the smell. Oh god, the smell: cotton candy drowning in sour milk and B.O. I'm not fit for the life of a clown, and I clearly don't have the makings of one. And now I have to tell that to my parents, Jenny and Bucky Hickerson, the famous fourth-generation Hickerson clowns to become successful in the clown business. How disappointed they'll be when I tell them there won't be a fifth-generation Hickerson clown. As I stepped through the door, I was taken aback. At the kitchen table sits not just Mom and Pop Hickerson, but my Hickerson grandparents, as well, all gathered around a cake reading "Congrats Bucky!!" Everyone dressed in clown attire, and, as I entered the room, they all cheered. Mom and Dad got up and gave me big bear hugs, and the grandparents applauded me. Dad shook my hand, firm, nearly breaking my arm and snapping it out of its socket. "How was the first day of clown school, my boy?" "Fine." I slouched in the head seat of the table. It's a creepy sight, sitting in a room full of people you love dressed like clowns. e makeup splattered all over their faces made them seem like strangers, and the smell of all the rubber chickens filled my nose. But that was soon changed as mother headed to the kitchen and pulled one of her apple pies from the oven. "Oh sweet lord, thank you, mother! I really could go for one of your apple pies right now." A smile crept up her face, not her usual warm and comforting motherly smile, this was something much more sinister. "You're a clown now, sweetie. You need to understand that pies aren't for eating any more!" Mother wound her arm back and slammed the pie into my face. Apples dripped down my face, the freshly cooked filling burning my cheeks. e Hickerson crew rioted, knee slapping and cracking up until they nearly fell out of their chairs. Cliff Kubiak is a junior at C AS A Charter School. To read the complete story, go to www.theburgnews.com. AdvAnCing TeChnology By kASey SMITh She was beautiful. Nolan spotted her at the far end of the garage, behind towers of cardboard boxes and avalanches of decades-old fallen debris. He pushed his glasses further up his nose, then rethought and pulled them off to wipe the dust from them. Surely, it had messed with his vision—Uncle Ted couldn't really have had such an old relic in his possession, could he? He hadn't been interesting enough. But she was interesting. Nolan waded through the junk towards the treasure, bobbing and weaving around bicycles with tangled pedals and tables stacked with rusty tools until he was there, standing in front of an old Apple II, the second Wozniak wonder of the computer world. is was technological history, right here! Why did Uncle Ted have one? He hated technology; he rarely touched the TV remote, even to the day he died. Nolan bent down and scrubbed away the grime on the screen with the hem of his sleeve. e poor thing needed heavy TLC, but otherwise seemed in pretty good condition. No cracks in the screen, no jammed keys in the keyboard and even a functional-looking cassette player. Maybe the stale air of the garage had preserved the Apple II in the height of her beauty, so Nolan could discover her for himself, like realizing the best-wrapped present under the Christmas tree was meant for him. "Mallory! Look at this!" He heard reckless stomping around him. Mallory, black hair and oval face smudged with dirt, surfaced from the ruined city of junk. "What? An old computer?" Nolan heaved a dramatic sigh. "Yes. Ancient. One of the very first Apples." "Oh, God," Mallory said, rolling her eyes. "Is this the part where you criticize my iPhone? Is it too mainstream for you?" "Look at it, Mals." He straightened up, gestured to the computer, and invited her to look. e Apple II consisted of a big, blocky monitor, the white casing yellowed with age. It sat on a keyboard three times the size of modern-day models, the keys brown. Despite Nolan's eagerness, she shook her head. "I can see it. It's an old computer." "It belongs in a museum!" "Okay, Indy." "Wait! No, she doesn't!" Nolan whirled back around to the computer, tapping a few keys experimentally. "She's still salvageable. Maybe I could get her in working order again." "Why would you waste your time on it? And why would you call it a she?" He glared at her over his shoulder. "Because I, unlike you, appreciate history. And you call your laptop Babygirl." Mallory scoffed. "Whatever, bro. Have fun trying to download porn onto that." Of all Uncle Ted's possessions, the Apple II was the most valuable. To him, at least. It might get a decent offer if he auctioned it off, but the history contained in this technological landmark was worth more than anything else on the market. Why sell it to some collector who'll stick it behind glass and do nothing else? No, the Apple II deserved a thorough examination—and maybe a restoration, if at all possible. Computers were meant to be used. What could happen if he could get a computer nearly 50 years old to work again? How well would it function? What if he could upgrade it to the level of computers today? If he could restore such an old computer, whose processing power was like an infant's compared to the abilities of those today, he might end up in technological history, too. His name would appear with the Apple II. Nolan set up shop in his toolshed and got to work. He fixated on the Apple II and made it his mission to bring her back to life because the world didn't deserve to lose such a priceless piece of history, such a precious artifact. Wow. He was turning into Indiana Jones. But he was certain that this Apple II was as precious as the Holy Grail, or maybe even more. Kasey Smith is a senior at C AS A Charter School. To read the complete story, go to www.theburgnews.com. Periodically, eBurg highlights the work of student writers from Capital Area School for the Arts Charter School (CASA). In this issue, we feature four short stories.

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