I remember a recurring dream as a child… I am a boy dressed in dirty brown overalls who shines the shoes of travellers that visit my homestead: a pastoral farm in the Swiss alps. My family, a ragtag collection of yokels, tries to grow tobacco in this alpine climate. They also try to tend to our unkempt goats who keep eating the poorly cultivated crop before jumping over our lopsided fences, making a break for the snow-peaked mountaintops, laughing and screaming at my family as they flee. My father curses in German, my mother cries in French, my eight siblings mottle something in Italian while I merely sigh and keep shining shoes.
On a particularly terrible night in the middle of winter, an alpha goat is snug as a bug in my bed, chewing up my pillow, slobbering goat spit all over the linen casing. Again, I sigh and return to the parlor where a collection of strewn newspapers lie on the cobblestone floor next a pathetic fireplace barely able to contain the smouldering of twigs. I do not burn these newspapers left by the travellers whose shoes I shine. Though it is now my bed, the words on these papers serve as an escape from my sad, sad life filled with jerk goats getting me all depressed. The most recent headline catches my eye: “Young wards wanted in Zürich as apprentices: clockworkers and watchmakers call for aid.” My heart filled with excitement as I planned a journey from the mountains to the lowlands.
When dawn comes, I leave in secrecy and silence but by consequence, not design, for the goats had eaten my heavy snow boots on the eve of Saint Nicholas of Flüe Day. Miles I trudge through the gloomfrost of deep snow that halted my passage toward a better life of becoming an artisan, but it was not meant to be. Night falls and creepy horned shadows dance and flicker through the dim radiance given by my lantern. I am being watched. Soon, utter darkness enshrouds me, for the witching hour is near. Quickly, they come rushing through the dark, riding on the hooves of hell while shrieking hoarsely in the night. Demon goats were soon upon me with flame on their clacking and galloping clove… I have been delivered into the coven of The Black Hoof!
Newspapers change lives, sometimes for the better. Sometimes, for the worse. Here at theprospector.org, our staff is dedicated to Yuba College’s student body and faculty. We do not print stories at the behest of Satanic goats to lure youth out into the wilderness for capture and sacrifice. Our content is strictly for the benefit of our readership, including, but not limited to: cultural enrichment, education, and entertainment.
In my two semesters of serving as editor-in-chief of theprospector.org, my leadership has seen the rise of fluff pieces, but also hard-hitting investigation. It has also given rise to a more graphically pleasing newspaper of discerning aesthetic, but never compromising on the edgy and witty written content theprospector.org is known for. But now, I must step down from this lofty perch and seek other pastures where the goats do not find me.
The privilege has been mine,