"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1991

              Special thanks to the art and literary judges:
F. Fitzgerald, V. Halonen, Dr. H. Herlihy, M.
Fischer, D. Grant, P. Haas, and B. Hufford. The
Traveler staff also thanks the GCC adminis­tration
and faculty for their help and support for
this year's publication. Although we were
unable to publish everything submitted, we wish
to thank each contributor for the excellent,
diverse material we received.
Poetry
1 Broken Footsteps
Lisa Schupbach
5 Mourning
Jeremy Spears
6 Someday
Joyce A. Barton
7 Alzheimer's
Townsend Lee McCarthy
10 The Tree and Me
Tom Martinez
12 Becomine One
Jason Shadrick
13 Grandmother Moon's Gift "Realization"
Barbara Gray
16 A Cry in the Night
Jennifer Ousley
17 The Vacancy
Kathy Holt
20 The Wilderness Spreads and Follows
John V. Aragon
21 The Story of My Life and
Other Contradictions
Shelley Miller
22 The Fall of the Knight
Jeremy Spears
28 Generic Rainbow
Beedy Gray
29 It Doesn't Matter What You Call It!
Stacey Raymond
30 Untitled Poem
Jason Shaw
31 Apparitions
Stacey Raymond
Spring Volume 24
Computer Illustration
3 I Meyer Stratton
Joel Meine-Back Cover
Photography
4,13 Nancy G. Berk
7 George Johnson
8, 9 Tina Ehlert
17 Thomas Holiday
21 Shawneen Chapman
28 R. Brown
30 Troy B. Buchanan
Illustration
I Pam Sabbia
2-3 Cheryl Traughber
16 Jean Caruso-Forsman
22-24 Denise Vlahos
Fiction
2 Confessions
Jeremy Spears
8 In the Market For a Man?
Stacy Raymond
14 Fish-tale
Barbara Gray
Fine Art
6 Jean Caruso-Forsman
I I Pam Sabbia
12 Annette Wyckoff
27 Susan Hobaica
33 Jane Brown
Non-Fiction
18 A Gift of Love
Muriel (Beedy) Gray
26 The Night of All Possibilities
Deborah Alicia Bushman
32 To Feed an Endless Hunger
Lisa Schupbach
Three Dimensional Art
25 Shirlee Schneider
raveler1991
contents
Published anually by GCC
English and Art Departments
6000 W. Olive, Glendale, AZ 85302
© 1991 The Traveler, Glendale Community College
Credits
ART DIRECTOR: Pamela Spears COVER PHOTOGRAPHY: Greg Streich EDITORIAL STAFF: Cheryl
Johnson, Paul DeDonatis GRAPHIC DESIGNERS: Joanne Bono, Karen Holland, Kathleen Plate, Star
Yensen LITERARY EDITOR: Terry Donaldson PHOTO EDITOR: Greg Streich ARTIPRODUCTION
ADVISOR: Ron Schwartz LITERARY ADVISORS: Joy Wingersky, Jan Boerner PHOTOGRAPHIC
ADVISOR: Dean Terasaki PRINTING: Mountain States Printing IMAGESETTING: Lasertype of Arizona
BROKEN FOOTSTEPS
Lisa Schupbach
Walking in the sand,
Creating perfect molds with my feet.
The tide comes in.
I look back and my
presence is erased.
When I am washed away with the tide
into the sea,
will my presence be erased,
or will I leave broken footsteps in my wake?
The Traveler
First Place Fiction-"Confessions"
Jeremy Spears
Confessions
The face leans in, a sharp oval of
perfection. There is a darkness behind
him, and she feels his hands, two
sweaty knots against her back.
You're beautiful, he murmurs,
and his lips are swallowing hers and
his breath is throbbing into her mouth.
It is two a.m. when he pulls into
the driveway. He shuts off the engine
with a small intake of breath. He pulls
open the door, moving as fragilely as a
wind or a cripple, leaning into a
staircase.
She steps onto the pavement
amidst a flurry of wings. The dark
slick of water against the curb reflects
the undersides of the pigeons as they
sift off into a gentling sky. The black
veil ripples in a phantom breeze. She
clenches her wounded hands, senses
behind her the ominous silence of
stained glass, the waiting skull.
(the face leans in)
She turns and heads for the walk
beneath the falling hand of the
crucifix.
He steps noiselessly out of the
car. He carries his tie balled in his fist,
his top button undone, and his shoes
are pressed under his arm. His
stocking feet whisper into the night's
tranquility. There is a bruise on his
neck.
The lawn is filled with shadows
and moonlight. He reaches the door,
2 The Traveler
fumbling in the dark for his key.
Above, a spray of stars gleams coldly
down.
She is swallowed immediately
into a silence. Row upon row, the pews
greet her with gilded backs, and the
candles dance like waving hands. She
feels the old song in her rising again,
against the stained figures of gothic
Christ and pallid Mary in heaven-blue.
Along the walls, the saints
welcome her: robust, puritanical
Peter, thoughtful Augustine, smiling
Benedict displaying his parchment.
They regard her with solemn haloes.
There is a face she is searching for,
one whose glaring eye and whose
glassy rose-fire cheek call to her over
and over like the echo of her footsteps
in the empty mouth of the cathedral.
(the face leans in leans in leans
in)
She steps before the familiar
carving. The woman is frozen in the
tongues off flame. They lap at her like
fierce hounds, while she stares off,
brittle, cold, incurious as a spectator.
In the background, a priest in black,
wearing the eyes of terror, holds up a
cross.
Her fingers trace the indentions
of the woman's face, as if reaching for
a secret. The tile is mute, mocking.
He shuts the door behind him
with an inaudible click. He turns the
latch, makes an odd prayer to a
Facelessness and moves off into
stealth. The house is ponderous. Its
comers hurt him.
Daughter, a voice says.
She turns from the piercing figure
in the tempera flames and there is the
open doorway of the confessional,
beckoning her. She hesitates, then
moves across the glazed wood floor
and enters as if entering the shadow of
despair.
Daughter, you have fallen.
(the face leans in leans in leans in
utterly)
He creeps soundlessly down the
hall, the plush carpet swallowing the
tread of his feet. The door to his girl's
room is ajar. He smiles, resists his
sudden urge to peek through the crack
and observe her sleep.
The house is quiet, and he slips
into the quiet like a barren woman into
a homespun dress. The walls lean with
white anticipation as he creeps by his
daughter, his son, into the ruins of
betrayal.
There is a dim shape of a woman,
hunched against the screen. She
exudes age like a smell.
She begins. "Forgive me, Mother,
for I have sinned. " Her breath rattles
against her throat. The shape regards
her impassively. "I have loved a man
whose eyes eat sunlight. Forgive me,
Mother, for I have sinned. I have
swallowed his breath and created its
children. Forgive me, Mother, for I
have sinned. I have dreamed that I
have wings and that the sky loves me. "
(the face leans):
The bedroom is a tomb, busy only
with the rusty creak of insects and the
humming of her breath.
"Forgive me, Mother, for I have
sinned. I have strapped myself into an
apron and spat into the food of a
people I hate. Forgive me, Mother, for
I have sinned. I have reached for his
face and torn myfingers on its edges.
Forgive me, Mother, for I have hated
and hated where I could not love. "
The figure's silence is like a
wafer resting in her palm. The weight
of the guilt is falling away, the burning
face etched on the stone, and she grips
her arms to herself, holding on.
He peels off his clothes,
sweetened with the night's embraces,
letting them sink into various postures
of obeisance. The moonlight leaks into
the room, an iron spillage. It frames
her forehead in ice. It is thick with
mystery. He reaches out and pulls back
the covers, acutely aware of the
regularity of her breath, the rapid
twitching of her eyes.
"Forgive me, Mother, for I have
sinned. " She is glowing. Glowing. "I
have wanted to raise my hands into
myself and peel away my wound. I
have wanted to make myself whole.
Forgive me. Forgive me, Mother, for I
have sinned. I have cursed God. " She
clenches her fingers into a fist. "I have
cursed his penis. Forgive me, Mother,
for I have sinned. I have dreamed of
flying among clouds and birds that
regard my presence with joy. "
She stands. The figure in black
falls back into a shadow. She is
burning. Her face is distant. The
shadow weeps.
"Forgive me, Mother, I have
sinned. I have reached out to touch his
face, and it has cut me. Forgive me,
Mother. Forgive me. I hate. "
The litany halts. The shape is
weeping, its black garments opening.
A skeletal face appears, a skeletal
hand, reaching for her.
"I hate."
He is lying on his back, his eyes
probing the ceiling. The ceiling of
sleep escapes him. He hears sounds at
his side, a soft catching of breath.
(the face leans in, a sharp oval of
perfection it pushes into her mouth,
hungry as a worm)
"He is perfection, " she says. She
is burning red flames, transuding
sorrow. The shadow speaks through
the sobbing that racks its body. There
is the whistle of no-flesh.
He watches in amazement as the
wetness shines on her cheeks. Her eyes
are flicking back and forth like scared
rabbits.
"Honey?" he says.
The room appalls him with its
silence.
She looks up into the death-face,
smooth and round as a madonna. Her
tears bum holes into the scarred scrape
of bone.
You have sinned.
She nods, kneels supplicant on the
floor. "Forgive me."
You have sinned.
"Forgive me. You must forgive
me. " She bows her head. Grief is
there, in the patterns of the woodfloor,
in the waxed mosaic.
Yes. You are forgiven.
A cold breath washes through her
as if from the grave, from the heart of
this fleshless Mother, hulking like a
judgement.
"He breathed into my mouth."
Yes.
"Like God."
Yes.
She holds up her hands, offers
them for her to see. "My hands... "
Yes. Your hands. Yes.
The Traveler 3
First Place Photo "Untitled" Nancy G. Berk
4 The Traveler
First Place Poetry-"Mourning"
Jeremy Spears
Mourning
In the gasps of time encircling her head
there is framed a voice that spoke only in laughter
(a leaf turns golden in the sunset)
She is a world unto herself, full of landscapes and seas,
but there is no sunlight to bring life to her,
no brightness to light her wounded face and smooth
away the shadows
(a leaf turns golden in the sunset)
Like butterflies in the crib, the child's arms were magic
Who can forget her laughter? A song that
caught itself inside lamps under furniture behind curtains,
Even now, dust settling over the room,
she can see pieces of it, glimmers from the pink and white
bureau, from the doorknob, the light switch, sometimes
in her own hair It takes her breath away
(a leaf turns golden)
The quilt on her shoulders shocks the room Six months
since these walls have seen light and the quilt with its
kaleidoscope squares its alternating patterns of
cut flowers the rollicking daisies, forsythia, button
chrysanthemums is almost a shout in the tomblike silence
(in the sunset)
The woman sits surrounded by the dust, the
darkness, searching for glimmers of a child's light in the
matted net of her hair
The night drives its stars into her skull
(a leaf falls)
In the hollowness, absence of light, the quilt is heavy as a
nun's habit and as dark
(it is eaten by the wind There is an undulation, a moan;
the branches are wild, lost)
The Traveler 5
Someday, I will write
A book
Learn to paint
Sing songs of adventure
But first
I'll listen to Rusti recite her ABC's
Teach Rick to ride a shiny new bike
Keep Joel from playing in the street
Feed the twins, Jodie and Jon
Wipe milky pablum off dimpled chins
Little hurts and tiny tears I'll kiss away
As time ticks quietly by
Someday, sitting on a mountain top
In the clear crisp air
I'll write a book
Compose a poem
But first
I'll go to work, be home by six
Pay bills, buy groceries, cook supper, clean endless messes
Attend football games and band recitals
Chaperone slumber parties, supervise the use of cars and stereos
Sort through teenage troubles and comfort growing pains
Much larger hurts and tears I'll try to kiss away
And grasp at time as it slips through my hands
Someday, sitting high on a cliff
With an ocean view
I'll write a book
Paint scenes of life
But first
There's a business to run
Graduations one after another
Help Rusti move out
Joel's college to choose
A wedding for Rick
Broken romances, disappointments,
Hurts that can't be kissed away
Time is so fragile, so fleeting
But someday
Sometime
Somewhere
Somehow
I'll write that book
Paint scenes for the soul
Sing songs of the heart
6 The Traveler
Someday
Joyce A. Barton
Third Place Fine Art "Self-Portrait"
Jean Caruso-Forsman
Third Place Poetry-"Alzheimer's
Townsend Lee McCarthy
Alzheimer's
The old man looks in the mirror,
but can't see who he's looking for.
The face is vaguely familiar.
"Daddy?" Maybe he'd opened the door.
He shuffles away with a passion,
having somehow overlooked the bell.
On a wall he sees the Crucifixion.
How it got there, he couldn't tell.
He stares at the man on the cross,
and wonders who he must be.
Maybe, the poor fellow's lost.
If so, He can follow me.
The Traveler 7
Second Place Fiction-"In the Market For a Man?"
Stacey Raymond
IN THE MARKET FOR A
Second Place Photo "Untitled" Tina Ehlert
8 The Traveler
Stacey Raymond
"So, you're looking for a man.
Well, you came to the right place. Let
me tell you, looking for a man is like
looking for a used car. But don't you
fret, sweetheart, old Jim's got the man
for you.
"You wouldn't walk into a used car
lot without some idea of what type of
car you want, so tell me what type of
man you're looking for. We've got them
all: white, black, hispanic, Catholic,
Jewish, atheist. We've got them all.
"Are you having trouble deciding?
Well, don't worry. Take your time.
When you look for cars, you get plenty
of time to decide between a two-door or
a four-door, and we know that picking
your special guy deserves the same
amount of time. Walk around, look
under the hoods, take a few for a test
spin, if you get my drift, and then we'll
talk. In fact, if you like, I can set you up
on a couple of outings. Lord knows you
wouldn't drive a car out of a used car lot
without having taken it out a couple of
times, and believe me, miss, you won't
be disappointed.
"We're here to meet all your dating
needs. After all, this is a big step. It's a
huge investment of your time and
money, and we realize you're looking
for something to last. Well, on this lot,
we like to think all our guys come with a
5-year/50,OOO-mile warranty.
"And don't be afraid to ask
questions. Talk to some of the boys in
the lot. They're there to help you. After
all, we know you wouldn't want a car
with problems you couldn't fix. You
want a quality product, one you can
work with, one that takes curves easily,
one that takes direction well, and one
that knows who is in the driver's seat.
You wouldn't want a car with a bad
engine, and you wouldn't want a man
who couldn't shift into third gear at that
crucial moment. Yes, ma'am, here at
Giggolo Jim's, we understand that
women want their men like they want
their cars - smooth-moving and long-­lasting.
"Find a man you like, but you're
not sure how the family's going to
react? Well, we know you wouldn't buy
a Volkswagen without the old man
kicking a few tires and the old lady
eyeing the upholstery. So go ahead,
bring the folks in! Show them the
merchandise. Let them look around. In
fact, the boys would be glad to take your
mother for a test drive. I'm sure she's an
experienced woman, and I've always
said it doesn't hurt for the boys to go
around the block with a woman who's
been around the block. And believe me,
sweetheart, it can't hurt to get her
reaction. Let the man of your choice sit
with Dad in front of a Steeler's game.
Here at Giggolo Jim's, we know what
you're looking for, and our fellows are
experts at in-lawing.
"Now listen, honey. Let Uncle Jim
give you a piece of advice. Whichever
of the boys you decide on, make sure
he's at a price you can afford. In order to
get something, you have to give
something up, so be prepared. And
remember, you have to maintain him.
You know, keep him looking his best.
It's kind of like oil changes and new
tires.
"And once you get him home,
don't be afraid to personalize him. Let
people know he's yours. You know how
people plaster bumper stickers and
Jesus-fish to their cars and hang clip-on
koala bears and fuzzy dice over their
rear-view mirrors? Well, whether it's a
little ring on his finger or a big wet
hickey on his neck, do something to let
all those other hungry women out there
know he's yours.
"Yes, ma'am, picking out a man is
like picking out a used car. It's quite a
venture. Neither is returnable, so choose
wisely and take time before you jump
into anything. Remember, when you've
put your foot at Giggolo Jim's door,
you've already set one foot on the
highway to matrimonial bliss."
The Traveler 9
10 The Traveler
The Tree and Me
I saw a tree standing alone and bare
and wondered why the tree was there.
For the season is Spring, not Winter or Fall,
Yet the tree had no leaves, no leaves at all.
So I got closer to take a better look at the tree,
when I noticed with sadness, the tree was like me.
A split down the middle had broken the tree,
Like the way I have been, since the stroke hit me.
Some branches were stiff, I then realized,
Like the way I have been, because I'm paralyzed.
Other branches were spread like reaching for air,
Like the times I have reached when no one was there.
The sap kept running down its side,
Like my tears have run every time I've cried.
The bark was brittle, broken, and gray,
Like the loneliness I face from day to day.
So now you know why I'm like that tree.
Only love and therapy will set me free.
And if you go by this very day,
You'll see the tree the same old way.
Tom Martinez
First Place Fine Art "Untitled" Pam Sabbia
The Traveler 11
Illustration "Golf Lesson" Annette Wyckoff
BECOMING ONE
Jason Shadrick
12 The Traveler
Through the darkened night,
Where cat eyes glow.
The gargoyles take to flight.
To where? They only know.
They soar through the air
Like a swarm of bees.
What I would give
To know what one sees.
To soar beside one
And learn the trade.
To look in Death's eyes
And be not afraid.
As the morning sun
Sheds its light,
We will descend
From our flight.
Now the flight is over,
And we've had our fun.
We seek out shelter,
And we are one.
Back into the shadows,
In from the light,
We will wait,
Until the next night.
Grandmother Moon's Gift
"Realization"
Honorable Mention Poetry
Barbara Gray
Grandmother moon, in all your fullness
I sit upon the sand captured by your wisdom
Shining seemingly only upon me
Intensity of the outside world no longer matters
You fill me with strengths, hopes, and desires
Images of the past flood my senses
Moon madness mystifies memories
Past friends and lovers surrendered, lost
Angrily I search you for answers
Why do we concentrate on the past?
Why do we not have vision to the future?
Sitting beneath you, wolves begin to howl
Magical omens sent by ancestral moon
With clarity I understand your wisdom sign
Man and nature would rather cry
Than to realize someday he too will die.
Photo "Untitled" Nancy G. Berk
The Traveler 13
Third Place Fiction-"Fish-tale"
Barbara Gray
Barbara Gray
"Johnny! Johnny! Get over here!
If I've told you once, I've told you a
million times to drain the tub when
you're finished taking a bath!"
Ah! I can just about see the clock
from here. It is so far away and dark.
With blurred vision and the help of a
Mickey Mouse night light, I can barely
see the illuminated hands. .It is ten P.M.
I'm lying on my bed watching the
strange, eerie shadows as they dance on
the walls. The street lamp creates such
monstrous shapes! Just last night I heard
Cindy complaining to mother and father
about the ghosts that have taken over her
room. Actually she called them boogie
men. Cindy is only five years old. Lying
upon my bed with a smile on my face, I
think of all the cute little things she says
and does.
Cindy enjoys having tea parties
with her dolls, and sometimes she even
invites me, which I hate. She feeds her
dolls bread and jam, most of the time
smearing the jam all over their cotton
faces. The jam soaks into the cloth
making quite a sticky mess. I like the
bread, but the jam sinks. Late at night, I
see that wiggle-butt dog, Dudley, who
sneaks in only to sniff out each doll and
get his share of the jam. That dog is
afraid of his own shadow, but he sure
does get those dollies' faces clean.
When Cindy wakes in the morning, she
rushes to her dolls to see the work of the
boogie men. She carefully picks up each
soggy doll, inspects each one for traces
of jam, and kisses them good morning.
Now that is enough to make
anyone sick! Gross doggie dribble!
Thump! Bang! Crash! What was
that? Looking at the huge illuminated
hands, I see that it is one 0' clock in the
morning. Bam! Crash! I can hear the
shattering of glass. What the heck is
going on? Silence...Silence is some­times
worse, like the calm before the
storm .. .1 hear footsteps. Oh Nooo... !
they're coming this way! I'm paralyzed
with fear, can't move a scale inch. I'm
lying on my bed, hidden behind my
pirate-ship's sunken treasure. I see two
huge shadows. Where is everybody?
Maybe they're all dead! No! No, they're
at Martha's, yes remember Aunt
Martha's for the weekend. I'm all alone!
I'm beginning to hyperventilate; I need
more oxygen. I mustcalm myself. I
can't make heads nor tails out of
anything. As I listen to the foot steps,
my heart begins to race; it's pounding so
fast that I can feel the vibrations bounce
off of the smooth walls of my room. The
footsteps have stopped. I can feel them
breathing heavily. I'm afraid to open my
eyes, but I must, and as I do, I see two of
14 The Traveler
the ugliest men I've ever seen. They do
not see me! I try to hold my breath out
of fear of being detected. From my
hiding spot, I can see one man with a
huge sack filled with silver stuff, and the
other is carrying the new television. Oh
man! I don't believe it; Dudley is just
standing there wagging his tail with his
stupid toy cat clenched between his
teeth. That dog! Useless!!! I'm surprised
that he's not helping them to carry out
the ill gotten gain!
Then, suddenly, I begin to feel like
I am in the middle of a giant earthquake
as everything begins to rock and sway. I
see the back of one of the men push
directly upon my hiding place. With one
last slam of his body, I am propelled
into the air. Like a missile with a
designated target, I fly ... and land with
a splish-splash right into the bath.
I can't see the clock, but I do see
the sunlight sneaking in through the
broken bathroom window. I hear what
sounds like a stampede of footsteps
corning towards me. I recognize the
sound, so I'm not afraid. I then hear
mother and father shrieking with disgust
over the burglary. Cindy is busy trying
to find her dolls beneath her strewn
belongings. After the initial shock of
coming home and finding their house
ransacked, mother and father thank their
lucky stars that they weren't home to
face the intruders. I hear the familiar
sound of Johnny's little footsteps as he
runs by me. In the distance, muffled by
the tiled bathroom walls, I faintly hear
Johnny scream in anguish. He runs
down the hall carrying in his hands the
broken pieces of a fish bowl. His parents
immediately run towards him when they
hear his loud cry. They are not sure what
they'll find when they meet Johnny in
the hallway. At first, they think that the
burglar might still be in the house, and
then they see Johnny carrying the
broken fish bowl. Johnny's face is
streaked with tears, and he looks heart
broken. Then I hear mother's voice
saying, "Johnny! Johnny! Come here
quick. Everybody come here, you won't
believe your eyes!"
I look up and see the entire family
gawking at me. I sure am happy to see
them. Johnny dries his tears. He fishes
me out of the bath water and puts me in
a spare tank that father is holding. Father
says I am the luckiest goldfish he's ever
seen. And mother, well she says,
"Johnny if I've told you once, I've told
you a million times, to drain the tub
when you're finished taking a bath."
The Traveler 15
A Cry in the Night Jennifer Ousley
A cry in the night,
A tear down my cheek,
An unspoken whisper,
A word that won't speak,
A fear deep within,
A heart that can't sing,
A sigh from the inside,
A soul not at peace,
A love that is sought,
A kiss without meaning,
A touch with nO thought,
A dream holds nO truth,
And a lie seams SO right.
A cry in the night.
16 The Traveler
Second Place Illustration “Shadows" Jean Caruso-Forsman
Honorable Mention Photo "I The Beholder" Thomas Holiday
His face, captivating, alluring,
yet somehow vacant,
emits a warm gentle magnetism.
The sensation a mixture of guilt and desire
consuming, draining as I am drawn
against my best efforts to resist
a thief of the flesh,
a vandal of the soul.
Although external stimuli suggest normal existence
warnings of malignancy repeat, retreat
as he pulls. I am torn.
I play traitor to my precious self.
His voice enraptures. The words unclear, the image perfect,
sway me, play me,
hold me to him.
Tell me
yes
no
please don't say.
I know the truth but let me go on
let me pretend.
He does not fool me.
I fool myself with what I need to believe.
The offering of his hand
If I take it, I am forever lost.
In its acceptance I betray my heart
leave it victim to his callousness.
His heart, a vacant entity,
is well masked by the appearance of perfection.
His flaws are endearing
evoking instincts of nurturing
procuring love.
After pleasure shadows pain
as inevitable as sunrise
as predictable as death
swiftly cut
yield bleeding
slow healing
forever maimed.
He goes on to the next
never a thought
no sense of guilt or remorse
only a sense of continuation
and a vacancy.
The Traveler 17
John tried to hand Chico to me, and
I really wanted to accept his gift, but I
couldn't. I noticed the disappointed look
on John's face. He thought I would
really be happy with his gift. To do
something, I reached out and touched
the pathetic, raggedy head of the
extended gift. Chico looked like a half
plucked chicken, and he felt like a
teased brillo pad.
John pulled him back and said, "I
guess I made a mistake. I'll take him
back to the pound."
That's when I took Chico into my
arms. No way would I stand by and
allow that poor animal to be taken back
to a cage where he would be doomed to
die. The shelter only keeps unwanted
animals for 5-7 days, and if they're not
adopted, they're destroyed and dis­carded
in heaps like unwanted garbage.
It's sort of odd that Chico had been
spared after being returned three times!
I'll keep him until Lean find him a good
home.
When I gently stroked him to let
him know that someone cared, I discov­ered
the ticks!
As soon as John and his girlfriend
left, I called the shelter.
"He was dipped this morning; the
ticks will die and fall off in a few days,"
the person on the other end of the line
said.
I spread out a white sheet, put
Chico on it, and armed with a pair of
tweezers, I squeamishly removed 27
ugly, gross, still wiggling ticks.
December 15th.
I must be losing my marbles. I
actually let Chico sleep on my bed last
night. I put him on an old quilt to keep
his body away from my blanket and
sheets just in case I missed any ticks.
December 13, 1989
Christmas is twelve days away. Big
deal! Barbara, my daughter, is going out
of town - John, my son, will be here, but
only for a few hours.
The past 27 years certainly had its
ups and downs, but Christmas was still
so wonderful and magical, and, best of
all, we were all together.
I feel so empty - so unneeded.
I had some good ideas: think of
others, plan a Christmas dinner, or invite
some neighbors over for the day. But
I'm too depressed to set those plans into
action.
John is angry with me. He thinks
I'm spending too much time at a nearby
tavern. I agree, but at least I laugh a bit
when I'm there - and I forget.
December 14th.
This afternoon, John walked in the
door and said, "Merry Christmas."
When I looked up, I saw he was holding
this dog-like thing in his arm.
My first words were, "What the
hell is that?"
John's girlfriend said, "I told you!"
All I could think about was how
can I afford the expense of a dog? I
guess I didn't accept John's gift very
graciously.
John said, "You need something to
keep you company. I got him at the
pound. He needs someone to love him."
"Him!" I said. I had never owned a
male dog before. I had always preferred
females.
John spoke again, "His name is
Chico, and he's six months old. His
mother was a cairn terrier. There's one
little problem - he's not housebroken
yet, and I'm the fourth person to adopt
him. I know you're a real good dog
trainer, so I'm sure you'll have him
trained in no time."
Third Place Non-Fiction-"A Gift of Love"
Muriel (Beedy) Gray A
~'" Gift
~I ~of
Yep, I am crazy. I hate ticks!
I took Chico for a walk every hour
on the hour until four o'clock this
morning when he finally decided to
squat and pee. I thought male dogs lifted
their hind leg in order to accomplish that
task?
I have to housebreak this dog
before I can even begin to find him a
home. I've always heard that male dogs
were hard to housebreak, and Chico's
six months old already. My son seems to
have faith in my ability to train dogs, so
I'll give it my best shot.
December 16th.
I took a good look at Chico today.
He sure is a weird-looking dog. He
measures about nine inches from the
floor to the top of his shoulder. His coat
is very sparse and coarse, but it almost
feels soft. He has a light sandy beige
color and his eyes are just a shade darker
than his "fur." His nose, lips, and eyelids
are quite a unique color. They're sort of
a pink that edges out to a soft reddish­brown.
I've seen that color on the nose
of a rabbit before, but never on a dog.
His best feature is his ears. One
stands straight up while the other flops
down. The one standing up looks too big
to stand, but stand it does! The only
silky hair on his body is on the tips of
those mismatched ears. On the ear that
stands, the silky hairs reach up and then
bend over, trailing like the flying, soft,
silky mane of a running horse.
All of my neighbors adore Chico,
but no one wants to adopt him yet!
December 17th.
I'm getting tired of taking this dog
out every hour. He seems to think that
it's his job to sniff every square inch of
our trailer park, and he forgets to potty. 1
no sooner get him back inside, and he
starts acting like he has to go potty
again. We go back out and still no potty.
When he finally accomplishes this long
anticipated task, 1praise him to let him
know how happy 1am. I hope he gets
the idea that doing "those things"
outside would be greatly appreciated.
Somehow he doesn't quite look
like a Chico. Maybe I'll give him a
better name.
December 18th.
I've chosen a new name for Chico.
For now, until his new owner comes
along, I've decided to call him Dudley.
I've named him after the actor Dudley
Moore, who is also quite little and very
funny.
Dudley may finally have somewhat
gotten the idea about how good it is to
potty outside. When he's finished, he
turns his head to look at me, and he
won't take a step untill praise him.
When he piddles or poops in the house,
he can't understand why 1get so angry!
As part of my training regiment, I tell
him "bad boy," put on his leash, say
"outside" and out we go.
December 20th.
I think I've finally taught Dudley
something. When he wants to go outside
for a walk, all he has to do is squat in the
house and out he goes!
I guess John was correct when he
said I was a good dog trainer.
December 21st.
Dudley has been with me a week
now. This morning one of my neighbors
informed me of a couple who is looking
for a dog to adopt. They both work and
would like to keep an outside dog. As
long as the dog would bark, it would
serve its purposes.
An outside dog? No way! Not my
Dudley. With his sparse coat he couldn't
possibly withstand cold weather, and
how could he possibly withstand the
heat of summer?
I'll find him a good inside home as
soon as I get him housebroken. We're
making some progress. As long as 1 feed
and walk him on a regular schedule,
there aren't too many messes in the
house.
November 24,1990.
Dudley has been with me almost a
year now. I love him dearly. He is a
wonderful companion. My son's gift of
love, a four-footed, wiry haired, wig­gling
butt, with a heart of gold, enhances
my every day.
It took me a long time, but Dudley
is finally, fully housebroken. He even
gets his leash and carries it to me in his
mouth when he wants to go outside.
His one floppy ear is now standing
tall and straight. The only time it flops
over is when he knows he's done
something wrong.
He's finally lifting his paw when
he relieves himself. So what if it's his
front paw!
Our family just spent a marvelous
Thanksgiving day together (all of us)!
Though Dudley didn't directly pull my
family back together, his presence and
his effect on me certainly is one ex­ample
of the miracle of love.
The Traveler 19
The Wilderness Spreads and Follows
John V. Acagon
I was born and raised in a wilderness, 
a barrio, a ghetto, a slum.  
I grew up, and I ran from it.
The media now keeps me informed
Of the growth of crime, poverty, and scorn.  
The evidence is clear; 
The wilderness spreads and follows, as if looking for me.  
Photo “Untitled” Joel Meine
20 The Traveler
THE STORY
OF MY LIFE
AND OTHER CONTRADICTIONS
Shelley Miller
I USED TO THINK LIFE
WAS EASY. I WAS WORRY­FREE
AND HAPPY. THEN
ONE DAY, WHILE PEACE­FULLY
DRIVING DOWN
THE ROAD, MY CHILD­LIKE
INNOCENCE WAS
SHATTERED BY ONE
SMALL THOUGHT: IF
LIFE IS SO SIMPLE, WHY
DO WE DRIVE ON A
PARKWAY AND PARK
ON A DRIVEWAY?
ANONYMOUSLY
CONFUSED
The Traveler 21
Second
Jeremy
Place Poetry-"The
Spears
F a l l o f I h e K n i g h t"
THE FALL
OF THE
KNIGHT
In the midst of the battle,
The light was hazy with the morning dew and
shifted often with the slowness of a dream.
the knight fell.
They fell onto him like dogs,
like carrion birds, the enemy,
descending on a broken forgotten prize.
A pang of guilt.
He stood so tall and bright in the suppleness of
his body, and not even the blood on his cheek could
mar the light which shone from him that day.
He had fallen.
I had created the knight.
He was a symbol,
a glorious ambiguity which pressed
against every angle of my being.
What did his destruction mean?
First Place Illustration-Group of Three
"Antares" Denise Vlahos
22 The Traveler
The children soft and yellow, moved and moved but they never
seemed to go anywhere. They had loved the knight and when he rode
through their villages they would laugh and clap their hands in
delight.
His smile was like beauty on their cheeks.
I raised my sword,
brandishing the clean, clear blade that had so often touched
flesh that day,
sweeping down all who stood in my path,
the muse of destruction,
a demon with rolling eyes,
tearing through lines of little men,
huddled and cowering against my wrath.
Was it death that blew in my face, spoke to me on the wind?
The people of the city were never clean and stench hung about
them like an old sulphurous ghost. The knight had come from their
fold and for that they had loved him, perhaps more than they loved
their king,
their creator.
"Andromeda" Denise Vlahos
The Traveler 23
Hacking across their scalps,
stomping on their souls,
they are all my children,
these little men with grimy faces. Only the warrior shone.
Now he had fallen, like a broken star.
And still the blade was clean.
The sound of weeping was the knight's monument, the
wordless mouths of grief For seven days and seven nights the
women wept and the children sat on street corners, waiting for
their hero to come home.
The battle was never over.
He lay bleeding onto the ground,
his form broken and bruised,
the light that had burned so fiercely,
dwindled to a spark in the fading space of his eyes.
I knelt to the earth and took his hand in mine.
Awareness was dim inside him and I whispered his name.
My lord, he said, and that was all.
The day was dark with spilled life. A child wandered onto
the blood-hued field, watching as they carried the knight away.
Sadness was in his eyes and the quietness of despair. The king
stood not far, his face looking upon blue mountains, the falling
sun. His sword was bared and clean waiting for the glory of the
night. The child knew this man. Was he not their king, so
distant and lost in the folds of his own grief?
Was it so bitter,
that day,
that battle?
I do not know.
Who was the child?
The child that came like an angel to comfort me?
I do not know.
But he has left with me a gift,
a small fluttering of peace
like a rose blooming inside my heart.
The shroud covering the knight's face was dark
and no light could squeak through.
The child rested his hand on the king's mighty plated fist.
The man stared down, eons away, with startled bewilderment
in his eyes. The child's face was smooth and pale, shining like
the albino sun. Strength was in his eyes and in his small child's
stance. He drew his palm along the sword's edge, so clear and
silver, staining the runes dark with warm welcome blood. He
turned, vanishing in the falling day, the dust settling around his
feet like faithful hands. The king stared after him, something
golden and powerful stirring behind his brow.
The world was moving and the sky was turning. He was
not far.
24 The Traveler
"Baby Regal" Denise Vlahos
First Place Three Dimensional Bronze "Bath Time" Shirlee Schneider
The Traveler 25
Second Place Non-fiction-U The Night of All Possibilities"
Deborah Alicia Bushman
She sits at the foot of my bed, singing
songs in Russian, songs that warmed the
ice forest of her childhood. I am four,
and my legs leave enough space for her
to settle in comfortably. The streetlights
shine through criss-crossed white gauze
curtains, creating shimmering paths of
material. The moon shines on my
grandmother's face. This is the face that
changes nightmare darkness into the
beautiful mystery of the night world. My
Nana is magic.
As she sings in her strange
language, my thoughts go to the old
photographs in a cabinet that I have
seen. The pictures are of the people from
Russia. A sepia rectangle contains the
likeness of a brother killed by the
soldiers who hated Jews. Another
photograph acts as doppelganger of a
soft-eyed father who died when Nana
was little, as I was. Images conjure
memories of realities beyond my
understanding. But I sensed the fear and
the pain. Nana described hunger,
walking in snow with rags around her
feet, and a village set to flame so that
Jews could know their destiny, always
hiding from soldiers. Easter, Christmas,
they paid their tribute to their own
version of God, by making an example
of those who saw their God differently.
26 The Traveler
Night of All
Possibilities
So she who had lived through
nightmares that I could not completely
picture, had the power to vanquish mine.
Nana is my love alchemy. And she gives
me the security to look out the window,
beyond curtains and streetlights to the
stars.
I sensed that the stars went beyond
where anyone could see, and promised
an endlessness that fulfilled a longing
that is still beyond my understanding.
The longing that has been within me
from the beginning of my conscious
thought is to reach out from the center of
myself into freedom to fly from the fear
of darkness and lose myself in light.
I return. Are you sleepy yet,
Darling? Nana is tired; she leaves. I
listen to her and the rest of my family
watching Perry Mason as they are
caught up in more limited mysteries.
Later, I hear them having coffee in the
kitchen. Conversation flows in and out
of Russian, Yiddish, and English. Light
comes in, under my bedroom door.
And now that she's gone, I still
have her lullaby holding back the
darkness. The stars still shine in my
bedroom window, and I want to rise out
of my body to fly through light and
darkness without end. Now I have my
own ice forest to look back on. And I
suspect that someday, Nana and I will
sing songs in other languages to each
other, where there are no windows.
The Traveler 27
28 The Traveler
Beedy Gray
Flurries small and wet
Melting like beads of sweat
Upon my sills of pain.
What leads me astray
Self destruction each day
2 up 4 back no gain.
I know not where I go
Though optimism I show
Keep the faith they say.
Keep your chin up, kid
Turn your cheek, stupid
Tomorrow's a better day.
My chin is up a creek
My cheek is bruised and weak
Today is yesterday's tomorrow.
I've had enough
Of this awesome stuff
Keep your generic rainbow.
Honorable Mention Photo "Head in Hands" R. Brown
It doesn't matter what you call it!
Stacey Raymond
Don't mix your words. It's hatred and bigotry you're looking at.
The Traveler 29
30 The Traveler
Jason Shaw
Swiftly, I cross the room to your bed,
I look upon the moon's shadow across the dark covers.
I sit.
Your bed is soft and warm, with covers pulled loose.
I sink into its springs, and they pull me low.
Here I sink into the despair of your bed.
I grow weary awaiting the moon's set,
and set my feet upon the bed to lie back,
to see your ceiling. It is eerily dusted with light.
My body rests into your bed as I begin to cry.
It begins to get cold. I pull covers over my chest­ I
cannot breathe.
I look to your ceiling. I can almost touch it above my head.
My chest grows weak as I lie comfortable and warm
in your bed... I cease to cry, I cease to breathe.
Here, in your house, in your room, in your bed, beneath your ceiling,
I cease to live.
Third Place Photo "Reflections" Troy B. Buchanan
First Place Non-Fiction-"To Feed an Endless Hunger"
Lisa Schupach
TO FEED AN
ENDLESS HUNGER
walked over and asked the boy if he'd
ever read Shakespeare before. He
answered "No, ma'am. I don't know. Do
you thinks you could teach me hows to
reads?"
A wonderful world opened up to
the boy whenever he picked up a book.
He read everything he could get his
hands on. He read of dragons and
castles, mysteries with bizarre plot
twists, nursery rhymes with funny
names, and even racey love stories.
Whenever he couldn't be found, his
family would look in the closet, and he'd
be sitting in the comer holding a
flashlight and a book. He used his love
for literature to escape the horrible
realities of his life. He would never miss
school because missing school would
mean missing the chance to check out
more books from the library.
The boy graduated from high
school and went on to college. He had
received grants that would allow him to
Refusing to believe, he fights the system that screams out to him
every day of his existence that he is stupid and should be dealing
drugs or hustling money like the rest of the teenage kids around him.
A teenage boy wakes at 6:00 A.M. to
prepare for school and the day ahead.
He lives in a one room apartment, paint
peeling off the walls, the sound of sirens
filtering in through the dingy black
window which overlooks the fire
escape. He lives in the ghetto with his
mother and two brothers. He is the baby
of the family, and while his mother and
brothers are trying to eke out a meager
living, he is at school trying his best to
receive an education, something which
the rest of his family never had. He is
determined to be different from them,
and, despite the odds and circumstances
against him, he proudly goes to and
from school every day. Refusing to
believe, he fights the system that
screams out to him every day of his
existence that he is stupid and should be
dealing drugs or hustling money like the
rest of the teenage kids around him.
He didn't always have such an
admirable view of the educational
32 The Traveler
system. It had always been the same
teachers and faculty who didn't care if
they taught anything to anyone. They
only cared about getting the students to
school so that their dropout rate would
go down. Once the students were there,
the teachers didn't care if they learned
anything. He went to school because he
could get a better meal at school than at
home.
Then one day, everything changed.
There was a new English teacher in the
school, and she seemed different from
the others. She didn't let the kids play
their ghetto blasters and dance around
the room. She actually tried to get them
to read Shakespeare and write about it!
The kids just snickered and walked out
of the room, all except for one boy. One
pair of hopeful eyes stared back at the
teacher with a frenzied hunger that she'd
never seen before. A hungered gaze that
looked into her soul and screamed:
"Teach me!" Feeling hope at last, she
continue with his beloved education. He
wanted to become an author. He wanted
to be able to touch people's hearts, make
them envision a room as if they were
looking at it, or feel the fuzzy skin on a
peach as if they were holding it in the
palm of their hands. His English teacher
told him he could be anything he
dreamed of, and he believed her. He
knew in his heart that she was the one
who had fed his hunger for knowledge,
and she would never lie to him.
This wonderful teacher touched at
least one student's life in such a way
that it would never be the same. She
took a small seed that wanted to grow
into a tree and gave it the sustenance
needed to survive in a world where there
isn't always enough water or sunshine.
The love of an education is a precious
thing and must be nurtured with a
gentle, loving hand. If it is put in the
wrong hands, it can be crushed and
killed.
Second Place Fine Art "Still Life" Jane Brown
finis
GLENDALE
COMMUNITY
COLLEGE
First Place Computer illustration "Untitled" Joel Meine
Glendale Community College and the Maricopa County Community College District do not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, sex.
handicap or age in application, admission, participation. access and treatment of persons in instructional or employment programs and activities.
Glendale Community College will take steps to ensure that the lack of English language skills will not be a barrier to admission and participation in vocational
education programs.
Glendale Community College y el Maricopa County Community College District no discriminan a base de raza, color. nacionalidad. sexo. edad, ni invalidcz.
en cuanto a la solicilud. admision. participacion. acceso y Irato de las personas y aetividades rclaeionadas con los programas de instruecion la empleo.
Glendale Community College hara lo posible para asegurar que el no poder hablar ni entender el ingles no le servien de barrera para la admision y participacion
en los programas de estudios vocacionalcs.
MARICOPA
COMMUNITY
COLLEGES