"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1993

              1
Special thanks to the literary judges:
Carmela Arnoldt, Ruth Callahan,
Mildred Fischer, Marilyn Hoffs,
Janet Klann, Mary Leskovsky, and
Scott Starbuck. Also, thanks to the
art juror Mirta Hamilton. The
hal'eler staff also thanks the GCC
administration and faculty for their
support and help 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.
T R
TRAVH£R STAFF:
Cover Photograph
Untitled
Diane Anderson
Art Director: Rhonda L. Baker
Assistant Art Director: Cathleen L. Cunningham
Editors: Vicky Campo, Kathy Thiele
Photography Editor: Greg Nairn
Photography Production Assistants: Mark Pollock,
Wanda Pippet
Graphic Designers: Rhonda L. Baker, Cathleen L.
Cunningham, Keith Lythgoe, Stephen Sanmarco
Cover Design: Stephen Sanmarco
Literary Staff: Jennifer Adams, James Cann, Andrew
Farbstein, Melissa Fincun-Brown, Pat Graeff,
Eric Wincentsen
Art Advisor: Dean K. Terasaki, Mirta Hamilton
Literary Advisors: Jan Boerner, Betty Hufford,
Joy Wingersky
A V
POETRY FICTION ART
4 The Cradle 6 Steven's World :2 Death In The Theatre
Kevin Hommel Kim Streible Jean Caruso-Forsman
5 Coffee...25¢ :20 Webs Of Love ] Fireside Talker
Justin Ehresman Paul Whitehead Jean Caruso-Forsman
0 Mirror :24 Johnny Walker 1:2 Cliff At Crown King
Paul Whitehead Kristin Graham Jean Caruso-Forsman
10 The Train Dance ]4 The Midnight Meeting 18 Devil's Claw
Kim Streible Judith A. Woods Cheryl Troughber
II Finally, There Is Silence :20 Red Bougainvillea
Keith R. Lythgoe NON-FICTION Mary Lou Bott
1:2 Mayans & A Yellow :2 Twenty-Three Years :2] Untitled
Leticia A. Lazaro
JBnuanttBelrafuly FRornomBidHdleell :28 Dancing Girl
I] 14 The Silent War House Jean Caruso-Forsman
The Night Kyle W. Kunnecke Carolena Frausto :20 Lady L
16 The Lamb of God: Leticia A. Lazaro :2] OVilcdkyLCoavmepros A Wolfln Sheep's Clothing ]0 Traffic Jam
Vicky Campo Manuel R. Burruel :2] Magdalena ]6 Mend A Broken Heart Kevin Hommel
Laurie Porter PHOTOGRAPHY
:27 The Light ]7 On Being Average Seth E. Dobrin
Wendy 1. Richmond 4 Passage Of Time
:28 The Other Woman Jerald L. Munk
Katherine Christopher ILLUSTRATION 6 Make A Wish
:20 Chiricahua Troy Buchanan
Kevin Hommel 5 a.m. & 80 Proof 0 Saturday Afternoon
]0 The Bus Tobias Flores Diane Anderson Kyle W. Kunnecke 8 Serenity 10 Rays
]1 John Szymanski Gregory S. Nairn Twelve Noon: Velvet
American Time 16 The Anger Within 14 Family Memories
Blake Ford Hall Rhonda L. Baker Chennette Wangan
]:2 497-2209 10 The Tennis Champ I] Over The Edge
D. John Sabel Darlene Rini Keith R. Lythgoe
]] No More Candy :2:2 Interactions :24 Precious Shadow
Justin Ehresman Diane Anderson Christine Miller
]1 Racial Gothic :26 I'm Four
Joel Meine Troy Buchanan
]] The Wizard :27 Angel's Watch
Rhonda L. Baker Joann Rodriguez
]:2 Untitled
Greg Mishaga
E L E R
rWENTy-rijREE yEARS fROM ijELL
by Ronald L. Biddle
A v
burden of this intruder in my memory. He would not leave me
alone. He would not go away.
As I sit and recall this event, my memory escorts me
back to the two-and-a-half days I sat just inside the Cambodian
border, having just been injured, waiting to be picked up and
flown back to freedom. While my interest should have
been on the tourniquet applied to my left
leg, r recall that I could not
get the blood­soaked
dampness
off the back of my
shirt or the body
across it to leave as I
sat and waited.
The report of a
rifle, and the encum­brance
of another shat­tered
life, in a place
somewhere half way
around the world was
destined to follow me
home. It was only one life
in a jungle known for mass
murder. Yet, somehow,
this one belonged to me. I
could feel him. I could
smell, him. r can remember
praying to God, "Please make
him go away."
Twenty-three years have
passed, and that night in Viet
Nam has long since ceased to be
an acti ve part of my conscious
memory. I thought.
Recently, I sat at one of the
picnic tables on campus at
Glendale Community College,
looking toward the future and
reflecting upon the past. As 1 closed
my eyes to stroll through my memo­ry-
to recall the people and events that had influenced and
shaped my life-I found to my dismay, that my "friend" is
closer than 1 thought.
R
The night was dark, and the stench of death and
destruction permeated the closeness of the jungle under­growth
that tugged unceasingly at my very being. It was
amidst this setting of somber solitude
that it happened. There was a crack
that night from a M-16 that would
have shaken the gates of Hell.
Before the silence could repossess
the night air, I was overcome with
emotion from the weight and
dampness (from blood) of the
Viet Cong sniper that was now
across my back. He had plum­meted
from the trees above.
It was not uncommon
to find the rotting remains of
death while on patrol. Blood
and gore were a normal part
of existence in the "bush."
Silence was my friend. It
was this friend that protect­ed
me from where I was,
and it was his company I
coveted.
remember
when I first arrived "in
country." was
apprised of many
pieces of information:
Important things like
not knowing the life
expectancy for my
job, never looking
into the eyes of
my victim, and
always separating myself
emotionally from what I am doing.
The life expectancy for my job was less than
two months, so I never took time to ponder it. Prior to this
night, 1 had always been able to separate myself emotionally
from the task I was so adept at performing. This, however,
was a night I would not soon forget. For just over four
months (untill was wounded and brought home), I carried the
T
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First Plac F-e
Jl]e Art
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Passage 0/ Tillie
by Jerald Munk
Gelatin Silver Print
The Cradle
Scalding winds scar the fertile crescent
giving birth to the beautiful and the vicious
watching over both with unjudging eyes
nurturing these dearly loved children
who play their games down among the reeds
where the two ancient, sleeping rivers meet
by Kevin Hommel
T R A v
E
Coffee...25¢
Where is he?
Old man, with your worn-out cap and shorts.
Have you seen him?
Your overcoming smile, hidden behind the dust.
The mist is fresh and brings a chill.
The rainwater glazes all.
His bed will be made anew
With sheets of ice and a blanket of fog.
Last week? Not since?
Where are you with your two-bit filled fist?
No reason, really, just...curious.
Your coffee awaits you, Old man.
by Justin Ehresman
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by Tobias R. Flores
Pen & ilnk
E R
,
stevens
World
down the sidewalk. He stopped abruptly and turned to look
back. The man was gone. The drug store was only a few
blocks away. It had an awning and would provide shelter
from the storm that grew stronger with fury with each passing
moment. Steven approached the drugstore and noticed that it
was dark inside. a one would be coming by today; no
screaming lips would chase him away. He stood undel1leath
the awning and sighed a breath of relief. He looked down at
his empty hands. He had dropped his skipping rocks. Why
would his mind always wander?
Steven leaned against the wall and took a deep, silent
breath. The man had frightened him. It was a fear he could
not ignore. The hearing world used words to hurt. He was
familiar with shouting lips. He would have liked to look at
the drawing a little longer. He wanted to try and recreate the
A v
The rock bounced along the wet concrete and
wedged itself between the cracks of the side­walk.
The rain slowly filled the crack and
washed the rock down, along its width. Steven rubbed the
two remaining rocks that he had so carefully chosen for the
sale purpose of skipping, and continued. He stomped his shoe
successfully in the middle of a puddle and watched as the
dirty water splashed against his pant leg. The rain was falling
gently, in a sprinkle. He ran his fingers along the bricks of
the book store and stopped in front of the big display window,
a ritual he enjoyed. He stopped here everyday, each day
remembering something new about the drawing. Two moun­tains
were parted by a walkway and surrounding trees and a
tiny stream lay in the distance. Though many people scurried
by the very same window, they did not notice this wonderful
place. Steven dreamed of this wonderful world, where he
knew no pain and tried to recreate it in his own drawings.
He coaxed his eyes along the mountain tops, captur­ing
every penciled detail his mind could grasp and retain. The
rain fell harder, and his skin grew colder. His thin red t-shirt
was drenched and clung to his chest. The thunder roared
above him, but this Steven could not hear. He could feel the
vibration of the shaking clouds in his chest, but only when he
stood very still. The tapping of the rain was absent as well,
though he longed to hear its subtle song.
Suddenly, a hand fell upon his shoulder, drawing his
altention. He gasped and looked up into a tall man's oval
face. His hair was tightly woven and the rain rolled off it like
an umbrella. His eyebrows were thick and drawn together.
Did you hear me? the lips formed. The man turned and
pointed at the big, yellow sign lying in the corner of the win­dow.
Steven looked over in the direction of the finger. The
sign read: CLOSED. Steven knew those letters together
meant no one could enter. He looked back at the grimacing
face. What are you, deaf? the lips shouted. The man leaned
forward and Steven stepped around him. He began to run,
leaving the window behind him. The water splashed under­neath
his shoes as he rounded the street corner and scampered
by Kim Streible
T R
E R
response. The old man looked down at Steven's drawing with
much interest. Steven held out the drawing, and the old man
grasped it in his withered hands. He held it before him care­fully,
and Steven waited for the lips to speak. This is nice.
Now, where is this pLace? Steven shrugged, and then after a
moment he pointed to his head. The old man nodded and his
long, black finger pointed at the drawing. But now, the lips
formed slowly, it is out. It is not in here any more, he
paused, pointing to Steven's head, because 1 can see it. The
finger reached out lightly touching him, and that means that
you are an artist. I couLd see it in your eyes. The window­you
know the window-you saw it in my eyes, just as I saw it
in yours.
Steven smiled. The old man knew about other
worlds. Steven reached into his front pocket and withdrew
another folded sheet of paper. Steven could see the streets
behind the man stretching into oblivion. He knew the wise
man could see this too, and he sensed that the man's mind did
wander, just as his. He handed the drawing to the wise man
and waited. The fingers, scraped and rough, opened it careful­ly.
It was three stick people: one with a mop hair of maroon,
one with apple red, and the last in lemon yellow. The figure
with hair of apple red was small and alone, away from the
other figures who were much larger. The wise man looked
closely at the picture. He could see its portrayal of loneliness
and neglect. He could feel the power of a mind longing to be
free. He looked up at the boy. This is you, the lips said while
the fingers pointed to the mop hair of apple red. This is-the
lips paused-your mother, finally said, referring to the lemon
yellow. And your father, sliding over the maroon. Steven
socks underneath his old, worn tennis shoes. Steven had seen
people like him before, sleeping in a crumpled mass in the
alleys and in the park. The old man leaned forward slowly, in
a non-threatening manner. What are you doing out in the
coLd, son? The man's lips were large and easy to read. The
old man studied Steven for a moment and grew silent. Steven
lifted his hands and placed it over his mouth. He shook his
head, communicating that he could not speak although his
longing was greater than the will to live. So, you can't speak.
Hmmm, but you can understand me? Steven imagined that it
was more of a statement that a question, but he nodded in
Jt wti.IJ- (j,~wkAe, k ~'t caI!Rd !JWpid
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The awning
proved to be an adequate
shelter from the rain.
Steven decided he would
work on the drawing
while the images were
still fresh in his mind.
He sat down on the dry
concrete and unfolded
the crumpled piece of
paper. He reached down
into his front pocket and
withdrew four broken
image, so that he could
carry it with him. Steven
stuffed his hand into his
back pocket and groped
for the sheet of paper he
had hastily deposited
there.
by Troy B. Buchanan
Gelatin Silver Print
E
crayons: azure, maroon,
apple red, and lemon yel­low.
He rested the page
across his knee and chose
the maroon for the moun­tains.
He drew the lines
carefully, the way he
imagined the artist had.
He curled his tongue
over his top lip unknow­ingly.
Once the picture
was complete, he could
look at the place every
day. He could imagine
that it was his world.
There were no screaming lips, only whispering grass. There
would be no need for running. The sky would embrace him;
the sun would warm him, and there would be no need to fear.
Just then, a movement caught his eye. He looked to
his left where he had noticed the activity. It was a black man,
and he was smiling. It was a welcoming smile, like one he'd
only seen a few times before. The man's face was worn with
age, but his eyes were dancing. Steven had seen only sad
eyes on the faces of the old. The man's head was covered
with an old, brown cap. It shadowed his already dark com­plexion.
His eyes were a deep brown with a sparkling win­dow
in their corners. He wore a dirty jacket that had had its
pockets ripped off. He wore black slacks that stopped short
of his ankles. He could see that the man was wearing no
, . ,
A v
These are special crayons. They were made for you. It is
the key to your window, Steven. Had he told the wise man
his name? Now,finish your picture.
Steven took the box from the man and held them in
his hands. He opened the top and looked at the vast array of
colors. There were colors he had never seen before, like the
colors that came to him in his dreams and whispered of beau­tiful
places. The wise man touched his arm, and Steven
looked up. Any color you want to be, the lips
invited. The boy smiled and surveyed the selec­tion.
He pulled out a dark color that resembled pur­ple
as we know it, but with hints of gray and red.
He looked up for the smile and found it. Good
choice, it said. As Steven began to draw the stick
figure of himself standing firmly on the mountain
tops, the rain was falling away. The clouds parted
slowly, and the sun began to creep along the streets
once again. Good choice, the voice echoed.
As Steven drew the ears and mouth, a tin­gling
sensation grew in his hands. He watched in
awe as the colors on the page began to dance about,
scrambling back and forth. The tingling sensation
traveled up his arm and through his ears and mouth.
His tongue felt numb and warm. The lemon yellow
left the sun, and the azure scampered behind it.
The colors rushed from the page, up along his arm.
He giggled. He watched as they danced upon his
chest. He looked over at his friend. The wise man
nodded and pointed at the page. "Go on, it's your
world now," the voice said. Yes, the voice, not the
lips. It was the smooth, singing voice he'd imag­ined
that he heard at that moment. ..and forever.
Steven smiled as he reached his hand into the white
of the page. The colors giggled gleefully, tickling
his ear. His hand disappeared. and then slowly his
arms were gone, engulfed by the world he had cre­ated.
The colors followed as the soles of his shoes
disappeared. The drawing sat alone on the dry con­crete:
mountains, with surrounding trees and off in
the distance a stream. Atop the lone mountain was
a figure, firmly planted, arms reaching for the open sky. The
wise man lifted it from the ground and folded it carefully. He
slid it into his pocket. As he did, the pockets disappeared. He
looked down at the other picture and watched as the figure
with the mop hair of apple red was washed away. The wise
man turned and let the wind take the picture to further des­tinies.
He wandered down the sidewalk. He passed the book­store
window but did not stop. He simply smiled that wel­coming
smile and walked into another world.•
Serenity
by John Szymanski
Computer Illustration
R
Honorable Mention
Computer Illustration
nodded and looked away.
The man's eyes strayed from the picture and
watched Steven as he looked into the sheets of rain before
him. The stranger could see the thoughts that wandered
behind the boy's silent face. He already knew why Steven
was spending the day walking in the rain, not wanting to go
home. He already knew the place where the boy longed to
go, a place where he wasn't teased and brutalized by the stu­dents
in the school
yard. It was a place
where he wasn't
called stupid and
useless by the famil­iar
lips of his par­ents,
a place where
he was king.
Steven had
returned his atten­tion
to the wise man
whose eyes were
full. The man
placed the drawing
of the three figures
on the ground and
returned his atten­tion
to the first. He
looked at Steven.
Now, it is time, the
lips said slowly and
methodically.
Steven imagined
that if he could hear
the old man, the
voice would be
smooth and sound
as if cach word were
being sung.
The wIse
man reached into
his pocket. Hadn't
the pockets been ripped off? Steven thought to himself, but
pushed the thought away. The aged hand came out of the
pockct, holding a new box of crayons, a whole box, like he'd
scen in the drug store. It was like the ones he'd had before­bcfore
they were broken by raging hands: You sit around
drawing these stupid pictures. Any idiot knows a mute can't
be 110 artist. the lips of his father had shouted. The wise man
watched as the hurtful memories filled the young boy's mind.
He held out the crayons, beckoning Steven to take them.
T
E R
Saturday Afternoou
by Diane Anderson
Gelatin Silver Print
L
by Paul Whitehead
,
I walk the silver line of eternity
and turn to reflect,
only to find myself looking back...
only to find myself looking back...
only to find myself looking back...
E
T
The rails violently shake
as a distant scream warns
of the coming thunder.
Metal twisted, wheels grinding
across the silver beams,
leading straight through town.
The lights are flashing
but my patience is waning.
How far can it be across these tracks?
Black puffs of smoke rise
above the tree tops
in the same grove where I used to play.
The sweat that's falling
I simply brush away
and flash the pretty girl a smile.
Maybe I will wait for her
on the other side
of a much distant world.
My fingers are tightening
my foot stands tall
above these revving horses.
I thrust my foot straight down
with all the force that's needed
to win such a twisted game.
The seconds who'd promised me
so much more time
betrayed my foolish trust.
As the metal creatures danced,
I saw that the trees were burning
in the same grove in which I died.
by Kim Streible
R
No remorse. I feel nothing.
Nothing but relief.
Voices were in my head
like fingers tickling my brain.
Each day taking a little piece of
my sanity,
until finally there was none.
I have done what they said
taken a human life.
I have finally ended the insanity.
The voices are finally gone.
I feel only silence in my head.
by Keith Lythgoe
E R
T
" ...And we sat under the stars with the cat. .. Freezing our asses off, talking about Dreams and Ambition, and
Realities, and about Artwork.
" We talked about Positive Force and about the cat that was tickling our feet.
" We talked about the dogs who were fighting beyond the fence and the ducks in the distance...
...and the shooting star.
" ...And we played a game called 'How Do We Know?' and we laughed, and we cried, and we saw...
... the shooting star.
" And we wondered as we named the stars in the belt of Orion, which both of us knew quite well.
" And we talked about the cat, who, by this time had eaten quite a large hole in her sleeping bag.
" And in the morning we watched first light, ate pumpkin pie, and sipped hot chocolate.
...and the cat ate with us."
L E R
by Kyle W. Kunnecke
E
WAR HOUSE
R A v
by Carolena Frausto
As I approached the dark home, my mind
reminded me of the dangers that lurked
there. I knew of the house's secrets. They
loomed about me, bidding me unwelcome. Still, I trudged
forth, crossed the straining weeds, and then moved through
the bare yard. I knocked on the hard, splintery front door.
The voices I could hear inside were of children crying. As
the door opened slowly, but steadily, I took a deep breath,
for J feared what would answer.
A tired-looking mother with pleading eyes begged
me to stay. I sighed with relief, for she had answered. She
gladly embraced me and welcomed me inside. As I stepped
through the front door, the hard crack of the threshold
alarmed the whole house of my presence. The walls were a
Navajo white, with pastel, country-style decorations.
Portraits of young boys proudly lined the hallway walls. The
underlying aroma of domesticated animals and the sounds of
vicious barks warned me of their presence. I was being wel­comed
but also forewarned. The mother was a worn woman,
one who did not hold authority well with her children. She
stepped over toys and dirty laundry, leading the way to the
very familiar living room.
My fear of seeing the children had been accurate.
braved my way to them, my curiosity needing to touch and
feel the little boys' soft, creamy white skin. They were
unaware that my presence could shake the very foundation of
the home. There were three young boys, ranging in age from
T
two to seven. I could smell the baby and that powdery
aroma that reminds adults of their youth. The middle boy
was deaf and unable to speak. He smiled a huge grin, happy
to see me. But I stared at the oldest one. I felt the magic of
this little boy. In his tiny dirty face I saw his delight in find­ing
me as company. I knew [ would probably never get to
know these beautiful children and that I was forbidden to be
near them or see them. Nonetheless, I submitted to the irre­sistible
urge to hold my dear, sweet, oldest little brother.
I happily hugged and held the seven-year old child
who was ecstatic to see me. Huge droplets of tears blurred
my vision. He remembered me. His clothes felt wann and
cozy as his arms squeezed me as tightly as possible. He
then pulled me around the house, showing me the toys and
other objects that were about. I laughed at the little boy over
his childish jokes.
My visit was almost fine until the master of the
home found an intruder. The monarch of the house
approached me. His body was trembling with anger and
growing hate for me. I suddenly turned into the little girl T
used to be. Timid, frightened, I saw the rage in his eyes. I
knew I should not have come. His voice grew louder and
demanded the reason for my presence. I had been ostracized
from the house before. I screamed for mercy, and the room
started to throb. I could taste the sweat on my lip. [backed
away from this fierce lion, ready to spring on me if I made a
wrong move. I felt the whole room turn in slow motion.
The children were silently quivering in the background,
staying out of the way unable to stop this horrible creature
from tearing me apart. The dogs sculTied to the nearest cor­ner.
The door lured me, urged me to leave.
The mother cried with the last of her strength that I
stay. Her natural motherly instincts convinced her that
everything would be fine despite the chaotic atmosphere I
had just caused. I knew in my mind that such a situation
was impossible. 1 wanted to stay and occupy the void that
my mother could not fill for my little brothers, but 1 knew
that it was not my responsibility. I saw in their eyes that
they needed me. He yelled for me to leave. My mother.
who is a very weak woman, agreed that I must go. I knew
then why I had left years ago. Her husband had bewitched
her into abandoning her daughter..
E R
~\\ A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING V~.
v
by Vicky Campo
A
The Anger Within
by Rhonda L. Baker
Computer Illustration
loyalty by causing us intentional heartache or by asking us to
make sacri fices that are unnecessary and inhumane. Most
people will say that we are probably involved in an emotion­ally
abusive relationship. Few will say that we are probably
Christians. However, both answers are correct. The Christian
guidelines for having a relationship with God bear a striking
resemblance to the standard profile of an abusive relationship.
In order to be hooked into the whole self-defeating
cycle, we musl buy into the first element: the sinful nature of
man and the salvation of God. This is the most basic of all
First Place Computer Illustration
R
3J magine the person we hold in highest esteem
telling us that we just aren't good enough, that
nothing we could possible do would ever be
good enough, and that the only thing that gives our lives value
is our relationship to that person. Envision further that this
Esteemed One tells us to completely surrender our will to him
or her. We will no longer make any choices about our life or
our future; this person will forevermore decide what is best
for us. Now suppose that, even though we have committed
our lives 10 this Beloved One, he or she continues to test our
T
Christian doctrines. One pamphlet, entitled How to Become a
Christian, by Campus Crusade for Christ, defines sin as our
own "self-centered pride and selfishness." More specifically,
sin is described as the violation of "God's standard of right­eousness."
Once a person sees the "hopeless condition" of his
sinfulness, he will presumably turn from his sins and accept
Christianity. The Bible says that all humanity is guilty of sin.
John's letter to the Church says that "if we say we have no sin
we are deceiving ourselves and the truth is not in us" (I John
I:8). The words of the prophet Isaiah are even stronger: "All
of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our right­eous
acts are like filthy rags" (Isaiah 64:6). Even Jesus, who
so loved the world, has a negative opinion of mankind, "For
from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts.
adulteries, fornications, murders, thefts, covetousness,
wickedness, deceit, lasciviousness, blasphemy, pride, foolish­ness:
All these evil things come from within and defile man"
(Mark 7:21-23).
[t seems strange that we should openly accept this
attitude from God, yet when we observe it in our society, we
classify it as abusive. If one removes the biblical language,
these statements are clearly demeaning. "If you think YOU
could ever be good you're only kidding yourself! Even your
best efforts are no better than filthy rags! You're full of noth­ing
but evil!" [I' a mother said these words to her child, or a
husband to his wife, we would fall to our knees and pray for
the sinful souls of these abusers. But when these words come
to us from the mouth of God, we pray for our own souls
instead. And what is the "sin" that brings such wrath from
God? According to the Christian definition, it is little more
than self-reliance.
one the less, this is the Christian prescription; we
must acknowledge our sinfulness, and depend on Christ for
salvation. Once this is complete, we must surrender our will
because the self is the Christian's greatest enemy. Billy
Graham, in his pamphlet Steps to Peace with God, outlines
four steps to becoming a Christian: (I) Admit you are a sin­ner.
(2) Be willing to turn from your sin. (3) Believe that
Jesus died for you. (4) Invite Jesus to come in and control
your life. This fourth step is an important one. The book of
Matthew says that "If anyone wishes to come after Me, let
him take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever wishes to
save his life shall lose it; but whoever loses his life for my
sake shall find it" (Matthew 16:24,25). In Paul's letter to the
Romans he says, "not one of us lives for himself; for if we
live, we live for the Lord, or if we die, we die for the Lord;
therefore whether we live or die, we are the Lord's.
(Romans 14:7,8). Throughout the Bible and in every Church,
it is made very clear that we are to allow God to control our
lives. Any attempt to act autonomously is regarded as sin.
According to this doctrine, although we may possess free will,
it is nullified because we are not permitted to exercise it.
The doctrines of sin, salvation, and the obligatory
surrendering of the will are contained not only in the ew
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Testament but also in the Christian creation myth of the fall of
man. In his book The Power of Myth, Joseph Campbell
explains it thus:
[n the biblical tradition we have inherited,
life is corrupt, and every natural impulse is
sinful unless it has been baptized or
circumcised ... .That amounts to a refusal to
affirm life. Why was the knowledge of good
and evil forbidden to Adam and Eve? Without
that knowledge we'd all be a bunch of babies
still in Eden, without any participation in life.
However, we are not intended to participate in life. We are
intended to believe that we are not good enough for that. We
can participate only vicariously because we are in Christ and
Christ participates in life.
Victims of abuse are often given these same
messages. They are told they are too ugly, too stupid, or too
naive to live the life of their own choosing. Consequently,
they can only live the life assigned by their abuser. They are
told that it is not necessary for them to have a knowledge of
good and evil. They are told that they should not reason. Let
someone else do the thinking. Until there is an act of disobe­dience,
however, the victim will never become the initiator of
his or her own life.
Many of the Christian doctrines become disturbing
when viewed in this light, but one of the most disturbing is
that of the testing of the believers' faith. Consider the story of
Job. God allowed Job to be tested even though He knew that
Job was a "blameless and upright man." God says that "there
is no one like him on the earth .. .fearing God and turning away
from evil." Yet God permits him to be tested by taking away
all Job's riches, killing his servants, killing his children, and
afflicting him with boils and oozing sores (Job I: 1-2: 10). In a
Jldle~tk~
cuui miAu:U ~ mA!A, ~
~ die tut Ud-?
pamphlet distributed by Moody Press entitled Comfort for
Troubled Christians, we are told that God tries the believers
by fire so that they might be cleansed and refined. But,
according to God's own words, Job was already blameless
and upright. So what was the reason for Job's horrible
ordeal? Whatever God's motive, it probably brought little
comfort to Job's servants and children as they were being
slaughtered. These acts cannot be defined as anything but
abusive.
E R
W. Gondolf, Ed.D., writes that, among the behaviors considered
abusive are criticizing, attempting to control, extreme suspicious­ness
and possessiveness, verbal assaults, and clearly intentional
efforts to undermine the sense of self. All of these behaviors can
be observed in the dealings of a Christian God towards
humankind.
No doubt many Christians are aghast at the audacity of
someone who would accuse God. In their minds they are excusing
God's behavior as an "act of love," or as necessary "for their own
good." They are indignantly crying out, "It's not the same thing,"
or "You don't understand!" But, if the charges against God are
true, then the Christians are the victims. Like most victims of
abuse, they are likely living in denial. They have made a strong
emotional investment in their belief system and will be resistant to
any evidence that contradicts it. Many victims of abuse experi­ence
this same anxiety when confronted with the acts of their
abuser. Often they use the same arguments: "He does it for my
own good, because he loves me. You don't know him like I know
him. You don't understand." Unfortunately, most of these victims
will defend the abusive behavior, even to the death.
So how will we judge? Joseph Campbell believes that
reason puts us in touch with God. "Consequently there is no spe­cial
revelation, and none is needed, because the mind of man,
cleared of its fallibilities, is sufficiently capable of the knowledge
of God." Our reasoning may not bring us to the feet of the God of
the Bible; the God who sees us as wicked, who wants us to relin­quish
our self, and who constantly tests our faith. But maybe that
isn't the best place to be after all..
T
I
Another example of testing the faith is found in the
story of Abraham. Isaac was Abraham's only son, whose lin­eage
was promised by God to someday become a great nation.
Yet God tested Abraham, saying, "Take now your son, your
only son whom you love, Isaac, and go to the land of Moriah;
and offer him there as a burnt offering...." Abraham obeyed
God and put his son upon the alter. Just as Abraham stretched
out his knife to slay his son, an angel appeared and said, "Do
not stretch out your hand against the lad... for now I know that
you fear God, since you have not withheld your only son from
Me" (Genesis 22). The Ryrie Study Bible explains that God's
intention here was to see if Abraham loved Him more that he
loved Isaac. But, if God is omniscient, why was this neces­sary?
If He knows the hearts and minds of men, why must He
test LIS?
The Bible says that we should rejoice in our tribula­tions,
knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance and
proven character (Romans 5:3). But anyone who requires us
to go through this type of suffering as a test of our love, faith,
or character, is clearly abusive. We have heard many stories
of step-fathers forcing their wives to mistreat, abandon, or
even kill their children. Many times a sexually abusive father
will tell his child, "If you love me. you will do this." These
are not considered proofs of love or acts of obedience. They
are abusive! Yet it seems again, that the rules are suspended
when they apply to a deity. "God loves us," we say. Isn't this
often what the victim says about the abuser?
If we define a behavior as abusive for the members
of our society, then that behavior must also be abusive within
the parameters of religion. In his book Man Against Woman:
What E\'ay Woman Should Know About Violent Men, Edward
R A v
R
The Tennis Champ
by Darlene Rini
Mixed Media
Devil's Claw
by Cheryl Troughber
Ebony Pencil
E
Second Place Fine Art
E L
First Place Illustration
A v
was.
narily beautiful web designs. No one
knew who created these webs, but I was determined
to find out. 1 saw what looked to be a new web, so J stu-pidly
threw myself upon it and made like a trapped fly. No
one came out right away, so 1 increased my efforts. When he
finally came out, I could scarcely see him and I wasn't
impressed with what I did see. He was a scrawny and sickly
thing, which made it hard for me to believe he could create
such beauty. Then I saw his eyes.
His eyes were distant and hallow and seemed to look
through me. He looked remorseful, as no life were left in
him. I stared at him awhile, then recognized him.
"Able!" I called, "Able!"
He looked curiously at me, trying to detemline who I
'"Do I know you?" His voice was quiet and
unsteady.
"Uh... no. I watched your escape from your mother's
web a couple of months back." I paused for a moment, trying
to think of what to say next. "I thought you died after that
jump"
He was quiet again as he recalled that memory. A
look of pain fell across his face as it came to mind.
"Did you make this, this beautiful web?" I asked,
by Paul Whitehead
R
I t was a golden day in the garden when little
Able was born. The sun shone brightly over
the willow trees, illuminating the petals of
only the highest-reaching flowers. I knew then Able was
special, different from the rest, because he didn't show his
brothers' panic and drift off in the wind. He just stared at
the clouds in the sky.
"Able! What are you still doing here? Why aren't
you gone yet?" It was his mother, a particularly cruel widow.
"Mother. ..must I leave...can't I stay with you?" Able
truly was different, for no spider stayed on his mother's web,
lest he be lunch.
His mother was furious and more importantly...hun­gry.
She stared at little Able as a beggar would a freshly
cooked steak or even a delicate pastry. She crept closer. Able
covered and shook.
"M...Ma... Mother. .." Able was terrified.
She crept closer, venom dripping from her insidious
fangs. I feared he would soon be her next snack, but as she
came upon him, he leaped off the web and plummeted
towards the safety of the earth.
I lost track of him after that, for a couple of months
anyway. I came upon him again on an unusually dull morn­ing
when touring the garden. I was admiring some extraordi-
T
Third Place Fine Art
hoping to change from such a
painful subject.
"Yes," was all he said, then looked into the sky.
"Then you're the one who's made all those fanciful
designs throughout the garden."
Another look of pain crept across his face, and then
he swooned. Confused and worried, 1 dashed to him and
tried to wake him.
"Are you all right?" 1 asked as he regained con­sciousness.
"Uh...Uh... haven't eaten for weeks, he said as he
gazed into the sky again. At least this explained his scrawny
appearance.
"Why?" I asked.
He took a breath, then looked me in the eye. He
took another breath, which seemed to give him a little
strength back, then began to speak.
"All right. First, I must tell you my story, so you
may understand my disgrace, my honor, and my reason for
dying. When I was born..."
"I already know that...your mother thought of you as
E R
Red Bougainvillea
by Mary LOll Bott
Watercolor
lunch ...go on," I said, not
wanting to be retold what I
already knew.
"Then where do you want
me to start?"
"lust after you jumped off
your mother's web."
"Very well ... " he took
another deep breath.
"After being heartlessly
chased off by my mother. I
wandered around the gar­den
feeling a bit gloomy
and bleary eyed, but the
beauty of the sky kept me
from sinking too far into
depression. After a few
hours of aimless wandering
and self-pity, I decided it
was no use to mope, such
as I was. I came to the
conclusion that I should
just continue and live as
best I could. In my wan­derings
I had come across
the wonderfully scented
rose bush, whose higher
petals licked the morning
sun, and from which I
could see the entire garden.
Surrounded with such con­stant
beauty, as I was, I
forgot my bitterness and
began to feel true compas-sion
for the world. I enjoyed the
sun's warmth on my face each
day as 1 watched over the garden
and reveled in the way the morning dew hung upon my web.
My life was truly joyous. 1 then decided to imitate the beauty
of life within the threads of my webs. I was terrible at first,
but quickly became proficient."
His eyes gently lightened as he relived the experi­ences,
but then a dark cloud washed through his smile. He
took a breath and deeply sighed, looked at me, then contin­ued.
"My days were light and happy then. I would spend
the mornings watching the sun rise, the days working my
web, and the nights counting the stars until I would sleep. I
thought my life was complete. I could be happy. Then one
morning, when viewing the garden, I noticed the daintiest bee,
dizzily flying from flower to flower, breathing in the beauty
of each. I watched her from a distance for a few days, admir­ing
her carefree lifestyle. I eventually began looking forward
to the mornings when I could watch her, and soon after, I fell
in love. Knowing the relations of spiders and bees, I should
have seen my folly when trying to court her. I also knew of
the troubles I faced if I succeeded. Trying to push such
E L
Honorable Mention
"Rest now, friend." I said, "You can finish when
you've regained your strength."
A v
forever. I wet my mouth for the final kiss. Then I ..." Able
coughed. His breathing became labored, and tears flowed
down like streams of silver. He started to weep, then fainted.
The reliving of his life took what little strength he had left. I
thought he wouldn't wake this time, but he did. He looked
drained of all life as he looked at me and began to speak
again.
"NO!" he
breathed with all his
strength, then settled,
"I will finish." He
brought my head to
his mouth as he faint­ly
whispered his final
tale. He died.
The morning
after, I went to the far
side of the garden,
where the morning
sun shines brightest,
to bury noble Able. I
came to the place of
his last and greatest
masterpiece. There in
the morning sun was
the most beautiful
rose [ had ever seen.
It was in mid bloom
and the fiery red­orange
of the morn­ing
sun itself. I
moved closer to
inspect the marvelous
image and saw the
complexity of Able's
final webs. [was
bewildered and mes­merized
at the
droplets of morning
dew which reflected
the sun's fiery bril­liance.
As [ moved
closer, careful not to
touch or disturb it, [
. In/erac/ions noticed the remains
by Diane Anderson
Computer Illustration of a small empty cocoon.
[ buried poor Able at the
base of his last work. A tear came to my eye as I walked
away and remembered Able's last words. [turned to look at
the web rose again.
"I let her go.".
R
depressing thoughts from my mind, [ concentrated on gaining
her trust. The rest I'd worry about later.
"The next morning I called to her to come sit and
talk with me, but, as I expected, she refused. If only I hadn't
loved her so, I could have seen the doom of my dreams. I was
determined to win her love, so I continued to call to her, but
each time she'd say, "You're a spider. I am a bee. If I came
near you, you'd try to eat me." This wasn't true, I'd try to
convince her. I begged. I pleaded. I sang. I wrote poetry,
but nothing would move
her. One night when weep­ing
for my broken heart, an
inspiration struck. I would
have her. ..forever.
"That same night I
left my home, went to the
far side of the garden where
the morning sun shone
brightest, and began my
greatest masterpiece. I
worked for weeks, studying
the way the sun's morning
rays reflected off the
droplets of dew. I had only
one thing on my mind...her.
She would be mine. I
labored days and nights for
what seemed years; then, it
was complete: my greatest
work, my life's achieve­ment,
to trap her in my
arms. She would always be
with me.
"The next morning
I waited, hidden from view,
watching for her. When I
didn't see her, I worried she
would not come around. I
feared my work was a wast­ed
effort, but then I saw her
buzzing in a distant field,
and I breathed a sigh of
relief. [watched her dance
with the morning sun, and
as she suddenly noticed
something new, she came
quickly to investigate. My
trap was sprung when she land-ed
on my web. My face
streaked with joy. She would now be here forever. I rushed
out to greet my love. I walked slowly around her, admiring
her, adoring her, securing her. She was beautiful. My mouth
salivated. I wanted her. I danced around her, touching her
with my webs, tying her into my anns. She would be with me
T
E R
by Kevin Hommel
She says I've tried to wash away my selves
with holy water, gin, and gasoline
but she still loves it when I lie
as she traces its path back into me
then works herself out like a sliver of glass
L
AGDA..L..E..NA
E
by Vicky Campo fl
. /
•
Honorable Mention Fine Art Untitled
b)' Leticia A. Lazaro
:\-lonoprint
White wooden chair
splintering
with chipping paint.
You sit and watch.
Young girls with firm breasts
play volleyball
in the sand.
The tide comes in.
And still each night
you come to bed with me.
v
Precious Shadows
by Christine Miller
Gelatin Silver Print
A
Forgot to congratulate you for win-ning
the school
spellin' bee.
Must think you're
pretty damn
smart, don'cha?"
I could hear his
footsteps behind
me. He always
wore those shit­colored
boots to
school. Only
shoes he owned, 1
guess. He made
plenty of use out
of them, though.
My hands started
to sweat, and I
felt my flute case
slip a little. If I
only had had a
IO-gauge shotgun
hidden in the
instrument case, I
could turn around
and take care of
Johnny Walker
for good.
His gravelly
voice interrupted,
"Wilson, I
brought ya one of
my sister's dress­es
to wear."
The intersection
was next. I passed by Mr. Rawlin's house. He was out on
his porch. I know he saw what Johnny did, but he never
raised an eyebrow. I silently tried to call upon him for help,
but I knew that it wouldn't do any good if he did. There
would always be another school day.
1 was at the edge of Mr. Rawlin's house when I
heard Johnny's footsteps catch up to me.
"Hey, I'm talking to you, Wilson-"
reality that waited for me with a half-chewed toothpick
hanging from his mouth.
"Hey, wimpy, wormy Wilson," he called. "How
'bout some boxin' practice today?"
As hard as I tried, I could still hear my voice shake
as I said,
" ot today Walker."
He grinned that lopsided smirk and curled his fin­gers
around his ruler. I winced immediately. I didn't have
to be a detective to figure what he had planned for that ruler.
I kept my eye fixed on the Brown's front porch, only three
more houses to go.
"Oh, Wilson.
The old yellow school bus came
to a stop every day at the corner of
Elmwood and Olive. 1 only lived half a
block down: a total of four houses, one
intersection, a yellow fire hydrant, and a
street light. I could even tell you the col­ors
of the curtains in each house I passed.
My house was only half a block down,
but it was the longest walk of my life.
I had the great misfortune to be
born on the same street as Johnny
Walker. Over-grown, under-educated
and downright mean, Johnny Walker was
the most notorious bastard in middle
school. All the Walker family ever was
was a bunch of troublemakers. Old man
Walker spent so many weekends in the
county jail that Sheriff McGoon consid­ered
charging him rent. They said
Johnny was named after his old man's
favoritc booze and that Johnny nursed on
that rather than his mother's milk.
Johnny took an instant dislike to
mc because I always got attention in the
classroom. I was one of those rare kids
who enjoyed school. I read anything I
could get my hands on, especially at
lunch or on the bus when Johnny decided
to humiliate anyone within spitting dis­tance.
That's why I sat in the very first
seat on the bus. closest to the driver.
Johnny tried for me one day and hit Gus, the
bus dri ver. Gus was a big, black man with a kind heart but
steel anns. He was about the only one Johnny wouldn't
mess with, so I tried to fit myself into Gus's shadow.
I did my best to go about my way, but the same
inevitable truth happened at 3:47 every afternoon. The bus
came to a stop at the corner of Elmwood and Olive. I pro­crastinated
as much as I could, but eventually I had to step
down from the metal protection of the bus and into the awful
by Kristin Graham
T R
J WA1, into. ~~cuuL huw.ed mAf
c:IinnRA ~ tk~. J daded~ Iuvui
we,.n~J ~/t tJ.Wte wJu,.
Suddenly I was hit so hard that I fell forward, hit­ting
my chin on the top of a chalk hopscotch game. My
flute case went flying into the street. The lid popped open
and silver sticks flew through the air. I watched as the flute
my father saved up to buy hit the ground. I felt an over­whelming
surge of hatred take over me, and I pushed myself
up.
E R
father said with a half-smile. Then he reached out and took
my books from me, "Let's get you cleaned up, son."
r felt a tremendous wave of relief come over me as
my father put his hand on my back and guided me upstairs.
"Why don't you wash up and join your mother and
me in the kitchen?"
"Yes sir," I said happily. They didn't seem to be
mad about the pants.
I washed up
quickly and changed
clothes. I folded my
school clothes and placed
them on my desk. I was
walking down the stair
when I heard my father's
sighed,
"Um, he had been drinking and shooting a gun at
the same time. His gun went off in the wrong direction
and ..."
My stomach started rolling around that last bite of
hot dog, and there were hot tears in my eyes. I didn't entire­ly
understand it, except that Johnny didn't have a father any­more.
"Excuse me," r mumbled and pushed myself back
from the table. I ran into the bathroom and heaved my din­ner
into the sink. r started crying hard even though r wasn't
sure why. The bathroom was echoing my hiccups, and I
voice saying,
·' ... wanting to buy a large supply of bullets at the
store. Jack and r could tell he was drunk so we weren't sure
what to do. I was about to call for help when r heard the gun
go off..."
I came into the doorway. My father must be talking
about work. He worked at the local hardware store and usu­ally
didn't get home until late.
"What's going on, Dad?" I asked.
"Come here, son. We need to talk."
As my father explained the danger of guns to me,
my mother brought me a plate of hot dogs and beans. I had
heard this speech many times, so r concentrated more on my
dinner until my father said, "Sometimes people's anger can
be just as dangerous as guns, son, especially when they've
had some drink."
r wasn't sure what he was saying. but Tsure didn't
like the feeling Thad in my stomach.
"You know the Walker boy, don't you?"
My heart started beating fast again and I swallowed
a lump of hot dog.
"Johnny's in my class," I answered.
"Well, son, his father had an accident today."
"What-what kind of accident, Dad?"
My parents exchanged a look, and my father
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I turned to face
Johnny, knowing that I
would soon meet the
pavement again. I began
to taste the salty tears and
blood in my mouth.
"Let me by,
Johnny." I whispered
through clenched teeth.
" ot a chance, pencil-neck," he said with a smirk.
Before he could throw the next punch, the sound of
screeching tires stopped us both. Sheriff McGoon pulled
onto the sidewalk and sprang from his patrol car.
At last, someone had come to help me.
But my thoughts were soon disrupted by the look
on Sheri ff McGoon's face.
"Johnny, boy," he said. "You better come with me.
I think you're old man has really done it this time, and we
need you to round up the family."
Johnny and I looked at each other, and for a brief
moment, T saw pain flash through his eyes. He turned and
jumped into the car. The huge black and white car made
another screeching sound as it took Johnny away. I brushed
the dirt off my good pants before I turned to pick up the
pieces of my flute.
I finished walking home slowly. I was sorting thor­ough
my list of excuses that would explain the pants. How
was I going to explain the scratched flute?
As I came around the corner, my heart fell into my
stomach. My father's Ford was in the driveway. He was
home early. My throat dried up, and I felt my legs go numb.
I had considered hiding at the library for a couple of hours
when I heard my mother's voice,
"George, he's here! Thank God."
My father's long frame filled the doorway. He was
still wearing his hat and jacket.
"Are you all right, son?"
With his words, I broke into tears. Maybe they
would understand, and my mom would hold me in her lap
like she used to. I grasped my flute case and books tightly
and quickly walked the distance to the door. The tears were
streaming down my face as I reached my father, and Twas
too choked up to speak.
"Oh, honey, are you hurt?" cried my mother.
"It's okay, Phyllis, my boy's going to be fine," my
T
heard my mother's voice in the doorway.
"Why don't you brush your teeth
and go on up to bed, honey? I'll take care
of the mess."
I stumbled up the
stairs and into my covers. My
mind was racing with
thoughts, but sleep soon pulled
the darkness over my eyes.
Thursday they held a
funeral, and most of the town
went. I was surprised at the
faces I saw there. I knew that
most of these folks all talked
mean about old man Walker, but
my father said that despite all
those things, people should pay
their respects. We were sitting
toward the back of the church,
and it felt unusually warm.
When it was over, my par­ents
stood outside talking to some
neighbors. I was relieved to be in
the fresh air. The loud bells on
top of the church were ringing,
and people were talking softly.
The whole afternoon didn't seem
real. After a while, cars started to
line up in a single line to go to the
cemetery. That's when I saw the
Walker family.
They walked right by me.
At first, I wasn't going to look, but
then I remembered what my father
said about paying respects. I caught
Johnny's eye. His nose was red and
he looked pale. I stood staring at the
strange blue suit he was wearing.
My tongue couldn't move. I didn't
know what to say to him. He looked
away and shoved his fists deep in his
pockets.
Out of nowhere, my voice
recovered, and I heard myself say,
"Johnny?"
He turned back. I couldn't
think of anything else to say, so I just
waved.
He lifted his hand and nodded.
I watched him get into the car, but this
time I said to him and to myself,
"Take care."
R A v
I see some light.
It's getting brighter.
The opening is getting wider,
Here I go...
I'm gonna get out this time.
Head first...
I'm almost out,
Finally!
"<smack>, <smack>"
Ouch,
Damn that hurt.
Bastard!
"Waaaaa...Waaaaaa...Waaaaaaaaa...
It's dark,
Oh, so dark.
What time is it?
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Heeeellllppppme! !
I, I'm falling.
Wait...
E
by Seth E. Dobrin
L E
Angel's Watch
by Joanne Rodriguez
Gelatin Silver Print
R
T
Honorable Menl ion Fine Art
R A
Dancing Girl
by Jean Caruso-Forsman
Acrylic v
E L E R
T R A
THE BUS
Sleeping entities quickly pass their
destination without effort. Bilingual conver­sations
echo through the air and mix with
the steady "click" of the air conditioner.
The hum and rattle of the accelera-tor
enthusias.tically decline as the scr~ech of ~~~
brakes overndes and slows the trave _", <. ~ ., f~:-:~:.; ,
room to a halt. I , ~ ...._
Green lights flicker and the d6t;;r::;....~~
are opened only to expose yet another
apparition to the nightly ceremony of the
dimming star.
The "clinking" of change and the
melancholy greeting of the commander
combine with the scent of week-old sweat as
the homeless board the refuge for one more
hour.
Stories of forklift drivers and care­worn
expressions combine with the tiring
explanation over the intricate system of
speakers and wires of our location.
The star finally covers its weary
head with the sands of foreign civilizations,
and my thoughts tum to the fried chicken at
home. The empty plate at the table and the
not-so-worried expression are etched into
the face of my overseer.
Sounds piercing my ears pound by
brain as fire engines blaze by, and I contem­plate
the next day's agenda.
The scent of Oriental foods floods
the arena as my pulse quickens at the
thought of the shortening distance between
my destination and me.
Moments from now my thoughts
will once again drift away from the scents
and feelings of this time, and these people,
and I will be again rested at home in my bed
awaking from an endless night of sleep.
Kyle W. Kunnecke
First Place Three-Dimensionl Fine Art
Traffic Jam
by Manuel R. Burruel
Bronze
v
E R
by Blake Ford Hall
TWELVE
NOON:
VELVET
AMERICAN
TIME
By-line...we the people...
A million more clocks fall off the wall
Alice had to go and count them all
Eleven fifty-nine and it feels fine
Sunglasses cocked driving in the sunshine
The vinyl of the car seat's passenger
Time trekking with the new ambassador
Twelve noon Velvet American time
Sun goes out the rogue turns to slime
God has taken you for a ride
Leaves you to your own device
Glass cuts throttle sliding on the ice
Remember that it has to rhyme
Come on it's almost time
Update... United States 1993 A.D.
A hangman begging in the Mexican silver street
Trades his whole left hand for a slice of meat
New Year's Day rings from the stolen bomb
Got to break this cycle it is going numb
Dragging the vultures out of the ghost town
Sold the soulless one to the carny clowns
Twelve-a-One and the sun don't shine
Disappear into shadows at the scene of the crime
Look back Adam into Lilith's eyes
Crack goes the bone-sword in the side
Some things you just cannot hide
Under the blanket of the piglet's lies
Remember what you see makes you blind
In the twilight...pictures at eleven
Velvet American time...
Signing ofLTruth is self-evident...
T R A
Solitary, in a room
full of dancing shadows,
dipping and swinging,
drinking darkness as if it were wine,
I dial 497-2209.
A ringing in my ear
stops the shadows still,
they listen like lovers
to the voice on the other line,
as I speak into 497-2209.
"Hello, Vicki, this is me.
You gave me your Iipsticked number
on a sweaty dormitory wall,
within a heart shaped design."
Pause, "this is 497-2209?"
The shadows lean closer,
blocking out all the light
that would betray my darkness
leaving me helpless and blind,
wondering if this is 497-2209.
"My friends think it cute,
to give lonely men my number,
men who ache in the night
and would think me a heavenly sign.
So, thank-you for calling 497-2209."
Her voice shriveled my ears,
as tears burnt out fires within my
soul,
leaving me alone to examine myself,
to dissect hopes with blunted design.
Oh, cruel 497-2209.
Solitary, in a room
full of dancing shadows,
laughing and cheering,
drinking darkness as if it were wine,
I hang up 497-2209.
by D. John Sabel
v
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L E R
with friendly kisses and the rush of anticipa­tion
lightened her step. The beacon from
her lantern lent an ethereal quality to the
countryside as a gentle breeze guided the
whispering foliage through a ghostly dance.
But now she was beginning to question the
wisdom of her impulsiveness. The heavy
darkness had turned her airy independence
into a suffocating loneliness. The night had
turned colder. The heavy mist now had a
bitter bite, and her step was leaden. She
was tired and longed for the warm, safe
haven of her bed.
-
T
-
by Judith A. Woods
The night started with that
infernal backward counting.
For as long as she could
remember, a distant voice began intoning a
monotonous dirge of backwards numbers
just as she began slipping onto the nebulous
realm of sleep.
Tonight she had escaped the num­bers.
She had donned a cloak, grabbed a
lantern, and slipped into the hushed, misty
night through a large oak door. At first, the
release into the night was exhilarating. The
damp, cool mist gently caressed her face
R A v
As she started to turn back for home,
her eyes caught the stark illumination of an
approaching lantern. Strangely, she was not
alarmed, just mildly intrigued by this unusu­al
turn of events. As the stranger
approached, rapid-fire scenarios filled the
woman's mind. Who was this stranger in
the dead of night? A wayfarer? Why, then
was there no carriage or at the very least, a
horse?
As the woman and the stranger drew
closer to one another, the woman realized
the stranger was a woman herself, a gypsy
woman. But alone, late at night, with no
horse or carriage? An invisible urge guided
the woman's feet forward toward the lantern
light of the gypsy.
When they finally found themselves
face to face, the woman felt a vague stirring
of a long ago memory, a buried inner sense
of sameness, of recognition. The gypsy
spoke not a word but turned to go, and the
woman obediently fell into silent step with
her.
Deeper and deeper they wended
their way into the dark, dancing woods.
Presently, they arrived at a small, quaint
carriage house. As they entered, the woman
was again struck by an odd feeling of famil­iarity
of the surrounding atmosphere. She
searched deep into the recesses of her mind
for a memory of the moment. The gypsy
gestured towards a chair, and the woman
slipped into it, grateful for the alI-encom­passing
embrace of comfort. As the gypsy
E L
quietly stoked the fire and prepared the tea,
the young woman grappled with unbidden
feelings brought on by this colorfully
garbed woman. The jangling of the gypsy's
gaudy jewelry was the only accompaniment
to her unsettled thoughts. Finally, the gypsy
joined the woman, settling into a matching
chair opposite the young woman.
For awhile, there was the aura of
quiet communion as the two women sur­veyed
each other in silence. At last, the
gypsy asked. "Do you know who I am?"
The two women sat head to head,
engaged in a lively, enlightening exchange.
The woman, the innocent; the gypsy, the
wizened old teacher. Recognition gradually
replaced awe and confusion. Unsure of
what to make of her sudden revelation, the
young woman stammered quick excuses
and hastily retreated from the carriage
house. The gypsy woman smiled, satisfied
with the meeting.
The woman became aware of the
numbers again. She opened her eyes to the
surrealistic aura of the brightly lighted
room. Her eyes struggled to focus against
the light as she heard the distant voice of the
therapist ask, "Do you understand the jour­ney
you just took in our session today? I
believe you have just encountered
yourself.".
E R
by Laurie Porter
That Saturday morning started
out like any other work day at \
Berkley Animal Clinic. We
weren't open yet,. but there was a knock on the \
back door. Standing there was a cute, red-haired
boy about seven years old. He was pulling a big
red wagon with a large black and white dog in it.
The boy looked up at Doc and me with tears runnina
down his freckled cheeks and said, "Can you help hi;?
Please!"
Doc and I both looked at each other and then at
the dog. Doc started to examine the dog while I ushered
the boy and his mother, who had just arrived, into the
waiting room. Dr. Blackford, or Doc as everyone called
him, was a short, heavyset man in his early fifties. He
had a heart of gold when it came to animals, and some
people say he was the best vet around. I knew if anyone
could help the dog it would be Doc.
After his examination was completed, Doc
looked up slowly with a familiar look in his eyes and
said, "I've been doing this for over thirty years, but I'll
never get used to it." I knew this meant the dog must be
put to sleep. I had a lump in my throat and tears in my
eyes as I followed him into the waiting room.
The boy looked up from his mother's shoulder
as we entered the room. I could tell by the look on his
face that he knew the answer before Doc told him. The
dog was sixteen years old and had had a stroke. He was
totally paralyzed and was having a rough time breathing.
The only humane thing to do was put the dog to sleep.
My heart went out to the boy as he pressed against his
mother's shoulder
and sobbed. Suddenly,
a thought had occurred to
me. We had an abandoned
Brittany Spaniel puppy back in
the kennel. I quickly ran back there
and got him. He was a frisky, lovable lit­tle
guy about eight weeks old. I breathed a
silent prayer that the puppy could somehow make
the boy feel a little better.
When I returned to the waiting room with the
pup in my arms, Doc glanced up. Our eyes met, and he
smiled. Doc knew what I had in mind, and I could tell
he liked the idea too. I walked over and put the pup in
the boy's lap. The puppy immediately started licking
the boy's tear-stained cheek. The boy's weeping sub­sided,
and with a weak trembling smile he asked, "Who
does he belong to?"
"You, if it's all right with your mom," J replied.
The boy turned and looked at his mother, "Can
I have him, please?" His mother smiled and the boy's
fac~ lit up. He hugged the puppy to his chest and kept
saYll1g over and over again, "You're mine, all mine, and
J love you!"
Many years have passed since I worked with
Doc. I had a letter from him just the other day. It seems
he finally decided at age sixty-nine to pass on his little
black bag to "some young upstart from Michigan
State." I must admit that J wasn't very surprised to
learn that the new vet taking on old Doc's practice was
none other than the very same tearful-eyed, freckle­faced
boy that stood in our doorway that Saturday
morning long ago. EJ./0
T R A v
On Being
Average
E
by Wendy J. Richmond
L E R
MARICOPA
COMMUNITY
COLLEGES
Glendale Community College and the Maricopa Conunty. Community Colleged District do not discriminate on the basis of race,color,national
origin,sex,handycap or age in application, admissior participation,access and treatment of persons and programs and activities.
Glendale Community Collegewill take steps to insure that the lack of english language will not be a barrier to admission and participation in
vocational educational programs.
Glendale Community College y el Maricopa County Community College District no discriman a base de raza,color,nacionalidad,sexo,edad, ni
invalldez, en cuanlo a 10 solicitud,admision,participation,aceso y trata de las personas y actividades con los programas de instruccion 0
empleo.
Glendale Community College hara 10 posible para asegurar que el no poder hablar ni entender el ingles no Ie servira de barrera para la admi­sian
y participacion en los programas de estudios vocacionales.