"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1995

              Untitled, Scott SerkJand, Charcoal Drawin
bicycle
John R. Bl11.ggner
let's meet one day on bicycles
the iron steeds of innocence
meet me before dinner, as the sungoes down
by some familiar tree, in our small town
let's settle down within its Shadie~f~ill!lllli!lli~~I;~~
in little love.
I'TII1'l1[l"jK"
Marvin, Kelly Clement, Third Place - Computer Art
Table of Contents
LITERARY CONTENTS
2
3
4
5
14
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
17
18
19
24
27
28
29
Back Cover
Untitled, Scott Serkland Front Inside Cover
Eve ofXtinction, Jerald L. Munk
First Place
Marvin. Kelly Clement
Third Place
Firebug, Cheryl Traughber,
Special Award - Illistration
Money Jazz, Cheryl Traughber
Forecast, Ron Huber
Second Place
Paint Your Wagon Wheel, Cover
Special Award
Locket ofMystery, Nina M. Rogers
First Place
Untitled, Shannon Reynolds
Long Afternoons, Tone Carmosino
Third Place
A Bad Date, Kelly Clement 30
Third Place
Untitled, Christen Chipps, 16
Special Award - Three Dimensional Fine Art
Untitled, Kari Skinner 20
Second Place
Untitled, Kari Skinner 23
First Place
Marta, Nina Rogers
The Reach, Tone Carmosino
Second Place
Old Bill, Chenette S. Wangen
The Great Awakening, Julie D. Charest
Untitled, Chris Sjogren
Passage of Time, Nina M. Rogers
Untitled, Melba Stephens
Death oj a Memorial, Jerald L. Munk
Untitled. Jennifer Sowby
Untitled. Phil Branson
Untitled. Shannon Reynolds
The Chaperon, Tone Carmosino
Suntime. Julie D. Charest
Smooch, Julie D. Charest
Diana, Nina M. Rogers
Computer Art
VISUAL CONTENTS
Fine Art
Photography
5
8
13
20
26
Ornaments Hungfrom The Heart. Melinda Davis
First Place
A Box of Frogs, R. A. Sam Stever
Honorable Mention
Cowhand's Memories, J. Mark Henley
First Place
Revolutionaries and Mad Men, Molly Sadler
Second Place
Sweet Savage Revenge, T. Nieschulz
Third Place
Happy Birthday, Kelly Coughlin
Honorable Mention
The Dirt Hills, Glen West 24
Second Place
bicycle, John R. Bruggner
Specie. Dale Gibson 6
Third Place
Reality OfDating Or Fish Life, Susan Mone 7
Vending Machine, Jeannette Leeds 12
Honorable Mention
Piano. Jim Akridge 18
Honorable Mention
Rated PGfor Pompous Goose, Melinda Davis 19
Second Place
ConJlicting Commands, Mary Elizabeth Fried 23
I Love Gears and Cogs, Jeannette Leeds 28
Flattered Dreams, T. Nieschulz 28
These Eyes, V. Paige Nyland 29
White. Glen West Back Inside Cover
I hate the end of nothing, Back Inside Cover
William Maurice Sprague, Honorable Mention
Fiction
Non-Fiction
Poetry
FIRST PLACE - ON-FICTION
Ornaments Hung From The Heart
Melinda Davis
"You have such beautiful, long
piano fingers; you could play the
piano."
"Grandma, I think I need
lessons frrst."
"Your hands were made to
playa piano. Just look at those
long piano fingers; you could
really play the piano."
"Grandma, I'm tone deaf and
my piano teacher attempted
suicide after my last lesson."
"Those fingers, long and
flowing, I can just see them tick­ling
the ivoIies. You know, if you
really wanted to, you could play
the piano."-
In all things, despite evidence
to the contrary, my grandmother
continually affrrmed my potential.
While my parents worked, my
grandmother watched me from
the time I was nine months old,
until I was in the sixth grade. In
the time we spent together, we
shared many things, including
abstract tangibles and tales of
wisdom.
"Abstract tangibles" sounds
like an error. Oh, she meant
"abstract intangibles." I used this
oxymoron on purpose, to express
how my grandmother was able to
expose me to feelings and emo­tions
which one can't fully know
unless expeIienced first hand.
Somehow, she was able to "hold"
these abstracts and allow me to
touch them, to know their tex­tures,
sizes and shapes, so I
could always recognize them
wherever I was. I was like a bare
tree, let's say evergreen (not my
favoIite tree, but it works with
the metaphor). She came by and
carefully added beautifully
detailed ornaments, making me,
Locket oj Mystery, Nina M. Rogers, First Place - Photography
Untitled, Shannon Reynolds, Photograph
2
the tree, unique. Yet, she left
room for others to add a string of
lights here and there, maybe
some popcorn strings along with
the lights and then a few strings
of pearls in between the popcorn
and lights. It sounds like many
strings are attached, but hey, we
are rather complex beings. Back
to Grandma's abstract tangibles.
The biggest ornament she added
was love. Yes, she
bought me the gifts
that my parents
refused to. Yes, she
gave me money to "get
a little something" for
myself and, yes, she
always was able to pro­duce
candy out of thin
air. But these are signs
of affection most
grandparents are
known for. My grand­mother
did more. She
let me sleep with her
whenever I wanted
which was just about
every night because I
was terrified of the
dark. (I saw Darth
Vader's hands floating
around trying to get
me at night. Four
years old was a scary
time, okay!) Now, I did­n't
just lie there all
straight and quiet. I
always had icy cold
feet, and, of course, I
wasn't tired. So, she
would hold my feet and
then tell me stories
until I fell asleep. She
taught me love and
compassion through
her actions toward me.
I have often been told
that I'm too nice to
people because
I feel sorry for almost
anybody and I do too
much for people who
don't truly appreciate
it. I just ignore these comments
and think about Darth Vader's
hands, falling asleep to fairy
tales and my warm feet.
Another ornament she hung
on me is humor. Whether she
knew it or not, she was very
funny. Say we were just sitting
around the house, she would just
begin reciting poems and
rhythms she knew. These poems
were not your regular Jack and
Jill stuff. One of her favorite
works to recite was about a goat
that ate his owner's red shirts
and, as a consequence, is tied to
a railroad track. Luckily, as the
train nears, the goat "coughs up
those shirts and flags down the
train." At least that was the jist of
it. As if the poems she recalled
weren't funny enough, as she got
older, she forgot parts as she
went, so she'd make up some­thing
to fill in. For example,
sometimes the usual goat became
a mad dog or the shirts were
unconsciously transformed into
red overalls. From these tales, I
learned that through words you
can bring people happiness. Their
laughter becomes a compliment,
a way of thanking you for making
them feel good.
Another major bangle she
added was the realization that
there is more to life than working
or going to school. Grandma was
not lazy; however, she knew that
everyone must "stop and smell
the roses." It's a cliche but a good
example of her philosophy at
work. For example, when I was in
the second grade, I had numer­ous
substitute teachers. I guess I
became worried about my regular
teacher because I started to hate
the substitutes. They scared me. I
would get physically sick to my
stomach and cry when I saw an
unfamiliar face calling roll. Well,
Grandma couldn't have that, so
she would let me come home.
She would take me from school
and we would go out to lunch,
usually Dairy Queen for the "Full
Meal Deal": hamburger, fries, and
ice cream. (Thank goodness I quit
fearing my substitutes soon after
second grade, or I would have
needed liposuction by the time I
was twelve.) We would eat and
then spend the day shopping, vis­iting
the library, or going to the
park. I'm not absent from school
much any more, but I still treat
myself to a day out with a friend
every now and again, just to
make sure I haven't forgotten to
"stop and smell the roses. ,.
Other influences I mentioned
are the 'Tales of Wisdom." These
are homespun survival skills,
little rules of thumb, which my
grandmother passed on to me.
Like a Christmas angel placed
on top of the tree, these tales
complete Grandma's embellish­ment
of me.
The first skill you must know
is how to take care of yourself or
as Grandma put it. "If anybody
ever gives you any trouble, you
tell them they're nothing but
chicken s#@L" Now, if this hap­pens
while you're at school and
you're in trouble for passing this
pearl of wisdom along to that lit­tle
creep Bifr. well then, you have
the principal call Grandma and
she'll "explain" it to him. While I
have never had to exercise this
phrase, I've often thought it as
I've stood my ground. To this day
I haven't had any trouble assert­ing
myself when others start to
"give me trouble."
Another wonderful saying of
Grandma's was, "Your little butt
is cuter than most kids' faces," I
still think about this saying,
wondering what in the world
made her connect my butt with
other little kids' faces. I never
really took this observation to
hearl, but what an ego boost to
know she loved me so much,
The last tale of wisdom deals
with medicine, doctors. In her
opinion, they were unnecessary.
To Grandma, there were only
three items in existence that
anyone needed in a medicine
cabinet: Camphophenique,
Kleenexes, and suppositories.
Camphophenique is an antisep­tic
like Bactine, only it smells
ten times worse, To Grandma,
Camphophenique was Holy
Water. If you had a pinprick, cut,
collapsed organ, or flalline read­ing,
you got Camphophenique.
The tissues took care of any
bodily flUids you needed removed
either from wounds or from colds
and allergies (which would be
treated with Camphophenique).
On the bottom of the list came
the last resort, suppositories.
They served as a back up system
for the Camphophenique.
"What. you're still not feeling
well? Hum, have your bowels
moved today? You know, that
may be the problem." Those are
the exact words she would use
time and time again. The word
"bowels" scared me when I was
little because I didn't exaclly
know what they were, yet I
knew if they didn't move I was
in trouble. It didn't take me
long to learn that when she
asked about my bowels, I'd tell
her they were moving around
like Mexican jumping beans.
The funny thing about this
"tale of wisdom" is that my self­concept
was influenced by all
this, I don't trust doctors much; I
have a bottle of Camphophenique
in my medicine cabinet, Kleenex
in my bedroom, living room and
car, and although I have ditched
the suppositories, I do keep a
couple of prunes around just to
shake up the old bowels. But
more importantly, I see within
myself a healing force. I know
I'm not a doctor, but I learned
that many wounds don't need
medical attention as much as
they just plain need attention.
My grandmother decorated
"my tree" and filled my head with
wisdom, (l guess the metaphors
run wild there.) She passed away
two years ago. She broke her
Long Aftemoons. Tone Carmosino.
Third Place - Photography
ankle and there were complica­tions.
I miss her immensely, but I
feel privileged to have experienced
such a special relationship, She
had other grandchildren, but they
lived out of state. I had her to
myself for many years before
another grandchild came along.
Sometimes I feel selfish because
of this exclusive relationship. Yet,
if she hadn't been there when I
was little, I would have gone to
daycare or with someone I didn't
know, What would I be like? I
know I would be nothing like I
am. I have a lot of my grandma's
personality in me. When I look at
it like that, I don't feel selfish any
more. I feel blessed, 3
Firebug. Cheryl Traughber. Special Award - Illistration
HONORABLE ME TION - FICTION
5
"Can I see some?" I knelt by
the box.
He lifted the lid to show me
his frogs.
Inside the box were what I
guessed to be over a hundred
3 x 5 cards. Glued to one side
of each card was a picture of a
frog. On the opposite side was a
small deSCription of that frog:
what it ate, where it lived, and
so on. Some cards had a big,
red X on the back.
"What's the red X for?" I
started to laugh, tickled by
the absurdity of what I saw.
'Those are frogs that are
extinct," he said softly.
My laughter caught in my
throat. His voice was strangely
serious for a boy of nine. I tried
to remember what I had been
like when I was his age. I could­n't
remember, but I was sure I
had not
been at
~v~~ all like
Tommy.
I flipped
qUickly
through
some of
the cards.
Most had
red Xs on
them.
"Do
you mean
that all
these
frogs­there
aren't
waiting for the bus. By his side
sat the box.
"How ya doing, Tommy?" I
called as I crossed the yard.
"Fine," he replied.
"You going frog hunting
today?"
"Mmm, hmm," he nodded
his head.
"Where do you do your
hunting?"
"Down at the library," he
said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"At the library?" I laughed.
"What kind of frogs do you find
at the library?"
"All kinds," he said, "and I
bring them home in here." He
pointed at the box.
"Do you have any in there
now?" I humored him.
"A whole bunch."
moneYj
~ZZ
...'--------------'
"Oh, that's his frog box,"
she laughed. "He loves frogs.
I guess that's what he carts
them around in. I told
him that he shouldn't
keep them in an old
box like that, but
you know how
boys are." We
both laughed,
and I assured her
that I was a boy
not too long ago.
A few weeks later,
early on a Saturday
morning, I saw Tommy sitting
in front of my house. He was
R. A. Sam Stever
Tommy was a boy who lived
on my street. He was an average
nine year old. During the winter
he waited for the school bus on
the comer in front of my house.
In summer, he played ball in the
park down the street. Sometimes
he would run by my house,
hands cupped out in front of
him, some wild creature trapped
within. On days when he passed
more leisurely, I would call out,
"Hey, Tommy!"
"Hey, Sam'" he would yell with
a wave. I seldom talked to him
more than that.
One thing that Tommy did I
often wondered about. On some
days, he would carry a large,
brown shoe box as he passed
my house. He always had a
determined look on his face on
those days. I pondered what
was in that box. Dead bugs was
an obviOUS choice or maybe
baseball cards. Even a butterfly
collection would fill the bill.
One day I met Tommy's
mother at the grocery store
and asked her about the box.
Money Jazz, Cheryl Traughber, Computer Art
A Box of Frogs
air
I had an ideaJor a poem a fleeting glimpse ojprose
a momentary flash oj words quickly dissipating
like smoke becoming Jainter every second
shrinking into a distant speck on the
horizon becoming Liny and small
minute gradually shrinking
into nothingness it
is Jading
right
into
thin
Marla. Nina Rogers. Photograph
Speck
Dale Gibson
THIRD PLACE - POETRY
"Mmm hmm," he nodded his
head gently.
"Well, I'll be." I sat in the
grass and looked through the
cards. There were more frogs
than I could have ever imag­ined,
different shapes and sizes,
all colors of the rainbow.
"Where do you find out about
these frogs."
"Mostly from books and mag­azines.
I learn about them so
when I get older I can help
other frogs to not get extinct."
I looked up at Tommy. He
was staring intensely at one of
the cards, studying it.
Somehow, he wasn't just the
boy up the street any more.
"You let me know if you ever
need any help with the frogs,"
I said.
"O.K." He smiled, and put the
lid back on his box.
The bus came and carried
Tommy off to his frog hunt. I sat
on my porch and prayed for the
success of his quest. The frogs
need more people like him, I
thought. I guess we all do.
6
Reality Of Dating Or Fish Life
Susan Mane
I'm liIee aftsh in a river
Where they haven't beenftshing Jar days
There's no one who knows I even exist
to see my very special ways
All the other flSh have been caught
and I think about the life they lead
The only things I ever get caught by
are the currents and the slimy seaweed
I swam upstream to new waters
Showing off my power stroke
A tall dark stranger almost got me that evening
but his pole was too thin and it broke
So I had to swim a bitjarther
And I was just about to close the book
I startedjloating to the top oj the water
and I glanced aroundJor one last look
With my lazy eyes, I saw him
He was getting ready to cast his line
He had one oj those new, sleek, Jancy poles
and his lures were oj perfect design
It took me awhile but I made it
With all my might I bit his hook
In the air I jelt so naked
It was cold and my body shook
I hit the ground where he was standing
His hands held me with such tender care
He gently placed me infresh water
"I'm in love!" I shouted, I was there
The sunset was so beautiful
He made a roaringftrejustfor two
I sat beside him in my bucket
it was clear so I could see through
I'd never been happier in all my life The Reach, Tone Carmosino, Second Place - Photography
Love is something youjust can't plan
And my happiness would have continued to grow
if it weren't jar that largejrying pan!
The last thing I remember
was the whack on the back of my head
And as he stuffed me with bread crumbs
I knew that I was dead
He threw me in the skillet
and cooked me to a golden brown
It was kind oj hard to see you know 7
cause my eyes were out and on the ground
So the lesson here don't get caught too fast
when you're aflSh that is jancy Jree
Everything may not go your way
look what happened to me!!
FIRST PLACE - FICTION
Cowhand's Memories
At Jacob's left, the ground
recedes into dozens of beaten
trails, the result of endless
journeys made by countless
cows. Some trails zig zag as if
once drunk or crazy cows
swaggered back and forth,
paying little attention to the
most efficient path. Like the
veins of a leaf, the trails seem
randomly symmetrical.
"Oh well," Jacob says to his
partner CUm, "I s'pose cows
don't care much for gettin' to
one place or another on time."
He spits. Tobacco juice hits a
fence post. The morning air
smells fresh. The wind begins to
pick up.
Clip, clop, clip, clop.
The ground continues to rise,
leading to a summit several
miles ahead. Jacob places one
hand on the cantle and one on
path, worn from endless journeys
made by countless horses, ridden
by cowhands like Jacob. They
should find the cattle soon.
The countryside slopes up,
rising from the valley where the
Triple H ranch bustles with
daily chores. It's not just a
ranch, not a thing, really. It
breathes life and death.
Generations have lived there.
City slickers would probably
consider it a small enterprise.
Jacob thinks of it as home.
"Well, CUm, where do you
suppose them cows are?"
Clim doesn't answer, but he
knows.
"Do you suppose they
wandered up the bluff? I surely
hate it when they go up there.
Why do ya think they do that?"
Clip, clop, clip, clop.
The winter months are spent.
Small snow patches dot the
topmost portion of the
surrounding mountains. Two
creatures wander the fence line,
looking for northern range
cattle. An old thick coat keeps
the rider warm. Long reddish
hair keeps the horse warm. The
cows are up there somewhere,
spread throughout the
mountain, wandering.
Jacob enjoys his post. He's
worked many jobs, didn't care
for them much. He worked in a
factory, but ranching suits him.
The pay's low, the hours poor,
the food lousy, but the time­it's
worth it for the time. He
likes having a chance to think
about life.
OLd Bill
Chenette S. Wangen
Photograph
J. Mark Henley
To city slickers, this life
would seem wasted: slow,
mundane, lacking in everyday
pleasures. Sometimes
Jacob knows how they
feel. He hardly ever gets
to listen to a radio show.
He likes the Chicago
Symphony. City folks
need those touches in
their lives, to make up
for all they miss, he
thinks. The owners of
the ranch have a radiO.
Jacob understands how
city slickers can take so
much interest in such
pleasures. He lived in
the city once, but now
he and Clim are more
concerned about finding
cattle, keeping wolves
away, and staying warm.
The sound of hooves
8 slowly clop up the dirt
the horn of the saddle. He
stands in the stirrups. He turns
and looks behind him. The
sloping grassy mountain gives
way to shrubs and small spruce
trees. Many miles below he can
see the ranch and home.
Turning around feels good.
Jacob's back aches, the result
of sleeping on straw. City
slickers would be awed at the
sight. They only see such
beauty in pictures. He's happy
not to be in the City, where
children work in sweatshops
and filth flows down city
streets. City folks would never
sleep on straw.
"Glad we don't have to put up
with that life, huh, Clim? 'Ceptin'
for Pearl. She was a looker, let
me tell ya, she was. She's the
one thing I miss 'bout the City.
She could cook too, I think."
He notices Clim's ears. One
turns backward, pointing at
him, anticipating the story.
"Her daddy thought I was
somethin' special, too. [ had me
a good job. Makin' tanks, it
was. Durin' the big war, the war
to end all wars, W-W-l."
Clim's ears both perk forward
again, away from Jacob. He's
heard the story before.
"I took her to see a play. I had
all the luck, I did. Yap, not many
men runnin' around right then.
They's all ofT gettin' killed."
Clim pays no mind. Clumps
of grass are just within reach
several yards ahead. Johnson
grass.
"Herb got killed. I liked him,
too. His sister was nice, too, but
Pearl was nicer. She was real
nice. Too bad the war ended."
Clim is starting to work a
little harder now. Jacob sees
lather between the saddle's
chest plate and the reddish
brown hair.
Jacob looks up from his long
gaze at the passing ground. He
sees the sloping grassy plain in
front of him. The grass is short.
It'll get taller as spring wears on,
he thinks. It's taller on the other
side. The cows like it. The owners
The GreaL Awakening
Julie D. Charest
Photograph
they don't like to send hands up
to get cows, but the good grazing
really fattens 'em up. Besides, it
really only costs them my pay.
and that's not much. 0000 you
suppose they'll ever stop letun'
cows graze up hereT
Clim knows the consequences
of grass reachin'. Jacob has
always made that point clear.
The horse has to try. The
clump of Johnson grass is
nearing qUickly. Timing is
critical. He reaches, grabs the
grass. It tastes good.
"Stop that! Now you stop
that. Don't do it again. You
hearT Jacob knew Clim had to
do it. The consequences for Clim
tum out to be small.
Clouds are accumulatrng in
the distance. By afternoon they
will bring life to the mountain
side. The grass will get taller,
the cows fatter. Jacob and Clim
will get wetter, but that goes
with the job, the life.
''They're up here somewhere,"
Jacob tells his trusty pal.
"Probably on the other side of
the south forty. I hate it when
they do that."
Clim's ears twirl back again,
listening. The climb is getting
steeper now. His hooves reach
for every step.
"That was some night, it was.
She had too much wine, but
she smelled good. Even though
she tied one on, she was
respectable. That's important
for a lady. Don't you think?"
Clip, clip, clop, clip, clip, clop.
Ahead are large red boulders.
The fence-line butts right up
against them, forming a natural
barrier. As Clim and Jacob
approach, they feel wind whip
around the rocks. Jacob grabs
his hat. Clim sqUints. The
mountain is steeper now. Jacob 9
10
leans forward, taking weight
from the horse's back. They will
both have to work harder now,
earn their pay.
"You know, I thought she
really was sweet on me," he
says, pushing his wide brimmed
hat further down upon his head.
The fence is no longer necessary.
Strings of boulders encapsulate
the south side of the mountain,
like warriors keeping roving
prisoners from escaping. "She
kissed me, you know."
Clip, clip, clip, clip.
"Slow down," he says,
reaching forward and brushing
the horse's neck with his hand.
Clim slows down.
Clip, clip, clop.
"It wouldn't have worked,
though. She was a city slicker.
She would have liked the
mountain though; most do.
It's a good home, gentle in the
summer." He spits tobacco
juice on a rock. His tongue
feels a smooth surface where
a tooth used to be. "Do you
suppose she ever thinks of
me?" He tips his hat back for
a moment. scratching his
forehead where hair used to
be. "I wonder what she looks
like? Bet she's a looker still."
The summit is only a mile
ahead. It has taken three days
to get there, thanks to broken
fences and ambitious cows
searching for extra grub. Jacob
doesn't mind. Neither does
Clim. The two of them have
worked together for many years,
almost eight. a long time for
hand and horse. Most of the
cowhands don't care much for
their mounts, unlike Jacob.
The air is clean up here,
untainted by factory smoke or
politics. Jacob looks ahead,
watching grass sway in the
torrent of wind that marks the
Untitled
Chris Sjogren
Photograph
mountain's cap.
"I know they're
over there."
Jacob squeezes
his knees in the
saddle. Clim
knows to hurry
up. "Damn
cows," he says,
words
announced
endless times
by countless
cowhands.
Clip, clip,
clip, clip.
Jacob rubs
his eyes.
Weariness and
memories fill his
head. He
scratches his
chin. Week-old
whiskers feel
rough against
his callused
hand. His blue eyes search
harder to find the strays. He's
sure they're over the mountain
top. "I hope they's all up there,
damn them. Owners 'II be
gettin' all upset if some are
lost."
The wind gusts, causing
horse and rider to squint.
"She was really the only one.
You know that?"
Clim doesn't bother to listen.
It's familiar; he heard it last
week.
"I think if the war would
have lasted longer, I could have
had her for keeps. We did more
than kiss you know. She must
have thought something of me.
After all, she was respectable."
Jacob looks at the ground,
seeing a sprinkle hit the pale
dust that marks the trail. The
smell of rain is strong. Wind
whips past Jacob's face. The
mountain summit is nearing,
minutes until they reach it. He
spits tobacco juice on the
ground. "I was foolish then,
should have known better. Too
bad I had flat feet. Could have
been a war hero. I was luckier
than Herb. I wouldn't have
ended up like him. Too bad,
too. He could really throw a
rope. It would've been different
if I had gone into the war. Pearl
would have thought harder
before she let me go. Don't you
think?" He reaches down,
rubbing his fingers through
Clim's red mane.
Clip, clip, clop, clip, clip, clop.
The mountain-top displays a
panorama of purple peaks, black
streaked clouds, and several
miles below, the cows. The two
begin their trek to fetch them.
Rain begins to sweep down.
Jacob pulls on his slicker. "I
think I'1l go to town when we get
back. Just to look around.
Nothin' serious, you know."
Clim leans back, his hooves
act as brakes keeping the two of
them from sliding. Below them,
trails extend down the mountain,
the result of endless visits by
countless cows.
"I saw a real pretty woman
in town last year. We danced.
She liked me, and she's no
city slicker."
Clop, clop, clop, clip.
"But I'1l tell you this, iffin' I
ever tie the knot, don't you
aworry none. We're partners.
Don't care what the ranch says.
We're stayin' together."
Clip, clop, clip, clop.
Clim already knows.
Passage oJTime
Nina M. Rogers
Photograph
11
12
HONORABLE MENTION - POETRY
Vending Machine
Jeannette Leeds
Wrappers shining
like soldiers at attention.
All types all colors
there are so many rows.
Chocolate, non-chocolate
chewy, hard, nutty,
caramel, nougat, solid,
dark, light, creamy.
What number to push
one two, one five, one nine?
The digits flash
his number's up
a soldier falls.
Untitled, Melba Stephens. Photograph
SECOND PLACE - FICTION
Molly Sadler
13
"Why?" he Said.
"Why what?" the man across
the table replied casually as he
"Are you going to
stand there 'til you get
shot, or are you
coming?" the
photographer heard
from beside the house. With a
sigh of relief, he trotted down the
steps.
The soldier was the first to
speak. He wanted information.
man? Before he could decide, the
man spoke.
"What are you doing here?" he
said in a low, angry voice.
"1 need a place
to sleep." Simple and
honest, that was the
approach the photo­grapher
would take.
"Who are you?" The
gun pressed harder.
"I am a photo­grapher.
I had to get
ahead of the fighting
and get some rest. Can
I crash on your couch
or something?"
The pressure on the
back of his neck
eased. He slowly
turned around. The
man in worn-out Army
fatigues and combat
boots held the gun at
the level of his heart.
A soldier.
The soldier lowered
the gun, turned, and
walked down the steps.
He headed along the
house, around the
comer, towards the
back door.
surprise him. He expected he
would have to hit four or five
more houses like this one before
someone let him in. He started
to tum when he felt something
cold and hard touch the back of
his neck. A gun.
The photographer's mind
whirled. Revolutionary or mad
Some peeling paint crumbled
under his knuckles. He wiped
his hand on his pants and
waited. No answer. That didn't
Death oj a Memorial. Jerald L. Munk, Photograph
The photographer's legs
ached. He had been walking for
hours, sticking to back streets.
The light was fading from the
sky and the camera,
strapped around his
neck, was growing
heavy. Around him,
more and more houses
appeared. One more
mile and he would
need shelter for the
night. Only revolu-tionaries
and crazy
men prowled the
night; the photo­grapher
didn't want
to run into either.
Another thirty
minutes passed. He
looked to his left. A
house, actually what
used to be a house,
stood sagging and
defeated. Now, it was a
makeshift fortress with
the windows boarded
and the door most
likely barred on the
other side. It looked
like all the other
houses he had seen on
his journey. Gone was
the Simple beauty of
neighborhoods and
green lawns. No
children played in the
streets. No parents
lazed on the porch with
lemonade. These days people
just wanted to live; they nailed
and hammered. They became
voluntary prisoners.
The photographer walked up
the path, overgrown with weeds.
He climbed the weathered steps
and knocked on the front door.
Revolutionaries and Mad Men
Forecast, Ron Huber, Second Place - Computer Art
14
laid his hand on the beat-up
camera beside him.
"Why, when our country is at
war, when our lives are at stake,
do you pick up that camera and
not a weapon?" the soldier asked.
"You don't think this camera
is a weapon?"
'Tell me, if you can, how your
camera is a weapon," the soldier
challenged.
The photographer cleared his
throat and looked around the
small kitchen, hoping for some
insight into the other man. He
saw nothing out of the ordinary
except a picture. In it was a
small boy holding a fishing pole.
The boy was laughing.
"Who is that?" The photo­grapher
nodded toward the
photo.
The soldier was silent for a
moment. "My son." He answered
in a quiet caring voice.
"Now the photographer
was getting somewhere. "Is
he still alive?"
'Yes, he is still alive. What
does that have to do with it?"
The soldier was beginning to get
tired of questions.
"How old was he there?"
The soldier stood up. "He was
three. Now he's five. If you are
done with twenty questions, I'm
going to bed. You apparently
aren't going to answer me!"
"Wait." The photographer
stood up to face him. 'Tll explain.
I promise."
The soldier sank slowly back
into his seat. He didn't like the
photographer whose hair was too
long and whose eyes too bright.
His eyes should have been dull
and tired from seeing too much.
The soldier knew his own eyes
hadn't lit up in years, not even
for his son.
"Explain, then, and hurry up.
I'm tired."
The photographer looked at
the other man. Then he looked at
his camera and began. "He was
three. He'll never look that way
again. He'll never smile that
smile. We both know those eyes
will never be as innocent, yet
there he is. Haven't you tricked
time? Haven't you captured a
little piece of it? It should slip
right through our fmgers. It
should fade from our minds and
our hearts. You've got it, though.
Every time you see that picture,
you go back in time. Imagine the
power in that. Imagine future
generations being brought back
into our war. Isn't power the
basis behind any weapon? "
The soldier thought about
that. After a few moments, he
shook his head.
"No. The basis behind any
weapon is defense. I'd pick a
good old-fashioned gun any day.
A camera won't stop bullets
whizzing towards your head. A
camera won't stop the blood or
the tears or the hate."
"You're right," the photo­grapher
said as he leaned
forward in his chair. "But the
camera will see it. The camera
will record it. The camera will
feel it:'
The soldier became agitated.
He pushed his beer out of the
way and put his elbows on
the table, meeting his com­panion's
gaze.
"What good does that do? How
will that save my life? How will
that save my boy's life? Yes, I
fight, and I kill. I do it for my
boy. I do it to save my boy. It is
people like you who let others
die. Do you know how it feels
when someone dies? My wife
died and I couldn't save her with
my gun. Could you have saved
her with your camera? I defend
others with my gun. I defend
myself. I defend my boy. Who the
hell do you defend?"
The photographer stood and
backed away. "I defend your
son's children. I defend their
children. How will they know if
I don't record it? How will they
know the pain? How will they
know the hate? And, most
importantly, how will they know
what to avoid? Are you going to
tell them? Are you going to tell
your grandchildren what it felt 15
Untitled
Christen
Chipps
Special Award��3-
D Fine Art
Copper Sculpture
16
like to
shoot a man? You won't have to
because they will see my pictures
and know. They will know."
The soldier surged forward.
Through clenched teeth he said,
'There won't be any children. If
you don't get off your ass and
defend our lives with a gun,
there will be no children."
"I know," said the photo­grapher
qUietly. He stepped
forward until he stood inches
from the soldier. "That's why I
need you. You must defend
now. You need me to defend the
future."
The soldier's face softened.
He opened his mouth, but the
sound came from the other side
of the room.
The photographer turned to
see a small dark-haired boy enter
the room. He was clad in blue
pajamas and old worn-out brown
slippers. He blinked at the light
and rubbed his eyes. "Daddy?"
The soldier knelt where he
was and motioned for the
boy to come to him. The
boy moved slowly, wary of
the stranger. When he
got to them, he grabbed
his father's arm and
ducked behind him.
"It's okay," the
father said soothingly
as he pulled the boy
around and held him
close. He smiled up at
the photographer as he
said to his son, "He's on
our side. And if you
smile, maybe he'll take
your picture."
The photographer sat in
the dark kitchen, nursing yet
another beer long after the boy
had gone to bed. The soldier had
stayed, drinking beer after beer,
until he fmally staggered to the
stairs mumbling something
about sleep. The photographer
was alone with his thoughts. The
soldier had been right; he should
be defending his country. He had
wrestled with guilt since the war
began. But why should he fight?
He had no family. No one would
benefit from his shooting other
men who probably had wives and
children. The only purpose the
photo-grapher could fmd was to
record the war for future
generations. Only then did he
feel needed.
A bomb exploded somewhere
in the distance. The photo­grapher
jumped at the sound.
Hundreds of people were
running as far away from that
sound as they could, and here
he was, running headlong into
it. He sought refuge in this
soldier's house, knowing the
fighting would follow him
shortly. He felt another pang of
remorse. Was he putting these
people in danger? No, he wasn't
the danger. The war was.
Another bomb exploded
shaking the house. The photo­grapher
jumped up. The fighting
shouldn't be that close. He
didn't figure the revolutionaries
would be here until late
tomorrow. Suddenly, he heard
shouts, then gunfire, then
screams. They were here.
The photographer grabbed his
camera and ran towards the
stairs to wake the soldier. He
would get some good shots now.
He just hoped they weren't good
pictures of bad things. He knew,
if the soldier died, he would
record it. It would be painful, but
he would. But what about the
son? Could he let the boy die?
And if he did, would he aim his
camera at the child's lifeless
body? He couldn't think about
it. He had to wake the soldier.
When he got to the top of
the stairs, he looked around,
wondering which door led to the
soldier's room. The boy was
standing at the end of the hall.
The child looked at him with
wide eyes. The photographer
knew the kid had also heard the
fighting. "Come on," he said,
"let's wake your dad." The boy
led him to the door and turned
the knob to scramble into the
room. The soldier was on the
bed, fully clothed, with a bottle
in one hand, a 9mm semi­automatic
in the other. The boy
jumped on the bed and shook
his father. The man didn't wake
up. The photographer
approached him.
"Hey, wake up," the
photographer said loudly.
The soldier didn't budge. The
photographer pried the bottle
from the man's hand. He had
passed out.
The sounds of gunfire filled
the room. The fighting was right
outside the house. The photo­grapher
ran to the window. In
the street, he saw dozens of
men. Some wore all black, some
didn't. They all had guns. The
photographer wasn't sure who
was fighting who, but guns were
fired and people fell. A move­ment
below caught his eye. A
man, garbed all in black,
climbed onto the porch. held
his gun at ready, and started
kicking lhe fronl door.
The photographer lurned
around. The boy ran to him and
wrapped his frail arms around
his waist. The man knew he
had to do something. He also
knew lhere was only one choice.
He scooped the child up in his
arms and ran to lhe bed. He sel
down his camera and pulled the
gun from the soldier's limp
hand. With one final deep
brealh, he ran down lhe slairs
to the liVing room. He could see
a Silhouette outside the fronl
door. The door bowed, about to
give. He deposited the child
behind a recliner, then took a
position directly in front of the
door. ''This is it" he whispered
to himself. He raised the gun
awkwardly and wrapped his
finger around the trigger.
The soldier's head was
throbbing. He slowly became
aware of his surroundings. He
could hear gunfire coming from
downstairs. The soldier jumped
up only to realize his gun was
gone. He looked around
frantically. A camera was on his
bed. The soldier grabbed it and
ran to his son's room. The room
was empty. Panic seized him as
he headed to the top of the
stairs. The scene below him
made him freeze. In the living
room, his son cowered behind a
chair. At least, he was safe. The
soldier's breath caught when he
saw the photographer. The man
was standing in the middle of the
room, his gun aimed and ready.
He had the look of a mad man,
triumph and pain both regisler­ing
on his face.
Around him,
three bodies. in
black. were
strewn across lhe
Ooor. blood
pooling under
them. Another of
lhe revolu­tionaries
was
coming in lhe
door. The soldier
suddenly became
aware of a weight
in his hand. He
looked down. The
camera. He
raised it to his
face and looked
through the
viewer. In that
liltle box. he saw
lhe man in black
rush into the
room. The
soldier's fmger
found the button
and pushed it.
The photo­grapher
found
the trigger and
pulled it. The
man in black fell
as the shutter
clicked and that
moment was
frozen forever.
Untitled, Jennifer Sowby, Photograph
17
UntiLled. Phil Branson. Photograph
18
HONORABLE MENTION - POETRY
Piano
Jim Akridge
That damn piano
with its broken keys
no longer will i play
one hundred years of rust and tears
have hardened my heart and taken my rhythm
now squeaky and tone deaf
nothing worth listening to
i can't explain how ifeel
when i hear that same sad song
played on that damn piano
ijust want to roll up in a ball and cry
oh, perhaps you thought there was some deeper
meaning here
a dissonant voicing of a familiar theme
please, tune me up, stroke my strings
victim of senseless chord changes
i am a metaphorfor bland
no taste and no relief
from the emptiness of all that jazz
hear me see me feel me
this is what i seek
a simple two part harmony
played in a minor key
so let the }lood come
and tickle the ivory once again
sweet sad songs that meant something
once upon a time i believed it too
but now all is silent
except for that damn piano
that no one wants to hear
SECOND PLACE - POETRY
Rated PG for Pompous Goose
staring at this leathery old
woman and her smoking goose
because she suddenly said, "Oh
my gosh! What have I done?
How thoughtless of me! Would
you like one? They're primo
cigs. I get them straight from
Joe. He's an old friend of mine,"
she boasted as she pointed to
the camel on the pack.
"No thanks," I smiled as I left
her and her goose to smoke,
knowing, that such a polite
refusal would have made any
mother proud.
Untitled, Shannon Reynolds, Photograph
Riding Hood. Those two have
formed a posse out of the kids
from the shoe. They patrol the
forest on all the king's horses.
Right now, they are chasing out
the stepSisters, and all the oth­ers
Prince Charming rejected.
Word has it they've been seen
on numerous occasions enter­taining
the Seven Dwarfs-if
you know what I mean. How
low can one go?"
The woman furrowed her
brow, took another drag on her
Cigarette, and went on.
"Then there's the sexual
harassment suit Thumbelina
f1Ied against the Fe Fi Fo Fum
Giant. Supposedly, the two were
having lunch when the White
Rabbit-you know how he is
always in a hurry with that Alice
following him-fell into Fe Fi Fo
Fum's drink. Innocently, Fo Fum
commented about 'a hare in his
Coke.' Unfortunately,
Thumbelina has always been a
little short on patience, and, well,
now she's suing him.
Then today, Little Bo-Peep told
me she saw Humpty Dumpty
playing patty-cake with Little
Miss Muffet. But you can't take
her word for it. Bo-Peep's blind
as a bat and dumb as a board. I
mean really, she's been known to
lose entire flocks of sheep."
I sat there hoping she'd get
on that goose and flyaway, yet
somehow I knew that bird
couldn't fly. Its wings were just
for looks; that was all.
She lit another cigarette and
reached over, letting the goose
take a qUick drag.
I guess I must have been
The woman and her goose
sat down next to me on the
park bench.
She was wearing a hot pink
apron and had a fairy tattooed
on her shoulder.
Melinda Davis
She started in about, "How
could I have known it would all
turn out like this?"
I tried not to pay attention,
but she had such a way with
words-a natural storyteller.
I couldn't help but listen.
"You see," she said. "It all
started with Jack. He swears to
this day Jill pushed him.
Something about a missing pail
of water and a hair sample from
his broken crown. He wants a
trial, but we can't find a jury
who hasn't heard his story.
Then there's that Gretel. Eats
one small candy house as a
child and you'd think she'd
eaten the entire neighborhood.
She can't stop with the exercise
videos and nutrition tips. She's
even gotten to Jack Sprat's wife.
Now the poor lady eats only
polyunsaturated fat.
Oh, I don't even want to talk
about Goldilocks and Little Red
Her goose was wearing a
matching hot pink ribbon
around its neck.
"Things sure have changed.
Seems like yesterday I was on
the best seller's list."
She had a deep raspy voice.
She lit a cigarette and took a
long drag, exhaling happy-face
shaped smoke rings.
I watched, curious yet
cautious.
THIRD PLACE - FICTION
Sweet Savage
Revenge
T. Nieschulz
"I don't think I'll corne over after
all, Nikki." Sally Kimbel flopped
backward onto the bed. "Much as
I'd like to see a movie, I think I'll
run down to the mini-mart, get
Beth Ann Starling's latest romance
novel and some major junk food.
Then I'll zoom horne, take an hour
long bath, and glory in the two days
of freedom I have while Dave and
the boys are gone hunting. God, I
hope they don't kill anything."
"Mm. Erk"
"Nikki? Geez, Nik, don't take it
so hard."
"Yeah, I was trying to call you a
jerk and make you feel guilty, but
my call waiting is beeping-so go
ahead make your day-and have
fun while you're at it. Bye"
As Sally marched to the kitchen,
the absolute qUiet followed her, an
actual presence with her husband
and sons gone. She pushed her hair
behind her ear and grabbed her
purse, her keys, and the cup of hot
coffee she had just poured before
calling Nik. Dave hated for her to
take coffee in the car. But Dave's
not here-Sweet liberty and I'm
going to enjoy every minute of it, she
reminded herself. IgnOring the grub­by
feeling she'd worked up by clean­ing
out the stables this afternoon,
she crossed the graveled circular
drive and got into her aging but
trusty Oldsmobile. That long bath
would come after she'd laid in the
supplies for her little party for one.
Dusk was stealing across the farm
fields to the east as she drove the
five miles to town, singing "My 1979
Streamlined Cutlass Supreme used
to be a creampuff, used to be a
dream" to a vaguely remembered,
Untitled
Kari Skinner
Second Place - Mixed Media
lamely ad-libbed seventies rock
song-the radio didn't work.
When she pulled up to the
two-way stop a mile from the
mini-mart and craned her neck
to make sure there was no
cross-traffic, she caught a nicker
of movement out of the corner of
her eye a millisecond before her
passenger door was wrenched
open. An unkempt stranger
burst into the car waving a
sharp knife in tight, menacing
little arcs inches from her face.
Sally's disbelieving brain regis­tered
what was happening.
His malice loomed too large
for the small confines of the car.
His odor, dirty blond contempt,
pushed her disbelief into nearly
paralyzing terror. She could see
the shocking intimacy of his
glistening rosy gums and
crooked teeth. His intentions
curled his lurid lips into a
mocking dance around her fear.
He loved it. He loved watching
the effect his audacious crimi­nality
was having on her.
"Drive." He waved the knife
toward the windshield. Sally
gripped the steering wheel to
keep herself from shuddering
and hit the accelerator.
The coffee leaped off the dash
onto his thigh and splashed in a
wide sweep across his lap.
Cursing, he fumbled at the cup.
Almost in freeze frame clarity,
Sally saw the glinting knife fall
from his distracted grasp. She
slammed on the brakes and in
one motion tore the keys from
the ignition, twisted the door
handle, slammed her weight
against it, and almost somer­saulted
to the ground beSide the
door. Her intruder couldn't
make it over the console, but
he'd torn the passenger door
open and was coming after her,
the retrieved knife back in hand.
His movement toward the
front of the car to round to her
side took on an unreal quality
as Sally fumbled with the simple
snap to the canister of pepper
spray Dave had insisted she
place on her key ring. She didn't
realize she was breathing in
great gasps but he did. He
grinned while he rubbed at his
groin. He thought she was his
for the picking, and she felt
hysteria rise in her throat. She
would lose her mind in waves of
echoing screams in the middle
of familiar farm fields, in the
middle of the road she'd traveled
up and down all her life. It
would all end in a vision of
those leering rubbery lips.
The snap gave way and her
instincts took over. He was
almost on her when she raised
the canister and a strong narrow
stream hit him square in the
face. Because he immediately
clutched at his face, he didn't get
her; she backed out of his blind­ed
reach and sprayed some
more. He howled. He seemed
surprised someone would treat
him so. Indignant really, she
thought as she watched in bless­edly
detached shock. He had
staggered against the car and
was leaning near the window
behind the driver's seat while he
bemoaned his bad luck.
Sally was breathing in wispy,
spasmodic gasps that she exerted
rigid will to slow and it seemed an
unformed thought rose out of her
hard fought efforts. She moved to
the trunk. Did her legs really
work? They did. She turned the
key and lifted the lid.
The worm was sobbing.
Sobbing and retching, really.
He'd dropped his knife and
struggled for air. The more he
struggled, the calmer Sally got.
He writhed against the car and
looked like he would drop to his
knees. He wasn't faking. He was
hurting. Good, you sleaze-buck­et
bastard.
"Let me help you," she cajoled
to the backs of his hands.
"Why'd you do that?" the
worm implored.
She sidled around to his back
and guided him toward the
trunk.
"[ was scared," she soothed.
When he was directly in front of
the fully opened trunk, she
jammed him inward in a single,
decisive shove that so caught
him off guard, she forced his
legs to the side and slammed
the lid on him before he could
react. His mumed protests ignit­ed
an exhilarating, triumphant,
out-of-control sense of justice.
"Now I've got you, you sono­fabitch!!"
she raged, jumping at
the trunk and pummeling it
with her hands.
Her voice hoarse and her
hands aching from pounding the
metal, Sally slumped against the
trunk. Not a single car had
passed. Not a sound came from
the trunk.
No, that wasn't right. The
mewling, puling, sniveling little
puke snufiled pathetically. Sally
leaned toward the small rust
hole near the upper left corner
of the trunk.
"Are we having a bad day?"
she jeered into the tiny ragged
opening.
"I wasn't going to hurt you,"
the car jacker Said.
How do I know he is only a
car jacker? Maybe he is a rapist.
Or a murderer. Each thought
brought back the initial terrifY­ing
powerlessness, the reeling
disorientation of her sanity 21
22
spinning out on a microthin
filament.
She leaned over the opening
again. "We're going for a ride,
Jack.n
"My name's not Jack," came
the whine.
"It is now," Sally snapped.
Sally had parked at the edge
of the mini-mart parking lot.
She'd gone in and gotten exactly
what she'd needed for her
evening of rejuvenating solitude.
Including Beth Ann's frothy lit­tle
romance. Mter she figured
out what to do with "Jack" she
would resume where she'd left
off. When Sally got home and
set her bag on the counter, she
still hadn't figured out what to
do with "Jack." Turning him
over to the police was a cop out,
she thought humorlessly. He'd
maybe get slapped on the wrists
and he'd go out and terrorize
other women. Nope, that would­n't
be right, Sally thought as
she set the box of Ding Dongs
on the counter. And the Mars
Bar. And the Hot and Spicy
Pork Rinds. The forbidden foods
sat in seductive array right in
front of Sally's nose, but she
was too distracted to care.
What if he manages to kick
out the back seat? Or get out
any which way? I'm alone. Even
if I got the police here, he'd
know where I live. Nope, I've got
to get him away from here.
She crunched across the
gravel and paused over the
hole. "Jack!" she screamed at
the trunk. No answer.
'I'll shoot holes into the
trunk, Jack," she taunted.
"Don't shoot. Don't shoot.
You're crazy, lady."
"We're going for a ride, Jack."
His pleas to know her plans
were lost in the throaty roar of
the engine. Just before she
pulled out of the drive, Sally
leaned over and locked the pas­senger
door. Rule number one
from now on.
She drove this way and that.
She fantasized about sharp
implements and sweet revenge
but had not found a true plan
when she realized her gas tank
was almost empty. She pulled
into the far island of a self-serve
gas station and got out. She
flipped open the gas flap,
untwisted the cap, lifted the
nozzle, and flipped the lever.
"Heyyy," Jack yelled. Loud.
Somebody might hear him,
Sally realized.
"Shut-up," she gritted into
the rust hole.
"Heellpp'" came his coopera­tive,
weasely plea.
Sally didn't really think about
it. She just did it. She held the
nozzle over the rust hole and
dribbled gas in reeeaal slow.
"What! Jesus! Stop! Please!
I'll be quiet," Jack sputtered.
Sally leaned over the hole.
"I don't know, Jack. 1 think I'll
just drop a lighted match in
here if you say another word.
Think that's fair, JackT
Aside from what Sally imag­ined
to be the awestruck or at
the very least respectfully muf­fled
and unavoidable resettling
noises, Jack acquiesced in his
gas-fumed little habitat.
Sally finished filling the tank
and congratulated herself on
her ability to seize the moment.
"What you did was a mistake,
Jack, n Sally said ominously into
the rust hole before thwacking
the trunk and driving off.
Several hours later, she
drove into the police station
parking lot. Before going in to
the station, she thumped the lid
again. "JackT
A very hesitant "Yes?" was
the obedient reply.
''I'm going to blow the car up
anyway, Jack," Sally listened to
the properly hysterical cries
coming from the trunk before
sauntering inside.
Four officers accompanied
her back out to the car to
apprehend the dangerous car
jacker. In fact, they instructed
Sally to stand way back while
they opened the trunk and took
him into custody. There could
be qUite a struggle, they said.
They were unprepared for the
babbling, endless thank-you's
from the slaveringly adoring
little felon who wept at the sight
of them.
Sally just shrugged her
shoulders when he pointed, jab­bing
the air in her direction and
babbled that he was the,
"Victim, for gawd's sake."
But just as they were lead­ing
Jack into the station, one of
the officers turned to Sally and
said, "Miss, you may have a gas
leak in that old clunker. I'd be
careful if [ were you."
Sally smiles - not in the least
worried about gas leaks. She
was going home to read Sweet
Savage Revenge.
,
)
•r
Conflicting Commands
Mary Elizabeth Fried
In this world there are conflicting commands:
use yourforie, but not your hands.
Don't wear white after Labor Day.
but wear winter white for Christmas you may.
Encourage your children to follow their dreams.
within reality this actually means.
Do as I say. not as I do:
Follow me, what's wrong with you!
Always be honest and truthful:
Lie about your age and stay youthful.
Your elders deserve your respect.
but it is you that they neglect.
In this world there are conflicting commands.
but remember. there are always "buts" and hands."
Untitled
Kart Skinner
First Place - Fine Art
Colored Pencil
23
24
SECOND PLACE - NON-FICTION
The Dirt Hills
Glen West
As Huck Finn had the mighty
Mississippi and Peter Pan the
magical Never Never Land, we
had the Dirt Hills. Within two
stones' throw of our claustro­phobic
concrete confines was a
wide open expanse of escape
filled with adventure, danger,
and refuge.
Our Dirt Hills was a pristine
and virgin environment not yet
defiled by the modem machin­ery
of men and their monied
motives. It was made up of
ancient and honorable soil and
sand that bore the weight of
savage and monstrous
dinosaurs and friendly neigh­borhood
dogs alike.
Trees of undetermined antiq­Uity
stood in dignified silence,
providing grace from a blistering
summer sun or a drenching
monsoon rain. But these were
special trees as well, endowed
with the magical ability of meta­morphosis.
When the summer
rains satiated the ponds, the
trees miraculously became the
famed cliffs of Acapulco where
brave and lithe young men
would perform death-detying
dives from dizzying heights.
When marauding invaders from
rival neighborhoods descended
upon us, they transformed into
impenetrable fortresses from
which we would hurl our arse­nal
of dirt clods and rocks upon
our unwitting intruders.
But we were not the only
ones who took refuge in the Dirt
Hills. Fortunately, for some of
God's creatures, the Dirt Hills
was a "house" that the "big bad
wolf' of progress had not yet
blown down. There were lizards
of disqUieted disposition, and
rightfully so. For there were
countless hours spent expend­ing
our youthful energies in
purSUit of these Houdini-like
escape artists. There were slith­ering
snakes of suspicious
intent, racing roadrunners
ready to take on all-comers,
comical quail with young in tow,
doves of nondispute at peace
with their world, playful prairie
dogs of amicable disposition,
jumping jackrabbits in flight,
coy cottontails under cover,
trudging turtles on their timely
travels, fat frogs flicking
tongues at their flying food, and
finicky fish not easily finagled
into a frying pan. These and
more made up the wild, wild
kingdom of our Dirt Hills.
With summer and the tempo­rary
release of all prisoners, (Le.
students) the Dirt Hills became
a beehive of frenetic activity.
Bike racing and jumping were
activities perfectly matched for
the Dirt Hill's rugged and
diverse terrain. The races were
fast and furious. As hearts beat
wildly and legs churned mania­cally,
we would careen around
the course towards the finish
line to triumphantly raise our
hands in victory or resignedly
dust ourselves off in defeat.
Bike jumping was no less dra­matic.
As we plunged down pre­cipitous
ravines and hurtled
ourselves up the other side and
climbed effortlessly into the
firmament, we scoffed at Isaac
Newton as we soared, for he
probably never had a bike as
a kid. So what did he know?
But even with the endless
days of summer, spring was our
favorite time of year. For in the
spring, Mother Nature would do
her annual redecorating as she
laid down a new carpet of vel­vety
green grass and planted
vibrant fields of flowers that
exploded with color as if Monet
had painted them-but with his
glasses on this time. We would
each take a place under our
favorite tree. Lying on a blanket
of cool green grass, we would
gaze idly up into a placid sky
which God had painted with the
blue of a robin's egg. As time
stood still for us, the gentle
breeze would sing us a mother's
lullaby as it moved through the
string-like branches of our
Aeolian trees. Deep down
inside, we knew that there
would be enough days in the
hectic, pressure-filled real world
of adulthood, but days such as
these were rare and golden
treasures that were to be cher­ished
for a lifetime.
The Chaperon
Tone Carmosino
Photograph 25
HONORABLE MENTION - FICTION
Happy Birthday
Kelly Coughlin
26
Ashlie wanted few things out
of her future, but the handful
of things she did long for were
never going to go overlooked.
She finally realized this on one
rainy night in March, a night
that opened Ashlie's maturing
eyes to many realities. The day
began no differently than any
other. She woke up, ate little,
did nothing, and sat in her bed­room
waiting for sleep of any
kind, either the night's sleep or
the never-ending one. She had
been like this so long she failed
to notice any abnormalities
with this daily routine.
She was sitting motionless on
her rumpled bed when a faint
tapping sound from her window
demanded attention. Slowly
drawing the curtain aside, she
saw a teenager who sparked a
dim remembrance of something,
standing several yards from her
window. Though she normally
would have been taken aback by
this sight, tonight Ashlie knew
that fear was unnecessary. She
just didn't know why.
The young boy raised his hand
in hopeful greeting, and Ashlie
struggled to place this familiarity.
He approached her window slow­ly,
allowing pebbles to slide from
his hand and tumble gently to
the yard. As he approached,
Ashlie could see his features bet­ter.
She recognized that he had
the classically cliche 'chiseled'
look. His big dark eyes comple­mented
his perfect olive complex­ion
and thick black hair. He was
too tall and too mature looking
for his age, and Ashlie would
have assumed him older if she
had not known
otherwise...qUickly she struggled
to understand how she could
know this.
She hadn't realized that she
had slid open her window until
he was only inches from her. He
knew her, and she was trying to
know him when he whispered a
gentle "hello." Her mind tried to
grasp the withheld memories of
this person.. .it failed. "Hello," she
stammered, praying for time.
His crestfallen look (invisible
tears) revealed to Ashlie that he
realized her lack of recognition.
She knew that this hurt him
and she apologized instinctively,
'I am sorry for ... '
Cain shook away her
regrets...
"Cain!"
The sound escaped her
mouth without her realiZing it.
His eyes met hers.
"Is that all you remember?"
he whispered.
Avoiding the question but
wanting to answer, she noticed
the rain running off his face,
"Come inside... please."
He did so but was too much
like her to let her avoid any­thing.
He did not forget his
question. "Yes," she admitted
painfully (CAIN? CAIN?).
She grabbed a towel while he
sat watching her silently. She
sat in front of him. They both
saw each other-she in confu­sion,
he in knowledge. She
refused to ask questions, but
she knew (HOW?) that he
wouldn't answer them anyhow.
They both dimly acknowledged
the chiming clock but both
knew neither of them could stop
it. Their time together was
short, silent thoughts parallel.
'" wanted to see... " he
began...
"Please," her mind screamed
"don't stop" ...
"to see and talk to you." He
finished.
The distinct atmosphere of
innocent love was all about
Ashlie.
'To save me?' she asked
knowing the answer.
She didn't know if he physical­ly
nodded his head or not. but it
suddenly didn't seem to matter.
''I'm alone."
She hadn't needed to say
that. He already knew...but
still. .. a single tear rolled down
her face. or maybe it was his,
but both were the same.
"Are you going to take me
away?"
The answer didn't come, or
maybe it just wasn't the one she
wanted. Suddenly Ashlie wished
she hadn't asked that.
They both heard the clock
chime again, this time realizing
its warning. The heavy chiming
of the clock matched the heavi­ness
of Ashlie's heart. The rain
pounded harder upon the house
and they rose silently.
"It's time for me to leave," he
whispered as Ashlie watched the
rain hit the window with violent
force. She wanted to ask why she
couldn't remember him but still
knew him, loved him, but she
knew the asking was impossible.
'Til always be within you.
You'll always know me, and
Suntime
Julie D. Charest
Photography
because of that, you'll
never be alone."
He started to leave, and
she knew there was more.
He couldn't leave yet; the
recognition was so close.
He sensed her
thoughts,
"Look at me one fmal
time and then let me go.
Start living instead of
praying for darkness. You
know me; it just hurts to
realize it. Live for what 1
didn't have.. .! love you."
His words were the words
of her soul. She stared
intensely at him, inter­locked
in the love , hoping
to be able to admit what
she knew before he left,
before it was too late. She
spoke quickly, "I had the
most beautiful baby boy
once. He was angelic look­ing,
perfect in every
way...every way but one.
He was just too little. His
tiny heart couldn't bear the
world. He was my world,
and 1died with him."
His visible tears awak­ened
her heart as her
hand grasped his, "I never got to
see him grow or walk or speak.
He would have been a young
adult today."
She finally saw Cain for the
first time. She hadn't known all
of that had existed within her.
She hadn't know anything was
left inside of her at all. She had
been so alone for so long that
this feeling of love was as unex­pected
as his visit.
"Would you have been proud
of him?" he asked in hope, sud-denly
seeming like the irmocent
child he was (Hush, little baby
don't say a word).
The answer not to be spoken,
her eyes said it all. Their eyes
locked as he stepped back into
the rain,
"Good-bye" he said softly.
"Cain? ..Happy Birthday."
The confusion was gone, this
angel gave her her life back.
"Are you alone now?" His
voice was dimming; she spoke
only the truth,
"Was 1 ever?"
He smiled his acknowledg­ment
of her appreciation. The
clock struck midnight, and it no
longer was her baby's birthday.
He was gone, but Ashlie knew on
that night that the things she
wanted out of her future were to
live and to start loving..."to make
up for what he didn't have."
Ashlie looked up and said good
night to her son. 27
28
Smooch
Julie D. Charest
Photograph
I Love Gears and Cogs
Jeannette Leeds
I love gears and cogs
things that go DING and ker-gock
ger-werk, ker-plunk, rat-tat-tat,
wiz, ka-zap and a}lap, }lap, }lap.
I love the sound oj a ker-chunker
coming Jrom any ol' rusty junker.
My ears perk
at ger-werk, ger-werk.
a PICK-PICK-PING
is a marvelous thing.
A ger-blop, ger-plop
makes my heart almost stop.
Wer-zip, tic, tic, tic
makes my pulse beat qUick.
One thing I do like and that is Jor sure
is a lowly hum and a soft steady purrrrr!
FIRST PLACE - POETRY
Flattered Dreams
T. Nieschulz
I could wrap myself in laboratory filaments
in peifectly blendedfibers
grown on the back oj a petri dish.
I could daub myself in potions
oj harvested ambergris
I could slink and glide down aisles oj
products screaming,
"Keys to the Universe."
Or if I could daub and wrap and glide,
No one would scuttle sideways
Jrom the prow oJ my being.
No one would scurry
Jrom the aura oJmy wake.
If all that I hold dear were held
in vaults not green
and round
and bulging,
Stretched
with the weight ojJailure,
Ifall that
didn't teeter on the back
oj my very mobile home,
With tatters neon screaming
where I lost my place
in the novel oj my own life;
If the very remnants
didn't moor me to the earth:
If all that.
Then maybe I could drive
right into I's-R-Us
Jor a new look.
These Eyes
v. Paige Nyland
Can haunt you love you scare you
these eyes can touch you like fire
like ice like liquid like steel blade
these eyes hold you make love to you
wrap around you caress you
these eyes puzzle you shake you
fiU your ears with sounds
these eyes reflect you
give to you take Jrom you
make you needJor a voice
these eyes.
Diana. Nina M. Rogers, Photograph
29
30 A Bad Date. Kelly Clement. Third Place - Fine Art, Charcoal
HONORABLE MENTION - POETRY
I hate the end of nothing
William Maurice Sprague
Royal words andJalse promises
Have to hold the bottle with two hands lest I lose it
Heaven Jorbid
I am one oJ millions
Just like me
Writing poetry to ease the suffering
if only I could add an R
To ease
And make it Erase
I would
White
Glen West
White is a bone bleached and dry,
a life departed, a soul on the .fly.
White is a pearl oj beauty and worth,
Jrom a mere grain oj sand is this prize given birth.
White is a cloud on a soft spring day,
a canopy oj coolJor children at play.
White is the snow Jalling silent on the ground,
a blanket oj tranquillity, made oj icy down.
White is a chalkboard filled with years,
oj wisdom and knowledge, oj sweat and oj tears.
White is a heart, pure and true,
spotless, Jaithful, rare, andJew.
White is the hair oj the aged and wise,
keepers oj memories, oj better days gone by.
White are the wings oj angels on high,
ministers oJ mercy, ready at God's side.
White is definite, absolute, and sure,
not a could, a maybe, not a gray spectral blur.
White is the heat oj lovers entwined,
where two bodies and souls sing in harmony and rhyme.
White is the page waiting to hold,
all that's within the heart, mind, and soul.
White is the color oj a descending dove,
quietly resting on God's example oj love. F /II .[;
CREDITS
Literary Judges
Carmela Amoldt. Larry Bohlender
Dave Grant, Pat Haas
Marilyn Hoffs. Janet Klann
Eleanor Marshall-White
Laura Schuett, Charles Sohn
Art Jurors
Luis Baiz
Literary Staff
Melinda Davis. Kim Essendrup
Gwen Mayfield. RA. Sam Stever
Literary Editor
Melinda Davis
Literary Faculty Advisors
Jan Boerner
Betty Hufford. Joy Wingersky
Typing
Dawn Meyer
Design/Production Team
Kezia Allen. Marribeth Bernier
Kelly Clement, Beth Dehart
Susan Dusenberry. Kathie Faucheaux
Rose Fratacci. Steve Gagnon
Lance Lammers. Donna Loewen
Stan Lucas, Ed Plucinski
Lakshmikantham Prabhakar
JoAnne Ramirez, Jerod Sako,
Helena Scorski. Hiroko Sudo
Rhonda Vail, Shelly Weaver
Laurel Young
Cover Design
Laurel Young
Table of Contents Design
JoAnne Ramirez
Photography Assistant
Paul Dameron
Art Dept. Faculty Advisors
Meryl Poticha and Dean Terasaki
Printing
BierI Printing
Glendale Community College
and the Maricopa county
Community College District do
not discriminiate on the basis
of race, color, national origin,
sex, handicap or age in appli­cation,
admission, participa­tion,
access and treatment of
persons and programs and
activities.
Glendale Community College
will take steps to insure that
the lack of English language
will not be a barrier to admis­sion
and participation in voca­tional
education programs.
GL£NOAL£
COMIoUITY
COLL£G£
MAlICO'A
COMMUNITY
COLLE~ES
Glendale Community College
yel Maricopa County
Community College District no
discriminan a base de raza,
color, nacionalidad, sexo,
edad, ni invalidez, en cuanto a
la solicitud, admisi6n, partici­paci6n,
acceso ytrato de las
personas y actividades con los
programas de instrucci6n 0
empleo.
Glendale Community College
hara 10 posible para asegurar
Que la falta de dominio en el
ingles no sera una barrera a la
admisi6n y participaci6n en los
programas de estudios voca­cionales.