"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1996

              Erich, Any Way You Want Him, Connie Greenwell. Fine Art
Table of Contents
An Arid Introduction, Christine Flower 30
Carpedium Rosanus, Donald Shuck 18
Laundering Love and Money, 29
Christine Flower
Pueri Urbs Deus, Joshua Ivanov 31
String of Pearls, Donald Shuck 7
7
18
27
30
7
32
4
15
28
31
17
35
cover
Photography
Primal Scream, Chenette Wangen
Special Award
Untitled, Shannon Reynolds
First Place
Sleepwalker, Nina M. Rogers
Second Place
Viejos Amigos, James R. Haas
Third Place
What I Found in the Arizona Desert, Ian Grob
Honorable Mention
Nude with Tattoo, Phil Branson
Honorable Mention
Untitled, Shannon Reynolds
Undersea Garden, Chenette Wangen
Last Frame, Ian Grob
New York, Ian Grob
The Alchemist's Dream, Nina M. Rogers
Frame Eight, Ian Grob
Determination, Richard Santos
Fine Art
Classical Woman, Connie Greenwell 2
First Place
Dogwood, Mary L. Bean 12
Second Place
Munchies, Edward O. Todd 25
Third Place
Pensive, Connie Greenwell 6
Erich, Any Way You Want Him inside front cover
Connie Greenwell
Illustration
Veiled, Nina M. Rogers 3
Special Award
The Astrologer's Dream, Blake Ford Hall 13
Honorable Mention
Two Worlds Collide, Steve Anderson 24
Honorable Mention
VISUAL CONTENTS
Three Dimensional Art
Untitled, Steve Godel 11
Special Award
The Guardian, Chenette Wangen inside back cover
Honorable Mention
Teal Urn, Tom Starken
Honorable Mention
Computer Art
Odd Couple, Bonnie Andrew 29
First Place
Havasupai Falls, Steve Anderson 26
Second Place
Woman, Peilan Chen 9
Third Place
Apple Guy, Karl T. Yu 22
Honorable Mention
Violence in the Classroom 20
Randy Cajthaml
Honorable Mention
Lost Heritage, Edward O. Todd 14
Flower, Carolyn VanDriel 34
4
2
5
8
15
19
12
13
32
23
Teal Urn
Tom Starken
Honorable Mention
Three Dimensional Art
New Horizons, Ken Schwartz
First Place
The Angel of the Santa Lucias,
Debra Utacia Krol
First Place
Good Things Come in Tall Packages
Teresa Nieschulz
Second Place
White Out Teresa Nieschulz
Third Place
LITERARY CONTENTS
Drama
The Urban Prisoners, Joshua Ivanov
First Place
The Prison Lake, Shannen B. Walgraeve
Second Place
Bad Apple, Boyd E. Johnson
Third Place
Christmas Dream, Christine Flower
Honorable Mention
Necropolis, Boyd E. Johnson
Honorable Mention
Poetry
free eire, Donald Shuck
First Place
Gamophobia, Christine Flower 26
Second Place
Monument of the Aftermath 28
Gregory Allan Bower
Third Place
Thin Man, Donald Shuck 35
Honorable Mention
A Burning Season, Joshua Ivanov 27
Honorable Mention
Fiction
Non-Fiction
First Place - Non-Fiction
The Angel of the Santa Lucias
took the family shotgun and
hunted for the table. The
younger three tended the family
garden, watered and fed the milk
cow and goats, and collected the
chicken eggs. Even Frank, who
at age three was the youngest of
the brood, hel ped as best he
could.
After several weeks of suf��fering,
Angelo died and was
buried by his grieving family.
Apparently his wife did not
grieve long. One foggy morning
soon after the burial, the boys
awoke to find mother and girls
gone. She and her daughters
hiked down the steep eastern
Traveler
Classical Woman, Connie Greenwell, First Place - Fine Art
In the spring of 1904, sur­rounded
by his wife and seven
children, Angelo Bracisco lay
dying. He had lived and worked
in the Santa Lucias all his life,
eking out an existence for his
family by trapping and mining
for quicksilver. The poisons
from the mine had invaded his
body, killing him slowly and
insidiously. The stench of sick­ness
and death hung like a dark
fog about the small house.
Edward and his brothers
George, Barney and Frank, did
what they could to help their
mother and three sisters.
Barney, the oldest at eleven,
Debra Utacia Krol
High in the heart of the
rugged Santa Lucia Mountains,
south of Lucia, north of San
Simeon, and east of the gold
mine stand the remains of a set­tler's
cabin. The roof fallen in,
half the logs collapsed and
sprawling across the musty, leaf­covered
dirt floor, the rough
door hanging by one rusty hinge,
it keeps its secret from all except
the few who know its amazing
tale. In this cabin, nestled
among the fragrant groves of
pine and juniper, four young
boys were left to survive as best
they could in this wild mountain
wilderness. These boys were my
grandfather and uncles, and this
is their story.
Life in the Santa Lucias at
the beginning of the Twentieth
Century was hard even in the
best conditions. It took two days
of arduous hiking to reach either
the tiny settlement of Lucia or
the homesteads of Bryson, to the
east. Everything brought in from
the outside world had to be car­ried
on human or donkey backs.
There was little money for even
basic dry goods; the whole fami­ly
worked long and hard to pro­vide
food and fuel for the frosty
mountain winters. The land was
provident, however, for those
skilled in the ways of the woods;
deer and huge elk were abundant,
and the grizzly still strode the
California coastline.
It was a lonely existence for
the Bracisco clan. The only
company the seven children ever
had was their mother, who was
descended from the Salinan
Indians and Spanish rancheros,
and their father, the son on
Italian immigrants.
2
slope headed for the town of
King City, some fifty miles
northeast of the homestead. In
town there was the general store,
the dance hall, and an easier way
to live. Inexplicably, the boys
were left to fend for themselves.
Young Edward, my grandfather,
had just turned five years old.
Not knowing when, or even
if, their mother would send for
them, the four young boys
endeavored to survive in the
mountains. Fortunately they
were not without training or
resources. Their father had
taught the oldest the basics of
hunting, firearm use, and hus­bandry.
They had the cabin for
shelter, the garden and animals
for food, milk, and eggs, the
shotgun with its precious store of
ammunition, and each other for
support and company over the
years of isolation from the larger
world.
They roamed over and
under and around the ridges,
canyons, and deep forested
ranges of the Santa Lucias. They
learned to move as swiftly and
sure-footed as any deer; young
Edward and his brothers could
creep bare-footed over the
ground as silently as a rabbit.
They swam in creeks swelled
with ice-cold snow melt in the
spring and summer; they
chopped down pine and juniper
trees, sawing the trunks into logs
that were the right size to cook
thei I' food and keep them warm
during the frosty nights of the
mountains.
In the late summer, the
boys would harvest their small
garden and preserve the bounty
as best they could, mostly by
drying. The hills provided for
them too. Barney and George,
assisted by Frank and Edward,
would pick the abundant berries
that grew in the hollows between
the high peaks. Later, Edward
would tell stories of cramming
the succulent fruit into his
mouth, savoring the rich berry
flavor and licking the juice off
his chin and fingers.
Game was abundant in the
hills. The brothers ate deer, elk,
squirrel, and rabbit, the latter
two caught with snares. Shells
for the shotgun were dwindling
and could not be squandered on
small game. The cow and goats,
too valuable for milk to slaugh­ter,
were fed and cared for.
Life settled into a comfort­able
routine for the growing boys
despite the lack of new shoes,
clothes, or any of the amenities
that we in the soft days of the
Twentieth Century take for grant­ed.
The boys came to love the
way they lived. As an old man,
Edward once told my mother that
these years were the best of his
life. To him, the world beyond
the Santa Lucias was only a
rumor; his world was running
wild among the juniper, pine and
manzanita forests with the deer,
raccoons, squirrels and elk. He
reveled in sitting by the bank of
a cool stream, letting the tad­poles
tickle his bare toes, inhal­ing
the rich, wet smell of the
earth around him, and hearing the
pine trees whisper soft nothings
to him.
"I could come right up next
to any of the wild animals of the
hills, and they would never know
I was there," he used to tell me
and my sister some fifty years
later. Although Edward never
did learn to read and write very
well, he was learned in the ways
of the mountains: their cycle of
the seasons, their bounty avail­able
to anybody who knew what
to look for, their hazards and pit­falls,
and their untamed beauty.
One late summer day in
1913, some nine years after their
mother had left, Barney was
using the shotgun to hunt another
Traveler
Veiled, Nina M. Rogers, Special Award - Illustration
of the huge elk that, smoked and
made into jerky, would help sus­tain
them for another cold moun­tain
winter. Leaning his shoul­der
against a pine trunk to help
hold up the heavy gun, he locat­ed
the buck in his sight,
squeezed the trigger, and cried
out in agony. The younger boys
approached, horrified, as Barney
fell to the ground, his right
shoulder half ripped off by the
backfire of the ancient shotgun.
The air was ripe with the stench
of burnt gunpowder and sharp,
coppery blood.
The boys did what they
could; they managed to staunch
the flow of blood spurting from
his terrible wound, wrapped a
rough bandage about him, and
carried him into the cabin.
George, Frank and Edward hud­dled
together, frightened and
confused. This emergency was
far beyond anything that Papa or
Mama had taught them. What
could three scared, ignorant boys
do to keep Barney alive?
They swiftly came up with
a plan. Gathering some supplies,
the boys strapped Barney to an
improvised stretcher and grimly
continued on page 36
4
Honorable Mention - Fiction
Christmas Dream
Christine Flower
I went to the park again today. Same thing.
Mom and Dad are fighting again. But I've got
my skates, and we've got our Christmas tree.
My feet step out onto the ice, and together we
slide like the margarine on Mom's frying pan.
I can feel the hatred brush against my face like
wicked pine needles from a fallen Christmas
tree. The wind is my enemy, but I run right
through it. The lights hang from the trees in
the rink like fireflies
caught in a time warp:
frozen, yet slightly flut­tering
with the absence of
strength. Golden flies
smile on me and my
skates as we glide
through our figure-eights.
We curve around
the edge of the trees; our
Friend stands waiting for
us. He's so big and green.
Our left foot moves first,
then our right. We push
ourselves faster like the
race-car drivers, still
faster until we are born
from the womb of the
present time. Flying, we
dissipate like steam into
the arms of our Christmas
tree.
Last Frame, Ian Grob, Photograph
Traveler
Second Place - Non-Fiction
Good Things Come in Tall Packages
Teresa Nieschulz
Texas is a state of mind.
I'd never even been there when
my mind began to be forever
altered by a transplanted Texan.
Now, I'm not much of a religious
person but I know one thing.
God sent her.
I was seven and she was
forty-two. I was small, and so
introverted I wanted to blend
into walls. Her height went
beyond her proudly borne five­foot-
eleven-in-heels frame.
From my stunted perspective
Tommie seemed to go on forev­er.
When she spoke, the whiskey
smoke in her voice whispered
under her words and made them
resonate with all the things she'd
done and places she'd been.
I watched old black and
white movies on TV then, and
she immediately reminded me of
Rita Hayworth. Such was my
fascination with her that she
almost replaced Carmen Miranda
as a secret idol, and I knew she'd
have snapped a faster castanet if
the desire had ever struck her.
But where Carmen was light and
spent energy, Tommie was earthy
vitality and untold stories.
Texas glowed through everything
she was and did.
But here's how we got
started. It was 1955. My mother,
father, saccharine Iittle sister,
and baby brother had just moved
to a brand new subdivision in
west Phoenix. It was our first
real house and was made of
bricks. It had wallpaper inside
so that ivy crept across one liv­ing
room wall and ballerinas
danced in my pink bedroom.
Row after row of driveways
edged wannabe yards wearing
eager licks of grass, and my
mother daily coaxed at seedling
flowers in her hard-won flower
beds. More fertile than the soil
she sifted, mother was pregnant
again. And almost as round as
she was tall, this time. At five­foot-
one this gave her the
appearance of a beach ball with a
shock of flaming red hair.
The lots didn't live up to
their name, so Mother's flower
bed just about abutted Tommie's
driveway and it was inevitable
that the two would become
acquainted. If I imagine back,
maybe mother went out early to
cajole those seedlings while she
could catch the shade cast by
Tommie's big black Packard.
Whatever. They, she and my
mother, became friends in the
way that neighbors do.
I wonder now if Tommie
had misgivings in those early
days of discovery. She must
have seen how desperately needy
we were, even with our backdrop
of cheery room-to-room wallpa­per.
There were already three
children. We were clean and fed,
but our lives were just this side
of chaos with too few hours in
the day to work and tend to the
American dream. My mother's
energy was sucked off in a vast
vortex of dutiful Catholic repli­cation
as she borrowed against
her long term health to work and
still mind those scrawny little
plants.
But, either Tommie didn't
have a second thought or didn't
know what one was. Anyway she
was soon taking all of us to raise,
even though, or maybe because,
she'd never had any children of
her own. Or brothers or sisters
either. And when my mother
Traveler
gave birth to twin boys in her
seventh month of pregnancy
while my other brother was still
only eleven months old, the
floodgates of maternal obligation
swamped us all. It took two
women and a child to keep up
and stay this side of frazzled.
Maybe that's why Tommie
began to make it a point in the
evenings to alternate taking me
and my mother to her house, to
the blessed lack of colicky wails
and diaper pails. Because of a
serious back injury, a custom­made
lime green leather recliner
in the shape of a half moon dom­inated
her living room. On my
visits, I was invited to fit my
small body in its honorific curve
and have a soda in a heavy bot­tomed
glass like those found in
grown-up places. Tommie would
select some of her ancient seven­ty-
eight records, turn on the
phonograph, and we would com­mence
to relax.
Other people's blues slowly
ribboned out against our gone
flat tiredness and in between our
own words of which baby did
what, and how the day'd been
spent, Tommie drew out my
thoughts and wishes, resentments
and fears. She was discreet in
her judgments, generous in her
encouragements, and inevitably I
began to compare her with my
mother. Since my mother was
essentially baby bound, I even
wished Tommie was my mother.
But instead we became friends.
While Slim Whitman sang,
she told me about growing up in
Texas as an only child. She told
me about dressing her cat,
instead of her dolls, and about
going to church in a horse drawn
5
Pensive, Connie Greenwell. Fine Art
6
wagon. She told me about her
beloved husband, Richard, who
had died. Their love wasn't the
distracted peck-and-a promise
love I knew. It was deeper than
I could think, and strong, and
tender, and everlasting. She
reminisced about the race track,
Devil's Bowl, they had owned
and operated in Dallas. A mas­sive
oil painting of it filled her
living room wall and made it
real. The old jalopies seemed
barely contained within the can­vas
as they jockeyed and car­omed
under cone-shaped shafts
of light that caught the taste of
speed-churned dust. The artist
had placed the viewer on a bluff
overlooking the hollowed out
track. I felt right there in the
reckless, noisy daring of it all,
sharing a bit of the action with
nameless, painted spectators, and
carelessly littered Texas soil.
And when she recounted how
she'd lost the track after her hus­band's
death, her voice said it
had been sad, that she'd accepted
the loss of both of them, but I
heard the grainy hurt still there.
She'd been devastated, I suspect­ed.
A lesser person would have
been destroyed.
Over that summer more
music played; "Since I Lost My
Baby" drifted behind our visits.
Music by the Texas Playboys or
Billie Holiday sometimes became
our con versations, and I soon
embraced the music from her
time the way my cousins would
later embrace Elvis. While it
played, she taught me how to
play Texas Canasta. Naturally,
this was a game that took three
decks of cards and I knew while
I watched her long and elegant
fingers deftly shuffling the
weighty stacks and "Mariah"
filled our pauses that all things
Texas were bigger and better
because Tommie surely was.
Sometimes my mother joined our
card games, but she was always
too far gone on fatigue and baby
worries to be much good, and her
concentration lapses made the
pace lurch and drag. But we
played on, and it became a mis­sion
for me to impress Tommie
with my card skills. She didn't
make it easy. She made me earn
my victories and broadly cursed
me when I won so that we rol­licked
in my besting her and in
the prospects of another game.
While we played, I reveled in her
zest and wondered how to devel­op
a passionate outlook like
hers.
I never did. We made it
through those babies and two
more my mother had. Tommie
was always there, even moving
with us when we left the city.
Our friendship lasted nearly
forty years. Twenty beyond my
mother's moving out of state.
So it would take a book to cap­ture
all she taught me, all our
shared moments.
I relived some of them
while stroking her motionless
Traveler
hands in the hospital. She was
dying, despite our making shop­ping
plans for when she was bet­ter.
No hope, the doctors said.
So in this place where there was
no music, she was leaving me. I
had to hear the lyrics of a life­time
in my head while her keen
mind lay coma-closed. I sat
stone-like by her side, loving
every fine, but now flat line in
her face, until her breathing
became agonal. Then I couldn't
hear the music and my puny,
cowardly reserve imploded in
those heaving hanging-ons, so I
sobbed for both of us until she
quit.
In that stunning, quiet end­ing,
amidst the sterile white bed­clothes,
I imagined Texas blue­bonnets
and Tommie smiling
into Richard's welcoming
embrace. And while I gathered
up my scattered might-have­beens
I had one comforting
thought: God may have wanted
her to come to heaven, but if I
knew Tommie-she was back in
Texas.·:·
String of Pearls
Donald Shuck
Silent mist afjasmine obscuring heated breath.
Hair a spray (){jet halo radiant circle surrounding a center
of dream perception. Back arched on hem'y silken cushion
embroidered bl' old lI'omw/'s hands lI'itlt young lI'omall's tears.
Walls ofpaper young artist painted scene {ifier scene
identical one hundred times: dark Folley opens onto glade.
Tall straight pine alone cle{II'es thejc)reground. Small stream flows
painted with his tears.
Soli hand caresses nipples hard pulling harder until tears
come. Soji hand cradles Lotus moist with dew pulling string
of pearls slowly from the petals. One by shining one each
diji'ereJ1f: one blue tear, one white egg, one black bean, twin
breasts of a young girl. Each pearl out, draws her breath in.
Clearer the picture of the artist at 1I'0rk painting the final
stream with his final tear.
The lasT pearl slips free. Soft hand clUlching Tightly The long
strand still warm and weT. She will noT let them slip away as
she did his other gijis.
Untitled. Shannon Reynolds, Photograph
Sleepwalker. Nina M. Rogers, Second Place - Photograph
8
Honorable Mention - Fiction
Necropolis
Boyd E. Johnson
I've heard that only crazy
people talk to themselves; I fig­ure
it's O.K. as long as you don't
argue. See, it's only self-preser­vation.
I've got to get rid of all
this pent-up stuff, and Lord
knows I can't paint, so I'll talk.
It takes my mind off the dull
ache that envelops my body. I
haven't had a hit for nearly
twelve hours now, and I'm not
sure how much longer I can last.
My name is Rebecca, and I
am reasonably certain that if
anyone ever called me Becky, I
would seriously consider killing
them. I'm fi ve feet two inches
tall, and weigh ninety-two
pounds. I have thick, straight,
brown hair, parted down the mid­dle.
It's chin length in front, and
slopes upward to the curve of my
skull in back. I carry a rogue L
chromosome, so my eyes mirror
the strongest color in the area.
I was orphaned when I was
four. Apparently I was the only
child of Thomas E. Jones and
Elizabeth C. Jones. They were
killed in a car crash; I wasn't.
The state placed me in institu­tional
care for trauma-induced
autism. The day that I left to
look for John is the first solid
memory that I have. That was
three weeks ago. Since then,
I've lived my life from job to job
and fix to short-lived fix.
I'm sitting in mi casa
grande, counting the roaches.
The roof leaks, the mattress is
rotting away as I sit here, and
the tap water is brown. Typical.
Yet, kind of inspiring in an
urban hell-hole sorta way.
I've been working the upper
east-side for a couple of days
now. That last job was enough
to get me my next meal, and
maybe a roof over my head for
awhile at the next boarding
house.
I believe I am slowly going
insane. My memories are like a
Chex party mix, all jumbled into
the bowl of my subconscious.
All I know is that I left the home
with a knack for the illegal, good
reflexes, and a taste for CLW-77.
CLW-77.. .I call it GO JUICE, or
GO for short. It's an extract of
the narcotic adrenaline discov­ered
in infants.
The shaking's gone now.
Lord knows I won't miss it.
Why do I steal? Simple. It
pays good, and I love it. It's a
quick fix.
Steal from the Rich, Give to the
Poor
I'm running.
To Where?
I've been running for three
weeks now.
Been Running Forever
I'm running ... running and steal­ing
are all I want to remember.
The stealing anchors me, gives
me a tangible memory. I only
take cash and sometimes pretty
little things.
I think that if I don't get a
fix soon, I'll either die or go
completely insane. I don't have
much left, and who knows how
long it's gotta last. I can't wait
any longer.
I need a fix.
You Can Wait
I need a fix now.
Why?
I need a fix right now.
Pitiful
Gotta have a fix. Really
Traveler
need a fix.
You Are So Weak
It's been so 10ng.. Just one little
hit.
You Make Me Sick
shut up!
The bottle says "Drink Me;"
bottoms up...
wow! that
Was What
I needed. Now I can think
again. Wasn't much, but it will
get me from here to there.
The side effects are mini­mal,
and one hit will last eight
hours. The trip is instantaneous.
One second, you're Homo
Sapien; the next you're Homo
Superior. I suspect that GO is
very similar to lysergic acid
diethyl amide, LSD. One vial
dripped under the tongue is a
sure cure for a dull life.
GO is the most addictive
narcotic ever documented.
how do you know?
I Know
how...
ft's Right Here In This File
oh.
File? Oh, the file I brought
with me from the home.
When I first escaped, I was
totally lost. That was three
weeks ago. This file, and what
John taught me, are all that's
kept me alive. If it weren't for
John,
trust me, I'm your friend
I would be dead. He's the
one that first told me about
CLW-77. For me, it was just a
daily routine: wake up, stretch
out, shower, dress, brush the
hair, wash the face, clean the
teeth, open the capsule, drip it
under the tongue, eat breakfast,
go running.
John was my only friend in
that place. He's one of the few
solid memories] have of the other
place. They keep drifting in.
John told me they had been
ex peri menti ng with memory
blocks. He said I was hooked
on an experimental drug and
that I had to leave. See, no one
wants to adopt an autistic child.
When I turned eight, they turned
me over to some doctor. He'd
been experimenting with some
wonderful new drug. Sure
enough, one dose and I was back
in reality. ]t brought me out,
only problem was, if I didn't get
it, I'd lapse into a catatonic
autistic state; for all intents and
purposes, ] was dead.
John ...
I miss him.
I MISS HIM
i miss him!
He said he had to leave. He
said that what they were doing
there was wrong. He said he
wanted to take me with him.
HE LIED
I guess he forgot about that.
Maybe if] can find him, he'll
remember. He helped me when
no one else would. I had never
even heard laughter. The first
time he laughed, it nearly scared
me to death. He tried to teach
me. I still can't do it. He taught
me institutional survival and
more importantly, sanity. John
taught me that laughter was the
key to sanity. I guess that when
I can start laughing, I can stop
running.
This file, and as much
CLW-77 as I could carry were all
that I left there with. I've been
lugging it around for three
weeks, and I still can't bring
myself to do more than peek
into it. It scares me. John
always brought it when he visit­ed
me. It seemed to pain him to
have it, and I think he was happy
to be rid of it. I've never done
more than read the top sheet
actually. I fear it may be like
opening Pandora's Box.
John was the one that taught
me the fine art of larceny. From
him I learned all about alarms,
safes, and locks. It was one of
our little games. More important­ly
though, he taught me how to
get around them. Most alarms
and that ilk are designed "to keep
honest people honest." So said
John. I'm not particularly honest,
so I think of it as "to keep hungry
people hungry." Call it justifica­tion;
I call it survival.
I haven't slept for three days.
My mind needs a break. One of
the side effects of GO is insomnia.
Funny, but I never even noticed it
until John mentioned it. I've
never slept more than three or
fours hours at a stretch. The only
time I sleep is right after I come
down from a ride.
I can feel the down-side of
the trip coming on. Eight hours
ago I was on a rocket heading
for the moon; now I'm about to
crash on a desolate earth. As
Newton said, "For every action,
there is an equal and opposite
reaction." At times like this
the best thing to do is sleep.
I never used to dream.
The part of my brain that con­trols
dreaming seemed to have
shut down. Lately though, it's
gone into overdrive. The dreams
are awful. One hundred percent
pure terror. The wake-up-dream­ing-
you're-dead kind of bad.
The nightmares, however, aren't
the worst. My body doesn't
make the chemical that discon­nects
my mind from my body
Traveler
Woman, Peilan Chen, Third Place - Computer Art
when I sleep. So, I act out my
dreams.
Uncool.
Ten more seconds... Eight
more seconds... Two seconds...
Bingo! I definitely need prac­tice.
Oh No! Sleeping on the
job again. Wish I could leave
my work at the office like the
rest of suburbia. Oomph!
There's a dull ache in my lower
back. I must've been hunched
over this stupid lock a long time.
Open says me. I'll just get what
I came for and be off. Just for
the record, when you sec a dash­ing
young hero on TV breeze
through a lock with a hair pin,
don't buy it. It takes years of
practice. I've been doing it a
long time, and it still takes a
while. Of course, it has always
been my personal philosophy
that going around a lock is much
better than going through it.
Never use the front door.
Use the door that connects the
house to the garage. There are
two really good reasons for this:
the garage provides good cover
while I work, and the inside door
opens outward. It's easier to get
10
at the bolt that way. Most
people picture burglars picking
locks. Yeah, right. Most just
kick the door in. I, however,
use a butter knife. Just slide the
blade in between the bolt and
the jam. By quickly jerking the
knife, I can force the blade into
the seer hole. Now all that's left
is to pull the door open.
Too easy.
My take was good tonight.
Should give me enough fundage
to last about a week. Enough ... ?
Sure, who am I kidding? Enough
is never enough.
Sleeping a lot lately. I
never thought I would miss the
insomnia. It's strange the things
people take comfort in.
It takes more and more GO
to get me going, and the trip is
shorter each time. I've only got
a few hits left. I don't know
what I'm going to do. Again.
I wish John were here. What I
thought would last a week only
lasted two days.
The manager of this dump
came whining about money.
Time to skip out. I'll just pack
up and split. The stuff I can't
carry stays; maybe it'll do the
maid some good. That is, if
there is a maid.
That's it; two whole gym
bags. I'll just get my stash from
behind the dresser drawer. ..
Whoa, don't feel so good.
Sit down. It isn't possible. It
just isn't possible. Gone. It's
gone. It can't be gone. I just
took a hit two hours ago. One
second I'm flying, and then I
crash. Everything's gone. All of
it. I need another hit. Need a
hit bad. Everything seems light
years away. Maybe a nap would
be a good idea. Just a short one.
Just a short little naaa...
Cold.
Sti ff.
Scared.
Cold, and scared stiff
What the hell is this? My body
doesn't seem to belong to me
anymore. It sure won't do what
I tell it to do. My eyes, to say
the least, won't acknowledge my
omnipotence. They refuse to
perform the simple task of open­ing.
Incompetent synapses.
What's this? My arms too.
Biological mutiny sucks. Hmm.
Alright Rebecca, think this out.
One's body doesn't just up and
stop following orders. There
must be a good explanation.
There had better be a good
explanation. If my appendages
don't have a damn good excuse
for not functioning, it will upset
me a great deal.
As the intern passes Ward
3, he pauses. Movement? Of
course, nothing to be startled by.
Cadavers often shift in their eter­nal
sleep. Hence the need to
strap the arms and legs down, as
well as sew the eyelids shut. Dr.
Farrell doesn't like the eyes
opening during the autopsy. The
intern can't blame him.
The intern lets out an audi­ble
sigh of contentment. Tonight
holds the promising aspect of
being a night like all the others:
monotonous, slow, and sleep
inducing; perfect. There is only
one new resident tonight; a for­mer
patient has shown up. They
always do.
He continues his rounds. He
will return later, he knows, after
everyone has gone home. He
enjoys being alone with them.
I am getting tired of this. I
am definitely upset. Mental
note: never leave the body to its
own devices; it won't want to
return. Fortunately, it doesn't
have a choice this time. Ungh!
There we go, "You put your
left leg in, you take you r left leg
out... and you shake it all about."
Whew. I don't know what my
Traveler
body's been doing since I was
away, but it sure wasn't in my
best interests. I'm exhausted. I
could really use a hit right now.
Everyone of my nerve endings
feels like it's on fire. How long
has it been? I must've been
gone awhile.
Maybe my body'll be more
cooperative after a rest. If not, then
drastic measures shall be taken.
Everyone is gone. He qui­etly
enters Ward 3. The ward is
full. He is only one of the two
that still dwell, among the living.
He is nervous. He always is. He
will die nervous.
He looks at her for an eter­nity.
This one is here for an
informal autopsy. One of Dr.
Millitt's freaks. She'd been on
some experimental drug, and
they were curious about what
it'd done to her insides.
Oh... to look into her eyes... 1
must...
He carefully cuts away the
stitches. Great care is taken not
to damage the eyes; they are one
of his favorite parts.
These eyes were definitely
worth the risk. They were
incredible! They lacked the
cold, flat sheen of death's eyes.
No, these eyes took every color
of the rainbow and made them a
visual utopia.
She moved! It was not the
body just settling: she tried to
roll over!
"Ahh...Owh... "
With every movement she
made, the intern felt a shred of
his sanity slip away. The bare
thread that had held him together
these last two years finally
snapped.
All of them. They know
what I've done, and now they are
coming to get me. All of them.
He grabbed a scalpel from
the nearby tray. It swung in a
sweeping arc, pausing above his
head.
Her eyes saved her. Before
he could end what he had started,
he took a final look into those eyes.
He was mesmerized: power­less.
It was the last thing he ever
saw and he died happy.
Rebecca had been regaining
consciousness steadily for the
past ten minutes. Her eyes
burned. She blinked rapidly.
Better. They were open, but she
couldn't see. Everything was
hazy. She managed to rollover,
nice. Her arms moved freely.
Ahh, they were cooperating now.
She squinted to focus.
What she saw sent a shot of
pure adrenaline screaming
through her veins. The trip was
instantaneous.
And... we have lift-off!
She reached out with her
left hand and swung with her
right.
one fist of iron, the other'n of
steel; if the left one don't get
you then the right one will
It connected with a bone
crunching blow against his ribs,
puncturing lungs, and destroying
his heart.
That was all it took. He
crumpled to the floor, gasping
for breath. The scalpel skidded
across the sanitized floor, coming
to rest silently.
The whole exchange lasted
no longer than three seconds.
She had never been more tired.
She staggered to her feet, fight­ing
the exhaustion. Stumbling
down the hall, she slid in a pool
of blood Where did that come
from? and collapsed into a chair.
She sat a long time.
Dr. Millitt was working late
tonight. Today he had made a
major break-through. His
research team had long known of
the addictive nature ofCLW-77,
but up to this point had been able
to do little about it. Tonight,
however, he had refined the first
antidote of sorts. The secret had
been right under their noses the
entire time. Infants produced the
narcotic, and they also produced
the enzyme that made them
immune to the addiction.
All work and no play makes Jack
a dull boy. Time for a break.
She was waiting in his
office. She sat, engulfed in his
leather armchair and the aroma of
memory. She couldn't stand it.
Walking through the labs had been
like walking through a waking
nightmare. She had never been
claustrophobic, but anyone that
suffered from that affl iction would
recognize the way she felt now.
She had been gone only
three weeks, yet it took him a
moment to recognize her. There
was a new look about her. She
had always looked dangerous, but
now she looked positively dead­ly.
He also recognized his small
caliber pistol, which she gripped
in her left hand.
"Hello Doctor."
"Good evening, Rebecca.
I heard you were back to visit
us. I didn't think you'd have
anything left to come back for
after your friend John left."
"I would like the enzyme,
please."
"Enzyme?"
Rebecca opened a thick file.
The top page was titled "CLW­77-
77: R&D." The doctor
noted the movement of her thumb
as she cocked the hammer.
"It's in the lab. I'll get it."
The doctor didn't even
consider running. She would
find him. He returned with a
small vial. She took it with only
a slight tremor. The vial disap­peared
into the folds of the lab
coat she had borrowed.
Traveler
Untitled, Steve Godel
Special Award
Three Dimensional Art
Her movement was sudden­ly
savage. It felt good. Dr.
Millitt lay on the floor, uncon­scious.
She tilted his head back
and produced another small vial
from the confines of her lab coat.
She emptied the contents under
his tongue. For a first time user,
he handled it remarkably well.
He awoke instantly. A look of
sheer horror battled with a look
of pure ecstasy for control of his
face. He skittered across the
floor on his hands and knees,
coming to rest in the corner.
She waited until he looked
her in the eye, She made sure he
watched as she poured lighter
fluid over the mass of papers on
his desk. Then, quite deliberate­ly,
she drained the only existing
vial of enzyme under her tongue.
With a wicked smile,
Rebecca pointed to the soaked
files.
"Please. I need those fi les
in order to refine the enzyme
12
into a usable serum. You've
used the only antidote we've
been able to produce."
"Really? Well, then I guess
it's back to the drawing boards.
Good-bye Doctor."
With that Rebecca Whisper
Jones flicked the wheel of her
Zippo lighter. The small flame
quickly engulfed the refining
process for the enzyme, as well as
the procedure for producing CLW­77,
and then spread to the desk.
"See you around."
The doctor's body was
discovered the next afternoon
amid the ashes and rubble of the
lab. He had made no attempt to
escape the blaze. He just sat
behind his desk, enjoyed a last
cigar and used a small caliber
pistol which was left lying on his
desk to rid himself of this life's
burdens. Apparently, the thought
of an impossible addiction was
too much for him to bear.
Rebecca is still out there.
She enjoys the natural euphoria
of one who appreciates each of
life's special experiences. She
walks as though she has had a
great burden removed from her
shoulders. Rebecca has learned
to laugh.-:-
First Place - Poetry
free eire
Donald Shuck
i rem.ember time
coarse smelling like summer horses mowing a field
white stone upon gray stone upon blue upon mottled pink
wet with rain
soft thud of heads hitting soft stone
and rebels bleed on Irish moss
The hissing hissing of hot iron in cooling trough
hammers ring clear on anvil steel
Ping-Swing and Ping-Swing and Ping-Swing and Ping
to ring my neck with iron then rope
stale bread days and rotten straw nights
I lay chained in filth
My wife and child smell sea salt
sing with crying gulls
while sailing on weeping winds to freedom.
Traveler
The Astrologer's Dream, Blake Ford Hall, Honorable Mention - Illustration
Third Place - Non-Fiction
White Out
13
My father had spent his
thirteenth winter in the Badlands
alone. What had he thought for
that eternity, stranded in the icy
pale? Hope, I hoped and pressed
it up against the shortness of this
small pilgrimage. My father had
survived.
I crunched a few burdened
steps from the road and stopped.
My eyes followed the white upon
white undulations of the earth to
a few naked trees that dotted the
dark line of a distant ravine. A
small memorial rested close to
the church, but I hadn't come
here to see the monument.
Instead my vision blurred into
the white until I saw images that
had risen from the pages of a
book. Even though the book
rested at home on my night
stand, its ghosts now seared into
my mind the way the cold
burned against my face. They
loomed ajar off the pure back­ground,
making it immaculate no
more. Dark splotches with no
grace. Angular lines without
dignity. The year of the mas­sacre
was 1890. The date was
December 29th. But five days
afterward, photographers had
still come to record the event
and they had preserved the after­math
with clinical clarity. I
recalled a picture of one Lakota
male, prone, who seemed to kiss
the cold with one leg flexed and
one foot pointed skyward in a
queer, icy, parody of blitheness.
Wounded Knee, the dark
humor crept around the vision of
silent suffering so I stuffed other
desperate thoughts around the
bizarre irony. I recalled snaps of
soldiers, cleaner-uppers, buriers,
standing stoic and blameless
amidst the frozen carnage, sou­venirs
in some of their half hid­den
hands. How to dig graves in
this frozen dungheap was written
across wasicu faces in a black
and white pictorial. I recalled
Traveler
It wasn't enough to have
seen this place in shades of
rolling summer. Birds had lilted
over the hum of life and under a
vivid sky of promise, It was a
lie. It was a halcyon neglect of
the cultural cataclysm held deep
within my ancestral memory.
Nature's cruel forgetfulness
could be accepted. Forgiven. A
Nation's could not. Shaking my
self-doubt against my over bun­dled
bulk, I slammed the car door
and stamped my shoes on the
frozen ground. Busy. Noisy.
Purposeful. I generated muffled
hand-rubbing sounds that cloaked
my breathing, my brisk footfalls
on the snow became a crisp affir­mation
of my purpose.
Each breath taken and
spent, billowed out into the bitter
cold as an intrusion on the soul­less
air. The stillness mocked
the sounds of my presence. It
took my measured inhalations­exhalations
and amplified them
into ragged lies while echoes of
the breaths just gone jeered into
my inner spaces. I wished the
wind had risen up out of the
north and flung a storm across
my plans to visit this place. A
"white-out," a blizzard so dense
you could see nothing, would
have kept me home, I thought.
But my second thoughts weren't
even a flurry on the frozen land
and I immediately regretted my
regret.
Teresa Nieschulz
14
one photo in particular. The
features of a young woman who
seemed to have died in gentle
supplication, were so familiar,
they could have been my grand­mother,
my aunt, my cousin.
They were a murdered me,
silently beckoning to my
genetic soul.
Still staring at the remem­bered
massacre I saw the ignoble
death contortions of Big Foot,
the leader of the fated band of
Lakota who'd died on this spot.
This photograph was etched so
vividly in my memory it seemed
he could have rested atop the flat
just to my right. I asked myself
a hundred questions. Had the
photographer tilted the Chief's
body upward, leaning on useless
elbows? Had the aged one really
fallen with hips swiveled? Legs
bent as if running? He was
dressed in white man's clothes.
A white man's scarf wrapped his
frozen head and was tied, old­womanish,
underneath his chin.
From one angle, Big Foot's
hands seemed in position to
strum and pick at a macabre
invisible guitar. There was a US
Army issue blanket nearby. The
soldiers had come to Big Foot's
encampment to gather guns, and
issue blankets and provisions:
concern and largesse. Instead
they'd issued death and gathered
the last remnants of a people's
freedom.
In the bitter landscape,
stripped of the lies of summer,
the silence stung and cold ques­tions
crept around my tightening
chest as a riddle sing-songed
'round my promises to remem­ber:
Did the bullets kill Big
Foot's band? Or the blankets?-:-
Lost Heritage. Edward O. Todd. Computer Art
Traveler
First Place - Fiction
The Urban Prisoners
15
remember that moment and take
it to bed with them that night,
and dream. And tonight when I
think back to that moment and
remember their faces, I'll dream
that I'm still there, locked in
with them.
They open the gate and the
world stands hungry and growl­ing
before me. I'm afraid for an
instant, afraid of what lies
beyond these walls. Five years
is a long time to be away. I
watch the cars flash by, speeding
to unknown destinations like
huge metal beasts. I notice the
way the buildings seem to close
in on the sky and blot out the
noonday sunlight. The children
on the street ha ve faces like
stone. I read the paper today and
sit for fifteen minutes before I
Traveler
those bars, and they opened.
The walk next. The walk
will take me away from this
place for as long as it takes me to
get back, and the odds are that I
will indeed be back one day.
Somehow I don't feel rehabilitat­ed.
My feet echo loudly in the
musty silence, and I know what it
must sound like to the others.
It's a sound that some might
have heard a hundred times and
others just once, but the look on
their tired, sad faces as I walk by
tells me what I already know
about this sound. It's the sound
of freedom, the sound of hope,
and for one moment they put
themselves in my shoes and they
walk with me and they live.
When I'm gone and the sound of
my passing is a whisper, they'll
New York, Ian Grab, Photograph
Joshua Ivanov
I've waited for this moment
three thousand, six hundred and
fifty days, and I still can't decide
how to feel. My mouth hasn't
formed any words but "yes sir,
no sir" in so long, I wonder for a
moment if I've forgotten the
words to express myself. Well,
step by step then, every foot is
another foot closer to myself, to
my feelings, to my world. I'll
start with the bars first. You
would think it impossible for a
person to hate one thing as much
as I hated those bars. They were
my constant, my only anchor in a
dark pit of depravity from which
I could find neither the strength
nor the emotion to escape. I
needed the bars there for the first
couple of years. Like a child
cowering behind a blanket, I
cowered behind those bars,
afraid of myself, afraid of every­one
else. I sat with my fingers
curled around them, the veins
standing out on my aching hands,
the sour sweat rolling down my
arms, all the while strangling.
It's better that way, to hate
something inanimate, to focus on
an invincible enemy rather than
one of blood and bone. I could
have wrapped my hands around a
multitude of throats, choked the
life from rapists, child molesters,
murderers and no one would
have minded much. Not in here
anyway. Killing someone might
have taken the anger away for a
while, but men are limitless
these days, especially corrupt
ones. I would have ended up
like them eventually. Another
lifer with nothing to lose. So
instead I fought the bars. They
never did die, but after a while
the anger did. And on the last
day I wrapped my fingers around
16
have the strength to go on. I
think I was safer inside. I meet
my parole officer, a good man
I'd known a long time ago. We
talk about the past for a while
like old men, and then there's
silence. I look into his eyes and
can tell he knows. He shakes his
head, apologizes, and says that
he tried his best. I think he feels
worse than I do about it. I won't
lie to you, I had been to prison
before. Mostly for petty thievery
or stealing cars, but this time
was different. This trip was for
attempted murder. I was arrested
because at the same time I was
walking home from a local dive I
frequent, a young lady was
slashed thirty-seven times on a
crowded street. I was picked up
mainly because I was in the area
and a known offender. I stood in
line, got fingered, and took my
ten years the way some people
stand in line for coffee. It was
all old news to me. I don't feel
angry or proud at being unjustly
accused. I don't feel like a
poster boy for a better justice
system. I don't even feel relief
at being ou t. What I do feel is
fear and a lethargy I've never
known before. The world has
changed and become something I
don't recognize. It's taken a
beating while I was away and the
scars and bruises are starting to
show. Soon I'll have a job again
and the only words I'll say will
be "yes sir, no sir." I'll find a
new routine and try to get my
life back together. I look into
the eyes of the people around me
and what I see scares me. The
next day I call someone I knew
in myoid life. I make a request
and get quoted a price that I can
live with. Two hours later I get
a package handed to me under
the table of a roadside diner. It's
a probation violation just holding
the thing that the dirty rags con­ceal
but I smile anyway. I'm
starting to feel safe again, like
I'm back in control. I stuff the
rags into my jacket pocket and
walk all the way home with my
head down, faintly smiling.
The job has been hell, espe­cially
today. I come to work fif­teen
minutes early and my boss
takes me aside to let me know
that he's watching me. He tells
me that he knows I am a thief
and a trouble maker but that the
government is paying him to take
me so it is okay for now. He
feels justified in treating me like
a second class citizen. The work
gets harder. When my break
comes, I buy a Coke. Sitting on
some dusty crates, I can feel the
years eating at my bones. My
mind drifts back to myoid life,
and I start to think about making
some easy money, pulling a cou­ple
of easy jobs. Before too long
the boss comes back in and tells
me to get to work. I don't both­er
arguing that it has only been
five minutes. At the end of the
day, when I go to get my
secondhand bike, I find my
spokes kicked in and my tires
flattened. Somehow all of this
doesn't seem like enough to keep
me straight for too long. That
night I sit with the phone in
front of me like an alcoholic in
front of a bottle. I'm sweating
and trying to convince myself
that I don't need the money, but
I know that I do. Around eleven
I lose the battle and pick up the
phone in one trembling hand. It
feels cold and clammy. I stutter
like a kid. When I hang up the
phone, my world has changed. A
huge weight lifts from my shoul­ders
and that night I sleep with��out
dreaming.
Most people believe in only
one kind of criminal, the seedy,
desperate psychotic they see on
the news every night. Any crim­inal
will tell you that they're
wrong. In haseball you have
Traveler
professionals and minor leaguers.
This is generally true for crimi­nals
too. A professional criminal
won't steal from houses or mug
people. It gives thieves a bad
name, makes them look like sav­ages.
Only someone desperate
would do that. A professional
thief hits corporate businesses
and banks. First of all there's
more money in it, and second
they're insured. People like to
think that thieves will steal any­thing,
that they're evil creatures
out to destroy good people's
lives, but that's a lie.
I meet with five guys I've
never seen before to discuss the
job ahead of us. Low risk and a
fairly good return are stakes I
can't pass up right now so I'm
quick to volunteer my services.
The whole time I'm thinking to
myself, "What a stupid thing to
do", but I don't listen to my con­science.
The job goes off with­out
a hitch. No one gets hurt,
and we split the take and go our
separate ways. I breathe easier
with next month's rent in my
hand. I've just committed a
crime that could get me up to
five years, but all I have is a
slum apartment and two new bike
tires to show for it. I'm happier
than I've been in a long while.
On Wednesday, I meet with
Moe, an old man who, in his day,
was one of the best thieves
around. In 1948, though, Moe
took a fall and did some hard
time, some hard time that
changed his life. When he got
out, he took what little money he
had left and started a business
that did fairly well. Today
Moe's place is still there and
when he heard about the trouble I
was having at work he offered
me a job working for him. I
started work for him on Friday,
after I'd had a few words with
myoId boss. I told him what
would happen if I saw him in a
dark alley, but I didn't really
mean it. Sometimes having a rep
can be fun.
I work just as hard for Moe
as I did at myoid job, but I
don't feel it. There's something
about working for a good man
that takes the edge off. As I'm
sweeping up the store, I see Moe
handing out candy to some street
kids. He shuffles them in and
gives them some canned food
and smiles at them. Never once
does he talk down to them or try
to tell them how to clean up their
act. When they go, he watches
them sadly, and he leaves with­out
saying a word. Two days
later he's ready to tell me his
story. In an old man's voice he
tells me about his wife and how
things were so much harder back
then. He tells me about her get­ting
pregnant and them not hav­ing
the money to pay. He does­n't
have to tell me the rest of the
story. He stole what he needed
and did the time. During his
second year his wife turned a
corner and a truck barreled into
her. End of wife, end of kid, end
Determination, Richard Santos, Photograph
of story. We both look away for
a couple of minutes, lost in our
memories, and then we shuffle
off to whatever distraction we
can find.
My apartment looks down
on the street where Moe's is, and
every night I sit by the window
and look through the bars at the
people below. They move quick­ly
at night like scared, shifty
eyed cats. They keep away from
the looming shadows and dark
alleys. It would be so easy to
keep stealing, but my spirit is
too old for it. I'd have to face
all of those people who hate me
for being what I am. An ex-con.
A thief. It would be a stupid
way to get sent up again, embar��rassing
if nothing else.
I notice Moe's light on and
watch him climb down his rick­ety
steps and open his door.
Suddenly three dark figures rush
from the shadows and begin to
beat him. What do they want?
Whatever money an old man in
the middle of the night would
have on him? Then I hear the
cheering and the laughter. My
Traveler
hand goes out to the bundle by
the bed, and I race down the
steps. I shove cold metal into
the back of my pants as I go and
shout for someone to call the
cops. When I get to the street
I'm out of breath, but I keep
going anyway. I feel the adrena­line
pumping through my system.
The blood races like wildfire
through my heart carrying
enough natural drugs to fuel a
junkie's twenty-dollar habit. I
see windows close and curtains
drop as I come upon them. I
wonder why no one tries to stop
them but me. This is freedom.
The freedom to live like animals
behind caged windows, afraid to
open our doors at night.
Freedom to work and work and
work and have it all taken away
by a zit-faced kid with a mean
streak. The kids stare at me like
I'm crazy and maybe I am. I
laugh at them, make fun of them,
bait them. They expect me to
fear death or imprisonment. I
smile but there's nothing funny
about it. As I hear Moe wheeze
his last breath, one of the thugs
starts to come toward me. I look
into the kid's eyes and I realize
that he's not afraid of going to
prison. He just wants to hurt
something. I reach behind and
close my fingers around the cold
metal. If they find me with a
piece, I'll go back to jail no mat­ter
how right I am. I think about
Moe, I think about the world and
my life. I was stupid to think I
could survive outside after so
many years. My mind is differ­ent
now, changed by years of
contemplation. I may die
tonight, but I don't fear death.
may go to jail, but I've been
there before. Somehow I think it
might be more comfortable this
time around. I may be a thief,
but I'm still human and I still
know what's right. We all make
sacrifices for our freedom. I pull
the trigger and make mine.-:-
17
18
Nude with Tattoo, Phil Branson, Honorable Mention - Photograph
Carpedium Rosanus
Donald Shuck
TAKE THIS ROSE, MY TREASURE,
THIS BLOOD-RED SINGLE BLOSSOM
DO SAVOUR YOU ITS PLEASURE.
CLASP IT TIGHTLY TO YOUR BOSOM.
YOU FEAR SUCH PLEASURE CARRIES PAIN,
A DASTARD'S PRICK ON YOUR SWEET HAND.
BE ASSURED YOU FEAR IN VAIN
FOR SUCH A WRONG I WOULD NOT STAND,
I BEG YOUR LOVE BUT NO DEMANDS.
THIS ROSE WILL ONLY PLEASURE BRING.
I'VE GROWN IT WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS
AND HAVE REMOVED ITS THORNY STING.
DON'T THINK THE PRICE OF RAPTURE HIGH.
I THINK IT LATE AND NIGHT GROWS NIGH.
Traveler
Third Place - Fiction
Bad Apple
Boyd E. Johnson
John Smith sits on the edge
of his bed, staring blankly at the
bare wall in front of him. He
seems completely unaware of his
surroundings. He takes no
apparent notice of the sharply
dressed man walking down the
hall.
"May I help you, sir?"
inquires the man at the desk,
without taking his eyes off the
small TVs in front of him. The
only one not connected to the
closed-circuit TV system is
playing a re-run of "Happy
Days."
"Ah, yes, good evening.
am Mr. Jones. I have an
appointment with Mr. Smith."
"Hmm. Mr. Jones ... ahh,
O.K. Edwin Jones: 9:00 p.m. I
didn't even bother to look at the
log; Mr. Smith doesn't get many
visitors. Edwin Jones-hey,
ain't you the one who makes
those TV movies? My wife and I
was watchin' one just the other
night."
"Yes. Is Mr. Smith ready to
begin then?"
"Yes sir, right this way ... and
Mr. Jones, if you don't mind,
would you autograph this T.V.
Guide for me? Yeah, right on
the latest review of your mass
murderer's series."
"I would be delighted. To
whom should I sign it?"
"Kelly O'Reiley. And thanks
again, Mr. Jones, it's not
everyday we see celebrities like
yourself around here."
"You are most welcome; now
if we may proceed."
"Here you are, Mr. Jones.
I'll be right outside if you need
me."
"Thank you, I'm quite sure it
won't be necessary."
"Mr. Smith? I am Mr. Jones.
Shall we begin our interview?"
John clears his throat and
spits on the floor. His voice is
rough with disuse. "Why the
Hell not? I don't go~ much else
to do." .
"Very well then. I thank you
for this most unique opportunity.
It really is quite an honor to
interview the notorious John
Smith. Are you comfortable?
You seem anxious. Care for a
cigarette?"
"Thanks. Mmm; KOOL.
Man after my own tastes. You
gonna join me, or am I smokin'
alone?"
"I don't smoke."
"Hmph."
"Where would you like to
begin?"
"Bub, ta be honest, it doesn't
matter to me. You ask; I'll
answer. Ok?"
"Certainly. Your full name
please."
"John Smith."
"Is 'John' short for
Jonathan?"
"Did I say Jonathan?"
"Very well: John. Place of
birth?"
"Don't recall. Listen, pal, I
didn't have a real excitin' child­hood.
Let's just skip the
psychoanalytical crap, OK? If
you're interested in my
illustrious bank robbi n' career,
I'll be happy to tell you whatever
you want to know. For anything
else you'll have to read my file."
"I understand. Would you
please tell me about the bank
robbery you committed on June
II, the one before your last
attempt."
Traveler
"Fine. We robbed a bank.
The teller set off the alarm. We
ran out with the money. The
sheriff was waitin'. Audrie shot
the Sheriff. We drove away.
That's it."
John Smith doubles over,
coughing wetly. The dank air on
Death Row doesn't help any, but
then again, providing a healthy
environment to doomed men
obviously isn't one of the
prison's top priorities.
"You know, having only one
lung sure is a pain."
''(' m sure, Mr. Smith. Are
you sure you want to do this?"
"Ok. I'll try."
" ow, what did you do after
Audrie shot the Sheriff?"
"What would you do? We
got the Hell outta Dodge."
"Did you leave via a
predetermi ned route?"
"Yeah, we had stolen a car
from a house in the next town.
It was a nice place, family on
vacation. We just borrowed their
car for a couple a days, then
returned it. They never missed
it."
"Fascinating. Please, Mr.
Smith, continue. Remember, our
time is limited."
"No one knows that better'n
I do, pal."
"Please, tell me about the
last bank robbery with Audrie."
"It's kinda chilly in here. I
don't think that it'd be too much
to ask for them to heat this place
better.
"Indeed."
"As if the heating ain't bad
enough. Take a look at this
place. Furnished; my butt. A
cot and a pot. Very nice indeed.
It is only temporary, you know."
19
Violence in the Classroom, Randy Cajthaml. Honorable Mention - Computer Art
Traveler
knows I don't got much else to
do, and only a little time left to
do it. You realize of course that
this story has never been told.
Several people think they know
some of it, and few people know
a lot of it, but there were only
two that knew all of it. There's
only one now."
"It was July. We were sea­sonal
bandits. Generally speak­ing,
we worked only in the sum­mer
months. Audrie worked at a
real job nine months out of the
year. Her only free time was
during summer recess. I didn't
mind planning my schedule
around her. Of course, it's
always easier, logistically, to
pull off a heist in the summer.
Don't have to worry about the
weather, and people are slower
to react. Everyone just sits back
collapsed Iung. I've interviewed
eye-witnesses, as well as the
doctor that was in charge of you.
You should be just as dead as
Audrie is."
"You say so, pal."
"What kept you alive? What
kept you going?"
"Audrie was dead. There
was nothing left to die for."
"Please, tell me more about
Audrie."
"Audrie: nice person, good
looking, loyal, helpful, courte­ous
... "
"Mr. Smith, please. Tell me
about the real Audrie, the one
who dragged you from a bank."
"She always did get all the
attention. You want ta hear
about this woman, huh? All
right, I'll tell you about our last
job. No, no, I don't mind. Lord
"Yes, Mr. Smith, only tem­porary."
"For the life of me I can't
figure out how I ended up in this
mess. I mean, I'm a bright guy,
personable, nice, you know, All
American Kid. Boy next door
ki nda deal. I keep aski ng
myself: What's a guy like you
doin' in a place like this? Don't
laugh. Guy's like me don't
belong in prison."
"Mr. Smith, are you avoiding
my question?"
"What's that supposed to
mean? Ah Hell, never mind. I
don't feel much like talking to
you anymore."
"I am most interested in
Audrie. Such a lovely young
lady. She really seemed quite
dynamic. I've even heard that
someone produced an Audrie
Doll, complete with get-away
car, and money bags."
"Yeah, I heard that too."
"Perhaps you cou Id tell me
about the last bank robbery you
and Audrie attempted. I've read
the police reports, but I'd like to
hear your side of it."
"Ok, pal. What do you want
ta' know?"
"Mr. Smith, I don't mean to
offend you, but. .. ?"
"You want to know how I
got here, and Audrie got dead?"
"Yes, that was the jist of it."
"Ain't no mystery, bub. She
was the one who was still stand­ing
when we finally got out of
that bank. That's my fault. She
dragged me out, and they shot
her."
"Why did they feel the need
to kill you two?"
"Ask the ones that pulled the
trigger. We were America's
Most Wanted. Nothin' but death
behind us, and nothin' but death
ahead. S'pose we had to die."
"But you didn't die. The
report stated that you suffered a
20
and relaxes in the summer.
It was to be our third and
last job of the year. Late
August. Audrie was low on
cash. She could spend it as fast
as we could earn it. Teachers
are underpaid as it is, and Audrie
had expensive tastes.
We scoped out the bank,
made our arrangements, and got
to work ... "
"Thank you, Mr. Smith."
"Call me John."
"Thank you, John. This
should make a most intriguing
story. My producer will be
happy."
"Remember, 1 want to see it
in print before you run it. 1 still
have final say on what gets in,
don't I?"
"Of course, John. I'll have a
courier deliver a copy of the ini­tial
screenplay by the end of the
week."
"1 don't like all that 'Enter
Stage Left,' stuff; any other
ideas?"
"That shouldn't be a prob­lem.
1 always write the rough
draft in prose."
"You mean, like a book."
"Yes, similar."
"All right, I'll be waiting."
"I know. Farewell, John."
"How'd it go, Mr. Jones?
Any problems? So, what was
your impression of the infamous
John Smith?"
"Mr. O'Reiley, what is your
impression of Mr. Smith?"
"Haven't got one."
"You mean to say that in the
twenty years that Smith has been
on Death Row, you have not spo­ken
to him?"
"No. He doesn't say any­thing,
just sits with his eyes
closed."
"Intriguing. I'll be sending a
courier over with a package
someti me towards the end of the
week. It will be addressed to
Mr. Smith. Please see that he
gets it."
"Sure, whatever you say, Mr.
Jones. If you don't mind my
asking, what's gonna be in it?"
"That sir, remains to be
seen."
The courier's foot steps
echoed hollowly down the
cement hallway.
"This package is to be deliv­ered
to John Smith."
"I'll take that, pal."
"No offense, man, but I have
very specific instructions to hand
deliver this to Mr. Smith
myself."
"Not possible. That would
require special permission from
the warden himself." RING
RING RING
"Thomas here. Oh! Yes Sir'
Of course, Sir, I didn't know.
Right away, Sir. Thank you,
Sir ... "
"Let me guess, that was the
warden."
"Right this way."
"Mr. Smith? I've got a pack­age
from Mr. Jones for you. Ok,
I'll just leave it here on the cot
for you. Good day."
John Smith waited a long
time, then slowly opened his
eyes. In one fluid motion he was
standing, then walking.
John removed his knife from
the small crevice behind the uri­nal.
A flick of the wrist and the
manila envelope opened. He
removed the manuscript. It was
neatly paper-clipped together.
The cover sheet read:
Two and a Half Minutes
The Smiths: America's Most
Wanted
by: Edwin Jones
John lay on his back, not
dreaming. The sheets lay pooled
about his mid-section. He awoke
all at once; one minute he was
sound asleep, the next he was
completely awake. There were
Traveler
no gray areas in John's life; it
was either all off or all on.
He stretched and let loose
the habitual morning yawn.
Every nerve ending tingled with
excitement. An intoxicating
mixture of anticipation and
adrenaline coursed through his
veins. John robbed banks for
one reason and one reason only;
he liked the way it made him
feel. The money? Icing on the
cake as far as he was concerned.
He lived for the thrill, simple,
direct, and to the point. That
was John.
Audrie walked by; men
stared. Men attempted to engage
her in conversation: they stam­mered
and stuttered, eventually
excusing themselves. Men
noticed Audrie's physique imme­diately,
but it was her eyes that
they remembered. It wasn't the
color that distinguished them;
there were plenty of pretty, blue­eyed,
girls. It was what you saw
when you looked into those eyes
that you never forgot. They held
the look of both predator and
prey.
Audrie robbed banks. She
never really thought about why
she did it; John robbed banks, so
Audrie robbed banks. Without
John, there was nothing.
She had awakened empty, as
she had for as long as she could
remember. She began the rou­tine.
There was comfort in rou­tine,
but there was also a risk;
comfort made people careless.
Audrie could not afford careless­ness.
She ran the cleaning rod
through the barrel of the 9mm.
It had been acquired earlier that
morning. She always went over
the guns and personalized them.
Lube the slide, smooth out the
trigger pull, and blacken the
sights. There were practical rea­sons
for this; but for her, it was
21
Apple Guy, Karl T. Yu, Honorable Mention, Computer Art
22
a ritual, one of the few routines
she could afford. This weapon
would carry her through a short
but crucial period of her life; she
intended to insure that it func­tioned
flawlessly. She gave the
small Browning a last look and
set to work wrapping rubber
bands around the grip of the pis­tol.
No finger-prints, and the
gun wouldn't slip from her hand
at a crucial moment.
Sean McKoon sat at the
counter, a balding, overweight
man. Not only was he an obvi­ous
connoisseur of pastry, but
also a semi-permanent fixture at
the donut shop. He watched
through bl urry eyes as the apple
fritter went into the coffee.
Nothin' like donuts and coffee.
I'll bet my badge that this city
wouldn't have half the crime it
does if everyone had coffee and
donuts at 3 o'clock in the after­noon
like I do. With that
thought, he delicately devoured
the last morsel of the fritter.
Over the teeth past the guns;
look out stomach: here it comes.
All gone. Too bad. What the
heck, today's payday, nothin'
wrong with a man havin' two
donuts on payday is there? Nah.
The two met for lunch in the
Italian sector. John was wearing
an expensive suit: black, double
breasted, pin-stripe. Audrie was
wearing a simple, red, spaghetti
strap dress, that flattered her fig­ure.
They ate little, and spoke in
quiet tones.
"Some wine for your lady
friend?" inquired the impeccable
waiter.
"No, thank-you."
"Very well, Sir." With that
the waiter left the couple to
themsel ves.
"It still surprises me when
people assume we're a couple."
"A couple of what?"
"You know what I mean."
"Well, it's understandable;
besides, it doesn't hurt any­thing."
"Being romantically linked
to you isn't all that great."
"Why, thank-you, ma'm;
you're not too shabby yourself."
Incest is best; put your sister to
the test.
This was a long-standing
joke between the two. He tried
to contain his laughter, failed,
and spilled water on his shirt.
She automatically reached out
with a napkin and dried it.
They both laughed. How
like a married couple they were.
More than blood tied the two;
they were best friends. They'd
been through four banks
together, and with each one
they'd grown closer.
"Shall we adjourn?"
"Yes, I do believe we're
finished here."
"Does everything feel right?"
"Sure. Why do you ask?"
"Can't say, just nerves I
guess."
"Everything has been
arranged?"
"Isn't it always?"
"Yes. But you know I'll
Traveler
ask anyway."
"See you at 4 o'clock?"
"You know I can't pass up a
good bank."
"Au revoir. .. "
"Mind the way you go."
Officer McKoon pulled
into his reserved parking spot at
Precinct Headquarters. He
loathed his situation, but
accepted the desk job that the
fates had dealt him. Once I was
a real cop. Once I had a partner.
He walked past the closed
doors to his desk. The real meat
and potatoes were beh ind those
doors; he had been there once.
All he got out here was the
scraps. Today's morsel involved
a lead in the pursuit of two
wanted felons, bank robbers. It
was never enough to fill you up,
just enough to keep you hoping
for more.
Better write a note to myself.
Can't forget to deposit my check
tonight.
The two met in front of the
bank at exactly 3:45 p.m.
"You're early," they both said,
smiling, as they approached from
opposite sides of town. This was
continued on page 37
First Place - Drama
New Horizons
Ken Schwartz
Characters:
Maria Ontiveros
Jimmy
Jake Darling
Setting:
The office of Maria Ontiveros,
Reintegration Officer for New
Horizons Cryogenics Lab. This
moderately-sized room is fur­nished
and arranged in a manner
typical of that opted for by mid­level
executives. It is rather
nondescript except for the walls,
which are virtually plastered
with various notices, rules, regu­lations,
and policies. A door­way,
which doubles as entrance
and exit, is at stage left.
(MARIA, an attractive, profes­sionally-
dressed thirty-something
woman hurriedly enters the
office, closely followed by
JIMMY, a boyish-looking young
man dressed in simple work
pants, sneakers, and dark work
shirt. JIMMY is carrying a clip­board
and manila folder.)
JIMMY: What, oh, no, no. His
name is Darling. Jake
Darling.
MARIA: (returning to frantical­ly
searching through her
desk) Oh, I see. Why, I
haven't even had a chance to
look through Mr. Darling's
file. Have you seen his file,
Jimmy?
JIMMY: I had it awhile ago. It
must be around here some­where.
(JIMMY starts look­ing
for the file in ridiculous
and unlikely places... under
the wastebasket, in the light
fixture, behind the clock,
etc.)
MARIA: Jimmy?
JIMMY: (returning the tele­phone
receiver to its cradle
after looking there) Yes,
Ms. Ontiveros?
MARIA: What's that in your
hand?
JIMMY: (continuing his search)
Oh, this is the file for Mr.
Darling.
MARIA: Jimmy?
JIMMY: (still searching) Yes,
Ms. Ontiveros?
MARIA: May I have it, please?
JIMMY: Sure, Ms. Ontiveros.
(JIMMY hands her the clipboard
and manila folder before resum­ing
his search... under the rug,
beside the wastebasket, in his
pockets, etc.)
(Maria frantically scans through
the file as JIMMY gets on his
hands and knees, still searching
for that elusive file folder. He
crawls under her desk. After a
few moments, MARIA lets out a
shrill scream. JIMMY's head
pops out on her side of the desk,
approximately waist level.)
MARIA: What exactly are you
doing, Jimmy?
JIMMY: (confused, as usual)
I'm looking for Mr.
Darling's file, Ms. Ontiveros.
MARIA: (looking into JIMMY's
eyes, which are just inches
from her waist) Jimmy?
JIMMY: Yes, Ms. Ontiveros?
MARIA: I'm pretty sure it's not
there. (Standing up and tak­ing
a step back) As a matter
of fact, Jimmy, you already
gave that file to me. I was
just reading it before you
startled me.
JIMMY: (as he's helped to his
feet by MARIA) I'm sorry,
Ms. Ontiveros, I get con­fused
sometimes.
MARIA: (understandingly) I
know you do, Jimmy. That's
Traveler
okay, you do the best that
you can.
JIMMY: Thank you, Ms.
Ontiveros.
MARIA: You're welcome,
Jimmy. Now... would you
show Mr. Darling in, please.
I'm sure he's very excited
and anxious to start his new
life.
JIMMY: Right away, Ms.
Ontiveros. (Jimmy exits
stage-left.)
(MARIA takes a deep breath and
tries to compose herself. She is
again scanning through the file
when JIMMY reenters the room,
this time accompanied by JAKE,
a pudgy, middle-aged man gar­ishly
appareled in flashy Western
attire and a cowboy hat.)
JIMMY: (to JAKE) Well, yes,
Mr. Darling, I did travel to
school on a short bus. How
did you know that?
JAKE: Just playin' a hunch, my
boy. Just playin' a hunch.
(MARIA rises and shakes hands
with JAKE)
MARIA: Mr. Darling, let me be
the first to welcome you-
JIMMY: Actually, I already
welcomed him.
MARIA: Okay, then let me be
the second to welcome you-
JIMMY: Well, Joe down at
Sanitation welcomed him,
too.
MARIA: (slightly annoyed)
Okay, okay. Mr. Darling,
welcome! My name is Maria
Ontiveros, and I am a
Reintegration Officer here at
New Horizons Cryogenics
Lab. It's my job to bring
you up to date on what's
happened in the world since
you started your deep sleep,
23
24
and to help make your transi­tion
back into society as
smooth and pleasant as pos­sible.
Our comprehensive re­education
and after-care pro­gram
should prove to be a
valuable resource as you
resume the life you led
before opting to be cryologi­cally
preserved until such
time as a cure for your dis­ease
had been discovered.
Here at New Horizons, our
recipe for success goes
beyond our state-of-the-art
cryobiological facilities, and
beyond safe, comfortable liq­uid
nitrogen chambers lov­ingly
monitored by a quali­fied,
caring staff of highly­trained
community college
graduates. Here at New
Horizons, we try to put the
humanity back in science.
We're a company with a
heart, Mr. Darling, to operate
a cryogenics business any
other way would be
"absolute zero"!
JAKE: Yep, and you're the
cheapest, too. No offense
intended there, senorita, but
that whole spiel came off a
little corny.
MARIA: Corny ...hmm, I just
love late 20th century collo­quialisms.
Thank you for the
compliment. So, Mr. Darling
I trust the thawing-out
process wen t well?
JAKE: Well, I reckon it did.
But when I came to, it was
colder than a witch's-
MARIA: Yes, yes. I'm sure it
was. You'd be surprised
how frequently that observa­tion
is made by clients who
have just spent years frozen
in a cryogenics chamber.
JIMMY: (quickly and loudly
blurting it out) One time I
saw a chicken with three
legs! 1 tried to fed him some
tapioca, but he just flew
away.
Two Worlds Collide. Steve Anderson
Honorable Mention - Illustration
JAKE: (to JIMMY) You had me
for a minute, but then you
lost me. Son, I hate to tell
you this, but chickens can't
fly.
MARIA: Oh, you'd be surprised
at the wonderful things that
can be accomplished through
genetic engineering, 1\1r.
Darling. Jimmy, I'm all out
of paper clips, could you go
to the storage room and get
me another box?
JIMMY: There are a whole
bunch right there in your
paper clip dispenser, Ms.
Ontiveros. You probably
didn't think to look there,
though.
Traveler
MARIA: Oh, did I say paper
clips? I meant rubber bands.
Would you please get me a
box of rubber bands, Jimmy?
JIMMY: Sure thing, Ms.
Ontiveros!
(He clumsily runs out of the
office at a full sprint, obviously
overestimating the urgency of
MARIA'S need for rubber
bands.)
MARIA: Take your time, Jimmy
Please don't run in the halls!
JAKE: Energetic young lad,
but. .. he's not quite firing on
all eight cylinders, is he?
MARIA: Excuse me?
JAKE: The lights are on, but
nobody's home. The eleva­tor
doesn't quite go all the
way to the top floor. He's a
few bricks shy of a load.
Hell. he's a few loads short
ofabrick!
MARIA: If you're trying to
make some kind of insinua­tion
about the level of
Jimmy's intelligence, you
couldn't be more--, I mean,
he's really a very ... okay,
he's a little slow, but he's a
very nice man, and I'm
happy to have him as my
assistant.
JAKE: A little slow? Honey, if
that boy ever got a clue, he'd
probably sit on the floor and
play with it!
MARIA: That is an insensitive,
intolerant, and uncompas­sionate
thing to say! If
Jimmy possesses some, er,
shall we say mental deficien­cies,
that is nothing to be
made light of. We live in a
kinder, gentler society now.
Such intolerance and conde­scending
attitudes will win
you nothing but disdain.
And furthermore, don't call
me honey, Darling!
JAKE: Don't call me honey,
huh? I assume sweetie-pie
would be out of the question
then?
MARIA: Your assumption is
correct, Darling, uh, I mean,
Mr. Darling. You may
address me as Ms. Ontiveros.
JAKE: Mzzzzz Ontiveros.
Okay, I catch your drift.
MARIA: (calmly) Look, we got
off to a bad start here. I
realize that in the time you
come from, your statement
could be construed as a
harmless attempt at levity or
a careless remark. I apolo­gize
for my tirade, but I real­ly
felt the need to defend
Munchies, Edward O. Todd
Third Place - Fine Art
Jimmy. What he may lack in
intelligence, he more than
makes up for in sweetness.
JAKE: Indeed, I didn't mean to
put the boy down.
Sometimes ole Jake just
needs to think before talking.
['d be talkin' a lot more
sense if my foot wasn't so
firmly entrenched in my
mouth so much of the time.
I do apologize, ma'am.
MARIA: Apology accepted, Mr.
Darling. Now, back to the
matter at hand. Medical sci­ence
has made tremendous
advances in recent years, and
Traveler
obviously you would not
have been flagged for reinte­gration
if science had not
found a cure for your dis­ease.
(She scans through his
file.) Let's see. what is your
malady') Cancer, heart dis­ease,
AIDS? Oh here it is,
you are suffering
from ... ba Id ness?
JAKE: (sheepishly) Yeah, bald­ness.
Have they found a cure
for that?
MARIA: Let me get this
straight. You left behind
continued on page 38 25
26
Second Place - Poetry
Gamophobia (the fear of marriage)
Christine Flower
When I was three, I wore
the red plastic sunglasses,
with the figures on the sides.
I walked up and down the airport with
the grin ofJesus on my face, and the
red plastic sunglasses on my eyes.
"See my red sunglasses! See my red sunglasses!"
was traipsing through my mind.
Your little girl was the center of attention.
When I was eight, I went
on field trips with the kids in my class.
I brought you, Dad.
We went to ASU's Museum of Science,
and we got stuck in the elevator.
I became scared;
tears fell down my face.
With stern words you grunted,
"Quit your crying. "
You didn't know
that your little girl needed to cry.
Now, I'm eighteen; I have
a bedroom at home,
vacant and quiet; it waits for me.
On the telephone we talk:
"Heather's getting married!?
I can '( believe it! Wow."
And with the subtlety of a Father,
you frigh~lully say,
"Now you enjoy your freedom.
Don'l be anxious 10 get married. "
Your Ii!tIe girl tries on
her mOlher's while high-heeled shoes;
Ihey fil.
Havasupai Falls, Steve Anderson, Second Place - Computer Art
Traveler
P~OHIBIOO
, [STACIDNAU£
27
------
Viejos Amigos, James R. Haas, Third Place - Photograph
Honorable Mention - Poetry
A Burning Season
Joshua Ivanov
Today came like a package from Tangier
Soiled, blackened by the ashes of tribal sacrifice
yesterday dictates today alld so forth,
Everyday is a new inferno
Born from yesterday's fiery womb,
I can see the trail ill my sleep
The fire whispering and then with a whimper
It pisses itselfand dies in its own deluge
Life is not a candle
A candle is for reading by
In desperate places, where dirty children cringe
And sell themselves for food.
You burn the candle and read ofdistant lands.
Somewhere between the lines where your body isn't worth a crown
Or a franc, or a peso
They dream ofAmerica by candlelight
Traveler
Bodies are paid for in dollars there, but they never write about that
No, life is not a candle
Man is not as noble alld unique as he would like to think
The smell ofancient perfume and rich powder,
I can't help thinking that diseases are fed by the ripest pigs.
No, life is not a candle
The living are an uncontrollable blaze whose light paves the way
For future children to sell themselves by.
And when the light doth tire?
Who will cry in the dark?
Not the children, who by candle and sweaty maUress
Witness the fire's last light
And sigh with relief,
Alone in the dark.
Third Place - Poetry
Monument of the Aftermath
Gregory Allan Bower
The Alchemist's Dream, Nina M. Rogers, Photograph
Traveler
Upon the wastelands
Which were once beautiful and green
Stand alien monoliths that
Remain as reminders of that
Apocalyptic day of the war
Which knows no specific end.
Crumpled, holed and battered are the hulks
Ofthese great warships which
Remain driven like stakes
Into the heart of the earth
When they fell from the sky.
Everywhere can these ships be found
That testify the horror of their own purpose
As they rise up like towers
From the barren ground.
At the base of one can be found
The annored, skeletal remains ofa soldier
Sitting cross legged as if
Lost in tranquil meditation,
And in this warrior's hand
Lies a doll that sang about love­The
only love he ever knew.
And now the wind blows sand
Over his remains as his burial,
And the ship stands
As his grave marker,
And the doll sings his epitaph.
Laundering Love
and Money
Christine Flower
What if I loved you
and hid it in my pocket
like a secret piece of gum?
What if it stayed there,
forgotten,
and with a dollar bill for a friend,
the two intermingled in the laundry?
Faded money and love everywhere,
who would clean it up?
Would I toss them out
like an old pair ofjeans?
Would I let them sit there
like a hippie awaiting world peace?
Would I still love you?
Or would I just be
poor and broken?
Odd Couple, Bonnie Andrew, First Place - Computer Art
Traveler
29
30
What I Found in the Arizona Desert, Ian Grob, Honorable Mention - Photograph
An Arid Introduction
Christine Flower
I am a sun-cracked
desert floor.
The temperature is 1180
-no humidity.
In the center ofmy soul,
one Tree stands,
my only shade.
I write in the dryness;
I eat the dirt.
Unsatisfied, I write.
My skin begins to crack.
My heart has scaled
like a dragon;
I am empty.
There is nothing left,
except one Tree.
I am a girl walking;
sweat is dripping from my brow.
It is the only moisture left in me.
I am a drought;
I am a barren land,
WAITING...
In silence and seclusion,
I long for Rain.
My heart has dulled;
I do not feel the pang,
the sting of death seeking
to overshadow me.
Still I write,
From what resource, I know not.
I seek inspiration, something.
One small cloud drifts
in the sky overhead;
I find rest under the Tree.
A few drops of rain
drop patiently from the cloud.
I stand out from the Tree;
I open my parched mouth
towards the sky
I drink those few drops,
and I write...
Traveler
Pueri Urbs Deus
Joshua Ivanov
Can you hear their shouts from so high up?
How short the times offoolish pranks
Each day, their legs grow another inch
bringing them an inch closer to him
So many lessons to be learned
So many delectable fears to build
Life will make a cringing terrified beast of you yet, my children
What fools we were, we watched them sail away and we knew,
We knew that Summer brings bodies
How many months did the waves greet their small eyes
The disease infested floorboards, under their tender feet
How they must have wept, but still they had faith
Finally, the hot desert sand
Traveling on currents of blistering air, ended their journey
Oh, can you imagine, the doorstep, at the very doorstep
Then, without warning the heathens raced down
Falling upon their small forms
The hacking and chopping, we saw to it in Summer
Our children have been devoured by God almighty, amen
The few remaining children might have still had faith
Drenched in blood, whimpering in shackles, enslaved in a foreign land
Was their faith intact after those burning nights of blood and lust
They do things to boys and girls there, or so I hear
And in our folly we sent them in Summer
31
Frame Eight, Ian Grab
Photograph
Second Place - Fiction
The Prison Lake
Shannen B. Walgraeve
32
For all of my young life I
had heard the stories of our exis­tence.
They had been passed
down, generation to generation.
When I was a cub, I would pester
my mother and grandfather
unmercifully for stories of our
past. They would accommodate
my childishness by weaving
great poetic epics concerning our
being. I never tired of hearing
these great tales.
To hear my grandfather tell
these stories was like living
them. Our ancestors lived won­derful
lives of freedom. They
had, at their disposal, whole
oceans in which to build commu­nities
and raise their young. It
must have been wonderful, not
having to hide from humans.
When it was we were sepa-rated
from our people is not
clearly known. That time has
been lost forever within the
minds of the elders. Even they,
with their vast memories, are
unsure of when it happened.
Eons ago, it seems. Even my
grandfather, who has lived
through the rise of mankind, has
never lived in the depths of free­dom.
Our ocean. How I long to
feel the emptiness and vastness
of that world.
My people, it seems, have
been locked in this lake, this
prison forever. My people may
be the last of our kind for we are
unable to make contact outside
of our world. My grandfather
claims that when he was young,
he would feel the stirrings of
minds, the minds of our people,
but centuries have passed since
any contact has been made.
I wonder if this was inten­tional.
Have the others of our
race given us up for lost? Or do
they no longer exist? I wonder if
they were unable to survive the
technology of humans.
Humans. They are a pesti­lence
who breed rapidly, without
realizing the consequences. My
grandfather can remember a time
when these creatures were con­fined
to their dry land, when the
water was still our domain. As
the years progressed, they slowly
invaded our world, first in their
fragile reed boats. Then in their
sturdier and more powerful
boats. They became a threat to
our people.
Up until a few years ago, my
people, confined to this lake, had
few fears. Slowly, humans have
tried to learn and discover more
of our existence. They have
brought fleets of ships, all
equipped with something called
radar. My people must hide in
our caves and lie motionless on
the floor of the lake as the boats
pass overhead.
It's hard for me to lie still.
These humans intrigue me. I
suppose it is my youth which
compels me to investigate. My
curiosity drives my mother and
grandfather to distraction. But I
can't help myself. It is fun to
play games with these humans.
I try not to do it often.
Ascend to the surface, but the
exhilaration' To see them
scrambling about the shore.
record ing instruments pressed to
their pale faces. I don't give
them enough time to record me.
That is part of the game. My
mother has repri manded me
countless times for my careless­ness.
She doesn't understand the
Undersea Garden, Chenette Wangen, Photograph
Traveler
excitement of the game. The
elders have labeled me a trouble
maker. They believe I will lead
the humans to discover our peo­ple.
Perhaps. But I think not. I
have been playing my game for
centuries, and the humans are
still unsure of what their eyes
claim to see.
That is part of the beauty of
our lake. The surface and the
weather can trick the eye. It
makes my game all the safer.
I was debating showing
myself today, when my grandfa­ther
approached me, wanting to
talk. 1 could feel his vast body
gliding towards me from the
gloom.
"Hello, Grandfather," 1 said,
catching him unawares.
"Good day, child," he
replied, "Contemplating mis­chief
again?"
"Why no, Grandfather. Why
would you think such a thing?"
He chuckled. "Oh, I know
you too well, my child. You
were born for mischief."
"Perhaps, Grandfather.
Perhaps." I rolled lazily in the
dark waters, letting the currents
roll over my body.
"You playa dangerous game,
my child." He watched me roll.
I became still. "Grandfather,
why must our people always
hide?" I asked.
"Because that is the way it
is. That is the way it has always
been." He continued to float
motionless before me.
"That is not the way it has
always been! You yourself have
told me of the life our people
had before." I swished my tail
in agitation. "Our people were
free, once."
"True, true. But that time
has been lost forever, child. I
myself have never experienced a
life beyond our lake." He
caressed my back with his neck,
trying to calm me. "We must
accept our lives. We must con­tinue
to survive."
"But, Grandfather. Is that
living? Hiding from these
humans?" I backed away from
him, my frustration growing.
"Calm yourself, my child.
You waste your energy on this
topic."
"It is not a waste' Am I
wrong for wanting to capture
some of our past?"
"It is your youth,
Granddaughter. In time you will
learn to accept." He reached
towards me lovingly.
"If you had wanted me to
accept, Grandfather, you would
have refrained from telling me
the tales of our past." I twined
my neck around his, feeling sad
and melancholy.
"Oh, my poor child. Does it
bother you so? I tell my tales so
the memories will not be lost.
So my father told me, and his
father, and so on. The history of
our people must be passed on.
Without a past, we have no
future." He caressed me once
again and moved back, watching
and waiting for my response.
"I understand the need,
Grandfather. But please, don't
expect me to accept our fate so
blindly."
"It is not blindness child, it
is survival. I was like you once,
child. I yearned to return to our
ocean, to our people. I could
feel them calling, their minds."
He moved his fins restlessly in
the water.
"When did you stop hearing
them?" I asked.
"I was still a cub, younger
than you are now. When I lost
contact, it was as if a part of me
died. For centuries I probed
with my mind, searching for our
people. I never found them."
Grandfather seemed lost in
his thoughts.
"Grandfather," I questioned,
"What would you do if you heard
them again?"
"I don't know, child. I don't
know."
I watched his massive body
drifting slowly in the currents.
"I'm going to find them,
Grandfather." I jutted my neck
Traveler
out, determinedly. "I'm going to
fi nd a path to our ocean."
Grandfather shook his head.
Schools of fish darted away,
frightened by his movements.
"I will, Grandfather."
"The determination of the
young never ceases to amaze me.
Go child, find your dreams." He
dismissed me and swam slowly
away.
I watched his retreating form
grow darker as he moved farther
into the muddied waters.
"Oh, Grandfather" I said to
myself, "You had a dream once
too."
I swam lazily, wondering to
myself about the minds of the
old. When did we cease to be
young and become old? When
we lost dreams or hope.
I decided to play my game,
despite Mother's and
Grandfather's objections. So I
prepared myself to ascend.
The surface of the lake
loomed before me, growing
brighter and clearer as I got clos­er.
I waited just below the sur­face,
trying to determine the
weather above. It was hard to
tell, but that was part of the
game. I decided to chance it.
First, I poked my nose out of
the water, then my eyes. I
scanned the shores, searching for
some human figures. There were
two, fishing off the far shore. I
calculated that I was far enough
away, just to give them a quick
look.
I raise my long neck, and
water cascaded down. The hump
of my gray back broke the sur­face.
The humans saw me!
good. I glided gracefully over
the water for a few moments,
enjoying the feel of the air on
my skin. I descended. Slipping
beneath the cover of the ripples
that marred the surface of the
lake.
I lost myself then, giggling
and laughing. Watching the
humans scramble about the shore
always cheered me. This game
of mine was fun!
33
34
"Daughter!"
"Oh, no," I thought to
myself, "Mother wants me."
"Coming, Mother," I
replied.
I swam slowly, dreading the
reprimand I was sure to receive
when I got there.
I paused at the entrance to
our underground cave, the place
our family called home. I braced
myself and entered.
"You were playing with the
humans again, weren't you?"
My mother was reclining on the
ledge before me.
"Yes, Mother," I replied,
knowing there was no reason to
deny it.
"1 have told you time and
Flower, Carolyn VanDriel, Computer Art
time again, how stupid and dan­gerous
that is! Why do you
insist on jeopardizing yourself
and our people in such a man­ner?"
She was really angry this
time.
''1' m al ways careful,
Mother." I positioned myself
before her, hoping to calm her.
"Careful? Showing yourself
to the humans for sport, is care­ful?"
She shifted the great bulk
of her body. "I, and the others,
have tolerated this for much too
long. You are no longer a cub!
It is time to act your age. There
wi II be no more tri ps to the sur­face.
Is that understood?"
"But, Mother!"
"No. That's final. I have
Traveler
said all I will say on the subject.
You have put us in enough jeop­ardy
as it is." She turned, fin­ished
with me.
I knew it was pointless to
argue, so I escaped the con fi nes
of our cave. Inwardly, 1 cried. I
had done nothing wrong! The
elders were just too set in their
ways to understand.
I swam quickly, trying to put
as much distance between myself
and my mother as 1 could. After
a while, the exertion tired me. I
stopped to get my bearings. I
had swum blindly, not paying
attention to the direction I was
going.
1 was surprised to fi nd
myself near the end of the lake,
the closed end, closest to the sea.
As a cub, I would come to this
place, searching through the
labyrinth of caves for an exit to
the sea. I had not been back in
many years.
1 decided that si nce there
was nothing really better to do, I
would explore as I had when I
was a cub. I entered the first
cave.
1 stopped and gazed around
me. The caves brought memo­ries
flooding back. Oh, I had
happy times here as a cub. I
never had lost hope in finding
that magical exit. I puzzled to
myself over why 1 had quit com­ing
here. My game with the
humans, 1 suppose.
Well, that game was over for
now, 1 mused. So I decided to
do a little exploring, for old
times sake.
As I swam through the many
caves, backtracking when 1
reached a dead end, I marveled
at their complexity. The caves
seemed to stretch on forever. I
wondered just how far beneath
the surface I was. Miles, it
seemed.
I had just about given up for
the day, when I sensed a change
in the water ahead of me. 1
swam swiftly, trying to find the
source.
1 came around the corner and
continued on page 36
Untitled, Shannon Reynolds, First Place - Photograph
Honorable Mention - Poetry
Thin Man
Donald Shuck
he was thin when he came in
the trials past had cost him dearly
a slack sheLL of the hale young man
but for the moment
he is transformed into that broad shouldered youth.
The music of his lost brother
and the bright lights reinflated him.
Like a childs punching clown
overfiLLed, bright and smiling
. nodding and bobbing side to side
distant from the blows that wiLL rain again
a wiLLing puppet he moves with the strings of the guitar
Eyes wide with rediscovered wonder
he puLLs against the strings
but just a little
Traveler
35
The Angel of the Santa Lucias
continued from page 3
36
started down the steep path to
the small settlement of San
Simeon, some thirty miles of
switch-backed trail. Surely
somebody down the hill would
know how to help Barney.
Down, down through the thickets
of juniper, oak and berry they
pushed; they crossed over the
creeks, which in high summer
had dwindled to tiny trickles of
mossy, slow-moving water.
All day and most of the
moon-lit night, the boys trudged
down the mountain. Only after
the moon had set did Edward,
Frank and George set their bur­den
down and fall down to an
exhausted sleep. Early the next
day, the weary brothers lifted
their burden once again and
pressed on down the trai I to the
coast.
Later that day, after the
morning fog that covered the
coastal hills had burned off, the
weary boys in their ragged
clothes saw an incredible sight­a
golden-haired angel, standing
in the path. She waved, ges­tured
to them, and started speak­ing
in a strange language. The
boys, stunned by the angel's
appearance, started call ing fran­tically
to the angel, "Please,
please-heal our brother!
Angel, angel, please help us!"
They even bowed to the angel,
hoping she would see their
plight and call on the power of
God to heal Barney's horrific
wound.
But of course, the angel was
not really an angel. She was a
Swedish nurse who was accom­panying
a group of wealthy
hunters from San Francisco.
The strange language she was
speaking in her haste to assist
the young brothers was English;
the young Braciscos only spoke
Spanish, the language of the
Franciscans.
The language barrier was
soon overcome; Barney received
the medical help he needed, and
in time recovered completely
from his wound. The hunters
were confronted with the dilem­ma
of what to do with the other
three boys; while George, who
was now sixteen, could be let out
into society, the other two were
considerably younger. Finally,
the constable from nearby San
Simeon was called in. He took
the youngest two to the orphan­age
seventy miles north of the
boys' mountain home.
There, young Edward, now
fourteen, was taught to read,
write and do arithmetic after a
fashion. He and his brother
Frank were adopted by a
Watsonville apple farmer by the
name of Ramie, who later
became a judge in Salinas. They
were worked long and hard for
Judge Ramie, who saw in his
adopted sons a good source of
cheap labor.
At the age of seventeen,
Edward joined the Army and
served with honor in World War
1. He got a job with the county
doing the only thing he was ever
really trained to do, unskilled
labor; he drove a road truck for
forty years. Edward married a
lady with two children, and
raised them along with the
daughter born of the marriage.
He never forgot his backwoods
skills; he always got the biggest
bucks at hunting season. Often,
my mother would accompany
Papa into his beloved Santa
Lucias, where he taught her
many of the skills he had
learned; he showed her the ruins
of the family homestead.
I wish I could say that the
boys grew up and lived happily
every after, but that wasn't in
the cards for the four brothers.
Frank and George didn't survive
in the big world beyond the
Traveler
Santa Lucias very long. Frank
fell off a cliff the county was
excavating for a new road east of
King City; he didn't quite make
it to thirty. George tried to out­run
a train across the track at the
Oasis Road crossing, and lost; he
was twenty-eight. Barney,
although living longer than any
of the other brothers, was acci­dentally
electrocuted at his ranch
in Carmel. And Edward, my
Papa, was killed in a head-on
collision on a foggy Salinas
Valley morning. He was sixty­eight.
But rest assured, the legacy
of the four brothers who tri­umphed
over the odds to survive
in the untamed Santa Lucias
lives in the memories of those
who knew them. The skills they
used in survival are being passed
on to the next generation of
Braciscos. On occasion, the
entire family gathers to hear
once again the tale of the boys
left alone in the mountains, and
the Angel who rescued them­the
Angel of the Santa Lucias!·:·
The Prison Lake
continued from page 34
almost collided with a towering
figure directly before me. I
reared back, frightened.
The figure turned.
"Grandfather?" 1 was star­tled
at his presence.
"Yes, child." He kept his
back turned towards me.
"What are you doing here,
Grandfather?" I asked.
"Waiting for you, child."
His response puzzled me.
"Waiting for me? How did
you know I would find this
place? 1 didn't even know where
1 was going."
"I knew you would find this
place eventually. I raised you a
curious cub, and you have not
disappointed me." He continued
looking forward, towards the
source of the strangeness.
"What is that I feel and
smell, Grandfather? It is like
nothing I have ever experienced
before."
He turned his head slightly,
looking at me through the corner
of his eye. "It is the sea." He
answered.
"The sea?" His answer sent
an electric current through my
body, straight to my very soul.
"Yes."
"Is this a way out?" My
voice trembled with excitement.
"It is." Grandfather did not
move.
"Oh, Grandfather, do you
know what this means?" I swam
forward so I could look at this
face. "Do you?"
"It means freedom. Freedom
for our people." He kept his
head down, refusing to look me
in the eyes.
"How long have you known?
How long, Grandfather?"
"Since before you were
born, ch iId." He stared past me,
looking into the future, or the
past.
"And you never told?" I
began weeping. "All these years
you've been telling me the tales,
getting my hopes up, and all
along, you knew?"
"The time was not right."
"But our people! How could
you keep this from them?" I
was angry at Grandfather. I fel t
deceived.
"Once, long ago, before I
lost contact with the others, I
might have dared. But now,
now I am old and set in my
ways." He then looked at me.
"Our people are safe here, child.
Out there, there is uncertainty
and danger. I did it for our peo­ple."
"It was wrong to decide for
the rest! No single person has
the right to decide the fate of
others' You were wrong to
assume, Grandfather." My nose
was inches from his.
He stared at me and slowly
lowered his head. "No, child. I
was scared."
I watched him then, an elder
who had lived longer than any­one
else I knew. I pitied him.
My Grandfather, the old being
who had lost his dreams. I
turned my back on him.
"I'm goi ng now,
Grandfather. I'm going to the
sea." I paused, waiting for his
response.
"I know, child. It is time.
Go, try to find our people. I will
be waiting for you when you
return." He rubbed his head
against my back.
"And what if I don't return?"
I asked.
"If no danger befalls you,
you will. Go now. I'll deal with
your mother." He released me
and moved back.
I swam forward, to the sea.
" essie?" Grandfather
called, "Be brave. Do what I
could not."
"I love you, Grandfather."
swam back and entwined my
neck with his, one last time.
"I love you too, Nessie." He
pushed me slowly away. "Go,
before I change myoid mind."
"Good-bye, Grandfather." I
turned once again towards my
fate.
I don't know how long I
swam before I reached the sea.
The sea! Oh, the vastness of it.
I probed with my mind, search­ing
for my kind. I found noth­109.
I looked back one last time.
Grandfather had followed me
to the exit. I could see his sil­houette
framed in the dark cave.
He nodded his great head, saying
good-bye, one last time.
I swam outward into the
open sea. I had longed for this
opportunity my whole life, and
now it had come. I would not
squander it by being scared and
melancholy. I would search until
I was sure of the truth. If our
people still existed, I would find
them.
Traveler
I took one last look at
Grandfather, and I knew I would
return some day triumphant, for
it was my destiny and I had to
play the game. The humans
would miss me.-:-
Bad Apple
continued from page 22
also a ritual.
"Do you ever wonder why
we do this?"
"Never thought much about
it. Hmm... pay's good, flexible
hours, challenging ... beats me,
why do we do this?"
"John, I'm being serious."
"My apologies, ma'm. The
way I see it, it's too much fun
not to. Remember our promise?
We said that no matter what
happened we wouldn't end up
like the rest of suburbia."
"So we rob banks?"
"Can you think of anything
else that breaks the suburban
mold more effectively?"
"Nothing comes to mind."
"You don't have a guilty
conscience. now do you? There
aren't, by any chance, visions of
three and half children, a dog,
and white picket-fences dancing
around in your head?"
"No. But I would feel better
if we'd been beaten as children,
or at least spoiled rotten; we
were abysmally average. That
was where society failed us.
There was nothing left to rebel
against, and everything we did
had already been done."
"Quick, somebody get me a
shovel."
"You never take me
seriously."
"And it's a good thing too.
C'mon, let's go rob a bank or
someth ing."
They didn't go over the plan.
There was no need. It was rou­tine
now; walk in quietly, stand
in separate lines, then he would
quietly step forward and ask the
clerk if he could make a with­drawal.
Audrie was there for
back-up. She was his insurance
37
38
policy against brave fools. She
would not even become involved
unless circumstances dictated.
"May I help you, Sir?"
"Yes, I would like to make a
withdrawal."
"How much would you care
to withdraw, sir?"
"All of it, of course." With
that, as was his practice, he drew
his .45 Colt, and reiterated the
request. Nobody moved. The
classic urban look of disbelief
was on everyone's face. This
isn't really happening.
It was too much. Too much
for an off-duty policeman named
Sean McKoon to handle. The
dam broke, and the memories
flooded in. Jack's dead. The
bastards killed my partner. We
were only doing our job, and
they killed him.
He drew down on John,
"Drop the gun and lie down, face
first, hands on your head." Just
like before, only now, we have
the guns; don't we Jack?
John turned towards the
intruder, lowering his gun. The
cop began pulling the trigger.
Got the drop on him that time.
John staggered under the impact
of the bullets. His disbelief was
mirrored in Audrie's eyes. She
was already on the policeman.
There was no hesitation; the fact
that John lay dying didn't change
things. They had come in
together, and they were leaving
together. She drew the
Browning from her handbag.
Two quick shots to the chest.
Sean didn't even see it coming.
He died a legend in his own
mind, a real cop once again.
"Ok. obody move!
Down get down on your faces.
Down DOWNDOW DOWN!
Right now' You too. fat boy'
Don't make me say it again.
That's it, now just stay where
you are and don't panic. Be cool
everyone. These things happen
every day."
Now she was at John's side,
pulling him up. He was bleeding
badly from the right side of his
chest. S he removed the red scarf
from her head and applied pres­sure
to the wound.
"You're gonna make it! You
hear me? Just keep breathing.
We been in worse before. You
don't die on me now, hear?"
John tried to speak. He
seemed to say, "I love you ... "
"Good, tell me again tomor­row
then." He looked into her
eyes and felt a little life ebb back
into his dying body.
They began to stagger
towards the door, John barely
conscious. The lady behind the
counter seemed to struggle with
herself, then a light came on
behind her eyes. She reached
over with her toe and hit the
alarm.
The sound of the alarm
seemed to bring everyone back.
Someone stood, bent over, and
picked up the slain policeman's
gun.
The slug tore through her
back, making her lurch forward
with the impact. He fired again.
This time her arm was hit.
Audrie turned, letting John slide
to the floor. Her eyes blazed ou t
at the assailant. He froze. The
look of prey was gone from her
eyes. She fired twice, and the
brave fool fell to the floor.
John's gun was getting very
heavy. Everything was heavy;
his legs, his arms, even his eye­lids.
Not much farther now.
Bonnie and Clyde ain't got noth­in'
on us. Hope the papers get it
straight for once. We're brother
and sister, not husband and wife.
He was nearly gone now. His
thoughts drifted back to that
afternoon. She'd always had bet­ter
instincts. I love you, sis ...
Audrie lifted John, and again
began the laborious escape. The
big glass doors slid shut behind
them. They had been in the bank
exactly two and a half minutes,
right on schedule. Funny, I did­n't
even hear the sirens ...
I can't do it without him.
Now I know why I always pitied
Dillinger; he had to die alone. I
Traveler
love you, John ...The lady in red
took her brother's hand and
ai med at the nearest cop...
John put the manuscript
down and dried his eyes. Stupid
Wench. You always did get all
the attention. I love you, Audrie.
It's done now.
"Hey ...Hey you, guard;
c'mere."
"Yeah, what d'you want?"
When the guard was within
reach, John grabbed his wrist and
spun him around, pressing the
knife to the man's neck. With
his other hand, John removed the
man's keys, let himself out, and
forced the guard into the cell.
John went directly to the guard
booth and removed the shotgun.
The prison's security cameras
witnessed the whole event.
Within seconds, security person­nel
were dispatched to handle the
threat. John waited. The guards
swarmed the cell block. John
calmly raised the shotgun to his
shoulder, and aimed at the near­est
cop...•:.
New Horizons
continued from page 25
your family, your friends,
your career, your life ...and
paid a great deal of money to
have yourself cryologically
preserved for years and
years, all with the hope that
when you were awakened
there would be a cure for
baldness?
JAKE: Yep, that pretty much
sums it up.
MARIA: I certainly don't mean
to be disrespectful. and I
have nothing but sympathy
for the plight of the follicly­challenged,
but the whole
idea just strikes me as a lit­tle
...
JAKE: Vain?
MARIA: I was going to say
eccentric, but the word vain
did come to mind.
JAKE: I may be guilty of vanity.
But in my line of work, con­fidence
is key. Image is key.
And if I'm not confident in
my image, I can't do my job.
And I can't be confident
about my image strutting
through life with a bald pate'
MARIA: And what is your line
of work, Mr. Darling?
JAKE: I'm glad you asked,
honey, er, Ms. Ontiveros.
Honest Jake Darling is my
name, and used cars are my
game. Come on down to my
lot, and I'll hook you up with
a sweetheart of a deal'
Credit problems are no prob­lem
at Honest Jake's! Your
job is your credit, and you
obviously have a good, stable
job. So tell me, what do you
drive, Ms. Ontiveros?
MARIA: Well, actually, I don't
dri ve. I take the tram.
JAKE: This is your lucky day
then! You need a set of
wheels, and I'm the man with
the plan. And my plan con­sists
of your driving out of
Honest Jake's in a shiny, red
convertible. Or would you
prefer blue?
MARIA: Actually, everyone
takes the tram, Mr. Darling.
Or the bus, or the subway, or
some form of mass transit.
Private ownership of vehicles
was banned by the Clean Air
Act almost thirty years ago.
JAKE: No more cars. I'm
stunned. For once in my life,
I'm at a loss for words.
(JIMMY comes running back into
the office with a box of rubber
bands.)
MARIA: I know it must be hard.
I'm here for you, Darling.
JIMMY: I'm sorry. I didn't
mean to interrupt, if you two
want to be alone ...
MARIA: You didn't interrupt
anything, Jimmy.
JIMMY: Oh, okay. Here's your
rubber bands. (He hands her
the box.)
MARIA: Thank you, Jimmy.
JAKE: This is all a little hard to
swallow. I never considered
that some environmental
whackos would take away the
right to drive. I don't sup­pose
people feel an over­whelming
compulsion to plop
down twelve thousand dollars
to purchase a vehicle ren­dered
useless, just to sit in
their driveway and look pret­ty
for ornamental purposes.
JIMMY: I like pretty things!
I'll take a couple.
JAKE: What?
JIMMY: I'll buy a couple cars
from you, Mr. Darling, if it
will make you feel better. It
would only be about an
hour's wage for me.
JAKE: You make $24,000 an
hour?
MARIA: Math is not a strength
of Jimmy's. Actually he
earns around twice that.
There has been a bit of infla­tion
since your time, Mr.
Darling. But here at New
Horizons, the company with
a heart, cost-of-living
increases have been suffi­cient
to keep in step with the
times. And as far as those
"environmental whackos"
that you referred to, I would
like to point out that smog is
a thing of the past, the air
and water have never been
cleaner, the tropical rain
forests are flourishing, and
all the holes in the ozone
layer have been neatly
patched-up and are no longer
a threat.
JAKE: Well, how about that.
You know, that just makes
me as happy as a pig in-­JIMMY:
(quickly and loudly
blurting it out) I once saw a
pig with five legs! I tried to
feed it some chocolate pud­ding,
but it bit me in the
Traveler
hand.
MARIA: That's nice, Jimmy.
Ummm... 1 expect to be using
a lot of rubber bands today,
Jimmy. Would you please go
to the storage room and bring
me another box?
JIMMY: I'd be happy to, Ms.
Ontiveros' (JIMMY runs out
of the 1'00111 at jilll-sprint.
once again ol'erestill1ating
the urgency of MARfA's
request. )
JAKE: It sounds like some
dandy things have happened
while I've been catching my
z's. Some real marvels.
Some A number I, top notch,
wonderful things. But it's
shot my livelihood all to
hell, Ms. Ontiveros.
MARIA: Jobs sometimes
become outdated, Mr.
Darling. I'm sure you can be
retrained.
JAKE: Sure, I can be retrained!
Ms. Ontiveros, I'm a natural
salesman. The world always
needs salesmen. I always
thought I was born to sell
used cars, but I have the gift,
and I guess I can just lend
my sales expertise to some
other product.
MARIA: There is not much of a
need for salespeople any­more,
Mr. Darling. Almost
all purchases are made by
computer. The information
superhighway has been a
mainstay of our economy for
a very long time. There
came a point, Mr. Darling,
when people tired of the
sneaky, underhanded, high­pressured
tactics used by
slimy, parasitic, money-grub­bing,
leech-like, uncouth
sales professionals and
decided to cut out the mid­dleman,
so to say. No
offense intended.
JAKE: (indignantly) No offense
intended? I am, indeed,
offended, honey. Honey,
honey, honey! How dare you
accuse the practitioners of
39
40
my noble craft to be, of all
things, uncouth!
MARIA: I'm sorry if I've upset
you, Mr. Darling. I wasn't
stating my personal opinion,
just reflecting the popular
perception that faci Iitated the
aforemen ti oned change.
JAKE: I didn't mean to fly off
the handle like that, but this
is just very, very difficult for
me. Plus, to top it off, I'm
having a nicotine fit. I don't
suppose you smoke?
MARIA: No, I don't, Mr.
Darling. Do you remember
the Clean Air Act I men­tioned
earlier?
JAKE: Smoking has been
banned, too.
MARIA: Correct.
JAKE: What has happened to
individual rights in your
kinder, gentler society?
MARIA: Because your right to
smoke interfered with my
right to breathe clean air, the
choice was only logical.
JAKE: Let's see, what else can
you take from me. Hunting?
MARIA: Guns have been out­lawed.
JAKE: Drinking?
MARIA: Alcohol has been
banned.
JAKE: Gambling?
MARIA: Gambling is perfectly
legal. As long as there is no
exchange of money.
JAKE: Monday Night Football?
MARIA: The NFL went out of
business shortly after anti��violence
legislation made it a
non-contact sport.
JAKE: Operas?
MARIA: Oh, I love operas!
Opera is flourishing, and I
think you'll be pleased with
the quality and availability
of cultural entertainment.
Were you serious?
JAKE: No, of course not. Real
men don't do opera.
(JIMMY reenters the room carry­ing
an enormous crate.)
JIMMY: I brought you a whole
case of rubber bands so that
they will last longer and not
run out, Ms. Ontiveros.
MARIA: Thank you, Jimmy.
JAKE: Well, what am I going to
do? It seems all my dirty,
little habits have become
dirty, little crimes.
MARIA: I don't have the solu­tion,
Mr. Darling, but I cer­tainly
admire the problem.
JAKE: Well, I'm a gambling
man, Ms. 0, and I want you
to stick me back in the deep
freeze for another 50 years
or so. I'm willing to bet that
with the passage of time,
people will have demanded
the simple pleasures back.
Your world is not for me.
MARIA: I was kind of expecting
that, Mr. Darling.
JAKE: You were?
JIMMY: (finally setting down
the burdensome, unwieldy
crate) Sure, Ms. Ontiveros.
(pausing) Which button am I
supposed to push to start it
again?
MARIA: Press the green button
that is labeled with the word
'on', Jimmy. The other but­ton,
the red one that is
labeled 'off', is to be used
only when we wish to deacti­vate
the cham ber.
JIMMY: Oh, I see. I knew they
must have been set up like
that for a reason. Now I
understand. Thanks!
(JIMMY starts to slowly saunter
towards the exit, but unable to
resist the urge, he tears off at
full speed.)
JAKE: one of this quite
worked out like I expected.
It all seemed like a good idea
at the ti me, bu t now I feel
like I've been ridden hard
and put away wet.
MARIA: I have no idea what
you just said, but I do know
Traveler
this. The world stands still
for no one, Mr. Darling, and
you weren't there to change
with it. You have altered
your destiny, isolated your
contemporaries, and struck
off on your own. All with
the hope, the burning desire,
the single-minded objective,
that the world you re-entered
would have successfully
eliminated the dreaded
scourge of baldness. Well,
your dream is reality. Rest
assured that you can face
your new horizons equipped
with a thick, rich, full-bodied
head of hai r!
JAKE: It seems a small consola­tion
at this point, but no use
crying over spilt milk. I've
gotta get my beauty sleep.
Let's head out, honey!
MARIA: After you, Mr.
Darling! You're a man out
of time.
(JAKE and MARIA exit stage
Ieft. )-:-
The Guardian, Chenette Wangen, Honorable Mention - Three Dimensional Art
CREDITS
Literary Judges
Freddie Anttila, Carmela Arnoldt,
Marla Dinchak, Mildred Fischer,
Pat Haas, Betsy Herlihy,
Marilyn Hoffs, Janet Klann,
Jim Reed, Marilyn Schiedat
Art Jurors
Ted Decker
RJ Merrill
Literary Staff
Derek Bechtel
Kelly Hall
Literary Editor
Christine Simmons
Literary Sponsors
Jan Boerner, Betty Hufford,
and Joy Wingersky
...._-­Design/
Production Staff Connie Greenwell
Edward O. Todd
Editorial Staff
Paul Dameron, Kristin Eakins
Connie Greenwell, AI Ruiz,
Maria Tain, Chenette Wangen
Cover Design
Dean Terasaki
Connie Greenwell
Photographer
Paul Dameron
Art Dept. Faculty Advisors
Meryl Poticha
Dean Terasaki
Art and Photography Director
Dean Terasaki
Printing
Bieri Printing