"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1998

              .._----.... -- .._- .-
Eric, Laura Shuey, Honorable Mention
r
~Traveler
Self-Disclosure # 1, Monica Furst, Front Cover
The Traveler is a student creative arts
magazine produced annually by the
English and Art Departments of
Glendale Community College.
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302
TRAVELER
Credits
Literary Sponsors
Jan Boerner
Betty Hufford
Joy Wingersky
Literary Stoff
Co-editors:
Gail Hicks, Theresa Franks
Readers:
Christopher Lowe, Tyler Patterson
Literary Judges
Carmela Arnoldt
Mildred Fischer
Patrick Haas
Marilyn Hoffs
Charlotte Howey
Pam Joraanstad
Marti Moraga
Jim Reed
Marty Reker
Marilyn Schiedat
Kirt Shineman
Charles Sohn
Data Entry
Dawn Meyer
Production Stoff
Greg Chambers
Dean Terasaki
Barrett Wentworth
Editorial Stoff
Greg Chambers
Connie Greenwell
Cover Design
Greg Chambers
Connie Greenwell
Art Director/Designer
Greg Chambers
Art Jurors
Connie Greenwell, R.J. Merrill
Photographer/Director
Dean Terasaki
Art Dept. Faculty Advisors
R.J, Merrill, Dean Terasaki
Printing
O'Day Printers
f
1
Table of Contents
33
Second Place
LITERARY CONTENTS
Drama
Mr. Taciturn Cuts a Distinguished Figure
Josh Ivanov
A Fine House, Richard S. Guthery
18
First Place
VISUAL CONTENTS
Ceramics/Three Dimensional Art
Hilda, Chenette Wangen
First Place
Computer Art
Self-Disclosure # 1, Monica Furst
First Place and Cover
32
Non-Fiction
The Headless Lady of Jolon, Debra Krol 4
First Place
Apocolypse, Randy Cajthaml
Second Place
The Unknown, Randy Cajthaml
Third Place
32
24
Third Place
Driving Mr. Hyde, Valerie Lancaster 7
Honorable Mention
Nemesis, Kathy M. Studer
A Writer with Nothing to Write
Shannon Mathis
3
Second Place
26
Drawing
Bodacious Bridgette, Bernadette Rabiej
First Place
Mystical Eyes, Randy Cajthaml
Second Place
Playtime, Sommer Prosser
Third Place
29
31
12
8
Eric, Laura Shuey Inside Front Cover
Honorable Mention
Mr. EH, Jim Kearns
Honorable Mention
Samantha, Melana Wallace 16
Second Place
Painting &Watercolor
Birds of a Different Color, Robert Bangert 9
First Place
8
Third Place
35
First Place
A Writer's Lament Upon Living, Josh Ivanov 31
Second Place
A Freeway Convertible Ride After
Watching Star Wars
Laurie Jean Hurley
Poetry
A Defense of Hypocrisy, Josh Ivanov
The Salamander, Laurie Jean Hurley 17
Honorable Mention
Without Warning, Linda Dodd 24
Honorable Mention
18
6
3
30
34
27
20
25
14
23
40
Ron, Laura Robins
Third Place
Mud, Diane Case
Honorable Mention
Grace, Robert Young
Bridge IV, Paul Dameron
Rachel, Barrett Wentworth
Tepees, Blue Mesa, Diane Case
Second Place
Untitled, Jim Kearns
Third Place
Untitled, Jim Kearns
Honorable Mention
Doctor de los ojos, Jim Haas
Honorable Mention
Self Portrait, Barrett Wentworth
Honorable Mention
Photography
Self Portrait, Jim Kearns
First Place
30
28
10
Third Place
Flowers, Marlene Martzke
Kellogg's Head, Josh Ivanov
9
Honorable Mention
The Unknown Soldier, L. Vincent Majestic 32
Honorable Mention
The Love of Wine, Shannon Mathis
missive to Mr. -0 upon the event
of his recent death
Christopher Harrel
Swallowed, Gail Hicks Inside Back Cover
Maricopa District Competition - First Place
Short Story
A Toccata in Dark Flowers, George Pieper 13
First Place
Aisle of the Damned, Valerie Olinger 36
Second Place
2
TRAVELER
When she was ten, she
sent twelve blue carnations
to her mother in the hospi­tal,
via her father. Blue
was her mother's fa vori te
color. She took care
choosing the crystal vase,
but it was not allowed on
the ward. No glass or
sharp objects were permit­ted.
Later, after her mother
had been discharged, the
gi 1'1 overheard her mother
telling a friend, "I hate
getting flowers. They just
die."
When she was sixteen,
she took her mother a box
of Russell Stover choco­lates.
She had labored over
the decision, looking for
something soft, with no
sharp edges. Her mother
thanked her, took one
piece, and passed the rest
arou nd to the other
patients in the day room.
"Did I tell you that I'm on
a diet?" her mother asked.
"No, Mom, I didn't
know."
When she was thirty,
she visited her mother but
brought nothing. "Did you
see the beautiful flowers
your sister sent me?" her
mother asked.
"But, 1 thought..." she
stopped. "It's not impor­tant,"
she said.
"What did you bring me
this time?" her mother
queried.
Feeling sharp and brit­tle,
she answered,
"Myself, Mom, 1 brought
myself." ¢
Second Place - Non-Fiction
Nemesis
Kathy M. Studer
Self Portrait. Barrett Wentworth. Honorable Mention
3
TRAVELER
First Place - Non-Fiction
The Headless Lady of Jolon
Debra Krol
4
Ghosts and disembodied spirits
have been entwined with the history
of the Santa Lucia Mountains since
the creation of Mother Earth. When I
was a girl, such stories and legends
were seared into my soul, providing
fodder for many a restless night.
Even after becoming a woman, I can­not
pretend to be unaffected by tales
of the supernatural. After all, what is
a ghost but a hapless individual who
has lost the path to the spirit world­what
Christians refer to as heaven, or
its opposite, hell?
Most of the spirits that inhabit the
region around Jolon and Mission San
Antonio de Padua are of white peo­ple.
Being more in tune with the spir­itual
forces that permeate our world,
Indians tend not to lose their bearings
after death. Thus, few Salinans are
hanging about the old homestead,
searching for the flower-lined way to
the next level of existence.
The most famous ghost roaming
the Santa Lucias is a tragic one.
A young family was riding in a
shiny wagon to their new home along
the Nacimiento River, which mean­ders
its way down the western flank
of the San Antonio Valley. The
Hallorans had just arrived via train
from Philadelphia and had no experi­ence
with the untamed, bridgeless
rivers of the West.
In spring, the Nacimiento becomes
treacherous with winter runoff. In
1898, the year of the tragedy, it was
higher and faster than usual after
heavy snowfall the previous winter.
When Michael, his wife, Alice, and
baby Clara stopped in the ranch town
of Jolon to buy supplies, the local
Indians and rancheros advised
against proceeding. "It's too danger-ous
to cross the Nacimiento now,"
said Celestino Garcia, a rancher who
also managed the nearby Dutton
Hotel. "You should stay here until the
spring thaw is over."
"How long will that be?" asked the
skeptical Halloran, always on the
lookout for shady dealers.
''I'd say a week, maybe ten days,"
Celestino replied. "The river is like a
mad animal-the undertow will suck
your wagon in the water like a sack
ofjrijoles. Maybe we'd find you a
couple of miles downstream-maybe
not. Look, senor, senora-I'll even
let you stay in my hotel free!"
Celestino was as tight-fisted as the
ruddy Irishman he faced, yet he knew
that Creator would not look favorably
upon him if he did not attempt to help
his new neighbors.
"Yeah-and what's to keep one of
you yokels from crossing and claim­ing
my land?" the obstinate Halloran
demanded.
"Senor, if we wanted your land,
we would have bought it," cried the
proud Celestino. "Go and claim your
land-if you can!" The red-headed
Halloran snapped his reins, and the
wagon turned northwest, toward
Ferguson's Ford.
"Dear, shouldn't we have listened
to the Indian?" asked Alice. "He has
lived here a long time." She hugged
little Clara to her breast.
"Naah, they're just a bunch of
ignorant Indians and Mexicans trying
to scare us off," the stubborn Michael
proclaimed. "They won't keep us
from our land! Don't you worry,
dear, we'll be under our own roof by
sunset!"
As the wagon reached the ford,
Halloran halted the team. The river
TRAVELER
was like all the Furies rolled together
into one raging, ravenous, roiling
mass. Muddy gray water rushed
along the bed, carrying branches,
rocks, and the occasional unlucky
steer along its path. The very water
reeked of death and rotting things.
Halloran hesitated-but just for a
moment: nothing was going to keep
the obstinate Irishman from his land!
He flicked the reins, urging the reluc­tant
horses forward into the flood.
The horses, being more sensible
than the ruddy white man who mas­tered
them, tried to turn away from
the ravening river. The now enraged
Halloran whipped them into a fren­zied
rush into the Nacimiento.
As the ferocious current bore down
on the laden wagon, Alice screamed
and crossed herself, drawing little
Clara even closer to her bosom. Try
as he may, the now frightened
Halloran could not keep the wagon
upright; it flipped over as it were but
an oak leaf tossed upon the surface of
the torrent. Over and over the wagon
turned, plunging its terrified occu­pants
into the foamy water.
As the wagon rolled in the torrent,
Alice became entangled in the reins;
her head was ripped from her body as
the horses fought to free themselves.
Her husband, the only survivor,
and the horrified rancheros buried
her. The priest and local Salinan
shaman both blessed the gravesite,
located on a hillside near the old
Meyer homestead.
Baby Clara was never found.
"You wait and see," the shaman
told Celestino and Librada Garcia the
next day. "A ghost will appear in the
valley. If a person is buried without
the whole body, he or she will search
for the missing parts. If the white
woman does not find her head along
the river, she will never be able to
enter the spirit world."
The shaman's words soon came to
pass. After the burial and Michael
Halloran's sad journey back to
Philadelphia, the local people of
Jolon saw the headless spirit of Alice
Halloran gliding along the bank of
the Nacimiento, searching for her
head. Other nights, she could be seen
floating around the vicinity of her
grave.
Celestino, along with some of his
neighbors, continued to search for
Alice's head when time permitted.
"If we can find her head, we can at
least give her peace," he would
explain to the white settlers, who
ridiculed the notion of ghosts hover­ing
about, searching for lost body
parts. They soon became believers
when they spotted the apparition.
The legend of Alice Halloran grew
until she was known throughout the
San Antonio Valley and the Santa
Lucias. Many slumberless nights
were spent by boys camped out along
the San Antonio, hoping to see the
Headless Lady. Just as many girls
were told by their mothers, "Keep
close to home, or you'll end up like
Alice Halloran, with no head!"
During World War II, the United
States government bought up the
northern San Antonio Valley and
turned it into a training base. The old
Jolon graveyard, where Alice lay in
her restless sleep, was now part of
Fort Hunter Liggett.
In the mid 1950's, two soldiers
guarding the ammunition bunker
built near the graveyard spied Alice
one moonless night. She floated over
to the men, wordlessly, perhaps to
entreat them to aid her in her quest.
But the soldiers, who were from
faraway states, had not heard the tale
of the Headless Lady and were liter­ally
scared out of their wits by the
ghost's appearance.
They were spotted the next morn­ing
when the dawn guard came to
relieve them. One man was lying
with his limbs askew and his eyes
wild in death from a heart attack. The
other soldier was delirious and took
many months to recover from the
trauma and tell his story. The Army,
not known as an organization intimi­dated
by shapeless spirits, neverthe­less,
closed the bunker.
Among those to see the pitiful
sight of Alice was George Gonzales,
a Salinan Indian and a legend in his
own right. "A right sight she was,"
George told Mary Larson, who is
equally renowned as the keeper of
many Salinan legends.
"She floated a little above the
ground; she just held her hands out to
me and pointed toward the river. It
was like she was trying to say,
'Please help me find my head and my
baby." I helped in the search for her
head; I walked many miles, hoping to
find a skull to bury with her. I don't
think she will ever be able to walk
the spirit path without an intact
body!" the old Indian sighed. A few
months later, old George made his
own journey to the spirit world, leav­ing
Mary to tell the tale of the
Headless Lady of Jolon.
A new story, spread by a local
rancher circulated around the valley
in the 1960's. Alice was not a white
immigrant, according to the story, but
an Indian woman who had been
beheaded after her husband found her
dallying with another man.
Fortunately, Mary, the Salinan
Storyteller, set the spreader of the
false tale straight in a hurry!
If you wish to see Alice for your­self,
you'll need to go at night. The
bright rays of the sun wash out the
TRAVELER
fragile aura of ghosts. Moonless
nights are better than moonlit for the
same reason. Permission from the
Army authorities is required if you
want to visit the Jolon graveyard, as
it is on Federal property. Another
good place to view Alice is the
Nacimiento-Ferguson Bridge, which
crosses the Nacimiento at the old ford
site on the Nacimiento-Ferguson
Road.
Perhaps you, too, will join those
who can say they have seen the
Headless Lady of Jolon. If you
should be lucky enough to find her
head, you will have helped Alice
Halloran complete her journey to the
spirit world.
HOW TO FIND THE HEADLESS
LADY
To see the spot where Alice died,
travel on US Highway 101 to Jolon
Road. Formerly part of the old EI
Camino Real, the old Royal Road of
the California Mission system, the
county road runs from one mile north
of San Miguel to just north of King
City, which is about 110 miles south
of San Jose. Both ends are accessible
from the freeway.
Follow Jolon Road to the main
gate of Fort Hunter Liggett.
Approximately one-half mile north of
the guard post, turn west on
Nacimiento-Ferguson Road. You can
see the bridge from the main road.
The old ford is nearby, as well as a
primitive campground open to the
public. To obtain a camping permit
from the Fort's Recreation Office,
simply follow the signs along the
main road. If you wish to make
advance reservations, call (408) 385­0357.
The old Jolon graveyard is current­ly
closed to the public, being located
near a war games site. l$
5
6
•
Mud, Hassayampa River Preserve, AZ, Diane Case. Honorable Mention. Photography
TRAVELER
Honorable Mention - Non-Fiction
Driving Mr, Hyde
Valerie Lancaster
Why do we become someone else
the minute we put our cars into gear?
I am normally a quiet, unobtrusive
person, but even I abandoned my
subdued nature the other day, while
sitting behind an unobservant driver
in an intersection.
We were both anticipating making
a left-hand turn - or was it just me?
The woman in the car in front of me
missed her first chance at turning
when the light was green and there
were no oncoming cars. That was
okay. I would still be able to make
my turn because I was out in the
intersection, too.
Her next chance came when the
light turned yellow, and all the
oncoming traffic dutifully halted. She
failed to take that opportunity also.
When the light turned red, I tapped
on my horn to let her know she
should move, but that yielded no
results.
Mr. Hyde stepped in. I began
honking madly at this driver and even
yelling at her, "GO!" The crossing
traffic now began to proceed, driving
straight at us. Finally, this woman in
front of me decided to go, but not in
time for me to make it out of the
intersection before being cut off by
crossing traffic.
Can you imagine if we left our
cars and calTied the same hostility,
rage, and thoughtlessness into the
grocery store?
Now I'm stuck in front of the meat
counter with my toddler on board a
cart of baby wipes, peanut butter, and
Cheerios. I'm trying to cross from the
meat counter to the dog food aisle.
There is a little old lady in front of
me with her cart full of toilet paper,
frozen fish, and canned goods. She is
waiting for a safe opportunity to cross
the main thoroughfare to the cat food.
When the river parts long enough
for an army to cross, I suddenly
begin yelling at this poor soul, "GO!
GO!" At the same time, a working
woman with her business suit and a
schedule to keep swiftly maneuvers
her cart of bagels and Healthy Choice
frozen dinners over from the bakery
toward the meat counter. Without
even glancing at me, she slams into
the side of my helpless cart pushing
us into the dear old woman in front
of me causing a three-cart pile up at
the end of aisle fourteen.
And how many time have shop­pers
pulled right out in front of you
from the paper goods aisle to go half
speed, when they could have waited
until you passed leaving a quarter
mile break in traffic to putter? Or
how often does Hungry Man cut in
front of you to slam on the brakes for
a sudden turn down the soap and
cleaning products aisle?
Imagine the squeaks of tennis shoe
brakes as the bachelor with a case of
Pabst Blue Ribbon, two bags of
Ruffles and a pack of Odor Eaters
weaves in and out of shoppers, only
to be stuck in the same check-out line
at the front of the store.
And picture yourself waiting and
waiting for a cart full of cottage
cheese and yogurt to pass by, when
suddenly, without a signal, the driver
turns toward hair care products.
"Thanks for the signal!" you blurt out
coarsely.
Have you ever gotten the cart that
pulls hard to the left because only
three wheels are touching the ground
and the one odd-ball is wobbling and
flopping while the remaining wheels
squeak and scrape? Did you feel like
you were pushing the Sanford-and-
TRAVELER
Son cart with dark fumes pouring out
the back because all the other shop­pers
were taking their lives in their
hands to pass you on every side, even
in no-passing zones?
What about those shoppers who
won't let you change lanes for an
anticipated turn toward the feminine
products? And how many times per
visit is someone pushing a cart of
Ball Park Franks and Paul Newman's
spaghetti sauce right on your heels?
Do you roll your eyes at the pushers
with the music blaring and the heavy
bass rattling your eggs? What kind of
looks do we give the girl putting on
her make-up while cruising through
produce?
I spend quite a bit of time in the
grocery store, and I must say, I've
never experienced any of these sce­narios.
The folks who shop are much
nicer than the people on the road.
I've never witnessed a push-by shoot­ing
or even a disgruntled cart driver
yelling or making obscene gestures at
the cart who cut them off. Sure, occa­sional
shoppers park their carts across
the aisle similar to those drivers who
take up two parking spaces to keep
their paint from being door dinged.
And some carts drive on the wrong
side of the aisle but with no dire con­sequences.
Quite often at the check­out
stand, the cart behind will stop
right on my "bumper" making me
quite uncomfortable, but all in all, it
is a much more pleasant experience
than the drive home.
What is the solution to the hostility
on our roads? I'm not sure, but I'm
convinced that grocery carts hold the
key. I've got a call into General
Motors. *
7
Third Place - Poetry
AFreeway Convertible Ride After
Watching Star Wars
Laurie Jean Hurley
8
The thing was shoreless,
trackless, bottomless,
endless.
It seized us
at the moment we created it
Raymond, Steven and I
injected our adolescent bodies
into a vast abysmal chasm
A brainstorm of fantasy,
of absolute unreality.
It was a boundless moor
unnamed and unknown.
Our mortal identities melted away
vanished from our conscious eyes
TRAVELER
all that remained were our rebel yells,
crying havoc on any that would oppose.
We were flying,
soaring in the four winds of this world
in every corner.
With a gallant luster celestial bodies
spiraled past in fading magical blurs.
We were the warriors in a universal expedition
A crusade against galactic foes
a numberless multitude of the followers of hatred
and we, the few, were alone to win this fight
.. .1 could hear angels praying in legions
Casting heavenly war cries in our names.
the force of the wind
almost deafened our screaming ears
as we entered the death star
and struck it all down
We, the fire-eaters, of hate,
were sailing out of its blazing shrapnel
Which glistened like magic about our eyes.
Our chivalrous bodies had won,
had invaded our fears
and left them to die out, to forever fall
in this interplanetary space.
Everything was white with the light of holiness,
of victory for all lands
for life far and wide.
I took something home that day
As [ exited the freeway
driving Steven then Raymond home,
something about the human mind
and friendship,
and the power of both.
And I thanked God with a wink of an eye.
Honorable Mention - Poetry
Flowers
Marlene Martzke
An old woman grew flowers
which she tended and nurtured
with gnarled and knowing fingers, aged creases holding earth.
Her opaque eyes saw no more.
Light nor the hues of the petals no longer made welcome.
The greens and yellows and reds,
the stripes and lines and blooms
all went unseen ...
Yet the flowers thrived.
They grew tall, strong, displaying their most brilliant palettes. r..
~
The flowers were precious and beautiful
to the old woman
although she never beheld their faces.
For the old woman loved them
not for their colors,
but for their being.
Birds of a Different Color, Robert Bangert, First Place - Painting
TRAVELER
9
10
Michael reached across the var­nished
counter and curled his cramp­ing
fingers around the coffee cup, rel­ishing
the way his skin tingled
painfully as the black porcelain trans­ferred
heat to his pale flesh. Taking
the mug in his hands like a chalice,
Michael brought the steaming mix­ture
close to his face, feeling its heat
radiate against his lips and cheeks
and smelling the mix of earthen bit­terness
and cinnamon waft through
the air as it traveled towards the ceil­ing
in a wispy spiral.
Turning from the counter, he care­fully
made his way through a tight
maze of chattering customers and fur­niture.
His eyes strained to pierce the
gloomy darkness which pervaded the
establishment. The ceiling was low,
enhancing the cave-like ambiance,
and Michael felt like ducking to
achieve what he considered a reason­able
distance from the ineffectual
lights which dangled above him.
Small areas were set aside in each
wall, large closets where beaten
couches and recliners waited for
apprehensive consumers to give them
purpose.
"Over here." a voice called from
the shadows.
Michael smiled as he recognized
the lilting inflection and forced his
way through a heavy curtain of dark­ness
and cigarette smoke. Passing
into a secluded enclave, he
approached the only inhabitant there,
a shadowy figure slouching over an
open book.
"Just a second. Don Juan is declar­ing
his undying love with a mouth
Third Place - Short Story
Kellogg's Head
Josh Ivanov
full of vomit. It's gripping." the fig­ure
declared without looking up.
Michael laughed and pressed him­self
into the sagging confines of an
arm chair. He watched his friend
Agnew pour over pages, absorbed in
the words he found there. After a few
moments Agnew looked up and
smiled, pulling his own cup of coffee
off the table and into his hands.
"Sorry about that. If I don't finish
the page, then I lose my place and
there's hell to pay when I try to pick
up where I left off." Agnew grinned,
shrugging his massive shoulders.
"Ever hear of a bookmark?"
Michael asked, raising the cup to his
lips.
"I did once in '82, but a friend of
mine told me that Allen Ginsberg
was dead against them, so I stopped
trying to figure the confounded things
out," Agnew declared, rolling his
eyes.
"It was a rhetorical question."
"And I gave you a rhetorical
answer," he shot back, easing himself
into a comfortable position. "Enough
light spirited banter. How have you
been? We've been worried sick about
you. Mary started using contracep­tives
again because she thought your
disappearance was a warning from
God, and Joseph, bless his heart, has­n't
been able to eat a thing since you
went "underground." You're like a
natural disaster in one of those bibli­cal
movies. So far you've caused
impotence and famine. What's next?"
"Look, I'm sorry. I've just been
kicking around, feeding my muse."
Michael smiled.
TRAVELER
Agnew sat silently, his face
unmoving as he studied his friend.
"You've been slipping in alleys,
haven't you?" he erupted playfully. "I
told you all that hooch and women
would drop you quicker than a life­time
of hard labor, but you didn't lis­ten."
"It's not like that." Michael
laughed.
"Babylon. That's what this is.
Babylon." Agnew sputtered dramati­cally.
"It's just sin and lust and Satan,
all in the name of art."
"It sounds like you're describing
Byron's lifestyle." Michael said, and
then covered his grin with another sip
of coffee.
Agnew let out a growl of fury and
snatched up his copy of Don Juan
from the table.
"Look, Byron had a very hard life.
He was clubfooted."
"Last time I checked moral lassi­tude
wasn't a symptom of clubfoot­edness.
Is 'c1ubfootedness' a word?"
Michael asked.
"Oh ho! Big talk for a man who's
been cast into the gutter. You don't
fool anyone, you know. I've seen
your sculptures. That one that looks
like a big lump with a head coming
out of its armpit, for instance. I know
that it's Satan. You're building bod­ies
for the Prince of Darkness to take
earthly form in," Agnew yelled,
pointing his finger and cackling.
Michael raised his cup in salute,
before taking a long sip. Agnew
tossed the heavy volume in his hand
back on the table and laughed.
"So what really happened?"
"Do you remember Dr. Kellogg,
head of the art department?" Michael
asked.
"Tall guy. Real cold, too.
Pygmalion in reverse. He approved
your scholarship, right?"
"Yeah. Well, he wanted to test me,
to make sure that I was as good as he
thought I thought I was, if you can
follow that. He took me aside and
reminded me that he would be assess­ing
my work with a particularly criti­cal
eye. So I did a special sculpture
for him." Michael finished and took a
sip.
"I'm still not seeing the whole pic­ture."
"Well, he got a little mad; revoked
my scholarship; kicked me out of the
program," Michael smirked.
"You didn't sculpt another giant
buttocks, did you? I still remember
the out-of-proportion areas where
critics could 'stick their heads to hear
the pulse of American art,' as you so
eloquently put it." Agnew grinned.
"No. Nothing like that."
"What was it then?"
"A giant head."
"Whose head?"
"Kellogg's."
"Any out of proportion areas or
surreal aspects relating facial land­marks
with genitalia?"
"No."
"Any restless social commentaries
that couldn't wait until after your
final to find tangible form?"
"WeI!..."
"Out with it."
"It's a giant head with a little door
in the side so that people can stand
inside of it."
"And?"
"I told them it was so they could
see art through Kellogg's eyes."
"Keep going."
"There's a problem with the head
though."
''I'm waiting."
"I didn't give him any eyes to see
through. When you get inside of his
head there's just darkness and an
uncomfortable silence."
Agnew sat on the edge of his
chair, staring silently into Michael's
eyes.
"This is very serious." Agnew
said, fighting back the peals of laugh­ter
that tickled his throat.
"I know. I lost my scholarship."
"I still think Kellogg might have
gone a bit overboard." Agnew
declared.
"I would have said that too, if I
hadn't used his tools to make it."
Michael smiled.
"You used his tools?" Agnew said
sipping his coffee.
"And his rock. It was a big one he
was saving for a Columbus Day
memorial. He shouldn't have gone on
vacation." Michael shrugged.
Agnew choked and then leaned
forward as he struggled not to inhale
the coffee in his mouth.
"Jesus, Michael," he shouted, wip­ing
the spilt liquid off his hands and
the small table in front of him.
"It was an extension of my emo­tional
and intellectual state at the
time. I can't help it that he inteljected
himself into my work," Michael
explained.
"You should have done something
else, with your own materials."
Agnew said, shaking his head as a
slow smile crept onto his face.
"It's an art class, isn't it?"
"Art class. That's an oxymoron.
Everyone knows that but you. They
teach accepted forms. That's good if
you want to learn something but use­less
when you're filled with a rush of
TRAVELER
creative energy. You should know
that by now." Agnew said.
"I guess."
"So where are you staying now?"
"I've been sleeping in the big
head."
Agnew winced and then rolled his
eyes.
''This whole thing has become a
rather unpleasant metaphor within an
unpleasant metaphor. On a side note,
you seem unaffected by all this."
"Should I be affected?
"Considering you've lost your
money and your department, I'd say
so."
"That's temporary, though."
"Do you think?"
"Yes. I've already been offered
another scholarship." Michael
grinned.
"Really?"
"At the same time Kellogg was
dropping me, some people in one
branch of the college or another
decided to commission my head for a
Kellogg atrium. Apparently, he'll be
retiring in a few months. Big loss
there. On a brighter note, have you
ever seen what happens to outdoor
sculptures? Give a bird somewhere to
perch and..."
"Yes, yes. I understand. It's a good
thing for you that public education
doesn't stress the arts."
"I know. The poor bastards never
have a clue what's going on."
"Neither do the artists."
"Yeah, but that only makes it easi­er
to ridicule them."
''I'll drink to that," Agnew said
raising his glass.
"Cheers," Michael smiled, lifting
his glass in the air and then draining
the cup. ;$
11
12
Playtime, Sommer Prosser, Third Place, Drawing
TRAVELER
First Place - Short Story
AToccata in Dark Flowers
George Pieper
Professor Walter Rundle never
wanted sympathy but always
appreciated love. In the part of
his heart that was kind and quiet,
he knew life hadn't been all bad.
Back in Cleveland Renee had
been pretty, never minded paying
the bills while he was in prevet­erinary
school, always better
times coming. But that was two
kids and fours trips to Italy­Lombardy,
because those were
the only vacations they got,
Renee's Italian folks paying the
airfare-and eighteen years ago.
What was there left to say?
That was also one horrendous
auto accident ago, after the high
school prom and beer and before
his brain was one-quarter parked
forever on State Highway 143.
He wasn't really a professor,
hadn't made it, though every­body
called him that with his
glasses and near-sightedness. He
told a few friends about his eigh­teen
years of matrimony-but
wasn't sure any of them believed
him. Now it was over. Too much
chasing the truth-whatever the
hell truth was-made him sweat.
So Professor Walter Rundle had
pretty much given up on truth,
and on hope, but his divorce­that
was the immediate concern.
In his little Massachusetts col­lege
town of Benson Center, the
professor saw that spring had
greened up everything, fine
before the weeds and un mowed
grass started jerking him around.
He backed out of the driveway in
the old convertible and sat for a
minute at the curb, looking
around. He wasn't allowed to
drive, but he loved to pretend.
Behind a big maple was his mod­est
bungalow, once occupied by
the martyr Nathan Hale. The
house was quiet with Renee at
work, kids at school. A big
splash of stunning blue Clematis
durandii climbed the side of
Minelli's house next door, like a
dark jungle or, he thought, like a
passage from a great opera which
he did not understand but
thought beautiful. Sometimes he
thought Minelli was grinning at
Renee a little too much.
Music and gardening were
Walter's only real pursuits-that
and building his car with the
junk he picked up on the road.
He listened to Minelli's music
from next door when the win­dows
were open, had especially
liked Bach, the Toccata and
Fugue, though he didn't remem­ber
the names. He began asking
Minelli to "Play the 'cata" when
he sat outside in a lawn chair. He
and Renee had planted the dark
vines as a new-neighbor gesture
for the Minellis, and Phil Minelli
had made them prosper.
A watermelon-sized black
schnauzer dog riffled down the
brickwork street, tail busy, look­ing
for love-another small-town
day. Professor Rundle understood
the Minellis, liked and envied
their flowers, but he was bewil­dered
by the dog and its motives,
and by a new turn in his life:
Renee had told him she had to go
TRAVELER
away for a month for a graduate
program. "You can't do that,"
he'd shouted, threatened beyond
anything he'd ever experienced.
It was then that he knew he'd
have to see a lawyer.
Rundle slipped into the seat of
Renee's old green 1991 Chrysler
LeMans convertible, top down.
He figured Renee was probably
blowing dust off some ancient
volume in the Public Library­her
library. Renee was broad­browed,
tall and slender as a
palm tree, with lovely fronds of
aromatic brown hair. She had
been homecoming queen, had, in
fact encouraged Walter to have
those ex tra beers jus t before the
crash while they were out on the
town. Lately the hair had diversi­fied-
at a mere thirty-eight
years-with sneaky gray wisps.
She kept her eyes down, conceal­ing
her mourning eyes of a thin
blue color, like corn flowers met
head-on in a fog.
Professor Rundle left the car
and began walking toward the
offices of McLarnen, Sather &
Conan, Attorneys at law.
"Aggressi ve and competent" the
TV ad stated. "The Eagles." He
was not happy. He reached for a
Kleenex in the pocket of his
lime-green sports shirt, nicely
ironed by Renee.
The days were longer now, the
sun almost straight overhead at
two AM. The air was soft, but
there seemed to be gloom in the
corners. While memory could be
a problem, he remembered telling
13
14
Phil Minelli never to trust Renee,
a warning that seemed to fall
unexpected and unwanted from
his lips. Take the month-long
absence, her "divorce"; it
prompted him to say things like
that.
The divorce was all Renee's
idea, of course. He stopped walk­ing.
No-it wasn't a divorce he
reminded himself; Renee had
said a month. He knew he'd
given everything he could. The
kids were pretty much on their
own, didn't really need him,
though they said he was "cool."
He helped at the animal shelter
as a volunteer. That's where the
strays were kept-important
work. He got into that after
Renee had married him. There
were hopes then, for both of
them: first a year in state hospi­tal,
then some promise of recov­ery.
As the years passed, he
assured Renee that he didn't miss
the glory of being a vet, not a
bit, and the money-who cared
about money? Besides, he had
other skills. Rundle collected
gadgets, old carburetors and
things, or did, until Renee
objected to the smell and the
landlord insisted there was a fire
TRAVELER
risk and made them move again,
this time to a small house where
he could stash his paraphernalia
in the yard. And the carburetors
and the wind-up alarm clocks and
the springs and the old chairs
would really make a fine car
someday, one that would take the
whole family back to Minnesota
and happiness. Maybe Renee's
prematurely gray hair would turn
back again. She was beautiful, he
realized, always with the little
smile flickering across her lips,
the soft words of greeti ng and
good-bye, a kiss.
Rundle had been busy with his
car-building and Renee-well, he
expected he could stand Renee to
be away for a month. It was just
that he'd grown out of the rela­tionship,
he supposed. He didn't
like to use words like superior,
but he simply couldn't take
Renee or his life next to the dark
vines anymore. There was blue
sky up above the open car,
churning a little, the maples with
fresh green leaves churning too,
the street quiet, good-natured,
but suggesting doom. Professor
Rundle had no license, but
enjoyed maneuvering the con­vertible
in the driveway. Renee
always wanted a better car, more
clothes for the kids.
The Professor slowly exited
the car and began walking. He
turned right at the corner, at
King Street. A few clouds up
there, always clouds in his life,
but he was determined not to run
away from this divorce thing. So
he'd yelled at Renee. Renee
should know better, he said to
himself, putting me in this kind
of spot forcing me to get a frig­ging
divorce. Made him want to
cry. Maybe she didn't mean it
when she said, "All right,
Walter, if you won't stop talking
about a divorce, go ahead."
She was mad, maybe tired of
hearing it. But Renee, he reflect­ed,
was a good woman, beautiful
to look at, men turned their
heads, and she stood behind him
always.
He stepped over to the curb on
King Street. His copy of the
eagles' address wasn't in any
pocket. Eagles were downtown,
he was almost positi ve. It had to
be east on King to Third, left
about a mile. He went two blocks
and had to stop again. People
were, he thought, staring at him,
or was he imagining that? He
spotted a hubcap in the street,
collected it after a car screeched
to a stop and honked. Then he
was pretty sure he had it right,
and strode west on Cass Street
toward the Interstate, hubcap
under his arm. No, that wasn't it.
Hell, let me think, he cogitated.
His mind drifted back to Renee,
who had failed him again. Renee
worked as a librarian because
they needed the money, had
taken evening courses to get the
Master of Library Science
degree, made Walter Rundle take
care of the kids long evenings
while she was at school, which
wasn't fair. He needed time for
assembling his car. But even now
she didn't really understand a
library; saw it as a place to find
a good mystery, to breed new
ideas, shoot off to the moon, as
she'd said. Professor Rundle was
more reasonable; he thought of a
library as a place to sleep, to
stay warm in the winter. He fig­ured
she was like a grave robber,
working among those old books,
eating her lunch in a mausoleum
of decaying literature. He sus­pected
that image was what was
getting to her mind, her feeling
like a ghoul as she finished her
cheese sandwich in such a
raunchy place. He thought she
should have learned to figure
things out without reading a
book. But now he was profound­ly
confused about the lawyers'
address. He plunged on down to
Fifth, turned right, and knew at
once that the Eagles weren't
down there. He tried a couple of
other streets in his little town of
Benson Center, ten thousand
souls-and he couldn't find the
lawyers' offices. A tingle of
panic crossed his brain. I'm
TRAVELER ~ ---
healthy as a horse, he thought, so
it's not a stroke, nothing like
that. Just can't fi nd it.
Finally he went on to the
Freeway, down and back a mile,
walking on the edge, getting
honks, and stopped back at
Fletcher's Drugs. The phone
book was fuzzy to read. He could
find listings before and after
McLarnen, Sather and Conan. He
had seen the listing a dozen
times that last week, but now he
couldn't spot it. He tried twice
more. He felt a little shaky, did­n't
want to ask Bill Fletcher
behind the Pharmacy glass to
help him because he knew
Fletcher would ask him why he
needed a lawyer. It was Benson
Center, after all. You can't trust
anybody, even Bill Fletcher, he
thought. Even the phone book.
Even your wife.
Professor Walter Rundle was
having a little anxiety now,
shortness of breath, his pulse
speeding up. He tried once more
to find the office on the sweet
spring day that was turning
chilly. He headed home, discour­aged.
Maybe Renee didn't mean
anything when she said "go
ahead and get your damned
divorce."
Professor Rundle found his
house, went inside, and sat down
in the breakfast nook. He moved
the morning paper-Renee's
paper-aside, on the little glass
table. He was sure he saw the ad
on the back page for "McLarnen,
Sather & Conan, Eagles at Law."
He turned and saw himself­looking
sad, lips pouting, brow
knotted up-in the chrome of the
toaster. There was a fresh drop
of liquid soaking into the news­paper
page. Must be sweat,
though only Renee sweats, he
15
thought. Certainly not a tear.
Something dirty and mean about
sweating or crying. He walked to
the porch and stumbled down the
two steps. Even those jungly
dark flowers next door were
sweating, where Minelli had
watered them down. Minelli was
there, hose in hand. "Play the
'Cata," he begged Minelli,
"Please." He knew the music and
the dark flowers would take his
nervousness away.
They think I'm nutso, he mut­tered
under his breath. It was
hot; the hose was soaking his
socks and his pants, so he sat
down on the grass next to Minelli
and the dark flowers and began
undressing. His clothes made a
messy pile on the lawn. Minelli
walked away. The professor saw
him turn off the water. Then
Minelli, without a word, opened
his screen door and went back
inside his house.
When Renee got home-after a
Minelli's frantic phone call-she
found the Professor hosing him­self
off, thoroughly, like a
flower, on the front lawn.
Rumbling I.S. Bach organ music
floated on the sweet spring
breeze from the Minellis', and
nude, Professor Rundle stood
drenched, humming and exulting,
on the front lawn, wearing the
hubcap as a hat.
Renee, sobbing, gratefu I the
kids weren't around, got back in
the car that had brought her
home. Kenny's car, Kenny, the
reference guy at the library. She
touched Kenny's hand and they
drove away. 3$
16
Melana Wallace. Second Place. Painting
TRAVELER
Honorable Mention - Poetry
The Salamander
Laurie Jean Hurley
Do you hear the echoes?
-There are lonely people sIngIng somewhere,
Sprites tiptoeing, chanting celebrations. Whispers­tempting
me to flee, to soar like cranes, like fireflies
get the best of me-l
flit and glitter upon life's moor.
A salamander silently gazes at me
from nature's bubbling, happy sink,
-A pin-prick of movement occurs-
I watch it like ants carrying crumbs ...
and for one moment
the world stops revolving around my heart beat.
For a quiet, magnificent moment
I am the quick blur inside this stream
a tadpole in a pool
song inside a bird
a gasp inside a three year child
a virgin on her wedding eve.
Naked on cold, wet rocks,
kissing the sky in sweet good-byes,
passing water slithers below my spIne
like spirits In currents
a fountain, a waterfall, a forest of raindrops
massaging my throat and the nape of my neck
in wild fire-dances, crawling over my body.
As it darkens, I still recline
between these damp rocks and the welcoming sky.
-- TRAVELER
17
First Place - Drama
Mr. Taciturn Cuts a Distinguished Figure
Josh Ivanov
Tepees, Blue Mesa, AZ
Diane Case, Second Place, Photography
18
Dramatis Personae
Mr. L. N. Stain Taciturn: A
defendant
Mr. Jonathan Fawn (alias): An
assailant
Mrs. Polyp Seat Confrontation
10 Prat: A dissenter
Mr. Ward Cult Ray Cotton: A
witness
Scene description: The set con­sists
of three desks, lined side by
side, center stage. Each desk is
accompanied by a single folding
chair. The desks face the audi­ence.
As the lights come on, Mr.
Fawn is rushing Mr. Taciturn,
who is standing in front of the
first desk on the left, with a
knife. Mr. Taciturn is holding a
knife, himself. Mrs. Prat is
screaming from her seat, at the
last desk on the right. Mr. Cotton
is seated at the center desk. Mr.
Taciturn stabs Mr. Fawn once in
the chest, and Mr. Fawn drops to
the floor.
Scene J: In Which a Knife is
Used in an Unfriendly Manner
Mr. Cotton: (Rising) Bravo,
Taciturn. That's shown him.
Mr. Taciturn: But I've just killed
a man!
Mr. Cotton: Oh, don't be so sen-timental.
Mrs. Prat: (Rising) That's right,
Taciturn. There's no need to
be overtly emotional. It's only
a fragile, human life you've
snuffed out there, all over our
floor.
Mr. Cotton: Oh, come now, Mrs.
Prato What did you expect old
Taci turn to do? Stand there
while this lunatic disembow­eled
him, in order to instill
confidence and self-worth in
his assailant? "Jolly good cut,
sir. You should be a surgeon
with precision like that. Ah, I
see you've exposed my ribs. It
was a marvelous incision. I
almost didn't feel it except for
that moment of excruciating
pain. I could offer you some
thigh meat, perchance?" Is
that the kind of utopian vision
of tolerance you had in mind?
Mrs. Prat: Most assuredly not,
Mr. Cotton. I feel eminently
confident that the "assailant,"
as you so unfairly put it,
would never have harmed a
hair on Mr. Taciturn's head.
Mr. Cotton: I see. I must admit
that at first glance, I had
taken this unfortunate fellow's
actions, that is to say, his
murderous, raving, advancing
posture, to be one of foul
play. Now that I think about
it, though, I can recall plenty
of times when my family
gathered together, for the hol­iday,
and we would all take
turns running at Grandmother
with knives in our hands,
screaming at the top of our
lungs, and stabbing furiously
at her chest. How she laughed
and laughed and laughed.
Mr. Taciturn: I'm really, very,
very sorry. Extremely sorry.
Mrs. Prat: Well, you should be.
Nazi.
Mr. Cotton: Mrs. Prat, I fail to
see how Mr. Taciturn, a timid,
TRAVELER
studious fellow of good repu­tation,
could be linked to such
an insidious group of fascists
and hate mongers.
Mr. Cotton: So you're saying
that rampant poverty and
unbearable social conditions
made this man turn rabid?
Mrs. Prat: Precisely.
Mr. Cotton: And that excuses his
deplorable behavior?
Mrs. Prat: Undoubtedly.
Mr. Cotton: That's absolutely
amazing.
Mrs. Prat: It is a rather modern
way of thinking.
Mr. Cotton: I'm not talking about
your socialist dogma. What I
find extraordinary, is the fact
that this fellow could be
plagued by debt and worry,
awash in an endless tide of
gutter filth which he's been
forced into by an uncaring
society, yet still manage to
establish such a keen fashion
sense.
Mrs. Prat: What?
Mr. Cotton: Take those shoes,
for instance.
Mrs. Prat: What about them?
Mr. Cotton: They're top of the
line. Shoes like that would set
a fellow back more than a
couple large bills.
Mrs. Prat: They must be imita­tion!
Inferior products forced
on the working class by
unfeeling entrepreneurs who
seek to exploit an established
class-specific fashion trend, a
trend, I might add, which
causes the proletariat to have
feelings of guilt and worth­lessness,
unless he can acquire
a suitable alternative.
Mr. Cotton: (Bending down and
removing one of Mr. Fawn's
shoes) No. These are the real
thing. I have a pair at home
myself.
Mrs. Prat: Then he must have
been suffering from some kind
of disastrous mental disorder,
no doubt brought about by a
genetic flaw or incalculable
amounts of repressed guilt,
accumulated from years of
decadence and oppression of
the lower classes.
Mr. Cotton: You may be right,
but it still doesn't explain
what a person is supposed to
do when he's set upon by one
of these "victims."
Mrs. Prat: Well, I don't believe
that the majority of these peo­ple
we're discussing are actu­ally
harmful in any way,
except in the eyes of the
upper echelon, who despise
their very presence.
Mr. Cotton: What about the few
who do participate in violent
acts? What should an upstand­ing
citizen do when confront­ed
by them?
Mrs. Prat: In the face of unre­lenting
sympathy and under­standing,
poured forth from a
true and noble heart, l'm posi­tive
that no decent person,
even in a deranged state,
could find in their power to
harm a person who has
embraced them, and their situ­ation,
with open arms.
Mr. Cotton: So what you're say­ing
is that it's Taciturn's fault
he was attacked, because he
couldn't muster enough good
will toward mankind to warm
the heart of the armed
assailant who was attacking
him. It makes perfect sense.
Mrs. Prat: We don't know if he
was actually going to attack
Taciturn or not. He could have
been expressing his innermost
dissatisfaction by simulating
an actual attack, in order to
gain the attention that society
refuses to give him.
Mr. Cotton: And when, in your
estimation, would it be an
appropriate time to decide
whether an attack carries with
it a certain amount of, how
should I put it, lethal intent?
Mrs. Prat: Well, you can't really
tell until you've actually been
stabbed, can you?
Mr. Cotton: So the only humane
thing to do is risk your life?
Mrs. Prat: A small price to pay,
in order to allow individuals
-- TRAVELER
to express themselves in their
own manner. I mean, really,
Mr. Cotton, simply making a
violent motion is no grounds
for an execution. And if, by
some small chance, they acci­dentally
harm someone, the
guilty party should be subdued
and detained, until proper help
is available for them.
Mr. Cotton: And what if, in the
process of restraining these
individuals, they turn on oth­ers,
intending to repeat their
crime?
Mrs. Prat: How would we know
that they were actually going
to become violent again? They
could just be expressing their
feelings of guilt in an aggres­sive
way.
Mr. Cotton: You really are an
extremely silly person, aren't
you?
Mr. Taciturn: I didn't mean to
kill him.
Mr. Cotton: I know that, old boy.
Don't listen to Mrs. Prat,
there. She's a bit loony.
Mrs. Prat: If he didn't intend to
kill him, where did he get the
knife?
Mr. Cotton: Taciturn, snap out of
it for a second and tell us
where you got the knife.
Mr. Taciturn: (Pointing to Mr.
Fawn) He gave it to me.
Mr. Cotton: That's odd. Why
don't you tell us the whole
story?
Mr. Taciturn: It started when he
came up to my desk. I greeted
him just as I always do when
a new customer comes in, by
walking around to the other
side, smiling and shaking his
hand. "What can I do for
you?" I asked. "I'll take
everyth ing you've got." he
said. "It's highly unlikely you
have the kind of resources it
would take to buy everything
we have at the present time,
sir." I remarked, and that's
when he got this strange
gleam in his eye. "I'm not just
talking about the land you're
selling, Taciturn. I'm taking
19
Self Portrait, Jim Kearns, First Place, Photography
20
everything. Your desk, the
clothes you're weari ng, even
the trash in the trash bin. And
as soon as I'm done here, I'm
taking the building, this city,
and the world. It's all mine. I
must warn you beforehand,
that any attempts to stop me
will be met with violence.
That's why I've brought this
knife." At that point, he
brought out the weapon he'd
been hiding behind his back.
"To make things fair though,
I'll give you a knife just like
it. That way you won't feel
cheated," he said, reaching
behind his back and pulling
out another knife, which he set
down on my desk. "Let's get
started, then." he smiled, and
began taking things off my
desk and putting them into his
pockets. I was so shocked I
just sat there, with my mouth
hanging open. After a
moment, he looked up, and
seeing my expression, gave me
a wicked grin. "You know,
I'm going to have to take your
life, along with all these other
things, don't you?" I was pet­rified,
of course. "In fact," he
said "we might as well get
that over with right now."
That's when he picked up the
knife on my desk, and placed
it in my hand. "All right,
everything's in order.
Altogether now." he said. And
that's when he tried to kill me.
Mr. Cotton: There. It's plain as
day. When a man threatens to
rob you of every earthly pos­session,
including your life,
the most natural reaction is an
equally desperate one, which
sometimes resul ts ina fatal ity.
You have reacted admirably
and courageously in the face
of adversity, Mr. Taciturn. For
the time being though, I want
to have a look at this fellow's
wallet. I'm curious to see who
our maniac of the hour is.
(Bending down to retrieve the
wallet and then opening it)
Oh, dear.
Mrs. Prat: What is it? What does
it say?
Mr. Cotton: It appears that Mr.
Taciturn has killed God.
Mrs. Prat: Impossible.
Mrs. Cotton: Look, it says it
right here, on his driver's
license. God. In big, black let­ters.
It even gives an address.
I hope you realize the serious­ness
of what you've done,
Taciturn. It's one thing to kill
people, but if you think that
you can just go around assas­sinating
omnipotent, religious
figures, especially the popular
ones, then you're wrong, sir.
Mr. Taciturn: But. .. but...how was
I to know? He gave me a knife
and then attacked me. I swear
I didn't know. My mother's
going to be terribly mad.
She's a Christian, you know.
Oh, the shame, the horror, of
it all. I can't stand it. I really,
just can't stand it. (Plunges
the knife into his chest and
falls to the ground)
Mrs. Prat: Look, Taciturn's doing
it again. Self-murderer.
Mr. Cotton: Oh, for goodness
sake. I suppose someone sen-
TRAVELER
sible should go clear all this
up. (Picks up God's knife and
slabs himself, Ihen falls 10 Ihe
ground) Back in a moment.
Mrs. Prat: You too, now, eh?
Self-depreciating Nazi.
Mr. Cotton: (Rising) Still at it,
are you? I really wish you'd
give it a rest, you twit.
Mr. Taciturn: (Rising) Thanks for
asking me whether I wanted to
come back or not.
Mr. Cotton: Why, you ungrateful,
little Satanist. If it weren't for
me, they'd be using your
worthless hide as kindling in
the seventh sphere, and roast­ing
hea-then-kabobs over the
excruciating flames emanating
out of your worthless posteri­or.
Mr. God: (Rising, lakes a knife
.Ii-om Ihe inside of his jacket)
Where were we then? Ah.
Right (Lunging at Tacilurn)
Mr. Taciturn: (Stabs Mr. God
again, who falls 10 the floor)
Mr. Cotton: (Stares at Mr.
Taciturn with a shocked look
and then stabs him) Cut that
out.
Mrs. Prat: That wasn't in self­defense.
Mr. Cotton: (Brandishing knife)
Don't push me, you big
mouthed, pseudo-socialist, lib­eral
type.
Mrs. Prat: Oh, sure Mr.
Chauvinist gets a phallic sym­bol
in his hand, and the next
thing you know, he wan ts to
rule the world.
Mr. Cotton: (Advancing at Mrs.
Prat, while she backs away)
That's it. You've just stepped
off your last soapbox, sister.
Mr. Taciturn and Mr. God:
(Taciturn and Mr. God rise at
Ihe same lime. They look al
each and then Mr. God altacks
Mr. Taciturn again, who slabs
Mr. God again)
Mr. God: (Hands knife to Mrs.
Prat as she passes by; smiles;
Ihen slumps to Ihe floor)
Mr. Cotton: (Walks over and
slabs Mr. Taciturn, Ihen lurns
towards Ihe retreating Mrs.
Prat)
Mrs. Prat: (Stabs Mr. Cotton.
After Mr. Colton's body falls
10 Ihe floor, she slabs herself
several limes in Ihe chesl and
falls 10 Ihe floor.)
Mr. Taciturn, Mr. God, Mr.
Cotton, and Mrs. Prat: (All
rise)
Mr. God: That's the last resur­rection
I'm doing. The next
person to get killed, stays
dead. That I promise you, so
help me ... me.
Mr. Cotton: You're one to talk,
aren't you? This whole mess
is your fault. Taciturn was
defending himself, I was
defending you, and Mrs. Prat,
well, never mind her. What's
the big idea, anyway?
Mr. God: I'm repossessing reali­ty.
Clear out.
Mr. Cotton: (Throwing up his
arms) Well, that's a fine how­do-
you-do. And if we don't
want to go?
Mr. God: Tough wafers. If you
want to try my patience
though, I could always make
you leave.
Mr. Cotton: What about free
will?
Mr. God: I own that, too. I'm
clever like that.
Mr. Cotton: (Holding back Mr.
Taciturn who is advancing on
Mr. God with his knife) Well,
I would certainly hope so.
You are God, after all. We're
going down to the pu b for a
bit. Could you come around
after we've gone already, if it
wouldn't be too much trou­ble?
Mr. God: Sure. I'm not due to hit
the bars until eleven.
Mr. Taciturn: This isn't fair at
all, you know.
Mr. God: If life were fair, my
dear Taciturn, I wouldn't have
had to create heaven to apolo­gize
for it.
Mr. Cotton and Mrs. Prat exit
stage left. Mr. Taciturn slays
behind.
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Mr. God: Yes?
Mr. Taciturn: ! thought there was
a purpose to life, some ulti­mate
goal that everyone was
working towards, but
now... now it all seems so
empty.
Mr. God: I wouldn't spend too
much time worrying about it.
In a few hours there won't be
any more pain, suffering or
goals. Just one big, long tun­nel
leading straight on through
till eternity. I hear that it's a
pretty good ride.
Mr. Taciturn: And that's sup­posed
to comfort me? "!'m
recalling the whole tea kettle,
but you get to sit in the first
class section on your way out
of existence." I hate to break
this to you, but !'m afraid
you've fallen a little short of
the top ten ways I'd like to
cease existing.
Mr. God: Is there a good way to
get sn uffed?
Mr. Taciturn: Can't you under­stand?
If it had been the sun
collapsing or a hundred thou­sand
follies of man coming
together in one blazing infer­no
of mass-nuclear destruc­tion,
at least it would have
had some meaning. There
would have been a sense of
finality, of nobility. The way
you're going about it robs us
of all the things that humanity
has paid for in blood and
sweat and tears. All the
tragedy, all the work, has been
for nothing. You di p your
hand into the waters and stir
them around a bit and watch
everything flourish and
mature, sitting back and giv­ing
us free will to do whatever
we please. Then, when it suits
you, you just waltz right in
and take even that from us.
Couldn't you have waited a
few centuries? It's not like
you're getting older. I'm sure
we could have wrapped our
eloquent spiral into extinction
without any help from you,
though I'm sure that comes as
21
22
a huge blow to your ego.
Mr. God: Ah, Taciturn. How sim­ple,
and delightful it must all
seem to you. Did you really
think that I'd create something
and then let it utterly destroy
itself?
Mr. Taciturn: So you're going to
do it for us? Let me be the
first to thank you for sparing
us the trouble.
Mr. God: If you knew that your
children would suffer the
greatest indignities of all time,
fall prey to disease and ill­nesses
the likes of which no
human has seen to this day, be
undone utterly by fate and
foolishness, in a matter of
days, wouldn't you want to
give them the easiest passage
you could?
Mr. Taciturn: Is that really
what's going to happen?
Mr. God: (Nodding solemnly)
Mr. Taciturn: My God.
Mr. God: If you still want me to
be.
Mr. Taciturn: 1...1 never asked
which God you were. I just
assumed you were THE God.
Mr. God: Does it really matter?
Mr. Taciturn: I suppose not.
Mr. God: Need a hug?
Mr. Taciturn: I don't think I've
ever needed one as much.
Mr. God: (Mr. Taciturn and God
embrace) It will be lonely for
a while, Taciturn. Get settled
and I'll send everyone on
behind you. (Mr. God raises a
dagger behind Mr. Taciturn's
back and stabs him once.
Taciturn jerks once and then
slides to the floor, slowly)
Mr. Cotton and Mrs. Prat enter
stage left.
Mr. Cotton: He really bought it,
didn't he?
Mr. God: How could he not?
Mrs. Prat: I kind of feel sorry for
him. Was it really that neces­sary
to play with his head
before you did the deed?
Mr. Cotton: Oh come now. It was
classic. Besides, I was getting
so sick of that Ii tUe athei st
hanging around the office and
wasting his life in idle pur­suits.
If you're not doing the
good work, you're not doing
anything. That's what I say.
Thanks for all your help, God.
You've been a terrific sport
about all this.
Mr. God: No problem.
Mr. Cotton: If you don't mind
my asking, where did Taciturn
end up? Heaven or Hell?
Mr. God: There is no heaven. No
Hell, either, for that matter.
Mrs. Prat: What?
Mr. God: You didn't really think
a couple of nasty, mean spirit­ed
people like you, would end
up in Heaven, anyway, did
you?
Mr. Cotton: There's no Heaven?
Mr. God: (Shaking his head) If
there was, do you think so
many people would worry
about living? About suffering?
If they really believed, why
would they stay here? Your
whole species would have
wound \:IP in the gutter
overnight. You developed
self-preservation, and I pretty
much figured that making a
heaven would be intervening a
little too much. After a beauti­fu
I concept like that, how
could I feel justified in stunt­ing
your philosophical and
ideological growth? And I'll
let you in on another little
secret. All that stuff about the
world ending in a really ugly
way? That was true.
Mr. Cotton: And Taciturn? What
about him?
Mr. God: He's really a delightful
fellow. I won't mind having
him around. You could say I
have room to spare. Well, I
hate to be rude, but I have to
get things ready for the big
get-together tomorrow. You
won't be invited, of course,
but you won't be worrying
about it either. Take care.
(Mr. God waves and exits
stage right)
TRAVELER
Mr. Cotton and Mrs. Prat stare
at each other for a moment,
and then both of them get
angry at the other. They inch
towards the remaining
weapons, which are still on
the floor. As they pick them up
and begin to advance on one
another, they stop, shrug and
throw the knives down. Mr.
Cotton exits stage left and
Mrs. Prat, stage right. $
,
Rachel, Barrett Wentworth, Photography
TRAVELER
23
24
------------------
Honorable Mention - Poetry
Without Warning
Linda Dodd
Without Warning
The soothing sounds
of summer's evening...
children playing,
neighbors laughing,
water sprinkling.
Suddenly,
without warning,
the serene scene is
shattered
by a single scream.
Children crying,
neighbors yelling,
red blood flowing
from a single
shot.
The Unknown
Randy Cajthmal
Third Place
Computer Art
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-
Grace, Robert Young, Photography
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25
Third Place - Non-Fiction
AWriter With Nothing to Write
Shannon Mathis
26
Forgive me. I am a writer
with nothing to write. Please
do not turn away, for I have
already begun losing hope.
You, my friend, are my only
salvation. Please, I beg of
you, do not be discouraged
by my lack of creativity. I
think I have an inspiration.
Yes, yes, I see her, a young
woman sitting at an antique
desk. I can't see her face, but
I can see her back. Her
shoulders hunch forward a
little too much for her task to
be a leisurely one. Her
sweater presents a strange
off-white color, that at first
glance might be mistaken for
true white. It shows a few
well placed wrinkles and
seems to be well worn
although the style is obvious­ly
the latest trend. The sun
caresses her waist-length hair
and gives the illusion of pure
gold gracefully cascading
down her back. As I look
over her shoulder, I study the
scene. Before her is a blank
piece of paper surrounded by
others of its kind that seem
to have been crumpled in
frustration. In her hand she
holds a cheap black and
white souvenir pen with the
words "Holiday Inn" stamped
on the side. She taps it twice
and writes.
This is the scene I have
imprinted in my mind. There
is no story to form from it.
The young woman just con­tinues
to write. As I peer
over her shoulder, it seems
she has someth ing to say. I
think I will write her story
because she is just an ordi­nary
young woman and I am
a writer with nothing else to
write.
It's funny, the things
people remember from their
childhood, fa vori te birthdays
or their first horseback ride.
I often wonder if everyone
has memories like these
because I don't. I have
haunting memories that
plague my dreams. They fol­low
me around like a lost
puppy during the day and, at
night, they lie silently at the
foot of my bed. No matter
how many times I tell them
to go away, they still linger.
If I walk, they walk. If I run,
they run, always the same
distance behind.
My earliest recollection
is from about the age of four.
Some parts are fuzzy, but
others are so real I can
almost touch them. I remem­ber
my mother parking the
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family van in front of a brick
building that said "dentist" in
big red letters. I remember
him being there although I'm
not quite sure why. He told
my mother he would wait in
the van with me until she
returned. Without thinking
twice she nodded her
approval and locked the door
before closing it. I remember
that very clearly, her locking
the door. For the first few
minutes we just sat there.
Then, after a while, he told
me he wanted to playa
game. I knew what the game
was because we had played it
before; it was our "special
game." I didn't like to play
it, but in a way it made me
feel special. I admired and
looked up to him. To think
he wanted to spend "special"
time with me made me feel
good. I didn't want to play it
this time because our "spe­cial
game" was a secret, and
my mother was only a build­ing
away. When I said no, he
pulled out a shiny new quar­ter.
My eyes lit up and my
stomach jumped with excite­ment.
I remember that quar­ter.
It glistened in the sun­light
and seemed to whisper
my name silently. I remem­ber
how badly I wanted it.
He said he would give it to
me just for playing our "spe­cial
game," so I reluctantly
agreed. After all, I could buy
a lot of things with a quarter.
So we climbed into the
back where no one passing
by could witness our "special
game." I sat in the back seat,
and he kneeled in front of me
on the floor, my promised
treasure still in hand. He
slowly pulled my pants
down, and I helped him with
the rest until I was naked
from the waist down. I
caught a sparkle of curiosity
in his eyes before he resumed
the game. It was different
this time because he wanted
me to touch him. I was
intrigued and a little curious,
but that's all I remember. It
wasn't entirely unpleasant,
but even in my four-year-old
mind, I knew it was wrong,
and that troubled me.
After he was done, I got
my quarter. I was probably
the happiest child alive. I
figured I had gotten the most
out of the whole deal. I never
dreamed I was the one being
scammed. My innocent
young mind could never have
comprehended that this per­son,
whom I loved and trust­ed
so dearly, had taken a hell
of a lot more than just a few
minutes of my time.
This is the story I see
when I look over the young
woman's shoulder. Her
shoulders seem straighter
now, though she looks a little
drained. I can see the side of
her beautiful face as a soli­tary
tear s lips down and fi nds
its way to the paper below.
She takes her hand and cov­ers
the story. In one swift
contraction of her hand, it's
over. The offender is sen­tenced,
then tossed into the
great black abyss, which is to
be its final resting place.
Again, I ask you to for­give
me. This is my only
inspiration, the story of an
ordinary young woman, writ­ing
a story of her own, a
story that may never be heard
because after all, she is just
an ordinary young woman,
and I am just a writer with
nothing to write. ;$
TRAVELER
27
28
Poetry
missive to Mr, -0 upon the event of his
recent death
Christopher Harrel
the gray sky fell softly silent to-day
as if to (in proper movie cliche)
verify the news of your passing
and Mr., Odd is the way it strikes me as and
Mr., Odd to think that as much as we talk
(and if not for your letters) that you could
have been dead all these years.
but, this Odd not to be so
,for was dead all these years
lest i would have written you
back before now ...
TRAVELER
Bodacious Bridgette, Bernadette Rabiej, First Place - Drawing
The image ot Bridgefte Nielson is based on a photograph by Greg Gorman. Gamma Liaison 29
30
Poetry
The Love of Wine
Shannon Mathis
Warm, soft, succulent wine
Quells images in my mind.
A solitary seductive sip
Easily entices to forget.
Just once, I savor your tender kiss
As you taste the tantalizing bitterness.
And my love, it is only this
Passing passionate blissfulness
Which flavors a fleeting kiss
Like the liquid upon my parting lips.
TRAVELER - - -
Second Place - Poetry
AWriter's Lament Upon Living
Josh Ivanov
Papa Hemingway rode the buckshot express.
I guess he knew for whom the bell was tolling.
Jack was on the road, but he should have
taken the wagon.
Rimbaud had a season in hell, which
he picked up along the way. It caught up
with him early in life and stripped the flesh
from his bones.
The best vices of mice and men have
been used up. There is no vacancy
in Penmen's Heaven for those who
die in bed. I am too cautious
for a Shakespearean Valhalla.
My iniquity is cowardice, a
fault more renowned for
mendacity and boredom,
than blazing self-immolation.
I shall never meet Byron
on the Elysian Fields, or
shoot my wife in Mexico.
Yet, my very words are a
humiliation, a testament
to fear and self-loathing.
If my pen were truly mightier
than a sword, I would have
slit my throat a thousand
times over. I hope Eliot
has set tea for two.
A lusty, coward's banquet,
during which we can
sit and talk about all of the
bad things that could have been.
My muse is one of terror,
but is it not fair to say that the
battles waged in imagination
are grander and more
fearsome than those fought
and survived? Ah,
I betray myself again,
The talk of a born dissenter.
There may be time left,
Time to risk, time to live,
time enough to find my
irrepressible soul. I shall
set myself against death,
kick furiously at those
who spurned life for
transient glories. Eternity
is my siege, and I shall
surely lose my life
in pursuit of her.
f:'
Mystical Eyes, Randy Cajthaml, Second Place - Drawing
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31
The Unknown Soldier
Apocolvpse, Randy Cajthaml, Second Place, Computer Art
Hilda, Chenette Wangen, First Place - Ceramics
Today we have our liberty;
We know not what will follow.
Today's one day we may forget
But what about tomorrow?
Think! Think! Oh human, think!
Of what life means to you;
They too had life and families
And gave them up for you.
So do we praise these fallen heroes
Of yesteryear and now,
While hoping for and striving toward
A peace our hearts allow?
In years now past upon this Earth,
The art of battle has spread.
While waging war has brought about
More graves for more brave dead.
But of all those dead and buried deep,
Foremost are those who tread
Upon foreign soil; for them we weep,
Our patriotic unknown dead.
Hold fast these words and seek their meaning
And in the end you'll see;
Regardless of your persecutions,
You're living life as one who'sfree.
Through flesh-torn wounds and battered bones,
They are deprived of faith and name.
As our patriots of freedom's fire,
They are rested soldiers of fame.
L, Vincent Majestic
Honorable Mention - Poetry
32
TRAVELER
CAST: James, an aging
African-American gentleman
from the South, looking
tired, and showing signs of
a hard life.
Son, an African-
American boy about seven.
Aunt Mary, an African­American
woman ill her for
ties.
Scene: Curtain opells, to a
darkened bedroom lighted
only by a small bedside
lamp and what light filters
through a slight, linen cur
tain next to James' bed.
James lies in a large brass
bed piled with handmade
quilts. A mound of pillows
under his head elevates his
face to the audience. From
his bed, he slowly, wearily,
draws the curtain back
slightly with the back of his
hand, and ga:es outside.
Rain flows down heavily on
each pane, obstructing the
view.
Stage Left. There is a gentle
knock on the bedroom door.
With neither reply nor intra
duction, Aunt Mary opens
the door and enters the bed
room.
Aunt Mary: James? How you
feel in' sugar?
James: (Still gazing out the
window, James draws a
heavy breath.) Mary, I
'spect you best get the boy
in now.
Aunt Mary: Oh, James. (On
the brink of tears.) ls there
any thin' else I can do for
you?
James: (James looks at Mary
and tenderly takes her
hand.) Just the boy. Please,
Second Place - Drama
AFine House
Richard S. Guthery
Mary. I gots t' see him.
(Mary breaks into tears
and hugs James. Without
allY words, she dashes from
the room.)
(James looks out the win
dow as before.)
James: Oh dear Lord, give me
the stren'th.
(The door slowly opens
and his son, sheepishly,
enters and walks toward the
bed.)
Son: You wanted to see me,
daddy?
James: (James smiles a big
smile.) Yes. Come here, son.
I feel like I ain't seen you in
days. Somethin' I needs to
talk with you about. Now
then, there ain't noth in' on
God's green earth I wouldn't
do for you. You know that,
don't ya?
Son: Uh-huh.
James; You're my boy. I love
you. Come up here and lay
down aside me. (The boy
climbs onto the bed and lies
next to his father.) That's
it-now-I remember the
day you was born. Your
Mama and J was so happy,
so proud. You come out
lookin' like a smashed bug
or somethin'. (James
laughs.) Lord, we didn't
know what to make of you
at first. But, you grew out of
it. You was the most beauti
ful thing your mama and I
ever laid eyes on. And, now
look at you, the finest boy,
excuse me, the finest young
man-
Son: Daddy?
James: Yes, son.
Son: When are you gonna get
better? When are you gonna
get ou t of bed, so's we can
TRAVELER
finish buildin' my play
house like you said?
James: Well, son that's, that's
what I wanted to talk to ya
'bout. I'm 'fraid I ain't
gonna be able to help you
finish that house like I
promised.
Son: But, you promised. And,
I been waitin' a long time.
And I been behavin'-
James: Now, son, I know.
Believe me, I wish more
than any thin' , I could be out
there hammerin' nails and
sawin' wood. I ain't never
broke a promise to ya
before, but it looks like I
ain't gettin' out of this bed.
So, I've asked your Uncle
Hank if he'd help build that
house for ya.
Fact is, you'll be stayin'
with Uncle Hank and Aunt
Mary for a ti me. Ya see,
son, looks like your daddy
ain't gonna be around much
longer-Lord come callin',
and I gots t' go.
(Son breaks down into
uncontrollable tears.)
Now-what's this? You
cryin'? (James straightens
the boy up by his shoulders
and looks into his face.)
Now, you listen to me,
young'n. I ain't about to
have you cryin' at a time
like this. Unless all you can
think about is yourself.
Why, you should be happy.
Son: (Still crying.) Happy?
'Bout what?
James: Child, the Lord is call
in' me-James T. Walker.
I'm gonna be seein' your
mama soon. Won't she be
surprised to see me walkin'
through them pearly gates?
Son: But, I'll miss you. Who's
33
gonna be my daddy?
James: Son, I always be your
daddy, and you'll always be
my son-ain't nothin' gonna
change that. So, I want you
to stop cryin'. If you cryin',
it only for yourself. [ raised
you better. Uncle Hank,
now, he got a nice house,
don't he? Got dogs in the
yard? Kids down the street
to play with? You just take
to mindin' Aunt Mary; she'll
love you like nobody's busi
ness. And, Hank, he already
promised to help build that
house with you-
Son: (Son stands up angrily.) I
don't want Hank to build
any old house with me! I
don't need Aunt Mary!
Nobody loves me! First
Mama, and now you!
James: Now, you see here,
boy ... (James tries to choke
back tears.) My God, son. If
you only knew how much I
love you, your Mama too.
Son, let me hug you-you
are my life. You are every
bit of me, your Mama, and
everything we ever hoped
and dreamed, all rolled up
into one little boy, and don't
you ever forget that. One
day very soon, I'm gonna be
up there in them clouds,
maybe hangin' from a star,
watchin' you. I want you to
make me proud, as proud as
I have always been of you. I
want you to build that
house. A fine house. I want
you to think of me every
time you pound a nail, every
board you put in place.
Make it sturdy, strong, a
beau ti fu I house-a house to
be proud of. And, someday,
your kids will play in that
house, and you'll hel p them
build a house of their own.
And, when the time is right
someday, when that house is
nothin' but weathered pine
and rusted nails, I'll see ya
again-I might just open the
gate for ya.
(James lays his head
back on the pillow looking
toward the heavens. Son lies
on top of James, face
buried, sobbing. The table
lamp dims while a spotlight
shines on the father. James
closes his eyes, alld the
spotlight fades to darkness.)
3$
34
r C9'(JS .
1)t. j. dhthu't dlOJio
MEDICO CIRUdANO OCULISTA
SOCIEDAD MEXICANA DE OFTALMOLOGIA
ASOCIACION PARA eVIT/iiiiE-'. CEGUERA EN "EXIt
Doctor de los ojos, Jim Haas, Honorable Mention, Photography
TRAVELER
First Place - Poetry
ADefense of Hypocrisy
Josh Ivanov
Performance art is a hoax.
We should all hit the streets
and put the "slam" back in
poetry slams, fists and hard
truths for the would-be
poets of the world. Today,
obnoxious ranting and
gangly posturing is the
most creative form we
add to the annals of linguistic
proliferation. We should
build an Acropolis where
pale anorexics fight
each other to the death while
babbling their incoherent,
self-absorbed free-verse.
Art is a grift. Poetry breeds
misery in youth like rats
humping each other into
overpopulation beneath
dirty streets. Every
self-professed poet should
be subjected to cursory beatings
and cavity searches. That
would separate the wheat
from the Plaths. Heads in
the oven, you suffering masses.
The Apocalypse is nigh.
TRAVELER
35
Second Place - Short Story
Aisle of the Damned
Valerie Olinger
36
Equipped with only a cosmetic
mirror, Cleo Winters stood in the
church library alternately examining
the angry, red blemish on her pale
cheek, the mass of curlers in her
auburn hair, and the gaping hole in
her long, white satin gown.
"This is just great. A neon pimple,
a defective set of hot rollers and a
ruined four thousand dollar gown,"
Cleo lamented. "You'd think a dress
this expensive would hold up better."
She lowered the mirror and turned
to her mother seated beside a rectan­gular
table on the far side of the
room. Sometimes, Cleo had the eerie
feeling she was looking at herself in
twenty years. She had inherited many
of her mother's physical attributes
including her tall, thin frame, her
high cheekbones and her crystal blue
eyes, but lately, their similarities
were less evident. Since her parents'
divorce, her mother experimented
with new fashions and spent most of
her time at a tanning salon or a gym
seeking the perfect hard body.
Whether her own or someone else's,
Cleo didn't want to know.
At the moment, Rosalind Winter's
angular frame was sprawled sideways
on a chair with the back tucked under
her armpit and a soggy paper cup in
her hand. Her head was down as she
watched her feet draw patterns
around the open champagne bottle on
the floor. Cleo briefly wondered what
her future in-laws would think of her
mother's short-cropped, radiant rasp­berry
hair and leopard print mini­dress.
"Mother...."
Her mother's head shot up. There
was a stubborn look on her face. "I
told you to call me Rosalind," she
said.
Cleo rolled her eyes. "Oh, for
heaven's sake. For twenty-five years
you were my mother and my father
was my father. Can't we just keep it
that way?"
"You can call your father anything
you like, although 1 prefer whoring
bastard myself. As for me, 1 wish you
would call me Rosalind. The word
'mother' makes me feel old." She
searched the floor for the bottle,
reached for it, then looked up at Cleo
again. "Want some, honey?"
Cleo felt the telltale beginnings of
a headache at the base of her neck.
"No, thanks," she replied absently.
She walked to the two bay windows
which met at the corner of the room.
"What 1 want is Madame Dupree. 1
wonder what's keeping her."
"She probably got stuck in traffic,"
Rosalind mumbled.
"I promised her an extra hundred
if she got here in fifteen minutes.
From what I can tell, that greedy,
needle jockey would run over her
own mother to get here in time to
collect."
"Why you ever hired that fake
French midget is beyond me. I told
you, she's highly overrated and her
phony accent wears on my nerves,"
Rosalind lectured, then took a swig
from the warped paper cup.
Cleo turned, crossed her arms over
her chest and leaned back against the
window. "I told you before, she's the
best seamstress in Milwaukee. She
made eva's wedding gown and it
was beautiful."
"Yeah, well, look where marriage
got her."
Cleo's gaze was drawn to the open
door. "Let's not discuss Neva's mar­riage.
She's by the entrance down­stairs
waiting for Madame Dupree,
but she could walk in at any
moment."
TRAVELER
"I think today would be a dandy
time to discuss the subject of mar­riage.
Instead of sticking your head in
the sand, you should face the fact that
men stink." Rosalind leaned forward
as she warmed to her subject. "You
give the bastards the best years of
your life and what do they do? Leave
you for fast cars and faster blondes."
Cleo shook her head as she began
to aimlessly pace the floor. "You
can't possibly compare your divorce
to what happened to Neva. Dad did­n't
disappear with two million in
company funds and the boss's wife."
"Sometimes, I wish he had,"
Rosalind snorted. "Have you seen his
boss's wife? It would serve the old
goat right."
Cleo stifled a giggle. "That's not
the point. I'm saying that eva had it
a lot worse than you and she's doing
just fine, now that she's paid off the
IRS. She's very happy."
Rosalind waved her hand. "Hell,
the poor girl's so deluded, she does­n't
know she's supposed to be miser­able."
Before Cleo could respond, they
heard the unmistakable voice of
Madame Margo Dupree barking
orders. The seamstress bustled into
the room with two heavily laden, har­ried
assistants and an awestruck Neva
bringing up the rear. With military
precision, Madame Dupree set up a
makeshift seamstress shop complete
with a full-length, three-sided mirror
and a carpet covered box. When she
was satisfied with the arrangements,
she turned to Cleo and snapped her
fingers.
"Get on the box and let's see what
damage you have done to my beauti­ful
creation," she ordered.
Cleo carefully gathered her skirt
and stepped onto the box in front of
the mirrors. At a diminutive four foot
ten, Madame Dupree had an eye
level view of Cleo's waist. Her long,
thin, hooked nose and beady gray
eyes reminded Cleo of a bird of prey.
To add to her severe appearance, her
steely gray hair was teased and
sprayed into a solid helmet of formi­dable
size.
Madame Dupree circled the box
and clucked her tongue. Every now
and then she'd shoot an accusatory
look at Cleo and shake her head in
disgust. Suddenly, she stopped,
curled her tiny finger through the
hole in the waistband and gave it a
sharp yank. To Cleo, the ensuing tear
sounded like the shot heard around
the world.
"My God! What are you doing?"
Cleo screeched. She gingerly touched
the remains of her dress. "Are you
mad? This will never be fixed in
time."
Madame Dupree gave her an
imperious glare. ''I'll have mademoi­selle
know that I was a seamstress on
Broadway."
Rosalind's eyes were wide and
innocent. "Did they ever let you into
the theater, dear?" she asked.
Madame Dupree sniffed disap­provingly
and slowly turned to
Rosalind. She gave her a long,
appraising stare. "Madame Winters,"
she greeted coldly, then looked down
at the half-empty champagne bottle.
"I can't tell you how I've looked for­ward
to seeing you again."
Rosalind smiled sweetly.
"Likewise, sister," she replied.
"I see Barnum and Bailey is still
doing your hair," Madame Dupree
sneered.
Rosalind raised her glass in a
mock salute. "And who would be
more familiar with clowns than you,
darling?"
Cleo tried to remain calm during
their exchange by massaging her
throbbing temples.
"Look, I hate to interrupt this
happy reunion, but remember me,"
she said through clenched teeth. She
gestured to the torn gown. "I'm the
one who's supposed to be married
this afternoon."
Madame Dupree directed her
frosty gaze toward Cleo. "I am more
than capable of getting one nervous
bride down the aisle before she's an
old maid. Now, hold still while I
repair the damage mademoiselle has
done."
"The damage I've done!" Cleo
sputtered.
"Speaking of damage," Rosalind
chirped, "where's old what's-his­name?
Alvin?
Cleo pursed her lips. "His name is
Allen Warner, and he went to the air­port
to pick up his brother."
"Oh, that's right dear. I forgot. He
didn't have any friends in Milwaukee
so he had to import a relative to be
his best man."
A sudden rumble of thunder drew
everyone's attention to the window.
No one had noticed that the sun had
disappeared and that it had been
replaced by banks of menacing, black
clouds. The limbs of the pine trees
slapped against the windows as the
first few rivulets of rain trickled
down the panes.
Cleo's stomach twisted with dread.
Although she wasn't normally super­stitious,
the phrase "happy is the
bride the sun shines on" sprang to
mind. She felt someone staring at her
and found Neva's big, brown, basset
hound eyes fixed upon her. Her pix­ieish
face was scrunched into a frown
as she nervously nibbled a lock of
her glossy brown page boy hairdo.
"I told you October was a bad
month to get married" Rosalind said,
then shrugged her shoulders. "Then
again, any month is a bad month to
get married so what the hell."
Before Cleo could respond, a muf­fled,
high-pitched twitter emanated
from her overcoat on the table. She
made a move to answer it, but
Madame Dupree's threatening glare
brought her to a halt.
TRAVELER
"Neva, would you answer my
coat...! mean, the phone in my coat
pocket?" Cleo asked.
Neva obediently scuttled across
the room. She fumbled thorough the
coat like an amateur pickpocket until
the phone plopped onto the floor. She
corralled it like a soccer ball, picked
it up and answered it with a nervous
giggle. Neva nodded her head and
handed the phone to Cleo. "It's
Allen."
Cleo smiled brightly as she navi­gated
the phone around her curlers to
her ear. "Hello, sweetheart. Are you
on your way?" Suddenly, her smile
was replaced by a frown.
"What? ..Oh, Allen ...Of course, I
understand... well, okay.. .I'1l talk to
you later, then."
Cleo pressed the disconnect button
with a heavy sigh. "Better keep this
close by, Neva," she said as she
handed the phone to her friend.
Rosalind leaned forward and
looked at Cleo expectantly. "Well,
don't keep us in suspense. What's up
with Alfred?" she prodded.
"It's Allen," Cleo corrected
absently," and he's stuck at the air­port."
"Stuck to whom?" Rosalind asked
with a wicked grin.
Cleo pursed her lips. "He's not
stuck to anybody. His brother's flight
is delayed. He's going to call when
he's on his way. In the meantime, his
mom and dad should be here any
minute."
"Be still my heart," Rosalind
drawled, then took a gulp of cham­pagne.
''I'm going to need more
anesthesia in order to deal with Mitzi
and David Warner."
Rosalind groped at her feet for the
bottle, but to her dismay, she found it
was empty. Cleo watched in amaze­ment
as Rosalind extracted two bot­tles
of French champagne from her
massive handbag.
"Old boy Scout motto-be pre­pared,"
she quipped, then kissed each
bottle in turn.
37
38
Cleo was torn between amusement
and annoyance as her mother expert­ly
pried the cork off one of the bot­tles
with a resounding pop. Madame
Dupree started and turned to watch
Rosalind's antics. Neva glanced fear­fully
at Cleo, Madame Dupree and
Rosalind, then quickly excused her­self.
Humming tunelessly, Rosalind
positioned her new stock of libation
at her feet. As she raised her cup to
her lips, she noticed her audience.
"What are you all staring at?" she
grumbled.
Madame Dupree removed the pins
from her mouth and stuck them in the
cushion around her wrist. "You
remind me of a squirrel gathering
nuts," Madame Dupree observed.
"And you remind me of a porcu­pine
with a big mouth," Rosalind
snapped.
"Well, I never!" Madame Dupree
huffed.
"I'd bet money on it."
"Will the two of you knock it
off?" Cleo cried. "Madame Dupree,
would you please get back to work.
We're running out of time." Cleo
tried to smile, but all she could man­age
was a sick grimace. She turned to
Rosalind. "And you-take it easy on
the champagne. You might wind up
saying something to Allen's parents
that you'll regret."
"There's nothing I could say to
them that I'd regret. They are insuf­ferable
snobs."
Cleo shrugged her shoulders and
sighed. "I just wish Allen's mother
would stop crying."
"Crying? That woman carries on
like a professional mourner. She was
sobbing so hard at the rehearsal din­ner
last night, the waiter offered me
condolences on the family's recent
loss. If she keeps it up today, I'm
going to tell her to stuff a sock in it."
Cleo pointed her finger at
Rosalind. "You see, that's exactly
what I'm talking about. She's obvi­ously
upset about this marriage. I
don't need you adding to the prob­lem."
A series of bloodcurdling screams
filled the air followed by the sound
of heels racing down the hallway.
Neva burst through the door red
faced and breathless. Directly behind
her was an extremely tall, gaunt man
wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo. His
long, red hair was tied back with a
bow-tie and around his neck hung an
expensive camera.
Neva pointed weakly at the man.
"This pervert was in the ladies' bath­room
taking pictures," she gasped.
He threw his hands up in surren­der.
"Hey, I'm just doing what Allen
hired me to do. You know, I'm
famous for my candid shots." He
wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Allen hired you?" Cleo's eyes
grew wide. "Oh, Lord. Don't tell me
you're Howard Briggs, the wedding
photographer?"
"I see my reputation precedes
me," he said with a bow.
"You keep taki ng pictures in the
ladies' room, sweetie, and you'll
have a police record to go with that
reputation," Rosalind said with a
smirk.
Howard turned to Rosalind, took a
step back then stretched out his arms
to her. "What eyes! What hair! What
a body!" he gushed.
Rosalind flushed with pleasure.
Howard made a square with his fin­gers
and peered at her through the
makeshift frame. "Beau-ti-ful."
he exclaimed, then reached for his
camera. Rosalind squealed with
delight and aped for the lens.
Cleo gave Neva a crooked smile.
"At least he'll stay out of the bath­room
for a while."
The phone rang and Cleo automat­ically
tried to answer it.
"Move and die," Madame Dupree
intoned. "I'm in the middle of bast­ing
the seam."
Cleo rolled her eyes and extended
her hand. "Neva, would you be so
kind. It's got to be Allen."
TRAVELER
Heedless of her curlers, Cleo anx­iously
clamped the phone to her ear.
"Darling, are you on your way? ..Oh,
Mr. Carvel, I'm sorry. I thought you
were someone else. How's the
arrangements for the reception com­ing?.
What?...Oh, no. That can't be
right...Did you talk to the manag­er...
Who? ..Where are you...The
Toliver Hotel? You're supposed to be
at the Oliver Hotel...What? ..No, I
won't pay extra. I'm sure you've
negotiated a marvelous deal, but I
already have arrangements at the
Oliver. I suggest you pack up your
shrimp puffs, go to the Oliver and do
the job I hired you to do. Is that
c1ear? ..Great. Good-bye."
Cleo pressed the disconnect button
with such force that her false nail
snapped off. She just smiled sadly as
it bounced across the floor, landed at
Madame Dupree's feet and was
crushed under her spiked heel.
Neva took the phone from her.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"You know, it's getting so it
would be easier to tell you what's
right." Cleo glanced at her watch,
then recoiled in horror. "Oh, where
the hell is Allen?"
The sound of weeping wafted up
from the landing below. Cleo closed
her eyes and gritted her teeth. "Well,
here's the coup de grace," she mut­tered.
Mitzi and David Warner reluctant­ly
walked through the door of the
library. Cleo was struck again by
Mitzi's almost palpable air of old
money. It hung on her as surely as
the full-length, black sable coat she
wore. Her snow white hair was
pulled back in a severe French knot
that mercilessly revealed her pinched
features. Her husband, David, had
traded in his dignity for the comforts
of his wife's money long ago. He
constantly orbited around her like a
solicitous satellite.
"Where's my baby?" Mitzi sobbed
dramatically.
"He's been delayed at the airport,"
Cleo supplied.
Mitzi clasped her bony hands to
her slight chest. "Oh, dear' [s some­thing
wrong with my baby?"
"Don't worry, Mitzi darling,"
Rosalind piped in, "you can always
reel him in by the umbilical cord."
"What?" Mitzi gasped.
Cleo waved her hand. "Nothing,
she said nothing!"
"I'm sure the boys are just fine,
dear," David blustered, then noticed
the bottles on the floor. "Say,
Rosalind, is that champagne?"
"Help yourself. [ like a man who
takes a drink," she cooed, then leered
at Howard. ''I'm also growing fond of
men who take pictures."
Howard returned her leer. "Wait
'till I show you my dark room."
"David, you come back here! Mitzi
screeched.
David blushed from the bottom of
his non-existent chin to the top of his
bald head. Rosalind leaned forward in
her chair and glared at Mitzi.
"Oh, leave him alone," she scold­ed.
She poured another cup of cham­pagne
and gestured to Mitzi. "Here,
sweetie, relax and have a snort."
Mitzi's nostrils flared and she
arched an eyebrow. "I will not have a
'snort' and neither will my husband.
Come David, we'll wait in the car
until the children arrive."
"David can make his own deci­sions,
can't you?" Rosalind dared.
"Well, I don't...," he stammered.
"David, you get away from that
hussy and her teenage gigolo this
instant!" Mitzi demanded.
"Who're you calling a hussy, you
prig!" Rosalind defended.
"Prig! No one dares to talk to me
like that!"
"I can say whatever the hell I
want. Unlike your spineless husband
here, I'm not on your payroll."
"At least I have a husband."
"He's not a husband. He's a door­mat
in a suit."
Mitzi sucked in her breath. "David,
are going to let her talk to me this
way."
"Yeah, David, hop to it and earn
your keep."
Cleo watched on in helpless fasci­nation
as her headache turned into a
migraine. While the free-for-all con­tinued,
a man in a green jumpsuit
ambled into the noisy room and
looked around as if he couldn't
believe his eyes. He focused on Cleo
and gave her a dopey grin.
"Flower delivery!" he announced,
then stepped into the hallway. He
returned a moment later carrying a
horseshoe shaped wreath with a ban­ner
inscribed "Happy Barmitzvah,
Ira."
"What the hell is that!" Cleo
shrieked. She gestured to the room.
"does this look like a Jewish temple
to you?"
The delivery man scratched his
head thoughtfully. "Well, it seemed
pretty odd, but then again, what do I
know?"
Cleo clamped her hands over her
face and screamed. Everyone in the
room stopped fighting, talking, see­ing
and drinking. For perhaps the
first time that day, there was com­plete
silence.
"That's it!" Cleo cried. "['ve had
it."
Cleo slapped Madame Dupree's
hands away as she carelessly scram­bled
off the box. She grabbed the
phone off the table and violently
punched the keypad while all eyes in
the room watched.
"Allen, are you still at the air­port?
..Good. Now, don't talk, just
listen. If you really love me, you'll
go to the ticket counter, buy four,
first-class tickets on the next flight to
Las Vegas and wait for me. Don't
ask any questions. I'll explain later. I
love you. Good-bye."
Cleo viciously stripped off the
satin gown. As she stood in her long,
diaphanous slip, she wadded the deli­cate
material into a ball.
"You're killing my creation!"
Madame Dupree shrieked.
TRAVELER
"Here's the corpse, Dr.
Frankenstein," Cleo cried, then
chucked the crumpled mass at the
stunned seamstress. "Sell it to the
next deluded nit wit that comes
along."
Neva nervously chewed her hair.
"Cleo, what are you doing?"
Cleo stormed to the table and
pushed aside her coat to reveal her
jeans and sweater draped over the
back of a chair.
''I'll tell you what ['m doing. I'm
getting out of this combination loony
bin and singles bar before I lose my
mind, but don't worry, Neva, there's
going to be a wedding," Cleo said as
she struggled into her jeans, then
pulled off the slip. "You, Allen, his
brother and I are going to Las Vegas
this afternoon."
Neva's eyes light up at the
prospect. "Oh, Cleo, how wonder­ful'"
Mitzi began to sob. "David, do
something," she wailed.
Cleo wrestled her sweater over her
curlers. Some of the pins caught in
the knitted material and stuck
through the back like the spines of a
hedgehog. She gathered up her coat
and purse, then looked over her
shoulder.
"Come on, Neva, let's go," she
said cheerfully.
Rosalind swayed to her feet.
"What about all the arrangements?
What about the guests?"
Cleo stopped in the doorway and
turned with slow deliberation. ''I'm
sure you and your camera-crazed
Lothario can come up with some­thing.
For all I care, you can drape
that wreath from hell around your
neck and march up the aisle of the
damned accompanied by the budding
banshee here. Perhaps the minister
can perform the rite of sobriety." She
saluted the occupants of the room
and stalked off with Neva in her
wake.
"Ungrateful kid," Rosalind mut­tered.
$
39
40
Untitled #2, Jim Kearns, Honorable Mention, Photography
TRAVELER
Maricopa District Competition - First Place - Poetry
Swallowed
Gail Hicks
I have swallowed somewhere
short of a ton of dirt.
I have swallowed a snail or two,
according to my mother.
I have swallowed St. Joseph's
aspmn;
half bottle full.
I have swallowed syrup of ipecac.
I have swallowed paste and paint
and marker tips.
I have swallowed my share
of wax crayons and their paper
wrappers.
I have swallowed strained peas
and mashed meats
and tasteless fruits in tiny jars.
I have swallowed substitutes
for my mother's lactic love.
I have swallowed chop-suey
on dessertless nights at the dinner table.
I have swallowed liver and slimy onions
and forced it back up
just to prove a point.
I have swallowed sesame seeds
and sunflower seeds
and the seeds of men.
I have swallowed my childhood.
I have swallowed ice-cream
on a cookie cone.
I have swallowed chocolate
in every conceivable form.
I have swallowed potato chips
buried past my finger tips
in glossy mounds of French onion dip.
I have swallowed pizza pies
and cherry pies
and apple with cheese.
I have swallowed naturally flavored
caramel coloring
aspartame and assorted acids
bound in a bubbly swill
and lived to tell about it.
I have swallowed lies.
I have swallowed pills.
I have swallowed cat calls.
I have swallowed commitments
thrown back at me.
I have swallowed the pain of childbirth
and the anguish of rearing children alone.
I have swallowed accusations
and insinuations
I have swallowed the names
that were not my own.
I have swallowed filthy names
not to be spoken.
I have swallowed unsweetened loss.
I have swallowed briny tears.
I have swallowed neglect.
I have swallowed it all.
I have swallowed myself.
And the bigger I get, the smaller I become,
and the easier it is
to swallow it.