"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1999

              Glendale Community College
Traveler 1999
Credits
~ ,L ( \ ~
Marion Ekholm, Wes Bailey
L tLrdl.l. 1 ''-0
Barbara Jordan, Carmela Arnoldt, Charles Sohn,
Freddie Anttila, Kirt Shineman, Mary Jane Onnen,
Marti Moraga, Mildred Fischer, Pam Joraanstad,
Pat Haas, Ruth Callahan.
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
~]IS I 1)( I I t 1':: 1 ly \(h ,or'-
Jan Boerner, JoY Wingersky, Ron Fischer
J"l<1 L,tr
Dawn Meyer
.It D.l·tL,
Juliana D. Swenson
\.,., .... , l \ .. dOl'
Carolyn Syata
1 )f
Jennifer Kruska, Juliana D. Swenson
C( \ e" ~',..,
Juliana D. Swenson
pl,ot( n", I ht r
Barrett Wentworth
Photoglaph\ Pr ductIon
Barrett Wentworth
Cover
First Place
Painting and Watercolor
Waterfall
By Aleksandr Kasparov
Traveler 1999
PI, Jt( gl"ph \ I L III 112;
Juliana D. Swenson
Carolyn Syata
Bonnie Loss, Mirta Hamilton, R.]. Merrill
Mirta Hanrnton, R.]. Merrill
Bieri Printing
Special thanks to Dean Terasaki, Pat Ten Eyck and
Tom Streich for the help.
h
11
211
What's inside...-------
<.
The Surprise by Ellen McCoy
Second Place
The Second Fruil by Josh Ivanov
First Place
High Heels and Spider Legs by Julie Barela
Honorable Mention
Working Vacation by Julie Barela
Second Place
ANight To Remember by Jacci Johnson
First Place
Miranda Righls and Sleepless Nights By David McGuigml
Third Place
Old School Spirit by Ellen McCoy
Honorable Mention
Goodbye to You by Breonna L. Redford
Napita by Marry Wasser-Nelson
Second Place
Euthanasia by Josh Ivanov
Honorable Mention
No Capacity Signs Allowed at the Dinner Table By Amber Rae Bradshaw
First Place
Procrastinating Pessimist on a Bad Diet by Craig Bianco
Sipped by Jonathan J. Staton
Third Place
\1 "
Simon Says by Debra Krol
Honorable Mention
Serve il Cold by Maureen D. Meek
Third Place
Pusch...Pusch by Bradley J. Meek
First Place
APew oj"Cheap Seals" by Amber Rae Bradshaw
Second Place
An Honest Day's Work by Maureen D. Meek
Honorable Mention
\ bll< I.. In l'n ..,
Samurai Helmet By Steve Godel
First Place
22 Years Later - I Can't Still Throw. But I Love My Marbles
By Marcia E. McMahon
I
Point Line and Plane by Maria Herrick
First Place
) l
I)
II
it
1')
Bisbee Sireel by Carol L. Holloway
Bailey by Kari Skinner
Honorable Mention
Old House by Carol L. Holloway
Second Place
Untilled by Edna Pitm~m
Third Place
Seated Figure by Bill Wetherill
First Place
Gesture by Jim Kearns
Red Ball by Usa Taber
Third Place
Reclining Male ude By Jim Kearns
Second Place Drawing
Buddies by Carol L. Holloway
Honorable Mention
Hiroshima by Tim Taohg
Second Place
Ball & Chain by Lee Packer
The Arlist in His Solitude by Tim Taogh
Honorable Mention
Self-Portrait III by BmTett Wentworth
Untitled by Michael Gushura
Untitled by Jim Kearns
Honorable Mention
David I by Barrett Wentworth
Third Place
Transmute I, If, III and IV by Jim Kearns
First Place
Worth More Than Money If by Rachel Muralles
Honorable Mention
Untitled by Ron Fessler
ApocaO!jJse by Esther Beier
First Place
Tigerfrom the Wild Animal Collection
by Bernadette Rabiej
Third Place
Anlz on Patrol by George Cook
Honorable Mention
Le VOJlageur by Ron Fessler
Robot P1ayland by Scott Butler
Second Place
"' I Eye ojthe Beholder by Richard MalO
Third Place
No Title by Kenneth Souza
Second Place
Traveler 1999 1
High Heels and Spider Legs
Non-Fiction
llonorahif.' Mention
Julie Barela
2 Traveler 1999
-- /
/
--------
First Place
Drawing
Seated Figure
By Bill Wetherill
walked home from kindergarten carry­ing
the paper with the big red check
mark branded across the top. The
assignment was to match each person with the cor­rect
object. There was a mom, a dad, a brother,
and a sister. They were to be matched with a high­heeled
shoe, a hammer, a football, and a doll. I
knew I wanted the football, so Brother got the doll.
Mom obviously got the hammer (Dad might hurt
himself with a hammer). My mother took one look
at the paper and asked why in the world I had
given Daddy a high-heeled shoe, so I explained
that it was all that was left. I then discovered that
other moms wore dresses and high-heeled shoes,
other dads used tools and other girls played with
dolls. That was the first time I was aware that I was
"different."
One spring day when I was about seven,
the worms invaded our blacktop playground at
school, as they always did when it rained. All of the
other girls were afraid of the worms. Aboy in my
class, Wilson, began chasing the girls around with
the snake-like creatures. Wilson was big. He had
repeated kindergarten-twice. And he was a bully.
After weeks of watching him harass the girls I
couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed the white
fleece collar of his jean jacket and pinned him
down by sitting on his chest under the huge red
slide at the far end of the schoolyard. I held his
brown curls to the cold, wet pavement as I pried
his lips apart and forced the worm, still alive and
Wiggling, down his throat. I don't ever remember
girls playing with me before this day, but from that
moment forth, I had constant female companion­ship
on rainy days.
I usually preferred to play with boys, any­way.
I enjoyed sports, and other young ladies did
not participate on the teams. What I really wanted
to do was play football with the older boys at the
other end of the street. They, however, did not
share my desire. Then when I was in third grade,
my family painted our house a dark forest green.
My relatives came over to help with the job. They
painted the house first, leaving the garage until the
next weekend. One of my uncles painted
"Thorntons (my maiden name) are pigs" on the faded turquoise
garage door. The big boys thought that I must be cool to let my garage
look like that (as if I had any say so in the matter), so they let me play
football with them. My elbows and knees were covered with scabs,
because the big boys played tackle, not touch, football in the middle
of the street. I loved those scabs, and later their scars, as they were a
testament to my week of glory. But the next weekend the garage was
painted, too, and it was back to playing with the kids my own age.
As I grew older, I discovered that I was more interested in
science than other girls. I had an insatiable curiosity; I needed to
know how things worked, and why. One day I caught daddy-long-legs
spiders and pulled them apart, one thin black leg at a time, to watch
the dismembered pieces convulse from nerve impulses. I brought my
microscope and blank slides outside to investigate further. The
thread-like legs had hair on them! They would twitch, but only for five
or ten seconds. Then I put the lifeless leg into a pile and pulled off a
new one. I was awe struck. It was amazing! Would it happen every
time? To every kind of spider? What about other kinds of bugs? I had
to find out. With my bare hands, I caught bees, centipedes, beetles,
whatever I could find. My mother came outside and was horrified at
the pile of discarded appendages, which was now quite large.
"How would you like it if a huge spider pulled off your arms
and legs?" she asked in disgust.
I shrugged my shoulders. "I guess I would deserve it," I said
as I reached for the next test subject. "Hey, Mom!" I called after her
as she walked away, "would my arms and legs do this?"
I remember so vividly what it felt like to be a child. Tlus has
molded the way I parent my three daughters. They are smart, strong,
brave girls who delight in everyday nliracles with unbridled enthusi­asm.
We camp, luke, backpack, kayak, do archelY, play other sports,
and explore our world together. I now realize that the things that
made me a "different" child are what make me a different parent. I
am glad I was different.
Second Place
Photography
Hiroshima
By Tim Taohg
Traveler 1999 3
Old School Spirit Honorable Mention
Poetry Ellen McCoy
BE STILL, CREAKING BONES. THIS CREPE WRI KLED SKIN,
AGE SPOrrED, LOOSE, STILL HAS SPIRIT WITHIN. ~
I MUFFLE MY OLD ACHING BODY'S CRY
LEST THE POWERS SHOULD HEAR AND CALL ME TO DIE
BEFORE I'M READY, BEFORE I HAVE RUN
THE GAMUT OF THIS LIFE, BEFORE I'M DONE.
....' ..
~
DO DO
DO DO
:.. 00 DO
OLD SPIRIT SWELLS WITH ANTICIPATION.
FORCE-FED BY DELAYED DETERMINATION,
IT PRODS SPIDER-VEINED LEGS DOWN COLLEGE HALLS,
DEVOURS TEXT BOOKS WHILE YOUTH STARES AT THE WALLS
OR GANDERS ABOUT IN SEARCH OF AMATE
CONJURING HOW EDUCATION CAN WAIT
WHILE HORMONES HUMP TO THE EEDS OF "RIGHT ow."
BY CO TRAST OLD AGE BREEDS WISDOM SOMEHOW
DERIVED FROM HINDSIGHT. IT COMES OT TOO LATE
IF FORTUNE PROLONGS ONE'S FINAlE DATE.
SUCH HINDSIGHT HAVE 1. IN AWE OF ITS SCOPE
I MARVEL AT DNA, SCIE CE, NEW HOPE.
DONORS OF LIFE GIVE ONE TO ANOTHER
REGARDLESS OF CREED, GENDER OR COLOR.
I DARE TO TID KTHE SAME CURE FOR "BRAIN DEAD"
IMPATIENTLY HIDES IN SHADOWS AHEAD.
FOR THAT END I PREPARE MY DONATION,
AWISE BRAIN CHOCK-FULL OF INFORMATION.
·..··........ . .. ... ·.... .. ........ .......... .. .. .. .. ............ ............. ......
4 Traveler 1999
The Surprise
Drama Ellen McCoy
SCENE ONE
Time: Present, lunch hour
Place: Hotel coffee shop, Anaheim, California
There is a customer entrance, left, a kitchen door, right, divider
partly shielding it and a sideboard/service station, upper leftfrom
a table setfor two, center with two chairs.
Lights up finds Cheryl in a business suit, standing close to
kitchen door with Tony, in Chefs uniform, both in plain sight.
Waiter/ess in uniform, shadowed bJI divider, busy at serving sta­tion.
Cheryl: Sorry to pull you out of the kitchen during lunch, but we
need a quick minute to talk.
Tony: What's wrong, sweetheart? You look upset.
Cheryl: More like worried. Your wife's on her way. Asked if she
could meet with me in the coffee shop.
Tony: Margaret? Coming here?
Cheryl: Yes! She phoned a while ago. Wants to talk personally.
Something about your marriage. Honey, do you think she
knows?
Tony: About us? Lord, no! And I haven't mentioned a divorce yet
either!
Cheryl: But you told me...
Tony: I told you, after our anniversary, sweetheart. She deserves
some consideration. It's only three more weeks. Besides,
her mother's in town until the weekend after, and I don't
want to deal with that witch. What time's Margaret coming?
Cheryl: (looks at watch) Pretty quick.
Tony: Then I better get going. See you in the dining room when the
lunch bunch leaves. (starts to go, stops) Honey, don't let
her push you! (exits to kitchen)
Cheryl: Don't worry, I won't. See you later, babe. (c1'Osses to table,
sits in chait; right)
Waiter/ess: (approaches table, upper center, from between divider
and serving station with menus and coffee pot) Coffee?
(pours to a "yes" nod, offers menu) Did you want a menu?
Cheryl: Just coffee for now. I'm waiting for someone.
Waiter: I'll come back then. (sets two menus on table and exits
behind divider)
Started when our daughter got married.
(switching to bright side) Now, that
was the reception of all times. Tony really
out did himself. Carved his own ice
sculpture. Ahuge goblet! Filled it with
pink champagne! My friends of the muse
um were quite impressed!
Cheryl: I remember that buffet.
Margaret: You do?
Cheryl: Sure! 1was new then. Worked part time
in Chef's office, training. He taught me all
about the kitchen accounts, what to
watch for, what not to pay without his OK.
You know, that kind of stuff. Your
daughter'S wedding buffet was quite a
spread. Big bucks!
Margaret: (slips back into remorse) And for
nothing, if you ask me. Angela's husband
took a piddling job in Chicago not one
year later! Moved her and our new
grandbaby endless miles away! Emptied
my nest, I can tell you!
Tony's not the same either. It's like his
heart went with her, Angela, I mean. They
were very close... but it seems I'm
rambling. (back in emotional control)
Cheryl, you know I'm here to ask another
favor. Abig one, this time. It seems my
marriage needs charging up a bit.
(reaches her hand across as ifto touch
ChelJI/'s)
Cheryl: (subtly avoids the hand, sips coffee)
Well, fire away!
Margaret: (engrossed) The weekend of our
anniversary... , starting that Friday.
Can you secretly arrange for someone to
cover for Tony? Maybe If you could keep
a close eye on things that weekend?
Cheryl: I probably can. Sous chef owes me a
favor.
Margaret: (hopeful) Are you saying you wouldn't
mind then?
Cheryl: Well, I must admit I'm curious about
your "surprise."
fifty, hotel executive chef
middle-aged wife of Tony
25ish, attractive hotel administrative assistant
young, "coffee shop" experienced
CHARACTERS
Tony De Fabio:
Margaret:
Cheryl:
Waiter/ess:
continue...
Traveler 1999 5
Margaret; It's a second honeymoon! ot
that we ever had a first. Over night on the
boat to Catalina. Rush! Rush! Tony had to
get back. But this time it's the Catalina
cruise! The whole weekend on the new
ship. First cabin all the way.
Cheryl: Have you booked the passage yet?
Margaret: No. I wanted to check with you first.
It's two thous...a lot of money.
Non-refundable.
Cheryl: Say... , why don't you let me arrange it? I
can get the hotel's corporate discount.
Save you 10%. Could even run it
through on Mr. De Fabio's personal
account. I do kitchen payroll now, too.
Margaret: Oh, no! I mean, not out of his pocket.
I want this to be my surprise. My cost!
Maybe then he'll realize I am still around.
(suggestively) I'll have two full nights to
prove it!
Cheryl: Ahem! (getting uncomfortable) If I
don't charge the cruise fare to payroll,
how shall I handle it?
Margaret: (quickOi pulls check book from
pU1'se) I've written you a check. Just
needs signing. There you go! Two
thousand dollars.
Cheryl: (as Margaret keeps writing) But I can
still get you the discount.
Margaret: Well, that's nice. Just keep it for
yourself, Cheryl. (smiling, hands her the
check) After all, if it weren't for you,
none of this would be happening.
Now, dear, (all business now) we'll
board promptly at six on Friday, the
twelfth. They'll ask you about that when
you call. Just say you want reservations
for two at the Captain's table. There's a
grand buffet for early boarders. Ship
doesn't sail until nine, but I think Tony
will enjoy someone else's buffet for a
change.
Cheryl: (folds the check into her pocket) If he
doesn't get too cdtical and pick it to
pieces one dish at a time.
Margaret: He does do that! Every time we eat
out. And when I cook at home, which is
why I never doL ..Oh, and tell them to
hold our passes for pick-up. He mustn't
know until we're actually boarding.
Cheryl: Don't you worry, Mrs. De Fabio. I'll take
6 Traveler 1999
care of everything. (glances at her watch) ow I better get
back to work before chef wonders where I'm hiding. (starts
toward the kitchen, turns to speak again, smiling) Oh,
Mrs. De Fabio... , bon voyage!
SCENE TWO
Time: approximately 4p.m. Friday, the twelfth, De Fabio's
anniversary date.
Place: De Fabio home
There is a dinette table with cloth and standard evening
meal settingfor two, un-lit candles, wine goblets, decanter ofred
wine, two dining room chairs, left and right oftable, side board,
left with portable phone and Tony's briefcase at the end, kitchen
door, right, dining room entrancefrom outside hall, left.
Lights up-sound ofan outer door closing offstage. Margaret
enters the dining area left with apurse on her arm, carrying a
large package labeled "Victoria's Secret. "
Tony: (wearing casual dress with barbecue apron, entersfrom
kitchen at sound ofouter door closing and sees Margaret
entering, quickly crosses toward her) Well, hello,
Margaret. Been shopping, I see. (cheeriM
Margaret: (lowers the package, stands bewildered at Tony's
attire, manages a wry smile) Do you know what day this
is?
Tony: Friday?
Margaret: 1mean, the date?
Tony: The twelfth!
Margaret: Just...,the twelfth?
Tony: (mischievously) Our 25th anniversary, the twelfth?
Margaret: (relieved) So...the joke is on me! God, I almost fainted!
Tony: (takes her package andpurse, puts them on the side
board near the open briefcase, hustles her into a chair,
raises the wine container andpours himselfaglass,
leaves it on the table)I've got just the thing for a faint heart.
(pours her aglass while standing, raises it, encouraging
her to a toast) Here's to our wedding day. Quite an event.
Your mother said we'd never make ten, remember?
Margaret: (still bewildered but going along) Oh, yes. 1remember.
(imitates her mom's condescending tone) "Why,
Margaret, he's nothing but a fry cook!" (in real voice) of
course, it was true...then!
Tony: And it's still true. Only the title has changed. And the money,
thank God! But I'll always be a cook at heart. Agood cook!
And dinner's in the oven. Bottoms up! (finishes his glass
andpours them another).
Margaret: (one small sip, put down the glass) Tony! This isn't
funny any more. You're not even dressed to go out, and I
told you last week. We have to leave by 4:30...5 at the
latest. The surprise starts promptly at six.
Tony: (adding to her glass, sits down to drink his own) But I'm
making your favorite .. .lasagna!
Margaret: (irritated) Well, fu .. reeze the lasagna. You knew I made
dinner reservations for our anniversary!
Tony: (calmly) But I never said I'd go.
Margaret: You never said you wouldn't. I've been planning this night
for three weeks.
Tony: (somberly) I've been planning it longer than that. Just
relax, dear.
Margaret: How can I possibly relax!
Tony: (moves to fill her glass) Try a little more wine!
Margaret: (pulls her glass away) We can't drink any more.
Someone has to drive.
Tony: That's what cabs are for!
Margaret: (relieved) True enough! (sips) I knew this was just a
joke. But why do you tease me so?
Tony: (pouring her more wine) I'm not teasing you, dear. I really
wanted us to be alone tonight.
Margaret: (overjoyed) Oh, honey, we can be alone! After we eat! In
our stateroom! The truth is I've booked us on the boat to
Catalina. Just like our wedding night...only this time it
includes their grand buffet!
Tony: Seen one buffet, you've seen 'em all!
Margaret: But we have six o'clock reservations at the Captain's table!
Tony: The Captain won't miss us, Margaret!
Margaret: Honey, my surprise is way more than that. We're booked
for the whole weekend. 1\vo nights! (suggestive) Plenty of
time to ...well, us... , to get reacquainted. There's been a huge
gap in our marriage for a long time now.
Tony: Well, that's for sure. But I can't go.
Margaret: Yes, you can! I spoke to Cheryl weeks ago. She's
covering your kitchen. It's all been arranged.
Tony: But I don't want to go.
Margaret: Honey, you still don't understand.
Tony: No, dear, you don't understand. I have other plans.
Margaret: (as ifnone ofthis were happening) You never men
tioned them to me.
Tony: Didn't know I should. Like you said, Margaret, we've been
going our separate ways for a long time now.
Margaret: (realizing he is NOTgoing) So...what you're saying
is...my plans are.. .for nothing?.. (in a daze) and I
wasted...all that money?
Tony: (gets the check out ofhis briefcase at the mention of
money) It's not quite that bad, Margaret. We never cashed
your check. Here you go. (hands it to her, folded)
Margaret: (unfolds it) Oh, my God! it is my check! (takes a
moment to sort it out, then slowly) Are you trying to tell
me...you want...a divorce?
Tony: (sympathetically puts his hand on her shoulder) Oh,
Margaret, I wish there had been an easier way.
Margaret: Hmmph! (pauses to absorb the complete picture) A
divorce! (pushes his hand away as griefturns to cold
anger) And for what? That phony piece of fluff!
Tony: We didn't plan it, Margaret. Things just
happened. I'm terribly sorry.
Margaret: Not half as sorry as you're going to be
when I finish with you in court. (coolly
takes a drink ofwine)
Tony: (sits down to plead) Now, Maggie,
there's no reason we can't settle every
thing peacefully...quietly!
Margaret: Quietly? So quietly the corporation
doesn't hear of it...doesn't wash the both
of you out of your jobs? (fills her
own wine glass but doesn't drink)
Tony: Don't be silly, Margaret. I'm just one
executive chef in a long chain of hotels.
My personal life wouldn't make a ripple
in their pool.
Margaret: (toying with wine glass) Except for
mother's corporate stock! (makes an
exaggerated toasting gesture, takes a
sip). She holds enough to cause a tidal
wave!
Tony: I don't believe you!
Margaret: (puts goblet down) Silly Anthony!
Surely you knew someone furnished the
ladder you climbed so high and fast on. I
mean, all the way to the top! Oh, there's
one more thing, dear, I've already packed
you a bag. (gets up, talking, walking to
phone on sideboard) It's in the back of
your car. (turns with phone in hand,
out stretched to him) Or would you
rather take a cab to where...ever it
is...you're going?
Tony: (gets up somberly, ignores her offer,
takes offapron, sets it on backboard,
gets car keys out ofbriefcase, picks it
up and heads for the doorway, tries for
words to say good-bye) Well, Margaret,
I hope you'll be all right. (hesitates)
There's enough lasagna to last you a
while. (exits)
Margaret: (with phone in hand, stands strong
watching him go, calls after him) You
know I don't keep leftovers. (at the
sound ofthe outside door closing, sits
down, lifts the wine glass but is sud
denly overwhelmed by her loss, sobs)
Oh, Tony, Tony. (buries her head in her
arms, sobbing painfully)
Lights dim.
Traveler 1999 7
Goodbye to You
1-------
Poetry Breonna L. Redford
It's funny, to me....
The things I remember
When I've been trying so hard for months
to forget everything about you.
Pieces of you seem engraved in my mind.
Perhaps even my heart,
though I would emphatically deny all accusations
if ever questioned whether I love or loved you
even for a moment.
I suppose I did,
though I can admit it only when I let my guard down,
turn soft around the edges...
the way I used to be.
I can testify that I loved you with a heart so pure
I blindly thought our hearts were one.
It gave me justification for living.
8
Photography
Ball & Chain
By Lee Packer
Traveler 1999
There was a time when I would do anything for you­Sacrifice
my thumb if it would save your finger.
Wave goodbye to my dreams if it would help you obtain yours.
For these actions and feelings,
I have been labeled obsessive, strange,
even neurotic at times.
I consider it passionate.
I would forfeit this passion, my lifeblood, if it meant
I could gain a mind clear of all traces of you.
But I continue to remember.
Though we spent but a short time together
it's as though the world did not exist for me before you came.
And now I fight to see in the past
without having to picture you.
I anl slowly getting there,
as I look inside myself and become who I need to be without you.
I still dream of you.
I have fantasies of you begging for forgiveness again,
and my fool heart allowing one last chance.
I know tills can not happen...that in order for us
to coexist in each other's presence, you must change.
Though it is hard for me,
at least I can be honest when I say that it will never happen.
Even today, after I've been hurt by your deceit numerous times,
the masochist within me begs for more games.
Drawing
Gesture
By Jim Kearns
But then I turn hard around the edges,
renounce that I was ever malleable
and attempt to say farewell.
If I do not dismiss you,
it will be the end of me,
the end of a chance for happiness.
I take a deep breath, gather up my strength,
open my mouth,
and whisper...
...goodbye.
Goodbye to your laugh, your love, your understanding,
your smile, your arms, your eyes, you.
Goodbye to your lies, your anger, your pain, my pain, my hurt, my
anger.
Goodbye to you.
Honorable Mention
Photography
The Artist in His Solitude
By Tim Taogh
Traveler 1999 9
Working Vacation S('«.mJ Place
------
Non-Fiction Julie Barela
10
hen I sit down to interview my father-in-law, it
becomes a family affair. We begin the interview on
the family room sectional and are soon joined by my
mother-in-law, my three daughters, and later my husband. Everyone is
eager to hear Papa's stories.
I inquire about fond memories of his childhood, and what I
hear surprises me. I know that he had been a migrant farm worker as
a young boy, but it never occurred to me that he might have regarded
it as a good experience. This seems unfathomable to me. My parents
did not permit me to work until I went to college.
Papa's father worked construction during the school year,
but as soon as school was out, he left the construction site and took
the entire family to pick fruit. He explains that they were paid accord­ing
to how many people in the family were working, and there were
six boys in the family plus his parents. The eight of them could make
more money in a summer than his father could make the entire rest
of the year. They all slept together in a tent.
He tells me of good times "playing with animals, liding
horses, riding cows, and killing chickens for dinner. My uncle would
cut the head off a chicken. Then he would turn it loose, and the
chicken would run all over the place with blood gushing out."
My kids cringe, crinkle up their faces, and cry, "Aaaaagh
gross!"
I ask him if this was scalY or cool to him as a child. His face
lights up, and he smiles. "That was cool! Mostly because whoever
caught the chicken, which was not easy to do, got a quarter."
He explains that a quarter bought enough candy for a stom­ach
ache. Pieces of candy were five for a penny, and candy bars were
a nickel. They often went into town with their quarter and saw a
movie. For fifteen cents they could get into a double feature movie
with two or three cartoons and a newsreel. Soda and a candy bar
were each a nickel. My kids are in awe!
I learn of life on the piscas (Spanish slang for "farms").
They worked from sunup to sundown. His father would wake up first
and light a fire, then wake his mother. The women cooked breakfast
for the rest of the group. They would eat and begin work when it
became light. Because he was one of the youngest children, he did
not have to work as long as the others or have the same quota to fill.
He needed to fill only two or three gunny sacks. They tied a sack
around his waist, and it dragged between his legs, as he gleaned what
had been shaken from the trees.
His older brothers needed to fill three or four sacks, and the
adults and oldest boys had to work until dusk. Once he had filled his
quota, he was free to play and do as he wished. He could eat whatever
he wanted from the orchards, though he had to be careful of how
much fruit he ate, as there were no bathrooms. His brothers were not
always so careful and often had "a problem."
Traveler 1999
Picture provided by
Julie Barela
as part of the story
My kids ask what they did without a bath­room
and are horrified at the answer.
At sundown they went home (to camp),
and had dinner and a huge bonfire. The women
cooked for everyone collectively. They ate together
as a community. Many of the people knew how to
play instruments, and they played and sang old folk
songs.
He again says that it was a good time.
This was their family vacation. His face becomes
more serious, and his voice becomes a little lower.
"There wasn't a lot of turmoil like there is now.
People would join in around the campfire. Alot of
times it would start off with my dad and my uncle,
and other families would just come over and join,
not like today, where you can be in an area and
people won't speak to you. People were a lot more
friendly. There was a lot of camaraderie." It still
amazes him that he has lived in his house for nine­teen
years and there are neighbors that he doesn't
know.
He tells us of the stories told around the
fire, and he becomes animated, his eyes sparkling,
and he suddenly looks younger. My children are
enthralled as they learn of La Uorona, a woman
whose children were lost in the woods. "Every
night she goes into the woods looking for them,
crying. You can hear her wailing for nilles. After
years and years she still goes into the woods crying
and looking for her children...You need to be care­ful
because if she sees you she may think you are
one of her lost children and take you."
Then he recounts his favorite campfire
story. He tells about an entremetida, an old nosy lady, in the camp by
herself. Near her tent were three young men who shared a tent. They
were not very nice to the old lady. One night a pig came into their
tent, nosing around. The three young men beat the pig before it ran
away. This caused quite a commotion, and many people canle out to
see the pig. The next morning they found the entremetida in her tent,
badly beaten. There were witnesses who saw the men hit the pig, so
they knew that the men didn't beat up the old lady. The only explana­tion
was that she must have been a witch. She transformed herself
into a pig so that she could snoop around without being noticed.
My five-year-old daughter's eyes become huge, and it is evi­dent
that she is quite frightened. I tell her not to worry, that they are
only stories. Papa's face becomes flat, and he says, "No, these things
really happened."
I quickly change the subject. He tells us that his whole fami­ly
loaded up in "Beulah," their 1930 Buick that looked like some­thing
from The Grapes a/Wrath, and traveled from Los Angeles
northward, sometimes as far as Napa Valley, depending on how much
work there was along the way. There were eight of them in the car
that traveled only 30-35 mph.
We have been talking for two hours, and I have become
aware that though Papa has been an important part of my life for six­teen
years, there are parts of his history that I never really under­stood.
It has been a wonderful experience for my fanilly, especially my
husband. I now wish I had videotaped the interview for our fanlily
archives.
I ask Papa if he would change anything about this time. He
pauses for a moment. His face grows serious as he reflects. The only
regret he has is that his own children couldn't experience the won­derful
times on the farms, where he learned so much. "The piscas
taught me about family, work, and responsibility, that when I work
hard I will be rewarded. They taught me about life."
Pictures provided
by Julie Barela
as part of the story
Traveler 1999 11
n
"
12
Photography
Self-Portrait III
By Barrett Wentworth
Traveler 1999
_Simon Says He ) 111
Short Story Debra Krol
know there's a ghost here? He'll be coming
around tonight-it's the new moon," whis­pered
Aurelia Boronda. The old woman gazed upon her lifetime
home one last time before handing the keys over to the impatient real
estate agent.
"Great! That'll raise the resale value," replied Vicki. She
moistened her perfectly outlined garnet lips.
"I thought you said you wanted the house for yourself!"
cried Aurelia. "Don Simon won't be happy when he finds me gone. He
won't tolerate just anybody living here. He may accept you since
you're from an old family. But strangers? The old patron won't stand
for that."
"I can do whatever I want with my house," snarled Vicki.
"Hadn't you better deposit that check so you can payoff the doctors?
That's why you said you needed to sell."
The woman turned her lined face away from the sleek Vicki.
"Simon won't like this, senora. He won't like this at all." Aurelia
crossed herself and shuffied out to her battered Vega.
Vicki heard the worn-out springs on the car squeak on the
rutted dirt road. That's the first thing I need to get done, have that
roadpaved, she thought. She took a mini bottle of Chardonnay from
her cooler, unscrewed the top, and sipped as she made one last walk
around the deal of her career.
The ancient adobe house was easily worth a half-mil, yet she
had bought the hacienda for less than a hundred grand from that
raggedy old bag. Aurelia said she needed the money to pay her late
husband's medical bills. Why didn't you just file for bankruptcy
afteryour husband took sick, you silly old crone? Victoria
Franchini wondered. Accustomed to having money, Vicki was
nonetheless close to orgasm at the thought of four-hundred-thousand
dollars residing in the pockets of her Gucci suit.
The age-old home of the Boronda clan, who had once
owned the entire northern Monterey County, stood upon a bluff over­looking
the fertile Salinas Valley. From the verandah Vicki could see
the artichoke, strawberry, and lettuce crops that were the valley's
green gold. The afternoon sun had burned away the fog, and the blue­green
waters of the Pacific Ocean sparkled a few miles to the south­west.
Monterey pines, junipers, and lilacs redolent with fragrant
blooms graced the front yard. And it was all hers-the lush green
grounds would soon be the green in her bank account.
Vicki returned inside and idly opened a cabinet door in the
entry hall. Arusty old can sat on the shelf. Vicki took it down and
peered inside. Some old beads-they looked Indian-made. She car-
ried the can over to the kitchen counter and poured it out. Beads,
and something that looked like-teeth? Vicki jumped back. Teeth, all
right, and human teeth from the looks of them. Repulsed, she swept
the whole mess back into the can and flung it into the garbage pail.
She recalled an old wives' tale her mother's maid, Carlotta
Arellanes, used to tell. According to the local Indians, if a person was
buried with part of the body missing, the spirit would continue to
haunt its burial place.
The young Vicki had been frightened by the old lady's sto­ries,
refusing to sleep in her own bed for fear of being grabbed by
some old duffer looking for a foot or something. After all, the grand
Victorian home of the Franchinis sat on the site of another Boronda
adobe in Salinas. Vicki's mother finally fired Carlotta after having to
contend with one too many childish fantasies. The adult Vicki chuck­led
at the memory the teeth had evoked.
"Enough of this-I'll just send a crew out in the morning to
clean up this mess! It needs to be looking its best for the Goldsteins,"
Vicki chuckled to herself. She'd give the investment bankers from
Jersey a call from her office.
She closed and locked the oak door, its surface fashionably
nicked and scarred from two centuries of use. She tossed the kitchen
pail with its grotesque contents into the garbage service's dumpster
and walked to her waiting BMW. She got in and turned the keys she
had left in the ignition. The engine coughed a few times and died.
"Shit! I must have left the fog lights on."
Reaching for her cell phone, Vicki punched in the number
for AAA. But the phone was dead, too. Must have forgotten to charge
the damn batteries. Exasperated, Vicki slammed the car door as she
got out. Careful where she placed her Italian pumps, she started down
the road. The freeway was only a mile away.
Plop! Afat drop of rain hit her forehead. Another hit the
road; a small puff of dust marked its presence. Soon the cloudburst
dumped torrents of rain upon the earth. The electric line snapped off
the pole and crashed to the ground.
Vicki ran back to the adobe, cursing the rain. She would
have to wait out the storm. She found some candles and lit them to
ward off the gloom.
"Oh well-at least I have a couple of Chardonnays left,"
Vicki sighed. She opened one and drank it quickly. She went out to
the front porch of the ancient adobe and sat down in the rickety old
glider. This place must be over two hundredyears old-and I'm
going to make afortune offit! She gently rocked back and forth. "I
wonder how big a pile of money a half-mil would make if I got it all
in ones?" she whispered to herself.
Amovement behind and to her right startled her. Vicki
turned and jumped out of the glider. Afigure dressed in black stood
framed in the doorway. Aman, she guessed, for it wore the garb of
the old rancheros of Spanish California-the leather chaps and vest,
the broad-brimmed hat, and the swirling black cape of the patron.
The cape was edged with silver embroidery in an elegant pattern. The
man appeared to be sixtyish.
The sleek, coiffured, manicured woman and the dignified
ranchero stared at one another for a few heartbeats; tile man opened
his mouth to speak.
It wasn't the fact that he was speaking Spanish that scared
Vicki. It wasn't the realization that she understood him although he
spoke the rancheros' Spanish that turned her veins
to ice. It wasn't even that she saw ilie ancient don's
image ilickering like an old television set that
drove Vicki screaming into the raging storm.
The sheriff's patrol found her wandering
down Highway 101 late that night, drenched and
bedraggled and gibbering to herself. At first glance
she appeared to be drunk or stoned.
The deputies reported to the doctors at
the County that the woman in the expensive dress
mumbled over and over, "Who are you, woman?
Where's Aurelia? What have you done with my
teeth?"
Honorable Mention
Computer Art
Worth More Than Money II
By Rachel Muralles
Traveler 1999 13
Photography
Untitled
By Michael Gushura
Napita
Poetry
<. 1 I ) l( <.
Mary Wasser-Nelson
14
Napita looked down from the mountain tall;
my father's spirit had cloaked its peaks.
He looked down from above the high cliffs.
Moonlight shown refracted, splintered, light
along the rock faces,
shone clinging to their walls.
Ahigh eagle flew swooping above the rocks.
Small, round, shivering, stones cascaded down the cliffs
like white and grey waterfalls.
And in the still moonlight remained: PEACE.
And the cliffs echoed: PEACE.
The shrill eagle stretched its talons and preened
its glossy, black feathers: PEACE.
apita held forth Ius clay pot
and caught the falling prayer poem,
peace, in the liquid rain prayer.
And after his spirit had caught his father's answer,
he silently covered his face with a long, white shawl
and sprawled against the earth,
thanking the eagle and the stars and the rocks
for catching the light of wisdom,
sllinffig in the moonglow,
and sending it earthward in the form of liquid dew
to the empty clay pot in Ius outstretched hands,
filling Ius cup with wisdom,
the waterbearer of a new age.
Traveler 1999
First Place
Three Dimensional Art
Point, Line and Plane
By Maria Herrick
Euthanasia II \no L'le 1 nti r
Traveler 1999 15
Behind the busy marketplace Poetry Josh Ivanov
where throngs of people stood in dusty groups
of bored commencing commerce, just outside
the crowded village streets,
there was a place where trees of deep green,
full of bright envy had bark that shone as if
each trunk contained some source of
shining illumination within. Where willows
wept among proud evergreens,
and vines crept and coiled and slithered,
a sanctuary with walls of ancient wood, floors of grass
that hissed underfoot, windows framed by leaves and
insulated with sap.
Like water running downhill the children came, their tide
pushed on by currents of greed and violence and all other
things vile, incomprehensible, and adult.
Through young eyes the infinite was encapsulated, and it
seemed as if the sky was much brighter there, than in any part of
their bustling city.
The children played, swinging from the lowered branches of bending trees,
supplicants to tlle wllims of their laughing masters, wllile others leapt about
and made blankets of fallen leaves.
Soon, all time was forgotten and a day seemed like several seconds, and a month like little more than an hour.
When at last, the wards of that fair grove became bored, they found
the exit overgrown and vanished before their eyes.
Some cried and some climbed high, one of them falling to his doom
in a broken heap, every odd half hour, trying to escape.
They wept. They starved, and when God had no more thoughts on what to do with them, they died.
Who knew what fee beauty demanded for such a pure expression?
We found them months later, little more than rotten clothes
and feeding grounds for mushrooms and ferns.
I alone was the only lad in the entire countryside to escape that dismal burial,
a fact that owes nothing to my wit or will.
I was able to avoid that dire fate because, unlike the others, I had no love
of earthen things, and frightening, rampant, growing foliage. When they called
my name, I leaned out of my window and scowled,
and drove them off with harsh words, and then, when they were gone,
I buried myself amongst musty boxes and forgotten dreams, hidden in the attic,
and I wept.
It has been so many years since that day, that my nlind has grown dull,
and I've lost the distinct impression of those trees and their color,
which I hated then, and still to this day, can not stand to walk past,
lest I be overtaken by furious sllivering and sweats.
And not one day goes by that I don't feel incomplete in being late to my
lateness, as if my life has lacked because I, deaf to all the music around me,
was unable to dance and follow along the call of the piper. I can feel my pulse, though it is weak now, weaker than those days
when the others played, but still,
even with hot, or is it tepid now? No matter. Even with blood of an
indeterminable temperature coursing through my veins, I am bereft of life.
a void, outlined by the cloaks and shawls of existence, given form by
human traipsing, and set to walk amongst men, who having life,
were able to die.
No Capacity Signs Allowed
at the Dinner Table
Poetry Amber Rae
Bradshaw
16
Computer Art
Untitled
By Ron Fessler
Traveler 1999
Pst...Hey...Down here, on the piano stool.
Thank God someone heard me-
Could you pass the pepper, please?
My food is a little bland;
It wasn't bland when I sat in an actual chair.
In a chair, you get warm food and seasoning when you need it.
On the stool, you get the last clump of cold mashed potatoes.
You see, this is the stool we pull up to the table
When there is no more room for the guests.
I guess I've had no flavor for...
One...two...about four years now.
When you're this far down, you lose count.
Before those four years,
My family was perfectly balanced:
Grandma to Grandpa.
Mother to Father.
Brother to Sister.
Group games were cake: Three on three,
Girls against boys.
Four chairs at the adult dinner table,
1\vo at the kids', with no need to pull up a piano stool.
Now, I'm at the adult table but
Down so low, I'm mistaken for a dog begging for scraps.
You are the first to hear me, the first to help me out.
Why am I down here? you ask.
o fault but my own.
Passing off Hallmark messages as my own feelings has
Made my balanced family think of my affection as the work of
Some guy in a little office typing what I want to say,
Then printing it on brightly colored cardboard.
I never spoke or showed them how I felt,
Never passed an emotion of my own,
For fear that the bottle, so tightly shut, would be uncorked.
All would see that I thought the table was too crowded.
Aselfish thought has put me down here.
Changing my ways can put me back in a chair.
17
Bisbee Street
By Carol L. Holloway
Traveler 1999
Watercolor
Samurai Helmet
By Steve Codel
First Place
Ceramics
My advice to you, as only one with bland food can give,
Is to speak up and translate what your soul is screaming.
Let the bottle shatter into a million pieces.
Ask for the warm mashed potatoes and the seasoning because
The table can never be overcrowded with those you love,
Those who enjoy cards on holidays and you every other day,
Those who know that there is no capacity sign in your heart.
As for me, I will try not to get lost in the herd of hungry dogs.
When I learn to say to those at the table what I have said to you,
I will get my chair back and eat warm delicious food.
Until then, thanks for the pepper.
A Night to Remember
Non-Fiction
hr~t Place
Jacci Johnson
18
he evening began just as most of my nights on shift did:
I sat in the report room, waiting to receive myassign­ment.
I was relaxed and in a great mood after being on
vacation for two weeks. As the team leader gave a rundown on the
status of our staff and patients, I was anxious for the shift to begin,
hoping to play with a newborn or two and perhaps having the oppor­tunity
to bond with a young couple expecting their first child. As luck
would have it, however, my night was not to go in that direction.
My patient for the evening was a 26-year-old housewife who
was full-term with her first baby. The patient came into the triaging
unit not having felt the baby move for the last day or so. She was
observed by the nurse and physician, and after an ultrasound proce­dure
was performed, the baby was found to have no heartbeat. The
patient was admitted to the unit to deliver this baby. Apossible reason
for the baby's death was an umbilical cord accident; however, until
delivery a true cause would not be known.
I knocked softly on the patient's door as I entered, intro­ducing
myself. I began by asking her questions, some medical and
some personal so that I could get an idea of her thoughts. Jenny, my
patient, introduced me to her husband Chad. Her mother was at the
bedside next to Chad, and the three of them had obviously been cry­ing,
their eyes puffy and tearful. I asked Jenny if she understood
everything that we were doing. I explained to her that once she was
ready to deliver, the procedure would move quite rapidly. Chad and
Jenny had agreed that once the baby was delivered, they wanted it
carried over to the warmer and, at that time, they would make a deci­sion
as to when to see the baby. I then told the three of them about
the program the hospital had called Resolve Through Sharing.
Resolve Through Sharing was designed for the situation in which a
baby died in-utero or anytime after birth. It offered counseling, thera­py,
a support group, and pictures of the baby. These pictures were an
important part of the healing process, and while perhaps the parents
felt they were not ready to have the pictures at this time, they were
kept on file for whenever they were ready to see them.
I looked at Jenny, feeling enormous sadness for her, know­ing
what I had just explained to her probably had not sunk in yet­not
that I really expected it to, but I hoped I could ease her fears
about some of this. Jenny was quiet at first, reluctant to discuss all
that was happening to her, but as I sat at her bedside, occasionally
touching her hand, offering her juice, and making her as comfortable
as possible, she began to open up to me.
Jenny told me how being married for only a little over a
year, she and Chad were surprised to find themselves expecting their
first child. They had planned to travel for a couple of years before
Traveler 1999
starting a family. Nevertheless, they were excited at
the prospect of becoming new parents. Her preg­nancy
had been uneventful up until that point, and
they had every reason to believe that everything
was fine with the baby. Jenny shared with me the
theme for her nursery-Noah's Ark-and as she
described the room she and Chad began to cry.
Jenny said she did not know how she and Chad
would be able to walk into that room without put­ting
a baby into the crib or rocking him in the
rocking chair that Chad had spent endless hours
refinishing. I allowed Chad, Jenny and her mother
the time to tell me their thoughts, and then I told
them I would be back in a short while to check
on her.
After I left Jenny, I went to the room in
which all of the supplies were kept for Resolve
Through Sharing and started to prepare every­thing.
I put film in the hospital's master camera
which would be sent out to be printed. These piC­tures
were part of the baby's records and would
be held for the family. I then put film into the
Polaroid camera and organized the necessary
paperwork. After I had my supplies in order, I
decided it was time to find an outfit for the baby. I
looked through the boxes, wanting to pick out
something that would be meaningful. Chad and
Jenny knew they were having a boy so that made
my choice a little easier. I found a brown and blue
nightgown with bears and blocks as the pattern. It
came with a matching beanie hat and footies, and
I chose a blue blanket in which to wrap the baby.
Throughout the night, Jenny's labor pro­gressed
rapidly, and just after one a.m. she was
ready to deliver. I was glad that Jenny had made
the choice to have an epidural for pain relief.
Delivering a baby can be such a painful experi­ence,
overshadowed only by the pure joy of hold­ing
one's new baby; I knew that Jenny's pain
would be that much worse without a warm,
healthy baby to hold after all of that work. As
Jenny began to push, her mother and Chad on one
side of the bed and I on the other, I reflected on
the delivery of my own children, remembering
their births, and I thought how sad it was for Chad
and Jenny. I knew they would remember so much
of that evening.
At 1:35, Jenny delivered the son she
would have named Nathan. It was evident immedi­ately
how he had died. His umbilical cord was
wrapped tightly around his neck three times with
what is referred to as a true knot in the center of
the cord. He simply ran out of oxygen, his supply
depleted by the knot in his cord and the severity of
the wrapping around the neck. The doctor handed
me the baby, and I placed him in the warmer, dry­ing
him off and looking him over.
Nathan was a beautiful baby, perfectly
developed, with long fingers and toes. I wondered
how much he weighed, estimating in my head per­haps
seven pounds or so. I decided to hold off on
the measurements until the baby and I were alone.
I did not think it was appropriate at this time.
Chad and Jenny's mother walked over to the
warmer, both of them curious to see the baby,
Chad looking on with tears rolling down his face,
commenting on how perfect he looked, while
Jenny's mother held Nathan's little hand and
remarked on how soft he felt.
I explained to the family that it was obvi­ous
that the baby had probably died earlier that
day. His skin was still intact, and there was some
bruising on his neck. The doctor finished with
Jenny and came over to the baby, pronouncing his
death. I wrapped Nathan in a blanket from the
warmer and asked Jenny if she wanted to hold her
baby. She nodded yes, and I placed him gently in
her arms, my eyes welling with tears as I watched
her kiss her son on the cheek.
I left Jenny, Chad, and her mother alone
for a few minutes, allowing them time to pray
together and discuss their arrangements. About
half an hour later, Chad came out to the nurses'
station and said that he and Jenny were ready for
me to take the baby. I went into her room, explain­ing
that I would take the pictures. I reassured
Jenny that I would not be too long.
I took Nathan into the room I had earlier
prepared and began to wash him off. I knew I had
to be gentle and quick; his skin was very delicate. I
took a picture of athan without any clothes, only
one, which was mandatory at the hospital. I then
gently dressed him, thinking he looked so perfect
and this was all just so unfair.
So often women came into the hospital
with no prenatal care or perhaps having abused
drugs their whole pregnancy, and yet they were
lucky enough to have healthy babies. Jenny had
done everything right, and yet she would not be
taking her son home with her.
When I finished dressing athan, I placed him back under
the canlera, taking my time to pose him, knowing that these pictures
would be invaluable to his parents. I placed a tiny bear under
Nathan's arm, turning him on his side and tucking in his little legs.
He looked as if he were sleeping: peaceful, the way I thought Jenny
and Chad would want him to be. I then continued with several more
poses, even placing his tiny fingers around the stem of a flower, hold­ing
it out as an offering to his mom.
After I finished with the pictures, I took Nathan's measure­ments.
I then took his footprints and handprints, carefully placing
them on the certificate given to the parents. I filled in the certificate
with his measurements and even cut a lock of hair, gently applying it
to the certificate as well.
Once I finjshed all of that, I tucked the Polaroids in a large
Ziplock bag. As more time passed, Nathan became colder. I wrapped
him in a warm blanket and returned to Jenny's room. I asked her if
she would like to hold Nathan one more time, thinking this nught be
the way she wanted to remember her son, dressed in his pajamas
and wrapped in his blue blanket. She and Chad said yes, and both of
them took turns holding Nathan, her mother watching and crying.
I took athan back to the room after they were ready,
undressing him and placing his neatly folded clothes and the blue
blanket in the Ziplock bag with the Polaroids. I put a T-shirt on
Nathan and wrapped lum in another blanket, placing him in the tiny
shroud zipping it with such a lump in my throat and tlunking how
final all of this was.
I then called for a security guard to meet me at the morgue
and painfully walked that route through the basement. As I placed lit��tle
Nathan on that shelf where he would lie until the mortuary picked
him up, I reflected how this never got any easier; each time I had a
patient who lost a baby, it was the first time all over again.
I left the morgue and went back to Jenny's room. She was
sleeping and so was Chad, lying in the recliner at her bedside. Her
mother had left, and as I was about to leave, Jenny opened her eyes. I
sat down next to her, reaching for her hand and offering my condo­lences.
I gave Jenny the Ziplock bag with the clothes, Polaroids, and
certificate and told her about the pictures. Jenny thanked me and
hugged me tightly, almost reluctant to let me go, and then she looked
into my eyes, eyes that like hers had tears in them, and told me that
she was grateful for all that I had done for her and Chad. She said
that having that last opportunity to hold her son, dressed in his night­gown
and smelling so sweet, meant the world to her. She was thank­ful
that she could remember her son that way. I spent a few more
fiUnutes with Jenny and then left her to get some much needed sleep.
As I finished my charting, I thought back to the beginmng of
the mght, how I had hoped to have a couple to bond with and a new­born
to cuddle. I thought it ironic that even though the evening was
somber, I did bond with a great family. Jenny, Chad and little athan
would forever be etched in my memory; I had been a part of such an
incredibly Significant time in their lives and hopefully had made this
experience a little easier for all of them.
Traveler 1999 19
Third Place
Drawing
Red Ball
By Lisa Taber
20 Traveler 1999
First Place
Computer Art
Apocalypse
By Esther BeIer
Third Place
Computer Art
Tiger from the Wild Animal Collection
By Bernadette Rabiej
Honorable Mention
Painting and Watercolor
Bailey
By Kari Skinner
Second Place
Painting and Watercolor
Old House
By Carol L. Holloway
Second Place
Drawing
Reclining Male
By Jim Kearns
ude
Traveler 1999 21
Miranda Rights and Sleepless Nights Third
Non - Fiction David McGuigan
I pulled over, as any law-abiding citizen would upon seeing
flashing lights and police cars approaching from behind.
I've never feared the police; I've always known that they
were there to protect and serve. I've also never considered myself a
hardened criminal. When I realized the pursuing cars weren't going
to pass, I turned around to see four of them moving into position to
surround me and yelled sincerely, "Are you pulling me over?" Looking
out the window, I could see men on each side of the car directly
behind me with guns drawn and pointed at my soul. I was struck with
such fear and amazement that time not only stood still but also went
into a deep sleep that seemed to last weeks to my disillusioned and
disoriented mind. "Put your hands in the air," one of the officers
impolitely replied.
That day had begun as any other. I woke up around 5:30,
showered, gathered my undone homework and books, and made it to
church class in time for the opening hymn. I wandered the high
school halls, pretending I knew what I was doing, as I always did and
smiled and smirked the day away almost enjoying life. When the
beloved dismissal bells gave their permission for us to leave at 2:30, a
sigh was offered as thanks by all of the students at once. I met some
friends at the usual place, and we talked for a while and then went on
our way.
In the parking lot, I waved good-bye to a girl or two and
then started the, unrealized by me, somewhat suspicious looking boat
of a vehicle I'd only been driving for a couple of weeks. There were
five of us, each eager to get home and finish up the repetitions of the
schoolweek, not looking for trouble or to particularly avoid it. My
friend Chris in the backseat held up a gray Nintendo zapper gun sar­castically
asking, "What's this?" Besides being the means of the near
destruction of my life as I knew it, the pistol was a present from an
acquaintance of mine looking to dump off old video game equipment
a couple days earlier. Another passenger snatched the "weapon" from
his hand, pointing it out the window, repeatedly shouting, "Bang!
Bang! Bang!" The action seemed even less immature at the time than
it did dangerous, and I quickly joined in the display of irresponsible
and yet amusing pretense. I took on the role of the chauffeurlhitman
sending an invisible bullet and grin to every bystander we passed.
I shot dragons, sea-monsters, pedestrians, rival airplane
pilots, dogs in the process of being walked, and even the ever-friendly
and innocent crosswalk guard Judy. I was America's most wanted; I
was the king of organized crime, and most of all I was a supervillain.
Superman was no match for me; my kryptonite-cased bullets made
quick work of his "steel" skin. Batman, Green Lantern, the Flash, all
were a joke. By the time I dropped off my last partner in crime, the
body count must have exceeded 100.
I had made plans to meet a friend at the park and so
renounced my evil ways and changed back into my ever boring, and
22 Traveler 1999
perhaps even dull, self. I honked the horn, and he
hopped in. Our meeting place was a good dis­tance
away from where most of the murders had
taken place and, due to either incredibly bad luck
or extremely unfortunate coincidence, our desti­nation
wasn't. When we got back to the corpse­filled
wasteland, I turned left down a residential
street that had been evacuated by everything
breathing. I drove the speed limit as I always do,
or at least promise to my mother, and less than a
block down the path the glare of screaming red
and blue light blinded my eyes in the rear-view
mirror.
Apparently a retired ex-bodyguard of
some unimportant celebrity had been shot by me
or my friends and, whether truly in fear for his life
or just hungry for the action he hadn't seen in his
retirement, pulled over in a bloody mess and
called the police. He, with a well-trained eye due
either to his profession or abundance of leisure,
gave a description not only of the death-mobile
but the driver, yours truly.
My hands shot out the window at a
velocity so fast it surpassed the speed of light like
the hare did the tortoise in the beginning of their
race. Following the instruction of my new and
armed pals, I tossed the keys out the window with
my left while keeping my right hand visible at all
times. I then proceeded slower than a snail out
the door and backwards, hands on my head,
towards my fate. Kneeling down on the scorching
sharp blacktop, I softly mumbled the self-criticism
and admission of guilt, "Stupid idiot." Still not
sure if dream or reality, I followed every order
with surgeon-like precision. It was my first time in
handcuffs, and in a cop car for that matter, and I
quickly came to the conclusion that the tiny black
bucket arrest seats weren't exactly designed for
comfort. My friend was released with less than a
slap on the wrist and told to find his own ride
home.
As I watched from my backseat bondage
as they drove my car to a less obstructive parking
place and searched it for anything suspicious, I
wondered how this mess ever happened. I had
always considered myself as one of the most care­ful
and law obedient people I knew and had not in
my wildest dreams or worst nightmares imagined
that I would ever get the chance to test out the lat­est
tools of enforcement technology.
On the way to the station, we passed two
acquaintances of mine that I could see, one a very
good friend and one not as close. Their faces,
though, were filled with such surprise and shock
that they seemed torn bet\veen disappointment and
amusement. My entire life flashed before my eyes
in the fourteen-hour, five-block journey to the
police station I never knew was so near my house.
I remembered the first time I was forced to, with
as sincere a countenance as I could muster, apolo­gize
for a wrong I'd done my younger sister and
best friend. I remembered being punished for
crossing the street without looking, for sneaking
into the living room to watch Bionic-6 at 4:30 in
the morning, and even for forgetting to return
library books on time. j a penalty my mother had
ever inllicted, however, could even begin to pre­pare
me for the afternoon I was enduring.
I hadn't shaved for a couple of days; I
was only 17, and my hair was quite a bit longer
than it is now. Walking with a pair of muscle­bound
escorts, I received dirty looks from nearly
every person we passed on the way to my "cell." I
began to question myself, almost understanding
how I could be viewed as a criminal with the obVi­ous
disregard for appearance, slouched posture,
and frown covered face. I was searched for either
the third or fourth time. Keeping count wasn't
exactly my first priority, but this time I was asked
to remove my socks and shoes.
They left me in a small pink square room
with nothing but a bench and a door. "Pink," I
thought and tried not to smile. Auniform spoke
with hostility. "You'll be in here for a while, so get
used to it." As the door slammed shut and the lock
slowly turned, a cWll caressed my spine, and my
throat swallowed a gulp so loud I was sure the
officers outside could hear it. The room was dark
and cold and musty. The smell of fear poured in
through tiny cracks in the wall making me want to
plug my nose, and I would've except my arms
were frozen folded with paralysis. I held myself for
quite a long time after that as if to offer the com­fort
that this was only a dream, that I was really
just asleep and had eaten too many Oreos the
night before, but it wouldn't work. I knew the
truth.
I sat down on the bench and stared at the door. It was the
most awkward and uncomfortably hard place I've ever had the
unpleasure to sit. I could've heard a pin drop across the street, ~U1d
the walls seemed to move closer with every breath I took. I was sure
I would've been cmshed in less than a minute if the officers hadn't
come back to let fresh air in ~U1d toss my shaking feet their shoes.
I sat as patiently and regretfully as I could, trying to let my
captors know how truly sorry I was, ttying to help them realize that
no real harm was done. They quickly left with a pair of giggles, and I
went through the process all over again, except, surprisingly, this
time the walls were moving out instead of in. After about an hour of
silence, I regained my composure and concluded that they might be
tlying to "teach me a lesson." I quickly ended all phony displays of
apology and began humming and whistling to build my confidence.
That only lasted so long, though, as I soon surrendered to singing. I
must've gone through evelY song I knew from Pearl Jam to primaty
songs to Smashing Pumpkins to the slightly modified "If You're [Un]­Happy
And You Know It," taking a short break between it and the
"National Anthem" to catch my breath.
I wasn't afraid anymore. I knew who [ was atld that I hadn't
purposely broken any laws. My voice got louder and louder with
every note, taking full advantage of the room's helpful echo. Just as I
broke into one of the more whiny and volumatic parts of "Bullet With
Butterfly Wings," I heard faint laughter coming from the outside. If I
could hear them, could they hear me? My mouth shut quickly. Now I
would have to face distrust, disgust, and humiliation. I wondered if it
could get any worse.
The door opened. An officer asked me to follow him into a
much larger room with tables and lights. He told me that he would be
asking me a series of questions and statements and that after each I
would reply, "I understatld" or "Could you explain that to me?" He
read me my rights as they had been modified for an 8- I7 year old,
and every sentence he read evoked silent laughter from my fully
recovered spirits. "A judge is like an umpire in a baseball game who
decides between right and wrong," he said. I covered my mouth. I
knew that if I showed any signs of ~U1ything but complete sorrow, I
would be labeled "just another punk." After he finished and I told
him my story, I was taken into another room quite a walk away ~U1d
sat down.
Abig glass window separated me from another room with a
chair. It was just like in the movies. There was a telephone and a
counter to rest my elbows and filthy gray carpet where countless
criminals before me had wiped their dirty feet. Not long after, my
mother entered the opposite room, her face red and puffy. It was
obvious she'd been crying and was more angry with me than sympa­thetic.
"How could you? I thought I raised you better than that," she
screamed. I had learned to handle my mother and her immaturity at
an early age and didn't even attempt to explain to her that I knew it
was a mistake and all the yelling and criticism in the world couldn't
continue...
Traveler 1999 23
change the past. I nodded and blurted out an ''I'm
sorry" every ten to twelve seconds until she finally
got tired of lecturing and left to talk to the officers.
I twiddled my thumbs for somewhere
near twenty minutes and then was released to my
mother. My arresters lowered the charges from
aggravated assault, a felony, to a simple assault, a
misdemeanor, but the middle-aged tattletale still
wanted to press charges. We would have to go to
court. I rode home to the sound of my mother's
irritating voice instead of the radio. I would have
preferred to hear nails on the chalkboard, styro­foam
being rubbed against itself, or even the
silence of that creepy pink room but somehow
managed to listen without covering my ears and
shouting, "Lalala I can't hear you."
When I got home I filled my sister in on
the details and was informed by my mom that I
wouldn't be driving again for a month. I laughed
and cried and went to sleep.
By morning I was the talk of the town.
"Good 01' Davy got arrested for murder? I never
woulda thought." I had to tell the same story prob­ably
thirty times that day and every day after for a
week. People I didn't know somehow knew me
and looked at me with a variety of expressions
ranging from fear to pity to ridicule to confusion.
At my church I received more handshakes and
condolences than ever before, including a few
offers of legal help. I was Glendale's newest
celebrity. I wondered who would play me in the
made for TV movie.
Afew weeks after the incident, we received a phone call
informing us that we had to meet with a probation officer at some
building ridiculously far away from both my home and the police sta­tion.
I thanked the messenger and waited for the date.
When we walked into the small probation office, we were
greeted by an attractive, smiling lady with a name tag. She ushered us
into her personal office and invited us to sit. She had a folder full of
rather official looking forms and papers and explained that we would
have to decide whether we wanted to plead guilty or not. I read the
police report. It was as embellished as when grandparents brag about
the hardships of their childhoods. I went over with her and my moth­er
what had happened that day and finally asked to see the exact defi­nition
of what I was being charged with. She left and brought back the
thickest book I'd ever seen; it must've been over two thousand pages
long. She opened it to the misdemeanor section, and I read the classi­fications
of simple assault. Based on the fact that all four parts of the
definition of my crime dealt with "intentional" wrongs, I decided I
could win in court. I hadn't purposely injured, endangered, or
wronged anyone in any way and felt I could prove it, whether through
polygraph test or sincere testimony, and convince not only the judge
but also the eager and anxious "man" who waited in the hall of my
innocence. I refused all the "deals" offered me and simply said, " ot
guilty." The lady left with a frown.
I wasn't allowed to talk to him, the big, pudgy, cowardly
man who waited in the hall, face pale with anger. I could tell he want­ed
to confront me, to grab me, to inflict the harm he thought I for
some reason tried to inflict on him that day. Probably over forty years
old, this bear of a man wanted to scare, if not damage, a misunder­stood
teenager. I wanted to talk to him, to offer him the most sincere
apology I had ever given in hopes of getting the charges dropped. He
was big and even a little tall, but I knew that if it turned ugly I could
24 Traveler 1999
Honorable Mention
Computer Art
Antz on Patrol
By George Cook
handle myself. I took freshman P.E. and used to watch professional
wrestling all the time. However, he was sent home, and we were told
to wait a while before we left "just to be safe."
Six weeks later we got a subpoena in the mail asking us to
appear at the juvenile delinquency center two weeks from its receipt.
We filled out the stack of papers the mailman somehow fit into our
tiny mailbox and called our "counselor." After talking with him over
the phone for awhile, he told me that I seemed like a nice enough kid
and he would recommend total dismissal but not to get my hopes up
because as often as not what the counselor says is either discarded or
ignored completely.
I wore a suit, tie, and smile, my mother a nice dress. We
waited in a long line of tough looking kids sporting everything from
baggy pants to bandannas to tattoos to knife scars. After three metal
detectors and a pat-down, we were directed to seats where we could
sit and wait for our names to be called. Our appointed lawyer type
(the counselor) talked to my mother for a few minutes, and we
entered the courtroom.
I was a lot closer to calm than when I was arrested at gun­point,
but my palms were sweaty and my legs tWitchy none the less. As
the judge entered, we stood and then sat, and a vein on my neck
throbbed with anxiety every second she spoke. I nervously answered a
few questions about both the day and my personal life, and then my
counselor was asked to make his recommendation. He did, and I'm
almost sure it was rejected because I was then advised by the judge to
keep my grades up, obey my mother verbatim, and watch my
thoughts, words, and deeds.
I wondered how this lady, who was supposedly in her posi­tion
because of her ability to judge, could be so oblivious of the fact
that my trivial and unimportant case was taking up valuable time and
money while the countless and much more significant crimes outside
were left to wait, in line, for us to finish. We were dismissed, and I
stumbled out, knees weak and jaw sore.
I went home and started a collection of ulcers. I lay awake
in bed at night thinking of how I, if convicted, could have a perma-nent
police record. I thought about how my life
would change, about how my world would change,
and all for the worse. I wished on a falling star
that that day had never happened, that I could just
take it all back. In my mind I apologized to each
and evelY person whose life I'd taken and to their
families. I begged their forgiveness and told them I
would do whatever it took to make things right. I
really was sony, whether for getting caught or for
pulling the trigger I wasn't sure, but I was sorry.
By the time the phone call came telling
us that the case had been thrown out, I had forgot­ten
all about the whole incident. I'd forgotten
about the demons that possessed me to kill, about
the heroes that brought my spree to an end, even
about the little stump of a man who felt the need
to canyon the fight that was over before it even
began. I'd lived down my reputation at school as
"the most dangerous man on campus." My mother
had forgiven me, and life was pretty much back to
abnormal.
I still remember those guns; I still
remember that room; I still remember talking to
my mother through a phone and a window. I'd
been in the wrong place at the wrong time before,
but I'd never been the wrongdoer. The man told
the police that he usually carries a .45 semi-auto­matic
handgun but that he left it at home that day.
He said that if he had had it with him he would
have shot me and the others. He said that he was­n't
trained to think but to act.
I remember the day after my arrest when
one of the friends who had ridden with me during
my rampage said, "Someday you'll look back on
this and laugh." Hahaha.
Traveler 1999 25
Serve It Cold Third Place
----------------
ShortStory Maureen D. Meek
26
Honorable Mention
Photography
Untitled
By Jim Kearns
Traveler 1999
The cloud cover broke away, and I could see the ground
from my window seat. It's funny how things that are so
huge look so tiny from far away. If only bad memories
were like that.
I had finally given in to my husband's gentle but persistent
nagging to go back to Pennsylvania for my thirtieth high school
reunion. The plane suddenly dipped, causing nervous laughter to rip­ple
through the passengers.
I turned, faced my husband and said, "I hate you for talking
me into this."
"Oh-h-h.. .it will be okay. You'll do fine," he said, wrapping
his arms around me. It's funny how he tries to protect me, but the
hurt comes from inside of me. How can he shield me from my mem­ories?
" o! You don't understand. Patti made me miserable in high
school." Asob caught in my throat.
He hugged me tighter. "Yes, I do knOw. I've been with you
for twenty-five years," he said softly, trying to caress my pain away.
"When that damn invitation for your high school reunion showed up,
you withdrew and moped. That's been twenty-five years of you being
miserable for a week because of the Patti memories that are dredged
up." He chuckled to himself. "Anyhow, I bet you'll be surprised by
what she's like now."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, there she'll be standing by the food table wearing a
flowered muumuu that won't hide her girth. Her head will look like a
balloon wearing make-up. She'll have some mustard smeared on her
chin while a dark, skinny cigarette dangles between her lips."
My husband realized he had hooked me on tllis vision, so
he continued with gusto. "She'll see you and say, 'Well, if it isn't Sr.
High Sissy (puff). I bet you tllink you're special now (cough).' And
you'll be able to see that slab of dimpled skin on her arm swing back
and forth as she sucks on her cancer stick." I found it to be a deli­cious
vision.
"Besides," a serious tone came into his voice, "you just had
your fifth novel published. You ARE successful."
I reflected on what he had said. Three energetic teenagers, a
wonderful husband, and a career that I loved were more than suc­cess;
it was joy. He was right. I needed to go back and face her.
Our five-hour flight from Phoenix had been turbulent. I
wondered if it was an omen. We now sat in our rental car, in the last
row of the school's parking lot. Women in cocktail dresses and men
in sports jackets enthusiastically greeted each other in front of the
gym's double doors. We stared at the expanding crowd, and I winced
as my thoughts drifted back to the tenth grade. I felt myself clench my
teeth as I recalled the night I told my parents my misety.
"Sizzle...click. ..click. ..sizzle...click. ..click" was the music
that came from cooking food. The aroma from the frying meat mixed
with the essence of the baking bread. It was wonderfully reassuring to
have those smells splash my face when I opened the door. Mom was
making my favorite dinner. It was fried ground beef with water and
flour added to the fatty juices. Once thickened, the meat mixture was
poured over rice. My inexperienced taste buds always danced when
greeted by that greasy cuisine.
I sat down at the e1inner table with my three siblings. My seat
was across from Dad. Tears were threatening to spill from my eyes. I
was busy trying to stop my lower Up (rom quivering before Dad could
see it. I was too late. Dad stopped eating. With his mouth full of half
chewed salad, he said, "What's the matter with you?"
"Tlus girl, Patti, on the bus calls me 'Sr. High Sissy,' and all
the kids laugh!" I was shaking with my sobs. Crying was not an emo­tion
tolerated by my parents. Being poor, we did not waste a thing,
and crying was viewed as a waste of energy.
Softness briefly crossed Dad's face but was rapidly replaced
with a rippling tightness across his jawbone, as if someone had a
string on his ears and was pulling it taut. He hunched his linebacker
shoulders over his plate and sighed. Dad resumed eating. He was
stabbing Ius salad so hard I could hear the 'clink' when his fork lut
the plate. Dad had never done that before.
"Joe, easy," Mom said as she scooped food onto Dad's plate.
"I think being called 'Sr. High Sissy' is a compliment. Don't you agree,
Dad?" Mom had an artificial smile on her face. Dad placed his fork
on his plate.
"No, Mom, it isn't," Dad said with a firm tenderness in his
voice. Looking directly into my eyes and reading my mind, he said,
"You can't fight this girl, even though she is being mean. Just stay
away from her and keep your nose clean."
That was the end of their advice.
I was miserable. Patti was popular. She had perfect hair, the
perfect body, wore the hottest fasluons, and had made the varsity
cheerleading squad as a freshman. I, on the other hand, had waist
long hair, wore my sister's hand-me-downs, was not allowed to wear
make-up, and was still carrying baby fat. She was a social butterfly. I
was a moth.
Each mOflung, as I started up the bus steps, my palms got
cold and sweaty. My eyes darted across the faces and searched for her
dark, bob-styled hair Witll signature stretch headband and for her
coral lipstick. She always sat with a friend, a no-name blonde. A
fiendish smirk would settle on Patti's face when she realized that I,
her target, had arrived.
"Hey! 'Sr. High Sissy'! Where'd you get iliat outfit? Is she a
mess or what?" Patti would shout. I could feel the heat on my cheeks
as my embarrassment grew. When I walked by her, she would say,
"Waddle...waddle." Hoots and giggles followed me to my seat. "Can't
she wear some make-up and cover up that pimple?" she'd say to
blonelie, but loud enough for all to hear.
Throughout the school day, I would be on edge, fearful of
an encounter with Patti and her entourage. My stomach would churn
when our paths crossed.
"Sr. High Sissy! Do you get your clothes from Woolworth's?"
she'd jeer. Achorus of "tee-hees" emanated from the human pack.
And they were not unUke a pack of dogs. Once the
other girls got the scent of my emotional blood,
they all started to pounce on me. "What perfume
are you wearing? Toilet water?" R-r-r-r-rip! "No!
That's from HER!" Rip-rip. Hunks from the meat of
my being were being torn out of me. Tlus routine
went on day after day. Patti thrived on my anguish.
She was a bully, a "junkie" who craved humiliation
of others. I was her "fix."
I endured this torment for weeks. One
evening, Mom heard me Clying and came into my
room. I rehashed my now familiar anguish.
"I hate her! I wish she would drop
dead!" I threw my face into my already tear-soaked
pillow. "I feel like pond scum."
Mom stroked my hair. "Stop talking Uke
that. Things will get better. Just treat people like
you want to be treated."
"] want to get even! I want her to know
what it feels like."
"] e1idn't raise any of my kids to tease or
to be mean-mouthed to anyone, even to this girl.
Concentrate on your schoolwork. Do things to
improve yourself. Make your own happiness." She
stood and walked to the door. Pausing, she turned
around and said, "Just remember, revenge is best
served cold."
"That's stupid!"
As she closed my door, an experienced
snllie graced her face as she said, "Don't worry.
Someday you'll see what I mean."
Patti harassed me all through high
school. I had frequent fantasies of revenge. My
favorite was that I would sneak into the locker
room and put Nair hair removal in her shampoo.
Gleefully, I would squeeze my body into a locker
and wait for her to shower. Her screams would
pierce the locker room chatter. Girls would laugh
at her as she scurried around in the shower pick­ing
up the sticky clumps of her once perfect hair.
As she walked down the school hall, kids would
step aside. They would point their fingers and
laugh at her shiny scalp and call her 'cue-ball' or
better yet, 'Yul Brynner.' I became so immersed in
this fantasy that I even purchased a bottle of air
and for months carried it in my purse.
One day, fate threw me the chance to
enact my fantasy. I was sent to the locker room
before the rest of the gym class. There, sitting on
the wooden bench was Patti's bottle of strawbeny
scented shampoo. "This is it! Revenge is nune!" I
squealed. My fingers flew as I twirled my locker
combination. I ripped my purse out, dumped the
contents on the cement floor, and sifted through
continue...
Traveler 1999 27
Computer Art
Le Voyageur
By Ron Fessler
28 Traveler 1999
the clutter. "There you are!" I said, as I snatched up the bottle of Nair.
With trembling hands, I poured the air into the shampoo.
"Keep your nose clean," Dad had said.
"Improve yourself. Make your own happiness. Treat others
like you want to treated," Mom had said.
"NO! She deserves this!" My voice echoed in the empty lock­er
room. I stopped what I was doing. "Revenge is best served cold," I
whispered.
I stared at the two bottles in my hands. Crying, I screwed the
lid on the air bottle and put it back in my purse. With a shuddered,
"Sigh," I put the shanlpoo bottle on the floor, raised my foot up, and
stomped on it as hard as I could. It shattered, leaving the irritating
smell of floral strawberries behind.
The cackle of my approaching classmates spurred me to
action. I yanked a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and
scrambled to mop up the soapy evil. Leading the pack of girls was
Patti. She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and demanded, "What
happened?"
Looking up to Patti, I stuttered, "I-I-I...b-br-roke your bottle
of shampoo. I'm-m-m...sorry."
Patti turned her head to her admiring audience, "What a
klutz!" Everyone started to laugh. One by one, they snaked around
me. With heavy shoulders, I cleaned up the mess.
I survived high school.
I had left my hometown and attended a college far away
from Patti. Visits to home were limited to being with my fanilly. I
would not risk a chance meeting with Patti. My scars from her
ridicule might threaten to tear open and again drip emotional blood.
I wasn't healed. Achip with her name on it sat on my shoulder.
Though infrequently, I still dreamed of revenge.
My husband's pat on my arm brought me back to the pres-ent.
"Come on. Let's go," he said as he offered his hand to me.
"Have I told you how great you look?" I was wearing my favorite
form-fitting, black, size 8 CK dress. The reflection in the car's side
mirror showed a stylish, shapely, successful, but nervous woman. I
had to laugh. He was buttering me up to put me at ease, and he was
doing a fine job of it. We linked our arms around each other and
made our entrance.
People who had ignored me in high school now greeted me
like a long lost friend. Admiring comments regarding my publications
were frequent and genuine. In the walk across the gym, several of
Patti's groupies stopped and asked if I would sign a copy of my book
they "just happened to have with them." The tension was starting to
ooze out of me.
I heard a familiar voice laughing loudly. The hairs stood up
on the back of my neck. "Ouch!" came from my husband's lips as he
pried back my nails that I was digging into the back of his hand. "It'll
be okay," he whispered.
Walking towards the sound of her voice, I overhead Patti
saY,"I told my husband that I would not live in Philadelphia. How
could I leave this town? I mean, it is so-o-o-o important to me." Patti
had a need to remain a big fish, so she stayed in a little pond.
Abruptly, the gym got quiet. Uke Moses parting the Red Sea,
the swarm of people moved aside and I was facing Patti. She was
wearing a styUsh, red dress and was surrounded by a lot of her old
crowd...her fan club. The room got quiet as though everyone was
gagged. I released my husband's hand and confidently stepped for­ward,
saying, "Hi, PattL" 0 sound emerged from anyone. It was just
a room full of people holding their breath.
She placed her hands on her hips. "My, my. It's Sr. High
Sissy." She laughed at her own witty comment, but no one chorused
in with her as in the old days. I was shocked. There was no sting in
her words. My self-esteem wasn't melting. I heard that chip on my
shoulder shatter and the dust from it brush my face as it was blown
away. The hunger for revenge was gone.
Attempting to regain control, Patti sneered, "You look like
you've done okay." At that moment, the no-name blonde said to Patti,
"Why don't you ask her for an autograph?"
"I've heard about her writings, but I would never read any­thing
like that," Patti said, waving her hand as if she were shooing a
pesky bug.
Patti's husband, a former boxer who had taken one too
many blows to his head, innocently said, "Patti, honey? Don't you
remember? You have all her books."
Patti's face became engorged with blood. Clenching her fists,
she turned and stomped out of the gym. Only her husband dashed
after her.
We had a smooth flight back to Arizona. While my husband
dozed with an "I told you so" smile on his face, I contemplated how
Patti really wasn't a butterfly. Though physically in the present, she
lived in the past. She had never made it out of the cocoon.
As the plane was landing in Phoenix, I recalled my mother's
words; "Revenge is best served cold." She was right.
Honorable Mention
Drawing
Buddies
By Carol L. Holloway
Traveler 1999 29
Pusch...Pusch Jir"t Pla-ce------
Short Story Bradley J. Meek
usch...pusch, the ventilator pulses.
My name is Ellen, and I am trapped on the starched sheets of a
rigid hospital bed. The collection of feeding, catheter, intravenous,
and endotrachial tubes clutter around me like a spider's web. Three
days ago, after I suffered horrible seizures that threatened to break
my bones and suffocate me, the doctors told me that the only treat­ment
was curare. It's the chemical that the Amazon Indians use to
paralyze and suffocate their prey. I am alive because the curare now
flows through my veins.
I have endured three days of hell. I cannot move any part of
my body. I can not talk, breathe or smell, eat or drink. I cannot see
because of the protective eye patches. The only taste I have is the
glycerin swabs the nurses use to wet my lips. I suffer the indignity of
having bowel movements in bed and having to lie in the mess until
the smell is enough to draw attention to me. My sensory depravation
has only heightened my sense of hearing and the sensations of my tor­tured
skin and muscles.
I can no longer ignore any sound. The never-ending
"pusch...pusch" sound of the ventilator is maddening. I know I can­not
survive seven minutes without it. I fear it will stop pumping and I
will hear myself die. Because of what I have endured, I fear dying less
each day. I have been pushed to the brink of worshipping death, a
thought previously foreign to me. ntil now, I never believed it possi­ble
any person could suffer enough to give up life.
Pusch...pusch.
My only sense of time is when the morning sun touches me
with its warmth. It also signals the arrival of my forty-year-old son
Sam and thirty-five-year-old daughter Sarah. I hear them joust into the
room together.
"Well, Sam, are you going to keep playing the hero son
again?"
"She had a good night, Sarah."
"Of course she had a good night. She's paralyzed from the
curare," Sarah said. "If she'd gotten her tetanus shot, a stupid little
bee sting wouldn't have caused her to have those terrible seizures
from lockjaw."
"At least three days are over and only four remain. When
they stop the curare, her muscles will work again, and she'll be able
to breathe on her own," Sam said.
"Won't you be realistic for once and admit our mother is
dying? Even if she survives, she'll never be the same again. If she
could signal us in some way, I might believe you, but she can't even
blink her eyes. You know the hospital never helped our father. When
are you going to quit tllis pretense, of doing her any good? All the
30 Traveler 1999
hospital wants is for the family to help with her
care. She can't hear us for Christ sakes!" yelled
Sarah.
"Please don't fight. Would you please
massage my aching muscles?" I answer, but no
one can hear me.
Pusch...pusch.
"Sarah, the doctor said that even though
she can't move any muscles, she can think and
hear. We just don't know when she's awake or
asleep."
I'm awake! I can hear! I'm alive!
Pusch...pusch.
"That's hogwash, and you know it, Sam!
Just because you teach biology and I'm an
accountant doesn't mean you know everytiling."
Sarah, please listen to Sam. Please? How
about scratching my skin?
Pusch...pusch.
"She deserves to have someone talk to
her. I can't imagine what it would be like to go
seven days without once having someone talk to
you. This is a hospital, not solitary confinement,"
Sam said.
"You don't tllink tllis is a prison?" Sarah
said.
Aweek ago I would have agreed with
Sam, but now I'm not so sure. I hear Sarah turn
away from the bed. She must have moved between
my bed and the window because I no longer feel
the warmth of the sun on my skin.
Sam drags his chair to my bedside and
begins to caress my left hand. Thank you, God, it
feels so good to be touched by something living.
Please never stop. If only I could tell you where to
scratch or massage my sore muscles.
Pusch...pusch.
"Oh, Mother, your poor little upturned
nose, all taped over to hold your feeding tube in
place. You never could stand anyone touching
your nose. Your salt and pepper hair is a mess
like I've never seen. You'll be glad to hear that the
wrinkles on your face are gone, but I miss tile
smile that puts them there. At least your hands are
still soft like the kindness of your touch. They
Third Place
Three Dimentional Art
Eye of the Beholder
By Richard Mazo
never have shown the years of hard work, as a
nurse, to get us through college after Dad died,"
Sam said softly.
I raised two taxpayers. If only her father's
death hadn't left Sarah so bitter and antagonistic,
even after twenty-five years.
Pusch...pusch.
"I like to remember when Sarah made
the richest looking Thanksgiving gravy with con­fectionery
sugar and not flour. I know I've never
looked at a turkey the same since."
It's so nice to hear you talk to me. You're
rubbing a hole in the top of my hand, but it's OK.
Don't let go of me.
Pusch...pusch.
"My favorite prank was when I looked in
the fridge and thought a dish of mashed potatoes
looked like ice cream. I immediately asked Sarah
if she wanted a sundae, and when she said 'Yes' I
put chocolate syrup on it and gave it to he;. I'm'
happy to report that the laser darts coming out of
Sarah's eyes are passing harmlessly through my
body," Sam said.
That's the first time in years I've remem­bered
that story. At least Sam's pranks were never
harmful. Don't stop talking.
Pusch...pusch.
Sam continued, "'film about is fair play,
howe~er, and years later Sarah got even, when she served everyone
beautIful banana splits, except mine was made with Crisco. Mother,
would you believe that Sarah is actually smiling? I see it, but I must
be hallucinating. There go those laser darts again."
Take it easy on her, Sam. Is Sarah really smiling?
As Sam continued to stroke my hand, he said, "I always
loved hearing how Dad got into two car accidents taking you to the
hospital to deliver me and you never complained."
If only you knew what I was thinking that day. If only I knew
what Sarah was thinking now.
Pusch...pusch.
"Thinking of Dad, I sure miss his voice, the way he could
tell the same stories twenty times and still make us laugh. His laugh­ter
was so loud it made his belly and the room shake."
Oh, how I miss him, too. Sarah always gets angry when Sam
talks of her father. I can hardly remember Sarall happily sitting on
her father's lap. He would tickle her until she cried, and then she
would goad him to do it again.
Sam said, "Ellen's cheek is getting wet. She must need more
protective eye ointment. Sat'all, would you please push the call but­ton?"
I hear Sarah approach the bed, and I want to shout, "Don't
do it." Can I cry harder?
"Sarah, Mom's crying. Look she's crying!"
"She can't be crying; she's paralyzed," Sarall whispered.
Sat'all'S voice wasn't being sarcastic. Don't push the button!
Pusch...pusch.
"Sarah, crying is a sympathetic response, not a muscular
one. Mom can hear us!"
Sarah slowly picked up my right hand and stroked it. My
tears flowed in continuous streanlS down both cheeks.
"Oh Mother, I'm so sorry! I believe Sanl now. I won't leave
you anymore...You're going to be all right...This is so wonderfuL"
I feel something warm and wet on my right hand and I real­ize
it is my daughter's tears. My daughter has not cried since her
father died. I hear two people laugh like giddy teenagers. I can sense
Sarah atld Sam are smiling at each other. I can't see it, but it doesn't
matter because I can feel it. My four remaining days are going to pass
much more quickly now. All our futures have just taken a turn for the
better.
For the first time in days, I can see the future.
That's strange; I don't hear the ventilator any more.
Traveler 1999 31
A Pew of "Cheap Seats" Second Place
--1------------------
Short Story Amber Rae Bradshaw
Second Place
Three Dimensional Art
No Title
By Kenneth Souza
32 Traveler 1999
Sunday school in my downtown Br.ooklyn neighborhood
was less than interesting. God ordained that church
would be scheduled around the Yankees' games, and
Sunday school was slightly less important than the last out of a stick­ball
game. My father, a devout Yankee fan and one hell of a ball play­er
himself, drilled the religion of baseball into my head until 1was
ready for priesthood. We even had to dress up to watch the games on
television. 1had a hard time believing that baseball was a religion at
first, but then my father showed me a verse in my Bible that 1had
never read before:
"On the ninth day, God said 'I am bored. 1need entertain­ment.
Let there be four lines with four corners that may be corralled
within seats. Let the arena in which these four lines and four corners
are corralled hold many people of all ages, colors, and sexes. May
the seats in this arena be cheap enough for the poor man to enter,
and may the game be so fun that the rich man will want to join in.
May the beer flow cold; may the peanuts be salty; and may the
Cracker Jacks hold cool prizes. Let there be baseball in baseball sta­diums.'
And there was baseball."
I never questioned the fact that this verse was hand written
in my Bible, nor did I mention the spelling mistakes. 1simply let my
father take me to a baseball game so that I could be closer to God.
"Son, this being your first ball game, I think there are some
things you need to know," my father said.
"Like what?"
"First of all, you need a large amount of gum. So here's
one...two...three..."
"Dad, 1don't think 1can fit all this in my mouth."
"Don't be silly, we'll just shove it in there till you start chok­ing
and that's when there's no more room. And...uh...don't tell your
mother I'm doing this, OK?" my father asked, while stuffing bubble
gum in my cheeks.
1tried to say "OK," but it came out in a muffled mess.
By the time my father and 1walked to the car, my bubble
gum had been compacted enough for me to speak. My father asked
me if I was ready for tllis, and after I screamed, "yes," we were on
our way.
The parking lot seemed to house the entire state of New
York, and evelY person who could make my father angry, did. My
father turned on his blinker, as if to claim a parking space as his
own, but every time he did someone ended up conling from the other
direction, stealing the space. We drove for what seemed like an eter­nity
trying to find a place to park. It was just like riding through the
city with him, which I rarely got to do because my mother was afraid
that I might learn some choice vocabulary words. After two birdies
Ceramics
22 Years Later - I Can't Still Throw.
But I Love My Marbles
By Marcia E. McMahon
and one loud "asshole," my father found a parking space, and we
proceeded toward the stadium.
The stadium was enormous and made me feel like a flea on
an elephant. The pillars were dark and echoed the character of many
years of baseball. I could hear the voices of Ty Cobb, Jackie
Robinson, and Roger Maris resonating from the walls. I could almost
see the face of Babe Ruth in every brick of the building. As my father
and I passed the threshold, we handed our tickets to a large man
who had a five o'clock shadow at twelve noon. He had the sweet
smell of Old Spice combined with the strong smell of whiskey. When I
saw that his name tag read "St. Peter," I nearly filled my drawers.
If heaven had a scent, it would be what I smelled that day­the
perfect mixture of dust, flawlessly laid chalk lines and freshly cut
grass. Every once in a while the smells from the food vendors com­peted
for the complete attention of my nose. Onions, relish and mus­tard
perfectly piled on a Polish hot dog fought off the smells of the
cotton candy and the freshly roasted peanuts.
Suddenly, I could not smell anything. I could not feel my
limbs. I could not taste the gum that I was cheWing. All my senses
were linked into sight and sound as we walked through the doorway
to our seats. The grass was a forest green, perhaps the deepest green
I had ever seen in my life. The dirt was brown, like any other type of
dirt, but it gave off a shine that was almost blinding from our view.
We were in the section that my father labeled, "the cheap seats."
The crowd made a muffled sound with all the conversations
mixing into one. My father's voice broke through the noise, "Boy,
these are our seats." I still thought that my senses were numb until I
sat down on that cold, hard seat positioned perfectly on the left field
line. I did not expect heaven to be so uncomfortable. I found relief in
standing for the national anthem, and when the umpire yelled, "Play
Ball," I knew that discomfort was a small price to pay.
My father preached about statistics and umpire calls, but I
was not listening. I was marveling at the pinstriped suit and stirrup
socks of the left fielder. He squatted low to the grass, ready for what­ever
came his way. If the pitcher threw a ball, the left fielder tightened
his glove in his hand, keeping it warm for the great, game-saving play
that was going on in his imagination. I tried to join him in his peace­ful
daydream, but it was more fun to just watch the real game.
Much to my disappointment, the game was a pitching show­down,
and nothing made its way to left field. Heaven slowly became
boring. So, to keep myself awake, I focused on the
scoreboard and tried to imagine what it would be
like to work in there. Did the guy who changed the
numbers get free Cracker Jacks? And how does he
know the score if he can't see? It did not work. I
was still disinterested. The grass and dirt lost their
luster, and the stadium did not seem so colossal.
Yet my father was still enthralled. His face was
calm, and his eyes had a sparkle that was brighter
than the brightest diamond I had ever seen. In
fact, it was as bright as a baseball diamond. He
looked like he had a secret he was hiding from
everyone. He sat in that seat, at least five hundred
feet from home plate, holding the glee of a child.
At the same moment that I was staring at
my father, the pitcher delivered a fast-ball right
down the plate, and thirty-three inches of pine
smacked that puppy toward the cheap seats in the
left field. The white of the leather rotated with the
red of the threads to create the perfect color of
pink as it soared through the air. At that moment, I
knew the secret my father was hiding; the cheap
seats are like pews in church because they bring
you closer to what you love, be it God, be it base­ball,
or be it your child.
I watched that home run fly straight
toward me. The problem was I didn't move. I
remember hearing the ball whack me on the fore­head
and feeling the pain as I woke.
"Son? Son, are you all right?"
"Of course I am, Pop. I'm in heaven."
The crowd went into a rolling roar of
delight. The Yankees had won another game, and I
had proof via the lump on my forehead.
As my father and I walked to the car, we
talked of the high and low points of the game, and
I realized that I was in heaven when 1was closer
to my dad.
Traveler 1999 33
The Second Fruit Fir::,t pt ce
Drama Josh Ivanov
34
Dramatis Personae
God
The Devil
Michael
Azazel
Nataly (Natasha)
Khavronya
Ivan
Dmitri
Ilya
Nicholas
Three peasants
Scene 1: In which no human is tempted by the fruit of impotence.
A brilliant chamberfull oflight and harps. The background is full
ofbright clouds. In the center ofthe stage, there is a throne, at the
top ofsome wide stairs. On the throne is God and, at his side,
Michael. Various angels will be spread out along the stairs.
God: Look out there, Michael. The Universe, the stars, the
planets. Is not my kingdom splendid?
Michael: Undeniably, sir. But, as much as it pleases me, I haven't
come to wallow in your glory.
God: No?
Michael: 1bring you news of the Great Battle, sir. Your adversary
has sent a rather foul representative to engage you in a
contest, of sorts. Should I show him in?
God: There's no need. I already know what he wants. There's to
be a contest between the Devil and me. We're to leave our
power behind and see who can sway more souls with our
wits, alone. Tell him I accept.
Michael: My lord! You can't be serious? It could be a trick.
God: It's not what you think, Mkhael, but it will ruin the jest if I
divulge too much. You'll just have to trust me. (Rising)
Come, let us make preparations for my immecliate
departure. 1will leave my power in a peach and
hide it where no one can discover it, somewhere close at
hand. I will play along for now, but just watch. I'll have the
last laugh, yet. (God and Michael hurry down the steps
and offstage left; the cut'tain falls.)
Scene 2: In which a piece of coal is used inappropriately
The stage is the same as before, except that the details are in
accordance with the standard idea ofHell. When the scene opens,
Traveler 1999
Satan is on his throne. Twelve demons are fight­ing
among themselves on the stairs in front of
him. Azazel entersfrom stage right, and numbly
dancing to andfro, carefully approaches his
master.
Azazel: How now, my Lord? Your face is long and
drawn as if it had been scribbled onto
your neck by a poor draftsman.
Satan: Be careful, Azazel. I am not much
accustomed to flattery.
Azazel: And 1not very good at using it,
apparently. That's why it's such a good
complement, don't you think?
Satan: Yes, 1do on occasion. That's no concern
of yours, though, because I keep my own
counsel.
Azazel: In a castle?
Satan: In my head.
Azazel: Well, that's a cramped cell. How many
seats do you have?
Satan: But one, which seems the norm. Pray
how many do you have?
Azazel: One, as well, I'm told, but when 1reach
my hands around to check, it always feels
as if my congregation has doubled.
Satan: How fortunate for you. After all, a thinker
has a large brain, a runner large legs,
and a glutton several large attributes, like
appetite and girth. I'd say that if you can
find your constituents with only two
hands, you should be applauded for
retarding the natural swelling which
normally occurs in those areas where
one draws the heaviest from. By the way,
was there something you needed?
Azazel: I have very important news that I'm to
deliver to you personally.
Satan: Well, go ahead then.
Azazel: I can't until you've heard me out, my
Lord.
Satan: Do I look like an arm, Azazel?
Azazel: No, sir.
Satan: Afoot?
Azazel: Not particularly.
Satan: Do you know why?
Azazel: I haven't a clue.
Third Place
Photography
David I
By Barrett Wentworth
Satan: (Shouting) It's because I'm all ears!
(Then calmly) Now, let's hear what you
have to say.
Azazel: I have just received a messenger of the
Lord, who claims that He has put forth a
challenge to you. His idea is that you two
leave your power belUnd and go forth
into the world to try to capture as many
souls as you can without your full might.
It's probably some kind of ruse, though,
sir.
Satan: Of course, it is, but I have an idea. I will
decant my power into a piece of coal and
carry it with me, so that if need be, once
He is human, I can take back my power
and wrest control of the world from IUm.
Quickly, we must get to work as soon as
possible. Send my affirmative answer
back up the sewer, and fetch me a piece
of coal.
Azazel: Yes, sir. (Satan andAzazel run offstage
left; the lights dim)
Scene 3: In which the pit is swallowed.
This whole scene takes place in aforest, during a snowst01'm. flya
is sitting on a rock, while he is slowly covered by snow. From the
right, Nicholas enters and makes his way toward flya.
Nicholas: Hello, there.
lIya: Ab, good evening.
Nicholas: Whatever brings you out on such a
night as tlUs, sir?
lIya: Well, you see, I was on my way to my brother's house, when
I stumbled down an embankment and sprained my ankle.
Nicholas: Do you need help getting back to the village? Perhaps, I
c~U1 carry you?
lIya: Akind offer, lad, but I'm afraid that my body has become
too heavy on greed and wretchedness. You'd never make it.
Anyway, it's probably best if you leave me here, instead of
taking me back to the village to steal ~U1d oppress, once
more.
Nicholas: It can't be that bad, can it?
lIya: I've been at tlUs game a long time, boy, taking what I could
~U1d what I wanted, stepping over the sick ~U1d dying for a
tarnished silver piece.
Nicholas: Surely, you must have felt awful doing such things?
lIra: You would think that, but no, I enjoyed it. Could I have
grown this hefty on the good? Of course not. Haven't you
ever felt the rush of a completed taboo?
Nicholas: Well, I did steal a chicken once.
lIya: (Laughing) AclUcken! To think I was almost saved by the
Prince of Darkness, IUmself. No, a clUcken is a good start,
but you won't know what I'm talking about unless you've
made a career of it. You need to feel the true satisfaction of
an amazingly heinous deed. Have you ever considered it?
Nicholas: I suppose every man, at one time or ~U1other, has contem
plated acts of evil. My heart is filled only with love, though.
Ilya: And does it have room for God?
Nicholas: You know, I've never really given it much thought.
Ilya: Why would you, anyway? You've no need for absolution.
Nicholas: Perhaps. Do you me~U1 to tell me that you have never
cotemplated doing anything good?
lIya: It never occurred to me. I have illl excellent idea. Why don't
we playa game? In the time left to me, I must peIiorm an
act of kindness and you, one of sin. How does that sound?
Nicholas: But how? We're in an empty forest.
lIya: (Holding up his finger he hears the sound ofNatalJ"s
voice) What do you say? Make an old man's last wish come t
rue, and perhaps I will even rue with one bit of good under
my belt.
Nicholas: I don't know.
lIya: Quickly! They draw near!
Nicholas: All right, if it will make your last moments more restful,
I'll do it. Is there anywhere I can stow my package?
lIya: Yes. Back here, belUnd my rock. I have already put my
things there.
continue...
Traveler 1999 35
Nicholas: (Hides aparcel) What shall we do when they arrive?
lIya: I imagine that once these young ladies come into view, you'll
know. Just let your nature conduct you. Quiet! They're here!
Nataly: (Enters stage right with Khavronya, due to trees and
snow, they can't see the two men.) Amerry Christmas to
you, Khavronya Pidorka, and a thousand more, after that.
Khavronya: How happy you are, my friend, and I, too! Ivan's
proposal has not come a moment too soon. You shall make
such a perfect pair.
ataly: Do you think so? I can't wait to knit him sweaters and sit by
he fire all day, cooking and waiting for him, making those
kalatches he likes so well. And then when he gets home, he
shall say, "What is that smell? Kalatches? My favorite! But
wait, who is that there? My wife, the beautiful Natasha,
herself] I would trade all the kalatches in the world for her
kiss!" I'm being silly, though!
Nicholas: (Comes outfrom hiding with Ilya limping) Ah ladies.
What a pleasant surprise you are. Are you alone? Yes? It's
rare to have spring flowers in December, you know. I feel as
if I should pluck you before the wind steals the blush from
your cheeks. Come closer, we have vodka and stories to tell.
Let us escort you out of the forest. There are wolves about,
you know.
Nataly: (Khavronya ducks behind her) That's very kind of you, but
we're almost home already.
Nicholas: You little liar. The nearest hut is a verst away. And besides,
how will you fend against the wolves? Never mind, that, now.
It's Christmas. Have you a gift for me?
Nataly: What?
Nicholas: No? For shame. No worries, though. I'll simply take that
which you've brought along with you. (Nicholas raises his
hands andgrabs Nataly while Ilya limps after the fleeing
Khavronya. Ilya manages to catch his prey'sjacket and
pulls it offas they disappear offstage.)
Nataly: (Screaming) No!
Nicholas: (Laughing, drags Nataly toward center stage, pressing
his face against hers. At one point Nataly gets away, but
Nicholas catches her. As she claws at his face, he becomes
angry and knocks her down. Her continued struggling
enrages him and he beats her, eventually finding a rock
close at hand and bringing it down on her head several
times. Soon after, Ilya comes back, looking pained.)
Nicholas: (Clapping the old man on the back) Well, how did you
make out? Able to nestle a little sap from the frozen tree?
lIya: (He points offstage) I only meant to scare her, but I could
not stop myself.
Nicholas: Oh, my. That's worse than I expected. I guess that makes
us even for the night. (As he finishes, the sound ofmerry,
male voices is heard)
Dmitri: Ivan, you bastard! What for us! It was nothing I tell you! He's
gone mad, boys! See what women will do to you!
Ivan: (Enters stage left and looks around wildly, his friends
come running up behind him)
Dmitri: What's gotten into you, old man? What did you hear?
Ivan: It was her voice. I swear it.
Dmitri: Natasha? Come now. In this storm? What would she be doing
out? You're addled with love, my friend.
36 Traveler 1999
Ivan: It was her, I know it.
Dmitri: Why not ask those two, then? Maybe they
have heard something as well?
Ivan: (Walks over to Ilya and Nicholas,
followed by Dmitri and the peasants)
Please, forgive my rudeness, but have you
heard a woman's voice or seen a girl pass
by here recently?
Nicholas: (Pushing Ilya aside) Sir, if you had
only seen what we have just witnessed
with our own eyes, you would not torture
us by asking that question. Indeed, we
have seen a girl. Two in fact. One of them
as the lovely child Natasha, from the
village ahead, and the other, some home
ly daughter of a cursed parent.
Ivan: Was? Was?
Nicholas: Yes. It was horrible, sir. We heard their
screams from over this hill, and came
rushing forward, blindly, but we were too
late. We caught the escaped convicts as
they finished their terrible crimes, but
they were too strong for us. Like wolves
they scratched and clawed at us, biting
and hitting until they had escaped. The
girls, I'm afraid were already dead.
Ivan: (Screaming in angUish, restrained by
hisfriends) Alie!
lIra: (Hissing to Nicholas) He knows!
Nicholas: (To Ilya) Shh. (Addressing Ivan)
From the look on your face, I assume you
knew these poor women?
Dmitri: This is ataly's fiancee.
lIya: Ah! What a tragedy!
Ivan: (His voicefull ofemotion) The body?
Nicholas: (Points to Nataly's body)
Ivan: (Crawls slowly through the snow in dis
belief, and cradles the corpse. His
friends try to console him, but he
pushes them away) Leave me! Go get
the doctor and the villagers! Leave me be,
I say! (The others reluctantly leave,
exceptfor Ilya and Nicholas) Oh, my
dear, sweet ataly. What has happened to
you? You are so cold. Why did you come
out tonight? Why? Do not despair. I will
follow, soon. What is this? (His hand
pulls out an object which he has dis
covered in herjacket, while holding the
body) Aring? Made of her hair? but it is
so big. Look! it fits my finger! Lie still, my
precious girl. I will sing to you, while you
sleep. (Begins to hum)
Nicholas: So, old man, you promised me a good
deed. How about shutting him up? His
crying hurts my ears.
lIya: Yes. I can help Just watch. (Puts an arm
over ivan's shoulder) My friend, I'm
sure that she didn't suffer. She is in a better
place now. She is with God, and there is
everlasting peace and tranquillity. You
must live, sir, if you want to see her
again. If you do something rash, you will
never find her. Instead, you will be cast
down into hell, for all eternity, and your
grief over your lost wife will be nothing
compared to the sadness you will feel at
the loss of your savior.
Ivan: (Moaning loudly and knocking ilya
away) Shut up, old man! What do you
know! Do you think God will punish me if
I kill myself out of love? Do you?
lIya: I'm sorry, sir, so sorry, but that's how it
works. You must believe that the Lord
loves you though!
Ivan: Don't listen to him, my dear. But what
should I do? If he's right, I may never see
you again, but how can you be happy if I
do not prove my love and follow as soon
as possible? Oh, what should I do? (He
does not see Nicholas walk up behind
him and remove apistolfrom his
jacket which he points at the weeping
man) What should I. .. (Nicholas pulls the
trigger and shoots ivan in the head)
Nicholas: (Walking over the horrified ilya) ow
he won't have to decide. He'll see his
lovely girl in heaven. It looks like you
didn't even have to raise a hand to
complete your good deed, old man, since
your inaction has caused me to do it for
you. I suggest you leave, before they
come back. Let's go get our things.
lIya: Yes. You're right. (The two men retrieve
their goods, and standfacing each
other)
Nicholas: Apeach? This isn't mine.
lIya: And this coal doesn't belong to me,
either. (The two trade items)
Nicholas: I remember you, now that I have my
strength back. You threw my people off
your land.
lIra: Your people were ingrates, and you led
them against me.
Nicholas: So, here we are. Agood deed on my
hands, and an evil one on yours. If I had
kept tllis piece of coal, I never would
have done it, butllis cries burned in my
head. Being human is a ridiculous fate.
lIya: How do you think I feel? This was the
tiling I could not know, and now I wish
that I didn't. This fruit is sour.
Nicholas: All this time I thought it was our skill
driving the currents, but it wasn't. You set
the rules; water runs downhill and the sun provides
nourishing light. But how could you know about this? It was
the only tiling beyond you. I thought you would have known
by Golgatha, though.
lIra: Even then, I wasn't completely devoid of my charms. I
performed miracles, read their minds. I didn't know.
Nicholas: Humanity is a curse. You can fill the vessel with the purest
water or the most foul, but the vase remains unchanged.
The water will taste like its home. We sought to stand above
them even as we became them, but it is we who were hum
bled. I have a feeling that even with this knowledge, neither
heaven nor hell will empty, not the rules change.
lIra: No. It will go on like tllis forever.
Nicholas: If you'll excuse me, then, I'll leave mankind to its folly. By
the way, I have feeling it was Azazel who set this up. He's a
demon now, but at one time he was a human. Perhaps, he
thought it would be an amusing gamble to see if we would
walk away with each other's power, or destroy ourselves on
the spot. His joke will not go unpunished. (Walks offstage
right)
lIya: (Bending down) Oh, my c1li1dren, I made the rules but
didn't understand the nature of the game. There are some
things not even God can know, Death, humaIlity, weakness. I
had faith in your souls, gave them free will, and then
encased them in flesh, a dove in a cage of teeth. And poor
Azazel, who only wished that we giants might walk a mile in
the shoes of his ilk. Already, it becomes hard for me to
relate to the waIling feeling of finite life that I just held. If
only you'd listened to my words, you would never have
ended up like this. I will work harder, make you under
stand. As long as your spirit is willing, you can overcome
anything. Sleep well, my children. Sleep well. (Lights dim
with God smiling and hugging the corpses)
Second Place
Computer Art
Robot Playland
By Scott Butler
Traveler 1999 37
An Honest Day's Work Honorable Mention
Short Story Maureen D. Meek
38
can still feel my feet slap on the cold wood floor and smell
the bacon grease in the air. It was before mother usually
woke me up, but the hum of my parents' voices coupled
with the scent of breakfast had shaken me awake. At the doorway I
stopped. The tone of their loud whispers demanded privacy. It was
then that I heard my mother say that my fifteen-year-old cousin had
been arrested for stealing a bicycle from a neighbor's garage. The
murmuring continued, and I heard about the shame that my cousins'
parents now had. I knew that my nine-year-old ears had just wit­nessed
a terrible thing. Back to bed I scurried to wait for my mother's
call to get ready for school. othing was ever said to me about my
cousin's wicked actions.
We lived in a coal-mining town called Windber, outside
Johnstown, Pennsylvania. The streets were narrow, and the houses
flowed up and down the hills that were being emptied of the black
gold. We lived in a two story duplex with the ancient Mrs. Merritt
residing in the other half. I thought Mrs. Merritt to be a witch. Mrs.
Merritt could be seen shuffling through her flower garden in her infa­mous
flip-flops and a long robe. Sometimes I saw her outside sweep­ing
her sidewalk in that robin's egg blue robe, with those stained slip­pers
on her feet, and with her dingy gray hair hanging down past her
stooped shoulders. She attempted to disguise herself by putting a
white ribbon around her hair with a fat bow at the top, but I wasn't
fooled. Mrs. Merritt told my mother that she had spirits that haunted
her basement because she could hear their voices. Mother had heard
the voices too, but she knew it was the echo of the miners tunneling
near the duplex's foundation.
Weeks passed, and summer's joy arrived. Each day pro­duced
an adventure to savor. Nearby woods were tarnished by our
sneakers' tracks. We laid claim to the lot that bordered the grizzly
Mrs. Merritt's side of the duplex. My friends and I labored to make a
baseball diamond in that very lot. In our minds, it was the equal of
Pittsburgh's Three Rivers Stadium. We lived for the smell of grass
stains on our clothes and dirt on our hands, for they were the badges
of stealing a base. The crack of the bat when it kissed the ball and the
whistle of a home run were music to our ears. Life was good, but it
got even better at the end of the day. After breaking all known base­ball
records, we raced to the local five-and-dime store.
The store was two blocks from our baseball lot. It was the
end store that had the only wooden awning out in front. Fancy gold
letters enclosed in a black border arched across the front window,
proclaiming "Callihan's Five and Dime." The stampede of our sneak­ers
squeaked to a halt outside the painted window. In unplanned uni­son,
we leaned forward to look for Mr. Callihan. Mr. Callihan was
old...at least 35 years. He was so big he could block out the sun with
his body. My mother told me that working in the coal dust had made
his hair jet black and his voice gravely. When a support beam fell on
Traveler 1999
him in the mine shaft, he lost his leg. The doctors
gave him a wooden one, and now he walked with a
limp. My Dad said that because some drunken guy
called him "Gimp," Mr. Callihan punched him with
one of his bear-sized hands and broke the guy's
nose. No one ever said that to his face again.
We waited like trained dogs outside his
store. Only when he acknowledged us with a nod
did we respectfully enter. "Good day, gentlemen,"
he said.
"Hello, Mr. Callihan," we'd chorus back.
After that greeting, we would begin each
day with scripted conversation:
"My garbage needs emptying. I'll pay you
men a good wage for an honest day's work. Does
that sound fair?" he'd ask. Our chests always
puffed out when he called us men. Everyone else
made reference to our being boys, and we knew
that only Mr. Callihan was able to see how mature
we really were.
"Yes, sir!" we'd shout.
"Then get to work, men, and remember 1
will check on your work. Do it right the first time."
"Yes, sir!"
Off we'd go, working together as a
smooth machine to empty the garbage. The
garbage cans were old oil drums with the lids cut
off that were almost as tall as we were. We could
only lift each one when all of us wiggled our fin­gers
under its bottom. With moans and groans, we
hoisted it up on the count of "three," but once we
did that, we couldn't see where we were going.
One of us would stand back while the others lifted.
That guy was our naVigator. He'd shout, "A little to
the left! No! No! Not that far! To your right!"
Staggering with the weight of the barrel and the
confusing commands, we forged our way to the
alley dumpster.
When done, one of us got Mr. Callihan so
that he could conduct his inspection. Our first
week of emptying the garbage resulted in us pick­ing
up the slimy scraps of garbage we spilled when
emptying the cans. We began to understand the
merits of doing a job right the first time. After we
passed inspection, we were escorted into the back
of the store where we washed our working men's
hands. Then Mr. Callihan would barter with us
regarding our wages. "How about I pay you men
off with a drink and candy?" he'd say.
We talked in a conspiratorial tone about
his offer. "Let's shake on it," we'd say. And the deal
was sealed. We each got a piece of hard pepper­mint
candy and shared the bottle of Coca-Cola.
We'd take a swig from the bottle, wipe the top off
with either a hand or shirtsleeve, and then pass it
to the next guy.
As the pop made its circuit, Mr. Callihan
showed us the new series of baseball cards that he
was selling, and my fingers tingled when I touched
the Babe's. I became aware of a rumble, and I
realized it was Mr. Callihan talking to me. "Close
your mouth. It looks like you're trying to catch
flies," he said fighting a grin. Seeing that my fin­gers
were holding the card in a vise grip, he
added, "I know. Adollar and twenty five cents is a
lot of money for one ball card."
O-w-w-s and ah-h-s floated from the
other guys while Mr. Callihan placed the card on
the top shelf of his open-backed display case. Then
with the minty taste of our hard-earned pay still on
our tongues, we would leave Mr. Callihan's estab­lishment.
I trotted home. I began to calculate my
savings. "Hum-m-m, I get a nickel a week and I
haven't spent last week's, and I get this week's
tomorrow." I paused, put my finger in the dirt and
added and subtracted. Dusty hands to my head, I
groaned, "No-o-!" I needed a whole bunch of
nickels not just two.
Words tumbled out of my mouth as I
shoveled my supper in. I told my parents what the
virtues of owning that baseball card would be. At
the end of my sales pitch, my mother said, "Mrs.
Merritt told me she needed to hire someone to
help her in her garden. That would be a perfect
job for you." My ears were buzzing. My own moth­er
wanted me to become a paid slave to the witch!
And what was worse was that two inner parts of me
began to argue. My still-scared-of-monsters-under­the-
bed part screamed, "No way!" The other part
chanted, "Fair wage...honest day's work..." The
hunger to own that baseball card squelched all
fears. I'd work for the witch.
The monetary routine began the next day.
Immediately after breakfast, I'd run to Mrs.
Merritt's. She'd give me instructions through her
porch door. "Weed that row!" she'd order. Nag.
"Plant these flowers!" Nag, nag. "Water those
bushes!" Nag, nag, nag, went the old hag. When
she emerged from her house to inspect my work, I
involuntarily stepped back several paces because
she smelled like old decaying road kill. The first
day I had to re-do my work for her, but then I
recalled Mr. Callihan's comment, "Do it right the first time." My daily
pay compensated for the dread I had working for Mrs. Merritt.
Aweek went by. The money I had earned was starting to
burn a hole in my pocket and was begging to be spent. But I wouldn't
give in to frivolous temptations. That's when it happened. I was at bat
and hit a foul ball that went to left field. It just kept going and going
and stopped when it went through Mrs. Merritt's kitchen window.
Everyone in town heard my strangled scream. The other guys scat­tered,
leaving me alone to face Mrs. Merritt. My mother had heard the
tinkling of breaking glass and came running. Mrs. Merritt slowly
materialized like a toxic cl