"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 2000

              Table of Contents
LITERARY CONTENTS VISUAL CONTENTS
Those responsible for this publication believe in artistic freedom of expres­sion.
Therefore, we have not censored the contents of the TrCll'eler. We real­ize,
however, it is important that the readers of the Traveler be aware that it
contains some content of an adult nalure.
inside back cover
Honorable Mention
~ Computer Art
Millenium 2000
Bernadette Rabiej
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Computer Art
Millenium 2000, Bernadette Rabiej,
Honorable Mention
The Quesl, Bill Bailey, Honorable Mention
Mask oflhe World Pas11'1'. athan Schrock, First Place
AbstracI DiI'e, Susan Kidder, Second Place
Cheelo Bird, Val Vyers, Honorable Mention
Doing Time, Troy Escobedo, Honorable Mention
Castle inlhe MOllnlains II, Luella Swan. Third Place
Painting and Watercolor
Girl in Pink, Bill Wetherill, Honorable Mention
In Mother's Ham/I', Carol Holloway,
Honorable Mention
End oflhe Road, Carol Holloway. Second Place
Forces Align. Jim Kearns. First Place
Ul1Iitled, Kimberly Smith, Honorable Mention
100 Walls o/HamlOn)', Bill Wetherill. Third Place
Photography
Unlilled, Monique Marquez. Honorable Mention
The Al'l ofSelf-Mas11'1:", April Huggins, Third Place
Freedom, Jodie Bookout, Honorable Melllion
God Ihe Compuler, Jesse Atallman
Dril'e-Bre #12, Bill Bailey
Self-Porlrail as Dancer, Jesse Atallman,
Honorable Mention
JIISI Like Suicide, Travis Southworth,
Honorable Melllion
SelFPorlrail: Desire as Penilence, Jim Kearns,
First Place
Ghosl Tree, Steve Pepelnjak
Agave, Bill Bailey, Second Placc
Life Drawing
Black and White One, Bill Wetherill,
Honorable Mention
Worm '.I' Eye View, Bill Wetherill, Second Place
Side by Side, Bill Wetherill, Third Place
Two Conlour SllIClies, Jim Kearns, First Place
Drawing
Reclining Geslllre, Jim Kearns, Honorable Mention
Indian Bar, Amy Ogle, Honorable Mention
Spirils oflhe Foresl, Carol Holloway, First Place
Reclining Male Nllde, Jim Kearns, Second Place
One Losl Bllnny, Bill Wetherill, Third Place
Arched Recline, Jim Kearns, Honorable Mention
Box, Ami Varney, Honorable Melllion
Illustrations
Marbles, Troy Escobedo, First Place
Lesl HislOlY be Forgo/len, Carol Filosa, Second Place
Unlilled, Jennifer Carrell, Third Place
Goldfish, Troy Escobedo, Illustration
Treasllres, Alisna Hentges, Drawing
Untilled, Val Vyers, Illustration
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10
13
17
34
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37
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27
38
22
31
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12
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Drama
The Labors ofTiresills. Josh Ivanov. First Place
Secrel oflhe Foresl, Sara Van Alta. Second Place
Non Fiction
We '1'1' Losl 0111' Marhles, Amy E. Husk, First Place
SI'slem Failllre, Jacqueline A. P Benton, Second Place
Poetry
A*U,A'E*Ll', Sharon S. Mills. 1I0norabie Mention
A Gi/ij(Jr YOII. Vidal Medina Jr.. Honorable Mention
1975, Vidal Medina Jr.. Honorable Mention
The /Vorm, Josh Ivanov, Third Place
Medicine, Hillary A. Brainard. Honorable Mention
De.I'cel1l, Megan K. Toczko. First Place
Gecko.I·, Sharon S. Mills, Honorable Mention
Bllller/1I', Amy Husk. Honorable Mention
Lil'ing Dead, Vidal Medina Jr.. Honorable Mention
Things 1110\'1' AClfllired, Jacqueline A. P. Benton,
Honorable Melllion
Spring inlhe Conser\'(/IOI.1'. Mary Wasser- elson,
Honorable Mention
/lope, Mary Wasser-Nelson. Second Place
Fiction
Jelhro Bodine, Sherry Jones, Iionorable Mention
PiC/lire PelfecI, Jacqucline A. P. Benton, First Place
A SOI'l ofHomecoming, V. Edward Gordon, Second Place
Blank Page, Vidal Medina Jr., Third Place
OfNllns and Herelics, Megan K. Toczko, Honorable Mention
A Fish 0111 o{Water, Karen Michelle Sarver, Honorable Mention
1
Honorable Mention ~
Painting & Watercolor
Girl in Pink
Bill Wetherill
2
A*LONE*LY
Sharon S. Mills
To be a*lone is to play your music loudly or softly to please you,
to read in the family room or dance in the living room or sleep on the couch,
at noon,
to clean or not to clean,
to launder or to do homework or to exercise, or not.
to revel in the possibilities of hour, day or week.
To be lone*ly is to turn on any talk show to hear a human voice,
to sigh in the family room or cry in the living room or sleep from boredom,
at noon,
to scream or not to scream,
to be crushed under the weight of things only I cannot do.
to survey all there is to be done and conclude there's no use.
To be a*lone is to exult in the exuberant monsoon rain storm,
to be delighted that the phone does not ring and there is no raucous rap on
the door,
to be not etted,
to be able to think a thought through from beginning to end.
to find time to luxuriate in being you.
To be lone*ly is to hunker down with headphones to avoid summer stonn,
to wish for the call of even a salesman or that a Witness would come
to the house.
to check for E-mail,
to run from your thoughts as if from a speeding freight train.
to be by yourself and not like the company.
A*lone is a choice. Lone*ly is endurance.
Traveler
A Gift for You
Vidal Medina, Jr.
I have no diamonds for you
Only coal
Collected with working hands
I raise my bruised and dirty hands before you
And you embrace me like a precious jewel
A gift has been given to me
And it is all I have to offer you
Love
I have no money for you
Only scraps of paper
Scribbled with words
I raise my empty hands before you
And you put your hands in mine
You do not ask for anything but my love
I have no promises for you
Only that I will love you
I give you my love, for it is all I have
And you give your love to me
A gift for you and a gift for me, love
Traveler
Honorable Mention ­Painting
& Watercolor
In Mother's Hands
Carol Halloway
3
Jethro Bodine
Sherry Jones
Jonathan Brady has a round face, and
stark white skin punctuated by clear
blue eyes, the hue of Caribbean
waters. His full lips, turning upward at
their ends reveal a slight bluish tint as
well. He has a broad chest and no neck,
quitc common for the patients in the car­diO\'
ascular operating room. He appears
calm. unusually calm. On closer observa­tion,
I see his attempt to obscure the
lonclincss that is concealed deep within
his azure eyes.
Mr. Brady rests on a hard flat
gurncy in the preoperative holding area.
He is identified only by a makeshift piece
of masking tape stuck loosely on the
\\'all. The number three appears boldly
on the tape. He holds his large stubby
hands folded together atop his round pro­truding
abdomen. A thin white sheet cov­ers
his stout hairy legs while a hospital
gown constructed for a petite woman is
used as an attempt to preserve dignity.
Stripped of all of his clothing and earthly
4
Second Place ~ Painting and Watercolor
End of the Road
Carol Holloway
possessions, he is left to wait alone knowing only his name, the name
of his doctor, and the name of the procedure that he is about to have
done.
"Good Morning, Mr. Brady!" I smile as I shake his right hand.
Turning his wrist over, I read his name band and I scc that he is the Mr.
Brady that is scheduled for surgery.
"Good morning, Nurse O'Neil." He responds by reading my name
tag.
"Mr. Brady, you are scheduled to have a triple-by-pass done on
your heart today. Have you talked with the anesthesiologist and the sur­geon?"
"Yes." He answers crisply.
"Any questions?"
" 0." He replies.
I continue with a series of rudimentary questions that a nurse must
ask her patients prior to surgery.
"When was the last time that you have had anything to eat or
drink?"
"Eleven thirty last night."
"Do you have any allergies to medications?"
"Yes, Sulfa, Penicillin and Iodine."
"Who should we call to give an updated report on your condition?"
"Well. ..Jethro Bodine hasn't learned how to answer the telephone
yet!" He laughs looking up to the ceiling.
Traveler
"Who is Jethro Bodine'? Or should I say, what is a Jethro Bodine'?"
"Jethro Bodine is my Basset Hound. He is quite a dandy... loves the
ladies! He's my only family... I have him staying at Gleason Kennels."
'That's going to be an expensive vacation for Jethro, one that he
might not enjoy." I begin surveying his left hand. I stretch a rubber tourni­quet
around his forearm, clean his hand with an alcohol swab and as I anchor
his hand with mine, I pause. "There's going to be a stick ..." I say as I insert a
twenty-gauge silastic coated hypodermic needle into his hand approximately
one inch above the knucklc of his ring finger.
"Ouch'" He flinches but continues to tell me about his dog.
"You know I think he actually smiles at me... espccially when I give
him a beer'"
"Now that wasn't so bad ... You see there was nothing to it." I try to
convince him that the nccdlc stick was painless. I press my finger over the
insertion sight to prcvcnt blood from flowing out onto the shect and making
a huge mess. (No onc likes to scc deep red on bright white, not even a drop).
The rubber tourniquet snaps as I untie it. I thread the si lastic catheter up the
vein, connect the clear plastic tubing and unclamp the bag of Lactated
Ringers intravenous solution. I quickly secure the I.v. with two-inch silk
tape, check his medical chart for any abnormal lab values and make sure that
there are six units of blood available, typed and cross-matched specifically
for Mr. Brady.
"We are going to take good care of you, Mr. Brady." I say as I gen­tly
touch his shoulder.
In the operating room, I place a warm blanket over his cold trem­bling
body and stand next to him. I apply EKG leads, a blood pressure cuff,
and a pulse oximeter. (A pulse oximeter is a non-invasive device to measure
the amount of oxygen in a patient's bloodstream).
"Jethro will be fine too," I whisper as I gaze deeply into Mr.
Brady's eyes.
He smiles apprehensively as he surrenders consciousness to the nar­cotics
that are being infused by the anesthesiologist.
The surgery is uneventful. He comes off the heart-lung-bypass
smoothly. His hear beats spontaneously with only slight irregularity. His vital
signs are stable through out his procedure. By textbook standards this is a
classic successful triple bypass.
I head home, prop my tired aching feet up on myoid wooden coffee
table, and fall asleep taking comfort in the thought that I have been part of a
team that saved a man's life.
A cloudy haze fills the air as Mr. Brady hovers over me. Draped in
white, he stretches his arms out to me. His pale colorless body is completely
intact. Gone are the tubes, the wires, and the monitors. He floats quietly in
front of me. He appears purposeful, yet gentle. He speaks to me, not in an
audible voice, but rather in some sort of thought transmission.
"Something went terribly wrong?" He pleads.
" o...you did fine! The surgery was successful. You will be going
home to your puppy very soon."
"That's just it...He needs you! I know that you will give him love."
I wake up damp with perspiration. Brushing the hair out of my face,
I stumble into the kitchen. I scoop the brown granules, pour the water, and
flip Mr. Coffee to brew.
I can't go back to sleep! If I do, I'll oversleep and be late for work.
Not good... ! have already been verbally warned about being late and could
lose my spot as a circulating nurse on the Heart Team. I have a tough time
Traveler
with punctuality.
As I sit at my cluttered kitchen
table, swirling clouds of cream in my cof­fee,
I glance up to see that the big hand is
on the twelve and the little hand is on thc
four. I begin wondering what in the world
did I havc to eat to cause me to have such
a wild dream? I can't recall thc dctails of
the drcam, but I know it was about a
patient. I have assisted thousands of
paticnts in my career, but never have I
dreamed about them. I have always becn
able to separate myself from them as I
leavc thc hospital each day.
My next shift comcs all too early
and I am tired. One of my team members
barks at me to get the operating room
ready and to bring another patient back so
we can get the day stal1ed. They are
always rushing, pushing, hurrying. I am
so very tired. I stretch and yawn, and then
abruptly I remember ...the dream... Mr.
Brady!
"Hey, how did Mr. Brady do last
night?" I nervously ask the Team Leader
R .
"You didn't hear? He died." She
delivers the news swiftly and unmerciful­ly.
Her words slice a chill into the air of
an already stainless steel, cold, sterile
environment.
"The operation had gone so
well... He was stable. What happened?"
My voice is tremulous. She doesn't hear
me. She's already moved onto someone
or something else. I breathe in slowly and
deeply. I calmly regain composure and as
I walk into the preoperative holding area,
I see on the wall, a makeshift piece of
masking tape with the number three
boldly written on it.
Jethro Bodine prefers Alpo
brand dog food to Kibbles and Bits. He
likes the recliner rather than the couch.
He wags his tail rhythmically while howl­ing
nobly at all passers by. When the
angle is just right he can catch the wind
in his jowls as his head stretches from the
car window. On the rare occasion that I
do get to sleep in, he manages to rest qui­etly
on his side letting his long drooping
ears hang off of my soft comfortable
four-poster bed. I think he really does
smile.
5
Jacqueline A. P. Benton
Picture Perfect
!!ol1omhle Mention - Photograph\1
Untitled
Monique Marquez
She opens her eyes and stares at the paint chipped ceiling. A
few seconds pass before she realizes where she is. Because
of her schedule, she wakes up more often in a strange bed
than she does her own. Glancing around, she remembers. She is in
a cabin, Brian's idea. "Forty acres of peace and beauty on the
Mendocino coast," he read from a brochure. A quiet weekend for
the two of them, horseback riding, exploring tide pools and whale
watching. Her idea of checking out new clubs in New York was shot
down early in the negotiations.
She checks the time, 7:30. Brian is gone. A note on her bed
stand explains an early morning horseback ride to watch the sun rise.
He did not wake her. She is not a morning person. Brian has opened
the blinds, so the early morning sun has invaded the room. She is
aggravated. Now she will not be able to sleep. Slowly she rises from
the bed and enters the bathroom. She desperately wants coffee. There
is no room service.
In the bathroom, she examines her naked body. She yawns and
stretches. Her rib cage, in full definition, looks as if it could be played
like a xylophone. It pleases her to see herself this way, as if her bones
will break through her translucent skin if she extends her hands even
just one more centimeter. Her small chest disappears. She is thin, too
thin, people inform her often. But that is her niche, an ultra-thin body.
It's what pays the bills. She wonders about her success occasionally, the
attraction. Perhaps people can only stomach so much. With beautiful
faces, hair, the best makeup and clothes, it probably pleases them when
the person underneath appears as though she is inhaling her last breath
and is not long for this world.
Brian taped another note to the mirror. He signed her up for a riding
session at 10:00. He will meet her at the stables at 9:45. She hates it when
he does this stufr. If she wanted to ride a stinking horse, she would sign
hersel I' up. She wishes she told him of her fear of horses. When she was
six, she was pushed up onto a pony and promptly fell off the other side.
The wind was knocked out of her. She knows it wasn 'tthe pony's fault,
more like her fi·iend's stupid brother, but still she chose to hate horses. Her
life would be too eli fficult if she chose to hate men. Anyway, Brian was
excited about this trip and didn't want to hear it.
Brian is also a modcl. They met at a runway show in Ncw York, both
represented by New York-Elite. The agency was ecstatic they were dating.
They loved the free publicity. Pictures of the two of them were on the front
of every rag. Unfortunately, not all photos were flattering. Several caught
them leaving nightclubs, drunk and sweaty. The agency would send pubs pro­fessional
shots, hoping to avoid the candids snapped by the paparazzi. They
rarely were used. People like to witness others caught unaware.
Of course after three years, the frequency of the photographs has
decreased. Their pictures still appear when a special event occurs, but not as
often. A lasting relationship with no obvious problcms is not interesting.
Fortunately, Brian is just as concerned with image as she is.
Theirs is a rocky marriage, but no maller how miserable they get, it
remains private. Her mother still believes it's a match made in heaven. They can
be having a blowout in the limo, Brian enraged, kicking in the TV screen or
shattering his glass against the tinted window. But when the limo stops and the
doors open, they hold hands and smile. They are golden like early morning
unne.
fIr t PldCt: Fictlun
She still has time to exercise. She will skip the breakfast served in the
6 --- Traveler
main house. The pamphlet describes a farm breakfast consisting of
omelets, bacon, sausage, hotcakes, fried potatoes, grits, and baked
apples with granola and whipped cream. It disgusts her to envision
how her body would process each bite of fat. It is no shock
Americans are so neshy. Occasionally, she will indulge herself
with food, but this displeases Brian. His preference is for her to
starve herself rather than pop blood vessels puking. Her eyes puff
out, and besides she pukes loudly. It's hard for him to ignore.
As the cabin's floor is hard wood, she plants hersel I' on thc
rug in front of the fireplace for her isolation exercises. She doesn't
bother dressing. The soft texture of the rug beneath her reminds her
of when she and Brian were first together. They would spend whole
days naked. It was Brian's idea. "If\\'e can't be comfortable with
our bodies, who can?" Brian is more than comfortable with his
body. He spends hours examining his portfolio. He is unable to pass
his reflection without stopping. Once, after a magazine shoot, the
photographer airbrushed his pectorals to give them more volume.
He fumed for days, "What did that skinny asshole know?" He went
on a lifting rampage. not satisfied until he increased his chest by
hal I' an inch.
In their duplex in Monaco. he decorated the exercise room
in pastel colors. with floor length mirrors intermixed with life size
black and whites of himself. He entitled the room, "Willful
Excellence" and ordered a plaque made to hang outside the door.
Her secret name for this room is "Hopeless Self-absorption." Still,
she was disappointed when there was no room dedicated to her.
Back in the bathroom, she reaches in her makeup bag to
retrieve her birth control pills. She wants to swallow it now before
she forgets and Brian enters the cabin. She is forbidden to take
them. They are trying to stal1 a family. Brian says it's time; other­wise,
people will speculate as to his sexual preference. Her pills are
not there. She knows she packed them. She is struck with an uneasy
feeling. Has Brian gone through her things?
He used to rummage through her things when they were
first together. He'd search for hints of her deceiving him. After con­fronting
her with evidence, slips of paper with phone numbers or
used tickets to a show, she proved him wrong, usually by calling
the number or the friend. He would defensively justify his actions
saying he needs to trust her. They spent so much time away from
one another. It would hurt both their images if they were caught
screwing other people. She knows she should have been angry with
him, but instead she felt flattered, watched over and taken care of.
She contemplates what it would mean if Brian has discov­ered
the pills. She rarely disobeys him. Brian has only hit her once.
Usually he takes his anger out on objects. He knows if he selects
the right one to smash or hurl across the room, it is just as if he had
done it to her. One time she failed to arrive from Paris in time to
attend an award's ceremony where he was nominated for Male
Model of the Year. It wasn't her fault. Weather problems caused the
plane to circle La Guardia for over three hours. He arrived home
from the event, empty-handed. Somehow he blamed her. He went
to the bedroom and retrieved a music box her grandmother had
bequeathed to her. She screamed when she noticed what he carried
in his hands. He picked up the umbrella by the door and proceeded
Traveler
to bash the music box to pieces. After the first blow,
the music began to play, distorted and injured.
Smiling at her between each blow, he hit the box
over and over until the music finally stopped.
The only time he hit her was early in their
marriage. She was reading an article listing the top
moneymakers in the industry. She jokingly pointed
out she was listed five spots ahead of him. Without
warning, he backhanded her across her face and
practically knocked her off her chair. Shocked and
surprised, she locked herself in the bathroom for the
rest of the night. In the morning, she emerged with a
fat lip and canceled her photo shoot. She swore to
him that she would divorce him before he caused
her to lose work again. He seemed truly sorry and
for the next few weeks was so sweet toward her.
Those were the happiest weeks in their marriage.
She continues to search. The pills are not
Third Place ~ Photography
The Art of Self Mastery,
April Huggins
there. Although she agreed to get pregnant, she does
not want a baby. Other models had children, but
they lost their edge. They reduced their schedules
and rarely traveled out of the country. Brian's life
wouldn't change. His career would not be at risk.
Anyway, she could not disfigure her body. She went
to a baby shower for Amber, a model friend, who
was almost nine months along. Lifting her shirt,
7
Amber showed them her protruding stomach,
laughing as she rubbed it. It was grossly huge,
bulging like some tumor gone haywire. She was
shocked Amber would show off her hideous body.
When Amber returned to work six months later. her
abdomen resembled a ew York City road map. No
more swimsuit shoots for her. On that day Bente
swore she would never bear a child.
Besides, what would she do with a kid?
Her own childhood was miserable. Her name was
Suzette Dukes. The agency asked her to change it
Lo something sounding more Scandinavian, not so
trailer park. They renamed her Bente Jorgensen, to
match her blonde hair and blue eyes. She approved
the change. She wanted to forget who she was and
where she came from, which was, in fact, a trailer
in Toronto, Iowa. Her father, an alcoholic, had
trouble keeping a job. Her mother worked in a con­venience
store. Her father often came home drunk.
Her mother would nag, yell, and avoid him, all
with the same result. The next morning her mother
applied extra makeup to cover her cuts and bruises.
On these mornings. her mother would swear she
was leaving him. He would be sorry he ever laid a
hand on her. But she never went anywhere. Then
one day, her mother got lucky. After one of his
drinking binges, her father wrapped his car around
a telephone pole. The police informed them he was
dead on impact and never felt a thing. Bente
always thought her father's death was unfair. He
should have felt something. He should felt all of it.
8
Sighing deeply as she steps into the shower, Bente wishes
for her mother's luck. Divorce is not an option with Brian, but how
agreeable a fatal accident would be. She pictures herself at his funer­al,
whispers of sympathy in her ear, embraces of support to assuage
her grief. "My love is gone... " her eulogy would open. Staring into
the crowd of tear-stained faces, she would vow to go on, not because
her life meant anything anymore, but bccause Brian would have
wanted it that way.
Walking into the stables, she notices Brian waiting. She
inhales slowly, not knowing what to expect. He walks to her and
wraps his arms around her, gently Ii fting her off her feet. She braces
hersel( ready for his pressure to increase around her frame. Instead,
he sets her down and kisses her nose softly. She is surprised, but
once free from his embrace, she notices a tourist indiscreetly snap­ping
photos. She smiles up at Brian and gently strokes his cheek with
her hand.
Brian chooses a small trail ride along Lhe cliffs overlooking
the ocean. The instructor has her horse ready. They call him
Granddad and use him for novice riders. Although nervous, she
allows them to help her mount and to lead her out of the stables.
The trail follows close to the cliff's edge. Occasionally she
moves close enough to view the jagged rocks below. She imagines
Brian's body twisted and mangled, his head oozing into the water. IL
would not be too di fficult. She could photograph him on the edge,
urging him to take just one more step backward. She has heard of
people dying this way in the Grand Canyon. "He died doing whaL he
loved," she would add to the eulogy.
"I wish I brought my camera," she orfers to Brian.
"I know, what a great backdrop. LeL's come back after
lunch." he responds.
Once she has made the decision, she remains remarkably
calm. They eaL lunch in the main house. Brian acLs strangely pleas­ant,
so much so she figures she forgot the pi lis at home. He has no
knowledge of Lhem after all. But Lhat doesn't maLLeI' anymore. She
has a plan. They laugh and hold hands throughouL Lhe meal. Across
the room, the LourisL sits with his camera. His phoLos will document
how happy they were to the end. Just hours before his death, Lhey
were so obviously in love.
Back on the trail, they hike withouL horses. Her camera
hangs on a strap around her neck. They reach the edge of the c1irr.
Bente walks along the edge, searching tor a spot where the rocks
below are the most jagged. She couldn't spend Lhe rest of her life Lak­ing
care of an invalid. As she leans over, something hits her back. orr
balance, she falls forward. Reaching out, she catches the side of the
cliff. Brian quickly reaches over for her hand, and she is saved. She
gratefully sLares up at him, and his face forms a smile. The same
twisted smile he wears before he breaks someLhing. She gasps,
"Please Brian."
And she is falling.
Honorable Mention - Lite Drawing
Black and White One
Bill Wetheri II
Traveler
Honorable Mention ­Drall'ing
Indian Boy
Amy Ogle
\I
1975
Vidal Medina Jr.
Months away from my second birthday
I lost someone I loved
My grandfather
I only remember stories told to me by loved ones of my forgotten youth
Love and laughter
The only surviving memories
Your photograph smile whispers to me that you remember and cherish those long ago
Moments
Grampa, why did you leave me so soon?
Only a short time together
Playing together,
Laughing until red-faced,
Enjoying the bond between the innocence of youth and the innocence of wisdom
Only a short time together but still I love you with a lifetime of love
I'm years older now, but you're ageless behind that picture frame
Many years apart you and me
But still remains a brief love etched in my heart
Traveler 9
A Sort of Homecoming
v. Edward Gordon
Honorable Mention ~
Photography
Freedom
Jodie Bookout
Never before had I been so pressed
upon by the echoing feeling that
something had happened here
before me. Never since have I been so
aware of the need to remember every
moment. Everything had a feel of great
importance on this island. Each weath­ered
stone in every wall, if touched,
would tell of the touches ofa billion
ghostly hands form the past: Dickens,
Shakespeare, Arthur. This was England,
and that night she spoke to me.
The previous two years had been
my greatest eye-opening experience yet.
Leaving the comfort of the U.S. for the
first time had left an unsettling ache in
my stomach. However, the culture shock
10
was forcefully pushed aside by the opportunity for adventure. The months
following delivered as promised. I had rejoiced with a country in triumph,
seen the proverbial stiff upper lip tremble in times of sorrow, and watched a
people beak down at the death ofa princess. All this echoed through the dim
hallways of memory now. It was to be my last night here in this place I had
come to call home.
I plopped down into the tattered easy chair and listened to the creak
of the resentful springs. I had learned to gracefully avoid their prodding.
The flat was a converted townhouse of the older style. "Older" is a much
more honest word in England.This townhouse had watched the city grow up
around it for nearly a century. Its exterior was decorated with swooping arch­es
and elegant scrolls reminiscent of the days when architecture was art. The
inside was a time warp. Wooden floors clumped and creaked when someone
approached. The gas stove hissed. This is how old houses tell stories.
The story at that point, though, was an uneasy one. I tried hard to
soak in the scene before me. It all seemed so real at that moment, but would
the lessons [ had learned fade to black with the erosion of time? [ forced
Traveler
myself to remember all the details I had taken for granted: how the light
switches worked backwards, the funny "ring-ring" of the phone. I went to
the window and opened the thick pane of glass to be greeted by the ever­present
bustle of high street Ii fe as it wafted by. Bicycles and sputtering
black taxis dodged each other in nail-biting spontaneous choreography.
Then came the bitter scent from the fish and chip shop below the flat. How
that truly English snack had grown on me. The stinging tang of salt and
vinegar that's another thing I would have to remember.
Once again I felt the strange, empty ache in my stomach as I real­ized
how much a pal1 of this scene I had become. It was an anxious dangling
feeling betwcen present and future. I got my coat and went for the door.
Something was being torn form me, and I needed time to nurse this new
wound.
Outside it was dusk, although in England it is almost always dusk.
A gray blanket covered the low sky and illuminated the street scene in a
bluish light. Coats and umbrellas passed unsuspecting of the curious watcher
who memorized their "Britishness." The air was moist too much to be called
fog, too little to be called rain. It was sort of spray-bottle mist that collected
on my eyebrows and lashes, with the occasional slice of wind on my cheeks.
I passed through this river of faces and into a back alleyway off the
main street. Instantly the feel was different slower. Great brick walls rose up
on either side. They seemed ancient. Soft, wet moss made its home in the
cracks. With a touch, crumbs of mortar came away in my hand. The sound of
the crowd seemed distant. This was the stuff of movies. Shoes made a "pat"
sound on the wet stones. The black vein-like system of pipes crawling up the
red brick collected drops and then released them. They hit with a "pink" or a
"spat." Small streams ran through the cobblestones and trickled along the
walls. I believe that ever after it will be rock, brick and mortar that send me
back to that place. Stone haunts me.
I trod on, step by step, every sense heightened as if at any second
the shadow of "The Ripper" himself would come through the wet mist to ask
what I was doing in his streets. "But these are my streets now," I would
answer.
The sight of a rag doll pair of trouser legs, ending in very worn
leather shoes interrupted my reverie. I realized that they jutted from a recess
in the wall and were owned by a pile of rags topped with a craggy unshaven
face looking at me. I slinked on, pretending no one was around.
"Aurite maite?" he grumbled. Drunk, or Cockney? Sometimes you
just can't tell. "Ave yeh goht a feaw spayah pence on yeh wot oi cud "'ave?"
Eager to be a humanitarian, yet we31Y of the ever present "con," I had devel­oped
a standard response to such a question.
I straightened up and tried to speak matter-of-factly. "What would
you buy with it if I gave it to you?" I put on a poker face to await the
response.
He responded eagerly. "Oi 'avent eat'en in days maite" was his
answer. His red glassy eyes were wide like an expectant child.
"Well, come with me then, and J'II buy you a meal right now." The
child-like expression changed slightly. He was more anxious, and he leaned
forward slightly,
" aow, 'f yew leht me 'ave it aw boi it mesewf." That time J
caught the sour stench of alcohol.
"If you're hungry, I'll get you a good hot meal right now. Come
on." Again I waited to see what the answer would be.
Traveler
"Naow, 's auroite maite," he
said, turning away with a bored wave of
his hand. And to him I was gone, even
before I had actually left. Rarely did they
accept the offer.
I passed through the buildings
and headed towards the sea, not quite
aware of what I was looking for, but cer­tain
I hadn't found it yet. Then I was sad.
I thought of the countless rag dolls in
countless decades. Countless shoes and
wheels were the forces wearing away at
these stones, along with tires, rain, moss,
workmen, horscs. These streets were
tired. So was I.
I rounded a corner and started
down an easy slope when a gust of sea air
caught me in the face. I stepped to the
very edge of the dock and grabbed the
cold, pipe railing. Sea wind is so energiz­ing.
It raised my pulse and made me
stare, teeth clenched, out over the abyss,
hair whipping about over my ears. The
sea crashed itself against the rocks as if it
had something to prove. I tasted the years
in the wind. These were the same gusts
breathed by so many legends from the
past-all ghosts now.
Then something moved. The
gray layers in the sky shifted. The red­orange
fireball, low in the sky, pierced
through, scalding the waves and town and
setting afire the walls, streets, windows
until all burned with that same orange
glow. Sharp shadows stuck straight out
behind evelything, fighting with the hot
brilliance.
This was for me. This was the
sermon I had come to hear. This was to
prove to one man that the glory that was
Britain lived. Though the age lines were
deep in the face of this motherland, she
was still due a certain respect for her
rearIng.
I blinked my eyes, surprised by
the emotion welling up on its own. This
moment was a gift. I had found what I
was searching for that evening. England
would go on without me. It always had.
But now, I would never be without it. I
turned and started for home.•
11
Poc!'
The Wor~
Josh Ivanov
She wriggles on the end of my hook like a worm,
A worm with a loud, wide mouth
Caling for a fish who will never come,
"God, my God," but he is not listening,
This is my moment, my name, her secret name for me,
We are swallowing each other, but I am not enough,
She wants more ealih inside of her,
The world itself would not be enough,
She is waiting for Hephaestus,
With his club,
To hit her three times,
To hammer all of existence into her,
12
Second Place - Life Dra\l'ing
Worm's Eye View
Bill Wetherill
With the first blow he will create her,
With the second he will satisfy her,
With the third he will cast her away,
Shc will die on her back. like a turtle,
Truly, there is only one thing that can fill her.
Disease, multiplying over and over again,
Eating away at her until there is nothing leli,
The last love of every whore,
When she is buried, I will give thanks to death,
That thing \,\ hich has forever separated me fl'om my misery,
Its hands like the waters of the Rhone, holding apart two shores
Which were never meant to touch
Third Place - Life Drawing
Side by Side
Bill Wetherill
Traveler
Blank Page
Vidal Medina Jr.
Photograph
God the Computer
Jesse Atallman
"I give up'" the one time poet wrote on the blank page. That's how
he felt, a loser, a blank page in the novel of life. What he was or what he
could be meant nothing to the world. He froze as he looked down at that blank
page slowly filling with words and dreams.
"Holy shit!" he said out loud. He couldn't believe his first attempt to
write a short story was unfolding right before his sleepy eyes. How long had
he been writing? What was he writing? His pen continued to write with haste,
for fear of the creativity being wiped out c1ean-a blank page. That was
Gordon's worst fear, to contribute nothing to our great novel. It made him
shake with terror and sweat bullets. He wished sometimes that his suicide
would be enough of a contribution. But how could he be sure? Would it
change a life-for better or for worse? His marriage with self-destruction
would never happen. Gordon would never bet against his dream of great con­tribution.
There was no sure way of knowing, and Gordon was a man who
looked before he leapt. Sure, everyone he knew thought otherwise-rebel, wild
abandonment, believer in karma. Secretly, he planned every tiny step and
because of this, his page in life's novel was still blank.
So here he was, writing his first short story, indeed a start to his con­tribution.
He had written many poems before, but he was so goddamn scared
of failure, he never tried to get them published.
"What if nobody likes them, " he thought, as he put away his poetry
for good. For eight years he had been writing poetry and for eight years he
said, "What if nobody likes them." He put away his poems in a large box and
sat to write the story that was coming to life.
"Ho-Iy shit'" he said again in total disbelief. "I'm doing it. I'm doing
it. This is it!" He stood up with the excitement still running through his
clogged veins. "Honey, I did it!" he said to his wife. He walked across the den
and entered the kitchen with jubilation. "I did it! I've written about half of my
Traveler
story! "
"That's great, babel What's it
about?" she said with a little concern. She
knew her husband was a good poet, but
she had doubt of his ability to write a
ShOl1 story. She asked him all about the
story, but secretly she thought, "Why
does he even bother?" She loved Gordon
very much and so she smiled politely and
told him she believed in him. "Do you
need anything from the store? Sorry, I
didn't mean to interrupt, but I'm going
right now for a few things before it
rains."
"No, I'm cool. I'm gonna go
back to writing my story. Make sure
you're careful. There are a lot of jackass­es
on the road," Gordon said with moder­ate
concern. He loved his wife more than
anything, but this story was everything to
him right now. He kissed her goodbye
and quickly returned back to the den.
The room was dark and cluttered
like his mind. The large desk sat in the
corner. Stacks of books decorated the
room, and the wastebasket was full.
Gordon stumbled across the room and sat
at his desk to write his secret thoughts.
13
He looked around the room with an
empty gaze. The shapes all were blurred
in the morning light that was creeping
through the red curtains.
"What should I write?" he
thought. othing ever came easy for him.
He worked hard for everything he had,
his house, his car, his wife. The only
thing that came easy was his poetry. It
was his baby, his dream. Every night he
lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He would
think about everything from theories of
time travel to the evolution of man.
Gordon was a dreamer, a man caught in a
plane between this world and the next.
He knew he didn't belong to this realm
but he wished like hell he did. He made
the decision of putting away his dreams
and writing something real. He wanted
his writings to be solid now. He wanted
to be a writer, not a poet or a dreamer.
Gordon was staring at his com­puter
screen and nothing was coming to
him. His dreams were now in the back of
his mind, and he had no knowledge of the
real world. He got out of his chair like he
weighed five hundred pounds. Gordon
was not a small man, but he always
moved like he was pulling the world
behind him. He walked over to a stack of
books by the window dripping sunlight
and hunched over the tower of paper­backs.
Gordon picked through the
stack, taking one book off the stack at a
time and making a new tower of words.
Although he had a few picture books,
Gordon was a man of words, and he
breathed them in with a heavy breath.
Gordon was a round man, and he stood
no higher than a l3-year old. His face
was pale, and his cheeks were rosy. He
looked like Santa Claus on a bad day. His
hair was short and parted to the side. He
grew it long in his youth, but he thought,
"I'm already a freak. I should at least try
to look normal." He certainly didn't look
normal. He seemed to be changing all the
time, and the only thing that stayed the
same was his eyes. They looked like two
polished rocks pressed into cookie dough.
They showed no emotion except for when
he laughed. He always closed his eyes
when he laughed. Those two fat eyelids
would slowly droop over those shiny
rocks, and his face would be a pale moon.
Even his lips looked like cookie dough.
14
When he laughed, he opened his mouth, and the red from his tongue would
put you in a trance. It was as if each time he laughed, he was showing you
where the real Gordon was living.
Gordon continued to sort through the stack of old paperbacks. As he
scanned over the titles and authors, he could almost map out the evolution of
his mind. He picked up each book and stared at each one for an hour, recall­ing
his youth. He picked up Camus, Nietzsche, Voltaire, and Kerouac. He
stared at that Kerouac longer than the others. It brought back his yearning for
adventure, the road. He let the sunlight rest of his face as he thought of his
roaming days.
There was a time when he would save any money he found to buy a
bus ticket out of town. He would meet naYve boys and girls and have them
drive him to the next town just for fun. He loved the road. It was like a paved
birth canal for him, where every destination was a rebirth. He wrote his first
poem on a Greyhound bus. He sat next to a drunk cowboy who kept asking
him, "Who are you?" Each time Gordon would come up with a new answer,
"The King of France." He even remembered when he hitchhiked across the
county. He was only 16 and thought he was just like Jack Kerouac. He
remembered how his thumb would curl and that his biology teacher called it
a "hitch-hiker thumb." Now, his sweaty thumb pressed into the torn cover off
On the Road, and he put it on top of the pile and sighed. "What happened to
those days?" he thought
He sat Indian-style between the two stacks of books and gazed out
the window. His eyes had to adjust to the direct sunlight, and his face wrin­kled
in annoyance. He tried to focus on the window itself. He sta11ed at the
fingerprints on the glass like they were spelling something out, and only he
could read them. He focused on each swirling miracle and marveled at the
individuality of man. He was lost in the smudged maze, but in the back­ground
he saw wonderful colors. Soon those colors were calling him with
laughter, and the fingerprints slowly disappeared. As he watched the mazes
fade away, he saw the whirlpool of colors come together and create a beauti­ful
portrait. It was Sunday morning and the neighborhood children were
playing without a care in the world. The older boys were playing football in
the street. The younger boys were playing marbles, and all the girls jumped
rope. All the Sunday morning sounds were pounding through the window.
"Go long Charlie!" "That's my cat's eye!" "One, two, buckle my shoe!"
Gordon smiled from ear to ear and stood up. He walked over to his
desk and got a pen out of the top drawer. "Now where's that paper?" He
looked around for some notebook paper and only found a fast food napkin.
Gordon thought, "This will work. Since when do I write on anything else."
He sat down and started to write about the beautiful Sunday portrait. He
wrote furiously, tearing the napkin several times. He couldn't believe how
easy this was for him. As quickly as he started writing, he set down his pen
and gazed down at the final product.
Young bodies
Tough and new
Fighting over cat's eyes
Soon they will lose their own eyes
Those soft faces will fade
As quickly as the memories
Line upon line
A story will appear
You will grow old
And lose your lust for life
Your lust
All will become elastic
Traveler
Enjoy this day
Dancing and singing under your sky of azure
Soon you will be under your feet
And life will be nothing it is today
Gordon was surprised at what he wrote. He usually wrote morbid
stuff, but he was very capable of writing beautiful poems. He didn't know
why he wrote such horrible things about the neighborhood angels. He stood
up quickly and went to the window. The children were still enjoying their
games, and Gordon looked down in disgust. He turned around and stalied
kicking over the towers of paperbacks. He was in the middle of his rampage
when he heard the car pull up to the house. He quickly tried to stack the
books before his wife came in. He didn't want her to know he had lost his
temper. She already doubted his abilities to write a story, and he didn't want
her to know how frustrated he was getting. The den doors pulled apart, and
Gina walked in.
"How's is going?"
"Fine. Fine. Um ... What's for breakfast?"
"The usual. Ham, eggs, pancakes," she said trying to lure him away
from his work.
"Cool. Do you need any help?"
"Yah, come on," she said. They walked down the hall to the
kitchen, and Gina started making breakfast. Gordon's idea of helping was sit­ting
at the table and telling her how to do everything. Today, he just sat there
and thought about his new poem.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Yah, everything's fine. I'm just thinking," he said hoping she
wouldn't probe.
"You're working too hard. You've been up all night working on
that. .. ," she stopped sholi of saying, "stupid story" and carefully finished her
sentence,"story." Gordon remained quiet because he knew what she wanted
to say. He was thinking of why he wrote that poem. He wanted so badly to be
someone that he nearly forgot who he was. He thought, "What if I start writ­ing
poems again?" He thought about that for a long time. Soon, breakfast was
ready and a big helping of ft sat in front of him. Gina hadn't said anything to
him for about thirty minutes, and then she broke the silence.
"Is everything okay, baby?" she was really concerned.
"Yah, I'm just thinking about my story," he said, never mentioning
the poem. That was all that was said at the table. Gina could see her husband
was preoccupied with something more than the story, but she left him alone.
Gordon stuffed his face as quickly as he could and returned to his private
cell.
Gordon walked into the den and closed the doors behind him. Half
the room was lit with a beautiful light. Gordon stumbled to the window in an
S pattern, trying to avoid the stacks of books. He grabbed the curtains with
both hands and shut them. Since he wrote that poem, that was all he could
think about. Was he making a mistake by putting away his poetry for good?
He stood in the center of the room like a marble statue. His white skin was
glowing, and his eyes stared into the closet. He took small steps to that shoe­box
on the top shelf. He couldn't go on with writing short stories or anything
else but poetry. If he couldn't have his dream, then he would have to destroy
his enemy. He thought, "Maybe this will free my poetry."
He knocked down a stack of books in front of the closet and stood
on the remains. His heels slowly lifted off the books as his hands reached for
the old shoebox. He inched it into his hands with his fingertips and his heels
slowly landed on the pile. He stepped backwards out of the closet and held
the box close to his stomach. He lifted the top with his right hand and threw
Traveler
it on the ground. His deep-set eyes
looked down at the shiny pistol resting on
a bed of newspaper. 0 thoughts were
going through him, but he knew exactly
what he was doing. He grabbed the gun
and dropped the box. He raised the gun
toward its target and smiled. The room
was completely quiet, and he could hear
his wife clanging dishes in the kitchen.
His indcx finger slowly pulled the trigger.
"POW!"
Gina dropped the dish in her
hand and ran down the hall calling,
"Gordon?! Gordon?!" She swung open
the doors and found Gordon still holding
the smoking gun.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
She screamed at him. The room was full
of smoke and debris. He turned around
slowly and dropped the gun. "What the
hell are you doing?!" she screamed again.
She was so happy he was alive. She for­gave
him as quickly as she became angry.
Gina walked over to Gordon and
embraced him like a lost child.
"I'm sorry, babe," he cried into
her shoulder.
"It's okay," she said.
They slowly fell to the floor and
cried together. They held each other for a
lifetime. Then they both turned and
laughed at the victim. Their computer
was now dead; its face shot off. A trail of
glass lay in front of them. Gina stood up
and said she would clean up the mess.
Gordon kissed her on the cheek and said,
"Let me get it; it's not your mess." She
nodded in agreement and kissed him
back. She closed the doors behind her,
and Gordon looked for the gun. He
couldn't find it, and he laughed at Gina
for taking it. He threw the shoebox in the
wastebasket and bent down to get his disk
out of the dead computer. He held the
disk up to his face and broke it in half.
He tossed it into the garbage on his way
to the closet. He reached in the closet and
pulled out the box he put away yesterday.
He looked down at his poems and felt joy
again. He held the napkin with his scrib­bles
and put it in the box. He knew now
that his poetry was his contribution to the
novel of life. He could almost see his
blank page slowly materialize. He smiled
as it appeared to him, and he could see
one word written on his one page: I.•
15
Honorabk 1\Ienllon - [>ocln Me('jicin-e
Hillary A. Brainard
I take my sweet,
green Death.
Nostrils paneled
with wood and duct tape,
I take my NyQuil like a shot,
with a water chaser,
Just open my throat
and take it down before I
throw it back up-my
green, green Death
And I glance in the mirror
to see my crumpled grandmother,
bald and frighteningly frustrated­bony
exterior hiding under pillows,
eyes blinking,
skull encased inside her
blue-veined, eggshell face,
so delicate and inflamed,
swaying in front of the television.
I fall, sobbing,
arms on the toilet seat,
bowing to my shiny, new god,
and rambling on about Hitler­evi
I, Iittle foreign man
praising Nordic children
and Death.
And I wish for grounding,
And I wish for flowers,
legs, poetry, dirt,
and other useless chunks
of reality.
First Place - DrGll'ing
Spirits orlhe Forest
Carol Halloway
16 -- -- Traveler
II HI '1,\tlJ11ll1 I ILtI 111
Honorable Mention ~
Computer Art
The Quest
Bill Bailey
Of Nuns and Heretics
Megan K. Toczko
It really isn't fair.
You see, I always led an uneningly righteous life. I was generous to
the impoverished, compassionate to the needy, and charitable to the point
which some might consider a fault. To me, such extraneous wealth was
inconsequential, and knowing I helped one in distress made me happy, a
double blessing, for do the Corinthians not state that "God loves a cheerful
giver?" Indeed, such worldly luxuries were then quite trivial, as I focused
exclusively upon the tasks necessary to earn my place in heaven.
In my convent, I was blessed in being surrounded by those with like
aspirations, and though our ways were unpretentious, we each felt rich and
satisfied with an indefinable, spiritual nourishment. We were promoting the
truth-----doing our humble part to save His flock and simultaneously make our
earthly pilgrimage toward salvation. What a crock that was! But wait, I'm
getting ahead of myself.
I was eighty-four years old when I died. I had spent the last few
hours of my life in a hospital bed in St. John's, surrounded by fellow Sisters
and teary-eyed well-wishers who came to say goodbye. I received them with
warmth-I knew my time on Earth was coming to a close, and, as promised
in Colossians, was ready to "receive the just reward."
A double patter of my heart signaled the moment, and inhaling my
final lung-full of sweet, earthly air, I closed my eyes and said, "God Bless,
He calls. Farewell."
I died with a smile on my face. I know it sounds cliche, but it's
true-I caught a glimpse of myself during that split, dividing second of life
Traveler
and death, when my soul slipped from the
flesh and hovered in space before being
rotor-rootered into a blazing tunnel of
light.
How long I lingered in that noth­ingness,
I couldn't rightly say, though
once entered I seemed to regain the prop­erties
of the flesh. I could no longer see
through my hand and felt the lurch of my
beating heart. The hospital gown I'd worn
melted into my usual habit, and the tun­nel
process exposed my body to a virtual
rewind, the wrinkles and age marks upon
my hands smoothing away to reveal the
younger skin of my prime. I smiled with
content. Naturally heaven would be popu­lated
with the healthy and strong! I must
have been close to thirty when the daz­zling
white unexpectedly evaporated, and
with it, my motion ceased.
I fell flat on my face.
Apparently heaven had not
worked out the "complete absence of
pain" glitch, I realized as I raised myself
with a quiet groan. The floor was cobbled
17
Photograph
Drive-Bye #12
Bill Bailey
stone. damp, dark, and cold, not at all
how I'd imagined heaven's entrance.
Somehow all those movies and Bible
story illustrations had led me to believe
the way to the golden gate was lined with
sort clouds. blue sky, and smiling
cherubs. What I saw when I finally man­aged
[0 get to my feet made me gasp.
"Hello. Sister."
I gaped in pure horror at the one
\\, ho spoke. He sat upon an onyx throne. a
toga-clad man with black flames for hair
and the ashen complexion of the dead. A
\\, ry grin tugged at the corners of his
mouth as he glanced sidelong at his
queen. a woman of like attributes. her
expression acrimonious granite. An over­siLed
pomegranate lay against her arm­rest.
apparently chained to her wrist. Both
were donning jewelry to the point of
gaudiness. but I took little notice of this
at the time. instead nearly choking in dis­belief
at his following words,
"Welcome to the Underworld."
My jaw dropped, "Wh-what?"
18
"My Underworld," he repeated with a chuckle, his fingertips tap­ping
together as a spider. "You know-you die, your soul leaves your
body, and here you are! The guest of Hades himself." he chuckled
again, seemingly a bit high-strung.
I gulped the soggy air, not believing his words, "Hades? I'm
in ... Hades?!"
"Eh," the god shrugged his nose scrunching. "Kinda. I really hate it
when you people call it that-I mean, I'm Hades, you know?" His hand
curled in, pointing against his chest. "Hades from Hades sounds pretty
dumb, but you people have done a good job at screwing things like that
up. I mean, you're honestly surprised to be here, aren't ya?"
Dumbstruck, I nodded.
He gently elbowed the sulking woman beside him. saying quietly, "I
don't care how many times I see it, Perse-these mortals in shock crack
me up!"
Persephone snorted gently but said nothing. Hades' attention
returned to me, "So back to this-here is my Underworld. Not really
Hades or Hell," he weighed the two names on an imaginary scale, his
hands rising and falling. "Just Underworld ... Oh, who cares about
names? They're piddle. It's the impact that's important, right? Right!"
he answered his own question with fervor. clapping his hands. "So,
yeah, you're 'damned, '" his fingers making air quotations. "If that's
what you're getting at."
Damned? Me? After a life of morality. charity. chastity?
"There... there must be some sort of mistake." I looked to the woman.
hoping to find sympathy but found indifference. She seemed bored with
the whole event and of less than pleasant demeanor. "I...I'm not supposed to
be here." I continued with as much heart as I could muster.
"A mistake, you believe?" The smile vanished from his face as his
fingers stilled, a thoughtful countenance melting across his features. "Well, I
hadn't thought of that. Hmmm," he leaned forward. spindly fingers tapping
his chin as his flaming hair crackled. "Where did you expect to go?"
"Well, heaven." 1 said meekly, my eyes finding the ground. Was
this really happening?
"Sorry? Speak up?" He grinned slightly. a hand cupping around his
ear as he leaned forward.
"Heaven." I managed a bit louder.
"Heaven? Hmm... Iet me check the list." An unrolled scroll
appeared before him. the edges crackling in white-sparked magic. One of
Hades' long nails slipped down the page as he scanned it. mumbling partial
names. "Let's see ... Republican ... yep ... Senator. .. oh. definitely ...Mmm­hmm
...Oh, this is interesting!"
My heart sped to the point of pain as I awaited his decree. "Wh­what's
interesting?" I finally managed after he sal in silence for longer than I
could bear.
"No mistake," he quipped, a short clap causing the scroll to disap-pear.
"Oh God!" I implored. falling to my knees and looking upward. I
couldn't see the ceiling. the blackness of the underdark hiding it. My clasped
hands rose to these starless heavens as I sobbed, "Please, help me, 0 Lord!
Let this hOlTid test end!"
A thunderous roar came crashing down harder than the Red Sea,
"Holy O-Iym-pi-a!" he bellowed between spasms of laughter.
"0 Lord, 0 Lord" He sing-songed in a falsetto, his hands flailing in
Traveler
the air as he mocked me in glee. One hand came to rest on his knee for sup­port,
the other backhanding his queen in the upper arm as he managed
between breaths, "She's a trip, isn't she Perse?"
An icy glare was shot his way, but she didn't speak a word. Hades
didn't seem to notice as the dank halls reverberated with his laughter. For
several minutes I watched as the Lord of the Underworld had his amusement
at my expense, the uproarious waves eventually quieting to a throaty chuckle.
"Woo, boy," he said with a chortle, his hand wiping the tears from his eyes.
"Man, am I glad I won that drachma-toss! Zeus wouldn't have had half as
much fun with you!" He sniggered some more, one hand finally coming to
cover his face as he quieted, "Okay .. .I'm all right."
The laughter remained behind his eyes as his hand lowered to clasp
its mate, "Allill-right. So, eh, Sister. .. get off the floor, will ya?"
I stood slowly, absently brushing the dirt from my habit.
"Okay," he continued. "You're here on a very, very weighty charge."
I held my breath.
"Heresy."
"What?!" I shrieked, the word bouncing across the room in eerie echoes.
"Heresy," he chuckled. "Look for yourself."
A flame-lined scroll appeared before me, and before I'd finished
even the first line, I felt my lungs constrict. The Lord of the Dead rattled the
contents from memory in a single, rushed breath:
"By the unanimous vote of the gods and goddesses, demi-gods-and­mortals
of the Olympian territory, you have hereby been found guilty of prop­agating
the cult of Christianity and thereby undermining the divine orchestra­tion
of the Greco-Roman truths. You've been found a heretic, as defined in
Section 76, paragraph 3 of the mortal's handbook, '100 I Ways to Roll a Rock
Uphill.' By this decree, you are hereby condemned to eternal servitude in the
pits of the Underworld. Yours truly, The Gods."
The scroll vanished, and with it went my last slivers of hope.
"So, Sister. .. convinced?"
"Have you no mercy?" I managed, suddenly overcome with
hopelessness.
In response he said with a grin, "Quote, 'Hades is not to be
soothed, neither overcome, wherefore he is most hated by mortals of
all gods.' End quote. Who said that, Perse?"
She shrugged, disinterested.
He snapped his fingers, a small flame shooting up,"Right-o, I
remember! It was old Agg! Now this guy was murdered by his wife
while taking a bath! Man, did he have a sob story, but did I let him go
back for revenge? No! So ya see, Sister, we're not prejudiced down
here. We damn everybody.
"Now, I hate to end this since we've been having such a deli­cious
time, but I do have other appointments this afternoon. If you'll
be so kind as to follow Cerberous, he'll ... my, my, Sister, why so
pale?"
My jaw dropped yet again as I found myself suddenly by the
side of a fiendish, three-headed beast. Each head snarled menacingly in
my direction, drool dripping from razor-chunked fangs.
Honorable Mention ~ Photography
Self-Portrait as Dancer
Jesse Atallman
Traveler -
"Oh Sister," Hades chortled mer­rily.
"You're a riot. Don't mind my
Hellhound. He won't bite. And even if he
does, you're already dead!" he looked to
the beast. "Now boy, be good and lead
the heretic to slot 869, the one by
Tantalus."
Three heads barked happily
before turning, snapping at me, and trot­ting
out of the cavern. Mechanically, I
followed.
My punishment remains ever­undecided.
My days are spent in listless
reminiscing, often regretful or bitter. I
should have been a lawyer, or a doc-tor.
.. hell, even a stripper. I did receive a
pomegranate last Wednesday with rueful
regards, the card reading:
"Dear Sister,
My apologies for the wait on
your personal damnation. The
Underworld hasn't exactly been prepared
for the influx of heretics this century, and
on top of the Y2K issue, things are just a
bit out-of-order. But remember, 'patience
is a virtue!' Sincerely yours, Hades."
It really isn't fair.
19
Second Place ~
Computer Art
Abstract Dive
Susan Kidder
First Place ~
Painting and Watercolor
Forces Align
Jim Kearns
Second Place ~
Drawing
Reclining Male Nude
Jim Kearns
First Place ~
Computer Art
Mask of the World Poster
athan Schrock
20 - Traveler
First Place ­LijeDra\
l'ing
Two Contour Studies
Jim Kearns
Third Place ­Dra\
l'ing
One Lost Bunny
Bill Wetherill
Honorable Mention ­Computer
Art
Cheeto Bird
Val Vyers
Traveler
Honorable Mention ­Drawing
Arched Recline Jim Kearns I
21
We've Lost Our Marbles
strict disciplinarian, she was fair. She
taught exciting lessons and planned great
field trips. Life in her class was stimulating
and fun until you made her mad. All at
once we looked at the enormous glass jar
sitting majestically on the desk. Inside this
massive receptacle were nearly three hun­dred
marbles.
Now one might say, "Marbles?
What do marbles have to do with this
story?" In my sixth grade class, marbles
were everything. For months we had been
planning a Christmas party. But like every­thing
else, we had to earn it. One day, early
in the school year, Mrs. SWaIiz entered the
classroom with two rather large containers.
"Class," she said, "This is how
you are going to earn your Christmas party.
I have here two containers." She held them
up. "As you can see, this glass container is
empty, and this container is filled with mar­bles.
All you have to do is get all of these
marbles into this container, and you've
earned your party." At that, the entire class­room
erupted into delighted chatter. That
seemed easy enough.
"Hold on everybody. It is not as
simple as it seems. There are over three
hundred marbles in this container. You are
going to have to be very good. When the
class is productive, I will drop some mar­bles
in the empty container. However, if
you misbehave, I will take marbles out."
We were delighted to meet the
challenge. As the weeks went by, we had
our ups and downs. It was amazing to see
thilty children immediately silenced by the
soft clinking noise of tiny glass balls. We
had learned to distinguish between the
sound of marbles being dropped into the
container and the dreaded sound of marbles
being taken out. Come December, we had
earned nearly enough marbles to have our
Christmas party, and we were getting cocky.
Perhaps it was because we had
been under such pressure to behave or
maybe we were tired of performing; what­ever
the reason, we gave that sub a run for
her money. All day we had talked out of
turn and arranged to cough or drop our pen­cil,
at the same time. We threw paper air­planes,
spit wads, and anything else that
wasn't nailed down. I guess the straw that
broke the camel's back was when the rat
First Place ~ Illustration
Marbles
Troy Escobedo
f ( PI I '11 I
Amy E. Husk
Walking to school that crisp December day, I knew we were in for it.
As a matter of fact, I knew we were in for it the minute our substi­tute
teacher ran out the door crying. We all sat there stunncd. As
the heavy yellow door slammed shut, I felt as if the entrance to our crypt had
been sealed. The only sound in the entire classroom was the frightened
breathing of thirty silent sixth grade monsters. Surely, we did not mean to
make hcr cry. Thinking back, I didn't even know a teacher could cry; that
had to be in violation of some Socratic oath.
We sat there for quite a long time, and then, as if the realization of
our pending doom hit us all at once, we got up and started to clean the class­room.
There was paper scattered everywhere, gooey spit wads sliming down
the walls, and "Missy" our class rat, was no longer in her cage. Perhaps if
we had enough time, we could get rid of the evidence of our treachery and
convince Mr. Blaisdale, the principal, our substitute teacher had a self­induced
nervous breakdown and ran out of the room. However, try as we
might, we could not finish in time. The long moan of the heavy yellow door
signaled our condemnation. Standing tall and framed in the massive door­way
was Mr. Blaisdale. We were through.
"I want you all to know, Mrs. Swartz has been called, and she is
very disappointed in all of you. For right now, I want you all to sit there at
your desks and think about what you did."
As he said those words, my heart dropped. Although when he
spoke I felt like Dorothy on her first visit to meet the Wizard ofOz, Mr.
Blaisdale was not the source of my fear. Everybody knew his wrath was
nothing compared to the likes of Mrs. Swartz. She was the sixth grade
teacher all the parents loved and the students respected. Although she was a
22 Traveler
was discovered missing from her cage. It
was at that moment that Miss Johnson ran
crying out the room and straight to the
office.
The next day we all arrived at our
classroom to find Mrs. Swartz not there.
We filed in cautiously. When we were sat­isfied
that we were not about to be
ambushed, we sat down at our desks. For a
few minutes, we all sat there, feet still,
hands folded, mouths utterly silent. For
one fleeting moment I thought, perhaps she
didn't know. Maybc we were not in trouble
anyway. Then I heard it. The footsteps
grew increasingly louder with each second.
We all sat up straight, trying to make the
impression of angelic students. Perhaps if
she saw how well behaved we were now,
she would think we could not have been so
rotten the day before.
Suddenly, she was standing in the
doorway. The look on her face told us she
was ready for business. She came in, and
without a word went straight over to the
marble container. We held our breath. Very
carefully she took the container in her
steady hand. Clink, Clink, Clink. With
slow and deliberate movement, she began
to pour each and every marble into the large
metal wastebasket. The entire class gasped
in disbelief. Clink, Clink, Clink. They started to fall faster, and faster.
Clink, Clink, our hard work, Clink, our determination, Clink, our party,
clink, clink, clink. Gone. After the last marble fell. she walked to her desk
and sat down. We all stared at her, our mouths gaping open.
"You will never act that way in my classroom again." That was all
she said. There was no yelling or screaming. She simply stated her predic­tion
calmly and with immovable conviction.
The day before Christmas vacation we sat in our room practicing
our multiplication tables among the muffled singing of "Rudolf thc Rcd
osed Reindeer." We could hear the other children laughing and singing and
could smell the home-baked goodies they were eating. Nevertheless, we sat
there all day. The lessons went on as usual, and to top it all ofT, we got
homework.
Walking home from school that day, I listened to my little sistcr fin­ish
ofT the rest of her cupcake whilc she told me about her party. "Just shut­up,"
I mumbled as we walked down the street. Inside I was cursing Mrs.
Swartz.
Many years and many Christmases later I still remember that day.
remember the sound of the marbles hitting the wastebasket and the look on
Mrs. Swartz' face as she poured them out. Yet, instead offeeling angry or
neglected, I am thankful. I learned a very impol1ant lesson that day. I
learned that every action has a consequence. Every day you hear of a new
scandal, a murder or a robbery. Children are killing classmates, and teachers
are sleeping with students. Fathers are beating mothers, and mothers are
abandoning their babies. How long can we survive with this moral impover­ishment?
If only the world had its own marble jar and a "Mrs. Swartz" to
show them how it works. In our world of changing values and fluctuating
morals, I am fortunate enough to have a constant. I have a healthy respect
for consequence and the never-ending integrity it produces. Thank you, Mrs.
Swartz; thank you for taking our marbles.
Traveler
Honorable Mention
Painting
Untitled
Kimberly Smith
23
24
Second Place - Illustration
Lest History be Forgotten
Carol Filosa
?\.. _ ... . ~ First Place - Poetry
~ Megan Toczko
Jedem das Seine:
To each his own.
They always were fond of bizarre ironies,
(black humor, if you will),
twined gateway slogans before the barbed wire.
I'd read about it before.
The sun smiled at ease,
rueful breezes promised daisies - even here.
Stoic spirit in tow, I passed the ovens,
'Just awful,' everyone agreed.
A side staircase caught my interest,
I descended the cellar steps.
Ah - a place of mass hangings ­I'd
heard of them before.
Jedem das Seine.
Soldiered meat-hooks glared ominously at my intrusion
a mite-devoured stool resting beneath a man's callused feet.
Snap! Swing! Thump... Repeat.
His heels clapped hollow against the plaster walls,
a definitive crack singing his funeral hymn,
Traveler
(he danced a macabre waltz, the rope his partner).
Scuffed stool offered to the next in line,
despair saturated the crypt,
anguish creaking with each crushed bone.
Irretrievable souls gazed through me, death-enameled,
grayed tongues lolling, swollen and expired,
bloodied drool dribbling upon a moving carpet of flies
A movement caught my eye,
Dangling impishly, a child's feet sought the teasing floor.
Too light for the waltz, his eyes clear, tongue red ­thrashing
in imperceptible shrieks of torment,
petitions of mercy to apathetic ears.
I wished him dead.
Dead so I could look away,
and return to sunshine and dandelions
and books that swallowed reality.
I hadn't read of this.
Jedem das Seine?
Gasping above, the bloated sun had not forsaken the place,
despite God's persuasions-who
hopped the first immigration train,
(not bothering to leave a forwarding address).
Dredged drafts reeked or resurface misery,
constricting cold lungs, assaulting my eyes, my thoughts,
my confidence in humanity.
Jedem das Seine.
I swallowed hard,
desiring repression, sweet forgetfulness.
Even a whiff of well-meant indifference ...
But only tasted corpses.
First Place - Photography
Self-Portrait: Desire as Penitence
Jim Kearns
Traveler
Honorable Mention - Photograph,'
Just Like Suicide
Travis Southworth
25
Honorahle 1\lcntil n - Poetr\
Butterf1~
Third Place ~ !/Ius/ration
Untitled
Jennifer Carrell
Hl nOI able !\lcntlOll Poct
Sharon S. Mills
Pale pink or twilight gray,
Nearly invisible geckos
Call attention to themselves
By scurrying in the dark,
Wibble, wobble, wobble, wibble
Quickly into hiding,
Not ungainly or ungraceful,
Just alien in a delightful way.
Round fingers, suction toes,
The opportunistic geckos
Adapt to living with man
By hunting on the wall,
Sciffle, scuffle, scuffle, sciffle,
Preying and pouncing,
On insects drawn to glowing yard,
Light in the night no longer a novelty.
Wibbly, wobbly, knibbly, knobbly,
Geckos are masters of
Over-the-shoulder stares, I As if to say,
"Who invited you, homo sapiens?"
26 Traveler
SCE E ONE
The play takes place on a farm near Padoux, France. 1t is June 17th, 1940.
The French are retreating before the German advance, and gunshots and
planes can be intermittently heard in the background ofthe/arm where
Emile and Julie are doing yard work. Stage leji there is a porch leading to
a house which is not seen. Stage right there is ha({ofa barn, the rest of
which is hidden. Backstage there is a decrepit wooden fence, a clothes
line, and a tree which rises high into the ail" Emile stands in center stage
chopping wood, while Julie kneels near the porch, pruning a bush. As the
curtain rises Emile chops a log which falls amongst the others he has
already dealt with. Taking a break he leans his axe against the stump in
CHARACTERS
Dramatis Personae
Emile, a falmer
Julie, his wife
1st French soldier
Emile: Ah, it's so hot. Have you ever
felt anything like it, Julie?
Julie: [Angrily] Yes, in fact, I have. It's
been like this every year since I came
here.
Emile: Of course, you're right. It's just
that it seems worse this year.
Julie: Well, I can't tell the di fference.
[She tries to cut another branch, but
her hands slip] Ah, damn it all!
Emile: What's the matter?
Julie: It's these shears. Are you sure
you sharpened them like I asked?
Emile: Yes. I did it just the other day.
[Making sure Julie isn't watching he
quickly begins to pick flowers, glanc­ing
up every once in a while to check
that she hasn't found him out] Are
they still dull?
Julie: I should say so!
Emile: [Comes up behind Julie with his
handful oj" \\'ildflowers] Here, let me
see them.
Julie: [She turns to hand them over and
sees the/lo\\'ers. She remains angrv.]
Is that what you've been doing all
day? Collecting flowers')
Emile: [He holds them out] I thought
you might need something to hold
while I work on the shears.
Julie: How thoughtful. I haven't even
shown you how dull they are yet,
though. [She opens the shears and
tries to snip at the flowers]
Emile: Julie! [Every time she lunges he
hops backwards until he is stopped
by the fence. Having no where left to
go he holds the flowers up in front of
his{ace.]
Julie: That's just like you. Always hid­ing
behind something stupid. [She
snips the flowers which fall away,
exposing his face]
Emile: [Bemused he drops his hand, and
rubs at his throat, making sure he
isn't cut] Julie, what is it? What's
bothering you? Is it the Germans?
Julie: [Handing over the shears, she
turns her back on him] I've heard
that they're burning villages and
killing all the men they tind. Then,
when that's done, they rape all the
women and send them out on the
front ofhim and wipes his brow. Julie is
having trouble cutting through the
branches before hel:
Photograph
Ghost Tree
Steve Pepelnjak
2nd French soldier
German commander
German lieutenant
6 German soldiers
I I lI. r>r lIT\
Josh Ivanov
Traveler 27
roads Iike a troupe of wandering
whores.
Emile: [He starts to pick up the flowers]
The idea doesn't seem to scandalize
you too much.
Julie: [Turning back to Emile] Maybe it
doesn't! Maybe I want to be con­quered
by a real man, a warrior who
believes in fighting for his country'
Emile: [Slowl)' stands up. handing her
the flowers which she takes this time.
She is shocked by her own words.]
So, you think that I'm a coward?
Julie: [Cradling the/lowers] I don't
know what to think, anymore. Except
for you, all the other men have gone
to the front.
Emile: But I only stayed to be with you,
.lulie, to protect you. You're my
world, and my reflection. What is
France to me? It's just soil and hills.
The Germans can have it as long as they
leave a place for us. [Throwing up his
hand~ in fi'ustration] I don't even
know which direction Paris is.
Julie: For me? You're saying that I'm
the cause of our sha!ne? Well, I
refuse to be your Eve! [She throws
the/loll'ers back at Emile]
Emile: [There is the sound ofgunfire it
the background about a mile away]
I'm sorry...
Julie: Yes, I'm sure you are. At least you
had a choice, though.
Emile: You know that I would do any­thing
you asked.
Julie: Is that so? Then why don't you
... [She is interrupted by the arrival of
28
two French soldiers with rifles. They run in from stage rights and lean
over; gasping and resting.] Look!
Emile: Yes, I see them. It won't be much longer now.
Julie: [Calling to the soldiers] Hello boys! Have you heard anything about
the armistice? How's it going out there?
1st soldier: [Straightening up] We've been running and fighting for days.
Julie: [Coming closer to the soldiers] No. We don't have a radio.
2nd soldier: Do you mind if we rest here for a while, then? We were sepa­rated
from our company about ten miles back, so all we can do is shoot
and retreat until we find them or we die.
Julie: [Clapping her hands together] Of course you can stay!
Emile: [Approaching his wife] But Julie ...
Julie: [Ignoring Emile] .lust relax, and I'll go get you something to drink.
Do you like coffee?
2nd soldier: Yes, sis. That would be great.
Julie: Fine. I'll go put some water on. [She leaves stage lefi]
Emile: It won't be good if they catch you here, you know.
I st soldier: We'll only stay for a few nights, if that's okay with
you.
Emile: Yes, I suppose that won't hurt anything. ('II bring you
some blankets, and you can sleep over there in that clearing by the
barn.
Ist soldier: Thanks.
Emile: [Nods and then leaves stage right as Julie reappears hold­ing
a trav ofdrinks]
Julie: [Sits dOH'n on the ground andfillsfour cups as ilshe:S hav­ing
a tea party] Come on over, boys. [The soldiers join hel; look­ing
at each other a\Vkwardlv] Now, tell me all about your adven­tures.
2nd soldier: [Takes a sip] Ah, this is very good coffee. I haven'l
had any in weeks.
1st soldier: [Drains his cup] May I have some more, please?
Julie: Sure. [Pours another cupfitl] It's been rough, yes?
2nd soldier: Yes.
1st soldier: [Finishes his drink. again] We don't know what to do. There
seems 10 be no stopping them.
Julie: And yel you still fighl!
2nd soldier: What else could we do? They won 'I take our homes wilhout a
few bruise to show thaI we were here. I don't care how many of them
there are. I'll kill every single one of them, if I have to.
Julie: Really? How many have you killed so far?
2nd soldier: How many? That's hard to say.
1st soldier: I've gotten about five of them.
Julie: Five? What bravery!
1st soldier: It's nothing. An instinct. Besides, things get very blurry when
you're looking down the barrel ofa gun. It's not like killing a man with
your bare hands.
Julie: Oh, you're just being modest. Care for another cupful?
1st soldier: Yes, thank you.
Julie: [Fills his cup] Have you see a lot of death?
2nd soldier: [Hesitating] Enough.
Julie: Does it change you? ('m only curious because I've never known any
one who has died.
2nd soldier: It depends. Most of the time with the Germans, they die far
away, so it doesn't affect one much. They're like sticks in the mud
being blown over by a wind that we force in their direction. When it's
our pals, though, its different. We hear about their families, their lives
Traveler - ---
•
before the war. When they die you can feel the shadow of death cover­ing
the whole world, swimming in our blood, being passed down from
generation to generation. You start to notice that the leaves don't seem
so green anymore, even in spring, and everything you eat tastes like
bread after it's been out for awhile.
Emile: [Enters stage lefi and walks over to the clearing by the barn. He
lays down two blankets and the joins the group, standing above them]
Julie: [Still ignoring Emile] Are you boys hungry? I have some ham inside
that you can have, if you like.
1st soldier: That would be great.
Julie: [Standing up and brushing olTher dress] I'll just be a minute, then.
[She leaves stage le./i again]
Emile: You're all set. Just remember. A few days and then you have to
leave. [He begins to leave stage lefi Il'hen he is stopped by the soldier 5'
voices]
1st soldier: You've got quite a wife, there.
2nd soldier: Yes, she's got quite a will about her.
Emile: [Turns toface them] Two days, and no more.
Ist soldier: [Smiling sm/lglv] Sure thing, dad. Sure thing.
2nd soldier: [Laughing] We'll be gone before you know it.
Emile: [Stares at them for a minute and then turns and I!'alks away. The
curtain falls]
SCE E TWO: The same farm at noon the next dOl'. The soldiers are 100'ing
in sun lI'ith their shirts all stretching and yawning. Emile is cutting
wood again, while Julie hovers around him, lI'atching the soldiers and
getting in his waF. The gunfire is more sporadic nOli', and closer than
before.
Julie: Aren't they fabulous? They're like alley cats, so wild and rough.
Emile: [Pausing to look at the soldiers] What did you expect') I bet you
they used to use factory workers until the war came along. Once the
Germans win, though, they'll just go back to their jobs and routines
without a second thought.
Julie: Well, I still think they're marvelous. They remind me of Greek
gods.
Emile: No, they're not gods. They've just forgotten what it's like to be
men. Maybe they never knew.
Julie: It figures you would say something like that. You're just jealous of
their superiority.
Emile: [Turns without a word and goes back to his
chopping]
Julie: [Shouting] Hey, boys! How about some lunch?
2nd soldier: [Shouting] Sounds good, sis! [Suddenly
the sound ala plane 5 engine roars overhead and
evelyone ducks. The soldiers look over thefence]
Ah, here they come!
Emile: [Runs over to the soldiers] Quickly, you must
leave. If they discover that we've been harboring
you they'll arrest us a II.
1st soldier: [Taking up his rifle] It's too late to run,
dad.
2nd soldier: He's right, you know. There's nothing to
be done for it.
Julie: [Runs into the house]
Emile: What about my wife? You're putting her in
undue danger. And after we helped you out, no less.
Traveler
Ist soldier: Hey, we're fighting for you,
too.
2nd soldier: Yeah, why don't you stop
complaining and run back inside, old
man.
Julie: [Runs up to Emile with his rifle]
Emile: What's this?
Julie: I brought you your rifle.
Emile: Is that what you want?
Julie: Yes.
Emile: [Pauses and then takes the rifle.
As he turns to join the others the 2nd
soldier is shot dead, and German sol­diers
come rushing infi'Ol/l all sides.
The 1st soldier throll's dOlI'l7 his rifle.
while Emile la)'s his slowly on the
groundj
German lieutenant: [To his soldiers]
Arrest those men, and kecp them tied
up until the commander arrives. [The
soldiers bind Emile and the 1st
soldier]
German soldier: [Looking al Julie]
What about the woman?
German lieutenant: [Walking OI'er
tOll'ard Julie] Hey, pretty. Go and get
us some wine and food. won't you')
We'll be nice, yes')
Julie: [Shaken. she walks back to house,
looks o\'er her shouldel: A minute
later she returns ll'ith a tra\' and
three bottles olred \I'ine]
German lieutenant: Ah. thank you pret­ty.
[To the German soldiers] Come
and get a drink. boys. You've done a
good job. [The soldiers come and
begin to drink. ignoring Julie and Ihe
prisoners]
Julie: [Ca/ltiously approaching Emile]
29
What's going to happen? What's
going to happen?
1st soldier: They'll either put us in a
camp, or kill us here.
Emile: After that they'll rape you, no
doubt.
Julie: [Looking about frantically at the
Germans]
Emile: [Laughing] It's a good thing we
didn't have any children. I hear they
eat babies.
Julie: What are you saying? What will
we do?
Emile: Do? Well, I'm going to sit here,
and wait. Who knows? Maybe later
I'll die. If I were you, though, I
wouldn't waste my time standing
around here. This is your big
moment. You'll want to go lie down
and get used to the sensation of being
on your back, so that you can accom­modate
your new guests.
Julie: [Taking afew steps away from
Emile]
Emile: It looks like tonight's going to be
a big night for you. With all these
young men hanging about you'll
probably see more action then you
have the whole time we've been mar­ried.
And to think, all along I thought
I was doing you a favor. If you'd
confided in me earlier, I could have
broken you in properly. I'm sure
you'll be like a shoe, though. After
the first few miles, things will loosen
up.
1st soldier: For God's sake, shut up. If
you make them mad, they might
decide to get rid of us on the spot.
Emile: Get rid of us? Do you think I
care about that? [He laughs so loudly
the Germans take notice, but instead
ofdoing anything they just watch in
amusement] I was born on this farm,
you know. When I was five, and I
could hold that axe, they made me
ki II the chickens. I remember the first
time I did it. I could see my reflec­tion
in their eyes. It made my hands
tremble, but I still lifted the axe, and
then, with a sudden motion, I let it
fall. Just like that they were dead,
reduced to bleeding, writhing sacks
of flesh and feather, and later that
night we ate them. I was sick for
days. You get used to it, though. It
becomes inescapable. I've been
awaiting this for years.
30
Julie: Even when we were married?
Emile: Especially then. Did you really think that you were enough to
eclipse this moment? [Laughs once] I let you become a responsibility,
like a child. I
thought I could
make it easier on
you, but you've
only used me to
keep yourself a
slave.
Julie: You're all I
have, though. What
will I do without
you?
Emile: I'm yours?
Is that what you
think this ring
means? [The sound
ala German jeep
can be heard arriv­ing.
Everyone turns
towards stage right,
and the German
soldiers come to
allention as their
commander arrives]
German com­mander:
[Walking
towards his lieutenant] What's the situation?
German lieutenant: We've captured some soldiers.
German commander: Were they fighting?
German lieutenant: Yes, sir.
German commander: Then what are you waiting for. Execute them. [/-Ie
leaves stage right, and the sound ofthe jeep starting and leaving is
heard]
German lieutenant: You heard him, boys. Get them up. [The soldiers
stand Emile and the 1st soldier up in front ofthe tree]
Emile: [Calling out to Julie who is taken aside by a German soldier] Here!
I divorce you! You're free, do you hear! Free! [He turns around and
holds out the ring to a German soldier] Make it a clean shot, yes? [The
soldier takes the ring and smiles, nodding]
German lieutenant: All right men. Line up. [The soldiers form a line at
front stage]
Emile: You thought I was running, but I was only standing still. There's no
difference between a man who throws himself in front of death and one
who lives his whole life in its shadow.
German lieutenant: Ready!
Emile: You must watch! You must see your reflection in my eyes!
German lieutenant: Aim!
Julie: [Covers her mouth with her hand and turns away]
Emile: Turn around! I'm going into the ground, but it will be like heaven,
like going home! You, though, you're going to live the rest of your life
in hell! Do you hear me? Hell is forever looking the other way...
German lieutenant: Fire! [The lights fade and the sound ofguns firing is
heard] •
Original Photographs
Courtesy of William E. Butash
Traveler
Jacqueline A. P. Benton
Honorable Mention - Computer Art
Doing Time
Troy Escobedo
"Are you going to go to jail')"
ringing in my ears, I ran up the stairs and
bounded into my parents' bedroom. Two
of my sisters sat beside my father, soberly
watching television, no one speaking.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
My father smiled weakly and
hugged. me. "Don't worry; everything is
going to be okay." He then revealed as
much as he ever would. He was under
investigation by the FBI, accused oftak­ing
money illegally from a friend. My
1~1ther was the superintendent of our
school district. They were saying he
ordered supplies fi'om his friend's more
expensive office supply company and. in
return, received kickbacks. My father
maintained his innocence. However,
there may be some problems with his
taxes.
asked.
"It's possible," he replied. It
had been a long investigation, and they
needed to justify the amount of time and
money spent. He then ended the discus­sion
and prohibited us li'om talking about
it. We were also not to read the newspa­per.
He would handle this matter. He
knew someone had leaked this informa­tion
to the local newspaper, and they
were running a story in tomorrow's edi­tion.
He wanted to inform us first. [n
five short minutes, my foundation col­lapsed.
It was an all out system failure.
You see. my dad was the real
"Mike Brady." He wore the same knit
navy blue shirt and the same brunette
permed hair. While my mom was far
from Carol, my dad was right on, groovy,
you might say. He had always been the
understanding one, the one we con fessed
to when punishment was inevitable. He
was not apt to fly off the handle, as our
mom would from time to time. All ques­tions
relating to bodily functions and sex
were deferred to him. While my mom
was untouchable and unapproachable, my
dad was Mike. He made friends easily.
My mother, more reserved, occupied his
coat tails.
Worse yet, when learning of God
in catechism, I imagined my father. Our
father, who art in heaven, was my dad in
a white robe, a wise man capable of mak-
System Failure
I remember Mr. Darden, my senior English teacher, discussing system fail­ures,
not computer system failures, but when a "truth" by which someone
lives is exposed as a lie. To clarify, he demonstrated a system failure
most of us experienced, the day Santa Claus ceased to exist. No fat man
squeezing himsclf down chimneys on Christmas Eve, delivering coveted
toys. "Tell Santa," my mother often remarked. But there was no Santa,
merely parents who were lying. Even after being confronted with our
knowledge, they insisted on his existence. Peering directly into our eyes,
they lied with no shame.
"That, my fi'iends, was a system failure." Mr. Darden expounded.
"At five years old, whom do you trust more than your parents') And whom
do you want to believe in more than Santa?"
The discussion is cemented in my memory, not because Mr. Darden
was a dynamic teacher or because it helped me understand my devastation as
a child. In reality, I experienced no devastation, only surprise. They can't
trick me, I thought. But I was wrong. They could trick me, and the reason I
recall the discussion was because, at the time, I was experiencing one huge
system failure.
The day my world crumbled, I was swimming with friends at the
country club. My sister phoned, instructing me to head home at once.
othing else, only a
directive. The lack of
information was trou­bling.
It implied seri­ousness.
Arriving
home and entering the
house, I heard the reas­suring
sound of the
vacuum. It couldn't be
too bad, after all. Then
I caught a disturbing
sight. My mother was
thrusting the vacuum
back and fOl1h over the
same spot. I called to
her, and when she
glanced my way, I
noticed her blotchy wet
face. My mom does
not cry. "Go upstairs
and talk to your father,"
she said, readjusting the
vacuum to attack the
next spot.
A sick wave swept over
me. It must be one of
my sisters. Someone
has been hurt. With
Traveler 31
ing my world better. All is safe and good
with a father-like God floating above me in
heaven.
In my senior year, my father was
charged with several felonies, including
extortion, a word he failed to mention. Of
course, while wiping off the tables at
Burger King, I read the newspapers laid out
for the customers. Stories about my father
were plastered on the front page, and [
craved the information. Absorbing the for­bidden
text, I tracked the progression of my
father's grand jury indictment to his eventu­al
guilty plea for tax evasion. While I did
not comprehend all of the articles, I under­stood
enough. He was facing a possible
penalty of three to twenty years in a federal
prison.
The entire process: the investiga­tion,
grand jury indictment, plea bargain
and sentencing was never mentioned in our
home. What was dinner conversation for
many people was never discussed between
bites during our meals. In truth, not much
talking occurred, period. My parents
stopped speaking to each other. My dad hid
in his room and drank himself to sleep at
night. My mother slept on the couch. All
was not right in our house, but we children
were to go on as if nothing was happening.
My sisters and I seldom shared our predica­ment.
Once, I confided to my oldest sister
how upset I was. Her matter of fact
response: "At least he's alive; he could
have dropped dead of a heart attack." I
could have forgiven a heart attack.
In early February, my father
informed us of his sentence, three years in
La Tuna Federal Corrections Institute in
Anthony, New Mexico-Texas. No opportu­nities
to visit, but he promised to call. He
was not guilty, he still maintained, but
could not afford a trial to combat the
charges. He plea-bargained down to tax
cvasion, a felony. And rather than suffer
US marshals escorting him to prison, my
father hopped on a Greyhound and rode
west to Texas, checking himself in early. It
was a first for the prison, their previous
felons apparently not so eager.
My applications into various uni­versities
were all for naught. There was no
money. My mom had to pay the mortgage.
I was to attend the local community col-
32
lege. Thankfully, I was awarded a scholarship from the Lion's club in our
community. When it was announced during homeroom, a black girl com��mented,
"Always some rich white girl." Although, in the past this may have
made me angry, or guilty, I was relieved. ot everyone read the paper, not
everyone knew about my dad.
My graduation day offered no fanfare. One sister and my mother
huddled on the bleachers in the rain, leaving soon after my soggy walk
across stage. After the ceremony, my friends made their obligatory appear­ances
at parties their parents organized. I sat alone in my room, reading a
letter from my dad. He sent Mike Brady's words of wisdom and encourage­ment
for my entrance into college. Later I met my friends and took comfort
in the dulling effect of Boonesfarm.
My father was in prison for eleven months. My sisters wrote him
letters; my oldest even sent one to officials requesting an early release. I
never put down a single word. His occasional phone calls, which he placed
only after standing in line for hours, caused my sisters to anticipate their
moment to speak to him. They discussed school and declared their love for
him. Then my mother would scream at him with trembling hands barely
able to hold the phone. I made myself scarce, fearing [ would do the same.
Only now, as an adult, can I fathom how hard this time was for my
parents, how terrifying it was for my father. Although the security level of
the prison was low, it was not minimum, and it housed criminals who had
committed violent crimes. Reduced security for good behavior, my father's
career was over. During his stay, he lost 60 pounds. The foreign food and
lack of alcohol contributed, not to mention the appetite suppressing nature of
homesickness and remorse.
My mother suffered as well. Her weight dropped to almost anOI'ex­ic
levels. In addition to her secretarial job, she acquired a night job at a
supermarket. The bills still demanded payment. They offer no allowances
for the wives of convicts. At home, four daughters still lived. The day-to­day
tasks, once split with my father, fell squarely on her shoulders. I could
not understand why my sisters were so angry with my mom for the way she
treated my dad. They were so ready to forgive my father everything and my
mother nothing.
On my father's reentry into society, he took my mother aside. He
made her promise to give him five years to pull it back together. He did not
want her to leave him, and she miraculously agreed. Though they would not
share a room for years, they slept under the same roof. When I was sure
divorce was inevitable, they demonstrated a commitment to marriage above
and beyond the capabilities of most Americans. My father was offered a job
from a friend in Arizona. He accepted it and transplanted his wife and five
of his daughters. I transferred to a university in Arizona and joined them in
their starting over. The idea of being unknown had great appeal.
My life in Arizona followed the course of many young adults brcak­ing
away from their parents. I became an atheist. My politics diverged from
my parents, and I argued with my father until I made my sisters uncomfort­able.
It was difficult to not criticize everything he said and believed. When
losing a political argument, I took pleasure in knowing that as a felon, he
had no right to vote.
It was years before I recognized any of the good I once acknowl­edged
in my father. [needed five years as well. My turning point came
when I met my husband. For the first time in my life, I spoke of my feelings
toward my father, releasing the guilt I carried around like a sack of flour.
My husband genuinely liked my father and showed me I could love my dad
Traveler
again. at in the same childish way lance idolized him, but with more
acceptance and tolerancc for his faults.
My parents. now retired, have ironically relocatcd to Texas. My
father, until recently, worked three jobs to rebuild his retircment savings.
With his career gone, somc jobs he worked were pride swallowing. Today,
my parents appear contcnt with themselves and their marriage. AII seven
daughters are successful and able to support our families if something were
to happen to our husbands. Our mother insisted on this. We rcmain close to
our parents and each other. Not many people can say the same for thcir lam­ilies.
I still strugglc with my rclationship with my fathcr. He still has a
weakness for alcohol. I am aggravated when he insinuates his actions result­ed
from the consumer needs of his wife and ehildrcn. I would have gladly
foregone the beach housc and county club mcmbcrship for a fathcr who was
not a criminal. When hc rcminisces about thc good old days, whcn he was a
respectable community Icader, I want to leave the room. Instead, I hum
"Glory Days" in my head.
Living Dead
Vidal Medina Jr.
My dad is not Mike Brady. He is
closer to Robert Rced, the closet homosexu­al
rolc-playing the perfect husband and dad.
I somctimes wonder hO\\· different my life
would be ifmy childhood father had been a
real one with faults, who flew off the han­dle
at times. Maybe it would have been
worse. But maybe the real dad wouldn't
have broken laws paying tor the facade.
Maybe I \.\ouldn't have spcnt years hating
him. I kno\\ this real dad now and have
grown fond of him. He has paid his debts,
and although he never asked for it. I forgivc
hi m.
Oh living dead'
Let me say somcthing tonight
Under the moon with my open book
Book of dreams and recipes
Hear my gcntle whispers
And be startled at my living scream
It IS alive tonight
Wanting to punish you
You walk upon the earth
In your dead sleep
Trying to make love to me
But I'm alive!
I'm alive'
I have no taste for cold lips
Broken fingertips
I want life!
Leave me be
Let me live,
For soon I will walk that cold, lonely walk anyway
Traveler 33
f!!lIslralion
Goldfish
Troy Escobedo
A Fish Out of Water
Karen Michelle Sarver
Lester was dreaming of Mademoiselles in silk stocking when he was
awakened by the goldfish. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the
alarm clock. It was 3:30, the precise hour his sleep had been disturbed
last night and the night before last. At first he thought the fish was a burglar
(a natural assumption for a senior citizen who wakes to find a three-pound
goldfish on his throat), and when he considered the alternative, he was grate­f"
ul it was only a fish. But on the third night, he forgot his gratitude and let
the fi h flop off the bed to the floor before he dropped it in the bowl.
Lester had heard that goldfish, like knick-knacks, expand to fill
space. Because he lived in a bachelor's apartment, he bought a two-gallon
fishbowl instead of a tank; he told the kid at the pet shop to net a small fish,
"A runt, if possible." Lester decorated the bowl with blue gravel and a plastic
plant and taped a picture postcard of Hawaii to the glass. He named the gold­fish
"Fins" and fed it fish flakes and mealworms for dinner. Sometimes he
petted it; sometimes he didn't. Excepting his landlady, Miss Peebles, Fins
was Lester's only friend. For two years they got along swimmingly-until
the fish stal1ed to expand.
Lester blamed the mealworms, and he cut back to half-portions. To
accommodate Fins' largeness, Lester pruned the plastic plant. But the fish
grew and grew until its tail fanned its eyes when it swam circles in the bowl.
Lester didn't blame Fins for its nocturnal gymnastics, but neither
did he want a wet fish in his bed.
So the next day, he stuffed Fins in
a freezer bag filled with water and rode the
bus across town to the pet shop.
"I would like a refund," he said to
the woman behind the counter.
She inspected Fins for damage and
asked, "You have receipt?"
Lester explained he had purchased
the fish two years earlier, that he was an
optimist, and that it was not in his nature to
save receipts.
" 0 receipt, no refund." She
plopped Fins on the counter.
"How about an exchange?" he
asked, anticipating the long bus ride home:
the whispers, the jeers. "A donation?"
"Sorry," the woman said. We
swamped with goldfish now. If I was you, I
flush him."
Lester admitted the thought had
crossed his mind. It would be so simple­all
he would have to do is pull the handle.
But Fins was a big fish. What if he didn't
go down? What if he got stuck in the pipes?
There could be legal problems. And if he
34 Traveler
did go down, where would he end up? Oh,
sure, everyone talked about the sewer, but
had anyone ever actually seen it? Lester
imagined it was like a dark subway filled
with alligators and hair and contact lenses;
this was no place for a tame fish.
"Thank you," he said and shumed
off to the bus stop.
It was nearly suppertime when
Lester rounded the stone path connecting
Miss Peebles' house to his front door. He
could see Miss Peebles behind her kitchen
window. Her tinted red hair glowed like a
bonfire, and she was wearing oven mitts.
When Lester passed by, she smi led and
waved a spatula. He thought her smile was
extraordinary; she was 68 years old and still
had all of her own teeth. "Dinner's at six!"
she called.
Lester nodded and then hurried
down the path to his apartment. He didn't
want Miss Peebles to catch him carrying
Fins in a Ziploc bag. She might get the
wrong impression. In an effort to preserve
his dignity, Lester had feigned senility on
the bus; he went so far as to accuse the fish
of cheating at cards. But Miss Peebles was­n'tjust
a strange face on a crowded bus.
She was his friend. She could probably
have him committed.
Though he had been gone only a
few hours, the apartment seemed smaller
than Lester remembered. His drapes
drooped. His yellow and blue striped wall­paper
blurred
to green, and
his twin-sized
bed looked big
enough to
sleep triplets.
Lester won��dered
if his
senility had
been an act
after all. He
shrugged it off
as fatigue. He
hadn't had a
good night's
rest in three
days, thanks to
his suicidal fish. By God, I should flush the monster' he thought. Put us out
of our collective misery. But he knew in his heart he couldn't condemn his
pet to a watery grave.
He poured Fins in the bathtub, filled the tub with water, and deco­rated
it with the blue gravel and the plastic plant.
The arrangement worked out nicely until Lester tired of sponge
baths. He became irritable and smelly. He kept his distance at Miss Peebles'
dinner table; he sat with his chair against the wall and asked her to toss him
the salt.
Eventually he sat completely out of tossing range, and Miss Peebles
did not invite him back.
Lester missed her bonfire hair and mashed potatoes and gravy.
lie decided to tell her the truth. But when he rang her doorbell, she
did not answer. The curtains in her kitchen window were closed, and Lester
heard male laughter.
His knees felt weak. His heart pounded and rattled his dentures.
That blasted fish! If only I had been able to bathe, I would have had better
table manners.
He stumbled over his porch step and into the apartment. He bolted
the lock on the front door and shut ofT the light.
The bulb in the bathroom was burning, and the tub faucet dripped
water, ploink, ploink, on Fins' fat golden back. Lester swore he saw the fish
sneer. Why was there never a blunt object handy when he needed one? He
pulled the plug.
That would have been the end of Fins if Miss Peebles hadn't come
over to explain about her gentleman caller.
"I met him at bingo," she said. "We split the jackpot. It didn't mean
anything."
In turn, Lester told her about the mealworms and the sponge baths,
and Miss Peebles said she was happy it wasn't his prostate like she suspected.
"I know ofa pond," she whispered, "in the country far away." She
squeezed Lester's hand and he squeezed back.
He slept well that night. And he did not dream of Mademoiselles in
silk stockings.
Third Place ~ Compl/ter Art
Castle in the Mountains II
Luella Swain
Traveler 35
Drall'ing
Treasures
Alisna Hentges
Jbin!Js g Jfaue Jlcfuired
Jacqueline A. P. Benton
With allowance, I acquired
watermelon flavored Bubble Yum to chomp,
Zots that fizzled in my mouth,
and a yellow rubber Buddha eraser that Carol Little stole.
With babysitting money, I acquired,
a case of alphabetized 45's,
a medley of Bonnie Bell lip smackers,
Tiger Beat,
Love's Baby Soft to get them every time,
the Grease movie book,
and a diary to secure my thoughts.
With my McDonald's salary, I acquired
brown Earth shoes with rolling soles,
a mood ring forever black,
concert shirts, rock albums, and a dark eyeliner.
a rusted Honda Civic, 20 miles from a lost tailpipe,
a 1983 class ring,
and yearbooks signed by best friends I no longer see.
With financial aid, I acquired,
clove cigarettes with their thick scented smoke,
books on every computer language,
mall girl hairspray,
a few too many gin and tonics,
and a degree.
With my first paycheck, I acquired
a Chevy Beretta with phantoms under the hood,
a one-bedroom apartment sparsely equipped,
36
a toolbox, a flashlight, jumper cables,
and a membership to Ow.
With promotions, I acquired
a veil adorned with fresh flowers and pearls,
a Hawaiian honeymoon,
a house with a dryer that operated without coins,
a king size bed,
Crazy Joe Divola (the beagle),
and china gravy boat to complete my collection.
With our united salaries, we acquired
9855 diapers,
a pink tutu for a dancer's inaugural recital,
life insurance,
a minivan dulled by ground-in Cheerios,
a membership to a country club,
a place in church,
and a larger home with a yard to play in.
Applying my creams with vitamins A, C and E,
my reflection hints at articles I yet may acquire:
adopted cars for inexperienced drivers,
an empty nest,
sticks of Juicy Fruit for grandkids,
a simple condominium with neither stairs nor yard,
new teeth and hips to supersede worn out originals,
bifocals, hearing aids, walkers, wheelchairs,
and
my life etched in stone on a grassy plot.
Traveler
HOIlO\ I I Pod ")
e5priny in l.he Conservalory
Mary Wasser-Nelson
Spring is a focus
a Japanese garden scene,
in shades of yellow saffron
and jasmine white and green.
In moonlit mahogany shadows
or beneath the sunlight's gleam,
beside the pools of lilies
f prefer to sit and dream.
Second Place - Photography
Agave
Bill Bailey
Third Place - Painting & Watercolor
100 Watts of Harmony
Bill Wetherill
Ba :/Jrimavera
La primavera es un foco
una vista al jardin japones
en los colores del azafran amarillento
y jazm[n blanco y verde.
En sombras de caobas iluminadas poria luna
o bajo el resplandecer del sol,
al lado de los charcos de ninfeas
Yo prefiero sentarme.l' soiiar.
Traveler 37
!IIustration
Untitled
Val Vyers I
strange marking be her left, it almost looks like a maple leaf.
Jack: The strangest thing happened while I was hunting today. I heard a
baby giggle and when [ found her she was fast asleep. What do you make
of it Ada?
Ada: She must be a child from a wood fairy or something. It almost seems
as though we were supposed to find her. We'll keep her for now and wait
until someone comes looking for her. In the mean time, she needs a
name. We'll name her Maika after my grandmother.
[Scene Free=es while Narrator speak]
arrator: Maika grew up with Jack and Ada but she always knew they
weren't her real parents. She loved them just the same. She would go to
the forest often and just talk to the animals. They were her only friends.
The other children didn't understand her quietness and the loneliness that
they saw in her eyes. [People look at MaIka and whisper and points]
[Point at hOllse]
Scene 3
Narrator: Maika grew up into a beautiful young woman. Her hair flew
wildly like branches in the wind. Her skin was the color of buttermilk
and it was as smooth as a rock in a riverbed.
Maika: [Waking up] Good morning, Mama, Papa.
Jack: Good Morning dear, how did you sleep?
Maika: I had another one of those strange dreams last night. So many differ­ent
faces that seemed so familiar. I wish I knew what they meant.
Jack: I'm sure that someday you will find out.
Ada: I don't want you to go to the forest today. It's time you st311ed doing
some chore around here. [Jack and Ada look at each other mischievously]
Maika: [Spoken sadly] Yes Mama. [MaIka s\l'eeps up the floor while looking
out the window longing to go outside] Ada: [sighing] All right, Maika,
you may go outside and be with your animal friends. It's clear that you
can't keep your
thoughts on
anything else.
[MaIka starts
for the door]
Wait a minute,
your father has
something for
you.
Jack: Maika, in
honor of your
13th birthday I
have carved
you a flute out
of wood.
Malka:Thank you
Papa, I will
cherish it
always. [MaIka
runs o.U·and
starts playing
her flute]
[FREEZE]
Narrator: Maika
started to play
her flute and
all the town's
Act I: Scene 1
Narrator: The town of Corrin was sur­rounded
by woods like a blanket on a
baby. The people in the town were
sel fish and mean to each other [pause
and look at town ~. people. The town ~.
people start fighting and stealingfrom
the marketplace] [ies Miserables]
except for one couple, Jack and Ada.
They were a quiet couple that loved
each other very much. Everyday Jack
would say hello to all the people in his
town before he went to the Speareden
Forest to go hunting.
[Jack cautiouslv walks through the
\I'ood~. He suddenly stops when he
hears a giggle. He walks toward a
bush and pushes the branches
aside.][EIj"giggles and lead~ Jack to
the baby]
Jack: [picking lip sleeping baby] That's
funny, I thought I heard a baby gig­gling;
but this baby is asleep. Why
would anyone leave a baby in the
woods? I'd better take her home and
see what Ada thinks we should do with
her. [RlIns ofFstage]
Scene 2
[Jack enters the house cradling a
baby]
Ada: Oh good, it looks like you've
brought home a small fox for dinner.
[Opens blanket and sees the child]
Jack, where did you find this child?
She's obviously not from any of the
villages around here. And look at this
Ada: [Sighing] All right Maika, you may.
*When Narrator is not speaking she is
turned around and becomes a tree.
Characters
Jack=Father
Broom
Ada=Mother
Malka=Child
*Narrator=Forest Watcher
Kids will be door, trees, animals, &
town's people
Sara Van Atta
Secret ofthe Forest
38 Traveler
people came out to hear her lovely song. The music she played was
magic, everyone heard a message telling them to be kind to one another,
that everyone was special in their own way. The people were amazed at
what they heard and went off to help their fellow town's people. [People
fight until MaIka runs past them. Then they become/i-iends.] [Some people
will be out there anyway]
Maika: I am so happy that I can finally show my feelings to others through
my musIc.
Scene 4
[ Black Out][Trees move to fall/put leaves on stage]
Maika: [In/orest] Good bye my forest friends, I'll see you in few months.
[MaIka walks in the house lethargic and dragging herj(xt.]
Jack: [Whittling] I hope that spring comes early this year. I hatc to see
Maika so lifeless.
Ada: It happens every fall, as soon as all the animals go and hibernate shc
becomes very sad and never leaves her room. She must get so lonely this
time of year. I know we try, but she needs something else in her life that
we just can't seem to provide. I wish we knew more about where she
came I'·om. Maybe in the spring you could take her back to were you
found her to look for clues.
Jack: [Rocking in rocking chair] Yes, that is a brilliant idea. I'll do it as soon
as the snow has melted.
Act II Scene 1
[Trees turn around again/or spring]
Maika: [jumping out ofbed and running to go outside] Good morning
everyone! Isn't it a wonderful day?!
Ada: [Catching MaIka be/ore she lefi] Slow down child! Sit down and eat
your breakfast, your father has something to tell you.
[MaIka sits down and starts shoveling her/ood into her mouth]
Jack: I've decided to take you back to the forest where I found you so that
maybe we can find out more about your past.
Maika: [MaIka drops her spoon and runs and hugs Jack] That sounds won­derful
Papa! When can we go?
Jack: Right now if you'd like.
Ada: Be careful you two, you never know what kind of magic you might
find out there.
[MaIka grabs Jack's arm and pulLs him outside]
Scene 2
Jack: This is where I found you. Right in that bush.
Maika: I don't see anything there that would be a clue.
Jack: Maybe we need to look closer. [Jack bends over and pushes the
branches away]
Maika: Look! [Picks up maple Leaf] This must be a clue! There's nothing
like it in the whole forest! Look how it sparkles! It must be magical!
Jack: Let's take it home and decide what to do with it.
Scene 3
Ada: Well, I see you found something. What is it?
Maika: We found a magical leaf! think. I'm going to take it into my room
and figure out how to use it. [MaLka is Lying on her bed Looking at the
leaf trying to make it be magical]
Narrator: As MaIka lay on her bed admiring her new treasure, a strange
voice called her to come back to the forest.
Strange Voice: Ooh...Ooh...
[MaLka waLks toward the voice in a trance]
Scene 4
[When MaLka enters the forest the voice stops and MaLka Looks around]
[A woman appears infront ofher]
Traveler
Forest Watcher: [Reaching out to
MaIka] Don't be at'·aid. I'm not going
to hurt you.
Maika: [MaIka stares at her in awe.]
You're the person r,-om my dreams.
Forest Watcher: Yes, I am the Forest
Watcher and you are my daughter. I
had an elf go out to the forest and gig­gle
so that Jack would find you. [Ell
looks outfi-om behind a tree H'aves to
MaIka] I needed you to show thc peo­ple
of your village to be kind to one
another. Your music has made them
see that there is kindness all around
and in their hearts. I put myself in
your dreams so that I could watch
over you and I have watched you
grow into a beautiful woman.
Maika: Why did you choose me')
Forest Watcher: Knowing that you are a
watcher of the forcst, you would natu­rally
keep all the lives in this land
safe. I knew that your love would
spread like the roots of the great
maple tree. I didn't want to let you go,
but I was an-aid that lack of love and
kindness would soon destroy the peo­ple.
You were our last hope.
Maika: I'm so confused. I'm happy that
I've finally found you, but what about
Jack and Ada? I can't just abandon
them; they've been my only family for
13 years.
Forest Watcher: You may stay and live
with Jack and Ada if you wish. I will
always be here in the forest whenever
you need me.
Maika: I really feel that the right thing to
do would be to live with my human
parents and come live with you in the
winter when I am lonely in that world.
Forest Watcher: If that's what you want,
I'll be happy with your decision.
[Forest Watcher kisses MaIka on the
forehead]
Maika: [ have to go home and tell my
parents about this. Don't go any­where;
we have a lot to talk about.
Narrator/Forest Watcher: MaIka had
finally found where she came from
and was truly happy. She would never
feel lonely again and now she had two
homes to go to depending on the sea­son.
[MaLka enters with Jack and Ada.
AlLfour give each other a big hug]
She truly lived happily ever after. +
39
Honorable Mention
~ Dra\l'ing
Box
Ami Varney
40 Traveler