"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 2001

              Trave/er Staff-Hard at Work!!
l to R: Makiko Kimura, Steven Hernandez, Val Vyers, Barbra de Dios, Robert Marki,
Mick Welsh, Troy Escobedo, Gary Drake"
Glendale Community College and the Maricopa County Community College District
do not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, sex, handicap, or age in
application, admission, participation, access and treatment ofpersons and programs and
activities.
Glendale Community College will take steps to insure that the lack of English
language will not be a barrier to admission and participation in vocational
education programs.
Glendale Community College Yel Maricopa County Community College Distrcit no
discriminan a base de raza, color, nacionalidad, sexo, edad, ni invalidez, en
cuanto ala solicitud, admision, participacion, acceso ytrato de las personas yactividades
con los programas de instruci6n 0 empleo.
Glendale Community College hara 10 posible para asegurar que la falta de dominio
en el ingles no sera una barrera a la admision y participacion en los programas de
estudios vocacionales.
The Traveler is a student creative arts
magazine, produced annually by the
English and Art Departments of
Glendale Community College.
Glendale Community College
6000 W. Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302
Credits
Literary 5taff
Marion Ekholm, Rochelle Watts, Chris Yazzie
Literary Editor:
Carmen Ardoin
Literary Faculty Advisors:
Casey Furlong, Johnnie Clemens May, Joy Wingersky
Literary Judges:
Carmela Arnoldt, Linda Austin, Renee Barstack
Larry Bohlender, Marla DeSoto, Pat Haas, Char Howey
Betty Hufford, Mary Leskowsky
Creative Director: Mick welsh
Assistant· Robert Marki
Production/Imaging Director: ValVyers
Assistants: Makiko Kimura, Robert Marki
Design/Production 5taff
Wivine Bouvry, Barbra de Dios, Gary Drake"
Troy Escobedo, Steven Hernandez, Robert Marki
Photography 5taff Rick Brown
Fine Arts Faculty Advisor: R.I. Merrill
Graphic Design Faculty Advisor:
Mirta Hamilton
Fine Art jurors: R.I. Merrill, Pam Hall
Lori Toczek
Illustration Juror: Robert Wilder
Data Entry: Dawn Meyer
5pecial Thanks to: Rick Brown, John Griggs
Cathleen McCarthy, Dawn Meyer, JoAnne Moe,
Ron Schwartz, Dean Terasaki, and a very special
thanks to Joy Wingersky for years ofcontinued dedi­cation
and advisement to the Traveler.
Printing: BierI Printing
Those responsible for this publication believe in artistic freedom of expression. Therefore, we have not censored the contents ofthe
Traveler. We realize, however, it is important that the readers ofthe Traveler be aware that it contains some content ofan adult
nature.
Los responsables de esta publicaci6n creen en la libertad de expresi6n artistica. Por esta raz6n, no hemos
censurado eI contenido del Traveler. Nos damos cuenta de que es importante que los que lean eI Traveler
comprendan que contiene materia para adultos.
T8ble of Contents
Fiction ...
22 The Regulars, Jackie Benton - 1st Place
8 Attention K-Mart Shoppers, Barbara Cordova - 2nd Place
2 In the Image of Man, Celestine Stoltenberg - 3rd Place
12 Who Loves Her More, Tara Launders - Honorable Mention
32 Training Albert, Jerry McCarty
Non-Fiction ... Digital Art...
18
4
26
36
25
29
31
41
24
17
35
10
38
7
40
39
11
24
31
20
11
28
19
18
20
10
29
25
30
21
2
28
28
16
Man of Many Breaks, Deanne Ryan _1st Place
That Call, Scott Brill- 2nd Place
Rag Time Obsession, Matthew Travis - 3rd Place
Crazy at the Keyboard, Deanne Ryan - Honorable Mention
Story of Old, Megann Saracino
Poetry. ..
Untitled, Lisa Marii Cookingham _1st Place
Metamorphosis, Deanne Ryan - 2nd Place
That Day You Left Me, Gracie Garrett - 3rd Place
Forest Gathering, Matthew Travis - Honorable Mention
Back on the Road, Vidal Medina Jr.
(Can IClimb .. .), Alissa Espinoza
Drifting Away, Eve Zeniou
Happy Hour, Megan Toczko
The Cold Days, Daniel Quigley
The Young Woman and the Plant, Rick G. Alpers
The Road, Megan Toczko
Vacancy, Matthew Travis
Painting...
Red Jubilation, Carol Halloway _1st Place
Rock Form, Dara Turnage - 2nd Place
Anemic and So Sweet, Luke Bauer- 3rd Place
Still Life with Pears, Dara Turnage- Honorable Mention
Lost in Thought, Megann Saracino - Honorable Mention
Analogous Flower, Tanya Judd
Untitled, Curtis
Welcoming, Dara Turnage
Stephanie, Travis Southworth
Urbanscape, Dara Turnage
Today Meets Yesterday, Megann Saracino
Drawing & Life Drawing...
Who Says Pigs are Dirty? Irma Waltz Eisenmann _1st Place
Study of Draperies and Pears, April Higgins - 2nd Place
LD-l, Luke Bauer - 3rd Place
Two Women, Susan Sellers - Honorable Mention
Long Tall Sally, Charolette Hillhouse - Honorable Mention
Untitled, Seth Fyffe
20
28
21
20
6
17
8
Cover
39
35
38
22
29
9
41
28
7
28
26
4,5
40
12
14
33
37
Phoenix, Faith Furst _1st Place
Bir(th) , Seth Fyffe- 2nd Place
Bali Girls, Mick Welsh, 3rd Place
Les Three Graces, Wivine Bouvry, Honorable
Mention
The Innate Affliction, Faith Furst, Honorable
Mention
American Farmers, Val Vyers
Congratulations, Wivine Bouvry
Hopes and Dreams, Travis Southworth
Wive from Belgium, Wivine Bouvry
Monument Valley, Mick Welsh
FlashPoint,Mick welsh
3-Dimensional Art...
Wire Self-Portrait, Jim Kearns _1st Place
Trunk of Memories, Jim Kearns - 2nd Place
Eyes, Wings, Teeth, Jim Kearns - 3rd Place
Photography. ..
The Tower, Jim Kearns _1st Place
Femme Fatale #2, Jim Kearns - 2nd Place
Downtown, Shannon Szczepaniec - 3rd Place
Self-Portrait: Blood and Chocolate, Jim Kearns ­Honorable
Mention
Strength, Jim Kearns - Honorable Mention
Illustrations...
Vision and Speech, Barbra de Dios _1st Place
Time on My Mind, Digital ,Mick Welsh - 2nd Place
Lost Soul, Digital, Troy Escobedo- 3rd Place
Untitled, Illustration, Bill Wetherill- Honorable
Mention
Albert, Illustration, Val Vyers - Honorable
Mention
Games, Games, Games, Mixed media, Barbra de
Dios - Honorable Mention
2
3rd Place - Fiction Celestine Stoltenberg
The world mourns today as scientists and investigators
search for clues in the violent deaths ofAdam and Eve
Genome. The controversial couple started life in a pair of
petrie dishes as a scientific attempt to create genetically ideal
humans. After nearly five years deciding what genes to use
for the pair to make them represent the best of all human life,
they were genetically created according to exacting specifica-tions
and then raised in a carefully designed environment by
eight of the greatest scientists in the world.
"Yesterday, after 20 years of nurturing and studying
the couple, scientists discovered that the living quarters of the
two young lovers had burned to the ground with the young
couple inside. Investigators still haven't determined the cause
of the fire. Tragically, it is believed that Eve may have been
pregnant with Adam's child-an event that would have pro­vided
scientists with a rare opportunity to see how this
genetically 'perfect' match would reproduce themselves.
"Already several terrorist groups are claiming
responsibility-"
"Will someone please turn that off?" The people at
the table winced as Doctor Laskevich's voice drowned out the
news report, but nobody
picked up the remote control.
After a moment Dr. Ng stirred. "What are we to tell the
press? We must decide-"
"The press?" shouted Dr. Williams. "What are we going to
tell the police?"
"Look, we did what we had to do. We all agreed that this was
for the best,
" Dr. AI-Ahmad put in smoothly.
"They were a total failure," Dr. Ng moaned. "We had no con­trol
over them. This was the third time that Eve had aborted a child.
She knew how important this was."
"Did it ever occur to you," Dr. Williams cut in, "that Eve was
terrified of having a baby?" Her voice rose to a shriek as the others
groaned and muttered at her words.
"Believe me, Doctor, you have reminded us often enough. If
she was so frightened, why didn't she ever open up to our shrink
here?"
"She never told me a true thing in her life," the psychiatrist
lamented. "Every week was just a game for her."
"How could we expect her to open up and trust us after your
behavior, Dr. Marceau?" Dr. Williams glared at the Frenchman who
obligingly glared back.
3rd Place ~ Life Drawing
LD-l
Luke Bauer
"I have told you before, and I say it again. 1
never touched that girl. You heard Dr. Voelkel. She
was a liar.
She would sell her own grandmother."
"She didn't have a grandmother," Dr.
Williams reminded him. "We were supposed to be
their caretakers. We were supposed to give them the
best of everything-the greatest opportunities."
"And what did we deny them?" cried Dr.
Ng. "We taught them languages, and they mocked us
and muttered behind our backs. We taught them phi­losophy,
and they cursed us; we taught them religion,
and they laughed at us. How many crimes have we
covered up for them? How may abused teachers and
interns? How much property damage?"
"And now we have our own crime to cover,"
Dr. Voelkel muttered ironically. "We should be quite
good at it."
"Now you, too, can have perfect hair-"
"Will someone shut of that damned set!" Dr. Laskevich rose
in his seat as he shouted. Two or three others rose, also, and shouted
back, but few words could be made out. Doctors Marceau and Ng
grabbed at the remote simultaneously and began to scuffle over it. Dr.
Williams walked to the set in exasperation and bent close to it to find
the power button. She located it just as Dr. Marceau won the remote
with a grunt and Dr. Ng. sat down hard in his chair. The set shut off
and quickly on again. Dr. Laskevich lunged for the remote, and anoth­er
struggle ensued. Dr. Williams looked toward the ceiling impatiently
and sat back down in her chair.
"It wasn't a total failure." Dr. AI-Ahmad could barely be
heard through the din. "They were strong and handsome. They were
clever. They didn't get sick easily."
"Yes," Dr. Ng replied dryly. "They were strong so they could
beat people up. They were attractive and clever so they could seduce
and deceive. Strange how they didn't get sick, but we always pumped
them with drugs."
"Oh, don't start this." Dr. Voelkel rose from his seat now. His
voice blended well with the shouting that had moved to the end of the
room. "We tried several methods before we resorted to a psycho-phar­maceutical
solution."
"Maybe you didn't try hard enough, Doctor!" Dr. Williams
stood now and squared off with the German doctor. The ensuing argu­ment
made up for a lull in the fight over the remote
control. While Doctors Williams and Voelkel cursed each other, Dr.
Laskevich, remote control cradled close to his body, moved victori­ously
to the set and turned it off. He pulled his chair close to the
offending entertainment center and sat down in front of it like a
paunchy gargoyle. Dr. Marceau smoothed his hair and brushed his
lapels as he returned to his seat.
"Honestly, I must agree with Dr. AI-Ahmad. After years of
planning which gene combinations to use, they should have been per­fect.
We gave them a stimulating environment in which to learn and
grow. We gave them our own children as playmates." Dr. Marceau's
voice trailed off during this last statement.
Dr. Hanover, who was characteristically quiet, now glowered
at him. Her daughter still suffered from the abuse that Adam and Eve
had heaped upon her -Eve drawing her into intimate revelations and
then Adam taking advantage of her. Both of them laughed at the poor
girl when she discovered the ruse. Her brother had tried to avenge her,
but Adam had beaten him mercilessly. Dr. Hanover quit her position
and had to be bribed back into it-but her children didn't return.
"If only she had borne a child," sighed Dr.
AI-Ahmad. "It would have added so much to our
research."
"Can you imagine those two as parents!"
Dr. Ng cried.
'We could have raised them ourselves," Dr.
AI-Ahmad sighed.
"Oh, yes," Dr. Marceau cut in bitingly,
"especially after our great success here!" His last few
words thunked heavily into a sudden silence. All the
doctors stared at each other for a few moments.
Those who had been standing took their seats again,
and those sitting shifted in their chairs as if they sud­denly
found movement necessary. Finally, Dr. AI­Ahmad
spoke again.
"Perhaps Adam and Eve were not perfect
human specimens."
The tension in the quiet room was almost
audible. Somewhere outside the room there was
movement and sound, but inside the room sat eight
scientists, frozen in their thoughts.
"Over twenty-five years ofwork..." mut­tered
Dr. Marceau.
"Would we start from the beginning?" Dr.
Williams sounded frightened and resigned.
Dr. Ng leaned forward eagerly. "Do we have
a DNA chart here? Maybe if we just tweaked the
genes for temperament. .."
Slowly the other doctors leaned forward.
Heads together, they began arguing softly...reminis­cently...
theoretically... like they had before.
3
4
Scott Brill
Illustration by
Barbra de Dios
Second Place ~ Non-Fiction
"Your mom is dead!"
"What?" Yes, I had heard her; I just couldn't believe that she
was saying those words to me.
"I said your mom is dead."
In a flash, or less than a flash, I wondered how this
woman could know that my mom was dead. My co-worker,
whose name I still do not know, was standing across from my
work-station, stretching as far away from her own station as her
head-set cord would allow her to reach. Her eyes were wide
open and she had a pale, freckled face and frizzy, long brown
hair, the images of which have embedded themselves forever in
my mind. They are as vivid as if this happened yesterday and
not six monthsago.
How could she know that my mom was dead? Why was
this woman, this fellow call-taker, telling me that my mom was
dead? Why hadn't my supervisor taken me into one of the
offices and told me, gently, that my mom was gone? Why? Yes,
my mom was sick. She had a mitral-valve prolapse that was
slowly worsening, and if she didn't have an operation pretty
soon, the valve was going to give out completely and she would
die. The heart would lose its compression and not be able to
pump the blood through her body. It would still beat, but the
blood wouldn't go anywhere. So, knowing that my mom's sur­gery
was scheduled for the next week, and that she was doing
OK the last time I had spoken with her, I couldn't grasp the
reality of what this lady was telling me-that my mom was
dead.
I stood up from my terminal after telling my own caller
to hold-on a second.
"What...what did you say?"
"Your mom is dead. You knowoo.from your call."
Oh,oo.not ~ momoo.the one from my call. The call I had taken
15 minutes ago. The one that I had already tried to place in the
back of my mind so I could move along and take whatever
other calls were going to interject themselves into my life, one
beep at a time.
One beep at a time. We never know what is going to be
happening on the other side of the phone when we hear the
beep and answer it with "911-What is your emergency?"
5
First Place ~ Illustration
Barbra de Dios
VISION AND SPEECH
,...
The callers may be misusing the emergency phone system and
want to know how to get from one side of the city to the other;
they may want to talk to an officer about their Elvis on black­velvet
painting, "You know, the one I reported as stolen last
year," that they found this afternoon at a garage sale; or it may
be serious... like the one I had several minutes earlier.
A near-frantic woman's voice answered my question by
saying that the two neighbor girls had just banged on her door
and told her that they had just escaped from the bathroom in
their apartment where they had been locked-in since about 7:30
that morning. In the background, the girls were talking very
fast, whimpering, crying, rambling...
"He broke through the door and pointed his gun at us
and shoved us into the bathroom. He had some cord and tape
and wrapped us up real tight and then ran into the other room
where he started yelling at our mom." The voices were excited,
scared, and it seemed that they were almost unbelieving of what
their own eyes had witnessed those many hours before, and
were now reliving, as they told their neighbor what they thought
they remembered seeing.
The lady went on... "The mom's boyfriend then went
into her bedroom and started throwing her around. The girls
said they could see him tying her to the bed and then he started
choking her. When they came to my door, they said they didn't
know where their mom was...they think the guy may have taken
her somewhere...or that she may be dead...and you've got to
send someone over here quick!"
My mind was racing and trying to get it all down right
and to remember to hit the correct keys and to ask the right
questions and to code it properly, and my mind was getting
stuck on what to call this because this was the first call that I
had ever had like this and was scared and I knew that if! didn't
do it right all kinds of things could happen and I was still on
probation and what if they pulled the tape to review it and.. .1
managed to get everything done and then I hit the transmit but­ton
and the 'Hot-Radio' button and told the lady to hang on a
second while I got the officers going.
"Radio," she answered. "Radio, this is for Chase North.
Incident Number 3694. We have a possible kidnapping or mur­der
or something...at such and such an address at the San Carlos
Bay Apartments in Number 3122...the little girls think their
mom's boyfriend may have abducted her, and the last time they
saw her this morning, the man was choking her...and they just
got out of the bathroom."
"Ma'am, we've got officers started...help is on the way.
Can you ask the girls what the man's name is? Do they know
where he might have taken their mom? Do they remember what
he was wearing? Have they seen the kind of vehicle that he
drives? Can you ask the girls..."
...those little girls, the ones right there beside you, the
little girls who saw their mom strangled to death ...can you ask
them...
Honorable Mention· Digital Art
Faith Furst· THE INNATE AFFLICTION
..... .oJ
6
I was gone. I was lost. There was
nobody else in the call-center. The other opera­tors
had disappeared like so much dust and left
me there, alone at my console. There was no
laughter; there was no sound from the ring­down
lines from Fire or DPS. The supervisor's
station to my left had
vanished into the misty
haze of my periphery
and the fax and com­puter
printers were
mute. The large bank of
windows in front of me
might as well have had
bricks mortared into
their frames, for Tsaw
none of their light.
Someone must have put
black canvas over the
several sky-lights...
silenced the
other 25 phones,
and taken it all
away there was noth-ing
in the world but the
screen in front of me
with its lines and the
words that Twas feed­ing
it...and my fingers
couldn't type fast
enough. My mind
couldn't think fast enough. My ears couldn't
stop hearing the little sobs on the other end of
the phone. The lady was brave for them. Her
strained voice rose and fell. I could hear the
words cracking as she forced herself to repeat
my questions to them. My own throat was tight
with the need to cry, and I could almost see
their tears as they were glistening down their
cheeks. I could feel the girls' shaking bodies in
my own. My face was burning; adrenaline was
nying through my veins; my heart was pound­ing
in my chest; there were four heartbeats
echoing in my temples as the lady and girls
huddled there around the phone and shared
their horrible sadness, asking me to help them.
Somehow... I got the call to Radio with­in
50 seconds of the tone sounding in my
ear... the dispatchers had it over the air within
another 15 seconds and the officers arrived in
less than another two minutes...and then I heard
them at the door, and the lady hung up...and I don't know
what else...
My arm felt like lead as Treached up to press the
"Not Ready" button that would prevent another call from
coming through to my phone. Tguess that motion was like
releasing a spring that held the shade down over my eyes,
for, suddenly, there was light in the
room, the other operators were talk­ing,
and I could hear them tapping
out the words that would send help to
another caller in another part of the
city. The supervisors were moving
about their station, leaning over now
and again to listen to the Chase-dis­patchers
who had taken my calLand
the other calls. The bricks were gone
from the windows, the canvas was
removed from the sky-lights, and
other familiar sounds began, once
again, to move in and out of my
awareness. Tleaned back in my chair
and stared blankly at the air in front
of me. My burning, tear-filled eyes
didn't move as other people glanced
in my direction; my chest slowed
from its heaving while my left index­finger
twitched with an abnormal
pulsation. I looked at the phone and
saw that the "Calls Holding" light
was blinking and knew that I had to
get back to work. Someone else was
calling for help, or for whatever. Another reach of my arm
and the "Not Ready" button was released. And the tone
beeped in my ear again ...and again.
I don't know how many calls I had taken after that
one call, but the minutes passed, and before I could take
the time to look at the call-history to see what the officers
had found at the girls' apartment, that co-worker of mine
stood up and said, "Your mom is dead." I suppose my own
mental trauma, or whatever one would choose to call it, of
having taken that call, must have caused me to separate
from my surroundings, so that when she said those words,
I didn't think about what I had just gone through, but
instead thought of my own mom. I can't sum-up the psy­chological
processes that were working at those moments,
but what I do know is that, when my co-worker said my
mom was dead, that is exactly what I thought she was say­ing-
that my mom was dead.
But she wasn't, and isn't...but those little girls'
mom was, and is...and that tone still beeps in my ear.
Poetry
by Daniel Quigley
These are the cold days
They are the empty days
like a bastard aborted
lifeless before life
Icicled piercings that run to heart like a barrage of pikes
Keep frozen blood from coagulation,
The sweet and warm fru it of forsaken sorrow
A shriek of ancient horrors
And blindly followed text
Are hands to hold in this torrential hurricane
Then as we are pulled from this demise to the darker shelters
Someone inside knows
Little bot,J is sneaking out the back door
Under a stronger's arm
And momma's gonna blame someone tonight
These are the cold days
They are the sleeping days
Too long I've been awake
To watch an angel sleep
With each flutter of those closed eyes,
Thunderous, like a storm-drunken tree in bloom
I wonder if even one strike bares my likeness
In that irresponsible blanket where even lies hold true
Restless within peace
And violated screams, silent, soundless
So that it blares in mt,J heart when with et,Jes we meet
A decapitated possibilitt,J in evert,J glance takes her that much
deeper
And the chilled air burns heavt,J in a sour soul
Words that would speak go astrat,J
Wanton for heat, we scurry ourselves further into the ruins
These are the cold days
They are the quiet days
As the lone flakes tiptoe to the ground
Each with a silence to shatter silences
An inward look carries a forgetful freeze,
Deeper yet, and untouched
It grows in a weary mirror and with every empty promise
And unanswered whimper
like the deranged winds tearing so close to raw bone
Mindless to horrors of weather-beaten flesh
Frozen, naked, and shattered,
Beasts within begin an uproar
Oppressed bt,J the indulging deception
And their thirst that seeks outer sustenance
Then is tucked lower into an abt,Jssal soul
A darkness that cringes even before the light of a
cloud-polluted sun
These are the
Cold dat,Js
Thet,J are the
Thoughtless dat,Js
These are the
Soulless dat,Js
Thet,J are the
Colorless dat,Js
These are the
Cold dat,Js
Meaningless and deniable
With a comforting shiver up the spine
Third Place / Photography
Shannon Szczepaniec
Downtown
7
Barbara Cordova
Second Place~Fiction
8
Once a year, Mama took me to K-Mart to
buy all new school clothes. I knew it was time to go
when she'd make me come stand in front of her at the
kitchen table so she could look me over from head to
toe. First, she'd take a long inhale from her cigarette
and blow the smoke out to the side of her mouth. Then
she'd bend over and push down on the tops of my
shoes, sit up, take another inhale, then pull down on
my dress. That's about the time that she'd begin to
shake her head and mutter things like "Lord
Almighty" and "for cripe's sake." Then she'd hold her
cigarette in between her lips and make me do the twist
by tugging real hard on my waistband. I hated that part
because the smoke would float up to my face and bum
the insides of my nose and eyes. It seemed like the
smoke was burning her eyes, too, with the way she
squinted and squished down her eyebrows. Finally,
she'd pull down on my collar and peek at what was
beneath my shirt. Then she'd pat her cigarette out in
the ashtray and say, "Vanessa, go get in the car. You're
going shopping."
I'd start to smile right away. And it wasn't
just some ordinary smile neither. It was a Cheshire
Smile, the kind that would get me in big trouble if
Mama ever found out. So all the way out to the car I'd
look down at my feet like I was trying to decide what
kind ofshoes to buy; then, once in the car, I'd stare out
the window to the side of me. Ofcourse, Mama would
still catch a quick glimpse or two and ask, "Just what
are you smilin' about, Vanessa?' I'd just say back to
her in my most gratefullest voice, "Nothin' Mama,
I'm just so happy." Then I'd catch a quick glimpse of
her smiling too.
Sometimes I felt bad for tricking Mama, but
I really didn't know what else to do. You see, she
would never take me shopping if my clothes still fit.
So each year, after I got my new clothes, I'd stash two
or three outfits of the old stuff under my mattress
before Mama came to take them to Goodwill. Then
around August, I'd pull those clothes out, stuff myself
into them, and parade around the house. Sometimes
the clothes were so tight that I couldn't raise my arms
or sit down for too long. But I never said anything
about it. I would just let Mama see for herself, like
when she'd tell me to pass the salt, and I'd have to
lean my whole body forward to reach it because my
arm would get stuck in my sleeve.
Digital Art
Wivine Bouvry
Congratulations
I don't know why, but Mama was always in a hurry when we
shopped at K-Mart. As soon as we'd get there, she'd make this face like
smoke was getting in her eyes. Then she'd grab a shopping cart and
make me jog in front of her as she pushed it, real fast. We'd go right to
the clothing racks where I would stand with feet together and arms
outstretched while she held dress after dress in front of me. She'd huff
and say "too short," "too long," "too fancy," or "too expensive" as she
hurled each dress back toward the rack. Sometimes the hangers would
catch, and they'd return to their place. Other times, they'd altogether
miss and fall to the floor. Mama didn't care. She just wanted to finish
and get out.
I wasn't allowed to move while Mama sifted through the racks
for my clothes. That way, if she found something she liked, all she had
to do was tum around and hold it up against me. I remember once, I had
been standing in the aisle for a real long time. My arms and knees were
aching so much that they were starting to shake, and my eyes were
tearing up real bad. I didn't want Mama to see the troubles I was having,
so I crossed one foot in front of the other and put all my weight on the
back leg. That way I could rest one leg for a few minutes before
switching to the other. I also turned my head down and to the side to
hide my eyes.
As I held position, a little boy carrying a toy sword and shield
stopped right in front of me. He looked down at my feet then moved his
gaze upward to my outstretched arms. Then he looked right into my
eyes, raised his sword, and pressed it against my side. I held his gaze for
a few seconds; then I let my eyelids half fall so I "Please Mama, I gotta go to school tomorrow." But she would just keep
looked real pious, and I whispered, "Forgive them on talking.
Father, for they know not what they do." But this shopping trip, I was kinda feeling like things just
The little boy's mouth fell open as he shook might go my way. That was because of the Sonny and Cher show.
his head and backed away toward his mama. I started Mama just loved that Cher. She'd watch any show and buy any
to smile, liking the little scare I put into him. And magazine that had her in it. Mama'd say, "Isn't she just the prettiest
that's when I felt the sting of Mama's hand on my woman you ever saw?" Then she would gasp and coo over every single
cheek. "What in Sam's Hell do you think you're outfit she wore. So I was figuring that, since Cher wore jeans, that
doing?" she said. "You think it's funny to mock the maybe Mama would buy me some, too.
Lord?" I started to shake my own head and tried to So I was being the best scarecrow ever when Mama faced me
back away, but she just kept coming at me. She and said, "Oh, I just love this one." As I unfixed my gaze, my breath
slapped me again, grabbed me by the hair and pulled quickened as I imagined a pair offaded, hip-hugger jeans hanging from
my face to hers. Her nostrils were flaring with each my mama's hands. I imagined the smiley face that J would sew on my
breath she took in, and her pupils were so big that it back pocket, swaying like a pendulum as 1 proudly strutted down the
made her eyes look solid black. It felt like her stare halls at school. And I saw the boys fighting to sit behind me in class,
was burning holes all through me, letting my spirit hoping to catch a glimpse of my undies peeking out over my waistband.
spill out all over the floor. But my breathing changed to one long, deep breath in when I saw what
After an eternity had passed, she let her eyes my mama actually had.
move away from me and down to the ...------------, The first thing I saw was pink. And I thought, "Why
contents of the shopping cart. Then she are we buying pajamas?" Then I noticed that it wasn't
let go of my hair, smoothed her dress pajamas at all. It was some sort ofchoir robe that had been
back into place, and calmly said, "We're cropped at the knees. It had ivory lace, an inch-thick, on
leaving." She just left the cart right there the collar, cuffs, and hem. Three faux pearl buttons
in the aisle and walked away. As I turned cinched it together in the back and the front of it had a big
to follow her, I saw the little boy picture of one of those cameo ladies, smack-dab in the
hugging onto his mama's thigh as she middle.
rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Mama said, "How 'bout this one?" I put on my best
His mouth was still wide open and his "I'm having such a good time" face, touched the thing
eyes were locked on Mama. That year, I lightly on the arm and said, "It's, it's...pink." Mama
didn't get my new school clothes until scrunched her eyebrows down toward her nose, shook the
Christmas. thing against my chest and said, "It ain't pink! It's
J got real good at standing salmon!" She pulled the thing away from me and held it up
straight and holding my arms out when like she was Carol Merril or something. "Salmon's a very
we shopped for clothes. Since J no fashionable color right now. Did you see that dress Cher
longer had any desire to be like Jesus, I wore at the end of the Sonny and Cher Show last week?
put it in my mind to be a scarecrow. I That was this very same color. So what do you think? Do
learned that if! quickly jerked my hands you like it?"
toward my chest then back out again, the I just stood there, too afraid to tell her the truth. Then
blood would return to my veins and she shoved the dress closer to my face and yelled, "For
prevent my arms from shaking. I did this God's sake, Vanessa! Just tell me, yes or no." I stepped
every time mama looked away from me. back a little and saw that other people were looking at us
I could keep my arms up and perfectly like we were some kind of movie-of-the-week. "Will she
still longer than anybody. I could also finally stand up to her mama and say, 'No, I just don ~ like
empty my mind of any thoughts. I'd fix ThirdPlace~3-D Art it' Or will she, once again, fall prey to the ugly dress
my gaze on nothing and no one in Jim Kearns demon?"
particular, cross my eyes for a moment, Eyes, Wings, Teeth I took in another deep breath. My eyes darted back
and let my mind go blank to everything and forth from the dress, to my mama's face, and to the TV
except my mama's back. Every time I saw her back, viewers-then back to the blouse, my mama, then the viewers. A low,
I'd quickly jerk my arms in for a second then back humming sound filled my ears; then it was replaced by the boom-out.
That way she wouldn't see what I was doing and booming of my heart. It was going, "Like it?-Like it?-Like it?"
start yelling at me for acting stupid. Everything became crystal-clear like I was looking at the world through
Mama and I never liked the same kind of a high-powered microscope. I saw each of my mama's pores on her
clothes, but I never disagreed with what she chose. If face. 1saw my reflection in the check-out lady's eyeglasses. And I swear
I did, she'd call me a dumb-shit or she would cry I saw a tear in the cameo lady's eyes.
because "no one ever cared about what she thought." Then the cameo lady fell, and my mama's open hand came at
Then she would carry on for hours, sometimes even me. She hit me hard between the shoulder blades and yelled, "Dammit,
through the night. I'd be sitting at the kitchen table, Vanessa! Breathe!" J fell forward; my lungs let loose; and I exhaled,
barely able to hold my head up any longer and plead, "Yes, I like it!" Then everything went black.
9
Painting
Travis Southworth
Stephanie
•
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Vacancy
Looking into the mirror [ ~ee
vacant eyes and a barren t~lCe,
certainly no ~clf-re~pect.
Long before thi~ morning, he'd left.
The anonymou~ form behind me
wrapped in wrinkled ~heets,
stir~ about in slumber.
A mi~t of stale ~ex lil1ger~,
conden~ed on the hotel room windows,
filling my nmtril~ with humid mmk.
["he booze that burned its path down my throat
left ~oot and a~h that won't brmh a\\ay.
latthew Tra
[ touch the hole lI1~idc,
trammed full of last night
rint~ of drunken laughter,
~moky sweat-beaded skin.
I t'~ larger now,
but still a void.
I c1o~c my eyes, and crawl
deep inside this pit.
raking ~hame's red hot coal~ over me,
burning and throbbing,
, TO amount of ~oap or water
can take away the grime
that cling~ to every pore.
~till I scrub
and reach for more hot water.
I dre~s quickly, collect m), thing~
empty wallet. tattered Tm:mory.
and quietly close the door
not to disturb my sleeping regret.
Painting
Ihra Turnage
Still Life ~'ith Pears
11
Third Place
Illustration ~ Digital
Troy Escobedo
Lost Soul
Honorable Mention - Fiction
Tara Launders
12
"He bought her six new dresses, and r brought
her goddamn cat back from the dead, so
who loves her more?"
--Pet Sematary
The third worst day in Stoffen Cale's life
was the day the doctors said they could bring his
daughter back.
The second worst day, of course, was not
the day he had chipped his front tooth in third
grade, not even the day that he caught his wife
eating lunch with another man, her hand near his
crotch.
The second worst day of his life was the
day Phaedra Cale died.
He remembered that day vividly, almost to
the point where he could recall the taste of the
hospital's bland coffee. He recalled his wife's
blotchy face, staring at the public access television
show, and he could even summon the metallic and
cold light from the panels above.
And then the amplified sound of the doors to the
Intensive Care Unit opening, and then Dr. Bradford, his eyes a
brilliant ice blue, and then his voice, and for a moment Stoffen
had been blasted to the not-so-distant past, when he had taken
Phaedra to see the classic Star Wars, and suddenly Dr.
Bradford's voice was that of the ill-destined Darth Vader:
Mr. Cale. Ms. Cale. I'm sorry. We did all we could... but
she's gone.
Stoffen had sat, unbelievingly, and he stared at his
hands; he did not realize that he was sobbing hard, crying like
a little girl, nor that his wife was screaming beside him. But he
did look up in time to see the good doctor embracing his wife
in comfort, something that he was unable to do himself.
And there was Lavinna, nearly shrieking her sobs,
beating the doctor's back as she wailed:
No, no, she can't be dead! She can't be dead! I just saw
her yesterday! She cannot be dead!
And then the clincher: She can't be dead, Mhark; I love
her!
Lavina had wanted to see Phaedra, to touch her cooling
body, as if to console herself, but while she sat in the good
doctor's arms, sobbing, wailing, screeching, he
convinced her not to, and while Lavina was
using her satin shirt to wipe her nose, Dr.
Bradford gave her a sedative.
And then the good doctor had taken him
aside to tell him that life would go on, that
Phaedra was no longer suffering, that she was
with God now, and through all his grief, there
came a rage in Stoffen because this good doctor
had never suffered at all, would never know pain
at all because he was a millionaire and he always
got what he wanted.
Except Lavina. But that was a whole
other pot offish, boys and girls, thought Stoffen,
now as he sat in the good doctor Mhark
Bradford's office, remembering a scant three
days ago, and grimaced in agony. He was sitting
beside his wife; Lavina, even in her intense
sorrow, was as beautiful as ever, wearing a silver
dress far too short, but this was the first sign that
something was wrong to Stoffen.
No doubt about it, something is up.
He wore, however, a decent black suit,
complete with matching shoes and watch and
thinning hair and blotchy eyes and red face.
And the good doctor, Mhark Bradford,
Dr. Old-Boyfriend-In-College, Mr. Perfect, why
he was wearing a charcoal gray suit, complete
with shiny Rolex.
He's got my wife.
The thought jerked him awake, and
away, momentarily, from his sorrow.
Lavina? She's still my wife.
And your daughter was your daughter
too, until a brain tumor got her, eh?
And then of course, Mr. Lovely
Bradford, whose face was clear, spoke.
"Mr. Cale. Mrs. Cale, Let me first say
how sorry I am."
Stoffen stared at his chapped red hands.
This can't be happening, he told himself.
It's nothing more than a bad dream, and soon I'll
wake up at home, with Lavina telling the maid
not to char the bacon, and Phaedra will
come running down the stairs, wanting nothing
more than orange juice with a side of toast,
unbuttered.
She'll be alive, sneered that disgusting
part of him which had compared adultery to a
brain tumor.
If only, thought Stoffen Cale, as no
doubt countless other parents had once thought, or still did. If
only I'd spent more time with her. Worked puzzles, walked the
dog, gone to church ... if only I'd stayed home more often to play
with her. If only I had one more chance. One more. That's all I
ask for, God. Please. Just one, and I promise I'll donate my life
savings to the church. I'll give everything I own to the poor,
follow the Messiah throughout life without my family .. .just give
me my daughter back.
"-even with all oftoday's technology-" Bradford. Ah,
there he was again.
Oh, come now, snapped that sick part again. God does
NOT take a child and then give her back. If science can't do it,
then faith alone can't either. Even if you were a Chari ie
Churchman, she would be dead now. Praying to a deity you never
believed in until a week ago will not change this any more than
Mr. College Sweetie Pie will.
"-there was nothing we as doctors could do for her."
And Lazarus ... Ioose him from his grave clothes and let
him go.
Let him go.
"But as scientists, there is."
In this world we've made, we can use heat sensors to
match a rapist to a victim; we can project realities into
classrooms; we can force a brain to operate after days...of.
His brain, or perhaps his sanity, shrieked.
Then the outside world fell away, and when he opened
his eyes, he saw not the doctor, but a newspaper headline, dated
over three weeks ago, when Phaedra had been alive and kicking
and eating her un buttered toast precociously.
From the New Times Sine Papers: Doctors Discover
Perfect Cell Regeneration.
He resurfaced into the real world, into the world where
Phaedra Cale had clung to life forever and still died, her eyes
rolling in addiction.
"What. .. " gasped Stoffen.
Bradford glanced at him, folded his hands over his desk
in a steeple form.
"What did you say?" garbled Stoffen, his throat raw.
The tears seeped out again, and, his hands under the
desk, he found himself removing his golden ring of wedded bliss,
and plop, it fell with a quiet noise into the charcoal carpet.
"Mr. Cale," said the damned doctor, "we can bring her
back. Do you understand?"
He stared at the man dumbly, a bull before the slaughter,
aware of the stench of blood but uncomprehending of its signif­Icance.
"We," whispered Lavina, "can have her back. Do you
know what that means!"
She spun to the father of her dead child. "We can bring
her back, Stoffen!"
Then the words hit him, and he sat up straight, as though
13
14
Bradford had reached under the table and
squeezed his scrotum.
"Alive?" he managed to creak out after a
decade, after a lifetime. "You can ... bring her
back? Make her alive?"
Bradford began to smile again.
"But," wheezed Stoffen, feeling his
chest tighten, "you're not Christ. "You," he
creaked, "are a liar to a childless man."
"Mr. Cale," said
Bradford, "have you
ever heard of Eternia
Productions?"
Mr. Cale shook
his head numbly.
"What about
Patricia Vel mont?"
He nodded this
time; she had been in the
news. As the seventh
victim of a serial rapist
and killer, her name had
flashed once in the
news.
"1 tell you," said
Dr. Bradford carefully,
"that she is as alive as
we are today."
Bradford smiled. "No doubt you heard
about her injuries. She was slashed open from
neck to vagina."
"But I tell you now that she is currently
watching a story-opera on the telescreen. Alive.
Eating. Breathing."
"And Phaedra can be the same way."
"What." Stoffen was dead himself.
"Phaedra had a brain tumor, Mr. Cale, as
you well know," hissed Bradford. "But only part
of her brain was affected. Her heart is still in
prime condition. Her liver, kidneys, everything
else, perfect."
"Half her brain was gone," moaned
Cale, but without emotion. "We saw the X-rays.
It was just eaten."
"We can regenerate that," was the reply.
"Mr. Cale, the medical profession has progressed
beyond death-"
No. No. No, it's just a lie, just a ploy,
nothing but...
"-and the Grim Reaper is no longer to be
feared-"
But, demanded a wily part of his mind, what if. ..
Should they, you fool! Do you not remember the tears,
the drugs, the pain? What if she comes back ... as a zombie? A
vegetable? An addict to all that cocaine the docs forced into her
frail body, fresh before puberty?
Do you not remember her agony, the needles, the pain in
her eyes? How she begged and pleaded before speech was gone,
before sight was gone? How she wept until her eyes had rotted
away in her skull because that damned tumor was cancerous?
Will you bring her back, a freak in this
world? Everyone in her world, her
teachers, friends, family, know she is
dead. To have her return ... to present a
walking vegetable with rotted eyes at the
next family reunion ...
"Vegetable," he heard himself grumble
and groan. "Vege-"
"No," snapped Bradford, as if the very
idea was idiocy. "Never. We regenerate
from the surviving half- and there never
was any cancer there, Mr. Cale."
"Eyes," Cale gasped.
"We have cloned eyes on hand," said
Bradford.
And then that struck him too, and Cale
stiffened in his chair, frozen In rigor
mortis.
"That's illegal," he wheezed, as fresh
tears rose, "you bastard, cloning is illegal!"
"That's why the price of the operation is so high," purred
Bradford. "But what price on your daughter, Stoffen? To hold her
in your arms? To see her, again, live, whole?"
"It won't be Phaedra," Stoffen groaned, and now the
image of her dead form reappeared in his mind, the slack face, the
drugs, the corpse. "Because if you clone the eyes, you'll have to
clone the brain ... and God knows what else!"
"We already have brain matter," soothed Bradford, "so
yes, parts of her memory will be incomplete. A shrink might be
called to reestablish order and memories, and she will have to
stay in the hospital for a while, if only to insure the implants have
taken- "
"It won't be her," hissed Cale. "Her body, but not her
mind; she was near dead in the mind before her body went."
"So was Patricia," soothed the doctor. "But is it not worth
it, Mr. Cale? How much would you deem your daughter's life
worth in dollars? Is there an amount, Mr. Cale?"
And in that very moment, Stoffen Cale realized that price
wasn't an issue now, if it had ever really been because as he
looked at Lavina, he knew that the price had been paid, in semen
and sex and silk bedsheets, perhaps on the very day Phaedra had
breathed her last.
"Do it," said Lavina, her voice a shock
and her smile glamorous. "Do it, doctor, please."
And then, as if to seal the deal, her
delicate white hand reached across the desk and
grasped the doctor's.
"You... bitch," Stoffen whispered, and
then the tears came again, wetness, gentle and
sour sweet.
It was three days later, and Phaedra Cale
was breathing in her hospital bed, through the
aid of a tube.
Two needles were implanted into each
elbow, adding proteins and vitamins and blood to
her sad body, which glowed with not a lively but
definitely breathing aura; her eyes were sunken
and outlined in pale blue veins.
And there she lay, with someone else's
eyes and brain matter, perhaps in a coma,
perhaps a vegetable, alone, saving the man in the
chair, sitting to her left.
He had been instructed not to touch her;
he dared not. Looking at her was a shock
enough; seeing her frail chest being pumped up
and down by machines ached his soul.
Physically alive, or at least, being
FORCED into animation... but no more awake
or alive than the machines which order her
survival.
Lavina had gone. Dr. Bradford had
clocked out for the night.
"Daughter," he gasped, barely aware that
it was past midnight, that he was alone with a
breathing corpse. "Phaedra?"
She is dead but breathing, a living
corpse.
No maggots in my daughter. .. but what
else is there? A mind at all?
"Phaedra?" he whispered again; God
had raised the body from the grave, or, more
accurately, from the cold-stone freezer, but her
soul was still under guard of His angels.
"Baby," he whispered, and wanted to
cry; but his tears were dead. "Daddy's here."
The machines whirred; the machines
beeped; the machines worked to keep alive a
dead child.
And the dead child lay there, trussed as
a Thanksgiving turkey. She had escaped the only
way possible. But allowing the body to breathe,
or be forced into breathing, but keeping the mind
asleep, was allowed.
Didn't Bradford say in a few days ... the drugs would be
induced ... to wake her? To force her up and out and awake, to see
if the transplants worked?
"Phaedra?"
She's gone, Stoffen. Give it a rest. Understand ... she died
a week ago. This is her body.
He knew suddenly, with all certainty, that Lavina and
Bradford were together in this very moment, miles away from the
dead girl.
She breathes.
No, the machines force the breath. Her lungs are dead.
The Inquisition ... they can keep a man alive for years
down here. And we don't mean three healthy meals a day and
regular exercise.
My daughter is dead. Phaedra Cale is dead and brought
back, and my wife is screwing the doctor who brought her back,
and Phaedra Cale is dead and I am alone with my dead
child ... flesh like maggots.
An unproved fact thus far. Maggots and his daughter.
In my daughter. One day.
"Dear God," he moaned through his hands, his sweat
dripping down his face in the icy room of computers.
If she can live anymore. Do vegetables live? Do apples,
for that matter? They breathe, yes, but can they live?
He remembered the news reporters, with their flashing
bulbs, in his face and under his skin and mind, and one, a faceless
man, with a camcorder microphone in Cale's face, the faceless
ghost asking, demanding: Do you miss your daughter, Mr. Cale?
He had replied, of course: I love her. I miss her and I love
her.
And now comes the ultimate test, wheedled his mind.
The ultimate test, Cale baby, oh, baby. How MUCH do you love
her? Enough?
His hands rubbed together, dry and rasping, feeling the
indention in his flesh where the wedding ring had been.
"How much?" groaned Cale and then reached out to
touch her.
He had expected rotting flash, cold, runny skin escaping
her body and onto his fingers, maggot-ridden and decaying... it
was merely cool to the touch, warming slowly, no maggots, no
decay... nothing but cool skin.
And the pulse, slowly beating, a steady thumpa-thumpa-thump,
like an egg twitching with life.
Worst day in my life ...Phaedra Cale dies.
But they brought her back...
"Phaedra?"
Do... do you love her enough, Cale? Love her enough, or
just enough for the paying of the price, for the cameras? Is that
the love you have, Stoffen Cale, because that's not love, that's
just ownership, like a rake or a dog or an Ace of Spades.
Even the damned love, someone once said, but it's not
15
.
. I
I
Life Drawing
Seth Fyffe
Untitled
reached and gently stroked her cheek.
Her eyes, closed, veined. Perhaps blind.
Her tears ... her eyes rotting away from the outside in, the
inside out, the tears and the cries and then the drugs that made her
scream about the bugs on the walls, the knives in her pillows ...
Well, Cale, how much do you love her? And which is it:
life, death, an existence in-between? Which one, Cale... which
one is the way of love?
Who loves her, Cale: Lavina and Bradford, who want life
for her. .. or you, who wants a quiet and not entirely pleasant
demise? You have no proof she is a vegetable, comatose, insane,
or will awaken blind and an addict. You have no PROOF.
"No," he whispered to the voices. "No."
All we have is love. Even the damned have that.
"My daughter," whispered Stoffen Cale, the failed man
and the failure of a father, as he stroked her cheek, as his fingers
gently held the breathing tubes, and then began to pull them, inch
by inch, up and free and away.
"1 love you," he whispered, and the tears fell upon her
pale child's face, her sunken eyes, upon his first and last and only
child because the worst day ever in Stoffen Cale's life was the
day he ended his daughter's.
love unless a sacrifice can be made. A Sunday
evening devoted to tea parties. Going without a
family vacation or that nice new car.
Is that your love, Stoffen Cale? Or is
your love as dead as Lavina? As dead as the
cancer which killed your daughter?
He touched her cool skin, her pulse, and
then the wires attached to her body, his fingers
trailing over the breathing tubes that had
attacked her gentle lips, spreading like cancer
over her lower face.
What do YOU love more, Cale? The
idea of a daughter, alive, breathing, or a daughter
entombed in stone and cold dead, not just cool
skin? What do you love, Cale, and who is it
anymore? Lavina is gone; Bradford is gone; and
now there's just you and one nurse, who you
could easily kill ifit came down to it; oh yes, and
then there's Phaedra Cale, alive through
machines and someone else's child's eyes and
brain and blood...who do you love now, Cale?
"Phaedra," he whispered, and this time
there was hardly any grief in his voice, and he
16
Back on the Road
Poetry ~Vidal Medina
America
A vast land
3,000 miles long
Our roads connect us all
"The road"
It means something to everyone
The miles between a love,
Family trips,
Poverty and despair
The road calls with many different voices
For this western traveler,
America's roads are a playground,
An adventure,
A chance to share memories with friends
The holy destination sits in meditation,
The road is where the trip is born
Straight or twisted,
Paved or unpaved,
The road is a mystic experience
Double yellow lines
Unexpected dips and turns
The sickness that grips me,
Curses many
Friends joined in loud conversation,
Snacks thrown everywhere,
Radio boppin' our favorite tunes,
We sail the asphalt seas
Professional passenger
I look out dirty windows
Scenic America
Green hills, barren deserts,
Mighty blue and her sisters
Sign after sign,
God and man showing us the way
"State Prison: Don't Pick Up Hitchers"
But still I stare with sympathy at level thumbs,
rucksacks, and broken feet
Where are you, Jack?
The last American hobo gone,
We search for our own adventure
Digital Art
Val Vyers
Atnerican Farmers
17
18
Honorable Mention - Painting • Curtis· Untitled
First Place~Non Fiction
Deanne Ryan
child. Not to worry! My dad looked at the accident as a few extra days
off for hunting. He wasn't about to call off the annual deer hunt just
because his leg was broken. He wasn't allowed on the job site, but no
one said he couldn't hobble from hill to hill to search for the perfect
kill.
When I was five, my mom received a phone call from St.
Joseph's emergency room. Apparently, my dad was waiting for the
attending physician to sew his ear back on. Hey, it could happen to
anyone. Frank was on the job site,
walking along, inspecting the interior
of a building where the men had just
installed duct work. As he walked by a
section still under construction, one of
the heavy metal cold air returns fell,
missing my dad's head but catching
his ear on the way down. My dad left
the job and walked to the doctor's
office, which was about five blocks
away. When he got there, the nurse
took a look at the bloody mess, swal­lowed
her lunch for the second time,
then directed my dad to the hospital.
She had assumed he drove. Not dis­couraged,
he walked a few blocks
more to the emergency room, ear dan­gling,
a dirty, blood-soaked handker­chief
held to the side of his head. The
ER staff patched him Lip and he
returned to the job site. Things were
calm for awhile after that.
A few years later, my mom
received another call. It was my dad,
shaken up. "A crane moving a palm
tree just broke and sent the palm tree
and the crane block through my windshield!" he rattled out. "Can you
come get me?" A few witnesses thought they were seeing a shot from
Candid Camera. Others thought some people were in town producing
a movie and my dad was the stunt guy. Judging by the dents on the
inside of the truck cab, the block had missed my dad's head by less
than an inch. He had a small scrape on his face. My parents drove
away as the working crew dislodged the palm tree from my dad's
work truck. The next time, Frank wasn't so lucky.
It was a natural reflex, really. When something is falling, you
try to catch it. But when it's a table saw flying off the back of a truck,
things can get messy. The Man of Many Breaks leapt in front of the
flying table saw to catch it. After all, it was a $500 table saw. He
saved the table saw and broke his back. Three weeks in the hospital
and another six months at home took him out of the danger zone tem-
Man of Many Breaks
I would like to introduce a legendary man. He is
a complex creature made up of one part strong­will
mixed feverishly with two parts pure luck.
Those who know him, marvel at him. And those
who insure him, fear him. He is the Man of Many
Breaks, but I just call him Dad.
My dad, Frank, has lived a life full of
adventures. Growing up in the wild west, better
known as Phoenix, Arizona, my
dad learned to love the out­doors.
He has spent the majority
of his life working and playing
hard in the Arizona sun. I could
write a biography depicting the
Iife of the Man of Many Breaks,
but it's already been done. The
story is clear, concise, and
already in chronological order.
You won't find it on the book­shelf
though. You'll need to
look at the doctor's office. The
five-feet-high bundle of my
dad's medical records and X­rays
probably journal his life
better than any story I could
ever write!
The legend of the Man
of Many Breaks begins on the
job site. My father is a retired
carpenter, a construction super­intendent.
I think he has a com­plete
file cabinet dedicated to
him at the local Workman's
Comp office. Don't misunder­stand.
He isn't one of those low lifes who makes a
living collecting disability. My dad has always led
others in the work force. He is a man of pride and
strong work ethics. He is also a man of bad timing.
During Frank's career, he has encountered
many deadly accidents and has lived to tell about
every one of them. A picture comes to mind from
when I was about three years old. My dad is hold­ing
a hunting rifle, balancing on one leg. The other
leg is suspended in air to highlight the plaster cast.
He broke his leg when a back hoe dropped the
bucket where my dad was standing, knocking my
dad off balance, the teeth of the back hoe catching
my dad's leg like a pit bull catching an innocent
porarily. As long as Frank stayed cooped up in our house, dressed in a
chest-to-knee body cast, my mom could rest easy. He was safe at
home doing domestic work. The day came when he was released to
return to work. He was told to just supervise, but that's like asking a
child to guard the candy dish and not eat any.
We had a few quiet years when my dad only came home with
minor cuts and bruises. There was a morning, however, when I was
about J2 that I woke up to a scream of "Robetta? Get in here. I think I
hurt myself!" My dad was lying on the bed, with one foot planted
firmly in his work boot, flailing in the air. All three of us kids gathered
around the bed as my mom pried the boot off my dad's foot. The sight
was a sickening surprise. My foot throbbed vicariously. A drywall nail
had been hiding point up in my dad's boot. It met my dad's heel com­ing
into the boot and drove through the bottom of my dad's heel and
stuck up through the back. This made us all queasy, but we all felt
compelled to watch as my mother took the pliers and quickly yanked
the nail from my dad's heel. "Yeowwwwww! That's a hell of a
woman." Most women would have fainted at the sight. My mom
dowsed the wound with peroxide, bandaged it, then shook the boot to
check for other nails before my dad put it back on and headed off to
work.
Accidents with Frank were so commonplace that my mom
became very nonchalant about them. She had gotten used to the phone
ringing with a co-worker on the other end, describing my dad's injury.
One night, when my dad was doing a remodel to the old First
American Title building, my mom was awakened by the phone. "Is
this Roberta Evans?" the voice on the other line asked. "Yes," my
mom mumbled. "This is St. Joseph's Emergency Room calling. We
have Frank here. He had a ceiling collapse on him. We thought you
might like to come down." My mom, irritated by the interruption of
her sleep, asked, "Is it life threatening?" The nurse answered "No."
"Good, then. I'll see him in the morning. Tell him to call if he needs a
ride." The nurse was horrified. As awful as this accident was to the
nurse, this was just another episode to my mother. She said if she got
upset every time my dad got hurt, she would have worried herself to
death before she was forty! The collapsed ceiling reopened my dad's
skull and damaged a few already crumbling vertebrae in his neck. His
co-workers told my mom when they heard the crash they were afraid
to go looking for my dad. The men found him under the rubble of dis­integrating
plaster. They were sure he was dead. Not Frank, the man
refuses to die.
For most, this would have been the final blow, a cue to quit.
Maybe the big guy upstairs was sending a message. If he was, it was
in the wrong tone range for my dad to hear. You see, his hearing was
shot due to the high decibel levels of power equipment, you guessed
it, on the job site.
I'm not sure if my final work story is actually the last. There
are so many to remember. Either the ceiling collapsing or the potential
electrocution was the grand finale of my father's construction career. I
think the night of flight may have been the one to send Frank out with
a bang. My dad, once again, was doing a night job, renovating another
old building downtown. The electricians had assured him that the
breakers had all been checked and all the wires to the old signs were
dead. So my dad went to work. The first wire in the old exit sign let
him know they were very much alive. Electricity blew through my
dad, throwing him back in the room and through an old glass door.
This door was pre-plate glass era, when glass broke
into jagged shards, not crumbly pieces. When my
dad regained consciousness lying in a heap of shat­tered
glass, he discovered he was in one piece, but
his leather belt was slit in two. The lingering hum in
his ears was a continuous reminder of his electrify��ing
experience for months to come.
The remodel jobs downtown became less
appealing. It wasn't long after the accident that
Frank hung up his nail apron and tool belt and
retired from the construction business before it
retired him to the grave.
You would think my dad would have wel­comed
the peace of retirement. A reasonable man
would have counted his blessings, then sat quietly
down in his recliner, newspaper in one hand, remote
control in the other, gently cruising through the
golden years. To my dad, that would have been giv­mg
up.
Since retiring, my dad has torn his rotator
cuff twice, crushed his wrist, smashed his hand
bones to the point that they no longer join together,
and has unfused his backbone. This was the result of
offroad car racing and, after he was banned from
that, mountain bike racing. He won the club champi­onship
in golf last year with a major blood clot in
his leg, stopping between holes to kneel so he
wouldn't pass out from the pain.
When I see old friends, they always ask,
"How's Frank?" The question that usually follows
is, "What's he broken now?" People who know my
dad can't wait to hear of the latest folly. The remark­able
thing is that, even now, I usually have one to
tell.
Digital Art • Tanya Judd· Analogous Flower
19
20
1
Fir.tPlAee
First Place / Digital Art
Faith Furst
Phoenix
Painting
ara Turnage
Welcoming
Third Plaee
Third Place / Digital Art
Mick Welsh
Bali Girl
Honorable Mention ./
I-Ionorable Mentiotl / Digital Art
Wivine Bouvry
Les Three Graces
Third Pia e .1(
Third Place / Painting
Luke Bauer
nemic and 0 weet
'ecQl1d Place / Life Drawing
April Higgins
tudy ofDraperie and Pear
21
1st Place Fiction - Jackie Benton
I like to spit on a window right before I wipe it clean. A real good
one, from the back of my throat. That and some elbow grease, my trade
secret for shinin' up a window. I do get some stares, though. I just smile
big as I can. This will be one clean window. But you never know what
a body might do. They're a lot of crazy people and most of 'em drive
cars. I'm here for close to three years now. It's not bad work, cleanin'
windows. Some day's worse than others. Days when my anTIS and back
ache, and when I lean over a hood, all I want to do is sit down. But all
and all, it's not bad work, and a man got to work.
I see new faces every day, but it my regular customers who count
on me. I can't let them down. I give 'em all nicknames, like Dazed
Diana. She one I like. I call her Diana 'cause she reminds me of my lit­tle
girl. Her eyes like my wife Becca's, black and quiet. The poor thing
not right in the head, though. Her rundown car out of place in all this
business traffic. Why don't she take the train? But she a regular here
and a little crazy. She always talk to me. I say, "Yes, yes, Diana,"' 'til
she drive away.
Today is hard. Always is after a storm. I used to sleep at the hospi­talon
rainy nights. The green vinyl couch creakin' every time I move,
but it was smooth and cool against myoId, dry skin. Anymore, though,
I'm kicked out soon as I shut my eyes. There are new guards, now.
They patrol the waitin' rooms, lookin' for anyone who don't belong.
Hell, no one belong in a hospital waitin' room. Still their gaze always
stop in my direction. They give me the address of the shelter down on
16th street. I tell them I already know where the damn shelter is, and
I'm not going. In the shelter, I'm a snore away from empty pockets, and
a cot away from ajunkie who'd cut my throat for a quick fix .
.....:~~~~Ii! !l:~I:2>"'1li;::-..... But I notice the nervous way the fat one fingers his gun and leave. I
rather sleep in the rain. So I tired today, but I'm here. They don't
want to hear how you too tired to work. Excuses like that, next
......,,,..,..-,.~olol thing you know, some other guy workin'your spot.
Ah, here comes Mad Max. His blue Maxima windows
streaked with rain. Even so, he pay me double to not clean his
windows. Like I said, they're all kinds out there. His window
down before I reach his car, two one-dollar bills flappin' in the
wind. He afraid I forget our deal, so he flash the money to remind
me. I swish the spit around my mouth.swish the spit around my
..........._, mouth. "Don't do it," he say_
"Hey, Max, I already told you I won't forget." I swallow hard.
"You can't even remember my name," he say, handin' me the
money. "You not Max?" I ask, shovin' the money in my pocket.
"It's Mike. "Oh yeah, that's right, Mike," I say. The light turns
and he's off. "See ya, Max."
It's a strange guy who will pay for his windows not to be
cleaned and can't remember his own name. Oh well, better crazy
than mean. Like the two guys in the tan pickup last week. No
sooner I spit and got one wipe they were yellin'.
"What the hell are you doing?" the driver yell.
What yOll think I'm doing. asshole? That's what I want to
say. They watch you like a hawk around here. Don't be rude to the cus­tomers.
I kept scrubbin' the window and smiled real big. Next thing I
know, he out the truck. You never know what they do. I just curled up
on the ground, covered my head with my anTIS, and waited for the
crack of his construction boot. Situations like this, I holler scriptures so
people think I'm crazy.
egulars
First Place / 3-Dintensioltal Art
Ji Kearns
Wire-Self ortrait
22
"Lord, your servants may depart in peace; your word has been ful­filled,
for our eyes have seen your salvation ... "
Finally, he turned around and climbed back in his truck
laughin' to his friend. No one like to mess with religious freaks. I have
to remember, though, don't clean Tan Ford's windows.remember,
though, don't clean Tan Ford's windows.
I see him comin' up the block. He speed up to beat the light, but the
gray Camry in front stops. I walk past the Camry. I make sure to service
my regulars before takin' on anyone new, no matter how cheap. The
Mercedes Miser roll his eyes as l start to wipe. I watch him the entire
time see if he try to stiff me.
"You don't want to cheat me now," I yell through his window.
"Come on, give it up."
I bang on his window. My weddin' ring smack against the glass.
Driving' that nice ride, I know he got money. His Rolex stares upside
down at me. I' /I kick the dool' in, you son ofa bitch. Don't be violent
with the customers.
"Come on now," I sayan inch away from the window. "Come on."
The window lowers, and voices escape from the radio. He flip a
quarter my direction. I miss it, and it roll to the middle of the street.
"Why don't you get ajob? McDonalds is hiring," he say.
"I like my job here, sir. You like the opera?" I ask noddin' toward
the radio.
"Der Fliegende Hollander," he say as the window begin to rise.
"The Flying Dutchman," [ say.
I see his strange stare piercin' through the window's tint. Figures he
a Wagner fan. Opera was Becca's thing, not mine. She listened when
she painted; said it kept her focused. I tried working alongside her,
those tortured voices risin' and fallin' around our canvases. ever could
get a thing done. Spent my time resistin' the urge to open them win­dows,
let them voices out.
The opera suited Becca so fine and proper. I needed some Hendrix
to get my brush movin', a little "Purple Haze" to fill my canvas.
Yeah, me and Jimi, self-taught and a little wild.
I never could get why Becca chose me.We met at some rundown
gallery showin' my work. Becca was slummin' it with some friends.
Came right up to me, started askin' questions about my paintin'.
Couldn't tell you what we talked about. Just remember the way her
dark eyes flickered between my face and the canvas. Her small silky
hands dancin' as she spoke. I remember that sweet, sweet smell of
lilacs.
I hear a siren, and I run up the block and into the alley. I crouch
down low and plug my ears with my hands. Deep breaths, they tell me.
lt's ok, deep breaths. I hate fire engines. Deep breaths. Ok, ok. The
noise of the siren fade away. Ok, I'm fine now. It's ok now. I look
around a little embarrassed. I was in a fire once. They tell me it's the
reason I scared to hear the sirens. Don't remember it, the fire, but they
remember. Sometimes I'm confused, and I ask 'em, where are Becca
and Diana; they dead? Yes, they gone. Everything gone. They say it my
fault. Smokin' in bed, passed out drunk. I don't drink or smoke no
more. No one thought I could do it, but I'm showin' Becca I can. I hear
Becca sometimes, but she say, too little too late.
While I catch my breath, I check to make sure my stuff ok. I stack
the large green bags to look like someone's trash. But you'd be amazed
how many people steal trash. The bags untouched, so I go back to work.
They understand about my siren situation. They know I take a break
when the fire engines come by. I'm just in time for Serious Fred. He
slows down as he approach the light. The cars behind him honk. I work
up some spit and land it in the middle of the windshield. He rolls down
his window as I'm wipin'.
"Good morning," he say.
"Morning, sir," I say to him.
"A bit of rough weather we had last night."
"Yes, sir. Rained pretty hard."
"I trust you came through all right," he say. He got that
fancy way of talk in " a bit of rough weather, I trust you came
through...
"We made it," I say to him.
He hand a me dollar and shake my hand.
"God bless you," he say, rollin' up the window.
"Take care, Fred," I say. He nice, they say. Yeah, looks us
in the eyes.
Becca used to say I too jaded, that I needed to trust in peo­ple.
It's true too. I couldn't even trust Becca. Each time I walked
in that apartment and found her on the sofa with Diana or fixin'
something in the kitchen, I'd be amazed. She still there. I kept
waitin' for her to figure it out. Somedays when the afternoon sun
finally reached into the apartment, I'd stand behind my easel and
paint Becca and Diana. Tryin' to capture that gentle way she lift
our baby, rockin' her from side to side. I'd paint the look on
Diana's face when she'd first spot Becca and the glow in the
room when Becca sang. Those were good days, the days before
my drinkin' got out of hand, before the fights, when there was
still some good left to paint.
It's near the end of the mornin' rush when I see the rusted
out car make the turn. The sun fight its way through the clouds,
and I standin' in a ray of light. She slow down and stop, even
though the light still green. The cars behind her pull into the next
lane.She oblivious to their honkin' horns and nasty gestures. I
wish she be more careful; you never know what people do.
"Don't bother with the window, Dad," she say. I told you
she a little crazy. Thinks I'm her daddy.
With her good hand, she lift out a bag of food and hand it
to me. She always brings me food.
"Well now, Diana, you don't have to do this."
"I know. Did you get out of the storm last night?" she ask.
"Yes, yes, Diana."
"You know, you can always come home with me. I would
like that," she say. Poor thing not right in the head.
"Someday, Diana," I say to her.
"Oh, I got you an umbrella." She hand it to me with her bad
hand. "Do you already have one?"
"No, I don't. Thank you, Diana," I say. I stare at her hand.
Two of her fingers fused together, the scars wrappin around them
like twine. I look up at the light. "Now, go on, the light will be
turnin'soon."
"Let me know anytime, Dad. I'm waiting for you," she say
as the light turn green.
"Yes, yes, Diana," I say as she drive away.
23
First Place / Painting
Carol Halloway
RedJubiIation
My tongue is pushed toward the roof of my mouth
as I gulp down the milk of this landscape,
down to the hungry stomach inside.
I digest this mountain feast,
shed my urban origins,
and discover a spirit dwelling
far from groceries and gas stations.
Artemis bonds with my blood and bones
searing my footfalls in her memory,
marking my place for years to come.
J/01l01ilb/c HCllf;oll- Poetry
Lltthcw'lr,I\'lS
While out collecting wood,
my family's final act of summer,
I bumble about the brush, without purpose.
Others toil to reap our winter fuel,
my hands, too small for ax or chainsaw
my arms, not strong enough for loading the Ford.
I feel the pine tree, rubbed clean of its clothing
and imagine callow bucks, with new found antlers.
They rid their velvet covering
with the bark I crumble between my fingers,
rags that wipe away adolescence.
Mine is to explore this corpse of trees.
My eyes, perfect to scan through fallen ruins,
identify transient ghosts that murmur through saw­grass.
recognize the cursive paths of snakes,
soft indentions on silk-stained earth.
24
Story of Old
Megann Saracino
A light, silky breeze sent the essence of
fresWy cut grass in my direction. The
breeze swept over me, playing with
strands of my hair before it disappeared along
with the swiftly fading clouds. No longer
obscured, the sun gloried in triumph and present­ed
the onset of a new day. A gift of gold and
warmth gently covered the dark flesh of the peo­ple
who gathered. The drums began the centuries­old
beat of warriors, soft and light. As voices rose
in celebration, ancient warrior cries emerged; the
singers and the beat united as one spirit. One
after the other, the dancers entered the circle to
participate in the grand entry. Each dancer grace­fully
moved with the song and told a story of old.
The young male generation moved with
the agility of warriorson a hunt. Their feet moved
up and down, swift and light, softly kissing the
earth. As though to taunt their prey, the warriors'
headdress feathers swayed wickedly, contrary to
the delicacy of each step and movement used by a
predator. The hunters danced to the rhythm of
the drums, to the beat of their heart, to the cries
of many tribes and to a cultured past. The circle
widened and continued.
The young female generation appeared
decoratively dressed to denote their status as
shawl or jingle dancers. The shawl dancers, similar
to the butterfly, gently fluttered in dance, barely
touching the surface of earth before taking flight
to display the magnificence of their shawl wings.
Bright colored shawls complimented each other
while moving in unison to the drumbeats felt in
the spectators' hearts. Jingle dancers drifted softly
in unison with the dancers, accompanied by the
sweet melody of bells. Gentle steps of the jingle
dance caused the bells to lift in waves and crash
down, merging the harmony of their song with
the spirit of the drum.
An older generation of men and women
entered the circle, conveying similar techniques
but with both skill and confidence that surpassed
the younger generations. Their eyes captured the
Painting
Megann Saracino
Today Meets Yesterday
audience's attention with an intense appearance of knowledge of
all things old and new. The grand entry was completed w.ith bot.h
young and older generations as the dance continued. Its lllner Cir­cle
seemed to explode with a variety of colors and assorted feath­ers;
flashes of bells appeared in the circle like tiny streaks of light­ning.
Steadily the drums got louder while the singing slowed to a
less frantic harmony. Dancers picked up the pace, keeping steady
with the drums, and, very suddenly, there were three loud bangs of
the drum. The song came to a halt and the dancers stopped in
total unison. As quiet descended, the dancers turned and made a
fashionable and grand exit.
I exhaled the breath I was not aware I was holding. My
heartbeat slowed to its normal pace as the jingle of bells and the
soft hum of rattles died away. My mind seemed to focus on the
reality of the event, and I carefully made my way down the bleach­ers
to find something to eat.
Of course, a Native American Powwow has one food item
that emanates the familiarity of home: fry bread. While devouring
my second piece of fry bread, the faint sound of the rattles began,
followed by the steady beat of drums. My heart quickened to the
rhythm of the song as the rattles, drums, and singers united. ~ con­tinued
to sit in anticipation before the warriors entered the clfc1e
for their competitive dance. Once again the book opened and the
story of old continued.
25
THIRD PLACE - NON-FICTION
Matthew Travis
patrons are seated, nibbling at some Raisenetts or
sipping on an ice cold Coke, and enjoying the
streaming pictures and sounds. The occasional
usher patrols up and down the walkways to ensure
there is no wrongdoing or mischief taking place in
this well-worn establishment. As my day-to-day
story unfolds, I project my muted dialogue and run­ning
commentary about the great green world
around me. In all, my thoughts are a rather enjoy­able
and entertaining experience for the rational
and even irrational movie goer. Until, however, I sit
down to a computer, or pad of paper, and begin to
write.
This is when the picture stops rolling, and
the house lights brighten just enough to see all of
the seats in the theater. A small gray door in the
back slowly creeps open. In its place appears a very
old, hunched over man whose silhouette is outlined
r:::;;;;:':~:::::;~;;iD!;;-==:':[i~=-----c~'::"H1onorable Mention
Photography
Jim Kearns ~Strength
RAG TIME OBSESSION
positively love words: Flabbergasted, ludicrous,
obligatory, molecular, undoubtedly, just to name a few.
As a child, I would collect these gems as other kids
would collect comic books or baseball cards.
Serendipity, fallible, noxious, sham, I would horde these
away in a shoebox of my sub-conscious, taking them
out every so often to repeat them aloud and fit them
in and out of sentences. Whenever I happened on a
new or foreign word, I would beseech Mom, Dad,
and the dictionary for meaning. Afterwards, I would
catalog it and file it in the rest of my collection.
Little did I know that this secret infatuation would
grow into such an unruly obsession, the effects of
which can befound whenever I try to write.
I would describe my consciousness as a small
cozy movie theater on a Sunday afternoon, playing
dollar fifty matinees and always serving fresh popped
popcorn. Lights are turned down inside, and a few
26
by the dark sub-conscious behind him. He
has the frame and stature of an 8-foot tall
giant, crammed into a 5-foot tall body. He
wears a wool overcoat with a blurred plaid
design and a pair of dark twill slacks. His
right hand holds a dark fedora that he has
most recently taken off to expose his
extremely bald and misshapen head. In his
left hand he holds a shabby brown leather
bag, which has the worn look of seasoned
ranch-hand's saddle. He is the manifestation
of my obsession with language and words,
and he has come to orchestrate that crazed
discourse that is my writing.
Coat removed, shirtsleeves rolled, the
old man produces from his bag a palette,
paintbrushes, and an array of colorful paints:
carnation pink, tumbleweed yellow, robin's
egg blue, and a host of other hues and tints
that even Crayola cannot produce. The old
man readies his brush and palette as he sur­veys
his surroundings. With a quick suck of
air between his teeth and an exhale of
resolve, he begins to paint into the air with
broad languorous strokes. Slowly, this dimly
lit movie theater transforms itself. Drab cur­tains
begin to take life and rise to expose the
blood red brick walls behind them. Deep vio­let
and brown patterned carpets roll up and
away, exposing the dark hardwood floors
underneath. Rose velvet seats begin to disap­pear,
along with the audience who occupies
them. As each row is loosened from its place
in my mind, stained pine tables and chairs
replace them. When the last leg of this dark
furniture is set, my obsession turns his gaze
towards the screen, with the upturned cor­ners
of his mouth forming a thi~ smile that
exposes his aged yellow teeth. "Now, let us
see vhat ve can do vis dis von..." he mutters
in a broken German accent. With the turn of
his wrist and a kick in his step, he begins to
paint the blank white canvas into the picture
of a smoke filled dance hall.
Music begins to slither into the air as
horns, saxophones, drums, and a bass appear.
Piece by piece these ghostly instruments gain
lips, hands, and torsos as a vibrant jazz band
materializes. Their rhythm ignites the colors
around them to become so restless that they
begin to travel through the screen, around
the waIls and onto the floor. They swirl about
as if a hurricane had blown into this theater
of my mind, shaking all rationality loose from
its moorings.
My obsession begins to twirl and step
with the movements of a ballerina and the
elegance of Quasimodo. His brush frills
through the air, and he forces the music of
muse into a louder and more resounding
melody. Suddenly, the theater doors are flung off of their
hinges, and behind them follow a steady stream of loosely
dressed words. They pour onto the dance floor, and crowd
into each chair and table. The theater begins to vibrate with
each step and stomp on the dance floor. Music pumps loud­er
as the old man giggles with delight. As the words move
faster to the hypnotic jazz, he swings the paintbrush now as
a conductor's baton.
This is what writing is to me, my obsessive cavalcade
of antonyms, synonyms, compounds, and nouns. The invig­orating
swing and jive of inspiration plays for the mixing and
matching of each prancing word. Sometimes the music slows
to the beat of a New Orleans funeral march, but the words
continue, slowly grinding against each other, counter-acting
their rising arms, upturned shoulders, and oblique heads as
they sway to-and-fro.Other times the music flies with the
speed of a Latin samba, while each word moves itself with
the erotic intensity of midnight lovemaking. Sweat beads
and rolls off of the cheeks and brows of each uninhibited
performer. There are even complete stops to this linguistic
symphony. While the band members rest themselves with
the sip of a martini or a swig of dark stout, the dancers look
to each other with nervous similes and raised eyebrows in
anticipation of the next song. With the snap of a finger and
the tap of a foot, the band plays on, and on, into the humid
night air.
Trumpets blast, drums pound, and the face of my
obsession begins to strain and focus. Faster and faster his
arms move as he manipulates each element of this elaborate
scene, moving words here, switching words there, and send­ing
those who don't belong back to their table. What was
improvised and misplaced now becomes more fluid and sur­real.
The jazz drives into the air louder and louder, pushing
the old man into exhaustion. Flailing his arms and wiping
perspiration, he continues, until finally the music halts, and
the movement stops.
With a breath of exhaustion and a swallow of mois­ture,
the old man slumps on a chair. He takes long deep
breaths as we survey his work: sometimes a controversial
essay, a humorous story, or a loving poem. Each piece of my
extensive word collection is put into this display. Myobses­sion
gives guidance and direction the placement of each
jewel of jargon while I take credit for his hard work.
Afterwards, he wipes his hands on a thin cotton
towel, and his brushes are cleaned and packed away. The old
man dons his coat and places his hat back on his head. He
pulls the brim down towards me in the gesture of a salute
and walks out of the small back door. Descending footfalls
mark his departure as the door slowly closes behind him.
Sunlight is coming up outside, and the ushers begin to sweep
up the mess.
The matinee will begin again in just a few minutes.
27
2
4
6
1
5
3
/
t. \
Honorable Mention 5
Second Place 3
Honorable MentIOn 4
Life Drawing
Charolette Hillhouse
Long Tall Sally
Honorable MentIOn 2
Painting
Megann Saracino
Lost inThought
Life Drawing
Susan Sellers
Two Women
Honorable Mention 1
Second Place 6
Photography
Jim Kearns
Femme Fatal #2
Photography
Jim Kearns
Self-Portrait:
Blood and Chocolate
DigitalArt
Seth Fyffe
Bir(th)
ISt Place - Poetry
Lisa Marii Cookingham
untitled
So young, so empty, so blind,
I watched my life crumble before me.
Wanting everything and fearing nothing,
I stood back and slipped away.
Choice and chance flew by me.
I watched the storm brewing,
Wanting it to engulf me.
Not fearing and not feeling,
I chose to let the evil overtake me.
I chose not to choose my life.
The poisons submerged me,
Falling, sliding, swimming backwards,
Hitting the floor like Jesus on the cross.
Drowning, slipping farther away.
Death and movies and darkness surrounded me.
The fog finally cleared, and then I saw.
I was alone and betrayed and sick.
Close to dying and close to learning,
The life I had lived,
Was the life I had wasted.
So I stood up and walked away,
Turning my back on my so-called life.
Baby steps evolving into adult ones,
I chose to choose my life,
And more importantly, myself.
Second Place 3-Ditnensional Art
Jim Kearns
Trunk ofMemories
Painting
Dara Turnage
Urbanscape
29
30
First Place - Life Drawing
Irma Waltz Eisenmann
Who Says Pigs Are Dirty ?
31
Toc!ny, I am loved,
I WII, now it we~ring willow.
My daughter.. 'oftly gathered under my br;Jndw\ and [()lIe~ ted my
lo~t lellve... My
hu\h;lOd delicately ClIt away the cit-ad wood and hroken hran 'h ..
p'ulllng rne down.
I he three of them cir( led my trunk and hlanketed me with thl:
wnnnth r;llliati,,~ from
thtlr henrt~.
'enNui PI,'fe I Painting
I )am Turnag('
Rock Form
I hHve heL'n ~o many thing.. III my life,
We created a famlJy, Two girl .., both plimned,
r wa.. now the ..trol'l~ tiy umore tree, Hretchins my hrancht" 11\ flU'
ii' I (ould bend, to
~helter my lhilclren. At the ,,,me time, Twa, II ru~hing river, l'fil..h
ing over any ob~tacle in
my way, forking off at variou, twist.. and turn, to deliver water In
every direLtion. I wa,
the brave "one...., the one out for the hunt, to hring back g'l/elle..
for her pat k, to keep the _ .
den alive. 1 ntil one day, the branthe~ broke tronl the ..tre ...., I he
river ru,hed over and
drowned the "(Jfle ",
My d _ P vi.olet, pyramid-lik cry..tab leaped out for the light. The
light. in turn, flickered .
ot"f me. lihowlng my brjlliance and potential to be more than a
ro 'k., IlC I wa~ r lta ..ed
from my)Jffll't'tiv hell, 1 ,hined like a diamond.
I Jl ,Imet! that hQ)'
rk m;1Cle It e hQv{:' hope t"or the future, would openly dream with
01 My it! 1 W~ft! not
itlln,lo If f·fNched. ftlQli h. WIth bun r LOuld envi..lOn the
wh ,1(; wlm lipectrnm. Our
vi ion refracted off each other and we cre;ltu the on ht t light
yet,
yan
econdPlace .. Poetry
---,~--~----'
I w<tited Hently Pil hi htlH II whll he tentatively
took hi, c111 el and hammt·f and poi ed
hoth on top of me, i\ wilt ,wIng of hi\ af.n: ancl I
wa di ..t:oveft'd 1 Wi!\ no longef a round, 11klt....
rot k,
The garden ~hrivcled up and I1kw aWfiy.
AII that Wil" left Wil" iI h,ml, criltered f(l~ k, unw,­"
uming in chilfnettJr. I cried oflen for
"omC(lne to lov\:' me, [l\rt~ {or me, like the c1nmm
n1lN\ noyeh I Wil" ri\l"t'd (lO. 13ut no (lOe heitrcl a
roc k.
Ii nl iI the day the hoy dflwn the ..treel (anW flvc:r,
In tt,le! ofkj( kitlg the' roc k hI' tumbled ovt'r, Iw
I tlked m~' ul~ anrllwld nw, carefully
~tudyjng eilfh {'fater, rolling me arolll1d In hi,
hand.., j1rlOderfng what coulc1 pcw,lhly he 10
thi phewallgneoll n,l I.
lit, put me in h", poe I.H, (lift-fully AU<lfdin~ hi
nn\' find.
wa~ not meant to be created. tv! y older
brother and ~i~ter completed the perfect
family. Why add an odd one?
Why r Wa~ wid thi~, I never figured out,
.\-{'Wlle, becau~e of thj~,
r beL:ame a chilmeleon. Alway~ trying, harcl to
c,lretully blend Into the ~Lencry. Don t
up~et the balance! r ~c<~mrercc1 thrpugh L hild
hood, gently blending trom one land~care _
to the next, quietly exi~ting in the h;Jrmony ot my
~elfcreated world, built by va~t,
adventurou~ storyb()()k~ and later, dream provok
ing novel .
1grew into a garden,
carefully tilled and turnecl, until I Wil~ cultivated
into trjlighr fOWil. E!ra~efi.llly fOunded.
milde to produce flfedktable ~ rop with the gu,lf
ilnteed eed.. that were f1wed. At time~,
r wanted to be wi lei, ~() I grew it weed. But the
keeper of thi'! t-tard(:'O. pulled It a.. "oon a.. 1
mlfted blooming, After a whtk, I flO longer hlm­omed.
ann
M
Fiction~ Jerrv McCartv
32
The door opened and there, glaring at
me stood this huge rat .. wait a minute! Rats don't
have hain,J tails! Okal,J, glaring at me stood this­marmot?
No, it was too small and skinnl,J for a
marmot. I bent down to look closer. It barked. For
crl,Jing out loud! It was a dog! In fact, at that some
moment, the ladl,J who opened the door, smiled,
told me her name was Janice, and gestured at
the...uh ..dog.
"Meet Albert. Ml,J wa-wa."
"Wa-wa?"
"Chihuahua," she clarified.
I hod been asked to come over and train
her dog I expected a real dog. I bent over and
reached out to pet him. He become a barking,
growling, furious blur and bit me. I got an immedi­ate
impression I hod a challenge here.
Janice worked dal,Js To answer the call of
Mother Noture, the dog hod to go in ond out of
the house. To solve the problem, Jonice had
bought ond instolled a dog-door adjacent to her
patio French doors The dog-door wos 0 slender
piece of French door that fit into the slide grooves
between the sill and the closure edge of the origi­nal
door. The bottom of this piece hod a dog­sized-
make that a wa-wa sized-hole closed bl,J
a hinged piece of transparent. flexible plastic.
There were magnets in the bottom that grabbed
the bottom of the hole to make it somewhat wind­proof.
Albert hod refused to go near this scarl,J,
toothless mouth from the moment it was installed.
I whipped out a screwdriver and removed
the door while Albert watched distrustfulll,J from a
distance. I set it to one side so there was nothing
but a hole and coiled Albert. He left the room.
"Do l,Jou have some hamburger?" I asked
Jonice.
"Whot forT
"To entice Albert with," I explained.
"He likes cheese."
Ml,J first impression of Albert flashed into
ml,J mind. Figures, I thought "Mal,J I have some
cheese then?"
She pulled a box of cheese from the refrigerator I took it
and asked her to bring Albert bock into the room. She left in search
of him. While she was gone, I walked ocross the floor, touching the
cheese ot intervals along the wal,J toward the door, and tossed a
piece just outside.
Janice returned, holding the dog in her arms. He was
wide-el,Jed and determined not to cooperate, whatever might be
asked. She set him on the floor in the middle of the room. He
smelled the cheese and followed the trail until he was within six
feet of the door. Then, "Ah Ha! Thel,J are trl,Jing to get me near that
toothless mouth!" He ron into the other room and crawled under the
bed.
I told Janice to bring him out again and push him through
the door. She disappeared. I heard a commotion in the other room.
There were sounds of furniture moving and a ladl,J pleading in
babl,J talk. After awhile she reappeared covered with dust bolls,
lint, and dust, holding 0 dog covered with dust bolls, lint, ond dust,
el,Jes flashing suspiciousll,J He was trl,Jing to burrow his heod in her
arms while fronticalll,J licking her. I stood well awol,J from the door
so I wouldn't score him Janice put him down in front of the door
and pushed. He set his front feet, ond when Janice pushed harder,
he become on accordion dog. He folded up and emitted music,
dog music. He shrieked
This startled Janice so badll,J that she let go of him. He
went bock under the bed I walked into the bedroom and got
down on the floor Two bright el,Jes and two rows of needle teeth
reflected in the dim light. No wal,J was I going to extend ml,J hand
under there! I stood up and looked around. There was a bowl of
food and a bowl of water on the bedroom floor. I picked them up.
Janice's face contorted, "What are l,Jou doing?"
"I'm going to set these outside the door. From now on he
gets no food except outside the door"
"Ohhhhh, the poor thing He's never hod to go outside to
eot. I don't think I con do that to him."
"Janice, it isn't exactll,J cruel and unusual punishment. I'll
just set them close enough to the door so that he will know thel,J
are there and far enough awal,J so that he will have to go clear
through the door to eot or drink. If l,Jou want him trained to go
through the door, this is the wal,J to do it.
Janice murmured a doubtful and quavering, "OK."
I put the screwdriver bock in ml,J kit, moved the door and
its screws awal,J from the opening, and told her to coil me when he
started going in and out.
"We tried taking that plastic off before, and he wouldn't
go through the door," Janice protested.
"Was his food outside when l,)ou did that?"
"Heavens no!"
"Trust me. He will go in and out of the door."
"But I want him to go through it with the plastic on so the
outside air won't come in," Janice complained.
"We will get there," I assured her
I told her to call me as soon as he started using the door
and that I would come back three dal,)s after her coli for step two.
"I want him to get used to the doorwal,) Then I'll add a door."
Janice gave me a blank look I took it as acceptance
Albert was looking from one of us to the other from under
a new lal,)er of dust balls, trl,)ing desperatell,) to pick up enough of
the English words he knew to determine what fate was being
thrust upon him. "Good riddance" was in his el,)es as I left.
Janice called me the next dal,) Her voice told me she did­n't
believe what she was sal,)ing. "He's going in and out of the
doorwal,). It's sooooooo cute!"
"Okal,) I'll be there in three dal,)s for phase two."
I arrived on the appointed dal,) and knocked on the door.
Albert barked until Janice opened the door. He saw me and realll,)
barked. He even added a growl for good measure. I spoke to him
and reached out to pet him. He retreated. Ah, progress, I thought
He didn(bite me. Getting downright friendlv
I had brought a small towel and some duct tape with me. I
went to the doorwal,) and fastened the towel so it hung about two
thirds over the opening. Albert never took his el,)es off of me. I
could feel the thoughts in his little, Will,) head. "That hairl,)-faced
thing is fooling with ml,) doorwal,). If he hides ml,) food again, I'm
going to bite him."
I had Janice bring me the cheese I made a trail bl,) dab­bing
it at the floor halfwal,) across the room up to the door as
before and threw a piece of it outside. When I backed awal,),
Albert's nose began to twitch .. He threw a sidewal,)s glare at me
and started following the trail up to the towel There he stopped
He looked at the towel His nose told him there was cheese
bel,)ond it. But how could he get bel,)ond it? He couldn't even see
through the damn thing He backtracked and found no cheese at
the other end. He followed the trail to the door again and this time
crouched so he could stick his nose outside without touching the
towel He stretched his neck as far as he could but could not reach
the cheese
He backed up, sat down, looked at the
door, looked at me, and swore.
"He's not going to do it," Janice said
accusingll,). I could also hear, "You've mortified ml,)
dog bl,) making him eat outside and still don't
have him trained."
"Patience," I counseled.
After a few minutes, Albert stood up,
checked the trail again and again stuck his nose
out the door. Then, crouching low to avoid the
towel, he shot through the door
"Ohhhh!" screamed Janice
I smiled a self-confident smile, nodded
ml,) head in satisfaction, and winked at her. "We
will trl,) it a few more times before I leave," I said
We had to wait about 15 minutes for
Albert to find the courage to sneak back in under
the towel. I threw some more cheese outside.
With a little more braverl,) and less of a crouch, he
grudgingll,) went out after it. He told me with a
look that if I had brain one, I would throw it at his
feet instead of making him go outside after it.
Two more trips and he was brushing the
towel aside arrogantll,) as he went for the cheese.
I told Janice to pet him and compliment him each
time he returned. She did so exuberantll,). He
licked her face exuberantll,)
"Now the plastic?" she asked.
"No. It's a lot heavier than the towel.
Give him three dal,)s. I'll be back
In three dal,)s when Janice opened the
door to ml,) knock, Albert sniffed disdainfulll,) and
walked awal,) from me, muttering. Yup, he's foiling
in love with me, I thought.
Continued..
33
Honorable Mention - Illustration
Albert
Val Vvers
34
This time I had brought a piece of light,
transparent plastic and duct tape. I walked to the
doar and removed the towel. Albert lav down in a
resigned sort of waV a little waV from me, eves
fastened on mv everv move. "What have I done
to deserve this creature messing with mv life?" he
obviouslV wondered.
I fastened the plastic inside the doorwav
with the duct tape as a hinge. I poked it with mv
finger and adjusted it so it swung freelv. This
brought Albert to his feet. Hair rose on his neck.
Janice petted him. Soothed, he licked her hand,
then her arm.
Janice was readv with the cheese. She
knew the routine. I went to the middle of the room
and made a trail. Albert knew the routine. He fol­lowed
close behind. He reached the door,
touched it with his nose, and it moved. He jumped
back. I threw another piece of cheese outside to
make the odor stronger. His nose twitched He
went to the patio door and looked out at the
cheese, went to his door, and pawed at the cor­ner.
He Jumped back when it moved He sat down
to cogitate. His head turned toward me. His lip
lifted to expose little, needle teeth. I could tell I
was lOSing his friendship
Janice felt sorrv for him and started to
give him a piece of cheese. "No, no," I remonstrat­ed.
"The cheese is bait. He has to go outside for
his reward"
"Poor dog," she moaned
I still thought she was stretching the defi­nition
of "dog" a bit. I picked up a Kleenex from
the table, wadded it up and wedged it between
the new door and the sill so the door was partlV
open and tossed out a bigger piece of cheese.
Albert's nose twitched franticallv. He approached
the door, looked at the opening and stuck his
nervous nose out, then hesitantlv followed the
nose through the door. He ate the cheese and
headed back in, but the door barred him. He ten­tativelv
lifted a forepaw and touched it, then
stood hvpnotized, watching it swing.
I wedged the Kleenex that had fallen to the floor back into
it and backed awav. He put his nose in the opening and shot
through again. He looked back to see if the damn thing was fol­lowing
him. Pleasantlv surprised that it wasn't, he went to Janice
and licked her ankles. She petted him and told him how smart he
was. I thought that was stretching the definition of "smart" a bit.
Albert liked being told he was smart. He licked Janice's chin
"This is a little tougher," I told Janice "Let's give him five
davs with this step The real door is heavier, and the magnets hold
it in place. He'll have to dislodge them to get in and out, so I want
him real familiar with a swing door before we trV that" While I
talked to her, Albert went out the door again to see if he had
missed anv cheese Janice was overwhelmed. When he returned,
she petted him and he licked her armpit while looking suspiciouslV
at me.
He sighed approval as I left. I told Janice I would be back
in five davs When I returned, Albert walked up to me and smelled
mv shoes. I was either going to be bitten or accepted He walked
awav disdainfullv. Ah, we were buddies now.
I removed the light. plastic door and installed the heavier
commercial door, using the same routine as before except slightlV
less reluctance. Soon he was going in and out of the door with
proud aplomb. Janice petted him jovfullV and went to the table
where she picked up a box, withdrew a small graduation hat and
fastened it to him with a rubber band while he frantlCallv licked her.
"You've graduated cum laude," she told him He ran
around in a circle, pawed the hat from his head and licked her
shoes.
She congratulated me, told me how pleased she was, and
paid me. Albert sensed I was leaVing and wouldn't be back That
made his eves sparkle with happiness. I left the graduate behind
me in Janice's arms, licking her face. I wondered if Janice would call
me back some daV to teach him how to hold his licker
Poetry
3S
Alissa Espinoza
Digital Art - Mick Welsh ~ Monurn.ent Valley
Can I climb in the ribs of a Southern drawl...
So I may be pretty and please you?
I'm always the fool with glass in my foot and
Dr. Jekell screaming in my Circle K.
My, My, how you've grown strong....
never to cut your legs so short that your knees uch
and your hands surrender to the one thing yo ve betrayed.
Shall I think you a god? Maybe gf the moon,
and worship you with no doubts.
Or shall I believe my fingers and bite the body that is placed above me,
damning my skin.
36
razy at the
eyboard
Honorable Mention~Non-Fiction
Deanne Ryan
The air was full of Christmas chaos. Everywhere I went, the
sound of carols and Christmas tunes were blaring. Every pathet­ic
rendition resonated off the walls as I shuffled through the
overflowing mall. After several hours of burrowing my way through
cumbersome crowds, being beaten by massive shopping bags, I found
it. Just the right stocking stuffer. "Oh, the fun we will, hmhm, I mean,
she'll have when she finds this goody in her generous stocking," I
munnured to myself as I worked my way to the wilting, worn-out
cashier.Christmas morning arrived and the girls knocked anxiously on
our door to announce it was time to see what Santa brought. Following
our custom, we poured out our stockings first. Sprawled on the floor
were dainty bottles of bubble bath, buttery shortbread cookies, shock­ingly
bright nail polish, and...a CD full of 1000 computer games!
"Amy, that's great!" I exclaimed, "Now you can play that block game
you love." Amy took a suspicious look at me and questioned, "Isn't
that the game you love, Mom?" Man, was I busted. I felt so ashamed.
Using my daughter's stocking to support my habit; that's low. You see,
I am a computer game junkie. I won't lie to you. I can't stop anytime.
I don't know my limits. I am not in control!
It wasn't always computer games. I didn't own a personal
computer until I was about 28. As I reflect on my childhood, I
remember small incidents which could have been the build up to my
current obsession. It all started with jacks. Yes, the star shape pointy
things made of metal that made a jingly noise as they hit the concrete.
I would sit on the cool tile floor and play jacks for
hours. I would start out playing for fun. Next thing I
knew, I was making deals with myself. I'd quit
when I got to "tens." OK, I'd quit when I got to
"tens."OK, I'd quit when I got to "tens" playing slap
bounce slap. Ooh, I'd quit just as soon as I got
through "tens" playing no bounce, then I'd stop. At
night, I would play solitaire. I knew about five
different versions. I remember the excitement that
surged through me as I got closer to the kings. Oh
man, I lost. I was so close. One more game and I
could win. This continued until bed time. My
obsession grew with me, and by fourth grade my
solitaire games turned into Black Jack, with stakes, a
dime a game. I played with my dad, my brother,
my sister, my grandmother.... Anyone who was up
for the challenge. One weekend, while trapped
inside our cabin by a fierce rainstonn, I played
Black Jack and Gin for the entire day. All for money.
By the evening, my dad realized I was no longer
playing for fun. I was playing to win! He could see
my mind calculating the jackpot, planning my next
purchase, scanning the room for my next victim. I
was banned from gambling. I threw in my cards in
fifth grade and took up puzzles. But that's a whole
story in itself!
When I married Sean, he thought he knew
all about me. After all, we had been best friends
since seventh grade. But I had been deceitful. There
was a secret I had never divulged. It was stored safe
inside of me... until that night in Pinetop. We were at
the recreation center of my parents' condos. The
girls were safely tucked in for the night with my
parents watching over them. Sean and I decided to
play some pool, maybe a few video games. When I
walked in, my eyes darted to the corner of the room,
targeting a vintage pinball machine. It was calling
me. So many years had passed since my card days,
I'd forgotten my problem. The secret buried deep in
the attic of my mind, covered with years of
dust, carefully stashed. I approached the pinball
machine. I gently rubbed the buttons that controlled
the flappers. My eyes diligently scanned the layout,
looking for the extra point sections and the danger
zones. I took a deep breath. I could do this, one
quarter, one game. I'm an adult, a mother, for God's
sake! My heartbeat grew more rapid. I placed
the quarter in the slot and skillfully pulled back the
plunger, letting the silver ball fling up to the top and
start its journey through the maze of rockets,
planets, and spaceships. I did well and won a free
game. Just one more game.... That monster hidden
within me slowly crept out. I was now talking to the
machine. "Come on, baby, roll into that hole.
No! Don't get near that opening. That's right, feel
the flapper. Ooh, nice hit...." Sean was staring at me.
This was the gentle little lady he had married, the
mother of his children? It was midnight and I was
now the pinball wizard! I was winning game after
game, hands flying and flinging, points clinging as
they soared up and up, I was heading for the record
score on that machine. I would be the highest
scorer!!!!! Suddenly, it was over. I had won another
game and the machine wouldn't give it to me. "You
stupid piece of junk. Give me my game." I was fiery
mad now and furious at the machine. "That's not
fair. I'm winning!" The game stared blankly, no
lights, no emotion. "I WANT MY FREE
GAME!!!!!" I yelled as I lifted the end of the
machine and dropped it on the ground. I didn't care.
I was going to rule! The machine weakened under
my brutality and gave me another game. My
husband gingerly grabbed for my hand and said,
"Honey, I think we should go now. It's 2:00 a.m.,
and your parents might be wondering what
happened." 2:00 a.m.? We entered the rec room
around 9:00 p.m. Sean gently led me away from the
machine, my hands cramped, bangs drenched in
sweat. I was exhausted. As we stumbled our way
back to the condo, Sean's only comment was,
"Remind me to never take you to Vegas!" My secret
was out, but I was going to be okay. Sean would
protect me from myself. Everything would be all
right. And it was, right up to the day I discovered
the personal computer.
I had been a fan of Miss Pac Man. Now I
had my own Pac Man type of game on the computer. It started with a
maze that the game piece chomped through, collecting fruit for energy
along the way. The next level involved swallowing the dots on the
ocean before the sharks ate the chomper guy. I couldn't wait to
discover the next level. I remember working hard aJJ day, hurrying
home from the office to sit at the computer and play. I was so upset
the night my niece and nephew came to visit and we had to take them
to Castles-N-Coasters. I was so close to the next level! I begrudgingly
left the game and took out the kids. But the whole time we were on
the rides, my mind was retracing the steps I had taken on the game. As
soon as we got home, I went back to the game. I continued until 3:00
a.m., after I triumphantly passed to the next level, outer space! The
rest is a blur.
We got rid of that computer, and the game went with it. Next
came the advanced system complete with an expanded game package.
This is where I discovered Tetris. Tetris was not a game to be inter­rupted.
The girls would come in the room to ask me homework
questions, see Tetris blocks faJJing on the screen, and tum around.
They knew their questions would not be heard. I was absorbed in my
game. My daughters began to play, too. It became my goal to beat
their score, occupying all ten spaces on the High Scorers List. Was
this being a good mother, competing with my daughters? Sean and the
girls knew I had a problem.! realized I did,too, after I lost four hours
one afternoon, totally engrossed in my computer game. I gave it up for
a while. I challenged myself to stop for a week. I succeeded. I started
reading books again. My lust for the computer games waned. I could
work on Quicken without clicking over to the game section. I was
proud of myself. Two years had passed since my last game. I felt
completely healed.
Until the day I found card games for the computer....
Honorable Mention
Illustration
Mixed Media
Barbra de Dios
Gatnes, Gatnes,
Gatnes
37
Poetry
Megan Toczko
I
J
J
J
I
I
He leans
Perhaps?
Unbridled desire-eternity.
stirring nursed martinis by black-root barflies
idly searching... tasteless schmoozing...
eyes embrace across the bar
whispering volumes of unspoken thought.
Tilted smiles hint indecent possibility,
savage passion lurking behind laugh lines.
Contemporary prince, beseech Disillusioned
carry her to castle fair.
Most defmitely
an easy lay.
Grand finale performing
just
one night.
simply love's prelude, destined
for
.' She sits
.'
I
J
I I
FlashPoint / Digital Art / Mick Welsh
38
But I extended 0 hond
ond helped Him down.
He blinKed in hozed confusion
ond roised His e(,les to where Heaven might have been.
But decrepit mart(,lrs ond dust(,l trodition blocKed the grondeur
with a foded plaster fresco
PoCIi r - Megan Toczko
On 0 tepid second 5undo(,l
the FlocK gothered in quiet procticed rows,
cowed beneoth 0 peorl-gro(,l conop(,l
of frozen h(,lmns ond deco(,ling soints.
Donning songuine robes, I opprooched the idol,
where figments of light sliced through m(,l joints
ond swothed m(,l doubts in hereticol bondages.
Tilting m(,l chin, I cried to Jesus,
Is this the road to Bob(,l/on?
It echoed twice...
and the congregation clopped.
Dongling from a cross,
His e(,les flicKered beneoth gronite lids,
ond He whispered hoorsel(,l, I om the WOll
I scrotched m(,l heod,
ond someone coughed.
5hoKing His head, He muttered low,
This wos never the rood
Then He left,
without a forewell or a wove or on(,l sort of fanfore.
And we filled his footprints with crocodile teors,
then filed out
conversing in tongues,
to seorch onother WOll
Digital Art
Wivine Bouvry
Wive From Be1giwn
39
the young w man and the plant
Poetry Rick G. Alpers
In viewing the plant that's on the shelf
The young woman well sees herself.
The glow of youth now so ambient
In a life that's Oh so transient!
Fluently the plant speaks
The language of the heart, which seeks
To experience true love,
The higher kind that's from above.
For in this poetic union
There can be no confusion,
That a beauty lasts forever in the eyes
Of soul's perception...is no surprise!
40
Senorita y flora
La senorita ve bien la flora
Y ella mira su yo ahora
Con una esencia bonita.
Y tambien la vida corta.
La flora muestra el vocabulario
Del coraz6n, que es necesario
Experimentar el amor,
Para hacer la vida mejor.
Cuando el yo se junta
Con otro, no hay pregunta,
jQue dura la belleza
Del alma!, como la gran sorpresa.
THIRD PLACE ~ POETRY
That Day Yau Left Me
Gracie Garrett
That day,
Red wine tasted like water.
Warm blankets were thorns against my body.
Music sounded like static,
And perfume was garlic.
That day,
Cars were silver-bellied roaches.
Sleepy faces walked in continuous circles.
Love was drawn from the veins of
Saddened bodies,
By a syringe of grief,
And words spoken lacked a brilliance in their meaning.
That day,
The bloodless walls smothered my every breath.
The sterile air pierced my nose.
My heart solidified into a lump of charcoal,
And salty tears rusted my lips shut,
Sealing away my smile forever.
First Place / Photography
Jim Kearns
The Tower
41