"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 2003

              Traveler 2003
Volume 36
Sandbox
Jayme Cook
Someday had finally come
in the year of the Sandman - the urgency
of cotton candy tongues,
hearts too young to know the color jade
sail,
through tiny trembling fingers.
A heatwave of palm to cheek.
The sky a tender blue
of truth.
One moment, pink as bubble gum,
green as Never-Never Land.
One moment, before sarcasm makes sense,
before mouths are filled with tornadoes.
Tugged by the friction of attraction,
positively charged, not realizing that
electricity's too hard to hold.
Sleep-colored September
never again comes.
At left:
Carol Smith
Splendor in the Glass
Watercolor
First place painting
Cover art:
John V. Aragon
O. K. World (Dana Scott)
Oil on panel
Honorable mention painting
The Traveler is a student creative arts maga­zine,
produced annually by the English and Art
Departments of Glendale Community
College.
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302
www,gc,maricopa.edu
Those responsible for this publication believe in artistic freedom of
expression, while simultaneously trying to uphold responsible com­munity
standards. It is important that the readers of the Traveler
be aware that this publication is produced for an adult audience
and may contain some content of an adult nature,
Los responsables de esta publicaci6n creen en la libertad de
expresi6n artlstica, a la vez que tratan de mantener los estandars
y normas de una comunidad responsable, Por eso, es importante
que los lectores del Traveler sepan que es una publicaci6n desti­nada
a un publico maduro y que pueda contener materiales s610
para adultos.
Travele
T8ble of
r 20 03
Contents
Fiction
INonfiction
6The Fall of My Hero
First place Jodi K. Weber
14 Elegy to a Pantry
Second place Diayn Day
18 A No-Win Situation
Third place Paul A. Delgado
21 Everyone is a Minority
Honorable mention Julia Christine Miller
33 Jeer Gut Eric St. Hilaire Smith
35 The Weed
Honorable mention Connie M. Wilcox
Take It Alexandria Monares
Sherri McClendon
o
IN
side back cover
17th Century Obi (African King)
Second place Connie M. Wilcox
30 Untitled
First place
12 Soldier
Second place Jeff 'fill'ley
30 Peeping Tom
Honorable mention Mary Jane Johnson
31 Landscape
Honorable mention Rick Miskowski
32 Artheal
Third place John V. Aragon
IN
side back cover I
148]ames Place Rebecca Kennedy
Back cover
Passages Sherri McClendon
Photography:
4Firenze #2
Second place Antonella Manetti
7 1984
Third place Dominic Gallegos
19 Bitter / Sweet
Honorable mention Ashley Doyle
20 Reflection
Honorable mention Wendy Miller
21 Innocent
Honorable mention Katrina Hulstrom
29 Forever Love Sarah Goodsell
34 Cybil Mandee Green
39 Whisper
First place April Huggins
40 Vulnerable
Honorable mention Katrina Hulstrom
Scu(pture/
3-D Design:
Pa inti ng/Wate rco(o r:
{continued}
Steve Godel
Caleb Ramsey
icole R. Wolfe
Vacation in Laughlin
Honorable mention Carol Smith j
Back cover
Oaks
Third place
9Reflections
Second place Mary Barbour
11 Queen, King, Ace
First place Mary Barbour
17 Eisenhower
Third place Mark A. Cabrera
Cover
OK. World (Dana Scott)
Honorable mention John V. Aragon
IN
side front cover
Splendor in the Glass
First place Carol Smith
39 Lives Jeff Turley
9The Girls
Third place Marsha Johnson
16 Johnny
First place Jacqueline Lewis
23 Lady
Honorable mention Michael Pfeifer
25 Woman Reclining
Ruth A. Douthitt
31 Untitled
Second place Michael Pfeifer
40 Exhibition
Honorable mention
10 Untitled
First place
Pa inti ng/Waterco(or:
Ceramics:
Poe try {continued}
Computer Art:
Drawing/
Life Drawing:
Jayme Cook
Alan.J. Potts
Jayme Cook
Jayme Cook
Alexandria Monares
The Man Behind the Curtain
Jayme Cook
Literally
Second place
The Rain Had Stopped
Honorable mention Victor Ratliff
The Auction
First place Carole Lynn Desmond
The Quisling Daughter
Third place Marilynn SoRelle
Starting Over
Second place
Sunday Morning
Honorable mention
The Day the War Stood Still
First place Stephanie A. Plumb
Mother
Honorable mention Lakota Leijon
Autumn in Feilbingert
Honorable mention Kimberly Day I
Exposed
INside front cover
Sandbox
2
8
23
26
Poetry
5
13
17
20
25
32
1
34
l38
T a v e e r 2 o o 3
Literally
Jayme Cook
Second place fiction
The Joy of Sex:
The bookstore was huge. At times it was
as silent as a tomb, and this unnerved
both the customers and us employees. The
corporate bastards in New York decided
that we should have continuous music.
There were three tapes for rotation.
The first two were horrible conglom­erations
of New Age music, including
Yanni and Enya.These tapes were filled
with enough pseudo-spiritualism to
make any self-respecting cynic vomit.
The last tape was Beethoven.
Beethoven was the sole source of
salvation that I found within the tor­turous
walls of that capitalist book­store.
I existed for Moonlight Sonata.
When that song came sailing through
the shitty intercom system, I would
stop whatever mundane task I was
attempting, find the most secluded
spot in the store, and just sit. This was
the worst crime possible at Books 'R'
Us. Absolutely, under no circum­stances,
was there to be any kind of sit­ting.
I had wedged myself under the
information desk in the children's sec­tion
and was being hypnotically
seduced by Ludwig.
"This song makes me want to kill
myself."
I opened my eyes to fmd my man-ager
smirking at me.
"John! I was just. .. " I stammered.
"Sitting?"
He smiled and pulled on one of my
braids.
"We're closing in ten minutes.
Could you get the last bathroom
check?" Why don't you check the
bathrooms. It's your store, you slave­driving
fascist, I thought.
"Sure," I said.
If there was one thing that I
CD
despised, more than obese Wiccan
housewives, more than the occasional
mucus smear in the Winnie the Pooh
pop-up books, it was bathroom
checks. The women's room contained
carelessly discarded sanitary items, and
the men's room contained far worse.
Playboy and Penthouse would ritually
disappear from the magazine stand
and mysteriously materialize in the
stalls of the men's room crumpled, and
yes, sometinles dampened. It was my
job, as a bookseller, to 'tidy up'.
I entered the women's room silent­ly,
dreading the task at hand when
panting startled me. I wasn't sure if I
wanted to see, but, of course, I did. I
quietly knelt down and peeked
beneath the doors. There, in the handi­cap
stall, were two pairs of legs-well,
one pair of Nike's cloaked by slouch­ing
blue jeans and then a single bare
leg. I wasn't sure where the fourth leg
was, but inlages of the diaper rack and
handicap bar came to mind. I smiled
and slipped out of the bathroom. This
was a job for a manager.
"How was your date with Lucas?"
Lisa asked me.
"It wasn't a date, really."
"Good. Don't date men that you
work with. They always know where
to find you. Did you shave your legs?"
she asked, raising her perfectly
plucked eyebrows.
"What?"
"Just answer the question," she
smiled.
"No, why?"
"If a chick shaves her legs before a
date, she plans on putting out."
"That's an interesting suggestion,
Lisa. Did your mother tell you that, or
did you read it in Cosmo?" I snapped.
"Shut up. You know it's true.
Everyone does. Just ask Sean," she said,
pointing to our eavesdropping co­worker.
"I don't know anything about girls.
Why do you think I follow you two
around? I'm trying to learn some­thing,"
he said, only half kidding.
"You should follow me around,"
Karen chimed in," I'm the resident les­bian.
If you want to know what girls
like, ask me. And by the way, that shav­ing
thing is true."
"Do your arm pits count/ " I asked.
"You're hopelessly immature," Lisa
sighed.
One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest:
"Hey there, sweetcakes. How the
hell are ya?"
"I'm great, Mr. Evans.And yourself?"
"Fucking fabulous, toots.You have a
nice evening, hear? I gotta go take my
nleds."
Mr. Evans was my introduction to
the clinically ill network that were to
become regulars at the bookstore. He
was definitely crazy, though harmless,
and enjoyed giving me intimate details
of his ongoing affair with a woman
who was a guest at the same "home"
that he lived in. I believe that she was
catatonic.
Sean sulked into the break room
and announced that we were not
allowed to speak with him today. He
was coming off his medication.
"Anti-depressants are a waste of
time," Lucas said in his too cool tone of
voice.
After two "dates," I hated him.
"Have you ever tried them?"
snapped.
"I don't need to. I'm perfectly fine.
It's the rest of you that are fucked up.
How many employees here are on
depression medication?"
"I think that a better question
would be, how many employees here
should be on depression medication?
I'm ignoring my prescription,"I smiled.
"That explains a lot," Lucas said.
"Screw you! At least the emotions I
have are genuine, even if they're not
quite socially understandable," I said,
raising my voice.
"Just sit there and look cute, doll­face,"
Lucas said.
"Yeah," Jim said, suddenly animated,
"go get Lucas a pot pie."
Waiting to Exhale:
The smoker's hole was a little dirty
spot crammed between the dumpster
and the bookstore, but it was our
haven. Revelations of all sorts were
born in that hole. There's a strange
bond that smokers share. Maybe it's
the psychosis involved in slow, deliber­ate
suicide. Maybe it's the unspoken
admittance to addiction, or it could be
the comfort in knowing that damna­tion
and weakness is not solely limited
to individuals. Maybe misery just loves
company. Maybe. I think that it's just an
excuse to bullshit.
"Have you ever had sex with a guy,
Karen?" this was Lisa's question, of
course.
"Oh yeah. I've been with several
guys. It just never felt right, though.
Women are much more sensitive."
"You're calling your lover sensi­tive?"
Sean asked, "Wasn't Shelly in the
Marines?"
"Yeah. I guess sensitive is the
wrong word. You know, she gets jeal��ous
of these smoker's chats that we
have."
"She has every right to," Sean said,
"I've had my eye on you for awhile."
" at you, Sean.The girls."
"It's all right. I think of you as one
of the girls," I smiled.
"Most ladies do,"he said,"that's why
1 never get laid."
"Are you feeling okay today7" Lisa
asked me.
"Yeah, just tired."
"Well, I was wondering if you
would be upset if I went out with
Lucas?"
"Why the hell would I be upset?"
"Well, I just thought that I might
have detected a little sexual tension
between the two of you," she smiled
and batted her eyelashes.
"No, Lisa.That's not the kind of ten­sion
that we share," I said.
It's the primal, animalistic drive
to rijJ the throat out of an adversary
kind of tension, I thought.
"Good. We're going out tonight."
"Great, have fun," I said.
"Oh, one more tIling."
"Yeah?"
"1 shaved my legs."
Literally continued, next page
Jeff Turley
9 Lives
Charcoal
o
T r a v e e r 2 o o 3
Literally, continued from page 3
Stranger in a Strange Land:
I was shelving mysteries when I
saw him. He wore a straw hat and
gloves even though the Phoenix sum­mer
had stomped ferociously into
town. He was looking at the best sell­ers
when I caught a glimpse of his
face. He had been severely burned. I
blinked then quickly looked away. A
knot formed immediately in my stom­ach.
Why did you look away? I asked
myself, Why?
I took a deep breath and prepared
to go ask the man if he needed any
help. But this time, when I turned, I
saw them.They were peeking through
shelves or just staring blatantly at the
man, eyes huge and mouths whisper­ing.
I saw them and I hated them. I
hated myself. I hated myself for being
one of them, but most of all, for pre­tending
to be more.
You're so valiant, I thought to
myself, asshole.All of a sudden, I want­ed
to cry. I didn't know if the tears
would be for the man, for me, for the
parade of preoccupied people that
browsed the aisles of this bookstore
every day. But it would do no good. I
might as well just cry over a skinned
knee. I turned away.
Silent and dry-eyed, I shelved
mysteries.+
Antonella Manetti
Firenze #2
Gelatin silver print
Second place photography
Exposed
Alexandria Monares
Self-absorbed and over-thought,
Or maybe not thought out at all,
My words display a side of me I find hard to control.
Egocentric mutterings mixed with superficial tidings of good will
Dance across endless pages of a book yet to be written.
Empty promises spill from my lips,
Gathering at the basin of an ear yearning to be nourished.
Undaunted, you stand before me,
Ever waiting, ever hopeful,
Filled with absurd thoughts of naivete.
Your ever-pleading eyes search my soul,
Burning into the depths of my psyche
With the hope of finding a shard of truth and decency.
Petrified, I hide within myself,
Seeking a shelter that cannot be found,
A refuge that does not exist.
The air of insecurity that surrounds me
Has been mistaken for confidence, self-assurance, even pride.
How far from the truth tIlis must be.
How we delude ourselves
In the hopes of one day finding happiness in a counterfeit world
Fabricated from scraps of wasted dreams,
Tattered lies,
And self-imposed illusions.
Buried below the surface of a smile
Lay all the things we wish to forget,
But instead, stashed away for some unknown purpose.
And like little children in search of a buried treasure,
We dig into each other's hidden memories,
Eager to find the key that unlocks Pandora's Box of secrets
That floats behind the clouded surface of our eyes,
Taunting the viewer, begging to be released.
And we search,
For lack of better things to do,
So that for a single moment
We can feed upon another's pain,
Another's loss,
Another's deception,
Hoping to forget the emptiness that aches inside our own souls.
Yearning.
Burning.
Begging to be filled with one ounce of something real,
Something meaningful,
Something to satisfy the void that remains neglected,
Only to be filled,
Once more,
With the sad remains of someone else's insecurity.
o
T r a v e e r 2 o o 3
Jodi K. Weber
First place nonfiction
era
Everyone has pondered the purpose of life at
some point. You wonder if you have fulfilled your
secret destiny or if there is actually a designated plan
for us at all. Some believe that as you die, your life's
mission has been completed. Did you somehow accom­plish
a great feat without even knowing it? Were you
simply supposed to be in a certain place, at a certain
time, altering time, preventing some horrific tragedy?
At eighteen, I glided through life without really giving this topic a thought.
I would not have to deal with the heavy issues of life or death for some
time. "Some time," however, came much more quickly than I had antici­pated.
My father was diagnosed with cancer and began to deteriorate rap­idly.
Only months after the initial diagnosis, my father was hospital­ized.
For five days I stayed in the hospital with him, and watched, as he
grew weaker and weaker. The shado\vy fingers of cancer drew closer and
closer. lie could no longer eat or speak. The morphine drip buried deep
within his vein was his only source of solace or comfort. Helplessly I sat
on, unable to sleep, listening to his labored breatlling. Never before had
something so common, so mundane, consumed me. I wished for his suf­feling
to end, but was overcome with an intense sense of guilt. How could
I possibly wish death upon my own father? In an uncharacteristic display,
my father slowly opened his warm blue eyes. I used to pretend that they
were parts of the clouds that had fallen onto his stubbly face. Now, they
hung more like icicles fighting the impending cold. lie looked at me with
an expression that I had never seen before, one that remains a. constant
source of wonder. He wearily lifted my hand and kissed my wrist before
sinking back into the soft white of his bed. I wondered if the billowy cot­ton
had turned to a bed of granite beneath his frail frame. Each day the
doctors predicted it would be his last, but they did not know my father as
I did. My immortal hero had been to battle and come back with mere
scratches. He was a rugged redneck, with callused hands and scars that
only the toughest men acquire. My dad was going to get out of that bed
and come home. I was sure of it.
The hours slipped into days without mention. Several days had
passed, although it seemed only minutes, and my father was not recover­ing
as I had imagined. My champion seemed to be accepting the black­ened
fingers that were embracing him, squeezing him tighter with each
tick of the deafening clock that hung just above us. The nurse stopped by
for her routine check of vital signs, but she was unable to find a pulse. She
looked at my tear-stained face with a forced half smile and simply turned
to leave. I continued to listen to the mix of air and fluid emanating from
my father's chest. The rhythm had become less predictable since I had
stopped reminding him to breathe. I could see the dark grip taking hold
of my father. I had developed chill bumps, even in the stuffy, overheated
room. I opened the window, hoping that the cold would prompt reflection
of his days ice fishing. The crisp winter air filled the room and some
snowflakes appeared on the windowsill I looked back at my father just in
time to hear his last valiant attempt at breath, and I watched as his soul
made a grand, gracious exit through the open window.
The following days brought ritualized chaos. There were so
many decisions to make, all of which seemed silly to me. What would he
wear in his casket? What music should we play, and should his hair be
parted to the left or right? I read his eulogy with a feeling of desperation.
I chose my words carefully, as I wanted everyone to remember him just as
I had. I stared, for what seemed like hours, at his lifeless body. I was
relieved to see a fantiliar look of contentment on his face. He no longer
wore a painful grimace. I feverishly attempted to etch that image into my
memory as I followed the hearse carrying my father to his gravesite. I tried
to replace months worth of angUished and pained expressions with that
one mental picture.
It was bitter cold as they lowered my father to his reserved
space among the unliving. The kind of chill that cuts your flesh and settles
in your joints. The wind howled around each of us, almost taunting us with
a devilish laugh. Gunshots, representing his years of military service,
sliced through the falling snowflakes, forever altering their course.
Speakers memorialized my father, although I am not sure what exactly
they said. I had entered a savant, distracted by the finality of the day.
Colorful wreaths and banners decorated the grounds, but I saw evelything
an iron gray. The wind snapped the brittle twigs of nearby trees in a flam­boyant
display of power. It whistled a somber tune through decaying teeth
and brushed against my face with long, yellow nails. I looked at the sur­rounding
headstones and pleaded with their residents to never let my
father feel lonely. My trance was disturbed as everyone stood, and I
noticed that the last flowers were being thrown on the freshly frozen earth,
now covering my father. I closed my eyes and begged once more for the
ground beneath me to open and reunite me with my only source of uncon­ditionallove.
I received no response.
Everyone filed out of the cemetery that day. I was left to have one
last conversation with my father. It was amazing to me that we had had the
best conversations in the past few weeks, even with his inability to speak.
I talked to him about a lot of things that day. I promised him that I would
make him proud of me and thanked him for showing me so many things.
I am still not sure what the purpose of life is, or if there is a set purpose
or plan for each of us. I have determined, however, that my father proba­bly
had millions of reasons for his time here. Only one of which was mold­ing
me into who I am today.+
Dominic Gallegos
7984
Gelatin silver print
Third place photography
o
T r a v e e r 2 o o 3
The Quisling
Daughter
Marilynn SoRelle
Third place fiction
Oh, God, Anna prayed
silently, help me. Anna
Elizabeth. Full name. Full
treatment. Mentally she
braced herself.
"What do you mean, you aren't coming home for
Thanksgiving?"
Anna scrunched her eyes tightly as Momma's voice
shot from the phone receiver. Anna had no problem
picturing her mother at the other end of the phone.
Momma would be in the kitchen, seated at the ancient
table that had once been topped with faux-marble pat­terned
plastic, now rendered by time and use to bland
paste gray. Momma would be wearing an apron over
her clothes; probably a dress.
Momma always wore an apron
over her dress. And there would
be cows. Momma's kitchen had
always had black and white cows
on everything from the clock to
the towels.
Because it was Monday
Momma's hair would still have its
near-fresh beauty-shopped wave from Momma's stand­ing
Saturday appointment at Hair by Latrelle. Her
mother's full, round face would be slightly flushed
with her growing anger and her frustration over
Anna's announcement. And the mouth. God, Anna
hated her mother's mobile mouth. It could say a hun­dred
things and never utter a word. It would be purs­ing,
straightening into a thin line of disapproval, all
Momma had needed to keep Anna in line when she
was little.
"Are you still there?"
The sharpness jarred Anna's eyes open, and she
looked at her own kitchen table.The light teak would
never last the decades of Momma's plastic and chrome
dinette set.
"Yeah, I'm still here."
"I just don't understand.You always come home for
Thanksgiving. You know it's my favorite holiday.
Everyone is always here."
Anna stifled a sigh. Yes, everyone was always there
because Momma wouldn't have it any other way.
"Mom, 1just want, you know, to
start my own traditions."
Momma snorted; a sound with­out
delicacy. "Time enough for
establishing your traditions
when you have a husband and
children of your own.
Meanwhile, stop tllis nonsense
and tell me what tin1e Daddy and
1 need to meet your plane."
"Mom,1 didn't make reservations. I'm not coming."
"Now you're just being silly. Daddy sent you the
money for the ticket, didn't he? 1 told him to."
"I sent the check back."
"Why would you do that?"
Anna shivered. Mom's tone was getting sharper.Tell
her, Anna's own inner voice demanded. Tell her why
you don't want to come home. Tell her why you want
to be here. Find your guts and just tell her. Tell her
you're gay. Tell her you have a lover.
Daughter continued, page 37
CD
Mary Barbour
Reflections
Inkjet print
Second place computer art
Marsha Johnson
The Girls
Prismacolor
Third place drawing
T r a v e e 2 o o 3
Steve Codel
Untitled
Raku-fired ceramic
First place ceramics
Mary Barbour
Queen, Kl"ng, A"ce
Inkjet pnnt
First place camputer art
Carol Smith "
Vacation I"n Laugh/In
Watercolor f n painting
Honorable men 10
@
T r a v e e r 2 o o 3
Jeff Turley
Soldier
Acrylic
Second place painting
The
Day
the
War
Stood
Still
Based on a true story
of the Civil War
Stephanie A. Plumb
First place poetry
I rose with the sun when duty called my name
My rifle in my hand, knowing this was not a game
We stood in our positions and waited for a sign
Permission from our general to fire from our line
I'd made myself grow numb so as not to feel the pain
As they crumpled to the ground amidst the pouring crimson rain
"This isn't really me," I had told myself so long,
"Don't stop to think about his wife; stay focused and be strong."
Shots pounded through my ears, freakish wails pierced the air
Then suddenly he caught my eye; I dropped my gun and stared
A boy had taken to the field, no more than eight or nine
With towel and canteen in hand, he ran between our lines
We watched as he brought water to the men who lay down crying
Whispering words of comfort to the wounded and the dying
He offered them his small provisions with such tender care
He nursed their wounds as best he could and said for them a prayer
The boy was not of either side; no orders had been sent
Yet he answered every cry; then on his way he went
That's when it happened on that morn, the air filled with cries
The Civil War stood still; we could not believe our eyes
The cannons stopped their firing and the guns sank to the ground
The shouted orders ceased to be; one could not hear a sound
I looked up to my general, awaiting further plans
Unaware of what came next, I tightly clenched my hands
I felt my heart grow weaker and I marveled at his state
Lost in prayer, tears in his eyes, he asked for us to wait
Amazed, I stood in wonder, and watched the enemy
They, too, were taken by surprise and stood in shock like me
Somehow we didn't want to watch; we didn't want to see
The boy, a candle in the dark, brought light to our cruel deeds
And suddenly, amidst the grief, I thought of my family
Rebecca and the children; is this how they saw me?
Was I their candle in the dark, or did I snuff the flame?
My two young boys, if they were here, would they have done the same?
I turned my head and wept, asking why God let us fall
This couldn't be his plan for us; no, hate began this brawl
I'm sorry, all my brothers, we were torn apart somehow
By a fight that isn't even ours, but separates us now
The boy served one more man; then he knew that he must go
He turned around to glance at us; his face was pure as snow
"Please don't stay here, Little Lamb," I gently said out loud,
"You've done good work so be content.You'd make your father proud."
Yet in these thoughts what could we do but find our guns and stand
For as the boy had left the field, our general raised his hand
"Men! In line! Prepare to fire!" His voice was strong but sad
He didn't need words to express what tears already had
I dried my eyes and raised my gun as the boy left the frame
"Please forgive me, Lord," I prayed, then carefully took my aim.
T a v e e r 2 o o 3
Elegy
Diayn Day
Second place nonfiction
to a Pantry
When I was eight, my Aunt Susie's pantry was the very best place in
the entire world just to be alive in. Aunt Susie had a rambling, clapboard
house a few miles outside of Boston that had all kinds of neat and excit­ing
stuff in it, like a huge, musty-dusty trunk-filled attic as wide as the
house, a creaky staircase that led down to a black cellar where coal-mon­sters
lived, a front-porch swing with floppy pillows, a cardboard box
with about a thousand Superman comics in it, and best of all, unques­tionably
and absolutely, no doubt about it (drum roll) ...THE PANTRY.
Aunt Susie's pantry was like a secret ily. Besides me for half the summer, she
kitchen safe. If you wandered into the had three teenage Siamese cats, an
kitchen and didn't know it was there, angelfish, a husband sometimes known
you'd see a dark brown door with two as Uncle Robbie, one canary, four kids,
keyholes, one high and one low, and a pear tree and a tomato vine. I had a
you'd walk past it without a second lot of respect for that pear tree and
look. But inside that closet -if you tomato vine and I viewed them with
could sneak the door open-inside, it real cousinly affection.They yielded up
was shadowy and deep and mysterious tons of fruit for me (tomatoes, techni­and
fantastically scented, and always cally, are fruit), and I was grateful and
guarded from curious noses and little, considered them to be as much a part
greedy hands by two huge keys big of the family as Jay, Kay, and Ellie, who
enough to lock a warehouse. were the cats, or Melvin, Lulu, Horace,
If you were somebody who was and Clem, the kids. (Clem was actually
pretty close to keyhole height like me, "Helen" but she was ashamed of it, so
and if you pressed your nose against we called her Clem.)
the bottom keyhole just there, some- I had the appetite of a full-size,
times you'd catch a whiff of warm, chest-thumping gorilla when I was
spicy, just-baked or fruity things, or eight, and Aunt Susie had to be remind­things
smelling like gardens pulled out ed every hour by every person in the
of the earth just a minute before. Aunt house to keep the pantry door locked,
Susie's pantry was stuffed floor to ceil- padlocked if possible, when I came vis­ing
all year round and if you didn't iting. I was only allowed inside when
count all those required-for-good-nutri- somebody over twelve went with me,
tion-and-designed-for-deadly-boredom but sometimes I could sneak in if the
foods that also lived there, her pantry keyholder happened to be neglectful
was a fabulous and delightful place, six and left the door unlocked. It was won­Disneylands
of recreational gorging. derful inside. My overflowing cup-
Aunt Susie had a big extended fam- board of adjectives can only hint at the
culinary paradise that was Aunt Susie's
pantry. Every shade of color in the rain­bow
and every mouth-watering, lus­cious
cooking fragrance known to the
human nose radiated and exhaled
inside that pantry. It was heaven just to
stand there and breathe in. Once or
twice a yearAlmt Susie suffered a scary
attack of tidiness and tried to organize
her shelves by subject, color, or can­ning
date. Then she'd give up and go
watch the soaps. After that, the
pantry'd collapse (until her next
attack) into a jumble of crazy colors
and a mini-metropolis of geometrically
demented shapes.
Tall columns of bright-silver dented
cans, with gorgeous portraits of string
and lima beans painted by vegetable
artists who lied through their teeth,
competed for shelf space with smugly
aristocratic bottles of royal purple
grape juice. Soups of the proletariat in
Campbell's red and white edged past
slender jars of satin crimson beets.
Narrow glass cylinders of black and
deep-green olives, theatrically dramatic
and stuffed with the red pimento cen­ters
I loved, peaked out from behind
translucent pink and green watermel­on
pickles and one lopsided, bright­red,
extremely clunky (a kid made it)
ceramic strawberry filled to the brim
with shiny orange marmalade.
Sophisticated, cinch-waisted canisters
of Uncle Robbie's private-blend coffee
and Aunt Susie's round, extra-large
cardboard boxes of down-home oat-
meal loomed over squashed boxes of
Sunmaid raisins and torn cellophane
packages of mixed nuts.
Okay, these were all very nice, but
my favorite canned thing, my risk-any­th
ing-eve n -my-life-a nd- fre e d 0 m
favorite was a massive, industrial-sized
jar of maraschino cherries (at least
half a gallon) in dark pink syrup that
balanced on the edge of a low and
accidentally child-friendly shelf. I never
asked Aunt Susie why she needed so
many cherries, I was just glad they
were there. My fat, eight-year-old
cheeks stuffed to bursting immediate­ly,
just as soon as whatever grown-up
was in charge of me left me loose and
unchaperoned near the cherry jar.
(You'd be amazed how much advance
planning it took to be left loose and
unchaperoned anywhere in that
house. It was very frustrating.)
On the rear wall, facing the door,
hung three long shelves looped with
gold and silver ribbons and occasional­ly
a county-fair blue.A piece of yellow
construction paper cut in weird angles
by somebody anonymous (okay, it was
me) and lettered in Lulu's purple cray­on
read, "Reserved for Family
Genius"-Aunt Susie's grand way of
announcing that here, inches before
you and willing to accept your
applause, were her miracles of home
canning: her sweet, soft, ripe pears, sea­soned
with whole cloves and picked
from the old tree in the backyard; the
tart, crisp, bright-red vine tomatoes I
adored; small, tangy blueberries Uncle
Robbie loved in dumplings and pie ala
mode; glossy blackberries we picked
on fast summer walks-and I do mean
fast. These were hop-to-it, Olympic
speed-walks through Uncle Robbie's
"special" patch of woods. (I think it's
because we were trespassing. I seem
to remember barbed wire.); jars of tart
bread-and-butter pickles put up spe­cially
for big cousin Horace of the zil­lion
freckles; Lulu's chunky applesauce
with cranberries and walnuts, and the
peaches Aunt Susie made extra syrupy
because Clem liked them that way; all
packed obsessively microbe-free in
spotless Kerr jars that twinkled madly
if some careless person left the pantry
door open and the light from the
kitchen ceiling fell on them.
Auntie's fresh fruits and root veg­etables
hibernated along the right wall
of the pantry and that part of the clos­et
had a scent of loam like harvest
farms. Baking potatoes in earth-brown
jackets, some of the older ones grow­ing
tiny shoots, and orange-red yams in
twisted, elongated shapes and rough
skins sat heaped in woven baskets on
Aunt Susie's chocolate and
vanilla marble cake was a mon­ument
to comestible joy, not a
mere national treasure but a
GALACTIC treasure, an angel­inspired
abstraction of black­and-
white light-as-air velvet
under an alpine avalanche of
swirled frosting and a tracery of
semi-sweet chocolate that hard­ened
over the top into crisp yet
delicate candy-like fIligree.
the floor. Squat, white turnips circled
with bottom bands of purple, large
cooking onions and tiny boilers,
parsnips like fat, white carrots
smelling of celery and real Bugs Bunny
carrots, big orange ones, some with the
soil still clinging to their tops (but no
bunny tooth marks-I always
checked), all of them had their own
places in the baskets and boxes on the
vegetable shelves and the cracked tiled
floor. These were the required-for­good-
nutrition-and-designed-for-dead­ly-
boredom foods previously men­tioned,
but they smelled nice.
Next came the fresh fruits: the
deep-red or pink-blushed apples that
pleaded to be drenched in melted
caramel and wolfed down right before
dinner, and the green ones, soon-but
never soon enough-to be dunked in
sugar and cinnamon for deep-dish pies
and tarts, the backyard pears psychi­cally
connected to me through a
Pavlovian drool response, the oranges,
small, smooth ones or big and pitted,
and those bright-red vine tomatoes
(which as we all know, are technically
fruit) just picked, leaking juice and
smelling like gardens. Another shelf
held birdseed for Angel the canary, but
I dismissed that one unless I happened
to be extra-hungry.
The best shelves, triple blue-ribbon
prize winners in my personal opinion,
that I had to be kept away from with
rope if necessary, were the two hover­ing
near the ceiling, closest to heaven
and blessed with Aunt Susie's weekly
baking: the dense, chewy, chocolate
fudge cake (I was the only one she let
lick the bowl) and the raspberry jam
turnovers with delicately brown, puffy
pastry, Clem's raisin-peanut-oatmeal
cookies and Lulu's butterscotch
brownies, Uncle Robbie's blueberry
pie that he needed at least two help­ings
of (with ice cream) at dinnertime,
lunch or breakfast and preferably at all
three, and the cinnamon banana bread
he loved more than life, with its heaps
of raisins and nuts like troops, Uncle
Robbie'd say, enemy battalions, raisins
against the walnuts, all marching to
their doom down his gullet.WhenAunt
Susie baked her spiced pear-preserves
cake and her applause-pecan loaf with
caramel frosting and left them on the
shelves to cool, every empty, hungry
centimeter of air in that rambling old
New England house was instantly satu­rated
with sweet autumn perfume,
even in the broiler days of an August
summer.
But the greatest caution of all had
to be exercised by the grown-ups (any­one
over ten), when there was fresh
MARBLE CAKE on the shelf. That's
when my desperate fmgers had to be
pried off the pantry doorjamb and my
screaming-at-the-top-of-my-Iungs eight­year-
old body dragged from the
kitchen and dumped in the backyard
to commune with the pear tree. Ah,
sweet memories of lost youth. (Insert
picture of old person dabbing at eyes.)
Aunt Susie's chocolate and vanilla
T r a v e e r 2 o o 3
marble cake was a monument to
comestible joy, not a mere national
treasure but a GALACTIC treasure, an
angel-inspired abstraction of black-and­white
light-as-air velvet under an
alpine avalanche of swirled frosting
and a tracery of semi-sweet chocolate
that hardened over the top into crisp
yet delicate candy-like filigree. It was
more than any normal child could
bear, and I was delightfully and lovably
normal (that's my story and I'm stick­ing
to it).
Aunt Susie's kitchen safe with two
keyholes and keys big enough for a
warehouse was the best place I've ever
known in my whole life where it was
wonderful just to stand and breathe in.
(I exhaled only in emergencies.) Aunt
Susie lives someplace else these days
and she tells me she's having a whale
of a time sneaking in and out of some­body
else's pantry. I taught her how to
jimmy locks, by the way. All the kids
have their own food closets and I wish
I knew why nobody ever invites me
over. This makes me very grumpy
because I even offer to bring food.
Aunt Susie's backyard pear tree blew
down in a hurricane and my childhood
pantry's just a memory. But, hey, isn't it
better to have a few golden recollec­tions
than to go back to the real thing
and be disappointed? Okay, that's a lie.
It's what I tell myself so I won't miss all
the cool pigging out with the
maraschino cherries and the turnovers
and the marble cake... and besides, if
Aunt Susie still had her pantry she'd
still be locking me out. I know because
she told me so. She also told me I need
to lose twenty-five pounds.
HEY! HEYI Just a ding-ratted
minute! Twenty-FIVE... ???II+
Jacqueline Lewis
Johnny
Graphite
First place drawing
Mark A. Cabrera
Eisenhower
Inkjet print
Third place computer art
The
Man
Behind
the
Curtain
Jayme Cook
"I'm just about ready to nuke this place
and the Munchkins are the first to go.
Had enough of 'riddle me' this
and 'grant me' that.
The Great and Powerful is tired
of living up to this image.
Find your own rainbow -
this one's been overrun by
lions and scarecrows and girls - oh my
aching pride.
How 'bout some Napalm with those poppies you're smoking?
That'd be a horse of a different color. .."
T r a v e e r 2 o o 3
very calm about the whole situation,
and they knew that my life was in
shambles and I was on my way to meet
death right in the face (only time
would tell). As we were driving, I told
them I was going to turn myself in. It
was time to face the music and get this
cleared up, knowing in the back of my
mind this was the end of the road and
I was headed in the unknown. I had to
explain to my parents I was tired of liv­ing
this lifestyle and it was time to
change. I had become a totally differ­ent
person, someone that my family
did not even know. Both of them
agreed I was making a wise and hum­bling
decision, and whatever the out­come
was they were behind me one
hundred percent regardless of the
past.The words my step-dad spoke are
still etched in my mind:
"It takes a real man to do what you are
doing."
From there it was off to the police sta­tion
on 39th Avenue and Cactus.When
we pulled into the parking lot, my
step-dad went in first to explain to the
officer that I was
outside and I want­ed
to turn myself
in. At that point,
while he was
inside, I started to
have second
thoughts and I was
about to run again
when I heard the most beautiful voice
telling me, "Don't worry, I will be with
you and see you through this whole
ordeal." I did not realize it at the time,
but the small voice was God giving me
reassurance. So instead of running, I
stood my ground as the officer came
out of the station.At that point, the offi­cer
told me to come with him; he just
needed to ask me a few routine ques­tions.
As we proceeded into the sta­tion,
I told him I wanted to say good­bye
to my mom, because I knew my
freedom was coming to an end. Giving
my mom a hug, I noticed she was
I was looked upon as being
nothing but a little gang­ster;
they did not even think
to look into my past and all
the good I did in my life.
rebellious, but because I was com­pletely
terrified. I did not know what
else to do; it was instinct.When I fmal­Iy
stopped running, I had made it to a
nearby park where I sat down to
regain my compo-sure.
Weighing the sit­uation,
I came to two
possible scenarios, I
could keep running
or turn myself in. My
final conclusion was
to do the right thing
and turn myself in. I
called my mom and told her there was
a problem and I needed to speak with
her immediately. Her motherly
instincts told her I was in trouble, so
she told me to stay put, and she and my
step-dad would be there within the
hour.
pon their arrival, I got into the car
and the next hours seemed like an
eternity. Both of them were giving me
the third degree, and the only thing I
could tell them was what happened
and that I was innocent of the crime I
was accused of. They must have
known I was guilty because they were
Paul A. Delgado
Third place nonfiction
Going to prison was definitely not on my mind, but, of course,
when you are living the crazy life, thinking about your actions
and the possible consequences are the least of your thoughts.
ot in my lifetime did I ever think I
was going to end up in prison at nine­teen
years old, nor do I think those
with whom I was close pictured that
either. Growing up Mexican-American
is hard enough in a racist society,
because people are going to throw
stones at you any chance they have. So,
I guess I added fuel to the fire when I
started living for my own selfish
desires ... selling and doing drugs,
which, of course, led me to go to
prison for four years.
March 16th , 1998 began as a usual
day for me. I woke up to my routine of
getting high and selling drugs, not
knowing this was going to be my last
day of freedom for quite some time. I
knew that the police were looking for
me for the crime I had committed, but
I didn't have a care in the world, until
two detectives came knocking on the
door, and that is when reality hit me
like a ton of bricks. At that precise
moment, I had to act fast. Before the
detectives could enter the house, I
took matters into my own hands and
jumped out the back window, making
a run down the alley. I didn't run to be
@
19
they wanted to see was another
Mexican go to prison, and for a long
time at that. I was the only Mexican in
the courtroom; everyone else was
white... the judge, the prosecutor, my
lawyer, the detectives, and the victims.
It seemed from my eyes that I had
nothing going in my favor. 0 matter
what, I was going to prison... the ques­tion
was for how long. In a situation
like I was in, all I could do was sit back
and wait, hoping that my lawyer would
help. Of course my lawyer was against
me, telling me that if I did not sign the
plea for twelve years they would take
me to trial. Going to trial was the last
thing I wanted because I knew I would
lose. My lawyer did not even want to
hear what I had to say; the only thing
he wanted was to get the matter over
with so he could get paid by the state.
I did not have thousands of dollars to
pay him, so he had no empathy about
my freedom. All he saw was a Mexican
kid who sold drugs and went out and
committed a crime. Then one day
things took a wild turn, and, all of a
sudden, I did not have a lawyer any­more.
He stepped down, claiming con­flict
of interest. I thought I was going
to get someone worse, but instead I
got a "real" defense attorney who took
my case pro-bono and was willing to
fight for me. This was such a relief!
After a month of everything being
put on hold, the both of us sat down
and had a long discussion. He told me
that there was no possible way I would
escape from going to prison, but I
would not get the twelve years. His
goal was to get all the charges dropped
except the armed robbery, which
would carry the term of no less than
four years. He also stated that I was not
liked at all, and even though I was
nineteen years old, he could not
No Win continued, page 38
Ashley Doyle
Bitter / Sweet
Gelatin silver print
Honorable mention photography
me, but the hardest part was the court
proceedings I had to deal with.
Nothing compared to the hatred I felt
from everyone. In their eyes, I was
already guilty for the simple fact that I
was a Mexican. Of course, I put myself
in this predicament, but I did not
deserve being singled out by those
around me.
In the beginning of the court pro­ceedings,
I was looked upon as being
nothing but a little gangster; they did
not even think to look into my past
and all the good I did in my life. All
beginning to cry and of course that
started a chain reaction, and the tears
began to run down my face like a
waterfall. I told her she had to be
strong like she always had and that this
was for the best; everything was going
to be all right. As I let her go, I walked
with the officer into the station and
when the door shut behind me, he
stated: "Paul Delgado, you are under
arrest for the charge of a class two
felony armed robbery."
The four and a half years of my
incarceration were very difficult for
Everyone is a Minority
Julia Christine Miller
Honorable mention nonfiction
Looking in the mirror, I see it
there, written on my face-not by me but
by another-judging me for what I am
and for what I am not. The nearly invis­ible
scars seem blatantly obvious to me.
I remember it like it was yesterday.
"Gringa. You think you're too good for us?"A fist
came flying towards my nasal area. Though I
turned my head, I wasn't expecting it to actually
hit, or maybe I was praying that it wasn't real. I
like to think I would have escaped if I could.
Being little as I was and being pinned to the wall
by three girls twice my size, each would have
made it nearly impossible. When my eyes
regained focus from the ever-so-hard blow to my
cheek, I saw them laughing. Why was this so
funny to them? What did I ever do to deserve
this? We had been friends for so long. Why did
race suddenly matter? "You know? You should be
dead for this. You think you can just turn on us
like that? I should have known better than to take
a white girl for a friend!" screamed Olivia.As my
head was continually smashed against the tile
wall, I thought for sure I was going to die, and
that the police might find my body lying there in
the elementary school bathroom a few days later,
not knowing how my body had been so brutally
beaten. This wasn't fair. I hadn't turned my back
on them; I just didn't want to join a gang.
Members of "Brown Pride" had been arrested for
years in the small town for hate crimes, and I did­n't
want to become part of the group. I was only
in sixth grade.Why would they want me anyway?
"See how your pretty little face will like this!"
seethed Patricia, as her monstrous fist covered in
diamond rings smashed against my flesh. I was in
denial that any possible signs of brutality had
been bestowed upon me. I was halfway hoping
to come out of it looking fine, so no one would
ask questions, so I wouldn't have to hide my face
Katrina Hulstrom
Innocent
Gelatin silver print
Honorable mention photography
21
T a v e e r 2 o o 3
in shame. I was hoping for too much. I
could feel the blood running down my
face. Simoane just stood there. I think
she was the one who hurt me the
most, though she didn't even touch me
once. It was that look, that evil look, as
if to say, "You deserve this. You are
nothing but trash." What hurt even
more than that was she stood by and
watched and didn't do a thing to help.
I am sure my face wrinkled in pain as I
tried hard not to cry. I wasn't going to
give in to them this easy. I then crum­pled
to the floor as Olivia's pointy,
black, go-go-boot-wannabes found
their way to my abdomen with great
force. I felt so low and pathetic lying in
a puddle of blood on the dirty rest­room
floor. If it had just been Patricia,
Olivia, and Simoane, I wouldn't have
felt nearly as low. The fact that there
were other girls standing there, just
watching made me feel as if I were
nothing higher than scum. Where was
my affirmative action? How could this
be allowed? It seemed as if an eternity
had passed before the "former friends"
decided they no longer found interest
in battering a lone white girl.The small
congregation that had gathered
through the duration of the beating
had dissipated, and I was left alone.At
the time I wasn't particularly mad, nor
was I feeling sorry for myself. There
was only one thought that was contin­ually
popping into my mind, and that
was: Why? Why did they want to beat
me? Why did it matter what race I was?
Why would they think I would care
what they were?
As I pulled myself from off of
the floor, I discovered my face had
bled much more than I thought and
that my stomach would probably be in
wrenching pain for the next week due
to Olivia's pointy boots. I tried to clean
myself up, continually avoiding the
mirrors plastered onto the wall.
Because the sink was located directly
beneath the mirrors, it was nearly
impossible to avoid. I caught a glimpse
of a cut, bleeding, and swollen face.
@
This couldn't be me! I didn't have cuts
on my face, nor did I have puffy eyelids
or a huge bumpy nose! Oh the horror!
Though I hadn't shown my face in
public, I was still embarrassed of my
appearance. I carefully examined the
two huge gashes on my face, under my
eyes and nearly parallel to each other.
In doing so, I discovered almost every
layer of skin on those particular loca­tions
had been cold-heartedly ripped
off, creating deep cavities on either
side of my face. Patricia's rings had
spared my face no mercy. I did a pretty
good job of cleaning myself up; cold
water on paper towels seemed to ease
the swelling on my eyes and mouth.
I was halfway hoping to come
out of it looking fine, so no
one would ask questions, so I
wouldn't have to hide my
face in shame. I was hoping
for too much. I could feel the
blood running down my face.
What they did scarred me, but
it didn't scare me. I wasn't afraid of
telling on them. I retrieved my belong­ings
and defiantly made my way
towards the principal's office. I was
going to demand justice. They were
going to pay for what they had done.
The thought of seeing them in a juve­nile
detention center put my heart at
ease.As I entered the office, the secre­tary
jumped up and rushed to my side,
questioning what had happened. I said
nothing of the events to her; I only
asked to speak to the principal.
Entering his office was like walking
into a huge freezer. The walls were
plain white; everything was put into its
place. The file cabinet, and the desk,
even the papers on the desk were in
order. The air conditioning must have
been down to at least sixty degrees,
and the chair offered to me felt as if it
was made out of Styrofoam. The prin-cipal
was just as cold. I explained to
him in great detail what had hap­pened.
When I had finished, he only
stared.
Then he said, "I'm sorry.There
is nothing I can do about this.We have
had cases like this in the past; the
school board will not take action sole­ly
because of their race."
I was confused. This wasn't
fair! "What do you mean? They won't
get in trouble for this?" I found myself
screaming.
"You got it. We can't take any
'discrimination charges'; we simply
just can't take any more chances."
I couldn't believe it. Here I
was, beaten, and searching for justice,
only to find that justice didn't exist. If
it had been me that had beaten them, I
would have been sent to juvenile hall
for sure. Who says whites aren't dis­criminated
against? Who says only
those societies denoted as minorities
are those who are getting the short
end of the stick? What is a minority
anyway? Webster says a minority is a
member of an "ethnic, racial, religious,
or other group having distinctive pres­ence
within a society." That makes me
a minority. That makes everyone a
minority. How dare they suggest my
rights aren't as important as the rights
of others?
Though I never received jus­tice
for the beatings I endured, I have
found justice and peace in my own
heart. I know who I am and that my
worth is great. I learned a great lesson
that day. Everyone is equal, no matter
how society, public schools, or govern­ment
establishes their rules. We are all
equal and are to be treated as sllch. I
may have scars, but every time I see
them it reminds me of the battle we all
have to fight to win, the battle of dis­crimination.
The plague comes to
everyone and affects everyone.
Looking in the mirror I see it there,
written on my face-not by me but by
another-judging me for what I am and
for what I am not. »-
- '
· ., ...,
Victor Ratliff
Honorable mention fiction
Michael Pfeifer
Lady
Ink
Honorable mention drawing
skin led by the kite strings of life.
She was a stain before me, a mis­take
made by God, not completely
healthy nor crippled. Her twisted
man-mouth continued to spit
words and fragments at me. It
alone was inhtilllan. Crippled by
the complexity of syllables, she
began and began again. She shook
from the cold like a moth in a glass
of water. The seizure of living
ended and she stopped, and her
eyes aligned with mine.
"Don't you have a cat? That
might be your cat in the road.
Aren't you worried? You're awake
now right? Were you ... "
Listening to her talk made me
angry and I cut her off. "I don't
have a cat."
Her eyes readjusted with sur­prise.
Her eyebrows moved inde­pendently
from one another and
squeezed her brow. Her mouth
took shape and I feared she'd talk
again. Instead, she bared her teeth,
and became the hideous caricature
of a smiling rat. Her body rose then
sunk into the relaxed sag of a scare­crow.
"Ah geez. I'm so stupid. I
thought that was your cat. I came
over here at three in the morning
and it wasn't your cat. Probably
nobody's cat.A stray."
The wind from outside slipped
in and kissed at my bare chest.
Goosebumps crawled over my
body, but I did not shudder. I let the
woman take in my discomfort as
her sin. My stomach tightened and,
without anticipation, I coughed.
Violently.
"Oh no. Now you're gonna
catch 'nmonia because of me and
that stupid cat." She took a step
towards me, but I waved her away.
I hadn't wanted this stray in my
house, but she snuck in like the
cold.
''I'm fine. Just a cough, that's
all."
She examined me with
zookeeper's eyes. I straightened to
stood. Drenched and frazzled, a
banshee disguised as a woman.
"Hi, I live next door and, oh
God, I saw a cat get run over."
Her face was an animal's,
grotesquely unpretty. Her voice
was the pitch of a nagging school­child.
Brown, ordinary eyes darted
and found new locations with
every blink and twitch. She must've
been in her forties, perhaps older,
perhaps not forty at all. Perhaps not
alive at all. Just a body of wrinkled
It was three in the morning
when we met. I was asleep. The
doorbell woke me. Then persisted.
It continued until I couldn't take it
anymore and I rose. Furious. Half­naked.
Each ring was torment, then
the pause between rings became
the dagger. I fought Morpheus
down the hallway to the door. I
could hear rain. Rain and thunder.
Rain and thunder and the doorbell.
Stop that wretched doorbell.
I opened the door and there she
Because she yawned so much, I took an axe to her
head. That wasn't the only reason. There were plenty.
The Rain Had Stopped
T a v e e r 2 o o 3
her tailing but dismissed it. I con­tinued
autonomously. And like
resuming a nightmare, she was still
speaking when I returned.
"Gosh I sure hope that was a
stray. I'd hate it if one of my cats
was hit by a car.And in the rain too.
Listen to that. No more rain. I better
go. Maybe we can build a fire
tomorrow or sometI1ing. You don't
even have a fireplace?" Her inflec­tion
rose and dipped, as if beneath
her tongue was an infant speaking
a foreign language.
Her eyes traveled from the walls
to my feet. From my feet to my
hands. To the .flreman's axe in my
hands. The rest I remember with
the ferocity one recalls
when drowning.
I raised the axe
clear above my head
and let its own weight
assist in its descent. I
buried the axe hard in
her forehead. My shoul­ders
pushed it further. From her
old mouth came silence. The
scream faded into noise as her look
intensified. Blood spiderlegged into
her open mouth like overflowing
bath water. Wrinkles of anguish
tugged at her face, pushing it with
blind fingers. I grasped the hard
wooden handle ofmy axe and tried
to lift it free. But Excalibur would
not succumb so I placed my bare
foot on her chest and pushed. As
she tumbled to the floor, I glimpsed
my bloody footprint stamped on
her blollse. Caressing the oak in my
hand, I watched the rebirth of life
before me. Blood blossomed into
my carpet, clawing to taste the
world free of her. The world I live
The red leopard spots on my
body faded with their heat and
relented to the cold.The storm and
I rested together. When the tem­pest
arrived again to hunt, it left me
alone.+
in.
before had passed and now I could
feel perspiration beneath my arms.
I started to speak when the hor­rendous
happened. Her mouth
began to open. Her face began to
twist. A slow yawn expelled from
beneath her navel to her open
throat. Her head had become a
carved pumpkin and I watched,
transfixed by this upsetting phe­nomenon,
as she held tIlls yawn
forever. Rage cactused inside of my
brain and fury expanded and
swelled beneath my skull. My
hands shook with the temptation
to tear at this horrific action.
Her yawn carried itself in the
room and transformed into words.
"Aaahhh, I'm so tired. Been up
half the night." She noticed my
trembling. "Oh no! You're shaking.
Probably catching cold. I better let
you get some rest."
"Would you sit down," I
whispered. ''I'll get some wood for
the fireplace."
"Okay, but I can't stay too long.
My kids are at home. What kind of
mom leaves her kids alone at ho-"
Her chest lifted like a marionette's
and she gave birth to another
yawn. Her bosom lifted and her
body stiffened. It was how I imag­ined
she appeared in the intimacy
of waiting up. In the intimacy of
sex. To me, this yawn was almost
orgaslnic.
"Excuse nle," she breathed, exas­perated.
"I can only stay a minute,
until the rain stops." The rain had
stopped. She hadn't noticed.
Unabashedly, she slumped onto the
couch. Wet and muddy and stain­ing.
"I'll just be a moment." I took a
few footsteps to exit. I could hear
Her face was an animal's, grotesquely unpretty.
Her voice was the pitch of a nagging schoolchild.
Brown, ordinary eyes darted and found new loca­tions
with every blink and twitch.
let her. Let her read the seventy
years before her. She saw patchy
reds and whites, leathery and sack­like,
pulled tenaciously over mus­cles.
Purple blue veins snaked
beneath my skin. Gray hairs grew
sparsely across my torso, down my
back, finished below my waist. I
tightened my jaw and allowed her
to watch the lines of depth and
light play on me. Wage war on me.
The cough was gone.
"I'm Jan. I live next door. You
probably think I'm such a dummy,
comin' over here in the middle of
the night. It's just that when I saw
your cat... "
"I said I don't have a cat."
" ...Well, I know that.
But I thought it was your
cat. Gosh, I don't even
know your name. You
coulda been a crazy man
for all I know. Maybe a
murderer."
Maybe, I thought, but
you are the real crime, aren't you,
woman?
"You mind if I come in? I just
wanta get out of this rain. I know
I'm only next door but I was so
worried. Who woulda thought you
could get so worried about a cat?
Heh, I feel so stupid."
"You can come in. But only until
the rain stops." I found myself
speaking this invitation in slow
motion. The words expelled from
my lips like ink underwater. And I
could feel the tail of Minos begin to
wrap around me. Suffocating me.
She passed, entering into my
home, with a train of rain and mud.
She removed her eyes from me,
instead looking upward and for­ward,
never downward. I found this
view of her most bearable. Almost
pleasant. Her pupils replaced by
white, a frightened animal in a new
habitat, a bird in a lion's mouth. She
was truly a pathetic vision, clad in
white sweater, grayed by the rain.
I stood statuesque, letting the
air boil between us. The chill from
Starting Over
Alan J. Potts
Second place poetry
Before you sits a once mighty warrior,
Naked with his head in his hands.
Cold and lonely he ponders his future,
Battle weary, unable to stand.
Within him great carnage has ended;
He's bested his guilt and his shame.
Thirty years his esteem he's defended
Against fears that once kept him lame.
Now his cannons of hatred are emptied,
His saber of rage is left sheathed,
And facades he once held as shields,
Lie broken like glass at his feet.
Inside he swells with confusion,
Not knowing what he's to become.
What is left for this hapless young soldier
When the chore he has lived for is done?
From his left a darkness now beckons
Pulling from the depths of despair.
On his right a faint thought of courage cries
Out to rebuild his life without fear.
"But how do I start my life over,
When all that I think, feel, and trust
Has been tarnished, suppressed and passed over,
As a child lain victim to lust?"
I point myself toward the future,
Each day, one step at a time.
Though I stumble, I am undaunted;
My life for the first time is mine.
Ruth A. Douthitt
Woman Reclining
Charcoal and graphite
T r a v e e 2 o o 3
The Auction
Carole Lynn Desmond
First place fiction
I really did not want to be
there. I'd much rather have stayed
home to study for my chemistry
final that was coming up in three
days, or better yet, to finish reading
Homer's The Odyssey, as I was only
halfway through it. But, Lora had
insisted that I come along with her
and Wynn. Wynn! Good grief! The
guy had a dignified name: Richard
Winston Asbridge, yet she called
hinl "Wynn"! I looked at the two of
them and frowned. They reminded
me of two children playing grown
up. Lora wore her favorite dark
blue, pin-striped business suit with
the blouse that she always kept
buttoned too low. Her hair was
dyed its usual auburn and perfectly
coifed, her false eyelashes extend­ed
way beyond what was natural,
and her nails were fashionably
transformed into claws.Wynn wore
his three-piece suit and the
German hat that Tante Ellie had
sent him from Hereford; his graying
beard was neatly trimmed, and his
pocket watch, with the gold chair
graciously looped across his belly,
was prominently displayed. I sat in
my favorite jeans and oversized
shirt. I could never figure why Lora
always wanted to drag me along.
Maybe I provided striking contrast
to their image. In any case, I still
didn't want to be there.
I had liked Miss Higginboth­am;
I had really, really liked her, and
now, to witness the distribution of
her belongings at a public auction
was, well, a bit disconcerting. Miss
Emily Higginbotham had lived in
the same house in Catonsville,
Maryland, all her 98 years, and that
house had been in her family since
the early 1800's. Miss Higginboth­am
had never married, never had
children. She had been an art histo­ry
professor at the University of
Maryland and had traveled exten­sively
throughout her life. Now, all
the treasures she had collected
during those years were being sold
in a matter of hours. I felt a heavi­ness,
a poignant sadness. I was glad
the auction was held outside and I
was glad for the overcast sky and
the cool breeze, as they heightened
my mood and seemed to fit the
dismal task at hand. No one else
seemed to share in my disturbance.
Au contraire, most everyone
appeared to be in a most convivial
mood, probably induced by the
anticipation of monetary enrich­ment
through the acquirement of
some artwork or piece of antiquity.
Lora and Wynn were no
exception. Although, I did notice
Wynn squirmed in his seat every
tinle Lora bid on an object. One
particular painting, an obscure
work by Monet, provided an esca­lation
of bidding, of which Lora
took part. Every time Lora's hand
went up, more beads of sweat trick­led
down Wynn's forehead. Finally,
the bid was topped and a gentle­man
to our left took the prize. A
Queen Anne wooden bench with
velvet upholstery was presented
next, and I heard Lora whisper,"Oh,
I simply must have that!" The bid­ding
quickly rose, and Lora kept
up.
"We can't afford that much,"
Wynn quietly reminded my sister.
"Hush!" Lora hissed back
through gritted teeth set behind a
pasted-on smile. "Do you want
everyone else to know that? Why
don't you announce it to the
world?" And with that, she added
some figures to the bidding and
closed the bid. Wynn's ruddy face
blanched. I never could figure how
Lora managed it, but she kept this
smiling, cheerful look on her face
as she held eye contact with the
There were several lace
doilies and cotton scarves rolled up
and carefully placed all around the
inner edges as if to protect the
items within. Once they were
removed, I saw that the contents
were wrapped in a satin bundle,
which I carefully unfolded. Inside
was a thick packet of black and
white photographs that depicted a
wide range of history. Each photo
was dated on the back and includ­ed
a short description. One of the
pictures was of the corner of Fifth
Avenue and 42nd Street, NYC,
1923, showing the city's new traf-fic
lights-a two-story
cage-like structure in the
middle of the intersection
that housed a police offt­cer,
who manually con­trolled
the trafftc lights.
Another photo, undated
but probably taken in the
late 19th century, showed
three white horses pulling a steam
engine from the Philadelphia Fire
Department. There was a photo
taken from several stories up look­ing
down at a row of horses
hitched to delivery buggies lined
up outside a Marshall Field's
department store in Chicago. A
1908 photo showed people
strolling through the new
Cleveland glass arcade, and another
picture from 1941 showed cus­tomers
riding an escalator in
Macy's, NYC.There were numerous
pictures of children, such as an
1899 photo of a young newsboy
wearing knickers, long stockings,
scuffed, worn shoes, white shirt
and cap, and holding a newspaper
almost as big as himself. Each pho­tograph
seemed more interesting
than the previous one as a whole
panorama of history unfolded visu­ally
before me.
lower, right corner -"E.E.H.": Emily
Elizabeth Higginbotham. The latch­es
appeared to be made of some
high quality metal, as there was no
rust, just a bit of tarnish. It was a
very sturdy box, well constructed,
and securely locked. I poured
myself a glass of cherry Kijafa
wine, and set the box on the table.
For some time, I sat and contem­plated
what sights this box had
seen in its lifetime, what changes in
history it had witnessed, as the box
was defmitely pretty old. I actually
enjoyed the anticipation of discov­ering
what treasures lie within.The
uproarious laughter of that after­noon
faded in the distance. Even
Lora's chides and Wynn's snide
remarks no longer stung, and were
of no importance. Finally, I careful­ly
removed the tiny nails that held
the lock plate in place, and then
slowly raised the lid.
"Five dollars!" I interrupted.
I waited for the privacy of my
home before inspecting my prize. I
probably could have begun and
ended the bidding with ftfty cents,
but I felt the box deserved some
dignity. After all, it apparently had
meant something to someone at
some point in tinle. I found the box
rather intriguing. The wooden box
measured about 24x24x18 and was
constructed of heavy, rough-hewn
wood. There were numerous
scratches, nicks, splinters and
cracks on all sides, and there were
initials carved on the lid in the
The wooden box measured about 24x24x18 and
was constructed of heavy, rough-hewn wood.
There were numerous scratches, nicks, splinters
and cracks on all sides, and there were initials
carved on the lid in the lower, right corner ­"
E.E.H.": Emily Elizabeth Higginbotham.
auctioneer, and at the same time,
she was able to demand in very
precise, terse, staccato words, a
check from Wynn. I noticed, too,
how his hand shook as he wrote
out the check.
I was getting rather bored
with the auction. I had seen all
these "objects d'art" many times
before when having tea with Miss
Higginbotham. They were no
longer intriguing to me and had
even become mundane. My atten­tion
drifted and I began looking
more intently at the people in the
audience. I noticed that most of the
people who had pur-chased
a bid no longer
had a look of joy on
their faces. Their lips
were still curved in a
perpetual smile, but
their eyes betrayed
them.
Their eyes no
longer had that little spark of
delight, of gaiety. Stress seemed to
swirl around, lazily weaving in and
out like a waft of smoke, tantalizing
each observer. Then suddenly, the
waft dissipated as the mood
abruptly changed. My attention
was once again drawn to the focal
point at the auctioneer's podium.
The next item from the estate
sale was placed on the stand in
front of the auctioneer. She looked
at it for a few seconds, and then
raised her eyes to look out, to
observe the countenance of the
gathering. Some faces expressed
displeasure or bewilderment, more
had sneers, and some even emitted
unabashed laughter.The auctioneer
herself had a smug little smile on
her face as she announced, "I
almost feel a need to apologize for
even asking someone to start the
bidding, but. ..."
T r a v e e 2 o o 3
With reluctance, I set the pile
aside so I could continue sorting
through the box. Next, I emptied
the contents of a purple, velvet
pouch onto the table. It had con­tained
a generous handful of gold
coins, various pieces of fme jewel­ry
of diamonds and emeralds, some
carved wooded necklaces, plus a
tiny music box of gold and carved
ivory. I opened the music box and
immediately a haunting, yet unfa­miliar
tune played in crisp, clear
notes. Also, within the box was a
packet of seeds (of unknown vari­ety),
a Meerschaum pipe with a
pouch of sweet smelling cherry
tobacco, a deck of playing cards,
and a small derringer with an ivory
handle inlaid in silver.
Beneath these items were sev­eral
documents which included
movie theater and stage playbills;
bulletins and flyers advertising the��ater
opening nights and store
grand openings; and even a yel­lowed,
crumbly poster dated" 1July
1861, New York," advertising the
Pony Express service. There was
also a copy ofThe Illustrated Police
News-Law Courts and Weekly
Record which was dated
November 1878, had a cover price
of ten cents, and featured a story
about female students sneaking out
at night from Oberlin College in
Ohio. ext, I removed a bundle of
letters and carefully untied the
blue satin ribbon. As I opened the
first envelope and unfolded the
enclosed letter, I noticed how
coarse and thick the papers felt.
This particular letter was dated
August of 1864 and was covered
with smudges of dirt and soot.The
penmanship appeared a bit shaky
and uneven, as if written in haste
while using a non-flat surface. As I
scanned the letter, I realized it was
written from the war front and was
apparently from a young soldier to
his fiancee, as he mentioned sever­al
times his anticipation of their
forthcoming wedding. I almost felt
intrusive reading the letters, yet I
felt Miss Higginbotham had put all
these items together in this box for
a reason.And so, grudgingly, I again
laid aside the letters to go on to the
next item; upon which I came to
the last items in the box-three
leather-bound diaries. Although
very similar upon first glance, there
was a distinct aging difference, and
upon further inspection, I also dis­covered
they were written by
three different persons from three
different generations.
The first diary, I could tell
after reading the first few pages,
was by the young bride of a Civil
War soldier, perhaps the very same
whose letter I had just perused.
Within the pages of the diary were
three photographs. One was of
about a dozen Union soldiers pos­ing
before two caimons. In the cen­ter
was a young boy, no more than
twelve years old at most, holding
the flag.The second photo was of a
young Union soldier standing
behind a seated young woman of
about twenty. Her hair was pinned
up in rag curls and she wore a full
gown that looked to be of satin
material. The third photo showed,
again, about a dozen Union sol­diers,
including the aforemen­tioned
young man, standing before
a tent, and in their midst stood
President Lincoln. On the back of
the picture was the date" 1862" and
the inscription "General
McClellen's headquarters at
Antietam."A fourth photo was then
discovered tucked in the back of
the diary. This picture looked as
though it had been taken from
atop a very tall building, as the
scene was looking down onto a
street in New York City. The five
and six-story buildings that lined
the opposite side of the street were
covered with spectators that filled
the roofs and hung out of all the
windows, while throngs also lined
the street itself. Regiments of sol­diers
marched up the street sur­rounding
a horse-drawn funeral
wagon. The back of the photo sim­ply
noted- "26 April 1865­President
Lincoln." The second
diary appeared to be written from
the next generation, and the third
was penned by Emily Elizabeth
Higgin-botham.
I was overwhelmed by all that
I had just seen, and astounded at
what had been packed into that
wooden box. Carefully, I replaced
all the items, all but one. I meant to
take my time going through every­tIling
again, exanlining each item
more intricately, and absorbing
each drop of history at a more
leisurely pace.
I stood looking out my
kitchen window, waiting for the
teakettle to whistle, Miss Higgin­botham's
diary clutched behind my
back. I reflected on all that had
transpired in just one short day, and
smiled to myself. My calico sat on
the counter, staring curiously at
me, her tail twitching.The teakettle
started its painful wail. "Mewsette,"
I addressed the cat as I walked to
the stove, "they can have their
Monet's and Queen Anne's or King
Louie's or whatever. 1 am going to
enjoy a cup of tea with Miss
Higginbotham."+
Sarah Goodsell
Forever Love
Hand-colored gelatin
silver print
Mary Jane Johnson
Peeping Tom
Watercolor
Honorable mention painting
Sherrie McClendon
Untitled
High-fired ceramic
First place sculpture
Rick Miskowski
Landscape
Watercolor
Honorable mention painting
Michael Pfeifer
Untitled
Ink and colored pencil
Second place drawing
T r a v e e r 2 o o 3
Mother
Lakota Leijon
Honorable mention poetry
I am the whirlwind
The fire and the storm
I am pure energy
In ebony, ivory and boricua form
I am the magic
The spirit of every woman reborn
I am the daybreak that ends the night
The prophet of the coming light
I am the wings of love taking flight
I am the light of the rising Slill
A premonition of things to come
I am the jubilee of victory won
I am the possibility
Each new day brings
I am the caged bird
And the freedom of which she sings
I am the sequence of things yet to come
I rise from the highest mountains and the deepest
slums
I am the revelation of consequence
Giving birth to hope, promise and elation
I am her, she
Mother
f/r~j h
John V. Aragon
Ariheal
Watercolor
Third place painting
J
Eric St. Hilaire Smith
It was no longer enough to be competent and efficient in
producing superior results. Now the expectation was to do
so while jogging in place. ''Attention employees, effective
immediately, and for your benefit, we have stocked the water
cooler with Gatorade; now get out there and win one for the
team!" I feigned support, sucking it up as I sucked it in.
The water poured over my head, splashed across
my chest, and ran down my back. 1 reached for the soap
and started to lather up. My mouth twitched scornfully as
the image entered my sleepy brain.The thought persisted
as 1 stepped out of the shower and toweled off. 1 chuck­led,
"I have yet to see a LEVER 2000 ad where one of the
actor's 2,000 parts was flabby." ow 1am as confident as
the next guy, gifted with what my daddy gave me; howev­er,
as 1 started to dress, 1 admitted to myself I didn't quite
look like Jim Palmer in my Jockey underwear or Marky
Mark in my Calvin Klein jeans. Everything was present and
accounted for, but just didn't result in the same effect.
After I swallowed the last spoonful, 1 attempted a conver­sation
with the slim woman on my cereal box. I asked her,
"Did you really get your stomach from eating Special K?"
With an indignant, "humph!" she refused to answer. 1 fm­ished
my morning routine, pausing a moment for the full
realization of my detracting thoughts to sink in.As an aver­age
guy needing to lose a few pounds, the continual and
relentless reminders of
that fact permeated
most aspects of a typi­cal
day.
At the office,
as I stepped into the
hall, my head down in
a report, I narrowly
avoided body check­ing
the copier repair-man.
Here were the
stereotypical muscle-bound,Adonis women in the office
ogling as he flexed and fixed the Xerox machine. In a con­ference
room chair, whose seat needed more substance
and less style, I listened to the new corporate policy on
"Physical Wellness Awareness." It was no longer enough to
be competent and efficient in producing superior results.
Now the expectation was to do so while jogging in place.
"Attention employees, effective immediately, and for your
benefit, we have stocked the water cooler with Gatorade;
now get out there and win one for the team!" I feigned
support, sucking it up as I sucked it in. Across the table, I
met the eye of the new guy. Here was a guy who listed
kickboxing as a hobby. Kickboxing a hobby? I prefer hob­bies
like baseball or hockey. Hobbies involved your bud­dies
and a few beers. Pummeling another man's bare, chis­eled
chest while wearing spandex shorts was not a hobby.
The work day over, I headed for school. For the
most part, returning to school has been a rewarding expe­rience.
Only once have I felt out of place, like I was some
pathetic, fat guy. It was then I heard the echoed teasing
and torment many of us huskies experienced throughout
our early school years. I remembered being a boy and
going with my mom to buy school clothes.Though they
were the same emerald green flannel shirts, brown cor­duroys
and Superman Underroos the other boys wore,
mine were different. Mine were different because the tag
inside labeled me a husky.Today, I would say I was a far
from perfect, but homogenous and conforming nonethe­less,
breathing GAP ad. I know it is ridiculous, not to men­tion
a waste of time, trying to squeeze years of childhood
woe into an adult's per­ception
of acceptance.
However, on some level,
I am still eight years old,
awkward, and longing to.
belong.
The society that
constantly reminds us
we need to lose weight
is the same society that
pressures men to appear
as though they aren't bothered by such things. Robust
men experience weight prejudices just the same as
women, from being ignored by the clothes salesman with
his 30" waist to the callous glances when foregoing the
double stack with cheese and ordering a salad at Wendy's.
Perhaps it is assumed that the onset of testosterone some­how
enables us to take it all in stride and laugh it off.The
labels are familiar: beer belly, spare tire, and love handles.
Sometimes we are not bothered, able to laugh. Other
times, it is not so funny.+
T r a v e e r 2 o o 3
Take It
Alexandria Monares
Jab it in, rip it out,
Tear me apart.
Feel it slither down my back,
Rip out my heart.
Run the knife over my flesh,
Trace my every curve.
Make me writhe, squeal and scream,
Give me what I deserve.
Hold me tight, let me go,
Keep me in suspense.
Make me experience
All emotions this intense.
Caress the scars left behind,
Make me leave my past.
Bleed out all the pain,
This breath my last.
Mandee Green
Cybil
Gelatin silver print
The Weed
Connie M. Wilcox
Honorable mention nonfiction
I believe that angels hover over earth's
children, and from time to time we each get a
turn to be tapped on the shoulder. We read
about miracles all around us and people being
saved because a voice of warning alerted them to
take another flight or to take another road. My
experience was not of life or death proportion,
but one in which I've marveled at for years.
It was June 1968, in Utah.The sixties were an
ominous time for the country and the scare of drugs
filled hearts with fear. People lost their homes in court
costs and lawyer fees defending themselves on the sus­picion
of drug use.The religious community feared the
world was going to hell and were willing to "rat" on
good friends if necessary to keep their neighborhoods
clean. We found this to be true on a glorious spring
day.We also learned that someone was looking out for
us.
The warm spring Saturday felt delicious after
the long, snowy winter. The blossoms were bursting
out of their cocoons, bringing color back into our
small part of the world.Three weeks previously, when
the ground thawed, I'd planted a flower strip contain­ing
a myriad of seeds instead of planting the usual
way-one seed at a time. I laid the strip in the dark,
sweet-smelling soil and kept it wet. The greenery
below my kitchen window filled in with poppies,
stocks, snapdragons, and hollyhocks. I couldn't wait to
see them bloom. My husband and I loved to walk
around the yard to see the daily changes. It was a spe­cial
time that nourished my soul.The new growth reaf­firmed
my feelings about the world being good and a
time that I counted my blessings.
I'd planted other seeds along with the strip,
and on this Saturday, I checked to see if they had
sprouted. A spider-limbed plant with jagged barbs
snuggled in between the eager poppies. I'd never seen
a plant like it with its tall, healthy look. The bright
green foliage reminded me of a plant I'd seen in a par­ent's
magazine. I felt my heart pound as I ran to get the
magazine. It just couldn't be, I thought. It is a marijua­na
plant.
I called Robert, my husband. He leaned his
shovel on the fence and joined me. After a few sec­onds,
he bent to get a closer look. "So that is what it
looks like. How on earth did it get here?" He shook his
head and looked puzzled.
"But how could it be," he said again with a
shocked voice.We looked at each other and wondered
about our son, David. He was camping with friends for
the weekend.
The delightful weather brought out the neigh­bors
that special Saturday.The winter had taken its toll,
and people were eager to feel the warmth of the
spring sun on their skin. We saw Mr. Peterson across
the way digging in his bed of tiger lilies and waved to
him. We wandered next door to visit our neighbors,
Dorothy and Jerome. Jerome was digging around their
Red Emperor tulips while Dorothy stood over him.The
shimmering red petals were the color of the Georgia
O'Keefe poppies.With as much animation as possible,
for Jerome's quiet demeanor, he explained how he'd
dug nitrogen close to the roots to account for their
size. The tulip project had been Dorothy'S idea. She
was a "no nonsense" type of woman and was in charge
of the house, the kids, the dog, and everything they
®
T r a v e e r 2 a a 3
I didn't say anything since I've been known to
ramble and say something stupid. Inspiration
kept me quiet. I just followed the stiff-legged
officer, and I tried to appear calm. My husband
looked puzzled as he tagged along.
owned. Dorothy was aggressive and a bit overbearing,
but she had been a good friend and neighbor, and I
had confided in her many tin1es.
While looking at the green of the tulip stems, I
remembered the unusual plant in my garden, and casu­ally
mentioned that I had something strange growing
that resembled marijuana. Dorothy and Jerome
laughed and enjoyed hearing about the alien plant.
It was late afternoon when we returned home.
The day had been perfect, but something nagged at
me. I knew it was the plant. I couldn't get David out of
my mind either. Could he have planted it? If not, how
did it get in my garden?
We entered the house, and the kids were open­ing
the refrigerator, and looking into the cereal boxes.
I began preparing dinner
and Robert could see I was
worried. He whispered, "Is
it the weird weed?" I shook
my head 'yes' and said,
"Please pull it. I will feel
better." Without question,
he went out the back door.
Through the kitchen window, I saw him bending.
When he stood, the vibrant bushy plant with its
muddy roots dangled in his fist. I felt as relieved as if
I'd lost ten pounds.
The salad and chicken had been prepared ear­lier,
and I took it from the refrigerator.We began to eat,
and the doorbell rang. I told the family to continue eat­ing,
and I walked down the eight stairs to the front
entrance. My stomach did a flip-flop when I saw a
sober-looking police officer.
I tried to keep calm when he informed me that
he was there to look around our yard. My brain was
spinning. Had Robert pulled the right plant? What did
he do with it? Were there other plants that we hadn't
seen?
Dorothy had reported us ,and I was shocked. I
thought that she was my good friend. Blood rushed to
my head, and I couldn't think straight. I tried not to
look guilty, but sometimes the harder we try, the worse
it gets. These "inside-my-head questions" affected my
actions, and I felt awkward and guilty. I walked around
the house to the back yard.The officer didn't speak. He
looked uncomfortable in his uniform, and his hand
rested nervously on his holster. Should I ask him ques­tions
or not? I didn't say anything since I've been
known to ramble and say something stupid.
Inspiration kept me quiet. I just followed the stiff­legged
officer, and I tried to appear calm. My husband
looked puzzled as he tagged along. I was glad that the
children were busy eating their dinner.
Since it was getting dark, the officer checked
every inch of ground with a flashlight. With four-feet­wide
gardens all around the yard, it took an hour. My
heart sank when we approached the soft suspicious
looking soil where the plant had been. I waited for
Officer Latham to ask about the vacant hole. He
looked at it twice and then
moved on giving one more
glance around the yard. He
apologized for the incon­venience
and left.
It was dark, and I took
Robert's hands in mine.We
looked into each other's
eyes. With noses touching, we stared without speak­ing.
In the light of the moon, our silence said it all.After
a minute, I asked in a quivering voice, "Where did you
put it?" He pointed to the outdoor incinerator. There,
lying on top, not yet wilted, lay the quivering "weed" in
full view-moist soil still dripping from its roots. One of
our garden lights shone on it as if it were a precious
stone on display.
I remember reading a quote by Kahlil Gibran,
"Friendship with the ignorant is as foolish as arguing
with a drunkard." Dorothy wasn't ignorant, but just
afraid that her neighborhood was going to pot.
I wish I'd known just the right thing to say to
her, but a little voice told me to say nothing. Our
friendship never regained its strength, and perhaps
she knew why.We saw no more signs of marijuana, and
we said nothing to our son. I don't know if we handled
the situation in the right way, but I felt that it had been
our turn to get the tap on the shoulder. I shudder to
think what might have happened if we had not pulled
"the weed" from our garden.+
Daughter, continued from jJage 8
Anna groped for the words.
Courage failed. "Listen, Mom, I, 1just
want to be here this year."
"To establish your own tradi­tions.
So you've said." Anger
changed gears to sarcasm. "Well,
fine, do what you want. It's nothing
to me.Just what do you expect me
to do with all that extra food? Just
tell me that."
Anna felt the muscles on her
brow bunch against the palm
where she rested her head.All what
food? "Mom, 1 don't eat that much.
You shouldn't have a bunch of left­overs
just...."Anna's spine straight­ened
against her chair. Her own
voice sharpened.
"Mom, who else did you invite
to Thanksgiving dinner?"
"If you aren't going to be here, 1
don't see why you'd care." Her
mom paused a beat, two beats,
wanting Anna to beg to be told.
Anna kept silent, her own anger
simmering. Momma broke fIrst this
time.
"You remember Ritchie
Kendall?" BeforeAnna could say yea
or nay, Mom went on. "He's
divorced. Louise left him and those
three darling children of his. Daddy
and 1invited them to dinner and he
said he'd be glad to come if it
meant he got to see you." Momma
purely simpered as she spoke.
Anna closed her dropped jaw
and spoke slowly into the phone.
"You invited Ritchie Kendall,
whom 1 haven't seen in what, ten?
Twelve years? To Thanksgiving din­ner,
with his children?"
Anna knuckled her temple with
her right fIst, disbelieving the nerve
of the woman who had borne her
and thinking as her stomach took a
rapid elevator ride to the bottom,
oh, shit, here she goes again, trying
to fix me up with anything with a
penis in his pants. She fought to
keep her voice even.
"Mom, 1 never liked Ritchie in
high school, and 1 certainly don't
imagine I'll like him any better if
he's looking for a built-in nanny to
rear his three children for him."
And, she added to herself,1 doubt if
Anna shivered. Mom's tone
was getting sharper. Tell her,
Anna's own Inner vOIce
demanded. Tell her why you
don't want to come home. Tell
her why you want to be here.
he'd like seeing me again if 1 told
him who and what 1 am.
Momma switched tactics. "I ran
into him at the market. He seems so
lonely and those poor little chil­dren.
It's so hard for a man to raise
children alone. You have no com­passion.
1 have never understood
you,Anna Elizabeth.
Oh, God, Anna prayed silently,
help me.Anna Elizabeth. Full name.
Full treatment. Mentally she braced
herself.
"You just really enjoy making
my life miserable, don't you? Why
can't you be like other girls and set­tle
down? Don't 1 have a reason­able
expectation that my only
daughter will produce grandchil­dren
during my lifetime?"
Zing. And there it was, the
Grandma gambit.
"I don't enjoy making your life
miserable. I'm only 25 and... "
Momma was in Sherman tank
mode now, rolling over anything
Anna tried to say." ...and then mov­ing
half way across the country to
live in California. All those people
do out there is surf, smoke dope,
and collect welfare. As if 1 didn't
know you moved just to avoid hav­ing
to come over for Sunday dinner
with Daddy and me each week. For
all 1 know, you're using dope, too."
She paused to inhale. "Well, are
you?"
Anna sighed. Momma would
probably rather have a druggie
daughter than a Lesbian.
"No, 1 don't do dope. I'm not
going to be there for Thanksgiving
this year. I, I'll call you Thursday... "
"Don't bother yourself with us.
Just carryon with those important,
personal traditions you seem to
need so badly."
Click. Momma's end of the line
became a mechanical bleat.
Anna hung up the phone slow­ly.
"You didn't tell her." The sopra­no
voice gave Anna shivers along
her spine.
Anna looked up from the
phone. Cindy stood in the door­way.
Tall, slender, a blonde
California girl with a tan you could
only get outdoors.
"I told her I'm not coming
home for Thanksgiving." Anna gave
the statement like a religious offer­ing.
"You said you were going to
come out, to stop living a lie."
Cindy's voice had a sharp edge and
her mouth turned down at the cor­ners.
The door snapped shut as Cindy
left. Anna gave her head a tiny
shake. She had never noticed
before how much Cindy's mouth
was like Momma's.+
T a v e e r 2 o o 3
Kimberly Day
Honorable mention poetry
ln FelTblngerl
I watched from my balcony
as you pushed the gate
open with your knee.
Your white helmet tucked
beneath your elbow
- gloves inside and black.
Keys dangled from your mouth
as you swung off your sunglasses.
Too dark for that day.
Sky gray, cool 50°.
I watched you, you know
as you passed through
the steel garden gate.
I watched your fingers,
too long for themselves,
reach over carefully to
lift the latch from the inside.
Quiet, so not to wake bma,
not mine, someone else's,
in the apartment below.
from all I have had to deal with. My life
will never be the same, but I can make
it better by showing everyone that I
can make it in life. I am a new person
with a new attitude. I fully reaHze that
if I did not take responsibility for my
actions then I would have been worse
off in the end. Being in the position I
am in is truly a blessing. I have so much
potential to make it in life, and I know
that, no matter what obstacles I face,
there are people who believe I will
succeed. Most importantly, I believe I
will succeed.+
AutuTI1.n
dant to the term of four years in the
Arizona Department of Corrections for
the charge ofArmed Robbery and four
years of probation to be run consecu­tively
after his release from prison.The
other charge of Kidnapping has been
dismissed with prejudice, meaning it
cannot be brought back up again in a
court of law." I felt I had been given a
second chance even though I had to
go to prison for four years, and, deep
down, I know I was very fortunate.
In conclusion, this whole ordeal
was brought upon because of a stupid
mistake I made, but I have learned
No Win, continued from page 19
believe I had such a racist group of
people trying to convict me. He reas­sured
me that he would be there for
me... to fight for me, and be fair with
me. Throughout the whole proceed­ings,
the lines were drawn by both
sides. I was a troublemaker who
deserved no leniency, but my lawyer
said I had made a mistake. I was young
and deserved another chance since
this was my first offense. It was a bat­tle;
however, the both of us felt we
were losing. In the end, all we could do
was put it in the judge's hands,
because the final decision belonged to
her.
Finally, the big day arrived, and I
was scheduled for sentencing. The
prosecutor requested a prison term of
eight years and my lawyer requested
four years. At the sentencing, I got the
chance to plead my case along with all
the family support and letters I
received on my behalf. I told them that
J had made a mistake and I was
extremely sorry for it. I was not a bad
kid; my parents had raised me right.
Nothing can change the crime I
committed, and I was ready to take
responsibility for my actions. I did the
crime so I knew I would have to "do
the time."AIl I asked was that they take
everything J said into account and not
turn their back on me.Then the prose­cutor
pled her case, stating that for the
crime I committed J deserve the maxi­mum
sentence of eight years. Maybe
that time in prison would do me some
good, and I could reflect on my
actions. The judge gave us a thirty­minute
recess so she could make a
decision since neither side could come
up with an agreement for a sentence.
After a half-hour of me being on the
verge of a nervous breakdown, the
judge came out with her decision. We
all rose in anticipation as she read the
sentence to be handed down. "In the
case of Paul Delgado vs. the State of
Arizona, J hereby sentence the defen-
April Huggins
Whisper
Gelatin silver print
First place photography
Not so gray as your
nylon running suit
with the pants too short.
Elastic hugged four inches
above your ankles. And white socks.
White running shoes. Not so new.
You wouldn't wear that here,
But in Germany, it's not so important
if your pants are too short.
I don't think.
I watched you, you know
As your legs moved long
across the pebble paved walkway.
Towards me. Through the garden
as it began to fade to olive.
Not brown. Not yet.
The birds were whispering.
Or maybe they were gone. Or hiding.
They won't tell her you were there.
I don't think.
I watched you put your key
in the downstairs door.
I gave it to you
the day I moved in. Remember?
I was waiting for the furniture
to arrive and you went for food.
I fell asleep. You woke ama that day
with your banging on the door.
You thought I was dead, or hurt.
I don't know.
But you made me give you a key
after the landlord let you in.
After ama stopped yelling
"Der Schokoladenman ist zu laut!"
Don't be so loud, chocolate man.
Now you have a key.
Don't look up.
I don't want you to see
how much I love you.
Rebecca Kennedy
748 James Place
Watercolor
Connie M. Wilcox
77th Century Obi (African King)
Ceramic
Second place sculpture
Traveler 2003
Credits
Uterorv Editors Mandv O'Dell and Nicole Robbins
Judges:
Poetrv: Renee Borstack. Morilvn Schiedat and Dan McClav
Fiction: Bettv Hufford. MorV LeskovskV and Pat Haas
Nan·fictian: Kate O"Hehrir. Lorrv Bohlender and Freddie
Antilla
Student Literorv Readers: BeckV Gorcia. Alexandria Monores.
Danielle Pope and Michael Salazor
Communitv Readers: Marion Ekholm and Ruben Miranda
Facultv Readers: Casev Furlong and Johnnie Clemens MaV
Uterarv Facultv Advisors: CaseV Furlong. Johnnie Clemens MaV
and JoV Wingerskv
Visual Arts Jurors:
Communitv Juror: Gregorv Sale. Arizona Commission on
the Arts
Student Jurors: Dianne Brin. Corol Smith. Craig Wactor
Facultv Juror: Dean K Terasaki
Graphic Designer: Dean K. Terasaki
Photographv Craig Wactor
Digital Production: Craig Wactor and James "Lou" Culpepper
Visual Arts Facultv Advisors: Pam Hall and Dean K. Terasaki
Special thanks to: Bettv Hufford; R J. Merrill; Dawn MeVer. our
tVpist and technical advisor; Connie Greenwell: Peggie
Murillo; and Sherrie McClendon
Oaks
Caleb Ramsey
Third place poetry
I wonder how you are.
Even after all this time
You don't seem that far away
But exist as echoes:
Through my body, you writhe.
Many months that should pass still remain
As leaves turn towards the ground.
After fall's cold rain brings color change
The silence is felt as sound
Filling hollow space between acorns
Ricocheting, and snapping branches.
Frigid air is painful in storms
And the world provided us few chances.
The hollows within
The long fibrous chambers
Quickly fill. Now frozen
Moments, unraveling amber
Colors inside begin
Disclosing there:
Haloed by the moonlight,
And snow powdered, your face.
The maddening brightness
Of your smile mocks and disgraces
Me as if while walking alone
In the cold damp air
You were grown.
Arising from dumb stares,
You bloomed.
Sherri McClendon
Passages
Watercolor
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