"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 2007

              Circle Game
by Kathleen Moody
Acrylic Painting
Spec PS508.C6 T73 2007 v.40
Traveler (Glendale, Ariz.)
JY 22 '08
Traveler 2007
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302
623-845-3000
2007 Glendale Community College
Reproductions of literary and artistic works may
not be reproduced without written consent of the
author/artist.
My Relic - My Past
by John V. Aragon
Ceramics
3rd Place
Volume 40
Untitled
by Wesley Zuber
Ceramics
1st Place
e o c en s
A God in Trees
Anthony Valle
Invisble House
First place Vickie Joyner
Cover
5
Computer Art
Cover Art
A God in Trees
Anthony Valle
Inkjet print
Fiction Poetry
6 The Big Swing 4 Queen of Sun City Sidewalk
First place Beth Drechsel Frances Thomas
24 Windfall 5 Death on Flora Drive
Second place Maneesha Lele Honorable mention Frances Thomas
46 The Order 13 Poodle Kisses
Honorable mention Greg Mummaw Third place Lori Wilkey
50 Red 23 Death is a Denim Jacket
Third place Sally Jacka First place Beth Drechsel
29 Exit 11
Non-Fiction Greg Mummaw
14 Independence 34 Camera Eye
John Haaheim
Third place Susan Bennett
16 Perfect 40 The Poetry Reading
Second place Karleen McNichols
Honorable mention Beth Drechsel
31 A Slow Death Ceramics First place Peggy Finch
37 Enlightened 1 Untitled
Second place Beth Drechsel First place Wesley Zuber
1 My Relic - My Past
Drama Third place John V. Aragon
24 Raku Vase 18 Orleanne the Refugee Second place Arti Goulatia
Second place Valentine Pierce
36 Authorities of Conscience 49 Sphere #15
Martine Cloud
First place Diayn Day 54 Sphere #11
Honorable mention Martine Cloud
2 Traveler 2007
v r
Linear Thought
Betsy A. Van Antwerp
Genesis
Wesley Zuber
Mr. Orange
Jennifer Shelley
Miner's Camp
Jeffrey Paul Necker
San Francisco
Will Lee Khoo
Friday's Manicure
Genie MacArthur
The Night Before
Genie MacArthur
Ignoble
Napoleon Manigbas
Black
Sean Mackey
el cafe
M. Regan Swaine
Untitled
Jon Blair
Letterhead
Elizabeth A. Everson
Cured of Cancer
Lindsey Raybon
French Quarter Street
Elizabeth A. Everson Inside back cover
First place
Sculpture
36 First place
39 Honorable mention
55
Photography
11
15
17
29 Second place
30
40 Third place
42 Honorable mention
45 Honorable mention
50 Honorable mention
56 Honorable mention
Black Pearls
Veronica Aguilar
I Want You
David Martin Morgan
Identity vs. Self
1. J. Ahnlund
Stoddart Homage
Gavin Cunningham
Feathers Found
Ellie McBride
Gasoline Alley
Bill Bearden
The Hood Unseen
Larry Valencia
Lazin
Betsy A. Van Antwerp
Studying #1
Jonathan Lam
New York
Jessica Santiago
Downtown Jazz
Dennis Croasdale
Sting
Adis Cajic
Welcome to Our House
Edwards Dennis
Circle Game
Kathleen Moody
Portrait of the Allen Family
Charissa Gutierrez
#14
Katherine Wilcox
First place
Second place
Honorable mention
Honorable mention
Third place
Back cover
4
6
12
18
22
33
35
Inside front cover
Drawing
9
14 First place
21 Honorable mention
27 Third place
41
47 Honorable mention
53 Second place
Glendale Community College 3
The Queen of Sun City Sidewalks
by Frances Thomas
Portrait of the Allen Family
by Charissa Gutierrez
Oil
1st Place
Autumn in Sun City where all summer, like birds
they picked at toast, alone in pale kitchens.
Now they emerge one by one, ancient
waddlers on walkers and canes, these ladies
scrape the sidewalk at sun-up.
Slow, deliberate, pained.
She barrels toward them, hot breath steamy,
her ears lick the morning wind.
"Praline!" The ladies call her, eight pounds squealy
caramel hair, beneath it somewhere
a dog on the move. They adore her, suffer
the slimy tongue, prowling, pointed nose.
4 Traveler 2007
Excited she pees, barely misses their shoes.
Praline, their sunny sidewalk queen.
In the shelter of old women
face to furrowed face, each has a name.
Addie, Maisie, Gladys, Marie-aglow, all belong,
heart to neck to crinkled paper skin.
They flock and gather.
The ceremony ends when Praline has had enough.
She inspects sidewalk cracks, gravel, dirt.
Remnants of rabbit fur, bird wings,
what the earth has left.
Death on Flora Drive
by Frances Thomas
Honorable Mention
Cars arrive, private and sudden
as bougainvillea bloom near the drive.
Defeated by the weight of her difficult life
still, our neighbor cannot let go. I know her
from dog-walk days, the way
she yanked and yelled them down the block.
Now they lie atop her bed, night watchmen
through the final dark.
When cars roll off I cross the divide.
Slow-witted servant, I rub her feet. Dense
clawed nails, bunions, overripe with care­husband
long gone, a son gone to war.
Invisible House
by Vickie Joyner
Inkjet Print
1st Place
Blinded, her daughter soon alone.
The blooms of Flora Drive grow flawed up close,
one uneven, one torn, one chewed near the edge.
I stand at the gate, awed by the weight of it,
what earth summons from some of its own.
Today cars return as her hard life withers.
In each breath the chest twines, then free- falls
through its latticework of ribs. It climbs
once more while across the street
I gather my own life. Imperfect flower
from seed it rises, blooms, sustains, yields.
#14
by Katherine Wilcox
Acrylic
2nd Place
The Big Swing
by Beth Drechsel
1st Place
A thin, small boy with the face and shape of a wizened old man sits under the cool of a cottonwood tree. He
leans back against the rough bark of the trunk, panting like a dog as he wills his heart rate down. Thump, thump,
swish. Thump, thump, swish. He watches the other kids, his hand brushing damp tufts of hair away from his
flushed forehead, pushing his black-framed glasses up his slippery nose.
He knows the rhythm. How they boost themselves on to the top of the old dented washing machine and
stand, legs splayed, reaching out over the deep ravine to grab the rope. How they time it just right, hopping on to
the wooden seat, straddling it with their legs and launching their bodies high and far out over the dry creek bed.
How they shriek in delight, flying free on the arm of The Watchman.
6 Traveler 2007
Looking up
into the tree he
catches the last
of the dance
through the
autumn leaves.
That's what they call the gnarled, old cottonwood,
"The Watchman:' As long as they can remember it's
been standing sentinel there across from the garbage
dump, with a huge leafy canopy and roots buried deep,
sucking up moisture from the creek bottom.
Swinging is a yearly tradition in the little town of
Grason Creek, taking place in that between-season
stage when the threat of summer flash-floods is over
and the leaves on the trees are turning, and the winter
snows haven't arrived yet leaving the stream bed dry
and soft with a foot or two of sifting sand.
The Big Swing hangs from the tree, attached by
rope to a stout branch reaching out like
an arm parallel to the ravine. A little
above The Watchman is the battered,
rusted washing machine, the name
KENMORE faded but still readable
on the display panel. It squats almost
at the top of the ravine, wedged tight
in the side of the steep slope. With
much sweat and muscle power it was
retrieved from the dump, tumbled and
dragged, pulled and pushed to this
location. The lid was then opened and
the inside tub packed to the brim with dirt. Solid, firm.
With the lid shut it's an ideal launching pad.
Not that Mouse would know since he hasn't done it
yet. But he knows the rhythm and he knows the rules.
Like how the swing mustn't be used without supervi­sion
from Mr. Thomas, the 8th grade teacher-though
someone always manages to get around that. And how
it can't be used in bad weather or at night-that one
gets broken, too. And the reason behind the rule that
no one younger than fifth grade is allowed to swing
is because little kids can't handle the strong kick. It's
the kick rule that has messed Mouse over. It's galling
that he's past the age of his classmates when they first
swung.
It's not fair! The broken beat of his heart works
overtime, pumping energy right out of his tissues, leav­ing
him sucking air; skin pale, lips and fingernails blue.
When he was born the doctor took one look at him­the
tiny bones wrapped in translucent gray skin, the
hairless scalp, the frail, squeaky cry-and announced
that he looked and sounded like a mouse. Other than
his mom, hardly anyone remembers his real name,
William Rupert Merwin James. Just as well.
"Hey, Mouse, think you'll ever swing?" It's Susan,
surrounded by a knot of classmates standing in line
below him on the slope. She's younger than him, a real
loudmouth, big-boned and strong, been swinging for a
year.
"Mommy won't let you?" she taunts.
Mouse's heart speeds up. His cola-colored eyes
glare at her through the lenses on his nose, then look
away.
Each year Mouse gets his hopes up. Each year he
is determined to swing. Each year Mom nips it in the
bud.
First she tells him swinging on the Big Swing
doesn't prove anything. He doesn't need to swing to be
loved by her. Duh.
Then she reminds him of what
the doctor says, "That swing would
definitely be overdoing it, Billi'
Finally she terrorizes with
images of him swinging, getting
lightheaded, passing out, losing his
grip from the kick, falling ... Okay
Mom, okay!
Susan snorts, taps her fore-head
mockingly, "Are you in there
somewhere?" Flouncing her broad
shoulders confidently, she singsongs
to the other kids in a loud voice, "Mommy won't let
him swing!"
Sometimes in the pounding heat of his thoughts he
calls her Satan. Not that he'd say it out loud, of course.
He yanks his feelings in, wraps them up tight in his
gut with the twines of "I don't care:' But the yearning
to swing squeezes him like lungs gasping.
That swing is something. Kids do get hurt on it
now and again. Last year Mr. Thomas got sidetracked
just as a couple girls, gabbing and not paying attention,
cut across underneath. At the same moment some­one
catapulted off the washing machine and into the
air. Mouse squealed a warning. Too late. Dang, that
was some collision! Just scrapes and bruises but a lot
of tears and drama. And the year Susan first swung
Alfred McCoy standing up on the seat couldn't handle
the kick, fell and broke his leg, the bone slicing right
through the skin. Mouse saw the whole bloody thing
sitting there under the old tree.
***
The Watchman presses its thick rough furrows to
the boy's knuckled spine. Mouse snuggles in closer,
hugs his blue-jeaned knees against the chill oflate af­ternoon.
He hunches deeper into the thick of his cable­knit
sweater, pulls his green-striped knit cap tighter
around the red lobes of his ears, shivers.
Glendale Community College 7
He hears Mr. Thomas reassuring a new swinger.
He watches as that someone younger than him climbs
the climb, swings the swing. Passes on to bigger, better,
higher things.
On the other side of the ravine a gust ofwind sud­denly
rises, hits the creek bed, carries loose sand up
into the sky. Mouse sees the dirty wall advancing, hears
the exaggerated screams of the kids in line as it engulfs
them. He shuts his eyes against the sting and covers his
head with his arms. The violent rustle storms through
the branches above, raining sticks and leaves. And then
it passes.
Looking up into the tree he catches the last of the
dance through the autumn leaves. He brushes grit off
his clothes, takes off his cap and picks out the twigs,
lifts one of the brilliant yellow-gold crisps from the
ground.
The other kids are telling war stories: how bad the
sand stung, how much is in their hair. See? Scraping
it out of their ears, rubbing their eyes. The loudmouth
wins. She always wins. She blows it all out of propor­tion,
how in the wild flurry she got knocked halfway
down the slope. "Oh my gosh! I about died!" The oth­ers
laugh. Regroup.
The next in line steps up. Mouse feels the rhythm;
the thump of the kid's boost against the washing ma­chine,
the thump of the legs pushing off, the swish of
the swing cutting through the air.
It's getting colder. He wants to go home, curl up
in the soft Pendleton blanket by the fire, start the new
Hardy Boys book Mom bought him. But he waits for
the line to dwindle out and for Mr. Thomas to take the
stand on top of the KENMORE. Mouse knows exactly
how it will be. The teacher will hurl himself on to the
seat and soar out in the grandest of swings, throwing
back his crew-cut head, whooping it up. The biggest
and best of them all.
Mouse waits. He flutters the leaf at his face, twirls
it, sniffs the scent of falling.
***
Dark shadows like liquid spill out from the base of
the home's foundation, down the front steps and across
the yard, seep through the chain link fence and reach
for the gravel of the street. A brisk wind snatches puffs
ofwood smoke from the brick of the rooftop chimney,
draws the curling scent around and around. Chill nips
at the house, settles in close.
She hears the gate whine open, knows who it is by
the light clank of the hinges as it closes. She hears the
slight drag of his shoes up the front porch, his steps a
slow shuffle across the weathered wooden planks. The
storm door grates as it opens, the stick of the inner
door loosens.
She hollers, "Shut it hard!"
The sound of his feet pass the living room with its
warm fire and the book on the lap of the easy chair. As
he enters the kitchen she turns, smiling a smile as big
as the ties of the brown gingham apron straining her
ample waist. Her hair is pulled back tight with a blue
flowered scarf and she swats at an escaping tendril with
the vegetable peeler held loose in her fingers.
"Hi Mom:' he says, stripping off the wool cap and
sweater, and throwing both halfheartedly toward one
of the turquoise vinyl counter stools. He misses.
Rolling her eyes at him she nods toward a pot at
the front of the stove, "There's hot chocolate:' She skins
the last of the carrots and tosses it into the pressure
cooker on the back burner. She wipes her hands on her
apron. "We're having pot roast for dinner:' she says.
Nodding wearily Mouse opens the refrigerator
door and reaches in for a cream soda.
"There's hot chocolate:' she says again. "Why don't
you go read your new adventure story?"
He ignores her, puts the cold can against the
clammy skin of his forehead. His breath relaxes.
She notes the breathing, the slow movements, the
slope of his shoulders. Her good mood tips. She snips,
"Why do you keep going down there?"
Heavy-handed she fits the cover to the pressure
cooker holding in the mix of what's what. She lines up
the long black plastic handles, secures them with silver
clip, adjusts the valve on the lid. Steam sputters.
He turns his back. Sliding open the utensil drawer,
he rummages inside looking for the can opener. He
finds it, puts the point into the tin, pushes. The metal
gives in a perfect triangle, the amber liquid releases in
a fizz.
He walks around the counter. She humphs and
shuts the gaping utensil drawer. He kicks the wad of
sweater and cap at his feet, sits his butt down firm on
the stool. He swigs deep from the can, savors the cold
sweet boost.
"Well?" She leans over to grab a dishcloth from the
sink, reaches for the garbage pail. She doesn't look at
him.
"Leave me alone!" he warns, voice taut.
'Tm just asking you a simple question:'
"S'ImpIe?."
"It is simple:' Her words pull at him, keeping time
with the pulls of the dishcloth as she sweeps vegetable
peels off the counter and into the garbage pail at her
1l:eet, "Yiou...can't ... swm. g.I"
"Who says?" he challenges, the words edged with
red.
"You know what the doctor said:'
"It's MY life:'
Whap! She slaps the counter with the flat of her
hand. Her head snaps up, her face darkens. "Oh, Billy,
grow up! You have to accept the way things are:'
Rage explodes through his mouth, "I don't! I
don't!" His eyes fix on her form, the vein at his throat
beats full. He throws the soda can, missing her bulk by
a hairsbreadth and hitting the front of the sink, vomit-
Sting
by Adis Cajic
Graphite
ing soda over her, the cabinets, the linoleum floor. "I
am NOT a little boy!"
"Billy!" she chokes.
He stumbles off the stool, pushes fiercely out of the
walls of the room. He slams both doors hard, shutting
her up in the house as tightly as he shut her mouth
with his words.
She needs to go after him but her legs are trem­bling.
She tries to call out to him but her voice is throt­tled.
Her breath hiccups in fear. With her hands clutch­ing
at the counter, she hauls her dead weight around
the end and sinks onto the stool he had been sitting on.
She buries her face in the embrace of her own flesh.
The look on his face. His anger. Why? Why is he
treating her like an adversary? Always she has been his
source of comfort and protection. Always she's wanted
what's best for him. From his birth she's held him close
like soda safe in the round of the can.
***
It's not a day like other days. Sitting at their desks,
distracted minds and bodies turn anxious eyes to look
out the high classroom windows at the thick and threat
of low clouds, and the tug of a new season. When the
dismissal bell finally rings their feet fly from the school
grounds, scattering dusty gray gravel down the street,
racing past the town dump with its smells of rotten­ness
and burning, and up the slope of the ravine to
get in line, to get in as many swings as possible before
time runs out. Soon, very soon now, Mr. Thomas will
climb up the trunk of The Watchman and out on to the
branch to cut through the constrictor hitch knot that
has tightly secured the Big Swing.
By the time Mouse shows up most kids are on the
go-around. Instead of sitting with The Watchman he
gets in line on the steep of the embankment, its path
packed firm from the shoes of countless feet, countless
days.
"What do you think you're doing?" Susan jeers.
'Tm in line;' he says, eyes steady, jaw set.
"For what?"
"To swing:'
The unwavering answer unnerves her. Folding her
arms across her chest, Susan glares at him. But she is
the first to break gaze. The other kids see it. A ner­vous,
expectant silence makes its way down the line. A
silence broken only by the swish of the swing.
Mouse flutters the stiff from his fingers, blows on
them. He wishes he had brought his gloves. He stamps
the freeze from his feet, curls and uncurls his toes. His
blood trying to warm him sends heartthrobs through
his flannel shirt, his sweater, his winter jacket.
Glendale Community College 9
When he finally stands next to the washing ma­chine,
Mr. Thomas looks at him with a question mark
face.
"It's my turn;' Mouse says.
Mr. Thomas hesitates, "Does your Mom know
you're here?"
Mom? They've hardly spoken since he stormed out
of the kitchen yesterday. He sat by the woodpile at the
side of the house until the fire of his fuming subsided
and reality froze all the way to his bones.
"She knows:'
"Well, okay:'
Before Mr. Thomas can change his mind Mouse,
on tiptoe, reaches up with his hands. His fingers grab
the top of the old washer, his forearms scrape along the
frame. He plants his elbows on the lip, scoots his knees
up the machine's screeching side wall and attempts to
haul the burden of his body to the top. The beats of his
heart and the bulk of his clothing fight against him.
With a gasp he forces his leaden chest over the top.
He lays there with the metal like a block of ice against
his cheek, his green woolen skull filled with ragged
wheezing, his legs sticking out straight and awkward.
He closes his eyes, just for a second.
Suddenly the realization that he's on top of the
washing machine, on top of the ravine, on top of the
world, grows into a grin. He widens his eyes. The
sound of cheers erupts, washes over him, tumbles him
inside out, "All right!" "Mouse, Mouse, Mouse!"
"Catch your breath;' Mr. Thomas says.
Eagerness peering through the black-framed win­dows
on his nose, Mouse pulls in his legs, gets to his
feet. Under his sneakers the metal lid burps, quakes his
knees. Only a step either way and he'll be falling. He
takes off his bulky jacket, hands it to Mr. Thomas. He
looks down the embankment, sees the drop-off steep
and frightening. He shudders in the cold, and from the
effort of getting there, and the apprehension of getting
off.
"Heads up!" Alfred McCoy yells, standing below
and tossing the rope toward him. Mouse reaches, lean­ing
precariously out over the abyss. His hand misses
the rope and the wooden seat bumps hard against his
thighs. Whump! He steadies his legs. Another throw.
Another miss. Dang it! Everyone is shouting at him
now; advice, instructions, encouragement.
He breathes in deep, focuses on the movement of
the swing. The pumping of his heart drowns out the
voices like the roar of a flash flood. He hears and feels
only the thump, thump, swish rhythm. Sees only the
pine-board knotted on the end of the rope swinging
toward him. He reaches.
The coil, stiff like braided straw, slaps into his
palms. He grabs tight. His legs leap out, clasping
around the rope, slapping his butt into the seat. He's
on. He's out. Away! Then up!
His heart pounding hard and fast, his vision wisps.
He's lightheaded. And he's soaring higher, higher. Then
the kick, plunging down, down. The stress on his arms
and legs tears at the grasp of his fingers and thighs.
The gray fog hovering at the periphery of his vision
rushes to engulf him, the sound of air sucking. He sees
his mother's face in full clarity, hears her voice loud in
the strangling of his blood, "BILLY!"
His stomach dropping, falling. Muscles clenching
tighter. Hanging. Hanging on.
Then up in the back swing. His vision clearing he
throws back his head in glad exuberance. He feels the
caress, sees the bare, leafless branches-like bony fin­gers-
grasping a welcome from heavy cloud. He's high
above Alfred McCoy, Mr. Thomas, Susan. Everyone!
He's free on the arm of The Watchman.
"Woohoo!" Mouse shrieks. Each swing lesser than
the last. Momentum slowing, slowing. His childhood
passing with each pass.
Swish.
Miner's Camp
by Jeffrey Paul Necker
Inkjet Print
....
Black Pearls
by Veronica Aguilar
Watercolor
12 Traveler 2007
Poodle Kisses
by Lori Wilkey
3rd Place
Grandma, grey and withered,
sits in a tattered, over-stuffed easy chair.
Her arthritic hands absent-mindedly
bent around a ball of yarn.
Curled up in her lap are two black poodles,
enjoying the warmth of her body.
Confusing images from television assault her senses.
The program feels familiar,
she must have seen it before, but she cannot remember.
Reruns are the only thing on.
lt doesn't matter,
she can't recall seeing any of the shows anyway.
Slowly, she rises to her feet.
Tiny dogs tumble softly to the floor.
She ambles to the kitchen area in this tiny travel trailer,
the fifth wheel parked in our drive, her last home.
Spies a bowl of fruit:
apples, bananas, and oranges,
All fruit she likes-she thinks.
Wonders who put them there.
Extends her aged and contractured hand,
hesitantly takes a banana and peels it instinctively.
Bites the soft fruit,
wrinkes her finicky nose and
spits the mush onto the counter.
She doesn't try to eat the apple,
recognizes that without her teeth she cannot chew it.
When did she last see her teeth?
She doesn't know,
an hour is a minute is a day is a second is a year,
is eternity.
Grandma casts her gaze about,
looking for something she likes.
Briefly, she remembers that she only likes
oatmeal, which she doesn't know how to make, and
homemade cinnamon rolls.
Rummages through cabinets, refrigerator, and freezer,
searches for the tasty treats.
Her mouth waters as she contemplates
the sticky, gooey sweetness.
Finally finds them.
As she walks back to her chair,
the dogs follow at her heels with anticipation.
She settles back, getting comfortable,
enormous cinnamon roll in hand,
dogs in her lap, waiting.
She begins to nibble,
samples the doughy dessert and sighs with pleasure.
The roll is still warm from the morning.
Someone made these for her,
she doesn't know who.
Her fingers become sticky with sugary frosting.
Not knowing what to do, she rubs her hands over the
dogs,
trying to get them clean.
Her hands don't feel right,
they aren't clean,
doesn't know how to clean them.
A dog's tongue sneaks a lick from her hands,
kisses them clean.
Grandma looks down and cries.
Glendale Community College 13
Welcome to Our House
by Edward Dennis
Graphite
1st Place
INDEPENDENCE
by Susan Bennett
2nd Place
When I arrived at my mother's house late that night, my grand­father
was already asleep. According to my mother, he'd had a de­bilitating
stroke while he and my parents were on vacation together,
a journey that had taken him back to visit his older brother. I could
just make out his form's shadow in the guest bedroom. Unable to
picture him as incapacitated, I chose to believe he would be fine and
launched into a rapturous description of the date from which I had
just returned. Mom listened and laughed with me, her good humor
reassuring me that everything was normal.
14 Traveler 2007
Early the next morning, when I heard
the door to his room open and saw the
light on in the bathroom, I nearly called
out to him. Afraid I'd wake the rest of the
house, I stayed quiet and soon drifted
back into my dreams.
A few hours later, my mother in­formed
me that he would have to live with
her and my father from now on.
"He won't like that, Mom. He doesn't
want to be a burden to anyone:' Having
shared his home for the last two years­not
as a caretaker but as a roommate-I
knew he prided himself on his indepen­dence.
"He won't be a burden. He's my father,
for goodness sake. I'm supposed to take
care of him!" She told me he had begged
her to let him go home the night before,
but, deciding that he couldn't care for
himself, she had refused to allow him
to leave. "Can't Susan help me?" he had
asked. No, she had answered him and I
wasn't there to disagree.
His relationship with my mother had
always been strained-the understand­able
result of his alcoholism. While he
had been sober more than thirty years,
she had never fully forgiven him for her
childhood, sixteen years of emotional and
physical abuse that she could not forget.
He was not the same man who raised her,
though. He had been a violent drunk,
doling out blunt brutality; he was now
a talented photographer, creating visual
artistry. Where he once spewed streams of
profanity, he now recited poetry by rote.
That morning, sitting on her bed, I
told her I wanted to take him home. He
had rescued me once, during an ugly
divorce; now, it was my turn to return the
favor. "If we can't manage, then we'll talk
about what his other options are:'
"That's just not practical. You have
your own life to lead. You've just started
dating again. You shouldn't be bogged
.
I
down by an invalid:' My mind refused to make the
connection between my grandfather and the word "in­valid:'
He could walk circles around me-invalids don't
walk. He could out-think me in any debate-invalids
don't talk. He had a razor-sharp wit that could cut to
the bone-invalids don't smirk. I couldn't think of a
response. My eyes drifting toward the clock, I said, "It's
nearly nine. Shouldn't we be getting breakfast ready?"
She agreed, asking my father to help my grand­father
out of bed. I remember the rap- rap- rap on the
guestroom door. "John?" I heard my father call out as
he entered the room.
Deep in my soul, I knew what was coming next.
"John!" My father, dashing to the kitchen and
grabbing a knife to cut the rope that had strangled
the life from my grandfather hours before, yelled,
"Call 9-1-1!" I think my mother was screaming,
though the voice I still hear echoing in my memory
could have been my own.
My grandfather had told me. He had told me that
he wouldn't be around forever. He had told me that
he wouldn't be a burden. Suicide, he had told me, was
better.
San Francisco
by Will Lee Khoo
Inkjet Print
Perfect
by Beth Drechsel
Honorable Mention
Like most little girls I dreamed of Prince Charm­ing.
The tall, dark, and handsome man dressed
in velvets and silks who would fall passionately in love
with me. He'd relentlessly pursue me, pledge his troth,
and ultimately kneel to slip a precious jewel on my fin­ger
and ask for my hand in marriage. He'd be dazzled
by my beauty. I'd be dazzled by the jewelry.
When I finally found the man I preferred above all
others, he was tall and physically pleasing, but that's
about where the similarities ended.
The one thing he did have was passion. A passion
for life, a passion for truth and goodness and beauty.
Passion with a capital P. In fact, it seemed to me that
he was defined by many words starting with the letter
P. He worked at his parents' print shop as a pressman,
had a private pilot's license, and did landscape photog­raphy
as a hobby. He had personality and purity. And
was he ever polite-he asked before he kissed me the
first time! His name even started with a P. Oh, and he
dressed atrociously in pee-colored t-shirts with Cess­nas
and Pipers flying across the chest. Obviously not
free with the pennies when it came to clothing. Too
bad the word rich doesn't start with the letter P.
So I didn't get the rich. But then I'm not particu­larly
beautiful, either. He says I'm pretty, though.
I think the primary reason he chose me was be­cause
I simply liked to be with him enjoying life's
pleasures, usually out-of-doors. Unlike the prissy girls
he knew, I wasn't petrified of nature. And I didn't mind
actually perspiring now and then. Throw in the fact
that I made great picnic lunches and was the first girl
who wasn't embarrassed to be seen riding in his faded
blue Datsun pickup truck. Best of all when I felt the
urge, but there wasn't a public potty around, I could
plop my posterior behind a bush or a tree and not be
mortified. What more could a man want?
It all started in a pew on a hot Phoenix Sunday
morning when he made a point of climbing over the
paramour at my right to squeeze in on my left. As
the first hymn trilled, he whispered that he was plan­ning
an afternoon photography trip to Globe. I spent
16 Traveler 2007
the next hour inattentive to the preaching, privately
petitioning for all I was worth, "Please let him ask me,
please let him ask me!"
When the service wrapped up it didn't look like my
prayers would be answered. My preoccupied prince
began making his way out, oblivious to my plight.
Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to say,
"Have a good time:'
He turned, asked politely, "Would you like to
come.("Umm, yeah.
I call it our first date. He insists that for all practi­cal
purposes it couldn't be called a real date, which is
probably true since it turned out to be an eleven hour
trip, much of it in a hair plastering rain without um­brellas.
The next date was a night walk to an ice-cream
parlor and a trip into a pothole which fractured two
bones on my right foot. In my opinion, that wasn't
much of a date either.
I suppose neither of us could pinpoint when our
first real date was. We didn't have a whole lot of pocket
money so we rarely did the prescribed dinner and
movie thing, and when it came to spending time to­gether
we just weren't particular. Besides the weekend
picnics we spent most evenings at my place with a jig­saw
puzzle and takeout from Tokyo Express, and talk,
talk, talk. Or at his bachelor pad perched on the edge
of the couch, eating cheap bean burritos and more
talk, talk, talk. Or (don't tell my kids this) a blanket
laid out on the grass in the park, without much talking
at all-more than once those pressed lips were parted
by spraying lawn sprinklers.
The night he popped the question it was me that
was on bended knee. We were at his apartment, he
feeling poorly and laying pathetic on the couch, his
face the color of one of those putrid t-shirts. I knelt on
the floor next to him, my hand placed compassion­ately
on his brow. His eyes pale, his mouth fighting the
puke, he blurted, "What would you say if I asked you
to marry me?"
"WHAT?"
He repeated the question, and I repeated the answer.
Friday's Manicure
by Genie MacArthur
Color Coupler Print
Then I added, "Are you serious?"
"Yes:'
I, pressing, "Are you sure?"
He was peevish now, not in the best of moods,
"YES!"
So I said yes.
It certainly wasn't the most imaginative or roman­tic
of proposals. But that night I drove home with my
heart palpitating with joy, my hands pounding the
steering wheel in excitement, and my lips proclaiming
the provocative words, 'Tm engaged! I'm engaged!"
A pinch to me. I picked out a little solitaire for my
petite hand, and I wore it with a large pride.
When we started perusing jewelry stores for a dia-mond,
I knew he couldn't afford much but I discovered
that it didn't matter A few Sundays later were back in
the church pew. From the pulpit the pastor announced
there was a new wedding engagement. People weren't
expecting it to be us; perplexed eyes surveyed the pos­sibilities,
passed right over. When we stood up as the
promised couple, the expressions were priceless. Not
surprising since we'd only been dating six weeks! I sup­pose
some of our peers thought we'd proceeded way
too fast.
We certainly hadn't followed the script. It wasn't
even close to my plan, and I'm positive he never had
one. But it seems we got the P's down pat. We were
married on, of all things, St. Patrick's Day.
Glendale Community College 17
Orleanne the Refugee
by Valentine Pierce
2nd Place
Roles:
Wordsmith
Lexiconer
Definer
IG=Individuals/Groups
IG 1 - Refugee
IG 2 - Evacuee
IG 3 - Victim
IG 4 - Survivor
IG 5 - Internally Displaced Person
Hyphenated Americans
OtR (Orleanne the Refugee)
Start with 5 individuals or groups ofpeople in the aisles
of the theater. Individuals/Groups (IG) startfrom left to
right in turn walking angrily up the aisles to the stage
shouting in an accusatory tone (In the style of "Row row
row your boat")'
Meanwhile, OtR sits on the stage with one small bag
of belongings, a bottle ofwater, a bag ofchips, dressed
ratty, combing wild hair and reciting Amazing Grace as
apoem.
Each IG walks past and shouts its particular word. The
groups cross each other on the stage and they move into
the wings. OtR looks into the faces of the people as they
shout at her and continues reciting the poem until they
have all moved into the wings.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.
T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.
I Want You
by David Martin Morgan
Acrylic & Oil
Honorable Mention
18
Through many dangers, toils and snares
We have already come.
T'was Grace that brought us safe thus far
And Grace will lead us home.
When we've been here ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Then when we've first begun.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.
OtR: Refugee, that's me, spinning, spinning, trapped
in the eye wall of a category five governmental night­mare.
No land to claim, no home of the free, land of
the brave for me. I am a refugee, third world New
Orleanian, hopeless, hungry, jobless, homeless, that's
me, refugee, but not really because honest-to-goodness
refugees aren't stranded on American soil. They get a
hand up. I, on the other hand, am left empty handed.
Wonder if I'll get repatriated, resettled into my home­land.
Yeah, refugee, that's me and mine, exiled to all
fifty states and still not safe.
From the wings three other voices speak in resounding
voices:
Wordsmith: Refugee
Lexiconer: As defined by Webster's New World Order
Handbook for the Humanization of Humans Living on
the Verge of Annihilation.
Definer: The Immigration and Nationality Act defines
refugee as: Any person who is outside any country of
such person's nationality or, in the case of a person
having no nationality, is outside any country in which
such person last habitually resided, and who is unable
or unwilling to return to, and is unable or unwilling to
avail himself or herself of the protection of, that coun­try
because of persecution or a well-founded fear of
persecution on account of race, religion, nationality,
membership in a particular social group, or political
opinion.
OtR: Evacuee, that's me. Running from the threat of
impending doom, from hell and high water. It's un­presidential-
I mean, unprecedented-in my lifetime.
Genocide, or is it ethnic cleansing or is it -hell, don't
ask me to label it. I'm too busy trying to keep my head
above water, making my quick but orderly stroll to
my appointed place in case that alarm ringing in my
ears isn't a false one. Fire drill, bomb threat, homeland
security preparedness test for evacuees, yeah, that's me.
Wordsmith: Evacuee
Lexiconer: As defined by Webster's New World Order
Handbook for the Humanization of Humans Living on
the Verge of Annihilation.
Definer: Is a person who has been evacuated from a
dangerous place, usually ahead of the disaster, not five
days after.
OtR: Helpless victim, yeah. That's me. Bushwhacked,
bamboozled, beat back, reneged upon. Pushed down,
foot on my neck, calling itself disaster relief. (OtR
laughs) What an oxymoron. Shame me, on the pre­tense
of helping me. Categorize me, on the pretense of
Genocide, or is it ethnic cleansing
or is it -hell, don't ask me to label it.
helping me. Victimize me and call it Katrina, or Rita,
or Wilma or an Act of God or retribution. Call it any­thing
but its name. Shame on you for bringing shame
on me. I guess I should have been a republican.
Wordsmith: Victim
Lexiconer: As defined by Webster's New World Order
Handbook for the Humanization of Humans Living on
the Verge of Annihilation.
Definer: Is an unfortunate person who suffers from
some adverse circumstance, one who is harmed by or
made to suffer from an act, circumstance, agency, or
condition. Such people, generally, are tricked, swin­dIed,
or taken advantage of. They are readily deceived
or victimized, particularly as a result of their confi­dence
in and blind loyalty to others whose duty it is
to protect them against enemies and natural disasters
both foreign and domestic.
Wordsmith: And let us not forget the unforgettable
victim-blaming.
Glendale Community College 19
Lexiconer: As defined by Webster's New World Order
Handbook for the Humanization of Humans Living
on the Verge of Annihilation.
Definer: Is holding victims wholly or partly respon­sible
for misfortunes. The theory is that a prospective
victim should know and acknowledge either human
nature or other facts of life when making decisions.
Victim-blaming does not simply imply that the per­petrator
behaved recklessly, but that the victim should
take responsibility for the perpetrator of the crime
(a.k.a. disgrace). It also applies to people who become
victims of accidents, natural disasters, or other per­sonal
misfortunes. Commentators blame the victims
of these misfortunes for not succeeding in preventing
or overcoming their misfortune.
OtR: Survivor, ah yes. That's me. I bet it makes you
think we somehow magically became empowered after
Katrina, huh? As though we had no inkling of our
own strength, no instinct for survival until someone
labeled us. Truth is, we know how to fend for our­selves
because we have long been in the trenches of
poverty, fighting an indefatigable foe-our own Uncle
Sam, who would rather see us starve to death than
teach us to fish. Who would watch us drown and pre­tend
he didn't know we couldn't swim in these rapids.
Women on the left; men on the right. Hmmm! Sounds
oddly reminiscent of... no, let's not play the race card.
What children? Missing, exploited? How could that
be? Where did that wild dog come from? Nah man,
that's not a body. He's just sleeping. You know they can
sleep anywhere, even 90-degree heat. Survivor. Yeah,
that's me.
Wordsmith: Survivor
Lexiconer: As defined by Webster's New World Order
Handbook for the Humanization of Humans Living
on the Verge of Annihilation.
Definer: Is one who lives through affliction, survives
in spite of adversity, outlives another.
OtR: Internally displaced person. Oh, that must be
me. Unlike a full-fledged refugee, my protection is
tenuous at best. Internally displaced. Replaced by
someone who may soon become me. Their less-than­prevailing-
wage lifestyle affords them a full-size tent
and only two tent mates (They are WO.P., without
papers, you see? Shh! Don't tell them I told you; they
could lose their jobs.) Those living even higher on the
hog's hoof manage to rent the few livable places left for
three times the national average. They furnish their
new residences with what remains ofmy life-clothes,
20 Traveler 2007
books, family picture frames. Things the landlord
threw out and trash collector has yet to pick up. IDP.
That must be me.
Wordsmith: Internally displaced person.
Lexiconer: As defined by Webster's New World Order
Handbook for the Humanization of Humans Living
on the Verge of Annihilation.
Definer: The Office of the United Nations High
Commissioner for Human Rights defines internally
displaced persons as "those who have been forced
or obliged to flee or to leave their homes or places of
habitual residence, in particular as a result of or in
order to avoid the effects of armed conflict, situations
of generalized violence, violations of human rights or
natural or human-made disasters, and who have not
crossed an internationally recognized border:'
OtR: American? Not me! Maybe that's you. Taking
in my children, bypassing the red tape of ignorance
to house me, feed me, cry with me, attempt to under­stand
my misery. Claiming me as one of your own, not
letting me stand alone against insurmountable odds.
Maybe, someday, I can be like you.
Wordsmith: American citizen
Lexiconer: As defined by Webster's New World Order
Handbook for the Humanization of Humans Living
on the Verge of Annihilation.
Definer: Is a native or naturalized individual who
owes allegiance to a government (as of a state or na­tion)
and is entitled to the enjoyment of governmental
protection and to the exercise of civil rights. Under the
Fourteenth Amendment, "all persons born or natural­ized
in the United States, and subject to the jurisdic­tion
thereof, are citizens of the United States and of
the state wherein they reside:'
Next, a Hyphenated American walks onto the stage
behind OtR, holding the American flag vertically so that
the blue field is in his or her left hand. This person states
his "name," i.e. American Italian.
The second Hyphenated American walks onto the stage
and rotates the flag so it is right side up and states his
or her name. The third Hyphenated American walks up
and holds the flag in the center top and states his or her
name. One by one Hyphenated Americans all come to
stand behind the flag, holding a piece of it if they can,
until everyone is on the stage.
People should "name" themselves something other than
their true culture, i.e., an Asian-American could name
his or herselfAmerican Latino.
American Hispanic
American French
American African
American Canadian
American Irish
American Cajun Latino
American German Creole
American Native
American Haitian
American Chinese
American Japanese
American Italian
After the last person comes and states his or
her name, OtR stands, put her right hand
over her chest. Hyphenated Americans
(shout in unison): "American."
OtR states: "Period:'
The Hood Unseen
by Larry Valencia
Mixed Media
Honorable Mention
Identity ys. Self
by T. J. Ahnlund
Acrylic
Honorable Mention
22 Traveler 2007
Death
by Beth Drechsel
1st Place
•
IS a Denim Jacket
Death is a denim jacket.
Free of rips and tears, lightly worn.
Devoid of spirit, hanging on cold gray of metal rod.
Discarded.
That's why it's at a thrift store.
My son tries it on, turns toward me.
The jacket breathes and lives, takes on vibrant personality.
A few days later he lays it out on the table,
places bulky patches;
Alice Cooper, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Motor Head.
He explains that heavy metal music is a genre
with roots in mixed blues and rock, and classical.
He pins them on blue cotton,
patches; stiff and hard, black and dark.
Classic style.
I liked it better when it was all blue.
The biggest patch, the cover of the Iron Maiden Killers album,
has blood red letters,
a skeleton with haunting death mask.
My son positions it on the back of the jacket,
the only place it will fit.
Death stalking, eyes burning holes in your back.
A merciless morbidity walking everywhere with this son of mine,
so beautiful, so alive.
He smiles, "Oh Mom, it's just a jean jackef'
But I know things he doesn't know.
Like how sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.
My mother's middle name was Jean.
A killer struck her, the grandmother he never knew;
the artist, her lovely face bright with intelligence and creativity.
She wanted to live, she fought to live.
Death lunges and laughs as you bleed.
And I know the patch reminds me of the last days of my kind, good father.
His once strong body shrunken,
the thin skin stretched grotesquely over the bones.
A corpse, not yet a corpse, laying on a borrowed bed.
Eyes beseeching.
Weakening gasps seeking sustenance,
silent screams for solace.
Horror of all horrors, there was none to give.
The blood lust ofdeath leaves you no room to run.
My son was near
when he passed.
"I hardly knew him;' he admits.
Death touching the fringes,
threading its way through the blue.
Stitching tight, keeping almost out of sight.
At his back.
Glendale Community College 23
/
by Maneesha Lele
2nd Place
I awoke with a start, my mouth parched, my lips
parted in a cry of soundless terror. My heart was
pounding, my breathing sounded ragged. My throat
felt choked from the cry of help that it could not yield.
Clammy sheets prevented flight. I watched helplessly as
my shadowy demon retuned to join his formless com­panions
on the empty wall ahead, flickering in grim
farewell until the next time.
It was then that I heard it again. The unmistakable
thump-thump of an urgent fist against the front door.
It was all but drowned out by the rain's steady drum­beat
on the roof. The summons brooked no refusal.
I groaned inwardly. It felt like I had only just closed
my eyes. What a night to have an emergency. With
my luck, it would be for someone miles away, in hard
labor, the family having waited till the very last minute
to fetch me. Groggily, I groped my way downstairs,
the rough walls of the old house giving me a stony
strength. I shivered in spite of the coarse woolen shawl
I had hastily thrown around myself and the strong
whiff of kerosene from the swaying lantern made my
nose curl. I curse aloud as I knocked my shin along
the protruding curve of the banister that lurked at the
bottom of the stairs, in wait of unsuspecting victims. It
was the third time it had got me that day. I wondered if
it were a sign. Now wide awake, I determinedly ig­nored
the painful spot and limped the rest of the way
down the passage.
The heavy wooden door creaked open and the
flame in the lantern hissed and sputtered as an icy
blast sliced cleanly through me. I gasped, clutching my
shawl closer and peering into the darkness. Suddenly,
clear as day, lightning blazed, momentarily revealing
the disparate threesome huddling on the porch. The
night closed in around us, save for the lantern that I
now held high. Its frail pool of light lent an eerie glow
to the faces before me.
One man, two women. No marauders. Good. I did
not need to ask who the patient was. The thrusting
24 Traveler 2007
Raku Vase
by Arti Goulatia
Ceramic
2nd Place
stomach of the petite figure draped in the drenched,
solitary, gunnysack, told its own tale. Her eyes, shad­owed
at first, caught on the shawl, then furtively met
mine in a swift appeal approaching desperation. She
slumped against the wooden porch pillar for support,
dwarfed by the man at her side. He was simply dressed
in the typical local garb of white kurta-pajama that
now clung, muddied, to his wiry frame. The deeply
etched lines scoring the bronzed young face spoke of
hours of backbreaking labor in the sun, coaxing crop
out of a temperamental earth. The hard, peasant's life
exacted its price. On his other side stood a lady of
disquieting directness. I got the distinct feeling I was
being sized up. I opened the door wider. Still, no one
moved.
«Well, don't just stand there, come inside;' I bel­lowed,
competing with the next loud clap of thunder.
I stood well back to let them in and extinguished the
lamp. I wouldn't need it tonight.
«She's been on her back since the day before yes­terday
without much progress;' said the man without
preamble, guiding the girl onto the chair just inside
the door. "Our farm's near flooded. We couldn't get
word out to the doctor, so we came instead:' He looked
past me, searching. "Is he out?" he asked. He looked
resigned, as if he wouldn't be surprised were he to
be turned away even now, after having tramped and
squelched through mile upon slushy mile of dissolving
rural road just to get here. Almost certainly having car­ried
his wife part of the way.
I took a deep breath. "I am the doctor:' I said
quietly, but firmly. Looking straight at him, I pressed
my palms together in the traditional Indian greeting.
"Namaste, my name is Dr. Durga Godbole. And this is
my assistant, Parvati:' I gestured towards the staunch
matron at my side.
He wiped his own hands quickly down his shirt­front
before mimicking an awkward greeting in reply.
"Namaste, I'm Krishna:' was all he said, but it was
enough for me to detect a mixture of surprise, dismay
and just a little admiration. I understood why.
We lived in a charming valley surrounded by lush,
cloud-draped hills. With its azure skies and sea, it was
the epitome of peace and beauty. But heavy monsoons
changed everything. Frequent storms lashed the dis­trict.
Days of unrelenting rain held court and fog, like a
dense blanket, settled over everything. It was no place
for the faint hearted. Even in this modern world.
I placed a gentle hand on the young woman's head.
"What's your name?" I asked. She had begun to shiver.
"Tara:' she said with a quick smile, her trusting
brown eyes meeting mine and brightening. Indicat­ing
the older lady, whose gaze had never once wavered
from my face, she said, "This is my mother-in-law,
Laxmi:'
I nodded to Laxmi, then turned to help Tara pry off
the jute covering now dripping puddles on the floor. I
flung it into the large discolored plastic pail that stood
in the corner next to the shoe rack. Its steel handle had
broken long ago; the once perfectly circular edge now
almost elliptical, with cracks like varicosities running
down its sides. Then I draped my shawl around Tara.
In my experience, it was best to establish some
things early on. Like who was in charge. From the
long cupboard that lined the opposite wall, I took out
a white coat, which I slipped on and buttoned up with
smooth, practiced movements. Then, rather deliberate­ly,
I snapped the stethoscope around my neck. Symbols
like these could be invaluable. Especially when holding
your own as a woman. I summoned a confident smile
and squared my shoulders.
Krishna had left his mud caked sandals by the door
and awaited further direction.
"Parvati:' I said, "please tell the cook to boil all the
water in the big drum. Ask her to bring dry cl9thes
and hot, ginger tea, extra sweet. Then join me in the
surgery:' I turned to Krishna and his mother, indicat­ing
the plump vinyl covered chairs. "Please sit down
and make yourselves comfortable. I'll speak with you
both as soon as I've examined her:' I sensed that the
firm hand I placed on Laxmi's shoulder quelled her
burgeoning protests.
My calm, authoritative manner belied a rising
panic. I was thinking furiously, weighing my chances
of success. If the storm caused a power outage, it would
be a tricky business. The autoclave wouldn't work. The
pressure cooker could be substituted to sterilize the
instruments, but might lead to blunting. Replacements
were expensive and hard to come by. If the water pump
didn't work either, we would simply have to use well
water. Krishna would come in handy. But, most impor­tantly,
it was the physical examination that would chart
our course. It would probably tell me more than the
poor girl could. Or may be willing to.
I led Tara along the long passage that ran from the
outside waiting room to the surgery and I could almost
feel the relief that surged through her. We went straight
into the surgery where the trusty Parvati was already
waiting with tea.
"Tara:' I said, smiling, "I can't have you catching a
cold. So we're going to replace your wet clothes with a
gown:'
As the girl sipped the restoring tea, Parvati deftly
unraveled the cloying folds of her wet sari, gently wip­ing
the damp skin beneath with a mixture of antiseptic
and spirit. Then she slipped the soft flannel nightgown
over Tara's head.
"Try and sit up here:' I encouraged the hesitant
girl, patting the cotton mattress that would buffer her
from the cold hard steel beneath. "We're going to take a
quick look, but there's nothing to be afraid of'
Tara, shivering again, leaned gratefully against
the support, her eyes half closing. It was clear that she
lacked the strength to hoist herself up. Parvata and I
exchanged glances. It was a wonder she had made it
this far at all. It was vital that she preserve her energy
to push when the time came. Working as one we lifted
the frail but awkwardly bulky body on to the mat­tress.
As I reached for the pulse, Parvati covered her
with a fresh sheet and a blanket, all the while uttering
soothing noises and running a practiced eye over the
thin figure. This time, we exchanged smiling glances.
Tara was looking considerably more relaxed. And the
Glendale Community College 25
26
shivering had decreased.
I made a quick assessment. Tara was nearly
asleep. Whether from exhaustion or complica­tion
was what I had to determine. Her blood
pressure was normal and her pulse strong. No
undue swelling. The fetal heartbeat was excel­lent.
Tara's cervix was almost fully dilated and
the fetal head was definitely engaged. It was
a straightforward presentation. Under the
circumstances, I doubted if she would have
noticed her water breaking. True labor would
begin in a matter of minutes. And thereafter,
if Tara could pull through, not long before we
were blessed with the miracle of new life. Later,
I was fairly certain that a hot meal and undis­turbed
rest would work their usual magic. Not
to mention the power of pure elation. Outside,
the heavens continued to flail their torrential
whip.
I assumed the kind but professional man­ner
we had mastered as medical students. Its
power, even over burly, belligerent young men
in the trauma ward, after a night of hard drink­ing
and score-settling, had never ceased to
amaze me. It worked every time. Now was no
exception.
"It's not your first then?" I said. It was more
a statement than a question. Stretch marks
were a reliable giveaway.
Tara shook her head. Her eyes, now wide
open, followed me closely for a reaction.
"She... she was weak... tiny... she didn't even
cry:' Her voice trailed away and I drew my
breath in sharply. Somewhere in my head,
alarm bells jangled in violent discord. So, it
had been a girl. I felt my temper rising. After
all, I thought irrationally, I had been named for
the goddess that rode tigers and stuck spears
into the hearts of tyrants.
I forced the detached clinician in me to
the forefront. "Did you hold or even see your
baby.("
She shook her head mutely but her eyes
welled up as a look of bitter defeat settled
on her young features for a long moment,
lending them an uncharacteristic harshness.
She looked away quickly, almost guiltily. As if
afraid of inadvertently revealing something.
"Did Krishna see her?" I prodded further.
Again, the mute head shake. On her face, I
recognized pity, then resignation in quick suc­cession.
But the softness had crept back in.
"Don't worry about anything:' I said.
"Everything's going to be fine. You're going
to have a beautiful healthy baby. And you're
not going home till you're both out of danger.
That's a promise:'
And it was as if I had uttered the magic
words. From that moment on, it seemed like
our troubles were over. Tara relaxed, mar­shaled
her forces and pushed like there was
no tomorrow. Parvati and I swung into action
like a well-oiled machine, as we had done
countless times before. Soon, I was handing
an ecstatic Tara the slimy, wrinkled, wail-ing
bundle. The afterbirth emerged cleanly,
healthy and whole. Now I was ecstatic. Out­side
the dawn was breaking. The storm had
abated. This child is auspicious, I thought.
I returned to the waiting room where
Krishna was pacing. He turned to me eagerly,
all smiles.
"I heard the cry. How is she? Has she..."
he asked, unable to quite form the words.
I laughed. "Congratulations. It's a healthy
baby girl:' I said, trying to keep the note of
triumph out ofmy voice.
Tenderness flooded Krishna's face, but I
had noticed that Laxmi sat down abruptly.
She looked cheated. Her mouth twisted un­pleasantly.
"She needs to stay here for a few days, be­cause
she's still quite weak. You can certainly
spend a few minutes, but thereafter, it's best if
she's left to rest:'
Krishna hurried out and I turned to face
Laxmi. She advanced slowly, one hand on her
hip, massaging her ample girth. The slight
waggle of her jaw told me a wad of chew-ing
tobacco was being settled into a favorite
and familiar spot behind the lower lip. I was about to
launch into the evils of that particular habit, but de­cided
against it. First things first. There would be time
to save the world later.
"I had seven children;' Laxmi said, "all boys but
one. They were no trouble at all. Just popped right out:'
The casual tone belied a certain belligerence, a
complaint that the worthless needy Tara had to be
pampered and cosseted, merely to bring a child to life.
A girl child at that.
"Krishna's first wife died and he finally remarried:'
She sniffed and tossed her head. "He was heartbroken.
Almost had to be forced into it. But he's unlucky;' she
Lazin
by Betsy A. Van Antwerp
Ink/Ink Wash
3rd Place
continued, ''Always gets the weak ones. Tara's first child
died, you know. It was a girl, of course. So, we left ev­erything
to come here and..." She shrugged.
1 bristled and the bells in my head jangled. It was
time to slay the dragon. I drew a long slow breath. "I
hear the sentence for female infanticide is up to a year
nowadays. Not to mention stiff fines:'
Laxmi looked up, started, and her eyes narrowed.
"What's she been telling you?" she asked.
"Nothing;' I said shortly, "she doesn't have to:' The
fact that they had gone to such trouble over the unborn
child of the poor, half dead Tara told me quite clearly
that they believed this one was a male child.
Glendale Community College 27
28
"Did she tell you she had a checkup in the
first trimester because of spotting? Over at the
big hospital?" Laxmi asked, slyly.
It was my turn to look surprised. If she had,
Tara had omitted that bit. It didn't make sense.
A couple of doctors in the government hospital
in the big city had quite a reputation for help­ing
to get rid of unwanted babies. Especially
girl babies. The ultrasound test, performed os­tensibly
to confirm normal fetal development,
could also be used as a deadly gender screening
too. So how had Tara escaped?
"She seemed healthy enough then, but she
kept complaining of pain. And spotting. Insist��ing
that she be taken to the hospital, to be seen
by a doctor. And our Krishna's such a gullible
fool. So afraid that he would lose her. It was
he who took her for the first checkup:' She
stopped abruptly.
There was a lull as the truth dawned on
both of us. So, both Tara and Krishna had
known all along that it was a girl. Fearing the
worst, they had lied to his family. And ensured
that Tara was far from horne when the little one
was born. Now that, was love. My fatigue fell
away.
Laxmi's eyes flashed malevolently. "What
kind of doctors are you people anyway?" she
hissed angrily. ''Adding to poor people's trou­bles.
This isn't the end of it, you know, there
are consumer courts:' Her voice began to rise
shrilly, "Your reputations are easily ruined.
You'll hear from us:'
I rose and took down an old policeman's
cap from the top of the cupboard, where it
sat next to medals for bravery. I held the cap
between us. "My police friends will be very
concerned that some such thing is going on
right under their noses. In fact, maybe you'll be
hearing from us:' I said.
Laxmi was still ranting on, "One more
mouth to feed. The burden of dowry. Who's
going to pay it? You??" she spat expertly, the
tobacco mixed with slaked lime and betel nut
making an angry crimson streak on the newly
whitewashed wall of the humble waiting room.
"If you're so enamored of her, you can keep
her. And raise the child. And pay the dowri'
I smiled as I showed Laxmi out. Except for
the dowry part, that was just what I intended
to do. I put the cap back. My father would be
so proud of me.
It was now two months since that fate­ful
night. Tara, still with us, helped in the
clinic. Krishna stayed more and more often.
I thought about shy Gopal, our trusted fruit
and vegetable vendor. Last Tuesday, on his
routine weekly visit, Gopal had asked Parvati
to call me into the kitchen.
"You know I always go to the temple on
Tuesdays. And I bring some sacred offering.
Today, I have something special which I think
is meant for you:'
We were unprepared for the package he
unwrapped. Swaddled in layers of old cloth
and newspapers was a little baby. She lay
among some fragrant incense sticks, a small
dab of vermillion and a few yellowed grains of
rice nestling in her hair. On her tiny puckered
forehead, someone had carefully inscribed
the word "Om" in thick sandalwood paste.
A brand new elephant god locket, fashioned
from cheap, shiny metal, was fastened loosely
around her birdlike arm to ward off evil,
as though whoever had placed it there had
spent some time making their peace with the
Almighty. This was definitely a first. We called
her "Mukti:' for freedom. I knew Tara would
be delighted. She had more than enough milk
for both.
As I dragged my weary self back upstairs,
yawning loudly and running a soothing hand
over aching, grainy eyes, Kahlil Gibran's im­mortal
words floated unbidden to my mind.
"Your children are not your children, but
the result of life's longing for itself"... or some­thing
to that effect.
Smiling, I stretched out luxuriously. The
relentless pounding at my temples had reced­ed
to a dull knocking.
Maybe tonight there'd be no nightmares.
The Night Before
by Genie MacArthur
Photography
2nd Place
11: 10, A Saturday night,
Rain pouring light
In my car
Door ajar
In post-storm twilight
My drive began in the rains
A signal as I changed lanes
Glanced in the mirror
Couldn't have seen her
A left turn before the trains
by Greg Mummaw
Drifted to a stop
Past me blew a cop
Though braked in terror
My correction was without error
I noticed her then in the mirror up top
She'd reached her destination
An intersection of death and damnation
Out of my car she stepped
My soul she might have kept
I smiled to her with a sense of liberation
Foot to the brake lightly
Applied awfully
Steered in terror
As my car drifted on air
In the backseat she sat, laughing softly
She had set her trap carefully
But not for me
She blew me a kiss
And looked with a sense of bliss
As to say wait patiently
Glendale Community College 29
Ignoble
Napoleon Manigbas
Silver Gelatin
30 Traveler 2007
He could have held a rattle at three months,
splashed in a pool at twelve months, walked
in the park at fifteen months, and played in the sand­box
at two. But he will never do any of these things. He
will never get to do them because he is losing the fight
of his life to get out of his mother's womb.
For the past four hours his mother has been
hooked up to a fetal monitor in the labor and deliv­ery
area of a hospital in New Jersey. Passage down the
birth canal takes longer for the mother's first baby.
"The fetal monitor doesn't show anything unusual:'
said the doctor. I was inexperienced in reading this
equipment, so I needed to trust the doctor's judgment.
I was in the delivery room at about six in the
morning, getting the mother ready to deliver her first
baby boy. She was anxious and excited. I was a bit
nervous and on edge because the baby was in a breach
position. This means that the feet are going to come
out first, and the head will come out last. To make me
even more apprehensive, it was the first time I had a
father in the delivery room. I had to tell him where he
could stand, what he couldn't touch, and remind him
of a dozen minor things.
As soon as I got the mother into position with a
tray underneath her buttocks, the baby literally slid out
on his own, but only up to his neck. It was then that
the horror started to unfold.
Here I was with a new baby struggling his way out
of the birth canal. A sense of panic descended on me.
My stomach dropped and I hoped against hope that
this baby would continue to fight.
The doctor was ten feet away washing his hands
and I kept saying, "Hurry up! The baby's out except for
the head:'
"I'm coming. I'm coming:' he said to me. The doc­tor
could see the baby was flinging his arms and his
little hands. Fingers that begged, "Help, help, I can't
breathe:' Little fists that went up and down, waved fast,
and then slow, as if wanting to hit whatever or whom-eat
by Peggy Finch
1st Place
ever was holding him up. He rammed the air like a
boxer, thrusting crosswise with clenched fists, possess­ing
all the vigor, momentum, and wallop of a deter­mined
protege.
The doctor came into the delivery room and
thought he could get the baby's head to slide out easily.
But that was not the case.
The doctor tried to pull and twist. It seemed like
there was a tug of war. As hard as he tried, he could not
get the baby's head out. He started yelling at the anes­thesiologist
to "put her under deeper:' which meant
that he wanted to put the mother under heavier seda­tion.
The father was standing four feet away, unable to
do anything but watch. His eyes and face were filled
with tension. He could not understand what was going
on. His brain finally began to register what his heart
did not want to believe.
The doctor yelled at me to get the father "out of
here!" I quickly put my arm around the dad's shoulder
and led him towards the hall. I went right back into the
delivery room, and as I looked up, I saw the father star­ing
into the room through the glass wall. His eyes were
starting to water as the pain of the battle took hold in
his heart.
The mother was deeply sedated and resting on her
back. The doctor said that he hoped this would relax
the muscles of the cervix: enough to free the baby. She
was completely unaware of the nightmare that she was
about to encounter.
Meanwhile, the baby continued his fight. His little
balled up fists punched at the air like he was a shadow
boxer. Unable to breathe, he vigorously hit the air in
fast, fierce, and frantic movements. His legs pulled up
towards his chest and his feet kicked as if to ward off
an attacker. Unable to gain an inch, his body twisted
and squirmed. He rolled from right to left, determined
to free himself from his unseen opponent. Outmatched
more than a lightweight against a heavy weight, his
Glendale Community College 31
tiny clenched hands continued to thrash wildly above
his chest. The soles of his heels pounded away, as
he fought courageously for his life. With his fingers
doubled into the palms of his hands, he pummeled
the air, ready to tear down any obstacle and smash any
opponent. His muscles were taut and his pink skin was
gleaming with sweat from the epic battle for survival.
As the neck of the mother's cervix tightened
further, the baby's abdominal muscles contracted and
pulled his new belly button inwards. His body strug­gled
and intensified its efforts to shimmy his way out
into the world. He trembled and shuddered, winced
and recoiled, rolled and rotated repeatedly, in an effort
to win this fight. But he was shackled and chained,
overwhelmed by a force greater than anyone anticipat­ed.
He was caught in a stranglehold, that was literally
squeezing off his air supply.
As I recall the events of that day, I still cannot
understand why a two hundred pound doctor couldn't
pull a seven pound baby out of his mother's womb.
The mother was positioned with her legs spread
wide and her feet resting in the metal stirrups. The
doctor stood on the floor between her legs while he
grabbed the baby around the shoulders and pulled on
the tiny body numerous times. Unable to free the head,
he looked winded from his efforts and breathed heav­ily.
This was a struggle reminiscent of the match-up
between David and Goliath, and agonizing to watch.
Suddenly the baby's body spasmed involuntarily. It
jerked, stopped, and started again, like an unexpected
convulsion. His limbs lost some of their momentum, as
his body slowly suffocated and the life was snuffed out
of him. After several excruciating moments, his arms
went limp and hung down at his sides. His resilience
was gone, and his little body lay prostrate before me.
Unable to escape the vise-like grip of the womb, he was
denied the right to ever breathe on his own.
He was immobile and unresponsive. There was
no more struggling. His soft flesh was inert. His taut
muscles were no longer straining. They were merely
dormant under the cover of his tender motionless skin.
As I looked down, he appeared like a rag doll with
no head attached. I kept picturing his tiny hands and
fingers outstretched and pleading for help. I could only
imagine how his screams for help were stifled inside
the tunnel of the womb. Fingers that will never know
what it would have been like to grasp the finger of his
mother or feel a snowflake disappear in his hand.
My heart was bursting with pain and my eyes were
burning with tears, while the doctor was still shouting
orders. He yelled to the anesthesiologist to "put her
32 Traveler 2007
under deeper!" He directed me "to set up for a cesar­ean
section!" I complied, even though I just wanted to
get out and escape from the horrific scene. I asked him
what was he thinking of doing, and he bluntly told me
that he likely would have to decapitate the baby in or­der
to save the mother. This declaration froze me in my
tracks. My mouth finally gathered enough movement
to say, "I can't do that:'
"Call the operating room nurses to come down
here immediately:' he retorted.
I panicked with overwhelming terror at what could
soon be happening. Just knowing that another nurse
would be here soon gave me some semblance of relief.
Frightening images of scalpels and buzzing saws acting
as guillotine blades flooded my mind. I didn't want to
watch this much bloodshed, nor did I want to remem­ber
that much pain. I just wanted to run out the door
and get away. It was tortuous being forced to stay in
that room.
I had already called the operator to make an an­nouncement
over the public address system for all
available doctors to come immediately to the labor and
delivery area immediately. Doctors quickly trickled in
one by one, gowned and masked, with anticipation and
hope still in their eyes. One glance around the room
though, and everyone present knew they were witness­ing
the nightmare of a lifetime. People gathered in a
circle, stricken and mesmerized by the unprecedented
chain of events. The intense sense of sadness left al��most
everyone speechless. And still the doctor contin­ued
to try and get the baby's head out as his limp body
hung down like a wilted flower.
Tragically, the father who had been ushered out
of the delivery room was forced to watch the entire
catastrophe unfold through the thick glass wall of the
delivery room. As tears ran down his face, I had to go
put my arms around his shoulders and pull him away.
There were no words of comfort that I could think to
offer, for he had just witnessed his own son fight for his
life and then die within minutes. His pain was almost
unbearable. We walked down the hall to an empty
room and sat on the bed, and let the tears fall. Another
nurse joined us, and we sat in stunned silence. There
were no words in any language that seemed appropri­ate.
We just continued to say 'Tm sorry:' but it came
out weak and feeble.
The baby's head finally came out, but too late to
ever breathe a breath. Another nurse came down the
hall with the baby wrapped in a blanket. She handed
the baby to the father to hold. The silence was heavy
in the room. The baby looked like he was sleeping.
Perfectly formed, his arms and legs were still, and his
chest was still and inert. Robbed of any opportunity to
take a breath, his chance at life was gone forever.
The father sat in silence and in tears as he held the
son whom he would never watch grow up. His anguish
swelled up in his heart as he looked for some explana­tion
to make sense out of all that had just happened.
By now, it was after eight in the morning. I told the
father I had to leave to go home. I was grateful that I
did not have to linger until the mother woke up to hear
the news that her son had died. I was relieved of that
dreadful moment, but unprepared for what was com­ing
next.
In the hall I saw the head of obstetrics. I was hop­ing
for some consolation with my sense of grief.
We approached each other and I asked, "How
could this have happened?" The tears started to form
again and spilled over and down my cheeks. He shook
his head and said that he didn't have an answer. The
hall was quiet. No one was around. Then he looked
away, as if deciding just how much information to give
me. He told me, "Some research suggests that the doc­tor
do a Cesarean section if the baby is in the breach
position, and it's the mother's first babt'
The revelation was extremely upsetting to me.
"The baby could have had a chance, then?" I asked. In
my mind I can picture the doctor lifting the baby out
of the mother's abdomen. In my mind I could hear that
baby cry, and see his feet kick the air with vigor and
enthusiasm. His birth should have been the beginning
of life, not the end of it.
Thirty years later this scene plays out vividly in my
mind. The tears still come as if it were yesterday.
He would have been only a few years younger than
my daughter.
Stoddart Homage
by Gavin Cunningham
Acrylic
1"","('"" " .~ .. 1£,- . \' .
f
34 Traveler 2007
It's that time again,
when camera bags blossom from the closet
and pedestals periscope to tripod length.
Spring has energized Our Father.
Photographic parts mushroom across the floor in random-sprouting heaps.
Pentax, Leica, Bell and Howell, Kodak, and Bolex crouch,
aimed at unsuspecting children.
I am plucked of clothing, stripped to bare skin,
scrubbed and dressed to perfection,
already to be shot in celluloid,
captured in frames and hung to dry in his darkroom.
I sit with little-man pants and jacket, white shirt and neon red bowtie,
Pork-pie hat complete with feather in blue band.
My sister stumbles onto the couch.
We, a matched set,
she in shining shoes, dress, patent leather purse
swinging ominously from her arm,
decorated with white gloves and pillbox hat.
I kick the shining shoes once, twice, three times.
Eyebrows hanging, forehead furrowed, my sister glares. Stop!
The patent purse bestows a becoming-red mark under the pork-pie brim
Our Mother's voice demands from the back room we grow up,
with imprint no less than the purse
we dwindle into the furniture.
When Pentax and Leica are ready, we pose still,
with purse and pork-pie and patent leather and
red marks that don't wash off with spit.
Bolex perches outside, sun staring over the mechanical shoulder,
camera eye trained on us as we squeeze out the door
to trudge down the walk in rehearsed unison.
Hands shade eyes, frowning at the command to smile;
Bolex shoots us in eight-millimeter stride.
Now every few years, when opportunity strikes,
Our Parents trot us out in plastic purity,
projecting our crafted images against their opaque screen.
My sister and I walk anew in jerk-step motion
away from that long-ago home, hand in hand,
red mark faded into yellowed film,
snarling at the camera eye.
Feathers Found
Ellie McBride
Acrylic
3rd Place
Linear Thought
by Betsy A. Van Antwerp
Ceramic, Wood, Metal
1st Place
by Beth Drechsel
2nd Place
The doctor standing in the hallway outside the
examining room lifted the file from the plastic
holder on the back of the door and read the notation.
I heard his footsteps walk away toward the nurse's sta­tion,
but his voice filtered underneath the door as he
queried, "Bambi? Is this woman for real?" I heard them
laugh.
I would have laughed, too, ifmy body didn't hurt
so much. When the doctor returned and opened the
door I managed a grimacing smile. "Yeah;' I said, nod­ding
gingerly, "I'm for rea!:'
He had the grace to look embarrassed, then seeing
my upper left arm, shocked, "What in the world hap­pened?"
* * *
My husband and I had pitched the tent on the west
end of the Mogollon Rim, 65 miles from Payson. The
location was one of our favorites, far off the main high­way
on a winding dirt road-high on a small knoll,
three sides dropping off to a tiny steep-sloped, lush
green valley. It's a location that is isolated, peaceful,
with no neighbors in sight or sound.
We spent the day exploring the area with our two
blond haired, innocent-eyed sons. We built an Indian
hut out of bark and branches. We played knights fight­ing
mock battles, using long sticks to knock each other
off balance on a fallen log. We splashed in the water
of a creek, chased butterflies, and fed squirrels with
cracker crumbs. We hiked to the edge of the rim to see
the spectacular view-the rugged white limestone and
sandstone cliffs dropping off hundreds of feet beneath
us and flowing into endless miles of soft, cushy green
hills butted up to distant blue mountains.
Now we're all tired, but it's still light out and too
early to tuck into our sleeping bags. My husband offers
to start a fire and make the kids hot chocolate. "Why
don't you go spend some time by yourself?"
"Okay!" I agree enthusiastically. "I think I'll go look
for deer:'
Earlier in the day we had seen evidence of their
presence down in the tiny valley. Deer scat, and ferns
the size of my forearm pressed flat where they'd bed­ded
down. I know they will be returning for another
night.
The evening air is chilly. I change from shorts to a
pair of jeans and pull a thick long-sleeved sweatshirt
over my t-shirt. As I lace up my hiking boots my hus­band
sets a flashlight near my hand. "Here, take this
with you:'
"No. I don't need it;' I say.
He insists, "When the sun goes down it gets dark
fasf'
I sigh. I'll take it to please him, but the flashlight
is too big to fit in a pocket and I don't like carrying
anything.
I leave the campsite, stepping carefully down the
hillside on a steep and narrow path. It's muddy and
slippery. Pebbles skitter out from under my boots and
tumble down the slope. Off balance I grab a fistful
of bush and steady my slipping feet. Shoot! With all
this noise I'll scare away every deer within ten miles.
Holding a flashlight in one hand doesn't help matters. I
consider setting it down and going on without it. I can
always pick it up on my way back. But I'm close to the
bottom of the hill now and the muddy trail is level-ing
out. Though the sides are overgrown with bushes
and seedling trees, and the path is tight with clumps of
grass, the way becomes easier. I shift the flashlight to
the other hand and pause to still my breath, to become
as silent as possible to the wildlife I know is nearby.
I set my steps soft and make my way down the trail,
each movement precise and thought out. My eyes scan
Glendale Community College 37
ahead, around the thick of trees and bushes, and up the
sides of the slopes. I see slight movement. Stop. Two
mule deer about 25 yards away! They poise, their large
ears pointed, their dancer's legs quickening. When I
take another step, the deer, with white rumps flashing,
bolt in high stiff-legged jumps, all four feet hitting the
ground together. Gorgeous!
The waning sunlight a shimmering polish on maple
and aspen leaves, and ferns, squeezes out of the tiny
valley. Long shadows are washing in, the darker color
lengthening. Tall ponderosa pines lean close. The air
is cool and moist, the smell of wet black earth rich and
musty. My senses fill with glory.
Moving around a bush the size of a Jeep, I am sud­denly
at arms length from a reddish-tan, dark-eyed
doe. We are so startled we simply stare at each other.
A v-shape, its point centered between the eyes, rises to
her black-tipped ears and gives her a delicate, elegant
look. Her nostrils flicker, the white patch at her throat
quivers, her unblinking eyes fix. Something about that
look frightens me. She takes a step forward. I put my
hand out to stop her. Instead she comes closer and
sniffs the tips of my fingers.
"Hey!" I say, clipped and sharp.
The sound explodes her legs in a bound up the
side of the slope. At about 20 feet she stops and turns
to look at me. I stand still. She stares long and intently,
then puts her muzzle down and begins grazing. She's
so pretty, a gentle creature.
My legs are tired. I think I'll just sit down on the
ground and watch her awhile. I squat.
She's charging down the hill! At me!
My brain struggles to form around what I'm see­ing,
what I'm hearing, what I know. I lean to the right.
Head lowered, the deer butts into my left shoulder. I'm
thrown backward into the mud, the air in my lungs de­flating.
I gasp for breath, flip myself over on the belly,
forearms pushing up.
I've got to get out of here!
Up on my knees, then my feet. Turning to look
over my shoulder, I see my attacker charging again.
She's standing tall on hind legs! I try to get away. But
the raised front hooves, hard like hammer heads, catch
me square between the shoulder blades. I crash to the
ground. As I struggle to get up and run, she wheels
around again and rises up on hind legs. This time the
downward pounding hooves knock stars through the
back ofmy head and with it some sense into my brain.
She's going to kill me.
Changing tactics, I curl tightly into myself like a
turtle drawing in its legs. I fold my arms protectively
38 Traveler 2007
around my head. Hooves like war clubs beat me; blows
on my shoulders and upper arms, my hips, my back,
on the hands clasped behind my head.
My face pressed into wet dirt, I hear each hit
amplified loudly in my skull, the sound ofmy pulse
roaring like a river. I know I'm close to blacking out. In
holy terror, I realize I'm at the brink of death. Oh God,
please don't let my family find my body like this.
The clubbing stops. I don't move. For a moment
there is silence. Then I hear puffs of air whiffle through
the deer's nostrils. She nudges my butt. Whuffs. Sud­denly
moist breath is searching for the pulse at my
neck. My heart beats like a wild thing as I struggle to
rein in the fear. Panting hard, the sound rises louder,
louder. It's me! It's her! It's both of us.
She prods the back of my hand. Thought ignites,
"Flashlighf' My finger finds the switch. The click
catches her by surprise and she leaps away. Instantly
I'm on my knees, flashing the light. She moves up the
hill, stands and looks at me. I drop the flashlight, grab
fistfuls of rocks, sticks, and mud and throw them at
her. The deer retreats.
I'm on my feet, eyes in a swirl, balance off. I must
be hurt. I shout for help but the words my mouth
forms have no sound. A fear on the edge of panic
threatens. Night is coming on fast, I'm three-quarters
of a mile from the campsite, and at any moment I
could be ambushed again.
I stagger up the trail concentrating on taking three
steps forward, trying to call. Taking three steps for­ward,
trying to call. When my throat finally releases,
the sound that comes through is high pitched like
some strange new bird.
It is dusk when I reach the path heading up to the
campsite. On top of the hill the fire's light flickers like a
beacon. And there's my husband, strong and safe, com­ing
down toward me. He shouts, "Is that you making
that noise?"
I form the words and cry out, "I've been attacked
by a deer!"
He laughs, a deep guffaw. But as he gets closer his
expression turns to horror. He grabs my hand, his firm
grasp steadies me the rest of the climb.
In front of the fire the boys stand close to each
other, their forms mere shadows. I don't want them
to see me like this but there's nowhere for them to go,
and there's nowhere for me to hide. Their young eyes
lock on to me. I am covered with mud, and my jeans
and sweatshirt are ripped to shreds. Their sweet faces
recoil, "Mommy!"
I reassure them, "I'm hurt, but I'm going to be
k » o ay.
My husband takes me into the tent and helps me
undress. He speaks to me softly, touches my limbs with
tenderness, and tries to assess the damage. I feel the
pain now; the back of my head is throbbing, and I'm
breathing against a chest of stabs. But we find no obvi­ous
broken bones and no blood. We decide medical
attention can wait until morning.
The cloak of darkness settles low as we gather our
sons into the tent. We are together, we can get through
this. The boys fall asleep wrapped in the security of
bedtime prayers, blankies, and parental presence. My
worried husband and I talk quietly but eventually he,
too, dozes off.
lt is more difficult for me. As each hour passes the
ache in my muscles and bones intensifies. And when
I close my eyes I see and hear the enemy. Every falling
twig, every hooting owl, every shudder of tent fabric
blasts through my senses. My eyes fly open. My heart
gallops in terror. Security has been beaten out of me.
lt is only when the pale moon rises, casting silver
light across the billowed ceiling above me, and down
along the sleeping bag and across my battered arms,
that I find peace. At that moment it seems to me that
light is the best of all gifts; moonlight, daylight, fire­light.
A little flashlight.
***
Daybreak's honeyed light gilds the inside of the
tent. I have been awake for a long time. I am so stiff
and sore I can barely move, but my thoughts make up
for it by carrying me in and out of the attack. I assure
myself that I am safe; the danger for me is over. But I
think of how each day must hold new dangers for the
deer. I wonder what I could have done differently. And
what did I do wrong? I meant no harm, but the doe
didn't know. I was fighting for my life. But so was she.
My husband and sons stir and open their eyes.
They sit up and look at me. In the brightness we
discover that my body has bloomed a reddish purple.
From head to thighs I am covered with bruises and
abrasions. The injuries might have been caused by
any number of things, except for the testimony of one
mark-on my upper left arm the perfect shape of a
deer hoof is branded into the skin like a tattoo.
Genesis
Wesley Zuber
Raku Cermaic
Honorable Mention
Glendale Community College 39
40 Traveler 2007
Black
by Sean Mackey
Inkjet Print
3rd Place
Studying #1
by Jonathan Lam
Charcoal
The
Foetr~
Reading
by Karleen McNichol
2nd Place
Alberto Rios
Much acclaimed.
The room silent,
An audience transported
By tales of tortured youth.
A young boy ashamed
Yet in love
With whom he was
And is.
Alberto Rios
Raised on tamales
And English teas ...
An aberration
Entwined in a family tree
Whose roots struggle
In incompatible soil.
Alberto Rios
His words
An exploration
Of a world in conflict
As seen through the eyes
Of a bewildered child.
el cafe
by M. Reagan Swaine
Silver Print
Honorable Mention
42 Traveler 2007
CC>SC .E CE
by Diayn Day
1st Place
The characters are construction worker, Al Cassini, and social worker, Bob Flynn. The action takes place in a coffee
shop, in the present day. The play opens when two participants from a laboratory experiment meet by chance. Al
enters the coffee shop and sees Bob. Al goes over to him.
Al
Hiya, pal! Don't mean to butt in, but didn't I see you at
that lab deal last week? You sure look familiar. Name's
AI. How's it goin'?
Bob
Good to meet you, AI. Bob Flynn. Have a seat. Yeah,
I was there. Can't say I'm any too proud of it, though.
What'd you think about what happened, AI? I'd like to
hash it out with somebody else who was there. Maybe
get your conclusions, if you don't mind talking to me.
Al
Conclusions? Shoot, I don't have conclusions or nothin'
like that. I was just honored to do it. How many times
does a guy like me get a chance to do somethin' real
important? That was honest-to-God science. That guy
in the white coat? He was from some big think-tank or
something, right? Yeah and he wanted me, Al Cassini,
t'be part of it. He watched me like he thought I was a
real somebody, like I had serious stuff t'say. He even
wrote in a notebook. I saw him do it. I told the guys at
work about it too, you bet I did. They think different
about Cassini now. You can put that in the bank.
Bob
That isn't exactly what I'm getting at, AI. I meant,
what did you think about giving all those shocks to a
stranger? Hurting a guy you didn't know, somebody
who hadn't done anything to you first.
Al
Hey, man, I didn't even think about that. I figured
them guys from that college knew what they was doin:
It was their business. Anyway, I wasn't hurtin' nobody,
not really. Ain't that what they told us at the end? Sure
it was. I was just doin' what they wanted me to do.
That's all I did and no more. That's the best way to get
along, buddy. You do what they tell you to do. You do
the best you can and you don't rock the boat. And, by
God, you let them bigwigs take the rap whenever you
can get away with it. That's what big shots get the big
bucks for, like myoId man always said.
Bob
So you gave your subject the maximum voltage? You
gave the guy as many shocks as you could?
Al
Hell, yeah. You bet. I did my part. Did a first-rate job
too. But I felt kinda bad for the guy in charge, that
professor. The jerk in that chair? He didn't play along at
all. Didn't do a damn thing, couldn't remember squat.
If it wasn't for him getting' everything wrong, things
woulda gone smooth as silk. I held up my end though.
Showed the big boys Cassini knows how t'do what he's
told. You can put that in the bank.
Bob
What do you think would have happened if you'd
Glendale Community College 43
stopped at a lower voltage, AI? If you'd just refused to
keep doing it, stopped giving the shocks, stopped the
experiment. Told them no way.
Al
Now why would I go and do somethin' stupid like
that? That'd make me no better than that guy in the
chair. That was an important experiment, man. We
was workin' together, me and that professor. We was
workin' in science. I wasn't gonna let'em down. Not
Cassini. I was sure sorry at the end when it turned
out we couldn't finish it. Even told the professor I was
sorry, real sorry. But I hauled my weight. You better
believe it. What about you, pal? What'd you do? You
pull the plug, go the whole route or what?
Bob
I hate to say it, I really do, but I went the whole route.
I pumped so much current into that poor sucker
I'm surprised he didn't glow. Honest to God, I still
can't believe I could do anything so reprehensible,
deliberately causing someone pain. Here I am, a guy
who's spent his entire career trying to help people. I
solve problems, I don't cause them. I'm a social worker,
for Christ sake. I make things better for people... or
at least I sure as hell try to. It doesn't always work out,
but at least I try. I have excellent morals, strong ones!
And standards! I've got enlightened, liberal, socially
admirable values. I swear to God I do. I'm a sweet guy.
A few misguided folks even think ofme as an expert in
human behavior. Isn't that a laugh? And what happens
the first time I'm put to the test? I turn some poor
bastard into a lightning rod.
Al
Maybe I ain't got your schoolin', doc, but I think you're
bein' too hard on you. All's I know is when my boss
tells me to walk out on a tenth-floor girder and tighten
a bolt, I do it. No excuses. I don't and I get my ass
kicked here to the bread line.
Bob
Sure you do, AI. You don't want to be fired, so you
do what your boss tells you. It's understandable, even
reasonable, but it's actually fear that makes you do
what you don't want to do. The guy in the white coat
wasn't your boss. You didn't have any reason to be
afraid of him.
Al
Man, you don't get it. That guy was a boss, in a
different kinda way. I knew he couldn't fire me. I wasn't
afraid of him. But I wanted him to think I was doin' a
44 Traveler 2007
good job. He was an important guy, a big professor or
somethin', right? Like myoId man said, it don't hurt
to make a good impression. Besides, we was workin'
together him and me, like I say. He was in charge, but
it was like I was a boss, too, like his partner maybe.
It wasn't my place to change things. I was doin' what
I was supposed to and makin' sure the other guy did
what he was supposed to. 'Cept the creep didn't do it.
Nothin' more or less.
Bob
But is it really that simple, AI? What about thinking for
yourself? Being an individual.
Al
I don't know what you call bein' an individual, doc, but
it don't sound like it puts bread on the table. And I can
think for myself just fine. I think if I punch that SOB
boss of mine in the mouth like he deserves most times,
I'll end up in a jail cell and my kid'll end up livin' in a
box.
Bob
It's ironic, isn't it, AI? We, as a group, as a community,
install a system of laws to prevent us from hurting one
another. Then we abandon not only the law itself, but
the very spirit of the law, the first time someone with
authority tells us to. Somewhere there has to exist a
moral imperative. Why did I obey what amounted to
a sadistic command? Why did I, with my education,
my values, my vocation-especially my vocation­why
would I do something that only an hour before
would have been repugnant to me? Why would I do
something that should have been immoral to me
instinctively? Are we such a product of pack mentality?
Are we so mesmerized by authority that we harm
an innocent person on the instruction or whim of
someone official?
Al
y'know, doc, this is pretty funny. I know pretty much
why I do things. Mostly 'cause I do what the guy in
charge says. MyoId man taught me that real good,
like I taught my kid. But you, with all your high-toned
education, you're sittin' here beatin' yourself up and
you still can't figure out you. That's pretty funny, doc.
Pretty funny.
Bob
I think you've got something there, AI. It is pretty
funny for me to be having what amounts to a moral
crisis after all these years. I've always relied on an
infrastructure of rights and wrongs, learning and
beliefs. It's always been my prop, my support. And
what's left now? A straw crutch, an infrastructure
demolished by a single order in the blink of an eye. No,
AI, that isn't funny. It's frightening. It's like suddenly
learning you have cancer of the spirit.
Al
Hey, doc, lighten up. Relax. Have some more coffee.
Y'know, if you really want my conclusions like you
said, here's what I think. I think schoolin' or no
Untitled
by Jon Blair
Silver Print
Honorable Mention
schoolin: upbringin' or not, you and me's pretty much
the same under the skin. What the boss tells us to do,
we do, no argument. And when we get the chance, we
throw the whole mess at the big boys and let them take
the rap. That's life, doc, plain and simple. Like myoId
man said, in the long run that's the way all of us makes
it through.
END
Glendale Community College 45
T'lie
The china plate clanged against the glass table
as it was clumsily set, echoing into the restau­rant's
busy ambiance. "Here you are sir;' as a waitress
disappeared leaving behind a cloud of strong perfume.
Adjacent to the table, a waiter standing to take an
order waits patiently. An elderly man seated at a table
in the corner made a gesture for the server to lean
forward. His skin looked like an ancient piece of news­paper
balled up and opened again. He was pale, and
when he talked his jaw just seemed to move with free
reign within its loose jacket of skin. His eyes looked
like death had swept over him a time or two.
"You running the place yet kid?" the elderly man
asked with his jaw disappearing into the jacket of wrin­kles.
"Not yet sir;' flashing a smile, "What can I get you?"
asked the waiter.
The old man was one he'd never seen before. Un­usual
though, he was by far the oldest and looked as
if he probably belonged in a nursing home. The waiter
stood as the man hesitated staring at the menu. As the
man delayed his decision he breathed awkwardly like
something slightly obstructed his lungs. He was patient
with the old man. It almost looked like this could be his
last meal.
The old man cleared his throat after about ten sec­onds
of silence. "How about, a few years?" replied the
old man breaking the silence but only barely heard over
the clinging, clanging, and random conversation reso­nating
in the room.
"What do you mean?" asked the waiter now proba­bly
wondering whether this man may have Alzheimer's.
The old man shook as he pulled a silver tool from his
pocket that at first looked like a very fancy fork. The
waiter looked surprised and bewildered by what the old
man did next.
The fancy fork was not for eating but clearly some
form of tool. The old man stabbed the center ofhis palm
with it under the table as to not cause a commotion from
anyone that might be watching. Nothing like this ever
46 Traveler 2007
derby Greg Mummaw
Honorable Mention
happens. He didn't know whether to get help or stay to
see what the crazy old man would do next. He twisted it
around in his palm until a vague crimson blood covered
sign could be seen in his leathery loose skinned palm.
The old man's hands were as if someone had put a latex
glove onto a skeleton. They were pale and shook and
dripped blood.
He was even more bewildered after the old man be­gan
chanting. He chanted in a whisper in some form of
tongue. His words were harmonic though not under­stood
by the waiter, sounded as if spoken by two voic­es.
The old man wiped his hands with his napkin and
reached to his back pocket. He laid a checkbook on the
table next to the bloody fork he had pressed into his
palm. The man's head turned back up to the waiter who
was shaking now in disbelief. He had totally forgotten
about his other tables. "How many years can I get from
you?" asked the old man.
The waiter looked at the old man as he might look at
a twelve-year-old that just asked for a cigarette. "What
do you mean?"
"Howald are you?"
"Nineteen:'
"How'd you like to be twenty-one? Or even twenty­two,
or twenty-three?"
"What do you want to order? I'm sorry sir;' the wait­er
was now sure this old man was senile. "I don't serve
years ofmy life, just food:'
"Does ten thousand dollars per year make it sound
more like a good deal?"
"You mean you want me to work for you?"
"Not exactly:' The old man paused as he glanced at
the waiter's nametag pinned to his apron. "Harrison,
Harry my boy. You'll wake up tomorrow just a few years
older, that's alL No work is involved:'
Thinking the old man a senile fool, Harrison thought
how many years he should sell the old man. He laughed
at the idea of "selling years" in his head as he thought of
a good amount. The check might just bounce from this
crazy old man he thought.
"Ok, how about I sell you five years ...no wait. ..How
many can I sel1?" Harrison said this flashing the smile
again he always wore in hopes of getting more tips.
"I can buy as many as you're probably willing to
give:' The old man was now smiling almost ominously
back at the waiter.
Harrison thought for a moment, ten years would
be one-hundred-thousand dollars, if invested right he
could be set for like. "Ok, I'll sell you ten years. Make
that out to Harrison Carnegie, C-A-R-N­E-
G-I-E;' Harrison said excitedly as the old
man wrote the check out for one-hundred­thousand-
dollars, signed his name, and then
stamped the vague sign onto the check. As he
stamped the check he chanted once more as
before and handed the check to the waiter.
"Nice doing business with ya, Harry;' said
the old man as he flashed the same ominous .-
smile, Harrison did smile back. A smile from '"
the top ofthe world as ifhe'd won an Oscar or
had just graduated college.
Harrison went home early that night and
sloppily finished the rest of his work. With
the deal he'd just made it almost would have
made sense to just quit. A grin was stuck to
his face when he thought about the old man
he served at work today. It must have looked
creepy to anyone that watched: the man came
in, didn't drink any water at all, just sat down,
talked to him, wrote a check and left. When
sitting down on the couch his knees both
cracked but it was normal to him as a waiter,
bones crack all the time. It was a nice night,
he'd tricked an old man into a large sum of
money and got on his cell phone to call ev­eryone
he talked to and told them the story
of the senile man. Some were jealous, others
were curious as to whether it was legal. Oth­ers
just congratulated him. The only thing
creative he got back on the phone was from
his friend Jake. "Man, you'll never believe this
but I made a hundred-thousand-dollars to­day
at work and you'd totally not believe how
I got it. Damn, I just hope this bloody piece
of shit clears! This crazy old man bought
'years ofmy life' from me...yeah, ten years at
ten-thousand dollars a year, and stabbed his hand with
a weird poker thing:'
"That's .. .interesting... How did you meet this old
man again?" Jake said questioning the truthfulness of
his friend's story.
New York
by Jessica Santiago
Charcoal
Honorable Mention
47
good health now, he thought.
'Td like to make another dear' Before he'd even
finished that sentence the old man interrupted him at
"make" with a cackling laugh.
''Ah, you wanna make me younger? Trustworthy
lads like you are hard to find these days! Ha ha, how
many more do you wanna sell me?"
"What?"
The old man's hands were
as if someone had put a
latex glove onto a skeleton.
"He was just some crazy old man, wait, let me read
the name on the check. Maybe he's someone famous,
like an old actor or something... :' It occurred to Har­rison,
What if this was all just some crazy reality TV
show? That explains the weird-ass old man cutting
open his hand and stamping the check. They want a
good shot of me, scared shitless. Harrison took out the
check and studied the name printed under the disfig­ured
cursive signature. "Frederic Kam... Kamathantra.
Does Frederic Kamathantra sound familiar to you?"
"Hmm, nope.. but you know what you should do.
Look him up in the phone book or find him somehow.
Sell him more 'years'. Why didn't you sell him more?"
''A hundred­thousand
dollars
is a big check. I
don't even know
if it'll clear yet, I
have to go tomor­row
to deposit
it inside I think.
I wouldn't trust
an ATM with a
check this size:'
The old man must be loaded if he just goes around
doing this. The next morning he went to the bank, and
the check did clear a day later after that. He'd still go
into work the next day in hopes of finding the old man
there. The name was not anywhere in the phone book
when he'd tried to look it up to call the crazy old man.
From the morning after the check had cleared,
Harrison felt different. Weak like he had a cold. And
his hair was not feeling the same, he blamed the sham­poo
for it feeling thinner and looking a bit different.
He almost called out of work but went in. Another big
deal with the old man could let him live very comfort­ably.
About an hour after he'd opened he looked disap­pointed
at his tables, the old man showed up about this
time last time he was here. He turned around to pour
some water and only turned his head for a minute.
When he turned around from setting down the pitcher
in the corner table was the old man, the supposed
Frederic Kamathantra subtly waving to him.
"How are ya feeling champ? What are you doin'
here still, you're rich now aren't ya?" asked the old man
when Harrison had come over to the table. Harrison
noticed the old man seemed to have more of a wit to
him today, and his skin looked a healthier color. Not
bruised or nearly as pale as before, but old people have
good times and bad usually. Perhaps the old man is in
"Never mind. How many do you want to sel1?"
"How many can I sel1?"
"I told you, I can buy as many as you want to sell
me."
"Well I'll sell one hundred then:' When the old
man heard this,
he dropped his
napkin he was
taking out of the
glass on the table
and laughed at
the offer.
"You're a
healthy lad aren't
you? You prob­ably
don't want to
sell any more than sixti'
Sixty? That's six hundred thousand dollars! 'Tll do
it:' said Harrison in a quick agreement.
"Sixty, you're sure?" asked the old man studying
him with his eyes.
"If the check will clear:'
"Ha ha ha, you have my word Mr. Carnegie. You
can count on it clearing:'
"Yes sixty then:' replied Harrison as the old man
brought out his fork-like tool and began the same rou­tine
Harrison had to watch before. It was over before
he knew it, the old man wrapped his hand in the nap­kin
he'd dropped on the floor (which he picked up very
easily for someone his age).
The rest of the night was fairly normal for Harrison
despite feeling like he had a cold. He went home early
again to stop at the bank and deposit the check inside
again. I hope this money is legal. He thought. The next
day the check for six hundred thousand would clear
in his savings account. But Harrison didn't remember
depositing the check completely, or the place he woke
up in.
The next morning he awoke, he sat up and grunted
a bit in pain. Must be handling those big trays wrong
or something.
"Mr. Carnegie?" a knock on the door followed
by it opening. In came a woman in caregiver scrubs
48 Traveler 2007
that pulled a lever that started a motor. Harrison was
startled now as his bed was moving and sitting him
into an upright position. He still felt normal though.
Am I in a hospital? He got up from the bed and stood.
My cold must be getting worse, I feel weak.
"Are you going to the dining room?" asked the
woman in the caregiver scrubs that began tidying up
the room he woke up in.
"Urn, sure...where is that?" What is this, a night­mare?
The woman laughed, "You know, down the elevator
to the first floor, and then just down the hall:'
"Oh yeah... Thanks:' Harrison made his way to the
dining room. But from the time he stepped out into
the hallway he knew where he was. He'd used to work
there as a kid when he first started waiting on tables,
the retirement place. Why the hell did I wake up here?
This is a really fucked up dream. He looked at his
hands. Oh my god, I should be in a hospital, my arms
look terrible. He said to himself as he looked at his
shaking pale arms.
I feel tired just from the walk over here. As he ar­rived
at the dining room a hostess of about no more
than seventeen seated him at a table for two in the
back of the large dining room. Here you go Mr. Carn­egie:'
said the girl as she seated him. The place hadn't
changed since he'd worked there, still the same old
folks place run by young kids.
He filled out his menu and when the waiter came
he flashed a familiar smile with almost an ominous
undertone. And as he reached to pick up Harrison's
menu, he noticed a light pink scar on the boy's right
hand. "Good evening Mr. Carnegie:' greeted the waiter.
"Good evening, Frederic:' said Harrison reading
his nametag.
The young man seems so familiar, like I may have
seen him somewhere but it seems so... so long ago.. .I
don't remember.
Sphere #15
by Martine Cloud
Ceramics
by Sally Jacka
Honorable Mention
April had never been a fan of public transporta­tion.
She had always had the good fortune in
her life to have her own mode of transit. However, to­day,
on a day when she desperately needed to get to the
other side of town, her car's starter had gone out and
her "baby" now sat abandoned in a sleazy mechanic's
parking lot.
Sitting on the bench at the bus stop, she wasn't sur­prised
that she was the only one waiting. The cold Oc­tober
weather had deterred most people from stepping
foot outside their houses. April shivered before return­ing
her thoughts to the reason behind her unfortunate
circumstance and fighting a desire to head home and
curl up in her warm bed.
She pulled her burgundy coat tighter and clutched
the brown paper package in her arms tighter. Earlier
that morning her grandmother had called her in a pan­ic
over a package that had been delivered to the wrong
address. For some reason it hadn't been forwarded to
her new residence even though April's grandmother
hadn't lived with her and her mother for several years.
April had begrudgingly accepted the job as delivery
girl after several hours of fighting with her mother.
As she continued to stare down the street at the fast
moving cars, she recalled being younger and mak-ing
the same trek to her grandmother's house. She
would always accept the task with a smile and after
50 Traveler 2007
by Elizabeth Everson
Silver Print
Honorable Mention
being dropped off by her mother she would sprint
from the sidewalk to the front door. Now all she could
focus on was the amount of time this was wasting, the
impracticality of public transportation and the idea
of dealing with her grandmother's "caretaker:' Just the
thought of Hansel made April shiver again, running a
hand through her hair to clear her mind. Suddenly she
longed for her younger days and an escape from the
hectic feeling oflife for the twenty-something version
of herself.
A few moments later, the bus roared up to the curb.
The metal monstrosity continued to howl as its doors
screeched open and a sea of people rushed from it,
hurrying through the bad weather. April waited pa­tiently
until they had all left before climbing the steps
and placing four clinking coins into the machine. The
bus driver gave her a neanderthalic grunt as he yanked
the door lever closed and revved up his monster con­tinuing
down the street. April shakily made her way
down the swaying aisle way and into the closest avail­able
seat, breathing as little as possible. The rank smell
that hit her nostrils was almost too much for her to
handle and made her queasier than the erratic driving
of the bus man.
She stared out the dingy graffitied windows and
surveyed the town speeding past her. Her thoughts
were primarily focused on sleep and warmth. That
Glendale Community College 51
She nodded slightly trying to un-tense a few of her
muscles. "So you have no destination at am"
He shook his head. "Like I said, just killing time:'
April raised an eyebrow. "By the way, I didn't catch
your name:'
"I didn't offer it. I'm Tobias:'
"Tobias, eh? Well sir, you are an anachronism in
your own right:' She smiled realizing how quickly she
was becoming comfortable with this complete stranger.
''Anachronism? How so?"
"Well, you sit here in your perfectly pressed suit on
a Sunday afternoon simply watching people. Most peo­ple
today don't have the time to sit and observe, and
they don't care enough to dress formally. You look like
you're from a quieter time:' She mused, almost sure of
her logic. Something about him was just different.
"Maybe you're right, Red:' he smirked. "But here
you are assessing me, when I'm supposed to be the one
observing. What is your name, dear lady?"
She laughed slightly, running a hand through her
hair. "You don't have to try to be from another era just
because of my hypotheses. I'm April:'
He stroked his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully.
"That fits, I guess. I like Red better, though:'
She stared at him uneasily. "No one's called me that
since I was younger:'
"What a time to bring it back then, eh? So where
are you headed, Little Red?"
"To my grandmother's:'
''And does she live on Gingerbread Lane?" he
teased her, eyes, though cold as ice, brimming with
laughter.
April chuckled, "More like 5lh and Sycamore:'
"Sounds delightful. Maybe I should join you. I
mean, I have done my share of watching today. Be­sides,
a girl like you shouldn't be out there by herself.
World's not a safe place:' he grinned again. This time,
however, April felt slightly nervous. She wasn't sure
why she had divulged all of this information to this
stranger and more to the point, why he was so quick
to accompany her. She suddenly felt oddly ill. Though
Tobias seemed honest enough, she couldn't shake the
feeling she was being lured into something. Maybe
it was the perfect teeth, the perfect attire, the perfect
lines, those perfect eyes. Maybe it was her own subcon­scious
screaming at
her that nothing on earth could be as perfect as she
was making him out to be.
''I;' she stammered. She was roughly thrown for­ward
as the bus came to another stop. Fight or flight
re..snonses suddenly kicked in. "This is my stop, maybe
T'f COLLtGt L1tst<JU'f·
GLENDALE COMMUNI
didn't mean, however, that she didn't subconsciously
feel the eyes on the back of her neck. She inconspicu­ously
tilted her head to look behind her. She caught the
sapphire eyes and immediately faced forward again.
Something about the unknown stare made her shiver
as much as the cold outside. She cocked her head side­ways
again, but the blue was gone. She bit her lip, fran­tically
searching the bus with her eyes. They stopped
short when she made eye contact again.
Two rows behind her on the opposite side of the
bus sat a man unlike anyone she'd seen before. He sat
straighter than most, and April wasn't completely sure
why that was what she noticed most about him. He
had an odd sophisticated air about him that she had
only read about. The stranger's black hair was long and
tousled; he wore an immaculate pinstriped suit and a
crimson tie. His bright blue eyes stared directly back
at her over a long slender nose and lips curled up in
a slight smirk. April's mind screamed at her to look
away, to get back to her own business, that things like
this got girls into trouble, but she couldn't. The man fi­nally
closed his eyes as he laughed to himself and lifted
the spell he had placed over April. She shook her head
and slid her hand down her face, laughing somewhat
ironically at the last few minutes. When she once again
turned back to the dingy window, she suddenly felt
body heat next to her. She breathed deeply, the scent of
expensive cologne displacing the rotten milk smell of
the bus. Slowly she turned her head to see her fellow
passenger.
"Hello:' he said simply, flashing an immaculate
white smile at her and continuing to stare into her.
"Hi:' she managed to squeak out. He smiled wider
as she floundered. "Can I help you?"
"Not really:' he drawled. "I saw you were alone and
figured a girl like you shouldn't be alone in a place like
this. You kind of stick out, Red:'
For the first time in her life, April felt self-con­scious
about her hair. She played with her auburn
strands nervously as she tried to feel out his words. "If
you don't mind me saying, you stick out pretty well,
too. I mean, why is someone like you riding a bus?"
"I was bored:' The man shrugged slightly, honesty
seeming to shine through.
"So you jump on random city busses on Sunday
afternoons looking for girls who stand out, to keep
yourself busy?"
He laughed again and April swore she saw fangs,
"Not exactly. I'm keen on observing people and you
find the most interesting ones in the most public
places:'
The old woman may act like
it's no big deal, but you know
as well as I do how important
that package is...
April had often been told that she looked much like
her grandmother. They both shared the same emerald
eyes and sharp facial features. The older woman even
still had the same natural crimson hair color that her
granddaughter had. April suddenly found herself rac­ing
to her elder and grabbing her in an enormous hug.
Her grandmother chuckled slightly. 'i\pril, dear, you're
soaked to the bone, come in here by the fire:' She
pulled away from her granddaughter and took the girl
by the hand, leading her into the living room where a
large fire burned in the hearth. "When your mother
told me you were coming, I told her she should have
waited to send you:'
"Gram, you know I love the rain, just not walking
------------------ five blocks in it;' April smiled
as she warmed her frost bitten
hands.
The older woman looked
at her, concerned. "But the bus
drops you off just down the
street:'
April sighed. "I got off at
the wrong stop. It was my own fault. I can't stay long,
though. The weather's clearing up out there and if I
want to make a break for it, I better get going soon:'
"That's fine dear, did you bring my package?"
April's smile immediately dropped. She began franti­cally
tearing through her bag and her jacket, swearing
it had been there.
"1...1 must have left it on the bus;' she groaned,
cursing the strange man that had preoccupied her.
"Oh, it's fine April. It really wasn't that important;'
Hansel finally chimed in, slight anger lacing his words.
"We're just sorry you came all the way down here
empty-handed:'
April couldn't help taking his smooth remarks per­sonally.
''I'm so sorry!" she cried to her grandmother,
ignoring the muscle bound man's interjection. ''I'll call
the bus company when I get home and deliver it myself
when my car gets fixed:'
"Oh that's perfectly fine, dear. But it is rather
important and I do need it as soon as I can get it:' She
hugged her granddaughter again. 'i\re you sure you
won't stay a bit longer. You're still soaked to the bone:'
April shook her head, knowing if she stayed she proba­bly
wouldn't make it home before nightfall. The idea of
getting back on the bus even during the day was begin­ning
to worry her. Her grandmother smiled again. "If
you insist, sweetheart. Promise you'll call me when you
get home so I won't worry:' April nodded reluctantly
letting go of the older woman. Her grandmother slowly
some other time. It was nice meeting you:'
Squeezing past him, she walked briskly down the
aisle. "Red..." he called after her. "Some other time, I
guess:' She barely heard the rest of his sentence before
the bus doors closed behind her.
Taking a deep breath her nostrils were promptly
assaulted by the diesel of the escaping bus. She bit her
lip continuing to breathe heavily unsure completely
of what had happened or where she even was. She
looked up at the street signs reading "5th and Golden"
and meanwhile taking into account the ominous gray
storm clouds looming above. As if the cold wasn't bad
enough, now she was going to have to walk ten blocks
in the rain. She muttered a few choice curses before
------ turning down the street and thrusting her hands into
warm pockets. In her own
world of thoughts, she was
randomly awakened by the
cries of horns and teenage
sounding primeval mat-ing
calls at the one helpless
girl caught outside. She silently mourned the death of
chivalry as she quickened her pace, eyes focused on the
ground. The wind whipped up her coat, whimpering
and then slowly learning to howl between the city sky­scrapers.
The smell of rain quickly began to overpower
the diesel truck smell as the first spatters of water
started to fall. April pulled her coat closer, a burgundy
shield against the frigid wind. As she rounded the final
corner before her grandmother's house, the downpour
erupted from the clouds. She groaned and raced to­ward
the safety of her grandmother's porch.
Almost thoroughly drenched from head to toe,
April stood dripping on the mahogany front porch.
She shook off some of the water and stripped away her
coat as she rang the doorbell. Several locks clicked and
clanged before the off white door opened, revealing a
man in plaid flannel and suspenders. April managed
an internal shudder as he opened the screen door and
allowed her in. She had never been fond of Hansel in
the three years she had known him. April had never
been quite sure why and had never had any real proof,
but something about him irked her. The thirty-year
old housekeeper had been in the picture for several
years now, laving left his former job to help out April's
grandmother after saving her from a scam artist or
whatever the heroic take was that week. He looked
April over, slowly forming a greeting or something of
the sort but was stopped as April's grandmother en­tered
the room.
52 Traveler 2007
_0 .....
...:'. ~
~ .... ,,' '0
-.;..!
~ .
.t.--:--~. a..".J
Downtown Jazz
by Dennis Croasdale
Pen and Ink
2nd Place
Glendale Community College 53
exited the room leaving April alone with Hansel. Awk­ward
silence filled the air.
"So, that was a good job you did there, Ap:' Hansel
laughed from the corner he sat in.
"Excuse me!"
"The old woman may act like it's no big deal, but
you know as well as I do how important that package
is:' he explained.
April bit her lip. "Look, I said I was sorry and if
Gran says it's okay to bring it by later, that's what I'm
going to do. It's really no concern of yours:' She turned
and started to make her way toward the door.
"See that's where you're wrong:' Within a moment,
Hansel had gotten out of his chair and was blocking
April's exit. "She may be your grandmother, but I'm the
one she trusts and depends on. So if you want to keep
things civil around here, then you best stop acting out,
Red:'
April breathed heavily, completely unsure of how
to react. Anger burned in her chest, wanting to scream
from her lungs. "You think your threats scare me. I see
scarier things than you on the bus. Now get out of my
way:'
Hansel chuckled slightly but stepped away from the
doorway. "Just get it back here, understand?"
April rushed past him, ignoring his remarks and
raced from the front door. She flung it open and
gasped, "1..:' the blue eyed man was caught off guard,
fist raised in preparation to hit the door. "Hi, Red" he
said, simply.
"What are you doing here?! Don't call me that!! Are
you stalking me?!" April's fury erupted causing Tobias's
jaw to drop further. His mouth moved with invisible
words that would never be heard.
"I was just. .. You left this on the bus. The address
was on the label:' Tobias nearly thrust the package into
her hands. April stared at the brown paper, wonder­ing
what was so important within it. Her thoughts flew
to ripping apart the paper and seeing for herself, but
instead she simply opened the door again and placed
the package on a table inside before slamming the door
shut again. She wasn't sure exactly why she hadn't pried
into the contents, but figured there was no need to
cause herself more stress today.
'Tm sorry:' she mumbled after a second. "Why
don't we start over?"
Tobias smirked slightly regaining his composure.
"Ifyou don't mind the rain, I know a cafe just down the
street:'
"That sounds delightful:' She smiled. "And I prom­ise,
no more cursing or running away suddenlY:'
He laughed out loud, immaculate teeth and fangs
glistening despite the lack of sunlight.
54 Traveler 2007
Sphere #11
by Martine Cloud
Ceramic
Honorable Mention
Mr. Orange
by Jennifer Shelley
Glass Moziac
Glendale Community College 55
GL.L_'-'~--- ~_.Lli'.:GE
6000 rmSl' OLiVl!J A\TEl U
GLENDALE. AZ 85302
Literary Editor: Kimberly Ruff
Traveler Staff: Beth Drechsel, Chas Creasy, Georgeta
Mihailovici
Literary Judges: Carmela Arnoldt, Renee Barstack,
Claire Englehart, David Hanson, Brittany Lieze,
Julie Lewis, Mike Mullins, David Nelson,
Phillip Roderick, Joy Wingersky
Visual Arts Jurors:
Community Juror: Carro Panaro­Smith
Student Jurors:
Ann Beauregard, Arti Goulatia, and Martha
Mendez
Faculty Juror: Dean K. Terasaki and Sharon
Forsmo
Photographer: Dean K. Terasaki
Photography Production: Craig Wactor,
Roxanne Parrish, Carla Parra and Abel
Magana
Student Graphic Designers:
Stephanie Adames, Elizabeth Anderson,
Nenetzin Anguiano, Gregory Cockrill,
Diana Fernandez, Jennifer Lucas, Joshua
Mutschler, Alecia Ranere, Amanda Schimmel,
and Donald Watz
Faculty Advisors:
I Literary Advisor: John Ventola
Visual Arts Advisors: Dean K. Terasaki
and Sharon Forsmo
Design/Production Advisor: Vicky Campo
Special Thanks:
Traveler Webmaster: Marla DeSoto
Typist and Procedural Advisor: Dawn Meyer
Student Life: Connie Greenwell
Creative Writing Instructors:
Laura Schuett and Betty Hufford
English Department Chair: Carmela Arnoldt
R.J. Merrilll, Peggie Murillo, and Sherri
McClendon
(Please note: student jurors were
recused from categories they entered.)
Cured of Cancer
by Lindsey Raybon
Inkjet Print
Honorable Mention
56 Traveler 2007
French Quarter Street
by Elizabeth A. Everson
Silver Print
1st Place
Twenty-five hundred copies of Traveler,
Volume 40 were distributed May 2007 free of
charge through six distribution sites on campus.
The magazine is funded by the Student Life
Office and cost $7,500 to produce. Financial
awards were given to the top three entries in
each category. The magazine contents, design
and productions were controlled and produced
completely by GCC students.
Pages are 8.5 inches wide by 11 inches tall.
Main story headlines vary in size and typeface
depending upon the mood of each literary
work. Stories, poems and plays are Minion Pro
regular 12/14. Justification depends on the lay-
Colo hon out logistics of each individual piece. Literary credits are
Franklin Gothic Medium. Point size varies according to
layout logistics. Artwor