"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 2008

              Spec PS508.C6 T73 2008
Traveler (Glendale, Ariz.)
Lost Love
by Erik Eichelberger
Stoneware
~1st Place
- ------. ---. ----
,JY ~.
LIB A yrr- CS TER
GLENDALB.CC. - l' TY CZ_.c.J'-CJGE
6000 WEST L TE AVENUE
GLENDALE, AZ 85302
Traveler 2-008
Glendale COJRJRunit:w
College
6000 W-est Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302-
2008 Glendale Community College
Reproductions of literary and
artistic works may not be produced
without written consent of the
author/artist.
Where to Next
by Jerry Bauer
Digital ~rt
s·
Obesity
Lori Wilkey
Starlight Boy
Renzy Bordeleau
One Death
Marianne Ferrari
Where to Next
Jerry Bauer
Your Final Parade
Ed Swanson
Every Girl's Dream
Matt Meyer
The Housewife Blues
Honorable Mention Rachel Ricker
Second Place
First Place
2-1 Third Place
Comp-,uter Art
I
2-1
Poetryr
10
Teeny
Susan Fisher
Chairs
Beth Drechsel
Fancy
Marianne Ferrari
,
. /
.Table of Conte
The Migratory Patterns of Tropical
Birds and Giant Lips
Matthew Holy
First Place
N;on-.Fiction Ceramics
12- Jabber, Jabber 18 Untitled
Honorable Mention Alan Rademan Second Place Otto Gromoll
2-5 My Nickle 36 De La Mar'
First Place Ed Swanson Third Place Martine Cloud
39 Manda 36 Raku Footed Bowl
Second Place Maneesha Lele Rick Cprpolongo
52- Borders Unknown 37 Untitled
Third Place Jason O'Daniel Honorable Mention Robert McBride
55 If Only in My Dreams 37 Raku Vase
Laura Swanson Honorable Mention Martine Cloud
39 Untitled
First Place Bryan Schnebelt
Fiction
4
18 Third Place
30 Taste the Summer Rain
Second Place Chasity Creasy
42- Honorable Mention
47
Recycle
Kristin Hakari
Lost Love
Erik Eichelberger
Jump
John Huber
Becoming United
Jonathan Alvira
Ginger Housewife
Laure Publow
Sheila's Stairway to Heaven
Natalie Seils
First Place
Freedom for Who?
Honorable Mention ,Jesse Luna
Second Place
Blue Sky Smiling at Me
Third Place Maritza Velazquez
Front Cover
2-4 Fractured Glance
Honorable Mention Betsy Knauf-Van
Antwerp
33 The Novelist
Second Place Martine Cloud
36 Ear of Corn
Third Place Erik Eichelberger
49 Black Magic
Honorable Mention Christos Corliss
Photograph:w
Stranded
Rachel Blank
I nside Front Cover
First Place
Sculp.ture
6
15
2-7
41
43
44
51
Lion of Zion
Yasmine Asadi
Melody
Veronica Aguilar
Lounge Lizard
Shan-e Miller
Daydreaming
Veronica Aguilar
. Eye Canon
Martine Cloud
Osito en Flor
Claudia Martinez
Lomand's Chair
Ruth Comeau
American Eagle
Genna Colburn
Solace II
Napoleon Manigbas
Payson Pants
David Mukai
A Tale of Love and Light
Claudia Martinez
All-Purpose Funny Man-in-a-Box
Shane Miller
Second Place
First Place
46
2-8 Third Place
I nside Back Cover
First Place
.Drawing
8
9
II
13 Honorable Mention
2-2-
Painting
5 Singkil Dancer
. Napoleon Manigbas
17
34
53 Love Conquers All Malawi
. Honorable Mention Sheri Farabaugh
54
56 Third Place
'lJ..ack I Promise. I'll Walk Him Every Day
..LJ) Second Place Hannah Heard
3
by Marianne Ferrari
1st Place Fiction
[fJRg queens. I knew drag queens,
and she wasn't one of them. She
was small, like the real women in
the bar, her legs slender, even delicate,
her sexual swagger authentically female.
From my perch at the short end of the bar,
I sa~her first in silhouette against the
ha~sh afternoon glare of the doorway, a
slight figure, both willowy and energetic,
small breasted and frankly sexual. I was
immediately interested, curious. Sexual
people always interested me. I wanted
to be one, and I didn't know how. So,
I watched them in the bars, trying to
decipher their mysterious code.
I watched closely, as the woman from
the doorway came closer, aiming for the
only empty barstool in the room. E¥en in
dim light, her faded summer shift had
a hand-me-down look, but it was real
women's clothing ­not
some hot-pink
number, but a muted
pattern in some soft
material that clung
to her hip in a certain way that drew the
eye. All around her, as she~assed them,
people stirred and spoke to her - sudden
laughter, hoarse guffaws -- her animated
smiles and gestures all so natural, so
different from me.
I was the quiet butch sitting against
the wall at the end of the bar, dressed
in darkest navy blue. I knew I was a
lonely figure, sitting there -- knew this
from my whole history and because, the
year before, a friend had briefly dated
the owner of a bar I frequented, back
east. He had described me to her as
"lonely, but somehow not pathetic," a
perfect depiction of my life, so far.
My dark clothes had been my "uniform"
through college. Three years after
graduation, I still wore them in the gay
bars of Phoenix, even in mid-August at
115 degrees. Unaware of the message they
sent -- Don't look at my body! Don't
look at my breasts! -- I felt mysterious
and untouchable in my navy turtleneck
4-
and cords, strong and capable of facing
anything. In winter, I wore a genuine
navy pea coat from the army surplus
store. When I went outside at night -­even
in Phoenix, where it never got cold
enough to button the coat -- I imagined
myself walking the frozen deck of a
destroyer, impervious to the cold.
The empty_barstool was next to me. The
woman from the doorway thumped her purse
onto its padded seat, to claim it, but
stood behind it, lighting a cigarette,
peering over heads to catch the
bartender's eye. I looked on, memorizing
everything. The drag queens I had seen
wore wigs, but her hair was her own, and
it was tawny, and grazed her collar bones
whenever s e moved. For an instant, each
time the d or opened, a jolt of sunlight
-turned it g Iden around the edges. I
waited, watching for the next time it
would happen. The towering, heavyset
bartender was ignoring her, so she called
out for attention.
"Barkeep! Who do you have to fuck to
get a drink, around here?"
A few people nearby tittered or smiled,
but no one flinched at the offhanded
sexual hyperbole. The giant bartender I
knew as Ren -- a mannish version of her
real nam~, Renee
-- looked up and
smiled, as if
the comment were
the most natural
thing in the world. She came toward us,
carrying? rocks glass filled with clear,
brown liquor, but no ice. I laughed,
then, and the woman from the doorway
turned and looked at me. My interest
quickened when I thought I saw something
akin to recognition in her eyes.
"I think you're beautiful," I said,
feeling foolish immediately afterward.
As I spoke, Ren put the drink on the
bar, and the woman immediately raised it
with a slender hand, throwing back half
the straight liquor in one gulp, without
choking or coughing. I was awed.
"Thank you, darlin. I needed that." She
was looking down~ studying her breasts
when she spoke, so, I couldn't tell
whether she was speaking to Ren or to me.
But, her speaking voice was as low and
sexy as I had imagined ~t to be. It was
a woman's voice. It made her feel very
present in the moment, but other things
bled through, things clashing underneath.
I wanted to know about those things.
Traveler
Raised voices came to us from down the
bar, where two gay men in tank tops and
gold chains were discussing a new gay
movie called The Boys in the Band. "It's
the first mainstream gay movie! Why did
they have to make gay life seem so sad!"
I asked the woman from the doorway... "Is
gay life sad?"
"No sadder than mine," she said.
She took a long drag on her cigarette,
presenting her delicate chin line when
she turned to blow the smoke behind her,
toward the blinking lights of the dance
floor, instead of at my face.
"~ou ask interesting questions," she
said. "What's your name?"
VI
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Glendale COJlu"unirty,r Colleg~
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- 5
I had never liked my girlish name,
Patricia, but I told her what it was,
and asked hers. She said it breathily,
"Fancy."
"So, you're not gay, then?" I asked,
recalling her previous comment.
She guffawed, stepping her platform
shoes around in a small circle, and
throwing me a look of playful sarcasm.
I hastened to ask my burning question.
"May I as~ .. what are you, then? You're
so real... I know you're not a drag queen...
but, I can't figure out what you are." She
brightened at that, and struck a pose.
"I'm a sex change, darlin. And I've got
to go."
I was upset. I wanted more time to
get to know this man-woman who strangely
Recycle
by Kristin Hakari
Inkjet Print
1st Place
"No... are you?"
" ...1 don't know, yet."
It came out so seriously, the moment
became pregnant. I could see from
her expression that she felt she had
accidentally struck too deeply. Her face
turned gentle, and she paused.
"Trust me, darlin," she said. "You'll
figure it out."
It could easily have sounded like a
put down, but she looked at me, at my
eyes, and I experienced a rare event. I
felt accepted. The bar door opened, then,
spotlighting us briefly in the reddish
glow of the evening sun, and two six-foot
drag queens, from the show bar down the
street, walked in. They started toward
Fancy, but she motioned for them to wait.
6
attracted me. She seemed
so intrinsically female ­female
in a more real way
than I had ever looked, or
felt. I asked if she came
to the bar often. She said
yes, sometimes on Saturday afternoons.
She scribbled her address on a bar
napkin, and pushed it toward me.
"Come visit me anytime, darlin,"
she said. It didn't feel like a casual
invitation. She meant it. Then, she
shot back the last of the booze, and
walked out. I watched her move through
the cocktail crowd that had gathered -­slender
arms and legs and real girl's
hair, more woman than man, it seemed to
me.
Traveler
• • •
.5~/r'li('(?rl/tNlI /tr1ly l/try fr.r/;'NI.
1('~)11111'1' (,1/(.) ((1/(,llIfJl', 111(/11'
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"womb." Fancy gazed at my chest, making
me uncomfortable, and said she'd give
anything to have what I had. She took
my hand and placed it on her own left
breast, so I could feel how little had
been accomplished, so far, by the estrogen
shots that she was taking. I was shocked
by the casual intimacy, and pulled back,
at first. Her breast felt small and rather
firm.
Fancy's talk kept returning to the
surgery. They were going to build her a
real vagina, so she could have sex the
right way. She smiled, when I asked how
that could be done.
"They make it from the part that feels
the most," she said, gesturing downward
toward her undesirable member. She said
the surgery cost many thousands. It would
take her years to save for it. Even as
she said it, I felt that I knew she would
never have the surgery.
I asked Fancy what she did for a
living. She didn't answer. When I looked
up, she was watching someone coming in
the door. She waved, and jumped down from
her stool to greet
them. A long time
went by, and she
didn't return, so I
took her the drink
she had left on the
bar.
Fancy was
engaged in high­==========================
speed repartee with
three lipstick lesbians, all slender and
graceful, with stylish haircuts and make­up.
One of them, wearing designer slacks
and a "Chubby" jacket, looked cute, to
me. As I approached, the song, My Girl,
started playing, and tiny white dots of
light started circling around the floor,
and skating across the black walls. Fancy
let out a cry and clapped her hands in
the air, then pulled the girl onto the
dance floor. I stood, holding Fancy's
drink, feeling utterly meaningless, while
the two did a slow, sensual jitterbug. At
the end of the dance, Fancy reached for
her drink.
"Fancy, I am curious... " It was hard to
be heard over the music. "What is it you
do for a living?"
But she was off to the dance floor,
again, with another of the chic lesbians.
I noticed how happy they looked, posing
for one another, their smiles smug and
self-aware. They seemed to revel in their
mutual sexiness. When they returned,
•
From then on, I went to the bar
every Saturday afternoon, hoping to see
Fancy. Several weeks went by, before she
returned. I came in to find her standing
in the middle of the bar, camping it up
with a group of older gay guys. Something
quickened in me, but I didn't want to
intrude, so I walked past her, and found
a place at the bar. Ren brought me a
Manhattan the way I liked it, straight up
with dry vermouth and a twist, and I sat
chewing on my lemon rind, watching Fancy.
Her ersatz-leather micro skirt made her
legs look very long. I marveled at how
soft and womanly they were. After awhile,
she came to join me.
"Are you a lesbian, yet?," she said,
making me laugh. She propped herself on
the bars tool next to mine, laying an
olive-green clutch with a broken chain on
the bar top. It made me wonder how she
made her money. Seeing her up close for
the second time, her clothing and shoes
looked downright
tawdry, and her
maleness was more
evident - the head
too large, the
hairline too far
off her forehead.
But she wore those
clothes as if they
came from Saks.
And she was still beautiful, in a feral
way that made me, at once, wary and more
intrigued. I wondered what dangers could
be around her.
We talked for over an hour. I confessed
to Fancy that she was the first transsexual
I had met... that I hadn't known the word,
before I met her. We ordered more drinks,
and she described what it was like, for
her, to feel like a woman in a man's
body.
"I never look at myself, down there,"
she said. Her voice sounded cynical,
and she blew smoke through the words.
"Sometimes, if I look at it, I feel like
I won't wait for the surgery. I feel like
I have to get it off me, shoot it, tear
it, whatever ... "
I told Fancy something I had never
told, before -- that I hated having
breasts. I used the word "tits," because
"breast" was a word that I refused to
utter." Nor did I ever use the word
"woman," which sounded too much like
Glendale COJllJllunU,. College 7
• breathless, I asked my question, again.
Fancy stood tall, spread her arms wide
for space, arched her head back, and
announced it to the room. "AYYY... am a
pro-FESH-ionallll...CAAAHK...SUCKaaahhhhh. "
my s~eing Fancy. This time, I decided,
I w9uld go inside. It was a perfect
spring ~ay, the kind that rem~nds you it
i~ still winter everywhere else. Spring
flewers stood out here and there, striking
\ Qrazen poses in the sunlight. The sky
was that intense Phoenix blue that's
unmistakable in photographs. My bare arms
registered the delicious contradiction of
January in Phoenix -- cool air, warm sun.
. Fancy's house was old, but sturdy and
comfortable, with a wide screen door. I
walked up the two porch steps, imagining
the happy sounds of children running
through it and the door banging behind
them. Through the screen, I saw a large,
empty rOom with bare wooden floors. Pieces
of clothing, shoes, and other items were
scattered about. Something stirred in the
background, and a man's voice invited me
in. He was sitting in a broken armchair.
Fancy's roommate?
"Does Fancy still live here?"
"Middle bedroom."
No longer looking at me, he gestured
behind him down the hall to my right. The
screen door screeched as I opened it,
and banged, as I crossed the living.room.
There was light coming from the hallway.
I entered it and saw bright windows at
the end ot the .hall... and felt better.
Short of the doorway, I stopped, and
called her name several times. Finally,
I heard a low voice, unintelligible, and
went in.
"Haaaaay, daaahlun." Fancy's voice
was so low, I didn't understand what she
said, at first. I had to look down to see
her, already asleep again, sprawled on
+ • + •
I didn't see Fancy in the bar, again.
Several weeks ·later, reviewing our last
encounter for the hundredth time, I
finally understood that Fancy had done
everything possible to avoid revealing
her occupation to me. I guessed that
everyone else present must have known
Fancy was a prostitute. I was the only
one she cared not to tell. But, when I
had made it unavoidable, she had faced
it head-on, with humor. Her ability to
be candid in such a funny way floored me.
I thought about how mortified I would
have been in the same situation, but she
hadn't seemed bothered at all.
More weeks passed, while I sat vigil,
with no sign of Fancy. People kept telling
me they had seen her around; .but she never
came back to the bar. I thought of going
to see her, as she had invited me to do,
but couldn't bear the thought of arriving
at the wrong time and embarrassing her,
again. Around Halloween, the pul~ became
too strong. I drove to the address in a
shabby neighborhood near the freeway, sat
in front of'the house for ten minutes,
then, drove away, too ashamed to go
inside, too afraid to intnude.
Before my embarrassment wore off
sufficiently for me to try gain, nearly
three more months had passed, without
Eye Canon
by Martine Cloud
Charcoal
1st place nomad -- not a domain,
but a dry camp, Spartan
and uncomfortable, easily abandoned.
I fled the room quietly, loathe to
disturb the silence of the house. I
wanted to go straight to my car without
encountering the man in the living
room, but I felt I had no choice. It
was important to me to acknowledge to
Fancy that I had been there, in case she
retained a memory of my coming. The man
wa still sitting in the broken chair.
He looked up and stared at me without
connection.
"Will you tell Fancy I was here? I'm
.Patricia. It's important to me that she
knows."
He lowered his head without
acknowledging me in any way. I waited
a full minute, without a sign he had
heard me, finally turning away with an
eerie, uncomfortable feeling that was
still there, when I reached the car. I
leaned with my hands against the warm
metal, trying to take stock, willing
every detail of that bright blue day to
soak into my skin, and everything I had
ever seen, or heard, or felt about Fancy
to imprint itself on me. I knew it was
important to remember every detail of the
experience, to preserve -- a~ all costs
-- the chance to understand it at some
later time .. even if it was much later...
even if it was never.
her back, naked under a
grimy sheet and senseless
to the room. The single
mattress on which she
lay sat cockeyed in the
middle of the floor.
Unkempt clothing and
personal items were
littered all around.
Her head was turned
sharply to one side,
exposing her face to
the bright light coming
through the windows.
I stood stock still,
waiting to see if she
would wake, shocked by
the prominence of her
jutting male jaw and corded
neck. A few stubbles stood
out on her chin - golden in
the sunlight, like her tawny
wompn's hair, which fanned
brightly across the mattress's
blue-and-white ticking. The
grayed sheet had once been
silky and pink. It only partly covered
Fancy, leaving her breasts fully exposed.
They were pale with tiny nipples, and
were diminished to softish mounds. Her
sex was large -- a soft, dark pile under
the thin material of the sheet.
Male genitals. Fancy and I had both
rejected them, scorned them. Yet, this
thing beneath the sheet -- unwanted,
but alive -- looked innocent, to me,
and so sentient and fragile that it was
attractive, somehow. I felt an impulse to
lay my hand on it, to give comfort with
the lightness of my touch and the heat~of
my palm.
For just a few seconds, I look~d at it,
then away, an accidental voyeur feeling
suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment
and guilt, and terribly aware that my
continued presence in the room assaulted
Fancy's dignity. I took a last look at
the artifacts of Fancy's life displayed
chaotically around the room -- a still
life captured in the pristine light of
the north-facing bay window. A battered
train case lay on its side, spilling
make-up across the vanity. Rips and runs
stood out on a pair of dirty nylons
hanging over the back of a coquettish
vanity chair. A padded, beige push-up
bra, dark with sweat marks, lay where it
had been dropped on the floor. This room
contained only women's garments, but it
felt like a man's room, t~e room of a
Glendale COJllJllunirty;r College 9
Solace II
by Napoleon Manigbas
.- Pencil
..
I FEEL MY HEART SHUDDER,
HE IS BEFORE ME,
INTOXICATING EYES, AND SERIAL KILLER SMILE.
-I'LL'LET HIM KILL ME
BECAUSE DEATH BECOMES SWEET
EVERY TIME HE TOUCHES ME.
TALL, LONG HE TOWERS OVER ME,
MAKING ME FEEL DELICATE, LOST,
BUT NEVER MORE IN LOVE,
BECAUSE HE RADIATES AN AURA OF STARLIGHT.
WITHIN HIM I TASTE TRUTH AND DIVINITY.
IN HIS EYES I SEE REVELATIONS AND SECURITY,
MOST OF ALL TAINTED INNOCENCE.
IT CREEPS BEHIND HIS EYES,
AND REVEALS ITSELF IN HIS KISS.
A STARLIGHT BOY WITH GOLDEN HAIR STOLE MY SOUL;
HE MADE ME CARE TOO MUCH-I
CAN'T RESIST THE COMPLEXJTIES HE HIDES TOO WELL,
LIKE ;fHE FACT HE'LL READ A COMIC BOOK WHILE HAVING THE MIND OF A
GENIUS, / -
I INHALE HIM LIKE CIGARETT~SMOKE,
SHIMMER IN HIS STARLIGHT,
CONSUME HIS BITTERSWEET INNOCENCE,
AND IN RETURN,
GIVE HIM MY WORLD.
OH ,STARLIGHT BOY, LOVE THIS MOONLIT GIRL,
FILL MY MIND WITH YOUR CONTRADICTIONS,
KISS ME,
KILL ME.
I'LL TASTE YOUR STARLIGHT,
GIVE YOU MY WORLD.
PLEASE KILL ME
BECAUSE DEATH WITHIN YOU IS SWEET-Glendale
Coaaunit!'" College
Traveler
bassoonists to soused sousaphonists. It
was all for a good cause.
I had only two bartenders working with
me, both Army Vietnam veterans. One had
the rather unsettling name of Herbert
. Stoner, the other was called Victor D.
.Schwartz~We were now off our feet for
the first time in three hours, working on
th~rlast open beer keg we had slid in jts
ice water tub to the'edge of the table.
We would be the last to leave. We were
all sipping cautiouslx, comfortable with
each other. The heat had been turned down
i~ the cavernous athletic facility and
both Stoner and Schwartz had slippe~ into
their old G.I. green field jackets, the
worn- looking canvas-looking style with
their names stenciled in black above the
breast pocket.
Herb's jacket was twice the size of
Verne's, because Herb himself was huge.
At 6'3"and at over 250 pounds he was
probably twice the size of the Vietnamese
he had recently been sent to fight. Herb
was not only big; his appearance was
downright scary. Herb hadn't gotten a
haircut or shaved in the two years he'd
been out, and now his dark brown hair,
beard and mustache framed an ever-present
scowl that gave him the appearance and
profile of qn angry Jesus ~hrist. He was
even khown on camplis as "Angry Jesus,"
though never to his face; Herb had spent
his tour as a grunt soldier, humping his
squad's M-60 machine gun.
The smallish Victor D. Schwartz
happily answered to his nickname from
high school, which was hi initials,
VD. Everybody really liked Vic, he had
always been happy-go-lucky and fun to be
a~ound, but VD hadn't left the service
quite as whole as he had gone in. Vic had
been trained as a medic, but was disabled
before completing his tour.
Vic now had a facial tic that made
him cock his head to the left every few
minutes, but he had kept weaFing his
old Army issue eyeglasses, ndW bent and
skewed to the right, sort of balancing
12.
by Alan Rademan
Nonfiction
Honorable Mention
There were always the dreams.
The last three of us: Herb, Victor,
and I had pulled up chairs around the
only remaining table in the now darkened
University of Wisconsin field house. The
'only lighting in the hall came from the
dozen red-glass globed candles we'd
salvaged as the crew had cleaned up after
the evening festivities. The candles now
burned low upon the tabletop, flickering
over the detritus of popcorn crumbs and
beer ring-spills. It had been a fine
evening. I
Doc and his musical minions ha~ just
finished performing their annual holiday
extravaganza. A thousand festive music
fans had paid the "one charge covers­all"
fee at the door, so Doc had even
made some profit to throw into his budget
for the following semepter. A half dozen
groups, his swing choir and fraternity
chorale among them, had flanked the County
Symphony orchestra. One by one the
spotlights had moved to their individual
stages s they alternated their turns
with s los and duets, spelling the larger
classical ensemble. It was the early
70's, and while it wasn't Simon and
Garfunkle, the U. had some pretty good
talent to display.
I had no such talent, at least not
musical. I had signed up for Doc's
Classical Music Appreciation course that·
Fall because I needed some fine arts
credits and because the class was wall~
to-wall music majors, which meant, total
babes. Thirty of them had volunteered
to hustle pitchers of suds and plastic
trays of popcorn to the noble village
patrons glad on a Friday night of not
having to arise early tor work the next
morning. I was in charge of debauchery,
err, that is, refreshments. A few barrels
of precious Milwaukee's finest lagers
\ and ales were on hand, and after those
were gone no one would notice that I had
switched to donated Pabst Blue Ribbon. It
was all for a good cause.' Music fans and
thi ty trombonists gave way to belching
..l
things out, that is, until you saw him
walk. His walk was a duck-footed shuffle,
his steps just six inches apart. People
easily recognized the trail he left in
the snow during the Wisconsin winter. He
moved sort of like Charlie Chaplin in his
old silent movies. VD walked everywhere,
he could not drive, could not even
balance on a bicycle. Vic's brother had
told me that VD had broken both ankles
sliding out the door of his Huey chopper
ambulance twenty feet before it was about
to touch down. VD's ankles had not healed
quite right.
Victor's facial tic was accompanied
. by a quiet verbal nonsense sing-song
of "Jabber, jabber". He sang this, I'
involuntarily, every time he jerked
his head to the left, about every five
minutes. " Jabber jabber." It looked ,and
Glendale CoJIIlJIlunii't!' College
Payson Pants
by David Mukai
White Pencil on
Black Paper
Honorable Mention
sounded like Tourette's Syndrome, but
with no swearing, name calling, or racial
epithets. Everyone thought it was a damn
shame, such a nice guy yet so profoundly
afflicted.No one spoke through the first
pitcher of beer. It was the end of the
day, and they were safe and warm. Victor
D. Schwartz began hiccupping, punctuated
by his low-pitched "Jabber, jabber." Herb
Stoner had a tired but haunted look about
him. Herb's eyes twinkled back against
the dozen candle flames still sputtering
on the table. He leaned forward, giggling
with the beer, and said "Vic, remember
the Free Fire Zones at night? The Mad
Minute?" Vic just nodded and did his
jabber' thing.
I knew that a Free Fire Zone was the
area around a base camp out to a thousand
yards from the fortified perimeter. After
13
Victor D. Swar~z, the nicest guy in
the world, was breathing rapidly, almost
hyperventilating. Sweat beaded and ran
down his off-center face. Sweat ran off
his chin, off his nose, off his earS. "No
dreams!" he wailed. Vic leaned in and
pointed at Herb, jabbed his finger at him,
shouting now, "We brought you baok, load
after load of you, all we could get into
the chopper and still be able to take
off. Wounded, dying, screaming, moaning,
every time you grunts saw action we had
to come to clean up. Couldn't do anything
except shoot morphine and wrap pressure
bandages. We washed the blood out with a
hose while they refueled us. Then there
was the last 10 d, the one that made it
better."
Herb was silent. I had stopped
breathing.fVic had stopped stuttering,
-there was no jabber, no tic.
~What happened on the last load?" It
might have been me asking, but maybe it
wa9 Herb. Maybe it was both of us.
VD's voice lowered, "We brought
out their
wounded, or
prisoners, if
there wer'e any
still alive,
whoever it
was, Charlie,
NVA, any poor
sonovabitch in black pajamas. They had
their hands tied. We had an Intel officer
always along on the last trip. He brought
along a Kit Carson Scout, you know,
one of those gook traitors we paid to
interpret for us? We'd be airborne, and ~
the scout asshole would rough up the
nearest prisoner, slapping him, trying to
get them all to talk, but no, of course
they wouldn't talk. They never talked,
not the first time ... until they threw that
first p@or bastard out the doorway at
five thousand feet! Oh, then the rest of
them found their tongues! Oh, God would
they talk, then! Three, four, five of
them, they babbled whatever they knew.
The Intel officer sat in a.jump seat with
a shit-eating grin on his face, taking
notes from the Scout translator as fast
as he could till he had all he needed."
~D Schwartz looked at me. "You ever
hear- five scared people shouting in
Vietnamese? You can't make out a word of
it! It's all just noisy gibberish! Just
gibber-jabber, jabber jabber even as we
threw the rest of them out the door.
Jabber fucking jabber jabber jabber!"
7
They never talked, not the
first time until they threw
that first poor bastard out the
doorw~y at five thousand feet!
dark any living thing seen there when
flares were popped, be it wandering water
buffalo, unlucky monkey, or human being,
friendly or otherwise, was shot or blown
up without investigation.
"What was the Mad Minute?" I asked.
"Sixty seconds, " Herb answered. "Sixty
seconds before lights out, with.earplugs
in, everyone with anything that could
shoot on the firing line perimeter, just
wasting bang with everything we had at
the trees a thousand yards out. Then the
three out of four not on guard duty could
sack out, knowing that nothing bad, or
good, for that matter, still lived, at
least out to a thousand yards away."
Vic just sipped his beer, happily
jabbering to himself.
Herb Stoner pulled a thin book from his
knapsack and began reading, studying the
illustrated pages. I caught the title...
it was the recently published children's
book "Where the Wild Things Are", the
one about Max in his wolf suit. It was
incongruous, watching the giant ex­soldier
Angr,y
Jesus thumbing
Sendak's
drawings,
smiling at the
intricacies of
the sketches.
Vic jabbered
and pointed at the book, "Why the little
kid's bedtime story? " he asked.
Herb drained his glass. I refilled
it. "I read it at least ten times every
single night so that it is the last thing
I remem5er before I drop off to sleep. It
works for me. Max and his monster buddies
become the focus of my dreams, not the
Mad Minute and the Free Fire Zone and the
things we did there coming back at me all
night long." Herb looked across the table
"What do you dream about each night, VD?"
Victor D. Schwartz responded quickly
"Don't dream at all!! Nope! Jabber,
jabber, I learned to just wake myself ~p
every twenty minutes and so I don't dream
at all! Jabber, jabber."
Herb Stoner closed up the "Max" book
and leaned toward VD over the flicker of
the candles still burning. He leaned
forward directly toward Victor D.
Schwartz and spoke slowly, distinctly.
"But if you don't dream, if you do not
reach R.E.M. sleep, you slowly go nuts,
you goofy little retard. Or is that why
you already jabber.... " Herbert Stoner the
Angry Jesus stopped in mid-sentence. He
eyes were fixed on Victor D. Schwartz
14 Traveler
Glendale Collu"uniit)V College
Freedom for Who?
by Jesse Luna
Silver Gelatin Print
Honorable Mention
Through the slap of the wipers,
and the glow of. the headlights,
snowflakes spiral, hitting the ice of the
windshield. Lecia turns the mini-van off
the main road and'into the neighborhood.
As she squints down the edge of the
street, 00pe sparks and leaps ahead. She
had seen the chair earlier but had driven
by because she was on the way to the
nursing home.
It's still there! Sitting on its
haunches, next to a garbage bin. Lecia
stops at the curb. She reaches over to
the passenger seat to pick up a natty
black cap--knit years ago by Mom for Dad.
She snugs it ever her straggly curls.
-When wearing it she feels her parents'
touch.
She rolls down the window to the intent
of her eyes. A Queen Anne! The front legs
are in the ornate ball and cla~ style,
the hind legs are square and frame the
back. One of the lovely curved side arms
is missing, and under a white seat of
snow a peek of torn blue.
'Lecia gets out of the van, sliding her
boots through the slick on the pavement.
She steps to the rear of the vehicle
and eases the back door up. Turning to'
the chair she brushes off the snow and,
molding her petite body around the frame,
lifts. Like an EMT placing a wounded
victim into an ambulance she turns the
chair on its back, scoots itCJently into
the van, and closes the door tight.
Climbing back into the driver's seat she
rubs the wet chill from her knuckles.
The feel of the wood! Maple? The fiddle
back design. The horsehair peeking from
the torn fabric. The sleek way one arm
sli~~s down, the jagged break and empty
space of the other.
Lecia slows down to make a right turn,
the 1928 Bungalow that she and Jeremy
bought a year after they were married
looming into view. They had first seen it
on a December night like this, and loved
how the warm lights in the second-story
dormer windows lit up the stone front
porch, making it sm~le a welcome. Tonlght
no lights are on, and the house looks
bleak.
Parking the van in the garage, Lecia
steps out. She moves carefully in the dim
light, across the packed i~ing of the
16
by Beth Drechsel
Fiction
3rd Place
tire-tracks to the back of the house:
Stomping her boots and opening the door
to the screened-in porch, she steps
inside and flips on the overhead lights,
moves across the wooden planked floor and
passes· th~ough the small, narrow laundry
room clutt~red'with soggy sneakers and
scattered jackets. Setting the purse and
coat on the washing machine, she opens
the door into tbe dark den.
The blast of a~video game battle
explodes into her &yes, her ears. Lecia
stiffens, yells above the tumult, "Boys?
Would one of you come help me?"
A bombardment of teen argument lashes
toward her, " ...last time!" "You
never. ." "No!"
Turning her back Lecia makes her
escape, retracing her steps across the
porch. With a foot she prods a nearby box
against the door to prop it open. The
box hadn't been there when she left that
afternoon; Jeremy must have made another
trip over to the old house. Suddenly
she recognizes ae square all-caps
handwrl ing, "XMAS," on the box label.
Mom's! Grief shivers through her body.
She pulls her fingers into the warmth ot
her black sweater and folds her arms
around the pain. Her mind numbs as frozen
snowflakes, in shapes and designs like her
mother's crocheted doilies, settle on her
breast.
A shuffle rouses her. She looks up at
her youngest, his long blonde hair water­falling
over his sullen face. "Looks like
you lost to your brothers, huh?"
"Like· always."
"There's a chair in the van. Would you
bring it in for me?"
His lanky frame brushes past her and
out into the darkening cold, his slouchy
jeans and socked feet mop across the
snow. She sees him reach the garage
and raise the van door. She hears his
mumbled, "Dad's gonna kill her."
Jeremy calls her cOtlection of old
chairs_a fetish. It started when she
~QUght home the overstuffed one with
lacerated fabric; its yellowed innards
oozing out like a suppurating wound. Then
came the disabled swivel-seat bank~r~s
cha~r that no longer swivels. And the one
he has thrown out twice and both times
" .
Traveler
Untitled
by Otto Gromoll
Stoneware
2nd Place
He reaches down, pulls cold wet socks off
feet. He says, "Why do you keep bringing home
trash?"
Anger ignites in the tight of Lecia's ribs.
With a foot she shoves the "XMAS" box aside. The
door slams behind her. She storms toward the
garage to lock everything up.
The boy sounds just like his dad. Last week
Jeremy said, "These chairs make our place look
trashy."
He says she doesn't appreciate quality--this
from a man whose favorite chair is a Lazy-Boy!
In fact each of the chairs is of good design and
style, some are even antiques. And all are still
useful. The banker's chair doesn't swivel, but it
still rolls, and the easy chair with the brittle
Naugahyde cushion lives in the art studio and is
so comfortable to sketch in.
But when Jeremy asks, "Why do you do keep
bringing these home?" Her throat strangles her
words. The ache buries deep in the silence.
* * *
On the porch, she slumps on the seat of the
Queen Anne. A green-ripple afghan cloaks her
tight against the cold and her slippered feet
rest on the seat of the broken ladder-back. She
had shut off the overhead light to better see the
steady fall of snow illuminated from the outside
spotlight. She thought the sight would soothe
her, maybe help her get in the mood for the
holiday. Instead she just feels empty.
Her eyes wander to the box labeled "XMAS." She
should open it. See what's there. And have Jeremy
bring the cartons of family decnrations down from
the attic. She should get some baking done, too.
Jeremy has been hinting about her strawberry
sour-cream bread, and the boys want her famous
peppermint cookies. She should. She should. But
since Mom died, apathy has seeped around Lecia's
bones and it squeezes any intention.
"Sweetie?"
A chorus of almost-men voices answers, "She's
on the porch."
The door from the den opens and the light switch clicks, flooding
the screened-in porch with glare. She blinks and meets the startle of
Jeremy's eyes. She sees conc~rn as he takes her in, sees the hint of
irritation when he notices the Queen Anne.
His thumbnail rubs the thoughts on his lower lip, "Did you see your
Dad today?"
She nods at him.
"How is he?"
Her icy words bite, "Why don't you some and see him yourself?"
He looks away. "I just can't, yet."
She feels her eyes hooding, the hurt hiding. Feels the touch of his
hand on the Queen Anne as he passes. Hears the shush of his steps and
the close of the door.
* * *
The glitter of morning light reflects off snow pillowed on the ground.
It flows into the large east windows of the studio. It glints on the
18 Traveler
steel of an angular painting knife,
honeys the flat of a thin wooden palette.
Lecia stirs in the English easy chair,
its high wings wrapped around her. Pushing
back the heavy quilt, she pulls her black
sweater down around the cold flesh of her
belly. She takes a shallow breath in the
chill air. The blend of paint and linse~d
oil glosses the ache in her chest. She
loves the smells, and the faint sting
of turpentine. And the barely contained
creative chaos: the toss of empty coffee
mugs and mineral~spirit cleaning rags,
the abandoned ideas, the half-finished
projects. All mixed in with a comforting
order: paint tubes lined up according to
the color wheel, her-mother's old jelly
jars and soup cans holding stiff ho~-hair
bristle brushes and her father's favorite
long maroon-handled sable set.
Lecia feels the tug of the bulletin
board hanging on the wall above the
desk. Her eyes find the collage of
pencil sketches and magazine pictures,
inspirational quotes and reminder notes.
In the center is a grainy enlarged photo
of her parents sitting in a double
rocking chair. Mom's back leans against
one of the rocker's arms, her bare legs
droop over Dad's trouser knees. They are
young twenty-somethings. So in love. They
'laugh large at their daughter from the
bulletin board. Lecia gets up and goes
to the photo, she leans over the desk,
reaches out with a finger and touches the
image of her parents, traces the form of
the double rocker.
Suddenly the door opens and a swirl of
colder air blows in. Lecia doesn't turn.
She knows who it is by the way he shuts
the door. . . She fills the room with the strer<gth
of her pain, "I don't understan~ why you
won't visit him. u
"It's easier for you. u
"Easy?U The hurt flares ~ut. "Before I
see him, I have to psycne myself up! And
afterwards I spend the rest of the day
trying to forget. u
"Sweetheart,U he says. She turns to
look at him. Sees her pain in his eyes.
He reaches out with the large of his
hands to pull her close, but she pushes
him away.
"Don'tl U she says, stretching for the
comfort of her parents' gaze.
* * *
Adjusting a Starbucks coffee cup and
brown paper lunch bag, Lecia holds them
tight against the belt of her coat. She
skins a black leather glove off her hand,
Glendale COlllllluni-;;yr College
types the code on the keyboard attach d
to the door. She waits. Under the soft
wool of the black cap her ears wince at
the Sinatra music pressing through the
solidity of brick wall. At least it's
not Christmas carols. She couldn't stand
the forced cheerfulness of that. The
door buzzes, unlatches, and as she steps
inside it swings shut.
Lecia pauses. Filtering her breath
through the glove in her hand, her nose
tightens at the smell of wet diapers.
Her eyes cringe in the harsh fluorescent
li~hting, passing quickly around the room
and over the couch with rows of vacant
faces propped like pillows. Dad isn't
there.
Her feet hurry past the couch, past a
small artificial Christmas tree dressed in
cast-off ornaments, through the archway
into the dining room. Green and red paper
chains loop from the ceiling, cardboard
silver bells thumb tacked along th~ chair
rail bear scribbled names in blacK magic
marker.
Choosing the table on the far side of
. the room, directly under the name "Theo,U
Lecia sets the steaming cup and paper bag
on the sticky tabletop. She pulls out two
of the chairs and sweeps crumbs from the
cushions. Taking off her coat she hangs
it by the shoulders on the back of one of
the chairs, tucks her cap and gloves in a
coat pocket.
Her eyes flit toward the kitchen. Empty.
She weaves through the tables, and down
the hall, peeks through one of the open
bedroom doors--the one Dad shares with a
stranger; two old men dried up like wispy
straw ornaments. No one there.
Behind her the sound of a doorknob
jiggles. Lecia turns. The bathroom door
opens, releasing a frazzle of a caretaker.
pulling Dad's hand. The woman spots Lecia
and shouts over Frank Sinatra's voice,
and into Dad's face, "Your daughter is
here!U
Lecia leans past the woman. She waits
until her father's eyes find hers. "Hi
Daddy,U she says, the words soft. He lets
go of the caretaker's hand to wobble his
arms around Lecia's neck. In the circle
of his embrace she feels centered.
"I brought cookies,u she murmurs,
her lips pressed to the stubble ,of his
creased cheek.
"Party!U he ,exclaims.
She smiles, "Yes. U She unwinds the thin
arms necklaced around her throat, takes
one of his hands and places the gnarled
fingers on her arm, covers them with the
umbrella of her palm.
19
He lets her lead him past the bedroom
and down the hall, past the ragged
Christmas tree, its blinking lights
blurring the eyes of the lumpy old people
slouched on the. lumpy old couch. Lecia's
steps are steady; Dad's are a tentative
shuffle. <
At the table she puts him tight against
the front of a chair. Backing him up
until he can feel the firm seat at the
crook of his knees, she encourages him to
sit. But she sees him tense with fear.
So she places her hand on his chest and
gently pushes. His knees buckle, his
skinny haunches land on the cushion. He
spits, "Who are you?"
Her chest fills, "I'm Lecia, your
daughter."
She eases into the chair that wears her
coat, scoots it close. Stretching across
to tuck Dad's head to her shoulder, she
smoothes him, soothes him. He leans into
her comfort. Forgets.
Reaching for the paper bag, Lecia snags
Dad's attention by pulling out a cinnamon
dusted snicker-doodle. She hands it to
him. He bi~es. She pops the top from the
Starbucks cup, reaches into the paper
bag for packets of sugar and a stirring
stick, adds two sugars, just as he likes
it, stirs. Placing the coffee in his
shaky hand, she directs the cup to his
pursed lips. She makes sure he doesn't
spill the hot on himself.
He looks at her over the Styrofoam rim.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Lecia, Daddy."
Her arm curves around his shoulders,
holdin% him in. He sips and chews. She
says she baked the cookies just for him.
She points out the bell with his name on
it. She shows him the latest photos of
the boys. "Remember?"
Lecia needs reminders, too. Reminders
of when Dad's hand was sure and he could
brush swathes of oily color across a
linen canvas. Reminders of Dad and Jeremy
giggling like little kids over one of
their silly practical jokes. Reminders
of how when she was a child, Daddy would
comfort her by rocking with her in the
double rocker.
Her nerves flatten as Sinatra begins
repeating himself, so loud. Suddenly a
quavering voice in the other room begins
to w~il. It screams at the loud music.
The anguish of emptiness voiced full.
Daddy looks at her with blank canvas
eyes, "Who are you?"
Lecia folds away from his unfamiliar
gaze into the strong hold of the chair.
He throat wastes, the grief convulses.
ao )
* * *
The moon rose round and white, shining
across the milky-blue of snow banks and
above the cobalt of bare tree branches.
Its touch followed her through the
open porch door, rushed forward like a
beacon to guide a path across the floor,
brightened the collection of b~oken
chairs sitting there.
Lecia leaned against the Queen Anne and
pulled the boots off her feet. Suddenly
she became aware of soft music. And the
flicker of firelight. From the den! She
listened for her family, wondered for
a brief crazy second if she was in the
wrong house. But there was only music,
the beautifu~ voices of a choir:
"0 com~ thou dayspring, come and cheer
our s~irits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
~nd death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice, rejoice . . ."
Her eyes sparking with hope, Lecia
stepped into Christmas. Red-gold flames
crackled in the fireplace, and by the
built-in bookcases a fir tree shimmered in
glory. Heart skipping across her face,
eyes wide and focused on the tree, she
took off her coat and cap, laid them on
Jeremy's chair.
She stepped close to the tree, revelecl
in the white light garlands sparkling
on fragile glass ornaments from her
childhood; the sea-green mercury glass
beaded sprays, the white and gold bells
topped with pine cones and berries, and
her favorites--Dad's exquisite hand­painted
globes, each commemorating a
different family Christmas. Her throat
clenched, her eyes misted.
And then she laughed. Interspersed
among the vintage ornaments were palm­sized
macaroni wreaths, paper cupcake­liner
angels, and glitter stars from
the DOYS' grade school years, and cheap
multicolored Shiny Brites--now scratched
and peeling--that they had picked out at
K-Mart when they were toddlers. And then
deep in the boughs the expensive stained­glass
hearts that Jeremy bought for her
of E-Bay last year.
She turned her head to look for him.
There, in the shadows. Waiting. He sat on
B pent, white oak, double rocking chair,
the caning torn and ragged.
Her heart leaped in greeting. The carol
echoed, "Rej oice, rej oice. "
Lecia sat down beside him. He wrapped
her close in his arms. The ache of death
died. Life newborn rocked ~ack and forth,
back and fort-h.
Traveler
\
A tumor ...
small, the doctor
said, and that he'd watch it.
It was 1959, when Cancer was a lump
In everybody's throat,
And people didn't talk, but whispered,
"She has Cancer."
Sitting on the padded table's edge,
Pale, pudgy, and mustachioed, Rose wore her good dress ­Navy
with white polka dots, so crisp and comical,
In contradiction to the long shin hairs that made a crazy,
Crosshatched layer under panty hose.
It takes some time for hair on legs to grow so long.
It took the Cancer eighteen months,
Till blood came, and the surgeon said, "Inoperable."
On such news, inexplicably, one heart will crash,
Another will compound its strength, and rally.
Rose did not want to die. But rallying, for Rose,
Meant merely to endure, supine,
A two-year vigil on her own decay.
Elisa, aged 14, rushed home from school to feed, to soothe,
To face the aftermath of vomiting and diarrhea.
Elisa's memories of Rose are not·her pancake recipe,
Her perfume, and the way she combed her hair,
But pasty flesh, foul breath,
And all the catalog of smells associated with a dying patient.
Of death, I'd always wondered
Till Rose got Cancer.
Glendale CODUIlunityr College
when, not how, or
I
}
I /
,I
why,
aI
J
American Eagle
by Genna Colburn
Prismacolor
aa
by Ed Swanson
Poetry
2nd Place
I stood easy on'the. lush green carpet of the parade deck
Of Virginia Military Institute lungs bursting
earthy smell of the end of spring in Virginia.
Your corps marched out of the Old Barracks,
walls studded with Union cannonballs,
consecrated by the blood of your forebears.
The band played a rousing march
as you passed behind the statue of Stonewall Jackson.
How many times have you saluted his ass?
Line after arrow-straight lineof blue coatees
and feathered gloss-black shako hats.Lines of legs
in white ducks extended as one in each inexorable step
Punctuated by the sharp snap of the snare drum
And the brilliant blatant blare of the bugle
Strutted in millisecond choreography
Ranks divided crossed and reformed
with precision turns as though the ground
contained a great invisible compass.
. Enormous flags captured the breeze. Cadets
on either side of each flagbearer leaned in to him
to hold him up as he held up his windswept standard.
A final crisp promenade past the reviewing stands, inspected
By dignitaries of th~ commonwealth appreciative or bored.
Then back to the b~rracks where you first began.
After the parade, I watched your Rat
take your sash, your shako and sword back to your room
fulfilling his traditional role.
My mind's eye took me back three years earlier
to your Rat year, when I watched you
perform the same service for your dyke.
It occurred to me that now you gave
to your young Brother Rat
more than just equipment. You handed him
A tradition of unbroken Pride and Honor
A tradition of Service and Mentoring
that has emphasized Duty
And instilled Character where there was
sometimes nothing more
than mere soul-crushing ambivalence.
by Ed Swanson
Nonfiction
1st Place
***
25
***
baseball games in the Pacific Northwest,
unerringly calling the exact pitch needed
to exploit a batter's smallest weakness.
We enjoyed the news of our extended
family's life, but we loved feeling Dad's
passion for them and we treasured the
knowledge that he spoke about us with the
same excitement and pride.
One day my sister Marianne had a
"special occasion." I can't recall what
it was, but she needed a nickel for it. I
wa!ched from the kitchen dOQr~ay as Dad
gave her the shiny, precious coin.
"I want a nickel tGO'!. I aemanded,
already savoring the five different kinds
of sweet penny plea~ure I would purchase_ ~
On ~he afternoon tha-t_l got my nickel
our conversation had turned-Co the
memories we kept from childhood. "You
know, Dad, none. of your grandChildren can
believe that while we were growing up you
were an ogre sometimes." My siblings and
I had previously had this discussion and
shared its sentiment, so it wasn't just
my imagination.
"Whaddya mean," he asked. "I never
treated-you guys mean." Dad simply
could not believe that he had ever been
anything but fantastic with his chilaren,
as he was with his grandchildren. So
I related to him one of my most vivid
childhood memories.
The-incident occurred b~fore the days
of myriad government handouts. And before
it was acceptable to have an~thic thfrE
would abide with, much less'welcome this
largesse. Like many other uneducated men
in those times, Dad had to spend too much
of his time working and not enough time
playing with us. So he was always good
for a horse ride, but seldom available.
He was a fun but formidable, mostly
occasional force in our world. ~
·T~ fruit of Dad's two jobs slowly
satisfied the massive appetite of the pile
of medical bills rung up by my three eye
surgeries. Just as Dad might have gotten
respite from this albatross of debt,
my baby brother Peter was born needing
reconstructive surgery for a hare lip and
a cleft palate. Dad got a third job and
shoveled more dGllars into the maw of the
medical community. The slim remainder of
his wages was carefully reserved for the
food we could afford and for rare specia~
occasions. But we never went hungry, and
we never thought of our~lves as poor.
Glendale COJllJfluniit,.- College
***
"Here's your crummy nickel,"
Dad said merrily, ratcheting
himself out of the depths
of his favorite chair. He thrust his
right hand into the pocket of his neatly
pressed golf shorts and dragged out a
handful of change. He picked out the dull
silver disk as he stood over me sitting
on the family room sofa.
"I don't need your money," I laughed
as he placed the coin ceremoniously in my
palm. I hesitated to take any money from
my dad, no matter how insignificant the
amount.
"No, no. I insist!" he replied,
standing tall, chin up, shaking his head,
voice bristling with mock imperiousness.
I had to respond. "OK, if you insist.
Let's see... How much interest should
I get at five percent... Eimes how many
years...?" He collapsed back into his chair
and we both laughed until our stomach
-muscles ached. Later on in my shop I
grilled an eighth-inch hole in the nickel
and installed it ~roudly on my key ring.
Dad had been a most mellow and
wonderful fixture in our household or filLe
years. His careful retirement was spent
meeting his cronies before dawn to capture
the first tee time at Papago Buttes golf
course or puttering around in his Lair,
the floor-to-ceiling jam-packed upstairs
bedroom he inhabited. There was always
some "paperwork" for him to do, or some
planning for his next trip~ With two sons
in the airline industry, Dad frequently
used free standby tickets to visit kids
and grandkids around the country.
Late in the afternoon Dad would bark
like a dog from the Lair, signaling
that it was time for some "tea~ and
conversation w~th his daughter-in-law
and with me if I happened to be~around.
He'd saunter downstairs humming a tune
from the Second World War. Ice clinked
into a·glass, followed by a measure of
Scotland's cheapest, as Dad tried to
cajole us into joining him.
He would settle on his throne and
-regale us with the details of his ~atest
trip. His face glowed as he leaned
forward to assure us that we should
see how niece Alicia gracefully danced
---across the stage in her latest college
musical production. Dad's arm stretched
out, and he gazed into the distance-as
he proclaimed Alicia was just like his
sister Aunt Jean in the 1920s, the star
of the ~amily,. ~nd wouldn't we be amazed
to witness nePhew Matt catching the best
Traveler
i
When Dad died, we spent a day laughing
and crying as we dismantled his Lair. We
puzzled over why he had kept a roomful
of arcane books and old magazines.
We rummaged through his mementos, a
retirement watch from Public Service
Bus Company, army medals and costume
jewelry. Our biggest laugh came from a
pair of silver cuff links shaped like
coffee beans. But most impressive was
the quantity of receipts that 'Dad had
kept, some of them from twenty-five years
back. Everything from store receipts to
taxes to warranties that were no longer
valid or that covered things he no longer
owned. All paid in full.
Dad's estate was small. He had a set of
other-handed golf clubs that we displayed
and played with at his funeral service.
He had a ten year-old Honda with 140,000
miles on it, meticulously maintained
with receipts to prove it. There were a
few thousand dollars and a few million
memories to divide among five children and
eleven grandchildren.
But I've got my nickel, my most prized
possession. I've got an appreciation of
every good thing that I get from God, my
other father, who also loves me, and from
my,own honest efforts. And I've got an
amazing, enduring strength that my Dad
gave me long ago.
***
Eventually Dad emerged from debt,
shedding the shackles of his additional
jobs. There was time for fun and family,
time for nerve-calming rest. My brother
Peter got every bit of the attention
the rest of us had missed. We were not
jealous. The ogre of debt had~been slain.
***
expect anyone to hand me anything. And I
should not ever believe that I deserved
anything I had not earned. Armed with
this bittersweet knowledge, I grew up.
And I succeeded well beyond everyone's
modest expectations.
***
\ By the time Dad retired, I owned a
\grand, spacious home with ample room to
invite him to share my family and my good
,fortune. He joined our household, and I
had the blessing of becoming friends with
this very different, wonderful, intensely
uman being who gave me life.
from the small-handprint-s~udgedglass
case in Fishie's neighborhood store. "You
gave Mari a nickel, so you have to give
me one too."
Dad replied, "No, you can't have
a nickel. Mari needs it for school.
Go play." This was Marianne's special
occasion and I wasn't going to get a
nickel.
I reacted in typical seven-year-old
fashion to this unwelcome news. My
feet stomped out an indignant rhythm on
the creaky old floorboards. My soprano
complaints climbed and descended the
scales of outrage. My self-pity filled
temper tantrum was world-class, sure to
evoke sympathy from the most hardened
ogre. Dad's admonition, "I;\nock It
Off!" went unheeded in tHe midst of my
performance.
His giant form loome& over me. He
picked me up with one 'hand and carried
me, still crying, to the couch. He sat
down and laid me aoross his lap. His
steel thighs forced the complaining
air from my lungs as his massive hand
descended repeat~dly to my bottom. Soon I
was crying in earnest.
Then Dad spun me around, grabbed my
shirt front, pulled me roughly to himself
and held me face to face. I can still
hear the tight abruptness of his next
words. "Listen! I don't owe you nothin'.
It's MY money and I can do whatever I
want with it." He let go of my shirt and
I fell to the floor, tasting my tears as
he stormed from the room.
My spirit was buried in a landslide
of shock and hurt. I lay on the bare
~ardwood floor, the pain in my heart
bigger than the pain in my pants. The
unimaginable had happened. I wasn't going
to get my nickel. And my own Father had
been unfair to me.
***
I was too young to'understand that Dad
really couldn't do what he wanted with
his money. At the time he probably didn't
have another ni8kel to give me. And that
fact likely ate a bigger hole in his
heart than it did in mine. But'savoring
and remembering the bitterness of this
reality was a luxury that people with
his debt ratio could not afford. So he
carefully put it bepind him and carried
on.
That incident was the first time I knew
that life could sometimes be unfair. I
ultimately realized I should not ever
f
Though I have tried telling him that my nimble hands,
quick as snappers,
will do the job, he says to mind my business.
He will fix the door when not drowsing from his pills.
The chemicals in them make him sleep, ·and dream
in colors washed out from blue sea bleach.
Blue sea bleach is what I call the seawater about five miles down
from our house at Ganger Lick beach.
The water is so rough on your eyes
it feels like caustic bleach has washed all the colo~~way.
Sometimes when he eats his lunch, I will
take those too sharp pliers to rip
out that crumbling screen out in oyster ruffle
And each time he takes
them from me.
But tomorrow is the time I let
The long strips of juice on his clothes remind me
of the small fish I aec n the wlnter,
but I cannot remember their name.
Most of the time, I let them go,
since their translucent skin does not show
much meat on the needle bones inside.
When he wakes, my husband spends four hours at the screen door,
cursing those damn huckleberries for breaking
his back. For lunch, he gets up, stained blue on his cheeks and under
his fish scale thin nails.
The stains give him the reverse of the French manicure
I get every Friday at the Queen '63 beauty parlor.
Glendale COJllJlluniity,: College
· Tal! aOU!I!WI!'LR!I tl
The medication my husband takes __ ~~
is always colored blue, ~
almost darker than the huckleoerries in the bush outside
our white washed screen door.
Most the branches and tendrils have hardened
into quick set cement versions of themselves, and his arthritic hands
cannot
get out all those little pricklies.
•
Traveler
by Alice Jones
Poetry
1st Place
of modern times. Trying to
maintain her femininitY,,,but
she chooses the extreme step
of purposeful mutilation. Men
in white masks carefully
slice and prod at her
achieving only ugliness
and despondence, in desperation
that mark her as corpulent ­the
ample fullness of hip
and breast, she eats too
much and poorly, a victim
excessive body, beginning
the process of shaping her new
physique, of helping her no longer
be a throwaway woman.
the ponderous mounds of fat in every
form - sagging belly, flapping
underarms, ~xtra~zethunder
thighs, but mostly those
Not everyone is so skilled
at American excess, not everyone ~
can exist on overindulgence, car;rying
the burden of. flesh. Ha iflg '.
a8
· Daydreaming
by Veronica Aguilar
Charcoal
3rd Place
Glendale CoBlJlluniit;w College
~ by Chasity Creasy
2nd Place
The moon was hiding, the stars too d~m
in the inky sky. Quietude filled the ight,
and guards were,slack in protecting the
shinden-zukuri, but more importantly, the
nobleman who lived there. t
It was almost too easy for the silent
hunter to slide down the side of the
bambo~ wall and land without a sound
on the loose dirt. The dark-clad figure
crouched, looking around as he took in
the pattern of footfalls from warriors
patrolling. the area and the l·adies of the
house preparing to turn in.
He sprinted across the ground. and stop
on the covered walkway. Still no alarm,
no recognition that an intruder was
there. It was pathetic to the assassin.
With cautious steps, he made his way
around his target's home, remembering the
detailed research he gathered for this
night. It was a mission he hoped would
fall into his hands, all he had to do was
be patient.
Fifteen years tested his strained wait,
and it had paid off well, in technique,
skill, and a reputation that allowed him
first chance at this assignment.
He stopped before a rice pa e oor
the dim light ot a c~ftaIe glowing through
it. The sign of wakefulness beyond the
door wasn't the only thing that made it
different. Behind the door would be his
target, a high-ranking official who helped
in the rebellion against the most honored
lord of the area.
Gripping his katana handle, he prepared
to break through the doorr but was
interrupted by a mocking caw that broke
the silent tableau. The bird's black tar
eyes watched him, perched on the engawa
railing, before it threw its head back
and let out anot~r bitte~ laugh, spread
its wings, and flew off into the darkness.
He released a breath and berated
himself for his distraction.
"A rain is coming," rough voice spoke
through the thin d~or. The assassin grit
his teeth, muscles tense as he waited
for his target to warn of hi attempt to
kill the nobleman. There~was whisper of
silk before the target's deep v~ce spoke
again with the same surety of before.
"Please, enter."
Disbelief warred with cynicism, but
finally, the assassin gripped the shoji
door and slid it open, straightening his
30
posture to look inside at the man he was
hired to kill.
The m.an .was aged; onyx hair giv~ing way to streaks of smoke grey, and his
tanned skin was rough and leathery. His.
wore a blue yukata, his form toned from
training, and a black haori coat over
his shoulders kept him warm from the
approaching winter. The assassin wryly
thought that this man would never ~ave to
worry about surviving the harsh snow ever
again after tonight.
Half-lidded black eyes lined with
wrinkles, looked at the young man dressed
all in grays, and waved a callous hand to
The Novelist
by Martine Cloud
Stoneware &Porcelain
2nd Place
the opposite zabuton cushion from his.
"Sit with me, honored guest."
Repressing a derisive snort, the
assassin entered the room and shut the
door behind him. "Let it not be said
that one refused the word of Takayuki
Ryosuke."
A quirk on the corner of the older
man's lips betrayed his amusemel}t. "It is
not often that one gains a visit from the
herald Gisei." f
"I'm flattered," his voice deadpanned.
Takayuki-san bowed formally, and once
again offEred the cushion to his killer.
Gisei gave him a wary eye, before he slid
his sword from his belt and sat down,
also in the formal style, laying his
katana on his lap.
His host appeared to accept that Gisei
wouldn't bow. "Who sent you to kill me?"
"That is confidential." the ass~ssin
said, his face stony.
" Hrnrn , but you do know?" Takayuki-san
asked as he rolled up a scroll and sat it
beside his own seat.
Gisei nodded minutely. "Yes."
"It is an honor; that was not an
insult. Gisei, the killer of thousands,
sent to personally slay me." The older
man met the face of the assassin. "In
truth, I have been wondering when you
w'ould come after me."
Gisei schooled his expression into one
of polite blankness, lest he lose his
temper and alert everyone 'n_t~e 0 ound
of his presence. "I'm afraid I don't
understand."
"You're Yuzuki-san's boy. You have your
father's eyes."
A hand rose halfway to his face before
Gisei stopped himself and let it lay back
into his lap. He had forgotten his mixed
blood ~ave him hazel eyes of the oddest
colors, ranging from brown to red to fire
orange. Many times, like now, it was an
odd mixture of the three colors.
Gisei opened his mouth to speak,
but was interrupted by the shuffling of
small feet stopping efore the door. The
outline of a woman krt~lt outside and a
tray was carefully sat ~n the tatami mat
on the floor.
His knuckles bled white around his
katana as he started to rise, but was
stopped by his target. "Yes?" Takayuki­san
asked.
"Takayuki-sama, Yoko-chan brings the
requested sake." a young woman's olce
floated through the thin door before she
opened it. Gisei knew why he was stopped
when he saw her.
She wasn't more than fourteen-years-old
an~ was in a pale pink kimono with violet
Glendale CO"'JIluniit~College
koi fish designed around the hem. Her eyes
were a pale, wispy grey, revealing her
blindness.
"Thank you, Yoko-chan. My guest will
take it from you, and you may go to bed."
Gisei stomped down his irritation at
becoming a servant boy, but preferred
to take the tray instead of letting his
assignment have the chance to escape.
He walked towards the chi~d and knelt,
taking the tray from her hands. One of
her pale hands touched his, and she
jerked back with a startled gasp. Gisei
waited, curious by her reactinn.
She blushed prettily, hovering in
that awkwardness of a child becoming a
woman. She bowed her head and murmured i
explanation, "I'm so sorry. Your hands ...
they are rough, like Takayuki-sama's. I-I
was not expecting that."
"You are forgiven," he replied, copying
her tone.
She bowed once more into the room, and
shut the door. Gisei sat the tray between
his mat and Takayuki-san's, listening to
her retreating steps. "Is she another of
your victims? A bit young for a whore."
Her steps faltered halfway down the
hall, before continuing again, faster.
Takayuki-san gave Gisei a stern look, but
he refused to be cowed or apologetic. He
had gone through too much in his life to
take back words.
Takayuki-san's hand picked up one of
the sake flasks and said, "Will you share
some atsukan with me?"
Personally, Gisei liked sake cold
instead of warmed, but he decided, for
. all the hell this man had caused, even he
would not forbid one last drink. Besides,
it had some tangy irony that Takayuki-san
would drink his last with the man sent to
kill him, a man he, in a way, killed long
ago. "Please."
He picked up one of the sake saucers
and held it out, allowing his' host to fill
it, and, for once following tradition,
filled Takayuki-san's own cup in return.
His unexpected host iooked pleasantly
surprised, but said his thanks and took
a sip, feeling Gisei's foreign, familiar
gaze watching him closely.
"It is safe, and quite good." Takayuki­san
reassured after many minutes which
only he was enjoying the alcohol.
Gisei snorted, raising the cup to his
own lips. "I would expect no less from
the great Takayuki-sama."
In tense silence, the two savored their
drinks, watching the pink blossoms of
the sakura tree flutter to the ground and
wooden verandah. After almost an hour of
undisturbed trades of refill offers and
31
Traveler
polite gratitude, Takayuki-san steered gain control over his land and riches.
the conversation into another direction. However, Mana-chan did not mention she
"I did what I believed was right, Kosame- had an elder brother who was heir. Mana-chan."
chan feared for her life, and the only
The shattering of ceramic rang through way I could protect her-"
the room, the only visible sign to his "Was to murder my father." Gisei
rage. "How dare call me that?" finished, picking up the tokkuri and took
Takayuki-san, with sadness and pity a swig straight from the flask. "How ...
lining his eyes, continued. "It was never unoriginal, Takayuki-san."
meant to happen like that." Takayuki-san sighed, folding his
A strained laugh, low and sneering, hands in his lap. "Mana-chan was against
escaped Gisei's lips, his hand clenching the idea at first, despite the threat
around the shattered saucer. "Never meant to her life. She didn't want to leave
to happen ,like that? You murdered my you behind, but it would have been
father, took my mother, left me there, difficult to take the both of you with me
and I'm supposed to let it go?" immediately. As Yuzuki-san's best friend,
"We returned for you, Kosame-chan. That I would have be~n sent a message to take
was the plan. You disappeared; we couldn't you into my care. You had more protection
,find you and we searched everywhere." in the world than ~our mother would have.
Takayuki-san explained, looking into his She would have been given to another lord
sake cup. "Mana-chan died six years ago, closer than I was, or perhaps even killed
never knowing what became of you." or kidnapped." Takayuki took a moment
"So sorry to hear that; I never to collect himself, and then continued
received my invitation to her tsuya." in a tone that only came when one was
Gisei waved off the news without a second fighting back tears. "But no message ever
thought. She was dead to him long before came, nothing beyond news of YU2uki-san's
her true passing. death. Your mother and I became frantic.
Takayuki-san tossed back the rest of We looked for you, Kosame-chan."
his sake, and refused the offer for a "Are you seriously telling me you
refill. He contemplated the younger man expected me to await the return of my
sitting before him; Gisei knew what he father's betrayers? How stupid did you
was seeing. Still a child in his eyes, think I was?" Gisei restrained himself
but in the gear of a killer. A deadly from br~Klng~the flask by slamming it
weapon laid on his lap like a cat, and onto the tray.
looking ~ack at him with the familiar "Kosame-chan-"
face of a child that he thought lost Gisei snapped his strange eyes up to
forever. "Your father was not a good man, meet Takayuki-san's old gaze. "I was
Kosame-chan." there, Takayuki-san. I saw you murder
"This coming from you?" Gisei quipped, my father, and I saw my mother watch. I
before dropping the chips of ceramic onto watched you kiss her and lead her away.
the tray and wiping his nand free of All I knew was that the man I called
blood. "No one is a good man these days, father, the woman I called mother, and
Takayuki-san." the one I trusted and loved like an
"I was his friend," Takayuki-san uncle, was all a lie. My father cared for
admitted. "I was no saint myself, but me. I was his son. My mother scolded me
I loved your mother. Your father only for manners, and to be proud because of
took her into his harem because she was who I was, and then she'd slip off with
an offering from a fellow lord from the you or other ladies of father's court
west. The one thing that kept her alive for the rest of the time. You didn't
there is that she was the only one who just betray my father, Takayuki-san. You
bore him a son." betrayed me." /
Gisei shifted his weight, his legs Takayuki-san's shoulders slumped with
tingling after sitting on them for so the weight that his sin was greater than
long. "You're not going to say I'm your he ihought it was. "They were hard times,
son and my mother kept it secret from my Kosame-chan."
father, are you?" It was a wonder that wGisei knew, of course. The son of a
sarcasm wasn't dripping out of his mouth~- ~ead lord had little chance of survival
Takayuki-san gave a weary smile, and in the world of his father's enemies. His
shook his head. "NO, Yuzuki-san was your scars were proof of that. He killed his
father, but you were your mother's child. first man when he was eleven, and it was
I loved you as if you were my own." either fight or become a slave, or worse,
"Mana-chan's father was a wealthy to the drunken ronin.
lord, and Yuzuki-san murdered. him to
The Novelist
by Martine Cloud
I
Stoneware & Porcelain
2nd Place
33
"You and Mana-chan were my reason to hght for a better
world. It wasn't meant to be this way." Takayuki-san spoke,
more to himself, but it brought the assassin ~rom his darker
thoughts.
Gisei sat unwavering. "Your time is up."
A quirky smile and a dying laugh was Takayuki-san's
immediate response. "Very well, I will not fight you. For all my
deeds, I need only to answer to two people for my crimes. Yoko­chan
and you." He straightened in his seat as Gisei rose, sword
Glendale CcJllJlluniity;r College
in hand. "1 have one request. Under the
statue of the tengu behind you, "there is
money. Take care of Yoko-chan. The world
will not be kind to a blind girl with ?o
home."
"Do 1 look like a babysitter?" Gisei
sneered, then after a moment of looking
at the demon statue, he barked out, "So,
whose carcass did you drag her from?"
A genuine smile broke across his
Takayuki-san's broad mouth, "Mana-chan
bore her. Yoko-chan was born blind,
but sh~ was mine." Waving his hand at
the statue, he said, "The money should
be enough to keep Yoko-chan in a small
34
house,' but" she needs to be protected and
taken care of. All 1 ask is that Yoko­chan
is kept safe and happy, whether with
you or someone who will not abuse her or
the money."
Gisei let it sink in that he had a
half-sister, who was blind, and who he
insulted vulgarly, but was his sister.
Taking a breath, he murmured, "1 shall
see to her."
. Worry flashed, darkening the man's
already black gaze, before he resignedly
closed his eyes. "Thank you." Takayuki­san
whispered.
Traveler
Nothing disturbed the compound; nothing gave suspicion to the
occupants about the danger, and there wasn't a sound to hint at a crime,
until many moments later when there was the pit-pat of blood hitting the
nobleman's shoji door.
Gisei stepped out of the room moments later, his sword returned to
his side and a wrapped package gripped in his hand. He felt no joy or
satisfaction with the deed, only an odd nostalgic feeling for what was
lost. He guided with a purpose, his promise still ringing in his mind.
Gisei bypassed servant quarters and lax guards, to stop in front of a
door no different from the dozen others he already passed.
The sound of wood panels sliding against each other caused Yoko-chan
to lift her head by instinct, despite her lack of sight. Gisei paused,
taking in her kneeling form. She was the accumulation of the betrayal
that set his path.
'I shall see to her' again echoed in his head as he gripped his
katana's hilt. It would be so easy to decapitate her, seasoned warriors
had thicker necks.
He still couldn't dredge up any feelings for Takayuki-san's death. He
felt strangely hollow and indifferent. Would killing his sister make his
revenge complete? Half-sister, technically. Did that make it any better?
"Papa?" Yoko whispered, her voice trembling.
Gisei met Yoko's unseeing gaze. Kneeling, he murmured in the dark.
"No."
She gasped, and with a halting hand, she reached out, trailing her
fingertips over his face.
His eyes shut as the unblemished pads explored his features; over his
nose, across his weak eyelids, grazing his stubble-scattered cheeks and
his bitten, chapped lips.
When the fingers left his face, he re-opened his eyes, and compared
her to a scared, abandoned boy, drenched in the blood of his father.
The image would not leave him, even as Yoko's curious finge~s found his
hands, and examined the slick residue that came off. Dawning horror
was aided by the coppery scent that must have reached her nose, "W-what
happened to Papa?"
Gisei hesitated, then answered, "He was murdered."
She swallowed; her grey eyes gleaming. "Papa... "
Gisei watched as she struggled, pain fresh and breathing rapid as
grief sank in. He couldn't do it. This girl, replicating his death; the
death of any innocence and child-like beliefs he had before his father
died. She was a kindred soul. Could· he spare her, knowing it could
destroy her, or worse, make her like him?
Looking to his weapon, now foreign, he quirked a half-smile, and
wondered when he turned from the victim into the monster he swore to
hunt down.
"Have you ever been to Osaka, Yoko-chan?" the question caught her off
guard before she shook her head no. "Would you like to go there with me,
little sister?"
Her confounded expression melted completely into a genuine smile,
despite the tinge of sadness.
It wouldn't be until the next morning when a servant delivered
breakfast that Takayuki Ryosuke's body would be found. A look of
acceptance would forever be frozen on his face, as he lay in a pool of
his blood. No usable evidence could identify the killer, but underground
whispers of Gisei's activities were well-known.
Investigation showed that Takayuki Yoko disappeared into the
night with few belongings, and she was dismissed as a runaway. Gisei
never took another mission or collected the money from the Takayuki
assignment. He slowly faded until he was only a reputation.
Despite the mystery, no one in the small farming town outside
Osaka questioned the arrival of the siblings, Natsu Kosame and Yoko, who
built their home from the ruins of the Yuzuki nobleman house, and lived
peaceful lives there.
The truth was never 1earned, and the event faded from history.
Glendale CO""'lUnity,r College ! 35
ATale Of Love
and Light
Claudia Martinez
Acrylic
De La Mar
by Martine Cloud
Stoneware
3rd Place
•
Ear of Corn
by Erik Eichelberger
Stoneware
3rd Place
Raku Footed Bowl
by Rick Corpolongo
Stoneware
I
Untitled Ceramic
by Robert McBride
Stoneware
Honorable Mention
I
('
f
Raku Vase
qy Matine Cloud
toneware
Honorable Mention
\
always seemed to be lurking just
beneath the surface.
Sometimes I wondered if the
'routine' was her way of creat­ing
small zones of tranquility;
tiny time-outs as she went
from one hot, hustly-bustly
kitchen to the next, dealing
with the vagaries of impatient
or confused or indecisive or
unprepared or territorial or
simply super-demanding employ­e~
s; finding her way through and around
their messy and sometimes ill lit kitch­ens,
fighting against time to stay on task
and keep her sanity and through it all,
to keep concocting the customized culi­nary
delights she was paid to.
Since spi~es were not only Manda's
constant companions but also treasured
tools of her trade, I thought she would
be the authority on the best place to buy
some. I imagined a small crowded store­front
down a dingy, winding, back alley!
in the heart of a distant dusty market I
with a name that was hard to pronounce.
A chest-high steel and glass countertop
would separate the overwhelmed shop boys
from an impatient throng of customers,
all leaning forward and trying to out­shout
the others, eager to be the first
to be served even if they had been the
last to join the crowd. The air, thick
with the intermingled scents of pungent,
dried spices would grow thicker with the
occasional expletive and the urgent,
verbal short hand as the sharply barked­out
orders sailed across the small
space. What would make it all worth the
trouble would be the authenticity of the
spices at unb~atable prices.
Imagine my surprise when Manda coolly
replied that in her opinion, the best
place that she knew of was the newly
opened supermarket on the opposite river
bank, in the little gully next to the
cinema theatre across the bridge and
plainly visible from our balcony. She
added that she greatly enjoyed shopping
there.
"But that's a place where only rich
people shop," I almost blurted out, man��aging
just in time, to bite my tongue.
It was a novel kind of shopping experi­ence
for the well- heeled Indian con­sumer.
And probably one that was here to
stay. Just inside the clear, reinforced
glass doors that swung quietly open, a
courteous, uniformed doorman stood to
attention. He greeted one and helped one
shelve, any extra bags one may have been
carrying, placing them a specially al­lotted
slot. In exchange, he gave one
by Maneesha Lele
Nonfiction
2nd Place'
If you saw Manda on the street, it
would have been hard to guess her age
or her profession. She wore large horn
immed glasses that gave her an almost
rofessorial air. Habitually draped in a
asteful sari that showcased her elegant
rame, with gold bangles that sparkled
round slim wrists and the typical, gold
marriage chain and earrings set off by
her smooth dark skin, Manda was a sur­prising
blend of old school values, ven­erable
tradition and glowingly modern
ideas.
I often spotted her, swiftly and sure­ly
negotiating the bad roads and ter­rible
drivers with practiced ease; all
the while talking softl~ yet animatedly
into her cell phone, and wondered how she
could remain so unfazed by it all.
A self-made mother of three, Manda
had dropped out of school by the eighth
grade, and like many before her, had
swapped a rural life for a matried one
in the big city, establishing/a satel­lite
dwelling for her younger, siblings,
bravely and boldly taking. on the added
responsibilities of ensuring a better
and brighter future for them 1s well as
for herself. But for herself, IManda had
wanted to fashion something new, more re­spectable
and far more excitidg , reject­ing
the offers of house cleaning or baby
sitting that must surely have come in
thick and plenty.
In every house that Manda worked in,
she followed an apparently cherished pre­paratory
routine. The first thing she did
was to brew herself, and anybody else
that wanted one, a strong cup of tea.
Then, unselfconsciously adjusting her
glasses more firmly on the bridge of her
short straight nose, Manda would calmly
and intelligently take in the scene about'
her. Her concave lenses magnifying the
huge chocolate orbs behind them three­fold,
she would proceed to ask questions
relevant to the tasks at hand, careful­ly
weighing the answers. Then, satisfied
at last, she would delicately sip at the
hot, fragrant brew and flash a smile, the
sudden, special, irrepressible one that
38 Traveler
Untitled
by Bryan Schnebelt
Ceramics
1st place
39
Sheila's Stairway to Heaven
by Natalie Seils
Cyanotype
40
a hard plastic, numbered token, to be handed back to him when
one collected the bags on leaving the store. The brightly lit
aisles beckoned, their neatly organized shelves stacked high
with beautifully displayed products whose glossy, artful la­bels
vied for attention. One could linger to peruse them in
luxurious, air conditioned comfort as the thick, tinted glass
walls insulated one from the deafening cacophony of the mad
drivers that pounded hotly down the dusty streets beyond, like
people possessed. And somehow, the fatigue fell away as one's
aching feet now began to glide smoothly over the clean, pol­ished
floors. The habitual pain gradually became a dim and even
tolerable memory as one inhaled the fresh, fragrant, smog-free
air inside. In another colorful section with sloping trays and
baskets, pre-cleaned and prepackaged fruits and vegetables
glowed healthily from their breathable cellophane jackets.
Already divided into meal size units that took the guesswork
out of it, they saved the stressed consumer valuable time and
effort. The higher prices were a small deterrent for such
thoughtful service.
I imagined Manda in the store, rubbing shoulders with over­weight
women in crisp designer salwar-kameezes, bede, ked with
white gold a~d lipstick, diamond rings flashing as th~y waved
an airy hand at an acquaintance. Their accessorized diapha­nous
scarves trailing unevenly behind them as they floated past
Manda in a cloud of perfume, sizing her up in a singl , dis­missive
glance that seemed to skim over her and then ?lance
off as if she weren't quite there. Tossing their dark swathes
of henna-conditioned hair as they callout to their nannies in
measured but commanding nasal tones to mind the children bet­ter,
husbands, children and the unfortunate nannies in tow.
Hair that cascaded down their backs in a straight, silky cur­tain,
then swirled in a body, its highlights catching the dy­ing
gold of sunshine slanting in through the tinted windows.
And somehow, in spite of it all, I could see Manda holding her
own.
As she spoke, her face became animated, the expressions
flitting across it in quick succession. She said she hadn't
known for a "long time that she had even needed glasses and
that sometimes, in school, she'd encountered flak from the
other kids for trying to be "betterU than them. Then she add­ed,
almost as an afterthought, that when she had first start­ed
at this job, she had had no idea whatsoever how to cook
"fancyu. Her various expert, but now fed-up employers, were
only too willing to share their tips, tricks, short cuts and
techniques. So slowly but surely, she had squirreled away the
odd assortment of facts and put them to use, sometimes trans­planting
the ideas from one 'kitchen to another. Little by
little, she'd made it work. And now, she was a pro.
To me, Manda epitomized a changing India. One in which ev­eryone,
trom the Harvard educated CEO to the completely il­literate
street savvy vegetable vendor, owned cell phones and
spent equal amounts of time on them! One in which the increas­ingly
polluted and pothole ridden roads were clogged with more
and more four wheelers. An India in which it seemed as though
building construction had become an integral part of every
city street, eyen as real estate prices shot through the roof.
And one in whose cities, to my everlasting regret, large ~hady
trees and bullock carts were fast becoming a disappearing
memory.
"The emerging lower and middle classes will determine the
future of the world's largest democracy,U warbled some well­heeled
economists, half glad, half sad. In the technology
driven whirlwind that could well be India's rise to super­powerdom,
equal opportunities and economic independence were
proving to be great class levelers and in this race, it seemed
as though Manda had firmly straddled the winning horse.
All-Purpose Funny Man-in-a-Box
by Shane Miller
Pencil
Traveler
by Matthew Holly
The Migratory Patterns
of Tropical Birds anCl
Giant Lips
I'd finally come. My inner passion
for laziness had been defeated. Though
I am loath to do so (and believe me, I
am loath), it's come time for the old­fashioned
'hitting the streets' job hunt.
There just comes a point, after too many
no-calls on your resume, where you start
looking beyond the field you may have
originally intended to slip into.
That point always seems to arrive about
the same time my rent comes due.
I'd been looking at Craigslist, a
website that posts job opportunities, and
came across this:
Part-time late night opportunity ­delivery
work after 11 PM. 'Flamingos
by Night' makes people smile. We make
private deliveries in the middle of the
night for a variety of occasions. 10-
15 hrs/wk., usually just a couple hours
a night. Must be dependable, have good
driving record, and be very good with a
city map. All our deliveries need to take
place some time between 11 PM - 5 AM, so
there's lots of flexibility (you can go at
11 or 2 AM, we don't care so long as it
gets done. We have all night to get the
job done right).. We pay by the job, based
on distance.
I was intrigued. I took a chance and
gave the number a call.
"Flamingos by Night, how can I help
you?"
"I'm glad'we're getting some calls, I
advertised in the paper for two weeks/and
not even a nibble!"
Glendale CoJRJRunjjt~College
"Well, let me ask you a few questions
as a preliminary: Do you have a van?"
"Good, have you ever been a
subcontractor before?"
"Okay. Well, let me tell you about
us... We're the equivalent of the Modern­day,
eco-friendly, Tee-peeing Company.
We sneak out to your house in the middle
of the night and set up displays - for
birthdays, graduations, just about
anything. So, when you wake up in the
morning, you're greeted by something fun
and beautiful! Are you interested?"
I priefly pondered on what had happened
to the previous employee that made the
position available. Bullets or trespassing
violations seemed likely.
"Well, the next step will be you going
out on a run with us to see if you like
it."
She gave me an address to meet at, with
specific instructions to not knock on the
door if I arrived before her. She would
be in the golden SUV sporting the license
plate: FLMINGO.
Of course, I knew she was already
testing me. She had given me directions
that I suspected were inaccurate. Plus,
her time frame of a fifteen-minute drive
seemed a bit short. So, I cheated. I
wasn't supposed to meet her there until
10:30 PM - but I decided an early test
run was in order.
While there was only one major snag
in her directions, that snag was one of
the impassable peaks of the valley. I
decided to go around it. It cost me about
ten minutes. Traffic was a little rough.
Everyone else decided to go around the
mountain as well. Didn't anyone have a
Alright, alriqht. I've been told
I get judgmental when competing for
a job. But ever since I lost out on
previous employment to a girl whose
only qualifications were her 'floatation
devices,' I've become a tad embittered.
(It was lifeguard duty in Texas. Why the
city couldn't supply the floatations,
I have no idea. I still hold a grudge
against El Paso Park District #11.)
I seized the initiative and introduced
myself to fatso. But I wanted to use a
code-name, like FLMINGO. I choose MATHEW
(Note the single 'T'). He countered with
Chandler.
A character from Friends? So much for
originality.
, I
FLMINGO continued, "Tonight we're
delivering a flock of flamingos and a half­flock
of giant lips. We call them flocks.
And when you receive a flock, we say
'You've been flocked.' And when you've
been flocked, we refer to you as the
Flockee. Our flocks are very well trained.
They never wander off. They don't poop in
your yard. They won't tear up your grass
or nibble on your fruit trees."
It's sad when an agent goes. Years of
service had boiled down to this. Now,
seeing FLMINGO, her mind still in her
glory-day missions of the Cold-War, well,
that's a risk-every Agent must face sooner
Trayeler
"We once deliver~d a flock of pigs to
a house, and the card read 'I'm going
to-make you squeal and snort!' Can you
believe it?"
FLMINGO had clearly been in the field
for too long, her perceptions skewed
by twelve years working the valley. In
her mind, these plastic animals and
shapes were alive. To her, there was no
difference between flesh and blood and
plastic and kitsch. I applauded Command's
decision to limit FLMINGO to training
missions.
FLMI~GO handed KLJ 873 (I won't bother
to use his lame code-name) and I a few
cheat-sheets. We learned how to pack
boxes, which pens belonged to which
flocks, how many to group in each type of
flock. Customers pick and choose their
flocks. In addition they get a custom
sign (Custom means that we velcro black
letters onto a white sign) and a custom
card (Custom means we use a black pen on
a pink slip). Tonight's was a 'Thank You'
Mission. And as everyone knows, nothing
says 'Thank You' like flamingos and lips.
sense of adventure anymore? By the time I
made it to the location it had taken half
an hour.
The coordinates led to a corner house,
not an office as I had assumed. As I
approached I slowed down to scout the
site more thoroughly. Rock and dirt yard,
a few big cacti scattered about. A couple
nectarine trees. And an old woman looking
right at me.
I guess I hadn't really thought this
might be a customer's house. In that
moment, however, it crossed my mind.
I'll admit that I slightly panicked. My
advice is that if ever you find yourself
in a similar circumstance, try to act
casually. Maybe toss a smile at the old
woman, or even just throw her a normal
look and follow it up with a drive-off
type move. Immediately ducking your head
below window level and peeling out in
what happens to be a school zone tends
to be conspicuous, and perhaps counter
to your original intention of avoiding
notice.
Still, it had taken me thirty minutes
with traffic. The way back home only -
took twenty-five. Assuming I hadn't been
reported to the Phoenix police, the trip
was helpful.
I decided to leave at 9:55 PM - to
make sure I was prompt. Two vehicles
were already waiting. One appeared to be
an SUV, looking golden in the glow of
the tiny garage bulb. As I pulled in,
I glanced at the plates. Sure enough
FLMINGO had arrived. But who was KLJ 873?
FLMINGO approached my van. "Are you
Matth w?" I was. She directed me to pull
up patallel to KLJ 873 and join her in
the garage. Within, I couldn't help but
notice the variety of display pieces:
Flamingos, Pigs, Penguins, Storks,
Bats, Rabbits, Hearts, Sports Balls of
all sorts, Dinosaurs, Stars, Circles,
Shamrocks, Tombstones, Smiley Faces, and
Fish - to name a few. So this was indeed
home-base - not a customer's house. The
old woman must have been all part of .the
cover.
"Both of you; welcome to Flamingos By
Night. You passed my first test: finding
this place."
KLJ 873 and I looked at each other.
In that moment I realized something: You
know what doesn't look good with dark
curly-wavy surfer-type hairdos? Really fat
people. Nor, I immediately recognized, the
middle-aged. While employers may not be
allowed to discriminate based on oldness,
h 'r-dressers should be required.
\
or later. Someday that might be me: "The
world changed after Nine-Eleven, you know.
You youngsters don't know what it was like
in the Oughts. We couldn't use the same
strategies. The enemy was different. More
and more people had dogs. We were fighting
a tactic now, not a coherent state."
I shook off the vision of my potential
future and concentrated on the mission at
hand.
Agent KLJ 873 started to chat FL~INGO
up. HE liked nectarines. HE had a GPS
system in his truck. HE was very excited
about the job and just loved the concept.
HE gave away far too much. An agent must
keep his cards close to his chest, even
with fellow agents. The less we know
about each other, the less the system is
compromised when one of us goes down. I
began to suspect that Chandler might even
be his real name. The fool.
I was tasked with mapping out the
direction to the target location. KLJ 873
wou+d prepare the flocks. I took a risk. I
looked up the location, quickly memorized
the way, and boarded the SUV. No, I didn't
need to reference the map again, thank
you. Might as well keep the lights off to
avoid attention.
All according tb plan.
We arrived at the target location. It
was a castle. I kid you not; there's a
castle in Phoenix. It's not a big castle,
mind ;ou, maybe the size of a Victorian
House. Still, it was made of stone and
mortar and had three turrets and a
walkway. The yard and garage lights were
gas (flickering flame light) - not electric
like we modernites are used to.
Command ordered he flocks inserted
into the side yard, so the target would
encounter the flock pnce leaving the
garage. The flocks should meande~ a bit to
the front and a bit to the backyards. The
sign should be inserted into the front
(So it could be seen from the street) and
the card was to be left at the front gate
(literally a front gate). Intelligence
warned us to expect dogs.
FLMINGO claimed the front yard, "You •
two decide who ·wants to do the side and
who wants to do the back."
.KLJ 873 immediately volunteered for
the side mission. An interesting gambit ­presumably
he wanted closer contact with
FLMINGO. He was still looking at this l'ke
it was a job you needed schmooze for. Tpen
again, maybe'he just realized the Iside
yard would be the easier mark. The tr?il
to the back went under a rickety gazebo
Glendale eoJllJllunii"t;w College
Black Magic
by Christos Corliss
Stoneware
45
.,\
and into flickering darkness. I accepted
his challenge without hesitation.
We agreed to split up the lips, five
for each yard. Then KLJ 873 and I lugged
the box of flamingos to the driveway where
FLMINGO began dispersing the birds to
us. I added two to my lips, KLJ 873 took
two, and then FLMINGO took two. Out of
nowhere, she dropped her second bird. I
suspect it was done on purpose.
I have excellent reflexes. I'm confident
that had I not had my hands full of
tropical avians and massive puckers,
catching the bird would have been simple .
Alas, I could only cringe and wait for
what would surely be a noise loud enough
to wake whatever mastiffs the castle
denizens had on hand.
The sound never came. As I peered
through the night, I saw that KLJ 873 had
managed to catch the flamingo with his
left foot. He stood perfectly balanced
with three appendages filled with birds.
Under usual circumstances, I might have
merely been reminded of a hippo waiting
for his teeth to be cleaned. Instead, I
knew I was in trouble.
KLJ 873 was a Ninja.
FLMINGO was clearly impressed. She
thanked KLJ 873 with a series of hand­signs
that ended with a thumbs-up. In the
Agent business, that means approval.
I stalked toward the backyard,
determined to answer his move. My only
option at this point was creativity. You
can send a message with your flock, the
way in which you arrange it, the emotions
it engknders in the target. An Agent must
be a man of vision in addition to being a
man of clinical intelligence, or a ninja.
I decided my motif would be: "Your castle
just got peppered with Flamingos and
Giant Lips,u and my emotion: "Surprise!U
I placed some of the lips do~n in
the side yard, hoping to avoid my own
droptastrophe, then passed through
the gazebo. The gaslight flames teased'
the shadows into a constant dance. My
footsteps were silent on the grassy
terrain. When I spied the pair of Great
Danes sleeping about four feet away from
me I almost crapped my pants.
They didn't immediately stir and devour
me, giving me a moment to think. They had
to be chained, otherwise they could just
wander out on a whim. Unless... I could
have crossed one of those invisible,
electronic thresholds. Either way, I was
probably in mauling range.
I could abandon my position, but that
wou~d be admitting failure. KLJ 873's
46
skills with Ninjitsu and sitcoms would
allow him to sneak past the dogs. Or at
least neutralize them with some sort of
hilarious physical comedy. No, I had to
continue if I truly wanted to become an
Agent. I crouched low, keeping close to
the fence separating the castle grounds
from the neighborhood peasants. If alarms
were raised I could leap to safety.
I glanced again at the pair of dogs,
still no motion. I pressed the first metal
flamingo-spike into the ground. It slid
in with little noise. No movement yet.
A creeping step and a pair of lips were
added. Nothing. Two more steps, another
flamingo. Did I see an ear flick? Please
keep dreaming pooch. Mutton, foxes,
illegal immigrants; about whatever your
master feeds you. I crept away to the
side yard.
KLJ 873 was already working on his
second group. FLMINGO asked me to only
po four more flamingos and the rest of
my lips in the backyard. As that area
couldn't be seen from the street it
was considered sub-par real estate and
unworthy of extended attentions.
Once I sortied back, I saw the Danes
had yet to stir. Good, good. This.time
I went even more slowly, knowing I'd be
taken closer to the beasts and further
from the fence of safety should my
location be compromised. I chose my
route and began reinsertion. Things were
fine until a ripple of movement in my
peripheral vision drew my attention to
the ramparts beyond the dogs. Two figures
stood half-concealed in the darkness.
I'd been set up.
I immediately dropped to the ground
behind a dwarf palm tree. Still loyal
to the mission, I situated my remaining
flamingo into the earth. Squinting, I
tried'to make out 'the enemies across the
way. They weren't moving. I was confident
that even if they had seen me, I was now
safely enshrouded in darkness and lawn
ornaments.
Our motionless face-aff continued until
action under the gazebo drew my attention.
One of my fellow Ag~nts was coming to
check up on me. I needn't tell you this
is far outside standard protocol. I could
only assume FLMINGO had finally snapped
and become a danger to even the training
missions. That, or KLJ 873 was here for
sabotage.
KLJ 873 stopped just this side of
the gazebo. I saw him fiddltng with some
sort of instr~ment, then, a/ray of mag­Lite
erupted from his hands. He began
Traveler
\
i
indiscriminately swooping the light
across the backyard. I waited with sick
fascination for the beam to fall across
one of the dogs.
It was then that I learned, by
gaslight, and in the middle of the
night, Great Danes made out of ceramic
and placed at the bottom of your castle
ramparts look almost exactly the same as
real Great Danes placed at the bottom of
your castle ramparts. And, as a second
point of interest; life-sized suits of
full plate mail can easily be mistaken
for enemy Agents. I could start to see
why FLMINGO snapped.
I approached KLJ 873, still alert and
ready for a double-cross, but he merely
handed me two more fla~ingos. He gave me a
hand-signal which said, "Wow - those dogs
scared me for a second. u
"Oh, did you think they were real
or something?U I signed back before
injecting the final two flamingos into
the grass right in front of the Ceramic
Danr=s.
We reconnected with FLMINGO in the
front yard. She had us lug the now empty
box to the SUV while she checked on our
handiwork. "I moved some of the side-yard
lips. Since we only had a half-flock of
those, you want to spread .them out more
than you normally would. The back looked
nice. u
In the Agent business, nice means
pleasing.
Blue Sky Smiling at Me
by Maritza Velasquez
Inkjet Print
3rd Place
We made it back to home-base, where
FLMINGO informed us of some of the normal
obstacles one might encounter on missions.
On how best to interact with customers if
you are compromised (Standard Protocol is
to use the 'Shhh! It's a Surprise. Go back
to Sleep!' Propaganda). That Mother's and
Valentine's Day were hot zones. That as a
cover we ran an orphanage, finding wayward
flamingos nice, American families to live
with. Obviously, the flawmingos' true roles
are classified.
FLMINGO stated that she considered us
both Agent material, and was willing to
give us our License to Flock right then and
there. My assignment: Scottsdale and North
Valley missions. The East Valley would be
KLJ 87's zone of demarcation.
As we returned to our vehicles, KLJ
873 and I looked at each other. We both
knew that sometime, somewhere, the two
of us would cross paths again. Maricopa
County wasn't big enough for the both of
us. It wasn't about the money now, but the
principle. There just comes a point when t'he
job isn't enough; when two patriotic men
must strtlggle to see who will become the
greatest Agent Phoenix has ever known. We do
it for ourselves, yes, but we do it for' our
Country.
I only hope the dogs don't get one of us
first.
The cumbersome housekeeping cart
clacked over sidewalk cracks and petrified
clumps of gum. Dull strands of silver­streaked
hair matted in sweat on Teeny's
cheeks as she pushed the cart to the
stairs. Teeny backed up the stairs, each
step a wrestling match with the cart. Ka­plunk.
Ka-plunk. Unlabeled spray bottles
tipped and the stack of folded towels
teetered with each bump up.
Three steps away from the landing, the
towels - dingy and stiff from seasons
of hard-water washings - toppled like
injured doves into the fire-thorn bushes
lining the sidewalk below. Head lowered,
mouth twisted and muttering, Teeny tugged
the cart up the final steps.
Mr. Askari's eyes narrowed and twitched
as he lurked in the shade of the Motor
Inn's faded awning.
Teeny pushed wide the half-open
door of the first room and was greeted
by the stench of stale beer and sweat.
She scooped the damp towels and rumpled
sheets from the floor and holding them
away from her body, she went to the
doorway and dumped them into the stained
laundry bag fastened to the back of the
cart.
"Teeny!U Mr. Askari had moved to the
bottom of the stairs, flapping a hairless
arm at the bushes. "What are clean towels
doing in the bushes?U
Teeny slunk to the railing and looked
down. Mr. Askari pointed a shaking finger
at the towels. "Clean those up.u
Teeny slowly came down to the step
above Mr. Askari, who did not move.
Teeny's eyes were level with the sweat
stains scarring the armpits of his shirt,
a shirt so thin she could the brown skin
glistening through it. Scuttling past
him, pressed against the stair rail to
avoid contact, she began grabbing towels.
Her arms quickly reddened and bled from
the sharp thorns as she unsnared the
tangled laundry.
With a final glare at Teeny over his
beak-like nose, Mr. Askari stalked into
the cool motel lobby.
Teeny tugged the last towel free and
frowned at the gray and white threads
clinging moss-like to the thorns. Leaving
the waving strands behind, she clasped
48
the rescued towels to her chest and did
an awkward crab walk to the laundry room.
Soothing her arms in the cool dampness
of the evaporative cooler, she heard Mr.
Askari hiss at her from the lobby door.
"And another thing. . scrub up the
pigeon poop out here and then see me!U
It's Friday, Teeny. Tomorrow the
park. Comforted, Teeny grabbed the old
scrub broom and bucket of sudsless water
and vigorously attacked caked-on pigeon
droppings. As she wrung out the mop, Mr.
Askari stepped out and handled her a
grimy, unsealed envelope.
"Here, Teeny. These are your wages for
the week. I don't need you anymore. u
Teeny stared at the thin envelope with
its few bills and coins. She blinked, the
hand not holding the mop clinched at her
side.
Mr. Askari shook the envelope at her.
"Teeny. Take your pay and leave. u
Teeny reached for the envelope with
her fingertips, watching Mr. Askari's
wire-rimmed glasses begin a slow slide
down his nose.
He pointed in the direction of the
housekeeping room with one hand as he
pushed up his glasses with the other.
"And clean out your locker. u
Teeny held on to her lifeline. It's
Friday, Teeny. Tomorrow the park.
With tattered handbag bulging with
salvaged paperbacks, deodorant wipe, and
a spare short-sleeved shirt, Teeny made
her way home from the Motor Inn. She
didn't look back at the motel. Home was a
small furnished apartment in a downtown
hotel and her rent was paid through the
end of May - two more Saturdays.
Once inside the small room, Teeny
placed her belongings away in the closet
and lay down on the old bed, arms crossed
over her chest, and slept.
The morning sun pushing through the
kitchen window poked at Teeny's closed
lids. A yarn-strung dream catcher hanging
over the window caught and filtered the
rays into a mystical map on the yellowed
linoleum floor. Teeny pulled her granny­square
afghan up to her chin. Barely held
together by bits of mis-matched yarn, it
offered comfort rather than warmth. She
wrinkled her nose at the lingering scent
Traveler
of cat urine from a prior tenant who
preferred eviction to living alone.
Her tired eyes took in the tiny
kitchenette, with its round plastic
table precariously balanced on an empty
matchbook and two folding chairs, where
Thomas Jr. came and sat the last Sunday
of each month. Thomas Jr. always came
alone, so Teeny never needed more chairs.
She reached under her pillow for her
worn rosary, and rolled the glass beads
between her thumb and forefinger. This
and the dream catcher were all that were
left of her life with Thomas. Unless one
counted Thomas Jr., and Teeny didn't.
It's Saturday! Thoughts of the park
nudged Teeny out of bed. From the tiny
room under the eaves that served as her
bathroom and closet, she dressed in her
Saturday clothes: thrift-store denim
skirt, gauzy peasant blouse that covered
her sharp bones and age-speckled chest,
and soft anklets to protect her heels
from blisters.
Today and next Saturday. Teeny sighed.
Until another job, another room.
On the way to the square, Teeny's
busy eyes soaked up familiar sights:
twenty-two parking meters (one still
broken), Kinko's all-night copy center,
the Italian bistro, and a tiny Jewish
bakery. Officer Cecil and Pal, his German
Shepherd, were making their rounds and
Officer Cecil stopped and greeted Teeny.
She stooped and buried her fingers into
Pal's coarse hair, stretching them deep
into the dog's soft, warm undercoat where
she could feel his steady heartbeat. She
smiled happily up at Officer Cecil.
Teeny never touched Thomas Jr.
At the park, Teeny spread the afghan
under her tree. She picked up tiny
pebbles and twigs that poked up through
the holes, painstakingly setting
them aside in piles. Teeny had
performed this ritual on every
visit to the park, yet she was
always surprised to find more
rocks and twigs each week.
Intent on her task, Teeny
looked neither right nor left
as her thin arms moved in a
practiced rhythm organizing her
spot. Tourists guardedly crossed
the park, keeping their distance
and avoiding the regulars,
casting furtive glances at the
bent-over grey form picking
at the ground. At last Teeny
settled, satisfied with her
handiwork. Opening her sack, she
pulled out an over-ripe apple and
surveyed the scene.
Glendale Conlnmnit;r College
Put off by their shields of mental
illness, shyness, or indifference, Teeny
never intruded the privacy of the park's
regulars. Instead, she assigned each of
them names and imagined histories and
lives about them.
The younger (younger only when compared
to the others) black man reclined in his
customary spot on the brick bench next
to a planting area filled with bushes
thirsting in May's dry heat. At first
sight, his profile had aroused in Teeny
a lost school-year memory of a regal
Roman ruler. Drops of sweat had shimmered
among the black and silver nappy coils of
hair and envisioning a crown of silver,
Teeny had christened him Claudius. Today,
however, his only crown was the hood of
his dirty-orange sweatshirt. A rolled-up
army surplus blanket cushioned his head
and propped-up knees served as a stand
for the tattered paperback that was his
constant companion. Teeny longed for the
courage to give Claudius her offering of
used paperbacks.
She leaned forward to brush a leaf
from her sneaker and caught a glimpse of
China-Man pushing his rickety bicycle
across the rough paving stones.
China-Man was Teeny's favorite. Every
week he wore a different pair of shoes,
none of them ordinary. Acknowledging
her own unfulfilled shoe fetish, Teeny
coveted this week's cardinal-red Keds as
they turned on the pedals like brightly­colored
ferris wheel seats. She stretched
out her skinny legs with their knobby
knees, picturing soft red slippers
adorning her own feet.
China-Man had a knack for knowing which
unsuspecting diner strolling to his car
would be willing to part with a carton of
take-home. The wire basket of China-Man's
Traveler
bicycle was always
filled with styrofoam
containers and brown
bags from which
China-Man nibbled
in his wanderings
through the park
and downtown. This
morning, Teeny caught
a whiff of garlic and
Italian seasonings
as China-Man pedaled
past and she longed
for a taste of pizza
- a vague memory from
a long-ago party for
Thomas Jr. Shaking
"the memory away,
Teeny wiped the last
dribbles of apple
juice from her chin
and dropped the core into her brown bag. bed and assessed her treasures: the ola
She leaned against the tree and heard ·~wooden radio that crackled with static,
the clickety-clack of Miss Mary's shopping the wall crucifix with Jesus spread and
cart as it skittered into the square. A nailed to an iron cross, and a vase of
rank odor of' unwashed man tickled Teeny's' faded plastic flowers valiantly adorning
nose, and she knew Daddy-O accompanied her kitchen table. Out of season and
Miss Mary. Wondering why it was usually _casting a dilap~dated sparkle, a small
the women and couples with the.filched silver tinsel~Christmas tree leaned"
shopping carts, Teeny moved her hand, crookedly on the wobbly wooden table next
laced with protruding veins like winter- to the door into her room.
bare tree branches, to touch her handbag. Her cupboards held few groceries,
Would her life's belongings fit into just because her day-meal never varied; a piece
that bag or would she end up with a of picked-over fruit, bought for pennies
shopping cart, she wondered. at the Farmer's Market on Thursdays, and
She dozed until a nagging ache in oil-smooth peanut butter spread across a
her tailbone woke her. Knees and ankles folded-over slice of week-old bread. She
creaked as she stood and plucked tiny drank watered down tea or coffee, made
bits of grass from her afghan before with tiny pac~ets brought home from the
folding/it into the neatly tucked shape Motor InD. ~
like t~e flag she had received at Thomas' Now it was the last Sunday of May and
funeral, and slid it into her bag. She Thomas Jr. was coming down the hall. He
bent over to add the small pile of sticks opened the door after a sharp knock and
and stones to the iunch sack holding the stuck his head in. "Mother? Hey, how are
apple core and placed them all into the you doing?" He moved to his customary
wire-topped trash container as she slowly chair and placed a large b6ttle of hand
made her way out of the park. sanitizer on the table.
Only one more Saturday. Teeny moved over and sat opposite him
Teeny glanced back and saw ~hat China- at the table. "Hello, Thomas Jr.," she
Man was sharing his treasure of leftovers whispered.
with Claudius, Miss Mary, and Daddy-O.· Thomas shifted his l.arge frame
Maybe next week Teeny would bring the uncomfortably in the stiff chair and
paperbacks for Claudius. stared at his hands which-were spread out
Teeny didn't go out looking for a new on the table. "Mother, yon know, the man
job during the week. She wandered around at the desk said you haven't left your
her small room or sat for hours at the room all week. He was' wondering about
table in one of the flimsy fold-up chairs. getting paid next month's rent." His eyes
Old memories and hopes-flashed through her tra~eled around the room, everywhere but
mind like bursts of falling stars, gone to his mother's face. "You're supposed to
in an instant. Then the last Saturday call if you get sick ..."
came and went, but a cancerous gloom "I'm not sick. I was fired." Teeny
infested ~erlthat day and Teeny never studied her son's face.
left her room Instead, she lay on her
J
51
wrinkles. Leaving the nine unopened
bottles of hand sanitizer untouched on
the shelf, she gathered her bags and
opened the door into the hallway.
She was quiet on the stairs, but the
desk man caught her movement. "On, Mrs.
Teen~ ... are you all right? Haven't
seen you these past days." Teeny moved
to the glass door which separated her
from the street. He still spoke, to the
closing door. "Your son called. . I
told him you haven't been working. He'll
be here tomorrow and wanted me to tell
you he will pay another month's rent here
for you."
Teeny didn't look back. She was going
to the square. She kept her eyes down,
balancing the extra bags filled with
her scant belongings, and went to her
tree. She shook out the afghan which had
stayed in the handbag all the days since
she last packed it in, and she gathered
the stones and twigs. Once settled, she
leaned back and saw Claudius on his brick
bench.
Her eyes widened. Claudius was watching
her. Catching her glance, his black face
exploded into a big-toothed grin. Teeny
blinked, three times, and smiled back.
Then she closed her eyes and sank into
the cocoon of familiar sounds. Chattering
birds. The drone of stop-and-go traffic. A
stroller with a very unhappy baby (much
like Thomas Jr. had been), pushed by a
hurrying mother.
Teeny relaxed under the spell of the
square. She sat still, welcoming the
sound of China-Man's bicycle approaching
across the bricks. It stopped suddenly
and Teeny opened her eyes with a sense
of disquiet. China-Man stood over her,
his feet clad in impish leopard-spotted
flip flops. Dh, for those shoes! Her eyes
lifted from the dry, scarred feet up to
his squinting black eyes.
"China-Man?" She spoke, hesitantly, not
knowing his real name.
He stooped down and knelt next to her,
leaning his bicycle carefully on the
ground. They listened to its back wheel
spin to a stop. China-Man studied her
handbag and the two stuffed plastic bags.
He reached behind him into a brown
bag and opened up foil-wrapped pizza.
Two slices. Sitting back on his heels,
he offered Teeny a slice. "You've been
away," he stated.
Teeny smiled again. She took the pizza
and ate with relish for the first time in
many years, and planned what she would
say to Claudius when she gave him the
gift of paperbacks.
Glendale COJllJlluniit;w College
"Well, gee. Fired. That's it, huh?"
Silence stretched the distance between
mother and son. Thomas Jr. spoke first,
his voice raspy. "I . I can pay a
month's rent for you, you know. Maybe by
then Marcia and I can find a place for you
to live if you can't find more work."
Teeny splayed her fingers out on the
table and stretched them toward Thomas
Jr.'s until their fingertips almost
touched. An old ache spread across her
chest and she moved her hands back to
her lap. "I'm just taking a short break
before I find another job. I'll be fine."
Dh, Thomas, we both know that nobody is
going to ~ant to hire me after being tired
from the Motor Inn.
Thomas's hands shook as he pushed
himself up, ~nocking the chair over. He
reached back and placed it carefully
under the table in the exact spot it had
stood when he entered the room. "Well,
then, if you say so. I gotta run. I'll
come back next month as usual and see how
you're getting along. But, do cail me if
you get sick."
He bent over her and kissed the air
around her cheek. "Good-bye, Mother.
Marcia and the kids send their love." And
then Thomas Jr. was gone.
Teeny closed her eyes and slept in the
chair.
For most of June she slept, venturing
out only to go the market for fresh
fruit, shying away from the lure of the
park. She sometimes sat in her chair and
other times lay uncovered on her bed. The
folded-up afghan with its comfort and
memories stayed put away in her handbag,
just like Thomas Sr.'s memorial flag lay
out of sight on a shelf in Thomas Jr's
attic. Dust gathered on the table tops
and weighed down the dream catcher.
The last Saturday in June, the day
before Thomas Jr. would visit again, Teeny
gathered the dream catcher, crucifix, and
rosary and placed them into her handbag.
She pulled out two crunched-up plastic
grocery bags, and in one placed the
twelve used paperbacks she had saved for
Claudius. In the other she placed her
dollar-store sequined belt and white knit
shawl. Her work clothes from the Motor Inn
she left hanging on twisted wire hangers
in the closet. She meticulously wrapped
her toothbrush, toothpaste and half-bar
of Ivory soap in scraps of plastic, and
tucked those into her handbag along with
her ·comb and brush.
Teeny stood and looked down at herself.
She had hand-washed the skirt and blouse
last night, blocking them out with the
.paperbacks so they would dry with few
\
I
t
by Jason Q'Daniel
Non- Fiction
Third Place
We had arrived at Camp Cuervo, Iraq a
week prior. It was named for a soldier
who lost his life in the first year of
the war and was awarded the Silver Star.
Having been so busy training, preparing
my finances, and pre-war partying, I
had neglected to fully "square away"
my uniform. I soon heard of an Iraqi
tailor who worked on post and would alter
uniforms for cheap. I gathered all of the
articles of my uniform that needed to be
worked on and stumbled to his shop a half
mile down a dusty road with an overflowing
armload of clothing. He greeted me
warmly with a handshake and smile, and
I explained what I needed done. His
response was the first time I had heard
the Iraqis' commonly used phrase, "No
problem, my friend, no problem."
Standing there in his un-air­conditioned
shop, I felt sweat droplets
slither down my back. It was the middle
of March and already 90 or 95 degrees.
I heard Iraq was hot. Not a problem, I
thought to myself, I was from Phoenix,
one of the hottest cities in the United
States. Unbelievable as it is, the
temperatures in Iraq would soon dwarf
those of Phoenix, making a summer in
the Valley of the Sun seem a day in the
Rockies.
Seemingly unnoticing the rising
temperatures, the tailor worked
diligently on my uniforms. The quiet,
repetitive whoosh of his machine loomed
in the background as I distantly watched
him with apathetic curiosity as to his
work. His eyes displayed an intent focus
on his work as he sewed the rank on to my
military uniform. Most surely a daily,
redundant task for this man, he powered
his sewing machine manually with his foot
as he manipulated the cloth.
His machine, unlike nearly all of them
in the United States, was manually powered
for a simple reason: It was not the lack
of money to buy a better sewing machine,
nor was he being a traditionalist. The
reason was easily explained and quite
obvious. He simply had no electricity.
His shop was quite primitive, and opened
to the sunlight, his only light source.
I soon found this to be the norm of the
Iraqi culture. Some Americans think they
may be poor, but the comforts of a heated
(or air conditioned) home, three meals a
day, and a television are known by only
the richest of Iraqis.
Watching him work on my uniforms with
an attention and pride in his creations,
another Iraqi man, about half his age,
entered his shop and interrupted the old
man. He was obviously an interpreter for
an American unit, as he was wearing an
American army uniform. They exchanged
a hug and some words in Arabic when
the older of the men explained to me
in broken English, "My son. One moment
please, sorry, my friend." His smile was
a smile full of pride. It was pride that
his son was an interpreter for the U.S.
Army, but more so that it was simply his
son. They continue to converse in Arabic
and handling a piece of cloth, turning
it, looking at it, and obviously making
plans for it.
"I'm sorry" the Iraqi in the uniform
turns and apologizes to me. "I need
to cover my face when I work with the
Americans." Not realizing it at the
time, I later discovered that those
interpreters not covering their faces
on missions with the U.S. Army were not
around long. Terrorists discovering the
identity of an interpreter created two
predictable situations: At best, the
American employed Iraqi, along with his
family, would be threatened and harassed
until he or she resigns. More commonly,
however, the aforementioned would be
tortured and eventually murdered in an
animalistic fashion.
"No problem," I replied calmly. I
didn't have anywhere to go. The young
Iraqi turned to his father, presumably
discussing further how he wanted this
savior mask constructed. Watching father
and son interact triggered a smile from
ear to ear on my damp, dirty face. My
eyes saw two grown men working on a
project together, but my heart showed me
a father and his ten your old son working
together to create something magnificent,
not unlike my father and I, once upon a
time.
I blinked. I saw my father and me
working on a small block of wood.
Drilling it, cutting it, painting it,
Traveler
we applied wheels and a little bit of
effort. It was a pinewood derby car for
cub scouts, and it was made to race!
Weeks later, we stood and watched as my
wooden hotrod raced down the ramps at the
district cub scout tournament. While I
took fourth place in the race and second
for the aesthetic design, I was truly a
winner. How many fathers teach their boys
the virtue of finishing a project to the
end?
I blinked again. It was the last day
of my sophomore year of high school and I
had come home to find my father working in
the back yard planting trees. I offered
my help, which he gladly accepted. We
consulted each other on good placement of
certain trees, dug holes, and laboriously
drug the heavy trees into their new
homes. After I graduated high school we
moved to Phoenix, Arizona. Years later, I
relocated back to Portland, not far from
where we lived. As I dove by the house on
my way to college, I always saw the trees
we planted. They were adolescents when
we planted them, and since have grown
into young adults. The roots had grown so
much; in fact, they even stuck out of the
concrete wall, waving at me every day I
drove by. How many fathers so teach their
sons that hard work truly can payout in
the long run?
I blinked a third time. I remembered
an early Christmas party that my parents
were throwing for me before I left for
Iraq. I was engaged at the time and was
dreading leaving the woman I loved. All
g