Traveler 2010
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302
Reproductions of literary and
artistic works may not be reproduced
without the written consent of the
author or artist.
Cut Out
Laura Fraedrich
3rd Place Ceramics
Equal Opportunity Statement
Glendale Community College and the Maricopa Community College District
does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, religion, national origin, sex,
sexual orientation, handicap/disability, age or Vietnam era/disabled veteran
status in employment or in the application, admission, participation, access
and treatment of persons in instructional programs and activities.
Declaration De Igualdad De Oportunidad
Colegio Comunitario de Glendale y el Distrito de Colegios Comunitarios
del Condado de Maricopa no discrimina segun raza, color, religion, origen
nacional, genero, orientacion sexual, impedimento/incapacitacion 0 por ser
veterano de la era Vietnam ita veterano incapacitado ya sea en el empleo 0
en la solicitud, ingreso a, participacion, accesp y tratamiento de personas en
programas y actividades instruccionales.
The Traveler is a student creative arts magazine, produced
annually by the English and Art Departments of Glendale
Community College.
CalVed Vale
Martine Cloud
2nd Place Ceramics
Abandoned House
Rebecca Sandidge
3rd Place
Photography
Frida's Shoes
Pamela Bleakney
Honorable Mention
Painting
Past Time
Sara Andrews
Photography
The Hallucination Of Rood
by Steven Clauer
2nd Place
Fiction
The lllusion Of Cunning
by Kelsie Cady
3rd Place
Nonfiction
24
28
29
25
27
Gideon
Veronica DeWester
2nd Place
Drawing
Two Sides of My Coin
Martine Cloud
1st Place
'1 Sculpture
A Letter to My Wife
by Bradley Crostick
Poetry
20 Perfecting Hannah
by Martine Cloud
Honorable Mention
Fiction
19
22~."~;.~;~~=: Domestic Variations #2 I Arnon Livingstone
1st Place
Photography
19
21 Colorful News
Larry Valencia
1st Place
Painting
Cros"lIlg 111 5had()\\ s
by Jennifer Delgado
Ist Place
Fiction
The Crystal Myth
by Callista Barnes
2nd place
Nonfiction
mI"~M::IrIlr"n Textured Bowl
Laura Fraedrich
Honorable Mention
Ceramics
I Alley Architecture
~l'l'iH-~,Jllru:.i1 Daryle Gregory
Honorable Mention
Ilri~~! Painting
11
14
13
12
15
Cut Out
Laura Fraedrich
3rd Place
Ceramics
Carved Vase
Martine Cloud
2nd Place
Ceramics
• Open Road
Cody Harris
Honorable Mention
Photography
Drifter
by Michael Lamb
Poetry
2
3
9
6
. Untitled
~~S~:'lG Cody Harris 1- 1st Place
Computer Art
8
10
4
Trees
Jason Sindle
Photography 18 Transition
Nancy Gunn
Honorable Mention
Ceramics 24 Faces
Brynn Collins
1st Place
Drawing 29 October vs November
Jason Sindle
3rd Place
Painting
30 Bella Bean 38 Everybody Accommodated'46 Untitled 54 Organic Form #5
Shannon Biancamano Little Accomplished 1 Cody Harris Robert McBride
Honorable Mention James Legg 2nd Place 1st Place
Photography 3rd Place Computer Art Ceramics
Sculpture
31 bAy DSatvrideeMtarCtinoerzner in Sao Paulo 40 bOybLeeesiStoyla 49 JAuftsetirnnoSotnewinarSt edona 55 SWmillaianmthaSolan
onfiction Poetry 3rd Place Honorable Mention
Drawing Ceramics
~ Falling Water 32~~- 41 rr BL #1 50 Carousel Horse 55 All Coasts are Infinite
Nancy Searles Michelle Hadden Rebecca Sandidge by Edwin Horn
Honorable Mention Honorable Mention 3rd Place 3rd Place
Painting Drawing Computer Art Poetry
33 A Different Kind Of LO\e Story Domestic Variations # 1 Childhood Memories Laelia
by Michael Lamb 42- Arnon Livingstone 51 Shannon Biancamano 56 Veronica DeWester
3rd Place 2nd Place Honorable Mention Honorable Mention
Fiction Photography Photography Drawing
5
Industrial Slave
Robert McBride
2nd Place
.....,..,..., Sculpture 53 / , Emanuel and the Great
Question of the Moon
James Legg
Honorable Mention
Drawing
A Mom and Pop's Store 4 3 Family Values 51 Movie Star Kisses 57 Do Mirrors Have Memories
Shirley Elsass Lee Sola by Jennifer Delgado by Dan Ramirez
2nd Place 15t Place Honorable Mention 2nd Place
Painting Poetry Poetry Poetry
Harriet 44 Affix 52 A Failed Experiment 58 Belle Tortoise
William Solan by Jonathan Berry by Dan Ramirez Jemima Barretto
Honorable Mention Fiction Honorable Mention Honorable Mention
Sculpture onfiction Sculpture
38Upon Bathroom Stalls
by Leann Higbee
15t Place
Fiction
35
37
Untitled
Cody Harris
1st Place
Computer Art
7
8
Open Road
Cody Harris
Honorable Ment"
Photography Ion
9
r ~ r?yMichael Lamb
Poetry
Alone in d ess do I travel,
under nights sweet satin embrace.
Solitary, my thoughts do unravel,
as dusty footprints mark my pace.
Worn and faded boots do carry me
forward through town and city and glen.
As time has passed they all seem to be
filled with the same women and children and men.
Alone in darkness do I drift,
pausing only, never dwelling long.
Searching for ephemeral comfort, be it
smile or kiss, or song, still (yes still!) I must keep driving on.
Though now I be battered and scarred and broken,
I wander the rock laden strand.
The goal of my travels remaining unspoken,
as my aches wash away with the sand.
Alone do I stumble to an old friends door,
and laugh at his concern for my state,
as always he asks, after passing the flask,
what do I keep searching for?
I glance at his wedding ring, and reply with a grin,
"a good enough reason to stay."
10
,
on Sindle
otography
e,o/ling in
by Jennifer Delgado
1st Place
Nonfiction
Standing in the silent, dimly lit street, I watch as the taillights of our
car recede slowly into the distance, unwilling to twitch a muscle into
movement until they've turned the corner and disappeared. My mind
cries at my body to run and catch the car before it is too late, and I have
to fight to ignore it and turn away. But turn away I do, knowing I must
do this; there is no other choice. I find the shadows, ease into them,
and conceal myself within them. It's almost time.
OJ ~
In a darkened hotel room I clasp my wife tightly in my embrace as
she sobs. Freight trucks roar past our window throughout the night
and into the rising hours of dawn, making sleep impossible.
"What are we going to do?" she beseeches me, "How will we get
back? We can't reach anyone." I hear a slivery edge of hysteria creep
into her voice.
"Don't worry, mi amor. Please don't worry, don't cry. We'll go see
my uncle. Maybe he can help us." I console her with these paltry
words of comfort even as tentacles of hopelessness and fear are trying
to creep their way in.
OJ ~
A cool night breeze whispers through the leaves and softly caresses
the shadows as they wait. I am one of these shadows, along with my
companion, Avelino, and three others. Time tick-tocks excruciatingly
slowly as we hide ourselves, waiting anxiously for our signal to go.
Avelino commands me to be patient, but ready, for it will be time to
move soon.
My gut clenches into an iron fist, my body trembles as with fever,
and a wave of nausea floods through and threatens to engulf me.
Cold, clammy sweat covers me and I wonder fearfully how I am going
to carry this off. How did I get here? How can I be doing this? I'm
going to get caught. I feel it. Then what happens? Oh my God, what
will happen to my wife? Will she remember how to find me? What if
she doesn't?
A car passes slowly, within feet of the bushes that conceal, its
occupants unaware of the shadows watching. Their hawk-like eyes
cast searching glances through the darkness, ever vigilant for signs
of movement. As they continue to pass, I fall again into a fog of
apprehension and worry.
"Ready?" Avelino queries urgently as he nudges me to attention.
A bus approaches and we crouch, tensing as one, ready to launch
ourselves into action.
"Now! Go, go, go, hurry!" Avelino barks as the bus roars past. There
is no time to think; no time to falter. I can only follow him blindly,
knowing desperately that I must not lose him or it is all over.
OJ ~
In a small, dark, dusty border town, the golden arches of
McDonald's beckon in the night. A car pulls slowly into the side
parking lot, fmds a space, and cuts the lights and engine. There's
11
imperceptible movement within, an adjusting if
you will, then all is still save for the occasional
car pulling through and the crackling static of the
intercom.
03 ro
We slip through the gap in the fence quickly
with quiet urgency, our legs propelling us forward
as we run behind the bus, using it for cover. At
a dimly lit intersection we veer sharply right into
an even darker neighborhood and I thank God for
the seemingly odd absence of streetlights here. I
race behind Avelino, following his every move,
as do the other three, much to his exasperation.
They are not part of our plan, much less our twoman
group, but they recognize him for what he is.
He is someone who helps others begin a new life.
A shout is heard, doors slam and feet come
pounding in our wake, urging us to stop.
Adrenaline pumps its way through my veins,
flowing through my body and into my legs as I
chase wildly after Avelino into a shadowy tree
lined alley. The other three panic and scatter in
different directions. Before I fully comprehend
what I'm doing, I find myself hurling my body
over fences into darkened backyards. I bite
my lip, drawing blood, to prevent the burst of
hysterical laughter that is trying to claw its way
out. I think to myself that no one I know, and
least of all myself, would ever expect to find me
running from the law in the shadows of night.
I can feel them behind us; feel their predatory
intensity honing in on us like jackals honing in
on their prey. Avelino forcefully shoves me into
a cabinet within a storage area of a backyard,
urges me not to move under any circumstance,
and softly shuts the door. I hear him run across
the deck to another cabinet and watch through a
crack in the door as he hides within.
Within seconds, they are here. There are two
of them, shadows creeping noiselessly through
the gate, eyes scanning the yard as they shine
flashlights into all corners, taking care to avoid
the windows and wake up the those within. The
first one spies the cabinets and whispers softly
to his companion. I peer through the sliver in
the door as they hesitate and then seem to focus
intently in my direction.
A beam of light bounces towards me and I
am no longer a man. I am simply pounding,
throbbing fear. Hopelessness fills me, slumps my
body, followed by blind panic and I clench myself
into rigidness to keep from bursting out the door
and careening off into the night. Oh God, this
is it, I am done, I think to myself as the officer's
hand reaches for the door handle.
Crackle and hiss; voices call out over the
12
Teatuled Rowl
Laura Fraedrich
Honorable Mention
Ceramics
radio that the illegals have been caught and
are in custody. The hand, so excruciatingly
close, withdraws as the officer turns back to his
companion. Words are hurriedly exchanged, a
final glance is thrown in my direction, and then
they are gone. So silently and suddenly did they
leave that Avelino and I wait and wait some
more. Twenty minutes pass; it feels like twenty
hours.
Avelino opens the door, softly urges me out of
the yard and we are on our way, running through
the dark hours of morning towards McDonald's
and my wife, Jenny, waiting there for me. I find
myself marveling at this man, this coyote, who
guides people through harrowing experiences
like tonight to help them find a better life; a life
away from the poverty of Mexico and into the
promise of the United States of America.
Alley Alchitetule
Daryle Gregory
Honorable Mention
Painting
13
Colorful neWI
Larry Valencia
1st Place
Painting
i I I I I I • i I I I I I I
~RYSlFAL
I. 1111.1 .1 II
by Callista Barnes
2nd Place Fiction
! walk amongst the sleeping lambs, their painted black hooves tucked
beneath them, fleece coats buttoned from top to bottom. I walk amongst
them when the sun turns from yellow to orange to streaks of pink and
blood red, when the sun turns from star to moon. I walk beneath cold,
steely buildings, their ominous tower shadows engulfmg night itself. I walk
underneath the bent and naked trees that line this slums cracked sidewalks.
Their gnarled branches used to grab at me, swaying in disquieting laughter.
I stopped by Reyna's on the way to work the night shift. We got high sitting
on her sagging couch- there weren't enough quilted blankets to keep the spring
from digging through the deflated padding into my bony ass cheek. Reyna's
apartment was sort of a trip to get high in, it could be a buzz kill if you let it
get to you. When I walk across her living room, I have to make sure I don't trip
over one of her kids toys, there were so many strewn on the floor. I never saw
the kids. She kept the rugrats in a bedroom in the back 'oh, just sleeping' says
Reyna. I smirk thinking she certainly won't be sleeping tonight. She likes that
I can get her high for free, I like that I can take of her. I have other people deal
for me now that I'm a daddy, but I have my former customers I keep around for
favors. I'm not hooked though. On the record, I keep my shit contained. I got
a kid now, a beautiful daughter, the light of my life you know? I can't be selfish
and risk her life being a drug dealer. I got a promotion recently at my job. I'm
no longer just a security guard, or a fucking rent a cop as those hoodlums like to
call me. Now I'm a supervisor, I'm making more money so I can take care of
my family, and my habit. But family comes first, ya dig? I work the night shift so
it gives me an excuse to get high and be up 'til the crack of dawn. But you know
my girl is always on me about something- and now that I got this promotion
she complains I'm never around. Never around? Shit, I'm working all the time,
putting food on our table, a roof over your head, while your ass goes to school
on that Latino scholarship fund so you can be a nurse. Then you'll complain
that I don't make enough money when you're pulling in eighty grand a year.
You know it makes me second guess marrying you. I'm glad we ain't tied the
knot yet. But I won't ever tell you this, and you know it and it drives you mad,
don't it? I don't tell you shit because you'll go crazy on me, and your garisWy
painted stick on nails will move in a flurry followed by that spanglish you tend
to adopt when you're so flustered you can't decide on English or Spanish.
You complain that I'm too Americanized, it pisses me off when you use the
language against me.
Even the way you sleep, curled up in the fetal position with your back away
from me, it reeks of your dissatisfaction with this relationship. You can't face
the fact that you fell in love with a bad boy that can't be fixed. I'm not some one
you can nurse back to sobriety, besides I function perfectly fine in society as long
as I'm high. During the day, I'm home with our baby girl, sweet little Adriana,
while you take care of your school stuff. When I remind you that we have a
baby girl, shouldn't that be enough to fill your time between school? You tell me
little Adriana can't talk to you. When was I ever a good at making conversation?
Except maybe when I was high out my mind, but those times always turned
into fights where things were thrown-objects and words- that broke against the
shell that was me.
You wouldn't think it, but as a security guard you see some pretty wild shit. I
work the shift when the freaks come out, ya dig? Right now, I work the slummy
apartment areas. I walk amidst the pimps and their hoes. I brush past the
creeps, addicts, and rapists that inhabit these shitty dwellings. The flickering
street light casts distorted images upon each other's face. Its nights like these
when the sporadic piss yellow light cast down upon us shows the demons
within us all. Nobody in this city can seem to fmd their wings, or at least keep
them on long enough to visit that overrated joint upstairs. We're stuck down
here, each running after our own Devil playing some beguiling tune with that
damned bowstring and red violin.
Aye, you want an example of the crazy shit I see on a night to night basis?
Earlier this morning, a manager of one of the apartment complexes I work for
called to tell me the security guard on the job was masturbating in the fitness
room. From what he could tell from the security footage, the dude was blowing
smoke clouds. I knew then the idiot must be smokin' some crack or g-funk on
15
Tlan,ition
Nancy Gunn
Honorable Mention
Ceramics
~~A~~~
Poetry
I can no longer sleep in my bed
My eyes do not close when you
are near
The polar winds of the room
Combined with your blood
that boils
Conjures my insomnia
Clouds drape the skies
Years since I witnessed a day
The constant rains
Have washed away my crops
Frustration is the only thing
I can grow
Smell of gasoline emanates
From our house
Smoke flutters
Among the pines
Wine for breakfast
Whisky for lunch
Gunpowder is my bread
Soot is my butter
Not so long ago
We loved one another
I would avenge
Those you maim
And the innocent
You corrupt
If you didn't retain
The spitting image of my wife
Weakness enters my lungs
Cowardice infects my tiny heart
In nomine Patris,
Et Filii, Et Spiritus Sancti
Forgive my sins,
The devil hath possessed my wife
And I let her win
Gideon
Veronica DeWester
2nd place
Drawing
19
Perfecting Ilannah by Martine Cloud
Honorable Mention
Fiction
Blip, blip, blip ...
Hannah became distantly aware of the noise. Slowly she rose to the
surface of consciousness like a swimmer rising from dark water. Her
eyelids parted just enough to admit a slash of harsh white light. She
blinked her eyes and, with an effort, looked around.
The room, sterile industrial white, contained a single hard-backed
chair, the bed she was in, and a machine, the source of the blipping,
displaying readouts. Her eyes scanned along the wall to a bank of
windows with the curtains thrown wide. Reflexively she tried to raise
a hand to shield her eyes but her arm responded only weakly then
not at all. Peering down along her body she saw her arm lying atop a
crisp white sheet with an LV line protruding from a vein. There were
numerous other wires attached to what she could see of the rest of her
body, she felt like something from a horror movie. A sharp fmger of fear
sliced its way up her spine. Hannah opened her mouth to cry out, to
scream, but only a thin whine escaped her parched lips.
"Ah there you are," said an auburn-haired young woman as she
bustled into the room. "We weren't sure you'd make it back before
Doctor Winters left for the day."
Make it back? Hannah thought, she parted her lips, tried to give voice
to her uncertainty, but again could only produce the whine.
"Here let me help you," said the woman. She was dressed in light
blue scrubs with the name Jessie stitched in maroon on her right breast
pocket. Moving quickly to the side of Hannah's bed, she produced
a pitcher of water and cup from a shelf below the blipping machine.
"Now don't try to move until we've removed all the leads," she said as
she poured a cup of water. She placed a straw in the cup and held it up
to Hannah's lips. Hannah took a sip and her throat swallowed the cool
fluid almost reluctantly as if unaccustomed to the action.
"Where, what?" She managed in a whisper after the water had
loosened her vocal cords.
"Doctor Winters is on the way; along with your re-adaptation
facilitator they will answer all your questions. In the meantime try
to take some more water, it helps. My name is Jessie and I'll be your
physical therapist. What my little gizmos here didn't do," she said
gesturing to the array of wires attached to Hannah, "you and I will do."
Jessie threw back the sheet covering the woman. Hannah saw that
she was wearing only enough clothing to preserve the appearance of
modesty and that the strange wire leads were attached every few inches
to her arms, legs, and torso. Hannah sucked in a little gasp of air, her
arms and legs were thin and atrophied, and her entire body resembled a
deflated balloon. She was at least thirty pounds thinner. What in heaven s
name is going on here? Hannah felt panic enveloping her like a cloud
of poison gas, with and effort she fought back the urge to vomit or
hyperventilate or hyperventilate while vomiting.
"What's wrong with me? How long have I been here? Where is here?"
She squeaked out quite rapidly for someone who only moments before
couldn't talk.
"Calm yourself, all in good time," was the only answer Jessie would
give as she by turns stripped leads from Hannah's body and offered sips
of water. Jessie, working with practiced efficiency, had the last of the
leads removed and was just replacing the sheet as the door opened. The
doctor, identified as Winters no first name offered, and the re-adaptation
facilitator, a woman named Rose Jones-Perry, swept in with an air of
'.
20
Two Sidel of my Coin
Martine Cloud
1st Place
Sculpture
21
22
harried importance. Doctor Winters was tall and sparely
built. The skin on his clean shaven face was taut and
tan, standing at odds with a solid white head of hair
and the sound of advanced years in his voice. The top
of Mrs. Jones-Perry's head came just past his shoulder.
Her blonde hair was cut in a page boy style and she
was what Hannah's mother would describe as waifish:
compact with tilted green eyes, high cheekbones and a
pointed chin.
"Doctor, tell me what's going on." Hannah said
trying to make her squeaky voice sound surer than she
felt.
"A moment please." Winters replied tucking the
earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears. He proceeded
to examine her while the two women waited to one side.
He listened to her heart and lungs took her pulse and
inspected her stick thin arms and legs. Nodding with
satisfaction to his companion he slipped the stethoscope
back into his pocket.
Hannah's patience gone she demanded in her little
croak of a voice, "Doctor, can you tell me what's wrong
with me? What's happened to me?"
"Well you are a very lucky young woman and you'll
be better than new in no time," he said smiling down
at her, putting the emphasis on better. ''!'llieave you
in Mrs. Jones-Perry's capable hands. She will explain
everything you need to knOw."
Hannah turned bewildered exasperated eyes to JonesPerry.
The woman stepped aside with a smile and a
nod to Dr. Winters as he left the room. Then she swung
her shiny blonde head toward Hannah. "Miss Hannah
Morgan?"
"Ms," Hannah corrected.
"Ah yes of course," Mrs. Jones-Perry replied with
just a hint of condescension and an indulgent smile.
She made a note on the clipboard in her hand and then
continued. "Can you tell me your date of birth dear?"
"July 12, 1999." Hannah felt her ire rising for this
woman, surely no older than she, treating her like a
child and not very bright one.
Jones-Perry made a crisp check mark on her board.
Dome,tic Va,iation, #1
Arnon Livingstone
1st Place
Photography
She proceeded to ask several more 'background'
questions before Hannah demanded to have some of her
own answered.
"Tell me what happened to me!" Hannah interrupted
as Jones-Perry began to ask if she had any pets.
Jones-Perry pulled the clipboard to her chest and let
out a sigh. "Do you know what date it is dear?" There
was the condescension again.
"Tuesday, Wednesday?" Hannah offered uncertainly.
"No, the date dear."
"August 29, 2025 or the 30th if its' Wednesday," She
amended.
Jones-Perry sucked in a breath and said "May 4th
2036."
Hannah shook her head as if doing so might rearrange
the words she had just heard. It did not. "You're
serious?"
Mrs. Jones-Perry placed a hand over Hannah's' and
inhaled and let out a long sigh before proceeding. "Dear,
you were in a car accident eleven years ago. You've been
in a coma ever since." Hannah's mouth fell open but
she was beyond words so Jones-Perry continued. "A few
months ago your parents contacted us, The Carpenter
Health and Wellness Center, about taking on your case.
We here at Carpenter have pioneered the use of the
cosmetic coma. Our patients are placed in a medically
induced coma while whatever flaw they wish to correct
is eradicated surgically, chemically, and/or subliminally,
effectively eliminating months of hard work and recovery
time. Everything happens while you sleep."
"But I thought you said I was in a car accident. Was I
disfigured?"
"Oh no nothing like that. You did however suffer
head trauma and your parents had just about given up
hope when they heard about us. Since inducing comas is
what we do here, we are also on the cutting edge when it
comes to reviving coma victims."
"I seem to have lost I great deal of weight, is that a
result of being in a coma for so long?"
"All part of the package" Jones-Perry said with a broad
smile.
"What package?" Hannah demanded, a frown
furrowing her brow.
"Well the 'Slim and Trim New You' package that
your parents requested when they brought you here two
months ago. Of course if you would like to upgrade your
package we can put you back under and make any other
improvements you'd like."
"You're joking right? Are you telling me that my
parents paid you to do this to me? I look like one of those
children in the famine ads. Where is Gary?"
Jones-Perry glanced toward Jessie who shook her
head. "Who is Gary?" she asked Hannah, consulting her
clipboard as if the answer should be there.
"My fiance, Gary Bartold, has anyone called him?"
Hannah asked looking from one woman to the other.
"I'm sorry; we have only dealt with your parents," she
scanned the clipboard again for their names, "Urn... ,
Gene and Mary Morgan, since you've been here. It's
likely that any contact information that you could
remember from eleven years ago is out of date so first
thing tomorrow morning I will see what I can do to get
you in touch with this Gary... "
"Bartold." Hannah supplied, spelling it for her.
"Okay I think we should let you get some rest" JonesPerry
said with a little nose wrinkling smile, "We can
speak more tomorrow."
Hannah croaked out a little laugh at the absurdity of
needing more rest after sleeping away eleven years. "I'm
hungry; could I get something to eat?"
Jessie said, "of course, I'll have something sent up,"
and the two of them departed.
What arrived was a two part, divided plate with a blob
of beige goo on one half and a scoop of greenish brown
glop on the other. The goo turned out to be blended
turkey and the glop strained peas and carrots, baby food.
The young man that delivered it quickly explained that
it would a take a few days for her stomach and intestines
to readjust themselves to solid food. Hannah glared at
his retreating back and, with a shaky hand, jabbed a
spoonful of the glop into her mouth.
23
The Illusion
racel
by Brynn Collins
1st Place
Drawing
I know for sure I wasn't smarter back then,
despite my opposing opinion at the time.
Even with my angst and my sarcasm and my
acting, I couldn't fool anyone into thinking that
I was, least of all my mother. One particular
night was no exception.
I left my house that night, freshly 16 in my
mother's Ford Explorer to meet Matt at a Circle
K. Despite the fact that it was a Sunday night at
10 o'clock and I had school the next morning,
I felt as though my mother was ridiculous to be
suspicious. To say she wasn't fond of Matt is an
understatement, convinced that our relationship
included sex. Of course, I wished there was.
I'd liked him since middle school, when he was
the fat kid, before he did drugs, and went to a
different high school. But he had a girlfriend,
and I thought that was a sacred thing for him
until I became her.
My mother had reason to be suspicious, but
not about sex. My one and only intention was
to drop 2C-I with him, a Japanese research
chemical that Matt ordered online. It was
f
supposed to have the effects of both acid
and ecstasy. I arrived at the Circle K and he
informed me that I should drop it right away
since he already had and that way we could
have the experience together. I went into the
convenience mart and purchased my ice cold
diet Pepsi, coolon a warm but pleasant night,
and obeyed him.
We had nothing to do but wait. Everything
but gas stations and Blockbuster were closed by
then, and we wandered off, climbing through
brush to get into a golf course behind the gas
station. Lying down next to one another, the
cool grass tickling my back, and the air warm on
my face, I couldn't help but feel like I was in the
scene of a movie, a romance in my mind where
we were gazing up at the stars. That was literally
what we were doing of course, and he said he
could see them moving. The 2C-I hadn't taken
effect in me yet, but I murmured in agreement
anyway.
As we were getting up, I could start to feel
it and he informed me that he'd never tripped
by Kelsie Cady
3rd Place Nonfiction Cunning
so hard on 2C-I before. Considering he had
to measure it himself and put it in capsules, it
was entirely possible that in his semi-permanent
impaired state of mind that he could have dosed
it incorrectly. Something that it wouldn't take
me too much longer to suspect. I imagined him
and his hazel eyes, and olive skin, and a face
like Mo from The Simpsons, his curly black hair
crowning his mad-scientist head as he divvied
out little patches of powder onto his gram scale,
his mind wandering the entire time.
It was time to go, I had to be home, I had a
curfew. We hugged outside his car, and I could
feel the ecstasy-like effects kicking in, our bodies
pressed up against one another, our nerve
endings extra-sensitive to pleasure.
"This feels good." I laughed nervously, and got
into the car.
The whole way home, the lights haloing above
me, looming in the dark street, my eyes wide and
intently focused on going exactly the speed limit.
I felt as though I was driving with the parking
brake on, but I checked it multiple times. I made
it home safe, one of my nine lives that I'm not
willing to risk again. And I went downstairs to
the comfort of the office so I could sit at the
computer. Playing a never-ending game of tag
with my mother, I was scared I would be caught,
and this room was like base for me; I was safe, or
so I thought until my mother came in.
She asked me about my failing grade in
Spanish, and interrogated me about Matt. Sent
me not-so-subtle allusions that we were doing
it and she found it bizarre that we would hang
out in a golf-course together. She didn't do that
ever of course, but I find that difficult to believe
since she was a teenager in the 70's. I have a
feeling people did a lot more stuff like that back
then, but I didn't think of that until later. At that
point I was too busy jumping on her words, and
waiting too long to speak; evidently the part of
my brain regulating that function wasn't working
properly. All was going okay, I thought, until the
words came that pounded me in the heart like a
shot of epinephrine. Adrenaline surged through
my body while every part of me tried to be still
r,ida·, Shoe,
Pamela Bleakney
Honorable Mention
Painting
26
and quiet,
especially
my brain. "Your
pupils are really
big."
I knew she was right,
my pupils spread like night
saucers out into the galactic
depths of my irises to make
them but barely perceptible strips of
color. I lied through my teeth and told
her I didn't know why, and she held up a
fluorescent desk lamp and made me look into
it. Her concern and suspicion grew, in proportion
to how much my pupils failed to shrink. My already
stimulant-accelerated heart beat grew faster when she
repeated her observation that my pupils were still big. I took
this statement as an accusation and if I could forgive the cliche,
I'd say I was sweating like a whore in church, my eyes wide open, my
mouth parched, and I could feel my cheeks punctuating every capillary in
my face with flush. I knew that she knew, and yet in my adolescent mindset,
if I did not admit to anything, then she couldn't do anything about it.
I looked back at the computer screen, my green-tinted MySpace proftle
picture staring back at me out of that cathode ray tube box, flashing neon
colors that in my mind I knew were only a hallucination but I saw clear as
4th of July fireworks, and even brighter. My heart raced even faster and my
jaw clenched and I could feel every muscle in my body as if they all wanted
to tighten all at once, and never come loose, but couldn't. I had to breathe,
and act as if none of this was strange in the slightest bit. Finally, my mother
went to bed.
My paranoia heightened, and my stomach felt as if it were crawling up
my esophagus and lurking there, ready to capture my sanity if it were to fall
within its grasp. Relying on my favorite means of communication at the
time, I reached for my keyboard and began feverishly typing to Matt about
my recent conversation and near exposure to my mother. I expected him
to be sympathetic. He was the one that had gotten me into this situation,
if could blame anyone but myself. But I was wrong; he must have been
enjoying his own trip too much to go to the trouble of comforting me. I
imagine him sitting there listening to Explosions in the Sky, or Nine
Inch Nails, his face aglow with eerie LCD light, and shrugging at my
insignificant conversation, typing smugly, "Go to bed, that's what she's
waiting for."
Every ounce of my being, down to my shivering red blood cells and
mitochondria, was telling me that she was waiting for me indeed, to
interrogate me again. I thought I should wait, but at this point in my life, I
think Matt's word was somewhat close to gospel for me and I followed his
advice. In my shaky, over-active yet hazy state I made my way up the stairs
and got ready for bed in the bathroom. When I got out my mother was
standing there, right in the doorway like I imagine a priest would stand if he
caught somebody fucking in his confessional. She had a look that said she
had the word of God in her hand and she was prepared to smack me across
the face with it.
I don't recall being smacked by any words of God, not that I would have
listened, but she tried to wrench a confession from me one last time. My
mouth remained closed and my mind clung desperately to the idea that I
would not be found out.
That night I went to bed on my futon, which was underneath my top
bunk. I tossed and turned until well into the morning hours, my sensitive
body feeling every rung in my back. My mind was buzzing with that same
paranoia, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw strange little cartoon
creatures laughing and me, taunting me in moving rows like the veins in
a plant under a microscope, in colors of pink and orange. These don't
sound extremely threatening in a sober state, but take my word for it, they
were only slightly less frightening than what I saw when I opened my eyes.
Everything in my room, my shelves, my walls, the bunk above my head,
everything was breathing, inhaling and exhaling with a consciousness that
no inanimate object should ever have. I reverted back to my days of religion
that my mother had fought so hard to keep from slipping away and I prayed
to just be sober, to not be tripping anymore, to be able to go to sleep.
Eventually my prayers came true, something I attribute to the comedown,
not to a higher power, probably sometime around 4 am, and I was up at 6
for school. For lack of a better term, I felt like an ass. And I vowed never
to do another hallucinogen again, but failed to let this pop my bubble of
obliviousness about the range of my cleverness.
Abandoned Iioule
Rebecca Sandidge
3rd Place
Photography
"God loves you and wants the best for you. Please
pay close attention to the sermon tonight and see
me after." Todd patted me on the back and gestured
forward.
I felt queasy. Pastor Todd's wife sat next to
me, showing her sympathies for my situation
with a gentle back rub, as she tilted her head and
crossed her legs toward me. I pulled away without
acknowledging her presence as if I was enthralled
with Todd's diatribe on premarital sex and cuss
words. The sermon came to a close when Todd
requested that the ushers and his wife join him in
the front for prayer support. All stood with heavy
heads as Todd asked the congregation if any amon
them would come to Christ by raising their hand.
After he thanked the brave soul, they began to pray.
The church broke out in whispers to Jesus, the music '
started and anyone with a voice sang. Some began
shouting in an incoherent language while waiving
their hand in the air and stomping their foot on --~....J
Satan's face.
I questioned whether they were actually trying
to high five God and defeat a supernatural being
with kicks to the head. The display of enthusiasm
for Jesus was as irrationally spirited as the Hitler
youth at a Nuremburg rally. I wondered what the
choir would look like with pointy hats that matched
their robes. When the random shouting in tongues
became strident and abnormal to me, I knew I had
to get up and leave. Irony taking the place of novelty
was a sure sign that I was losing my grip on reality. I
don't think I could handle this place sober.
The caustic and shrill timbre of voices splintered
my soul. I grasped the pew to stop the spinning and
let David's words barrage me through the efforts
of delusional sixteen year old girls who were more
fierce than beautiful. They sang in robes of white
waiting for the fifth trumpet to sound the reckoning
of their solidarity.
Red carpet lined with gold trimming tempered
the shackles that led sheep to the Shepherd. Silver
baubles and golden plates surrounded the pulpit
decorated with the tool of the savior's demise. A
backlit simulacrum to his suffering hung on the red
and gold wall behind them. His face displeased as
mine, as I came to the conclusion that Jesus lived in
a Persian brothel.
Despite being bombarded by a torrent of
unreliable perceptions, I was able to snap into
"maintain" as the youth pastor asked me to follow
him into the foyer. He strolled with heavenly
purpose as if he held, under each armpit, an invisible
pumpkin. He looked like a bowlegged Clydesdale
keeping balance on a high wire. I was tempted by
the devil into a fit of hysterics, but thoughts of
the hereafter kept me sane in a time of delirious
misfortune.
"Steven, your father came to me in tears."
"Wha... ?"
"He is worried about your drug use. He thought
that maybe I could connect with you better."
"Why is that, do ya suppose?" The muffled sounds
of Creed came to a stop. We were missing the post
worship prayer.
by Steven Clauer
2nd Place
Fiction
OctobelYI
novembel
Jason Sindle
3rd Place
Painting
Pa/t Time
Sara Andrews
Photography
28
30
lelia lean
Shannon Biancamano
Honorable Mention
Photography
nSIIeel COI..el i.. S60 Paulo
by David Martinez
Nonfiction
! stood on a dark corner, in the cold, falling, mist and watched
the kids in front of a ramshackle, brick house. The dirty street
urchins rolled up their lives, and smoked them-on the desperate,
angry, holy, Sao Paulo street-and they did it laughing. No, not
laughing, howling, howling in the dark, wet, cold night. They howled
through clenched jaws at the broken street-their broken dreams-and
howled at themselves.
Thirteen-year old Neto howled together with the other boys. I could
see him-his ear-to-ear grin, and terrified eyes-through the grimy,
city rain droplets on my glasses.
Those wide and black eyes reflected, not only the crippled street, but
me. Neto was my beloved friend, my blood brother, my soul brother,
he was me. Our eyes met like lightning that flowed, electric, down the
long years to eternity-to God. In our ocular embrace, he recognized
me, he saw who I really was, who I really am, and he hung his heavy
head. Silently, his smile melted away.
I couldn't tell my tears from the mist on my face.
Billie Holiday's junk imbued voice crooned, tragic and dreamlike
in my head-my iPod from the fourth dimension. She crooned and I
cried, red eyed, I would almost have died for a smoke-anything-to
hide that broken, ugly, wet street-the street where Neto lived, the
nightmare street that I once lived on too.
Billie's songs made my heart explode, and I too wanted to howlhowl
at the moon, howl at my werewolf self, howl at my terrified,
trembling brother, Neto, who broke my heart more than Billie ever
could. Billie's angel dream cry from my head changed quickly-the
way only dreams can-to demonic horror. Billie was dead. She
is dead. She has been dead for decades and will continue dead for
decades more. Her junk imbued voice killed her on the same broken
street where Neto lived.
I called to Neto with my eyes-calling him away. He looked
down at his bare feet. He looked back up at me again, and with an
apologetic smile, shrugged. He was a ripped Atlas, shrugging his
world to the floor.
Neto made his choice. Billie made hers too, and I made mine. I
turned and walked down the sad, broken, road-to find another one
without so many holes.
I couldn't tell my tears from the mist on my face as I turned away.
31
rallin9 Water
Nancy Searles
Honorable Mention
Painting
ADifferent Kind of Love story
by Michael Lamb
3rd Place Fiction
Returning home after another long day at work, John Grey nonetheless
stepped lightly, anticipating the delight on his fiance Susan's face. Standing
at six feet even, John had blond hair and was deeply tanned and well
muscled from his work as a carpenter. He didn't get off work early very
often and he was looking forward to treating her to a romantic dinner.
Thinking about this as his steps drew him to the driveway in their quaint
new england suburb, he noticed the upstairs bedroom light was on and
stopped to watch Susan as she passed by the window. God but he never got
tired of looking at her, with waist length chocolate hair and emerald eyes
he always imagined her as a fairytale princess, her soft feminine curves
accentuating the idea, making the upstairs window seem like the turret of
some medieval keep. Standing with her back to the window John thought
she'd seen him outside and decided to tease him, but no, she was shaking
slightly and it looked like she was talking to someone. Hesitation in his
step now, John drew closer and saw who she was talking to, a man slightly
taller than Susan and apparently welcome in their, his, bedroom! When
they drew together for a lingering kiss, his arms wrapping around her, the
stab of betrayal that lanced through Johns gut was like nothing he'd ever
felt. Instantly betrayal turned to a boiling rage and he stalked towards the
door, fumbling for the right key on his keyring, not finding the right one fast
enough he was washed in memories as he drew back his massive booted
foot to kick in the deadbolt.
Just two weeks earlier, things between them were looking promising
again, with the pair working on another project together. John's company
got the contract for one of the houses that Susan's real estate agency was
putting on the market, so they were seeing more of each other than usual.
Recently they had both agreed to take some time apart, so John was living
in an apartment downtown to give her some space, but it warmed his
heart every time she brought clients through and gave him one of her rare
smiles. He always thought a smile like that could keep a man going all day,
but to keep up pretenses in front of the clients, John always maintained a
professional distance on site. After working late into the evening and driving
his beat up jeep wrangler back to his apartment, he would keep up his
routine of giving her portrait a kiss, and marking the day off of his calender
with a smiley face in red sharpie. Looking around his living room, John
could just picture the look of pity on Susan's face at the state he'd left it in.
So, since things were finally shaping up again he decided to tear down all
the pinups tacked to the walls, wash the dishes that lay on every conceivable
surface, and do a long overdue load of laundry, grinning wistfully as he
finally found and put away the furry handcuffs she'd insisted that he take
with him. Tasks complete he already felt more confident and ready to treat
her to lunch tomorrow.
At work the next day he made a point to examine all of his tools, only a
few days before he'd found flaky brown rust stains on his favorite ball-peen
hammer after leaving his toolbox on site in the rain. Tools clean and in
order, John worked through the morning installing the cabinets he'd custom
built for this job with a smile or a joke for the other contractors on site,
until he and Susan were able to break for lunch around noon. Happy with
this progress he followed her shiny Mercedes S-class to her favorite Greek
restaurant and enjoyed a meal in comfortable silence. John was never much
of a talker, so he appreciated that she didn't feel the need to fill the void
with meaningless chatter. He wondered again at his luck in ever landing
such a beautiful, patient woman. Lunch break over it was time to put on
their professional faces again and get back to work, as always with Suze
visiting other sites around town all day.
Physically tired after working late to finish those cabinets, but buoyed
by the nice time he'd had at lunch, John decided to stay up a bit longer to
watch the news before hitting the sack. Flicking on the tube he just caught
the end of the first report" still have no suspects in the brutal murder of
Colleen Stanley, a Providence resident and real estate agent well respected
in the community found mutilated with signs of sexual assault in her own
home, Police decline to comment on any leads at this time..... " John's heart
33
34
skipped a beat when the reporter indicated a picture of the poor woman, she
looked a lot like his Susan. He was worrying for nothing surely, but a sliver
of ice had worked its way down his spine, he didn't know what he would do
if anything ever happened to his Sue. It was late but he needed to know that
she was alright, so he fished his prepaid cell out of his jeans and hit the first
number on speed dial, after four agonizingly long rings she finally picked up
the receiver "Hello? It's two in the morning, who is this?" The chill leaving
him as he replied
"Sorry Suze, I know it's late, I just wanted to make sure you were alright, I
caught the news about that real estate agent and I needed to hear your voice."
He trailed off, not knowing exactly what to say. Sounding more alert now she
asked again.
.'~Who is this? How did you get this number?"
"Suze, it's me, anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Listen,
do me a favor and be careful, I don't want anything to happen to you, so make
sure you lock your doors." The sound of the connection closing ended the
conversation, he must have pissed her off by calling this late, but he shrugged
it off thinking it was better that than not knowing if she was alright. Before
drifting off to sleep he decided to start checking out her neighborhood to
make sure she was safe.
The next day John made sure to follow her home just to be sure she
locked up safely, He knew she would be angry and think he was being overprotective,
so he stayed a few cars back and parked across the street at a
neighbors house, smiling and waving when the old man spotted him out the
window. Relieved at knowing Suze was ensconced in the house he was able
to get back to work without worrying too much about her. This became the
routine over the next week, John occasionally accompanying her to lunch,
then making sure she was locked up in the evening, and on the nights when
he still couldn't sleep he'd give her a call just to hear her voice. She started
to seem a little nervous when he saw her at work, and he worried at the bags
under her eyes, hoping that the news wasn't keeping her from her sleep. He
made a point to stop by the house on his lunch breaks now, while she was
eating out, to see how she was doing on her own and to be certain the locks
were in order. Every time he checked the locks on their bedroom window it
hit him again how much he missed the smell of her. Noticing that she'd left
her blouse from yesterday's outfit on the ottoman he decided to make her day
a little easier and do a load of laundry. So, taking the blouse with the odor
that was a little Chanel, but mostly just the smell of her alabaster skin, John
locked up and drove back to the apartment.
So now, after spending so much time worrying about her, and trying to
make certain that she was safe while he wasn't around to protect her, he
nmOm and Pop Stole
Shirley Elsass
2nd Place
Painting
comes home to this! The thought of the cheating bitch just throwing their
relationship away sent the fond memories retreating into a red rimmed
haze that blurred his vision, helped along by frustrated tears. His booted
foot swung forward and he felt the satisfying crunch as the deadbolt
splintered under the impact. Walking in a daze, John first went to the
kitchen that he knew so well and took the first knife out of the rack by the
sink. Listening he heard the scream from upstairs "Its Him! He's here!"
from Susan, relishing the terror in her voice in his righteous fury "Thats
right bitch, you're sorry now that you've been caught!" he thought"but it's too
late now, I can't even look at you now, knowing you were with Him, the whole
time I was worried about some psycho!"
"Don't worry, I'll take care of it, you call the police!" came from the
man. Well, "we'll see now won't we", John thought as he made his way
around the kitchen island to the stairs. He could hear frantic movement
above but he paid no heed, charging up two steps at a time, needing the
confrontation that was coming. At the top of the landing he saw the
other man, shirtless in the door to the master bedroom off to the left.
He noted in passing that the pussy had a gun, an old wheel-gun by the
look of it, but John was past caring and didn't even pause in his charge,
the shot the man sent in johns direction going wide before he slammed
into the man, sending the gun flying through the open door. Just like that
they were on the floor, with John on top and the man trying desperately
to wrestle away the knife. Frustrated that he couldn't just sink the blade
into the mans soft flesh, john delivered a savage elbow to the side of
his head, momentarily dazing the man. That was all the advantage he
needed, drawing his arm back and thrusting the blade deep, unthinking
in his despair and anger he drove the blade home repeatedly, sending
arcs of crimson ichor flying everywhere. The sound of thunder and
the feeling of searing irons driving into his shoulder announced the
second volley of shots. Looking up from the corpse he was straddling
John saw Susan, his sweet and lovely Susan with the revolver in her
shaking hands, the unadulterated terror in her streaming eyes dousing his
anger with the need to hold her, and protect her. Stumbling awkwardly
to his feet, he started to stagger toward her ignoring her screams of
"NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!" gasping and trembling there was another report
from the pistol as John tried to move forward another step. This time the
bullet took him high in the chest, and again! In the gut, again!winging his
bicep! Finally he toppled and stared up at her, blankly wondering how
she thought he could hurt her when she looked so scared. The last thing
he saw before the world went blank was Susan's knees giving way as she
sobbed uncontrollably, a blood stain marring her beautiful pale cheek.
35
36
Susan was still sitting there on her bedroom floor, still pulling
the trigger, the revolvers hammer falling on empty chambers,
twenty minutes later when the first police officers arrived on
the scene. She was told this later, not remembering anything
after she started pulling the trigger. Shock. She was told it was
natural. She woke up mid-afternoon of what she thought was
the next day, disoriented to find herself in a hospital bed with
an IV bag wired to her arm and a pulse-oximeter clamped
to her index finger, providing her vitals to the machines
incessantly beeping around her bed. Looking across the room
in the guest chair she saw a dusky Hispanic woman in a well
worn pants suit writing something in a folder, noticing her
gaze the woman looked up and put on a professional smile.
"Good morning Ms. Johansen, I'm detective lieutenant Denise
Ortega, nice to see you finally awake." at Susan's confused nod
the detective continued "You were in severe shock when the
EMT crew brought you in, your pulse was thready and erratic,
so they had to sedate you. You've been out of it for three
days." Susan blinked in surprise as events started coming back,
her breathing and pulse started to speed up and she had to ask.
"A-Alex?" her voice broke and dread made knots in her
stomach when detective Ortega's smile shifted to a practiced
look of sympathy.
"He suffered massive internal injuries from the stabbing, I'm
sorry to be the one to tell you, but he didn't make it." Numb
now, she really wasn't ready for the questions she was certain
were coming. "Since you've been under we've had plenty of
time to dig around and mostly put things together. Tell me, do
you know the man that attacked you?"
Shaking her head Susan said, "No. He looked a little
familiar, and I'd been receiving prank calls, but I don't know
where I've seen him before." She trailed off trying to gather her
scattered wits.
"His name is Johnathan Grey, and he was a carpenter
on one of the houses your agency was preparing for show.
We've still got a mountain of evidence to go through from his
apartment, but we've already got a DNA match on semen from
the Colleen Stanley case, along with tissue that we're matching
now on some restraints we found there. There were dozens of
photo's, of you, Mrs. Stanley, and others we haven't identified
yet all over the apartment. You're starting to look sick, would
you like me to call in the doctor? "
"No. Please go on, I need to knOw." She wasn't at all sure
she needed to know, not with Alex dead, "Oh God Alex! Why did
you have to be a hero?" she thought, but it sounded like the right
thing to say.
"He's still in critical condition and the doc's don't think he's
going to make it, still we made sure to put him under guard at
another facility."
"Wait! He's still alive?" a look of annoyance crossed over
Ortega's face before she schooled it back to a neutral mask.
"It doesn't look like he will be for long, you managed to
put four rounds in him, now, do you want to hear the rest?"
at Susan's nod she went on. "After getting copies of his credit
card statements we were able to get surveillance footage of him
following you into Babylon Greek restaurant, and the manager
said he remembered seeing him in the corner booth, where he
could watch you at your regular table." Icy fear crawled up her
spine at the thought that he was so close to her and she had
never even noticed! "Also there were receipts for the gas station
by your house and one of your neighbors reported seeing his
jeep on multiple occasions. It looks like he was following you
around for weeks." That finally put Susan over the edge, and
her vision contracted as vertigo took her and she fell back
against her pillow, unconscious before her head even touched
it.
It was another two days before the hospital let her sign out,
and her mother insisted that she stay in her childhood bedroom
while she arranged for a cleaning service to take care of the
walls and carpet, and a carpenter (she still shuddered at the
thought of a carpenter in her house, even though she knew it
was irrational) to install a new security door. Mom and the rest
of the family kept telling her that things would be alright, but
they were walking on egg-shells around her, and the nightmares
of Alex's agonized face in those last moments kept her awake
until she finally passed out from exhaustion. How could they
possibly know? After a few weeks though with this mantra
constantly repeated around her, and with her police interviews
finally over, She was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe,
it might be true that one day life could make sense again.
In her mother's airy, pale yellow kitchen, with all it's kitschy
little trinkets and billowing curtains open to the sun, Susan was
helping her mother prepare a tuna casserole. She was waiting
for her mother to finish stirring the carrots to put the dish in
the stove when a newscast from the radio in the corner intruded on her
thoughts" ....That's right Paul, we're here at saint Vincent's hospital where
the real estate killer just escaped shortly after regaining consciousness,
murdering his police guard and two nurses...." The casserole dish slipped
through fingers gone numb with terror and shattered on the cold tile
beneath Susan's feet. She fought back the fear and felt the reassuring bulge
of the paddle holster under her sweater. He was coming, she knew that
in her bones because he needed her. As she thumbed the hammer on her
Smith & Wesson she let her mouth twitch into a thin lipped rictus of a
smile while her knees still trembled. Her mother turned at the sound but
flinched at the look in Susan's eyes. She needed him too, because it would
never be over, she would never sleep through a whole night until one of
them was dead.
Ilattiet
William Solan
Honorable Mention
Sculpture
lYe,ybody Accommodated.
litt.e Accomplilhed
James Legg
3rd Place
Sculpture
38
by Leann Higbee
1st Place Fiction
Hello. My name is Faggot. Well, that's what seems to stick.
It rolled off their tongues like a freight train's laugh-rustic and venomous. I could feel
the sparks erupt off the iron wheels in the core of my skull. It sizzled for a moment and
I held onto the sensation-the rust of their gratification licks my stitched wounds open.
I'm shifting my jaw to the side creating friction over my molars. I'm chewing the empty
sockets of their words. I'm digesting the hollow glisten in their eyes. What the hell did
they know? Yet, they knew how to crawl beneath my eyes and into the core of my being.
They knew where to slice me open and where to pour their poison. I felt my breath gurgle
and drown with the chemicals they poured through my ears-their words of hatred. They
watch me stumble where my feet don't move. They're looking for me to crack open. They
think I'm fragile and they're waiting for me to burst. They're waiting for me to choke out
my last breath, to pop a pill or two, to jump off the boundary of my sanity. But they can't
have me.
Some days I pity the naive more than the mistreated.
I've shattered a mirror or two. I've also danced in front of a few. And on many others
I've pressed my lipstick upon my own reflection. I've written a dozen love letters on the
gas station bathroom stalls. I signed it: Sincerely, your fellow Faggot.
I'm searching for the troubled soul-the troubled man breaking at his majestic nature,
fraying where he stitched himself closed. He may have stitched himself closed to his
friends-what would they think of him if they knew he was a faggot too. He may have
stitched himself close and reeled in a lady just to have an hour glass figure clinging to his
side. He may have ripped himself open when he had sex with a man for the first time. Yet
there he crumbles because his feet can no longer carry the weight of humiliation. There
he's not the courageous hero who saves the innocent civilian. There he's not the emotionless
stone of a man. There he is the man who can't support himself. He's not the man
that society or culture has stapled on his heart. There he becomes a human being-ripped
39
ers who feel isolated, dislocated, and their stitches are fraying. Sometimes we
run to our fellow toilets to puke out our miseries, to dry our blood pools, to
smear our tears, or to drown in the lies we string. And sometimes we run to
our mirrors to stare ourselves down-who are we beneath flesh and bone, beneath
the frizz of hair, the shades of skin, the freckles, the scars, the diseases,
the handicap boarders of our mobility.
We are human beings.
We are the pulse, the heartbeat, the rhythm of society. We are the hum in
the core of our earth, the hum in the sparrow's chirp and the whisper of a
flower's petal. We are the essence of life. We are not the creators-we humans-
we are vessels of thought, morals, dreams, and fizzing emotion. We
are believers. We are not dictators. We should not tell others who they are,
how they act, and proclaim love as a sin.
I am the man dressed in the suit deciding your laws. I am the jersey with a
million dollar contract beneath my cleats. I am the wise old fool who comes
in the coffee shop every Wednesday. I am your favorite teacher who taught
you what books never could. I am your best friend that fell in love with you
and you'll never know it. I am you.
I am a person with a melting smile, a jagged soul, and yet I still
keep pushing. I cannot let my friend's voice leave him in vain.
And when someone escapes to their bathroom let them
remember when their face stares them down in the mirror-
masked or not-they are not alone. I speak for
you because I know you fear for your safety and
your acceptance but they fear because they
do not know your story. Somewhere
along the way people have forgotten
that emotion is universal.
Hello. My name is Faggot
and I am a human
being.
ns, the Historical
e secretly wanted
onger carry him.
open and raw. Society can't have him-wouldn't have him. Society declares
him an abomination. But I don't.
I was once the broken man-the broken image of man. But it was then
that I realized I wasn't the broken image of man. I wasn't going to listen
to someone's justification or someone's unwritten code of ethics in gender
roles. I wasn't someone's clay to mold. I wasn't going to fit in the box they
threw me in.
There, upon the bathroom stalls, I spoke to the masked faces when I drove
across county. I spoke beneath the toilet lids and circled around their bases.
I spoke on the side of the urinals, the corners of the mirrors, and over the
creases of the tiles. Wherever eyes drifted, my words would be. There is no
escapmg me.
There's no escaping yourself.
He wanted to run through the states, the tourist attract"
landmarks, and past the little critters alongside the road.
to run from himself. I ran for him because his feet can n
I'm not running away for him. This is his memorial.
They found my friend in his bathroom. His shirt rippe
tangle mess between his legs. His soul surfaced where his
have shown a smile every day, he may have laughed at s id remarks or
bore a shoulder for someone's tears. He may have teased a friend and posed
for a camera. Maybe he didn't want to be saved. And so society stole him
away from me.
I remember the smell of his cinnamon mocha hair-it had a way of
reaching towards the heavens. Bed hair was the generic term but I called it a
hair of chocolate swirl, or hair kissed by a winter's blizzard-maybe kissed
by the spring's wind or the spiral of autumn's tumble.
I wasn't there to pull his hand from his lips. I wasn't there to steal the pill
or two that he digested. I wasn't there to write on his mirror, to write on the
rim of his toilet. I wasn't there to tell him that he matters to me.
Some days I pity the lovers more than the haters.
As I ran through the states and past the tourist attractions I stopped in
every restroom. There, I wrote a love letter to my dear friend. There I wrote
to the many others like him. Because like him, there are many others who do
not speak out, call out, reach out, or come out. Like him there are many oth-
40
by Lee Sola
Poetry
I was young once,
sneered at fatties like y'all do,
swore: That will NEVER happen to me!
Struggle to get out of a chair, a car,
puff to walk a block,
never mind a hill!
But thirty years later, single mom,
on my ass day and night prepping,
grading, red marks everywhere,
cursing futility of daily blah-blah-blah,
popping chocolate-covered almonds.
son in seventh grade, checking out gangs,
stealing bikes. No time for exercise!
Ice cream ABSOLUTELY requiredpint
and spoon go to bed with me.
One day I see myself in a video
pacing the classroom, yakking,
bobbling belly pooched out all around
like an inflatable pool toy.
PANIC! EMERGENCY!
Atkins, yoga, aerobics -
worked great until my mom died
and I gained it all back plus ten.
The doctor's weight chart
has me smack in the middle
of the RED ZONE - not just obese,
MORBIDLY! What next? DIABETES!
Oh, man! What to do? Cut sugar,
EXERCISE! Knee goes out on me.
Doc says bicycle! Six months of that,
stronger knee. Add hiking, hills.
muscles bulging, feeling great,
Swagger to next appointment.
Still in fucking RED ZONE!
BMI is blind to all but height, weight.
Fat vs muscle? Who cares?! NO FAIR!
Doc doesn't notice muscled calves,
bulging quads under thigh fat,
smaller tummy, bouncing gait.
He smirks, wags his benevolent head,
pretends he remembers me, tut-tuts reminds
me to lose weight.
FUCK HIM - skinny sonofabitch!
Bl #.
Michelle Hadden
Honorable Mention
Life Drawing
41
Oh, that belly of yours, that hanging Santa's toy sack,
incongruous over nicely muscled calves.
This marvel of impossible size traps my eyes
like a reverse Grand Canyon. Staring, I imagine
twisted curls of small intestine in the overhang,
saddled with pads and ribbons of perilous brown fat.
Will that juicy turkey dark-meat pot roast get hung up
in a low-slung loop of gut, resisting the current
of diet soda, mayonnaise slurry, chopped broccoli?
When you showed me that old photo to prove
your former penis size and scratched your head,
wondering where did it go, I laughed: A tree
Half-buried in drifted snow! Never mind.
Who measures snowdrifts when you touch me
and exclaim how perfect I am with my sixty
superfluous pounds -- mounds I despise
you squeeze like stolen sacks of currency.
I've tried to leave you and your belly, your farts
and gastric reflux, your forgetting to flush,
your diabetes and heart attacks, the food on your shirt,
your raucous Chicago-Jewish-family-survival voice
in my silence-stoppered Okie ears. It's no use.
What a fool I'd have to be to trash
this rare species of love -- the gleeful chortle
when I tickle your balls, shared cynicism, eye-rolling
at God-talk, bingeing on pasta, your happy crinkled eyes
resting on me alone, never critical, sharing silence,
giving me room to be my loner self,
the crusty reader, writer, nature-gazer
who can hardly bear to be loved.
by Lee Sola
1st Place
Poetry
Domcutic Variationl # I
Arnon Livingstone
2nd Place
Photography
43
44
••
Brian; (5:30 A.M.-8:04 A.M.)
It is June 26, 2004. The setting is a cityscape at dawn. The sun has
not yet risen leaving the entire urban atmosphere in a cool blue tone.
There are hardly any cars on the street. It is the time when the world
is mos: lonely. Inside ~he mac~ocosm is a microcosm of an apartment,
an~ l~mg. on the ~l~ SIze .bed IS .a man by the name of Brian Hennessey.
He s m hIS late thutles wIth plam features, brown hair, and a substandard
body. Some would call him a bachelor; he would say he was
lonely. Some would call his life stable; he would say it was boring. He
works as a sys:e~s analyst for a major software company. Growing
up he had aspuatlOns of one day becoming a fire fighter, but because
computers are the wave of the fmancial future, he went to school for
technologies instead.
The clock by his bed is about to turn to 6:00 a.m., which is when
the extremely loud alarm will go off, telling him it's time for work. He
hits the. snoo.ze ?utton, quietly cursing his life. At 6: 10 his alarm goes
off agam, thIS t1Ille he actually forces his feet on the floor and stands
in a daze, half asleep and partially thinking about whatever girl he was
dreaming about the night before. This is all very routine for him. He
st.ands i~ the shower.for about ten minutes until he's able to fully open
hIS eye hds,. after whIch he steps out, dries off and makes his way to the
closet. In hIS closet he finds the standard brown jackets black socks
whi.te button-up shi~ts, blue ties, and everything else in ~he le. Pe~y
busmess.man collectlOn. In drawers at the bottom, however, are jeans
and t-shlrts of old heavy metal bands, and hard liquor companies. These
clothes are kept merely as mementos of a time his life was actually
s~mewhat enjoyable. After he is dressed he makes his way into the
kitchen where he makes his lunch, grabs a bran muffm with coffee, and
heads out the door.
by Jonathan Berry
Fiction
On the drive to work he likes to listen to the National Public Radio.
The mellow drone of the broadcaster's voices goes well with his coffee
and bran muffin, giving him a nice and easy digestion transitioning
him into a semi-state of alertness. As he drives and eats he begins
to think about and plan the day ahead of him. His plans for the day
consisting of staring at his computer for awhile, eating lunch, fixing a
few glitches and being home in time for his favorite television program,
"Heroes." This is the same plan he has for almost every day of the
week. At times he sinks into a mild depression when thinking of how
dull and meaningless his life has become. At those times he thinks of
his father who worked as a financial loan consultant. He remembers
how miserable his father was, and how he'd always tell Brian, "That's
the price of making a living." He wonders if he were still alive if he'd be
proud of him. In a way, this has become his only motivation in life.
About two miles away from his office something catches his
attention out of the corner of his eye. He glances over to find a young
woman exposing her breasts to a man inside a car. He is shocked, but
can't look away. He's caught somewhere between disgust and
excitement and he can't focus on driving anymore. It
has been so long since he's seen a naked woman;
he didn't want to look away. He stared at
her for as long as he could until he
saw the girl pull her shirt back
down, and giddily laugh to
the man inside the car.
When Brian put his
eyes back on the
road he saw
the side of a
building
Emanuel and
the Great Oue/tion
' ..- of the moon
by James Legg
Honorable Mention
Drawing
Untitled II
Cody Harris
2nd Place
Computer Art
no more than ten feet in front of him. Before he could react his car ran
into the brick wall of the office. He is ejected from the driver's seat, and
dies immediately after his head smashes through the window, causing
his neck to break. This is the end of Brian's story.
Madison, Harrison, and Dr. Silvers; (7:30 A.M.-8:04 A.M.)
Inside a quaint, modern doctor's office works Chicago's best known
and most successful dentist, Dr. Silvers, or Ted, as he is known to
his friends and family. Ted has come from a long line of dentists
stretching all the way back to his great grandfather. He was raised with
the conversation of dentistry at every dinner table, and every family
gathering. He however, never grew tired of the subject and had studied
it since he first learned how to read. He is known as a miracle worker in
the field of teeth, and only the top people in Chicago, including mayor
Obama, get in to see him. Some would say he was gifted and very
talented; he would say he was a hard worker.
The woman he was working on this morning was Madison James;
he is fixing some of her broken teeth. Madison grew up wealthy and
beautiful. Her father had made a fortune when he started his own
textiles plant that had become a staple in the state of Illinois. From
the day she was born she was daddy's little girl; pampered and spoiled
her whole life. She never held down a real job and always had rich
boyfriends who would buy her anything she ever wanted. Some would
say she was spoiled, and was uncaring; she would say she didn't care.
Some would say she was beautiful; she would say she knew. Yet as she
got older her looks faded and her father's trust fund would only go so far
to afford her the lifestyle she was used to. She came to realize that she
needed a man who would take care of her, and love her unconditionally,
(in other words, a man as wealthy as her father who could afford all of
her plastic surgery bills), and that's when she met Harrison.
Harrison never had looks, but he did have ingenuity. At sixteen he
started working at the textile plant Madison's father owned, and by the
time he was thirty-two he owned it. Some would say he was cunning
and ruthless; he would say he was successful. Harrison married Madison
simply to look stable, have children, and maintain his public image.
He knew that someone like Madison would only want a handsome
allowance in return. On the side, however, Harrison's head was swollen
with pride and megalomania, and he indulged in drugs and other
women whenever he could. Madison knew this, but also understood that
if she left him she would lose everything, including her children that
she hardly ever saw. At first Madison tried to deal with her husband's
infidelity by finding another man to have on the side, thus perhaps
teaching Harrison a lesson in jealousy. However, not many men wanted
to have anything to do with an older married woman, and when
Harrison caught her with their Peruvian gardener named Jacinto, he
smashed her head through a wall and had Jacinto deported. This is what
caused her to break her teeth, and to be in Dr. Silvers' dentist's chair.
Harrison was the one who drove his wife to the dentist's and since he
and Dr. Silvers had become good friends after a party they attended at
the mayor's house, he agreed to come in early and work on Madison.
Dr. Silvers' secretary Janine was a conventionally attractive young
woman who had a taste for successful men, (in all due secrecy, that's
how she got the job). She recognized Harrison from a party Dr. Silvers'
had thrown a few weeks earlier. They began to talk in the waiting room
about Dr. Silvers and his party. The conversation eventually led to Janine
describing how much she admired people like Harrison. Harrison very
wittingly knowing when a woman was flirting with him had convinced
her to reconvene with him in the public restroom where she proceeded
to pull down his pants and give him oral sex. Some time had passed and
Harrison was coming close to climax, "just a little longer, please don't
stop" he said to Janine repeatedly. All at once, a loud crash was heard
and the entire building began to shake violently. This startled Janine
causing her to bite down on Harrison's penis severing it in half in her
mouth, and Harrison screamed in pain as he went into convulsions.
When the paramedics found him, he was almost dead from a large
48
amount of blood loss. Janine was found in a corner shaking, not speaking, and catatonic from the shock.
There was still blood on her face and around her mouth. The doctors were able to reattach Harrison's penis,
but he would never be able to have sex again.
At around the same time Harrison was being castrated Dr Silvers' drill protruded through Madison's face
erasing thousands of dollars in plastic surgery. Both Madison and Harrison went on to spend the rest of their
life alone, disfigured, and not knowing the warm sensual touch of another person ever again. That is the end
of their story
John and Brenna (8:04 P.M.)
In a moderate yet, comfortable suburban neighborhood, on the outskirts of Chicago, the sun is setting
creating a warm glow for the houses to bask in. The day has passed and most of the residents are in their
homes watching their televisions and eating whatever it is they call diner. Inside a particular home, however,
resides John Beranger and his new bride Brenna. John is the type of man that doesn't measure his success
by what he owned, but by just how happy he was. He had always had a passion for music and his house
was littered with instruments. He had come to make a living working in a recording studio, and his wife
taught art at the local community college. Some would say they didn't have much; they would say they were
comfortable. Some would say they were just young and naive; they would say they were happy.
At the end of the day they would always make dinner and watch the news for inspiration for discussion. On
this night, in particular, the local news broadcast had a story that would throw John and Brenna into shock.
On the television Sheila, a local news anchor woman reporting live from an urban area in Chicago's business
district. The woman reported,
"I'm standing outside of local dentist's Dr. Silvers' office where earlier this morning around 8:00am the
driver of a 2005 green ford Taurus veered off of the street and into the office building. The driver, who would
later be identified as Brian Hennessey was fatally injured. A few other individuals including wealthy textile
plant owner Harrison James, his wife, and Dr. Silvers' secretary all received serious but none life threatening
injuries."
"How did this happen Sheila?" Hank, the news reporter back at the station named asked.
"Well Hank, no official cause has been given just yet, but a few eye witnesses have reported that the driver
of the Ford Taurus could have possibly been distracted by a young woman who was exposing her breasts just
down the street from the accident.
"What is this world coming to, Sheila?"
"I don't know, Hank, but it certainly is tragic."
"It certainly is. Thank you, Sheila."
"You're welcome, Hank."
After hearing this, John and Brenna sat in dismay at what they heard on the news. At one point John looked
over to see his wife still in shock. All of a sudden, John felt a hand slap him harshly on the shoulder, and
heard his wife shout, "God Damn it John!! I told you we shouldn't do that shit in public!!"
That is the end of the story.
Afternoon in
Sedona
Justin Stewart
3rd Place
Drawing
Calou/el Iiolle
Rebecca Sandidge
3rd Place
Computer Art
by Jennifer Delgado
Honorable Mention
Poetry
A kiss is what you want
from me
A kiss of movie star quality
Moist and
open and
on the lips.
I know what is expected
for I've done this
before.
51
Sit, sit, you say
What else am I to do but obey?
I am only six, after all.
I avert my eyes
from your nakedness
Sprawled naked on the couch as you watch TV
You see me as I enter the room
call my name
and beckon to me.
The softest whimper resounds within
a part of me
dims
diminishes
slowly dies.
You are my stepfather
so I do as you say
for what choice do I have
but to obey?
Childhood mem
Shannon Sianc
Honorable M
Photog
52
•
He was dark and muscular it a dazzling smile, a gifted
athlete and energetic lover who always satisfied the girls. He was
astonished by the casual wealth, delighted by the abundant pussy.
The girls gossiped, passing him around like a favorite cashmere
sweater, this funny, hard-fucking exotic from the other side of
the tracks.
Some took him home to Mommy and Daddy, testing their
politics. Having an absent father, the boy/ man looked to the
Daddies for advice, direction, a key to success. Alarmed by his
intelligence, his ease and success with their daughters, some
of the Daddies warned him off, indirectly, subtly. But he spoke
Scramblish and did not understand the warnings.
He continued his dalliances, unaware that the Daddies had
taken their concerns to the authorities and subtly, indirectly,
suggested that perhaps this exotic experiment was too "streetwise"
to inhabit the same school as their precious little ones.
Too mature. Too unrefmed. Too dangerous. Too dumb. Too
predatory. Too not one of us.
When one of the less stable young girls tried him on for
tumbles, she found the pleasurable memories of anal sex
mortifying. She cried rape to Daddy.
Unaware. The boy/man had no defense. He was just learning
the language, stillbefuddled by the subtleness, left--handed
compliments, "yes" meaning "no" and vice versa, obtuse
references, warnings capped with a smile. So confusing, this
passionless bloodletting.
He complained. He apologized. He promised. He had his
advocates, but they self-servingly succumbed to the pressure to
return this exotic boy/man to the other side of the tracks where
he belonged. He was expelled.
by Dan Ramirez
Honorable Mention
Nonfiction
Girls cried. Protests were staged. Classes were canceled.
Teachers threatened to resign. His accuser went to a clinic in Vail.
All returned to normal.
But Daddy was insistent. Later, guilty, the judge, showing him
some mercy, suggested that, rather than prison, the Army would
do the boy/man good.
Prison was the option that his father, brother and uncles had
taken.
And he had changed. He knew which fork to use, weekend
getaways to Catalina on a fifty foot sail boat, how to threaten with
a smile and a pat on the shoulder.
He had had a taste.
So between and nowhere, this handsome, full of promise
intelligent boy/man joined the Army, was trained to kill and sent
to war. One clear morning at 4AM, he hurled himself out the
rear freight door of a droning cargo plane, accompanied by a ton
of war material, and disappeared into the jungle sky. His ordersorganize
the insurgents, fight the communists. Do the Right
Thing.
The girls for whom the exotic boy/ man had been their walk
on the wild side, graduated, went on to Wesleyan, smoked pot,
protested The War, married, settled down, did the right thing. For
them, he exists, if at all, a barely remembered fling.
For his family and friends, he exists as an inscribed silver
bracelet.
"MIA. Sergeant Steven Hernandez. US Army. 9 Sept 69.
Laos."
Indult,ial'laYe
Robert McBride
2nd place
Sculpture
54
Ol9Qftic rOlm #S
Robert McBride
1st Place
Ceramics
nil COQ/tl n,e Infinite
by Edwin Horn
3rd Place
Poetry
Wring and shake the salty ocean from your hair
Draw nimble feet from water which slips
To fill the vacant space
Sea beads softly down the curve of your breast
Pools in my eyes and drifts with ease
Back out with the current
Like a cycle earth remembers to keep, keep recurring
Keep drinking and keep releasing
Sinking and learning
'mantha
William Solan
Honorable Mention
Ceramics
55
56
laelia
Veronica DeWester
Honorable Mention
Drawing
by Dan Ramirez
2nd Place
Poetry
Step in to an empty house.
Bathroom mirrors slap dashed with water spots, toothpaste.
Dried splashes of soaps, creams used
to prepare us for day and night.
Many teeth carefully, carelessly, quickly brushed.
Lipstick studiously applied.
Hair curled, combed, teased, sprayed.
Witnessed by the mirror. Here.
Furtive masturbation.
Tears of frustration.
Pimples squeezed.
Puffy faces, bleary hangovers.
Fear- booze- illness- hormone- triggered vomiting.
Joy/ horror of menstrual flow,
distinct color change of a test stick.
Witnessed by the mirror. Here.
Ghosted, steamy shadows in the shower.
Bodies inspected, critiqued, bemoaned, flexed, admired, stroked,
bent over the sink, taken from behind.
Lust, maybe love
witnessed by the mirror. Here.
A kiss- playful, passionate, perfunctory,
in love, with love, seeking love.
Witnessed by the mirror. Here.
The final check before a test, date, interview, meeting.
Wounds examined, first aid applied.
Post-it messages
apropos fear, anger, loneliness, love
left on the mirror. Here.
A house for you?
Look into the mirror. Here.
57
