"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 2004

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Volume 37
At left:
A Long time Ago...
Arti Goulatia
ceramic
first place, ceramics
On the cover:
Woman in Scarf
Martine Cloud
ink jet print
first place, photography
Those responsible for this publication believe in
artistic freedom of expression, while simultane­ously
trying to uphold responsible community
standards. It is important that the readers of
the Traveler be aware that this publication is
produced for an adult audience and may
contain some content of an adult nature.
Los responsables de esta publicae/on creen en
la libertad de expresion artistica, a la vez que
tratan de mantener los estandars y normas de
una comunidad responsable. Par eso, es
importante que los leetares del Traveler sepan
que es una publicae/on destinada a un publi­co
maduro y que pueda contener materiales
solo para adultos.
Th To I is (J student cl'caLive e I ra ve er al'ts magazine pl'oduced
annually by the English ancl Mt Departments or
Glendale Communit, College.
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive j\vcnue
Glendale, Arizona B5:W2
62:~.845.3000
\V\vw.gc.maI'ico pa. ecl u/tl'avc IeI'
Cover illustration maps courtesy of The General Libraries,
The University of Texas at Austin
Traveler,
Table 0
volume
f" Conte
37
n t s
34 Bi!!fish Gets Hooked
Dlayn Day honorable mention
Fiction
2 Spook Cibulka
Wm. E. Sullivan first place
11 King Worm
Daniel Shoults second place
23 Lifted Spirits
Debbie Oyama third place
28 The Woodpile
Michael Bennett honorable mention
Computer Art Photography
28 Memories of a Dance
John Aragon third place
first place
third place
honorable mention
3 untitled
Angela Shaw
Halation IV
David LeMmon
25 Eye of the Soul - Tears
of the Heart
Flo Flynn
27 Pacific Dreams
Carol Smith honorable mention
18
Cover Woman in Scarf
Martine Cloud
33 Double Wall
April L. Huggins honorable mention
Ceramics
26 Serene
Arti Goulatia second place
Back Carved Raku
cover Martine Cloud first place
33 Paper Kids
Joseph A. Hernandez third place
8 Burning Up
Cheryl Street second place
11 Conflict
Martine Cloud first place
first place
Non-fiction
8 Half Dome
Michael Bennett
second place
honorable mention
honorable mention
honorable mention
38 Angel's Insight
Stephanie Carter
39 Nature's Agony
Victoria Vick
21
5 Gravity
Betsy A. Van Antwerp
honorable mention
26 At Peace
Arti Goulatia
40 No Angel
Pamela Waters
31 Dead End
Victoria Vick
Alex
Ann Beauregard
26 Tisa
April L. Huggins
30 untitled
Melissa Rogers
Inside Lumm. ary
back Bill Baile
cover y
Sculpture
Inside A Long Ti.me Ago...
front . .
Artl Goulatla first place cover
third place
second place
honorable mention
Dark Minds
Dominic Colorado honorable mention
Therese-Marie
Ina Marsh
Canyon de Chelly
Sherri McClendon first place
22 Nature
Claudia Martinez second place
32 Essence of Purity
Joseph w. Prosperi
honorable mention
23
15
16
35 Defense de
Joseph W. Prosperi
Painting / Watercolor
5 Rooster Galore
Connie M. Wilcox
27 Pears, Passion and
Patriotism
Carol Smith first place
Drawing / Life Drawing
7 Mikuni Shimokawa:
Portrait
Joshua French
19 Male Nude
Hannelore Brown honorable mention
first place
third place
third place
second place
honorable mention
honorable mention
Idiot Grace
Daniel Shoults
No Vacancy at the
Empty Nest
Debbie Oyama second place
Tetras Not Schooling
Tara Launders
6 Short Ride in a City Bus,
Summer '72
Diayn Day
Time of Legends
Tawnya Clardy
10
38 Swept
Martine Cloud
39
17
32
19
31 Pirate
Michael Pfeifer
The Reluctant Critic
Debbie Oyama
17 Ghost Ships
David Elwood Mills
20 Time Traveler
Mellisa D. Sawyer
30 JIIusions
Lillian Stratmann
Spook
Cibulka
Wm. E. Sullivan
first place, fiction
IfSPOOk ever had a name other than Spook, I
don't know what it was. Might have been
Richard but I can't really say. His folks were
some kind of Hunky, probably Bo-Hunky; we had a
lot of them around. Anyway, Spook was a Hoo Doo,
a jinx. But, his ideas always seemed a little logical.
Kinda like the guy that invented 6-UP, close but no
cigar. Besides being a Hoo Doo, Spook was funny
lookin'. He was possessed of the often unfortunate,
red haired, freckled combination that made him
look like a firecracker about to explode. His middle
European ancestors had willed him a punkin head
and a broomstick body. But, he was called Spook
because he moved like a marionette with the
strings tangled. When his knee came up, so did his
elbow on the same side. You could tell that he
would be completely bald by the time he was thirty.
Good-hearted, though. Sometimes, when God is
scant with certain of His gifts, He makes up for it
by overloading another area. Spook could talk, I
mean, he could really talk. One time I saw him talk
a blonde down off of a palomino horse in a rodeo
parade. Poor schmuck married her. Which brings
us to the poor bastard's other failing. He was nuts
about women. Not a certain type of woman, just
women, generally. All you had to say to Spook was
"Betcha can't get near that one Spook. She looks
like she doesn't like your looks." And, old Spook
would be off to the races, baying like a coon hound
on a hot trail. Didn't matter whether they were
married, single, or had a wooden leg, Spook would
shiver with anticipation and never counted the
cost. Broken families and lives littered the land­scape
after Spook had passed. Yet, everybody Liked
Spook. Yes, I mean with a capital "L." He was aces.
Things rocked along pretty quietly until they
sent us an Eye-Tye priest. Now this may not seem
like too big a deal, considering the location of the
home office and all, but we were in Epiphany
Parish in the middle of Kerry Patch. Further com­plicating
Father Kaletta's life was the fact that our
parish bordered Dago Hill and that was where we
went to fight. Kaletta was no shrinking violet him­self
as I saw him put the boots on a guy when he
thought nobody was looking. The priest suffered
from the same brain short circuit as Spook, odd,
considering his line of work. Wasn't long before
troubled young marriages were getting more coun­seling
than previously and my Grandma began to
smell a rat. "Mom" was a little feisty but would not
say manure if she stepped in it. The one exception
to her gentle spoken demeanor was the subject of
priests. Though Irish boys are barred from the fem­inine
mysteries when they discover that they really
shouldn"t be using the ladies room, I was the last
baby and permitted a more lengthy association
than normal. Celtic Queens make their own rules.
That she was the ruler of the distaff side of the
house was never in question and her "suggestions"
to the filial side were ignored at peril. I think the
untitled
Angela Shaw
silver gelatin print
honorable mention, photography
Doon that when he glared at you, you could hear
shovels snicking into the cold and stony. At each
church function, co11ections were made for the
families of the lads dead in the "Troubles." Dune
passed the can and rarely bought his own drinks. It
did not take an elephant with muddy feet walking
through the kitchen for me to figure out that Doon
might be an Irish Soldier. Doon allowed that he
would take it unkind if anyone was disrespectful of
his mother. Peace and quiet reigned.
So, Mom marched with the IRA and her own
aura made her inviolate. She was permitted to
exercise her womanly franchise. She told Kaletta
to his face that if the priests wore
their pants the same way they
wore their co11ars, there wouldn't
be so many orphans in the
orphans home. I thought he would
choke. But, he was smart enough
to try to bluff it out. Both Kaletta
and Spook must have given off
pheromones or something.
Anyway, neither one of them could
fool Mom.
Juggernaughts ... Leviathans,
these two afflicted, rudderless
human bombs could not coexist
long in our insular neighborhood.
The collision was anticipated in a
state of high glee.
The First Annual Irish/Italian
Friendship Day spaghetti lunch­eon
was announced by the good
Father, to be held in conjunction
with the normal Columbus Day
festivities. My dad, being mixed
up with the Holy Name guys, felt
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priests got a bad faced over the "White Witch"
thing. If you came to visit Mom and you had a sty
on your eye, she would whip off her gold wedding
band, rub it on her wool sweater and draw the
offending pustule to a head. The ladies, bless them,
seemed to be suffering from plumbing troubles,
broken hearts and general mopery with a great
deal of regularity. So if a posset, psaILer, or charm
helped them along, what was the harm? According
to the Church, a great deal, as they made a huge
stink over these fairy remedies. My Uncle Doon
had to take a hand when the Knights of the Mystic
"C" decided to flex their secular arm. It was said of
• •
They say that the Irish
are mad because all
their wars are merry and
all their songs are sad.
he should attend. And, glorioski!, he was going to
take my brother and me. Now, you have to under­stand,
Irish kids are required to perform. Singing is
best, dancing is OK, and if you have no talent at
all, you recite. My brother and I recited. We recited
Irish poetry in Irish, when almost everyone had
forgotten what the words meant. They just loved
the lilting sound of it. At any rate, Friendship Day
was to be held alternately at our church and then
at the Dagos'. So, carried away with Celtic pride, it
was decided that during lunch, the diners would be
entertained in a courtly
manner, with an eye
toward civilizing the
Eyetalians. My cousin
Mike had the voice. A
high, sweet soprano
that made misty the
hardest eye and Mike
was able to perform
many of the saddest songs that grown men couldn't
cope with as he didn't understand precisely what
the words represented. They say that the Irish are
mad because all their wars are merry and all their
songs are sad.
I can close my eyes and, through the golden
lens of memory, see them all arrayed. The blue col­lar
Irish on the east side of the hall, the Eyetalians
on the west and the Hunkies and Krauts scattered
according to whatever plan they subscribed to. Fat
Joe, the cook, had outdone himself. The spaghetti
sauce was aromatic, the hard bread perfect, and
the beer, the golden clown juice, flowed liberally.
Distaining wine as sissified, the bricklayers and
other Irish intellectuals, washed down their food
with their normal beverage. Beer was part of life.
Beer foam was considered good babies. Boys
should taste beer at home so as not to behave in
an ungentlemanly manner in public, in latter life.
That idea was greeted with enthusiasm at our
house. The touchiest paragraph in the Bricklayer's
Union contract treated, reverently, beer on the job
site. So, as the bards might record, the wind
blowed, the beer flowed and Mike got up to sing.
Mike's selection that day, had to do with a young
immigrant widower, returning to his cold water flat
from the funeral of his wife and chlId, finds baby's
handprints on the window glass and kisses them
away. The hall was silent with appreciation at the
conclusion of the piece. Then, from the west, came
an Italian/American voice saying, "Would you look
at the bog trotters cry." It was flat ass glorious.
The Charge of the Light Brigade, the tank battle at
St. Lo, the Great Marianas Turkey Shoot were
mere scuffles. As the Irishers formed ranks in
order to strike the
massed Italians with the
maximum destructive
effect, they sang to
them. "Is my spear a
wmow want, that this
English Lord should
lightly me, it's War, Red
War, I'll give'em." It was
a great day for the Irish. So much was the debacle
enjoyed by the parishioners that they invited the
Eye-Tyes back again next year but, alas, important
local Columbus Day activities demanded the atten­tion
of our sister parish, so it was the First and
Only Friendship Day. It is rumored that the Eye��Tyes
are bad to hold a grudge. Towards the end of
the day's festivities, the stilettos and guns came
out. My Dad grabbed a kid under each arm and
made exit, causing us to miss the grand finale. An
irate husband took advantage of the melee to
shout, "As a married man, you have shown me no
respect," and did his best to pop Spook between
the headlights. Good 01' Spook ducked and Father
Kaletta's heart was pierced by the errant missile.
The discussion has raged ever since. Was
the missile errant or was it guided by the Hand.
After so many years, the consensus is that the only
way the husband could have been sure of his
revenge was to have shot through Spook into the
good Father. Mom always chuckles when she
comes to this part and says people like Spook
always get a free ride and then she laughs out
loud. '*
Rooster Galore
Connie M. Wilcox
watercolor
second place, painting
Gravity
Betsy A. Van Antwerp
raku
honorable mention, sculpture
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Diayn Day
first place, poetry
He might have been a chain-gang worker,
A bare-fisted rock-breaker.
His large, wide knotted body
Towered and loomed.
But his darkness was larger,
Deep-space, pit-dark,
A vengeful light-taker,
An angry eclipse of the sun.
Not a man you'd want to meet
(I heard my mama say)
On an empty street.
And if you're alone, cross to the other side
01' anyplace that's safer
Because a lady must never risk her pride.
But, mama, what do J do jf I'm on a bus,
Open a window and jump out?
He dropped to the edge of the opposite seat
And leaned way back on his tailbone.
His giant feet spread out to the side
And his tiny, red eyes half closed in a squint.
Was he looking for revenge?
Was he looking to punch a blade
Between some offender's ['ibs?
I started to stare at his giant nose
It was mushy and lumpy, like hamburger pulp.
I hoped he wouldn't catch me gawking
And stick me for my offense.
His eyes shifted.
They met mine.
Goodbye mama. Remember me to Jesus.
He muttered something and shook his head.
Was he talking?
Was he threatening?
What? I said. WHAT?
Damned hot out there, he said. Damned hot.
(Tgnore him and move away, J heard my mama say
Now!)
Hot, I agreed.
Getting hotter, you 'spose?
Probably, I said.
Won't get no cooler for a while, I reckon.
I guess not.
I waited for him to speak
And wondered why he sLopped.
I watched his big hand twitch
And waited for the knife.
We looked at each other.
Pondering.
Silent.
He raised his hand.
I froze.
He pointed a finger at me and chuckled.
Now, ain't this rich?
What? I said. WHAT?
s, he said. You and me.
Jawin' together. Just like we
Was real people.
Mikuni Shimokawa: Portrait
Joshua French
Prismacolor pencil
••
Half Dome
Michael Bennett
first place, non-fiction
Itis an icon, it defines
a park, it defines
nature, it represents
wilderness, it represents
commitment. Half Dome will
always be Norma.
The role of a rock can change. Knowledge of
the trail to the cables moved Half Dome from icon
to obsession. The cables allow access to the top;
they allow access to the summit of Yosemite.
I joined orma for an early start on the
John Muir Trail. [know orma. Her stride is a
rerlection of her strength, her power a reflection of
her character. a glimpse into her life.
We have backpacked the Rockies, walked in
the Grand Canyon, hiked all over Arizona; yet I
remain distant, reluctant to step across a self­imposed
void, reluctant to explore a close friend­ship,
afraid she will think I want more.
We are alone, nature providing all sensory
input. Our minor contribution to the morning con­sists
o[ our presence. What little noise we make is
Burning Up
Cheryl Street
ink jet print
second place, computer art
subdued by a river that will not sleep. Millions of
drops of water running fmm the mountains to the
sea. E:ach drop, in turn, rediscovering the same
fall. the same rock. the same log the drop in [mnt
has already forgotten. Millions of excited voices.
mixing, announcing their new discoveries. quickly
passing from one find to the next, each new discov­ery
more important than the last. They combine,
random voices, the result of varying degrees of dis­ruption,
to create a natural harmony, a soothing
harmony, a harmony capable of silencing civiliza­tion.
Half Dome's challenge lies beyond the phys-
We are on top, the knowl­edge
enhancing my senses.
My mind screams, I must
look everywhere, I listen for
every sound, I feel the sun,
the wind, the rock, I inhale
clean air, I taste freedom, I
understand Yosemite.
ical. It is an emotional challenge; one must keep
moving. Vernal Falls' broad curtain of water, a
placid Merced River flowing high above the turbu­lence
of Nevada Fa]]s, views of Half Dome, Liberty
Dome, sounds and smells, my brain cannot keep
up, the input is too rapid. I want to stop, stop and
let the story unfold, but the story wi]] wait. Time
and a steep trail urge me
on. 1have a goal; I want to
stand on top of Yosemite
and let the park flow into
my soul.
The trail continues
its siren song, wanting us to
slow, wanting us to linger.
Like a good book, one you
happily read again, knOWing
you will gain more, knowing
you will understand more, Yosemite is inviting me
back. It is an invitation I will accept; I must reread
this trail.
Another chapter unfolds; Norma and I reach
the steep shoulder of the icon. The trail is difficult
to read, it is a scramble. After a false start, recog­nized
when the trail turned technical, we find our
way and are resting on the shoulder.
I know my mind, her calm reveals hers, I do
not try to read her face or sound her out. I am
silent, my fear of heights focused on the narrow
strip of exposed rock connecting the shoulder to
the cables, the summit we]] above my peripheral
vision. I am intimidated; J am determined. I will
stand on top of this park.
Without a glance, without a word, I stand,
walk forward, place a foot and grab metal. Wire
splinters remind me of my gloves. Ye11ing back to
Norma, I glove my hands and climb.
My boot's firm grip on the rock is comfort­ing,
my grip on the cables instinctive, the slope
forcing my knees near my chest as each step push­es
more of Half Dome below me. I want these
cables behind me, I want this over but my heart
demands rest, I must slow its beat, I must slow my
breathing. Not wanting to know, but wanting the
fu]] experience, I look down. The experience is
motivational; I place my boot and drive. One more
break, then another, then another. I wi]] stop no
more, this must be behind me, it must be over, I
will not stop again. My legs
begin the final push, my
pulse accelerates, my heart
demands rest but I wi]] not
lis ten.
Half Dome is no
longer above me, I can go
no higher; for the moment I
see nothing but her smile,
her elation. I cannot react;
my lungs are inadequate,
involuntarily sucking air, my pulse rivaling hum­mingbird's
Wings. I can no longer ignore their
demands; I must rest.
We are on top, the knowledge enhancing my
senses. My mind screams, I must look everywhere,
I listen for every sound, I feel the sun, the wind,
the rock, I inhale clean air, I taste freedom, I
understand Yosemite.
One fear behind me, I face another. She
wants to celebrate; I can see it in her face, read it
in her body language. The hug we both want will
not occur.
A few years have passed since Norma and I
pu]]ed ourselves up this rock. Sitting on Half
Dome's shoulder, I glance from the cables to her
picture; I see strength, a passion for the outdoors,
a love of life. I see distance I should have crossed,
a close friendship moved beyond my reach.
Norma's chapter finished too soon; her ashes are
scattered in the desert she loved. I carry her pho­tograph,
I hike with her memory.
Half Dome wi]] always be Norma. +
•
•
The Reluctant Critic
Debbie Oyama
Ittook me forty years to decide I wanted to be a
writer and another seven to work up the courage
to take a creative writing class. As I made my way
across campus that first day, I was a little apprehensive
about my role as a "mature" student. I gained confidence,
though, as the instructor went over the syllabus. I'd be
writing poetry, essays, articles, and fiction. This is so
exciting, I thought. I am on my way to fulfilling my dream!
Then she said we'd be expected to critique took a deep breath. That wasn't so bad, I thought. I
each other's work. "This is something you have to can do this. Let's see, it needs a comma here.
get used to," she said. "As writers, you will have to Alright, I was getting the hang of it. Put quotation
deal with criticism and rejection." marks there ... change this word ... move that sen-
Maturity flew out the window as I went into tence rewrite this sentence ... take out that para-convulsions
and transformed into a whiny two- graph fill all margin space with thoughtful com-year-
old. "I can't do that!" I exclaimed. "I'm not ments and intelligent suggestlons. By the time I'd
qualified. You can't make me!" finished, the manuscript looked like a crime victim
It's not that I can't take criticism. J get at covered with crimson slash marks. Panic set in as
least the minimum daily requirement and often J realized what J had done, but I dismissed the
take a second helping. But dishing it out to others urge to retype the manuscript and start over.
for all ...1didn't think I could handle that. The next day, I discovered I'd been the
I explained this to my daughter one evening most zealous in carrying out the assignment. All
as I nervously stared at a fellow student's paper, the other papers had few marks and only a com-reluctant
to make the first mark. After she stopped ment or two in the margins. I was embarrassed
laughing, picking herself up from the floor she after the scene I'd made in class the previous day.
said, "Mom, this is right up your alley. You're a I'd given the false impression I could be trusted
control freak. When have you ever missed an not to butcher someone's work. They'll call me The
opportunity to tell someone what to do and how to Slasher from now on. Still, I was proud I had faced
do it?" My husband entered the room as she con- my fear, even though I had to ask my classmate's
tinued, "Dad, get this, Mom's afraid to critique her forgiveness and offer a sympathy card when hand-classmate's
work!" They broke into a riot of laugh- ing back his paper.
ter. Perhaps my family was correct in their
"Okay, enough!" I said. "Thanks for the assessment of my critiquing abilities. I did what I
encouragement." (Note to self: Write oldest daugh- had to do. Next time, though, I'll try not to bleed
ter out of the will and spike husband's coffee with all over the page. (Note to self: Write oldest daugh-laxatives.)
My hand shook as I placed the tip of the ter back into the will and apologize to husband
red pencil on the page and crossed out a "but." I when he comes out of the bathroom.) +
Conflict
Martine Cloud
ink jet print
first place. computer art
K •
I n g Wo r rn
Daniel Shoults
second place. fiction
G d I hate pudding, tapioca, o fudge, and vanilla. Almost as
much as I hate white walls and toxic
psychiatry and the broken birds who
sing the saddest songs. I'm not
crazy... I'm not crazy.. .I'm not crazy.
Three times, three times is good but four
is always better. I'm not crazy.
Scrub the floor now. Small toothbrush, perfect
for the job, every inch, every speck. The grout is
always brown 'cuz germs have cities there, filthy
dangerous cities. Scrub them harshly, every bristle
an atom bomb, every fleck of spittle a holocaust.
The world needs order. Three inches of grout,
ten million germs, two hundred scrubs. Three inches
of grout, ten million germs, two hundred scrubs.
Three inches of grout, ten million germs, two hun­dred
scrubs. One ... two ... three .. .four. The Dirty
Thought always lurks, a murmur only ritual can kill.
Fifty-seven tiles done one hundred and thirty nine to
go.
Anne where have you gone? My hand slows for
a fraction of a second and darkness creeps like thick
fog. Damn germs, damn dirty tricks. A strange knife
stabs a tender breast...once ... twice ... three times.
Pale perfect skin punctured savagely with vicious
brutality, Auburn hair obscenely alive, "Is this your
wife Mr. Owens?" mangled face, dead iced-chips
eyes like two puddles of jelly, cold sterile
Twenty-five days, three pills
a day, seventy-five doses of
poison. Thirty in a hole I
made in my mattress and
forty-five hidden behind
the air-conditioner vent.
room, harsh light reflecting off pol­ished
metal. "Is this your wife, Mr.
Owens?" Is this your wife, Tom? Is
this your Anne, Mr. Owens? I miss
you baby, but you're not gone are
you? No you're right here.
Fucking germs, they get
into everything, must
keep cleaning.
I can feel them
crawling on my eyebrows
again but that's impossi­ble.
I pulled the last of
them out two weelzs,
seven hours and thirty
minutes ago. There were
three hundred and fifty eight of
them, all dirty. I wish I had a knife
or better yet my mother.
Footsteps in the hall, twenty­one
from desk to door. Tick-tock
says the clock forty-five plus ten
times. I'm fascinated by the per­petual
energy of the second hand
as it arcs its inevitable path
through the bigger lazier hands.
Nazis and their stupid questions,
"How does that make you feel,
Tom?" they always ask. "Why don't
you just give me the purple pill and
get the fuck out of my face?" I
always answer.
Purple Pills are Nazi poison,
but I'm Tom The Magician, never
catch me swallowing that shit.
1\venty-five days, three pills a day,
seventy-five doses of poison. Thirty
in a hole I made in my mattress
and forty-five hidden behind the
air-conditioner vent. Tom's a clever
nut. "You see, Thomas, this is what
we call Palming. The best magic is
the easiest. People want to believe
what their eyes tell them, not
what's true. Always remember,
misdirection and presentation."
Thanks uncle Joe, I always knew
my eyes were full of shit.
Knock... knock... knock. OnIy
three times but better than two. If
only they have the pretense of
respect I can accept that. "Come
in," I say not meaning it. The door
opens casting clinical hospital flu­orescence
across my tiny cell of a
room, and just for a second. I see
King Dirty chuckle threateningly in
his brown grout palace. "I'll get
you one of these days," I say, shak­ing
my toothbrush like a gun.
"Who are you talking to
Tom?" says Dr. Sanchez. "Is the
King back?" She walks in and plops
herself down on a small wooden
backed chair. God she is beautiful.
Long dark brown hair that smells
like flowers and soap, pink freshly
scrubbed skin, healthy chocolate
brown eyes; she's so clean I could
marry her.
"So what if he is, Doc," I
palm my mangled Toothbrush and
using my vanishing trick I slap my
hands together and slip it up my
sleeve. Now come the prodding and
the questions and the dark
thoughts. "You here to fix me? Or
do you just want to point your fin­ger
and study me like some kinda
fuckin rat?" I rub my eyes with the
backs of my hands. Thirty-two
hours since The Dirty Dream, I
must not sleep yet. I want to touch
her skin; it's the loveliest thing in
this filthy place. She is the best
Nazi. Maybe she isn't one, maybe
she is really my friend, yeah, and
maybe I'm the Queen of England. I
crawl over to the Westside of
Groutland and put my back in the
corner hugging my knees to my
• •
chest. "What do you want,
Sanchez?" I say, exhausted and
scared.
She claps her slender, flaw­less
hands together softly and
smiles sadly. "I always like it when
you do one of your tricks, Tom.
How are you feeling?" She pulls a
blue pen out of the breast pocket of
her white doctor's coat and pre­pares
to take notes on a small clip­board
she's brought with her.
"Scale of one to ten?" she asks
pleasan tly.
"Eleven, Doc," I begin to rock
slightly. "I feel peachy keen, top of
the world, like a million bucks," I
say and smile from ear to ear.
"Hey, do you think if I wasn't in the
Puzzle Factory I could get your
phone number?" I can feel tile on
my bare feet and through the thin
fabric of my worn pajamas. I try
not to sit on the grout.
She smiles and it makes me
want to cry. "There is something I
need to discuss with you, Tom, but
first I want you to understand that
this was not our decision. If you
would like me to come back la ter
when you are calmer, I wou ... "
"Just spit it out, Doc. I really
don't have time for the psychologi­cal
shit right now, OK?" Fear
begins to gnaw at my guts as the
tiles of my room begin to move
almost imperceptibly.
Neatly plucked eyebrows
arch in concern as a red tongue
slips between perfectly white teeth
and moistens crimson lips nerv­ously.
"Your sister has decided to
end your stay with us," she says
and crosses her pretty legs. "She
says she can't afford it any longer
and that you are to be sent to the
State Ward."
I can feel the world begin to
slip and bend in that horrible and
chaotic way. The Worms are com­ing
for me fast and furious. The
"That's nice but I'm crazy." I
say, knowing that this should
explain everything.
"Come on Tom. You're not
crazy. just eccentric. You have to
get up: your sister wants to see
you.
Vague memories hover
beneath my eyelids like vultures
waiting for the right moment to
strike, but for now the stomach
aches ancl the Worms are silent
specters. It feels good to be pissed
instead of scared. I don't even look
at the grout once as I stride to do
battle with my selfish bitch of a
sister. The meeting room is clean
and empty. Today is Sunday, July
15tl1 . It is three thirty in the after­noon.
There are four circular
wooden tables in the large airy
room. They are approximately five
feet apart and five feet in diameter,
very neat. Around each table there
are four chairs made out of the
same orange plastic that adorns
classrooms everywhere. In one of
these chairs sits a frigid ice cube of
a woman, my fucking sister.
She is all angle and scowls.
Her face is forever pursed like she
is sucking on a piece of lemon.
Frigh tfu Ily thin she looks li ke a
suited triangle. Tightly coiled black
hair and cold blue eyes like pol­ished
diamonds. She smells of
mouthwash and cheap perfume.
Money had long ago ki11ed the
woman she could have been. "Hello
Margaret," I say, purposefully
scraping a chair away from the
table and slouching into it.
She is all angles and scowls. Her
face is forever pursed like she is
sucking on a piece of lemon.
Frightfully thin, she looks like a
suited triangle.
fact that I am extremely grateful
for. The whole place is very sooth­ing;
I wish I could stay here forev­er.
Except for the dreams that
come like fevers. Faces crushed
against the minds eye like bugs on
a windshield and always a growing
sense of wrongness. My stomach
knows and King, well, that fucker
knows everything. How could Mom
let the Ice Princess take me away?
I just talked to her five minutes
ago, or maybe it was five days ago;
either way she said she loved me.
Where is my Toothbrush ...1 need
it .. 1 need iL...l need it.
One ... two ... three ... four.
"Tom, are you awake?" says a
voice in the mist.
"No. Go away please," I say
to no one in particular.
"It's time to get up. You have
a visitor."
Demerol has a way of playing fast
and loose with time. I can feel the
leather straps around my arms and
legs ancl am immensely comforted
by it. This room is even smaller
than mine and everything is soft.
It is a cool, soothing blue
color. slightly faded. Both the walls
and the floor are this color. while
the bed I am strapped to is gray
and oddly mundane except for the
cushioned leatller straps, which, of
course. are brown and smell like a
new car. The light is dim but bright
enough to banish all shadows, a
TWO DAYS LATER: ''I'm the
man in the box. Stirring in my shit.
Won't you come and save me. Save
me," J sing. I think I've been
singing this for at least ten hours. I
know for a fact that I've repeated
this chorus two thousand four hun­dred
and seventy three times.
However long it takes to do that.
Grout begins to split and writhe,
tilting and whirling. regardless of
physics ... o. you can't do this." I
latch onto her navy blue pant leg.
Her pants smell of fabric softener
ancl laundry soap. neatly pressed
and perfectly creased. "We were
making progress, Doc, I could feel
it. Please let me stay. I promise
whatever I did to make you angry. I
won't do it again. I can't go out
there ... please .....
I can see a tear welling up in
one of her big brown eyes, ''I'm
sorry, Tom. a's out of my hands.
For what it's worth, I think you
have an excellent prognosis." She
strokes my shaved head, trying to
comfort me. not knowing the
demons are on their way.
I cling to her leg like a drunk
clinging to a toilet bowl. I wish my
mother were here: she would put
the world in time out. other's
love is a blanket, a suit of armor. a
place to sleep. Margaret The
Terrible is coming to take me away;
Margaret The Stingy is trying to kill
me because life is too expensive. A
wave of cold ail' strikes my back
sending shivers of fear rippling
through my soul. "Please ... please
... please ..... I'm sobbing now with
bloodshot eyes closed tight and
buried deep in the rough sterile
fabric of her pants. I can hear the
King laughing again, only this time
it sounds like Anne. "You'd better
call Big Ben. It's going to be real
bad this time," I whisper hoarsely.
One... two ... three.
They think I'm gonna kill
myself but that's stupid
because I'm already
dead. Now I just want to
lie down next to Anne,
and we can become
nothing together.
"llello Thomas," she says,
frowning and obviously staring at
my naked eyebrows, "you look
good." She folds her skeletal hands
together and places them carefully
on the table in front of her.
"00 I? I think I look fucking
nuts bu t thanks anyways."
"Would you mind not cursing
like a common thug. You're too
educated for that."
"['m crazy, remember? I can
talk any goddamn way I please.
Now, why don't you tell me exactly
what it is you want little sister.
Then you can go back to being the
Ice Princess and J can go back to
being Crazy Tom. Whadda you
say?"
"Fine," she says and pulls
out a small brief case she has con­cealed
under the table, "1 want you
to sign these papers authorizing
your release to the State Ward."
"I'm not going to do that." I
prop my feet up on the table and
lean back in my chair.
She looks at my feet then
glares at me hatefully. "I can force
you to go. There is not a court in
the land that would find you com­petent.
I can get power of attorney
and tllen I don't need you
to sign."
"Is that a threat
largaret? I think you
woulel be quite surpriseel
by my periodic moments of
lucidity. Like right now for
example. You and I both
know that even as crazy as
I am. I'm still smarter than
you. You may have lost
respect for me little sister
but don't ever make the
mistake of thinking I'm defense­less."
I smile at her calmly. God [
feel good. Total control, [ know
exactly what I'm doing. That old
feeling of strength was coming
back again, washing away the
uncertainties and firmly rooting
me to here and now.
She scowls even harder and I
can tell she wants to slap my feet
off the table but is too scared to try
it. "I have already arranged it. You
are to be transferred tomorrow at
seven in the morning," she says
and starts shoving papers back
into her briefcase. "By the way,
Mother is dead, goodbye Thomas."
She walks out of the room briskly
without looking back.
THAT NIGHT: "llow? How did
she die?"
Scrubbing ... scrubbing ...
scrubbing. Stop shaking. I know
they're here on the floor, in the
walls, UNDER MY FUCKING SKI .
Don't scream, they'll put me back
on the Demerol, don't scream
'cause the only ones who cared are
dead. don't scream 'cause if I do I
won't ever stop. I want to claw my
eyes out. I want to peel my skin off
and boil it. Everything is so terribly
disgusting. "You are my Sunshine
my only Sunshine, you make me
happy when skies are gray, you'll
never know dear how much I love
you, so please don't take my
Sunshine away."* You have to
come back anel sing to me again,
Mom.
I'm on suicide watch tonight
for the first time in the last six
months and twelve days. Big Ben is
• •
standing outside my door looking in
approximately every fifteen min­utes;
actually, it's been seventeen
minutes and forty-two seconds
since the last checkup. They think
I'm gonna kill myself but that's stu­pid
because I'm already dead. ow
I just want to lie down next to
Anne, and we can become nothing
together. 1aybe my Mom will be
there with her, and King Worm, and
we can all sit down at a grand table
like civilized creatures, and I can
do magic tricks for them. My Mom
loves my tricks and Anne always
laughs and says, "That's my
Houdini. How's about makin' some
money appear, oh Great and
Powerful Wizard." Oh God do I
miss her. Oh God do I miss
her. .. Oh god!
"Tom?" Footsteps ... heel toe
... heel toe ... heel toe. a woman
because it's too loud for a man.
Sanchez because she thinks she
cares. "Tom. I've requested that
your room be searched. I have
seen your tricks. and we just want
to make sure you don't have any­thing
rash planned, OK?" She just
shaveel her legs today. I can smell
the faint odor of some feminine
shave gel and Iler legs are smooth
and shiny beneaLll her chocolate­colored
knee length skirt.
Play it cool. Tom. Don't
scream. Focus on the damn germs:
wlloever has this room tomorrow
will thank me. "Go ahead. Doc, hey
and when you're finished maybe I
could take you down the street and
buy you a cup of coffee."
Har... har... har.
"You're such a little flirt," she
smiles and instructs Big Ben to
search the room. "Is there any­tiling
you want to talk to me about.
Tam.?"
I wa nt to tell her tha t mon­sters
are real. I want to tell her
that she's beautiful and smart and
that she should find a new career.
Mostly, I want to tell her that I'm
sorry, all my reasons have been
used up, and it's time for me to go.
I look at her now and I see once
and for all that I was wrong; she's
an angel not a torturer. Swallowing
the lump that has snuck into my
throat, J say, "I'm sorry that J've
been such an ass to you. I promise
I won't be ever again." I smile and
wink as a tear slips its way down
my cheek.
"Don't be silly, Tom. In a few
weeks you'll be back to your same
01' antics and I'll be back to pre-tending
I'm annoyed," she hugs
herself against the chill of the air­conditioner
and taps her foot wor­riedly,
"then we can get back to the
business of helping you."
I hear what she's saying but
it sounds like she's a great distance
from me, as though we're standing
on opposite ends of a vast tunnel.
Just keep scrubbing for fuck's
sake. One ... two ... three .. .four.
"Doc, I think you'd better
have a look at this," Ben has my
mattress flipped over and he's
holding out a handful of purple
sleep, "had 'em buried in his mat-
Dark Minds
Dominic Colorado
colored pencil, acrylic and
spray paint
honorable mention, painting
tress," he says proudly. He scoops
the rest of them out and spends
twenty seconds counting to thirty.
"Looks like thirty of 'em Doc."
''I'm not mad at you and I'm
not going to put you in restraints
but you have to swear to me that
you won't make me regret it.
Promise me, OKT She kneels down
ancl looks me in the eye. Sweet
minty breath brushes warmly
across my face and a faint odor of
vanilla clings to her skin.
"I promise." is all I can man­age
to choke out. J'm a terrible
prick but a great Magician. I'm
about to make myself disappear.
Shit... 1want to scratch so bad I'm
trembling,
"Come on, Ben, let's get him
a new mattress from 103; it's
empty now." She's wearing her hair
in a Light bun today. It looks great.
"We'll be right back, OK? Then you
and I are going to have a nice long
talk."
"It's a date," I smile and it
feels like a scream, ''I'm just gonna
finish cleaning." Scrubbing... scrub­bi
ng ... scrubbing. "M isd irection
and Pre entation," J say after they
have gone, One ... two ... three ...
fou r... five. +
"You are my Sunshine." Words and
Music by Jimmy Davis and Charles
Mitchell (1940)
•
'I
Canyon de Chelly
Sherri McClendon
watercolor
first place, painting
Time of Legends
Tawnya Clardy
honorable mention, poetry
Shining armor shines no more.
Fire does not bum the shelf,
Treasures go unhoarded
by the fiery-breathed beast.
It was lost, long ago.
Flowers die from Magic's lack,
Wings naught flutter on the wind,
Dust settles naught on the leaf.
It was lost, long ago.
Horse and human, none combined,
Roam the earth,
The sense if one now lost,
To a sense of two.
It was lost, long ago.
The earth naught quakes,
At the steps of men,
Whose feet crush homes,
Rivers naught form 'neath their feet.
It was lost, long ago.
Ships that sail across the sea,
See naught the tails of girls,
And hear naught their songs,
Treasures go unfound,
At the bottom of the sea.
It was lost, long ago.
So here I live,
In this time of grief,
The time of legends forever lost,
The only memory of that time in books,
Said as falsified.
It was lost, long ago.
Long, long ago.
Ghost Ships
David Elwood Mills
honorable mention, non-fiction
Th bI t was deafening. The e aS flash was blinding.
Mother Earth quaked beneath my feet. A battle
raged before my very eyes. The Ghost Ships Were
At War! I have always been awestruck and inspired
by the beauty and power of the Ghost Ships of my
youth: Clouds.
I truly beheld the ghost ships for the first
time as a youth. They were at 20,000 feet. So was
I. As I gazed out the window on my first airplane
flight, I saw them. There they were, just off the
wing tip, floating. They were level with each other
sailing in formation on a vast azure sea. Long and
majestic, flat and reaching, they dominated the
scene. Feathery white wisps shrouded with mist
and mystery that captivated a young boy's imagina­tion.
This was their ocean. They had ruled here
since time began. I was but a humble visitor to
their realm. I have never looked at them the same
since.
One of my earliest memories is of the scent
they bring. I was on a trip to Montezuma's Castle
when I was about six or so. The ghost ships were
an about. I smelled something in the desert air I
didn't quite recognize. It was an aroma that made
me grateful for my sense of smell. It was such a
lovely combination of moisture and earth in the air.
I was told this meant it was going to rain. These
heavenly galleons had seasoned the wind.
Halation IV
David LeMmon
silver gelatin print
third place, photography
As I traveled through the
mountains my junior yeBl', I saw
them coming, two mighty armadas
on a collision course. One came
from the east and the other from
the southwest. They rode the wind
into battle. Slamming together,
they formed a battlefront.
Cannons fired into the enemy
flanks. The thunderous blasts
rumbled through my bones. Their
report was heard for miles
around. The flashes from the muz­zles
lit up the sky. The battle
raged on.
The casualties fell as rain.
The intensity increased with each
pas ing moment. The Earth shook
with their terrible fury. All I could
do was watch in awe and amaze­ment
as one armada overtook the
other. Which was the victor? I
could not tell. When was it over? I
do not know. Of one thing I am
sure, I was blessed simply to have
been a witness.
I have beheld the ghost
ships at the setting of the sun,
when they raise their sails in a
beautiful festival of pageantry.
Bright oranges and golds, fiery
pinks and scarlets, royal blues
and purples and (yes, believe it or
not) vivid greens adorn their sails
and banners. Onward they drift
toward the horizon, a vast parade
of fire celebrating the sun who
gave them life.
I have beheld the
ghost ships at the
setting of the sun,
when they raise their
sails in a beautiful
festiva I of pageantry.
The ghost ships in some
places are viewed as bearers of
misery and misfortune. Here in
the desert they are viewed as
bearers of life and as saviors.
Their arrival is longed for and
often prayed for. They season the
wind and adorn Mother Earth
with all the colors of the rainbow.
Their precious cargo spills forth
from their hulls and falls to the
sandy desert floor bringing life
and beauty to a barren and for­saken
land.
The ghost ships have awed
and inspired me my entire life.
Many thoughts and questions
have been roused by these phan­tom
vessels. What's at the end of
the rainbows? Who pilots them?
Could it be angels? Or possibly
pirate spirits? Or maybe even
Peter Pan? They come in every
shape and size. I've seen them at
20.000 feet and I've seen them
flOWing along the ground with
misty grandeur. I've witnessed
their unmatched fury and their
life-giVing power. I've seen them
block out the sun and then use its
magnificent light to set the sky on
fire. The ghost ships amazed me
as a child and they fill me with
wonder as an adult. May they
inspire generations to come. +
Idiot
Grace
Daniel Shoults
third place, poetry
Male Nude
Hannelore Brown
charcoal drawing
honorable mention, drawing
- (
As night grows to wane on these cheery ghosts
Of past prose that fled the purgatory of clever tongues
Minds taken aback by lovely actions in the thoughtless scene
Spoke with the clarity of a drunken slur on midnight knees
As jaded critics fade into the background noise of a jazzy silence
Words cut bloody grooves in the treacherous heart of reason
Memories erased from the battered minds of dozing apes as
Life-blasted wordsmiths fashion wonderlands in the delicate forever
As rum scented stanzas run amok in neon-littered nights
Wishes like alibis find purchase in back alley passions
Dionysian promises acted out in mad predawn diatribes
Naked words writhing and blasting off with uncaring abandon
As movements hit pinnacles like a morphine wrecking-ball
Pens and mouths give birth to inky toddlers that have the courage to
Wreak beautiful havoc on mountainous piles of useless history
God blesses the idiot with the grace to die dancing
•
•
Time Traveler Mellisa O. Sawyer
third place, non-fiction
bowed legs crouched in the cor­ner,
its black grate ever-grinning,
begging to be resurrected to life.
Grandmother's chair faced the
door, positioned next to the chub­by
sentinel. She greeted us with
good cheer for never having met
us.
Our accommodations con­sisted
of a single room crowded
with several beds. After settling
our belongings, our
father showed us the
property.
A quick tour of the
interior turned up no
telephone, television, or
radio. The bitter reality
was more than our over-stimulated
systems could
comprehend. We com­plained
incessantly for several
hours and then became tired of
hearing ourselves and found other
amusement.
The man-made lake at one
end of the property was rumored
to be home to a monstrous catfish
of epic reputation. Iy sisters and
I shared in the crime of swiping
crusts of bread from the kitchen.
We tossed the crumbs onto the
glassy surface of the water and
waited. Two of our offerings were
stolen by ducks. The third crumb
bobbed out to the center of the
water and stagnated. Our antici­pation
bred silence, and then, just
as one hungry fowl wobbled
of days.'
Our best arguments being
ignored by bemused parents, my
sister and I resigned ourselves to
our family duty. We walked the
short distance with our parents
down the dusty road to the
entrance of the home. Our eyes
reached up to the bell which hov­ered
at the apex of the roof. We
questioned whether the home
used to double as a school house.
My father said that the bell's pur­pose
was to call neighbors in case
of fire. My sister and I exchanged
'you must be kidding' glances and
followed our mother into the
house.
The first sensation to envel­op
me was the silence. The still
permeated the air and hovered
around us living things. Then
there was the darkness. The sun­light
trespassed through the
sparse windows, creating slivers
of light on the wooden floor which
never quite reached the shadowed
corners.
A stout, black stove with
The first sensation to envelop
me was the silence. The still
permeated the air and hovered
around us living things. Then
there was the darkness.
I have traveled a million miles
away from your world, into a
place where the very essence
of time stood still. You may read
or dream of that bygone era, the
good 01' days, where neighbors
came to call and the air was
unfettered by pollutants. But I
have resided in the midst of histo­ry.
I walked in the corridors of the
past, if only for an instant.
During the sum­mer
break of my first
year of junior high, my
father pulled the family
across country to the
wild mountains of
Kentucky. My grandfa­ther
lived within a small
network of widely dis­persed
homes in the
wooded hills of wha t I rega rded to
be thc unluckiest summer retreat
any tcenager ever had the misfor­tune
of being sent to. My grandfa­ther's
home was equipped with
the most modern conveniences, so
despite the lack of cute boys and
appropriate shopping facilities, I
decided to tough it out.
The rustic home that
peeked out from the side of the
dirt road was nothing more than
an oddity to me and my sisters,
until visiting day. To our amaze­ment,
one of our own relatives
lived in the relic. Our father
insisted that we pay a visit to our
great-grandmother for 'a couple
•
toward the bread, a cavernous
mouth pulled the soggy white
below the surface.
Our pleasure was unparal­leled
as we raced in to inform the
adults of our victory. After a syn­opsis,
my sister inquired after a
restroom. My dad laughed and
pointed to the back door.
Confused, we pushed open
the screen door and followed a
worn trail to a weathered wooden
structure. None of us had ever
seen a bona fide outhouse.
"No way," my sister protest­ed.
We followed her around the
house and up the road to our
grandfather's home and mod­ern
plumbing. During the
days that followed, many
covert operations were made
up the hill, mostly for bathing
purposes, as great-grand­mother
had refused to have
plumbing installed.
Electric lights were the
only convenience we were
afforded. Grandmother's chil­dren
had insisted that she
comply with the fire code, so
a smattering of glowing bulbs
illuminated the interior dur­ing
the night.
The nights were spe­cial
to us somehow. I delight­ed
in brushing her wooly,
white hair and listening to
her speak about a life so dif­ferent
from my own.
Many nights, neighbors
would come and sit and sing.
Alex
Ann Beauregard
silver gelatin print
1 had never heard a fiddle or a
banjo until that trip. Pop culture
still had firm control over our
minds and we regarded the music
with thinly veiled disdain.
everthe-Iess. we enjoyed the
atmosphere and the congenial
strangers who never surrendered
their attempts to have us sing
along.
We asked our father on the
second day about a rectangular
section of ceiling that looked mot­tled
and heavy. He pointed to a
picture in an old, oval frame. The
young man, our great uncle, never
came home from Pearl Harbor.
His body still rests in the salty
belly of the USS Arizona. The
entire top floor was sealed in tes­tament
to his memory.
During the days that fol­lowed,
we discovered certain
delights that our city life never
afforded us. 'I\vo calves resided in
the pasture beside the old barn.
My sister and I made a sport of
trying to touch them. We pulled
ourselves from the covers every
morning at the first hint of day­light
and snuck out to the mead­ow.
We picked our way through
a maze of pancake batter cow
droppings. Stealthily, we inched
toward the calves. They stood
frozen, the half moon whites of
their eyes making them look wild
as they regarded their stalkers.
Each time we attempted our ven­ture,
we got closer to the animals.
[n the end, we think they delight­ed
in our disappointment as they
bolted off at the last instant. We
tried to chase them once, over the
creek and into the forest. We lost
them to the shadows and vowed to
try again.
The forest was our wonder­land.
Here we invented stories of
lost treasure and
swung over gullies on
woody grape vines.
Coming from a
Sonoran metropolis,
we never knew what
chippers were until
the day an emerald
hill begged us to roll
down its face. We
were rewarded with
the special humilia­Lion
of an invasion of
our limbs by the itchy
critters.
My favorite
parL of the home-
Lead was the well. I
loved Lo dip the cold
meLal bucket into the
lighLiess depths and
Nature
Claudia Martinez
ink drawing
second place, drawing
fight against the weight as I pulled
it to the surface. My first glass of
well water I eyed with suspicion,
holding it up to the light. Even
Phoenix tap water came with
mysterious chunks of white mat­ter
which swirled and rested in
the bottom of every cup, so I was
surprised when only rainbow col­ors
reflected onto my face through
the crystalline depths.
Looking back, I am
ashamed that I hid my adventures
from my city friends. I was certain
they could never understand the
life my great-grandmother led. I
• •
was much older myself before I
absorbed how a woman could
become so lonely for life that she
stopped time to revel in the mem­ory
of those she loved.
When she died, one of her
sons gutLed and revamped the
home. [ was sorry to hear it.
Sometimes at night, I pretend that
I am still weighted under half a
dozen soft quilts, fighting out the
cold. In the corner, I can hear the
fire as it dances away to nothing.
In the morning, there is just the
quiet, and the prospect of new
adventure. +
Lifted Spirits
Debbie Oyama
third place, fiction "How does hot buLterecl
rum sounel, AI?" Flora
asked. If they were
back home, she'd offer him a cold
beer. Every summer they spent
five glorious days in a cabin
beside the Big Thompson River.
The brown, desert heat of Arizona
was traded for the clear, ever­green
cool of Colorado. They lifted
their mugs and toasted the chilly
July evening.
Each year, they booked the
same cabin, the Caterpillar. The
spacious screened porch invited
guests to sit upon its Adirondack
chairs and let their cares be
washed away by the sound of
rushing water. It was a modestly
decorated two-bedroom cabin
with a living room, kitchen, and
bathroom. The window in the
kitchen provided a gorgeous view
of the river and the surrounding
landscape.
Most of their time was
spent on the porch or outside the
cabin. All around them were
trees, grass, and bushes adorned
with berries and flowers. It was a
sharp contrast to dirt, rocks, and
cactus. The mountains wrapped
around them, creating a cozy,
peaceful hide-away.
Flora woke the next morn­ing
a little after six and knew that
AI had been up for at least an
hour. She'd been sleeping in the
extra bedroom because her asth-
Therese-Marie
Ina Marsh
charcoal on paper
honorable mention,
drawing
ma often kept her up at night.
"Woo-ooh," she called, signaling
him to bring her coffee in bed, as
he had every day of their 40-year
marriage. She propped herself up
with two pillows behind her back
and one on her lap.
AI was enjoying his morning
coffee on the porch when he heard
the familiar "Woo-ooh." He left his
cup sitting on the arm of the chair
and went into the kitchen. While
preparing Flora's coffee, AI
watched as hummingbirds zipped
to and from the feeder outside the
window. The sun was beginning to
hoist itself above the canyon wall,
gilding the landscape. He carried
the cup and saucer to the bed­room,
gently placing it on Flora's
lap pillow. He kissed her forehead
and asked, "How'd you sleep?"
"Okay," she said, "I had a
little trouble breathing, so I sat up
reading for a while. I don't know
what time I fell asleep."
"I thought I heard you
rustling around, thought you
might be having a rough night."
Flora sipped her coffee, and
without making eye contact with
AI, she said, "No, but I did get a
little spooked when I went to the
bathroom."
AI tilted his head and
smiled. "Why, did you see a
mouse?"
"AI, you know I don't have a
problem with mice. Remember
Ralph and Inez?"
There was a family of mice
in the walls of their old house in
Phoenix. Flora had affectionately
named the parents Ralph and
Inez. "How could I forget?" he
asked.
Flora continued, "It was the
middle of the night, around two or
one there. She saw Al approach­ing
with Sharon, who, with her
husband, Kevin, was responsible
for the upkeep of the cabins.
"Did you catch anything?"
asked Flora as AI set his fishing
gear down and kissed her cheek.
" ot even a bite." said AI.
"Fishing's been bad for
awhile" said Sharon. "Kevin says
it has something to do with the
drought." She was admiring
Flora's artwork as she spoke.
"That's beautiful!" she said,
"You're so talented." Then, point­ing
to the boy in the picture, she
asked, "Is this someone you
know?"
" 0, he just popped into my
head." said Flora.
Sharon felt a chill. She
rubbed her arms. "That's amaz­ing"
she said. "I mean, it looks just
like Logan Connors, the boy who
drowned here last year."
"Oh dear!" said Flora, "How
sad." Thinking about her experi­ence
the previous night and what
had just happened a few moments
ago, she asked, "Sharon, was
Logan's family in the Caterpillar
when he drowned?"
The family had indeed
stayed there, but Sharon suddenly
realized she might be scaring off
the guests. "Oh gosh. I don't
remember which cabin they
stayed in." Relieved. she spotted
Kevin outside their cabin and
said, "I'd better head back, I think
Kevin's looking for me. I'm sorry if
I upset you." Rushing off, she said,
"You know, the more I think about
it, the boy in your picture doesn't
really look much like Logan."
Flora was surprised when
Al brought it up at the dinner
table. "That's quite a coincidence,
isn't it; that the kid in your picture
rested her feet on a large rock.
This is an artist's paradise, she
thought. Donning the rose-colored
glasses she often wore when she
was in an "artsy-fartsy" mood, as
AI would put it, she savored her
surroundings. A
dandelion poked its
fuzzy, globed head
out of the ground.
When Flora was a
little girl, her
father had taught
her to make a
wish, and with a
puff of breath,
scatter the ball of
fuzz into the wind
like a hundred dancing fairies.
Flora missed her parents,
who had passed away years ago.
She would talk to her mother
while meditating, and on several
of those occasions, a butterfly had
lit upon a nearby tree or bush. It
was always yellow and black, her
mother's favorite colors. Flora felt
it was a sign her mother was lis­tening.
Sometimes, she thought
the butterfly might be her moth­er's
spirit paying her a visit.
As Flora began to sketch,
her mind produced a clear image
of a little red-haired boy. She pen­ciled
him in beside the river's
edge with a fishing pole in his
hands. When the draWing was fin­ished,
she bathed it with water
color hues of blue, green. brown,
and yellow, leaving bits of white
shining through. She crowned the
boy with a carrot-top the way she
had imagined him.
Just then, there was a sud­den
breeze that lasted but a
moment. The pages of the sketch­book
ruffled, and Flora felt a hand
upon her shoulder. She turned to
see who it was, but there was no
As Flora began to sketch, her
mind produced a clear image
of a little red-haired boy. She
penciled him in beside the
river's edge with a fishing pole
in his hands.
three. I had gone into the bath­room
and closed the door. When I
sat on the toilet, I heard the door­knob
jiggle. I thought it was you,
but there was no answer when I
said your name."
"It was probably just a
draft." said AI.
"I thought so, too," said
Flora. "but then it happened again
and I actually saw the doorknob
turning." She wanted to tell him
that she'd felt a presence, but she
knew he would laugh.
AI put his hands in the air,
hunched his shoulders, and whis­pered,
"You think this place is
haunted?" And then he did laugh.
"You and your artist's imagina­tion!"
he said.
He was mocking her, as she
knew he WOUld. She should never
have mentioned it. Al wasn't being
mean; he simply didn't believe in
Lhe supernatural. Flora was more
open-minded, a free spirit. She'd
developed a sixth sense that she
always paid attention to. Last
night. whether AI believed it or
not. there was someone else in
the cabin.
After breakfast, AI gathered
his fishing gear and headed upriv­er.
8'lora took her canvas bag con­taining
a sketch book, pencils, and
watercolors down to the river's
edge. She pulled up a chair and
looks like the kid who drowned?"
Since AI was at, least curi­ous
about the mauer, Flora told
him about the sudden breeze and
feeling t,he hand on her shoulder.
"So, are you t,hinking t,here's
a ghost, here?" he asked.
"1 don't like the t,erm ghost,"
said Flora, "but I do t,hink t,hat,
when a person dies suddenly,
their soul can become trapped or
lost. You know. like they're con­fused
and t,hey need help making
the transition from this life La t,he
next,.
Just, t,hen, t,he rocking chair
on t,he porch creaked. It leaned
forward and back, Forward and
back, then stopped as suddenly as
it, had begun. Flora and AI looked
at t,he chair, then at
cach ot,her. Flora took
it, as an affirmation of
what, she'd been say­ing,
but, AI was becom­ing
uncomFortable.
"Okay, this is non­sense,"
he said, forc­ing
himselF back to
realit,y, "That was the
wind." As he left the
table, he said. "I don't
know why I let myself
get caught up in your
crazy ideas. But. you
know I love you any­way."
Flora Fell asleep
t,hat night clutching
her rosary, praying for
the lost soul of Logan
Connors. She dreamed
she saw the little boy
struggling in the
water. She wanted t,o
help him, but her legs
seemed rooted in the
ground. She was too
far away to reach him.
In desperation, she
cried out, "Mama,
help!"
As soon as the
Eye of the Soul ­Tears
of the Heart
Flo Flynn
acrylic
words left Flora's lips, her mother
appeared, standing beside Logan.
She lifted him up and t,hey walked,
hand-in-hand. across the wat,er.
Iler mother turned and smiled at
Flora, before she and Logan dis­appeared.
Flora woke the next, morn­ing
wit,h a sense of peace. She
decided not to tell AI about her
dream. There was no point, in t,ry­ing
to make him underst,and.
When he brought her coffee, he
made no mention of spirits nor did
he joke about her imaginaLion.
The subject was obviously closed
for him.
They'd planned to spend the
day shopping in Estes Park. Flora
was dressed and ready before AI,
so she waited outside for him.
Wit,h t,heir vacation almost, at, an
end. she wanted to absOl'b t,he
scenery. creating a memOl'y La
last until next summer. Her at,ten­tion
was drawn to the river where
she was not surprised to see t,he
yellow and black butter[]y.
Flora closed her eyes in
renection of all that was gooel in
her life. When she opened t,hem,
she watched in awe as an Ol'ange
butt,erfly accompanied the yellow
one. The two fluttered and danced
above the water's surface before
drifting up and away. For anyone
else it was a lovely sight, but [or
Flora, it was a joyous occasion.
She wanted to shout or sing Ol' cry
or something! But all she could
manage was a whispered, "Thank
you, Mama." +
Tis a
April Huggins
Polaroid emulsion lifts on copper
honorable mention, photography
Serene
Arti Goulatia
stoneware
second place. ceramics
At Peace
Arti Goulatia
stoneware
honorable mention, sculpture
Pears, Passion and Patriotism
Carol Smith
oil pastel
first place, drawing
Pacific Dreams
Carol Smith
watercolor
honorable mention, painting
The Woodpile
Michael Bennett
honorable mention, fiction
Memories of a Dance
John Aragon
mixed media
third place, painting
It was time to
relax, a time
when time did
not matter. When he
was honest, he
reached beyond the
peaceful monotony of
the task and admitted
it to himself. He really
did it for her; he would
do anything for her.
Now he did it to forget.
Montana's cold usual1y
kept him in motion, kept him occupied, gave
him less time to think. On this morning, blow­ing
snow blurred his glasses, obscuring his
vision, slowing his axe, giving him time. Loo
much time. making his focus wander.
A piece of wood stood vertical on Llle
stump. His head shook slightly; he coulcl not
remember placing it there. He spoke to the
wood, "1 wish she could leave my thoughts as
easily." Before he began the sentence, he
knew he did not mean it, he would always
remember her; it was pain he wanted to for­get.
Brushing wood splinters from the
stump, he smiled; she was meticulous. He
thought of her little rituals; nothing could be
too clean. She washed dishes
before putting them in the dish­washer;
she cleaned their tooth­brushes
daily. Then they would
backpack. Somehow, siWng in
front of their tent, sipping hot
chocolate, watching peaks cap­ture
early light. altered the rules.
Toothbrushes remained fresh;
creek water cleaned dishes.
Mountains made life simple.
His mind turned to love, an
elusive emotion, difficult to
denne, difficult to grasp. He tried
to think of other women, other
women he had loved or thought he
had loved. He did not want the
ache in his thoughts, but his emo­tions
would not allow her to leave.
Twisting slightly, his hand
accepted the weight of the axe,
his free hand wrapping the han­dle,
sliding smoothly towards the
cutting edge. controlling the
blade, giving him control over this
small corner of his life.
They met because of her
eyes, a chanced moment, a brief
moment on a trail in the
Yellowstone. Her pale blue eyes
seemed out of place against her
tanned skin and dark hair; their
depth clashed with the softness of
the color. He was shy around
women, reluctant to approach,
but he had to know what was
behind those eyes. Allowing her to
walk away would condemn him to
a life of regret. He asked if he
could hike with her.
It was a practiced motion,
smooth, efficient, effortless. His
hand near the blade easily lifting
the weight as he raised the tool
above his head storing energy for
the coming blow.
Their love had evolved
slowly, it was not defined by a
moment in time, it was something
that became part of them. He
knew it when he woke in the
morning and could hear her soft
breathing. when he slid his foot
beneath the covers, gently touch­ing
her leg before climbing quietly
from their bed. He knew it when
he looked into her eyes, his atten­tion
often drawn to the small
creases radiating from their cor­ners;
it amazed him how they
enhanced her beauty. Small wrin­kles
representing their life, their
commitment to each other. They
contained their past yet separated
them fmm what they were and
what they would become.
Following them back, he
thought of joy, the birth of their
daughter. She had wanted a girl.
wanted to give him a daughter,
wanted him to have the relation­ship
she would always cherish.
The relationship only a father and
daughter can have. He remem­bered
angUish; she was barely six
when a simple mosquito bite gave
her encephalitis. Her doctors
gave them little hope; they said
she would die. One week of agony,
suffering that brought them clos­er,
helped them refocus their life.
The doctors were wrong then, but
doctors are not always wrong. His
thought jumped to the present and
stopped.
Focusing on his target, his
hands slipped together leveraging
the energy, arcing the blade until
metal met wood, splitting the log,
pieces tumbling apart. Another
piece sat on the stump waiting,
waiting to help him forget.
The rhythm of the work
brought back her music, her
piano. It was a gift they could not
afford but it made her whole; it
completed their home. After
rejecting many candidates, she
sat before the Steinway that
would become hers; he knew she
wou Id play Bach. Breaking
through the gentle tension of the
keys, she felt the music before the
sweet tones resonated through
the wood. It was more than an
audible experience; it was a soft
summer rain, individual notes
combining, separate yet inter­twined,
warmly caressing her,
flOWing, conforming to her skin,
feeding her thoughts, bUilding
emotion, becoming part of her. It
was her music, it was her piano.
She treasured time by the
fire. sitting on the floor, talking
and enjoying the warmth. His
knowledge of physics told him
burning wood radiated heat and
warmed the room but he refused
to believe it, at least not in their
room, not with her. They shared
the moment with the flames; it
was something they did. He split
the wood for love.
The axe fell; he could hear
the car approach. Another blow,
he knew they would talk still
another; there would be tears.
The engine died, the blade split
wood, a car door closed, one more
SWing, wood fell to earth, the axe
buried deep in the stump. The
woodpile could no longer work its
magic. Releasing the handle, he
turned.
Looking deep into her eyes,
looking beyond remnants of
recent tears, he saw two women,
•
two nearly identical women sepa­rated
by age. The eyes before him
did not have lines at their corners,
but that did not detract from her
beauty. He knew they would be
there someday; he hoped her man
would understand their meaning,
would recognize commitment. He
had heard her words before; this
time he heard her wisdom, her
caring. 'It's been a long time since
the funeral, Daddy. You should
• visit Mom's grave; it's okay to say
goodbye.' He held his daughter.
Holding her, loving her, he
realized he could not define love,
could not quantify it; it could only
be felt and shared. It was unique
within, but not limited by, a rela­tionship.
His thoughts turned
back, back to his daughter's young
eyes, the eyes she shared with
her mother. In his mind, they
aged. revealed the life he hoped
she would live. They brought him
from the past to the present; she
carried him into the future. +
untitled
Melissa Rogers
silver gelatin print
No Vacancy at
the Empty Nest
Debbie Oyama
second place, non-fiction
You've heard of empty nest
syndrome, haven't you? It's
the state of depression you
fall into when your grown children
venture out on their own, leaving
you and your spouse to sit around
twiddling your thumbs because
you just don't know how to exist
without them.
I'm sorry, maybe I'm a bad
mother, but I never understood
what the big boo-hoo was about. I
don't know if it was the ear-pierc­ing
cries of a colicky baby, the
constant wails of a teething tod­dler.
or the frightening will of a
terrible two year old, but I'm pret­ty
sure it was around that time I
began to look forward to an empty
nest. I didn't give it much thought
when the kids started school, leav­ing
me with a few hours a day to
myself. But any lingering doubt
that an empty nest was desirable
was squashed like a bug under a
boot with the onset of the teenage
years. You know, those yeat's when
they know everything and you
know nothing? It's the terrible
twos revisited with a more sophis­ticated
vocabulary including
words like "whatever," "I don't
care." and "you're so stupid I can't
believe you were allowed to pro­create."
That last phrase is not
spoken verbally, but it comes
through loud and clear in teenage
body language.
For me,
the empty nest
was the brass
ring, something
to reach for. It
was to be our
reward for all
those years of
self-sacrifice,
sleep depriva­tion,
and finan-cial
loss.
Finally our
time would be
spent on activi­ties
of our
choosing. We'd catch up on our
sleep, and the money saved on
groceries alone would land us in
the Fortune 500!
My husband and I have
been "empty nesters" for a year
now, and I want to let you in on a
little secret. It's all an illusion;
they never really leave. They pack
up their stuff, which includes a
whole lot of your stuff. but you
don't care because they're leav­ing!
On moving day you help them
load the van just to be sure there's
nothing left behind that might lure
them back. You go with them to
their new residence because you
want to see it with your own eyes.
They have no idea the tears rolling
down your cheek when you kiss
them good-bye are tears of joy.
Our daughters moved out
Essence of Purity
Joseph W. Prosperi
graphite on paper
honorable mention, drawing
together, and the first Few days
after they left were everything we
had hoped for. Peace, quiet, calm.
We had privacy; we had freedom.
Then our o]clest daughter stopped
by after work one evening and
asked, "Can I borro\\' some
Tylenol? I have a major headache."
Here's where I made a cru­cial
mistake. I said, "Sure, help
yourself." Talk aboul carte
blanche! Ever since that slip of the
tongue, things like shampoo, toilet
paper, linens, and our pet dog,
Daisy, have turned up missing.
When I couldn't find my electric
mixer, my daughter informed me
she had borrowed it.
"But, we bought you a
mixer when you moved
out," I said.
"We lent ours to
a friend," she replied.
What threw me
off was the word "bor­rowed."
[ don't think
my kids grasp the full
meaning of the word.
but if they do. in their
minds, the part about
pay-back doesn't apply
to parents. The only
thing that's been
returned to us so fat' is
Daisy. Apparently there
was a poop scooping
issue.
They do their grocery
shopping in my pantry where
everything is "bought" on credit.
Our grocery bill has doubled.
Lately though, they've decided
that raiding my pantry i not in
their best interest. If they take
food home, they have to cook it
themselves, then clean up their
own mess. Instead, they show up
at our house at dinner time with a
load of laundry and don't go away
until we feed them. The laundry
doesn't make it past the washing
machine until the next morning
when [ go to put a load in myself.
Recently, my husband
asked, "Am I crazy, or do we see
more of them now than we did
when they lived hereT He's right.
Those brief moments of privacy we
enjoyed the first week they moved
are nothing but a fond memory. We
are clinging to our freedom,
though. It may be the one thing we
have going for us. Hey, it just
dawned on me; do you think we
could scare them off by mention­ing
we're now free to dance
around the house naked? +
Paper Kids
Joseph A. Hernandez
ink jet print
third place, computer art
Double Wall
April L. Huggins
raku
honorable mention, ceramics
Big Fish Gets Hooked
Marigolel goL her name from a potted plant but fibbed and LaId
people she was named afLer a wildflower. Leonard was
named afLer a shoe sLare and kept quiet abouL iL. Leonard
was a conservative, upscale, crew-cuL sort of guy who wore black
suiLs like Lhe local on-duLy undertaker. Marigold was an offbeaL gal
who favored purple because iL clashed smartly with her orange hair.
Lenny named his caL Measles after an amusing liLLIe illness when he
LasLed bourbon for the firsL Lime. Marigold named her fisll FloaLer.
Marigold didn't have a great imaginaLion. The poinL is Leonard and
Marigold were destined to be togeLher in the vein of true love. But
like many lovers, they split up-which didn't SiL well wiLh Marigold.
She wanted Lenny back and whaL Marigold wanted, Marigold got,
sooner or later regardless. ThaL's why she happened to be at a certain
bus stop one day that also happened to be the bus stop for ...
"Leonard! Hi, doll! Imagine had suddenly gone boring. he must
bumping into you of all people. have dug up aT-Rex.
1I0w've you been, sweetie? It's "I didn't say. 'ho hum'. I never
greaL Lo see you again." said 'ho hum'. I said, 'Oh ... iL's you!"
·'Oh ... Marigold ... iL's you'" YOu. Marigold, as opposed to a
Lenny was preoccupied. oL normal person who might use pub-for
long. Marigold! Lenny snapped lic transportaLion. Dillinger. for
to attenLion and leaped back a fasL instance. or Al Capone'"
as Ile'd duck a strolling cobl'a. He It was rumored L1laL Lenny's
raised his genuine leaLher, brass- family had underworlel connections.
faceted briefcase and held iL in This would explain Lhe references.
fronL of him like a cross banishing a "LeL's get Lhis straigllt. You've
vamp. been away from me for ... what's it
"MA/?/GOLD! BACJ<1. Back, I been ... three months? And now,
say! What the Ilell arc you doing you. Leonard, arc at a bus stop
here? You don't take the bus." waiting for two dead gangster fami-
"WhaL's that mean, big boy?" Iy pals and you're saying that I,
"What does W/18t mean, Marigold, am not normal?"
larigold? Keep your distance. I ''I'm not thinking it. 1arigold.
have macel " rm shouLing it. YOU'I~E /\ L ATIC!
When larigold smileel. she You took a decent pair of boxer
howed a lot of teeth. It could be shorts and set fire Lo Lhem in the
inLimiclaLing. kind of like shooLing middle of the living room!"
lIle l)reeze with a couple of great Please. WhaL raLional woman
whites. ow she smiled broadly. wouldn't set fire to boxer shorts if
"Oh, Leonard, don't be such she hael the chance? Especially
an old poop. I only meant what did boxer shorts decorated with wink-you
mean by 'ho hum'? If I, ing bunny rabbits.
Marigolcl, am suddenly ho hum, I "You weren'L in them, were
want to know why." you?"
Lenny could hyperventilate "In front of my ninety-year-over
dust. If he thought Marigold old aunt, for crying out loud."
Diayn Day
honorable mention, fiction
Aunt Pen was a game old
sweetie with a great sense of
humor. Marigold was reasonably
sure "Pen" was short for Penelope
and not Penitentiary, although Aunt
Pen did speak quite glOWingly of
Alphonse and his wacky bootleg­gers.
"The CPI~ worked, didn't it?
She had the time of Iler life once
she started breathing again. Ask
her if she didn't."
"I'll do that, Marigold, just as
soon as she's out of the coma."
Coma! AunL Pen was current­ly
in Miami sipping vermouLh and
puffing Cuban cigarillos. She had a
fabulous set of genes ancl planned
to live Lo be eight hundreel. Lenny
exaggerated.
"Leonard. baby! Suppose you
goL run over by a speeding locomo­tive?
Suppose you had to be
scraped off tllC Lracks by a burly
fireman with Ilair on Ilis chest?
What would a macho guy like that
think of a man whose bloody
remains had big, Winking, purple
bunnies cllasing each other up and
down his boxer shorts? I saveel you
from a lot of embarrassment."
1arigold was crazy about
firemen and invented enLire sen­tences
just so she coulcl lIlrow the
word "Fireman" into the conversa­tion.
.. ot bunnies. larigold. jack­a/
opes. Two Arizona damned jack­a/
opes. Tiley wel'en't Winking. It
was a flaw in the fabric. And they
weren't purple! They were sage­colored.
I suppose I should Lhank
you in aelvance for taking such good
care of me. Embarrassment would
be the last of my problems if you
ran a train over me.
"Leonard, aren't you a big
silly? Instead of all that cartoon
underwear, tell your mom to buy
some of those cute little scorpions
in plastic so I can give tllem out at
CllL'istmas."
Mother of Lenny! The old girl
lived in black suits. Marigold sus­pected
that Lenny sllopped in bulk
at some discount black-suit place
for both of them. She didn't remind
Marigolcl of the local unclertaker as
much as the local undead.
"Leave my mother out of tllis,
Marigold. Motl1er never roasted
Dad's Fruit of the Looms in the liv­ing
room. ['m sure he'd have men­tioned
it, Furthermore, Moti7er
never ran through the house with
pot lids strapped to her bosom,
brandishing a hatchet and screech­ing,
"I'm Brunl1iJda! Your days are
numbered!"
Lenny loved scream­ers,
especially hefty ones
with a Teutonic beat. But
this hacl nothing to do with
anything interesting. It was
...NAZIOPERA
"Leonard, sweetie, if
you make me listen to twen­ty
or thirty hours of blood­curdling
shl'ieks, you have
to take the consequences,
D'you think I can drop by
Wal*Mart and casually pick
up a breastplate in the
kitchen aisle? It was pot lids
or nothing. Next time you're
in a knife shop, get me a
sword, I hear they brandish
better than Ilatchets."
''I'm wearing a bullet­proof
vest, Marigold. I think
you should know that."
"No kidding? Keen,
I've never seen one on a live
person. Open up."
Lenny retreated a
step. "Stand back, Marigold,
would you? Prepare for
L
some bad news. Floater went belly­up
last week. I cut him into pieces
and flushed him down the john. I
meant to tell you earlier."
No! Marigold had long sus­pected
and this proved it. Lenny
didn't give a rat's tUl'd for anybody
but Ilimself. .. and MOll1er. Now
poor little fl'loater was sleeping
with the fishes and wearing a con­crete
overcoat. .. ovel'shoes ... what­ever
they called it. Lenny's gang­ster
heritage was showing.
"Floater's dead? You killed my
fish? You killed Floater'? Did you dip
him in concrete?"
"How could I cut him up if I
dipped him in concrete? Besides,
did I say I killed your fish? I said ... "
"You never liked fl'loater, did
you? Admit it. You always hated
him. "
Nobody liked Floater.
Marigold admitted this in cooler
momen ts.
"Ile had teeth! What sane
person owns a piranha?" It was a
rhetorical question. Marigold plus
sanity equaled an impossibility.
Lenny continued. "He was the only
fish I ever met who came with Ilis
own dental floss. Tile only time he
was likable was the night he
slammed into the fish tank and
knocked himself out."
"He was drunk. You poured
bourbon in the water, remember?"
"And tllat was the only time
he was likable. lIe spent the rest of
his life grinning at me and smacking
his lips."
"That's because you only went
Defense de
Joseph W, Prosperi
graphite on paper
third place, drawing
I
to visit him at dinnertime. Did you
get him drunk and step on him? Did
you drown him in Aunt Pen's bath­tub
bourbon?"
"There wasn't any left. Your
plastered piranha drank it all."
"So you bumped him off and
didn't think it was important
enough to tell me? Your fax melted?
You gave your cell phone to the cor­ner
bag lady?
Leonard was actually quite
chummy with the corner bag lady,
occasionally buying her lunch. He
might have given her his cell phone,
although such generosity could only
result from a serious head injury
and Lenny enjoyed perfect health.
So far.
'Tm telling you now, okay?
And I didn't kill your fish. NO. Wait.
I confess, Marigold. I did kill your
fish. I ate him. I was overtaken by
an irresistible piranha craving that
overwhelmed me all at once! I put
him in a taco and ate him with pick­les
and chocolate sauce."
"Now the truth comes out,
Leonard. You overfed him. You
stuffed him full of pickles or tacos
or deep-fried ... dental floss ... till he
burst, till his tummy exploded."
Lenny felt a twinge of inter­est.
The liLLIe crackpot might force
another piranha on him.
"Marigold? I-low do you stuff
dental floss down a piranha? I only
ask for future reference."
"1 l<new something horrible
would happen if I left him with
you.
"Then why didn't you take him
with you? If you were so crazy
about that shark bait, why was he
living with me?"
Lenny. What a dunce.
Marigold had two choices: save
Floater from a possibly gruesome
fate or get Lenny back.
"And I never overfed him."
"You never ever fed him? Is
that what you said? You starved
him? Floater swam around his tank
geLLing weaker and weaker, tanked
out on bourbon, and you stood there
and smirked?"
"Marigold, listen to me care­fully."
Lenny peered into Marigold's
braided-hemp, thrift-shop shoulder
bag. "Is that an ice pick in your
purse? Why the hell are you carry­ing
an ice pick? I did not overfeed
him and I did not underfeed him.
The fact is he .....
"Suffocated? That's it! He suf­focated!
You left him out in the air
again. You threw him out of the
water and left him flopping on the
counter the way you did last Lime,
only I wasn't there to save him and
he strangled and ... Oh, God!
Measles got him. You left Floater
flopping around the counter and
sicced that snarling monster on
him. You fish killer!"
"Marigold, do you really think
I'd sic Measles on a fish that had
bigger fangs than she did? Besides,
you can't sic a cat. I tried."
Lenny retreated two steps.
Marigold advanced two steps. It
was shaping up to be a nice liLLIe
tango.
"Back off. Marigold, I mean it!
And don't touch that ice pick!" The
litLie dingbat thought Lenny was
some kind of hyperventilating gang­ster
and she was a rival hit man. It
drove him nuts.
"Leonard, I leave my sweet
little piranha with you as a symbol
of what we once meant to each
other, what we meant to each other
only three months ago, and you
take your meaty hands and squeeze
the life out of honest sentiment. I'm
really hurt."
"HANDS? I put my hand in his
tank once. My fingerprints still
haven't grown back. He was waiting
for me. You could see it. It was all
over his face. What? Are you saying
that man-eating slime mold was a
symbol of something? Why didn't
you say so? I-low the hell am I sup­posed
to know these things if you
don't tell me? If I'd known .....
"You wouldn't have killed
him? If you'd known Floater had a
meaning beyond his superficial
fishness, you might have let him
II·ve.? ..
"Once and for all. Marigold:
l-Did-Not-Kill-Floater! I took
him to the vet." Lenny presented
this little bombshell like a sacrifice.
The truth is he waited till Floater
was dead.
"You took Floater to the vet?"
"Yes, after he died. It seemed
safer. I wanted to know.....
"You took Floater to the vet?
Even though he was dead, you took
him to the vet? Oh, Leonard! You
darling! The terrible things I said to
you. To think you'd take a liLLIe dead
piranha to the vet to have him
resuscitated just for me. Listen,
sweetie, give me some Lime to get
my things together and I'll be back
in our own precious apartment
before you can snap your fingers."
She had him!
Lenny's sllocked face
bleached to a color normally asso­ciated
with dead people. Horror
puslled him backward, stumbling
toward the bench. He grabbed at
the bus-stop pole and caught it­which
was good. Othcrwise he'd
have impaled himself on ten sharp­edged
corn chips jammecl into the
seat cracks by an anonymous brat.
"You're moving back in?
You're moving back in?"
"Yes, of course, Leonard, my
love. We've reconciled. Can't you
tell? Everything is better now.
You've shown your own bright, true,
loving nature and I can't wait to
share my life with you again."
"Wait! I went to the vet
because Measles was choking on
hairball . I read an article on feline
mineral imbalance and I took her to
vet to be tested. I took along your
piranha ... "
Oops.
"Because you planned LO use
Floater as a vitamin supplement? Is
that it, dcarest? You took my liLLIc
fish along as a cat treat? Your
damned feline ate my dead fish?"
" obody ate Floaler. I tolcl
you I flushed him down the toileL."
"Floater wasn't good enough
for your drooling fuzz ball? Floater
wasn't just any cheap fish, I'll have
you know. He was a high-society
piranha, very upscale."
Lenny raised his fists and
shook them. Lenny was summoning
a lightening bolt.
"O! O! O! I didn't feed
him to leasles, because Floater
was already poisoned. I wouldn't
have fed him to Measles anyway,
but Floater was full of poison so I
couldn't very well ... "
Poison?? Marigold salivated
at the colorful punishments shortly
to befall Lenny.
"You poisoned Ploater? Ohhh,
this is the end. It's over. We're fin­ished.
Did he foam at the mouth?
Did you watch? Did it satisfy some
sort of primitive death lust in you?
You ... you ... piranha poisoner! I
EVER want to see you again."
"Death lust?? Who's packing a
damned ice pick? Marigold! Listen
closely. I... did ... not... poison ...
anybody! The Term inex man... "
When Marigold got really
mad, the voices of Mickey Mouse
and Marigold were interchange­able.
Sometimes only dogs could
hear her. ow she squeaked with
rage.
"You put out a contract on my
fish? You paid somebody to poison
Floater? You didn't have the guts to
do it yourself?"
"Look, you idiot, what I'm try-ing
to tell you. if you'll keep your
mouth shut, is the Terminex guy
came in to spray ... "
It was first-degree murder. It
was cold-bloodecl, premeditated,
gangland piranha-cide.
"Floater died of a bug spray
"You poisoned Floater?
Ohhh, this is the end. It's
over. We're finished. Did
he foam at the mouth?
Did you watch? Did it sat­isfy
some sort of primitive
death lust in you?
You ...you ... piranha poi­soner!
I NEVER want to
see you agam. ."
overdose? Is that what you're
telling me, you fish assassin? You
exterminated Floater with bug
spray? lie swam around his tank
gasping for breath till his little
chest heaved one last time and he
collapsed with bug spray on his
breath? You're despicable! You
postel' child for fish abuse! A giant
piranha is going to creep up in the
night and strangle you with dental
floss and eat you with ... with ... ran­cid
cod liver oil!"
I-lold it! Lenny was a man,
wasn't he? He didn't have to take
these ... insults!
"Shut up! Shut up! It's impos­sible
to talk with a lunatic! How in
the name of logic did I get involved
with you in the first place? You're
psychotic! You set sticky little traps
for me, and then after I'm snared,
you try to kill me. Rancid cod liver
oil! You don't want to see me again?
PEACHY! Best news I've had all
year. Just give me back Julia and
we'll call it quits."
Oops.
"Um, Julia?"
In Lenny's most clipped and
supercilious LOnes of annoyance:
"Yes. yes. My French cookbook. You
took it with you. I saw you sneak
out with it. FedEx it back to me
when you get home. You have the
address."
"Oh, t17at cookbook. That
decrepit old thing on the shelf? That
one? Well ... we may have a little
problem there, Leonard. my dar­ling."
"Problem, Marigold. my
sweet?"
How humiliating. In a minute
she'd start drooling and they'd haul
her away in concrete galoslles.
"You sec, I kind of... borrowed
it.. .for Mom to look at. You know
how she loves those raLLy books of
yours, and the airline ... "
"The airline what? Speak up,
my pet. ,.
"THE AIRLINE LOST MY
LUGGAGE. They sent it to South
Africa ...Australia ... someplace like
that. I told you about it. I'm sure I
did. I did mention it, didn't IT
"You lost Julia?" Triumph like
wildfire surged through Lenny. Hot
damn! He had her now and screws
needed turning.
"You lost JuliaT Lenny moved
closer to Marigold and showed her
many of his teeth. It was an exciting
display of upwardly mobile dental
work.
Other people at the bus stop
clumped together for mutual pro­tection.
"Calm down, sweetie. We
don't want to frighten people. It
can't be as bad as all that, Leonard.
It's only a book."
"You moron! It's a first edi­tion!
A... First... Edition ... A mas­terpiece!
Irreplaceable culinary lit­erature!
I've had excellent offers
for that book. Excellent offers! First
you steal it, then you lose it, and
now you say it can't be as bad as all
that? It's only a boof(?"
••
This was lots more fun than a
day at the brokerage ... [or Lenny.
"I'm sorry, doll. It was a little
mix-up, that's all. Silly, actually.
Let's forget about it and go get
some lunch, okay? You're starving, I
can tell. I know! We'll find a place
with music... that noisy azi stuff.
You'll feel bettel' when your
tummy's full, sweetie. J promise.
Look! Here comes a pretty bus.
Isn't it clever? Aren't you jealous of
people who can paint buses?"
"Mix-up? SILLY? What's that
you say? You call this a silly little
mix-up? YOU have the gall? The
unm itigated, unadulterated ... No,
Marigold. No-no-no. A silly little
mix-up may be death by ice pick, it
is not wanton carelessness ... "
"Fish! We'll find a fish restau­rant
and you can crunch those fishy
old bones to sawdust and
chomp ... grind ... smash ... just tear
up that nasty fish. Okay, sweetie?
Sweetie?"
"A silly little mix-up is not
wanton carelessness with invest­ment-
quality gourmet cookbooks! It
is not foolish indifference toward
my future monetary profits!
Somebody club me in the head with
a hatchet before I trust this woman
with anything else of value during
my entire remaining life on earth!
MARIGOLD! COME BACK HERE.
I'fYI NOT Fl [SHED WITH YOU!"
Marigold ran into the bus
wiLl1 a bellowing Lenny hot on her
heels. And like the old saying goes.
11(' chased her till she hooked him
good. +
Angel's Insight
Stephanie Carter
silver gelatin print
second place, photography
Swept
Martine Cloud
Swept in the confusion.
Tossed in the current.
Mired in the despair.
Lost in the chaos.
Fully immersed.
Tetras Not
Schooling
Tara Launders
Whe I was a child, I had nno friends.
This fact pleased my father
to no end; as a child himself, he
had had shoals of friends, different
boys LhaL raced him and kicked the
can and hid to be sought. He had
two oLher brothers who played
cowboys and injuns till it was sup­per
time, anel after that, t11ere was
wrestling or baseball card collect­ing.
He was never a lonely child.
I never counted myself as
lonely either; I had clas mates
who helped pass the dreariness of
public education, but once the
final bell was rung, I was off and
home, immersing myself in a book
or magazine, being alone but never
lonely.
This did not please my
father.
Every school year started
out the same way; my brother and
I would slip into new clothes, final­ly
off layaway at Wal-Mart, take
our plastic lunchboxes in hand,
and listen to my father's yearly
speech and order this year, this
year, we would each get friends.
And bring them home for inspec­tion,
although we never reached
that point. But my father contin­ued
with this spiel every year,
until I reached high school; by
then, I think he had given up.
at that I never had friends
in high school, or even in elemen­tary
school. There were people I
Lalked with, and hung around with
at recess or lunch break, and
sometimes I would bring one of
them home to show my parents
that I was a well-adjusted individ­ual
who could bring home other
kids my age.
Of course, it was high school
that changed my apathy: teachers
demanded group work, and no
amount of proLesting could save
me. Mind you, I was never friends
with anyone I was forced to work
with on some obscene project, but
I did come into the lesson my
father had long pushed at me: if
you had no one, you were no one.
Then came the frantic
searches to find one person who
would be with me, one person who
would be study-buddies and fellow
sufferers of economics and geome­try.
But by that time, so unused to
contact, I pushed more people
away with neediness, wanting to
Nature's Agony
Victoria Vick
silver gelatin print
honorable mention, photography
belong to any group, no matter
how disgusting or ugly. I had found
a starvation within myself, a lack
that could not be filled without
someone else telling me what to do
and how to feel about it.
In essence, I conformed the
best I could. I was still known as
the class weirdo, what with having
pet snakes and not being religious
in a mosLly Mormon school, but I
was more accepted in general. I
became another faceless person in
the crowds, hopefully smiling to be
known.
But now I am out of high
• •
school. and with that exodus came
the freedom from that dreadful
herd mentality. I do have friends
now, but I don't suffer the need to
bend over and expose my throat
whenever they pass. They are fel­low
freaks themselves.
Still, I am against the tide.
I'm a pagan lesbian. I keep snakes
and geckos and gerbils. I take pho­tography
courses to prove I have
some form of art in my bones. I
volunteer at a zoo. I'm not with any
one group.
I doubt that my father would
be proud; I still don't have many
friends, and I don't bring them
home to watch TV or read comic
books or kick the can around the
block. I spend my nights reading or
watching my fish tanks or wonder­ing.
Should I really be out on the
town tonight? If so, where? With
whom?
Fish reek of humanity, and
they reck of my father too. Surely
everyone remembers neon tetras
from grade school: bright blue and
red, and a few of them died every
year. But they were replaced, and
no one could ever know: tetras are
schooling fish; they are always in a
group. To be alone is lethal; you'd
be picked off by any number of
predators.
Tetras have to school. It's
built in their blood, in their tiny
fins, in their tiny brains. A tetra
without a school is a fish with a
bicycle. The tetra must school.
They are social beings, like
humanity. If you lock up a man in a
room for ten years, alone, there is
no doubt that he will be insane by
the end of it. A tetra won't even
last a week.
I close my eyes, and there
they were, in my mind, shoals of
blue and red and gold, fish upon
fish, neons and neons, so many
that all that could be seen was
blurs of color and glimmers of
their silver flat-fish eyes. They
were everywhere and not a single
one against the tide, against the
current or school.
There were neon tetras in
my elementary school, in almost
every class.
I wonder wl1at tlley tl1ink
sometimes as they flit and dart in
the glass walls of their world. Not
just about them seeing out and
seeing us and wondering who are
we to be outside the world peeking
in, strangers in environments we
constructed ... but I wonder if they
think in a hive sense, if every mind
is with the other, if they all follow
the same flow and pa ttern buil t
into their very minds. Do they even
see a difference from their individ­ual
selves and the others, or to
them, are they all the same? When
they see a neon going against the
school, do they punish him? Attack
him? Or to them is he
simply no longer there?
Yesterday I was at
the pet store, and 1saw a
single solitary tetra
swimming against the
current; whichever way
the school swam, he
darted the opposite. I
watched amazed, con­cerned,
confused. Where
did this little guy think
he was going? Who did
he think he was?
He darted and
swam and flitted, even in
circles, until he landed
smack against the filter
intake tube, a force of
suction, a hand of God. It
was only then that I
noticed how pale he was
compared to the other
fish, still swimming,
• •
unknowing of this sole tetra fish on
his way to the big fish tank the sky,
now fragile. Sick. Sick and dying
even before he broke from the
school. And there he died, trapped
against the mighty suction, and
still the school swam on, minus
one member.
It's easy to put words in the
mouths of others, but this time,
words were placed in from a sim­ple
sight: from my iris to that of
the neon. How frail and fragile he
was, even in death, barely an inch
long, his eyes minuscule. But the
message, so grand and great, was
sent, and received: despite the
school, despite conformity, despite
instinct and predators and all of
this hellhole combined, he had
died. But he had died free. +
No Angel
Pamela Waters
silver gelatin print
TllC Traveler. volume 37.
was pl'Oclucecl on an Apple
Macintosh G4 using Quark
\press® PassporL. version 4.1. anel
Aclobe PllOto hop® 6. Black and
\\ hite artworks were scannecl on a
ivlicrotek Scanmakcr 4. Color art­works
\\ ere scanned from 35 mm
transparencics with a ikon
Coolscan IV. eAcept when artists
werc able to provide an original
file on CD-ROM. Images werc
resizcd and rlownsampled to :l:l:3
1'1'1 1'01' output on a 175 IJI'I
screen. l"lody copy is ITC I"cnicc at
about 12 points. Headlines, cap­tions
and pull quotes are in
Charlotte Sans in various sizes.
The Travelcr was printerl
by Lithotech. It was submitted on
CD-ROrvl anrl output directly to
plate. The text is printed on 70 lb.
Topkote gloss book. The CO\ er is
85 Ill. Topkote gloss cover.
Luminary
Bill Bailey
ink jet print
Traveler, volume 37
Credits
Literary Editor Alexandria Monares
Literary Readers: Jasmine Holbin, Pam McCormack,
Marian Eckholm, Diane Jeffries
Community Readers: Ruben Miranda, Marcia
Sisemore, Wendy Blair
Faculty Readers: Casey Furlong
Poetry Judges: Marilyn Schiedat, Johnnie May and
Renee Barstack
Fiction Judges: Pat Haas, Betty Hufford and Rashmi
Menon
Non-fiction Judges: Kay Grosso, Marla DeSoto,
Carmela Arnoldt, Joy Wingersky
Literary Faculty Advisor: Casey Furlong
Visual Arts Jurors:
Community and Awards Juror: Len Johanson
Student Jurors: April Huggins, Jacqueline Lewis,
Sherri McClendon (Please note: student
jurors were recused from judging categories
they entered)
Faculty Juror: Dean K. Terasaki
Photographer and Digital Production: Craig Wactor
Graphic Designer: Dean K. Terasaki
Visual Arts Faculty Advisors: Pam Hall and Dean K.
Terasaki
Special thanks to: Larry Bohlender; R. J. Merrill;
Dawn Meyer, our typist and technical advisor;
Connie Greenwell; Peggie Murillo and Sherrie
McClendon
--
\ .~. "P
)/
.....
- 9111"
·0
Carved Raku
Martine Cloud
ceramics
first place. ceramics
..........
......
.......
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COMMUNITY
COLLEGE
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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.
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segOn raza, color, religion, origen nacional. genero, orientaci6n sexual, impedimento/incapacitacion 0 por ser
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