"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 2005

              PS
508
.C6
T73
2005
By Daniel Ortiz
Once I Dreamed
Mixed Medial 3-D
First Place, Sculpture/3-D Design
Cover Art By Yekaterina Ananyeva
Untitled
Acrylic
LIBRARY MEDIA CENTER
GLENDALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE
6000 WEST OLIVE AVENUE
GLENDALE, AZ 85302
By Nancy K. Searles
The Neighbors Next Door
Watercolor
First Place, Painting &Watercolor
Spec PS 508.C6 T73 2005
Glendale Community College
Traveler (Glendale, Ariz.)
DE 2 'OJ
Volume 38
TRAVELER 2005
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302
623.845.3000
© 2005 Glendale Community College
Reproductions of literary and artistic works may not be reproduced
without written consent of the author/artist.
ABLE OF CONTENTS
Creative Non-Fiction
The Fruits of Obsession, First Place
By Diayn Day 4
Hortense, Second Place
By William E. Sullivan 26
Duck, Duck, Fury, Third Place
By Elizabeth Steinmetz 28
Fiction ----
Blue, First Place
By Rachel Ricker 34
Don't Be Silly, Second Place
By Jennifer Thomas 14
Making Allowances, Third Place
By Philip L. Boddy, Jr 20
Henry, Honorable Mention
By Audrey S. Paterno 10
Poetry
Ozone Park for Rache!, First Place
By Jasmine Rae Hobin 13
Isabella 5 Morning, Second Place
By Mellisa D. Sawyer 39
Winter Beach at Sunset, Third Place
By Mellisa D. Sawyer 8
The Heretic, Honorable Mention
By Michael Pfeifer 30
Ceramics
Vase with lid and Handles, First Place
By Don Fethkenher 9
Survivor Pot, Second Place
By Don Fethkenher 9
Timeless, Third Place
By Arti Goulatia 9
Computer Art
Frog Prince, First Place
By Cheryl Street 38
Igor Stravinsky Poster, Second Place
By Anthony Valle 38
Light, Third Place
By Daniel Brawn 38
Drawing/life Drawing
Untitled III, First Place
By Erini Gregoriades Inside Back Cover
Happy little Creatures, Second Place
By Misty Osberg 37
My Favorite Creatures, Third Place
By Pamela Bleakney 25
Self Portrait, Honorable Mention
By Amanda E. Doppler 27
7 Cycles
By Raquel Royong 11
Untitled
By Allison Conry 24
Time Stands Still
By Carol Smith 8
Painting &Watercolor
The Neighbors Next Door, First Place
By Nancy K. Searles Title Page, 1
Molly, Second Place
By Katherine Wilcox 33
Seed Pods, Third Place
By Janet Wandry Back Cover
Seclusion, Honorable l1ention
By Carol Smith 29
In Honor of Deirdre's lament, Honorable l1ention
By Sherri McClendon 28
III
By Daniel Ortiz 3S
Liberated Gargoyles
By Misty Osberg 32
Untitled
By Yekaterina Ananyeva Cover
l1arigold
By John Y. Aragon S
Photography
Oxygen, First Place
By Kimberly M. Middaugh 7
Drowning the Facade, Second Place
By Liza Wilkinson-Ready 3 I
Psycho House, Third Place
By Elizabeth A. Everson 23
Cody, Clay & Hytop, Honorable Mention
By Ann Beauregard 21
Untitled, Honorable l1ention
By Jenna Moody 12
Untitled
By Jenna Moody 19
Bulbs
By Kelly Terreri 40
Divine
By Kelly Terreri 36
The Awakening
By Sukhvir Gill 16
Discover Me
By Raquel Moreno IS
Sculpture/3-D Design
Once I Dreamed, First Place
By Daniel Ortiz Inside Front Cover
Traveler Philosophy
Traveler is a student creative arts maga­zine
produced annually by the English
and Art Departments of Glendale Com­munity
College.
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 publicación creen en
la libertad de expresión artistica, a la vez que
tratan de mantener los estandars y normas
de una communidad responsable. Por eso, es
importante que los lectores del Traveler sepan
que es una publicación destinada a un publico
maduro y que pueda contener materiales sólo
para adultos.
All students are eligible for submitting
literary and artistic works for publication
in the Traveler. Please contact the staff at:
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302
623.845.3000
http:// www.gc.maricopa.edu/traveler
Diayn Day
First Place, Creative Non-Fiction
THE FRUITS OF
OBSESSION
is voice was strong and
bold and rang with life.
He strummed his guitar
and sang in the crisp accents and soft
vowels of Mexico, and the sound was
like a tropical sunset in copper and
gold. Then- suddenly -he was
gone. The spell was broken. The
movie was over. I knew 1'd never see
him again.
But he came back! Two weeks later!
The year: 1945. He was younger than
I remembered, lusty and forceful, cute
even in shades of black and white and
arrogant in the way of handsome
young men. He was the eternal loner,
the unconquerable, dominant cow­boy
with a dare in his manner that
challenged a woman to tame him and
promised she'd fail, no matter how
desperately she tried.
I wasn't fooled, not a bi t. I was the
one he was waiting for. I knew it in­stantly,
the first time I looked into his
eyes, so compelling and defiant, so
longing just for me. But when would
he sing? When? I waited ... and
waited...and just before my patience
went snap he swung the guitar
against him (ah, lucky guitar) and
strummed a chord. I slid along the
carpet, silent so I wouldn't interrupt
him, closer and closer, my eyes never
leaving his. I stopped three inches
"She worked. I paced.
She tapped her
keyboard. I tapped on
a tabletop."
from the TV. He was a little blurry but
he was mine. An earthquake wouldn't
have budged me from that spot. A vol­cano
directly under me wouldn't have
budged me.
Songs floated across the decades,
caressing like silk against my cheek,
warm like ermine, as spirited as a
young colt, soft as a scented breeze.
Okay...you know how it goes. I was in
love. Head over heels. Joy and energy
burst from his voice like summer sun
through threatening clouds, like cas­cades
of brilliant, golden June light. I
grabbed my recorder just in time - and
then he was gone.
I played that recording for days, two
little songs, over and over, snippets that
gripped me until it became important,
urgent, to know this man. What was
he? Where was he? I had to find him
and tell him of the enchantment in his
voice. I had to tell him that never had
there been a voice so beautiful in the
entire annals of voicedom. Never had
dark eyes been so compelling, so long­ing
just for me...
I guessed he'd be in his seventies by
now, retired in Mexico. An abuelito,
mobbed by adoring grandchildren
and living graciously in a sprawling,
colorful hacienda hung with pinatas
and surrounded by horse corrals.
Maybe he still sang. I would write to
him, one whole page in leftover high
school Spanish and he would under­stand.
He would understand that I
loved him.
The city library was open. I sprinted
to the desk and gave the clerk his name
and nationality. Anything, I begged,
anything you can find. She worked. I
paced. She tapped her keyboard. I
tapped on a tabletop. She finished ­finally
- and handed me a single piece
of paper. I grabbed it. Photo? Review?
Address? No. NO! The clerk saw my
face. ''I'm sorry, honey, that's all I
found." I scoured it for a loophole. It
wasn't him. It couldn't be. I just found
him! It couldn't be true! But it was. He
died in the fifties. I never had a chance.
I should have stopped, gone shop­ping,
gone anywhere. But I didn't. I
had to know. I had to bring him back
to life. I raided shelves for more infor­mation
- magazines, books, anything
that would talk to me. Six movie re­views
from the thirties told me he was
4 TRAVELER 2005
By John V. Aragon
Marigold
Watercolor
no Oliver. Another obituary: cirrhosis
of the liver. Damn! The idiot drowned
himself in alcohol. Shot his voice to
hell with a shot glass. I was furious.
How dare he throw himself away like
an empty pint flask before I ever knew
he existed? I swore at him, big, hard
words. Then I took a deep breath.
Okay. He's gone. No hacienda, no
piftatas, no letters in leftover Spanish.
You can't bring him back. Mellow out.
But I couldn't mellow out. I
couldn't! The less info I had, the more
I had to have. Movies, songs, wives,
girlfriends (probably dozens), favor­ite
cerveza, mother's maiden name - I
didn't care. I had to know anything,
everything.
Hah! Finally an obit with chops: he
married a spitfire movie queen in the
last year of his life. He died in L.A.
and the president of Mexico sent a
plane to bring him home (my guy had
clout), but the movie queen wasn't
impressed. Emotionally, grandly, she
dismissed the president's plane (ex­treme
clout), chartered an airliner and
flew her husband back to Mexico to a
huge outpouring of public sorrow.
And the spitfire? Devastated,
propped up at the funeral by two men,
limp, a rag doll, grief-stricken. Of
course she was. Who could doubt it?
Clout or not, she was still a woman. I
understood perfectly.
Smugness cheered me up a little. I
knew he was magic, now I knew he'd
been a star. He was coming alive-I
was personally resurrecting him­ but
I needed more than death notices.
Continued on Page 6
2005 TRAVELER 5
Continued from Page 5
I searched university archives for old
Mexican newspapers. Nothing. I de­voured
the New York Times newspa­per
index. Two entries, more obits. The
man lived and died in obits. It wasn't
enough. I needed more. I called book­stores
that never heard of him. I
searched encyclopedias. Nothing. Eu­ropean
encyclopedias. Nothing.
Magazine indexes. NOTHING! Obits-obits-
obits. I was going nuts.
I left the university, ran back to the
city library. Something-anything­something-
anything. I muttered.
People stared. I prowled the shelves
where Spanish-language biographies
lived, one end to the other, ink-black­ened
fingers smearing index pages,
searching for any reference. Then I
started over. People made roomfor me.
I looked dangerous, wild-eyed, over­-the-
top. I showed my teeth. OUTTA
MY WAY! THIS SHELF BELONGS
TO ME.Grrr.
I ran back to the card index. Must
have missed something...must have
missed something. Cards buckled un­der
my fingers. Then I saw...could it
be... ? Yes! His name. His name! His
name! Right in front of me! On a card!
In a title! In a book! Was the book
there? I galloped back to the shelves.
Ripped out a volume. Threw it aside.
Ripped out another one. Where is it??
Suddenly ... quietly ... there it was.
Light brown, slender, ordinary. Right
number, right title, right name. I stood
like a stone. I couldn't believe it. But
there he was. I found him. I FOUND
HIM! I pulled him off the shelf and
hugged him. He was in Spanish, but
he was a little book and I had a big
dictionary. I could do this. I carried
him to the desk and checked him out.
The clerk smiled at me. She knew
amour when she saw it. He rested on
my lap all the way home. Carefully,
so I wouldn't drop him, I carried him
inside to where I lived. This is where I
live, I said. Bienvenido.
6 TRAVELER 2005
He loved her. He
believed in her. He
lavished everything on
her."
I placed him gently on a soft pillow.
I'll be right back, I cooed. I'll just get
my dictionary and slip into something
comfortable. I had him. He was mine!
Alfin, tue eres mio.
This was fun. I learned he had il­lustrious
forebears: war heroes, mili­tary
generals, and his father'd been a
professor. (I hoped he wasn't too up­per
class for me.) He studied opera
when he was young (too snooty, but I
forgave him.) He ditched opera
(yippee) for a career as a pop singer.
He was a chica magnet (no surprise
there). He made a bunch of movies
where he wore tight charro (cowboy)
suits and always got the girl even
though he never really wanted her. He
was cute and smart. He headed the
labor union he belonged to and started
another one right from scratch. He
even had a social conscience - he
founded a home for the aged! (I felt
humble.)
I also felt impressed with me. I took
a dim figure from the past, gave him
life, made him real, made him mine
por siempre...
A year after he married a pretty little
actress who had his daughter, he fell
hard for a sexy, wicked woman. He
left his wife and moved in with the
GREAT INGRATE. He stayed with
this maldita mujer for ten years. People
didn't like her. People didn't trust her.
They whispered about her. He
wouldn't listen. He loved her. He be­lieved
in her. He lavished everything
on her. She starred in his movies,
shared his fame, shared his money.
One day he came home early from a
business trip. On purpose. She wasn't
expecting him. He wanted to surprise
her and stop the rumors - but he
found her in the arms of another man,
his friend. (The conniving, evil [bleep]
cheated on him! In his own house!) I de­cided
to go to Mexico, find the nurs­ing
home she was in and shut off her
oxygen.
It was a hard blow. He sank into a
depression, dove into his work (it's a
guy thing), didn't sleep, didn't eat,
smoked too much (any smoking is too
much). But he didn't drink. He got
sick but not from a shot glass. La Ingrata
couldn't turn him into a drunk.
After he lost his cheating lover he
recorded torch songs so sad and per­sonal
I understood instantly what he
was saying. The poor dope wanted
her back.
Eventually, his life improved. He
found the tempestuous movie queen
who'd adored him for years, married
her, made a couple of movies with her
(they had great chemistry), made his
last movie with her. The charro and
the spitfire were happy for a year.
Warning: If you translate, drink cof­fee.
Stay awake. Stay alert. When
things go bad, shut the book. It's the
slo-o-owness of wading through sen­tences
that'll get you, the need to pull
out each word, to plod back and forth
in the dictionary, find the translation,
write down the meaning. It's repeti­tive,
hypnotic. Each word leads relent­lessly
to the next. Suddenly an inno­cent-
looking word SLAPS you awake
with a meaning that shocks you. The
entire meaning of a sentence hangs on
that one word - and you're trapped.
He was dying. I stood by his hospi­tal
bed and watched him die, inches
away from him, helpless. The slow
motion, sinking-through-quicksand
inevitability, the heavy certainty of
where it would lead-and I couldn't
shut the damned book. I couldn't stop. I
knew what was coming and I couldn't
hurry. I. ..could...not...hurry. I sat in
a comfortable chair with pillows all
around me and sucked up his real­ life
pain and sickness and the last
minutes of his life like a vampire. Ev-
By Kimberly M. Middaugh
Oxygen
Silver Gelatin Print
First Place, Photography
ery second with every word, I watched
him die - trapped.
I remembered hearing a strong voice
create bold images of golden sunsets.
Now, overlaid, was an image of that
voice stopped forever as blood gushed
from his ruptured esophagus. Once, I
sighed over dark, arrogant, defiant
eyes. Now, superimposed, was the
vision of his eyes at the end, leaking
the fluids that overflowed his ruined
body. A handsome, compelling man
once filled my imagination and now,
with the turn of a single page, a pho­tograph
of the bloated, coffined real­ity.
I chose to forget the first movie I
saw him in. It was his last. He died a
few months after he finished it.
It was over. I sat back, numb. What
happened? Was I possessed? Was I
haunted? How did I get involved with
this dead guy in the first place and
why didn't I stop when I had the
chance? This is what I know: A
stranger from the past moved into my
imagination, and the perseverance
that brought him back to life and made
him real became demanding and com­pulsive
and assaulted me with an ug­liness
I wouldn't forget. That's all I
know, except for one other thing. The
fruits of my obsessions had always
been free - and this time I paid.
2005 TRAVELER 7
By Carol Smith
Time Stands Still
Pen & Ink/Colored Pencil
8 TRAVELER 2005
By Mellisa D. Sawyer
Third Place, Poetry
Shallow silver peaked with foam,
Crested cliffs that crumble low,
Earthen pine meets salty brine,
and frigid air does blow.
Masters of the sand domains,
Fortify with sticks and shells,
Yells of delight fade with the light,
drowned in the roar of the swells.
The breath comes up against the land,
The sun dips low to bend,
The sigh pulls from the lips to die,
lifted away with the wind.
By Don Fethkenher
Vase with Lid and Handles
first Place, Ceramics
By Arti Goulatia
Timeless
Third Place, Ceramics
(On right)
By Don Fethkenher
Survivor Pot
Second Place, Ceramics
(On left)
2005 TRAVELER 9
Honorable Mention, Fiction
A warm glow blooms in Jane's cheeks as she
steps out of the comfortable classroom and into
the evening chill. She hugs her notebooks and
folders against her chest, her journal closest to her heart
for safekeeping, and begins to walk the mile home. The
sun is setting and as night takes over chills run through
Jane making her muscles spasm with pain. She's quite
used to it by now.
She makes her way to the main street that leads to her
apartment complex, searching for the girl who sits three
rows away from her in philosophy class. Usually the girl
is reading on a bench next to the student lounge. Today
she's nowhere to be seen. It's probably too cold even for
her.
Jane walks past the student union, pausing to look at
the small coffee table near the atrium window where she
would sit across from Henry, comfortably eased back in
the beat up old couches that surrounded the well-stained
table. She rarely got to spend such concentrated time with
him, their friendship always being somewhat awkward,
but when there was a chance to sit in his company and
write side by side with him, she leapt for it. It had been too
long since their last rendezvous.
She reaches the street stopping to wait for the crossing
sign. After an impatient beat, she turns and continues to
walk the broken sidewalk on the college side of the street.
The diner is only a few blocks down on this side of the
street and she's been debating whether or not to check for
Henry. Most likely he's sitting in the corner booth with his
usual social discomfort, smoking cigarettes and drinking
coffee. Black coffee, he always drinks it black. She noticed
it the first time they had coffee together at the coffee shop
near his apartment. She had bought his second cup and
whenshe brought it to him with sugar packets and creamer
10 TRAVELER 2005
he thanked her and then neatly and nonchalantly stacked
them together in the center of the table. That day she had
begun to study his movements, his meticulous little hab­its,
until the smallest moments they shared seeped into
her dreams.
A truck driving by honks at her, bringing her eyes back
into focus on a backlit sign. She's almost to the parking lot
of the diner. Scanning the rows of cars and trucks and
vans, she finds his beat-up, blue, Toyota truck and smiles.
The parking decals on the windshield give him away. Her
face pales and as the smile fades a lump grows in the
depth of her throat. Henry has been anti-social for a rea­son.
He's fallen into a low that she's never known anyone
other than herself to have. When they do find time to talk,
he talks of death and the ever-haunting contemplation of
suicide. His eyes have begun to drag with lack of sleep
and he's lost weight for lack of eating. But the worst of it is
the pacing, back and forth, back and forth, all the while
checking his pulse. The carpet in the living room of his
apartment has begun to wear thin.
A few weeks ago Jane sat on his couch watching him.
He mumbled about his heart, its quick, irregular beats,
that seemed to assure him that death was coming for him.
He rationalized suicide with wanting to skip all the sus­pense
of waiting for his body to give out. It took every drop
of control she had to keep her distance and simply watch.
He should be calmer in the diner. Jane crosses the park­ing
lot and stops at the entrance. She hasn't seen Henry
since that day in his apartment. She needs to see him,
make sure he's okay. She tries to smooth out her hair but
the breeze is working against her. Inside, the warmth per­meates
her skin.
He's sitting in the corner booth as usual.
He stares into a world no one else sees and lets his coffee
cool. Jane shivers slightly and pulls the sleeves of her over­sized
hoodie down over her hands. Jaw locked into a
crooked, forced smile, she approaches his table and stands
at the end of it, pulled far enough back that a server passes
in front of her.
"Hi." She squeaks a little as the word disappears into
the chaos of the late night diner. Only his eyes turn to hers
and a sad smile creeps into his cheeks. For a moment notl1­ing
happens. They stare at each other, uninterrupted by
the life that continues outside them. She motions to the
bench seat on the opposite side of him, and with his nod,
sits down with a bounce.
"How are you?" Her smile fades and the corners of her
eyes age. She knows the answer to her own question.
"Alive." The pencil in his hand shakes, his other hand
raises to his neck, fingers searching for a pulse. She slumps
forward, hanging her head over the table, closer to him,
her arms and hands cached beneath the orange laminated
wood, perspiring silently out of sight.
"Still checking your pulse." She doesn't know what else
to say. She empathizes, but she can't tell him that, she's
tried before and it always makes him even more anxious.
"What are you up to these days?" His arms relax on the
By Raquel Royong
7 Cycles
Conte, Charcoal, and Pastel
table, but he sits with his spine twisted into an idea of the
double helix. Her eyes twitch across his face. She wants to
confide in him, tell him about her fight with Charlie. Her
lips are wet but she licks them and chews on the corner of
her bottom lip.
"Nothing really. School, work, writing, the usual. I'm
working on a screenplay. There is a character I think you'd
like. He's mostly you. Or at least how I see you. I named
him Patrick." She relaxes against the seat cushion and
begins to play with her hands, studying their lines. She
spoke too quickly.
"Really," he mocks her. ''I'd like to read it sometime. Are
you almost done?"
"No, I'm just working on the scene synopses right now,
but when I'm done with them I'll let you read it, if you
want." She wants to make it perfect first. He has never
seen her as a worthy writer and more than anything she
wants his respect.
''I'd like that." Again, the smile, but this time it doesn't
fade.
"Have you been writing?" She looks over her hands
and into him, her shoulders slumping just a little bit lower
as his eyes touch hers. When he looks away she keeps
watching him, her body swaying like a young tree in a
light breeze. He's not smiling anymore.
"Some." He goes back to his journal, reads a few lines,
fixes something, and reads it again. The breeze between
tl1em changes and she can feel his attention wane.
"Can I read something?" She holds her breath, but
doesn't notice. He flips tl1fough tl1e pages stopping to read
as he goes, distracted by the arrangement of words he has
scrawled out. She waits, beaming with a hidden smile.
"There really isn't anything new."
"So let me read something old. I haven't read them all."
Continued on Page 12
2005 TRAVELER 11
Continued from Page 11
"She can feel his eyes on her,
following her as she picks herself
up and gathers herself together to
She put her hand out, waiting for the book, but he pulls it
toward him shaking his head. A sigh escapes as she exhales.
He lays the book flat and begins to write something on a
new page. She watches him, then opens her own notebook
and finds a blank page. She begins to write, "My dearest
Henry," and thinks better of it, crossing it out, then black­ing
it out completely into a two dimensional box of ink.
She looks up at him writing, oblivious to her presence.
Writing him letters has only ever caused
trouble.
She chews on her pen cap, bewitched by his
concentration. He stops for a moment and
checks his pulse, then sips his coffee, all the
while reading what he's just written, and then
continues with his flow. Her eyes follow his
hand as it shakes across the page. She memo­rizes
the flaws in his fingers, the small patches
of dark hair between his joints and his knuck­les.
Her clear blue gaze focuses on each of his
dark brown eyes one at a time, going back and
forth over his face until she knows she could
see him in the dark.
"What are you thinking?" His voice makes
her sit up straight and she refocuses on his
eyes that are now looking back into her. He
noticed her zoning again.
"1 should probably go. I have laundry to do."
Her eyes are glistening and getting heavier as
she speaks. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"All right." He looks concerned. "Are you
going to be okay?" She wants to stay, to an­swer
him honestly, but she knows he's just be­ing
nice, that everyone knows those words in
moments like this.
Honorable Mention, Photography
12 TRAVELER 2005
"1'11 be fine." She smiles, trying to laugh, but a halfhearted
noise drops out instead and she loses to a frown. "I'll talk
to you later."
"Okay. Bye... " She can feel his eyes on her, following
her as she picks herself up and gathers herself together to
leave.
"Bye." A half covered hand hidden in a black sleeve
gives a quick little wave, her eyes meeting his before turn­ing
around. Time skips a beat; she turns back around and
kisses his cheek lightly breathing in his scent.
She doesn't look at him before she turns around and
heads for the exit.
As she pushes through the swinging door her eyes blur
and overflow, softly staining her confidence, making the
lump in her throat throb, her lungs still recovering from
the strength of his grip. Her sleeve smears the ache and a
deep breath reassures her that her pulse is still there. As
she walks past a window that displays him like a paint­ing,
he looks up to see her. She smiles and keeps walking.
Jasmine Rae Hobin
first Place, Poetry
We push past the crowd of smiling faces
Commandeer the swings
Once we are on we can
Fly
We go higher, pump harder with
Legs
Sculpted by years of walking to mediocre jobs
Running
From school, running from home
Chains
Pinch our hips that bore children, or tried but
Couldn't
Holding on, squeezing with
Hands
That have been soft, have been calloused, have been
Held
Toes towards the sky now, our
Feet
Have felt hot saliva, been scorched on asphalt, blessed on foreign
Dirt
Carried us back together to
Childhood
On this overgrown sawhorse of swings
That slows
As leaden feet
Reach
For stable ground
2005 TRAVELER 13
"Okay, then, it's settled."
And the previews start and save me
from talking it to death.
DON'T B
"But I thought we were going to
spend the whole evening together," I
say before I can stop myself. What can
she possibly have to do that is better
than spending the evening with me?
"You're beautiful."
"Yeah, okay. Let's eat."
"No, I mean it."
He continues on. The rest is a blur.
There are grand proclamations of love
and devotion. Words like eternity and
the rest of our lives thrown out. There is
a bended knee and a black velvet box
LV
By Jennifer Thomas
Second Place, Fiction
room, take a hot shower and change
51
"There is a bended
knee and a black
velvet box and a ring
with cute round
diamond and a
question that I can't
answer."
"I need to run to the grocery and
maybe stop by S ears and pick up a new
sweeper. Mine is on its last legs. But I
can do it another time if you want."
"No, it's fine if that's what you want
to do."
e apartment smells wonder­ful
as I open the door. Jacob
greets me with a kiss and
grabs my bag with the unused change
of clothes and my purse.
"Report immediately to the 
into whatever you want. Dinner is in
thirty minutes."
Depending on who is giving it, I
tend to take direction really well. I go
straight to the bathroom without a
word. The hot shower cleans off the
day and I go to dinner in sweats and
a tank top, hair wet and face red from
the steaming water.
"I made your favorite, steak and
mashed potatoes."
Is it my favorite? "Thank you. It
looks delicious."
He dishes out a good mound of po­tatoes,
yellowed with butter, creamy
with milk. He forks a steak and drops
it on my plate. I dig in first with a
spoonful of mashed potatoes to tide
me over while I cut the meat. The but­tered
movie popcorn still solid in my
stomach but I don't care. A meal out­side
of the hospital cafeteria is a treat
for both of us and we are going to en­joy
it. I look over at Jacob who hasn't
touched his food but is instead staring at me.
"What?" I garble through my
mouth full of food.
mom is waiting for me,
leaning up against a ce­ment
planter.
"You couldn't have at least
changed?" she says.
"1'm sorry, I was running late," I say
and pull my hair out of it's ponytail.
She walks to the ticket window.
"You look like you're in your paja­mas."
" It's standard nurse attire."
She leans down to talk to the ticket
seller, trying to make her voice heard
under the glass, and requests two tick­ets.
You'd think after all these years
she'd know she doesn't have to do that.
She turns back to me. "If you were a
doctor I bet you'd wear nice clothes
everyday."
"1 have other clothes in the car. Do
you want me to change?"
"Don't be silly," she says, taking the
tickets from the counter and handing
one to me. "We'll be in a dark theater.
No one will see."
Settled in the theater with our pop­corn
and vats of soda, I try to decide
when to spring the excuse. Should I
get it over with and hope the previews
will save me from talking it to death or
should I wait until after and yawn a
few loud, obnoxious times through the
show?
"I've got some errands to do after
the movie so don't feel obligated to
come over," she says, halting the de­bate
in my head.
14 TRAVELER 2005
and a ring with a cute round diamond
and a question that I can't answer. We
finish our meal in silence and then
my momcalls.
"So?" she says.
"You knew?" I say.
"Of course. He asked my permis­sion.
Isn't that a gesture? I didn't
know men still did that. So, have you
set a date?"
"Hejust asked. How could we have
set a date?"
"I like October. It's cool but not too
cool. Where should we have it?"
"Mom, I haven't given him an an­swer."
"You broke up?"
"No. I just want to think about it.
It's a big decision, don't you think? I
think people make it too quickly."
"Oh dear. If you want to move in
with me, you can."
"I think I'd rather get married."
onday is Jacob's day off
from the hospital and he
barely acknowledges me
when I get out of bed. I leave for work
hoping that when I return that mght
everything can be like it was at the
moment I sat down to dinner last
mght. Pre-proposal I like to call it.
He's lucky he didn't come in today,
or maybe I'm lucky. Apparently, ev­eryone
knew about the proposal. Some
of the nurses had even gone with him
to pick out the ring. When I walk into
the locker room, excited voices and
words attack me. I lift my naked left
hand and wiggle my fingers. Never
has a hand had so much power to si­lence.
"It's not big deal. I'm just taking
some time to think about it. Don't make
it an issue tomorrow." I drop my bag
in my locker and leave the room and
Continued on Page 16
By Raquel Moreno
Discover Me
Silver Gelatin Print
2005 TRAVELER 15
Continued from Page 15
my co-workers behind. How did such
a personal issue become so public? I
guess that's what I get for dating some­one
at work, though we were dating
before we started working here. Is
there a special rule for that?
orne life and work continue
to carry a similar misery.
Jacob is hurt, I'm confused,
my momis nagging, and my co-work­ers
continually offer doe-eyed, head
cocked looks of sympathy. Jacob and I
are existing, pretending we are intact.
We agree to act like the proposal never
happened and continue as the happy,
carefree couple we had been for four
years. Approximately once a week he
forgets this agreement and we have a
conversation that goes something like
this:
"How would being married make
us any different than we are now?"
"It just would."
"That's not an answer."
''I'm just not ready to settle for my
life as it is now."
"Is this about Dr. Steve?"
"No. It's about being sure."
"AmI not good enough for you?"
"It's not about you. What if I want a
different career, to live in a different
city, to go back to school, to write the
novel I always wanted?"
"Why can't you do those things if
we're married?"
"Can I? I don't know."
"It's not like I don't want other
By Sukhvir Gill
The Awakening
Silver Gelatin Print
16 TRAVELER 2005
things out of life, too."
"I know. I don't know what to tell
you."
"Fine then, let's not talk about it."
"Fine."
t's been a couple months since I've
last seen Mom and she insists on
me coming for a visit, alone. We
both thought that when she moved to
Arizona we'd see each other all the
time. Catching a weekly movie, chat­ting
our way through shopping trips
like the girlfriends we had never quite
become. But I've been avoiding her for
more reasons than usual lately. I don't
have any answers for anyone and be­ing
constantly questioned doesn't
help. I'm initially startled by her ap­pearance
when the door opens. She
looks years older than I remember. Her
hair a mess, the gray she usually dis­guises
beginning to take over and be­come
the dominant color. The thick
black eyeliner under each lower lid
unintentionally smudged as if left
over from yesterday's application. I've
never thought of her as old, simply
Mom, but as I walk past her into the
apartment I'm struck by her mortality
in a way I'm not ready to face on a
Sunday everning.
"I hate that shirt," Mom says, shut­ting
the front door and looking me up
and down.
"I know you do, Mom." At least she
is the same Mom on the inside.
"Why do you always have to wear
it?" she asks.
"It's comfortable. Why do you
care?"
"It would be nice if you made some
attempt to dress up for dinner."
"What's the occasion?"
"Just getting you here for dinner is
an occasion."
I ignore her and take my normal seat
at the dining room table. A quick peek
under the placemat confirms my loca­tion.
Rudely carved into the maple is
my name and directly across the table
from me, if I chose to look, I'd find the
letters "MO", my artwork having been
stopped a letter short many years ago
by Mom who refused to recognize my
masterpiece. "What are we having?"
"Pork chops and baked potatoes."
That's always one thing Mom could
do really well. I'd spend months crav­ing
her homemade biscuits. No mat­ter
how many times I tried to repro­duce
them it was impossible. Jacob
had to choke down his fair share be­fore
begging me to pick up a new
hobby. I chose journal writing. He
wasn't really too happy about that ei­ther.
I'd sit up nights in bed furiously
scribbling page after page and he never
got to read a word.
his judgment
gnawing at my
brain. Maybe I
should go out With
Or. Steve. Maybe It
would make me
appreciate Jacob
more."
"The weather's been nice," she says,
bringing me a soda. It's been in the
mid-nineties and extra humid every
day for a week.
"Something on your mind?" I ask.
"I thought we'd talk about it after
dinner."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course. It's nothing like
that." She pulls out two plates from
the cabinet.
"Why can't we talk about it now?"
"Fine, we'll talk about it now." She
joins me at the table and we sit in si­lence.
"You're scaring me," I say.
"I've been thinking," she begins.
"Yes?"
"I don't really have the money to
buy a house and you don't either, I
imagine, and so I was thinking, maybe
that we could join forces and get a
house together."
I choke a little on a gulp of soda.
"Wow. I don't know what to say.
What about Jacob?"
"What about him? You turned
down his proposal. I figured it was
only a matter of time before it was
over."
"I didn't turn him down. I just
haven't given him an answer yet."
"Well, that doesn't seem like a very
good sign, does it?"
"I don't know."
"He could live with us, too, if it
works out. I wouldn't mind. I guess
two nurses are better than one. Even if
one of them is a male nurse."
I don't even listen to her snide com­ments
anymore. "I think we may want
our own house someday." Really? I
don't think I've ever said that out loud
before. Maybe I should say it to Jacob.
"Oh, okay. That's fine." She jumps
up to pull the potatoes out of the oven
and turn off the chops.
"Let me think about it," I say, know­ing
that I could think about it for an
eternity and my answer wouldn't
change.
"No. I have your answer. It was just
a silly idea I had." She unfurls each
potato from its foil and plops them
down on the individual plates with a
clank.
"It wasn't silly. I just... I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I've already forgotten
about it."
Continued on Page 18
2005 TRAVELER 17
Continued from Page 17
today Jacob and I are wearing
matching royal blue scrubs.
We try to avoid the twin thing
most of the time but some days we give
in. We eat lunch together in the cafete­ria
whenever we can. Even though
people whisper, people we think are
our friends, he sits with me and never
complains. He smiles across the table
at me and I smile back. There's been a
lot of that lately. Smile through the
pain, isn't that what they say? Today,
Jacob gets called away to the ER and
Dr. Steve takes this opportunity to slip
into the chair beside me. Dr. Steve is a
heart surgeon and has been trying to
steal my heart for years.
"If you were with me, I'd never let
you eat alone," he says and actually
winks at me.
"Eating alone isn't so bad," I say,
scooping a spoonful of macaroni and
cheese into my mouth.
"When are you going to dump that
guy and go out with me?"
"Never."
"He can't be making you that
happy otherwise you'd be wearing his
ring."
"That's not true." I suck down the
remains of my diet soda, slurping ev­ery
last bit from between the iced
cubes.
"Isn't it?" he says. I try to ignore his
judgment gnawing at my brain.
Maybe I should go out with Dr. Steve.
Maybe it would make me appreciate
Jacob more. As it stands, Jacob is only
the second serious boyfriend I've ever
had and I'm not sure how I am sup­posed
to know that he's the one. My
phone vibrates against my skin and I
grab it and look to see who' calling.
"It's my mom. I have to take this." I
pick up my tray and drop it off at the
kitchen, happy for the escape. I answer
the call and offer a final wave to Dr.
Steve, leaving him behind at the table.
18 TRAVELER 2005
I find Jacob in the Pharmacy. He
likes to hang out there when he
has a few free minutes and learn
all he can. The Pharmacist is a family
friend and he teaches Jacob how to
verify prescriptions, dispense pills
and check patient histories to avoid
adverse reactions. He likes to say that
the only reason he went to nursing
school was so he could have a job to
work his way through pharmacy
school. I tend to think it was because
he wanted to meet women, though
he'd never admit it.
"This is what you had to rush off
to?" I say and glare at him with an
exaggerated squinty eye and wrinkled
forehead.
He laughs. "The page was a false
alarm."
"My mom called and said she
twisted her ankle. Can you stop by
there?"
He looks at the clock on the wall. "I
don't know."
"If it's an issue ... "
"No, I'll figure something out. Are
you sure she wants a male nurse to
tend to her?"
I look at him and his willingness to
deal with her and I can't make him
go. "You know what, I'll do it."
"I don't mind."
"I know, but I'll take care of it."
have a bucket of fried chicken and
all the things that go with it: the
drippy coleslaw, hard biscuits
and thick mashed potatoes. It's my at­tempt
at making her dinner.
"I wish your dad was here to help
me," she says and hobbles to a seat at
the dining room table.
"Me too, Mom." I add some water to
the teapot and set it on the burner.
"I thought we'd grow old together.
Instead he gets to Iive forever as a 40
year old and I have to get old and
gray."
''I'm getting old too if that makes
you feel any better." I bring two plates
to the table and spread out the food.
She isn't moving so I make her a plate
along with mine.
"You are not. You have your whole
life ahead of you."
"I thought I'd have it all figured out
by now." I sit down across from her.
She watches as I scoop up the cole­slaw
and drizzle it back onto the plate.
I build my mashed potatoes up, tall
like a mountain, and then squash
them back down, making them con­form
to the shape of a pie piece,
wedged in between the slaw and
chicken.
"You're a nurse. I think that's a
great start."
"What if I want more?" I rip a piece
of chicken off the breast, forgoing any
utensils.
"Then you'll do more."
"What about Jacob?" I stuff the
chicken in my mouth and chew
quickly.
"Jacob's not going to hold you back.
He's a good guy."
I swallow what I can of the chicken.
"If only he was a doctor, right?"
"Being a doctor wouldn't make him
a better boyfriend."
"It would just make you happier."
''I'm not the one he needs to make
happy." The teapot whistles, the
water's ready.
everyday I grow more accustomed to the diamond I wear
on my left ring finger. For now,
Jacob and I have decided to spend our
money on a house rather than a wed­ding.
I try to get my mom to come along
on the house hunt but she refuses.
She's too busy, too tired, has too many
errands to run. We are looking for a
house with at least three bedrooms.
That way, should there be more than
just the two of us living there in the
future, there's plenty of room.
By Jenna Moody
Untitled
Silver Gelatin Print
2005 TRAVELER 19
MAIKING
ALLOWANCES
By Philip L. Boddy Jr.
Third Place, Fiction
rowing up on Chicago's lakefront in the 1950s
brings fond memories of the energetic mix of cul­tures,
baseball, and figuring out ways to get
money for spending with friends. By third grade, this be­came
an occupation. I got up in the wee hours of Saturday
morning to hit the alleys, park, and Lincoln Park Zoo look­ing
for returnable bottles. Taking the
American Flyer wagon with the
wooden side rails from the bike room
downstairs, 1'd load up within a
couple of trips.
Smiles appeared on the faces of the
elderly already strolling as the clink­ing-
clanging of the loaded wagon
resonated along the canyon walls of
the high-rise apartments and old brick
alleyways in our neighborhood. They
LOVED their soda pop providing the
endless supply of bottles I harvested.
So I waved and greeted them in my
early attempts at world trade. "Bon journo," "Ohayo
gozaimasu", "Gutes, Wie gehts?" "Como te va?", and any
phrases learned from the myriad of immigrants surround­ing
me became my trademark. After all, they were custom­ers.
In winter I added a shovel and towels to dig up bottles
from under snowdrifts. The towels cushioned my cargo as
it often became brittle in the subzero nights by the lakeshore
and gusting wind tunnels of the bricked canyons. In sci­ence
class we learned the term "thermal mass." To us it
only meant bricks got very cold in winter, didn't get much
sun, and stayed cold all day.
Arriving at the A&P Market, I went to the back delivery
dock to unload the bottles. Regular sized Coke and 7-Ups
were worth a penny. The larger sized brought 2 cents. Ev­eryone
prized quart-sized bottles as they could bring a
20 TRAVELER 2005
nickel. Once up and inside the loading area, I found the
supervisor. Dropping my snowsuit hood, stamping my
galoshes on the mud rack, and pocketing my mittens usu­ally
announced my presence in the stockroom. Bernie, the
assistant manager, was there on early mornings. He was
Armenian like many of my schoolmates and adopted an
"American" first name. His last name
started with" A," was long enough to
get a first down at Notre Dame, and
ended in the familiar "kian."
"Hey, Flip, looks like business is
good today," he called out. Flip was
my l10Jnme de guerre in the neighbor­hood.
I was a junior and the Irish
called me their speeded up version of
Philip.
"G'morning Mr. 'A', yes sir, got a
good load behind the Golden Cup cof­fee
house. They had a banquet last
night," I replied. "I'm going back for a
second load right away before other kids find it."
"Good for you, kid. I'll be here. Hey, let me mark your
receipt for these bottles before you leave. You can collect
when you bring the next load, OK?"
Bernie gave me that big Mediterranean smile I like so
much.
"Oh, Flip. Be careful when you come back, eh. We gotta
truck full of those damned frozen turkeys coming in so
watch out in the alley."
"Thanks Mr. 'A', I'll be right back."
Mittens on, hood up, and I was down the ramp with the
wagon in seconds. It wasn't even six in the morning yet
and still dark.
I recovered more bottles from under snowdrifts behind
the coffee shop and grabbed two quart 7-Up bottles from
an iced over trashcan in the park. Bernie paid me $2.25 for
"We gotta truck full
of those damned
frozen turkeys coming
in so watch out in the
alley."
only an hour's work. Entering my building from the alley
service entrance to put the wagon in the bike room, I
stomped coffee-with-cream colored semi-frozen slush off
my galoshes. The Irish elevator man, Mr. Thomas, greeted
me. We had three men for the front elevator twenty-four,
seven on three shifts. A fourth man covered for days off
and holidays. I respectfully called them "Mister" with their
first names.
"Mornin' to ya, Flip. Up before the sun today?"
"Hey, Mr. Thomas, morning'. Yup, gettin' bottles and
made $2.25 in an hour!" I was grimling all the way to
Michigan's shoreline.
"H'Well, Boyo, ya did great on dat one. What's on da
itinerary for today?" Mr. Thomas asked, smiling.
"Half to my Nana for the bank then see what Stevie
wants to do later."
''I'm sure your Da's right proud ofya. It's a lot better'n
them other kids around getting that allowance without
doin' a lick a work." He had a look on his face telling me to
agree so I did.
The elevator stopped then adjusted to match the floor
level at14. It was really 13. Superstitious people had omit-ted
this renumbering our floor to 14 above floor 12. It didn't
help, really. Momhad fallen asleep three times with lighted
cigarettes already. I'll remember the acrid sooty aroma of
the burly Irish firemen who carried us kids down the stairs
on those occasions for the rest of my life. It was the smell of
"I'm safe now."
Something buzzed in my head from Mr. Thomas' men­tioning
money without working. Hmmm... My third grade
brain was planning. I'd ask Stevie, my best friend and
crime partner, about"allowances" later. I decided not to
bring it up with dad just yet. He was reared on the South
Side and had been poor. Asking him for money usually
involved getting the United Nations Security Council for a
unanimous vote.
An hour later I had taken a hot bath and eaten a sugar­loaded
breakfast. Miss Betty, our maid, tipped the morn­ing
paper down glaring.
"Philip, I doan want to remind you that yo teeth is gonna
fall outa you mouth if'n yall keep eatin' that sugar."
"Yes Ma'am, you're right."
Continued on Page 22
By Ann Beauregard
Cody, Clay &Hytop
fJlver Gelatin Print
Honorable Mention, Photography
GLENDALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE LIBRARY 2005 TRAVELER
21
"TWENTY DOLLARS a
WEEK! Holy shit, Stevie,
how long have you
been gettin' this?"
Continued from Page 21
Miss Betty was my mom's maid back in the late 1930s.
Nana had found her living in Florida and asked her to
come up to "live" with us. Other kids in private schools
had maids they bossed around. Not Miss Betty. No way,
no how. Nana told me, as the eldest child, to be respon­sible
for my little brother and sister. Miss Betty was to
teach me this. Whenever I became curious how a chore
was done, Miss Betty would show me how and why it
was done. The chore became MY obligation from that day.
By third grade I washed, dried, folded, ironed, (WITH
Niagara spray starch on church collars and cuffs), cooked
on the gas stove, swept floors, vacuumed carpets, and
mopped. If I stood up using the toilet in the house, Pine Sol
and a mop for me. Her reasoning was simple.
"This ain't the Greyhound Bus Station restroom, boy!"
When friends came over, we'd announce our presence
and Miss Betty greeted us, analyzing newcomers with the
calm expression of a guard dog. When Stevie first met her
he asked if she played baseball when seeing her Louis­ville
Slugger bat in the kitchen corner.
"Only with intruders and fools, Mr. Stevie," she softly
answered. Stevie had the Wisconsin deer-in-the-headlights
expression.
The doorbell rang as I finished washing breakfast dishes.
I went to the door as Miss Betty returned to her reading. It
was Stevie. He'd come to check my morning's profits. Grab­bing
my snowsuit parka, galoshes, hat, and mittens, we
left the apartment calling back, "Goin' to Stevie's for the
morning!"
"Yall be careful, Honey," came her affectionate permis­sion-
to-go.
In the elevator Mr. Thomas greeted us both. Perfect, I
thought. I can ask Mr. Thomas and Stevie together about
this" allowance" thing. As the elevator
was guided to alignment at the
lobby, I asked Thomas if I could speak
with him for a moment about an im­portant
topic. He said it would be fine.
As the elevator door opened at the
lobby, I relinquished the control
handle back to Mr. Thomas. We
stepped right into Judge and Mrs.
Miner entering the elevator in a hurry.
With the step-asides and courtesies
exchanged, I glanced at Mr. Thomas.
No allowance discussion with him now. I sat on the divan
and suited up for the face slapping lakeshore white zingers
of early November outside the revolving main door. The
snow shovel was still wet in the large pan by the garage
entry. Mr. Thomas had been busting his butt all morning
to keep the ice off the sidewalk. I made a note to get him a
hot coffee with some Irish "medicine" in it.
22 TRAVELER 2005
Nana and I liked Seagram's Crown Royal. She had re­sponded
to the school nurse's reports of my uncontrolled
fidgeting and bouncing around the classrooms with the
"old medicine" for hyper children. I preferred hot toddies
and a nice Crown Royal Mist poured and NOT stirred.
Often lethal doses of Turkish coffee with cream and sugar
sufficed.
Once outside the still spinning door Stevie and I headed
east along Fullerton toward his apartment. The lake blown
flurries bit our faces making our eyes watery. On the way
to his apartment I popped the allowance question.
"Hey, what do you know about getting an allowance?"
Stevie glanced at me from inside his parka hood, melted
snow droplets on his coal black eyebrows. He was sur­prised.
Smiling, he shook his head back and forth like a
parent.
"Mom and dad told me not to ever discuss it," he an­swered.
That was it. Nothing else. This wasn't going to be
easy.
"How come, man, like, is it some kinda secret?" I asked,
spitting lakeshore frozen ice-stingers out of my mouth.
"Yeah, Flip, it is. Dad said never to discuss money with
anyone even the family."
We scrunched along in our galoshes, the best-damned
import by the Russian and Polish immigrants to the North
Country. Stevie continued his analysis of kid economics.
"It's really different from family to family. It all de­pends…”
"Do the other kids get an allowance? How about the
kids in public school?" I interrupted.
"Oh, yeah, most kids get a small allowance. It's kinda' a
tradition," he continued with the red chapped face of pe­destrians
assaulted by Chicago's typical winter "lake ef­feet"
climate.
"So, how much is yours?" I asked point blank. I wiped
the gooeys off my nose and upper lip
with my sleeve, sniffling.
"Twenty bucks a week," he said like
there was nothing to it. But he was
grinning in anticipation of my reac­tion.
He took a precautionary step
sideways on the iced sidewalk. I
stopped, turned to him, and backfired
like an old Studebaker truck.
"TWENTY DOLLARS a WEEK!
Holy shit, Stevie, how long have you
been gettin' this?"
"Since I was four. Mikey gets his now, too." he calmly
stated. Mikey was his little brother who'd just turned five
in August.
"Geez! What a racket, Stevie," I stammered, melted snow
droplets spraying his parka front.
"Hey, Flip, now don't get loonies on me, it's just one of
those things." He just rolled this off his tongue like it was
a weather report. I was gonna piss in my already icy soaked
jeans hearing all this. But Stevie, reading me pretty well,
had the solution.
"So, Flip, just ASK your dad about it. Don't tell him you
just want money or nuttin' like that. I don't wanna go to
your funeral just yet, man."
We continued to his apartment and up the elevator. His
elevator man didn't speak nor did we. His apartment rules
were'old school.' At the apartment door Stevie looked at
me and I got the message. We weren't to discuss the allow­ance
thing or any money matters in his home. But I planned
to ask my dad about an allowance the next morning right
after I got home from 6:30 Mass.
I hurried home from church the next morning. I'd left a
note for dad taped to his Sara Lee coffee cake asking to
speak about an important matter before leaving. Mr.
Harold, the Sunday fill-in elevator man greeted me, com­menting
on my being in a hurry.
"Gotta talk to dad about an allowance." He chuckled
and nodded, his aquamarine eyes dancing along with his
smile making me always feel happy.
As I left the elevator and reached for the apartment door
handle, Miss Betty opened it ahead of me.
"Your father is waiting for you in the den, Flip."
I thanked her and entered our foyer. I unsnapped, un­zipped,
and wiggled out of my winter survival clothing.
Stepping out of my galoshes on the rubber mat, I moved
into the den.
By Elizabeth A. Everson
Psycho House
fllver Gelatin Print
Third Place, Photography
Looking up from his red leather reading chair, he put
the golf magazine down.
"Good morning Junior. You had something to discuss
with me?"
No hugs or asking how things were from him. Nope.
Not with dad.
"Yes dad. I wanted to ask you about an allowance."
I cut to the chase. Why dilly-dally about? Without blink­ing
he responded in his classic drawn out interrogative
mode inherited from our Ontario born grandfather Will­iam.
"Oh?"
His simple monosyllabic utterance had been refined over
time into the British butler sounding 'So, you want to ab­scond
with the Crawn Jewels?' tone. In our family's dynam­ics
this was a complete sentence from dad.
"I feel I'm old enough now and do chores at home. I
think five dollars a week would be OK."
This time he blinked. After a few seconds of peering at
me intently, dad cracked a slight grin.
"Let's go to the store for some things I need for gin rummy
with the gentlemen later. We can discuss details along the
way."
With that we went to the foyer suiting up for the walk
down the street.
Dad was wearing an ascot, London Fog woolen over-
Continued on Page 24
2005 TRAVELER 23
By Allison Conry
Untitled
Graphic Pencil
Continued from Page 23
coat, Spanish calfskin snow boots, an Italian narrow
brimmed hat, and lambskin lined gloves. As we silently
descended in the elevator I wondered if Mr. Harold agreed
with my teasing friends that Cary Grant lived in our apart­ment.
As we left I whispered to Mr. Harold about my getting
an allowance. He laughed quietly and shook his head
approvingly. Moving out through the side doors to the
street, we met Roy, the Negro garage boss. He quickly
dropped and stepped on his cigarette to speak.
"Morning' Missah Boddy, Flip. How yall doin' today?"
Dad smiled and responded as we moved to the entry. I
murmured to Roy as we passed.
''1'm gonna get an allowance, Mr. Roy."
He couldn't' miss my attempts to subdue my excitement
and winked at me, grinning in his nice "I'm happy to see
ya" face that all the kids liked.
The wind had picked up as usual and swirled around
looking for places in your clothing to invade with tickling
ice fingers. Dad and I headed west on Fullerton to Clark. I
envisioned our being in a Sgt. Preston of the Yukon blizzard
scene. We crunched our way to the corner and turned south
into Clark Street's wind tunnel. The A&P supermarket was
at the end of the block so we wouldn't be suffering long.
We didn't speak at all so I figured the allowance topic
would be talked out at the store. I was following dad be­cause
his walking pace resembled military field march­ing.
About half way down the block he suddenly turned into
the Greek grocery market. Maybe he could get the snacks
here instead of going farther. I followed him inside. We
knew the family as we shopped here often.
"Hey, Meester Boddy, Fleeps, Tikanes, evharistoh?"
"George, Kay, Junior, how's the family and business?"
dad answered. Papa George, Mama Kay, and George Jr.
were long time old friends of dad's. Like Mario, the Italian
barber across the street, they had all migrated up from the
South Side decades ago along with many of our neigh­bors.
We still rooted for the Sox when the Cubbies weren't
playing.
Dad grabbed some fresh fruit just in from Florida and
California, Lays potato chips, orange juice, candy, and
mint gum. I was back by the warehouse watching a truck
coming into the dock through the steel barred window. I
turned around to avoid the frigid blast as George Jr. opened
the delivery door. Stepping back into the market aisle, I
noticed dad was gone.
"Hey, Mama Kay, where's my dad?"
"Ah, don't worry about your dad, Fleeps," Papa George
said, "We got something for you."
The red curtain dropped over my head as Mama Kay's
24 TRAVELER 2005
voice Whispered from above and behind me.
"There you go, Fleeps, this should feel OK."
The cotton apron fell into place as the collar band
wrapped my neck. Mama's deft fingers tied the strings to
secure it to my waist. As she stepped around in front of
me, Mario called out from the Clark Street entry.
"Hey, look at the new businessman. Looking good, Flip!"
I was speechless as I looked down at the well-worn red
cloth draping my body down past my knees. They all
laughed while nodding their heads in approval. Papa
George spoke up.
"HoKay, here's the deal. You come in after school for
maybe an hour. On Sundays you come in from ten to three
in the afternoon." Mama Kay continued with my baptism.
"We know you have the bottle business and like to play
with your friends on Saturday so you don't have to come
in then unless you want to." She smiled, gave me a hug,
and remembered a detail.
"Oh, you stock, price, clean, and deliver the phone or­ders
to the apartments...and you get to keep all of your
teeps, too."
I began to grin a little and they all came over to surround
me, patting my shoulder, shaking my hand, and more hugs
all around. I still wanted to get something cleared up.
"So, Mama Kay, how much do I get paid for this?"
"Your 'allowance' is five dollars a week just like you
negotiated and you get to keep all of your teeps. Saturdays
are extra if you work then."
With that, George Jr. handed me a duster and grease
pen.
"Fleeps, you can start with that case of creamed corn
over there."
By Pamela Bleakney
My favorite Creatures
Pen &Ink
Third Place, Drawing/Life Drawing
2005 TRAVELER 25
HORTENSE
By William E. Sullivan
Second Place, Creative Non-Fiction
Hortense Prado was the most beautif girl at
Cleveland High. Before you paint thi femme
with your provincialism, her na is not
Hoare-Tense, conjuring the vision of a gum snapping, hip
shot, spit curl crowned creature from the Bronx eating
cheap shoes. Her name is Or-teen-say. Shortly r the
end of what my kids call double-u, double-u, eye, ye, she
and her family had emigrated from Old Castile. I h d never
stopped to think about it 'til now but Europe w full of
D.P.s, Displaced Persons. D.P.s had seen their untry,
town or village disappear in a flash oflight. Ge . g a visa
to the US meant that you had or were a friend to eState
Department. In Fascist Spain, her family must h e done
something very, very
good or very, very bad.
But I didn't speculate.
My eyes followed my
mistress like a sunflower
faces the sun.
My gang hadn't sorted
themselves into boy, girl,
boy, girl. We had gal pals
,cause you needed some­body
to dance with you.
Any halfway decent ath­lete
can dance. We were
hooked on American Bandstand. The program originated
in Pennsyltucky somewhere and showed in St. Louis just
after school let out. Rock and Roll was new. Ducks Ass
haircuts were new. Both things drove our parents nuts.
We'd descend on somebody's house, move the f .lure
out of the dining room and dance. Refining our territory
we would mark original furniture positions with
tape and put everything back before the dreaded home-
coming.
If Omar the Tent Maker designed mumus, yo 'd have
an idea how Mum dressed Or-teen-say. Like superman,
she would disappear into the girls' room. A head scarf
would become a sash, a safety pin or two would take up
some slack and the transformation would be complete.
26 TRAVELER 2005
 “her name is not not Hor-Tense,
conjuring the vision of gum
snapping, hi shot spit curl
crowned creature from the Bronx
wearing cheap shoes."
On the half shell would be shamed by comparison.
-say took high school Spanish as a snap course. I
took same course because she was there. If, there are
points or brevity, she was lightning in a bottle. Some girls
cause affic jams. Or-teen-say was a hazard to naviga­tion.
.s Leyden jar of sexual potential possessed as fine
a haunch as any three-year-old Irish hunter and an accu­mulation of mammary fat that defied gravity. But, it was
her eyes that told the tale.
The King of Spain had helped me out with my coloring
when the Armada was wrecked on the west coast of Ire-land.
the time, I was tall and thinly aesthetic, perfect for
the e lead in the Spanish vignettes that our charming
instructress used to enliven
drill in irregular verbs. Be­ing
a model of traditional
dress and movement, Or­teen-
say always played the
feminine lead. I paid court
to her and her family with
all the "Respecto" that
roaring hormones could
wring out of me. Her father
was a tiny man, nervous as
a whippet with eyeglasses
on a ribbon and some kind
of minor title. He obviously thought of her as an asset to
the family fortunes. Alas and woe, no fortune attached to
me. But , I paid my court, learned the language of fans and
eyes, reveled in luxuriant blue black hair piled high with
Spanish combs and falls of delicate lace, provided the
pixilated chaperone with endless cups of punch and tea
and tri d not to honk when I walked.
Silly e, I thought that the chaperone was there to pro­tect
Or teen-say from me. If we could only sell what we
have learned for what it cost us to learn it, the world would
be a different place.
Big bands and huge ballrooms were a facet of what
passed or nightlife in South St. Louis. The operators of the
Casaloa Ballroom liked to have attractive young danc-
By Amanda E. Doppler
Self Portrait
Graphite Pencil
Honorable Mention, Drawing/life Drawing
ers mixed in among the heftier, bejeweled patrons. The
way the deal worked was that you were given a handful of
tickets for the next week, every time you showed up. It was
pure salesmanship on my part that loaded the Prado fam­ily
into their Cadillac Lasalle and put them at a table at the
edge of the dance floor. Another bit of gum to cover my
smokers' breath and I was ready. A Camellia appeared; I
offered my arm to my angel.
My luck was running strong; the first dance was an
Argentinean Tango, "In the Silence of the Night." Danced
in a stiff, military style, locked pelvises were required for
the smoother moves. She was a natural. The inline turns,
the crossovers, Terpsichore whipped my brain into a froth.
Then, the spot light dance. Amid the crawling lights
from the great mirrored globe, couples were singled out
with a baby spot. Tradition was that when this happened,
you might kiss. Like a peregrine falcon I nested amid my
gypsy witches' locks, poised, I knew my kiss would tell
her all the things I wanted her to know.
Then I chewed my gum into her hair. Not a gentle mis­take
but three good chomps while my brain was in neu­tral.
A full wrist thick rope of her crown was enmeshed.
What to do? What to do? With a cowardly sigh, I disengaged.
When the spot hit us, I had no heart. The gallows walk
back to her family was disorienting. Shamefully, I fled the
scene. My castle in old Spain, the girl that gave my heart a
reason to beat, gone.
Since then, I have learned many ways of removing chew­ing
gum from hair. Ice cubes seem to be the preferred
method but too late. Mumsy must have panicked, for they
Cut Her Hair and I became invisible. Or-teen-say couldn't
see me. Ever.
I'm told that shortly after that, the chaperone must have
dozed and the short haired, Americanized Horty threw
Dan Eckman over her shoulder, climbed to the top of the
Empire State Building and put a smile on his face that
even the undertaker can't remove. Dan was beautiful too,
in his Nordic way, and had the good grace to be discom­forted
by it. I'll bet he didn't chew gum. Circumstances
conspired to put me in GED land shortly after that and I
lost track of all of them.
Funny, the things that trigger memory, the sight of the
back of a girl's head, the smell of Camellia. Hortense Prado
is the most beautiful girl in the world and sometimes, in
the silence of the night, I remember.
2005 TRAVELER 27
“Never, ever, did I see the pine
duck turn its back on the oak."
FURY - By Elizabeth Steinmetz
Third Place, Creative Non-Fiction
By Sherri McClendon
In Honor of Deirdre's Lament
Watercolor/Acrylic
Honorable Mention, Painting &Watercolor
here is an old Korean tradi­tion
that on the day of the
wedding the bride and
groom exchange of wooden ducks.
They then place the ducks
somewhere visible in the home,
and the ducks face each other.
Except when they are mad, the
ducks sit buttocks to buttocks
or buttocks to bill. This is so
that visitors, upon entering the
house, will know whether or
not the couple is fighting.
It must have been around
May 1957 that my grand­mother
heard of this tradition,
as she was married a month
later. And on that day, my
grandmother, though neither
her nor her spouse were Ko­rean,
traded ducks. Now I came
onto the scene some twenty-five
years later, and even then I
wasn't really aware of the
ducks until at least five years
after that. But I know all about
the ducks.
I don't know how the ducks
look in Korea, but my
grandfather's duck was made
of pine. As a wood worker,
types of wood is something you
learned quickly in my family.
And my grandmother's was
28 TRAVELER 2005
made of oak. In case you weren't fanlli­iar
with how the various types of wood
were shaded, you could also see that
my grandmother's had beautiful
painted wings, in fanciful colors of
pink, red, and green. My grandfather's
was painted like a mallard. Still there
was a third way of identifying who was
mad at whom. The duck on
the left belonged to my grand­father.
Typically, the ducks were
beak to beak. On some occa­sions
the oak duck would turn
its back and stay that way for a
few hours, and would then
magically find its way back
around to the front. Never,
ever, did I see the pine duck
turn its back on the oak. Not
once in my thirteen years had I
ever seen the pine duck turn
tail. 11us was strange to me. But
I always just assumed that my
patient grandfather never re­ally found
a good reason to turn
the duck. Or maybe he just
never thought of it. That was
when it happened though. I
was thirteen and they asked
me if I'd like to dust for a little
extra cash. I don't even remem­ber my
reason for being at their
house at the time, but I was
paid well for dusting, so I
pulled out the towel and pol­ish
and began my duty.
I'd dusted at their house be-
By Carol Smith
Seclusion
Watercolor
Honorable Mention, Painting &Watercolor
fore, and 1'd dusted that shelf where
the ducks sat before. So I really don't
know why I never noticed it until that
day. I lifted up the oak duck, then ran
my towel over the duck and set it down.
That day they were beak to beak. Then
I moved on to the pine duck, and when
I lifted it up, the tiny cracks all along
the duck caught my attention. They
weren't cracks in the paint from age;
they were cracks in the duck. I couldn't
recall ever hearing about the duck
breaking. So I picked him up and took
him to my grandfather.
"Pappy, did you know the duck
broke?" I showed him his duck.
"Yeah. I knew that." He was in the
shop; the smell of wood chips and saw­dust
filled my lungs and my heart. This
was where he was happy. He barely
cautioned a glance toward the duck, he
was so focused on the new horse he
was making for the newest addition to
our family. His second granddaughter,
Nacole, was only three months old, but
he felt she was ready for a rocking horse,
and like all of his work, he was making
sure it was perfect.
"How did it break?" Curious by na­ture,
questions were my favorite thing,
especially at my grandparents', where
I knew every question would be an­swered
to my satisfaction.
He stopped his sanding, looked at
the duck, and then reached for it. Pappy
cradled the object in his hand; he had
to rub his fingers along the cracks,
maybe to remind him of just how they'd
gotten there, asking the cracks for per­mission.
A few years after the wedding, just a
few months after my Mom had been
born, my grandfather had gotten an­gry.
He'd had a bad day at work, then
he'd come home to two screaming kids
and a wife who had dealt with them all
day. She'd asked him to help her, and
he had but not happily. He told me he
didn't really remember what had
started the argument, just that it had
really made him mad. My grandmother
had been in the living room yelling, and
he was yelling, and then my mom had
started to cry so she'd gone to tend to
her. In his rage he'd hastily attempted
to turn the duck around. He noticed my
grandmother had beaten him to the
punch; he'd been infuriated and
thrown the duck across the room. It had
hit a brick wall and fell to the tile.
After that, when my grandmother
came back into the room, she'd been
really upset about it. She'd thought the
ducks were a symbol of their marriage,
and now half of it was broken. Pine is a
soft, fragile wood. My grandfather had
taken care to glue the duck back to­gether,
as my grandmother hadn't
wanted to go out and buy a new one.
He'd then painted it, so that the cracks
wouldn't be as noticeable. It was while
he'd been gluing the duck back together,
the hours it had taken to make sure it
wouldn't be lopsided, or missing even
a piece, that he'd decided that there
wasn't a thing my grandmother could
do to him that would ever make him
want to turn the duck around.
I went back into the house and put
the duck back on the shelf. They were
facing each other; like they should have
been. It was a revelation my grandfa­ther
had made many years ago. He lived
each day with his duck facing hers, and
even if she made him angry, he told me
he'd just look at the cracks, and remem­ber
that day, and it didn't matter so
much anymore. After that, my
grandmother's duck only turned a few
more times. For the last five years, their
ducks have shared the space on the
shelf, seeing their life in each other's
eyes. Neither one has turned its back.
2005 TRAVELER 29
30
And so do I renounce my faith,
Consigned to wander all my days,
Abstaining forever from the sacraments
that are woman.
Neither shall I recant or confess.
I will never seek to enter the Holy Place
Or exchange the kiss of peace again.
Alone, I shall worship none;
No priestess will hear my sweet confession,
For I was in love with Love,
And He has been unkind to me.
By Liza Wilkinson-Ready
Drowning the Facade
Silver Gelatin Print
Second Place, Photography
2005 TRAVELER 31
By Misty Osberg
liberated Gargoyles
Watercolor
32 TRAVELER 2005
By Katherine Wilcox
Molly
Watercolor
Second Place, Painting &Watercolor
2005 TRAVELER 33
"Tires started mewling like mashed
cats. I was suddenly airborne."
First Place, Fiction
Today I decided to shoot my
self in the head. Now this isn't
something I thought I would
do for a spot of fun. You know, walk
the dog, eat breakfast, shower, then
BANG! Nor is this something I'm do­ing
because I think the world sucks,
life is crappy, goodbye all, thanks for
nothing. The decision is rather ratio­nal.
At the ripe age of twenty, I was in a
car accident. I really don't remember
much about it. I remember stopping at
red. I was listening to Warren Zevon
sing about how he drank up all the
money. Tires started mewling like
mashed cats. I was suddenly airborne.
I didn't have to flap my arms or think
happy thoughts.
By the way, flying is a very nice sen­sation
indeed. The air wrapped
around my body and tossed me up
like a baby. Was it windy that day? I
don't know. Anyway, my favorite
thing about flying was the way the
world looked. The world is an oil
painting, in case you didn't know, an
ugly piece of Pollock junk, and when
you fly it looks like God has strewn
paint thinner on it. Then he squeezed
out all sorts of new colors on it from
his fingertips, and blew it around with
his mouth, mixing it with more thin­ner
until everything was a rainbow.
34 TRAVELER 2005
Pure and bright and pretty again. The
way God wanted it to be, I think.
The air didn't catch me in its arms.
Much too messy, and Alan never ever
cleans. Mind you, I still intend to kill
myself. Though it is far too loud. If I
ever hear an angel scream, a gunshot
is what it'd sound like. Perhaps that's
why people hate guns so. Maybe. I
don't know. Things aren't too terrible,
I suppose. But this tickling must stop,
or I will change my mind!
"You were doing it again, weren't
you?" Alan asks me.
"Doing what? I wasn't doing any­thing
except sitting here reading about
how politicians were discovering new
ways to act moronic in the news." It's
true, you know. I never met a good
politician. Sort of an oxymoron. I take
that back. I did. Once at a funeral, only
I was standing six feet over him so that
probably doesn't count.
"You were. I know because your face
went blank for a minute or two while
you boiled the eggs," he turns to look
at me, "Your face never does that, un­less
... " he stops. The magazine he
tosses aside shuffles in the air and
makes a most satisfying "shoo" as it
slides on the floor.
Alan don't look at me like that. I hate
that look. That hurt face. He does some­thing
so strange when he's sad. He
sucks in his cheeks, and it makes him
look hollow. And he's already such a
slender man! I mean, I am the woman
of this relationship. Shouldn't I be the
thin one?
"For some reason," he plunders on,
"you always look like you're think­ing,
even when you sleep." No Alan,
don't take my paper. After all, I am in
the middle of a horribly uninteresting
article. "Your eyes really give it away.
You look dead." He's such an
empathetic man. A rare trait for such
a rare creature.
Honestly, all this talk of eyes and
faces! I adore Alan's eyes. His eyes are
like a cool ocean or an ice cold blue.
But "a cool ocean" or "ice cold blue"
are such cliches. Alan has eyes that
are so much more. Besides, they can
be warm, too. And I don't do cliches.
"That's not true," I claim, "I only
look dead when I haven't any make­up
on. Like now."
I know. They remind me of these
blue roses I got from my mum for win­ning
that stupid competition at
school. Whenever I touched them, the
smoothness of them reminded me of
the plastic covering on a pack of fags.
Such pretty things they were.
Though they didn't last very long. The
blues in them changed color depend­ing
on the light. In the warm light of
the kitchen, I put them in a jar, you
see, on the windowsill so they got
lots of sun. They looked like the soft
iridescence hummingbirds have un­der
their necks. But you have to catch
them in just the right light to see such
loveliness!
"Stop skirting the issue," he
pleads to me, his hands walking up
my arms. Then they gently pounce
on my skull and smooth out my bed
head.
"I am not skirting the issue."
Maybe I am skirting, but I can skirt if
I want.
"Do you remember that day,
Charlene?"
Oooo! Now he's using my full first
name. If he uses the rest, then I'll
know he's really pissed!
"You don't, but I do." His once
clear eyes are filling up that cool
ocean I was talking about.
"Of course, you couldn't because
comas sort of put people on an ex­tended
Valium vacation. 'The
Kumars at No. 42' was on. A rerun,"
Alan continues. His voice is erratic,
breaking in different waves of sound,
from a crackling fire to honeyed ra­zor
blades cutting at his vocal cords.
"You've seen it," he tells me, "the one
Continued on Page 36
2005 TRAVELER 35
Continued from Page 3S
where the grandma flirts with Donny
Osmond shamelessly." Ah yes, I have
seen that one. That was a rather funny
episode.
"At 10:46, you stopped beeping on
your little ...! don't know what they
call it. The life signs thing," he sighs.
I can feel scores of bumps rise in the
skin of his wrists. They keep brush­ing
my cheeks as he strokes my hair.
Goose skin always feels like a man's
unshaven face.
He could be a Svengali, that man.
His caressing is that hypnotic. I know
what the medics call it, sweety. Please
don't Alan. I'll give up my other leg to
stop the hurt in those eyes.
Alan continues, "I was so mad because
I didn't know why. You were
doing so well physically. ' Critical but
stable she is.' That's what Doctor Rails
told me. Exactly that."
Only mum could make me feel this
sort of guilt. I never ever told her
thanks for my beautiful blue roses.
You see, she was always doing kindly
acts.
"But your face, it just didn't look
stable at all," he sputters. His shoul­ders
and chest keep convulsing the
way ships do in a heavy wind.
He opens my eyes with two flutter­ing
kisses. I had closed them? Right
then, I could see all of him. Not mum,
not roses, not hummingbirds. I real­ize
he's been the only thing that ever
stayed in front of me. Or behind me if
I were to crash from a new piece of
prosthesis. Or for that matter right be­side
me in tuxedo if I wanted.
"You left me, and you didn't look
like you wanted to come back. And
that's how you looked this morning,"
he finishes. He's trying to wipe up the
mess his eyes made on his face.
I think I will stop this skirting busi­ness.
"Alan, I am so sorry," I murmur.
"Sometimes, it just gets really hard to
keep going even when everything
around you is going so well." I pret­zel
my arms around his head, trying
to shut out all the thoughts he can feel
me thinking.
The other color those roses turned
was this cool morning blue. The sort
of ones that still has the haze of grey
pollution in them. The harsh kind
only London can give you. That's the
kind of blue he can get. Though it's
only ever for me.
By Kelly Terreri
Divine
Silver Gelatin Print
36 TRAVELER 2005
By Misty Osberg
Happy it/tie Creatures
Paint/Pen
Second Place, Drawing/Life Drawing
2005 TRAVELER 37
By Cheryl Street
Frog Prince
Ink Jet Prints
First Place, Computer Art
By Daniel Brawn
Light
Laser Print on Photo Paper
Third Place, Computer Art
By Anthony Valle
Igor Stravinsky Poster
Ink Jet Print
Second Place, Computer Art
38 TRAVELER 2005
's ORNING
By Mellisa D. Sawyer
Second Place, Po try
ISABEL
My darling I have known the sweetest things, aurora's fire on your skin, as quietly you dream.  I have known the nectar drops of dawn, slide slowly down the pane, reflected on your slumber-land, as tears of morning rain.  I have known the softest ray to pass Upon the lids so deep, which you held composed dreams of innocence in sleep.  And I have known the moment darling when all finds perfect place.  The faith in yet another day, writ on a child's face.
2005 TRAVELER 39
By Kelly Terreri
Bulbs
Silver Gelatin Print
40 TRAVELER 2005
LIBRARY MEDIA CENTER
GJ£NDALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE
6OOO WEST OLIVE AVENUE
GLENDALE, AZ.. 85302
By Erini Gregoriades
Untitled III
Soft Pastels
First Place, Drawing/life Drawing
CREDITS & COLOPHON
Literary Editor Alexandra Monares
Literary Advisor Casey Furlong
Literary Faculty Judges Carmela Arnoldt, Renee Barstack,
Larry Bohlender, Jeanette Chaplin, Marla DeSoto, Claire Englehart,
Patrick Haas,Jr., David Hanson, Betty Hufford, Mary Leskovsky,
Johnnie May, Marilyn Schiedat, Joy Wingersky
Community Literary Judges ..... Wendy Blair, Ruben Miranda,
Marcia Sisemore
Student Literary Judges ........ .. .... Rachel Bitner, Adam Johnson,
Jacquelyn Kucharski, Matthew O'Meara, Alexandria Monares,
George Repta
Visual Arts Community/ Awards Juror Dorn Hernandez
Visual Arts Student Jurors ........ Arti Goulatia, Sheri McClendon, and
Connie Wilcox (Jurors were recused from judging categories they entered)
Faculty Juror Dean K. Terasaki
Photographer .. Craig Wactor
Digital Production Kimberly M. Middaugh
Visual Arts Faculty Advisors Pam Hall, Dean K. Terasaki
Design/Production Advisors Julie Knapp, Dean K. Ternsaki
Student Graphic Designers Janeen Hart, Aikande Mallya,
Abigail Martinez, Kristin Morris, Fausto Quijada,
Andrea-Rose Remo, Caylee Rogers, Jose Salazar, Karli Sawyer
Special thanks to Marla Desoto, Traveler webmaster; Dawn Meyer, our
typist and procedural advisor; Laura Schuett and Betty Hufford, Creative
Writing instructors; Larry Bohlender, English department chairperson;
and Connie Greenwell, for coordinating the bid and printing process; Sherri
McClendon, Peggie Murillo and R. J. Merrill.
2,500 copies of Traveler, Volume 38, were distributed May 2005
free of charge through six distribution sites on campus. The maga­zine
is funded by the Student Life Office and cost $6,600 to pro­duce.
Financial awards were also given to the top three entries in
each category.
Pages are built on a 6-column grid per page, 12 columns per
spread. Pages are 8.5 inches wide by 11 inches tall. Main story
headlines are 60/72 points Eras Bold ITC small caps; pull quotes
are 24/26 points Gill Sans MT Condensed Italic; story bylines are 24
points Gill Sans MT flush right; story text is 10/14 points Book
Antiqua justified; drop caps are three lines deep Eras Bold ITC,
artist names are 18 point Gill Sans MT and title/award lines are 14
pt/16.8 pts Gill Sans MT Condensed Italic all flush left or flush
right, depending upon art placement.
The magazine was produced on 10 PCs and one Macintosh G4
using Pagemaker 7.0, Adobe Photoshop 7.0, Adobe Acrobat Pro
and Microsoft Word 2003. Traveler's black-and-white art was scanned
using a Microtek Scanmaker 4. Color transparencies were scanned
on a Nikon Coolscan IV. Digital files were transmitted to the printer
in portable document format (PDF).
Traveler was printed by Prisma Graphic Corporation at 200 lines
per inch screen on 70-pound Topkote Gloss Book. The cover is 95­pound
Topkote Gloss Cover, coated on both sides. Thirty- two pages
were printed using four-color soy-based inks and 8 pages were printed
with black ink only. The cover was printed using four-color inks on
the outside and inside panels.