"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 2009

              Melissa
by Sumer Khan
Acrylic on Chair
Traveler 2009
Imperfection
by Robert McBride
Raku Stoneware on Wood
Traveler 2009
Glendale Community College
6000 West Olive Avenue
Glendale, Arizona 85302
2009 Glendale Community College
Reproductions of literary and artistic works may not be
produced without the written consent of the author/artist.
Glendale Community College
4
Traveler 2009
EXON£RSATING liAT£R
by Alexandra Grayson Barry
3rd Place Nonfiction
The air is still. There are no clouds, no wind, and no sound; just me and this pool ofcalm reflecting water. IfI focus my
eyes enough, I can see the stars in the water. My mind goes on a short tangent, thinking about reflections and alter­nate
realities. I practice this ritual every night during the summer. I stand and think a brief, deep thought, just before
I jump. I jump for release, peacefulness, and a calming that I feel few appreciate. Too much thinking aggravates my
patience, so I jump. I plug my nose with my pinky fingers and my ears with my index fingers. I shut my eyes good and
tight, and take in a deep, heavy breath. One quick step, two quick steps, three quick... Leap!
I focus my mind on my feet and wait to feel the sensation ofentering the water. I always felt diving ruins the feeling of
entering the water. I have to focus so much on the angle of my dive I never get the chance to experience the path the
water takes around my body. First my big toes, then the balls ofmy feet, my heels, my calves, my thunder thighs, my
ass, my stomach, my chest and arms, and finally my hands and head. The ultimate freeing sensation is when my head
goes cold; it is as ifmy sensory abilities magnify. I feel my body pushing down on the water that does not fight back; it
willingly lets me melt away into its abyss. All the air that I forced into the water with me crawls back up my body, leav­ing
footprints that tickle my skin. I slowly exhale, leaving spherical worlds ofoxygen rlease all thoughts and emotions
as I slowly feel my body balancing out with the water. The resurface is nimble, much unlike a birth. But like a birth I
am set free ofa void that lies behind me. I take a gasping breath ofnew air and leave the muck ofmy day below, in the
abyss of the exonerating water.
Summer Swimmer
by Kathleen Moody
Honorable Mention Sculpture
Stoneware
Glendale Community College 5
Two thirty is when time stands still. It's not morning, not really night except
for blackness. The only light I see is starlight dulled by pollution, and red embers
burning on my cigarette. When did my life shift to this? Another sleepless night
brings me out to this darkened patio, because seeing my husband's face drenched
in shadows is too much to take. I can barely share a bed with him, and why I even
bother. I could sleep in the room next door on a lumpy couch; my home office,
littered with half empty coffee cups, cigarette ashes, and copies of my last book.
Instead I put myself in this prison of a patio, counting down hours till I should be
awake, hating myself at twenty nine, wanting to be nineteen all over again.
There once was a time when everything was perfection. A time when my
friends were envious of my magical marriage. I considered myself the luckiest
woman on the planet because Lucas loved me. For three blissful years I lived that
fantasy. Before he noticed teenage waitresses. And long before he actually found
himself in bed with them. The cheating has been making me sick lately, finding
myself face down in a toilet most mornings, chocking out vomit. I used to be the
only person he found sexy. Now he looks at me with a built in bitterness, barely
giving me a kiss. Except for three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago things didn't seem so bad. We actually had sex after a few
beers, and a bowl of chronic. He brought home the weed in hopes of making me
feel like a wild college girl again. It worked sinfully well; the second beer was such
a turn on, and by the third hit I was naked. Chemicals bring out a sexual demon
inside me that I tty to keep locked away. Unfortunately the demon adores Lucas,
and comes out to play too often around him. I wanted to hate him, but he caught
me in his net again that night. A night like that hasn't happened since.
I play with my wedding band that still sits on my left hand. I think it's all of
this is my fault. Lucas wanted a child. I wanted to complete my MFA. He didn't
understand why I couldn't put my writing career on hold and be a normal wife.
He never nurtured me like he used to when I was an undergrad. Back when I was
writing the first book. A book did that well over my expectations. A book written
out of magic. Much like my magical marriage. Magic isn't reality. Magic is always
bound to fade away with nothing to cling to.
I crawled into a bed that couldn't be big enough. I wanted to put an entire
continent between Lucas and myself. That way I wouldn't have to face him. At least
he didn't wake up when I got up to smoke, and see me cry. I'll never let him catch
me doing this. The last thing I want to appear like is a weak person who is entirely
dependent of her husband for happiness. Instead I'll just try to sleep. And maybe
dream away this disillusionment.
****
Morning. Barely awake for an hour, already haunted by bittersweet memories
playing in my head. Only in the morning is when I think like this. Once my day
starts I leap head first into my work, the one thing I can control. As I pull the hot
rollers from my strawberry blonde hair I remember how I used to watch Lucas
sleep when I got ready for work in the morning. He embodied poetry in motion
when he was resting. And when I pressed my lips to his before I left, the weakest
and sweetest smile would stretch across his face that eclipsed the entire waking
6 Traveler 2009
Glendale Community College
Untitled
by Brian Healey
1st Place Photography
Ink Jet Print
7
world. A tear etches down my face; it's now that I realize I'm
still in love. In love with who we used to be. The couple that
is so sugary sweet we caused diabetes. Not the career obsessed
woman I've become. Someone that preferred her poetry to her
muse. Someone who didn't see her dreams were already real.
Someone so selfish she forgot about her lover's dreams.
Guilt doesn't sit well with me. I want to control every­thing,
and I won't accept the fact to err is human. I brush out
the curls framing my face putting more effort into my appear­ance
than I have before. All in a strange attempt to pull Lucas
out his infatuation with a nineteen-year-old skank named Sa­die.
Right on schedule I threw up again thinking about them
having sex on my bed. That's another reason why guilt doesn't
sit well with me. I didn't drive Lucas into bed with his Lolita.
He had his own share of guilt, forgetting about my insecuri­ties
and he didn't nurture me period. All because I wasn't
emotionally ready to have a fetus invading my body.
I gulp black coffee like water mentally preparing myself
for work today. My little joy of being a community college
professor. I adore teaching, and I'm very passionate about
educating young writers. But now I see Sadie's face in those of
my students tainting the experience for me. As much as I love
my job the only comfort I find now is through hypnotizing
escapism mixed with therapeutic wine like tears. Writing my
second book of poetry and trying like hell to get it published.
It was a follow up to my first successful book. But that was a
year ago, and writing wasn't that easy anymore. Neither was
marriage. But I would never take things the easy way. I walk
to my doorway, leaving.
8
The deepest blue eyes that I've ever seen lock my gaze.
Lucas stares at me, rubbing out the last bit of sleep with his
hands. I'm shocked that he actually woke up to see me off this
morning, something he hasn't bothered to do in months. I
exhale realizing I had been holding my breath for the entire
ten seconds I saw him standing in the doorway.
"Good morning, Anya." He yawned, and stretched, his
face nearly breaking out in that smile that makes me weak.
The sad reality is he's still radiant in the morning, even though
I feel sick every time I think of his betrayal.
"Morning to you. Did the restaurant call you in early
today?" I said in a sharp tone. My bitter side comes out at
the worst possible times, but my smart side figured out that
was the reason he was up. Even when we were happy he never
woke up for any reason, unless he had to work.
"No I don't go in until noon, and your first
class doesn't start till eleven so why are you leav-
Untitled
by Christine Jensen
1st Place Sculpture
Stoneware
Traveler 2009
ing? It's eight," Lucas said appearing sweet. A butterfly was
beginning to flutter in my stomach, before my bitterness
killed it. Surrender is not a word in my vocabulary. Just like
weakness. I may look like a fragile woman petite and slender
but I'm a firecracker.
Just getting an early start on my day," I lied. He didn't
need to know
I'd rather hide in my office than face him. Besides his little
slut loved to show up at my house, to bring him breakfast.
Lucas never ate before the afternoon, he'd drink Coke all
morning while I drank black coffee, but we never ate before
noon. Everything changes. Put a new girl in his bed, and sud­denly
eggs at nine is his new routine.
"That's different. You used to wait to the last second to
"You told her you loved her?"
leave. So you have to stay, and talk to me," Lucas said pouring
me another cup of coffee without waiting for my response.
He was so arrogant, which first attracted me to him. Now it
was annoying and smug.
"A bit presumptuous. You automatically think I will stay,"
I said giving away a grin. He deserved that at least; he did
wake up for me.
"I'd like to think I still know my wife. Your hair looks
nice. I like the curls. Did you put highlights in your hair?"
Glendale Community College
Lucas asked me, his deep blue eyes hypnotized me. He
noticed my hair, granted it took him two days to notice the
platinum blonde streaks in my hair.
"I'm glad you like them. You still look cute in your pa­jama
pants," I said not believing I actually gave him a compli­ment.
But he did. Lucas was still sexy. Especially in the morn­ing,
in blue pajama pants, his blonde hairs messy sleep adding
to the erotic look in his eyes. I took a swig of coffee trying to
break myself out of this haze I was under. When I set the cup
down on my counter I noticed his hand was touching mine.
It was an electric shock.
"You still find me sexy," Lucas replied in a sensual voice,
his eyes dancing with lust. He moved closer to me. My heart
was shuddering. Closing my eyes, I felt his strong arms en­circle
my waist. The air in the kitchen became thick; I took a
long deep breath through my lips right before he kissed me.
When his lips were touching mine, I felt dizzy, spellbound,
my legs shaking. For once his mouth didn't taste like her. He
tasted like fire, the kiss deepening, and as pulled me on top
of the counter laying me down I was taking a trip through his
inferno.
I didn't want to see anymore, just wanted to feel him.
When he bit my lip I realized this wasn't a dream, it was
magic again. I felt him pull my panties down, my black skirt
was pushed up around my waist, I heard my coffee cup shat­ter
on the floor. This made me look up for an instant. Out
of the corner ofmy eyes I saw her. Sadie, the uber skank. In
a blue camisole, low rise jeans, showing off her tramp stamp
tattoo, and thong.
I pushed Lucas off of me, driving one of my heels into his
bare chest. He whined out in pain looking confused until he
noticed her walking up to our door. I pulled my panties back
up, pulled my skirt down, and hurled another cup at the win­dow.
"Why are we even pretending Lucas!!?? She's the girl you
really want. You wanted a child right? Go fuck your child!!"
The window cracked.
I tried to run out the door. Escape everything, and hide,
but Lucas pulled me back, grabbing my wrists his emotional
eyes pleading with me. I was confused, and scared but those
feelings vanished when Sadie walked inside my house. I tasted
venom in my mouth. Hatred coursed through my veins. I
wanted to tear the bitch apart. Sadie locked eyes with me
showing a bit ofjealousy in her indigo eyes, she gave Lucas a
little girl pout like I stole her toy. I knew girls like this who
took my classes. They get upset at the drop of a hat because
they feel more entitled to things because they're pretty. I was
never that way. My brain is what makes me think I'm entitled
to more.
"What's going on here?" Sadie whined. She glanced
around the kitchen from the shattered coffee cup on the floor,
to the crack in the window. Such violent signs of an attempt­ed
moment of tenderness. I moved my mouth to speak to tell
her off but Lucas cut me off mid-syllable.
''I'm still in love with Anya," Lucas said strongly, ignoring
9
Giddy Cat
by Veronica Aguilar
Graphite Drawing
10 Traveler 2009
the tears in both ofour eyes. 1 blink my eyes several times as is
to shake myself out ofa dream. This was real.
"You said you loved me!" Sadie screamed.
"You told her you loved her-?"
"I never said 1 loved her-!"
"It's nice to have you back.
That's the spitfire I
remember marrying."
1 took a second to digest that Lucas directed his answer to
me, and not to Sadie. 1 glanced at Sadie she looked exasper­ated
pulling at her dyed blonde and black hair, her dark eyes
were red. She looked like a puppy that had been kicked. 1 felt
a bit ofsympathy towards her knowing what it's like to have
Lucas not care for you. Then 1 remembered she caused those
feelings in the first place.
"Sadie you put this whole thing in motion. You seduced
Lucas at work by criticizing me! Making me question my
own sexuality, and whether or not I'm a good wife. Well guess
what? 1 have more knowledge and power about sex and mar­riage
than a child like you could comprehend!" 1 bellowed at
her.
"Then why does he have sex with me!" Sadie
hissed back, scowling at me, pursing her lip gloss coat­ed
lips. She looked so childish, no wonder Lucas want­ed
her. He wanted a child with me more than anything.
"Then why are you angry that you found us half naked
about to fuck on the countertop. Obviously he hates having
sex with me. Sure. All you have is sex appeal. I'm his wife,"
1 said reflecting tones of sarcasm then flashing my wedding
rings at her. She wanted to fight, I'll fight harder.
Sadie leaned back, silent. 1 sensed she
was mulling over what 1 said with the few brain cells she
had. 1 knew Lucas didn't love her. Sadie was just a sex toy that
he used as a weapon against me. Now Lucas surrendered, only
looking at me, and not at her.
"Lucas, why?" Sadie whispered. She looked human and
not artificial.
"You knew this wasn't forever, Sadie," Lucas replied,
looking calm. He wasn't upset. 1 envied him, 1 was neurotic.
1 was anticipating disappointment, watching Sadie move to
kiss him. 1 closed my eyes to disappear, but when 1 opened
them 1 was shocked. Lucas pushed her away. He didn't let me
down like he had many times before. This was the Lucas 1 fell
in love with.
"Lucas, you don't mean this. 1 don't know what Anya's
Glendale Community College
done to you, but you want me," Sadie pleaded, trying to con­vince
herself she believed what she said.
"He means everything he said. Lucas doesn't lie, and for
me, I've done nothing. Get out ofour house!" 1 said calm at
first then shouted the last sentence so she knew 1 meant it.
Sadie threw up her arms in defeat, ran out the door, slam­ming
it like the angry teenager she was.
"It's nice to have you back. That's the spitfire 1 remem­ber
marrying."
"Not a pretentious poet," 1 said finishing his sentence.
He loathed my poetry, which was always an underlying
problem causing part of our breakdown. He said 1 was
obsessive and he would always come second place to my
metaphors, even though my love for him was a frequent
topic in my poems. Life never used to be like this.
When 1 was a child 1 fantasized about my adult life,
weaving together a pattern of perfections 1 know now 1 can't
achieve. At ten 1 was naming my children, and imagining
my husband. Lucas embodied my childhood fantasies, but
somewhere in the midst 1 grew up. On my wedding day 1
understood perfection, and poetry poured out ofme like a
raging storm. Now covered in sadness and disappointment
metaphors are cold and bitter fading in luminescent from
earlier work. Everything is fading, losing meaning. 1 can't
draw beauty from negativity, yet 1 can make sadness
gorgeous when I'm happy. Love was a powerful muse. 1 was
a queen, and 1 married the king. Unfortunately the king be­trayed
his majesty and I'm left clinging to my crown.
"You changed lately baby," Lucas said, 1 jolted up trying
to decipher his blue eyes for answers.
"I've always loved you," 1 said knowing he was right. 1
was different.
"But you show it now, it used to be all about your writ­ing,
maybe because you're having issues with it you know how
you feel, so do you love me?" Lucas said brushing my hair
back.
1 felt sick, and ran to my trashcan throwing up again.
Lucas ran up beside me.
"What's wrong Anya?"
"Nothing," 1 lied. 1 knew exactly what was wrong since 1
started throwing up this week 1 just tried to avoid it. 1 had to
jump this time. Let the fire consume me and let go.
"I love you dearly," 1 said undressing lying on the couch
patting to spot beside motioning his to sit.
"I love you so much we'll make it work," Lucas said hold-ing
me naked.
"Hey Lucas...."
"What baby?"
''I'm pregnant." We didn't talk then, just kissed, and em­braced
believing in magic again. This was our second chance,
our child. Conceived out of fire.
11
Untitled
by Natalie Seils
Silver Gelatin Print
12 Traveler 2009
Glendale Community College
HaShoah
(The Disaster)
by Martine Cloud
1st Place Poetry
Some folks like to pretend, IT never happened.
That while the bell tolled, the world didn't look away,
that human beings weren't tagged like stray dogs,
segregated by faith, orientation, or skin color.
They like to think, IT never happened.
That thousands of people, herded like cattle, were a fiction,
children weren't ripped from their mother's arms,
that families weren't forever torn asunder
They like to say, IT never happened.
The camps, ringed with barbed wire, nothing but an awful hoax,
photographs of bodies piled high, purely propaganda,
millions dead, the product of fevered imagination.
But of course, IT never happened.
Alas, until I no longer hear the cries of my sister being led away
to die,
until hollow eyes no longer follow me from their living skulls,
until the last digit of blue ink fades from my skin ...
I won't have the luxury to pretend, IT never happened.
13
by Leann Higbee, 3rd Place Fiction
Froste
Dawn peeked through the holes of the blinds and dashed
across the wall like a silent firework display. I stretched my
way out of the sheets and glanced at my slumbering wife. She
was so peaceful lying there as her sheets rose and fell with
her every breath. I imagined the sheets as an ocean and she
the tranquil tide. Sometimes in my sleep I'd smile; how did I
become so lucky?
Occasionally I awake finding her hovering over me laugh­ing
as chocolate locks of her hair brushed over my nose, "I
don't think there's a man who smiles in his sleep more than
you."
I thought about kissing her as she slept but I didn't want
wake her so early on a Saturday. We've been married for about
a year and even though veteran couples warned us about the
pitfalls of marriage, we decided to stop listening. I still wor­ried
though. I loved her deeply that I couldn't live with myself
if! brought her pain. Somehow knowing that neither one of
us wanted to make the other suffer made it easier to love.
Between each other's work schedules and the everyday
chores of living, time slithered through our fingers. This
day we decided we'd be intertwined in each other's hands as
though the moment lasted forever. We mapped out the entire
weekend like a treasure hunt. We had to make a stop at the
animal shelter-at her request-even though she promised we
wouldn't go home with a dog. It's not that I have something
against them, but maybe I was being selfish with the time I
had with my wife.
We had to stop at that new game store down the street
that was the holy haven of every gamer's fantasy. My wife
always comments on how big the character's boobs are. I
comment on how big the swords are. Ching ching, I slash you
through the throat, ohh! And you through the leg! Take that,
and that! I couldn't wait for the day to begin.
Maybe that's why I got up so early. Maybe that's why I
decided to jog that.morning.
Had I known when I left the house that morning that I
wouldn't return, I would have kissed her good-bye. I'll never
have that moment back.
A car sped through the crosswalk as I jogged across it,
blind to the tragedy that would soon occur. I knew that when
the bumper hit my legs it was over. The last sound I heard
wasn't the car screeching to a halt but a sharp crack of my
neck that echoed from the inside out.
Rest in Peace, the reverend had said. What a funny way to
put it; did he see her face? Did he see my newly wedded wife's
face? How could anyone rest in peace with a guilt fizzing in
14
Window
the core of their throats?
I saw the light people talk about. Yet as beautiful as it
was, I couldn't bring myself to step into it. I couldn't leave
her behind to face her misery alone.
I wished every night when she fell asleep by her own
tears that my remorse would travel between our two worlds. I
wanted to see her laugh that brilliant smile I love so dearly. I
wanted to embrace her beauty when her eyes glowed with­apassion
so vibrant it could paint a masterpiece. I wanted to
press my lips upon hers holding the memory like a page in a
scrapbook we thought we'd finish.
I remember the day we met for the first time.
I was sitting by myself reading the newspaper while
coffee spiraled like a dizzy dream inside my mocha mug.
That's when he came in. The air suddenly tasted sour. He
was tall, tan, and built as he exposed every arm muscle like a
trophy. His Hanes white shirt hugged his figure and strained
against his chest like a model's lingerie. I swallowed allow­ing
the chair to consume me. With feeble hands I shifted my
newspaper shield higher to cover my apprehensive face. I was
anything but built and couldn't pass as a husky guy, either. I
was just an Average Joe. Gosh, even the man's jet spiked hair
was intimidating.
He stopped scanning the menu and ordered something
that sounded appeasing. He seemed more interested in the
clerk behind the counter. I think she knew because she be­came
increasingly nervous. It sickened me when he spoke to
her like an object of his prized collection.
She pasted a smile on her face, "There's your coffee, sir.
Be careful it's hot."
"Not as hot as you, sugar." He leaned over the counter
into her space while winking an eye. I hated how he said
sugar.
She backed away cautious and he continued.
"Say, why don't you and me hang out at my place after
your shift?" He sipped his coffee while obviously flexing a
bicep.
She took a glance and dimpled her brows together dissat­isfied
but softened them before responding, "No thank you,
have a good day." She made a final reply backing away from
the counter anxious for the man to leave.
He grew frustrated with her answer and clasped her wrist
into his massive hands.
"Hey!" I barked thrusting my toothpick body out of my
chair. What the hell was I doing? I couldn't back out now.
Traveler 2009
We Make Things Ugly to Keep Them Beautiful
by James Legg
Honorable Mention
Silver Gelatin Print
Glendale Community College 15
"Leave her alone." I chucked my newspaper on the table and
marched over to them covering my anxiety.
"Oh," he said in a tone like I suddenly looked like better
meat. He thrust her wrist back, "What could you possibly
do." He chuckled examining my scrawny figure.
I had to think of something quick otherwise he was
going to drag me down some secluded alley way and that
would be the end of me.
'Tm a detective," I was surprised by my response and the
lies kept coming, "of the county's police department. I advise
you to leave this young lady alone." I narrowed my eyes
tempting him to continue. I felt as masculine as he looked.
"It would be best if you left the premises."
He glared at me debating on calling my buff but then
decided he ran into police officers too often. He wasn't about
to add another foolish act to his record. He muttered curses
under his breath slapping his money onto the counter and
stomped out without catching anyone's eye.
She smiled at me, "You're not really part of the police
department, are you?"
I laughed nervously as the coward returned, "No.. ."
I felt a fizzing sensation rise from the hardwood
floor and through my toes enriching my veins with sheer
happiness. I couldn't help but smile, what a perfect soul.
Her name was Scarlet and suddenly that was the most
beautiful name known to man.
During the nights after my burial, I heard her desperate
dreamswhisperingmyname,evenas theweeksbledinto months.
"Ryan." She said so faint it sounded like the silence of
winter when the sky blackened. "Why did you leave me?"
A throb of agony pressed through my cold skin like stick
pins in a voodoo doll. I sighed hoping misery would escape
with my false breath, but I knew it wouldn't. I glanced out
into the shadows of the night's alluring sky. Snow had fallen
when I wasn't watching. It was so fresh that it blanketed the
yard and the street like a sparkling piece of rolled dough.
I limped over to the window, unwilling to move, and I
glanced out into the dim street. I asked myself questions I've
been asking forever it seemed. Was I being selfish because
I didn't want to leave? Was I keeping her from moving on?
Was I useless as I lingered? Could she feel my presence as she
pushed herself through life?
Her face grew thin, cheeks hollow, and eyes dull as time
progressed. She was a shell so weary that I couldn't bare it
anymore. I pressed my hand on the glass feeling defeated.
I had to find the answers to my questions. I had to find
someone who could understand.
16
The sun raised the same it did the day before. I pressed
my cold weightless body on the surface of the bed staring at
her tormented face and swollen eyes from crying. A shadow
caught my eye as it flew across the window. I figured it was
a bird but this didn't surprise me. Something was left on the
glass, something that I couldn't understand.
My hand print as visible as the shimmer of snow, peered
at me. How-I wondered as I jolted upwards and stared at
a curious distance-was this even possible? I had touched
everything, moved whatever I could and nothing would
recognize my existence. Why would this window, this thin
piece of glass capture my existence? How could it know I was
here? I wasn't about to waste time questioning. I glanced at
my wife with a surge of excitement as though she could see
me. A window of opportunity never spoke to me more true
than this moment.
As the day continued, I trotted alongside Scarlet
anticipating when night fell since that's how it worked,
apparently. I played the words in my head. I'd spill my sorrow
on the glass, my love, my worries...my
loneliness. I wanted to write an entire
novel upon the glass. Would she even
notice?
I stood behind her desk like I did
every day she went to work. Peering and
observing her as she shuffled through
papers. She was always organized,
everything had to have a right place
otherwise she couldn't function. Now her
desk was a pile of papers, like the pile of
dishes, and the laundry that waited when
she came home. Nothing was spotless
anymore.
I stood there agonizing over her
frustration. Often times the paper she was
searching so desperately for was right in
front of her. Eventually I stopped pointing
realizing she couldn't see me. She still had
our wedding picture beaming at her from
the corner of her desk.
"Scarlet." A concerned voice
approached us examining the mess Scarlet
had created.
I remembered this man from a cocktail
party. He was one of the other editors of
this newspaper along with Scarlet. I never
liked the guy, probably because he was too
perfect. Clean shaven, pampered chestnut
hair, and smooth pressed shirt. I smiled at
myself as I found an imperfection. How
silly a thing it was but a button had wiggled
out of its' hole. Or was he trying to look
less intimidating. My jealousy returned at
this thought.
"Scarlet," He repeated soft as honey and
eyes full of anxiety.
She sighed finally looking up at him,
"Tom, 1..." she paused. I could hear the
faint crack in her voice.
He reached for her delicate hand from
Traveler 2009
the other side of the desk. 1 clenched my jaw down hard.
Who did he think he was?
"Hey!" 1 shouted but nothing changed. 1 hated being able
to witness everything but unable to do anything.
''I'm sorry," she said pulling away her hand and 1 grinned
with satisfaction at her action.
"Don't be sorry." Tom said calmly and continued, ''I'm
the one who's sorry. I've been avoiding you for reasons 1
shouldn't."
1 was drawn back by this. Was her sorrow so intoxicating
that he had to get away from her?
"Gee, aren't you nice, Tom. All she could ever say was
nice things about you." I huffed crossing my arms.
Scarlet looked up at Tom as confused as 1 was, "I thought
you went to visit your ill mother?"
Tom sighed to himself with a hint of guilt. His broad
shoulders collapsed. "She's fine. 1 didn't visit her."
Scarlet shook her head, "I don't understand."
Grand Canyon
by Mary Lou Johnson
Watercolor
"It's okay. Just know that I'm sorry." He face twisted into
doubt but why I wondered. Why avoid her?
I didn't realize how nervous he was standing there; he
never came across like this before. He was always so bold and
brave but now he appeared to be on the verge of breaking.
Scarlet and Tom were close friends and not just co­workers.
It worried me sometimes but I trusted my wife. It
would have pained her to see his distress, if she wasn't in pain
herself.
He sighed trying to find the right words to say.
"Let me know," he paused to collect himself and looked
directly into my eyes. "Ifyou need any help."
There was no doubt about where Tom stared. He plotted
his words in such a manner that it could be directed to both
Scarlet and me without appearing out of place. I shivered
with a shock so pure it felt like an illusive adrenaline rush.
"You can s-see me?" I couldn't get the words out as they
stumbled over my chatting teeth.
He lowered his eyes and his facial expression changed
slightly knowing he couldn't take this back. That's why he
said he left to visit his apparently not so ill mother. He wasn't
avoiding Scarlet, he was avoiding me.
He turned with a heavy sigh and headed back where ever
he came from. "Wait!" I announced almost leaping over the
desk to rush next to him.
"Not here." He hissed.
That's right; he would look like he was talking to himself
in a room full of fellow co-workers. He still had his own life,
his own worries, and a reputation to keep in tack. He seemed
to say more things in fewer words. He did mention he could
help, and he did mention that he'll talk to me, just not here.
This was an even bigger window of opportunity than the cold
glass at home. I wasn't about to lose sight of him.
"Ryan." He said obviously annoyed as the day
progressed. "I said I was going to help so stop hovering."
He knew his tone was harsh so he added a please before
continuing. "People don't normally believe in what I can do. I
don't want to ruin our friendship."
''I'm dead, what does it matter?"
"I meant Scarlet." My shoulders slouched at this. I knew
she would be hard to convince, so did Tom. "I didn't mean
anything by grasping her hand earlier. It just pains me to see
her like this."
"You have no idea." I mumbled under my breath.
"Scarlet." Tom whispered as she was getting ready to leave
work behind. "I was curious if you were interested in a cup of
coffee."
Scarlet's face was perplexed at this idea. She wanted to say
no, I could tell, but she was too weak to argue with something
so simple. She nodded allowing her lip to curl into a fictitious
smile.
She never liked coffee, which I found somewhat amusing
because she used to work in a cafe. She just liked the vanilla
drinks.
"Tell her you'll get her the vanilla drink with extra ice." I
said to Tom who looked at me weary, but thought this might
help.
She nodded slightly surprised by Tom's knowing of this
drink. I sat next to Scarlet's tattered soul whispering, "I love
you." Knowing she couldn't hear me.
18
"Here you go, Scarlet." Tom said forcing a smile; I could
see his nerves taking a toll on his hands. He glanced at me
tucking them beneath the table.
"Thanks Tom." Scarlet smiled swooshing the straw against
the ice and taking a hesitant drink.
"So, how do you tell someone about your gift?" I asked
Tom knowing he really couldn't answer me.
"Scarlet," Tom began as he looked up at her tentatively. "I
want to explain why I've been avoiding you."
She licked her lips and bit down preparing herself,
"Whatever it was Tom, it's quite alright."
Tom looked around the room searching for
the words, "I have this... gift."
Scarlet smiled half way, ''Are you
superman?"
Tom laughed, thankful that she broke
the ice with her humor. Even I smiled.
"No, I'm not superman." He flexed a
bicep. "I don't have those kinds of guns." He
rubbed his neck pausing, "I can ... see and talk
to ... " he swallowed hard catching her patience
eyes, "ghosts."
Scarlet's body became stiff and the color
from her face lighten.
"What are you trying to say, Tom?" Her voice
was guarded, like she did when we use to argue.
"Tell her I'm here." I pleaded.
Tom hesitated, "Ryan's here."
"This isn't funny." Scarlet thrashed a cold tone.
"Did you know she didn't like coffee?" I asked
Tom anxious.
Tom got the hint, "How would I know you liked
vanilla drinks with extra ice?"
"Tom, don't do this, I can't take this." Scarlet
winced as she got up.
"Tom," I searched for the answers, "tell her that the
first time we met was at the cafe she worked at."
I waited for Tom to say this and when he did, Scarlet
stopped in her tracks.
"Tell her a man was hitting on her and I stopped him."
Tom mimicked me, eager to get Scarlet to understand.
"How did Ryan stop him?" Scarlet asked curious ofTom's
answers as she eased back into the chair. Tom looked over at
me.
"He was a detective," Tom announced to Scarlet, "of the
county's police department."
Her eyes widen and the color left her face again. I could
tell she believed him. I could tell that he would give her all I
wanted her to know and I could tell that everything would be
okay.
"What else does he say?" Scarlet pleaded with struggling
eyes.
"Tell her to look on the window in our room." I paused
searching her impatient expression. "Tell her I wrote a
message, just for her."
I was going to tell her as I sleep an eternal rest I'm
smiling, like she always said I did. This time I was going to
kiss her good-bye even if she couldn't feel it. She would know.
Traveler 2009
Journey
by Betsy Knauf
1st Place Painting
Oil and Acrylic on Wood
19
22
Asmiling woman standing, the sun to her back,
As the wind was blowing through her hair,
In her shadow to notice she did lack,
To see a hopeful young child intently gazing.
And wondering could I ever be that woman?
A woman so beautiful, the sun shining in her face
The striking woman doesn't understand,
Her vibrancy in any way, instead is humble,
Unconsciously modest in every single way.
Sitting in her shadow I wonder, could I ever be that woman?
A woman so giving of her devoted heart,
So deeply committed to her family and friends,
Giving so much love, attention and time,
Receiving so very little, taking less for her self.
Sitting in her shadow I wonder, could I ever be that woman?
A woman determined, so faithful and true,
By her example she teaches her children
To learn, love and live our lives,
So that we can forever be with Him.
Sitting in her shadow I wonder, could I ever be that woman?
A woman so intelligent yet never truly appeased,
Her standards are high, her talents she denies
Keeps on learning new things in her quiet way,
She seeks after knowledge each & every day.
Sitting in her shadow I wonder, could I ever be that woman?
A woman so strong, standing in the storm,
When life's adversaries were pulling,
Doubt and fear standing at her door,
She rises to the task, powerful and unalarmed.
Sitting in her shadow I wonder, could I ever be that woman?
A woman though faulted so many times,
Yet is unselfishly forgiving, keeps on encouraging others
To always do the right thing - It's just a way of living
Sitting in her shadow I wonder, could I ever be that woman?
Sitting in your shadow basking in your grace
My eyes look upon you so strong and so brave
In awe of all your beauty, your heart to your face,
I still hope and wonder could I ever be like that woman
That wonderful woman '" you?
by Mary Mackey
3rd Place Poetry
Shadow
by Mary Ann
Funderbuck Greene
3rd Place Painting
Watercolor
Traveler 2009
Glendale Community College 23
Traveler 2009
by Danica Buckhannon
Honorbale Mention Nonfiction
a missing piece. Yet there she was in the middle of them.
''A duck walks into a bar and asks the bartender, 'got any
grapes?' " Jonathan continued entertaining us. "The bartender
says no. So the duck leaves, and comes back the next day and
asks, 'got any grapes?' and the bartender is annoyed and says
'no, this is a bar!' So the duck leaves and comes back the next
day, and before he says anything, the bartender says 'if you
come in here asking for grapes again, I'm going to nail your
bill to the bar!' So the duck comes back the next day and asks,
'got any nails?' "
I whispered in David's ear, "The bartender says 'no, why?'
and the duck asks, 'got any grapes?' "
"Gee thanks, I've never heard that one before, you ruined
it for me" he responded.
"Oh come on, you've never heard that joke before?" I
smiled and rolled my eyes jokingly.
"No, I haven't" he shook his head and pinched my side
playfully.
"Oh, sorry." I pinched him back. "I have a joke, but 1..."
I tried to quietly tell him in his ear. I immediately regretted
opening my mouth.
"Danica has a joke she wants to tell."
"No, 1... I don't want to. It's just..."
David started to tickle me, and I looked around to see
encouragement from faces circling me to share.
I hesitated. "No, I don't want to."
"Tell it. They want to hear. I'm sure its funny."
I raised my eyebrows and started to open my mouth, but
he put his fingers on my lips. "She has a joke she wants to
tell."
They all looked at me. I had no other choice.
''A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead rob a bank-"
''AH hah! Oh? That's not the joke? Oh okay, sorry, go
on." One of David's sisters interrupted.
"Ha-ha, okay. A blonde, a brunette, and redhead rob a
bank-"
"Hey! Who threw this at me? Oh, sorry, go on" a brother
interjected.
''All right. A blonde, a brunette, and redhead rob a bank-"
Someone coughed. I took a deep breath, trying to not
become flustered and fumble words.
I started over. ''A blonde, a brunette, and redhead rob a
bank-"
"Pete and Repeat were in a boat..."
And this time, I joined with the laughter. I noticed that
finally, the family laughing at my expense, was also letting me
in and allowing me to laugh with them. I laughed until the
24
• , ,.,.
! ',; GLENDALE COMMUNITY COLLE~~
l~~.7~~__":'Cff*F5W5WTf5%'· )
They insisted I sat on the couch next to him.
However out of everyone there, I felt the least
deserving of a nice comfortable position across
from their dying mother. She was sleeping. She had been for
four days now. We sat there quietly, and I sat there awkwardly.
Finally, an older brother, Jonathan broke the silence. "Pete
and Repeat were in a boat. Pete jumped out, who was left?"
"Repeat" one of the family members said.
A timid smile grew on my face.
"Pete and repeat were in a boat. Pete jumped out, who
was left?"
"Repeat" the 13 year-old niece on the arm of his chair
answered. There were a few laughs. He started to repeat it
again.
Something shiny hit my face. I looked down to see a
silver wrapper balled up. I looked to my left, and there was his
younger brother, trying to stifle a smile. I looked around and
noticed little silver balls quietly being thrown across the room.
Even across the bed where the frail body quietly lay.
The room was big, with a nice couch along the wall, an
armchair, a few chairs here and there, surrounding a bed that
stuck out the middle of the room where the body of my
boyfriend's mother rested. However, it became very small, at
least to me, with 15 other people who would secretly examine
me when I was pretending not to notice.
Smiles slowly began to creep up on their faces as the
second oldest continued his jokes and the little wrappers
from peppermints subtly flew across the room. The jokes
were nothing I hadn't heard before. A joke about heaven, one
about how you put an elephant in a fridge, a pig joke, and
then of course, the blonde jokes.
His father looked at me as if to say, "are you okay with
these?" but I knew they were going to continue on, regardless
of what my reaction would be.
I looked at him, and wanted to say, ''Are you okay with
these? That's not my wife about to take her last breath."
"How do you kill a blonde?"
"Put spikes on her shoulders and ask her name."
"No, put a scratch and sniff sticker on the bottom of a
pool!"
"How can you tell if a blonde has been using a
computer?"
"There's white-out all over the screen!"
We laughed, and debated the different answers. Or rather,
they laughed, and I watched. I watched as they interacted with
each other, each fitting in with another as if it were a puzzle,
and together they made this family, who each felt the sting of
25
/
· ~-'-'
....
Man Seated
by Napoleon Manigbas
Watercolor
for you. You should have seen your face!"
I was laughing, "Shut up, leave me alone." I said,
although I meant it in jest.
"If it makes you feel any better, we have all heard that
joke before. We've heard all these before, we just though we'd
have some fun," his father said consolingly with a smile.
''Yeah, I know, I know" I said when I finally gained some
composure.
I sat back in the couch, holding David's hand, as smiling
faces surrounded me. I took a deep sigh, and relaxed for a
moment, before the covers on the bed rustled quietly.
scene in front of me became blurred, and my face started to
hurt. Once we calmed down, I went on with my joke.
'~d they all run into a barn and hop into barrels. The
cops look around and kick a barrel. The redhead says 'meow,
meow' and the cops move on. They come on the brunette's
barrel and hear 'woof, woof', and move-
"Potato! Potato!" David interjected. He had just ruined
the joke.
"I hate you." I responded, as slugged his shoulder.
The room erupted with deep laughter, and I could feel
my face become maroon with embarrassment as I also could
not help but dissolve into the sound around me and laugh
until my stomach hurt.
''You ruined that joke for me, so I thought I'd ruin one
Glendale Community College
Untitled
by Sara Malany
2nd Place Photography
Ink Jet Print
30
)
/
Traveler 2009
Glendale Community College 31
Male Posing
by Dorothy Christensen
3rd Place Drawing
Pastel
32
·f
Traveler 2009
Some nights I go to bed at a reasonable time
However tonight, I lie awake
With thoughts buzzing around in my head like little bees
And I can feel their stings with every breath
See tonight she said she loved me
And I care for her more than I care for myself
But I don't know what love is
So I was silent and she went upon her way
And now the conversation plays over and over again
A constant replay of what I said and what I should have said
I should have told her
That she reminds me that there is a God at every glance
That her eyes bring forth memories of stargazing
Laying outside on my lawn as I played connect the dots with constellations
Her smile makes me want to smile
And her laughter makes me feel alive
I should have told her
That she is what keeps me up late
Staring up at the ceiling and seeing her face in the plaster
She makes me happy to be where I'm at and what more could I ask
But I said nothing
You see I'm not very skilled in the speaking sense
And my words seem to burn more bridges than they build
My words seem to leave me when I need them most
And it's my words that make me taste my foot so frequently
For I am able feel for someone with the intensity of a sonic boom
And I can care with the strength of a black hole pulling a sun into its abyss
My passion can be as hot as an inferno ravaging a house of cards
And I can be so emotionally attached to someone
That there isn't enough turpentine in the world to break the bond
But to say that takes more than I have
Maybe it's the admission I am getting close
Maybe it's the words that don't want to be spoken
Maybe it's me and how I really feel
Or maybe it's her, because reality's too real
So tonight I cannot fall asleep
Awake I lay, with my heart on my sleeve
Wishing she could see me bleed my love through the veins now open wide
And with every beat another word comes that I should have said
And memories upon memories come back into my head
Making me wish to relive the past in the future and change it
If only history did repeat itself I could make it right
But my memory won't let me forget and so in my past it stays
I lie here thinking of what I could have done
What I might have changed
Knowing it would work as much as wishing on a star
That it would get me just as far, but still
I wish she were by my side
I wish she would tell me again what before left me mute
And for once I could respond with a simple three-word phrase
And for once I could look into her eyes and not see tears of pain
And maybe just this once I could make it all okay
Then close my eyes and sleep the night away
But the wishing well was sold out
And so night cannot be a place of rest
Until the sun rises in the west
33
by Richard Morris
Glendale Community College
Chestnut Curls
by Deelyte Wigman
Colored Pendt
34 Traveler 2009
to~·
I recall our eacounters from the past two months- adven­turous,
"more. more, harder. faster: energetic, enthusiastic,
continuous-hardon-where's-the-eondom-pullout-method­spontaneous
sex.
Fuck. Me
lf~~I_J~"r.d
ofcirue and de~
~~. IJ,tte:ttained
Hilook speaks of
holds his haftd to
~...t��" Iil_Dtfi aJlICJ ge'StUt'e.I toWIl'cl the
mi' ":paq: .. 1N1QIlC c:alI.
111I .8]11' U11e. a1twa1kan inalce my
'*t!'tOvf.ttd oiIiceJ .J'1ngmy hands, Eace
~~."lVJ,fu ~:hJef. eat an body funk
_,lijJJattbe Boor, mtting with the
puffs ofamogyair that creep through
tile loading bay doors.
squeeze around the Foreman, perched
on the catwalk like a fat toad. "No personal
calls," he says. The irony escapes him.
An icy blast ofair fogs my safety glasses
as I open the door and step into the office.
The office crew keeps the AC temp at 60 and
wears sweaters aU the time.
'The girl at the desk wrinkles her nose,
leans away &om me and points to the phone.
"Its your glrlttiend.·1 pause. I was dating a
few women. I pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hey.· My best-head-ever redhead.
"H~, Cookie.· She had been crying.
'"You te"
listen- to her raspy breathing; working
up to somethbtg.
'm pregnant.. Goose bumps crawl up
l11y legs and arms. My scrotum shrivels. 1m
cfQzy.
'"You sure? Lame.
"Don't be stUpid,· she barb. "I got tested
lac,""" '~.~Q~'
man standi
mtdl;
U t to go Cookie. AEta WUm.I:JJ.'U
I bang upheatin&,mj!......... .-._
the~s(intlng: back _~lWUClJn.
Dazed. my F trapped in the toilet
twice wJth fdiar.rhea. PAd. letUm to my
workstation, e Polan Waitbtg. t en your own tunt.
end eshift With a written Wlming for poo per­formance
an rec:cMng personal pLone caDs. My stomach
nunbles. Doaa sound pokey.
I dimb into my car. Diesel exhaust and cardboard dust
infused my nose and skin.
Inventory time.
I live in a rathole ofan apartment, drive a five year old
car, and work a shiay, no-brainer job for the paycheck. I got
a sport fuck buddy pregnant.
I had banked $21,000, survived Kandahar and Tora
Bora in Afghanistan, earned a Bronze star during my time
as a Marine. I can kill with either hand, jump out ofa plane
or helicopter in the dark without hurting mysel£ I was 6
months out ofthe Corps, honorably discharge, full VA ben­efits,
No tattoos.
In two weeks I start a program to become a Physi­cian's
Assistant, ,paid byVA loans. Successfully complete
the program, ttjoin the service and become a avy PA for
four years, all loans are foJgiven. Sco~ high enough on
MCAT and die avy ill put me through mediC*1 schoo
Hanlworlr. optiousm, adventure, kismet- fatherhood
wasn't in tha Ultt.
Shes on Let third maple bu with a Yohoo chaser when I
arrive. I &end to kiss her. She smells like syrup.
She turns away. "Sit over there. You stink..
" 0 more than usual.·
She snaps. uRight now, everything is more than usual'D
She takes pride in the way she looks. She carries her
extra ~ pounds well, hours strategically placed upon her
hourglass figure. But tonight she looks.... puftjr. Her eyes
are pink, swollen &om crying. Her glorious red hair, usually
so bright and 6dl it s~ the air on Gte, dull, carelessly pulled
Glendale Commun::::~ity~Col-==lel~ae=--- ...:3::.5_
back and tied. No earrings or makeup. She might have slept
in her clothes. She has BO.
I edge over from the next table. "How you doing
Cookie?"
A very hard look. Between bites of maple bar and gulps
ofYohoo, I get an earful. Her voice rises as she speaks.
"I don't fit in any of my jeans, my tits hurt so much
I can't wear a bra, I'm too nauseous to eat but I'm always
hungry." People are watching. "My Mother looks at me
funny but won't say anything. Work is hell, I'm either crying
or screaming, I can't concentrate," she grabs her head with
both hands, smearing maple frosting in her hair, "I feel like
I'm going crazy!"
She throws the maple bar on the table in disgust. "Why
am I eating this crap?" She stares at the food for a moment,
then at me, eyes wide, clamps her hand over her mouth,
jumps up and runs to the lady's room.
I hear retching and vomiting.
She shuffles across the tile Roor. Her as is wider. She sits
at the same table with me. I smell barf. The fight is gone. In
a small voice, she asks for a Sprite.
I rerum with a Sprite and a coffee for me. She's crying.
"I'm sorry. I'm such a bitch." Confusion and worry on her
splotchy face.
"You're pregnant."
Her small hand reaches toward mine, burrowing,
disappearing into my hand. ''I'm scared."
We hold hands. I listen to her breath. She blows a snot
bubble, wipes it away quickly.
"So what are you going to do?"
Looking like she was slapped, she snatches her hand
away. Her reaction shifts. Suprise. Fear. Anger. Loathing.
Fury.
"You selfish prick!" She throws her Sprite at my face and
knocks my coffee into my lap. Screaming, she is on the table
pummeling my face and head with her little fists. I stumble
away, knocking over my chair. The counterguy is yelling at
us to take it outside, we're disturbing the customers. We're
the only customers.
She comes after me. Slipping on the spilled liquids,
she falls hard, continues to scream abuse at me, impotently
pounding the wet Roor.
I listen. Jarred loose by her screaming and beating,
realization crawls from an unused corner of my mente. Sex
was more than just sticky Ruids and sweaty sheets. Thrown
together by lust and the vagaries of a calendar, we are in a
situation.
She looks pathetic sitting on the wet floor. I extend a
hand. She slaps it away. "Fuck you, you selfish prick."
''I'm sorry, Cookie. You're right."
"Say it." She wasn't yelling anymore.
''I'm a selfish prick. What are we going to do."
"Fuck you." Weakly.
I reach out to her again. "Com'on, Cookie. Get off the
Roor."
She looks up at me.
"I feel Ruttering."
"You going to be sick again?"
"No." She twists my work kerchief, now doing duty as a
snot rag.
"The baby." She looks straight into me. Her big green
eyes reRect the selfish pig I am.
We sit at another table. She cries more.
She shakes. I hold her. She rants. I take it.
She kisses me. I kiss her. Problems. Fallout.
Options. Consequences. Responsibility.
The donut shop closes. We move to the
Denny's across the street. The cooking odors
make her queasy.
Night fades. Morning creeps across
the sky. The early crowd comes in for their
coffee and Grand Slams. We sit, strangers
planning a future.
Miss Tupelo
by Erick Eichelberger
Mosaic: Styrofoam, Glass &: Grout
Traveler 2009
Race Against Women
by Kimberly Blaess
Acrylic on Canvas
Glendale Community College 37
Jimmy's face was
tormented. He
had tears in
his eyes. I was
speechless.
In the summer of 1970, my friend Patrick Flaherty had
helped me get a busboy job at Wiggins Tavern in Northamp­ton,
Massachusetts. All it required was a haircut and a strong
back. Busboys carried large silver colored metal trays to
deliver the patrons food or carry away the dead dishes. The
drill was to lift the tray over your shoulder and beat feet. The
faster you moved the happier the waitresses. Happy waitresses
split their tips with the busboys. On a good night, a busboy
could earn $50.00 for five hours work. The best deal was be­ing
assigned to a banquet. That could bring in up to $150.00
apiece. The place really was expensive. The hotel staff was
unionized and had a shop steward who made up the schedule
each week. The shop steward only worked large dinner par­ties
and banquets. It was an unspoken rule that busboys had
to slip him a percentage if they worked a banquet. The shop
steward had to slip a percent­age
to the hotel manager.
Jimmy the Busboy started
work in September of 1970.
He was young, only seven­teen.
However, he hustled
tables with the best of us. Jim­my
was skinny and sometimes
it seemed like the serving
trays weighed more than he
did. Somehow, he managed.
The waitresses loved him.
Unlike the other busboys,
Jimmy was able to engage
the patrons. Jimmy started to
work banquets almost imme-diately.
The shop steward wasn't pleased with Jimmy. Jimmy
didn't slip him his percentage. Jimmy was a friend of the hotel
manager. He was protected. The shop steward grumbled that
both Jimmy and the hotel manager were "light in the shoes."
One evening toward the end of September, I was assigned
to a banquet at the last minute. The shop steward had had a
winning pony and the celebration had gotten the best of him.
He couldn't make it so I was assigned by the hotel manager to
fill in. It was forty people with filet mignon. I also had to help
in the main dining area. I would be working with two wait­resses
and Jimmy. I had worked with both of the waitresses
before and we got along well. This would be the first time I
had worked with Jimmy. I was going to have a payday!
The waitresses and Jimmy were already hard at work set­ting
up the tables. By the time I got there most of the setup
38
was completed.
Unlike the main dining room, you got to have breaks
when you worked banquets. The waitresses loaded up the
trays and the busboys hauled and served. Once the patrons
were served, you could sit back and relax while they ate. My
favorite hiding spot was behind the dishwashing machine.
After serving the main course, I sat down behind the
dishwasher and lit a cigarette. I was just getting settled when
Jimmy walked up to me. I started to get up figuring that there
was some more work but Jimmy signaled me back down with
his hand.
Jimmy smiled and said, "I've been wanting to tell you
something. Well, not you especially, bur I have to talk to
someone. I'm gay."
"I'm pretty happy too, I think we'll make some good
money tonight," I responded.
"No, that's not what I
mean. I am gay, I am homo­sexual,
and I live with the
hotel manager.
This was startling and I
must have looked startled be­cause
Jimmy smiled patiently
and said, "don't worry, I know
you're not gay. But I also
know that you're not straight.
Your hair and your politics get
you into trouble just like me."
Jimmy then told me
about the Stonewall riots. We
both laughed as he described
how the police had been forced back by the angry mob.
Jimmy was a radical, just like me.
Then Jimmy did something that haunts me to this day.
He told me about being taunted at school. He told me about
life with his alcoholic parents. He told me how he loved his
little sister and how one night before her birthday he was in
his room sewing a new dress for her favorite doll. A special
surprise he was making for her birthday. How his mother
came in and seeing what he was doing called for his father
in a drunken rage. How his father came in and removed his
thick black leather belt. How his father whipped Jimmy with
the belt while his mother screamed, "Beat the sin out of him!
Beat the sin out of him!"
Jimmy's face was tormented. He had tears in his eyes.
I was speechless. Then Jimmy took off his starched white
Traveler 2009
SR
by Andrea Flies
Color Coupler Print
Glendale Commu~n~it':!.y~C~o~lle=:g~e~ -.;!..Z--.I
"I'm out of
the closet,
and I'm not
going back"
busboy jacket and lifting his shirt, he turned his back to me. I
saw the scars. That wasn't the first time his parents had beaten
him. However, it was the last. Jimmy ran away that very
night. He was fourteen.
Jimmy smiled as he tucked his shirt back in. "I needed to
tell you that."
Jimmy had talked and I had silently listened. I was strug­gling
to find some way to respond when the waitresses found
us. It was time to go back to work.
A couple of days after Jimmy had spoken to me; both
Patrick Flaherty and I were fired. Well, we weren't actu-ally
fired; our names were still on the work schedule. The
shop steward just didn't schedule us for any work. It might
have been our hair, or our politics, or the peace symbols we
sometimes wore. The shop steward had had enough of us. We
didn't really mind. The fall semester was in full swing. It was
time to play school.
The Student Union building at UMass was the place to
meet before and after class. It was a two-story building with
huge windows. Even on the darkest winter days, it seemed
filled with light. The ground floor was the lobby area. There
were always information booths
set up and manned by the stu­dents.
During those days, any­one
could set up an information
booth. Students for a Demo­cratic
Society, the Black Pan­thers,
Young Democrats, Young
Republicans, Environmentalists,
War Moratorium Activists, all
had booths at one time or an­other.
It was always interesting
to walk through the lobby on
the way to the stairway leading
to the basement cafeteria, the
Hatchet and Pipe known affectionately as The Hatch.
On November 30th
, right after the Thanksgiving break, I
entered the lobby and was immediately blinded. It was a very
cold November day and my glasses fogged up when they hit
the warm Student Union air. As I cleaned my glasses, I could
hear a commotion off to my right. With my glasses back on I
could see a crowd of around thirty or so students surrounding
an information booth. I couldn't make our what they were
saying. However, some of the voices sounded angry. Think­ing
that perhaps someone like ROTC had foolishly set up a
booth I started to make my way towards the crowd. As I got
closer I could make out "queer", "fag', "pervert" being hissed
and shoured. As I wormed my way to the front of the crowd,
I was shocked to see Jimmy the Busboy sitting at a card table
with a hand-lettered sign "Gay Liberation Front". Beside
Jimmy was a vacant chair. Jimmy had made up little pam­phlets
describing the Stonewall Incident. He was sitting and
smiling patiently as the crowd vilified him. When he saw me,
his smile widened and he waved with the fingers of his right
hand. With no real thought to what I was doing, I sat down
in the vacant chair. I soon came to my senses and immediate­ly
thought "this is not going to go well at aW" Jimmy contin-
40
ued to smile patiently. I started to feel sweat on my back.
I saw the familiar face of a young woman who often sat
with the hippies and the radicals at the back of the cafeteria,
the Back of the Hatch. Her eyes widened when she recog­nized
me and she immediately pushed back through the
crowd to escape. In a few minutes (which felt like hours), the
crowd started to part. I saw my friends, Dead Kitty, pushing
their way towards me. Little Mikey, Floater, Babyface, Pooz,
Sidecar, Mad John, and several other Back of the Hatchers
made their way to Jimmy's GLF card table. My friends looked
at Jimmy, looked at his Gay Liberation Front sign, looked at
me and silently turned towards the crowd. Linking arms, they
waded into the crowd, pushing it back, clearing a space. Then,
still silent, they turned back to the table and sat down. This
had a calming effect on the crowd. Some walked away, but
even more joined my friends on the floor.
Jimmy told the group about Stonewall. Jimmy told the
group about persecution and injustice. Jimmy told the group
'I'M OUT of the CLOSET and I'M NOT GOING BACK.
The crowd applauded, some even cheered "Right On!" Jimmy
the Busboy had delivered a mes­sage.
Someone from Dead Kitty
was sitting with Jimmy all that
first day, we took turns. I hadn't
told my friends about Jimmy. I
hadn't told my friends about the
story Jimmy had told me back
in September. However, they
were able to recognize a revo­lutionary
when they saw one.
Floater was so impressed with
Jimmy's courage that he gave
him one of our patches. Jimmy had a skull and thistle.
The next day, when I entered the Student Union lobby, I
saw Jimmy the Busboy at his card table. This time he was not
alone. A young woman was sitting with him. Jimmy intro­duced
me, ''Amy, this is Spook." Amy smiled and reaching to
shake my hand said" Hi, I'm Amy. I'm out of the closet and
I'm not going back" Jimmy's message had been heard.
Each day I saw new faces at the card table. Some I
recognized some I did not. Students, instructors, associate
professors, full professors, and even administrators took a turn
sitting at the Gay Liberation table. Right up to the Christmas
and semester break, Jimmy's message spread.
When the second semester started, I was in my usual spot
sitting in the Back of the Hatch with my Dead Kitty friends
as we tried to figure out what classes we should take. Jimmy
came up to us shaking with excitement. "We have an of-fice!"
Students and faculty had pressured the Student Union
Activities Committee and the Gay Liberation Front was now
a recognized student activity. This meant a small budget for
mimeographing and office space. We all climbed the two
flights of stairs to the office area. Sure enough, wedged into
Traveler 2009
a tiny office shared with the Chess and Asrronomy clubs was
a small desk with the letters GLF painted in pink. Jimmy
frowned and then smiled. "I swore I'd never go back in the
closet." Little Mikey chuckled and said in his best Irish accent,
"Boyo, I wouldn't be worrying about the closers. Ye be comin'
ourta the woodwork now!"
In the late spring, Jimmy came down to the Back of the
Hatch to say goodbye. He had a small knapsack and told us
of his plans to hitchhike to Boston and stay there for a while.
We said our goodbyes and Jimmy headed for the door. Floater
called out "What part of Boston you headed to?" "Cam­bridge"
Jimmy answered. "What patt of Cambridge?" Floater
asked. Jimmy smiled and slipped on his jacket. "Harvard" he
replied as he stepped through the door. Little Mikey looked
at us and asked, "Did you see his right shoulder?" We had.
He was wearing the skull and thistle. Little Mikey statted to
laugh. He laughed so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. "Har­vard
Yard ain't EVER going to be the same!" We all statted
laughing. Loud boisterous laughing that caught people's
attention. When asked what was so funny all we could reply
was "Harvard."
41
To Your Noggin
by Andrea Flies
Ink on Paper
-
Glendale Community College
Once Upon c\ Lime by Richard Morris
42
Once upon a time I could look you in the eyes and not melt inside
I could have a conversation
A conversa-
A conversation without stuttering
We laughed like everyone else, nothing shared between only us
Once upon a time you were simply you and I was simply me
And we meant nothing special
You were no more than a face in the crowd
But once upon a time is only the beginning
As the crowd dissipates you were left standing alone
So I no longer could hide in the safety of other people
And where normally I would run away as fast as I could for fear of being happy
With you I cannot move
The fear only rising every second as you come near
Until you are by my side holding me up so I would not fall
Once upon a time being close and alone seemed so scary
And to have you here would start a tidal wave in the pit of my stomach
I would not or could not allow myself to be set outside this crowd
For in many one can hide
In a thousand people one can drift away into the shadows unnoticed and undisturbed
But when the crowd disappears and there is only one other person
All the successes and failures are fully seen
In my weakness I fear you will see me as the monster I see
The monster that is unloved, for all people see is this face mauled by the terror of time
I have grown up to be scared of connections
Loneliness has taken its toll and in my youth I look old
My face worn and scarred
Yet you softly touch the scars and wash them away
So when I look in the mirror I no longer see a monster but a man
See once upon a time I would let no one in
But if you fear to love, you fail to live
And the once upon a time passes by sooner than you know
So once upon a time I took a chance
Risking life and love
And happily ever after was the reward
Traveler 2009
Omnipotent Vision
by Betsy Knauf
Honorable Mention
Raku Stoneware on Wood
Glendale Community College 43
Pete, I was six and you were eight when the doctors
said you had something we never heard of before - Duchene
Muscular Dystrophy. The doctors said your large muscles had
begun to weaken. It started with your legs, would continue to
your back, arms, diaphragm, lungs, and, finally end with your
heart. The doctors said, "Pete's life expectancy is eighteen."
Terrified, you yelled, "They're wrong! I don't have that!" How
could they tell this young boy, with so much hope for his fu­ture,
that his days were already numbered? That he'd be lucky
if he reached adulthood?
Pete, you already Ropped one foot in front of the other
rather than taking even strides. Your calves enlarged, thighs
slimmed, and your leg muscles decayed. "Pete, just slow
down. Don't walk so quickly. Don't run! You'll fall down
again," I'd warn. I'd help you get back up, wishing we could
switch places, and we'd bear hug. I was so proud ofmy hand­me-
down bike and wanted to share it with you, bur couldn't. I
often felt that I shouldn't enjoy my life if you couldn't too. So
many fun things we still wanted to do were no longer options.
A short time later, your back curved, and rump stuck out.
Hating your reRection caused depression and resentment.
You'd sob with frustration, wanting to be just like everyone
else. We talked abour the fact that you didn't want people to
feel sorry for you or treat you differently than others or gawk.
"What are you staring at?" you said often. "I feel a monkey in
the zoo," you'd confess. I stuck up for you and noticed more
people with various disabilities. My heart went out to them
too.
The year you were ten, you were the MDA National
"Poster Boy." We were photographed with a local television
celebrity - Pops, entertained, and treated to a wonderful din­ner
by the MDA. We'd never encountered celebrities, or the
media. Although embarrassed to receive so much attention,
secretly you were thrilled. Your picture even made the paper!
Pete, I was so very proud to be your sister, your friend.
In their ignorance, the St. Agnes grade school staff treated
you as if mentally disabled. The school kids made fun, and
you'd get angry, cry, and then mean because of their behav­ior.
I'd defend, "Leave my brother alone." Soon after being
diagnosed, you were transferred to Genslen, a school for
those with disabilities, which you fought attending tooth and
nail. You were humiliated. The morning's battles consisted
44
of yelling, jerking, or fighting Mom or I as we cared for your
bathroom needs, fed, and dressed you. At school, arguments
and disruptions made it harder for you to pass classes. Hear­ing
"I should just drop out because I won't live long enough
to need an education anyway," cut like a knife frequently.
Your return from school in the "special van" became a whirl­wind
of fury. What could be done to change this? There were
no other options.
When you turned fourteen, Angie was born. Arms too
weak to lift or push your wheelchair, you wanted so desper­ately
to hold her, yet could only run a finger over her small
face. I'd raise her, nestle her into your shoulder and, oh Pete,
I'd watch love pour from you. I'd place your elbow on your
armrest, hand on her back, while you cooed. Other times, still
mentally battling MD's weakness, with envy you'd call me,
"The Little Mother."
Even though one seat belt embraced your waist, your
upper half tipped over, leaving you dangling, gasping for air,
pleading God for help. An additional strap was secured under
your arms. When MDA provided an electric wheelchair, you
said, ''I'll never ride in that thing!"
It was another sign of your deterioration.
I was in awe when you spider walked your hand slowly
up your chest, bit your finger to anchor your arm, then
Ropped your elbow onto your desk to use your hands to draw,
journal, or eat. Watching your efforts and determination, I
was humbled. Freddy, a five-pound poodle, sat on your lap as
you drew. Anger, depression, and frustration were processed
through your paintings, writings, and your furry companion.
Continually sharing paintings and journals with me, in time,
I realized you became a very good artist.
Dad, disgusted and disrespectful as usual, would help you
only if necessary. It seemed he was embarrassed and angry
that he had a "mutant" son. Dad didn't behave as a real father
should. The situation became like two bulls running toward
each other often ending in a disastrous collision. I remember
Dad knocking both you and your wheelchair completely over,
onto the Roor. How could he have done that? How very cruel
was he? When Mom and I tried to protect you, we'd suffer his
abuse. Through it all, you and I became best friends. I truly
loved you, Pete.
John, eighteen months my younger, always jealous of
Traveler 2009
Untitled
Rick Corpolongo
1st Place
Raku Stoneware
Glendale Community College 45
Mom's attention and dedication to her first-born son, spilled
your urinal on your lap. He'd laugh and pull pranks. You
pleaded, "Mom, I only want you or Mary to take care ofme
please!" We didn't like John. Bernie, Paul, and Angie were
much too young to help with you, so Mom cared for you
twenty-four hours a day. She also took in part time jobs and
later worked third shift to help financially.
Pete, at age sixteen, you were still at home under Mom's
dedicated care. We heard that many of the boys you knew
through MDA lived in nursing homes. Their families could
Richard Barrazza-Backside 180
by Cody Harris
3rd Place Photography
Ink Jet Print
46 Traveler 2009
no longer bestow twenty-four hour care. Most of those boys
passed away between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Sad­dened
as we learned of each death, we realized Mom deserved
much more appreciation than we gave her.
In your later teen years, wanting independence, you
ventured through the neighborhood or into the city alone.
This usually ended poorly. Your battery would die, or your
wheelchair would run into a ditch, tip over, ending up on top
ofyou as you helplessly lay in the stones, dirt, ditch, or grass.
Your only deliverance at that point was to wait for a Good
Samaritan.
Other than these excursions, you had little or no social
life. We'd have great times playing Rummy (I had the advan­tage
because I could hold more), or I stood on the back of
your wheelchair while we "danced" to music. Mom's great
idea was to look through the "White Pages" for strange last
names (Carrie Dababi, Dr. Slaughter, Harry R. M. Pitts, and
Ima Hogg) and we laughed until we cried at some of them.
Visiting a Christian neighbor, you found Jesus - the
greatest treasure. Adamant about our family's salvation, you'd
corner me in the kitchen, preach, and beg me to find my way,
warning about eternal hell. Discussing this at great length,
we'd both become frustrated from our different views. Pete,
you'd steam away from me in anger. Eventually motoring
back, you'd apologize, again confirming your concern about
the welfare ofmy soul. I was honored that you loved me that
much. The rest of the family would duck out of sight rather
than listen to your sermon filled with the passion of a fire and
brimstone evangelist.
Approaching your twentieth birthday, your strength
continued to decline, requiring a respirator at night, frequent
clappings, a tracheotomy, suctioning, and help drinking. Pete,
learning how to "Donald Duck" talk with your respirator in­tact,
gasping in between squawks, using your eyes for empha­sis,
was almost pathetic but amazing, endearing. Bronchitis
and pneumonia plagued your lungs. Bottles of medications
attempting to keep lungs clear and control pain lined shelves.
A stocking cap became fashionable to ward off the daily chill.
Thick knit sock-slippers sheltered your distorted feet from
staring eyes and provided protection. So many times, I heard,
"I want to give up, to go home." Oh Pete, it broke my heart
to witness the destruction that this terrible disease had caused
on you, your spirit. We'd talk about your tremendous burden,
then discuss heaven. - Would it be worth it all?
What a handsome man! Dark green eyes with heavy dark
lashes danced when you laughed. Your strong nose was from
our Irish ancestry. Full lips exposed large white teeth when
you smiled. Your face shape, square jaw line, copper colored
mustache, and red-brown wavy hair revealed our German
heritage. Doctors stated you were six foot two and should
have weighed at least one hundred eighty pounds. Instead of
the robust man you should have been, you weighed a mere
eighty-five pounds. The skin on your chest clung to each
rib, illustrating them like strings on a bass guitar. Shoulders
Glendale Community College
and arms were skeletal. So very underweight; your thin neck
looked like it was supporting a basketball. We'd lock eyes and
your heart shone through your face.
The Menomonee Falls News, a local paper, wrote an ar­ticle
about my hero. The Waukesha County Sherriff's Depart­ment
read the article and held a Walk-a-Thon and football
game fundraiser for you. With the proceeds, they purchased
a used Dodge van with a chairlift - a godsend. Mom wouldn't
have to struggle to get you and your wheelchair into ourVW
Bug. No longer would your head get hit, or neck fall back­ward
cutting off air, or the possibility of her dropping you
while she tried to load your helpless bag of bones into such
tight corners.
After thirty years of total devotion, Mom was beyond the
point of exhaustion, physically, mentally, and emotionally: the
State ofWisconsin granted her respite. Pete, while spending a
week in a nursing home, you fell in love with a nursing assis­tant,
Terri. She said it was love at first sight when she looked
into your captivating eyes. "Pete flirted unmercifully. He was
amazing," Terri admitted.
The two of you eventually moved in together. You finally
had your own family - a "wife" and her two teenage "kids,"
all who loved you dearly. You glowed when you talked about
them. I couldn't help but giggle when they complimented
you and you'd turn beet red. Your heart soared. At the touch
of her loving hand, your world lit up. Terri worked full time,
and then remained on the clock ever vigilant for your care.
With mixed emotions, I fretted she couldn't carry this heavy
schedule for long. I worried you'd be terribly hurt.
Your new family lasted over a year. At thirty-two years
old, Muscular Dystrophy claimed your life. I sat at your bed­side
for three days while you were comatose. I read the scrip­tures,
sang songs of praise, and prayed. Suddenly, on that last
afternoon, you opened your eyes, lifted your arm (which you
were not able to do for seventeen years), pointed to heaven,
and uttered words I so longed to hear. A moment later, you
peacefully passed away, a smile on your face.
Dearest Pete, I'm grateful you no longer suffer. Still miss­ing
you, two songs often run through my mind. Your favorite
song next to "Amazing Grace," was sung acappella at your
memorial. In a beautiful baritone voice, "In the Garden,"
filled the chapel. I still hear, ''And He walks with me, and He
talks with me, and He tells me I am His own, and the joy we
share, as we tarry there, none other has ever known." Another
ofyour favorites: "It will be worth it all, when we see Jesus,
life's trials will seem so small, when we see Christ, one look at
His dear face, all sorrows will erase," flowed through our ears.
I sobbed in pain and in joy.
My dear friend, you answered my question when you
miraculously lifted your arm and said, "Look straight to
Jesus and don't ever look back," and slipped into His loving,
outstretched arms. Thank you for your last message, my dear
brother, my heart, my friend.
47
by Peggy Olson
Honorable Mention Fiction
The ride to the hospital was downhill. Navigating the hill
home to Pacific Heights, Payne felt the cramp starting in her
right calf and cursed. Her legs were brutally reminding her it
had been over a month since she'd taken the bike our. De­termined
to make it to the top, she controlled her breathing,
slipped the K-2 into low gear, lowered her head and pumped.
As she crested the top of the hill, her limbs tingled and the
cramp had eased. God, that feels good.
A few minutes later, she wheeled the bike through the
vintage brass doors of her building. Tipping his hat, the door­man
held the door and said, "Good evening, Doctor. Would
you like me to take the bicycle up for you?"
Payne looked over her shoulder as she passed, "Evening,
Jon. Thank you. I can get it."
After hanging the K2 on the rack inside the door, Payne
went into the kitchen and took a Pepsi from the fridge.
Exhausted, she leaned against the counter for a few moments
holding the cold can against her pounding temple before
walking into the living room. Gazing out at the sweeping
panorama of San Fransisco Bay, she stood in the dark listen­ing
to the sweet sound of Eva Cassidy. The succession of lights
across the Bay Bridge appeared as an accompanying composi­tion
suspended in the bluish haze of twilight.
She watched the waning light reflect off the glass of the
buildings across the bay as the diminishing sunset coaxed
muted red and orange into the gray horizon of the Pacific.
Bone tired couldn't begin to describe the exhaustion she felt as
she pondered the lives behind the glowing windows, and tried
to imagine what it would be like to have someone to share the
end of day with-to have someone to love-to love her.
Setting her unopened Pepsi on the table, she stretched
to loosen the kinks from her back. It had been another long,
48
hectic day and tomorrow promised more of the same. With
melancholia, Payne turned and trudged down the hall to her
bedroom.
When her cell rang a few hours later, she threw back the
covers and stood beside the bed. Sensing a heart had become
available, she gathered her clothes as she answered, "This is
Doctor Cordell. Who's it for?" She closed her eyes for a mo­ment
and listened. Her reaction was always the same; excite­ment
mixed with profound sadness. ''I'm on my way."
Mentally, she methodically reviewed every word writ-ten
about the patient as she rushed back to the hospital. She
would see the recipient for the first time when she entered the
operating room. The hospital's transplant team members, the
patient's cardiologist, and her partner, Doctor Logan, handled
all the details preceding the transplant. The emotional detach­ment
made it easier when the time came to remove a heart
and replace it with the gift ofanother.
Only after holding many tiny hearts did she learn to
control the sorrow when she thought about the donor and
the life taken. Her heartbeat steady, she scrubbed in, blocking
everything except the life giving surgery she was about to do.
She was the best-the life of a child depended on it-she had
to be.
Entering the operating arena, she accepted the sterile
gown, gloves and mask that protected the precious heart and
the child that was to receive it. Her team was ready-waiting.
As the eminent maestro, she approached the operating table
and took a deep breath then held out her hand. When she
felt the slap of the scalpel against her palm she closed her
fingers-and it began.
Hours later, Payne skillfully tied off the last stitch in the
proximal aorta. "Alright, let's jump start this beautiful little
Traveler 2009
Untitled
Jason Bylsma
Mixed Media
Glendale Community College 49
heart and wean her off cardiopulmonary bypass so we can see
what we have here, folks."
Collectively holding their breaths for every interminable
second, they waited for the small muscle to quiver and begin
to beat. Everyone except for Payne. Her confidence in her
skill, and the skill of her team, bordered on innocent arro­gance.
After a transplant, Payne stayed at the hospital for the
first 48 hours to monitor her patient, spending more time in
the PCICU and the patient's room than the hospital's doc­tors'
quarters. Her eyes went from one monitor to another
that dwarfed the small sedated figure lying in the bed. Reach­ing
out, she brushed an errant strand of blond hair from the
child's face allowing her finger to briefly linger on the child's
cheek. Don't. It makes it too personal-too difficult.
A voice coming from behind startled her.
"Doctor Cordell."
She turned to see a figure of a woman who appeared
translucent standing in an odd light in the corner of the
room. Blinking her eyes, Payne attributed the illusion to lack
of sleep. When she looked again, the woman and the room
looked normal. "Yes, I'm Doctor Cordell, Ms... "
The woman smiled then in a soft voice said, "You hold a
child's heart in your hands, but hesitate to touch the life you
saved."
Payne stiffened at the intrusion of the woman's words
and her penetrating gaze. Taking a step forward, the woman
extended her hand. "You have been given a special talent,
Doctor Cordell."
Compelled, Payne took the offered hand. When their
fingers touched, disjointed images flashed through her mind.
Startled, she stepped back. As the connection was broken an
overwhelming fatigue washed over her. "1f...If you'll excuse
me, I have... "
With compassion in her voice, the woman said, "I know,
Doctor Cordell, you have to leave. We'll meet again."
Her legs heavy, Payne walked through the nurse's station
and stopped. Whatjust happened in there? I didn't even get her
name or even ask ifshe was the child's aunt.
She turned and looked toward the room to see it bathed
in that eerie light and the woman looking back at her with
50
kind eyes that spoke as if to say, 'It is as it should be.'
She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. When
she looked again, the light was gone and so was the woman.
Exhausted, she walked toward the doctors' quarters, but
hadn't gone far when she heard the page overhead, "Code blue
PCICU, code blue PCICU. Doctor Cordell, stat to PCICU."
With a feeling of dread Payne ran back to the unit.
Doctor Logan touched Payne lightly on the shoulder.
"We've done everything we can. You've done all you could. It's
time to pronounce her."
Numb, Payne stood mute looking down at the child; her
hands still wrapped around the lifeless heart. Not a sound
could be heard as Doctor Logan looked at the clock on the
wall and pronounced, "Time of death 0430."
Slowly, Payne removed her hands from the child's chest
then stripped off the gloves and surgical gown letting them
fall to the floor. Without a word,
she left the operating room
and walked toward the surgical
waiting room, stopping before
she went in to lean unsteadily
against the wall.
Her emotions raw, she
entered the room to find it
empty. Wearily she walked down
the hall to the nurse's station.
"Where is the family of the
Brodie child?"
The nurse looked from
the monitors that lined the counter. The word that the child
didn't make it hadn't reached the PCICU yet.
"I called the grandmother. The caregiver said she was very
ill. I've spoken to Whitney's aunt, her legal guardian, several
times, Doctor Cordell. I called her again when Whitney went
back into surgery. She's been calling every few minutes."
"Where the hell is she?"
"In Scotland. She's on the way back now."
Rubbing her temples, Payne asked. "Who was the woman
in the room last night?"
The nurse reached for the visitor list. "I've been here all
night, Doctor." She looked up from the clipboard she was
holding. "No one signed in as a visitor."
Dazed, Payne stared toward Whitney's room.
"Doctor Cordell, is there something I can do for you?"
"Plea...Please page Dr Logan. Ask her to meet with the
aunt when she arrives."
"How did the surgery go?"
"She...Whitney...the child didn't make it."
Stumbling out of the taxi, Payne managed to get up to
her apartment and drop exhausted on top of the bed into a
troubled sleep. When she woke the room was dark and she lay
staring up at the ceiling fan. Losing Whitney seemed surreal.
In her mind's eye, she could see herself brushing a piece of
blond hair from Whitney's face, but this time she could see
Traveler 2009
the child's trusting eyes looking up at her. Jerking upright,
Payne's anguished voice echoed through the apartment.
"Why? Why take both of them!"
For hours, aimlessly she walked the darkened streets of
San Francisco until she found herself standing on the Bay
Bridge. Off in the distance the mournful sound of a lone
foghorn and the rumble of thunder went unnoticed as she
looked down at the black water. Unnoticed was the eerie
mist that rolled uncannily across the bridge toward her or
the lights on the bridge that flickered and dimmed, casting a
greenish glow. The air crackled, raising the hair on the back of
Payne's neck and along her arms.
Her eyes were drawn briefly down the road to a figure
walking out of the mist toward her then back to the water.
Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, but the fog embraced
her, preventing her from moving. She felt a touch to her
cheek and heard her name spoken in a whisper. She opened
her eyes to see the woman who had been in Whitney's room
just before she coded.
"Doctor Cordell, I told you we would meet again."
"I. ..I don't understand. Why are you here?"
Calmly, the woman offered her hand. "I came for you."
Puppet like, Payne took the hand and the fog drew her
closer toward the woman. They were no longer on the bridge,
but walking side by side along a winding country road. With
every turn the sorrow lifted from her heart and the sensation
that she knew her guide grew stronger. They stopped in front
of a cottage with a thatched roof and windows that shone
with warmth from within. The woman led her inside to a
room where a fire crackled in a stone fireplace. "Sit by the fire,
Payne, while I put on a pot of tea."
As she sat and watched the flames, Payne felt her eyelids
growing heavy. When she woke, she was lying naked in a
feather bed under a crisp white sheet and a white down com­forter
in a room with white walls. Rays of sunlight streamed
into the room. Through an open window, a breath of a breeze
carried the scent of heather and the sea.
Inhaling the sweetness, her gaze went to the woman's face.
How natural it felt to be lying next to her. In awe, she traced
the woman's lips then down her neck to the swell of her
Unititled
by Somer Healey
Ink Jet Print
Glendale Community College 51
breast. When the woman opened her eyes, Payne called her by
name. "Good morning, Amelia. Did you sleep well?"
Amelia stretched then tightened her arm around Payne's
waist and placed her head on her shoulder. "I did. And you?"
"I slept well, too."
Amelia cuddled her naked body closer and slid her leg
over Payne's thigh. "Thank you, darling."
"What are you thanking me for?"
"For such a wonderful night."
Giddy, Payne ran her fingers through Amelia's silky hair.
"Tell me, what did you like most about it?"
Leaning on her elbow, Amelia gazed into Payne's eyes.
"Well, I liked this," she whispered as she kissed the soft skin
at the base of Payne's throat then tenderly on the mouth. "I
might need a little reminder on the rest."
If she was dreaming, Payne
prayed she would never wake. She
wasn't going to analyze or ques­tion.
For the first time in her life
she felt- loved. ''A reminder, huh?"
She pulled Amelia on top of her and
cradled her face between her hands
in wonder of Amelia's heart beating
against her. For a long moment she
gazed into eyes that held a promise
before touching her lips to Amelia's bare
shoulder.
"Ah, with a bit more encouragement
like that I might remember more."
A laugh came from deep inside Payne.
Amelia's nearness and touch filled her ww­heart.
Is this what itfeels like to be happy?
Rolling off Payne, Amelia threw back
the covers. "It's going to be a beautiful day."
She grabbed Payne's hand and pulled her up.
"If we want to enjoy the festival we need to
get up."
Payne felt giddy as she stared, taking in
everything about Amelia. Is this heaven?
"You look at me as iLas iffor the first
ti.me."
Words that normally came so hard for Payne
Rowed easily. "It is like I am seeing you, experi­encing
this, for the first time. You take my breath
away." Payne held Amelia's hand against her
chest. "Feel how my heart is beating."
They strolled carefree hand-in-hand along cob­bled
streets window-shopping, stopping to sample
the many delicious pastries and to watch people
dancing and singing in MacConnachy Square. They
drank the wine and joined the merriment. Music and
the sound of children laughing and playing Roated on
the air. Payne was intoxicated, not from the wine, but
from the exhilaration and euphoria of sensation.
52
Shadows were beginning to grow long when Amelia
sat on a bench and pulled Payne down beside her. Her eyes
searched Payne's face as if memorizing what she saw. Touching
her lips to Payne's she said, "It's time to go back."
Payne felt a sudden ache in her chest and grasped Amelia's
hand tighter.
"Do we have to leave?"
Nodding, Amelia stood up. "Yes, I'm afraid so."
The fog materialized as they walked along the road and
the music and laughter faded in the distance. Her heart was
pounding and Payne felt the panic starting deep in
her soul. "I don't want to go back.
I want to stay
Traveler 2009
with you."
Amelia stopped and pulled Payne into an embrace.
"Everything is as it should be. Remember, Payne. Remember
everything. Remember for both of us."
The fog grew thicker and Payne lost Amelia's hand.
Franticly, she turned in a circle and called out Amelia's name.
Without direction, she began to run, search­ing.
Her lungs bursting,
I See You
by Veronica Aguilar
1st Place
Charcoal
Glendale Community College
she finally stopped and found herself standing in front of the
hospital's ER entrance. Looking down at her clothes, she saw
she was dressed in the same wrinkled scrubs that she had on
when she left the hospital after Whitney died.
A nurse just getting off shift stopped when she saw
her. "Oh, there you are, Doctor Cordell.
Whitney's aunt just arrived and she's been
asking to talk to you. She's waiting in
Whitney's room." The nurse waved and
ran across the street yelling over the traf-fic
sounds, "Have a good night, Doctor
Cordell."
Dazed, Payne took the elevator to
PCICU. When she entered the unit
she could see a woman with her back
to her standing alongside the bed in
Whitney's room. Her legs weak, she
walked toward the room and stood
in the doorway. When the woman
turned Payne whispered, "Hello."
Staring, the woman wondered
why Payne looked so familiar, quite
sure they'd never met. ''I'm Amelia
Brodie. I'm waiting for...Ate you
Doctor Cordell?"
Remember. Rememberfor
both ofus.
"Yes, I'm Doctor Cordell."
Amelia's voice quivered,
''I'm so sorry I wasn't here
when the heart became avail­able.
I was out of the country
on business. The trip was so
I could pay for... I would
have been back sooner, but
my return flight veered off
course in an unexpected
summer storm."
Her eyes shiny with
moisture, she turned to
look at Whitney who
was sleeping peacefully
in the hospital bed.
"How can I ever thank
you for... ? I love her so very
much."
Payne went to stand beside Amelia. Whitney opened her
eyes and smiled at her and she brushed a piece of hair from
her face. "You have your aunt's eyes."
Quizzically, Amelia looked at Payne. "Have we met some­where,
Doctor Cordell?"
"Perhaps, Ms. Brodie. Perhaps we have."
53
String's Bowl
by Erik Eichelberger
2nd Place
Stoneware
54
Windy Day
by Sandy Hack
Copper Wire 8: String on Wood
Traveler 2009
Death's True Request
by Brynn Ashley
2nd Place
Charcoal & Acrylic
Glendale Community College 55
Credits
Community Reader:
Kristen Morton
Student Literary Editor:
Chasity Creasy
Student Literary Staff:
Alexandra Barry
Cyndi Smith
Dan Ramirez
Denise Reinke
Student Graphic Designers:
Karina Banuelos
Ariel Clifton
Amanda Pardieu
Anne Stafford
Courtney Werst
Faculty Literary Judges:
Renee Barstack
Charles Dell
Marla DeSoto
Claire Englehart
Betty Hufford
Rashmi Menon
Steve Peist
Phillip Roderick
Lori Walk
Joy Wingersky
CommunityVisual Arts Juror:
Ed Kennefick
Student Visual Arts Jurors:
Martine Cloud
Napoleon Manigbas
Bryan Schnebelt Ourors were
recused from judging categories
they entered.)
Photographer and Digital Production:
Craig Wactor
Photography Production Assistant:
James Legg
Hero of the Past
by Vicki Joyner
Ink Jet Print
56
Faculty Advisors:
Vicky Campo, Production
Sharon Forsmo, Dean K. Terasaki, Visual Arts
John Ventola, English
Speciallhanks:
Carmela Arnoldt, English Department Chair
R. J. Merrill, Art Department Chair
Marla DeSoto, English Department webmaster
Bobby Sample, GCC Web/Database
Applications Development
Dawn Meyer, Traveler procedural advisor
Connie Greenwell, GCC Student Life
Laura Schuett, English Faculty
Johnnie Clemens May, English Faculty
David Nelson, English Faculty
Peggie Murillo, Sherri McClendon, Art Department
Traveler 2009
Duality
by Edward Dennis
Computer Art
Colophon
Two thousand copies of Traveler, Volume 42 were distributed in April 2009 free of charge through six distribution
sites on campus. The magazine is funded by the Student Life Office and costs $7,500 to produce. Financial awards
were given to the top three entries in each category. The magazine's contents, design and production were controlled
and produced completely by GCC students.
Pages are 8.5 inches wide by 11 inches tall. Main story headlines vary in size and typeface depending on the mood
and tone of each literary work. Stories are Garamond regular 11/12. Justification depends on the layout logistics of
each individual piece. Literary credits as well as artwork tides are Trebuchet MS. Point size varies according to layout
logistics.
The magazine was produced using InDesign CS3, Photoshop CS3, and Scanmaker 4. Most black and white and
color artwork was photographed using a Canon 20D to produce RAW files. Traveler was printed by NeoPrint at
300-lines-per-inch screen on 70-pound basic white stock, gloss coated both sides. The cover is 95-pound Topkote
Gloss Cover, coated on both sides. Traveler was printed digitally in color.
Glendale Community College 57