From the Co-Editor’s
PUBLISHER Julie Amparano Garcia Co-Editor-in-Chief Kacee Allard Abigail Murray Senior Fiction Editor Abigail Murray Fiction Editors Lee Breisblatt Devyn Carmen Randie Finell Kristina Rasmussen Yumna Samie Senior Poetry Editor Poetry Editors
During the reviewing period for the Winter 2019 issue of Canyon Voices, we realized that while there were reoccurring themes in several of the pieces we accepted, as a whole, the magazine would be able to evoke a breadth of emotional responses for our readers. Every time one of our sections would meet to discuss a piece, our editors provided thoughtful feedback that caused us to challenge ourselves to understand the potential of each story or art piece we reviewed. As a result of the time our team devoted to the reviewing process, we are sure that Issue 20 of Canyon Voices will be able to entice our readers and, as is our goal, will encourage the same level of discussion we experienced while curating the Winter 2019 issue.
Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor Creative Nonfiction Editors
Kacee Allard Lee Breisblatt Devyn Carmen Tatum Morton Joseph Parker Sophia Steuber
Senior Scripts Editor Scripts Editors
Kacee Allard Lee Breisblatt Devyn Carmen Tatum Morton Joseph Parker Sophia Steuber
Senior Art Editor Art Editors
Our team was also really excited by the unique cover page that was selected, which challenges the magazines usual dark or canyon related themes. Mario Loprete’s work was a wonderful contribution to the magazine. We would also like to give a warm, loving shout out to our team and our leader Julie Amparano Garcia. The dynamic of each team allowed for production and enjoyable discussion. Julie is an incredible supporter and truly has a brilliant vision for each issue she dedicates herself to. We also have greatly enjoyed collaborating with one another and enjoying each other’s company. Abigail Murray & Kacee Allard
Kacee Allard Tatum Morton Joseph Parker Sophia Steuber Christopher Stuart Alyssa Tenorio
Abigail Murray Randie Finell Kristina Rasmussen Yumna Samie Christopher Stuart Alyssa Tenorio
Senior Alcove Editor
Sophia Steuber
Copy Chief
Kacee Allard Abigail Murray
Marketing Department Staff Photographer
Yumna Samie Danielle Rocha
CANYON VOICES is a student-driven online literary magazine, featuring the work of emerging and established writers and artists. The magazine is supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts, & Cultural Studies at Arizona State University’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts & Sciences. To subscribe, please click here. Click here for submission guidelines.
Cover image: sista awa by Mario Loprete See the Artwork section for full image
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WINTER 2019
Peony By Zarina Situmorang
FICTION | RALPH E. SHAFFER
The Not-So- “Genius of Jerome” By Ralph E. Shaffer
Long before his unequaled career as a college basketball coach was over, Jerome University's Woodrow (Woody) Johnson had been dubbed the “Genius of Jerome.” No one less than a genius could mastermind Arizona's once hapless Jerome Jackals to ten national championships, nine of them consecutive, or put together a win streak of 188 games spanning seven seasons. No matter that those titles were in the often sneered at and overtly semi-pro National Association of For-profit Universities, it’s acronym often teasingly spelled sNAFU. Even his critics, and they are few, attest to his brilliance. But along with his overly glorified and too frequently quoted "Ladder To The Top," his guideline for winning both on and off the court, with its seemingly endless maxims that he put forth repeatedly, there was a human side to Woody, revealing that even a genius can have feet of clay. No, he didn't cheat on his wife, as did another Jerome coach who might have ended his career nearly as idolized as Woody but instead died in the bedroom of a harlot. No, Woody wasn't even accused of recruiting violations as he wooed freshmen. That was yet another Jerome coach who did that elsewhere and was fired for it but was still hired by the athletic director at Jerome. And no, Woody didn't bad mouth officials when his Jackals lost a close one, although losing games by a point or two was a rarity for his teams. Woody, however, had a flaw, one that puts him on a par with other greats - Stagg, Rockne, and Howard Jones quickly come to mind - whose treatment of a player or intolerance of certain conduct marred the image that prevailed in the daily press, at alumni reunions or when vote-
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seeking politicians evoked the coach's name at campaign rallies.
“
The kid who chose to argue never won.
For Woody, the flaw was that his "Ladder To The Top" left no room for other routes to a championship, or achievement in the real world off the court, or, in this case, to heroic action that far exceeded in its importance any buzzerbeating, game-winning, half court Hail Mary. Woody's fault was that he still lived in an age that was passing, and he believed those who played for him and wore the Jackal uniform should reflect those old values on and off the court. When there was protest, his concept of proper decorum was undebatable. The kid who chose to argue never won. And so it was that Woody carried those values into the social revolution of the 1960s and early '70s. College kids smoked pot, unless they indulged in something more potent. The old relationship between the sexes on college campuses - the way guys and gals had seemingly acted toward each other in Woody's undergraduate days and on into the 1940s and '50s - was gone. And the neatly dressed frat boys of Sigma Chi no longer predominated on campus as students now came to class in scroungy jeans and tank tops. It was not a world Woody could relate to. Not unexpectedly, he fought a last ditch effort to turn the tide. He may have won 85% of the games his teams played, but he couldn't win
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this one. Except when it came to the moment his players entered the gym.
tried to explain. Coach was adamant: "No haircut, no place on the roster!"
In the late 1960s, one of his recruits was a kid from Prescott named Frank Gilbert, a lanky, muscular guard. He was not at the top of Woody’s list of high school stars to look at, although he was good enough that a Jackal scout pressed Woody to give the kid an athletic scholarship and a spot on the roster. As a freshman, Gilbert played little, scored few points, was not a standout on the floor during the short time he played, and left Woody with doubts about the kid's chance to make the team in his sophomore year.
Gilbert raised his voice in outrage. A calm, steadfast Woody told him the discussion was over. Gilbert was to leave the gym and not return until his hair was short. It didn't have to be a crew cut, though that was preferred, but it had better be short. With that, Woody sent the boy to the locker room and told him not to return until he had complied. The two never met again.
We'll never know how good, or bad, Gilbert's second season as a Jackal would have been. When he showed up for practice that first day in the fall of 1969 his career as a Woody man came to an abrupt end. With his players in a circle around him, Woody quietly surveyed the squad...
“
He knew that trying, even in the face of ultimate failure, was as important as victory, even if it meant defeat.
and abruptly sent all players except Gilbert off to one end of the court for drills with an assistant coach. Woody stood quietly, sternly, for what must have seemed to Gilbert as an unnecessarily long pause, then sharply told him: "Get a haircut!" Gilbert was dumbfounded. Over the summer he had let his hair grow long, covering his ears and hanging down to his shoulders, the style many of his generation, even athletes, now wore. Gilbert
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Gilbert not only left the team, he checked out of college. As it was early in the fall term, he tried to enroll elsewhere. His grades weren’t good enough for the schools he would like to have played for, and the state colleges he could get into didn't have teams or coaches that he was interested in. He spent that Fall semester at a Flagstaff community college, was a so-so member of a less than winning team, then dropped out of school... and into the Marine Corps. His hair came off, but it didn't seem to matter anymore. In light of that, he should have cut it in Jerome and stayed with Woody, but the coach's unrelenting and dogmatic attitude had so annoyed Gilbert that he couldn't do that. Well, if the kid thought a coach was so unwilling to listen to reason, what would he think about marine drill instructors? Whatever he thought, he went through boot camp without more than the usual problems and within a year was in Vietnam. Coach would have been appalled by the drugs, the insubordination... even the hair. Gilbert and his marine comrades were hardly the model of decorum that Woody had demanded on and off the court. The "Ladder To The Top" had no place in the war zone. Although some of those maxims might apply, no one was spouting them. Despite that, there was no absence of heroism. In Gilbert's case, while he may have been a player Woody could do without, that wasn't the way his
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fellow marines would view him. Nor was he anymore heroic than all the rest. It wasn't Woody standing there face to face with a surly ball player, but the scene was somewhat the same. It was the sergeant, telling Gilbert to shut up and get down. Gilbert wouldn't listen. A hundred yards away was a fellow marine, badly wounded and unable to get back on his own to the relative safety of a foxhole. Gilbert was incensed that nothing was being done to rescue his buddy. The sergeant said it was too dangerous. Nothing could be done. Gilbert protested. The sergeant told him again to shut up. And that's when Gilbert took off, cutting through a hail of enemy fire to the fallen marine, whom, it turned out, he barely knew since the guy was a replacement. Almost effortlessly, the husky Gilbert was able to lift the wounded marine and he started back to the squad. Inexplicably there was a lull in the Viet Cong fire, and Gilbert and his cargo had nearly made it home when the firing resumed. Two steps from the squad’s perimeter Gilbert was hit. The Sergeant pulled him and the other marine into a trench. Both were dead. The marine Gilbert went out to rescue had probably been dead before Gilbert picked him up. No one in the squad said anything. They understood why Gilbert did what he had to do. There must be a moral to this story. If there is, it's not something taken from the "Ladder To The Top." No tired maxim motivated Gilbert to do what he did. Some philosophers would have said his action was contrary to the good of the squad, that they needed him alive and healthy. But there are no philosophers in foxholes. Frank Gilbert achieved more on that day than any coach with a 188 game winning streak. He
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didn't live by some rigid rule that insisted on conformity. He knew that winning came from the heart as much as it came from a strict formula of practice and offensive plays. He knew that a coach, or a sergeant, didn't always have the right answer, that there were alternate ways that worked just as well, whether it was letting your hair grow long or dodging bullets to save a fellow marine. He knew that trying, even in the face of ultimate failure, was as important as the victory, even if it meant defeat. Those were principles that the "Genius of Jerome" seemed to have omitted from his "Ladder To The Top."
About the Author
Ralph E. Shaffer, professor emeritus of American history at Cal Poly Pomona, is author of the oft-cited volumes, “The Bork Hearings” and “Toward Pearl Harbor.” Over the past 40 years, he has published hundreds of op-eds for the nation's press, including the Arizona Republic. He currently is a leading contributor to the online humor publication, The Spoof. Shaffer, 89, lives in Covina, Ca., reshaffer! should accommodate even the wordiest wordy ones.
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FICTION | RALPH E. SHAFFER
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
FICTION | LINDSEY SAYA
More Than Evil By Lindsey Saya
WELCOME ABOARD His beady eyes held onto Cole. They glimmered with a harsh skepticism. His husky forearms rested on the ancient oak desk that separated the two men. “Tell me, why do you want to work here?” he asked. A thick, coarse mustache hid his upper lip; the sandy brush shifted with each word. His round frame was wrapped in a neatly kept blue and white uniform, capped off by two shiny brass bars on his collar. “I want to serve my community.” Cole spoke no lie. “And are you aware that we house some of the most violent, despicable, disgusting, depraved individuals here?” “Yes,” Cole said, undeterred. “And are you aware of our strict brand of…discipline?” “More or less.” Cole had heard stories. “And are you willing to enforce that discipline…for your community?” “Happily.” DAY ONE The first thing that struck Cole was the complete and total lack of color. Every structure, every wall, every room at Greenville Correctional was plastered
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with a dull, muted blue or dead gray. The color of gravestones, Cole thought. It was a cold, drab place, where color, it seemed, had been forbidden, even the blue sky above the facility, where Greenville began and ended, appeared vapid, watered down, as if the facility itself pulled on the sky somehow, draining it of its splendor. The second thing that struck Cole was the inmates themselves. They were all emaciated and starved looking. They were gaunt and most wore wild, scraggly unkept beards. Cole walked down the long corridor of barred cells wearing a new, pristine uniform. His hair, the color of crow’s feathers, was trimmed and combed to the side. He was encompassed on all sides by rusted metal. It briefly reminded him of the innards of a zoo, the part not meant for visitors, where the animals were forced into tight, bleak cages, where the pageantry of the day was replaced with solitude. He was being escorted by Anderson, his training officer, who was in the middle of elucidating on the intricacies of Greenville’s system. “And this is where the beasties lay their heads,” Anderson said proudly. He was overweight. His uniform was too big for him and it hung off his body sloppily, “Beasties?” Cole asked as they walked. “Beasts. It’s what we call ‘em.” And then, very suddenly, Anderson’s voice grew to a strident holler, as if he were making a grand speech meant for the inmates. “The
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Higgins Act of 2030 has deemed these wretches unworthy of civil or human rights. They are property of the state, property, and therefore not human.” He resumed speaking to Cole, “Hence the word beastie,” he said pontifically. They continued walking when it occurred to Cole how oddly quiet it was. He expected an uproarious climate thick with the vulgar and the profane, with violent threats and taunts. There was hardly a cough. “They don’t make much noise do they,” Cole commented. “If they know what’s good for ‘em,” Anderson spat out. Cole gave Anderson a puzzled look. “It’s against the rules,” Anderson declared, his heavy feet lumbering on. “To speak?” “Bingo,” he said. “Can’t speak unless spoke to.” Cole felt like he was being duped—being his first day and all. “How can you enforce that?” “There are a lot of rules, but there are only three punishments,” Anderson said. “We here at Greenville abide by the threestrike system. Strike one, you get educated. Strike two, you get thirty days in the think-box. Strike-three, you get your walking paper.” There was a degree of pride, even pleasure that slithered out with those words. Anderson was about to elaborate when he stopped in front of cell-33.
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On the other side of the bars, a gangly, silver-headed old man sat on a neatly made bed. At the sight of Anderson, the frail old man recoiled onto the floor and pressed himself against the furthest wall. He looked over his shoulder from behind a mass of stringy hair. He was trembling. “This is F-33,” Anderson said. “F-33?” “His housing number, beasties have no names, just numbers.” Cole nodded. “F-33 here is a murderer, a sick, degenerate old fuck,” Anderson said with a mild disgust, “was recently educated. Isn’t that right, beastie,” he taunted.
“
If he hadn’t broken the law, we wouldn’t be in this mess
That’s when Cole noticed Anderson’s cudgel. It clung to his hip, a short, thick baton, unlike Cole’s black standard issue. Its brown, wooden skin was worn, chipped, and dented in places. Across its length, engraved, was a single word. Justice. It gazed at Cole, wanting, begging, to tell its history. Something about it unnerved him. Anderson was still speaking, but Cole wasn’t listening. His attention was robbed by the purpled, bruise-mottled face of the old man that sat in a ball cowering. At that moment both beastie and new recruit locked eyes. Those eyes, Cole thought, were the eyes of a beast,
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scared and wild. Whatever humanity that once lived there was long gone. THINK BOX “A good man follows the rules,” Cole’s father had once said. And ever since then Cole had done his best to live up to those words. And what better way to be a good man than to be a caretaker of justice. Cole’s parents were honest people, good people, “see you at church on Sundays,” kind of people. They never ran red lights or jaywalked. They voted, prayed together at dinner, and paid their taxes. Obeying the law, according to Cole’s father, was the greatest act of community service one could do. Once, when Cole was young, a teenage boy not much older than Cole was at the time had been beaten up by a police officer. The story had run on a loop on all the news stations. The news anchors used words like “brutality” and “excessive” and “justified.” Images were never shown of the boy, to protect the public from the graphic nature of it, they said. Cole remembered one of the news anchors saying something about the teenager suffering brain damage and that if that was what justice looked like then the world was doomed. Cole’s father had turned the tv off then. “Liberals,” he had mumbled. The teenager had been charged with shoplifting and resisting arrest. “Well, if he hadn’t broken the law, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Cole’s father had said, as if talking directly to the news anchor. And when images of the officer were shown, he’d say, “He did his duty. He did his duty.” The officer had been put on trial. When he was found not guilty, the riots began. CANYON VOICES
It started outside the courthouse with chants and picket signs. When the chants weren’t enough, the mob moved to the streets where they flipped over cars and set them on fire, where they smashed in store fronts and looted. Those sympathizers, how few of them there were, had roared so magnificently that the whole country could hear them. Peacekeepers were dispatched, and with their bootheels and the ends of their batons and the butts of their rifles the roar was silenced. And as the chaos of it all played across Cole’s television set, Cole’s father said, “Do you see what happens Cole? Do you see what happens when one fool breaks the law.” Cole’s father and mother had long since passed, and Cole’s new job, he knew, would honor what they stood for. Three months had gone by since Cole’s first day and not a single infraction had occurred at Greenville. Working at Greenville, as it must have been living there, was boring and monotonous and routine. The beasties were quiet and uniform. The ones that were able, worked. They toiled in the steam thick kitchen, raked rocks mindlessly under that burning sun and that faded azure sky. Some of them, whose prior masonry skill afforded, worked at rebuilding parts of the prison. Those old cons drudged, slathering that mortar and stacking those gray blocks methodically. It was a strange sight, as if watching a person seal themselves up in their own tomb, brick by brick. The ones that couldn’t work sat in their cells quietly reflecting, no doubt, on the lives they once had. None of them
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ever read books or wrote or played card games or laughed or smiled or spoke. Cole was surprised to learn that these activities, most of them, the best of them, were against the rules. An educated beastie was a dangerous beastie. Better to keep them exhausted and imbecile than hopeful. Three times a day they all stood in a long queue in the hot commissary waiting for their meal: a bowl of ashygrey, lumpy porridge of some sort. It was just enough, Cole thought, to keep beasties alive and working. This pattern was repeated day in and day out. Cole had learned the reason behind F-33’s “education.” Late in the night while asleep F-33 had murmured the name of his wife (who he was pronounced guilty of killing). The murmuring of his wife’s name, any woman’s name, was an act of love, and any act of love was outlawed for inmates. The logic was as follows: attraction led to love, which would lead to lust, which would lead to the perversion of thought. This, if left unchecked, would incite gross sexual, even violent behavior. Love was a detractor to mind management and— according to official Greenville policy mandated by the Higgins Act—illegal, punishable by any means necessary. F-33 was crying. The cell had no bed, no sink or toilet. It was dusty and dark, and the walls were stained with mysterious black blotches, a room where weak, piss-yellow arms of light stretched out from the crack beneath the metal door, not enough to keep the shadows at bay. It was the thinkbox.
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F-33 was on his knees. His wan bristled face was wet with tears. Four masked guards holding cudgels hovered over him like executioners. Cole felt the cold sweat soaking into the fibers of his black, wool mask, felt the sticky moisture gathering at the back of his neck, running along his spine. He held his cudgel tightly, looking down at the old man. F-33 made no attempt to protest. His arms just sagged pathetically at his side while he sobbed, his voice cracking shrilly. At 6:05 a.m. that morning, Cole was informed that F-33 committed a second strike and was sanctioned to thirty days in the think-box. Cole was also informed that he would be participating in the implementation of F-33’s punishment. He had to pop his cherry sometime the other guards joshed. “Newbie has first dibs,” Anderson’s voice said from behind the black mask. Cole looked down at F-33. He raised his cudgel, feeling the weight of it. And for a moment he didn’t move. “Do it, do it,” Anderson said. “It’s your duty.” “My duty,” Cole said to himself, “my duty.” F-33 closed his eyes. A sole bead of moisture raced along his bony cheek, as if that tear knew what was coming and wanted to escape. Cole blasted F-33 across his face. F-33 squealed out. He was a dog whimpering and whining. The other guards cheered savagely like drunken sports fans. Cole struck the old man again and again until
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his cudgel was slick with blood, drops of red oil leaping with every swing. Cole felt nothing. He was simply doing his job. He approached the assault with the same indifference as he would if he were fixing a busted car engine. He was following the rules. Good men followed the rules. Cole struck F-33 one last time before the old man toppled over. One of the other guards—who a second ago was hooting and hollering—checked his pulse. “Out cold,” he said. “Great,” Anderson said, disappointed, “you're not supposed to knock him out right away, Emmerich,” Anderson complained.
“
He witnessed his own work done, and he was sickened by it.
A pool of blood massed around F-33, a small, scarlet lake that edged toward Cole. And Cole saw that his boots were steeped in it. And he thought of how the crimson wretch at his feet would live in darkness and be beaten every day for the next month. “What did he do?” Cole asked, yanking off his mask. “What?” Anderson said, as if the question had upset him, as if the question itself were the great offense committed that day. “F-33, what did he do?” Anderson and the rest of the guards pulled off their masks.
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“He was reading. The bastard somehow got his hands on a book. Can you believe it, the audacity?” Cole was staring at F-33’s limp body. “What was it?” “Does it matter?” Cole thought it over and supposed that it really didn’t. “Still,” Cole said. “The Old Man and the Sea.” It was one of Cole’s favorite books. Such a small, insignificant thing to cause so much suffering, Cole thought. Cole wasn’t sleeping well. He would wake up saturated in cold sweat. Often, he would wake up screaming and short of breath. His dreams were consumed with violent, grotesque images: bloody, purple faces, distorted mangled bodies, and the shadowy room that called him by name. For twenty-five days Cole had taken part in the torture of F-33. Some days they would simply break his hand, the next day the other. If F-33’s torso was badly hurt, they would focus their assault on his legs. They kicked him and spat on him and pummeled him and ridiculed him and left him alone in the dark to bleed with just his whimpers as company. They assaulted F-33 until his wails quaked with ache and agony. They didn’t let up. When his flesh was torn and raw and covered in dark, thick crusts of blood and filth, they didn’t let up. When his face had become a swollen, deformed glob, they didn’t let up; they never let up. They thrashed him until he could no longer
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move, until his voice was so hoarse that his screams abandoned him, until one of his eyes hung lazily, blood shot and impotent. The only respite F-33 received was when Cole and the rest of the guards finally left him alone a few days, long enough to let the medical staff tend to him, long enough to heal, so that they could start again. Cole wasn’t sure when it happened or even how. All he knew was that something with teeth gnawed on his intestines, banged against the walls of his mind, festered in his belly until he was feverish. It was as if the very deepest chasm of his heart had cracked open, releasing something strange and dangerous, and it was spreading through his entire body like ink in water. He felt guilt and regret and sorrow for F-33. He didn’t understand why. He, after all, was following the law, enforcing the law. And according to the Higgins Act he was now obstructing the law for feeling these emotions for F-33. Cole lay in bed thinking of the atrocities he had committed, wondering what his parents would think of him. Good men followed the rules. He thought of F-33’s eyes, how wild and fearful they were. Beast. His thoughts lingered on that word while he lay awake in the darkness. Cole called in sick for the remainder of F-33’s punishment. EDGAR The only sound in F-building came from the clanging of Cole’s keys. He was on the third tier up. None of the beasties made eye contact with Cole as he walked. The most frightening of them turned away.
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Even the green, faded dragons and serpents that stretched across their flesh seemed to hide from Cole. He stopped and took time to gaze at the metal world around him. The cells were like so many birdcages, only these birds had lost their will to sing and to flap their feathered limbs. He continued walking until his onyx-black boots stopped in front of the bars of cell-33. The bars, Cole now thought, were iron teeth clenched forever. On the corner of his bed, F-33 sat. he dared not look at Cole. His bony arms shook. “Come here,” Cole said. F-33 looked up solemnly. He strained at first then managed to rise and hobble toward Cole. Each step, Cole observed, was drenched in agony. His face and body were still badly bruised and bloated. One of his eyes was a cloudy pink, infected perhaps. Cole wondered if it even functioned still. There was a battered sadness there, in those eyes, Cole saw. Cole witnessed the old man’s ghastly state. He witnessed his own work done, and he was sickened by it. “What’s your name?” Cole asked in a voice only they could hear. “F-33,” his withered voice crawled out. “No,” Cole said, “your real name.” F-33’s face folded in on itself, as if a riddle had been posed. Then after a moment he spoke: “Edgar.” “Edgar,” Cole said, “did you kill your wife?” Cole’s troubled, brown eyes examined the old man, searched.
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“I…” F-33 looked away as if he knew answering was somehow playing with fire. “It’s okay,” Cole reassured, “whatever you say stays with me.” F-33’s damp eyes stared at Cole for a while before he answered. “She had green eyes.” Something heavy pulled on his voice, stretching it, weakening it. “I loved her…if I could…if I could just go back…I loved her,” was all F-33 could say. His strength evaporated. He sunk to the floor and wept. Cole saw F-33’s thin frame and wondered how he had any strength to begin with. “Edgar,” Cole said. Those wet, broken eyes looked up. In Cole’s hand was a lump of coarse bread. Cole pushed his hand through the bars and held it out. “Take it.” F-33 was slow to act at first, then, with measured caution, like a rodent wary of humankind, he took the morsel of bread and shoved it under his shirt. Both men met each other’s eyes, wondering, perhaps, if there was more in the hearts of men than evil. NO GOOD DEEDS… The next morning Cole slid on his carefully ironed uniform, combed his hair to the side, drank his coffee, and left to work. At work he went through the metal detector, chitchatting about last night’s game with Steve—the guard in charge of the control room. Cole picked up his keys, cudgel, and radio and made his rounds.
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Cole walked with an energy he hadn’t known recently. He’d had a goodnight’s rest for the first time in weeks. The devils that haunted his dreams had moved on. Cole walked down the long metal line of cells and could see cell-33 approaching. He stopped and peered into an empty room. There was no mattress or blankets or sheets, no shoes or clothing of any kind, not so much as a toothbrush. Whatever evidence there may have existed of a man living there was gone, like a memory that was only the dream of a ghost. Cole’s eyes lingered on the empty cell for a heartbeat, then he turned and walked away. Cole finished his shift. On his way out of Greenville, he passed Anderson, who was just coming in. Cole noticed how animated and chipper he was. “Anderson,” Cole said, putting his hand on Anderson’s shoulder, stopping him mid step. “Yeah,” Anderson said. “Where’s F-33?” Cole asked. “You haven’t heard?” he said with a devilish grin. “No, what?” “He got his walking papers,” he said, his words reeking of delight. Cole knew he was incorrect when he asked: “He was released?” Anderson’s eyes became sharp, little razor blades. “Don’t be dense.” “They killed him,” Cole said, aghast.
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“Last night.” Anderson began to walk away. “Why?” Cole said helplessly. “They found a piece of bread stashed in his room. Thought Management Unit came down. They were pretty pissed, wanted to know where he got it. They interrogated him but got nothing. We assume he smuggled it from chow.” Anderson slapped Cole on the shoulder playfully. “We miss all the fun,” he said, then walked off. As Cole made that long drive home, he gazed at Greenville in the rearview mirror. It sat on its haunches, laughing, its many yellow eyes glowing bright in the soft, blue evening. He saw its pewter, razor-wire hide and chain link maws and those steel gates, skewed into a twisted smile. Cole suddenly turned away, adjusting that mirror, so that it no longer showed that awful place. Somehow, though, he knew it was still watching him. That night Cole woke up violently. He was slathered in a thick sweat. His heart crashed against his chest. He lay there in bed, the moon’s rays cutting through the darkness, and he thought of F-33’s eyes… Edgar’s eyes. Cole reached for his phone and saw that it was nearly midnight. He decided that a bit of food would settle him down. In the quiet darkness Cole flipped the light switch of his kitchen. He lingered where he stood, and he stared. He felt the rhythm of his heart picking up speed again, felt his clammy hands shutter and tremble. There on the counter, on a white porcelain dish, was a loaf of bread, the end of it missing, neatly sliced off. He gazed at that loaf of bread, CANYON VOICES
gazed at it until his eyes burned, until they begged him to turn away. And he saw Edgar’s eye again, saw them peering into him. Cole began to sob. It was a shuttering, gasping, uncontrollable, unstoppable, maddening sob. He slumped against the wall and slid to the kitchen floor. His hands dragged across his face and clasped tufts of his hair, pulling, ripping. He tore into his scalp, digging at it with his nails. He slammed his palms against his temples over and over until they ached, until his head throbbed. None of it, though, could silence those eyes.
About the Author
Lindsey Saya’s fiction and poetry can be found in Iron City Magazine issue 3 & 4, Poetry Spot at AZCentral.com, Oyster River Pages, and in the forthcoming issue of Stonecoast Review. During his 15 years of incarceration, he acquainted himself with the wonder, power, and saving grace of the written word. When he isn’t working on his craft, he can be found learning how to use his “smart” phone, which, in his case, means yelling at it. Lindsey is currently pursuing his B.A. in English, with a concentration in Creative Writing at Arizona State University. He currently resides in Peoria, Az., where he’s afraid to come out before sunrise, due to coyote activity.
WINTER 2019
FICTION | SARAH GRONOSTALSKI
Grey By Sarah Gronostalski
The flesh is wrong.
Wrong. Just wrong. “Wrong!” he barks, but all he receives is the careless wave of a hand in his general direction. It doesn’t mean anything. The colour is right on that hand; the long skinny appendages of flesh are a mix of yellow and brown. He looks at the other one—the one draping over the edge of the couch. The colour is wrong. Wrong. Just wrong. He whines and looks up at Beth. She hasn’t risen from the couch in days, not even to let him outside. His excrement lies next to the door, but not even that can mask the vile odor rising from her hand. Her nose is too small, too dry, to smell it. Its thick, putrid rankness belongs to decomposing fruit and molding blood. It burns the sensitive tissue of his muzzle, and he pulls back his lips in an effort to lessen the intensity. It doesn’t work. “Stop that,” she says. He knows what that means. He cocks his head to the side, tall angular ears flattening against his russet fur. He’s not doing anything. And her voice— It possesses the pitiful croaking tone of one parched with thirst but unable to quench it. She’s sounded like that before when her nose was red and running. The flu, she’d called it, but even then she had opened the door for him when needed and filled his bowl with food twice a day. Emptiness claws at his stomach. He whines again. Wrong. Wrong. Just wrong.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
FICTION | SARAH GRONOSTALSKI
He wonders why she hasn’t sought help from her fellow humans. She did so when she had the flu or, he realizes, maybe she blames them. Her current predicament is the child’s fault, after all. They had gone to her friend’s dwelling last week, though the reason still confuses to him. Beth had left him to converse with Kelsey and her child. If only he had stayed by her side instead of exploring the backyard, maybe he could have prevented this. His tail slides between his legs. He hadn’t even realized what had happened until the screams assaulted his ears, and he turned to see them pry teeth from flesh and then it was too late. Who knew humans were so toxic? But a mangled limb shouldn’t be grey. Not grey. Anything but grey. Grey was the colour of the world outside, of the park, and the lawn in front of the house. The blades of grass underfoot, the umbrella of leaves hanging above his head; all were a mosaic of varying shades of grey. He knew Beth could see more colours than him, though he couldn’t explain how he knew. Maybe it was the way she pointed at grey on grey objects and expected him to immediately notice. But flesh—no, not flesh. That wasn’t grey. It wasn’t supposed to be grey. Beth sighs and reaches toward him with her good hand. She is soft, made of jelly and meat but she lacks a fur coat to keep her warm. He worries about that, conscious of the way she shivers and hides beneath layers of fabric. He would leap onto her bed at night and curl up beside her, trying to share some of his warmth with she who has raised him, walked him, fed him, and loved him. But now he can feel the heat, the unbearable heat of her skin, the feverish sweating from her pores that she ignores. Wrong. So very wrong. She’s wrapped a cloth around her hand—the other one, not the one she scratched his ears with. But has she seen it? The white material is stained and sickly yellow pus congealed with blood oozes from beneath the wrapping. And there, just visible, is the horrendous grey.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
FICTION | SARAH GRONOSTALSKI
Wrong. Wrong. Just wrong. He shifts closer to her, licks her sweating cheek. She tries to push him away, but there is no strength left in her arms. They quiver and shake against his chest, and his panic deepens. Her condition has deteriorated, worsened as the scent of rotting flesh intensifies. No— He doesn’t want to consider— She can’t die. No. No. She can’t. She’s all he has. He counts the smiles he puts on her face, the sighs she makes as she rests alone. He waits for her return by the door, resolute as a statue until he hears the footfalls and the click of the lock. He curls up with her on the couch and watches the box of lights, resting his head on her knee and hoping that she’ll lean over and scratch his ears. He heeds her call to come back inside, struts next to her down the street, and brings back whatever she throws and loves that she pays attention to him and plays with him and— No
no
no
no
no
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
No. She can’t. He looks up at her tired face, at the eyelids that obscure her blue eyes. She’s going to be so mad at him. She’s going to hate him. But he can’t let her die, and his eyes fall on the hand hanging limply off the couch. The stench is unbearable at this distance—like the carnage of road kill and diseased birds that he would never even consider putting in his mouth. He licks his lips.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
FICTION | SARAH GRONOSTALSKI
About the Author
Sarah Gronostalski is a bohemian nomad and optimistic nihilist with a bachelor’s degree in English from the University of Washington. For the past year, she has been traveling up and down the west coast while writing the first novel in a larger magical world as well as various flash fiction pieces, poetry, and essays. She also uses the pseudonym Riddell Lee for her fanfiction endeavors and has posted two novellength works on Archive Of Our Own.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
FICTION | BRENNA CAMPING
Christmas Dinner By Brenna Camping
Jesus, thank you for watching over us this year. We are truly blessed to have a family like that one that sits around the table here tonight. Please forgive us for our sins, help us to better follow you, and bless our food tonight. In Jesus’ name, Amen. “Amen.” “Amen.” Rachel’s brother prayed over their meal. As he usually did. He was in school for theology, he wanted to start a church in Uganda but the whole family knew it wouldn’t happen. His wife wouldn’t let it happen. Rachel spun her purity ring around her left finger. She wasn’t, necessarily “pure.” She only wore the ring with family. It made them happy, so it was just easier. There were six of them there, around the table. Grandma Miriam was mumbling to herself, smacking her lips. And Rachel’s mom smiled at her husband as she passed the sweet potatoes. There was a fire going in the electric fireplace and soft Christmas music playing over the speakers. Grandma had knitted gloves for everyone this year. The ones Rachel got were messy and too small for her hands- the yarn was loose and frayed. Grandma Miriam put a hand on Rachel’s lap and turned over to her. “So, how’s school?” “Pretty good, Grandma. I like it a lot.”
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“That’s wonderful, darling. Do you like living on campus?” “Yeah, it gets me really involved. I’ve met a lot of people.” “Good, good. What are you studying again?” “Psychology.” “I hope you’re reading your bible!” “I am.” “That’s wonderful, Rachel. Remember. The only one who loves you more than me is God!” “I know, Grandma.” “I’m always praying for you.” She turned away then, back toward the rest of the table. Rachel’s mom was placing slices of ham on Miriam’s plate. She smiled, smacking her lips again and asking about the Christmas gifts. Rachel played with her green beans while she watched her brother and his wife holding hands. She was pregnant, big and pregnant. Looked like she was about to burst. Her brother’s wife was only a few months older than she was. Miriam turned back toward Rachel, placing a hand on her lap and smiling. “How’s school going, darling?” “It’s going good still.” “That’s good to hear. I’m always praying for you.”
WINTER 2019
FICTION | BRENNA CAMPING
“Thank you, Grandma” “Remember. The only person who loves you more than me is God.” “I’ll remember that.” She turned away again. Rachel noticed that her grandmother wasn’t eating her food; she hadn’t even moved her hands from below the table. There were large slices of ham, a plump sweet potato with melting brown sugar, jello with oranges in it, and green beans. Waiting to be eaten. Going cold. Rachel watched as her grandma’s hands shook in her lap. She had to turn away, focus on her own food, maybe think about next school year. But Miriam turned back to Rachel. “So. How’s school?” “You know? Not that great, actually. But you remember, so it’s okay.” “Why do you say that?” “I don’t know. Maybe it’ll get better.”
looked over at Rachel, her eyebrows furrowed and forehead wrinkled. There was worry there, sadness. Miriam looked at Rachel sternly. “You’re so much like your mother.” “Yeah, I’ve been told.” “Ornery and strong-willed! You’ve got your dad’s hair, though. Do you know where Milford is?” “No, Grandma, I don’t.” “Probably the bathroom. He’ll be out soon.” “Yeah, Grandma. Maybe.” She smiled at Rachel, staring in her eyes. Then her eyes wandered over Rachel’s face, onto her shoulders. They scanned her collarbones for a moment then came back up to her face. Miriam sniffed hard then coughed without covering her mouth, causing Rachel to flinch when she got spittle on her chin. Miriam wiped her mouth.
“
I thought I talked to him yesterday.
“It will! That’s because I’m always praying for you. God will bless you this year.”
“Anna, your father is so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Grandma”
“I’m Rachel, Grandma.”
“Don’t forget…”
“Oh! Silly me, I’m sorry. Well, Milford is proud of you, too, dearie.”
“I know, I know. The only person who loves me more than you do is God.”
“Thanks, Grandma.”
“That’s right. Are you reading your bible?” Before Rachel could answer, Miriam turned her attention to her daughter, Rachel’s mother, who was prodding her to eat. Rachel watched as Miriam took one shaky bite of potatoes then insisted to return to talking. Rachel’s mom
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She paused; silence settled between them for a moment. Rachel listened to Frank Sinatra singing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” Just for a moment, she listened, then Miriam set a shaky hand on her shoulder and spoke again. “How’s school going, darling?”
WINTER 2019
FICTION | BRENNA CAMPING
“Good.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
Rachel felt the trembling weight of her Grandma’s hand. Her shoulder ached to push it off. It was like a cup, trembling the way it was, seeking to spill over.
“Remember, the only person who loves you more than me is God.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Milford is so proud of
Rachel began fiddling her purity ring again. Frank Sinatra changed to Elvis and plates were being stacked for Rachel’s mother to take to the kitchen. Her mom complained that Miriam hadn’t eaten hardly anything. The plate was removed anyway, and Miriam got up to go to the bathroom.
you.” “I know.” “Where is he? He’s been gone awful long.” “Grandpa’s not here anymore. I’m sorry, Grandma.” “Oh. How long?” “A couple years now.” “I thought I talked to him yesterday.”
“
But Rachel had noticed her mother beginning to forget.
She removed her hand and placed it back in her lap. The family was finishing up their meal. Both Rachel and Miriam had barely touched their food. “He’s probably in the bathroom.” “Yeah.” “How’s school going, darling?” “It’s going great.” “That’s because I’ve been praying for you! I’ve got a list of all the people I pray for on my nightstand. That way I won’t forget.”
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“Thanks, Grandma.”
Rachel kept her plate and began picking each tiny green pod out of her green beans and eating those. Everything was cold and the beans had gone slightly rubbery. From the bathroom, a loud screech could be heard. Rachel’s mom, who was standing outside of the bathroom, knocked on the door. “You okay, mom?” “I’m fine!” UTIs occurred at least once a month. Rachel stared at her water, it was empty, but her Grandmother’s was full. Miriam often forgot to drink water. She thought of her classes and of her mother. She thought about how everything in the pantry was labeled and how reminders would ring on her mom’s phone because she was afraid of forgetting. But Rachel had noticed her mother beginning to forget. It’s been small, things like losing her keys more or forgetting where she was going when she drove. But it was there. It had come early for her. When she returned from the bathroom, Miriam walked up, putting a hand around Rachel’s waist. She had a large, dentured grin. “So, Rachel! How’s school?”
WINTER 2019
FICTION | BRENNA CAMPING
“It’s good, Grandma.”
About the Author
“Well, that’s good to hear. Are you reading your bible?” “Yes.” “I’m always praying for you.” “Thank you, Grandma.” She squeezed her waist, giving her a hearty side hug. “Remember. The only person who loves you more than me is God.” “Thank you, Grandma.” “I’ll be right back; I have to go to the bathroom.” Rachel knew she didn’t actually have to go. She let her go anyway. Rachel washed the dishes with her mother. She washed them to the sound of “Jingle Bell Rock”. To the sound of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” To the sound of Miriam screeching in the bathroom. And to the faintest sound of her mom choking back tears.
Brenna Camping is an emerging poet, fiction writer, and children's book author/illustrator from Phoenix, Az. Her stories are often focused around the intersections of sexuality, religion, and the Southwest. Finding Brenna is easy; she can often be found performing at local poetry slams, writing and reading around the Arizona State University campus, and driving from one desert town to the next for inspiration for her upcoming stories. She is currently an undergraduate student at ASU, finishing up her degree in creative writing.
••• "Jesus. Thank you for blessing us this year. Today, we remember you and your birth. And we remember our loved ones who have passed on; we know they’re safe in heaven with you now. Thank you for the new life that’s been blessed to join this world this year and thank you for watching over us. Please forgive us for our sins and bless this food tonight. Jesus' name, Amen.” "Amen"
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
FICTION | MAX JOHANSSON-PUGH
Rawhiti By Max Johansson-Pugh
I The small hours of the morning were an impenetrable darkness, a darkness so thick it’s a wonder first light managed to cut through it. Crashing waves and a strong sea breeze is all that could be heard on the island. The smell of the sea wafted throughout the island, equal parts because of the sea’s strength and small size of the island. The island is home to fishermen who live in shacks and take advantage of the lively surrounding waters. They take their fish to the various buyers and markets in Auckland – the monolithic city that stands across the water. Rawhiti is one of these fishermen. The only separation from Rawhiti’s home and his work is the white, restless sand of the island’s shore. Rawhiti lay, face down, on his haggard mattress, his tanned body naked and sprawled. A tanned and lean body is what you get from extended labour in the Hauraki Gulf; the tan always dirty and cracked; the lean always tending toward impoverished. A passing traveller might think it local fashion, but the fishermen have little choice in the matter. The morning’s wan light unveiled Rawhiti’s white, weather-boarded shack. The weathered shack’s roof, part corrugated iron, part thatch (all equally weathered), is victim to incessant sea winds and the shack’s location near the water – the last guard before an unstoppable force. Wild wheat and toetoe litter the island, rustling in the morning sea breeze. Rawhiti’s aluminum skiff rests in the shack’s shadow; thoughts of
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thievery or damaging fishing gear never cross the minds of the fishermen. The island banded together in poverty, sympathizing with one another; a chain-gang of sorts, though rather than manacles, bounded by fishing line and tackle. Rawhiti’s bedroom faces eastwards, the new light illuminating his room through a quartered window, leaving a shadowed cross over the sleeping fisherman. He made the first movements of another long day of another week. Rolling over like a boulder, barely moveable, his countenance looked dark and tired. Bags begot bags under his heavy eyes; his muscles loosely hanging onto his bones; sinuous cracks upon his skin begged for shade. An innate grimace that suggested terrible dreams, though it was the reality that was terrible, fell upon Rawhiti’s face, echoing the day’s prospects. With a great sigh he began blinking his eyes open, picking sleep out of his eyes and rubbing his sore body. Sitting up on the edge of his mattress, the morning sun warming his back, Rawhiti rested his face in his hands, waiting for energy. In the light you could see, like the island and the house and the skiff and everything else on the island, all was beaten by the sea. Rawhiti sat this way for a while. Pictures of family littered a solitary table, adjoined by a solitary chair. Aunties, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers, all had a place at that table. A bottle of cheap whiskey, empty to the bottom of the label, stood among the photographs like some shrine of remembrance. The whiskey helped him feel
WINTER 2019
FICTION | MAX JOHANSSON-PUGH
like the family were at the table eating with him. There was never any water to cut the cheap liquor with. ‘Got to conserve water.‘ Rawhiti grabbed his shorts and shirt to combat the morning air, and made for the stove, the wooden floor boards moaning with every step. Being clothed took a few years off him; a man looking and feeling a decade older than he was. Here began his morning routine. The gas stove had two elements, one for the kettle and one for his canned breakfast. Canned beans, canned stew, canned soup, you name the can and he had it. The element’s low, cultish light illuminated the kitchenette side of the shack. Rawhiti would consider running the generator to use one naked bulb that hung from the patched ceiling, but always resolved not to expend the fuel. An exact cup worth of water would enter the kettle, slightly less would come out. Water was scarce on the island. The summer months were especially unhelpful in keeping Rawhiti’s water tank full. The howling and splurging of the kettle and stew is the sound that breakfast is done. Turning off the stove quickly to conserve the bottle, Rawhiti threw a tea bag into his mug and poured himself a black tea and dished up the stew. The day had not started until these warm goods awoke some motion in him. Sounds of his neighbours waking up began to seep into his porous abode. Delighted barks came from his closest neighbour, who’s dog was feasting on yesterday’s scraps, gnawing as fervently as you would imagine a hungry island dog eating food would. Derek is Rawhiti’s closest companion on the island, and Rawhiti often wondered how he got by providing for himself and the dog. You would never ask such a question; poverty may have banded them, but they did not like talking about it.
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Rawhiti swept the photo and bottle on the table aside and threw down his bowl and mug. He dropped his flesh and bones down on the wooden chair and began eating furiously. He was hungry and knew he would be for most of the day. Unless he got lucky at sea. Rawhiti was usually out the door before six, but last night had been nursing a drink longer than expected. Leaving his mug and bowl, Rawhiti filled up his bottle with tank water, put on his tattered sneakers and large brimmed straw hat and made his way to the tackle box before walking out.
“
God I’d kill to have ‘em ‘round.
“Gidday, Rawhiti.” Derek said, standing outside the shack. “Hello, Derek.” “Guess it’s a late one for both’ve us!” Rawhiti chuckling, “Yeah, guess so.” Derek’s dog scampered around to the sounds of their voices. An orange band wrapped around the horizon, topped by a deep blue, progressively becoming lighter the more it tended toward the water. Rawhiti’s loose button-up shirt whipped about in the breeze, and golden toetoe moved with grace above the tussock grass undergrowth. The sun gradually rose behind Rawhiti as he stood head on to the ocean breeze staring toward Auckland city. The city of sails. Great white towers stretched toward the heavens, all rising toward the Sky
WINTER 2019
FICTION | MAX JOHANSSON-PUGH
Tower – a building that, put simply, lives up to its name. Lit up in the dawn, it looked like hallowed ground. “Forget about it, it’ll never happen,” Derek smiled, looking at Rawhiti’s contemplation. “What’re you on about?” Still smiling, Derek shook his head and turned. “Good luck on the water, Rawh.” Rawhiti knew full-well what Derek meant. Each morning he stood thinking, ‘What I’d give for one of them apartments. Nothing flash. Just something nice to be proud of. A place to eat well, sleep well and get by. Doesn’t have to be much!’ Qualifying the wish made it more plausible to Rawhiti. What Derek did not understand was the clause that always preceded this; not for lack of compassion, but because Rawhiti never spoke about such things, thinking it better to ruminate over alone. ‘I could be close to my family, my whanau. God I’d kill to have ‘em ‘round. Have big meals together, laughing, singing, drinks and kai.’ Rawhiti would get sad, then angry with himself. Remembering he had fish to catch pulled him out of brooding.
“
The means by which Rawhiti sold his fish was not necessarily legal, perse. He poured fuel into the motor’s tank and, throwing his fishing rod, trawling net, and tackle box into the skiff, dragged it to the waters edge. The skiff tracking through the damp morning sand is a familiar grating
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sound, the sand getting into his sneakers a familiar feeling. Onto water now, he jumped on the skiff, the engine howling with ignition, and cut through the calm surface. He was getting some speed. Rawhiti’s hat would blow off if he did not hold it down. Looking back at the island, he saw the inviting toetoe sitting beneath the early sun and behind that, disguised, his decrepit shack in shadow. Rawhiti kept one hand on the ruddered motor and the other on his hat while his shirt was blown against his lean body. The wake of other fishermen and the faint sparkles of their vessels could be seen in the distance. Rawhiti aimed away and dropped his trawling net. He would catch fish in the net (mostly tiny), but on certain occasions he would forget to throw them back and happen to have enough food for the day. The motor purred as he continued across the water. The skiff is Rawhiti’s most prized possession and one of the last things he brought before leaving the mainland. Without the skiff, Rawhiti would have no means to work, no means to move, no means to live. He was well aware of this, frequently patting the motor like some house pet. His pace quickened, gently squeezing the accelerator, pointed away from the island and the glowing city toward the Hauraki Gulf. Most headed toward Auckland, perhaps hoping the auspicious city would rub off on their fishing, but it was always better to work somewhere else rather than fight a crowd. Golden discs surrounded Rawhiti when caps caught and reflected the sunlight. He stopped after trawling through an area of activity and turned about to go again. Nothing. He pulled the wet net in and baited the sinker on his line before casting off into the gulf. Rawhiti sat on the thwart, patiently waiting, fighting with sea life and occasionally reeling in a fish.
WINTER 2019
FICTION | MAX JOHANSSON-PUGH
It was hard to ignore the volcano which accompanied Rawhiti in the gulf – Rangitoto. Like mother nature placing her loaded gun on the table, Rangitoto sat a squeeze of a trigger away from leveling everything in sight. Light travelled from east to west, consistently bombarding his straw hat with the particularly carcinogenic New Zealand sunlight. The water danced gold and blue. Rawhiti spent the time, and there was a lot of time, between fish looking toward Rangitoto and the city, day-dreaming of getting back to the mainland. “If I caught a case of money or some gold, that’d do it.” Rawhiti sat slouched on the thwart chuckling to himself at the absurdity of these thoughts. He pressed his cracked lips together, whistling something along the lines of Hendrix’s ‘Hey Joe’, his dry mouth garnishing the song with unexpected mute notes. A tug at the line piqued Rawhiti’s focus. The line began to run and Rawhiti, immediately standing, pulled the rod up. Struggling with the fish, he adjusted the drag dial keeping the rod high. The surface of the water was calm, but Rawhiti, and surely some creature beneath, were writhing in conflict. Rawhiti dropped the rod, spinning the crank as it fell, and quickly pulling back up, pointing the rod toward the sky. Sweat formed on his forehead as Rawhiti continued to drop and pull, urging the fish closer and closer to the skiff. “Ah, c’mon you little shit!” Veins grew on his tensed forearms. “C’mon!” His arms began to shake. He had caught something big. He knew it, and his body was beginning to understand. The calm surface broke with ripples. ‘Here she comes,’ Rawhiti thought, exhaling a tight breath as he wrenched the rod up; furiously CANYON VOICES
spinning the crank, sweat now dripping off his head and glistening on his skin, he pulled up again. Ripples turned to splashes – again. The rich blue of the water was tainted by a mustardy green below – again. Scales and floundering now reached the surface – again. Rawhiti’s eyes widened as he saw the size of the fish, but there was no time to be distracted by the haul, he had yet to bring it in. Rod erect, Rawhiti looked about the skiff for his mallet. One last crank and the fish, a kingfish, was thrashing in the air. Rawhiti braced his legs for stability and muscled the fish and the rod onto the skiff. He threw the two down over his gear and quickly made for his mallet, smashing the kingfish’s head with a series of blows. Quiet – the skiff rocked to a still and the sea breeze picked up. Rawhiti breathed heavily, smiling. Next to the kingfish, Rawhiti howled on his knees, exultant at the catch. It had to be at least a meter long. ‘Not the biggest kingfish that ever swam, but big enough!’ Rawhiti grabbed a mesh bag and fitted it over the kingfish, the fish’s mouth jutting out of the end. He tied the bag to the thwart and lugged it into the water. ‘This may be my biggest catch!’ Exhausted, Rawhiti collapsed into the end of the skiff, tilting his straw hat over his face. Rawhiti enjoyed a well-earned rest knowing he would not be hungry tonight. Day time turned to dusk and the ocean took on a darker shade of blue; sea birds headed home to nest. Rawhiti fought with trevally, moki, and a snapper once, but had not caught anything quite like the day’s kingfish. He was still fatigued from the fight. He brought in the line, secured his gear under the thwart, and headed toward the city with lips curled in a smile.
WINTER 2019
FICTION | MAX JOHANSSON-PUGH
The means by which Rawhiti sold his fish was not necessarily legal, perse. An old friend, Andreas, from a time long before Rawhiti ever imagined he would be a fisherman, runs a small restaurant on the city’s waterfront. Andreas encouraged small-time fishermen to sell to him. He would pay a good rate because it saved him from going through the incumbent fishing companies’ costly supply channels, which eateries were supposed to do. ‘Supposed to’ – a term Andreas had little regard for. Rawhiti breathed deeply as he approached the city, one hand on his head, the other guiding the motor. The other island fishermen would do the same. A few of them had freezers so when the handful of illicit restaurants did not want their fish, they would save it to sell, or eat, another time. Rawhiti could not afford a freezer and all the power that comes with the appliance, so when he could not sell fish it was a difficult situation. Although, the bottom line of purveying fish is that, assuming you have caught something, you have dinner. Other goods may be missed without a day’s income, but at least you will have something to put in your belly. Rawhiti knew he would not be able to eat the entire kingfish before it grew rotten, and wanted to get some money for it. He was nearly out of drink. Also, and more importantly, as immediate emotional responses are concerned, he knew that Derek’s dog would happily eat the rest of the kingfish. The thought annoyed him, and memories of how that mutt survived so long came flooding back. A red neon sign reading - CARRUTH’s – bled into the darkening sky. Rawhiti loosened his grip on the motor and slowed as he approached the quay. The kingfish floated alongside the skiff. The back of the restaurant
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loomed dark over the quay; all the show and glamour was on the other side – a falsefronted building of lights. You could hear the muffled sounds of festivities with the calm lapping of water and the sea breeze. Rawhiti made sure the fish could be seen from the backdoor and tied up to its respective piling.
“
… he had mastered the art of getting the most out of any opportunity.
Humming and smiling, he wondered how much he was going to get, the delayed smack of his shoes’ detached soles echoing with every step toward the alcoved backdoor. Two knocks and Rawhiti patiently waited. ‘God I miss my family.’ He suddenly craved a drink. The door opened and a boy, no more than seventeen, stood in black pants and a white tucked shirt, took a drag from a cigarette and raised an eyebrow instead of asking Rawhiti his business. “I have fish.” said Rawhiti, stepping aside to show his catch. The boy looked over his shoulder. “Andreas!” Amid the noise of the restaurant he could hear the kitchen staff talking, more specifically, commenting on their approaching boss. “…thinks it’s the Jazz age, how deluded can he be?” “I’m not gunna be the one to tell him. I like having a job!” They broke out into laughter, then hushed silence as a short, stringy man in a bespoke suit sauntered to the door. “Walks
WINTER 2019
FICTION | MAX JOHANSSON-PUGH
like he’s a wise guy,” they murmured. The boy stamped out his cigarette and headed back inside, face unchanged, aside from the notable inflection of the brow. The boy must be new not to know Rawhiti by now. He could not keep up with the ever-changing staff. His mind had a way of either coasting or delving into details, no middle ground. Over-analysis and forgetfulness. His mind was mostly occupied with thoughts of his family and how much he would love to see them, eat with them, laugh, everything. Though he was also nervous of what Andreas would offer him, his wet palms indicative of this. “Rawhiti,” Andreas said, arms wide as if to embrace. “How’s things?” He wore a halfmouthed grin. “I have a treat for you, Andreas!” Rawhiti whipped his hands on his shorts. Andreas was in dark green pants and blazer, accessorized by gold; rings, a necklace, and bracelets. Add a fedora and you had an Al Capone henchman. He stepped outside, out of the restaurant’s light and view of his watchful staff, into the red of the neon sign. “Rawhiti,” he said, drawing out the ‘a’. “This must’ve been some hard work.” They walked toward the skiff. Rawhiti exhaled, looking at the kingfish. “Oh yeah! She’s close to one-twenty I reckon.” “I reckon!” The back door opened abruptly and the young boy leaned out. “Hey, Andreas! Once you’ve finished being a wise guy, Mrs. Peterson wants to see you.” Sounds of laughter poured out from the kitchen and were snuffed when the boy quickly closed the door.
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“God damn it, I’m this close to sacking the lot, I swear!” he took a breath and pocketed his ‘c’ shaped gesture. There was a silence; Rawhiti waited for the financial realization of his catch. By this point he was drenched in sweat. Food, water, and drink was all on the line – innocent collateral to this man’s, Rawhiti’s friend’s, discretion. “Kingies are good at the moment.” He said composedly, grinning over to Rawhiti, his sunken eyes looking back. He stared at the fish, dissecting it, undressing it, thinking of all the angles. Friend or not, Andreas could not hold onto a scruple if he tried; he had mastered the art of getting the most out of any opportunity. He is the kind of man that was compounding interest on friends and family since the first dollar was loaned. As his eyes feverishly looked over the fish, he began to nod. “Two hundred… Two twenty ‘cause you’re a mate.” “Deal!” “Good.” Clapping and rubbing his hands. He knew how much he had saved. Rawhiti’s breathing became exaggerated. He was heady with all the prospects now afforded to him, all rushing through his head, then naturally concluded with the pictures on his table. “I could see the whanau with that much money. It’s been too long.” Andreas’ grin fell. He stood rigid, looking askance at Rawhiti. “Since when have you been saving to see them, Rawhiti?” “It’s always at the back of my mind, you know. Can’t forget family,” he said, giddy as a child. Andreas embodied severity: “Fix up your house Rawhiti, the family can wait.”
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“Why are you so serious all of a sudden Andre, that’s a big catch!” A moment passed and Andreas put his hand into his blazer and pulled out a wad of cash, flicking through two hundred and twenty dollars worth of notes. He passed the money to Rawhiti. “Here, that is a mighty catch Rawhiti. Hope it didn’t give you too much grief.” Andreas feigned a smile, though his eyes failed to follow suit. “Na, not too bad, I’m pretty shattered though.” “Using a motor?” Rawhiti chuckled, “Na man, just off the shore, all legal ‘n’ shit, don’t worry.” They shared a laugh. Andreas, however, seemed uncomfortable. Still overjoyed with his pay check, Rawhiti failed to notice. “How’s things with you? Restaurant’s still afloat?”
“
With more money comes more drink, and with more drink comes stronger hangovers.
“Fine, fine – the staff don’t respect me, but what’s new. That boy you saw spends half his time staring off into space. How someone can have that much to think about, I don’t know.”
following silence. “Anyway, I’m gunna go to the shop before it closes, next time you see me, I’ll be hauling a three meter kingy. I’ll bankrupt your restaurant!” Andreas looked cautiously at Rawhiti, though tried to meet his mood halfway. “You keep ‘em coming and I’ll keep on payin’.” Another moment of silence passed. “Hey, Rawhiti, go buy some timbre with that money and board up your roof. I’ll come help you do it up this weekend.” Rawhiti slowly walked backwards toward the skiff, chuckling, “Yeah, what do you know about putting up rooves? And since when do you care about mine? I’m not gunna pay ya!” Scoffing in amusement, Andreas turned toward him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, forgot who I was talking to. Take it easy, Rawh.” “See ya, mate.” Rawhiti got into his skiff and took off into the night, heading for a convenience store before driving into the black sea toward the island. He turned his head as he left and saw Andreas standing, cigarette in mouth, staring back at him. He thought Andreas had acted strange, but did not think much of it. Andreas took a final drag of his smoke and threw it down, stamping out the final embers. “Shit!” Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he turned, leather scuffing on the concrete, and made his way back into Carruth’s, swallowed by the sounds of patrons and staff. “Boy, get your arse over here!”
“He’s probably thinking of ways to get at his hard boss.” Rawhiti said, laughing, slapping Andreas on the arm. Water lapped over the
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The red neon sign lit up the quay, where the smell of smoke and fish lingered with the memory of this pivotal exchange. II With more money comes more drink, and with more drink comes stronger hangovers. Being so disabled, flush with food and money, Rawhiti did not go fishing today. Instead he cooked up some food and decided to rest on the beach. Pictures were sprawled across the table from a night of family evocation. He used the door frame to support his weight, holding a bowl of hot food and slowly spooning it into his mouth. Derek walked by with his dog. “Hey, Derek.” “Ay, Rawhiti. Not going out today eh?” “Na man, got a big pay yesterday. Pulled in a kingy this big!” He signaled with his arms the great length. The dog’s head following the hand that held the bowl. “Nice, could take a couple off.” Derek chuckled to himself. “Yeah, was thinking of going to the mainland ‘n’ see the family.” “Didn’t realize you had family Rawh, you haven’t gone see them since you came here. They haven’t come see you either.” Derek’s eyes winced as the midday sun escaped from cloud coverage. Rawhiti pondered this point, slowly replying, “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be missing me ya know.” Derek nodded, looking about for his dog. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re not missing you too much.” He said, laughing and ruffing
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his dog’s neck. Rawhiti looked down at his bowl as he had another spoonful. “Anyway, we better be off. Some of us catch fish for a living!” Rawhiti looked up and nodded at Derek, who then headed for the sea. He walked back inside contemplatively and sat at the table, staring down at the pictures. Pouring himself a drink, a smile began to appear on his face. He would not make it to the beach today. “Cheers, brotha.” He raised his glass to a photograph, drinking whiskey that travelled hot down his throat and warmed his belly. “Cheers!” He tried but for the life of him could not remember why he had not seen his family in so long. Derek had sowed a seed that Rawhiti now compulsively mused over. ‘It’s ‘cause I’ve never had enough money,’ he told himself. As the days rushed toward Friday, Rawhiti’s drinking and cheer increased, with no fishing being done. He knew that the family got together on Fridays at his cousin’s house, and the closer it got to Friday, the greater his resolve was to join them. The days that passed were warm days. Birds lazily swung through the air, chasing the scents of dead fish. Derek’s dog lay about listlessly. All the island’s activities slowed down, and amongst it all, Rawhiti sat in his shack looking over the money and pictures that littered his table. Not once did the thought of doing up the shack come into his head. His mind was fixed, all day to day concerns were winnowed away, and nothing but the family germ remained. Rawhiti poured himself a drink and took a sip. The sluggish mornings beat on Rawhiti but lacked the strength to distract his mind. ‘I wonder how everyone looks these days. Do
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my brothas still play guitar and sing their hearts out? Maybe they can sing now!’ Another sip. ‘Do the boys still kick the ball around, the oldies telling the same stories, talking family? Do they talk about me? Do they miss me?’ A final gulp to finish the glass and Rawhiti made his way to his mattress. His mind continued posing questions concerning his family, which had remained untouched for years, tucked away in a dark garret of his mind, ignored and forgotten with the toys, and now he craved answers. Rawhiti lay his head down, putting an end to the day – Thursday – knowing that tomorrow he would head to the mainland. III Rawhiti went about his business the same way he always did. The intense light of the new day affronted his eyes while they slowly opened. He waited for energy, considered running the generator, ate his canned breakfast – the money having little effect on his meals – and sat a while with his family. He would wait until afternoon before leaving to see them unbound from photograph. It was already midday; Rawhiti had slept in. Anticipation and excitement all mixed in his stomach and sickly bubbles rose to the surface. Rawhiti moved sluggishly to the door - more sluggishly than usual at least - where he saw Derek on the ground, leaning against the house, crying. He had never seen Derek cry. “What’s wrong, Derek?” The day was hot and had no remorse for Derek, his few tears being the only relief on his otherwise dry skin. “She finally kicked it,” he said.
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Rawhiti walked over and sat next to his friend. “How’d it happen?” A large exhale. “She’d gone too long without food. Both of us had. I couldn’t skim any more off the top for her.” Rawhiti began to notice the buzz of flies and turned and arched his head into the open doorway. The dog lay dead in the corner of the kitchen. “I was a fool to think I could keep her in a place like this!” Derek took a moment to catch his breath, then continued. “The silly dog was all I had.”
“
Immediately, a piercing scream ended the gaiety. Gasps of disbelief quickly followed. “I’m sorry Derek.” Rawhiti sat with him for a moment, then stood up and made his leave. No money was offered to Derek in his plight as Rawhiti had allocated each dollar to having some means of connecting with his family. The amount needed to alleviate some of Derek’s stress was going toward fuel for the skiff, or food to bring, or something else integral to his success. He knew Derek needed that dog as much as it needed him, but could not lament on the point long before his own emotions returned to the forefront. Again, he felt the sting of his nerves. He walked toward the beach, hanging his hands in the wild wheat he passed, and sat staring at Auckland; the toetoe moving in the wind; the azure sky offering no distinction between the sea and the heavens.
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Derek’s sobbing could be heard in the distance and other fishermen from the island gave him compassionate support, as opposed to Rawhiti’s distracted apathy. He sat on the beach with his mind unfazed and focused. It was time. Rawhiti buttoned up his shirt, the first time he had used all his buttons in a long time, and stuffed his remaining money deep into his pockets. Closing the door on his wanting shack, he brought the petrol container down to the skiff. His ragged sneakers treaded over the amber coloured sand off the falling sunlight. After filling up the skiff, Rawhiti pushed it onto water, boarding it with the rest of the petrol. A howl and smoky cough started the motor and its steady purr propelled it. Rawhiti quickly pulled away from the island and toward Auckland. His hair was thrown around in the wind while any exposed skin felt the passing air’s cold sting. Without looking back, Rawhiti squeezed the throttle and quickened his pace, squinting his eyes in response to the prevailing wind. His senses were all consumed by the sea; its smells, sights, and sounds. Only in his nerves did he find relief. ‘They’ll be glad to see me. I can’t wait to see them all. All the cousins chatting away. The young ones running ‘round the place, causing trouble. I’ve got so much to catch ‘em up on. I should get some food.’ Rawhiti travelled alongside Rangitoto then bee-lined toward Auckland and its harbour bridge. To anyone else, the view and travel would be spectacular, but this whole process of weaving through islands, with the city and harbour in the low light of the evening, had all been standard for Rawhiti. He carried on with a stoic visage. He was passing Carruth’s now, where Andreas pushed: pushed to realize his dreams
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of the din of flappers and wise guys, realizations shattered by the contemporary men and women he was tending to, in a hepcat trapped in a den of staffed lions, Andreas continued to push against time. Rawhiti briefly thought of how his friend and how his big business was doing, surmising ‘well’ from a glance, then made his way under the steely truss that connected Auckland’s isthmus to its north shore. He would not manage to sell any more fish to Andreas. His heart kicked and punched in his chest as the Te Atatu peninsular, where his family would be, came into view. Rawhiti pulled into a beach reserve and dragged the skiff into a covered thicket, disguising it with foliage and severed boughs. He followed a trail to the road where he recognized the neighbourhood well. It had been a long time since he had walked through the suburbs with its identically weatherboarded houses – all different colours to show there was some distinction between the various hosts. Ordered and regular light posts passed Rawhiti by as he walked along the furrowed sidewalks, dividing the houses from the front-most part of their unkept lawns. Rawhiti used his next immediate goals to placate his nerves. ‘I must get some food’. He dipped into a corner dairy and used scrunched notes to buy various frozen products that he assumed would be crowd pleasers. The shopkeeper watched him suspiciously. His brow was wet with sweat and his tattered clothes hardly hid that the rest of his body was similarly saturated. “You alright, mate?” “Yeah, just these thanks,” Rawhiti replied, receiving a doubtful look from the inquisitive shopkeeper. Rawhiti did not realize that he looked like a man of a serious ailment. WINTER 2019
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Rawhiti was back on the street. It was not far now. Down one street, left down another, the path becoming more familiar. Dread came over him and slowed his dogged steps. He recognized cars, houses, bends in the footpath. One house, where the windows shone with festive light as if a fire was contained inside, he remembered fondly as his cousin’s house. ‘God, why didn’t I come back sooner.’ Rawhiti could not remember how long he had been waiting for this moment. One wipe off his brow and he walked toward the house, straightening his lapels as he went around the side of the house toward the back yard where he heard a frenzy of conversation and brief interjections from familiar voices. A hissing grill accompanied the mirth. His heart was pounding furiously now. He felt his stomach making its way up his throat. Three deep breaths and Rawhiti stepped around the corner. Immediately, a piercing scream ended the gaiety. Gasps of disbelief quickly followed. “What the fuck are you doing here!?”
“
The boy, he had my eyes, that’s my boy!
There they all were: the uncles, aunts, cousins, and the children. A little boy was being whisked away, a boy with Rawhiti’s eyes. One of the uncles yelled at Rawhiti, standing up and coming towards him in a show of strength. “Get the fuck out of here, we’re calling the cops!” Neighbors opened their windows and looked out, coming tentatively out of their homes to stand on the sidewalk, watching. Rawhiti
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stumbled backwards in shock, dropping his food as the men came towards him, roughing him up and yelling at him to leave. Rawhiti tried to catch the boy’s eyes one more time, but it was too late. “They’re on their way scumbag, leave!” He was in shock and could not string a single sentence together in rebuttal. Rawhiti quickly moved toward the street in the wake of thrown cans and bottles, eyes wide in disbelief, and rushed back to the skiff. Sirens were going off in the distance and getting louder. He broke into a sprint. ‘I don’t understand! I love my family, I don’t understand!’ He felt sick. The sirens grew louder, the whirring sound exacerbating his already dazed state. He could not close his widened eyes. Rawhiti uncovered the skiff, eyes wet with tears. ‘The boy, he had my eyes, that’s my boy!’ He moved quickly into the water as blue and red tinted the upper foliage of the reserve’s thicket, constantly looking back to see if some mistake had been made and jumped into the skiff. Sobbing into the wind, Rawhiti speed his way back to the island. All he wanted was his family, and he could not understand why everything had happened the way it did. He looked back again, but no family was there to tell him it was all one big misunderstanding. Only the police was there looking for him. Rawhiti looked back, the twilight left the peninsular silhouetted in front of a burning orange sky. He was being pursued. Rawhiti knew police boats would apprehend him in no time, but this truth was not strong enough to distract his mind. ‘My family. My boy. My boy. What have I done?’ Speeding out of the Auckland Harbour, past Rangitoto, he got to the island, left everything in the skiff and
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walked with heavy steps, as if intoxicated, to his shack. The police followed Rawhiti to the island. They pulled up on the shore next to Rawhiti’s skiff and cautiously approached his home. The cries of a man could be heard. There was particular interest within the department in getting Rawhiti, an interest that made the policemen’s actions seem motivated more by passion than upholding of the law. With guns pointed ahead, the few policemen who first got to the island approached the door. Various hand signals were shared, and an officer kicked in the rickety door to find Rawhiti sprawled across the table, weeping over photographs, a withered shell of a man. The sky faded to black, the toetoe and wild wheat swayed on the island’s white sandy shore. A salty breeze passed through all the downtrodden shacks, spurred by the tide that incessantly broke on and drew away from the island’s shore, both taking and giving in each bout, on and on.
About the Author
Max was born in London and came to New Zealand when he was four. Since then, Max has been raised in Auckland and feels a great sense of place in Aotearoa. He gained an English scholarship out of high school and has since worked many contrasting jobs, from construction, to bar tending and coaching tennis but, having fallen out of love with following a roster, now runs a small gardening business. Currently no work published.
Derek saw everything from his shack, watching the police take Rawhiti away in handcuffs, who protested the malevolent charge he was indicted for. He never knew Rawhiti had a partner, let alone that they had a kid together. Derek did a lot of thinking that night, sitting opposite his dog which still lay in the corner, and decided it needed burying. He stayed sitting and thinking until the early hours of the morning, then smiled to himself, as if a great weight had just been lifted off his tired shoulders. Derek let out a sigh while he went to make himself comfortable in bed. “My lot ain’t too bad.”
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FICTION | KATY ANDERSON
Blue Tears and Red Blood By Katy Anderson
There was not a man in the world who had gone into this place and emerged alive. She stood at the lip of the cave, craggy and dry and crumbling. Her hand tightened on her short sword, the pommel smooth and slick with sweat from the climb. Her knees shook and she took a deep breath, the pine of the forest around her caressing her nose. And although she felt small in most places, she felt much too small in this place. She tucked a loose strand of dark hair back into its bindings at her neck, and took a shaky step forward, pine needles straining beneath her leather boots. Even years of training could not hide the soft crunch that resounded at the nervous movement. Her legs went rigid as she stared at that entrance to the cave, waiting for a whisper of movement to emerge. Silence. She had heard the stories. The legends told of famed warriors, the biggest, strongest men in all the lands that had tried to retrieve the beast’s famed treasure. Tried, and failed. She sheathed the sword across her back, hating the movement but needing both her hands for balance and stealth. She took a steadying breath, willing stillness into her
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bones. She remembered why she was here, who she was here for, and what was at stake. She crept across the space to the rocky entrance. And as she went, she pictured him in her mind. Her father, crumbled and sobbing on the ground, unable to remember a shred of his life—their life—before. Her tracks were near-silent now. She did not know why the witch had captured her father, had wiped his memory clean and demanded she retrieve the fabled treasure from the cave. But for her father, she did as she was told. She stopped at the line where pine turned to stone, her toes just short of the entrance. She stared into that deep dark and took the last step. She could feel it then. The awakening, the power that rumbled across the walls of the cave, echoing and echoing all the way to where she stood. A great beast resided here, and she was invading its space. She took another step, shivering against the cold chills that danced along her spine. But there was no turning back. There was no second option, no way out, not when her father’s life was on the line.
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She took another step deeper into the cave, and she could’ve sworn the place breathed. A cold breeze sang through the cave, rushing past her, drawing her deeper into the mountain’s embrace. She followed that beckoning, step by step by step.
“
She wondered where in these lands she could go and not feel too small.
Darker and darker the place grew, until she could scarcely see her feet and the crumbling ground upon which she walked. And with each step the great beast’s presence grew, so thick she swore it was a weight upon her shoulders. Her fair, calloused hand rested upon the hilt of the knife at her hip as she went, the short sword at her back a comforting weight. She walked. And walked. And walked. She tripped against something that blocked her path, and the obstacle scattered across the cave around her, unseen in the dark. It clattered and clanged against the rocks, snapping beneath her feet. It sounded horribly like bone. Fear and doubt and an aching need to remove the weight from her shoulders tempted her to turn, to run away, to forget why she was there. But with each
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step she imagined her father’s anguished face, she saw the fear in his eyes, she felt the rapid beating of his heart as he had stared at her and not known where he was. Who she was. “Retrieve for me that which the beast protects and I will return his memory,” the old crone ordered her. Had the witch held a knife at her father’s throat, she would have sliced the witch’s hand away. Had she threatened to cut out his eyes and tongue, she would have fought until her last breath. But magic. She had no training against magic. And her father’s memory was too precious to try any other option but to comply. Though she had a feeling the quest was more of a death sentence—a means for the witch to get rid of a powerful man’s pesky daughter—than a shot at freeing him. It was the rage in her heart that kept her feet moving, kept her back straight and her shoulders strong against the weight that pushed and pushed and pushed. Even her small presence here made the cave feel crowded. The beast that lived in this massive place was much too big for its home. She wondered where in these lands it could go and not feel too big. She wondered where in these lands she could go and not feel too small. An eerie blue light began to emerge in front of her, the beginnings of something in the seemingly endless expanse of nothing. Her heart quickened, but her steps were steady.
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The light grew and grew and she realized it was not the blue sky, it was not an escape, but something else. Something other. The whispers began then.
immune to the beast’s pull. It was not surprised by her presence, though it made no movement. It had probably sensed her at the bottom of the great mountain. Perhaps long before that.
One more step forward.
She stopped at the entrance of the crowded space, the great snout of the beast near enough to feel gusts of air from its nostrils, each one bigger than her fist. Razor sharp claws peaked out at her from under the beast’s form, black and wickedly curved. The beast was curled up impossibly, arms and legs and claws folded up under its massive belly, wings tucked in tight.
Your father will die with no memory of you.
The cave walls barely contained the beast. Yes, it was much too big for this space.
Two more steps forward.
Something loosened in her chest at the sight.
Whispers of her doubts, of her desires and dreams, of her greatest weaknesses. They caressed her skin, they invaded her space. But the rage that burned in her heart was stronger. She did not turn. You are not strong enough, the whispers sang.
You are too small. She drew her sword. The light was everywhere now, casting a blue glow upon her skin, her sword, her soul. And she could see the beast now. It lay with closed eyes across the entrance to a small cavern, almost pressed directly against the cave’s rocky interior. Scales an array of blues and greens and the brightest purples covered every inch of the creature, smooth against powerful lines of muscle. She realized then that the light was not from glowing stalagmites or incandescent insects or even a sliver of sun. The light was from the beast. It breathed deeper now, drawing her in, and she stumbled a few steps forward,
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“
Its voice was lilting, like a lullaby, the haunting kind that sent you into a deep sleep.
It was breathtaking. Her hands went slack at her sides, no longer gripping at the hilt of her knife. The beast took another breath, the deepest one yet, the great exhale dancing through her hair. She couldn’t help but step even closer, against all common sense. The weight upon her was so great now that reason had left her. She simply wanted to understand the boundless thing before her.
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“Alannis,” it breathed, though its maw made no movement. Sharp teeth peeked out at her, a deathly reminder that she could be a meal in less than a second. And Alannis was not surprised it knew her name. The beast opened its magnificent eyes, each one twice as big as her head. Its pupils were an electric blue, and lightning danced in its gaze. The beast stared at her, unblinking. Alannis wondered why it had not killed her yet. She was utterly defenseless in its presence. The beast stared, and she had a sense that it read every thought in her head. “Alannis Knightly, you do not reek of the greed of men,” it said, answering the unspoken question. “I am not a man,” Alannis breathed, the words barely audible. The beast huffed, the whooshing gust of air pushing her back a step. Alannis could’ve sworn it sounded like a laugh. “Neither am I,” the beast replied, closing its eyes once more. Its voice was lilting, like a lullaby, the haunting kind that sent you into a deep sleep. The beast fidgeted, readjusting the massive arms and incandescent wings upon its body. The very room seemed to shake with the movement, and Alannis braced herself, sinking back onto her heels, a slight bend in her knees. She came here for a reason. She’d play the beast’s games.
“And what do I smell like then?” Alannis asked, her voice stronger now. “Sorrow,” it said without pause, eyes peaking open. “There is a great air of sorrow about you, Alannis Knightly. And loneliness.” “I am not lonely,” Alannis responded defensively, her face warm. “Oh, but you are.” The beast fidgeted again. “You do not know me,” she said, louder now. “Oh, but I do.” “Then why am I here? Tell me that. Why am I here right now?” “You seek what they all seek.” Alannis’s nostrils flared now, her face burning all the way to her ears. She was just like all the rest. “I didn’t say you were like the rest.” “Stop doing that,” Alannis hissed. “Careful.” Alannis’s hand went to her knife, and the beast’s eyes shot open. She froze. “You need not worry, Alannis Knightly,” the beast said. “I have no intention of harming you.” It still spoke without moving a muscle, and its eyes seemed to glow brighter now. What a marvelous creature it was, even when it was seconds from deciding to finish her. “And why is that?” Alannis whispered.
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FICTION | KATY ANDERSON
“I had decided to grant you immunity from the moment you stepped into my cave,” the beast answered. Its eyes bore into hers now, and she still did not understand. “You do not reek of the greed of men,” it repeated. “I reek of sorrow and loneliness,” Alannis said. “Yes.” “And that means you won’t eat me?” “You do not suit my taste anyways,” the beast said. She could’ve sworn it wore a smirk. “Because I am too small?” Alannis challenged. “Actually, yes,” the beast said. And despite the banter, its eyes were tinged with sadness now, if that were even possible.
“
You desire to belong somewhere, with someone. To be remembered. But it was there, in the slight glistening just beyond its massive pupil, as if the beast were remembering something, seeing something that it had yet to reveal. She stared into the beast’s eyes, and it stared back at her, holding her gaze while adjusting its wings again. And it’s gaze looked almost… hopeful.
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Studying the way the beast was folded upon itself, Alannis took one step closer. One step, and she could see the beast’s massive claws, see the way they were smashed so tightly against its own body. She wondered if the beast ever drew its own blood from not having enough room. And then she saw the scars, the markings that marred its mighty belly, slashed across its powerful arms and shoulders. The beast indeed scratched itself from being confined too tightly. Often. Alannis looked to the entrance from which she had come, comparing it to the beast’s massive form. Claw marks marred the ceiling, the floor, and the walls surrounding that entrance, gouging through the rock, but never crossing the threshold. Trapped. Alannis turned her gaze to the beast once more. And maybe it was the confirmation that gleamed in the beast’s eyes, or the horrific marks that decorated its body, that led her to question the beast more playfully now. “Would you like to know what you smell like?” Alannis asked. The beast was silent, eyes narrowing. The movement was so human-like that Alannis almost laughed. The beast breathed in deeply, trying to scent itself, struggling to move its massive snout closer to its arm. Alannis laughed outright at the sight of it; a beast sniffing itself for bad odors. It swung
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back around to face her now, eyes narrowing further. It seemed to be done with her right about now. “No, I do not want to know what I smell like,” the beast huffed, carefully settling back into its position. Alannis’s giggling stopped now, and she stared up at the beast. It stared back at her. Her face relaxed, the last remnants of the smile disappearing. Her throat began to close up.
“To be free,” Alannis said, and the beast swung its mighty head toward her. “You desire to belong somewhere, with someone. To be remembered. It is all we have.” The beast was silent for a long time. “What is your name?” Alannis asked. “Why do you need to know?” said the beast. “I wish to remember you.”
“You smell like sorrow,” Alannis whispered.
The beast’s eyes were glistening now.
The beast held her gaze.
“I do not remember my name,” it said finally.
“And loneliness,” she continued. “I am not lonely,” the beast said, echoing the words spoken before. “We both are,” Alannis said. “You do not know me.” “I think I do.” The beast lifted its head, curiosity shining in its eyes. “Then why am I here? Tell me that,” it challenged. “Why am I here right now?” “You seek what we all seek,” Alannis replied. “I am not human.” “I didn’t say you were.” The beast fidgeted, looking away. Alannis stepped closer.
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“Would you like me to name you?” she asked without hesitation. The beast’s eyes shone brighter than ever before. “Yes,” it said, so quietly Alannis thought for a second she imagined it. “I think I will call you Blue,” Alannis said, a slight smile playing at her lips. “That seems fitting,” the beast replied. It leaned closer to her now, eyes studying her. It was silent once more. Alannis felt each of the heartbeats within her chest, a steady reminder that time was passing, that her father still lay at the bottom of the mountain, held hostage and unable to remember a shred of himself. “My father does not remember his name anymore,” Alannis whispered, looking at the ground.
WINTER 2019
FICTION | KATY ANDERSON
“I know,” the beast said resolutely.
Alannis couldn’t move, stunned beyond all comprehension.
A huff of breath brought Alannis’s gaze back to the beast.
“Take it,” the beast pleaded.
“I wish to remember you too, Alannis Knightly,” the beast said, its voice the quietest she had yet to hear it. The beast shifted now, the movement causing its mighty muscles to strain against its scales. It hauled itself upwards, shuffling to the side to reveal the rest of the cave. Alannis jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding a wry wing, and the beast yelped and moaned as it struggled to move. “Stop!” Alannis cried. There was blue blood on the cave floor now from where the beast’s own claws had pierced fresh wounds into its skin. “Stop!” she cried again. But the beast was against the wall now, squished tightly against the rock. It had managed to create a space barely wide enough for Alannis’s shoulders to squeeze through between the cave wall and the its own side. The beast breathed heavily, panting in great bursts. It slumped against the wall, glancing behind itself at the treasure it had guarded for years. And there, resting on the cave floor just beyond the beast’s tail, lay a single gold coin.
Her feet stumbled into motion, racing toward the single gold coin. She squeezed between the beast and the cave, her skin tearing against the sharp rock. Had she been even an inch bigger, the task would’ve been impossible.
“
Alannis had a feeling he would not be the only one freed today. Alannis felt blood slide down her arm as she pushed forward, dripping from her fingers, mixing with the blue blood that now coated the floor. She reached the coin, barely managing to bend down in the suffocating space. Her fingers brushed against the smooth gold, cupping the coin in her hand. At her touch, the beast let out a triumphant roar, the sound beautiful and victorious and unlike anything she had ever heard. It was cut with sobs, and great blue droplets of water began to splash around Alannis as she squeezed her way back to the front of the beast.
It glinted in the bluish glow of the beast, shining for all its might. It seemed to try and shine as bright as an entire treasure trove.
She stood before it now, the gold coin clasped in her palm. The beast had not stopped crying.
“Take it,” the beast said.
“Do you want to know why not one man has succeeded in retrieving my treasure?” the beast asked, gleaming eyes boring
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
FICTION | KATY ANDERSON
into hers. Alannis was silent, cradling her bloodied arm.
She turned and took two steps before looking back.
“Do you want to know why all who have come here have crumbled in the passageway of my cave, under the weight of my power?” the beast continued.
“Goodbye, Blue,” she said.
“Do you want to know why I couldn’t ever give away that which traps me here?” It motioned with its great snout to the coin in her fist, glowing tears still falling to the ground.
Alannis turned and exited the cavern. She began to run. With each bounding step she felt lighter, brighter, more herself. The witch would pay, as she was bound by her promise to restore her father. And Alannis had a feeling he would not be the only one freed today.
Alannis was crying now too, the tears slipping silently down her cheeks, merging with the blue tears and blue blood and red blood at her feet. She nodded, her eyes meeting the beast’s once more. “They all have been too big,” the beast finished. Her knees gave out then, and the ground rushed toward her, closer and closer until-
The beast nodded, its expression one of utter joy and relief.
As if in answer to her question, a mighty roar echoed down the walls toward her. The sound was an exultation of freedom. And as she neared the bright, shining exit of the cave, the ground beneath her began to shake.
About the Author
The beast caught her, its snout slowing her fall. Her arms grasped at its scales, softer and smoother then she would’ve thought possible. She was eye to eye with the magnificent creature now. “Thank you,” Alannis whispered, her breath hitching. “Alannis Knightly, I’ve waited for you for longer than you can even imagine,” the beast responded, giving her a push toward the cavern entrance. “Do not make your father wait any longer.” Alannis straightened, feeling stronger, bigger, fuller than she ever had in her entire life.
CANYON VOICES
Katy Anderson is a junior pursuing a bachelor’s degree in journalism at the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication. Whether it be a news article or creative writing piece, she is deeply passionate about storytelling. Katy is from Mesa, Arizona, where she lives with her family and dog.
WINTER 2019
POETRY | BEN GRONER
The Painted By Ben Groner Within the wooden casing, the mountains (those stoic guardians) are a smear of gunpowder, slate, and ivory looming behind the birch, pine, juniper and fir trees; chalky fluted streaks among the emerald and myrtle. Auburn trunks meet the dark soil and a silvery lake emerges as a blend of the subtlest viridians, cobalts, teals, and sapphires. The meadows that ramble away from the lake are speckled with flowering brushstrokes of saffron, fuchsia, crimson, and persimmon. An exquisite turquoise sky leaks from the top of the canvas into every last untouched sliver between the needles and branches. For hours, I’ve been staring at the cabin nestled by the lake, peering into the window (that smudge of light) at silhouettes without faces, without names, wondering how the colors look to the painted in the frame.
Poet’s Recital
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | RAMSEY ERIC RAMSEY
On Hearing the Learn’d Astronaut By Ramsey Eric Ramsey Fit the conquering astronaut hero, whose lecture enthralls the gathered, The techno-apocalypse comes hidden beneath a parade of fanfare. Disguised, too, by the cover of laughter his slideshow elicits at how quickly Progress makes everything obsolete, like the tux from a 70’s prom photo and his date’s hairdo by now long since combed out, cut, and swept away. Yet the hit hits harder, when it comes unseen– What would it mean to prepare a little for what is already here on the way? Look! Look, there’s a Walkman and a rotary phone– how quaint– More laughter takes off. A few on the lookout (who are fond of electricity, and antibiotics, and modern stuff as much as the next) Whose voices are drowned in the celebration, Cassandra-like, sit with clenched hands. They look nay-saying fools amidst the applause. Stranger still: we might even welcome it. Swinging wide the door as we invite the catastrophe across the threshold, we might say these words– After you . . . Yet after, what words will be left to come to terms with our own being obsolete?
CANYON VOICES
Poet’s Recital
WINTER 2019
POETRY | DHEEPA R. MATURI
Equations By Dheepa R. Maturi His pencil builds formulas already beyond my comprehension, and when it pauses, I follow his gaze through the glass, to cardinal and chickadee, leaf and limb. A ray illuminates only his lower lip, chewed and suckled until . . . Paradise unlocks! His fingers ignite — his writing resumes. Surely, his joy lies in achieving the answer, but today, I sit at the kitchen table and let the sunlight find me, too. I’m not sure anymore. Perhaps his joy lies in the smoothing of numbers and letters into a symphonic line, or in the chirrup of winged emissaries imparting the geometries of boughs and blossoms and seeds. Maybe his joy radiates from his own cells, from each earnest furnace whispering the answer into the ether: One.
Poet’s Recital
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | PAUL BLUESTEIN
Last Leaf By Paul Bluestein The last dying leaf shivers and twists on the winter branch, attached to life by a tenuous, weathered stem, holding fast even though it is now brown and brittle, the brilliance of its autumn only a memory. Let me, one day, go with the gentle grace of leaves that sought refuge from cold, battering winds, surrendering in an unrepentant fall.
Poet’s Recital
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WINTER 2019
POETRY | HOLLY DAY
Clinging To By Holly Day We all want to leave a ghost behind, to believe that our passing from this world will leave such a vacuum that some remnant of what we were had to stay behind that the walls and the floors of our house take enough interest in our activities to hold the energy of our traumas to replay for future audiences. There have to be ghosts, because we are so important to ourselves and the people we surround ourselves with there had to be at least some tiny flicker left behind or some imposing force that lets you know somebody else once lived in this house someone who’s no longer here.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | ANDREW HAMILTON
Head Caves in Canyon Water By Andrew Hamilton Never mind I will never go there but Tall Man throws the pebble off the waterfall fallen as stone struck light buried silver wind sprayed bold but quiet under still-life shadows of green deciduous limestone, calling help my head, help I lost my head, caught by torrents spinning like earth flung around the sun pulled slow gravity slipped lead under my feet dropped up numb down the overhang of moss flows sedimental air where went my head, where went my head phased out like Tall Man panic making unheard animal sounds flailed like shrieks above the cliff side falling wide through open teeth away in white spray heat flaring dreams up my spine, limbs stretching out elbows for nerves to hold on reverent hands gone the current leaves me cold and still as frozen nightfall spilled like wet rocks cracked against my head the red mind streams dead bed dreams too blue blow high cascades low time….
CANYON VOICES
Poet’s Recital
WINTER 2019
POETRY | DS MAOLALAI
The three things. By DS Maolalai thing 1: the trouble is coming back at all. trouble; coming back and seeing all these people who never left and stayed on instead to insist on being successful. one friend of mine is the country's foremost expert on extinct animals now. another a well publicized novelist. there's 2: the luck; coming back after a long time away and getting a job pretty quick, an easy job with not much to it and a boss who doesn't mind as long as the work gets done.
3: the glory being easy with girls, meeting them easily and dropping them easily, with pain going to no-one, opening like a sunflower and slipping like a tiger between the trees, relaxed as a canalboat at tether. the trouble though, again, is that none of it matters while you can still look at mountains ahead and see people you don't respect up there laid out sunbathing and not even bothering to break the road. fuck everyone's success except mine.
Poet’s Recital
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | JARED PEARCE
What’s Mr. Fox got in his box? By Jared Pearce The boy is learning to read. He’s sounding it out and picking up keys. His windows open to let in the breeze. He’s running the hose just to see where it flows. He’s shooting the deadbolt with the door ajar. He’s tromped through the yard and kicking the leaves. He’s on the basement stairs, down to the dark. He’s cut the flower and planted the seed. The boy’s learning to read.
Poet’s Recital
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WINTER 2019
POETRY | MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON
Young Couple- @ Heart Attack Greasy Grill By Michael Lee Johnson I was a little boy, tad hillbilly son, patterned then in present tense, hardly old enough tall enough to work nor notice if I had pubic hairlarge or small endowment growing up self-conscious about short comings narrow chest. Just a teen aged nighttime boy looking 4 a part-time hook uplittle girl play, with a five-card stud. Preacher daddy raised me, back-seat Christian boy low on faith high on doobie rolled cigarettes. I took my 1st job, pancake flipper @ Heart Attack–Greasy Grill, 24-7 pocket coins 4 tips, a few greasy dollars, pancake short stack, secret menu was that boss’s daughter, blood on hands, my bun busted now stale, stained, & baked. Eliminate lines unessential: waitress injected me some spice old time recipe.
Poet’s Recital
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | DS MAOLALAI
Like a bird By DS Maolalai floating over mountains, I work too. me - I take calls from this bank to my office; I'm the guy they pay to pay tradesmen and send them out on jobs - getting gas-leaks fixed and make sure the lights are working. after all I need a sandwich occasionally and sometimes pay rent or buy a bottle of wine. taking calls and typing - not what you'd call fulfilling but it keeps me awake and puts cake on the table. and birds too they're not up there because they want to be - they have to do it. cats everywhere. squirrels stealing eggs. and the song? that's again a basic instinct for survival; tension balled up crippling, and yelled like lighting fires.
Poet’s Recital
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | JOHN TUSTIN
Beam of Moonlight By John Tustin I hold her tonight. She warms me, Nourishes me, But she has no form. Fingers of light Threading through my beard, Looking into my eyes And finding me just. Her eyes black as the age Of the earth, Her flesh translucent, shining, Perfect to the touch. I wake up And she is gone. Beam of moonlight As warm as the sunlight; She brightens my night And leaves me wanting When the sad sick sun Returns to torment me With her own unsubtle glare, Without the insight Of that light From the night (small, so focused) That escapes The moment I awake In the arms Of no one, In The presence of nothing. Nothing but me.
Poet’s Recital
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | JOHN BARTELL
The St. Joe By John Bartell The pines that rise from the St. Joe, as it carves the Bitterroot Mountains are
under boughs of western cedar Douglas fir Engelmann
western cedar Douglas fir
spruce. Finding its rest in the pipes of a town downstream where a mother lives who doesn’t recall the names
Engelmann spruce. At least that’s what my brothers tell me. They also tell me that the river, the St. Joe, as it carves the Bitterroot Mountains, is the highest free flowing river in the country. or faces Which is a fact that, of her children while not overwhelmingly interesting, but smiles is something to chew on as we land our flies on the water when they hug her with serious intent, and whisper their love, fingers guiding the line that slips which sounds downstream to waiting bull trout. to her And I wonder like the quiet murmur as I stand on the banks of riffles in a mountain stream. of the St. Joe, the highest free flowing river in the country, how long that little tidbit of geological trivia will remain with me. If in my last moments I’ll be afforded the luxury to recall it, or if it will slip away beforehand, like water from a melting snowbank as it carves the Bitterroot Mountains
Poet’s Recital
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | FRANK LIGHT
Back on the River Again By Frank Light
Partners, an agency of the Denver juvenile courts, matched adult volunteers with in-trouble youth to provide a sounding board distinct from the support system on the teenagers’ home turf. These partners for a year or more bonded through activities such as hiking, biking, and skiing. A highlight for many was a multiday river trip across Dinosaur National Monument in the northwest corner of the state. Streets smarts didn’t count for much in that environment. The kids and often their partners had to acquire new skills and attitudes to succeed. At the start of each day, as the partners stood by their boats, life vests on, paddles at the ready, the river crew would give a reading. “Wind in the Willows” was a favorite. “Back on the River” was another, a home movie in words. Get out of your cot. This ain’t no yacht. Grab those pots and pans, Beans, sardines, and ammo cans. Fill the coolers. Fuel the van. Rack it, stack it, raise a racket. Pack the jackets and the paddles. Smallest struggles are the hardest battles. Back in the van again. Twilight near, into high gear, Pepsi not beer, elbows to steer, Eyes peeled for deer, turkeys in the rear, Running late, tempting fate, Somebody ought to investigate! We're back to the Gates again. How deep is the water? Which way does it flow? Where are the motors? And who's running the show? Hullo, crew, how do you do? I’ll be your captain, so who are you? Safety first, then we'll have some fun – Uh, no booze, no dope, no sex, no guns, more sun, Watch your buns, no puns, please. If your nose runs, ask your captain's permission to sneeze. Make yourself at ease. All this – and no extra fees! – On our own pre-owned Green River boats. Let’s hope this one floats. Are you taking notes? No, no Rocky Mountain goats But bighorn sheep, cliffsides steep, rattlers asleep, CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | FRANK LIGHT
Last boat is sweep, We’re back on the river again. Uh, these rocks are 400 trillion years old. Let me know if you're getting cold. Hold. We call this the ferry position. It's no longer against the law (except in Utah). This is a rudder. This is a draw. Haw! Was that a guffaw? Aw, didn't mean to soak you, it's just my style. Less muscle, more guile. Smile. See the sign – Hell's Half Mile. Look at how the water churns. Could give a slow learner like, gulp, yours truly cause for concern, Said the captain from the stern. One thing your skipper’s limited experience has confirmed, We gotta get sideways to turn Then head nose first through the holes, I mean between the holes. There, I mean here she blows! Good thing we rehearsed our roles. Bowman ready? Is my v-voice steady? Let me be candid: We call this a rapid. Yes, rapid means fast. Glad you asked. I was last in my class, Barely passed, already gassed, Half-assed, miscast, Hate to be splashed, My mom says I’m rash, Program’s out of cash, we’re in it for laughs, Forward. Forward! Forward! FORWARD! Hold. Breathe. At ease. Lower the mast, ahoy and avast! What a blast. How’d you like seeing your whole life flash? Aren’t you glad that’s in our past? Suddenly – shhh – the water’s like glass. But ahead lies a sleeper. See the way the – jeepers creepers! We call that a… holy… left turn! Right turn! Ah shit. I admit CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | FRANK LIGHT
John Wesley Powell did it with one arm. I do it on charm. Sound the alarm. We’re buying the farm! Just kidding. No harm, No fowl, Only us chickens and the peacock’s howl, Guys and gals, partners and pals Back on the river again. Until we’re not – this boat brakes for lunch. Munch and crunch as much as you please. Ignore the bees. Imagine there are trees. Those’re gnats, not fleas. Is that how you dance? Want some cheese with your ants? No need to stare. Yes, we like to share. No, there’re no bears, Just raisins and candy, sticky and sandy, Plus all the peanut butter you can eat. Easy on the jam. Watch it with the ham. One slice of meat, Two of bread. Make it quick – your legs are getting red. We’d shelter in the shade of a box-elder glade, Sipping strawberry Kool-Aid, But our tans would fade. So get out the sunscreen. Chapstick slapstick, what a scene. Anything but routine. Finish the sardines. Top off your canteen. Hurry, hit the latrine, Portapotty, I mean, Cause it’s back to the river again. Without engine or sail Just a battered, plastic bucket to bail. Got it on sale, A spare life jacket if it fails. No, no oars on this raft Yes, you may say fore and aft Talking the talk, buzzwords and squawks Buzzards and hawks The canyon our constant companion. Upstream winds around the bend. Dig in, you’re among friends With a long ways to go. CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | FRANK LIGHT
Heave ho, current’s slow. Row row, me hearties, Gotta pay for those parties! Back on the river again. Boatman's butt. A boatload of nuts Busting their guts, Breaking out of their ruts. The captain’s a klutz! What a putz. Let him futz. Back on the river again. Well, we may be floating but the sun is sinking, Which gets your captain to thinking We must be at our site already. So head for that eddy And listen up cause there ain’t no signage. We call these bags blags. Untie them and the dunnage, Our nautical luggage. Air out your sleeping bags. Let me know if your tarp sags. Is that a sight gag? Undies or a white flag? We're making camp again. Now every Coloradan says water instead of wahter and you bet for yes, Wears shit-kickin boots, owns a down vest, Knows when you’re wet, wool is best, Sun, stars, and Texans move west, Weather moves east, Mosquitoes is a beast. The Green River is brown. The sky is blue. Time flies. Deer flies, too. What happened to the moon? What happened to June? Up so soon, No moment more opportune As this waterborne commune – Talking about you, you rabid, raving Ray-Ban raccoons – all outdoors our – ptooie – spittoon, Gets back on the river again. Uh, pardon the spit. It’s that chew I dip – Enough to make a grown man sniff, CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | FRANK LIGHT
Tickle his stiff upper lip. This is where the mountain splits, Which means we split too. Hate how each trip comes to an end Just when we’ve become friends. But loved how you pulled together, Helped each other, All in good humor, Didn’t believe all those rumors About us spaced-out baby boomers Fetched wood for fires, picked off the briars, Lifted kettles with pliers, such fabulous liars. You camped out, did without, chilled out, flailed about, And when your captain fell out, You came to his rescue. You’re definitely the best crew. I'm gonna miss you. Give me a hug. Send the photos. Keep the bugs. Thanks so much. Stay in touch. You’ll look good with a crutch. We’re off the river again. Do the laundry. Unload the trailer. Finish the letter you never mailed her. Though you’ve yet to fail her and remain devoted, Face it: you’ve been outvoted. Crew’s on the loose, last call for brews. You paid your dues. That weren’t no luxury cruise. Body’s bruised, still drying your shoes, Can’t shake those Warm Spring Blues. But, hey, it’s the course we choose, The best excuse to get loaded again. Nah – We know, deep in our soul, "We represent not just ourselves but an entire organization." Non-profit at that! Don’t dismiss it. Embrace it. Kiss it. Please, nothing explicit. The river, the runners, the cycle never ends.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | FRANK LIGHT
Return of the Dinosaurs Old river rats never die. We just float on by. Washed up, dripped dry, Temporized, rationalized, tried our best to compromise, Got marginalized, nearly fossilized, And then one day, no surprise, We’re back – Grayer, heavier, better late than later, As we gather by the river, The river again. Ah, Colorado, Bravado our motto, No longer get blotto, Keep buying into Lotto, organic avocados, Desperados hanging on, like cottonwoods and humpback chub. Would that we could – that’s our club. That’s the ticket – we’re the stub. Endangered species, Are known by their feces, Which naturalists call scat. It tells them what we ate And where we’ve been, not where we’re at. Speaking of which, love your tat. Where’d you get that silly hat? Fall back, spring forward. Gangway, moving shoreward. All aboard, port and starboard. Current’s trucking. Boat is bucking on spring storms and snowmelt. Hey, where’s my seat belt? So now you wear helmets? Am I out of my element? No, you never forget – it’s like square knots and half hitches. And, remember, a Partners boatman never flinches. Oops, a few glitches – Like, these britches need stitches And my underwear pinches. Okay, might have put on a few inches And feeling a bit stiff, Getting a whiff, Of gradient shifts Almost as if – Yikes! We’re gonna get wiped! Are haystacks payback CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
POETRY | FRANK LIGHT
For living the life? Ooh – close call! Well, aren’t they all? Having a ball Answering the call Of the river again. A swell moves across the ocean but the water stays true While a river wave holds steady as the water moves through. The Colorado once flowed to the sea Now only sporadically Theoretically it returns as rain Gully to stream Yampa to Green Jurassic dreams Heading downstream On the river again. A philosopher once said you can’t step in the same river twice. My advice is skip twice, go straight to trice Or more Until you can’t anymore. But who’s keeping score? We’re on a revival tour, Commodores of the Dinosaur, Back on the river – well, shiver our timbers – back on the river again.
Poet’s Recital
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | ANISSA MCGOUGH
The Climb By Anissa McGough
Sitting on the soft couch in friends' new home, everything is calm. The scent of popcorn fills the air as the gentle sound of kernels popping and the laughing company fill the silence. While trying to remain inconspicuous, I take a sip from my ice-cold glass and a high-pitched ringing overcomes me. The laughter fades away, the voices of those around become muffled, and my light smile slips into an empty, blank affect. As if stepping into another world, I am no longer in a room surrounded by people, but I’m in a familiar space — the bottom of a hill. Before I can gather my thoughts, the light touch of a hand on my arm abruptly brings me back into the room with the question of, “What's wrong?” Disorientation consumes me as I become startled. I think to myself, “How long was I gone for? Did I just teleport somewhere?” Yes, and no, I've just experienced dissociation, a detachment from my immediate surroundings and reality. This also happens to be one of many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. No one ever likes to tell the truth about trauma recovery. The only time anyone seems to talk about it is when a person has already overcome the process as if there are no in-between stages. Trauma
CANYON VOICES
itself is ugly, but recovery is where the real pain begins. Recovery is an uphill battle. The hill is a vertical landscape covered in viscous molasses. The view of the top, the future, is blocked by thick fog. What lies behind, in the past, is all but a deep and empty chasm. There's no going back. Pushing forward requires the acceptance that nothing will ever be the same. Maybe that's why no one likes to talk about it. Dissociation was my only solace. If my thoughts remained untethered to reality, I could float through with muted emotion. Nothing and no one could ever hurt me again in that space. Living with muted emotion wasn't without its punishments, though. I had forgotten what it felt like to be truly happy and how to connect with other people, including my family. I was hellbent on staying locked in this mindset and avoiding the climb until I got the call that my uncle had passed away. Don't worry. We weren't close. My uncle was my father's terminally ill brother, whose condition and existence I had forgotten about while living in my pit of self-pity and despair. There was something about his death that woke me up a bit.
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | ANISSA MCGOUGH
I had become painfully aware of my mortality, and I began to ask myself questions. What kind of life did my uncle have? What kind of person was he? What kind of person am I? What kind of life have I had so far? What happens when I die? Am I already dead? That's the thing about death, though, it seems to have that effect on people. The final question stuck with me for a bit. “Am I already dead?” It was at that moment that I realized I was in my 20s going through the motions of life. Without any recollection of where I've been, aside from the trauma, and without connection to the present, I felt like a ghost. Frightened by my ghostly existence, I decided maybe it was time to get some help.
“
I've had my head down for so long; I had forgotten what it felt like to stand up …
In therapy, I learned a way to feel alive that didn't involve hurling myself off a tall bridge with an oversized rubber band attached to my ankles. The concept was familiar and foreign all at the same time. Mindfulness. Something that I thought was only for monks or hippies on Instagram with their “namaste in bed” t-shirts. Mindfulness is simple — achieve a better mental
CANYON VOICES
state by focusing my awareness on the present moment while calmly acknowledging and accepting my feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations. At first, I would've taken the bungee jumping straight into the chasm over implementing mindfulness to climb. I felt like a newborn baby. It was like opening my eyes for the first time. However, instead of waking up to doctors, nurses, and my adoring parents smiling down at me, I was a 25year-old sitting face-to- face with the responsibility of living my life on purpose, with purpose. It was terrifying, but I decided to move forward, mindfully with patience. Over time, the less judgment I had for my feelings, thoughts, and triggers, the more refined I became in my uphill climb. With each summit, I arrived as a more present and authentic version of myself. I'd gained a new sense of freedom to be and express myself fearlessly. Every moment I chose to be mindful, I felt more and more connected to the people and the events I was involved in. I transformed into a stronger, wiser woman and began to look at my trauma as a learning experience to empower myself. Even in the plateau, I held on steady, trudging through the molasses. Sticky and out of breath, it isn't always easy to remain mindful, but the change from dissociative ghost to hill climber who loves and understands the complexity of life is worth it. I've yet to make it to the top of this hill, and a part of me knows reaching the top isn't the point. It's choosing every
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | ANISSA MCGOUGH
day to continue looking up and using my newly found tool to climb. I've had my head down for so long; I had forgotten what it felt like to stand up. Empowered by this feeling, there's no going back. I will never stop climbing.
“What's wrong?” one of the soon to be parents ask as they take a seat next to me on the couch. “Nothing. I'm just so happy and honored!” I tearfully reply.
I wish more people talked about the climb. So, again. Sitting on the soft couch in friends' new home, everything is calm. The scent of popcorn fills the air as the gentle sound popping of kernels and laughing company fill the silence. While choosing to remain mindful, I take a sip from my ice-cold glass and a high pitched ‘clink’ rings throughout the room.
About the Author
“We have an announcement!” the hostess says, smiling from ear to ear and embracing her husband. My heart pounds as the room quiets down to hear the hosts. “After much time, we're finally having a baby!” Warmth rushes upon my face as I say, “Congratulations! How exciting!” The parents-to-be turn and gesture towards me, “we want you to be the godparent. We cannot think of anyone else that would be more perfect. What do you say?” Excitement consumes me at the mention of this request. I find myself overcome with emotion as my heart feels full and I’m choked up with tears.
CANYON VOICES
Anissa McGough is a Communications major at ASU with a passion for creative writing and exploring new ways of personal development. After recently leaving the military to finish her degree, she has found new ways to express and define herself as a writer.
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | ANISSA MCGOUGH
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | SARAH GRONOSTALSKI
Where the Sidewalk Ends by Sarah Gronostalski
Where the sidewalk ends—that’s Venezia St. Lucia in a nutshell. But it doesn’t do justice to the network of twisting canals and tangled alleyways, blending into each other and suggesting twenty different routes towards the same destination. It’s so much more than that. If you’re looking for a detailed account of every street I walked, reviews for all the restaurants I tried, or a blow-by-blow account of my day, you best clear off now. You won’t find that here. On the other hand, if you like vivid imagery with interspersed poetry read on. It might even get introspective—who knows what’ll happen? Oh and just fair warning: I love expletives. All clear? Lovely. Let’s get back to Venezia. The banks of the canals are perfumed with salt—seawater without the emphasis of rolling waves breaking on the sand. Instead, there’s the slap of lovers fucking as water jumps against the stone barriers. Seaweed clings along the rocks—evidence of changing tides—and splaying across stairwells disappearing into the gloom. Green melted plastic growing dehydrated in the sun, musky and putrid. But at least it’s better than the occasional sewage stench that pervades some alleys, where dogs have left their urine to bask with their forgotten shit. But to be honest, I barely noticed the smell. Okay, I noticed, but I hardly cared—I was in Venice. It felt like I’d fallen into a fairy tale or some vivid dream, one that I was sure I’d wake up from any moment. Even now, it feels surreal. The people winded through roads too small for bicyclists, let alone cars. It created a flowing river of bodies, tourists pushing along pre-arranged paths lined with souvenir shops and vendors calling, “Selfie, selfie,” after their retreating backs. At brick bridges with canal access, gondola owners tried to procure riders at flat prices—growing disinterested the instant you mention you’re broke. It’s a city that breathes with the tides, pulling its people in and out of doorways, holding a wineglass in one hand and a dog-leash in the other. The bricks melt into each other, sag from the weight of sea-dust and age, turning alleyway tunnels into stout mazes. Where the water is teal— that perfect mix of blue and green with emphasis on the latter. Where sea dragons glide smoothly across the water, cutting the surface with necks of gold, charcoal black against milky green, utterly silent as it passes by growling behemoths that spit jets of water. I remember sitting at the end of the boardwalk, near Sant’Elena.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | SARAH GRONOSTALSKI
The sun cast a long line across the heaving water—a candle flickering in liquid wind, waiting until the rolling waves swallowed its golden light. Waves, which rose and fell, clashing in the middle—creating a spine of foaming white before wrenching apart and folding across the vibrant green and turning it dark. But the seaweed that splayed across the concrete boat launch beneath my dangling feet looked more like the matted hair of mermaids cast upon the shore, glistening in the receding sunlight. Cracked, splintered mussel shells like royal blue glass shards were scattered among the strands. Jewels for drowned beauty. It was a wasteland of sea debris until you looked closer and saw it fluttering with tiny wings, flies bouncing and resting, stealing sips and breathing light back into the green, then fleeing the embrace of the sea.
About the Author
Sarah Gronostalski is a bohemian nomad and optimistic nihilist with a bachelor’s Degree in English from the University of Washington. For the past year, she has been traveling up and down the west coast while writing the first novel in a larger magical world as well as various flash fiction pieces, poetry, and essays. She also uses the pseudonym Riddell Lee for her fanfiction endeavors and has posted two novellength works on Archive Of Our Own.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | DANIEL MATTHEWS
Exploring Family Myths By Daniel Matthews
I don’t save documents – except one letter I’ve kept my entire life. It was written 128 days after I was born, almost 30 years ago. It is from my paternal grandfather, hereafter known as Grandpa, and was our only direct communication. I was born in April 1990 just outside of Washington D.C. Meanwhile, he was in Arizona on the tail end of a bout with heart disease and lung cancer that would claim his life. We never met, and he only saw pictures of me, but as he lay there looking at a photo of his newborn grandson, he wrote the following letter: 25 Aug ‘90 Hey Dan – Got your pictures, you look good. You look like you have it made in the shade. Your bathtub looks a little small, but you can make it do. Your great aunt Mary Elizabeth fell in love with you through your pictures. Love Grandpa P.S. Write often. Grandpa passed away shortly after he wrote this letter. He had not been kind to his body throughout his life, and neither had the military, as I later came to understand. Growing up with only a letter and stories, Lawrence Charles Matthews became something of a folk figure to me. A man who could both occupy a distinct place in my lineage and be the protagonist of inspirational, larger-than-life stories. He was the man who landed on Utah
CANYON VOICES
beach, fought in Battle of the Bulge, and liberated the Dachau concentration camp. But he was also the man who I shared 25% of my DNA with, and who I could look up to when I was in search of guidance. My father regularly repeated stories of Grandpa’s exploits in my childhood. His favorite story took place just after the second World War, when a Hitler Youth grabbed a rifle and shot Grandpa in the leg. Since peace had already been declared, my grandfather wasn’t eligible for a purple heart. Despite the bronze star award for valor he had earned previously in the war, not getting that purple heart always bothered him. Grandpa chose to remain with the military after WWII ended, and a few years later moved his wife and young son, my father, to Frankfurt, Germany. They moved later to Missouri, then Japan. I’ve heard a few stories via my father about each location. About fishing trips along the rivers in Germany, racing cars in Missouri, and his prom on an American Military base in Japan. I heard little more about Grandpa, his imperfections swept aside by his heroic contributions. The only story my older brothers would tell me was that he allowed them to shoot beer cans in the desert but wouldn’t include my older sister. He liberated Dachau, what else would I need to know? Hearing something like that – your grandfather liberated a concentration camp – does not hold much weight when you’re seven and being told these stories by your older siblings.
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | DANIEL MATTHEWS
Concentration camps are not on anyone’s radar at seven. I didn’t know what it was or what it meant to have liberated one. I knew my grandfather did it, and I knew people who knew about concentration camps were impressed. Otherwise, I had zero context for the feat. Moreover, when you grow up with this story in the backdrop, you just assume everyone else has something similar, so I didn’t exactly identify it as a value add. It took me about five years to begin to connect the dots. I’ve visited concentration camps three times in my life, Dachau at 13, Sachsenhausen at 18, and Dachau again at 28. I have no recollection of the first visit but have photo evidence and eyewitness accounts that I was there. It was a lot for a 13-year-old. That should tell you all you need to know about my
feelings that first time. The second visit to a concentration camp came five years later, just outside Berlin. This is when the sharp dichotomy between stories and surroundings hit me. Reading plaques about the monstrosity on camp walls, juxtaposed with a gentle breeze and chirp of birds in the distance, is an emotional experience to say the least. Reflecting upon my experience at Sachsenhausen, I began to understand the colossal horror that was the Holocaust. The immeasurable terror experienced by those who underwent trauma after trauma because of their religion, sexuality, or ethnicity. I do not think I’ll ever truly be able to comprehend. It is something I will internalize. Preventing the same thing from happening again is something I will fight against every day of my life, with the help and inspiration of my grandpa.
Lawrence Charles Matthews is second from the left
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | DANIEL MATTHEWS
My third visit came while on a trip to Munich with Arizona State University. When I learned about the ASU trip to Germany, I was immediately interested knowing it would be an amazing travel and cultural opportunity. I looked at the itinerary and was taken aback by the Dachau visit. I wasn’t sure it was a place I wanted to revisit, but eventually decided it was worth the experience. I do not like discussing my family’s history with Dachau with the average person as, frankly, I feel that what my grandfather did 70 years ago doesn’t give me much standing for anything. The only thing it can really provide for me is a solid foundation for what I should be striving for and the people for whom I should be fighting. So I took the plunge and chose to revisit those horrific grounds. As I enter the Dachau grounds for the second time, I begin to understand why my feelings are so complicated – this space is as much associated with my grandfather as the letter. In my eyes it is a relic of his influence. In some ways, me visiting is a pilgrimage of one of the few places I knew he actually spent time, and more importantly, made a difference. It is something like how I look at his letter. To visit another relic is something special. Most of the buildings were razed after the second World War, so not a lot remains. The Americans used part of it as prisons directly after the war but most of that was destroyed as well. What remained was then built up for the museum. In some ways it felt slightly forced, that they would rebuild buildings just so people could experience the terror of fascism again. But also, I felt that it was an important experience to feel the style of building, to walk down the halls of prisoners, looking at each locked door, imagining the horror of being a guard who didn’t want to comply, or even worse, a resident. So much of this museum is dedicated to “never again,” something I’ve been experiencing my entire life.
CANYON VOICES
In a way it felt gross. In another way it felt validating. The lesson for me has and always will be never again. However, another lesson was that people are capable of such monstrosities just by looking the other direction. Being the grandson of one of the liberators of Dachau gives one something of an imposter syndrome when visiting. You know your family is directly connected to the buildings, the grounds, and the history, but you didn’t really do anything. It is a strange sense of both pride and privilege. That second one is the worst to feel. To understand that there had been horrible atrocities committed here, that your family fought to stop it, and that you can be proud of that second bit while also understanding the first. It’s not an emotion they teach you to handle in grade school. It is something you learn to cope with as an adult, however. We’ve been through a lot as a country in the past few years, and the idea of “Nazi” has been brought up more often than anyone would like. Something that’s kept me sane and on the right path is the memory of my grandfather. The reminder that he was there at the beginning at Utah beach and fought until the job was done gives me the strength to fight now when I might otherwise have none. His image is a hero that I can look to in my darkest hours and find the light. My family doesn’t tolerate Nazis – we didn’t then, and we don’t now. I know what I stand for and I stand for it strong because of him. Throughout the Dachau tour, I found myself looking around for any evidence of the superhuman figure from my childhood. I looked through the pillars of the museum and combed the videos of American soldiers liberating the camp but couldn’t find anything. I found myself questioning whether or not there was value here for me personally. I found myself questioning the value of my family’s history. I then realized there
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | DANIEL MATTHEWS
was no actual evidence of my grandfather’s history here anywhere. It was all just a story told to me by my father. When I returned to the hotel, I called him and asked him why I couldn’t find any proof anywhere. That was when he told me the final truth about my grandfather’s experience in Dachau. As it turns out, my grandfather actually was in Dachau during the liberation, but he was also involved in the extrajudicial killings of some of the guards there, and that weighed heavily on him for a long time, to the point where his wife, my grandmother, destroyed any evidence of the Dachau experience, as a way of protecting my grandfather. This was never something that had been brought up previously and was only revealed when I pushed for answers. All I knew was Grandpa liberated Dachau, end of story. This larger-than-life figure in my head, the man who could do no wrong, suddenly is experiencing human emotions and responses not unlike
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PTSD. I now find myself not just revering a larger-than-life figure, but rather a human, who did his best, tried his hardest, and was hit with some severe consequences. He drank and smoked himself to a likely early grave, thus the letter. I find myself then somewhat at a crossroads, puzzled when it comes to my family lore. This is a man who I’ve never had the opportunity to meet, but whom I admire, who also violated prisoner of war conventions, killing men who were the enemy just hours earlier. I’ve heard great stories about him throughout my life; however, I’d like to ignore some of his actions, and deny my feelings about it to keep his hero story untainted. Everyone has family lore, the idea that their grandfather or grandmother did this or that. The understanding is that we are all to accept at face value our own familial history without realizing
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | DANIEL MATTHEWS
the impact those experiences had on our ancestors. Something I never considered is that my grandfather was a complicated person, someone who dealt with emotional issues and also did something amazing. Perhaps that makes him an even more powerful figure, in that he was able to overcome and still contribute a great deal, with a legacy that will live on.
About the Author
At the bottom of the letter I was sent, below Grandpa’s signature, reads the following: You are something else. Take care of yourself. We love you, Your great aunt Liz P.S. We’re taking good care of your granddad. He loves you very much.
CANYON VOICES
Daniel Matthews is a community organizer and data scientist residing in the Washington, D.C. area He is the son of Molly and Larry Matthews. He graduated suma cum laude from ASU in December 2019 with a bachelor’s of science in Technological Entrepreneurship and Management. Throughout his degree, he focused on opportunities to help local community programs improve their connections to veterans’ programs. He is the son of a Vietnam War veteran and the grandson of two WWII Veterans, each of whom earned Bronze Stars for their service. He currently serves as the President of the Arlington Young Democrats, the largest and most active youth chapter in Virginia. He works to ensured that veterans remain a focus of youth advocacy by organizing a yearly youth wreath laying at Arlington National Cemetery.
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | CINDY SAMS
To My Daughter: Some Instructions Following My Death By Cindy Sams
First, don’t freak out. Everything will be ok. I’ll walk you through this, step by step. Of course, feel free to put your own stamp of grief upon the process, if that’s what you want. Keep in mind, though, that life happens. So does death. I’d say, “Get over it,” but you won’t. Not for a long time. Read this thoroughly. At least twice. Don’t stop to analyze anything the first time. Just get the gist of what you need to know and then double back for the specifics. There are lots of them. Always plenty of details to wrap your head around when death is concerned. Follow the plan on this paper and you’ll be fine. At least you’ll have my assistance. When your dad fired a 9 mm bullet into his skull on Christmas Night nine years ago, I handled the death details alone. No. That’s a lie. Sounds good, but it’s not true. Your Uncle Dee took over the gruesome task of funeral arrangements, newspaper notices, and calling the family. All that stuff. The first and final time that prick lawyer ever did anything for your dad.
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Jim’s shot himself, and I don’t know what to do. I’m going to help you, ok? You have to calm down so I can help you. Calm down, he said. Too bad Uncle Dee wasn’t around to discard the funeral flowers that landed on our front porch hours after the memorial service. I dragged them to the trash by myself before you came home and saw them. That’s the last confrontation a 15-year-old girl needs on the day she buries her dad. The funeral. Attended only by family and the few friends who remained in town for the holidays. Tony came. Handsome devil. Black hair, brown eyes, and forearms like Rocky Balboa. Beautiful man with his beautiful wife and beautiful son. He’d never leave her for me. Back inside Snow’s Funeral home in downtown Macon. Here I am, standing next to the closed mahogany box that held the remains of my husband. Married for nearly three decades. Ok. Another admission. We were separated. I moved
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | CINDY SAMS
out 18 months after the second DUI. Nearly two years apart, but who’s counting? Guess your dad was. Dead of his own doing at 52. Now comes a ghoulish question from the funeral director, the query spoken out of earshot of other mourners:
That’s important, the insurance. Some say I as good as shot your dad myself. Poor guy, poor drunk, left all alone in that big old house he never wanted to buy anyway. Just up and move out one Saturday morning over a little thing like another DUI.
Would you like to see him? He looks pretty good considering.
Ummm, ummm, ummm.
A terse reply from the grieving widow: Fuck you. Morticians. No couth at all.
Can’t you just hear the tongues of the surviving old ladies wagging in delight?
“
Can’t you just hear the tongues of the surviving old ladies wagging in delight? Back to Uncle Dee. Net worth $2.5 million. You won’t remember this, but your cousin Josh said he once found the rich bastard lounging in his own garage holding a Scotch on the rocks in one hand and caressing the hood of his forest green Jaguar with the other. Imagine the look of deep respect when he revealed how much money I’d earned on your father’s demise – with the insurance and sale of his 33.3 percent of the family business, it was more than a million. A million smackeroos. The money’s mostly gone now, frittered away on trips, houses, and men. But that’s beside the point. A girl has got to kick up her heels sometimes. Besides, what do I care? I’ve got a job. A couple of master’s degrees. Infinite employability.
And health insurance.
CANYON VOICES
Anyhoo. Back to the current business. Open the bedside drawer. The one on the left with the lamp that still works. The bottom drawer, honey, not the top. Grab the manila envelope with my important papers – internet passwords, checking account numbers, certificates of life and death (Richard’s Death Certificate is in there, too, but don’t read it. Lung cancer’s such a nasty way for a second husband to go). Thumb through all those papers until you find my will. It’s not exactly up to date, but you’ll get the idea of what was intended. There’s no one left but you, anyway, so you get it all. Correction. You get what’s left. The sizeable IRA – another “gift” from your dad – the remainder of my Teacher’s Retirement Account, whatever’s in my Suntrust and Cadence bank accounts. All yours. Listen up, now. This next detail is very important: Sell the house. Sell it quick. There’s an inspection report in the desk drawer in the living room. Get rid of it. There’s been
WINTER 2019
CREATIVE NONFICTION | CINDY SAMS
a lot of work done to this old barn, but there are still some … Ahem … problems that persist. Don’t give the place away, for God’s sake, but try to unload it as soon as you can. Take what’s left after you pay off the mortgage (had to repay that $100,000 Home Equity Loan, you know) and do something spiffy with the proceeds. Take a trip. Buy a new car. Put a down payment on a house that your children can one day sell in turn. Assuming you change your mind about becoming a mom yourself. Think carefully about that decision before you grow too old. You’re 27 now, and it’s far from too late. Whatever you do, don’t mourn for my life or its hardships. Ignore the two times I dropped out of high school and focus on the successes in college and beyond. The newspaper years. The teaching career. The late turn back toward scribbling.
About the Author
Cindy Sams is a writer and teacher from Macon, GA. She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from Reinhardt University in Waleska, GA. She specializes in Creative Non-Fiction with a particular interest in place.
Disregard my impoverished childhood and lack of stable parents. The frequent moves that left gaps in my education that will never be closed. Neither your mom and nor your dad were stout and sturdy fellows, but look how you turned out. An employed geologist who, as I write, is winging her way toward Greece on the first vacation she ever worked to pay for. But you know what? I tried to provide stability and love and acceptance for the only baby I would ever bear. Forgive me that steadfastness and family structure flew out the window when you were thirteen. You had enough of the love and acceptance to spare. Like Meatloaf says, “Two out of three ain’t bad.”
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | KAYLA CAVIEDES
Fuck the Phonies By Kayla Caviedes
Characters: Roderick: A twenty-something guy with a shaved head. He is full of ANGST! Katie: A twenty-something gal with a calm, almost Buddha-like demeanor. Her eyes are particularly large. She must have seen a lot. Setting: A dimly lit cave. A girl, KATIE, sits on a tall rock while a guy with a shaved head, RODERICK, sits on the ground. He looks depressed as he stares at himself in a puddle. The two strangers sit in silence as water drips from the ceiling. RODERICK: SIGHS dramatically, hoping for some kind of attention. Katie remains quiet, not even looking at him. He tries again. Silence still. He frowns, frustrated. Why is she ignoring him?? A couple more drips sound and Roderick simply CANNOT take it anymore. He WHIPS his body around to face Katie. RODERICK: So you’re not even gonna ask my name??? She continues staring at nothing. KATIE: You stormed in and said not to bother you. RODERICK: Okay.. ? And??? He waits. For what? Who knows. He faces away from her. Maybe I didn’t feel like talking then. He scoffs and crosses his arms. RODERICK (CONT’D): You always give up so easy KATIE: Can’t give up on things you don’t care about. Roderick looks hurt. He really needs someone to be gentle with him right now, but she can’t know that! No one can! RODERICK: (defensively) Just thought you’d want to know who the strange guy in the cave is. That’s all. (quickly)
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | KAYLA CAVIEDES
I don’t care if you care! Oh, the lies. She shrugs. KATIE: Names are irrelevant. I already know who you are. RODERICK: Yeah ? You “know” who I am ? Take one look at me and it’s decided. Fuck. You. KATIE: You were here before. Sobbing into that puddle while shaving your head. He slowly turns his head toward her… KATIE (CONT’D): Complaining about (air quotes) “the phonies.” She finally looks at him. KATIE (CONT’D): Right? RODERICK: (stunned) How did yKATIE: I was meditating over there. She motions to a dark corner of the cave. KATIE (CONT’D): Or, trying to. That’s where I usually am. Not today though. I guess this is why. Roderick turns away. He needs to process this without her all-knowing eyes peering into his soul. How dare she witness his 2007 Britney Spears-esque breakdown! They sit in silence again before he decides to let her in on his big secret. Pause. RODERICK: Well. My name’s Roderick. KATIE: Katie. RODERICK: So, you saw all of that? KATIE: Mmhm. He rubs his hand over his bald head as he stares at his watery reflection. RODERICK: (quietly) That’s embarrassing. Katie shrugs again. KATIE: Everyone has a reason for doing what they do.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | KAYLA CAVIEDES
Roderick furrows his brow at this seemingly obvious statement. RODERICK: Yeah... The concept resonates with him as his head begins nodding up and down passionately. Yeah! He stands up. RODERICK (CONT.): And you know what?! He turns toward Katie. RODERICK (CONT.): Everyone’s just doing the best they can, ya know? Like. Even if things don’t turn out so well, it’s not like that person’s trying to mess up-. Well, I don’t know. I guess sometimes people mess up on purpose, but-. Fuck! (quieter) I don’t know. He takes a deep breath. RODERICK (CONT’D): It just sucks like, when you actually try your best and fail anyway? He sighs. RODERICK (CONT’D): And it’s not even about the shit you give yourself f or failing- which already sucks. It’s when other people give you shit. I mean, not even just give you shit, but hate on you for the mistakes you’ve made that you already hate yourself for! He looks at the ground. RODERICK (CONT’D): (quieter) It’s not like I wanted to fail... And yeah, maybe I went a little “crazy” for a while... He starts laughing bitterly. RODERICK (CONT’D): But, what even is crazy? Just a person who no one understands?? (angrily) No one’s EVER understood me anyway! He sits down again.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | KAYLA CAVIEDES
RODERICK (CONT’D): I’m not proud of everything I’ve done. I’m embarrassed. He shakes his head. Pause. RODERICK (CONT’D): But combine that with all the fucking, under-the-breath comments? Are you kidding me?? I CAN HEAR YOU. RODERICK (CONT’D): No one cares. They see a person imploding on themselves and just think to themselves, “Guess he’s finally lost it!” He looks off. RODERICK (CONT’D): (quietly) I don’t know what I expected. He laughs again, this time sadly. RODERICK (CONT’D): Guess that’s where I really fucked up. Expecting anything at all… The cave drips when suddenlyKATIE: Fuck the phonies. Roderick looks up at her, but her eyes are closed. She’s meditating. He keeps staring, hoping she’ll look at him with those omnipotent saucers just one more time, butNo. Realizing that’s all he’s gonna get, he looks back at his reflection. He smiles. Maybe somebody does understand him after all. RODERICK: Fuck the phonies. END.
About the Author Kayla Caviedes is a Non-Degree Grad at Arizona State University. She graduated from Seattle University in 2018 with a Bachelor's in Film Studies and a Minor in Creative Writing. After returning to Arizona from Washington, she began taking primarily writing courses at ASU. Hoping to one day have a career in scriptwriting, she dabbles in all formats including film, television, and plays.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | MORGAN HOPER
Reapers By Morgan Hoper
Characters: Mike Walker: W Angela Thanatos: S Sharyn Thanatos: C Grim Thanatos: John: Fade In: Ext. A college campus-Evening Dissolve to Int. A college dorm. There is a bed and a desk– Night ANGELA THANATOS is waiting in Mike WALKER’S dorm, going over a long list of names on her tablet. All the names are crossed out except one: Mike Walker. ANGELA: (to herself) Alright, Mike Walker. You’re the last one of the day, but where are you? (The tablet in Angela’s hands “dings” one time as Mike Walker enters the dorm. He is on the phone with his roommate. He doesn’t see Angela. She is invisible to living humans.) MIKE: (on the phone) Yeah, I just got home. ANGELA: (to Mike) Finally. (Mike searches for something in the dorm.) MIKE: (on the phone) Yeah, I’m alone. Where did you put them? No. I don’t see them. What? Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Yes, I’m sure. I mean, I took Something earlier- just to help me focus on the lecture. (pause) Way earlier. Like six hours ago. I’m good now. I just need a little something to help me sleep. (Pause) which drawer are they in? (Mike pulls a bottle of pills out of a drawer in the desk.) ANGELA: (to mike) I bet I can guess what kills you.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | MORGAN HOPER
MIKE: (on the phone) Found them. Thanks, John. (Mike swallows an unseen number of the pills and lies down on his bed. He falls asleep. Hours pass. The list on Angela’s tablet updates: Mike’s name is now crossed out. She walks over to his body, and wakes his soul, releasing it from his corpse. Mike’s soul stands up without noticing his corpse on the bed.) ANGELA: Hello, Mr. Walker. You slept till you were dead, huh? MIKE: Like the dead. ANGELA: Hmm? MIKE: The saying is, “You slept like the dead.” Not till you were dead. (pause) Who are you? ANGELA: Angela Thanatos: collector of the newly deceased. MIKE: You’re the Grim reaper? ANGELA: His daughter, actually. But I am here to reap you. MIKE: Oh. John. John sent you, didn’t he? Unbelievable. I told him I have a test tomorrow. ANGELA: Is that why you took the pills? MIKE: It’s none of your business why I take anything. (Angela gestures to Mike’s corpse on the bed. He finally notices it.) ANGELA: All matters concerning the dead are my family’s business. (Mike inspects his corpse.) MIKE: This isn’t real, right? It can’t be real. I can’t really be dead, right?! It’s insane. You’re insane. You can’t be the Grim Reaper. ANGELA: Right, because I’m his daughter. MIKE: Because reapers aren’t real and even if they were, you couldn’t be one. You don’t even have a scythe! (Angela pulls a little pouch out of her pocket. The words printed on the pouch read, “sandman: sleep sound, sleep sand!” She grabs some sand out of the pouch and throws it at Mike’s soul. His soul falls to the ground, dazed.) MIKE: What was that? ANGELA: Sleeping sand.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | MORGAN HOPER
MIKE: Seriously? (Mike looks at the bottle of “sleeping pills” that killed him and then at the pouch of “sleeping sand” in Angela’s hand. Meanwhile, Angela checks the pouch for an expiration date.) ANGELA: You should be asleep by now. MIKE: You’re right. I should be asleep, in my body! I should be resting for my test tomorrow. Look, I give you my blessing to reap my professor, assuming you absolutely have to take someone. Just put me back in my body. Please. ANGELA: You know Mike, People like you are why I prefer to reap the elderly. I reaped an 80year-old woman earlier today, and did she cry or beg? No. She looked me right in my eyes and asked, “what took you so long?”I’ve reaped enough people to have heard all the jokes, but the good ones never get old. MIKE: At least call an ambulance. I only took like three pills. I bet I can be resuscitated. (Angela opens the summon to human form app on her tablet. She summons her older sister, SHARYN THANATOS. Sharyn appears carrying a scythe.) MIKE: (to Angela) I asked for an ambulance. Who is she? ANGELA: My older sister. SHARYN: Hello, Angela. Let me guess. You want me to ship him up the river, as well? ANGELA: Please, Sharyn. I would do it myself, but dad still hasn’t given me a scythe of my own, Mike is not cooperating and my sleeping sand isn’t working. SHARYN: (to Mike) Do you at least have money for the fare? MIKE: (to Sharyn) I don’t even have money for textbooks and you want me to pay you to kill me? SHARYN: I miss the Greeks. They always paid their fare. Is one coin per person too much to ask? I have debts too. ANGELA: Sharyn. If you don’t ship him up the river, the soul books won’t Balance out. Do you want the horsemen to find out we failed another audit? SHARYN: Definitely not. Those four think every failed audit can be corrected with a mass reaping. I still have nightmares about that Ebola scare. Can you even imagine what they’d do now? I’ll give you a hint, all the humans have nukes. (pause) I’ll ship him. I just really hate charity work. MIKE: This has to be a dream.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | MORGAN HOPER
(Angela’s tablet “Dings” three times.) MIKE: What now? SHARYN: Triple “ding”. Scary. The last time I got one of those, I had to reap a god. Not fun. ANGELA: My shift is supposed to be over. SHARYN: What’s it say? (Angela checks the list on her tablet.) ANGELA: It’s an error. My list must be malfunctioning. SHARYN: Impossible. Death’s list is more accurate than Santa’s. ANGELA: I know, but this must be a mistake. Sharyn, my name is on the list. MIKE: Really sucks when it’s you, doesn’t it? ANGELA: It can’t be me. I’m a reaper. Old Grim is my dad. I can’t die. SHARYN: Everything can die. Maybe you should come with me too? ANGELA: I’m your sister, Sharyn! SHARYN: So, I won’t ask you to pay the fare. ANGELA: You are not reaping me! This is a mistake SHARYN: Is it? You haven’t exactly been the most punctual little reaper, Angela. I mean, how many people have you taken before their time? MIKE: At least one! She took me way too soon. ANGELA: Your name is on the list! MIKE: So is yours! ANGELA: That’s different SHARYN: It’s not. Nobody cheats death, Angela. The soul books won’t balance, you said it yourself. MIKE: (to Angela) We could just pretend this night never happened. The both of us could wake up tomorrow, alive. ANGELA: I’m summoning dad. When he finds out my name is on the list-
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | MORGAN HOPER
SHARYN: Dad writes the list, Angela. Only he could have put your name on it. MIKE: (To Angela) I really don’t think you should summon him here. Angela opens the summon to human form app again. MIKE: (To Sharyn) You love your sister, right? Can’t you just forget about this? Let us go. (Angela summons “GRIM THANATOS” to human form. He appears in the room carrying a golf club that quickly turns into a scythe.) GRIM: (to himself) I can’t have one day to myself in a millennium. GRIM: Hello, my children. And Mike Walker I presume. How are you? MIKE: I’m Dead. GRIM: Condolences. ANGELA: Dad. What is this? (Angela gestures to the list on her tablet. Her name is still present and waiting to be crossed out.) GRIM: Your messenger of death. ANGELA: The list, Dad. Why is my name on it? GRIM: Oh, That. ANGELA: What do you mean, “oh, that?” Are you really killing me off? Is that why you never gave me a scythe? GRIM: Your past behavior indicated you weren’t ready for a scythe. Angie, everyone dies eventually; But when you’re the reaper, Eventually tends to arrive a tad bit too soon. MIKE: That’s what I’ve been saying! I only took like two pills, For goodness sake. ANGELA: (to Mike) Two pills? You said it was three before. Do you even know how many you took? (Insert cut away showing how many pills Mike took (either he only takes two or he tosses back a hand full).) ANGELA: (Grim) I have never reaped a man who’s name wasn’t on my list. I always follow the list. Even when they act like adorable little crybabies. MIKE: Adorable?
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | MORGAN HOPER
ANGELA: (To Mike) This isn’t about you! MIKE: You think I’m Adorable. ANGELA: (To Grim) I’m your daughter. You can take my name off the list. GRIM: No. I love you dearly, Angela, but balances must be kept and names must be crossed. ANGELA: And this is how I find out? You couldn’t tell me in person? SHARYN: If dad weren’t here, you could have run away. Hidden. ANGELA: I couldn’t run while my name was on the list! The soul books wouldn’t balance and who knows how many people those four apocalypse junkies would end up killing to rebalance them. MIKE: Can’t we just fill the soul books with random names or other people’s names? You know like politicians or college professors? GRIM: No. We can keep the soul books balanced the proper way or not at all. ANGELA: I don’t want to die. Daddy, Please? (Grim shakes his head in denial.) MIKE: And you think I’m the adorable crybaby? (Angela and Mike share a heartfelt look.) (pause) ANGELA: (to Grim) Fine. GRIM: (to Angela) Are you sure? ANGELA: (to Grim) Reap me. GRIM: You don’t want to try running or fighting first? I’ll give you the first hit free? ANGELA: I’m sure, Dad. Just reap me already. GRIM: Hmm… No. (Grim offers Angela the scythe in his hands. She refuses to take it.) ANGELA: You can’t really expect me to reap myself?! MIKE: That is dark.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | MORGAN HOPER
GRIM: Check your messenger of death. (Angela checks her tablet. Her list has been updated. Her name is now crossed out.) ANGELA: I don’t understand. GRIM: Consider it a rite of passage. All collectors of the dead must be willing to die. ANGELA: This was a test? GRIM: And you passed. A lot sooner than your sister did when I tested her, might I add. If you keep at this rate, I might finally be able to retire. ANGELA: (to Sharyn) You knew he was testing me? SHARYN: Congrats? ANGELA: I’m going to kill you. (Grim offers Angela the scythe once more.) GRIM: And now you have a scythe of your own to do it. (Angela takes the scythe into her hands.) ANGELA: Thanks, dad. MIKE: (pause) So, I get to live too, right? Fade out End Scene 1: Int: Mike walker’s dorm. Morning. Mike wakes the next morning to the sound of an alarm. He checks his phone. The alarm reads “test day” and the time has elapsed by 30 minutes. While hastily tiding himself up and grabbing his backpack, he notices John’s bottle of pills sitting next to Angela’s pouch of sand. A note on the sand reads “Take this” a note on the bottle reads “not this”. Fade out End Scene 2: Int: Mike walker’s dorm. Morning. (John enters the dorm calling out to Mike.) John: Mike! I think I left you the wrong pills.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | MORGAN HOPER
(A shot of Mikes dead body.) John: Oh, fuck! Fade out About the Author Morgan Hoper received her Associate of Arts from South Mountain College and her Bachelor of Arts from Arizona State University. She graduated with highest distinction from both institutions. One day she would like to obtain a PhD, so she can teach creative writing at a university. Currently, she spends her days teaching literacy classes and surrounded by great books at her local library.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | CHANTAL RAMIREZ
Zoomin By Chantal Ramirez
Characters: Matt Waters: A newly graduated from college guy in his mid-twenties. Works at Zoomin as a cashier. Mikey Scarfsky: Best friend of Matt. A new cashier at Zoomin. Also, mid-twenties. Dan Hackley: Manager of Zoomin. Boss to Matt and Mikey. Carol: Angry customer. Setting: A fast food place by the name of Zoomin. At the register by the drive-thru window. (Two men dressed in Zoomin uniforms are standing behind the register. The window is to their left. Fast food bags are placed next to them. Mikey moves to pass the bag out of the window. Matt stops him.) MATT: Woah, woah, woah, woah, wait a second man. Don’t forget the mint. You have to mint every bag. (Drops a mint in and passes the bag out.) Have a nice day, ma’am. CAROL: And you made sure this is correct? I come here all of the time and my order is always, always wrong. I don’t want to have to come all the way back here again! MATT: (nods) Have a nice day, ma’am. MIKEY: Gee, you'd think if your order was “always” wrong you’d just stop getting food from the place, right? MATT: You learn to get used to them eventually. It’s not like we can actually say logical things back. The customer is always right. No argument about it. I’m so excited to be out of here. This place is the fucking worst. MIKEY: Ha, yeah. Thanks for scoring me such a great gig. You really know how to sell it. MATT: It’s a paycheck. But let me tell you, in a few weeks, I'll be cashing in big boy checks, and then we’ll go on a celebratory trip to Vegas so you can forget all about your sad life for the weekend. On me! MIKEY: At least you’re a generous asshole. So, the place called you back about the interview? MATT: Not yet, but didn’t I tell you I crushed it? Sarah’s been quizzing me the whole week to make sure I had all of the answers. She’s even more excited than I am at the thought of getting out of my mom’s basement. God it’s been, like, two years since I graduated. I was beginning to
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | CHANTAL RAMIREZ
think I did the whole degree thing for nothing. You shoulda seen Dan’s face when I put in my two weeks. Icing on the cake. MIKEY: I’m proud of you man. You were such a pain in the ass for years. Way to pull through. Where do we keep the ketchup packets? MATT: (Pats on a brown box above him.) You have no idea how excited I am, man! I’ll finally have a place, a career that I love doing. Like, I’m gonna enjoy going to work? What a concept. MIKEY: (Into headset.) Welcome to Zoomin. What can I get cookin’ for you? (To MATT) So what number is the spicy melt? Oh, and she wants no pickles! (MATT rings the order up on the computer.) Alright your total is 5.25 at the window. Man, I gotta say, I’m pretty jealous of the whole, ‘I know what I’m doing with the rest of my life’ thing you got goin’ on. MATT: One my day my friend. All were not born to be as ble- (Cell phone starts ringing.) Shit, shit, shit, shit, dude it’s the place!! MIKEY: Well, what are you waiting for? Answer it! (Passes a bag out the window.) MATT: You’ve reached Matt Watters… Yeah, it’s great to hear from you again. Oh. Wow, okay. That is definitely a commitment. I don’t think that’s… No, I… Okay… Sure. Two days. I’ll make sure to get back to you. Thank you for the call. (Hangs up.) FUCK. MIKEY: Hey dude, chill. I’m pretty sure everybody and their mom just heard you. MATT: What the hell am I supposed to do! I was sure I got that fucking job. I wanted it so bad. It took two years for this opportunity to come around. Now I’m just supposed to waste away in this fucking fast food hell?! Shit, I’m gonna have to tell Dan that I actually don’t quit. Fuck, I fucking hate it here. MIKEY: Hey, it’s gonna be okay. What did they even say? MATT: The spot was merged with another position and now it’s sourced in Alaska. They said they’d be happy to have me if I was willing to move. MIKEY: So, you got the job?! Congratulations! Oh, shit I’ve never been to Alaska. That’s gonna be one sick trip. MATT: Obviously I couldn’t do that you dumb fuck. How could I do that to my mother, or Sarah. Sarah wouldn’t move to Alaska. MIKEY: She loves you and this is your dream. She’d understand. MATT: Fuck, I really don’t want to have to beg Dan for my job back. What a fucking shit show. (Aggressive pounding on drive-thru window. Mikey opens it.)
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | CHANTAL RAMIREZ
MIKEY: Sorry about that ma’am. Our sensor must not have picked up your car. I can take you order here. CAROL: Were you dropped on your head as a child!? I was just here, nimrod. I got all the way home and guess what? My order was wrong again! And you said it was correct! How fucking hard is it to make sure one goddamn order is right! I am never coming back here. This is by far the worst establishment ever! Especially with all you stupid stoners running it straight into the ground. Oh, and by the way, your mints taste like ass! (Spits mint through the window and drives off loudly.) MIKEY: (Screams out window.) HEY FUCK YOU LADY! MATT: Fucking psycho. (Beat. Matt holds his face in his hands while Mikey picks up the mint and throws it in the trash. Matt looks at his watch.) Dan should be back from lunch now, so I guess I’ll see if he can squeeze me back into the schedule for eternity. MIKEY: Are you sure you wanna do that? MATT: There’s nothing else to do. Happiness and fulfillment are just gonna have to take a backseat if I’m gonna make rent. (DAN enters) DAN: I just got off the phone with a very upset customer. She said that for the fifth time this week she found out her order was wrong when she got home, even after she asked for it to be double checked. Then, when she came back, the man at the window did nothing to remedy the situation but hurl profanities at her as she drove away. I know it’s come to be your last day Matthew, but this is unacceptable behavior. I will have to ask you to turn in your hat and name tag right now. MATT: No sir. I’m very sorry. I would absolutely never conduct in that manner. I can explain everything. And also, about that last day detailMIKEY: What are you talking about, man? Are you just going to lie to Mr. Hackley? Sir I saw the whole thing. Honestly, I can’t believe you aren’t angrier. Matt was going off on this poor lady. Not to mention how he rubs his ass all over the mints before putting them in the bags. Despicable and disgusting. It’s a wonder you’re allowed in this building at all Matthew. MATT: Dude! What the fuck are you saying? Mr. Hackley, he’s a liar. DAN: (Takes off MATT’s hat and name tag.) Clock out. Get out of my sight. I never want to see your face again. (storms out) MATT: WHAT THE FUCK. MIKEY: Take the job. You literally can’t stay here. This is the push you needed. Trust me. Your happiness and passion and the rest of your life. It’s all waiting for you.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
SCRIPTS | CHANTAL RAMIREZ
MATT: (Silent for a few moments.) In a twisted way, that's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thanks man. (They hug.) My mom’s gonna kill me. Sarah’s gonna kill me. Fuck, is this really happening? MIKEY: That is, if you make it home. Be careful leaving the parking lot. I have a feeling the crazy bitch is still out there lying in wait. (END OF SCENE)
About the Author Amanda was born and raised in Glendale, Arizona and still lives there. She is graduating with a bachelor’s in history and hoping to get a master’s in history and in library science at University of Arizona. Amanda loves art, sketching mostly, and writing. She is hoping one day to publish a novel on the side while working at a museum or library and eventually moving to a cottage by the sea with her cat.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ROSANNA GADDONI
Rosanna Gaddoni
Stars Light | charcoal
Look Beyond | charcoal
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ROSANNA GADDONI
Wonder | charcoal
Rosanna is a contemporary painter and drawing artist. Born in 1972, she was raised in a small village closed to Ravenna, Italy. Since 2010, she has been travelling and living in different countries and continents. She is currently based in Helmond in the Netherlands. After having deepened her artistic studies at the Teekenschool and the Gerrit Rietveld Academy in Amsterdam, she started her path as a professional artist. Having seen and experienced so much about the human condition during her travels and in her life, her art is about emotions, vulnerability, humanity, and every aspect of the visual expression that involves the human life experience. This is attractive and compelling to her. Abstract is for her a natural language, and more than words it can reveal and shape her thoughts, feelings and intentions. In the abstraction, the vibrations of colors are tuned to a deeper level in connection to her inner emotions and to the viewer’s ones. Another medium that Rosanna explores to connect to humanity is drawing, using charcoal, willow charcoal or graphite. Rosanna uses her drawings to create an instant memory: like an old picture, colors fade and the image just keeps the essential. Her portraits are realistic with a personal, investigating glance on the subject. You can see her artwork at www.rosannagaddoni.com and Instagram @ rosannagaddoni CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | MALEKA (POLLY) HASHMI
Maleka (Polly) Hashmi
Integrity | watercolor and ink
Floral Fields | watercolor CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | MALEKA (POLLY) HASHMI
Everlasting | watercolor
Wisconsin Memories | watercolor
Dr. Maleka Hashmi BSc., MSc., PhD, lives in Edinburgh and works as a teaching fellow at Edinburgh University Medical School. Having been told by her high school art teacher that she had no discernable artistic talent, she stopped painting for thirty years and pursued a scientific career in cardiovascular physiology. She serendipitously discovered an interest in art three years ago after attending a sip and paint event while living in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Having moved to Edinburgh last year she focused on watercolors and painted everyday for one year and now enjoys exhibiting her artwork on Instagram. Maleka captures visions of nature from an ethereal aspect using the unpredictable fluidity of watercolors to achieve a delicate yet vibrant effect. You can view Maleka's artwork on Instagram @pollyhill1313
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | BEX AUGUST
Bex August
Long Hair | digital art
The Struggle for Home | digital art CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | BEX AUGUST
Of Sunsets and Roses | oil
Bex Mackenzie (they/them) is an artist, writer, and enjoyer of the weird and wonderful. When they aren’t working to survive under late-stage capitalism, they throw themselves into their creative pursuits, run Dungeons and Dragons games for their friends, and hang out with their polydactyl cat, Mollymauk. They are also currently working on developing a tabletop roleplaying game about alien robots and climate change. You can follow their work on @BexMachinaArt on Instagram, Twitter, and Threadless.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | MARIO LOPRETE
Mario Loprete
fabri fibra | oil on cement
b-boy | oil on canvas
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | MARIO LOPRETE
sista awa | oil on cement
Mario Loprete graduated from the Accademia of Belle Arti, Catanzaro, Italy. Painting for my is the first love. An important, pure love. Creating a painting, starting from the spasmodic research of a concept with which I want to send a message to transmit my message, is the base of my painting. The sculpture is my lover, my artistic betrayal to the painting. That voluptuous and sensual lover that gives me different emotions, that touches prohibited cords… The new series of works on concrete, it’s the one that is giving me more personal and professional satisfactions. How was it born? It was the result of an important investigation of my work, the research of that “quid” that I felt was missing. Looking at my work in the past ten years I understood that there was the semantics and semiotics in my visual speech, but the right support to valorize the message was not there. For my Concrete Sculptures I use my personal clothing. Throughout some artistical process, in which I use plaster, resin and cement, I transform them in artworks to hang. My memory, my DNA, my memories remain concreted inside, transforming the person that looks at the artworks a type of post-modern archeologist that studies my work as they were urban artifacts. CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | JEN SMITH
Jen Smith
[Untitled] | embroidery
[Untitled] | embroidery
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | JEN SMITH
[Untitled] | embroidery
JenAnnHandmade is the work of Jen Smith. Her designs are focused on anything and everything fun and colorful. Drawing inspiration from the great outdoors and the simple beauty of nature, her art is whimsical and cheerful. She’s been embroidering since 2017.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ZARINA SITUMORANG
Zarina Situmorang
Heart | oil
Cloud | oil CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ZARINA SITUMORANG
Peony | oil
I was born in Russia in 1991.
I am a self-educated artist, who stepped on the art path at the age of 19. My love of classical Russian literature and unfinished journalistic education greatly influenced me as an artist. For me, the visual component and the meaning of the picture are equally important. I like to take a personal story and show the timeless aspect of it. As an artist, I love light and stories. My main material is oil. I chose it because of the centuries-old history and a feeling of eternity. Plus, it has an amazing smell.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ALYONA KOPNINA
Alyona Kopnina
Whales | digital art
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ALYONA KOPNINA
King of the Mountain Kingdom | digital art
Awakening | digital art CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ALYONA KOPNINA
Ice Queen and the Guardian | digital art
Alyona Kopnina is a traditional and digital artist. She was born in Moscow, Russia, where she lives and works as a designer. In 2008, Alyona graduated from the Children's Art School. After high school, she went to the Moscow State Academic Art Institute of behalf of V.I. Surikov at the Russian Academy of Arts and graduated from the studio “the art of the book” as a graphic illustrator in 2018. Alyona works in different techniques. She creates portraits, illustrations, comics, concept arts and design. The artist gives preference to fantasy and fantastic.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | NAZIA DIN
Nazia Din
[Untitled] | embroidery
My name is Nazia Din and I live in the United Kingdom. I am a mum of two and I love to create! I have been creating most of my life but only started documenting it last year on Instagram. You can find me on there under the name stitch craft and felt studio. I will be making my art accessible to all in the near future but haven’t decided through which avenue yet. I hope you can enjoy looking at my pieces as much as I do!
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | GIADA CATTANEO
Giada Cattaneo
[Untitled] | digital art
[Untitled] | digital art CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | GIADA CATTANEO
[Untitled] | digital art
My name is Giada Cattaneo. I studied History of Art at the University of Bologna, Italy. I have collaborated as an illustrator with many editors and publishers in Italy. Italia Art Magazine (Roma), Enrico Folci Editore (Roma), SensoInverso Edizioni (Ravenna), UAO Edizioni (L'Aquila), Eventualmente Edizioni (Palermo), Freaks Edizioni (Faenza), Cacofonico Editore (Faenza), Fermenti Editrice (Roma), Progetto Flaneri Edizioni (Roma), Zacem Cultural Association (Savona), L'URLO Magazine (Ancona), il Cacofonico Magazine (Faenza). In the United States, my illustrations have been published in: Mantis Magazine (Stanford University), Fourteen Hills Magazine (San Francisco State University), Black Scat Review, Meat for Tea Magazine, The writing disorder, Midtown Miami Magazine, Puerto del Sol (New Mexico State University), The B'K bitchin' kitsch, Sea Foam Magazine, Canyon Voices (Arizona State University), Broad! Magazine Sincerely Magazine (Old Dominion University), The Fem Magazine, 13th Floor Magazine (University of Nebraska).
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ALI AKBAR BEIGI
Ali Akbar Beigi
Endless effort | oil
Hopeful Anticipation | oil
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | ALI AKBAR BEIGI
Kindness | oil
Ali Akbar Beigi was born on July 25, 1982 in an artloving family in Tehran, Iran. He has loved painting since childhood and has spent most of his time learning the craft with well-known art teachers. He developed an interest and a taste for art, when he was 14 years old. Beigi’s professional career as painter started after receiving an associates degree in art. He established his own gallery and training institute called ‘’Beigi Academy” in 2001 and soon after opened his second branch as a result of high demand and student interests. Beigi’s Academy is one of the most prestigious and eminent art classes in Tehran, which is authorized by Ministry of culture in Iran. During the past years, Ali Akbar Beigi has attended 15 collective exhibitions and held 4 successful solo exhibitions in terms of high quality of exhibited artworks and high volume of visitors. He is currently studying Bachelor of fine art in Iran. In addition to that, he attended several workshops and academic courses such as Imperial Academy of Art classes in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Beigi’s genre of painting is hyperrealism and the subject matter ranges from portraits, figurative art, still life, landscapes, cityscapes and narrative scenes. He he has a passion for oil painting as he believes that using a medium provides an artist with reaching the color and texture without any limitation that they wish to achieve. Moreover, oil paint creates luminous, rich colors that stand out particularly more than other paints may. Since oil paints contain more pigment, they create a more vibrant piece of artwork.
One of his honorable achievements is being selected as a finalist at the 13th Annual ARC salon competition(2018) in portrait category for his artworks called “Deep in Thought” and “Hopeful Anticipation.” He was also awarded a first place reward for The People’s Choice category in the 13th annual ARC competition in America. CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | SOPHIA TYLER
Sophia Tyler
Into the Snow | oil
Sea Shelled | oil CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
ARTWORK | SOPHIA TYLER
Coop the Chicken| oil
Sophia Tyler got a degree in illustrations at the University of Lincoln in Hull, England. After college, she began feel that it wasn’t enough to have her art on paper so she went to work for local theaters and opera houses as a prop maker, with a bit of dabbling in stage set design. One of her most favorite successes as an artist was working as an art teacher, and later a prop maker, for the U.S. Disney Cruise lines. Upon returning home to St. Annes, England, she decided to open her own health and beauty center called The Treehouse, where she displays, sells, and teaches art when she can. The shop allows her free space for her to express herself. The main advice Sophia would give to anyone is to explore and live life while you’re young. There will be plenty of time to slow down in the future.
CANYON VOICES
WINTER 2019
AUTHORS ALCOVE | SARAH GRONOSTALKI
Taking in the Scene Sarah Gronostalki Talks Facts and Fiction By Randie Finell
When did you start writing and why? Well, I feel like I’ve been writing ever since I started reading. However, I do kind of correlate the moment I got into Harry Potter with when I wanted to write. I would go long on creative writing assignments, and I vividly recall combining an Oregon Trail assignment with Lord of the Rings from 5th Grade. I remember arguing with my teachers about the five-paragraph format for essays and how I wanted to change the structure to make it more fun to write. I started writing for pleasure in earnest around thirteen with fan fiction—Harry Potter, of course. A friend and I would spend hours writing back and fourth through instant messenger. By high school, I finished my assignments as fast as I could to free up my time for my personal creative projects. How is writing incorporated into your life today? See, that’s a weird question because it is my life, in a sense. It’s the only thing I ever think about. I have a million things always in my head about what to write next. So it’s not so much about “when do I write?” but rather, “Oh good, I finally have a moment to write.” Sometimes I have to listen to music to drown out the constant buzzing in my head, or else I’d never stop looking at the world around me and
CANYON VOICES
Read Gronostalki’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” in the Creative Nonfiction section, and “Grey” in the Fiction section.
thinking about how I would write it. But, you know, there is something nice about letting in the noise of the world when you can. Heh, I feel like I finally understand those English teachers that used to lecture about “writing what you know.” It’s more about just opening your eyes to what’s around you and letting it all sink in. Any favorite writers or works of art that stand out to you and why? Well, one of them I have to give props to is J.K. Rowling. I don’t think I would have become a writer without Harry Potter. More than reading it through, I loved to break the story apart. I have more fun doing that than anything.
WINTER 2019
AUTHORS ALCOVE | SARAH GRONOSTALKI
So, even though objectively I know that there are a lot of problems in Harry Potter, I have to give her props for making something so fun to take apart, which is more important to me. Harry Potter was my writing sandbox.
I see on your various websites that “Where the Sidewalk Ends” is not your only travel piece; however, is this the piece that peaked your interest in the genre?
The other book that comes to mind is This Savage Song by V.E. Schwab. I found it in a bookstore in Scotland—at the time it had just come out. I read the whole thing in a day and a half. I loved her style! She used a lovely kind of poetic prose, the kind that I like to use, but she touched on deeper issues. It’s about this future where humans have become so populous that they have these mega-condensed cities. And the violent acts of humans against each other create monsters—like real monsters, not metaphorical. I loved that concept. One of the monsters in the story was brought about through a school shooting, which is, um, really relevant right now. I just really liked the imagination behind it.
Well, not really. I think of them more as poetic prose than nonfiction. I wrote quite a lot of these travel pieces during my study abroad, and I started wanting to write them because I like travel shows like Anthony Bourdain’s. I would occasionally read travel blog pieces but they all felt like recommendations on where to go, or where to eat, or visit more than anything. They lacked this impression of the cities themselves and were more touristy. I wanted to present them with more prose.
What do you feel is accomplished by writing about the places you’ve traveled to or what drove you to write travel nonfiction? I really like writing intense description. And, if I have a real-life thing to base it on, I can go more in-depth. My favorite thing to do is just find one spot and really focus on it. I wrote “Where the Sidewalk Ends” while I was on a study abroad program in Italy. We had a vague assignment to write about what we saw in the city or our experience there as we walked around. I ended up writing mine in a few sections. I wrote the first part while sitting on the edge of the canal in one of the quieter neighborhoods, after having walked around the city for a day or two. I wrote the second one while I sat near this boardwalk on Sant’Elena. I just sat there, watching everything move around me, and I tried to catch as much as I could see.
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“Harry Potter was my writing sandbox.” I was also inspired by Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino, and the book is framed with conversations between Kublai Khan and Marco Polo. Marco tells him impressions of the cities he’s been to in a lovely prose style, and some of them weren’t real or had magical elements—they were all named after women, as well—but he really captured the soul of a city that prose can create. When you read a regular travel blog, it leaves you not really knowing what the city is like. But when you sit down on the boardwalk and watch regular people go about their day, you get a very different mood and that’s what I wanted to focus on. What is your advice to others for writing nonfictional travel pieces? Hmm, I think I’d definitely suggest that you
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SARAH GRONOSTALKI
write what you want to read. I mean, I’ve been reading a lot of content recently about catering to an audience, but there is also something great that comes out of writing what you really want. That’s why I went the route of writing more prose in my travel writing. I wanted to write snapshots of a city. Another piece of advice is don’t overthink it. It’s easier to go back and take out little nuggets that you like than to keep stopping. Let the description flow. I think there is something to be said about stream of consciousness during free writing. It’s something that should be tried more often. Is there anything about the inspiration or writing process of “Where the Sidewalk Ends” or “Grey” that you’d want others to know? Well, I’ve talked a lot about “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” so I guess I’ll go into “Grey” since I wrote that one differently. At the time, there was this UW magazine called AU: Speculative Fiction that had an issue coming out with the theme of plagues. I combined that with this horror writing prompt I found on a random creative writing
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forum—it was like, a dog smells a disease growing in your hand—and those two things turned into Grey. How was writing “Grey” a different experience than writing nonfiction? There was a lot more to the creative process in writing “Grey.” When I write flash fiction or poetic prose I go through it multiple times. I write the bare bones and then go back through and expand and add details and feeling. So when I start, I don’t quite know how it’s all going to fit together, and I color in the scene piece by piece. I also treat it a little more like poetry, to be honest. Oh, another interesting thing is that I played with space in that piece. You can see that with the No’s moving across the page, and I wanted the movement of the words to echo this kind of frenzied panic. I love the concept of using poetic elements with a narrative style, which made it really interesting to write. I also think it makes “Grey” the kind of story that you need to see in order to fully appreciate it, and it makes me so happy when others agree. It means they saw what I was trying to do, and that’s like every writer’s wish.
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SARAH GRONOSTALKI
Untitled by Jen Smith
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | RAMSEY ERIC RAMSEY
Events in Everyday Life Exploring Poetry with Ramsey Eric Ramsey By Jared Rusnak
Why do you write? To see if I have something to say that might be worth sharing. What brought you to start writing poetry? Initially as a young person I wrote to respond to a sense of melancholy mixed uneasily with a desire for joy. Perhaps that is still the reason yet I am hopeful both senses are now quite more sophisticated. From my understanding you write academically, along with your fiction and poetry, out of all these mediums which do you prefer and why? I have no universal preference as to which type of writing I undertake; some things suggest they are to be better expressed through poetry while others seem much better through philosophical essays and books. When it comes to poetry, who would you say inspired you the most and why? Whitman’s work certainly played a major role in encouraging me think and write in poetry. It still does, of course. I shall note as well that before I became a reader, the first sense words matter greatly came from my fascination with the lyrics of pop songs. Your poem seems to touch a lot on the idea of uninhibited ‘progress’ causing
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Read Ramsey Eric Ramsey’s poem, “On Hearing the Learn’d Astronaut,” in the Poetry section.
harm, do you have anything about the state in which we are progressing that you would like to comment on specifically?
Much too complicated for a response in the genre of the brief interview I am afraid. I have attempted to write any number of philosophical essays and books about this very question. Primarily, we are not paying close enough attention, which means giving enough careful thought, to the ways in which language and technology influence one another. Nor are we thinking well enough about the essential importance of language as such.
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | RAMSEY ERIC RAMSEY
How long have you been making poetry? I have been making poetry, with some sort of understanding of it, since undergraduate studies. Where do you think you find most of your inspiration for writing poetry? Seldom do I sit down to make a poem, rather a thought comes to me which says it could be better expressed as a poem rather than as a philosophical paper. Such thoughts typically come from events in everyday life that standout into relief and asked to be noticed, which shows us, I think, every day life is full of profundity. We too often are not in a receptive mood to such appearances, and we thus miss the chance to let them have their say. No doubt the more we read poems that let things have their say, the more attuned we become to how often this might happen. What do you think is most valuable about creative writing, for the writer and reader?
likely. Also it matters greatly that one holds a belief while doing ones work that what one is doing might matter. Were there any specific social, economic, technological, or environmental problems in mind when writing this poem? Yes. All of them. You said that this poem ends on a less than positive note than the Whitman poem it echoes, but do you personally believe that the direction our global society is going right now will end negatively? If so, what do you think could be done? Well, if there are responses to the disaster the world manifests today that might still save us now, then it seems poems and art in general will be an interregnal and crucial endeavor shaping the words and actions that will have any chance of success.
Writing reminds us how we are–and that’s valuable for both the reader and the writer to understand.
What does writing do for you?
As someone who could, and should, be considered as successful in multiple fields of expertise, what would you say is most important when it comes to accomplishing things you are passionate about?
While I have the opportunity to ask you all these questions, I have one unrelated to writing: do you wear the same suit every day or do you have a closet containing a large amount of the same time of suits?
My experience suggests good fortune is as important as anything while noting good friends and good company make good fortune more
Oh, I’d rather not say–embarrassing either way, no?
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It reminds me how much we are made of words.
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | MORGAN HOPER
A Look Beyond the Veil Chatting with Morgan Hoper By Christopher Stuart
Tell me a little background information about yourself. I am an ASU Alum. I graduated Summa Cum Laude in May 2019. Currently, I am a Library Assistant with the Phoenix Public Library. Ultimately, I plan to earn my MFA so I can finish and publish a collection of linked stories. I would also like to earn a PhD so I can teach collegelevel creative writing and help other people ready their work for publication. What brought you to writing screenplays? I wanted to see my story come off the page. I chose to write it as a screenplay rather than a stageplay so I would have more than a memory after showcase night.
“The idea was to parody something serious. What's more serious than death?”
Are there particular themes you enjoy working with most? I like themes that center on dynamics within a family and themes that involve the past appearing in the present. Do you ever write of your own personal experiences?
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Read Hoper’s “Reapers” in the Scripts section.
Yes. Some of my most significant growth as a writer was born from trying my hand at personal stories. What is the biggest inspiration behind your work? Reading. I read something I like and wonder if I can achieve a similar result through different means. What do you find most difficult about writing in general, but in this case screenplays in particular? In general, the first draft is the hardest part. I tend to deviate from my outlines, and have to revise mid-draft. In this case, revising the script after meeting the film cast and talking to the directors about what
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | MORGAN HOPER
the available technology could provide were the most difficult parts. I wasn't used to worrying about how my stories would work on screen, or with a particular cast, but I had to account for those things in Reapers. Do you have a specific environment where you create your best writing? Quiet and isolated. I struggle to stay focused when TV, video games, or other people are around. What sort of feedback does your writing receive? I generally get a few laughs and that's usually the desired outcome.
Gotta ask, what’s Mike Walker doing now? Can’t just say ‘he’s dead’ cause this is about the afterlife! I like to imagine him studying for a test on greek mythology at an after life university when he isn't bugging Angela to let him haunt the living. What advice would you have for fellow screenwriters? Or just fellow writers in general? Find people you trust and workshop. Reapers was revised at least ten times before it reached its current state. Death was a huge theme of Reapers for obvious reasons. Any further thoughts on this?
What is your ultimate goal as a writer? To publish my work and to help others publish their work.
The idea was to parody something serious. What's more serious than death?
Does your writing expand beyond screenplays?
How would you describe your writing style to someone who is not familiar with your work?
Yes. I usually write short story fiction, but I'm also interested in creative nonfiction.
I have a blunt and sarcastic narrative style of writing.
Where can those interested find more of your work? Hmmm, I had some work published in The South Mountain Review a while ago, but for the most part my stories are looking for a good home.
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SOPHIA TYLER
Love Your Work and Live for Art An Interview with Sophia Tyler By Randie Finell
Tell us a little bit about your inspirations for becoming an artist. I like getting lost in my own little world or places I want to see or creatures I want to see up close and personal. Or sometimes painting is another way to see something I am planning out, before I build it in 3D. Art is an escape from reality without having to drink or do drugs. Lol. Animals appear to be a major focus in much of your work. Is there a reason for this? Animals have more significant and yet theatrical characteristics about them. You can read exactly 'who' they are and what they’re feeling through their eyes and expressions without words needed. Since I can’t have each of these animals as a pet, I still have an image of them to look at.
Look at Sophia Tyler’s artwork, “Chicken,” in the Art section. The owl is a popular symbol in my family thanks to a certain relative from the Harry Potter films. The chickens belong to my neighbor. In your bio you mention being a shop owner. With your shop as your major occupation, what role does art play in your life nowadays?
And they're just so damn cute. Lol. Did any of the paintings featured in Canyon Voices hold special meaning to you? And if so, which one and why? (Pick the most interesting as they're all likely true.) The sea turtle was one I rescued when I was kayaking in the Caribbean.
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The shop is a small health spa with a gift shop attached. I sell a lot of my work in the gift shop or do private paintings for customers. Once a week, I teach art classes as a type of therapy to clients. I also designed and decorated each of the treatment rooms, as every room represents a different season in the forest. From my previous occupation of being a theater prop maker (later working at Disney), my sets are unconventional
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SOPHIA TYLER
and downright weird. Lol. However, it seems to work as a good escape from reality, which really is what art is about for me. There is a large variation in color pallet between your pieces. Would you say that color is the element that you focus on the most during your work, or is your main focus elsewhere? Color brings out the detail. Even though it's time consuming, I love intricate detail. Even hidden details. Many people spend hours visually analyzing paintings just to see even the tiniest detail as it can represent something about the artist. It brings the imagination to life off the paper. At least that's what it means for deep people!
“Your brain is a lot more interesting.” How has outsourcing your talents for community events influenced the way that you view art? It's fulfilling when you have an opportunity to use art to raise money for a good cause. But in general, it's hard work and hardly ever appreciated as there is too much competition. The art world is brutal. But don't be discouraged.
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It's not meant to be easy. ALWAYS do the boring jobs first. Get your work seen and name out into the field. Earn the money! Art is meant to be fun, but you can still be smart with it. It's a lot easier to sell your vision as an artist when you have money behind you. Then you can build your stage (figuratively speaking). Eventually your audience finds you.
If there is one thing that you wish for others to gain from your art, what would that be? To come and join me in my mad world. Explore your brain and be inspired to try creating something rather than watching TV or playing computer games. Your brain is a lot more interesting. What advice would you have for others who wish to create art, but may not know where to start? You need to have your focus already decided in your mind long before any training can begin. Your subject can expand and change over time, but it's best to start with one theme. E.g., fantasy or portraits. Animals. Landscapes, etc. The training is just the tool on how to deliver what's already in your head. Your style then follows from that. Artists can become obsessed with the most boring or oddest subject, or even just an item, and make it into something amazing when looking at it through their eyes.
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ABOUT US CANYON VOICES LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE is dedicated to shedding light on the works of emerging and established writers and artists. Founded in the spring of 2010 at Arizona State University’s West campus by one professor, Julie Amparano Garcia, and six students, this journal strives to bring the creativity of writers and artists to light within the community and beyond. Supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, CANYON VOICES accepts writing and artwork from writers and artists from all corners of our planet and from all walks of life. The work of maintaining and producing this magazine is entirely student driven. Since its formation, CANYON VOICES has expanded into a full credit, hands-on class. Students build a full literary journal each semester, heading every aspect of production, including soliciting submissions, editing, marketing, design and layout, and publication. We strive to bring you an eclectic range of voices each semester.
OUR MISSION At CANYON VOICES our mission is to provide an online environment to highlight emerging and established voices in the artistic community. By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language, style, culture, and gender.
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CONTACT US Questions, comments, feedback? We would love to hear from you. Contact us via email at: CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com You can also visit us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/asucanyonvoices
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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
SUBMITTING WORK To submit your work, please send it to CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com. Be sure to attach all the work you wish to submit to the email. You may include an author biography and a photo, which will be included in the magazine should your work be chosen for publication. We are affiliated with Arizona State University, and we uphold academic standards. If your work is accepted we reserve the right to make changes. You will be contacted should your work require more extensive edits. We accept simultaneous submissions. All documents submitted should be double spaced with a 12 point font, in either Times New Roman or Arial. Poetry may be single spaced. All written documents must be submitted in (.doc) or (.rtf) format. Artwork may be in JPEG format. All work submitted must have a title.
FICTION Up to two stories may be submitted per issue. Each story may be 20 pages or fewer.
POETRY
CNF
Up to six poems Up to four stories per may be submitted issue. Two pieces may (no longer than be 20 pages. two pages each) per issue.
SCRIPTS Up to two scripts may be submitted per issue. Script maximum 15 pages.
ART Up to ten pieces, with at least 300 dpi or JPEG format (<1 MB). Include detail on medium.
EXPLICIT MATERIALS
READING PERIOD
Because this is a university magazine, submissions containing sexually explicit material and explicit language will be reviewed and determined eligible for publishing depending on the context of the material in the work. Material deemed inappropriate or gratuitous will be rejected.
Our editors read submissions in August, September, and through October 15th for the fall issue. The reading period re-opens in January, February, and through March 15th for the spring.
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