Social Media Team
I
Samantha Berry I Megan Demko
See the Art section for full image
There was never a dull moment here at Canyon Voices. It has been an eventful issue to work with. However) with any challenge) there is excitement. The excitement to succeed, to push forward, and to be completely immersed in the experience. We as co editors have seen how our team embraces the chaos of the publication process. The editors of Canyon Voices poured their hearts and souls along every step of the way.
Jennifer Heintz
Cover image: A Dream Carne True by Polina Reed
Poetry E<litors
It was a pleasure for both of us to end our last semester here in Canyon Voices knowing the hard work that was put into this brought us joy. Canyon Voices is our home) and we are so happy for the family we gained. We cannot forget to thank Julie Amparano, our publisher. Without her guidance, we might have gotten lost along the way We can rest easy knowing that we all have left our imprint on this issue.
Senior Fiction Editors
Matt Chesser I Cole Daugard
Senior Poetry Editors
Courtney Corboy I Katharine Colledge
Courtney Corboy I Dorailiana Ledesma
Senior Scripts Editors
EDITORCS)t
Scripts Editors
Design Director I Sabrina Walls
Courtney Corboy I Katharine Colledge
Matt Chesser I Cole Daugard Olivia Hsu I Brandon Jirak
Art Editors staff
Megan Demko I Lisa Diethelm
Katharine Colledge I Arianna "Ari" Reyes
Joshua Muravnick I Sabrina Walls
BrandonJirak I Abdullah "AB" al Jubouriy
Fiction Editors
•••••••• •
Emmeline Wuest I Olivia Hsu
Arianna "Ari" Reyes I Emmeline Wuest
Abdullah "AB" alJubouriy I Joshua Muravn.ick Sabrina Walls I Emmeline Wuest
Creative Nonfiction Editors
Senior Creative onfiction Editors
Sen.ior Editors
Dorailiana Ledesma I Arianna "Ari' Reyes
Putting this issue together involved the following: collaboration, dedication, and creative energy. Every editor has contributed their own perspective which has turned our vision into a beautiful, bright reality. Each genre has its own personality, but when fused together creates a dynamic pattern fun of life We have our wonderful artists and writers to thank for that and without them, we would not exist.
Design Assistant I Cole Daugard
know that people care and love me even though I resemble a grenade of emotions fragile, and explosive. I hear them tell me how beautiful, bright, and mature I am for my age. I feel my friends' hugs that are warm and thoughtful. But I cannot help invisible glass box. This is not to say I hate it; I quite like my box. It keeps the chaotic sounds of the world, and the daunting socialization of people around me muffled.
Journal Entry One - Silent Comfort
Is it odd that I find most comfort in a silent friend? Every morning without skipping a second, a bright red Bird chirps three times out my window. They sit and stare at me with entirely unbiased eyes, silent. That Bird has seen me scrunch my hair between my sweating fingers, pulling and grittin teeth when the world was too loud for a simple morning. They have seen me stare out onto the distant houses down the road, completely cold and stone. Even th raw mornings, that Bird comes back every day.
By Shaylen Morales
I
For more information on author Shaylen Morales, please visit our Contributors Page.
There is no logical explanation for why I feel this Bird is one of my best friends besides the apparent lack of conversation. We know nothing of one another, not the other's name or astrologi we respect one another and enjoy our silence together.
FICTION | SHAYLEN MORALES CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
I wish more people would entertain the idea of desired silence. Not every void needs to be filled with small talk and pathetic attempts to show interest. I cannot help but feel every tim “how your day is going”, it has been a generic and mooted point. My day is like any other day, passing through. I am blessed with happy moments and kicked with depressing ones. I go through the motions of waking up, brushing teeth, nibbling on breakfast, and striding off to be a productive member of society. Like morning and night, it passes. Perhaps I am pessimistic, or maybe I am tired. Tired of living in a world where the responsibility of survival came first, productivity second, and
n n n
I do not care to pretend and name the Bird as they are not mine. Unfortunately, I cannot know their name, but I like to think those three chirps mention it every morning. I merely call them Bird as that is what they are. I do consider them a friend, though. A si morning coffee.
It is eight o'clock now, and Bird is here for their visit. Chirp… Chirp… Chirp… Good morning to you too, Bird.
FICTION | SHAYLEN MORALES CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Carver is far from the first. In my youth, it’s cliché teenage icons of rebellion. Jim Morrison stands in the corner, not the bloated bushy corpse they pulled from a Parisian bathtub, but Young Lion Morrison, pouting and preening in the mirror, brushing hair from his face. Cobain in that fucking cardigan that ruined thrift store shopping for an entire generation of kids in the 90s. Hendrix, covered in so much turquoise that he jingles when he walks, like some bloody eyed cowboy. I was fifteen when it started, when these dead men began their silent appraising visits. Why wouldn't they? I am their acolyte, worshiping art, and death in equal measure. In some way, I
By Mads Bohan
The Ghost of Raymond Carver
Raymonddrink.
he Ghost of Raymond Carver appeared to me again last night, accompanied by a cohort of pale, drunken angels. He looks just like that picture of him everyone uses, the black and white headshot on all his reprints, surly and damaged, hostility overlaying poorly concealed misery. I hardly acknowledge him, suffused as I am with deep clinical detachment, a stuporous drunk so deep that even the ember of objective ego is wavering. I could never be a Buddhist, enjoy the self too much, am an absolute junkie for sensation, the games that feeling things allow. The notions it can entertain. The utter malleability of identity. But I dig the idea of Enlightenment, the extinguishing of this Ego ember, transmuting it to energy without substance, pure in anonymity. Enough scotch can make any fool the Dalai Lama. I raise a glass in his direction; mumble something about small, good things. He looks away. I finish my
find the notion of survival insulting, the existential equivalent of a Nicholas Sparks book, or the latest chart topping anti media re tweeting its way to notoriety. I am their priest, a dead man in training, producing three chord masterpieces and hastily typed complaints between bouts of chemical euphoria and punishing withdrawal, so profound they leave me shaky and absurdly satisfied. The dead rock stars go away by the time I'm eighteen. My folks are dead, and their house is my art project, a study in grief and squalor. Girls come and go. Various junkie friends find their way into the spare bedrooms, the silverware in the china hutch, my mother’s jewelry box, my father’s stamp collection. I notice and don’t care, incorporate these injustices into my latest work, sharpening my pathos against the whetstone of their offenses. The ghosts are different now, tailored and slightly more obscure. Specific. Heroin simplifies my world in nearly every way, but most especially with art. Coltrane shows up, mid Bop era, alto sax instead of soprano, years from meditations and sun worship, and watches with a brooding intensity as I prepare a shot. Cassady and Kerouac, skinny and flushed from Benzedrine, crouch huddled in silent conversation, stubble dotting their chins, eyes like fireworks, shooting occasional furtive glances my way. Hemingway is here for less than a day, losing his patience at the languid pace I keep vis à vis my self destruction. He leaves in a huff. One night I nearly burn the house down, awakening to the scent of burning carpet, thick black smoke spiraling from the blaze, fed on frozen dinner trays and cardboard beer cases. F. Scott Fitzgerald watches me from
FICTION | MADS BOHAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
T
n
The two years I stay clean, feels like a betrayal. I am ashamed. Every day I am sober is a waste, a disappointment to this collection of tortured geniuses. I am wasting time. The night of my relapse the house is packed; specters line the walls like statuary. Yukio Mishima salutes me at random intervals. The more gregarious of the bunch mingle, though some seem incapable of perceiving the outside world, are mere phantoms, aware only of themselves. The symbolism brings tears to my eyes. When the bank takes the house, I am afraid they won't be able to find me anymore, but my concern is misplaced. Edgar Allan Poe and Sam Cooke keep me company one frigid night at the park, before I cash in the last of my parent's trust to a loan out company and rent the shitbox apartment I now call home. Mitch Hedberg and Harris Wittels hang out in the kitchen, trading one-liners while I inflate the air mattress. Shannon Hoon nods in approval when he notices I’ve marked a box of high school journals “Tones of Home”.
back to the apartment, I find that the angels have returned. Raymond Carver stands in the center. I take a seat at the table, roll a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter, pull the bottle close. It is clear that I am well and truly on my way, why this army of accidents and tragedies and suicides quietly stands vigil. They are for me, and I am for them. It has always only been a matter of time. I light a cigarette and get to work. n n
For more information on author Mads Bohan, please visit our Contributors Page.
Within the last week, both Spalding Gray and David Foster Wallace stop by. Gray sits on a stool, reading inaudibly to an invisible disapproval on his face when he checks my copy
Tuesday morning, Raymond Carver is still here. He is alone now, the crowd of angels sent away. I dress, gather the pills I need for the trip in an old Altoids tin, and wait for the driver. The process is tedious. Anxious. An affront to my art. But I bear up well, sign what I need to, make eye contact when necessary. Stephen Crane stands close by for Whensolidarity.Iget
the flames, glasses askew, clearly ashamed to be seen in such a dump.
FICTION | MADS BOHAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
of Infinite Jest and finds it largely untouched. I am due to sign the contract on my first collection of stories next Tuesday. My agent is sending a driver. I receive this news in person, via a courier, as I quit checking email some time ago, and haven't bothered to charge my phone since Christmas when its silence and my stabbing loneliness sent me out into the winter night to score some inspiration.
FICTION | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
the group we called the “regulars”, listened intently whenever the two cheaters boasted about their love making, their foreplay, their close calls one night, parked on a lonely dirt road on the edge of town, the two were interrupted by four eager cops who had sneaked up on Richard’s Buick and caught them in the act. Though panicked at the time, the unrepentant couple found the event hilarious
Fiveshould.ofus,
Whenever Richard boasted about the amorous appointments in Samantha and Lynn’s home, Samantha grew uncharacteristically quiet. I suspect the incursions by Richard into his best friend’s bed and into his best friend’s wife in that bed disturbed her at some level. Some sort of a territorial thing, a man’s home being his castle. But not enough to prevent her from entertaining Richard from time to time in the bedroom that she shared with her husband. A few feet away from the closet where Lynn’s white, crisply pressed dress shirts hung in military precision the only shirts I ever saw him wear. A few steps from where his charcoal gray slacks dangled from hangers made especially for pants, the kind that fasten and unfasten to maintain a sharp crease. Not necessarily the persnickety type, Lynn did try to dress as he thought an assistant manager at Walmart
ichard and Samantha were lovers. We all knew it. They boasted about it. They laughed and bragged about their exploits, their illicit adventures that had commenced in the front seat of his Buick one night in late September, the night Richard drove Samantha home after she’d had more to drink than she should have. A bit wasted himself, Richard assured everyone that he was okay; he was accustomed to driving in a less than sober condition. The idea of the ride home had come from Samantha’s husband: it was Lynn O’Neill who suggested that his best friend should see to it that his wife got home safely. Lynn had to return to Walmart for an overnight inventory.
A Hop, Skip and a Jump
Asqualified.thenights
After that night in the Buick, Samantha, an attractive young woman, though certainly not what I would call a beauty, found herself rendezvousing with her paramour in seedy motel rooms on Walker Avenue, a street notorious for a passel of tattoo parlors, biker bars, and nineteen thirties court motels. If Grand River, Arizona had anything close to a skid row, Walker Avenue
By David Larsen
bedroom of the O’Neill home, with Richard’s forest green Buick parked around the corner, in case a nosy neighbor thought to put two and two together. The two O’Neill daughters played in the den while the adventurers twined beneath the paisley comforter, the one Samantha had purchased using Lynn’s employee discount.
More and more daring chances were taken by the two lovers, visits to motels in broad daylight, an overnight trip to Flagstaff, under the pretense of Samantha visiting an old friend from college, even risky afternoon trysts in the master
R
grew cooler, and longer, the lovers’ capers relocated to Richard’s one bedroom apartment, on the south end of town, opposite the sector where Samantha and Lynn owned a four bedroom, brick home in a neighborhood of modern, upscale houses.
Lynn, every bit as much as Richard and Samantha, was my friend. I should say our friend. He was well liked by the five Friday night “regulars” at the Goodluck Bar and Grill. Thirty two years old, straight as an arrow, the son of a Baptist clergyman, Lynn O’Neill had diligently worked his way up to the position of assistant manager, a feat he might have taken a little too much pride in. He was respected by all of us, even though his being cuckolded by his wife and his best friend made me feel more than slightly ill at ease when I was around him.
Even the contortions and strenuous positions
and like their mother up until the night in the Buick innocent as little lambs. The couple was right out of a storybook, upright and ridiculously wholesome. I had met the children when Samantha invited my girlfriend, Sandy, and me to their home for a dinner of chicken Kiev, wild rice, and green beans. Samantha, in a flowered hostess gown, and Lynn, in a striped tie, were ideal hosts. They were that kind of a couple: they did things by the book. That was shortly after I’d met them. Before Sandy and I went our separate ways. Before Richard drove Samantha home.
I guess you could say we were in cahoots with Richard and Samantha, in their sexual exploits, or, at least, you could call us enablers, but we would have countered that we weren’t anything more than fellow patrons of the Goodluck, an establishment, not that much unlike so many others; a hangout where the drinks are reasonable, the food greasy, but edible, the clientele nonthreatening and collegial. We didn’t encourage Richard or Samantha in screwing around behind Lynn’s back though we didn’t discourage them either. We liked the Asstories.Lynn’s friend, as well as an all too willing confessor to Samantha and Richard, I was feeling
FICTION | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
when they relayed it to us a few nights later. Richard’s boastful telling of the fiasco made it pretty fricking funny as we drank and listened intently around a corner table at the Goodluck Bar and Grill.
Richard and Samantha experimented with intrigued us. An audio book of the Kama Sutra in a western drawl. Like monks in training, we were attentive to every humorous story Richard offered, though we didn’t sit in the lotus position at his feet; instead, we assembled around a table cluttered with empty amber bottles, glasses half full of vodka, gin, bourbon; with crumpled napkins scattered here and there, in the corner of an ill lit bar while the avatars of nookie mesmerized us with narratives of sexual enlightenment. We nodded our heads and eagerly went along with his tales of debauchery. Enthusiastic voyeurs, we weren’t above delighting in the play by play accounts of their amorous escapades. The John Madden of intercourse, Richard intrigued us with his discourses on the intricacies of each episode; he made us feel as if we were right there in the room or car. All that was missing was a chalkboard for him to diagram each move. Lynn and Samantha seemed happily married, together for more than ten years. The conscientious parents of two children, Susie and Kathy, seven and five years old, cute and sweet,
Another time they were witnessed by what they worried was a friend of Samantha’s as they slinked into a room in one of the less than reputable motels on Walker Avenue. It turned out not to be her friend, just someone who looked like the woman. The likelihood that an acquaintance of Samantha would be on Walker Avenue after dark was slight, though that hadn’t occurred to the anxious lovers.
more than mildly uncomfortable with the contradiction inherent in the two roles. Neither the robe of the priest, nor the blue jeans and baseball cap of a friend, fit me well. The vestments chafed. The ballcap was too tight. I found myself leaning toward being a friend. The unpretentious assistant manager had a way about him: he was a good guy and, unfortunately, an unsuspecting husband being betrayed by his best friend, and by his wife. And, without shame, by those of us at the Goodluck, folks he considered to be his friends. If anybody needed a buddy, it was Lynn.
The other four at the table found the recounting hilarious. Bob Clemens, Mike Nimitz (the one we called Nimwits, not because he wasn’t bright, but because he was smart, smarter than any of us), Jim Benson, and Brenda Snyder, a boozy woman not known for being overly selective when it came to hookups with newcomers at the Goodluck, guffawed and snorted at the story. I smiled. It was entertaining, I guess. But by that time, Sandy was dating someone else; I was feeling pretty down when it came to sexual matters, and I was in no mood to hear about the two lovers’ raucous escapades.
On the Friday night of my reluctant return to the bar, I found the usual four, the “regulars”, minus me, seated around our table in the corner, joined by Richard, Samantha and Lynn. The seven huddled over empty Michelob bottles, glasses with straws bent, like giraffes at a watering hole, a half full basket of tortilla chips in the center of the
“There we were,” said Richard excitedly, “screwing like bunnies when Lynn called. Samantha answered her cellphone, talked to Lynn, while I kept at it. The guy asked what all the racket was. Samantha told him it was the washing machine.” Richard laughed. “An unbalanced load.”
I took a six week hiatus from the Goodluck during the apex of their affair. My job at the newspaper was becoming less and less of a sure thing. The paper was downsizing. My articles on local politics, city hall meetings, a few crime pieces, weren’t doing anything to increase circulation. Things didn’t look good.
Newspapers were going broke across the country. I had to economize just in case. And, without a mate, with no replacement anywhere in sight, listening to Richard’s braggadocious recounting of his and Samantha’s lovemaking dragged me even deeper into the dumps.
Greetedtable.by
all, I pulled a chair from another table and joined them. I had walked into the middle of something. I sat quiet, and listened. “Samantha and I will be in Phoenix for a week or two,” said Lynn, solemnly. But Lynn was never all that effervescent. “Her lupus is getting worse. She needs to be in the hospital while they do more tests to see if they can come up with a treatment. Her mother and father are coming from Benson to take care of the girls. We’re leaving on Saturday. Samantha’s checking into the hospital that night.”
FICTION | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“Good God,” said Brenda, “how bad is it?”
“You can’t imagine what a turn on that is. While I’m banging away on top of her, Samantha’s talking to her husband.” Richard took a swig from his bottle of Michelob, a bit too much the Marlboro man to suit me. I was worn out from
his bravado. “And poor Lynn, thinking it’s the goddamned washing machine.”
Yolanda brought the next round. Everyone sat in an annoying silence. A cloud hung over that table in the dark corner. I felt like a peeping Tom must feel after a night of prowling. Regretful. Totally dissatisfied. Yet, sadly, with not quite enough remorse, wondering what the next night might bring.
Over Whoppers, French fries and cokes, Lynn shared more details about Samantha’s condition. It wasn’t good. In far too much detail, he described the discoloration on her legs, a rash that appeared in different spots on her body, a face, some days, bloated and bruised. Her energy level was low. She was depressed. I
FICTION | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“I’ll be fine,” said Samantha, unconvincingly. “We’ll be back and we’ll pick up where we left off. Walmart might go out of business without Lynn.”
Richard leaned back in his chair. He bit at his lower lip and scowled. I couldn’t tell for certain, but it looked as if his eyes were reddened. Gone was his usual swagger and cocksure attitude. In its place: the fear and desperation of an animal cornered in its cage.
After that night, I in no way wanted to have anything to do with anyone from the bar and grill I felt complicit in a grave wrongdoing but the following morning it was Lynn who called me at the newspaper and asked if we could get together for lunch. He suggested the Goodluck, but I insisted on the Burger King down the street from my office. I explained that I couldn’t be away from the paper for more than a half an hour. For me, the bar and grill would have been a revisit to a crime scene. Though I couldn’t say who the guilty party was, what crime had been committed, or who was the victim.
“We were actually afraid we were going to go to hell just for coming into a bar,” quipped Samantha, a little more heavily made up than usual. “Now we’re first class drinkers. Come hell or high water, as they say. We may be
Not shocked, merely stunned, the five “regulars”, Bob, Mike, Jim, Brenda, and I, didn’t say anything. We knew too much. Awkwardly, we sat in silence. Accomplices. Unindicted Richardcoconspirators.growled, “I guess I led them down the road to ruin, but they’re better off for it. Wouldn’t you say?”
Wefine.”all
“There’s something we’ve never told any of you,” said Lynn. “That first night we came in here, three months ago, with Richard…that was the first time Samantha or I had ever had a drink. Of alcohol. Not in high school, not in college. We’re both Baptists, and Baptists, as you know, don’t imbibe.”
nodded, though not enthusiastically, gulped down whatever remained in our bottles and glasses, and waited for Yolanda, our favorite waitress, to resupply us.
“What’s the prognosis when you’ve got Lupus?” asked Mike Nimitz, a personal injury attorney, but of a higher order, not an ambulance chaser. Like I said, a little smarter than the rest of us. Samantha shrugged. “There is no cure. The doctors try to control it. It messes up the immune system.”
Richard cleared his throat, leaned forward, and blurted, “Let’s order another round. Enough of this morbid crap. Samantha’s going to be just
doomed to eternal damnation, but it’s been worth it.”
A middle aged couple, on the cusp of senior citizenship, a graying man, a woman in a dark blue dress that matched Lynn’s suit, as if they had coordinated their outfits, also sat in the family row. Samantha’s parents, I guessed. I saw no one who might be Lynn’s father, Pastor O’Neill. Nor a Mrs. O’Neill. The only Mrs.
I wished him luck, with Samantha in Phoenix, with the drive across the desert, shook his hand, and got the heck out of there before I spilled the beans about his best friend and his wife. I knew
would rather have discussed the quality of the produce at Walmart, a subject Lynn, under different circumstances, would have jumped at.
FICTION | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“My father used to tell me that it’s a long journey to wisdom, but a hop, skip and a jump to foolishness,” he managed to say through his tears. “I never understood what he meant until now. What do you think?”
Before I made my get away, Lynn looked into my eyes, tears welling in his. Through the thick lenses of his glasses his gray eyes were magnified, the eyes of a prisoner waiting for a call from the governor that deep down he knew wasn’t coming minutes before his execution. He choked and sniffled. I was embarrassed for him. Two women at a table near ours stared at us. A couple in the process of a breakup, they must have thought.
“Your father sounds like a smart man,” I told him. It did sound good, but I had no idea what the hell it meant. All I wanted was to get back to work. A fish wriggling on a hook, caught in a net above the surface, desperate for the safety of the lake, I was struggling.
I’d left poor Lynn high and dry, but I couldn’t do any better than I did. I had my own problems.
On my two block walk back to the newspaper office, I thought about Lynn and what he had told me. I thought about Richard and Samantha. I thought about the “regulars”. It hit me that Lynn was on a journey of much greater significance than any of the rest of us. A long journey, as his father had told him. Although, even today, after all I heard in the darkened corner of the Goodluck Bar and Grill, I’m not certain that Lynn’s path was any tougher than anyone else’s. Longer, maybe, but not more difficult. Unlike the rest of us, he may have had some vague notion of where he was headed.
The funeral was held at the First Baptist Church near the O’Neill home. Lynn, in a dark blue suit, sat in the front row with the two girls. The older child, Susie, seemed to have some idea of what had happened. Kathy, the five year old, looked over her shoulder at the assemblage behind her. She smiled coquettishly whenever she saw someone she recognized. She won’t remember any of this, I thought to myself, as I sat in a daze.
Her mother will be a vapor, something she might sense, but never have an image of. Susie, serious, solemn, intelligent, was the daughter of Lynn, that was for sure. She might carry some recollection of the woman who had died when she was seven, a shadow on the wall, but not there whenever she turned to look for it.
Lynn reminisced about how they’d met at Arizona State when he was a junior, she a freshman. He explained how they got to Grand River Walmart had transferred him. The poor guy just needed someone to talk to, to unload on; but why me? I couldn’t help thinking that he needed a clergyman, or a shrink, not a hack newspaper reporter.
he showed up.” Brenda Snyder sucked on the slice of lemon that came with whatever she was drinking. “The weasel. And what kind of guy drives a Buick these days?”
“To have your best friend getting it on with your dying wife…” Bob Clemens shook his head.
I’m sure that whatever was said that morning was more than appropriate. Whatever we sang was comforting, maybe even uplifting. There were flowers, perhaps too many. I don’t remember all that much about the service. I was numb. Not just from Samantha’s demise. Not even so much about Sandy and Mr. Wonderful, holding hands no more than fifteen feet away from me. Mostly, about me. Funerals bum me out; I avoid them whenever I can. I find myself feeling sorry, not for the deceased, nor for the family, but for myself. And, that morning, I felt terrible about Samantha, Lynn, and the kids, but mostly I wondered where my own life was headed. A hop, skip and a jump? I didn’t feel like a man on a journey to wisdom, that was for sure. I was thirty six years old. My job was so so. I had no one. But, at least, I wasn’t Richard. What was he feeling that day? I tried to imagine his burden; his suffering brought me a slight sense of relief. His damnation was my “Iabsolution.can’tbelieve
“And you being so wrapped up in a stupid discount store that you don’t even have a clue about what’s going on right under your goddamned nose. Now that’s what’s so goddamned amazing about the whole mess. Lynn was a sap. Loveable. But still a sap.”
“Adultery’s a class C misdemeanor in Arizona,” piped in Mike Nimitz. “But I’ve never heard of anyone going to jail for it. We’d have to build a
she died so quickly,” said Bob Clemens as Yolanda set our drinks on the table. The five of us, the original quintet, the “regulars”, met at the Goodluck three nights after the
O’Neill lay in the box with the white roses on top on it. The closed casket.
funeral. It wasn’t prearranged; we all just happened to be there at the same time, a not so unlikely occurrence.
“From what Lynn told me, she’d been sick for some time. It got steadily worse.” For a change I had something to say to the group; what Lynn had confided to me at Burger King, before Samantha and he took off for Phoenix, seemed “Andrelevant.what
about Richard?” said Bob. Bob Clemens, the Allstate agent in town, seemed to be a little on edge over the whole business. I was sure he was wondering if Samantha had been adequately insured. “Did anyone see him at the “Ifuneral?”don’tthink
“Lynn’s a nice enough guy, but he sure can get his head up his ass when it comes to that stupid store.” Brenda ran her fingers through her cheaply tinted hair, polished off the drink in her other hand, and looked around for Yolanda.
FICTION | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
The sanctuary was packed. Parishioners of the church, Walmart employees, more relatives. Bob, Mike, Jim, and Brenda sat with me in the back. The weight of the guilt the four of us felt tilted the building toward us. It was as if we were looking up a steep hill, gazing at the alter with the coffin in front of it, on a mound more than a mile away. I didn’t spot Richard, but I couldn’t see everybody; the pews were tightly packed. Sandy was there with her new beau, a guy much handsomer than I, and taller.
“Do you mean Richard could go to jail for sleeping with Samantha?” asked Bob. “Only if Lynn pressed charges. And a key witness is dead.” Nimitz cocked his head and Theshrugged.conversation
“Lynn, I never know what to say when someone dies,” I told him. “Especially when it’s someone as nice as Samantha. To say I’m sorry sounds trite, but it’s all I’ve got.”
“You probably thought I was a real chump, didn’t you?” Lynn looked sideways at me. I watched him in the mirror directly in front of us.
parents, now in their early sixties, his mother retired from teaching, his father still working, would help raise them. Walmart had arranged a transfer. Grand River had never really felt like home to him, and after all he’d been through it offered nothing but sad reminders of what he’d had and lost. Enid was where he and the girls belonged. Samantha’s parents were retired and would visit the girls regularly, and the girls could spend some time in Benson with them.
Lynn looked thin, almost frail, when he came through the door of the Goodluck. He’d always been fit, in a non athletic way. It had been six weeks since his wife’s service. I hated facing him; I felt guilty that I hadn’t gone to the house after the burial. I just couldn’t do it. We both sat at the bar, two Diet Cokes in front of us. Real men.
Lynn let me know that he wanted to see me before he left town; he needed to say goodbye; he and the girls were moving to Oklahoma. His
“That makes sense to me,” I said.
I made eye contact with myself. Even so, I could see Lynn’s reflection at my side. “No, Lynn. I’ve never thought of you as a chump.” A sap, yes, I thought, recalling the “regulars’” analysis after the funeral. But, a chump, no.
shitload of jails if anyone started prosecuting cases. Probably everyone in this room could be found guilty.”
In male silence, we watched the neon beer signs flicker, flash and spin on the walls. A stream cascaded electronically through woods on one Coors sign; nearly a piece of art, I thought to myself. At that hour of the afternoon, only really dedicated drinkers sat on the other stools. It was awkward, but it felt right.
“Poor Samantha,” said Lynn, his voice with more life in it than I’d anticipated. But it had been six weeks. “She died three days shy of her thirtieth birthday. It was a raw deal.”
FICTION | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“Well, she had you, and the girls.” It did sound trite, but it was the best I could come up with.
shifted to the Cardinals. Again, they had failed to make the playoffs. The Sun Devils were off to some bowl no one had ever heard of, to play a school no one had ever heard of. The Wildcats had had a losing season. Again, the Diamondbacks sucked.
Lynn took a hit from his straw. The only man at the bar using a straw, Lynn displayed his amateur status amidst the professionals who drank at that time of day. “I knew what was going on. With Richard and Samantha.” In the mirror I could see him looking at me. I felt his eyes boring into the side of my head. “Samantha was dying,” he continued. “At first, it bothered me, the two of them carrying on. But then I thought, what difference does it make? She’s dying.
I hesitated. Lynn expected something from me. But what the hell could I say. Finally: “I didn’t know what was going on.”
say anything. I didn’t approve of what was going on, but, really, it was none of my business.”
The room was suddenly uncomfortably warm. It seemed small. The others at the bar, the hard core drinkers, looked smug. If Richard had come through the door at that moment, I would have throttled him. I wanted to punch a complete stranger, a grizzly old man who watched us from his stool to my left.
n n n
“It just happened. And I hope Samantha got something good out of it.” We sat in silence, even the juke box was voiceless. “You know,” said Lynn. “That word ‘lovers’ doesn’t mean anything. I guess it can mean whatever you want it to mean. But they weren’t lovers. She wasn’t in love with him. Richard certainly wasn’t in love with her. They were playing. Like children. That’s not what love is about. I don’t know what it’s about. But it’s not sneaking around and pawing at each other.”
Again, silence. Finally, someone played a George Jones song on the jukebox. Just what we needed, a cheating song.
FICTION | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“By the way,” he called from the half opened door. “Where the hell is this grand river that this town’s named after? There’s nothing here but desert.”
I turned and put both hands up in the air. “Don’t ask me. I just live here.”
For more information on author David Larsen, please visit our Contributors Page.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Lynn. I couldn’t
What does it matter? If she wasn’t going to get more than thirty years out of life, why not have some kind of an adventure before she was gone?”
Lynn laughed. “You did. Everybody did. And I knew that everybody knew. It wasn’t easy being around all of you, but I did it. I did it for Samantha.” His eyes met mine in the mirror. He continued talking to my doppelganger in front of us. “I guess she thought she was being cheated. She was dying and hadn’t really gotten that much out of life.”
When Lynn stood to leave, we shook hands. He hugged me. Then he walked briskly toward the door. More life in his step than when he came in.
Beads of sweat roll down Nick’s face. The Green Thirst worsens every day. The hordes only grow in size and animalistic abandon. Nick sees scarred, shirtless forms rushing towards the front door.
FICTION | HARMON CROWE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
A rock smashes through both the idyllic scene and the window. It’s happening. The shift leader screams orders at the employees and Nick scrambles over the counter to take his position. The manager starts handing out weaponry, assault rifles, shotguns, rocket launchers, anything they have. Nick cradles the Civil War musket he was given and mumbles a prayer to the Lord above. His back to the counter, Nick’s ears buckle under the deafening noise of a mob forming outside the establishment. It's got to be over six hundred people strong.
T
A bullhorn cuts through the chaos.
The response is a war cry of hundreds that
By Harmon Crowe
The manager turns to Nick and the rest of the “Waworkers.rriors
“BAJA BE THY BLAST SOLDIERS!”
“Baja Blast is an exclusive Taco Bell beverage. We found the creature, and we retain the exclusive right to milk it!”
A massive gooouuunngg like the one from the commercials pierces the air.
Baja Be Thy Blast
“Give us the Baja Blast creature! We want the Baja Blast creature! We thirst! We thirst for its milk!” His tongue wildly flicks around his parched lips. It must be their leader.
he light at dawn from the inside of a Taco Bell is really something to see. The funny way the sunlight bleeds through the fingerprint scarred windows can only fill you with a sense of hope for the future. After all, if you're anywhere near a Taco Bell at dawn, your life trajectory is certainly right on track. Employee Nick sits at his little booth, begrudgingly taking his thirty minutes. He would rather be in the back, tending to the creature, but the law states that a minor can’t go more than 8 hours without a 30 minute break.
Nick, with the rest of the crew, gives an enthusiastic cheer and thumbs the butt of his gun on the tile floor. However, behind the thin veneer of confidence is a sixteen year old kid who’s afraid to die, and not sure if all this is worth $7.25 an hour. The first wave of thirsters explodes through the front doors, guttural screams upon their lips. Their minds are filled with only three constantly oscillating images: death, desecration, and the sweet succulence of Baja Blast dripping down their faces. They’re met with a blast, just not the kind they were hoping for. Focus fire from the counter stops the assault in its tracks. The tables, booths, and walls of the Taco Bell are painted red in mere moments. To Nick’s right the janitor sighs. He had only just finished cleaning off the blood from last week. Before Nick can offer his sincere them. Again, the forces of chaos are held at bay. The third wave comes, and Nick notices the bodies of the fallen reaching ever closer to the
“Thirst! Thirst! Thirst!”
From behind the counter the manager answers the challenge, his gaunt face that of a man ready to die for his restaurant chain.
makes the ground shake.
of the morning shift, show them you have no fear, for the Taco Bell tolls and it tolls for them. Sound the war gong!”
it says, not unlike a mooing cow.
carnage raging around him. “And then red. Red with the blood of you and your milk.”
“Я нах̌о ̦жу ̀ ̣̦э̋̃́ту̌ ̂см̂̂̋е̂̀ртнӳ̃ю̂ ̆форму̦ ̀ог̂р̃̂̂̂ан̦̂ич̂ ̈̂й̋в̈̆̀а̋ю̆щ̦̆́ѐ̀̃й},”
counter. There’s just too many thirsters and not enough fire power. The fourth wave comes and by the end, bodies pile up by the counter itself.
The“Live…”smile drops from his face.
The leader gloats. “We now own the means of Baja production you fucking idiot. With the creature in our possession, the rivers will run green with the holy blast.” He gestures at the
Nick lets out a light chuckle. “Me too buddy. Me Aqtoo.”ndthey all lived happily ever after.
n
For more information on author Harmon Crowe, please visit our Contributors Page.
The badassery is interrupted when Nick is tackled by an assailant. The screaming man pins Nick to the ground and begins choking him. The signature “This is it” flashes through Nick’s mind as bleeding fingers wrap ever tighter around his throat.
The fifth wave arrives, and the beleaguered defenders simply cannot keep up. The thirsters vault over the counter and the battle devolves into a bloody melee between customer and employee. In the eye of the storm of battle, Nick sees the leader of the thirsters point at the manager as he pulls a medieval Zwei hander out of its scabbard on his back. The manager reaches under the counter and his hands return with a katana clasped between them. God, he’s so Thebadass.voiceof the leader bellows above the chaos. “I'll have a Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Tacos Supreme, with a side,” he twirls his massive sword in his hand, “of you.”
FICTION | HARMON CROWE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
The manager mumbles something. Nick starts to lose consciousness. “What?” asks the smiling warlord.
“¡Live Más!”
n n
After a few minutes, Nick regains consciousness and takes stock of the scene around him. There is a massive crater in the center of the fast food restaurant. The man who was choking him lays shrapnel shredded on the ground. High school jobs suck. The rest of the crew begins to stir, and a few of them start clocking out of the system. They’ve already put in overtime. Nick decides to check on the animal, after all that's what this whole thing was about anyway. He walks into the storage room, and there she is, good as new. The lovecraftian abomination turns one of its weeping heads to look at Nick.
With his final words Nick's manager unhooks the pin from a grenade and turns his face east to the beautiful rising sun. The explosion shakes the foundation of the building.
The manager answers the challenge. “Years of training since birth in the Taco Dojo stripped me of all my humanity, leaving nothing behind but mastery of the blade and excellent customer assistance skills, and I hope that you’ll find our services,” he performs a flawless corkscrew backflip over the counter and lands with his fist in the ground, “Highly satisfactory.”
Nick glances to his left. It seems as though his manager has lost the duel. The thirster leader triumphantly stands above the sitting form of the manager. His entire left side is nothing but a bloody ruin.
Theirskids.”
Iceberg Summer
Mrs.“Oh.”B
sat back on her haunches and stared at the girl from under her floppy sunbonnet. “Well…do you promise to tell me in seven Mrs.“Iyears?”suredo.”Bwelcomed
FICTION | V.J. HAMILTON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Summer unfolded long hot days, and Lucy had to keep an eye on her twin sisters, who usually played together with their dolls. From time to time, she ran the sprinkler for fun and cooling off; and to irritate Mrs. Giesbrucht, a neighbor whose window occasionally got spattered. The previous occupant had left behind crates of old paperbacks and Lucy found a shady spot to boss the twins from while reading everything from Lassie to The Thorn Birds. Adult novels were a buffet too rich for her, but she nibbled away at what she could. Sometimes Mama, if she wasn’t too exhausted after work, explained words like “complacent” and “rendezvous.”
was a wide and sleepy street, filled with the zizz zizz of cicadas and the hum of air conditioners, and in the evenings, the creak of porch swings where pensioners snoozed. In the daytime, folks like Mrs. Giesbrucht stayed inside, but not Mrs. B, who loved freshly turned soil as much as Lucy loved paperbacks. A recent widow, Mrs. B spoke to the twins like they were cute pets but spoke to Lucy as if she were already grown. Lucy liked that.
family situation.” No matter where the family moved, neighbors hungered for a passel of facts, like where her daddy was, what town they’d come from, and why.
That night, after the twins were bundled off to bed, Lucy asked Mama, “What is a wreck loose?”
Mama didn’t. “That lady is a busybody.” She warned Lucy not to “get blabbing about our
By V.J. Hamilton
* * *
“Ma’am, we’re in the witness protection program,” Lucy told Mrs. B. “I can’t answer your questions till seven years have passed.” She had read this somewhere.
eople are like icebergs,” Mama used to say, and Lucy thought she was explaining why the townsfolk of Daisyville acted coolly toward them.
“So now we have a witness protection family living beside a recluse. You are perfect neighbors, I would say.” Mrs. B smiled.
“P
Mama’s shift covered the lunch and dinner hours, with an hour in between when she could “run home and make sure you kids haven’t burned down the house.” She meant it as a joke but it annoyed Lucy to be lumped into the reckless and irresponsible category of “you
visits especially while weeding. Lucy let on she was reading Peyton Place, and this prompted Mrs. B to relate stories about the mayor, the town drunk, the high n mighties, and some of the “famous scandals” in Daisyville, like the school fire and a recent attempted castration with a starter pistol. However, the details did not stick in Lucy’s mind because she had never met these people. Except for the “famous recluse,” whose house, Mrs. B said, was right beside Lucy’s.
“No, he just leaves the box on the veranda. Tuesdays. Haven’t you seen it?” Mama submerged the bowls. “C’mon, let’s watch TV while these soak.”
* *
* *
Yawning, Mama began collecting dirty dishes. “Someone who wants nothing to do with other “Howpeople.”does he eat?” Lucy asked over the noise of running water.
All next Tuesday Lucy waited for the famous recluse to step out and pick up his box. Then she became sweaty and intrigued and began secretly rubbing herself while reading Passion’s Promise and missed him.
“But the delivery boy sees him, right?” Lucy tested the water. “Ouch!”
* *
The twins, Priscilla and Queenie, enjoyed filling sidewalk squares with chalk drawings. Whenever Lucy saw thunderclouds, she herded the girls inside, up the stairs, to watch, squealing, as their sections of sidewalk at first brightened under the rain, and then got washed away. Once, while they jostled at the dormer window, Lucy looked across and saw a shape in the famous recluse’s window.
*
“Oh! Oh!” He looked frightened, like a ghost had awakened him from a dream. He ran inside, hands raised to protect his face from invisible hornets. His groceries sat there all day in the sun.
The following Tuesday she played Frisbee with the reluctant twins and somehow the Frisbee flew up onto his groceries. She waited nearby until his door creaked open and then she said, “Scuse me, my kid sisters lost their Frisbee to your veranda… could you hand it over, please?”
FICTION | V.J. HAMILTON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“Cooks for himself.” Scrape, scrape. Clink. “Gets groceries delivered, for a fee.”
*
One day Mama came home jumpy and distracted. Priscilla bumped her head and Queenie doubled the crying. Mama had a hissy fit and slapped Queenie, saying: “That’ll teach you to cry for no reason.” Lucy withdrew with a book and Mama laid into her: “Pay attention, Miss Nose in a Book, you’re not listening to a word I say!”
*
Lucy gnawed her thumbnail. All her cuticles were ragged and sore. Mama bought “Stop n Grow” to paint on her fingertips. It tasted bitter as sin but wore off after two or three days if she just kept gnawing.
After wrestling the twins to bed, Mama poured a glass of whiskey and turned on the TV. “The police found a girl’s body at the reservoir. I haven’t heard anything else, but from now on when I’m away I want you all to stay inside.”
It gave her an oddly pleasant feeling, to think he was standing there, too, looking out at the rain. She wondered, did the recluse watch the “famous Soderberry sisters” on sunny days? She began to pretend they were a troupe of actors occupying the front yard. Some days they played Mary Poppins, other days the Avengers. Above them, she imagined the delight of the silent, grateful audience.
Lucy felt bad, like she had scared a wild animal.
“How bad is it?” Mrs. B, still in her garden boots, hobbled over to check. She said she couldn’t reach their mama, so she offered to drive the girls to Emergency.
“No! Don’t!” Lucy yelled. “We’re not s’posed to be “Youngoutside!”lady,
“The whole day?” Lucy bristled. “They hate being cooped up.”
“Mama says there’s a bad guy…”
That first hour outside, Lucy headed across the street where she greeted Mrs. B over the azaleas, while keeping an eye on the chalk crazy twins. She simply had to know more about the reservoir girl, and Mrs. B did not disappoint. The girl was a high school senior. “Bless her heart, she was unpopular a real social outcast and had drowned.”
Lucy had longed to go for a ride in that sumptuous two tone Pontiac Parisienne. She never imagined she’d end up in the backseat, holding Priscilla’s foot wound up in a towel, covered in a plastic shopping bag so as not to drip blood on the satin upholstery.
It was an exceptional offer. Mrs. B only drove on Sunday mornings, when her boat-like car puttered out of her tiny garage and floated several blocks to wash ashore at the church.
“Oh, your mama is over fearful. Ours is a safe little town.”
Then Mrs. B made a wide turn and Lucy could see no more. A disappointment as bitter as Stop n Grow pooled in her throat.
* * *
this is a medical emergency.” Mrs. B was Priscillapuffing.andLucy held Queenie’s foot and rubbed her back to soothe her. Lucy wept too, thinking how Mama had every right to beat the daylights out of her. At one point she raised her tear stained face and saw the curtain move in the recluse’s house. She took a deep breath and pulled herself together.
Mrs. B was inching out of the driveway when the police cruiser drove up. Mrs. B and the officer raised the pointer finger at each other, which is how the townspeople waved while driving. Lucy craned her neck to see out the back window. The cruiser halted outside the door of the recluse’s house and a police officer went to his door.
“One time a bad person tried to hold my head under water,” Lucy said. “What if…?”
FICTION | V.J. HAMILTON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“Luuuuuuuuucy!” wailed a twin. Lucy ran over and saw a bright red gash. Priscilla had cut her foot on the chalk tin and Queenie started howling, too.
“I’ll call your mama at the diner,” Mrs. B said as she went into her house. “You all stay right there!”
“Daisyville’s a small town,” Mama said, “It won’t take long to figure it out.”
Mrs. B drew conspiratorially closer. “It’s likely suicide. Don’t tell your mama I said so.”
Lucy let the twins draw with chalk on the basement floor, but they squabbled constantly. She made a deal: if they played inside nicely, they could go outside for one hour, “but promise on Jiminy Christmas you won’t tell Mama. Okay?”
* * *
“What kind of things?”
That’s when Mama explained that her iceberg theory of personality meant “we only see onetenth of what a person is all about.”
FICTION | V.J. HAMILTON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Lucy missed the second floor shadow and the glowing basement window. She missed the sound of his air conditioner and the faint music she occasionally heard. But mainly she was relieved Mama said she could release the two pet tigers, Priscilla and Queenie, who couldn’t wait to prowl around the sidewalk.
* * *
The next day, Mrs. B was deadheading roses. After how de dos, Lucy asked, shyly, if she thought the famous recluse was indeed a “Well,murderer.westill have the trial to go through,” Mrs. B said as she snipped off a desiccated brown rose. “Sometimes new things come to light.”
The TV station’s video of the arrest made Lucy choke on her cocoa. The famous recluse looked pale and thin and scared, just like she remembered. Then the camera zoomed in on his wiry arms and hands, which were big, white, and long fingered.
After the twins’ bedtime, Mama and Lucy sipped hot cocoa and watched the local TV news. The autopsy showed the reservoir girl had not died from drowning, but strangulation. The Daisyville police chief said, “The body was immersed in the reservoir after death it covers up the murderer’s deed, and it sends a message to the town by contaminating the people’s water supply.” He gritted his teeth. “This is a truly antisocial person.”
Lucy slipped out at sundown. The famous recluse’s door was not damaged. But his basement window, the thick frosted one she had never been able to see through, did not glow that night, and the air conditioner did not hum. She reckoned he was sitting in the Daisyville jail.
Lucy held Priscilla while the doctor stitched up the foot. She was secretly glad about the gash. Now she would always be able to tell the twins apart. Priscilla usually wore purple barrettes but sometimes they switched, to trick her.
“Mama, why’re they saying he’s a sex predator?” Mama reared back. “Hush your mouth!”
“He don’t look fit to harm a kitten,” Mama said. “But those hands! Goodness gracious, they could strangle a bear!”
Lucy gnawed her thumbnail. She could not picture that scaredy cat anywhere near the reservoir, talking to a teenaged girl.
“Ow, you’re skeezing,” Priscilla whimpered. “Sorry,” she lied.
The sisters climbed from their luxury ride and suddenly Mama appeared, smothering them with kisses and showering Mrs. B with bless yous. The cruiser was gone. Lucy asked Mama if she had seen the famous recluse leave peacefully or if the policeman had barged inside but Mama only wanted to talk about Priscilla’s nine stitches.
When they returned, Priscilla was asleep, Queenie was sniffling, and Mrs. B was a jangle of nerves due to driving in “rush hour traffic.” They had encountered five cars on the road.
Mrs. B pushed back her sunbonnet. “That’s mighty interesting. Tell your mama.”
Lucy quivered with excitement. She knew a thing or two about her neighbor. She knew his basement window glowed every night even the night of the girl’s death. He hated the outdoors. “I think he was at home.”
out. Sometimes she left them for ten minutes and cycledto the corner store where she bought ju jubes to share with them, if they had stayed Theput.
* * *
“Well, maybe the accused can prove he was not at the reservoir that night.”
her thumbnail. “I’m not just a ‘flick of a “Remembergirl.’”the iceberg, Lucy,” Mama said. “Your nice Mr. Recluse might have a very ugly ninety percent that floats below the surface.”
Ultimately their stand off did not matter. “For lack of corroborating evidence,” the famous recluse was released but did not return to Daisyville. Soon afterward, another man was Lucyarrested.grew bored minding the twins day in, day
Lucythis?”gnawed
FICTION | V.J. HAMILTON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“But he looks too scared to be outside.”
Mama was not as impressed by this as Lucy thought she should be. “He mighta turned on the air con and the light so it would look normal, gone out, and done the deed,” Mama said. “Anyway, what’s he doing down in his basement every night? Maybe he’s got a torture chamber or something. No,” she concluded, “it’s not worth bothering the police.”
Mama tore home in the middle of the dinner rush because regulars had come into the diner, saying, “a house is on fire on the east side; you
* * *
Lucy turned around and squinted through the smoke. Two cars, three trucks, and then the town’s firetruck came screeching up all at once. One man got out the big wrench for the hydrant. Two others hooked up the hose. They directed the stream at the base of the flames, which she now saw was the house of the famous recluse, not her house, although their siding was throwing out lots of smoke. The firefighters doused that, too.
From way down the street, she saw fat gobs of gray clouds billowing into the sky. She pedaled down the street as fast as her legs and lungs would take her, cussing her stupidity for not checking the burners. As she drew near, she saw Queenie, on her little patch of sidewalk, nearly hidden by the smoke. Scar footed Priscilla was staggering nearby. Lucy’s eyes stung with smoke and fear. She didn’t know if she was more terrified for their safety, or for her own, once Mama found out she’d been careless. She threw down her bike, grabbed the twins by their wrists, and pulled them across the street.
Wait, what?
Mama sighed heavily. “What would those officers think: a flick of a girl going to them like
scheme backfired the day Lucy returned to a house on fire.
Mrs. B was already inside, hollering on the phone to the fire department. The twins climbed on her porch swing while Lucy listened through the screen door. “Well, his house has been vacant since his arrest, I reckon.”
“Will he come back?” Lucy asked.
Theroyalty.Soderberry
“Goodness gracious, you are a total worrywart about stove burners,” Mrs. B said. “But I have another theory.” A shadow passed over her face. “In some ways people are just like animals. Here in town, to get rid of squirrels, they don’t kill the critters, they destroy their nests.”
n n n
The basement window was smashed in, and once the commotion cleared, Lucy could see what the recluse had been up to every night. She peered in, but it was too dark to make out anything more than, what, a coffin? It was a big wooden thing, polished wood, and Lucy had been reading Twilight. She waited for her heart to stop hammering, then went home to get a Theflashlight.basement
* * *
For more information on author V.J. Hamilton, please visit our Contributors Page.
Years later in college, Lucy took a music appreciation course. The class had to listen to many recordings, including some by the famous recluse. Lucy could still smell the smoke.
“I heard a little fancy music, yes.”
better go check your kids.” She was freaking out, even ran through Mrs. B’s flower garden something she had repeatedly warned the children never to do. She alternately hugged and scolded them, unable to make up her mind.
FICTION | V.J. HAMILTON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
* * *
Lucy saw the For Sale sign go up one week and come down the next. A moving truck came and picked up everything except the piano. A separate truck, and men with matching purple uniforms, came for the piano. Like it was
had a lot of rugs on the walls. The “coffin” was actually the biggest piano she’d ever seen.
Mrs. B nodded when Lucy told her, and said, “Yes, that’s our famous recluse. Some high falutin’ piano player.” Lucy recalled his well muscled hands. “He had a nervous breakdown and came home to live in peace. I thought he gave all that stuff up. Huh. I never heard noise from his place, did you?”
Mrs. B said he might feel too invaded. “He’ll get insurance money and go live in the city.”
* * *
family moved the next year, to the relief of Mrs. Giesbrucht. They moved well before Lucy’s seven year promise to Mrs. B came due. Lucy hoped she’d forgotten about it. Most people did.
The house still stood intact, charred in some places, water damaged in others. The fire inspector and insurance guy came over to look at the place.
Lucy said maybe the famous recluse had forgotten a stove burner, that day the officer rushed him out “without letting him check to make sure things were turned off properly.”
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022 FICTION | WADE SHARP
Mickey
At first, he was nice. I was naïve to think I could ask him for a favor without having to pay him back in exorbitant interest. I woke up dope sick one morning, and he was getting high in a cardboard camp he’d set up in the same alley way I called home every now and then. I asked for a get-well and he was all too willing to put me in his pocket.
By Wade Sharp
The plan was to go to Bookman's, a local record store in Phoenix, and snag a stack of expensive records. Beatles boxsets, Aerosmith Limited Edition vinyl, items of that ilk. Stuff that would make a man in his mid life crisis cream his skinny jeans. Then we would hop on the train, peel off the tags, and head two blocks down to Zia Records to sell them. I had done it before. It was a solid heist. I could pay Mickey back and still have around a half gram left for myself. We were one block away from our destination, so we "Dowalked.youlike cats?" Said Mickey as we made our "Dependsway. on the cat."
I think he was bragging. The revelation that I was standing next to somebody who admittedly exuded the tale tell signs of a serial killer made me feel nervous. Thinking back, I still didn’t know the half of it. Alternatively, I found myself kind of wanting Mickey to accept me. Does that make me a monster? Or just a people pleaser? Or maybe I’m a monster pleaser?
for a feeling. But if I was possessed by addiction, then Mickey was possessed by a fucking demon.
ickey was institutionalized. He had just come off a seven year prison sentence and was due for another of ten to fifteen whenever karma decided to get around to it. His teeth were broken into sharp little daggers from fighting, and when he smiled it was like staring into the mouth of a barracuda. When he was in prison, he was a warrior for the Arian Brotherhood, and he had the tattoos from head to toe to prove it. In the real world he was just a low life junkie like the rest of us, but his mind was still locked up in maximum security intransigence. I wish I had never met Mickey. Mickey was a psychopath.
M
"I hate cats. I killed every one of my sisters’ cats. She loved cats so she just kept getting new ones. One time I put one of them in the microwave just to see what would happen. I would chuck 'em down the stairs to see if they could land on their feet."
I was known amongst fellow vagrants as a "booster". I had a very prestigious record of successfully shoplifting hundreds of dollars’ worth of items from stores without getting caught. I promised Mickey that after he got me well, we could go out and hustle together. I would do the heavy lifting while all he had to do was keep watch. I took on all the risk, he got high. He could barely stop from licking his lips and rubbing his hands together like some predatory lender handing out home loans for no money down during the 2008 housing crisis. I hate myself for not being able to see what was coming. I was a junkie. I would compromise my safety, my life, my freedom, for a shot, no problem. Most of us traded our entire families
The scurry of the roaches under our shoes brought my attention to the time. Roaches only come out at night. As long as it wasn't Sunday, Bookman's was probably open for around three more hours. Should be plenty of time as long as it wasn't Sunday.
I always wanted to be able to sound tough like that. I quietly cursed God for engendering me with a lisp. I could tell he was serious, and I knew I only had two options: either try my luck in the store with a monstrous loss prevention officer who would be sure to recognize me, or endure a hefty confrontation with my new "friend" Mickey. Both options were equally
"What day is today?" I asked Mickey.
A quick reassessment of the plan brought me to Tide Pods, and good old Filly B's.
"Did they?" I said to him.
"Sunday," he said.
"Actually... I think… Bookman's is closed," I Mickeysaid.
were as good as gold to a junkie. Plus, Filiberto’s is open for 24 hours. The second perfect heist.
"There's an Albertson's right there across the street," snapped Mickey.
"Oh, no, we can't hit that one. I tried to hit them up last night and the LP officer chased me across the parking lot. I'm not kidding; I think he is actually half bionic" I replied.
Here's the new hustle:
I told Mickey the plan, and suggested we go to the grocery store a few streets over.
"Get your ass in that fucking store and do what you need to do. I didn't get you high for free mother fucker," snarled Mickey, gritting his barracuda like teeth.
Ifucked.figured
A few deep breaths, and I stepped into the eighth circle of hell.
stopped walking and turned to face me when he said, "Better come up with a new plan quick before I start getting really fucking mean with you. You owe me. I gave you the last of my shit and I’m gonna start getting sick soon."
"Nah... Is today Sunday?" I said as the blood rushed from my face.
His words skewered my heart. What had I gotten myself into? If blustering about murdering kittens was Mickey set to normal, I did not want to see him dope sick.
if I could walk quickly enough through the store, I could grab two large tubs of Tide Pods, and bust out through the emergency exits. They wouldn't even see it coming. Mickey agreed this would be the best plan of action. He would meet me by the emergency exit and act as back up against Robocop, who was waiting for me inside. We emptied out Mickey's backpack to use as a grab bag, then he let me borrow his hat to hide my face.
FICTION | WADE SHARP CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
"What? Did they always land on their feet? No," said Mickey.
"Yep. Sunday," he assured me.
The sweet Latina women at the Filiberto’s on 19th Ave and Dunlap are always buying Tide Pods at half price. Those little puffy liquid pods
My entrance was accompanied by the first loudspeaker code call. When you boost for long enough you begin to realize that each store has their own codes being called over the speaker for different situations. If a cashier saw a known thief, they would pick up the mic and call: "306 in aisle blank". A good booster has each of these codes memorized. I used associations; "Code 306" meant "deep shit". Before I knew it, I was standing before a wall of vibrantly packaged laundry products. Technically, the loss prevention officer couldn't touch me until I put something in my backpack. Once I did, if I was caught, the charge went from an F6 to an F4. That's five to seven before mitigating factors.
I thought for a moment, "I don't have to do this. I could go to prison. Maybe it’s time I get
followed by a decision, "Not today. I'm not ready."
"HEY!" the Robocop was already running at me with the full force of a linebacker on PCP.
of buying a house in the Roosevelt District. She drank almond milk. Those were the salad days. Before the black. Before the needles.
"We can get $20 bucks for that, that's enough to pay you back," I responded.
Turns out I had miscalculated the size of Mickey’s bag because I was only able to fit about two tubs of tide pods into it. Equal to $20.
We ran through the bowel like alley ways of Central Phoenix to escape a tail that wasn't chasing us. The evening descended into the decay of a nighttime in the ghetto, and we were guided by nothing, but moonlight subdued by an atmosphere of polluted air. My blood rushed and caused odd parts of my body to pulsate. My ears traced heavy breathing, and the pounding of my paranoid heart, and then the sound of an ambulance siren in the distance. The bowels spit us out at the light rail stop on 19th Ave and IGlendale.wasstill
FICTION | WADE SHARP CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
I ran through the aisles of colorful, shiny, chip bags, boxes of cereal, and lady's tampons. I noticed there was a sale on almond milk. A flash of my ex girlfriend imposed itself like a hard cut movie transition in my mind. She was the first and only girl I ever lived with. We would walk through the historic neighborhoods and dream
I was standing in aisle 14. The disquietude in the voice coming through the speaker was palpable. He was watching me on the cameras.
I felt a hand graze the hairs on my neck as I busted through the emergency exit. The loud shrill of electronic bells sliced through my ear drums, and then, I noticed Mickey standing outside the exit with a four by four. He smiled that psychopathic barracuda smile and blindsided Robocop as hard as he could. That was the end of Robocop.
"I'll hold this.”
He looked inside and remarked, "All of that for some fucking soap."
They called again, "Code 306... in aisle 14."
"I just knocked that guy over the fucking head so you could get away. If I hadn't of been there you would be sitting in the back of a fucking cop car by now. You owe me more than $20." And just like that he raised the stakes.
Aclean.”thought
catching my breath when Mickey snatched the bag from my shoulders.
"Mickey. I can't do this," I said in a quiet Itprotest.feltlike
Mickey grabbed me by the neck and pinned me up against the wall as easy as he could a broom
I was struck by a flash of lightning and the world went white for a millisecond as Mickey's boney knuckles cut through the skin above my eye socket. I felt the flesh on my face rise. It occurred to me that in all my time as an addict, I had escaped every physical confrontation through my superb ability to reason, or pure luck. Mickey embodied the definition of unreasonable, and apparently, I was out of luck. This would have been a good time to swing back.
"Youstick.
are going into that fucking store with me. If you fuck this up, I am going to drag you into that alley way over there and fuck you up the ass like the bitch that you are. You think I'm fucking joking?" He took my hand and forced it over the bulge in his pants. The act of overpowering me in physical altercation was making that sick fuck get hard. “You feel that? Twelve inches mother fucker. I am NOT kidding. You want that in your ass?” The maniacal fervor in Mickey's voice made the corners of his mouth foam like a rabid dog. It suddenly occurred to me that there couldn’t be
brandished a hammer from the inside of one of his bags. The size of the hammer relative to the bag made it seem like some fucked up magic trick.
"Protect yourself you fucking pussy. Fucking stand up for yourself. Fight back. Fight back. Fight back!" I pleaded with myself, but my heart could not coax me into the fortitude it took to hit him back. Instead, I held back tears.
"Hang on. What the fuck are we going to do with that," I said, like an idiot I knew.
Mickey raped the plan into concession: "You fill the bags with money, cartons of cigarettes, and any fucking thing else you can get your hands
on, and DON'T be a pussy! If you get me caught up, I swear to God you do not want to share a jail cell with me mother fucker."
That's when I realized I would not be getting away from Mickey anytime soon. Not without a fight. But that would mean I have to stand up for myself, and I'm not very good with confrontation. I categorized myself as a flyer, not a fighter. In other words, I’m sort of a pussy. Just had to wait for the right moment to flee. I didn't want to be in a chase with Mickey on foot. Too much risk of him catching me. I had to disappear without a trace.
I decided I had one more store in me. I thought of it like a challenge. I wondered what it would take to impress him. If he wanted more, I could get him more. There was a Walgreens on the corner. No loss prevention, and it was full of employees with debatable vital signs. I remembered the lady at Filliberto's asking me for toiletries the last time I was there. Women's razors, Dove Body Wash, Head and Shoulders shampoo. I could do one more store. I laid the plan out for Mickey.
“Nah,” he said. "We are done with your kid shit. I'm gonna show you how to hustle with the big Mickeyboys."
Mickey opened the trash can in front of the store and grabbed a hand full of empty, used, plastic bags, and he gave them to me.
FICTION | WADE SHARP CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
The automatic doors parted and before they had a chance to close Mickey shouted, "OPEN THE FUCKING REGISTER!" He ran towards the cashier wielding the hammer like Dae Su Oh in Oldboy. The kid couldn't have been older than sixteen. His world was likely still filled with beauty, and warmth, and wonder. I wondered if he was a virgin, or if he had ever been in love. Now here he was face to face with Mickey, who would forever dictate all his future perceptions of life in a moment with the business end of a hammer. Mickey struck him instantly, and it smelt like sulfur when the young man shit himself. Whether or not I made it out of that store without going to prison, no matter how far I ran to escape my inevitable demise, I would always be imprisoned by the image of that poor kid’s lifeless body. Mickey probably would have kept his scalp as novelty if we had more time.
"Fill the fucking bag, you fucking fuck! Fill it! Fill it!" shouted Mickey, vehemently.
I filled the bag with all the money in the register. About $200. I took every carton of cigarettes I could fit in the plastic bags. I noticed a few other employees crouched behind the aisles hiding for their lives. Their eyes closed as if it would transport them into some other dimension of safety. I was scanning the area for anything Mickey might consider valuable when I noticed a boxcutter sitting on the counter. It occurred to me that perhaps this is where I was meant to be. Perhaps every little
"Jesus Christ! OKAY! LET GO! FUCK! OKAY. I'll go in." I said sheepishly with tears in my eyes. He broke me. I had never been so emasculated in my life. I was terrified.
were running through the bowels of the city and this time the sirens were like a wall of sound that surrounded us. They screamed and bent in pitch as they passed us on the street over. A ghetto bird flew above us, and the spotlight searched the city for one murderous junkie, and the pussy who bent over backwards out of fear. The cops would never see it that way. I was now the accomplice to a strongarm robbery, and possibly a murder. We hopped walls, and we hid in bushes. It’s beyond me how we lost them, but we did.
Mickey and I slept in a ditch behind our dope dealer’s house waiting for the next day to come. It was too late to pick up, and I wasn’t sure a dealer would be cool with us coming directly to their house just after committing a robbery anyways. The sunlight through the brittle branches of the desert brush woke us. We were both dope sick beyond all belief. Mickey's eyes drooped, and his lips curled from the internal fire that pushed its way like hot railroad picks through every pore in his body. A feeling that mirrored exactly what was happening in my own nervous system. I couldn't find in him even a hint of remorse from what had occurred the night before. I couldn’t really blame him, yeah, he was a sociopath, but I was having trouble feeling remorse myself, but for another reason. The fucked up thing about dope sickness is that it covers up all other emotions. The sickness demands to be felt in all faculties of sensitivity, and the weight of it drapes over you like three hundred pounds of sheep’s wool. We both just wanted some dope.
turn of every little event in my life brought me to this instant. That boxcutter was the key to the next chapter of my life and it was up to me to decide which prong of the fork in the road I would follow. I snatched it and kept it for Again,myself.we
a God. Surely, if there was a God, he would not endow such a monster of a person with a twelve inch penis.
FICTION | WADE SHARP CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
“I said, I'm not gonna hurt ya! I'm just going to bash your brains in. Gonna bash 'em right the fuck in! Ha ha ha!” She knew every word like she’d watched it a thousand times.
clearance to hop the wall into his backyard, and I rapped on his back door. Chamo, was a nickname for Chamuco, which was Spanish for devil. He lived up to his name, though not in the same way as Mickey. Chamo had good in his heart, but he knew how to reprogram his mind in a moment to turn bad. He was calculated about it, but purely for business purposes. Mickey was calculated too, but he was also pathological, and more innately evil. Things like rape, and blood, made Mickey sexually aroused. I had the inkling that this would disgust Chamo, and I wondered how they would get on. He came to the door and smiled when he saw me. If the events of the past day have taught me anything it’s that there were no friends in this world, but the relationship I had with Chamo resembled something close. Chamo liked me. Sometimes he would let me take showers at his house. Everybody else would steal from him, but I never did. I think he appreciated that.
“Shhh! I love this part!” She nipped in her mousy little voice as she recited the lines to the movie along with Jack Nicholson.
We walked into the house, and Chamo’s newest girl was sitting on the couch with her feet up watching The Shining. She was still green. New to this life. Getting high was still fun for her. She barely had to hustle. All she had to do was lend out her pussy to Chamo whenever he summoned, and then she had all the dope she could possibly want. Sometimes I wonder where she is now… I wonder if she made it back to her family. I hope she did. She was sweet and good.
fucked up of a person do I have to be to have garnered a small sense of fulfillment from that statement? I did though. It occurred to me that that was the first time in my life somebody told me they were proud of me. Something clicked, and I realized Mickey was playing on every insecurity I had. I now knew what true hatred was. Before that I hated things like bad movies, and the girl that broke my heart in the sixth grade. Yeah, my parents left me in the custody of child protective services, but I didn’t hate them for it. I understood. I didn’t even hate the foster dad that raped me, or his wife who just stood there and did nothing. No. That was a moderate level of dislike compared to what I felt for Mickey in that moment. I thought we at least had some type of human relationship; fucked up as it was, at least it was human. But Mickey didn’t think of me as a human. I was nothing more than a tool to him. Nothing more than the bloodied hammer he’d used to bash that cashier’s skull. I hated Mickey with every fiber of my being for manipulating my biggest insecurity in order to fold me into whatever shape would fit the slot he needed to fill from one moment to the next. I remembered the boxcutter in my pocket and soothed myself by running my fingers over the rubber grooves in the handle. The lack of dope in my system sent a quick shiver down my spine, and the hair on my arms stood up. The blood running through my veins felt like it had dirt in it.
“Let’s go get some fucking dope,” I said. The dope dealer we chose to camp out behind was Chamo. He was my resident Pysa. I would often camp out in the ditch behind his house if we were too late to pick up that night. I had
FICTION | WADE SHARP CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Howyou."
Mickey got up and consolidated our take from the night before into one bag. He looked at me and said, "You pulled through kid. I'm proud of
“Hey Lolita…” I greeted her.
Chamo looked at me like, “Who the fuck did you bring to my house?” and I looked back at him like, “You don’t know the half of it…”
“Showhere?”
FICTION | WADE SHARP CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Out loud, I rephrased Mickey’s statement in the form of a polite question, “Can May… we fix
“He didn’t. I had to force it out of him. I found a man lurking beneath that thick layer of bitch,” said ThereMickey.wasthat convoluted feeling of hatred
me the money.” Chamo said.
“Alright, here. Get well.” Chamo threw us each a point, and a shot of black.
Mickey looked up, with a calculated, cold, straight face. Chamo didn’t even have a chance to pull the pistol from his waist belt before he
Our hands shook violently as we held the spoons over the small flame of a Bic lighter. We made the shots thicker than blood. Strong enough to kill a crossbreed between Chris Farley and Kurt Cobain.
I went to pick up my point when Mickey said, “Leave. It. There.”
Mickey reached over and swatted the needle out my arm to the ground. Chamo and Lolita saw, and I could read, almost hear, the disgust on their faces. Whether it was at me for being such a pussy, or Mickey for being such a dick, will always remain unknown.
Mickey threw the backpack at Chamo, from it he pulled cash, cartons of cigarettes, packages of gummy worms, portable chargers, and everything else I could think to throw inside of it during the chaotic smash and grab from the day “What?before.Did you jack a 7/11?” He asked.
Chamo sat down next to her and started selling, “Alright! So, what can I do for you boys? I just re upped. I got black and clear. I’ve got points. I’ve got everything you need. Fire as per usual.”
I was still trying to hit myself when I said, “Give me one second. I’ve almost got it.”
I started, “Can you do an ounce for two hundred?” when Mickey interrupted me by saying, “We’ve got cash, but I need a shot right fucking now. I am sick as fuck.”
Oh shit! I didn’t think you had that in you!” exclaimed Chamo proudly.
“I need you to hit me. My hands are too shaky,” Mickey demanded.
“Chamo. Don’t.” He had no clue of the beast he was summoning from the shallow depths of Mickey’s current state of calm.
underneath gratification, again.
“A Walgreens.” I said.
“Nah. Hang on. You gonna let him talk to you like that?” said Chamo disconcertingly. “Nah. That fool needs to get the fuck out of my house. You too, you fucking pussy. No bitches allowed. Bounce!” he said.
Mickey looked at me and smiled a sick little smile. The coincidence of how that exact line applied to recent events amused him.
I quietly turned to him, picked up his point, and aimed it at the largest vein in his arm.
Whensmile.
he was gone, I picked up my needle and finally got myself well. Chamo was right. That shit was fire. I laid as still as the two corpses that laid on each side of me. Sirens sounded off in the distance. The neighbors probably called the cops about the gunshot. What a fucking buzzkill! I was done running though. All I wanted to do was enjoy my nod. It’s all about the pins and needles baby. It’s all about the pins and needles.
FICTION | WADE SHARP CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
From point blank range he shot Chamo in the face. All the while, Lolita was screaming as though she had never worn the splattered brain of another human being over her face before.
Click click click click.
For more information on author Wade Sharp, please visit our Contributors Page.
hopped over the table and mauled him. Blow after blow, he slept Chamo, and then woke him back up, and then slept him again. There was no way he was going to remember his own name after this. Mickey picked up the small pistol with a look that said, “Oh! Hey! Look what I found! A fucking gun!”
“Surprised?” I said out loud to him.
“Ohhhhhh fuuuuuck.” He said as euphoria carried him, weightless, through the threshold oblivion that only a shot of quality heroin can elevate you beyond. His eyes closed. For the
He came over and sat down next to me with the pistol in his waste belt. I removed a shoelace from the loops on my shoe, wrapped it around Mickey’s arm to tie him off, and once again aimed the needle at a fat, tracked up, vein. I flicked the back of the plunger hard enough to pierce his thick, leathery skin, and a plume of red blood drew into the cartridge before I pressed the murky dope into his bloodstream.
He looked at me and said with a peppy voice, “Hey bro! Check this out!”
first time, I had seen Mickey calm. With his guard down, he fell into a state of nod. I forgot Lolita was even there until she used the opportunity to bust out of the house. It dawned on me that I could do whatever I wanted with him now. I had been running my fingers over the rubber grooves in the handle this whole time to self soothe. I felt it click as I raised the blade from its plastic enclosure.
I felt the barrier of his skin pop as the blade stabbed into the side of his neck. In that instant he woke up. The next part was his fault. In an instinctual effort to evade whatever he thought was injuring him he jolted in the wrong direction and the blade sliced a smile shape into his jugular. He looked surprised.
He slowly stopped struggling. We never broke eye contact, and in the last few moments of his life he just smiled that evil, senseless, barracuda
“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey screamed at her. She Heobeyed.pointed
n n n
the gun in her face and said, “Just chill. I still need to get well.” He looked at me, “So. Can you please fucking hit me now?”
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Mads Bohan lives in a small cottage in the woods. He drinks tea, talks to the cat, and occasionally writes. Mads also holds the position of Head Curator at Silas Plum Art. For more of his work, look to Night Picnic Journal, The Raw Art Review, and Foliate Oak.
FICTION CONTRIBUTORS
V.J. Hamilton was born and raised in Saskatchewan, Canada, in a town that no longer exists. After sojourns in Germany, Japan, and New Zealand, she currently calls Toronto home. Her work has been published in The Antigonish Review, The MacGuffin, and The Penmen Review, among others. She won the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest. Most recently, her fiction appears in STORGY magazine.
Harmon Crowe
Harmon is a Sophomore at Barrett, The Honors College at ASU. He is hoping to graduate by 2024 and is currently an English major. Harmon really likes sleeping and eating various cereals. He is from San Diego (the one in California, not Texas). In his free time, he enjoys writing.
Mads Bohan
V.J. Hamilton
Wade Sharp
Slowly, over the past two years, I have been piecing my life back together. I was able to get back into university and, once again, I am chipping away at my degree from Grand Canyon University. I write something every single day, and my dream is to make my living from it.
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022 FICTION CONTRIBUTORS
David Larsen was born in Polk County, Iowa. He attended the University of Texas at El Paso where he majored in history. He is a performing and recording singer/songwriter. He has recorded eleven albums for El Viejo Records and has performed throughout the United States. His songs have been recorded and performed by various artists. He has been cited for "Excellence in Songwriting" by the Southwest Songwriters Association. He currently resides in El Paso, Texas and Rhinelander, Wisconsin.
Wade was born here in Phoenix, Az. Growing up, he was never a great student and always preferred staying home to writing and making music over going to parties. He graduated high school by the skin of his teeth and slowly chipped away at community college credits until he finally got into Arizona State University to study creative writing. Around that time, he was introduced to heroin and addiction devoured everything he had. For seven years, he lived on the streets of Central Phoenix, stuck in a hazy tirade of selfish decay. He slept on nothing but cement, constantly in and out of jail. The last time he got picked up, he did a year in county jail where he spent his time reading books from Tolstoy, and Mark D. Danielewski’s House of Leaves. He started writing poetry, and creative non fiction, and that has evolved into short fiction.
Shaylen Morales
An aspiring English teacher, Shaylen Morales is a bold writer who wants to encourage and teach creative writing through the importance of self discovery and voice. She will be graduating from ASU with a BA in English, emphasizing Secondary Education Spring 2021. As of late, Shaylen resides in blistering Arizona with her editor in chief, Franklin, a collie mix she had rescued from the sheriff’s department on a whim. This first time publisher often finds herself preferring the company of hidden worlds inked onto the paper rather than the chaos we all currently find ourselves in. She is currently working on a poetry chapbook and her first novel. Journal Entry One Silent Comfort, is a piece from her novel that hopefully captures the pain of trauma and the beauty of healing. Shaylen describes her word choice and structure to resemble art to invoke emotion in anyone; thus, each line serves a purpose for the reader. She hopes her work makes people feel and question the world around them. Everyone, hopefully, will have a different reading experience unique to their background. While it may seem convoluted from a glance, her writing is meant to challenge the expected.
David Larsen
became friends with the book buyer at the travel and world literature bookstore that hosted my Gulf War memoir launch party. He served in Afghanistan and published novels. We began to meet for lunch and he once said, you should write thrillers. I had no idea how to write that kind of story. I told true stories as a journalist, memoirist, and poet. I had no imagination for fiction. I had tried to write an autobiographical novel about an old boyfriend whose mother was nearly beaten to death by an intruder. I told the story as a poet before I had published any poems. The writing was thin and I abandoned the book. I began another autobiographical novel about working as a journalist in Argentina after the dirty war was over. I invented a kidnapping and lost interest in the book. I also tried to write an autobiographical short story about having a crush on an environmental writer and professor with a fiancée while dealing with bed bugs. I didn’t make up a thing.
CREATIVE NONFICTION | KAROL NIELSEN
Bad Poem
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2020
Fiction and Other Poems
Fiction
A
By Karol Nielsen
Poetry
I
spiring poets and writers used to look down on me at parties in New York City while I worked as a financial journalist. I had studied international relations and economics—instead of English—and I’d gone to graduate journalism school—instead of earning an MFA. I could imagine a future as a memoirist, but not as a poet. I used to write poems in my journal but didn’t think of myself as a poet. When I had enough for a collection, I submitted to contests. The collection was selected as a finalist for a poetry prize. I had to admit that I was a poet. Now my poems appear in hip journals and zines like Punk Noir, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Retirement Plan. I bought the debut poetry collection by an editor who published my funny poem about forgetting Barbie’s name. He said he has a bio and PO Box for his beard.
I
n the beginning, I wrote poems in my journal—by hand. I collected them into a book that was a finalist for a poetry award. The manuscript included long, poetic narrative poems full of angst. I started writing poems while working as a journalist and I refined the poems after I became a writing instructor and freelance editor. I hardly made any money but I had time to write. I published a memoir and a chapbook and I finished another memoir and another chapbook. The books got published after I found a full-time job writing evaluations for specialty occupation visa applications for employment in the United States. I went to an office in Midtown Manhattan—before my job went remote during the pandemic. I no longer had the kind of free time I had while working as a freelancer. I began to write short, often funny poems on my iPhone. I wrote about random encounters in the city like
CREATIVE NONFICTION | KAROL NIELSEN
homeless men hitting on me and the topless woman walking in Central Park. I wrote about my small life
ByDreamsKalebWard-Page
or some reason, many of the migrants across the continental United States noticed that they often had strange dreams while on their travels. They would dream of strange things, large houses with fields and sunsets and families and friends and food. Things that in the countries they traveled from, they often didn’t have. They came from places of red, places of green, places of people and hardworking, and often unfairness. They came from hot places, loud places, and yet they dreamed of peaceful places, green places.
In a way, however, this temporary break also came as a relief, instead of worrying about the authority of the government, families could worry about keeping the dog off of the highway, or keeping the little ones entertained. The parents were still concerned about finding the next meal or place to stay, but now that these things had already been taken from them, they weren’t concerned about having those things ripped from them again. They were concerned with the security of their dreams. The promises that had been made to them, made by them.
CREATIVE NONFICTION | KALEB WARD-PAGE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
The nightmares that these people faced, just south of where they knew the sweet dreams would be, were becoming too much. Repatriation, as it was called, just a disguising of the terrible truth, the fact that they weren’t wanted, that their nightmares had to be endured.
For the few who managed to actually cross the border, most of what they saw was brown. For weeks their lives were filled with emptiness, traversing through problem after problem, mile after mile. In their pursuit of this dream, this ideal, their lives became empty for a time. They gave up their livelihoods, whether they wanted to or not, and joined an endless highway, an endless waiting list into a green valley.
F
The lands that the families traveled to said that they were afraid of losing their jobs and their
obvious lies. How would it be voluntary if their people were being taken off the streets, they were being forced under the foolish guise of free transportation back home?
This repatriation in an attempt to turn them around, to force them out, back, away. The ones doing this tried to make it seem voluntary, that staying or going back home would be for their own good, but the people saw through the
But with the problems masked behind their pleasant aspirations, who could blame them if they gave up, stopped driving through the plains, stopped working for the white men in their plight to work for themselves. Of course, everyone dreams, for everyone sleeps, but the people could find comfort in the regularity of their lives, if only the times weren’t so difficult.
But this resolve, this will to continue dreaming, set them apart from most of the people they traveled with, traveled through. They knew that they could cultivate their land, just as they cultivated their hope.
Unfortunately, the ones who already contained the dreams, who had a jump start on taking it for themselves, knew how to guard them. And worse yet, with the destruction of the crops, with the sun hidden behind the sky, they had an even greater excuse. The ambition that anyone could see, but only they could have. This country was called a melting pot, a collection of cultures, but clearly these ingredients were guarded, just as the oranges and grapes were guarded against the hands of hungry families.
CREATIVE NONFICTION | KALEB WARD-PAGE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
And in this way, history repeats itself. One fights against the other, looking for some right that they are being denied. Freedom is won, and new work and autonomy are created by the now free people. This is just as when previous dreamers in these lands fought for freedom against the ones across the ocean, the families whose elders fought against a similar country and won their independence, they now sought to make more land their own.
The fields remained empty for a time. Instead of weary travelers, dust filled the air, accompanied by tired farmers, burdened by the responsibilities that they protected.
For more information on author Kaleb Ward Page, please visit our Contributors Page.
The dreams continue. Dreams of ceased fighting. Of food, greenery, peace, family. Of large houses. Fields. Sunsets. Families. Friends. Foods. Thoughts that soon, these dreams would be theirs.
Those who already had the opportunity to work through lineage had to deal with raids, as those who were denied also had to. In this way they were
Everyonesimilar.inthis place was part of a group, looking for work, meaning, purpose, dreams. They operated under the idea that hope could be shared, that all were equal. Just as had been written when this land was founded.
n n n
money, which in itself is a kind of irony. The people in these lands had their own dreams, and they were fortunate enough to continue dreaming them, but they should have the right to conserve them for themselves. Only they could cultivate the dreams, even though it was a land that promised to fulfill the ideals of everyone. It was a land that was supposedly brimming with them.
er wiriness resembled a greyhound dog's. Bones covered with wrinkled flesh that she liked to flaunt with too short skirts, and tank tops that revealed too many hours in the sun. Her habit of covering what was likely an entire headful of gray hair with the cheapest possible fire engine red dye completed her cartoon like appearance. Florence performed daily in the small half moon parking lot in front of the apartment complex office. Jerking as though on puppeteers' strings, she danced from the left side of the lot to the right and back again.
For a while I was the only one worthy of her rants. I was treated to relieved smiles from the other women in the office who had been through their own tours of duty serving sergeant Florence. It occurred to me that she was the Mrs. Kravitz of SilverBridge Apartments. But even Mrs. K had enough dignity to hide behind her curtain, and not perform her animatronics right there on 85th Ave for God and everyone to witness. Dance. Complain. Repeat.
H
Only when I asked her to please not use racial slurs when referring to the Hispanic gentleman who had just moved in, did I lose my golden girl status. She had stood, cheeks as red as her hair, as she went on about her new neighbor whom she insisted was doing something illegal in his apartment. Why, he even had an improperly licensed vehicle! When I tried to explain that the plates were indeed valid, just issued in Mexico, her lips curled back from her ill fitting
CREATIVE NONFICTION | SHARON ENCK CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Refusing to Go with the Flo
Occasionally, someone would honk, in appreciation or in mocking of her matinee we did not know. But it never stopped her. We weren't sure if Florence's performances were simply to get attention, exercise, or both. My guess is when you get to be a certain age, with no job, and a family that never visits, you will do just about anything to keep the hands on the clock from ticking too loudly.
By Sharon Enck
Every once in a while, I would acquiesce and make a phone call. As though in some sort of SNL skit I would mime chewing the resident out for not properly bagging their garbage while Florence watched me through my glass door. My charades earned me tokens like rotting rose scented bath salts, notepad and pen sets with the monogram of M (my name starts with an S), and the occasional box of chocolates, each piece going white with age. My manager told me not to be too sentimental about them since part of Florence's matinee routine was to replenish her stock at the dollar store. None of these gifts were for me, just leftovers.
It was 1995, and I was twenty four years old in a job that I pretended to like. Typing up lease contracts, but mostly dealing with Florence and her various complaints, was how I spent eight hours a day, five days a week. She would bring me small "presents" to show her appreciation for helping to keep tabs on her up to no good neighbors. Complaints about the genre of music 3A listened to, or how the lady in 2C really should put sunscreen on her baby when they go out, were some of the "lease violations" that Florence deemed rant worthy.
to tell someone else that 4D left garbage outside their door for weeks. And did we know that they were making meth at night?
holidays Florence made a big production of bringing in gifts for all the women in the office, yet somehow a dusty gold gift bag never graced my desk. She fawned over everyone but me. She played charades too.
n n n
"Arebribe.you
was a dirty word in our house. When you grow up with a peace loving hippie, phrases like "don't rock the boat" are commonplace. My mother was not the protesting kind of flower child, but the listen to Dylan and smoke lots of pot variety.
It was 1995 and I could have just swallowed her racism, and ridiculous claims, all to keep the peace in the office. Everyone did. I could have put on another show and "called" Mr. Hernandez to find out why there were "weird" noises coming from his apartment and to inquire when he was going to get "American" plates, as Florence called them.
"No, I never said that. I just said that there is no need for that type of language."
dentures, and she spat, "Are you going to take that [insert racial slur here]'s side?"
But I could still see her show from my window. She and I both danced. Just to different tunes.
For more information on author Sharon Enck, please visit our Contributors Page.
She never considered that everyone deserves a nice place to live. No, I was just the insolent chippy who refused to help her. Although, I doubt Florence would have ever used the word
My boss wanted a word with me after Florence spent an hour in her office ranting about my blatant disrespect, and inability to do my job properly. After all, wasn't she paying our salaries? Did we not want to make this a nice place to live?
I Confrontationdidn't.
But all the tokens and trinkets and forced sentiments about how I was the best office girl this place has ever had weren't enough of a
“I guess it is okay that those people do illegal things in their apartment! Maybe I shouldn't care so much. Maybe I should just ignore it like you are doing!"
not going to address my complaint, young lady?" All of a sudden I was demoted from honey, dear, and sweetheart to young lady.
CREATIVE NONFICTION | SHARON ENCK CANYON VOICES | SPRING
So, I Duringdid.the
The"insolent."talkwith my manager resembled my earlier charades in that I pretended to care and eventually I was told to just stay out of her way.
When she blew out of my office, the decay scented bath salts, and stale chocolates went with her. She soon grew enamored of another agent who didn't "treat her as a nuisance" and I was off the complaint desk. She ignored me when I tried to make pleasantries as she waited
No one responds. God does not respond. There is only the voice of the void. “No one is coming. Nothing can save you from this. You will never know that light again. It is extinguished, and you should be glad for it. Curse the light for ever giving you something to lose. In my dark depths there is nothing to lose because there was nothing to begin with. You will struggle against my embrace at first, clawing for the vile light, but it will abandon you, and you will abandon hope of it. Then, only then, will you find peace in my arms. I am the god of absence, and I am your savior now.” Those words I remember.
Then, I hear a sound. It breaks the pallid stillness and infects me with shivers of discomfort. The sound is a sinister gardener planting worry in my thoughts. Worry needs no vile light to grow, it blooms in the dark rooms of my mind. I can feel the seed parting, piercing the membrane it was so conveniently placed within. Its soft, frail, easily destroyed stalk of verdant youth stretches out. It is blooming now, the leaves and petals forming, terrifying me with its purple petals so young and vulnerable. I try to scream at the seedling. “STOP!” It does not listen and grows despite my pleading. “STOP! YOU WILL DIE HERE!” It continues to grow disobediently, unfurling into its full terrifying majesty. I tremble at the sight of the radiant blossom in my mind.
M
By Gage Ignota
CREATIVE NONFICTION | GAGE IGNOTA CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
y life is all grey, straight lines, and perforated edges. A comfortable contentedness eating me away like a cancer. I have forgotten all songs except for the clacking of keys and the ping of incoming calls. The days are fodder for my fear, and my fear is that this tight rope I walk across will break. The window is a perforated edge. It is a place where my cardboard cut out existence is the thinnest. Always in danger of splitting, allowing light to spill through the narrow expanse. I shut the blinds to ensure that vile light does not impede my vision of blue light screens. There is marigold brilliance on the other side of those blinds, but like them I wish not to see beyond the pain. I sit down more than I take a stand. I have not had much to stand for. I see blue and neutral more than I see any other hue. It is a blanket shielding me from that vile light, that cold marigold brilliance outside, suffocating me in comfort and convenience.
Jacaranda Memories
It screams. No, not scream, it shrieks. No, not shrieks, it wails. Its breath cannot keep up with the air it takes to make the wailing, shrieking scream. In its infancy it cannot form words, it is only sound and fury. The rudimentary impression of pain unseen. Then, it learns. It cannot make me understand with its sound, so it says “NO! NO! NO!” I cannot speak in the shadow of this terror, but if I could I would respond “NO! NO! NO!” It is angry now and learning quicker and quicker the sundering reality it has been birthed into. It is confused and does not know why it has been cursed with existence. It cannot accept that this is the life it has been gifted. There must be something more. There must be some way to change this awful fate, but no one is doing anything about it because there is nothing that can be done. If they cannot do anything then there must be something in the great beyond that can take this pain away. “WHY? NO! SOMEBODY HELP! OH GOD, PLEASE?”
I stand near the window. I have pushed away the
CREATIVE NONFICTION | GAGE IGNOTA CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
n
blinds. The darkness of my pupil fleas. I feel the burning of the marigold brilliance, the vile light! It shows me all I have been hiding from. All the things I have missed. The sky. The clouds. The birdsong and the moving of people. They are running to the corner. The street is filled with the sounds of sirens. A sickening song calling all to stare at it, with vigor. I remember, there was a sound before the scream, but my mind had not let me entertain the thought of thinking about it. It was the combustion of metal. The bending and wrenching of steel across steel. The pop of canvas bags that spray fine white dust, stinging the eyes if you keep them open long enough. The snapping of fabric straps against delicate skin. There are other sounds I remember, and I am glad the warden of my mind dragged those away into black cells of solitude to live and die alone.
For more information on author please visit our Contributors Page.
I remembered the sounds, and they gave me the hint of images like light through sheets of paper flickering. I cannot make them out. I know what these sounds are supposed to look like. I can feel the dust in my throat tasting like chemicals and liquid iron. WHERE ARE MY MEMORIES? WHY CAN I NOT SEE THEM? I tear down the blinds, ripping them from their hangings, stretching the tendons of my neck taught to try and see the sounds I remember now so well. I MUST SEE THE THINGS I CANNOT REMEMBER! WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER? But all I see in that vile light, that marigold brilliance, as the grey fades and the perforated images are split are the new sprouted leaves, and the purple petals of the jacaranda tree. The void responds. “I tried to save you from this.”
Gage Ignota
Kaleb Ward Page is a high schooler, writing for his AP English class and his fantastic teacher, Mrs. Cunningham. He is 16 and spends most of his time, when not writing, reading, playing and listening to music, and spending time with friends. Other than that, he is rambunctious, hopeful for the future and brimming with aspirations. He hopes to go into political science as an adult, which often can be found reflected in his writing themes.
Sharon Enck
Karol Nielson
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022 CREATIVE NONFICTIONCONTRIBUTORS
Kaleb Ward-Page
Sharon Enck has found her love of creative writing to be the perfect outlet for an unconventional upbringing surrounded by hippies and witches. A published writer, by day she works as a copywriter in education, but by night she hammers out short fiction, and reviews books for ASU's The Spellbinding Shelf book blog. Sharon's work and reading preferences demonstrate an obsession with character development, an appreciation for the human condition, and are dominated by a wicked sense of humor. With a mantra of "it's never too late" she recently graduated from ASU with a Bachelor's degree in English with Creative Writing, and will be starting her Master's degree in the Fall. Sharon's husband and daughter support (sometimes grudgingly) her bohemian sensibilities, wild endeavors, and the ever present threat of moving to Paris.
Karol Nielsen is the author of the memoirs Black Elephants (Bison Books, 2011) and Walking A&P (Mascot Books, 2018) and the chapbooks This Woman I Thought I’d Be (Finishing Line Press, 2012) and Vietnam Made Me Who I Am (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her first memoir was shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing in nonfiction in 2012. Excerpts were honored as notable essays in The Best American Essays in 2010 and 2005. Her full poetry collection was longlisted for the Terry J. Cox Poetry Award in 2021 and was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry in 2007. One poem was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize in 2021. Her work has appeared in Epiphany, Guernica, Lumina, North Dakota Quarterly, Permafrost, RiverSedge, and elsewhere. She teaches creative nonfiction and memoir writing with New York Writers Workshop.
Gage is a junior English major at ASU with a focus on ethnic representation in literature. He has played a role in the creation of the Literary Explorations club at ASU West, and is very involved in the writing community around ASU and Arizona in general. As a new voice in literature, he plans to push past the boundaries of societal stigma and bring underrepresented stories to light. With his own writing he explores the impacts of the modern world on everyday people. His focus is on displaying modern ways of thinking about age long questions dealing with morality, trauma, and mental illness. His future works are focused on bringing folklore, and storytelling from under represented cultures, and instituting them in new and unique ways to the current fantasy/fiction landscape. There is always a focus on the impacts of the real world, but woven into a genre that allows people to explore tough ideas that maybe difficult to approach when related to our world and the current events of it.
CHARLIE: Oh, right! Sorry! You don’t know. So hi, my name is Charlie and I’m here to guide you on your Unconscious Journey for today. Well, for the next five minutes, at least.
JAQUELINE: (looking around) What… what is happening.
By Amy
Characters:DellagiarinoJaqueline:
CHARLIE: Am I not being clear?
CHARLIE: (excited, she’s getting it) Yes!
(A small room with bare walls. The only thing inside of it is a desk and a chair. CHARLIE sits at the desk smiling down at JAQUELINE, who sits on the floor rubbing her head.)
Setting: Inside Jaqueline’s mind. There is a desk…that’s it.
JAQUELINE: Am I supposed to know what you’re saying?
JAQUELINE: Okay. (Beat.) For what?
Charlie: (M/F/Non Binary/Director’s choice*, 30s) A frazzled and optimistic person who has one job and is trying really hard to be good at it (*Pronouns will change accordingly.)
The Most Precious Thing
(F, 30s) A frazzled and broken person who has given up on whatever it is she wanted her life to be.
CHARLIE: (brandishing a pocket watch) Jaqueline! Welcome! Just in time!
CHARLIE: (consulting the watch) You have five minutes!
JAQUELINE: I’m unconscious?
JAQUELINE: How did I become unconscious?
CHARLIE: You sort of fell off of a ladder and hit your head when you were trying to put a mannequin torso up on the shelf above the register at The Unspooled Thread.
JAQUELINE: Ow.
SCRIPTS | AMY DELLAGIARINO CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
CHARLIE: Okay well that is very sad.
JAQUELINE: (it dawns on her) I’m unconscious at work.
JAQUELINE: Am I… am I dead? (In horror) Did I die there?
JAQUELINE: Hello? Is anybody there?
JAQUELINE: At what?
CHARLIE: No, that’s not sorry, I’m not explaining this right. It’s my first day.
CHARLIE: Exactly!
SCRIPTS | AMY DELLAGIARINO CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
JAQUELINE: (in horror) Oh no is this hell? Am I in hell? (a realization): I am. I’m in hell while also being at work I’m in a hell inside of another hell. I’m in a Russian doll of hells.
CHARLIE: I told you, we’re in your mind, not hell.
CHARLIE: Yes.
JAQUELINE: For the next five minutes I’m alive.
JAQUELINE: That is hell!
CHARLIE: (it is very obvious) Being your guide. For your Unconscious Journey.
CHARLIE: There’s nobody there, we’re in your mind. It’s just the two of us.
CHARLIE: There’s nobody there.
JAQUELINE: (overwhelmed) Oh my god. (JAQUELINE runs around the room, pounding on the walls, looking for a way out.)
JAQUELINE: (banging on the walls) Hello?
CHARLIE: No no! You’re very much alive! (Consults the watch again.) Well… very much alive for the next five minutes.
JAQUELINE: So I’m basically dead. I’ve basically died doing retail, is what you’re saying.
CHARLIE: If the worth of your life is quite… low then you still have some time to argue about why it’s a life worth living.
CHARLIE: Of life! And and death.
JAQUELINE: Get me out of here! How do I get out of here?
JAQUELINE: The crossroads of what?
CHARLIE: Yeah am I being unclear again? (To himself): I feel like I said that clearly…
CHARLIE: (consulting the watch again) Well… four minutes now, actually.
JAQUELINE: So I am dying.
JAQUELINE: What?!
JAQUELINE: The the desk?
CHARLIE: Because! Inside are the contents of what you think your life is worth. The higher the value, the more the guarantee you wake up to well, to life. The lower the value… That’s where the watch comes in.
JAQUELINE: And for that you get five minutes?
CHARLIE: You’ll be out in five minutes, that’s what I’ve been saying You’re kind of at the crossroads, which is where I come in.
SCRIPTS | AMY DELLAGIARINO CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
JAQUELINE: How can I be at the crossroads of life and death and yet not necessarily be dying?
JAQUELINE: What do you mean?
CHARLIE: Not necessarily!
CHARLIE: We just have to look in the desk, that’s all, okay? Easy. (JAQUELINE is taken aback. It’s as though she’s just noticed the desk for the first time, even though it’s the only thing in the room.)
JAQUELINE: Why?
JAQUELINE: But but the desk looks empty.
CHARLIE: That’s just on top, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Sometimes people compress their life’s value into one thing, like a really big diamond or something, and put it in one of the drawers. I wouldn’t worry about it, seriously. There’s probably something really great in here, like a faberge egg. (CHARLIE pulls open the drawer and stares down into it.)
JAQUELINE: Oh my god I’m gonna die at work.
JAQUELINE: What? What is it?
JAQUELINE: A quarter.
JAQUELINE: You think my life is worth one quarter
CHARLIE: I’ve just… never seen this before.
SCRIPTS | AMY DELLAGIARINO CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
CHARLIE: …Yes.
JAQUELINE: Yes, why is that so surprising? You’ve seen the evidence, my life is worth only one quarter, it’s hopeless.
CHARLIE: Don’t worry! I’m sure you won’t need it. It’s a “just in case” thing.
CHARLIE: Wait so you’re just… giving up? That’s it?
(CHARLIE reaches into the drawer and brings out…. one quarter. He places it on the desk with a “plink”.)
JAQUELINE: Oh my god. (JAQUELINE sinks down to the floor.)
CHARLIE: (consulting the watch) It’s okay you still have like three and a half minutes to convince yourself otherwise. (Beat.)
CHARLIE: Not necessarily!
CHARLIE: Oh. (Beat.) Oh wow.
JAQUELINE: Seen what?
CHARLIE: No! No you think your life is worth one quarter. (Beat.)
CHARLIE: So change your mind.
JAQUELINE: You act like it’s that simple.
CHARLIE: It is that simple!
JAQUELINE: How would you know? You’ve never done this before, you have no idea what you’re doing!
CHARLIE: What do you mean?
JAQUELINE: Oh who knows. (But she does. Beat.)
JAQUELINE: My dad would be so pissed at me right now. He was always telling me I could be whatever I wanted to be. Like he really believed it, you know?
CHARLIE: Why?
CHARLIE: Well that’s very hurtful. (Beat. Both JAQUELINE and CHARLIE sulk in silence for a moment. Slowly, JAQUELINE reaches out her hand for the quarter. Understanding, CHARLIE hands it to her. She stares at it in her palm, turning it over and over in her hands for a moment.)
JAQUELINE: I don’t know. It seemed… like a lot to believe I guess.
SCRIPTS | AMY DELLAGIARINO CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
JAQUELINE: It just seemed easier not to, honestly. It can be a lot of pressure all that belief.
JAQUELINE: My mom died when I was seven. She was hit by a car while running, isn’t that so dumb? That seems like the kind of stuff that only happens in movies or sappy TV dramas or something. She was always a very conscientious runner, too. She wore reflective clothing and looked both ways multiple times when crossing the street and all that junk. She only ever ran with one headphone in, so she could be on alert. It didn’t seem fair, you know? That someone could be that careful and have it still not matter. And I was their only child, so when mom died it was just me and dad. I was the only place he put his love. So much love. It felt like I was drowning in it. It felt like it was swallowing me up. Like I would die in love. And at the same time… he was so sad. Just the saddest, most broken man. So it was like… even though he was
CHARLIE: But you didn’t?
JAQUELINE: He says it’s the best gift he’s ever got. That cheap, janky, gross old rabbit. (In wonder): Rabbits aren’t even green. And he loves it. (She looks up at CHARLIE.)
JAQUELINE: You know what’s so stupid? This quarter it reminds me there was this little claw machine outside the grocery store we used to go to, filled with cheap toys and shit. Oh man I used to love it. I would beg my parents to let me play. And this one night it was maybe a year after my mom died this one night I snuck out of the house with my piggy bank to go find that machine to win a stupid toy for my dad. I was like convinced that would fix him. Man… that machine ate all my quarters. But I didn’t mind, because I had this one lucky one that I had painted with red nail polish, and I just knew that would be the one that…. (JAQUELINE sits up suddenly.)
pouring all of his love into me, I still wasn’t quite enough to save him. From all that sadness. (JAQUELINE looks at the quarter in her hand.)
CHARLIE: …Uh, what? What is it?
nn n |
JAQUELINE: That would be the one that would win. (JAQUELINE stares down at the quarter in her hand.)
JAQUELINE: This quarter. It’s the same quarter. With the red nail polish. (She holds it out to CHARLIE.) JAQUELINE: See?
CANYON VOICES SPRING 2022
CHARLIE: Uh… okay.
JAQUELINE: It’s the same one I used. My last quarter. The lucky one. The one that won that janky green plush rabbit. My dad still has that rabbit. It’s on his bookshelf. He says… (She begins to become emotional.)
JAQUELINE: He loves it, Charlie. (A realization) This isn’t just a quarter. This is the quarter. The quarter that brought my dad’s smile back. Oh my god. Charlie. This is the most precious thing. (They stare at each other for a beat. Charlie consults his watch.) CHARLIE: Time's up. (Blackout.)
For more information on author Amy Dellagiarino, please visit our Contributors Page.
MOM: Hi, Kevin? It ! s Mom. How was the dance? Well, good, I ! m glad you had a good time. So are you coming home now? I got that new Marvel movie, I thought we !d have a bowl of popcorn and watch it. . . Oh, an after prom party? (half heartedly) No, no, I ! m glad you ! re going. It ! s your senior year, it ! s what you should be doing. So, who "# house is it at?… OK, and when will you be heading there? OK, well, call me when you leave the dance… Well then text me when you leave, then text me again when you get there… Just do this for me, please? I just, I just need to know you ! re OK… And come say good night when you get home… Don!t worry about that… I’ll wake up when you open the door anyway… Thanks, hon. Have a good time.
ByStayMaripat
JAKE: Don't fuss, Mom, it's just me.
JAKE: (softly) Mom? Mom?
Characters:AllenMOM: a middle aged woman, mother to Jake, a band teacher
JAKE: (entering, carrying a bowl of popcorn) No, it's me. Hi Mom!
(JAKE begins to toss popcorn into the air and catch it in his mouth.)
(At rise, MOM is in her bathrobe, checks her watch, then makes a call.)
MOM: (rising and going toward him) Jake?! Oh Jake, it's so good to see you!
JAKE: Hope you don't mind I helped myself.
MOM: Of course not! Let me make you a sandwich.
SCRIPTS | MARIPAT ALLEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Setting: A bedroom, in semi darkness. There is a bed and a bedside stand with a softball on it.
(MOM hangs up, sits on her bed and holds the softball, gazing at it, then gets in bed. After tossing and turning a bit SHE falls asleep. JAKE enters.)
MOM: (waking) Kevin?
JAKE: Mom’s son, early twenties
JAKE: Aw, Kevin could have caught that!
MOM: I don!t know if I’ll ever be. My baby boy.
JAKE: How is Kevin, Mom?
MOM: Stanford. Clear across the country…
JAKE: Seriously, that's really something.
MOM: I'd forgotten what you'd called that. Those little things are starting to slip away, Jake.
MOM: Yeah!
(JAKE tosses a popcorn kernel at her mouth. MOM fails to $catch” it.)
MOM: I know but… I always loved the way you ate popcorn. Do that thing with your tongue.
SCRIPTS | MARIPAT ALLEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
MOM: (Sadly ) I'm really proud of him.
MOM: He would have thrown it better too!
JAKE: I !d like to hear it from you.
(JAKE slurps up the popcorn with his tongue. MOM watches, laughing, then seriously.)
JAKE: So where's he going to go to college?
JAKE: You ready for his graduation?
MOM: Don!t you know?
JAKE: That's what happens. Heads up!
JAKE: No shit?! Stanford?!
MOM: Watch your language.
JAKE: Lizard tongue?
JAKE: Oh, excuse me. Golly! He got into Stanford? Gee whillakers, that’s an accomplishment! By gum that boy's
MOM: All right Jacob, you've made your point.
MOM: He misses you.
JAKE: Ouch!
MOM: No. Lost in the 10th inning by one run.
JAKE: What ! s that?
JAKE: Let me see.
MOM: Oh nothing.
JAKE: You should be proud of yourself, Mom. You raised a good son.
JAKE: You don!t sound happy.
JAKE: That's a bad one though.
MOM: He's had worse heartbreaks than that.
SCRIPTS | MARIPAT ALLEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
(SHE picks up the softball and holds it. JAKE notices it.)
MOM: And now he! s going away too.
MOM: I guess it was in the attic. It must have gotten mixed up with some things I brought down.
JAKE: (JAKE takes the ball from MOM.) That ! s the ball Kevin and I used to play catch with! Our first Little League ball! I can tell from how the seam is split here. Where!d you find that?
JAKE: Yeah, right, Mom. How !d his team do this year?
MOM: They made it all the way to finals!
JAKE: Seriously. How'd he play?
MOM: I am for him.
(MOM waves this off.)
JAKE: No way! Did they win?
JAKE: Argh! What a heartbreak!
MOM: Actually he sat the bench most the game. Coach said his heart wasn't in the game.
JAKE: Maybe that's just with you.
MOM: Why wouldn't he talk to me? I'm his mother!
SCRIPTS | MARIPAT ALLEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
JAKE: Exactly.
JAKE: What did he tell you about the break up?
JAKE: Maybe he needs to work it out for himself.
JAKE: Friends?
MOM: I ! m the one who cares about him more than anyone else in this world! I ! m the one he should talk to, the one he should listen to!
JAKE: You've got to trust him, Mom.
MOM: Anything could happen.
JAKE: That ! s good! With Brittany?
JAKE: What?! He's an idiot!
MOM: I think it was her doing.
MOM: You know your brother, he doesn't say much.
MOM: Not much. He did go to prom…
MOM: (fondling the baseball) Soon he'll be going out in the world…
MOM: Yes.
JAKE: Man, he's got to get out there, start enjoying himself!
JAKE: (defensively) Have I stood in his way?
MOM: (accusingly) Well you haven't made that easy, Jake.
MOM: No, just friends. He and Brittany broke up.
MOM: His heart hasn't been in much of anything lately.
JAKE: Why?!
MOM: I gather he just hasn't been too much fun to be around.
JAKE: Straight or gay?
MOM: Straight I assume! Good lord!
MOM: Male.
MOM: About my age.
JAKE: Married or single?
JAKE: It's not like I'm water boarding you, Mom.
MOM: Well, it's beginning to feel that way! I don't know his marital status and sexual preference because unlike some people I have manners. I didn't ply him with a bunch of personal questions on our first meeting.
JAKE: How old?
MOM: No… Well, we got a new choir teacher.
JAKE: It wouldn’t hurt you to date again, Mom. It might help you when Kevin leaves. Just check it out.
SCRIPTS | MARIPAT ALLEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
MOM: (saluting) Well, yes Sir!
JAKE: So, how are your band students this year?
JAKE: How's school this year?
MOM: I love this! You come in here and interrogate
MOM: Fine.
JAKE: Male or female?
(Pause, THEY stare at each other)
JAKE: Anything new there?
JAKE: Well, check out his left hand.
MOM: I have no interest
JAKE: You've got to trust . . . life.
MOM: Trust life? Well, look what life's brought me so far.
MOM: And the musical opportunities! You would have started a rock band, no doubt.
MOM: She knew you. She saw it coming all along.
JAKE: Seriously?
MOM: Tell me.
MOM: My son the thief!
MOM: Oh, the usual. Some talented, some tone deaf. I've got a couple goof offs in the trombone section. You know trombonists!
MOM: You think Mary Jane Adams could keep a secret like that from me?
MOM: She just couldn't show you. We band teachers have to keep some semblance of order! I didn't envy her, trying to do that with a cut up like you in her class.
JAKE: Remember when I got accepted and they sent all those materials about classes?
MOM: There were about ten thousand listed. You wanted to take every one.
JAKE: Remember all the clubs?
JAKE: Fencing. I was going to try fencing. (JAKE pretends to wield a rapier.)
JAKE: Hah! Did I ever tell you about the prank I played on Mrs. Adams when I was at Central High?
JAKE: I was never a brainiac like Kevin.
MOM: I could never complain about your grades though. You got into State.
JAKE: I got a bunch of shredded paper I stole it from the office
SCRIPTS | MARIPAT ALLEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
JAKE: How do you know?
MOM: Sailing club, botany club
JAKE: and stuffed it in my trombone. Then I faked like I couldn’t get any sound out. So Mrs. Adams comes over to look, and when she's peering in the bell I blow and whoosh! It all flies in her face. She must have jumped ten feet!
MOM: If I could just hold your hand again!
MOM: Please, Jake! Please!
MOM: We shouldn't have turned off the ventilator.
MOM: Your hand was still warm!
JAKE: (softly) Kevin has warm hands, Mom.
JAKE: You think I wanted to?
JAKE: Mom
MOM: (after a pause, softly) Why'd you leave Jake?
JAKE: I wouldn't have wanted that, Mom.
MOM: Just once more, for just one minute!
JAKE: I was hoping Kevin would come to State too. We could have played together. I'd have played lead guitar
JAKE: It would have been great!
JAKE: I couldn't breathe!
MOM: People hang on, Jake!
MOM: It was still warm! I held your hand, and it was warm!
SCRIPTS | MARIPAT ALLEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
JAKE: My brain was flooded!
MOM: They hang on for their loved ones!
JAKE: The machine was pumping my blood!
MOM: It wasn't your time yet.
JAKE: I was gone by then, Mom.
JAKE: You can't, Mom.
MOM: But he'd have been lead vocalist. He has the better voice.
(MOM reaches to him. JAKE shakes his head no. MOM sobs awhile, then quiets.)
JAKE: Guess my body thought otherwise.
JAKE: I love you, Mom. Remember that.
JAKE: (exiting) Goodbye, Mom.
JAKE: He's just trying to be his own man.
MOM: (picking up the baseball again) He doesn't want to hold my hand. More likely to bat it away.
MOM: Jake! No!
MOM: (laughing through tears) Smart Alec!
SCRIPTS | MARIPAT ALLEN CANYON
JAKE: (leaving) I have to.
MOM: I can't! Anything could happen!
JAKE: Maybe. For a while. Mom, you've got to let go.
(MOM watches after him then seems to come to. She looks around, sits down on the bed and stares into space, then picks up the baseball, holds it, stares at it, then lies down.)
JAKE: You have to.
MOM: No! Stay!
JAKE: Tell him… tell him I love him.
MOM: Jake!
■ ■ ■
MOM: Does that mean he has to push his own mother away?
JAKE: Say hi to Kevin for me.
MOM: Please, just a few more minutes!
For more information on author Maripat Allen, please visit our Contributors Page.
MOM: Don't hurry off!
MOM: How? How do I let go of another son?
(JAKE makes a fist with one hand pries it open with his other hand.)
JAKE: I have to go, Mom.
MOM: Please Jake, don't go!
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
STEPHANY: The Mama Garden Vegetable Tavern, The Mama Garden Flower Store...
STEPHANY: The Mama Garden Herbal Smoothie Bar...
STEPHANY: The Mama Garden had a hundred different little gardens, and each one was magical...
IRA: There were two little boys, Jake and Evan, who lived in the Papa Castle…
STEPHANY: There were two little boys, Jake and Evan, who lived in the Mama Garden...
IRA: The Papa Castle Sushi Bar...
The Papa Castle and the Mama Garden
IRA: And the Papa Castle had a hundred different rooms, and each room was special...
By David A.
Setting: Bedtime in a boys’ bedroom. A few floating little boys’ room posters, maybe a bookcase of kid " s books, with an aquarium. Two rocking chairs on either side of two twin beds or perhaps just twin bed headboards.
Characters:CrespyStephanyGreen
Ira Worthing: early fifties, an English teacher, long divorced from Stephany
(IRA and STEPHANY, an older couple, sit in their respective rocking chairs on either side of two twin beds (or twin bed headboards) facing the audience. Lights are dim, it" s bedtime. Maybe STEPHANY holds a stuffed animal with her. IRA may occasionally play with soccer ball)
IRA: Once upon a time….
STEPHANY: A long time ago...
IRA: There was the Papa Castle Pizzeria, the Papa Castle Chinese Restaurant...
Worthing: early fifties, a math teacher, long divorced from Ira
IRA: And that bridge was how Jake and Evan could get across the River, and make it safely to the other side...
IRA: Mama and Papa did not get along, but they did have a long bridge between their homes...
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
IRA: And every night Papa sat up in the Papa Castle Observatory, at the tip top room of the Castle, watching for monsters, while little Jake and Evan were asleep. No bad monsters would ever sneak up on Jake and Evan while Papa was on duty. And the Papa Castle Observatory had a snack bar where you could have tasty treats.
STEPHANY: The Mama Garden Tropical Paradise, the Mama Garden Fresh Fruit Juice Bar...
IRA & STEPHANY: In the world!
IRA: It was the most wonderful...
STEPHANY: And Mama kept an eye out for ghosts and goblins from the top of her treehouse at the top of the biggest oak tree in her garden. And her tree house had all her bird friends who could keep an eye out for her. Mama could talk to them. They could see any evil ghost or goblin from their secret nests in the trees.
IRA: Happy...
IRA: The Papa Castle Ice Cream Parlor, The Papa Castle Sweet Shop, where you could get any candy in the world.
STEPHANY: Nourishing
IRA: Scrumptious
IRA: And some nights, Papa could see Mama in her treehouse; he could see her looking out for ghosts and goblins, while he was looking across the night sky for monsters.
STEPHANY: Place...
STEPHANY: A long bridge that extended over the wide, wide Missouri River.
STEPHANY: And Mama could see Papa peering out from his observatory, with the one unblinking eye of his telescope peering out into the night looking for monsters, while she made sure not a single ghost or goblin would hurt her sons.
STEPHANY: Delicious...
IRA: And it rumbled the shutters of the Papa Castle...
STEPHANY : And the bridge was made of tears and joy
IRA: But one night, one night there was a great wind from the north.
STEPHANY : And tangerines and strawberries
IRA: A football stadium would be really huge.
IRA: Facts are facts, Stephany, even if your crystals tell you differently.
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
STEPHANY: Really?
STEPHANY: And an awful Troll, the size of a Football stadium.
STEPHANY & IRA: And the carbon steel love of a Mama and a Papa who cared for their little boys so much.
STEPHANY: Leave my crystals out of it, Ira!
IRA: And even though Papa had had enough of Mama" s rigidity and vegetarianism, and enjoyed a tasty hamburger every now and then, he had built the bridge from the Papa Castle to the Mama Garden out of his love for Jake and Evan.
STEPHANY: And the wind chilled the trees and flowers of the Mama Garden…
STEPHANY: It was such a safe bridge that nothing could happen to them when they crossed, because Mama and Papa had made it out of love. And even though Mama had enough of Papa" s crap, she had made a bridge with Papa out of her love for Jake and Evan.
STEPHANY: I’m sorry, what?
IRA: Really. It wouldn’t be believable to Jake. I mean Evan might buy it, but not Jake.
IRA: And peanut butter, and chocolate.
STEPHANY: No, I meant, really you’re going to stop our story for this total bull crap.
IRA: Uh, try baseball stadium.
IRA: And bumps and getting back up again
IRA: And the first thing the Troll did was try to destroy the bridge between the Papa Castle and the Mama Garden.
STEPHANY: And the Troll just wanted revenge to calm its fury.
STEPHANY: And he did it while Jake and Evan were on the Bridge, trying to get to Mama’s Garden from Papa’s Castle.
IRA: And the Troll’s name was “Complaining Behind the Other Parent’s Back.”
IRA: It was a Troll who didn’t listen to reason, or his heart, or his best judgment, and wanted to go to court for child custody.
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
STEPHANY: Okay, then. You’ll have your turn in a second. Anyway, an awful Troll, the size of a small football stadium...
IRA: Came trolloping down the side of the Cliffs of the Missouri River. He was so mad, he wanted to tear down the Papa Castle...
STEPHANY: And the Troll’s name was “Blaming Everything That’s Wrong with Your Life on Ira.”
IRA: Fine. Fine. Football Stadium.
STEPHANY: And never thought about Jake and Evan. Ever.
IRA: And the Troll’s name was “Using Jake and Evan to Get Back at Stephany.”
IRA: And Mama and Papa had fed the Troll with their anger and bitterness, and their rage and ugliness...
IRA: And the bridge began to toss and turn, and Jake and Evan were really scared, and even though they were big boys, they started to cry, and they held onto the sides of the bridge.
STEPHANY: And the Troll’s name was “Saying Ugly Things About the Other Parent.”
IRA: The Troll was unfair, ugly, mean, self centered, and had stinky toes.
STEPHANY: And rip apart the Mama Garden...
STEPHANY: And it was a very, very big, mean Troll, who wanted nothing more than to totally destroy anything good that had grown up between Mama and Papa after the hell of their divorce.
STEPHANY: So Mama and Papa went back to the difficult work of fixing the bridge.
IRA: Unless Mama and Papa kept up the bridge maintenance.
IRA: “...and I don’t think, and I don’t care, and I’m very, very selfish, and I’ve forgotten how to love.”
STEPHANY: And Jake, who was older and wiser, told the Angry Troll, that he would feel really bad if he hurt Jake and Evan, because they were really loved by their Mama and Papa.
IRA: And the Angry Troll looked at the boys, who were scared and crying, and he looked at Mama and Papa and the Castle and Garden they had created with the bridge of love between them.
STEPHANY: And the Angry Troll said to them, “I am the Angry Troll that was sent by your Mama and Papa to eat you because I’m so hungry...”
IRA: And he asked Mama and Papa to think a little more about not “Saying Ugly Things About the Other Parent.”
IRA: And about not “Blaming Everything That’s Wrong with Your Life on Ira.”
IRA: And the Papa Castle was fun and filled with delicious treats.
STEPHANY: And even though the Mama garden was a safe and beautiful place.
IRA: Putting on their hard hats.
STEPHANY: Nothing would work, nothing would be safe from the Angry Troll.
IRA: And they thought about what the troll was saying to them.
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
STEPHANY: And the Angry Troll just kept twisting and turning and tearing at the Bridge between the Papa Castle and the Mama Garden that had been built out of love.
STEPHANY: And he said to Mama, and he said to Papa, that he was so angry because they couldn’t get along, and he didn’t really like tearing Bridges of Love apart.
STEPHANY: And Mama and Papa looked at each other.
IRA: And little Evan, who was younger than Jake, told the Angry Troll, that if the Angry Troll would stop tossing and twisting, he would give him a cookie.
STEPHANY: About not “Using Jake and Evan to Get Back at Stephany.”
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY VOICES | SPRING 2022
STEPHANY: See, you got in some good parts.
IRA: It was a reminder of the love they have for their boys, and though they were no longer a married Mama and Papa, they were still Jake and Evan’s Mama and Papa.
IRA: And a tasty slice of pizza from the Papa Castle.
IRA: And on both sides of the wide, wide Missouri River, the bottoms of an enormous rainbow rose up across and over the Bridge of Love from the Papa Castle to the Mama Garden.
STEPHANY: And the Mama Garden...
STEPHANY: And because Jake and Evan had been so brave.
STEPHANY: And that’s the end of the story...
n n n
on author David A. Crespy, Contributors Page.
STEPHANY: Taking out their welding torches.
IRA: And Mama and Papa seemed to have learned their lesson.
STEPHANY: And the winds died down, and the chill left the air.
IRA: It wasn’t bad, Steph, not at all. Do you think the boys will like it?
IRA: Swallowing their pride; working together.
IRA: And the Angry Troll.
STEPHANY: The Troll quietly made his way back to his cave of grumpiness with a delicious apple from Mama’s Garden...
STEPHANY: I don’t know.
STEPHANY: And that Rainbow was a reminder of what was important to Ira and Stephany.
IRA: Of the Papa Castle....
Characters:ByLovedJohnMabeyRiley
Benji: male; late teens
It’s all over TikTok now but I found it on YouTube first they took down the vid later. Had to because of the lawsuit. Was easy to find just scrolled past all those lame stunts like ‘Ice Bucket Challenge’ for some charity and that stupid ‘Planking Challenge’ on stairs and benches or whatever. But the ‘Dead Zone Challenge’ was different. Everyone knew what it was but no one wanted to talk about it. Even now. Especially
Amber: female; late teens
SCRIPTS | JOHN MABEY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Setting: a church confessional; an office; somewhere else
People always ask if I was scared. I was terrified for the first minute, anyway, then nothing. Almost peaceful. Almost. That’s what I told the cops.
Benjinow.
‘n me both said no, but she made us do it. Nothing ever scared Amber. And if it did, she never showed it. But I’m not gonna talk about her.
Benji and me got into this huge fight over the name of the whole thing. But we’re always fighting. I think that’s what you do when you’re in a serious relationship, when you’re in love. I said it’s called the ‘Dead Zone Challenge’ because you’re supposed to do it between Halloween and Thanksgiving, like a dead zone between scary stuff and thankful stuff. But he thinks it’s because you’re almost in a dead zone when you do it. You know, buried alive but still breathing.
(Three monologues reveal secrets about the same night. Riley is in a church confessional, kneeling or sitting on the edge of her chair. She’s on the edge of everything. Riley makes the sign of the cross.)
Benji, Amber, ‘n me got all the supplies at Home Depot. ‘Anyone purchasing shovels, plastic sheeting and rubber hoses will be denied purchase and reported to the
: female; late teens
RILEY: I’m not gonna talk about her.
I’m not gonna talk about her. (She stands and leaves without making the sign of the cross.)
Thennext. Amber.
But they’re wrong.
I wasn’t trying to block all the air just make it harder. To breathe. A little joke like she’d do to us. Like when she pretended to have a seizure during ‘ice bucket’ or pretended to fall during ‘planking.’ Just a scare. I needed her to be scared for once. That’s the only reason I did it. I swear.
They keep saying it’s not my fault - our families, the court. Even Twitter.
It was just some tiny pebbles I put inside the rubber hose. Didn’t even plan it not really. But when his back was turned, I just did it. Like my hands weren’t my own.
The hardest part was digging the hole. It’s only a foot down but so much work. It never looks that hard in movies. I went first had to ‘cus Benji looked so freaked. His hands always shake when he’s scared. After I climbed in the hole, she whispered, Are you sure, Riley? Like she knew I was freaked out ‘n wanted to hear me say it. Made me hate her even more.
SCRIPTS | JOHN MABEY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
authorities.’ So we also bought totally random crap, too, like dinner placemats and decorative pillows and fake flowers because it looks totally sus otherwise.
I wanna know what it was like I think she wants me to know. When ‘it’ happened. When she stopped breathing.
The rubber hose was easy to breathe through but tasted dark. Like something I shouldn’t ever taste. I closed my eyes when they started shoveling the dirt on top of me. The way it sounded clumping on the plastic was actually kinda nice. A sound like that scrape when you walk through snow. Muffled. Soft. Then quiet. Maybe I fell asleep. Next thing I know, it’s been 5 minutes and they’re pulling me up. Benji went
Can you forgive me for that too?
Maybe that’s why she visits me every night since. Like a dream when you’re awake. That swing in my front yard, I’ll hear the ropes twisting. A muffled, soft scrape. And I’ll see her out my bedroom window. Not the ‘her’ I remember, but how she looks now. Ropes twisting, over and over. Rotted. What’s my penance? What takes this all away? (Beat)
Got most of the pebbles out before the cops came. Guess I put in more than I thought. No matter. Riley blames herself, and the more she does, the more she hates Amber, too.
BENJI: This is really what you do - ‘talk’ about problems? And you went to school for this? Sorry but ‘tell me how you’re doing’ doesn’t work on me. Maybe those rejects who actually need therapy will spill their guts. Intelligent people don’t fall for that crap.
Whadya make in a year? No, don’t tell me. If it’s under six figures it’ll just make me sad for you. Like Riley sad all the time now. You’d think she’d be just a little bit happy grateful that we got her off with community service. You should see how everyone feels sorry for her online someone even made a fan account on Twitter. I still get all the hate tweets. You wanna know the secret?
The internet only loves Riley because she’s poor but doesn’t show it. We all hate poor people the most it’s true. The poor make everyone feel guilty and the rich make everyone feel jealous. Those are our only crimes.
What’re you writing down in that notebook? You know everything I say in here is private you’re like a priest without the fancy robes or the respect. I could literally say anything about what happened that night and you can’t do a thing.
SCRIPTS | JOHN MABEY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Grief’s tricky, but hate you can mold. Like snow. And I love the winter. (Beat)
Like, maybe I did see Riley gather some pebbles from the ground. And maybe for every pebble Riley put in that hose, I put in a few more when she wasn’t looking.
Weird that something so small can do so much damage, but I guess even an avalanche is just a bunch of tiny snowflakes.
But it’s not always a crime when someone dies accidents happen all the time. Amber was an accident, in more ways than one. And whatever hold she had on my girl.
(Benji paces in a counselor’s office. His motions are quick, tone arrogant.)
I know why I’m here. Gotta do what the court says, even after mommy pays for all the reno on a new courthouse. Hush hush, of course. It’s why I got you as my assigned therapist family looked into who’d be the easiest. That’s why you’re here.
Got nothin’ to say? That’s fine. I can go the entire session being quiet, too. (Benji fidgets, paces even more.)
There’s a swing in my backyard, pretty old. Broken. Never use it anymore. Scrapes against the tree trunk if you do. But I hear it every night. Scraping. That first night I looked outside to see who it was. Now I don’t even look anymore.
Friends say that all the time, even without words. Like the day we diched and just hung out in the park, staring at the sky while she stared at me. But this was different. It was big and complicated and I just looked at her. Not because I minded or judged or anything bad. But the quiet overflows with everything we don’t say.
AMBER: Love’s weird. Not like love itself but everything around it.
Not gonna say a thing? No ‘how does that make you feel?’ Or ‘tell me about your childhood?’ You should be paying me. I actually should get paid for this stuff maybe I’ll write a book. A tell all. Oh man that’d sell.
That’s how you get everyone to love you again.
I’d end it with the trial. And acquittal. Book stops there no one cares about the ‘aftermath’ or whatever. That stuff’s boring like Riley’s depression. Or my dreams. I mean, they gotta be dreams. Right? The dead don’t come back.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of, how she feels. But Riley was. Ashamed. I could tell by the way her hand shook. My Aunt’s the same she’s lived with her ‘roommate’ for a
SCRIPTS | JOHN MABEY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Didn’t realize time’s up. Is it ok if we can we just sit?
I don’t think I can leave yet. I can’t. Please don’t make me go home. (But, very slowly, he does.)
God, I just love you.
Even in daytime, I can’t walk past that tree. When I go home. (Beat)
I remember when Riley told me. Never forget it actually ruined my favorite jeans that day during poli sci class. We were paired for this group presentation with a total loser named Benji who just snuck outside to get high, so we did the whole thing ourselves. It was somewhere between the section on political theory and industrial relations when she blurted it out to me.
Stop staring at my hands. Always shake when I’m bored. (His hands continue shaking as he tries to conceal them. Beat)
(Amber is nowhere but everywhere. She’s neither sitting nor kneeling nor standing nor pacing. She’s something else entirely.)
Riley started crying and ran outside. I froze. Was she mad at me? Hate me? Mad that she still loved but now hated me? I guess it all looks the same sometimes. And in that moment, I noticed my pen had leaked all over my jeans but I still couldn’t movedeserved it. I’d give anything for another chance, if she’d only let me. And she won’t.
Right before her turn in the ground, I whispered, Are you sure, Riley? You know, if she loved me. But she only stared back - at me, through me. The way she started to look right after dating Benji.
I wonder if it’s been 5 minutes yet?
For more information on author John Mabey, please visit our Contributors Page.
And this time I’ll say, I love you too. Not in the way she wants to hear it - but in the only way that matters. And everything will be good again.
few decades and refuses to call her anything else even though they hold hands and kiss on the lips when it’s dark. So it’s good when you can just say that stuff out loud, you know? Like Riley did. Except when you’re the only one saying it.
So, right then, I knew what to do. Drastic? Yes. But she’s worth it. And so before I went in the ground, I stuffed some pebbles in the hose. Not a lot. Just enough where I can still breathe and she’ll blame him when I get out. Afterward she’ll be so relieved that I’m okay, dump his ass, and tell me again that she loves me.
Doesn’t help she started dating that total loser right after. She’s so unhappy and he makes her feel worse. I think that’s why she dates him. Never even laughs anymorelike she’s numb - so I’m always playing pranks and jokes and anything to make her chuckle. There’s this challenge I saw online that looked totally scary, thought maybe that’s the thing to make her ‘feel’ something again.
SCRIPTS | JOHN MABEY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Feels like I’ve been down in this pit forever. Like I’m dreaming.
I keep imagining myself on swings, climbing higher and higher toward that sky. Close to those who knew me. And loved.
nn n
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN
FROG: Hmm. Do you have an airplane?
(SCORPION stands on the bank of a fast moving river. She sighs.)
Frog: Hesitant to help Scorpion
SCORPION: How on Earth will I get across this water? Scorpions don’t know how to swim! (She screams as loud as she can.)
FROG: And those rocks you speak of are now hidden somewhere under all that H2O.
The Scorpion and the Frog
SCORPION: Yeah, so I’m trapped over here! How will I ever get back home?
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Meerkat: Offers help to Scorpion
FROG: Well, it’s not a stream anymore.
FROG: Hmm. Do you have a boat?
FROG: Hello, there! Was that you calling for help?
SCORPION: That’s the problem! That awful storm we just had has turned this stream into a raging river!
SCORPION: No, I don’t have a boat!
SCORPION: HELP ME, PLEASE! SOMEONE! I NEED HELP!
SCORPION: Yes, it was! You see, this used to be a paltry, little stream There were these great, big rocks that I could use to crawl across to the other side.
By Evan Characters:BaughfmanScorpion:Needs help to cross the river
(FROG appears, hopping into view on the opposite side of the river.)
FROG: You’re not my friend.
SCORPION: You’re a frog, aren’t you? You know how to swim.
FROG: How would I be able to help you?
SCORPION: And you could swim across this river and come get me. I’ll climb onto your back, and then you can carry me across to the other side!
FROG: I don’t want to be your boat.
SCORPION: Please, carry me over! It could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship!
FROG: I don’t want to be anyone’s boat.
FROG: And I’ve heard stories about you and that stinging tail of yours.
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
FROG: And…?
SCORPION: No, I can’t build a bridge! Are you just messing with me?
SCORPION: Why not?
FROG: I’m trying to offer you some solutions.
FROG: You want me to be your boat.
SCORPION: Yes, I want you to be my boat!
FROG: Exactly. It takes time to develop a friendship.
SCORPION: Is there any way that you could help me?
SCORPION: You wouldn’t even be a boat for a friend?
SCORPION: No, I don’t have an airplane!
FROG: But you’re a scorpion.
SCORPION: And…?
SCORPION: How do you know? We just met.
FROG: Hmm. Can you build a bridge?
FROG: Arachnids have honor? Because I’ve also heard terrifying tales about ticks and spiders…
SCORPION: I did! Arachnid’s honor!
SCORPION: I ate a little while ago.
SCORPION: Frog legs? Yuck! Who’d want to eat those?
FROG: I don’t know…In those stories, you’re a real monster. According to them, you don’t think with your head very often. You like to think with that stinger instead.
SCORPION: How ridiculous! My brain is located nowhere near my tail!
SCORPION: No, I haven’t been to France. I can’t even get across this river!
SCORPION: What kinds of stories?
SCORPION: I can’t speak for ticks or spiders. I can only speak for me. And I’m telling you, I’ve already eaten. Even if I were hungry, you’re too large for my belly.
FROG: But you could tear off my legs with your pincers and then che w my limbs down to their bones.
SCORPION: Right. I’ll sink underwater with you and drown. Why would I want to do that? Putting myself into danger? Ha! It makes no sense.
FROG: Hypothetically, if I’m your boat, and you sting me in the middle of this river, we both die.
FROG: Scary stories! You sting whoever gets near you, and you kill them with your venom!
SCORPION: Would I ask you for help if I found you to be dangerous? The only one you’re a danger to is a fly! So, will you please believe that I have no reason to sting you?
FROG: Never been to France, have you?
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
FROG: Are you hungry now?
FROG: Okay, so, if you’re not hungry, do you find me to be dangerous?
SCORPION: Only when I’m hungry. Or when I feel like I’m in danger.
FROG: Sure, you did.
SCORPION: Stay away, Meerkat! Don’t you come any closer!
SCORPION: I… I honestly don’t know! But I’m begging you, please!
MEERKAT: What kind of help do you need?
MEERKAT: I see. As it turns out, I need help crossing this river, too.
MEERKAT: Scorpion venom doesn’t really hurt us meerkats. To a meerkat, a scorpion’s sting feels like a puny pinch.
FROG: But scorpions are dangerous.
SCORPION: Oh, no! A meerkat!
SCORPION: It doesn’t matter now. Turn around, and go back the way you came!
(MEERKAT appears on SCORPION’S side of the river.)
FROG: I’m sorry, Scorpion. I just don’t know you. I don’t trust you. It’s too risky. I can’t be your boat.
SCORPION: Ugh! Fine!
MEERKAT: And what if I do?
MEERKAT: Hello, there! I thought I heard a scorpion calling for help! A scorpion’s scream is one of the best sounds in the world!
FROG: She needs help crossing this river.
SCORPION: Not help from you! I don’t trust you!
FROG: Interesting.
FROG: What’s wrong with a meerkat?
MEERKAT: We most certainly do.
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
MEERKAT: I thought you needed some help?
SCORPION: (Again, SCORPION screams as loud as she can.) HELP ME, PLEASE! SOMEONE! I NEED HELP!
SCORPION: Meerkats eat scorpions!
MEERKAT: Yes. I need to get back home, but I don’t know how on Earth I’ll get across this water. Meerkats don’t know how to swim.
SCORPION: Work together? With a meerkat? Nuh uh! No way!
MEERKAT: What kinds of stories?
SCORPION: Herpestids have honor? Because I’ve also heard terrifying tales about mongooses and civets…
MEERKAT: Precisely.
MEERKAT: I ate a little while ago.
SCORPION: But now it’s not a stream anymore.
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
SCORPION: Scary stories! You bite whoever gets near you, and you kill them with your fangs!
SCORPION: Sure, you did.
MEERKAT: I did! Herpestid’s honor!
SCORPION: You… You don’t?
FROG: Will you look at that? You two have something in common. What if there was a way that you could both work together to solve your problem?
SCORPION: You… You do?
SCORPION: Absolutely not!
MEERKAT: Work together? With a scorpion? I’m open to it. Okay.
MEERKAT: Why not?
SCORPION: I’ve heard stories about you and those razor sharp teeth of yours.
MEERKAT: Only when I’m hungry. Or when I feel like I’m in danger.
FROG: Are you hungry now?
MEERKAT: Nope. This used to be a paltry, little stream. There were these great, big rocks that I could use to crawl across to the other side.
FROG: You’re the perfect size for a boat.
SCORPION: I’m sorry, Meerkat. I just don’t know you. I don’t trust you. It’s too risky.
MEERKAT: Excuse you?
MEERKAT: Alright! I guess Frog’s got to teach me how to swim, how to float.
FROG: Well, if you want, I could teach you how to swim. Once you think you’ve got it down, Scorpion will climb onto your back, and then you can carry her across to this side of the river.
FROG: That’s too bad. Because I think he’d make a perfect boat.
SCORPION: Actually, that doesn’t sound like a terrible plan.
FROG: Because it isn’t.
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
SCORPION: (after some serious thinking…) Yes, I want you to be my boat.
MEERKAT: I can’t speak for mongooses or civets. I can only speak for me. And I’m telling you, I’ve already eaten.
MEERKAT: Ohhh. That sounds like I’d be doing all the work, though!
MEERKAT: Think of me as a boat instead of as your enemy.
MEERKAT: It’s better than nothing. What do you say, Scorpion? Do you want me to be your boat?
SCORPION: How can he be a boat? He said he can’t even swim!
SCORPION: Like a boat.
FROG: No, Scorpion will use her big pincers like paddles to steer you in the right direction.
SCORPION: I just don’t know if I can trust Meerkat.
FROG: Fantastic. Pay close attention. Once you’re in the water, you do this…You also do this…And some of this…
FROG: So, you like the idea, then?
MEERKAT: I’m confused. I’m a mammal, not a boat.
(FROG pantomimes how to swim for MEERKAT. MEERKAT copies FROG’S various movements.)
MEERKAT: How’s that? Am I doing it right?
SCORPION: It doesn’t look right…
FROG: There’s only one way to find out. Get in the water.
MEERKAT: Will do.
(MEERKAT carefully enters the shallows.)
FROG: Actually, you’ve got to do it more like this…And this…And like this, too…
SCORPION: Right. I’ll sink underwater with you and drown. Why would I want to do that?
SCORPION: I hope so.
MEERKAT: It’ll be okay. I need your pincer paddles, and you need me swimming. We can only do this together, yes?
SCORPION: That looks more like it.
MEERKAT: Stay calm, and don’t sting me. If I feel even a puny pinch, it could distract me, and we might capsize.
FROG: Climb aboard, Scorpion.
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
MEERKAT: Am I ready to be a boat?
FROG: Yes! Better! Good job, Meerkat!
FROG: Are you two ready?
MEERKAT: I think so.
(Again, FROG pantomimes how to swim for MEERKAT. Again, MEERKAT copies FROG’S various movements.)
(SCORPION is hesitant.)
SCORPION: Yes. (After more hesitation, she finally climbs onto MEERKAT’S back.)
MEERKAT: Yeah, this is easier than I…Uh, oh!
(He starts floundering in the water.)
MEERKAT: I… I’m going under!
SCORPION: You can’t! Go back! Go back the way we came!
MEERKAT: Ow! You’re pinching me!
SCORPION: Hey, what’re you doing?!
(MEERKAT takes them into deeper water, swimming the way FROG taught him to. SCORPION paddles along with her big pincers.)
(Struggling, MEERKAT submerges underwater, but not before clamping onto one of SCORPION’S pincers with his fangs.)
SCORPION: Meerkat! Be careful! I don’t know how to swim!
SCORPION: We’re doing it! We’re heading home!
FROG: Great start, you two!
MEERKAT: Here, we go!
MEERKAT: Uh, oh! This current…It’s…It’s too strong!
(With her tail, SCORPION stings MEERKAT multiple times.)
FROG: Whenever you want, come across.
MEERKAT: I…I can’t do this! I…I don’t know how to swim!
SCORPION: Go back! Back, back, BAAAAAAACK!
SCORPION: Uh, oh?
FROG: Come on, Meerkat! Be the boat!
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
MEERKAT: Ow! That’s…not…helping…
(MEERKAT and SCORPION both take deep, calming breaths.)
(In a panic, SCORPION grips onto MEERKAT with her pincers.)
SCORPION: HELP ME, PLEASE! SOMEONE! I NEED HELP!
SCRIPTS | EVAN BAUGHFMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
(Laughing maniacally, the amphibian leaves the scene. The river flows, undisturbed.)
(But no one comes to her aid. FROG watches as SCORPION is dragged under and swallowed up by water, too.)
FROG (DESERT TOAD): Those two learned the hard way, didn’t they? Have to be extra careful with who you trust. Not everyone’s so obviously dangerous like Scorpion with her stinger or Meerkat with his sharp fangs! Plenty of us like to hide our true nature until it’s finally time to have our fun!
For more information on author Evan Baughfman, please visit our Contributors Page.
■ ■ ■
FROG: You know, maybe I should’ve mentioned this before: I’m not actually a frog. I’m a desert toad. So, you see, I don’t really know how to swim, either.
(He chuckles.)
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022 SCRIPT CONTRIBUTORS
Albee); Richard Barr: The Playwrights' Producer, SIU Press, March 2013, (with a foreword and afterword by Edward Albee); Lanford Wilson: Selected Stories, Sketches, and Poetry (University of Missouri Press, 2017), with a foreword by Marshall Mason, and with his co editor, Lincoln Konkle, the third volume of New Perspectives on Edward Albee Studies, titled Edward Albee as Theatrical and Dramatic Innovator, Brill, 2019. He has received his second Fulbright Scholar Award to Spain and Greece for 2022 23, where compose a hexology of stage dramas, composed of two cycles of three plays, tentatively titled Mi Corazón Español Vive Ahora En Grecia: Six Plays of Sephardic Greece, which will focus on the experiences of a fictional Jewish family during six periods of Jewish culture in Spain and Greece, focusing on the cities of Seville, Toledo, Madrid, Thessaloniki and Veria.
David Crespy
Much of Evan Baughfman’s writing success has been as a playwright, his original plays finding homes in theaters worldwide. A number of his scripts are published through Heuer Publishing, YouthPLAYS, Next Stage Press, and Drama Notebook. A resident of Southern California, Evan is a theater company member with Force of Nature Productions. Evan has also been a playwriting member of PlayGround LA since the organization’s 2020 season. Additionally, Evan has found success writing horror fiction, his work found most recently in anthologies by No Bad Books Press, 4 Horsemen Publications, and Black Hare Press. Evan’s first short story collection, The Emaciated Man and Other Terrifying Tales from Poe Middle School, is published through Thurston Howl Publications. His spooky novella, Vanishing of the 7th Grade, will be released by D&T Publishing in June 2022.
Maripat Allen came to playwriting through acting and has been writing plays for about fourteen years. She has had one acts, ten minute plays, and a full length comedy produced in Michigan, Indiana, Massachusetts, New York, Maryland, England (London), and Australia. She won the first place Community Theatre Association of Michigan award for a full length drama, We Gather Together, in 2014, and in 2021 for her full length collection of shorts, Love Among Mortals. Maripat’s plays can be seen on the New Play Exchange at https://newplayexchange.org/users/51017/maripat allen.
David Crespy founded MU's Writing for Performance program, serves its Co Director, and received the 2011 Medallion from the Kennedy Center American College Theatre Festival (KCACTF). He is the founding Artistic Director of MU.'s Missouri Playwrights Workshop, the Mizzou New Play Series, and Summer Rep's Comedies in Concert Series. He received a Fulbright Fellowship to Greece in 2018 to write a trilogy of plays about the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki, Madre de Israel: Three Plays of Jewish Salonica, which is part of his family’s Greek and Spanish heritage in Europe. Dr. Crespy worked closely with Edward Albee as a scholar for over twenty years, and his books include The Off Off Broadway Explosion, Watson Guptill, 2003 (with a foreword by Edward
Evan Baughfman
Maripat Allen
and “Crazy Rich Asians.” Her short plays have garnered the Best Comedy award in various festivals. She has participated in developmental readings of several of her plays with noted LA theatre companies such as Sacred Fools, Theatre of Note, Rogue Machine, and The Blank Theatre Company, and was a 2020 participant of Moving Arts Theatre's MADLab Play Development Series. She was a participant of the 2021 Kennedy Center Summer Playwrights Intensive as well as the resident playwright with Dark Horse Theatre Company in Virginia and a founding member of Walking Shadow Readers Theatre which focuses on new playwrights and new play development. She earned her BFA from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts.
John Mabey (he/they) is a writer and storyteller whose plays have been produced on stage in 7 countries and throughout the United States. John lived internationally for a decade in London and Amsterdam before residing in Atlanta and continues to work with theatre companies around the globe both virtually and in person. They are also a certified Mental Health Counselor and published author on the topics of sexual identity and spirituality in academic books (Routledge: SEXUAL ORIENTATION DISCRIMINATION, ADVANCES IN FEMINIST ECONOMICS) and journals (The Professional Counselor: COUNSELING OLDER ADULTS IN LGBT COMMUNITIES).
Amy Dellagiarino
Recent awards for full length plays include the 2021 Panowski Playwriting Award and the 2022 Getchell New Play Award. In 2021 and 2022, they also had plays published in Smith & Kraus Best 10 Minute Plays, Best Women’s Monologues, and Best Men’s Monologues. When not writing, they enjoy teaching and performing improvised comedy and true storytelling around the world.
Amy Dellagiarino is a playwright and screenwriter whose work has been produced across the country. Her play “From the Perspective of a Canoe” won the Playwriting Script Competition at the 2021 Austin Film Festival. Her play "The Value of Moscow" was nominated for a 2019 Stage Raw Award for Best Playwriting and was published through Stage Rights. Her comedy feature film "Freelancers Anonymous" won the 2018 NCGLFF Audience Award for Best Women’s Feature, was a recipient of the Frameline Completion Fund Award, and earned the Reframe Stamp for gender balanced media along with such films as "The Favourite", "Can You Ever Forgive Me",
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
SCRIPT CONTRIBUTORS
John Mabey
ARTWORK | POLINA REED CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
September Glam | digital artwork
Polina Reed
ARTWORK | POLIINA REED CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
#NoWarInUkraine digital artwork
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ARTWORK | POLIINA REED CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Nevermind | digital artwork
Until Spring | digital artwork
ARTWORK | POLIINA REED
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
A Dream Came True | digital artwork
ARTWORK | POLIINA REED CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
All White | digital artwork
Pink Tuesday | digital artwork
ARTWORK | POLINA REED CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
My passion is art and feelings emphasized by colors and the composition. I won't say that I am an expert in developing my personal ideas and feelings in pictures, but that is what my main art goal is. I've been drawing since childhood, but in 2015 I discovered computer graphics and my life has never been more entertaining since I began to draw almost every day. I am from Ukraine, currently living in Oslo, Norway. To go away from reality, I turn on lo fi hiphop, make myself a coffee with marshmallows, open Pinterest to look for new amazing ideas and artists and boost myself with inspiration before working on my art projects. If I suddenly run out of ideas, I look for the references of human bodies for examples and make studies on them to make sure I learn something everyday. I would love to go to university to broaden my abilities in graphic design, or study animation. But even if life doesn't get me there, I know that you can actually be self taught and still reach amazing heights. You can find more of my work on Instagram @polinareedart
ARTWORK | JACOB WAYNE BRYNER
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Jacob Wayne Bryner
BEHOLDER | painting
Moirai | painting
ARTWORK | JACOB WAYNE BRYNER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
ARTWORK | JACOB WAYNE BRYNER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Creatures de la Nuit | painting
ARTWORK | JACOB WAYNE BRYNER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Padre Mu | painting
Significant Otter Space | painting
Welcome to the Jazz Forest | painting
ARTWORK | JACOB WAYNE BRYNER
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Where Two and Two Always Makes a Five | painting
Jacob was raised in Logan, Utah. He attended Utah State University. After college, he moved to Hangzhou, China, to teach English and Art. He has been an artist his whole life and has embraced painting as his chosen medium since 2004. He has been influenced by many styles. He likes to call his “Social Pop Surrealism." He came to this description after studying one of his favorite artists, Irving Norman. His art, which is described as “Social Surrealism,” is a style that was born out of American Expressionism and meant as a commentary on social and political issues of the day. Another art form that Jacob is very fond of is stand up comedy and satire. “If you take my love of Irving Norman, and great comedians such as Richard Pryor and George Carlin, mix that all
To Guard as the Apple of Eye | painting
ARTWORK | JACOB WAYNE BRYNER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
up with my love of color and color theory, and I believe you end up at “Social Pop Surrealism.” That being said, there are times he simply wants to paint a colorful dog or imaginary creature. You can view more of his artwork at https://www.deviantart.com/rayjmaraca/gallery
ART | MICHAEL CHESSER
Michael ChesserMorning
Sundance, 1996 | photography
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Sonoran Sunset, 2006 | oil
Michael Chesser MD, FACP, Colonel USAF, MC (retired) is an Academic Hospitalist at the Veterans Hospital in Phoenix and Clinical Assistant Professor of Internal Medicine at the University of Arizona College of Medicine Phoenix. His primary day to day duties involve teaching medical students and internal medicine residents while caring for hospitalized veterans with the full spectrum of adult illnesses. Dr. Chesser recently retired from the United States Air Force after more than 25 years of combined active duty and reserve service. He deployed as a Critical Care Air Transport Physician in Iraq 2008 09. Dr. Chesser completed his Undergraduate and Medical School at Texas A&M university and his Internal Medicine Residency at the Ochsner Foundation in New Orleans before coming to the Phoenix area where he has been since 1995. He has been married to his wife Johnnie for almost 28 years and they have recently relocated to San Tan Valley where they have a small horse property hosting a multitude of rescued animals. Their youngest child, Matthew Chesser, is an undergraduate at ASU. Photography and painting are two of the hobbies that have served to help him maintain sanity and balance with the over abundant stressors of his hectic and demanding professional life.
ART | MICHAEL CHESSER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Let Me Live | oil CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
ART | PHYLLIS BENSON
Phyllis Benson
ART | PHYLLIS BENSON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Columbia| oil
Let’s Dance| oil
Phyllis Benson began her love of art when she was in her early thirties. As a speech and language pathologist, she needed a creative outlet, and painting became one of her passions. Her precision of transferring an image became immediately apparent when people would think her paintings were actual photos, or images, such as shelves and plates on the wall, or a beloved dog. Phyllis has viewed her art as a skill to share with others by painting them, their animals, or something they treasure onto canvas. Other paintings have focused on interesting scenery, visions with humor, or people of different cultures. When she retired in 2015, she decided to devote more of her time to do oil paintings by commission. Phyllis feels she can paint just about anything if the image is clear and the subject has substance. To contact her, please email her at phylmein15@gmail.com.
ART | ASHLEY RESURRECCION Ashley Resurreccion
Lovers | digital art
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
ART | ASHLEY RESURRECCION
Lifted | digital art
ART | ASHLEY RESURRECCION CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Star | digital art
meditation center that honors culturally appropriate Asian and Asian American inspired artmaking, spiritual and mindful practices, and yoga techniques. Follow her https://www.instagram.com/thehealingmaat/
Ashley Resurreccion is a Filipina Asian American, certified 200 Hour Yoga Teacher, and Returned United States Peace Corps Volunteer (Thailand 130) who graduated from California State University, Northridge with a BA in Psychology and minors in Sociology, Child Development, and Art. Their previous work promoted mental wellness and educational sustainability through facilitations with The International Child Advocacy Network, Paintbrush Diplomacy, Darien Book Aid, and Self Discovery Through Art. Art therapy is their instrument for healing the weights of our cultural somatics and empowering the future lea yoga teacher, and freelance zinester to support Asian, Asian-American, and LGBTQIA2S+ populations. Studying to earn a Master of Arts in Art Therapy with doctors of our field. It is used in roles as an essential direct support professional, art and a Specialization in Counseling at Seton Hill University, they hope to someday construct their own creative
Strength | digital art
Allison HaennyCANYON
VOICES | SPRING 2022
Allison is a writer and multimedia artist from Phoenix, Arizona, and the previous Executive Producer of the variety show, Tempe Late Night. She now spends her time staring out the window pondering life and throwing extravagant dinner parties. She soon hopes to master the domestic arts.
ARTWORK | ALLISON HAENNY
thought i was losing my mind, was relieved to discover it was never there in the first place | mixed media
Melancholy in Red | digital art
ARTWORK | LINDSEY DIETHELM Lindsey DiethelmCANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
ARTWORK | LINDSEY DIETHELM CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Red Dress | digital art
ARTWORK | LINDSEY DIETHELM CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
The Red Petal | photography
Lindsey Diethelm has always been a visual creative. Vivid images, ideas, and concepts inspire her to create something out of her head and onto paper or anything else she can find. Diethelm has explored different mediums, including painting, graphic design, sketching, and digital art, and finds inspiration in colors and shapes in nature. The concept explored in these pieces is, obviously, red. But Diethelm wanted to dive into the emotions that the red provokes within herself. To many, the color red is associated with violence or passion. To Diethelm, however, the color red seems angry, but there is a deep sense of melancholy to it. In the piece titled Red Demon, the piece shows a dark ambiance and an inexplicable sense of sorrow, further showing the melancholy in red. Follow her on Instagram @ lind_artist and @lind_artistdesign
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
ARTWORK | BLAKE KNOX
Blake Knox
In addition to his photography, Blake creates sounds, watches movies, and has an indubitable taste for music. He is a maker of sound and sight. Follow him on Instagram @blakerrry
untitled | photography
AnnMarie
Purple Haze | spray can art
ARTWORK | ANNMARIE PERRY
CANYONPerry VOICES | SPRING 2022
ARTWORK | ANNMARIE PERRY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Waterfall | spray can art
Lovers
Annmarie Perry, also known as Spray Can Ann or Rattle Can, began producing spray can art ten years ago. As a self taught artist, Ann continues to expand her talents to new adventures including chalk art, airbrushing, oil and acrylic painting. Her work has been featured on Glendale 8, Channel 3, VFW, and won an award on YouTube in 2017, coming in 10th place out of all the spray paint artists. While beginning her career as a hobby, her passion for art quickly grew to inspire company “Out of My Mind.” Traveling the southwest, her company sells and exhibits her spray paint art at county fairs, festivals and local charity events. She can be found by on Instragram @outofmymind09
ARTWORK | ANNMARIE PERRY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Moon Phases | spray can art
ARTWORK | AMAR CAMISI
Amar Camisi
Just Us| digital art
Amar Camisi is a multifaceted artist from Glendale, Arizona. He has spent countless years perfecting his craft in the arts, learning from the most sophisticated beings the planet has to offer. My interests are in film, photography, music production, visual art/design, and perfor mance. Outside of art, I enjoy traveling, talking to people, and playing sports. I love collaborating with fellow artists and learning new things. I am also an ASU alumnus who graduated during the pandemic! Never got to officially “walk,” but at least I had a cool PowerPoint slide to end my journey! Follow him on Instagram @Slynematic
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
ART | DOODLER SKELLY
Tower of Flames | digital artwork
CANYON VOICES SPRING 2022
Doodler Skelly
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Monster Castle| digital artwork
ART | DOODLER SKELLY
Fallen Cathedral | Digital artwork
Tower of Flames | digital artwork
Visiting the Surface| digital artwork
ART | DOODLER SKELLY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
You can find him on Instagram @doodleskelly
ART | DOODLER SKELLY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Doodler Skelly is an anonymous, self taught, teen age artist from Finland. He mostly draws all kinds of weird creatures and fantasy environments. He considers himself a rather new artist, as he’s taken art more seriously for only 2 years now. His medium of art is a weird one. He makes all of his line arts traditionally, only colors are digital. What he tells people everywhere is just simply: “I draw stuff.”
Ships of Old | digital art
Don’t Meow Over Spilt Milk pencil
ConwayCANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
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ARTWORK | KASEY CONWAY
Kasey
Innocence | pencil
Kasey Conway is a 23-year-old charcoal/pencil and pen and ink artist based in Houston, Texas. Although she occasionally experiments with acrylic and watercolor paints, she mainly focuses on the traditional medium of pencil and charcoal. Growing up, she heavily relied on art as an escape from the troubles of reality and to allow her imagination to take control. Although very self critical about how she viewed both herself and her early works, her determination to strive for improvement never faltered thanks to her very supportive mother, father, and brother. She is currently a junior at Sam Houston State University pursuing her Bachelor of Fine Arts in 2D Studio Art as well as a teaching certificate. She is an aspiring art educator and envisions her success as inspiring young artists to follow their passions and create. She plans to return to Sam Houston for her Master of Fine Arts after Japanese pop culture. She has always been drawn to the art of tattoos and hopes to improve her art so that she may create custom designs for individuals. You can view more of her art on Instagram @kaseyconway.art.kc.
ARTWORK | KASEY CONWAY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Silas
Nickel | mixed media
ARTWORK | SILAS PLUM
Plum
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Phrenologist’s Lament | mixed media
ARTWORK | SILAS PLUM
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
ARTWORK | SILAS PLUM
Mr. Jones | mixed media
Silas Plum challenges the idea of objective vs subjective value. He believes strongly in the tired old maxim that the true value of an object is more than the sum of its parts, that the gut is a truth teller, and that the Aristotelian notion of learning by doing is the best teacher around. Judge his worth at silasplum.com.
Self Portrait
ARTWORK | SILAS PLUM CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
ARTWORK | OLIVIA MALONE Olivia MaloneCANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022 untitled | photography
ARTWORK | OLIVIA MALONE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Olivia Malone is a self taught photographer from Arizona. She enjoys photographing landscapes and wildlife, and also dabbled in senior and family shoots. She enjoys traveling and learning about various cultures, and photojournalism is a great way to track and commemorate that. Her instagram is @oem.photography
untitled | photography
Cassell Archinuk
Title| photography
ART | Cassell Archinuk CANYON VOICES SPRING 2022
ART | Cassell Archinuk CANYON VOICES SPRING 2022
Title| photography
Title| photography
Title| photography
Title| photography
ART | Cassell Archinuk CANYON VOICES SPRING 2022
Title| photography
Instagram @cassyarchphotography | Portrait Website Printwww.Cassyarchphotography.comwebsitewww.thepaintedlens.com | Facebook cassyarchphotography
My name is Cassell Archinuk of Cassy Arch Photography and I am a passionate Photographer who loves to capture landscapes, nature and people with gorgeous scenic backgrounds. I love nature and the outdoors as it provides a sense of peace, balance and beauty and also love to capture the feeling and emotion of the love between two people, family joy, and many other portrait scenarios. I specialize in natural light photography and use that to bring the “wow” factor into a photo. I feel like that is one thing that sets me apart because I understand the surrounding landscapes and how to best use this natural light to accentuate the photos In the best possible way. Arizona and the Southwest are a favorite to photograph with so much diversity it has to offer , but I have loved capturing the mountains and beaches as well. From weddings, elopements and engagements, you can’t go wrong with such a variety of backgrounds to choose from.
ARTcarchinuk@gmail.com| Cassell Archinuk CANYON VOICES SPRING 2022
Pat Kennally
Apples | painting
ARTWORK | PAT KENNALLY
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
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Man 1 painting
Man 3
Man 2 painting
ARTWORK | PAT KENNALLY
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
| painting
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ARTWORK | PAT KENNALLY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Boat | painting
Ocean Cliff | painting
ARTWORK | PAT KENNALLY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Pat(sy) Gravely Kennally grew up in the hills and hollers of Transylvania County, North Carolina in a tiny town called Brevard. It's now a mecca for budding artists. But she started painting in her 40s while in Salt Lake City thousands of miles away and two kids later. However, many of her pieces are from where she grew up as a child. Others were inspired by the nature around her or images she’s seen. She would lose herself for hours while painting, sometimes forgetting to eat! Now 80 years old, arthritis has taken a toll, not just on her hands, but also on her confidence to keep doing what she loves. Hoping this publication can help light that spark once more!
Trimming Your Hair Suffices for Now
POETRY | RUTH WEINSTEIN CANYON VOICES |SPRING 2022
By Ruth Weinstein
All of us happy, grateful, no contention. So high after they left, from our accomplishment and the older boy’s success at learning to ride your mountain bike no small feat on our dirt roads after growing up two miles high in the narrow, twisting streets of the city of La Paz. We hugged and laughed and soon fell asleep, too tired to lie down in passion. Yesterday at brunch with friends, our host commented on how good your hair looked,
and I was gleeful that I had not butchered you. Today, I sat you down on the stool on the deck, capturing and clipping the few remaining renegade hairs. I tenderly shaved the back of your neck and noticed how handsome you look, old man. Now you bake pita breads at the stove while I sew and write. I could swear an oath to end delay, but I know how easily life comes between yearning masses. Perhaps, tonight we will mine our tired bodies for the flintstone that sparks desire and make love before sleep, holding each other long, then slipping into dreams.
It has been too long since we’ve made love. At eighty and seventy five we are active in a plethora of other ways but too tired after each day’s work and chosen creative endeavors to couple for that remembered pleasure.
The longing, though, has been a presence in our bed the weeks prior to and now post Thanksgiving, weightier than two ghost cats nestled in the crooks of our knees. Despite the patterns of our habitual bickering, we hosted a beautiful feast the weekend before the holiday of harvest and family: my nephew, his wife, and her two Bolivian-raised sons. All the food I cooked and baked and much that we grew, so delicious.
Laura is no longer your Laura. Those days are passed. The togetherness that brought the rest of us to the very edge of jealousy is no Withoutmore.the comparison, we’re more content in our own flawed relationships. Now we see you as one person And Laura is one too. We don’t automatically invoke the term, the two of you.
Even textbook combinations can diverge, break apart. We’ve seen it with our own eyes. We try not to treat either of you differently but it isn’t easy. Ask a question and we still expect two voices, one answer. But the responses are so solitary. We have to ask the question separately.
By John Grey
The End of the Perfect Relationship
POETRY | JOHN GREY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Even time has a different way of passing. We no longer think in blocks of it, like the twenty years you were a couple. Now we see you and Laura in terms of days apart.
Perhaps, you’ll find another. So might Laura. But there aren’t enough hours of love left to come anywhere near two decades. Meanwhile, the rest of us work with what we have. It’s been better since perfection took the fall.
He was the pivot around which my life turned for so many years. I didn’t crave freedom.
By Christa King
POETRY | ACE BOGGESS | CHRISTA KING CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
God, we mutter, repair my broken bones, at least until the doctor comes with pins.
The Man with the Answers
One smoldering look from him and I didn’t fall from grace, I leapt into the dark with him.
So few people know what they are capable of. I was capable of leaving.
By Ace Boggess
Healing Is Possible
Knife lines leave reminders, white & grinning. Watching the Towers fall never strays. Tear out your eyes to rob grief of a beachhead. What is your wound? What is anyone’s? Bee stings bother some & murder others. Frostbite snags each toe it can. Prepare yourself. Wear the warmest socks. Keep epinephrine close in case. Shutter your eyes & see the Towers as if they didn’t land on you, as if they did.
He was the man with the answers. I believed any and every outlandish thing he said.
One Tuesday, I lifted my head and noticed an unexpected discontent. I was tired of the rotation.
Not until the winds comes, the warm winds of Eternity, will dust be blown away, leaving the unseen soul alive, to walk and breathe and dance and love, bathed forever in the dustless Light.
Quintessence Of Dust
[With a nod to the Bard]
But how, you ask, and rightly so, can dust fall asleep, dreaming of places unknown and lovers unmet how can dust imagine whole worlds and love with one heart for 60 winters and 60 summers?
POETRY | NOLO SEGUNDO CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
When the music is played and dust dances with dust, and dust laughs with dust, and soon dust loves dust, can dust ever understand the paradox of its own being, from dust to dust?
By Nolo Segundo
We are the moving dust, we are the breathing dust, we are the seeing dust, we are the living dust.
And do the notes that stir life come also from dust, just a little dust, and nothing more?
POETRY | ARIELLE MOOSMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
My feet lay reflected with mid August clouds in cold, white tile; air wafting in through open windows, hurrying the clouds along. We dragged behind with yawns, too sittingcomfortable,towardsthe back of the window lit classroom.
A solid, greasy boy sat on my left with a strong, tired girl. They whispered between themselves; suddenly, the boy turned, smirking, sure of himself, he told me: she wanted to know something. My back tingled with nervous sparks, tiny lightning storms, up my spine and into my cheeks.
The Marine Process
By Arielle Moosman
This something fell foreign on my ears. “Lesbian” chased my nervous “no” in circles.
I choked on time capsules and paper: pariah in a crown, too proud but too bothered, hands slapping together, smashing butterflies, side eyes with a disgusted but fascinated face-scrunch to matchyou always did wear coordinated underwear.
I wrote my mother a note asking what it all meant. She told me; my father yelled. I wanted to press my hand, hard, into the windowpane, bust through it like I’d been told not to. Watch as the crystalline surface shattered, cutting through all of my faces, painting the dirt outside in warm, sticky red.
POETRY | ARIELLE MOOSMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Thursday night, I will sit on the edge of the tub and scrub my feet. Empty my pockets and decorate my windowsill, go to the aquarium, look into jellyfishes’ bodies, visit sharks and turtles, gaze at a kaleidoscope of sea cucumbers, lie down on the floor with the flounder. Stare up at the ceiling, fish and eels swimming above my head, all encased in water and glass, wrapping me in forgiving colors, warmth, and light.
The kelp melted, leaving goo under my toenails, I collected the shells, put them in my pocket for safekeeping. The fish flopped around; I gave them to my neighbor to feed her cat.
The next six years were water, filled with bubbles; but air must rise and pop, so I was left with an ocean. Worry waves mixed with confusion kelp, shame shells, and fear fish breaking over realization rocks till I washed up on the beach.
In late mid November, I jaywalked for the first time, scared and laughing, inhaling secondhand smoke: a gift from people I didn't really know but looked up to. Big, bright; fine with me being uncomfortable, they forced open pages I refused to look at. I was afraid, the next time I saw her, the one who had told me the flippant, honest truth, with such kindness.
I regarded her as one does a teacher in public; not quite sure where to look.
Your words fill my head and twist around my skin like a snake, my today is filled with lake water that blots out my tomorrow.
Garden with Snake
This evening, your heart crawled inside and is tearing me apart. I can't seem to get anything right and my hands feel too big because the light of day has gone. Far away over the sea and hidden in a hill, my mind tries to recall the trill of a bird, but my chest is too tight and your words pull me further into a dark night. I allow my strength to fail me.
By Arielle Moosman
A tiny bird knows the story of how the sun rises, and he is just beginning to see that it does.
I cannot define friend from foe I feel like a gardener looking at the inside of his eyes: they hold perfectly hoed rows that manifest only for him. He tells his woes to a robin and cries when the robin replies; he cannot understand.
This afternoon when the sun fell into the one o'clock sky, a spell of rain gathered in the east, waiting to sing me to sleep. I woke the next morning to the smell of wet desert and smiled when my shoes met the sidewalk with a laugh. My world was beautiful and I felt myself growing taller each breath I took was a mouthful of tangerine dipped in dancing.
POETRY | ARIELLE MOOSMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
I wake from a dream filled sleep; the cheerful light from the curtained windows draws me from my bed.
I stretch and suddenly my body is tight and loose in all the right places; midnight lingers and mixes with the morning sun. I put on a peach pink dressing gown, walk to the kitchen, heat the kettle, and pour milk and sugar into my tea.
The water settles back into its peaks and dips. The snake finds its home amongst the flower petals. My hands find themselves busy as they put up strong shelves to hold baskets of warm yarn; happy memories perform acrobatics on the ceiling fan, trying their best to teach the forlorn ones to do the same.
We will be judged by the judgments we make, prepared to tear into the next thing worse than what we are thinking. How do I love the person who loves what I hate, hates what I love? How do I share my caring, host you when you don't want to eat?
We are so bountiful in our brokenness that it takes a village to raise a child; brokenness breeds beauty: a place to consider the future. A fully alive on borrowed time, painfully real and free science experiment pulled into three neat bundles not so neat when you look underneath.
I create myself by the sweet feeling of bubbles on my being. Sparkling pride thrust from my lips Bursting with birds, flowers, vines all the things that make it beautiful and divine. taste redeemed from the past.
jungle with child
Curled up in a place with the pain of seeing, we take care of things, going around them with our words to say the things we cannot say. Mold clay in our mouths, soft, we are tempted by reckless judgments.
By Arielle Moosman
I judge myself by the bitter taste of medicine on my tongue; burning shame at the back of my throat. No room for birds, flowers, vines all the things that make it beautiful and divine stripped away.
We, the creators, must answer to the future. All who create trust and taste out of three names, you are responsible for your responses, no matter what the cost.
POETRY | ARIELLE MOOSMAN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
My intentions are good; the rest you will have to find out on your own; blundering through dark rooms till you find the right balance: holding hands out in front, tongue clicking like a bat.
How much I care and love you and am in awe of you. And yes,
To keep the farts and the confusion at bay.
My word generator has failed me again. I cannot think of a witty response to you. To your implications of my ineptitude. You see, I need these words every day. I need this face to form words to tell you
“What’s going on with your face?” you ask. This makes me severely self conscious. Makes me worry about our fragile future. You see, I need this face every single day. I need this face to smile and to show you
How much My heart lifts when you hold my hand. And yes,
Alas, my face betrays me in your eyes. Rising up only to become crestfallen. Makes me question your faith in me. My skin covers my entire body, you see. But I can only be myself. Please face me.
After All, It’s Just My Face
To show appreciation for my lame jokes.
By Eric Lawson
POETRY | ERIC LAWSON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Crow has changed. His once bare awareness of me, teaching me non attachment, is gone. I am a stressed sounding board for crow’s titillated ego.
Poet’s Recital
Crow asks me how he looks, if the ruff and scarf Are too much. Are his basic feathers enough, Crow wonders, suddenly interested in his appearance.
Crow Flies Out of the Sky
Crow has no pity for the pain, no patience for my fumbling ways today. Black iridescence just shines on in his body and wings, shines on.
Crow has grown attached to his accessories but also admires his au natural look, the way he shines in the morning light striking the mirror.
Crow flies out of the faded blue but otherwise impartial blanket of the sky, leaving behind his cutout shape.
Crow doesn’t cotton to complaints, just assigns a number to the level of pain. His bill freshens the wilting ruff and twists the silk scarf rakishly.
Crow only announces what is on for the day: computer glitches smacking against deadlines, planting of carrots and picking of greens.
Crow has rent spaces in the ether flapping his wings, fluttering through distance and time to give me the gift of knowing.
POETRY | RUTH WEINSTEIN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
By Ruth Weinstein
Crow flies through ancient silk markets and the Elizabethan Court scoring a length of red silk and a pleated lacy ruff.
Crow deftly dons both and hops onto my skull, tapping a neutral message on my eye socket that pain is present.
Crow stays: he has become needy, an irritant. If I don’t answer and look away, ignore him, perhaps he'll fly back to the empty space he left in the sky.
With the deer its life escapes Its claws upon the dry leaves rake As from the wound its own warmth bleeds And from its eyes all instinct recedes
POETRY | JOSH POOLE
Fair Chase
Then from afar the strange thunder The deer flees, their cycle asunder In staggered gait the beast moans The final steps of millions roamed
To be so close, to be so near To need neither nose nor ear To be with ancient instinct drawn To unaware and feeble fawn
By Josh Poole
Quiet walks the hunter in hollows deep When through the poplars sunlight seeps Nose cold wet as hidden bough Tracing the scent of fleeing doe
She had pounced upon moss with nimble feats And cooed alone with billowed bleats Until tired, in thorned thicket lay The velvet coat of resting prey
By Ruth Weinstein
Peel away all the pronouns: the hes and shes, the whos and whoms; strip off the barnacled adverbs of the whats and whens, all the sad, sad stories of the broken-hearted.
With a touch as light as a lover’s fingernail drawn across the delicate skin of the beloved’s neck, a sharp knife can split a melon.
Imagine the heart opening so and spilling forth the sweet juiciness of itself for all to feed upon. Thus its two halves become empty bowls to fill and empty fill and empty, and fill again and again and again.
HOW HEARTS ARE BROKEN
The heart turns in on itself, applies a metal band around its middle and turns the screw tighter, tighter, tighter until the heart is crushed. All its warm, rich vitality congeals, crusts over and dries to a fly Alternatively,speck.
POETRY | RUTH WEINSTEIN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
a heart can crack open.
And we’re left with one simple fact: the heart can only be broken in two ways. Consider constriction:
The loudest voices shout the boy’s name. The keenest ears listen for a response.
It’s told by the ones who volunteered, who give no thought to dropping out, to turning back, who look near, who look far, who see so many faces.
There is an ending to our quest but that’s another story. For the volunteering, the purpose, the resolve, is its own tale.
THE SEARCH PARTY
I see so many faces, some close, others in the distance, a few I know though most are strangers, trudging through forest, on a late June afternoon, scouring tree and pond, rock ledge and ravine, for the lost boy.
By John Grey
The light is fading but not the determination, as we plunge in and out of thick bracken, uncaring of any nicks and scratches, each with a picture in our head of coming across a child curled up under an oak tree, his face shedding tears in anticipation of what such a find would do for our faces, when stripped of everything but our feelings.
We’re like a phalanx of townspeople, moving forward while the light still holds, and spread wide enough to cover all the territory, not just the trails.
POETRY | JOHN GREY CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
I have forgotten the feeling of sleeping outdoors.
Mother Earth has run out of tears.
POETRY | ERIC LAWSON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
I have forgotten the faces of my fathers.
You, who unleashed Custer upon our lands. You, who broke treaty after treaty after treaty. You, who infected blankets with smallpox.
While you attempted eradication at Wounded Knee, the ghost dance will endure in the face of books of lies. While you may visit revisionist history at Standing Rock, I will always be Sitting Bull. My truth lives on forever.
By Eric Lawson
Here, every man a chief, the sign declared. Here, bountiful lands marred and raised by cities. Here, there, everywhere white families multiply.
Mother Earth can be visited in national parks.
The empire of the Sioux exists only now in the mind. The Buffalo are all but a distant memory, fading. Crazy Horse is long dead, Spotted Tail soon followed. Red Cloud has become a feeble old man, muttering.
We used to ride the fenceless open plains. We then walked trails of tears to your forts. We now walk in circles, a sideshow of our own making.
Every Man A Chief
Come to live on the reservations, you said. Come and we will feed your children, you said. Come and live in peace and harmony, you said.
By Josh Poole
King of Rain
POETRY | JOSH POOLE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
I sieve the water from your thirsty bones
Doves of peace cannot fly In torrent’s tumult tepid sky Wings rot by rust’s deformities Broken easy as fallen leaves
Though I’ve no notch’d blade nor dragon slain I sample merry mead the same Atop a noble timeless steed I pierce the clouds to watch them bleed I am this, The King of Rain
To lay the brick of heaven’s throne
At my whim, moon’s harvest wanes The sown seed spit back out again
“My empire un steered by vanity’s vane I’ve seen sun’s rage and wrapped it, laughing I am Queen to King, the same Behold, falls soft, The King of Rain.”
Though knights parry sword, I block the sun I spur the mighty river’s run I am King and Queen but one
How her timid and puddling steps Disfigures ground in soft caress And with quiet careful sounds confess
I wear my Queen upon my breast Her cold crown and wind-swept dress
Rosemary’s trapped in ice This gold is black with greed I heard that promised lands will still give you what you need
An answered missionary’s prayer
Please don’t play here It’s full of sand I heard if you dig deep enough you’ll find golden land
Teach me how to be civilized Please I need to know Should I wrap my hungry hands around my WillbrothersHe only then love me so?
Please choose your words carefully I’d love to live
Open your arms to me
Please don’t be scared I’ll be your little foreign girl
Little boys, big hearts, what’ll make them tick Have you ever heard of God Let me show you a magic trick
Apricots, ice tea, cinnamon sticks Thought I heard the ice cream truck No this tune will make you sick
Rosemary’s Trapped in Ice
How do I become a place you would never hope for war Will my pale face and rosy cheeks help me level a translucent score
Maybe a European life Maybe that’ll give
POETRY | AMAL EMILY ZAHROON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
By Amal Emily Zahroon
Poet’s Recital
ByBoundariesChristianWard
By Suzzanne Bigelow
For us to wander in this life with sagacity we must hear your uproar, to commence a new dawn So, bless us by walking beside us mere mortals
Dried gum constellations clash with cigarette butt boundary markers. Unknown stains infiltrate. Creep. A newspaper wing flutters with news of a Russian build up on the Ukrainian border. The sudden flood of frothy water, boundaries redrawn by people playing another game.
O Athena, all conquering wise one beloved daughter of Zeus, seamstress of battles scenes of war on my account do not put down your cloth decor but hear the cry for how far off we have gone straying from the values of wisdom you have given Do you not deplore?
An Outcry for Help
POETRY | S. BIGELOW | C. WARD CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
For we need your guidance now more than ever before all hope is lost for our morals Hear my shrill cry for salvation you perceive as a hushed whisper As humanity spirals I plead for you to bring order
POETRY | OLIVIA FARRELL CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
A willow tree caught the sound of humming and snoring, To the soft spoken kiss of your lips in the morning. An hourglass of time was the slowest of yearning, Laying down, to piecing together your journey.
A Kindled Remorse
A mantis, bowed its praying hands, rejoicing and folding. One condition was tranced to a luminous splurging. Braids of candles were tied on to an oily holding, An analytical deficit, accosting, diverging.
By Olivia Farrell
A contrastive word pilfered the chewed lips of ice. You heaved down the heavens, bringing my chest back to life, But assuming you were full from eating my lies. From my throat came the gurgle of intended disguise.
The faucet was left turned on. The air was coughing as if it were choked, A froth of bubbles floating up from their spot, And tears were drippy ice in cooling cloth, before my ambiance was soaked. My stomach churned, and vacuum croaked.
A flipped coin transmits to the trussing of hue, Shuffled feet skirting off in an ample of view, Skies, shaded in orange and dimpled in blue, Like touching our tongues in a chocolaty moon. My thoughts skipped stones like rolling dice. The shimmering water was a grain of rice, In a pendulum swinging from left to right, The holiest dwelling was a pacing light.
ByPOPPIESDianeKendig
“Faculties evidently decaying—old man rusts in the life he leads.” --Mr. Dorrit on Mr. Nandy in Dickens’ Little Dorrit
CANYON VOICES SPRING 2022
The gerontologist studies him three months, says he has time, can live wherever he wishes, and he wishes to make his son less angry so agrees to an apartment where he isn’t locked down and can walk miles every day, as his father did, and, by the way, as John Clare did, too, especially Sundays
when I walk with him. One day we pass a single poppy like a red skirt doing a cancan in the breeze, and because I am the poet, I say, “In Flanders Field, the poppies grow,” pleased with my errant memory till he says, “blow,” and I’m able to duet the second line, “row on row,”
but now I’m out, while he continues with the third line, and its stanza, “Scarce heard amid the guns below,” launches into the second stanza, and the third beginning, “Take up our quarrel with the foe,” to the poem’s end. In the silence, the wind settles, and the poppy folds.
POETRY | DIANE KENDIG
Russell, dissed by his kid and grandkids for his dementia, though he knows their faces and recalls the names that go with them, angers them with his fabulation and repetition. They appropriate the house he built and sell it, have him taken by strangers to a lockdown residence.
I used to spend hours in bed trying to make love work. There were techniques I had learnt from the elders, ways to make the heart engage with each orgasm. Under the sheets she was cool and brown as the river. I sat on her banks. I put my hand into her warm loam. Eventually we all leave each other. Do we think movement is tantamount to love? I doubt it. Most mornings I wake alone, even back there, when I was whole and sexy and as earnest as a scythe.
Poet’s Recital
Even Back There
POETRY | COREY MESLER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
cummings made portmanteau stew with his ofttimes cryptic richvocabularya playfulness as if alltheletters were only so much clay, don’t you see?, that shaped well becomes hu man.
“Old times, as my father used to say: If you’re not careful, they’ll gut you like a fish.” Amor Towles
By Corey Mesler
BycummingsCoreyMesler
Glutinous political birds of the golden empire, rant and rave, cramming the white domed chamber’s noxious atmosphere with ideological songs of banality, while becoming anxious when someone carrying a satchel of truth nears their royal nests lined in lies, platitudes, rhetoric, and money.
The sudden haunting whistle of a ghost train resonates the sound between life and death, as the homeless outside the domed hall of no, wait in anguish for someone to ameliorate the reality of their agonizing existence, is invisible to the political birds nesting inside in their gold plated cages.
Political Inanity
POETRY | JAMES G. PIATT CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
By James G. Piatt
ByColorfastDougVanHooser
Truth has many versions. I choose the one a size too large. After all the hopewashingsitshrinks to fit and doesn’t fade.
POETRY | DOUG VAN HOOSER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
POETRY | DIANE WEBSTER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Of course when you’re doing that, you have to cuss up a storm. Ron is a lot milder version of Dad probably because he is at work, and I am here, but it reminds me so much of Dad working on a project.
This afternoon my boss, Ron, works on a metal project parts of three machines to make one good one. With a small sledge hammer he beats the crap out of the metal parts making them fit since they were all bent out of shape.
By Diane Webster
Ron was more “Son of a beach!” and “Mother of pearl” so I laugh to myself.
I spent a little time with Dad this afternoon, kind of.
MILDER VERSION OF DAD
By Martha Patterson
My brother says dismissively That insects we despise Have little consciousness but I hate to crush them with my foot
I played Abraham Lincoln dead, carried in above classmates, center of attention star dead, solemn mourning as I passed terrified someone would look up my skirt and see my underwear. “Teacher, teacher I declare.
Since what harm do they do? Climbing, searching, eating They cause little trouble And populate the soil
I see someone’s underwear!” George Washington in the crowd who could not tell a lie.
By Diane Webster
President’s Day
POETRY | DIANE WEBSTER | MARTHA PATTERSON CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Little ants, caviar like beasts, In the fir needled woods
They’re just attentive creatures Under the quiet but protective Canopy of brush and trees Therefore deserving of respect.
Are tireless and busy Foraging for food and mates
The Ants
In fifth and sixth grade in a skit about presidents
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Mom, always, always in a hurry, dug in her fingers however she’d grabbed it. Within seconds, the peel half off, half stuck on, the fruit open, sections split, dripping, she couldn’t resist and ripped off a section, crammed it in her mouth, ripped off other sections she’d hand us, and we’d all slurp while she’d try to get the peel off the other half, a difficult task as the inside was getting juicy and the outside staying protective, her hands getting as sticky as ours, and our faces, all one happy mess, till she’d wet a washcloth, hand it around.
Neither parent ever remarked at the other’s method, and I am shocked now myself, mentioning this difference because I’m afraid you’ll like one more than the other when I don’t, not really, I employ them both, all the time, even when I’m paring onions for paella, hacking off a line, revising the turn, counterturn, or stand.
POETRY | DIANE KENDIG
My PARENTS, PEELING ORANGES
Carefully paring a circle away from the stem end, Dad would remind us that he received one in his Christmas stocking very year. Then, removing another circle at the bottom, he’d say, “You know, when you had thirteen children like your Grandma Kendig did, an orange was a great gift.” Then he’d cut lines only as far as but through, too, the pith, marking four quarters he’d slide off, one by one, leaving the whole orb its glorious self, break it open, careful not to split the membrane, hand out pieces, “Mmm so good.” And it was.
By Diane Kendig
In an ideal world, I’m not present or even looking on from afar; I never was nor were you. Vision of blue planet post victorious Covid 666 was not the gift hoped for but it’s entered the realm of the possible. Ideal planet would look like it might if there’d been no afterthought creation on the sixth day, no Manhattan Project, old or New York, ever.
Buffalo would roam unhindered and passenger pigeons home. Every breeze would whisper to ancient trees, tickle leaves and flying dinosaurs, not turbines running on their fossils to power humant megacities. Rivers would run wild and salmon swim without one diverting dam. Pure air would fill lungs or whatever of every species that was. Except us. Except upgrade Homo Erectus.
There’d be no space junk but there would be a huge, healthy Aral Sea. Competition would still be rife but life wouldn’t be threatened by bottomless appetite of one ‘upright’ thrill killer that can’t be satisfied. Ideal idyll, artless art, pointless would be more, snake lust not lore procreation on and on and on.
POETRY | ALLAN LAKE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Or Imagine This, Yoko
By Allan Lake
Suzzanne Bigelow is currently a first year undergraduate student at the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences. She previously attended Saint Peter's University where she was a part of the division one volleyball program. During her time living the life of a studentathlete while being 2000 miles away from home, she would turn to poetry to help process her emotions and find a newfound passion. Some of the poems she composed last semester will be featured in the university's literary magazine she formerly attended, The Pavan; the latest issue will be released in May. Another of her pieces, "What will you be giving this holiday?", was published on The Dirt on Jersey City website, conveying the exigence of the need for blood donors. Suzzanne looks forward to finding her writing style by continuing to create pieces based on the new aspects of life that are unveiled to her and through her studies of English literature.
Olivia Farrell
Ace Boggess is the author of six books of poetry, including Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021), I Have Lost the Art of Dreaming It So, and The Prisoners. His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, Mid American Review, and other journals. An ex con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble.
Olivia Farrell is a published poet. Her poem, The Civil War was published in The Echo magazine. She writes about real life, real emotions, and real struggles that we leave commonly overlooked. Her poem, A Kindled Remorse, would be initially addressed to a mature audience, while its significance centers around the pitfall of perhaps the most consequential lie in a “deep, and cogent scope of life and nature.”
John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Held.
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Ace Boggess
POETRYCONTRIBUTORS
Suzanne Bigelow
Diane Kendig
Eric Lawson is the author of the poetry collection About Fucking Time as well as Medusa Coils: 20 Twisted Monologues. He is an award-winning screenwriter. He also co-hosts a podcast called Make Your Own Fun on YouTube.
POETRYCONTRIBUTORS
Christa King has always lived in the West. The landscapes, experiences and people of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Idaho inspire and inform her writing. She received a BA in Creative Writing at the age of 51, and a Master’s Degree in Library Sciences in 2012, both from the University of Arizona. She is working on a poetry collection and a novel.
Diane Kendig’s newest of five poetry collections is Woman with a Fan (Shanti Arts 2021) and she co edited the anthology In the Company of Russell Atkins (Red Giant 2016). The recipient of two Ohio Arts Council Fellowships in Poetry and a Fulbright award in translation, she has published in journals such as J Journal, Ekphrasis, and Under the Sun. Diane started the creative writing program at The University of Findlay, including a prison workshop that ran for 18 years. She has been an Artist in the Schools since 1980, first for the Ohio Arts Council and now for Stark County SmARTS. She lives in the home her father built in Canton, Ohio when he returned from WWII with money he made selling photos from his position as a B 17 tail gunner. She blogs at “Home Again” and “Kendig Writes with Kids” and curates the Cuyahoga County Public Library website, “Read + Write: 30 Days of Poetry,” with 7,000
Eric Lawson
Allan Lake
“Read+Blogs:Web:subscribers.dianekendig.comHomeAgainhttp://dianekendig.blogspot.com/KendigWriteswithKidshttps://kendigwriteswithkids.blogspot.com/Write:”https://www.cuyahogalibrary.org/Services/WilliamNSkirball Writers Center/Poetry/Read Write 30 Days of Poetry.aspx
Allan Lake, originally from Saskatchewan, has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton, Ibiza, Tasmania, W. Australia & Melbourne. Lake won Lost Tower Publications (UK) Comp 2017, Melbourne Spoken Word Poetry Fest 2018 and publication in New Philosopher 2020. Latest poetry chapbook (Ginninderra Press 2020) ‘My Photos of Sicily’. Literary journals in 15 countries have now published his poems and 70 were published in 2021. Such journals as The Hong Kong Review, Cordite Poetry Review, The Canberra Times, Stylus Lit, Quadrant, American Writers Review and many more have featured his poetry in recent years.
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Christa King
James, an octogenarian and retired professor, is a Best of Web nominee and three time Pushcart nominee. He earned his doctorate from BYU, and his BS, and MA from California State Polytechnic University, SLO. He has had four collections of poetry; “Solace Between the Lines,” “Light,” “Ancient Rhythms,” and “The Silent Pond,” over 1,555 poems. 35 short stories and five novels published worldwide in over 225 different publications such as El Portal, Voices de La Luna, The Minetta Review, Seventh Quarry, Steam Ticket, Dagda, The Offbeat, London Grip, Page and Spine, Badlands Magazine, American Aesthetic, Front Porch, Ottawa Arts Review, and California Quarterly.
Blogspot: http://marthapatterson.blogspot.com/ Books: https://www.amazon.com/author/marthabpatterson
POETRYCONTRIBUTORS
Arielle Moosman is a third year student studying Interdisciplinary Arts and Performance at ASU West who enjoys making and learning about art, listening to music, writing poetry, and making zines. Originally from New Mexico, Arielle now lives in Phoenix. In their practice, they create work that centers around intersectionality, what it means to exist authentically, and interpersonal relationships. In the creation of work of this nature, it is vital for them to share the work they make with others to create a conversational space. In such a space, those who interact with Arielle’s art can examine it while being informed by their own experiences and transform themselves in a way that is unique to themselves. Arielle tries to create this space by creating work that is relatable and elicits feelings of introspection and reflection. Arielle strives to be introspective and reflective about the experiences they’ve had because of the huge impact they have on the work they make, as it causes them to dig deeper into the meaning of their work.
NPX: https://newplayexchange.org/users/2307/martha patterson
Martha Patterson
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Arielle Moosman
Corey Mesler
COREY MESLER has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Five Points, Good Poems American Places, and New Stories from the South. He has published over 20 books of fiction and poetry. His newest novel, The Diminishment of Charlie Cain, is from Livingston Press. He also wrote the screenplay for We Go On, which won The Memphis Film Prize in 2017. With his wife he runs Burke’s Book Store (est. 1875) in Memphis.
Martha Patterson's work has been published in more than 20 anthologies and journals, and her plays have been produced in 21 states and eight countries. She has two degrees in Theatre, from Mount Holyoke College and Emerson College, and lives in Boston, Massachusetts, the USA. She loves being surrounded by her books, radio, and laptop.Website: https://mpatterson125933.wixsite.com/martha patterson
James Piatt
Nolo Segundo
Doug Van Hooser
Christan Ward
Josh Poole is a visual artist and writer working out of the sleepy town of Lexington, Virginia. His work has been featured in Air Mail, The Woody Creeker, The Rockbridge Advocate, and many other publications with a focus on life in Appalachia.
POETRYCONTRIBUTORS
Nolo Segundo in the pen name of L.J. Carber, 75, a retired teacher (America, Japan,Taiwan, Cambodia) who in his 8th decade became a published poet in 63 online/in print lit mags in the U.S., U.K., Canada, Romania, and India; and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2022. A trade publisher has released 2 book length collections: 'The Enormity of Existence' [2020] and 'Of Ether and Earth' [2021]. He has been married 42 years to a smart and beautiful woman from Taiwan.
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Christian Ward is a UK based writer who can be recently found in Red Ogre Review, Discretionary Love and Stone Poetry Journal. Future poems will be appearing in Dreich, Uppagus and BlueHouse Journal.
Josh Poole
Doug Van Hooser's poetry has appeared in Roanoke Review, The Courtship of Winds, After Hours, Wild Roof Journal, and Poetry Quarterly among other publications. His fiction can be found in Red Earth Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Bending Genres Journal. Doug’s plays have received readings at Chicago Dramatist Theatre and Three Cat Productions. More at dougvanhooser.com
N/A
Diane Webster
POETRYCONTRIBUTORS
Ruth Weinstein and her husband have been gardening organically on their 40 acre Ozark woodland homestead for more than 45 years. In a long ago life Ruth was a high school English teacher in Philadelphia and later an ESL/EFL teacher. As a textile artist, she has exhibited and sold handwoven functional and art pieces, quilts and one of a kind clothing and floor cloths. Her poetry appears in various print and online journals. In 2020, Stockton University Press published her family history memoir, BACK TO THE LAND: Alliance Colony to the Ozarks in Four Generations. Ruth is currently working on developing a website, but you can find her on Fb.
Diane Webster's goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life, nature or an overheard phrase. Diane enjoys transforming images into words to fit her poems. She is currently working on a prose poem/hybrid project that she would like to publish as a book someday. Her work has appeared in "Home Planet News Online," "North Dakota Quarterly," "Eunoia Review" and other literary magazines.
Ruth Weinstein
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Amal Emily Zahroon
After Corey Mesler overcame his heroin addiction, he has found success in life by writing and owning a bookstore with his wife. Mesler appreciates the wild, haphazard moments and values love indefinitely. In his past time, you can always expect Mesler will be enjoying a lunch of some sort.
Updike, Philip Roth, Vladimir Nabokov, Steve Stern, William Carlos Williams, and my beloved Iris Murdoch.
What brought you to writing poetry?
AUTHORS ALCOVE | COREY MESLER CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
I’ve lived in Memphis since I was five. I was raised by wolves. I did some college but, mostly, my education consists of the three bookstores in which I have worked. My wife and I own Burke’s Book Store in Memphis, one of the country’s oldest (est. 1875).
Humanity and Love:
Besides the aforementioned: John Berryman, Anne Sexton, Toni Morrison, James Joyce, Franz Kafka, Albert Camus, Walker Percy, John
Corey Mesler’s Guiding Principles
By Megan Demko
Tell me a little background information about yourself.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
Are there particular themes you enjoy working with most?
Oh, I dunno. Love, loneliness, family, death, death and more death. Lunch.
Haphazard. Hit or miss. Idiosyncratic. Undisciplined. Cracked. But full of love.
I wrote my first poem in 4th grade, a reappropriation (plagiarism) of “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.” In high school I had the world’s greatest senior English teacher. She was the first person to tell me I am a writer. In college I wrote a lot of bad, late night, sad bastard poems. Sometimes I still write those. But, really, reading contemporary poets made me want to join their ranks, though I am still a private at best. I read Mark Strand, Terry Stokes, James Tate, Sylvia Plath, W. S. Merwin, C. K. Williams. These were my first poets.
How would you describe your writing style to someone unfamiliar with your work?
The first thing that comes to mind is the solitude. People complain that writing is such a lonely exercise, but I find it great to be inside my head with my characters rather than bumping into other people, at least some of the time. I’m not at all a recluse, but being alone with the characters in a story, folks who pretty much do what I wish them to do, is pretty good. When a character doesn’t do what, in my mind, they should do, or when they say something that I wasn’t expecting, I’m delighted and pleasantly challenged. It happens all the time. Those are good moments in writing.
What do you dislike most about writing? Have you ever had a moment when you almost quit your craft?
I dislike most about writing is the uncertainty of it. I can’t say that I write solely for myself or for the sake of art. That sounds pretentious to me. I’ll be the first to admit that I want to be read and to please the reader. I don’t exactly prostitute myself to satisfy the reader, but I do want them to get something out of the story. Worrying that the reader won’t become engaged with a protagonist, or won’t even like him or her, bothers me. A good friend and fellow writer, a much better writer than I am, lectures me from time to time about creating characters she is not able to pull for. The fear that a reader might say “I don’t care what happens to this person” is
Crossing Paths with a Cowboy:
Author David Larsen provides insight about the daily struggles of writing and building fictional worlds and strong narrators.
Thebreather.thing
What do you enjoy most about writing?
David Larsen on Southwestern Souls and the Power of Broad Horizons
The second part of the question first: Moments when I almost quit. Almost daily. I can’t think of many other tasks that can be as frustrating as trying to put something that is in your head into the written word. Searching for just the right word or phrase drives me into a panic. I’ll stand up, walk around the room, and ask myself what would be the best way to put down on paper the ideas in my mind. Forty years ago, I did give up on writing stories and went back to writing songs only. But I found myself pushing words and
AUTHORS ALCOVE | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
sentences around from time to time. So, I didn’t really give it up. I just took a thirty year
By Emmie Wuest
I should say Moby Dick and everyone would nod and bow their heads in reverential silence. But I’ve read the book three times and I still don’t quite get why it is the greatest American novel. I see that it’s a monumental piece of work, but the whale blubber chapters wear me down. I would have to say my favorite piece of literature is The Dead by James Joyce. Despite its ghoulish title, it is the most tender and gentle story I’ve ever read, without being sentimental. And Joyce could really write. Recently, I have read the Olive Kitteridge short stories by Elizabeth Strout and thought they were wonderful. I must also mention Flannery O’Connor, John Updike, Philip Roth, John Cheever and Alice Munro, also favorites.
Is there something in your life that has really influenced the type of stories you write?
humiliating her presence is for the instructor. All he has to worry about was what she might write about him. And that’s a lot to worry about.
I was always the class clown. I drove my teachers nuts, I’m sure. Therefore, many of the stories I write tend to have a good deal of humor in them. After four pretty humorous years of college I became a musician, mostly folk music. I discovered that I could get paid for being the smart aleck with a quick wit and a guitar. I don’t try too hard for the laugh, but funny lines or incidences seem to pop up. Also, after a couple of divorces and absurd relationships, absurd because of my insecurities and my emotional immaturity, not the women’s fault at all, I find human entanglements, especially when it comes to romance, extremely amusing.
always on my mind. Not that every character has to be likeable, but they should be interesting.
Today, what is your favorite novel or short story?
I find that I place quite a few of my stories in small Southwestern towns. I seem to like the openness of such an environment. I often invent the name of the town, but have a real town in mind. In a few stories it’s been the town of Valentine, Texas with a different name. Other times, when I need a larger town, though not a metropolis, I have towns like Las Cruces, New Mexico or Flagstaff, Arizona in mind. I have used small towns in Iowa for a setting, where my family is from, but I notice that the characters are different from people on the plains or in the desert. There’s something about open spaces that allow a character to expand.
How do you go about creating an atmosphere of discomfort in a story?
AUTHORS ALCOVE | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Do you reuse settings in your short stories or does each story take place within a different fictional universe?
I can almost hear the reader shouting “Oh, no, don’t do that” or “don’t you see what will happen if you do what you’re about to do?” Those are the discomforting moments in my stories, a character doing something that the reader has done, or has done something similar to, something that can only lead to trouble. Since most of my stories aren’t all that tragic, the tension is quite familiar to the reader. He or she has probably been there, or in a similar circumstance. In some stories I use ethnic or cultural differences to build discomfort, but I do try to relieve the tension by allowing the underdog to prevail. In a recent story I placed a professor’s prostitute in his creative writing class. Of course, the young woman turns out to be the best student in class, no matter how
Which character in “Hop, Skip and a Jump” did you write first? Was it important that you started with that character?
What kind of story did you want to tell when you began writing “Hop, Skip and a Jump”, and did this ever evolve into something different?
AUTHORS ALCOVE | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Is there a genre you particularly enjoy writing?
certainly tempers his reaction to the situation. Lynn, the son of a minister, the innocent, naïve husband of a dying wife, is looked upon as a fool by the other characters, even the narrator. And he knows it. But what can he do? His young wife is dying. The importance of starting the story with Lynn was that he helped me keep from treating the other characters too cynically. Lynn could never bring himself to be petty or vengeful. The narrator, whom we don’t really know much about, other than he himself is a bit of a lost man, had to respect Lynn’s way of looking at things. Samantha, the young wife, is also an extremely interesting character. I had to ask myself how would a woman raised in a religiously conservative home react to the sudden realization that her life would be cut so short?
I like serious themes with a comic undertow. Or maybe they’re comic tales with a serious current flowing through them. A good friend has
I do, sometimes without thinking about it. In a story I’m currently writing two tragic episodes are referred to, events that led to the man’s being homeless and destitute and living in an abandoned car on the outskirts of Amarillo. I hadn’t thought about it until this question made me look back on some stories. But as I look back on the stories, I do see a back story in some of my characters. It’s not background but actual occurrences that placed characters into their predicament in the story. I’m glad to be asked about this. I hadn’t really thought about it that much.
I had the character Lynn, the cuckolded husband, in mind when I began the story. I placed a most decent young man, a dedicated husband and father, into the challenging position of knowing that his wife is having an affair with his best friend. That the wife is extremely ill
How do you deal with writer’s block?
I wanted to tell a story about compassion and maturity through the character Lynn. I didn’t want to make it a morality tale. I wanted the characters to be human. The narrator, at the start of the story, sees the husband as a fool for not being able to do anything about his marriage’s disintegration due to his wife’s infidelity. By the end of the story the narrator realizes that the husband is the only adult in the room. Not only is it a story of a love triangle but the maturation of the narrator himself.
Do you write back story into particular characters?
I’ve never suffered from the affliction. Once I’m at the keyboard and establish a character or a situation, the story will just take me along with it. The closest thing to a block is my fear of the keyboard. Often it takes all the courage I can muster to sit down and begin to write. It’s the uncertainty as to whether or not I can come up with something worthwhile that paralyzes me. But, as I said, once I get started, I can go for hours without tiring or becoming stuck. It’s physically getting myself to the keyboard that holds me back.
Do you have a ritual or tradition you follow after making the final edits to a piece?
I always regret finishing a story. I know I’ll miss the characters I’ve been with for weeks. The only ritual I have is sending the story to a friend who is a wonderful reader and critic. After I send it, I wait impatiently for her to respond. She lets me know what she thinks of the story, sometimes with approval, sometimes with questions,
I was born amongst a bunch of Danes in Iowa. But at five I moved to El Paso, Texas with my immediate family. I stopped hearing Danish from my grandparents and became a West Texan. After college I traveled for more than twenty years around the United States, mostly the Midwest, the mountain states and the Southwest, playing guitar in bands and as a solo performer. Several of my stories come from people I met in places like Gallup, New Mexico or Cheyenne, Wyoming or Port Arthur, Texas. There are a lot of fascinating people out there, each with a story or two. Today, I live less than two miles from the border with Mexico. Living on a boundary line helps me see things differently than if my family had stayed in Mallard, Iowa.
sometimes with criticism. Once she lets me know what she thinks I start looking for someplace to send the story. Or sometimes where to hide it from everyone.
described many of my male characters as hapless. She tells me they are unassuming characters caught up in some sort of a tangle who somehow manage to find their way out of the situation. I think she’s right. I would suspect that pretty well sums up my own life. Almost all of my characters are me, for better or for worse. And I do find life pretty doggone funny. So funny that you laugh until you weep.
AUTHORS ALCOVE | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Is there a detail or some kind of easter egg you like to include in all of your stories?
The only thing I can think of is that my male characters can often be quite clueless and the women around them seem to understand what’s going on way before the men do. I love slipping clever females into the story. One other thing I often do is make a reference to religion in the stories. I am not at all a religious person. But I never make fun of religion, or at least not intentionally. So even in “Hop, Skip and a Jump” I make the husband and the wife serious Baptists who must face something that even their faith can’t fix. The two had never even tasted alcohol until they were thirty and faced an existential crisis. That they are that innocent I find commendable. Not that I live that way, but that they can be so decent and pious at the same time interests me.
Where are you from?
Are you a homebody or more extroverted?
I’m shy and sometimes quiet, but I like to be around people, but not all the time. I’m an observer more than a participant. I confess to loving an audience, especially when I have a good guitar in hand and a bunch of tall tales and lies to share. So, though I think of myself as being introverted, to most people I would seem to be an extrovert.
What was the first book you read that you truly loved? Do you still feel the same way?
I was always a reader. My mother took me to the library every week. But at about the age of fourteen, maybe fifteen, I discovered a copy of
If you had to pick a literary era from within the U.S. to write in forever, which one would it be? Why?
AUTHORS ALCOVE | DAVID LARSEN CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
All Quiet on the Western Front on my father’s bookcase. Inside the book I found newspaper clippings about the book’s release and the outrage its release created. I have no idea why my father would have saved the clippings. He always had pacifist leanings, so maybe that was why. Erich Maria Remarque made quite an impression on me. I’ve had pacifist leanings myself since reading that book and, of course, Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo, which I also read when I was young. I’ve never read either book again, but I still have images from the two books in my head. I guess I’ve never outgrown either book.
Of course, the era that Faulkner, Hemingway and Steinbeck wrote in does intrigue me, that lost generation. But I’m quite happy to be writing in the current era, the early part of the twenty first century. I find the technological and the emotional chaos of this period fascinating. Although, I must admit that I don’t even own a cellphone. I’ve never sent a text and I don’t go on Facebook, though I do have an account. Our changing attitudes about racial issues, different ethnic groups, people of different sexual orientations, genders and political opinions makes for wonderful stories. Writing in an era of radical change is fascinating.
I like working with different mediums because each medium offers a different perspective and a different skill set that I need to portray what I’m looking for in each piece.
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
What is your earliest memory of falling in love with art, and what made you fall in love?
Chaotic and not cohesive to everyone (including me). A lot of my ideas I have to jot down and so many of those unfinished sketches never see the light of day.
You work across a variety of mediums, from sketch books to (digital software) to photography. Why do you like to work across these mediums?
AUTHORS ALCOVE | LINDSEY DIETHELM
I definitely think I fell in love with drawing and painting when I was a child. I was watching a lot of cartoons. Disney movies, niche classics like The Last Unicorn, and more. I was fascinated by the art and the stories that these visuals showed and it’s only grown as I have gotten older and discovered anime and other cartoon shows.
If you count knitting, sewing, and other crafts — sure. I like working with my hands and it’s cathartic to see your progress from the start of the project to the finish.
How would you describe your artistic process to someone who is not familiar with your work?
Tell me a little background information about yourself.
Artist of “Melancholy in Red” Lindsey Diethelm showcases her portfolio online, with her social media accounts, online stores, and website. Here we get a close look behind Diethelm’s artistic inspiration and experience.
Do you have creative hobbies outside of your work?
See Diethelm’s art in the Art section.
I am an artist based in California. I went to school for studio arts, and picked up a few tricks and trades in different artistic fields including but not limited to illustration, graphic design, and many many more.
I either lose motivation or I lose that feeling that I was feeling at the moment. Sometimes, I come back to those ideas and I trust the process.
Seeing Red: A Look Into Lindsey Diethelm’s Artistic Process
By Lisa Diethelm
I have social Instagram @lind_artist and @lind_artistdesign as well as a website showing all of my work: lindseydiethelm.com
What is your ultimate goal as an artist?
To make art art full time. I want my passion to become my career. I keep working hard for that goal.
I mostly take inspiration from my mental health and my emotions. I try to get a lot of them out of my system through art. But a lot of the time I create characters for my own stories and I try to flesh out their emotions through my emotions. It’s exhausting.
Do you have a specific environment where you create your best artwork?
What, or who, is the biggest inspiration behind your work?
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Where can those interested find more of your work?
What message do you hope people will take away from your art?
What was your inspiration for “Melancholy in Red?”
My inspiration was mostly based on my emotions and my mental health. When I was creating “Melancholy in Red," I was in a dark place. I see monochrome when a part of me is just fighting and it’s angry at myself, and I see red whenever I get like this.
I want people to feel the emotions that I’m feeling and to understand that it’s okay to feel these emotions. It’s okay to channel them into something creative or productive. You can go on a run, make yourself brownies, take pictures of the sunset and spend time with your loved ones. It’s okay.
If I’m being honest, I do not have a specific work environment. I mostly work at my desk when it comes to digital drawing and illustration. But mostly I have to be in a very high emotional state to create my best work. Angry, excited, happy, or depressed.
AUTHORS ALCOVE | LINDSEY DIETHELM
Josh Poole tells us about experiences with writing and how it has developed over time. With a simple start as a newspaper cartoonist, Poole has explored a variety of mediums, including short stories and poetry, some of which has been included in this issue.
I actually didn’t start writing poetry until maybe 2019 or 2020. I was working on a zombie novel that follows a research team in 1941 exploring islands in the South Pacific just before WW2 began in that theater. There’s a character in the story named Kane, who works security detail for the researchers and he had this journal where he wrote poems. To explore his character I started writing poetry, and we used excerpts from the poems to preface chapters. I didn’t write any more poetry until I wrote an epic poem in 2021
I’m pretty vanilla about poetry. I like Frost, Blake, and Milton in small doses. There’s some more obscure poets that I enjoy from the Jargon Society, but I don’t know if their works are widely available to be read. As far as writers go, I’m a fan of Hunter S. Thompson, Mishima,
By Megan Demko
An Exploration of Josh Poole’s Writing
Tell me a little background information about yourself.
AUTHORS ALCOVE | JOSH POOLE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Dabbling With Mediums:
What brought you to writing poetry?
that was itself a spin off from a short story about two dragons that fed on corpses during the Black Plague. They spoke in this kinda medieval, antiquated formula and poetry was heavily involved in that short story. We have an upcoming novel that’s going to also have the format of starting a chapter with a poem written by a fictional character named Traubert, and the last few months I’ve just been in that headspace.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
I’m 26 years old and currently living in a small, rural Virginia town. I started off in the freelance world as a newspaper cartoonist, later branching out into short story writing while co authoring a few novel series with a friend of mine, Travis. There’s always tangents when writing large works of fiction, and those tangents sometimes require further investigation or they just linger. More often than not, my short stories (or ours) are usually unanswered questions or spin off ideas from in progress novels.
AUTHORS ALCOVE | JOSH POOLE CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
This is hard to pin down because I work in so many mediums. I write captions for cartoons, and the process for generating those is diametrically opposed to how you’d write dialogue. My works are usually littered with jokes, and I’m adamant about words “sounding” good together. There’s definitely times where I’ve sacrificed fluidity in prose for something that I thought sounded neat when vocalized. When it comes to what I prefer writing, however, I would have to say that I most enjoy deep fantasy writing where the characters speak in this really weird, divergent meter that kinda bridges the gap between poetry and prose. It’s alliterative, elaborate, and for me, as someone who usually fixates on writing something to be as clear and concise as possible, finding detour routes to describe simple concepts or actions can reveal new avenues on how to think about day to day life.
Are there particular themes you enjoy working with most?
How would you describe your writing style to someone unfamiliar with your work?
This is kinda divergent from my poetry but: Conspiracy, paranoia, cryptids. I find comfort in the idea of cryptozoological phenomenon without subscribing to many of them having an ounce of verisimilitude. There’s a real escapism there where you can entertain those notions and suddenly your overworked limbic system can catch a breath from your stressful job to think about the albino crocodiles living in the grease traps. There’s a sense in which these fictional phenomena level the playing field between yourself and where you wish you were in the world by satirizing the hierarchies without trudging through political ideology or historical
analysis. Discomfort has often been intrinsically linked to my occupation, and there’s always an impetus for escapist writing if you find your day to day mundane and without tangible reward.
Hemingway, Cervantes and Douglas Adams, which are all pretty standard white dude in 20s fare I guess. My very first published short story was in The Woody Creeker, Thompson’s old magazine, for an anniversary issue. At the time I was working as a dishwasher in a high volume kitchen and hating every day. The story, “No Mercy for the Strays” details those experiences and once I got the email that it had been accepted I put in my two weeks and picked up a part time bartending gig for self preservation.
One of my favorite authors would be Benjamin Alire Sáenz, who wrote Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. His work captures many real life struggles that most are
Mostly, Shaylen Morales focuses on sound, aesthetic, and emotion in writing Morales loves music and explains that listening to songs inspired her to begin writing at a young age. Soon, Morales will be graduating from ASU and is planning on teaching in the near future.
AUTHORS ALCOVE | SHAYLEN MORALES CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Tell me a little background information about yourself.
I am currently a senior at ASU, graduating with a B.A. in English with an Emphasis in Secondary Education. I never planned on becoming a teacher, but after switching my major a million times, I finally fell into something I love. Over the years, I've gotten busier, which has limited my time to read or create. However, it's always been a form of therapy.
By Megan Demko
The Beauty of Aesthetic: Conveying Emotion Through Writing
What brought you to writing?
Honestly, I do not remember an exact moment, but I think of music when I think about it. Ever
since I was younger, I loved listening to music and even writing my own. The only issue was I am not very inclined with instruments. This limited turning my lyrics into songs, but I noticed how beautiful lyrics could be, almost like poetry after a while. It is easy for us to overlook the beauty of words and the hidden meanings when a catchy beat is playing. With poetry, the words are the lyrics, and our experiences make it music. This realization encouraged me to dive straight in and start writing.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
If you asked them, my family and friends would call me stubborn and determined. If I decide I want something; it needs to happen right then and there. If someone tells me I can't do something well, consider it already written in stone. A great example of this would be when I got my dog, Franklin. Not even two weeks before being out on my own, I adopted him from the sheriff's department. He became my best friend very quickly, and I don't regret a single moment. However, I will admit it was very spur of the moment.
afraid to talk about. He makes philosophy accessible to any reader and requires them to think about their own lives or those around them. Similar to Salazar, Ernest Hemingway captures these ideas as well. While they have completely different writing styles, they both write with bold intent about the world around us. I have just discovered my appreciation for Hemingway when reading some of his poetry and the book Old Man and the Sea. Both of their unique qualities contribute to my own writing.
Are there particular themes you enjoy working with most?
AUTHORS ALCOVE | SHAYLEN MORALES CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
A major priority of my writing style is how it sounds. I want the words to blend and form a beautiful aesthetic. Each word is chosen intentionally to invoke some form of emotion and or reaction at face value. However, when you reread the piece, you will notice the hidden lessons and or meanings. My goal is to get people to feel the emotions on paper and apply them to their own experiences. I want my work to be accessible to all somehow based on their own backgrounds or circumstances.
I often enjoy working with darker themes such as betrayal, the process of trauma, loss, etc. While I enjoy capturing the intensity of love, it is often painted with the raw experiences of a relationship: the intimate moments or struggles no one sees.
How would you describe your writing style to someone unfamiliar with your work?
I will admit that I tend to write very convoluted, but to me, that is part of the journey of poetic writing. It allows the reader to choose their path and ask questions, encouraging self discovery.
By Courtney Corboy
If not, is there a medium you wish to explore? Why or why not?
Discovering Polina Reed’s Artistry
What was your inspiration for “A Dream Came True”?
Is there another medium (such as charcoal, painting, or other out of the digital sphere) you work in?
AUTHORS ALCOVE | POLINA REED CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
A Dream Come True:
I love your artwork! I noticed it is digital art. Why did you choose this medium to express yourself?
Thanks a lot for complimenting my art! I chose digital art because of its convenience. Honestly, I have never been a fan of colored pencils that never gave me a rich enough picture, ink that cannot be erased, or paints after which I had to wash my hands and the table, while digital "inks" will never run out, you always have the right to make a mistake and a lot of room for experimentation. The most important digital art feature for me is the layers option I guess.
The idea for "A Dream Came True" was born on my birthday in February when I thought about how many personal goals in drawing, study, and work I have achieved since the previous birthday and tried to convey this feeling of a sudden oversaturation of pleasure in pastel colors and maximum relaxation in the picture, this nice feeling of accomplishment and letting yourself relaxing for a moment before setting new goals for the new year of life.
To be honest, it scares me not to have the right to make a mistake, but I would like to delve into watercolor painting: I know for a fact that learning other ways of painting significantly pumps up your skill as an artist in general. Plus, there is one artist on the Internet named
Kelogsloops that inspires me a lot - I mean, looking at his art will make anybody want to learn to draw with watercolor too check him out!
I do not work much with another medium other than pixels, but I do make pencil sketches pretty often. I also have a set of acrylic paints that I use to give color to my sketches, but when it comes to full fledged works, it's mostly digital media :)
AUTHORS ALCOVE | POLINA REED CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Have you always wanted to be an artist?
Has the current conflict in Ukraine influenced you as an artist?
I was born and raised in Ukraine, and I haven't visited it for 2 years already. I had been planning to go there this summer before the war started, and now my excitement has changed to uncertainty and hatred for injustice; that was when I noticed that all of my latest works became much darker, I started loving how red and black go together: it might emphasize my current mood. Still, I do believe that Ukrainians are going to defend their position, and I help my country as much as I can at the moment.
How long have you been an artist?
Well, in a sense. I became really into painting when I was 11 12, and before that I wanted to become a singer, and before that, I wanted to become a dancer! I attended singing and dancing classes, as well as the drawing class, but ended up leaving all of it and continuing to learn drawing at home. Considering all of the above is art, you can say I always wanted to be an artist, yet express myself in different genres :) Still thinking of succeeding in music or dancing in the future.
What drew you to art? Is the reason still the same? Is it different?
Has the conflict affected you and your art? If so, how has it affected you?
All my conscious life! As I said before, I felt the need for self expression since early childhood, and I am officially a digital artist since 2015 sharp graphics tablet was my New Year's gift from my parents. :)
The war in Ukraine hasn't influenced me much as an artist (compared to the mental influence) because my audience is mainly from Europe and
Luckily, art is also my tool for expressing my disagreement with the policy of the Russian occupiers, and in March I created a painting "#NoWarInUkraine" which was submitted as an NFT project, and all the income will go to the support of the Ukrainian army. This is one of the few works of mine that contains Ukrainian national symbols (a sandwich with lard and the character's traditional clothes) and is also quite aggressive compared to my previous ones, but I got a lot of supportive feedback and am truly proud of this piece.
USA, but I did lose some Russian followers after posting some stuff on my pages in support of Ukraine. Well, it was worth seeing who still stands by my side anyway, and I appreciate these people more than ever.
I guess I became an artist mostly because of the pleasure of creating that felt like magic when I was a kid, and still feels like that now. Another reason was a certain online game popular in 2014, where players created unique looks of their characters, and making art of people's game characters made them almost worship you, plus that was a way of taking commissions and making your first income as a child. I remember my gasping when I first saw the digital fan art to that game in the official groups, and this was the impetus for the start of my digital drawing journey. I still love any type of fanart so yes, that is still the case; but the more I learn to draw, the more I am able to express my original ideas on canvas too.
to music while drawing, mostly American pop, indie, and hip hop music. It works as an inspiration too, it happens often that I hear a song and want to illustrate certain lyrics. My favorite artists are Doja Cat, Saweetie, Rihanna, and Lana Del Rey.
If you could describe yourself or your artistic style - in one sentence, what would you say?
“Still searching for my true colors,” I guess. Seems to suit both me and my art style.
AUTHORS ALCOVE | POLINA REED CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
Is there anything you would like to share about yourself, or where we could find your work outside of the magazine?
My main source of inspiration is actually my Pinterest boards and the pictures that pop up in my feed there based on my preferences which are food, nature, human faces, other artists' works, animals, etc. When I see lots of ideas displayed next to each other, my brain starts combining them together and that is how I always come up with something, I guess it works like a Ibrainstorm.alwayslisten
What inspires your art? Is it people, things you learn, things you watch/listen to, etc.?
I am grateful to everybody that found my art and this interview interesting. I post my art weekly on my DeviantArt, Instagram, and ArtStation toFeelhttps://www.artstation.com/polinareedhttps://www.instagram.com/polinareedart/https://www.deviantart.com/polinareedaccounts:freetosendmeamessagethereifyouwantchataboutartoranything,Iamquitesocial.:)
CANYON VOICES | SPRING 2022
You can also visit us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/asucanyonvoices
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.
At CANYON VOICES our mission is to provide an online environment to highlight emerging and established voices in the artistic community.
CANYONVOICES | SPRING 2022
By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language, style, culture, and gender.
OUR MISSION CONTACT US
Questions, comments, feedback? We would love to hear from you. Contact us via email at: CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com
ABOUT US
SCRIPTS
Up to two stories may be submitted per issue. Each story may be 20 pages or fewer.
Up to ten pieces, with at least 300 dpi or medium.IncludeformatJPEG(1MB).detailon
Up to six poems may be submitted (no longer than two pages each) per issue.
Fall issue deadline: September 1st
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.
ART
Spring issue deadline: February 1st
CNF
Up to two stories may be submitted per issue. Each story may be 20 pages or fewer.
Up to scriptstwomay be submitted per issue. pages.maximumScript15
FICTION
EXPLICIT MATERIALS
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.
POETRY
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) format. Artwork may be in PNG,JPG or JPEG format. All work submitted must have a title.
CANYONVOICES | SPRING 2022
READING PERIOD
Sabrina Walls is an ASU student pursuing an English degree with a minor in Media Analysis. She also takes part at Sun Devil Fitness Complex at the Wellness Department. In her free time, you can find her with a book at local coffee shop. Soon after graduation, she would like to purse a job within the publishing business.
Dorailiana Ledesma Co-Editor-In-Chief (also senior fiction editor & CNF editor)
Julie Amparano is the founder, publisher, and advisor of the CANYON VOICES literary team. Serving in the School of Humanity Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Amparano oversees the school's Writing Certificate and teaches a variety of writing courses that include scriptwriting, cross cultural writing, fiction, persuasive writing, and others. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University in Los Angeles in 2006 and is working on a collection of short stories.
Courtney Corboy Co Editor In Chief (also senior fiction editor & scripts editor)
Sabrina Walls Design Director, Senior CNF editor and fiction editor
As a California native, Lisa Diethelm’s favorite place to be is on a beach with a book. Absolutely nothing, in her mind, beats the way the waves crash onto the shore as she immerses herself into a story. Since moving to the desert, she has earned a bachelor’s in journalism and is currently working on her master’s in English from Arizona State University. Diethelm also works as the Program Coordinator for ASU’s West Writing Center, but when she has spare time she dotes on her dogs, Fox and Nike, and her pet fish. You can also find her reading an assortment of novels or memoirs in her ugly, green pleather chairs. Diethelm is thrilled to be back at CANYON VOICES for another semester, and hopes to continue sharing her love of stories at ASU.
CANYONVOICES | SPRING2022 STAFF PAGES : EXECUTIVE BOARD
Dorailiana Ledesma is an ASU student pursuing a Creative Writing degree and will be graduating this semester. She likes to laugh but her writing consists of horror and realism. She is the byproduct of a married couple, but can get along with orphans and children of divorce. She also is currently getting offers by big publishing houses like Penguin Random House, but anything is possible when she lies. Truthfully, she has been published but chooses to hide it to really fit the trope of a struggling writer.
Courtney Corboy is a nerdy English major at ASU West. Born and raised in Phoenix, she hopes to be an editor and published writer. Books comforted her as she navigated life as a physically disabled woman in a semi accessible world. Writing gives her an outlet to be creative. She is a creative scribbler who once explored an accessible cavern in Arkansas. She has three physical disabilities: Arthrogryposis, a hearing impairment, and vision impairment. Courtney rolls through life with a smile on her face, coffee, chocolate, and her laptop. She believes she can help other writers hone their craft and voices.
Julie Amparano Publisher
Lisa Diethelm Managing Editor (also CNF & Fiction editor)
Senior Copy Editor, Fiction & CNF Editor, Megan Demko
Senior Poetry Editor & Scripts Editor, Katharine Colledge
Sam Berry is finishing her MA in English at ASU. This is her first year working with CANYON VOICES Literary Magazine, and she is excited to be a part of the team. Sam is from Michigan where she received her BA in Secondary Education: English from Eastern Michigan University. She is currently in her sixth year teaching high school English at a public school in Phoenix, and she plans to teach for the entirety of her professional career. Teaching literature, watching horror movies, and listening to music are three of Sam’s favorite things.
This is Jennifer Heintz’s first time at CANYON VOICES and she has enjoyed every minute of it. She is currently earning her master’s in English at ASU and has a BA in English from ASU as well. As an avid reader, Jennifer hopes to one day work in the literary world as her dream has always been to be a part of the process that brings books into creation. Born and raised in Southern California, Jennifer is still adjusting to the blazing heat but has loved her time in Arizona. In Jennifer’s free time she loves to read, watch true crime documentaries/listen to podcasts, cuddle with her dog and cat, and spend time with her amazing husband and beautiful children.
Senior Copy Editor, Fiction & CNF Editor, Jennifer Heintz
Senior Design Editor, Poetry & CNF Editor, Cole Daugard
Born In Palm Desert and raised in Peoria, Cole is an editor, musician, and historian. When he’s not focused on his studies, he’s busy managing the warehouse of Touchdown Sportswear & Promotions. Working and schooling full time, Cole doesn't find much time to do what he loves. His passion for music and philosophy often distract him from his daily routine, but he gets things done nevertheless. Cole’s dream is to make T shirts and music until retirement. After retirement, he wants to teach history at the local high school as a hobby. Cole expects to live the rest of his life in Arizona, unless the water runs out.
Senior Copy Editor, Poetry & Scripts Editor, Samantha Berry
Megan Demko is currently a Master’s student at Arizona State University; she will be graduating this summer. Megan has lived in Arizona for her entire life and enjoys the blazing desert heat, which she calls home. Over the past four years, Megan has been published in magazines such as All Out Kings, So Scottsdale!, IEEE Electronics, and Arizona Gaming Guide. Previously, Megan has been an editor for another ASU magazine for the downtown campus; Write On, Downtown. As a senior copy editor for CANYON VOICES this year, she has enjoyed the many opportunities she has had to work on the nitty gritty details of editing. Megan enjoys watching television and spending time with her boyfriend, family, and friends in her free time.
Katharine Colledge is a junior at ASU, working towards her BA in English. Although this is her first semester with CANYON VOICES , she has found she has a love for it and has plans to return for the Fall issue as well. Katharine is a transfer student who has finally found a passion pursuing English and learning about what it takes to create a literary magazine. Outside of the magazine, she pursues small side endeavors including acting, writing, and participating in research projects related to the arts. While uncertain of the exact life path she wants to pursue, she hopes to one day become a published novelist and travel the world to see all it has to offer.
CANYONVOICES | SPRING2022 STAFF PAGES : SENIOR EDITORS
Joshua Muravnick Senior CNF Editor & Fiction Editor
“You’re only given a little spark of madness, how mustn’t use it” Robin Williams
CANYONVOICES | SPRING2022 STAFF PAGES : SENIOR EDITORS
Arianna Alicia Reyes, or Ari, is a third year student at ASU, pursuing a degree in Secondary Education in English and dreams of sharing her love of literature with her students one day. In her free time, she has been volunteering with the statewide organization LUCHA since 2019, which focuses on social, racial and economic justice. In her time there, she has been a part of political education programs that educate on both systems of oppression, as well as the power of organizing our communities. Arianna also enjoys skating, singing, and tending to her many houseplants.
Olivia Hsu is graduating with a bachelor's in Interdisciplinary Arts and Performances and is an aspiring singer songwriter. Ultimately, Olivia creates to share her experiences that expose her inner thoughts through her music and writing. Music and writing has always been a place where she can make others understand and process which will be the statement in her sparks of creativity.
Arianna Reyes Senior Poetry Editor and CNF Editor Wuest Senior Scripts Editor & Fiction Editor
Hailing from the Pacific Northwest, Emmie loves oat milk hot chocolate and getting lost in old bookshops. When she isn’t studying and juggling an unreasonable amount of hobbies, she devours classic horror flicks from the ‘80’s and will gladly talk anyone’s ear off about them. She is currently majoring in English and Anthropology and is also a student at the Barrett Honors College. Emmie is a creative writer, but also dabbles in research related to the critical race theory controversy in the US. She has loved working on CANYON VOICES and hopes to return next semester.
Joshua Muravnick is a student here at ASU, majoring in English and creative writing, and is pursuing a career in teaching language arts. He is a new fiction writer born in Las Vegas, Nevada. Joshua is fascinated with the dark, strange, unexplainable, and occultist themes; which act as a core inspiration for his writing. When he is not reading or writing, he enjoys attending concerts all over the valley and staying in, binge watching films of all genres; but especially superhero and horror movies.
Oliva Hsu Senior Scripts Editor & Poetry Editor
Emmeline
Born in Austin, Texas but grew up here in Arizona, Matthew Chesser is finishing his BA in the College of Integrated Sciences and Arts at ASU. This is his second year working with CANYON VOICES . He comes from a military family. His father is a retired colonel in the USAF, Assistant Professor at University of Arizona, and an internal medicine doctor at the VA Hospital in Phoenix. In his free time, Matthew spends time playing his favorite video games, watching the English Premier League, and helping out on their ranch. He looks forward to eventually submitting his own work to CANYON VOICES in future issues.
Fiction Editor & Scripts Editor, Abdullah Al Juouriy
Abdullah or AB, is finishing up his computer science BA this upcoming may. Born in Iraq but has been living in Phoenix since 2013. It’s his first time joining the CANYON VOICES’ editor crew. Even though coming from a computer science background, literature has always been a joy in his life so he decided to join canyons voices in hopes of exploring different types of literature. AB spends most of his free time outside of work playing soccer or watching sports. While he loves watching basketball and soccer, one of his passions is reading history books. AB hopes one day to start his own sports blog.
Brandon Jirak is a Political Science major for ASU. He graduates in May 2022. He decided to join this class because he enjoys reading poetry and it was cool to put in my own insight for each poem. He thinks he was able to work with great peers in this class to make a great project to be a success. He likes to read poetry and sometimes write some of his own because I feel like you can learn a lot from it. He thinks a great quote people should know is this one from Malcolm X: “Education is the passport to the future, for tomorrow belongs to those who prepare for it today.”
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Poetry Editor & CNF Editor, Matt Ian Tyler Chesser
Poetry Editor & Scripts Editor. Brandon Jirak
CANYONVOICES | SPRING2022 STAFF PAGES : EDITORS
