Canyon Voices Issue 12

CANYONVOICES L I T E R A R Y

M A G A Z I N E

ISSUE 12 FALL 2015

Untitled by Carolina Mesquita (See the Art Section for the author’s artwork

FICTION n Jello Shots & Shopping Carts n Falling Star n A Girl, A Tiger n Ora al Respecto n Brass Buttons n Florence in September n Broken Angels n Eat Your Heart Out n Cool Cool Records n Throws

POETRY n The Floating Fiesta n Wetback n Retired n Goldfish n My Escape n Immutable n Lasagna Garden n Lilly, Lonely Trailer Prostitute n Moon God n Newspapers n First Apartment n I, Ingrate n Galore n Smoke A Cigarette n The Twins and the Ram n To the Unborn n Rush Hour Casualty

CREATIVE NONFICTION n Palos Verdes n Stop the Noise n This Army Thing n The Best Dinosaur n Place Names n Waking Nightmare n Putana and Santa Rosalia

SCRIPTS n The State of Colorado v. Tennessee Williams n Ntirlantà

ARTWORK n Carolina Mesquita n Dylan Pham n Kaylen Everett n Kevin Tran n Nate Tunstall n Samantha Garduno n Bill Wolak n Cassandra White n Tony Dean n Derick Washington n Olivia Tejeda n Sarina Guerra n W. Jack Savage n Aggie Redkey n Jonathan Kistner n Larry Bird n William Crawford n Allen Forrest

AUTHOR’S ALCOVE n We Suck At Titles Too: Allison Hawn n Playwright James Armstrong Talks n Henry Carillo n John Grey: Extra! Extra! Read All About It! n Patricia Martarella n Nate Tunstall n Robert Joe Stout: A Writer’s Perspective on Writing and Publishing

ABOUT US n Our Mission n Contact Us n Submission Guidelines n Staff Pages

Publisher’s Note Can it be that Canyon Voices already is six years old? I remember the day I gathered with a small student crew in the basement of ASU’s Faculty Administration Building to brainstorm the creation of a literary magazine.

We quickly decided it would be student run and that it would center on emerging writers and artists. There already were too many magazines focusing on established writers and artists. Consequently, we set out to create a space for emergent talent, which we have found to be raw, risky and profound.

Now, 12 issues later, Canyon Voices is still living up to its mission.

I’m so proud of this staff, which was one of the smallest groups to date. When we first started out, I worried about whether these students would be able to handle the hundreds of submissions. They did so with diligence and careful determination. I fretted about them tackling the editing and layout process. Yet, they pressed on and produced a beautiful and engaging issue. It wasn’t always easy, but each and every one of them persevered in the end.

I applaud each of these students. I think you will too after reading the magazine. However, none of this would be possible without the support of my Division Director Louis Mendoza and Dean Marlene Tromp. We thank you!

Julie Amparano Publisher

Publisher Editor in Chief Managing Editor Copy Chief Production Assistant

Julie Amparano Morgan Henderson Cassandra White Morgan Henderson Lily Arias

Fiction Lead

Sayed Karimi

Fiction Editors

Selene Denlinger Ariana Schaeffer Aimee Sharifi Kaitlin Thern

Poetry Leads

David Redkey

Poetry Editors

Sybil Tracy Lily Arias Alyssa Arns

Creative Nonfiction Lead

Megan Huffman

Creative Nonfiction Editors

Patricia Colomy Astrid Castaneda Kammyon Gooden Noelani Verdy

Art Lead

Sybil Tracey

Art Editors

Alyssa Arns Selene Denlinger Kaitlin Thern

Event Coordinator Social Media Editor Staff Photographer Marketing Department

Megan Huffman Erin McDowell Cassandra White Lauren Griswold Ruth Dempsey

CANYON VOICES is a student-­‐driven online literary magazine that features the work of emerging and established writers and artists. The magazine is supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts, and Cultural Studies at Arizona States University’s New College. To subscribe, please click here. Click here for submission guidelines.

Cover image by Dylan Pham See the Artwork section for full image Uncredited artwork from Pixabay.com

Aftermath by Samantha Garduno (see Artwork for full image)

FICTION

Jello Shots and Shopping Carts

By Kat Lewis Falling Star

By Olivia Tejeda A Girl, A Tiger

By Mikala Kass Ora Al Respecto

By Patricia Martarella Brass Buttons

By Seth Slater Florence in September

By Joe Giordano Broken Angels

By Abby Silva Eat Your Heart Out

By Catherine Craig Cool Cool Records

By Joel Salcido Throws

By William Talley

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Jello Shots & Shopping Carts

By Kat Lewis

T

here were two good things look at the plum-colored splotch. A drunk about vomiting. The first was giggle slipped out of her chapped lips as that no one liked to bother her fingers poked at the bruise. “Shit,” she anyone spewing a volcano of swore, her eyes watering with a wince. black beans and pico de gallo in a Chipotle restroom. People would Three sharp knocks rapped the door and inevitably knock on the door and throw Jo jumped. “Hey,” a voice cooed from the out a cursory “Are you alright?” but other side. Jo wasn’t sure how but it once you replied with a casual but sounded more genuine than its raspy, “Right as rain,” they’d all gladly predecessors. “You alright in there?” turn back the way they came.

The second good thing about vomiting “Yeah.” The word burned on its way up. Jo was that you got to taste cleared the puke out of her throat and that Chipotle burrito added, “Just having some twice. Jolene Tope seconds,” she joked but her was face down in the southern accent clanged with The second porcelain with the stress. good thing taste of vodka and a about vomiting half-digested burrito “You, uh, want me to bring fermenting on her you some water or was that you got tongue. Cheek something? Might pair well to taste that squished against the with that acidy after taste.”

Chipotle burrito toilet bowl’s cool rim, twice. she groaned.

Jo smirked but shook her Everything hurt. Her head. “Nah, I got a sink full of stomach burned with a water. I’m good.” cocktail of Tabasco sauce and booze and that was the least of her The door shifted in its frame as the person worries. on the other side leaned against it. “I highly recommend you don’t drink that. The water Pushing off the toilet, Jo clambered to in this city is about as good for you as her feet. She stumbled but caught her crystal meth.” balance with two drunk stomps. As she pushed the haze of red hair out of her “Well, I highly recommend you don’t tell me face, her palm grazed the skin by her what to do.” Despite her words, she temple, causing even more pain. She heeded the advice. As much as she wanted looked in the mirror. Black grew in rings to rinse the taste of college and regret out around her eye. It puffed where her of her mouth, she kept her hands off the eyelids met, somehow leaving her green faucet. eye both permanently opened and shut.

She leaned on the sink to get a closer “You know, they’re about to close. Can I at

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Jo held onto the sink for support, trying her best to keep it all down but quickly lost the fight. least make sure you get in a cab okay?”

Jo reached for her makeshift purse, a Star Wars lunchbox that was slumped against the toilet. She slipped her cell phone, an ancient flip phone, out of the side pocket and checked the time. She squinted at the light as the time, 10:41, glared at her from the screen. “I suppose that—” She heaved. Jo held onto the sink for support, trying her best to keep it all down but quickly lost the fight. The vomit bubbled up her throat and burst from her mouth with determination. Only about half of it made it into the toilet. The rest of the slop dribbled down the side of the bowl and splatted against the cement floor. Jo wiped the spittle from her mouth with the back of her hand, unknowingly smearing some onto her cheek.

when he saw Jo’s black eye.

His brow creased even more at the vomit on the floor. “Bad night?”

Jo shook her head. “Not as bad as the guy that has to clean that up.” She gently but non-negotiably pushed the man aside so she could pass.

She staggered down the hall, threatening to take a tumble.

The man held out his arms, ready to catch her but she steadied herself on her own.

Jo plodded into the eating area and headed towards the soda fountain with sloppy purpose. She cupped her hand under the waterspout and poured the water before

The man shook his head and got a water cup from the manager. “Here,” he said, filling the cup up of her.

Jo took the cup and chugged most of the water in a single gulp. “Thanks.” He opened his mouth to say something else but only stared at her face.

“What?” The word came out more like a demand than a question.

“You got a little,” he said, politely gesturing to his own cheek.

“A little what?”

“You missed a spot.” Jo wiped her cheek, pulling back a glob of puke on her hand. She looked back at him to see if she had rubbed it all off. “You got it.” The man offered

Lunchbox in hand, Jo dragged her feet to the door and opened it. On the other side stood a man too old to be a college peer but too young to have real adult commitments. He was wearing a neon yellow vest that didn’t compliment his robust beer belly. He smiled as the door opened but the corners of his mouth dipped Image: Pixabay.com

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sipping from her palm.

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another smile and Jo sipped from her cup, returning his gaze with suspicion and scrutinizing interest.

Behind them, the manager closed the cash drawer and said, “Sorry but I gotta kick you guys out.” His gaze turned to Jo. “You okay to get where you gotta be?”

Jo nodded, but it was the man that answered for her, “I’ll make sure she gets in a cab.”

The manager’s eyes shifted between the two. “Do you know him?

“Nope.” Jo’s lips popped on the “p.” The manager started to protest but Jo stopped him.

“I’ll be fine. I got a shit ton of mace in here.” She patted the

lunchbox. “And a killer pussy.” Shock settled onto the faces of both men. They jerked away from Jo as if her words had slapped them. Jo unclipped her carabiner keychain from her belt loop.

She held up her keys and they chinked and twisted. Among the keys was a keychain that was shaped like a cat’s face with its ears coming to two sharp points. She slipped her fingers through the eyeholes and held up a weaponized fist. “Ya’ll are some kind of perverts,” she said with a giggle before wobbling towards the door. The man followed closely behind and opened it for her.

Outside, he took his smartphone out of his pocket

and looked up a cab company.

Jo leaned over and squinted at his screen. “Well, that’s kind of ya, but totally unnecessary. I live just a few blocks away.

I’mma walk.” Jo gave him a two-finger salute and held up the cup of water. “Nice meetin’ ya and thanks for the agua.”

She started to walk away but the toe of her shoe caught on an uneven slab of sidewalk.

She hit the ground, scuffing a knee and the heels of her palms on the concrete. “Ah, shit.”

The man helped her to her feet and she leaned against him, glancing down at her skinned knee. “Yeah, you’re not walking home.”

“Well, I ain’t paying for a cab.

And before you get all good

Image: Pixabay.com

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The man chuckled. “So, my name is Bryan, thanks for asking,” he said, steadying Jo for her to stand on her own.

“And because I’m ‘Good Guy Bryan’,” he paused with air quotes, “I’m not letting you. . .” he hesitated and she filled in the blank with her own name.

the sidewalk. Jo lounged in the cart, aggressively humming the Star Wars theme song as she made the Millennium Falcon charm hanging from her lunchbox fly around. Bryan laughed and it only enticed Jo to glare back at him and hum louder. “You know, I’m more a Star Trek person myself,” he said.

She dropped the ship and groaned. “You are the worst type of person. Star Trek isn’t even cool.”

Jo lounged in the cart, aggressively humming the Star Wars theme song as she made the Millennium Falcon charm hanging from her lunchbox fly around.

“Jo.” “Jo,” he echoed, “walk home alone.”

“Since I clearly can’t walk,” she replied with a gesture to the blood and loose skin hanging from her knee, “What’re you gonna do? Carry me?”

Bryan glanced around the parking lot. The Chipotle was located in a strip mall with a nail shop, a third-rate pizzeria, and a Giant. Bryan’s gaze scanned the strip mall’s neon signs before landing on an abandoned grocery cart in the parking lot.

The shopping cart squeaked as Bryan wheeled Jo down CANYONVOICES

“Do you know how much money the last two movies made?”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s only ‘cause J.J. Abrams directed them.”

“Yeah, and made them awesome.”

“Well, guess what? He jumped ship from the third movie to direct a real franchise.”

Bryan closed his eyes and cradled his heart with feigned pain. “That’s a low blow.”

Jo shrugged and said, “Truth hurts.”

“Not as much as that shiner probably does.” Jo snorted

but didn’t volunteer any information. “How’d you get it?” She pointed to the lunchbox and Bryan blinked in response. “You got in a fight over a lunchbox?”

“Yes,” she said before quickly correcting. “Well, no. Kinda.”

She unsteadily unzipped the lunchbox to reveal an ice tray half-filled with red jello. “My friends,” she spat out the word as if it were a slur, “threw a party and didn’t invite me. I saw the pictures on Facebook and to add insult to injury, my roommate stole the jello shots I made and took them over there like the Judas she is. So, naturally, I was like, ‘Fuck all a ya’ll. I’mma go take my shit back.’ So I go over to the apartment, sneak into the kitchen, and throw the ice tray with my jello shots into the lunchbox. I went to steal something else when fucking Nina walked in. This bitch.

She tries to take the bottle from me. We’re pulling and pulling on it and then her hands slip, I pull too hard and nail myself in the face.”

Bryan chuckled. “What’d you do to get yourself nixed from the guest list?”

“What makes you think it was my fault?

Bryan shrugged as the cart caught on a crack in the sidewalk. “Something tells me that’s not your first black eye.”

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guy . . .” Jo trailed off realizing she didn’t know his name.

“Good guy whatever-yourname is on me, I ain’t taking a nickel from you.”

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“And won’t be the last,” she said with a gap-toothed grin.

Her gaze shifted to a critter running through the shadows across the street. “I unno though. It’s just frustratin’ ‘cause people never do what’s right because what’s right is always harder. If Nina and her gaggle of wantons just said, look, we don’t want to around I’d still be like, ‘fuck ya’ll’ but probably wouldn’t have been so vindictive about it all.” She looked back to the tray in her lap. “I’m sorry. I’ve been rude.

Would ya like one?” she asked, holding up the jello to Bryan.

He shook his head.

“No, I think I’m good.”

“You sure? They’re really good.” She spoke in a singsong voice, wiggling the tray to tantalize him.

“Positive.”

She shrugged and dropped the tray into her lap. “What’s with the neon getup?”

“I’m a crossing guard.”

Jo giggled a bit. “You twirl a sign and herd yard apes?”

“Yard apes?”

“That’s what my Nana called children. Bunch a yard apes.

When me and my cousins were little we’d be runnin’ around her backyard and when it was time for dinner she’d always say to one of our CANYONVOICES

moms, ‘Tell them yard apes to get their asses inside and wash their hands.’” Bryan laughed. “But it’s eleven something at night. Why yous still wearing that ugly vest?”

“Right after work I had class and some errands to run.

Forgot I had it on really.”

“Oh, do you go to the University too.”

He shook his head. “Police academy.”

Bryan paused for a moment before saying, “Would you believe me if I said neither?”

Jo shook her head. “Well,” he said, lifting the cart over another crack in the pavement, “I guess if you boil it down it’s the money. I don’t see the value of investing in education if there’s a low chance of making a return.”

Jo pointed at the quiet intersection as they approached. “Turn here.”

Turning the cart, Bryan went on, “But I don’t “I’m a crossing guard” know. At the end of the day, I just wanna Jo giggled a bit. “You twirl do the right thing.

When I was in high a sign and herd yard school, I saw a driveapes?” by and the bullet hit a kid by mistake. I saw the shooter’s face, his tattoos, his friend’s piercings, everything. I even got their “Shit, yous a cop?” plates but my old man wouldn’t let me come forward.

Bryan grinned at her terror.

They never caught the guys “Not yet. But I’m not even and I’ve regretted it ever gonna ask how old you are.” since.” He shrugged. “Guess this is me balancing out my “Unless I’m being detained, I karma.” ain’t gotta answer shit,” she said. “Nana hated cops.”

Jo scooted around in the cart to face him. She scratched at “A lot of people do.” the interstices of the square impressions on her thighs and “She said that people only become cops for two reasons. held up the tray of shots. “To doing what’s right,” she said, You either need the cash and scooping out a square of jelly don’t wanna work a real job or with her finger. you have a superiority complex and wanna carry a big gun. Which is it for you?”

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“Whoa-oh,” Bryan said, picking up the flip phone.

“Look at this dinosaur.” He flipped the phone open and thumbed out something on the number pad. “If you ever find yourself in trouble again, give me a call.” He saved his number into the phone as “Good Guy Bryan” before closing it and handing it back.

“I’ll come pick you up. No questions asked.”

A smile eased back onto Jo’s face as she wedged the phone back into her pocket.

“Thanks.”

Silence settled between them, long but comfortable. In the quiet, they listened to the street breath with the occasional passing car and muffled music from the apartment building. With a small nod, Bryan broke the silence. “You, uh, you got your keys?” Jo nodded, patting the carabiner still clipped to her belt loop. “Got that awful lunchbox?” Jo rolled her eyes and held it up, the Millennium Falcon knocking against the side of the bag. “Got the jello shots?” She held up the tray.

“The killer pussy?”

Jo nodded with a laugh.

“Yeah. I think I got it all.”

heels and pushing the cart away. As she unclipped her keys, Jolene watched him go.

His reflective vest slinked into the shadows of the street and threw off every ounce of light it could. Listening to the rattle of the cart, she still felt the vibrations from the ride slithering through her legs and up her spine. She felt the movement tingle in her teeth and tickle the space under her nose. The feeling muted the sting of her knee and the pulse of her black eye. Jo shuffled for the right key and stood on the doormat. She leaned her head against the door and listened to the night sing, searching hard for the trundle of wheels and the whisper of footsteps.

“Alright then, stay out of trouble, you hear?”

She gave him another twofinger salute and said, “No promises.”

Bryan offered her one last smile before turning on his

■■■ For more information on author Kat Lewis, please visit our Contributors Page.

Image: Pixabay.com

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what’s right,” he said. The two of them tapped squares. They swallowed them whole, letting the slimy gelatin slip its way down their throats. Jo’s squashed gaze shifted to the brick apartment building beside them. “This is me,” she said, struggling to find her balance to stand up. When Bryan helped her jump down, her phone slid out of her back pocket and clattered against the metal bars of the cart.

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Falling Star

By Olivia Tejeda

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he ocean roared into the inlet 130 feet below, pushing Javier Casado to keep climbing, but he held still, corpse-like, pressed against the edge of the cliff. His fingers gripped the tiny outcropping of rock above his head with such fervor the muscles and tendons in his arms bulged like thick string under his dark brown skin.

“Cuidado,” he whispered.

“Cuidado.” And he heard the catch in his voice.

Of course he’d be careful. He knew what he was doing. He climbed these rocks hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. This was familiar ground to him.

So why was his heart beating so hard it drowned out the pounding surf below?

Why was his body glazed in a sour sweat that made each step upward more treacherous? Cliff diving was his heritage. He learned it from his father, and carried on the tradition of the divers at La Quebrada, Acapulco. For generations, men climbed the cliffs and jumped, sailing like birds before gliding into a tiny crevice of ocean below where waves crash in and out over the rocks.

The timing of their dives had to be perfect in order to survive the water conditions. Jump too soon and the water’s not deep enough to sustain your dive. Jump too late and the force of the waves will smash you against a rock.

Javier felt an unfamiliar twitch in his foot and knew he had held still for too long.

His toes could no longer hold his weight

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Photo by Olivia Tejeda “As He Lifted Off”

on the jagged ledge that held him up. The unnamed fear that woke him from a sound sleep last night was with him again and held him in place. He knew he had to climb, but he couldn’t move.

After 20 years of diving for the tourist crowds at the cliffs of La Quebrada, he was a star. The boys he started with had all left the team. Even younger divers had come and gone, complaining of too many injuries, too little money, or just plain boredom. *** “Boredom! Can you imagine?” he once told Luciela, who fell overwhelmingly in love with her husband the first moment she saw FALL2015

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“Idiotas,” he raged.

Luciela tried putting her arms around him, but he stepped away.

“Mi amor, what is it? What has you so angry?”

“They’re not bored. They’re cowards. This is not just a silly tourist show to bring Gringos to Acapulco. This is an honor, a tradition passed down from our padres. You don’t walk away because you’re bored.

You have to be proud, honorable. You have to be brave.”

That was weeks ago, and it was like he had planted a seed that took hold and grew inside him. *** After kissing Luciela goodbye that morning, Javier made his way to the cliffs. He arrived early to watch tourists gather, packing onto the terrace, shoulder to shoulder, to wait for the divers. He remembered many years ago when he tried his first dive.

His father took him to La Solitas, not Playa de la Garra where the older boys dove.

Javier was disappointed.

Solitas was a tiny inlet with gentle sloping rocks and CANYONVOICES

delicate waves.

“Papa,” Javier complained, “Solitas is for babies. Take me instead to la Garra. All the boys learn at the claw.

“It’s big adventure, no?” his father asked.

“Si! Adventure! That’s what I want!” He was sure he’d convinced his father, but they kept walking in silence toward Solitas, and Javier knew

here and you will learn the heartbeat of the ocean. You will see how she breathes, deep and slow, and you will learn to breathe with her.

Listen to the sea. She will tell you everything you need to know.”

Papa looked to the sea and put his hand on his chest.

“Sígueme,” he said. “Follow me.”

Javier did as he was told and watched the sea. He found his

Jump today at la Garra and you may never jump again. But learn here and you will learn the heartbeat of the ocean.

better than to complain.

As they approached the inlet Papa spoke. “It is adventure you want?”

“Si,” Javier said, quietly, hoping to show Papa he wasn’t silly or childish, but he was strong and sure, like a man.

Papa smiled. “This world is full of adventure, and you can have all of it that you wish, Javier.”

“Then why are we here?”

Javier pleaded. “Let’s go to la Garra.”

Papa shook his head. “Mijo, listen to me. You want to dive at la Garra first thing, but you know nothing of diving. Jump today at la Garra and you may never jump again. But learn

breath deepening, and he tried to make it follow the waves as they flowed in and out.

The growing noise from the crowd pulled Javier out of his memories. He stood apart from the terrace where the tourists gathered and tried to make his breathing follow the sea, but he couldn’t do it. His father taught him that fear is a natural part of diving. No matter how many times he stood on the cliff, he felt it, but today was different. The fear that woke him last night was still with him, and it fought for his attention, even as he tried to distract himself by looking at the many different faces in the crowd.

A man in a straw hat caught his eye. Papa! Javier’s breath stopped. The man held FALL2015

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him when they were just 12 years old. That love, which had only deepened through the years, kept her praying a daily rosary that he too would find boredom in the calling that risked his life every day.

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Falling Star...

Continued Javier’s gaze for a moment, then looked away. No. Javier knew he was wrong. Papa had been dead twelve years, but in that instant, Javier remembered his father’s presence in his dream.

“Listen to the sea. She will tell you everything you need to know,” Papa said. In the dream, Javier heard his father as clearly as he did that day at Solitas.

“Tell me, Papa. Tell me what I need to know,” Javier whispered.

He closed his eyes and a sudden calm overtook him and finally he began to breathe like the sea. He could tell by the change in the sea breeze that it was time for the show. He took off his gray shorts and tucked them away before squeezing his way through the tourists.

“Con permiso,” he said courteously, “Con permiso,” but no one moved. It was not until they saw his dark brown body covered only with a tiny black swimsuit, that they realized he was one of the divers, and in awe, they moved aside as if he was a movie star.

His own pride, and his adrenaline, rose again as he made his way through the crowded terrace and climbed CANYONVOICES

down the wall that led to the gulch, the narrow ravine he dives into.

He swam across the ravine to climb back up 130 feet to his diving perch on the other side. Midway up he was overcome with fear as he heard his father’s voice, more urgent this time.

Listen to the sea!

Javier held still and listened.

He wanted desperately to understand his father’s message, but he only heard the ocean’s roar far below. It pushed him to keep climbing, but he couldn’t move until a twitch in his foot forced him to take a step upward.

Javier was always the last diver. He was the star, the finale, jumping from the highest point on the cliffs, doing the most dangerous dives. He worked hard all these years to reach this point, and he continued to hone his skills with hours of daily practice, running, weight training, acrobatics.

He took his role seriously, unlike some of the younger divers who saw it as a quick way to a moment of fleeting celebrity.

By now the other divers had completed their jumps. Javier should have been in position, but he was still climbing. He finally reached the cliff-side shrine to La Virgen de Guadalupe, a small indentation in the rock with a

faded blue statue of La Virgen propped inside. It was his last stop before reaching the top, but he wouldn’t ignore it. He bowed and started to make a quick sign of the cross, but stopped. He should be filled with adrenaline by now, ready to fly on his own wings, but all he felt was fear. He waited for the adrenaline to take over, the adrenaline that kept him diving everyday. He waited for it, even though he finally had to admit to himself that there are better ways to care for his family, ways that won’t risk his life every day. He waited for it, even though he had to kiss Luciela goodbye every night as she left for her midnight shift at the laundry to help pay the bills. Is this the cost of tradition? I can’t even support my family like a man.

Javier’s delay caused mounting excitement in the crowd. One of the divers started chanting his name and the crowd followed. The growing noise from the crowd interrupted his thoughts for the second time today, and he inhaled sharply. He finished making the sign of the cross and then kissed it to the sky. He walked to his diving perch and stepped onto a small outcropping in the rock where both feet hung more than half way over the edge. He stood, straight as a soldier, and his mind was finally clear as he looked down and watched the waves fill and drain the ravine.

He was breathing just as his FALL2015

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father taught him. Deep and slow, in time with the sea as he listened for her message crashing in and out on the rocks. The pulse of the ocean was as familiar as his own and he waited for a surge that would bring the gulch to a safe depth, just twelve feet.

In that moment of waiting, he understood. His time had come to walk away from the honor of diving. Javier saw a wave swell beyond the narrow walls of the gulch, and he knew it was his. It was his time, he was the only diver left, he was doing the most dangerous dive, and the crowd was waiting for him, chanting his name. He couldn’t turn around now no matter how many doubts rose in his head.

He felt that unfamiliar twitch in his foot again, and it nearly stopped him as he raised his arms to signal he was ready.

The cheer of the crowd rose above the crashing waves. It was his time. He couldn’t turn around now. He moved his feet to step up onto tiptoes.

With a glance toward heaven and a nearly imperceptible bounce in his knees, Javier sent his body soaring up over the cliffs.

As he lifted off, everything went silent. He no longer heard the waves crashing or the crowd cheering. He only heard his own breath, together with the breath of the sea. His fears and confusion were gone as he flew through the air. He CANYONVOICES

Photo by Olivia Tejeda “Familiar Ground”

reached forward, stretched his arms upward, and twisted into a spiral. He curled into an effortless flip and straightened out, head over feet. It felt like an eternity, but his body hit the water within seconds, and her black silence pulled him under in a warm embrace.

The silence was deep and eternal, and Javier felt the pounding heart of the sea slowing to beat with his.

This is peace.

This is peace.

Then the sea gave him back, and Javier rose to the surface. The whooping and whistling of the crowd echoed off the cliff walls. He was born for this, the speed, the cheers, the excitement.

He was the one they were here to see. In that moment he was the star.

■■■ For more information on author Olivia Tejeda, please visit our Contributors Page.

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A Girl, A Tiger

By Mikala Kass Based on the Villeneuve and Beaumont versions of “Beauty and the Beast”

E

lla was starting to think the fairies were in on this somehow. A series of self-opening doors had led her to a courtyard yesterday (it was very large, and very enclosed), and while she was exploring, she heard birds tweeting in three-part harmony and found a spring filled with carbonated water.

But aside from her ten-minute recess, being imprisoned was boring. Not tragic, not adventurous. Just boring. A bit of a letdown, don’t you think? Ella was a highprofile target for kidnappings, but this was her first time around, and the dullness was the biggest surprise of the whole business.

She wished she had something to read.

While Ella was reflecting on this, her cell door drifted open. She ventured out and walked through more opening doors until she arrived at a small, vacant cafeteria where a bowl of steaming alphabet soup sat on one of the metal tables. Every time she stirred it, the letters rearranged themselves into a couplet of iambic pentameter.

While Ella was busy stirring, she happened to look up, and she found a tiger staring at her.

Have you ever thought about what to do if you encounter a tiger? Ella hadn’t, but she knew what to do if she saw a bear and figured the rules were pretty much the same. She set her spoon down very slowly.

“Good afternoon,” said the tiger. Ella screamed and leapt to the door in a flagrant abandonment of bear protocol, but the CANYONVOICES

With a bright flash and a whiff of roses, Ella reappeared in the middle of her cell, where she collapsed on her bed and cried tears of frustration. same force that had opened it had locked it behind her. She climbed on top of one of the tables and picked up a plastic plate that she prepared to Frisbee into the tiger’s face.

“Whoa, it’s okay, I’m not actually a tiger,” said the tiger.

“No kidding!” said Ella.

“I didn’t mean to surprise you. I didn’t realize anyone would be in here. Want to sit?”

“This isn’t some trick so you can just eat me?” said Ella.

The tiger rolled his eyes. “That’s disgusting,” he said. He sat on the table bench and lapped the soup.

“Why am I being kept here? Who’s in charge? Have they made a ransom demand?” said Ella. She sat down across the table.

The tiger looked up from his soup. “I don’t know anything about a ransom,” he said. “I’m a prisoner, too. But I’m afraid it’s my fault that you’re here.”

“Then let me go!” said Ella.

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couldn’t outrun him, and as you might recall, she had been very bored lately.

before my imprisonment. Two weeks of bloody terror. And I... it was never meant...”

“No!” she said. She got up and shook the door, yelling, “Let me OUT!” With a bright flash and a whiff of roses, Ella reappeared in the middle of her cell, where she collapsed on her bed and cried tears of frustration.

After some initial awkwardness, the two had a surprisingly pleasant conversation in which they discovered a shared fondness for gnome literature, jazz, and blueberry pie. The tiger was curious about the outside world, so Ella apprised him of current events he had missed during his imprisonment.

“What?” said Ella.

When Ella woke up the next morning her door was already open, and a covered tray of toast and caffeinated jam rested on the ground nearby.

A few minutes later, feeling jittery (the jam was strong), Ella followed another path of doors out to the courtyard again. She had just finished a reconnaissance of the high brick fence (zero holes), when she heard a low purring in the distance. She followed it to the edge of a clearing and hid herself behind a bush. It was the tiger.

The tiger’s ears flicked and he turned his head in her direction. “My hearing is pretty good, you know,” he said. “I know you’re there.”

Ella swore and started running into the trees, but the tiger leapt after her.

“Wait!” he said. The tiger blocked Ella’s path. “I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. Can we talk? I haven’t seen another person in a really long time.” Ella considered, shrugged, and walked back into the clearing with the tiger. She obviously CANYONVOICES

The tiger took a deep breath and looked off into space. “Is it possible... What if I said I was partly responsible? For that battle. Is that forgivable?

Could you forgive that?”

Ella stared at him with cold, cold eyes. “That battle killed my only brother,” she said, “so

After some initial awkwardness, the two had a surprisingly pleasant conversation in which they discovered a shared fondness for gnome literature, jazz, and blueberry pie.

“Then there’s the war between the Stahlwart and Ryvall kingdoms,” said Ella.

“Ah, yes. I did know about that. I almost forget what peace was like,” said the tiger.

“I know what you mean,” she said quietly. “It’s gotten worse. The land around the border is all but destroyed.

Thousands have died in the last few months alone. The Fortnight Battle took the worst toll.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” said the tiger.

“I’m into politics,” said Ella.

The tiger nodded slowly. “I remember the Fortnight Battle. It happened shortly

no.” Ella stood up to leave.

“Who are you, anyway?”

The tiger gave a low growl that ended in a choke. “HushSpell,” he finally said. “I can’t say. I don’t suppose you can tell me your name either?”

Ella tried to say Princess Ella of Stahlwart, but her whole throat felt icy and numb, and no sound would come out. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, “I don’t want to talk to you again.” Ella walked back into the prison and slammed her cell door shut herself.

Of course, Ella did talk to the tiger again over the next few weeks, but what can you expect? There was no one else around, and people get lonely. They avoided the topics of war and politics and got FALL2015

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“It’s impossible. Sorry. Will you forgive me?” said the tiger.

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A Girl, A Tiger Continued along pretty nicely. Eventually, their captors (both prisoners were very suspicious of fairies at this point) opened another section of the prison to them.

One room had a large barred window and a piano, which the tiger knew how to play, though his paws made it impossible. He insisted on giving Ella lessons; she spent many hot afternoons having “Crescendo to forte, I said!

Forte!” yelled at her until her fingers cramped.

Another room was filled floorto-ceiling with books. Ella burst into tears when she found it. She and the tiger made a pile of books as high as Ella’s waist, and every evening after dinner she would read out loud to him, since he had trouble turning pages.

The tiger started bringing Ella gifts at dinner: sugared roses from the garden, an impromptu scarf of curtain fabric to accent her gray prison jumpsuit, and once a very frightened baby-blue duckling. Then he would apologize—for her imprisonment on his account, for his part in the war, for the loss of her brother—and ask if she could forgive him. She would always say no.

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Sometimes she wanted to say yes, but there was always the anger. The stupid Hush-Spell kept the tiger from being specific, but she had the distinct sense of being wronged in a way that could never be fixed. Every night she had nightmares about her brother fighting. He would be just about to escape the battle when a tiger would come from behind and kill him.

“Subject Two. Wake up, Subject Two.” Ella jolted out of sleep and fell off her bed.

“Ow! Who’s there? Where are you?” she said groggily.

“Subject Two, certain events have transpired that require the prompt resolution of this situation, which your personal emotions are hindering.” The voice bounced around the room, seemingly without source.

Ella rubbed her face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you’re in charge, let me go.”

“We have decided to give you an ultimatum. As Subject One has informed you, he is under a Class-4 Panthera Tigris Enchantment. He is unaware of the fact that soon he will begin to lose his ability to sustain the effects of this enchantment. You have a choice. Forgive him, and you will restore him. Deny him forgiveness, and you will avenge the role you believe he had in your brother’s death—

the spell will kill him.”

Ella woke up with a start the next morning. She was back in bed. No sign of a midnight visitor. When the tiger greeted her at breakfast with the same energy he did every morning, she figured she had dreamed the whole thing.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of weighty responsibility. Every time the tiger looked at her she felt caught with it. Dinnertime was the worst. His simple, resigned plea for forgiveness—how much did he know?—sent her into a panic. Afraid to answer one way or another, she fled back to her cell.

She avoided dinner the next few days, unable to face another apology and the possibility of a final decision.

Eventually she just refused to leave her cell. She ran over her choices again and again in her mind until she became delirious from hunger and exhaustion. The tiger paced outside her cell for the first couple of days, but his visits to check on her became less frequent, until one day he didn’t show up at all. Ella could barely register disappointment—she fell asleep dreaming that she was aiming an arrow at a stranger’s back, her arm muscles trembling with stress while she tried to decide whether or not to release it.

“Look, she’s waking up!”

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“Hi, Ellie.”

“Mom?” said Ella. Her mother smiled at her. The faces of her father, King Stahlwart, and her sister, Phoebe, floated into view as well. “Am I home?”

“You are, dear. You appeared overnight. Your father nearly tripped over you in the hall on his way to get a midnight snack from the kitchens! Can you imagine?” said the queen.

bed, eating soup together and chatting. Ella told them in general terms about the prison and the tiger. They were most surprised to learn that she could now play the formidable “Concerto of Randomized Notes in B minor” on piano. They, in turn, caught her up on family business, which inevitably led to a discussion about developments in the war. It was looking grim—sources were reporting that the ogres might soon get involved. Ella

“So they let me go?” said Ella.

“Er, well, not exactly,” said Phoebe. “Whoever sent you left a note. They’re giving you a day to rest up here, but then they’re going to spell you back.”

The family called for the palace doctor, who looked down her throat and confirmed it. There was no way to remove the spell without damaging Ella’s vocal chords. He prescribed food and rest to aid Ella’s fever.

The family sat around Ella’s CANYONVOICES

“Oh, we are!” said Ella automatically. “Well, sort of.

It’s complicated.”

“How so?” said Phoebe.

“Don’t you get along?”

“We do,” said Ella. “Better than I ever have with anyone else, actually.” Wow. Where did that come from? “Aside from you, of course, Phebes,” she added with a smile. “But, I suspect that he— He’s suggested that—ugh!” The Hush-Spell kept cutting Ella off. She started again more carefully. “I’m afraid that he did something bad, but I can’t be sure because he has a Hush-Spell, too. I don’t know what to do.”

Phoebe pondered this for a moment. “So this is all that’s hindering you?” she said.

“Who took you, anyway? I’ll bet it was that scoundrel King Ryvall’s doing!” said the king.

Ella shook her head and tried to say, I think the fairies are involved in this, but her voice was frozen again. “I can’t say.

It’s a Hush-Spell.”

“Are you friends? You must be close since you only have each other to talk to,” she said.

“Basically, yes,” said Ella. was tired by the time she finished her soup, so her family left the room to let her rest. It was the first nightmare-free sleep she had in days.

When she woke up from her nap a few hours later, she found Phoebe sitting next to her. They talked the way sisters do when they haven’t seen each other in a while.

Phoebe wanted to know more about the talking tiger.

“And if it weren’t for this issue, you would feel free to be close friends?”

“I think so.”

“Then I think you have to give him some grace.”

“What? Even if he might have been responsible for... something?”

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“Thank goodness! I thought we were going to have to call the Witch of Grundor, and you know what a hassle she is.”

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A Girl, A Tiger Continued something wrong, he has to deal with that. But forgiving him is on you. Don’t let yourself be trapped by something someone else did, or might have done. You have to set yourself free, for the sake of that friendship. It sounds like it’s a good one.”

“You’ve been having to just bottle up all that sisterly advice while I’ve been gone, haven’t you?”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Will you at least think about it?”

“I will. I promise,” said Ella.

And she did, until the moment

more visible as the sun rose over the top of the wall. Ella walked into the clearing and tripped over a furry bulk.

Ella suddenly felt him stir.

“Ella,” he whispered.

“Hey! I’ve been calling you!

What are you doing out here?” she said. The tiger moaned and blinked before focusing on her.

“Forgive me, Ella?” She smiled through her tears and said yes, they were friends, and of course she forgave him, and would he forgive her? And would he wake up so she could tell him? Wake up, Tiger.

“You’re back,” he said.

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

“I was worried about you,” he said. “I couldn’t get to your cell in time the day you disappeared. I’ve been so tired lately... I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault!” said Ella.

“It’s my fault you’re sick. I don’t know what to do! Do

The fairy ignored her and opened his briefcase, taking out a large blanket and shaking it open. Ella sneezed from the dust. she drifted back to sleep.

Ella woke up feeling refreshed and—surprise!—back in the prison. She wished she had been able to say goodbye to her family, but such was life as a kidnapping victim. Her door was open so she wandered into the courtyard.

“Hello? Tiger? I’m back!” she yelled. Ella listened but heard no answer. She started searching the garden and the small wooded area, calling the tiger. She had a sense of urgency all of a sudden.

Things were slowly becoming CANYONVOICES

you need water? I know this spring nearby...”

“Do you know, I’ve been having these dreams the last few days,” said the tiger. “I get to stretch out my fingers and walk around on two legs, and then when I wake up a tiger, it aches. My body is tired of being a tiger, I think...”

He passed out, taking slow, shallow breaths. Ella stroked his head and felt tears run down the tip of her nose. She was so afraid his chest would stop rising.

“Yes?”

Wake up!

But the tiger’s eyes stayed shut. Ella had been too late.

When she accepted that her captors were not going to answer her screams for help, Ella rested her head on the tiger’s shoulder and wept.

“Excuse me,” said a man who roused Ella from her daze by poking her in the side with his shoe. No, not a man, Ella realized as she sat up. She took in the crisp suit, the impeccable white teeth, and the cinnamon-sugar scent and knew at once that this was a fairy.

“You’ve killed him already.

What do you want?” she said.

“If you’ll just move to the side, please. I don’t want you to get any second-hand spell.” Still angry but feeling curious, Ella moved over and assumed what she hoped was a murderous glare.

“What are you doing?” she said.

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“Whoops. Don’t need that one. Where is that other... Ah.” The fairy pulled out yet another blanket, this one printed with HUMAN, which he laid over the tiger.

“Is this a joke?” said Ella.

The fairy then shook the briefcase upside down over the blanket, and a few little clouds of fairy dust fell out.

The fairy stood back, looked at his watch, and said, “Now we wait.”

Ella had just reached the end of her patience when she noticed the blanket was glowing a bit. Then the blanket exploded, sending bits of cotton batting into the air.

You know what Ella saw, right?

Oh? You want to hear it anyway?

Ella saw a dazed-looking guy in tiger-striped pajamas. His hair was messy and he needed a shave. Depending on your taste, you might think he was handsome, or you might not. Ella thought he looked nice.

They both stood up and stared at each other. Ella did CANYONVOICES

not ask if he was the tiger.

“Allow me to do the introductions,” said the fairy.

“Princess Ella of Stahlwart, Prince Aaron of Ryvall.”

“Hey,” said Aaron.

“Oh,” said Ella.

“You’ve both been partially briefed on this already,” said the fairy. “A sincere apology, and true forgiveness, would free you. What you didn’t know is that this was all part of an effort by the Coalition for Peaceful Mediation, whom I represent. The war between your kingdoms has gone on for far too long. We decided to bring you to an isolated location that would foster cross-cultural communication.”

“A prison,” said Ella. “You forced us together in a prison.”

“Yeah. That plan seems pretty poorly conceived,” said Aaron.

“Look, the point is, you reached a peaceful conclusion. The bereaved party willingly forgave the instigating party. So... congrats. Take what you learned home with you.” The fairy disappeared in a puff, and a section of the outer wall opened.

“So,” said Aaron. “We should probably talk.”

“I think you’re right.”

It wasn’t a romantic talk—their royal upbringing ensured that they put their political duties first. Instead, they discussed their kingdoms’ grievances, their mutual desire for peace, and even drafted the outline of a potential peace treaty, which they both promised to present to their fathers. It was a success, according to the Coalition.

Not a very satisfying ending, is it?

Of course, my official knowledge of the events of this story ends at this point.

From here on, I can only speculate.

Aaron and Ella might, after folding away their copies of the treaty draft, decide to follow the road leading away from the prison together.

Aaron might happen to take Ella’s hand, and Ella might let him.

They might get caught in a rainstorm just as they see a town in the distance. They might take shelter under some trees, and laugh, and start talking like they used to. They might, during the course of things, mention the fact that, hypothetically speaking, a marriage would help solidify their countries’ relations.

They might share a kiss.

■■■ For more information on author Mikala Kass, please visit our Contributors Page.

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The fairy ignored her and opened his briefcase, taking out a large blanket and shaking it open. Ella sneezed from the dust. The blanket had TIGER printed on it in big letters.

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Ora Al Respecto

By Patricia Martarella

L

os calles son de oro,” they had promised. “Gold covers the streets and there is no trash and no sorrow and everyone smiles and dances and has siestas in the sun, on beaches where the sand is not black and the waters are clear like rainwater.

Pero los calles… los calles son de oro.”

them, holding a hand from each of them in my own and hopping along.

“Ora al respecto.”

Pray about it.

And so I did. That night I folded my hands together and slammed my eyes shut, bridging the sign of the cross over my torso “Will we go to America?” I asked my and curling over my plate of pupusas with parents as we strolled everything I had, my forehead nearly down the street paved in resting in the mash of beans. I asphalt and smashed prayed to go to America, the palm fronds. place my parents had I just wanted to be talked about since I could in a place where “We will go to remember. They were so no one cried; America,” they excited for opportunity, where the world answered. for abundance. I just wanted to be in a place was so bright no “Por qué?” I where no one cried; one could help grunted, lifting where the world was so but smile as they myself off the ground bright no one could help walked. between them and but smile as they walked. I swinging my body prayed through La Virgen, to forward as they supported Jesus, to Espiritu Santo, to take the pendulum of my weight. me, to take Mamáí and my unborn sibling in her belly, and Papí to America “Why, ‘what?’” my father asked, where the streets are paved in gold. I abandoning my hand and scooping me opened my eyes and crossed myself again, into his constricting arms. ending the prayer with an “amen” and a kiss to my thumb’s knuckle.

“Why do we go to America?”

When we arrived in New York, however, the “For la familia,” my mother said, streets were not paved in gold. No, these wrapping her arms around the angry roads were congested with black protruding bulb underneath her long, sludge and a flux of curious traffic that woven dress. congealed and suffocated the space no matter what time of day it was. The My father only nodded absently. buildings made of mirrors stood tall and proud against the sky, just as promised, “Cuándo?” I asked, skipping between but were scattered between the brick CANYONVOICES

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The people, too, were not what I’d been told. Americans were supposed to be happy and free; these people were CANYONVOICES

not happy and they certainly didn’t look free, chained to their technology as they maneuvered along their railways, blinded by their own thoughts. Perhaps it was the absence of green or warmth or sunlight. I craned my neck upwards. I’d never seen a sky so dark blanketing so many disgruntled people. No one smiled. No one looked another in the eyes. They just moved, frenzied and

him.

“Ora al respecto,” he answered.

Pray about it.

“No mucho más lejos,” he said then, winded, bending his arm slightly to carry me forward more quickly.

So, New York was not America.

The sky exploded then, producing big, white, powdery flakes that rained upon us and began darkening freckles along the sidewalk.

“Are we almost there?” my sister asked, wrapping her Image: Pixabay.com arms around the top of my father’s head and controlled all at once, hurried bundling closer to his in their own busy steps crown. towards destinies of broken “No mucho más lejos,” he promises like what I was living repeated calmly, leading us now. to America.

They moved much in the same way we did, I suppose; it was hard to tell who had been broken quite yet and who still had hope.

“This place smells weird, Papí.” I said, my arm sore and tiring at the shoulder from being pulled behind my father, who carried my younger sister on his shoulders and dragged a parade of luggage behind

I sighed in relief, clutching my father’s hand tighter and moving forward, quickening my pace ever so slightly; the faster I moved, the sooner we would arrive. And the sooner we arrived to America, the sooner we would be out of this dark, sad noise called New York City.

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buildings marked with strange, bubbly art and boards haphazardly thrown against the broken windows and lots filled with the carcasses of rotting skyscrapers and mountains of forgotten treasures: a couch with no cushions, the skeleton of an umbrella, the naked, abandoned corpse of a blinded baby doll no one cared about anymore. I was promised clean, sunny roads lined with trees that fountained luminescent green towards a bright, blue sky. Here, the trees were only boxed in their own square of earth along the strips of concrete that lined the streets and the only sky I’d seen since we’d arrived had been angry and grey, pregnant with the promise of precipitation. This was nothing like the grey mist of a soon-to-fall rain shrouding rich mountains in the distance; this was something dark shrouding something darker. Even the air bit at my face, as harsh and uninviting as the concrete world around me.

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And the people, all of the people were brown.

Unlike the New York people, these people were too hot to move quickly.

They, like we did now, moved very slowly so as to not be any hotter than they already were. They did not, however, seem as bothered by the heat as my sister and I. They were like reptiles in the sunlight, comfortable and accepting.

Ora Al Respecto...

Continued ~~~ We stayed in New York for four weeks, establishing ourselves enough with my Tío Richie so that we could comfortably make our way to the real United States. I was promised that America and Arizona were one in the same; Arizona would be this world of golden streets and opportunities.

But everyone was wrong.

Arizona is not golden; Arizona is the color brown.

La Libertad is green. The world is lush and vibrant; bleeding emerald crawls across the landscape, injects itself into the roar of ocean crashing against the black volcanic rock of shoreline, and climbs up the heavy arms of the árboles de mangos.

New York was always the color grey.

And Arizona was the color brown; I had never seen so much brown in my life. The streets were covered in a light brush of tan dust and lined along the highways with dirt and rocks for decoration, like Arizona was proud of the brown. The plants were brown, even the green ones.

Even the animals were brown.

CANYONVOICES

But these were an angry people, too, perhaps even angrier than those in New

I could feel the hatred, though, I could taste it like the copper of American money under my tongue.

York.

These were dark people, like us, but they spouted confusion at my family as if it were insulting, as if it should burn us like the blistering heat of the sun.

“Mexicans” they called us, as if we were to be ashamed. I did not understand most of the time; their words were too quick, too mashed with anger to be understood. I could feel the hatred, though, I could taste it like the copper of American money under my tongue. But when I opened my mouth to correct them, to tell them we are not what they think we are, my mother would hush me and hurry me away.

“We are not Mexicans, Mamí,” I would say as I climbed into bed at night, begging her to explain why it was okay to call us something we were not.

“Is it so bad to be Mexicano?” she asked, pulling the covers down for my sister in the bed beside me.

“No. Pero yo no quiero to be called something I am not.”

She would laugh and lean over me, brushing my thick, black hair away from my face.

“It is so hot here, Mamí,” I would say, feeling the matting hair pull away from my sweaty skin.

“Say your Hail Mary,” my mother would say, kissing my brow.

“That won’t make it less hot!”

“Silencio! Ora al respecto.”

Pray about it. ~~~ I touched the throbbing knot on my cheek and pulled my hand away, wincing at the fresh crimson that stained my fingers. I felt it dribble down my cheek to my chin, could taste the hot coppery metal of blood in my mouth. I spat at the dirt and stood, thankful that I was able to.

They had called me over, asking me as I slowed to FALL2015

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“Nada,” I had replied, trying to speak as little as possible. I knew what happened when you spoke Español to these idiotas.

“Her sentences sound like a bowl of words. No one can understand anything she’s

direction as we were waved outside to be scolded in harsh, bitter tones for not paying attention or not turning in our homework, or not reading for the assigned twenty minutes a night.

But the teachers had nothing on our classmates.

We were quiet around the White kids, not really

They had dreamed the way my madre and padre had dreamed; they longed for opportunity and to keep the familia intact. saying. She can’t speak any language right,” the tallest of the group said, kicking dirt in my sister’s direction.

I felt the hairs on the back of my head stand abruptly on end.

It was true, though, our Spanish was not like theirs; they spoke in poetic fluidity, properly in a way that was hard to interpret. Ours was mashed together and melded with words they’d never heard in any language before.

But this was always how it went; for two years this is how it had been.

We would go to a new school, my sister and I, and we would try to keep to ourselves, try to follow along. But eventually, it was no use. The pace was too quick, the language too different from what we knew.

Our teachers would become frustrated and huff in our CANYONVOICES

understanding what they said anyway. They would giggle at our “dirty” skin and call us the “stupid Mexicans”. We weren’t stupid; that didn’t hurt my feelings. But we weren’t Mexican, either, and for some reason that did.

The Mexicans always found us out, though.

The white kids knew our language was not theirs, but the Mexicans knew our dialect was not of their people, either. They knew our words were derived from a world that was not their own; the same world that darkened our skin and with indigenous blood of El Tunco. But even then, with skin the wrong color brown and a stature too short for our age groups, our most alarming, ostracizing feature was the reflection of El Salvador and proof of our ancestral cross with the White man in our gem-green eyes.

“No puedes hablar?” one of the girls asked me. “Nothing to say?”

I shook my head and grabbed my little sister’s hand, turning my back to them and trying to hurry her along. We needed to go home.

“Hey!” I heard the anger before I could react and was grabbed by my backpack and thrown to the ground.

“I asked you what was wrong with your sister! Qué está mal con tu hermana?”

Another kid pushed her down, causing her yellow backpack to fall over the top of her head. She stared at the ground for a beat before turning her face to me, the forests of El Salvador staring, bearing into me and filling me with rage. Her eyes welled with tears, which spilled quickly onto her cheeks, streaking dark stripes through the dirt from her eyes to her chin.

I stood, my eyes leaving her as I moved, not of my own accord, until I reached the boy who’d caused her harm. I grabbed him and slammed his pathetic body into the earth, smashing his face into the brown dust of Arizona.

“Nothing is wrong with my sister! No hay nada mal con mi hermana! Nada! Una babosa!”

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stand near them what was wrong with my sister.

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Ora Al Respecto...

Continued I raised his head, forcing him to look at her.

“Mira! Look at her! You see nothing wrong with us!”

My English failed me; my Spanish betrayed me. Even silence was my enemy.

I was lifted then, pulled from atop him. I watched the swings come at my face before I closed my eyes against them and accepted my punishment. This is what we were.

I winced at the idiocy of what I’d done again, causing attention to our differences in order to protect my sister. This was not the same story as the thousand times before, but it might as well have been.

My mother would see my bruises, touch her cool hand

to my swelling brow and lay a kiss on the top of my head.

“Does it hurt?” my little sister asked, grabbing my hand and holding our arms close between us as we began walking towards our home, covered in dirt as sweat and defeat bled down my face.

I felt cumbersome pain well in the center of my chest and push against the constraints of my ribcage.

It hurt, but not in the way she talked about. My soul hurt, the core of who I was.

I shook my head for her and looked up, suffocating the salty tears at the back of my throat.

The Arizona sun is so blindingly bright that it gleams white against the pale of the ice blue sky, free of clouds or any promise of weather.

“I still do not like it here,” my sister whispered, wiping at the

salty streams cascading down her round cheeks.

“Ora al respecto,” I told her, clearing my throat, straightening my shoulders, and moving us forward.

Pray about it. ~~~ Resentment for my skin and tongue grew, just as the bitterness for this America evolved from a small ember of disappointment to a raging conflagration of hate and acrimony. I soon learned to speak English, though reading and writing didn’t come to me so quickly. My sister, Dominga, learned and began adapting much better than I. It was harder for her to notice the differences, I think, harder for her classmates to hate her unless they were reminded to.

She had friends now, which made a difference in the bullying and teasing. Her accent, too, her beautiful Salvadorian slur began to fade into the English, only reemerging after a long

Image: Pixabay.com

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But I was not afraid to talk anymore, to look anyone in the eye.

Tío Richie had moved from New York to Arizona just a month prior to the rest of the tíos joining us in America from La Libertad. He had

The primos’ dreams of America were not the same as mine, not as naïve. They did not expect streets of gold or smiles from beautiful people who gave you money because they thought you were beautiful, too. They had dreamed the way my madre and padre had dreamed; they longed for opportunity and to keep the familia intact.

The Arizona sun is so blindingly bright that it gleams white against the pale of the ice blue sky, free of clouds or any promise of weather.

purchased two more houses on our street, enough space for the four families and my abuelos, my father’s parents, to live communally. And with the tíos had come the primos, strong and numerous, immigrating from Mejicanos the same way my family had six years before. None of the primas were quite my sister’s age; everyone was just a little bit younger, going to the primary school across the street. The older primos, though, were around my age, perhaps a little older. They all began working and opted out of high school, an option my mother had said was not available to me though I’d begged time and time again to be relieved, to start working, to contribute rather than suffer the excuse of academics that didn’t really interest me anyway.

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And for a time, all of us seemed quite content.

I began a part-time job after school, which allowed me to finally contribute to the household and to purchase a vehicle. Friday and Saturday nights we would gather at Tío Richie’s to drink and smoke and dance to cumbia.

Life was beautiful and fun; America and our lives in it didn’t seem so bad.

Until my abuela died.

Four months after my father’s mother passed, my abuelo joined her.

In America, people are different. They love at a distance until catastrophe strikes, then band together as if they’d been there all along.

This is not how we are. We are together, truly bonded as a single fighting unit. And when one of us falls, the whole of the operation is compromised.

But we hadn’t lost just one; we had lost two. And for us, this was not an expected death like the Americans have, always putting their elderly into these community buildings where their homes and lifetimes are confined to a single room in which they will die amongst people who look and feel and smell just like they do. It is the responsibility of a family to preserve its history for as long as it can; we never expect it.

The tías wailed, but only in the deep night when we were supposed to be asleep. My mother would meet them and together they would sob under the moonlight, praying for The Virgen to watch her parents, to keep them with Her, to relieve this sorrow that wracked through their hearts. The tíos cried, but the way a man is supposed to cry, behind sunglasses, cigar smoke, and warm glasses of cheap whiskey.

“Ora al respecto,” they would tell their wives and sisters.

“Ora al respecto,” the tías and my mother would say to my sister, to me, and to the primos.

Pray about it. ~~~ As a rule, it doesn’t rain in FALL2015

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weekend at home with our parents.

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Continued Arizona. The climate is arid and coarse, an unreasonable, fiery foe during the summer months. Because of this and the poorly named “monsoon season”, which was only a culmination of cracking lightening and dust storms so blinding you have to pull your car over to the side of the road and wait it out until visibility was restored, there was no more redeeming, gracious a day than that in which rain fell.

The earth and the plants quite literally opened to embrace the cool aquatic relief and restore their long-dried

reservoirs.

“Lo siento,” I said to my sister as I climbed into the passenger side of the small, coughing contraption that is my car. She looked at me from the corner of her eye and ran her hand through her hair uncomfortably, switching into gear and accelerating faster than she should have.

“You should be,” she said to me.

“No le digas a Mamá,” I pleaded.

“I won’t for her benefit. She doesn’t need to know that her favorite child is such a loser,”

she spat, the windshield wipers clunking back and forth in front of us.

“Or Dad. Please don’t tell Dad.” She sighed.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.

I’m too embarrassed.”

“I told you I was sorry, Hermana!”

“You’re sorry, para qué? What can I do with sorry? You’re sorry I had to pick you up from jail? Sorry that you couldn’t lie to me about it? Sorry that you have no one else to come get you or that I have no one else now that the only person I

Oriental Delight

By Kevin Tran CANYONVOICES

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I put my head in my hands and ran my fingers back through my hair in frustration.

that?” I asked angrily, throwing the keys from my lap into the windshield.

pity, my aggression and hopeless despondence, and I drove.

“Ora al respecto!” she commanded in a drained tone, slamming the door in my face.

And while I drove, I prayed.

She continued.

“You’re sorry that you drink until you are blind and pasas tiempo con those bad men?

Or you’re sorry that you live in America or that we don’t live in El Salvador? Or you’re sorry Abuela died? Tell me, truly, what are you sorry for?

Digame!”

She was crying now. My baby sister was suddenly not such a baby any more, telling me things everyone else ignored. I heard their whispers and their passive judgments in small circles. “Just mourning, …” they’d say, “Simply a phase... harmless youth…”

“Todos, hermana. Lo siento. I don’t know what else to say.”

There was silence for the remaining duration of the car ride. She smoothly slid into the driveway of our home and switched off the ignition. There was only the emphatic sound of raindrops against the car.

“Esto no está bien,” she said with a despondent shake of her head. “Nope. This is not okay. You fix this. Fix yourself, ” she ordered, tossing my car keys to me and opening her door.

“How am I supposed to do CANYONVOICES

“Pray about it…” I mockingly scoffed as I watched her disappear into the rain. ~~~ The ocean in El Tunco changes with the seasons, transforming its face from turquoise to a pure, fluid cobalt.

Not every beach in El Salvador is like this, though. In all of her beauty, she has waters on her coast so darkened by the black of ash of volcanoes like San Miguel, Chaparrastique that no one will go in them.

The beaches are black rock and sand pulverized by the hands of time. In New York, the water is only blue sometimes. Other times it is a pallid grey, which has always reminded me of the heavy, snowing clouds my first day in America.

It is this distant memory of the ocean, the first ocean, the oceans of El Tunco, which have brought me back to the coast. I carried the anger of my life with me and drove it west across Arizona until I hit water. I had slid from the passenger’s seat to the driver’s seat the day my sister picked me up from jail and spat her warranted resentment and frustration in my face. I left with my grief and my self-

Like a child, I sobbed, pounding the steering wheel and throwing a tantrum against the things I hadn’t wanted to admit were wrong for so long. I covered them up with smiles and progress, perhaps even escaped them for a while with the collectivist mentality of my family; but with the foundation of the family falling away, buried in a cemetery thousands of miles away from their home, I was done pretending. I cursed God, cursed the church and all the lies I’d been told. I cursed my parents for dragging me from our home to the grey and the brown. I cursed myself for not being better, for being so negative and dark, for cursing anything at all.

I do not know how much time passed, but by the time I reached the beach and ran my toes over the strange beige sand, I had stopped my tirade.

My throat was raw and my mouth parched, my lungs burned and my eyes stung, but I couldn’t remember the last time in my life I’d felt so good.

■■■ For more information on author Patricia Martarella, please visit our Contributors Page.

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could rely on is a convict? A coward!”

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By Seth Slater Trigger Warning: Mature Content

T

he coat had four brass buttons, leather elbow patches, and a breast pocket. The black wool scratched Edward’s neck. The collar was too tight, making it difficult to breathe. He studied his reflection in the mirror. The boy who stared back at him looked uncertain. His eyes lacked their usual adolescent sparkle of mischief. His lips, instead of displaying a smile with dimples the size of lemon drops, were pursed into a straight line. The boy who stared back at him wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the coat at all.

“Well, would you look at that.” Edward’s father grinned as he elbowed the tailor. “I believe that is the handsomest coat in all of London.”

“That it is, Sir. It’s a very handsome coat indeed. What a lucky boy he is to have a coat the likes of that.” The tailor moved behind the counter and opened the money drawer, preparing to count the proper amount of change.

Edward’s father pulled out his pocket book. “The ladies won’t be able to keep their hands off him.” He winked at the tailor as he handed him the money.

“Keep the change, Lewis. Buy the wife some flowers. You did a damn fine job.”

“Thank you, Sir. Much obliged. You gentlemen have a lovely evening now.

Try to stay dry out in that dismal downpour.” Lewis walked around the counter and opened the door.

Edward took one last look at the boy in

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Edward felt that if he were to be drawn into this tide, the water’s arms would pull him down below the surface and refuse to release him. the mirror and then stepped off the two-foothigh box and followed his father outside. The uneven cobblestones were wet and slick.

The heavy sheets of rain had been replaced by a light drizzle. The street was crowded with a seemingly endless ocean of people.

The combined noise of the motorcars, horse-drawn buggies, and pedestrians resembled the unrelenting roar of waves.

Edward felt that if he were to be drawn into this tide, the water’s arms would pull him down below the surf and refuse to release him. Thunder echoed through the dark clouds in the distance.

Edward’s father took out his pipe. He gripped the pipe between his teeth as he reached for his pouch of tobacco. He packed his pipe and lit the bowl. Edward loved the smell of his father’s tobacco. The rich, black Cavendish fragrance often lingered upon his father’s clothing and skin.

Periodically, the black liquorice attar blended with the scent of whiskey.

“Papa,” Edward pulled on his father’s sleeve, “Can I have a puff on your pipe?”

Edward’s father looked down at his son. A sly smile tugged at the right corner of his mouth. “Eddie, your mother would have a fit.”

“She doesn’t have to know.”

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Edward held the pipe in his hands, “I won’t tell. I promise.”

Edward put the pipe in his mouth and inhaled. The rich flavor of tobacco filled his mouth and rushed down into his lungs. He immediately began to cough as his face turned a bright shade of crimson.

Edward’s father laughed and took the pipe away from Edward. “Don’t inhale it, Eddie.

Christ!”

Edward’s father tousled his son’s hair.

“You’re a good boy.” He stuck his pipe in his mouth and pulled him into his body.

was spacious, fashionable, and, consequently, excessively expensive. Despite the assurances of Edward’s father that they could manage quite well without a maid, cook, and gardener, Edward’s mother insisted this wasn’t the case.

What was the point, she would argue, of having an entire fortune at one’s immediate disposal if one couldn’t engage

“Papa, I want a new coat.”

Oliver crossed his arms. “I bloody well deserve it. I got the highest marks on my last mathematics exam and I’m the fastest in my class.”

Edward’s father took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack.

“Watch your language, Oliver, please. This isn’t a rugby match for Christ’s sake.

We’ll see about getting you a new coat. For the meantime, you’ll just have to be patient.”

Oliver stamped his right foot on the ground.

“Humph. I don’t very well know why Edward got a new coat; particularly with the headmaster in the drawing room, and all, here to talk to you about Eddie.” Oliver pointed a finger at his brother and stuck out his tongue. “You’re in trouble.”

Image: Pixabay.com

a maid or two? After all, the Patches had five maids. And they were, of course, just as well-to-do and opulent as the “That’s why I bought you this Patches, if not more so. She coat, because you’re a good boy and you’re good at keeping could only speculate at the secrets.” Edward’s father let go horrendous rumors that were sure to circulate amongst their and they continued their stroll friends if they let their staff go. home.

No. It just couldn’t be done. *** The fact of the matter was that they should seriously consider Edward’s father opened the employing more staff. door for his son and they both entered the house. He quickly Oliver, Edward’s younger closed the mahogany door, brother by two years, ran down impeding an incredibly the stairs to greet them. He determined gust of wind that came to an abrupt stop five wanted to be out of the rain feet away. His eyes narrowed. and in by the fire. The house “Eddie, is that a new coat?”

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Edward nodded. “Yes. Papa and I have just returned from the tailors. Lewis did a bang up job; don’t you think?”

“George, is that you?” Edward’s mother called from the drawing room. “Mr. Archibald is here. He would like to speak to us.”

Edward’s father sighed and adjusted his tie. “Just a moment,” he yelled down the hall. He sent a quick glance toward Edward, his eyebrows furrowed. “Eddie, you’d better FALL2015

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Edward’s father took the pipe out of his mouth and handed it down to his son. “Oh, alright; but don’t tell your mother.”

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Continued not have done anything too terribly egregious.” He walked past the boys and made his way down the hall. He took a right at the first door. His wife and Mr. Archibald were sitting on the new sofas. Apparently, according to his wife, the other

about?” Edward’s father sat down next to his wife.

“Mr. Black, first of all, I would like to thank you on behalf of the board and faculty, for your very generous donation last term.”

“Your home is lovely, as always, Mrs. Black; however, your son has been complaining of headaches quite often. He’s even fallen asleep in class once or twice. ”

Edward’s father rubbed his temples, “Yes, he’s hit a little “You are most welcome. bit of a rough spot. He may be There’s nothing more important feeling a bit under the weather, to me than my children’s but he’ll be back in proper form in no time, I’m sure. I appreciate your concern, but I Mr. Black stared at the piece of paper for a long don’t think-.”

time. Finally, he picked it up. ‘Boys will be boys, Mr. Archibald. Primary school is where I learned all of my dirty jokes after all. sofas were “hardly tolerable” and “thoroughly embarrassing.” education.”

“Yes, about that.” Mr. Archibald’s pudgy hands went up to wipe away the stray hair.

“The teachers and I are “Mr. Archibald, I’m doing concerned about Edward’s exceptionally well. Thank you.” academic progress. He went Edward’s father shook his from having the highest marks hand. “Please, sit down.” in his class to the lowest. He Edward’s father motioned to has shown a decreasing lack of the sofa where Mr. Archibald interest in football, which is had been sitting. “Can I offer highly uncharacteristic. I wonder you anything to drink? Tea, if he might be ill.” coffee, or perhaps something a “Why do you say that, Mr. bit stronger? I have some Archibald?” Mrs. Black laughed. scotch from Bristol that is “He seems perfectly normal. I simply spectacular.” certainly haven’t observed any “Oh, no thank you. I’m perfectly particularly odd behavior. fine.” Mr. Archibald’s pudgy Granted, as you may have fingers wiped away a strand of noticed, I am currently in the loose hair from his forehead. middle of some rather extensive He was sweating. He was renovations. The curtains, you always sweating. His face see, are the wrong colour and desperately needed to be don’t compliment the paint.” dabbed with a handkerchief, Mr. Archibald bobbed his head but it remained unattended. in agreement, as if those were “Well, what exactly is this all his very sentiments exactly.

Mr. Archibald stood up and offered his hand, “Mr. Black.

How do you do?”

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Mr. Archibald put his hand out to stop Mr. Black. “Before you tell me I’m overreacting, look at this.” He reached his pudgy hand into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. Mr. Archibald unfolded the piece of paper and placed it on the coffee table between them. “Your son drew this.”

Mrs. Black’s face flushed dark red, “Dear God!” Mr. Black stared at the piece of paper for a long time. Finally, he picked it up. “Boys will be boys, Mr. Archibald. Primary school is where I learned all of my dirty jokes after all. I’m sure he drew this all in good fun. His classmates, no doubt, goaded him on.” Mr. Black folded the picture and put it in his breast pocket.

“This is quite serious business I’m afraid. Regardless of what his peers may or may not have done, this must be addressed. I trust you will speak with him and decide upon a proper punishment.” Mr. Archibald said.

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“Yes, of course,” Mr. Black said.

“Capital. I understand you have an estate by the sea. I feel that Edward may need some country air. A spot of sunshine could do just the trick. I suggest you go on holiday. I already spoke with Edward and Oliver’s teachers and they can both afford to spend a week away. I imagine, when you return, Edward will be right as rain. We need him in tip top shape for rugby season. We can’t very well have a winning season with a lethargic centre.” Mr. Archibald smiled his chipmunk smile, his two front teeth protruding over his bottom jaw.

“I believe you’re right. A holiday would do Eddie a world of good. Nothing heals the body like the sea.”

Mrs. Black caught her breath, “Dearest, I don’t know if now is the best time. Such an unanticipated absence would be most inconvenient. You see, I have Ann coming over on Tuesday to help decide what should be done about those god-awful cabinets—” “The estate could use a woman’s touch. There are numerous projects that are sure to keep you occupied.”

Edward’s father grimaced as he stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have a talk with my son.” *** Edward gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. He was CANYONVOICES

feeling. He was feeling. He felt pain. For a brief moment, the guilt drowned into the background noise with the ocean waves. After a few minutes, Edward opened his eyes. He wiped the blood off his knife and stuck it into the sand. He quickly pulled his coat sleeve over the fresh cut on his left arm. The sand was damp; he could feel the wet soaking into his trousers.

Edward dug his fingers into the sand. He pulled up a handful and rubbed it in between his hands. The grains were coarse and abrasive. Edward tucked his knees up under his chin and stared out over the ocean.

The water seemed to go on forever and ever. The waves crashed onto the shore, charging and then receding.

Edward knew that if he were to draw a picture or write his name in the sand, the waves would eventually overtake his art and erase any sign of his

existence. He could write or sketch whatever he damn well pleased and the ocean would keep his secrets.

Edward watched the waves rise, curl, and then end with a crash of white foam. He felt that if he were to be drawn into this ocean, the water’s arms would pull him down below the surf and refuse to release him.

“What the hell are you doing out here, Eddie? Can’t you see it’s going to rain any minute?”

Oliver pulled his cap down further over his forehead so that the wind wouldn’t blow it away.

Edward jumped. He immediately reached for his pocket knife and shut it with a click. “I was just watching the waves.”

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Continued your trousers are soaked all the way through.” Oliver offered his brother a hand.

“Come on then, let’s go. I’m starving.”

Edward took his brother’s hand and pulled himself up.

“Mum won’t notice anything unless you point it out to her.

Besides, she is far too busy with the library to notice a little sand.”

Oliver’s nose crinkled. He leaned close to his brother and sniffed his coat. “I say, have you been drinking?”

Edward shoved his brother away with both hands, “No, I haven’t. Now stop being so goddamn nosey and lets go home. I want to change before dinner.”

“You have been drinking.”

“Shut up.”

Oliver turned to walk down the gravel path that led to the house. “I don’t know why you’re so set on dinner. You don’t touch anything on your plate. If you lose much more weight I’ll be the prime candidate for centre—” Edward grabbed his brother by the shoulder, turned him around, and hit him in the stomach.

Oliver doubled over. “What the bloody hell was that for? It was only a joke.”

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Edward seized his brother by his coat and stood him up.

“See here! You’re not going to take my place, you’re not going to point out my trousers to mum, and you’re not going to tell anyone that I’ve been drinking or I swear I’ll slit your throat.”

Oliver attempted to push his brother away, “Alright. Let me go you brute. I won’t tell.”

Edward moved his face closer to Oliver’s, “Promise.”

“I promise. I promise. Mum’s the word. Now let me go.”

Edward shoved Oliver away.

“It’s our secret, Ollie.”

“It’s our secret,” Oliver reiterated.

Edward pushed past his brother. “And even if you did tell, no one would believe you.

Not mum, not papa, not anybody.” *** Due to the fact that Mrs. Black had previously invited Ann over for the week, she thought it would only be appropriate to extend the invitation to Eden Park. Ann, of course, didn’t want to be any trouble; she could very well amuse herself in London. Mrs. Black insisted that Ann would be no trouble at all. On the contrary, her presence would prove most agreeable and she would provide Mrs. Black with a suitable conversationalist. So, it was settled. Ann would accompany the Blacks on their holiday and return upon the

following Tuesday. For the first two days, the women had employed most of their time in quiet discourse over cups of tea. They quickly exhausted the topics of fashion, the finer points of embroidery, and even what was to be done back at home about those intolerable drapes. Their tête-á-tête eventually digressed into the latest gossip, in which both women were extraordinarily well-versed.

“Yes, with child at sixteen; how very scandalous. Apparently, the girl’s tutor…well… some things are best left unspoken. ” Mrs. Black took a sip out of the china cup.

“Quite right. Between you and I, Mrs. Black, I would contend the foremost dissimilarity between us and our regular company is that we both adhere to an innate sense of propriety. But, yes, it’s simply obscene. It will undoubtedly prove impossible to find her a husband now.”

“If my family were so disgraced, I don’t believe I would ever be able to show my face in public again.”

The heavy footfalls of a running child echoed through the house. A moment later, Oliver burst into the library, out of breath. “Mum, have you seen Reginald? I’ve looked everywhere for him.”

“Reginald?” Ann inquired.

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“I already tried that.”

“Go look outside, Oliver. I’m sure he’s just hunting mice out in the wood.”

“It’s raining. I’m pretty sure he would be back at the house by now.” Oliver sighed, “Where’s Edward? I could use his help.”

“Edward is with Papa, in the study. They’re going over some lessons in algebra, or geography, or something.

Papa asked specifically not to be disturbed.” Mrs. Black took another sip of tea.

Oliver crinkled his forehead.

“They’ve been up in the study every day since we’ve been here. By this rate, Edward better be able to tell us the capital of every country in the world.” Oliver turned on his heel and stomped out of the library. He made a good show of it. Perhaps, if his footfalls were loud enough, his mother would go retrieve Edward from upstairs and force him to help

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search for Reginald. It wasn’t fair. Edward received all of the special treatment. Damn, he even got a new coat; a beautiful black wool coat with four brass buttons and leather elbow patches. If Edward got a new coat, then Oliver was sure entitled to one too. Edward could be perfectly beastly, Oliver decided. The one time he needed him, he was up in the study with Papa.

time, he came upon a very large, mossy rock. It was taller than he was and much wider.

He and Edward used to play here, only last holiday. It seemed like ages ago. They had spent the majority of their time reenacting Le Morte d'Arthur. Edward had insisted on being Sir Lancelot. Oliver, of course, was Merlin.

Oliver made his way through the kitchen and emerged out into the rain. He called for Reginald. The cat was nowhere in sight. He walked deeper into the wood, begging Reginald to show up so he could get out of the blasted rain. Black clouds dulled the colour of the already dark green foliage. A blustery wind carried ocean salt into his lungs.

“Oh, hello.” Oliver picked up an empty bottle of whiskey that lay at the foot of the stone.

Edward must have drained the entire bottle within the last two days. Oliver smelled the empty decanter and crinkled his nose in disgust. The aroma reminded him of his father. He tossed it back to the ground.

He could keep a secret. He was no rat. He continued his way around the massive rock and stopped. There was Reginald, hanging from a tree.

Oliver delved deeper and deeper into the trees. The brush became thick and dark, creating a natural canopy of branches over Oliver’s head.

After what seemed like a long

Oliver watched as the cat swayed in the wind. A lame attempt at a noose was tied around Reginald’s neck. The rope was only about four feet long, but it was enough to

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untouched carrots, along with an intact chicken wing. If

Continued hang the cat off the ground.

Large patches of fur were missing in multiple places.

Most of Reginald’s right ear was gone. Dried blood and broken bones protruded from the corpse. The once beautiful orange cat with red stripes was dead.

Oliver resisted the urge to vomit but failed. He fell to his knees and dry-heaved. He gave a valiant attempt at fighting back angry tears, but eventually succumbed. He sat down on the forest floor and wept. What demon, he wondered, could have done this? But he knew. He knew.

Oliver picked himself off the ground and wiped away the snot with the back of his sleeve. He couldn’t tell mum or papa. And he very well couldn’t tell Edward. He ran back to the house, soaked to the bone. *** “Oliver, did you ever find Reginald?” Mr. Black inquired as he cut into his chicken.

Oliver studied his plate, “No.” “Oh, I’m sure he’ll turn up. I wouldn’t worry about it. Don’t lose any sleep over it. ” Mr. Black smiled a reassuring smile.

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Oliver did as his father said and then made his way to his bedroom.

As soon as he was out of sight, he began to cry Reginald were under the table, he would have sneaked him a piece. Oliver shot Edward a quick sideward glance. His brother’s elbows were indecorously planted on the table. Typically, this would result in a rather quick and harsh reprimand.

Consequently, the elbows would be immediately removed; however, this misconduct was overlooked due to the fact that his head was buried in his hands.

“Mum, I don’t feel well. My head hurts.” Edward said.

Mrs. Black briefly turned her attention away from Ann. She managed an “I’m so sorry, Dear,” before continuing her thoughts on India’s barbaric natives.

Mr. Black un-tucked his napkin, stood up, and walked behind Edward. “I’m sorry, Eddie. If you want to go to bed, I’ll have Sangeeta bring you up a tonic.” He motioned toward the maid before placing both his hands on his son’s

shoulder.

Edward flinched. He abruptly pushed his chair out from the table. “Alright. I’m going to go to bed.” Edward excused himself then hobbled out of the dining room.

“I wonder if we should call the doctor?” Mrs. Black asked as she watched her son leave the room.

“No. He’ll be fine.” Mr. Black made his way back to his chair.

If Reginald were under the table, Oliver thought, he might give him the whole damn wing.

If Reginald were under the table, he – “Ollie, is everything alright?

You look perfectly miserable. I do hope you and Edward aren’t both coming down with something?’ Ann leaned over the table and placed a hand on Oliver’s forehead.

Oliver looked up from his plate.

Reginald was not under the table. He swallowed hard.

“Can I please be excused? I would like to go to sleep.”

Mr. Black nodded his head, “That would be fine, Oliver.

Kiss your mother and tell Ann goodnight then you can go to bed.”

Oliver did as his father said and then made his way to his bedroom. As soon as he was out of sight, he began to cry.

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Oliver went to the window and opened up the curtains. Stars flickered against the night sky.

There were millions and millions of them. They seemed to go on endlessly. A pale moon had risen over the ocean. The waves could just be seen in the distance, charging and receding. Oliver made his way to his bed and fell asleep on a tear drenched pillow.

Oliver woke to Edward shaking him. He instinctively screamed, but his scream was muffled by Edward’s hand. “Shh,” Edward held his fingers firmly over his brother’s mouth. “No. Don’t scream. It’s me, idiot. I need to tell you something.” The smell of alcohol was prominent on Edward’s breath. His speech was slurred. Edward slowly let go of his brother’s mouth.

“What’s so damn important that you need to tell me in the middle of the night?” Oliver pulled himself backwards so that his back was up against the bed-stand.

“I needed to tell you,” Edward pointed an unsteady finger at his brother, “that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” Oliver looked at his nightstand, searching for something heavy, something blunt.

“I’m sorry that I killed Reginald.”

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Oliver didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t heard his brother; his attention was transfixed on Edward’s left arm. The moonlight illuminated the pale scars and fresh incisions that crisscrossed his brother’s skin.

Oliver wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.

“I killed him because I was angry.” Edward dropped down to his knees adjacent to his brother’s bed. “I’m angry all the time,” Edward tattooed a beat with his fist onto the bed indicating every syllable. “The anger builds and builds, until it’s too much to handle. I’m so tired of these secrets.”

“What secrets?” Oliver managed.

Edward placed his face into the bed as he began to sob.

The sheets muffled the words, words forever lost, stifled out of existence. Edward brought his head up and reached for his brother’s hand. He squeezed it so hard that Oliver’s hand smarted. “Oliver, you need to promise me.”

“Promise you what?”

“Promise me you won’t let him touch you.” Edward gently placed his brother’s hand on his tear stained cheek.

“Who?” Edward must be raving mad, Oliver thought.

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

Edward smiled. Tears ran over

his lemon-drop dimples. He kissed his brother’s hand then released it. He slowly got up to his feet. He turned and staggered to the door. He spun round, “You’ll be a bloody great centre, Oliver. A bloody great one.” With that, Edward disappeared.

The following morning, Oliver sat at the breakfast table. Ann and Mrs. Black were discussing how best to take advantage of the sunshine. It was decided upon that they would take out the horses and see the countryside in all of its glory. Riding was, after all, Ann’s favourite pastime, with the sole exception of the theatre. During these plans, Mr. Black puffed on his pipe while flipping through the London Times. Oliver stared down at his oatmeal, debating whether or not last night was real or just a very fantastic nightmare. Mr. Black interrupted his thoughts.

“Oliver, go wake your brother would you? I think he’s slept quite enough.”

Oliver got up from the table and made his way upstairs.

Oliver came to his brother’s door and paused. He knocked twice. There was no reply.

“Edward, it’s time to get up.”

Oliver cracked the door open.

A chair was visible; it had been knocked over onto the floor.

Oliver tentatively pushed the door open. There was Edward, hanging two feet off the ground. Oliver walked into the room. The floor was littered FALL2015

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swaying in the wind. He counted to two-hundred. He tried holding his breath. He even picked up a novel and tried to read. It was hopeless.

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Brass Buttons...

Continued with shredded pieces of black wool. Edward’s knife pinned what was left of his coat to the wall. The stench of feces and urine was unmistakable. Oliver blinked against the light. The curtains had been pulled back.

the hallway sustained its unrelenting tick tock. Time continued on, even in the absence of Edward. The funeral had been held yesterday. Everyone was so terribly sorry about the accident. Drowning was a dreadful way to go. They were lucky, very lucky, that they had been able to recover the body.

During the service, some

‘Mother said it would be the biggest scandal in all of London. She said the family name would be dragged through the mud.’

The ocean waves could be seen in the distance, charging and receding. Beams of naked sunshine blazed into the room, wrapping Edward’s limp corpse in light. A brass button glittered on the floor. Oliver bent down, picked it up, and rubbed it between his index finger and thumb. His legs gave out. He landed smartly on his bottom, two feet from his brother’s dangling legs. Oliver reached out and touched his brother’s foot; it was cold. He laughed. He laughed uncontrollably, writhing on the floor. *** Mr. Black and Oliver sat in silence. Oliver sunk deeper into the recliner and crossed his arms. His entire being ached for the sound of his brother’s voice. Instead, a fire crackled in the hearth and the clock in CANYONVOICES

particularly brave individuals whispered that he should have known better than to go swimming at this time of year.

Oliver wanted to strangle them.

Instead, he sat erect, with his mouth shut tight. As far as everyone was concerned, the water’s arms had pulled Edward down below the surf and refused to release him.

“Oliver, I hope you understand why…” Mr. Black broke the silence, “Why we must keep the real reason of Edward’s death a secret.”

Oliver nodded. “Mother said it would be the biggest scandal in all of London. She said the family name would be dragged through the mud.”

Mr. Black leaned across the coffee table and smiled.

“Oliver, I know the last week has been rough, but I promise it will get better.” He reached

out his hand and placed it on his son’s cheek. He caressed Oliver’s soft skin with his thumb. Mr. Black stood up, walked behind Oliver, and placed both hands on his shoulders. “Everything is going to be alright, Ollie. I promise.”

Mr. Black unbuttoned Oliver’s collar and ran his hand over his son’s chest. He bent down and whispered in his son’s ear, “Go shut the door.”

Oliver didn’t move.

Mr. Black slid his hand out from underneath his son’s shirt and began to rub his shoulders. He moved up to Oliver’s neck then stopped.

He returned back to his chair, taking off his jacket en route.

“Shut the door, Oliver.”

Oliver stood up, made his way to the door, and closed it. *** The coat had four brass buttons, leather elbow patches, and a breast pocket.

The black wool scratched Oliver’s neck. The collar was too tight, making it difficult to breathe. He studied his reflection in the mirror. The boy who stared back at him looked uncertain. The boy who stared back at him wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the coat at all.

■■■ For more information on author Seth Slater, please visit our Contributors Page.

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Florence in September

By Joe Giordano

I

f you want to commit suicide by food, follow the David statue’s penetrating glare beyond the Palazzo della Signoria to a little trattoria, Due Scalini. The risotto with white truffles and veal saltimbocca would impel the gods of Olympus to shove aside ambrosia. After dinner I strolled under the yellow-gold aura of Florentine street lamps and wallowed in the afterglow of the Gaja Barolo I’d imbibed. I was on the hunt for a nocciola gelato when Ted Franklin passed me with his head down and brow furrowed.

I hadn’t seen him in five years. I called out twice.

He looked at me like I’d woken him.

“Oh, Bill.”

“Ted, what the hell are you doing in Florence?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself. I’m sort of with a woman attending the fashion show.”

“Where is she? Do I know her?”

“I doubt it. Magdalena Seger?”

I shook my head.

“We met at a party in Manhattan.”

“For a guy in hot pursuit you seem rather pensive about the situation. What gives?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I need to hear more about this woman. Let me buy you a drink.” I grabbed his sleeve and tugged him into a restaurant that had a few patrons lingering at tables. The waiter had slicked down black hair and a redCANYONVOICES

After dinner I strolled under the yellow-gold aura of Florentine street lamps and wallowed in the afterglow of the Gaja Barolo I’d imbibed. checkered towel slung over his shoulder.

He looked at us like he wanted to go home.

Ted ordered a limoncello. I call them yellow coffin nails for their potency. I took a Sardinian mirto.

“So Ted, what’s the story?”

“We were introduced at one of those corporate events at the Fishtail Restaurant in the sixties. We started to talk, and I really felt like we hit it off, but she wouldn’t let me take her home. Afterwards, she was always too busy to get together. When she told me that she was headed to Florence, I offered to tag along. She insisted on separate rooms, and I’ve hardly seen her since we arrived. I don’t understand women.”

“Understand women? You might as well explicate quark theory. What does she look like?”

Ted handed me his iPhone. Magdalena was the wallpaper. Long golden hair, blue eyes that swallowed you, a pouty mouth—I was ready to grovel at her feet. But there was also deep intelligence in her face. Her eyes were evaluative. A tingle went up my neck.

I guess I stared a little too hard, because Ted pulled the phone out of my fist. Then I remembered why I stopped hanging out with him. He’s better looking and always had the pick of the women we met.

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I spent a few days wallowing in narcissistic self-pity. I passed through a “pissed off” then “depressed to shit” phase and came to a decision. There was no family, no woman to keep me in New York. I sold my art gallery and started a magical mystery tour, determined to spend my last dime just as I collapsed into the grave. That’s why I was in Florence.

Ted’s voice brought me to the present. “She’s warm and aloof at the same time. I’m going nuts.”

“So what’s your theory on why she’s playing hard to get?”

“Am I getting too old?”

I laughed. “Maybe. Is she gay?”

Ted’s mouth opened, and his eyes widened like I’d thrown a turd onto the tablecloth.

“Impossible.” His voice was loud.

“Why not? Gay women are often beautiful.”

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“Sure. Yeah. But, no. Dear God, no.”

I mused. “God is sometimes cruel, but He’s not prone to irony. She does look more Aphrodite than Sappho.”

“Thank you.”

“Is she married?”

“No. She lives alone on the Upper Westside. I slipped a hundred to her doorman. He told me: no husband and no live-in boyfriend.”

supposed to help me.”

I rubbed my chin. “I suppose I could see her. On your behalf of course.”

Ted’s eyes narrowed. His voice slurred.

“Hey, buddy, don’t get ideas you can horn in on my action.”

I stiffened. “I’m hurt you’d think my motives weren’t honorable. But if you don’t want to get to the bottom of what’s keeping this woman out of your bed, suit yourself.”

I started to rise.

“No, Bill.” Ted pulled me back into the chair. “Sorry. I’m a little stressed. Please see her. She loves art. I’ll tell her you need a second opinion on a piece for your gallery. She’ll be Image: Pixabay.com flattered. Tomorrow?

What do you say?”

“Very thorough of you. But maybe she’s seeing someone Magdalena agreed to meet me else?” at Due Scalini for lunch. She “The doorman said that she never gets visitors. Her friends say that all she does is work.

She’s bucking for head buyer at Saks.” He finished his shot and waved to the waiter for another. “I’m at my wits end.”

The waiter arrived with a second limoncello. I shook off another mirto.

Ted slugged down his drink and looked at me with Bassett Hound eyes. “What, no more ideas? You’re a friend. You’re

walked in wearing a light blue button down top, painted on jeans, and white heels. We shook hands. Her touch was velvet. Her scent was verbena.

She tilted her head at me.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare?”

“Come on. You know you’re gorgeous. I’m just doing what comes naturally.”

“That’s direct.”

“Yeah, well recently I learned FALL2015

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I sat back in my chair. My brain toggled to Dr. McIver and his office at Sloan Kettering. McIver was rail thin, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and had a thick Scottish accent. I heard, “Brain tumor,” and “Cancer,” and my focus narrowed to a blind alley. He was optimistic, they always are, but his eyes were sad.

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Florence...

Continued the value of time. And my mother did say honesty was the best policy.”

She smiled.

We sat. I picked up the wine list. Magdalena agreed to red, and I ordered an Antinori Solaia. When the waiter showed me the bottle, I asked him to let Magdalena test the wine.

Magdalena swirled, sampled the bouquet, then took a sip.

“Mmm. Nice.”

The waiter poured, and we clinked glasses. I insisted Magdalena order the risotto with white truffles.

“Ted tells me you own an art gallery in Manhattan.”

“I did. I sold it before I came to Europe. Now I’m living the life of a leisured scholar.”

“So the story about you wanting my opinion on an art piece?”

“That’s Ted’s invention. I’m supposed to grill you about why you’re not more attentive to him.”

She picked up her wineglass.

“And I’m supposed to open up my heart to you because…?”

“Remember what my mother said about honesty.”

She took a sip, sat back, and crossed her legs. “Okay. Ted CANYONVOICES

gets everything he wants. As a result he wants for nothing.

That’s not the way the world is supposed to work. I’m restoring balance to the universe.”

I laughed. “Va bene. I’ll tell him he needs to try harder.” I drank some wine. “Ted says you’re very ambitious. Moving up the corporate ladder and all that.”

“I have goals. But I’m ready to take some time off. How did you manage to get away from the rat race? Or was running an art gallery just a hobby?”

“No. The gallery was a compromise for my failure as an artist. I paint. Poorly. But I managed to discover a few talented up-and-comers and lived off sporadic purchases by wealthy clients like a camel relies on his hump in the desert. Plus the Manhattan scene for arty types is hugs and kisses all around.”

“So, why did you give it up?”

“I thought it time to tour Europe. I came up with a bucket list. You know, Paris in April, Lucerne in July, Florence in September. I’m headed for Santorini next. Do you know the island?”

“Only in brochures.”

“Glimmering orange sunsets and pink-gray clouds that dance on a dark blue sea.

Spectacular cliff views from the edge of the caldera dotted with bleached, azure-domed stucco houses. I’m getting in

the mood to paint again.”

“I’ll bet you’re more talented than you admit.”

“Maybe I just need inspiration.” I laid my hand near hers. She didn’t move away.

“You’ve been to Santorini before?”

“As a post-college backpacker. Want to come along?”

Magdalena raised her eyebrows and smiled. “It’s tempting.”

The risotto arrived. Our eyes met, and we reluctantly picked up our hands.

I had the waiter shave the entire white truffle onto our plates. Magdalena took a taste and rolled her eyes.

I said, “Better than sex?”

Her eyes went down.

“Perhaps. I’ll tell you later.”

I swallowed. The tingle on my neck started.

Her blue eyes came up and transfixed me.

My heart set off a-pounding, and I almost dropped my fork.

Magdalena came with me to Santorini. She was someone to live for, as I contemplated death. God did appreciate irony.

■■■ For more information on author Joe Giordano, please visit our Contributors Page.

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Broken Angels

By Abby Silva

F

rom my closet room I stare at the angel’s figure on the little window. I stare at the butteryyellow fingers of light that dance around my room. Perhaps the angel can see the sign out in the front courtyard that reads Middleton Care Home: Privately Owned and Operated. I can imagine the bald branches of trees swaying slightly in the wind as the late January sun shines into my pigeon-hole of a room. The trees are bare but they still stand strong and tall, waiting in expectation to push tiny green buds into the world. The sun whispers about the warm light outside. It was that warmth that I was kept from.

The angel’s warped figure flows gracefully upward, forming little ridges in the chipped paint of her pink dress. She smiles as if she knows a secret, as if she is leaving earth behind and embracing the serenity of heaven.

silver box of treasures or the old, dusty bread box full of my letters.

My room is mint green and strangely round.

The square bed fits awkwardly in a room without corners. The white baseboard is too elegant for me. It seems fake, like white chocolate. It is the little picket fence that keeps me on one side and the world on another.

I had real chocolate once, when I found it smashed into the carpet by some visitor. I got on my knees first, smelled it, and then wet my fingers in my mouth until they were damp enough to rub up some of the sweetness. Someday I will walk down Main Street and waltz into the first candy shop I find and buy myself a whole pound

I have not decided yet if I am going to put her with my things. Shela, my former nurse and companion, always told me to give things a chance before I make up my mind. That is fair enough, but I do not know if the angel will ever be special enough to join my CANYONVOICES

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of chocolate. Dark chocolate.

I can barely see the mint green color of my room. It serves as a frame to the hundreds of tiny pictures that cover my wall: old newspaper clippings and ancient magazines and advertisements. They think these can keep me happy.

The pictures help me to escape into another world.

They array the wall of my mind with different colors, but the colors are duller than I want them to be. I want them to mirror the colors I see when I leave my room.

I leave my room three times a day: to stretch, to eat, and to walk. When it is time for me to come back here again, they always know where to find me, by the big oaks. They let me out when no one else is allowed in, at meal times. I stretch my arms wide around an oak tree, listening to the outside world above the hum of traffic. Sometimes I will hear things I do not know like the name “Audrey Hepburn” or things like “microwaves” and “silly putty.”

But when I am back in my room again, I look at the angel. We have two similarities. No, three. Our skin is the color of Japanese maple bark, a buttery, reddish brown. The angel and I are only able to move where others put us. And the world has tossed us both carelessly into a small, out-of-the way CANYONVOICES

corner because we do not pass their smooth skin, sharp mind test. We are lesser because we have begun to walk on all fours again, drool, and speak a language only the angels understand.

People think I am crazy. But they have never given me a chance. I am quiet because they do not talk to me.

Maybe it is because they do not remember I can hear and communicate; they have gotten too used to me. I have been here as long as I can remember. Shela was my personal nurse until the home had to cut down on expenses.

I had needed Shela, but they did not understand. I needed someone from the outside world that really understood me. Maybe I am darker and smaller and maybe sometimes I do strange things. But I am still human.

Not everyone here thinks that way, though. I have friends.

Cottonfish, Springer, Zenna, and Seagull are among my closest. Of course those are not their real names, but that is how I know them. Then, there are Cupid and Dancer and Turtle. We talk and cry together; sometimes we cry for no reason. Sometimes we talk about meaningless things, things that do not matter to most. We talk about life and trees and whether or not grass grows overnight. We talk about angels.

I took my angel for them to see. They all complemented

her and did not seem to notice the worn off paint and the broken wing. Some of my friends are in wheelchairs, others walk with canes and need help eating. I am the only one here that can get around without much assistance. My body is still in prime working condition. But they say my mind wandered one day and never came back.

But my friends are no less human. Cottonfish and all the rest are no less friends to me.

It seems that they are a part of an age-old world, a piece of wisdom. And even while they stand as pillars in time, few seem to recognize them and value them.

When no one is around, relatives or visitors or workers, we encircle the lunch table and play cards, chess, and bingo. Springer always wins at chess. Zenna is the best at poker. Turtle racks up the most points playing bingo. We play and laugh and talk and sing and wonder about the world that has forgotten us.

I place my angel at the center of the lunch table. We had pea soup for lunch and now we clear the dishes to the side for a game of bingo. We all glare at Turtle, smiling behind our sleeves or napkins. Zenna draws the number from her straw hat and places it on the table. We look for the number 6. Only Turtle has it. He winks at us and we let out a fake groan in reply. He wheels over to Zenna who is about to pull FALL2015

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Continued the next number and takes the hat out of her lap. He dashes away as quickly as a man can who is rolling two chariot wheels. Zenna laughs a girlish plea as she chases in hot pursuit. Both of them sit in the corner for a while, each holding a side of the hat with the bingo numbers staring up into their faces. Finally, Turtle takes up her shaking hand and kisses it. They make their way back to the table, hand in hand.

We go for three more rounds of bingo before we spy the cleaning lady coming. We are ready for her. We mount the last bit of pea soup on our spoons, tilt them back, and fire. The cleaning lady now has a green apron. She swears and quickly splits us

up, swooshes us off, and cleans up our lunch and our life. She tells me to go to my room.

It is Monday, a day when no one usually comes to visit.

Who would want to visit a care home anyway? Here it is stinky and boring and hospital white. It smells like oldpeople breath. We know what we smell like and we know what we see in the mirror, watery eyes and drooping skin; we try to make ourselves look presentable but somehow the red lipstick misses the mouth or the suspenders get all tangled up in the wrong direction.

Those who are not relatives do not think about us. And those that do give us a thought are compelled by the “to do list” in the back of their minds. I say us because I am one of the

crazy, half-witted idiots who live here. An idiot who screams at night because something wants to be free.

Free to speak and to be noticed. I am a small, dark idiot. An idiot who can think and feel and dream and eat chocolate. These other halfwit, slobbering fools were once beautiful and smart.

They still are, we still are, but in a different way. Now, we are beautiful from the inside out rather than from the outside in.

I look around and see my friends. We are the same.

They are my family. They are 80 or 90 or maybe even 100 years old. I am fifteen or seventy-two or eighty-five. I cannot remember.

I look once more out of my window in my circular room with the broken angel standing on the sill. Her face is pointed upward. I lift my eyes to heaven and let them linger as the world of color and people fades away.

Celestial notes pierce my ears with warm vibration, pulling me upward toward the Good Shepherd who will hold me in his arms.

■■■ For more information on author Abby Silva, please visit our Contributors Page.

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Eat Your Heart Out

By Catherine Craig

T

wisting shadows churned cracked earth, rumbling through the Underground, shaking the world with an onslaught of ever changing limbs. The limbs reached and crushed all that stood before them – some strange fear compelling the shadows to move all the faster. Ever-changing, limblike appendages used to ripping flesh and grinding stone, now only used for escape from some unknown enemy, an enemy they had not a name for – only a burning fire and whispers in the dark.

---***--The world was dry. Abos couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t, but there were stories the Elders told.

Stories of green and rain – sometimes there were storms, and wet something fell from the sky, but the elders claimed that it wasn’t rain for what fell was poison. Rain meant life once—Abos couldn’t help but to laugh, what did it matter what rain once meant? It was just another word that used to mean something but didn’t anymore.

Rain was like the word happiness that way – Abos knew what happiness meant, it was everyone else’s definition that was wrong. Everyone – at least all the people he knew – said that happiness was a full belly, a laughing child, a sweetheart clasping your hand.

Those things were so fleeting—by their definition happiness was something of a rarity in this world. Happiness came and

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Image: Pixabay.com

went for the Elders. It came to them with an old song, a remembrance of what was and what will never be. Happiness came and went for everyone else too; it was a hidden underground spring, a cool breeze across the dry vistas, a companion warm and present in the dark.

Abos didn’t like that definition; he preferred a more permanent happiness. He could not depend on a companion, a friend – all those he would have called such things were long dead now. He refused to make the mistake he had seen so many others make. The people that got close to each other always died, and if they failed to do that, they had Young ones; it was the Young ones that suffered the most. They were always so small and weak; they took time and energy to care for. Such things as those were dangerous in this world. If the parents died the child would follow—if the child died the parents would fade away, and worse, take everyone else with them.

Happiness – to Abos – was an enemy that stayed down. It was waking up again after FALL2015

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His definition left room for other things – such as sorrow, hatred, and fear – that did not discount the fact that he was happy. Was he scared – he was always terrified. Was he sad – yes, he never had a family, but sometimes, looking at the Young ones and their parents, he wished he did.

Was he hateful – oh yes, it burned in his very veins.

Sometimes it even hurt to hate as much as he did. And yet he was happy; he was alive in a world that never failed to do its damnedest to kill him. Abos never took it personally – he’d try to kill him too.

There was a chasm inside of him, for as long as Abos could remember, there was a screaming abyss clawing at his mind. It told him things, horrible things. But in a horrible place, horrible things were needed. Abos knew no one else had this problem – he knew this from the pity and the horror in the Elders’ eyes, from the parents hiding their children when he came near, from the Warriors’ aloof respect, and from the World’s horrible and agonizing acceptance.

For he was a child of this world – so how could the World not accept its most beloved Son? He was a product of the monsters the poison sky created, of the burning sun, of the murderous CANYONVOICES

blades in the dark. Such horrors were bred in this world; Abos was born to it.

they were of the Understream; or, to put it more accurately, Abos found them.

How else could he be so able to roll with the kicks and attacks this place had to offer? All the others, if kicked by some nameless thing, would fall, would die screaming. They railed at the injustice of it all – wasn’t a world supposed to nurture life? Did it not do so once, like the Elders claimed? They wanted to fix the world, stop the poison from falling, bring back the rain that brought life, and even see what green really was.

The world was unforgivable with its poison sky and boiling desert – it was so that if one person collapsed, the others simply kept walking, they could not afford to help their comrade—that would be a death sentence. They were a walking people, a caravan of folk lucky enough to find little springs of water, but unlucky enough to have the ability to keep them.

Abos wasn’t like them; Abos had always laughed when he should have screamed.

---***--Rumbling in the deep – the surface only felt a slight unsettling of topsoil – highpitched screeches reverberated the freshly made catacombs, a highway for nightmarish things. They were darkness and trickery.

Mocking sounds passed between the manipulated shadows; their sounds could be almost reminiscent to that of a human. That is what made them nightmares, a human-like creature devouring and controlling the desert nights; nothing ever stood against them. Until the fire came, until their Young screamed – nothing had ever stood against them, until now.

---***--The People of the Understream found Abos before

For the world was harsh, but the people were harsher. If water was to be found it was to be taken, and if you were not of the tyrants, you were one of the trampled. Even when those walking people found a source of life-giving water and no tyrants were to be found, there were creatures in the dirt and sky that found human flesh to be most delectable.

There were few warriors among them, but those few had never been able to keep up their strength to fight off all the horrors. And so they were a walking people. Poor wanderers looking for a paradise whispered by their Elders that was to never be found.

That was how Abos found them, a flickering mirage on an empty, blinding landscape. He had been hunting a pack of One-thousand Handers from the sharp crags to the East.

The hunt had lasted for more than five days, but Abos was patient. He stalked the FALL2015

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falling asleep. It was the burning in his legs as he ran for cover. It was the beating of his heart, steady and strong.

Happiness was to be alive.

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Heart Out Continued Handers as their roiling shook the ground – all signs leading west.

One-thousand Handers were not creatures with one thousand hands; in fact, they did not have hands at all, at least none that Abos could see. They were creatures of the underground, burrowing underneath the dry desert floors, bursting through the crust of the earth with dark shadows. For that is what they were, shadows – shadows of nightmares past, with glowing red eyes in an eerie mass of withering darkness, tentaclelike protrusions appearing and disappearing to fit their fancy.

Many found them terrifying.

They found their victims by waiting for them to walk atop them, only for the Handers to burst through the ground, pulling the screaming prey down into the dark.

Most never know what they do to the dead, suspecting that they were simply eaten. Abos knew what happened to the screaming prey and they certainly were not ‘simply’ eaten. The One-thousand Handers devoured by way of acidic excretion, for they had no mouths. In order to feed they excreted acid from pores and slowly digested by absorbing the broken-down proteins through their skin – all the while, the prey still lived, conscious to the slow dissolving of their very selves.

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Abos knew such things because he watched the Handers do them – he had found a nest. Normally he would have left them alone – they were just beings living their lives just like everyone else, but this particular nest had access to clean, flowing water. Water that flowed underground in grand caverns, protected from the eyes of walkers and tyrants, all ripe for the taking.

The world was harsh, the people harsher, but Abos was cruel. He had set the nest aflame – young Handers dead before the others even heard their screeching. Some stayed to fight him, but the majority ran – for this was a small portion of a greater nest miles west. They were going for their pack leader – for no human had ever dared to set fire to nightmares such as them before.

Abos had been careful to observe them, to understand their ways so as to hunt them all the better. For Abos was a good hunter; he respected his prey. He killed all those that stayed, giving in to his quiet whispers, gouging out the red eyes, laughing as their many appendages ripped apart his skin.

When it was over, Abos stood tall, a wild, sharp grin on his face, arms drenched in blood not entirely his own. It was with the smell of burnt young and metallic, putrid blood that Abos finally left the cavern system, following the trail of broken stone and crunched

earth west. In order to make sure no other Handers came for his water, Abos would have to kill all of them. It was madness to go against a horde of One-thousand Handers, but Abos was only listening to his whispers as he stalked in the dark and his whispers were anything but sane.

The people that were to become the People of the Under-stream had been walking from sun-up, hoping to find water in the mountains they had seen on the eastern horizon. The sun was beginning to set and they had not yet reached the foothills.

All knew that there would be many who would not make it through the night, for even with the days blazing hot, the nights never failed to be frightfully cold. It was in this setting sun that one of the few Warriors aware enough to have still earned that title noticed a shifting of the ground from the East. As he turned to yell warning to the others, he heard a scream from behind him. The ground had cracked behind their caravan, shadowed specters lurched to the surface, reaching for prey and calling out to their eastern brethren.

The walking people were caught in the middle of meeting predators, hungry for vengeance against the species that harmed their young.

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The screaming humans did little but blip on Abos’ awareness, for he cared not for the people. All he cared for was the Handers’ pack leader.

The whispers sang him a jaunty tune as he flanked the pack from the west – he was looking for the one Hander that would be looking for him. No one would believe Abos if he claimed the One-thousand Handers intelligent and capable of higher functions, but it was the truth. He had observed them for weeks, the Handers sang songs to their fledglings, they comforted each other when they were in pain, they were as human as Abos was – which, admittedly, did not say much. But they were intelligent, and the pack leader was thirsting only for the brokendown proteins of the one human that harmed the Nest.

Abos was counting on that desire.

appendages were not mere shadows, they warped and clung to the ground and air above, as if gravity had no power over them. As Abos neared the creature roared with a sound of a great river’s rapids and charged – tentacles scrabbling against the dried earth, moving so quickly it was nothing more than a dark blur.

Abos had no time to think – so instead of thinking on how to move, he simply moved. It was with a silent mind, whispers gone to wherever whispers go, that he clasped his crude knife of obsidian, his own fingers cut on the sharp edges.

Abos twisted as the Hander reached, curving and dancing away and under blurring limbs.

With blade grasped, he leapt.

It was the Hander’s eyes that Abos normally went for, but the whispers returned as his blade plunged down – it was not the eyes Abos wanted, but the heart.

It was too late for him to change his target – Abos followed through, blinding the creature. The One-thousand Hander let out a bloodcurdling screech.

The vista answered in silence, the walking people were too scared to scream and the other Handers shocked and afraid as their leader lay on the ground withering.

Abos stood atop his prey, blade glinting deep red in the early twilight, his mind anything but silent. The whispers were no longer whispers – Abos wanted its heart. In this state, whatever Abos wanted, Abos got.

The obsidian blade was thrust into the creature’s shadowed chest. It was a difficult task, finding the chest amidst the forever-changing shapes the Handers were so well known for, but Abos made do. He pierced strange flesh and dug into the creature, ripping

The whispers paused in their singing when Abos found a pair of red, glowing eyes staring at him across the darkening vista.

It was the Hander, the whispers urged and pushed Abos—this was the one he had to kill.

Abos ran toward the shadowed creature, ignoring the screams of the new victims; they were of no import.

The Hander was larger than the others and seemed to have a more solid form; the CANYONVOICES

Image: Bill Wolak “The Stages of Arousal”

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may have been more than half dead, but they still screamed and tried to protect their raggedy children from reaching shadows.

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Heart Out Continued and shredding as he did. It was in this wild frenzy that his blade broke in half; for as sharp as obsidian was, it was still brittle. With great effort, the being’s rib cage was pulled apart by Abos’ bare hands – the blade lying forgotten on the ground. His eyes were crazed, teeth sharp as the Hander screamed in agony, heart still beating in its putrid chest.

The heart was not like anything Abos had seen: it was not particularly large, but it was a dark steaming purple with only two chambers instead of the expected four. Such strangeness did not deter him, however; the whispers were finally silenced when his bloodied hands grasped the beating organ.

He pulled, the Hander’s guttural screams finally silenced. The desert vista itself was deathly, horrifyingly silent as Abos bit into the steaming heart.

Blood gushed into his mouth – he drank it greedily – somewhere in the back of his mind, Abos was laughing. He should have screamed – sometimes Abos wished he did. His teeth ripped apart the hard muscle with great effort, but for some unexplainable reason, Abos knew he had to swallow one bite. If he did that, this would all be over. The awful silence would end and his whispers would return; he would have his caverns and no CANYONVOICES

One-thousand Hander would ever dare go near the one that ate their leader’s flesh.

As Abos swallowed, the other One-thousand Handers finally awoke from their own horror and screeched a cacophony of hair-raising uproars. It was then that the surviving walking people searched for exits, only to find none. They did not know what was more terrifying, the creatures of their childhood nightmares or the young human standing bloody over a mutilated Hander, eyes glowing red and mouth dripping, laughing chaos ensuing.

Abos tried not to think as he roared in answer to the remaining handers – he had eaten their leader’s heart and they feared him, as they should. He did not know what he yelled, but for some inexplicable reason, Abos could see and feel every one of the Handers. He could feel the shivering of the ground, knowing exactly how to shift the ground just so.

All the Handers fell, the earth working against them, they tried to hide, to run, but they could still feel their leader’s presence. Only now it was different, tainted with wild bloodthirsty abandon. Their leader was gone and in their leader’s place stood their new nightmare – Eater of Hearts.

The One-thousand Handers that could, ran. They ran to the west never to travel east again.

Those that couldn’t found themselves ripped apart by too

fast hands and running feet.

It was only when the Handers had left that Abos finally heard his whispers again; they were crooning, jubilant with his success. Now whispering and cajoling him to continue his hunt, this time with the trembling, fearful walking people.

Maybe Abos purposefully misinterpreted the whispers’ suggestion, maybe the little part of him that felt like he should be screaming finally grew a backbone at that one moment, but Abos did not hunt these people. Instead, he looked to their tired and haggard faces and saw an idea of a pack. Many had died that night, most because of him. It was not out of guilt that he invited them to follow, but out of an idea of belonging.

Likewise, it was not out of understanding that the walking people followed Abos to their new home in the Understream, but out of fear.

Maybe they all just misunderstood each other – it was a status quo that would last for years. Abos would believe he belonged whilst everyone tried to fake a brave face. It was almost like the world the Elders’ stories talked about – a place kept in peace by the little lies people tell themselves.

---***--■■■ For more information on author Catherine Craig, please visit our Contributors Page.

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Cool Cool Records

By Joel Salcido

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raciela rolled the tortilla masa in her palms into a tight ball as she listened for the high whistle of the frijoles that sounded the boil.

Her mom was rolling masa too, at least twice as fast, but Graciela rolled methodically. Her hands had yet to develop the intuition to intrinsically understand when the masa was the perfect density, so she looked over at the mound of dough balls her mother had completed every few minutes to make sure hers were right.

Her abuela used to jokingly ask her mother that all the time, and Graciela hoped it would make her mother smile. But the phone was propped up to her ear with her shoulder so she didn’t make the connection. Instead she simply nodded and continued to roll the dough. It was moments like these that made Graciela wish she could stop noticing when no one noticed her.

She always noticed things other people didn’t. Perhaps that’s why they It was moments like these that called her made Graciela wish she could Graciela’s rebellious at mother was on church youth stop noticing when no one the phone with classes. She noticed her. one of her would often hear employees, but things from the her mind was in lessons that didn’t Sonora. Her mother, Graciela’s abuela, seem to make sense with her passed away three weeks ago after understanding of God, grace, or life for that having gone to her hometown to visit matter. When she did, she would ask her children who still lived here. She sincere questions somewhat naively and thought of the pictures her sisters had was met with a look of heresy from the sent of the funeral and how it should bible teachers. Eventually, she realized that have been her to give the eulogy. But her attention to detail wasn’t welcome, at neither she nor her husband or Graciela church or at home. While those questions and her brother Manuel were able to persisted, she learned to be quiet and leave to Mexico and those pictures refrain from giving those thoughts a voice. were the last images of someone they She bottled them up, but never cast them had seen every day for the last ten into the proverbial sea because she was a years. She never wanted Graciela to be hopeful romantic. Although sometimes the in that position again, so she prayed idea that her unspoken thoughts and that this dinner would be the beginning emotions could be found by someone far of something better for her daughter. away, navigated by luck or fate made her feel a little less lonely. So, she rolled masa “Mom, lleva apio?” Graciela asked, with her mother quietly. She found that this holding a piece of celery that she knew was the best way for them to enjoy each was part of the recipe for albondigas. other’s company: in silence.

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Her mother was too proud to ever admit it, but she felt the same way. Sometimes her often relentless judging tired her, but then her fear gave her vigor. Not a fear of hell, but rather that chronic ailment passed on through generations of Mexicans: the fear of what people would think. She knew her daughter was strange like her husband, or at least how he had been before the years had eroded most of it out of him. All that remained for him were the occasional wry chuckles at the most off-kilter things, a deep and hidden humor that no amount of time and toil could subdue. She thought of his often manic personality and how that had so much to do with why they fell in love in the first place. Then she remembered what her mother said when she told her she was getting married to Graciela’s father, “no se vive de amor,” and said another prayer for Graciela hoping that after tonight she would never need to tell her the same thing.

Both women stood silently with these thoughts lingering in their minds. Then, Graciela’s brother walked in, jumped the over the back of the couch, kicked his shoes off, and turned on the TV. It blared loudly, still on the cable network channel that he had it on the night before when he was watching the basketball game. Oblivious and still a little stoned from the joint he burned with his best friend on CANYONVOICES

the ride home after school, Manuel pulled up the guide on the screen and scrolled for something to laugh at.

Meanwhile, the station was showing a promo for a movie that was airing on the weekend. Normally that would have been of no consequence, but a song came on louder than the TV

The music, however, was something she couldn’t bottle away. It continued to croon in her mind, and that made her smile.

had been before. A soft yet strong falsetto carried across the living room past the rising steam of the frijoles on the island stove falling tenderly in Graciela’s ears. “Prettier than all the world,” the voice of Curtis Mayfield rose and with it the hairs on the back of Graciela’s neck. “And I’m so proud” the last word emphasized by a three part harmony rushing with the sparse guitar and punctuated by soft horns. Graciela’s eyes widened, and her hips swayed intuitively as she looked on the screen just as Manuel was going to change the channel.

“Wait, wait. I want to hear that,” she told him excitedly.

She could feel her mother’s stare, but the sound was overwhelming. “Could you rewind it?”

Manuel turned around, “You mean this movie? It’s probably on demand.”

“No, the song,” she said. “I want to hear it.” The look on her face was one that Manuel knew well. While he was mostly too high all the time to notice the things going on at home, he knew when his sister was intent on doing something and knew better than to stand in her way. He did as he was asked, and this time she heard the introduction. It was a tickled xylophone; she could feel the heartbeat-like cadence of the slight drumming and understood the words better.

She rolled the masa in rhythm, her eyes closed; “I’m so proud of being loved by you” the chorus rose between the few but still vital piano notes, then the xylophone was cut off abruptly.

Graciela’s mom was standing by the now silent TV with a look of consternation on her face. She had tried to ignore the music or hoped her daughter’s attention to it would be fleeting, but when that wasn’t- like always- she took action. She walked back, and looked at the tiny ball of masa in Graciela’s hand with her tired eyes, “Pon atencion, mira la miseria de masa”. The music had distracted her, and her ball of dough looked nothing like it was supposed to.

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Continued added this moment to all the others locked in her internal bottle. The music, however, was something she couldn’t bottle away. It continued to croon in her mind, and that made her smile. Had she chosen to ask why her mom

the water in the pot of frijoles boiled over.

That night, by no accident, Graciela’s mother made Javier’s favorite. He came to eat dinner with Graciela and her family several times a week, but today wasn’t happenstance, and everyone knew but Graciela. As soon as Javier arrived, Graciela’s

Forever. Like that corny Judy Blume novel she read in high school. Forever like all the balls hoarded by the Beast in Sandlot. That word made her feel like the ceiling was compressing down on her, that the walls were tightening like Javier’s hands on her fingers. turned off the TV, she would have heard the same line she was always given, especially when it had to do with music.

“It’s secular; the music isn’t to praise Him,” her mom would say, and she meant it. Not because she even heard anything in the music that was inherently profane, but that’s what she had been taught.

Then, it was emphasized every Sunday at service and even more so at bible study on Wednesdays. Nonetheless, Graciela had tried to argue in favor of non-religious music and other things. Despite the validity of her arguments, it was always a nonstarter, eventually punctuated by another line her mother had learned not from church but from her own parents, “Cres que te mandas tu misma?” As Graciela thought calmly about when enough was enough, CANYONVOICES

mother relaxed, feeling like the shadow that had been cast on her family for the last fifteen years was finally starting to recede. If all went according to how she envisioned it, her daughter would finally be able to become a legal resident of the United States.

After they ate, Javier stood up, “Gracias for dinner. It was delicious.” He turned to Graciela and smiled, “Gracie.”

She grimaced at his shortening of a name that she considered more elegant in its original polysyllabic form. “You know I love you and your family, and since your abuela died it really made me think of the future.” He pushed his chair back and knelt, pulling an expensive looking box out of his pocket: “So, will you honor me by being my wife?”

He opened the box, and it

gleamed in the soft light of the dining room, but the gleam did not carry into Graciela’s eyes. When she heard “wife”, all she could think of was her plans of renting an apartment by the college, of her interview at the boutique next week, and how none of those things coincided with what Javier envisioned for his “wife”. She looked at her mom who was beaming with pride, but she didn’t want to be someone’s wife, not yet and maybe not ever. She didn’t even know who she was yet.

Javier noticed her hesitation, and looked at her mom smiling. “Don’t worry babe, I already talked to your mom and dad; they gave us their blessing.” Graciela’s father chuckled, stood, and walked outside.

“You talked about this with them before you even mentioned it to me?” Her eyes vibrated with intensity like ripples in a lake before an earthquake.

“Nina, sientate.” Her mother instructed, the smile fading as quick as it had emerged. “Ten respeto. Ya es tiempo que te cases.”

She knew what her mom meant. She knew that her life would be easier if she married Javier, that the fortune of him having been born four hundred miles north of where she was afforded him the magic to disappear her FALL2015

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immigration issues. But to her, that wasn’t what would motivate her to make that deep of a commitment; it had to be meant to be, and in her heart she never saw it coming together the way it was at that moment.

“What the fu—” Javier started between his forced smile.

“You’re embarrassing me.

Perdon,” he said but not to Graciela. He was good at hiding his often volatile anger when he was in front of her parents. But she remembered his rage, and she felt that it wasn’t the right time to say no, but she wasn’t going to say yes either.

Now it all made sense to Graciela why her mother had been hinting so much about marriage the last few months.

When they went to buy dresses for her cousin’s christening, her mother went on and on about the beautiful fabric of a wedding dress that hung in the window and pleaded with Graciela to try it on. Graciela was petit, and the dress, while beautiful, didn’t fit how it should, but her mother assured her she could alter it.

When they were in the dressing room, she asked CANYONVOICES

Graciela how she envisioned her wedding. “I don’t know mom. I haven’t really thought about it. It wouldn’t be for a long time if ever,” she told her, laughing, but her mom saw no humor in it at all.

“I’m sorry,” Javier said, standing up after having composed himself. He took Graciela’s hand in his, “I just thought that was the proper way to go about it, but I’ve told you that I want us to be together forever.”

Forever. Like that corny Judy Blume novel she read in high school. Forever like all the balls hoarded by the Beast in Sandlot. That word made her feel like the ceiling was compressing down on her, that the walls were tightening like Javier’s hands on her fingers. “I’m sorry I need to breathe,” and before he

mother could say anything, she turned and walked outside into the cool evening air. It was a moonless night, so the stars were like twinkling glitter dusted on the darkest velvet. Graciela thought of God; she imagined the stars were his infinite freckles. That was the forever she was after, she knew that much. But her rumination was interrupted by muffled coughs. She walked around the side of the house, and her dad was standing with a pipe in his hands, staring up at the sky behind a dissipating cloud of smoke.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Nothing mija, just talking to God. What’s up?” He laughed, his right eye squinting like it always did when his laughter was genuine.

“You know you’re not supposed to smoke,” she regretted it as soon as she said it because she sounded so much like her mom.

“You’re not supposed to walk out when someone asks you to marry them.”

“So what does God say?” she asked, trying to avoid the issue.

“Well, he isn’t saying much, but he usually speaks in other ways. Aveces you just have to trust your feelings,” he said looking up again.

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“Baby, I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t think, but I’m going to make it up to you. Now, when you say yes,” he spoke with confidence, but his hands were sweating as he gripped the wheel, “I want you to know that what you want is the most important thing for me. So, I

Graciela didn’t know much about music either. What she

Bob Dylan watched over the patron like a prophet in sunglasses, the light bleeding from the gaps in the teeth. want to show you that I don’t care what anyone wants or thinks is right. I just want you.”

She liked the sound of that, but it wasn’t really like him.

That Saturday, Graciela and She knew that Javier always Javier had plans for breakfast. wanted to be liked. It was one They didn’t speak after the of the things that annoyed her botched proposal; both of most about him. “I talked to them were too upset to deal your brother last night. He was with the unresolved moment. telling me how you were Graciela had thought a lot obsessing over some song. about what her father said and So I thought we could go to decided he was right, that her this record store and try to intuition should be her find it. Together. It’s compass. Javier pulled up in supposedly one of the best,” his shiny charcoal black BMW. he grabbed her hand and held it tight.

Before leaving the house, they sat in the car for a silent “You know I can’t have instant. Finally Graciela secular music. I don’t even started, “Look Javier I love know what it’s called or what you, but I don’t know if I want it says. Just the melody.” to be married now, maybe ever. I definitely don’t want “That’s what I mean, when we you making plans with my get…” she frowned, “sooner mom without me, you know than later you will be able to that.” She wanted to say more decide what you can and can’t to tell him about her ideas have”. She hated when he about her future, but she made assumptions for her, didn’t want to hurt his feelings even if they were well more than she had already.

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intentioned. “I know, I know, but if I can somehow convince you, we will already be on our way to having a good music library. You know I don’t know much about music, so it will be up to you.”

was certain of was that other than God and her family she loved it more than anything.

For her, listening was a truly ethereal experience: something that connected her with the infinite possibilities of creation. That’s why worship was her favorite part of church. Sermons, when they weren’t inundated with fiery condemnations or paranoid scapegoating of the “world”, were monotonous and patronizing. Besides, she always felt that God was meant more to be felt than understood. The music during worship was her mystical connection to those emotional epiphanies. She imagined God’s ineffable voice as a hum sung that uttered the universe into being, its range diversifying as it vibrates louder and louder through all existence. She found it impossible to believe that music, regardless of its content, could be anything but holy. So in her head, as they approached the record store FALL2015

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She gave him a hug, and he laughed. He held his daughter, remembering her as a little girl.

How he had to yell at her P.E. teacher because she complained that she was always forced to play with the girls. She told her father that she wanted to be tough like him and that all the girls were too worried about being cute and didn’t try hard enough.

That she wanted to be strong enough to not need any boys on her team, and he promised her that he would make sure that she wouldn’t. He thought of that and sighed, hoping that his acquiescence to his wife wasn’t him, after all this time, breaking that promise.

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she sang a wordless prayer.

She was visiting a church after all.

Inside, the record store smelled of nag champa. It was cramped but well organized, and as Graciela noticed, hardly had any dust. The walls and windows were covered in concert posters, album art and vinyl that had been retired due to overuse or negligence or both. The front windows that faced the east, where the sun was rising, had the oldest of these collaged wall papers.

The sun pierced through its cracked façade in long irregular lines of three dimensional light. Bob Dylan watched over the patron like a prophet in sunglasses, the light bleeding from the gaps in the teeth. Reggae music hymned ambient, it was The Melodians singing Psalm 137 Rivers of Babylon, three voices harmonizing like a choir.

Instruments adorned the far wall in a sprawling altar to sound, each with a black and white photo of a saint to

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accompany it in a 3 x 5 frame.

“I am. How are you?”

Graciela inhaled the smells and sights and sounds as she walked on the path made of 45s that lead to the new arrivals. Javier stopped short behind her, “I’m going next door to pay my phone. I’ll be right back.” She nodded, too captivated by the sanctity of the moment to consider anything beyond the sensory stimuli that enveloped her.

“They still make these?” she asked out loud holding up a pristine 12 inch record wrapped in plastic.

“Indubitably,” a deep voice said from behind a wilderness of stacked records at the adjacent counter labeled “sell/trade”.

Without looking up, Graciela said, “Thanks. How are you?”

It was a reflexive response of politeness that usually solicited a platitude, but the man behind the counter was incapable of banality.

She was surprised by his response but replied in kind, “I am too.”

He too was surprised, as it was his customary response to that often ineffectual question. She was the first to ever reply in the way he had always secretly hoped for. His interest piqued, he stood up and looked over the tower of records at Graciela, and their eyes locked. For him, it was one of those surreal moments when time halts, and the hues of everything dim. She alone stood in the now, vibrant and luminous. She was without a doubt beautiful, but it was some inexplicable affinity that seemed to make all the incalculable electricity inside of him surge. Then, the needle for the record that provided to sound for the entire shop began to skip.

“Jack,” someone called out, “what do you want next?”

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“His voice, that’s what I came here to find. I don’t know the words, but it goes something like,” and she sang the

“I found you. I heard you sing. Curtis would be proud.” and smiled, noticing the monogram on his bowling shirt.

“Jack? Why does your shirt say Mateo?”

“Huh?” he looked down at his shirt pocket. “I got this shirt at the Goodwill, this guy had everything monogramed. He and I happen to be the same size so I pretty much bought everything that he donated.”

“The pastor at out church has his name on all his dress shirts. Pastor Oscar Romero.

His wife sews them on. I think they make him feel important.”

“Well I know I feel important, now” the last part he felt foolish to say, but he added it anyway. Loud horns punctuated his sentence as a new record began to play. The refrain came in loud and clear, You don’t want me to stay but I’m a fool for you.

Suddenly, Graciela’s eyes lit up. “What is that?” she pointed up as if the sound had originated from above.

“It’s called “Fool for you” by Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions.”

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harmony for Jack. He knew what it was immediately, but he let her continue. “Do you know what song that is?”

“Yes absolutely, I’ll grab it for you,” Jack said and hurried away to get it. Graciela picked up a record and felt along the worn cardboard on the edges of the cover, then turned it between her hands.

Jack rushed back, sliding a little on the old carpet behind the counter. He gathered himself and held the record in front of his face, “The best of Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions. It’s a cool cool record.” He handed it to her and their fingers touched, a strong jolt of static electricity traveling between them. She felt it pass from her hands and pulse like a slow wave until it rested in her stomach, where it broke in a powerful flutter.

Jack let his fingers linger on hers for a moment, “What’s your name?”

“Gracie,” Javier said, hugging her from behind. He had walked in a moment before and saw the long pause when their hands touched. He kissed her cheek and then her neck, all while staring hard at

Her body tensed, “Graciela,” she said to Jack and then turned to Javier. “Look, he found the song I wanted.” She noticed the look on his face as he continued to stare Jack down.

“Great. We would need a CD,” Javier said to Graciela, still looking at Jack.

“Yeah I don’t have a record player, plus it probably sounds better on CD, right?”

“I can check on the CD. I wouldn’t say better, maybe clearer in some sense. With vinyl you get a unique audio fidelity that, I think, better translates the warmth of sound. I’ve always thought that a record really gives the vibrations of sound the most potential of expression, like its fullest realization- if that makes sense.”

“Yeah it does, I’ve always felt—” Graciela began until Javier interrupted her.

“We know what it’s called now; we can go find it ourselves. I can buy you a record player later,” he grabbed Graciela’s hand, tightly leading her away.

“Right. Be well,” Jack said to Javier, “see ya,” he said to Graciela, and he meant that last part more than anything he had ever said in his life.

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“Just put on whatever’s on top of the stack by the turntable,” Jack answered, still looking at Graciela. She looked at him

Jack whose eyes were still fixed on Graciela’s.

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As soon as they got in the car, Graciela quickly opened the CD and put it in, scanning for the track she wanted to hear first. Javier kept the car in park as the song played, “Man that guy was a fucking joke. Did you see the shirt he had on? It looked like it was from a thrift store. And all that talk about “vibrations” and “expression”, he sounded fucking high. It’s just music,” Javier said as he jerked the car into drive and screeched out of the parking lot.

That Sunday, Javier didn’t go to church with Graciela like he normally did. He was upset with her since they returned from the record store. He said that she embarrassed him with the loser that worked there.

What was strange for her was that, while she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, she also didn’t feel the need to placate him. Before the service began, Graciela’s mom asked her about Javier. “He’s mad at me.”

“Entonces que, no te vas a casar?” Her dad chuckled and put his hand on his wife’s knee. Graciela didn’t want to get into it even though she was certain now. But her mom could see the answer to her question in her daughter’s eyes. “Pues lo que dios quiera, mija,” she said placing her hand on Graciela’s, not happy about it but also not willing to remove the veil of placidity that everyone wore with their Sunday best.

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For the worship, Graciela had asked the band leader if she could sing a special song. The Impressions CD had a song called “People Get Ready” that was beautiful and spiritual, so she knew she could perform it without issue.

She sang for God but also for herself, and as she sang, she felt she couldn’t tell where she ended and God began. When she finished, the band played as the people gathered to say peace to each other. Graciela approached her mother, and they embraced for a long moment. When they let go, they each wiped tears from the corner of their eyes.

Her mother truly was sad that things weren’t going to be easier for her daughter, but she realized that she preferred her to be happy like she was on stage. She finally understood that God had a plan for Graciela and that it wasn’t her place, but rather God’s to be her steering wheel. She smiled and thanked God, knowing that he works in mysterious ways.

From the back of the thinning crowd, rushed in Jack wearing a white dress shirt with “Mateo” monogrammed on the right pocket and a bow tie.

“Shalom. Shalom” he said as he shook the hands of the brothers and sisters who blessed him until he found Graciela standing with her mom and dad.

affirmation of a moment that she considered nothing less than holy. She saw him as a confirmation that her conscience and intuition was God’s voice providing not a plan, but a map, and she knew now for sure that getting lost in the sacred moments was the best part.

“I found you. I heard you sing.

Curtis would be proud.,” Jack said, holding his hand out to her. As they shook hands, they both felt the shock of static electricity again.

Graciela’s stomach fluttered, and they maintained their grip until her mother interrupted.

“You’d be surprised how many Pastores Oscar Romero’s there are in the city; this is the fourth church I’ve been too this morning.”

“No le des alas,” Graciela’s mom whispered sternly in her ear. “Que dios me lo bendiga,” she said to Jack, holding out her hand, doing her best to maintain her composure as she saw Graciela’s excitement.

“Igualmente,” Jack said.

“Mucho gusto. Mateo el ateo,” he added, smiling at Graciela.

Her mother wasn’t pleased and hoped God was just testing her and not answering her prayers.

■■■ For more information on author Catherine Craig, please visit our Contributors Page.

This time, she felt that glowing FALL2015

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by W. Jay Talley

K

evin hated deceiving the women. Secretly, he was glad everything was out in the open. Now he had to call home. He wanted a reliable connection to the States so he used the satellite phone. His father picked up on the first ring.

“Kevin, I just read your email. What was the rule we all agreed to? Did you forget?”

“Stop treating me like a child.”

“Stop acting like one. The rule wasn’t our idea. It came from the chief, or the witch doctor, or whatever the Hell he-” “Village mayor.”

“He explicitly stated we shouldn’t tell the women that the necklaces and trinkets are thrown in the streets during parades. Because they would see our Mardi Gras throws as trash.”

“It’s not the throwing that bothers them, it’s the flashing in the French Quarter.”

“I thought most of the women in Africa ran around half-naked.”

“This country is a former British colony and ninety percent Muslim. The women dress very conservatively.”

“How did they find out?”

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He stepped out of the doorway of the small boarding house he was staying in, right into her path. It hurt even to remember it.

“They saw stuff online and asked me. I told them the truth. I tried to explain it was very limited and just the stupidity of youth. Dad, this is not some backward third-world country. The village has electricity, Internet, cell phones.

“You don’t have to tell me what technology they have. Let’s remember who installed generators for the factory and the village so everyone could have reliable power? Who paid to have a cell tower erected, and who provided new computers, televisions and DVD players for the employees. Christ, you’re even bringing in video discs for them.”

“The electronics aren’t new, they’re refurbished.”

“It’s new to them.”

“The meeting just got out of hand.

Someone told them they were making jewelry for working class African-American women. Women who were descendants of slaves from West Africa. Now they think they’re making jewelry for white American prostitutes.”

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“All of the forty broads went on strike?

red dirt roads, stunted trees, and peanut fields everywhere.

“A good friend, a close friend?”

“Yes,” Kevin said.

He brought gifts for the Mayor and explained his plan to produce necklaces used in American celebrations. When he showed the Mayor the Robichaux Carnival Supplies brochures, the Mayor recognized New Orleans.

“She was in law school and I was in business school. And as you know, Aminta is very driven. Completing law school a semester early doesn’t leave time to do anything except study. ”

“This is the damnedest thing.

People striking over the customers. What’s the plan?”

“I’m meeting with Rajendra and the Mayor later today. I’ll email an update.”

Kevin Robichaux was the youngest child in the fourth generation of the Robichaux clan. Robichaux Carnival Supplies Incorporated was founded at the turn of the twentieth century in New Orleans, Louisiana. Each eldest son of each generation took the role of Chief Executive Officer, and each CEO always left the corporation in better shape than he found it. The current CEO was Kevin’s father and his legacy would be low-cost, off-shore manufacturing.

After Kevin graduated with his MBA two years ago, he told his family that he wanted to see more of the world, but he only had one destination-Western Africa. He went directly to Fatoto, a small village on a large river with access to the Atlantic Ocean.

He was told that the country was not what most Americans imagined. He found rural Georgia with different animals.

The landscape consisted of CANYONVOICES

“You come from New Orleans?”

“Yes your honor, I was born and raised in New Orleans.”

“My daughter went to school in New Orleans, Tulane Law School.”

“Yes Mayor, I know. I met Aminta at Tulane. Her stories of your village and how the people need other forms of commerce led me here.”

“And the tax credits and World Bank secured loans for helping us poor Africans is good as well, yes?”

“Yes Mayor, there are incentives, but they don’t cover everything. That’s why I’ll be here to make sure everything is done correctly and we will make this a profitable venture, for everybody.”

“You were friends with my daughter?”

“Yes.”

The mayor seemed convinced that his daughter had behaved properly in America and was still a chaste woman, which Kevin could confirm.

“Mayor, before we go any further, contact Aminta. Ask her if you can trust me.”

“It may take time to ask her.

She is in London getting a doctorate degree.”

Three days later, the mayor contacted Kevin. After securing the mayor’s agreement and signature on a letter of understanding, Kevin waded through all the district level bureaucrats and finally got appointments with the all right ministers at the national level. The effort took six weeks. Finally, Kevin was ready to go home and sell his idea to the board of directors.

Kevin arrived in New York on Saturday and called his mother from a hotel near JFK airport.

“Hi Mom, it’s your wayward son. I’m back, well I’m in New FALL2015

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Continued York.”

“Sweetheart! Finally! I was beginning to forget what you looked like.”

“I look like your tennis instructor.”

show up late to make a grand entrance.

Kevin parked in the driveway, blocking everyone from leaving. He hated the house he grew up in. As a boy he would ride his bike up and down Magazine Street looking for a house like his. He found many houses with round

They stayed, eating, drinking, talking, as the dark crept over the open fields and settled in the branches of an olive tree that had been old when the Moors ruled most of the country.

“Watch it mister.”

“Mom, is everyone coming to Sunday dinner tomorrow?”

“They are now. It’s your homecoming.”

“Great. I feel like I’ve been awake for two days. I need normal sleep.”

“Don’t forget to bolt the hotel door. If there’s no bolt, prop a chair against the door.”

The next day Kevin took the early flight to New Orleans. He arrived before noon and after stopping at the Robichaux offices to pick up his laptop computer, he went straight to his apartment to transfer his notes to slides. As dinner time approached Kevin decided to CANYONVOICES

castle-like towers, and many more homes with first and second story porches held up by fluted white columns. But never any houses with both, except his house. He wondered if his greatgrandfather could not make up his mind what kind of house he wanted. In a college architecture class he learned that the mixture of architectural elements generally came from the nouveau riche who demanded what they wanted letting decorum be damned.

He entered through the kitchen door and saw his mother plating food prepared earlier by the cook.

“He’s here,” his mother shouted. “My baby’s home.”

“Mother, really?”

“You’re the youngest. You’ll always be the baby.”

Kevin’s younger sister stood behind her mother waiting to hug Kevin, “What does that make me?”

Kevin put his arms around his sister, “That makes you the problem middle child. Did you know that seventy-three percent of female serial killers are middle children?”

“Yes, I knew that. Did you know that their baby brother is their first kill forty-one percent of the time because he stole her mommy away?”

Their mother glared at them, “Is there anyone normal in this family?”

The remainder of the family crammed into the kitchen from the dining room and proceeded with hugs, kisses, and handshakes. Everyone except Kevin carried plates and side dishes to the dining room. Kevin dropped off his laptop in the foyer. His oldest sister noticed his detour and called out, “Trying to impress everyone by bringing work to Sunday dinner, Little Brother?”

“Not trying to impress anyone, Big Sister,” Kevin shouted back.

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As promised, Kevin’s mother had assembled the entire family so Kevin would be presenting to the board of directors: his mother, father, two sisters, and paternal grandmother. His oldest sister, the Chief Financial Officer, had brought her husband, the Corporate Counsel for Robichaux Carnival Supplies.

Once everyone was settled at the dinner table, Kevin’s mother turned to him. “So, tell us your grand adventure dear.”

“That’s what the laptop is for.

Not now, after dinner. Instead, I want to hear everything that

happened while I was gone.”

“Alright sweetie, we’ll let the prodigal son eat.”

“Mom, I’m the only son.”

Kevin’s oldest sister looked up and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. “Yes, Kevin we know. You’re the male child. The heir apparent to be CEO. In our generation you have the penis and you never miss the chance to rub it in our faces…wait that…didn’t…”

The room went completely silent and after a few seconds the grandmother began to giggle. Then everyone let

loose. As the din subsided Kevin shouted, “And, Big Sister, that’s why you’re in the back office away from the clients.”

Kevin looked around the table at the Board of Directors.

They were rushing through the meal. He sensed they were all excited to see his presentation. He felt certain their enthusiasm worked in his favor, though the subject matter would not be what they expected. He believed he could convince them with fiscally sound ideas smothered with white guilt.

And like the southern Louisiana chicken and Cajun gravy they were all eating, he

Image: Pixabay.com

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They finished the meal and quickly stacked the expensive china in the sink for the maid to wash the next morning.

Kevin’s mother was so hurried and giddy, she dropped the serving platter containing second helpings of chicken and gravy. She quickly used a dustpan and serving spoon to scoop up chicken, gravy and shattered china and dumped it in trash, leaving a three foot long grease smear across the marble-tiled floor.

Everyone settled in what was once called the music room, now called the TV room. Kevin plugged his laptop into the smart flat panel screen. When an image appeared everyone laughed. The title slide read: “What I Did on My Summer Vacation”. He waited until the laughter ended, counted to ten and advanced to the next slide.

Two round black faces completely filled the eightyfour inch LED panel. The boys were toddler age with close shaved hair. All around their mouths and cheeks their skin seemed to be peeling and flaking. They both looked as if they were about to cry. He kept the picture up and waited for the question. Finally his mother asked, “Is something wrong with them?”

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“They live in a country with an unstable economy,” Kevin said. “At times food is scarce.

At times disease draws close.

On my summer vacation I started something that could make a difference for these two boys, Salifu and Jallow.”

South. Slaves shipped to America were processed through this fort. I wondered why the fort wasn’t taken down, but then I realized it is a monument to the brutality humans can afflict on each other.”

No one asked further about the boys, which eased Kevin’s mind since the skin malaise was dried chocolate ice cream. Their sad expressions came from taking their chocolate ice cream away, though they got it back after a few pictures were taken. He continued the presentation showing several slides of items like cost-benefit analyses, internal rates of return, and economic rates of return. Mixed in were slides of the villagers working and caring for their families in small concrete block huts.

Halfway through the presentation Kevin knew he had his mother and grandmother. The body language of his little sister seem to favor him, but she was daddy’s little girl and always followed his lead. He knew his father and older sister hated the idea. Kevin finished the presentation with a picture of a fifteenth-century fort.

Kevin’s mother started clapping but a withering look from her husband silenced her. Kevin knew what came next—the CEO summation. He would have his usual three or four issues to spotlight and then convince the board to reject the proposal. Eventually all eyes turned to the CEO.

“This fort is just a few miles from the village. It has a connection to New Orleans, to Louisiana, and the whole

“Kevin, great presentation. I’m glad your college tuition did not go to waste. And kudos for taking on a big initiative alone. But first, your slides all have you name and title as Acting Chief Operating Officer.

That’s your sister’s title.”

“Yes, Dad you’re correct.”

Kevin turned to his sister. “I’m very sorry, Lil’ Sis. But I needed a title for the UN and the US embassy and all the government officials. I don’t think Baby of the Family or He Who Has the Penis would get me very far. I just want to say to the board that what I did was very preliminary. Of course the real work will be done by senior management and the board. And I’ll help in any way I can.”

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hoped his rich white folk would eat it up.

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Kevin’s father put on his reading glasses to review his notes and then looked up at Kevin. “Let’s run down the highlights. Why are we building a day care center?”

vote? I guess it has never been an issue since I usually follow the majority.”

The grandmother stopped talking, took a long, slow gaze at everyone, and finally said, “I’m guessing the vote is split three to three. With the employees on one side and us stay at home moms on the other.”

“Only women will work in the factory, and that works to our benefit. Studies show women are better at repetitive handwork. I envision running two, six-hour shifts, one shift The CEO rose from his chair, following the other, so the “Oh please, when’s the last women will need child care. time you two stay at home But we won’t be involved, except building the daycare He stepped out of the center. The village will doorway of the small make sure the children are cared for.” boarding house he was The grandmother interrupted, “Can I just say my piece now, Kevin?”

staying in, right into her path. It hurt even to remember it.

“Certainly Nana.”

“I think this is marvelous, you have your Nana’s two votes” “Wait, what are you talking about mother?” the CEO asked” “I’m the oldest board member, I get two votes. It’s in our charter.”

“Mother, we haven’t invoked that since Father died fourteen years ago.”

“Are you saying you have only been counting me as a single CANYONVOICES

moms did a load of laundry?

Kevin take your bother-in-law to the library and wait until we reach a decision.”

Kevin and the brother-in-law marched in silence to the second floor room. Kevin quickened his pace to his favorite chair, a silk upholstered wingback. The brother in-law plopped down on an Italian settee scraping, the teak legs across the hundred-year-old oak floor.

Kevin shot a dirty look at his bother-in-law, but he dodged it by staring out the window.

The brother-in-law stood and dragged the settee back to its original place. Kevin continued to shooting dirty looks but none hit the mark. The brother-in-law then began a visual survey of the library. His handling of books, paintings, vases, and other objet d'art made Kevin smile. He imagined the inept brother-inlaw was laying claim to items he might inherit after the older generation died. Kevin finally spoke.

“Cataloging?”

“Just looking.”

“You break it, you bought it.”

The brother-in-law returned to the settee and landed with a light touch before committing all his weight.

“Kevin, do you remember we were at Tulane at the same time?”

“Yes. And?” “I probably spent more time with Aminta than you did. We were in the same study group.

She told us about her village. I don’t remember the village being as backward as some of your pictures seem to indicate.”

“What’s your point?”

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“I get it Kevin. I really do. That perfect chocolate caramel skin, the bubble butt and those huge-” “Shut up. Shut the Hell up. No more talking.”

Kevin closed his eyes and tried to let the anger dissipate.

He thought about Aminta. He could not remember when they met--two, three, maybe four weeks after midterm. But he knew the date, time and phase of the moon when he last saw her. As always, he picked her up at the Loyola Law Library. Though they never discussed it, he knew she feared someone on the Tulane campus would see her riding in a car with a man.

Over dinner she brought up her favorite subject.

CANYONVOICES

“Kevin, please tell me you have laid with a woman since last we met.”

“Min, just let go of that and stop asking me.”

“That would be an answer of no.” She paused for two quick bites of goat cheese ravioli.

“Why do Americans shorten everything? Names, music, books. Is there a connection between less syllables and more profit? I’m amazed how people here are keen as mustard to make their next dollar.”

“Should I call you Aminta?”

“No, no. I would not want to stand in the way of American progress and profit.”

conversation. He paused and watched her eat her meal.

“You asked me a question, let me ask you one. Why do Africans eat so fast?”

“If we don’t someone stronger or politically connected will take the food for themselves.”

They stared at each other.

Kevin saw the shine of tears in Aminta’s eyes. She finally broke the silence.

“Oh Mr. Robichaux, you have a very bad case of it.”

“Bad case of what?”

“White guilt. Your case is double bad because you also have rich guilt. It’s quite common with you champagne socialists.”

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“You were about to cry.”

“Oh dear, dear Kevin. You are surrounded by women in your family. You must know how manipulative we can be. Let me enlighten you. If your opponent is a woman, you have to play her game. Most women don’t expect it from a man. Enough of that let’s get back to your sex life.”

Two weeks and three days later, they had a phone conversation that ended all further contact.

“Aminta, please don’t freeze me out. Just trust me.”

“Something will happen eventually. You will want more, men always do. You cannot escape your nature.”

drove to Tulane. He cruised Greek Row for the first house with an open party and then cruised for the first willing debutant.

Kevin opened his eyes. The anger was gone. The brotherin-law had resumed his cataloguing. Kevin decided he needed information, so he reopened communications.

“Hey barrister, sorry for the outburst.”

“You want a deposit in case I break something?”

“Okay, I deserved that,” Kevin said. “But I really think we can help these people. The worst is we break even.”

“I agree. It’s a solid plan.”

“I can handle it. It’s not like I’m some desperate high school virgin,” Kevin said.

“If they’re deadlocked, can you talk your wife into voting for it?”

“But I am a virgin, and I will remain one until my wedding.

All of this drama, as you Americans say, takes too much of my time. I thank you for everything you have done for me. I wish you a happy life with a fair-skinned blonde debutant. Don’t let the guilt control you. And don’t forget to thank your Catholic God for what you have. Know that I will remember you the rest of my life.”

“No need, your sister will vote for it. I know my wife. She’ll see it as a win-win. If you crash and burn she’ll have ammunition to show you’re not CEO material. If it’s a success, then everyone makes more money. Maybe we shut down or take over some of our competitors.”

He left his apartment and CANYONVOICES

The two mahogany pocket doors slid open and the grandmother stepped into the library.

“Gentlemen, we’ve reached a decision. An exploratory committee will convene.”

An unused concrete hut served as Kevin’s home and office while he overlooked operations at the Fatoto factory. His office furniture was a folding table and two folding chairs. His house furniture was an air mattress.

The forty-by-twenty foot structure had one separate room and a W.C. with a standing shower. The corner farthest from the W.C. had a large sink with metal cabinetry. There were only three power outlets and one door.

Kevin checked his watch.

Rajendra was late for their meeting and now Kevin worried another problem had arose. Kevin leaned on Rajendra too much, but the talkative Catholic Indian from Mumbai had become indispensable. He burst through the door without knocking.

“Sir, please excuse my tardiness. I know you must email an update to the father as promised. So we will go through agenda item one quickly.”

Rajendra sat and opened his valise. He took out several diaries and ledger books—all paper, no electronics. Kevin FALL2015

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“My father will get his update when we finish it.”

“You always address me by my proper name. Many Europeans and North Americans shorten it to Raj. Many appreciations, Sir. Now let us talk about my position here at Fatoto Manufacturing, a subsidiary of Robichaux Carnival Supplies International.”

Kevin’s stomach began to tighten. He feared Rajendra was about to quit. Kevin swallowed hard and asked, “What’s on your mind?”

“I ask you to promote me as Project Manager.”

“We don’t need a project manager. You’re the Operations Manager. It is a more important job.”

“But I wish to be a project manager. In my spare time last year I completed the Master Certificate in Applied Project Management from the very fine American university Villanova. Then during peanut harvest, I went home and performed my certification exam at the Mumbai chapter of the Project Management Institute.”

“We don’t need a project manager.”

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“Sure, sure I know that.”

“You want me to pay you for nothing?”

“Certainly not. I will continue all my duties plus any new work you assign, but I wish to perform them with the title of Project Manager. I wish it to be official in the HR offices. I would like letterhead sheets and business cards too.”

“I’m really confused.”

“Someday I will go home to stay, not now, years from now.

I think Project Manager is a good retirement job.”

“Fine. I will do the paperwork to get your title, letterhead, and business cards. But if I ever get a reference request-” “No worries Mr. Kevin. No one from Mumbai will ever call you.”

“Good. Let’s talk about our problem. Have any of the employees come to you?”

“Yes sir. Haddy wished to talk.”

“That’s good. She’s the eldest.

Did she have terms, demands, questions?”

“Sir, she wants the new fables from the shipping container.

She fears that they will ruin.”

As a gesture of friendship

Robiochaux International had donated flat panel screens, computers, and disc players for the village’s community center. The village also received DVDs. Kevin had chosen children’s stories thinking they would be used in the child care center. The women called the DVDs “fables”. At the start of the first shakedown production run the employees asked for fables that they would enjoy. Kevin then remembered Aminta’s only guilty pleasure: Korean soap operas. She talked endlessly about the similarities of Korean and West African cultures and like Aminta the employees became addicted.

“Rajendra, I think we might have some leverage, but we will also need an excuse. First thing find Haddy and explain that the fables must remain in the container until an agreement is found and they all return to work. If no agreement is possible the container and all its contents will be returned to America.

Go now, we need the word to get around ASAP.” ”But sir, I have charts and a timeline for your approval.”

“Why?” “Sir, at the end of the week the assistant to the Deputy of the regional Commissioner for the UN Economic Commission FALL2015

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guessed Rajendra’s age was near his father’s.

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will be here for a site visit.”

“The MBAs without borders are coming? Jesus H. Christ, we really need to settle this strike.”

“Kevin, we do not need to invoke our Savior’s name.”

“I’ll say a hundred Hail Mary’s later. One issue at a time. Find Haddy and relay the news about the fables. Remind her that the employees have the ability to restore everything as it was.”

Rajendra left the hut and Kevin grabbed the satellite phone.

“Lil’ Sis, how are you?”

“Dad briefed us on your strike.

What do you need?”

“You still dating that TV news guy?”

“Really, you called at a dollar a minute to discuss my love life?”

“Yes or no, Lil’Sis?” “We’re kinda on hiatus.”

“Can you get him back?”

“He’ll probably want sex.” ”It’ll have to be a quickie. I’m running out of time. I’ll email you everything I need. Don’t let me down. Everything now depends on you.”

“You’re dumping all the pressure on me?”

“You can handle it.”

Kevin turned off the satellite phone and began writing his presentation to the employees. After ten minutes Rajendra returned.

“Sir, I met with Haddy. She got very angry when I relayed your message.”

“Anger is good. No one likes to be angry. If you can relieve their anger, then you have them on your side. Let’s schedule a meeting for tomorrow at sundown. They can stare at the container all day and think about how their fables are melting. Rajendra, have you seen the Mayor?”

“No sir, his oldest son told me the mayor has meetings at District headquarters. He’s never around when there is trouble.”

“We should have expected it.

He’ll show up when everything is settled and then take credit.

He is a politician after all.”

Kevin worked on the presentation until three in the morning. He awoke to the satellite phone at nine.

“Ok Kev, all the content has been loaded to the server.”

“Lil’ Sis, how did it go with the

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TV news guy?”

“Two words: hiatus over.”

At sundown Kevin entered the factory. The employees had moved work stools to the center of the building, some had taken chairs from the community center and others brought chairs and stools from home. The free-standing projector screen sat thirty feet from the employees. Kevin was pleased to see that all the employees wore the commemorative throws they made last year. As Kevin opened his mouth to speak, Haddy stood and grabbed a trash barrel from a workstation. She dragged it to the middle of the floor, took off her throw and dropped it in the trash barrel. She walked back to her seat and when she sat down another employee stood and performed the same act. All employees participated. The demonstration took twelve minutes to complete.

When the last employee sat down, Kevin pushed the trash can back to its original place.

When he felt they were done with their statement he turned on the projector. They saw a young blonde girl with twenty to thirty throws around her neck. She was exposing her breasts, presumably for more throws. Her breasts were blurred out.

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Kevin showed a crane shot of Bourbon Street Mardi Gras, showing only three cross streets.

“The French Quarter is very small, in comparison to your Smiling Coast. We know many activities go on in the French Quarter and the Smiling Coast that we don’t like but we accept these activities for commerce, because commerce brings better lives.

Kevin began a montage of rural small town Mardi Gras parades.

“Now look at these pictures.

You see people dressed in appropriate costumes-nothing revealing or sexual.

The people standing on the floats are dressed as royalty acting out the sharing of wealth with the people, distributing the commerce.

But look here closely. The floats are farm trucks, flat beds, hay wagons pulled by CANYONVOICES

tractors. These would-be kings and queens are farming families, the same as everyone here. These are the people I make throws for. Not the drunk and disorderly but the makers of food and sustenance. People who work in the soil, and the sun, and the rain, and the drought.

Kevin ran to the trash barrel containing the commemorative throws and pushed it back to the middle.

He reached in and took a throw and then rushed back to the work station. He picked up a clean shop rag and while he walked, he cleaned the throw.

His walk stopped in front of Haddy’s stool. He held out the throw to her. She stared at him for a while and then took the throw.

Employees began queueing up to retrieve a throw. Some stayed back but eventually everyone retrieved a throw.

Kevin cleaned each throw.

Halfway through the cleaning Kevin called Rajendra over and whispered, “Get a crew out here tomorrow at sunrise to unload the container. Pay extra if you have to.”

Later at Kevin’s hut, he and Rajendra debriefed on how they managed the strike. On Kevin’s third bourbon he recommended himself for a letter of accommodation and a promotion for Rajendra to

Senior Project Manager.

“Rajendra, we did good.”

“Sir, we performed our duties with highest excellence.”

“Not too over-the-top?”

“Oh no sir, Africans love theatrics.”

“It has just occurred to me that my Big Sister would make a better CEO than me.”

“Sir, what of your tradition?”

“Tradition impedes advancement. It’s time for me to stop living in the past.”

Kevin rose from his folding chair and poured three more fingers of bourbon. “So Rajendra, is there a job title or business sector that specializes in what we just did?”

“Yes sir, indeed there is. It’s called Project Management.

And Kevin, don’t forget the hundred Hail Mary’s you owe.”

■■■ For more information on author W. Jay Talley, please visit our Contributors Page.

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“Ladies, I’m very sorry that many of you were upset by this photograph or others like it. But I’m not sorry you saw it.

Seeing this picture means you live in a country where information is not censored.

Look at this girl. I can tell you she is in the French Quarter.

She is obviously intoxicated. I imagine that many young girls wake up the next day wishing they could take the day back.”

FICTION CONTRIBUTORS Kat Lewis An alchemist of semantics, Kat Lewis transmutes graphemes and phonemes into tales that chronicle human frailty. An author of four novels and two-feature length screenplays, she finds herself a slave to words and their meanings. When she isn’t writing or rewriting, Lewis directs short films and pursues a degree in Writing Seminars at The John Hopkins University.

Catherine Craig Catherine Craig is a sophomore attending ASU the West Campus who has enjoyed reading and writing from a very young age. The daughter of an Air Force radar specialist and a computer engineer, she has never gone without support for her ideas. Her earliest memories are of the entire family sitting in the living room reading their own respective books well into the evening. Surrounded by the world of literature from such an early age certainly helped get those creative juices flowing – she hopes to continue writing for pleasure well into the future.

Joel Salcido sdsD

Born a Los Angeles cockroach and smuggled to the West side of Phoenix, Joel Salcido translates the poetry of the barrio pigeons into surrealist prophecies. He is blessed with a beautiful wife and two sons as well as a cadre of talentedly mad brothers, friends, coconspirators and fellow hood radicals. He writes poetry and prose and is working towards a mastery of arts while building a boat out of editor’s rejection letters to float back to the moon. He is also a member of the Gutta Collective, ARTRATs, and Chronic Illness and can be heard in the furtive back rows of ASU creative writing workshops shitting on clichés.

Patricia Martarella Patricia Martarella is a student at Arizona State University pursuing concurrent degrees in Psychology and English with a projected graduation of May 2016. For the last four years, Patricia has worked as a Program specialist for Student Life and Leadership at Glendale Community College, channeling her love for higher education into even programming for the campus; cultural and advocacy recognitions. A native Phoenician, Patricia has an unyielding passion for biological anthropology, fiction and scriptwriting, neuroscience, and women’s studies and finds solace in reading literature of all genres. She has a deep appreciation for the cultural richness abundant in local art scenes and invests herself in expanding the capacity of her life’s bookends through thoughtful immersion in theatre, music, and filmography.

Abby Silva Abby Silva is a senior at Arizona Christian University where she is completing her Bachelor’s Degree in Christian Ministries with a minor in General Studies. Abby enjoys contemplating life, laughing, eating ice cream, and writing. As a philalethist, she realizes the longer she lives the more she does not know; but knowing what is true in life is essential.

Olivia Tejeda Olivia Tejeda is a writer and a senior at Arizona State University. After graduating in May 2016 with a BA in English and a Creative Writing certificate, she will do her graduate work in New York or Paris. Or maybe she’ll just stay home and finish the novel she’s been working on for six years. Her writing has been published in Best of Friday Flash – Volume 1, LitSnack.com, The Poughkeepsie Journal, and Hudson Valley News. In addition to writing, Olivia’s interests range from film and photography to knitting and yoga.

Joseph Giordano Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife, Jane, have lived in Greece, Brazil, Belgium and Netherlands. They now live in Texas with their little shih tzu, Sophia.

Joe's stories have appeared in more than seventy magazines including Bartleby Snopes, The Monarch Review, decomP, and The Summerset Review. His novel, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, was published by Harvard Square Editions October 2015. Read the first chapter and sign up for his blog at http://joe-giordano.com/

Mikala Kass Mikala Kass is a senior at Arizona State University pursuing her degree in English literature. She has not quite decided what she wants to do after graduation, but aspires to do something in the somewhat nebulous field of writing and editing. She is constantly inspired by the imagination inherent in all great literature. This is her first piece of published fiction, and she is thrilled to have it included with the other talented works featured in Canyon Voices. Mikala is also indebted to family, friends, and various teachers for their support, without which she would never have built a passion for the written word.

Seth Slater Seth Slater was born in Bend Oregon on June 6th 1992. He spent his formative years living in the Fiji Islands; immersed in Fijian, Indian, and British culture. Slater has been published by Trans Lit Mag, TreeHouse An Exhibition of the Arts, The Commuter and currently has a short story set for publication in the February edition of Bird’s Thumb. Slater is finishing up his senior year at Oregon State University, pursuing a BA in English, and resides in Halsey, Oregon.

William Talley W. Jay Talley leads a pack of software warriors by day and writes in the closet by night. After reaching adulthood in Cincinnati, he fell into the Ohio River and eventually washed up on the shores of Hawai’i. The journey was perilous but rewarding with gifts of Aloha, climate and the love of his life. Back in the day when W. Jay could stay awake past eleven o’clock he moonlighted as a stringer for several travel and in-flight magazines, writing articles on Waikiki night life. W. Jay’s fiction work remains in an emerging status. His most recent (and only) publication was in the Scrutiny Journal.

POETRY

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The Floating Fiesta

By Eric Kingsbury

Moon God

By Henry Carillo III

Wetback

By Robert Joe Stout

Newspapers

By John Grey

Retired

By Robert Joe Stout

First Apartment

By John Grey

Goldfish

By Suzanne Bird

I, Ingrate

By Heath Brougher

My Escape

By Michael Velasco

Galore

By Heath Brougher

Immutable

By Abby Silva

Smoke A Cigarette

By Abby Baker

Lasagna Garden

By Arthur Morales

The Twins and the Ram

By Colton Bybee

Lilly, Lonely Trailer Prostitute

By Michael Lee Johnson

To the Unborn

By Colton Bybee Rush Hour Casualty

By Jonathan Kistner

POETRY

Floating Fiesta

By Eric Kingsbury Hotel Congress surges with laughter, pulsing salsa as old friends, well met, line the lobby bar, and I am here for you and this, our latest shared meandering through Arizona heat, shade, dislocation, after so many countries, jobs, miles, years, the floating fiesta of lives lived fully, to reflect on people, places, love — there is always such morning promise, I say, that blossoms into afternoon depth, you add, but sometimes a hopeless evening, we agree, like old coffee gone thick and foul in a stainless steel pot, like gardens reclaimed forever by encroaching desert, like long-tended marriages bitterly corroded by too many years of shared experience — but tonight, flowers climb trellis work, drinks shine, sparkle in luminous glass, courtyard fills with dancing smiles, music vibrates over cobblestones, bass-heavy with love’s possibility — and we drift into the courtyard laughing, arm-in-arm, living forward, merging again into the floating fiesta.

Andromeda By Nate Tunstall (See artwork for full image)

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

Wetback

By Robert Joe Stout

The water cold, current stronger than he’d sensed. He stopped, lean face taut. The guide grabbed his arm and shoved him towards the raft. For a moment, under water, he felt his screams fill with bubbles, his ears start to burst, then he broke through, his only thought to grab the wood, swim, save himself.

Ya el fondo! Bare feet slipped on the muddy bottom and he came up choking and sputtering, then helped the guide drag the raft halfway up the bank, shivering in wind that cut through their wet shirts.

Like tools he couldn't get to work his fingers tugged the knot of the plastic bag he'd tied to his wrist.

He rubbed himself dry with a pair of jeans, dressed. Past the dunes, gray land stretched treelessly toward no man’s land. He stared, blinking as the sun blanched the ground they’d have to cross. Listo?

Turning to face the grizzled, hunched man he’d paid to guide him to this better land, he nodded. I have come this far —his boy's voice almost a man's before it faltered. He took a deep breath.

I have come this far he repeated, shoes sinking into dark, resistant sand.

CANYONVOICES

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POETRY

Retired

By Robert Joe Stout Years of bruises undulate hands once filled but empty now, transformed from wings…wings? did I have wings..?

Mind overwhelmed by the sensation flying! he tries to focus on computer, books, sparrows stuttering the juniper but airiness, he’s touching nothing …flying! one with sky, with clouds, with rain..! Fingers tug at table’s wood as something in him separates the who he is from being something other than himself…flying! a swirl across what might have been or memory of something he once was.

Goldfish

By Suzanne Bird Scaly, slippery, glistening creatures, darting to and fro Very pleasant to the eye, like Midas flashing his gold.

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

My Escape

By Michael Velasco She is my escape on the longest days, In her midst in a trance, In a daze, Nothing more to blame than the depth of her gaze. I am crazed.

For her I lust, But it's so much more than a physical connection, I lust for her conversation, Consuming the deepest parts of my mental, It’s her smile that draws me in, Her voice that slides right in, My soul is captivated, My heart has never been so displayed, Feelings never this engaged, To her all I can say is that I'm amazed, She is everything and more, On a pedestal she’s been placed and I know this makes her uncomfortable because she doesn't feel worthy of the name, Her humbleness a trait that I dig and I hope that she knows that this pedestal is celestial and even that is not high enough to reach the mantel she rests upon, Instantly I was drawn, A canvas that she created a masterpiece on, All things in due time is what my hopes are banking on, Until that day I'm a man emotionally overdrawn, This is what could be described as the saddest song, My fingers crossed my will so strong, All things in due time, Five words they ease my mind....

But can I read?

Am I blind?

Smooth Sailing By Aggie Redkey (See artwork for full image)

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

Immutable

By Abby Silva Man, divine breath and earthen ground, Body and spirit from heaven crowned, Purposed to make the world turn round, But purpose lost when his will found.

The thought that man thinks he births, Is merely second, not the first.

But merit, prize, he claims as own, Upon this he builds his diamond throne.

And what he makes outlives him still, Despite his wishes and his will.

For neither force nor begging may, Implore crumbling flesh to stay.

Once it descends earthen waves, Bodies flung to ghostly graves.

Work is the breath of men’s lives, Man works. Work survives.

Lasagna Garden

By Arthur Morales

Lush tomato vines lit lemon grass oil lanterns concealed katydid

CANYONVOICES

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POETRY

Lilly, Lonely Trailer Prostitute

By Michael Lee Johnson Paint your face with cosmetic smiles.

Toss your breast around with synthetic plastic.

Don’t leak single secrets to strangerslocked in your trailer 8 foot wide by 50 foot long with twisted carrots, cucumbers, weak batteries, and colorful dildos-you’ve even give them names: Adams’s pleasure skin, big Ben on the raise, Rasputin: the Mad Monk-oh no, no, no.

Your legs hang with the signed signatures of playboys and drifters ink.

The lot rent went up again this year.

Paint your face with cosmetic smiles.

Moon God

By Henry Carillo I am engulfed by the murky night.

Waves of heat swell against my flesh, What daze has come upon me at this very hour?

A face peels from the moon, But it is no strange-featured face.

I turn my eyes to the sky, only to see yours.

I see now where the entrancement comes from.

Your eyes flutter often like butterfly wings, as they gaze into the rooms of vulnerable men and boys, bringing them to a quiver, a shudder.

How far does your dim light reach?

Does it see the oceans, or even kiss the mountain peaks?

I remain still in your glare, Awaiting the first gleam of haunting dawn.

To the moth, what good is light if it’s everywhere? and can’t be found like a treasure?

Small flames, or moon light.

Your death grip captivates the hearts of men, and the desires of moths.

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

Newspapers

By John Grey People are such crap is what you're trying to tell me.

Mastodons or cobras or stinking pits of shit.

A barbarian wants my vote. A wax dummy is trying to sell me something. And shares in spit will be the next big thing.

Forty dead by page seven and weather only accountable for nine. Jail terms handed out like medals. Gangsters teach school. Celebrities start churches. Two muscle men piss in a ring and the crowd goes wild.

So what's the score? Drought. Pestilence.

War. A million starving. When do I get to pick my fantasy Africa team? Louts write editorials. The asinine agree. Three journalists were shot. Two would like to be.

And, on page thirty, local news, the village idiot now runs the village. The town cop shot and killed his wife, arrested himself, went up before his brother the judge, is now out on parole. And the Chinese just purchased the Niagara Falls.

I'm weary by the time I reach the deaths of ordinary people. The one time they get their picture in the paper they don't get to see it. But if a saber tooth tiger dies. Or the head hog. Now that's a different story.

No, it's the same story. But with a bigger byline.

The classifieds... man who hates women seeks woman who hates men. The comics... laugh and you laugh at a guy blowing out his brains, fifteen hookers in a paddy wagon. And lastly, the horoscope. Today is a bad day to read newspapers. Other than that, you’re good to go.

CANYONVOICES

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POETRY

First Apartment

By John Grey

You mean there's actually work to be done here?

An apartment doesn't clean itself?

And what about that dripping tap?

Do I call someone? Do I put it down to the soundtrack of blessed freedom?

A cockroach moves in.

And to think, I was counting on a lover.

But there's food in the refrigerator at least: three doggy bags but no dog, thank God. I sit in the one kitchen chair and contemplate how things get done.

Who picks up the empty bottles, throws them in the dumpster?

Who cleans the scummy plates?

Who wipes the mantle dust?

Are any of these gracious acts the byproduct of a wild night out, or even peaceful night in with a book and some munchies or a game on the television?

And speaking of TV, why is it black and white?

And when do these crates turn into furniture?

And where does the mattress find springs to its liking?

With one violent blow from my shoe, I kill the cockroach.

Cold beer in hand, I await the repercussions.

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

I, Ingrate

By Heath Brougher

I have mangled certain paths laid out before me.

Paths that appeared sometimes abruptly, sometimes not, laden with only good intention, sprawling out with only wide benefit to offer.

I have ruined these roads, damaged them with a crooked and careless walk.

Random relative presents bestowed routes of benevolent aberration and a safe escape.

A trail to easily gallop through summer and emerge sunny on the other side.

Somehow I failed these lucky paths, and tarnished these gorgeous selfless gifts.

I offer a sorrowed apology for my usual reckless trampling; an apology for my actions of not cherishing and of taking for granted these long-stretching roads of help.

The high sun could have been clasped and held close to the heart, finally bringing light to such a darkly place.

This path of tedium and suffering could have been quit for a favorable one strewn with brighter lights and better intentions.

I never meant to be so cold and distant, but being the ingrate I am, I was.

Blade of Grass By Oliva Tejeda (See artwork for full image)

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

Galore

By Heath Brougher I heard you coming through the room, passing by, semi-drowned of your fabled pride and felt good knowing you bled among the branches.

You saw me through the brush, along the walls, sinking to the mud-water that bloomed ripples, ebbing and splashing after your steps. The moment of Hazel Melody had descended upon us through the tepid vapor of the Cloud Sun. Things seemed only half, maybe backwards.

I, the prey, now stalking you around colorless landscapes, and you, with that ruddy laceration seeming to breathe as every footfall gnashed over leaves gone from their heightened thresholds.

You were a broken-winged bird, a clotting monarch in recovery, leaving your platelet-scent on all the moist fibers of a monochromatic dull. Everything was blurred yet I still knew of your presence from how the woodland was stained by your arm, the Wounded Limb, the Blood River.

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

Smoking A Cigarette

By Abby Baker

Burning, smoldering.

Flames inciting and forced breath imposing: I inhale lust of the one that I love, and exhale the smile only distance can know.

I sit next to cars and houses unfamiliar, with passion burning in my lungs, flowing through my fingers.

I inhale knowledge found in the shadows of my surroundings, and exhale only when the pressure is too much to bear.

The smoke that is created is more than that found in mirrors, it is a life that is led only when comfort is found.

Heat-filled, crawling.

Bursting into my lungs a feeling of complacency that might someday, finally erupt: complacency is not what I wish for, but instead untainted happiness as vapid as the smoke that I breathe.

One day I will stop smoking.

Discontinued By Carolina Mesquita (see artwork for full image)

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

The Twins and the Ram

By Colton Bybee

Dear Gemini, You're interchanging just like the wind Gracefully dancing in twirls and gaunt glides Telling "Chaos" one thing and "Harmony" another With a mischievous smile You whoosh, with nurturing tones laid out by your platinum tongue That can scurry and slice the strongest man’s ego You flourish and gleam within so called taboos Flirt with the devil while you give angels wings You're as free as the winds adrift Yet fearless and anchored when driven I'm brooding and alive with a pulse Glowing and bouncing to my own beat A growing Phoenix that hasn't learned how to fly Full of sudden leaps of emotion from the flame Bound to wake up in a fury of needing to do something drastic I glow with burning orange and yellow howls Burning feelings as if they were chopped wood But know each feeling is kindled and savored To the last ash Understand that I am a Ram Known to jump before I look So come on Gemini Use your whisking air To fan my Aries flame

CANYONVOICES

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POETRY

To the Unborn

By Colton Bybee

When I have a daughter She will be beautiful Inside and out But to tell her that Won't be enough

To my unborn children The unsung heroes Of their tomorrow Look to yourselves When you're in doubt

When I have a son He will be beautiful Inside and out But to tell him that Won't be enough

You are the shimmering light Piercing through the darkness The boulder in the stream That stands its ground Against the natural forces at hand

When I have a daughter He will be strong and courageous Unique to his own imperfections But to tell him that Won't be enough

You are the embodiment Of all that is extravagant Embrace all of your laments All whole hearted as you do With all that brings happiness

When I have a son He will be strong and courageous Unique to his own imperfections But to tell him that Won't be enough

Look inward and you will see The tantalizing day dream The embellishing query unlock your hidden concerns That guards you from scrutiny

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY

Rush Hour Casualty

By Jonathan Kistner

The last thing you want is to be friends.

You're in your car.

Un-tinted windows.

Stuck in rush hour, I-10, cursing his name.

It'd be easier if you were targeted by the shooter.

You grab your chest.

Drape over the steering wheel.

Every cliché you've ever heard about a broken heart makes sense.

Swerving in and out of lanes.

5mph pace.

Those tears are causing double vision.

Time doesn't stop.

You want to pause, rewind.

Go back to the world you knew.

Slam your steering wheel.

Get out your rage.

This is only a phase.

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

POETRY CONTRIBUTORS Eric Kingsbury Eric Kingsbury studied Creative Writing at Illinois State University and Business at Arizona State University. He currently lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where he works as a marketing professional and thinks continually of travel.

Robert Joe Stout Currently living in Oaxaca, Mexico, Robert Joe Stout is an author and journalist. His Mexico-inspired piece can be found in his standalone works like Hidden Dangers, The Blood of the Serpent Mexican Lives, and Why Immigrants Come to America.

Other Mexico-inspired pieces have been featured in The American Scholar, America, Open Democracy, and New Politics.

Bob Stout has also written two volumes of poetry; A Perfect Throw and Monkey Screams; as well as novels like Miss Sally, Running Out the Hurt and Where Gringos Don't Belong.

Suzanne Bird Suzanne Bird is a native of Arizona and a graduate from A.S.U. She survived 32years on the front lines as a public school teacher. Suzanne retired from teaching in 2009 with no set plans on just where retirement would lead her. Her life was always so programmed and scheduled as a student and teacher that she wanted her remaining years on the planet to be a sort of 'go with the flow' mantra. Needless to say, many opportunities have emerged where before just earning a living and raising a family took all of her energies. Her faithful companion (no not the dog) is her husband, Larry R. Bird. He too enjoys the spontaneity that retirement has to offer. Together they navigate this new pathway of life with its unpredictable twists and turns!

Michael Velasco Currently living in Oaxaca, Mexico, Robert Joe Stout is an author and journalist. His Mexico-inspired pieces can be found in his standalone works like Hidden Dangers, The Blood of the Ser

Abby Silva Abby Silva is a senior at Arizona Christian University where she is completing her Bachelor’s Degree in Christian Ministries with a minor in General Studies. Abby enjoys contemplating life, laughing, eating ice cream, and writing. As a philalethist, she realizes the longer she lives the more she does not know; but knowing what is true in life is essential.

Poetry Contributors Arthur Morales Arthur Abdiel Morales is a graduate student at Arizona State University through the Interdisciplinary Studies M.A. program and will graduate this Fall of 2015. His focuses included oral history and poetry. After graduation, Arthur will begin to take the required coursework in preparation to apply to Medical School. He is also the President of the Interdisciplinary Student Association at ASU and is currently working as the Admissions Specialist for Graduate Studies at the New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences. He also has an interest in slam poetry, oral traditions, and philosophy.

“No matter where your interest lies, you will not be able to accomplish anything unless you bring your deepest devotion to It.” - Matsuo Basho

Michael Lee Johnson Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 875 small press magazines in 27 countries, he edits 10 poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: "From Exile to Freedom", several chapbooks of poetry, including "From Which Place the Morning Rises" and "Challenge of Night and Day", and "Chicago Poems". He also has over 78 poetry videos on YouTube

Henry Carillo III Henry Carrillo III is a poet and author from Central California,and currently living in Arizona. contact: Henry_Carrillo3@yahoo.com

John Grey John Grey is Australian born short story-writer, poet, playwright, musician, Providence RI resident since the late seventies. He has been published in numerous magazines including Weird Tales, Christian Science Monitor, Greensboro Poetry Review, Poem, Agni, Poet Lore and Journal Of The American Medical Association as well as the horror anthology “What Fears Become” and the science fiction anthology “Futuredaze.” He has had plays produced in Los Angeles and off-off Broadway in New York. Winner of Rhysling Award for short genre poetry in 1999.

Heath Brougher Heath Brougher lives in York, PA and attended Temple University. When not writing he helps with the charity Paws Soup Kitchen which gives out free dog/cat food to low income families with pets. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Yellow Chair Review, Of/with, Mobius, Main Street Rag, *82 Review, MiPOesias, Gold Dust, Foliate Oak, Rust + Moth, Clockwise Cat, A New Ulster, Fowl Feathered Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Harbinger Asylum, Inscape, and elsewhere.

POETRY CONTRIBUTORS Abby Baker Abby Baker is a junior at Arizona State University West, studying Secondary Education—English. Becoming a licensed realtor with Century 21 Northwest at the age 20, she experienced the joy of others buying their own homes. Finding the same joy in educational experiences, she currently works with Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, a department committed to lifelong educational opportunities for older adults. Being an avid reader, Abby is applying her love of literature into her own writing. Abby finds enjoyment with literature by George Orwell and Kahlil Gibran; however, her zenith of literary expression is the poem “No Coward Soul is Mine” by Emily Bronte. Above all else, she believes in the transformative power of the Oxford Coma.

Colton Bybee Colton Bybee is from Sandy, Utah. He is a junior studying Organizational Leadership and is twenty-two years old. He is an award-winning filmmaker and has been writing poetry since he a friend inspired him to write his first poem when he was fourteen. His poetry has been published at every school he has attended besides his elementary school. He enjoys hiking, watching films, going on random adventures, and playing music. His passion's are inspired and supported by his family and friends. Colton has deep love for the mountains and unlocking new experiences.

Esoteric Pass by Tony Dean (See Artwork for more of his artwork)

Palm by Aggie Redkey (see Artwork for more)

CREATIVE NON-FICTION

Palos Verdes – The Gardened City

By Eunice Kim Stop the Noise

By Melanie Wheelen This Army Thing

By Chris Furry The Best Dinosaur

By Allison Hawn Place Names: Four Views of the Southwest Peninsula Through the Lens of Marcel Proust

By Eunice Kim Waking Nightmare

By Shannon Flegel Putana and Santa Rosalia

By Dr. M. Arini

CREATIVE NONFICTION

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Palos Verdes: The Gardened City

By Eunice Kim

T

will look to the right, and see the ocean.

When driving north in California, shouldn’t the ocean be on the left? Not so. Not here, for Palos Verdes is a peninsula. The In one of his famed routines, comedian Louis C.K. talks about how to southbound road curves north for what deal with trash. “Throw it on the big pile seems like an eternity, confusing the City Dweller’s inner compass and creating the of litter,” he says, “’Cause if you don’t illusion of a backward world. To the and put it in a receptacle, it gets immediate right, she sees California collected and taken to a dump or a sagebrush, narrow-leaf milkweed, landfill or gets taken out on a boat and deerweed, and prickly pear, planted in dumped in the ocean where a dolphin sandy soil. Immediately beyond that, rocky wears it as a hat on its face for ten cliffs, darkened by the umbrage of blue years.” Perhaps he fears that one day, palo verde trees, plunge downward from an New York City will achieve the feral elevation of over five hundred feet. At the sterility of Palos Verdes. bottom of the cliffs lie summer houses, homogenous in And rightfully so. their stuccoed The City Dweller, Here, the absence of and shingled while driving beauty. The through Palos anomalies is in itself an Trump National Verdes Drive anomaly to the unaccustomed Golf Club lies West for the first eye; this is because Palos nestled among time, will ask, Verdes is a land of paradox, these villas. And “Where’s all the even in its geography. beyond all of trash?” Here, the these, the City absence of Dweller sees the anomalies is in blue-grey itself an anomaly beach, Catalina Island hidden behind sea to the unaccustomed eye; this is mist and the blades of yacht sails that because Palos Verdes is a land of appear to be flying because the sky and paradox, even in its geography. While sea share the same texture and color. driving south along the coast, the City Dweller will notice the road beginning to While passing the golf course, she is filled with a sudden urge to slow down, strain her curve…southeast, east, northeast, eyes, and look carefully at the course north. The road will continue in its grounds and beyond. Workers with latex northward disobedience while the City gloves are in a state of perpetual stooping Dweller checks her map, checks the and straightening, picking up debris. The time to see if she’ll be late for her City Dweller is now knee-deep in the land appointment, checks her sanity. And of reversals: here, the men and women in then, to make matters worse, she will uniforms do not pick up candy wrappers witness a topographical reversal—she

CANYONVOICES

HE BEACHES OF PALOS VERDES – The City Dweller

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n Brass Buttons

PROMENADE ON THE PENINSULA – The Flâneur There’s something ineffable about Palos Verdes at night, when the scent of marijuana has been dispersed by the forgiving Southwest winds and the horses have been

returned to their stables.

At night, the Peninsula Mall is sullen; the center of the plaza, surrounded by hazily lit cafes, remains blue with emptiness.

When standing there, or even thinking of standing there, the Flâneur can undergo the pleasure of remembering. To remember the color, texture, and poetics of a certain place at night is a primordial gift, but soon, the Flâneur, unable to keep up with the onslaught of memories, will have to leave the square and enter one of the surrounding shops. In the kitchenware store, avocado cutters, cherry pitters, apple corers, and strawberry destemmers hang on display, polished to a bare essence.

Each blade is curved to suit the species of flesh to be channeled, cut, excavated, gouged, vanquished. These

kitchen tools do everything a knife can do, yet they exist because knives exist and because they are both descendants and usurpers of the knife.

No one makes a purchase, especially not the Flâneur; he can only gaze at his face in every reflective surface he comes upon, his eyes puzzled. Every few hours, long after the Flâneur has moved on, a lone housewife will enter one of these stores and pay an exorbitant sum for some useless item, and when she leaves, the parking lots will resume their empty existence, the clerks will remain bored.

How does the Peninsula Mall stay open? Because it can afford to. Like the kitchenware, Promenade Image: Pixabay.com

CANYONVOICES

FALL2015

CREATIVE NONFICTION

and cigarette butts from the grass, for there is no litter to speak of. Here, the workers pick up dead leaves, feathers, grass clippings, and prunings that have fallen on the pavement. And as soon as these objects are gleaned, they are ushered, quickly and beautifully, into the realm of nonexistence. Other uniformed workers, armed with brooms and mops, carefully polish the parking lot of any watery footprints and crumbs dropped by the slovenly rich.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

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Palos Verdes...

Continued on the Peninsula is a celebration of beauty for beauty’s sake, a world that remains independent of the laws of capitalism, a triumph of the useless.

THE PALOS VERDES UNIFIED SCHOOL DISTRICT – The Mother and Child Outside Dapplegray Elementary School lies a sloping lawn, shaded by

hands, they carry dioramas, models, miniature buildings, sculptures, or bags of homemade confections. The dioramas contain foam figures, artificial foliage, stunning watercolored backgrounds. The miniature buildings are tastefully ornate, their materials resembling the stucco sidings of the women’s

masterpiece with a Sharpie.

And the money spent, the multitude of animals that were carved and gouged from blocks of Styrofoam, the paper flowers, the glued pebbles—these will be all but forgotten. Soon, the miniature rain forest canopy will join its brethren in the garbage disposal of foregone creativity.

respective houses, to which they will return after dropping off the children. The Mother carries a two-foot tall rendition of a rain forest canopy, colors

Time stands still in the land of reversals, where the durable is created for the ephemeral, where things never change— they only disappear. Time, if it comes, will sweep over the Child and obliterate him. He would prefer to be a nameless adherent in the cathedral of his mother’s vast abilities, built on the loving machinations of her mind, rather than an alchemist who makes his future monuments from the pile of rubbish that sits, ever so starkly, in his imagination. So let us hope for a change, but only a generation hence, when the Child becomes a Man; or that sooner, by some stupendous stroke of genius, all will be combined—the Mother’s unlimited providence and the restrictive push, the offstage role, the trusting glance ahead.

Time stands still in the land of reversals, where the durable is created for the ephemeral, where things never change—they only disappear.

Chinese elms. Outside the driveway and parking lot, which are incidentally curved in the shape of a horseshoe, the Mother in her minivan waits politely for the horses to pass, some palomino, some dapple gray, like the mascot painted on the school’s façade. Ten minutes before eight o’ clock, the Mother parks and exits her car; the Child follows suit. The distant clicking of heels on cement can be heard, adding to the Mother’s own. Soon, she is joined by the other young mothers, stylish and moderately dieted, sunglasses perched atop their heads.

These women are not exclusively white; some are Nigerian, some are Korean, others Indian. With their dainty CANYONVOICES

bursting in a fountain of lifeforms—the parrot, the monkey, the frog, and the snake, snugly glued into their respective niches. The matrons form a procession, their sons or daughters trailing behind them with dragging steps. When the Mother catches the Child wandering, she utters his name in a sharp and forceful whisper, for the procession is a silent one. Her voice is a string that pulls the Child along.

The Mother’s skills ought not to be dismissed, and yet all too often, they are. The Child will present the project as his own, in spite of the fact that the only labor he contributed was scrawling his name on the bottom of his mother’s

■■■ For more information on author Eunice Kim, please visit our Contributors Page.

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Stop the Noise

By Melanie Wheelen

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oices shouting, trays slamming, silverware is rattling, and soda machines are rumbling. It feels like it physically hurts. Spine shudders, lips are bitten and hands yearn to cover ears.

Stop the noise!

Jasmine, vanilla, lavender, sweet pea and something endorsed by a rich celebrity is spritzed. Why must the perfume department be such torture to walk through? Hold breath, hold it…hold it…someone just passed with heavy cologne! Hold again! Now breathe!

Stop the smells!

Overly peppy shouts, hand shaking, possible hugging, and loud laughter are going fast. Try to look in their eyes. Mine avert to the carpet instead. Is that shag? What time is it? Huuhhhhh… two more hours of this party and leave at precisely eight-thirty.

Stop the socializing!

Talking rapidly, asking for opinions, and using foreign terms, but not giving chance for interruptions. What did that mean? Oh! Here’s a chance to talk! No, it’s gone. Wait-gone again. Smile, nod and wait to speak again.

Favorite books, authors, animated films, and analyzing fictional characters stores up a vast knowledge. Be at peace. This world isn’t odd and is accepting. It’s not that bad once you learn how to live with it. This is the best part of it!

Don’t stop this!

Rocking back and forth? Muttering? Able to count toothpicks from a distance? Screaming and crying while crumpling on the floor? A disaster? Hopeless?

That’s what people think and say about us. They think they know who we are, but they don’t because they don’t have it! They treat it like it’s a plague that should be wiped out. They treat us like we’re a puzzle piece instead of a person.

We don’t have a disease and we’re not a disaster. We have a unique way of thinking, perceiving life, but the lies are louder than truth.

Stop the noise…

■■■ For more information on author Melanie Wheelan please visit our Contributors Page.

Image: Pixabay.com

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This Army Thing

By Chris Furry

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guess I didn’t really think it through, this Army thing. I was drifting, lost after the crash of the automotive sales business that I had spent the first six years of my adult life mastering. Though I’d always wanted to be in the military, I’d never actually considered it seriously until one hot afternoon in late July when my brother’s girlfriend asked me if I’d go to the recruiter’s office with her. When we got there, the recruiter wanted her to take a practice ASVAB and she asked if I’d take it with her. The score I received was apparently pretty high because the recruiter asked me, rather excitedly, if I wanted to take the actual test.

the Non-Commissioned Officer sitting next to me and he smiles.

“We ain’t gettin’ off in Hell, Furry. We’re gettin’ off in Hell’s waitin’ room.”

Roger that. Two weeks in Hell’s Waiting Room. When the plane lands in Kuwait I have the opportunity to reflect on the fact that I am legitimately nervous. I stand up, grab my weapon and bag, and head down the aisle. I am further away from home than

Eventually my head stopped spinning long enough to realize that I was on a plane headed to Oklahoma for Basic Combat Training. Basic Combat Training?

How the hell did this happen?

The next few months were a blur of pokes, prods, and invasions. I met my future wife during this time, something that got me through the times to come.

Eventually my head stopped spinning long enough to realize that I was on a plane headed to Oklahoma for Basic Combat Training. Basic Combat Training? How the hell did this happen?

I’ve ever been, and preparing to head into legitimate danger. I reach the door and am immediately aware of a new sensationheat. It is three o’clock in the morning and over 100 degrees. I already hate this place.

I absorbed Army life like a sponge. A good thing I guess, because here I sit, on another plane. Only this one is flying across the Atlantic Ocean. It’s early August, 2009. I hear Kuwait is nice this time of year and, who knows, maybe it isn’t mortar season in Iraq. This flight is a unique experience; I’ve never been on a plane with a rifle under my seat instead of a carry-on bag. The upside is that they serve excellent meals on this plane; I guess that’s the tradeoff for disembarking in Hell. I mention this to

The week or so passes quickly, other than the fact that it’s 7,500 miles from my home, this could be any other field problem I’ve ever done. Receive ammo from the Ammunition Supply Point and transfer it to the brigade assets, simple enough. Except, all of this ammo is live, even the rockets and grenades. It’s a disconcerting thought really; if this stuff ever gets fired it’ll be in anger. Even more disconcerting to think that the same goes for the 210 rounds I’ve been issued. We spend a week and a half in a steady rhythm of work and sleep. Then,

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“Hey Furry, since you’re the only SAAS-MOD operator, I need you on the torch party with me.” SAAS-MOD is the Army’s Standard Army Ammunition SystemModernization, essentially an issue, receipt, and accountability system made up of computers interconnected by satellite systems called V-SATs. “Okay Sergeant. When do we leave?” I was ready to get out of Kuwait, even if Iraq was the destination.

“Tomorrow morning, 0500.

Pack your gear, grab some chow, and get some sleep.

Don’t worry, Baqubah is just

as nice this time of year as Kuwait.”

Oh, well isn’t that lovely.

There’s nothing like 125 degree heat to really let you know you’re having fun. I’d better pack. Iraq tomorrow and all.

Don’t worry, Baqubah is just as nice this time of year as Kuwait.

The C-130 takes off from Alial-Salim Airfield at 0900 and lands two short hours later at Joint Base Balad Airfield in northeastern Iraq. As we grab our gear and make our way inside for a briefing, the first

thing that strikes me is the smell. I will never forget that smell, a cross between diesel fuel and shit. It’s pervasive and permeating.

It’s hot here too but the humidity is the striking thing. Heavy and damp, thick and terrible, it hangs on you like a used towel.

Five minutes after we disembark the plane, the mortar alarms begin their unmistakable cry, the short mechanical claxon interspersed with an equally mechanical voice calmly repeating “Incoming, incoming, incoming.” Huh, I never thought I’d miss Kuwait.

■■■ For more information on author Chris Furry, please visit our Contributors Page.

Image: Pixabay.com

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about ten days into my stay in lovely Kuwait, my section chief, Sergeant Palmer, comes to me.

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The Best Dinosaur

By Allison Hawn

I

stood in the row of squirming four and five year olds waiting for the campy synthesizer recording to start playing. Every other kid in the line was doing what normal small children do: there was a boy picking his nose, a girl bobbing left and right holding onto her skirt, another who looked like she might start crying at any second… and then there was me.

I stood with two fingers on each hand held out like claws and my little teeth half-bared.

flatly given up trying to convince me to be one of the herbivore dinosaurs like a triceratops.

Mom made small frantic motions, kind of like a caffeinated penguin, in the front row, both trying to get my attention and not attract the notice of anyone in her row.

Finally, I saw her. She held up her hands in the same claw-like way I currently was holding my own hands in then set them flat on her lap. I obliged and put my hands down.

I was a velociraptor.

My mother sat in the first row of the church audience, her eyes fixed on me with a rapt stare, trying to get my attention. For the hundredth time she was regretting the lapse in judgment that had resulted in me watching Jurassic Park. That movie had changed everything.

A rather nervous child, I had found the dinosaurs in that movie fascinating. They had no fear, they ate lawyers for a late-night snack (which, I might add, they were allowed latenight snacks) and they didn’t have a bedtime. I had found my spirit animal, my source of courage. From that day onward, anytime I felt nervous I just channeled my innervelociraptor.

Now, standing up on that stage with three hundred sets of eyeballs watching our debut performance of a “jazzed-up” version of Jesus Loves Me, I needed my inner-velociraptor more than ever.

My mother had put up with me chasing other children around and roaring, she had occasionally indulged my desire to eat my meatloaf without using my hands and she had CANYONVOICES

We had practiced this song at home for weeks. Being a musician and one of the mothers in charge of the Sunday School Musical, my mother had me practice that song so many times that I actually could speed-recite the lyrics perfectly in under a minute. She had even made me sing in

Now, standing up on that stage with three hundred sets of eyeballs watching our debut performance of a “jazzed-up” version of Jesus Loves Me, I needed my innervelociraptor more than ever. front of neighbors until I became comfortable enough that the velociraptor didn’t make an appearance.

A few neighbors was nothing compared to our very judgmental church congregation, one that already didn’t know what to do with the little girl who hated dresses and liked to color Jesus purple with little antennae shooting out of his head.

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She stood beaming at the audience like she had just been crowned Miss America.

I stood next to her in my plainJane dress, which was the only one anyone could occasionally convince me to wear, my cowlick making my blonde hair shoot out at odd angles and that crazy, darting look in my eyes.

I was the kid in kindergarten who preferred to read her own books rather than pay attention to the teacher, liked French bread and could probably name ten states and guess at their capitals. With both of us standing up there, it was like comparing a beautiful swan with a half-rabid badger.

I felt my nerves creep back up as the music crackled through the speakers, and my hands crept up with it. My mother made her “no claws while at church” motion and I dropped my hands again.

Tyler, to my left, muttered his way through the verses and CANYONVOICES

belted out the chorus, which was pretty much the only part of the song he knew. Sally on my other side sang perfectly, another Shirley Temple in the making.

After church all of the parents thanked my mother and the music director for an “entertaining” children’s musical. I hid behind my mother’s long skirt wishing I

I knew all the By the time we reached the words, but finale, my hands were as I looked out on the permanently curved into claws adults’ faces, that familiar foreboding flooded back in could change back into pants and my claws came out. My and my Mickey Mouse t-shirt mother frantically signaled for soon. my hands to go back down, and they did, for Sally and her parents walked approximately half a second. up, smiling their “we only feed The more the music built, the our child organic vegetables more I needed my velociraptor and make sure she gets nine self. hours of beauty sleep a night” grins. Immediately they By the time we reached the started gushing about their finale, my hands were daughter. permanently curved into claws, my stance was gaited “Wasn’t she just lovely!?” like I was ready to leap off the stage and my face had “Wasn’t she the best vocalist contorted into my “fierce up there!?” carnivore” expression.

“Don’t you think she should My poor mother had given up. get the solo the next go She sat on the front row around!?” praying that I didn’t try to bite the music director. As the final Hiding behind my mother, I notes played out of the song, peeked out at the gloating the other children holding the parents. Sally’s mother final tune in a varying amount noticed me said, “Yes, and of keys, one small growling Allison was, umm…” roar could be heard amongst them.

My mother smiled at the floundering super mom and To this day I will never know if proclaimed, “Allison was the my mom was laughing or best dinosaur on that stage.” crying in the front pew of the ■■■ congregation as she buried her face in her hands. It was For more information on author Allison Hawn, please probably a mixture of both. visit our Contributors Page.

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Next to me stood Sally, flawless little Sally. Her parents beamed in the front row as her perfectly curled brown hair played out evenly across the shoulders of her adorable pink-lace dress. Her parents constantly bragged that she was “First in her kindergarten class at school,” and “Her French teacher says she’s coming along nicely,” and “She memorized all fifty states and their capitals!”

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Place Names: Four Views of the Southwest Peninsula Through the Lens of Marcel Proust

By Eunice Kim

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f my body grows restless at night and I awake with closed eyes, I find that my bed and my body have expanded exponentially. My bed, now a mile long, floats on the Pacific, and if my insomnia allows me, if not actually to enter the realm of dreams, then at least to lie on my side and look through, just once, the architecture and landscapes of the Southwest Peninsula through which I had so often driven in my waking life, I would wish my eyes to stop at the most beautiful of its cities; but how to choose, any more than between individual persons who are not interchangeable, between San Pedro, so steadfast with its thirty-six PostPanamax Cranes like insect legs painted over in red and white stripes, legs whose feet are firmly planted in the rock of its name; Palos Verdes, whose aristocratic syllables are made pale with American pronunciation; boyish Carson, possessing a yellowness ranging from parchment beige to soil brown; Gardena, a

veritable rock garden with its final vowel, flat and subdued, sprinkled with dust from the footsteps of Asian parents who clean, pray, haggle, and endure their way into recognition; Lomita with its trochaic delicacy that lies in the crook of a little girl’s arm, the girl being Pissaro’s shepherdess with black hair instead of brown; Lawndale, Redondo Beach, coin-shaped and plastic, blue fins and massive flanks painted along the road to those well-ventilated and clamorous spots; Torrance, a scarcely youthful name, dragged down by Time into a tangle of family businesses and convalescent homes; Hermosa Beach, justifiably envied since the Jazz Age, fleshcolored flash of sand and pieces of broken seashells tremulously poised in the midsection of an hourglass; Manhattan Beach, a rippling earth-toned red and blue landscape reflected on the surface of a clear pool while the terrestrial world gazes

L’avventura nel Mediterraneo

By Cassandra White

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Del Amo Mall The Del Amo Mall is to me like an art museum in which one sees a variety of furniture and architectural spaces, where from a hall one passes to a lobby, a room, benches, a courtyard, a café, another room, a garden, but knows that they are only there to enable the Chagall, the

their coquettish outlines, and their delicate fabrics on which hundreds of sequins and stitches have been sewn to look like wingéd and throbbing colonies of insects, make my heart race.

Lomita, Redondo Beach But even without waiting for the sun to rise, I can, after waiting for the car to warm up, go for a drive this morning and arrive at Redondo Beach

On a hot day, to come upon the name Redondo on a map suffices to awaken in me the desire for storms at sea and for Irish pubs Kandinsky, the Cassatt, the Gauguin, the Magritte, and the Monet to present themselves in an artificial and modernist setting; it, the Del Amo Mall, equally complex, uniting a multitude of different spaces—alternating an outdoor promenade with an indoor gallery, poising a bowling alley at the edge of a balcony or engulfing a food court from which would suddenly emerge, in their matching storm fleece hoodies, with the complacent eyes of sleepy animals, two loping walkers—is the Garden of Lovers. Long before I reach a clothing store, its colors, which make me aware of the approach and singularity of a beckoning personality that speaks in a compelling whisper and draws me towards the glimpsed end of all those lightly patterned dresses with their easy grace, CANYONVOICES

as dawn spreads westward over the stirring sea, whose view I used to enjoy from that wooden pier covered in barnacles. But as the pier becomes crowded, when I decide to get back into my car and drive to a less peopled location like Lomita, suddenly in place of those dreams of tempests by which I had been utterly possessed, not wishing to see anything but waves dashing in from all sides, mounting ever higher upon the stones that resemble the backs of seals, beside houses as pink and ornamental as dollhouses on whose balconies the rich sun-bathers relax, forcing the passersby to avoid their gazes because these sun-bathers are the opposite of what Redondo means to them, is substituted in me the converse dream of the most uniformly docile of cafés, not the cafés of

Manhattan Beach, which bustles with strollers and joggers bristling with all the health and natural vitality of wild animals, but those which line Pennsylvania Avenue with modest black signs and each contain a brightly lit space with plain wooden tables and rainbowed pastries, giving Lomita a demure olivegreen background. From that moment on, only glass doors and immobility seem to me of any worth. I need only, to make them reappear, pronounce the names Redondo Beach, Carson, and Lomita, within whose syllables have gradually accumulated the longing inspired in me by the places for which they stand. On a hot day, to come upon the name Redondo on a map suffices to awaken in me the desire for storms at sea and for Irish pubs; on a rainy day the name Lomita or Carson awakens the desire for coffee, for Patisserie Chantilly and for Yanagi Bistro.

Palos Verdes Estates, Gardena But in obedience to my whims, I can, by coaxing myself to get out of bed, leave home while it is yet dark, whether or not my body will appreciate this later, and arrive at Palos Verdes as dawn spreads westward over the placid sea, whose view I can FALL2015

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in at an idealized version of itself?

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enjoy from the famous cliffside church made of glass.

But when my friend sends me a text message, asking me if I want to go for a jog at Thornburg Park in Gardena, suddenly, in place of those dreams of inoffensive waves by which I had been entirely possessed, not wishing to see anything but lapping waves that never vary, the rest of the ocean stiller even than the cliffs towering in their stationary wildness, near mansions as rustic and stony as Spanish castles, in whose rooms the sleepers sleep, rooms that lull them, taking away all initiative, telling them not to wake up because life is not meant to be lived but spent sleeping in four-poster beds, is substituted in me the converse dream of the most colorful of deserts, not the desert of Carson which is born from sun and human glares and spicy food, but that which is born from the

accumulated the longing inspired in me by all the places for which they stand.

At nighttime, to come upon the name Gardena on a street sign suffices to awaken in me the desire for sunlight beating on blue-tiled roofs and for ramen restaurants; on a dry day the name Palos Verdes or San Pedro awakens the desire for mist, for pine trees, for Portuguese Bend and for Ports O’Call.

Torrance, Long Beach But even without checking how much gas I have in the car, I can, by following the directions on my phone, head south on the 405 to have lunch with my parents, and arrive at Long Beach as the sun beats down on the sea of store windows. But when my parents, who are in the middle of a financial crisis, change their minds and decide to order pizza, suddenly, in place

The rest of the ocean stiller even than the cliffs towering in their stationary wildness, near mansions as rustic and stony as Spanish castles entrance of Pacific Square Shopping Center, an arch with a staircase design and rainbow-colored paint faded by the decades into a dying pastel. From that moment onwards, only tires and plazas seem to me of any worth. I need only, to make them reappear, pronounce the names Palos Verdes, Carson, and Gardena, within whose syllables have gradually CANYONVOICES

of those dreams of motorboats by which I had been entirely possessed, not wishing to see anything but crowds gathering in jazz lounges, holding paper plates of fried chicken, sitting on red swivel barstools beside a brick-walled stage, atop which a lone woman sings without vibrato, the crowds hearing her without listening, carrying on their

conversations, ignoring her because she is there to create an ambiance, and silence can only weaken its effect, is substituted in me the converse dream of an industrial niche, not the port in San Pedro which is painted blue to blend in with the sky and vaguely give the sense of being a part of nature, but the oil refinery which takes up all of Del Amo Boulevard with its towers and manifold lights, and looms behind Torrance like a Gothic cathedral. From that moment onwards, only silence, cultural centers, and factories seem to me of any worth. I need only, to make them reappear, pronounce the names Long Beach, San Pedro, and Torrance, within whose syllables have gradually accumulated the longing inspired in me by all the places for which they stand. In winter, to come upon the name Long Beach in a news article suffices to awaken in me the desire for art walks and cruise ships; on a clear day, the name Torrance or San Pedro awakens the desire for gray clouds, for family, for Alpine Village and for Del Amo Mall.

I open my eyes, which ache from the burden of another sleepless night, and am consoled.

■■■ For more information on author Eunice Kim, please visit our Contributors Page.

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Waking Nightmare

By Shannon Flegel

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ometime between 0930 and 1030 on this particular Monday morning, I was struck by the most unsettling of feelings. My stomach seemed to all but disappear as my throat dried, mucus traveling through tubes down my arms and wetting the palms of my hands.

was the blue, sickly blueberry blue that consumed every inch of exposed skin. The blue of our veins, the color we used to seek out and follow up our arms, a vast network of rivers spanning the whole body. The next wave crashing over me was not a color but an emotion. More accurately a congregation of emotions in every possible varying degree and intensity. Grief and sadness and worry, anxiety doubt fear, crashing all around me, drowning me.

I left the shop floor and floated up through a portal that set me down gently a few inches above my bedroom floor. Except for our Slowly I began to fully There I was, an respective overdoses, come to terms with the apparition in my neither one of us had enormous gravity the own mind, hovering been much for falling situation commanded. in my bedroom. It out, nor even nodding My girlfriend, upon out most times. But seemed empty at returning home from a she made an night's work, had fixed first, glancing exception the a bedtime shot the around wondering, previous night, startling proved too much and "why here?" me beyond belief. And laid her down to rest in so when a naturally the cloaked figure of death's occurring lapse in her text own bed. Her sleep schedule being such, no one gives any thought messages manifested itself it was all too natural for my subconscious to to her inactivity of the day. Leaving me to manipulate that into the following discover her upon my return from work. account of a fictional afternoon.

Slumped against the wall on the bed, or perhaps laid neatly down on the floor. The There I was, an apparition in my own panic and hysteria would be the first to hit. mind, hovering in my bedroom. It I can see myself losing all control over seemed empty at first, glancing around myself, weeping and pacing in fits. wondering, "why here?"

Ultimately deciding that the only reasonable response is to collect all the The first and most vivid color I noticed money I can and put her in my car with it.

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Her lifeless body riding in the backseat with me for one last trip to the city. As I drive a guilt filled calm floats over the horizon into my car and into me. Guilt for what happened to my love and guilt for what everyone contained within my life will soon learn, and soon experience, because of me.

127 to 496 to Pennsylvania.

Mt. Hope to one block past cedar. Drop the middle man back off in the middle. Drive.

Fix a shot. Drive more, somewhere picturesque, but I'm not too picky. Somewhere I can count on not being disturbed. I climb out of the car, wiping tears from my cheeks. Opening the back door, I gently pick up her limp form, carrying her, my corpse bride, and setting her upright in the passenger seat. With my love beside me and my typewriter on my lap, I begin my final task.

Authoring that final note, call it a manifesto an explanation, a suicide note. One last epic before I fix my final shot and join my Juliet in that eternal slumber.

■■■ For more information on author Shannon Flegel, please visit our Contributors Page.

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The Putana and Santa Rosalia

By Dr. Marianne Arini

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I grew up in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, a blue-collar, working class neighborhood. Back in the 1980’s, the neighborhood was about eighty-five percent Italian, ten percent Jewish, and five percent Irish. The smell of red sauce or gravy was always wafting through open windows especially on Sundays when families would eat their traditional macaroni and meatball dinner. In my house, there was Italian sausage, potatoes, brasciole, and sometimes an egg in the sauce simmering with the basil, oregano, garlic, onions, and, of course, a handful of sugar to eliminate the bitterness. After bellies were full and pants unbuttoned, parents and grandparents would go outside to sit on their front stoops and wave to the neighbors while the children ran around drawing hopscotch boards on the sidewalks with rainbow-colored, thick chalk.

This was always an embarrassing time for me because my grandmother would come out in her flowered house dress with toilet paper wrapped around her platinum blonde bouffant. She got coiffed every three weeks or so, and she believed that if she hair-pinned a long strip of toilet paper from one ear around the back of her head to the other ear, it would somehow work as a hairnet and keep the light bulb shape intact. There was so much Aqua Net in CANYONVOICES

There was so much Aqua Net in her hair that even the blast of a hurricane couldn’t budge it.

her hair that even the blast of a hurricane couldn’t budge it. I used to try to stick my finger down in through the nest of stiff hairs to see if I could reach her scalp. She would slap at me and scream, “disgraziata (disgrat-see-ada),” which means a thoroughly rotten person or a son of a bitch. She even slept with her pillow rolled into a log shape held with rubber bands on each side to avoid denting her hair. It was just a matter of time before the kids on the block would get the nerve to come up to me and ask, “Do you know your grandmother has toilet paper in her hair?” I would respond with something like, “No shit, Sherlock,” roll my eyes exaggeratedly, and saunter away like all grandmothers wore toilet tissue on their heads.

On those balmy spring and summer days, everyone’s laundry was hanging on the clotheslines like colorful prayer flags strung between the red, brick buildings. The fresh scent of it would float in the breeze and the sense of calm and peace that only a child knows would wash over me. Soon the fathers would disappear one by one to watch the Mets or Yankee games; the sound of which always lulled me to sleep. As the sun slowly started to set, spreading purple and pink cotton candy puffs across the sky, you could hear the sweet sound of the Italian mother calling her young… “Carmella!!! Carmella!!! Get in here before I break your neck! Don’t make FALL2015

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When I think of Bensonhurst, I think of Catholic iconography and Pizzerias. It seemed like there was a Pizzeria on every block of Bensonhurst, but the truth was that the mob controlled where you could or could not open a Pizzeria. If two pizzerias were too close to each other, only one would be allowed to deliver. On the residential blocks, the way to know if an Italian family lived in a particular house was whether they had a statue of the Holy Mother Mary, Saint Joseph, or Saint Anthony in the front yard of their house. Putting up a saint in front of one’s house was a superstitious ritual for protection against all adversaries including malaka. Malaka was a curse, similar to the evil eye, which an envious person could put on your family and only the oldest

each statue of Mary or Joseph always got his or her own miniature, three-sided house/kiosk as a protective covering. Some had spotlights in the ceilings of the tiny buildings so the saint wouldn’t have to spend the night in the dark. At Christmas time when all the families were competing over who could cram the most lights per square foot of house, they would always make sure to string lights on all the saint’s mini-houses. I liked the fact that they weren’t stingy with the saints. When my sister and I would walk home from school, we’d play a game where we would count how many statues were on one block. We figured out that three-fourths of every block had some form of Catholic iconography in their front yards.

Bensonhurst was one confusing place to go through puberty. Luckily, by the time I

started to go through it, my mother had decided not to follow the Christian fundamentalist dictate that women should always wear dresses or skirts and never be seen in pants, which only the men got to wear, in more ways than one. She never put any restrictions on my dress, and I was free to use it as an outlet to express myself. It was the age of the “big hair” phenomenon. Every girl or cusinette had her hair teased into a bouffant, and the guys or cusines had their hair slicked back into ducktails. Everyone had a can of aerosol hairspray at home, in their gym bags, in their purses. I’m convinced the hole in the ozone layer was created above Bensonhurst. I still have residual guilt over my own contribution, so I have since resigned myself to the “flat” look as penance.

daughter could reverse. Being part of a very small, Christian fundamentalist subculture nestled in the middle of this neighborhood, I was taught that the Catholic Church was the “whore of Babylon”, that Catholics were not “real Christians”, and that they were all destined for hell.

Nevertheless, I found it very interesting that Image: Pixabay.com

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me call you again!”

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When I was fourteen, Guido, my first secret boyfriend, came to visit carefully dressed in short, silky, black soccer shorts and a black net shirt. His muscular chest was completely visible through it, which I thoroughly appreciated. Both sides of his pitch-black, dyed hair met in a perfectly formed ducktail. Short on personality, he tried to make me laugh by riding my little brother’s tricycle. As he rode toward me, I started to surmise that he wasn’t wearing underwear under those short shorts. It was confirmed when his mouse completely rolled out of the house. I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants, and he walked away thinking he was the suavest cusine ever to have walked the Brooklyn streets!

The 1980’s was the age of tight Carabine and Jordache jeans. The jeans were all dark blue and had big pockets with embroidered designs on each butt cheek. We were all mesmerized by the famous Jordache commercial. The song would play, “The look, the feel, the style that’s right for you. The Jor---dache lo--ok” while a hip-less fourteenyear-old girl with a flat butt in skin-tight jeans, heavily madeup eyes, and lip gloss so shiny it could blind you waved her tiny butt in front of the camera for all the eager pedophiles. People were knocking each other down to get to the stores for those jeans.

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Tight jeans were one of the ways Italian-Americans prepared for the anti-climactic Rite of Spring. The smell of tanned, olive-skinned, male bodies drowned in Drakkar Noir filled the air. Everywhere you looked men were walking around with their shirts unbuttoned displaying gold crosses, Italian horns (to keep the evil eye away), St. Anthony and St. Mary medallions, and thick, black chest hair. The women had on low-cut, tightfitting shirts, spike high heels,

And if I ignored them, they would spit the word putana at me.

short skirts or “Daisy Duke” cut-off jean shorts with the tips of their buttocks peeking out. And of course, both sexes struggled to walk and sit in their infamous skin-tight Carabine or Jordache jeans. I know my sister and I had to lie down on our beds just to zip ours up. A friend, who had a few extra pounds, used pliers regularly to get hers zippered up.

I went out and literally stopped traffic in one of the busiest intersections of Bensonhurst. There were men twice my age hanging out of their car windows to

talk to me, calling “Blondie, Baby, Beautiful”…whatever they thought would get my attention. And if I ignored them, they would spit the word putana at me. Nothing in my upbringing had prepared me for this; I was stunned like a deer in headlights. These men were old enough to be my father. It’s probable that they were my friend’s fathers! I felt like prey to be hunted, a slab of meat to be eaten. I had unknowingly stumbled upon one of the covert forms of disempowerment that our male-dominated society does its very best to sweep under the carpet: the objectification of women. This knowledge made something inside me curl up and wrap itself into a tight ball.

My sister, Jean, a few girlfriends, and I hobbled along, a line of sausages popping out of our casings on our way to the “86th Street Meat Market.” The 86th Street Meat Market was not an actual store; it was a strip-- ten long blocks that ran from Stillwell Ave to 18th Ave. The B line ran over the “el”--the Elevated Train that is-- that rumbled overhead from Manhattan to Coney Island and back. People aged fourteen through fifty would drive in from Staten Island, Queens, and Long Island (and an occasionally a curious few from Manhattan) to check out the Italian-American tits, ass, and muscles. Cars cruised at five miles per hour while guys hung out the windows to hoot FALL2015

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bass shook the ground, windows rattled, and people had to stop mid-conversation to watch them go by. Rather than “cruising” being a social ritual, each person was caught in his or her solitary world. If you were in the car, you could hardly hear for days afterward.

The objective was to find

cheeseburger with that shake?” “How do you like your eggs in the morning— scrambled or fertilized?” “Your skin is so creamy, I bet you never had a zit on your ass!” If they weren’t getting “lucky,” they would collect as many phone numbers as possible (what they referred to as potential leads for pussy). They separated out

Image: Pixabay.com

Most of these cars were Cadillacs—the classic mob mobile-- Saint Christopher Medallions on the dashboard, and dice or a disco ball hanging from the rearview mirror. Men competed with each other over who had the loudest bass in his car stereo. This, they believed, is what attracted women. The

someone “super hot” and “hook up.” Hooking up for the Italian-American girls consisted of giving the guy your number, making out, and, if she was labeled a putana, she had sex with the guy. For the guys, the prelude to hooking up consisted of rehearsed lines like, “You want a

the “angels,” those they could bring home to mama, from the “sluts,” who were just there for fun, the classic whore/angel dichotomy. Only virgins could be brought home to mother. For the girl who wanted to experience sex, it would mean the guy could spread it around that she was a putana. It could eventually

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and holler at clusters of bighaired women chewing gum and smoking cigarettes. Groups of girls in cars did the same to males congregated on the corners drinking and smoking. Traffic could stand stock still for fifteen minutes while girls and guys flirted through car windows.

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get back to her brother and family. Immediately, she would be moved to the nonmarriage material list.

The climax to the summers in Bensonhurst was the annual 18th Avenue feast. In the 80’s, 18th Avenue was the Little Italy of Bensonhurst. From 65th Street to 86th Street, one Italian-owned store after another lined the avenue. There were import stores selling Italian music, Bialetti aluminum espresso coffee pots and miniature ceramic cups, and Italian pride paraphernalia. The cafes were the hangouts of the mobsters that ran the neighborhood. Inside they’d host the illegal card games my grandmother used to frequent and brew cappuccino and espresso that was strong enough to “put hair on your chest” and always served with a generous shot of Sambuca or Anisette. At 5am, the tantalizing smells of Italian cookies, bread, cakes, and pastries would waft from the huge red-hot ovens of the bakeries. If you strolled down the street, you’d notice the sun glinting off the largest selections of gold chains, crosses, medallions, name plates, and engagement rings in the jewelry store windows. The Focaccerias (Fo-cotch-a-ree-ahz) and Salumerias (Sa-looh-mer-eeuhz) had huge salamis and pepperonis that hung from the ceiling, barrels of marinated olives, fresh mozzarella, rice balls, and both homemade CANYONVOICES

and imported pastas and ravioli. Walking into the store, one was immediately hit with the smell of cheeses imported from Italy and the tangy smell of pepperoni. The thought still makes me salivate.

The Italians traveled to Bensonhurst every August to September from all five boroughs like it was a religious pilgrimage. Vendors set up their kiosks of food, Roulette wheels, and Ferris wheels. The street-- a dense mass of people-- moved like one huge organism. The hot, August mugginess hung

and calzones and zeppolis puffing up in scalding oil, through gaggles of guys named Joey, Anthony, Salvatore, and Paulie and girls named Maria, Teresa, Angela, and Philomena. Clips of conversations rolled dreamily passed my ears: “Mangia mi amor.”

“Who? Vinny? That guy’s right off the boat!”

“Don’t shit where you eat. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Buona Sera, Signore Rossi.

Come stai?”

“Ciao, Bella!”

“Forgettaboutit!”

“So this is my culture; these are `my people,’” I thought. Simultaneously, I felt repulsion and intense curiosity. oppressively in the air, a layer of glistening sweat. Pushing your way through the crowd was like working through a glue trap of bodies sticking to bodies. Men took this opportunity to “cop a feel,” the close quarters a breeding ground of hands reaching out to butt cheeks, brushing hard against breasts, a sea of roving eyes. The DJ cranked out ex-porn star Samantha Fox crooning “Touch me, Touch me, I want to feel your body!” Breasts bounced, hips swung, feet stamped, and bodies gyrated in dry humps to the microbursts of steam from vendors deep-frying calamari (pronounced ca-limahd.) I was swimming through the cross currents of sausage and peppers frying

After I walked the length of the feast several times, I stood apart on the perimeter. “So this is my culture; these are `my people,’” I thought.

Simultaneously, I felt repulsion and intense curiosity. In the evening, after the hedonistic celebration was in its final throws of passion and the participants drunk, a life-sized statue of Santa Rosalia was carried out on the shoulders of four men. The men walked slowly like it was a funeral procession. As she slowly floated above the crowd, people cheered, danced and reached up to pin five, ten, and twenty dollar bills to her robes.

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As Santa Rosalia skimmed the surface of the crowd and drifted near me, the hairs on my neck stood on end. Like one of the dead bodies covered in wax from the 1933 movie The Mystery of the Wax Museum, she looked alive and dead in the same instant. I pushed my way through the crowd and positioned myself adjacent to the platform she

stood on. I gazed up into her face, surprised to find it sweet and feminine. Her eyes looked down at the crowd, sad and wise. I instantly felt at the same time both camaraderie and guilt for feeling connected to her. She was a saint, and not only was she a saint, she was a female saint, and women in my religion were always held under suspicion. Yet to these people she was an angel, the patron saint of Sicily, Rosalia, who had run away from her people to live at the top of a mountain in a cave where she died alone.

Years afterward in 1624, when a plague had come over on a boat from East Africa, Santa Rosalia’s bones were carried through the city and three days later the plague ended. Every year since then,

on September 4th the Feast of Santa Rosalia is celebrated in Palermo and in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Even though I was taught to feel disconnected from all this, I knew that my family history was interlinked because every year on this day, back in the old country, my grandmother and her friends and family would climb to the top of the mountain where Santa Rosalia lived. They would picnic, dance, and celebrate. I imagined what it would be like to dance around and celebrate life like this. Secretly, I confiscated a piece of this passion and tucked it away in my heart.

■■■ For more information on author Marianne Arini, please visit our Contributors Page.

Image: Pixabay.com

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curiosity. The fundamentalist community that I belonged to called this “idolatry”. Most people made the sign of the cross and bowed slightly; others danced about flailing their arms in joy, and elderly women threw kisses and hugged themselves with tears in their eyes. I was fascinated by this tangible passion that was the complete antithesis of the rigid formality found in our Southern Baptist church.

CREATIVE NONFICTION CONTRIBUTORS Allison Hawn Allison Hawn was born in Idaho and has spent her life obtaining adventures. The daughter of a musician, she was brought up all over the United States with occasional dalliances into foreign lands. Allison is the author of "Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus" and "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor," both of which were picked up for publication by Sweatshoppe Publications. She currently is attening Arizona State University's New College to earn her Master's Degree in Communication, but calls a myriad of locations home.

Chris Furry Chris Furry was born in Sacramento, California and attended high school in Davis, and Woodland California. He enlisted in the United States Army on September 11, 2007 at the age of 24. He attended Basic Combat Training at Fort Sill, Oklahoma and Advanced Individual Training at Redstone Arsenal, Alabama. He was assigned to the 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division and deployed with them in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom on August 3, 2009. Chris was injured in a non-combat accident while in Iraq, but completed his tour, returning July 28, 2010. Following several unsuccessful surgeries to repair the damage to his hips, he was Medically Retired via Medical Evaluation Board on March 20, 2013. Since then He has attended Woodland Community College in California and Yavapai College in Cottonwood, Arizona, completing his Associate of Arts degree at Yavapai in May 2015. Chris began attending ASU in May of 2015 and is pursuing an undergraduate degree in English (Secondary Education).

Eunice Kim Eunice Kim is an elementary school teacher, musician, artist, and novelist who received her MFA from Otis College of Art and Design and her BA from Amherst College. Previously, she has been published in Lumen, and her short story, “The Red Shawl”, was published in Canyon Voices, Issue 11. In her free time, she advocates a sustainable lifestyle that seeks beauty in all its material and spiritual manifestations. Her fiction and nonfiction works are inspired by fairytales, meditation practices, and improvised music, and revolve around place, object, symmetry, and abstraction. Originally from New York, she is currently living in Los Angeles with her pet turtle Soren.

Dr. M. Arini Dr. Marianne Arini is a writer and Writing instructor. She has taught writing for ASU and currently teaches Creative Writing and Creative Nonfiction writing for Southern New Hampshire University and Mesa Community College. She enjoys true stories and using creative nonfiction to educate readers about little known or useful topics. www.mariannearini.com/blog/.

Shannon Flegel Shannon Flegel is a 27 year old aspiring poet, writer, and welder. Hailing from mid-Michigan he grew up racing dirt bikes all over the state. He has had several pieces of his poetry published in literary reviews around Michigan. Alma College and University of Michigan Flint have both honored him with publication in the past and he is thirsty to get his work out there in front of the eyes of the masses. His influences range from Whitman to William Burroughs. Ginsberg and Kerouac, Plath, Frost, Poe. He sincerely hopes that if you are disturbed his work comforts you, and if you are comfortable that it disturbs you.

Thank you.

Melanie Wheelan Melanie Wheelen is a senior at ASU with High-Functioning Asperger's Syndrome. She hopes to write novels for others like her to provide encouragement and give a voice in the autistic community. She will graduate in December 2015 with a Bachelor's in English and a Creative Writer's Certificate.

Tears I Didn’t Cry by Sarina Guerra (see Artwork for more)

SCRIPTS

The State of Colorado vs. Tennessee Williams

By James Armstrong Ntirlantà

By Katherine Morosoff

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THE STATE OF COLORADO v.

TENNESSEE WILLIAMS

By James Armstrong

Characters: STAGE MANAGER - M or F, unduly cheerful TOM - M, stoned AMANDA - F, stoned LAURA - F, stoned JIM - M, entirely too earnest

Time: The present.

Place: A stage.

Image: Pixabay.com

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STAGE MANAGER: (addresses the audience) Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Colorado Repertory Theater. As many of you know, it has become a challenge for us in recent years to produce a number of classic American plays. When the Colorado Clean Indoor Air Act went into effect in 2006, it banned all smoking--not just real smoking, but even the smoking of fake, non-addictive, non-carcinogenic cigarettes-from most public places, including stages like this one. Since many plays require smoking on stage, the law has resulted in the de facto censorship of such dramas as The Zoo Story, A View From the Bridge, and, well, pretty much the entire canon of Tennessee Williams. In spite of the fact that this is a blatant violation of the First Amendment, the Supreme Court has declined to review the law, because hey, this is Colorado, and basic rules of the U.S. government just don't apply out here. Speaking of which, Image: Pixabay.com as of January first, it is now completely legal to smoke marijuana in our state. This recent turn of events got us at Colorado Rep thinking. While it is still illegal to smoke fake tobacco onstage, it is now perfectly acceptable for actors to consume large quantities of cannabis backstage. We decided to write to the Tennessee Williams estate and ask for a special dispensation to perform the classic play The Glass Menagerie without the smoking, provided that the entire cast is stoned out of their minds while they perform it. Last month, we got this letter back from the estate: (reads) "Yeah. Sure. Whatever. After I let Scarlett Johansson play Maggie the Cat on Broadway, it's not like he's ever going to speak to me in the afterlife anyway. Fuck it. Fuck everything. I need a drink." (returns to the audience) With that glowing endorsement, Colorado Rep began rehearsals for a very special production, which you will see here tonight.

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(As the lights come up, the STAGE MANAGER enters.)

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For the past month, all of the actors have been diligently studying their lines and blocking, as well as purchasing each day the maximum of one ounce of marijuana allowed adult Colorado citizens on a daily basis.

Over the last half hour, the cast has been smoking some of the seven and a half pounds of high-grade Colorado hashish they've been saving up. Now, it is my pleasure to introduce, for the first time on a Colorado stage since the smoking ban took effect, Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie–as you've never seen it before.

Image: Pixabay.com

(The STAGE MANAGER exits.

TOM enters. He is clearly stoned. There is a very long pause.)

TOM: Yes. (long pause) I... have.... (pause) Line.

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) I have tricks in my pocket.

TOM: I have tricks in my....

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) Pocket.

TOM: Pocket. I have tricks in my pocket. I have....

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) Things up my sleeve.

TOM: Really? (giggles) Really?

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) I have things up my– TOM:—Sorry. Sorry. (giggles) I have things up my things!

(TOM breaks out into laughter.)

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) Things up my sleeve!

(AMANDA stumbles onstage, also noticeably stoned.)

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AMANDA: Tom? TOM: Wha…?

AMANDA: Tom? TOM: That’s... that's me!

AMANDA: Tom? TOM: I... I understand now. I understand... I understand the whole play!

AMANDA: Tom? TOM: I… AM TOM!

TOM: I’m getting a cigarette. No, wait.

We cut that part.

AMANDA: We can't say grace until you come to the table! (looks around) AMANDA (cont’d): Where’s the table?

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) You're a little early.

AMANDA: There’s supposed to be a table, isn't there?

TOM: Coming, Mother. (giggles) I said coming. Get it? Coming?

AMANDA: Ah! There's the table.

TOM: I’m getting a cigarette. No, wait. We cut that part.

(LAURA stumbles on, also stoned.)

LAURA: I’ll bring in the blanc mange.

AMANDA: You know, I thought there was the table for a minute.

LAURA: The blanc mange.

AMANDA: And then I thought he was the table….

LAURA: I don't know what a blanc mange is... but I'm gonna bring it.

AMANDA: I was... what is my line again?

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STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) Resume your seat.

AMANDA: Where? Where do I sit?

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) That's your line. Resume your seat.

TOM: He said seat! Get it? Like... seat!

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) Resume your seat, little sister--I want you to stay fresh and pretty-AMANDA: Fresh? What she gotta stay fresh for?

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) For gentlemen callers!

LAURA: I’m not expecting any gentlemen callers.

TOM: You’re not on ‘til act.

JIM: If you guys don’t pull it together, we won’t get to act two.

TOM: Holy shit, I think that's the actual line.

AMANDA: Sometimes… sometimes they.... (to TOM) They come when they're least expected!

(TOM and AMANDA break out into hysterical laughter. JIM enters. He is completely clean and sober.)

JIM: Get it together, people.

LAURA: (waving) Hey! (looking at her hand) Look at my hand.

JIM: Pull it together. We can do this.

TOM: You’re not on 'til act two.

JIM: If you guys don't pull it together, we won't get to act two.

AMANDA: Is he supposed to be here?

JIM: Remember, it's like Tennessee Williams always said– AMANDA:—I don't think he's supposed to be here.

JIM: I’m leaving. Just... concentrate, okay.

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(JIM exits.)

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) Take it from, "I know what's coming!"

(TOM laughs) STAGE MANAGER (cont’d): On second thought, take it from Scene Two. "Hello, Mother."

TOM: Hello, Mother, I— STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) That's Laura's line.

LAURA: Oh. Hello. Mother, I was— AMANDA: Deception? DecepTION... deCEPtion….

(JIM enters.)

JIM: You people are supposed to be professionals.

LAURA: You’re not on stage, deceptioner!

Image: Pixabay.com

(The STAGE MANAGER enters.)

STAGE MANAGER: It’s okay. I'll handle it.

TOM: Why’s he actin' so funny?

AMANDA: Mr. Asthma didn't want to smoke.

JIM: It’s not asthma, just allergies.

AMANDA: Mr. Too-Good-To-Smoke-With-The-Rest-Of-The-Cast.

JIM: It’s not that. I have no problem smoking onstage if I have to— LAURA:—You can't smoke onstage! You can only smoke OFFstage.

And then.... did I ever tell you about my unicorn?

JIM: My agent said this was a legitimate production.

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STAGE MANAGER: The estate cleared it.

LAURA: Her horn was soooooooo loooooooong.

JIM: (pointing to LAURA) She's the only one who halfway remembers her lines.

JIM: That’s ridiculous.

They’re not even cigarettes. Here.

I’ll show you.

STAGE MANAGER: Listen, why don't we just skip ahead to your big scene with Laura, okay?

JIM: Fine.

TOM: Mr. Kill-Buzz gonna do his scene.

JIM: Yes, that's right. Now shut up.

TOM: I’m hungry. (to an audience member) You got some Cheetos?

AMANDA: Come on.

(AMANDA drags TOM over to the side of the stage. The STAGE MANAGER exits. JIM puts on his character voice.)

JIM: Hello there, Laura.

LAURA: Hello.

JIM: How are you feeling now? Better?

LAURA: Wasn’t it—Blue Roses?

JIM: No, that comes later.

LAURA: Blue Roses! My gosh, yes— JIM:—This is a serious play! We should not be doing this.

LAURA: But we have to. 'Cause we're not allowed to smoke onstage....

JIM: That’s ridiculous. They're not even real cigarettes. Here. I'll show you.

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(JIM reaches for his pocket.)

LAURA: Don’t! If you take out a cigarette... there's no telling what they might do.

JIM: We are in a miniscule theatre converted from a Blockbuster Video store.

Who is going to notice?

TOM: The NSA. JIM: NSA? Image: Pixabay.com

TOM: They have spies everywhere.

JIM: The NSA is not going to— Fine. Fine. The NSA is going to know I took out a fake cigarette. What are they going to do?

AMANDA: They could shoot you on the spot.

TOM: Yeah.

AMANDA: If you get labeled an enemy combatant, the government can kill you, and it doesn't even matter if you're a U.S. citizen. I read that on the Internet.

JIM: We’re not talking about the NSA! We're talking about a great American drama that has been banned from stages across the state because of some stupid law with no respect for the Constitution.

AMANDA: Isn’t that the NSA? JIM: Look… can we please just get back to the show.

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) Take it from: "But Blue is wrong for—roses."

JIM: Great. (to LAURA) That's your line.

LAURA: Oh! But Blue is wrong for— roses....

JIM: It’s right for you! You’re—pretty!

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Image: Pixabay.com

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LAURA: In what respect am I pretty?

JIM: In all respects—believe me!

TOM: I wish I had some Doritos....

JIM: You’re eyes—your hair—are pretty! Your hands are pretty!

LAURA: (looking intently at her hand) My hands!

JIM: That’s right. You think I'm making this up because— LAURA: Look at my hand....

JIM: This is absurd. You can't do the play like this. You just can't.

I'm going to... I'm going to light the cigarette.

TOM and AMANDA: No! JIM: Why not?

TOM: The NSA, man. They'll shoot you.

JIM: No they won't. And do you know why? Because this is America. This is America, where we have laws, and rules, and safeguards on our constitutional rights. The government doesn't have spies watching our every move. The government can't kill a person just because it says so.

And the government can't ban a great American play just because it has fake smoking in it.

Image: Pixabay.com

(JIM reaches for his pocket.)

LAURA: Don’t do it!

JIM: I’m not hurting anyone. All I'm going to do is light a fake cigarette.

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(JIM pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. Before he can light it, a gunshot is heard. JIM falls down dead. The STAGE MANAGER rushes onstage.

The four look down at the body.)

TOM: Fucking NSA....

STAGE MANAGER: (offstage) Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes the evening's performance. While we regret that we were not able to perform The Glass Menagerie for you in its entirety, you are welcome to go to one of the many fine marijuana dispensaries available throughout our fair state—and get stoned out of your minds. Perhaps that will help you to forget that our basic civil liberties are being violated. Thank you.

And goodnight.

TOM: Blow out your candles, Laura….

(Blackout.)

■■■ For more information on author James Armstrong, please visit our Contributors Page.

Image: Pixabay.com

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Ntirlantà

By Katherine Morosoff

Characters: MARINA - Greek; village woman from Arcadia GIORGO - Greek; a former child soldier made a eunuch by the Ottoman Empire FAHAD - Turkish; a soldier of the Ottoman Empire DEMETRI - Greek; leader of the Greek uprising KOSTA - Greek; militiaman ANTONI - Greek; militiaman ILIAS - Greek; militiaman PRIEST - Greek; an elderly bearded man VILLAGER 1 - Greek; a common drunkard deeming MARINA a harlot VILLAGER 2 - Greek; a common drunkard aiding in VILLAGER 1’s plot VILLAGER 3 - Greek; a common drunkard, the dumbest of the three SOLDIER 1 - Turkish; companion of FAHAD SOLDIER 2 - Turkish; another companion of FAHAD GYPSY BAND - A combination of a drummer, trumpet player, clarinet player, and singer GYPSY DANCERS - A group of provocatively dressed women VILLAGERS - A compilation of Greek men, women, and children

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ACT 1 Scene 1

(1809, prior to the 1821 Greek Revolution for independence. A marketplace in Arcadia, Greece. From the right of the stage MARINA is seen barefoot in an old gypsy skirt,carrying a burlap sack of walnuts to sell; she interacts lovingly with other vendors/customers. The hustle and bustle of the marketplace makes the stage noisy. From the left of the stage, FAHAD and two other men are seen in Ottoman military uniforms; they are laughing and yelling with one another. Suddenly, the GYPSY BAND breaks into song center stage, and GYPSY DANCERS dance for money with their silken fabrics. FAHAD and his friends watch from stage left and MARINA is encouraged by her coworker to watch the performance. Through the interweaving fabrics and lyrical notes, FAHAD and MARINA make eye contact and gaze lovingly at each other. The course of the gypsy dance has been like a dream. With an abrupt stop of the music, life returns back to being chaotic in the marketplace).

RANDOM VOICES: Fresh fish for sale! Get your figs, beautiful Mediterranean figs! Hand painted vases—only a few left!

GIORGO: (To his coworker, MARINA) I told you you’d have fun. Look, you can’t even stop smiling. Some gypsy malàka caught your eye, did they?

MARINA: (Immediately making her face serious) That might just the meanest things you’ve ever said to me.

GIORGO: Nuh uh! If I really wanted to be mean I’d say you loved a Turk.

Ha! Imagine that, you with a Turk.

(Draping a large towel across his head like a hijab and pretending to be MARINA) GIORGO (cont’d): What, husband? You want me to wait on you hand and foot like a slave? As you wish, husband. What, husband? I’ve been disobedient and deserve your strikes? Of course, husband. You are righteous. What, husband? You demand that I give up my faith and raise your sons in the tradition of the prophet? NEVER. (Drops the towel and simulates the husband slitting her throat. MARINA CANYONVOICES

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jumps back; her skirt catches on the side of their stand and rips.

GIORGO laughs.)

MARINA: (Hits GIORGO) Look what you did! My last good skirt! You think you’re so funny mocking people and ruining their clothes. I’d sooner fall for a Turk than the likes of you.

GIORGO: (Calling her bluff) You don’t mean that.

MARINA: Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Either way, we better get serious about selling the rest of these walnuts before you break anything else.

Scene 2 (The following day. MARINA and GIORGO are at their stand selling walnuts in the marketplace. FAHAD shows up in civilian clothes to the stand. FAHAD and MARINA immediately make eye contact, but GIORGO interrupts to try and make a sale).

GIORGO: The finest walnuts in all of Arkadìa, I promise you, Fìle mou.

How many would you like, one, two kilos?

FAHAD: (In a broken accent) Make it two.

GIORGO: That’s what I like to hear! (To MARIAN) You heard the man.

Two kilos of the finest walnuts in all of Arkadìa.

(MARINA hands the bag to FAHAD. She blushes and shifts her gaze downward. GIORGO notices FAHAD’s loving glance at her and grows suspicious).

GIORGO (cont’d): Say, Fìle. Where did you say you were from? I know with an accent like yours you can’t be from around here.

FAHAD: I didn’t. I’m from Istan…Konstantinòpoli. Just here for a while visiting.

GIORGO: Here to find yourself a fine Arcadian bride, huh? I understand.

If I was in your position I wouldn’t want to marry any of those women in Constantinople either. We call them war prizes around here. The best anyone could do is take a wife from these here parts like Marina—the best this side of the Aegean (MARINA blushes).

FAHAD: I bet. (Mistaking GIORGO and MARINA as married) May God grant many years to the happy couple.

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GIORGO: (Surprised) Who? Us? Nah! Marina wishes, but I’ve got bigger dreams of breeding horses…. Not like any of that’ll happen with things being the way they are. But a man is entitled to dream of freedom, isn’t he? Since the occupation Greek men can’t ride a horse, let alone own one. Those privileges are reserved for the Muslim folks. Things must be real bad in Constantinople, what with being the heart of the Empire, right?

FAHAD: (Growing uncomfortable). We manage as best we can. But I must be off. Thanks to you both for the walnuts.

MARINA: (Interrupting GIORGO’s response) The pleasure is ours.

Christòs mazì sou.

(FAHAD nods and leaves. MARINA and GIORGO are left in discussion).

MARINA: He seemed like a nice fellow.

GIORGO: Too nice for my liking. I don’t trust it. Did you see the way he was looking at you? Dogs, all of them.

MARINA: (Sarcastically) Right. Because all men from Konstantinòpoli are dogs.

GIORGO: He’s not from Constantinople. He’s from Istanbul. There’s a great difference between the two. If you’re from one you’re a Greek and if you’re from the other, you’re a Turk. That right there was a Turk, Marina. I could smell him the moment he got up here. They sweat fennel and anise, all of them do. Trust me, I know this because, well… you know why…. When the Turkish military took me from my parents and sent me to the Empire as a child soldier, I lived among them. I was one of them, until it happened…. You best watch yourself. He seemed smitten with you.

MARINA: (Consoling) Oh, Giorgo. He didn’t even speak to me. All he did was look me in the eye, but I averted my gaze. He spent the entire time talking to you.

GIORGO: Just promise me one thing. Don’t look a Turk in the eye.

When you look at them, they single you out. They beat you, rape you, take you prisoner, and send you back as a war prize or concubine in the Sultan’s harem. When you look a Turk in the eye, they devour you physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually so that neither your body nor your soul can escape pure. It is best to look down: look at the CANYONVOICES

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rag you’ve convinced yourself is a dress, your quivering knees fearful of your fate, or the bloody, calloused feet which will carry you home, should you be released. Bow your head so far that you are blinded by the dirt—truly it is better to be blinded than to look a Turk in the eye.

Promise me you won’t look back. He’ll use brute force and gypsy magic to take you away.

MARINA: Okay, okay. I promise.

GIORGO: (Angrily) Don’t take this so lightly. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, because, you know…. The others in the army, they did this.

You’re a good girl, a virgin, and devout in your faith. Nothing good can come of this for you.

MARINA: (Sincerity in her voice and grabbing GIORGO’s hand) Giorgo… I promise.

Scene 3 (The same day. GIORGO has left and MARINA is cleaning up the extra walnuts to carry home. She and FAHD are the only ones on stage.

Seeing FAHAD across the stage she yells out and gains his attention).

MARINA: Come back for more, have you? Giorgo told you these were the best walnuts in all of Arcadia. I trust he didn’t deceive you.

FAHAD: He most certainly speaks the truth, but I don’t know that I would agree with him on everything.

MARINA: (Curiously sarcastic) And what might you not agree with him on?

FAHAD: (Blushing) Well, for one, he raves about working side by side with the most beautiful woman in Arcadia but does nothing about pursuing her. I, personally, find that to be a crime.

MARINA: Giorgo is a special case I assure you. He has a just reason for doing or not doing all that he does.

FAHAD: You’re defensive of him? That tells me one of two things about you—that you either love him, or you’re perhaps one of the few genuine people in this world.

MARINA: This is a rather personal assumption for someone without a name to make, don’t you think?

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FAHAD: If you knew my name, I doubt you’d ever agree to speak to me again.

MARINA: If your assumption is correct, and I really am one of the few genuine people in this world, then I suppose I might speak to you regardless.

FAHAD: (Hesitant) Fahad Al-Othman.

MARINA: Well, your assumption was right. But then again, so was Giorgo’s.

FAHAD: (Intrigued) And what did Giorgo assume?

MARINA: That you’re a Turk.

FAHAD: (Flirtatiously) Hey, hey. I’ve got Greek blood, you know.

MARINA: From who? Your mother, a Greek war prize of the Ottoman occupation no doubt? That hardly counts. Look at your last name; it means “The Ottoman” in Arabic. So don’t kid yourself when you say you’ve got Greek blood. The blood in Greek veins pours like Kalamata olive oil. Your blood runs black as sludge.

FAHAD: (Disregarding MARINA’s insult) You speak Arabic?

MARINA: Greek, a little Turkish, some Arabic. You can’t get by without knowing the lot.

FAHAD: (In a debonair fashion) So now that you know my name and upbringing, are you still one of the few genuine people in this world?

MARINA: That is between me and God. FAHAD: And what is between you and Giorgo?

MARINA: That is between Giorgo and your sultan.

(MARINA lifts the sack of walnuts and walks off stage. FAHAD is left alone as the lights dim, ending Act 1).

ACT 2 Scene 1 (The same night at the village church. GIORGO and a group of Greek CANYONVOICES

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men are discussing a militia/uprising against the Turkish occupation in the village. The men are seen hiding guns behind large icons and pillars while some count bullets. The PRIEST is seen behind the altar praying as the Greeks sit down for their discussion).

DIMITRI: Is everyone here? Where’s Ilias? (All are silent). If he’s not here, that’s his problem. We’ll have to start without him. (To GIORGO) How much ammunition is there?

GIORGO: We’ve got enough for each man to have fifty rounds. It’s taken a while, but we should have another shipment tomorrow, and after that I’m certain we’ll have enough.

DIMITRI: Good. Good. (To KOSTA) All the guns are accounted for?

KOSTA: Antoni and I have put everything in place. The men have been informed where their guns are located for the uprising.

DIMITRI: (To everyone) Is this true? (All nod ‘yes’). Good. Things have changed. I’ve gotten word from our informant that at the end of this week twelve Turkish ships are to arrive at the port in Leonìdion. If we are to make an attack, it’ll have to be before the Ottoman reinforcements set foot on Greek soil. Those of us remaining after the battle will head to the harbor and set off the bombs. (To ANTONI) I trust you’ve made yourself useful and set up all the explosives, what with that mining experience you’ve got?

ANTONI: (A grin on his face) All there’s left to do is torch the bastards.

DIMITRI: Good, my boy. Here’s the— (Interrupted by a strange code of knocks on the church door. GIORGO and KOSTA each grab a gun. They walk to the door. KOSTA answers as GIORGO stands behind him for back up. The return with ILIAS. DIMITRI is angry and speaks to the new arrival).

DIMITRI (cont’d): Ilias! Why are you late? You know this is a serious matter!

ILIAS: I know, and I’m sorry for not being here on time. But I saw suspicious activity, and so I stayed back in the marketplace to keep an eye on things.

DIMITRI: (Intrigued) And what news do you bring, my boy?

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ILIAS: A Turkish soldier was flirting with a Greek girl.

DIMITRI: (Slaps ILIAS upside the head) You think that’s news? This shit happens every day!

ILIAS: (Cowering) But… but… it was not like most interactions. You see, the girl looked the Turk straight in the eye. She was resilient, sarcastic.

She insulted him and he did nothing! Something is strange about it, I tell you! Greek men are hung for looking Muslims in the eye, and this woman said everything on her mind with no repercussions. Truly, I don’t understand it! She must be working with the Turkish regime!

DIMITRI: (Sternly) You think too much. Let the voices of the Greeks be heard! They will be heard soon enough! Besides, you think the fate of our country rests in the hands of a woman? Ha! (To everyone) So now that we’ve gotten this “concern” out of the way, here’s the breakdown of the events to come. Giorgo’s acquired the ammo, Kosta has placed the guns, and Antoni has the explosives ready to go. Everyone else knows their assignment. (Byzantine chanting is heard in the background by the PRIEST). Each of you are to make an appearance at the Panagìri on the fifteenth. Act merry, be happy. No one is to know what we’re up to. Not your wives, not your mothers, not your girlfriends. No one. I can’t stress the importance of this enough. Once the villagers are drunk enough, we will make our strategic exit, grab our supplies, and meet my informant in the marketplace. From there your orders will be given to you. Understood? (All nod ‘yes’). Good. Now go with God! (All exit. The stage darkens in preparation for the next scene at MARINA’s house).

Scene 2 (MARINA’s house the next day. A splintered table and two chairs are centered on stage. In the corner are icons of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and all the saints. MARINA is sitting at the table sewing her dress and singing a liturgical hymn when GIORGO enters).

MARINA: (To GIORGO) You can’t knock?

GIORGO: (Serious) I saw you, Marina.

MARINA: You see me every day. All of a sudden now is different? Why don’t you take a seat and see me mending this skirt you ripped?

GIORGO: I’m serious, Marina. One of the guys overheard a Turk talking CANYONVOICES

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to a spit-fire Greek woman in the marketplace. He said he’s never met a Greek with more opposition in their voice. Tell me that’s not you.

MARINA: So you didn’t actually see me?

GIORGO: I’ve known you longer than the roots of the cypress tree have known Greek soil. So when someone says that a Greek woman put a Turkish soldier in his place, I can see that the woman is you.

MARINA: Fahad never said anything about being a soldier. But you’re right, I did put him in his place. He suspected I was in love with you and wanted to know why you hadn’t done anything about pursuing me.

GIORGO: (Enraged) And you told him!

MARINA: (Abruptly) Hush! You know that that is between us. You are the dearest person to me, and I would never betray you like that.

GIORGO: You’ve already betrayed me by talking to him. You promised me you wouldn’t look a Turk in the eye, and now the whole village thinks you’re whoring around.

(MARINA slaps GIORGO, but he holds on to her wrist before she can pull back. He leans in close to her face as if wanting to kiss her and says his following lines in this position).

GIORGO (cont’d): If I were still a whole man, I would save you, make you my wife, father your children. I would love you with every piece of me. But you know as well as I do that the Turks have mutilated me for defending our pious Christian faith, and that I cannot give you the family you deserve. It is because I love you that I remain your loyal companion without reciprocal expectations. And it is because I love you that I beg you to leave for the monastery and stay with the nuns until I send word that everything is safe for you here.

MARINA: (Cupping GIORGO’s face in her palm) Giorgo, you know that whether a man in body or spirit I would marry you this instant. It is not I who prevents us from being together, it is not the Turks. I could martyr myself for my country, for my faith, but I only live for you. It is for you that I exist, whether you believe it or not. If you choose to do nothing about it, then I have no other choice but to rid myself of you. If you are truly my loyal companion, then you will not send me into the arms of the Turks.

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trying not to do!

MARINA: Then marry me.

GIORGO: (Defeated) I can’t.

MARINA: (Pointing towards off stage) Then go, and don’t come back. I don’t need you to make a living. I’m perfectly capable of doing this on my own. And I’d rather be alone than be with a man who admits he loves me but refuses to do anything about it!

(MARINA returns to sewing her skirt. Her sobs are heard by GIORGO as he leaves the house. Before he leaves for good, he turns around taking one last look at MARINA and does the sign of the cross over her from a distance. He does not say goodbye).

Scene 3 (MARINA remains at her table in the house sewing and singing liturgical hymns. Shakiness from crying resonates in her voice. A knock is heard at the door. She peeks through to see who is on the other side. Finding FAHAD in his military uniform, she hesitates but motions for him to enter. He is seated at the other chair around the table and places a tin of coffee grounds before her).

FAHAD: Thank you for having me. (MARINA nods, saying nothing.

FAHAD notices the redness in her face). Are you alright? Have I upset you?

MARINA: You haven’t upset me.

FAHAD: But someone has. Who’s been bothering you?

MARINA: It’s natural for a woman to mourn.

FAHAD: Mourning? Has someone died?

MARINA: You ask too many questions. No one has died, only their future. I mourn for the loss of happiness.

FAHAD: If it is your happiness that is lost, I wish to restore it. (Hesitantly) I… I’ve come to apologize… for… for not being honest with who I am and for being so combative in my discussion with you.

MARINA: (Vaguely) Apology accepted.

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FAHAD: (Motioning to the coffee grounds) This is for you.

MARINA: Thank you. I’ve almost forgotten what coffee tastes like.

(Looking directly at her guest) Should we have some?

(FAHAD nods ‘yes.’ MARINA leaves with the grounds and returns with two small coffee cups on saucers).

MARINA (cont’d): Drink up before you tell me what you have to say.

FAHAD: (Shocked) How do you know I have something to tell you?

MARINA: If you had nothing to say, you wouldn’t be here now, would you?

FAHAD: (Smiling as he sips his coffee) You’re a smart woman. Smarter than I would imagine. I suppose you already know what I am going to say.

MARINA: Finish your coffee. What you tell me is written in the grounds at the bottom.

(FAHAD finishes his drink and hands the mug to MARINA. She twirls it on its side three times and sets it upside down on its saucer. After a long pause, she picks up the mug and proceeds in reading FAHAD’s fortune).

MARINA (cont’d): I see the Panagìa, the Virgin Mary, holding her son under a walnut tree. A man is beside them. His face looks at the Virgin, but his back is turned towards her. She is crying tears. She is the joy that sorrows.

FAHAD: Is there no hope for the man?

MARINA: (Still looking in the mug) There is always hope. But the man will not abandon this life for the life to come.

FAHAD: And this is what you think I have to tell you?

MARINA: I don’t think, I know. You are pure in heart and have no ill intentions for me. You’re afraid of love and are burdened by loyalty to your family. You’ve come to me because, in some way, you feel that I understand you, that no one else may accept your innocent nature.

You’ve come to tell me that you wish to know me better, but are afraid of the outcome. And you are right to fear. The outcome will not be good for either of us.

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FAHAD: Then why do I continue to pursue?

MARINA: Because there is always hope…. But the conditions for hope to endure do not exist. The man in the coffee grounds has his body turned from Panagìa, but his eyes remember her always. You will not forget me, but you will not have me either.

FAHAD: And suppose I told you I was only looking for companionship?

MARINA: I’d tell you you were lying. Not to me, but to yourself.

FAHAD: So we cannot be friends?

MARINA: I don’t know.

FAHAD: (Placing his hand over MARINA’s) Please, let me take you out. I will not pressure you. I will not force you. All I ask is for you to consider me, to keep me in mind. I know the outcome, and I know it can’t be.

Others in my position would simply take you by force. You’d have no say. But as you said, I am pure of heart, and just like my heart, my intentions are pure.

MARINA: You know today’s date?

FAHAD: The 14th of August.

MARINA: Tomorrow is the Feast of the Dormition of the Theotòkos.

There will be a big panagìri, a celebration for the event where we break the fast, dance, and be merry with one another. It’s a public event….

And don’t eat the baklavà. It’s made with walnuts. Your grounds tell me you’re allergic… and that you simply bought some before to meet me.

FAHAD: (Blushing while getting up from the table to leave) I’ll be there.

(Lights fade. End of Act 2).

ACT 3 Scene 1 (Lights fade for set change. The table and chairs are replaced with a spit roasting a lamb. The GYPSY BAND is heard playing traditional folk music. Many of the VILLAGERS are seen dancing, laughing, and drinking. MARINA is among the dancers. She is wearing her best dress but dances barefoot. A spectacle is made of her dancing as an audience CANYONVOICES

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of VILLAGERS files around her. MARINA attempts to invite various village men to dance with her, but all of them refuse. Male voices are heard yelling out “Putàna” “Harlot” “What a temptress” “Don’t dance with her—she loves a Turk.” Fearless of the opposition, GIORGO dances towards her to take her hand. Caught up in the music and not realizing who it is, she accepts the hand. Looking up and seeing that the man is GIORGO, she stops dead in her tracks. The music and the others continue to dance while MARINA walks away seriously. Shortly after, she runs into FAHAD).

FAHAD: (Light hearted) You never told me you could dance!

MARINA: (Flirtatious) You never asked.

FAHAD: Someone once told me I ask too many questions.

MARINA: Sounds like a very wise person. You should listen to them more often. (Both lower their gazes from each other a blush). Have you had anything to eat?

FAHAD: Oh no, I don’t want to impose.

MARINA: Nonsense! It’s a celebration. Everyone is welcome.

(She walks over to the spit to request a portion of lamb, but VILLAGER 1 refuses).

VILLAGER 1: I’ll feed the Turks when Jesus comes back.

MARINA: (Defensive) By then it will be too late for your soul.

VILLAGER 1: (Directly to MARINA) Then I suppose I’ll have good company in Hell.

(FAHAD grows tense. He looks as though he wants to punch the man, but MARINA’s loving gaze encourages him not to. MARINA and FAHAD leave the stage. Meanwhile the VILLAGERS continue with their celebration and gossip).

VILLAGER 1: (To VILLAGER 2) Did you see that? She defended the Turk? When did you ever see a Turk defend one of us?

VILLAGER 2: Never, that’s when!

VILLAGER 3: (Interrupting VILLAGERS 1 and 2) They’d sooner admit the falsehood of Mohammad than defend the Greeks.

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ALL: (Raising their glasses to drink a shot of brandy) Ah-MEN! (All take a shot) VILLAGER 1: What message are we sending to our children if we let that whore stay here?

VILLAGER 2: That the Ottomans win. Alexander is erased from history.

Byzantium is gone. Rome has fallen. The Greeks are dead.

VILLAGER 3: Liberty or death!

ALL: Ah-MEN! (All take another shot of liquor) VILLAGER 1: Yes! (Standing upright on a chair) This is our call to action.

Oh, Panagìa mou! Pray for us sinners through your intercession and the Mercy of your Son that we may earn our crowns of martyrdom and be with Him in paradise!

ALL: Ah-MEN! (All take another shot of liquor) VILLAGER 1: Tonight we sacrifice our lives in an epic battle. A battle of Turkish terror and Byzantine brute force. Tonight we die!

VILLAGER 2: (Concerned, and changing the serious tone) Tonight?

Tonight’s no good. I have cigarettes to roll.

VILLAGER 1: (Sympathetic) Completely understandable. If I had any tobacco left, I’d have the same concern. (Prophetic) Tomorrow! We die for our country!

VILLAGER 3: (Concerned) Eh, tomorrow my wife has to milk the goats.

VILLAGER 1: (Sympathetic) No, no. Can’t let the goats go without being milked. Of course. (Prophetic) The day after tomorrow! We die for our past, our present, and our future! (Sympathetic) No, no. The day after tomorrow wouldn’t work. It would be the third day after the blessed feast of the Mother of God, plus the moon will be waning, and I’m running out of soap. (All are silent for a long while thinking).

VILLAGER 3: (Shaky) The girl dies?

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ALL: (Raising their glasses) The girl dies! Ah-MEN, Ah-MEN, AH-MEN! (All drink another shot of brandy and pass out drunk. The stage blackens and Scene 1 ends).

Scene 2 (The marketplace at night. MARINA and FAHAD are the only characters visible on stage. They hold hands lovingly with one another laughing and talking).

FAHAD: I think it’s safe to say by now you’ve taken a liking to me.

MARINA: (With a smile) Perhaps. But that still doesn’t mean this is going to work. You know that, don’t you?

FAHAD: (Saddness in his voice) Of course I know. I’ve known all along. I suppose I just wanted to know what it felt like, to be unconditionally loved by someone.

MARINA: And are you satisified?

FAHAD: I would be satisfied with a kiss. And then, we will part ways.

You will go home and I will go back to my military duties. Things will return to the way they were, except for two things. (MARINA looks at him confused). You will marry Giorgo, and I will never forget you.

MARINA: I have already told you that there is nothing between me and Giorgo. I told him I was done playing his games.

FAHAD: But you don’t mean that. (Cups MARINA’s face in his hand and looks into her eyes) You love him. He thinks he’s half a man because the Turks made him a eunuch, and that’s why he acts like he does.

MARINA: (FAHAD leans in to kiss MARINA, but their lips do not meet.

She whispers) How do you know that?

(The kiss is interrupted by small group of Turkish soldiers) SOLDIER 1: Fahad! Where have you been? You were supposed to report back to camp an hour ago.

FAHAD: (To SOLDIER 1) I’m sorry, I got caught up with things.

(FAHAD leaves MARINA standing in her position. Her body language CANYONVOICES

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shows fear. Meanwhile, FAHAD has a conversation with the soldiers in a huddled formation. MARINA eavesdrops).

SOLDIER 1: Have you heard about the attack?

FAHAD: Yes. The Greeks are to strike tonight. I’m supposed to meet them here in another hour or so.

SOLDIER 2: (Motioning his head towards MARINA) What’s with the girl?

FAHAD: She’ll be gone in a moment. (Perversely) I was just saying “goodbye” and she’ll be on her way.

SOLDIER 2: (Grimacing) You dog! Go have your fun! But make it quick.

We’ve got Greeks to slaughter. It’ll be like 1462 all over again!

FAHAD: Yes sir!

(The soldiers prepare to leave. Having overheard everything, MARINA is on the other side of the stage. She pulls out a handful of walnuts from her skirt pocket, eats them, and between each bite says her monologue).

MARINA: (To herself) I should not have looked a Turk in the eye. When I look at them, they single me out. They beat me, rape me, take me prisoner, and send me back as a war prize or concubine in the Sultan’s harem. When I look a Turk in the eye, they devour me physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually so that neither my body nor my soul can escape pure. It is best to look down: look at the rag I’ve convinced myself is a dress, my quivering knees fearful of my fate, or the soon-to-be bloody, calloused feet which will carry me home, should I be released. I should have bowed my head so far that I was blinded by the dirt—truly it is better to be blinded than to look a Turk in the eye….

He has used gypsy magic. And I am the fool. Panagìa mou, pray for us sinners, that through your intercession and the Mercy of your Son, my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I may find myself next to Him in Paradise!

(MARINA finishes consuming the walnuts. The soldiers are gone. She and FAHAD are the only ones visible).

FAHAD: (To MARINA) Where were we?

(He cups MARINA’s face and leans in to kiss her, but once again, they are interrupted).

(Enter VILLAGERS 1, 2, and 3. They are carrying a rope and knives.

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FAHAD becomes defensive).

VILLAGER 1: (To FAHAD) Don’t worry now, Soldier. We ain’t got no beef with you.

VILLAGER 3: (Interjecting) Yeah! We’re here for the girl.

(VILLAGER 1 grabs MARINA and ties her hands behind her back.

VILLAGERS 2 and 3 do the same to FAHAD but he attempts to jump.

The men knock him down. A blade from one of the knives nicks his face).

MARINA: (To the VILLAGERS) For what crime do you take me like this?

VILLAGER 1: (To the other VILLAGERS) You hear that, fellas? The whore wants to know what she’s done. (All the VILLAGERS laugh). The evidence is all here. You, a Turk, that loving gaze you two been sharing this whole time. I’d say that’s enough to justify death. What do you think, boys?

VILLAGERS 1, 2, and 3: The girl dies!

VILLAGER 3: (Shouts) Ah-MEN! VILLAGER 2: (Backhands VILLAGER 3 in the chest) Sssh! We’re done with that!

MARINA: Do I not at least get a final request? A last supper, if you will?

(The VILLAGERS consider for a moment).

VILLAGER 1: I suppose that would depend on the request.

MARINA: All I ask is for a single kiss from the Turk. Just one, and you can do with me what you will. As God as my witness, death is deserved.

VILLAGER 1: Ain’t that sweet. The whore wants one last kiss. What do you think, fellas? Should we let her.

VILLAGER 2: Couldn’t hurt. She’ll die the way she lived. That’s poetic shit if you ask me!

VILLAGER 3: And the Greeks are rather poetic.

VILLAGER 1: Alright. Permission granted. One kiss. But make it a good one, girly. It will be your last.

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(The VILLAGERS push MARINA and FAHAD close to each other. The two kiss and after a few seconds are pulled apart. A look of menacing evil is seen on MARINA’s face. The rest of the characters are confused.

They stare looking back and forth at one another. Suddenly, FAHAD begins to choke and seizure. He dies with his hands still tied behind his back).

VILLAGER 3: Shit! She killed him. She killed the bastard.

VILLAGER 2: (Pulling a bottle of liquor from his pocket and taking a large swig) Well I’ll be damned. She’s a witch.

VILLAGER 1: She’s a gypsy! Using that damn gypsy magic. You saw the way she dances. She’s one of them! I bet she’s enchanted us too!

VILLAGER 3: (Nonchalant) Now that I think about it, I never wanted to kill no one.

VILLAGER 2: (Matching VILLAGER 3’s tone) Me neither.

VILLAGER 1: Well it wasn’t my idea!

MARINA: You drunkards, I’m not a gypsy! Untie me before it’s too late.

The Turks are waiting for the Greek militia!

(A round of shots is heard from a distance. The VILLAGERS run and exist. Not being able to escape, some of the bullets hit MARINA. She dies, still tied up in the center of the marketplace).

Scene 3 (Enter the Greek militia men. FAHAD and MARINA’s dead bodies are on stage).

ILIAS: (Joyful) I got one! I shot a Turk!

(The men rush up to the bodies. They examine that bullets have landed in both corpses. GIORGO rushes up to MARINA’s body and cradles it in his arms. He weeps for her).

GIORGO: (To ILIAS) You idiot! You killed her. The love of my life, the only woman who knew every part of my soul, the woman who existed for me alone. Can’t you see? The Turk was already dead. His heart had stopped beating. The blood flows from his body slowly because there is nothing to pump it out. Look at her, you fool! It was she who killed the CANYONVOICES

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SCRIPTS

8

Turk, not you! So wipe that disgusting smile off your face.

DIMITRI: (To GIORGO): Son, I’m sorry for your loss. Truly I am, but we’ve got a bigger problem. That there Turk was my informant.

(All lights are extinguished from the stage. Gun shots are heard from all around with screams initiating battle in both Greek and Turkish. After the lengthy gunfire ceases a single voice is heard).

GIORGO: (Weak and struggling for breath) Lord Jesus Christ… Son of God… have Mercy on us… and save us… for you alone art holy. Glory to the Father… and the Son… and the Holy— (One last gunshot is fired. The lights return to the stage as the GYPSY BAND plays the bouncy, traditional folk song “Ntirlantà”, dancing over the bodies of dead Greeks and Turks. The drummer in the band sings in Greek) (The curtain drops.).

(FINISH)

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SCRIPTS CONTRIBUTORS James Armstrong James Armstrong has had his plays performed by such theaters as The Attic Ensemble (The Four Doctors Huxley), the Abingdon Theatre Company (Foggy Bottom), the Epiphany Theater Company (A Christmas Carol), Playwrights Forum (The Metric System), Sundog Theatre (Meucci's Message), and Wellfleet Harbor Actors Theater (Moby-Dick). THE STATE OF COLORADO v. TENNESSEE WILLIAMS premiered in October of 2014 as part of the Bad Theater Fest at the Treehouse Theater in New York City. James has an MFA in Dramatic Writing from the Carnegie Mellon University School of Drama and is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America. You can keep up with him at www.armstrongplays.com.

Katherine Morosoff Raised in a multiethnic household, Katherine Morosoff is a first-generation college student of Greek, Russian, and Polish descent majoring in English Literature. Finishing up her final year at Arizona State University, she has been awarded with the Excellence in Modern Greek Award in 2013 from the University of Arizona for her proficiency in the language, as well as an award in 2015 from the School of International Letters and Cultures at ASU for her accomplishments in studying the Romanian language and culture. She is also the recipient of the 2015 Arizona Hellenic Foundation Scholarship and is an inducted member of the “National Society of Collegiate Scholars” and “International English Honors Society.”

The play Ntirlantà is the first of Morosoff’s writings to be published.

Before the Storm by Sarina Guerra (see Artwork for more from Sarina Guerra)

ARTWORK

Carolina Mesquita Dylan Pham Kaylen Everett Kevin Tran Nate Tunstall Samantha Garduno Bill Wolak Cassandra White Tony Dean Derick Washington Olivia Tejeda Sarina Guerra W. Jack Savage Aggie Redkey Jonathan Kistner Larry Bird William Crawford Allen Forrest

ARTWORK

Self Portrait in Pink & Blue

By Carolina Mesquita

Untitled

By Carolina Mesquita

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ARTWORK

Discontinued

By Carolina Mesquita

Carolina Mesquita Carolina Mesquita is an incoming freshman at ASU and an aspiring social activist. She is currently studying Political Science and English Literature with hopes of eventually achieving a career in diplomacy. An ardent feminist, she enjoys creating artwork that explores the fragmentation of feminine identity and especially the melancholia that often accompanies adolescence.

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ARTWORK

Ambedo

By Dylan Pham AKA

Medium - India ink and watercolor

False Royalty

By Dylan Pham AKA Dylan Spider

Medium - India ink and watercolor

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ARTWORK

Nebula

By Dylan Pham AKA Dylan Spider

Medium - India ink and watercolor

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ARTWORK

Feathers of Wisdom

By Dylan Pham AKA Dylan Spider

Medium - India ink and watercolor

Dylan Pham AKA Dylan Spider Born in 1996, Dylan Spider has been creating art since the age of four. He started out with pencil drawings of creatures, dragons and birds.

It wasn’t until his junior year in high school that he started diving deeper into art. Dylan began exploring colors and different mediums. The summer before his senior year in high school, he became interested in creating portraits and working with the subject of human emotions and expressions. Watercolor became his favorite medium and he continues to explore his own style.

For more of Dylan Spider’s art go to: Instagram: @dylanspider Facebook: www.facebook.com/DylanSpiderArt CANYONVOICES

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Taboo

ARTWORK

Beyond the Ice

By Kaylen Everett

By Kaylen Everett

Kaylen Everett

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Kaylen Everett is an eighteen year old homeless adult who fled from home on September 16th, 2015. Prior to fleeing her home, she was a full time honor's student with 14 credits at Mesa Community College. She also attended her second year at EVIT's 3D Animation for courses in Film and Game studies. Kaylen loves art, planning to eventually earn a degree in Digital Design. In the future, she plans to go into the Entertainment industry as a concept artist, animator, and/or 3D modeler. She hopes the art submissions will help people see her true talent, elevating her career to new heights, even if it is only a few feet off the ground and lasting for a quick minute.

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ARTWORK

Oriental Delight

By Kevin Tran

Tranquility

By Kevin Tran

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Beauty For the Beast

By Kevin Tran

By Kevin Tran

ARTWORK

Victorian Rose

Kevin Tran Kevin Tran is currently a sophomore at Arizona state University, majoring in architecture. As a very artistically expressive person, who does not like to bottle up his feelings, he tries to do anything to let his expression reign free whether it be drawing, dancing, singing, cooking, or poetry, depending all on his mood. Kevin finds the representation of life is art. Going on adventures, experiencing new things with people, creating friendships with everyone, he tries to make art as beautiful as possible, capturing the very essence of life. He likes to share his life experiences with people, expressing those experiences through his artwork. Everyday just keeps getting better. I try to enjoy every new moment, every new opportunity. Always be positive.

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ARTWORK

Andromeda

By Nate Tunstall

Medium – Mixed Media on Canvas

Kyle

By Nate Tunstall Medium – Mixed Media on Canvas

Mark

By Nate Tunstall Medium – Mixed Media on Canvas

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ARTWORK

Heather

By Nate Tunstall

Medium – Mixed Media on Tile

Nate Tunstall My art focuses on abstract pieces that represent different personalities. Some personalities are simple and some are much more complicated. I like the juxtaposition of the more classic medium of acrylic and the street art use of spray paint to show that people are a complex mixture of tradition and pop culture. I like the way acrylic and spray paint react to one another. It creates a very organic feel to certain pieces. Sometimes my pieces' personalities develop during the creative process and sometimes they come fully formed.

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ARTWORK

Aftermath

Medium – Acrylic paint and pasted cutout prints of rubble

By Samantha Garduno

Samantha Garduno

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Samantha Garduno is a junior in the Interdisciplinary Art & Performance program with a minor in Ethnic Studies. Her main focuses are graphic art design, performance art, and sound & audio production. She is the Vice-President of the IAP club on West campus and created "Aftermath" in response to the Syrian Refugee Crisis. This was created for the Call & Response: Transforming Contagion exhibit at the Art Space West Gallery. Samantha and other IAP Club members created and donated their works of art to help raise money for the UN Refugee Agency.

"Aftermath" is a collage painting that used shredded images of rubble and desolation after bombings during the Syrian Civil War. (acrylic paint, poster board, and paper) FALL2105

ARTWORK

Opening the Heart

By Bill Wolak

Bill Wolak Bill Wolak has just published his twelfth book of poetry entitled, Love Opens the Hands with Nirala Press. Recently, he was a featured poet at The Mihai Eminescu International Poetry Festival in Craiova, Romania. Mr. Wolak teaches Creative Writing at William Paterson University in New Jersey.

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ARTWORK

Bavarian Dream

By Cassandra White

L’avventura nel Mediterraneo

By Cassandra White

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ARTWORK

Regnerischen Tag

By Cassandra White

Vita Italiano

By Cassandra White

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ARTWORK

Kleins Dorf

By Cassandra White

Cassandra White Cassandra White believes in the power of the written word and its ability to impact those who embrace it.

As a typical Pacific Northwest native, she enjoys the rain, cooking, hiking, and traveling, but always has either a book or her laptop in her hands, blogging or working on a story. Cassandra is a student at ASU, pursuing a degree in English. After graduating in Spring 2016, she will go into an MFA program in order to become an English professor. Her long-term goal is to move overseas to study for her doctorate and teach in the United Kingdom.

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ARTWORK

Mystical Muse

By Tony Dean

The Dogged Companion

By Tony Dean

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ARTWORK

Gloomy Brook

By Tony Dean

Echoes of Anxiety

By Tony Dean

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ARTWORK

Esoteric Pass

By Tony Dean

Tony Dean Anthony Dean was born and raised in eastern Oregon. He first discovered photography after taking a class his sophomore year in high school, but did not really take interest in it until receiving a camera as a graduation present two years later. He has photos taken from all across the western United States. He has an interest in 3D photography but also enjoys normal landscape and portrait photography as well. He is also an experienced artist using mediums of charcoal and pencil. He is starting to get his feet wet in oil painting as well but the most common medium he uses is photography.

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ARTWORK

Hidden Waters

Giraffe

By Derick Washington

By Derick Washington

Derick Washington

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In a world…where the oppression of creativity is an epidemic sweeping the nation, one man dares to rise above. His name is Derick Douglas, “DJ HOOPZ” Washington. Derick is an Entrepreneur, DJ, tailor, music producer, sound engineer, photographer, and cinematographer. This is just the tip of the iceberg as it may seem like his success came easily, but it was a very long and troublesome road leading up to his triumph.

At the young age of ten he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and with no guarantee of tomorrow he lived everyday like it was his last. With the power of his family, and the need to discover more about life, Derick found the will to live. Now at the age of 23, Derick remains ambitious with plans to pursue a career in the arts and hopes to be a role model for kids that are walking along the same path.

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By Olivia Tejeda

Lands End Sea of Cortez

By Olivia Tejeda

Olivia Tejeda Olivia Tejeda is a writer and a senior at Arizona State University. After graduating in May 2016 with a BA in English and a Creative Writing certificate, she will do her graduate work in New York or Paris. Or maybe she’ll just stay home and finish the novel she’s been working on for six years. Her writing has been published in Best of Friday Flash – Volume 1, LitSnack.com, The Poughkeepsie Journal, and Hudson Valley News.

In addition to writing, Olivia’s interests range from film and photography to knitting and yoga.

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ARTWORK

Blade of Grass

ARTWORK

Venetian Peppers

By Sarina E. Guerra

November in Italy

By Sarina E. Guerra

By Sarina E. Guerra

Late

By Sarina E. Guerra

ARTWORK

Up Close and Personal

ARTWORK

From Out of the Blue

By Sarina E. Guerra

Sarina E. Guerra

Ms. Guerra is a 21 year-old multimedia storyteller. The proud Hispanic and southern California native is a student at ASU’s West Campus working towards concurrent bachelor’s degrees in Interdisciplinary Arts and Performance and Interdisciplinary Arts and Science. With the support of her family, she hopes to pursue a career that satisfies her creative mind, humanitarian heart, and wanderlust soul. Although Ms. Guerra suffers from Crohn’s disease, a sometimes-debilitating autoimmune disorder, she refuses to let this limit her aspirations and hopes to one day write for Time, photograph for National Geographic, or work with children around the world. For this unbounded artist, written and spoken word, music, dance, theatre, film, and especially photography function collectively as pages in the storybook of her life. Although she works with a DSLR camera for commercial photography, much of her artistic work exists at the convenience, compactness, and originality offered by an underrated art form: iPhonography.

Armed with a modest 8 megapixels, miniature lens attachments, manual on-device editing applications, and a reliable iPhone 5s, Ms. Guerra proves that with a keen eye and a knack for storytelling, the opportunity to create may simply be tucked in the back pocket of your jeans.

By W. Jack Savage

W. Jack Savage W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and educator. He is the author of seven books including Imagination: The Art of W. Jack Savage (wjacksavage.com). To date, more than fifty of Jack’s short stories and over six-hundred of his paintings and drawings have been published worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California.

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ARTWORK

Playing Catch with his Niece

ARTWORK

Smooth Sailing

By Aggie Redkey

Hawaiian Sunset

By Aggie

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ARTWORK

The Struggle

By Aggie Redkey

Tunnel

By Aggie Redkey

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ARTWORK

Light Trails

By Aggie Redkey

Aggie Redkey Aggie Redkey found herself always finding inspiration in capturing moments in life; therefore, she decided to return to school. As a nontraditional student, she is currently attending Glendale Community College, working towards a certificate in photography. She currently resides in Glendale with her husband David and her daughter Mikaela

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By Jonathan Kistner

Untitled 2

By Jonathan Kistner

ARTWORK

Untitled 1

ARTWORK

Untitled 3

By Jonathan Kistner

Jonathan Kistner Jonathan Kistner is a senior at ASU's New College.

He plans to complete his BA in English at the end of the spring 2016 semester. On another note, he has taken strides to obtain a creative writing certificate.

Currently, Jonathan works as a writing instructor at ASU and wishes to expand upon his education and pursue an MFA in Writing.

ARTWORK

ARTWORK

By Larry R. Bird

Larry R. Bird

Larry Bird was born in Alabama, but raised in Toledo, Ohio. He served his country in Germany (during the Vietnam War)in the Army's Signal Corps. Larry came back to the states and eventally became an apprentice union Ironworker (Local 55). His training and mastery of his trade eventually promoted him to Journeyman Union Ironworker (Local 75) and settling in Mesa, Az. Thus, enabling him to build America literally from the ground up; skyscrapers, dams, nuclear plants, prisons, NIF, bridges, solar arrays, etc. Let's just say he is as blue collar as it gets.Presently he is retired and enjoying the freedom of exploring life with his wife of 33 years (yeah people do stay together that long) Suzanne along with their very active Aussie named Tacoma.

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ARTWORK

Standing Strong Against Inevitable Foes

ARTWORK

Majestic Arch Frames Deep Canyon Sprinkled With Evergreens

By William Crawford

William Crawford William Crawford is a writer & photographer living in Winston-Salem,NC. He frequently shoots in the Southwest using a technique called forensic foraging. He was a combat photojournalist in Viet Nam. He is at bcraw44@gmail.com

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By Allen Forrest

Allen Forrest

Medium – Oil on canvas

Graphic artist and painter Allen Forrest was born in Canada and bred in the U.S. He has created cover art and illustrations for literary publications and books. He is the winner of the Leslie Jacoby Honor for Art at San Jose State University's Reed Magazine and his Bel Red painting series is part of the Bellevue College Foundation's permanent art collection. Forrest's expressive drawing and painting style is a mix of avant-garde expressionism and postImpressionist elements reminiscent of van Gogh, creating emotion on canvas.

Paintings and Prints for sale: http://stowawaygallery.com/allen-forrest-2/ CANYONVOICES

ARTWORK

Eric and John

AUTHORS ALCOVE

Standing Strong Against Inevitable Foes By Larry R. Bird (See Artwork for the full image)

We Suck at Titles Too

By Megan Huffman Playwright James Armstrong Talks

By Patricia Colomy Henry Carillo

By Lily Arias Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

By Lily Arias Patricia Martarella

By Sayed Karimi Nate Tunstall

By Selene Denlinger A Writer’s Perspective on Writing & Publishing

By David Redkey

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We Suck at Titles Too Megan Huffman learns from Allison Hawn how to release the inner dinosaur

I have to ask, what made you want to pursue writing?

I have an odd life that led to enough odd stories to fill two books. I used to verbally tell these stories to my friends and they said that I should publish them. When I initially refused they said they might shoot me if I didn’t.

They all had guns, so I complied.

Your bio says you’ve lived in many places.

Any places stick out?

Anywhere that you draw inspiration from?

Is there anything you do to get the creative juices flowing?

I have an odd life that led to enough odd stories to fill two books.

I’ve moved 18 times, so, yes. I get inspiration from places that I’ve lived and haven’t lived. My mom’s a musician, so I’ve also visited a lot of interesting places.

Do you primarily stick with creative nonfiction, or do you work in other genres?

I mostly work in humor, but I’ve had some sci-fi and horror stories published as well. I used to have a humor column and do stand up comedy.

What is your educational background?

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I have a Bachelor’s in Psychology and I’m working on a Master’s in Communication Advocacy.

I sometimes forget to drink caffeine (I have ADHD), chasing cats, acting like a dinosaur, listening to metal and Disney music in the same playlist and just everyday life.

How do you come up with the names of your books?

I suck at titles. I hate titling anything. So, I slap a fake name on to get started. I did this with my first books (Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus), and I forgot to change the title before I sent it into my publisher and he just loved it.

The second book title (Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor) was for when my cover artist, the fabulous Anthony Carpenter, said, “Challenge me,” so I said “Fine, draw me a velociraptor who is also a pirate captain!”

A third book is on its way, Life is a Roller Derby Run by a Sphinx (which was actually a name my readers helped me pick out), if I ever make it through the editing process.

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It’s a true story, everything happened. I was super shy as a kid, but my mom was a musician so she was always putting me up on stage.

One night, I snuck over to a friend’s to watch Jurassic Park and after that I decided I was a velociraptor. Whenever I felt awkward, I would pull out my inner-velociraptor.

Besides your third book, is there anything else you’re working on?

Grad papers, mostly. I also have a free sampler book that was released not too long ago called Free the Shorts! on Amazon right now. It’s two pieces from each of my books and then two pieces from the upcoming one.

What are you reading now?

I’m always reading. Right now, I’m really excited for Gail Carriger’s next steam punk novel and the Rat Queens series.

Do you have any advice for writers who want to get published or that are just simply wanting to get their story out?

Write, Just start writing. Write crap. Write lots and lots of crap and be aware that it’s going to be crap. Pay your dues to the Crap Writing Gods.

Eventually, you will look down at something you’ve written and realize, “Wow, this is actually pretty good!”

■■■ To read Allison Hawn’s story go to the Creative Nonfiction Section.

Image: Pixabay.com

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Is your piece, “The Best Dinosaur,” about you? What are the circumstances surrounding it?

AUTHORS ALCOVE

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James Armstrong Talks Musicals, Memories & Marijuana: Setting the Stage with Patricia Colomy

Have you always wanted to be a writer?

I’ve always told stories, and that always meant to me being a writer. I honestly can’t remember a time I didn’t want to be a writer.

What is your educational background?

Did you have much family support on your quest to becoming a writer?

Sure. My father always wanted to be a writer, but like me, he had to take other jobs to pay the bills. Once, a friend got him a job driving the famous behavioral psychologist B.F. Skinner around town while he was at a conference. Dr. Skinner asked him if he did anything other than chauffeur visitors, and my dad said he wanted to write fiction. “I used to write fiction,” Skinner said. “Some people say I still do.” My dad laughed so hard he almost drove off the road. I think that was his last job as a chauffeur.

Unfortunately, I’m horribly over-educated. I double majored in English and Theatre at Drew University, got an M.F.A. in Dramatic Writing from Carnegie Mellon, and now I’m pursuing a Ph.D. at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York.

Perhaps if I had been To me, comedy has smarter, I wouldn’t have to be truthful, and needed so much schooling. it’s at its most funny Would you say that having that level of education under your belt helped in the professional world?

when the topic is the most serious.

Not really. I spent more than a decade as a financial journalist, and none of those employers cared about my degrees.

Did you find the road to professional writing to be difficult?

Well, I just sort of fell into financial writing, so that wasn’t difficult. What was difficult was getting out of that again, and finding something to do that would be a little less soul-crushing.

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Have you or will you ever write something for screen?

I wrote a short piece that aired on local television in Pittsburgh. I missed the airing, and the producer said she would give me a video tape of it. She never did, and I still haven’t seen it. That pretty much cured me of wanting to write for television.

Is there a specific place you go or a certain something you do when you are in need of inspiration?

Physical activity--walking, jogging, ice skating-tends to get my creative juices flowing.

What was your inspiration for The State of Colorado vs. Tennessee Williams?

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The State of Colorado vs. Tennessee Williams is a wonderfully balanced comedy with truth at its core. You have also written more serious pieces. Is there a certain genre you prefer to write?

To me, comedy has to be truthful, and it’s at its most funny when the topic is the most serious.

I love the plays of Aristophanes, where you have philosophy and fart jokes all in the same play. That’s the type of play I like to write most.

was the feeling you had when you saw your first written piece performed?

It was like people who knew me finally knew what was going on in my head. “You go around thinking crazy stuff like this all the time?” Yup. Pretty much.

How involved do you get with the production process? Are you a part of casting, directing, etc. or do you entrust your piece solely with others?

It depends on the situation. I worked very closely with Ken Kaissar, who directed The State of Colorado v. Tennessee Williams. I also knew three of the actors already, but Ken cast the other two, and they were all great.

During the writing process, are you conscientious of how things will look on stage and in motion?

You have written full length plays, musicals one act plays and more. Do you prefer any style over another? Or have you found one to be more difficult than the others?

Absolutely. Of course, when you finally get to the stage, everything might be completely different, but it’s important to have an idea of what it could look like.

I love working on musicals, but they’re also the most difficult. Generally, you have multiple collaborators, and in addition to getting the lines and the acting right, you have singing, dancing, instrumentals, all of which has to go just right to bring it off. Musicals are the toughest shows to do, but also the most rewarding.

What advice do you have for aspiring playwrights, or all creative writers, for that matter?

What writers do you admire?

Is there anything you would like to add?

I love Brecht, Stoppard, David Henry Hwang.

They all know how to write about serious issues in very entertaining ways.

Actors are amazing, and I’m very grateful to the performers I worked with on this play. Zach McCoy, Doug Rossi, Sandra Maren Schneider, Alex Sunderhaus, and Daniil Krimer all did an amazing job bringing their characters to life.

Great actors are what make the theatre so special.

What book or film is currently on your “nightstand”?

Right now I’m reading Patricia Pierce’s Jurassic Mary, about the 19th-century paleontology pioneer Mary Anning.

I’m sure it’s difficult to articulate, but what CANYONVOICES

Don’t do it. Not unless you have no other choice. If you’re not a writer against your will, due to some overwhelming force you couldn’t possibly resist, you probably won’t get very far.

■■■ To read James Armstrong’s play go to the Scripts Section.

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AUTHORS ALCOVE

There’s been a long legal dispute in Colorado over a smoking ban that won’t let anyone smoke in public places, which includes banning actors from lighting up herbal cigarettes on stage. Then, when Colorado legalized marijuana, you had this situation where you could smoke anything you wanted to offstage, but you couldn’t even light up an herbal cigarette onstage. It pissed me off, so I wrote a play.

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Henry Carillo Discussing Moon God with Lily Arias

When did you begin writing and why?

I was 16, and I wrote a poem about the winter fog. My hometown of Visalia, CA always had a severe fog problem that seemed to have a dark atmosphere to it.

that he's a true philosopher, writer, and one of the greatest minds I'll ever meet. I don't think anyone can top him.

What is the most difficult part about writing? Are there certain topics that are difficult to write about?

I don't remember the poem, but at the time, I saw poetry and writing as a wimpy thing to do.

I don't find any specific topics that are hard I hid the poem, and my little to write about. I've written about sister, marina, found it and many difficult things that I've colored 5 stars on it with a struggled with and found it Crayola marker and said easy to do. Addiction, hate, Do it because it's an something like, "this is lust, passion, fear of actual form of great" death, these.

Do you have a specific writing style?

therapy and art at the same time. Do it because it's the most honest thing you can do.

I didn't write again until I found myself in a dark place, and a mentor of mine, John Espinoza, shared an uplifting quote with me that made me see writing in a whole different light. I was hooked since.

Where do you find your inspiration?

My inspiration stems from many diverse things. Other writers, long periods of suffering, certain music. My strongest form of inspiration comes from my mentor and uncle, Miles.

I can confidently say, without being unbiased, CANYONVOICES

I think the true difficulty is staying unique and not making everything sound the same. That's why I don't really like romantic poetry, or sappy love poems.

I feel like it's all been said already. It’s terribly predictable. The "roses are red, violets are blue" kind of junk. Poetry and writing goes so much further than that, so I try and keep everything out of the ordinary, while staying diverse at the same time.

Do you ever get writer’s block, if so how do you get passed it?

Usually reading, or listening to a good lyricist.

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What is it that draws you to writing?

Mainly the honesty of it, and mainly the fact that I get to say what I need to say, and you can't debate or argue with it. I'm not good a public speaking or debater, I hate doing all that, but when I write, whatever I say remains as is, and it can't be interrupted in anyway or challenged. It's on paper, and now you just have to accept that this is what is in my head and this is my art. Take it or don't read it.

Do all of your pieces have some kind of personal meaning?

Of course. Poetry or writing without meaning or background is pointless to me. I could mash up a river of fancy words or metaphors and deem it a good poem, but I could do an even better piece that I'm proud of if I actually built it off a true, and real foundation.

If you're going to write with no meaning or personal connection, go be a news journalist, or something.

Are you working on anything at the moment?

A novel, it's a mess at the moment.

Lastly, do you have any advice for author’s who are struggling to write their own creative piece?

Don't do it because it seems cool, or because you're trying to impress someone.

Don't do it if you're trying to look like a dark, interesting, artistic, misunderstood writer who everyone wants to know.

Do it because it's an actual form of therapy and art at the same time. Do it because it's the most honest thing you can do. Writers are the most honest people you'll ever meet.

Don't start writing if you're not ready to expose yourself completely. I like to think of myself as a literary stripper.

Do it because it's an actual form of therapy and art at the same time. Do it because it's the most honest thing you can do.

■■■ To read Henry Carillo’s poem go to the Poetry Section.

Image: Pixabay.com

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That helps me get past writers block. It helps me get past that wall, it helps me see that there is another handful of things to be said in creative way that I couldn't see in the beginning.

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Extra! Extra! Read All About It! John Grey chats with Lily Arias

What inspired you to start writing? How long have you been writing?

The short answer is reading. Though my memory is vague on the subject, my mother assured me that I was fascinated by books at an age when the high chair was still my preferred seat at the dinner table.

It wasn’t long before pictures and stories on the page inspired me to invent more of the same in my head which, in turn, evolved into me putting them down on paper.

Looking back, it just seems like a normal turn of events.

I’ve been writing, in one form or another, for close to fifty years.

How do you think you have evolved as a writer? Has anyone influenced you as a writer?

I believe I’ve gone from someone who wrote for fun to one who still does it for pleasure but always with an object in I’ve been fortunate mind whether that’s to in that there always create the best poem or story I can or to compose seems to be something that people will something bobbing see in print or on-line and around in my head enjoy.

that wants to come out.

The poem Newspapers was perfectly executed. It was edgy, but not offensive. How are you able to write about controversial issues without being offensive?

I sometimes think edgy without being offensive is my nature.

I put it down to being a combination of writer (thus the edgy part) and being an Australian of English and Scottish stock whose default seems to be to not give offense.

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Not that I haven’t offended people with my writing from time to time but not, I hope, just for the sake of being offensive.

I’ve never had anyone I could really call a mentor and I do not come from an artistic family.

So my influences have always been something I’ve read or heard or seen along the way, whether that’s a book, some music, a painting, or even someone walking in the street or sitting in a café.

What advice would you give your younger self?

Keep at it. Avoid distractions. Get serious.

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I’m currently working on a novel and I just finished the 16th chapter. And I also write a lot of short stories and always have three or four going at the same time in various stages of completion.

Do you ever struggle to find inspiration? Or does it come natural?

It may not sound romantic, but as much as I can, I approach writing like it’s a job – a rewarding job and one where I am my own employer. But with the kind of discipline and structure that a true profession demands.

for writer’s block.

And when I’m stuck for a moment I have ways for freeing up my mind, which could involve anything from a walk around the block to strumming my guitar.

It may not sound romantic, but as much as I can, I approach writing like it’s a job

I’ve been fortunate in that there always seems to be something bobbing around in my head that wants to come out.

Lastly, with the experience you have now, are you able to give advice to new and upcoming writers who’ve had setbacks?

My advice is, if you know what you want, then keep at it.

It also helps to develop a thin skin and enough selfbelief to overcome the setbacks.

■■■ To read John Grey’s poetry go to the Poetry Section.

And, to be truthful, I usually have so much going-on writing-wise that I don’t have time

Image: Pixabay.com

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Are you currently working on any other projects?

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Patricia Martarella Sayed Karimi Explores Her Writing Process

Did you excel at English and writing as a child or did you prefer another subject?

I have always been drawn to academics. As a child, I loved learning and going to school and those characteristics have definitely carried into adulthood.

College that fall. In 2013, after a really great experience pursuing my lower division classes with Glendale, I transferred to ASU and have a projected graduation this May 2016.

How do your own personal experiences and observing the world around you shape your writing?

I’ve probably always been partial to English, however. I always loved reading and writing; although I was always I have no problem, most times, very interested in history and stepping into extraverted the sciences, too, there roles, engaging people, was never a love like being the leader in a group Angst and pain, writing. if emergence of that those are the parts characteristic is of stories where What is it that draws necessary. depth is established you to writing?

But I am naturally, with a reader.

Language is incredibly without a doubt, and They’re the parts powerful. There is observer. A listener. Being that people need. something tremendously able to move between compelling about written these two roles allows me to language; the ability to take see the world through different something intangible, an eyes. expression, a feeling, a thought, and give it As for personal experiences, I think that life in the mind of another person is really experiencing really wonderful things with poetic. really wonderful people allows you to What inspires you as a writer? compose the parts of stories that people are drawn to read with you. They’re the parts that People. There is a beauty in things that are people look for. I think it’s those deep, dark imperfect and messy. Nothing is messier than moments and experiences, however, that people. allow perspective for life’s highs.

What is your educational background?

I graduated high school in 2010 and started my undergrad with Glendale Community CANYONVOICES

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What is your profession? Does it allow you to write full time, part time or just occasionally?

It’s important for me to have a few really constructive individuals that I can share my work with and get honest feedback from. In life, I aim to please everyone, but you can’t do that in writing. You can’t do that in life, either, of course. I haven’t seemed to come to terms with that yet, though.

I work as a Program Do you ever have writer’s Specialist for Glendale block, if so how do you Give yourself Community College get out of it? permission to write and am a full-time student with ASU. I have different ways of badly. Write every ugly Although my degree dealing with different thing down, in an order pathway allows me to, kinds of writer’s block. that doesn’t matter, during certain terms, If I’m composing just to get it all out of write for a class, I am something with more your head. Do that not typically offered the dialogue or a piece liberty of time to every day. where I have to focus compose anything more on plot progression recreationally. I do journal, than verbiage, I like to get into however, to keep my thoughts, deeper conversations with close ideas, and feelings organized. I find it friends. With their input of perspective cathartic. on topics not necessarily relative to what I’m writing about, I can oftentimes think myself Do you use an outline when you are through it. writing or do you prefer to see where an idea takes you?

If I’m composing something with descriptions and a lot of imagery, I immediately turn to It depends. Usually an outline allows me to music. Music permeates my thoughts when I see the bigger picture, which is sometimes can’t think myself out of them to get to the difficult for me in composition because I am core. so detail-oriented.

In your opinion, what quality makes good It’s kind of nice to get it all laid out, but that fiction stand out? doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ll stick to it.

My writing typically evolves as my If you can take a character, fictitious or relationship with it develops, outline or not. otherwise, and through writing make an audience care for them in spite of their What do you find most challenging about fallibility, then you have done that character a writing? service.

Probably sharing. I’m generally a pretty private person and writing is very intimate to me. I’m not very good at sharing what I’ve written, even with those closest to me. There is a vulnerability to writing that I think is really important, but that vulnerability is debilitating if I don’t check myself.

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If you can make your audience see themselves in that character, however, then you have done a service to your readers.

Good fiction is honest. It allows an audience and a character to each be honest with themselves and one another. There is no room for fallacy in fiction.

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pain, those are the parts of stories where depth is established with a reader. They’re the parts that people need.

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Have you been published elsewhere?

That’s what I would want to publish.

No. Not for writing.

Lastly, do you have any advice for any aspiring authors who are struggling to write their own fiction pieces?

What have you been working on recently?

I am babysitting a script for a short that I’ve had on hand for quite some time now. I also have a few short stories I jump between when I’m particularly compelled to write.

There isn’t one piece I’m devoting very much time to, however. I think I’m in a phase of generating right now; I have a lot of ideas and directions to work with.

What are your publishing goals for the future?

I would love to publish something widely distributed, of course. I think my main goal, ultimately, is to compose something impactful. I don’t know what that means yet, what that looks like in reality. Does that mean a script or research or creative writing? I have no idea.

In theory, it’s undefined by genre. It’s something important for someone somewhere. It’s something that someone needed to read. That’s what I want to write.

Give yourself permission to write badly. Write every ugly thing down, in an order that doesn’t matter, just to get it all out of your head. Do that every day. Practice builds prolific.

Allow yourself the space to grow and trust that that evolution, in all of its stages and strife, is working to produce a stronger, more disciplined writer. In that, develop a relationship with yourself, so that you can more effectively understand other people.

That understanding will allow you to be honest, with yourself, your characters, and your audience.

Writing isn’t about the words; writing is about communicating.

■■■ To read Patricia Martarella’s story go to the Fiction Section.

Image: Pixabay.com

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Nate Tunstall Interview by Selene Denlinger

How long have you been creating art, and how did you start?

schools practice rooms singing with my friend. I go on long drives at night with my friends. I do average young adult things.

I’ve been doing art for years. In high school I What project(s) might you be working on started making collages and doing cosplay, currently? as well as doing theatre costuming and other theatre work. However my more recent I’m working on creating a line of T-shirts endeavor, painting, only featuring my art. I’m also working on a started about 9 months ago. mixed media project that involves a I just wanted to try mix of my paintings and collage. something new and it I just wanted to It’s something I’ve just started turned into something I try something and I’m trying to work out the loved doing. new and it details as I go, but I hope it’ll be something I can share with the turned into What sorts of medium(s) art world soon. And in the future something I do you work with?

I’m thinking about doing another loved doing.

Kickstarter for my collages.

I use mostly acrylic and spray paint on canvas. I always Where would you like to take your art enjoy experimenting. in the future?

Experimenting is the entire reason I came up with my technique for painting in the first I really want to focus on getting into galleries place. right now, but in the future I’d like to have my own gallery. I want to be able to create fine What is your inspiration for your work? art that gets marketed in a more modern way.

I think the trouble a lot of fine artists have is I base each painting on a personality. Some finding their market and that’s always the develop during the painting process and worry with being an artist. “Who am I other times I have a person in mind as I paint. marketing to and will I be able to sell?” My But my technique didn’t really occur because only goal for the future is to be able to keep of a particular inspiration, it was just a happy painting, but to be able to do that I have to accident. be able to market my work.

What do you do outside of your art?

I’m a typical college student. I enjoy video games and music. I spend a lot of time in my CANYONVOICES

■■■ To see Nate Tunstall’s artwork go to the Art Section.

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Robert Joe Stout A Writer's Perspective on Creation and Publishing with David Redkey

Remembering back your life as a young adult, did you feel yourself drawn to writing and language studies or were you drawn to others subjects?

Have you experienced opportunities when your writer hit a brick wall, otherwise known as a writer’s block? If yes, what do you do to regain your writing momentum and continue working on your piece?

Since childhood, I wanted to write. By high school, I had chosen journalism as a future career.

I’m a professional journalist. A journalist has assignments, deadlines, is producing constantly.

What was the cause that open the door to He or she has no space for the luxury of writer’s writing? block. I usually have several projects going simultaneously—nonfiction, Probably my father, who was briefly fiction, poetry—and go from one a journalist. He could recite to the other. I have no qualms Shelley and Wordsworth, and about discarding something providing me books to read.

I’ve written, or tried to Getting things right, write—so I go on writing. If the way I want What are your inspirations it’s bad, or not what I want, as a writer?

I have a wastebasket and a them, the way they delete key. need to be.

Although I’ve published several novels and two As a writer does your volumes of poetry, I’m basically a expertise in the field allow journalist by vocation. I find that the you to pursue that full-time, or act of writing is the greatest inspiration do you have other side endeavors? for writing.

I’ve often had side endeavors, sometimes pursuing What is your educational background? two full-time employments at the same time. Now with book publication marketing—which isn’t I have a B.A. in journalism. writing—intrudes. It’s always a balancing act.

What do you find to be the most difficult aspect of creating an original piece of literature?

Getting things right, the way I want them, the way they need to be.

When you are creating a new piece, do you write an outline or do you allow a thread of inspiration to guide you through the creation process?

Neither. I usually have an idea of what I want to

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Now, the publishing arena is not idyllic, meaning there are times when you do receive a letter of rejection, if that has happened to you, how do you treat the “rejected” piece?

What do you consider a great work of poetry?

My theater partner (the theater was my “side endeavor” in the ‘80s) provided the best answer. It was about reviewers but also applies to editors: “It’s just one asshole’s opinion.” The rejected piece goes onto the stack of others to be sent out again in turn.

I leave that to critics and academics. I read a lot of poetry but don’t feel a need to categorize it.

What caused you to write about the struggles and hopes of immigrants coming to the United States, even the immigrants that cross the Rio Grande?

I grew up in a poor agricultural community that included Mexican immigrants. My B.A. is from a Mexican university; and as a journalist, I’ve written extensively about immigration, including the book Why Immigrants Come to America that was published by Praeger in 2008.

Since you have been published multiple times, how would you describe the emotions involved while waiting to hear back from a publisher?

I don’t much think about it. I always have many things going so most of my focus is on what I’m currently writing. Marketing for me is pretty unemotional—the business side of doing what I really like doing—and I often find it exasperating.

On another note, what have you been working on recently? What is your current area of interest?

I’m writing mostly about Mexico. It’s a critical time here with human rights eruptions, increased violence, phenomenal literary and artistic endeavors, governmental lies and repression.

Lastly, do you have any advice for any writers finding difficulty in creating a piece of their own?

Be a journalist. You’ve got a deadline. Meet it. If what you produce is no good throw it away, face another deadline. Write. Write. Write.

■■■ To read Robert Joe Stout’s poetry go to the Poetry Section.

Image: Pixabay.com

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do and work through it. I’m dubious about “threads of inspiration”. Writing is a vocation—a wonderful one—but it’s basically effort, thought, revision, diligence.

ABOUT US Canyon Voices Literary Magazine is a burgeoning journal dedicated to displaying 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 and six students, this journal strives to bring the creativity of its writers and artists to light within the community and beyond. Supported by students and faculty of ASU’s New College (HArCS), Canyon Voices accepts writing and art from undergraduates, graduates, faculty members, and the community.

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, offered through Arizona State University West. Students build a full literary journal each semester, heading every aspect of production, including soliciting submissions, editing, marketing, design and layout, and publication. We eagerly anticipate further involvement from students interested in magazine publication for our future issues.

OUR MISSION Canyon Voices seeks to provide an online environment to highlight emerging and established voices. By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language, style, culture, and gender.

CONTACT US Questions, comments, feedback? We would like to hear from you. Contact us via email at: CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com. You can also visit us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/asucanyonvoices.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES 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 on your page should your work be chosen for publication. Because we are affiliated with Arizona State University, we uphold academic standards. If your work is accepted we reserve the right to make minor superficial changes (ie: grammar, punctuation, etc.). You will be contacted should your work require more than basic edits. We accept simultaneous submissions.

EXPLICIT MATERIALS 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.

READING PERIOD Our editors read submissions in August, September, and through October 1st for the fall issue. The reading period re-opens in January, February, and through March 1st for the spring issue. Please submit!

CANYON VOICES STAFF Julie Amparano - Publisher Julie Amparano is the founder, publisher, and advisor of the Canyon Voices Literary Team. Serving 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 M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Antioch University in Los Angeles in 2006 and is working on a collection of short stories.

Morgan Henderson – Editor in Chief, Copy Editor Pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Interdisciplinary Arts with an emphasis in English has increased Morgan Henderson’s passion and commitment to helping writers develop and complete their literary works. This passion has also driven her to explore her own writing in an effort to express herself as well as further understand the process some authors go through. After acquiring her degree from ASU New College, she aspires to travel and discover authors in other cities across the world.

Cassandra White – Design Director Cassandra White believes in the power of the written word and its ability to impact those who embrace it. As a typical Pacific Northwest native, she enjoys the rain, cooking, hiking, and traveling, but always has either a book or her laptop in her hands, blogging or working on a story. Cassandra is a student at ASU, pursuing a degree in English and minoring in Communication. After graduating in Spring 2016, she will go into an MFA program in order to become an English professor. Her long-term goal is to move overseas to study for her doctorate and teach in the United Kingdom.

Erin McDowell – Social Media Director Erin McDowell has been a part of Canyon Voices for six consecutive issues.

She graduated with a Bachelor's degree in Psychology in 2012 from Arizona State University's West campus and is currently finishing her Master's in Interdisciplinary Studies, with the core focus areas being Communication and Psychology at West as well. She is the mother of three wonderful children with whom she shares her passion for reading and writing. Always doing something to give back to the community, she works for the Dean's office in Student Engagement, is a Psychology course assistant, and in her spare time is an active member of Girl Scout's Cactus Pine Council and a proud baseball mom.

Sayed Karimi – Fiction Lead Editor Sayed Karimi is completing his junior year at Arizona State University, and this is the second issue of Canyon Voices he’s been a part of. His goal is to become a successful writer in the future. He has written a few poems and short stories, and he is currently working on his very first novel. After graduating from Arizona State, he plans to move to Boston, Massachusetts, where he hopes to attend graduate school and start a career.

Kaitlin Thern – Fiction Editor, Art Editor Kaitlin Thern was raised in Eagle River, Alaska. She discovered a love for writing early on in life, and received several publications and awards for her poetry in high school. She's currently involved in writing fiction works and scripts, and hopes to one day a have a novel published and adapted to film.

She'll know she's achieved her goals if she ever gets called in for a talk show. When she's not writing, Kaitlin enjoys spending time with her fiancé, playing PC games, and acting as the Vice President for Spectrum.

Selene Denlinger – Fiction Editor Selene Denlinger is an English and Creative Writing student at ASU West and a Phoenix, Arizona native. This is her first time editing at Canyon Voices, and she is excited to increase her involvement in the literary community. She spends her free time consuming the comics, video games, and science fiction she loves or volunteering with a local organization benefitting LGBTQIA2P+ youth, and she considers herself a local activist. Selene is an aspiring author, trying her hand at dystopian, gothic, and science fiction over the last year. She finds the LGBT community and other marginalized groups both under and misrepresented in literary canon and has goals of remedying this in her future projects.

Ariana Schaeffer – Fiction Editor Ariana Schaeffer is a senior at Arizona State University. She is enrolled in Barrett, the Honors College, and is writing a full-length fantasy novel for her thesis, which she plans to publish and expand into a trilogy. She was homeschooled until college, which she began at fourteen and loved from the first class she took. Ariana has been married for over a year, and believes it is the best thing that ever happened to her. She enjoys writing whenever she has free time, playing the guitar and piano, bike riding with her husband, and watching clouds move across the sky as they inspire her to write.

CANYON VOICES STAFF David Redkey – Poetry Editor David Redkey, currently a senior through ASU’s West Campus, is finishing up a BA degree in English and Communication through New College.

Featured in the Spring 2015 issue’s poetry section, he felt that his own view could assist in shaping the construction for this issue. David also assists Social Contagion of the Ice Bucket Challenge at the Social Technology Lab (http://socialtechlab.org/people/). He enjoys traveling with his wife and daughter. However, having swum with the Florida manatee on multiple occasions, he is convinced those animals are the "peace loving" hippies of the sea, forever scourged by speedboats.

Sybil Tracey – Poetry Editor, Art Editor Sybil Tracey is a junior, currently majoring in English with a minor in Art at Arizona State University. This is her second semester joyously editing for the Canyon Voices literary magazine, and she hopes to become a book or magazine author and editor in the future. As the lead editor of the Art section of Canyon Voices, Sybil has had a love for photography, abstract paintings, and landscape portraits ever since she could remember. In terms of the subject of writing, she is inspired by thought-provoking fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. In her spare time, she enjoys working with animals, playing the piano and guitar, hanging out with friends, taking photos, cooking, having fun on the beach, and living life to the fullest.

Lily Arias – Poetry Editor, Production Assistant Lily Arias is a part of Arizona State University’s Alumni. This is the second issue of Canyon Voices she has worked on. She is one of the editors in our poetry division. Lily is a huge advocate for the American Heart Association.

She not only teaches the public about heart disease, but she also does quite a bit of volunteer work for the American Heart Association. Lily is currently an EMT, however she hopes to become a psychiatrist for those facing severe medical illnesses.

Alyssa Arns – Poetry Editor Alyssa Arns is a sophomore at Arizona State University’s West campus, studying English and Interdisciplinary Art and Performance. She’s a supporter of the arts, enjoying everything from literature to theatre. She is happy to be an art and poetry editor with Canyon Voices this semester, and enjoys learning about people and their stories through creative expression.

One day she hopes to travel the world in the continuation of her own.

Megan Huffman– Creative Nonfiction Lead Editor Megan Huffman is a senior majoring in English, and this is the second issue of Canyon Voices she has worked on. She is planning on going on to Graduate school but with a broad range of interests it's difficult to settle on anything. One day, though, she hopes to find a home in Massachusetts with a cast iron clawfoot bathtub, and maybe being surrounded by the homes of famous literary figures will help influence her own works. These works will become famous, but only 60 years after Megan has died.

Patricia Colomy – Creative Nonfiction Editor Patricia Colomy is enjoying her first semester as a Junior at the ASU West campus and is also a newcomer to the Canyon Voices literary magazine. Her creative writing skills have won her awards for poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, including the 2015 Paulette Schlosser Scholarship award at Mesa Community College. Patricia decided to join Canyon Voices in order to gain valuable editing experience while in college and to immerse herself inside her complete adoration for reading fresh creative writing.

Astrid Castaneda – Creative Nonfiction Editor Astrid Castaneda is a junior at Arizona State University, majoring in English. Ironically, English was her worst subject until a few years ago. She enjoys reading and writing creative fiction and poetry while listening to the sound waves of classical music inspiring her writing. Astrid hopes to get into editing and publishing books after her BA.

Kammyon Gooden – Creative Nonfiction Editor Kammyon Gooden is in his second semester as a senior, so he will be graduating December of 2015 with a BA in Communication, along with a certificate in film. He is from Los Angeles, California and came out here to Arizona for school in 2011. His goal is to finish and graduate college and then pursue an acting career back in Los Angeles. He was brought up by his mother and has the utmost respect for everyone.

He has a humorous personality and likes to enjoy his time (because he knows it is precious), but knows when/how to get down to business.

Noelani Verdy– Creative Nonfiction Editor

Noelani Verdy is a student at Arizona State University. She is majoring in English and enjoys writing and reading creative non-fiction pieces but is well rounded in all forms of literature. She has travelled to a variety of countries and cities and has written about her experiences. She hopes to teach high school English and engage her students in the possibilities beyond the four walls that constantly surround them. She hopes to apply her knowledge of literature, the arts, travel, and experience to her classroom every day and engage each student as a whole in their everyday learning.

Famous Typewriters in History And some writers

LANGSTON HUGHES ERNEST HEMINGWAY

WILLIAM MULLOY

GWENDOLYN BROOKS

AALE TYNNI

DOROTHY PARKER

A MONKEY

WILLIAM FAULKNER

Keep Writing!

The reading period for the Spring issue opens in January.

Submit!

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