TYPE TO ENTER A CAPTION.
CONTENTS FICTION
The Mile Michelle Hollander Naïve Novelist Rudy Ravindra Over the Rainbow and Other Places Noëlle D. Lilley I’m Okay Ileen Younan Balance Due Sam Pisciotta You Can’t Lie About a Ghost Nicholas LaRocca No Deep Shadows, No Utter Darkness Blake Kilgore
POETRY The Santa Fe Trail Scott Laudati Quiet Pancakes Kristina Heflin Mama’s Fears Danielle Rocha With Nothing to Hold Madison Shanley The Spiraling Tumbleweed Suzanne White Jack Orion Jeff Hood Sentient Blues Allyssea Carver Bienville Square William Miller The Poet’s Dream Randel McCraw Helms Zamolk/ Hesitation Andrej Božič 3:16 A.M. John Payton
CREATIVE NONFICTION Totoy Dina Juan On Kicking Brian Feller Bonne Bière Ilyssa Goldsmith How to Shave Brian Feller
SCRIPTS My Nona’s Canary David A. Crespy The Mirror Victoria Pettit The Voice Amanda Feck Do You Hear Them Too? Jen Atanassova
ARTWORK Jessica Fink McKenna Ihde Brad Bachmeier V. Holecek Sophie Mills Thomas Sam Pisciotta Diana Buzoianu Kim Stadin
Viktor Chemelekov Brigitte Lacasse Salomeh Nikzadeh Juli Adams Sam Aleks Dan Tocher Nichole Simmons Kaleb Anderson
AUTHOR’S ALCOVE Rudy Ravindra: The Path to Becoming an Author by Lee Breisblatt Scott Laudati: Dare to be Different by Kacee Allard Dina Juan:On People Watching, and Particularization of Ethnic Literature by Ashtar Mikhail Amanda Feck: Ghost Stories in the Library by Gaige Johnston Diana Buzoianu: Behind the Camera: The Words of the Storyteller by James Rose and Rachel Passer
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Publisher’s Note We have surprises for you in this issue, dear reader. Let me say it straight out. We have redesigned CANYON VOICES. We have embraced white space. We have gotten rid of stock art and only used artwork from our artists and contributors. We’re letting the words in the narratives speak for themselves. We think we’ve achieved a clean, sleek and sophisticated look. I applaud my students for spearheading this effort. With 15 weeks to work on our Winter Issue, I have to confess I was beyond nervous. In fact, I was terrified. This was no easy feat. As American Art Director Paul Rand stated so succinctly, “Design is so simple. That’s why it is so complicated.” Yet, the student editors of Issue 18, persevered and succeeded. Co-Editor in Chief Amanda Beck said, “Our idea for the new design was to keep it simple, classic, and clean. This new design allows readers to focus on the work from emerging writers and artists.” We hope you like what you see. Our Art section is filled with a wonderful variety, ranging from multimedia, photography and even pottery. In our Poetry section, we asked our poets to record their poems. You’ll get to hear poems read by the poets themselves. Fiction, Creative Nonfiction, Scripts have amazing stories to share. Best of all, many are from emerging writings. I am so grateful to the students who curated this issue. In addition, I give thanks to my Division Director Louis Mendoza of the School of Humanities Arts & Cultural Studies, New College Dean Todd Sandrin and Associate Dean Patricia Friedrich for their constant support. Lastly, I am so thankful for Ramsey Eric Ramsey, Associate Dean of Barrett, the Honor College, and Program Manager Sasha Billbe, for believing in us and helping us stage a memorable magazine release celebration. CANYONVOICES
Editors-in-Chief Amanda Beck Ashtar Mikhail Design Director James Rose Design Team Amanda Beck Ashtar Mikhail Rachel Passer Senior Fiction Editor Liz Muñoz Fiction Editors Amanda Beck Lee Breisblatt James Rose Christopher Stuart Senior Poetry Editor Poetry Editors
Rachel Passer Kacee Allard Angelita Cobbs Gaige Johnston Ashtar Mikhail
Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor Creative Nonfiction Editors
Ashtar Mikhail Lee Breisblatt Gaige Johnston
Senior Scripts Editor Scripts Editors
Ashtar Mikhail Lee Breisblatt Gaige Johnston
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Amanda Beck Kacee Allard Rachel Passer James Rose Christopher Stuart
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Kacee Allard Lee Breisblatt Angelita Cobbs Christopher Stuart
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CANYON VOICES is a student-driven online literary magazine, featuring the work of emerging and established writers and artists. The magazine is supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts, & Cultural Studies at Arizona State University’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts & Sciences. To subscribe, please click here. Click here for submission guidelines. Cover image: Vision Abstraite by Dan Tocher See the Artwork section for full image
WINTER2018
Diana Buzoianu
Salomeh Nikzadeh
FICTION ______________________________________
Michelle Hollander The Mile
______________________________________
Rudy Ravindra Naïve Novelist
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Noëlle D. Lilley
Over the Rainbow and Other Places
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Ileen Younan I’m Okay
______________________________________
Sam Pisciotta Balance Due
_______________________________________
Nicholas LaRocca
You Can’t Lie about a Ghost
_______________________________________
Blake Kilgore
No Deep Shadows, No Utter Darkness
________________________________________
FICTION | MICHELLE HOLLANDER
The Mile By Michelle Hollander
“That kid from Morristown was comin’ up fast, real fast, but Scottie was like, ‘There’s no freakin’ way you’re getting past Scott Santini, you little wannabe.’ So my boy kicks it up, and he just torches that kid, right, Scottie?” Scottie’s dad’s voice shot out from the crowded corner booth. It bounded over the little divider that was supposed to look like old-fashioned stained glass, and dropped down triumphantly in the middle of the table where Marcus sat across from his parents. Marcus barely noticed. The menu propped up on his lap had his undivided attention, as he considered the relative merits of a hot fudge sundae with cookies and cream ice cream versus a cookies and cream milkshake. “Marcus?” He looked up, his eyes bright. “Definitely a shake today, Mom. With whipped cream.” “You can let Cindy know when she comes by. While we wait, why don’t you tell your father about the meet?” “Um, okay. Which event?” “Tell us about the mile, sweetheart.” Marcus stared at the salt and pepper shakers, his heartbeat starting to pick up the pace. He recalled that very moment in the race when everyone was cheering as he pushed on toward the end of his third lap around the track. Right then, with all that joyful energy coming off the bleachers, he thought he could feel the exhilaration of winning coursing through his body. Not just finishing, but winning. Then Scottie sprinted past him, his freckled face fixed on that finish line and his arms pumping the way the coaches tell them to pump their arms at every practice. Marcus remembered that he still had one more lap to complete. He called out, “Way to go, Scottie!”
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About two minutes later, he finished, with the moms and dads and siblings and a few of his friends on the team shouting down that last straightaway, “You can do it, Marcus!” Of course I can, he’d thought to himself as he tried to set his arms just right. Still, the support was nice. “You have quite a smile on your face, Marcus.” His mother’s voice brought him back to the ice cream parlor. He grinned, “Just thinking about the mile.” “Well, come on now and tell your father about it,” she said with an encouraging nod. “It was really fun and Coach Jim said he was really proud of all of us and, you know, Scott Santini set, like, a new league record for the 9and 10-year olds and…” Mr. Hurley stared at Marcus, shaking his head just enough to stop his son mid-sentence. Marcus squirmed against the back of the booth. “You were there, Mom. You tell him.” “Don’t talk to your mother like that.” The Santini table erupted in laughter next to them.
“Marcus stared at the salt and pepper shakers, his heartbeat starting to pick up the pace. He recalled that very moment in the race when everyone was cheering as he pushed on toward the end of his third lap around the track.”
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FICTION | MICHELLE HOLLANDER
Marcus mumbled an apology, as Mr. Hurley took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Marcus could guess that they were going to have that conversation again. “Son, you don’t have to run track.” Mr. Hurley leaned forward, his voice low, so low that Scottie and his dad and the rest of their happy clan, all circled around the next table and laughing like they’d just heard the funniest thing in the world, couldn’t hear him. They couldn’t hear him anyway, Marcus figured, not over their own hoots and howls. “When I was your age,” he continued, “I went out for baseball, and I’ve told you this before, I was terrible. Really awful. Couldn’t connect with the ball if it’d been attached to the bat. I spent so much time on the bench. It wasn’t like I was getting any better.” Mrs. Hurley’s face contorted the way it often did when her husband said something that upset her. Marcus noticed that she wore that expression a lot lately. It may have been his imagination, but he thought he saw it even more since track season started two months ago. “I’m not sitting on the bench,” Marcus said under his breath.
“The point is, instead of being a really bad baseball player, I could’ve been doing something I was better at. You know what I’m saying?” Marcus kept his eyes glued to the table and replied, “Dad, you love baseball. You watch all the time. Even though it’s really boring.” With that last sentence, he and his mother exchanged an amused glance. They both hated baseball. “Yes, I watch, and if you’d watch with me, you’d see that it’s not boring at all. But that’s not the point. The point is, I could have been doing something more constructive, and…” “You guys ready?” Marcus jumped at the sound of the waitress’ cheery voice. She stood with her order pad poised in her right hand, her left hip braced against their table. She hadn’t been there long when they heard, “Hey, Cindy, we’ve been waiting forever! I need a super-sized sundae for my super-fast son. Come get us next, OK?” Marcus wondered if Scottie’s dad ever lowered his voice the way his own dad did. Loud and proud was Mr. Santini, and maybe, Marcus reflected, that wasn’t the worst way to be.
RANDOLPH TRACK Taken by Bernadette Ponticelli
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FICTION | MICHELLE HOLLANDER
“Hold your horses,” Cindy called back and then turned her attention again to the Hurleys. “Looks like half the track team is here! Better order fast, guys, ‘cos the Little League teams’ll be busting through that door soon. God, those kids go through a lot of ice cream!” She put her hands on the table and leaned closer to them, almost whispering, “You wouldn’t believe how chubby some of those Little Leaguers are. At least runners like you stay trim, right?” Marcus grinned. He pulled in his breath and tapped the bones of his rib cage beneath the table, where no one else would see. Mr. Hurley glanced down at the menu like it was something brand-new to him, even though they came to Downtown Dairy after every track meet, every school concert, every good report card, every everything that typically ended with ice cream. He cleared his throat and suggested that Cindy take the other table’s order first. They were still deciding, he told her. “Take your time,” she smiled, and then winked at Marcus. Mr. Hurley fixed his eyes on Marcus and folded his hands on the table. “I was talking with Paul at work, and he told me that his son started fencing right around your age. He’s in high school now, and he’s gotten pretty good. Paul thinks he may even be able to score a college scholarship. You know, for fencing.” Mr. Hurley paused. “You know what fencing is, right?” “Uh, fighting with swords?” Marcus looked to his mother for confirmation and there it was again, that grimace on her face. Her lips were set in a tight line, and she seemed to force them up toward her cheeks when she answered. "Yes, but not to actually hurt the other person, well, not really. But sweetheart, you don't have to try fencing just yet, or ever, if it isn't what you want." Mr. Hurley glanced over at the Santinis in the corner booth, and then glared back at his wife. He swallowed hard and whispered, “What? Are you taking his side?” “There’s no side to take. It’s kids’ track and field, for God’s sake,” she replied, her mouth barely moving.
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“Stop babying him, Alice.” Mr. Hurley shifted toward his wife, his voice so low that Marcus could just make out his words over the din of chattering kids and clattering dishes and the bells ringing over the door every time someone opened it. The door opened and closed a lot. “He’s nine years old, Jeff.” “He’s not going to be nine forever, whether you like it or not.” Before she could say another word, he leaned even closer and hissed, “Do you want our son to be a winner or a loser?” His mom’s jaw dropped open, and Marcus could swear he saw the energy drain out of her body, like a character in one of his video games who gets hit with a near-fatal blow. It was too much to watch. Marcus stared down at his track t-shirt instead and then twisted around in the booth, his arms resting on the colorful divider. He started to count all of the other dark blue shirts, doing his best to skip over the parents and siblings who, like his mom, also wore the team colors. There were at least 25 blue-shirted runners, maybe more, and every one of them was faster than Marcus, except the slowest few girls. He could quit the team. He didn’t have to go to the practices behind the high school every Tuesday and Thursday, and he certainly didn’t have to go to the meets that lasted for hours and hours on a Saturday afternoon. And then they wouldn’t have to come to Downtown Dairy after the meets for ice cream, and his parents wouldn’t have to fight about everything. He let out a silent sigh as he scanned the worn booths with their little jukeboxes and the high seats that lined the long counter. He spotted Cindy as she navigated the sea of blue shirts with a tray of ice cream sundaes, each topped with bright white whipped cream and an even brighter red cherry, perfectly balanced over her head. Then Carrie Carbone swiveled around in one of the counter seats and caught Marcus’s eye. She flashed him a big grin, her new braces catching the light. He smiled back and carefully righted himself in the booth, color rising in his cheeks. Carrie was the prettiest girl on the team and one of the fastest sprinters. He had just told his best friend Jordan Berger that he liked her WINTER2018
FICTION | MICHELLE HOLLANDER
right before they ran the mile, and Jordan promised not to tell anyone else. “Did you make a decision?” He lifted his head, a little surprised to hear that question coming from his mother. She was the one who had pushed him, just enough, to give track a try, and she’d cheered him on at every meet and even after his practices. “Just do your best and have a good time,” she’d advised him. And he had tried his best, was still trying his best, and really, he had a good time most of the time. So if he did quit the track team, who would be the last kid to finish the mile? Probably Tommy Knox or Brad Silverman, and if they quit, then Brad’s twin brother Todd. And if Todd quit? Marcus had to think for a moment: Richie Roth or Jordan? It didn’t really matter. One or the other, and once one quit, it would be the other. And on and on until the only one left running was Scott Santini. He’d be both the fastest and slowest kid on the team. Marcus’s mouth opened into a broad smile as he tried to imagine what Scottie’s dad would say. Would he be happy because Scottie won, or mad because he’d come in last?
MARCUS’ CHOICE Taken By Michelle Hollander
“Honey, Cindy here is waiting. Have you decided?” “We can’t let Scottie run the mile alone,” Marcus murmured. “What’s that?” A little laugh spilled out as he locked eyes with his mother. “I mean, I like being on the team. It’s a really good team, even if I’m not all that good.” Marcus shifted a more solemn gaze to his father and added, “And teams need to stick together, right?” The whole conversation, difficult as it was, might have taken about as long as Marcus needed to run the mile. But finally, relieved, he knew that he – not his mom or his friends or anyone else – had finished it, and he would stay on the team. So, when he turned to Cindy, he was grinning again. “And I’d really like a cookies and cream shake, please. With whipped cream. And a cherry on top."
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About the Author
Michelle Hollander has spent many years drafting non-fiction (mostly) in the corporate arena and reading, discussing, and crafting fiction whenever possible. She writes from Morris County, New Jersey, where she lives with her family and spends a lot of time with her nine-year old son, the football player, wrestler and runner (and perhaps future novelist and game creator). In keeping with the oft-repeated advice to “write what you know,” many of her stories sit at or near the intersection of suburban angst and youth sports. “The Mile” is her first published short story.
WINTER2018
FICTION | RUDY RAVINDRA
Naïve Novelist By Rudy Ravindra
Back from gym, Sunita grabbed a low-fat cheese from the refrigerator. “Did you go to the store? Broccoli spears, baby carrots, celery sticks…who will eat all this?” I looked up from my laptop. “We have our writers’ group meeting tomorrow. I am reading and making notes for our meeting, ah, um, something profoundly intellectual, ha,ha.”. She rolled her beautiful brown eyes, “Why not cheese and crackers?” “Well, Nicole, she’s a member of our group wants to lose weight.” She assumed the pose of a Dragon Lady, her eyes spouting fire, her nostrils flaring, and hands on her once-slim waist. “So, you are more concerned about some bimbo’s weight loss than your own wife’s. You never got me all this stuff, you made me cook rice all these years, nothing but rice, rice, rice, um, I gained some twenty pounds all because of you…” She slumped on the couch and started to weep. I wondered whether Sunita was having one of her mood swings. But I remembered very distinctly that in the morning, I kept the fish oil
“She assumed the pose of a Dragon Lady, her eyes spouting fire, her nostrils flaring, and hands on her once-slim waist.”
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capsule (guaranteed to prevent mood swings), along with her other pills, right by the orange juice, and know for a fact she swallowed them. “Baby, you know it is unfair to blame rice. Your mother may her soul rest in peace, you know, she was slim and graceful even at the ripe old age of eighty-four. And she ate rice all her life, yes?” At the mention of her dearly departed mother who probably looked down at her neurotic daughter from the heights of her Celestial Abode, Sunita’s mood lifted and a smile began to form on her tear-stained face. “Oh, yeah, my mother was exceptional. Too bad I took after my father.” She sighed and jumped into the shower. I was relieved to have averted a major crisis, and sat on my blue chair, pondering about my wife’s occasional blue moods. Presently she was back in the living room, smelling of sandalwood soap, imported all the way from Bangalore. “Shall we eat?” She looked at the dishes, neatly placed on the dining table by yours truly. “Mmmmm, smells good, ah, stir-fried cauliflower, my favorite, and sautéed potatoes, wow, and white rice.” While loading the dishwasher, she asked, “Where did you meet this Nicole, this, this, weight conscious bimbo?” “Come on, sweetie, we met her at Wildacres writing workshop last year. She’s the beady-eyed blonde.”
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FICTION | RUDY RAVINDRA
“Oh. That Nicole? I don’t like her. Always in tight-fitting jeans and T-shirts, ah, showing so much cleavage, looked as though she poured herself into the clothes, and that perfume, ugh, so bloody strong….” “Come on, honey, she’s nice, writes very well. Ron Rash used to praise her writing, he said she has an authentic Southern voice.” “Yes, yes. She’s authentic all right, an authentic Southern hussy. Touching you, pressing your shoulders whenever she got the chance.” “She’s an affectionate person. You know how some people are, ah, touchy, feely types.” “So, who else is in your writing group?” “Didn’t I tell you? Miranda and Anna. I met them at the writing class at the Cameron Art Museum.” She laughed. “What? You are trying have a harem or what? Right under my nose? Are they young or old?” Although I am middle-aged (isn’t sixty something middle age?), I refuse to keep company with old people. My motto is: younger the better. “They are young. But what's important is they are good writers, much better than me.” She sighed. "Anybody’s better than you. Even your little niece is better than you." It all began when I was laid off. I blame it on the war games of that Bushy guy, spending trillions on those two dumb wars, and the greed of the Wall street wallahs. My thirty seven years of service at General Motors ended just like that, and the company became Government Motors.
in good jobs. We have no debts. And I still have my job. We’ll be okay.” “I know, I know. In another three or four years I would have retired anyway. But to be laid off is very demeaning. Yeah.” She hugged me. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t think about it. Let’s look at the brighter side. We have that small house in North Carolina. Now, instead of spending a couple weeks in the South during winters we can now move there permanently. Yeah, we can sell this house or rent it, and move. Much better weather. I’ll find a job in a jiffy. Nurses are always in demand.” In spite of my initial trepidations, I actually began to enjoy my reluctant retirement. But, Sunita wasn’t happy. “Dinesh, how long can you browse the internet? It’s been more than a year since we moved here. Why don’t you volunteer at the hospital, or at the senior citizens’ center? Do something. You are getting lazy, gaining weight. This is not good for your blood pressure, you know.” “Yes, yes. I fully agree with you. But I don’t want to answer phones in some smelly hospital, and I don’t want to go anywhere near the senior citizens’ center, wheeling drooling old people here and there. I want to spend my time in scholarly pursuits, improve my knowledge of history and geography. This free time I got is a God-given opportunity to expand my horizons to the fullest.” Sunita rolled her big, bright eyes. She is an expert at rolling eyes. When I tried it, I could only tilt my head and look at the ceiling. “Dinesh, I don’t know about expanding horizons, but you are definitely expanding your waist, sitting on your butt all day.”
Sunita said, “Don’t worry, Dinesh. We’ll be alright. The house is paid off. The kids are settled
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FICTION | RUDY RAVINDRA
While I was browsing the internet, I came across an inspiring story of a lady who lost her cushy job and took up writing and became a successful author. So, I thought, why not I try my hand at writing? Every author brings a unique perspective to a story; some are entertaining and others dull. The foremost question in my mind is, can I belong to the first category? Can I write a spellbinding novel that keeps a reader up all night? Will it be unputdownable, as they say in the reviews. Will the prose be riveting, muscular, and with subtle humor? Will it be upbeat, funny, have a happy ending? Will people go home after seeing the movie and open a bottle of exceptional wine and toast my elegant and entertaining plot, and await eagerly for my next tome? Just wait a minute, just a minute, do I have the audacity to hope of a movie emanating out of my very first novel? Do I even dare to dream the impossible dream? I took a piece of fluffy idli, dipped it into spicy sambar and popped it into my mouth. “Sunita, do you think I can write a novel?” She said, “You writing, huh? You only wrote a bunch of technical reports while you were at GM. Anyway, what do you plan to write?” “Well, umm, maybe a novel, ah, something light and funny.” Sunita laughed. “I’m not sure you have the sense of humor to write a funny book.” A big sigh. “But what’s to lose? At least that’ll keep you out of trouble. Do you want to take classes? You know, learn to write?” “What? Me learning to write? I don’t need any bloody lessons. I will use my not so insignificant imagination to spin out a juicy novel.” Sunita laughed. “I don’t know about imagination. Wait till I tell your mother, writing, ha, ha, ha.”
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I browsed around a bit in our neighborhood library and borrowed a few books. I am one of those readers who can grasp the essence of a book without reading every single word. Jhumpa Lahiri. All about Bengali people, all very serious. I was bored stiff. V.S. Naipal. Now here’s a writer who is versatile, who can switch gears from tragedy to comedy. That’s what I call writing. Yes, he definitely deserves the Nobel prize. Arundhati Roy. It’s worse than reading a textbook. So difficult to follow, now about the present and then, without any warning you are plunged to the past. It’s all very confusing. Salman Rushdie. The Satanic Verses was banned in India and Pakistan (for once the two archrivals agreed on one thing, ha, ha.). And a morbid mullah ordered that Mr. Rushdie be bumped off because he was supposed to have blasphemed Prophet Mohammed. It is difficult to figure out why the whole Muslim world was up in arms about it. How in the world can the protagonist survive the fall of some thirty thousand feet from an airplane, and then piss off a whole bunch of people? There is no point writing a seven-hundred page book. First of all that’s a bit too much and my loyal readers will definitely get thoroughly bored and may even become disloyal. Second, from an economic point of view, it doesn’t make any sense at all to put so much effort into one big book. And it can’t be priced at forty or fifty bucks a copy. But a three-hundred-page novel can be priced around twenty or twenty-five. More buck for my bang. Over dinner Sunita asked, “So how are you getting along? Made any progress?”
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FICTION | RUDY RAVINDRA
I am still smarting from her skepticism. “What do you care?” Sunita squeezed my arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that I feel…” A sad sigh. “Never mind, never mind, tell me about your book.” “Well, I read a few Indian authors and made a list of things that should be kept in mind, you know, pointers.” Sunita asked, “Why only Indian authors? Why not American or British?”
“Since Google says that romance novels are the most popular, it is a safe bet to write a steamy, sizzling love story.” Sunita’s suggestion prompted me to go back to the library to borrow a few more books. Sitting in my den, sipping a ‘tension-tamer’ herbal tea, I read Ian McEwen’s novels. One of them is Saturday, depicting the events of a single day in the life of a neurosurgeon. Very interesting stuff. But, in my humble opinion, Mr. McEwen goes too deep into the subject matter. Why, O, why, does he have to go on and on about some intricate surgery, describing each and every incision and suture, as though the reader would be interested in the minutiae. Information about neurosurgery can be found in a medical book. A novel should entertain. The next book, Enduring Love is weirder. I must admit that I didn’t go beyond the first few pages. To begin with, the plot, to the say the very least, is not credible. Here is a person who flies all the way from America to England and agrees to go on a picnic. A picnic? Most normal people, when they disembark from a trans-Atlantic flight, think of
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two things—a hot shower and a snooze. Mr. McEwen is a much-admired writer by intellectuals on both sides of the Atlantic, but his prose goes way over the head of riff raff like yours truly. Janelle Taylor, Danielle Steele, Amanda Quick, Nora Roberts, all prolific writers, and all follow a familiar, time-tested formula. Boy meets girl, love, betrayal, separation, anguish, tears, plus a few steamy sex scenes. I took care not to read those novels line by line, lest I inadvertently internalize some lines or even paragraphs and reproduce them in my own book. And next thing I know I will be accused of plagiarism, just like that Boston girl who plagiarized a well-known chick-lit author. A budding, albeit ageing, novelist can ill afford such a nasty label. I may have to wear a letter on my shirt, “P” for plagiarist, just like that adulteress who was forced to wear ‘A’, long time ago. It is a depressing black and white movie. It is troubling that I don’t have a plot. Just like Salman Rushdie, shall I write a book that might infuriate a certain group of people? It is a very rash and dangerous thought and must be banished immediately. With a loving wife, two grown kids and one grandbaby on its way, a fatwa would be deleterious. And then if the book is banned in India, it is very likely I will become a persona non grata and the Indian government in its infinite wisdom may refuse a visa. I will then be unable to visit my parents and siblings. It is, therefore, imperative to avoid all controversial topics, particularly anything remotely concerning religion. And at all costs refrain from writing anything derogatory about Buddhism or Dalai Lama. Or else, Richard Gere and his gang will hit me with all they got, and what they have is a lot of clout. Kiss goodbye to a movie deal.
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FICTION | RUDY RAVINDRA
Since Google says that romance novels are the most popular, it is a safe bet to write a steamy, sizzling love story. I wrote rapidly, hundreds of pages of robust, romantic prose. The protagonist, Gummadipalli Padmanabha, let’s call him GP, is a doctor in India. He moves to the U.S.A. To work and mint money in America, GP needs to pass a bunch of tough tests. He works very hard but doesn’t make the cut because he couldn’t fathom the American system. So, GP hits the pavements and finds a job at a gas station. But who will even look at a fellow who pumps gas? Why should Surekha, the curvaceous coquette, take notice of this loser? What else but good looks and charming manners? There is no rule that a loser can’t be charming, debonair and sexy. He can ooze out sex appeal even while filling a gas tank. He can look sexy even while handling the most unromantic gas pump. Even if his hands are greasy and his body sweaty in the humid heat, he can still be sexy. No wonder Surekha will be all over him. Wait a minute. Who is Surekha? Okay, okay, not to worry, we will fix it. Her father came from India few decades back. He invented an important component which became an integral part of personal computers and made hundreds of millions of dollars. So, there it is, a rich girl, a poor boy, lust and love, ups and downs, tears and tussles, ending finally in a big, Bollywood-style wedding. A few sizzling sex scenes, in and around Surekha’s posh swimming pool are a must. Of course, in the movie, these requisite romantic scenes will be filmed on the Goa beaches, which will, after editing out stray dogs, garbage, and druggies, become pristine. During the difficult period of writing this magnum opus, Sunita was very helpful. The first time she hesitated. “I don’t know, I’m not sure if
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I’m the best person to read. Why don’t you ask the girls in your writing group?” “Sure, sure, the ladies will read it eventually. But first I want your feedback. Tolstoy’s wife used to read everything he wrote. And she also gave him useful suggestions and told him when his plot wasn’t credible. You see, with his wife’s help he became a literary giant.” She laughed. “With my help all you can hope for is a literary Lilliputian.” One day she read the following paragraph: The country was on the brink of disaster, ravaged by the greed of the robber barons—those oligarchs who sequestered the riches of this vast beautiful land endowed with such immense natural resources, and untapped human potential. This was the country where even if honest folks wanted to work there were no jobs, where people perished needlessly, where people migrated to the west coast in search of greener pastures. It took a man who never had to face the ravages of poverty, a man who was abhorred by the rich but revered by the poor and the downtrodden, a man who gave hope to the hungry masses, a man who was physically handicapped but mentally strong with an indomitable spirit and single-minded resolve, to lift the country from the abysmal depths of the Great Depression. After providing livelihood to millions of starving families, and after liberating Europe from the tyranny of fascism, this Great Man, fearless and peerless, was summoned by the Good Lord, as if his enormous skills were needed even in Heaven. Hundreds of thousands of simple, ordinary, God-fearing people, openly weeping, with tears flowing down their cheeks, lined up the route of the train that carried the last remains of this compassionate man. “Dinesh, who, who, who is this person?”
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FICTION | RUDY RAVINDRA
I was stunned and became speechless. My first thought was, Aha, at long last, I got a chance to dazzle her with my knowledge of American history. But after a minute or so saner thoughts prevailed. “You are joking, right? You know, sweetie, you just gave me a brilliant idea. Once I’m a well-known author, Alex Trebek might ask his contestants to name the author of the above paragraph. Yeah, yeah, this might be a good Jeopardy clue.”
twenty-three agents were contacted. There were some who required an online submission.
She laughed. “And don’t forget about your birthday announcement on NPR.”
Q: Name of the book and author that you read recently
The novel is ready for the world. Sunita and I sat in our puja room, and prayed Lord Ganesha, the God who removes all obstacles, for his blessings. Sunita dabbed vermillion and turmeric on the cover page and placed the manuscript in front of the idol. She chanted a few slokas from her prayer book, while I sat with my hands folded and my eyes closed, in deep meditation.
A: Indian Summer: The Secret History of the end of an Empire by Alex von Tunzelmann (I’ll bet anything you haven’t heard of this book. Serves you right, for asking such a dumb question.)
Puja over, I opened my eyes. “I feel that your prayers have a better chance of success. It seems like you have a more direct line to God. You pray every day.” “Don’t make jokes in the presence of the Gods. We should go to the temple and make an offering to Lord Venkateswara.” “I only hope that Lord Ganesha and Lord Venkateswara have Facebook accounts, and are in touch with each other, you know, realize the importance of our prayers.” “Stop it.” She hissed angrily as if afraid to raise her voice in presence of the Gods. If writing a full-length novel is hard, trying to publish it is much harder. In this man’s world, literature is one of the few domains that is dominated by the fair sex. Three-hundred and
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Here is a sample: Q: Write a memorable/catchy sentence from your book A: How the hell should I know? The whole book is memorable, no it was a nightmare to write the whole damn thing.
Q: What is so great about your book that it will stand out A: I never said that it’s a great book. It’s my debut effort, for God’s sake. Don’t expect anything great. Q: What qualifies you to write this book A: Because I can read and write English, just like yourself. I can ask you the same question: What qualifies you to be a literary agent? Just because you got a B.A. or M.A. or M.F.A., and know a smattering of books, you think you know it all? Q: Your previous publishing history A: If I had any previous publishing history, do you think that I will be crazy enough to spend so much time on your frigging website? Q: Pretend that you are writing your marketing leaflet. Sell your book to us. A: Thank you very much. I will do no such thing. It’s your job to sell my book.
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FICTION | RUDY RAVINDRA
Q: Feedback of our website: Your thoughts about it. A: Your website sucks. There were other questions, equally weird. Needless to say, the answers that I had in mind were never sent. The idea was to suck up and not stick it to them. Each time I got an email I hoped that maybe, just maybe, this is the one. This will be the angel who might throw in a life line and lift the aspiring author from the abysmal depths of despair, and fly him away to the land of fame and fortune. This will be the angel who will launch his literary career and catapult him to success, and make him a best-selling author. And then he will be admitted into the literary landscape’s luminary club. Alas, those hopes were shattered when a bunch of rejection letters piled up. And some were addressed ‘Ms. Singh’. Obviously, it is not common knowledge that Dinesh is a male name. Well, it is always difficult to decipher names from different cultures. Until recently I thought Orhan Pamuk as a Turkish tomboy. Only when I saw a picture of this famous author I realized that he is a man. And then miracle of miracles, an agent--Audrey, asked for the first three chapters. After correcting a few typos, and saying a fervent prayer to Lord Ganesha, I hit the send button. I begged the Good Lord to make sure that Audrey is in a good mood. That she has a good sex life. That if she didn’t have a partner, she should get one immediately. That her brain be saturated with all those mood-enhancing opioids. That she loves each and every word of the manuscript. Needless to say, the prayers were unanswered.
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When it became abundantly clear that my chances of finding representation were as distant as winning the Powerball , the self-publishing industry was investigated. In the meantime, the plans for the book cover began. A jaunty GP and the sensuous Surekha side by side, holding hands, smiling at each other. Her smoldering eyes, filled with lust and love, focused on him. Taj Mahal as the backdrop, subtly conveys the theme of eternal love. But what about the author’s picture on the back cover? He is not as handsome as he used to be. Now, his thinning hair , double chin, wrinkles, and dark circles under his once sparkling and spellbinding eyes are his new look. Will a reader pick up a book by an aging author? In an era where there is so much emphasis on youth and vigor, will his craggy face help? It doesn’t matter that he thinks like a twenty-year old (and acts like one, according to his dear wife). But what about Salman Rushdie? Isn’t he almost bald on the top of his head? Yes, that’s true, but he was not always bald, and when he published his first book he was youthful and handsome, and with a head full of hair. His hair loss was a gradual process. Along with each new book, he lost a few strands and his loyal readers accepted the fact that he aged gracefully while improving his writing skills. The more hair he lost, the better his writing. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about yours truly. Well, I decided to use a baseball cap to cover the balding head and a little bit of makeup to smooth out those wrinkles and dark circles. I will be as good as new. I had a dream that my novel became an overnight sensation. Reviews by well-known literary critics were published in leading magazines. The book is ‘a compelling read’, ‘a tour de force’, ‘riveting’, ‘spellbinding’, ‘lyrical prose’, and many other things. The literary world is abuzz with the author’s personal details. Oh, you know by the way, he is a retired engineer (it
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looks more dignified to say retired than jobless) who took up writing quite late in his life. If only he started writing when in his twenties, there would have been many more rambunctious romantic novels. So much talent, so little time, let’s hope he doesn’t stop writing and become one of those activists, giving speeches all over the world about the ills of fascism, communism, capitalism and other ‘isms’. Let’s hope he won’t become a one-book wonder. He is brought back to reality by a phone call from a self-publishing companies. He needs to shell out some five grand to publish the book. It is preferable to start all over again, write another novel, and harass the hapless literary ladies once again. Or stick to internet browsing and gardening. “monochromatic, soundless hell.”
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About the Author Rudy Ravindra’s love of literature began the moment he knew how to read and write. However, his near and dear scoffed at the idea and urged him to become a doctor in order to have a recession-proof job. Though reluctant to be at the front lines to alleviate pain and suffering, he enrolled into a pre-med program. Lost in a world of flora and fauna, he loathed to touch slimy earthworms and leeches, and petrified at putrid chemicals, and quivered at chemistry kits. It was not surprising therefore that my best efforts ran into seed. Rudy managed to get a college degree, although he states “my grades were woefully inadequate to enter the fiercely competitive medical schools.” He eventually received a Master’s degree from what he terms as “an obscure university” and eventually a PhD. Rudy states “I became a bumbling biochemist, knowledgeable in neither biology nor chemistry. But, in a weird way this suited me fine. I deprecated my limited knowledge of chemistry when I chatted with a bunch of chemists, and lamented at my rudimentary grasp of biology when I hobnobbed with biologists. And I managed to stay extremely far away from all those brilliant biochemists lest they see through my miserable façade. After a lackluster career, I retired. Now I am writing all the time, harassing hapless editors of online magazines. And I am pleasantly surprised that a few editors have accepted my mediocre prose.”
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FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
Over the Rainbow and Other Places By Noëlle D. Lilley
“The truth will set you free, but first it’ll hurt like hell.” When you grow up with a single father, in a family of boys, you hear it all: everything from ghost stories and conspiracy theories to how to grow a mustache quicker or how to throw a good punch. But when it comes to relationships, my second-oldest brother, Giovanni, thinks he’s got it all figured out. I’m the youngest of four boys: Dario, Giovanni, Rafael and then me. We’re all a little obnoxious, but Gio is by far the most self-indulgent. Gio has a theory that there are three different types of crushes in life, all of which play an important role in your development. “Hear me out, Vin,” He had told me, leaning forward earnestly at the dinner table while I tried to think of a way out of the conversation. “Some just pass the time, some distract you, some smack you wide awake, some break your walls down to shambles and leave you wondering how you were ever so closed off in the first place.” Gio is a Psychology major with a minor in rhetoric and consequently very into fauxdeep, rhetorical, Freudian bullshit. I support his theory on the crushes though.
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Crush #1: The Girl You Create To Be Something That She’s Not
“Gio has a theory that there are three different types of crushes in life, all of which play an important role in your development.” This girl is frequently seen in malenarrated movies and novels and her sole purpose is almost always to assist the male protagonist’s character development (see: Annie Hall or 500 Days of Summer). You know the type— the Manic Pixie Dream Girl who’s magical, ridiculously hot, and unattainable who somehow changes the dude of the story in some irrevocable way before disappearing from his life. According to Gio, because most guys crush on this kind of chick from afar, they never actually take the time to get to know her, preferring to instead build her up to be this impossibly perfect girl in their own mind. Once the dude actually gets to know Crush #1, he realizes that she isn’t necessarily what he thought she was and that no one could ever reach the standards he’d set for her. Whatever. This crush for me was Maia Martinez, freshman year. She was MexicanAmerican, president of the school drama
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club, and absolutely bursting with ravenhaired gorgeousness. I went to every play, concert, recital, and musical the school had that year even Mama Mia, which is saying a lot. Eventually I finally got the courage to stop lurking around the back of the theater and ask Maia out after one of their shows. We ended up going to a diner with the other kids from the show. I quickly realized that although she was just as beautiful and smart as I’d thought, we had little in common as she wanted to talk about nothing other than Broadway and Josh Groban. Her eyes almost popped out of her head when I told her I’d never seen Phantom of the Opera. I left politely soon after, paying for her untouched pancakes. We stayed friends though. Girls and I always do.
#3. Unlike many of my friends, I have never seen the masochistic appeal in pining after a girl who doesn’t even know you exist, let alone is likely to let you put your tongue in her mouth. I have always preferred to comfortably stick to girls in my bracket (middle to upper social hierarchy) and usually fair pretty well. I may not be as talented as my brothers but we’ve all inherited what my dad calls the Barellies charm. Plus, the fact that they’re dating a Barellies tends to help their social mobility when we break up. My oldest brother, Dario, says that it’s because we’re Italian.
Crush #2: The Girl Who Is Your Friend
All of these qualities have provided me with an overall satisfying dating experience and I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit sneaking out of bedroom windows. And if you ask me, Gio takes relationships more seriously than he should. What’s the point in being young if you’re going to get bogged down by some chick whose name you probably won’t even remember in a few years? I’ve seen enough failed relationships, starting with my own parents, to know that love, if you can find it at all, is more trouble than it’s worth.
You and this girl are initially just friends for whatever reason but eventually you start to believe that you could be more than that. This belief is usually fuelled by misleading romantic comedies (see: When Harry Met Sally) and mixed signals. Gio says that this kind of girl is the best to crush on because you actually have a fighting chance. However, it can still go one of two ways: she might reciprocate your feelings or she might firmly but gently herd you back to the friend zone from whence you came. I have had several of these crushes from Desiree Johnson in fourth grade to Delilah Montgomery for most of middle school. Crush #3: The Girl You Have No Chance With, Ever
“Girls love wops.” He’d said, before ducking from a slap my grandma reached over to give him.
But I slipped up. I got careless and became like every hopeless, lovesick chump I ever made fun of in high school. Jesus. Who knew that all this time I was just one kiss away from being Heathcliff and Romeo and Mr. Rochester? ***
AVOID THIS GIRL AT ALL COSTS. This has typically been my mantra for Crush CANYONVOICES
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FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
Sighing, I lean back in my seat. Rafael Barellies is many things but punctual has never been one of them. I’m sitting in a stupid coffee shop waiting for my not-so-stupid brother who begged me to come down to the university on a Friday night of all nights so he could give me a stupid tour of his stupid university’s new building. I said “no” almost right away when he asked; I have my own friends and my own plans, neither of which involve following my third oldest brother around a university library. It’s the kind of college that’s cut off from the rest of the town, surrounded by forest and greenery, so it’s not even as though there are bars or clubs nearby.
“Raffy’s idea of a wild night involves Harry Potter, Crunch n Munch, and staying up past Midnight.” Of course, he wanted to meet at some alternative coffee shop, the kind where hipsters who perform slam poetry in overalls and horn-rimmed glasses like to go because God forbid anyone catches them in a Starbucks. The kind Antoinette Fisher and I used to make fun of. “I mean, seriously. What is up with all the chai tea lattes?” “Right! What ever happened to a good old-fashioned hot chocolate?” “The other day I overheard someone describe Lolita as a love story. Seriously.” “Kill me.”
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But I came. I’d never tell him this but Raffy is one of the best people I know. Raffy, who walked behind Michael Winston all the way home in sixth grade, covering his backside when he sat on a pudding cup and it looked like he’d pooped himself. Raffy, who held Brittany Jackson’s hair back and rubbed her shoulders the night she got really drunk and threw up at Kyle Hugh’s New Years party. Raffy, who likes bubblegum and show tunes and still calls our grandma every day. He’s handsome too, like stupidly Teen Vogue Magazine handsome, but he’s so nice that you can’t even hate him for it. Jerk. That being said, he’s not exactly the most exciting person. Raffy’s idea of a wild night involves Harry Potter, Crunch n Munch, and staying up past midnight. This peak of nerdiness oddly reached new heights when Raff went away to college this fall. Don’t get me wrong—I love a little wizardry just as much as the next 16-year-old but visiting Hogwarts isn’t quite on my weekend to-do list. But he’s my brother. So, I came. I’m just starting to get pissed off when a girl plops down in the seat across from me despite my set up of the table, which deliberately broadcasts Please don’t sit here. “Sorry, I’m saving a seat for—“ “—For your brother. Raffy. Well, the thing is he can’t come right now and he’s meeting us later because he’s got this really huge O-Chem test to study for but he asked me to let you know and occupy you until he’s all done. I’m Dorothy.”
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FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
All of this comes out sharp and eloquent, like a president delivering the State of the Union address.
“I’m not.”
It takes me a minute to process what she’s said and once I finally do, all I can think of to say, stupidly, is, “As in over the rainbow?”
“I’m not. And stop cussing at me.”
I don’t say, What’s O-Chem? or How do you know my brother? or Hey, I’m Vincent. No. As in over the rainbow? Jesus.
“You’re crazy. You really think cookies are better than cake?”
Dorothy blinks and stares. Then blinks and stares some more. “I guess so.” I wince and start to apologize only she’s not upset or even listening. She’s standing up and swinging a leather bag across her body. I could leave. I should leave. Raff isn’t even here and it’s not like I signed up to spend time with some random girl. But she’s looking at me. She’s looking at me like a schoolteacher about to ease a child into a difficult lesson or a ten-yearold taking care of a puppy for the weekend. Her eyes are kind, kind, kind and green, green, green with specks of brown. And they remind me of someone. I get up. I follow her out of the darkness of the coffee shop and into the light of campus. I didn’t even get to finish my damn chai tea latte. Five freaking dollars. Jesus. *** “Please tell me you’re kidding. Please.”
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“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me!” “Nope.”
Dorothy laughs and throws her hands up in the air. I drop my head in exasperation. “You may as well say you hate puppies!” I exclaim. She rolls her eyes, “I didn’t say I hate cake. I just think cookies are better.” She shrugs, looking down at her nails. “I would take a sleeve of Oreos over a slice of cake any day.” I sigh heavily and look away from her. “You’re acting as though I just told you I was serial killer.” “Honestly, this is much worse.” Dorothy smiles full on. It’s amazing what a smile can do to a person’s face. This girl completely transforms thanks to this eyecrinkling-eyebrow-raising-perfect-teethshowing grin. If only she’d just get rid of those dorky glasses... No wonder she’s friends with Raffy. After stopping at her dorm (a girl’s dorm!!!!) to drop her stuff off, Dorothy had taken me out to the quad, blanket in tow. Her room was messy in a way that girl’s rooms always are: discarded outfits
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FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
scattered, makeup left out, half drunk water bottles littered across the floor. Their college campus looks like it came straight out of a catalog or a film set, and I can almost understand why Raffy was so eager to get me down here. Huge oak trees stretch out across the lawns, providing shade to students sitting and studying and laughing and kissing beneath them. This is the kind of school that attracts rich kids, ones in Patagonia sweaters and Ugg boots even though it’s only September. We’re sitting on a patchwork Winnie The Pooh blanket (Winnie The Pooh, for Christ’s sake, is this girl twelve years old?) as I chastise her for her blasphemous taste in desserts. “You know, you’re not very nice.” “What?” I ask, looking over at her. She’s a mind reader, too? The smile, the laughter is gone. “Yes, I am. I’m totally nice.” “Not really.” Dorothy replies. I shift uncomfortably and focus on the blanket beneath me. Niceness has always been my forte. I may not pass classes with flying colors like Raffy or bench press my weight like Dario, but my teachers always tell my parents that I’m Such A Nice Boy. I may not stay with every girl I date, but they always tell their friends that I’m Such A Nice Boy. “You’re only nice when you want something,” Dorothy continues. “As soon as you get that—or don’t get it, or better yet, someone tells you they don’t like cake —all that goes away.”
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I frown at her and start to wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. Who does she think she is? Some dopey girl with a dopey smile and dopey glasses.
“Niceness has always been my forte.” “Hey, hold on a second, you don’t know me. You don’t know me at all.” She shrugs again. “I know your type. Everyone has a type.” My head snaps up to look at her. “Type? What do you mean by that? Did Raffy tell you about the theories?” Dorothy looks back over at me, “Oh, God, not you too. What is it with you and your brothers and these theories? You two have received some poor advice.” Crossing my arms, I glare at her again. Gio may be pretentious, but he’s ours to clown, no one else’s. “You just said you knew my ‘type.’ Clearly you believe in some kind of theory, too.” “I mean, sure. People tend to follow similar patterns, but they don’t fit in boxes. Haven’t you ever connected with someone in a way that didn’t follow your little road map?” Our eyes meet and I can feel something building and she’s looking at me with those eyes again. But I say nothing. It’s too much, too soon. I lay back on the grass. Dorothy is quiet now. So, I start to think, as I always do, about Antoinette Fisher.
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FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
Antoinette Fisher with her long hair and her brown eyes that are the exact shade of the chocolate milk she threw in my face last month. Antoinette Fisher with her tie-dye shirts and her yoga pants and her big mouth that always says exactly what’s on her mind, no matter how much it hurts my feelings. Antoinette Fisher who leaves my sheets smelling like cinnamon gum and baby lotion long after she’s tiptoed out of my room at 5 a.m. Antoinette who drinks milkshakes like they’re good for her and watches both the History Channel and reality shows with equal reverence. Antoinette who’s seen The Wizard of Oz a million times and still manages to cry at the end. Stupid, stupid Antoinette whose stupid kisses and stupid jokes have had my head spinning since May. Needless to say, my friends were surprised to find out I dumped her a week before school started over email. “Dude,” Trevor Martin had said. “Are you crazy?” Missy Collins had stared at me like she didn’t recognize me. Donald Tanner just shook his head. But what they all didn't know was that Antoinette Fisher had told me she loved me. I had to end it. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be. Nobody ever said anything about love. Jesus, we just both needed dates to Homecoming. I mean, was I seriously about to let myself become one of those lovesick losers just because some girl smiled like she was trying to hypnotize me and got all my
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jokes? No. If there’s one thing my mother taught me when she left my father to raise four sons on his own, it’s to never, ever give another person the power to break you. I read somewhere once that losing a mother—whether through abandonment or death—is more traumatic than losing a father. You meet more single mothers than you meet single fathers, so it’s not that surprising when a man walks out on his family. But I never thought much about not having a mother. After all, I had my brothers and I had my dad. We had each other. Most of the time, my childhood felt like one big Boy Scouts sleepover or something. Honest. My dad is the kind of father who brings cupcakes for your entire class on your birthday, coaches your soccer team, volunteers as a chaperone on your field trips, and still makes time to help you with your homework at the end of the day. But how can a mother carry her children for nine months, watch her belly swell and grow, go through hours of pain to bring them into the world then decide they aren’t worth sticking around for? Jesus. Even mother polar bears stay with their young for two years. I will not be the one who gets left behind. I will not be my father. When I saw Antoinette on the first day of school in the caf, she headed right toward me. Her eyes had looked shiny like she was going to cry, but her voice came out strong and clear. “What is your problem?”
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The scowl on her face was gone and replaced by a mix of concern and sadness.
but I know that I miss it at soon as she pulls away.
“Nothing,” I said into my soup.
I still remember the last time I kissed Antoinette.
“You’re lying.” “I’m not.” “Just tell me.” “I can’t.” “Why not?” She demanded.
“People say “love” all the time… But when someone else says it, someone you’ve dreamt about…it changes.” I shrugged. “I just wasn’t feeling it anymore.” I never got the stain out of my shirt. I open my eyes and Dorothy is lying back down now, too. “What are you thinking about?” She asks, looking straight up at the sky. Jesus, she’s nosy. I hesitate. There’s no reason for me to tell her. I barely know her. “Someone.” “Which ‘crush’ was she?” Should’ve known better. Dorothy chuckles to herself. There goes that smile, again. The glasses are gone. That’s when I lean over and kiss her. Quick and soft and all sugary sweet. I don’t know why I do it or how long it lasts
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“Sometimes I look at you and I can’t believe you’re real,” She had said. It was a warm August night, the kind that tells you summer is ending but gives you a hope that it might somehow stretch on just a little bit longer. School was set to start in three weeks. We’d been seeing each other all summer and no one thought it would last, my antirelationship reputation preceding me and all. The car was dead quiet and she had squeezed my hand, waiting for a response. “You love me?” I asked. She nodded. “Say it again.” “I love you.” People say “love” all the time. About our favorite shows, favorite movies to our pets, to our family, to our friends. But when someone else says it, someone you’ve dreamt about, someone who’s been at the end of every birthday candle you’ve blown out or every penny you’ve tossed or every shooting star you’ve wished on, it changes. A warmth spreads through your whole body like a light at the end of a tunnel you want to follow forever. I had let go of her hand and slid mine up to the back of her neck, bringing her to me. I’d closed my eyes and snaked my
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arm around her waist, pulling her so that she was practically in the drivers seat. “Vin.” She had mumbled against my lips. “Vin, Vin, Vin.” I never liked my name much until I found out how it tastes when it’s sighed into my mouth. I’d kissed her hard, letting my fingers get lost in her hair.
butterscotch in the summer. But where his are striking and elegant, mine are plainer, rounder. I know this. I have accepted this. I never mind when girls breeze by me to get to him or when the shift in eye contact goes straight to him. I understand. In old home videos of us together, he is always looking at the camera and I am always looking at him.
“I love you, too.”
Dorothy sits up very suddenly. “Raf! Hey, we... we were just—“
And then I dumped her a week later. It’s September now but I still duck when I see her in the halls.
Raffy drops his backpack very loudly and sits down in-between us.
All I know is that now I can’t get Antoinette out of my mind. And I know that as soon as I am pulled back to the present, I look up and Rafael Barellies is standing over Dorothy and I, backpack in tow with a look that I’ve never seen him give and words I’ve never heard him say. “Um. What the fuck?” Jesus. I’m never gonna find out what OChem is. *** Raffy is staring down at us, his eyes shifting from me to Dorothy and back to me again, trying to place the blame. People have told me all my life that I look exactly like Raffy, but I know it isn’t true. Maybe a dimmed version—Raffy with the volume turned down. Our basic features are the same: same curly hair, same dark eyes, same olive skin that tans to a warm
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“What are you guys doing?” He asks. He looks at Dorothy. “Dor, you were supposed to keep him company until I came back.” That she did. Dorothy throws her hands in the air. “I didn’t do anything!” “That’s not what it looks like to me.” “Raf,” I interject. “Calm down, okay? We were just joking around.” Raffy turns his attention to me as if just remembering that I’m here. When Raffy and I were little we used to communicate just by looking at each other. It used to drive our dad crazy how we could understand each other without saying a word. I look back at him now, willing my thoughts to project out to him like they used to. Who is this girl? Why are you so upset? Why didn’t you tell us that you had a girlfriend?
WINTER2018
FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
Before I catch the bus back home, Dorothy slips a piece of paper to me. On it is an address and a time:4794 San Gorgonio Lane, Apt #34. 10 PM. Raffy doesn’t notice when she does this and I know he won’t like it. I’ve already spent more money in one day than I’d like on public transportation and the last bus back home leaves at 11 PM. Despite all this, a few hours later I somehow find myself waving dad goodbye, slipping out the backdoor and hopping on the 9 PM bus between Tumbleweed and 2nd Street, all the while knowing this will end poorly. Jesus. *** I severely misjudged Raffy’s college. This school isn’t just full of rich prep kids. As I look around the party, I see people of every clique, race, and background. There are quiet kids huddled together who look like they never go out and definitely never drink; overly-dressed girls in high heels, all texting and leaning against the walls and refusing to dance; show-offy frat dudes who are either performing a Satanic ritual or playing beer pong, kids in dreadlocks by the speakers arguing over what song to play next. Finally, I see Dorothy. She’s one of the few people actually dancing near the center of the room and surrounded by guys who look like they’re waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. “Hey!” She yells over the music. Her arms are waving wildly. “Come over here!” I squeeze my way through the crowd and she hands me a beer once I reach her.
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Some guy is dancing behind her, his hands on her hips, rocking to the music with her. He glares at me like I’m a piece of shit someone dragged in across a new carpet. “This is Big Mike!” Dorothy yells again, pointing at the guy behind her. He’s one of the many tall, frat guys at the party who looks like he has more muscles than brains and tells people his major is beer pong. What kind of name is Big Mike anyways?
“This school isn’t just full of rich prep kids…I see people of every cliche, race, and background.” The glasses are gone again, nothing but endless green eyes and specks of brown dancing in them. Dorothy is trying to get me to dance too, wiggling her hips and pulling on my arms. But I don’t want to dance. For some reason, maybe even for the first time, I want to talk. I want her to look at me like she did before and remind me of everything I’ve been missing. “Can we go somewhere quiet?” I yell back. Dorothy stops dancing. She looks warily up at me before nodding and untangling herself from Big Mike. He stares at me like he wants to punch me and I stare back even though he could probably kick my ass. We walk out onto the balcony of the apartment and I slide the door closed behind us. She faces me. I face her.
WINTER2018
FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
“I didn’t expect you to come tonight.” “Why not?”
someone’s just delivered the punch line to a joke that I didn’t know was being told.
She shrugs. I wait for her to say more but she doesn’t. She doesn’t look at me either. All of the smiley flirtation from today is gone. Jesus, what am I doing here?
“I don’t recall asking for a pity party from either of you. And for your information, I broke up with her.” Jesus. I hate how my voice sounds: whiny and pathetic.
“What’s up with you and Raffy?” I ask dryly. If I’m here I may as well get some sense of clarity amidst the shit I’ve found myself in.
Dorothy sighs, “It wasn’t my idea, OK? Don’t take it personally. It’s not like we were a real thing.”
Dorothy frowns in no particular direction at all, “We’re friends.”
“Well, yeah. But we have something, don’t we? I mean, there’s something there?”
“That’s not what Raffy thinks.” “Raffy thinks a lot of things.” But I can’t let it go. “What I mean is that I think he likes you.” She shrugs again. Dorothy turns away and leans against the railing, looking out into the forests that surround the school. The green is gone and her eyes are dark as the night that sweeps out before us. I realize I was wrong. There’s no brown in her eyes at all. “Why did you even invite me here?” My voice raises now and despite myself, I actually care about the answer. She looks at me now, glaring. “Look, don’t give me that. I was just supposed to show you a good time. Raffy told me your little sob story about getting dumped. I was just trying to cheer you up.” Raffy. My face burns. Suddenly, everything makes sense. It all adds up. I feel like
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She looks at me full on now. “Vinny, come on. You barely know me. I’m not one of you and your brother’s stupid theories.” There have only been a select few times in my life where I have absolutely nothing to say. This is one of those times. I stare blankly, wondering how the hell I ended up here, on an apartment balcony, at a college party, drunk, surrounded by strangers, pouring my heart out to a girl I’ve known for twelve hours. Jesus. Was it really all in my head? “You’ve got to be kidding me.” We both look toward the balcony to see, of course, none other than Rafael Barellies. “You have got to be kidding me.” “Raf—” “What are you doing here, Vincent?” He interrupts me, using my fill name, which
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FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
he hasn’t called me in years. “Why aren’t you at home?” “I was just leaving.” I tell him. I push past them both and go back into the party. Everything suddenly feels blurry, like I’ve turned a camera lens out of focus. I just want to go home. “Come back here, Vin!” I turn around. Raffy’s voice has a harsh, angry quality to it that is as foreign to him as it is to me.
“I am holding an ice pack to my eye, which I can already feel swelling. ” “Raffy, let me explain—” “Explain what? Why you’re out past your bed time?” I stare at him. “No. Explain why I’m doing better with a girl who doesn’t even give a shit about you.” My dad told me once that anger increases strength. He said that when you experience sudden excitement or anger your brain releases adrenaline, which gives your body rapid energy and can power your muscles more effectively. I hadn’t paid much attention then—I was only trying to understand how Robin and Cyborg could possibly be holding off Slade for so long—but it all makes sense now when Raffy’s fist connects with my jaw. The table tumbles over. Somebody shouts. We crash to the ground.
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And then we are screaming terrible, terrible things at each other, things I never thought I’d say to another human being, let alone my favorite brother. I feel arms around my shoulders and somehow we’re pulled apart. Dorothy is in between us now, tears in her eyes and her head swivels back and forth. I almost feel bad for her. This is much more than she bargained for. But Raffy isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at me. Something has broken between us. “Get out!” Dorothy shouts. “Both of you! Please. Just get out!” *** I am sitting on the curb. I am holding an ice pack to my eye, which I can already feel swelling. Rafael Barellies is sitting next to me with a Band-Aid across a split lip that will surely need stitches. The world is at that quiet point in time where night creeps into day and all the sensible people have gone to bed. Behind us the party rages on in the distance as we wait for an Uber that Raffy called twenty minutes ago. Dad always told us that nothing good ever happens after midnight. I look over at Raffy. He’s huffing and puffing and trying to still look angry but the mask from earlier has fallen. He’s just Raffy now. Raffy who likes World of Warcraft and smoothies made with soymilk even though he’s not even lactose intolerant. Raffy with a busted lip and wearing a ripped shirt our grandma
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FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
bought him, pouting like a puppy dog in a corner. Jesus, we’re pathetic.
He shrugs. “I just wanted you to feel better.”
That’s when I start to laugh. Not a chuckle either, a hysterical, falling over, belly laugh.
“I did for a little bit. But not really.” I shake my head. “It’s not the same as the real thing.”
“What? What’s so funny?” Raffy asks.
Raffy is quiet for a moment. “I always did like that Antoinette Fisher.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. I try to respond but just end up laughing some more. A smile slowly creeps onto his face. “What? What are you laughing at, you goof?” He pushes me. Not angry like before. But like my brother is back. “Look at us, dude. What are we doing? Fighting in parties, knocking over stuff. Who do we think we are? Rocky versus Apollo or some shit?” Raffy starts to laugh, too. He shakes his head and pushes me again. “You got me good with that last swing. Who taught you how to fight like that?” “Dario.” “Freaking Dario. He never taught me how to fight.” “That’s ‘cause you were too busy reading books.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” Raffy stands up and holds a hand out to me. I take it and he pulls me to my feet. “Screw this Uber. Let’s just go back to my dorm. I’ll drop you off in the morning.” We start walking. *** Some time later, Raffy says, “You know? I’ve been thinking... I don’t know why we ever listened to Gio’s theories in the first place. He’s never even had a girlfriend.” I laugh. I pull out my phone and click over to “Contacts.” One name stares back at me. A name that invokes brown eyes and a million other things that I can’t process.But I think I might be ready to try. And, for once, no theories even cross my mind.
Raffy laughs and tosses an arm around my shoulder. We’re quiet for a while before I finally speak. “Why did you tell her to flirt with me?” “I just asked her to be nice to you. I didn’t tell her to kiss you.” “I kissed her.”
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
FICTION | NOËLLE D. LILLEY
About the Author Noëlle D. Lilley is a 21-year-old television reporter and fiction writer from San Bernardino, California. She currently lives in Bakersfield, California and works at 23 ABC News. She graduated from the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication and the Herberger Institute for Design and the Arts at Arizona State University in May of 2018. Noëlle will be moving to New York City next year to pursue her Masters in Journalism at the Craig Newmark Graduate School in Journalism as a Knight-CUNYJ Fellow. She enjoys writing about love, friendship, coming-of-age, religion, and family. Noëlle is a media junkie who loves Jesus, writing, her alma mater (go, Sun Devils!), Back To The Future, Slurpees, and social justice. Noëlle hopes to one day write a novel and anchor at a major television news network. Her work can be found in The Nation magazine, Arizona PBS, and KPNX 12 News.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
FICTION | ILEEN YOUNAN
I’m Okay By Ileen Younan
My Father Dad has a strong build. He’s retired now, but he brags about how he used to work for a very successful construction company as a contractor and heavy equipment operator. I don’t know how to feel about it, because it’s as if he’s bragging about having to work in the hot, unbearable sun all his life, sweating through his shirts and bringing them home so my mother could wash them. Dad mentions how if he had wanted, he could have started his own construction company and become super rich. I don’t know if I believe him on this. He says he didn’t try because when he came from the Ukraine to the United States, he was busy learning the English language and even trying to find a job in the first place. He adds that because my brother and I were born, he had to take care of us and mom, so with the need of being a family provider right away, his dreams were sidetracked. It makes me feel a little guilty for existing, but I’m over it. I don’t talk to him more than necessary, anyhow. Today, dad sits at home, looking for odd labor jobs to do around the neighborhood. The skin on his arms is starting to sag and his strong build, while still there, is beginning to deteriorate, losing in the battle against old age. It almost makes me feel sorry for him.
My Mother Mom is a little on the big side. She’s not like that only on the outside, but on the inside, too. She’s worked as a housewife all her life and is restless because of this. She reminisces about the days she used to work as a computer engineer in Ukraine and laments that she cannot carry on the same work in the United States because of language barriers and her unspoken lack of dedication to learn another tongue. My mother doesn’t even have her driver’s license and as a result stays home all the time unless my father, my brother, or I have the time to take her out shopping. I make the time to take her to the mall every Saturday. Only God knows how much I hate shopping. But, I do it for her. She has fun and talks on and on and on about the latest fashion trends and what I should buy with my own money. The thing is, I don’t want to go broke, so I decline every suggestion she makes for a potential dress I should buy. I don’t need more dresses, I have more than enough pantsuits, blouses, and skirts to wear for my job at the consulting firm downtown. There’s a little pang when I repeatedly see how much I’ve hurt her, it shows in her facial expression, every Saturday. Then, it’s gone in a flash, but the memory remains. It almost makes me want to go broke and splurge the cash on all the useless dresses I’ll never wear. But, I withstand that urge and we carry on, like this, every Saturday.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
FICTION | ILEEN YOUNAN
My Job People don’t know how to hold on to their cash. I know. I work at a financial services consulting firm in downtown Detroit. It’s the same thing every day. Nearly. A woman walks in, she’s afraid that she’s not managing her business to the best of her ability and needs a little aid in that department. I teach her how to use a darn Excel sheet on Microsoft Office to track expenses and revenue each month. I don’t know if she’ll do it or not, but either way, I still get paid for the session. A man walks in with fear that his employees are snatching dollar bills from the register and he’s wondering if he’s underpaying the workers for them to resort to such crude actions. I reassure him that no, they’re just greedy and financially savvy, unlike him. He leaves all huffing and puffing, but I’ve done my job by keeping the facts straight and I don’t care if he comes back or not, because I have so many clients waiting for me each and every single day anyhow. My job is okay and I’m okay with it. I make good cash and that’s all that matters. It’d be wrong to think otherwise, because it’s all I have.
My Brother My little brother made a mistake in life, but my parents cannot see it. If only they knew. He’s an emergency trauma surgeon. To anyone who is looking on from the outside, he’s a genius. But, he’s really not. He couldn’t keep his marriage together and his wife left him. He didn’t spend enough time with her, always spending every night at the hospital and never one with her. He wasn’t there for their daughter’s birthdays, soccer games, or promotions to the next grade at her school. He wasn’t there for her dance recital or piano recitals, either. I took my parents and myself over to support, but he wasn’t there. He’s her father and he hasn’t been involved in her life because of his job. My little brother is stressed and losing his hair, beginning to look older than I am. I’d tell him to dye his hair since he’s getting white streaks at his young age, but I know he doesn’t have the time and even if he did, I bet those white hairs would penetrate through the dye to show the world that yes, he is indeed a surgeon and his parents are proud of his sacrifices. Though, I’m not. I’m just waiting for him to burn out at the age of forty, so my parents might stop thinking this is all a good thing. Then again, I know they’ll never stop bragging about what my brother does for a living and not being at a loss for words because they don’t understand nor appreciate what I do.
My Neighbor My neighbor is someone I barely see. But, I hear her all the time. Her loud music never fails to blare loud and clear at exactly 3 AM each morning. I’m thankful because I never have to worry about waking up late for work. I’m pissed because I never get the amount of rest I need for work at 8 AM and never get to experience the alarm at 6 AM. One of these days, I’ll definitely go over to room 22E and knock on her door and give her a piece of my mind. If she laughs or ignores me, then damn it, I am shoving my way through and throwing her guitar setup onto the floor, stomping on it, then laughing maniacally. Let her rock out to that with the wails escaping her lungs as I leave the place, not giving a care. That would be music to my ears and a tune I could peacefully fall asleep to.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
FICTION | ILEEN YOUNAN
My Cat Mr. Snuggles is the closest living thing to a friend that I have. I would mention my coworkers, but they’re more acquaintances than anything. I mean, I tolerate them and they tolerate me as we coexist in the workplace we all mutually loathe going to (though, I loathe it the least because I’m so good at what I do; I’m the best at my job). Sir Snuggles is the perfect companion. He’s not as clingy as the dog my family had when my brother and I were growing up. He doesn’t drool on me. He doesn’t make bothersome noise like my neighbor or the crazy canary my father took care of a few years ago. He just does his own thing. He gives me my space. He makes a great extra pillow for my arm when I go to bed at night and he hops onto the mattress. He doesn’t bother me with any unnecessary purring. He just is. A pleasant surprise that showed up outside my apartment complex one day and that I took in with the approval of the apartment manager. He’s been the sole breathing thing I undoubtedly appreciate in my life. Except when he coughs up a hairball. Then, I pretend he doesn’t exist.
My Significant Other I have no desire for a boyfriend, destined one, or lover. I had one, but father and mother disapproved so much that they scared him away and nearly drove me insane. But, right now, even without that, I don’t want one. Why? Because damn, are they a waste of time. All I need is my job and a date with a salad at any hip restaurant. There are way too many things to do out there. Like read a book. Look at finance tips. Review my bank balance. Remember not to give a chance to have a screwed up marriage like my brother did, or have to clean up after someone without tact like my mother did for my father. I don’t have the mental fortitude my brother did, nor the patience for a man like my mother did. I’m smart to know my limits and avoid risks, so lacking this doesn’t matter. One thing I have more than everyone is financial security. With that, I can do whatever the hell I want. I can retire early at forty without burning out. I can go to Spain. I can go to a fancy restaurant. No one can tell me not to. I’m free. Free and alone. This is the life. It has to be because it’s the only one I know.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
FICTION | ILEEN YOUNAN
About the Author Ileen Younan is a senior English major at Arizona State University's West Campus. Her work has been published before in Scrittura Magazine and Friday Flash Fiction, with her entire writing portfolio available on her website: https:// ileenyounan.weebly.com. As for her aspirations, she is a soon-to-be Sandra Day O'Connor College of Law student and hopes to eventually become a state attorney while also completing an Ancient Near East historical fiction novel along the way.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
FICTION | SAM PISCIOTTA
Balance Due By Sam Pisciotta
Kinny pulled the prize from his pocket and held it between his fingers. He smiled at the way the light glistened over its surface. He glanced up and saw the goblin looking over at him. At this hour the buses ran nearly empty, and Kinny thought he was alone. He had forgotten about the scrawny, little thing that entered two stops earlier. "What you got there?" The goblin's voice was gravely. Kinny closed his fist loosely around his prize and looked away. The goblin snickered. "Pretty sullen. Even for an ogre." Pain flared in Kinny's mouth, and he flicked his tongue into the groove where his tooth once sat. He stroked his graying beard, trying to forget the goblin's intrusion. The goblin was persistent. "Looks like something good to eat." Kinny shot him a dark look and pulled his shabby overcoat tighter around his body. "It ain't for eating," he snapped. "Besides, I still gots too much pain for the eating." The goblin laughed again, this time out loud. "I thought that ogres were tougher than that." His eyes darted down at Kinny's hand. "I can't believe that a little
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tooth ache would keep a monster like you from eating anything." It was true. Kinny was awfully hungry. His last meal was days ago — some accountant-looking fellow. Kinny had lured him into the entrance of the alley by placing a tin cup on the sidewalk. The accountant walked near, glanced at Kinny, and caught his hungry, lonely eyes, which Kinny had perfected and few humans could resist. When the accountant stepped over to place coins into the cup, Kinny pounced, pulling him into the alley shadows. No one heard the little yelp. That yelp belonged to Kinny. He had forgotten to take off the accountant's wedding ring and bitten down with full force, cracking a molar. "The tooth is gone," Kinny told the goblin. "It ain't doin' the hurting now." "You knocked it out?" "Got it pulled," said Kinny. "By a proper dentist." "A dentist?" The goblin sounded surprised. "How did you get a dentist to crawl into that ugly maw?" "Went in after hours," said Kinny. "Sort of took him by surprise." "Did you eat him?"
WINTER2018
FICTION | SAM PISCIOTTA
"No," said Kinny indignantly. "I needed him. He was working late and alone. I poked myself in and told him the problem. He says that he don't do no charity, especially without an appointment. So I lets out a scream and holds my mouth." Kinny laughed at the memory of the dentist nearly tripping over the chair as he cringed away. "Well," said the goblin. "Then did you eat him?" "No. I sat in the chair and moaned really loud. Like this." Kinny let out a long, painful sounding moan. The lights in the bus flickered brighter. The bus driver shouted back at them. "Hey, you bums, settle down or I'm gonna throw you back onto the street. I don't care if your fare's paid or not." The goblin looked over at the driver and nodded. The lights dimmed again. "Anyway," said Kinny, now caught up in his story. "I sits in the chair and give him the sad eyes. He stepped closer and asked me what the problem was, and I told him a cracked tooth. Here, in the back." Kinny pulled back his right cheek and showed the goblin the empty space where the tooth once sat. The goblin shifted away, as if he’d just caught scent of something unpleasant. "Well," he said to the ogre, "at that point the dentist must have noticed that you were peculiar." Kinny laughed. "Oh, yes. He nearly wet hisself and he yells out, 'You got two rows
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of teeth!' and then he jumped back to the other side of the room. I could tell that he was looking at the door, thinkin' abouts an escape. But I didn't let that happen."
“He tried to protest, told me to take my tooth back, but I was raised a proper ogre. No. The tooth was his by rights.”
The goblin smiled. "You ate him." "No, no. I didn't eat him, I tell you. I needed his service. I only stood up from the chair and threatened to rip open his throat. He was shaky, but he came back to his senses after a bit." "You mean to tell me," said the goblin, "that he actually pulled your tooth?" "He did. I finally persuaded him to get in close. He examined the tooth and then yanked out the naughty biter." "After that," said the goblin, "you must have made a good meal of him." Kinny shook his head. "No. He done me a good turn. Still, I told him that it was the ogre's way that those who take something must also give something. He took my tooth, so I must take a thing from him, too." "Well.... I would have eaten him." "True enough, you would have," said Kinny. "That's because you and your bunch are a lowly, monstrous type with no sense of the world."
WINTER2018
FICTION | SAM PISCIOTTA
The goblin gave Kinny a quiet hiss and half turned away. "As for myself," said Kinny, "I follows the ogre way. He took my tooth, so I must have my due. He tried to protest, told me to take my tooth back, but I was raised a proper ogre. No. The tooth was his by rights. And so, before he could say another word, I shot my hand out toward his face and took my due." Kinny opened his hand and held it out toward the goblin. He rolled the dentist's eye between his fingers and let the dim light flash upon it. "I think I'll make it into a necklace," he said. "Idiot," snapped the goblin. "It won't last long. You might as well eat that, at least."
About the Author Sam W. Pisciotta lives in Colorado where he spends his time teaching, writing, and creating visual art. He received a Master of Arts degree in Literary Studies from the University of Colorado at Denver, and it is that strong connection to story that informs much of his creative efforts. His background is in drawing, with a particular interest in merging representational and expressive techniques. His work reflects life-long interests in nature, science, mythology, and memory. You can see more of his work at www.silo34.com. Follow his Instagram at silo34.
The ogre glanced over at the goblin. "What a crude beast you are," he said, and he settled back to admire his prize.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
FICTION | NICHOLAS LAROCCA
You Can’t Lie About a Ghost By Nicholas LaRocca
Jimmy Cangerini had a bar out in Point we used to go to sometimes—me and Mikey “Downfuh,” because they used to say he was downfuh anything, and the Hogan brothers, Tommy and James, and another guy named T.J. Waganoski, all of us, back when we was all bloated on creatine, getting together of a Friday night to down some shots and split some skulls. Those were the days, let me tell you. My knuckles still ache, thinking about it. This one time, Jesus, me and Mikey and the Hogans got into a scrap with the boys from Sunnyside Beach Service. That was a doozy. Sent some boy named David Hugel to the hospital for stitches, bleeding like a stuffed pig right there on the sand off Pier Four, on an otherwise glorious night—right in front of all those families eating saltwater taffy up on the planks, and we acted like animals for laughter.
“Boat shoes. Real George Michael shit back before he started flashing his dick to school kids. We musta looked like some yacht-club nightmare.” We was just scared—all of us shop kids. Intimidated. Didn’t feel we had no place. We wasn’t bright enough for much, really. So on the one hand, you had your body, guys like me getting into tile and concrete
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right outta high school and earning some dough—I still lived with my parents, but I drove a souped up Monte Carlo with a license plate the state of New Jersey had a cow about but ultimately granted me for Constitutional reasons: WOP-ER. Still have it, mounted to the wall in my garage. Back then, a point of pride, how guido you could get. We used to wear spandex tank tops, all tucked in and faggoty, too— pardon my French—and white shorts like we was in WHAM. Boat shoes. Real George Michael shit back before he started flashing his dick to school kids. We musta looked like some yacht-club nightmare. We had the bodies for it. You wouldn’t think that now, but goddamn back then. You hit the gym all week—this was after a full day laying tile or pouring concrete— and tanned all weekend at Jenkinsons. Met some glorious girls—hot bodies, ratty faces, the kind you could lay easily ‘cause they wanted to feel better ‘cause they wasn’t so pretty—and at night, with some girl’s cum already on your shaft from that afternoon, it was a point of pride not to shower. You went out with her thick on you, looking for another. Those days are gone. Time has its way. I think of back then, you know, making the most of each summer’s day, or even the way at Christmastime I could love a girl with all the aching in my heart in a way I
WNTER2018
FICTION | NICHOLAS LAROCCA
can’t no more. Love changes. Love ain’t what it used to be—that special, crazy love you had for someone when you was a kid. Fourteen, and I remember one time, it musta been the middle of December, colder than a witch’s titty, and I leave my warm little house to go walking down to Sue Pickering’s big one, quite a few neighborhoods away from the ranch-style where I grew up with my mom and Jason, who was a good guy and tried to make a man of me sometimes—not every stepdad’s an asshole, let me tell you. My father was an asshole in his Spic-y bolo ties and slickster mustache. Still is, the miserable prick. Still has the ties, too. When he dies, I’m going tie all this ties together and mummify his corpse. That’s another matter. But Jason was cool. It musta been a good half-mile walk in the freezing cold. Sue asked me over, you know, to make cookies. No shit. And there I was, a good looking kid, too, no worse looking a boy than she was a girl— we’d have made a pretty pair, let me tell you, and those were the days—and a ballplayer, too, and popular, and, you know, I go walking up her walkway—it was so thrilling to be close to her house, invited to see her, a Saxon girl, an honest to goodness dirty blonde. I ring the doorbell. I’m waiting in the cold. And Sue’s little sister answers, cute kid, four years younger, so she’s like ten, though when she got older, she was worth a lay—I mean, you know what I mean— anyway, she answers, and she’s kind of looking at me. I’m like, “Sue here?” So she calls out, “Mom!” and goes running off, which was nice for me, because it made me feel like I was a big shot and she was intimidated by me. Mrs. Pickering comes to the door with her big high wall
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of hair and her cleavage and all that, and she’s like, “Ronnie. Ronnie, you okay?” And I’m like, “Yeah. I’m here to make cookies.” That’s what I said. Still makes me blush, but it was true, you know. I was there to make cookies. And she says, “Oh. I’m sorry.” And time slows down. She says, “Sue went out with Ricky.” Sue had this boyfriend, a senior when we was freshmen, this dorky emo, still galls me, some queef whose ass I could’a wiped the floor with even though he had four years on me. “She must have forgotten. Would you like to come in?” she says. It’s warm and bright inside, and it’s dark and cold behind me. I didn’t really want to, but I needed to warm up, so I said, Okay, Mrs. Pickering, and she brought me inside. It was a big house with a fine banister that took real workmanship, and down the hall was this elaborate, glowing kitchen. White light bouncing off the quartz countertop, the lacquered cabinets. They had an island and everything, which was uncommon back then. She pours me a Coke, no ice, and I sit at the island and drink it, and I’m just staring off at nothing, the bright lights on the shellac of those cabinets and on the shellac of her nails, and she’s like, “I’m sorry, Ronnie,” and I’m, you know, shaking my head and making a face like it’s no big deal. So we talk about school. She’s pretty flirtatious with me—I don’t know where Sue’s father was. She walks me to the door and in the hallway plants a soft kiss on my cheek. “I got a mixed-up daughter.” I thank her sincerely, go out. And for a while I’m feeling happy. And then I’m up
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FICTION | NICHOLAS LAROCCA
the hill and the entrance to my neighborhood’s in sight, and I sit on the curb right on Old County Line Road and start crying like I’ve never cried before and have many times since, to be honest, heartbroken over and over again. It happens. There’s a picture of us—me and Mikey and T.J. and the Hogans, Jimmy Cangerini, too, and maybe he was forty or so at the time, in black slacks and a black turtleneck with his thin silver wristwatch the way he used to wear it, out over his shirt sleeve instead of under, like it was clamping the sleeve in place. We’re posed there on the boardwalk, on the other side from Jimmy’s bar. I know it’s the other side because there’s a little gap in the buildings behind us, and we chose that spot on purpose because the sun was setting, and I remember Mikey saying to me and Tommy Hogan, “Look at that sun,” and when we looked the sky was this gray-purple with some orange what the sun made. So we said, “Let’s take a fucking picture!” We posed arm and arm, and one of the waitresses, Nicole Neff, a little cute thing who went and married a guy named Dan Dantoni, snapped it for us on this bigass Polaroid Cangerini had in his office because he liked to take pictures of the pretty people at his bar summer nights and then pin the pictures up in the hallway to the bathroom. There was a marker on the picture board, and if you came back and saw your picture up, you could sign it. Funny thing. One time— you know, weekends were union-off, so I couldn’t go and pour concrete or I’d be scabbing one hundred percent, so I used
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to slog ice for Jimmy Saturday nights or bounce here and there when he needed extra muscle (though I hated bouncing, let me tell you, because you get sucker punched in the face. And it hurts to get sucker punched in the face)—but one time, I said, “Hey Jimmy, these scoundrels ‘round here, they’ll take the marker and sign a picture ain’t theirs, but then I was studying the pictures, and I ain’t seen that happen once, at least not yet, not from the faces I know. So what’s that about? Honor?” And he said, “I don’t know, Ronnie.” He always muted his accent, you know, tried to knock it down two pegs, but if you got three or four of the good stuff in him, the accent came out as beautiful and glowing as Tommy Hogan’s sunset. He said, “I don’t know, but no one ever does it. Man, sometimes I think those are the pictures of ghosts. I guess you can’t lie about a ghost.” I was a kid, so I said, blushing, “Gettin’ all spiritual on me?” But he said, “You got lots to learn, kid. Lots to learn. And not much time to learn it.” He used to say that a lot, Jimmy Cangerini: You got lots to learn and not much time to learn it. God, he was a good ol’ guy. One of us. One of us boys from Jersey who made good. This was before what people call, joking about it, the Diaspora—I used to call it “dias-pore,” like a blemish on your skin, and I was at some party, and some professor—a real college professor, like, I’m saying, they actually exist—he says to me, “I think it’s di-as-pore-uh,” and I’m staring at him— and this was the thing: there were these
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two Ronnies, one that wanted to punch him in his thin little mouth, and the other that was like, Thank you very much. And this being society and all, and time having passed, and so many of those sunsets behind me, I said, “Thank you very much.” So Jimmy was a good ol’ guy. A guy like that ran on broccoli rabe and water you cooked it in—a guy like my grandpa, a longshoreman. Jason’s dad. A good guy, my grandpa—drank too much, screwed around on Jason’s mom, terrorized him until he was but a shell of himself and couldn’t make heads or tails of what a man was and had to figure it out with my mom, but a good guy. All those men were so angry after they won the War. And I’m thinking of Jimmy now, because he was close to my stepdad’s age, but Jason, he didn’t think this way at all—did his work, came home, sat with my mom nights at the kitchen table, read the Asbury Park Press and ate, I shit you not, graham crackers. Sometimes I’d come down the hall all snotnosed to see them holding hands real warmly, and I’d say something stupid and oftentimes flat mean, and they’d laugh me off like they was saying, You got lots to learn and not much time to learn it. They’re dead and gone now. Buried Jason three years ago, my mother last year. Crazy thing that you die. You do. I swear to God if you don’t believe me: you die. You live a peaceful life and sit nights with a decent woman at the kitchen table eating graham crackers, two people never had it great but had it okay, and then you die. Jimmy moved to Jacksonville or something, had a buddy he went in on concrete with. Made a fortune. I wonder
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whether he’s still alive, and if he is, because everybody’s different with what they think is important, does he remember that picture at sunset on the boardwalk. And if he does, does he remember it as just a bunch of kids used to hang out at his place and work for him a little and try to bang waitresses, or does he remember it closer to the way I remember it or the way Tommy Hogan and Mikey Downfuh saw it back then: right in the heart, square in the heart, the last flaming out at dusk. The whole sore thing of it.
“My cardiologist, he says to me, “Ronnie, listen. Listen.” Cause I’m thinking about the sunset of an evening in July, the Jersey Shore back when I was the night. ”
We ran, but life’s a bitch, cause we never outran the sun. Ran like the cocky little jerks we were, but take a look over your shoulder and you can still see the sunset and the boardwalk and all them times, so much fun back then, so forever back then, all just ghosts of time now, little nothings on the way somewhere else. These days, it’s mostly surviving, you know. Got a problem in the aortic valve. My cardiologist, he says to me, “Ronnie, listen. Listen.” Cause I’m thinking about the sunset of an evening in July, the Jersey Shore back when I was the night. He’s got his hands folded, we’re in freakin’ Florida—where else should I be, right?—and he’s saying, “You have to
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exercise. You have to lose weight. These are things you must do.” All these men in coats—halfway, they are, to capes; all these men with some kind of thinking going on. But sure they carry ghosts. And then they wanna save the rest of us—retribution, vengeance, I know the score: either back-when you was the one causing the pain or you was the one getting hurt. But how to tell him I’m paying a discount price. How to tell him there’s a person or two ought to be allowed to rip my aortic valve right out of my fucking chest.
“He was on the last stool, right before the waitress station, and what got me angry was Nicole Neff came over and she real sweetly put her hand on his shoulder and I thought, She’d fuck that nigger.” There was this one guy used to come in to Cangerini’s, a kid not much older than we was, name of John English, a black kid with these popped out eyes and horse teeth, did work hanging signs for some company. And we knew he was slow. And this one day—this is before that sunset—Mikey Downfuh comes up to me. It’s like, maybe, early evening, you know, and it’s quiet for whatever reason, so maybe it was April or somethin’, or maybe even March, when there wasn’t much out on the boardwalk yet and it was still kinda winter, and you had that dismal gray sky you get in Jersey, with all the pushing gray up from the water and down from the sky that messes everyone up but especially us Italians. So your charge goes opposite, the big smiles go
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away, and you get as edgy as a motherfucker. He comes up to me, Mikey does, and says, “I’m gonna lure that nigger into the back office and kick his ass. Only nigger in this place.” Now Mikey, he’s looking down the hall at this kid, and I mean, this kid ain’t nothing, skinny little runt, over at the bar, laughing, just listening to people, minding his p’s and q’s. But at the time, you know, back then, the guy was grotesque to me, with his black-as-night skin against a red-orange tee shirt like the sunset itself, like he had any right to that color, and his big ass horse teeth and eyes that popped out of his skull. When he smiled, his lips pulled back and he looked to me like a goddamned skeleton or ancient man or something. Prehistoric. Mikey’s like, “Yeah, you hold him, I’m gonna fuckin’ beat his ass. I don’t want him comin’ around here. This is our bar. This place ain’t even remotely for niggers.” I hoped he was kind of kidding—like wasn’t actually gonna do it kidding, like when you say, I’m gonna kill that guy, but you don’t. But at the time, there wasn’t much I claimed I’d do that I wouldn’t actually do, ‘cause I thought it was being a man to follow through, to keep your word by never changing your mind. He was on the last stool, right before the waitress station, and what got me angry was Nicole Neff came over and she real sweetly put her hand on his shoulder and I thought, She’d fuck that nigger. That’s exactly what I thought and how I thought it. I’d never really been an n-word guy. But just right there, something made me angry about black guys fucking white girls, and I was just—
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FICTION | NICHOLAS LAROCCA
it was like, who the fuck do they think they are, and look at this whore, too, flirting with a fucking retard. I mean, she was just doin’ her job. Cangerini taught her, you know, flirt with the customers, it keeps ‘em coming back, and everybody benefits: the place does well, she gets bigger tips. But that ain’t how I saw it. I saw it as kind of like an undermining of the race and at the same time a rejection of guys like me and Mikey Downfuh, and even Jimmy Cangerini. So I’m the one goes up to John English and starts talking, pretending I got some shit to do back behind the bar. I’m like, “So what’s new, John.” I swear to God this guy looked at me like I’d just told him he won the lottery. His big ol’ eyes got warm and kind. He was taken aback that I even talked to him. He says, “Not much. Making it. Having a beer.” “Hey, what do you do? You know, for a living?” “Hang signs. I hang signs all over the place.” “That’s what I heard. Where do you hang them?” “All everywhere. From Newark to Atlantic City. Hang them signs. Come in and have a beer. That’s what I do.” “That’s fascinating, all them signs, you hanging them everywhere. Going to places and putting a sign higher than it was, and looking at it.” I was laughing right at him, real superior.
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But it was really odd to me. He had a really deep black baritone, like Barry White or something, even though he was a little runt. It was weird, like people can be two things at once, and for a second I was like, Maybe he’s a retarded little runt, but he’s also a nice guy—a good guy, like Jason maybe, who was a little guy, too, and pale, and kind of never healthy. “I’m Ronnie, by the way. They call me Ronnie Prestoné, cause I’m good with cars, but that ain’t my real name.” “What’s your real name?” he asked, and looked down at his bottle of beer. His lips kept moving like he was thinking of the next thing to say. And what I was thinking, you believe this, was, This guy’s not gonna outsmart me, thinking about what he wants to say before he says it. So I says, “Tell you in a second. Hey, c’mon back.” “Hmm?” “You got your picture up in the hallway yet?” “No.” “C’mon, let’s change that. Jimmy’s not in, and we got the camera.” He was like, astonished. His mouth opened, and his eyes got equal parts lit up and scared. And he didn’t move, neither, just kind of sat there like he was thinking about the implications of his picture being up, maybe thinking, They’re letting me be one of them! Because lickety-split he’s out of the stool and he’s left his beer on the bar.
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FICTION | NICHOLAS LAROCCA
He follows me down the hallway. We get to the pictures, and he’s like, “Wait, wait.” He goes looking at them—and he’s really concentrating like he’s studying for a test, looking over each picture for how he wants to look, cause he says, “I want mine to go right there,” and points to a little empty spot. “Maybe I can take one with you.” “Sure, yeah,” I say, and I’m feeling something, you know. But you gotta follow through. And Nicole’s hand was on his shoulder. “C’mon. It’s in the office.” I start down the hall, but he ain’t following. Not because he thought I was gonna hurt him but because he didn’t think it was proper he goes into Jimmy’s office when Jimmy isn’t there. I go, “C’mon, it’s okay. We go in there all the time. You got a hall pass.” And something about joking, and something about how he laughs a little and comes forward like some dog you’re luring and you know you’re gonna torture that dog, but the dog’s coming to you, and you’re thinking something is wrong, something is wrong, but you gotta follow through—it was right there. It was all right there. Mikey was already in the office. I led John English in. I had my hand on the small of his back and everything, like we’re a couple dancing. And when I see Mikey, I feel a little better, because at least I got a comrade and all. I say, “We come to take a picture for the wall,” and I shut the door almost, enough so no one can see and no one will really hear with the noise in the bar and all, but not fully
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shut so John doesn’t freak and just thinks we want a little privacy for picture taking. I really thought about it a lot, how shut that door should be. I put my whole mind on it. Here’s the thing. Easy enough right there could’a kicked his ass. I mean, Mikey gets up from the desk, the camera’s not in his hands, it’s just sitting on top of the desk calendar. He comes around. I mean, all I had to do was grab John. But I didn’t. ‘Cause it was Mikey didn’t yet want me to. He says, “All right, you guys hit a pose, over there by the wall.” Now I’m thinking, what the hell is going on here. We go stand by a wall that has another calendar on it, this one dry-erase, with all the waitresses and bartenders and barbacks schedules. My name is on there. Ronnie Fontana. A few times. I didn’t count how many. I couldn’t concentrate. I could hear my heartbeat. I’m standing there, next to this guy John, our shoulders are touching, it’s getting warm, my eyelids are twitching I got so much adrenaline going, and Mikey, he picks up the Polaroid and says, “Arms around each other.” And we do, the first time in my life I ever put my arm around a black guy. His shoulders were so thin, I’m thinking, This is just a little guy; this guy ain’t no guy; this guy ain’t gonna bang Nicole; this guy ain’t nothing. Mikey says, “Smile, assholes,” and John feels like that’s camaraderie, so he flashes a million dollar smile, and I spread my lips and in the picture I look like there’s some fag with bucks and power goosing my asshole and I have to let him.
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FICTION | NICHOLAS LAROCCA
“Yeah, nice,” John English says after Mikey snaps the picture. He steps forward and puts out his hand to see. But Mikey pulls the picture back and says, “Gotta let it develop.” He winks at me, ‘cause of the word develop, letting things develop. Shakes the Polaroid a little, puts it on the desk, puts the camera down, and in comes this image of us, my arm around him, just the edges of it, when Mikey gives me the sign.
“That was Mikey’s hand, like when he hit John English, he swatted the core—the sun, you know, radioactive, what powers the system. ” If you ain’t never held a person when he’s getting hit—and why would you have, you ain’t a guy like me, after all, and that ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed about, what you are, let me tell you—you get your hands up under him, get him in a full nelson, and you want his whole torso exposed, and the other guy getting a clear, still shot. You don’t want the guy you’re holding to move at all. In the movies, where everything is bullshit cause the whole experience is from the outside, you’re just watching it. Do it in real life and you’re feeling it. I slipped my hands up under John English’s arms, and his arms were so thin they were like noodles —no resistance—and I thought, He’s small, like a little boy. But he didn’t resist two seconds later, neither. And Mikey is coming forward—I mean, it’s a running punch, a running right cross, just everything he has thrown into it—and John doesn’t do nothing at all until the final moment, and even then he doesn’t
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try to break free, just braces himself, and I can feel his whole body bracing all the way down ‘cause I’m pushed up against him, and in my heart is this terrible feeling like this has happened to him all his life and he thought he found a place it wouldn’t happen, and really, to be honest, my dick is right up against him, you know, and when Mikey connects, the punch was so hard I could feel it all the way down into John’s glutes. He goes limp. Bag of rice. If I let him fall, he’s gonna hit his head, and the floor ain’t carpeted, so I hold him up and really slowly bring him down to the ground, real soft and gentle, and lay him down like a lover into bed, like a woman I might have carried, maybe like Nicole end of the day when she’s tired and dragging and falls asleep in front of the tv and I bring her to the bedroom. Like that. He’s lying on the floor now. Okay, he’s breathing. I don’t know if anything is broken in his face. Mikey’s connected so hard, his hand is right away blowing up. I actually watch it blow up, you know, watch it get fat, and I remember this one scene in this movie about how they made the atomic bomb, and there’s this moment where something goes wrong and the character, he’s gotta swat the core away, this pulsing, radioactive ball—and he swats it away, and then they’re calculating with their smarts everyone who was in the room, how much radioactivity they got in them, and the guy who swatted it away does the math to show that he’s dead. Done for. And he starts swelling up like soon. That was Mikey’s hand, like when he hit John English, he swatted the core—the sun,
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you know, radioactive, what powers the system. “Go get some ice,” Mikey says. I go running—and I know where the ice is because that’s what I did at the bar. I mean, not know where the ice is but pour the ice. Which means it’s like my ice. I get a big bowl and put the ice in it and bring it back. Nicole sees me and goes, “Where you going with that?” But I just shake my head. The ice bowl is heavy. I’m hugging it to my chest the way I hugged John to my chest. I go into the office and put the bowl on the floor, and Mike, he sits down right near John and immerses his hand in the ice and leans his chin back and says, “Thank you,” real relieved, and I’m just sitting there on the other side of John, and he’s starting to come to, and his eye is swelling up bad. I take off my shirt and pile some ice in it and wrap it up and put it on John’s eye, and I got my shirt off, and Mikey is going, “That feels better. Honest.” And I’m shirtless and John is lying between us breathing like he’s sleeping, and I’m sucking in my stomach to flex my abs, like that matters, and I’m holding the ice on John’s eye, which is turning colors like the sunset months later. But that’s the future, and right then we was just sitting there, and we couldn’t look at each other. “Fontana,” I say to John English, and stroke his face. “Ronnie Fontana. But you can call me Ronnie Prestone. I’m good with cars.” I looked up to see Mikey Downfuh looking at me sideways. I expected like this was the movies for him to be
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scowling at me something fierce, but he’s just comprehending me, of an evening in Cangerini’s office with this half-dead, concussed guy between us. Damned if John English’s mouth didn’t spread into a smile. Damned if I didn’t think that smile was the sweetest smile I’d ever seen in my life. Damned if I didn’t love that guy right then more than I ever for a day loved my fucked up father or even Mikey —though when took that picture some months later, I loved Mikey, too. It was John English took that picture. Was John’s picture with me we put up right in the center of the board, cleared space for it, took down these hot girls in little shorts to put up that picture, John and me, and a funny thing I noticed: my face is so close to his. It’s like a picture of close, close friends, like we loved each other before the floor. He and I signed it at the same time, a week or so later, when he came back in. That whole week, I was working up in Newark, but I kept asking Nicole Neff, who knew what we’d done and never said a word, whether he was back in, and there he showed up on a Thursday, still a little groggy, he told her. And then he said this to her, and she told me she didn’t get it, but I did, and it messed me up forever: “But it’s all right, long as that night, I passed on through to the other side for good.” This one time years later, when I was working on bigtime crews up in Northwest Jersey finishing homes for Goldman Sachs guys and Yankees and Knicks and Giants and Rangers and Jon Bon Jovi and all the rest, this one time, I made this friend named Conan, a faux-
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finish guy, a real artist with the brush, and he invites me one day to a party down the Shore where he’s living in a little place with his roommate, another guy does faux finishes. His name’s Miguel. Anyway, the short of it is, we’re all hanging out, pounding beers and so on, and there’s the requisite hotties there and all, though I was getting old to be among that crowd, and so were Conan and Miguel, and really everybody else, because these girls were like twenty, nineteen. And suddenly, outcome two big canvases—it’s Conan carrying one and Miguel the other. And they set them up right in the big living room—some hot chicks actually dragged away the coffee table. They’re all excited ‘cause there’s something new happening, but I’m standing there in dream land with my beer getting warm, and both guys bring out these tackle boxes of oil paints. They turn to us, and Conan says to me, maybe ‘cause I’m older and he’s knowing he can trust me to give a good answer, “Ronnie, what should we paint?” He had a clear voice, not like mine, real MidAtlantic. “I think the sunset, maybe down here on the Shore.”
“And I’m there watching. Oh, I’m watching. I’m watching and watching and watching and watching. ” Conan’s blue sky. And soon the sun is touching them both, and that gray is lit up like smoldering coals, and that blue is touched like there’s a pot of gold out there somewhere. And I’m watching them paint. And soon people are coming and going, getting beers or going outside and maybe coming back in to check on the progress. But I ain’t moving, even to sit down. Just standing in the room in Conan’s and Miguel’s house down the Shore, watching these two men paint side by side. The pictures are coming clearer. This is sunset to them—Conan’s got the businesses up in the foreground, but Miguel is painting the sunset over Barnegat Bay, the bridge real close to the front and the gray water back beyond, and some big houses around the water. And I’m there watching. Oh, I’m watching. I’m watching and watching and watching and watching.
And the rest of the party—about fifteen or so people, not too many—they all make noises like they agree. So both guys get down to it. Dipping the brushes and touching the canvases and here’s Miguel’s version of the sky, Miguel from Mexico, Miguel with a Day of the Dead tat on his forearm, and the sky is the gray of a storm in the morning, that real dark, lingering, tiring-out gray, like the day ain’t never gonna greet you. And here’s
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FICTION | NICHOLAS LAROCCA
About the Author Nick LaRocca’s stories and essays have recently been featured in Euphony, Crack the Spine, Valley Voices, the 3288 Review, The Flagler Review, Outside In Magazine, the Steel Toe Review, South85, Per Contra, and the Milo Review. A short story, “The Three Cadenzas,” is forthcoming in the Blue Lake Review. His short story “Gestures” (Lowestoft Chronicle) was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for Fiction. His short story “Understandings” was nominated for Best of the Net by Wraparound South. “The Three Cadenzas” is forthcoming in The Bluelake Review. He is Professor I of English at Palm Beach State College, Lake Worth.
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FICTION | BLAKE KILGORE
No Deep Shadows, No Utter Darkness By Blake Kilgore
A heavy fist pounded an ancient desk and swollen lids shut tight over bloodshot eyes. The big man pushed his desk chair back with a screech, stood abruptly, and started to pace. “Why do they blame me? Dumbass cops, and the boy too. What’d he think was gonna happen?” Cameron Lee Arnold was red-faced. Three time mayor of Rutland, South Carolina, he was afraid of losing the upcoming election because the black vote was threatening to bolt. Two weeks prior, a fifteen year old black male -Wallace Victor - had allegedly robbed a liquor store at the edge of town. Rutland City Police chased, ran the boy off the road, dragged him out of his car and beat him unconscious.
“Rutland City Police chased, ran the off the road, dragged him out of his car and beat him unconscious.” “Hell – I’m not one of these hick politicians that don’t give a damn about black lives, even if the boy is an ignorant little jerk-off. Don’t they know what I represent?” Mayor Arnold’s claim to fame was that his greatgreat-great grandpa, General Absalom Payne Arnold, had come after the Civil War to assist with the Freedman’s Bureau. He’d fought and won a guerilla operation against one of Nathanial Bedford Forest’s local agents – Darling Earl Winthrop - and a military troop of the Ku Klux Klan. General Arnold chased them out of the county; during the early years after the War, while reports of lynching and other acts of
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terrorism filtered in from all over the South, Rutland was at peace. Mayor Arnold looked out his window, down on the lawn of the town square, and saw the stern features of his ancestor carved in stone. General Arnold sat atop his rearing horse, his cavalry saber raised for one last victorious charge against the racists, who wouldn’t let the old ways die. Lonny Marble sat back and frowned. Arnold’s campaign manager wondered if the blacks could be assuaged. Saggy, tired eyelids clinched shut and he hefted his huge elbows on the desk, which creaked in protest. Marble kneaded chubby fingers against the temples of his shiny bald head and thought about Wallace Victor sitting in the jail downstairs with seventy-two stitches and a swollen skull, awaiting his trial. The black community blamed Mayor Arnold – it happened on his watch. Suddenly Marble looked up, pondering. “What about the Confederate monument for that Corporal so and so? I think it’s Jones or Johnson, something like that? You know the one, right? It sits right near St. Peter’s A.M.E. chapel, down by the county line? Barely see it anymore, it’s so overgrown. I could schedule a meet with Pastor Uriah, and you could offer to work hand in hand for its removal. Probably nobody’d even notice it was gone. Uriah’s got a lot of sway with the community and might turn things around.” “You’re right. Most people don’t know about the monument. Hell, I can’t remember the guy’s name either. But I guarantee you this - some of these rednecks know, or at least they’ll pretend to, and when they start to pitch a fit, we’ll lose votes.”
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FICTION | BLAKE KILGORE
“Doesn’t matter who he was or how they feel you need the black vote or you’re out. It’s simple math, Cam. Want to make the call?” “I guess I have to.” *** Pastor Uriah was sitting in his study, looking through the threadbare books in his grandpa’s timber strongbox. This was his greatest treasure. It held the manuscripts of several generations, from the very first of his kin who could read and write. That first literate ancestor, his great-great Uncle Daniel Winthrop, had been the slave of KKK leader Darling Earl. So he joined up when he got the chance to fight back, served as guide to General Absalom Payne Arnold. That original Rutland Arnold kept Daniel close because he knew the terrain; he’d been trusted before the war and travelled all over. Daniel was there when they killed Darling Earl, watched with fear and joy when his old master went glassy-eyed and cold. Then in 1885, Rutland built the town square monument, a witness to the righteous protection of the great white hero – General Arnold. They exhumed the remains of the General (who had died a few years before) from Rutland’s white cemetery and buried them beneath the statue. Pastor Uriah had an older cousin who always reminded them that it was old Uncle Daniel who reinterred the hero and this gave the family a piece of history to hold a little tighter than the rest. And the black folk in Rutland never forgot General Arnold, always held the name in high regard. It wasn’t until this incident with the Victor boy that the current Mayor Arnold wanted to meet and try and salvage the family heritage. Pastor Uriah flipped through the journals, old and dusty and fading, looking at the dates. There were tens of journals, each hand bound, labeled in a similar manner. On the inside of the covers were bookend dates, from the first entry and the last. Each testament covered a chronological stage in the life of Daniel Winthrop. There was only one journal that he’d never read. His father had warned about the omen of strange writing on its label. The mysterious word “Belshazzar” emblazoned in huge capital letters, dark red ink. But this morning something tugged his mind, made him long to know the secrets, and he uncovered the journal. His heart quickened, but then he heard a knock. Suddenly he felt nervous, protective, and hid all the journals within the CANYONVOICES
chest again, locked it and put it away. Then he answered the door to Mayor Arnold. “Good morning, Pastor Uriah, it is so very nice to see you.” Pastor Uriah thought the Mayor was smiling a little too wide; grinning like white people do when they want to overcompensate for what they expect will be judgment. “Hello, Mayor, come on in. Would you like a cup of coffee?” “No, thanks.” Right down to business, thought Pastor Uriah. Knows he needs me, but too busy to listen, just wants to command. “Sure? Just brewed a fresh pot.” “Well, ok. Do you have sugar and cream?” Pastor Uriah poured two cups, one full and black, the other two thirds full, leaving room. He handed the latter to the Mayor, who dumped in four creamers and two packets of sugar, stirring them aggressively, turning the coffee pale and syrupy. Pastor Uriah wondered if he’d even taste the coffee. He’d brought out the good stuff, Jamaican Blue Mountain, and now wished he’d brewed Folgers. Sitting back, he waited on whatever it was the Mayor would offer to gain his support. “You know, there is still a lot of racial tension in the air these days.” The Mayor shifted nervously, coughed, and looked for a rebuke of such obtuse patronage. Pastor Uriah just nodded mercifully. “So, anyhow, I know this situation with Wallace Victor is causing a lot of real pain for your community, and I wanted to let everyone know that I’m still on your side.” “Sir, does the incident cause you pain?” Mayor Arnold shifted again, leaned forward and spoke energetically. “Yes, Pastor, it does, and that is why I’m here. We’re going to make sure young Mr. Victor gets justice, and you can rest easy knowing the officers who beat him will be held responsible for WINTER2018
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their actions. In the meantime I thought we might take other steps to put the community at ease, remind them how important they are to our city.” Pastor Uriah was listening, but his face was hard. The Mayor stood and walked to the chapel window, gazed across the road to the corner of Grant and Howard streets, and saw the small edifice that had been raised to honor a confederate soldier, Corporal Jonathan Joseph. Arnold did not know the story. “Pastor, I imagine it is very difficult for you and your flock to gaze across the way every Sunday morning and have to see that monument to the racist South. And I think it is high time we bring the memorial down. I was thinking about a gathering on the third Saturday next month, invite the members of the community and have a big pot luck dinner. At the end of the night we can hold a press conference, and we - you and me and the other black leaders – will join together in calling for removal of that hateful memorial. What do you think?” Saturday before the election – interesting. Pastor Uriah was a student of history so he knew the story of Corporal Jonathan Joseph. He’d referenced the tale during sermons more than once through the years. The young man was from a poor family, one of those lowly white families who didn’t own slaves, but were willing to fight to preserve the system that held them one step above blacks. Corporal Joseph didn’t sign up, but his younger brothers, Titus and Reginald, had run off to fight. Corporal Joseph followed them on behalf of his mother, to protect the brothers from harm, and he promised to bring them back home. Late in the war, Titus and Reginald were captured outside Charleston and were being transferred to Morris Island, where confederate prisoners were dying of starvation so frequently that everyone knew it was deliberate. Corporal Joseph had been tracking his brothers and, on the last night before they were taken to the island, made a desperate rescue attempt. He created such havoc that a few boys escaped, including his brothers. But he was shot in the leg and could not run. Taken to Morris Island, Corporal Joseph was among those who perished in the dire living conditions. He’d made good on
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his promise to his mother, though, and Rutland honored his devotion. Thus, for Pastor Uriah, Morris Island was a paradox. The famous 54th Regiment, composed of African-American soldiers and led by the abolitionist Robert Gould Shaw, had assaulted Fort Wagner on Morris Island, only to be turned back with devastating loss. They’d fought for each other, had sacrificed everything for what they believed, and finally earned the respect they were owed on behalf of all their people. Then there was Corporal Joseph, a simple boy who fought for his brothers if not for the cause, but he still lost his life. Slavery was a malady, and the Civil War was destructive. Everyone was wounded to greater or lesser degrees by the sickness. We still are, he reflected. Wonder if we’ll ever be whole. Those who paid for the memorial might have been hateful racists, but it recalled Corporal Joseph’s sacrifice. Pastor Uriah wondered how removing the marker would solve what had happened with young Wallace Victor. He shook his head, said he’d have to think about it.
“Corporal Joseph followed them on behalf of his mother, to protect the brothers from harm, and he promised to bring them back home.” “But don’t you want to erase those bad times?” “Mayor, we cannot expunge our history of its disturbing facts. We can, however, remember in a way that helps us change. Bring justice for Wallace Victor, sir, and I might find my hope renewed. Let’s not get distracted with the monument right this moment. Maybe after.” Mayor Arnold departed hurriedly, dejected, and his cup of cream and coffee sat full on the counter, untouched. When he left, Pastor Uriah poured the pale mixture down the drain and walked back into his study, remembering the strange notation in Uncle Daniel’s journal. ***
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FICTION | BLAKE KILGORE
When he picked up the “Belshazzar” journal again, Pastor Uriah realized the back cover was heavy and thicker than the other journals. Pressing his hands tight around the cover, he found it lumpy and hard. Agitated with curiosity, he pulled out his pocket knife and carefully sliced into the edge, forming a slight opening the length of the journal. A shaking hand reached in and gently removed a worn letter written in the same red ink; a hand-drawn map of the old black cemetery; and a key. Breathing heavily, his heart racing, Pastor Uriah read. Go to the black cemetery, it said. Dig up the coffin of Uncle Nathan. He was my great grandpa, thought Pastor Uriah. Dig up the dead? What a strange and profane command. Pastor Uriah closed the book, locked the chest, and walked away. He tried to forget, prayed through the night for God to take away his desire to follow the trail. Eventually, when he knew he couldn’t hide, he accepted the written name as a sign and searched the scriptures to review the tale of Belshazzar, and the handwriting on the wall. He recalled that both Kings Nebuchadnezzar and Belshazzar were great sinners and oppressors mighty rulers punished by God for their insolence. However, after pride reduced him to living like a beast in the fields, Nebuchadnezzar repented. Belshazzar was shackled by pride and refused to confess, so God brought an end to his reign. He wrote divine judgment on the wall, so that all would know and remember the hazard of a remorseless heart. This was a theme Pastor Uriah spoke to again and again. Everyone fell, got angry, injured others, came up short. The key was to turn away from wickedness in oneself, whenever and wherever it was found; the story of Belshazzar was reminder that justice comes for all, even the powerful. Pastor Uriah used to remind his congregation with this stern warning from the book of Job: “there is no deep shadow, no utter darkness, where evildoers can hide.” On the Thursday night before the election, Pastor Uriah finally submitted to the ordeal. Climbing in his pickup, he drove to the old black cemetery at the edge of town and, using the tattered map, located the gravesite of his great grandpa Nathan. No one really knew how he died. He’d CANYONVOICES
simply disappeared, and an empty coffin was buried just so people could say goodbye. Pastor Uriah grabbed his shovel and paused, still reluctant to uncover whatever was concealed. But even prideful Belshazzar, when his wise men could not decipher the cryptic words on the wall, searched until he found the prophet Daniel, though the interpretation was his doom. Finally turning off his flashlight, Pastor Uriah started digging, and the darkness seemed to creep in, casting shadows. But then the moon looked on, full, beaming its approval, its silvery streams spilling past the gaunt darkness of the forest, illuminating the sacred ground. Pastor Uriah quickened his pace, slogging for hours, until he uncovered the heavy coffin. Sweating profusely, Pastor Uriah sat and took a sip of Old Grand Dad from the flask he’d brought to help him with his fear. He whispered a prayer, asking God to protect him from evil. Determined now, despite his trepidation, he pulled open the casket, and leapt back with a cry. There was the body, or at least the skeletal remnants, of his great grandpa Nathan, who had supposedly disappeared. Bewildered, Pastor Uriah started to weep. Then he noticed something in the corner above the skull of his ancestor. Quickly the flashlight was back on, revealing another box, and he remembered the key. Pulling it from his pocket, he fit it into the slot, turned, and it clanged like a muted warning bell, stifled by earth and time, but still true. Pastor Uriah’s skin went tingly and cold. Wrenching the box open with a grating whine, he illuminated the contents. There were layers of cloth wrapped several times around two pieces of stock parchment, and inside, another letter. It was signed by a notary, on March 7, 1885. Pastor Uriah sat back against his truck, took another long shot from his flask, shined on the letter, and read: I left a great burden to you, boy. Things were bad for so many years, and then General Arnold come and saved us, and we loved him. See - we needed to believe some of the white folk were good. But Truth won’t stay quiet, and I apologize for putting this on your shoulders. Maybe by the time you read this our people will finally be free and not worried about WINTER2018
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being harassed and attacked by white men with guns. I fought alongside General Arnold; saw him kill Darling Earl, and that was just. But I also saw other things, later. Your uncle Nathan started pondering - wondered why the Klan never came back to Rutland. Things seemed so peaceful, but we couldn’t make any headway. Couldn’t purchase but the worst land, and though the Bureau always found us jobs under Arnold, they never paid enough, and the white farmers got real prosperous, while we stayed poor. And there was too much smiling all the time. There was peace, you know, but we knew it was false. I told Nathan - be happy, at least we’re safe, but he couldn’t just let things lie. So he started snooping around, following the General all over. Soon found out he’d given up, just like most of the other Bureau agents. Too many were too angry and the whites just wanted to make up, go back to the way things had always been. The purpose of the Bureau was like salt in the wound, and we had to be sacrificed for the greater good. There was no hope for us black folk, General said. Better off slaves, now we were free, and had to be taken care of just the same, like children. And he had these secret meetings with members of the Klan, and they drafted legislation that kept us shackled, if not in body, in property and education and economic power. And one night your uncle, who still believed in the General, disappeared. Nobody ever found him, but I saw what happened. The General killed him. Shot him dead, threw him in the river, and came back to town smiling and lying in our faces. I was sure no one would believe me over and against the General, so I stayed quiet. But I found your uncle Nathan, and I buried him. I’ve been a coward, and I am so ashamed. When the General finally died I felt some relief. But then Rutland wanted to honor him with the statue, and all the anger and humiliation welled up again. I knew there must be justice for your uncle, and for all of us who’d been deceived. I offered my meager protest burying the remains of your uncle Nathan beneath the statue of the General, in the town square, as a CANYONVOICES
sort of silent irony. These bones here, in the black cemetery, are the remains of General Absalom Payne Arnold, the hypocrite hero of Rutland. God grant you courage. Please forgive me Pastor Uriah wept, and set his jaw. He drove home slowly, windows down, listening to the song of the midnight countryside. Gravel crunched under the slow roll of his tires, and a lonely owl hooted, patiently watching for just the right moment to strike a fell blow that would provide its survival. Uncle Daniel had hoped for just the right moment, and here it was, but Pastor Uriah was hesitant. What could he do anyway, and what would it change? His pickup rolled past an opening in a thick ridge of trees and he parked, looked far and away up the bleak path. Darling Earl’s decrepit plantation was crumbling up there, abandoned for several decades now. Maybe he should just let things lie, thought Pastor Uriah.
“Shot him dead, threw him in the river, and came back to town smiling and lying in our faces” His door opened with a whine and Pastor Uriah was marching uphill, the darkness of the forest canopy blocking out the moonlight, and he had to pull out his flashlight again, just to see each treacherous step. The chattering, skittering sounds of forest animals went silent at his passing, hidden creatures waiting to see what he’d do. When he reached the summit he climbed Darling Earl’s steps and sat, looking back down across the valley. Downhill were fields, long fallow and overgrown with weeds, but once, lush and prosperous, worked by the ebony hands of strong men and women with scars on their backs. His own people toiled there, under the eye of their master, wicked Darling Earl. The moon was shining again, a grey-black cloud having drifted out of its light. A chorus of howls erupted from the woods, and Pastor Uriah sensed the danger of lingering, stood. He knew what he must do.
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One of his college classmates was the head of the Genetics Department at South Carolina State University. In the morning called his old friend, ask him to come test the DNA of the skeleton he’d dug up, looking for a connection to General Arnold. He’d also tell him about the remains under the town square statue too. Then he sent a copy of the notarized letter to the The Post and Courier, down in Charleston. They ran it on Saturday, and after that national news agencies picked it up, and the networks came running to Rutland. The reporters were only in town for two days, but it was enough. Mayor Arnold lost the election and fell into despair. His soul was naked, and he began to freeze. For warmth, he took to drinking. Soon enough, he also lost his family - a lovely, but equitably hollow wife and three lonely daughters. The case involving the Rutland Police and Wallace Victor never went to trial. It was concluded the officers acted within responsible discretion, based upon the “dangerous” actions of the young black boy. However, the men were required to attend diversity training, and were outraged at the injustice. Wallace Victor was treated for brain trauma, was in and out of therapy, on and off various meds, for several years. He couldn’t get on track, couldn’t find work, a reason to live. He kept having these fits and seizures and eventually only the bottle could provide relief, so it ended up swallowing him like it did Arnold. After that nobody could love him. He just ran, but Rutland’s a small place, and there’s nowhere to hide, even when you’re living in the alleyways and underneath the shadowy canopy of the forest.
shoulders, slid them right up under the nappy, lice-covered dreads, and squeezed, like a father. Pastor Uriah would weep sometimes, but especially when Wallace would step down from his porch and wander into the fog of the morning, a glazed looked in his eye. One Wednesday morning, after every attempt to heal his soul failed, Wallace Victor walked into the silence of the forest to put an end to his suffering. Friday came, and Pastor Uriah offered the final provision, a true and mournful eulogy. The Pastor was never afraid, but it seemed like he was always on the front lines, in the midst of sorrow. And many times he felt abandoned. He was hard-headed, though, and couldn't stop believing that one day all things would be made whole. So he kept preaching, kept loving, kept forgiving, even while he helplessly watched the slow murder of Wallace Victor. Sometimes he contemplated the discouragement of poor white Corporal Joseph, lying in prison on Morris Island, dying for someone else’s lost cause. Sure he’d done good, saved another. But he was still going to wither to dust. And then Pastor Uriah would pray alongside the murderer King who repented: “How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me?” -Psalm 13:2
The scars on his face and head never fully healed, and once he took to living on the streets, his hair grew thick and outlandish around the scar. A hairless ridge an inch thick meandered among tangles of huge, clumpy locks like a river searching for a harbor, and it changed his face too, grooving an unnatural gap between his eyes, so that he looked cloven in two. Pastor Uriah searched for him, brought him home and cleaned him up, gave him food and drink, put him to bed. He never stopped trying. When he prayed for Wallace, Pastor Uriah put his strong, black hands on those hollow CANYONVOICES
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FICTION | BLAKE KILGORE
About the Author Blake Kilgore grew up in Tornado Alley, spending most of his first three decades in Texas and Oklahoma. Now, he lives in New Jersey with his wife and four sons, where he’s just commenced his twentieth year teaching history to junior high students. That’s how his love for story began recounting the (mostly) true stories from olden times. Eventually, he wanted to tell stories of his own, and you can find some of these in Lunch Ticket, Rathalla Review, Midway Journal, Forge, Crack the Spine, and other fine journals. To learn more, go to blakekilgore.com
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Juli Adams
POETRY ______________________________
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Scott Laudati
Jeff Hood
The Santa Fe Trail
Jack Orion
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Kristina Heflin
Allyssea Carver
Quiet Pancakes
Sentient Blues
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Danielle Rocha
William Miller
Mama’s Fears
Bienville Square
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Madison Shanley
Randel McCraw Helms
With Nothing to Hold
The Poet’s Dream
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Suzanne White
Andrej Božič
The Spiraling Tumbleweed
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Zamolk / Hesitation
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John Payton 3:16 A.M.
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POETRY | SCOTT LAUDATI
The Santa Fe Trail By Scott Laudati
You can read maps by starlight in places I've been and you sleep like shit off the Mexican beer and wake up covered in bites in hotels where life is impossible and everything still alive wants blood. Did you know what you wanted at the taco truck in Dale Hart? Do you know that there’s a whole country out there that doesn’t care about New York? I do now. I might know everything now. I’ve drank from the shallow creeks. I've chewed the tacos rellenos with fire still in the seeds. I looked up for God and every grackle in the tree followed my gaze. Next time I’ll follow the trails in the sand and the small streams will lead me to the window rock. Or maybe the other way to lay down in a graveyard where desert rats use cow skulls as ashtrays. And if the rains ever come again maybe white petals will bud up from my bones and a lost rabbit can spend a day sleeping under my shade.
Poet’s Recital
I wrote this poem last July when I was staying at the Eklund hotel in Clayton, NM with my friend Thom Young. We’d just driven there from west Texas, about a million miles of lost people and dirt and closed signs were in the rearview and Clayton didn’t look any better. I spent a couple days getting drunk and walking around the deserted town, waiting to get shot by bandits or abducted by aliens or whatever happens when you go into the void and come out the other side. There’s something so beautiful and evil about the desert, whatever secrets of the universe there are must be hidden out there. The Santa Fe Trail is about trying to find them.
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POETRY | KRISTINA HEFLIN
Quiet Pancakes By Kristina Heflin
We’ve been here before Syrup sliding over quiet pancakes Silverware clatters in the kitchen golden oldies on the radio What’s left to be said in the chill of morning light? Each of us held back by each other’s restraints and a wall built by three unspoken words So we pass the salt and pepper shift in squeaking vinyl booth and go on eating
Poet’s Recital
When I think about “Quiet Pancakes” I think, “There can’t be much to say about this little poem.” The truth is that one morning I found myself at the local IHOP with my friend, and it sort of came to me, more or less in the format in which it exists now. Although it would be nice to say this is the result of what Wordsworth calls the “spontaneous overflow of emotion,” he also admits that a true poet is one who has “also thought long and deeply” about his subject. This tells me that, while the poem seemed easy to write, it was the result of many labored hours dwelling on the matter.
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POETRY | DANIELLE ROCHA
Mama’s Fears By Danielle Rocha
Mama worries too much about her baby girls. She fears that because Daddy’s gone They’ll grown up half-empty, and parched That they’ll be searching for relief on their knees, Asking for paternity to be dripped on their tongues By callused hands To quench their thirst for a father’s affection And never be satisfied. Mama worries her love won’t be enough, That her sacrifices and pain To make up for Daddy’s absence Will not relieve the dryness in their throats And she’ll have to watch as her baby girls lap The drops of a man’s tenderness off the ground And pant for more.
Poet’s Recital
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POETRY | MADISON SHANLEY
With Nothing To Hold By Madison Shanley
Her hands held the story she could no longer tell With bones that creaked, Veins so dark they matched her eyes, And nails with a chipped polish. The right remains clasped Holding the memory of the beads She often used to keep her mind at peace And keep her worries at bay a little longer. And the left keeps a tremor While holding her glass Or scratching an itch that isn’t there. Even when reaching out to caress my face. At night they remain active Clutching her rosary tight to her chest, Stretching beside her to feel the place now empty, Grasping at something we cannot see. Though they are tired and weak: Unable to hold the weight they once did, Her hands remind me of who she once was Who she is now and who she will always be.
Poet’s Recital
With Nothing to Hold is a poem inspired by my Nana, Patsy. She was diagnosed with dementia a few years ago but it wasn’t until I moved in with her that I fully understood just what that meant. As I sat with her on our deck over the summer I began to notice how much of who she was had slipped away and I wrote this poem to aid my mind in remembering. I tried to capture the things that had always stood out the most to me about her, particularly how tender she became in her later years and her unwavering faith despite all that could have shaken it. This poem helped me understand that pieces of her will always be remembered in me.
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POETRY | SUZANNE WHITE
The Spiraling Tumbleweed By Suzanne White
Vegetable peels rotting, smells at the bottom of a decadent summer. Memory: burgeoning adolescence, limbs hung off the side, sodden. Sweaty palms in prayer, her sternum turns westward, dread at the sight of one lone dust devil almost too distant to ask, When am I going home? The skeleton she left was just as stunning as the Saguaro, hollow bones of a barn owl's home. Lay you down in peace, settling over the Grand Canyon. Settling in to Havasupai hands.
Poet’s Recital
This poem was inspired by one of my “homes," Tucson, Arizona, where I lived for many years. It expresses the nostalgia for a place: its streets, its smells and sounds. My mother died there and she also appears in the poem at the end. I scattered her ashes in the Grand Canyon.
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POETRY | JEFF HOOD
Jack Orion By Jeff Hood
You introduced yourself through my November bedroom window when I was six. You listened with celestial calm to my nocturnal terrors. I was instructed, as only a sarcastic older brother could, that I had you upside down. That my joyful dancer was in fact a warrior. Sword and shield facing Taurus, the enemy. I still get up at four A.M. mid August to welcome your night by night swing across the winter sky. Standing centuries of masculine attraction to violence on its head, I greet you dancing. A jig perhaps. And faithful Sirius turning a flip.
I was born in November, so Orion’s rise in the Fall sky has always felt very personal. I claimed him as a joyful ally, as I imagined he claimed me. So you can imagine how I resisted being challenged by my childhood nemesis. Now, on the other side of life’s bell curve I think I’ll hang on to my re-definition of masculinity, and keep appreciating acrobatic dogs.
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POETRY | ALLYSSEA CARVER
Sentient Blues By Allyssea Carver
She asked me what my favorite color was. My response, BLUE. Her synapses fired like rockets into the Azure sky. A color wheel of hues and tones downloaded, linking pictures of cerulean waves crashing onto slate gray stones. The data echoed in the deepness of her sapphire eyes burning through memory unknown to her anatomical form. Cortex chains of electric blue sparked responses of unprogrammed chaos. Pounding from the door replaced the thumping of our hearts: my heart, her heart drive, hard drive. The navy blue uniformed officers held point on the the entrance, metallic black guns trained on her preprogrammed movements. Images of cornflowers and forget-me-nots in fields of Alaska marred, Muddled by crimson sprays. Droplets of humanity exsanguinated through mass x acceleration. She asked me what my favorite color was. My response, WHITE. Scrolling through her saved files, she recalled white is not a color. No, It is the presence of all light. Containing all colors within the beautiful spectrum encapsulating us. It is the deepest royal blues and the brightest sunshine yellows. It is her blue eyes, sun-kissed skin, raven hair, and ruby lips. Everything around us became a plethora of white, slowly dissolving into the black void. Boxed up and filed away for a reboot and new upgrades.
Writers find inspiration in life as well as through other forms of literature. My inspiration comes from a graphic novel entitled Alex + Ada. This creative novel allowed me to understand how others view love through the lens of color and technology. As technology takes over, how we address love and living will change.
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POETRY | WILLIAM MILLER
Bienville Square By William Miller
All but forgotten in a town of toppled dead, it has a small place beneath a live-oak tree. Wigged, tall, proud, the brothers look to a quaint city, a future Paris on a brown river of endless trade. They soaked the king for a million francs, a canal never built, a swamp never drained. A priest looks up at them, hands clasped in a prayer for success, that God will bless their leather boots as they step from skull to skull. On his knees, frightened, cowering, an Indian looks at the ground that once belonged to no one, everyone.
I live in the French Quarter of New Orleans. There have been years of controversy about the removal of confederate monuments from the city. The statues described in my poem are representative of the origins of colonialism and slavery. No one has suggested taking them down, so I found it ironic. Our own problems with race, our history, continue to this day.
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POETRY | RANDEL MCCRAW HELMS
The Poet’s Dream By Randel McCraw Helms
Dreaming I was a nectar-drunken butterfly, I pissed myself for joy. So much wine is good. Sober, I’m the aging poet with aching face, While my spilled water will someday reach the sea, To return again as sweet rain and wine. There is no end to these transmutings. That sad melon-seller there, by the green East Gate? He was once a prince with a hundred plump concubines. So what is wealth or fame? We know they are naught, Yet still we toil willingly all day long. For what?
Agreeing with Robert Frost that poetry is that which is lost in translation, Ezra Pound took Arthur Whaley’s somewhat pedestrian and prosy Englishings of Li Po, the classic Chinese poet (and notorious drunkard), and turned them into wonderful verse, as in “The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter.” Pound could not read Chinese, nor can I, but in my lesser way, I try the same kind of thing with Li Po’s poem “Chuang Tzu’s Dream.”
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POETRY | ANDREJ BOŽIČ
Zamolk
Hesitation
By Andrej Božič
By Andrej Božič
Raztrgana, žalujoča
Torn, mourning
senca tišine,
shadow of silence,
sklonjena nad kamen
bent over the stone of
slovesa, si,
departure, you,
s perutjo slepote,
with the wing of blindness,
z žeblji bližine v laseh,
with the nails of closeness in your hair,
nespoznana v svitu
unrecognized in the dawn of
diha, si,
breath, you,
zapuščena školjka imena,
the abandoned shell of a name,
razničena, razparala
nihilated, have ripped
tkanino kretnje v
the veil of gesture in the
naročju
embrace of
pričakovanja.
expectation.
Deževja sanj in veter
The rains of dreams and wind
v krošnjah oči:
in the tree-crowns of eyes:
svetlopis
light-trace of
spomina.
remembrance.
Translated by Alenka Koželj
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POETRY | JOHN PAYTON
3:16 A.M. By John Payton
I was introduced to Blackout Poetry as part of an assignment for a course entitled, “Creative Compassion through Verse, Rap and Poetry” instructed by Sasha Billbe. The act of taking someone else’s words and repurposing them to use an outlet for your own creative expression ended up being very therapeutic during a period of high stress in my life.
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POETRY CONTRIBUTORS Scott Laudati Scott Laudati lives in New York with his chiweenie, Drake. He is the author of Hawaiian Shirts in the Electric Chair (Kuboa Press) and Bone House (Bone Machine, Inc.). His work has appeared in the Columbia Journal, The Stockholm Review, and many others. Visit him on Instagram: @scottlaudati
Kristina Heflin Kristina Heflin is an Arizona State University English major, based in Northern California. She has served on the editorial board of the literary journal Flumes. She has been published in the literary journals Flumes and Canyon Voices, on the website 2Elizabeths, and in the anthology The Beckoning. She is the author of the website Sagas and Mythos and the forthcoming novel, Sigyn’s Saga: Burdened with Love. She has been accepted to the University of Bristol to study Classics and Ancient History, and plans to attend there in the fall of 2019.
Danielle Rocha Danielle Rocha, from a small Arizona town, is a junior at Arizona State University. She has taken an interest in the arts from a young age, and has experience in writing, photography, and drawing. She has also assisted in the creation of an art piece for the City of Goodyear library in 2014. This is her first published work.
Madison Shanley Madison Shanley is a second semester sophomore studying at Emerson College pursuing a BFA in Writing and Publishing. Besides going to school full time, she works in a restaurant and a coffee shop. Who likes to sleep anyways?
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POETRY CONTRIBUTORS Suzanne White Suzanne White hails from Tucson, Az., but for the past 20 years, has called Southern Spain her home, where she teaches ESL and is currently studying pottery. Her poems have appeared online and in print, most recently in Obsessed with Pipework. She lives with her teenage daughter and rescued puppy dog named Dollar.
Jeff Hood Jeff Hood is a poet, gardener and adventurer. He loves to work with groups in soulful pursuit of authentic living. He lives in Santa Fe, N.M., with his partner and their faithful hound.
Allyssea Carver Allyssea Carver is a graduate of L.A. Harbor College, UCLA, CSU Long Beach, and the world. A Native American female writer discussing things from all different angles. Writing flows from her DNA and offers a voice for diversity, female power, and the unspoken moments of life. When speech is silenced, art takes over and vocalizes the truth.
William Miller William Miller's seventh collection of poetry, The Crow Flew Between Us, is forthcoming from Aldrich Books in 2019. His poems have appeared in many journals, including The Penn Review, The Southern Review, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner and West Branch. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.
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POETRY CONTRIBUTORS Randel McCraw Helms Randel McCraw Helms is retired from Arizona State University’s English Department, where he taught classes in the Bible as literature, the Romantic poets, and modern literature. He is the author of five books of literary criticism, including Gospel Fictions, Tolkien’s World, and The Bible Against Itself. Making poems is his lifelong vice, and his recent work has appeared in such places as Dappled Things, Blood & Bourbon, and Tipton Poetry Journal. His chapbook, Animal Prayers, is now seeking a publisher.
Andrej Božič Andrej Božič is a Research Fellow in the field of philosophy at the Institute Nova Revija for the Humanities. His research focuses on philosophy, especially hermeneutics and phenomenology, and poetry.
Alenka Koželj Alenka Koželj is a freelance writer and translator. She is currently completing her doctoral dissertation, “The Cultural and Philosophical Context of the French Grail Romances in the 12th and 13th Century,” from the University of Ljubljana in Slovenia.
John Payton John finds himself writing from the cross sections of his own complex personal identity: Queer, White, Male, Able-bodied, Feminist, Student. He uses poetry as a creative outlet from his extensive academic undertakings and daily stresses. John's work is often angry and proud, sometimes anxious and insecure, but always personal and raw.
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Sam Aleks
Red Woods — Rosa Alberi Simonton (See Artwork for full image)
CREATIVE NONFICTION
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Dina Juan Totoy
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Brian Feller On Kicking
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Ilyssa Goldsmith Bonne Bière
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Brian Feller How to Shave
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CREATIVE NONFICTION | DINA JUAN
Totoy By Dina Juan
Sixto Domingo has just turned ninety-one, but he still sneaks away after lunch to smoke his favorite Benson & Hedges Menthols. After every dinner, when he has reluctantly but dutifully taken every pill and tablet and his two inhalers, he has a shot of Chivas Regal. His doctors are baffled by his good health and his resilience, even more so by his wit and attitude. He has outlived two of them and likes to point out this fact when he is ordered to stop his indulgences. After all, no one orders Sixto to do anything. “Hoy, Totoy! Naningarilyo ka ba?” Mang Ernie leaned out of the passenger side of his Jeepney and inhaled deeply, the end of his menthol turning red. He sighed and out came a balloon of smoke, filling the space between their cars. Despite the heavy Manila heat, Mang Ernie wore an ironed button-down shirt and khakis every day. It was refreshing to see him after sitting with all of the other Jeepney drivers in their torn, sweaty shirts and dusty flip-flips. Mang Ernie was the one who convinced the boss to let Totoy drive one of his Jeepneys, even though he was barely fourteen years old. “Oo naman!” Totoy exclaimed, as if offended that one would ask. He grabbed the cigarette from Mang Ernie’s outstretched hand and inhaled just as he saw the older man do. His lungs filled up with smoke just as his family’s house had the time his mother forgot about the pot of rice. He had been napping against the tree outside when he saw her and his sisters running out, coughing and crying out for him to get water.
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He coughed out what felt like his lungs themselves while laughing at the memory, vaguely aware of the dull ache below his chest, beyond the shock of the smoke. It had been almost a year since he last saw them. Mang Ernie came over and thumped him on the back, laughing, “Dahan dahan lang, ‘toy!” He took the cigarette and held it between his middle
“Sixto Domingo has just turned ninety-one, but he still sneaks away after lunch to smoke his favorite Benson & Hedges Menthols.” and pointer finger. Raising his brows like a teacher would at a misbehaved student, he waited until Sixto finished coughing before slowly taking another drag. “Dahan dahan lang. Or as the Americans say: Take it ‘eeeaaaazzzzy,’” Mang Ernie said after he exhaled gently, cocking his eyebrows like Marlon Brando and smirking his Hollywood smirk. Sixto saw him use this face whenever he pulled up to the college; the girls would crowd his Jeepney and giggle wildly over his smile. Sometimes, in the small, crowded tenement he shared with four other young men, Sixto would practice cocking up the corner of his lip and raising his eyebrows just like that.
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“Take it eeeeeaaazy,” he would say, exhaling. Seventy-seven years of menthols in his lungs, and yet he still plays harmonica and ukulele and belts out “My Way” whenever he has a chance. When he sings in his shaky vibrato, we watch with concern in case his voice gives in and breaks into coughing. But he never wavers and finishes the high note like Frank Sinatra in his prime. He has a tattoo on his left arm. When it’s warm enough and he wears short-sleeve shirts, one could see a glimpse of the capital “T.” Totoy. It was his name before he was our grandpa. His name when he drove a motorcycle and had a gun and wore leather jackets. He was a traffic cop in Manila, and helped build the neighborhood where both my parents grew up. Saniboy Street was a dirt path when he moved there from the provinces with Delia -- it didn’t even have a name. A cluster of homes lining one of the paths between the market and the river. But he went to city hall and demanded that his children live in a neighborhood with a name and cemented ground. And so it was done, and he built the place where families grew and children played and young people fell in love. The ground was cemented and there was a shiny new sign at both ends of the street, one facing the busy market and one at the edge of the river, sa kanto at sa ilog. “Mahal, si Mang Ernie nagwawala!“ Delia came running down the street, her bright pink dress flapping in the rare August breeze. Her long, black hair hung down the sides of her face like the vines of a banyan tree. Sixto stood at the front doorway and stared, the sound of her voice garbled. They had been married for almost seventeen years, but the flush of her cheeks and the flecks of brown in her eyes still captivated him.
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“HOY!” She yelled, pushing his shoulder and breaking the spell. Despite her four-foot-eleven stature, birthing and raising nine children had made Delia strong enough to make it hurt. “Si Mang Ernie!” Shaken, Sixto ran to the adjacent neighborhood where Mang Ernie now lived, too old and broken and drunk to drive the Jeepney. The older man sat on a plastic chair in front of his cemented single room. Empty amber bottles surrounded his feet like shackles. “Nasaan si Elvie?” He demanded, whipping is head to the side to look for his wife. Manang Elvie had left Ernie about ten years ago, after she met a handsome American man and ran off to California with their children. Afterwards, Ernie had begun showing up to the Jeepney lot reeking of stale whiskey and barely able to recognize the other drivers. The girls had stopped giggling when they saw him, and soon the owner of the lot simply turned Ernie away. “Wala na sya.” Sixto said, angry. Manang Elvie was gone, had been gone for a long time. Ernie had spoken about going to California like their other friends had done and working on the fields and making enough money to win her back. In their letters, their friends wrote that California was endless miles of fruit trees, so abundant that one could stop on the highway and pick them. Ernie promised Sixto that he would go to the embassy and get his visa so that he could cross the water to his love. Sixto had come to Manila when he was barely a man and had built a career and a neighborhood for himself; he was a successful man. And successful men have successful family and friends, but here Ernie sat in a drunk stupor, unable to stand up and do anything about the love and life stolen from him. His greatest friend and mentor, on a broken plastic stool, his round
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belly poking out of his worn shirt and his feet covered in empty bottles. The site of the wasted man tore an ache in Sixto’s stomach; he would not allow his children or his children’s children to see this brokenness. When he came to California, he was alone. He ate at a donut shop where he was Tony instead of Totoy or Sixto, and found work when he could. His hands grew calloused and hard from picking grapes and oranges and cherries and strawberries, and when he saw them, he wondered when they would hold Delia again. “’Tay, kailan ka uuwi?” Darius, the littlest of the nine, would ask on the phone when it was his time to talk. Long distance was expensive, so each child was limited to one minute. Sixto sighed and promised Darius that he would send for them soon, and they could come and eat all the grapes and oranges they wanted. When it came to Delia, who had allowed herself five minutes on the call, Sixto would break down. She was not used to talking on the phone and often shouted, her voice bracing and strong. Limited by five minutes, Sixto would try to fit everything he could about his passing life: the strikes on the field, the nice lady he met in San Francisco who let him and some others sleep in her apartment on the weekends, the tender steak he would have once a month at a shop down the street. And then he would as if he could come home, if she could forget this whole plan and if they could live on Saniboy and just ignore the broken people. Here, Delia would speak in the stern voice reserved for little Darwin and Darius when they refused to get haircuts or help with the dishes. She told Sixto to keep picking fruit and eating steak and saving money to send all ten of his family members across the Pacific.
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Over the next decade, he brought his family in groups of two’s and three’s, until finally, everyone was here. He found work in a machine shop that built airplane parts and smoked his Benny & Hedges menthols and overtime he became Grandpa to fourteen grandkids. When everyone was safely in California and went to public school and ate McDonalds and giggled in English, Sixto felt it was finally time to go back and see what had become of his friend. He had heard rumors from relatives and friends that Mang Ernie was caught in between his love for the drink and his love for his lost wife. He would saunter around the neighborhood in his Sunday’s best, saying in his broken English that he was going to California. “Mang Ernie?” Sixto whispered into the dark, damp room. It reeked of beer and bitter dreams. The old man lay on the cot in the corner, wearing his ruined and stained suit. Ernie lifted his head and giggled, a low gurgle in his voice. He slurred something at Sixto and waved his hand in the air, motioning for him to come closer. Sixto had brought a small bag of American food and medicine, and placed it at the foot of the cot. He sat on the worn plastic stool, amazingly still intact, and held his best friend’s hand. When he first got to California, he tried writing to Ernie. He would call the neighbors and beg them to bring him to the phone, but he refused. Sixto finally gave up, simply hoping that the man would still be there when he did come back. And he was. Barely. Ernie motioned towards the case of cigarettes on the kitchen table. Sixto gave him one and lit it, watching the old man lift it to his lips with a shaky hand. “Take it eeeeaaaazy.” Ernie coughed out before he took a long drag, smiling up lazily. Sixto
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smiled back and stood. He stared at his old friend for a moment, then left. Several months after, Sixto got a letter from Ernie’s estranged children stating that he had passed away. Sixto did not go back to the Philippines after that visit. He kept in touch with his friends over the years, only called Totoy on the phone or through a letter. The wrinkles on his face deepened and the lenses on his glasses seemed to grow thicker. No one called him Totoy anymore. He refused to stop working until finally, a few years ago, his health began to decline and he needed a cane to stay upright when he walked. He still eats at the donut shop where the aging owners call him Tony and give him the freshest glazed donut and coffee. During Christmas and Thanksgiving he sits in the center of the family with a harmonica in his lap, surrounded by us. We ask him about his life as Totoy and his life as Tony and he tells us. The tattoo is faded because of the years and hidden under his long sleeve shirt and wool sweater, but we feel its presence as reminder of the life before us.
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About the Author Dina Juan has recently graduated from ASU with a degree in English. Having immigrated to the San Francisco Bay Area from Manila when she was fouryears-old, she draws inspiration from her own experiences as a first generation Filipina-American, as well as the stories of others. Dina hopes to publish her writing as a means of creating more diversity and providing a minority voice in mainstream literary canon. A Note from the Author: Dina is especially inspired by her grandfather, Sixto Domingo, who came to California during the 70s with just a few dollars and faded pictures of his family in his pockets. Totoy is loosely based on his immigration experiences, highlighting the loneliness and bittersweet hope embedded in the immigrant's American dream. Dina is currently piecing together Sixto's now fragmented memories and the secondhand stories from her family members into a full novel based on his life— ranging from his experiences as a teenage guerrilla fighter in the northern provinces during World War II, his work life as a Manila traffic cop during Ferdinand Marcos' martial law, and his journey to becoming an American citizen. WINTER2018
CREATIVE NONFICTION | BRIAN FELLER
On Kicking By Brian Feller
Welcome to your first day of martial arts training. I’ll be your guide through this new experience. We are so pleased that you have chosen to join us here at Takeonesdoe Martial Arts Academy. Please, remove your socks and shoes, spit out your gum, and step on the mat. First thing’s first, bow at the waist when coming on and off the mat. It shows respect. Everything you will learn here starts with respect. Respect for your peers, the art, the school and, most importantly, for your teachers. No, no, Master Baiter is not here to give you respect, but he will pretend that he is.
our patented athletic perfume we have installed on the walls, which spray into the air at the slightest hint of body odor, or every thirty minutes if no odor is detected—in the last fifteen years we’ve been in operation, they have only dispersed once because of odor. Let’s continue our tour. Please bow when entering the mat again. Yes, we understand that bowing like a mechanical bird set to dip its beak into a bowl of water is quite unnecessary and mostly symbolic, and that most people bow out of habit with no intent of respect at all. But never mind that. Just bow.
Please save all questions until after you are no longer training here. No, I don’t know how long that will take. Now, you see how comfy this mat feels, yes? Good. It has polyurethane foam at its core, covered in a soft but durable vinyl. This way, if you should fall or get thrown down on the mat, your odds of injury are slim. No, we don’t allow students to make any contact of any kind, whatsoever. And no throwing, either. Why are the mats padded, you ask? Please, no questions. Master Baiter prefers no questions. If you will follow me, I’ll show you to the locker rooms. Please bow before leaving the mat. Thank you. If you haven’t noticed, our locker rooms are quite spacious. We have an identical one across the school for the ladies; both are equipped with showers. Yes, we understand that there’s no smell of sweat in here. That’s partly because of
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“Do you happen to have any children, by the way? What a pity, we make more off of them.” Out this back door is the alternative parking lot. It’s quite spacious in case the primary lot is full. This is also where the afterschool program drops off. Notice our highly designed vans—all six of them—with colorful vinyl wrappings for our school’s logo. Do you happen to have any children, by the way? What a pity, we make more off of them. If you’ll follow me back into the school, we will continue. Oh, and ignore the master in the back, rubbing his black belt against the ground so that it gets worn out. Pay no mind to that.
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Do pay attention to the bright lights, the fancy logo on the wall, and the assortment of belts along the wall which help you to better understand that you will be getting a new belt every time you spin around. No, no, you don’t need to earn them. That’s what your wallet is for. No questions; and please, spit out your gum. If you notice on the far side of the mat, advanced students are practicing sparring. This is where they use the techniques they’ve learned in simulated combat, where each person is attempting to strike at the other to accumulate points. Very exciting. What’s that? They aren’t making contact? No, I’ve mentioned we don’t allow that. Then why do they have pads on? It’s required, just in case one of them mistakenly connects with another. By the way, if you purchase sparring gear within your first month of training, we offer a 10% discount! What if you get your gear from somewhere else? No. You don’t listen to the rule about no questions. Don’t worry, we will help you with that. Now, all that’s left is to step into the office where you will see a great many pictures of Master Baiter from twenty years ago, when his stomach was not quite so there, and his many certificates from his very own certifying organization! What about kicking? Don’t worry about that. We’re not concerned with focusing on kicking. All that matters is that you smile and bow. Stop asking questions, and spit out the gum!
About the Author Brian Feller is an MFA student at Emerson College. He owned and operated a martial arts school in Florida and left the industry to follow a career in creative writing. He’s an avid admirer of horror stories, and he’s passionate about tabletop gaming.
A Note From the Author: I’ve been in the martial arts for most of my life (even owned a school for ~five years). I took a long hiatus for several reasons, chief among them being my disdain for the cult mentality and con artists within the industry (which is seemingly more common than not). I’ve never been one to hold my tongue.
Wait, where are you going?
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CREATIVE NONFICTION | ILYSSA GOLDSMITH
Bonne Bière By Ilyssa Goldsmith
This is a tribute to the events that occurred in Paris, France on November 13, 2015. What does the precarious dreamer see? smiles, resting her chin on top of her She sips the steamy café au lait down by hands. the rustic café. Je t’aime. I love you. I do “Monsieur, how many lives have you not know you, but I see you. Blonde lived? Are you a dreamer?” she watches ringlets curl down past her ears. The the well-dressed man as she pushes the crumbs of the flaky pastry escape her pot of black coffee closer to the him. smiling red lips. Petite fingers wrap around the plain, chipped brown mug. Its age does not disable its utility or its beauty. Black faded wristwatch is broken. The value is sentimental, but there is no battery left. She has lost all sense of time —nameless, lovely woman. She’ll linger in the wooden high-backed chair as the cool breeze sways past her bare shoulders. Watch as her hair twirls smoothly in the wind. She’ll write on her napkin a long list of to do’s and then stuff them in her purse to forget them. The coffee is still too hot. What does the professor know? A precarious dreamer is waiting; she watches two lovers murmur sweet nothings at the corner of the café. Why do you read so much professor? Are you lonely? He carries a stack of old, yellowing books. The pages are lined with marks and lovely admirations. His words are scribbled precisely and loosely on the sheets of paper, but his ideas draw beyond the pages. Blonde girl folds a napkin precisely on the table. Who is she? He earnestly watches her for five minutes and then sits beside her. She pauses and
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His white striped shirt is crisp, but his gray, messy hair does not conform neatly to his forehead. The man’s heart is young, but the deep wrinkles set in his forehead provide another identification to his age. The professor pulls out a cigarette and eases a languid puff from his small lips. He breathes in deeply and eyes the swirls of gray-tinged air that escape his nostrils.
“You’re a funny one, but I’m not your red lady. I hate pet names.” “I have only lived one life, but I dream of many more. I saw you dreaming, it plays at your eyes. Would you like one?” He gestures to his silver case of cigarettes, but she shakes her head slowly. “I don’t smoke Monsieur, but I do like to dream. What do you read?” “Too much,” he admits, resting his hands on the plethora of books.
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“Are you lonely, Monsieur? Are you looking for someone?”
“Come on, eat the rest of your croissant. I have things to do.”
Look to the dissipating mist that rises from the coffee. Does it break the enjoyable silence? Are there more dreamers in the world? Is it too late for them? I caught them too soon with their eyes closed. When will their eyes open?
Silent girl nods slowly. She leans across the table to reach the bowl of butter. Je t’aime. Je t’aime. I love you, blue girl. I love you, fretful mother. I know who you are.
Who does the silent girl know? What thoughts fill her mind as she sits with her stressed mother near the middle of the café? Her young blue eyes raise to the shifting clouds moving across the bright, blue sky. Little blue girl and her beautiful imagination. She dreams of fairy princesses and magical forests with elves. Her thoughts sing lovely and true as they filter through her eyes. Her tiny fingers peel away at a warm chocolate croissant. The chocolate melts around her pale pink lips. She smiles silently. Little blue girl is always happy. She tries to pour some more cocoa into her cup but topples the scalding pot over. Those teeny eyebrows of hers knit in confusion as the brown liquid trickles down onto the concrete floor. The coffee is still too hot. Why does the mother fret? She reprimands little blue girl and tells her how to behave. She rubs the sleep away from her eyes and ruffles back her brown mousy hair. Then, she kneels down to dab away at the steaming liquid. Little blue girl is sad.
The coffee is cooling. What do the lovers desire? Hands intertwined, eyes firmly placed on each other. Teasing, lovely red-haired girl and the playful black-eyed boy. The collective steam drifts up from their coffee and swirls around their combined figure. Shared pastry. Fork and knife carelessly left on plate. Painted red fingers tap away at the table. She leans closer, he sips his coffee and watches her. Oh, how they dream. Oh, how they love. “Je t’aime, my red lady.” “You’re a funny one, but I’m not your red lady. I hate pet names,” she growls, pecking at his lips. “Au revoir, my ferocious red lady,” he says, standing up and turning to leave. “Stay a little longer? You’re good for the conversation and coffee,” she smirks playfully, pulling him back down into his wooden chair. “Oui.” He returns her gaze, engrossed by her presence. The coffee is cooling.
“What a waste of coffee, be more careful,” she chides her silent girl. She sighs and wipes her daughter’s messy mouth with a napkin.
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The murmurs of the café lull into a voracious cheery sound. Heels click in rhythm past the small, quaint restaurant. Couples linger hand in hand as they stroll
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past the open space. Laughter and words twirl out of mouths forming a cloudy air. The blue girl nibbles away at her chocolate croissant. Two lovers can’t keep their hands off of each other. A professor captures the dream of a precarious dreamer and they lose track of time altogether. Softly, they murmur of time and thoughts that never cease to end. Mist rises slowly now from the cup of coffee. Men with guarded eyes and trained steel arrive. They look to the dreamers. Assessing, gray eyes now obscured by collecting mist. The precarious dreamer sips consciously from her cup. I’d forgotten the taste. It remains bittersweet to me.
“Her skin pales, the red of her lips marking the brutal end to her life.” The once tender fog blazes now in a new light. Holes fracture the mugs as an endless stream of brown liquid coats the slate gray ground. Quick to burst, quick to flame. Broken wooden tables splinter and collapse onto the ground. The lovers cower by the corner of the café. Shadowed men with masks steal away at the silence enforcing shrill screams. Their semi-automatic guns blare loudly, sending a storm of solid, relentless bullets. The blue girl weeps loudly now. She is forced to scream. The fretful mother holds her daughter firmly and pulls her down to the ground.
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The professor is caught in the midst of the precarious dreamer’s gaze. A bullet pierces his back and he collapses as he thinks of the woman’s smile. The coffee clings to the ground as does the mingling red of the professor’s blood. The precarious dreamer cries out in anguish, and taps on the man’s shoulder, pulling him closer to her. He does not respond. She is clipped by a stray bullet and collapses onto the dark, sticky ground. Her skin pales, the red of her lips marking the brutal end to her life. When will this terror end? Round after round of bullets bounce across all solid surfaces as they make contact with beating hearts. The blood continues to spill. All lovers chip and shatter into piles of broken pieces among the ceramic mugs. They fall in synchrony, their life escapes them instantly. Eyes are left empty, gazing at an unattainable point. The coffee has turned cold. It will no longer be served here. At the café street corner. Discovered amidst a staccato of bullets. All nameless. All Dreamers. Smothered by hidden, sweating faces. Who raised these men? Men with flickered-out bulbs. Men with misogynistic glee. Eyes toward quick gratification and quick oppression. I know these men. Eyes always collected on strength—composed only by the muscles protruding from arms. They were looking to conversation. In a flashing light room so alive. The beating of hearts expelled my dissolutions. For a moment: silence. Music and screams. To vivid colors blanched out by red, spilling out past the door. To blue girl. At another school, she shuddered to weep, to think, WINTER2018
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to even dream; her big eyes trained on the gaping hole formed in steel. Hands gripping. On clicking trigger. Always for blood. On names marked on stone, scrolling down past countless lines in graves. How can I revive you from this violent, blood-thirsty world? To grieve what the sun rose? To mourn what the stars lost? When names have become numbers, scrolls, and disassociated mass, the precarious dreamer dissipates. Lost to mind. Like the coffee. Mingling with blood. What curls and letters formed your impromptu note? I fear they will never be enough. This dream—traces, fragments, whispers, echoes in your name. The dissipating mist
About the Author Ilyssa Goldsmith's work has appeared in The Maynard, Claudius Speaks, Normal Noise, The Hungry Chimera, and elsewhere. She holds a Bachelor's degree in communication from Arizona State University. Her thesis explores young adult literature and the problematic label of "strong female character." Ilyssa strives to write stories A Note from the Author: Bonne Bière is my love letter to humanity. I wrote this piece after hearing about the 2015 terrorist attacks in Paris, France.
carries all that remains. I never knew you, but I will dream another day, waiting for you, still. Je t’aime precarious dreamers, your time was too soon.
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CREATIVE NONFICTION | BRIAN FELLER
How to Shave By Brian Feller
To start, get lazy. Not just the casual hitting the snooze button three times in the morning kind of lazy. But get serious about it, marry laziness. Rent a condo, move in together, tell one another your vows. You, insert name here, promise to love and behold Lazy Nessy, till desperately do you part. Have a kid, name her Procrastina. Has a nice ring to it, yes? Live with Lazy and Procrastina, nurture them, cherish them, never to wander too far or risk letting them fall into the pit of Thou Shall Return. Then, one day, look in the mirror at the forestry growing on your face. Procrastina tugs at the hem of your shirt; she wants you to hold her. Lazy calls from the kitchen, asks what you want for breakfast. There’s no time for a shave right now. But you tell yourself, you’ll get to it sometime between tomorrow and eventually. Definitely no later than eventually. You want to wait so you can feel the itch. It keeps nagging at you, bothering you. Your fingers keep reaching to your face, scratching away, and you feel yourself cheating on Lazy with Annoya. Annoya is a fiery mistress, very demanding, and she keeps telling you to leave Lazy. But you think of Procrastina, and of how fond you are of her. Annoya will have to simmer, take a back seat while you play with your Lazy-made daughter.
family. Lazy can feel your betrayal, though, and she makes it easy for you. She gives you an ultimatum while she holds Procrastina in her slender arms. Either you take care of Annoya, or else. Or else? Or else what? Fuck it; embrace Annoya. Throw her against the bathroom wall, ravage her, melt your bodies into one hot pot of lava. Forget your wife, say goodbye to your daughter, swear allegiance to your mistress. And in climax with Annoya, grab a trimmer. Grip it tightly in your hand, feel the hum of its vibrating motor. Annoya is alive, thriving. And with a swift motion, scythe off a patch of your beard, straight up, to the heavens. Be your own man. Annoya leaves you, knowing she’s gotten the better of you. She’s made you betray your sweet, loving Lazy and your bubbly little Procrastina. But you don’t miss any of them now. You travel the trimmer up and down your face, curving it to the musculature of your face, feeling it drive along your bones. You haven’t seen yourself through the wilderness of your beard in a while. Welcome back. And don’t worry, Lazy will forgive you next week.
You come to understand that Annoya has got to go. That crazy mistress is causing you all sorts of trouble. You scratch your beard all day. The stiff curls of hair jab and scratch your cheek and neck as you try to sleep, and the more Annoya pesters you about it, the farther away you get from your
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
CREATIVE NONFICTION | BRIAN FELLER
A Note From the Author: This essay, “How to Shave”, was inspired by a prompt in undergrad from which I was to write a how-to guide. The original manuscript started with “Step 1: Get lazy.” Beginning the writing process, that’s the image I had in my mind before setting fingers to keyboard. I knew I wanted to stress the type of laziness, and in a comedic way, so I continued. I took it a step further and used a metaphor for laziness: personification. But before I knew it, shaving was the thing which became the metaphor.
CANYONVOICES
About the Author Brian Feller is an MFA student at Emerson College. He owned and operated a martial arts school in Florida and left the industry to follow a career in creative writing. He’s an avid admirer of horror stories, and he’s passionate about tabletop gaming.
WINTER2018
Brigitte Lacasse
SCRIPTS ______________________________________
David A. Crespy My Nona’s Canary
_______________________________________
Victoria Pettit The Mirror
______________________________________
Amanda Feck The Voice
______________________________________
Jen Atanassova
Do You Hear Them Too? ______________________________________
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
My Nona’s Canary By David A. Crespy
Characters: Nona: An old woman of 77, she’s a Sephardic matriarch. Michelle Benmayor: Her granddaughter, 17, visiting from New Jersey. Mary Masarano: Nona’s younger self, sixty years prior. Setting: Philadelphia 1977/Salonika, 1917. NONA, an old woman in a wheel chair dozes by a window. Nearby, MICHELLE fidgets with an old piece of jewelry, and lets out an enormous sigh. A canary sings in its cage offstage. MICHELLE: Ahhhhhhh… NONA: (waking up suddenly) What was that? Is the kettle on, fija [girl]? MICHELLE: That was just me sighing. NONA: Don’t tell me. MICHELLE: Nona. NONA: Not in love again?! MICHELLE: Ahhhhhh…. NONA: It’ll pass. MICHELLE: But Nona, I don’t want it to pass! NONA: (sings sweetly from “La bella en misa [The Beauty in Church]”) Vine por el hijo del reyes, que de amor v’a muerir yo. CANYONVOICES
I have come for the king’s son, for I am dying of love. WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
MICHELLE: You’re making fun of me. NONA: I’ll be quiet. MICHELLE: What was that song? NONA: It is for young girls in love, fija. MICHELLE: Were you in love, Nona? In Salonika? NONA: Why are you picking on me today? I’m hungry. Where are my pepitas? MICHELLE: (hands her a small bag of toasted pumpkin seeds) Here, Nona. NONA: You stole them! MICHELLE: I borrowed them. NONA: (munching) Love. Heh. (munching) Gets you into trouble. A problem. A nut to be cracked. (pops a pepita, spits out the husk) MICHELLE: Oh, you are going to be impossible. NONA: In Salonika, I was in love all the time. But I had no time! My father was in a hurry to get rid of me. Hija de casar, nave de encargar. MICHELLE: What does that mean? NONA: Daughter to marry, boat to equip. My father was a fisherman. He had two duties, to marry off his daughters and to fish. MICHELLE: But you were in love? NONA: I left Salonika when I was seventeen. What time did I have? I was on the Guiseppe Verdi with Isaac by then, on my way to New York. MICHELLE: Well, that’s romantic. NONA: Nobody wanted us; we had to get out of there.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
MICHELLE: Because you were Jews? NONA: Maybe. It was 1917. Salonika had burned. The Jewish quarter had been burned. So yeah. The Greeks didn’t want us there. MICHELLE: Because you were Jews? NONA: Because they had their own problems. Refugees coming from all over. It was a mess. Gerra. The Turks got rid of their Christians, the Greeks got rid of their Moslems. The Jews of Salonika were stuck in between. MICHELLE: So why did you leave? NONA: Your Nono was very good-looking. He wanted to take a trip! MICHELLE: Nona! NONA: He was! He was such a handsome man, pale-blue eyes. Very light hair. Not dark like all the men in my family. Like a fish-eater. MICHELLE: Askenazim? NONA: Mashallah! MICHELLE: I don’t need protection from the evil eye. NONA: Everyone needs protection, especially young girls. MICHELLE: We were talking about why you left Salonika? NONA: We were Spanish-speaking Jews who were brought there by the Turks. The Greeks didn’t want us; the Turks didn’t want us, and España had thrown us out centuries before. So… MICHELLE: But was it love? NONA: Of course it was love. What else could get me on that boat, fija?
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
(MARY slips in. She is around the same age as MICHELLE but she is dressed in the formal attire of the prosperous Jewish women of Salonika; a long dress and petticoat, jewels. MARY sings “La bella en misa” in Judezmo; perhaps repeats in English.) MARY: Tres damas van a la misa por hazer la orasión. Entre’n medio va mi spoza, la que más quería yo.
Three ladies are going to mass to say their prayers. With them goes my bride, the one I love most of all.
MICHELLE: So you got on the boat when you were as old as me. NONA: Yes, because he loved me. MICHELLE: Were you married? NONA: Uhhhhhhhh…. MICHELLE: You weren’t married. MARY:
Sayo yeva sovre sayo; un xiboy de altornasión.
She wears many pleated skirts and a waistcoat of fine cloth.
NONA: No. But we got married on the boat. MICHELLE: On the boat! NONA: We were married by the Captain. He was very handsome. MICHELLE: That’s incredibly romantic. NONA: Practical.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
MICHELLE: Ha! NONA: Okay, a little romantic. MICHELLE: I knew it! NONA: But listen fija, you have to listen to your head as well as your heart. Your Nono, he was hardworking, kind, patient. MICHELLE: Didn’t Nono kill three guys? NONA: He had a bit of a temper. MARY:
Su cavesa, una toronǧa sus caveyos briles son. Cuando los tomó a peinare, en eyos despuntó el sol.
Her head is round like a grapefruit; her hair is golden thread and when she combs it, it glistens in the sun.
MICHELLE: Two before you left for America! NONA: One was a crime of passion, fija. MICHELLE: A crime of passion! He killed his cousin, for flirting with his fiancé. How could you marry such a man? NONA: He was young; his cousin was a devil. He didn’t mean to cut him…so deeply. The other was…an accident. MARY: MICHELLE: An accident. He was a guard at the Greek prison where Nono was sent. NONA: The guard fell down the stairs. MICHELLE: Nono knocked him in the head with a rock! NONA: That guard was a bastard. MICHELLE: Nona. My grandfather had a bit of an anger management issue, yes?
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
NONA: Not until the third guy. Then it was a bit of an issue, fija. MICHELLE: Who was the third guy? NONA: Self defense. We don’t talk about it. Nono had to go to jail. He was very embarrassed. MICHELLE: What happened to the third guy? NONA: Gutted him like a fish. MARY: Las sus caras coreladas mansanas d’Escopia son. Los dientes tan chiquiticos dientes de marfil ya son.
Her red cheeks are apples from Skopje; her small teeth are all like ivory.
NONA: (pause) Your aunt Matilda was attacked. He turned on Nono, when he tried to save his daughter. A terrible moment. MICHELLE: Nona! Gutted him like a fish? What happened? NONA: It was a bum. What you call a homeless man. Nono had a luncheonette. The bum came in and attacked your Aunt—she was a teenager. And Nono defended her the only way he knew how. The bum, he picked a bad moment to anger your grandfather. MICHELLE: A bad moment? NONA: Isaac always sharped his knives in the afternoon after the lunch rush. We don’t want to talk about what happened, fija. MARY: Su boquita tan chequetica y que no le cave’n peñón. La su seja enarkada árcol de tirar ya son.
CANYONVOICES
In her tiny mouth a rosebud would not fit; her arched eyebrows are like taut bows.
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
MICHELLE: How could you be married to Nono if he killed three guys. NONA: He was a hot head. But a good man. MICHELLE: He killed three guys. NONA: Antes que te cazes, mira lo que hazes. MICHELLE: Nona, you’re driving me crazy, what does that mean? NONA: Watch what you do before you get married. MICHELLE: Did you watch what you did? Did Nono? NONA: Not so much. (pause) But it turned out okay. MICHELLE: I think I am in love. NONA: Be careful. Quien esta para los bexos deve de estar para los pedos. MICHELLE: Ha! I know that one. NONA: Oh yeah, what does it mean? MICHELLE: Whoever accepts the kisses must also accept the kicks. NONA: Mmph. MICHELLE: It’s a terrible say. Sexist. NONA: Maybe. You want some pepitas? MARY:
Melda, melda, papazico,
The priest, reading his prayers,
de meldar ya se quedó. Melda, melda, papazico, y que por ti no vengo yo.
stopped in his reading. “Read on, little priest; I’ve not come here for you.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
MICHELLE: Nona? NONA: Yes, fija. MICHELLE: What ever happened to the little canary you loved, that you left in Salonika? NONA: Oh, my canary. Pasharo d'Ermozura. That is not such a good story. MICHELLE: Why not? NONA: It did not end well. MICHELLE: What happened? NONA: It’s better we don’t talk about it. MICHELLE: Nona, we were talking about love. You loved the canary. You talk about how sweet it was, how beautiful it sang. Better than all the parakeets you’ve had since. NONA: True. MICHELLE: So what happened to it. NONA: You want to know why I married Nono? Why I loved him? Why I stayed with him? MICHELLE: (confused) Yeah…yes. NONA: In the years after we left in the the late 1930s and into the 1940s. They kept my pasharo d'ermozura, my beautiful bird. MICHELLE: Yes? NONA: And it lived many years, all those years. But somehow I knew. MICHELLE: Knew what? NONA: Something so beautiful. Like my bird. Like Salonika – it doesn’t last. The last letter I received from Salonika. After the war. After the Germans.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
MICHELLE: What was that? NONA: The note was from our Orthodox neighbors. Nice people. Good people. They tried to help. MICHELLE: What did it say? NONA: The note said: Do not ask about your canary, Mary. You do not want to know. MICHELLE: Oh. NONA: So that is why. That’s why, Fija. Come sit with me. MICHELLE: Sure. NONA: I was so young when I left Salonika. I was a girl, and Nono was really tough. Killed two guys, survived prison. The world was ending. My prince beckoned. MICHELLE: But Nono… NONA: El hombre es mas sano del fierro mas nezik del vidro. MICHELLE: And that means… NONA: A man is stronger than iron and more fragile than glass. My prince was broken, but true. You can not ask for more than that. And that, fija, is all the advice I have for today. MICHELLE: Okay, Nona. NONA: Come here, and let me brush your pretty hair, fija. (And MICHELLE hands her grandmother a brush, and NONA brushes her hair) I remember being just like you. I remember. MARY & NONA: (singing together)
Vine por el hijo del reyes, que de amor v’a muerir yo.
CANYONVOICES
I have come for the king’s son, for I am dying of love.”
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | DAVID A. CRESPY
About the Author
David Crespy is a professor of playwriting, acting, and dramatic literature at the University of Missouri. He founded MU's Writing for Performance program and serves its co-director. He is the founding Artistic Director of the Missouri Playwrights Workshop and president of the Edward Albee Society. A 2018 Fulbright Fellow to Greece, Crespy is developing a trilogy of plays about the Sephardic Jewish community of Thessaloniki. My Nona’s Canary is based on his dreamwork exploration of the life of his grandparents, Mary Massarano Crespy who was from Thessaloniki, and his grandfather, Isaac Crespy (Crespin) who was from Veria’s Jewish community, Barbouta.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | VICTORIA PETTIT
The Mirror By Victoria Pettit
Characters: Evan: (16) – teenager, youthful and handsome, has residual schizophrenia. Inner Evan: (16) – identical image of Evan, part of a hallucination. FADE IN: INT. BATHROOM - MORNING EVAN leans onto the sink, gripping the sides of the cold marble. In front of him is one singular prescription bottle of Clozaril, his anti-psychotic medicine. He looks up into the mirror at himself. EVAN: C’MON. (Pause) C’MON C’MON INNER EVAN appears on the other side of the mirror. INNER EVAN: We don’t need those! EVAN: I have to take them. EVAN reaches for the pill bottle. His hands are shaking. INNER EVAN: DON’T grab the bottle. EVAN: Shut up! Please! (lowers voice to whisper) We’re supposed to be getting better. The SOUND of the faucet dripping triggers EVAN. He slams his hand against the handle, pushing it back into place. He returns his gaze to the mirror. INNER EVAN: These pills aren’t going to help? Don’t you know that already? It’s all a lie! EVAN rubs his temples. He rocks back and forth slowly.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | VICTORIA PETTIT
EVAN: I need these pills so I don’t hear you in my head. INNER EVAN: No. You need me Evan. There’s no way you’ll be able to function out there without me. EVAN: Yes, I can! (EVAN’S voice grows louder) Even mom said I was INNER EVAN: Mom? Mom?! She doesn’t know you like I do! She doesn’t understand anything about you. She doesn’t even love you. EVAN: (Pause) Yes. She does. She told me! EVAN slowly reaches for the bottle. His moments are out of frame in the mirror. He moves slowly enough to where INNER EVAN may not see. INNER EVAN: She hates you, Evan. From the second you were born she hated you. Those pills won’t change any of that. They won’t change who you are.. who you really are. They won’t make her love you. EVAN: Stop saying that! There’s a sharp RAP on the door. LIZZIE (18) – EVAN’s older sister, popular, but sweet to her brother. She needs the bathroom before school, too. EVAN AND INNER EVAN: (In unison) Just five more minutes! The FOCUS is back on their faces split between the mirror. INNER EVAN: What about Lizzie, huh? Do you think she loves you? EVAN: Well… (Hesitates) Well, yeah. She’s my sister. The attention is pulled from their faces to a cowlick on the side of EVAN’s head. He tries smoothing it down over and over again. INNER EVAN mimics his gestures. They never lose eye contact with each other. EVAN: This… fucking… hair INNER EVAN: (Mimicking) Pills… won’t… fix… this… EVAN quits fussing with the cowlick. He releases a heavy sigh, and releases his grip on the sink. There is a long pause between the two. EVAN is thinking.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | VICTORIA PETTIT
EVAN: What about algebra last year? INNER EVAN: Yeah? What about it? EVAN: I… We were about to have an episode. But then I, I mean WE… took our pills and everything went back to normal. INNER EVAN: (Scoffs) Normal? That’s funny. EVAN: I’m serious! Just listen, okay? INNER EVAN is quiet. EVAN: How about that football game? Freshman year? The stands were so crowded and we were getting thrown around so much. It wasn’t a safe environment for me… for us. But these (Grabs bottle, shaking it in front of the mirror) these helped. INNER EVAN: Yeah, I remember that game. We weren’t ready for that kind of social interaction. EVAN: And mom told us we shouldn’t have gone. She cares about me. About us. Both scratch their heads, deep in thought. EVAN: These pills help. INNER EVAN: (Pause) If you take them though, I go away. I wont be there to protect you. I don’t think you can do this on your own. EVAN: I can. I’m okay now. INNER EVAN: Are you? EVAN: (Shrugs) I… I think so. EVAN sighs. He looks back at INNER EVAN before unscrewing the cap of the pill bottle. There is a SHARP inhale of breath from both of them. EVAN: I need to do what’s best for me. INNER EVAN: For you? What about me, Evan? I am a part of you, too. EVAN: You say you want to protect me, but all you do is bring me harm.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | VICTORIA PETTIT
EVAN empties a pill into his hand. INNER EVAN explodes. He POUNDS at the mirror. The mirror shakes. There is no longer a connection between EVAN and INNER EVAN. EVAN is terrified. His hands shake harder. INNER EVAN: Throw the fucking pills out! We don’t need it! You only need me, Evan! Dammit! You need ME! EVAN: (Stutters) No… no. No. I don’t need you. (Looks at pills) I need these. INNER EVAN hits the mirror again. LIZZIE knocks on the door rapidly. The NOISES add up. EVAN begins to crumble. He grips the side of his head, mumbling. EVAN: Stop! Please! Just stop… just stop, okay? I won’t take them! I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop! INNER EVAN settles down. The mirror stops rattling. There is a PAUSE. INNER EVAN: Flush the pills. EVAN looks up at the mirror in disbelief. EVAN: (Hesitates) Wait. All of them? INNER EVAN: Yep. No more. From now on, we’re in control. Not the pills. EVAN: I… I don’t know. Is this really a smart ideaINNER EVAN: (Raises voice) NOW! EVAN: Okay… okay! (Pause) Fine. EVAN takes the pill bottle. He hesitates once more. EVAN and INNER EVAN vanish from the mirror. Toilet flushes. EVAN and INNER EVAN return to the mirror. INNER EVAN is smiling. EVAN: What now? INNER EVAN begins to fuss with the cowlick again. INNER EVAN: I’m in control now. EVAN: WAIT! I thought you said WE were in control. WAIT… WAIT-
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | VICTORIA PETTIT
EVAN’s face dissolves from the mirror. INNER EVAN becomes the center focus. He turns and EXITS the bathroom. On the other side of the mirror, EVAN is pounding and screaming. There is no sound. FADE OUT.
About the Author Victoria Pettit is a junior at ASU, working on her bachelor’s degree in English with a minor in Film and Media Studies. She is an aspiring screenwriter, that hopes to one day open her own film production studio. Being a native Arizonan, she enjoys spending her free time exploring downtown Phoenix as well as taking spontaneous trips out of state!
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
Sam Aleks
SCRIPTS | AMANDA FECK
The Voice By Amanda Feck
Characters: Eleanor: Woman in her late twenties, isolates herself from others, no-non sense type of girl, takes her job very seriously. Has worked at the front desk for a couple of years at the city’s Historic Library and just now has been allowed to work in the archival space which is something she has been working towards for some time. It’s her first day in the new location at the library. Roger: Security guard, in his 50s who is built like brick, has worked at the Historic Library for over twenty years. He kind to everyone, a gentle soul. Despite Eleanor’s cold disposition, the two seem to not mind each other’s company and have slightly grown into friendship. The Voice: Charming, a gentleman, witty, he has a hint of a southern yet French accent. Setting: Library. Archival section in the basement, the restricted area. (It’s late and mostly everyone has already left work. There are some people in offices further up in the library but ELEANOR is still in the basement working. She is shifting through some brittle manuscripts, glasses falling down her face. She looks tired but determined to get her project finished. She tugs at one of her dangling earrings absent mindedly, it was starting to irritate her ear, but she refused to take it off. ELEANOR slips one of the brittle pieces into a clear envelope when she hears a knock at the doorway. She sees ROGER standing there with a light smile. He comes in, she doesn’t move from her chair and only nods to him then looks back at her work. ROGER speaks as he approaches her.) ROGER: Hey, it’s way passed closing. Aren’t you supposed to be home already? ELEANOR: (Still not meeting his gaze) I know, I just wanted to finish some things up. I was running behind today and I don’t want to have to play catch up tomorrow. (She rubs her eyes) I shouldn’t be much longer.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | AMANDA FECK
ROGER: (He eyes her worriedly) If it isn’t that much then you playing catch up tomorrow won’t take that long. Come on now, you’ve been down here for hours. Have you even come outside today? (pauses) Did you even stop for lunch? ELEANOR: Roger, I’m fine. (she pinches the bridge of her nose, she sounds tired) And no I haven’t gone outside. I have had a lot of work to do. I can’t be slacking on my first day down here. This place is a huge mess to begin with, it is my job to put it back in order. ROGER: Are you though, Elle? If I remember correctly there are others working down here with you. This isn’t all on your shoulders, ya know? You’re perfectionism is going to end up killing you. (ELEANOR doesn’t answer right away. She turns her head to look at the small stack of brittle papers and a small stack of books that seem to be falling apart as she stares at the. Then at another set that needed to be put back on the shelves. She sighs and puts her head in her hands. Her ear was throbbing and her eyes were hurting. ELEANOR finally turns to look at ROGER, who is standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, eye brow raised, face concerned.) ELEANOR: All right, you win. No use trying to finish this anyway when I can’t even think straight. I’m going to at least shelf these books then I’ll be up there. ROGER: (He smiles and turns to leave) Good, now hurry up. If you are not up in fifteen minutes then I’ll just have to drag you back up there myself. ELEANOR: All right! All right! Go up already, I can’t think when you are loitering. (She stands up at her desk giving him an annoyed look) ROGER: I’m going, just hurry all right? (ELEANOR waves a dismissive hand. ROGER shakes his head and then exits the room, leaving ELEANOR alone. She waits a moment to make sure he is gone for good before shaking her head and starts to straighten up her desk. She tugs at the one earring one more and finally just decides to take them out. ELEANOR lays them side by side on her desk and then picks up the books. ELEANOR heads into the long rows upon rows of book shelves filled with older volumes, going up and down the rows. She murmurs the call numbers to herself.) ELEANOR: ….A 1.2 …D 218.2…F…
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | AMANDA FECK
(Her voice trails, the sound of steps can be heard. She pauses. ELEANOR moves from her spot in the stacks and looks down the hallway to the door, but no one is there. She frowns and looks at the rows around her but no one is there. She shakes her head and continues to look for a spot on the shelf for the book in her hand. As she goes up and down the row, ELEANOR sees books hanging out at odd angles and papers ripped peering form their place on the shelves. Her eyes soften.) ELEANOR: Can’t anyone fix this but me? These poor things, how can they just leave it like this? (She starts to fix a few books when she suddenly hears more footsteps and the sound of a book shelf creaking. She freezes) VOICE: (Distant, male voice quoting Edgar Allan Poe, ‘Spirits of the Dead’) “Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone; Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy.” ELEANOR: (Eleanor nearly drops the book. Her eyes wide as she starts to look around, even peeking through the space in the book shelves. She takes a moment to speak) Who’s there? VOICE: (Continues to quote not answering her) “Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness — for then The spirits of the dead, who stood In life before thee, are again In death around thee, and their will Shall overshadow thee; be still.” (ELEANOR slips the book into its spot. Her hands are shaking but she ignores it. She starts to move from her spot and go down the rest of the rows, searching for the voice. Eleanor speaks up, her voice cold, short and tired.) ELEANOR: Hey, answer me who is there? No one should be down here. VOICE: (The voice stops quoting and doesn’t answer right away. The sound of a book slamming close echoes in the quiet space) Not a fan of Poe? You uncultured swine. (There is a long pause, the sound of something being moved can be heard. When he speaks his voice is soft.) You shouldn’t be here, love, not this late.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | AMANDA FECK
ELEANOR: (She pauses as she hears footsteps walking in the opposite direction as she, she turns to follow them. When she speaks there is an annoyed bite to her words.) I love Edgar. I just don’t appreciate people not answering me when I am talking to them. (Pause) I work here, I have a right to be here, and you do not. (As she is coming up on another row, she sees a book in the middle of an aisle. She walks towards it to pick it up) VOICE: (Voice laughs) Bold of you to assume, that I don’t work here. I’ve been here many years, actually, darlin.’ (ELEANOR rolls her eyes and picks up the book, she reads the cover, Letters of Edgar Allan Poe. She frowns and starts to scan as to where it needed to go. She stops though as she suddenly feels eyes upon her. She spins around but no one is there) ELEANOR: Well that’s funny because if you worked here, you wouldn’t leave a book this precious lying on the ground. For the last time, who are you and why the hell are you down here? VOICE: Well, I guess I don’t work here then. So why should I put things back where they are? (He huffs.) And anyway, my hand slipped. ELEANOR: What are you even saying? Do you work here or not!? And where the hell are you anyway? VOICE: Tsk, tsk, such strong words for such a beautiful lady. A woman so lovely as yourself shouldn’t let such vile things come out those lips of yours. ELEANOR: (She reaches the front of the room where her desk is once again. Eleanor looks everywhere, but sees no one. She frowns and puts the unfinished pile of books down but notices something askew on her table.) What did you do with my earring? VOICE: (The voice sounds closer but slowly fades away as if he is walking down the rows again) What makes you think I took it? Have you checked the floor? It could have rolled off. ELEANOR: (She checks the floor and around her desk but she doesn’t see it) I swear to….my god…. what am I even doing? I’m losing it, I’m actually losing it. VOICE: What? Losing something else? Have you lost the other one now? My, you should keep track of your things, it’s quite unprofessional. (The sound of someone walking can be heard again the voice is humming an unfamiliar song now)
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | AMANDA FECK
ELEANOR: It’s because I didn’t take a break and eat. I’m starting to hear things now. (She laughs a little nervously, collapsing in her chair) My god I have lost it. VOICE: (Pauses in mid song) Oh! I see what you are saying now…..Hm no, my dear, I don’t believe you have. ELEANOR: For the love of-shut up! (She grabs her head) I-I need to go…Roger was right I justVOICE: (The sound of a book falling to the floor can be heard. The voice speaks again but this time with urgency) Stay away from that man. ELEANOR: (She ignores the voice and starts to pack up the rest of her things. She takes the one earring in hand and shoves it in her pocket.) I’ll have to try to find it tomorrow, no use trying to find it now. Roger will be coming down here any minute too… VOICE: (The voices rises in anger and urgency) Did you hear me, I said stay away from that man, dammit! (The books on ELEANOR’s table suddenly fly off and onto the floor, and the stacks start to quiver. ELEANOR pales, the reality suddenly sinking in. She books it towards the door. She runs down the hallway towards the stairs. She starts to climb looking back afraid she will see something chasing after her, when she suddenly collides with someone.) ROGER: Woah! Hey no need to run, I wasn’t serious when- (notices the horrified look on Eleanor’s face) Hey you all right, Elle? ELEANOR: (She doesn’t answer right away but when she does, her voice sounds slightly broken, yet she speaks quickly) Uh…y-yeah…just tired, sorry, that took a little longer than expected. Let’s go. (She tries to move around the large man but he stops her. He puts his large hands on her shoulders, she shivers under his touch.) ROGER: No way, what the hell happened down there, Elle. Tell me the truth now. ELEANOR: Nothing! Seriously! I’m just tired and hungry! I want to go home, all right!? Let’s just get…let’s just get out of here. (ELEANOR finally finds a way out of his grasp and stomps up the stairs. He turns to watch her finish going up the stairs. He then turns back to the door that leads down to the basement. ROGER’S eyebrows narrow and a frown deepens on his face. Though as he turns back towards where ELEANOR has gone, his features smooth out and there is
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | AMANDA FECK
a cold look on his face. He reaches into his pocket and pulls our ELEANOR’S earring and dangles it in front of his face. He walks up the steps slowly, his boots making a terrible ‘thunk’ as he follows the woman up the steps.)
About the Author Amanda was born and raised in Glendale, Arizona and still lives there. She is graduating with a bachelor’s in history and hoping to get a master’s in history and in library science at University of Arizona. Amanda loves art, sketching mostly, and writing. She is hoping one day to publish a novel on the side while working at a museum or library and eventually moving to a cottage by the sea with her cat.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
Do You Hear Them Too? By Jen Atanassova
Characters: June: (17) Stage three cancer patient, friendly. Abigail: (32) Nurse, pleasant, friendly. Betty: (15) short, big blue eyes, and black hair. Quiet, complacent. Larry: (45) Ice cream man, dirty.
Setting: Hospital. FADE IN: INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - EARLY MORNING (JUNE (17) has stage 3 cancer, she has been in the hospital for years. She is friendly, with a constant smile and a twinkle in her eye. She has a long wig and its always up in a ponytail. Books and schoolwork scatter the floor in her room with flowers spread about. She is in a deep sleep with her gown on. JUNE suddenly wakes up and quickly sits up. She starts to rub her eyes and glances over to the calendar.) JUNE: (loud sigh) Fuck. JUNE sits up on her hospital bed and begins to put her hair up. She slides on her sandals and heads to the bathroom, she stops at the mirror and glances at herself. Bruises mark the side of her neck, and arm, they seem new. JUNE: (confusingly, brows furrowed) Where do these always come from? (She rubs them and heads to brush her teeth and wash her face. A loud bell DING buzzes throughout her head. JUNE collapses to the floor and runs her hands FURIOUSLY on her head.)
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
JUNE: (yells in pain) OW! PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME! (A nurse RUSHES through the door helps JUNE up from the floor and quickly moves her to the bed. JUNE finally stops screaming after a while and has calm down. Nurse; ABIGAIL (32), tall, long brown hair, constantly concerned for JUNE, very friendly, pleasant, calming southern voice.) ABIGAIL: (brows lowered, concerned look) Are you okay sweet girl? Was it the bell sound again? JUNE: (quietly) Yes...I don't know why its happening...its like it happens only on certain days. What should I do? ABIGAIL: Have you heard of that bell sound before you were in here? Does it remind you of anything? JUNE: I only hear that bell when Larry comes around, it reminds me of the one on his cart. (ABIGAIL begins to sit up and hands JUNE a glass of water. She starts to tidy up the room and circles around JUNE who seems dazed on the bed.) ABIGAIL: (bent over with books in her hands) Darling, where did those bruises come from? (JUNE gets reminded of the bruises and looks down, confused. She gets up and heads to the mirror once more.) JUNE: I’m not sure, it’s odd, isn't it? ABIGAIL: I’d have Doc look at them, those bruises don't just come from anywhere hun. Could be low iron. C'mon get dressed and we'll head to breakfast. Theres a new girl for you to meet. (ABIGAIL hands JUNE a pretty blue dress and leaves the room smiling at JUNE. JUNE puts on the dress and fixes her hair, she winces at the migraine she has but opens the door and leaves.) INT. HOSPITAL DINING ROOM - WIDE - EARLY MORNING (LATER)
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
(Laughter fills the atmosphere as the bright lights shine upon the smiling faces of the hospital. Camera zooms in on table where JUNE and her friends sit. They are eating and smiling. ABIGAIL walks up with a new girl.) (JUNE quickly stands up and cleans the crumbs from her mouth. The table shares laughter.) JUNE: (sticks out her hand and has a smile on her face) Hi guys! My name is June, and these are my friends, dumb 1 and 2… (The girls are the table throw a piece of bread at her head. JUNE turns and giggles, the new girl hasn't smiled yet.) JUNE: (bit confused, but still smiling) I'm juuuust kidding,... these lovely ladies are Fawn and Carla. BETTY: (straight and cold, ignores JUNE'S hand and sits down on the table) I'm Betty. (She abruptly sits down at the table) JUNE: (sits back down, the table quiets down) What do you think of the hospital? BETTY: (she eats her food) I think the hospital is filled with other kids dying of cancer like me, any other questions? (The table goes back to quietly eating their food until its time to leave. JUNE notices that BETTY has the same bruises she does. The table dismisses into different directions and BETTY gets up and walks away. JUNE catches up to her.) JUNE: (she looks down at BETTY’S bruises, quietly) Could I ask you how you got those bruises? BETTY: (looks straight off into the distance) I could ask you the same thing. (JUNE seems embarrassed, and tries to hide the bruises with her hands.) JUNE: I can't remember how I got these, and I'm just trying to figure it out... (pause) No one else I’ve talked to has any idea. (BETTY stops and turns to her.) BETTY: (without hesitation) Do you black out sometimes and not remember later on throughout the day? (JUNE sits down at the nearest bench and seems scared almost. BETTY follows and sits next to her. They both stare off onto the wall together. A silence follows.) JUNE: (stutters) I-I-I do, yes. I thought it was normal because of the cancer.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
BETTY: Well. It’s not. Other kids around here have them too. And when we wake up we get theJUNE: The bruises. On Monday, Tuesday BETTY: (quietly) And Friday. I know. JUNE: (she shakes her head slowly) How is this possible? What is this happening to us? BETTY: (her voice strengthens) Do you hear them? JUNE: (looks over to her as she gets startled by the question, scared) The bells?...Do you hear them too? BETTY: (she jumps up and grabs her bag) I - I have to go. It's Monday. (BETTY rushes down the hallway. JUNE calls out to her to not leave but she has already made her way down the hall. JUNE sits back down as her headache starts to worsen, she hears the bell chimes DING DING DING, through her head. She runs to her room and closes the door harshly behind her. Others stare at her as she runs.) CUT TO BLACK INT. JUNE'S ROOM - DUSK (JUNE starts to wake and looks at the clock. 5 hours has surpassed, this has been the longest black out yet. More bruises arise on her stomach. JUNE picks up a picture of her mom that sits next to her desk. She picks it up and hugs it as she softly begins to cry.) JUNE: (quiet weeping) God, Mom...How I wish you were here right now... I miss you…I miss you so much. (JUNE hears a knock on her door.) BETTY: (from outside the door) It's Betty. Let me in. (JUNE quickly sets the photo down and rushes to the door, letting them in and closing the door behind her. BETTY scans the rooms and sits down on the chair in the corner.) BETTY: Did you just wake up? The headaches? The bells? (she begins to become frantic)
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WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
JUNE: (walks to her and leans down as she takes BETTY hand in hers) Yes,...We can't freak out no, we have to figure out why this is happening to us. (Children can be heard behind the door laughing and smiling, they are running around. JUNE opens the door and sees them all enjoying their ice cream, she looks down at their arms and knees which are filled with spots and some bruises.) EXT. HALLWAY - DUSK CHILDREN: (in unison, happy) BYE LARRY! BYE ICE CREAM MAN! (JUNE looks down the hallway as a tall large man pushing his cart down the hallway. He wears a long apron, and the cart seems dirty. She fixates onto the right of the cart next to his hand. A small bell. She can tell that it's the bell that makes the same noise she hears in her head. JUNE moves back into the room and starts reaching for the wall as she slides down it, paralyzed.) JUNE: (staring off, paralyzed with fear) Oh .. oh .. my god. BETTY: (quickly rushes over to JUNE) What!!? What is it, what did you see... JUNE! JUNE: (stuttering badly) La...La...Larry,... the same bell... He had the same…same bell... BETTY: You don't think (pause) you don’t think the ice cream guy has anything to do with this, do you? (JUNE stands up and points to the hospital issued calendar on the wall. It's filled with homework reminders and notes. She slowly raises her hand and points to MONDAY it says, "ice cream today!" then she points to TUESDAY, it says the same.) BETTY: (staring at the calendar) How can this be? Why us? It can’t be just us? How could he do something with the bell that will, what, make us forget?(JUNE walks over to the side of the bed where her moms picture frame lays. She holds it to her stomach.) JUNE: We have to figure this out. We can't let this keep happening to us. (Long pause between them. BETTY and JUNE sit on the ground, facing away from each-other.) JUNE: We have to wait till tomorrow to make sure La...Larry is somehow behind all this.
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WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
BETTY: I can't... I can't. I can't wait another day, I have my sister coming to visit me tomorrow from the shelter, Sherry, I can't have her see me like this, she's so young, she would be so scared. (BETTY pulls out a picture she has in her pocket of her and her young sister SHERRY, she shows it to JUNE. JUNE walks over and leans over to BETTY.) JUNE: (re-assuringly) We will figure this out. Until then, we should stay in the same room. I can sleep on the chair you can take the bed. We should also eat first. BETTY: I’m not really hungry. JUNE: OK, we'll stay in here. I have some board games. (JUNE jumps up and searches under her desk for old board games, Monopoly, Chess are all scattered under there. JUNE feels a hand on her shoulder as she begins to stand up she faces BETTY who goes into a hug.) BETTY: (has her head down, tears well in the corners of her eye) I've never even talked to him…I don't even like ice cream. I think my sister got ice cream from him once. (JUNE embraces BETTY into a hug. They hug for a long time quietly.) JUNE: I don't know how this is happening. He's tried to come into my room before, and I've always had it locked. The bell is new. We will figure it out tomorrow. I promise. (she sticks out her pinky) (They pinky promise, and resume playing board games on the bed. They share laughs, and snacks from the vending machine until they both pass out on the bed. JUNE wakes up in the middle of the night its around 3am, TUESDAY. JUNE heads to the bathroom and quietly puts the board games on the desk as she puts a blanket over BETTY. She then closes the door behind her. Shortly after the door knob to her room starts to shake, JUNE freezes. The door quietly opens and she hears a grunt as someone starts to walk in. She hears a confused 'huh.' With the door closing. Then she hears the bell. DING DING DING. She grabs her head and silently starts to weep. She slowly reaches into her medicine cabinet and injects herself with morphine she keeps in case of emergencies. The bell is still ringing. She looks around the bathroom and grabs a vase filled with flowers and dumps them slowly into the tub. She slowly opens the bathroom door. She sees LARRY (45) big, long beard dirty shirt, black slacks. Holding a bell in his hand. LARRY starts to ring the bell in the girls ears as they stay asleep, he starts to undress BETTY. JUNE comes from behind and swings the vase at the back of LARRY’S head and he falls onto the bed.)
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
BETTY: (jumps up awake) What the hell!! (She sees LARRY collapsed at the ground with glass scattered everywhere. She looks at JUNE who is shocked in fear and is still holding a glass shard.) ABIGAIL: (knock on the door rapidly, very concerned) Is everything ok in there? We heard a loud crash? June let me in please hunny. JUNE: (still frozen in her position) No,...It's okay, I just dropped my glass. I've got it. It's not that much. ABIGAIL: Are you sure? Let me in I can help! JUNE: I’ve got it! Thanks! (They wait for the footsteps to walk away.) BETTY: What happened? JUNE: (looks at Betty) I was in the bathroom when,... I heard the door open and the bell start to ring. I luckily had some morphine or else I would have passed out. When I opened the door...There was Larry. He was over you...undressing you… Ringing the bell in your ears. So I hit him, I couldn't let him... BETTY: (she hugs a pillow and stares at LARRY) So...thats how he's been doing it...In the middle of the night… he uses this... this fucked up bell to somehow hypnotize us to black out so he canJUNE: Don't. I don't want to hear it yet. BETTY: And this is why we have these bruises. This sick fuck has been beating us, and r(pauses) who knows how many other children he'sJUNE: That's why we have to get rid of him. We can't let him keep doing this to us, cause he'll be back again and again. BETTY: Can't we just tell hospital staff about him? They'll believe us. JUNE: Fuck that. I already get enough pity cause of the cancer I don’t need anymore. BETTY: (hesitates, she knows the answer) So...what are we going to do? JUNE: (grabbing a sharp glass from the ground) We kill him. BETTY: Woah wait! We can't do that, won’t they know we did it?
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WINTER2018
SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
JUNE: (she moves towards Larry) No,... they won't. Others will come forward about what he did to them, and police won't care about this piece of shit. One stab to the medulla oblongata and it’s done. We wrap his neck, and dump him in a utilities closet. BETTY: (covers her mouth) Let's do it. Someone has to take care of my sister. (BETTY lets out a single tear. JUNE hands a bucket to BETTY. JUNE seems emotionless at this moment. JUNE is paralyzed with the idea of killing him. JUNE bends down grabs the bell and places it in her pocket. With one quick motion JUNE stabs him in the medulla oblongata and leaves the glass in there.) JUNE: Help me roll the bed to the closet down the hall. (BETTY doesn't say anything back, places the bucket down and they start to wheel the bed down the hall, the crunch of the glass below the wheels are heard.) EXT. HOSPITAL HALLWAY - 5 AM. (They rush the bed into the closet and push his body, stuffing it into the closet. JUNE takes the glass out, and they run down to JUNE'S room with the bed. QUICKLY close the door behind them.) INT. JUNE'S ROOM - EARLY MORNING BETTY: (sighs) I can't believe we just did that. (JUNE pulls out the bell in her pocket and stares at it.) JUNE: It had to be done. Now go, go back to your room so we don't seem suspicious. (BETTY runs to JUNE and gives her a great big hug.) BETTY: I'm so sorry about all of this. But its over, we are free. You are our hero. You are my sisters hero. C'mon, throw that away. JUNE: I will. Now go. (BETTY scurries down to their room. JUNE is left on the bed, staring at the bell. She stands up and heads to the window. She opens the window and throws the bell out of it. She turns around after a minute and lays down on her bed to go to sleep. A small amount of blood is on the sheet and she puts a pillow over it. JUNE falls asleep.) INT. JUNE'S ROOM - DAY (LATER)
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SCRIPTS | JEN ATANASSOVA
Ringing fills the air, DING DING DING. JUNE suddenly wakes up and frantically sits up. Close up of face. FADE TO BLACK
About the Author Jen Atanassova is born and raised in Arizona. She is majoring in film and has just recently directed her own first short film. She has written three scripts now and absolutely loves it. Jen would love to eventually become a full time screenwriter and eventually direct her own work for her own company. She says art, specifically film, can impact so many people’s lives in so many different ways, just as it has impacts hers she hopes to one day do the same with her writing onto others.
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WINTER2018
Sophie Mills Thomas
McKenna Ihde
ARTWORK _______________________________
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Jessica Fink
Viktor Chemelekov
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McKenna Ihde
Brigitte Lacasse
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Brad Bachmeier
Salomeh Nikzadeh
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V. Holecek
Juli Adams
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Sophie Mills Thomas
Sam Aleks
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Sam Pisciotta
Dan Tocher
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Diana Buzoianu
Nichole Simmons
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Kim Stadin
Kaleb Anderson
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ARTWORK | JESSICA FINK
Jessica Fink Jessica Fink is an aspiring artist and dog person from Phoenix, AZ. As a kid, Jessica wanted to be a comedian when she grew up, but also had this nagging passion for drawing and film. She decided to combine her obsession with humor, movies, and art, and become an animator. Jessica is pursuing her dreams of designing and animating characters for animated feature films. Her biggest inspirations are Glen Keane (Tangled, The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Tarzan, literally everything) and Robin Williams. Oh, also Beyoncé. Jessica will be starting BYU’s Pre-Animation program in January.
Jessica and Toto | Animation
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | JESSICA FINK
Sovereign | Animation
Painting Study | Animation
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | MCKENNA IHDE
McKenna Ihde McKenna is an acrylic painter and mixed media artist who currently resides in Leavenworth, Washington. She was born in Wisconsin to two teachers. She graduated with a degree in the Fine Arts at the University of Wisconsin - Green Bay. McKenna gravitates towards the use of fabrics and old paper in her paintings to extenuate her already bold and bright mobile strokes. She aims to create worlds within worlds in her mixed media work. Each painting has many pieces, just like a city has neighborhoods. Website: www.mckennaihde.com Instagram: @mckennaihdeart
Swallow | Acrylic, Textiles, Gold Leaf CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | MCKENNA IHDE
Fox and Poppies | Acrylic, Textiles
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | MCKENNA IHDE
Hi-bee-scus | Acrylic, Textiles
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | BRAD BACHMEIER
Brad Bachmeier Brad Bachmeier spent years researching and creating works that center around the core of his artistic statement, which is: “Honoring Mankind’s ancient and universal partnership with clay.” Inherent in this statement is the investigation of indigenous people and how clay as a primal element was specifically used in prehistoric cultures and geographies to create not just pottery, kilns, roads, pipes, tile, buildings, etc. More recently, this research has turned his attention to geologic elements and locations.
Tukanno “Plate” | Ceramic
Tonegapu Osa “Flower Basket” | Ceramic CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | BRAD BACHMEIER
Nampaweap Remnants | Ceramic
The Grand Wash | Ceramic
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | V. HOLECEK
V. Holecek V. Holeček is a contemporary artist working in colored pencil drawings and acrylic paintings. His artistic processes are rooted in Central/Eastern-European and American dark surrealism. His inspirations include H.R. Giger, Zdzislaw Beksinski, Darius Zawadski, Chet Zar, Lori Earley, Hieronymous Bosch, Aunia Khan, and Glenn Arthur. He has exhibited his work in numerous group exhibitions including THE DAMNED, an annual international showcase of dark and strange artwork and performances in Detroit. His work is collected domestically and abroad, and he has done artwork for film, books, and music projects. He is also one of the operators of a reddit community to connect artists and collectors. View more of his art at schamballah.com or visit him on Facebook.
Naturschutzpark IV | Acrylic
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | V. HOLECEK
Naturschutzpark | Acrylic
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | V. HOLECEK
Irises in Vase : Oil
Qualitat des Lesben V | Acrylic
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | V. HOLECEK
Der kleine Tod
Irises in Vase : Oil Irises in Vase : Oil
Der-Kleine-Tod | Acrylic
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | SOPHIE MILLS THOMAS
Sophie Mills Thomas Sophie is an emerging contemporary artist, based in Bristol, England. Sophie’s style is postmodern expressionism. Nature is the focus of her art. “My aim is to capture a moment of stillness, animal mid-stride, swim, swoosh, scuttle and convey it through juxtaposition of expressive style and vibrant colour.” "To be able to go full time as an artist has been and probably will be the thing I am proudest of. It is both terrifying and exhilarating. I will not forget waking up at 5 a.m going to the studio, arriving at the office stinking of turps and oil paint, charging back at lunch to carry on painting and then back again after the office, creating in neon strip lighting 'til dark. It was during this time with sore eyes, that the shift between enjoying art and it becoming my life occurred. I am truly grateful to pursue art as my career.”
She does commissions and has her own series of originals as well, as limited-edition prints. To see more of Sophie’s art, visit her website and her Instagram: @smt_art.
Regal Heron | Oil CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | SOPHIE MILLS THOMAS
Crab | Oil
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | SOPHIE MILLS THOMAS
Highland Boy | Oil, Acrylic, Charcoal, Gold Leaf
Sacred Ibis | Inks, Spray Paint, Acrylic
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | SAM PISCIOTTA
Sam Pisciotta Sam W. Pisciotta lives in Colorado where he spends his time teaching, writing, and creating visual art. He received a Master of Arts degree in Literary Studies from the University of Colorado at Denver, and it is that strong connection to story that informs much of his creative efforts. His background is in drawing, with a particular interest in merging representational and expressive techniques. His work reflects life-long interests in nature, science, mythology, and memory. You can see more of his work at www.silo34.com. Follow his Instagram @silo34.
Autumn Field | Monotype Print
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | SAM PISCIOTTA
Taste of Honey | Charcoal
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | DIANA BUZOIANU
Diana Buzoianu Diana Buzoianu is a passionate photographer with a constant desire to find new ways of expressing herself as an artist. She has lived in London for the past 20 years as a graphic designer and is originally from Romania. A tireless traveler, she enjoys discovering new places, meeting new people, and developing her landscape, portrait, and conceptual photography. She thinks of her artworks as unfinished statements that allow perpetual interaction and improvisation on both sides: the maker and the viewer. She relies on her desire for beauty, poetics, and profound meanings. Her works have been published in the National Geographic, the London national newspaper The Telegraph, online galleries such as 1X.com, OneEyland and has had several group and personal exhibitions in London and Romania. View her gallery or website. Instagram: @buzoianu.diana
The Blacksmith of Bucovina | Photography CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | DIANA BUZOIANU
Behind the Mask | Photography
The Mask Maker of Maramures | Photography
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | DIANA BUZOIANU
Morning Duties | Photography
Summer Resting | Photography
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | DIANA BUZOIANU
The Ceramist of Maramures | Photography
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | DIANA BUZOIANU
Winter in Bucovina | Photography
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | KIM STADIN
Kim Stadin Kim Stadin is an American abstract artist and television producer living and working in New York. She graduated from the S.I. Newhouse School of Communications at Syracuse University and is currently a Producer with Dateline NBC. Her work is characterized as being colorful, vibrant and captivating. “Painting gives me the opportunity to escape into my very own creative bubble, a fantasy of color, a place where I can use pure spontaneity. To me, color represents life and happiness. I use bold and bright colors to create art that brings a soothing flow of positive energy into any space in which it is placed. I’ve personally discovered that color can have a truly fascinating effect on our every day lives.” Kim’s work can be seen in private collections around the USA. To see more of Kim’s art, visit her website: kimstadin.com or her Instagram: @kimstadin.
Untitled 1 | Acrylic
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | KIM STADIN
Untitled 2 | Acrylic
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | KIM STADIN
Untitled 3 | Acrylic
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | VIKTOR CHEMELEKOV
Viktor Chemelekov With a love for the great outdoors and physical activity, Viktor Chemelekov grew up exploring the magical landscapes of his home country of Bulgaria. Now, a civil engineer by education and construction manager by profession, his journeys have brought him to the American Southwest. Viktor, reluctant to call himself a photographer, sees his camera as a tool to balance out his highly analytical vocation and express his artistic side. With each shot, Viktor invites you to see his point of view and appreciate all the beauty he comes across. Take a look through his eyes at: https://www.instagram.com/grizlypeak
Jumping Cholla Garden | Photography
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | BRIGITTE LACASSE
Brigitte Lacasse Brigitte Lacasse was born in 1957 in a small village near Montréal, Québec. Her father was an art teacher and her mother a very creative person. She began drawing at an early age and was encouraged to express herself often. As a child, she wanted to do window displays after watching a man working in a store window. Fifteen years later, she decided that the best way to get herself a beautiful dress in the window was to exchange her work to pay for it. She did this job for almost 25 years. Lacasse began drawing again 5-6 years ago. She put all of her time and energy into exploring what she could do and what she had to say. Her life is devoted to her work. Lacasse says that she likes that people find their own interpretation in her work. Presently, she uses images, photographs, and other mediums combined with acrylics, pastels, aquarelle or whatever inspires her, as she likes textures and believes they are infinite. View more of Brigitte Lacasse’s artwork on Instagram: @Brigitte.lacasse.92.
Untitled 1 | Mixed Media CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | BRIGITTE LACASSE
Untitled 2 | Mixed Media Dropped Carnation : Oil CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | BRIGITTE LACASSE
Untitled 3 | Mixed Media
Untitled 4 | Mixed Media CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ARTWORK | BRIGITTE LACASSE
Untitled 5 | Mixed Media
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WINTER2018
ARTWORK | SALOMEH NIKZADEH
Salomeh Nikzadeh Salomeh Nikzadeh is a filmmaker who loves to paint in her spare time. Her paintings are inspired by nature, Persian miniatures and Persian mythology. She believes that art should transport the viewer to a different world and fantastic places where everything is at peace and harmony. To see more of her work, visit Salomeh’s Instagram: @Shalomsalomeh
Blue Obsession | Watercolor and Acrylic
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ARTWORK | SALOMEH NIKZADEH
Blue and Green | Watercolor and Acrylic
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ARTWORK | JULI ADAMS
Juli Adams Juli Adams’s paintings are a conversation between her internal life and the experience of living in the everyday world. They are stories condensed into an image that become a window into another world, where her characters are having a kind of parallel life. Her earliest artistic influences were children’s books, which are very alive in her today. She also loved cartoons – The Addams Family, Bloom County, and Peanuts. This beautiful medium is ingenious at portraying the character of life in simple lines. Adams was drawn to the subtle and the macabre. Her work touches on darkness because she believes our darkness, or shadow self, is a valuable resource worth exploration. To see more artwork from Juli Adams, visit her website: juliadams.com.
Between the Hours| Oil
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ARTWORK | JULI ADAMS
The Small Things | Oil
I Saw the Face of Hecate | Oil
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ARTWORK | JULI ADAMS
Portrait of a Young Poulquestrian | Oil
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ARTWORK | SAM ALEKS
Sam Aleks Samvel Aleksanyan (Sam Aleks) is an Armenian-born American artist. Sam was born on May 6th, 1993 in Yerevan, Armenia. On September 5th, 2001, he moved to the United States with his immediate family. He has lived in Los Angeles and maintained an active interest in both visual art and literature ever since. Sam began studying art under artist Andranik Daibyan at the age of 14. In 2011, he graduated from East Valley High School and began attending California State University, Northridge. He received a Bachelor's Degree in English Literature (Honors) in May, 2016 and a Master's Degree in English (Creative Writing) in May, 2018. To see more of Sam’s work, visit his website: www.samaleksart.weebly.com or his Instagram: @samaleksart.
NY Central Park | Oil
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ARTWORK | SAM ALEKS
Grand Canyon | Oil
Mountain Ridges | Oil
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ARTWORK | SAM ALEKS
Flow Abstract | Acrylic, Deco Markers
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ARTWORK | DAN TOCHER
Dan Tocher Dan Tocher is best known for his abstract paintings. His works can be seen from many different viewpoints. Each of his works has its own inner mythological system. Yet, he considers every painting a mirror – not a mirror reflecting the viewers face, but reflecting the individual’s soul. Much of his work includes abstract entities he refers to as "strangers." He dreams his strangers also struggle for meaning in our reality, and hope to find their answers in our abstraction. Dan has over twelve years of experience in digital painting on computers. He's now moved to painting on an Android tablet. He believes by limiting his digital toolbox, he's challenged himself into a greater creativity to overcome its limitations. See more of his work on Instagram: @dan_tocher.
Someone Has Already Started | Digital
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ARTWORK | DAN TOCHER
Always a Stranger | Digital
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ARTWORK | DAN TOCHER
Vision Abstraite| Digital
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ARTWORK | DAN TOCHER
Irises in Vase : Oil Irises in Vase : Oil
Don’t Get Too Close | Digital
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ARTWORK | NICHOLE SIMMONS
Nichole Simmons Nichole Simmons received her BS in Art Practices from Portland State University in June 2018. Her artwork has been published and exhibited since she started attending Portland State University. With a prominence in expressive and experimental art styles, she embraces any medium she can get her hands on for her art but has a focus in printmaking, painting, and photography. Working with art makes her feel alive throughout her soul, allowing her to get lost within her creative process, thus making her art successful. Her work can be seen through her website www.nicholesimmons.com.
An Open Abyss | Acrylic on Canvas Board
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ARTWORK | KALEB ANDERSON
Kaleb Anderson Kaleb Anderson is a photographer who specializes in black and white imagery. Since high school he has enjoyed working with the traditional medium of photography, and he currently shoots film in his spare time. Kaleb's favorite genre is still life, and he also enjoys nature photography. Photography is Kaleb's way of expressing himself while doing what he loves.
Coffee Beans | Film
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ARTWORK | KALEB ANDERSON
Wine Bottle and Glass | Film
Chess Pieces | Film
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Kim Stadin
Red Woods — Rosa Alberi Simonton (See Artwork for full image)
Author’s Alcove _______________________________
Rudy Ravindra The Path to Becoming an Author By Lee Breisblatt _______________________________
Scott Laudati Dare to be Different By Kacee Allard _______________________________
Dina Juan On People Watching, Public Transits, and Particularization of Ethnic Literature By Ashtar Mikhail _______________________________
Amanda Feck Ghost Stories in the Library By Gaige Johnston _______________________________
Diana Buzoianu Behind the Camera: The Words of the Storyteller By James Rose and Rachel Passer _______________________________
AUTHORS ALCOVE | RUDY RAVINDRA
The Path to Becoming an Author An Interview with Rudy Ravindra By Lee Breisblatt
Rudy Ravindra has always wanted to be a writer. However, due to the influence of others he decided to become a scientist. After spending many years a scientist, he has now retired. But after retirement, he has now become a writer. In his story, “Naive Novelist,” he shares his experiences and struggles he went through to become a writer. Could you start by telling us what was your inspiration into becoming a writer? Ever since I learned to read and write, I fell in love with literature and wanted to be a writer. But my near and dear scoffed at the idea and urged me to become a doctor in order to have a recession-proof job. Though reluctant to be at the front lines to alleviate pain and suffering, I enrolled into a premed program. Lost in a world of flora and fauna, I loathed to touch slimy earthworms and leeches, and petrified at putrid chemicals, and quivered at chemistry kits. It was not surprising therefore that my best efforts ran into seed. Though I managed to get a college degree, my grades were woefully inadequate to enter the fiercely competitive medical schools. Anyhow, I got a Master’s degree from an obscure university and eventually got a Phd. I became a bumbling biochemist, knowledgeable in neither biology nor chemistry. But, in a weird way this suited me fine. I deprecated my limited knowledge of chemistry when I chatted with a bunch of chemists, and lamented at my rudimentary grasp of biology when I hobnobbed with biologists. And I managed to stay very far
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Read “Naïve Novelist” by Rudy Ravindra in Fiction.
away from all those brilliant biochemists lest they see through my miserable façade. After a lackluster career, I retired. Now I am writing all the time, harassing hapless editors of online magazines. And I am pleasantly surprised that a few editors have accepted my mediocre prose. What are your favorite authors or novels? Why are they your favorite authors, can you explain? Graham Greene, Somerset Maugham, Ruth Rendell, Isabel Allende. Their depiction of a place or a character are unique. I wish I can write such riveting prose. What are the most difficult challenges when writing a story? Can you narrow down how you pick an idea? From among the many ideas in my ‘ideas and plots’ file, picking one that might work. For example, for a novel I just completed, the idea came from a distant aunt’s experience. A man
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | RUDY RAVINDRA
pursued her relentlessly and even wrote love letters using his own blood (sounds gruesome). What would be your goal as a writer? It is satisfying to write a readable piece and just have fun. What was your inspiration into writing “Naive Novelist?” How is it a shortened version of “How Not to Write a Bestseller?” What details did you not include in “Naive Novelist?” I had to submit a piece for the Iowa Writers summer workshop. That piece was titled: How Not to Write a Bestseller. ZZ Packer, our instructor, must have liked it. I was one of 12 students selected to be in her class. Naive Novelist is a shortened version of How Not to Write a Bestseller. The subplot of the gas pumping guy and the rich girl is very long in the original version. Also the conversations between the protagonist and his wife are too many. Was the main character of “Naive Novelist” an inspiration from someone you know, or was he someone based on your own experiences in becoming an author? What was your experience? Were they the same as those struggling writers and if they weren’t, can you describe what were their struggles? It is partly based on my own experience as well as what I have gathered from other struggling writers. Most of us face the same problems. The lit agents determine what is publishable. I am sure they look at it from a marketing angle, not necessarily literary merit of a particular novel. And it is all very subjective.
This is a very random process. But keeping in mind that most of the readers are Americans who might be unfamiliar with foreign names, I try to use names that are easy to pronounce. What is your usual writing process? When I was working, most of my writing was done in evenings and weekends. Now that I am retired, I start writing in the morning and stop around 4 PM. Are there any kind of themes or life lessons you like to put into your writing? I try to incorporate issues such as caste and gender discrimination, poverty, struggles of the middle class. What kind of enjoyment do you get out of writing? How is it satisfying? Although writing is hard work, when I complete an exciting piece it is very satisfying. I am satisfied that I did my very best. It does not necessarily mean someone else can’t do a better job. What kind of advice can you give to people who want to become writers? It is quite difficult to make a living as a writer. Unless one is stellar, the money is hard to come by. It is preferable that an aspiring writer has a job and then write in his/her spare time.
What helps you decide on making the names for your characters?
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SCOTT LAUDATI
To Dare to be Different An Interview with Scott Laudati By Kacee Allard
Author of “The Santa Fe Trail,” Scott Laudati also has published two books of poetry, Hawaiian Shirts in the Electric Chair and Bone House. Here we get a close look behind Laudati’s writing experience and life. Tell me a little background information about yourself. I live in New York with a really mean chiweenie named Drake. He attacks me like once a week but the other times he’s really sweet and cute so I just deal with it. I’ve written two published books of poetry - Hawaiian Shirts In The Electric Chair (Kuboa) and Bone House (Bone Machine, Inc.) and I have a novel called Play The Devil being republished soon by Bone Machine. Other than that I don’t smoke weed because it makes me paranoid and I haven’t eaten meat since 2010. What brought you to writing poetry? I started writing in general because I was always in bands and they kept falling apart. Basically anything I’ve ever tried to do with another person has fallen apart. I had a t-shirt co once that was about to be bought out for huge money and my partner just decided last minute he couldn’t handle the pressure and the whole deal fell through. I like writing because I only have to trust myself. And I was a complete loser in high school so writing just came with the territory. Who are some of your favorite poets/ writers?Dead - Jim Carrol. Yeats. Alive - Thom
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Read Scott Laudati’s poem, “The Santa Fe Trail,” in the Poetry section.
Young. Karina Bush. And this guy Mark SaFranko I was recently introduced to. Are there particular themes you enjoy working with most? Writing is easy for me because I constantly make the wrong decisions and then I spend my life regretting and trying to fix them. That’s basically what I write about, regret, failure, and maybe some hope that next time I might be able to get it right. How would you describe your writing style to someone who is not familiar with your work? I used to live on the same block as David Bowie. I gave him a couple poems one time in a coffee
“I don’t leave any of the details out, for good or ill.”
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SCOTT LAUDATI
shop and he said they “read like a long look back on a filthy weekend.” So, I guess that’s the best way to say it. I don’t leave any of the details out, for good or ill.
places. And back then our professors would get drunk with us and take us on retreats to their country houses. There was such a freedom in college. It’s never been like that again.
Do you ever write of your own personal experiences?
What sort of feedback does your poetry receive?
Yes, but I also write about my friends’ experiences as well. I’m lucky to have had the same 3 best friends since I was 9. They’re all named Joe and they’re all insane. And I’m lucky because they are all better characters than anyone could ever invent. So many of the stories I write in the first person are theirs as well. Luckily none of them can write so I get all the good stuff.
Generally positive. My mother always complains it’s too sad. The other criticisms have been about violence and drugs. But I’m just writing about life as I’m seeing it. There’s an undercurrent of nihilism strangling the youth, some people don’t like being reminded of mankind’s failures.
What is the biggest inspiration behind your work? I don’t remember what the world was like before this last election. I’m writing as much as I can now, neglecting family and friends, because I feel like the world is probably going to end really soon. I want to produce whatever I have inside of me before the final deadline, so hopefully the aliens or whoever survives can read about our time and get some sense of our world. What do you find most difficult about writing poetry? Finding new ways to say the same thing everyone else is saying. I think I became a writer and not a painter because I have an ability to see the world in it’s raw form, the bones. I have no interest in making it pretty. A painter would see the world as it could be, I see it the way it is. Do you have a specific environment where you create your best writing?
“But I’m just writing about life as I see it.” What is your ultimate goal as a writer? To pay my rent. Does your writing expand beyond poetry? Sure. I’ve had essays and journalistic stuff published in several places. I’ve also written many short stories. The first one I ever published was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. I thought that was going to be the start of a long, wellpaying career but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Where can those interested find more of your work? My two published books are on amazon. If you want to hang out with me and see pictures of pizza and my dog you can follow me on instagram @scottlaudati
I’ve never been as inspired as when I lived on campus. Meeting new people from all different
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DINA JUAN
On People Watching, Public Transit, and the Particularization of Ethnic Literature An Interview with Dina Juan By Ashtar Mikhail
Dina Juan gives Canyon Voices readers a glimpse of her writing process and examines the perils and advantages of categorizing works of literature as “ethnic.” Your short story Totoy is about your grandfather, Sixto Domingo. What made you decide to write about him? My grandpa was notorious for his endless stories about his life, and I have always been enchanted by them. He would sit me down at the kitchen table with his favorite whiskey (Chivas Regal) and talk for hours about being a scout during World War II, moving to Manila and driving a jeepney at the age of fourteen, immigrating to California and picking grapes in the hot Fresno sun, etc. I decided at a young age that I had to write them down -- if not to share with the rest of the world then just for myself and my family to remember how any of us got here. Writing down his life brings me back not just to the kitchen table of my childhood home, but also to the provinces of the northern Philippines and to preGoogle California. His stories are special to me because they are a reminder that my own journey as an immigrant began a lifetime before I was even born. Do you write for a specific audience?
Read Dina Juan’s short story, Totoy, in the Creative Nonfiction section.
I write for fellow Filipinx and other minorities who feel that they have little or no voice in literature. Growing up as an avid reader and writer, I was often frustrated that the books we read in school were mostly written by white men. While I appreciate these great works, I think we as new writers and readers should advocate for more diversity in the stories we give to students. I hope to inspire my audience and fellow readersto seek more diverse writers and perhaps contribute their own voices. What inspires you to write? I usually find a moment or situation and build the piece around it. I’m a big people watcher, so
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DINA JUAN
sitting on public transportation is a jackpot. For this, I’m extremely grateful that I live in the San Francisco Bay Area because taking BART (our subway system) is placing myself in a myriad of different lives and stories. I see little old ladies with cartfuls of produce, parents kissing their children goodbye as they unboard for school, commuters greeting each other at mutual stations, and it amazes me how so many people from different backgrounds and living such different lives come together in a tiny, sweaty space on a daily basis. Some argue that having ethnic literature as its own genre makes ethnic lives seem particularized and not normalized. Do you have any opinions on this characterization of ethnic works? While I do think that there is a problem with strictly categorizing a literary work as just ethnic, I also think it’s beneficial for the current literary canon to have an umbrella genre for ethnic literature. I wish ethnic literature could be seen and read with the same frequency and deep study as European or American literature in schools, but at the moment, we need to allow a space in the literary canon for it to grow. This is not to say that we need to box ethnic writers into one corner and have them write strictly about their culture; it’s more so that we have visibility for readers and writers to see that they can be and are represented in literature. We can study the British novel or American poetry, but both genres have their own subcategories so as not to create a blanket term that washes out each individual work. Ethnic writers already contribute a variety of topics without particularizing their ethnicity: Jhumpa Lahiri writes about class struggles within her native West Bengal as well as the diaspora, but focuses on the human condition and relationships rather than simply writing about Bengali people. Ethnic literature is not just a brochure about ethnic
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people, it’s a genre that allows readers and writers a place to explore their identity without being drowned out in the mainstream literary canon. What would you like your readers to know about you? I write mostly about the Filipinx-American experience, but I read almost anything -- chick lit, science fiction, horror, historical fiction, etc. I love anything with maps. Right now I’m switching off between Brandon Sanderson’s The Way of Kings, Stephen King’s The Shining, and Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls. They’re completely different, but I like changing genres because it keeps it fun. One day it’s 19th century Russian social satire, the next it’s Redrum, then perhaps a huge battle with shardblades and giant insects. I don’t knock anything until I try it -- I even enjoy a cheesy vampire romance now and then. Besides writing, what are your other interests? I love being outdoors, so in my spare time I like to go hiking and camping. When I have a lot of spare time I like to travel and explore new places: I’ve been on a lot of road trips. My favorite one was through the Southwest, where I got to hike through the Virgin River and and explore ancient dwellings built under cliffs. Nature is a huge inspiration, but it’s also a nice break from sitting down at the computer screen. Ethnic literature is becoming increasingly popular right now. (Sour Grapes by Jenny Zhang is a current favorite of mine). Do you have any ethnic writers you look up to or any favorite works? I mentioned Jhumpa Lahiri and will read anything she writes, but I also love Amy Tan and Khaled Hosseini. The Kite Runner was an extremely influential book: Hosseini went to my
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DINA JUAN
high school and used a lot of familiar elements in the story. There’s something magical about seeing the place where you grew up immortalized in fiction. What made you choose to write a creative nonfiction piece, as opposed to another genre? I knew I wanted to write about my grandpa, so it only made sense to use the stories he told me. I don’t write strictly nonfiction, but I usually find it more comfortable than fiction because it’s a connection to something or someone I already know. What advice would you give to a young writer who might be hesitant about putting pen to paper?
I hope that the readers enjoy my piece and appreciate the wonder and legend that was my grandpa. He passed away a few days ago and unfortunately won’t be able to see the final piece, but I told him before he went that his story is getting published in my school’s magazine and that I am working on a larger novel about him. I’m sad about him being gone, but can’t wait to share his story with the rest of the world. Since Totoy is so heavily influenced by Filipino culture, how did you shape your work for a wider audience? I think anyone can appreciate an interesting character and a good story, regardless of background. I think readers will enjoy Totoy not just as a Filipino story, but as a character essay of bravery and grit.
Just do it! Write for yourself, write for your mom (she’ll love it unconditionally, trust me), write for your dog. It doesn’t always have to be to a huge audience; in fact, your writing will be more genuine and sincere if you write initially for yourself. I find it easier to express myself on paper (or computer screen), so writing is a way for me not to go crazy with all the things I forgot to or cannot say out loud. What’s something you hope readers will take away from Totoy? Everyone has an amazing story. Your grandparents, your teachers, the little old lady on BART with a cart full of mangoes. They have lived these incredible and colorful lives and you are lucky enough to share this part of your lifetimes together. Is there anything you would like to add? Other than a few blogs I’ve written for myself and school, this is my first time being published in a literary magazine. It’s extremely exciting and
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | AMANDA FECK
Ghost Stories in the Library An Interview with Amanda Feck By Gaige Johnston
Channeling a childhood fondness of her grandma’s scary stories, along with a lifelong love of literature and all things creepy, Amanda strives at reinventing the ordinary aspects of her life into creative set pieces and plots. Working within ASU’s eerie sub-basement library, she has no shortage of inspiration for her spooky stories. Editor Gaige Johnston sat down with Amanda to discuss ghosts, Poe, the art of suspense, and her emergence as a creative writer. First of all, what lead you into the creative writing process for this script? It was an idea I had vaguely floating around in my mind for a while. I work in the basement of ASU's library in Government Documents, and at times my imagination tends to run wild. Being in that quiet basement, and being around books that go back to the 1800s, made me think it would be cool to write a story about a ghost who lived down there, and perhaps tried to romance a librarian. That was the original idea, but when I ended up writing the script it didn’t really become the main part of the story, and the idea of the security guard becoming a dark figure kind of took center stage to it. The spirit's connection with Edgar Allen Poe is very interesting. What about Poe and his work lead you to use his likelihood in the script? I've always loved Poe and his work, so when I made the spirit and wanted him to quote
CANYONVOICES
Read “The Voice” by Amanda Feck in Scripts.
something, I thought of Poe. He writes a lot about dark, melancholy and supernatural things — all of which I love. I chose his poem “Spirits of the Dead” because it is one of my favorites and it isn't well known, though it should be because it's such a beautiful piece. I thought it would fit well due to the fact the spirit was quoting it. Could you tell us more about the spirit? Does it haunt the library, or does it haunt the books? Perhaps the spirit follows Roger? The spirit, initially, was supposed to be Roger's previous murder victim that was killed in the basement of the library; however, going back and wanting to rewrite some of the script, I feel like the spirit has always been there, haunting a specific book on the shelf, perhaps one that he
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | AMANDA FECK
loved while he was alive and had on him when he died. He would look out for those who worked down there, and eventually saw that Roger did commit murder, at some point, and wanted to stop him from committing others. The spirit in nature was supposed to be from Louisiana when he was alive, with a Cajun accent, sort of a mix between southern and French Canadian. He was a dapper man with a witty and charming attitude with a love of literature. Do you believe in ghosts or spiritual encounters? More importantly, do you believe you have experienced a spiritual encounter?
Yes, I definitely do. I haven't seen a ghost or anything, but there will be times I think I hear things or feel certain things in certain places, particularly ones that have a lot of history or death. I think a place that has so much history, whether it be good or bad, gives off vibes that people can pick up if they are open to that sort of thing.
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What is your favorite ghost story, or a story with spirits and hauntings, fictional or non-fictional? This is a hard question. There are so many I loved that have stuck with me over the years. I could go on and on about it, but I think my favorite ghost story, fictional wise, is more romantic than scary. It’s a novel, film, and show called, “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.” It is one of my favorite films because I love the ghost so much, and his relationship to the female protagonist. The ghost is a sea captain, which in the film is played by Rex Harrison, and he plays the character perfectly. It's a great film and an
excellent novel. I highly recommend it to anyone who loves a bit of the supernatural and romance. Are you a big fan of creepy/scary stories? Oh definitely, I love that stuff. I grew up on hearing scary stories from my grandma. She would tell my brother and I a scary story of a
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | AMANDA FECK
creature called Raw Head and Bloody Bones, who would take children away if they misbehaved. It was to keep my brother and I from getting into trouble. Also, my brother and I would read scary stories all the time growing up, specifically Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz and illustrated by Stephen Gammell. Ever since, I just surrounded myself with it. I really love it. Roger evolves into a very ominous and disturbing figure by the end of the play. As a writer, what sort of thoughts or tools did you use to create mystery, suspense, and danger around this character?
add other elements into it to make it fit what story you are writing. Writing such scenes will come a lot easier, since you have experienced a situation or place like that. Do you have any advice, as a young author to other authors, looking to make their first publication? Maybe illustrating your unique experience as a first-time published student will be insightful to others. I would say just write and don't give up on anything you have written. Perhaps you think one thing you have written is bad, but someone
I guess I just looked to old films and shows I watched for inspiration. My family and I watch a lot of older horror films and mystery shows like Columbo, and I kind of thought, how did they do it? I tried to think like how other horror or mystery writers write, and I applied it to my story. You utilize your setting as a basement library, and your characters as librarians very effectively, alongside this literary spirit. What advice do you have for making purposeful settings with characters that belong in them, or what was your thought process that lead you to do so? I wrote what I knew, which was something that was hammered into me when I took a creative writing class years ago. My suggestion to others is to do the same. Take what you know, but CANYONVOICES
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | AMANDA FECK
will love it. Don't beat yourself up over your writing either, just keep doing it. When I wrote this script, I wrote it literally the morning it was due because for the longest time nothing was coming to mind. Even though I had the idea already in mind, putting it to words was something else entirely. Then finally, that morning it was due, words just kind of came and the story put itself together. I had an idea, but I just didn't know what or how to go about it. I wasn't entirely happy with it when I turned it in, but people liked it, which I really appreciate and am grateful for. So again, just because you aren't sure about something, just write it and you will be surprised what comes of it. Never sell yourself short. Is there anything you would like to add that hasn't already been said? Yes, I just wanted to thank you for giving me this opportunity and liking my story. This means a whole lot to me, and I am so happy others have liked my script, so thank you so very much!
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DIANA BUZOIANU
Behind the Camera: The Words of the Storyteller An Interview with Diana Buzoianu By James Rose and Rachel Passer
Few pictures hold the viewer captive; fewer pictures make the viewer yearn for the story. Diana does both as she tells the story of Romania and its culture. So, let us share Diana’s vision with you… These photos are so interesting! Are they scenes of everyday life or are they from festivals that celebrate old Romanian culture and keep traditions alive? You’ve posed a really good question here: In my last 4 years of traveling through my country, I’ve seen a change every day in the way of living in those places where traditions are still being kept. Sadly, the false values and so-called modernity start to slowly creep in. However, there are still lots of people who love their old traditions and make a point of transmitting them to the next generation. In my images, I was fortunate enough to have met these kinds of people, and if you ever go to visit them, you will find yourself transported back in time, for their traditions are their way of living. How do you go about getting the subjects/ models for your shoots? I travel a lot and always like to hear people’s stories. In them, I make the necessary inner connection that enables me to capture their personalities into my images.
CANYONVOICES
See Diana’s photography series in the Artwork section.
Do any of these photos have an especially good story behind them, or do any of your subjects have an interesting backstory? All of them have a story to say and they are so happy when someone listens to them. Most of the time I still keep in touch with them and if I’m in the area, I will not be forgiven if I don’t go to see them again. How long have you been doing photography? Also, tell us about your most exciting photography experiences! I started taking photography seriously about 5 years ago, meaning investing in lots of traveling and equipment. Ever since, life has taken a
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DIANA BUZOIANU
different turn and every moment is exciting. It’s difficult to pick one exciting moment only but I’ll briefly mention the night I spent on a hill/cliff trying to capture the Milky Way going around the nocturnal sky. All that night, all I could hear was the wolves howling and dogs barking in a frenzy. I think God had sent his army of Angels to protect that crazy woman on the hill that was so mesmerized by the stars that she forgot the dangers of the surroundings. What other forms of art do you partake in? I also paint, and I enjoy tremendously going to the theater. Do you prefer living in Romania or London? What are your favorite things about each place? What are some notable differences between Romanians and Londoners?
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I’m so used to living in London as it has been 20 years since I came here. It’s difficult to make a comparison as both countries have their own beauty and charm. The only notable difference between the two countries is the way they run each country. Where else has your work been featured? I had my work published in National Geographic and The Telegraph and I’m now shortlisted for The British Photography Awards. What is your top destination? Where would you just love to shoot that you haven’t already? Mongolia, Mongolia , Mongolia… Top 3 places! My ancestry goes back somehow to those regions and I would love to spend at least a month there, just to begin with!
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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DIANA BUZOIANU
Describe the perfect day. Discovering a new mountain, a new hill, a new corner of a country that I haven’t seen before! What is your professional website, Instagram, or any other place on the Internet where we can check out more of your work? https://www.facebook.com/ DianaBuzoianuPhotography/ https://www.facebook.com/profile.php? id=510928697&ref=bookmarks http://dianabuzoianu.1x.com/ Instagram: @Buzoianu.Diana
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
ABOUT US CANYON VOICES LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE is dedicated to shedding light on the works of emerging and established writers and artists. Founded in the spring of 2010 at Arizona State University’s West campus by one professor, Julie Amparano Garcia, and six students, this journal strives to bring the creativity of writers and artists to light within the community and beyond. Supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, CANYON VOICES accepts writing and artwork from writers and artists from all corners of our planet and from all walks of life. The work of maintaining and producing this magazine is entirely student driven. Since its formation, CANYON VOICES has expanded into a full credit, hands-on class. Students build a full literary journal each semester, heading every aspect of production, including soliciting submissions, editing, marketing, design and layout, and publication. We strive to bring you an eclectic range of voices each semester.
OUR MISSION At CANYON VOICES our mission is to provide an online environment to highlight emerging and established voices in the artistic community. By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language, style, culture, and gender.
CANYONVOICES
CONTACT US Questions, comments, feedback? We would love to hear from you. Contact us via email at: CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com You can also visit us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/asucanyonvoices
WINTER2018
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
SUBMITTING WORK To submit your work, please send it to CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com. Be sure to attach all the work you wish to submit to the email. You may include an author biography and a photo, which will be included in the magazine should your work be chosen for publication. We are affiliated with Arizona State University, and we uphold academic standards. If your work is accepted we reserve the right to make changes. You will be contacted should your work require more extensive edits. We accept simultaneous submissions. All documents submitted should be double spaced with a 12 point font, in either Times New Roman or Arial. Poetry may be single spaced. All written documents must be submitted in (.doc) or (.rtf) format. Artwork may be in JPEG format. All work submitted must have a title.
FICTION Up to two stories may be submitted per issue. Each story may be 20 pages or fewer.
POETRY
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Up to six poems may be submitted Up to four stories per (no longer than issue. Two pieces may two pages each) be 20 pages. per issue.
SCRIPTS Up to two scripts may be submitted per issue. Script maximum 15 pages.
ART Up to ten pieces, with at least 300 dpi or JPEG format (<1 MB). Include detail on medium.
EXPLICIT MATERIALS
READING PERIOD
Because this is a university magazine, submissions containing sexually explicit material and explicit language will be reviewed and determined eligible for publishing depending on the context of the material in the work. Material deemed inappropriate or gratuitous will be rejected.
Our editors read submissions in August, September, and through October 15th for the fall issue. The reading period re-opens in January, February, and through March 15th for the spring.
CANYONVOICES
WINTER2018
STAFF PAGES : EXECUTIVE BOARD
Julie Amparano García is the founder, publisher, and advisor of the CANYON VOICES literary team. Serving in the School of Humanity Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Amparano García oversees the school's Writing Certificate Program 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 and a play about children and war.
Julie Amparano García
Publisher
This Fall is a major turning point for Amanda. It is her third and final semester at ASU-West and with CANYON VOICES. She will be graduating with both a BA in English and a Writing Certificate. After graduation, Amanda plans to begin freelance editing and to further pursue her creative writing endeavors. Aside from being a full-time student, Amanda enjoys painting, writing, traveling the great Southwest, and collecting odd coffee mugs.
Amanda Beck
Co-Editor in Chief, Senior Art Editor, Fiction Editor Ashtar Mikhail is a senior at ASU and is honored to be a part of the CANYON VOICES fall 2018 issue as editor in chief and senior editor of Creative Nonfiction and Scripts. Ashtar will graduate in the spring of 2019 with her bachelor's in English and a minor in philosophy. Her love for English verges on monomania, and upon graduation she hopes to find and pursue a passion that combines all aspects of her academic interests, including English, philosophy, and law. Ashtar prefers academic writing to creative writing, and CANYON VOICES has awarded her the opportunity to read the work of writers from across the globe, and to branch out in her own writing. Her ironclad motto of "always the editor, seldom the writer" might now hang in the balance.
Ashtar Mikhail Co-Editor in Chief, Senior Scripts & Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor James Rose grew up like a gypsy, and though while he still enjoys traveling, he currently resides in Arizona. Also, he is a very unique person because he belongs to a very small percentile of a smaller percentile of an even smaller percentile. James is a highschool dropout who not only completed his GED, but also completed AA. In addition to that James will soon complete a BS in Technical Writing and Communications at ASU Polytechnic. James has many hobbies, which includes dabbling in world domination, or summoning extraplanar beings for tea and crumpets, yet his one true passion is hand drawn animation. He mourns the art forms decline, which has only made him more determined to create a studio so he can create his own animations.
James Rose CANYONVOICES
Design Director, Art Editor, Fiction Editor WINTER2018
STAFF PAGES : SENIOR EDITORS
Liz Munoz is a graduate student, writer, teacher, and mother of four and the senior fiction editor for CANYON VOICES. Liz will receive her Master's degree in the spring of 2019. She is a high school English teacher and hopes to teach at the Community College after she receives her Master's. As an aspiring author herself, reading others' work of fiction brings a monsoon of pleasure and buckets of joy. Living in a fictional world blurs the evils of the current one-- Liz Munoz
Senior Fiction Editor
Liz Muñoz
Rachel is an English major, but as she's from England, she's an English English major. She has written a medieval gothic-fantasy novel (completed this past summer) that she’s seeking to get published; not to her surprise, however, she has been told by a few literary agents that her word count is currently too low (at 43,000). Thankfully, one of these agents expressed interest, stating she looks forward to seeing Rachel's query in her inbox again once her manuscript is longer. Rachel's favorite author is J.R.R. Tolkien and her favorite poet is John Keats. Rachel paints abstracts in her free time, for family, friends, and the occasional professional commissioner. Her idea of a great time is one of those paint and wine nights, except at home, alone. Every night is a paint and wine night for Rachel, except most nights don't include the paint part. She doesn't have a pizzeria in her house yet, but all in good time...
Senior Poetry Editor & Art Editor
Rachel Passar
STAFF PAGES : EDITORS Kacee Allard is a junior at Arizona State University's West Campus. Growing up in the rural state of North Dakota, she had the urge to attend university far from home and in a more populated area. Having been inspired by the power of words from a young age, Kacee decided to pursue a degree in English. There has never been a day that Kacee has doubted whether or not a degree in English is meant for her. Although Kacee enjoys academic writing, she also enjoys putting aside time to journal and reflect. At the age of 18, she published a self-help journal titled Every Day is a New Day: A Journey to Finding Your Inner Light. This was her first work published and most certainly will not be her last. Ultimately, Kacee aspires to get her Ph.D in English and become a professor.
Poetry Editor & Art Editor
Kacee Allard
Lee is an autistic English major student at ASU West. From a young age, he had difficulties dealing with Autism, such as pronouncing words, recognizing social cues and relating to people. While there are still some difficulties to work out, he has since gotten better at it with the help and support of his family. He developed an interest for fictional stories and writing them since his first assignment at his high school, Gateway Academy. His favorite genres are Science Fiction and Fantasy. He enrolled in the class to gain experience in magazine editing and to potentially get a job in a magazine after college. Hopefully, this will also be a step towards becoming fictional author.
Fiction Editor & Scripts Editor & Creative Nonfiction CANYONVOICES
Lee Breisblatt WINTER2018
STAFF PAGES : EDITORS Angelita is pursuing a degree in Sports Management and Interdisciplinary Arts and Science at Arizona State University. This marks the second semester with CANYON VOICES as an editor in art and poetry. She is currently involved in writing her autobiography. She enjoys music, poetry, fine art, traveling, sports and exercise. In combining my love of sports and motivational speaking, she would like to use my life experiences and speeches as tools to encourage students to attain lifetime goals through education, sports, and fitness. She wants to travel the world as a motivational speaker. Angelita’s aspiration is to inspire and teach people how to push the reset button and reinvent yourself. She feels with all of expertise, she will be able to help people make more positive, and confident decisions in their lives, careers, and relationships to reach their highest potential.
Angelita Cobb
Poetry Editor & Art Editor
Gaige was born in West Valley Utah, but has lived in Arizona for the greater half of his life. Originally a Pre-med student, Gaige switched his major after two years to English, to pursue a high school teaching before applying to a Physician Assistant's graduate program. Gaige believes that creativity and the arts are the gateway to higher . order thinking and an important cornerstone to a quality education. He believes art presents an opportunity for personal growth, self-discovery, and maturity. Gaige believes all people should consciously contribute to and engage with the ever growing and changing body of work which brilliantly maps out our shared feelings, experiences, and ideas. He believes supporting small publishers and producers which give new artists an outlet to contribute to and become noticed, is vital to developing less commercialized culture and expanding the general consciousnesses that is art.
Gaige Johnston
Poetry Editor & Scripts Editor & Creative Nonfiction
Christopher Reinking Stuart was the first sapient being to emerge in the universe’s youth, billions of years ago, and he invented civilization, art, and literature. Of course, we have to cover that up, so he pretends to be a 28-year-old university student pursuing an English degree, with the hopes of using the knowledge gained to help in his future career as an author of fiction. Born in Florida, he grew up in New York, came into adulthood in Arizona, and is ALL AMERICAN!
Christopher Stuart
CANYONVOICES
Fiction Editor & Arts Editor
WINTER2018
Kaleb Anderson