Student Editors Shaina Kaye Ryan Bell Katie Rose Cover Design Claire Rudolph Faculty Advisors Sean F. Munro Gina Ferrara Joseph Buckley Brett Evans Andrew Gibbs Robin Johnstone Mason Joiner Jen Kooken Carol McCarthy Corey Pellerin Miguel Romar-Manuel Callie Solano Angela Speyrer Abbey Wallig Ari Zeiger Tedd Walley
is a student-run magazine. Student editors collaboratively make design choices and select submissions to be published. The faculty advisors encourage continued student involvement in the editing and design of Images. If you’d like to become a student editor, please e-mail smunro@ dcc.edu Delgado Community College’s Images: A Literary and Visual Arts Magazine seeks submissions from current Delgado students of original poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction as well as photos, paintings, and sketches. Please visit https://www.dcc.edu/ academics/communication/imagesmagazine.aspx for more information.
Thank you, Ronald Russo, Vice Chancellor of Business and Administrative Affairs, for authorizing funds for the contest and featured readers. Thank you, Dean Cosper, Dean of Communication, for your financial support and encouragement. Thank you, Dean Moore, Dean of Arts & Humanities, for your financial support and service. Thank you, Leslie Salinero, Publications Coordinator, for your time and patience organizing the printing of this magazine and event posters. Thank you, Tom Dawson, Michael Santos, & Kris LaMorte, for producing Delgado Reading Series’ featured readings in the Timothy K. Baker Theatre. Most importantly, thank you to all the students who submitted this year. Without student submissions, we would have no magazine.
Editor’s Note Images magazine features the voices and perspectives of Delgado students. The words and visuals spread over these pages speak to our glamour, our whimsy, our idiosyncrasies, our trauma, our hope, and our particular identities. Though we welcomed submissions with a variety of themes, you’ll notice many of this year’s artists put identity at the center of their art, rather than the periphery. Not surprisingly, art created from the essence of our unique lived experiences is art graced with greater depth and clarity. I invite you to take notice of how class and race name themselves throughout this issue of Images. Notice what makes you feel seen. Notice when you encounter a new perspective, visual or written. I was struck by how many of our submissions included subjects I rarely find in the mainstream media I consume. I was struck by how delighted I was to read stories grounded in real life, both its joys and injustices. Nola Darling’s photograph, “After the Wash,” particularly struck me. In black and white, she captures a New Orleans laundromat. When we think about how many people use laundromats and how rarely the laundromat is used as a setting in our modern American media, we should wonder: why aren’t there more stories of low-income America on TV, more diverse stories of what low-income life is like? Why can’t one of our sitcoms take place in a New Orleans project? Why must portrayals of low-income America be confined to indie movies and documentaries? Why must every family on TV live in an upper middle-class suburb? When you read Constance Barley’s memoir vignettes, notice her aspiration of home ownership, the quintessential American dream. Notice her profound multi-use of the word, “home.” No matter what identities you hold, we can all agree that as community college students living in Louisiana, the stories on our hearts are not the stories we often see portrayed in mainstream media. We are the working and middle class. We are older adults, putting ourselves through school. We are fresh out of high school and still figuring out who we are and what we think and what kinds of questions we need to ask. We are single mothers, we are fed up with racism, we are talented photographers, we are budding painters, and we are learning to cope with tough stuff by writing in rhyme. The magic contained in these pages are the outpourings of the people; the people whose paths are not laid out like a yellow brick road, but who make their own bricks from trial and error.
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It is my greatest hope that our Delgado artists appreciate the sheer beauty and power of their laundromat photographs, Katrina grief paintings, and climate change sci-fi commentaries. When people like us make art and believe it deserves to be seen and appreciated, we move closer to a world where all of us Americans can be represented in our media. Are the written and visual arts not an attempt at representing our human experience in its vivid glory and pain? How many of you have never seen a character on TV that was just like you, never seen a picture in a magazine that you could identify with? We are bombarded by McMansions and airbrushed people on our television screens, sold on the story that we should aspire to wealth, even though the majority of Americans will never be wealthy. We need real stories about real people, and we need them now. I dream of a world where all of our stories live on library shelves and inside the moving pictures of our television screens. If anyone should know that our country needs art to process difficult times and ancestral inheritances, it’s New Orleanians. If anyone should be finding their unique artistic voice, I say, it’s the people not usually at the center of the narrative, like community college students! This magazine is a testament to the creative prowess of my fellow students during the COVID-19 pandemic. Let it be known, even when we were scared, overwhelmed, or losing the ones we love, that we were making art. We were making art about who we are and where we’ve been and we are proud to be finding our voices, in sickness and in health. Shaina Kaye Student Editor, 2020
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Table of Contents Editor’s Note
Nola Darling After the Wash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 James Smith Katrina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
2020 Nason Smith Lit Prize Winner
Matt Valerio Clay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Hope Galloway Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Poems
El Pernell The History and Luxury of New Orleans . . . . . . . . 9 Adrienne Snider Ersters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Adria Hopkins North and South . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Tonea Price In the Bed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 C. Nicole Young Flor de CafĂŠ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Jordan Alexander Our Climb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Matt Valerio Skater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Matt Valerio Trashcan Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Cierra Halphen Surviving a Pandemic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Terry Bradford Covid-19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Injene Viltz Lemonade Stand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
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Table of Contents Tamara Soublet BlackGel #1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Tamara Soublet Black Gel #3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Keitron Williams The Darkness of Loneliness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Jeff Russo Monster Under My Bed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Yeyni Castaneda The Girl in the Mirror . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Marco Tabora American Giant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Non-Fiction
Marco Tabora The Silver Fox . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V. Vato Hansel y Gretel . . . . . . . . . . . . . Folami Stewart Midnight Stars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ryan Kirk Three Types of Magnet Fishing Finds . Latoya Hancock What I See Versus What You Think . . Constance Barley Home Over a House Anyday . . . . . . Briane Williamson Recoil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . JanaĂŠ Frank Losing My Mother . . . . . . . . . . . . Mary Scinto Memory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Fiction
. . . . . . . . . 25 . . . . . . . . . 26 . . . . . . . . . 28 . . . . . . . . . 29 . . . . . . . . . 32 . . . . . . . . . 33 . . . . . . . . . 35 . . . . . . . . . 36 . . . . . . . . . 38
James Smith Black Pearl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
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Table of Contents JanaĂŠ Frank Escape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Tiffany Ball Flowers in Shattered Mirror . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Dawn Webb The Shoemaker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Dinah McManus Dusk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Bethanie Cassard The Incredible Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Terry Bradford T Doodlez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Devin Jeneau WWR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Contributor Bios . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Tess Morton Tortoise vs Strawberry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
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2020 Nason Smith Lit Prize Images annually awards The Nason Smith Lit Prize to a Delgado student with exceptional literary talent. The prize includes publication & acknowledgement in Images, a $100 award, 10 broadsides posted around campus, and 2 broadsides given to the winner. Nason Smith was a faculty member and exceptional literary talent who passed in 2016. He was a devoted Grateful Dead listener so a quote from the song, “Box of Rain,” seems fitting: “Such a long, long time to be gone / And a short time to be there.” For 2020’s prize, the student editors have chosen Matt Valerio’s short story, “Clay.” Enjoy the ride!
CLAY They were walking up an orange dune. The sun shone so brightly it seemed to be punishing the sand around them. The strange green cacti-like plants were every 10 feet. The deep green offered quite a contrast to the dark red clay that made up the ground. These were the only things they could see - clay, sand, cacti, clay, sand, cacti. The galaxy’s sun had rings surrounding it, which eerily caused each cacti to have two shadows. They stopped walking once they made it down the hill. He put his pack on the ground to use to hold his back up while he lay 6
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Matt Valerio down. Before he did, he grabbed a cigarette from one of the many backpack pockets. “Can I have one?” she asked. He paused and said, “Why don’t you smoke some of that other stuff you brought?” “I’m rationing it. It’s the only thing that helps me sleep. Who knows how much longer we’ll be here?” His face muscles tightened, and he reluctantly pulled another cigarette
out of the pack. “I’m running a bit low. Try to enjoy it instead of inhaling it like a vacuum, okay?” “I’ll do my best,” she said as she grabbed it from his outstretched hand. She lit up her cigarette and sat up a little bit. She smirked, “Do you ever question why us? It’s almost comedic. We had all the characteristics they were looking for: husband and wife team, no children, no qualms about accepting the invitation. All the right ingredients to be exploited. You should be angry they took advantage of us like this.” The wind blew her flowing, quite wild looking brown hair into her face. As she stared at him, there was a tsunami brewing in her eyes. He looked at her, almost mesmerized. He snapped out of it, reached into his pack, and pulled out his pocketsized Bible. As she saw him doing this, she knew exactly what he’d say. She rolled her eyes and said “unbelievable.” He flipped through and read “But who are you, a human being, to talk back to God? “Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?’” He closed the book and looked at her. She looked dumbfounded, and
said “we’re scientists. Our entire profession is built on questioning. Now you suddenly don’t want to question anything.” “I’m choosing to question things that matter. You wondering and complaining about the unfairness of it all does us no good.” “I think our time away from Earth has turned you into a fanatic” she said. “And I think our time away from Earth has turned you into a cynic. When I first met you, you were starry-eyed and full of belief in the importance of our mission. Find a new place for humans to live, somewhere full of untouched resources.” “I don’t see any resources here.” “That’s why we came here: to see if it was a viable option. It’s not, so let’s make it to the mountain so we can tell them we’re ready to make the journey home.” She sighed and surveyed the area in front of them. Looking past the dunes and the cacti-like plants peppering the landscape, about 30 miles away, was the mountain they were supposed to make it to. The ice on the top third of it reflected the sun, making the snow look so white she couldn’t look at it for an Delgado Community College 7
extended period of time.
“I was too self-absorbed. My perspective was too limited on Earth.”
A light rain began to drizzle, which meant it was time to get moving. She stared at him for a few seconds before standing up. She grabbed her radio-device from her hip and tried again in vain to contact their partners - no answer. They put their helmets back on and began walking through the desert-like surroundings.
“More like you were tethered to reality.”
“No one is going to be there you know,” she yelled from behind.
“Forgive me for believing in something that actually gives this all a purpose.”
“We don’t know that yet. Have a little faith and the journey won’t seem as long.”
“I don’t ever remember you discussing God or any of that stuff until you learned we were going to another planet.”
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POEMS
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North and South
Adria Hopkins
I am from cold weather, Also from hot. I am from everywhere, Then I’m not. North? South? East? West? I don’t know what’s best. I am from the North. I’ve been raised in the South. I eat like a Northern. So called, “tasteless”, or “bland”. I don’t like spice much, or food from any wetland. I am from snow, Though it may not show. I’ve adapted to the hot heat, Sometimes, it’s fun to walk around with bare feet. I am from baked food, Learning to deal with fried. I am from where crawfish are crawdads. Which honestly, taste pretty bad. I am from lightening bugs, to snow storms. Here, it’s from hurricanes, to mosquito swarms. I am from, “you all”, and “who’s that?” Here, it’s simply “ya’ll”, and “who dat!” I am from deer, being the caution, or tasty kill. Where here, gators and boars are the true thrill. I am from where you occasionally see a bat, To living here, where you’ll occasionally see a nutria rat.
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In the Bed
Tonea Price
His smooth arms wrapped around each curve of my body Almond, coconut, and lavender emitting from his long locked hair Crisp sheets encasing our bodies Our icy feet intertwined like the fingers of a promise An inferno is created as our skin touches His heart beat resonates through my ear drums A galaxy between us when he sleeps on the other side of the California king Fresh smelling tree in the air, Lulls us as we drift into a deep sleep
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Our Climb
Jordan Alexander
Ready and Steady built for it. Past warranty but no worries. Ready and steady, built for it. Bound by threads made unbreakable. An archive of memories long past. Adept and tuned, handles with ease. Aspect of compassion. Going beyond limits Going beyond time Weathered by time and broken standards. The pillar still stands. Decorated with laurels Of times past. No difference laurels make. To the pillar that wills itself to stand Weathered by time. The pillar still stands But refined by time. Uncountable steps to the top. Ready and Steady, climb.
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Trashcan Poem
Matt Valerio
Dozens of half-drunk water bottles, with water that would smell unpleasant because of tiny bacteria on the lip of the bottle from my mouth, expanding in number as time goes on, Crumpled up, eggshell white triple folded paper towel defaced by creamy peanut butter stains and a dark magenta grape jelly streak through the middle, a birthday card that hurt me when I read it, because the message “I look up to you” wasn’t true so I chose not to send it, a month-old receipt from Walgreens for a bottle of green tea that’s a foot long despite only having one item purchased, More water bottles, Handwritten drafts for my victimology final essay that took hours to construct but tossed away without a second thought, what happens to all that work? Reminder card for a doctor’s appointment that passed Stuff goes in the trash, time passes, the trash is emptied. Life goes on!
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Cierra Halphen
Surviving A Pandemic
Weeks and days go by as the stay-at-home order remains in place No family visits, meeting with friends are out, staying inside everyday makes me want to scream and shout The whole world is going crazy by hoarding groceries and different brands of tissues but when I need to shop for my house, I get looked at like I have issues Stocking up on sanitizer, masks, Lysol, and meat Making many people walk around feeling nothing but defeat People go through life thinking they are strong enough to handle anything that comes their way When all you must do is take it day by day Being separated from the people you love can be a real hassle especially when you find out that loved one is sick Uncles, aunts, cousins, and close friends become infected with the virus you never believed in Panic starts to rise inside of your chest and all you can do is hope and pray for the best Reading about all the people who are dying from the virus makes my heart ache this cannot be what is meant when someone says “Make America Great� I wake up every day worried about the safety of my family, friends, essential workers and non Wishing that one day the good news would be that the virus is gone
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Lemonade Stand
Injene Viltz
He want me to drank that lemonade on ma fawhead. Just cuz my skin be black beaten by the sun. He say ma color come from being charred by the fahyres of hell, and his glory is in the whiteness of is shell and his pink lips ahr reminiscant of the love of God and his blue eyes, represant the deepness of joy God felt when he made him in the pure color of his glory. That he be the bright light of this world, and I be the dumb brown skin gurl, Struck low “N his glory. Seeing how he is god before men And he commands me again To drink that lemonade on ma fawhead, Like I be blessed by it. Poured straight from the loins of white men. That old one eyed faucet Pouring out the foulness of his being. An ancient brew of hatred Given to ma great Grammies and pappies As they plucked away their sanity Breached by the inhumane treatment of humanity. Yet, he be the glory of a God who created all things and all men. When I know God can’t help but delight himself in the blackness of my skin. Just ask old King Solomon. Yet I am commanded to drink, that lemonade on ma fawhead. That that foul stench of oppression Filling the gutters of our ghetto’s Filled by people under subjection, Who drink that cup filled with the idea that they can’t be better than That bitter taste of welfare checks “N”, Food stamp lines And they be dumb black minds, 18 Images 2020
Who if they can’t play basketball or football minis well skip school and jump in the prison line Because they aint the chosen ones to get out of the dysfunction of living on the white man’s money line. They in the year 2019 are still slaves. Emancipated by Abe They still dying To the shackles of they own mind, Lying About the potential of black men breaking free of these concrete prisons Set up to destroy the vision Of living, outside of a Ward. I am commanded to drink and die, Up under his feet. A great curse founded by Noah’s hands, Us being the descendants of ancient Ham I am issued a glass that stinks! And am Commanded to drink! But I say, no not me. As I pour out the cup of misters pee pee. I buckle down into the only thing that will free me. A book…
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The Darkness of Loneliness
Keitron Williams
As I sit in my diminutive dorm of darkness, the loneliness hunts my soul. In a solitary place of solitude, heart filled with holes, why? who knows. Depression is familiar company, and radiance doesn’t exist. Obscure nights depress the flesh, which excite the madness. No love just tension’s low spirits for my foolish addiction. I must stop cold turkey; lust is a drug no women fit the description. Brutal chest pains of stress caused by tom foolery behavior. No room to evolve, maybe it’s just my nature to seek a savior. I should just pray to God for love, patience, and salvation. The thoughts I think return to strongholds and veto Gods favor. Yearning for that special soulmate, my one and only dream girl. Long suffering Alone in my bed under the thick blanket I furl. I can’t no more tolerate companionless nights; my mornings are blue. Weeping to meet the love of my life, married in love someday I do.
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The Girl in the Mirror
Yeyni Castaneda
These days perhaps I’m not afraid of dying But of being forgotten Leaving nothing behind Nothing but a notebook full of dreams, plans, and tears These days I’m afraid of my loud thoughts while I sit in silence The way the person I forgot existed is looking back at me She has gotten older She stares at me longer than before The five minutes I spent before looking at her during my busy days while I did my makeup Has now become my shadow she follows me everywhere I go Who is she? I don’t know her anymore That other self who watches me Is she looking at me with hatred or pity Have the choices I made affected her Since these days I see her often I want to say sorry Sorry for forgetting your existence Sorry for all the times I judge you Sorry for always trying to alter you While I should have tried to understand you And thank you for still being here Thank you for not giving up These days the silent has brought to me The loudest thoughts I promise I will spend more time Looking at you even in my busy days I promise to be brave enough to look at you and get to know who you are underneath.
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Hansel y Gretel Having pretty parents sucks. They’re irresponsible. They’re self-absorbed. They’re childlike while consistently worried about appearances. In the case of your parents, their good looks moved them both across the world. Your mother moved from Stockholm, father from Barcelona. Both to Los Angeles, where the pretty people go. Instead of getting famous, they had twins. You and your brother. A boy and a girl and you both get Spanish names. Family flew from everywhere to meet you two. Seeing how incompetent your parents are, your Spanish grandparents move to the United States. You grow up speaking Spanish to your Bapa (your twin had trouble saying Abuelo), cringing as you watch him put wriggling tentacles in his mouth. You like being Spanish. You and your twin do not look Spanish. You’re half Swedish after all. Despite your blonde hair, you do have an olive tone to your skin. You have your father’s eyes. You both walk like your father and have his sense of passiveness. In high school biology class, you robotically fill out a Punnett square. One for your eye color: 26 Images 2020
V.
Vato
Your mothers’ parents- blue and brown, your fathers’ parentsbrown and brown, your parentsblue and blue- makes your eyes blue. Then, you fill one out for your brother, your twin: Blue and brown, brown and brown, blue and blue- the probability of blue is 95%. Brown, 5%. His eyes are Hazel. They look dark, but in the light, they shine like emeralds flecked with gold. You try again, it still comes up wrong. You bring home the paper in frustration, you’re a perfectionist. You go over the square with your mother. She confirms- everyone’s eye color is correct, but why does your brothers not add up? Your mother dismisses it while looking at you with an emotion you cannot identify. You’re sixteen, angsty and ruthless. You angrily press further. “Porque?” Why? I don’t understand. She closes the door and cries while you quietly guess in Spanglish what she’s trying to tell you. You say it while she just nods, her hands covering her face. Overloaded with information, your gangly pale body makes more sense. In the distance, your mind reflects on how lucky you are that your twin is not in the same biology
class while you mentally armor up to keep a secret from him. You hold a secret. You start avoiding the mirror. You dye your hair because you can’t change your eye color. You’re so filled with emotion that the world seems to pass by while you’re lost in your head. You wear sunglasses in classes at school to hide the tears that summon against your will. Everyone looks at you strangely. At your lockers, your twin asks, “que diablos esta pasano?” What the hell is going on? You can’t look at his green eyes. You distract him with an insult. He’s used to it; you are teenagers and you fight constantly. He leaves you alone, so does everyone else. The secret doesn’t last long. Your mother sees you imploding while your animosity for her grew. She takes pity on you and decides to let go of almost two decades worth of a secret. She tells your twin next, your father after him. Your father never talks about it again.
It’s a separate entity. For years, you hate your face. It’s soft nose, high cheekbones and generally Nordic look. As if being a girl wasn’t hard enough in the world, your face tells a lie. Your face doesn’t match your name. Your language becomes a product of betrayal, but you talk to your Bapa like nothing happened. Twelve years and three countries later, being a Spanish-speaking white girl isn’t so strange. When living in Playa Del Carmen, the friends you’ve made are impressed by your twin’s fluent Spanish. They like how tall you are, and they make fun of his sunburn.
A few years and a cheek swab later, you read the results of your DNA test to your twin. “Alemana” German. German? Freaking. German.
You accidentally say “gracias” instead of “danke” while living in Munich. You tell your Bapa about how much you love Europe. He tells you about how much he loved hiking the Bavarian Alps when he was young. “¿Por qué no visitas a tus primos en Barcelona?” Why not visit your cousins in Barcelona? You don’t answer. You’d like to. It’s just… not the right time. He still doesn’t know, and you don’t want to tell him. You’ve decided it doesn’t matter.
You find out your last name should have been Müller. You don’t feel like you own your name anymore.
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never figure out how to answer what your ethnicity is. You make fun of your twin, calling him Hansel. “Punta madre, Gretel” he says. Fuck your mother, Gretel. You both laugh, somehow the laughter solidifies that you’re American.
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Three Types of Magnet Fishing Finds
Ryan Kirk
Magnet fishing is something that has started creeping into news and internet headlines over the last few years. With news titles like “Man Finds Unexploded WWII Mortar Shell in River” and “Safe from Robbery Recovered By Man Fishing with Magnet”, I found myself fascinated with magnet fishing. The idea of tying a rope to a magnet and then tossing it into some water to find hidden treasure lurking just below the surface was thrilling. Quickly, I ordered a magnet and, once it arrived, I rushed to toss my magnet into any canal, lagoon, or bayou in the city to see what I could find. I soon discovered that the items I pulled from the water all fell into three categories: trash, mysteries, and treasure. Trash is by far the most common thing that I pull out of the water with my magnet. Things like fishhooks, bottle caps, screws, and nails are numerous but all are easily dealt with by putting them into the nearest dumpster or recycling bin. Pulling up a large section of pipe or twenty
feet of rusty steel cable can pose a challenge when it comes to disposal simply due to its size but they are not impossible to deal with. The most challenging piece of trash that I ever had to deal with was the first gun that I pulled out of Bayou St. John. As soon as I pulled it out of the water I knew that I had a potentially dangerous situation to deal with. I called the police and explained to the dispatcher what I had found. I expected that finding a potential murder weapon would be a high priority for the police. I was wrong. After waiting for two hours for the police to arrive, I found myself in the position of having to take the gun home with me as it was already getting dark out. As I was driving home, I happened to pass a police officer so I decided to stop and see if he could help me. After I explained how I had found the gun, and he had recovered from his disbelief, he was able to take the gun so that it could be tested by the NOPD crime lab to see if it was tied to any crimes. I never heard anything back from the police about that gun but I was just happy to be rid of it. In the end, pulling Delgado Community College 29
trash out of the water is a common occurrence, and it can sometimes present difficulties, however, I’m always left with a feeling of satisfaction that I have left the water a little bit cleaner and safer. In between pulling up different pieces of trash, I will occasionally pull my magnet out of the water and be confronted by a mystery. I will stare in befuddlement at something that I have managed to pull from the murky depths. Often these mystery items are covered in mud or rust. So much so that I am not able to figure out what they are until I am able to take it home and clean them off. I have even resorted to posting pictures of some mysterious items online to get help from other magnet fishers with trying to identify them. In some cases, the mystery is not what an item is but why it is in the water. Just a few weeks ago I was magnet fishing in Mississippi and I started pulling up metal links that are used with heavy machine gun ammunition. I was perplexed as to how militarygrade machine gun links made their way into the Pearl River just outside of the Stennis Space Center. As I was trying to come up with an explanation, a Mississippi State Police Officer who was patrolling the river in a boat pulled up to the bank where I was at to see what I was up to. As I explained what I was doing I showed the officer the links 30 Images 2020
that I had just found to see if he had any idea why they were there. The Officer told that the Navy Seal Boat Teams will often have training missions on the river and that he suspected they were the source of the links. Without the Officer’s help, it’s likely what the source of the links would have remained a mystery much like many of the other objects that I have pulled from the water. Finally, so much better than trash and rarer than a mystery, the best magnet fishing find… Treasure! Now, I’m sure that when most people hear the word treasure, images of gold bars and rare coins come to their minds, but unfortunately for magnet fishers, gold and silver are not magnetic. There have been stories of magnet fishers pulling up safes that have had money and jewelry in them or even finding rare artifacts from WWII or WWI, but with the exception of a nice knife that I found, I have not been so lucky. However, I have found one item that I will treasure for a long time, a rusty butter knife. I found the butter knife on one of my first magnet fishing adventures. I went to Bayou St. John on the first day I got my magnet. After a few hours of finding nothing but bottle caps and bits of rusty metal, I was ready to pack my gear up and call it a night. I was a little disappointed
that I had not pulled up anything impressive on my first outing. I decided to cast out the magnet one more time before I headed home for the night. As I was pulling the magnet back in I felt the magnet attach to something much bigger than a bottle cap. I was excited that I had finally found something big. As the magnet broke the surface of the water I saw my “big” find. Attached to the magnet was a rusty butter knife. The sight of it made me burst into laughter. I took the knife home and it now proudly sits in a flowerpot on my patio. Some people might say that a rusty butter knife is not a treasure but to me it certainly is. In the end, I’m never sure if I’m going to pull up trash, a mystery, or a piece of treasure. I do know that I’m never disappointed when I go out magnet fishing. Even if I only catch a rusty fishhook or I end up having to make a trip to the nearest police station to turn in a pistol. I know that I have made the water a little bit cleaner and have made some great memories along the way. You never know, you just might see my picture under the headline “Man Finds Safe Filled with Gold While Magnet Fishing”. After all, stranger things have happened.
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Home Over a House Anyday
Constance Barley
Young, with a Mature Name My name in English derives from Latin and means constant. It’s one of the more subtle of virtue baby names, yet has a proper image. In Irish, the nickname Connie means strong-willed or wise. My mother selected it as if it were a sweet lucy cabernet sauvignon. At school, the children ridiculed my name, especially during recess. They would include my name nursery rhyme songs and laugh. It was like a pair of generational pearl earrings, you wore on special occasions. A name for a mature woman dresses in a fancy pea-coat with a fascinator hat to match. Constance is my name, my dear mother selected for her firstborn. Round Navel Oranges Ready or not here they come. They were round like navel oranges but soft like a cotton pillow. They were attention-grabbers for men, and great for rocking a baby to sleep after feeding milk from them. Girls couldn’t wait to have them, like wearing a bodycon dress for the first time. Delighted by what I see, I laugh and say: “Mirror, mirror
on the wall. Who has the prettiest breast of them all” They made your clothes fit differently, and the boys stared constantly. Especially the caramelcolored boy in my English class with candy apple green eyes. He was H-O-T, and all the girls admired his physique body and style. One day he decided to talk to me, he asked: “if I wanted to be his girlfriend”? Feeling like a kid in a candy store, I replied yes. Friday after school ended, he and I met behind the pink brick physical education building. Our bodies were nervous, hands sweating, then our noses touched each other. His lips were like cotton candy and his tongue was like warm cocoa in the winter. That day I received my first kiss ever, a French kiss as they would say, like riding a roller coaster for the first time. Death Came without Warning As the sun peaks over the horizon I prepare my mind for work, black polyester pants, black bulky slip resistant safety shoes, long sleeves white button-down oxford shirt, with Mardi Gras theme man tie Delgado Community College 33
and vest to match. Words don’t describe how terrible I looked. My taste buds are filled with hazelnut espresso latte, with a thick foam of almond milk and a dash of cinnamon. Warm toasted cinnamon raisin bagel with plain cream cheese awaits my indulging. While waiting to accommodate guests, from my hostess stand, I see my aunt strolling towards me, her face was bright like a fire engine truck, cheeks like they were filled with jumbo size candy-coated bubble gum, you get out of the machine for a quarter. “Strange” saying out loud to myself, why is she here. Pondering to myself, it’s about my mom, shaking my head from left to right numerous times in her direction, while salty water escapes my eyes. My hearing went deaf briefly, as she says “ baby girl, I’m sorry but she’s gone. My heart and soul ached as if God had taken it himself. On May 21, 2004, my mom passed away. As the clouds turned gray and rain hit the lobby window, a part of me left too. It was Time for a Change Shoulder length, dark brown, massively thick-head, as if two heads were put together, dark brown, hair. Mom would mix a white creamy and liquid substance together in a jar, a process to straighten my hair. She would rub my forehead, my ears, the back of 34 Images 2020
my neckline and all over my scalp with Blue Magic grease, which was actually green. Protection so the creamy substance doesn’t burn when applying. No more creamy crack, as I call it. Sides shaved revealing bareness and shine. One inch in space, medium length, tightly coiled, dark brown roots, tips cranberry flavored. Loc’s are a fresh new beginning, it was time for a change, new path in life, new goals to achieve. I embraced my heritage and my culture even more. Home Over a House Anyday Two-story, ocean blue doors, fudge chocolate brown painted bricks, 952 square feet total. Rent eight hundred plus a month, that doesn’t include electricity. Off white popcorn textured walls, light blue, gray, and white v-shaped patterned window accent. Displays of family pictures and very few words inspiring wall decor hanging. Furnished with a chocolate cocoa leather sofa with vintage iron and dark wood end tables to match. Strawberry pound cake aroma, peaceful, inviting and filled with love. Laughter from the gut of two young innocent boys, who make pranks on each other nonstop. Although it’s temporarily ours, for now, I dream of owning my own, for them mainly. My true home is a place far away, where my name will be written on the deeds that I own.
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Losing My Mother Adults poured into the tiny house. Us children were stacked uncomfortably against the window, waiting and watching restlessly. It was utterly boring at this house with no television, no indoor bathrooms, and no electricity whatsoever. An unlikely haven. My cousins had created a game out of waiting for the rest of the family to arrive. Who would arrive first? Who would arrive last? Who’s bringing the largest amount of luggage? For them, it was only a game. Their families were already there. Mothers and fathers sat gathered in the great room playing cards and discussing anything but what was actually going on. I was curious. I wanted to know. What would happen to our house, to my school, to the neighbors who had stayed? Grandmother simply shook her head in reply and shooed me back to the windowsill with the rest of the kids. So there I sat with the other kids, participating in their little game to pass time. Auntie Isa arrived with her rowdy gang before Auntie 36 Images 2020
Janaé Frank
Reta. I pretended to be excited at my win. Uncle Daryl pulled in after Uncle Larry. I pretended to hang my head in defeat. They seemingly could not tell that the only person I wanted to arrive was my mother. Mother Nature was on a war path. Trees blew furiously in the wind. Telephone lines fell. One by one the aunties pulled their children away from the window. Still, I sat patiently. I watched as, one-byone, the raindrops slid down the frosted glass. Soon, the raindrops on the window pane matched the tears rolling down my cheeks. Still, I sat quietly. The sky grew dark and gloomy. It was tired of waiting too. I looked up at the electrifying display of lightening illuminating the night and prayed for God to make her come. I prayed and I cried and I waited. Then it was morning. I’d fallen asleep at the window and woken up on an empty air mattress in a drafty bedroom. I wandered to the kitchen. Waiting on me there was the smell of food and family members crowded around a small wooden table. My mother was not. She never came.
Midday we received a call. It was from my mother. She wanted to talk to Grandmother. She wanted to talk to Josh. Finally, she wanted to talk to me. She was alive. She was okay. She was in Tennessee with her boyfriend. She was not with us. She told us about the contraflow traffic. She told us about her fancy hotel room in Dallas. She told us that she was happy. She never told us that she was coming. That was when I knew. She was gone. I’d lost my mother. And she wasn’t coming back.
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FICTION
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Escape
Janaé Frank
Trigger Warning: this story depicts sexual harassment and assault. Fight or flight is overrated. Fight leaves you with innumerable bruises. Flight leaves you safe and alive. I reassure myself that I am, indeed, doing the right thing as I head into the office at 12:02 a.m. to do exactly what I always do - run.
and not worry about my home life or any other problems I have.
I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t going to have to pull an all-nighter for the accounting firm anyways. I am simply choosing to do so from the comfort of my office.
I pull into the parking garage and hold my badge up to the scanner. Everyone thinks I’m an entitled, spoiled brat for having such a competitive intern position, especially my classmates. They tease that if it weren’t for my prestigious parents, I wouldn’t have the job at all. Perhaps they’re right. With my background, I certainly wouldn’t be enrolled in one of the most famous prep schools in the country, nor would I have such a cutthroat internship for XERO.
Numbers. My typical go-to distraction. When I was a little girl, I would count in my head to keep myself from crying or to drown out unwanted noise. Now is no different. As I make the short trip to my office building, I think solely about numbers. I suppose that’s why I don’t mind my job so much; I’m surrounded by numbers. I work as an intern for a company called XERO, and basically, I do payroll for the entertainment industry. It is a stressful job. Very stressful. So stressful, in fact, that I can completely lose myself in my work 40 Images 2020
We have quite the mutual relationship. XERO uses me like a labor slave and I use it to run away from my problems.
Nonetheless, I worked my ass off for this position. And I am still working my ass off for this position. And if it is only because of Mr. and Mrs. Grant that I have this position, it is perhaps the greatest thing they’ve given me in the entire 8 years I have been with them.
I have finally found a way to deal with Mrs. Grant’s raging escapades without actually being in the house. Likewise, Mr. Grant often spends weeks away on business or he’ll sleep in his office. He loses himself in his work, and I have followed suit. It seemingly works for the both of us. Is it healthy? Probably not. But it works. As I walk into the deserted building, I feel more at home than I ever have walking into the house where I live. Most teenage girls would be terrified to be walking down the dimly lit hallways of an empty skyscraper at midnight. I, however, am not most teenage girls. I come to an abrupt halt as I notice that there is a bit of illumination coming from the finance office. Cautiously, I open to glass doors to find that there’s someone else here. From the looks of it, it’s my boss. Great, just when I wanted to be alone. Still, I prefer his company to that of my own family, so I walk quietly over to my cubicle and plop my bag on the top of my desk. His office has a door, so I’m not sure if he saw me come in or not. I decide not to bother him; it’s not like I want to be
bothered either. It doesn’t take me long to lose myself into a world of numbers, and I welcome the distraction with open arms. Of course, having noise cancelling headphones certainly helps. Even when I notice movement from my boss’ office, I don’t take my mind off of my work. Finally tearing my gaze from my dual monitors, I find my boss standing in front of my desk. I pull off my headphones and blush. It’s not that I meant to completely ignore him. “I’m sorry about that,” I mutter. He chuckles and gives me a nonchalant wave. “Don’t worry about it. I got up to go to the toilets and was surprised to find that I have company. What is it, like, one in the morning?” Again, I cringe as I glance at the time on my computer screen. 12:46 a.m. Definitely not a time a teenage girl should be at work. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t seem upset. “I’m glad you’re here, actually,” he says, confirming my suspicions. “Why don’t you join me in my office for a bit? There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” Following behind him into his office, I give him a quick once-over. Delgado Community College 41
He’s still in his typical work attire, a well tailored suit - minus the tie, which means he’s probably been here for a while. Without looking at me, he gestures toward the couch. “Sit, for a moment, and I’ll be right with you.” He finishes typing something on his computer and looked at me with his fingers interlaced on his desktop.“You, my dear Angel, are an excellent worker.” My name is not Angel. My name is Angelica. Still, his words are nothing new to me, so I simply nod my head. Ever since I began working here about 6 months ago, he has commended me on the amount of time I’d dedicate to doing my work. Never once have I complained about the overtime or the rushed deadlines. I complete every single task on time, and I always greet everyone with a smile. Often times, my coworkers even get me to help with their deadlines because they know that I will do so without complaint. I am the perfect little intern. I can see now, in his cheeky gaze, that he believes my extended efforts have been some attempt at 42 Images 2020
striving to impress him. Perhaps he thinks I am working this hard to achieve some type of promotion, to kickstart my career while in my last year of high school. Truthfully, though, I wasn’t thinking of him or this company in the slightest. In fact, I wasn’t thinking of anything at all which is why this job is so great. Typically, his assumptions would be correct. I always work twice as hard at everything. I submit every assignment early, complete extra community volunteer hours, always obey curfew, study twice as much as my classmates. I have already submitted all of my college applications with every extra curricular possible to ensure my entry. And, now, I have this internship to add on to the never ending list of reasons why my peers hate me and adults praise me. But people often mistake the reasons for my work ethic. It’s not to impress others or even to achieve some level of self gratification. It’s not out of selfish nor selfless gain, and it most certainly is not out of want. It’s out of necessity. I have to work twice as hard at everything to prove my worth. I was not born into this sort of lifestyle. I was born to a mother who did not consider herself to
be worth anything, and I have inherited that same attitude through genetics. When she took her own life, I was forced into the foster care system until Mr. and Mrs. Grant came along. Though they are not the ideal parents, they have given me a roof over my head and endless provisions that would have otherwise been refused to a child of my caliber. So, yes, I work my ass off. But it’s not because I want to. Not one aspect of my life is controlled by my own personal want. I do not respond verbally, however. There’s no sense in explaining any of this to my boss. I suppose he takes my silence as an invitation because he grins as he stands up and walks slowly over to where I’m sitting. “I’d like to see you go far in life, which is why I am willing to work with you personally to advance your career.” I have no interest in advancing my career in this company. I simply want to make it out of high school alive with as little bruises as possible. He gets up and perches on the edge of the sofa, angling himself so that he’s directly across from me. He looks at me slowly, eying me from my battered leggings to my wild hair. It’s one of those really slow,
really obvious looks. The look of a man very blatantly checking you out. I am extremely uncomfortable. Finally he speaks, and I am even more uncomfortable. “You’ve done a lot for this company. But I’m going to need more.” As previously mentioned, I have given a lot to this company to which I have absolutely no personal attachment. I’m no fool. I know exactly what else he wants me to give. Still, I pretend that I don’t. “I don’t even know what more I could give.” I am a young, slightly naive African American woman sitting in front of a very powerful Caucasian man being sexually harassed. I know what will happen if I refuse him, and he is blissfully aware of it. So, my attempt at diverting his advances are futile. He reaches forward and places a hand on my knee, his wedding band prominently shining around his ring finger. “I could think of a few things.” The fact that he is coming on to me does not surprise me in the slightest. He perfectly fits the criteria of the “married but feels Delgado Community College 43
obligated to hit on everything he finds attractive” type.
state. This is not breaking me; I’m already broken beyond repair.
I cannot lose this internship. I’ve worked too hard for this. I can’t even imagine Mrs. Grant’s response were I to lose the one thing I’ve accomplished that she can actually brag about. No one will believe me were I to report him. If he’s hitting on me now, I’m sure he’s done it to other women in the past.
Suddenly, though, I understand why he’s here at one in the morning with his slimy hands on the legs of a 17-year-old girl. He is escaping. Just like I have done. Just like I am doing.
Again, he takes my silence as an invitation. I watch, emotionlessly, as his strangely smooth hand continues up my leg. I divert my eyes to the wall, but the smiling faces of his family portrait seemingly glare at me. He follows my line of vision and sees the photograph of his smiling family - a beautiful, blonde wife and two adorable little girls. Still, he does not take his grimy hand off of my thigh. “It’s not like that at home. It’s never that happy. All she does is fuss and complain about more money. I never even get to see my own kids. They’re always with the nanny.” I know what he is trying to say. He’s, in effect, saying that you can’t break what’s already broken. I suppose that’s why his advances take little toll on my emotional 44 Images 2020
He is escaping, just like me. He knows it. I know it. Yet, his hand slips into the waistband of my leggings. I do not move his hand away.
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The Shoemaker New Orleans is a city with many stories of voodoo, ghosts, and paranormal activity. Many of these stories are centered around the French Quarter, and the St. Louis Cemetery. However, there are stories of paranormal activity in other areas of our fair city that have never been told. What I am about to tell you is a true story of the paranormal. The story begins in the uptown area of New Orleans on Pearl Street. In the summer of 1967, two boys were outside playing in the yard. They became bored and decided to venture down the street where there was an abandoned shed. They peered into the window of the old shed and saw a man sitting at a table with a candle, writing with what appeared to be a feathered pen. They knocked on the door and it slowly opened. When they entered the shed, they saw shoes, pieces of leather, and an old sewing machine. They noticed that the man never moved from the table, so who opened the door? Whenever they tried to speak to the man, he would just continue to write and never uttered a word.
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Dawn Webb Everyday the boys would go to the shed and visit the man they came to refer to as the shoemaker. They would ask him what he was writing but, he never looked up; he just kept writing. The boys were always quiet and careful not to disturb the man. One day, they heard their grandmother calling for them to come home. When they told the shoemaker that they had to leave, he did not say anything; he just looked up, smiled, and continued to write. When their grandmother asked them where they had been, they told her that they were in the old shed talking to the shoemaker. She told them that there was nothing in that shed and to stay away from there. The boys insisted that they were visiting with the shoemaker. Their grandmother sent their uncle to see if anyone was in the shed. He came back and said that the door to the shed was locked; he looked through the window and saw nothing but an old metal box with rusted tools, paint cans and other junk strewn about; but there was no table, no candle, and no shoemaker.
Nobody seemed to believe the two boys’ story about the shoemaker. The boys were adamant about what they had seen. A neighbor who had heard about the boys’ encounter with the shoemaker brought an old photo to the house and showed it to them. They immediately recognized the man in the photo as the shoemaker. The neighbor told the two boys and their grandmother that the man in the photo had been dead for over thirty years. The boys are grown men now and after all these years, they still believe that what they saw in that old shed was real.
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The Incredible Journey
Bethanie Cassard
It all started a long time ago, before humans existed, before Antarctica was a frozen tundra. In fact, that’s where our little story begins, in Antarctica. Before it froze over, that area was another ocean. In this ocean lived a sad little droplet named Mark. He was sad because he thought, “I can’t do anything, I’m not special or important, there are millions of droplets and I am no different from any of them.” Little did he know, he was different; they all were. None of them would take the same path. But they had to start somewhere and, though Mark did not realize, this is where his amazing journey began!
a frozen iceberg. He stayed cold and solid for millenniums until the iceberg started to melt, break away, and drift south. As the ice boulder floated itself into warmer water, Mark returned to his liquid state once again and became one with a new ocean. However, Mark had little time to get used to this new area, because this area was hotter than his last. It was so hot that Mark evaporated into a gaseous state, traveling high in the atmosphere, where he joined other vaporized water droplets like himself. Together, they formed a huge cloud and sailed across the sky, collecting as many water vapors as they came across.
When he was created, Mark was put in an ocean that was not meant to last, but this doesn’t mean that he disappeared along with it. He moved fast and free, nothing or no one to control him. It was quite warm, which made it easier to move about. But one day, the ocean got cooler and continued to do so. Mark started to slow down, eventually slowing so much that he could no longer move! He’d gone from a droplet in an ocean to an ice crystal in
“The view is SO much better from up here,” Mark thought. “I’m gonna stay up here forever!” In cloud form, Mark and his new cloud mates traveled far and wide, gaining vapors left and right. But as they grew the cloud bigger, they made it denser and heavier. Soon, they were at crawling speed and losing altitude. The sudden change in pressure compacted them slightly, yet it was enough to pack some together enough to return to liquid form. Mark was one of
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the unlucky ones and took shape once again, whilst free falling to the surface of the earth. When he hit, he was luckier than the majority of those that fell with him; he landed in a small tributary while the others landed on the ground. Mark had never moved so fast in his life, it was such a rush! All of a sudden, he moved slower, not by much, but enough to be noticeable. That’s when he noticed he was in the river. As he flowed downstream dreaming of reentering the ocean, he spotted a person kneeling on the riverbank. He was a hiker who stopped to refill his canteen. As Mark neared the hiker, a little whirlpool appeared next to him, flinging him directly into the canteen. It was dark and cold and the only light that came through was at the canteen’s opening. As Mark looked at the light above, it went out, the canteen in motion, and suddenly Mark experienced ingestion. He was just about absorbed into the hiker’s system when he felt himself being pulled upward and mixed with a little salt. The hiker twisted his ankle by stepping in a fairly deep pothole covered by leaves and was trying not to cry out loud, but the tears came anyway, providing an escape route for Mark to reenter the world and not a digestive system. Falling from the hiker, Mark lay waiting to be evaporated, hoping to become a
cloud once again to soar above the world. As he evaporated, a breeze blew him to a region that was not too far across the world, where morning was breaking the horizon. The morning was cool and the area was warm, making perfect conditions for dewy grass. However, Mark ended up on a car window in a parking lot next to the field instead. Either way, it was something new to experience and he enjoyed every moment he was away from major bodies of water. With the sun high in the sky and no major heat significant enough for evaporation, Mark worried he’d never get to glisten on the grass in the sunrise like he’d seen that morning. Night approaches and still Mark sits on the window, until the humidity rises and more condensation forms on the glass around him. Droplets merge with him, making him too heavy to stay stationary, and he starts to slide downward with the pull of gravity. Excited that he’ll be on the grass by morning, he slides happily downward, and stops all of a sudden. He looks around to see where he has landed, only to find that the place he’s in is so much better than the grass: Mark has landed on an intricately designed spider web. The sun rises and he looks for other webs to see how he might look; needless to say, he’s much happier to be on the spider web than the grass. Mark likes this new, adventurous life cycle, Delgado Community College 49
and now thinks, “What’ll happen next? Where will I end up? It doesn’t really matter. I know I’ll like it cause it’ll be something or someplace new.”
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WWR Day One I found a note while walking home. Not just any note. It was stuck to a piece of wood with a red tag attached to it. Usually red tags mean to keep something in place for official use. This wood was in an odd place, on the side of the convenience store, next to the bus stop. Usually this would have been reported to the authorities, but an unusual bout of curiosity made me look. The note read to stop taking my medications and keep a handwritten journal. Day Six My thoughts are starting to become clear. Tonight is the first meeting, at least that’s what the note said. I have told no one, not even my wife, Esther. I will go to this meeting and hope this isn’t a trick. Day Eighteen The meeting was true. There are others that have received the same kind of note in different locations. Others have stopped taking their medications. We are calling ourselves Clarities. Now that the fog has lifted, let me explain a few things for whomever may find this
Devin Jeneau journal in the future. My name is Mark. I am a lawyer in the year 2153. During the postindustrial age in the early 2000’s, there was an era developing at the same time that is now called the prepharmaceutical years. That was when big pharma companies began to control the health industry in any way possible. In 2092, pharma companies succeeded in their goals and started the Pharmaceutical Era. At this same time, normal, everyday people finally got their wishes for equality. Except this equality was under pharmaceutical agenda. Everyone was to take these medications every day that eventually dulls the mind and made people more complicit. Over time, pharma started messing with people’s genetics. All women have shoulder-length blonde hair, men have brown hair close to the scalp, and everyone was the same tan skin color. In the beginning, people weren’t doing what they were told. After riots, protests, and several “accidental” deaths, the government came up with FASMA: Federal Assigned Search and Monitor Act. This started weekly inspections to make sure people were swallowing their pills, Delgado Community College 51
video monitoring in every room of the house, all electronic activity was recorded, and even food was regulated and given out during these inspections. This food came in individual packages for each person. I heard these things used to be called “MRE’s” and given to military personnel or emergency rations, but they’re just called “food” now. My shower is over. WWR. Day Twenty-Three As my mind grows clearer, I feel as if I need to explain more, little by little. I am only able to write in the short privacy during my shower so the microphones don’t pick up the sounds of my writing. Showers are timed to keep people on routine. Men get twenty minutes, women get thirty. Starting two years after FASMA came around, people began to have less and less of a choice about anything. Names and careers are assigned by the government the day a child is born. I was assigned to be a lawyer and my wife is a midwife for one of the only two hospitals in the city. The last natural made child was back in 2094. Every child is artificially inseminated. A married couple doesn’t even choose each other. When someone turns eighteen they are assigned a wife or husband that they may, or may not know. They are told when, or if, they will have children and how 52 Images 2020
many, one or two. I was lucky. I grew up with Esther down the road from me. We were assigned to have two children; a son named Abraham, and a daughter named Ruth. “How do they regulate childbirth?” you may ask. Starting at the age of three, a child begins to get bi-yearly hormone suppressors that kills the sex drive. As this child gets older, the suppressors become more frequent. At age sixteen, a hormone suppressor is now done monthly. When it is around the time for a couple to have a child, their suppressors are halted only long enough for the man’s juices to flow and that is it. Since the beginning of the pharmaceutical era, there have only been two main kinds of death: cancer or diabetic complications. If someone is born with diabetes, that’s how they will die. If someone is not born with diabetes, they will die of cancer. No one lives over the age of 80. The last suicide was reported in 2096 when the brain control pills were perfected. No one thinks for themselves, only compliance. WWR. Day Forty-Two: There have been three meetings since I have first found that note. With every meeting, I learn more and more of what the past used to be like. Televisions, bright colors, recreational reading books, and
music. There have been a growing number of members. This is all thanks to Dr. John Nehemiah. He is the one who has been spreading the enlightenment. I got my son to stop his medications, the ones that prevent independent thought. He is a good boy, age thirteen. He will start working in three years, and I worry about him so much. He was chosen to become a FASMA inspector. They have been training him since he could talk at age five. I had to go to court today. Poor Sara. She had tripped while walking and skinned her palms. She had run her hands through her hair, unknowing that they were bleeding, and left red streaks in her blonde hair. The authorities saw it as unauthorized self-expression and arrested her. When she stood at the stand, she couldn’t remember how the red got into her hair. They sentenced her to six months of isolation. I don’t know why they have people like me anymore. They don’t even give people the chance to defend themselves. They have already made up their minds and slam the grovel. WWR. Day Fifty-Seven I saw Dr. John at the hospital three days ago. It was time for the faithful hormone suppressor. Dr. John checked on personally, except something was different. He didn’t
inject me with the serum. He held the needle over my vein, covered the needle with a cloth, and absorbed the serum with the cloth. Esther had been skipping her medication for two weeks now. I have never felt this excitement towards my wife. My pulse races, and I get flushed when I see her. I sneaked into her shower last night and made love to her, like a husband and wife would have over a century ago. It was the best feeling in the world! Why would anyone deny someone these feelings? WWR! Day Sixty They came. The enforcers came. With their guns. Guns that normal civilians aren’t allowed to have. They were asking questions. Why would I shower with my wife? What was I doing in there? Ruth was crying. She was scared. Esther had her in the corner of the kitchen with her and Abraham while I was seated at the table for questioning. One enforcer grabbed her, grabbed my little Ruth with such force. They dislocated my baby’s shoulder! They said if I didn’t answer their questions they would take her away. Abraham, in his adolescence, rushed the enforcers instead of staying by his mother. They pushed him to the floor and shot him. Dead. Everything went silent. Esther fell to the floor, kneeling in Delgado Community College 53
Abraham’s pooling blood. I have never seen Esther cry before. This is all my fault! I watched in shock as they took my daughter away, leaving me and my wife on the floor next to our dead son. WWR! Day Eighty-Six Abraham’s death was the final straw for all of us. Esther threw herself off the cliff two miles from our home. I was there. I gave her one last kiss before she fell backwards into the jagged rocks below. So this was all for equality? For everyone to be the same? For a lawyer to make the same amount of money as a convenience store cashier? For everyone to look and be treated the same? For everyone to have the same boring, two bedroom, one bathroom, gray colored house? We are thousands strong now! There are Clarities through several cities, through several states. We are going to turn the world upside down! We are taking down every pharma headquarters in every city. It starts tomorrow! WE WILL RI
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Contributor Bios Jordan Alexander is from Louisiana. He spends his time reading and writing short stories and poetry. Jordan attends Delgado, matriculating towards an Associates of General Studies. After Delgado, Jordan will transfer schools and major in English. Tiffany Ball is from Jefferson, Louisiana. She likes drawing and listening to music, mainly K-Pop. Constance Barley is a 34-year-old, single mother of two young boys. She was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, and raised in Magnolia Projects Community from the age of four until eleven years of age. She has always enjoyed styling hair from baby dolls to real people. Now she’s a licensed cosmetologist and has been styling hair for over 10 years. Constance is also advancing her career by pursuing her associate’s degree in Business at Delgado Community College, City Park Campus. Terry Bradford is a Delgado student in New Orleans majoring in Graphic Design. Terry’s dream is to become a great cartoonist who can someday have his cartoon shows on Cartoon Network or Netflix. He also works for an online apparel company named, InkBlot.ink, where he designs his cartoons on shirts! you can follow up on Terry’s artwork on his Instagram @t_doodlez255. Bethanie Cassard aspires to someday be known as a writer, a singer, and a teacher. She lives for creativity and her puppies Luna and Roxy. Yeyni Castaneda writes short poems about loud thoughts.
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Contributor Bios Nola Darling is a New Orleans native who is a self-taught photographer and spoken word artist. Nola has been performing spoken word poetry since the age of 11 and began photography shortly after. In a city as robust and busting with creative energy and good vibes as New Orleans, Nola is a reflection of the beautifully unique city she is named after. JanaÊ Frank is a current student at Delgado Community College. She enjoys reading and baking but is a true writer at heart. Her favorite genres are fiction and poetry. Originally from NOLA, she often draws inspiration for her writing from the many diversities and cultures of the city. Hope Galloway is a local artist who enjoys personifying objects or concepts. Cierra Halphen is a 23-year-old woman from New Orleans, LA. She has an interest in poetry and short stories. She likes to create short stories about passion, drama, and past experiences. Latoya Hancock is from Monticello, AR. Latoya loves taking pictures because it is their peace. Adria Hopkins is a Delgado student. Devin Juneau is majoring in Graphic Design. She resides in Metairie, LA. and is a budding cosplayer, making her own props and costumes. Devin has always found that creative fiction writing can be a good place to let the creative mind wonder. Ryan Kirk is a transplant from Dayton, OH, living his best life in New Orleans. When he isn’t magnet fishing, you can find him rocking out new tunes in the music scene or trying out local cuisines. 56 Images 2020
Contributor Bios Dinah McManus is an undergraduate student at Delgado Community College. She is from Slidell, Louisiana and is majoring in Business Administration. When she is not studying, she enjoys taking pictures in the city of New Orleans. Tess Morton is the mom of Monti, who is an African Sulcata tortoise. She lives in Covington, Louisiana. She creates beautiful nature images involving her tortoise and posts them to @desertimonti page on Instagram. She wants to share their beauty with the world. Elliot Pernell goes by El Pernell. New Orleans, born and raised. Owns and operates a Limousine service in the New Orleans area. Loves taking pictures and sometimes he loves to write! Tonea Price is from St. Louis and enjoys creating multiple forms of art including poetry, photography, and fashion. Jeff Russo is an artist. In August 2020, he is graduating from Delgado with an associate’s degree in general studies and a concentration in fine arts. Jeff has always enjoyed all aspects of fine arts and has taken classes at DCC in drawing, painting, 3D design, and jewelry making, to name a few. The drawings he is submitting for this publication were done in an Advanced Drawing class this semester. Jeff would like to personally thank the instructors in the fine arts department at DCC. He thinks they are the greatest. Mary Scinto is a New Orleans based artist who recently began creating as a professional after a decade hiatus working in healthcare. She focuses primarily on paint, writing, card making, and photography. Her interests lie in bridging the relationship between the mind and body through art, focusing on the intricacies and intimacies of the human condition through experience. Mary hopes sharing her voice will help and inspire others to do the same and facilitate a healing process in socially taboo spaces of physical and mental illness.
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Contributor Bios It’s been one year since James Smith bought his first oil painting kit with canvas. With no formal training, Smith is doing pretty good. Being from New Orleans, LA, Smith has a lot of interesting things to paint. Adrienne Snider is a painter who relocated recently to New Orleans from the San Francisco Bay Area. She mostly enjoys painting portraits. She loves experimenting with color and mark-making. Tamara Soublet is a New Orleans native, makeup artist, and art director. Soublet is studying to obtain a cosmetology license to create more involved visual art, styling from all aspects. Folami Stewart has always been interested in painting but thought it would be with a brush and a canvas. About a year ago she discovered acrylic pour painting. Stewart spent hours upon hours upon hours studying YouTube videos about acrylic pour painting, then took it upon herself to give it a try. Although her first couple attempts were a bit awkward, she was hooked. Stewart now considers herself an acrylic poor painter, sells her work, and is constantly yearning to improve. Marco Tabora is a LA transfer student within Delgado. He slowly began to work with cameras, only using them around his household. Then, he became interested in photographing the people of New Orleans. Marco wanted to highlight the people that we would want to get a second glance at, people that caught our attention. With time his collection of seemingly forgettable faces became more robust and interesting, and he continues to search for more. Matt Valerio is a New Orleans native with a passion for the arts. His major hobby is photography. In his spare time, you can find him stargazing.
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Contributor Bios V. Vato is a college student in her late twenties. She writes, draws, and paints but loves math. New to New Orleans, she was born in Los Angeles, raised in New England, and has lived in many places. Injene Viltz is from New Orleans, Louisiana. She is currently a music major and would like to compose music when she graduates. Dawn Webb is a native of New Orleans, LA. She is a Mortuary Science student at Delgado Community College. She received an associate’s degree in computer programming from Audubon College. Before Hurricane Katrina, Dawn was the Technology Coordinator at St. Raymond Elementary School and St. Alphonsus Elementary School. She creates poetry, short stories and hopes to one day be an accomplished author. Briane Williams is a Delgado student. Keitron Williams is a student at Delgado Community College, majoring in Psychology. Writing is one of Keitron’s favorite things to do because it helps them cope. When they need to vent their emotions, they write poetry because it’s therapeutic. C. Nicole Young is an artist and maker from the Northshore. She enjoys a variety of creative pursuits, including sketching, sculpture, and mixed media. When she is not working in the FabLab on campus, Nikki is most often perfecting an authentic sourdough bake and studying for the MCAT.
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Jordan Alexander Tiffany Ball Constance Barley Terry Bradford Bethanie Cassard Yeyni Castaneda Nola Darling JanaĂŠ Frank Hope Galloway Cierra Halphen Latoya Hancock Adria Hopkins Devin Juneau Ryan Kirk Dinah McManus Tess Morton El Pernell Tonea Price Jeff Russo Mary Scinto James Smith Adrienne Snider Tamara Soublet Folami Stewart Marco Tabora Matt Valerio V. Vato Injene Viltz Dawn Webb Keitron Williams Briane Williams C. Nicole Young Cover: Claire Rudolph
