Draft 3 issue 5 compressed

contemporary literary arts magazine

letter from the editor Dear Sexy Readers,

part i :

prose “Love in the Time of Ducks” // Kenneth Orvatez “

Et ut auditi blacepudae conecto omnis explabor alit lab inciume et poribus voluptiam, sed quiassi sae quiberf ersped quas modic te perepratium ipsam, omnimus apelic tet aut officiti dolupictur re volut quatur sequi as ma nem quas eossequi ium dolum nos sus doluptaqui audiamet accae si omnitionsed ut prae odi cuptatectae re de rem aturerest a veriam excersp eraectem liqui doluptios re, consequ ibercimus sam, solupta quibus quasped utet molorem imaioris ducilignatus ellanda volenisti aliquide necate dolenim olorem endus

imagnis est, imincilit arume dolore doluptiumqui blam int.

Ehendan iatem. Odi dolorum rem. Itae moditius si velendis ratur magnamusae sum apis acienda ndandae maio. Tem. Officiis qui omnimpo rempos dolupta arum ex esequi dolum nimilit ibusaeratur, te niendunt que si ipsae non ent et, sequam quae explaccullit plic totassi nectur? Sapit iunt et aliquist utem re nulparum lamuscimust repudic ienecatia nimolorit autatur, corepelesti occus eostium LOVE, NATALIE

“Phoenix” // Kimmy Tejasindhu golden daughter // ellen jane wirth-foster “The Toilet” // Alberto Lopez “What is the perfect beginning?” // Melanie Keegan “Columns” // Jacob Kirn Towards a Distant West” // Alberto Lopez “The Hypotheticals of Us” // Kali Deming “Mr. B.” // Patrick Harrington Sunday Morning” // Claire Nuttal “A One Sided conversation

with Roland Barthes”

’, // Natalie O Brien

octopus part 2 // helen irias “Eleventh Dementia // Alexandra Dwight “Henry” // Oakley Purchase

team + THE TEAM table of contents

“Can You See Me // Trevor Crown “Carmichael’s Gift // Sean Mabry “The Tole Mour” // Emily Hansen

MANAGING EDITOR Samantha Perez ASST. EDITOR Alberto Lopez EDITORIAL BOARD Sam Arrow Hannah Atkinson Emily Balaguer Leah Bleich Michael De Maria Sam Goff Shanthi Guruswamy Maya Jacobson Allie Kent Jacob Kirn Madeline Lockhart Alberto Lopez Alex Manrique Parisa Mirzadegan Jonny Moens Natalie O’Brien Josh Ortiz Samantha Perez Audrey Ronningen Kimmy Tejasindhu Ali V.H.

WRITERS

Aubrie Amstutz Trevor Crown Kali Deming Alexandra Dwight Peter Folsaph Cassidy Green Yibing Guo Emily Hansen Patrick Harrington Daniel Imberman Canelle Irmas Satine Iskandaryan Mathew Javidi Melanie Keegan Jacob Kirn Alberto Lopez Sean Mabry Ryan Mandell Claire Nuttal Natalie O’Brien Orion O’Neil Kenneth Orvatez Samantha Perez Oakley Purchase Selena Ross Kimmy Tejasindhu Leslie Zhang Jeremy Zimmett

DESIGN DIRECTOR Julia Marsh DESIGN TEAM Shaina Goel Chinelo Ufondu Andrea Oh Cindy Belkowiche Max Goldenstein Emily Rogers ART DIRECTOR Natalie O’Brien ARTISTS Luis Bondoc Michael Dayan Megan Fisher Madeline Lockhart Natalie O’Brien Rochelle Rebucas Emily Rogers Sophia Maya T Annabelle Warren Leslie Zhang

part iI : : :

P o e t ry

This Lazy This Young” // Canelle Irmas “These Days” // Selena Ross“ “Ice Cream” // Mathew Javidi Shadow Memories” // Samantha Perez Remember” // Yibing Guo >

EDITOR IN CHIEF Natalie O’Brien

“Rhone Alpes” // Aubrie Amstutz Newbury Street” // Leslie Zhang Windows” // Ryan Mandell “Catal” // Satine Iskandaryan “Flight” // Cassidy Green “Speaking” // Peter Folsaph Piano” // Daniel Imberman “A Life-long walk

to the Same Exact Spot”

// Peter Folsaph

“The Day After Rapture” // Selena Ross “At Birth I Did Not Know Myself” // Alberto Lopez

letter from the editor

Part 3

Octopus

by Helen Irias

ART // CHELSEA PROVOST

Week 6

It would be at least a week until the midterm grades were distributed, so Tess decided it was better not to dwell on the unchangeable and instead focus on what she had come to school for: biology. However, she had six chapters to catch up on before tomorrow and could not focus for the life of her.

“I hate the library. Everyone is so loud, it’s like they go there just to hang out,” she complained to Serena.

Serena did not look up from painting her nails a new shade of black. “Go to Coffee Crib. That’s where I go whenever I feel like being a student. It’s peaceful, lots of older people.”

Tess knew vaguely where that was. “Want to come with me?’

“No.” Tess shrugged, grabbed her bag and headed to the coffee shop to test it out.

This place had Serena written all over it. The floors were cement, covered in spray painted designs reminiscent of London street art. Students’ paintings were hung on the walls, and next to some couches was a large bookshelf full of paperbacks. The Shins played from a small stereo and the barista was doing homework behind a shelf of pastries.

On the wall behind the counter, a sign read “Question of the Day: Answer correctly and receive 25 cents off your order!” Today’s question was “Who bit the apple first?

Adam or Eve?” Easy. Tess smirked and bought her discount coffee.

She took a seat on a big couch and began her reading.

An hour or so later, she looked up and the place had filled.

Serena had been right, it was an older, calmer crowd. A man sat on the opposite side of the couch, deep in some novel.

The book was missing a cover and it looked like pages had fallen out and been reattached with scotch tape and bandaids. The man noticed her staring at him.

“Hope you don’t mind if I sit here,” he said gruffly.

“No, of course not,” Tess replied. “What...what are you reading?”

“Tess of the D’Urbervilles. It’s my favorite. Read it over thirty times.”

The distressed state of the novel made sense now.

“That’s my name!” Tess was surprised; her name rarely appeared in life or literature.

“Oh is it? Well you’d better hope you don’t end up like this one here,” he gave the book a little wave.

“Why not? What happens?”

“The injustice of existence,” the man said, staring vacantly out the window on the wall opposite him. “The evil of seduction. What is fate? Should we be punished for it if it is beyond our control?”

Suddenly he tore his gaze from the far wall and his eyes pierced Tess’s.

“I don’t know,” she said, a bit worried. Was this man entirely in his right mind?

“Read it after me, Tess. If I ever finish it, that is,” and with that, he broke into a mad cackle that answered Tess’s

question with insane certainty.

She went back to her book of marine micro-organisms while thinking of fate.

Week 7

For almost an hour Serena had been mindlessly scrolling up and down her Facebook newsfeed. Finally she slammed her laptop shut, dissatisfied with the exterior displays of her acquaintances’ lives. Tess was buried in biology books at Coffee Crib so the room was quiet and empty. Serena grabbed her journal and purse and quietly slipped out the door.

Serena believed it was important for everyone to have a place of retreat. She had found hers along the bluffs on the outskirts of their tiny college town. Beneath an old tree were scattered boulders, one shaped as the perfect perch for uninterrupted thoughts.

She sat down and opened her journal but nothing came to mind. This often happened. The concerns in her head swirled together in a storm so turbulent it was unclear what lay within. She opened her purse and pulled out a small orange prescription bottle. Xanax worked best when she took it with a neutral mind. The blanket of calm helped her creative process. So did her small pink pocket knife.

The deep gashes she carved into the soft skin of her stomach were all parallel. Some had begun healing. She had not cut in a while. Ashamed of the scars so obvious on her wrist, she had picked a place more easily concealed.

It was difficult to think when void of any feeling, and the physical sensations tended to spur the mental. It had been six months since she last took her medications, and her doctor nor her foster mother had any idea. They would consider her current lifestyle a downward spiral, but she knew nothing was wrong with handling her emotions in her own way.

She began to write, ignoring the tickle of her fresh wound. Today she wrote of Tess. Tess had been a project, and still was. Innocence. What did it even mean? They had not done anything wrong. Tess may view it that way, living for God, living for her parents. Serena had no one to live for but herself. The thought was both reassuring and dismal.

She looked at the time. She was supposed to be in class now, but that mattered very little, as she had not attended since syllabus week. It was impossible to focus on her reading. How was she supposed to survive four years as an English major? There was no point in worrying about the future. She took another little blue pill and leaned back against the tree, her thoughts dissolving to nothing as her eyes fluttered closed. To her, this was happiness.

Week 8

The letter “D” had no association with grades for Tess, who had graduated from high school with a 4.3 cumulative grade point average. In one simple moment this all changed as she stared at the evil red verdict circled at the top of her test.

This was it. The end of her life. Yes, she had A’s in her pre-major courses, but failing Greek Mythology would not only severely injure her GPA but would set her back

severely in her Gen Ed requirements.

There was absolutely no way to salvage the situation. No credit for discussion class sections. A failed midterm. Hundreds of pages to catch up on before the final, which was only worth 35 percent of her grade.

A single tear rolled quietly her cheek. Terror froze her whole body a t the thought of her parents’ reaction.

For lack of any better ideas, she mechanically sat up and headed to Dr. Peters’ office hours, deciding she might as well learn the exact gravity of the situation.

“I’m sorry, Tess, but your situation does not look promising. Why haven’t you been coming to class? And your midterm proved you have not been reading either.” He leaned forward to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Is everything okay?” His eyes were speckled hazel, like python scales.

Tess thought of yesterday. While class had been in session she had been a seashell in the forest. She still felt like a seashell, but this time it felt different. The emptiness from disappointment that the psychedelics had masked tugged at her heart.

“I’ve been...having a hard time.” This vague answer covered a multitude of truths.

Those python eyes gleamed with sympathy.

“This place is full of distractions. It’s normal to have trouble adjusting in the beginning. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you an extra credit assignment, and if I can tell you’ve put work into it, I’ll raise your midterm one letter grade. I’ll just give you until the end of the day, only because this is an exception so I have to be a little strict.” He winked. “I think you can do it.”

After thanking Dr. Peters in fervent excess, Tess rushed home to get started on the extra credit essay. Luckily, Serena was gone on her unknown wanderings so the room was free of distractions. The prompt was to compare Greek Mythology to her own beliefs. Easy enough, once she read the Greek myths. Energized by the hope that she could fix all of this, Tess picked up her untouched stack of mythology books and got started.

In eight hours, Tess had blasted through one hundred pages of reading and nine pages of writing. With a satisfying click of a button, she emailed the essay to Dr. Peters and leaned back with a sigh of relief.

Serena had returned some time ago to doodle in her notebook and smoke her turquoise pipe.

“Finally done?”

“Yes, now I think I may actually--” A small chirp from her computer interrupted her. Dr.

Peters had replied to her email already. That’s odd. She opened it.

“Tess, Thank you for your essay. It looks great. However, I prefer to grade hard copies, so if you could print it out I can accept it. I can have it finished by tonight if you drop it off at my house; I live in town. 6591 Camino Perdido. Stop by any time before ten and I will just be grading papers.

See you soon, Daniel” Tess stared at the message. What? She read it again.

Daniel? Bewildered at this unconventional academic interaction, Tess read the email aloud to Serena.

“I knew it,” was all Serena had to say upon listening.

“Knew what?”

“He wants it. You lucky bitch, you’re about to get such an easy A.” “What do you mean? He wants what?”

“You.” Silence. “Sex. Come on, Tess, don’t be stupid. He wants you to call him Daniel. He’s young. You sent him that provocative email--” “You sent him that email!”

“Do you really think he believed your little apologetic excuse? Of course he thought it was you and that you’re into him. Friend-blaming. It’s a classic flirting coverup. Here, let me get you something to wear.”

“Why do I need to wear something different to just drop off a paper? Because that is all I am doing, you are crazy and have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Tess. He’s hot. He’s smart. And he likes you. You can do this, just think of the reward.”

“Sex is a sin before marriage. No way. No way no way no way.” She shivered at the thought.

“I’m trying to help you, Tess. What will your parents say when they see a C minus on your transcript? Won’t they wonder what’s been distracting you from your studies? I don’t understand why you aren’t more worried about that.

Sex is not a big deal.”

Tess unintentionally glanced at her Bible, sitting neglected on her desk.

“God will understand,” Serena offered, surprisingly without any hint of sarcasm. “He wouldn’t want you to ruin your life just because you’re scared of his disapproval. Not to mention you’d be a legend if you pulled this off.”

Serena had a point, a C minus would be better than a D, but to her parents, all letters below A were equal to failure.

Why would God want that?

Then she thought of sex. Pain. Sin. Men. She feared them all.

“I’m really just trying to help you put this in perspective, Tess. You’re scared to do what you need to because society and your family and your little book have made you believe it’s wrong. I’m reading this book right now.” She held up Siddhartha by Herman Hesse. “One part explains this well. Good and bad events can all be given meaning and transformed into something of value and respect.”

“What does that have to do with any of this?”

“You may not have a great time tonight, but the fact that you’re leaving your comfort zone to get to the top deserves mad respect. Not all bad deeds are actually bad, Tess.”

And so she let Serena dress her in a black shirt with a plunging neckline and obscenely tight dark jeans. Tess had never worn eyeliner until this evening. It stung the corners of her eyes and it was all she could do to not wipe the grimey charcoal off with her hand.

“Perfect combination: casual sex appeal,” Serena remarked, proud of her work.

Tess printed out her essay and stood in the dorm room doorway, frozen.

“This is ridiculous Serena. I’m literally just turning in an essay.”

“To Daniel?”

“I’m scared.”

“You have power, Tess. You’re a goddess. Go get that grade.” ▲▲▲ “Come on in! I’m in my study!” Dr. Peters called from the back of his apartment. Tess tentatively followed his voice. He was sitting on his desk, red pen in his hand, red wine in a glass. Normal enough. Teachers are just people.

With homes. This is normal. Normal. Tess found breathing strangely less instinctive than usual.

“Let me see your work,” Dr. Peters held out his hand and Tess gave him the essay. “Take a seat,” he gestured to an armchair beside his own seat. Tess lowered herself into the chair, knees shaking.

For what felt like forever, Tess twiddled her thumbs as Dr. Peters read her paper with the occasional nod or scribbled note. Finally he looked up at her.

“You have a deep faith, don’t you, Tess?” He said thoughtfully. Dim light flickering off those python scales.

“Yes,” was all Tess could think to say.

“You follow the Bible?”

“In every way.” This time, there was a bit of sternness in her voice.

“But you say here that Greek Mythology’s creation tales have conflicted you slightly. So you believe some of what we’ve read?”

“No!” Tess answered forcefully. “The stories are absurd!

Gods turn themselves into animals to prey on humans, no one is faithful, people eat their own children! I don’t believe any of it. I just found it interesting that others do.”

“Absurdity is extremely subjective. Many Biblical texts are based on Greek Mythology.”

“Really?”

“If you came to class, you would know this,” He chuckled and placed his hand on her knee. She inadvertently twitched. He either did not notice or pretended not to.

“Well, this is a decent essay. Thank you for finishing it in such a timely manner. I will adjust your midterm grade, you earned it.”

Tess stood up amongst waves of relief.

“You don’t have to leave yet, have a glass of wine. I’ll tell you about the myths that influenced the Bible.”

“I really have to get…”

“If you know this stuff you even have a shot at an A.” He poured two glasses and told her tales of God, Zeus, Noah, Prometheus, King Herod, and Cronus. She listened, entranced, her mind feeling increasingly thick with alcohol.

She lost track of how much she drank; Dr. Peters refilled her glass whenever she took a sip.

“Are you a virgin, Tess?”

She had not quite been following the latest story, but this question snapped her back to attention.

“That’s none of your business.”

“So no? It’s okay, plenty of Christians plan to wait and then life happens.”

“No, no I am. I’ve never, I haven’t--” Dr. Peters laughed again. “How old do you think I am?”

He looked her in the eyes as she struggled to think of an appropriate guess.

“Thirty.”

He laughed again. “I’m insulted! Do I look that old? I’m 27. Not much older than you.”

“Oh.” Tess felt that perhaps now she should leave but her arms and legs were lead blocks.

“You’re a very attractive girl, Tess. Do you know that?”

Tess blinked, yawned, and shrugged.

“And very intelligent.”

Tess only nodded. Am I really that intelligent? Why am I here? Why am I still here?

“But you still have much to learn.” He topped off her glass yet again. “So this is my study, Tess. But let me show you the rest of the house.” He took her hand and obediently she followed. He is harmless after all. But in her wine-weakened state, she thought she heard a whisper of warning.

1 Corinthians 15:33 - Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.

Week 9

She had run home rather than stay the night. The pain had sobered her up more effectively than intravenous fluids. The tears streaming down her face left black streaks from her itchy eyeliner. Running faster than she knew she could, she did not slow down until she reached her dorm room door. Breathlessly she burst into the room and collapsed on the floor in a puddle of tears.

He had told her after that he would give her the A: “I recognize that drive for success and I’m going to help you get there” had been h i s explanation.

A for what? Accident.

Asinine. Awful. Absolutely awful awful awful.

Her thoughts tumbled over one another so rapidly that no forgiveness prayer could form in her brain, and she realized she had not been breathing since she had entered the room.

Choking on air and recent memories, she sat up and wiped her face, smearing the eyeliner even more; she looked like a guest at a masquerade. She hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth, trying to think of nothing at all.

“Did you do it?” Serena had a boy in her bed. “Get out!”

She elbowed the poor fellow and he scuttled out like a kicked puppy.

“So did you do it?” Serena asked again, seemingly oblivious to Tess’s panic.

“Yeah.” The word was muffled, muttered from a mouth too innocent into jeans too tight.

“I knew you could do it! That’s my girl! I can’t wait to tell people, this is great. And you’re alive, it wasn’t so hard. Next time will be even easier, just wait.”

There’s not going to be a next time! Tess thought she said aloud, but realized her face was paralyzed. This is it. I’m going to-“Hell,” was the only word that escaped. She returned to her uncontrollable heaving.

“You aren’t going to hell, calm down.”

“I...am...I...can’t…”

“Here, take a Xanax. You’ll feel so much better.”

“I DON’T WANT YOUR DRUGS!” Tess exploded all of a sudden. “YOU RUINED ME!” Serena laughed. “Someone’s a little drunk. Come on, girl, you got the A, I’m sure of it. Don’t you feel accomplished?”

“I don’t feel accomplished, I feel disgusting. Like some sort of slut with absolutely no morals. I feel like you!”

The second she said it she regretted it. Shock spread across Serena’s face and she opened her mouth to retort but only a gasp of air came out.

“I’m not sleeping here.” Tess declared, storming out of the room. The hallway looked different now. This is where a girl named Tess used to live. She was strong, she had faith, she had morals, she had goals.

Now a wicked woman walked between the same walls, pretending to be that girl named Tess. How dare she. Tess curled up on the couch of the hall’s formal lounge but could not close her eyes, for all she could see behind her eyelids were brown speckled snake scales.

When she woke she heard the news that Serena had been taken to the hospital after drinking most of a fifth of vodka and chasing it with Xanax. Her vitals were stable but she had not yet awoken, according to the recap the Residant Hall Assistant gave Tess.

“Where were you?” The RA

asked.

“I...fell asleep studying.” Her black smears had conveniently congealed beneath her eyes to resemble circles of sleep deprivation.

“Did she seem unstable when you left?”

“No,” Tess lied, not wanting to get into it.

“Poor girl. I wonder what happened. With luck, she will wake up soon and she can start the recovery process.”

Tess hated herself in that moment, for she realized she did not want Serena to ever wake up.

Week 10 The octopus was her favorite marine mammal. It could camoflauge into its surroundings to hide from its predators. Instead of showing its true color it assumed the shades of another to avoid conflict; it became what it needed to be to survive.

It was odd. Her parents had no idea she had turned herself in. They had no idea she even had any reason to.

To avoid a lawsuit Tess had attributed her confession to the dean as a simple matter of cheating on her final, but the bottom line remained the same: Tess was no longer a student.

Staring at the empty bottom bunk, Tess wondered who she would have been had she never met Serena. It was an eerie thought. Would I have earned the 4.0 I promised my parents? Would I still be a virgin? Would I have been expelled? Would Serena be in the hospital right now?

She felt like a victim and a monster. Prey and predator.

Had the Bible never even existed, she realized she would still have broken rules. And she would still deserve no impunity for her actions.

At least my decisions were mine, not mom and dad’s like always. She instinctively comforted herself again, then wondered if her choices would have been the same without Serena.

Serena. The mysterious ethereal creature whose song was impossible to resist. Her windchime laugh and her mermaid hair and her deep scars haunted Tess’s mind. Why had God put the two of them together? What was the plan here? Or, she thought for the first time in her life, was there even a plan at all?

The silence reminded her she had made no other friends this quarter. She had only Serena and her parents.

Now Serena was gone, and the only daughter her parents knew was a frozen image of the past. And yet rather than sorrow all she felt was numbness. Suddenly she had an idea. Curious, she pulled a pair of scissors from her desk drawer. After a brief pause she dug the sharp tip into her arm, relieved to feel some sensation. Calmly she watched the red snake of blood slither down her arm.

Psalm 14:3: All have turned away, all have become corrupt; there is no one who does good, not even one. ▲ ▲ ▲

SHABUKI GARDENS

A TRILOGY

by Emily Mae Hansen

PART 1 I didn’t know much about the place

beyond that it stood next to the restaurant that just employed me.

I started working after I’d moved to Isla Vista, in my third year of college and first quarter as a UC kid. The work at the Lovin Oven wasn’t even hard. All I had to do was run the register and clean the tables from time to time. Often, since I worked the closing shift, people would stay longer, afraid to return to a foggy Isla Vista evening.

One night a sunburned man came in and began to rant about the drunken night he’d had last weekend at the Chumash Casino.

“It’s a nice place, eh, got a lot of Indians working in there,” informed the sunburned man. “But sure as hell didn’t win a thing. Played a nice nine-holer too and nearly got skin cancer, dammit,” he cursed. “Blasted Indians got every damn one of my pennies, and I got A LOT of pennies.”

The man shined his diamond encrusted Rolex watch directly into my eyes. I swear it was with the intention of blinding me. Then he glared at me and scrunched his nose, conjuring an arrogant air with the way he puffed his chest.

“You’re not actually Mediterranean, are you?” He frowned.

“You sure look like one of ‘em swindling jerks from out there at the Casino.”

Perhaps he was an addicted gambler with an astoundingly good memory, how else could he have recognized me from when I worked there two years ago.

Perhaps it was my hair, which I’d been growing out and kept in a long ponytail, that led him to a stereotypical assumption. Regardless, his surliness hardly distracted me from the uneasiness I’d been feeling all night.

The eyes.

That piercing glare, hidden beneath the veils of the ocean’s fog. It whispered in through the doorway and left a trail of goosebumps across my skin. They made me feel as I had those last few weeks back home.

Before I made the decision to leave the Reservation.

Before I chose to pursue theology instead of police work.

And before I came to Isla Vista when I enrolled in UC Santa Barbara and got a job serving chumps during the graveyard shift.

“No sir, I’m not Mediterranean,” I finally replied. “But the guy I work for is. And the guy who cooks, Cook, I think he is too. So uh, you’re falafel will be $8.47… after tax.”

“Figures,” he mumbled as he shoved a platinum credit card

in my hand, “leave a Greek to keep this kid at the register so he can make like a slot machine and swindle me dry.”

I said nothing in return, his old fashioned and slightly campy aggression hardly distracting me from the eyes. He grumbled some more, took his falafel, and sped away out into the damp deserted street.

No one except Cook and I were even in the restaurant.

He was immersed in a new book he’d gotten from the public library, and since it was against kitchen policy to read near the deep fryers, he often disappeared into the alleyway to read and left me alone inside.

I looked at the empty tables, the buzzing fluorescent lights reflecting dimly on their plastic white surfaces, I was desperate for a distraction from that feeling that never left me. And as much as I wanted to forget about those last few weeks on the Res, I hadn’t felt like this since the day I left home.

I grew up in the Santa Ynez mountains on the Reservation, which has a population of about 5,000 neighbors friends and families. I lived with my Chumash family, a hodgepodge of three brothers, a dog, a sister and a mother, and for some time a great grandfather named PopPop. Weird things happen in small towns.

Big thick spiders nest in fake bathroom foliage. If you’re taking a hot shower you wake them with hefty steam. That makes them mad. They’ll take a pilgrimage across your showerhead to scare you as revenge. And kids make friends with them and take them to show-and-tell. And then all their moms find out and decide to read spider encyclopedias for the bi-weekly book club meetings.

It’s no surprise that when you live in a small town, your business is never private. The neighbors’ walls have eight eyes looking out their windows. They watch the teenagers’ every move. And they have eight legs to intervene with in case any ‘trouble’ on the Reservation should arise; even the smallest events are magnified to the point where they become unforgettable.

I remember that day, by the time it was over I’d altered my existence completely. And yet it started the same as every other day.

I’d gone to a friend’s house--Eugene’s--he was a local kid with whom I’d hung my entire life, and we started to smoke just like any other day. We’d already spent so many summer days this way, passing around the pipe and listening to J Dilla on his boombox. It was the anniversary of his father’s death.

Eugene asked me if I believed in spirits, a question for which I responded with an aggressive no.

A voice erupted in my head, a shrill laugh; a whooping laugh.

“Well, I think they’re real,” Perhaps Eugene heard the voice too. “I mean, how could you not? There’re all kinds floating of ‘em floating around these mountains. Around the whole world, even. Haven’t you seen Poltergeist?”

I didn’t want to argue with him, he being all tender from the loss of his dad, but I was afraid to admit to a belief in the supernatural. One thing led to another and out of nowhere he slapped down a Ouija board on the floor right in front of me.

I was drawn to the board immediately. It terrified me. I became increasingly aware of the dark energy that’d draped itself over his room. I grasped the wooden pipe tightly in my hand, stroking my thumb nervously across its soft dark wood.

Without thinking, I raised it to my lips and lit the substance in the bowl, inhaled too much and set my lungs ablaze.

I coughed a puff of smoke so dense that it momentarily clouded my vision completely. Shrouded by the thick air, I couldn’t see my own hand in front of me and my eyes stung like hell.

I coughed, I teared, I choked. Then, I hallucinated.

A memory manifested itself in the smoke, as if I was watching a movie in a graveyard. The projector is poorly equipped and the only sound is the old motor ticking like a sped up clock. And the sheet the movie’s on is older and yellower still; the quality of the picture is faded and casts a dim glow. The fog crawls around the gravestones and blurs the line between fiction and reality.

PopPop, my great grandfather, sits in the living room late one night. He’s got his pipe between his toothless, cackling grin and he’s puff-puffing but nothing’s coming out. The firelight is low, its light permeating so dimly it’s like I’m inside a room. And PopPop looks around and laughs and laughs, cracking jokes and shaking his head, looking at the floor and mumbling to himself. I see myself as a little boy, a thirsty, tired boy who’d crept down the pitch black hallway to get a glass of water.

And I’m watching from behind the doorway as PopPop suddenly throws a fit, terrified of something in the room, yelling in his old native language and shrieking like a crow.

My eyes toward something, but it’s not within the frame of the memory.

Reality resurfaced, and the Ouija board winked up at me from its place on Eugene’s floor, and an uncontrollable desire devoured my strength, my ability to turn and walk away

from it. I wanted to know what I’d seen in that memory, and what more perfect way than to converse with the dead?

Curiosity killed the cat.

“I put up with your smoking,” she screamed. “I pay for your comics and knives and those little skeleton heads you love. I pretend like my son isn’t a goddamn sadist, but this,” she pointed to the Ouija board and candle altar, “This is absolutely forbidden.”

I sneezed; she had not yet noticed me, and when she did she screamed.

“Get him out of here!”

I didn’t even say goodbye.

  

Eugene got everything set up for his dad. He lit some sage, gathered his ashes, rewound his father’s favorite mix tape and played “Dancing in the Moonlight”.

“Dude,” I warned, “I’ve got a funny feeling about this.” My fingers knotted into nervous fists.

“You’re just paranoid. You smoked too much weed,” he snapped.

“You don’t even know what you’re messing with. Or who, for that matter.” Anxiety built like the swelling pressure of the soda cans Eugene and I would blow up when we were daredevilish kids.

“What, you talking about a demon or something?”

“Like I said, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

He seemed hurt by my reply and became defensive. “Well we’re going to hear from my dad whether you like it or not.”

And that was that.

For the next couple of minutes he spoke demonic texts off of various websites, but nothing seemed to work. When he began to lose hope, the board came to life.

We grabbed some paper as the cursor forced itself across the letters of the board.

“A M E S S E N G E R I S A M O N G U S” As I scribbled across the page, a heaviness descended on my shoulders like a thick, black, oily coat.

Eugene, in a delighted shock whispered, “what the fuck”.

BANG BANG BANG!

We looked up. I hardly had a moment to gather my bearings before an insistent pounding interrupted our conversation with the dead.

“Eugene, what the hell are you doing in there?”

His mother forced open the door, furious.

Minutes later I was sprinting barefoot down Eugene’s dirt driveway, a procession of dogs and chickens tearing after me.

After that things changed. I stayed inside, and no longer wanted to shadow my uncle’s “police work”. It was the first time I’d felt uncanny when I looked in the mirror.

I couldn’t sleep at night, footsteps roamed the hallway and the house shifted and moaned like a bloated old man.

Mom seemed on edge, and aged immensely in just two weeks. Every day, she’d return home from the cemetery worried. And every day, another fresh crop of long grey hairs would inch down her back.

“The gate was open again,” I’d hear her tell someone on the telephone, “the one to the family’s burial lot, yeah, out at the cemetery.” Our house was small, so she probably heard me holding my breath and knew it was time to move elsewhere.

Something jostled the bush outside my window as I heard her bedroom door close.

I only made out a few more words before she was gone, “And I didn’t see PopPop’s urn anywhere..”

I hadn’t talked to Eugene since the anniversary of his father’s death, and I certainly didn’t touch any substances. I hardly possessed the motivation to roll out of bed for dinner, which caused my skin to hang loose and thin on fragile bones. When I wore a black sweatshirt I could’ve been the grim reaper’s cousin.

More sleepless nights passed, the number of disturbances throughout the house and now throughout the town continued to intensify.

Neighbors’ gardens rotted in the course of a night.

Dogs began to scream and howl at 3am.

Crows occupied every inch of roof and balcony space on the ancient town hall building.

And eyes were on me all the time. Every move I made– documented by some invisible force. I knew I had to leave, something dark had erupted from the invisible, subcutaneous layer of the town.

Everyone knew it had to do with me.

News of the Ouija board spread like a Santa Ynez wildfire and there was a clear correlation between me and the hauntings on the reservation.

The night before I left home, I was home alone with GamGram, my grandma, since she was old and couldn’t make it to Ventura where my mom and siblings had retreated for the day. No one liked being home anymore, especially me, but I was too afraid to leave. Until there was a knock at the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

I heard it from my bed, but didn’t move. GamGram’s voice fluttered from the living room; she was too weak to wheel herself to the door and wanted me to answer it.

Useless GamGram, I thought.

I hoisted myself up, careful not to rub the bedsores that decorated my back, and headed down the hallway.

GamGram sat by the dying light of the fire which painted the walls blood red. She mumbled something in her native language, Waikuri, and pointed toward the door.

I look out at the front yard, completely dark on this moonless night, and at first see no one. I step out further, and see a figure hunched over the smelly rotten vegetable garden. It was looking for something, shaking its head every time it picked up a vegetable. It grabbed the old, baggyskinned tomatoes, sniffed them, and then ate them quick and hungrily. After almost a minute of horrifying silence, it turned around and looked at me.

Perhaps looked isn’t the right word. It didn’t even have eyes.

“Hello sir,” He hurried up the walkway with a hand extended for me to shake, his voice a wheezing whisper. “I am just wondering, have you seen my soul?”

GamGram began screaming inside the house. I sprinted inside, locked the door with the dead bolt and turned on all the lights. GamGram wailed incoherently and pointed toward the window, which I covered with the blinds and thick curtains.

The night was quiet afterward, except for the thumping of my suitcases as I packed my bags for good.

   Two years later, in Isla Vista, my life had almost completely returned to order. Fear kept me from visiting my family more often, but I still talked to my mother every day on the phone.

At first she was hurt that I’d left so abruptly, but later she was happy that I’d decided to go to the university and was even more proud that I was supporting myself.

If it meant spending my days working at the library and nights scrubbing the toilets at The Lovin Oven, godspeed.

I’ve always been more of a passive observer, and it didn’t break my heart when I had responsibilities and couldn’t spend my time acquiring skin cancer on the beach or liver poisoning at one of the local frats.

I stopped smoking altogether–it really only caused me paranoia. But I still hardly slept, a trait I acquired during the nightmare on the reservation. My housemates were constantly amazed with my ability to function during the day. I liked them, they weren’t bad people; but I had a single and kept to myself, hoping to never to invest in a friend enough to where I’d be tempted to tell my life story. My job was a relief. It kept me busy. Cook never asked questions and the owner was never around. I kept to myself, mostly.

  

Everything was fine, until the eyes started watching me again.

Usually books and homework could distract me, but tonight all I had to look at was the buzzing fluorescent lights on the plastic white surfaces of the tables.

I decided to go wash the tables outside, though I’d cleaned them three times already. Not to mention the only customer I’d served tonight was that racist bigot who liked falafel and drove a fast car.

But the night beckoned me, and I’d begun to count the number of times the lights flickered above me. I thought I might go insane.

It was a nice night anyway, a brisk, sweet air enveloping the little beach town. It was uncanny really, how much it smelt like roses, when usually the crashing waves propelled the rotten salty scent of slimy seaweed.

Something moved in the building next door.

The old wooden house that had been abandoned for years.

Shabuki Gardens, my boss told me they used to call it.

“It was this really funky spa that used to function in the seventies,” he told me the first week of work, his accent thick as an old Greek storyteller. “I’ve never been inside, but I’ve heard that the baths are still in there. Spooky, right?”

I stared for some time at the peeling paint on the exterior of the building, waiting for more movement. The wind picked up and a fresh spritz of rose air wafted toward me.

The building moaned.

The smell completely enticed me. It seduced me. I hadn’t felt remotely stimulated since I’d left the reservation. My skin felt like it’d just been kissed, plucked, and goosebumps trembled up and down my body.

Somebody giggled.

Joseph, she whispered.

I dropped my dirty dishcloth and made my way across Lovin Oven’s wooden patio. I crossed the sidewalk riddled with 7-11 hot dog boxes and cigarette butts, walked up to the cracked cement steps to the old building.

I tried the door… locked. Damn.

I retreated back to the restaurant, the sweet rose scent almost unbearable.

“Ey,” Cook grunted from the kitchen. “Someone left a message at the register. Didn’t see no one, only heard a little

ART // LUIS BONDOC

Premonition

BY EL L EN WIRTH-FOSTER

Mrs. B was dreaming when the telephone rang and a voice from nowhere told the future into her ear. A vision of danger: “Your son has been hurt, he was working with the campus police, he is unconscious.

We need you to come to Cottage Hospital to pick him up.”

When she woke there was nothing wrong, her son’s car was parked outside, it was a bright cold February morning in Santa Barbara. Mrs. B started breakfast in the kitchen of her small, nice old house on the upper-East side, halfway between the downtown apartment complexes and the leafy uptown Victorian mansions. Burnt coffee and toast for her son Roy, rose tea and half an English muffin for herself. And sweet black coffee with a piece of fruit for Mr. B, she said silently to herself, because she could not help it.

He had been gone for years, tragic, young—her true love, silly as it sounds but not silly at all.

laugh. Put out my cigarette, walked inside, found this little card.” He rubbed his runny nose, cold from the chilled air.

I wiped the sweat from my brow.

I picked up the notecard by the register. An anomaly– simple, but cryptic. An invitation and mandatory request.

As Roy’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, Mrs. B reminded herself that her dream was just that, a dream.

Her Roy was a firefighter anyway, not a cop. Maybe she was worried about something—that must have been it. Only crazy people really think they are prophets.

“Good morning, Mom!”

To whom this may concern, Please join me for a celebratory tea at 6576 Trigo Rd, Isla Vista tonight at 3 am. We’ll be welcoming our guest of honor, Joseph V., as a new member of the Shabuki Gardens Society.

Please wear your best funeral suit.

Sincerely, Ruth Levy.

“Good morning, Roy, you must have stayed out late because you never sleep in this long, you’d better hurry up and eat. It’s almost 9 o’clock and you know—Oh! Oh God, Roy what are you wearing?”

I tucked the invitation into my back pocket. I checked the time. 2am. Without thinking, I told Cook I’d be leaving early and ran home to get the only suit I owned, the one that once belonged to PapPap. The suit was ill fitting, ancient, and a bit too traditional for my taste. But it didn’t matter, it was all I had. And besides, what’s the use in fussing over the clothes you’re going to die in?

I grabbed my backpack, swung it over my tuxedo jacket, and headed back to Lovin Oven to wait for the party to start.

“They’re having some kind of rally today, a big lawyer is speaking and the department hired us on as crowd-control.

It’s just for the day. What’s wrong?”

TO BE CONTINUED...

Instead of his usual work clothes, he was dressed up in the uniform of UCSB’s campus police—Suddenly Mrs. B realized that her dream had indeed been a premonition of something terrible.

“Roy, you cannot go to work today. I dreamt that something terrible is going to happen to you if you go out there in that uniform. You absolutely must listen to me—I am not going to let anything happen to you, please don’t go out there dressed like that.”

There was no way to make him understand the surge of emotions which filled her at the sight of his blue clothes.

Every nerve in her body screamed “Danger!” and if only

she had the strength she would have held him down to keep him home. She had long been accustomed to the day to day worries--after all, he was a firefighter. But this was different.

This time she was sure, and he would not listen.

“Don’t be ridiculous—I’m going out there and I will be back tonight. Don’t stay up, I’ll be home late. You’ve always worried too much about me, maybe you should just relax today, go out and do something fun.”

And he left. Her shivering heart flew out the door after him, following his dusty black car all the way down the street to the 101, and down the highway to Ward Memorial Boulevard, through campus to El Colegio Rd, and into Isla Vista to the campus police headquarters. When she saw him enter the building, she couldn’t watch any longer, and settled back into her body to wait for the call. The whole day she nervously swept the old oak floors, dusted the dark antiques of her grandmother, organized the mugs in the cupboard and the silverware in the drawer. She watered each plant in the garden individually and then she refolded all the clothes in her bedroom closet, and organized the linen cupboard. She found old drawings of Roy’s from elementary school, stuffed in the upper shelves next to a lamp without a shade and the box with her husband’s army things.

Not crying, just waiting, she remembered how she had waited years before, when her husband was hundreds of miles away across an ocean, unspeakably far and yet everywhere she looked. Then she had been totally uncertain—would he come home this time, if she kept to her routine and kept herself busy, keeping house and raising Roy, each day a prayer identical to the last, the actions like words calling to him across the ocean, whispering into the ears of generals who played like Gods with small men.

Then she had waited with a purposefully naïve hope, not allowing herself to sink into the dread she now exuded like smoke, or sweat.

▲▲▲ “Hey! Over here!”

Roy turned his head and scanned the crowd, it was impossible to tell who had spoken. He was standing in front of a temporary fence, side by side with other uniformed men his age, forming a line across the entrance to the stadium.

Inside a man was speaking, and the rows of seats were full of young people listening passionately, actively. The energy was so strong and so positive it felt uncontainable, as if the elation of people’s thoughts was seeping out of their bodies and into the air. The resulting atmosphere was charged, alive, and infectious.

There were more people than seats, and a crowd remained outside the stadium, eager and increasingly frantic to get inside. Roy couldn’t tell exactly what happened that led to the eruption of violence, but he felt an immediate change in the air as the crowd’s energy reached a flashpoint of aggression, and the events of the night became somehow surreally languid and detached, even though everyone was moving faster, yelling, and pushing forward towards the entrance.

Roy could see that there were only a few people like him compared with the many un-uniformed people, and yet there was something so bizarre about the balance of power—as if he were at once powerless and dangerous, huge, numerous, and helpless. He could not hurt these people who were yelling at him, and yet his job required him to somehow “control” the crowd. What did this mean?

What did it all mean? …

ART // IVY KUO

Somewhere people found rocks and started throwing them at the police. Who started what? Was this a reaction to a specific instance of violence, to an unjust or violent arrest? An outburst of tensions built up in the wake of recent events, including the immense, horrifying stress of the Vietnam War and the government’s disconnect with the people? The generation gap? A new wave of thought which was violently incompatible with the old way, a perceived abyss between old and new, young and not young…anyway, people started throwing rocks, and the hard projectiles met their marks.

What Roy remembered was not the moments before the chunk of concrete sailed through the night and connected with his face, knocking out his front teeth and dropping him to the ground like a sack of youthful potatoes. What he remembered, in the moments afterwards, lying on the ground watching the passing of many feet, feeling the dribble of hot salty blood out of his mouth, as his mother’s words that morning.

What do you know, she was right. He could not have explained why this seemed humorous.

▲▲▲ That night Mrs. B received a phone call. She had been sitting on her sofa for a while already, reading an old paperback without really seeing any of the words, staying by the phone so that when it finally rang it did not complete its first jangling trill before the receiver was in her hand, the curling cord tangling and forcing her to hunch over as she listened to the voice from the Hospital: “Is this a family member of Roy B.?”

“Yes, this is his mother speaking.”

“I’m calling from Cottage Hospital. Your son has been hurt, he was working with the UCSB campus police at an event in Isla Vista when he was hit by a projectile, he is unconscious but will recover quickly. We need you to come in to fill out some paperwork and provide his insurance information. I am sorry for the shock, this must be quite troubling. Do you need an address for the facility?”

“No, I know where the hospital is, thank you. I was expecting your call, in fact.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t understand. Ma’am, it would be best if you bring some of your son’s belongings, we will be keeping him here for the night.”

“Yes of course, thank you.”

Thank you, thank you, she added silently. Thank you for his safety, thank you for his life, thank you for the doctors and the nurses and the woman on the phone. She spoke to the empty air, as usual, sending out a message to the universe. It was all space up there, empty space with clusters of brightness here and there, a great dark question hanging over her head as she climbed into her car with a canvas bag of Roy’s essentials. For the moment she felt she knew the answer to the question—a voice had come to her through the phone in her dream, and now she had a purpose, get to the hospital, find Roy, keep going. He would keep going, and she would keep going, and the universe as she knew it was, for the moment, intact. ▲▲▲ This story is based on true events during the Isla Vista riots in 1970. There was indeed a popular speaker at UCSB’s, stadium, who drew an immense crowd. Following this event there were outbursts of violence in the streets of IV, resulting in the burning of the Bank of America building.

This particular story was inspired by the reminiscences of a Santa Barbara woman whose brother was injured in the riots. The premonition was real, however all the details of this telling are from the author’s imagination. ▲

Wednesday

bY LESLIE ZHANG

ough-edged, skin scorched a deep sienna, he was a stout

Rman molded from California clay by amateur fingers and

baked under decades of Santa Barbara sun. He came to the area in the fall of 1968 with the intention of going to the university to study physics. He melted into the pool of sun bleached souls who never left after graduation, his diploma collecting dust as he chose instead to float from oil rig to oil rig before retiring to his rattly beach town bungalow. The man was no revolutionary or anarchist. Somewhere, tucked away within the hollow of the weathered casing of a man, was a fresh-faced college boy who got entangled in the political turmoil and counterculture movement of Isla Vista during the late 60’s and 70’s.

The blond, tan, beach-going boys of Isla Vista are not like themselves. There is a swollen tension hanging in the air, a plague from the steaming jungles of Vietnam travelling from house to house in the hedonistic hell-paradise by the ocean.

The inhabitants of 6612 Sueño turn to alcohol and drugs on the weekends, and sometimes the weekdays, perhaps in an attempt to numb the demons perched in the back of their skulls. The anesthesia works, works up until about 2 A.M. each night when they come stumbling back, one-by-one, high off reefer and the cheapest vodka. It is at this time, after collapsing into their beds and waiting for sleep to overtake the drunken haze, that the draft and the idea of war come crawling out of the deepest parts of their brains. Maybe once in a while, on a really bad night, one of them will start dreaming and wake up thinking his place on Sueño is a ditch outside of Saigon and bile is coming up his throat, tasting like blood.

A messiah by the name of William Kunstler has come to UCSB with Airedale brows and sad eyes. He delivers his message to a whistling and whooping crowd. Among these hundreds of spines aligned towards Heaven with pseudointellectual interest are our boys of 6612 Sueño, leaning off the edge of their seats, eyes red and drooping. Their only significance in the unfolding night is that one of them will be of some use retelling his story to a student writer some thirty-five years later.

Harder Stadium overflows with bodies and uncertainty.

Ears cherry-pick words. “Fill the streets so they can see you.”

“Sporadic, picayune violence” reverberates in the minds of students, but it is the police, each brought in from exotic lands like Los Angeles to stand on street corners, each tightly clutching their batons to steady their quivering fingers, that

take these words to heart. The authorities are watchful of radicalism -- A discordant professor was disposed of, and the ripples of discontent from students quickly smoothed.

After the speech, the Sueño boys follow the flow of students spilling from the stadium onto the streets. During the crowd’s pilgrimage to Perfect Park, a boy is beaten by a blinking pig’s baton over a bottle of wine.

The boys stop to watch, intrigued.

The students pick their weapon of choice against the officers: the primitive and primordial stone. A small drizzle of pebbles bounce off the backs of the gathering officers, and quickly becomes a flurry. He is the first of his friends to join in, carefully bending down to pick one up from the roadside.

He turns it between his fingers, raises it slowly, considering, considering, hurling it. He is a sheep, not a man. He does not know what to think.

It is a Wednesday afternoon in Isla Vista.

It is a Wednesday evening in Isla Vista.

The Bank of America, this beacon of depersonalized capitalist military industrial exploitation, gleams bright against the dark. Flames lick her sides, window glass speckles the concrete and crunches under the hard stomps of testy students.

Who killed her?

Her soul is whisked away in a pillar of black smoke, leaving behind an incinerated carcass the students enjoy relighting several hours later. As in all grand burials, sacrifices accompany the structure’s corpse in the form of cop cars.

“This is our community and this occupying army must be driven out.” Wise words, Greg. But they pour in, syrup on pancake -- National Guard and SWAT teams, curfews, hundreds of arrests and subsequent lawsuits, the whole shebang -- it’s a state of emergency, says beloved Reagan.

Isla Vista is no Berkeley. The months that follow are fatigued with only a meager sprinkling of protests that are treated with ample tear gas and riot gear. Yet the sleepy beach town has been demolished, its legacy burnt alongside the Bank.

The Bank is rebuilt, a little capitalist phoenix rising from the ashes only to have its wings clipped a decade later. Years pass, time slows down, and the cyclical generations of Isla Vista inhabitants return to what they do best: beach bumming and booze guzzling. Those who threw the stones and smashed the bottles exist idle and placid in retirement homes, smiling as shadows on the wall warp with the sun. Those who threw the tear gas cannisters and smashed bodies with their batons rest gently in the earth. ▲

ART // LESLIE ZHANG

Temporary

by mAX Goldenstein

Tattoos

ART // SARA HANSEN

Evelyn

paced around her room for the seventeenth time. Lipstick on. Not too showy, but with intention. Nails painted with gloss. Hair done up but with bounce and character. But the clock was still telling her it was only 10:05 in bright, red, digital numbers.

Sam was sipping a cold beer fresh out of the refrigerator.

He didn’t mind watching his friends play beer pong.

Although watching competitive sports never appealed to him, something about watching a drinking game was fascinating. Football teams were just groups of faceless people you didn’t even know. These teams were persona: they were your friends. Plus, you can learn a lot about a person through their playing style. Some of the quietest people you’ll meet are the most rambunctious beer pong players. Or maybe the appeal is simply that they get piss drunk and therefore exponentially more hilarious.

Evelyn checked her clock again. 10:15. 10 fucking minutes? She scrolled through her Facebook newsfeed for the fifth time. But why even look? Who really cares about Karlyn’s pictures of camping with her boyfriend? If they were so perfect, why have they broken up and gotten back together three times. And she thought she would stab her eyes out if she saw someone post another picture of the fucking sun set. We all live here and we all see the same beautiful shit every day. Sure we’re spoiled, but sometimes you just have to shrug and accept the spoils.

Meaghan walks in through the kitchen and a grin forms across her tanned face. Sam hadn’t seen Meagan all of last quarter because she was abroad in Australia. He immediately sprung from his chair and gave her one of those hugs that really attempted to convey “Holy shit it has been forever.” He liked her. Not like that though. She was smart, adventurous, and pretty cute, but he could never see himself actually being with her. Plus his mind was elsewhere.

“How was Australia? I mean that’s a pretty loaded question but… wait actually hold on I have to text someone real quick… okay yeah so Australia…”

Evelyn’s phone lit up, 10:34. “Hey, you should come over!”

A little firecracker went off in her chest. No explosion. But definitely a release of energy. And a little bit of air maybe. In excitement she types back “Yes! I’m at this pregame but I’ll come over in a sec.” She swallowed 3 shots of Popov, grabbed

her purse, locked the front door, and began the (relatively long) two-block march.

When she walked in he was three beers and two or three shots in. Kind of boozed you might say. He was sitting next to Meaghan on the tattered leather couch that sits outside most of the time. She really looked great tonight. Not Meaghan, but Evelyn. The Christmas lights hanging over the backyard really lit up the blonde in her dirty blonde hair. And her long skirt-flowing shirt combo swayed with her every movement.

She was elegant. Sophisticated and sexy. Smart about sex appeal.

But who was this girl with him? She seemed really cool.

Really scummy, but in a cool way. Not that fake, “hipster” shit. That same kind of dirty look that Sam has. It worked, for the both of them though. As if they matched. An ice cube formed in her chest.

His smile was genuine. He could feel the blood rush to his face due to a mixture of alcohol, and an eagerness that she had finally arrived. Quickly he introduced them to one another.

“This is Meaghan” Meaghan continued to tell stories of being abroad. He would look at Meaghan out of politeness, but really he wanted to stare at her. Sam would beat his eyes in her direction every once in awhile and smile. Sometimes for too long, he worried. Her distraction aside, Meaghan also tended to give off this kind of “conceited” vibe. You sometimes feel that she is talking down to you, as if you’re not a cultured person until you have fed starving children in the African Congo with your bare fucking hands. She meant well, but it was a constant annoyance.

Sam listened to this Meaghan girl. She watched her purple-lipsticked lips move as they told stories of seeing “joeys” and cooking things on the “barby.” She watched her long, unkempt, blonde hair bounce with every chuckle about some cute surfer asking her for her number. She winced at the want-to-be thrift store army jacket from Urban Outfitters. But most of all, she watched the gaze that he had on Meaghan. This stare he gave was unbreakable. Only in few moments would he turn towards her and smile some goofy grin, as if he wondered why she was even a part of the conversation.

After her last story about a koala, Meaghan finally left to grab another beer.

From there on it was small talk. There was drinking, they asked how one another’s weeks were, but nothing more. It was awkward. But they continued to finish their cups, finishing sentences that you might say to an aunt or uncle at a family reunion. All the excitement at 10:34 seemed to have dissipated gradually throughout Meaghan’s ramblings.

Sam felt a wall. He felt a stone structure between him and her and in his drunken hubris he addressed it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” she said.

This back and forth went on for minutes. The refusal of recognition of the reservation in their speech formed a stake, stabbing deep into the heart of rational conversation. There was a distance between him and her, and it was growing with every forced conversation.

“What’s wrong?” he slurred.

“Why do you keep asking that?” she retorted.

Finally Evelyn cracked. It was Meaghan. It was herself.

It was everything. Who was she? Was she just a number to text in the evening? Was she even anything? Why was it so easy for him to just stare into Meaghan’s eyes but not talk with her?

“So what’s the deal with you and that Meaghan girl,” slipped from her lips.

He paused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean who is Meaghan? You two seem to be peas in a pod. If you want I can go somewhere else so you can go talk to her more.”

Why did she say this? She didn’t mean it. She was frustrated.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he slurred.

They argued. They bickered and questioned one another’s actions. He said she was being ridiculous and that Meaghan was just a friend from freshmen year. She scoffed. Why did she fucking scoff? She isn’t this bitchy.

Why can’t she just listen to what he is saying?

But they never said what they were actually thinking about. They never said: “I’m vulnerable.”

They never said, “I think I’m in deep.”

They never said, “I’m worried I’m in too deep.”

They never said, “I like you.”

They never addressed why this argument was even happening. They spoke of the facts but not about the source. They spoke of the faults but not about why they mattered. The truth is that they were smitten.

Sam was conflicted. She was unlike anything he met.

But college is a time to have no ties and be free. Why would I put such effort into something that will probably just end up being an insignificant fraction of my life. We will all graduate. We will all transition. We will all move on. Plus what will the guys say? “Oh you are all shipped up, huh?” He doesn’t want to deal with that shit. With the ridicule. With the pressure. With the bullshit.

Evelyn was mad. But not entirely at him. Why was she jealous? They just hooked up a few times. They were nothing special. They were temporary tattoos. Bright and vibrant at the start, but destined to fade. But was he really worth all of this effort? Was he going to want to put up with some girl that was destined for Wall Street? Or was he just going to weigh her down? Jesus! Why am I thinking that far ahead, she thought?

He stammered, “This is stupid, why am- are- we even doing this. I don’t even care.”

That was the moment when the record scratches at the party. It didn’t actually, everything kept moving on around them. He felt immediate regret, like the snapping of a bone from a fall on your skateboard.

She felt increasing pain, like trying to swim to the top of the water line but thinking you’re not going to make it in time to take that one, reviving breath. Silence. Tears. A thrown beer.

She left the party immediately, bike key in hand. He stood there covered in the cold beverage he had so eagerly served her an hour ago.

There was no animosity past that. No texts were sent.

No phone calls were made. No talks were had. They waved at one another on the bike path with a half smile.

But time-to-time they think, “what happened?” “What the fuck went wrong?” “Why do I miss this feeling around them, this feeling of peace?” Around them time stopped.

Around them the clocks digital face threw hours away like red cups on a Sunday morning. There weren’t problem sets. There wasn’t reading to be done. There was peace and quiet.

But at the same time there was this resistance. This mouthful of words that begged to burst from their mouths like Mentos in Pepsi that remained capped until it destroyed the plastic bottle instead of explosively skyrocketing out of the spout. Occasionally something slipped out, another foot put into the door of something more. And although it was well received, it was still another step into greater potential for failure.

Temporary tattoos are fun. They are bright, vibrant and beautiful at the start. It is only when they begin to fade do we rub them out for fun. ▲

The following story is based on an urban legend:

The Grey House on Fortuna Lane

by Allie Kent

The Grey House on Fortuna Lane - Allie Kent The following story is based on an urban legend: Her upper lip curved like the crest of the moon. Remnants of crusted lipstick cemented into the moist crevices, speckled about, yet secured in their very own sanctuaries.

Bits of black mascara flicked off her lashes, adding another layer to her already painted face, only this layer was not the slightly off-orange that supposedly resembled her skin, but formed a powdered grayish tint that quickly aged her at least 10 years older.

Sophie MaCree stood parallel to her window, as she thought about what she was going to wear. Should she present herself in a sophisticated yet slightly slutty outfit?

She could go for the “laid back” look, but hardly anyone validated her existence when she went out like that. Her low-cut shirt agreed with her as she slid it on. Though Sophie was unaware, her voluptuous body presented itself without her even trying.

Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, Sophie MaCree ventured out into the land of Isla Vista where she

participated in a fleeting fantasy sponsored by DP, shots of vodka, and the occasional make out session, which (though she did not like to admit it) sometimes led to more. After her outings, she retreated back to her twin bed that resided in 6749 Trigo Unit F. This particular three-day weekend all four of her housemates vacated IV. Sometimes Sophie felt that her friends held her back, losing them at parties and impatiently waiting for them to piss on driveways. So, the self-sufficient young lady planned to wander through the IV festivities on her own.

The night, of course, started at Gio’s. The pizza there-phenomenal.

When she approached the cloudy windows, Gio’s suddenly transformed into a haven for frat boys howling “DRINK, DRINK, DRINK,” so deafening she could have sworn she saw a glass crack. But nay, Sophie needed her pizza, and insisted on guzzling it down with a cup of beer-well maybe a few cups.

While waiting for her vegetarian pizza, she distracted

herself with people watching. And just as her eyes fluttered about, a man marched or more like pounced, directly towards her as if she were his prey of the night. He drew towards Sophie, his cheek so close to hers, his prickled hair lightly brushed her face, and goosebumps erupted on her entire body.

“Hey, can I get you something to drink?”

His voice was hardly audible as the IV anthem, “I’m in love wit da coco,” screeched through the restaurant. His eyes pierced their way into hers, the color of icebergs with a tint of aqua. Chilling, yet inviting. His five o’clock shadow was barely visible on his bronzed skin. And his bro tank did her the favor of exposing his muscular arms, inferring his love for surfing. Or maybe it was rock climbing.

“Sure,” she whispered, pink splotches forming on her face. ▲▲▲ Travis Smith had gawked at her for what seemed like hours.

It had been one month since he last went out, and he forgot how to interact with his own species. Gio’s was the perfect place on a Thursday night, almost everyone there mutated into delirious and obnoxious molds of their intoxicated bodies.

The girl he had been staring at had her arms crossed below her breasts, so that the view of her plump cleavage became visible. The corners of her mouth naturally slanted upward as if a string was permanently attached pulling them up. Her curvaceous body enticed him to approach her.

You can do this, Travis. You know how to talk to people.

Just make eye contact and smile.

Accordingly, he neared the girl, palms perspiring, as one droplet of water made its way down his freckled arm.

“Hey, can I get you something to drink?” he asked. His salivating glands opened, spewing saliva so quickly he almost drooled.

“Sh,” he heard, as her face reddened. His heart plunged, spiraling into an infinite black hole beneath it. He began to walk away but the girl tapped him on the shoulder.

“I said sure!”

Thank god, I need this.

Travis got her a beer. Then another. Then another. They discussed typical college stories, which he found to be rather mundane but pretended to be interested anyway.

After an hour of her high-pitched voice describing her “love for the ocean,” Travis invited her to his house. He lived in an old grey home on Fortuna Lane with his favorite new edition--a 7 foot fence encompassing it, guaranteeing him extra seclusion. He had built it himself, a project that kept him occupied from his other desires that he could not always attain. It didn’t hurt either that his hobby gave him robust biceps that attracted women even more towards him.

His house was incredibly spacious and he had it all to himself. Travis was the type of man who needed his privacy and yearned to be alone whenever possible.

But tonight was different.

The girl accepted his offer graciously, but he could see the nervousness in her awkward stance, her back resembling that of a camel’s hump. ▲▲▲ They went home, she full of pizza, and he full of anticipation.

It was often unlike Sophie to go home with a man she just met, but she found this one rather interesting. She liked the way he made her feel; the entire night his eyes glued on her, as if he were talking to a goddess.

Just outside of his ash painted house, the boy reached his arms around Sophie’s shoulders, stomach brushing against stomach. His right hand stroked her neck up and down in zig-zag motion that caused her pulse to catch up to the pace of the blasting bass that echoed from the wild extravaganzas of DP. Her chin lifted and their lips melted into each others, his tongue entering her mouth politely. She invited it in, and he slowly pressed his teeth together, her bottom lip compacted in between, sinking in a bit too strongly. He then captured her hand into his and brought her into his residence.

His house was spotless. The tiles were still white, unlike her once ivory tiles that were now a yellowish beige color. It was the opposite of IV. There were no alcohol bottles to be seen, no bongs exposed, no tapestries hanging on the walls.

There was, simply, a beige couch and a wooden coffee table.

The smell of bleach intruded her nostrils causing an awkward cough to escape from her mouth.

“Here, I’ll get you a tissue,” he said as he left the room.

She glanced after him, but saw only pitch blackness.

Sophie eyed the fridge in the corner of the house. Though tipsy, if she was going to have a one night stand, she was going to have to get a little more drunk. She reached for the door handle of the refrigerator and opened it to emptiness.

No food. No condiments. Not even a light. She stuck her hand in and only felt lukewarm air. She grabbed for the freezer. Nothing. Not even ice. Come to think of it, she did not remember him drinking a beer at Gio’s or even holding one. She was so transfixed on talking about herself, she had paid little attention to his actions. He was merely there as her audience.

Sophie’s eyebrows furrowed together in an attempt to figure out why he didn’t have food. There were a few possibilities: 1. He ran out of food.

3. He had another refrigerator.

4. He was a vampire.

She enjoyed his sophisticated demeanor, but was not fond of his freakishly unblemished house.

So, Sophie surreptitiously drifted to the door that she had entered a mere two minutes before, stepping heel-toe, heeltoe trying to remain silent.

▲▲▲ One week elapsed and Sophie avoided Fortuna Lane at all costs. Successfully, she had not seen the man with the outlandishly immaculate house. ▲▲▲ She awoke on a Monday morning to flaming blisters surrounding her mouth. The cherry splotches did not nearly resemble a cold sore, and she found it almost impossible to control her left arm.

She obsessively searched WebMD for answers, but nothing mirrored her symptoms.

After a thorough inspection from Dr. Weinberg, Sophie waited impatiently in a fluorescent office, lights beaming into her sunken eyes.

The doc entered with the urgent question, “Have you been in contact with a dead body in the past week, Ms. MaCree?”

“No...”

“You must tell me the truth, have you?”

“No, I swear!”

With that, Dr. Weinberg picked up the phone and called the police. ▲▲▲ It had been a week, but Travis Smith was still quite frustrated that he had found the deserted room lacking the curvaceous girl. In an effort to cheer himself up, he returned to his favorite room, located at the end of the hallway. He opened his closet door to the spacious walk-in closet, for which he specifically bought this house.

There, remained his Turbo M3 Series, two section solid door reach-in freezer--47 cu. ft. with an extensive metal chain, locking it in, so that no one without a key could access it. The key lived in his pocket, and he slid it through the lock, eyes widening and carnivorous teeth unveiling a grin.

Joanne’s left forearm secured in a plastic ziplock bag greeted him first. Her flesh peered at him, the porcelain color, reflecting the inside lights. The blood crusted around her elbow of what was once crimson, now charcoal. His eyes rapidly scanned the fridge searching for more of her.

He knew he saved a foot somewhere. Or maybe it was a shoulder. He was running out of food.

“Fuck that girl from Gio’s.”

His short-lived jubilance ceased when his least prized body part glared at him: the bone. The alabaster chunk selfishly occupying unnecessary space from the delectable skin that surrounded it.

He loathed the bones so much, that he buried them in his backyard before he even thought of devouring his heavenly meals. Just the thought of the bone brought him complete animosity, causing his fingers to clench so tightly into his palm that the outer layer of perfectly olive skin sliced open, drops of blood escaping from the pressure, much like his

victims striving to escape from their imminent expiration.

To bring back his elation, he picked up the heart, deliberately calm as not to drop it on the floor; he had done this multiple times from his hands shaking by the rush of it all, and would not stand for cleaning the mess up yet again. The heart was his treasure. And his personally preferred way of preparing it was to cook it in the oven at 350 degrees for fifteen minutes.

The heart need not any seasoning unlike some of the other parts. For instance, the foot had little meat and possessed little blood, that it was often tasty with a dash of garlic or perhaps some Tapatio if he wanted to spice things up.

He could imagine chewing into the heart, its beat lingering in his mouth as he recalled the strenuous journey it took to conquer it.

Joanne was one of the more difficult ones. He had to drug this one because she kept clawing at him. He tied her up and even that didn’t do much. Thus, he brought out his sturdier rope, securing it around her arms, so that he could see her circulation cutting off. She had lacerated his bicep with such tenacity that her pointer fingernail ripped off and plummeted to the floor. Though it dug deep into his tissue, causing an excessive amount of blood to spurt, Travis recalled taking great pleasure in watching the fingernail fall, the first body part separating from the whole.

Amidst his flashback, a knock brought Travis back to reality.

A cloud of rage entered his body once again and he locked the freezer doors, stomping out of the room, his steps so boisterous the house echoed his anger. He then shifted the corners of his mouth into a U shape and brought his eyebrows back to their original position, four centimeters above his eyes.

Before him stood three police officers.

“Travis Smith? We have a warrant to search your house”.

“May I ask why?”

“Due to an infection on Sophie MaCree. A disease caused by the consumption of human meat passed through the exchange of saliva.” ▲▲▲ Travis Smith laid in his cell, the same dusky pigment of his previously anonymous home. His mind focused on nothing but the thumping of Joanne’s lifeless heart. His salivating persisted, but he took ease in knowing that it remained preserved. The ringing of his accomplishments echoed a sweet melody, repeating in his ear: Travis Smith, the cannibal, possessed the lives of Isla Vista girls, leaving nothing but their loathed and now rotting bones in the backyard of a grey house on Fortuna Lane. ▲▲▲ Let this all be a lesson to the citizens of Isla Vista: always make sure someone is not a cannibal before you go home with them. ▲

The Ebb and the Flow

PHOTO // RYAN BURNS

by Tommy Alexander

Isla Vista is ruled by the tides. That is to say, it ebbs and flows between extremes. It is pacific one day and raucous the next. This is the nature of living beside the sea.

Come around on a Saturday evening– or, for that matter, a Friday, or a Thursday,or a Wednesday, or even the occasional Tuesday– as the streets awaken. Stroll down Del Playa Drive to watch the sun set over the Pacific. Join the small crowds that gather along the cliffs in green spaces with names like “Window to the Sea” and “Dogshit Park”. Listen to the waves crash rhythmically below. Bask in breathtaking splashes of pink, orange, and blue as the scene is bathed in a golden hue.

The surface of the sea is reflecting the palette like an endless, brilliant mirror, wrinkling out beyond the eucalyptus, beyond silhouetted surfers, beyond Platform

Holly and beyond even the vast flat horizon that swallows the sun, finally and decisively, like the last cup sunk in some cosmic beer pong tournament.

Open your ears as a beat begins to kick along Del Playa Drive– colloquially, DP. Anyone who asks the way to “Del Playa” can be immediately categorized as a party-hungry out-of-towner or a lost, eager freshman. Everyone knows the way to DP. It is a pulsing party artery; indeed, it is the grimy beating heart of Isla Vista, where the streets flow cold with Natural Ice and brusque-looking foot patrol officers roam in packs, always searching for the next citation. Partygoers flit like drunken, swerving moths about a flame, drawn in close by the lights and the heat and the bass buzzing filthy through their bodies, and the tingling sensation that here on DP, on

this warm night beneath the Santa Barbara moon, anything could happen.

The street is an intoxicated, colorful mess. Girls in short dresses march, shivering, toward a friend’s party, ogled by a group of guys heading in the same direction. People stand waiting jam-packed along the staircase to a second-story apartment that is loud, bright and too cramped for the dozens already crammed within. Some poor soul sits down on the curb, feeling woozy, and looks up to find himself surrounded by four stern foot patrol officers. A limousine rolls haltingly down the block, hoping but failing to part the swirling seas. Some guy clambers onto the roof of the limo and begins to flail his limbs in a goofy dance. Residents– VIPs– gather along narrow balconies, sipping beers and heckling passerby and watching the crowds mill about. Patios and lawns are packed with beer pong tables and party people. The boldest of them wander through strangers’ open doors, join the festivities, score some free booze or are turned away with a “Who do you know here?”. On Friday nights, a group of charitable Christians grill up Jesus Burgers on their patio near the end of the 66 block; the rich charbroiled smoke, illuminated to heavenly proportions by a floodlight, billows out onto the sidewalk over the long line of patient drunkards waiting for a free meal. Everyone is searching for something on Del Playa Drive– searching for love, searching for fun, searching for alcohol or just a free hamburger.

There are drinking games. There are shots. There are lines, bowls and pills. There is dancing. There are DJs. There is bass and there is a beat. There are fights and there are robberies and there is assault and there is rape. There are friends and there are strangers and there is love and there is hate and it

is all illuminated by bright fluorescent lights along the sandstrewn, trash-scattered stage of Del Playa Drive. The night whirls into rich disorder, escalates, dubstep whomping, works itself into a frenzy and finally, once the midnight noise ordinance comes into effect, ebbs back into a quiet beach town. The party continues, subdued, in back bedrooms hung with posters and tapestries, in kitchens and coke dens and psychedelic havens. As the clock strikes one a.m., two a.m., four, the flash flood abates to a trickle. A couple finds their way down to the beach in the dark and comes up the stairs giggling, hand in hand. A tall guy in a t-shirt strolls down DP, making his way home alone. Revelers have passed out on sheets, couches and one another. The fever breaks. The tide recedes. A plastic grocery bag from IV Market drifts across the early-morning street like ectoplasmic tumbleweed. Isla Vista sleeps.

Wander down the stairs to the beach at dawn. The waves roll in like breaths, drawing up foam and sand and seaweed in a long suspenseful draught and then releasing, with a roar, great force upon tranquil shores. Stare into the fog. Stare into the fog until you feel like the fog– expansive as forever yet immediate as the present; inscrutable as nothingness and familiar as closing your eyes; empty as a slate and full as a bellows. Exhale, deeply. Rest your arms upon the weathered railing. Its wood grain is rough, worn by wind, use and years.

Perhaps a stranger strolls past... says hello... disappears into the fog. Perhaps you are alone. Take it in. This is Isla Vista at its most peaceful.

Soon the sun will begin to diffuse through the gray.

Surfers, bright-eyed, wetsuit-clad, will port their boards down the cliff for a morning session in the steely sea.

Students, bleary, backpack-laden, will step out of their front doors into the brisk morning rush like so many salmon, streaking silver and studious to spawn in the warm pools of academia. The bums will awaken in Anisq’oyo Park to the overcast skies, the salty sea breeze and the muted clamor of Isla Vista stirring. The tides will shift. Bicycles, skateboards and flip-flopped feet will gravitate eastward toward campus, stampeding, sweating, morning sun glinting from the dew on the lawns, pedal faster, class starts two minutes ago! This is the University of California at Santa Barbara. UCSB. As they say –slow it down, now; take your time– Oleee, ole ole ole– Gauchooos, Gauchooos. Oleee, ole ole ole– Gauchooos, Gauchooos.

Isla Vista exists in perpetual flux. Students rarely stick around longer than four years, and each new crop of freshmen subtly changes the character of the community.

This town is a big glass goldfish bowl beside the sea. This is where suburban children cycle into adulthood, crunching like cogs against the wheel of the institution. This is where dreams are born and it is where they dissipate, slowly, into the smoky haze. Isla Vista is a home, a dream, a jungle, a bubble. It is the pull and the shove, the ebb and the flow. It is the nature of living beside the sea. ▲

E[IN]TERNAL

ART // KATY BLACKHORN

by Carissa Quiambao

When I first talked to God, I was inside a rusty, windowless telephone booth deep in the Santa Ynez mountains.

Unhinging the dusty black receiver from its rotary dial-up base, I slowly and cautiously put it to my ear. The other line rang.

Brrrrrng. Brrrrrng. Brrrr— “Hello, this is God,” greeted a suave, deep voice from the other side of the receiver.

“Huh?” I was stunned. And confused. Very confused.

“I said, ‘This is God’,” the voice repeated nonchalantly.

Before I had the chance to inquire about His or Her or Its existence and of the meaning of life, another, more tangible voice grabbed my attention from a distance.

“CA-RISS-AAAAH!” exclaimed a tall, tan 20-year-old boy approaching the telephone booth amid a crowd of festival-goers in topsy-turvy regalia.

My eyes widened at the surprise appearance of my good friend Trevor. I would have never expected to see him at this sunny, dusty, foresty campground, but then again I was also on the phone with the Divine, so I suppose anything is possible.

“Uh, sorry God, I have to go, talk to you later,” I said rapidly, hanging up the receiver and turning to my friend, “TREEEHVERRR!” I exited the booth and pounced on Trevor, embracing him with arms and legs as he steadied his balance from the surprise attack.

It was the hug of overwhelming gratitude that there was another person from reality at this place— this iridescent landscape of shapes and shades; of colors and costumes and scintillate dreams.

“How did you get here?!” I asked as he set me back down to Earth.

“Magic.” He said, eyes wide and impish. By now I had gotten accustomed to strange things occurring on these festival grounds, so instead of rolling my eyes as I would have done any other day, I just looked at him expectantly.

He laughed and shook his head, raising his wrist to show me his Press wristband, “I got a free ticket to Lucidity through KCSB!” Well that sounds like magic to me. “That’s dope! What have you been up to? Wait, let’s go dance! At the Bamboo Stage! Or let’s go check out the xylophone bus! Oh oh, have you seen the Pyro bar? It’s this huge truck converted into a gypsy caravanlooking bar, and IT SHOOTS OUT FIRE!” I don’t think I’d been as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in that moment than when I was a small child playing barefoot in the grass. And that’s what everyone was, really— steampunk outfits, indigenous garb, and indescribably beautiful costumes of feather and velvet and lace aside, everyone at the festival was pretty much a child that decided to take their grown-up shoes off, eager to play barefoot once again.

“That all sounds AWESOME!” Trevor was evidently feeding off my excitement. Then he pointed behind me. “Hey, what’s that?”

I turned around and looked at the forlorn phone booth that caught my curiosity not long ago. “Black Rock City Phone Co.,” lettering at the top of the booth read, its urban bus stop font slightly chipping away, “Talk To God.” “Talk to God?” Trevor was confused. Thank goodness I wasn’t the only one. “What the hell is that?”

Staring at the rectangular metallic frame that comprised the peculiar telephone booth, I suddenly remembered how quickly I had hung up the phone on His, or Her, or Its Holiness. I found it a bit ironic that I halted the opportunity to contemplate depth and meaning in order to reunite with someone familiar.

But isn’t that the struggle of life? Trying to find truth and purpose and meaning amid the bustle of day-to-day activities, of constant stimulation, of all-too familiar faces?

Squinting up at the deep cerulean sky, framed all around with lush oak leaves and the colorful peaks of art installations, I pointed at the receiver, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Hurry up, Trevor! God’s on the other line.”

He looked at me quizzically, then shrugged and entered the booth.

Moving to pick up the receiver, Trevor was not greeted by the sultry, masculine voice that had spoken to me earlier, but instead by a high-pitched tone.

“Hi, this is God,” informed what sounded like a little girl.

“Uh… hey God,” Trevor was pondering what to say. Was he going to ask how humankind came to existence? Why suffering existed? If there was really life outside of Earth?

“What’s up?” he asked.

I face-palmed.

“Umm… nothing really,” God replied, also pondering what to say, “Just, like, being God and stuff.”

Awkward silence.

“So, uh,” Trevor continued to contemplate …the universe?

Existentialism? The afterlife? “So what’d you do today, God?” “Umm, I just played a lot,” the voice had to be no older than 8- or 9-years-old. “Like by the river, and near the trees.”

“Oh. That sounds cool,” Trevor looked down and started playing with the telephone cord, “I wish I could play more too, but instead I just work a lot.”

“Aww, that sucks,” God said. “I think everyone should just play, play, play all the time. Then there wouldn’t be anymore fighting and the world would be happy!”

“Well, God, I would love to just play all the time, but people have to work in order to survive,” Trevor informed the Almighty, “to eat, and have a home, and have money to like, y’know, buy things.”

“Oh yeah, I guess so,” God sounded mostly convinced, “But grown-ups work all the time and I think it makes them suuuuper angry. Like ‘Raaawr, don’t play so loud ‘cause I’m tired from work! Rawr rawr!’” God said the last bit in what sounded like a dinosaur voice. “It doesn’t look like working is fun. So like I don’t really get why grown-ups like to do it so much?”

“Yeah, you’re pretty right,” Trevor conceded, “That’s definitely something I think about a lot. Like, why am I working so hard trying to go to law school when I know I’m just doing it because my parents want me to? I know it’s not what I want to do deep down inside, but that desire to pursue what I want just isn’t strong enough to break through this intense pressure. I mean, I look at my parents — at their successful business, their nice big, lofty house with the green lawn, their five expensive cars and their cool kitchen appliances … I mean their new espresso machine with its fifteen settings for cappuccinos and macchiatos is pretty freaking dope actually, but also so god damn unnecessary! And anyway — I look at them and all their stuff, and I know they’re not happy. But at the same time, I’m afraid to do what makes me happy. Because I’m afraid I won’t be able to make enough to survive. Or even worse, that I’ll pursue what I love and that… I’ll fail.”

Overhearing his exchange with God, I felt a tug at my heartstrings.

“Don’t be afraid,” God assured him, “Just tell them how you feel. Even if they’re not happy, doesn’t mean you can’t be.”

Trevor sighed, looking at the receiver like he was going to give up on the conversation all together.

“I don’t think so.”

“Trevor,” God replied. “Do you want me to send you my angels?”

“What?” he wasn’t expecting that response.

“My angels,” God persisted, “I’m going to send you my angels.”

Dial tone.

“Well, that was really weird,” Trevor turned to me and hung up the receiver.

I looked up from my skirt and at Trevor, then noticed something peculiar approaching from across the horizon.

In the distance, two beautiful, face-painted young girls with iridescent cellophane fairy wings, peony-flower crowns, and cotton cream-colored flowing dresses were skipping toward the booth.

“Hey, Trevor?” I pointed behind him.

“What the…?”

The two girls appeared on either side of Trevor and looked up at him, all smiles.

“Hi! We’re God’s angels,” Said one of them, a blond, porcelaindoll of a girl with sparkly pink-and-blue swirly face paint.

“We’ve come to take you to God,” said the other girl. She was tan, with almond eyes, silky black hair, and gold designs painted on her face and arms.

The two girls sparkled. Trevor was overwhelmed with surprise and delight.

You could practically see the joy bubbling from his lips as he said, “Uh, yeah! Yeah, okay!”

The two girls held on to either side of his hand and led us up a dirt path, past vendors selling Thom Ka Gai and organic, gluten-free, vegan breakfast burritos, past booths selling various types of crystals and wire-wrapped gems, past people in top hats and harem pants and wings and ears and in wagons, all the way to a large white tent shaded by oak trees.

Both girls opened either tent flap to reveal a surprisingly wide expanse of space adorned with plush rugs, decorative pillows, and large tent windows on all tent-sides. Inside the area resided two adults, — one big, burly, bearded man and one maternallooking brunette woman with dreaded hair — and handful of young children, ranging in age from 4- to 12-years-old, all sitting around a little girl on the phone.

“The meaning of life?” The little girl answered into the phone.

“Hmm, well I think it’s to just be happy. What do you think?”

The two adults in the tent space greeted Trevor and I with a hearty, “Howdy!” and the surrounding children either looked up in curiosity or continued to nap or talk or play with various toys. God’s angels left Trevor’s side and took a seat among large, plush pillows decorated with Indian-style embroidery.

The little girl hung up the phone, then looked up to Trevor and smiled. She then picked up the receiver again and handed it to him.

“Here,” she said, smiling ear to ear, “It’s your turn.” ▲

dust Motes

by Adam De Gree

“I’m turning into water,”

Albert said as afternoon heat pulverized the foothills. The dreaded assignment of rake duty, especially feared during the last days of another Indian Summer, had fallen to the two of us once again. Sure, it beat working behind the counter at Kmart, but on days like this, the sun laughed on the surface of the distant Pacific, and we knew that it was laughing at us, the grunts at Fairview Landscaping. Not that we should complain—the other guys are well into their sixties, probably smoking weed, working some of the ocean-side parks, and planning weekend surf trips right about now. They’ve put their time in. I guess that’s what we’re doing now:; exploring the exciting world of manual labor.

It seems that no matter what we do, there’s no escaping the path laid out for us by the older guys. Take conversation, for starters. Talk to any of the guys—--well, any laborer around—, and you’ll have heart-warming connections dictating one of three topics. One, the ever-present workplace pariah, emerging from the woodwork of any reputable organization to sap productivity and morale. Two, the weekend, and how much beer and tequila will be consumed because “you know how it is.,” Aand, finally, girls. This last topic sits squarely on the border between cute and creepy. These older guys are easily three times the age of most of the college girls that populate the beachside streets, but that doesn’t stop them from looking. Boys will be boys, or some other such nonsense. Anyhow, no matter the time of day, the project, or the mouthpieces which happen to be moving, the age-old conversation never changes. I suppose that's why they call it culture; habit so strong that no one around can escape it.

Even now, I find myself slipping into the all- too- familiar groove, resting on the surface as automatic replies shoot forth from my unwilling and uncaring facehole.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” I say, as if I care. It might be better to talk than just stand there, waiting for the sycamore dust to turn my lungs and throat into a mess of congealed mucus. And yeah, I know it’s not attractive, but it’s part of the job with rake duty. Fall has almost arrived in Isla Vista, which means that all the sycamore trees that some genius planted fifty years ago decide to shed all their leaves at once. Sycamore trees, for the uninitiated, have massive leaves, about twice as big as one’s hand and usually the same color.

These leaves collect more dust than one might think possible.

The dust motes form councils, hoping to expand beyond their leafy territory and out to new frontiers. So they wait, wait until some unsuspecting laborer comes around, wait for him to note, with due diligence, that the lawn needs raking, wait for the sun to start pouring out its salty nectar onto

every vulnerable neck and back and forehead. That’s when then they strike. They fly through the air, forming squadrons and coordinating their attack, scoring direct hits on the eyes, nose, and mouth, colonizing the throat and enslaving the native populace. Cruel masters those dust motes are, demanding violent restructuring and, usually, blood sacrifice.

Albert spits out some friendly mites, then shares his plans for the all-important weekend: “Gonna go see my girlfriend, maybe watch a Disney movie or something. I like to keep it simple.” Albert is bafflingly simple, content with what to me seems like a mundane existence. “Like I was saying to the girlfriend the other day, I just like the little things. Like, we were at this restaurant, and they brought out chips and salsa, you know, ‘cause it was a Mexican restaurant, and the chips were that perfect combination of salty and crispy. I almost cried.”

I’m pretty sure I’ve heard some variation of this account a few times before, but to be fair, Albert’s definitely heard the question a few times as well. At least he’s stable. Besides, I think I can prod him further on the topic and maybe get to some uncovered ground. “Dood, check out the lawn ornaments.”

“Damn. Where do they come from?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care, as long as they end up here, you know what I mean?”

Ok, that was my fault, but seriously, those girls are knockouts. How am I supposed to transcend conventional conversation patterns when girls like that decide to sunbathe topless across the street? It’s just unreasonable.

“So, Albert, do you think that your dedication to simplicity is unique?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, just about every time we talk about something, simplicity seems to come up. Do you notice a difference between your simple patterns and those of people around you?”

“I guess people seem pretty concerned with complicated stuff. I mean, it’s simple, what they want, but they get at it in a complicated way. But then again, don’t we all think that our habits are unique? And I’m not sure that I understand what you mean by ‘dedication.’ It’s just how I am. Like, you’re always asking questions. Is that a ‘dedication?’ And is that different from everyone else?”

Ok, here’s something new. Albert may be simple, but he’s not a simpleton.

“I suppose you’re right. I do tend to think of my habits as different, but maybe I’m just not paying attention to similarities because they’re not important to my psyche.

Sunsets are pretty simple and I watch those. But yeah, I would say I’m dedicated to questioning. It’s not automatic. I mean, if it was automatic, I don’t know that I would get anywhere.”

“Where are you going now?”

“I guess I’m trying to discover something new.”

I paused to wipe sweat out from my eyes, and notice the world once more. Once I drop into the flow of a good conversation, especially when busied by repetitive physical tasks, time just stops. Then I think about it, and there it goes again—always slower than I want it to on hot days like this.

“And you think talking is the best way to do that.”

“At least, it’s how I relate to the world, to people. Maybe that’s why I struggle with empathy. It’s like the only way for me to connect with or understand someone is to hear their opinion on whatever corner of the universe they’re occupying.”

“So you’re saying that we’re defined by what we think.”

“That’s an assumption I like. I think we’re defined by what we do, and thought is just a subset of action. And, the benefit to talking is that it gives me something concrete that I can take with me throughout the day and think about, you know, it informs the rest of my actions in a substantial way.”

“So experience isn’t substantial?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. But I guess it’s what I said.

Hmmm.”

A lizard poked its head out from one of the leaves. Sorry little man, gonna have to take your shade. Boss’s orders, you know how it is. The sun is even more directly overhead, if that’s possible, and Albert and I are definitely feeling it. We’ve made a pretty large dent in the pile by now, but there is plenty left. From around the corner we hear the familiar hum of the John Deere as it rounds the bend. “Here come the boys.”

“Hey, slackers. Anything to report?”

“Same old, same old, just monitoring the lawn ornaments.”

“Good work. These parks need to be kept safe. It’s our duty.”

“That’s right. Any news from the fort?”

“Our fearless leader (the pariah) decided to take another 2-hour lunch break. I’ve been out doing irrigation in the sun.

What a jerk.”

I feel the familiar rise once more, but try to ignore it. Albert looks at me, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Albert is a solid guy, he rarely—now that I think about it, he never—complains about any of the typical workplace trifles. I think I’m starting to see why. Nothing muddles up simplicity like righteous anger. In times like these, automatic responses do help.

“What can you expect? At least it’s a beautiful day.”

“That it is, that it is. Any plans for the weekend?”

“I’m out to Joshua Tree for a camping trip.”

“Sounds like fun. Just make sure you hydrate. I know I’ll be taking care of that with some tequila. You know how it is.

How about you, Albert?”

“I’m gonna drive down to visit my girlfriend. Maybe take her to the movies, take her siblings to the park, just relax.

Barbeque and beer Sunday.”

“My, did you see that one?”

“She was pretty hard to miss.”

“I don’t know how you boys get your studying done. Well, I’m off for lunch. Take your time, make sure you get your breaks in. Don’t want to overwork yourselves now.”

“No sir.”

The buggy revs up and disappears around the corner. We turn back to raking. The sun beats down, the dust flies up, and the familiar rhythm sets in while waves crash below. ▲

GAUTSCHI vs.

THE ESTABLISHMENT

by Josh Oritz

The phone rings. I pick up.

“Hello?”

A quiet, aged voice answers back.

“Yes, this is Chris Gautschi returning your call.”

“Oh right. Thanks for calling back.”

Pause. I continue.

“This might seem like a weird question, but did you write a book called Delectable Mountains back in the seventies?”

Momentary silence.

“I did.”

My voice rises.

“Oh wow that’s great. I’m from UCSB. I’m interested in possibly talking with you about that sometime.”

Gautschi answers timidly: “Well could we do it next week? I have a lot of work to get done until then.”

“Oh yea, of course, whatever works best.”

I hear a light laugh.

“I just need to get my head above water first is all.”

“No, I get it. I’ll just give you a call next week then. I look forward to talking to you soon.”

“Alright buh-bye.”

3 a.m. Saturday night. 1966.

Del Playa is dark, save for the faint orange of the streetlights glowing in the foggy sea salt air. No one is on the street. The atmosphere is filled with the sounds of ocean waves crashing from below the cliffs. With each flow comes the void-consuming roar; with every ebb comes the hiss, and then the hanging pause, the inch of silence in the looping audio track of Isla Vista. Within that small window, one can hear the sounds of glass breaking intermittently and the boisterous shouting of Chris Gautschi.

Gautschi, inebriated, stands naked in the driveway of his cliffside home, straddling a trashcan. His drunken brain cannot acknowledge the cold air stinging his leathery, sunscorched skin. Beads of sweat drop down from his long, brown hair onto the ground below.

He reaches into the receptacle, pulling out beer bottles by the neck and tossing them like Molotov cocktails at the garage door. With each heave he gives a thick yell with his worn-out voice box.

“What the hell’s the matter with you!” his housemate shouts over the top of Gautschi’s cries.

The vigilante runs out in front of the garage door, hands flailing in a frantic defense of the house. He dodges a bottle as it flies by his head, shattering into tiny projectile pieces behind him.

“Stop that dammit!”

“Gert der hell out of der way!” Gautschi slurs loudly.

His housemate wasn’t going to reason with him. He knew that sober Gautschi was hard to handle, but drunk Gautschi was not worth confronting. He learned that fact after surviving multiple cognac-induced tirades. Sometimes, the neighbors would consider themselves lucky if he restrained himself within the confines of his bedroom blasting rock ‘n’ roll while he painted clumsily. He did this in the nude, of course. Nights such as tonight were the norm. ▲▲▲ They toss another log into the large, blazing fire. Specks of glowing ash rise and float off into the night air, above the heads of half-naked partygoers. Chris Gautschi is among them, skipping through the crowd with outstanding energy.

“Anyone sweating yet?” he shouts, surveying the barren skin of those around him. “I’m thinking it’s about time to get hotter out here.”

The obedient pledges toss more wood into the great fire of the Sigma Phi Epsilon backyard. The conflagration grows larger and larger.

Gautschi’s eyes glow as he looks upon the fire. Sweat starts developing on his forehead. His guests become uncomfortable in whatever clothing they are still wearing.

“Feel free to get comfortable friends,” Gautschi says, taking off his shorts. “Mi casa es su casa.”

The men don’t hesitate and strip naked in quick certainty.

Gautschi and his unclothed fiends yip into the air like coyotes.

The women stand hesitant, placing their hands defensively over the little remaining garments they have left. The eyes of hungry men scan them, asking for more. The sweating is profuse now, and their garbs are soaked. Their leader makes the call.

“Let’s go ladies. Bras and panties are no longer required,” Gautschi howls.

He has spoken, and now the women follow suit. The congregation stands completely naked in the Isla Vista backyard, unaware of the sweeping cool air outside. ▲▲▲ Gautschi’s phone buzzes as it sits on the coffee table next to him. He falls out of his trance in Richard III, the words of Shakespeare losing their freshness in his aged mind with every second he looks away from the page. Chris looks down at the glowing screen. It’s a text from his receptionist.

“4 new clients. Do u want profiles?” it reads.

Four new clients are seeking Gautschi’s help for filing for bankruptcy. Four new lives flipped over by the unforgiving economy. This business used to break his heart every day.

Now, Gautschi just has four new projects to pile on to his already-busy schedule.

Gautschi sits there staring at the words on the screen, holding the cell phone shakily in his wrinkly hands. He types back: “Send them my way,” He puts the phone and picks up Richard III once again, flicking the pages by intermittently.

His Santa Barbara home is unmoved. Sunbeams penetrate through the windows, shining light on the spacey dust particles swirling lazily in the still air. The kitchen clock ticks on, sending out echoing clicks throughout the house secondby-second. Motionless pictures of family—of his three grown children—are sprawled on almost every flat surface.

Inspiration hits and Gautschi drops his book. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a tiny notebook. Gautschi clicks a pen and scratches on four lines of poetry onto the miniature piece of paper.

He rips out the small page and drops it on top of a mountain of similar leaves on the adjacent desk. ▲▲▲ Young Gautschi knocks on the door of Harry Reese’s Trigo apartment with a notebook in one hand and cognac-in-abrown-bag in the other. There is a slight pause before Reese whips the door open, a big smile on his face.

“It’s about goddamn time,” Reese muses.

“Sorry man. Had some trouble with my lady friend,” Gautschi says, stepping into the musty apartment.

The windows bar the living room of light as endless books tower over the inhabitants on all sides. The sound of light jazz is heard chiming from the record player in the corner of the room.

Gautschi places the cognac bottle on the coffee table and falls into the couch. He kicks off his sandals, revealing his blackened and calloused feet.

Reese comes out of the kitchen holding two empty coffee mugs. He takes a seat on the wooden chair next to Gautschi, tips the cognac generously into the cups, and hands his friend a mug.

Gautschi cracks open his notebook full of ink scratchings and reads: I met so many girls like different types of salsa jars, with their picante inside.

If I pry the lids loose steaming to my nostrils smoking my eyeballs some give me gas some are so hot I choke.

Reese chokes on his drink laughing, his face turning red as he does his best to keep the burning alcohol from coming out of his nose.

ART // EMMA VOGAN

“‘Some give me gas?’” he squeezes out of his tumultuous airway.

“I wrote that during a very hard time in my life,” Gautschi jokes, flipping through more and more pages of raunchy poetry.

“Check this one out,” he says. He reads: lie around naked laugh with your woman make it with her in the sun watch her sitting around naked all day breathing clean air watch her watch the sea sit around all day naked it’s all right it’s your life “Where do you get this from?” Reese asks.

“My mind.

Life,” Gautschi answers matterof-factly.

“Well where are your influences?” Reese poses.

“Eliot? Dylan Thomas?

Ginsberg?”

“I don’t need to read other people’s stuff,” Gautschi says. “Poetry just comes out of me.”

I sit shivering on the bench by Renaud’s Patisserie in downtown Santa Barbara, my unfed stomach aching as the morning sun breaks through the cold air. I scan the people coming and going, looking for anyone who might give off the appearance of a 60-something bankruptcy lawyer. A tall, gray-haired man, bearing a face similar to that of Robert De Niro stands at the bakery doorway idly. I think

it might be him, but I hesitate. The man pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and brings it up to his ear. My phone rings.

I get up off the bench and approach the man, showing him my ringing phone.

“Chris Gautschi?” I chime shyly.

“Yes. Are you Josh?” he shoots back sharply.

“I am. Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand forward. He wraps his wrinkly paw around it.

We take a seat outside by the window and he buys me coffee. I pull out a voice recorder and he brings out a copy of Delectable Mountains. I ask him how he came to have his poetry published, and he tells me about his publisher friend Harry Reese. I ask him about Isla Vista, and he tells me about frat parties, cognac-induced tirades, and lady friends. I ask him about poetry, and he tells me about words coming out of him.

I finish my coffee and put my recorder back into my backpack. I grasp the 40-year-old book and hold it up.

“I appreciate you giving me this,” I say politely.

“Sure. You want me to sign it?” he drones.

I laugh. “Of course,” I say.

He takes the book, scribbles on the inside of the cover, and hands it back to me. We shake hands and part ways, him climbing back into his truck and me walking to the bus stop. As I wait for my ride back home, I take a glance into Delectable Mountains and read his autograph:

’ in k c u r t n o p e Ke

i h c s t u a G is r h –C

annabelle story?

troy? extra prose? Or poetry later?

by Alex Manrique

PREFACE

B

ill Allen was an unconventional professor at the University of California Santa Barbara who felt it necessary to discuss the importance of the Vietnam War. Allen taught Anthropology and was a well-respected professor. His classes became so popular that they had to be moved to Campbell hall to accommodate the high demand of students. Eventually, these Anthropology lectures became anti-war rallies where all students were encouraged to come on stage and voice their opinions about the war.

In 1969, when Allen’s reputation peaked, he was fired from UCSB. Allen broke all three rules of grounds for termination at UCSB. The rationale of the faculty was that he was not teaching the subject he was supposed to. His political tirades were viewed as unprofessional, with the potential to incite violence. Moreover, Allen had produced no publishable research of any kind and showed no promise of doing so.

Allen’s firing created a massive uproar amongst the student body. In January of 1970, over a thousand students gathered in front of the administration building to protest Allen’s dismissal. The dean of students, Bob Evans, called upon the police for crowd control. This resulted in backlash from the students, ending in rocks being thrown at the police.

A month later violence broke out again — this time in the heart of Isla Vista. Students drove police out through physical means. Some threw rocks and others bottles.

Violence escalated and local businesses and buildings were

targeted. One building in particular became the epicenter of destruction: the Bank of America. Reportedly, a few students lit a trashcan on fire and proceeded to throw it into the bank, consequently setting the building on fire. The following day, the National Guard was called in for crowd control.

On April 18th of the same year, the arsonists were at it again. The Bank of America was targeted and set on fire for a second time. Bystanders purportedly rushed to the fire in attempts to put it out. The police arrived promptly, and officer David Gosselin fired his rifle into the crowd. As a tragic result, Kevin Moran, a student at UCSB was killed.

Gosselin claimed it was an accident and was never charged.

From June 8th to the 9th, the Special Enforcement Branch of the LA County Sheriff ’s Department, a notoriously violent riot squad, patrolled the streets of Isla Vista in order to enforce a newly set curfew. The squad cracked heads, threw tear gas into crowds, and even pulled people out of their own apartments resulting in the imprisonment of over 300 people.

On June 10th students, faculty, and supporters held a nonviolent sit-in to challenge the new curfew. Crowds were tear gassed, beaten, and handcuffed. This time, over 667 were jailed.

As a result of these riots, Isla Vista became known as a place where police brutality was viewed as the norm, thus changing Isla Vista forever.

My name is Nathan O’Brian, and I am a staff writer for El Gaucho. I had heard the rumor of Professor Allen being fired, and knew it wouldn’t sit well with the student body. A sit-in that had taken place earlier in the day had ended in violence, and I wanted to find out why.

JANUARY 29, 1970 Allen was recently dismissed from UCSB, and over a thousand students have gathered in front of the administration building in protest. This protest ended in violence, with both students and police injured.

I am interviewing Matt Reilley, who was at this protest: Can you tell me a little about yourself and why you’re here?

"My name is Matt Reilley and I’m a junior at UCSB. I’m here in defense of Bill Allen. He was a great man who wasn’t afraid to speak the truth. He was unjustly fired and it won’t be ignored."

The university says Bill Allen broke the rules of his employment contract, and therefore had to be let go. What do you think about that?

“Allen was doing this school a favor. His class was the only place I felt I could speak up without fear of repercussions. I learned more in his class than I have in any other class here.”

Bob Evans called for reinforcements to disperse the crowds here today, resulting in multiple people injured, including the police. What happened?

“We weren’t being violent in any way. We were actually having a peaceful protest, and look where that got us. People like Bob Evans are the reason we need more professors

like Bill Allen. We gathered together to protest the firing of Professor Allen, but then the police came and violence broke out. I don’t know how it happened. They can’t get away with this — they won’t get away with this! We won’t be silenced because this is important. People need to know about what happened here today.”

FEBRUARY 20, 1970 Violence breaks out in the heart of Isla Vista. Students drive police out of Isla Vista by force, throwing bottles and rocks.

Buildings begin to be targeted. Bank of America goes up in flames. Chaos consumes the streets of Isla Vista.

I’m interviewing one of the alleged students who contributed to the fire at the Bank of America: Isla Vista is becoming increasingly unsafe everyday. Can you tell me about what happened here today?

“Isla Vista was invaded. The police are trying to silence us.

We have to make a stand.”

By burning down local buildings?

“That was collateral damage. I had nothing to do with that.”

I have heard from multiple students that they saw you push a flaming dumpster into the building. Is that true?

“Look, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. That’s not what matters. You should be asking me about the police brutality that’s happening here everyday— how it goes unpunished and we have to live with it. A student was murdered today!

What the fuck are you going to do about that? Nothing. We’re fighting for more than just Bill Allen now. This is so much bigger.

I’m interviewing officer David Gosselin, who fired into the flaming Bank of America, resulting in the death of UCSB student, Kevin Moran.. Gosselin claims it was an accident and has since been absolved of his crime: Officer Gosselin, I’d like to give you the opportunity to give your side of the story today.

"Isla Vista has turned into an unsafe environment, for law enforcement, as well as for the residents. We came here in attempts to alleviate that problem. We did our best to contain this, but some residents felt it necessary to turn to destroying properties. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I just let that happen. I did what I was trained to do."

To murder innocent kids?

"What happened to that young man is unfor—" Kevin Moran.

"Excuse me?"

That young man has a name, and it’s Kevin Moran.

"My apologies. What happened to Kevin Moran was results of the atmosphere that Isla Vista residents are creating. We can’t maintain the peace when the people are burning down buildings and attacking us."

Will you plead guilty when tried for what happened today?

"I don’t think this will go to court."

You murdered an innocent student today. I think it will.

"I did not murder anyone. What happened today was an accident. An accident resulting from the havoc that residents here are responsible for. If you ask me, Kevin Moran’s death is on their hands."

JUNE 8TH & 9TH, 1970 Special Enforcement Branch of the LA County Sheriff ’s Department, a notoriously violent riot squad patrolled Isla Vista for a newly set curfew. The Squad reportedly cracked heads, threw tear gas into crowds, and even pulled people out of their apartments — over 300 were jailed.

I’m interviewing Kate Johnson, a student who was arrested the previous night (June 8th) for “disorderly conduct”:

ART // IVY KUO

RIOTS

Can you tell me about what happened to you yesterday?

"I was unjustly arrested for speaking out against police brutality. I was accused of being drunk and belligerent. The police will continue to get away with this if we don’t stand up to them."

There were reports of people being tear-gassed last night.

Can you comment on the validity of these statements?

"The police were not only tear-gassing residents, they were dragging people out of their apartments. There were hundreds of people jailed last night. This has become a police state and I don’t feel safe."

What will you do next?

"I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but something drastic needs to be done. This can’t possibly go on forever."

JUNE 10TH, 1970 Students, faculty, and supporters held a non-violent sit-in to challenge the new curfew. This resulted in the crowds being tear gassed, beaten, and handcuffed — over 667 were jailed.

I’m interviewing a faculty member of UCSB who wishes to remain anonymous.

As a faculty member how do you feel about the firing of Bill Allen?

"I have to say, I think it is unfortunate what happened to Bill. He was a great man who had a lot to offer. However, I do not believe that this was the right place for it. I stand in solidarity with Bill and our students. This is not just a group of students rebelling against authority — this is real.

It’s faculty, families, students, and supporters all around who are standing up for what’s right. They are standing up against police brutality."

To Bill Allen, I say thank you. Thank you for setting in motion a chain of events that have shed light on a bigger problem. We stand with you and we promise not to give up the fight. ▲

Talk T

by Jacob Kirn

hey cleaned me really thoroughly; cleaned me more than I’ve been cleaned in seven months.

They threw water on the floors, got down on their hands and knees, and scrubbed. A year’s worth of dirt from the floor collected in little bunches on top of the thin sheet of water. All the caked grime on the counters is gone and on the dishes in the sink are gone, the dishes themselves are gone. The sheets and pillows on the beds are gone too. The bloody couch was taken out, and the splatters and pools were soaked into sponges.

I’ve been vacant since the couch was removed; filled, cleaned, and emptied. Except for the thumping vibrations of music in my walls on certain nights of the week, it’s so noiseless. A lot of people came by, but they’re all gone now. I guess all I can do is wait. It seems like it happened yesterday; it is so still, I can’t be sure time has passed at all.

It is a never-ending moment after. ▲▲▲ The blood is still dripping in me, crawling down the sides of the bed and pooling on the ground, slipping through the floorboards, and flowing under the house. It dries and itches and the gnat maggots grow in it and swirl around in the space beneath the floor. I can’t see them, only feel them. The time is the worst part, it drags on endlessly with nothing to mark the passing of each minute or hour except the slow procession of the sun across the sky. Nobody enters in the daytime and nobody enters in the night.

The woman was stout, blonde-ish, about middle age. She was the first person to walk on my floors in weeks. Next was a man walking in a long black coat. He was holding a little metal canteen hanging on the end of a chain. He followed her into the bedroom and they stood in silence for a second.

“Is this the place?”

“One of them.” The man then began to swing his little canteen. Little droplets of water careened into my walls and floors. He moved his right hand in lines on his chest.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven.” The man turned slowly in circles, waving his little canteen, spilling water. “Hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth,” The water sailed into the wall and specked it with drops. “As it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us.” The beads slithered down the mirror and the walls in streaks. “And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil. For thine is the Kingdom, the power, and the glory.

For ever and ever. Amen.” He stopped turning and swinging, and the canteen at the end of the chain sloshed water over its lip. Then they took out some rags and dried up the water, then walked into the living room.

“What are you going to do with the place?” The man said.

“It’s going to be rented out next year.”

“Who would live here?” The man asked; the woman shrugged.

“I don’t think I would.” The amount of houses that have seen someone die is most likely very low. I would guess that normally when a person is on the brink of death they are taken to a hospital, a place where people are meant to die. The man repeated his water sloshing process. And then they left.

The brief relief of shoes on those wood floors lasted for 7 minutes and 43 seconds.

“Does this place creep you out?”

“Not really. I guess it does if I think about it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I don’t really understand why this spot would be creepy specifically. Like, the spot where life left the body. What about graveyards, the only distinction being that the person did not die there. The body’s there.”

“Graveyards are creepy.”

“True.” And they went on ripping out boards and replacing them. It felt great. The pleasure of ripping off a scab without the pain; corrective surgery without the need for opioids.

▲▲▲

The length of time between events is much shorter than it has been the past five months. There’s always a new event, events that compound on events and qualify previous events. Event A then event A2 and A3. The boys set off the fire alarm, the boys smashed the bong on the floor, the boys got a new bong and set off the fire alarm again. With each beep of the alarm the past becomes less real, moments being added on moments slowly drawing me further away from May 23rd, 2014. It’s like shoveling dirt on a corpse; the face is covered first, then the body is slowly covered and the thing is separated from vision by clods and clay. And it slowly gets deeper and deeper but you know it’s there, and it still is there.

As one might expect, the consciousness of a house is not subject to the sensations of other beings; sleep, pain, and pleasure are all non-recognizable in the mind of an apartment.

Sleep being more akin to “zoning out,” pleasure being purely non-physical, and pain being closer to sadness.

Tape everywhere, measurements, and boots leaving little trails of dust particles along the floor.

“This, right here.”

“Yeah, that looks good.”

“Did you see that girl outside?”

“The things I’d do to her.” The chatting went on like this, short, unfiltered stream of consciousness sort of banter from the men in blue jeans. They took out the old semi-opaque dividers in my living room, replaced the wood floor with new gray fake-wood, and redid the counter tops. I’m not a big fan of the “wood” floors. They look like something that is put down when blood is expected to be spilled.

▲▲▲ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8 (They took the number off of my door for some reason). It’s been repainted neon blue. I’m not living alone any more. There’s three boys living here now; I hear they aren’t paying rent.

You don’t wish it didn’t happen, exactly. You want to believe on some level that it made you who you are, taught you something, or that it was some necessary thing that exists on a predetermined timeline of events. That last one makes it easier. ▲

ART // MADELINE LOCKHART

This non-violent sit-in ended badly. If both violence, and nonviolence won’t work, what’s next?

"I implore the students to continue to fighting.

Unfortunately, this is not a battle that can be truly won in our time. Instead, it will be a continuous battle, for generations to come. Police brutality is a phenomenon that we will have to get used to. Not to tolerate, but to accept that it is not going anywhere anytime soon."

If Walls Could

Manor

The of things

by Kimmy Tejasindhu

21

79

The control board flashes a bright, panicked red. The little pixelated radar screens all project the same red, bolded word: “Danger.”

I remember the last dream I had.

I remember it because Harlow was still here to hear me tell about it. We would lie there before getting out of bed and tell each other all about the night’s adventures. We’d laugh in frustration as the dreams slowly faded like phantoms shrinking back into the recesses of our minds as if to escape the burn of daylight.

Harlow would dream of thatch-roof cottages in the woods, running through fields of bright tulips at the start of Spring, and tapping maple trees with her father in Vermont as a child.

Mine were mostly nightmares. That was routine.

Ice-cold water pools at my feet, lapping at my ankles with each violent quake of the submarine.

Pressing random buttons isn’t working.

Walls lined with nondescript levers, joysticks, knobs, pulleys, dials, bulbs and screws—nothing brings peace.

After many failed frantic attempts to quell the sound, there is nothing left to do but curl into fetal position, cover my ears, and figure out how I could possibly grow gills in five seconds. It’s over. I hope you like seawater…everywhere inside of you.

My body jolts and perforated lids tear apart to expose raw bloodshot eyes to the cold morning air.

7:15 am The once darkened windows of 2am are now faintly glowing blue as the sun inches its way, ray by ray, up to its rightful daytime position.

I used to see the beach from my window, feel the whispers of the breeze through the little holes in the screen.

The morning cry of seagulls was my alarm clock and the thunderous crashing of waves on top of waves was my midnight lullaby. Here, the only window in my room just faces the side of Friendship Manor. The hulking white brick building blocks out the sun. All the windows’ blinds are tightly shut, except for the one directly across from mine.

A wheelchair parked right against the glass, a yellowing painting of color-drained tulips hanging from the wall. I wonder if anyone ever sits in that wheelchair to look out into all of our windows, judging our art décor, our choices.

8am classes. The entire classroom is a silent, somber

That was 53 years. Everything after Harlow has been darkness. Eyes closed, eyes open. There is no difference anymore without her.

I don’t dream anymore.

7:15 am Morning.

The phone rings.

The daily breakfast call.

Let it ring.

Stale toast. Pale scrambled eggs. Mushy gray oatmeal.

Bitter coffee. Fruit cocktail from a can.

Same as every other day.

Let it ring.

First day here at the Manor, I ate ravenously like a starved man sitting in front of his first full plate in weeks. But now everything tastes like cotton balls and I hate being in the dining room surrounded by hanging heads, clouded minds, and glazed eyes.

Sometimes there will be a youngster seated at a table, someone’s little grandkid visiting with their parents, standing out like a thicket of green grass amongst wildfire-scorched earth.

battleground in the aftermath of war. Students slouched in their seats, necks struggling to carry heavy heads, and bodies slumped over desks in defeat. We mindlessly copy them down with autonomic fingers, eyes darting from word document to the time.

Word to time, word to time.

Am I even fucking learning anything?

I just wedge everything in between the wrinkles of my brain and then vomit it all out onto the Blue Book, translate it all into Scantron bubbles. I take nothing with me. Ask me what I remember from my Astronomy class three years ago, freshman year. I couldn’t tell you.

I’m selling my soul to the devil, dooming myself to an eternity of buying back my freedom from debt. All for what? For pseudo-knowledge and the hopes that maybe these theories and these formulas will someday come in handy? For a framed piece of paper with my name on it that says, “Trust me. I went to school. I’m worth it.” // Fuck the no-carb diets. Fuck the rules. Fuck those cold-pressed juices. Fuck the detox teas. After this week, I deserve a bagel.

Bagel Café—1/3 bagel, 2/3 cream cheese.

There you go. Down the hatch. Right in the feeding hole.

Wash it all down with some more too-hot coffee. The burn aids in the waking.

A thin veil of mist drapes itself over all of IV. The morning world is gray, save for the occasional strands of sunlight piercing through. Students float by on their bicycles, heads bobbing in the ocean fog, jackets catching wind, faces stern and stiff against the cold air.

There are so many people here that I’ll never meet. There are faces I will never caress. Mouths I will never introduce to my own, stories I will never learn, and laughs I will never hear. We will have spent four years of our lives stepping over each other’s footprints, breathing in the same air, and tapping on the same tables—dodging countless beautiful collisions of life by just milliseconds. // “Where are you going after this?”

“Grad school?”

“Gap year?”

“Straight to work?”

“Back to your parents’ place?”

“Back to your old room where your high school graduation flowers are still dying by the windowsill?”

With graduation coming up in a few months,

ART // JULIA MARSH

“Are you happy here, Grandma?”

“Do you have a lot of friends here, Gramps?”

“I wish you could come home. I miss you, Grammy.”

I wish we told them the truth.

Everything is small here. My walker barely even clears the doorframe.

The showers are narrow. Even narrower now with those ridiculous handrails they had to install for me. These days, showering is as hard as white-water rafting in Colorado.

I’m fighting just to stand steady against the showerhead’s mediocre water pressure.

Everything is a reminder that I don’t fit into the world anymore.

We all don’t.

Jacobi, in his room staring up at the ceiling, tries to count every single little peak of stucco. He sees mountain ranges, riptides, and maps of all the places he’s been. He’s missed his meal calls three days in a row now. When they kick down his door, they’ll find old Jacobi just lying there like always.

Counting.

Anna, beautiful Anna, gets all done up to sit in the corner of the dining room and recite Dickinson all morning to anyone who will listen. Only half are actually Dickinson’s written words, the rest are Anna’s unknowing improvisations.

I mostly listen for the Anna bits.

my final eviction notice from this leisurely life of beachside strolls in between classes, IPAs on the balcony at sunset, celebratory shots, condolence shots, just-because shots, and overpriced burritos is being nailed to the door. Every tick of the clock is a slam of the hammer.

The sand washes away my footprints the minute after I imprint them. Once I close the door and turn in the keys, my apartment will be scrubbed clean of anything that came from me. The bike paths won’t remember my tire tracks.

The classrooms won’t harness the sound waves from the times that I spoke.

Can you tell I have a deathly fear of being forgotten? I have to do something that matters. I have to become someone. They have to remember my name. My name has to mean something.

We are all outcasts, shelved and stored away because we can longer keep up with the fast pace of the world as it dizzies itself off its axis. Everything moves damn quick and nobody’s going to wait for us to try and make any sense of the blur.

They put us all in this box because we are done dreaming.

Our next evolution is our final one and it’s permanent. // There are cigarettes hidden deep in the drawer of my bedside table, pressed up all the way against the back wall, waiting for my hands to venture for them. I always had to hide them from Harlow because she hated the habit and called them “suicide sticks.” She was always scared that I was going to die and leave her all alone. I had to keep reminding her that I’m immortal.

They are my ticket out the door.

I get to stand still at the corner of the intersection and watch cars and bikes flash past the windows like streaks of color, all in such a hurry.

When did all the names change? When did all the buildings, with their chameleon skin and every-changing titles, grow taller and wider? The streets don’t house the same structures as I remember from before. Didn’t there used to be a church on that corner? I could’ve sworn there used to be a church.

I get lost.

I grew up here. Isla Vista is my home. It never used to be like this. It never used to be so crowded. People never used to walk this fast, no one was in this much of a hurry. You knew everyone—I mean, actually knew everyone—and everyone knew you. No one was scared. // Will you sit down?

Will you listen to my story?

I have learned so much.

Let me show you how I lived my life.

Let me tell you how to get through it.

I have pictures, would you like to see?

I have trophies that you can touch.

I have medals that you can hold.

Will you listen?

I used to run. Now, I read all day. Sometimes I will finish one book, sometimes I finish three of them.

I used to run marathons all over the country. Oregon.

Minnesota. Cincinnati. San Francisco. Boston. My feet pounded my presence into the pavement with each bounding step. The earth knew me. I knew the earth.

That plaque on the wall reminds me that I’m an AllAmerican athlete. It reminds me of the taste of sweat and blood in my mouth, the pounding in my chest, and the numbness in my feet as I tore through the tape alongside the top runners.

ART // LESLIE ZHANG

When I feel like I’m on the verge of disappearing, when there are patches in my skin and I can hear wind whistling through my ears as if someone left the backdoor open. I have to quickly write on my arms to make sure they’re still there and still solid. Four quick letters scrawled on skin.

U R OK U R OK U R OK U R OK U R OK Over and over again, to cover up the holes where I can start to see through myself. // Six shots deep and I’ve already forgotten why we’re even doing this. Oh yeah. We cover all the parts of us that we’re scared of with sticky alcohol and clouds of smoke, just like how we cloak all the gore and blood with a thin layer of skin.

It’s easier that way. But sometimes, some nights, the thin layer tears and parts of us ooze out. Sometimes someone sees it all happen.

At the end of it all, when there is no more music and no more laughter, I lie in bed trying to collect all the parts of me that are floating out and up towards the ceiling. If I turn off the lights, the darkness eats me alive and I am thrown into a state of endless falling, so I leave them on and I try to focus my fluttering eyes on the warm yellow light. // The window across from mine has its blinds closed today.

They’re never closed.

Maybe the old guy finally got in that fucking wheelchair.

Maybe he finally got tired of the light.

Phillip Beatty, fourth place.

Phillip Beatty, All-American.

Soon it will just be my name and my numbers carved into stone. Phillip Beatty, in existence from this year to this year.

My whole life in that “to”, in that little dash. I hope you will notice it when you pass by my little hole in the ground—don’t leave no damn depressing flowers there for me—but when you come for answers, when you come to reflect, when you come to hear my voice in the whistle of the wind or the rustle of the grass, I hope you see that dash flash with all its encoded color and ferocity. Just that little dash. I hope you will see me in that dash. // I used to run and now I can’t.

I used to run but now my legs won’t let me. They scream and ache, begging me to sit, begging to be put to rest.

When dragged in that damned wheelchair I wanted to die.

The only time I’ll be wheeled out anywhere is when I’m cold and dead and gone. Sitting in that wheelchair is me burning everything down to the ground and accepting defeat. I keep it turned away toward the window. Just looking at it makes me sick.

Every time I glance over at Harlow’s faded painting of her favorite Dutch tulips, I can hear her laughing at my stubbornness. I can hear her scolding me for being inconsiderate of these people who carried the chair all the way up the stairs and how they were just trying to help. See, Harlow was always the better person. // At night, the lamp from one of those college kids’ rooms shoots up to the sky like they’re trying to signal a goddamn rescue plane or something. The light spears through my windowpane and illuminates the room. The wheelchair glows gold and Harlow’s tulips dance on the wall. I can’t sleep because it feels like she’s here every night, laughing in the light.

College,

Friendship Manor,

Like a limbo Like a here before there

Like a limbo Like a here before there

Every passing face could be my “him.”

I see her in every passing face.

When they ask what I’m doing next, “Waiting for tomorrow.”

When they ask what I’m doing next, “Waiting for tomorrow.”

When they ask about the future, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

When they ask about the future, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

When I look in the mirror I don’t see me anymore. ▲

When I look in the mirror I don’t see me anymore. ▲

Ode to the Crystal Ship Isla Vista in the Spirit of Jim Morrison

by Alexandra Dwight

Have you heard the story? Sometime during the 1960s, the Lizard King and mystic priest of rock n' roll, Jim Morrison, graced our very own little shantytown of Isla Vista. With a tab of acid placed delicately on his tongue, he wandered the hazy stretch of Sands beach towards the wavering beacon of Platform Holly— that mythic palace, which formed the basis for The Doors' 1967 tune, “The Crystal Ship”. Perhaps the tale is pure fantasy, shrouded in the fog and confusion of our 21st century imaginations, but I like to believe that it is true when I am daydreaming out on the bluffs under a pale halo of moonlight. Yes, I like to believe that everything here in Isla Vista is still done in the spirit of Jim Morrison, in all of his raucous, glorious madness.

It is as if Isla Vista is somehow frozen in time, a perfectly preserved window into the wild world of rock n' roll— with groupies traipsing down Del Playa, and spider-legged men perched up on their balconies, queerly eyeing the action of the streets. Even decades later, it seems that there festers some kind of manic, mangy energy here. It is an endless flow that manifests itself in uncontrollable house parties, garage bands, and an abundance of art and poetry. This is the energy of the collective youth, and it refuses to die out.

But, perhaps I am some 44 years too late. Perhaps Jim Morrison really did become one with the Earth in 1971 at Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. Perhaps his particles have diffused into nothingness. Or, perhaps he is covered in blue roses, drifting high above us all. Who can say? All speculations cast aside, I am committed to keeping his spirit alive in this day and age. Thus, today I will honor Mr. Mojo with two of my very own odes to the crystal ship. Here are my anthems of loneliness and debauchery strewn across the page for your delight! These poems were written in Isla Vista in the year 2015, but still very much inspired by Jim’s enigmatic spirit.

Look around you,— Jim Morrison is alive, here in Isla Vista!

In search of elixir, we bow into the archway Of the green-dollhouse-kitchen Where it’s a coke party, And dry plants are shriveling on the sill.

Melancholy birthday girl in pink angora slumps against the humming refrigerator.

Meanwhile, the devil himself has his turn at a line, Scraping fiendishly with a credit card, Ramping up to satanic jitters.

He scowls to “Shut the fuck up,” At mournful party queen— Slow-rolling tears dripping off the crook of her nose and chin.

Things are becoming strange.

Naturally, I find an excuse to dissolve into the paisley living room Where I find my nearly forgotten phone Nestled in the foliage of a plastic palm, And maybe a friendly face Reflecting on that glittering palace, Platform Holly— The Crystal Ship, Lit up like a man-made omen, or some eternal Christmas Tree

I. Mint House: Moonlit moonshine haze Flickering ruby ends of lit cigarettes Shimmering and wavering against the black of 2 AM. On the rickety balcony.

In a veil of smoke.

No one seems to recognize that the wood is decaying.

I fade through the sliding glass door, Opening on a drunken labyrinth of rooms and hallways Where a girl in silver riffs on the topic of witchcraft.

In the first room, it’s a New York City club scene, With white vinyl spinning on the turn table— Bodies rocking and jiving To endless loops.

Art stretches up the wide walls, All the way to the ceiling.

“It’s a cheerleader effect,”— They look beautiful all together, In spurts of glorious color; But, when the eye settles on any one piece, The illusion is disturbed.

Still, an orange and turquoise pastel of a naked woman stands out From among the canvas graveyard.

I am observing from below now, Swallowed by the depths of the great tweed couch, My dilated pupils cast upwards At the immense bodies and taffy limbs Of the giants standing around me Who take no notice of my form.

And, so, like a fly on the wall, I watch.

Rubbing my fingers together, Back and forth over a crumbling roach.

Eventually, I notice another fly observing near me on the couch And we exchange half-smiles And wonder if we truly exist in this moment, Or if we might float up through the ceiling boards like puffs of pot smoke If we shut our eyes for too long.

I join the masses again.

An ROTC man disappears into the tiled confines of the bathroom.

Two bodies meld together in the soft light of the bottleneck hall lamp.

The fly buzzes in my space again to offer me a drink, And we traverse the great expanse of carpet.

ART // LESLIE ZHANG

II. Lizard King Incarnate ((For Spencer) No fear seeps like moonlit rays From he who walks as the Lizard King In big swaggering steps through Bed-Stuy at blue midnight— He who dreams without sleep No fear, For he understands the vision Unfurling like brilliant petals Of the sunflower from his forehead Not yet revealed to him, But felt The pain of Ginsberg’s sutra, A glass door discarded by the wayside That reins high king over its litter heap, The flitting soul of the coke queen on her eternal subway line It’s all part of the art—

The collection of precious gems Glittering like drops of blood To be transfused to the medium In charcoal and acrylic No fear, It’s the poetry of life Emerging proudly out of thick dust And black oil leaking from The tangled roots of machinery— Like the sunflower, splitting up through dry earth Tall as a man, Swathed in a veil of filth, But smiling in all its glory towards the red-eyed sun

by Adam De Gree Gone is the bright desert fairy Claimed by the earth she so loved Off to play in sacred mountains Borne on the wings of a dove At such heights My mind fails me This wall my thoughts cannot cross What eye could pierce void’s shroud While standing on solid ground?

If only I could peak over the edge Is that what she thought, Before the moon took her?

Forever a daughter of the sun I knew that you were wiser than I; What unfathomable secrets Transformed light to rainbows What hidden knowledge Untouched by words Lay undisturbed behind your smile?

The first days I couldn’t see Memories springing unbidden Before my eyes Coloring light’s day With stale grey Now I clutch blindly As the Past erodes, Sandy cliffs falling to the sea I want to fly like an eagle But dark clouds press down

ART // ROSE SPANBOCK

Gone is the bright desert fairy

How will I escape the chains of days gone by Insidiously creeping, sucking me dry How I wish I might end time’s tidal passage Freeze waves in eternal slumber: A glittering mass of crystallized moments Then I might march on sparkling rivers Shattering forms Re-form-ing til the world Is as of old And your smile, once again, Puts suns to shame Now the flame is extinguished; I brace myself as the wave hits, My cup runneth over.

Suddenly I am full, empty, Full, empty, Empty to once more be young Once more to see the sun Til filled with golden rays I once more raise my voice to sing: Gone is the bright desert fairy Claimed by the earth she so loved Off to play in sacred mountains Borne on the wings of a dove No vessel could bear the strength of her spirit No cloud could ever stand in her way Her youth now free to roam forever In the joy of eternal day “Home is behind, the world ahead And there are many paths to tread From shadow, to the edge of night Until the stars are all alight Mist and shadow Cloud and Shade Away shall fade All shall fade” Written for Sierra Markee-Winkler

Lost Kids May 4th, 2014 On May 4th, 2014, I drove from downtown Los Angeles back to my apartment on the 67 block of Sabado Tarde in Isla Vista, CA. I pulled up to the little one-story duplex and carried my bags to the door of Apt. B, while admiring the endless glitter breadcrumbs that covered our driveway and welcome mats. When I wrestled out my key and opened the door, my housemates, Sarah and Viktoriya, were sitting quietly on the sunken-in couch of our colorful Grateful Dead plastered living room. I said a quick “Hello” and walked swiftly through our hallway to my room and threw my backpack up onto my bed.

An irking sensation quivered down my neck as I walked back into the room. I saw their eyes, puffy and red, glossy with tears that still fell and rolled down their cheeks.

I sat down on the couch and Sarah told me, “Sierra died.”

She had fallen off the cliff the night before, her body found the next morning on the beach.

by Emily Rogers Earlier that morning I had caught the end of the Disney movie Peter Pan at my friend Justin’s apartment. We flipped on the TV just before the magical pixie Tinkerbell flew and saved Peter from a time-bomb that Captain Hook and his swaggering pirates had left to kill him with. Tink had barely escaped with her life, but Peter picked up the flickering, glittery fairy from under the rubble and the two flew to save the Darling children and the Lost Boys just before they were forced to walk the plank of Hook’s flying ship. I hadn’t seen the film in years; it brought back a tearful nostalgia that I carried with me for weeks.

In fairy tales, kids can learn to fly with a pinch of pixie dust. Heroes always fly to rescue their damsels in distress just before it’s too late. In my eyes, Isla Vista is as close to Neverland as it gets-- ruled by kids like the Lost Boys.

Those who live here are able to hold on to that child-like spirit of bliss and wonder, living a life out of some misty summer dream.

Sierra Winkler was one of those magic kids; she was like one big sparkle that you couldn’t help but stare at if you saw her walking down Pardall-- her dark brown curls, her bright, beaming smile. She was the most generous and kind person I have ever met; I remember her once giving the sandals off her feet to a girl walking without shoes in the street of Isla Vista. Sierra was the valedictorian of her high school class and wanted to go to law school one day, but she managed to find a healthy balance between school and her social life. She would always bring a magic vial of glitter along with her to house parties in IV-- you’d know if Sierra was there if everyone at the party was covered head to toe in her infamous glitter-bombs.

Weeks after she passed, little Sierra sparkles still showed up every so often; on my hand, in my notebook, on my friends’ cheeks when they’d laugh, when they’d cry. ▲▲▲ Twenty-six people have had the unfortunate fate of falling from the Isla Vista cliffs since 1997, and these are only the falls that have been recorded. Out of the twenty-six, ten of the falls have been fatal. In 2014 alone, four people fell from the cliffs, two of which occurred only 24 hours apart; after a college-aged kid tumbled from a balcony on Del Playa, a second victim was discovered on the beach that following morning, having sustained serious head injuries. The first, Tanner Gage, fell 40 feet and suffered multiple injuries including a lacerated liver, a broken back, and a severed spinal cord; he is now paralyzed from the waist down.

Chancellor Yang has held his position at UCSB for over twenty years, through every fall and death. He has said that building a fence along the coast is his “number one priority”.

Bright-orange plastic fencing was installed in early June after another kid fell, just weeks after Sierra. In February, UCSB announced that it had allotted $70,000 to the Santa Barbara County to build a permanent fence. Hopefully this will be the end to the terrible list of names that only seems to grow each year.

Sometimes I dream about a fence that stretches all the way from the entrance at Henley Gate to the end of Coal Oil Point, a magical fence with glittery, bright paint that spreads rainbows across the coast, instead of drop-off sandbar cliffs.

The reality is that it takes more than just a few people who knew Sierra and the rest of the Lost Kids to build a fence and change the way people act and think about the cliffs. There are feasible ways that we can change the collective consciousness of students and those living in Isla Vista from suffering another fall. We need panels of students, faculty, and parents speaking at orientation, sharing the stories of their loved ones, and warning them about the dangers of the cliffs. We need education in the dorms, signs on Del Playa, lights and sensored alarms in the parks.

There doesn’t need to be another Lost Boy or Girl like Sierra, or Giselle Ayala who fell two years ago on Deltopia, or David Propp who fell just a week before graduation. This is a problem that can be changed. If we can learn from the tragic events that have shaken our community of Isla Vista, we can make our home safe again, if only we believe. ▲

ART // GABBY AGUILAR

Ranchos morphing into mansions, ice clinking in brown stale rooms where bearded men sipped brandy and conjured empires from signatures:

incandescent Caves

by Adrian Gronseth They never stood a chance once Cabrillo spied The Golden Shore— extermination written in viruses and whiskey long before the first bullets ripped flesh from Chumash chiefs Behind the sickly Spaniard stood Progress proudly on the stern, blind eyes prying open the new horizon: seeing farms not forests, jewels not mysteries, savages and slaves not fellow human beings

Foreshadowing the fate that would consume this last frontier of foreign ways: tomolos torn by time and steel, huts blown into empty shells, languages swallowed by screams and smoke, vanished in the gunbarrel void El Camino Real paving the way, the one and holy path of suffering and shame, stealing blue skies with belfries of overcompensation, planting market mindsets while correcting heathen hearts

Followed swift by plows and fence, hooves and grids of common sense— what good is land that just lays fallow? what’s a cow but hide and tallow? (of course a falling tree makes sound when it is axed into the ground)

Nicolas Den and Daniel Hill, Hollister, Bishop, Storke and Stow, staining names onto wet streets, surveying dominions from hawk-level homes, forcing geometric patterns onto the wild curves of nature

And when the gold was finally found, our destiny made manifest, millions of minds and mouths poured in to land that only can condense, eroding as it still endures the weight of Western arrogance, defenseless to the violent thrust of Uncle Sam’s sterile lust

Oh! the wonders that men can erect with just a little encouragement from the cracking whip or clanking cent, and the indispensable distractions of nocturnal bars and Sunday Bibles preaching an eternal return of regret

Herding more and more hearts into smaller and smaller spaces, with a couple more clinks and dashes of ink, Gloating and hoarding their growing treasures without ever stopping to shut up and think: what will happen when this rock revolts and finally pushes us to the brink?

Sprouting cities and other societal signs that signify how far we’ve come: prisons factories fast-food lines that wind through concrete plate-glass slums

No time to think of such abstractions as wealth divides or greenhouse gasses when suddenly up the future spouts in fountains from subterranean bowels— Eureka again! The gold turned black!

(But shouldn’t we learn about Earth before Mars? and treat each other with love and respect before launching off and exploring the stars?)

These questions were quickly and loudly devoured by military motors whirring and revving: Mescalitan levelled to process our shit propel our bombs, displacing the dirt

Just in time for an asphalt revolution of horns and hotels, highways and highspeed wrecks, the engine of acceleration pulsing with an endless supply of power but no sense of direction

Now even the ground is not enough, we reasoned to ourselves, Metal wings must soar with birds and rockets slash the stratosphere!

incandescent Caves (continued) that embraced the bones of a people and culture, an entire philosophy that once sent songs and woodsmoke to the sky…

When torchlight licked jagged walls in slits of Santa Ynez earth; when forested foothills filtered silver rays from a million moons ago; when rocks held life, waves whispered wisdom, and seasons bled into years, numberless, the Painted Caves hid in hollows, hushed in sacred ceremony Come young one and you will see the fires of creation— a spiritual initiation into the mysteries of sculpted form and the flash of dancing color Study the sage who now transforms the world through his blazing eye, shooting sparks of green and red that from a wrinkled finger fly, humming softly to himself as gradually an image merges into memory, brain and body, time and space, collapsing into harmony

Searching an Island View -----------------------Jeremy Douglass -2015-05-01

Now a changing of the guard— the task and time are yours Proceed with caution: make a mark don’t leave a stain, these silent symbols still will speak long after tides and winds have washed our words into oblivion

I find you in a funhouse mirror of answers auto-completed.

Isla Vista, island view, opinión de la isla: What does your search translate to?

Like the stories of our lives we pass these on to future kin, every piece a living flame winking in the tunnel of time, eading onward to our own primordial epiphany

Search me!

Take it from the top!

I type, and you complete me: Isla Vista *

Stone Age Existentialism: each slab of rock a new clean slate, Nature’s vast blank canvas You are what you do, nothing more, nothing less, So gather your paint, focus your force, take a deep breath, and Begin…

Two handfuls hold a hundred thousand thoughts of you. By the numbers:

Crystal Caverns

by Elijah Simmons

A paper-thin smile illuminated the skies, the night I found the courage to look into your eyes.

Smoky jasper jewels lured me in once again, There I stood at the mouth of a Crystal Cavern.

1 bedroom, 2 bedroom, sam's 2 go, 3g beach cruiser, 4th of july, riot april 5 2014 6 pak liquor, motel 6, 7-eleven, super 8, stabbing march 8, 9 month lease, 93117 10 day forecast.

Add alphabetics, bare complexity, display even further Google hits: Isla Vista *

The moonlight shone upon my steps, as I delved into the cavern’s depths.

I wound the fibers of my heart into Ariadne’s thread, drew in a deep breath, then followed where the trail led.

The darkness chilled me to the bone, But deep in your eyes I found my home.

Black dahlias once withered are blooming yet again, fragrant drafts grow ever warmer, the further I descend.

Silhouettes dance gracefully through the confines of my mind, but I dare not reach too soon, in fear of being left behind.

weather, rentals, apartments, housing, shooting, clinic, coop, restaurants, zip code, foot patrol...

ART // ELISSA MCCONNELL

A for apartments, adopt-a-block, arrests, arts, and alchohol.

B for bus, beaches, bike shop, breakfast, bars, buzzfeed, bookstore, b botique, bank of america burning.

C for craigslist, campus cuts, crime, children's center, catholic church.

D for deli, dominos, delivery, duplex, deltopia, dome house, donuts, dispensary.

E for electricity, erosion, earthquake, evictions, elementary, employment, earth day.

F for food, forecast, first friday, freebirds, flag, flowers, for-rent.

G for goleta, grocery, giovanni's, gym, gunman.

H for housing, haircut, history.

I for icon, ice cream, investigation, internet, iphone, instagram.

J for juggling, jail, jimmy johns, jesus burgers, jobs.

K for killings, kidnapping, kegs, korean-bbq, kiteboarding.

L for living, laundromat, listings, liquor stores, low tide, leases, legal resources center.

M for market, management, map, massacre, master plan, menus, medical, movie theater, minyan, massage.

N for news, noise, nail salon, nightlife, naan.

O for open mic, open late, order online, open container, overdose, outbreak.

P for population, property management, police, printing, pizza, party, parks.

Q for quake, quotes, quarters, quiet.

R for rental, recreation, real estate, riot.

S for school, starbucks, studios, shooting, sunset, surf, skate shop.

T for tide, theater, temperature, tenants union, t-shirts, tattoo, tv, threats, tragedy.

U for ucsb, university, urgent care, utopia, u-haul.

V for volunteer, vacation, vapor, virus, video, vegan, victims, violence.

W for weather, worshop, wiki, wind, water, warning, wok on the wild side, woodstock's.

Y for youth, yoga, ymca, yard sale, yelp, yahoo, youtube, yik yak.

Z for zip code, zoning.

Isla Vista, island view.

You find me in a funhouse mirror of answers auto-completed.

ART // LESLIE ZHANG

Immortal

by Helen Irias Cast Away

by Madeline Lockhart

They claim each cigarette steals eleven Minutes from our precious lives Is it terrible that this fact leavens The weight of dread in my mind?

A flick of a lighter only lures fate To increased proximity Enough elevens will someday equate To a welcome remedy With a goal in mind, why procrastinate?

It is not my feet I’ll drag Catalyzed by an approaching due date Upon which my skin will sag Every ashy inhalation renews The concision of my dream Let me momentarily release you From this cruelly dull rhyme scheme: --Roland Barthes, have you heard of him?

As he wrote, like I write His words became theirs, became mine Like mine are now yours, because Thoughts do not decay like flesh Upon collision with a page His words are my thoughts, although Years ago in Paris his many eleven minutes Summoned the laundry van that hit him in the street-What horrendous form! you think in disgust Not to mention, in poor taste-To disapprove beats dissolving to dust So your time I did not waste

Quietness cannot exist anymore The streetlamps soaked it up and spit it up in long droning aches In the buzzing of the electric flies or in the slow drip of water from the kitchen faucet

Some would call this an untimely demise What a loss, what could be worse?

But the evidence to the contrary Lies within this very verse Perhaps this conclusion was not his plan But he himself did explain It is not the years, it is not the man But the words that should remain The butterfly lives two efficient weeks Two thousand, one hundred and Sixty minutes of artistic critique A symmetric reprimand Fluttering beauty, purity flitting Observation can ensure The tragic futility of living, Breathing simply to endure Despite plausible interpretation I do indeed have foresight Eleven minutes: incineration Of this weapon I ignite This will rescue me from those embers of That last smoke before I’m dead Enriching my time to be remembered In dwindling years ahead

I knew all along that I wouldn’t survive our separation cast into a well like the unnamed aunt The quietness exists now Only because I cannot hear it as I am tap tap tapped into the sink

ART // LESLIE ZHANG

In the Land of Big Kids

On

Wandering

BY HELEN IRIAS

ART // VIJAY MASHARANI

My feet have no direction Yet my mind has carved a road I lose this way to sumble On a destinee nouveau The familiar erodes Cracks form beneath my stale gaze I’ll take the right wrong turn To tread the right wrong way Does foreignness endure til Complete naivety comes Or can I be in limbo Stuck between the to and from If there’s a red line painted At the center of a maze I’ll take the right wrong turn And head that right wrong way

Maps: predetermined lines that Dictate which way to follow We live in two dimensions, Obey the flat and hollow But constant reconstruction Of that route which fluctuates Leads to a right wrong turn Pointed the right wrong way Mindcrafted mosaics Are not mounted, framed in steel Paths unsolved evolve, revolve On a wooden water wheel Curiosity sometimes May suggest a judgment crazed But with some right wrong turns I’ve found the right wrong way

None of the other kids ever come out of their houses to play I sweep the broad leaves off the roundabout The spinning playground toy is rusty with peeling paint Its yawning fills the air of this unfortunate park

lined with a thick layer of blackened gum, end quickly in a matter of three bounces of a ball

by Josh Ortiz

Mothers attempt bedtime stories over the distant thumps of DP dalliance

Loud cars screech around street corners dodging bikes There’s no room to play

Deflated balls Sun-bleached slides Dusty rollerblades

The sidewalks, gnarled by stretching tree roots,

My big wheel gets caught in the potholes

by Stephanie Sved

Wednesday Morning I’m sifting in and out of Waiting for Godot analysis while trying to keep my eyelids from dropping my head from spinning wobbling in circles and last night was great but today struggling to hold onto the professor’s wavering Irish accent while avoiding the gaze of a malicious sun makes three beers and four shots of whiskey sound like a retrospectively bad idea my head has fault lines between its thoughts where dead brain cells ooze molten through a regretful skull as I am unable to sleep off the night before just because Yeats could never get over a girl and Godot never showed for his appointment and Leopold Bloom’s wife slept with someone else and Mrs. Dalloway needed flowers for a party

Baggage

ART // LUIS BONDOC

by Canelle Irmas

PHOTO // BECCA HARVEY

I was happy for you to come stay a time with me.

I didn’t even mind that you plopped your oversized suitcases down in the middle of the living room.

I didn’t even mind that you wanted to unpack immediately, creating a labyrinth of exaltations and afflictions.

When I visit you, I tuck my belongings tidily away, for that is where they are meant to be.

I store them behind closed doors where they won’t be trampled on or misunderstood.

After all, what good would it do you to see the mess I’ve made?

I can never be the girl you’ve concocted in that twisted head of yours She’s much too perfect a girl I won’t pretend to be

I Am.

Post Grad-itude by Kyra Klopp The ever present ticking constantly pulls my attention to the watch that adores your wrist.

The quiet tick-tock is all I manage to hear.

It drowns out the words you keep repeating, Your constant reminders of my inability to be who

you want me to be

I am never pretty enough

skinny enough intelligent enough

witty enough honest enough

happy enough perfect enough

enough

For I am only me I am a mess of devotions a combination of questions without answers I am the yellow light at a intersection, the indecision to speed up or slow down I am beach town weather Am I going to need a sweater?

I am the two way mirror at a police station Can you see yourself in me as I observe you from my glass case of emotion?

I am a product of the online generation Is my facebook profile the real me or

what I try to convey?

An outside put together, but underneath are thoughts I can’t bring myself to say.

I am a pawn in the educational system.

My school ID number is the only thing they envision.

They call me 5-1-8-6-6-3-3 I am a juxtaposition.

A parallel A part-time passive aggresive girl from hell.

I am non-sensical sentimental A non-committal committed I am a pull-yourself-together type of kid With a weeping soul A body that is young, but a heart that is old And I am a whisk Trying to whip together the batter of who I am It’s clumpy and not quite the right consistency For it’ll never amount to the cookie cutter girl that you want me to be And I hope one day you’ll come to understand That no matter how much you push pull and prod I’ll never be the housewife on the street and in bed

the broad And as your wrought-iron words fill the space between

the tick-tocks I’ll ignore redundant comments and count the seconds of the clock ART // LUIS BONDOC

You’re egging me on

by Becca Harvey

Huevos Ranches. Scrambled on Toast.

Bioled and Deviled. Fried or Poached.

You approached me from afar, but it was hard to break out of my shell.

So now I smell like salmonella, helplessly spoiling.

You forgot about me and I’m feeling disheartened.

I started to crack when you left me in the carton.

I am begging you, please Smother me in butter!

Cover me in cheese!

Cook me in a pan or throw me in the oven.

Sunny-side Up. I’m a dime in a dozen, But I’m runny out of time and I think I’m having an eggistential crisis.

I’m overeasy, hold the spices.

Egghausted. A quiche in the coop.

I’m an omelette on Easter and I’m benaddicted to you.

PHOTO // BECCA HARVEY

It Matters

A Slender Evening Creature

By Kay Young

by Molly Hamill

He reminded you of those nights when the sky is the perfect shade of blue to illuminate the thin crisp of the moon-casting only a scimitar of actual light.

A Neil Cassady of sorts, a runner liable to drop out of one story and show up comfortable and collect in another.

Faulkner worried the birds would undress us to the bones and he looks that way already but his kisses-- the soft precision of electric blue dragon flies hovering an inch above water.

A slender evening creature with surprising tenderness cheeky and ephemeral like cigar smoke you notice when he's gone.

PHOTO // CASEY MIX

Confident laughter a low growl crackling like a dark breeze through the Manzanita.

No one of us is just one thing.

We are each of us This and that, that and this ~~~ Who are you when you leave me?

Where do you go?

To the ocean—to look across the sea to beyond and yond and ond and nd and d?— Or do you go inside the Pacific, inside its hidden expanse, this watery world beyond and yond and ond and nd and d you and me?

Or to Isla Vista, Island View, to view the island?

What is the view from Isla Vista?

What do you see there?

Who are you there?

Are you ever alone there? Is it ever quiet?

What do you think and what do you feel there?

I wonder who you are in IV when you leave me. ~~~ I know you, something of you, something of what you think and what you feel when you sit with me here, in a school room, and we are together gathered round a book— Our shared object.

Made by someone’s hands, the insides of the life of someone’s mind brought out from the depths of solitude, that which separates us each one from the other, onto its pages for us to meet—to wander through and wonder about and, for a little while, to know an end to the solitude—because we are together.

But we must work: we must decipher the signs.

And I must work to EMBODY the signs, the words on the page, the world of the text, the life of an author’s mind.

Will you go there with me?

Will you feel with me?

It is not so easy to stand before the text and before you—and not know— If I am vulnerable to the text, open and ready to receive it, if I am vulnerable to you, open and ready to receive you, will you be, too?

I do not know.

I never know.

But what I do know is that I must try.

I must risk showing you who I am when I am in the presence of this work of art versus that…what happens to me when I open myself to To the Lighthouse, when I stand yet again before Middlemarch, or when I give myself to Some Like it Hot.

I am not one thing.

And neither are you.

But when we meet, when we become “we” in the company of a great work of art, we have a chance, a remarkable chance to make something together—pure—to know a deeper truth, to feel differently, to think something new—to make meaning.

To imagine together what a work of literary art catalyzes us to imagine is to know Catalyst.

It is magic.

It is what I live for. ~~~ What matters to us is what and who we live for, which means what and who we love.

“What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?”

This is what matters to Dorothea Brooke in George Eliot’s great novel Middlemarch.

What matters to you?

What do you love?

Who do you love?

It matters.

PHOTO // LORENZO BASILIO

Move In to Move Out

by Hope Curran

We learn, we grow New stains on hand-me-down couches On the walls local art hangs Yet my roommate will never know That I still have her anthropologie mug Taken in the chaos of boxes and goodbyes A souvenir from my second year on Sueno Street corners ornamented with dressers Dumpsters occupied with broken hangers Our free box overflows with fortunes Of clothes of our past identities and reject college tees Two weeks of limbo top-ramen-living between leases Learn to couch surfing on waves of craigslist ads Security deposit downsides Holes left empty from nails that once held tapestries I don’t want this anymore Who does this belong to?

Four years of move ins and move outs Introductions morph to goodbye parties Convocation fast forward to graduation One man’s Isla Vista is another man’s treasure

morning

by Isabelle Miller-Bottome So many little things beg to be written down— The cobwebbed window above the kitchen sink, Motionless street behind broken blinds If you stare closely, the color Of the late-morning sky: thick, paper-white With smears of lavender, disappearing

PHOTO // CASEY MIX

Mornings like these, so still you can hear fog lift from the oak trees and waves hurl themselves on the beach As if to say, “I’m here, I’m here – Listen to me.”

Hearts Aflame

By Ivy Kuo I once thought our streets were only scattered with Broken glass and cigarette butts.

Haunting noise pollution bouncing around our onesquare-mile, Leaking into our tiny homes.

Strangers roamed our streets as if they possessed them, As if they owned us.

When I looked at their faces, I only felt (or they made me feel?)

Empty, Empty, Emptiness.

I was blinded by my own woundedness, Until heart-shattering tragedy struck, And together, as one heart, we wept in devastation.

Suddenly, thousands of us coagulated into a single being, And that night, We burned along with the candles lighting our streets.

We were shattered but alive with

The sounds of the night, whispers of compassion carrying us To whole beginnings and Slow healing, Minds reeling, With sorrow and inspiration.

We learned we are more than Headlines and tragedies; We are Illicit bonfires on damp sands, And crooked houses teetering on overhanging cliffs, Falling asleep nightly to The lullaby of thunderous waves And tinny stereo beats.

A single candle Can light thousands; And we here we are, aflame, burning, aglow, With fierce love and well-intentioned confusion.

We are the protectors of our square mile, Guardians of our lost, And rememberers of the forgotten.

ART // LE TANG

Sands

ART // ROSE SPANBOCK

by Dan Wuebben

Cold Shower

by Emma Vogan

I caught myself for the first time referring to [my parent's house]; a removed utterance.

Disguised as a random in the lineup, I must resist the rusty urge to paddle closer to you groups of young men recapping exploits and piecing together evenings to offer lectures rehearsed like a grom getting worked: -As soon as you learn to handle booze and drugs, you will discover someone you love(d) can not -Be grateful that you have yet to fuck (or get fucked) thoroughly and spectacularly -Give yourself to one wave, one project, one partner at a time Instead of a lecture I quietly wait for waist high sets, share short rides and closeouts, chart escape routes and pine for the next smoooooooth bottom turn fix Without a word, the wave of responsibilities ends my session, but as I walk back down the gravel path a new arrival inevitably asks, How was it?

Never doubt Devereaux, I reply, shaking my head, Never doubt Dev

So in askance, my eyes cartograph: a rent check, the ants that ate my pancakes (once), the languid bite of a chilled-down shower, the tar on my feet.

My fingers tickle the goose-berry pink bumps, hills on my purple arms.

Another ant crawls up the shower grout.

The neighbor's bed is hitting the wall again.

My sober legs knock with shivers, and my bike pedal scraped open my shin again.

I guess: cold water stings less.

ART // MADELINE LOCKHART

by Zoe Bien

I have a presumptive accusation that the sequence of time is not what had been promised to me.

They said I walk through space— to time one day through another sunsets beget sunrises beget yet an other sun.

How the Faculty Fear IV

by Kevin Moore

Psychologically.

As Hawthorne rightly feared mental shipwreck at Brook Farm, but without the Blithedale alibi ART // LULU DEWEY

Then how come I see forewarnings, foreshadowing, prologues, epitaphs to preview the day yet to rise?

I am afraid of what I become (or what I’ve been) wrinkling the bed my quilted del playa plays across happening happens here.

Hear, never do I wish to go back, redact, retract or repeat— but dizzying to think—loud looping memory scenes in seeming all reeling

Her balcony, bends forward beckoning leaning— tumbling into tomorrow Inhale—she says— the moon laminate the panorama of lamp post, dark cars, back bike paths in grass spreading night brighter than heavy night air, she says Exhale. wait to relate. relax— the world dims to bluer— truer It never seems to be the moment in shutter speed stop thought, shatter souls, in reflection of days before, days to be mid night moon lit glows Racing over memory stones fly fleeting black space crows Beyond my breathing into time, night’s sorrow

seams frayed all roaring all before

raps, taps, write to hollow, never empty, space that started, could still startle a wakeful world anew

Not sleep, some moon to yet a sun so then I’ll smoke

morning wake, the woman strolls in between random fantasies of separated suns

Crinkle cut Monkey Hut Sidewalks breathe Micron teeth Strum your strings Pack up your things Find your hair wraps in India And I’ll find friendly insomnia Awoken by early meditations With mandolin hallucinations Gypsy stones And falling thrones Drive female gods Wearing polka dots To Venice Beach What part of speech Is a pirouette White cigarette In your pocket dreams

Lucid screams gleam, scheme, fall, and redeem Sock drawers marinate Peel out and salivate Pittsburgh Power Plant Panhandle implant Friend crushes enchant But orange 42 can’t Want to be more like you Do you hate yourself too?

I know where you bike Where you eat, where you hike To places of secrecy Hippies hording their intimacy

In tarp-lined hot tubs And miso soup back rubs Blistering big toe stubs On vintage amps amplifying stepdubs Coconut oil Paisley turmoil Sick-Ass Hawks and cartoon mice Skip cinnamon spice Pin your dreads on the wall Where Kitties will crawl For pudding and orange chicken All requests from Trader Joe’s Kitchen You like the frozen section And I like your affection

So play your piano Gospel soprano In New Orleans A can of beans Committing boxes of greens Jah Brothel wearing diapers By day being bikers To Chateau Relaxo Where’s my apple go I saw it on the service road Thursday night reunite Cocktails and collaboration Grapefruit constellation Under cuddle puddles of stars Hovering over our backyards Down on earth here we snuggle Baskets of wicker whiskers struggle To grab your fur vest and hat And stop being a cat!

We refuse, so toodaloo!

Could you love me under the moon?

Hippie babe headquarters I’ll be your TV reporter Coming at you lively from I.V. Experience this room A leopard-print tomb Courtesy of Yoga Soup Stealing seven ginger chews Creaking spiral staircase, too Leads to Jah Boiler’s Spirit Zoo. Drying dishwashers of pans With love from Bob to Sand Eating Imlak’esh Organics Sliding socks while they panic Brownies raw make me manic I love big foot, toilet antics Water science To The North!

But I believe, so please come forth Bums and gypsies share the night And post this scholarly flight I have a poverty plan Trade in your bugs, hybrids, cliffords cars, and sedans And Get In The Van!

GET IN THe

VAN

by Emily Balaguer

ART // KATY BLACKBURN + NATALIE O’BRIEN

CLIFFTOP SNEAKERS

by Kiana Fatemi

Our feet crawling and creeping forward each step echoing back at us

Spring

by Isabel Miller-Bottome

Dawn warmed room: Hours before our days begin.

I breathe against your shoulder blade To move as one. How many Mornings left together? Already Winds swirl with eucalyptus And jasmine. Tiny petals tumble in the street Beneath students on their bicycles.

Eeriness in the air whispering in our ears We are not alone, we share the night with raccoon's claws scraping soil skunks slipping in a straight line stalky grass swaying with sticky fingers grasping our clothes never letting go But there's no going back, this night is too much to miss this would be cowardice We reach the place, line up our feet, smiles outstretched, our faces, and for the first time, we are the place.

art // ROSE SPANBOCK

maybe

by Satine Iskandaryan

if I write enough soul-baring waves of water-logged feeling I’ll uncap my bottle out to sea and unleash dervish-tsunamis of scorched words creating vortexes of tumultuous half-sentences to slip, cleansed & scrubbed raw and red like salt-crusted rope into hopeless baptism, my sins forgiven - upclose and pulsing while original sensuousness leads me, willing & empty to have my glass walls brimming again

WHO ARE WE

by Allison Wright

when we have survived?

This poem is a response to Deborah Miranda's 'Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir.' It was given to her at a lecture this winter at UCSB. Tell me your story.

Tell me of the times when your innocent smile faltered, of the classy, wounded dove, white streaked red, the macho, suave “Blackie,” of desire and forbidden passion.

You still have your baby teeth, and at three years old, the tips of your dangling feet forget the stirrups.

You could drop the loosely-clutched reins, if you wanted to.

Tell me how this smile returned, knowing now how many lost their language, how many women, brutalized, were silently violated, how many were displaced, baptized, missionized, murdered.

// LORENZO BASILIO At three years old,

you’re already a bad Indian in a pleather vest and chaps. Right on your breast, a cowboy ropes a steer and ceremoniously hangs it from a hip;

How many, how much was lost?

But you can’t know yet, sitting on a stationary pony that holds a whole history in its tired flanks.

you’re already a bad Indian.

Alive, and in rodeo regalia, no less, in the studded saddle of an oreo pony, white and brown--two worlds collided.

You can’t know yet that your story bridges from the dead who cry to be remembered to the offspring of “bad” progenitors.

Alive, an Indian in cowboy’s clothes.

Tell me your story.

Why did you hold onto the slack ties of a tame ride?

For the photo, or something bigger than your little hands could hold?

Your story is a bridge, striving and sturdy, from you to me, two worlds collided.

Alive, three, you are a budding archive of memory, and I thank you for your survival.

ART // ROBERTO PEREZ

I’d thank you for your survival, but you still have your baby teeth, and from the looks of it, all of them grin between twin dimples.

catalyst ad