2009-10 Parallax by Idyllwild Arts

Parallax Spring 2010

Parallax

Spring 2010 Editor in Chief: Jordan Bonner Jr. Editor: Madi Hartzog-Warren Poetry Editor: Dustin Evans Fiction Editor: Whitney Aviles-Low Dramatic Writing Editor: Emma Gannon Front Cover Art: Bella Oh Back Cover Art: Natania Friedman Front/Back Cover Design and Layout: Lian Tsai Tech Assistance: Brent Terry

Creative Writing Department Faculty: Kim Henderson (Chair), Andrew Leeson, Katherine Factor, Abbie Bosworth Visual Art Department Faculty: Rob Rutherford (Chair), Eric Metzler, David Reid-Marr, Melissa Wilson, Mallory Cremin, Steve Hudson, Terry Rothrock, Paul Waddell Idyllwild Arts Academy Headmaster: William Lowman Idyllwild Arts Academy 52500 Temecula Dr. PO Box 38 Idyllwild, CA 92549 (951) 659- 2171 Copyright 2010 Idyllwild Arts Foundation All rights reserved. No work is to be reprinted without the written consent of the author and the Idyllwild Arts Foundation. .

Contents Miracle Chance The Point Dustin Evans Sun-Drenched The Dawn of Brightness Peruvian Forests Becky Hirsch Shame Clocks Sahara Sunday Spain Under the Table Austin King Release Ode to Ink Ariel Bevan Strange and Beautiful (I’ll Put a Spell on You) Lady of the Lake, Echo Luna Enriquez Black/Red/Gold Austin Okopny New World Order Kira Hamilton (Writing Contest Winner) On One Side of the Wall Jordan Bonner Getting Caught Street Vendor Killed in Times Square Shootout From the Top of a Boulder Where It’s Warm Rebecca Cox Untitled Katie Perez Look Up, Gullible is Written on the Ceiling

7 8 10 13 14 19 20 38 39 42 54 57 58 60 62 82 83 84 86 88

Kenny Han Photography

Contents(cont.)

Lucky Charms Amber Morrell Model Hits Rock Bottom Nina Brett Documents Emma Gannon Nighttime Bomb Brit Wigintton St. Catalina Morgan Unsworth Parting Words Madison Marlow Steez Rap Madi Hartzog-Warren Face Paint Anti-Color Photography Emilio Lazcano Algol Whitney Aviles-Low The Valley Flavors Of Art of the Unwritten Scarlet McCarthy Boy with a Coin

89 90 99 101 102 104 107 109 110 114 116 124 126 130

About the Idyllwild Arts Academy Creative Writing Department

134

Sung-Ah Jun Photography

Miracle Chance

THE POINT (A MONOLOGUE)

I remember it well. See, Idyllwild has bi-polar weather: one day the birds are in the sky, and as you watch them fly by, the sun blinds your vision. And other days there is so much snow that the world around you becomes a black and white photograph. However, this afternoon was different. There was fog, and snow, and rain all at once. We were running, he and I, we ran into the forest. I could barely see anything, it was as if the rain had put out an incredible bonfire beneath us, and the smoke still lingered. We were running up the hill, I felt the mist caress my face and start to wither the make-up around my eyes. The bitter cold, like ice on salt, burnt into me. I didn’t want to run that far or that fast, but he told me it would be worth it. The snow proved difficult, and I tripped amongst the unknown on the ground. When he helped me up, his hands felt so warm compared to my surroundings. I could see the edge, the precarious line, we were close. I staggered to the top, the ‘Point’ they called it. This place where people go, a view, to just sit and sit, lose their thoughts like brushing away dust. Into the haze I saw warm glowing lights struggling through the thick sheet of cloud. These guides beyond the mountain, glowed, blurring, fire on water. The height and beauty of this peak stunned me. Everything sunk away from my head, my heart, and out through my feet, I was numb. One single tear trickled down my stone cheek as I stared out and remembered.

Dustin Evans SUN-DRENCHED

A dazzling luminescent forest filled with ever-moving life morphs and changes at an accelerated rate The cartoon jungle twists and grows expanding into a high tech desert of golden sand dust blows a cloud painted natives in the golden sand inhaling it and coughing the sand sticks to their bodies as they breathe more and snooze into a sun-drenched trance Their dreams are magnified as the lens they are seen through has such convincing transitions that no skepticism of the strange drunken kaleidoscope journey into netherworld could ever be had No hesitative reflex as one moves with the rhythm of life with content pleasure dancing and moving to the beats everything wobbles and mass appears to be constructed out of butter running on telephone lines ziplining and swinging like Donkey Kong twirling and connecting with others into the forever long landscape of the divine buttercup sandy land. Spin like a cyclone dust storm time to disintegrate time for the painted natives to lose all composition they become tornadoes that fight each other like spinning tops the kind with lights on them making patterns of crop circles to launch into flight

bouncing a set of camera lens on a super-powered trampoline and with the lens pointing downwards all sight is brought upwards as the tornadoes become ants and the sand dune planet becomes a speck in the distance. Hodge-podge Hodge Podge The flesh is on the patty cake to eat the rotting mayonnaise Raining on the gloppy ground it puddles up and sludges down To the hairy slippy slide. Greased up fur on Astro-Glide Guzzling down the homeward bound macaroni micro town Brought to life in Technicolor Sopping wet and soaked with butter Velcro it to petroleum fur my epidermis linoleum floor Dizzy crawling into grime sliding past melting time My body sticks and skin unwinds Drying out human pork-flavored rinds Puffy mouthfuls of murky mush my jaw is locked strain and push Nasty taste but kind of tangy fur-ball goop soft and mangy Pop my arm out of its socket Flimsy membrane flops in my pocket

The flesh will shake me out of this Or I will shake out of this flesh Inertia sweeping me away The flesh it beckons me to stay All of the sudden I hear a call Pause in this eternal fall “Dip the cool gulp of WHAT into your melting head, Perk the new hue of you the older one is dead!”

THE DAWN OF BRIGHTNESS The dawn of brightness is a crippled sun Though it is no less than the best of none You think you are fit You think you are good But your pieces don’t fit the way that they should The money in your pocket is burning a hole You’re taking a chance at the cost of your soul A hole digging deeper A gaping open mouth What’s that beeping? It’s under the couch Get on your feet and stomach your guilt Go to the street, to the road you have built Look to the sky Heave a big sigh Weave a big lie All the while asking “why? why? why? why?” A broken tree in a sleeping hour Splinters and splits becoming a flower Piss in the dirt that its roots reside in and 10

It wilts as you tilt your chinny chin chin Smiling behind an imaginary wall As my tension has birthed this tale of the tall Stress that evolves and adheres adapts A primordial figure in an extended time lapse Filling my head with molten hot wax Nod my head and it clickety-clacks Bounce the ball and pick up the jacks Cutting my drive with a sharpened ax Listen there’s a point to this listen real quick Chew these words suck on them like a toothpick Point is, I forgot what I was going to say I’ve wasted your time with my rhyming wordplay “Poetry helps, Poetry is an outlet for thoughts in the back of the mind Documenting your life before you forget it in time” But all I can think of is a word that can rhyme! Writing pointless psychobabble in calligraphy Aimless, I stress weakness And blabber with you as my witness There are better ways to spend my time than this Who needs poetry anyway? I’ll walk outside to enjoy the day Nevermind, I’ll try to write some more

And get straight to the core But Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m all over the place I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t demonstrate writing grace My random lines vandalizing the page This rabid animal needs to be put in a cage.

Cloris Park Photography

PERUVIAN FORESTS

Peruvian forests red rockets and a cockatoo Plasma on the walls oozing sockets I’m stuck in the goo Seeing myself, I look at me, but I’m you But who are you now that you’re me split in two? I strain in the slime inside some state of psychosis Twisting into a carnal chaotic form of mitosis Two of me how could it be Only my self we see facing me Across from us or me I should say The distance warps along the way The same mind operating in two different locations A thousand new feelings and elating sensations The transformation of my reality brought into being Ripped from my bed weird things I am seeing The space between me expands and contracts Moving closer I fuse back together intact Scuttling mollusks surround me and spin Hypersped life overtakes me and wins

Becky Hirsch

SHAME

Merced is at the wheel and I am clutching the arms of the passenger seat. My eyes reel away from his, lunge out the windows, but before I know it there is air in my lungs, pulsing up my vocal cords, and words are starting. “… supposed to be…” A hiss at first, then louder, louder. “… supposed to be like… supposed to be like this, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, it –” “Did you kiss her?” Merced’s only question, over and over, tugs at my doubt, at the muffled grey spots in my memory until “I don’t remember” throws my head into my hands. “We were both so out of it,” I add. “Would she?” “No.” This with conviction. I remember: an hour, two cigarettes, countless puffs of smoke. I remember herding her down the stairs. I remember the way her eyes clung to me even when I had shoved her down into a chair and shot to the other side of the basement, and then everything smoothes to grey. Greyson – “Then you’re in the clear.” Merced is still talking, but why am I listening? “You never kissed her, never touched her. You can tell him that with a clean conscience, and she won’t be able to say crap, ‘cause she won’t remember either.” Why am I still listening? “It’s not kissing, or touching, or whatever; that’d just make it worse. I was down there, with her, in the dark, smoking, alone. And then Greyson comes – ” “He didn’t see anything.”

“She was leaning –” “That doesn’t mean anything.” “I was there!” And finally it bursts out. “We didn’t have to be doing anything! I was there, with her, in the dark, smoking, and we were talking and she was leaning –” “Who gives a damn, man?” “Grey! And I – I –” “What?” The seatbelt itches and everything burns. My hair bleeds off the top of my head and I need air. Where is it? Where can I find it? “I wanted to make it all better for him.” Breathing doesn’t do anything at all. “Well.” Merced coasts to a stop at a deserted four-way and bends forward to contemplate the AC. “Guess you really screwed that up then, huh?” I hear the seatbelt click and the door hatch open and my feet barely taste the asphalt before I am flying back toward the house, and the endorphins seep through my legs but it feels like the seatbelt is still itching across my chest, like everything, everything, has gone up in smoke. In the darkness, everything mattered more, every word, all of them, even the little puffs of smoke that clustered and disintegrated. I had reasons, outlined in essay-format up there, for being here with my little brother’s girlfriend,

the little brother who I had left and come back to only to make things worse, the same little boy who used to pretend I was his dad, and I was just waiting for my cue to unveil them. Time hummed along and Annie really did have a pretty voice, beautiful, like Grey always said. I thought she was afraid of me, in some twisted sort of way. I thought to myself that it would make convincing her so much easier. Each concrete square that shoots under my feet is a second ticking down. It wasn’t supposed to – I have to make things right. It was supposed to make me – I have to make Grey happy. The house approaches and when it sees me it marches right up to me, slaps me across the face. I catch my hand flying up to rub the spot before I shake myself and the house tumbles back onto its foundation. It was supposed to make me – I crash into the entryway and I feel like thunder until I shake that away too. Grey is furious; I am repentant. I was so stupid. “It was supposed –” Breathe. “-to make –” Breathe. “-everything better.” Remember to breathe. My legs crack as I try to maneuver the stairs to the basement and the fall is the sick, sweet promise of hurt that I’ve been waiting for. I hit the little square landing with no resistance and plenty of regret. I wind up with my head lower than the rest of my body, which is crumpled on the landing, and I guess I must be lying on one of the three steps that turn and follow the left wall down into the basement. My eyes refocus. Smoke still hangs in the air, spreads unevenly across 16

the room, but it has thinned a bit by now, so that to me it looks like ash. It is light enough now that I am not afraid as I close my eyes. * * * She was talking, drifting toward something like love and I heard in her words my opportunity. I met her stabbing eyes and held them. I shifted forward slightly and she leaned. Draw her in, in, more. “Annie,” I murmured, soft disappointment laced through my tone. She was paying close enough attention that she heard it and her eyebrows started to contract. I was going to tell her, in all the words Greyson didn’t know how to use, everything that she had been doing wrong. She had been messing around with fears and little things, hiding her face behind them as if they were a shield. She shouldn’t be running. She was in love with Greyson, and he had told her he was in love with her. I was going to make her see that. I was going to be his- their savior. It was so perfect, the set up, the waiting, the age difference, and I was so far under, so lost in the warm waters of finally doing right, that I didn’t hear low sound of door unhatching and at first I didn’t see Greyson when he appeared on the landing. “What are you two doing down here?” he called, and I didn’t know how cold the darkness was until his voice let the light in and it all cracked and started to melt away. I thought, in that second, how beautiful he is, before he met Annie’s eyes and ignited. 17

Sounds penetrate the basement through the slabs of cement wall, and I wake up immediately because Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never really fallen asleep. There is something shaking in the sounds and they make my heart beat unevenly. I struggle up and swing my legs forward and under me so that I am sitting on the bottom stair. My back and shoulders ache, but the sounds push everything away. The damp weight is replaced by curiosity and the tinge that hovers over my brain from watching too many flawless-ending movies.

So Ye Oh Photography

Maybe, maybe- I move, finally, up off the step and across the room, following, just following the sounds. I trace my way to the far wall, where three long, white windows hang in a row and I stretch up to see into the backyard. When my eyes catch Greyson and Annie, huddled in the middle of the lawn, hands clutched together, heads bent in, I see their perfect symmetry and I cannot look away.

CLOCKS

(In the style of William Carlos Williamsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s The Red Wheelbarrow) The clock on the wall Has broken It needs to be Replaced My brother says It has Meaning but I Have no Patience for old Broken clocks.

Sahara Sunday Spain UNDER THE TABLE Two people are sitting at a table in a restaurant for lunch. The table has a cloth, and there might be a small flower arrangement or unlit candle in the center. FINN is a college student and is staring at his sister LILY. LILY is staring at her menu. They both seem to be on edge.

FINN Are you going to talk to me? Or did you just call me here to… stare at the menu. (pause) Lily. (pause) Lily. LILY doesn’t look up at him. FINN tries to get her attention. FINN (CONT.) Great zombie impression. But you asked me to come here, and I could be somewhere else. LILY Hmm? FINN What’s going on? LILY It’s complicated… FINN Uncomplicate it. LILY doesn’t respond. FINN (CONT.) It’s easy. You say “Finn, I am sad and I called you because of blank.” and then you fill in the blank. 20

LILY Finn, I am sad and I called you because of—(this thing that…) FINN And just so we’re clear. I’m not getting you out of whatever-this-is, yeah? And I’m not giving you money… And I’m not buying you cigarettes… And you can’t borrow my car. And I won’t pretend to hook up with that friend of yours with the strange hair as a favor to you, ever again. We are so even after Washington. LILY This isn’t about Washington, Finn. Not even close. FINN You’re pregnant. LILY Don’t be stupid. If I were pregnant, you’d be the last person I’d go to for snuggles. I have friends. And I wasn’t going to ask for money. And I never…I don’t even like your car. And—(I don’t smoke) FINN Lily. LILY What? FINN Talk. LILY Dad’s cheating on Mom. (beat) Finn. (beat) Finn? FINN I don’t believe you.

The WAITRESS enters. She is visibly pregnant and appears to be tired, overworked, and somewhat ill. Her movements are slow. LILY and FINN regard her with disdain. WAITRESS Are you ready to order, or would you like me to come back later? The WAITRESS stumbles a little bit and holds her stomach. FINN Woah. Are you okay? WAITRESS Eh, yeah. It’s uh…just…Braxton hicks. Or gas. I get a lot of that too. LILY I still need time to look. WAITRESS Would you like anything to drink? We have a great selection of wines— LILY I’m sixteen. FINN We’ll have a glass of Pellegrino, thanks. The WAITRESS writes down the order, nods, and exits. LILY She’s grotesque. FINN Lily. 22

LILY What? FINN looks back towards the menu. LILY (CONT.) So… Dad’s cheating on Mom. FINN You told me. LILY And? FINN What do you want me to say? I still don’t believe you. LILY I— FINN You tried to convince me, like, two months ago that I was adopted. LILY Okay, but that was funny. FINN The point is, this is a huge accusation. And you’re probably just lying to draw attention to yourself, anyway…so… LILY Finn, I’m not making this up. He’s cheating on Mom. I heard him. I heard him upstairs. Like…I heard him. With her. And they— (were having sex) FINN Stop. I don’t need details. 23

LILY Yeah, well deal. FINN And you’re…sure it wasn’t Mom? LILY Okay, I don’t think our parents…and besides Mom’s in New York. FINN Still? LILY Yeah, she thinks the case will wrap up by Christmas…or at least she hopes, but they keep filing new motions. And her being in a different state doesn’t excuse Dad’s— (serious case of infidelity) FINN But Mom and Dad, they’ve been together forever now, right. Like twenty-five years. LILY That doesn’t mean anything, apparently. Because, apparently, twenty-five years of marriage isn’t as good as cheap hookersex. FINN There was no cheap hooker, damnit. It was porn or something. LILY I know the difference between porn— (and) FINN How do you know the difference between—(porn and)

LILY Never mind, Finn. The non-existent ho-bag left her credit card in the kitchen. FINN I don’t believe you. LILY flashes the credit card to FINN. FINN (CONT.) You stole her credit card? The Waitress enters with a tray, two drinks, and a bottle on water. WAITRESS Pellegrino. The WAITRESS serves them their drinks. WAITRESS (CONT.) Just so you know, our specials this afternoon are the Eggplant Rollatini, a ricotta-filled eggplant baked with tomato sauce; the Sapori Forti, which I personally recommend, it’s goat cheese baked with anchovy, olives and bread crumbs; and the Radicchio And Frisee Salad, with prosciutto di parma, shaved parmigiano cheese, fuyu persimmon and pomegranate, there’s also theFINN Uh…Lily, maybe… WAITRESS Sorry about that. Kick on the lungs. LILY I’m not hungry. FINN Lily. 25

LILY I’m not. FINN I’ll have the Spuntatura. Wrapped up, though. I think we’re going to…eat uh, later…so yeah, if you could just get our order to-go, and bring our check afterwards. Lily, order. LILY The Radi-thingy salad on the specia– WAITRESS The Radicchio And Frisee Salad. Anything else? FINN No thanks, I think we’re good. LILY She’s like a walking public health violation. FINN Lily. LILY What? FINN You stole a credit card? LILY Uh, you can’t steal something if it’s in your house. FINN Then I never stole your Coldplay CD. LILY But you believe me, now, don’t you? 26

FINN It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s that…Do you know what would happen if Dad cheated on Mom? Do you know what she’d do to him? What that would do to us? We’re in a recession. I don’t know how much they’ve told you…but…I’m not about to risk losing the house. The middle class is going, Lily. Divorce bankrupts families, and we’re barley hanging on as it is. We had it good, growing up. Let’s not mess with a good thing. LILY You’re a pus— FINN Whatever, Lily. You don’t even understand what would happen to our family if this were real. LILY It is real. FINN But you don’t under— LILY I care about Mom. End of story. FINN If you care about Mom, you will never tell her about this. LILY I don’t even know why I came to you. You never used to be this much of a pu—

FINN I just don’t think we need to rock the boat. LILY And that’s why you have no friends. FINN What? I have friends. LILY gets up. FINN (CONT.) I have friends. Where are you going? LILY flashes the card LILY To pay for lunch. FINN Use my card. LILY I’m using this card. FINN That’s wr— LILY Wrong? Do you know what’s really wrong? You, making excuses for whatever home-wrecker Dad’s shacked up with. Because, I’m actually pissed as hell. FINN You’ve always been pissed as hell. You were born that way.

LILY Yeah? Well you’re kind of a dipshit. But that’s only since you went to college. LILY exits to pay the bill. The WAITRESS enters. WAITRESS It will be just another few minutes until your food arrives. I’ve also brought the bill. FINN Oh, my sister went up to the front to pay. WAITRESS Oh. Alright. FINN So uh…when are you due? WAITRESS Should be soon. It’ s felt like forever. FINN So…uh…that’s nice. Are you excited? WAITRESS I don’t know. Uh…I was just dumped…but uh…I shouldn’t be talking about that. I’m sorry. FINN No. I’m sorry. Yeah…uh…sucks…

Shelagh Bennett Photography

WAITRESS Yeah. The WAITRESS kneels over a little and rubs circles on her solar plexus. FINN Are you ok? WAITRESS Yeah. Yeah…I’m just stressed…you know? Heartburn. The WAITRESS coughs. FINN Oh…do you want to sit down? WAITRESS No. I’m not supposed to. FINN Oh… WAITRESS You look familiar. FINN Yeah? WAITRESS I can’t think of where I could have seen you. Do you live around here? FINN My family does. I go to State.

WAITRESS I used to go to State. But uh… The WAITRESS gestures towards her distended stomach. LILY enters. She is carrying the card. LILY Here we go, Finn. Registered to a Megan Payne. I was thinking we could go through Dad’s e-mail or, like, Google her— (or something) WAITRESS Excuse me? Is this some kind of joke? FINN What? WAITRESS Am I being punked? FINN Uh… LILY Punked? WAITRESS That’s my credit card. FINN What? It is? WAITRESS You would steal from a pregnant woman! LILY But I didn’t take your– 32

WAITRESS Then what is this! The WAITRESS picks up the card. WAITRESS (CONT.) What is this? What the hell is this! LILY I found that in my kitchen! WAITRESS This is my card! How dare you! I’m pregnant! I have to work this job, on my feet all day, to eat for two people! I’m eating for two! LILY I didn’t steal your card! WAITRESS Explain this then! LILY I found it in my kitchen. WAITRESS It’s my card! It has my name on the back! FINN Lily! LILY You know what, Finn? Don’t give me that look! This card was exactly where

I said it was! Maybe she’s screwing Dad, because I swear to god I found that credit card on our kitchen counter! (To WAITRESS) Do you know a David Jones? A very, married David Jones? Silence. LILY (CONT.) Take your damn card! WAITRESS You know David? FINN What the f— LILY Finn? Can I hit her? WAITRESS I’m pregnant. LILY That’s not my problem. FINN Lily. LILY What? WAITRESS Did David send you here? Is that what this is? FINN David’s our father.

WAITRESS Oh god. LILY He’s married! WAITRESS He’s separated! FINN He’s not separated. LILY Did you know about us? Did he tell you about his kids? WAITRESS I… FINN How could you? Why—(would you do this) LILY Finn, shut up. Let me slap her? LILY advances on the WAITRESS. FINN Lily. Stop it. She’s pregnant. LILY Well, maybe she should get un-pregnant! What? Do you realize who she is? FINN Yeah, but she’s… 35

LILY I know. Pregnant! (to WAITRESS) Why are you so pregnant! FINN Lily! LILY What! FINN You can’t be…I don’t know…I mean…. LILY We don’t owe her anything. WAITRESS I…I… The WAITRESS sits down. Distressed. WAITRESS (CONT.) I mean. I know it was wrong. And I’m… stupid choices come easily to me. But…I didn’t mean to…I mean. David— LILY You don’t get to complain. WAITRESS He might be your father but he’s also the father of my child! And he dumped me. FINN I’m sor—

LILY No! Not at all! You are not sorry, Finn! She should be sorry! She’s the one that… Come on! We need to find Dad and crucify him! Right now! FINN No, we need to…I mean…we can’t just leave after this…this is our… (to WAITRESS) Is it a boy or a girl? LILY Ugh… WAITRESS If you could talk to him, though. If you could tell him— LILY We don’t owe you anything. FINN (To fetus) But Lily, that’s our— LILY That’s our ‘nothing’. It shares DNA. That’s it. I’m family. You can’t abandon your family, you can’t drop everything, just because you see some crying, pregnant, degenerate. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is Dad’s issue. Right now, we need to talk to Dad, and to Mom and suss this out. (beat) Don’t make me be the responsible one. (beat) Finn. FINN I…

LILY Finn. She made her bed. We need to go. She’s the home wrecker. She knew he was married. FINN Yeah… LILY We need to go. FINN Yeah…yeah we do.

Austin King

RELEASE

The pyramid filled with eyes has turned aside. Cannons shot off the chains the earth has arched its molten core to run free on salted sand to have hair dancing with the wind to scream out with tears. Wandering only to the scent of an undiscovered spine that sees the silver lining of an almost closed door sticking her feet in the ultraviolet rays. Break. Fluorescent flavored lights in her eyes tube through her chest 38

a red torment sears through her. air that makes her tired tired tired Until locked as words on stone. flowers on Sundays, breakdowns in June.

ODE TO INK

You lustrously eat through the stationary leaving bridges of ideas behind. You wearily weave thought and feelings into the blank page. Afraid of the limits that we will perceive, yet after all this, you complete your job as the incoherent transmitter. The eastern winds will smear your subject of intent into the starless quaking ground. The matter of creation that never stops creating eloquent notes.

This murky substance of limitless facts emerging from squid sacs. The mystery of how you came to be whether wriggling under my skin or dripping down stone manuscripts. Hearing the words which you scribble down is the only way to make sense of the transient world around us. Splashed and spotted across the page you are the â&#x20AC;&#x153;whatâ&#x20AC;? in what makes a paper the reason we look back in the rearview mirror. We owe all this to you.

Yuli Kuan Photography

Ariel Bevan

STRANGE AND BEAUTIFUL (I’LL PUT A SPELL ON YOU)

He tries not to think about it – about her – too much, but the thought of her pops up every once and awhile. He might think of her while he’s sitting at his desk at work and notices the picture of him and her and her siblings when they were all younger, while he’s buying a coffee and sees what she always used to order, walks through the shops in town and sees the shade of green that dyed her constant headband. It might be when he smells the old books everywhere, and looks at the old pictures – letters he’s wanted to send, and ones that aren’t there anymore, because they were sent, and letters he’s received back, small presents he’s gotten as his birthdays pass, and pictures of her brother and her sister as they age slowly, photo to photo. Mostly, it’s when he sees the snapshot of her that her sister managed to catch, and the message scrawled in a ten year old’s messy hand writing – Look, hasn’t Alphie gotten so pretty? You should come visit us soon, big brother. We miss you. Big sister misses you too. ... He had done well for himself, after the move. He had connections, he had friends, he had talent and he had intelligence. He had moved for work. A successful company in Italy had offered him a position after school, something he couldn’t refuse. Of course, a school friend of his was now in charge of 42

it, which could have been a reason for him being invited. He was sure his friend was nervous, taking over the family line, so to speak. He worked diligently, to be sure, and he never complained; he did everything he was told to with a smile. He didn’t have any trouble with moving up. No, he had a problem with moving on. Everyone had realized it was impossible for someone like him. ( But, was it really? Or was it just because it was her ? ) ... He had never wanted anything more than the rolling green hills of the Tuscany countryside. He told himself this when he moved to Italy on his own when he was eighteen and left her behind – three years of a broken heart. ( But then, he was still lying if he said that. Because, when he was little, he had said the same thing about that little town they used to live in. Of course, he can’t ever go back there now. He’s stuck— Here.) C’est la vie – viva Italia. “Such is life – long live Italy.” ... He had sent her letters to keep in touch even after the fact – – the fact being, she dumped him – – because, obviously, letters were more romantic than emails.

Don’t get him wrong, it wasn’t that he was trying to win her back. He wasn’t. He hoped she was happy with her normal – boring – new boyfriend, who was nice (enough) and who was stable – rich. She loved him. ( She had security that he couldn’t have given her. ) There was no way he could interrupt her life. ( Biggest lie he’d ever told. The truth was that he had never intended on loving anyone but her. He would settle for nothing but blonde – gold – hair, and light green – bottle green and molten gold – eyes. ) ... To me, you’re strange and you’re beautiful – There were so many possibilities. He could look back at the years they had known each other, and mull over the things they had done, pick everything apart with a scalpel, and still not understand how he had come to love her like he did now. It was, and most likely would forever be, a mystery – but he would have liked to understand, just a little, what it was that started it. Was it her hair, the headband she always had, her bangs falling in her eyes, the smell of old books and home cooking? Was it the color of her eyes, and when her cheeks glowed from the cold, when her scarf was too big? Or was it her old-fashioned clothes that looked like they once belonged to her mom? Her hiding in the library, her clothes that never quite fit, 44

her voice that was too soft for him to sometimes catch, her pulling away from him – but some of these were reasons for him to hate her, not love her. Maybe they really weren’t so different. After all, love is only one chemical, one single ingredient, away from being hate. It’s something the brain understands, that humans have denied subconsciously their entire existence. (At least, it was something he had always tried to ignore.) He had tried to hate her, he could remember, but he couldn’t do it. He came close – so, so close – but he had never been able to do it. It should have been easy to do, he had been sure, but her smile flitted into his mind, and the way she stumbled over her words, her reading glasses and the scars on her fingertips from chopping vegetables, the thin necklace she wore, and her too-thin, awkward swan neck. Once, he had come close, and he was sure this was it, but then her voice called his name, crying, happy, flustered, angry, soft, and everything shattered – he found himself immersed in memories he didn’t want to remember – the sound of her name – the feel of her coat – the touch of her gloves – and everything else. ... Love was never easy. No one had ever said that; it wasn’t what he had expected. He had just wondered if she loved him, too. ( He had thought ‘yes’, but perhaps he was just being conceited. ) But maybe he had thought that a love as strong as his could have been easy. ( Maybe that was just him being conceited as well. ) ...

They had their first kiss early on in their relationship. He didn’t remember the number of dates, or anything else like that. He hadn’t counted the seconds – two million, three hundred forty seven thousand & fifty two, give or take some – that he had even known her. ( He didn’t mean to count, in the beginning. It was just something that had happened. ) It was funny, though. He didn’t remember how or when. He just remembered leaning into her shocked face and touching his lips to hers. It wasn’t a perfect kiss – but it was good enough. He knew there had been something there from the way she tilted her head and closed her eyes. Fall was cold that day. That was all he remembered. The leaves blew in freezing winds that left his lips chapped and his eyes watering. But they had laughed all throughout their date, leaving the downtown area after god-knowshe-didn’t-remember-what, and walked through the park holding hands, as best as you can hold hands while wearing mittens. It was stupidly cold; their breaths frosted the insides of their scarves against their faces, rubbing their skin raw and scarlet. Maybe that was why the touch of skin burned. Everything else was cold, frozen cold, and yet her lips were like hot cocoa. She tasted like apple cider, he thought, but she might have tasted like spring.

It was so, so, stupidly cold; feelings even froze in their place, taking too long to reach the heart and the brain â&#x20AC;&#x201C; or maybe it was just shock. ( He wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to describe the taste of spring, now. It was like flowers, dew, and life; like warmth and like love. It was her. That was all he could remember. It was just her. )

Veronica Kim Photography

The raindrops fell on sidewalks that steamed from the afternoon heat. He was in high school then, fourteen years old, and it was just minutes before he had first seen her â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meet her until a year later. (He was almost surprised, looking back on this, that he could remember this certain incident. But it was as if someone had taken the saturation of this one memory, turned it up high, and made everything wonderfully neon and bright.) Walking down the sidewalk as it poured, he could hear the musical notes raindrops make when they hit the ground. It almost sounded like piano, he thought, and he continued without an umbrella. He walked down the suburban streets, houses compact and close with each other lining the road and thought they all looked the same, to him. It usually did all look the same, though. Everyone and everything â&#x20AC;&#x201C; it was the same. Essentially; everything fit in cookie cutter shapes, without even being cut in that shape. Everything was conforming. Ahead of him, when he looked up, he saw an aquamarine umbrella, a blonde haired girl holding the hand of a boy with brown hair. They walked in front of him for a few blocks, before turning into a poorer neighborhood. He stopped on the street corner, watched them continue on their way for a while. The boy turned and saw him at some point; waved and smiled a gap-toothed grin. The girl looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met for just a second. Like being hit in the stomach by a baseball during practice, just the metaphorical contact winded him. The 48

umbrella glowed ridiculous shades of aqua and tints of jade and sky, and her headband was faded against that fierce color, almost like the color of the boy’s eyes. She had plain green eyes – baby green & soft gold – and there didn’t really seem to be anything (that wasn’t) special about her. They stared at each other until pink blossomed on her cheeks and her eyes widened. ( Did she feel the same way? He asked himself out of the blue, but he pushed it away. ) Just in that moment, it was there, everywhere. He saw her as she turned away, pulling the cerulean eyes of the younger boy with her. They continued on their way, and he watched them, that ridiculously bright umbrella blocking their faces from view, until they turned the corner. He shook his head and continued home. Those sparks – There hadn’t been anything there – he could still feel it, electric and heavy – but he hadn’t actually felt anything. Nothing at all – it had been so heavy and loaded, so full, and he couldn’t breathe – it had just been the rain, making the air hard to breathe from the summer heat. ... When he saw her again at his baseball game, he felt it when he saw her walk over to him to catch her little brother. Leaves blew out of trees that were splashed with 49

color like children throwing paint on the walls, and her hair was blowing in the wind with her scarf. It was so cheesy, he wanted to laugh – he wanted to cry, because it ached. Her brother was the one who started it all. Eleven years old and full of energy, blue-eyed, all grins, cheer and laughter. He’s the one who introduced them, in a way. Her little sister in her arms, she walked over to scold her little brother for running away from her and they saw each other. He knew she recognized him, and they looked at each other for such a long time, he ached again, somewhere in his chest. She smiled at him, and he saw the scars lining her hands as she shook his, felt the fragile skin left over by burns. “Anya, say hello,” Alphie said softly to the younger one. Anya was quiet, but waved after a minute, and he felt like he had been accepted. He noticed how they were all completely different from each other – Alphie, Anya and Winter – and yet, they still had the same smile. ( Something in his head exploded, and his mind told him that this was ‘dying’. Something in his chest expanded, and everything else said that this was ‘love’. He thought that maybe they were the same thing. ) He wondered when it was that he really fell in love with her. It could have been a lot of things – stray hairs flying in front of her face because of the freezing wind, the 50

way she held onto her sister so protectively, the delicate cuts lining her fingers, the light freckles dusting across her nose and cheeks, or the way she seemed to melt into the fireworks of fall, red, yellow-brown-gold, orange and the sleeping trees. ... He wondered a lot if she had ever actually loved him. In his memories of them, they were young, and nothing mattered but the time they could spend together: the trips with her younger siblings to the aquarium and the zoo, walking through the park with her, going for ice cream, and window shopping downtown, laughing at the ridiculous outfits on display. It didn’t matter that she was poor, and would have to work to hold up her family; they didn’t have to think, back then, on how she would wind up being the main source of income for the family for a long time, at least until her little brother could hold a job. They never talked about it; it didn’t exist in their wonderful little world. Nothing mattered. Not even the fact that (somehow) they had always known. It can’t last forever. Then they got older – time passed so fast; the rain, the autumn, high school and now. where did it all go? where – and they grew apart. But he told himself that it wasn’t them, it was society that forced them apart; the need for money in a world growing increasingly dependent on it, and not the fact that they fell out of love – or, that she had. He had to tell himself that. In reality,

in reality, he knew. She had let go of his hands, turned, and walked away. ( Maybe it would have been like a fairy tale, beautiful and romantic, and he would have been Prince Charming. But she wasn’t a princess and he wasn’t a prince. This fairy tale would have no happy ending, and maybe he had always known. ) You can still be a fairy tale, something in his mind taunted, if you’d like, but you will only have the tragedy. ... Her boyfriend proposed to her not too long ago, Anya had written to him. She hasn’t given him an answer yet, so we don’t know what’s going on. Thanks for telling me that, he responded, and his hand was steady: a lie he was proud of. His world turned to glass, and the minute his back touched the blanket, everything tumbled down. Shards hit the (nonexistent) floor, and he was dimly aware of something warm on his face. ( They aren’t tears, he lied to himself, because he hadn’t cried in years. He wasn’t going to cry over something like this. ) Glass made a beautiful sound when it broke, sometimes. He almost noticed it, just like he almost noticed the door opening, and someone yelling at him. He didn’t remember anything, much. 52

He might remember a reflex, a masochistic urge he couldn’t control in the haze of panic, and the shattering of a vase. He might remember grabbing the biggest piece of broken porcelain – he remembers carving his wrist like her fingertips – might remember things that happened, but it was a blur of panic and rage. There was just yelling. So much yelling that it hurt his ears and they shattered, too, until he couldn’t hear anything at all. “Oh my God,” he might have heard someone shouting (but he didn’t know, because his ears had shattered), “Oh my f****ing God.” There was something warm all over now – like tears, like blood – until everything suddenly went cold. ... He knew he wasn’t a Prince Charming, or the perfect guy; he wasn’t rich, he wasn’t always there, and he wasn’t always going to be able to protect her from everything. But he still could have been good enough for her, couldn’t he? He wonders. Maybe it was all hopeless from the start, but he remembers the way she called his name, waving at him as her scarf flopped in the frozen wind and her nose was turning red from cold, the way his name sounded on her voice as she smiled – Wonders if it meant anything at all, and can only conclude that yes: once, it meant the world. (But the meaning of that is lost now.) 53

… He thought of her and he died. He remembered her and he died, because loving someone and dying was exactly the same thing. ( Or, almost exactly the same. He knew now, that loving someone was probably more painful than dying. He just wished he could die faster. ) But no, he couldn’t even die properly. He looked up at the ceiling of the hospital, wondered how he could have failed doing something so easy, and closed them again. He’d regain his senses while he was here, come out and forget about her, once and for all. This time for sure. After all, the three hundred, forty six thousandth, nine hundred twenty ninth time was the charm.

LADY OF THE LAKE, ECHO

Echoes of aching through the waters of the Atlantic, through those blood-filled waters to the European waters, the Greeks raise us to their lips, drink our words with our blessing, moving towards the peace we wish, but the Romans push it away, scorn our warning, bring towards them the fury of our siblings, leaving them with cooled rocks over their towns, flowing—we must have the peace we die for,

Kumi Sweely Photography Avalon must know it did not disappear for nothing; Morgan must not rise again, the many mysteries kept from the mortals who bear â&#x20AC;&#x153;lifeâ&#x20AC;? on their shoulders. Lorelei watches from her rock, waiting to open her mouth, singing to the sailors foolish enough to crash, her lips raised towards the watered air, singing in tribute to the Nixies and Nymphs

that lose their lives because of the mystery around them, the red water lilies from the split blood of a virgin fill the forest, for which the villages mourn, and we cannot help. Peace is our aim, our only goal, if the world would listen, we would not have to claim lives— Avalon must not feel the mists surrounding it hold no use; Morgan must not rise again— the Lady of the Lake, the last of them, so proclaims. Echo runs after the man with whom her voice resides, the mountains aching from her curse, copying what he says, she wastes away, the pool reflecting her tears, and he gazes at himself, in love with the fool who drowns himself there, in love with only himself, he has no time for her. She weeps bitterly, and sleeps in the trees, as so to watch him, as Artemis sighs in agony, waiting for the end—the mirror claims its prey, and the man falls into the water, the love and lust for himself spilling over into the ground— water births two flowers, white and delicate. Echo returns to Artemis clutching them, and then she wastes away.

Luna Enriquez BLACK/RED/GOLD

wheat; smell of you, like a cold raven, a coal enclosure, a muscle throbbing in dark hallways. cutting gold with cups made of plastic, recycled, filled with amber liquid like motor oilâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; stain my insides full of asphalt, full of greedy angels divining the pact made with scissors from my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sewing kit. cystic jungle; oh, midas, would you color me with your hands like molasses, like doll lips, like raw meat breaking down?

Austin Okopny NEW WORLD ORDER “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return” --Genesis 3:19 He reached for a cigarette and found the flagpole. He stared at the door and ripped a sad soul. (He stood for all the blue-collar proles and for all the fathers out in leagues to bowl.) The prole then built his mountain of a mole, and flipped out and to us he told: “Look at those kids leanin’ on the casino wall with the ‘Eff the NWO’ tag millennium scrawl and copies of Revelation and Uncle Albert’s The Fall, way out far from the ‘burb’s local wasteland mall. They came up to me with an Earth-shaped billiard ball And asked me: How would you like to play for it all?” The McDonald’s Armada flew to the ground, as the Starbucks fleet rounded up the bloodhounds and took out the red-dirt Yankee pitcher mound with their laser-drink capitalist Orwellian frowns. Out comes a fire in the cold desert sound and the whole world dissolves pound by nuclear pound. He reached for a Bible but instead found a rifle. He got up to check his license and title, 58

so he could off the man who stands worthlessly idle with his eyes all red white blue and maniacally subtle He fired his cannon and defiantly uttered (be warned this might be a bit muddled): “This disgraced fellow was a societal bread mold, all he did was keep Hollywood’s red carpet rolled up and he got all smelly and ridiculously old, I’m sure I increased his happiness ten times manifold.” They all most certainly end up in court. It’s the kind of thing to solve this sort. Make sure to bring a legalized walled-up fort and never once allow the enemy to retort, or else bring up the end of existence in short to save your ass from that blood-thirsty juryin’ horde. He reached for the door and found it to be locked. He got up and realized his life was just hawked, and now he has absolutely nowhere to walk. He sinks down to an afterlife of pushing up a rock And glances up to see the devil’s bright red crotch.

It turns out that we all end up in a pile of dust. “So what’s the point in making all this fuss?” asks the guy with all that misleading trust. “With all hearts we fight and we must carry on,” spouts a lie from the mouth of Lust, “let’s all leave in our rocket-ship buckets of rust with bumper stickers that say ‘to Heaven or bust!’”

Kira Hamilton

ON ONE SIDE OF THE WALL On one side of the wall there’s an orange and purple sky, wind fingering the grass, and laughter echoing off the leaves. On one side of the wall there’s an ant hill a mile high, flower petals softening, and newly grown trees. On one side of the wall there’s an abundance of kids all laughing, all playing, all joking, all being free. On this side of the wall there’s pain, torture, sadness. And it’s only happening to me. The hissing shower stings my skin with each drop slicing through my bones. I know what’s coming next. I spread thick strawberry lotion over my body, topped with heavy eyeliner and red lingerie. 60

I know what he expects. It’s 8:55, and the seconds of the clock match my heartbeat. My mind races and repeats until finally I hear… Only a sound I would know. I make my way to the bed and lay. I lay frozen and cold. The door opens and creaks. It opens slowly and readily. I shut my eyes and squeeze. I squeeze until my eyes burn! One button, two, three, four! A big breath in and… “Just relax,” slivers around my ear. I felt my hips and legs stiffen and scream. They screamed until they bled of cherry colored pain. My eyes blind with tears screamed too. My fingers hollered, My toes shouted, My hair fried, My bones shrieked, My insides screamed throughout my bulging veins! But my lips…oh my lips, they were silent. They didn’t even budge. Everything on the other side of the wall was peaceful. The birds, the butterflies, and the bees. But on this side of the wall… Rape. An act of forced sexual assault.

Jordan Bonner GETTING CAUGHT In the morning chill, Eliot’s chest is burning. His lips move and his eyebrows clench. He is defending himself in his dreams. I let him mumble through it, pressing the bone that runs down his chest with my thumb. It’s early. I rest my throbbing head of my crumpled sweater. The light is not yet warm and fog comes out of my mouth. The sleeping bag smells like bodies and socks and I have been holding in piss for longer than I can remember. The sunrise is not colorful or magnificent. Straight pins of light escape the mountains and the glow is raw and white. It is clean. Redneck radio songs have stopped playing in my head over and over like an ache. I shake Eliot as gently as I can. “Wake up. It’s beautiful outside.” He wakes immediately with a gasp. The cold enters him. His eyes are wide open, as if he is afraid to blink. A rabbit darts too quickly through the grass. “What time is it?” he asks. “I don’t want to know.” “We should go. Someone is going to find us.” “Shut up. There’s no one. “ He rolls over to look me in the eye. He is still naked from a night of awkward touching and wordless anxiety. I see that he is shivering madly, but dares not put his clothes back on. He fears implication. Any eyes but mine could make him skip a heartbeat. The last thing I want to do is put my coat on and walk down that hill. I don’t want to sit in a car and hear the context of the over-lording radio. I don’t want to float down the highway to Show Low, where there is nothing 62

but prices and nosy neighbors. I don’t want to wake up in my bed again, alone, thinking about I have laid there since I was a child. I do not want to roll over to touch the dirty window, reminded of Eliot’s glass eyes. “Seriously, what time is it?” he asks again. “Early.” “How early?” “If you want to leave that badly, you can walk.” Eliot purses his lips and plays with the grass in his hair. He plays with the leaves of weeds. The grass shuffles behind us. “Oh my god,” Eliot still whispers. “Someone’s coming. We should leave. Do you hear it?” “It’s the wind,” I say, not because I know this, but because I do not want to feel his fear. He stares at me with the ignorance that is so often convenient for sixteen year-old boys. He gathers his clothing and stuffs them in the sleeping bag, ready to jump into them. I want to panic with him, but I can only think about the staying power of that look of panic. It has been in his face since I first put my hand on his shoulder. Behind him, small trees part and sway. A figure is making its way through the shade. I am ready to look a man in the eye and explain nothing. “I hear shoes. Listen, those are shoes,” Eliot whispers. But they are not shoes. They are massive steps wading through the damp ground. 63

Allison Adda Mixed Media

Angelica Kim Mixed Media

Angelica Kim Sculpture

Brent Terry Mixed Media

Cloris Park Graphics

Esther Chung Screen Print

Karina Li Painting

Jane Oh Painting

Karina Li Mixed Media

Lian Tsai Graphics

Samuel Lee Painting

Sook Hyun Kim Painting

Vita Wang Painting

Bella Oh Mixed Media

Ben McNutt Photography “I hear shoes. Listen, those are shoes.” Eliot whispers. But they are not shoes. They are massive steps wading through the damp ground. At first, I see a man with a damning strength and the anonymous beard of so many mountain residents. Then it is crawling. A bear crawls through the trees, swatting the nimble branches out of its face. The bear is purring under its breath, shooting cold steam out its nostrils. “Eliot,” I say, almost without words. “There is a bear behind us.” At first, he doesn’t believe it. He jerks himself around and sees the creature. The bear stops. It is looking straight into him. Eliot turns dead stiff. He faces me again. “It saw us. I think it saw us. Crap. What do we do?” I press my finger over his lips. Eliot snatches my 78

wrists and digs his nails down to the bones. I try to keep silent but the bear approaches us. It can see the steam coming from the plastic sleeping bag. It can see the bright white of Eliot’s naked back. The creature, with its heavy paws, breathes quietly. Maybe it is curious. Maybe it is afraid. Eliot’s eyes are bright like horror. With each thudding step those rings of blue seem to ripple. He looks for instructions in my face. He looks for a man with a strong arm and uniform. His lip trembles. He says only my name. “Bo. Bo. Bo. Bo. Bo. Bo.” With each whisper of my name I can feel the seconds of my life dropping into the grass. Who knows how long we have left to lie, shivering, in this wet field, somewhere near Show Low? What if Eliot dies naked, the way he was created, ready to join the fragility of heaven, while I sit here and rot, average and nameless in these ridiculous clothes, like so many other murdered citizens? The bear is close to us, sniffing Eliot’s shoes and nudging their laces. We can hear its fur ruffling. “Do something. Oh my god. Bo. Bo. Bo. Bo.” “Stay quiet. You have to be quiet, Eliot.” “I’m scared. I don’t want to be quiet. Silence scares me more than anything.” I put my whole hand over his mouth. He bites down as hard as he can. This hurts, but I keep my face solemn like a boulder. Not a soul would know what we did. No one would know how Eliot undressed in the cold and waited for me. The places I touched would be hard and cold or torn to pulp by the creature’s claws. No one would know about the thin air, or the feeling of 79

holding him hip to hip, or the way we swore secrecy. The bear sticks its nose in my ear. It smells my cheek and under my neck. The massive claw flops onto my body and rolls me like bread. Am I alive? I imagine its placid, hungry eyes searching for mine. Am I moving? It holds me still for a second, listening to my pulse. I feel Eliot’s teeth dig deeper. I could cry out. I could yell until my blood boils. I stay silent for Eliot – this boy who trusts me. This boy who may die with faith in me on the tip of his tongue and my skin in his teeth. This boy whom I would revere no matter how much he needed me. This boy who, naked, is stronger than all of my willpower. This boy who can confront his fears with empty pupils and a rapid heartbeat. I let the silence linger. The bear steps over Eliot’s body, then over mine. Its paw scratches his back and part of my forehead. It stares at us a moment longer, then leaves us, two boulders sinking slowly into the Earth. Eliot throws his arms around me, shaking, keeping his eyes wide open. We lie there, waiting for the creature to reappear behind us. Nothing comes. No one comes. Soon enough, Eliot puts on his clothes and his shoes. I throw my sweater over my head and check the contents of my pockets. As if deconstructing a house, we roll up the sleeping bag together, tightly, then tie it with an orange string. This is what I know: I will drive Eliot back to a home I know nothing about. There, he will probably grab a bowl of cereal and watch the news with his family. He will have discovered something about himself. He will 80

fall asleep pondering his identity, questioning the innocent future. He will ask evasive questions to his mother. I will drive slowly down the highway into Show Low until the pickup rolls into Uncle Jack’s driveway. I will come through the sliding glass door and find him asleep on the couch with last night’s dinner on his pillow. He will jerk awake, hung over as all Hell, and say “Bo, where’ve you been all goddamn night? What the hell happened to your forehead?” I will say “Nothing, Jackie, just went out with the guys and got too smashed to drive.” “Yeah?” He will grunt. “Well, I hope you kicked that guy’s ass. You know, the little twit that gave you that.” and point to the scratches the bear made. Then he will nod off again. I will make myself toast and wait for the worst to come. I search through my pockets until I find the keys to the truck. Eliot tightens his belt. We walk, unafraid, into a city of bears.

STREET VENDOR KILLED IN TIMES SQUARE SHOOTOUT (Constructed from the New York Times, December 11, 2009) In the preholiday swirl New York, from inside his unmarked vodka bottle, the world was a very public crime. The Feds, however, can do no more. Mopped and scrubbed, the timeline could turn out to be our undoing. The urgent, unorthodox strategies to contain the damage trailed the drama. The wisdom of the partnership, Officer and Vendor, became painful to contemplate. Both hoodwinked the gullible. Both wore plainclothes. Now, police take another big step in pre-impact terror. The bullet count: two from the vendor, four from the sergeant. His American audience was a curious mix of complacency and fatalism. A mother cited the shooting as one of the more exciting moments on her trip. Uniformed men and women had a few words to generally sense what should be done. Virginia gun dealers, peddlers, bastards, we have never been better prepared to serve our country.

FROM THE TOP OF A BOULDER

Dear Simeon, who lives atop the burnt weeds hill above the lights of road construction as if it were the dusty roof of a vacant yacht or the sunburned cheek of a woman youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never met. I can say I know you, a man who speaks with the sweetness of clove cigarettes as you criticize the unbedazzling light of a too-hot day and the way the cashier holds her breath when she takes your money. I am coming home to retire from the luxury of shade. I will satisfy my envy with my bare hands dug uncomfortably in the forfeited dirt where things may never grow. I will sweat the last saline of my blind restlessness and stare at the cashier in a way that makes her irreparably jealous of my happiness. I want to live in the hopelessness of sweet words and bad habits. I want to wait on your porch for the mail man to come, for the weathered tires to trample the dust that one day, if weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re lucky, will grow dandelion weeds.

WHERE ITâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S WARM There are 52 cards in a summer. On this knick-knack beach, two little girls are dealing cards in the sand. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s War.

Already they threw out the twos and threes and appointed a Supreme Emperor Card, which is the card with poker instructions in tiny letters across the front. Their mothers tan with Band-Aids covering their nipples and worry lines criss-crossing with their smiles. It was a good day today. Everyone went to the aquarium. The girls fell in love with sea turtles instead of the stupid dolphins, which every other little girl stared at the whole time. Finally, the tangled, plastic kites fell into the sea like diamonds shuffled into their decks. They grew up today. Now the girls are pushing and hitting with their bloated hands. Cards are everywhere. The ocean smiles with its foam teeth and licks the backs which are printed with the same hue as its own. 84

Brent Terry Photography

The girls have already forgotten about numbers and victory, and the mothers spring up from the spray, unashamed. Beasts are whistling in the water. They will take you back to the center of the Earth. The ocean pulls the shore, paws, and toes deeper, where it is warm. I realize I am the only person still waiting to touch it.

Rebecca Cox

UNTITLED The taste of purple. a lose, glum, like that of a bruise. Mistaken, for the tender taste of blue childhood. Black licorice, safety like that of night that which the naive seek. Youth, yellow and electric we want to know, we yearn for the shock. Violet, the taste of violence, like that of a bruise.

Jing Li Photography

Katie Perez LOOK UP, GULLIBLE IS WRITTEN ON THE CEILING if there would be a longing for something different a happiness greater than you can climb, we would scrape the bottom of the skies then fall gently like paper scraps to the ground because we hit our heads on the ceiling.

if there would be something that would slip through our fingers, disabling our ability to become attached, i wonder if our cups would be half full, or just spilled on your dining room table? if beyond the bliss we could dive in deeper; we could become like fish, and the glass bowls would shatter, releasing whatever we chose to consume the not-so-empty air. if we beheaded all the actors and mimes and replaced them with watermelon seeds, and then, as if by accident they returned as bakers â&#x20AC;&#x201C; ceasing the calls of growling midsections whenever they could. if nothing existed in greater terms than everything, you tell me if we could trespass or have to remain only staying the same, ignorant to any possible change 88

on the right side of the pencil line, watching and maybe only staying the same, ignorant to any possible change if your sky and my sky were one sky, and of one color, our faces of clay might crack, into what my grandparents called a smile. crows feet and laugh lines and wrinkled noses

LUCKY CHARMS it was the feeling of empowerment hidden inside my own curiosity that led me to become blind to what you usually see

touchables and facial expressions texture and shade and pigment leaving me to only feel a shadowed pulsation in or on or outside my body not knowing whether it was my own blood being pushed through the tunnels of my playground or the amplified bass of the raving track playing outside

continuous tempos and futuristic noise earth quaking a thousand miles away or if it was just me finding that new color in the rainbow i’d blame myself for wanting to look i’d take pride in finding it first

Amber Morrell

MODEL HITS ROCK BOTTOM

I didn’t mean to kill her. I found her as she exited the Metro station on Santa Monica Boulevard on Saturday afternoon, taking care not to get her heels caught in the ventilation grates in the sidewalk. She was a Latin American beauty, her long dark hair unnaturally straightened and falling to her breasts, which may or may not have been surgically enhanced. Navy blue denim, dark washed, clung to the curves of her hips, accentuating the contours of her body, her black tee shirt gathering slightly on her miniscule waist. I watched her from the other side of the street, my old Buick in the parking lot of a recently renovated Rite Aid, the radio turned on but muted. She’d only caught my attention because she seemed to loiter around, smoking occasionally, sitting on the bench with an advertisement on its back—Looking to Rent in Hollywood 90

Hollywood Hills? —and standing again at intervals. Maybe she was waiting for someone, or just bored. I’m not a pervert, I’m too young for that, though I guess perverts could be my age. I wasn’t looking for a prostitute or a young woman to take advantage of; my intentions, at the time, were innocent enough. I just wanted her for my artistic ambitions—a model, put simply. Nothing other than that. I turned the key in the ignition, the engine starting noisily, and pulled out of the shopping center. I circled around the block a few times, and with each pass at the signal she was still there, still smoking, still sitting on that bench. Sometimes her legs would cross and the pant legs gathered at the knee, which was arousing. There was something about loose fabric gathered on a thin frame that was incredibly attractive. I parked at a meter in front of the station so I was only a few feet away. There was still a battle raging within my mind—approach her, do it, it won’t hurt; no, consider the consequences, consider the connotations, think about your reputation, think about how your actions can be interpreted; do it, you need a muse; don’t do it, Sheila’s around, Sheila will do; Sheila’s not good enough, you need something new, something fresh; last time you hired a model she went away in tears; this time will be different; you know how you get— The bottoms of my palms pushed so tightly into my eye sockets that when my eyelids reopened I saw a red and

black haze. An LAPD car passed by quickly, much faster than the speed limit, going through the signal so it could make the yellow. Not that anyone would have said anything if it went through the red. The meter was flashing, hungry for coins. I imagined what the conversation would have been if the officer had stopped because of the flashing meter, hadn’t seen him in the car, a misunderstanding— “You planning on paying for that meter?” he would say. “Yeah, I was just getting out,” I’d respond. So I did get out and in my pocket I had a few quarters, I only put in one. I wasn’t going to be long. She was still there, sitting, smoking, legs crossed. Battle inside me still raging—you shouldn’t have gotten out, get back in the car, drive away, avoid trouble, it’s not too late— But hey, I was already out. It took a few moments of mental preparation before I could approach her. I was looking at the bus schedule and subway map on one of those stand-up cases for advertisements—there was McDonald’s coffee ad directly adjacent to me—but I guess it would make more sense to say I appeared to be looking at it, because really, I was looking at her. Now that I was up close I could spot all the little details I couldn’t see before. I paid special attention to her eyes, juxtaposing them to the rest of her body. This wasn’t a physical comparison, more of an abstract one. She was like looking at a computer screen in the dark, her body shining, but her eyes embodying all the darkness that surrounded it. They made her seem lost, almost scared, like the fear of the unknown in a void 92

outside of that glowing electronic rectangle. But her body seemed to contradict this, her body was the epitome of confidence and charisma, so much that it was practically leaking out of her pores. She stood with so much poise and pride, masked as indifference, her eyes caring so much and her body so little. It was, I thought, impossible to capture with art, but perhaps I could try. This was Hollywood, and trust was few and far between, but in the end everyone wanted to make a little cash. So I approached her, hands out of my pockets, with the easiest—though admittedly sleaziest—proposition I could devise. “Hey, you wanna make a hundred bucks?” I was looking down at her, the sun in my eyes, but I could see that she lifted an eyebrow. Skeptical; they always were at first. She blew smoke up into my face, but I kept cool, sacrificing a few inhalations to avoid coughing. A hundred dollars was a pretty big offer. She had to be intrigued. “How?” I told her who I was; Jake Peabody, painter, lived in the Hills. I’d give her a ride to my place, she’d pose, I’d paint, then take her wherever she liked. Easy job, easy money. She blew smoke in my face a few more times before I got her to accept. She’d made up her mind pretty quickly though, despite the feigned hesitation and deliberation. They never actually deliberate; they would come with me if it were ten bucks for a quickie in my backseat. Getting something like this was like getting a lead role across Brad Pitt for them, and they’d never refuse. 93

Bella Ku Photography

They usually regretted it afterward, though. He’s a horrible actor. So she got in my car and we made chit chat. I’m sure the old Buick didn’t reassure her much, but as we got further into the Hills and the houses got nicer, her mood got brighter. She did most of the talking, pointless subjects like school and work and family, but always ambiguous and never specific. Had to watch out for stalkers, after all. She asked me about myself, my art, how I got started. Typical things that I didn’t mind sharing. Her manner was confident enough, but I noticed how she picked at her nails with her hands in her lap, her wrists turned upward. I snuck little glances at the blue veins shining clearly through her light skin. The rest of her was dark, but these little areas that didn’t see much sun reminded me of warm milk, the natural kind that has a slight tinge of brown. They looked soft to the touch, but I couldn’t touch them yet, so I looked away. The studio is on a hill overlooking the valley. Most of the houses are on hills—hence the name Hollywood Hills—and I’m sure one day a large enough earthquake will hit and they’ll all tumble down, whoosh, just like that, and goodbye million-dollar structures and anyone in them. It was daunting to think about, so I tried not to. Once we went inside we drank glasses of cold water and I explained to her what the job was. She was to stand naked in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the western wall, looking over the valley.

That way, as the sun set, the red and orange would spill over her skin like a glass of juice tipped over and color her with mango. I would sketch, then paint, and it would take a few hours of standing still. “Easy enough,” she agreed. “But I want the money first.” I obliged, and five twenties quickly exchanged hands. She slid them into the pocket of her jeans before she began to undress; boots first, then shirt, then jeans. She paused, my eyes were still on her. “Look away.” I did, I heard the light sound of fabric hitting the floor, I closed my eyes and imagined it, my fingers itching now to pick up the pencil. “Okay.” If Superman flew by he’d be in for a treat. Her back was towards the window, her legs pressed together so I couldn’t see more than necessary, but she held her arms at her side, revealing her chest. “Relax,” I said. “Be natural. Don’t be nervous.” She was good at being natural. As the sun set and the warm colors flooded the room, she was drowning in red and orange hues. I could feel the craze taking over, slowly, and I couldn’t draw fast enough. I was breathing heavily, quickly. It was sex, but better, a stronger euphoria, a stronger desire, such incredible emotion welled up in my chest that I wanted to cry, and I think I did, just a little. “How much longer?” she asked, impatiently. I checked the clock; it had been a few hours, but felt more like mere minutes. “A while,” I said, and ignored anything else she had to say. 96

She stood still, annoyed, but I didn’t care, I focused on what I paid her for, I devoted all my attention to the canvas in front of me. Color. It lacked color, that’s all it needed now, a certain radiance. First a primer with a palette knife, then color—so deep I was entranced that I didn’t see her move, and suddenly she was beside me, a hand on my shoulder. “Look, I really—” It was a shock for her to suddenly be standing next to me, and I turned so fast the tip of the knife, securely in my fingers, flashed across her hand with a perfect incision. The blood dripped to the clear plastic lining the floors, the tip of the knife colored with it, a splatter landing almost perfectly on the canvas. “Ow, Goddamnit,” she shouted. She was asking me for something, a towel or a bandage, but I couldn’t hear her. I was still in that mode, that artistic transcendence I couldn’t escape, and there it was, that color I’d longed for, the perfect shade. I grabbed her wrist—what the hell are you doing?—and looked into the cut intently—get your hands off of me, don’t you have any gauze?—with the knife, which I was still clutching, I plunged deeper into her skin—ow, crap! Stop it! Stop it!— digging for the color, smearing it against the canvas, my smock, anything—oh God oh God oh God please help me oh God—and I squeezed but there never seemed to be enough and I kept squeezing and there was never enough. Her sobs were breaking my concentration, forcing me out of my own beautiful, vibrant universe, 97

so I slapped her — Shut up! — but she only cried more and she didn’t stop and she kept going and there was never enough — I felt my arm lift—out of my control—fingers gripped tight around the palette knife—it was going to be different—and it plunged itself deep into her throat—I told you so, I told you so—there wasn’t a mess, no splatter, just a spluttering from her mouth—they always end up crying—her eyes wide with shock—you know how you get—blood flowing down her chin like a baby dribbling milk—I swore it would be different—until she collapsed to the plastic sheets, motionless. I sat down then. Finally the crying had stopped, my mind had relaxed, I could return to the color, the focus on the color, I wanted to return so badly but it had already been ruined by her moans, and even now that they were over and done the moment was gone, gone until I could find a way to reclaim it. She looked so good in red. I couldn’t let a single drop of it go to waste. I collected it, in little bottles, and labeled them blood orange. Then I slept, leaving her there to deal with the next day. I wasn’t stupid enough to roll her body down the hill into the valley, where mountain lions and God knows what else would eat the scraps off the rocks. I burned her. But I swear it, I really do. I didn’t mean to kill her.

DOCUMENTS

Nina Brett

I want a picture of my old house I want to hold it in my hand. I want a picture of your bed and a photo of “I love you,” too I want a CD of straw bales and fireworks and slurpees and a drawing of our music I want a photo of all our life I want to hold it in my hand. I want left over apple pie, and I want all the times you twitched in your sleep to be put in a box and sent all the way out here, I want a poem of your cooking hanging on my wall I want a glass vase filled with all the weed you smoked so I can smash and shatter all the promises you never kept all the times you never showed I want my clock so I can turn it back and set the alarm to wake up all those sleeping dogs that I let lie I want every single “You’re beautiful” on a candlewick and I want a lighter and I wanna watch it all go up in smoke I want a bouquet of your stupid, cheesy jokes; I want a chocolate box of kisses on the top of my head. I want a mixed tape of your thick black girly lashes. I want a photograph of ice cream and whistling and bicycles, I want to hold it in my hand. I want a picture of our street and the roses that finally bloomed I want a photo of your hand, so I can hold it in mine. 99

Han Byel Kang Digital Photography

Vita Wang Photography

100

Emma Gannon NIGHTTIME BOMB You pick up a pencil. It’s sharpened. The sugary taste of the envelope’s lip weighs on your tongue like a coin. The stamp is stolen from your father’s drawer— you saw the untouched dictionary lying there, grasping dust like reasons, the beaded bookmark that hasn’t pillaged a book since Kennedy was shot.

But she won’t know where that stamp came from, or that the chair you’re sitting on makes you feel like a bandit, or that the ceiling fan isn’t circulating the air— only slicing it in perspiring layers of fat heat that frown over your kitchen, waiting for you to look up. You scribble quickly, “I’m in,” and slide the letter past the wet edge, feeling the paper grow hot and restless. The ramshackle fan is popping,

101

and as you seal the letter, the hairs on your neck begin to rise. You gather your wits and run to the mail slot at 5th and Wads, feet smothering the grass, as it watches you.

Brit Wigintton ST. CATALINA i didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what it was about that afternoon that made me say to myself that i really felt that way. you standing above me, you had taken your sunglasses off. i could see your eyes, for once.

the ocean air, the dusty flooring. you looked out at catalina, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when i thought: this is it.

but it was day and i just wanted to sleep. your inhalations and fingernails left half-moon prints on my arms. that emotion i had made me sick. 102

made me want to become fetal and lie on my bunk until years had passed and you had passed too. a goofy smile, a kareoke version of the way you make me feel; a wave from the dock. you took my cracked pipes and healed them with the sealant of your caterpillar voice, your gait in your worn-down flip-flops. the soap-scent on your neck. the countdown began from the moment i stepped out of my door. the words said would either be remembered by him or forgotten by him.

three days. he must not forget me. go.

but it was time to leave and i was still silent. 103

between lemon and cherry ice, he chose cherry for me— i actually wanted lemon. i stained my lips red with how little he knew.

Morgan Unsworth PARTING WORDS I know you’re angry. You said what you thought should be said. But it came out all wrong; I can’t connect to you. And now I’m angry. Can’t stay in this car with you. Before I say the wrong thing I restrain behind the seat belt. You’ve gotten quiet. I look over to see you’re crying. So I reach into the glove box and hand you a tissue. This time we’ve gone too far. We’re almost to our destination. Remember what’s said here. I might die today. And then I’ll have nothing to say to you. Before we part ways for our goodbyes. Let’s both say “I love you.”

104

Sung Ah Jun Photography

105

Austin King Photography

106

STEEZ RAP

Madison Marlow

Cut myself open, we need to dissect, Use a sharp blade, gotta reach intellect. Help me nourish this urge to write, Stitch me up after discovery of insight. I hate those pens that grip the paper Tearing, scrunching, representing something greater. Those few words choking my throat, No chance to reword what I just spoke. I spiral, turn, into the dark, Drawn to the light, this is how it starts. The only place thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my stationary home Going to dance in the dark all alone. His steez is spittinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; flows, Reaching my heart as he goes And they echo in my mind He keeps reciting those lines. Stop. The next part, there is a him, No not song, but where the real means comes in.

107

The one who refrains from contractions, Taking only that to gain satisfaction. The part about the strain these words need to share, Scared to return, and go back there, In fear that once again when you’re in front of me I’ve slipped through time’s fingers, and won’t be. ‘Cuz his steez is spittin’ flows, Reaching my heart as he goes And they echo in my mind He keeps reciting those lines. I see us there, playing the game, Fat from life and living without shame. So it sounds like we’re having too much fun, But we have a lot to learn before we’re done. Let’s run, let’s beat it, let’s cheat it, And away we sprawl and vomit, Over this ideal t.v. screen The critic’s comments come off as mean. Judged by them but we know every word So dear Holy Plato, let this be heard, We scramble, so just tell us life’s meaning We are busy, skip the previews, go right to the screening.

108

Madi Hartzog-Warren FACE PAINT Streaks of freedom (meaning a sense of ‘I don’t give a **** what people think’) Blue and Green and Yellow s m e a r e d across her reddened FACE from running up the creaky stairs Brown paint turned an off burgundy from the sun Purple outlines touch her eyes Orange dots spot the peach smelling lips PAINT That should be on the stark white canvas covers the adolescents already PAINTED FACE The look of laughter and the sound of embarrassment echo against the nonexistent walls

109

FACE Because everything is ever as it seems buttery lies butterflies Kiss the once commercial lamp unwrapped with feisty hands anxious to make a mark in the repetitive looking living space now covered in its own coat of art student PAINT A universality of the distracting accessory was unspokenly obvious opinionated mutual feelings mingled in the wind mellifluous scent of yellow swirls reminded the skipping child of the peeling PAINTED FACE That she still wore with a smile gracing her softer Pink skin Strawberry vines with crisscrossed lines Held their own story of an â&#x20AC;&#x153;eX-oticâ&#x20AC;? romance But the saddest story to flounder on the earth Is one of the masterpiece that must be washed a w a y

ANTI-COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY I look through my viewfinder Gently place my finger tips on a knob The cold metal ridges are familiar grooves of memories once imprinted Adjust my shutter speed Push down the release A rubber stopper being forced into a wet tube 110

For the briefest moment in time I collect the world in my small machine Robin’s egg blue of the expansive sky Tastes rich and sugary sweet Tucked inside the box that captures the sunshines rays

The box can shut out The box can close in The box can focus The box can reveal The box is my 20/20 vision

Mirrors are a picture frame, holding the reality Change the aperture, immediately white light rushes Inside the body the light becomes images Imitations of life become memories I prepare for the next snapshot Look… Pause. Adjust…

Two seemingly insignificant flashes of color appear Fluttering butterflies Floating parachutes A red and a yellow kite flicker their tails They swim across my acrylic sky The clouds are cushions, protecting it From the whipping tails of the kites 111

Their streamers are horses manes Wild and free in the wind release, capture release, capture The kites rattle inside the box Tapping against the sides The red screams for a second chance to fly The yellow whispers quietly for freedom Outside I hear the laughter of a mother Mingled with the desperation of her son His round brown eyes attempting to call the kites back to the ground Her soothing voice sweeps across the hill A young girl, the daughter, sings As she skips behind them Picking her scented daisies I glance through the window Adjusting my world to near perfection The daisy stands out against her polka dotted dress The dainty girl reaches for a bouquet of flowers As she throws them up in the atmosphere (ting ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting “It’s indirect, indiscrete, it’s inconsistent, incomplete”) I capture And release release release

112

Chloe Kim Photography

113

Emilio Lazcano

ALGOL*

illuminate the heavens, Algol the embrace of lust is tingling star dust. his hair is sweet light space clouds his supernova face is explosive his skin shines as if pale moon sand from dawnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s neck ribbon his blue eyes are like starlight but still as mysterious as the moon mask gravity closed the gap between us millions of stars flicker in the night his touch makes my skin tingle with delight the meeting of our lips is a dimension that should never exist the Big Bang reveals the true intent meteors of guilt strike my mind shooting stars open the rift your ashes are the stars that shall remain in my heart and sucked into the vacuum of space darken the sky, Algol

114

*Algol is the name of a small star system in Perseus. It is Arabic for â&#x20AC;&#x153;winking demonâ&#x20AC;? and is named since Persel B regularly eclipses Persel A, so the star brightens and dims.

Lydia Claussen Photography

115

Whitney Aviles-Low THE VALLEY Genesis stood at the top of the stone stairway just to feel the effect of having the world severely tilted on its axis. The steps were uneven, some leaning further right than left, some further left than right. The thin black handrails, barely the width of Genesis’s hips, had to be tightly clung to every inch of the way to do anyone any good. It was difficult, because although the valley was beautiful and green and shrouded in a bride’s-veil mist, and although the wide, raging river spat whitewash at the tourists nearby, a person walking on those stairs couldn’t observe anything else but where they put their foot down next. Genesis’s father had told him that if he ever wanted to feel drunk, he should just walk those stairs with his hands behind his back. It wasn’t that Genesis enjoyed feeling tipsy. It was simply that on those stairs, if only for a moment, the world was in a disconnect. He wasn’t a part of it anymore, free-floating in a place where the earth forgot where it belonged. He was empty air, he was invincible – nothing could touch him there. Out of the corners of his eyes there was nothing but lush green, so much that he felt he was drowning in it. The whitewash stopped his ears, and the tourists’ laughter seemed like the faded voices of ghosts rolling along the river bed. As always, when he reached the bottom of the stairs, Genesis looked back up to the top and wondered how he’d survived. He took the final step down and joined his older sister, Honeygirl, on the cement trail. She stared past him, up at the stairs. Those slanted gray eyes of hers weren’t like either of their parents’, and their lightness brought out the color of her 116

skin. Her skin was dark, but not the kind of dark that Genesis was. Honeygirl was light bronze, the color of honey. Their father had named her. A good Filipino name, Mother said, a name to match that skin. But Honeygirl was convinced their dad had been smashed out of his skull by the time he got to the hospital, and so wrote the first thing that came to mind. They weren’t even Filipino. “Honeygirl” also happened to be the name of the first dog their father adopted when he was ten. Genesis liked her name. It was smooth and sweetsounding, like plumerias: Honeygirl. Not like his name at all. He would miss saying it. She was sixteen and leaving soon, off for the mainland with their mother in only a few hours. “You really only come here for those stairs?” Honeygirl asked. Genesis rocked on his heels, tilting his head slowly from side to side. Really all he wanted was to get lost, but saying it like that might confuse her. There were multiple paths winding through the valley rainforest, all off-limits of course, but Genesis never had been one to follow rules. For long stretches of time he would stand in one spot while Honeygirl meandered to study the tourists splashing in the natural pool, and he would stare at the bulging roots growing like flexed muscles out of the muddy forest walls above the designated trail. He would peer along the paths carved out in the dirt by rainwater, and follow them with his eyes until they vanished into the thick, twining branches of bent trees strangling each other for space. He would imagine himself following them, deep into the stomach of the forest, the 117

heavy blanket of fog settling over him like the weight of God. In his head he would carve a spear, build a home out of kapa bark and lauhala like his ancestors, and he would grow and pound Kalo and sweet potato and survive that way. Nobody would ever find him, and that would be okay, because then he could live in the forest forever. No more people. No more anything. It never took long for Genesis to abandon those thoughts and instead seek out Honeygirl. It wasn’t fear of the law that kept him from following those trails. It wasn’t even fear of angering his parents or Honeygirl. It was the boars. He’d heard horror stories about those monsters, and they infested the valley like no other ancient spirit could. They were worse than the mongoose, tearing up trees at their roots, destroying plants and animals, goring unfortunate passers-by. No matter how much tougher he was than the older boys on his street, Genesis could never picture himself standing up to a boar. Just thinking about it made him break out into a cold sweat. Not even the unforgiving humidity could keep chills from sucking the warmth out of his skin. Whenever he’d consider bolting up the trails and never looking back, he’d close his eyes and see the thick cut of flesh hanging from his uncle’s calf, where a boar thrust its tusk into the muscle and carved it out. It took two shots, one from Genesis’s gun and one from his cousin’s, to kill the wretched animal. The boar was small compared to some of the others roaming around, but Genesis had been small at the time, too. Even though his uncle got out of the hospital smiling, eager to go after another pig, Genesis refused to ever go hunting again. “You ready to go home?” Honeygirl asked. 118

Caleigh Birrell and Samuel Lee Drawing Genesis shook his head, paused, and then bolted down the trail and cannon-balled into the pool of ice water a few yards away, fully clothed. He sent up a violent splash that made a couple of tourist girls shriek. Several mothers pulled their toddlers into their arms, preventing them from imitating the boy who had managed to disturb a nice family outing. Genesis turned over on his back. He spread his arms and legs and allowed himself to float in the middle of the pool. Honeygirl wondered what that happy little family would think if they knew the history of that pool, how at one point in time it was a ditch of broken bodies turning the river sticky with blood. “Hey,” she called. “Hey, Genesis.” The cotton-headed boy turned over onto his stomach, floated a moment, and then dove down to the pool’s rocky bottom. Honeygirl sighed. She sat down in the middle of the sidewalk and crossed her legs like she was about to meditate. A Japanese lady in a big brown sun hat nearly 119

tripped over her, but Honeygirl paid no mind. She looked at the stairs and knew they could kill. Those stairs could breathe and toss and heave and one day Genesis would find himself with his head bent back between his feet. He’d be just like those soldiers that the legendary Great King with the unpronounceable name murdered to unify Hawaiki. Only Genesis would fall, because only he couldn’t tell the difference between alive and dead. And those soldiers were dead, long, long dead. Their skulls were pebbles in the river being danced on by the fat feet of little children. It was the one bit of history Honeygirl remembered from all her wasted days at various groups of crumbling concrete buildings everyone told her were called schools. Now Genesis was scaring people by brushing against their feet, in that water with the bloodiest story to tell in all the islands. To them he could’ve seemed like a snake, or a shark, or some poisonous fish. What would those illogical people know about the kinds of animals that lived on Maui? They were only here for the fantasy and adventure, her father said. The rules of civilization didn’t apply. Mothers were pulling their crying children out of the pool. Families were leaving. The sun-hat lady ran up the muddy bank, slipped, stained the back of her bleachedwhite shorts brown. Good-riddance. Genesis popped out of the water. He watched the people hurry up the sidewalk, a perplexed look on his face. “Genesis,” said Honeygirl. He stepped out of the water and shook out the thick, curling locks of his hair. It was too long; the tips of it were brushing his bony shoulders. At least now it somewhat hid the ugly scar above his left eyebrow. He was a small kid 120

for fifteen, scrawny, but probably dangerous-looking to someone who didn’t know him. Just watching him, watching the way he stood and moved, anyone could tell he was a fighter. No wonder the tourists had run. He’d gotten into a fight only yesterday, got his stomach swung at by a metal bat, but it was the other boy who ended up being in trouble; even before Genesis had managed to get his breath back, it took two full-grown men to pull him off the other kid. Genesis walked up to Honeygirl, wringing out his shirt. The water splashed her knees. “It’s great,” he said. “Nice and cold.” “Too bloody.” “What?” “Too bad. I prefer warm.” Genesis nodded, slowly. “Oh,” was all he said. His gaze wandered off into the trees again, like it sometimes did when Honeygirl was talking to him, or when anyone was talking to him for that matter. His eyes widened, glazed over. For a tiny part of a second, Honeygirl thought he’d died standing, that all those spirits in the water crawled out and gouged out his soul with their broken spears. Honeygirl nearly stood up and shook him, but then he turned his head back in the direction of those sorry stairs. “You’re done,” she said, and yanked on his wrist. “One more,” he whispered. She felt the words move through her like a passing ghost, leaving its cold touch lingering at her core. 121

“Enough. You’ll crack your skull open.” “Last time. I swear.” Honeygirl’s fingers slid off his wrist, one by one. “It’s a beautiful place,” commented Genesis. “Not a part of the world.” All she could see of the valley was its past, the bodies tumbling off the nearby mountain known islandwide as The Needle, little half-naked bodies spinning and spinning down the cliffs until they fractured in the river far below. Hundreds of years later it would be a major family attraction overrun by boars and unneutered cats.

Jahaira Anaya Photography

122

“I can’t stay,” she whispered. Genesis said, “I know.” “Come with us,” said Honeygirl. “There’s nothing here for you.” “You know,” said Genesis. “I’m still afraid of those stupid boars.” “Genesis,” she said again, but he was already moving. His bare foot flattened on the first step, and just like that he was beyond her reach. Clouds were slowly oozing their way over the top of The Needle, spilling into the valley like cold water into a hot glass. The clouds sank quickly and became a heavy mist, wrapping around Genesis’ skinny body until he was nothing but a shape, a shadow, a ghost. A moment more and he was invisible. Honeygirl stood up. Her knees were still wet, and now they were cold and shaking. Every joint in her body was shaking. “Hey,” she called. “Genesis.” Her voice echoed off of the enclosing white walls. Genesis didn’t answer her. He was too busy getting lost at the top of the world. Years later, long after Honeygirl forgot the sound of her brother’s voice, she would wonder if he’d ever existed at all.

123

FLAVORS OF

Recall multisensory recollections creatively. Cause errors. Fix them. I still remember where I was, what I was, when I was shot. Vivid, homesick from lying. Radio playing minutes, precise words, imagine: “Ladies and gentlemen, the President is dead.” That scene replayed perfectly the past of human memory. Clarity is certainly wrong. Original memory laid down in November for the last time, each time subtly altered. What goes back is the new version overwriting the old. Intimately involved experience will create embarrassments, failures, connection deeper than purpose; memory predicts the future. Significance will survive longer, produce bodies kicked into overdrive. Respiration quickens, muscles burst, tell the next few minutes to be especially robust, arousing clips of weeks remembered. Make clear dangers, tragic formation mediated through perfect evolution. This is an over – simplification.

124

Sugar the brain. Play in tandem. Complexity multiplies, remembers absolutely everything, structurally different doubts enhanced artificially. Modify hope to understand the result of a vicious circle. In the aftermath think more about it, think about it more, act even stronger. Heartbeats risk traumas. The rest got placebos. Placebo heart rates, sweaty palms, technique for erasing memories, unethical tinkering with identity. No one suggests that doctors withhold pain on the grounds that it may erase part of the experience. Rats and humans have shown that it can work – old-fashioned talk therapy, most effective with phobias. The idea examines new associations, traditional unearthing of the daylight streamline sessions, typical, hardly surprising. Schizophrenia, the next batch of ammunition against disorders of sense. * Constructed from “The Many Flavors of Memory” by Michael D. Lemonick (Times Magazine: Your Brain: A Users Guide)

125

Sana Liu Photography

ART OF THE UNWRITTEN (Response to “Vocabulary” by Ariel Dorfman) I

The mirror is a reflection of a reflection of a reflection of the puddle in which I drowned – this is a metaphor for something unexpressed II We want something concrete, we want for abstractions to fold themselves into suitcases 126

into boxes and ship themselves via Priority Mail as far out as they’ll go. Yet they doff their hats and linger, coiled, behind street corners, beneath gutters, melted between cracks in the asphalt, each one waiting waiting to ensnare the next poet who doesn’t know how to marry emotion to a tangible noun. Suddenly, the heart beats like a memory instead of a songbird feels like a swollen ego instead of a rotting fruit – tastes like Monday, even though Mondays almost always taste like…

III There is rhythm to failure. Success is a hard word, it sticks to the throat like a Monday, always with a bit of residue from Sunday.

127

There is rhythm to failure, to the liquid slide of letters off the tongue, to the roll of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;lâ&#x20AC;? luring I to U. There is rhythm to romance, romance in the notion of the struggling artist. IV I have pushed the last of my abstractions into a corner, where it studies my quest for the concrete with an accusing eye fixed upon my pen. It is an ice cube melting, a white wax candle shivering, smothered by a napkin, dying. V The mirror being a reflection

a reflection of a reflection of a reflection

of the poet, a glass bowl into which abstractions sink dripping off the tongue dripping from the fingertips from the eyes 128

from the teeth from the corners of the mouth

until the poet is a puddle in which I drown â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the box is sent, the candle put out.

Ben McNutt Photography 129

Scarlet McCarthy BOY WITH A COIN Hugh grinned at the deceased pigeon that lay lifeless and plucked on the shore’s edge. The bird only retained one eyeball; a hawk of some sort had likely eaten its mate. This kind of murder, the senseless sort, caused Hugh to remember the jellybeans his mother bought him as a small child at the corner liquor mart. Murder -- like those of wars -- did not bring back fond recollections so Hugh typically chose to deny them. Instead Hugh focused his thoughts on pointless death to once again bring about the age-old taste of red dye #5. Hugh would later become a serial killer, a profession that enabled him to frequently enjoy jellybeans without ever consuming them. Hugh bent down to the sea’s level and stared the bird in his one open eye. He rose, muttered “Poor thing,” and stepped on the bird’s skull, crushing it into a million little pieces, like a potato chip. He smiled; the familiar taste flooded his mouth. It just felt nice, kind of like Christmas and vanilla. Hugh strode back to the car that sat alone on the dirt path. When in ignition he felt the same power as on August 4, 1975 -- the day he dismembered the neighbor’s cat. The jellybeans that day had been cherry infused. He typically didn’t even like cherries, but fake cherries were different. Driving down the interstate he recalled the night his mother had first taken him to the liquor mart. She had never brought him prior, she typically didn’t want him present when she purchased a dosage of Jack Daniels. 130

On the way out, a young Hugh disentwined his mother’s fingers from his. He sauntered down the black and white linoleum tile towards the candy isle. He yelled across to the liquor selection, “Mommy, what can I have?” “What’s the cheapest thing?” He surveyed the shelf, and there they were, in their pristine plastic package that read “$00.85” “Jellybeans,” he hollered. “Get those. If you’re good and don’t bother mommy I’ll take you back tomorrow night.” As they stepped out into the winter night his mother pulled her cheetah print shawl around her bony frame that was only covered by a thin blue slip and fake strand of pearls. “When we get home let mommy be and you can watch the Brady Bunch and eat your jellybeans.” They returned to the twostory walk up over the Chinese restaurant that would in later years be exposed as a mob front. That night, as Hugh ate his jellybeans and watched Marcia Brady brush her hair one hundred times he heard a sound that at the time was unknown, kind of like Atlantis. He would later know this sound very well, the sound of a bullet being fired. He walked to his mother’s room, a place typically forbidden, and nudged the door ajar. He saw her. She was on the ground; an empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a handgun lay beside her. Hugh’s tiny fingers dropped the Jellybean bag, causing the orange, green, and red candy to scatter and mix with the apple flavored blood. To Hugh, his mother had never been a tangible person. She had always been there, but in an unknown way, like a rat. He didn’t care for rats, so he didn’t really care much for his mother.

131

Samara Liu Photography Her death was not unsettling to think about, it always reminded him that he had a greater purpose. God had manifested something special in Hugh. Hugh had the hunger and desire to kill, how many people could say that? Back on the highway Hugh noticed a gas station ahead. Prompted by his craving for more supremacy he stopped and entered the small supply mart. He could smell them already -- the Machiavellian hunger inside him 132

began its call once again. They were there of course, in their pure synthetic package. The cashier looked up at Hugh and assumed the handsome young man must have just gotten off work. Victor, the AM/PM cashier, mused that if he had been as strapping as Hugh when he was young the opportunities for him would have been infinite. He would have been able to work at a bank operating a real register. “You like Jellybeans?” Hugh smirked, “You have no idea.”

133

ABOUT THE CREATIVE WRITING WORKSHOP AT IDYLLWILD ARTS ACADEMY

For high school students interested in developing as writers, Idyll-

wild Arts offers a major in creative writing, which, combined with the academic program, prepares a student to pursue writing fields in college and beyond. The overall program for writers at IAA

provides a general study of literature, arts and sciences, and fine arts; it also provides extracurricular experiences in public readings, publishing a literary magazine, and excursions to cultural and environmental experiences. A tiered curriculum provides

introductory and advanced workshops, seminars, tutorials, a senior thesis, and a senior oral examination. Individual courses place

an equal emphasis on the process of writing and on the study of literature by writers of many eras, continents, and sensibilities.

Participants in the workshop develop a wide-ranging background in literature and the fine arts, varied historically, intellectually, geographically, and culturally.

Classes are small, usually fewer than 10 students, with department enrollment no greater than 22 students. Creative writing teachers

at IAA are a mixture of full and part-time faculty who only teach

creative writing courses. Their work has been published by nationally known, professional journals and presses respected by other

writers, editors, and publishers. Distinguished and emerging visiting writers teach master classes and provide feedback to students. In the 2009-2010 academic year, our guests included novelist Brady Udall and poets Ed Skoog and Douglas Kearney. 134

Birchard writing center, the core classroom and workspace for creative writing students, is the oldest building on campus, a pleasant space

with tall windows conducive to workshops and seminars, promoting an excellent atmosphere for concentration and focus. Students frequently

travel to readings, workshops, festivals, and other special events away from campus, such as a recent production of Ruth McKeeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s original

play Stray and a poetry reading at the Geffen Playhouse in Los Angeles. Students participate in competitions appropriate to their level, including the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, the Poetry Society of America

Louise/Emily F. Bourne Poetry Award, and the Faulkner Society High School Short Story Award. Senior creative writing majors are always

accepted into a variety of well-respected writing colleges and universities in the United States and beyond.

Please direct questions about the program to Kim Henderson, Creative

Writing Department Chair: Idyllwild Arts Academy, PO Box 38, Idyllwild, CA 92549 or email khenderson@idyllwildarts.org

The Editor would like to thank all contributors of art, design, writing, financial resources, time, and technical assistance for their

infinite patience and hard work. The amount of talent that went into

this edition of Parallax is overwhelming. Thank you all - we made this together.

135