Parallax 2013 by Idyllwild Arts

Parallax 2013 Editor-in-Chief: Becky Joy Hirsch Junior Editor: Sabrina Melendez Poetry Editor: Luis Eduardo Bermudez Ham Fiction Editor: Connor Scott Noble Dramatic Writing/Web Editor: Isaac Dwyer Editorial Staff: Erin Breen, Ana Garcia Lopez de Cardenas Visual Art Editor/Cover Art: Delaney Clark Layout and Design: Jordan Sternberg Creative Writing Department Faculty: Kim Henderson (Chair), Andrew Leeson, Katherine Factor, Abbie Bosworth Visual Art Department Faculty: Gerald Clarke (Chair), Eric Metzler, Melissa Wilson, Mallory Cremin, Terry Rothrock, David Reid-Marr, Joann Tomsche, Rachel Welch Head of School: Douglas Ashcraft Idyllwild Arts Academy 52500 Temecula Drive PO Box 38 Idyllwild, CA 92549 (951) 659-2171 Parallax Online www.parallax-online.com Copyright 2013 Idyllwild Arts Foundation All rights reserved. No work is to be reprinted without the written consent of the author and the Idyllwild Arts Foundation.

This is what I love: Parallax. Each poured-over word, each specially-selected image, and the experience they create each time you see them. The journey you take flipping through these pages isn’t like going to a reading or walking through a gallery. It combines those events to create something new, every time you open your copy. A journal like this one is designed to last long and be treasured, to give you time to really get to know the work held here. If you give Parallax a chance, hopefully you’ll start to notice what I have: the quiet joy of mixing mediums, the unanswerable question that still stems from each individual work of art, even as the pairing of writing and image pushes the meaning of each further. The combinatin of nostalgia and disillusionment in Claire Malarkey’s short story “Fleece and Sand” has never quite hit me as hard as it does now, seeing Jane Oh’s visual art piece featuring a young woman against a fluorescent city staring back at me. Thumbing through these pages, I try so hard to understand what Parallax is all about, what I have felt living in this binding these past four years. It’s beautiful to see pieces of art, created so differently and without any knowledge of the others, come together so harmoniously as the ones paired in this journal. But I’m also, in a simpler way, just happy to see the writing and visual art I’ve been pouring over all year finally printed. The time I’ve spent designing Parallax has not ruined the surprise that opening this journal every time will be. I’m happy to welcome you to this journal and hope that it won’t throw your brain through the same philosophical mindtrip that it has mine, but that you’ll enjoy every inch of these pages all the same. On behalf the 2013 Editing Staff, welcome to Parallax! Becky Joy Hirsch Editor-in-Chief

Contents Poetry.....................................................................................................................7 Luis Eduardo Bermudez Ham • Introduction.........................................................8 Fluxus Performance Explanation.............................................................................9 Kathleen Whitman • Mind Of An Overly Conscious Culture................................10 Anna Ahn • Stress.........................................................................................................10 Anthony Lopez • The Street Experience.................................................................11 Marisa Chentakul • Untitled.........................................................................................11 Gracie Haggard • Song Without Sound...................................................................12 YJ Yoon • The Earring..................................................................................................12 Hannah Osgood • You Are What You Eat..............................................................13 Caleigh Torf • Untitled..................................................................................................13 Zen Ocean • Put-Pocket...........................................................................................14 Amy Kang • Beyond......................................................................................................14 Michelle McMillan • Classroom #1..........................................................................15 Sarah Little • Transdimensional....................................................................................15 Frida Gurewitz • Homeland.....................................................................................16 John Ahn • Untitled......................................................................................................16 Mckenna Turk • Particles.........................................................................................17 David Gordon • Untitled................................................................................................17 Hannah Phillips • Awake in an Accidental Autopsy...............................................18 Grace Shin • Untitled....................................................................................................19 Kalinah White • Postmarked....................................................................................20 Hannah Phillips and Franny Freeman • Untitled............................................................21 Nicholas Martin • Dizzy...........................................................................................22 3

Contents Cooper Dai • Meditation................................................................................................23 Lindsey Pietsch • Grim Reaper................................................................................24 Marine Chen • Untitled.................................................................................................25 Tyler Leswing • Homebound....................................................................................26 David Gordon • Untitled................................................................................................27 Kendall Ozmun • Hymn...........................................................................................28 Cooper Dai • Snowfall...................................................................................................28 Isaac Dwyer • Country Girl Truth-Caster...............................................................29 William Lovett • Walking Into......................................................................................30

Dramatic Writing ..........................................................................................31 Isaac Dwyer • Introduction......................................................................................32 Branford Walker • The Myth of Orphia..................................................................33 Nadia Kim • Phoenix....................................................................................................47 Erin Breen • Screw-Ups Incorporated.....................................................................48 David Gordon • Untitled................................................................................................59 Rebecca Cox • Southern Comfort............................................................................60 Sarah Little • Confinement............................................................................................69 Neil Vasquez • Untitled.................................................................................................70 Florence Liu • Conception..............................................................................................71

Contents Cooper Dai • Self-Portrait.............................................................................................72 Nadia Kim • Untitled....................................................................................................73 Devin Debowski • Maternity..........................................................................................74 Nadia Kim • Untitled....................................................................................................75

Fiction....................................................................................................................76 Connor Scott Noble • Introduction..........................................................................77 Erin Breen • Suede Pumps.......................................................................................78 Caleigh Torf and Eric Metzler • Untitled........................................................................78 Dante Yardas • Schooling.........................................................................................79 Caroline Jiang and Clarice Kirkbride • Untitled..............................................................80 Connor Scott Noble • Significant.............................................................................81 Cooper Dai • Phantom...................................................................................................82 Sabrina Melendez • Brain-Scan: After the Accident...............................................84 Franny Freeman • Cracked Up......................................................................................85 Becky Joy Hirsch • A Tango....................................................................................87 Kendall Ozmun • Untitled.............................................................................................88 Ruth Ruiz • The Hills................................................................................................89 Zoe Ingram • This is a Picture of Inga 2.........................................................................91 Zoe Ingram • This is a Picture of Inga 1.........................................................................93

Claire Malarkey • Fleece and Sand..........................................................................95 Jane Oh • Untitled........................................................................................................96 Callie Levan • Danny................................................................................................97 Marine Chen • Untitled.................................................................................................98 Zienna Stewart • Portrait of a Leaf................................................................................100 Luis Eduardo Bermudez Ham • Pencils Sharp as Knives......................................102 Nadia Kim • Paths.......................................................................................................103 Sarah Little • Untitled..................................................................................................107 About the Creative Writing Department..................................................................110

Dear poetry reader: Life is weird, tough, happy, sad, loving, hateful and much more. It is a dizzying ride that leaves us confused and disoriented, wanting to scream and yell. And that screaming has a different sound in every person: in some, it sounds like a brush spreading pigment over a canvas. In some, it sounds like a beautiful song. And in some, it sounds like words pouring out in the shape of a waterfall, flying out of the tips of pens like birds in spring. It has the ticking and tacking sound of fingers slamming against a keyboard in movements selected specifically to create art. It sounds like an outlet, where the shy can speak up, where the proud can show who they really are, and where a writer can become one with the reader. My experience with poetry began just months ago, but, since then, I have developed a passion for the subject and have presented my poems at several independent readings. In this next section, you will find Zen Ocean’s “Put-Pocket”, which will get you thinking in a hilarious way; in Kalinah White’s “Postmarked” you will get a grim insight into the mind of a letter; in Lindsey Pietsch’s “Grim Reaper,” you’ll even get to witness a death from the point of view of the hooded skull itself in. This next section sounds like the voices of both those who are not heard and those who are. It is a mixture of you and me and him and her and everyone who made this happen, in any way. You, reader, are about to embark in the wonderful world of words. Have a nice stay, and don’t forget to visit again soon. Luis Eduardo Bermudez Ham, Poetry Editor

Fluxus Performance Poetry

The following six pieces were written in the style of the Fluxus movement as Performance Scores. They are instructions for actions to be performed by one or more individuals, similar to music scores. This type of writing is meant to be simple and brief, to elevate the banal and mind the mundane, to frustrate high culture and the market motives of much of art.

Mind of an Overly Conscious Culture Kathleen Whitman Fluxus Performance Poetry

… 2012

Anna Ahn • Stress 10

The Street Experience Anthony Lopez Fluxus Performance Poetry

Go to a crowded street. Walk through the street to its end without changing direction. Do not avoid hitting other pedestrians. 2012

Marisa Chentakul • Untitled 11

Song Without Sound Gracie Haggard Fluxus Performance Poetry

Tape down every key on the piano. Write a symphony. 2012

YJ Yoon • The Earring 12

You Are What You Eat Hannah Osgood Fluxus Performance Poetry

Get cookie. Write name on cookie. Eat cookie. 2012

Caleigh Torf • Untitled 13

Put-Pocket Zen Ocean Fluxus Performance Poetry

Put‐pocket as many people as you can in 15 minutes. Use $5 notes, or 5 word notes. Film the process. If you are caught, take the money back. 2012

Amy Kang • Beyond 14

Classroom #1 Michelle McMillan Fluxus Performance Poetry

Take a blank piece of paper. Trap your boredom there. Fold. Pass to a friend. Repeat. 2012

Sarah Little • Transdimensional 15

Homeland Frida Gurewitz In a land of Spy vs. Spy and rock-paper-scissors and hot summer sidewalks, we live lives full of strawberry pie and wind-up clocks. We walk through twinkling cities to dark alleyways where we buy illegal fireworks from faraway lands to light up during the summer. Before we roamed the streets on the backs of bikes arguing over who deserved to die and swear words we scribbled suburban walls with grape-scented markers. In Maine, in Disneyland, in Kansas we film our mistakes and put them on television and paste them on walls. We are isolation and pride and the ice cream truckâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bubblegum stare. Our biggest choice is the independence we chose to give ourselves and the voice that comes with that.

John Ahn â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled 16

Particles McKenna Turk Awaken, after millenniums of youth. Blistered and burned; dissections aren’t final. Mountains stand; an airplane graveyard. Oceans are pits of ash like quicksand. Deserts like a pulled wisdom tooth, A tall tree, a short piece of rope; tattered guards. Lookouts of forgotten corpses, listen for the injected peons that make up our God. Here the dust never clears, black sand everywhere. This is the place time reverses; we repeat. Heroes carry heads by the hair, and fingers like teeth. The rivers flood to their brims, rusted with iron beams.

David Gordon • Untitled 17

Awake in an Accidental Autopsy Hannah Phillips Non-Major Contest Winner

Slick soft silver slicing, sliding through hips, my hips swerving, yearning, learning; learning, righting wrongs, wronging rights, fixing. Licking dry lips, pushing pops the perfect unscarred skin, simple, smooth-as-satin skin, unfamiliar with pleasure, new to pain. New to nice necks and nicks and imperfection, a few new and unused, amused, abused. Abused because unused and amused, the first slice, the best slice. No longer new and unused, amused, abused hips, my hips.

Grace Shin â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled

Postmarked Kalinah White Shuttled away

to places further

I cascade into friends

I am thrown into my life.

along the way

THEY Those that handle me bruises along my sensitive skin

Their young jump and stare outreached arms.

They cut me open holiday scissors,

taking

never slacken desperate

and shake the sense

in awe

or rock me

burnt eraser shavings.

scalpel butcher knife exacto pen butter knife or

they conclude

exaggerated

incision

upon

incision,

ganders at my exposed insides.

After looks I am useless. This is the feel of being

asleep.

as my body sputters towards their

or I can rust,

but I carry an exact aroma

like surgeons

never tremble

pieces on a marble ground.

Then their little girls pick me up

I can sparkle

swept up again.

less delicately than the norm trod marks and they make spectacles of me.

Their fingers however oddly shaped for that one touch that first high. They disperse

until

{postmarked}

Hannah Phillips and Franny Freeman â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled 21

Dizzy Nicholas Martin Well hey, Mr. Officer, listen up I swear that in a “Thief” man, you can trust It’s unfair you ask me to surrender when my father is a well-known public defender, so I know my rights and I know them well see I’d like to explain, but I don’t kiss and tell then again, though, you cuffed me, I’ll be compliant I wanna know as bad as you why I started a riot, so… Do you wanna hear the story? From what I can remember I met a girl at a party, and she told me that It’s time to get the people movin’ Tonight, we lead a revolution Listen, Mr. Officer, I’m not that drunk I swear that the keg was only filled with punch it’s unfair that you tell me I’m intoxicated when I use big words like intoxicated there’s no point in attempted intervention I was under her spell, her indoctrination “Who?” you may ask, it’s quite a mystery She kept quite covered when she seduced me, now Let’s get back to the story, I was saying that I met the girl at a party, and she told me that It’s time to get the people movin’ Tonight, we lead a revolution Wait, sir, I remember now, she took me outside… she pushed me up against the the wall, and stared right into my eyes… suddenly a blinding light came into my sights next thing, I woke up with your handcuffs on tight

Now you know the story, all I remember Was meetin’ a girl at a party, who told me that It’s time to get the people movin’ Tonight, we lead a revolution

Cooper Dai • Meditation

Grim Reaper Lindsey Pietsch I stand and wait in the darkness. In the shadows, where no one can see me Where they do not expect me to be. A scream erupts, yet I hear music, and I creep out, coming to fetch her soul. I watch the lives of both good and evil and wait for their time to come, when their soul is taken by me. I can choose the people’s fate take their lives or let them live for just a little bit longer. They will someday have to go die in the streets, or fall from a bridge. Whichever one, I do not care. Just close your eyes and sleep, my dear let your breath trail away into the sky and lay your head down, rest, you are tired. You will wake up, I promise you, as a new creature, but do not worry: there is no need to breathe, or worry about dying. You are already dead; we both are. So trace away those thoughts of life. Think of how much better it is to be still and bleak, with a touch of sadness. I sit and linger, I am that dusky, overhanging silhouettethe one which is waiting for that girl to cross the street. She is looking down as she walks down that musky walkway between these two buildings, I am waiting for her. She keeps on walking, and she passes where I am, so I begin to follow I catch up to her, and tap her shoulder, where she shivers and turns around, she doesn’t even gasp, she is that afraid. I pull back my hood, and then she screams, in her eyes is my reflection her mouth opens wide, her skin produces the look of a corpse. The girl falls to the ground, and I pull out the soul from her chest and I stow away her precious heart of life I will turn it into something better.

I take one last look at the girl who was scared to death, I walk away and become once again a myth and legend, and quickly melt into simply a figure made only of mist.

Marine Chen â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled

HOMEBOUND By Tyler Leswing Staring out the window I realize this is my haven Many months have rolled by Long everlasting sunsets Of longing But now, back at last The quiet sky, the gorgeous garden This is my home A secluded island in heaven Travel through suburbia The rolling hills Walk through the green Green grass Towards the deep Deep blue Water And see the golden bridge Plunging pillars Into the deep Pacific The gate Shimmering in the sunrise In sunset The city lights glow A steel shrine, forever illuminating

Staring out the window I wear different lenses I bear no more ungrateful gifts Within me Only appreciation for what I Have long been away from I hold on to these flailing moments Like grasping fleeing white doves Standing in a grassy field With the sunlight on my skin I remember Past times that make me who I am Beauty that can’t be erased I cannot forget I once told myself I didn’t believe in home But that wasn’t really the truth For I have now realized A deep harmony, restoration When returning upon a journey Inside these golden hills, within my element I am home Bounded forever

David Gordon â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled

Hymn Kendall Ozmun NON-MAJOR CONTEST runner-up

Within the confines of your Silhouette, graves sit still Despite your crooked motions. I arrived after a plume of ash Finally fell upon my skin, My mouth was dry and you Promised me water. Cicadas sung soft hymns, Your skin became the altar I kneeled upon I was praying in secret, sweetness spilling From mindful whispers of favors and salvation. We broke away together, Softly and certain. We fell over fallen crosses. Daughters bury their fathers Beneath you.

Cooper Dai â&#x20AC;˘ Snowfall 28

Country Girl Truth-Caster Isaac Dwyer Always in a Casanova delusion, I thought myself enlightened in the feminine, or if not that, then at least a knower of the language, a speaker of the body. So when I spotted her on a country hill in Lunigiana, I knew that sometimes gazes are carnivorous whirlpools, the pupil a kraken crushing my timbers to smithereens. These tribal tricks the girls learn, with their face paint and their lacey robes, their naked toes digging through the rows of tulips at the end of Hubby’s driveway, blinks slow, snails stretching their slime lugubriously over an aquarium window, that when they’re gaze-less, it’s because the glaciers moved in over their brows while their lips bowed and separated, just like the blossoms at their knees; kiss kiss. As it was with this one - so much to say; she hoarded it, a dragon’s treasure, clenching back the fire with her teeth, a drop of blood on the tongue drawn from her inner cheek. So whoever could know that her throat was a chrysalis, every ridge under her chin a cell, waiting for that antennae to pop out of the tissue, the same tint as her rosacea, her little wingèd words flying loose onto my nose, stirring up my balance, the water in my heart, my ears, impatient little toddlers in a bathtub; she made me woozy, how sexy! & whoever could know that at the same time, a nice girl could be such a witch, giving me what I wanted, but not what I asked for That’s magic there; when she saw my sweaty, lustful paws and swiped them away, saying “Boy, you fool, animale, can’t you see you’re just hurt; what do you bring to the earth except your own pain, your own bloated ego, hunting girls like geese? Where has your truth gone?” & god damn it I stopped it all right there, for on me she cast the spell of truth. But there was her husband, broad-jawed and maple-toned, nicotine stick in his mouth twitching like a spider’s dinner, grey gum paper translucent around the breathing tobacco, lower lip lugging behind his consonants, as he beckoned her back inside, behind the screen door 29

Did she want him? I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think so, but I wanted to steal her. Right there. For her words landed on my nose, batted their spotted wings twice cast away the humdrum, staying for more than a fleeting autumn.

William Lovett â&#x20AC;˘ Walking Into

Dearest Readers, Welcome to Dramatic Writing. As the name implies, we like drama here – catharsis is our deity and the stage is our chapel. The power of the theatrical production, if done correctly, can be unlike that of any other discipline in that the shock and awe inspired by the human capacity for empathy can transcend the mind into sublimity. To reach sublimity, however, does not mean peace – in fact, it’s closer to the opposite. The pieces in this section are, as implied by their form, inherently meant to be performed. However, the likelihood that anyone reading this journal will ever be able to enjoy them in the ideal environment is hardly more than a modicum. But, anyways, I entreat you to indulge your delicacy of imagination, and as you read them, foresee them playing out before you. Take Branford Walker’s “The Myth of Orphia.” The stage is close to empty, harsh lines of black and white accent the two actors. One of them speaks, a deity ruling the kingdom of his own mind, carrying with him the object of his desire – the urn filled with the ashes of his lover. The actress, then, becomes the projection of his imagined desire outside of the ashes. Together, the deity and his imagination dance on stage, edged by silence and explosion, pulling you, the audience, into the waltz. For many moments you relish in the subliminal trance, until finally, with a single crash, mortality comes by to remind you: ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It is my responsibility, of course, to inform my darling readers that without them, this terrifying waltz through the sublime cannot exist. The performance doesn’t really reach its full potential without the audience. Try your best. Enjoy the ride. Cheers, -Isaac Dwyer, Dramatic Writing Editor

THE MYTH OF ORPHIA Branford Walker The stage is dark. JOHN (20s - 30s) stands in the middle of the stage, in halflight. There are two objects visible: one is a bench in front of JOHN, the other is a small altar behind the bench. JOHN stands looking at the altar. On the altar is a burial urn. JOHN Hello, Orphia. Are you comfortable? I hope you are. I will not abide by your discomfort. Now. Well. I’ll introduce myself, then. I introduce myself, you introduce yourself, and we can start over! Forget about what happened! We can be happy again, and everything will be right, and peace will rain from the skies, and... no. JOHN crosses the stage starting to pace, as though presenting something to himself. JOHN (CONT’D) Now. Let’s start this from the beginning, beautiful. Who am I? I am your narrator, putting on this whole show, just so I can prove... prove my innocence. The innocence is there, you will see. Do you really not remember what happened though, Orphia? Well. That is why I must narrate, I suppose. Now you see me standing here, sullied, but I want you to see me as king. Remember me how I used to be, superimpose Jesus’ lovely face onto mine, and pretend I am your lord. It shouldn’t be hard, considering how close we were. Now. Wait. Yes. This is the story of a woman. A woman who should be hung, drawn and quartered, a woman who deserves no less than crucifixion! But a woman I once loved nonetheless. And this woman...

JOHN gestures grandly towards a woman, CLAIRE (23, tall, proud of posture), who is now visible on stage. JOHN (CONT’D) This woman is you, Orphia! Haha. And look at you! Here you are! I know it’s not you, you’re dead, you’re just ashes in a jar, but we can pretend. We can imagine just for this moment that the God and Goddess are together again. Haha. Everyone in my story is going to be beautiful. Now. A man and woman sit alone in a park. You know all about this park, Orphia. Now, do you remember how long ago it was? Forty years? Ten? Time just isn’t right anymore, is it? CLAIRE sits down on the bench. JOHN approaches her. They both look distressed. They sit/stand in silence. Beat. I...

JOHN (CONT’D) CLAIRE sighs. Beat.

Look... I-

JOHN (CONT’D) JOHN sits next to her. CLAIRE tries to ignore him, but does not move away.

JOHN (CONT’D) I’m sorry about last night. I am. It hurts me, too. I just don’t know what I can do; what do you expect from me? CLAIRE I’m not sure I expect anything at this point, John.

JOHN Oh well. That’s cute. Glad to disappoint you. CLAIRE Disappoint? This goes so far beyond disappointment, John. I’m debating even talking to… JOHN Well that’s glorious isn’t it? I hope we’re all having a fantastic time sitting here, in the middle of the night, chatting about how we’ll never have to sit here again. CLAIRE John, you know what I did the first time I saw you? At Mother’s fancy fucking party. You were in your half-ripped suit, smoking, despite everyone telling you not to, and I started unzipping my dress because, well I can’t remember why... JOHN And your mother saw us together and lost her mind. She had her security drag me away. What about it, though? CLAIRE Yes, but when you were pulled away John, you smiled at me. You didn’t frown, didn’t dismiss me as some impudent young girl trying to ruin Mrs. Walter’s life. And that, John, that ripped to pieces the defenses I had set up so well against men just like you. JOHN And? How can this matter, Claire? I mean, cute story, but... CLAIRE And that is exactly it. The John who smiled at me at Mother’s party is gone. He’s been replaced by a demon. Look at me! John the Demon!

JOHN

CLAIRE Everything is an attack to you these days, isn’t it? 35

JOHN I don’t know. This seems pretty hostile to me. CLAIRE stands up and gestures silently at JOHN. Well?

JOHN (CONT’D)

CLAIRE I want a confession, John. That’s all. A split second where we play pretend that we still trust each other and… JOHN What the hell am I confessing to, Claire? Not my sins I hope; I don’t see any priests around. CLAIRE You know what you did. I know what you did. I told the police what you did. It’s poisoning my blood, John, but I can’t let you just sit by. I just want to hear it from you, from your beautiful mouth, before they drag you away. Can you give me that? JOHN leaps up. CLAIRE sits back down and crosses her legs. JOHN If you have called the police, then I guess I’ll have to bid you and your park bench adieu... CLAIRE Oh yeah, because running away won’t make you look guilty at all. JOHN sighs, then sits back down, talking with a level of disbelief.

JOHN Well then. Let’s talk about what I did? Did I do it? Fun! CLAIRE Murder, John. You killed her. Does that make you happy? You killed Mary. What? You murdered our friend.

JOHN CLAIRE JOHN stares silently.

CLAIRE (CONT’D) You blamed her, John. Blamed her for the piece of shit our relationship has become. You were always good for me John, you gave me an outlet; I hurt myself less around you, I was happier around you, but she gave me an outlet too, and I slept with her. I shattered your little glass illusion. But you could never blame me, could you, no, we were perfect together, you just wanted me to go around playing in the garden of Eden... JOHN Why are you doing this to me, Claire? You are ruining everything. Is this what you want? CLAIRE You lost your mind with her. Called her a whore, took the photos of her from our photo albums and burned them, burned them, raving about how you would purge the impurities from your life. You felt you’re little paradise slipping, so you played God, and... and... JOHN I can’t understand where this is coming from... how? What? You went to her house last night.

CLAIRE

To visit an old friend.

JOHN

CLAIRE Twelve o’clock, she is found burning in the street. Been crying all day, Claire...

JOHN

CLAIRE The gasoline is gone from our garage, you burned the photos of her... JOHN You are rattled by what happened to her: we both are, I understand. But this fantasy is completely and totally sick. CLAIRE claps very slowly, then has a small breakdown. JOHN (CONT’D) I didn’t do it. I had nothing to do with it. I left Mary’s at eleven. I don’t know where the gasoline is. This is insane. Try me. Please. Fight me.

CLAIRE JOHN shoves CLAIRE violently.

JOHN Wake up. Wake up Claire. Can you not see the beautiful world I have given you? CLAIRE does not reply, so JOHN stands up, pacing like a caged animal. No, John, you wake up.

CLAIRE

What?

JOHN

CLAIRE You’re drained, John. There is no beauty here anym… I am not going to listen to this.

JOHN CLAIRE begins speaking slowly, predominantly to herself.

CLAIRE I want to laugh with him again. That was nice once, I think. Not that I really remember anymore. JOHN I’m in the third person now? Brilliant. I’m glad I have disappeared. CLAIRE sighs. CLAIRE I’m going to leave you here now, John. JOHN digs his thumbs into his eyes. Goodbye?

CLAIRE JOHN makes no indication he has heard. CLAIRE walks away, furious. JOHN leaps up from his seat, approaching the urn again.

JOHN Now I must return. I know you’re happy to see me again. You can clap. You can cheer. Some excitement would be warranted, to be sure. Now I bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you this story again, Orphia. Well, because you. You. You. Damn you for even questioning me. No. No. No. No. It’s because... what we had together was good, too good, and something had to ruin it, and I’m sorry that things went so horribly wrong. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that I’m the victim here? See how you attacked me? They locked me away. Put me in a hell underground - for murder, Orphia. And I didn’t even kill her! Blame the judges that put me away. They ruined everything between us. Don’t blame me. You have to be sorry. Yes. I have to be sorry. We all have to be sorry and dance ringaround-the-rosy and say how sorry we all are. But maybe I proved that point. Proved it in the bowels of that jail. I stashed my medication for a week, Orphia. Stashed it, then let the poison run through me in one euphoric rush! JOHN climbs up on what was the bench in previous scene. It is now a hospital bed. JOHN (CONT’D) But I survived! Trapped, but alive. I tell myself someone came to visit, and I can’t be sure; there were no names in the visitors’ log. But I believe. I believe that as I lay all sprawled out… someone came to visit, and that someone, that someone was you, Orphia. CLAIRE walks in. She approaches the bed. CLAIRE Hi John. It’s me. Claire. It’s been a while, but I’ve come down to visit. Jesus. Come down. I sound like I am pretending to be some kind of angel. But I’m here John; does that make you happy? CLAIRE approaches JOHN and touches him affectionately.

CLAIRE (CONT’D) I suppose this is my fault, isn’t it. Beat. CLAIRE (CONT’D) I don’t feel guilty anymore, John. That is why I have finally come. I hated myself after I called the police on you. Hated myself so much I started hurting myself again, hurting myself without you. Look. Look at these. Aren’t they pathetic? CLAIRE displays her arms to JOHN, they are covered with a spattering of cigarette burns. CLAIRE (CONT’D) But that’s bullshit, isn’t it. I’m not guilty anymore. I’m not here to apologize. That must make you happy. You always told me to save my apologies, the ones I spewed whenever I hurt myself, or hurt you, those apologies. You told me to save them for when I really needed them, for when I was in a guillotine underneath the world and needed... God... or whoever held the cord to give me a second chance. Well I’m not in the guillotine here, John. It’s you this time. I want you to use your apologies. Say them to whoever is keeping you locked up inside your head. Spring up, John. Spring up. CLAIRE paces violently. Come on. Talk back.

CLAIRE (CONT’D) CLAIRE takes JOHN’S jaw and starts moving it up and down, as though he is talking. She realizes what she is doing, and stops.

CLAIRE (CONT’D) I can tell you a story. Would you like that? How about the one about how we met? After Mother’s party. How we ended up in that old mansion she rented, wandering around, how we found the weird room full of the fake Greek statues, and how we laughed and laughed, since the owner had put clothes over their breasts and penises. You promised me perfection, then, then we fucked, haha, fucked to prove how silly their modesty really was. Isn’t that happy? Isn’t this all so happy? But, afterward, you compared me to the goddesses, but none of them seemed to fit. Maybe I just wasn’t ready to be a goddess yet. Ready to fit your dream of perfection. Can’t you remember this, John? Don’t you want to talk back? Tell me how I got the story all wrong? CLAIRE pauses and stares expectantly at JOHN. CLAIRE (CONT’D) No? Well I guess I’ll let you sleep then. Before I use the visiting hours all up. Don’t want the guards to have to drag me away, do we? I’m willing to forget for you, John. CLAIRE walks out, turning a light switch off as she leaves. Now only the altar is in the light. JOHN gets off the bench and walks to the altar. JOHN Of course, we had to embellish a bit there. Who knows what really happened. I can only guess, and would you really trust me? Maybe nobody came to visit. Maybe nobody cared. But. Why? Why do I care about any of this? You’re in this jar and you can’t hear me. You are ashes in a jar, Orphia, and I just want… I’m so sorry… JOHN picks up the urn, cradling it.

JOHN (CONT’D) I am done hoping for forgiveness from the ashes of a burned body. But how can I be angry? I have you here with me! Cremated, but together again. JOHN stares at the jar for a moment. JOHN (CONT’D) Why is everyone burning in this story, Orphia? I don’t want anyone to die in my story. You just had to go and hurt yourself again. Had to go just that extra bit, just a little too far to come back. Was our Eden not enough for you; enough for your selfish… driveling… You did this to spite me. Did this to… no. That is how I will end this story. Stop just short of the conclusion of it all, just before you… you… see. I admit to Mary. I admit! See! See me repent? Is that enough to bring you joy? YOU… stop. Yes. I’ll stop this just before you cast me down, back down to Tartarus. Yes. This is how I will end it. I can see the ending before me now. It is four months after I took those pills, a month after the police apparently decided the evidence was inconclusive… inconclusive… innocent. They released me! It is the day I woke up from that deep sleep and walked away. Yes. The world is beautiful. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and we are all beautiful gods, frozen like bugs in a crystal amber day, where everything is perfect. It is a happy ending. JOHN stands proudly, the urn in his arms. He strides towards CLAIRE. John? Claire? You’re alive? I seem to be, yes.

CLAIRE JOHN CLAIRE JOHN

They stare at each other. Beat. I missed you. I missed everything.

CLAIRE JOHN

CLAIRE Well everything has come back, hasn’t it? Just the way it was? We can pretend.

JOHN CLAIRE

JOHN I feel like I have been dragged out of the underworld, Claire. Like some angel perched on my shoulder, and dragged me straight out. CLAIRE There are no angels in the underworld John; wrong mythology. You know what I mean. I do, and it’s beautiful, John. You are perfect, you know that? I am not, and never was.

JOHN CLAIRE JOHN CLAIRE

Can’t you be? Just for me? I’m still not sure I can handle that.

JOHN CLAIRE Beat.

CLAIRE (CONT’D) This all reminds me of the day we met, John. All those statues. I could never be perfect for you. I just wish… wish you hadn’t… It comes back to her, doesn’t it. It does. Poor Mary.

JOHN CLAIRE JOHN

CLAIRE I’m not sure poor is quite the right word for it. JOHN But. We can be greedy. We can forget all of that, everything that happened, and be happy in this moment. I guess we can. I know what hero you are now. Do we have to? Hero. Not God. Heroes have flaws.

CLAIRE JOHN CLAIRE JOHN 45

Okay then.

CLAIRE

JOHN You know how I said an angel dragged me out of that sleep? Yeah?

CLAIRE

JOHN I take it back. I don’t think it was an angel. I think it was you. You dragged me out of the underworld, Claire. So, like Orpehus?

CLAIRE

JOHN Just like Orpheus. In fact, I think I’ll call you Orpheus. Maybe Orphia. Suits you better than Claire. Except he failed. But you didn’t. Because... Because? Because, Orphia, you are perfect. John...

CLAIRE JOHN CLAIRE JOHN CLAIRE CLAIRE walks across the stage from JOHN, trying to leave. Frozen in place JOHN reaches out as if 46

to touch CLAIRE. The urn falls out of his hands in the process. When it hits the ground the lights on CLAIRE’S side of the stage turn off. She has disappeared. JOHN continues talking, talking for both of them now. JOHN John. Everything is perfect again. You are forgiven! Yes. Yes. Orphia it is. I finally am. JOHN realizes with a nervous laugh that he has dropped the urn and ORPHIA is gone. Orphia...?

JOHN (CONT’D) END OF PLAY

Nadia Kim • Phoenix 47

SCREW-UPS INCORPORATED Erin Breen Lights-up on LOGAN (late 20’s/early 30’s) working fastidiously on a computer in a cubicle. Typical office noises can be heard in the background ie. telephones, fax machines, etc. LOGAN and SEAN have accents typical of Northern Illinois. Enter SEAN (late 20’s/early 30’s), visibly upset. sean (angrily) Hey. logan Mhm. sean I just got outta a meeting. logan (not looking up from his computer) Any good? sean It was, uh, could you at least look up?

logan Can’t. Researching. sean Logan! LOGAN looks up. logan Okay. Who was your meeting with? sean The boss. logan How is Mike doin’? sean No, Logan, not our boss, the boss. logan The boss? Like your dad the boss? sean Yeah, Logan, the boss. My father, the fuckin’ head of the company called me into his office and told me to shorten your leash like, like you’re my lapdog. logan Whoa, Sean. sean He told me he’d made enough exceptions for “me and my pals.” How do you think that makes me look, huh?

LOGAN shakes his head and tries to get back to his research. sean (CONT.) Look at me! logan How does that make you look? It makes you look like you hate this place just as much as I do! sean We can’t keep doing this. SEAN picks some spreadsheets off LOGAN’s desk. logan Careful with those. I was gonna have them framed. sean Do you know how much work you erased with this one? I mean sure it was one thing when you were fixin’ the water cooler to misfire or even givin’ everyone on our floor a new X-rated screensaver, but, damn it Logan, this is 180 hours of manpower down the drain. logan You’re not that good at math. sean So?

logan So how long have you been plannin’ this speech? You had it all worked out in your head didn’t you? Well it wasn’t just me. You can’t seriously be trynna blame me for all of it. (Beat.) And here I was thinkin’ you’d toast our victory with me. LOGAN opens a desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of alcohol. sean You can’t have that here. logan If you’d like more privacy, sir, we could always step into your corner office. I know how hard you worked to get it. Why let it go to waste? sean I’m not where I am because of nepotism. logan You said it. sean Why do you care? logan (drinking from the bottle) Just another reason for me to hate this place. sean Right because you’re obviously jealous. LOGAN drinks more in response. 51

sean (cont.) Stop. logan You’ve taken worse in this office. What’s— sean Come with me. logan Where? sean (sarcastically) My beautiful corner office. I don’t wanna talk here. LOGAN and SEAN walk over to the other side of the stage, which looks like a nice office. LOGAN and SEAN talk as they walk. sean I lied. logan Yeah, I know you lied. Your dad would never fire you. sean Not that, well yeah, but about earlier. I mean, um, he wants me to fire you. logan (taken aback) Oh. Are you gonna do it? 52

sean I don’t know. logan (upset) You don’t know? sean Loganlogan No, that’s great. That’s excellent, Sean. sean I haven’t done it, have I? logan You’re contemplating. sean Weighing my options. logan If you’re gonna fire me just do it. Beat. logan (Con’t) And then quit. sean You want me to quit?

logan Yeah. Okay, wanna know what I was lookin’ up before you came over to end my fulfilling career as a pencil pusher? sean I don’t know. Is it somethin’ I’ll regret hearing, like when you told me about the bugs that live under our eyelids? logan Sort of. Ya know how the EPA keeps corporations and shit from killing fish and turtles and whatever? sean Your attention to detail never ceases to astound me. logan But you know what I’m talking about, right? sean (sigh) Sure. logan Okay and ya know how we got all those new construction jobs in the past three years? The put-a-new-lifestyle-center-in-every-town-village-and-city plan? sean So the company did something illegal.

logan Not something. Nuclear reactors dumping boiling water into rivers and killing all the fish is something. The company did everything illegal. sean Don’t be dramatic. logan I’m not! They didn’t set up any retaining walls, I mean there was a chain-link fence but those don’t, whatever, and they were pretty shady about where the construction debris went and there’s more and I can’t confirm anything without actually visiting a site, but those new buildings are pretty much guaranteed to give anyone spending a prolonged period of time in them some kinda cancer. sean Now buildings are giving people cancer? logan To save money they “recycled” old Vermiculite insulation that tested positive for asbestos contamination. sean So you want me to quit my job or everyone will get building cancer? logan You can’t seriously be saying that you don’t understand how fucked up this is? sean What are you expectin’ me to do? Help you protest and carry signs at construction sites? Well I can tell you right now that I’m not quitin’. logan I’ll do it on my own then. 55

sean Do what? logan You’re stayin’ here; you’re not a part of the plan. sean What plan, Logan? logan Would you help? sean Maybe. logan I found this group, C.U.C. sean What’s C.U.C.? logan Clean-Up Crew. sean Never heard of them. logan Well, they’re new, and they’re gonna help me destroy this place. sean What is this, like, the PETA of corporate construction? What’re you gonna do? Throw red paint at dry wall? Chant ‘mortar is murder’?

logan Good, good, Sean. Don’t take me seriously. Never take me seriously. I’ll let you crash on my couch when you lose your job because I took this place down. sean Are you seriously tryin’ to imply that I don’t take you seriously? Do you know how much I’ve helped you over the years? Is this how you show your appreciation, your gratitude? logan You helped me so that you could suck up to daddy. You wanted to screw around with immunity, so you found yourself a friend who would help you do that. You could be as out-of-control as you wanted, and then if you ever got called out on it there was always Logan the Scapegoat tosean Really? I only befriended you so I could party and try to have fun at work? If that’s what you think then why are we even friends? logan See? There you go, just throwing our friendship out the window. Pigs don’t fly, Sean. sean What does that even mean (getting in LOGAN’s face)? You can’t just say phrases that are vaguely relevant to whatever you were saying before. It doesn’t make you smart, just weird. And you can’t turn on this company. Before I got you this job, before my dad took a chance on you, you had more student loan debt than ten times your annual salary at Chipotle. Your bed was a futon in a run-down apartment you shared with two other guys. Do you understand how sad and pathetic your life would be without this place, without me to provide you this place? LOGAN punches SEAN.

logan My life here is sad and pathetic. sean Logan, you’re fired. logan What? sean Get out! You’re fired! Leave! SEAN nurses his face. LOGAN walks over to his cubicle while pulling out a cell phone and dialing. FADE OUT. END OF PLAY

David Gordon â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled

SOUTHERN COMFORT Rebecca Cox ANNA BELLE sits with a crooked head, her blindfold on. BEAU stands in front of ANNA BELLE, he gestures towards her. BEAU She’s a real pretty one, isn’t she? I remember the night I met her. BEAU walks quickly to ANNA BELLE, he stands behind her chair. BEAU lifts her chin gently. BEAU (CONT’D) Ya see, that’s what she looked like when I met her. She had been talkin’ to her pa. Ya see, Mister Whitman was an ugly man, he liked to keep out of sight. So when he came around to talk to his baby, she had to wear this blindfold. BEAU removes the blindfold and waves his hand in front of ANNA BELLE’S face, he laughs. He places the blindfold back on her face as he speaks. BEAU (CONT’D) Ya see, Mister Whitman thought I was a respectable man. Mister Whitman, I came to see him. ANNA BELLE’S head is released from BEAU’S grasp. Her neck is limp.

BEAU (CONT’D) I told him his baby had been out dancin’, makin herself acquainted with men he would not approve of. He thought, since no man had willingly come talk to him since after Anna Belle was born, “this boy, he’s a good boy, a brave boy, this is the kind of boy who should marry my daughter.” BEAU appears proud of himself. BEAU (CONT’D) And that’s when I knew that I had done it. Beat. BEAU (CONT’D) Allow me to show you how the conversation proceeded. BEAU walks toward ANNA BELLE. BEAU (CONT’D) I have it on good authority that you were out dancing last night. BEAU stands. ANNA BELLE Oh really? And whose good authority would that be? BEAU Don’t matter, no wife of mine is going to be out strutting around town with other men. BEAU moves closer to ANNA BELLE. ANNA BELLE Sounds like I got myself one gullible husband. 61

BEAU Yeah, is that what you think of me? Your pa didn’t think I was too gullible. How does his baby feel about that? Beat. BEAU (CONT’D) Don’t seem very gullible now, do I? BEAU positions himself closer to ANNA BELLE. BEAU (CONT’D) Papa doesn’t like not knowin’ where his baby, is now does he? ANNA BELLE attempts to move away from BEAU. BEAU grabs her by the wrist. BEAU (CONT’D) No, Papa wouldn’t like knowing his baby was out dancing last night. Would he? BEAU spins ANNA BELLE, dragging her wrist. ANNA BELLE steps away from BEAU. ANNA BELLE Take your hands off of me; I ain’t your wife yet. BEAU You think any other boys are gonna come around here and look that ugly son of a bitch in the eye? No baby, I’m your only option.

ANNA BELLE You don’t think he’s lying to you? You’re gonna end up in a grave outside my window. BEAU grabs ANNA BELLE’S jaw. BEAU Maybe we should discuss real early how this works. ANNA BELLE relaxes within BEAU’S grasp. BEAU (CONT’D) You are marrying me; you don’t get to make those kinda statements anymore. ANNA BELLE’S jaw falls from BEAU’S grip. She does not move away from BEAU. There is minimal space between them. ANNA BELLE Pa isn’t gonna make me do anything I don’t wanna do. There is tension between them. BEAU You can only tell when a man is lyin’ by lookin’ ‘im in the eyes. How you supposed to know when he’s lyin’ to you, when you ain’t even seen his chin? ANNA BELLE attempts to sit, BEAU lifts her by the chin to his face. BEAU kisses ANNA BELLE.

BEAU keeps his hold on ANNA BELLE while ANNA BELLE lowers herself onto the chair. BEAU (CONT’D) Pa doesn’t make your decisions anymore. I do. Beat. Anna Belle.

BEAU (CONT’D) Beat.

Anna Belle, look at me.

BEAU (CONT’D) BEAU approaches ANNA BELLE. He kneels in front of her. ANNA BELLE is intimidated.

BEAU (CONT’D) Look now, this is only going to be as difficult as you make it. You understand? ANNA BELLE nods. BEAU (CONT’D) You don’t look very pleased with me. BEAU walks away from ANNA BELLE. Her head again slumps to the side, like her position in the beginning.

BEAU (CONT’D) You see how pretty she was when she talked, even her questioning of my intentions was, at times, charming. She talked and smelled sweet, tasted like American honey. What a beautiful woman. It was a shame, after I shot her and her daddy. I still kissed her once before putting her down the irrigation hatch. That is the best part of the story, a personal achievement. Here we are, let me show you exactly what happened. BEAU circles around ANNA BELLE and approaches her from behind. Anna Belle, Anna Belle!

BEAU (CONT’D) ANNA BELLE is startled. She turns towards him.

Have you been drinking? That doesn’t concern you. Beau-

ANNA BELLE BEAU ANNA BELLE BEAU moves quickly towards ANNA BELLE. BEAU kisses ANNA BELLE. Her participation is questionable, though she does not appear to be opposed to physical contact with BEAU.

ANNA BELLE (CONT’D) I want you to do something for me. 65

BEAU There is something you want me to do for you? Yes.

ANNA BELLE

And what exactly would that be?

BEAU BEAU aggressively kisses her neck.

BEAU (CONT’D) Isn’t there something you’ve got to do for me first? ANNA BELLE I want you- I want you to help me see my Pa’s face. BEAU now displays a look of disgust. BEAU You want me to go against another man’s word? Women have gotten to be bold. ANNA BELLE I married you; that doesn’t mean I have to do to anything more. BEAU I thought we discussed how this works. You make your own decisions.

ANNA BELLE ANNA BELLE begins to walk away from BEAU. He reaches for her wrist. She returns the force, grabbing his shirt. 66

Beau.

ANNA BELLE (CONT’D) Beat.

Beau, I want you...

ANNA BELLE (CONT’D) ANNA BELLE lowers her hand down BEAU’S chest until she reaches his belt.

To show me my daddy.

ANNA BELLE (CONT’D)

BEAU You remember that this isn’t only the way women do things. Beat. BEAU (CONT’D) As soon as we’re done I’ll call him over. ANNA BELLE falls limp in BEAU’S arms. He sets her down on the ground. BEAU (CONT’D) Oh she sang, she sang like an angel. I’ll never forget that gentle sound. Now, here is where I would like to exhibit my personal genius. BEAU picks ANNA BELLE up. He places her behind a block with her arms folded, her head resting on her forearms.

BEAU (CONT’D) See, I told her, “Now look out that window, your pa is gonna be here in just a minute. I told him you were asleep, don’t let him see you.” Then his truck pulled up, and I looked in the window, and I see her look at her daddy. Her eyes colored red, and she cried. Then she saw her daddy die. BEAU walks to where ANNA BELLE is positioned on the block. BEAU (CONT’D) And then I walked inside and found his baby crying in our bed. She looked so sad, I couldn’t help but offer an option to the girl. And so I shot my baby in the head, right there. BEAU points to ANNA BELLE’S ear. BEAU (CONT’D) I blew those pretty pearl earrings right off of my wife Anna Belle’s head. END OF PLAY

Sarah Little â&#x20AC;˘ Confinement 69

Neil Vasquez â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled

Florence Liu â&#x20AC;˘ Conception

Cooper Dai â&#x20AC;˘ Self-Portrait 72

Nadia Kim â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled

Devin Debowski â&#x20AC;˘ Maternity

Nadia Kim â&#x20AC;˘ Untitled 75

Congratulations, you’ve made it to the fiction section of Parallax. You’ve officially entered my domain now. Everything from this point forward is lies and slander, and should be taken as such. Somebody not memorable enough to warrant a cited name once said that writers, like actors, are just very good liars and I would not look twice to call that analysis wrong. Fiction, as a whole, is a compilation of lies smashed into a keyboard and put onto a page. However, not just any lie will do. Regardless of the hundreds of rules and regulations that line the endless barrage of “How To Be A Writer in 2000 Easy Steps” books, there really is only one critical aspect of all fiction. Inherently, fiction cannot be fiction if the writer does not have a story to tell. Within all of us exists a dream of other worlds, be it as simple as an improvised bedtime story for our children, or as complex as the epic fantasy worlds that linger and grow in our minds after watching a marathon of Game Of Thrones episodes. We weave dramas inspired by our personal failures and successes. Romances, scavenged from our deepest desires. Even horror, inspired by the things we fear to see standing over our beds when we lay down to sleep (“The Rake,” for example). We all have something to say when asked, “What’s your story?” You can chip away at the various elements and technicalities that make our stories emotional, interesting, or profitable (hint, it’s sexy vampires). But, there’s no book that can teach the compulsion to tell stories. The skill runs in our blood. Our humanity relies upon our capability to empathize with people we don’t know, as well as people who’ve never existed. This phenomena occurs so we may reach inspirational equilibrium with them, learning from, and expanding on the empathetic moments which hit home. The short story “Pencils Sharp As Knives,” by Luis Eduardo Bermudez Ham, explores this notion of primal brutality, and lets us witness the phycological collapse of a character driven to the once-sturdy edge of sanity. It is characters like these, which put us into a position to understand, and experience those situations “a priori,” so we can live on with the sensation but not the scars. (Except maybe paper cuts.) It is my hope that with this section the words of those writers chosen to be featured will touch your hearts and excite your minds as they have ours. Forever fictional. -Connor Scott Noble, Fiction Editor

Suede Pumps Erin Breen They grazed together harmoniously; a spattering of chewing noises pattered its way out of their collective mouths. A peaceful cloud hung over the pasture until the irate grumble of the trucks interrupted their months of contented nibbling. A whistle flew through the air. “Get ‘em quick.” The trucks transported and transformed into trains then more trucks then the movement halted where the white plastic Mylar was draped for sanition’s sake and caked in muddy hoof-prints and spilled blood. The cranks whirred as the conveyer belts awoke from their off-switch slumber. The sound of fractured bone melted into mechanical whirs and quiet whines, not loud enough to be screams. That whistle sounded and reminded the herd of their emerald fields. With that whistle rose a storm of bucking. The herd fought back with growing cries that did not amount to more than a footnote in the accident report.

Caleigh Torf and Eric Metzler • Untitled 78

Schooling Dante Yardas Chain-link fence obscures the well-furnished building, freshly mowed lawns, basketball hoops without nets, concrete with yellow paint to indicate boundaries. Electronic bell buzzes in their ears, students forming single file lines in alphabetical order, Robertson before Rodriguez, slow, straight snake into the fluorescently-lit classroom, desks arranged in square, even rows, adjacent desks separated by the same equal distance, like the numbers 79 and 80, C-plus and Bminus, a short but deep crevice that divides average and above average. Imaginary cells isolate the students based on color and voice, on interests that will never change, on their own personal failures. They begin every morning with the Pledge of Allegiance to… but only empty consonants, forced vowels, unified voices of robots that don’t know what that one word means. The Declaration of Independence being signed in 1776. Does everybody remember that? Good, now which countries were involved in the Cold War? This will be on the test. Little connections between two or three, meaningless banter punctuated with, “Stop talking! I’m going to have to separate you!” and the teacher herself, overworked, reduced to a worn-out paper book in which the ink has faded away, hiding any trace of a personality, but trying to seem interesting anyway. We all kind of hate her, because, “she really isn’t that interesting…” “What did you just say about me?” Nothing to say, because telling the truth is about as forbidden as the Declaration of Independence when it was first signed. Like opening the closet full of junk that the procrastinator stuffed in there because he didn’t feel like organizing it. But the student must not remain silent, because the silence will be punished as well, and he ponders for the split second why the teacher wants to know what he said. Does she regularly scan her ego with an ultraviolet light, searching for invisible stains? The student repeats the words, every one wrenched out of his system, reduced to a dog that chewed up its master’s favorite book. Sent to the Principal’s Office, where he will receive his Referral, punishments that only the parents care about, asking themselves, “Why doesn’t he behave? Have we done something wrong?” We all want to pretend that Teacher is the highest link on the chain, because Principal is too high. Sometimes he comes down in his hot air balloon to visit us, but not often. 79

The Superintendent and Super-Superintendent are in the stratosphere, non-existent, like a painting of the purple mountains on the horizon. It is not a painting, however, but unreal, like the future, or any Proclamation of Freedom, or what lies beyond the chain-link fence that separates us from the rest of the world of which weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve memorized the cold, hard facts, but we will never smell, or touch, or taste, or live.

Caroline Jiang and Clarice Kirkbrideâ&#x20AC;˘ Untitled 80

Significant Connor Scott Noble In eighth grade, Barrett Cohen once tried to explain to me in excruciatingly flawed scientific detail, how in the scope of the universe, I was insignificant. “Look,” he said with the intense confidence of an eighth grader who has watched a few too many episodes of Nova, “It’s simple fact. To give you a size comparison, if you were to take one piece of sand, on a beach, that would represent you –” Okay. Break for a second. So at the time, I knew this was going to kill a few brain cells, but still I egged him on, waiting for a payoff that would blow the mind of any great physicist. Barrett went on to explain that the whole Earth, in comparison, would be the size of the universe, and you would just be that one grain of sand. Not every grain of sand on Earth is significant, is it? Now, before I talk about what happened next, you need to understand that I am a very scientific person. I always have been. While other people would wake up early and get their nice suits on for church every Sunday, I would be wideeyed, reading a brick-sized novel on the quantum mechanics of wormholes. I had no idea what any of it meant but knew that if I looked at it enough, maybe they’d make sense. And, eventually, they did. They became my bible. What this little snot-nosed punk had just done was try to preach to the choir, but he’d accidentally sung a hymn to Satan. So… I sort of decked him. I should probably go out of my way to mention that I’m not exactly your typical scrawny science geek. Some people have microscopes and some people have football… I just happened to have both. I’m sure anyone reading this has had someone tell you of their perceived unimportance. Or, I’m equally sure that you’ve stared up into the night sky before, deep into the thermoplastic belt of the Milky Way, and said to yourself, “Isn’t it amazing, just how insignificant we really are?” Well, if you have, I’d really appreciate it if you slapped yourself. For you see, it wasn’t the quantitative inaccuracy of my classmate’s assumption that drove me to engage my inner Liam Neeson. It was the fact that he had never even stopped for a moment to ponder just how significant each and every one of us really are. And, no, not in the way your kindergarten teacher would tell you, “Everyone is special,” because that’s an outright lie. Special is a concept created by man and judged upon a philosophical road. Significance can be brought down to a

science. You see, every iota of your existence is a miracle of probability. Looking around you, everything, including yourself, is composed of particles that have been drifting around since the conglomeration of mass before the big bang. It cannot be created nor destroyed, and it has been around since before time only to someday, become a single atom of what makes up you. Moving down to the very perception of life, which in itself should be statistically impossible. Billions of years ago, a certain combination of chemicals that just happened to be in the same place at the same time formed the first helixes of DNA, which, against another set of impossible odds, formed the first organisms. From that, billions of years of evolution surmounted, with an unimaginable number of pairs forming the perfect set of genes to breed off again, and to grow. This process continued for an amount of time until, boom, you were conceived and promptly born. Now, think for just a moment. If any sort of eventuality were to occur, if one tiny variable were to go unchecked over those billions of years, you would not be here today. If one lizard was to, instead of breeding, have his head bitten off by another lizard, you may not have existed...` amongst other immeasurable consequences. If one of your ape

Cooper Daiâ&#x20AC;˘ Phantom 82

ancestors were to have fallen off of a tree branch, you would not be sitting here today, and if your grandmother was to have not gone to that drive-in-movie... Well, you get the idea. It could be argued that surely our tiny size could bring only insignificance in this universe. How can something so small even be considered significant in the great scope of all things? Well, I can’t argue that we’re not small, and again, can’t argue that we’re special. I mean, sure, you are the impossible sum of an impossible number of variables lining up perfectly... But you’re still just so damn small. Well, I lose sleep over this too, but there’s one great conclusion I’ve come to in order to help ease that sinking feeling that your life is meaningless. That’s that you get to live! Even though your actions may not ripple across time and space, you are a defiance of the odds, and when it comes down to the stone, you are significant because you breathe. Because you get to be a conscious part of this universe. It wouldn’t feel so massive if it were unable to be perceived! And even though you may not even remotely be the biggest thing in it, you can still do something that YV Majoris Canis never can. You can breathe, you can think, you can taste, you can love, you are alpha in this universe, because you are alive. That’s more than can be said for 99.9 repeating percent of the mass in this universe. To boot, as a species we’ve come further towards the universe than it has ever come towards us, or ever will. Life is precious, not just because it’s impossible but because it’s all we have, although it sure is one hell of a thing to have. Unlike the largest bodies of burning hydrogen up there, we’ve earned free will, artistic thought, and even a society in which we can see our own personal flaws. So, yes, you may be a tiny fish swimming in a bowl with no end, but at least you get to swim, which is more I can say for that bowl. Why did I punch that little brat, with his sand fact? Because significance is a matter of perspective, not science. You can look upon your life as the most insignificant spark in the universe, barely perceivable and over in an instant. Or, you can live it as if it is the damn most important thing in human history. Because to you, it is. You only get one statistically-impossible life in this impossible society, on this impossible planet, in this impossible universe. And once you’ve aknowledged that, maybe you can stop worrying about usless bullshit like the inevitable mole-men invasion, and finally go try skydiving. It couldn’t hurt. Unless it does. Which it might.

Brain-Scan: After the Accident Sabrina Melendez Your grandma used to tell you not to splash in puddles when you were little. She said you would get sick. She wore skirts with flower patterns. You used to think she watered them. The first song you ever sang on karaoke was “Looking Through the Eyes of Love” during a party at your house. You couldn’t read yet but you’d memorized it because your mother had sung it so much. Everyone clapped. You left to make hamburgers out of the bottoms of styrofoam cups. You handed them out to people during the party but at the end of the night, you found them all in the garbage can. You cried. Your father used to tie ropes to the tree trunks in your backyard. You would play jump-rope with him and your sister on Saturdays. Your mom sang in the background as she raked the leaves. You hurt your knee once chasing after the ice cream truck. All your money fell out of your pocket and rolled away. You remember it in slow motion. You left to live with your grandparents when you were eight. There is no further recollection of your parents or your sister from this point on. Your grandfather smelled of old books and casserole. He reminded you of the color chartreuse from your 64-pack of Crayola crayons. You didn’t know how to smile. You stood in front of the mirror and showed your teeth. You tried to imitate your mother’s smile but she was blurry. You stole a porcelain doll from your grandmother’s room for show and tell in the fifth grade. You broke its left arm. She spanked you. You cried. Around the sixth grade, you began to have a recurring dream about being in a taxi with your parents and your sister. You’re in a traffic jam. A skeleton comes up and taps on your window. He asks for you. They hide you underneath the seat in front so the skeleton doesn’t see you. He keeps moving. The girls in middle school used to make fun of you for the purses you wore. They had long straps that hung diagonally across your body. They called them man-bags. Your dad used to wear them. They called you lesbian. You didn’t know what that meant. Is any of this coming back to you? Does any of it sound familiar? Can you at least remember your name? No? You had square purple glasses. You wore a uniform in middle school. A green polo shirt and a khaki skirt. You thought you looked like a business lady.

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You liked that. You liked looking older than you were. You had a crush on a boy named Andrew. He had spiky hair, large lips, and freckles. He was funny. You used to crawl under your bed and cry about him while listening to “Teardrops On My Guitar” by Taylor Swift. Taylor Swift—do you remember her? Do you want me to continue? Are you sure you don’t remember anything? On your first day of high school, an overweight girl cut some of your hair off in class. You knew she was doing it but you didn’t stop her. You related it to the crunching of snow when you step on it. Do you remember liking that? The crunching of snow? Your biology teacher had large hands. They fluttered wildly when he spoke. You were his star student. The hairs stood up when he breathed down your neck. His arms were like chains around your shoulders. You remember feeling like a bird whose wings had been clipped. The blood flowed down your leg like tree branches. Do you remember thinking that? You used to sit in front of the mirror naked and draw cherry blossoms all over your body with sharpie markers. Your grandmother caught you once. She hit you and made you scrub it all off. Do you remember? You cried in the bathtub as your skin turned red from the scrubbing. Do you remember? You scratched the rust off of a train car as your legs dangled off the edge. The wheat fields all blurred into each other as you passed by them. It reminded you of Andrew’s hair. You cried. You cut all of your hair in a public restroom with a red pocket knife. You cut your wrists as well. The blood flowed to the tiled restroom floor like… tree branches. Perhaps you should rest. I assure you there is no rush to remember. No rush at all.

A Tango Becky Joy Hirsch Inspired by Paul Celan’s “Death Fugue”

I put the jug on his bedside table. He talks about the war. The jug is ceramic and granulated to the touch, and like him in that, compared to him, I feel very smooth. His urine must be funneled out of him through a tube and I am not even the tube, but its assistant. And still I’m not its slave. He doesn’t talk about the plastic tube. He talks about his war. When we first met I wondered but did not ask him if it was a coping method. After all, the last time he and his body fell to such a low an older German man tried to break my charge’s back over his knee. To hear him talk, it should have worked given his emaciation. Always, he talks about the war. I pour him water and feed him through a tube and eventually funnel it all out through another, listening to the war stories. He talks about songs that were sung from dusk to dawn and the water that they savored all day. There were thousands of them in one camp. And he thinks they were so special for being there. He tells me that they taught their children to read music in the dirt, in the moonlight. I just pour the water, Mr. Antschel, I don’t know how to bring the Holocaust back. He tells me, “It’s not the Holocaust that we need it’s love for a people, love for a god –” But I pour the water. And I stroke my thumb along the granular handle and think about the smoothness there in my thumb. And he’s always talking about the war, the war that still lingers in the distance between the people who survived and the people who they hire now to keep them surviving. It’s old news, but I don’t tell him. He’ll be dead soon anyway.

Kendall Ozmunâ&#x20AC;˘ Untitled 88

The Hills Ruth Ruiz The sun shines a little too brightly in the valley. It is almost blinding. The heat wraps his strong arms around you and whispers sweet nothings to you. He will invite you to travel to the heavens, but you must say no. At least the first time, anyway. The too-tall trees with no specificity as to what they are will help hide you from the sun. The valley is not a friend. At least not while you are there. It is more of an acquaintance. Then, once you leave, it becomes a necessity. You hunger for it, it’s all you desire and you will stop at nothing to obtain it. Sarah stopped writing for a second and thought about that. She had never written anything truer. When she left, the valley was no more than that friend who reminded her what the homework was when she didn’t write it down. It was important to her, but it was not something she thought she’d miss if she were ever torn apart from it. She thought she would be able to adapt to life without it. Find a new friend who would remind her of the next homework assignment. Sadly, that was not what Sarah had encountered. Instead, she found that there was no serenity anywhere she went. Only excuses for her to leave. There was a fallacious little gap in the pit of her stomach wherever she was. The only action Sarah could take was to return home. The plane was stuffy, and she hated flying economy, but because she was flying between states, she decided a first class ticket was not worth it. She sat next to a large woman who was chewing her gum too loudly. Sarah remembered what her mother had told her when she was younger, “The only time you smack your gum is to upset your boyfriend… or husband. Whatever it is that he is to you.” She laughed at that as a wispy little woman took the other seat next to her. In hindsight, Sarah probably should have chosen a window or aisle seat, but she wasn’t the biggest fan of heights, and couldn’t be bothered every time someone stood up to go to the bathroom. Putting away her laptop and pulling out her blanket, Sarah dozed off for the remainder of the flight. Her dreams were strangely familiar as she approached her destination. There was a boy. Sarah had tried to forget about him long ago, but failed continuously. A string of dreams plagued her as she attempted to escape. Her eyes were always shut whenever the boy’s face got too close to hers, yet she knew exactly who he was. She could smell the tobacco on him. She could feel his torn Misfits shirt wrap around her, pulling her in closer to him. His lips barely brushed hers, but she knew they weren’t real. When he backed her into the wall, trying to persuade her to stay, she felt safe. Sarah knew this dream all too well. With his head pressed against hers, she could feel his heartbeat through his fingers as they danced through her hair. She opened her mouth, but her eyes stayed closed.

Sarah was not preparing for a kiss; she was saying her last goodbye. The butterflies that had once inhabited her stomach flew away. The words slipped from her mouth effortlessly, leaving him in shock. His hand slammed the wall just beside her face and made her jump. A string of curse words were spit out and then there was nothing. There were bags that had been packed and feelings that had been thrown away. The next dream wasn’t a dream, but a movie. She stood there as he towered over her. The once-macho man who had claimed to have everything was breaking and crumbling in front of her. He stood at her doorstep sobbing, but Sarah did nothing to calm him. She simply stared at him the same way he would stare at her when she cried. After a minute, she closed the door and left him outside. A tiny hand squeezed her shoulder and Sarah’s eyes fluttered open immediately. She could not remember where she was until she realized that she was still on the plane. They had landed safely and were getting ready to walk out. Sarah quickly gathered her things and finally stood up. She was excited to be able to move after her seven-hour flight from Virginia. Sarah wanted nothing more than to walk around and soak in the sun and warmth of LA. She quickly got off the plane and went to the baggage claim where she retrieved her luggage. It amazed her how LAX never seemed to change. It was full of people who were too busy to talk to anyone who wasn’t on the other line of their cell phone and who just needed big cups of coffee that the Starbucks could not provide because it was always the most inhabited place in the airport. She walked on, remembering to hold her head high and walk forward as if she owned the place. That was the thing she liked about the airport – she could pretend she was a highly paid whatever who had some type of power and no one would be the wiser. That was the thing about it LA in general, it was filled with a bunch of really great actors who didn’t actually want to be actors yet somehow got sucked into the game. Everyone had a specific part in this damn city, and they always knew just how to play it. As she continued walking through the terminal she spotted a man holding up a sign with her name on it. It was obviously her cab driver and she happily walked towards him and introduced herself. After the brief introduction, he grabbed her things, threw them in the trunk, and asked her where she wanted to go. Sarah knew exactly where she wanted to go. It was about a forty-five minute drive on a good day. Sometimes it took an hour and a half, depending on the traffic. LA traffic was the worst. Sarah smiled at him and said, “Woodland Hills, please.”

He scratched his head before asking her if there was a particular address she had in mind and without missing a beat, Sarah repeated her old address without any trouble whatsoever. The cab driver simply nodded and began to drive away from the LAX. Sarah pulled out her phone and plugged her headphones into it – her mom would not be home from work yet, so there was no sense in calling her. She simply started playing some music and began thinking about everything that she had missed about the valley. Every minute that went by, the butterflies that had formulated in Sarah’s stomach grew. She wasn’t aware of how much she had missed the place until she was no more than an hour away. As they drove onto the 405, Sarah remembered how much she hated it. It provided a nice view of the city at night and sometimes during the day, too, but they were always having some sort of construction on this particular freeway and she remembered almost missing her flight to visit her sister when she was younger because of construction. The corners of her lips moved slightly upward as she remembered her parents freaking out about the construction and the almost forty minute delay. As they drove onto the 101 her heart did a couple of backflips. She was almost home, and she could feel it. Only ten more minutes. They passed her uncle’s house on the way and she felt a bit of bitterness on the edge of her tongue as she remembered that she did not like him very much, or more accurately, she did not like how scared of him she was. Because she loved him, he terrified her. She never could please him and she gave up on that long ago. There was no pleasing the man, Sarah decided. He was incredibly generous – just with the wrong people. There was Zoe Ingram • This is a Picture of Inga 2 91

the gold-digging girlfriend who sucked him dry, until he was nothing but a shriveled up prune. By the time Sarah was being graced with some of his generosity, he was out of patience. A couple of rough patches and Sarah lost her opportunities. It was no one’s fault but her own, yet she was still spiteful. She sighed as she realized she would be passing where her mother was without having the courage to go to her now and hug her and tell her how much she missed her. They continued driving and Sarah thought about the two years she had spent at the local high school. They were like nothing she would have ever imagined. They were filled with secret meetings and parties and gossip. She remembered how great she thought she was because everyone seemed to like her. Well, Sarah wasn’t sure whether everyone liked her, but if they didn’t they kept it a secret. She remembered having to run the mile around the school as opposed to the football field because they didn’t have the new turf yet. She breathed in all the memories of waking up really early to catch one of the beach buses with her friends before any of them could drive. How great the salt water had felt on their skin, and how they’d laughed whenever someone freaked out about seaweed touching their foot even though all of them were terrified of it being a fish or something like that. She had experienced her first love there. Her first kiss and even her first heartbreak, or what she thought was her first heartbreak. No one said anything about those days anymore. Everyone had moved on. The sun still shone as bright and Sarah remembered what she had learned about the valley as a child. It was not a place where anyone thought about what they were doing, it was a place where they simply did what they wanted. In the valley, no one got anywhere by shying away from their fears. They were supposed to face them head on, be stupid and let loose. It was a dog eat dog world, even in the quiet little suburbs of Woodland Hills. Not a lot of people understood that it was more than just a rich little neighborhood they were living in; it was the sunniest place for the shadiest people. No matter how many times people said they hated it, they never truly wanted to leave. It was a safe haven. People believed what you wanted them to believe about you. In the valley, everyone was free to create who they were. That’s the real reason no one ever left when given the chance.

It was her escape, even after all these years. She could feel the sun and soft wind kiss her cheek as they pulled her in for a welcome-back hug. As they veered off the freeway and exited on Shoup, Sarah could not contain her happiness. She looked around at the familiar 7-11 and the gas station and Starbucks and weird ladyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s smoothie shop, all packed in too close, and she smiled. It was much too hot, one of the signs at a gas station pointed out that it was 99 degrees. It was fine, there was no humidity and she liked that.

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As they pulled onto her street she smiled at the old abandoned school she used to run around when she wanted to lose weight, and how she would sometimes meet up with her friends, who played softball there. The blind man with the kite was still alive and well, flying his kite when she passed by, and as she paid the cab guy his fare, she couldn’t help but smile at the long driveway. Sarah remembered running as fast as she could at night to avoid any potential creepers or unfriendly demon ghosts. The smile on her face only grew as the wind blew her hair back. Her strides became more confident as she walked up the driveway. For the first time in a long while, everything seemed to be just the way it should be. Sarah was no longer afraid of bumping into strangers on the road, she wasn’t afraid of walking outside on her own, she wasn’t even afraid of being seen in public anymore. She was home now. This was her home, the tall trees knew it, and Sarah would never forget it.

Fleece and Sand Claire Malarkey I told him I’d gotten into grunge music, so my dad shipped me his old coat from the 90s. He said he wore it to many Nirvana concerts. I drop the reused cardboard beer box onto my bed and stab it with the blade of a pair of scissors. I pull out the black wool, and it’s thinner than I remember, but the scent of salt and oil paints is the same. Dimly lit on my bedside table is the only photograph in my room. It was taken on a white beach. Wearing the same coat, my dad grinned and my mom clung to him. I am there, too, peeking out of the coat. My dad’s hand holds my tiny torso, and my mom’s hand holds his arm. I doubt I was even a year. Them smiling at me on that ugly beach, I know it’s far fetched but I swear I remember the day. Or maybe I’ve stared at the photograph so much that I think the memory’s mine, I’m not sure. But I recall specifically the day’s anxiety—the thousand rolling gray waves and the fast chilled wind blowing my mom’s stray strands of hair and the black shadows of distant figures approaching. You can’t see these details unless you really squint. There’s a fretful expression on my nine-month-old face. My parents, though, look very happy, and it’s odd to see them so close and at ease. Their faces still are young, and the circles and lines now aged into their skin aren’t there. Her curly dark hair matched his fuzzy coat, and they stand there huddled, holding this small thing in a pink hat they had together. Only after studying their faces in the picture can I imagine them living together, going to hear Soundgarden and Nirvana together, or wanting to raise daughters together. I can hear them telling me that everything is just right. I can almost feel them holding me together, and wrapping me tightly in the black coat. I put it on over my tank top, and it’s too big. I roll up the sleeves and button it halfway up. I feel tougher and stronger in it. The vintage look could almost pass as cool, and the grungy, I-don’t-care attitude still resonates twenty years after it was in fashion. But as I watch the photograph and feel the fleece on my skin I taste sour memories from the back of my mouth. I am listening to waves and Kurt Cobain live and smelling the seawater and watching my parents laugh and I am reminiscent of recollections that probably aren’t mine. This coat isn’t even mine, and I take it off.

Jane Ohâ&#x20AC;˘ Untitled

Danny Callie Levan The winter of ’97 was one of the most bitter we’d ever had to endure. It was almost Christmas, and Danny couldn’t come home because of all the cancelled flights. It put Mom in a really bad mood, because it’d been three months since we last saw him. Streets twinkled with red and green, wreaths rested on doors and huge inflatable snowmen made the actual snow appear gray and unpleasant. There were a few real yet poorly constructed snowmen here or there, but most everyone sought the safety of their hot cocoa and television. Not me, though. I built a snowman twice a year for Mom, with Danny. This year, he wasn’t coming back from college; I didn’t have the willpower to build anything without him, but we couldn’t blame him. Everything was a swirl of wintery winds, stormy snow, and insecure icicles hanging from rooftops. I could barely walk to school without falling on my butt and getting my back pockets soaked. Mom was talking to Danny on the phone. Arguing, really. Even when she knew she’d lost, she still fought because she loved to do it. Yelling was her hobby. Ever since I turned twelve I realized it; she’d stopped sugarcoating everything and told me I needed to grow up. “No, Daniel. I want you home. It’s been months. You have three weeks of this winter vacation, and you’re not going to spend it in New York-- I don’t want any arguments!” I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but I knew what he was saying. “It’s impossible, Mom! I’d love to come home, to see you and Clarissa and Dad and Oberon. But it’s the weather, Mom! It’s imposs--” “No.” Her voice was a trembling mess. I could hear the tears bubbling up inside her. “I want to see you... I have to see you...” I ran from the kitchen where the gingerbread cookies were baking, to the dining room, to the corded phone in the hallway. “Mommy,” I said, delicately placing my hand on her arm. “It’s okay, we’ll see him real soon even if he doesn’t—“ “Don’t, Clarissa. Don’t call me that. I know what it means. You want something, don’t you?” I flinched from the sting. “No, Mom! I’m just trying to—!” “Don’t!” she yelled back. “Just—just watch the cookies before they burn!” I fled back into the kitchen, her angry face still etched in my brain. That expression was saved for when she was feeling really upset. It was even visible

in her graying brown hair, walnut-colored arms, aging face. Especially that face. Dark blue wet eyes that could convey a thousand emotions at once – the emotions of a human, of an adult, of a mother, of a widow. That crooked nose from when she and Uncle George fought as children. Thin cheeks that had once been the epitome of beauty. Creases that expressed a hundred years in fifty. A smile whose laugh lines wept from recent abandonment. The cookies hadn’t even been baking for four minutes. Mom loved excuses. She loved to blame. Work drove her crazy. The dog drove her crazy. My brother drove her crazy. I drove her crazy. Dad wasn’t there to help. The rest of the conversation wasn’t very long. She yelled some more, saying the same thing over and over again. I tried to tune it out. Finally, she hung up,

Marine Chen• Untitled 98

strode over to the television, and flipped it on with the remote. I went to the bathroom and when I came back the gingerbread cookies were ready. I took them out of the oven and let them cool on the counter. - My room was chilled from an open window. I remembered that I’d opened it to rid my room of cleaning supply stench. For Christmas, we always cleaned everything, even if guests weren’t going to be in every room. I guess that relieved us of any New Year’s Resolutions. Most holidays were spent outside our house anyway, at a better house, with undoubtedly better hosting and organization. When I stepped into my room, I just about froze to death. I shut the window and threw myself into bed, cloaking my body in blankets galore, making an attempt at falling asleep. More than an hour passed and it was obviously too cold for sleep, so I spilled the blankets over the floor and dragged myself into the dark hallway. I imagined it was midnight or later. Tomorrow was the last day of school until January fifth. From the amount of snow we were getting, I doubted there would even be school. It was the norm to be awake past midnight, but my energy was drained from the bitter cold and school projects. I relied on the thought that school was cancelled so as to not to worry about being tired in the morning. It was cold in the hallway, too. The ancient radiators always turned off at night. They were rusty and pathetic. Dad promised to fix or paint them, but never did. Danny bought blue paint for them, but the bucket was sitting in his room collecting dust with a hundred other things that college did not require. A choked sob. That must have been my mom. I slowly crept through the surrounding darkness, careful to make my steps not creak too loudly. Her door was so close to mine. I pressed my ear against it as softly as I could, and heard another muffled cry. I heard my pulse like a bee, felt the chills of a ghost. To knock, or not to knock, I thought. That is the question. Thinking about it upset me. My previous attempts to comfort her were lost in miserable shouts. She must have felt so lonely. My mom had been so looking forward to Danny coming home that she even cleaned his room, too. Like the rest of our house, it smelt of bleach and stung in my nostrils like a dry nosebleed. My pale fingers were just a centimeter from the aged wooden door. I was afraid of knocking. What trouble. Comforting her was hard. Just being in the same room as her, the same house. Danny must have felt the same way. He must

Zienna Stewart • Portrait of a Leaf

have been secretly glad the planes were cancelled. That was it. He felt blessed by the awful weather, the cruel weather, blizzards that gave frostbite to even the toughest boys at school. My heavy knuckles hit the door with a soft tap. I froze, totally still. Had she heard? Probably not, with all that crying. She had sustained two deaths in the last year, and her kid going off to college. Old Oberon, our dog, and I were the only ones left. I wondered why she took it out on me. One week till people started to come to town. There wouldn’t be a lot this year. There couldn’t. Would others be able to have their holiday trips? Would I be able to handle a whole week snowed in with my mother? Or did I have to break the ice now? Deep breath. In, out, in, out. You can do this. Okay. You can do this. Knock, knock, knock...

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“Clarissa?” she said, weakly. I couldn’t form a word. Could barely form a coherent thought. Just stood there like a fool. “Clarissa?” she said again, louder this time. Without thinking, I slipped my fingers over the chilly brass doorknob and rushed into the room, staring at my mom. “Clarissa,” she said for the third time. This time it was neither a question nor a statement. Just a word. A word of relief. Was she relieved? What had I done? What magic spell had I cast? “Mom,” I answered. We stared at each other for a minute. It was the third time I’d seen Mom cry. The lines on her face were deeper than I remembered. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes puffy, nose red like Rudolph. Then, without warning, my own feet led me around the bed and I crawled in with her. The mattress sunk deeper than mine, and the blankets were heavier. She always said that being the oldest in the house gave her automatic permission to have a bigger, better bed. I planned on using that against my own children one day. “Are you okay?” I asked quietly, pulling the blankets over myself. She sniffed and nodded like a toddler. I smiled at her, a sweet smile, one without teeth. They were misplaced and ugly anyway. I took her hand. “I miss him too, Mom. Don’t worry though, he’s going to come back soon. You know the snow is too much. It’s dangerous. They’re protecting him.” She nodded again. “I know,” Mom murmured. “It’s just so hard to be away from my baby...” I moved closer to her. “It’s okay. I’m here, Mom. Danny is fine where he is. He has friends. We can talk to him on the phone whenever we want. Hey, we can even watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas with him on TV!” I added in, just to make her laugh. It worked. “The point is, Mom, we don’t have to physically be with him to actually be with him.” Oh god. I sounded like one of those motivational movies, or a commercial for insurance. Neither one of us moved. You could cut the tension with a steak knife. “Thank you,” she told me gently. “I love you.” Oh god, again. Now I had to say it. I realized that it had been a long, long time since I’d actually told her out loud. But it was true, so true, and three words can go a long way. “I love you, too, Mom.” I knew that we could figure it out together. 101

Pencils Sharp as Knives Luis Eduardo Bermudez Ham 1 It was easy to tell that there was something quite off about Jacob Brubeck. Maybe it was that he slept strapped to his bed. Maybe it was that his bed was on a negative slope, facing slightly more to the floor than the ceiling, which was only one reason as to why he was strapped to his bed. Maybe what was really off with him was the other reason. And there was something wrong with him – after what happened. Before, Jacob used to be quite a curious young man with a comfortable life: he was twenty-four years old, 6” 4’, a good man, and was just finishing his psychology internship at the Spruce Pines Mental Hospital. He had two more months to go before he was finally free to live his life. After he was done, he had decided, he would take some time off. Perhaps he would go to Europe and live the bohemian life for a year. Or he could visit his family and stay with them for a while. Most likely, though, Jacob would become a couch potato. This was the road that his life was going to take no matter what. He had become a kind of couch potato after the incident, anyway. It was mere irony rather than fate, however, that Jacob had ended up strapped to his upside-down bed in the same hospital where he had had his internship. The hospital had three main wards, fully inhabited, even if its size, as big as a university campus, gave the illusion of it always being abandoned. You had the old, funny-smelling, male ward, in which you could find the oldest patient, Rick, a seventy-nine-year-old kleptomaniac whose narcolepsy impeded him from stealing anything. Rick never liked Jacob. You also had the new, shiny, female ward, which was so clean only thanks to Beatrice, a forty-five-year-old OCD patient. When she was not cleaning the ward, she was usually spying on people. Beatrice liked Jacob, but she was much too shy to tell him, so she never did. She often spied on him, nevertheless. And then, of course you had the children’s ward. Its official name was juvenile ward, but Jacob always called it the children’s ward. The name felt more affectionate that way, and that was only appropriate since Jacob liked to spend most of his time in this ward. Most of the kids in the ward were under thirteen, except Kevin. Kevin was seventeen and had fried his brain during a bad LSD trip. He never got along well with Jacob, which was a funny thing, since most of

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Nadia Kim • Paths

the other kids in the ward adored Jacob: Kimmy, the autistic, Jim, the agoraphobic, and Molly, the twelve-year-old schizophrenic patient with multiple personality disorder. As Jacob’s internship went by, Molly quickly became one of his favorites. She had no problem opening up with him; she was not shy at all, and this was something rather odd, considering most of the other patients rarely talked to anyone but themselves. She liked to play a lot, but never made as big of a mess as the other kids did, almost never threw fits, and she called Jacob “Jakey”. She was in a therapy program which encouraged children to draw, and her pieces were truly stunning: life-like portraits of life at the hospital. She rarely used color in

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her drawings though; most of them were made with the pencils that Molly carried around with her. Jacob liked her. The good half, anyways. 2 Since he had found him, Jacob made a habit of taking Cloud, his dog, with him on Saturdays, which was one of the days he spent in his beloved children’s ward. Cloud was an aptly named white Akita pup, whose fur was as spongy as… well, a cloud, and who loved to play with kids. He was very protective and caring for such a small pup, and this made him the perfect pet for Jacob to take with him. Jacob had found him rooting through a trashcan near his house one morning as he was walking to the subway, where he took the train to Spruce Pines. The dog was injured, but his broken paw didn’t stop the playful spirit that he showed when Jacob called him. “Come, boy!” Jacob went out of his way to take care of Cloud, and before long the dog was already healed and Jacob was taking him to the hospital with him. Cloud was also one of the reasons Rick didn’t like Jacob, for the small dog tended to go into Rick’s room and steal a shoe or two from the old man. Some of the children in Spruce Pine’s juvenile ward were a bit scared by Cloud, but after Jacob’s ninth month of internship, their week became a constant waiting game in which they would all expect patiently the arrival of the dog. Even Kevin. This was the world in which Jacob was submerged when it happened. 3 Pictures tend to be quite curious objects. Like little time machines, they freeze a moment forever. This moment won’t change, no matter how much the reality around it changes. A picture of a clean-faced man chugging a gallon of beer with fireworks in the sky behind him during the Fourth of July, will still be a picture of a clean-faced man chugging a gallon of beer with fireworks in the sky behind him during the 4th of July even if that man passes out that night and gets his face sharpied by his drunk friends and the gallon of beer becomes a gallon of piss and the sky where the picture was taken becomes full of clouds to the point where the sky isn’t visible anymore and it’s not the Fourth anymore, but the Fifth. Such was the case with the picture in the round, golden locket that hung from Molly’s neck. It was one of the first things Jacob had noticed about her, since most of the

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patients weren’t allowed to have any kind of jewelry. Must be something special, he thought. In the picture, Molly was still Molly and her mother was still alive and her father hadn’t killed her mother yet. But her father had snapped, and her mother was dead, and Molly wasn’t Molly anymore; she was Molly and Ashley instead. Ashley began as mild schizophrenia; a simple, harmless, imaginary friend that Molly had created after his father had become a different man than the man in her locket. Eventually, however, Ashley became… more than only a friend. She became a part of Molly, taking more and more control over her, to the point where Molly would be gone for long periods of time, and Ashley would take over. Ashley was quite different than Molly. She didn’t like to play a lot and she usually made big messes when she did, and she threw fits all the time. Also, she scared the shit out of Jacob. Fortunately, he had only seen Ashley once during his internship. Molly had been playing with her dolls by herself when another girl, Joy, came up to her and asked if she could play along. When Molly said no, the girl, who turned out to be there because of her anger management problems, began screaming at Molly, shouting that her friends weren’t real. Ashley, being one of Molly’s friends, didn’t like this. A shadow took over Molly’s eyes, her mouth crooked, and her voice changed from a sweet, almost melodic tone, to a slow, broken, shrieking sound that resembled the crow of a raven or nails going down a chalkboard. Still, words were heard. “I am real, bitch.” Holy shit, was the thought that went through Jacob’s head when he finally realized that Molly was smashing Joy’s face against the wall, which was intended to be white, but now had a reddish-brownish color that reminded Jacob of the tree leaves falling in autumn. The fight (if a single sided event like that could be called a fight) was broken up with the help of the warden, and Jacob learned that day to always approach Molly with carefulness, even if she seemed harmless. This curious incident happened during Jacob’s second month of internship. For the eight months that followed, he never forgot to be cautious with Molly. And so, for the eight months that followed, he was never once hurt. His good memory, or luck, however, came to an end two months before his internship was over.

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4 “Can I play with Cloud?” asked Molly. “Of course you can,” replied Jacob, “but Cloud is playing with Kimmy right now. As soon as he’s done playing with her, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.” As he said this he winked at the little girl, but she didn’t smile as she usually did. “I want to play with Cloud!” she screamed. “There’s no need to raise our voices, sweetie. Why don’t you go over there and wait for Kimmy to finish playing with him?” “Jakey!” she said in a shrieking whine, “Why won’t you let me play with Cloud?!” To anyone with a good ear, Molly’s voice would’ve sounded different than usual. It was just a bit deeper. Unfortunately for Jacob, he didn’t have a good ear. “Molly, I’m telling you, just be a little patient and you’ll get your turn.” In saying this, Jacob had sounded more aggressive than he had intended to. Molly had no reaction. She turned around calmly, almost as if nothing had happened, and strutted back to the table where she had been sitting. Jacob, a bit confused, disregarded the incident and went back to his Saturday work: a quick check of the other two wards, and trying to fix the AC, which had broken down earlier that day. This task, with his lunchtime included, took him no more than an hour and a half. He had caught Beatrice sneaking out of her ward and spying on him when he was sweeping through the patio of Spruce Pines, and she blushed like a red bell pepper when she realized that he had noticed her. This made Jacob laugh a little, and Beatrice ran back to her room and did some more cleaning. He was back in with the children’s ward at about 12:30, right when the sun was in its uppermost position and walking under its rays felt like being speared by fire. Usually this wouldn’t have been a problem, but Jacob hadn’t succeeded in fixing the AC, and the hospital felt less like the shade of a tree and more like a baking oven. The overwhelming heat, however, was not the reason Kimmy was crying. “What happened, sweetie?” inquired Jacob, without real hopes of getting an answer. Kimmy’s autism prevented her from communicating even the simplest

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Sarah Little • Untitled

ideas. Still, protocol required that he asked. “M-m-maaaaaaahh! Bad! Bad! Why?” was all that came out of the trembling lips of the girl. Jacob was baffled, but before he even got the chance to think about what had happened, someone called him from behind. “You should’ve let me play with Cloud.” The voice was slow, broken and sounded like nails going down on a chalkboard. Jacob turned around, and the voice kept talking. “Why didn’t you let me play? Was I too weird for you? Did you not like me petting your doggie? I won’t pet him anymore, Jakey. No one will.” Jacob felt a knot tie around his throat. His heart pounded against his chest, and he felt every beat of it in his eyes and ears. 107

“C-c’mon Molly. Stop playing now. Why is Kimmy crying? And where is Cloud?” “Baaaaaaaaaaad!” cried Kimmy, standing behind Jacob. “Ashley. My name is Ashley. Molly is not here right now, and won’t be for a while. Kimmy is crying because she’s a little bitch and can’t stand her toys being taken away from her. Do you know how much I hate this place? Being trapped here, inside this subnormal body, surrounded by all of these… people, if you could call them that. I hate it.” “Where’s my dog?” asked Jacob, trying to keep his calm regardless of the mixed feeling of anger and fear that was taking over him. “I usually take over at night, when she’s long drifted away. But I can’t get off the bed because of the fucking straps. So I have to look up, at the ceiling, all the time. Drives me crazy.” “Where’s my dog, you… you…” Jacob tried to calm down, but his attempt was futile. “…you monster?” “Easy now. There’s no need to raise our voices, sweetie. I know the frustration you feel. Being forced to look at something so monotonous and boring as a fucking ceiling is not fun, either. It’s all white! Nothing to analyze or think about, or focus on. I just wish there was something interesting to look at. And now, I guess, there finally is.” “What are you talking about?” “Look up, Jakey.” Jacob’s head slowly bended backwards, his heart still beating in his ears, and when he finally saw it, his throat opened wide to let out a deep shriek of terror. Impaled by several pencils to the ceiling hung the lifeless body of Cloud, it’s white fur now covered in red-brown stains and slowly dripping blood from the pencils. One of the drops hit Jacob in the forehead, and he screamed some more. Cloud’s snout hung, half open, and the tongue of the animal dangled out of it. An expression of pain was engraved into the dog’s face, and its eyes where as clouded as his name suggested. To Ashley, this was truly a work of art. To Jacob, this was horrifying. Crushing. Too much. The warden came in and went mute before he could ask what the hell had just happened. Jacob kept screaming, and when the warden eventually got back to his senses, he tried to calm him down. The warden, who was a bit taller than Jacob, kept asking him to look him in the eyes, but Jacob’s gaze was lost in the floor. It took the hospital’s team of doctors no more than a day to figure out that Jacob was broken.

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5 The straps were a bit uncomfortable at the beginning, but Jacob eventually got used to them. There was something off about him indeed, but no one expected any different. And he was getting better really fast, too. The floor helped him relax. Doctors said that if everything went right, he would be able to look up again sometime in the near future. Things were going good for Jacob Brubeck. One night, however, he was woken up by a noise. Someone had opened the door. Jacob looked around frantically, but his visibility was very limited. He heard light footsteps, and his heart beat faster; his throat tied up. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. Jacob began struggling against his straps, twisting and shaking and contracting as if he were being the victim of an epileptic attack. His eyes moving, looking around the room, but finding nothing. His ears were the first ones to catch anything. “Oh Jakey, won’t you play with me?”

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About the Creative Writing Department at Idyllwild Arts Academy

For high school students interested in developing as writers, Idyllwild Arts offers a major in creative writing, which, combined with the academic program, prepares a student for writing fields in college and beyond. The overall program for writers at IAA provides a general study of literature, arts, sciences, and fine arts; it also provides extracurricular experiences through public readings, a student-run print and online literary magazine, and excursions to cultural and environmental experiences. A tiered curriculum provides introductory and advanced workshop seminars, tutorials, a senior thesis, and a senior oral examination. Individual courses place an equal emphasis on the process of writing and 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 ten students, with department enrollment no greater than twenty-two students. Creative writing teachers at IAA are a mixture of full and part-time faculty who are experts in their field. 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 2012-2013 academic year, guests included fiction writers Richard Bausch and Hilary Plum, playwright Ruth McKee, editors/poets Nate Pritts, Curtis Perdue, and Laura Wetherington, and TV writer William Lucas Walker. 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 frequent trips to the Old Globe Theater in San Diego and the Huntington Library and Gardens in San Marino. Recently, several students gave a reading at the AWP conference in Chicago, IL. 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 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.

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