Literati 10th Edition - Decade by Cultural Arts and Theater Society

This edition is brought to you by

Literati Staff Members Hue Can, Ju Hye Grace Choi, Tung Dang, Kaiying Fu, Jung Eun Im, Ji Young Kim, Madi Lunnen, Damian Park, Mike Ruiz, Van Tran

Faculty Advisor Professor Loren Goodman

Sponsors & Partners Underwood International College Yonsei University 좋은세상 이웃사람들 DocuFriends

With Special Acknowledgements to Anna-Maria Crnjak, David Haram Kim, Jung Won Melissa Park

DECADE LI T E RAT I X

A production of Cultural Arts & Theater Society Underwood International College, Yonsei University Seoul, 2015

Editor’s Note

After the huge success of our 9th edition, the pressure was on. How can we produce something that is remotely as good, not to mention something better? You may think we had the whole path paved out for us, so it must have been easy, or at least easier. Except it wasn’t. If there is something life’s good at, it must be posing new challenges, which never take the same shape or form the previous ones did. But after all, if they were, where would be the fun? We certainly did have lots of fun working on this edition, despite all the stress. It has been a pleasure working with this group of brilliant people, who have never failed to amaze me with their creativity and dedication. The small book you are holding in your hand is representative of the minds of our small group, because though it may seem a bit exaggerated, the truth is this issue speaks for each of us and all of us. Decade is a collection of pieces various in shape and size, much like the long journey full of ups and downs CATS itself has been through. It is not only a tribute to previous generations of CATS and Literati staff members, but also, to general readership, a reminiscence of time and time periods, be it a moment, a day, a year, a decade, or, who knows, a lifetime. Many thanks to everyone who has contributed to our magazine since its conception. Special thanks go to the ten staff members who have been putting their efforts into this edition. We have made it this far and will keep going further. Here, I proudly present to you Literati 10th Edition. Enjoy it and be waiting for our eleventh. Hue Can

CONTENTS

SECOND

I hate moments like theeeeze - So Hee Park

Nightscape: Rio de Janeiro - Neil Leadbeater

Untitled – Judy Kim

Anakarina Blue - Deirdre Sokolowski

The Girl from Idea - Mike Ruiz

Dylan’s Duquesne Whistle - Neil Leadbeater

Watched - So Hee Park

MINUTE The Value of Wanting - Tyrel Shaw

Untitled - Jolene Hooy

Jodie on Her Wild Side - Neil Leadbeater

An Ode to Empty Popcorn Bags and Club Soda - Mike Ruiz

West - Alyse Brower

Bird above Your Head - Juhye Choi (Grace)

Stick Your Tongue Out - Juhye Choi (Grace)

HOUR Lily and Caroline - Diep Nguyen

Sheep in Wolf Clothing - So Hee Park

Nightlight - Mike Ruiz

Buried in the Cabaret - Jessi Schultz

Untitled - Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Encouragement from the Spinet - Dr. Ernest Williamson III

DAY Burnt Umber - Neil Leadbeater

You Know? - Maple Ip

Toad on Scar - Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Simon - Alyse Brower

Que Dios Te Bendiga - Mike Ruiz

MONTH Falling in Love with the Moon - Katrina Torrefranca

White Flowers – Juhye Choi (Grace)

Artist Delving into Her Craft - Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Water & Colors - Eliz M. Aviles

July - Alyse Brower

YEAR A Baker - Diep Nguyen

Monument - Kaiying Fu

Concrete Glacier - Joy Hammer

Grandmother in Bryggen - Joy Hammer

Mother Wind - Jessi Schultz

Sky As It Is - Juhye Choi (Grace)

Uncle Bud - Alyse Brower

Treading the Fire - Dr. Ernest Williamson III

The Love Seeker - Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Bare My Soul - Emily Hamilton

Bashir Mohamad - Bashir Mohamad

 6

I hate moments like theeeeze So Hee Park

The prickle on my neck tells me he hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t left yet. I wait, reluctant, not wanting to risk unnecessary pain.

He explores, curious about my hair.

The second I feel him off of me I run like the wind.

I hate bees. 9

Nightscape: Rio de Janeiro Neil Leadbeater

At the Dama de Ferro Night Club when you were smooching with Maria you were the young girl running wild to the first shutter of dawn.

Untitled Judy Kim

Anakarina Blue Deirdre Sokolowski 12

The Girl From Idae Mike Ruiz

Across the train He glances at you Yonseiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Astrophil and Ehwaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Stella A stargazer is always ignored by the stars The schools Little France and England Only their channel is flowing asphalt Here their ocean stretches through the car The two islands So far apart As we glide over the Han river I see cars on the bridge across 13

A reflection of our humble tram We stop swiftly At Apgujeong Station He steals one last look stepping off the train You donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t turn around And Astrophil Leaves forever

Dylan’s Duquesne Whistle Neil Leadbeater

plays out in the bar. It’s the opening track on “Tempest” his unique rendering of someone else’s song “brilliant” you called it, playing it over summer of 2012... You’d always wanted to live near trains to hear the freight roar through the night as you sat up late like a live wire tapping into the rhythmic pull of pistons down the line or put an ear to partition walls to listen in to shunting stock night-time in the yards – when a poem huffs on a track like that you have to let it sing.

Watched So Hee Park

I know my captors are out there. I only saw silhouettes passing by the round, tinted window, but I know they’re there. They’re probably watching my moves, observing me. I nonchalantly act as though I know none of this, all the while plotting my escape. It’s Day 200-and-something, and I have decided finally to execute my plan. Picking up the knife I crafted from a plastic spoon while pretending to fall asleep, I get up. And my modest weapon clatters onto the ground. I stumble back, having found two words scrawled on the window which weren’t there before. “We know.”

The Value of Wanting Tyrel Shaw

Look, I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pretend to know anything about you I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pretend to know anything about most people what I do know is that I value wanting to know about you more than most people you have my full attention.

Untitled Jolene Hooy 20

Jodie On Her Wild Side Neil Leadbeater

Choosing bikinis in the downtown store she quickly gets the message:

less is definitely more.

Definition of out of line as in crossing the line. Of being outrageous and loving it. She did not want to make a statement. What kind of statement was she trying to make? Just the O of surprise and wonder that she could do this and be free. Modelling a teardrop before the glass all she could think about was stealing apples

and biting them down to the core

of what she would say at confession of the disapproval of generations which had come and gone before her and of shaking off her inhibition now and forever amen. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t all that difficult. Plucking up courage to go to the beach, to lie back

and think of sunlight.

Friends said she was stunning.

An Ode to Empty Popcorn Bags and Club Soda Mike Ruiz

If your life were a movie it’d be some sort of disposable piece of shit Kevin Hart vehicle. A pitiful excuse but for what? The audience wants empty popcorn bags halfway through the film. A pepsi can brought to the lips to taste flavorless club soda. “Go ahead and complain about the seltzer.” You should just tell them because right now you already know that bastard cola has more value than you.

West

Alyse Brower

From the moment the sounds of Deep Ellum leave my ears, I miss you. I want half of my heart to not live up I-75. But maybe, my throat is just too thirsty to be staved by your dry thunder, heat or liquor stores Maybe, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m too small; my voice too firm or blood too cold. All I can do is fill my Crown Victoria to the brim, daring the fuel gauge to kiss full, and drive. I will live in the leftmost lane, until it takes me to where the pecan pies are a little less sweet, where the bluebonnets have traded themselves for dandelions and the sun holds me at an armâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s length

Bird above Your Head Juhye Choi (Grace)

Stick Your Tongue Out Juhye Choi (Grace)

We laugh. We chat. We drink. We get drunk. We pass out. We wake up and remember nothing. Stick your tongue out. That’s what youth is supposed to be about, right? At least that’s what people say. They say it’s all about having fun, because it’s now or never. After all, you are young once and that’s all you will ever possibly get—one single chance. As people sing so passionately: “Tonight we’re young; so let’s set the world on fire, we can burn brighter than the Sun.” It’s one perfect time to lose your mind under the scattering disco lights, one perfect time to whistle and wink at hot girls in bars, and one perfect time to ignore your limits and get wasted. And then everything is over. Black out. Like when you drink too much that you pass out and there is nothing in your consciousness but complete, empty blackness that swallows up the whiteness of your bones. Stick your tongue out. Chance; window opens and the bird flies out. The window unlocks randomly, at any time- you never know when it will open; it may be five minutes later, some time today, or tomorrow. But it’s a sure thing that it will open, it’s just that you don’t know when and for how long. Yet isn’t it enough? Simply knowing the fact that there exists a window over which a whole new dimensional world lies gives the bird hope. And although hope can be brutal and afflicting, it keeps the bird alive. It offers the bird a purpose for its breathing, singing, and grooming feathers. It makes the bird imagine, wonder, and even cautiously dream about flying, which has been strictly banned after the walls of metal cage came down. It would be fatal as well, for the bird would then start to get dissatisfied with the cage and that’s not good. It’s always more than appropriate to put on a smile and be positive with whatever you have—even if the world looks grimmer than ever. Or so people say. Stick your tongue out.

Blue bird. Do you envisage the bird to be blue? Or is it some other color, like green or purple? Blue bird actually represents hope and freedom, according to this children’s story titled “Blue bird.” Blue also reminds me of the vastly open sky which goes on forever and ever. I, along with you, am standing behind the edge of that blueness where everything starts, the beginning of this sky. And I think this is what youth is about. Being young, energetic, and strong, it all comes down to this sky that you have got to fill. The bird is still inside the cage, but it knows that there is a sky waiting for its flight. You are still imperfect, but you know that there is a vast possibility of you being perfect, in your own ways. You still got your thrilling passion inside you, something that keeps you alive and makes your life living worthwhile. It’s only the beginning, this youth. This closed door. The only thing that is left is for you to slam yourself hard against that door and embrace the sky. Fill it with your wings that you have been grooming for so long, fly like you have never done before. So stick your tongue out and scowl at all those temptations. I am so ready. Are you?

Lily and Caroline Diep Nguyen

Little Lily was looking outside Through the window reflecting the sky It was storming that Friday night Friday the thirteenth if she remembered it right. Lily sang to scare away the loneliness Yet the little girl was not by herself. Humming along her innocent voice, indeed was another one, silvery and disembodied “Come and play, be amazed my dear Lily Just follow me, don’t be timid” Gently and slowly opened - the front door Thunders frightened her, yet the voice was so attractive Here it was, dancing, twisting with the gust Covering her instinct, blinding her fright The voice filled her with delight and guts Led her to a tomb by a construction site

Digging the ground, her hands were full of mud. What she found, a blue-eyed porcelain doll Dressed in red and holding a dried rose bud “Thanks for rescuing me, my dear Lily.” Little Lily came home safely that night with her new friend, the doll Caroline. From that day she always wore in red Her voice turned silvery and her eyes turned wild. By the old construction site one day, chilly and misty The little girl buried the doll, singing quietly “Shhh… don’t be afraid, my dear, my baby Now you are in me, and me – the new Lily.”

Sheep in Wolf Clothing So Hee Park 31

Nightlight Mike Ruiz

The cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s children lay orphaned in bed Their parents having left them once more I am also lacking a guardian Navigating the Yeonhui streets till mornEven the stars are tucked in, drifting off Their faces obscured by inky blankets Sheets sewn by threads of navy night so rough That it would bring shame to sandpaper lipsThe moon pokes out from under its covers To ask for a bottle of water full Only to find the Sun, her own father Soundly sleeping during the nighttime lullLooking at the starless sky I bemoan The sensation of being all alone

Buried in the Cabaret Jessi Schultz

Sex sells itself. People hide from the act in speech and in public, but when the lights are dim and the music loud it somehow becomes more casual. I work in a hole in the wall off Ward Avenue, in a little alley of its own. It’s all dark in there except for red and purple lights set above the pole, set above our heels shuffling about, the smell of sweat and beer set above the smoke. A mirror lines the far wall so we can watch our bodies move and crawl, trying so hard to smile. There is little pleasure in favor of agony; instead of in old lore where women were covered up or in the east where they were believed to be sacred, now from where I stand, it is thrown naked onto the stage and forced to act, dance, manipulate, touch and be touched, quiver with fatigue and finally step off, alone, reborn reborn reborn. Maybe it’s just the underworld, but the bleeding of who once lived in us brings in revenue. We are alone on stage and, to some extent, we are dead. It can be called pretty or beautiful, though it is for money, not out of passion for dancing as some say. The sheer power trade off with the men watching brings in more facets to play with; the facets of a brilliantly cut stone to refract light into every color, every perception, every conceivable angle and notion, more light to refract reasons to be there. The years of abuse hidden in our glossed smiles fade. All those facets come into play. Clients ask what brought us here. They ask where we live, who we are, what we like to do. I never have the same answer for anything, except maybe when I’m writing about what I see. Our time and memories of same events varies from blonde to red to black, from stormy nights to tropical evenings, from depression to rich applause, from nothing to five hundred a night. ‘Club Sun’ is what the sign says, close to a rich district, nearby a harbor and hidden to those not looking. One new girl,, named Ariana, sits texting in a plastic red booth looking up every once in a while to see if anyone new walked in. She couldn’t

captivate me with her Tumblr blog nor could I teach her spins very well, so from across the room we glance and stare at each other, with nothing to say. Another girl is staring at herself in the mirror as she shakes her pelvis like it’s disconnected from her spine. She’s had more hours than anyone on the pole, her name is Passion because she’s got it. It’s still early in the night, almost eight-ish. No one watches her. Her thong is just strings, and her breasts hang heavy and move with her. With both hands holding the pole, she lifts herself off the ground and upside down, legs split. She has no expression, just a gone look in her eyes and all over covered in red shadow from the light. The Vietnamese man behind the bar lights a cigarette and keeps it burning between his lips. The only name I know him by is ‘Papa’. And I quickly walk by everything to get to the bathroom so no one sees me in my normal clothes. No greeting before I reach the door, just a dejected looking girl in the mirror with painted black eyes, giving an empty stare for now. One half in the mirror picks out flaws and the other half retaliates with another look saying, “There’s nothing left to do, just go out and know that someone out there thinks you’re beautiful, wants you for all the wrong reasons, but money is to be made. Don’t question this image, someone likes it, someone has to like it.” There’s not enough makeup to reinforce a smile all night. Sweat will rain it away anyways. So, we hide there, us girls, us sisters without fear to sell ourselves, in the darkness of just a strobe rainbow and UV whispers of secret ceiling spectacle. Tegan springs up as I speak to a regular client named Art, a quiet man with urges like all the rest. I should expect these desires, but when I first see them, as a person, as a pair of eyes on me, I forget my body is barely clothed, barely covered. Even in the dark, my youth is visible and they want it, hungrily. They eye me from across the room or from right next to me. And even though she comes up, his eyes don’t move from my breasts, my cheekbones, and she smiles wholly drunk, saying, “Hi Baby, I’m so glad you’re here! I missed you!” “Why?” I ask, knowing she sees me most days. “Because you’re awesome, that’s why,” all this without eye contact for more than a second. With a smile that makes wrinkles at the curvature of both eyes and teeth showing, she hugs me with her sweat soaked chest touching mine and touches the client’s chin like he’s a puppy, then moves on knowing she’s out of place though still smiling - her blood mostly alcohol and fat cells rendered with large traces of cannabis, a chemical happiness. What does she mean, awesome? I watch her bounce into the kitchen on her six inch platform pumps and then look back at Art. He smiles and his narrow eyes close, 34

some kind of Asian who has been to Tibet has gifted me a bracelet from the spiritual country. She won’t last until midnight being that drunk so early, I think. The music changes to her preference of club beat, hip hop I still can’t name with the months I’ve been working here. Expectation, lust, fantasy. A man with a face barely visible in blinking shadow asks, “Want to go sit down?” Meaning, want to sit in a booth darker than the rest of the room so I can suckle and fondle the wilds of your flesh? “Sure.” The tightly latched heels carry the ghost of Jessi away, and Lilith reborn, fiery phoenix bird, the skinny snake-like figure wafts through the room, smoke, clicking as another body meets the earth, beating heart because one persona or the other lives on. I turn into the maze of seats, squeezing past the array of fake flowers which create a boundary from booth to booth, then sit and Art follows with one hand on right thigh, glasses on table. As if I want to sit by you, the fantasy begins again, a movie replayed over again. Papa comes over, “One drink?” in all his Vietnamese splendor of speech and a smile because he knows the answer. A beckoning gesture, yes, ten more dollars as a poker chip to put into my crown royal sack full of phone, gold coin for luck, and dollar bills. Another night to drink fake shots of water and be the actress, be the second personality given to me. Air conditioned neon room with beat blasts of filth not from radio anymore, abandoned lyrics for hopeless beasts, not monsters because what could they do besides tell lies and breathe lard with opinions, which hold no reverence. Pieces of girls walk around in bikinis like any man’s fantasy, milling around, subdued from vodka, barriers drawn, pistols loaded with no direction for a proper shot.

Untitled Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Encouragement from the Spinet Dr. Ernest Williamson

stoked books coated in sulfuric residue broken lanterns rocking on marble foundations; as the landlord summarized my living room with wry laughter poking fun at my empty space; Chopinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s music filled the room. After the shame of poverty and jest leaves; tacit moments in night find me welcomed where moonlight clothes my bare frame while heat between me and tune climbs above the stay of my landlordâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reproach. Nirvana is reached by not knowing too much other than knowing how to know little things insignificantly.

Burnt Umber Neil Leadbeater

No idea where this one’s going to. It’s always full circle. Sometimes the journey’s straight-forward: direct flight out, direct flight back. Others are not so exact. “We apologise to passengers awaiting the VARIG domestic flight to Fortaleza…” Worse still: FLIGHT CANCELLED. And the poem never gets off the ground. But today she is waved through barriers, exudes confidence head held high amid discerning crowds Nothing can stop her now. Suave, sophisticated, debonair, her poems will never lack lovers as readers soak up the detail: [sunglasses by Lindberg; earrings by Cartier; blouse, skirt and shoes by Prada] so that when she pauses to retrieve her boarding pass all eyes are upon her. But just when you think you are going nowhere she pulls out her purse and it’s burnt umber. Officials wave her through. 41

You Know? Maple Ip

Bare branches scratch your boots like the skeletons you have buried below your feet. The air is misty, almost clean. Looking out to the main road beyond the gates, the work vans are parked neatly in the painted boxes on two sides. You don’t see people, and no one sees you. Just the way you like it. The sky is white-washed like the walls of your workplace, and as you finish the last few feet of your patrol, you feel you are too. Woody (stringy) limbs catch onto your ankle and you kick them away, the way you would a… patient. Because the letters embossed on the plastic plaque above the door—white, what else—spell out H.O.S.P.I.T.A.L. Branches break. And as you’ve learnt, so do fingers. The guy who takes over your shift shuffles past, his shoulders bony against your wider ones. You used to be a tiny little thing like him, but your time here has toughened you up; you’re a man now. His lack of apology doesn’t bother you, silence is—no thoughts required. You turn the corner and down one floor, indifferent to the way white stone gives way to dark muddy brown. It is like walking into another world that cares for nothing but hiding red on the walls. This country knows to hide things and hide them well, but who are you to care? This place has saved you in many ways. Has to look clean, they say. Be practical. It looks, alright. Luckily, blood turned out to be a self-camouflaging paint. With every step the walls fade into fresher shades, silence into harsh breathing sounds, then the patients’ moaning begins (we aren’t sick, we aren’t wrong, we were good). A flight of stairs, then hands start growing out of the walls: thin, needy, breakable. They look like starved maggots draining out of a coffin. The air is stagnant, a raw stench to match the wet walls. You reach out for the sickly things hanging out as if to dry. The hands are nothing beneath your thick fingers, fingers that hold onto chicken flesh instead of runny gruel. It makes for a fascinating sight, and you pull the hands towards you, the wrists grinding against the rough bricks. The fingers that aren’t yours are thin but the skin that covers them are 42

smooth. A faint trembling tells you there’s a body to go with them, and it is alive. After the moaning comes silence, more dead than when you were outside with the dead. It used to scare you back when you knew nothing, but now it plays like the jangle of tunes before a broadcast. Phase III, isolation and reflection. The patients down here are the ones who don’t scream anymore, the ones you know came from the room at the end of this hall. They will be cured soon. Because silence, you’ve learnt, is a good good thing. And you know the man behind the door. Admire him even. Granted, the first time you were in there he was terrifying, but he does his job well and most importantly, he taught you how to keep your job. You don’t bother to knock anymore; it’s not like he can hear you anyway. Instead, you step inside, bow shortly and take your place at the desk in a corner. Cropped hair, pressed uniform, your teacher stands before a man hanging from the rafters. You are impressed by the way his boots stay clean (the man is a doctor), even with a bleeding man in front of him. Bleeding out the sickness, you remember from your lessons. Usually the patients bleed too much and die but that’s how it goes. This man bleeds—liquid seeping from his eyes and his mouth, and from his pores, the thickest wine a man can taste. Yet there is no sign of sweat on your teacher’s face, just a small smile, at the corner of his lips. Surely, a man you can look up to. You pick up a sketch pad on the table and take a moment to appraise the artwork. Your teacher has always encouraged the newer ones to learn through imitation. There was a new intern in particular, eyes wide and hands twitching, that stood out. His name is Jim, Jimmy? No, Jamie, and you think that he must have been to an art school (you went to a science school yourself) because you can almost see the raised skin and the red of exposed flesh protruding out of the paper. You remember how strange it was at first, the unexpected softness of human skin. So different from the pigs you dissected back at school. The way a human just opens, gaping but not messy because there is hardly any blood left to drain out. If the body in front of you wasn’t dead, its heart would probably press against its ribs the same way yours did. Not out of fear of course, just anticipation. You are asked to repeat over and over again, the arm, the leg, then the bony flaps of shoulder blades. To feel the difference, teacher had said. If you cut a little deeper than you should, well, it is your first try after all. Afterwards, you sit in your room—a tiny, but clean room with a bed and a 43

desk and everything white—and wonder if would feel the same if it is was your arm. So you touch the tip of your knife onto the space beneath your elbow, a good balance of flesh and muscle and press in. But apart from the sharp burn, and the sight of the blade plucking your skin like threads (because that’s what it feels like, cutting through taut strings with a paper cutter), you feel nothing. After that, you stick to bodies that aren’t yours. You do this for weeks, until the slight bounce in the flesh grows too pliant beneath the silver of your knife, and your heart becomes dull in its thumps, more of a dudduddud instead of a tuudtudtudtuudtudtud. Then you’re given a real patient, and there is so much mess that one week later, you find flecks of brown under the turn of your collar. Your teacher is pleased though, so it doesn’t bother you. It really doesn’t. “Come over.” Your teacher’s voice brings you back into the room, and you walk over like it is all you have been waiting to do. It surprises you just a little, when he motions past the man he was working on, to a second one at the back of the room. “Phase II, we’re testing the body’s reception to pain therapy. Sensitivity and endurance.” Okay, you can do that. The man is conscious and very much awake. “I-I’ll-what do you want to know?” The question strikes you weirdly, because they all ask the same question. But this is a H.O.S.P.I.T.A.L—you treat patients, not prisoners. “We don’t need to know anything from you.” Your teacher explains patiently, “It says here,” and he holds up a notebook, “Informant—sold out your neighbours, did you?” Lies of course, there’s nothing written on the pages. This is just a technique to test for symptoms of the disorder that all these patients are admitted for. But you are sure that he belongs here. This is the Hospital for Specialist Psychology: Intensive Treatment for “A” Liars. Or so you’re told. Conversations are bound to be strange when patients are compulsive liars. You learn to ignore your curiosity after the first few weeks, because it’s easier that way. You’re taught to lie to liars. There is no home in truth after that.

You dislike mirrors. You can say there’s no particular reason why, but you know better. Your eyes are warm brown and your nose straight, mouth a neutral line. A 44

strong face someone said once, but you notice don’t you, the fixed jaw and lack of lines around your eyes. You don’t laugh much, or smile even. Everything’s good, so why would you have to? A composed figure, you were told, makings of a good doctor. Everything is always good. You make sure of that. Mirrors reveal but you have nothing to hide. No, really, you don’t.

“This isn’t even a proper hospital,” the patient says. He looks at you like that is supposed to mean something. “Of course it is,” is the standard reply. That’s how you talk to patients. They clearly don’t know what they are talking about, sick as they are. It’s a mental disorder, the teachers explained, they can’t accept that they are sick. And so, we need to hurt them so their body recognizes that they aren’t okay. And you think you understand what your teachers mean, when your third and fourth and then tenth patient all lie about the same thing. “But—it’s not.” He sounds confused. He doesn’t cry when you use the knife, he doesn’t scream when you pulled a nail, he doesn’t even tell you he doesn’t belong here. Maybe his pain receptors are damaged? In that case, his condition is more severe than your first diagnosis. You don’t really know what to say to him. Luckily your body knows what to do so your hand reaches for the thin wire on the table. At one point you think it might have been used to cut cheese. The man seems to recognize it too. “Why are you cutting me up with a cheese cutter? I’m not food.” You find him kind of funny. “No.” “I’m not sick. Really, I’m not.” You almost smile at that. Now this is more like the usual territory. You pull out a bat studded with small bits of metal and scrutinize it against the brown of the walls. The patient struggles a bit more now, so you suppose his body is finally wearing down. You turn a smile at his widening eyes. “Don’t worry, we’ll cure you.” “Wh-no!” The begging. Yes, yes, he will be cured. Treated. You don’t have high enough clearance to see for yourself, but you’ve heard about the dozen or so patients that were released last week. The papers have been writing about the success of such treatment 45

facilities, you think, glancing at this week’s edition. It came out just this morning, the feature article titled: EIGHTEEN MONTHS AND COUNTING, A HUNDRED PATIENTS RECOVERED. It also mentions how this treatment will pave way to the abolishment of the Execution Law. Excellent. You really shouldn’t doubt that the treatment will work. Or these people won’t be saved, right? The bat makes a dull noise, like when you kick at the wall with your boots. No scuff marks left behind, and likewise, all the blood did to the wood was turn it darker. “N-not the bat, oh god just-” Your teacher says nothing so you must be doing something right, because teacher knows best. The patient lets out a short scream. It’s time to go back to the knives then. Seems like it’s time. He starts babbling, words pouring out like a chant but then your teacher steps him and hits him hard on the head until he slumps over. You feel like it is your first day all over again, the wrench in your hand and the patient’s teeth scattered at your feet. His mouth is red. You step back with your chest heaving with something you think is pride. Or accomplishment. Finally your teacher steps forward. He stares at you for a long time, and you tell yourself you’ve done a good job when he takes the wench from you. His hands break bones as easily as yours, and you resolutely do not shake when it grips your elbows. “Steady hands,” he comments after a while. “I’ll see about a promotion.” “Yes, sir.” It’s only polite to keep your front facing him as you bow out of the room. In the hall, you pull off your face mask. You’ve had three patients today, stay long enough down here and the smell doesn’t really matter anymore. In fact, you feel the air might have gotten fresher. Oh, a promotion. Looks like you’ve chosen the right place to be. All you’ve done is want to save people; and isn’t saving them easy? Just bleed them. And if you aren’t sure, well, it is your job anyway.

Toad on Scar Eleanor Leonne Bennett 47

Simon Alyse Brower

He says it will happen thrice. denial dancing a waltz, the rooster keeping time.

her scarf is purple and turquoise, black lacing the edges. framing her round face. and she says she knows of Him and i. her leery eyes searching my beard. i know her, her meaning and role. the fates will give her a long life, grandchildren, many passovers and prayers. she utters His name and i recoil.

she tries again. her eyes reflect me more man than stone. her lips purse devotion, spelling the life of a fisherman husband. bringing home flowers and bread. a warm home. no, i mumble, my head unclear.

the rooster crows.

she looks to the people for assurance. she is sure she is right. i look too. i look at them. how they will prosper, families will love them, how they will take wives and history will let them alone. how average they will be. i deny the Galilean.

then rooster crows and my eyes, waterlogged, begin to weep.

“Que Dios Te Bendiga” Mike Ruiz

I rubbed my sweaty palms against my pants, and I popped a peppermint in my mouth hoping that it would help unknot my tangled stomach. I had never been this nervous in my entire life. The normal hustle and bustle of Baltimore Washington International stirred around me like a hyperactive honeycomb. The classmates who would be taking this adventure with me clumped together, good little honeybees. They excitedly anticipated this missions trip, and the chance they would get to proselytize. However, I was the only worker bee out of place. My girlfriend would have come on this trip with me, but her softball team’s bonding trip had taken her to the even more exotic land of Tennessee for the week that I would be spending in the third world. I reached into my pocket and was quickly reminded by its emptiness that I had been instructed to leave my phone at home, so any form of comfort from my anxiety was now lying on my nightstand beside my bed. It would certainly do a piss poor job of helping me from there. The group leader broke me out of my stupor by handing something over to me. “Here Michael, you’re gonna have some trouble getting on the plane without your ticket, right?” I looked up to him and hastily grabbed it out of his hands, trying my best not to get his as wet as mine. This slip of paper was so much more than a ticket to La Aurora International, more than just an opportunity to travel to Guatemala City. It was my opportunity to actually do something good for once. To reach out into a world full of darkness with whatever light I could hope to provide. In the terminal my zealous classmates and I played cards and joked. At the time I was a bit too socially incompetent to have anything resembling a conversation with any of them. I heard them make comments like: “Wow, aren’t you guys excited?” “Yeah, it’s my first time going to a place so different. I’ve only ever been to Canada.” “You should wait until you see these kids. They’re the most adorable things in the whole world!” I had already had my own experiences with the third world, so I found most of

these comments somewhat inane. However, many of the people on this trip were even more experienced than I was. One had spent part of his last summer in Kenya, and another had been on at least one service trip every year of high school. The classmate to the right of me had spent a summer in Japan. These students looked as if they were more prepared. The less experienced students showed that they were lacking quite instantly. They would try to stick with whatever friends they had to cling to for the duration of their trip. I had none of what these people had. I was not seasoned, and I had no companions to hold me up. The only one on my side who knew me well enough to help me was the big dude upstairs, and it looked like he was gonna tell me to sink or swim on this one. They laughed and joked, and admitted to a bit of nervousness, when all of the sudden over the loudspeaker I heard, “Group C for the flight to Miami International Airport, you are now cleared to board.” I sighed, grabbed my carry on, and walked onto the plane. Much to my dismay, I was seated next to two girls who would much prefer chatting with each other and their friends behind them when I so craved to sleep. As my iPod proved unable to drown out their incessant jabbering I opened a book and wished that a friend had been able to accompany me on this trip. My music finally won out against them and I managed to relax with my book.



I’ve always wondered why traveling made people so tired. Surely sitting in a chair in the sky shouldn’t be tiring. It should be invigorating. I mean, after all I was flying. However, as I expected, we stood huddled around a table in immigration, exhaustion trying as best it could to stop me from filling out my paperwork. As the group faced themselves with the grand mystery of what such exotic words like “migración” or “aeropuerto” could possibly mean, I simply wanted to be allowed to leave. When we had conquered our forms we found the bus that we would ride to the seminary where we’d stay, and even in the middle of this April night, Guatemala City tried as desperately as it could to mimic the surface of the sun, in terms of heat if not in brightness. There were few streetlights, and the ones that stood cast an eerie orange glow onto the streets. The neighborhood that we would be staying in was called “The Rat’s Nest”. The sheet metal houses and graffiti laden walls looked like they’d be places for rats, so

the name got the point across. It wasn’t a place I’d want to live. I noticed the soldiers outside our compound as we pulled in. It wasn’t until after I left that it clicked with me that their assault rifles and military training skills were being used in order to protect us from the threats that loomed just outside of the place we’d call home for the next week.



The construction and VBS went well. The children were really excited about the arts and crafts projects we’d been doing with them. We helped them make these piece of crap visors that they could decorate with a cord to attach it in the back. I understood that they didn’t get this stuff often, and that they were kids, but to me being this excited over hats as shitty as these was crazy. These kids were pretty easily satisfied. We didn’t have to work very hard, and when I worked in other countries before this we had to do construction all day. So getting to play around with little kids after a measly morning of labor seemed like a dream come true. Would it really be this easy? Goofing off all the way through this trip? However, as I walked off the bus I was welcomed by what would most definitely be more difficult than Jamaica, that being the fact that I had no one to talk to in my group of teammates. They already had their friends and cliques formed before the trip, and I had no such pleasure. The day turned to night and I found myself playing cards and joking around with them the same way we did in the airport, but I was drawn out by the familiar sound of Spanish from the outside of the building where we were playing cards. As I left the brightly lit room of leisure for my peers, I stepped out into the darkness of the compound and saw a curly haired youth who stood an inch or two above me. His wavy black locks and tan skin mirrored my own. He lounged under the dim light of our building as palm trees stood in the background, ever so lightly swaying in the wind, and he could well have been one of them. He went with the wind the same way as they did, and he had an air of composure that could have calmed the Incredible Hulk. His clothes lazily hung off of his body and his smile looked as if it could weather the strongest of storms. My group leader was attempting to talk to him, but the language barrier did its job, and it did it well. My leader barely spoke any Spanish, and his counterpart didn’t speak a lick of English. I walked over to this guy who to the untrained eye very well could have been my own relative. “Hola hombre, cómo te llamas?”

“Me llamo Cristian, y tú?” he replied with a smile that nearly succeeded in lighting up the Guatemalan night. We talked nearly the entire night. I don’t remember the conversation, but the conversation wasn’t what made the night memorable. In that far away corner of the world I had found what I really needed - a friend.



“We need some people to talk to the students,” our foreman and translator told *us as we walked into the concrete gymnasium of the school, cordoned off to the dangerous neighborhood adjacent only by a flimsy chain fence. I meekly raised my hand and volunteered. The foreman led me to the front of the gymnasium as the students slowly trickled in. Cristian saw me at the front of the stage and smiled at me. I returned his smile as best I could, failing miserably at hiding my nervousness. However, as I began to try and talk to my Guatemalan peers I saw that my nervousness was warranted. They were smiling, but not in the same way that Cristian had been. It was the type of smiling reserved for the substitute teacher who was unaware of the brown spot on the butt of his pants. It was one of laughter that lurked behind their smirks, desperately trying to get out. I became even more nervous and forgot every single word of Spanish that I knew. No sentences came out, and I was left with nothing but the desperate gasps for air of a drowning man. An incomprehensible mix of random Spanish words escaped my lips, but I immediately wished for them back as they embarrassed me efficiently. I left the limelight quickly and willingly, the humiliation showing clearly through the tomato red on my face, but as I left I was reminded of Cristian’s smile and the embarrassment passed. I guess it wasn’t too bad after all.



Pastor Alonso, the head pastor at the school where we were working, had decided to join us for dinner that night, to get to know us better, chat with our leaders, and thank my group for the work we were doing. Too bad his English was lacking. Our foreman joined us and served as the translator for the rest of the group. The topics of the night were varied. The entire time the pastor’s face was beaming, full of excitement at the Americans who were here to help his church. In his prayers at the school he would often sneak in a “Gracias Dios, por los norteamericanos.”1 I found his extreme gratefulness a bit odd, but his earnestness made up for however strange it may 1 52

Thank you God for the North Americans.

have been. Eventually I decided to ask the pastor about Cristian, and to tell him how grateful and relieved I was that I had met him that night. “He’s had a very difficult life.” Pastor Alonso told me as we talked in Spanish. “Before he became a Christian, he went to one of the normal public schools. And he got in trouble with the gangs there.” Cristian? Fighting with gang members? From what I’d seen that just didn’t seem like him at all, but now I was getting told that he was a real tough customer. “But we found that Cristian was no less than a musical prodigy. He learned to play the bass in about a month’s time, and right now he’s learning to play the saxophone. Did you know that he’s a member of the church band?” I was impressed. “We gave him a scholarship so that he could come to the school and study where he wouldn’t be bothered by gangs, but he has to teach the younger kids as well”. Now that was a little surprising. A fighter turned teacher and musician? This was the stuff Oscars were made of. “But Cristian has been having trouble paying for his music lessons lately. So he might have to stop learning saxophone”. “How much does each month cost?” I contorted my face into a frown. “It costs about twelve dollars.” I was in shock. Was that it? Was that someone’s entire life? All of their hopes and dreams? Reduced to twelve dollars? I had come here to help fight poverty and shine light through the darkness of a cruel and uncaring world, but I always liked to think of poverty as this vague idea. Almost like it’s “the dark side” in Star Wars, an evil that we could never understand or confront, but here in Guatemala City poverty had grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and showed me its face, and the face was the same as that of my friend, Cristian. Now poverty had given itself a name and a face and struggles and hopes and dreams, all of which I was unprepared to deal with. I reached into my wallet and counted out three crumpled bills, a ten and two ones, and handed them to Pastor Alonso. I had let him talk most of the time so now I responded. “Before I came here I was nervous, and I was lonely. I begged God to give me a friend on this trip so I wouldn’t be all by myself in an unfamiliar place. He gave me an answer, and that was Cristian. So please give him this money to pay for his lessons, to show how grateful I am to him”. I thought nothing of it. Twelve dollars is hardly any money. That was what, two hours of work at my minimum wage job? The Pastor took it, expressed his gratefulness, and put the money away, for me to forget about. 53

We had spent the last day in Antigua, so I was less than excited to be sitting in the church sanctuary for the service. My eyes tried to flutter shut, and the sandman tried to convince me as best he could to make me let go, but falling asleep in this church service probably wouldn’t make me look too good. The worship songs began and I saw Cristian walk up onto the stage to play them. I found the songs particularly dull, as worship songs often are, but Pastor Alonso wasn’t lying. Cristian certainly was a musical genius. He was on both the bass and saxophone, playing them with zeal. He was in his element. Even these awful songs sounded better when he was performing them. The songs subsided and Pastor Alonso took the stage to deliver the sermon. It was exactly what you’d expect. “Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord. Hallelujah. Praise the Lord” and all of that. I ignored most of the sermon, that is, until he motioned for us to be called up onto the stage. I was reminded of the other day when I had to talk in front of the crowd and my stomach started to hurt. The Pastor began to present us with certificates, thanking us for our help in maintaining the school. When it was time for him to hand me mine, he made a little speech about me, complimenting my Spanish and revealing to Cristian and the entire congregation that I had offered to pay for his lessons. Cristian was taken aback, but I saw his face light up in that same smile that I had seen so many times that week. We left the stage, walked back to our seats, and the service ended. While I tried to find Cristian a little girl came up to me and said, “Esto es para tí”2 while she extended a gift to me. It was a little handmade circle, covered in glitter and sequins, scribbled on in broken English. I thanked her for her gift and held back tears of joy as I put it away. I found Cristian, and we hung out for the last time. We went to attend a concert in the school’s gymnasium together, and I was invited to stay and hang with him and his friends. The music was more forgettable worship songs, but everything is more fun with decent company. The concert wrapped up and I realized that I might never see Cristian again. He thanked me for my gift and told me in Spanish as he realized the sorrow in my departure, “Que Dios te bendiga hermano.”3 “Ya lo ha hecho,”4 I responded as I held back tears. I got onto the bus and we were swarmed by crying children. There were many screams of “come back when you can” and “we’re going to miss you”, as the bus pulled out. I thought about my life as the bus drove back to the compound and I knew I 2 3 4 54

This is for you. May God bless you brother. He already has.

would return home, but it would be a hollow homecoming. Some part of me would forever find its home here, with these people, with Cristian. In all of his suffering and poverty he had been happier than me. My wealth and my privilege had spoiled me, and I had been blind to lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s simple irreplaceable pleasures of helping another person, or of simply aiding a friend in need. My eyes were open. Poverty had shown me his face, but it was no longer Cristianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s that I saw, it was mine.

Falling in Love with the Moon Kat Torrefranca

i. I dug a hole on my backyard. It’s pretty small, just the size of my fist and it is not too deep. It’s just a normal hole. Every day, I sit on the green, healthy grass right beside it and wait. I wait with eyes wide open, staring at the bright blue sky with the king of the Milky Way staring back at me. Suddenly heat becomes something so natural inside my body that the cool wind becomes so painfully alien when it licks my skin. And then orange and reds play with the angels up above as if children are painting a blank canvas with gentle fingertips. It gets harder to breathe with all this beauty surrounding me. But the most beautiful time of the day is when the weary King starts to descend and constellations start to appear, screaming “Come find me.” Velvet black envelops this part of the world and just that one infinite circle is left to shine the brightest. The night, Nyx, is the most beautiful creature ever created. It is why we see light, why we feel light and why we become light.

ii. I wait for a piece of the moon to fall on my lap, gently, as leaves do, so that I can bury it here next to me. I promise I shall take care of it as a mother takes care of a child. I want my own moon, my own piece of the universe, my own friend. I am straining my neck from looking up at you for a long time, so allow me to have a smaller version of you in my backyard. Sometimes, at the hours when this house is filled with lost ghosts looking for the past, I drown in my own ocean and you, you become my lifesaver, my hero, descending from your place in Heaven, giving me reasons to breathe again. You are a ring there in the sky, a reminder that this is all bigger than me, than all of humanity. Then again, it is as if you are right here beside me, making me feel full. So please, allow me to have a piece of you in my backyard before it is too late, because I hate seeing voids.

iii. Lovely moon, if you don’t want to grow like how the trees on my backyard do, if you don’t want to kiss the earth and feel it warm on your body and if you don’t want to see this world that turned ugly, then I will let you stay small, a mere seed. I will wrap you in the finest silk I could ever find. I will dig you up from your home every night. And I will hold you in my wounded hands and whisper to you everything that had happened and that will happen, so just please stay. Stay and never fly back to the sky. Stay because I don’t want to drown in my own ocean again.

White Flowers Juhye Choi (Grace)

Artist Delving into Her Craft Dr. Ernest Williamson III 62

Water & Colors Eliz M. Aviles

The book slipped from my grasp and landed on my foot. I fell in love. Was that how falling in love felt, painful? The sharp throb was only brief. I picked up the hardcover copy of renaissance paintings. His eyes found mine as I placed the book back in the shelf. I suddenly felt warm, but it wasn’t the sun rays from the window, neither the effects from my coffee. It was the blood that somehow made its way to my cheeks. I looked away from his gaze, and rushed away from the section, knocking down a few stacked books that formed a neat cylinder. “Sorry,” I said to the fallen books. I felt my face grow hotter. From the corner of my eye I saw him smile, but I wasn’t sure if it was to me or to the book of selected poems by E.E. Cummings. Then again, his smile made me turn to him and stare. He walked with his book and sat down on the floor next to the poetry section. His tan skin made a huge contrast to his pale surroundings. Ebony fringes from his hair fell on his eyes as he bowed his head to read. His hands looked strong as he flipped through the fragile pages of the book. His hands. Despite how intimidating they looked, I wanted to study its lines and the texture of the skin. He looked up. I looked away. I walked away. E.E. Cummings. I thought of my mother. Her voice echoed in my head. “Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which I cannot touch because they are too near,” she had recited to me as she tucked me in bed. “Who wrote it?” I had asked her. “E.E. Cummings. It’s the beginning of his poem called Somewhere I Have Never Travelled. I taught it to my class today. Do you like it?” I shrugged. I just didn’t understand it. But that didn’t mean I didn’t admire it. I had always been fond of things I didn’t understand. I was attracted to the complexity of things; the architecture behind a building, the constellations decorating the night sky, the collaboration between the notes of a symphony, the brush strokes of a painting, and the stanzas of a poem. And yet I didn’t understand how these things happen 63

and where they came from. I walked out of the bookstore. I looked back once more. Although I couldn’t see him from outside, I imagined his eyes. I couldn’t remember how they actually were, but were they silent?



“I do not know, Mr. Blues, but once again you’re not delivering,” the professor said. He arched his eyebrow and squinted his eyes as he leaned closer to the canvas. He rubbed the stubble on his face and looked at me. I looked at him but didn’t say a word. “The technicality is correct, yes, but I see no emotion. It’s as if you’re hiding your feelings.” I didn’t say anything. “This is the third painting where I tell you the same. Are you afraid to express yourself through your paintings?” he asked as he pushed up his glasses up the bridge of his prominent nose. “No,” I said and I gulped. “I just thought I had it this time, you know?” The professor sighed. “Mr. Blues, even though this painting has colors, it still feels black and white,” he said. He traced the colorful swirls that represented the wind. “You shouldn’t cower from being expressive in your artwork. At the contrary, your work should encourage you to be more extroverted.” Not a word came from me, except for the sound of my cracking knuckles. “C+,” he pointed at the canvas with his pen. “Less if this happens again,” he said. But as he approached the next student he looked back at me. “Find your muse, Mr. Blues.” I picked up my canvas from the easel and walked away. Outside the sun was a spotlight to the green dumpster. The opened top released the foul stench of waste. The closer I got to it, the stronger the stench enveloped my nostrils. But as I stood there, I adapted to the stink. More like, I let myself adapt to it. I shoved my canvas in the dumpster. Gave it one last look. It was a random landscape during fall. One with an untrained eye might think it was a soothing depiction, but this is how my professor saw it: garbage. And for a second there the painting began to blend well with its surroundings.



He was there again. His hair was picked up in a short tail. This time he held a book by Ono No Komachi. This time he sat on a chair next to the window. I was on the other side staring while he looked at the pages. I wondered how he read those words. I wondered how he pictured them in his head. I wondered how it made him feel. I wondered if he even liked them. So I picked up the same paperback copy he held and sat five chairs away from his view. Even though we might not have the same thoughts, we could literally be on the same page. I could read the same words he’s reading. This was my way of connecting with him. I opened the book to find translated poems. I began to take it all in. One poem stood out from the white pages, and I wondered if this was the one he kept reading over and over. The flowers withered Their color faded away While meaninglessly I spent my days in the world I looked at him. He hasn’t turned the page yet. He stared at it as if memorizing it. But after a while, he closed it shut and got up to pick up another book. And so I did the same. I tried to discover his personality and his secrets by the choice of his books. Every text was sad. I wondered how all of these words brought him back to this bookstore. The following day, I returned to the bookstore. But he wasn’t there. I contemplated on whether or not I should stay and read something on my own accord, but I wasn’t going to connect with him. So I sat in a corner and sketched on my pad. I sketched his hands. I sketched him reading, and I even sketched him holding a withering flower. By the time my fingers were gray, and the point of my pencil was almost wasted, I shut my pad. I looked up and saw him sitting. This time, he had his eyes on me instead of the book he held. He smiled. It was a soft smile. And his eyes. His green eyes had yellow undertones. That vibrant color was kept inside almond-shaped eyes that seemed silent compared to his smiled. I looked away. I felt my face searing again. One big gulp, and I looked back at him, but now he read. Pablo Neruda. I got up and picked up the same book. I concealed the cover once I grabbed it. I sat down, opened the thin book, and my eyes widened. The text was all in Spanish. I flipped through pages and looked for at least one translated version. I didn’t find a 65

single one. I grabbed my phone out of my pocket; thanking the heavens it was a “smartphone”. But right when I was about to tap on the translator application, my finger stopped. Why did I care? Why was I so desperate to understand what all of this meant? Why him? The truth was, I didn’t know. All I saw was a young man with ethereal eyes and hands that were the envy of every sculpture. This type of man wouldn’t normally be sitting in a bookstore reading poetry every day. Was that it? “If you need a translator, I can help. I wouldn’t want you to get all the words wrong with an app.” What. I looked up. He was there. Lost in my train of thoughts, his face was like a slap. I rushed to my feet. “Oh. Umm. No. I took the wrong book. I,” I said and looked at the cover. My hands trembled. “Yeah, this isn’t the book.” I let out a nervous laughter. As I walked away, I said, “Thanks, though.” “Don’t leave,” he said. “If you have been enjoying my awful taste in poetry, I’m sure you’ll like Pablo’s stuff,” he said. He smiled and waved the copy of the book. Oh my God. What do I do? What do I do? I gulped. The way he said Pablo rang in my ears. “Sit with me,” he said. He pulled his chair, sat and patted the seat next to his. And without thinking, without feeling my legs move, I sat next to him, and contemplated if I should pinch myself as well. I looked at him. He was better inches away. He smiled. “I’m Rey Fukui.” He said each word with a different accent. “I’m” had a normal English tone, but he slurred the ‘r’ in “Rey” with a Spanish tune, followed by a Japanese “Fukui”. Is there another reason not to be in love with him? “Rey means king, and Fukui means fortunate,” he laughed as if I got the joke. “Does not suit me at all.” I smiled and my lips trembled. “I’m Alan Blues.” Boring. “Alan Blues,” he said. “Sounds like an artistic title.” I cracked my knuckles. “Well, Alan Blues, if you really want to know what Pablo Neruda is saying, I’ll read it to you,” he said and opened the book. “Llévate lo que tú quieras, penetra tu mirada en los rincones, y si así lo deseas yo te doy mi alma entera.” 66

All I felt was my heart beating. I didn’t know what he said. But it was music, and the tempo of my heart wanted to collaborate with its melody. I tried to calm the beats because, quite frankly, it was ruining his song. “The poet is telling a friend to take whatever he needs. Just with a stare, the poet will know his friend’s desires, and he shall give his friend his whole soul,” he said. “Whose soul?” He smiled. “The poet’s.” I cracked my knuckles and I finally said, “That’s not what you usually read.” When I said it, I realized I admitted of being a stalker. I wanted to run. But he smiled. “What do I usually read?” “Sad poetry. You don’t seem to act sad, though.” “Why do you think it’s an act?” “Because your eyes do not match with your face.” He squinted. “I mean, they do. You have nice eyes, but they don’t seem happy. Not that they aren’t happy, but-” He laughed. He then placed his hand on his chest and stroked it a bit. He still smiled. “Alan Blues,” he said. I took back what I thought about my name being boring. “Let’s take a walk outside.”



I never realized how picturesque the park was in spring. Every lush tree was aligned in perfect rows. The sun that filtered through the leaves and branches created a lovely pattern of light spots on the grass in the midst of the shadow. The trimmed shrubs were decorated in fully bloomed flowers. I walked with Rey through a narrow path. The wind was soft against my skin, and it brushed my shaggy hair on the sides. As I pushed back the strands, I looked at Rey from the corner of my eye. He was only a couple inches taller than me, but only because I didn’t keep a straight posture like he did. A wooden bench stood before us under the shade of a tree. Rey sat down first. The space next to him wasn’t much. I hesitated. I took a short breath and sat. Rey didn’t seem to protest when my leg brushed against his. We were closer than we were at the bookstore. “So, tell me about yourself,” he said.

I cracked my knuckles. “Okay, how is it that you can keep cracking your knuckles with ease? Doesn’t that give you arthritis?” I shoved my hands inside the pockets of my hoodie, and looked away. Rey chuckled. “Where are you from, Alan?” I looked at him, avoiding his gaze. “Here, you know, close to the Art Institute I go to.” “You’re an artist,” he said. It wasn’t a question. I shrugged. “You were born and raised in this city?” I nodded. Everything fell silent. Rey admired the trees. I was about to crack my knuckles again, but then I finally spoke. “What about you?” “What about me?” “Where are you from?” “Hawaii,” he said. “You moved here recently?” “Three months ago. I was living in Kagoshima with my parents before I got here.” “Are your parents Japanese?” He smiled. “My father is. My mother is Chilean.” That explained, well, everything. “So why did you move here?” “I’ve always found the Fort Pitt Tunnel interesting,” he said with a smirk on his face. I frowned. “Really?” “Well, yes. I’ve never lived in the city before. I like this one. Especially because it’s far away from the coast,” he said. There was something sad about his eyes when he spoke that last sentence. “You don’t like the beach?” He looked at me with widened eyes. “My, you’re asking a lot of questions all of a sudden! What happened to the shy kid?” I felt the blood boiling in my cheeks. Rey chuckled. “I’m only kidding, Alan, I just—” Rey suddenly grabbed the 68

fabric of his shirt above his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Are you alright?” I got up from the bench. Rey put his free hand up motioning me to stop. I stood frozen in place, embarrassed by my reaction. But he smiled. “It’s fine. This is normal,” he said and began to inhale and exhale. I frowned. Rey got up as if nothing happened. “Well, Alan, it seems I must take my leave now, but I enjoyed our conversation.” I tried to smile. “Would you like to meet up sometime?” I felt my stomach heavy, as if creatures danced around the inner walls. I also felt a strange sense of relief. “Sure.” “Dandy,” he said. He grabbed the phone from his pocket. “Give me your digits.” I gave him my phone number. He then sent me a text with a smiley face so I could save his number. “See you soon, Alan Blues.”



Rey Fukui inhabited my thoughts. I avoided looking at the cellphone screen or else I’d lose my mind. I thought painting would do the trick, but it really didn’t. Only a few students painted in the classroom. All of them, including me, wore ear buds while they worked. The Beatles’ Getting Better began to play, and I painted. And then I thought of Rey. His tan skin was almost gold. His full lips were inviting. His eyes were as green as sun-dried grass. But those same eyes were hiding pain. That pain was fully shown whenever Rey Fukui grabbed his chest, his heart. I pondered so much about him. There was just too much left for me to find out about him. So I painted everything I knew and everything I thought I knew. The white canvas, cloaked with watercolors, revealed a portrait of Rey’s eyes. A book covered the rest of his face. However, everything was wet; his hair dripped and even the book was drenched. I felt the professor’s presence, and I removed one ear bud even though the music had stopped.

His eyes were judging. He kept rubbing his stubble. “Not bad, Mr. Blues.” And he left. Getting Better was still playing in my head.



I rushed to the café after receiving Rey’s text. The aroma filled the small place with the small chatter. I looked around and found him sitting at a table near the window. He had a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He looked up. “Alan, you’re here early.” I did my best not to blush, and I sat down in front of him. I ordered some coffee and we talked. We talked about our favorite things; favorite films, music, color, food, and books. “To be honest, you don’t seem like the type that enjoys quiet places and poetry,” I said. He smirked. “What do I seem like?” “I don’t know. You seem more outdoorsy.” The smile from his face vanished. He looked down at his empty cup. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?” He looked at me. “No.” He sighed. “I used to surf.” “Used to? Why?” He sighed again but managed to smile. “Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy,” he said and pointed at his heart. I looked at him, unsure what that was. “It’s an inherited condition,” he explained, “My heart’s muscle is abnormally thick, making it hard for my heart to pump blood. Some people don’t experience severe symptoms, but there is a group of people who do. I always seem to fit in the group of failures. I’m allergic to chocolate; I can’t seem to work technology… maybe because of my lack of interest. Let’s see… I’m left-handed, which is not necessarily a failure, but I guess it’s sort of rare. Finally, I’m the disabled surfer; the sailor that married the sea ever since he was a child, and now, he cannot feel a rush in the waters because his heart is an anchor.” Just like that, I no longer saw Rey as “too” perfect. It wasn’t pity, although I couldn’t help but sympathize. It just made me realize he was a human. “I guess that’s one of the major reasons I moved here, besides the benefits I

receive from the hospital here at UPMC. When I was first diagnosed in Hawaii, my father decided to move to Japan so I could attend one of the best hospitals,” he said and looked at his cup again. “But we were close to the beach, and I began to dread it. Because I wasn’t allowed to surf anymore, all I saw were imaginary walls surrounding the shore. I mean, yes I could dip my feet in, as long as I didn’t work myself out, but it was pointless. There is so much more I want to do in the water than just dip my feet in. When the water swells and the waves curl with brilliance, that’s when it’s perfect to go inside the cave. Once you experience that, there’s no stopping the addiction. A cave of water surrounds you, and all you can do is reach the opening while you glide your fingertips smoothly against the walls of glittering blue,” he said with a passion flaring in his eyes. “I miss it. And being close to it began to depress me.” I didn’t know what to say. Sorry? I didn’t have anything. But Rey just smiled and gave a small shrug. He wasn’t expecting anything in return. “You said it was inherited,” I said instead of dropping the subject. “Who in your family has it? Rey didn’t seem to mind the question. “My grandfather. He had it.” Had it. Way to go, Alan. I sighed. Then I realized what it meant. And I felt scared. “But this weather, huh? Surprisingly sunny. I always attract the rain,” he said. I laughed. I wasn’t aware of time while being with Rey. Who needed time when every moment felt long? “I think this place is going to close soon,” he said. “Let’s walk outside.” The sun began to set as we walked. “Where do you live?” he asked. “A couple of streets ahead.” “Do you mind if I walk you there?” “No.” Both of us were silent. I didn’t run out of things to say, but I felt nervous. It was evident that I felt strongly about Rey, despite the short time that felt long. This has never happened to me before and I wasn’t sure how to go along with it. “So, are you seeing someone?” I asked. I braced myself. “No.” I felt relieved. 71

“I wouldn’t do that to someone.” I no longer felt relieved. “So I can’t,” he said, “because… heart.” “Oh.” “Oh? Why?” I looked away and hid my flustered face. “N-nothing. I was only wondering.” “Alan Blues, you’re terrible at concealing your emotions.” I didn’t respond. “Do you want to go out with me?” My heart pounded like crazy. “N-no. I mean, I don’t know.” “Tell me.” I looked at him. “What’s the point? You already said you weren’t interested.” “So, you do?” We arrived at the front of my apartment complex. I stopped and did my best to face him. “This is me,” I said. He waited for a response. “I gotta finish a project,” I said. “So, I’ll catch you later?” He gave half a smile. “Sure.”



I sat on the floor staring at the wall I was painting in my room. My lingering muse left a week ago when Rey walked me to my apartment. The base turned out okay, I suppose, but I left an awkward shape in the middle. I wanted to pretend my wall was a canvas today, probably to get my creative juices flowing, but I failed. I opened the lid of white paint. My phone began to rattle against the wood of my dresser. Rey texted me: May I visit you? I sighed. I was beginning to lose grasp on how this man worked. I answered him: Sure. Not a minute later, the phone buzzed again: Great. I’m outside your door. My heart pounded and my stomach felt heavy. The usual symptoms. I took a quick glance at the mirror and tried to fix the mess of my hair. I opened the door. He stood there nonchalantly with hands in his pockets. “Sorry if that was creepy,” he said. “Then again you shouldn’t mind. Reading

every book I read was probably creepier.” He smirked. “Wanna come in?” I asked and rubbed the back of my neck, avoiding his eyes. He stepped inside and took off his shoes. “Habit,” he said. I prepared some lunch and we chatted. Everything seemed normal. Neither of us mentioned what happened a week ago. We didn’t need to anyway. It felt so natural talking with him, and I didn’t want to spoil the mood. He noticed the paint on my clothes, so he insisted on viewing my artwork. I refused to show him, but he walked into my room anyway. He stood inspecting the wall. He pretended to be a curator. “I say, this motif is really distinct. The complimentary colors are exceptionally imposing. However, pupil, how on earth will we move this wall to the exhibition hall?” I smiled and shrugged. “No, but really, Alan, you’re pretty good. What’s that shape in the middle, though?” “I don’t know.” “It looks like the shape of an anatomical heart.” I squinted my eyes. If he hadn’t said it, I wouldn’t have ever seen it. He was right. “Don’t erase it, Alan. Keep painting it,” he said and sat down. He handed me the brush. I felt self-conscious. His eyes were on me, and I couldn’t help but tremble a bit. But once I stroked the brush against the surface of the wall, I didn’t stop. I thought about him, about how he’s in pain, but how he tries to overcome it with smiles. I thought about how he must feel everyday waking up, thinking if it could possibly be his last. I also thought about what he told me. He’s afraid of hurting someone, but he also believes he doesn’t deserve anything good because, just like in Ono’s poem, flowers wither when he spends his meaningless time in the world. “Alan Blues,” Rey said. He stood up and stared at the finished heart with wide eyes. “What have you done?” “You don’t like it?” “Is this my heart?” “Yes.” “It’s too beautiful to be mine. My heart doesn’t deserve to be portrayed this way.” I looked at him. Rey Fukui deserves a beautiful thing each day. 73

I stood next to him. He still looked at the wall, but my close presence turned his head to face me. We were roughly five inches apart. I grabbed the back of his neck and leaned in. My lips trembled against his. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing. I was about to pull away, but Rey placed his hands on my cheeks and pulled me closer. His kiss turned urgent and his hands began to search my body. And every part of me ignited. He pulled my hoodie off.



The setting sun peeked through the shades of my window. The soft rays caressed Rey’s naked skin, and he glowed. I lay in bed next to him and stared at him in awe. His eyes were shut for a brief moment. He began to breathe heavily, but he soothed the wheezing noise by inhaling. I shot straight up. Bad idea. Bad idea. “Rey, are you okay?” “Relax, Alan,” he said and chuckled. “Happens when I get too excited.” He winked. I sighed in relief. “Lay down, would you? You were pretty heavy, but I’ll be fine. You did the work, after all.” I covered my face with my hand. My face reached boiling point. Rey chuckled and pulled me down. He traced my arms with his fingertips and I shivered. He frowned. “What’s this?” He pulled my sketchpad from under my pillow. He sat up and opened it. “Wait. Don’t look at that,” I said and got up. Rey pulled the pad away from my grasp. His eyes widened in wonder as he flipped through the pages. He smiled. “Wow, Alan Blues, you are a creep.” I sighed. “Don’t be shy about this. Looking at your drawings is nothing compared to looking at your naked body.” “Fine. Point taken.” “It’s beautiful.” He kissed me.

I am in love with Rey Fukui, and I do not want to leave this bed.



I dialed Rey’s phone but he didn’t answer. I tried a seventh time, an eight. My heart began to pound, but this time it didn’t feel pleasant. I stared at the half-finished canvas. The students around me were almost done. My phone buzzed and I ran out of the classroom. “Rey?!” I answered. “Alan?” An unknown female voice replied. Her voice had an unusual accent. “Who’s this?” “Marta, Rey’s mother.” I couldn’t hear my heartbeat anymore. “Is he okay?” Marta was silent for a moment. “He had obstructed blood flow. He’s fine now, but he needs to stay in the hospital for a few days to run some tests.” I let out a huge sigh. “I’m on my way. Which hospital is it?” Marta went silent. “It’s okay, Alan. You don’t have to.” “I want to.” Marta sighed. “I’m sorry, Alan, but he doesn’t want you to come. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” She hung up. My eyes stung. And it was hard to swallow the lump in my throat, but I swallowed it all. I walked inside the classroom to finish my painting. I slapped the brush against the canvas. Paint splattered all over my clothes. If he thought that he could avoid hurting me by shutting me out, he thought wrong. I was involved already. I fell in love. I opened up. How was slamming the door on my face going to help? “Mr. Blues,” I turned around and faced the professor. His eyes were wide. My mess reflected on his glasses. “You wanted rawness, didn’t you?” I asked. “Here it is; a display of my emotions.” Without another word, I left the classroom.



“I’m here to visit, Fukui Rey.” 75

The secretary typed in the name. “You have an hour before visiting time is over.” I did my best not to run, but I could help slamming the door open once I arrived in his room. Rey jumped, startled. His mother wasn’t around. “Alan, what are you doing-“ I grabbed him by the shoulders and embraced him. “Ow.” “Sorry,” I said and loosened my grip. He sighed. “Don’t do this, Alan.” “It’s already been done.” “I’ll end up hurting you.” “Trust me, it’ll hurt more if you don’t let me be with you.” He sighed again. “You could have avoided this, you know. All you had to do was ignore me at the bookstore,” I said and looked at him. He frowned. “But you didn’t. Why?” The question caught him by surprise. “I-I don’t really know. All I saw was a guy with eyes that reminded me of the water I used to surf, a creep that would stare at me as if I were the most complex painting,” he said, “but when I saw you sketching with so much passion, I decided I wanted to spend my time looking at your drawings instead of reading poetry.” I leaned my head against his chest. His heartbeats sounded irregular. It was a hauntingly beautiful sound. “Rey,” I said, “fall in love with me. If your heart doesn’t allow you to run as fiercely as you want, I don’t think it’ll keep you from falling in love.” “Falling in love is like running. You’re out of breath in the end.” “Yes, but it won’t literally leave you physically drained.” He laughed. “You should read more poetry.” I grabbed his hand. He sighed and averted his gaze. “I drove to up to the coast,” he said, and gulped. “I stood at the beach, just staring at the waves. Something urged me, something in my head kept screaming…” I squeezed his hand. 76

He looked straight at me. “After seeing how passionate you were with your art, I felt this awful longing; a yearn that was aching in my heart. I wanted to be on your same level, I wanted to feel the connection you have when you do the thing you love.” But he couldn’t. He frowned. “I envy you, Alan Blues.” My lips parted. “You became the ocean, the ocean that I love but the ocean that I stray from in order to keep myself sane.” “But it’s not keeping you sane,” I said. Rey stood quiet. “If you love it, be with it, Rey. Even if you can’t ride the waves and lose yourself in them, you still have the ability to keep it company.” “It’s not the same.” My lips formed a thin line. “I can lose myself in you, though.” He smirked. I scoffed and laughed. I looked at him and I wished I had the ability to cure him. I wished I could trade him my heart. I didn’t really do any extreme stuff anyway. I wished. “Point is,” he said. “I went into the water, and I felt the waves hug me. I felt home.” He smiled. “Same as when I felt you. And just like I said goodbye to the ocean, I thought I had to do the same to you.” I sighed. “Wish we could trade hearts.” Rey chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t want you to have this.” He pointed at his heart. “I want it.” He arched an eyebrow. “Literally or figuratively?” “All of it.” “You’re such a creep.” He laughed. I smiled, but it almost faded. “So, are you still saying goodbye to me?” My heart began to race. Rey held his gaze steady. He bit the bottom of his lip. His cold fingers reached my cheeks, and slowly pulled me close to him until his arms wrapped around my back. “No,” he whispered.



Red eruptions and blue ink smeared each side of my fingers. They ached.

Reyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body surrounded by water almost pulsated from the sketchpad. It was no different than watching him relax his legs on the shore. I could stare at him forever, both on paper and reality. I got up from the hammock and made my way towards Rey. The sand was hot between my toes. I sat next to him and heard him breathe in the ocean air. A big wave curled from afar. Its force came crashing down, making its way splash to the shore, and envelop half of our bodies. I looked at Rey. His eyes were closed. I held his hand. He smiled.

July

Alyse Brower

Gone pursuing lost passions Far in lust, clouding routes and tires She light-drenched fairy child, bag-in-hand, Seldom damn-near never Looks gazes Back at the men of calendar pages passed.

A Baker

Diep Nguyen

Egg, flour, milk, sugar - that’s what inside a cake Mix, roll, roll, then bake - that’s all she does in life. Sunk in milk – the great Giza Pyramid Angel Falls blanketed by flour and cream Seeing the world - her sweet dreams, or just sweet sugar, the sugar in her cakes? Twenty years, could have been rolling on the road Instead of rolling eyes through her daily life, nor rolling the pin making just another pie and selling it to yet another customer Travelling posters and Nat Geo channel not just an addiction nor a mere guide but an inspiration that she can whisk her life Not just pies, but also adventures, she will make So packed her clothes, packed also her courage That morning, she made up her mind Here, the world – what she’s ready to greet Said goodbye, not looking behind Egg, flour, milk, sugar -that’s what inside a cake Mix, roll, roll, then bake – no longer what she does in life.

Monument Kaiying Fu

Monumental life of steel Of no spatiality, was wheeled through the rain Timeless lifetime, seed of a tree Wet limbs of street watered metallic grey Their leaves like flags tossed in the chill of day Life flowering with the head of spring Love found in loss Dew slips off a bowing leaf

In life Not free to Be indifferent was Steel Not the shade of humanity

Concrete Glacier Joy Hammer

Grandmother in Bryggen Joy Hammer 86

Mother Wind Jessi Schultz

She has her demons hidden away, And the box of pills, her green savior. The lid opens and out flies the love she use to receive, She simply forgets where she is, Rests on a nimbus cloud yellow in color.

For a few hours the world turns off for her, Her family yells command, zeroes in on her blackness, Cuts the head off each flower, One for every time she stumbled -(The dogwoods did not bloom this season. Did she look?)

Because the pain kept her up at night, And made her hate the mornings.

And watches the blood pool on her wood floors, She had mopped them this afternoon, She watched a yellow bird feed at the seeds she put out, and thought someone might notice and say -“Thank you” which also means ‘love’ but easier.

And she hums in their mad echo as the leaves change to a fiery rush coming for the house.

(The leaves all turn to ash.)

She sees her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s azalea bushes covered in disease, And her daughter calls and she says that her life is going by, Out the window.

And there is not a thing to say except letting the silence engulf both of you in flames.

Sky As It Is Juhye Choi (Grace)

Uncle Bud Alyse Brower

The Midwest teaches you that America was built on corn. The farmer is corn. The farmer’s family is America, and the Midwest is his momma. The farmer’s momma wanted him to be a lawyer. Said she didn’t want his occupation to depend on the rain. Didn’t want him to have blistered leather for hands. or to have to stay in Ohio. She passed away a few decades back. They buried his momma in her farm country, to rest beneath the corn-rowed tractors and abandoned car engines in the hills of Ohio. He keeps up his mother’s work. When his girlfriend tells him that she is pregnant, it rains. He doesn’t know what to do. He hands her his broad chest and stiff shoulders. He hopes the baby to be a lawyer. His youngest becomes a lawyer. She never showed any interest in planting or sowing. Her momma tells her the cancers is back as she holds her, hands her the cob knobs to set the table, she puts out the corn-salad. Says she probably won’t outlive the cancer, but is glad to have lived her life in Ohio, Sits next to her farmer and says she is pleased with today’s rain. The eviction notice is nailed to the wooden door by a different lawyer. The farmer’s wife rests next to his momma in the land he struggles to keep. He wants to blame the rain, or the doctors or the president or Big Business. He folds his hands the thick skin pushes against itself, prayer feels wrong. He wants to believe in the corn, in his daughter’s ability to save the house and in the farm country of Ohio.

Treading The Fire Dr. Ernest Williamson III

maybe beauty will remain an abstract dirge; a mantra to be ruminated over like a submerged leek becoming tender in warm water. as it seems to me all is vanished from our worlds galaxies and cliques. much poetry has propelled into the bellowing mushroom cloud of noxious gas. Earth has garnished her seedlings as the trees convulse in 4/5 time leading scholars to compendious shame; shaking with violence, muttering intellectual gibberish to the delight of the spittle forced out with the saying of it. but what about me the reporter, the documenter of my purview, what do I make of anything now? I say to myself in this pallid skin, in these pallid days. perhaps I should go tell it on the mountain, given the effulgence of effort, not merely in mind but of the being, directing my reticent walk out of a crawling crowd. 91

The Love Seeker Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Bare My Soul Emily Hamilton

Baring your soul to another person is the toughest thing to do. But sit down with me, take my hand, let me bare my soul to you. My life was hard, the days were long, all I had was Grandpa Hue. But he’s long gone, and if he were here, he’d bare his soul to you. Our lives were rough, your mother was trouble, there wasn’t much to do. And one day, I promise, in her final days, she’ll bare her soul to you. As I eat my meals, I remember times when it wasn’t hard to chew. I remember a time out in the fields when the skies were oh-so blue. But now we’re here, in this hospital, where I’ve laid and thought of you. I’m growing old, my bones are frail, And I know what I must do I’ll think of you, dear, your life and future. How I bore my soul to you. 93

Bashir Mohamad

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Somalia, my homeland. It was a beautiful country with wide open fields, wild animals, and a sense of freedom. The war changed everything. My family, once filled with hope, was forced to flee the country. They left everything in Somalia and fled to Kenya. Luckily, my family got Asylum in Kenya in 1991. However, we were doomed to live the next six years of our lives as refugees. Our lives became in limbo.â&#x20AC;? A family photo of Northern Somalia taken ~1990.

Family photo taken in Kenya ~1990.

Our first Canadian birthday celebration. Taken early 2000. 96

“Life in Kenya was hard to adjust. Both my parents were students at the Somali National University. My father graduated as an Engineer and my mother was mid—way through her degree. Then suddenly, they were left with nothing to do. My father volunteered as an Engineer for the United Nations while my mother sold trinkets in the market.”

“We got into an asylum in Canada in 1997. We were placed in the large sparsely populated city of Edmonton, Alberta. Unfortunately, the government provided us with minimal support so both of my parents had to work. I grew up on my own. I also felt like I had no identity. I was not Somali enough to be considered Somali, and I was not Canadian enough to be considered Canadian. I was, and still am, torn.”

Starting school. Taken in early 2000.

“The government housing projects I lived in were a magnet for crime and violence. One would see the occasional drug deal or fight going on. Sometimes, even shootings would happen. Anytime one of us were murdered it seemed like the police didn’t care. If life were a race, we were doomed to finish last.”

“August 13, 2007 is a day that I will forever remember in my heart. My father passed away that day. With that, my life and family became even more fragmented. Unfortunately, the deaths didn’t stop. One of my close friends, Mohamed Salad, was murdered in a drug deal gone wrong. How could I escape this violence? How could I do something with my life?”

A photo of my friend, Mohamed Salad, who was murdered in a drug deal gone wrong.

Finishing a race. 2005.

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Photos of my time in Cadets. 2007 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 2012. 102

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Then, I ran into a recruiter for cadets. He told me about the program and I decided to join to instill some discipline in my life. The program got me through highschool and I was able to graduate with full honors.â&#x20AC;?

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;My life confused me. I was able to escape the cycle of poverty and conflict by complete chance. I knew I wanted to understand why my country was in war, how I ended up in a life of poverty and crime, and why my people are still subject to inequality. So, I enrolled in the University of Alberta with a Major in Political Science. I am currently in my third year.â&#x20AC;?

Receiving my Canadian citizenship.

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Graduating high school in 2012 with full honours.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I also became a Canadian citizen. This was a bittersweet moment for me; I grew up in Canada but my family was still in Somalia.

The truth is, my heart is torn between these two different worlds.â&#x20AC;? 105

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The Northern Lights. Taken by me on March 17, 2015.

“My goal now is to go back to Somalia and help rebuild after the war. I know that this will be tough but I am determined to improve the lives of the other refugees. Unfortunately, the refugees are often forgotten. Often times, the forgotten stories are the ones we need to hear the most. There is a Somali proverb. Once upon a time a child asked his father why the Lion was the king of the jungle. The father, surprised by the answer, ask why he would ask such a question for the Lion is always the king. The child replied that, “in stories, the man always wins despite the Lions fierce attack.” The father thought for a moment and said that, “my son, that story will always end that way until the lion learns to speak.” My name is Bashir Mohamed, a refugee from Somalia, and this is my story.”

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About the Authors ď&#x20AC;ś Eliz M. Aviles is a writer currently earning a BFA in Creative Writing for Entertainment from Full Sail University. She has a passion for writing fiction for young adults, and often incorporates Japanese culture and diversity. She published a short story, which can be found in Fiction for the Web.

Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland Trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, and on the cover of books and magazines in the United States and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia, and twice exhibited with The CIWEM Environmental Photographer of the Year Exhibition amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National-Geographicand-Airbus-run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.

Juhye Choi is possibly the happiest person in the world.

Jolene Hooy (b.1991) is an aspiring journalist who lives in Singapore. She is one of those few people who prove that life can be simple. These people are precious. 109

Maple Ip is a 3rd year student at Underwood International College (currently on exchange in Japan), majoring in Comparative Literature and Culture. Growing up in Hong Kong, she has lived in a cultural mixture of local tradition and foreign influences. She learns languages, loves words, and likes understanding people; in writing, she can do all three.

Neil Leadbeater is an author, essayist, poet and critic living in Edinburgh, Scotland. His work has been published widely in anthologies and journals both at home and abroad. His latest books are “The Loveliest Vein of Our Lives” (Poetry Space, UK. 2014) and “The Fragility of Moths” (Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania, 2015). His work has been translated into Romanian, Spanish and Swedish.

Jessi Schultz is a writer currently based in Honolulu, but looking for new travels all the time. She has received a BA in English with a focus on creative writing from the University of Hawaii at Manoa. She has been published nationally for poems and has one chapbook for sale, “Exist in the Moon.” She takes time to travel in order to find true beauty and meaning in life. She is spiritual and very interested in the yogic tradition as well as a surfer and diver.

Tyrel Shaw is a 28 year old vagabond currently in Toronto, originally from small town Coastal BC.

Ernest Williamson has published creative work in over 550 periodicals. His work has appeared in journals such as The Oklahoma Review, The Copperfield Review, The Columbia Review, and The Tulane Review. Dr. Williamson is an Assistant Professor of English at Allen University.

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SPECIAL THANKS Cultural Arts & Theater Society

would like to express its gratitude for the financial and emotional supports from the following organizations

THE TEAM @ LITERATI {Editorial} Ju Hye Grace Choi, Tung Dang, Ji Young Kim*, Madi Lunnen, Mike Ruiz {Design} Hue Can, Jung Eun Im, Damian Park* {Public Relations} Kaiying Fu, Van Tran* * team leader

Cultural Arts & Theater Society 112