Colorado Crossing

Colorado Crossing Colorado Crossing

Colorado Crossing 2009–2010

Colorado Crossing 2009–2010 Literary Magazine Arizona Western College Creative Writing School Yuma, Arizona Colorado Crossing is an annual publication produced by Arizona Western College’s Creative Writing School in Yuma, Arizona.

Editorial Editor. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Contributing Art Editor.

Contributing Art Editor.

Contributing Art Editor.

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Porchia Moore Bill Blomquist Angel Luna Brad Pease

Copyright All rights revert back to authors and artists upon publication. That is, each written work, photograph, or graphic creation remains the copyrighted property of its creator. In the meantime, Colorado Crossing reserves the right to make appropriate decisions concerning editing and presentation.

Editor’s Note: I personally wish to thank the talented and dedicated writers, artists, and editors of this publication for their outstanding contributions and continued support. In light of my recent maternity leave, this edition of the Crossing spans the course of four semesters in excellence in creative writing.

Porchia Moore Editor and Director of the Creative Writing School Colorado Crossing

Arizona Western College does not discriminate in admission or access to, or treatment or employment in, its services, programs or activities on the basis of race, color, national origin, sex, religion, age (40+) or disability, in compliance with the laws of the United States and the State of Arizona. Any questions regarding the applicability of state and federal anti-discrimination laws to Arizona Western College and its services, programs or activities, and any greviences or claims of violation of such laws, should be directed to its compliance officer: Vice President for Business and Administrative Services, P.O. Box 929, Yuma, AZ, 85366-0929, (928) 344-7515.

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Submission Guidelines You may submit quality literary work electronically as a Word document that has been saved as a Rich-text file (RTF) to porchia.moore@azwestern.edu.

You may submit up to five pieces for consideration. Each piece must contain the following contact information: Name, telephone number, mailing address, and Email address. Literary work may also be delivered to Porchia Moore in the Business Administration Building (BA), Room 228.

Photographs and Art should be sent electronically as Photoshop files to porchia.moore@azwestern.edu.

Artwork should be innovative with clear contrast. Work may also be sent via snail mail to:

Colorado Crossing

C/O Porchia Moore, The Writing School Arizona Western College P.O. Box 929 Yuma, AZ 85366-0929

The Arizona Western College Writing School Arizona Western College is pleased to offer traditional workshop style courses and on-line courses in creative writing for new and seasoned writers. We offer English 291 (Introduction to Creative Writing) and English 292 (Intermediate Creative Writing) each Fall and Spring semester. For more information, please contact Professor Porchia Moore at (928) 344-47687 or Email porchia.moore@azwestern.edu.

Visiting Writers Series The Creative Writing School welcomes award-winning, published authors of national and international recognition to the Main campus annually. The writers spend time offering workshops and public readings to the campus at-large. Recent visiting writers include: Christopher Lane, Dj Christopherson, and Barry Wallenstein. Previous visiting authors have included: Janet Burroway, Alison Deming, Alberto Rios, David St. John, Stephen Dunn, John Knoeopfle, Richard Shelton, Madeline Defres, Holley Rubinsky, Sandra Alcoasser, Elmer Kelton, Mark Spencer, Richard Tillinghast, Alan Woodman, Scott Ely, Julian Abbernyi, Opal Palmer Adissa, John Defresne, Micahel Burns, Renee Ashley, David Lee, and Andrea Hollander Buddy.

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The Art Francisco Barajas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi, 46

Reyna Amador. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30, 42

George Padilla. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Blanca Altt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

Terry Crabtree. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1, 21, 31

Lupita Villanueva. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30, 31

Carla Hastings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2, 49

Tom Cabral. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Ariana Lucero. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2, 15, 46

Veronica Alvarado.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Quy T. Le. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Melissa Mosqueda. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Robert Villalobos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Lia Littlewood. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Desiree Guerrero. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Diniece Henderson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Alejandro Andrade. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Jennifer Armer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Tania Cortez.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12, 48

Jeane Hollins. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

David Robles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Shayla Grover. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Maria Moreno.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Joshephine Towner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Albert Sosa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Maia Cassidy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Marylin Perino. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Luis Alcala. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Mike Salinas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Kristin Loveland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

Michael Oliveros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21, 42

Catherine Abarno. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

Al Mercado. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Alejandro Sanchez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46, 49

TJ Mulligan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Melina Oliveros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

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The Writing Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 “Las Alas del Amor”.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Vacant Arms.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Ocean. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

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Julia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Pooecetes Gamineus.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Cave Junction or Bust. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Beating a Retreat. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

It’s About Time.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

“I see men as trees, walking”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

The Pitch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Loss. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Dylan Speaks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Lyron: In the Realm of Twilight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

At the Kitchen Sink. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Strings.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

Corpus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Questions???. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Pretty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

This piece is Osuna’s attempt at the . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

World We Live In. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

famous John Gardner Exercise:

America. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

In Response to Billy Collin’s “Forgetfulness”. . . . . . 11

Vive.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

War’s Children. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Miénteme. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

The Navajo Spoof: A twist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

The Magic Mountain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

on the Navajo Creation Myth

Querida Mamá. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

A Rose in the Garden. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Note (a flash fiction piece). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Home (a flash fiction piece). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

The Depot Man.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

The Cloud. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Two Untitled Works . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Halloween en México. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

of Flash Fiction

Cuando te conocí. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

In A Heart Beat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Sonriendo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Daniel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Two Patrias. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Goldfish.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Reflejo.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44

The Art of my Hands.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 (a Fibonacci poem) I thought I was grown up. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Response to “Anger Sweetened”.. . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

by Molly Peacock The Rift. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Sunday Morning. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Flowers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Why Him. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 I Believe in Fast Cars. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Sri Lanka. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

Francisco Barajas

Laura Vazquez

Untitled She walks the deadly, drenched, desolate streets, Wondering where in the world is home, She search my sordid surroundings I’ve got nowhere else to go.

Sniffling miserably in her sorrow, She stops to stare at the shabby shed.

She wobbles towards it in woe, So long as it has a bed.

She treads tiredly through the trembling door, Her enervated eyes scanning the squalid room, She care not who inhabits this dingy dwelling, She will be follow by monotonous maddening gloom.

As if to answer her pitiful whimper A bed did her spirit see.

Ill and worried, She limped toward it, wearily.

The wretched woman wandered, Little did her mind know, That despite how she hid, A death to life she owed.

George Padilla (top) Terry Crabtree (bottom)

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Diana Romero

“Las Alas del Amor” Volo, volo de mi madriguera el amor, y se fue sín ninguna explicación abrió sus alas y se marcho dejándome un gran dolor, como un pajarillo cuando aprende a volar, se perdió en medio de la creación.

Volo, volo y se fue para nunca regresar, porque su viaje era sin retorno y en medio de la obscuridad no pudo ya brillar.

Volo, volo el amor y tu te fuiste con el, volaste a un lugar muy lejano, a un lugar diferente en donde los colores pintarían de otro rayar tu cielo, y en donde tu sol resplandeciera como un nuevo lucero.

¿Podrás volar a mi paloma del amor?

Por favor, no te tardes en venir!

Que surja nuevamente la esperanza de vivir, porque aunque no te tenga a ti, tendré la posibilidad de algún día volver a ser feliz.

Carla Hastings (top) Ariana Lucero (bottom left) Quy T. Le (bottom right)

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Cathy Abarno

Questions??? ( A Fibonacci poem) pooping everywhere! SAY!! Do You make people look like their dogs? My grandpa says You do. It’s sorta funny cuz when I look at people and their dogs - they actually do! And Daniel in the lion’s den - did You tame the lion too? WOW!! How cool!

Here and now, please answer me this Why DON’T I do the things I know I SHOULD do rather than DO the things I know I SHOULDN’T DO? It’s confusing, compromising, craziness - SIN

Please bear with me, I have a lot more questions to ask like why do You make people sick - is it so they can sit and have a day of rest? And how come You send earthquakes and tornados and hurricanes and tsunamis and blizzards and wildfires and floods? Don’t You know that people get scared and go run away to hide? Why with rain do You send thunder and lighting too? Grandma says You’re having a party - is that TRUE? If so, how come I can’t go and party with You? Do You know I go to Sunday School and VBS too! So please can You tell me why in the Bible You gave so many rules? And do You really wish me to live by them too? I’m not sure I can actually be that good - at least not ALL of the time, but I will try to be good for You. Did it make You sad when Your friend, Judas, ratted You out or when Peter said he didn’t know You? How come the people who said they loved You, got mad at You, and turned against You? Did You cry when those men beat You? Why didn’t the angels come to protect You? How big were the nails they put in Your hands and feet? Was it hard to speak? I cried when You died, but I’m glad You’re ALIVE!

My momma says I have a will ALL of my own. It’s a daily battle to see who wins. So tell me - WHY?? Please answer my questions if You wouldn’t mind like why do you love me the way You do or do you have a limit on forgiveness? My momma sure thinks You do!

How come You never married or had any children?

Why did You make all the dinosaurs go away? Why does it ALWAYS rain on my birthday? Do You really see me when I’m sleeping? Are You Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all rolled into one? And speaking of being all in ONE How do You be God the FATHER, Jesus the SON, and the HOLY SPIRIT, all in ONE? Don’t You sorta get all squished being together in such a small space? My pastor says You never sleep! Don’t You get tired or get bags under Your eyes? Or do You drink a lot of Red Bull so You can keep standing with bright, open eyes? Will You always be my forever best friend even if I’m bad or make You mad? Can we have some sort of secret handshake or decoder ring?

How did You actually make a tree or shape a mountain to be? How come You made so many different animals like lions and tigers and elephants and zebras and lemurs and gazelles and wolves and deer and moose and river otters and seals and whales and all those fish?

How did You know which kind and where they should live? Did You create zoos so people could go and see how animals live? And how did Adam ever come up with all those names? And Noah - that Ark must of been pretty stinky with all those animals in there

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David Coy

Ed Schubert

Pooecetes Gamineus

“I see men as trees, walking”

Poo to these vesper sparrows, now city birds—white feathers, notched tails— who line up on the church’s spire each evening with church-ease sinecure— surviving on gnats.

-- Mark 8:24 He came up from deep within.

Long down, he knew only his own interiors and odd, fitful echoes from beyond.

Once grassland grazers, they sowed their wild oats by perching atop and riding the tall stalks down, pinning grain heads with toes then tearing them with their beaks.

We’ve all been long down.

I prefer the pheasant, really, who leaps for grasshoppers and gobbles them nearly whole, or the bird menagerie: fish-stalking cranes, wind-sailing hawks,\ sky-diving eagles, degenerate crows.

What shall we see when we return?

Men as trees, walking?

Give me one black grackle sitting on a pole mocking the universe at sunrise whose future isn’t providence but opportunity, who steals a ring from the garden table and swallows it whole.

Ed Schubert

Loss Outside it is cold, the sky angry pewter.

Naked trees shiver with frost.

David Coy

Beating a Retreat

The skin contracts, bites, breath a heavy fog.

Some soldiers are so well trained at strategic withdrawal we do not notice their departures.

They fold the bedding, pack the kitchen into one box, give away their keepsakes and vanish, that is, to most of the world.

I am talking about our elders who must give up their cars, their gardens, their own washing machines, and move closer to the children.

Their guns are vintage, their boots are practical, and the enemy is winning.

The fire wanes, departs, the absence, presence: A cold finger deliberately touching a bone.

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Robert Villalobos (top) Desiree Guerrero (bottom)

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St. A. Rodri

Lyron: In the Realm of Twilight (an excerpted work from a novel series in process)

Soldiers from both the Lunar and Sol castle yelled out from below.

“We must go,” Alistair announced.

“Be safe my brother,” Conrad replied as he has his own castle to worry about.

The enemy started pounding at their doors. In the east raptors and lizard-men slammed into the drawbridge trying to take it down. While in the west, goblins and minotaurs clobbered the castle’s doors.

“Starla!,” Alistair yelled out to his daughter.

“Amya!,” Conrad also yelled out.

“Yes father,” Amya properly said to her father Conrad.

“It’s too dangerous for you to be here anymore, you must escape to Twilight Tower,” Alistair said to Starla.

“But daddy I want to say with you,” Starla replied frighten as she held on to her stuff dog; despite being 20 years old.

“I am going to say here and fight,” Amya advised her father.

“No! I need you to save Lyron; the twilight has caused our guardian warriors to lose their powers. Go to Twilight Tower and reverse the curse,” Conrad said.

“How can I go at it alone? I’ve never fought before,” Starla worried.

“Kyros will lead you there, he’ll keep you safe,” Alistair said as he embraced his daughter.

“I don’t need Leroy to take me there; I can get there on my own. If you don’t want me to fight here, at least allow me to make this trip alone,” Amya bitterly spoke to her father, in her mind she wanted to say and protect her father like he has done for her over the many years before.

Kyros arrived that the chamber’s door, waiting for Princess Starla to come with him to Twilight Tower.

Leroy, as well, stood at the base of the door watching for the reluctant Princess Amya to come with him.

The fields flourished by the generosity of the harvest rain that came about within the past month. It seemed green radiated off the ground from the luscious vegetables from big lettuces to fresh carrots. Farmers worked all day to harvest the profit that was sure to follow from their crops. It was a time of great peace in the land of Lyron with both houses of Night and Day in complete unification. Since the time of years past, the houses have struggled to manage the division of the land.

Originally the King of Lyron ruled over the entire land with his two outstanding sons; Alistair and Conrad. During the time of his passing the King spilt up his nations into two regions- Day and Night. Alistair gain control over the land due east of Twilight Castle, whereas Conrad gain control over the land in the west of Twilight Castle; and years of turmoil cause both lands to spilt from complete alliance like their father originally attended to create.

When the farmers finished harvesting their yield during the midday, the wind started to blow brutally; leaves started falling off the trees. The sky started to darken as a giant cloud poured in from the east.

Eventually the cloud covered the entire sky in veiling the land in darkness, known as twilight. Meanwhile in the Sol and Lunar Castle, the two kings communicated through a witch’s portal, conjured up by the king’s wizards.

“Brother, it seems that our nation is under attack, many villages on my side have reported that goblins and minotaurs have rampaged their villages,” Conrad, King of the Lunar Castle, explained.

“As well has my side, but they report of raptors and lizard-men instead. This situation is out of control, we must mobilize our troops immediately to avoid anymore losses,” Alistair, King of the Sol Castle, said.

“We’re under attack!”

6

Bethany Sweat

Strings

Puberty was kicking in and, to glamorize the whole thing, I was fairly overweight. I wore plain, dark oversized t-shirts and baggy hand-me-down jeans. My long curly tresses were ratty, oily, and unkempt, and the red swollen hills on my face seemed to match the ensemble perfectly. Soon after moving, I met three teenage boys who lived down the street. They were friendly and started coming over to play video games with my older brother. Then the teasing began. I didn’t realize it at first because they made a game out of it. The game was this: they took something of mine; I chased them around my backyard, and eventually they gave back whatever it was when I couldn’t run anymore. I’m sure I was a sight to see; belly rolling, tongue hanging out of my mouth, and tripping over my own shoelaces. At first I thought it was funny, too. But I slowly realized what was going on and was very hurt. I was the rope in tugof-war; jerked around, fun for games, then left in the mud, forgotten.

Thankfully, this choking rope gradually transformed itself into another golden strand within a few years. I started playing basketball, got in shape, and finally got a sense of fashion. This is where I really have good fibers of memory, memories of strings and threads. I realized that string is the staple of every society that has ever existed and will ever exist: fashion. From the French baroque period to Calvin Klein, I fell in love with clothing. I read website articles and histories of Yves Saint Laurent, Jean Paul Gaultier, and Coco Chanel. I saw Los Angeles’s rocker, punk threads (the inspiration for my earlier teen years) and eventually New York for its expensive strands and clean cut style. I was entranced by the way they stitched and sewed every string so perfectly in place, so artistically. I am now a Project Runway addict and look forward to dabbling in fashion in the future.

These are but a few of the cord of my history. A few dark ones lay with the stinking rags behind the fridge, trying hard to be forgotten but still aware of their presence. There are still new twines being woven in my life every day, and some from the past still shine bright.

These strings have made me who I am and will continue to play an essential role in knitting together to who I will be.

The intricate sensations of the grand piano rush through me as I press the keys which drum the chords that create the melody. When I play, the strings vibrate as if they are a cunning rattlesnake preparing for the crescendo and then slowly descend to paralyze the audience. The piece is Beethoven’s Fur Elise, a song I heard my sisters play repeatedly when I was little and now associate with childhood innocence. There are many such strings woven throughout my life. Each has a different tone, length, thickness, and texture. Some are of soft gold and a few of hard steel. Some are resilient while others are about to snap.

One bright strand that stands out is from my early childhood. My three older brothers and I would play “hide and seek”, which really meant that I hid and they went outside to play. I, in the meantime, would find the darkest, most secretive corner in our musty, damp coat closet. With metal hanger in hand, I braved the unknown diabolical monsters waiting in the oversized winter coats. After about an hour, with my shirt dripping in perspiration and heart pounding in anticipation, I would hear them playing on the front porch. I rose on legs that were wobbly from sitting in a crouched position for so long and opened the door. I walked out in a fury, my hands at my side, my face red with strain, and sweat on my brow. They laughed a terrible string of laughter that waved in the air until some invisible bird picked it up and flew off into the woods in front of our house. I would run back to my room while stumbling, pulling on handfuls of my curly, golden strands in frustration. Even though I was angry at them, at least until dinner, those are some of my favorite times and I wouldn’t change that thread of innocence for anything.

There are also not-so-pleasant threads that have weaved their ways into my lovely ball of golden yarn.

After my parents divorce in 2002 and my mom’s remarriage in 2003, we moved from Indiana to Michigan.

The house and area we moved to was beautiful, but that was soon spoiled by the people I met there – a tainted strand.

7

Erin Natesway

A Rose in the Garden It all happened on a fine summer morning. The bees were buzzing in the flowerbeds, the sun was shining, and the geraniums were bright splashes of color against the wall of the Morris house. It was on this day that Jim, the little teapot, and some of his friends decided to go and explore the rest of the house.

“Think about it,” Jim explained to the other utensils. “We’ve helped the giants cook their food and drink their tea, but they don’t even repay us by taking us to see what the rest of the house looks like.”

“Yeah!” agreed Peter, the spatula. “I’ve been here for almost 20 years. All I’ve ever seen of the house is the kitchen!”

“We deserve to have a little excitement in our lives,” Ernesto, the frying pan and the oldest of the utensils, added.

So it was decided that a group of seven should go and explore the house, and then come back and report their findings. When Mr. and Mrs. Morris had left for work and the two children, Ali and Tyler, had left for school, the selected group of utensils set out to explore the house. The group was as follows: Jim, Peter, Ernesto, Carol (the coffee mug), Lorenzo (the ladle), Katie (the steak knife), and Martin (the fork; but he was only there because he was a pest and nobody wanted to hear him complain that he didn’t get to go explore).

The first stop was the dining room. After careful consideration, the explorers decided to skip that room.

“We’ve all been here at one time or another,” Jim explained, and they moved on to the living room.

There they met a strange group of squares accompanied by a rectangular device with an assortment of buttons on it. “Who are you guys?” gasped Lorenzo.

“We’re coasters,” one of the squares declared. “We keep glass cups and such from damaging the coffee table, Buddy.”

Just then, the coffee table let out a shriek of laughter as the Spongebob Burger King commercial came on TV. The utensils gave the coasters a look. The coaster leader gave a little cough. “Um, yeah. He does that sometimes.”

“And who are you?” asked Katie to the rectangle with buttons.

8

“I’m Robert,” the rectangle replied, “and I’m the remote control. I give the giants control over the TV set over there.” He gestured to the TV. “Does it have a name?” Ernesto asked.

“No one knows,” Robert stated. “Its personality changes from day to day. Anyway, what are you guys doing here?”

“We’re exploring,” Jim explained. “All we’ve seen of the house is the kitchen, and we want to know what the rest of the house looks like.”

Robert thought about this. “I’ve only seen this room of the house,” he said, “and I’m also curious about what other rooms exist here. Do you mind if I come along?”

“Of course not!” Jim exclaimed. “You’re in!” And so Robert the remote control joined the group as they made their way down the hall (which was pretty boring for everyone) to the next room—the bedroom.

Once inside, the utensils and Robert noticed something very large in the center of the room. “This resembles the sofas in the living room,” Robert remarked.

The thing spoke. “Well, hello there, foreigners.

Who might you all be?”

“Greetings,” Jim said politely. “I’m Jim, and I’m a teapot. These are my friends Peter the spatula, Ernesto the frying pan, Carol the coffee mug, Lorenzo the ladle, Katie the steak knife, Robert the remote control, and Martin the fork. Well, Martin doesn’t really count, because he decided to tag along at the last minute, but that’s beside the point.”

“Hey!” Martin protested.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the thing chuckled. “I’m Adam the bed. I keep the people of this house warm and comfortable as they sleep. It’s a thankless job, but somebody has to do it,” he grunted.

Lorenzo spoke up. “So this is the sleeping room of the house? I thought I’d never see the day!”

“It’s not that impressive,” Adam said modestly.

“Can we go yet?” Martin whined. He was the smallest, so it was hard for him to keep up with the others.

He was tired already. He’d been complaining since they left the dining room, though, so nobody paid much attention to him.

“I make a sound like this,” Eddie said, and just then, Another strange creature sidled out from under the the bells on his head began ringing frantically, makbed, blinking its dazzling emerald eyes at the utensils. ing the most terrific racket any of the utensils had ever Then it let out a strange yowling sounds. “Wha… but… heard. When he stopped the bells from ringing, the you guys—” it spluttered. It shook its head and tried utensils and Robert all let out cheers and impressed to make sense of the strangeness of moving kitchen whistles. utensils. “You guys—you’re inanimate. You shouldn’t Jim turned back to the group. “As much as I’d be moving.” like to stay and find out more about Eddie and Adam, “What’s your name?” Carol asked, oblivious to the we’ve got to keep moving. There’s only one more room creature’s statement. left, and after that, we’ve got to head back to the kitch “I’m Whiskers, the cat,” the creature said. “What en to report our findings.” are you guys doing? You’re… inanimate. Nonliving.”

“The next room is the bathroom,” Eddie informed Jim nodded. “We are, but only when the giants the group. “It’s connected to the hallway, which leads are around. It gets pretty annoying.” The other utensils back to the living room. I wish you all a safe journey.” murmured their agreement.

The group said their goodbyes and headed to the “Giants?” Whiskers was confused. Then it dawned bathroom. on him. “Oh! You mean the humans?”

The room was very light, and the floor was made “Is that what they’re really called?” asked Robert. up of white tile. It was similar to the kitchen, except “I’ve always wondered.” there were large, porcelain structures in the corner of “They’re humans,” Whiskers said again, “and the room. humans do not like kitchen utensils wandering around Jim peered over at the largest object in the room, the house. If they find you lying around, I’m the one which was the bathtub. “It looks like there’s a secret who’s going to get in trouble.” He flattened his ears chamber or something over there. Who knows what we and yowled. could discover if we were able to get in there…”

“We’ve only got one room left,” Jim said. “We’ll be “It’s too high up,” Katie said, a bit sadly. quick; I promise.”

“Maybe if we make a ladder of some kind,” sug Whiskers fretted. “But still… they could be back at gested Martin. Although he was normally a pest, any minute!”

Martin was actually very bright, and everyone agreed “Oh, don’t be ridiculous! You’ve got all the time in that this was a good idea. So Ernesto settled himself the world.”

The utensils, Robert, and Whiskers all whirled about down at the bottom of the ladder, acting as the base.

Jim, followed by Lorenzo and Peter, acted as another to see one of the most peculiar objects they’d ever set step. Then came Katie and Robert, and finally, Martin. eyes on (except for Whiskers). The object was perched It was decided that Carol should go and be the one to on a bedside table and had a series of black markings explore the tub. on its face, along with a pair of pointed needles behind Carol nervously made her way up the makeshift a sheet of plastic. The thing was mostly gold in color, ladder. She’d always hated heights, and living in a cupand had a set of shiny bells on the top of it. board above the sink in the kitchen didn’t really help “Who are you?” Jim asked. any. She swallowed hard and began climbing.

“I’m Eddie, the alarm clock,” replied the clock.

When she reached the top, Carol peeked over the “Pleased to meet you!” edge of the tub, feeling a bit dizzy. It was a long way Whiskers backed up underneath Adam the bed, down. She took a deep breath and then looked the whimpering. “What is going ON here?” he yowled, and other way, into the tub. She gasped at what she saw. skittered away into hiding.

“What is it?” called Jim from the bottom of the ladder.

“Anyway,” Eddie stated, “my job is to get the “What do you see?” humans to wake up on time. Time is, after all, one of Carol called back, “It’s incredible! There’re all kinds the most precious things in the world.”

“How do you wake them up?” Martin wanted to know. of bottles over here, in several different colors!”

9

“Ask them what they are!” yelled Ernesto.

Carol turned back to ask the bottles, but then she slipped and fell from the edge of the tub. She let out a high-pitched scream.

“Carol, NO!” shouted Lorenzo.

CRASH! Carol landed on the hard tile floor, and her body instantly shattered into several different pieces.

The ladder instantly toppled down, and everyone rushed over to the broken remains of Carol. No one said anything at first, but then Katie burst into tears, and Lorenzo began screaming. The other members of the group merely stared at Carol in disbelief. How could this have happened?

After several seconds that seemed like hours, Jim said in a shaky voice, “We… we should probably go.

The humans should be coming home soon.”

“What about Carol?” demanded Ernesto, gesturing to her remains. “We can’t just leave her here!”

“I’m not leaving without her,” Katie said fiercely.

“We’ll take her with us,” Jim said quietly.

“We’ll have a funeral.”

The utensils and Robert gathered up as many pieces of Carol they could find, and, with Peter’s help, carried them out into the hallway and back into the kitchen. When they got there, Jim made the sad announcement that Carol had fallen from the bathtub and shattered. All of the forks, knives, spoons, and other utensils began crying in their grief.

Just then, Whiskers came from the bedroom, having heard the utensils’ lament. “Although I’m still weirded out by the whole ‘walking and talking utensils’ thing,” he said in a soft voice, “I’ll help you bury her.”

The group that had gone on the exploration carried Carol’s remains outside into the garden, where Whiskers dug a small hole in the soft dirt. After placing the shattered remains of the coffee mug into the hole and burying it, Jim replied, “We should have a moment of silence, in Carol’s honor.”

The moment of silence seemed to last an eternity.

Finally, Whiskers whispered to the utensils, “You guys should get going. The humans will be back any minute.”

Jim, Ernesto, Martin, Lorenzo, Katie, and Peter all made their way back to the kitchen, where they unhappily settled themselves back into their cupboards and drawers. Whiskers, in the meantime, carried one of the roses from the Morris’ rosebush and placed it carefully on top of Carol’s grave.

Susan Osuna

This piece is Osuna’s attempt at the famous John Gardner Exercise:

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A middle-age man is waiting at a bus stop. He has just learned that his son has died violently. Describe the setting from the man’s point of view WITHOUT telling your reader what has happened.

His body feels cold on this warm night, numb and emptied of all color. Even the sky’s brilliant lights show no remorse, no relief from this grief rooted deep in the pit of his stomach. A painful wound from a war long forgotten throbs without notice from his side. He stands frozen, as if tethered on a short leash to a dark and surreal place with no escape, no exit. He does not hear the sounds of people walking past; the crisp taps of their shoes upon the pavement as they make a wide berth around him. Nor does he see the homeless woman who sits in the corner of the bus shelter mumbling to her self. He does not sense her madness, her smell, her hunger, for it is now his. This smell of defeat, it engulfs him, devouring his very existence. His heart pounds throughout every nerve as he faintly fades in and out of a murky and empty metal shell. His breath shallow and hard, skin dripping away from his thin frame as if being ripped off by some strange force. Tears travel down across his weathered face, swelling as they gather momentum only to fall unnoticed upon the crumpled package he holds tightly in his arms, now his only link to a life know but just moments ago. The bus that pulls up isn’t noticed, it’s too late. Time lied and now it has stopped breathing in this dark metal shelter. A deep voice pierces the silence “are you riding or not?” startling him back into his cold empty body. Shaken, he slowly boards the bus to nowhere, leaving behind the package and that which was once him.

Bryan Lopez

John Camacho

In Response to Billy Collin’s “Forgetfulness”

War’s Children Death, Destruction, Battle’s roar, The deafening chaos, A familiar melody to us, We are war’s children, victory shall be ours Walk with us, heed Battle’s call, know the glory of conquering your enemies, Stand against us, and you will discover the meaning of lament, for we are War’s Children, we will not be denied

State flowers and the capital of Paraguay If I no longer remember it is because I no longer care I can ponder over images from as far back when I was three years old Images with no story but still memories Memories will come and go and some will never come back Lost forever to nothingness because I was there only connection however meaningless to the rest of the world But I can never forget how I got that scar on my leg the face of my first love man in the making father-son moments not even the title to my favorite novel My memories are my own no one can take them away from me I’m 18 years young my mind hasn’t been lost yet

Alejandro Andrade

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Tania Cortez (above) David Robles (opposite)

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13

John Camacho

The Navajo Spoof: A twist on the Navajo Creation Myth One day Jimmy Coyote was walking the wild streets of Los Peublos, and strode into one of the casinos in search of a game. Welcoming the bright flashing lights and the smells of various fine cigars, Jimmy noticed Rico ‘The Water Monster’ Cicci sitting at a game of Texas Holdem.’ Jimmy had heard of the massive man; he controlled water rights to most of the four-corners region, and had a tendency to heavily water his liqueur.

He was also known as a betting man, who’d gamble away his shirt if given the chance. Pulling up a chair, coyote stretched his fingers, cracked his neck, and calmly said “Deal me in.” Ricco’s massive frame didn’t budge; his only acknowledgement being an extra large puff from his hand rolled Havana.After several hours all the other players had been forced from the table, and the game was down to a final draw. Raising the stakes for a final time, Jimmy Coyote eyed Rico’s dwindled pile of chips. “Doesn’t look like you can cover” he said with a toothy grin. Checking his hand one final time, ‘The Water Monster’ pulled a valet ticket from his vest pocket. “My ‘Rolls will more then cover it; I call.”

Confidently, Jimmy laid his aces and eights down on the table. Cheat that he was, Jimmy wasn’t the least bit surprised at his high pair, just as he wasn’t surprised at the vain that nearly exploded in Rico’s head at having a hand that came up just short.

“Good game Mr. Cicci, a very good game. Better luck next time” said Jimmy with a tip of his hat as he collected his winnings. Stepping outside, he handed the parking ticket one of the attendants. He didn’t have to wait long before a long, black and chrome RollsRoyce parked in front of him. Sliding into the custom made leather seats, Jimmy breathed in the intoxicating ‘new car smell’ of the vehicle.

Arriving back at his home later that night, Jimmy decides to check out what all is in the car. Looking in the back seat, he discovers a large coat. Lifting the coat, he looks into the inside pocket and whispers to himself “Whoa baby…”

“MY BABIES!!!” screamed Rico. “He’s got my babies!” Rico ‘The Water Monster’ quickly got on the phone and called all his ‘boyz.’

“Find that low down rat for me; drown him out if ya have to! But I want My Babies BACK!” “Ya Boss!” they all would answer. * * * The next day Jimmy Coyote was hangin’ with his home-boy Felix ‘The Turkey’ Tuttle at the local bar.

“Dude, you ain’t gonna believe what I got from tha’ ‘Water Monster’ last night playin’ cards!” Opening his coat, Jimmy showed Felix what was causing him so much excitement.

“No way!” Tuttle exclaimed.

“You damn straight way! I got his Roll’s all loaded up with mah’ shit and I’m blowin’ town tonight!”

“Dude! You gonna get yourself killed carryin’ those things!”

No sooner had Felix spoke then a shot rang out, missing its mark and striking the bottles of booze behind the bar. A black flood of beer sprang out from the keg as Jimmy and Felix made a run for it.

Diving through a window, the pair jumped into Jimmy’s new Roll’s and sped off.

“I told ya’ you were gonna get killed carrying those things!” chided ‘The Turkey.’ Stop at my house real quick; I got some things we’ll need.”

Arriving at Felix’s house, Jimmy waited outside for his friend to gather all the essentials for their trip.

Felix grabbed ammo for his .32, 30-30 Winchester, .38 Special, 40 S&W, .44, and some .45s in acp and LongColt. “We wouldn’t have gotten far without these” Tuttle thought to himself as he headed back to Jimmy’s car. As he waddled back down the trail, ‘The Water Monster’s’ goons were close behind, VERY close! One of them shot Felix in the ass with a shotgun just as he was climbing into Jimmy’s car, leaving little white marks that remain to this day. Jimmy had to grab Tuttle by the neck and drag him into the car before he could speed off down the road.

* * *

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Maria Moreno (above) Ariana Lucero (bottom right)

15

Chelsea Israels

So it came to pass that a massive car chase ensued.

The black SUV’s of Rico’s hired thugs swirled closer and closer. Passing into a new land as they crossed the state line, Jimmy hoped they’d be safe, but the oncoming flood of gangsters was still a threat even here.

Buggsy ‘The Locust’ Rosenburg, leader of the Jewish Mafia who had tried to move in on Franky ‘The Bird’ Vlasic’s territory earlier in the week, happened to be in the car and opened the sun roof.

“They’ll never take me alive!” he shouted as he was the first to bail.

“Water Monster must be really pissed!” exclaimed Felix. “Only he could send so many thugs! This is all your fault man!”

“Fuck it then” said Jimmy.

Evading the horde of pursuers for just long enough to make a quick stop, Jimmy left the items in the care of Mr. and Mrs. First. Adam and Eve took the items and placed them in the middle of the highway where Rico was sure to see them. When he finally came by, he was so relieved. “My babies are home again!”

And so was returned to ‘Water Monster’ his two little black books of his doctor’s, associate’s, drug dealer’s, and girl friend’s numbers.

Home (a flash fiction piece) The bus ride was nothing special. But then neither was the flight. The town was still small. Made me glad I finally got out. College was the best choice I ever made. The worst was coming back. Every store looked the same only faded by the years. I found myself remembering even the potholes in the roads.

They’d never be fixed.

It was only noon and already I needed a drink.

Maybe I got that from my father. I sure as hell didn’t get it from my mother. If I were anything like her I never would have made it out of this town, I’d do nothing more than work a minimum wage job and sit on the couch watching TV. I had hoped when I finally came back that I might have someone with me, if not a wife then at least a girlfriend. Well at least I had a stable, steady paying job, and a house of my own. That’s all I needed to prove my point.

From the bus stop I walked. It wasn’t so far and living in New York walking is how you get where you want to go. Only now I walked directly to where I didn’t want to go. When I reached the little old house I could have turned right back around, seeing it was enough for me.

But that’s not what I had decided. I decided I would come back once, and only once. Show them the success I made for myself, show them who their son had become.

And then I’d never come back.

As I stood at the door I thought for a moment, maybe after almost ten years something had changed.

Those shops in town may look the same from the street but could be entirely different inside. Maybe they’ll be waiting for me on the other side of the door.

With smiles on their faces, ready to welcome me.

It wasn’t locked. The knob still stuck like it always had when I turned it. As I stood in the doorway I could have sworn I was seventeen again. The house was dark, blinds closed usually because Dad woke up hung over in the afternoon and would cuss any time the harsh light came in. There sat my mom on the couch, the television throwing flickering light on her face.

She looked up at me and managed a meek smile but turned back to her program. My father was nowhere in sight, still asleep no doubt.

I shut the door behind me. No matter how much I wished I could say otherwise, I was home.

The End

Chelsea Israels

Note (a flash fiction piece) The janitor picked up a folded piece of paper. The kids were always leaving their trash around, on the desks, on the floors, for him to pick up. They passed notes in class and left them all over for him to deal with.

This one was folded small, the paper smooth, it hadn’t been unfolded and refolded but more than once.

Through the paper he caught glimpse of the pencil marks on the other side and one word made him unfold it to read, ‘I think I might be pregnant.’

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Albert Sosa

17

Brenna Oulette

The Depot Man Then, somehow her expression switched from confuWe all have a dark side. Something in us that we don’t sion to something dark and fearful, and something like let others see. But I could tell she and I, we are alike, panic flitted across her face. She slowly backed up until I’ll tell you, like brother and sister or something. This she was up against the door. What did she think I was Greyhound station is dank, like a cave, and smelly. I going to do, throw her down and have my way with don’t know why I work here. I hate coming in every her? Kill her? Still, she dropped the key like it was on night. So creepy. Anyway, it’s a job. You see all kinds fire and moved to sidestep me. Either she was good, of people. They come and go. Every once in awhile, or she was playing me. I threw my hands up and said though, one of them sticks out. Like her. “’Scuse me, ma’am, I just wanna help.” She backed off, She was in maybe her late thirties, hard looking. and I got the door open. Again, she looked into my Hair bleached and done up in a style from the eighties, eyes as she passed by, and something flashed between from the look of it--like someone told her she looked us. A question was in the back of my mind, but I didn’t good once, and she never changed it. Ever. So here know what it was. I’d search deeper at another time. she is, twenty years later, in my stinky bus terminal.

But it was a mystery I had to find the answer to.

She ambled slowly over to my window and asked for the bathroom key. Her voice was deep and scratchy, She spent a lot of time in that cramped bathroom, with its two stalls and tiny sink, the cracked mirror like she’d smoked a lot of cigarettes, or drank too above it. She didn’t have a purse, not that I’d seen, so much whiskey, or both. She’d been in plenty of bars, she wasn’t fixing her makeup. Why was I interested in that one. how long she spent in the bathroom? I told myself I was “Excuse me?” She interrupted my train of thought. just staying alert, and it was, after all, 2:55 in the morning.

“The key?”

There had been a group of people hanging out “Oh, sure. Here you go.” around the vending machines, but their bus had just I shook my head at myself. Pay attention, dude! loaded up and left. No, wait. There was another person, She smiled, and what a change came over her face. a man. He didn’t get on the bus. Where did he go?

She actually became kinda attractive with that smile.

There really was no place to go in here, a storage closet She was a good ten years older than me, but I was maybe? The bathrooms were locked, but they had their suddenly attracted to her. storage closets too. What was taking her so long?

I watched as she strolled over to the ladies room I decided to go check. This wasn’t normal. and inserted the key into the lock. She twisted it, but I assured myself that nothing was wrong as I strode no go. I saw her struggling with it, and finally came to over to the bathroom. Just as I arrived and grabbed the realize that she needed help.

“Hold on a sec, I’ll help you. I forgot it’s kinda hard.” handle, the door abruptly opened and she came out.

Okay, she had a bag. Wait, did she have a bag before?

I came out from behind my counter, moving quickly Where did it come from? My brain hurt trying to think over the ancient, dirty tile of the floor, stopping right of it, of all the little details that elude you until the days behind her. I could smell the remnants of what I’ve pass that you don’t think about them, then suddenly always called ‘stink perfume’--you know, the kind that WHAM! The whole picture hits you like a combo from smells really strong but not very sweet (I don’t know Muhammed Ali. Okay, if she didn’t have one before, it why women think it smells good)--but her hair! Her had to be in the bathroom itself, in the storage, in the hair smelled wild and crazy, like an afternoon romp in tank of the toilet, I don’t know where. But my curiosity a secluded field of grass and flowers. She turned sudgets me. I turn around, but she’s gone. I try to open denly and we were almost eye to eye, and closer than the door, but it’s locked. She had the key. I ram it with she expected. I could see the green irises circling the my shoulder until it finally busts open, and I have to ask midnight of pupils, flecks of brown and rust, medium myself if it was worth it, on my shift. I could’ve just left length lashes darkened to indigo with mascara. For a things alone. But I was there now, and I couldn’t help minute, or an hour, we stared at each other.

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even committing murder. Ah, there comes my waffle. but notice the body on the floor, no blood except for Don’t have to wait too long today, there’s not even a slight seep from the bullet wound in the center of his three people in here. Hold on, there’s something familforehead. I grimaced and turned away, heading toward iar about that woman in the corner, the redhead. She’s the phone behind my desk to do the right thing, the only thing I could do. I could only hope that she was far, getting up, leaving a tip. She passes by me and looks me in the eye. Brown. How can they look so familiar? far from here by now.

But she was too young, too. Not a day over 25 unless I “9-1-1 operator, how can I help you?” miss my guess. I looked around the other side, and she “I work at Citizen’s Bus Station and there’s a dead was gone, whoever she was. I’m not that bad looking guy on the floor in the women’s bathroom.” That was of a guy, but I usually get more than just a passing look. enough to get something started, something that was Geez. going to take a lot of time that I really didn’t want to give right now. Anyway, I just went and waited out front. I finish my waffle and coffee, leave a tip for “grandma.” I do like her, really. I’m feeling the night, The red and blue lights blinded my eyes with their though. I’ve got to get some sleep. I guess I staggered flashing. I led the officers to the crime scene and they a little when I headed for the door, because my waitress began marking it off. The usual questions. I told them asked me if I was okay. about the lady. I didn’t tell them about her eyes, how “Hon, are you all right? It’s too early to be drunk— they captured me, just for those seconds. Then she oh, wait, you just got off your shift, didn’t you?” just disappeared. Those police are thorough, though.

“Yeah, and I’m tired. I was supposed to get off They found a blonde wig in the trash down the block around 3:30, but we had a little excitement.” I groaned a ways from the depot here. So, she didn’t really have to myself, knowing I was going to tell her. “There was a blonde hair…But I was too busy to think of that right now. Rerouting buses, keeping people out, being ques- murder sometime during the night when I was there.”

I omitted the part about the Lady. tioned by the police…I didn’t get out of there till about 6:30 in the morning. I was tired, but too keyed up about “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?

You’re not hurt?” the lady, the murder, to sleep, so I stopped for a bite “No, I’m fine, I just had to stay a few extra hours. at a little place I went to sometimes. Whenever my car The police were there for awhile, forensics and all that. was in the shop, which was often. Most importantly, it And I of course had to stay around.” was in walking distance.

“Gosh, I’m so glad you weren’t hurt! I don’t want to It was small and out of the way, next to an alley. sound too morbid, but it must have been pretty excitNot more than 6 or 7 tables in the place. Free refills ing and all. Nothing ever happens at your old bus station.” on soda, bottomless cup of coffee, all that. The food “Yeah, I know. Until now, anyway. Thanks for the was unbeatable, though, and the waitress was nice, in breakfast. You’re a peach!” a grandmotherly sort of way. She always asks how I’ve “That’s what my son always told me!” been. Today, I just tell her “Pretty good.” No need to I took out my cell, dialed Jake, the friend who’d tell her about the night at the station and the dead dropped me off, and asked for a ride home. He was body. I haven’t even heard if he’s been identified yet, packed with news he wanted to share. That man I’d and probably won’t. But what happened to Her? seen in the bathroom last night, the dead guy, was I ordered a Belgian waffle with sausage on the apparently some guy with Social Services, who was side, and it came with whipped cream and strawberpretty popular, or unpopular, around town, depending ries. What a way to start the day. She brought me a on who you were and what you could do for him. cup of coffee, and left it black. Great, I thought, I’m There was something in the news about him, I rememnot going to bed anytime soon. I sipped at the coffee ber now, that he’d done some shady adoption while waiting for my order to come up. All I could think about was those eyes. Green eyes. Eyes that didn’t look proceedings some ten years ago. Took about 5 babies away from some couples that he deemed unfit and blameworthy, like they could be plotting murder, or

19

20

Terry Crabtree (above) Marylin Perino (top right) Mike Salinas (bottom right) Michael Oliveros (opposite)

21

put them in foster care, and they ended up adopted.

The news didn’t come out for years; there was plenty of other news to keep peoples tongues wagging. But those families looked for those children for a long, long time. Anyway, was I him, I’d be looking over my shoulder. Well, I guess I wouldn’t have to anymore, now that I think about it.

Of course, I had to tell Jake about it. He’s always been there for me, and I consider him to be one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Jake is as blonde as I am dark. He drives a Karman Ghia, wears jeans and T-shirts, and has girls falling all over him. I with my darkness look like a longshoreman with something to prove, and the dark clothing doesn’t help. I know I look like a ‘rebel without a cause,’ but I like it. We both took weight-lifting in high school, so we’re okay in the “build” department. We’ve known each other a long, long time, since 8th grade, really, and had some great times together. His family was wild and crazy, loved to go surfing, skiing, and four-wheeling and everything in between. They took me along on a lot of those trips.

My family was pretty calm, but loving, had barbecues with family and friends over. That type of stuff. Both of our families accepted both of us. He was even in love with my little sister for awhile there. But, when I took a wild hair and decided to move from our smallish city to Los Angeles, he decided he was going to move with me and go to college there. I’ve definitely gotten the better end of the bargain on this one.

I told Jake to say hello to his family for me, when he dropped me off, and went in for my good night’s sleep.

It was 8:00 am by this time. I unlocked my door, went inside. I went into my bathroom to wash off the grime of last night and brush my teeth before going to bed, and maybe shave. I closed the door and looked in the mirror at my unshaven face and bloodshot eyes. What startled me was the eyes looking back at me. Green eyes. I whipped around and there she was. The lady from the diner, who was also the lady from the station.

“Help me, please.”

She said that so trustingly, confidently. What else could I do? The Eyes needed help. Well, I wasn’t getting any sleep for awhile. We went into the tiny kitchen, sat at the dinette, and she began to spill her guts. She was on the run, but not for the murder. There was an ex-boyfriend after her who thought she was his forever.

Still. When I saw her in the station last night, he’d been

looking for her. She’d disguised herself, put on the wig and makeup, and ducked into the Citizens Bus Station, not long before I was set to get off work. She needed to get into the bathroom, but what she found when she got in there she never expected. She had to think fast, because she was in the bathroom with a dead man and a gun in her bag, and a psycho ex looking for her. So she booked.

“I hated to lose that wig; it was expensive. It was made with human hair, and I washed it and trimmed it.

People sell their hair for that kind of stuff, you know? I thought it was beautiful.”

She had the red hair, and I wondered if that, too, was a wig. I asked, and she pulled it off. It was. But her hair was really red, not the bright red of the wig, but a softer color. As she ran her hands through it, I smelled that smell again. I wanted to run my fingers through it, too. I was thinking to myself that, as long as she isn’t found by the police as having been in the station the night of the murder, as long as we keep that a secret, all we have to worry about is the crazy ex. She’s not guilty of murder. I breathed a sigh of relief. We both did. Until the knock on the door.

Eric Ponce

Two Untitled Works of Flash Fiction “Hello?”

“Good evening sir we are calling from ACT we have a great offer..”

“Hello?”

“Hello? Can you hear me sir?”

“Hello! If you are hearing this message please leave your message after the tone” “Beep!” “………Click! duuu duuu duuu” “Hahaha you see son that’s how you deal with those people.”

The man slept as the night sky covered.

The cement on his face felt rough as he muttered.

“No ma I don’t like banana peels” Trash surrounded him and on his hand to feel.

As a tilted trash can rolled.

22

Eric Ponce

was attending the fancy boarding school on a scholarship. Daniel was however a biblical name, maybe he was Catholic or something. I was worried that he was her boyfriend.

(Ekphrastic poetry) [original artwork by Eric Ponce] She giggled loudly and said, How am I to hold you?

“Dad, no way! Daniel is gay!” I gulped and said, If I do not have hands, “Oh, ok.”

I cannot speak, I had never been exposed to many gay people. At For I have no tongue, my church there had been one guy my age who was My legs have been torn off, a talented artist. He would spend time during the By this delightful hypnotherapist, sermons sketching whoever sat near him in a small She implored, sketchbook with short graphite pencils. I sat with him a “You will never feel pain beside me” few times, curious to see what kept him so occupied. I In a swift breeze all her words were gone, watched as his hands sketched the outline of the perAs she continued, son’s body and then added fullness and shadows all “Yo u do not need legs, so ill shall take them in memory” with just one pencil. Javier was not known for his artWithout remorse or delicacy, work however. He spoke with his hands and his pants The scars on my hands and body, were a little less baggy than the other boys. A little too Tell you a story of a nobody, feminine some people said. I pretended not to care but Of how this paralyzing cobra, I was cautious to share my tent with anyone else but Came into control, him. He didn’t see gay. Where were the neon colored Leaving wounds that will never heal, clothing, the girly voice, and the hairdresser boyfriend?

A past that no one will ever hear, Alani called us when they headed out and asked As time reaches its end, her mother to make her favorite dinner of roast beef I will lay and pretend, with mashed potatoes. Her mother left for the superIt has come to an end. market to get things ready and I was left alone. I lit a cigarette and sat outside. There was no smoking in the house. I sat outside by the wooden swing that we Marelis Rivera used to use when the children were younger. One by one, tiny black ants scurried silently in the grass, carrying small bits of leaves and food particles. The leaves appeared to be moving on invisible legs, single file This boy, Daniel, was coming to spend a weekend toward some hidden colony. It is strange how they were with me and my family. He was my daughter’s best so interesting and benign out here. friend. His parents were out of the country and since Soon enough, the red SUV pulled up and my this was a long weekend my daughter had invited him daughter bounded out to where her mother and I were to come home for the weekend with her. My wife was standing. I saw a tall, black haired boy standing shyly thrilled, as a stay-at-home mom she was feeling a bit of behind her. empty nest syndrome with our son in college and our “Mom, Dad, this is Daniel. Daniel, these are my eldest daughter at boarding school. It had been a long parents, Maria and Charlie.” decision-making process to send Alani to school so far “Nice to meet you both,” the strong handshake away but the opportunity to study at a high school that surprised me. was based on the arts was too good to pass up. Her “Thank you for having me in your home. It is nice to get classes exposed her to the technique behind DaVinci’s a home-cooked meal every now and then.” The graart, Neruda’s poetry, and Beethoven’s concertos. She ciousness and sincerity of the answer was surprising. had quickly befriended Daniel and spoke endlessly We moved inside and sat around the large mahogany about him and his help volunteering with her at the colored dining table. Plates were passed and mound animal shelter, raising money for the literary magazine, upon mound of mashed potatoes and beef were and impressive voice in the student government. Daniel consumed. Daniel ate and laughed heartily and Alani was the editor of the school’s literary magazine and

In A Heart Beat

Daniel

23

while she got over the loss. I could hear Daniel speakgushed about her plans for the literary magazine and ing to her quietly, asking her about her beloved dog. debate team. Maria eyed me cautiously, as if expectWhat did he like to eat, what were his favorite things? ing me to say something embarrassing. Daniel and Alani dominated the conversation, telling us about their What color were his eyes and how did his thick fur feel between her fingers? She closed her eyes and began friends at school, updating us on the scandals amongst to talk about her best friend. A slow trickle of tears the professors, and the crazy weather their town had rolled down her cheeks and as she continued talking been having. to Daniel she began to sketch again. This time there “How are your parents, Daniel?” I asked. Alani and were beams of sunlight rolling across the dog’s regal her mother threw me a stern look. back. His lustrous rust-colored coat was ruffled and he :They are well thank you.” He answered quietly and looked off to one side, as if he were staring at Daniel quickly asked, with solemn golden eyes. This was the moment she “Are there any good hiking spots around here? I would was searching for. I must have quietly walked over to love to go for a short hike tomorrow, this area is so where they sat and neither cared that I was peaking much prettier than the town the school is in, and they over their shoulders to see the completed piece. My don’t let us far enough off the grounds for me to go youngest daughter turned to me, hiking in any good spots.”

“Dad, isn’t it just like Prince? I had been trying to draw “Hm,” I said, “You could try the nature trail over at him for weeks and Daniel helped me figure out how to Maymont Park. The trail takes you on a mile and half do it.” She smiled at Daniel, who gently squeezed her hike around some of the parts of the nature preserve.” shoulder.

Hiking. I didn’t know gay men hiked. Wasn’t shopping It was very much like a prince indeed. more their thing? I supposed I was being silly, after all, anyone could hike. My younger daughter looked hopeful at the thought of Daniel going on a hike and he noticed and graciously invited her and Alani to go with him if they wanted. It sounded like fun. The conversation began to wane as the heavy dinner set in. The large pieces of chocolate cake my wife doled out were not helping to reduce our feast-induced stupor. I stood up to go for a soft stroll around the backyard to try and wake up. My wife headed upstairs for a bath and Alani showed Daniel to the guest room.

As I walked around the backyard, I saw more of the ants. This time they were not hauling off individual bits of food, but instead were moving together in a group to carry a piece of dog kibble. Not one ant fell out of place. I found myself wondering if there were gay ants, divorced ants, and ants wishing they were bees. What a strange question I though and walked away.

I came around the corner to see Daniel and my younger daughter sitting on the floor with her sketchbooks and her drawing pencils. I was sure I knew what sketches she was showing him. She had been trying to sketch a portrait of her dog who had recently died at the age of thirteen. She was devastated at the loss and my wife and I had hoped that enrolling her in some extracurricular activities would help keep her occupied Al Mercado

24

TJ Mulligan

25

Marelis Rivera

Mark Schuck

Goldfish

I thought I was grown up

Orange ball of fire swimming among plain background You are the jewel!

I thought I was grown up, The day I walked over that line.

And I placed my feet upon the yellow shoes on the road But I was just a child trying to be a man.

Marelis V. Rivera

I thought I was grown up when I told that woman I do.

She already had that baby growing inside her And I knew it was the right thing to do.

But I was just a child trying to be a man.

Orange ball of fire Floating among pale background The crowned jewel here!

I thought I was grown up when that little girl called me dad Her golden hair made me think of sunny nights.

And everything that had come before meant nothing.

But I was just a child trying to be a man

Marelis Rivera

The Art of my Hands (a Fibonacci poem)

I thought I was grown up when I met the real love of my life.

Without effort she reached inside and made me right.

So it took no effort to ask her to be my wife.

But I was just a child trying to be a man.

“Knit,” “Purl,” “Increase.”

I thought I was grown up when we went inside that room.

But the moment his head crowned out I cried just like a child I never cried so much as when I thought I lost them both.

Because I was just a child trying to be a man.

In this room filled with the rhythm of clicking needles; finding art is the simplicity of creating soft fabric

I thought I was grown up by the time we went back into that room But when her little voice broke the air, I wept again And it didn’t bother me, she was such a beautiful creature And I’m just a child who is also a man

To cover the heads, hands, and beds of my children, with the spun wool of sheep, while they sleep My hands moving under, over, and off, my wrists growing tired, ignoring the ache in my back, to give them a piece of me to carry.

And I think I’m grown up now that I have them all But I know that I’m still just one part of a whole And without them I’m nothing, so I’m not afraid to say That I’m just a child who is also a man.

26

Allison Dedecker When a Mother bird Abandons her Nest We think, “How sad!”

We gather the frantic Young Cup them to our breast Take them Home.

If a Mother rabbit tries to Devour her young We say, “How awful!”

We thrust in our Superman arms and Snatch the babies from Harm’s way.

Sacrificed on the altar of our own arrogance We’d rather save face than be heard Tie our feelings to an anchor and watch then sinking Sad but satisfied no one will know what we’re thinking Not realizing that along with our anger we interred Our dignity, our self-respect, the pride we wished to save We buried when we placed our anger in its grave.

Victoria Denson

The Rift I’ve figured it out on paper at least a million times Yet here I stand in the doorway clutching the old, broken doorknob reluctant to pass through.

When a Mother horse Refuses to nurse her Foal.

Someone steps in.

Cradles the little one’s small, angular head Helps Him to stand on Seasick legs and eat.

I survey the remnants of this half lived life the threadbare recliner a testament to the tasks I’ve left undone.

But when a Mother Young or Old. Frightened. Alone.

Decides to suck her Baby Out. Through a straw.

Lord how I hate to be forgotten as this surefooted world trudges on I can’t escape the vanity the belief that somewhere there’s a place for me.

We gather her to us, cup her to our breast, Cradle her soft had and comfort her. And Toss the Baby in the Trash.

Without so much as a Second glance.

My weathered hands old and tired to timid to start anew hold in their grasp freedom when thoughts return to you.

Allison Dedecker

Response to “Anger Sweetened”

by Molly Peacock “What we don’t forget is what we don’t say.”

Beneath kind words righteous anger is smothered True feelings buried alive and smothered In a premature grave, as clod by clod its covered And the living corpse of feeling is sealed away Left to die, to rot and decay Sacrificed for the sake of appearance

Like a gambler cleaving to his die I throw caution to the wind and cling to the hungry belief the next cast will yield relief.

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Jennifer Houston

Jennifer Houston

Sunday Morning

Vacant Arms

(a flash fiction piece)

He did not notice her enter the room and sit at the opposite end of the long dining room table. He sat in the glow of the warm Sunday morning light streaming through the delicate curtains covering the high windows. The morning paper containing stock reports and other business news kept his attention.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she twisted her pale hands playing with a large diamond ring.

“Sorry about what?” he mused turning the page without looking at her.

“I don’t know,” she replied looking at her thin hands.

“Hmmf,” he acknowledged still reading the paper.

“I’m sorry,” she said again her slight shoulders hunching over her slight frame.

“About what,” he asked, irritation creeping into his tone, not looking up.

“It just happened,” she said her voice barely a whisper.

“What happened?” He asked turning the page.

“Charles.” She said as tears began to shine in her pale green eyes.

“Charles?” He asked puzzled, glancing at his wife above his glasses.

“Yes, Charles.” She replied sinking lower into the cushioned wing back chair.

“My partner Charles?” he asked looking for clarification setting the paper down next to his unfinished eggs.

“I’m sorry,” she said again “How long?” he asked with realization “About a month,” she said finally meeting his eyes “Why?” he asked removing his glasses She shrugged her slight shoulders and walked away He noticed her when she left her diamond ring on the table and walked out of the room. The glow of the warm Sunday morning light streaming through the delicate curtains covering the high windows was suddenly cold. The morning paper containing stock reports and other business news lay forgotten.

The wind picked up lifting and twirling garbage and leaves carelessly around the mostly empty streets.

The trees had dropped their foliage about a week ago, leaving vacant arms reaching into the bitter sky.

The scent of rain touched the man’s grizzled cheek without complaint, as he clutched the tattered letter in his work worn hands. A mislaid memory played in his mind as the impending storm darkened the city around him.

“Dad… Dad, wait for me!”

Grasping the letter closer to his chest, the boy’s shrill voice, so like the one playing in his mind, startled him out of his reverie.

“Mind if we share your shelter, mister?” The boy’s father asked breathlessly, shaking out his umbrella.

Rain had begun to fall uncontrollably on the pavement in front of him as he stared blankly at the father and son apparition standing beside him.

“This is some storm,” the young father said huddling closer to comfort his son as lightning crackled overhead.

His lips moved, but the words were far away.

“We’re trying to make it up to 34th and Grand,” the father said, penetrating the gray numbness that was the man’s mind. “We’re not from around here.”

The father fumbled with a pamphlet, as the boy wriggled away to sit down beside the man on the cold blue metal bench his legs dangling carelessly below him.

“Take the Orange,” the man finally managed to say in a strangled voice, looking at the boys shining cheeks and large eyes.

Clean innocence emanated from the wet little boy, filling the air with the fresh fragrance only children posses.

“Thanks mister,” the father said looking at his watch, “that should be here any minute.”

The next moment, the damp air filled with the compression of screeching brakes, and the smell of diesel fuel, interrupting the pounding of the storm raging outside of the small shelter.

“Here’s the Orange now!” Exclaimed the father excitedly. “Thanks again mister…lets go Charlie!”

The little boy jumped off the bench; turning back

28

to the man before following his father, he touched the man’s wizened hand with his damp little fingers. His smile seemed to forgive him for all he had and had not been. The man’s mournful gaze followed them as the doors swung shut.

In that instant the storm raging inside the man broke. He jumped up calling out “Wait… wait. Danny… don’t go. Don’t leave me here alone.”

Dropping the letter, the man’s vacant arms reached out for something he could never again hold. He crumpled onto the bench as the red brake lights blinked out of sight in the deepening darkness of the storm. Alone, he wept.

Jorge Salazar

Ocean Staring out onto the cold ocean, I feel my body shake As the cold winter wind sweeps through my figure.

The beach isn’t nearly as beautiful as I remembered it, Along the coast it is littered and jabbing at my naked feet.

The grey sky casts a gloomy light On the expanse of land and water, And though it’s not a stereotypical desktop image It holds a certain beauty all on its own.

My legs tremble beneath me as another gust Swoops at my back and slaps my face.

This is where I come to let go.

An old man stands at the edge of the water, I see His leather clad feet tentatively walking forward.

His eyes remind me of the ocean, and His eyes remind me of me.

The waves hum as they wash in and out, And in a matter of a few seconds, We do too.

Dennis Sechrist

Julia There is none other like my Julia She sparkles brightly; brings light to the night Though her one true love I can never be I will forever share her with Opal, Pearl, and Ruby She seeks my arm around her when a spider does appear Only to step out bravely at a mall, Ebay, or Sears She constantly reminds me of our plans to cruise the seas Anywhere, but where she is, is where she wants to be Julia Wantsmore, that’s what her name should say Instead of Julia Brightmore, on the payment due notice I pay

Dennis Sechrist

Cave Junction or Bust The road trip, a prize, a rite of passage for me Excellent luck for us both; an adventure to share Two teenage brothers, standing tall: asking only for A chance at trust, as well as the ’59 station wagon keys Plan the trip, brag to friends; prep the car, she’s a beauty Painted words on back windows, tell everyone how far Five hundred miles, one way, Cave Junction or Bust Our parents wave goodbye and wonder about it all One week, not much time; we can do it, brother’s chime Destination easily made from California to the Oregon line Plenty of rain, the tent leaks like a sieve, no sunshine is found Let’s break camp, go into town, play some pool before we drown Headed home, I guess we had fun, where’d you learn how to drive Fast food on your lap leaves a stain; why so angry, I was changing lanes Not that far now, why tear up the map, what about those directions Glad to be home, mom and dad smile, hugs all around and so proud Boast to our friends what a great time was had; never did it again Still, brothers forever, but maybe too close in that old ’59 Ford.

29

Reyna Amador (top) Blanca Altt (bottom left) Lupita Villanueva (bottom right)

30

Lupita Villanueva (top left) Tom Cabral (bottom left) Veronica Alvarado (top right) Melissa Mosqueda (middle right) Terry Crabtree (bottom right)

31

Dennis Sechrist

Nathan Green

It’s About Time

The Pitch

Time in, time out What’s time all about?

Time has come, time is new What’s the rush, what’s to do?

Constantly knocking, This stranger who sought To enter my house Though, blinds I kept taut

Time is real, no escape Gotta go, can’t be late Time for this, time for that Can’t remember, what time it’s at.

Patiently waiting, He whispered my name, Tapping the door Like soft, steadfast rain

Time goes on, you have it made Time will tell, you will fade Slow it down, take a pill Your last breath, time stands still.

Tranquilly soothing, The sound of his voice Invaded my thoughts Changing my course Familiarly trusting, The look on his face As I opened the door And he entered with haste

Nathan Green Tortured soul, unable to rest Constant in motion, racing to death Provision of days, marking the end Allotment on earth, eternity to spend

Wasted moments, gath’ring it all Trying to climb, further I fall Days gone by, taking it in Processing life, forgetting again

Leaving the mark, proving a man Moth destroyed, empty I stand Conquer the world, to no avail Tortured on earth, tortured in hell

Convincingly intriguing, He had me to sit Rehearsing the act While showing his kit Passionately reasoning All of my doubts Reducing the price As I kicked him out Then, confidently smiling With contract in hand Made one last attempt And now speechless I stand For at the last moment, Though, resolved as I am, I sold my soul On a, “no down payment” installment plan!

32

Heather Plaza

Dylan Speaks Uh-oh, he says then no, no, no his face bunched up and crinkled nose Dos, he says and counts to three we toss him up and he yells Wee! Puppy, he says and goes to grab the doggy treats he likes to snag Mommy, he says and starts to run with arms stretched out for a big bear hug Mimi, he says with puffy cheeks he rubs his eyes it’s time to sleep Bye-bye, he waves and his eyes close good-night, I say and kiss his nose.

Until the morning time things will look quite bleak because nothing feels quite right until Dylan speaks.

Heather Plaza

At the Kitchen Sink Sensation is immediate, scorching Heat as my hand plunges into the water Tickling and pinching my skin So familiar and comfortable To get it right The motions have to be precise And this method is perfection The glasses float to the bottom Filling with moisture My hands dive in searching For the tips Motions are like second nature Initial entrance A difficult squeeze

Then my fingers slide through effortlessly Twisting and turning Reaching each last rounded crevice Glass requires delicacy Slow, stretched effort I move them through a separate stream Running heat and set them aside The plates now drown in bubbly depths Not taking such care I let my fist run down the lengths Furiously caressing the smooth edges Doing the job right Following no particular pattern I move in large sweeping motions Then blunt, forceful movements Sliding them through then setting aside My fingers have to be coaxed into The tedious stroking Of silverware Wishing to stop they comply only to please The urge to finish I allow a final, deep platter Fall heavy Straight down My hand explores the depths for blemishes Stoking with concentrated effort For a flawless finish So much time invested in an essential task The end brings sweet relief I pass the dish, gleaming Through the stream It fills and empties Fills and empties Until the water runs clear

Teresa Tibbs-Tacke

Corpus There are five senses, supposedly, that the human body possesses. Canco Orela was seduced by his sense of hearing. Every aspect of Canco, whether physical or spiritual, seemed to be in some way, related to music.

His golden hair twinkled and curved smoothly over his head into a gentle flip at the nape of his neck as would a chiming church bell. Tall and spindly, like an ebony bass bassoon, Canco walked with a light and gallant thunder. His clothes were always plain and generally mismatched as if he could care less how people saw

33

him, but the apparel always made some type of clanging or ringing sound as he strode around a tempo.

Harmonious tones flowed from his mouth in a lyrically planned way, and the man always seemed to be humming a melody out of his long, piano key nose. The foggy glasses perched over his eager ears muffled his missing copper eyes as a mute would muffle a French horn’s deep and vibrating song. Poor music made him vomit, and the best made him cry. Canco was engulfed in music from sun up, to sun down, and did not care what other pleasures may await him in another sense.

The music scene in Boston was in frenzy when Canco began introducing his masterpieces into the world. Musicians of the Harlem Renaissance were redefining the beauty in song, and Canco was eagerly writing the encyclopedia on the subject. The native Brazilian infested the scene with intense vibrato and soothed the riotous town with disonense and By night Canco composed generic melodies for record labels, and by day he composed pieces of intense power and provocation for the Orela Vibrato Orchestra, which had become Boston’s most fashionable weekend affair in the recent years Canco had been conducting the ensemble. His celebrity made him the most desirable bachelor in town, but he was already involved elsewhere.

Janey Breton’s body was tanned and curved with the sultry allure of a viola. Her face was completely symmetrical and her hair was lush and vivacious. Canco had met Janey at one of his Orela Vibrato concerts, after Janey claimed to be the most devote audience member and came to his warm up room to thank him for the wonderful concert. Canco would usually crescendo instantly into anger for someone interrupting the prodigy at work, but in Janey’s voice he heard an encompassing tenderness. Once he invited her in to sit down, and told her how pleased he was she enjoyed herself, he began to question her about her life. Inquiry answered that Janey was an English teacher at Harvard University, and a much celebrated poet. Her chanting of words in a rhythmically planned way enlightened Canco into an entirely new appreciation of sound.

Through the series of alto gasps and cries Canco helped release from Janey later that night in his studio; Canco decided she was possibly the perfect woman for him. Though it seemed ironic that Canco would snag the most beautiful girl in all of Boston, and not care in the least bit about appearance, he and Janey became an inseparable item. Janey cooed and swooned over

every new piece Canco composed, and Canco would tap and hum softly to Janey’s curly, elaborate poetry.

They rarely went out, for fear of being ambushed by amateur paparazzi, and since Canco did not want Janey to have to get all dolled up; he could care less how she looked around him. On New Year’s Eve, the third month anniversary of their entwinement, Canco dimmed the lights of the large room, which was his entire home, and waited anxiously to surprise Janey with his greatest discovery yet.

A quarter past ten, with Janey’s arrival, the festivities started with a couple bottles of Merlot, and, what Canco called, the most exquisite Parisian Opera buyable on record. Janey’s sparkling giggly tickled the air as Canco tossed her on top of his lap, pecking her with his lips, and tantalizing her with the mystery of his wonderful surprise.

“Come on baby, you can’t tease me all night. I just might get too impatient and have to find another brilliant musician to fall in love with,” Janey peeped as Canco pretended to fall asleep on the massive, down feather couch they were now wrestling on.

“Well if that’s the case, I better get my ass up and give put on a damn good show!” boomed Canco, as he leapt to the floor, pulling Janey excitedly next to him on the bench of his antique grand piano. On the music stand of the piano sat a stack of sheet music with a large red bow tied carelessly around it.

“It’s my newest composition I’ve been working on in private, and I paired it with my favorite poem of yours,” blushed Canco, in a boyish joy. He began to melt onto the piano in a stream of chords and passionate harmonies. With the fourth bar he began to sing, in an irresistibly hansom baritone voice, the poem he loved so much of Janey’s.

“Please sing it for me love? I have never heard you sing,” he pleaded, as the flow of music continued with precision.

“No,” shook Janey, “I couldn’t possibly, I’ll be so embarrassed.”

“Baby, you speak like an angel, and you cry out like a dove. There is no way on earth your singing won’t be just as gorgeous.”

“Ok,” agreed Janey, “Start from bar three.” She took in a big breath and began to screech like a crow.

Canco only lasted another bar before he and to stop and un-fog his glasses that were now soaked in tears caused by the pain of Janey’s voice.

“I’m sorry baby! I told you I wasn’t very good. There

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ness, but then when it would not stop, he realized the sound was coming from outside.

He thought nervously, “Maybe Janey came back!

Her heels always click in rhythm.” Then he caught himself in his hopefulness, and remember the putrid sound she made the night before, as if to sooth his heart if the tapping was not her. He went to open the front door, and when he did, he found the street completely still and empty. The insistent tapping would not stop, and seemed to follow him into his house. Canco nervously galloped to his piano, and began to thunder down upon it to drown out the tapping. To his dismay, the tapping only grew louder with each pounding hammer.

Canco stopped his fingers, and sat in the tapping silence for another minute. His heart accelerated, and his face swelled with frightened sweat. He quickly glanced around the room to find the culprit of the tapping noise, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and thought of Janey, and her comforting, warm arms. With his eyes closed he could now clearing find the tapping noise, and knew it was straight above him. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and began to tilt his head back.

Canco screamed as he looked upon two giant copper eyes staring down upon him. The eyes were blood shot from crying, and glared at him with vengeance.

Canco screamed only a minute longer until the eyes moved all the way towards him.

Cops and neighbors surrounded the ground floor studio that was Canco Orela’s last night. A young family that had lived next door was enjoying lunch when they heard Canco’s scream and called the police. When the first cop arrived he cautiously entered Canco’s house, to find what seemed to be an empty room filled with close to a hundred instruments, a shabby excuse for a kitchen, a bed, and a couch. Slowly he began to circle the apartment and still saw Canco nowhere. As he rounded the final corner where the grand piano sat, he could not help but cry out. Canco’s ears where petrified in a gaze towards the ceiling, for the first time without glasses covering his glazy, copper eyes, and tears seemed to freshly deluge from the creases. He lay broken on the floor, without any clothes on, and his ears were left as only congealed holes, punctured by missing glass of his bifocals.

is a reason I am a poet and not a musician you know. I am in love with the sound, but can’t produce it worth a damn myself.”

“You are tone death,” Canco spat, “How could you possibly love the sound of music if you can’t even hear it?”

“Why are you so upset at me?” Janey asked, now tearing up too.

“I am upset at myself for thinking that I had fallen in love, and not being rational with myself. Music is my essence and being Janey. If you can’t hear it, you cannot care for it, and therefore, we could never be together after this night.”

“You are breaking up with me because I can’t sing like those women on that stupid record over there?

Really Canco I thought I knew you. How can you sit there and claim everything we’ve felt over the last three months has been falsely put into our hearts? I am in love with you honey, and you are in love with me. Our routines are in sync, and we completely each other’s missing personality aspects. Baby please stop looking at me in that ridiculous way!”

“Janey,” sighed Canco, “I am not looking at you in anyway. I can only hear you, and all I can hear is that ghastly sound you just made while trying to sing. I’m sorry for the pain I may be causing you, but you really need to leave now.”

Enraged, Janey grabbed her thick, fur coat, and sprang towards the door in a shower of tears. Looking back to Canco, she stammered, “Go ahead and keep looking for that girl who completes you like your music, but you will never find her when you can’t even see what’s sitting right in front of you. You will never see me again Canco Orela.”

The next morning Canco did not wake up to the gentle purring of Janey’s breathing. He did not hear her content sigh as he reached blindly towards the cold empty space on his bed. Canco put on his slippers and walked towards the left wall of the studio that posed as a kitchen, and did not hear the cackling sound of eggs and bacon that Janey routinely made for him in the morning. The silence of the house drove Canco to his guitar, and he began to play an old favorite he wrote as a boy. Playing on for only ten minutes, Canco realized some part of his music was now missing. Janey’s delighted compliments and sighs were no longer present as he strummed along. Instead, there was now an irritating, rhythmic tapping filling the room. At first Canco thought he must be imagining it from the loneli-

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Lia Littlewood (top) Diniece Henderson (top left opposite) Jennifer Armer (top right opposite) Jeane Hollins (bottom left opposite) Shayla Grover (bottom right opposite)

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Jada Belton

Pretty sake of being polite” my mother finished up. Ohhhhhh.

Okay then. Spare others feelings, even if you have to fib a little. Watch the ego, smile and just say thank you.

Got it.

In later years I would be the one being lied to.

Being accommodated for the sake of being polite.

People would smile and nod at me, tell me I looked great, had I lost weight? Then, after I passed them and moved onto another aisle, they would turn to their friends and gasp at the way my collarbone jutted out beneath the top of my workout tank. The way my stretch yoga pants sagged beneath my hips. Looking back I can see this, am almost certain they had to have been thinking these thoughts. Pictures of myself taken during this time confirm to me that my body was approaching the point of no return. No one could have told me so then. I imagine if anyone had dropped the pretense of politeness, grabbed me by those painfully sharp shoulders and told me I looked horrible, like a skeleton, like I was dying, I would have laughed in their face. I would have convinced myself that they were jealous of my perfect, pretty bones.

Jealous of my willpower, my ability to spend hours on the treadmill, jealous that they too couldn’t fit into a size 00. It was the politeness that allowed me to think I was fooling everyone. Ani Defranco once said,“God help you if you are an ugly girl, ‘course too pretty is also your doom, ‘cause everyone harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room.”

And oh, we’ve all done it. Smiled to ourselves when the pretty girl falls from grace. Maybe we like her, maybe she’s our best friend, but maybe somewhere inside we feel a little smug. “See,” we think to ourselves, “see how hard life can be for the rest of us?”Yet when we meet someone with a great personality, a big heart, keen intellect, etc., we seldom harbor this same resentment. Admiration perhaps, but jealousy far less often. Are these traits seen as less valuable or less threatening in a competitive world? Or maybe it’s something entirely different. Maybe we feel as if there is time for these things later in life. Later in life we can do more, be more as a person, but right now, we can work on the pretty.

He took his time with it. He didn’t go outside the lines or press too hard with the crayon because he wanted it to be perfect forher. She was his favorite member of this youth group for troubled and disabled children.

Estrella’s name means star in Spanish. She has Down Syndrome and a light around her that makes every room she enters glow. Now she scrunched her features up and tilted her head as he labored over this picture he was making just for her.

When he was finished, he signed his name and passed it to her. She studied his work for a few moments, before taking out her favorite black crayon and scribbling frantically across the picture he’d worked so hard on. She looked up at him with her big, wide open smile.

“PRE-TTY!” she said.

I once read that in Latin the word pretty translated roughly to “worthiness.” And isn’t that just perfect?

Isn’t that how most of us feel from time to time? A little unworthy but maybe one good haircut or just 5 pounds away from it. We tell ourselves that we are above using looks as a platform for happiness, but often when we are alone in the mirror before bedtime we examine our faces, and allow ourselves to wonder if we’ve maybe lost it a little.

When I was a little girl I accompanied my parents and two brothers to a family reunion of some sorts. We ate and played and smiled politely as long lost relatives pinched and cuddled us. Toward the end of the evening, as I was standing with my parents preparing to leave, a family member with whom I’d not yet been introduced approached me. She was wearing a great deal of Chantilly perfume and lots of the color maroon, and she put her face right down in front of mine when she spoke.

“Honey,” she asked “Has anyone ever told you what a pretty little thing you are?” I didn’t even need to think about it. I was five years old, the pinnacle of little girl cuteness. “Yes, ma’am, all the time” I replied, then grinned at her with my Kool-Aid ringed mouth.

My parents were mortified. On the ride home they attempted to explain to me that while, yes, they had always told me that lying was wrong, and of course in most cases honesty is the best policy….”Occasionally we have to tell baby untruths, not lies per se, for the

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Aaron Fernandez

Carolina Orona

World We Live In

Vive

Forever told a fallacy, beguiled to stay in this society, cradled to obesity and horrid propriety.

Americans’ bleak disposition, none may comprehend. the Avarice will never end.

Capsulated in today’s corporate bile acceptable Image turned to a ridiculed style.

Desensitized by technological advances, by the literal “hoe-down” dances.

Cherishing ego and the split-second trends, again, the avarice... never ends.

Vivir perdiendo Vivir ganando.

Vive como vives, Vive soñando.

Vivir perdiendo Vivir ganando.

La vida es vida, Vive gozando.

Vive el hoy Deja el mañana Y del futuro no esperes nada.

Aaron Fernandez

Carolina Orona

America Armed to crusade, war cheered on by the nation like a holiday parade.

Moralizing the immoral, to argue even if not our quarrel.

Entrapped by media, the trustee of us, like a scholar’s encyclopedia.

Regulated to work, to be scanned and bagged, like a clerk.

Ignorant we are, our crisis not bad enough to stop sports like Nascar.

Commonalities are bad, showing our differences, like TERRORIZING Baghdad.

Armageddon will win, the favorite show we all know, like Wheel of Fortune, just give it a spin.

Miénteme Un viejo amigo me decía que la verdad siempre es buena.

Un te amo no es difícil, No es verdad No es mentira.

Es tan solo una palabra que te alegra el día.

Josue Reyes

The Magic Mountain Four hour long wait to get on a ride.

My feet trembling, knowing I’m next.

My girlfriend says it’s alright.

Nothing bad is going to happen.

I had just finished eating my corn dog.

I could feel it coming back up my esophagus.

I finally got in and going sixty miles per hour It was the best ride ever.

The bad thing is that it was only a dream.

I’ve never gone to Magic Mountain!

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Cassandra Parra

Miguel Palomera

Querida Mamá

The Cloud

Querida Mamá Te amaré por siempre Y por siempre tú serás La madre más maravillosa, Que Dios me pudo dar.

There is something in the sky.

But, I don’t know what it is.

I think that it is a dog or a pig.

Whatever that thing is, it has magical powers because it can change to different figures.

Pensé en comprarte flores En el modo usual, Pero se que tu prefieres Uno sin igual.

Gloria Cortez

Untitled I first looked upon your eyes and I saw you I then looked upon your eyes and I just saw you I looked upon your eyes and stopped, I look upon your eyes and time stops Nothing matters just you I hear nothing just you I see nothing just you I taste nothing just you, only you I feel nothing, just you I smell nothing, just you Present day today I hear, see, taste feel, smell nothing, just you, always you.

The night comes and that mysterious thing disappears and it appears again in the mornings.

I think that it is made of cotton or something similar.

I try to get it.

But, I am so far from it And, it’s larger than me.

I was thinking what could that be?

I didn’t ask my mom.

With my innocence, I thought that it could be God. With time, I grew up I learned that what I was curious about was a cloud.

Raul Patron

Life Life is not perfect.

Life is not what most expect.

Life is sad.

Life is a disappointment.

But, these bad moments are what make you stronger, that make you realize how fortunate you are and make you appreciate even the good things In life no matter how small they are!

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Jose Mojica

Nallely Bacaneri

Halloween en México

Sonriendo

Nuestros muertos piden piedad, desde sus tumbas mientras nuestros paisanos celebran ¡Halloween!

Y se olvidan poco a poco de sus ¡tradiciones mexicanas!

Sonriendo siempre estás sin mirar atrás tu alegría me contagias; solo un suspiro más y tu mirar me ilumina.

Camino despacio y te siento a mi lado con esa nostalgia de encontrarte de nuevo.

Nuestros muertos cada vez se quedan más olvidados.

Se revuelcan en sus tumbas, mientras nuestros paisanos, se visten exóticamente.

Y van reclamando de puerta en puerta algunos caramelos, “triki,” “triki” ¡Halloween! “triki,” “triki” ¡Halloween!

Marisela Cárdenas

Two Patrias Una picante, La otra con sabor a salsa de tomate, Pero igual Yo, me quedo en el centro. ¡Ahí! en el “ni de aquí ni de allá” me encuentro.

Valentín vega

Cuando te conocí

Me refiero a mis dos patrias.

La belleza de dos colores, La mezcla de dos culturas.

De dos sabores.

Cuando te conocí.

Mis ojos se cegaron.

Mis manos temblaron.

Mis labios se secaron.

Mis oídos se taparon.

Mi boca se quedo muda.

En una nací.

En la otra crecí.

A una, le debo mis principios, mis valores y ganas de luchar A la otra, ¡la oportunidad de triunfar!

Cuando te conocí, apagaste mis sentidos.

Pero, encendiste ¡Mi corazón!

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Joshephine Towner (top) Reyna Amador (left) Maia Cassidy (top left opposite) Michael Oliveros (bottom left opposite) Luis Alcala (top right opposite) Luis Alcala (bottom right opposite)

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Lizett Benitez

Alejandro Gomez

Reflejo

Flowers

Él es mi mejor amigo.

Es sincero.

Es honesto. ¡Es único!

Having a short life on Herat.

Spring is the season of their birth.

Their strong stems begin to grow Beautiful buds start to show.

¡Es perfecto!

Es mi reflejo, ¡en el espejo! Élla Lizett Benitez Élla es fuerte como el sol Los nubarrones vienen, pero, no la derrotan Sigue de pie esperando…

They grow when watered every day Set your eyes into a beautiful display.

First red, yellow, pink, different colors appear.

Esperando iluminar el siguiente día.

Ivy Santiago ONE, is what we are When we hear and feel The rhythm of the music Flowing through our blood stream.

Then, beautiful petals they have, each year.

Sunflower, lily, tulip and rose.

Sweet fragrance pleases the nose.

A nice bouquet should be made.

Before the flowers fade.

We listen to the music in our heads.

But, we feel it in our hearts.

Covering the entire dance floor, All eyes stare at us.

They see two people, But, it’s really just one.

No one understands the feeling, excitement, happiness, relaxation and love.

Having our bodies close together, feeling our hearts beat to the tempo of the music.

Each one of us showing The beauty of our movement through DANCE, The only way two truly becomes ONE.

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Gloria Garcia

Alejandro Encinas

Why Him

Untitled

Why him?

Why him?

I had him one day!

You took him the other.

A super sacrifice soon began I had no father!

You took him away!

I was a rock.

I didn’t listen.

I didn’t move.

En una mañana triste te vi llegar.

Cuando de pronto.

Me sorprendiste con tu mirada, iluminaste mi existir.

Y, asi te conocí y ahora no te dejare ir por que nos espera un largo y feliz porvenir.

Why him?

Why him?

I now have no father You took him away!

I wanted him here!

But, he is now dead

Jose Sicairos

I Believe in Fast Cars I believe in fast cars.

The fourth stage turbo I bought The loosing of weight thanks to all those carbon fiber parts The computer I bolted on to manage my blow off valves The cams, gears, computer chips, and huge turbo that I installed But there are still Ferraris and Lamborghinis out there I believe that I might loose I believe that I’ll try latter And that I’ll not snooze I believe that to win I’ll try harder Improve boost, double shift, and maybe squeeze NOS And I believe in that then I’ll win. Ha ha ha ha

Kristin Loveland

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Ariana Lucero (top) Alejandro Sanchez (left) Francisco Barajas (opposite)

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Steven McGown

Sri Lanka An epiphany in the form of a tsunami hit me in Paris, in a phone booth on the second floor of the Eiffel TowerI had just finished ice skating on high.

A winter rain drove me into hiding there, but wavelet after wavelet swept under my flimsy defense, from all sides. Each wave evoked Sri Lanka pouring forth nightly from the television and washing away the grinning gargoyles, the omelets, the roasted chestnuts in the Tuileries, the violinists on the Bridge of Tears, our walks in the Jardin des Planteseverything rendered frivolous in the wake of a watery nightmare. I could not call out-I could only call in.

All Atlantis was inside me.

Steven McGown

Stealing from My Mother’s Purse How much I planned to steal depended on how much was there: a lot, more; a little, less. Keep the math simple: add, subtract. Don’t awaken suspicion.

Yet, stealing from my mother’s purse, I was stolen in turn; Color and perfumes and textures took my twelveyear-old breath away.

So did it portable maze- pockets within pockets, compartments within compartments. My fast fingers soon lost themselves.

Handheld, small, mirror after mirror, in their corners, captured pieces of me, blurry, distorted: an eye, a nose, a lip, an ear.

My father was there, his presence reflected by the symbols, the fine materials of her personas, the endless possibilities Of beauty and love.

Everything I touched touched me, left its scent and mark, even its design and print. Commerce clashed with aesthetics.

Tania Cortez (top)

I withdrew empty-handed, yet her purse was a soft, suede, redolent box; once opened, it released all the mysteries of the world.

Catherine Abarno (bottom)

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Marelis Rivera

Butterfly The skin on her arms is thin, Like butterfly wings reaching the last day Of their last season. Intricate patterns of thin blue veins Raised and sunken scars, And leathery plateaus Seeking respite from the harsh world.

Her eyes wander far past me Not recognizing the honey eyes Or the full cheeks that she once loved, Instead searching for a time passed Mind longing for one more long sleep Before reaching the destination.

We sit, in silence, Hands each busy with their own agenda Mine sunken deep into my lap Hoping to find some warmth In the crevices behind my knees, Perhaps if I hold them there, I will not want to run.

Hers, flutter in mid-air, Threading an invisible needle So that she can mend the torn dress, Soft pink with white polka dots, Trimmed with white ribbon After all, it must be finished by Easter.

After a while, her hands slow down, Her head nodding in slumber, My Grandmother Wrapped in a thick green blanket All wings and air, now sleeps.

W. Robert Walker

Heiδrún for Anatoly Liberman Have I run across the heather only to find crumbs of wisdom whose etymological lives dangle from thorny wild roses? Whispering their prehistories, Ur words offer me their glosses: their true, original meanings, reflected in dusty rainbows.

The spiked thorns strike out in defense of their ancient guarded secrets; “Back off!” they warn with bristly words and fiercely pierce my helping hand.

What ointment should I apply to these poisonous, festering wounds received in my vain attempt to release aged runes from evil barbs?

My search has proved as illusive as searching for mythical goats cavorting as constellations in the dark, vacuous heavens.

Carla Hastings (top) Alejandro Sanchez (bottom)

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Melina Oliveros

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cover art by Carla Hastings

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