Flight 2014

Flight 2014 An Anthlogy of theWritten and Visual Arts

Copyright 2014 by Flight

The cover picture is by photographer Michael Hardee.

Flight is published annually by Mt. San Jacinto College. This publication was made possible by the efforts and assistance of the MSJC Print Shop and its excellent staff. A special thanks goes to the Business Services office for its continued support of Flight.

MSJC Printing Department

Table of Contents Poetry Tawhid Akbar / Commitment 40 Paul Alvarado / One Last Drive 90 Shani Anderson / Innocence Sleeps 5 6 Akleema Bey / Welcome to My Mornings Sarah Bledsoe / Could You Please 52 Ernie Brewer / Untitled 59 Rosa Brown / Restless 68 Fawn Caldwell / My Greatest Love 21 72 Vincent Cannon / Battlefield Theresa Davis/Children 41 Prudence Detzel / Womb Mates 77 Stacie Fuller / Free 10 Cianna Garrison / Clothes Line 92 20 Katherine Hayes / A Broken Heart Ruchi Jariwala / Mother Nature 17 Jennifer Knelange / Love Like War 34 Rebekah Krause / Stay with Me 78 Neil Kristjansson / In Sight of a Blinded Crow 4 84 Lakesha Lafayett / Artificial Selling Point Luke Lippincott / Untitled 73 Maritza (Cruz) Maxon / This Fighter Still Remains 28 Albia Miller / MSJC 82 Nichole Newlin / Snows 11 Dennis Rowley / Our Class 58 Ryan Russell / Hours 35 Edie Schmoll / never to see again‌ 31 Ottis L. Smith / Prostitute Dream 62 Barbara Terry / Rarely You’ll Find 69 Chanadra Varnado / The Strong Woman Dog 86 Desiree Vasquez / Drained 18 Alicia Whitaker / 3:38 am 91

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Table of Contents Prose Kaitlin Fields / Roller Coaster Resort T. J. Guccione / My World Is Blue Amy K. Nelson / I Remember Joe Paysse / Clair Clerc Ojan Salehabadi / A Wroter’s Resolve Adam Sharp / Haura Held on to Her Dreams Janet Strickland / Lost and Found Anthony Torres / Osedax Tara Trevillison / Untitled

36 8 79 14 88 54 24 64 74

Visuals Akleema Bey 80 Debra Curran 13 Jessica De La Rosa 51 50 Prudence Detzel / Reflection Cassie Howell / Vegas Lights 44 Kassondra Larsen 42 Lidia Melaku / I’m Ready for My Close-up!

61 47 Ahjile Miller / The Controversy Julian Ortiz / Close-up SJC Mural 45 Apollo Parra 71 Stephanie Payne 57 Angela Petersen / A 46 Vincent Ramirez 70 32 Oscar Robles / The Nebulous Palette Mario Salgado 60 Delia R. San Martin 23 Jocelyn Sanchez 49 Paula Sato 12 Sergio Saucedo 22 Tim Scoggins / The Joker 43 Brittany VanBuskirk 33 Breanna Vince 81 Candice Weldon / Weightless 48

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Neil Kristjansson / In Sight of a Blinded Crow As time emits, and seems to blame The colors of the tree begin to change He hopes inside the winds will fade But in November they will remain And his sky will pass by As the crows watch and cry About his slowly fading eyes On which the sun will never rise again

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Shani Anderson / Innocence Sleeps Our innocence is of pure deceit The lives we hold of stills and cheats The curb to fold whats underneath To hide behind the pain so sleek Our tortured minds begin to peek behind the walls we buried deep to uncover the mystery’s beat we hold our breath and try to speak Our bodies plagued with love we cover the scars with mud open eyes as wide to shut the mouths of those we never loved Deceit so pure the innocence reeks we found what truly lies underneath the best kept weapon upon our feet is where the enemy sleeps

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Akleema Bey / Welcome to My Mornings Welcome to my mornings.

I have said my farewells to my child.

Who clings to me like a premature baby clings to life.

We have to part ways.

My days won’t consist of her angelic face.

I will be somewhere stringing together money to survive, it is a shame.

That my hours are spent with people I’d rather not see.

Stained glass thoughts too beautiful to smash … of her saying, “Mommy why do you have to leave?”

I am tired of giving her an answer, that doesn’t even please me.

My days consist of classes, homework, books after books.

Students full of glee and employees with bitter looks.

And before we even hit the door to her daycare, she says…

Mommy I miss you.

There.

Right there… at that door step, is a funeral.

A piece of me dies there.

And just like death I don’t understand Why I should ever have to leave her, But my emotions must be buried.

I have to go on with the day.

Welcome to my mornings.

I am single mom.

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This will be my first bus ride out of six I will take today.

Please do not ask what is wrong or if I am okay because I will tell you, what is clear.

I am in mourning although not dressed in black I can’t express how I feel.

To my daughter Mommy say this in her head; I miss you more than there are seconds in a day.

I too, miss you even before I have to leave.

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T. J. Guccione / My World is Blue

I always look around, only to be washed over by the boring world that surrounds me. Gray, bland, drab, like stone; unmoving, unfree. There’s nothing to it. Nothing leaves. It always looks the same. Bored, I gaze into the ever expanding ocean that spreads out above me; free and always changing. I adore the clouds that drift by, complimenting the blue world above me; my blue world. I find myself caught in dazes, wishing I was up there swimming through the soft winds, admiring all that passes. That is the world I wish to live in.

I hear my name and I pull away from my favorite dream, just to be trapped in the rough, rocky world around me. I feel my smile fade as I look around to see who has called my name. I remember where I am. A small hill on the outside of town by a natural runway with my plane laying about it. My name is called again and I look around again to see my friend, my best friend, walking toward me.

She glows, unlike the rest of the world. My friends say it’s love, but I know it’s not, or I’m pretty sure. I know she loves me, maybe that’s why she glows. Her unending affection pours onto me. Maybe I like it more than I allow myself to. She hugs me, so I lazily throw my arms around her. As we embrace I can’t help but think of how much I love that dream.

“You ready to fly?” I ask. She nods excitedly. I can tell she is nervous. We climb into the cockpit robotically; I out of practice, she out of fear. I assure her, “Just take deep breaths and follow my instructions.” She turns and gives a radiant smile. “Thank you.” I was always drawn aback by appreciative statements. I have so little interest in everything that’s not above, I usually don’t know what to say. “Well, it is your birthday.” I covered my indifference.

We take off and I feel a smile lash my lazy face into position as I become swallowed by the everlasting whistle of wind. Any speech that may have been said was lost in my trance of the world I adore. I soon forget my reasons for being up in the oceanic wonderland. We drift across, allowing the beautiful blue beast absolute control of our flight. I realize there is nowhere better than this. The world below is so solid, stiff, and restricting. Whenever I fly I feel 8

free, elastic, happy. She begins to look down. “Don’t look down, it will only make you worry.” She shoots me a smile and allows the flight to envelope her as it has enveloped me. I find myself entertained with her experience as I continue to admire her beauty.

The plane makes a thud. I look around, gauging differences that might have appeared. I find nothing. My wings buffet through the unstable sky the thud comes again. I panic; nothing seems wrong but everything is. We twist; I hold strong. We start falling; I pray harder. The sky drops us like a child bored of his toy. I shoot my vision around me hoping to find an angelic savior to rescue me from this ultimatum. Given up, I look forward to see her. She does not scream; she merely looks back as fear inundates her face. Only then do I realize the truth in my friends’ words. I know how I feel; but also that there is no time to say it. Darkness is all I see. At this time it is all I want to see; no thoughts, no feelings. It feels just.

My eyelids open again and I am now engulfed in white. It is shocking to my vision, but I have come to realize the only good thing about my mistake is that we could still be together in a world better than before. I strain every muscle in my body to sit up, only to find that my prayers are left unanswered. God unfortunately does not grace me with the gift of death, and I need not ask the fate of my friend, my lover. I see familiars, huddled around me, rejoiced by my burden. They come and go just as she did, and I am alone again. At the medical institution, the doctors say that outside will make me feel better. I stupidly listen. As I sit outside I look up and everything has changed. The once majestic ocean that lay above me is now a swirling nightmare of fear and madness. The dams of my vision break as waterfalls flood my memory. I close my eyes, remembering the old world of stone and gray. I only wish I can see it again, for the once boring world I lived in is the most secure, safe world. It was stable, unchanging, with nothing to fear; a solid ground to place under your feet. I open my eyes to comfort myself with the consistent color of gray and the stable world below the sky. But as I open my eyes, I only see blue. The blue I feared, the blue that made me wish the reaper had taken me. No comfort, no stability. I look around only to understand that my world is blue.

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Stacie Fuller / Free This room flows with fragrant delight Each one pulsing with vibrant blood Hands feel my waist to stop my flight Sweat drips in place of where I stood Lights of every colour dance Gyrating through my eyes like rain Bass erupts my chest as I prance Hands held high, I release my pain Bodies move from every side Encasing me in perfect sync Mindless steps with every stride Unconscious thought is left to think The ceiling holds the stars themselves Alive or not, I cannot tell

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Nichole Newlin / Snows It never snows where I am, but if I believe, maybe it can.

In the sky, wherever you may be.

With my hope, will you fall for me?

Your graceful movement, as you find your way to land.

Your beautiful presence, as you arrive so unplanned.

Will you pay me a visit, to remember a day.

Where you fell from the sky full of gray?

It never snowed where I am, till one day, so very unplanned.

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Paula Sato 12

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Debra Curran

Joe Paysse / Claire Clerc

We were in the second grade at St. Patrick’s School in Hamilton, Louisiana. The year was 1941, and at age eight, we had only a dim perception about the war that had just started. Sister Gregory was our teacher, a Benedictine nun about 40 years old who had a ruddy complexion and wore steel rimmed glasses. She was sort of on the chubby side, as far as you could judge her figure, hidden beneath the voluminous black robes that she wore. The only skin showing was her face and hands. Her hands also gave away her corpulence as she had short chubby fingers. Her face was framed with a starched white linen material that covered her ears and neck and extended halfway to her shoulders. Her face and chin were exposed like in a carnival photograph place, where you stand behind Tarzan and Jane figures and place your face in the holes cut in them to have your picture taken. Covering the starched white face-framing cloth was a black veil which went over her head and shoulders and used to flap and fly whenever she had to walk fast or run for any reason.

Sister Gregory taught first and second grade at the same time in the same room. I guess she had her hands full with all those kids, and because of this had adopted a policy of strict discipline. If you misbehaved it was likely that you’d be subjected to three swats on your outstretched hand, palm side up, with a quarter inch thick wooden ruler. As bad as it hurt was the fact that you’d end up crying in front of all your classmates.

There were about thirty of us in Sister Gregory’s class. One of the good students, who was smart, well-behaved and liked by the Sister was Claire Clerc. She had dark brown hair styled in a Page Boy cut, and olive skin. Even then at age eight, way before puberty, Claire Clerc had oily hair and skin. Because of this, I guess, she had a peculiar musty odor whenever you got close enough to her, like standing in line all hot and sweaty to march into class when recess 14

was over. She was also chubby and wore frumpy clothes that didn’t help her appearance. As kids, we were fascinated that someone could have a first and last name that were the same. We delighted in always calling her Claire-Clerc and never just Claire. There was a boy at school whose name also came close to being like Claire’s in that the first and last names sounded the same. His name was Jerry Jarrell and we all called him Jerry-Jerry. That name stuck all the way to high school.

One afternoon about 2:30, a half-hour before school was over for the day, the class was engaged in a reading exercise. Claire who sat up in front of the class kept raising her hand to Sister Gregory asking to be “excused.” This was the code phrase for “I have to go to the bathroom.” Sister Gregory kept telling Claire that class was almost over and she could wait for the last half-hour to “be excused.” Claire raised her hand at least two or three times in ten minutes and kept being put off by the nun.

The reading exercise consisted of having one of the students, chosen by Sister, to come to the front of the room with their reader, face the class and read to them as we followed along at our desks reading in our books. After about the third time that Claire Clerc had raised her hand to be excused, Sister Gregory called on her to come before the class and read a page or two. I guess the Sister was thinking of distracting Claire from her quest to be excused by having her perform before the class with the reading exercise. Being the good student that she was, and a good reader also, she usually prided herself on being called before the class to read. Today however she was slow in getting up from her desk to stand facing us. She began to read slowly and seemed agitated or distracted, shifting her weight side to side from foot to foot.

“Go on Claire, why are you reading so slowly, and quit that dancing around that you’re doing. Stand still and read,” the teacher said.

But Claire Clerc didn’t stop. The little “dance step” got more and more noticeable till she finally stopped the little agitated dance, 15

spread her feet wide apart on the wooden floor of the classroom, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, let go with a torrent of urine which spewed, splattered, and splashed onto the floor as it ran down her legs into her socks and shoes.

“What are you doing Claire?” the surprised nun shouted.

Through tears and sobs Claire responded, “but I asked to be excused three times and you told me to wait.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me you REALLY had to go?” the nun added.

But even at eight years old we all knew that the nun was wrong and trying to cover her tracks. What a humiliation for that poor, fat, smelly, homely girl to have to bear. If I remember this event decades after its occurrence, what must have been the effect it had on the victim Claire Clerc?

I never forgot that scene, nor the cowardly response to it that Sister Gregory gave. Also I don’t know how great or small a sinner Sister Gregory was, and what punishment, if any, she ever suffered as a result of the sin she committed that day. But if I were meting out her punishment it would be ten times greater than three slaps on the palm with a quarter inch thick ruler.

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Ruchi Jariwala / Mother Nature In a newly formed bud, An aspiring life I see, Waiting for its time to come, Beholding the strength of the tree Far away from the human sight, Not in the bright day light, But in the darkness of the night, it blooms.

The beauty of a flower, The passion of fragrance, Nature’s color showcasing the colors of romance, Though when in the autumn it falls, I see a declining path, The end of the green, the end of life.

Not only in the beauty of nature has it prevailed, But it is the journey of human kind it preaches, That every new life that forms, In Mother Nature it reforms.

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Desiree Vasquez / Drained

Things go away things get broken the one thing that hurts more than anything is a broken heart A broken heart is so much than someone saying i have a broken heart that person feels it everyday it feels like you can’t breathe, it feels like everything in your body is drained there is no life to you at all you wake up everyday because you have to you live everyday because what else can you do you feel all the pain you feel like clawing at your chest just to rip out your heart because of the pain knowing that you will never have the moments with her like you once had where did it all go? what happened to her?

What happened to me?

I lost a part of me that I can no Longer get back I became this person that 18

I did not know I became this person That I hated with every Part of my entire being I still hate myself I still want to become the person That I use to be Knowing that this Will never happen I just have to live day to day With everything That she has done To me and with Everything that I have Done to her There were things about her and I That I know were broken but We could have fixed them I guess I wasn’t strong enough I guess I wasn’t what she wanted I am not good enough for anyone There is a crime that I have commited I will admit to this crime Until the day that I die The crime that I have committed Is loving someone with every part of me When I love, I love with all of my heart, mind, body and soul My love wasn’t enough to keep her My love JUST WASN’T ENOUGH!!!!!

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Katherine Hayes / A Broken Heart My heart was broken before I met you It was small, black and breaking into pieces I let you in and slowly it began to heal My heart grew and was full of life Beating every day because of what you have done All of a sudden my heart began to crumble once more This familiar feeling I have had before It had been completely broken Without notice my heart was black once more

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Fawn Caldwell / My Greatest Love

I can’t believe it… here, Standing before me, Is my greatest love of all.

And yet, I can do nothing, As I am betrothed to another, For my heart aches, like it never has before.

But what can I do?

I see your eyes, Crying out for this love, I sense our hearts, Stirring with desire…

And passion so intense…

I can barely stand.

I know I thought…

I had loved another, But my forever love, Stands before me, Arms outstretched… waiting…

I, anticipating the embrace, Can but only walk away— And hang my head in sorrow.

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Sergio Saucedo 22

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Delia R. San Martin

Janet Strickland / Lost and Found For as far back as I can remember I had heard stories about Brian, my father’s son from his first marriage. My father was in the Navy at the time. His wife, Ellen, had some emotional issues, and would often become depressed. My dad came home one day to a “Dear John” letter. Ellen wrote that she didn’t want to be a military wife anymore, and that she was taking the baby and leaving him.

She moved back home with her family in Tennessee.

My father tried to get in touch with her, but she wouldn’t take his calls. Ellen’s father was a mean and easily angered man. He told my dad that he would never be allowed to talk to his son, and that he was going to tell Brian that my dad was dead.

Over the next couple of years, my father attempted to make contact with Brian, to no avail. After my parents were married a couple years later, he fought for joint custody and won, but with Ellen living in Tennessee and my parents in California, it was difficult to enforce.

When my sister was about six years old, before my parents had me, my family took a trip to Tennessee to see Brian. He was about eleven at the time. Ellen’s father wasn’t going to let my dad seen him. My dad refused to leave and was ready to barge through the door if need be. At first Brian wouldn’t come out of his room. He had been fed so many lies about my dad that he was nervous about seeing him. Still, he went with my family for ice cream.

They had such a good visit that when they took Brian back home he wanted to leave with my dad. He confessed how mean his grandfather was and that he was verbally abusive. My dad wanted to do everything legally so he didn’t take him, but told him he would fight for him.

Once back home, my family hired a lawyer. Unfortunately the lawyer was basically worthless. He said that Ellen and Brian had moved and he could not find them.

My dad decided that he would just wait until Brian became an adult and try to find him directly. Once Brian became of age my parents hired a private investigator. He came back and told us that 24

Brian had enlisted in the Navy and had died while in the service.

Within just a few minutes, my mother spoke up and said, “No he’s not. He’s not dead.” She just had this overwhelming feeling that Brian was alive.

By this time however, my dad had had enough. He was tired and out of money. He came to the decision that if Brian was alive and wanted anything to do with him, that he would let Brian come to him.

In 2003, my grandparents, who live in Las Vegas, started a new church. A year later the church put on a women’s tea, and my grandmother invited us to go. While my mom and I went to the tea, my grandfather would take my sister and her sons to the Hoover Dam. We accepted, reluctantly; a tea didn’t sound like it would be much fun.

When my mother and I entered the church we were shocked.

It was beautifully decorated. Each large, round table had a different theme. There was a stage and runway down the middle of the room for a shoe fashion show. Best of all, since this tea was just for the ladies, the men of the church served.

People were mingling around the room, and after my grandmother introduced us to a few people, we took our seats. As we sat there, my grandmother began pointing out who was who. Then, one of the servers passed by and my grandmother pointed at him and said, “He’s a Strickland, too.”

My mother and I looked at each other and just smiled as if to say “Wouldn’t that be funny?” and went back to our salads.

“Oh really?” I said. “What’s his first name?”

“Brian,” my grandmother answered.

My mother and I froze.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Yes, why?”

My mom answered, “Brian Strickland is the name of Gary’s son.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not the same one,” my grandma replied.

My grandmother motioned to a girl sitting at the table behind us with her back to mine. “That’s his new wife, Carissa, behind you,” she said.

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My mother and I looked at each other again. I had this overwhelming desire to talk to her. “Should I ask her?”

“Go ahead,” my mom urged.

I took a deep breath and turned around. “Excuse me. Are you Carissa?”

A cute girl with curly, brown hair turned around and smiled.

“Yes!” “Hi,” I said. “I’m Janet. You’re Brian’s wife?”

“Yes.” “Can I ask you something? Was Brian ever in the Navy?”

She quickly responded, “Yes he was.”

“Did he ever live in Hawaii?”

She thought for a moment. “Yes, when he was in the Navy.”

“What about Brian’s dad?”

“He never really knew his dad. His mom and grandparents raised him.”

This went on for a minute or two. She was so willing to answer my questions without asking why I was asking. Finally, she did ask what this was all about.

“I know this is going to sound strange,” I started, “but I think your husband might be my brother.”

I told her about how my dad lost Brian and all we had been through to find him.

Meanwhile, the main course had come and gone, and the fashion show was in full swing. Nothing else mattered. We had our chairs turned, with our backs to the stage.

There were a couple things Carissa didn’t know so she kept tracking down Brian, while he was serving, and asking him questions.

“I think you have two sisters that you’ve never met, and I think I’m sitting next to one of them!” she told him. He stood there, his arms lined with plates, and looked at her like she was crazy.

Carissa came rushing back to the table. “He thinks I’m being ridiculous.”

Finally, my mom asked if Brian’s mother’s name was Ellen Gertrude.

Carissa’s eyes widened. “Yes it was.”

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“Was?” “Ellen died a few months ago,” Carissa replied. “Last week, her parents mailed us a box of her things. We haven’t gone through it yet, but I’ll see if there is anything in there that might connect all this.”

Later Carissa called. You could hear the excitement in her voice. “Brian’s birth certificate was in there. It says under mother’s name, Ellen Gertrude Bradley, and it lists the father as Gary William Strickland.”

I broke into tears. “That’s my dad!”

I immediately called my father in Oregon and told him the good news.

We spent the next day after church getting to know each other, and talking about all the times we had probably met at my grandparents’ church and didn’t even realize who each other was.

Brian was a greeter at the door, so we had most likely shaken hands with each other. My grandparents even went to their wedding.

That same year, my dad flew out to see us in California. We all drove to Las Vegas and met Brian and Carissa at a restaurant for dinner. I was amazed the way Brian and my dad had the same mannerisms even though Brian didn’t grow up with my dad.

To see them together was incredible. The way it came about was miraculous. Father and son reunited, at last.

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Maritza (Cruz) Maxon

/ This Fighter Still Remains

(In loving memory of Angel Luis Cruz) If you were to look at him You’d turn your gaze away For pity would clench at your heart If you had known him in his day He arrived on our father’s birthday He was the fourth of eleven born He was the CHAMPION of the family Yet the one with the life so torn Though his muscles were unfailing His good looks made women sigh The one HE loved had gone away And his heart gave an endless cry So he took his woes to drinking Our champion was on his knees And we begged in anger and worries But he couldn’t hear our pleas Our champion fought back with all his might Even managed to get back on his feet But his opponent’s strength was that much stronger And our champion “It” did beat With every punch that the opponent gave Our champion’s step would stagger And though he tried, in vain, to swing, His fight just didn’t matter

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His steps became short and slow His eyes were barely seen His sanity slowly slipped away His smile was no longer keen Most everyone avoided him “He’s crazy,” they would say But, if only they knew our champion They way we did one day We prayed he would return to us That his soul would not be lost Yet, we never knew that terrible storm In which his soul was tossed Then, one day our champion Announced he soon would leave We didn’t understand his words When he asked us not to grieve The battle was coming to an end Our champion could fight no more And from his bed he whispered, “Dear sister, I see a door!”

And through her prayers and tears our champion found his key.

“Run, dear brother!” she told him.

“It’s time to take your leave” “You’ve made your peace with GOD. With us, you’ve made your peace Save your soul! Oh brother dear!

Leave your body here with me!!”

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With one last smile he closed his eyes.

With one last sigh he slept.

With one last kiss upon his brow, the ten remaining wept.

But as we said our last goodbyes our hearts could hear him claim, “You’ve beat my body, NOT MY SOUL!!

THIS FIGHTER STILL REMAINS!!”

In each and every one of us you’ll see that fighter’s air.

The pride we feel, in his memory there is nothing to compare!!!

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Edie Schmoll / never to see again… now that your eyes have been taken, forever— no more to see the sun shine or the flowers; to take joy in a rainbow or bright morning hours; the moonlight brings me sadness, memories— of looks of tender silence; no more sunsets, waterfalls, nature aglow, for you—nothing but gray; all the scenes you loved, but I never did; you were my day and my night— and now that such joys are lost to you forever, I resent every lovely sight.

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Oscar Robles / The Nebulous Palette

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Brittany VanBuskirk

Jennifer Knelange / Love Like War Opposing sides of warfare, Two souls of ill repair; A shield of grudge upon each heart To guard from shrapnel’s tear

Two hearts encased in apathy Still they weaken, vulnerably For to hide from what the mind most fears Shall spare it temporarily

To damage is a sickly ploy; Less savage simply to destroy; Let not a tattered heart remain; Allow these souls to sulk in vain.

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Ryan Russell / Hours Sometimes though I wonder, What if I had a bit more time?

Sometimes I do wonder What else would I find?

If it were not for the winter Or the spring’s cold design If it were not for love to wither I think you would be mine

As if the winter’s bitter grasp And the hours’ time to fade, I know the summers come to pass Along with these friends I’ve made,

But of winter ever through and through Time forgets, but I still remember you.

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Kaitlin Fields / Roller Coaster Resort Freedom. Privacy. I think I used to know what these words meant, but their meanings have been lost to me for quite some time now.

I’m sixteen years old, and I’m forced to work at my father’s resort. It’s not a huge resort, just a dining hall, a couple of roller coasters, and about thirty hotel rooms, spread across three floors. I share one of those rooms with my father. Back when the resort first started, I got my own room, but my father moved me into his so he could rent out my old room to make extra money. So annoying.

I do get paid for the work I do, but what does it matter? It’s not like I ever get to spend it, anyway. The only time my dad lets me leave is to go to school, and I don’t even think he likes that. He likes to have me on standby. Story of my life.

I get to see my boyfriend soon. But it’s not going to be as nice as you might think. He’s just going to drop off his younger siblings, so I can babysit them while he goes to play in the basketball game. I don’t even have to work, but dad says I can’t go to the game.

So not fair.

“Hey,” he says to me when I see him in the lobby. I smile. He puts his hands on my waist and gives me a kiss. Why can’t we just do this forever?

“Any idea when you’ll be back to pick them up?” I ask. He shakes his head. Typical.

“I never do,” he replies. “But I’ll call you when the game is over, all right?” At least it’s a home game.

“All right,” I reply. He gives me another kiss. I don’t want it to end.

“Ew!” his little sister cries out. He stops kissing me. Stupid kid.

“Now listen, DJ, Chris,” he says to his younger siblings, crouching down to get at eye-level with them, “I want you to be good, ok? No running off, no pulling DJ’s hair.” He says the last bit while staring right at his brother. He’ll make a great father someday.

“Okay, Jordan…” they reply simultaneously. Twins creep me out.

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“Bye,” I say as I wave, watching him walk out the door, one of his siblings on each side of me. I think their waves are synchronized. After I can’t see my boyfriend anymore, I crouch down and look at the young children besides me. “What do you guys want to do first?” At least they should agree.

They throw their arms in the air and yell out what they want to do, but unfortunately for me, they want to do two different things: DJ wants to ride “Carriage through the Forest,” while Chris wants to ride “The Speeding Bullet.” Fantastic.

The twins, having realized they want to do two different things, are now fighting over which ride we will all go on. Chris starts pulling on DJ’s hair, and she’s whining for me to make him stop. Of course.

What winds up happening is that I lose my temper and tell the twins if they can’t agree then we won’t go on either one, and they still don’t agree, so I break out the coloring pages and crayons I’ve still got from my pre-resort days. While they seem disappointed at first, they seem to get into it and become satisfied. It’s about time I caught a break.

I’m surprised that they’re so into coloring, when I realize that they keep staring at the TV screen. Their mouths hang open, and their hands do nothing but hold the crayons. I see that the news is on, and I have no idea why they’re so entertained by it. It’s a total snooze-fest.

What must have happened next is that I fall asleep, because suddenly everything is gone, and I’m standing in this silver void of nothingness. A girl appears before me, and I’ve never seen her before. What I notice is that she’s dressed like a lynx. What a freak.

She motions towards a hummingbird, flying around the void like there’s no tomorrow. Suddenly I realize that I can’t take my eyes off of it. Then everything goes white until all I see is this hummingbird, and soon, I can’t even see that either. I’ve had stranger.

Suddenly I’m back in the resort, but I’m not awake. People are rushing around, gossiping and crying. There’s no sign of my boyfriend’s siblings. I hear one of my co-workers say over the radio I’ve got, “Oh man, what do we do? Oh my gosh this is bad, really bad. I don’t… what should I… should we… are we?” Drama queen.

I’m moved outside, and I put my hands over my mouth, but it doesn’t stop me from screaming. A young boy lays on the ground 37

beneath the tracks of The Speeding Bullet, which is the high-speed coaster, in a pool of blood. He can’t be older than nine. I didn’t need to see that.

Now I’m awake, and I’m gasping because of how vivid my dream was. I must look like a freak.

“Who wants to ride The Speeding Bullet?” I ask. Why did I blurt that out?

“YAY!” both kids yell as they throw their hands up into the air. Are they actually agreeing?

I try to collect the coloring pages, but I’m shaking. I can’t do it to save my life. The dream must be getting to me, so I leave them on the table, grab the kids’ hands, and lead them to The Speeding Bullet. Why am I so scared?

When we get there, I’m frozen. We arrive just as visitors are boarding, and what I see is a boy, about nine years old, getting on. He’s the boy from my dream. I keep staring. Have I seen him before? No, I’m sure I haven’t. Except in my dream. What am I turning into?

I dart my head around and look at the guy running the coaster. He may as well not be there, he seems so out of it. He looks at the coaster. I look too, and see the boy is sitting there, but he isn’t wearing his seatbelt. I look back, and I see him reach for the launch button. What is this idiot thinking?!

He presses the button, and the coaster starts moving. Oh my gosh. He pushed the button. He pushed the dang button. Did I just see what I think I saw?!

“STOP THE COASTER!” I yell. He stares at me, as if he couldn’t understand what I said. I’m moving faster than I ever have in my entire life. I yell at him again to stop it. When he sees me coming at him like a train, he hits the emergency stop.

I walk up to him and violently grab him by the arm, and drag him to where the coaster is. I’m thankful that it starts slow. “Look at that boy and tell me what you see,” I say to him.

“Oh,” he replies.

“Oh? Oh. OH?!” I totally lose my cool and start shouting at him. “You know what would have happened if I didn’t stop you?

This kid could’ve fallen out and died. And his blood would have been on YOUR hands!” I feel my face turn red.

“Look, okay… geez, I-” he turns at looks at the kid. His eyes 38

grow wide as his perception suddenly changes. “Oh man... what did I do…?” He turns to look at me and says, “That would have been bad, really bad.”

“You saved my brother’s life…” we hear a voice say. I turn and see another boy, sitting next to the one I just saved the life of.

Until now, he had been listening to his iPod. He must not have even noticed.

“Thank you,” he says. Then he turns and smacks his brother.

“What were you thinking?! Don’t you know how important a seatbelt is?” This kid looks like he’s twelve.

“Yeah, don’t mention it…” I reply. I’m just staring at the boy from my dream. I saved his life. I’ve never done that before.

I hear my name being called. That’s when I remember I’m supposed to be babysitting. Without even thinking about it, I walk towards the twins, grab them by the hands, and start to lead them away.

“Who wants chicken nuggets?” I ask them. They start to have a fit.

“I wanna go on the roller coaster!” Chris whines. I give him a sympathetic smile.

“I know you do, but the roller coaster is… having technical difficulties. So why don’t we eat, and you can ride it later?”

Chris stares at his feet. “Okay…” he submissively agrees.

“I want French fries!” DJ shouts. I smile.

Maybe it’s a good thing my father owns this resort.

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Tawhid Akbar / Commitment If you could pick one of four paths, which would it be?

Would it be the life of wisdom, humility, piety or greed?

In a world where no one can state they are free.

Feeling pushed towards a direction where no one can be.

Is perfection a destination or only a word?

For all I can see is an inevitable blur.

A rush of options and paths to choose, Where one lets you win — and the others lose.

Is success determined by how much I make?

Or is it by the choices and hardships I come to take.

To fall is beautiful and to rise up is brave, While others may fall and do nothing but lay.

Are you going to sit and babble and say: “I know I can do this, but perhaps not today” For it is those who fight who shall win this war To be an individual with color in a land gray and dull Whether it’s up, down, left, or right The only way to find out is to start with a flight Take the initiative to change your life And I promise you, beautiful things will happen, And you will be alright.

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Theresa Davis / Children Little children everywhere.

So many just sit and stare.

At life passing them by.

At times they even cry.

They need your full attention that is the reason why.

Children want a touch or a smile Please take the time to sit with them for a while.

Listen to what they have to say.

Then they will never go astray.

Children are so precious. don’t mind cleaning up their messes.

Finger prints all over the place.

We have to be fast to keep up with their pace.

How much fun they do have.

They are always in a hurry.

Their work is only play so don’t you worry.

I wonder how they make it through the day.

Children are here to stay.

We think of you very often.

You kept us alive from birth.

To show us that you rule the earth

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Kassondra Larsen 42

Tim Scoggins / The Joker 43

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Cassie Howell / Vegas Lights

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Julian Ortiz / SJC Mural

Angela Petersen / A 46

Ahjile Miller / The Controversy 47

Candice Weldon / Weightless 48

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Jocelyn Sanchez

Prudence Detzel / Reflection 50

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Jessica De La Rosa

Sarah Bledsoe / Could You Please Said the child to a light whose candle tears shed long, “Could you please pierce back the night, and forever blossom?”

“Ignorant child,” said the light, “Try and try I may, But with dripped wax all wick will burn and out will be the flame.”

Said the child to a plate whose surface held two grains, “Could you please give multiplied of that which nourishes?”

“Deprived child,” said the plate, “Such is impossible, For tags are tied to sustenance you must pay to be full.”

Said the child to a cup whose contents had been drained, “Could you please refill once more the liquid that I craved?”

“Silly child,” said the cup, “You must do the work, To fetch more water from the well and gratify your thirst.”

Said the child to his heart whose flowing pulse drew drive, “Could you please forever beat and give purpose to life?”

“Searching child,” said the heart, “I alone cannot, But with the proper Guide your life’s journey will never stop.”

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Said the child to his hands whose union brought forth peace, “Could you please reveal to me the Guide my heart need seek?”

“Humble child,” said the hands, “I have not belief, But searching you have asked and humbled now you shall receive.”

Said the child to the Guide whose presence He’d made known, “Could you please give answers to the questions that I pose?”

“Blessed child,” said the Guide, “I give what you need, With these tools I break the chains and souls eternally please.”

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Adam Sharp (author) and Stephanie Payne (illustrator) / Haura Held on to Her Dreams

Haura flew on tired wings; her seaside kingdom at her back. She promised herself that she would return once she found what her heart kept telling her to seek. She needn’t worry about the castle’s welfare in her absence; she had wrought a mighty wave from the sea, and with this waveweapon, struck down the cruel-hearted Souga into the infinite abyss below. She looked backward over her shoulder at the island disappearing in the distance. “Souga?” she asked loudly, staring down at the surface of the sea. She seemed to be processing the realities of the triumphant morning and the night which had come before. As she flew onward into the uncertain horizon, she hoped that these realities would stick.

Haura’s flight continued for some time, until the sun had left her eyes and also lay behind her, warming her wings. When she spotted an island ahead, her reaction was a mix of panic and relief. Haura wondered if she had gone all the way around and come back to where she started. Her wings seemed not to care, and she flew lower; the smell of the sea filled her nose as she searched the shoreline with heavy eyes. Unease tickled in her belly as she realized that although this was not her island, it felt familiar for some intangible reason. It seemed to beckon her with the gravity of forgotten truths; she had felt a similar sensation upon encountering the Nesoi two days earlier. Perhaps this gravity should be expected, and was nothing more than a symptom of her current wear. Her thoughts were shattered as something on the shoreline caught her eye. A wooden staff stuck up from the sand, the evening tidewaters licking at its base. It seemed oddly highlighted against the dimming evening. Souga’s twisted face burst into Haura’s mind, and she crashed down onto the sand, crying out as she tumbled to a stop. A moment passed during which she hardly had time to feel the hurt. Cold waves crashed in, pulling her out to sea.

“No! Nonononono!” Haura sputtered, lifting herself up. She kicked and stumbled, wings flapping, gracelessly tromping against the ethereal pull of the undertow. She broke free and booked it twenty feet inland for good measure, whirling on the spot to face the sea. “No!” she yelled again with furious finality. She stood a few seconds, catching her breath, seemingly waiting for the great ocean to comply. “Oww,” she sighed more softly, as she tried to stretch her weary wings. Her right throbbed with pain, and she could not bear to extend it. Having twisted it in the surf, she sat down sudden and dismal, exhausted.

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Haura watched the horizon darken for several minutes, stealing glances at the staff, which glowed softly. It watched her like some disembodied eye, becoming harder to ignore as the sun faded in the western sky. She found herself gazing into it with an unfocused stare. After losing an unknown stretch of time, Haura remembered something. She recalled a walk in the dark long ago. She knew the sounds of these waves, distinct from others. The fringes where land and sea did meet were obviously unique; like voices, no two were alike. Indeed, these voices were distinguishable to angels, fallen or not. Haura recognized the sand between her toes, not unlike the way a child recognizes the smile lines on a loved one’s face. “We’ll rest our wings awhile…” a voice spoke from Haura’s memory.

She found herself standing right in front of the staff, staring into the soft white glow which radiated from its end. The surf pulled at her legs.

Her wing throbbed, though it felt miles away. As the surf ebbed back, she pulled the staff from the sand and turned toward the dark world ahead.

Holding the staff outstretched, Haura started across the beach, cutting the darkness sharply up the middle.

Her heart pounded as she crossed what felt like an endless sand.

The world seemed to rise up in the staff’s strange light, as if being pulled toward her. Haura stopped abruptly when a weald of trees became visible in the distance. Momentarily paralyzed with fear, only her eyes moved as she scanned the deeper darkness inside the woods. Her mind filled up with memories. She saw Souga; she saw herself. She saw him pull her through the thicket by the arm. How she had pleaded with him. It had been dark then too. But he had held the staff as she did now. She squeezed it angrily in her hand, relishing the thought that he would not hold it again. She saw him drive it into the sand where she had found it. She watched herself recoil from him, and flinched as he slapped her mouth. She felt the sting of tears as his arms enveloped her, saw him take flight, prisoner in tow, and disappear into the night sky. Haura now found herself amongst the trees; her mind felt cloudy. She drove the edge of the staff into the ground and shut her eyes. “I am free” she spoke softly, yet found little comfort there.

She opened her eyes, and looked around at the tree trunks, oddly lit by the staff’s magic. She thought of dead things, drifting out of sight, but seeing her completely. She shook her head slowly, shutting her eyes again, breathing shallow.

When she finally opened her eyes and regained the staff, she carefully swept the area ahead of her with its generous light, and slowly continued on. A haunting anxiety gripped her as she crept through the trees.

Haura thought she could still hear the ocean far behind; its song of dull

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oscillation no longer compared to the waves of emotion that crashed in her chest. The trees stretched on for what seemed like hours, and the night grew black. The staff’s unblinking eye was now the last light in Haura’s world. She remembered the Nesoi’s words, “The sea is not only his.” Her face grew hot with anger. She picked up her pace again; her steps full of stomp. Haura felt truly fearless for a few fleeting minutes as she neared the edge of the forest of nightmares.

When she found a clearing beyond the trees, all was utterly silent there. The forest was a great barrier and the ocean held no sway here. A hill curved up ahead, and Haura followed it. The silence seemed airless. On the hilltop was an entrance to a cave, so slight and subtle in the darkness, that it seemed a hole in the world. Haura shakily pointed the staff toward the opening and dragged her heavy feet closer. The leaden silence crushed her, and as she stepped into the dank hole, the staff’s light faltered for the first time. It gave a soft, cosmic hum as it pulsed on and off. “H-hello?”

Haura stammered. The word was eaten promptly by the nothingness. The staff died completely, and Haura shuffled forward, forgetting to breathe.

A final memory drifted toward her; it seemed to light the corridor.

Haura again saw the littler, younger Haura. She saw Souga. And there was another figure, holding the staff, which painted the cave in a blanket of light. “Cage!” Souga barked to the staffholder, “In the cage!” The staffholder advanced toward him, the staff flashing in a threatening prism of dark shades, but Souga grabbed Haura around her throat and held her close. “NOW!” Souga snarled, pulling dangerously at her neck. Little Haura squealed and sobbed, and the staffholder cried too. “Get in the cage!” Souga repeated. And Haura saw it. There was a cage, made of tree branches, and the staffholder got inside. Souga ripped the staff from the angel’s hands and slammed the cage door. He tied it shut with dry rags, as little Haura reached in through the bars, and the cries of the two shook the walls.

The vision of her past abruptly ended; the staff relit harshly in the present, and Haura saw the cage again. Inside sat a skeleton, one arm outstretched through the bars toward the hellhole’s entrance. Haura screamed in a terrifying new voice, autonomously flourishing the staff toward the cage. Its white light flashed red like a bomb as the cage door shattered; the pieces soaring backward as if vacuumed into a black hole. Haura dropped the staff on the ground as the light reverted to white. She slowly lowered herself to her knees, her face twisting into a silent cry. With tears pouring from her eyes, she climbed inside the cage and pressed herself near the dead there.

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She cried more silent tears and felt a sob inside herself so colossal that it could not be liberated. Her throat bubbled as she climbed down onto the skeleton’s lap and wrapped her arms around it with complete abandon.

She choked as she tried to speak. “Mama� Haura finally cried. And the light went out one last time.

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Dennis Rowley / Our Class It’s been months not days since when, we commenced this frightening flight.

To take paper and then to take pen, to try to make it all sound right.

We floundered, we stuttered, out we freaked, we scribed our innards for all to see.

Our secrets, our screw-ups, out they leaked, not always good if you were we.

Today is one you’ll surely keep, a treasure surely you’ll know.

Other writers they’ll surely weep, if surely nothing they show.

We faced the wire hoping to pass, fingers on fire in Creative Writing Class.

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Ernie Brewer / Untitled I made a living in your factory, working as a corpse.

Vast as the ocean, is wide, so is the meditating mind.

Bloom, under a beam of moonlight, glistening are your eyes.

Add up every moment That kept you so limited and focused Analyze every second of your life, Aligning to a vision to be passed on.

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Mario Salgado 60

Lidia Melaku / I’m Ready for My Close-up!

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Ottis L. Smith / Prostitute Dream 13 she’s known as a rebel living at society’s lower level Hood is Dana’s neck of the woods Struggles showed her how to make the bad times look damn good Nothing around Dana ever seem to last But God made her like Willy Wonka candy forever lasting History books forgot to remind her she’s a past queen Raised in a neglectful home homies neglect to phone Mom’s drug debt piling up After burning one too many pipes at home Trying to bargain with the devil but he already owned her soul So she put her daughter up as collateral took her to the bathroom Said a man is going to come soon Help you transition from a girl into womanhood After pain come the pleasure Dana can’t fully absorb the situation Yet she understands there is no heaven When Satan designs the plans She asked the pastor how could God care about me But overlooked this one man 3 weeks later Mom took Dana to the clinic At 13 her first life lesson erections have no age limit Dear God why can’t life be fair here’s another little girl 62

With no more faith in fairy tales or happy endings After she was forced to give a grown man a happy ending Dana cried how can life become any harder Baby girl, rain helps weak trees grow stronger You don’t know Dana’s story So you don’t have any rights to judge her You don’t have to hate her even if you refuse to love her Awoken in a nightmare she’s surviving in a prostitute dream

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Anthony Torres / Osedax

It is a wonderful feeling having everyone’s fearful eyes upon me when I am out in public reading a book. People stare with wide eyes and mouths agape –— I smirk when I see their stupid faces out of the corners of my eyes. I used to think it was because of the twelve foot behemoth that is sitting next me. Osedax with his muscular humanoid body covered in fur and a head of a mastodon. He is scary or would be if people could see him. I was never afraid of him and he told me that I am the only person who could see him.

So a book is what scared these illiterate people. I laugh every time I look up making them turn away quickly, a chill running down their spines.

They should not be staring. Pathetic creatures, I am too polite for my own health. Osedax is the reason I am able to sit in public and read, he is my protector. We became a symbiosis when I was six years old. Five wretched trolls dragged me behind the school portables and kicked me until I was barely conscious. Osedax crawled out from underneath the portable and healed me within minutes.

I walked out from behind the portables and he followed. The five trolls saw me walk up to the lunch line and they stared at me horrified. I looked up at Osedax and one by one he attacked them. He left them in the same bloody mess I was in, a couple of them could not even walk for months and no one ever knew how it happened.

We are a symbiosis, he brings me books and protects me and I feed him gelatin powder. We were an inseparable team and I hated Osedax. He made me a thinker. He has crippled me from social interaction.

“You want to know all truth? Possess all logic and knowledge?” He had said.

He held a black leather-bound book in front of my greed filled eyes.

“Yes.”

He had given me fruit from the forbidden tree, the moment I touched the book my mind had imploded with ideas, values, virtues, logic, and questions.

Hate grew within me. Osedax could not be any happier. I had no idea why but I intended to find out.

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I had been keeping a close eye on him since he had procured me this book. Finally I came across a section on demons and I read a page heading. It read: Demon – Osedax. Symbiote, Bone eater.

Rage licked my soul. Osedax is a demon beast that attaches itself to the souls of young children feigning as their guardians and slowly feeds off of their bone marrow. To detach from this type of fiend is nearly impossible. Only one known ‘cure’ and that is a miracle.

I hate you Osedax, you monster.

If it wasn’t for me you would still be feeding on the bones of small dead creatures.

I kept on reading the section. Osedax can feed off of the hate and rage of children alone. A synergy is produced between the two.

The soul deteriorates within the growing child turning him into a demon-spirit upon death and Osedax can survive on the ‘negative’ energy until the bones are no longer needed by the child/adult.

I would have to become God to rid myself of the brute that is Osedax. The degree to the impossibility was astounding. I felt weak and helpless and Osedax could do nothing about it and my soul was in fractions. For the first time in our forsaken union I was afraid of Osedax. I jumped up and ran from him. I ran until my lungs hurt but the more I ran the better I felt. I had not realized how cold I had felt.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure he was not behind me when I ran into a small creature in the park. I grabbed hold of whoever it is I ran into and we both fell to the ground though I was able to put myself first as the cushion for the young woman I had ran into.

“Watch where you’re going,” she said after pushing herself off of me.

I must have hit my head because I was seeing solar systems in the sky above me.

“Idiot,” she says and helps me sit up.

The solar systems dissipate. I blink a few times to make sure they had really disappeared then I slowly start moving parts of my 65

body making sure they are working properly.

“Do you know where you’re at? Who you are?”

I thought those were all stupid questions. I scowled at her.

“I’m not stupid. Of course I know who I am.”

I get up and brush dust off my pants.

“Well forgive me for making sure you didn’t have a concussion.”

I looked up at her and apologized. Then I noticed a twig in her black hair and pulled it out for her.

Then I absorbed her features. Black hair like ink and electric blue eyes that seemed to glow like neon signs, pouty lips covered in candy red lipstick. She has a thin face, almost heart shaped. She was slightly shorter than me, about five inches shorter. She is thin but kind of curvy. I started feeling warmer.

“I’m Kit.” She said holding out her hand.

I took hold of it and felt an electric current. I wondered if she felt the same. She must have her lips were slightly apart in surprise.

It could also be that Osedax was stomping over to where I was still standing. I could hear him roar.

“I’m sorry but I have to run.”

I could feel the sun warming my soul. I felt invincible. I stopped running and turned around to face the mammoth of a demon chasing me.

Osedax stopped meters away from me. He started pounding his fists on the ground and I clenched mine. I felt like a bull-fighter facing the biggest steroid induced bull. I was confident, though, that I would win after all I was under the spell of one of the most illogical instincts that any man can possess. It was a rebellion to human nature.

Osedax charged forward, getting closer to me in large strides.

I jumped into the air and plowed my right fist through his cranium.

He slid across the ground and I had trouble removing my hand from within his tough hide and thick skull. I felt more human than I have ever felt before even though I had accomplished something superhuman. I find the leather-bound book yards away from where he was standing before and I pick it up. It felt heavy in my hands and I ran back to where Kit was standing.

“Kit, do you have a lighter?”

Kit pulls out a lighter from her pockets and hands it to me.

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I light the book on fire and throw it into one of the metal dumpsters watching it burn as black smoke billows to the sky.

“What book was that?” Kit asks.

I hand her the lighter, saying. “A book filled with ultimate knowledge.”

“Then why are you burning in it?”

“I do not need to know everything now.” I hug her. “My name is Zach, by the way, and I’d like to take you out to see a movie sometime.”

Kit hugs me back and seems to warm up in my arms.

“I would love to.”

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Rosa Brown / Restless The morning comes soon, Lord As I toss sleeplessly throughout the night Is it because where I am is not right

I try hard to be at peace in my surroundings each day But my input is of no use no matter what I say

But I have someone who will listen any hour day or night And only he and he alone knows how to make my spirit right

Thank you, Lord, for your love throughout the years Who has brought me through both good times and tears

So let your spirit lead me, Lord, each and every day To be more patient as I learn what to say

And leave everything in your hands This, Lord, I leave to your command

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Barbara Terry / Rarely You’ll Find Rarely you’ll find, is the name of this poem This poem was written, about a woman that can’t find a person who is compatible. So, she closed the door on love, not knowing her faith!

And when she final closes the door, on her marriage she still had a glimmer of hope that one day the right person would come into to her life and make her live again.

Rarely you’ll find a woman who will understand your complicated issues, your past filled with pain.

Rarely you’ll find a woman who will walk out in the cold of the night, she had no more fight! No more love to hand out like a free food bank. Her feet are tired like hard calluses that have had a long road home.

Rarely you’ll find a person so honest and pure! Morning the rebirth of love and strength to endure, another life she hasn’t met!Lost in a century gone by!

Rarely you’ll find a woman that can’t be bought in this moment, because she has gone, her milestone thru life …

And won’t live this moment alone!

Rarely you’ll find I sit here in awe still wondering, “How did I get her!” Racing, and tumbling, walking thru fire, I had the strength and desire to love again. Falling into quicksand she pulled me up… like a lost soul! My children would not understand. That in my heart, I could bear no one… but me!

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Vincent Ramirez 70

Apollo Parra 71

Vincent Cannon / Battlefield My home is a battlefield Not because of war and violence But because you have to learn how to survive And not fall to your knees and crumble to the everyday obstacles My home gave me battle scars My battle scars are my lingo and accent which I can never get away from It taught me that trust is something rarely found Nothings off limits, they take what they want.

A group of people walk up to you being friendly You might think its southern hospitality Really you are just the ass of the joke Billboards say Virginia is for lovers but lovers war and fight here Friends are the main people trying to kill a dream But my dream will never see a grave I stand in the middle, leaving my footprint and Smiling because I got away from the snakes Norfolk Virginia taught me how to stand up for what’s right This is home and I love it.

This is my battlefield This battlefield will never make me stumble to my knees It will only make me stand taller And smile harder

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Luke Lippincott / Untitled once in a while a memory comes but as quick as it does a sharp blade splits the night as a deafening silence echoes through the air the scent of loneliness spreads about a sharp chill goes up your back and yet you have no fear and don’t turn about you continue on your solemn path the screams of Armageddon fill the air and yet all you feel is a gentle breeze as you pass through that place you stop to wonder what it could be you feel a dark presence trying to drag you in you think to yourself this all seems too familiar then you break free and head onward the dark night soon brightens up as the moon fills the sky you hear the chirps of a lonely bird the howl of an eager wolf the hoot of a strong owl and the sound of your own feet clanking along your mind fills with thoughts of your past yet you hurry onward toward your destination as you arrive you quickly turn around simply to see what you conquered what you faced and then as fast as it all came, it leaves you behind and now you’re all alone again you seem sad for a moment but you quickly realize isolation may be best for you are still running from an evil you do not face.

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Tara Trevillison / Untitled It was, in fact, a beautiful spring day for most people in Southern California. Not for me though. It was April 20th, 2006, and I was about to get my fifteen minutes of fame. Not because I wanted to, because, well it just happened that way. I made it happen that way. You see, I was in the county jail doing a very short probation violation of a little over sixty days-when I found out that my dad had days to live. I tried going about things the right way. I asked the judge, even the Watch Commander (warden of a jail) for a “stay”; an early release that they grant inmates for a family emergency or a death/funeral of an immediate family member. They denied me. They pulled me aside from my daily chore of cracking bars of soap in half to convey their empathy for my situation and apologize for not being able to do more. Unfortunately, sorry didn’t mean much to me at this point.

A random bed move, due to releases from the night before, bumped me right into an off-compound work crew bed. Although it was a minimum security jail and we got to walk across fresh grass to get to the chow hall and to work, we were still in the middle of nowhere. Anyone would have killed to get that bed move and have a chance to see people in the “free world”. Out of a dorm of sixty-five women, there were ten of these beds in the front corner of the room.

Your bunk status started by the door, and every release of one someone meant you got up in the morning and moved down a bed. You had to work your way through the entire dorm room like a maze to get to the ten beds at the very end. Most women were released long before they made it there.

After you strike luck, you have to pass an interview with the head Deputy to make it onto the crew. She asked a series of questions to find out how violent, how disturbed, or how much of a flight risk you may be. Well, there was no hiding it on my part. I answered her first question with “Are you crazy? A flight risk? Lady, I’ve been begging to get out of here early. My dad is dying. I’m gonna let you in on something here. You’re the cop, I’m the criminal. You ask questions, I tell lies; that’s how this goes.” I learned 74

that day that the Lord does truly work in mysterious ways because that lady still put me on the crew!

The first day on the work crew, I hid a screwdriver I found in the police work van; just in case I needed to start a car when I escaped. I knew as long as I didn’t hurt anyone in the process of my escape, they could only give someone with my non-violent, short record, an eighteen month sentence in state prison. On the path I was on, that’s where I was headed anyway. I figured, I might as well end up there for something worth it.

So, on the third day, I spotted my opportunity. It was just too hot for the Deputy in charge to do her job and watch us properly; so she went and sat in her air-conditioned van to chop it up on her cell phone; all while we were securely trapped at the bottom of a 20 foot flood channel in Anaheim, California. We were breaking down trees that had grown sideways for many years and finally fell into the channel. I went about a quarter to a half a mile down the channel so nobody would see me. I used a pitchfork to climb up and my fingers and screwdriver to climb out of the next ten feet or so.

I stripped off my jail clothes, (shirt and tank top), threw it over the razor wire fence in hopes I wouldn’t get sliced to bits, and was over two fences and OFF! My dad and I had last seen each other on very bad terms, and said some really hurtful things that in my heart I knew neither one of us meant. We were enemies because we were just alike; but we were always best friends as well. And I couldn’t let me dad die without knowing that he was still my best friend and I loved him.

And that I didn’t hate him.

I did go to prison, and I’ll never regret the stunt I pulled to get me there. I saw my dad before I went. I told him how much I loved him and I begged him to change his life and fight for his life. I asked this of him not for me, my mom, or my sister; but for himself.

He had less than a quarter of his liver left from twenty-five years of alcoholism, but when I asked to quit just for him, he was stumped.

He was so close to death that I could smell it on him. He weighed no more than 140 pounds and sounded like a ninety year old man.

I left my dad with all the faith in God that I had in me. I prayed for God to give my dad the strength he instilled in me to fight 75

and to live. He kept on drinking; less, but still dying for another month. He poured his last drink down the sink the day his first born daughter became the state of California. He changed his diet, his physical activity with exercise, and his entire life.

So, you see, in a way I saved my dad… and he saved me.

My “vacation” (term my mom used with her coworkers) changed the way I looked at my life. I valued it so much more, especially when I had sixteen months to pray to God to keep my dad alive until I got home, or at least, the strength to deal with it if he didn’t.

My dad lived another six years and eight months when the doctors told him he had only two to four weeks left to live. He died this last spring, in April, a few days from the day I escaped to try to save him. I escaped from physical jail years ago, and while incarcerated I learned how to truly escape and be free. Time is fleeting.

My dad used to tell me that. It truly is the most precious thing in the world; for once it is gone-you can never get it back…

True story from yours truly, A Free Prisoner

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Prudence Detzel / Womb Mates Prudee Cate’s womb mate— could not wait for their predicted birth date.

Thales Robby came first — This hand-me-down tale turns worse.

The Preemie was dropped… by a nurse?

And suddenly rode off in a hearse.

Thales Robby’s womb mate — has to wait for their future reunion date.

Prudee Cate will sprint through the Heavenly gate — This second Preemie won’t be late.

To join her twin who arrived first.

When she finally rides off in a hearse.

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Rebekah Krause / Stay with Me There once was a thought that I could pretend to be the Barbie that we should be if I masked the life within but all of the while my feelings would defeat every little thing I would do to not be me!

Stay with me closer than we are hold on tight I’m not like them, I’m not like them, but I’m still worth it!

I know I should concede follow like the others quit the torn up converse forget the pitch black make-up rejoice in picket fences white dresses of marriage find content in doing dishes and cleaning dirty diapers!

Feeling so repressed constantly depressed don’t want to die but sometimes I wonder if I’m really still alive?

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Amy K. Nelson / I Remember

I remember, when I was young, summertime Saturday drives in the countryside of Illinois. My father, mother, sister, and I would take our usual seats in my mother’s car. My dad would drive. I do not know why it is so clear to me, but I always sat in the back seat on the right side, my sister on the left. Not that it matters, but I remember. The car was a metallic blue Pontiac Le Mans with black leather seats and no air conditioning.

We would roll down all four windows and my sister and I let the warm country air blow our hair back and gently warm our faces that we lifted slightly upward towards the open windows.

The golden wheat and bushy corn stalks of the country bowed to us as our car stirred up a soft current of wind that softly made the fields ripple and bend, welcoming us with a gentile hospitality. When I looked out the back window, I would see the fields resume their upright position and it appeared as though they, too, were lifting their faces slightly upward, rejoicing in the warmth of the caressing breeze.

The country road cut straight through the fields and went up and down and up and down and left your stomach a few seconds behind you.

If you looked ahead, the pavement would shimmer as if there was a silver puddle waiting to be splashed through. But the car could never quite catch up with the glimmering pool. By the time the car rolled up to where the puddle should have been, that puddle was already down the road. It twinkled in the sun with delight, knowing it was always one roller coaster drop ahead of us.

The high sun warmed not only the air but the land as well. And as its warmth intensified throughout the day, it awakened a blossoming scent that floated in the air and through the open windows of that Pontiac.

But in the late afternoon, the sun would slide down behind the tiring fields. The air would become cool, the fields would become still, the shiny asphalt no longer sparkled and the scent would turn damp and earthy. It was time to go home.

Many years have passed since our Saturday drives in the country.

Many seasons have come and many seasons have gone. I miss the feel of the warm country air on my face. I miss the welcoming greeting of the fields, the playful sparkle of the pavement and the scent so unique to the countryside of Illinois. I miss riding with my father and my mother and my sister, together in my mom’s metallic blue Pontiac Le Mans with the black leather seats and no air conditioning. I miss it all, but I remember.

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Akleema Bey 80

Breanna Vince 81

Albia Miller / MSJC Mt. San Jacinto College, our gateway to the future Under the Eagles wing we will fly with dedicated teachers who will always ring in our minds with well organized lectures giving us the tools for a career secure.

Under the Eagle’s wings we find direction with tempered historical foundation In safety until the day we merge into society.

May we remember our group projects where we made friends for life to reflect with MSJC graduates at our jobs, churches, avocations in respect.

May we remember what our school tried to do for the environment alas to decrease our carbon footprint trespass by providing ride share bulletin boards and bus pass.

We have found the teachers who nurtured us thru their class and if we were smart we stayed to the finish line en masse where it comes together for superlative values unsurpassed.

MSJC your dedicated technology support, registration, counselors, cafeteria, maintenance, SI leaders, tutors Learning Resource Center, Library, provides us with a future that will advance and explore new learning experiences and maintaining the infrastructure keeps the learning tools expanding with new systems to connect to our desktops paradigm. ( MODEL) Thinking it thru in restraint for all that is unfair in life’s consequences College is where we can analyze our position and cross reference with students, friends, faculty before we make a statement in confidence.

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Thinking it thru with the teachers who value their privilege to teach who to reach our goals shaped our better talents before throwing our formulations to the world so bold.

Thinking it thru the most frugal, least waste, least impact innovation for the most reused resources for the answer to the problem or suggestion that will lead us to satisfying the questions Listening to both sides brings together the mental glow illumity to arrive at solutions that will fly on eagles’ wings in brilliant intensity.

We rejoice in scholarly studies to teach others and extend ourselves thru multiculurality while reeducating ourselves in the way to find careers that are needed today.

That’s Mt. San Jacinto College our gateway to the future.

Our shelter under the eagle’s wings where we can soar: where we can fly.

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Lakesha Lafayett / Artificial Selling Point Paper dreams giving you all the means to fit to measure to weigh an image that whispers in an ever forming ear you are not enough buy this it will soothe your inside baby cries and make you unattachable from their gaze but don’t forget who you are now unless you want to be the before, yet again smooth away a vanishing woman dissolving into the back ground with all the girls who want to be seen, by erasing the very thing that makes them beautiful their brain bulk up an expanding man taking up the space the vanishing women leaves behind only to be caught in the power gain and preside of the women herself no matter that fact that a woman is why you were brought into fruition

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buy this it will make you more of a man and unattachable from their gaze but don’t forget who you are unless you want to be the before yet again porcelain plastic selling you a dream filled with promise empty with substance Dolls we are not, and puppets neither boxed in by appearances one that can be achieved just buy this

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Chanadra Varnado / The Strong Woman Dog (sigh) pitbulls…

I was attacked one severely hot day strolling home from high school I’m like, I don’t like … pitbulls certainly from then on forward my philosophy grew… to the minimum of eternal extermination upon all animals who… receive the label, pitbull then I saw… little ol’ you my eyes automatically placed on any object that can be easily thrown… for absolutely no reason, hatred drowned my bones but what!? I could see yours ay, she was tremblin’, the limp joints and skinny tendons, so very visible to see as well as the litter of… uhhhhhh pit… bull… puppies within her belly can you believe? she searched left to right no male dog around, no pitbull friends or family in sight as I observed, my scrutiny transformed into admiration being that, just some instances ago … I was hungry, desolate and seeking restoration A single pup in my gut… everything to lose but nothing in reach I had to sweat blood to tussle and fight back my life which had been in danger and breeched What’s even more detrimental is…it was all generated by me! this strong woman dog can’t speak! she was likely snatched from her mother, once a suckling, now 86

learning on her own how to eat!

I have a mother! And she taught me how to be I have free will!… unlike the strong woman dog who at any moment can get yanked up off the streets I can do even better!

I can give … she can only receive…

That means my tragedy feature film can benefit others… although her tragedy outranks me this vicious world is definitely not the place to be unless your head screw is aligned with your neck screw and screwed on tightly hmmmmm school here I come mightily my momma for once crying over something I am doing that is positive my deepest goal is to deserve some scrubs don’t know what else to do right now but to give her a hug she said… baby girl, when you graduate and become something, then I can die.

I say… momma, the day is only the beginning of what you’ve waited for my whole entire life! you were there when I had no wings, to when my buds barely sprouted when I become successful and fulfill dreams you hope for me to be, you can’t say your goodbyes because now, momma…you and strong woman pitbulls can watch me fly!

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Ojan Salehabadi / A Writer’s Resolve

In midst of a Mumbai slum sits a massive, dark, and unsightly structure colored only by the linen, hung to dry, from its balconies. It is a colossal beehive, a mountain of people piled on top of each other, parted and confined by flimsy walls, designed in the most complex way to accommodate as many people as possible; where one person’s bedroom window opens to the sight of another’s bathroom, or any other combination you may dare imagine.

Asif Ali, the retired editor from a small local publication lives in one of those cubicles, where it smells of ancient woodwork and old books. Asif fills all of his time with writing. It had been his retirement resolution, to chronicle everything in life, everything he encountered and he believed that to be the true work of a writer. Through the days, Asif strived to write it all, to an extent that when he wished to remind himself of how an experience felt he could read his own account of it and be reminded.

Lately something new had caught his attention more than writing, and that was an echo or a muffled sound of the most soothing song he had heard. It was clearly the voice of a child that, somehow, found its way through the cluster of bricks, cement, and steel all the way up to Asif’s bathroom, and he intended to find the source and write down the words to that song.

Asif heard the music at various hours of morning and ran out of the house and into the dark corridors to find the source, but he failed every time. Due to the tricky nature of the structure it was almost impossible to follow sound by its trail and asking around did not help either. Frustrated, Asif armed with paper and pen began to decipher this puzzle and find the source to the sound. He jotted, calculated, and drew every opening, every door, window, and every corridor on his side of the building until he had a plan very similar to the blue print of the building itself. Asif then began, bottom to top, to knock on doors or even place his ears on the walls where the occasion called for it.

A week and six floors later Asif had no clue as to the source of the music. Until one day when he was returning to his apartment, after a day of having doors shut on him, he heard the sound again, this time closer and clearer than ever. Asif followed it like a dog following a scent, and his trail ended in front of the door to the apartment adjacent to his.

The door, unlike usual, was wide open and Asif peeped in to see if anybody was home. Suddenly a woman walked out of the bathroom followed by a little girl draped in a towel. The girl immediately noticed Asif. The singing stopped as she paused to stare at him. This 88

got her mother’s attention who in turn began to scream in a frenzy.

“Get away from my house,” she said, as she came charging towards him. Before he could say anything Asif was pushed away and the door was bolted on the inside.

“This is a misunderstanding, Behen Ji, I assure you. I had no intention of intruding.”

“You step away from my door, I warn you. My husband is going to be home soon. He will kill you if he finds out… “

“No, no, Behen Ji, there is no need for all that. I am your neighbor, you see, I am a writer. Lately I have heard singing from your house. I thought it was beautiful and followed it to your door steps.”

Asif listened intently to hear a reply from her, but the house was absolutely silent, so he decided to move away before he got into any trouble. As he stepped away, the door opened and the woman popped her head out, now covered with a cloth over her hair. She stood there in silence.

“The voice...it’s your daughter’s, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“It is beautiful. Is there any way I could learn the words to that song.”

The woman frowned.

“Is this a joke?” She stepped beyond the doorway, her hands on her hips.

“Oh, no, not at all, why do you ask?”

“Shirin is deaf and dumb. There are no words to her song.”

Asif still sits in his little place every day and writes, but he has devoted a part of his mornings, away from the typewriter, to listen to Shirin’s voice.

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Paul Alvarado / One Last Drive I’m tired of waking up And feeling half-alive Turn the car on And off I drive

Through one more day In a restless life I put my demons to rest I’m waking up tonight

Pedal to the floor Hands in the air Just a little more One blank stare

I see my reflection In the shards of glass Not a moment to lose Brace myself for impact

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Alicia Whitaker / 3:38 am I slip on an endless Scream Fall through an open door Shatter into the breath Of life Listen to the piercing Sound Wake into a pit of silence The endless has escapes As I cut myself on a Broken dream

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Cianna Garrison / Clothes Line In-between; Hung out on a line to dry. Erratic winds go by.

They shift and whirl, churning in sunlit streets. Laundry above passerbys.

We are the sheets cast out in the bustling streets.

Sunlight reflecting off our backs as we break them in the cruel heat.

Bend and crack and cram

advice and opportunities down our throats until our skulls throb with brain freeze and brain rot. We’re stuck in this peculiar limbo called youth.

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