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Design and Production Art143abcd Digital Design and Publishing Cover Art John Gatlin Design Lisa Mikaelian Production Team
M y r i a d 2 0 11 Creative Arts Journal El Camino College w w w. m y r i a d e c c . c o m Š2011 E l C a m i n o C o l l e g e , Humanities Division ISSN: 1934-3140
Brooke Daos Rachelle Delle Tatiana Dwight Daiki Fukuoka Robert Guerrero Ea Na Ha Jimese Membres Rowan Negus Carlos Ortega Karlo Ozaeta Brittny Peterson Dominic Quero Michael Sanders Wilfred Stewart
Faculty Advisor Peter Marcoux Editors Co u r t n e y C h a r p e n t i e r Camila Jenkin Monique Judge Elizabeth Loiler Nenna Olumba B l a i r Ti s i u s
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A Letter From
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Welcome to the 2011 edition Myriad! 20 100
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We are often asked how we choose which submissions to include. The Myriad is assembled entirely by the students of English 98, College Literary Magazine Editing. Each editor reviews the submissions received. Then, the editors rate each submission on a scale from zero to ten. After every submission has been reviewed, all of the editor’s scores of each submission are averaged to find its overall ranking. We usually take scores of 7 and above to be in Myriad. This year we received one hundred and fifty-nine submissions, including 72 pieces of art, 62 poems, and 23 short stories. Of course we would love to print absolutely everything, but as much as we try and cram everyone’s work in, there is simply a limit to how much will fit into a hundred pages. This year’s Myriad continues to affirm our belief that El Camino is populated with immensely talented people. Join us next year for our 50th anniversary by submitting your artwork, poetry or short stories. We firmly believe that artists are found in every corner of our campus, and we invite you to share your art with the whole of El Camino! Thanks, 2011 Myriad Editors
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M i s s i o n S tat e m e n t
Mission Statement 20 200
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Myriad showcases poetry, short stories, and artwork from students of El Camino College. The journal, edited by English 98 students and designed by Art 143 students, strives to reflect the multifaceted diversity of our college community. The editors of the journal are committed to provide equal opportunity for all individuals regardless of ethnic group identification, national origin, religion, age, sex, race, color, ancestry, sexual orientation, or physical or mental disability.
Acknowledgements
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The Myriad Staff would like to thank the following people for the commitment and support of Myriad: 20 30
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Ann Ashcraft Kate Collins Joyce Dallal Charlotte Koyanagi Tom Lew The Students of Art 143 The Union Newspaper Staff and Faculty Advisors
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Join us in Spring 2012 for the celebration of Myriad’s 50th Anniversary as the Creative Arts Journal of El Camino College! The Myriad invites you to submit your poetry, artwork, and short stories for the 2012 publication. El Camino College students may submit: One short story, no more than 5,000 words. Up to three poems. Up to three pieces of artwork. With every submission include: Your full name. Your contact information. The title of each piece. Email your entries to the.myriad@gmail.com for consideration. All written entries must be typed and submitted in .doc file format. All artwork must be submitted in .gif, .jpeg, .bmp, or .png format. Submissions will be collected midway through the spring 2012 semester. If your work was selected for this year’s Myriad, it will appear both in our printed edition as well as our online edition of the magazine. Make sure to check www.myriadecc.com for the publication schedule and more information about the Myriad.
Table of Contents Stories and Poems The Beauty of Life N o r m a A l m a r a z .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 The Road to Pensacola J a n e a W i l s o n - S p a u l d i n g .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Grid Eric Bies ....... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 The Tenderloin Aile e n A q u i n o . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 Let’s Dance Away the Blues C a m i l a J e n k i n .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Get a Bloody Grip, Margaret B l a i r Ti s i u s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 To Touch Maritza C a r d e n a s .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 3 How to Be Beautiful E l l i z a b e t h We i s s m a n n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5 Surviving Immortality B y J u l i a n a A n j o s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 7 Creation Alexis Chavez...........................................................................................30 The Divorce Blitz D a r e l l C o l e m a n .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1 War Drums Blair Tisius.. ..........................................................................................33 In Nomine... Max Cunnane......................................................................................35 The Silent Sonnet Tabia Johnson............................................................................42 Luz de Noche Dulce Selene Kubota/García..............................................................43 With a Bang John Campos......................................................................................44 Wait for It Dylan Grant.. ...........................................................................................47 Death Chloe Gross..................................................................................................49 Three Classy Silhouettes Osvaldo Reyes.. ..............................................................51 The Problem with Mondays Elizabeth Loiler.. ..........................................................52 Dangerous Accession Tima Peck...........................................................................61 Editor Biographies. ...............................................................................................63
Artwork Baking Artist Jong H. Baik....................................................................................... 2 Sea Shells She Sold Karlo Ozaeta........................................................................... 5 Christmas Niece Matthew White.. ............................................................................. 9 Evil Beauty Zhaskia Jimenez.................................................................................. 12 There is no Wisdom Without Love Brooke Daos.................................................... 22 Amazon Nomadic Tribe Member Roseannah Fletcher............................................ 24 BMX Backflip Oliver Lord....................................................................................... 26 Have Compassion Gloria Plascencia.. .................................................................... 29 Father and Son Christian Smith.. ............................................................................ 32 Hold On Tima Peck................................................................................................ 34 Intruder Venezia Acosta......................................................................................... 39 Night Hub Barbara G. Tucker.. ................................................................................ 41 No Parking, Keep Moving Desiree Groves.. ............................................................ 46 Primordial Metamorphosis Annette Owens............................................................ 50 Lookout Noir Nino Mejia........................................................................................ 62 M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 v
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The Beauty
of
Life
The Beauty of Life Norma Almaraz
We’re just people living in this world of dreams, broken hearts, and ripped seams. We just want to leave our mark somewhere for someone to hear and see. You don’t always need a light to be seen or a mic to be heard Just live and move to the rhythm of life’s struggle. Without the struggle there is nothing to dance for. Without the pain there is nothing to write for. So I write to you so you can see me and hear me for once and for all.
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 1
Baking Artist Jong H. Baik
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 2
The Road
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to
The Road to Pensacola Janea Wilson-Spaulding
Staring down the highway ahead of them, Evaline and Alex sat in sullen quietude, heads cocked sideways with eyes nearly glazed over. I-65 was practically empty aside from a few tractor trailers and deer running by every now and again. They hoped to enjoy a quick weekend getaway since the weatherman predicted a pleasant forecast, and had been looking forward to this all week. Their hopes were quickly dashed when they discovered a crucial component to ultimate comfort was missing. “For someone who paid big money on chrome wheels and fancy leather seats for a ten year old car,” Evaline began, “you would think that person would make sure the A.C. worked before heading out on a seven hour road trip.” She reached back behind her seat with her one free hand, pulled out the “Virginia is for Lovers” t-shirt out of her tote bag, and wick away the moisture from her neck. “Am I right?” “Don’t start, honey. Please?” Alex replied. “It’s hot, okay? I’m hot. You’re hot. I get it.” He looked over at her and tenderly pulled her wet ponytail over the leather headrest. “I’m really sorry. It was working fine all this week. I just don’t know what happened.” He reached out his hand to ask for the shirt. She tossed it at him without looking. “Well, all I’m saying is that we’ve been in the car for so long my thighs feel super-glued to these doggone seats.” Evaline grabbed her water cup from the drink holder to munch on the ice. “And of course it’s all melted.” She set the cup back in the holder, dunked her fist, and dripped the barely cool water over her lap. Alex leaned his sweaty face against the warm window and looked into the side view mirror at the empty highway behind them. “So what do you want to do, honey? Do you want to turn the car back around? Do you want to go home? Just tell me what you want and we’ll make it happen.” He sat up, rolled his window down, and opened up the sunroof. They drove mile after mile of Tennessee highway with nothing to look at but trees and more trees. Evaline’s side-swept bangs remained plastered to her forehead. She looked off to the side of the road. “Hot enough to fry a damn egg in here,” she mumbled to herself. Cheap ass should’ve gotten
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The Road
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P e n s a c o la
“At least I remembered to put it in the car!” Alex replied without thinking. Fuck me, why did I just say that? IS HE FOR REAL?! LIKE, FOR REAL, FOR REAL? Evaline laughed in disbelief as she slammed the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt and nearly causing an accident. “What on God’s green earth has gotten into you girl?! Are you trying to get us killed?!” She turned off the ignition and unbuckled her seatbelt. She flung open the car door and started to step out, but the sting of peeling her skin off the seat stopped her immediately. “I cannot take this anymore!” She let out a pained and frustrated squeal as the cars and big rigs whizzed by. “Can’t take what?! What did I do that was so wrong?” Alex threw his headphones to the floorboard. “Honey, I’m sorry about the ice. I’m sorry about the air conditioner! But you don’t have to go ape shit over it. I’m getting a little sick and tired of your little fits, too, you know.” He reached across her lap and slammed the car door shut. “Well, that’s just great,” she sobbed. “I’m glad to know I make you sick.” He hurled his hands up in the air. “See! There you go. I can’t win. Always twisting what I say. I’m sorry I’m not as smart as you, but I know when you’re playing these dumb little games. Those crocodile tears ain’t foolin’ no one.” “You asked me what I want? I want you to shut up and not to say a damn word ‘til we get to the beach. That’s what I want.” “Fine with me, but only if you promise to do the same.” He picked his headphones back up and shoved them back into his ears. She turned the ignition back over and pulled the car out onto the road.
a damn rental car. And I’m sick of all this damn green! “Guess that’s my fault too. I’m sorry. I just wanted us to have a nice weekend at the beach, honey. Guess I just won’t plan anything anymore for us.” He sunk down into his seat and put on his headphones. She rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Lord, here we go. Alex the Martyr. Yes, it’s exactly your fault that it’s so hot out today.” Evaline reached down and turned up the volume on the stereo. She turned her head to face Alex and glared. “And why in the hell am I even driving? This was your genius idea!” He pulled off his headphones. “’Cause you wanted to listen to your iPod on the stereo! And you know the rule in the car: driver controls the music. Besides, there ain’t no way I’m listening to your sadbastard playlists through two states unless you’re driving.” He laughed, amused with himself, and put his headphones back on. She muttered something under her breath about that “rule” being complete bullshit. Readjusting the rear view mirror, she spotted the Styrofoam cooler she’d packed with a few sodas, some deli sliced salami, special-occasionfancy-cheese, fried chicken made from his mama’s recipe, fresh watermelon, and some bottles of water. Her spirits lifted and she perked up a little bit. “Did you remember to put the ice in the cooler like I asked you to, sugar?” His heart dropped and stomach knotted as he replied with silence. He closed his eyes and clinched his teeth, bracing himself for the worst. Evaline’s pulse raced as she pounded her open palms on the steering wheel, beating each word like she was playing a conga drum. “Well! I’ll! Be! God! Damned!”
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 4
Sea Shells She Sold Karlo Ozaeta
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 5
Grid
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Grid Eric Bies
He woke when the alarm clock told him to. He ate a banana and a slice of wholegrain, wholewheat quinoa bread, toasted, spread with organic almond butter, drank a 16-oz bottle of calciumiron-magnesium-fortified milkdrink, chilled to 4 °C in the aluminum handfridge beneath the sink, complete with thermodigital display and user-programmable touchscreen button interface. This was his everyday. That box was the nourishment box. He had built it the previous winter, 219-page manual in hand, over-the-phone assistant laughing at his jokes. It was probably an automated system, actually, but who knew? His room box had two preparation boxes, one gaunt and northfacing, the other fat and oblique and dripping off the south wall toward the rectangular herb garden. North: daily attire, work clothes, exercise equipment, shoeboxes in stacked towers at each corner. South: WaterSensible Green Certified-Plus Toto toilet imported from Japan, standard enclosure shower fitted with Jaclo Quadrato Rain Canopy shower head and BodySpa 8-jet tower, polished mahogany towel rack, cashmere towel set, granite sink and gold-plated centerset faucet with dual-flow technology, dotted marble tiling to the walls and the retro shag of the room box grouted thin and black like tar poured through activated alumina. The grid. After breakfast he washed, and after he washed he dressed. He was wearing a navy three piece suit by Ralph Lauren and a wool pea coat by Armani. No tie. Shoes: Cole Haan. His hair was drawn back with styling gel. Face: blank; deep, penetrating tan; careful, slightly squinted eyes (Color: blue-gray); carefully groomed eyebrows and devoid of facial hair. Never shaved. He had always been that way. His father wore a thick beard in the winters, and a mustache year-round. No stubble on this man, though, nothing. (Note: Skin: pale; touches of skin cancer sallow upon the brow and the bridge, the chin.) From the food box to the room box to the two boxes there and out to the sitting box, where he would sit and talk with guests, as they came, as they went. He moved up to a mirror and
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Grid
thumbed this eyebrows slick and flat. He major, Amherst College, class of 1988, straightened a childhood portrait using summa cum laude, honors thesis: Euclidan aluminum industrial protractor. Walls ean Combinatorics in the Living World: were white. Not just there; throughout Errata of Us, also: “Best Dressed, Class the house: sterile, blank, save a portrait, of ‘88”).] or a mirror, blemishes he required for He was prescribed 100mg of Prozac. himself to be himself. Only took it from orange plastic botLastly to the box with wheels box. tles. He did not own a global positionThe box measured 20’x20’x20’, and his ing system. He did not own a map. He favorite tape measure sat coiled on the never drove much, actually. The Prozac concrete step and he looked at it for a helped. Truly. minute because he had the time to spare. He worked at an undisclosed think There was a workbench that he never bank 10 miles from his home box. The used and a poster of a bikini-clad Hol- drive was consciously excruciating lywood starlet — blonde and most of the time. At work pale by the sun and smeared He thought she he would sit in his cubicle across the lips with blood red looked like a box and type out numbers lipstick. He did not know her and stare at the terminal and name. He thought she looked clown. His box punch a few more numbers with wheels like a clown. His box with and scrawl some additional wheels was very fast. That’s was very fast. numbers throughout thick what the box with wheels packets of eggshell card That’s what dealer said. But it was. Trustock (measured 8.5”x11”) the box with with pages that said “Sigly. He never really knew how many horses it had, but wheels dealer nature here” followed by a he was always the first one cross shifted 45° and a long said. But it out of an intersection, never black slit. The work was not was. Truly. abreast, always shifting. Antiresome, or entirely borother intersection. The grid. ing, but going to work was ...But that’s just how the world is. exhausting. Being at work was exhaustThat’s what his psychoanalyst and psy- ing and nauseating. Just existing in that chotherapist and psychologist said. All cubicle box. Even at home box he felt of them. All at once, peering over the ill most of the time, scribbling numbers long oak desk, pink saucers for faces, into his personal ledger with the Parker balding/crew cut/balding, across the Duofold fountain pen, nib etching curves plush room to him, curled over the and lines straight like the walls and the chaise like a huge earthworm in an Ar- grid. So he would stop, sometimes, most mani double-breasted suit, that day, of the time, actually. Go vomit, or someunbuttoned, no tie. Shoes: Mercanti Fio- thing like that. rentini. Face: tan; weeping. It was just last week that he was found [Note: John D. and Catherine T. Ma- in his home box, sprawled out, splaycArthur Fellowship, or “Genius Fellow- legged, the ledger atop his face. They ship”, recipient, 1990: (Mathematics say that all that is written inside is page M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 7
Grid
after page and line after line of numbers, some sequence, seemingly arbitrary, not pi or any derivative thereof. They say that he overdosed on Prozac. The day before the day that they believe he OD’d, he had an appointment with his psychotherapist. They questioned the psychotherapist about them, the two of them, and their meeting. They say, well, the psychotherapist said, that “the session was a complete and utter bewilderment [sic].” Apparently the psychotherapist uses a microphone and Transcriptor software to record his therapy sessions in audio (MPEG-4 Part 14) and text (Rich Text Format) files. A piece of the transcript has surfaced, and reads as follows: “What do you mean that’s how the world works? You’ve been saying that
for— No, let me talk, okay? I pay you $200 an hour, and this is the best you can come up with? I’m looking for answers, some consolation for what I see as widespread hopelessness. Do you have anything? No? Look around you, man. People are spending more money on their dogs than on human fucking beings. Boxes with wheels: are people really that fucking spineless, that they have to drive around in fucking tanks? I see this shit, SUVs, people starving everywhere, the world fucking dying, man. All I see is this grid. The grid’s going right now. It’s going. But don’t be surprised when the lights dim, when they’re burnt out.”
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 8
Christmas Niece Matthew White
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 9
The Tenderloin
The Tenderloin Aileen Aquino
We are visitors, we stay behind The Loin. At first glance there are others like us. We crawl towards the underbelly, loosen the cameras from around necks. So, we walk beside fiends, hookers, and bums that stink of piss and shit. I learned to love this place. Emergency. Overdose. They sound the alarm. Up Hyde, down O’Farrell— the pigs speed on by. We sleep to the sound of men in quarrel, lie awake as flies swarm in through the bathroom window. A stroll through the country within The City; a woman sells mystery meat at the back door in the alley. We pass on that and are led by the beat—the words of Kerouac in the air, the sweet dream of Cassady. It’s the dead of summer and I’ve never felt such cold. Fog upon smog, upon layers of fog. But the sun does shine in the streets of North Beach, So, I climb towards the tower to get close to the heat. I hear the bridge is the place if you’re lookin’ to drown. Steep hills kill the knees, keep your ear to the ground. One more night in the depths of the nitty-gritty, this place— a makeshift gem. We are just temporary.
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 10
L e t ’ s D a n c e A way
the
Blues
Let’s Dance Away the Blues Camila Jenkin
Bound and sway, You ‘ol jazz tune. Make this heart beat strong. Pick up these heels From dust-gray floors, And dance them all night long! Let that bass slap low, And that yellow horn wail Out a passionate purple sound. We’re all tired and beat, But I’ll forget my cares If you spin me round and round. Then a pause – And that warm shiver thrills. How can the blues be so blue? A caress in the night, And a lonely song Cryin’ gently just for you. Tomorrow can come, We’ll be around. But just, oh just, for tonight; We’ll kick up our heels, And I’ll kiss your cheek, And we’ll dance this darn world bright!
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 11
Evil Beauty
Zhaskia Jimenez
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 12
Get
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B l o o d y G r i p , M a r ga r e t
Get a Bloody Grip, Margaret
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B l a i r Ti s i u s
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“The night's winding down.” I step outside the bar and watch the street. Lights from signs and streetlights drown out the stars and only this early in the morning does the traffic lighten in New York City. The sky crackles and pops from fireworks getting a head start on the Fourth of July. My shift’s over, and all I want to do is go home, but I’ve got a responsibility to my friends; so drunk off their nuts on the drinks I served them that taking them home on the subway would be an unmitigated disaster. They’re clicking lighters and my breath is white against the night. The brick wall presses against my back, and I kick at the weeds growing in the cracks in the pavement. The streetlight gutters like a candle, and my wasted friends flutter like moths around it. God, why is it always me? Standing on the corner, grabbing taxis for friends barely there enough to realize there is a taxi. My iPod croons into my ear. There’s clicking noises on the street, and Evie slides onto the wall next to me, crossing her heeled feet. She bangs my shoulder with hers. “Still bailing out the drunkards, Margie?” She pulls on my dreads. I pull a lock of her long hair in retaliation. God, she’s so cool. I wanna grab her and ask her why? Why does she stare? Why does she care? Why hang with me, when she could with anyone else? “Don’t call me that.” Does it mean anything? God, I want it to mean something. But asking would mean telling and I can’t do that. Not if it means she might leave.
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“What the hell do I do this for?” says my iPod.
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We slide against the wall down to the ground and sit. Her legs match to mine. I can feel her hip against mine, her knee against mine, her thigh, her calf, her ankle: all against mine. Our goose
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Get
a
B l o o d y G r i p , M a r ga r e t
bumps touch and I can’t move for the tingle of feeling.
I fumble at the lock on my apartment door, distracted by the sucking on my pulse point and the teeth grazing my skin. The door opens and I stumble inside. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” I grab her hand and say, “Come in.” She slinks in and smirks with all the self-assured confidence of a cat. “Where were we?” A rush goes through me at the clichéd line and I shut the door.
“Time means nothing.” She lights a cigarette and hands it over. I inhale and cough. She lights one of her own and takes in a smooth drag. “Still not used to it?” “You know I don’t smoke all that often.”
“Say, that you’ll stay.”
“I only smoke when I’m with you.”
I see the lights of a taxi Sunlight sneaks through and get up to flag it down. my blinds and claws at my Her eyes Her footsteps follow. A hand eyelids and there’s a bitter narrow like on my shoulder. It turns me taste in my mouth, kind of around. Her eyes narrow they do before acidic and coppery: like a like they do before she does penny soaked in lemon juice. she does something that might later be I swallow to get rid of the called stupid or daring upon something that taste and my stomach lurchmight later be es. Uh-oh. Oh no. Please no! the result. And we touch. Not goose called stupid Against my will the feeling bump tingle touch. Full on. rises up from my esophagus. My back against the door, or daring upon Oh, God. the result. my chest against hers, her I reach the toilet in time hands frame my face. We for that horrible hiccup and kiss. Her teeth are sharp and she sucks then everything I’d eaten the day before on my tongue. forces its way out of my mouth. All I can “Let’s go to your place.” do is keep my hair out of the mess and “Okay,” I say. try not to breathe in the smell. I pray to We slide into the back of the taxi. the porcelain god and hope it ends soon. Finally, I stop. I flush and the smell “I like you so much better when wafts up to meet my nose. It smells horyou’re naked.” rible: I can smell all the broken down starches and stomach acid and the chemI blush and her fingers dance along icals in the toilet water. I spray Febreeze, my ribs. I reach up to pull the head and now it gets worse, because I can phones off and my hand is redirected. smell the heavy, flowery smell and everything it didn’t cover up. Last time I “Oh, I’m nervous. I’m so nervous; believe a commercial. I don’t know what to do.” I shuffle over to the sink and search M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 14
Get
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through the mess in the drawer for the no time! I have to get to the clinic. tooth paste. I stick the toothbrush in my I throw the tin on the floor, grab my mouth and look up into the mirror. I drop keys, and get the fuck out. the toothbrush. Toothpaste foam drips Thank God, it’s a Sunday. Almost no down my chin. My eyes are bright yel- one’s on the subway this early. I’m so low with specks of red. That’s not right. hungry and thirsty; I feel like I’m gulpThere’s a huge hickey on my neck and ing sand. The heart beats of the other two very obvious, perfectly spaced, tiny people in here thud over the rushing scabs. Fuck. sounds of the train over the tracks. I My bed is empty. There’s not even can almost imagine the blood pumping a dent in the sheets from Evie. There’s its way through arteries and veins, dirty the barest scent of cigarettes, apple, and blood pouring through ventricles and bethat lemon-penny smell. That’s it. No ing oxygenated and rushing out, going clothes, no shoes, even her cigarette up to the head via the neck. Oh, God, stubs are gone. I must really be – NO, no I can’t think Shit. Shit. God damn, bloody, bugger- about it. Not until the doctors tell me it’s ing shit! What the hell am I going to do? true. I can’t. Shit. Okay. Maybe, maybe if The train comes to a I go now, they can stop it, or, stop. The doors open. The “Thirsty for or maybe I’m just imaginother passengers get off. blood? Get ing it. Please, please, let me They look at me out of the tested. You be imagining it. Okay, okay, corner of their eyes as they it’s Sunday, the free clinic’s leave. Did they guess? How could have open until 5. What time is it? did they know? I don’t have VALV.” The clock’s Mickey Mouse fangs, do I? My neck’s still hands say 11:23 am. Okay, covered. I’ve got on sunif I leave by 12, there should be enough glasses. You’re wearing sunglasses time. Fuck. Okay. I can do this. I can. underground. That’s why they’re starI cast around for clothes. I have pants ing. That’s all. They can’t know. Get a in the closet. And a scarf. Need a scarf. bloody grip, Margaret. A scarf, a scarf; my kingdom for a scarf. The train moves again. I have no scarves. But I have a turtleI get off the subway. As I climb up neck. Good. I have clothing, money, the stairs, there’s a poster. “Thirsty subway pass – crap. I have to feed the for blood? Get tested. You could have cat. VALV.” I can’t help it, a small sob trips My socks slip on the linoleum. Cat out of my mouth. That’s what they call food, cat food, cat food. In the cupboard. it. VALV. Vampiric and Anemic Like Over the sound of the can opener Virus. People became aware of it on a there’s a hiss. I turn around. Poe’s backed national scale about three years ago, up in the corner, back up and hissing at after a musician attacked his fans at a me. Damn it. I don’t have time for this. concert. He’d tried to deny his cravings, Isn’t this one of the signs? Sickness, eye and eventually his body took over. Seven color, bite marks, animals. Fuck, I have people died in the panic. The musician M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 15
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didn’t kill anyone, but everyone blames me a pen and papers on a clipboard. it on him. I don’t want that to be me. I I take the clipboard, say thank you, don’t want to attack anyone. I don’t – I and sit in the chair furthest away from don’t. No. No panicking. everyone. I wish that I could disappear. I haul myself out onto the street and Everyone has gone back to their own head towards the clinic. business, except the people dressed like The sidewalk’s dirty and the homeless me. I look away. stare at me as I walk by, and American I fill out the papers. Then I sit, as the flags ride around on car bumpers and people in the clinic are slowly called in, back windows. The walk feels long and and more people trickle in to take the when I reach the clinic it’s gone by too empty seats. I sit, and my throat burns. I fast. sit, and can’t help but wonder what will This clinic’s not a great one, but it’s happen. What will happen if – when my the closet free clinic to me. I step inside. bosses find out. Will they understand? Despite it being a Sunday, at least half Will they fire me? I don’t want to give the seats are filled: pregnant women, up either of my jobs. Not only do I need tired parents with their children, senior the income, but I like them. I like teachcitizens coughing, and peoing kids. If they find out, ple dressed like me. People will the kids not want me to dressed like me in scarves teach? What will the parents I wish that or turtlenecks. Those withsay? Will I be turned away, I could out sunglasses have brightly like a monster? The What Ifs colored eyes. They all look fill my head. disappear. up as I walk in and watch “Margaret?” as I step up to the receptionI fight the urge to say, ist’s desk. There’s an older “Here,” like I’m back in woman sitting at a desk behind bullet school, and look up. A woman in scrubs proof glass, flipping through a maga- with a clipboard holds a door open. I zine. I knock on the window. She looks stand up and walk toward her. She tries up at me, her penciled eyebrows rising to look welcoming, but her smile looks slightly. more like as grimace and she just looks “Yes?” tired. There’s a stethoscope around her “Hi,” my voice cracks. “Can I get an neck. I’m so thirsty. appointment for today?” We walk to a room at the back of a Her look softens. “Sure, mija. Just hall of doors. We step in, and she closes fill out the papers, and they’ll call your the door behind her. She motions for me name when it’s your turn.” to sit on the paper covered examination I look at the pamphlets next to the table, and the paper cracks and rips undesk while she puts the papers together. der me. She takes my clipboard and turns There’s a series about STD’s and preg- on a light. I feel like I’m about to be disnancy and HIV and – and VALV. I look sected. I try to stop thinking and count away and stare at the graffiti scratched the tiles in the ceiling as she reads my into the window. The receptionist hands scribbles. It’s not really working. Her M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 16
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every “hm,” and “ah,” makes me twitch. My body slowly relaxes. My jaw unI lock my elbows and tuck my fingers clenches and my fingers loosen, my body into my palms. My throat hurts. slowly moves closer. I sit down again. “So, Margaret, from the information The doctor comes back. She examines you provided, it sounds like you might my eyes and teeth. Then she says, “I have VALV. However, I would like to need to take your blood, so please, try to physically examine you and run a few keep your reactions under control.” Her tests before I make a diagnosis. You smile is brittle. She’s scared. Of me. She don’t need to change; however I do need picks up a needle and the hairs on my to look at your neck, so you will need to arms rise. My body stiffens. A.nervous take your shirt off.” energy floods my senses. I stretch out She doesn’t ask for an answer, only my arm and she traces the vein. I wrest turns to a table with drawers and begins control of my body from unknown into pull things out. My fingers tremble as stincts and keep my arm where it is. She I take off my sunglasses and turtleneck. slips the needle in, and I feel insane. My neck feels exposed and Stop her – don’t move – again I wish I could disapshe has no right – she’s just pear. doing her job – get the fuck Her smile is Rubber glove smacking brittle. She’s off my arm– my head is sounds pull my attention spinning. back to the doctor. She scared. Of me. And the needle is out. I swipes a swab on the bite She picks up can breathe again. My throat mark before I can blink, and a needle and is past burning: all.saliva has then puts it in a bag. Her eyes the hairs on my dried up. The doctor turns to focus on the scabs, and while put the vile of blood away arms rise. she pokes and prods she and I see the profile of her asks me, “So, on the forms, neck. I can see her veins you said when you woke up crawling up her neck and her this morning, the first thing you did was pulse is beating, beating, beating, and vomit?” moving blood to and from her heart. Jug“Um, yeah. I did.” ulars are tasty this time of year. Stop it. “Hm, and was there any strange afterShe turns back toward me and eyes taste, or smell, when you first got up?” me eyeing her neck. A jar clanks as she “Er, um, yes, it was kind of metallic, pulls a red, heart-shaped lollipop out. and then a little acidic. Kind of like pen- She rips off the wrapper and hands it nies and –” to me. “My colleagues would say I’m “Lemon,” she interrupts. “Okay, tell diagnosing, prematurely, however, I me if any of this hurts.” She presses a value my neck, and would rather be safe gloved finger on a scab. than sorry. It’s made with blood. Suck I push myself away to the opposite the damn thing.”I don’t want to scare side of the table and lose to the urge to people. bare my teeth at her. She nods and backs But it smells so good. I stick it in my away. What am I turning into? mouth and it tastes alright, but more M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 17
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than anything, when I swallow it cools pamphlets to answer your questions.” my parched throat. The urge to tear out She hands me the prescription and the someone’s throat is less urgent, although pamphlets, and then holds the door open. no less attractive, which in itself scares “Ah, thank you,” I say, and duck out the shit out of me. But I do feel more the door. I walk back through the hall myself, or more who I was before this of doors. That was it. I’m officially a morning. vampire. Everyone looks up as I leave, “You can put your shirt back on and I see those people like me. There’s now.” She waits for my head to push so many. Why are there so many? I feel out the top before she resumes speak- their eyes on my back. ing, “So, as I said, I can’t 100 percent The street’s just as dirty as it was beconfirm the diagnosis until the lab pro- fore and I feel like everyone’s watching cesses the blood, but I think the symp- me, but when I turn around, there’s no toms are fairly obvious. At this rate, one there. the virus has already spread through I take the subway back home. There your blood. If you had come in imme- are more people now, but I suck on the diately after being bitten, we lollipop and it helps. I don’t could have stopped it from look at the pamphlets on the spreading and given you subway. I don’t want anyone There’s so medication to kill off the to notice. I can hear people rest, but by now, it’s most many. Why are whisper. And still, the muflikely multiplied so much there so many? fled thuds of heart beats thud that giving you any medica- I feel their eyes in my ears. tion would be pointless if not The radio at the hot dog on my back. dangerous.” stand near my apartment “Okay, so, um, what do I hisses at me, “Huge increase do now?” today of VALV infections . . .” I try not to “Well, I can write you a pass for the jump and almost run inside the complex. blood bank, what’s your blood type?” I get into my apartment. Poe’s still “Um, A positive, I think.” hissing at me. He's made a mess of the “Then make sure they only give food. I can’t bring myself to clean it up, you A or O blood. Do not take blood even though it stinks. I climb into bed from anyone. There is any number of and smell the traces of Evie. dangerous possibilities in another perWhy didn’t she tell me? Why did she son’s blood – drugs, illness, even the do it? How could I not have known? She wrong blood type could cause trouble. hasn’t called. There are no messages on Do not bite anyone. Once your saliva my phone. No texts. I call her number. gets in someone’s blood, he or she will “Hey, this is Evie’s phone. I’m obvibe infected. Don’t get your blood in any- ously not around, so leave me amessage. one either. I’ll probably call you back. Thanks.” The “Also, buy extra strength sun screen, machine beeps. your skin will be extra sensitive to the My mouth hangs silent; I can’t bring light, as will your eyes. Here are a couple myself to say anything. M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 18
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I text her instead, “Need to talk. Text are. He helped me find my apartment. back, please.” ‘Course, so did Evie. Why didn’t she tell me? The thought I don’t know what to do. plagues me. It scares me more to think I wish I could call home. about that than looking at the pamphlets I’m too scared. does. I wish Evie would call back. An hour goes by as I pore over the Get a grip, Margie. God, I hate that information. I’ve apparently turned into name. Evie called me that when we first something else. The virus took over met. my cells, and instead of slowly killShe seemed totally absurd when I first ing them, it changed them into some- met her. I was bartending and she came thing new. I already passed the most right in, polka dot dress flaring and red dangerous part – where my original cells lipstick shining, and sat down next to a turn against my new, mutated ones. That bunch of football fanatics and shouted happened before I threw up everything. right along with them, then turned to me, My main food, er, sustenance, I guess, her purple hair whipping anyone directly now is blood. My digestive behind her and asked for rum system can’t handle much and coke. She stayed until solid food. I’ll just end up closing time and helped me I don’t know close up, then gave me her getting sick. To a certain extent I’m still kind of human. number and told me she’d what I’ll say As far as mortality goes, I’m hunt me down if I didn’t call. if she still pretty much the same. Did she plan to turn me does call. I still have to breathe, and I then or was it all an accican die as easily as I could dent? before. It’s just now, I’ll age I don’t know what I’ll say a little slower and I drink blood and I if she does call. have fangs and my eyes glow in the dark and my cat’s afraid of me. And there’s a possibility I’ll attack and tear someone’s When I get off the subway, I can throat out if I don’t drink blood. Yeah, see protestors milling around the blood I’m pretty much the same. bank. Some hold the bible, others hold I push the pamphlets away and hold signs, “Be gone, accursed ones!” I try to a pillow close. Evie still hasn’t called walk through them and what I think is back. I clean up the food, while Poe a holy water balloon bursts on my back. hides behind the couch. I have to go Maybe I shouldn’t have come to New to the blood bank and then job number York. It doesn’t burn. two. I’m terrified of going. I don’t know The line is long. Everyone’s twitchy whether to tell Jeff – my boss – or not. and we look at each other when we He was really helpful when I first moved think no one else is. When I get what here, even gave me the bartending job to the front of the line, I’m so thirsty I on the first interview. He trained me. drink what they give me there and then. Showed me where the best thrift stores Don’t want to kill or turn any of the M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 19
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protesters. Wouldn’t that be ironic: a en stand on their feet and shout, at the Catholic vampire. But I don’t want trou- TVs, at each other, arguing – “Monsters ble. I’ve got enough as it is. – people too – tell them – how do you The blood comes in reusable contain- know – bull shit!” Jeff and the waiters ers. I’m told to store them some place jump in try to keep people from tearing cold, and to next time just bring the bot- the place apart. I hide behind the bar. tle and I can get it refilled. At least one What if they see my eyes? What if part’s simple. they hurt me? What if I bleed? I don’t I brave the masses. No holy water, but want to infect anyone. Oh God, they’ll a stake is brandished in my face. rip me apart. I have no time to go back home. I’ll It’s not getting any better. There’s the have to store the blood at the bar. I don’t crashing of plates, and a splatter of food want to go. But I need the money. I have hits a TV. The fight gets closer and closer no medical insurance. I have to pay for to the bar. I hyperventilate. Oh, God. I’m the blood somehow. I hope no one drinks pressed up against the sink. “I’m callit. I hope no one even looks at it. ing the police!” I shout to Jeff. He can’t I check my phone one hear me. No one can. Somemore time one throws Adrian, a new before I start work. Still I’m so busy I waiter, on the bar. I smell should have blood. Oh, God. It smells so nothing. I don’t know whether to be relieved I can put no time to ogle good. off the pain, or upset. Will necks. It’s beer, Then Jeff climbs on the she call me back? Do I even bar with a karaoke microbeer, beer. I want her to? Yes. phone. “I’m calling the poI take over for Adam be- ogle anyway. lice!” Everyone hears that. hind the bar. I still don’t Later, we find out it know what to tell Jeff. It’s wouldn’t have mattered, July 4th and it’s packed. I’m so busy I as the police were spread out quelling should have no time to ogle necks. It’s riots all over the city. But no one knows beer, beer, beer. I ogle anyway. now and everyone crowds out to fight It’s around 8, during one of the com- somewhere else, leaving behind a mess mercial breaks, that the announcement of food and broken dishes. comes on. A somber man with white hair I help clean up. I’m scared to go outand a tie sits in front of a White House side, but I don’t know how to tell Jeff back drop and informs the bar that today, and I can’t stay. The smell of blood across the nation, the once relatively wafts through the air and pools in front small number of the VALV infected of my nose. I leave. massively spread the virus, infecting an Broken glass litters the street and estimated 700,000 known people. He reflects the lights from the city. It crunchwarns us to be careful, keep safe, and get es under my feet like leaves. The mob’s checked. moved on from this block—they’ve alThere’s a silence. A clatter of utensils ready smashed everything—but I’m still and cups. Then a roar. Men and wom- scared: to the mob, I’m not a person any M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 20
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more. It’s not my fault, but that doesn’t like,” she sobs. matter. I just want to make it home. I see tears in her eyes and I want to tell The bottles clink in my bag, and be- her not to cry, that it’ll ruin her makeup. neath the sound of crunching glass, I I don’t. hear the click-clack of heels. Do I turn “Someone finds out you have to drink around? blood to survive and then you’re a mon“Margaret!” I freeze. ster. They don’t care who you are, or It’s Evie. were, or how they felt about you What do I do? before. Now you’re a monster! I was “Margie, please?” fourteen! Suddenly I was a danger to I turn around. children and I couldn’t be on a sports She looks gorgeous, and I don’t know team. People said they couldn’t be my how to feel. Now that I know, I don’t friends anymore! People I’d known since understand how I didn’t see the sharper kindergarten! Everyone liked me, and teeth, the bright eyes, the scars covered then they all hated me. It was bullshit! in make-up. It was bullshit then and its bullshit now “I just wanted to say goodand we decided we weren’t bye. I figured you wouldn’t I see tears in going to take it anymore.” want to see me again.” “So you turned people? her eyes and “Why didn’t you tell me?” People who never did anyI want to tell thing wrong?” I feel cold. I can barely hear her not to cry, her heart. “I didn’t do anything She shrugged. “I didn’t that it’ll ruin wrong!” want to take the chance. You her makeup. I “That didn’t give you the could have rejected me.” right to do this! It didn’t give don’t. “I wouldn’t have.” you the right to do this to “I didn’t know.” me! I thought you liked me!” “Why? Why did you do this?” I fight the lump gathering in my throat. “It was just, just, a part of the plan. “And I’ve just been some goal, some People like me, us now, we’re treated tool. I don’t even matter!” awfully. We figured, if enough people She looks almost sad about it. “I am get infected, they can’t treat us like that sorry, but you’ve got a family and you anymore. They can’t treat us like we’re work for a school. You’re important to second rate, when it’s their grandfa- someone. That was enough.” ther, their sister, their child who’s been “But I wasn’t important to you.” infected.” I can’t even think about it. I don’t “But how could you do this?” want to know anymore. I just want to go “You don’t understand. You haven’t home. I turn around and I run away. She been put through anything yet. We’re doesn’t come after me. not treated equally. Oh, America, where Maybe someday I’ll forgive her for everyone’s supposed to be equal. The being a monster. land of liberty! I’m not even consideredMaybe when I’m sure that I’m not. human! You don’t know what it feels M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 21
There is no Wisdom Without Love Brooke Daos
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 22
To Touch
To Touch Maritza Cardenas
I want to touch you in real places. I want to trace my fingers across the thighs of your thoughts. I want to lick the crevices of your brain. I want to learn more about you and who you are. Show me your body as a collection of ideas. Speak to me about dirty memories and The pain that still lingers in the traces of time. Last night I called you for intellectual pleasure And you invited me over. The candles were set up, the lights dimmed down low And all night long I made passionate sense to you. In the morning, we never felt better. You see, I want you for your mind Not for the fulfillment of physical desires. In my world you unzip the trousers of your heart And let in the emotions of another. In my world we touch with our hearts and not our hands.
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Amazon Nomadic Tribe Member Roseannah Fletcher M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 24
How
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Be Beautiful
How to Be Beautiful E l l i z a b e t h We i s s m a n n
Self reliant Self indulgent Rage against the social norms Size 10 in size 10 pants Play connect the dots in your freckles to make a bunny Lightning storm in your stretch marks You snort when you laugh Say please and thank you Committed Shakespeare and The Bloodhound Gang to memory Purse doesn’t match your shoes You didn’t wear makeup today Didn’t wear makeup yesterday You’re not guilty about the donut you ate You actually listen And give a fuck Show up on time Show up at all Tell him you love him And he’ll never say it back Tell him you love him And just giggle when he doesn’t know how to react Whisper in his ear “it’s ok” Because it’s ok Show up at the club in jeans Because you’re not desperate You just want a good time A good laugh To dance till you sweat You’re secure And you’re not But it’s ok You’ve resigned yourself You’re not a super model Just super duper
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BMX Backflip Oliver Lord
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 26
S u r v i v i n g I m m o r t al i t y
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Surviving Immortality Juliana Anjos
The sky dripped purple, blue, and, orange. The colors streaked through the thickness everyone calls fog, but I know it’s the congestion of the city clearing its throat in the morning air. The honking already started on the streets as people wandered to and fro, bundled thicker than a newborn trying to outsmart the chill in the air. Their breath coiled with the steam rising from the rooftops and dissipated in the weak sunlight above my head. I could smell them. They always had heavy musk of burnt rubber, dirt, and copper pennies. It seemed to get worse as they rapidly waddled to their cars, bitching the whole way about the cold. If my nose wasn’t attached it would fall off and run screaming into the night. I was surrounded by mobile mulch and my job was to keep these soft shell cockroaches safe. I stifled a snicker at the irony in my disposition and lit a cigarette. If they only knew how easy they had it. Get up, get dressed, eat, work, fuck, pay taxes, and die. Speaking of which, I had to finish an assignment before 6:05A.M. I glanced at my watch. I had three minutes. Great, three whole minutes to do what? Stare at my shoes? Come to think of it these weren’t really my shoes. They were nice though. I never thought I could run in pumps. What were these, four, five inches? Doesn’t that make them stilettos? They still gleamed a flawless black. Well I’ll be damned; I didn’t get any blood on them. Fuck, I’m talented. I was successfully distracting myself from the obvious when a puddle caught my eye. I tell myself time and time again to avoid reflective surfaces but I couldn’t help it. I was like a cat to a laser pointer. I had to know. For a complete blood thirsty murdering psycho (that she would eventually become one day if it weren’t for this little intervention)…she was beautiful. Even the shitty reflective properties of stagnant water couldn’t damper her image. She had those supermodel cheekbones and lush lips and eyes the color of the ocean. Tiny wrinkles and laugh lines told me she was in her late twenties. Her hair was blacker than a starless
100 FT 30.5 M
70 FT 21.3 M
50 FT 15.2 M
40 FT 12.2 M
30 FT 9.14 M
25 FT 7.62 M
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20 10
200 FT 61 M
20 FT 6.1 M
S u r v i v i n g I m m o r t al i t y
night and hung in long shiny locks to her Fact was I was still around so somebreasts. I pulled forward the button up thing went south. white blouse with my free hand. Breasts I don’t want to die. I heard her. She that still upheld their anti-gravity proper- was still in here somewhere and coherent ties and sported no stretch marks. Sweet. that I was behind the wheel. Fuck really? What a waste this would be. Look at me Did this have to happen now? It had to being all sympathetic and shit. I glanced be a Wednesday. at the watch. 6:04 A.M. Too bad honey; orders are orders. I shrugged and stomped out the ciga- I have to follow mine and the time is rette eyeballing her rather impressive a-ticking. calves half heartedly. I had run out of A burly officer trotted to my side time. If I happen upon another body like blaring something like, “Are you ok?” this I might take it on a better test drive. Dude, do I look ok to you? I just swan When I got to the end of the rooftop dived onto thirty inches of solid facial I looked over the edge. I could see more rearrangement therapy and you have the humans scattering about as the sun com- gall to…never mind. I was hurting and pleted its crescendo into the she was fighting to take over. sky. The smog had risen just As he was waving his arms The officer enough to show the sharp froze not quite to and fro, I had to think blue hue of the morning. A fast. She was breathing and baby cried from a nearby knowing what I would be toast if she made to do with a apartment window, horns it past 6:10AM. blared, cab drivers voices In a moment of sheer perpetually echoed profanity. It was per- bleeding pile of hope I reached for his belt. fect. I leaned into the ambiI was surprised when her flesh. ence. Ah, to be alive. Oh arm worked the way it did; I well. was pretty much expecting a 6:05 A.M. harder fight to get this jello suit to move. I let go. The officer froze not quite knowing what Shame really. And then, like every to do with a perpetually bleeding pile of other time never prepared me, it hit me... flesh. I mean who the hell would? All he literally. could do was gawk. It must have been a Wait a minute. I shouldn’t be here. hell of a mess. I guess he’ll be traumaThis is usually when I check out. tized. Oops. At least he was distracted. I suddenly realized the pavement was I pulled his gun, and pressed it to her freezing and I’m pretty sure everything, temple. I mean everything was broken. I know, Goodnight. I could feel every inch of it. I wanted Mission accomplished. to scream. This usually did not happen. This shit was getting old. I had to regroup instead of licking my When do I get to retire again? Oh metaphorical asshole. It is so hard to yeah, never. think through 206 shattered bones. M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 28
Have Compassion Gloria Plascencia
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C r e at i o n
Creation Alexis Chavez
I’d like to know you The cadence of your joy and the quiet of your gravity and perhaps this is asking too much
I’d like to read your lithe limbs curves and skin laughter and lips your eyes, green and aware with my morning tea
That I should be as a pilgrim with humble brow knees to the earth palm to palm
I’d like to love you with alacrity
I’d like to walk with you on your way through the winding and wild brush and mend your thorny side as substance fills the hollow
To love you the way a bee crafts honey To love you like creation
I’d like to be your words when you find yourself without and mend your broken tongue with a gentle hunger I’d like to map your pulse and trace its fever current to the heart at the center the heart at the center of your joy
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The Divorce Blitz
The Divorce Blitz Darell Coleman
Don’t pee on my leg And tell me it’s raining Raining cats and dogs Raining down hard Hard as erections Hard like jawbreakers Break her off then leave Leaves face gravity Gravity on your shoulders? Gravity relapse Relapse hurts Relapse works Works a nine to five Works out at LA Fitness Fitness of obnoxious fume Fitness of black Black powder Black rising Rising seamen Rising sea Sea of lust See me now Now punch me Now want sleep Sleep lock Sleep damp
Damp your clit Damp frown Frown the blame Frown in the face Face your obsessions Face your trifling wife Wife is divorced Wife is happy Happy away from you Happy as hell Hell has no furry? Hell if I know Know things No is the answer Answer the phone Answer the masses Masses of idiots look and glare Masses of idiots trotting high High as Charlie Sheen High hopes culmination, Meaning Meaning cycled life Meaning deeply Deeply… deep
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 31
Father and Son Christian Smith
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 32
War Drums
War Drums B l a i r Ti s i u s
Dying in the sun And the battle is half-won. Are we running already? C’mon, keep your footsteps steady And march to the beat of the drum: Step in time to the beat of you war drums Across the sky Danger flies high. Under our feet Men die from the heat Of our weapons and guns. Silly boy, who told you war would be fun?
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Hold On Tima Peck
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In Nomine...
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In Nomine... Max Cunnane
Something is not right. I’m sitting in the guest chair of my office sitting across from myself. I couldn’t be any more than a few feet away but it feels like so much further than that. The mimic at my desk chair makes no movement, gives no response – only a thousand yard stare. Even though I can feel the carpet beneath my feet and the wooden arms of my chair in my palms, I can’t smell the candles lit beside me or taste the cabernet I just drank. How can this even be possible? Am I dreaming? “I wouldn’t exactly say dreaming,” a voice says almost directly into my ear. The air that escapes the speaker’s mouth caresses the inside of my ear and I tense as the small hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “But in the end I don’t believe it matters.” Nearly jumping from out of my seat, I turn around and peer into the darkness at the other end of my office. It looks elongated and warped – the oak walls with pictures of my parishioners and their wonderful Children seemingly shifting from off their hooks towards the darkness. My legs won’t respond. Questions flood out of my mouth in no particular order while I struggle to wake myself up. “What is going on?” “Jon, why don’t you calm down and have a seat again? Relax.” A smile breaks through the darkness first; tanned skin on a sullen face appearing almost out of the thin air around it. “Tell me what is going on!” “Jon, we can’t possibly have a civilized conversation when you’re acting so hysterical. You’re fine.” Words slide and seep out of the figure’s mouth and I get the strong sensation that I’ve seen that face before. Was it at service this morning? Last week? I can’t be sure. My sense of déjà vu is toying with me. “You can call me…Alyx, Jon.”
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In Nomine...
While patting on the back of the chair continues, “What an… an appropriate Alyx tells me to “relax” again. topic.” Relax? I don’t understand how I can “What do you mean?” possibly relax. None of this makes any “Well, I would assume you know exsense and the me that is sitting at my actly what I mean, Jon. Being the dedidesk has given us no notice at all. I try cated man of God that you are – who to make a gesture to grab my attention could have a better understanding of but no reply. Alyx smiles that wide smile Him than you?” again and I feel sick. “Wait, what? Are you saying that my “Why can’t I get my own attention, faith is the reason for all of this?” Alyx? Is this your doing?” “Not at all! You are a pil“Well, I wouldn’t say lar of the community, Jon: a Everything entirely.” man of quality and character. except the “Then whose is it?” Now, we have much to disempty shell “Jon, why don’t you have cuss and only so much time a seat?” of myself and before our friend arrives.” Instantly I feel thrown everything it is “Our friend? Wha— ” onto the couch across from Alyx interrupts me before my desk, now sitting side touching at my I can finish, “You know him by side with Alyx. My black desk. Leaning far better than I do, Jon, but suit is overwhelmed by the forward and enough of that for now. Let paper white of Alex’s in this peering with us talk about something a dim candle light. little bit more relevant.” those deep “What is it you want from I feel the walls bend green eyes, me?” I pray. around me, and the air stands Alyx is sitting palm to still. Alyx softly chin – staring in the most un“Like what?” I ask as continues, comfortable of ways. How is I wipe the sweat from my any of this possible? Could I “What an… an brow. have dozed off and ended up Alyx looks around the appropriate like this? I wasn’t tired! Was room and then back at me topic. it the wine? I’ve had only before changing position on two glasses the entire day. I the cushion. With one arm don’t understand! My god, what is hap- over the back of the couch and the other pening to me? gently caressing the line of my shirt, “For god’s sake can you please tell me Alyx’s green eyes shine with excitement something!” before seducing me with another ques“God?” Alyx roars at me with a voice tion. that bellows and shakes everything in the “How about God?” room. Everything except the empty shell “What about him, Alyx? I don’t of myself and everything it is touching exactly get the sense that you wish a at my desk. Leaning forward and peering sermon of me.” with those deep green eyes, Alyx softly “Of course not,” a soft chuckle slips M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 36
In Nomine...
through that Cheshire cat smile, “you A heart that had found solace, now brought Him up. I’ve just always en- races. Beads of sweat try to escape. joyed healthy discussion on the subject. “Are you —” Tell me about Him.” “Jon, I don’t want to waste the little “Alyx, I truly don’t understand the time we have together with asinine or purpose of thi—” insignificant questions.” Interrupted again: “Humor me, “But it cannot —” father.” “I know, Jon. Not exactly the whiteStruggling to regain composure, I bearded man that you were expecting. eventually tell Alyx about god and the Your understanding of me and what I creation of the earth, about Christ’s pas- want from you has been wrong from the sion and resurrection. I explain that god start I’m afraid, and you will soon realize sacrificed his only Child for the salvation first-hand the consequence of that gross of mankind; that man must live his life error.” righteously in order to enter into heaven, I am in shock. for hell awaits the wicked. Several min“Jon?” utes pass before I calm down Christ… He knows what I enough to notice that Alyx’s have done. What I have been I know, Jon. doing. The pictures of my eyes are glowing with the same vigor as before. Only it parishioners are all too visNot exactly doesn’t feel like anticipation ible. Their Children staring the whitethis time, but rather that he is at me. looking straight through me bearded man “Jon!” – barely paying attention to that you were I feel like throwing up but what I say. I can’t taste a damn thing let expecting. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” Alyx alone throw something up. tells me after a long pause. “JON!” “What?” The entire room shakes from Alyx’s “How you somehow value what it is shouting and I nearly fall from the couch you tell me.” – but I don’t care. Why should I? It “The Word helps man to live his life doesn’t matter. in the way that god sees fit, Alyx. I do “I don’t have to fucking accept any of value that.” this,” I quietly tell myself. I watch Alyx’s long black hair and “After everything is finished you head shake in distaste of my answer – won’t be going to a cloud in the sky unthat smile only slightly smaller. fortunately, Jon. That would simply not “Jon, it is just as flattering as it is dis- be fitting.” appointing to hear the ideas you have Alyx shifts into my lap, gripping the about the things you could never know roots of my hair with soft, large hands. anything about, especially with regards “Your life will end and you will simto me and my relationship to you all.” ply cease to be…” “What? I don’t understand. What are Skin runs all too smoothly along my you saying? own. M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 37
In Nomine...
“… because that is what you deserve.” I wake up feeling heavy – like I have been out for days. A cold sweat makes my shirt feel like a garbage bag. “Surely just a dream,” I assure myself while shaking off the tension. 3:20 in the morning? I really must stop doing these earning and expense reports for the church so late, all they do is confuse me: taxable this, deductable that, profits and margins. It’s worse than reading Aramaic. At least, I have some peace and quiet and the church to myself tonight. After blowing out the stubby candles I had lit, and putting away the bills and documents, I make my way to my room for some sleep – tonight was far too long. Opening the door, I see my window open again; Tommy must stop leaving it ajar when he comes in after service. “In nomine patri et filli et spiritus sancti,” says a voice behind me. My legs refuse to respond again and I am too afraid to yell. Merely able to turn around I feel a great, intimate pain that I have never known before. I gasp as crimson warmth floods down my chest. It is Tommy, my altar boy. “Never again will you put your hands on me, father. Never.” The knife he holds pierces my chest a second time – then repeatedly. Blood covers me and I collapse only to see His face once more. Black hair. Green eyes. Tan skin on a sullen face. Only there is no smile, just a curled and bitten bottom lip with tears running down each side.
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Intruder Venezia Acosta
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M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 40
Night Hub Barbara G. Tucker
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The Silent Sonnet
The Silent Sonnet Ta b i a J o h n s o n
Laying here staring at the ceiling—cold God, sometimes the silence can seem so loud From the world, it is my voice I withhold I want to make you and my parents proud How can a future Journalist be so quiet? Express what I’m feeling, who will listen? To get people’s attention I must diet Or parade around like a video vixen Fragments spoken but never a full thought Just want to be heard like—seriously I’m always interrupted and cut off Can someone, anyone, please LISTEN TO ME! I am a prisoner of words unsaid Lonely feelings locked away in my head.
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Luz
de
Noche
Luz de Noche Dulce Selene Kubota/García
Ven, oh noche, apágame, ven y ahógame en ti. Oh amorosa del Más Allá, señora del luto infinito, Dolor externo de la Tierra, llanto silencioso del Mundo. Madre suave y antigua de las emociones sin gesto, Hermana mayor, virgen y triste, de las ideas sin nexo, Novia siempre a la espera de nuestros propósitos incompletos, dirección constantemente abandonada de nuestro destino. Fernando Pessoa
A luz de noche mi música es audible, no el impotente llanto que solo liga notas sin vida en partituras. Mi voz es algo más que el eco de ese pasado pleno que me nombra. A luz de noche mi instrument de paz libra una guerra al paso de las horas, y a ese reloj que no concibo posmoderno, le faltan ya sus viejas manecillas. A luz de noche vuelvo a aquel saloncito de grietas lacrimosas que en la memoria aún no cicatriza. A luz de noche el grillo tañe un consuelo ancestral que se me escapa. En este edén donde sembró el temor su raíz ilusoria, sólo en mi sombra encuentro compañía.
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With
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With a Bang John Campos
Dr. William Ozu was unconscious on the floor of the generator room. The dreaded blaring of the alarm woke him with a start. The room was illuminated by flashing red lights and wild fires that scattered the room. The thick concrete walls were tarnished with streaks of black ash. The bright white contraption in the middle of the room emitted jolts of blue and hummed in an uncharacteristic whirr. William saw that the machine was slightly dilapidated through the cracked lens of his Clubmasters. He faltered in his attempt to get off the ground. His right hand had been severely burned up to his elbow; half of the sleeve of his oxford shirt was in tatters. He cradled the wounded arm to his torso and with the strength of his left he got up to his feet. He made his way to the fortress-like door at the entrance of the room. It was unsurprisingly sealed tight like during a burglary at Fort Knox. He ran the bony fingers of his good hand through what white hair he had left. William didn’t look out through the door window like a madman during a meltdown. He just turned back to the center of the room where the unstable apparatus shook like a washing machine with too many thick sweaters and blankets. He sat on the cold floor, Indian style. He closed his eyes. Who? Whose fault was it? Was it the young intern who didn’t follow procedure? Was it the same one I saved before the doors closed? The young man who looked at me with dread filled eyes through the window before I was knocked unconscious by the blast? Was it the geniuses who created such a stupid automatic lockdown procedure? Or was it the bureaucratic pseudo-scientists who implemented such an unstable power source? Or was it my fault for taking such a ludicrous job? It doesn’t matter anymore. Not at this moment. A spark of blue leapt into the air and lingered there for a second. In the air. In the sky. In the night. To young William Ozu, the night of July 4, 1946 would yield a latent enlightenment. There was something cosmic in the fireworks; a profundity that would only be visible later. The flashes were like the birth and death of an entire universe all in an instant of reds,
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whites, and blues. The supernovas illuminated the sitting kindergarten aged child. The thunders shook him. It was only in these brief seconds that he could be seen by his father who leaned on the rickety door frame. Even Mr. Ozu’s meager weight slightly destabilized the porch. His right hand clenched a crumpled newspaper which distorted the face of Henry Truman on the front. In his left hand was a half glass of liquid enlightenment. Between two fingers was a death wish stick. “William,” he said, taking a sip of Jack Daniels. He placed the Lucky Strike between his teeth. The boy was still hypnotized, still lost in all those dying galaxies. “William!” William noticed the prickle of the earth on his legs and drifted back to reality. He made his way towards the smoky doorframe. Mr. Ozu squatted down, dropped the glass, and put an arm around his son. He aimed his two left fingers up at the sky. “Boom.” The sky lit up. The shadows around them retreated. Little William smiled at the synchronization. Just for a moment his father was a god. But then came the rumble and then William trembled. His father braced him closer and buckled his courage like a commissar of old. “Science, William. Its brilliant, isn’t it? What a spectacle. The light comes first. The beautiful, hopeful, flattering, progressive light of science. And then…” He shook his son. “The thunder. It echoes, it reverberates, it fills inside of you – terror, fear, uncertainty.” William’s gaze was now fixed on his father’s eyes. He couldn’t really understand his fortune cookie father but he paid astute attention anyway.
Bang
“Empires succumb to the tantrums of little boys and the gluttony of fat men. The wind no longer blows in one direction. Aeolus can’t keep his children in check. The west wind blows east, the east wind blows west.” They both looked up at the blackness. After a few moments of silence Mr. Ozu continued, “At an instant you’ll have to choose which path you’ll take, William.” A flash. “And the path you choose – you will have to conquer it.” A thunder. William didn’t move. The spark of blue dissipated onto the cold concrete floor next to him. The cryptic words of his father had hibernated inside him until it awoke at this very moment. William knew the reactor was critical. Blue sparks were never good. He knew how to fix it. Easy. But it would come at a most difficult price. To get to the central circuitry he would have to remain in the nuclear field. It wasn’t the how that bothered him, it was the why. Why me? Why not him, or her, or them? Why should I stick my neck out for any of them? I can end it here. I can let the world plunge into darkness. The west fights the east and the east fights back. I can unite them through mourning. What good is this suffering? Father, is this the path? FatherThen he recognized the tantrums and gluttonies inside his head. He caught himself, sighed in acceptance, and rose up. He went over to his left and fetched a screwdriver. He walked towards the crackling contraption. He looked at the jiggling generator and laughed with moist eyes. “Look, babe, sorry I was late. I got a bit held up back there. I can see you’re excited to see me… Shall we dance?”
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No Parking, Keep Moving Desiree Groves M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 46
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Wait for It Dylan Grant
"How are ya,” is how he begins every call, but the man on the other end, a new customer with a thick but unplaceable accent, has already told him, the salesman, about his pregnant wife and moving into a new house and The Project, which, when it comes together, he says, we’re talking some serious money, like pretty much the biggest deal you’ve ever worked, and they both act less excited than they really are, and the salesman is up and out of his seat and helping himself to the coffee and donuts someone has laid out, coffee and donuts he tells his doctor about at his yearly physical. When the doctor asks what he does for a living and he replies, “I’m in sales,” the doctor simply shakes his head and says, “Good luck.” “How are ya,” and he really wants to know because his proposals and sales quotes have all gone unanswered. Someone else had obviously created the Excel files and had a hand in the final numbers, but the salesman did all of the actual quoting personally – his dictatorial need for control and off-the-charts level of paranoia such that he could never give up any real responsibility – and it was, for better or worse, his wording in the email, the salutations casual but not overly friendly, each quote attached and carefully labeled. The customer apologizes, saying that he had been up all night with his son, who has been teething, and he hasn’t slept and he’s behind and could the salesman just bare with him, which the salesman does, of course, not bothering to tell him, the customer, that his wife got her test results back and that that he, the salesman, is going to need the money, instead telling himself and anyone who will listen that “it’s coming.” He thinks about having another donut and cup of coffee but he’s wiping glaze off his mouth and swallowing bold roast before he’s actually made up his mind. “How are ya,” he asks, but he already knows the answer and she is starting to resent the question and he doesn’t really know why he’s even asking except that he doesn’t know what else to say. He looks at her splayed on the couch and sees only an empty husk of androgyny where femininity used to live and can come up with only one word, mutilated, to describe what has
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M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 47
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happened to her, and as he is looking at her, the two of them, the salesman and his wife, are back in the hospital and her doctor is describing her condition in words that he, the salesman, recognizes as English but cannot comprehend or even hear. He stands there listening until, at some point, the movie jump-cuts to another scene. “How are ya,” he says and the customer is in a good mood and says that The Project is back on but that everything will need to be re-quoted to the new specs, but what he, the customer, is really happy about is that it is his son’s first day of school, to which the salesman replies, “Wait until he’s a teenager,” and the conversation goes from there, but the salesman is already eating a donut and thinking about who he can get to help him with the new spreadsheets. “How are ya,” he asks, knowing that she got good news today and that she’s in remission, which is good, but that she hasn’t totally reached minimum safe distance and that they’ll just have to wait and see. Time will tell. “How are ya,” he says, but the customer, who is now one of his, the salesman’s, closest friends, does not sound well and tells him that The Project is on hold again, which is just as well because he, the customer, is going in for some tests and will be out of the office indefinitely. The salesman lumbers to his feet and over to the coffee and donut spread – coffee and donuts now the topper to the heart-stopping breakfasts the salesman consumes daily from the diner down the street – and opens the pink box to find most of the donuts already taken, the inside of the box dotted with grease stains and flaked bits of hardening glaze,
It
and the few donuts that remain are there only because no one else wanted them, and he chides himself inside for having waited all morning for this. “How are ya,” he asks the customer, who replies in a frail voice that he is fine but that the hardest part of the whole experience has been trying to explain everything to his son, who is only ten and only understands that he might not have a dad anymore, and how challenging it is to try and explain any kind of hypothetical finality to a ten-year-old boy who sees things only in absolutes, so that anything that might happen will happen, and having to look into the face of his son, who is looking back at him as though he were already dead. The salesman tells the customer that everything will be fine, to which the customer says only, “We’ll see.” “How are ya,” he asks her, but he knows the answer by the look in her eye and he hangs his head and pounds his fist and says, “You’re either better or you’re not. Which is it?” “How are ya,” he says to a new voice, a woman this time, who tells him, the salesman, that the customer, his friend, has died but that it’s okay and business as usual and that they, the other people in the office, are fine and moving forward with The Project with all the same numbers the salesman had already given them, and the salesman really needs a donut but the box is empty. “How are ya?” The customer tells him that we didn’t get it when we needed it and when we finally got it; it wasn’t what we wanted, and it occurs to the salesman to say, that’s life. And then the call ends.
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 48
D e at h
Death Chloe Gross
Will you be gentle when I come And guide me to the place Where silver sea meets gray sky Will you welcome me with golden gates And cloudy carpets of pearl Is your home a hidden paradise With secrets so severe Are you filled with treasures More precious than the Gold sunsets in summer, Blue Mountains in winter, Red berries in spring, And orange trees in autumn Or are you just the end An empty space Between sea and sky Are you a black hole of nothingness Forever floating in time Never thinking, never growing, never feeling I don’t know if You are heaven or hell Should I embrace or fear you Either way you Are still growing closer while The clock ticks faster and faster I am growing closer to you Like earth’s slow rotation That only seems fast When the sun has set
M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 49
Primordial Metamorphosis Annette Owens M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 50
T h r e e C la s s y S i l h o u e t t e s
Three Classy Silhouettes Osvaldo Reyes
Three classy silhouettes stand there, And stand there As three classy silhouettes standing there Casting their standing silhouette Classically silhouetting their stand Silhouetting their classiness with a stand That cast a silhouette upon a classic stand Of a silhouette standing with class Of three classy silhouettes standing there The first of three classy silhouettes stands in front of all Fronting the other classy silhouettes above all The classy silhouette stands in the first In front of the other classy silhouettes that stand tall Classically standing silhouette, standing First of all the standing classy silhouettes In the line of classic standing silhouettes The middle standing classic silhouette of three stands Short from the rest stands the classic silhouette Standing with a classic silhouette of three Silhouetting a classiness only seen in the middle Of three classic silhouettes standing as three Of all the standing classes of a standing silhouette The final silhouette that is seen, standing of three Stands with its silhouette full of class That a silhouette in the third can only be With its classy silhouette thirdly standing of three Classic standing silhouette of all With the other standing classy silhouettes Classically standing for their silhouettes The three classic standing silhouettes. M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 51
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The Problem with Mondays
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Elizabeth Loiler
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I should have known the case was crazy to begin with. I mean, it was a Monday. Mondays never make any sense, you see. So I should have known. But this particular Monday had been going rather well. I had gotten a solid seven hours of sleep the night before and woken up in time to have breakfast along with my coffee. Traffic had been positively light, a rare occurrence for downtown LA, and my parking spot had not been taken. Hell, I was so chipper I used the stairs instead of the elevator and didn’t regret it. So one can understand, or at least sympathize, why I wasn’t prepared for the two clients who walked through my door. The book my secretary left open on my desk said Mr. and Mrs. Bond were filing for a restraining order. The police weren’t involved, so I knew it wouldn’t be too heavy; maybe an overzealous ex or something. All in all, an easy case to handle. Being a lawyer has its perks, but sometimes the cases got overwhelming—I was glad for something simple after my last case. (Police had been involved in that one. It was messy. Don’t ask me about it.) Besides, you can’t go wrong with a last name like Bond. When my secretary let them in, I had to squash some disappointment. The husband was about the farthest thing from James Bond that could be formed without toeing the bounds of insanity. And the wife...well. I had met a woman once who had tried to file for the rights to marry her neighbor’s dog, because “they were soul-mates.” Mrs. Bond had the same vibe. Still, I stepped around my desk with my best professional smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Bond? My name is Lara Zhang.” I kicked my smile up another notch while shaking their hands, uncomfortably aware of their sweaty palms. “Bond. Frank Bond.” I suppressed a snort. Somehow, it just wasn’t the same. I motioned for them to sit down in front of my desk and beat it back to my chair. Mrs. Bond leaned forward earnestly. “My name is Carrie.” She paused to giggle. “Carrie Bond.
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M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 52
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T h e P r o bl e m
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Frank is my husband.” I nodded and hoped blinked back. Feeling vaguely unsettled, that they couldn’t see my eye twitching. as if I was the butt of some cosmic joke, I “You sure don’t look oriental!” took off my glasses to clean them. Once No way could they’ve missed that they were perfectly clear, I perched them twitch, but she just looked at me earnest- back on my nose. Carrie and Frank had ly, completely unaware that she had just gone back to making eyes at each other. talked about me as if I was some kind “Ehm…” I searched for something to of Panda Express dish. To be completely say now that I had their attention. “You honest –and this is something I do as lit- mean to say, Carrie, that you want to file tle as possible— I couldn’t blame them. for a restraining order against Frank?” I took after my mother in all but name, She flipped her brown hair over her disregarding a very slight tilt to my eyes. shoulder. The idea of it being Monday But did I have to hear that every time I crossed my mind, zigzagged a little, and got done introducing myself? then danced a jig behind my eyes. In case you were wondering, the an“Exactly.” She beamed at me. swer to that question is yes. My brain flailed about Yes I do. He’s always hopelessly for a moment, be“I get that a lot.” I dropped fore settling on the only safe sneaking the smile before it became response. “Why?” inside the too obviously strained and Her beam went up a got down to business. “So, notch, and I thought that house, and what can I do for you?” I maybe that hadn’t been such I’ve noticed knew what they had told a safe response. “Because my secretary, of course, but several pairs of he’s stalking me, of course. it never hurt to make them my underwear Why else would I need a say it. I cite the Dog Lady as restraining order?” missing. an example, yet again. She “I don’t know.” I respondhad been logged under neighborhood ed automatically, sending a desperate complaints. look to the door. Coffee, I needed cof“I’m filing for a restraining order.” fee. “...what do you mean by stalking?” That was Carrie—she seemed to be the She sighed wistfully. “He’s sent me talker of this couple. She giggled again pictures of me undressing in the mail. and exchanged a sappy glance with He’s always sneaking inside the house, her hubby; I was betting newlyweds. I and I’ve noticed several pairs of my uncleared my throat, sent out a silent prayer derwear missing.” She paused thoughtthat my secretary would bring in coffee, fully while I blanched. I did not want and leaned my elbows on my desk. to know the details of their marriage. “Well, you certainly came to the “Also, he follows me to work in the right place. Who do you want to place morning, and I have the feeling of eyes it against? Family member, ex-boy- on me all the time. Sometimes I think friend?” I was fishing, but the answer I that if I wasn’t stalking him, he would be got was one hell of a fish. watching me all day.” “My husband.” I blinked at her. She “I thought he was stalking you?” M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 53
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I tried to follow her train of thought, but for a response. it had derailed a while back. Warning “You realize that it’s customary to file flags waved from the Monday camp. for a divorce before getting a restraining “Oh, he is.” She reassured me. “We order.” Carrie looked horrified. stalk each other, you see.” “Oh, but I love Frankie! I don’t want “You stalk each other.” to divorce him!” Frank’s eye started “Oh yes, that’s how we met.” She ticking, and I wondered if he was one of sent a soppy grin to him, which he re- those violent types. I contemplated the turned readily. He had dark circles of wisdom of crawling under my desk but sweat under each arm and at his neck. soldiered on bravely. “It was so romantic. I used to stake out “Do you understand what this would in front of his house all day trying to entail? Frank would not be allowed withcatch a glimpse of him. I didn’t real- in some distance of you without sufferize he was doing the exact same thing ing from legal repercussions.” outside my house! I never would have “Well, I have some long distance realized had I not given cameras that would work.” I edged my up and gone home early Frank said tentatively. chair back from one day. Carrie patted his hand. “Imagine my surprise “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll the desk, in when I found him crawling case I had to still be stalking you, so we through my window to dig don’t need to worry about through my trashcan! We dive suddenly. that pesky distance thing.” Frank was started dating almost im“Well, if this is really mediately. Covert meetings what you want I can get you doing that at the park, secret glimpses the forms right now. But it across the table at shady twitching thing doesn’t matter who initiates again. restaurants...oh, it was woncontact, Mr. Bond will be the derful. Then one day he one to suffer.” They tittered kidnapped me and took me to Vegas to at my choice of words. Luckily, Carrie elope.” calmed down enough to ask the impor“I was going to get a restraining or- tant questions. For them, that is. der filed against her, but it looks like she “You mean we wouldn’t be able beat me to it.” Frank’s voice sounded to live together anymore?” I nodded like it should be coming through a pay- slowly, and her expressive face wilted. phone outside my window. Carrie sent I edged my chair back from the desk, in him a positively doting look, which he case I had to dive suddenly. Frank was returned. doing that twitching thing again. I had an almost irresistible urge to “I never thought a restraining order slam my head against my desk. Repeat- would be so...so...” edly. I settled for cleaning my glass“Restraining?” I offered. She sniffled es again, with the vain hope that if I a little, and I realized with no small couldn’t see them they would go away. amount of horror that she was cryThey didn’t, and seemed to be waiting ing. “Er, ma’am, you don’t have to go M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 54
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through with this, you know.” And two; I blamed the wind for the door where had my beautiful lawyer vocabu- slamming, and opened my window as lary gone? I was using actual vocalized evidence. I sat back down at my desk pauses. Horror. and stared at my perfectly manicured “Oh but I do! Have you ever heard of nails, trying very hard to forget the past a proper stalking that didn’t end in a re- half hour had ever happened. Five minstraining order?” I had heard of several, utes later my door quietly crept open to in fact. They usually ended in murder. admit my secretary’s lanky form. He had She dabbed at her eyes with a grimy In- a cup of coffee in one hand and a conciln-Out napkin and finished off by blow- iatory smile on his face. ing her nose in a surprisingly dainty “Coffee?” fashion. “You’re late.” I snatched the cup from “Maybe we should think about this him but didn’t drink. “How much money some more and then come back?” am I getting for that case?” There had Frank said, and he would have sounded been a note next to the couple’s names in adorably embarrassed if it the book saying not to drop weren’t for the subject matthe case, which meant they ter. A lack of heavy breath- Well, I thought must be paying a lot. But if ing would be nice, for that it wasn’t enough I was dropso; I’d be matter. happier telling ping it, God as my witness. “That does seem like the “The Bond one?” He them to get best option.” Diplomatic wilted under my glare. “Ah. of me, wasn’t it. Well, I out and never Well, about that. They’re thought so; I’d be happier your pro-bono case.” come back telling them to get out and please please I blinked at him. “Pronever come back please bono?” God never please God never come back. “Yeah. Rememcome back. “Perhaps next Tuesday, the ber, the firm requires seventeenth?” If I couldn’t two a year? They sent get them to drop the issue, I me the info last week could sure as hell get it over with as soon for the Bond’s.” He looked neras possible. vously at my white knuckled grip on Carrie, recovered from her break- my mug. down, looked at me with red rimmed, “That means I can’t drop them, puffy eyes. “That does sound nice. Gives doesn’t it.” He didn’t answer, safely catus time to research and talk it over.” I egorizing that question under rhetorical. couldn’t imagine what sort of thing “I can’t drop the case,” I repeated. “And they’d consider research, but I agreed all I’m doing it. . . for free.” the same. “Yes.” He sounded unsure, rightly “Right. Just stop by the front desk guessing that I didn’t want to hear that on your way out and set up an appoint- particular answer. I nodded at him, very ment.” I have never ushered someone calm. out of my office as fast as I did these “I think its best you leave now.” M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 55
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“Should I cancel your next appointment?” “No. What you should do is get out so I can throw this coffee cup at the wall. And then you can come back in and clean up the mess.” The rest of the day wasn’t any better.
tice me, but I knew better than to trust that; so I paid for my sandwich and got out of there while the getting was good. That was all that happened that day. But on Wednesday I was procrastinating the making of a phone call when I happened to look out the window. Two floors down Carrie paused in the flow of pedestrian traffic to send me a wave. I didn’t notice it at first. It isn’t that I’m Frank was nowhere to be seen. I pulled inobservant; as a lawyer I was mortally back from the window, annoyed but not offended that such a concept could be creeped out. Not yet. But I saw them applied to me. But it isn’t something you twice more that day, and couldn’t shake expect, you know? No, you don’t know. a suspicious itch on the back of my neck. I haven’t even told you what I was walking towards the I noticed. No. What you bus stop that night (my car The Tuesday after the apshould do is was in the shop) and Frank pointment was pretty nice, pulled up at the curb next get out so I for the most part. A lot of to me and offered me a ride work, but most of my week- can throw this home. He further explained days are heavily loaded. coffee cup at that it wasn’t out of his way You’d be amazed at how and offered me what I susmuch research it takes for me the wall. And pected was his best smile. to stay on top of my game. then you can I turned him down and ran I’ve been told that the load come back in all the way to the bus stop. lightens up once you climb a and clean up Thursday was very simifew rungs in the partner ladlar to Wednesday, accented the mess. der. Personally, I held that it only by the fact that I burst lightened once you got old into tears randomly when a enough to assign the other lawyers to brunette woman bumped into me with pro-bono work. her stapler and that I went home from Bitter? Me? Perish the thought. work early in order to change my schedAnyway, Tuesday was fine right up ule and shake off my stalkers. I didn’t until I hit lunch. I had slipped on down know if it worked, but the itchy feeling to the deli to grab a sandwich and no- of being watched didn’t go away. ticed, to my extreme horror, that Mr. and Friday found me a little twitchy and Mrs. Bond were sitting at a table nearby. short of temper. I hadn’t slept much Carrie noticed me right away, and I can’t the night before, having woken up sevtell you the relief I felt when she simply eral times from a nightmare in which waved at me and then went back to star- I checked the curtains and found the ing at her husband through a potted plant Bonds waiting right outside my window they had moved specifically for that pur- with a smile and a gun. pose. Frank apparently didn’t even noI wasn’t getting very much work done M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 56
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–and don’t you talk to me about work myself back in with an effort and set the ethics: could you concentrate on work chocolate bar down, feeling rather ill. I when people are stalking you?—when sat down behind my desk, picked up the my secretary walked in. She was female, coffee mug and thought about drinking this time. I know that sounds weird, but it. Meanwhile. . . I was so low on the totem pole that I was “I need you to go to the window and part of a rotation that had two secretaries tell me if you see a brunette woman and between five people. This, in case you a man who looks nothing like James were wondering, is why I never bothered Bond.” remembering their names. “A man who looks nothing like James So, nameless female secretary wan- Bond and a brunette. Gee, that’s spedered in to my office with a cup of cof- cific.” fee and a box of donuts. The coffee I My eye twitched dangerously, and she was expecting, the donuts were a pleas- hastened towards the window. ant surprise. She gave me “Right, right, the descripthe bubbly smile of someone She gave me tion was fine.” She leaned three donuts and a soda away against the glass and scanned the bubbly from being dead asleep and the area with a grimace. smile of set them on my desk. “Brunette and anti-Bond, “Eat up before I take someone three brunette and anti-Bond, them.” Yeah, she wasn’t bru—Oh holy shit!” donuts and as respectful as the guy. I I curled up around my a soda away opened the box and grabbed cup bitterly. “You see them, from being a chocolate bar to munch on. don’t you.” dead asleep I was about half way finished “He looks absolutely when I noticed a note on the and set them nothing like James Bond. inside of the box. While I on my desk. He is exactly what James tore it off, I called the secreBond will never be. That’s tary back in. creepy.” “Hey!” She popped her head in in“That’s what you find creepy?! They’ve quisitively. “Who’re these from?” been stalking me since Monday!” She stepped all the way in with a ca“Are you sure you’re not overreactsual shrug. “They were just on the desk. ing?” I figured one of the others brought it in.” I glared at her, hoping that the peroxThe note said to look outside in messy, ide she used to dye herself blonde would looped cursive. I looked. catch fire. “I am not overreacting.” You know what I saw, right? Of She pulled back from the window, course you do. Carrie and Frank stood concern written on her face. “Wait, are looking up at the window, each munch- you being serious?” ing on a donut. Frank held up his cell “Yes. I see them everywhere.” I didn’t phone and fiddled with it a bit, presum- bother continuing, a thought having ocably taking a picture while I leaned out curred to me. My secretary apparently the window in frozen inaction. I pulled had the same thought, and she voiced M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 57
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it first. to find that neither Bond was lying in “Don’t you, like, specialize in re- wait for me. straining orders? Why don’t you file one “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” against them?” I gave her a wan smile. “Tomorrow.” I blinked down at my coffee cup, hoping that it looked more dignified I got home on Friday night with vithan if I blinked up at her. “You’re sions of cereal and sleep dancing beabsolutely right.” I stood suddenly from my desk. “Absolutely, com- fore my eyes. I unlocked my door, slid pletely right. In fact, go get me through, and closed it behind me to the sound of a disgruntled voice welcoming the forms.” me home. “They’re in your desk.” “You’re home late.” I lifted a finger, opened my mouth, and I answered before I realized what was deflated. “So they are.” I sat back down and looked at her, suddenly feeling very wrong with this. “I had some work I small. “Will you stay in here with me?” I wanted to get an early start on.” I strode into the living room, glanced think I shocked her a little. I was commonly known to be I glared at her, at the couch, and froze. No. “We’ve been here for two the most vicious (I took this hoping that hours now,” Carrie called to mean competent) lawyers in the rotation. But I was the peroxide over her shoulder, as she headed back the kitchen. feeling a little unhinged, and she used to “We wanted to stay, though needed the company to make dye herself we were worried you weren’t sure I didn’t glance out the window every five seconds blonde would going to come home at all.” Frank Bond waved at me catch fire. in expectation of their faces from his comfortable perch pressed against it. “Sure.” And she did, for the rest of on my couch. I threw a wild glance after Carrie, who the day while I filled out the two applications (I got to take two others out had already disappeared into the kitchen. because there were no custody issues From the smells, I guessed she was makinvolved, and they already knew where ing salmon. And they had sat in here for I lived so anonymity didn’t matter) and two hours. Mother of God. “What are you doing here?” finished the rest of my regular work. It Carrie leaned out of the kitchen, lookwas late by the time I was ready to leave. ing confused at my reaction. “Research, “Hey, do you want me to drop these off on my way home?” I resolved to of course. Have you lived here long?” learn her name from someone and start She gave me an innocent look. Frank didn’t bother changing his expression, using it. She had been good today. “No, it’s alright. I usually come in which was stuck on dopey (I had no on Saturday’s anyway. I’ll finish them choice but to assume this was his default up and drive them by tomorrow.” She expression.) I thought about all the different things walked me to my car, and I was relieved M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 58
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I could say to them. I could figure out if they were genuinely trying to research. I I got to my office early on Saturday could see if they had some sort of issue morning, took the papers from my desk, with me, if I had lost a case for someone they knew. I could find out what their and scribbled last night’s incident in the intentions were. But Carrie was smiling extra lines. It didn’t take long, and I was away and Frank was sort of like a shrug out of the office in half an hour, forms in made into a man, and these two had been a manila envelope—very professional. I dropped them off with a court clerk making my life hell for the past week. So I knew who would get a rush job for I pointed towards the front door instead, me. What would normally take all day shaking. was done in ten minutes, and I left the “Out.” court at the same time as the state mar“What do you mean?” “I mean get out. Leave my house, shal who was going to serve the notice right now, or I will call the police.” did. Normally there would be a fourteen day stretch before the trial, Carrie gave me a wounded but I had the feeling Mr. and I had some look and Frank started that twitching thing again, his work I wanted Mrs. Bond would agree to a speedy trial. After all, I was unfocused eyes abruptly to get an early giving them what they wantzeroing in on me. I opened ed: a restraining order. start on.” I the door for them, voice still I didn’t go to work that low. “Go.” strode into the Tuesday, but by then they I have no idea what I living room, had agreed to a trial on Frithought was going to happen. But in the end Carrie glanced at the day and the appointment was cancelled. I still saw them couch, and left the kitchen with an exeverywhere I went, and by aggerated sniff and flounced froze. No. the day before the trial I was past me, Frank on her heels. holed up in my house with They paused outside my door. all the curtains closed and doors locked. “Well then. We’ll see you on TuesI won’t bore you with details of the day.” I shut it in their faces. case. I was well known in the court circle I checked around my house, looking for anything out of place. I couldn’t find I had chosen. The judge owed me one anything, though, so I returned to the and we still went out for drinks every kitchen, mind back in my office and on once in a while, and in any case the Bond the papers I needed to finish filling out. couple was only too happy to cooperate. A nice dinner of salmon and wild rice I’ve never seen a case go so smoothly, to was sitting on the counter, enough for be honest. I was out of there before three with a shiny new restraining order that three and still steaming slightly. I sat down at the table and stared at would last for six months before comit for a long time. Then, mind carefully ing up for renewal (which, incidentally, blank, I dished myself a plate and ate I could get easily). It was actually fairly anticlimactic—I didn’t see Frank or Cardinner quietly. It was delicious. M y r i a d I C r e a t i v e A r t s J o u r n a l I 2 0 11 59
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I carried the flowers into the kitchen and put them in a vase with water, not bothering to arrange them. As I was walking away, I noticed a picture had slid free from between the flowers. I stooped over and picked it up. The picture was of me. I was sitting on the couch, a bored look on my face; drink in one hand, plate in lap. Crudely photo-shopped on either side of me was the Bond couple. Despite the ring of white around them, they had managed to get it to look as if they really were on the couch. It was sweet, heartwarming—or it would have been, coming from anyone else. Scribbled on the back, in Carrie’s looped cursive, was a little note. Wishing we were there.
rie afterwards, and I spent the night on the town without that prickling feeling bugging me. My secretary’s name, by the way, is Janine. She drops by my office and pesters me all the time now, even when she’s doing work for other lawyers. In two weeks we were both telling the story as an office joke. It was a Monday. It had been a full month and a half since the court case, and I was finally able to sleep with my curtains open again. I was coming home somewhat early, with dinner plans for later that evening. There was a bouquet sitting outside my door.
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Dangerous Accession
Dangerous Accession Ti m a P e c k
Another cold night. Alone. No heat. No one to love. A black and white cat with eyes of a baby stares me in the face like JAZZ engulfing me in its presence cradling me in a round charcoal fog smooth as silk; Satin smooth down drowns me in grey. The cold freezes over Everything is grey.
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Lookout Noir Nino Mejia
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E d i t o r B i o g r ap h i e s
Editor Biographies
Blair Tisius
Monique Judge
Blair has an ongoing love affair with food, but in her downtime works on her illustration and creative writing skills as an art major. This is her first time editing this journal and she worries it might join her already numerous obsessions, which include Batman and Harry Potter.
Monique is a native of Los Angeles, California and proud of it. When she is not being a social media/social networking whore, you can find her reading lots of books, watching lots of good movies and working on her black belt in haiku.
Courtney Charpentier
Courtney can either be found at home, curled under a blanket with a good book, or at the pier, people watching… and holding a good book. She has two loves in life: reading and writing. She has written several amateur books—none of which she’ll share with you for fear of her own humiliation—but has a strong passion for writing and hopes to become an editor one day
Camila Jenkin
Camila spends most of her time watching Doctor Who and making tea with scones, but in between these solemn pursuits she is an English major here at El Camino. She is very interested in the publishing world, so Myriad seemed like the perfect class. And it was!
Nenna Olumba
Elizabeth Loiler
Fifty words. What can the Nikuchan do in fifty bloody words? Why is this more difficult than it needs to be? Sure, she can stammer on about her obsession with books, libraries, and fanfiction, Nintendo and video games, her love of tea, her vegan~ness, and, oops! She’s done. The end!
Physically incapable of leaving her house without at least two books on her person, Elizabeth can be found lurking wherever the nearest computer is. When not reading books, she’s reading fan-fiction, and on the rare occasions she isn’t reading either of those, she gets her schoolwork done.
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