2014 Myriad

Triumph B onnilee K aufman

Son, shut the door.

Autistic to a tee he remains in position sentry to edibles he summarily refuses without ever really tasting, forever two years old, stuck that awful ‘no’ stage;

B o n n i l e e K au f m a n

The child gangly and tall for his age, is mindlessly staring into the depths of the fridge seems like eons sans selection and the mother kind, patient and intellectually well versed on the subject of autism suddenly just another mother who can’t take it the wastefulness of our resources the cold refrigerator air escaping leaking out

Son, listen to me a bit louder, almost catching one of his wavelengths as he stands communing with the fridge light, pressing it’s button on off

on off Son, shut the damn door she rarely loses it, witnesses this other self.

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1

B o n n i l e e K au f m a n myriad

2014

He flashes reflexive black eyes she can’t see into leaves the fridge door open icy air escaping, he marches, head swaying down the hallway to the solid wood front door of their house opens it wide gives a sideways atypically communicative glance at his mother a sort of, I gotcha and ceremoniously slams shut that solid wood front door returns to his place at the fridge sentry a straight line for a mouth.

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Stephanie Guerrero CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE

U n t i t l e d (S t o r e )

3

Home

2014 myriad

4

In some ways, your world is not all that different from mine.

All around me, my neighbors are busy cutting grass and lugging in groceries as I eat my breakfast on my green patio.

As with any neighborhood, we have all types living here: the quiet ones hiding in their houses, the nosy ones hovering in my garden for a word, and the bullies lying in wait. It is true that we do not all get along— there are arguments, often about property lines— but for the moment, it is peaceful.

However, none of us are idle. We do the 9 to 5 just like you and beyond. For us, it is always rush hour. Our routes to work are nothing more than unmarked dirt roads littered with stones and leaves and are prone to pileup traffic, not that we ever let that stop us. We continue to shape this place. We build it up, creating much of its life-sustaining resources and constructing our homes on top; we tear it down, recycling, moving, and sifting it.

My community also comes together to sing and dance.

Day and night, our dancers flutter lighter than air. Our musicians play raspy instruments, singing of searching and of future generations. I come from a very musical family. I even have cousins who can sing all through the night, competing to be heard over each other. You may not consider any of this singing or dancing at all, but it is still important to us; it is how we connect. It is how we find each other.

Other times this place is not so beautiful. It can be one big fight for survival— against each other or all of us against larger foes. This is where the bullies I mentioned earlier come in. It seems that even once you’ve grown up there is never a shortage of them. Sometimes we are even forced to become bullies ourselves just to get by. However, I am personally one of the more peaceful sorts, surviving alongside my family by blending in as much as possible.

In the end, I would not wish to call any other world home.

Stephanie Norris

Stephanie Norris

S tephanie N orris

Neither should you. After all, you and I live on the same planet, except that I live a lot closer to ground level. It may surprise you to learn that after everything I have said of my home, I have actually been describing the insect world. On that note, let me introduce myself. First, look down. Here I am on the leaf, which I have made my meal. Not quite the full length of your finger, my body and long leathery wings are all green and speckled with tiny black spots. I have six very spindly legs, the thickness of the lead in a mechanical pencil. I am also the one who has been eating holes in your hydrangeas, but don’t hold that against me. That is what katydids do.

5

“ T o C ov e t ” The crocodiles and hippos are at the water hole It’s obvious; the water hole is under their control.

Gazelles and duiker Baboons and wildebeests Gather at the water hole to cool off from the heat Elephants and lions Mighty as they seem Have no authority near the water hole’s regime At first the water hole seems like a neutral place For any wild animal to quench his thirsty face But every water hole encompasses similar laws Enforced by crocodiles and hippopotamus jaws The crocodiles and hippos appear to coexist Like sun and moon contending the right to an eclipse.

There’s hatred in the hippos’ eyes, as crocks begin to slaughter And hot animal blood blends into their drinking water The crocodile devour and feast on wildebeest Grinning as they tear away the flesh, the bone, the teeth They whip away the worthless scraps towards the hippos’ fleet As man might give to dogs once he’s had enough to eat Snarls and growls of war commence to fill the desert sky Like thunder warns the earth after lightning bolts collide The crocodiles and hippos are in the water hole For even barren Kingdoms are desired for control.

P.X

myriad

2014

Carlos Ornelas

C arlos O rnelas

6

Stephanie Sleiman CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE

Shrouds

7

Red Lips

and

Bow Ties Fun was going to dance the New Jack Swing And women fancied their heartfelt diamond rings Excitement was buying a new stamp collection Happiness came from handwritten letters that showed affection

Women were sweet eye candy, yet showed no skin Polka dot dresses showcased their beauty within Wearing alluring perfume and shiny pumps White silk or black leather gloves Ruby red lips and curls for days Glistening romance that trapped you in love at a gaze

Take me to a time A time of the past to reminisce When emotions were pure seduction And kisses forever lingered between two lovers’ lips

Men were gentle and charming Bow ties neatly aligned with their grin Wearing fedoras and shirts always tucked in Plaid trousers or the color of tin Pompadours and hair always slick Decadent cologne you could almost taste And suspenders that always kept him in place Memories captured in black and white film And albums full of Polaroid and sepia portraits Men gifted fine pearls and prime rib steaks Women enjoyed drive-in movie theater dates And everyone enjoyed old-fashioned hand-scooped ice cream shakes

myriad

2014

Take me to a time When love was real Everlasting Genuine feelings became commitment And separation nonexistent

J o h n G i l l -A g u i l a r

J o h n G i l l -A g u i l a r

J ohn G ill -A guilar

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T h e B a r e G r av e st o n e N avin E njeti

10

Myung Soo Lee Mr. Artichoke

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N av i n E n j e t i

Who lies here? The boy asked.

The gravestone was bare.

I don’t know, my son.

Nobody knows.

Why are there no flowers here?

I don’t know, my son.

Nobody knows.

All I know is it was a man.

Who consumed himself.

Why father?

There are stories.

As for the truth, I’m not sure.

Nobody knows.

He felt alone child.

Very alone.

He’s in another place now.

Is he alone there too?

Nobody knows.

11

Why We Live

2014 myriad

I look ahead and see a person standing before me. I stare into his eyes and he stares into mine. He stands there and mocks me. When I move, he moves. I raise my arm, and he raises his. I shake my head, and so does he. I reach out to touch his hand and he reaches to touch mine. Our fingers collide and I feel the coldness of his touch. I pace the room back and forth, watching the man I see do the same thing. Him mocking me infuriates me and I raise my fist at him. He does the same and our fists collide. The stinging sound of shattered glass rings throughout my ears as blood seeps out from both of our knuckles. Through the cracks I can see the man as he stares at me with the same face of fright that is present on my face. I slump down onto my bed, staring at the person in the mirror who looks back at me. I pull out the knife from my pocket, the one I had taken from the kitchen as I made my way to my bedroom earlier. I caress the handle and stroke the shiny silver blade as it reflects my image back at me, just like the mirror.

This reflection is not of fright, however, but of calm and content. I look back at the mirror, the reflection showing sorrow and despair. Looking down at the knife again shows a person with fangs, wearing a fiendish face with an evil smile. I look up at the mirror and see the man standing, raising the knife above his head, ready to attack. He swings down, but I block it with my arm. The cut enters my wrist, and it plunges deep. I scream in pain, and fall to the floor. I see the man in the mirror staring helplessly back at me, and he, too, is lying on the floor.

I close my eyes as he closes his and sink into the darkness as my fainting screams leave my home and echo onto the streets outside. r r r

12

Kris Swanson

Kris Swanson

K ris S wanson

“I opened the heavy door,” the man said, “and I heard it shut loudly behind me. I walked to the edge and looked down below. The streets were as hectic as ever with cars stopping and going as pedestrians filled the sidewalks crossing back and forth from every direction. From all the way up there I could hear the chatter of each person, cars honking, people yelling. I looked up and,” he paused a moment and looked up at the ceiling with a smile.

“It was completely different,” he started again, now looking back down at the podium he stood behind. “The blue sky was calm without any noise except the gentle whistle of a small breeze. Every now and then a bird would flutter by, dropping a feather down into the streets below. And then,” he paused again. A faint smile appeared on his face as he looked into the audience. “There was this white bird. A thing of beauty.

It perched itself atop the door I came through, preening its feathers and flicking its head back and forth from side to side.

Its eyes locked onto mine and it stared at me. It stared at me for a while until it spread its wings and lifted off into the sky.

The sun’s warm rays caressed the bird, making it glow a fiery red upon its white wings. It was as if the sun gave birth to this beautiful creature.

“But then,” the man’s smile faded away as he looked down at the podium. “But then…it shat on me. And I just…lost it.

The beauty wasn’t so beautiful anymore. All the pain and suffering I’ve gone through, only to have people, as well as that goddamn bird, shit all over me.” The man looked back up with tears starting to form in his eyes. “So I stood up on the ledge,” his voice cracked, “and I spread my arms wide like that bird. I looked down from thirty stories up, at the world I was about to leave. I wanted to fly. I wanted to leave. I wanted to follow that bird back into the sun and burn inside it.

“I felt the breeze run through my body, taking form around my arms. It felt like I actually could fly!” The man paused to take a brief sob. Another man, the man’s friend I presumed,

13

Kris Swanson

2014 myriad

two months I sat in the same chair, observing everyone else around me. In all these people I saw death. There was no hope for these people, I thought to myself. For the past two weeks, however, I noticed a woman seated on the other side of me, two rows ahead of me. Unlike everyone else, I noticed she didn’t go up to speak. She did what I did and kept to herself. But this night was different. Every now and then she would turn around and I would avert my eyes quickly back to podium. Her silence during discussions piqued my interest, and I couldn’t stop looking at her. Eventually she rose from her seat and walked past me, keeping her eyes ahead of her as I watched her walk away from the corner of my eye. Once again I sat in loneliness until I heard a small scratch of metal moving against the hardwood floor come from the seat next to me. It was the woman, now with a cup of coffee in one hand and a donut in the other, sitting down right next to me.

“Hi,” she said, not looking directly at me.

“Hi,” I said back, still looking at the podium and twiddling my fingers.

“Do you...?” she raised the donut in her hand towards me.

“No,” I replied with a wave of my hand. “Thanks.”

She continued to drink her coffee and eat her donut in silence. When she was done, she set her empty cup down and stared with me at the podium. After a few minutes, she began to speak up.

“You, uh,” she paused for a second. “You were looking at me earlier.”

“Oh,” I said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” she looked at me with a small turn of her head.

She looked at me for several moments before she spoke up again.

“So, what’s your story?”

“Well,” her question caught me off guard. “I guess I don’t really have one.”

“Would you be here if you didn’t?”

Kris Swanson

14

rose out of his seat to join the man, but the man waved his hand telling him to sit back down. The man sniffed and wiped away his tears. He continued on.

“I leaned forward, closed my eyes, and extended my foot out over the ledge. But then, I heard a loud slam behind me and I saw a coworker who was out for his smoke break.

He saw me turn around, unable to keep my balance. Time seemed to slow down as he dropped his lighter and rushed towards me, his cigarette falling out of his mouth as he came for me. He extended his arms to catch me as I flailed mine trying to keep my balance. I fell over, thinking it was too late, but he caught me. He pulled me over the ledge and held me close. I was ready to die, I told him. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to die…” He stayed silent for a few moments before starting to head back to his seat. A small applause accompanied him as he sat himself down, next to his co-worker who had gotten up earlier.

“Thank you, Marvin,” the leader of the support group stated as he went up to the podium. “That powerful, moving story will end today’s meeting. Please, help yourself to the coffee and donuts in the back, which were provided by Sherry and Dale. I hope you have a good night and please, be safe.”

Everyone in the group sat up and went to the back. They formed a line to get their treats and chatted amongst themselves about their various problems and how they were coping with them. Many had made friends, but I just sat in my chair and stared at the podium. I didn’t have anything to say and I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t need to be there. But my parents were worried I might off myself again. I told them I was fine, that I had only done it the once, but they didn’t want to take any chances. I’m in my middle twenties and I still have my parents taking care of me.

Several nights a week at these support groups I would just listen to everyone else until the group leader said it was closing time in the background by the table full of treats. For

15

Kris Swanson

2014 myriad

r r r

The weeks went on and the two of us began to sit next each other. It was silence at first, but the awkwardness eventually left and we started to talk more and more after the meetings. I still had nothing to say in front of our group, but she eventually went up one night and told her story. It was “Part one of many” she said before she started. Night after night she would end her speeches with “to be continued” and would sit back down in the seat next to mine. On one of

these nights, I decided I no longer wanted to just be a listener.

I wanted to share. I wanted to feel some kind of release. As she sat down, I rose up and walked up to the podium. Everyone was stricken with silence and awe, surprised that I decided to take the stand. I cleared my throat, and just like my talks with her, I just let everything out that was on my mind. A quiet applause celebrated me as I walked back to my seat. As I sat down she smiled at me and rested her head upon my shoulder. I smiled at myself along with her.

It had been three months, and she decided to tell the end of her story to the group. She went to the podium and told us how she met this man who had changed her life around.

She looked at me as she said this, my face turned slightly red as I smiled back at her. She ended her story with another “to be continued” and walked back to her seat next to me.

I got up after her and I told them of a woman whom I met, and how she had changed my own view of myself, looking directly at her as I talked. I finish my speech, the group leader invited us all to some coffee in the back, and she and I join the rest of the group as we all talked about how our lives had improved. Tonight was the last night the group was going to be together. Once everyone had finished their coffee, the group leader said it was closing time and we all piled out of the church doors once more, for the last time.

This time, however, on the way out, I saw the woman drop a key. I reached down to pick it up, calling for her in the crowd of people leaving, but as I got back up, she was long gone. I looked on the back of the key as I felt something odd and found a small piece of paper tacked to back of it. On it, a number and address was written, tiny enough to fit on the paper and just barely legible enough to be read. I smiled as I went to my car and drove off to the address written on the tiny paper. I went up to the door and knocked three times.

She greeted me and pulled me inside by my shirt and I closed the door behind me as we locked our mouths in a long kiss.

Kris Swanson

16

“I suppose you’re right.”

Silence.

“Why are you here?” I decide to ask.

Her head positions itself in the podium’s direction. “I was in a car accident.”

“Well if it was an accident, why…”

“Because I wanted it to happen.”

“Oh.” “This isn’t my first meeting, either. None of the other groups really seemed to work out for me.”

“Then, does that mean--” Before I could finish, the group leader said it was time to go. She rose up from her seat and began to head for the church doors. I got up and walked after her, wondering just how many times she tried to kill herself that way. Everyone else was waiting outside and saying their goodbyes to one another. Everyone dispersed and the two of us said good night to the group leader as he walked to his car and drove off, leaving the two of us behind. We nodded at each other, saying we’ll see each other next time, but something inside me made me want to say more than just “good night.”

“I tried to kill myself,” I spoke out.

She stopped and looked back at me. “The first step is admitting it,” she smiled lightly.

I smiled back and we went our separate ways.

17

2014 myriad

18

I got off work early one day and went to the store. I wanted to surprise her when she got off work with a nice dinner in our new house. The months went by and our relationship escalated. Eventually I asked for her hand in marriage and she replied with a hearty “yes.” We found steady jobs, saved up and bought a house together. The house only had a table in it, as we were going to move completely over the weekend, so no other furniture had been placed inside quite yet. I set a white linen cloth over the table and decorated it nicely with some of the assorted plates and silverware that were packed inside a box I had brought with me from our old apartment. I prepared her favorite dish, three-cheese Alfredo chicken lasagna with garlic bread on the side. I washed up and dressed in my best business-casual suit. I sat at the table, awaiting her arrival any minute, but as the minutes passed, I realized she might have been held up at work. I called her cell phone and I listened closely to every ring for her voice to pick up on the other end, but she never picked up. An hour passed by, and I began to worry. I called her cell, still with no response, so I called her office but they said she left about an hour ago.

I rushed to my car and started the engine. I drove around the block, then into the city streets trying to find her. Another hour passed and I realized I’d passed the city limits. To my dismay, I returned home and sat at the table, staring at the cold food before me. I put my head in my hands and cried.

My tears hit the plate with a “ting” and a pool began to form.

Thoughts of all the horrible things that could have happened to her swirled around in my head, and I slammed my fists down on the table several times, cutting myself on the knife and fork I had placed. The pain became physical as blood rolled down my arms and spilt onto the plate, mixing in with my pool of tears as the water swirled around the red liquid.

I stared at the now red plate, filled with worry and anger at what she might have done to herself. A buzz went off in my

pocket and I quickly took my phone out. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered it, expecting it to be a friend of hers. It wasn’t, and my thoughts of her old suicidal tendencies coming back became a reality. I rushed back to my car and headed to the hospital, blood from my cut hand dripping onto the steering wheel as I drove. r r r

I took her hand and held it close to my face as she lay on the bed in a coma. The blood from my cut hand stained the outside of her bandages I held her hand in mine. Her face was bruised and the cuts from the shattered glass were covered with bandages. The constant beep of the machines assured me she was alive; in some way, she was still alive. The doctor had told me she was in a car accident, but did not know the details outside of the fact that it was a head-on collision with a car driving in the opposite direction and both cars were totaled beyond recognition. He assured me it was just an accident, and I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe it so badly that I kept telling myself over and over that it was just an accident it was just an accident. I couldn’t believe myself, but I kept repeating it over and over hoping that there was a slim chance I could fool myself. My head sprang up as the beeping struck a long chord, and I jumped out of my seat shouting for the doctor. I was taken out of the room despite my pleas, forced to watch everything unfold from a window on the other side.

I went home and I closed the door behind me, my back sliding down the door until I reached the floor. I stared at the table with our cold dinner for several minutes before I put my arms on top of my legs and rested my head on top of them.

After a while, I decided to go upstairs and go to the bathroom.

I started the bath and I sat beside it as the hot water slowly filled the tub. I had picked up the knife off of the dinner table and I stared at the silver blade as it became foggy from the

Kris Swanson

Kris Swanson

r r r

19

Kris Swanson

2014 myriad

r r r

“After that night, I rethought my life,” I continued. “I decided that I didn’t want it to end. After Marvin’s story, and only recently did I realize this, but it was in death that he found life. He wanted to live because he started to fear death.

And for me, it was in that very moment, the moment I saw myself in the mirror, that I saw myself for the first time. I saw what I was doing to myself. And I had finally seen up close in the hospital that night, the aftermath of what my fiancé had to done to herself all those times before she met me. And…” I paused. My eyes began to tear up. “And I…I didn’t want to die.

I wanted to live. It was in death that I found my release, my

way out, and, although she was taken from me, I honor her memory by continuing to live.” Soft applause echoed through the quiet hall as I headed back to my seat.

“Hi, I’m Tim…” the next person on the podium started.

A year has passed since her death. I slipped into the darkness twice in my life, but I rose from the ashes of despair with a new life that released me of all my feelings of despair and hopelessness. I became a group leader for the sole reason of helping others. Only in death do we see life, and I decided I wanted to give these people a new sensation of life. I look out into the crowd of people that sits before me and I see hope. I see a small light of hope that waits to be unlocked and taken hold of to lead them all down a path of happiness in the world of the living. r r r

Kris Swanson

20

steam. I wiped it with my thumb and saw my reflection staring back at me. Only this time, the reflection wasn’t sinister nor was it sorrowful. It was just me looking at myself.

I put the knife to my wrist as I clenched my fist, but a surging pain rushed through my body before I even slit my wrist.

The cut on my hand from earlier was stinging due to the steam and heat in the bathroom. Clenching my fist as tightly as I had reopened the small wound and it began to slowly drip blood onto the ceramic white floor below. I dropped the knife and washed the cut in the sink. I looked in the mirror, listening to the bathtub overflow. The water reached my feet, but I didn’t move. I stared into the mirror, looking not at a monster or a person who was mocking me. I was looking at myself, at my life. I slumped down onto the wet floor and put my head in my hands. It was myself in that mirror, and sadness rushed all over me. I cried; for the first time in a long time, I broke down and cried, not for what I had done and what I stopped myself from doing just now, but to purge myself of these feelings of sadness that were locked away. I released my sadness and my cries were carried up and away with the steam out of the window before I picked up the knife and put it way downstairs.

21

T h e B e a u t i f u l T h i n gs H e Didn’t Deserve C orrine K osidlak

22

Kris Valle Spring

h as

Sprung

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Corrine Kosidlak

Though not so far, were few The little Black Dress on New Year’s Day and the passionate hours that ensued The heart of a girl that wanted no more but to spend some more time with him Well now that heart has broken in two and the halves have been fighting ever since one wants to tell him of sorrow and pain, the other just won’t give in so the two bargained and decided a letter would suffice And that letter was strong and true no pretenses, no takebacks, no jealousy-inspired comebacks just a writer and her pen and her desk at 1:40AM but perhaps of all the things she gave (not to mention the things stolen) The two page letter, hand written he least deserved to keep as a token The more she did think The more she did drink

23

As I make this loquacious “farewell” I find no pain in what I tell of times before my life hit the curb and spilled out the beautiful things he didn’t deserve

myriad

2014

Corrine Kosidlak

The more she did regret the soul she trapped in ink Until one night, she drank herself keeling In a moonlit forest She looked up at the branch speckled ceiling and realized the roof she imagined overhead was the night sky, an endless top.

One place on earth couldn’t hold her body nor her heart; that letter was just a last good-bye to the willingly poisoned part of her star-crossed soul

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G i l b e r t C a st r o CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE

El Fulgor

del

Rey

de

Ojos Dorados

25

T o day I’ m G o i n g

to

Relax

M aria L im Today I’m going to relax.

Not fret over the ants parading their sticky legs on the chocolate mousse hardening on the plates, stacked like buttered pancakes prepared for the world’s hungriest man.

My roommate hasn’t paid me her share of the electricity bill— today I’m going to relax, leave her door empty of post-it notes and threats of darkness— “Cindi - need the money..or else..”

The door which nevertheless I’m glad is there.

Maria Lim

She’s not as annoying as the ants.

Sometimes sweet like the mousse.

But enough, it’s my day of relaxation.

I will cover my eyes from “The Life of Rembrandt” report due in two days, from paintings I have to memorize, analyze— like Gericault’s haunting Raft of the Medusa, which reminds me of the time when Cindi flooded the toilet; the sea of toilet paper on the floor— crumpled, wet, dingy white, like the dying bodies on that troubled raft.

But Gericault won’t tell me how to feel today.

I refuse to mess with the mess!

If Cindi or Gericault show up I’ll ignore them like beggars— they can lick the plates clean for now. (an imitation of “Today I’ll Sit Still” by Ernesto Trejo)

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JC S a r m i e n t o B & W

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L e tt e r t o t h e L ov e C h a r l ata n E rica C ristina Today, The whiskey dries like roses these tears.

My lips dry, Lows high.

The tears dry, The heart hides.

Looking down, At all the emotions you provoked in me, Through the years.

Conserved like delicate roses, On these sheets.

I decide to lose you.

2014 myriad

28

When your world isn’t making sense, Forget about me.

When your nights get cold, Delete me.

When the memories want to bring you back to me, Kill them.

Burning now into the ashes of your deception.

The night’s breath, Blowing them up to the dark sky.

Tonight, I take you off your bronze pedestal, I’ll look up at the blank moon, Play our story one final time.

Your immaculate memory, Will fade to the darkness And burn with the stars.

I take a breath of new life.

I’ll kill your presence tonight, To not know of your existence.

Promise me, You will stay where I bury you.

E r i c a C r i st i n a

E r i c a C r i st i n a

In a beautiful cage, Fooled for too long.

It damages me to say, You’re just another love charlatan, Taking the stage.

Love Always, Our End.

Tonight,

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29

Part I: Out t h e B l a ck

of the

Blue

i n to

2014 myriad

30

You have called her three times in the past 10 minutes, but a fourth time seems necessary. After all, she needs you; you are the only one she has. You dial the phone with urgency and quickly bring it up to your ear. It rings once. It rings twice, followed by what seems like a long pause. You glance at your phone to see if you are still on the line. Unsure you say, “Hello?” All you hear is the silent whisp of her breath through the receiver. “How’s my Cinnamon Girl?” you ask hoping to lighten the mood. In a bleak emotionless voice she responds, “I just need to be alone right now,” and then goes on to explain how she doesn’t want to be here anymore. “Be where?” you ask hoping your assumptions are wrong.

“Anywhere,” she answers solemnly, “I just want to be gone.”

Your heart skips, as you dig your toes into your shoes. You always knew she had darkness, but not like this.

Scared now, you nervously tell her how much you love her; how you can’t live without her. You remind her of the time you both waited for the sun just staring into each other’s eyes. You remind her of the good things: happy things. She asks you to stop, but you can’t. How could you, knowing you might be the thread keeping her from the edge? You ask where she is.

“At my apartment,” she responds reluctantly. Hoping to drag her into a conversation you continue, “What are you doing?” She tells you that she is sitting in the tub. “A bubble bath?” you ask, knowing you are probably wrong. “No,” she groans, “I’m showering in my depression,” she murmurs in a broken cadence. It’s not hard to tell she is fighting back tears, or trying to at least. “Talk to me!” you plead, “I’m here for you!”

You wait anxiously for a response as you think of a follow up. “I

T r e vo r R a m i r e z

T r e vo r R a m i r e z

T revor R amirez

just can’t be around much longer,” she sobs.

You panic; you remember the suicide prevention video you watched in middle school. You try to think of something to say; anything. “But you have so much to live for!” you blurt out.

“No. . . no I don’t,” she says, “I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep doing this to myself. I know this is the only way.”

“No!” you cry out, “please stop; you’re really scaring me!”

Out of hopeful optimism you remind her that the sky is still blue; the trees are still green. It doesn’t work. You try to assure her, “We still have each other; we will always have each other,” but you already know her mind is made.

“There is something I have to read to you,” she says. You know what this is; this is what you have been dreading, but you wait; you listen. “I want you to know;” she starts, “That you have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been better with me than anyone else could have been. I don’t think two people could have been happier, till this terrible darkness came. I can’t fight any longer. I just know that I am spoiling your life. Without me you could live, breathe, and stop worrying. And you will, I know you will.” She halts attempting to hold herself together, “What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been so patient with me and always tried so hard. I want to say what everybody else already knows; that if anybody could have saved me, it would have been you. I just can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. Just know that I love you.”

There is a silence. You want to say something, or come up with some answer, but your speech has left you. As you listen back into the phone, you hear the silent whisp of her breath; the same breath that kept you going, the same breath that got you out of bed. Then with careful purpose; placing weight on each word she says, “Just remember the Neil song, ‘It’s better to burn out, than to fade away.’” The silent whisp fades into the sharp ring of the dial tone.

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A shiver runs up your spine as you let his third call go to voicemail. You know you can’t ignore him forever, but the thought of his reaction makes you sick. You try to distract yourself by concentrating on the one faded tile just beneath the shower head, but soon it looks the same pale shade of grey as the rest. You are interrupted by the dull buzz of your phone against the cold dry tile in the tub. You try to ignore it telling yourself it’s not there, but the static echo of the vibration builds like the pressure inside your head. You frantically stab at the screen with your finger, trying to make it stop, the muffled noise of his voice suddenly rings against the walls of the shower. You look down at your phone and realize you are on the line. You panic. There is no turning back now. You slowly force the phone up to your ear and listen.

“How’s my cinnamon girl?” he asks with an unnatural enthusiasm. Hoping for an easy exit you tell him you need to be alone, but all you can picture is his worried face. You feel sick. You take a deep breath sucking in the scent of store brand disinfectant, only increasing your nausea. “I just don’t want to be here,” you tell him. He asks you where, as if he doesn’t know what you mean. He has a knack for playing dumb to get information. You close your eyes and tell him you just want to be gone. The panic in his voice is obvious as he tells you how much he needs you. But you know he just can’t see that you are his pain, you are his suffering. The pressure in your head grows.

“Stop!” you blurt out half directed at him, half directed at your growing disorientation. “Where are you?” he asks. You pause deciding whether to stay on the line or not, but the thought of leaving him in the dark brings you back. “I’m sitting in the tub,” you murmur.

“A bubble bath?” he asks.

“No,” you sigh, knowing he is playing dumb, “I’m showering

in my depression.”

Tears begin to form beneath your eyes, but you fight them back. You know tears will only make it worse. “Talk to me!” he pleads. You pull the phone away from your face to hide the sound of your soft sobs. You collect yourself and wipe your eyes.

You tell him again how you just want to be gone. There is a brief pause. “But you have so much to live for!” he blurts out frantically. All you can think of is the pain and depression that you now live to serve.

“No. . . no I don’t,” you respond with sincerity. “I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep doing this to myself. I know this is the only way.” He cries out in a panic. You can hear his voice, but the words are all strung together into one static blur. You reach beneath your left thigh feeling the numbing cold of the dry tub as you grab the letter you wrote him. The lump in your throat grows as you carefully unfold each crease. You pause and stare blankly at the words stained on the paper.

“There is something I have to read to you,” you say as if to prepare him for what he is about to hear. “I want you to know;” you start, “That you have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been better to me that anyone else could have been. I don’t think two people could have been happier, until this terrible darkness came.” Your mind begins to drift as your mouth continues to form the words written on the page.

Your head can’t blow up, can it?

Cause mine feels like it might.

It’s simple physics though, Pressure can only build up so long That’s what I have now pressure.

I see blurs, I see snapshots.

I’m in a car with no breaks.

I need a break.

I need a feeling.

T r e vo r R a m i r e z

T r e vo r R a m i r e z

PART II: FADED TILE

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water you prepared as the pills pile to the back of your throat.

Gulp. You lean back a second time. Gulp. You lean back a third time for good measure. Gulp. That should be enough.

You creep back into the cold corner of the tub anticipating your release from the pain. Your mind drifts more and more with each passing minute.

Give me a break, a break?

That’s disgustingly optimistic Come on you crazy mister I’m that puzzled panther Waiting to be caged Crazy eyes Too small for size Man dies Man dies Man dies Black You are woken by a sharp beep. The beep repeats. The beep comes a third time and as you open your eyes you see multiple figures cloaked in white. You try to get up but one of the white things lays you back down. You are confused. One of the white things leans in towards you and says, “Someone must really care about you.”

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34

Something other than “that feeling” It’s like my shadow, it’s always there.

It’s a shadow, and it’s always there.

“If anybody could have saved me, it would have been you.

I just can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. Just know that I love you” Your eyes follow the crease through the white of the page to the bottom. You pause, with your eyes fixed on the words scribbled in the corner. You breathe deeply, numb now to the smell of the disinfectant.

“Just remember the Neil song.” You close your eyes and picture each word individually as it rolls off your tongue, “It’s better to burn out, than to fade away.” You hang up the phone left with the stale image of his face.

A part of you dies as you slowly draw the phone away from your face.

At least now I won’t have to kill the whole thing.

You hoist yourself up from the corner of the tub and slide the shower door open. You are smacked with the smell of disinfectant as you step onto the knotted rug lying just outside.

Your eyes drift from the tattered strands between your toes to the narrow orange bottle waiting beside the sink. You cautiously approach the bottle and place both hands on the edge of the counter. You look up to see a blurry mess staring back at you in the mirror.

I really don’t know how I came here Not gonna stay here Everything’s changed I’m not scared The past is the past Nothing to fear Your neck cranks back down towards the bottle. The cap has already been removed. Inside lay about 30 white pills, surely enough to do the deed. You take another look at the blob in front of you, and lean back with your lips gripped against the edge of the bottle. You quickly snatch the glass of

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W h at I s P o e t ry ?

A bner G onzalez Poetry is merely a tool, While the poet is the craftsman, The creator, the manipulator, the instigator Of thoughts and emotions so life-like.

And like life, the poet weaves in twists and turns, Surprises he or she is not even aware of.

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2014

Abner Gonzalez

They can make you feel sublime, Simply by admiring the changing colors of the sky.

How the reddish orange reflects off the Monét inspired clouds, Choreographed to slowly drift into a perforated blanket of darkness.

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They can conjure up a great melancholy By dragging the reader into their own personal hell, Exposing them to the myriad of demons torturing their soul.

Or they can get your motor running with clever wordplay, Using plenty of tongue-in-cheek... hold the cheek.

They’ll make the blood flow vigorously through your groin With a story so passionate, so graphic, That it ruins any expectations you might’ve had of love in real life.

But as long as a poet can create poetry, She or he can continue crafting illusions for those in need.

Because poets, of all people should know, That we as humans are all just searching for something to feel, Something to let us know that we are real.

Veronica Wagner CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE

L e o pa r d F a n tas y

37

Walk

around q u i e t ly !

Campus:

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Cigarette butts will always stand out in clean places.

Thoughts are not as loud when you walk with an unknown destination. Signs seem louder. The repetitive beeping sound of bobtails in reverse is more prominent. Brown dried leaves about to fall beg to be touched. In silence, airplanes seem closer to the ground than usual. The silk in petals of small, yellow-pale flowers caress me at my fingertips. The scent of fresh, early grass champions over all other scents. The cool breeze’s nonchalant soothing touch upon the sweat on my forehead refreshes in a way that keeps me waiting for it to momentarily return and touch me once again. I prefer shade. The sun is not kind to those dressed in black clothing. Men in wrinkled denim and five dollar aviator shades and unshaven faces always seem hung-over. Everything is louder in silence; even the ticklish, mild stings from tips of grass blades on the back of exposed legs are prominent. Birds’ chirps are noticed; coughs are annoying and seem exaggerated. Everything seems irrelevant when unused or unoccupied and makes one realize that everything is not needed at all times; only oxygen and gravity.

In silence, both predator and prey are obvious.

There is more respect and a sense of order in silence, but is it in silence or in tranquility? For they are not the same thing; silence is only silence.

One can be agitated in silence too. Although, when one is agitated or distraught in silence, for some reason, it never seems that way. However, the atmosphere need not be silent in order for one to achieve tranquility and peacefulness.

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In silence, shadows of trees upon the walls of brick buildings make sense. Fenced up properties also contain more purpose; for their location and height. In silence, thirsts grow quicker and fluids are more in demand. Women seem more attractive and distant. Confusion is a friendly racist who isn’t as socially active as when silence is not present. Noises seem measured and judged and cause one to ask: was that noise natural or was it caused? Every unnatural sound seems an interruption when one is in the meditative mode of silent tranquility. The swallow of one’s own saliva even seems uncalled for. The pain on the wrist from writing non-stop for three college ruled pages is also loud, bright and a non-cooperative part of nature. We can read each other’s thoughts much clearer in silence. And beauty is available to all; when one walks around campus, quietly.

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Carlos Ornelas

Carlos Ornelas

C arlos O rnelas

In tranquility, pages can be filled with language much easier than in hostile and noisy environments. In silence and tranquility, the universe is so much more vivid than otherwise. Shades and lights; colors and tones; sounds and ambiance stand out as perky nipples do on cute braless women. Even lamp poles during the daylight hours seem to have a purpose. Palm trees seem less natural and more of a threat however. What if palm trees, all of a sudden, decided to fall for no apparent reason? What then? I am sure at least one person would die as a result of such an occurrence.

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God’s Tears J ohn D ay God’s tears Splashing through the downspout clinking like a beggar’s coins inside a battered cup.

The sky is dark and angry The land below is grey.

Across the kitchen table her eyes begin to narrow and I think that this is it.

I reach across the table No hand meets mine half way.

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In youth we chose each other, we said our vows together with no thoughts past that day We promised it forever.

It looks like our forever Gets one more day today.

I get up from the table to grab my hat and raincoat and make my way outside Waiting in the downpour Until her hand finds mine

J o h n D ay

J o h n D ay

She pauses in the doorway, throws a glance my way and smiles her little smile I sigh a silent sigh She shuts the bedroom door

God’s tears Feed the land forever but just like my forever, the land drinks day-by-day.

The tears flow to the river Seeking out the ocean The storm-tossed dark grey ocean Where we stand today.

In youth we chose each other, we said our vows together, we promised it forever I now know that forever Is paved with day-by-day Sometimes we’re fire and tinder, each angrier than the other in voice and words and silence Paper cut and open wound Meet lemon juice and salt Other times I heal her, in kindness she too heals me.

Together we both soothe the scars The scars that never heal

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Tony P Still Hopes

Stephanie Sleiman for

Life

Girl, You’ll Be

a

W o ma n S o o n

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Help

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Father appears as a brawling, inhuman beast that’s about to pounce and tear him viciously when he least expects it.

Cringing in the corner of his bedroom, his father stood with his brawny arms tightly crossed together as he stood at 6’3, blocking the door. His father slowly bends his finger at him, motioning for him to come. The jogger shook his head tensely with tearful eyes displaying so much fear and pain. Breathing infuriatingly, his father walked towards the jogger. In panic, he pulled a chair to block his father from reaching him; he cried and screamed, pleading to his father to stop. He even apologized for whatever wrong he did, but the father merely ignored and angrily threw the chair out of the way towards a wall and smashed into pieces…

No!! Stop…please!!

Then, another piece of the jogger’s memory flashed while he continued running hastily as he still heard his child-voice screaming in absolute terror. More pieces of his past came randomly, like shattered shards from a broken mirror. The clear recollection of that distinctive, rattling sound of his father’s leather belt buckle would make whenever he’d take it out of the closet, or when he’d remove it from his waist jeans.

The rattling echoed in the jogger’s head, he deliberately shook it…

No, daddy!! Please, stop!! HELP!! The sound of the belt viciously swift up in the air then strikes down on the jogger’s naked back…

The jogger’s upper body jerked in convulsion and then he grunted profane words, trying to block it all out…

“PLEASE!! NO…HEEELLLP!!” The jogger howled in excruciating pain as his father fiercely tore down his shorts and underwear and whipped his buttocks with a long, lanky wire for “tattle-telling on him to his teacher about him touching

P at r i ck M a r t i n e z

P at r i ck M a r t i n e z

P atrick M artinez

him and beating him. The execution went by slowly and seemingly endlessly…

Altogether, the horrible flashes and his earlier thoughts mashed together were incoherent to him. He held up his sweaty biceps over his head and looked up briefly at the sky as he repeatedly attempted to block it all out.

Turning another corner at the end of the street, he headed to Jane Addams Park. In the middle of the semi-circle area in the park there was a large bird bath fountain. Pacing towards it, he intended to touch the tip of the side, turn around and run back home. He was almost finished. For a moment’s break, the jogger stopped to catch his breath as he slightly bent over with his hands on his knees. He straightened back up and looked both sides of the park and briefly gazed at the children running around, yelling, laughing and screaming relentless joy. Their mothers, fathers, or grandparents were watching over them cautiously. The jogger was about to take off.

As if seeing a ghost, the sight of a tense, little boy, instantly put a brake on him. He almost lost his balance and stumbled down on the cement.

Sitting on a swing all alone, isolated from everyone, the little boy was directly several feet away from the jogger’s opposite side direction, under a large elm tree. The little boy’s tense body hardly moved; he just sat there on the swing, grippingly holding the sides of the chain, so to keep from falling.

That face…that little boy’s sad face was eerily familiar to the jogger. Unbelievably, strangely and almost shocking for the jogger. It was as if looking at a mirror. From one side of his mirror, he stands as a grown young man, looking at a reflection of his child self. In a trance, he calmly walked towards the sad, tense, small child and tried not to look visibly alarmed what so ever. Standing 6’1 ½—almost surpassing his father‘s height—not wanting to frighten the boy with his powerful, strong physique, the jogger slowly kneeled down on one knee

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to eye, they felt an indescribable connection…

For the jogger, it felt too surreal, so eerie and powerfully intense, but not in a way that he’d scream or run off. It was intensely heartbreaking; it was a face of his past with a familiar expression for a cry for help. Altogether, it made him want to take and hug the boy tightly and never let go. Meanwhile, for the little boy, he felt a strong immediate attachment, even though very overwhelmed by the fact that until now, he was never noticed by anyone else in the park or the previous days in school, no one would stop to look at him; no one even care. It was as if he was nonexistent. Until being approached by the jogger, no one had ever treated him delicately. He’d never spoken with a person who seemed to have the quality of an angel or a superhero. A strong warm feeling deep within, assured the boy that with his heaven-sent Guardian Angel, he’d be safe. He even sensed that there was a chance of being wanted and loved.

“Who did this to you?’’

The jogger asked slowly and gently, but the boy didn’t respond. The jogger could tell that the kid wanted to, instead his bruised, tearful face and frightened eyes answered his question. But the jogger needed to make sure…

“Did this happen at school?’’ The boy shook his head.

“Did this happen at home?’’ The boy’s eyes briefly looked away for a moment.

“Hmm?’’ the jogger hummed at him, in response, the child nodded his head nervously.

Slowly, the jogger rose up again and held out his hand.

Timidly, the boy looked up at the jogger’s face and then down at his open hand. He took his time but he finally gave his trembling, cold hand out to his superhero’s strong, oversized hand. The jogger delicately lifted him off the swing and observed his trembling fragile, body. In his arms, the boy felt as light as a feather and delicate as a glass doll. As he set the boy on the ground, he saw more red marks in the back of the

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46

and spoke softly in a compassionate tone.

“Hey, kid? Are you okay’’ The little boy didn’t respond. His body trembled, as if he was cold by the slight breeze, but that was not the case. The jogger carefully observed the boy. However, he couldn’t clearly see the boy’s entire face, for he slightly looked away, facing the grass. He seemed as if he wanted to hide what he wore on his face; the child was trying to hide it from the world—especially the jogger.

“Hey, little boy, are you out here all alone?’’

Timidly, the boy quickly nodded his head; he sniffled as he forcefully tried to breathe. The boy seemed as though were crying silently; his chest was trembling. He appeared to be trying to have so much pain and fear deep inside, and it seemed as if any minute he would possibly break. The jogger, tried to tilt his head to the side, so to directly face the boy, but couldn’t quite get a full view. The jogger gently reached out his left hand, touched the child’s chin (it felt icy cold) and slowly tried to turn his face to look directly at him. But the boy deliberately held his head in position.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.’’ The jogger spoke slowly and delicately trying not to make the boy feel as if he were being interrogated.

“Look at me. Please?’’ Slowly, the boy obeyed and faced him. There were a few bruises; on the side of his mouth, right cheek, right eye and a red nose, and a trace of dry blood where was sloppily wiped off. It was obvious to the jogger. Besides reading the child’s hauntingly familiar face, his terrified tearful eyes said so much—fear, pain, loneliness and a very familiar cry for help. The little boy looked away as if he was going to cry, as if in shame.

“Hey,’’ the jogger laid his hand on the boy’s right shoulder gently. “It’s ok. It’s all right.’’

He nodded at the child trying to assure him that he wasn’t in any trouble. As they both faced each other and looked eye

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know. The boy stared intently back and nervously waited.

“Did somebody at home do all of this you?’’

For a moment, the boy didn’t answer. The boy looked down at the ground again shamefully, out of some inner fear of worrying if he’d ever get caught telling to someone else. He hesitantly nodded.

“You haven’t eaten in a while, either?’’ The boy swallowed, licked his lips, and sadly looked deeply at the jogger’s eyes as he shook his head slowly.

Fucking hateful, heartless, scum. He was starving the kid too. I want to do him all the things he‘s been doing to this boy. After I castrate that sadistic, perverted, son of a bitch I want to burn him.

“Hey kid, are you hungry? I can buy you something at Subway. It’d fill you right up and make your stomach warm.

Plus, it‘s really good for you.’’

The little boy nodded. As they were about to walk off together, he immediately noticed the boy was limping as he tried to walk straight. The boy grunted and made small whimpering noises as he tried to keep his body straightened up and force himself to walk normal. The jogger instantly picked him up to carry him in his arms. Alarmingly, the boy patted the jogger’s shoulder to stop him for a moment. The little boy looked pleadingly as he faced his Guardian Angel.

“Please don’t tell my daddy,’’ he said softly out of unimaginable fear. The jogger looked deep into the boy’s eyes with so much compassion.

“Don’t worry kid, he’s not gonna know about any of this. In fact, I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure he’ll never put his hand on you, ever again. I’ve got you.’’ He smiled warmly at him. In response, the little boy hugged his savior around his big strong neck and gave a single kiss on his left cheek.

Even though it’s been years since Angelo, the jogger, had

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boy’s tattered dark blue t-shirt with a patched hole almost wide torn open…

Fuck. That evil, sadistic son of bitch… Fucking monster.

Thought the jogger, he started to bite the inside of his cheek and felt so much rage, shock and stirred with an immense amount of pain for the boy. His fiery eyes began to build up some tears, but tried not to break. He continued to examine the boy; there were more bruises on various places of his body. On his arms, legs, the marks indicated that a belt had been used. A few faded scars on his arms, made it highly possible that the boy had been cut with a sharp edged weapon.

Apparently, the jogger and the boy shared more than two dimensional identities, for he himself still had a few scars on his body that hadn’t completely faded. Lastly, the jogger noticed something distinctively visible on the lower back side of his faded, thin, partially torn shorts.

What the fuck…?

The jogger’s expression appeared upset, for he couldn’t discern what that dark red color was and how could it just appear on that certain place of his shorts. He observed a little closer…suddenly his face turned aghast.

Oh my God. No. The jogger was enraged as he slowly shook his head in utter disbelieve. Small strands of blood stains were exposed on the lower back side of the boy’s shorts. The little boy had just been raped. The blood was still wet. The jogger couldn’t contain feelings for the boy any longer, he silently cried as he turned the child face to face and hugged him tightly. He now never wanted to let him go. After a long heartbreaking moment of silence, the jogger faced the child, his tears were then gently wiped away by the boy’s bony little finger. He appeared to be too thin for his size.

“Can I ask you something?’’

The jogger uneasily asked in hesitation, he really needed to

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2014

been repressing his shattered childhood, the severe trauma abuse scars never faded completely. It’s like dark red wine spilled on a beautiful white silk sheet. No matter what you do, it won’t wash off completely… It’s almost like blood. Sometimes when it comes to certain memories that you don’t wish to be reminded of, it’s convenient to simply forget them. But in Angelo’s case, it wasn’t something he could easily let go. He couldn’t bury it deep and hope that his inner demon would die eventually. He had been haunted almost constantly, sometimes in his nightmares and even in broad daylight, by the tortured, by the unimaginable dark period of his shattered childhood. He’d been running away from it every day of his life.

However, after encountering the abused little boy and having saved him, it changed Angelo’s life. Not only did he save the child from years of severe emotional and physical abuse he would’ve endured, but in counterpart, the child in a way saved him too. The boy helped him get rid of his own inner demons. Just knowing that the little boy would never be touched by his father and would surely be safe because of him, Angelo felt he was on the path of self-healing. Angelo knew that he would not be waking up in the dark ever again by the horrible screaming of that little boy he once was. Both Angelo and the little boy have found peace.

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Taemi Nagahama Portfolio

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C o e x i st i n g M arlina M ossberg What is Diversity?

A sunset, with swirls of brilliant dye that eventually will blend on the canvas in the sky A forest, sprouting both skyscraper trees and spiky grass that still dance in the same breeze

A salad, filled with iceberg lettuce, crisp as frost blanketing rosy tomatoes, kissing as it is tossed

If diversity can be shown in a flower or a shell, shouldn’t we all learn to embrace it just as well?

M a r l i n a M o ssb e r g

The ocean, where salmon, whales, and bait all possess the same goal to not end up on a plate

A playground, home to children, freckled, shy, or tall that are still willing to share the same ball

A bag of m&ms, sheltering candies stained in every which color, though inside they are the same

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Emmanuel Spindola Solitude

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R e cta n g u l a r S l a bs B onnillee K aufman (dedicated to my dear friend J.Sanchez)

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Standing shoulder to shoulder On the windy hillside Under makeshift shelter Stiffly starched soldiers choreograph Flag folding, gun salutes, Bugles howl somber tones Clouds in attendance Close on cue like Opaque sun drapes.

Standing shoulder to shoulder On the windy hillside Under makeshift shelter We pledged allegiance Stifled sobs of sentimentality The flag ceremoniously handed Over, it doesn’t get grander.

If I visited that cemetery today I would not know Which rectangular stone To turn to.

B o n n i l l e e K au f m a n

B o n n i l l e e K au f m a n

Veterans line the grassy hillside In rigid formation Identical, her father, Hilario Laid to rest.

U.S. Army issue pomp and fuss More than Hilario garnered alive In the casket Laid out suit handsome No one dared mention paradox His daughter often found him shriveled Down on luck Near the bus depot sometimes Linked arms, went home together Other times A solemn exchange As if strangers, she’d hand over food Sandwiched in woolen blankets A bottle of irascible strong enough To obliterate feeling used By one’s country. Disposable.

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L e tt e r

to t h e

M a ss e s

M arco A guilar

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2014

Marco Aguilar

The system is broken we’re hopeless and our prisons are open It’s a pool full of failure so I’m the one chosen Tell the government none, tell ‘em my gun is loaded weighing a ton ‘Cus to them we’ve become one And they done shun a shadow under my sun So my son’s son will have their life shadowed once more before it begun

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Before the sun rises our name will rise Our revolution will be televised through the electric lights of our nights Why were they so worried ‘bout finding Saddam When our Allah was being prayed to when they couldn’t find peace in Iraq I am the answer for a song yet unsung You could not stop me even if my words could not run I will not stop until Edgar Allen could not analyze my thoughts I am Poe, I am broke and I am a poet with a million poems yet to be spoken I am open for hopeless moments and stories told of struggle on street corners My perspective isn’t well respected to the skeptics I am the one selected My objective is and will be correcting that which is defected This is food for thought and to the table this is what I brought So please contribute to what we got I’m a firm believer that there is a god So if your deposit is silence, they’ll pay you back with what you bought

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little red riding hood

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Unworthy, I Know C orrine K osidlak how is it that they write poetry in verses that I cannot fathom the rhythm that they write poetry in words I now know I never understood

myriad

2014

Corrine Kosidlak

I hope this: that someday I will see my thoughts in words as beautiful as their minds which bring feelings I could only think so that others, too, might wonder me

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S a l u tat i o n s

to

Spring

to

Self

O mar M archand

The blood is disquiet With a hesitating heart This is winters spell.

The self-fabricated enslavement I was about to fall into seems to have fogged my mind, because I can only remember the chimes of the bells from the drive to the church. Yet, even in this seemingly delirious state, I can still acknowledge her beauty. My eyes dart away as she walks down the aisle, for the white of her dress reflects the light from the room where my family sits. I had considered whether I wanted to do this for years now. And, here I am standing in front of her with the same melancholic silence men have when facing the face they will see when they die. As the bells ring for midday the priest begins, “And Ben do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife to love and to cherish her, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do you part?”

The problem, as far as I can remember, began in high school. Julia and I had only been dating for two months before the first day of high school, so we walked into class together holding hands; both our palms were rather sweaty.

When she reluctantly released me, my hand hit the cool morning air and felt refreshing. Julia and I sat right across from each other, because she wanted to remain close.

As the teacher began the class, I began to examine those around me. There were a few people I knew from middle school. It was nice to see familiar faces. Then, there were others I’d never seen. I’d heard some upperclassmen took freshman courses because they either failed the years before or had never taken them at all. I tried to decipher and categorize which upperclassmen had failed from those that hadn’t. I liked to categorize everything because things seemed easier after placing everything into its appropriate category.

My categorizing game had concluded two fails and five never-taken when I came across him. I’d never looked at another man with lust until that moment. His lips had a

Cold kisses succumb To flourishing new colors The land has renewed.

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G a ry S m i t h

Spores grace the blue skies To pursue their kindred souls The joyness of spring

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Omar Marchand

G ary S mith

Intoxicating The morning dew is thickening The rising sun stirs.

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A Farewell

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“I just don’t know how exactly I’m supposed to say this!” I shouted, aggravated.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she returned softly and I could see she genuinely cared for what I had to say. “It’s the only way I can help you.”

“You’re right.” I still had the same difficulty breathing, like the moment when one earns a beating and the sweat and the stress have stopped all reason. Pausing, I took in a deep breath. “Mother, I think I’m gay.”

“What?!” she spat. “Are you confused or what?”

“No, I’m not confused!”

“Well, you ought to think of Julia. Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

The stuttering returned at the thought of Julia’s hands pressed against mine. “W-well, (uhh) I li-like her. I like J-J-Julia and all. I just d-don’t kn-n-now (uhh) if I like-like her?”

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

“I’m just not attracted to her in the way you’re expecting.”

“That doesn’t make any sense! Sit down here.”

“Mom,—” “Let me feel your head.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Of course, you’re sick! You’re not thinking straight. I raised you all by myself. I know I didn’t raise my son to be gay.

You’re just going through this phase. Yes, that is what it is. A phase…”

“Mom. Please.”

“You know what it is? You haven’t had a male influence in your whole life and this has sickened you.”

“Listen, mom. There’s this boy at school. He and I finally—” “You know, I overheard the Newmans were having the same problem with their son a few years ago. They sent him to this camp with the church, and he’s all better now.”

“I am in love. I—”

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delicate coral pigment that made them look more comforting and inviting than any another lips I’d ever seen before, which provoked the question of how they might feel upon mine.

Not only were his lips nice, but they were nicely framed by his strong jaw. It wasn’t just a mere robust jaw; there was a kindness about it that tranquilized my deranged thoughts.

But his most beautiful feature was his eyes, the kind of eyes that could be stared at for hours as they transported you to an endless, serene river of organized chaos. Those benign eyes might have cleared all the malevolence in the world, if only the world could only see them like I saw them. He was beautiful.

“Ben, are you still in there?”

“What?”

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the priest beamed. “(Uuh) Yes! Yes! Of-f course.”

The overwhelming emotion of confessing my homosexual perversion was defeated upon warring with a memory: the first time I committed that error. It was junior year of high school, and I had been with Julia for three years. I remained with her. Repression was my only solution. But, after those years, the burden of lying about myself became almost unbearable, the urge to confess overwhelmed me, and I looked to my mother.

Once at home, I sat her down. Hyperventilation created a stutter in my speech, making it the more difficult to convey my emotions in a respectably eloquent manner. “M-mom, I (uhh) th-think th-that… I (umm) I-I am…” While an overwhelming concern struck her face, I hoped standing up would ease my anxiety “Are you feeling well, Benny?”

“No!” I said, as her eyes paced back and forth with me. “I mean, yes. I’m okay.”

“Why are you rubbing your forehead? Is everything alright?”

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On the final day, we filed into the theatre with our mindforged manacles clanging to each step we took. David went to the front of the theatre to give his practiced soliloquy: “Hello everyone. Well, I am glad that we have all made it this far in our little journey. Today is a bitter-sweet day, I hold, because we will, without doubt, see some of you go and graduate and live healthy. However, we will also see some of you fail. Still, I hope for the best. Today, I do not want any of you to get an erection. Alright, let’s begin.”

The movie started. It was a different film, something we’d never seen before. In this case, it seemed as if there were only guys. I was confused until it began. The guy who was protected by his denim jeans from being entirely naked began to take them off while other male figures surrounded him.

So, the film went on. I didn’t want to like it, but I did. This was my perversion, but David didn’t understand. I fell back deeper into the chair to seclude myself from the rest of the boys, for I didn’t want them to see my failure in the search for potency. I had the deepest sense of shame, which weighed down upon my perverted thoughts.

I was a blemish on society’s face.

When my mother arrived to pick me up from camp she had to meet with David. He had to tell her of my failure. I waited outside of his office. My head never rose above my shoulders.

As my mother came out of the meeting with David, I couldn’t find the courage to look at her. We sat in silence for two hours on the car ride home. I knew I would be sent back to the woods in a week but that didn’t bother me. I would train for the test to come.

The week at home my mother avoided conversation and left me to solace in silence. I didn’t mind. The week at home was surprisingly nice because I watched the leaves of the tree in the front yard fall down, as if the leaves were stress that the tree was releasing. Over the week, the leaves that weren’t swept away by the wind browned and seemingly died. All the

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The nails of her paws slashed my face draining me of my self-worth, my pride, and my esteem. “Stop! Stop right there, Ben! I don’t want to hear of your disreputable sins in this house.”

I ran to my room to seek shelter and stayed there for the following months. Deep, dark, death-likes solitude was my refuge from my mother’s unrelenting howling in the months prior to my departure. And, I was forced to stay with Julia, too, because she forbade me from ending my relationship.

Fearing I would follow up on my sinful sexual desires, I was signed up for camp. In the meanwhile, my mother planned to wolf down, stick her fangs, and kill any gay action or thought I might construct.

Her incessant murmur of prayer and cries for my future followed me to camp where the woods imprisoned me. The leaves had all fallen down, and they lay on the ground like an etherized patient lays numb to the world. The bare branches of the trees protruded over my head, like the thin limb of an emaciated addict searching for its fix. Yet, in this case, the trees only desired water, for the ground was dry and stale.

I was to live on this ground were no other could.

David, a now straight man that had been saved from his homosexuality adolescence by the camp, created an incessant stomping upon the ground that, even as I tried to block from disturbing my mind and other senses, kept interrupting my thoughts.

Every day, he played “straight” porn for all the boys. Thirty of us sat side by side, watching the screen, hopefully get erect, walk over to David’s office, and drop our pants. Every day, David would feel my vigor with his hands, which always caressed me continually. Every day, he would determine with the same meticulous delicacy, by which an old man chooses his last words, to check if I was vigorous enough and if I had met his standards. There was a science to it in his deluded eyes; after the daily display, he wrote down the height, width, and strength for his records.

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A nthony R hone I returned to the wandering state of Eraldine, once the life of my heart.

Old scents greeted as my boots hit the planks Then the somber eyes and stifling legs, shifting with the waves, and the tides of toil and the ache of age.

Then the sound of stripped lungs, flopping like fresh-catch.

I went to the old hut on the old block, Adrift along the edge. There I dreamed again, on the wind-soaked cot. It all stayed the same, very much the same. Even the wooden man I carved as a child, from a mainland tree.

The waters whispered in my slumber. I heard so clearly. I could not stay much longer within this drifting state of Eraldine.

Once the life of my heart, precisely a shield.

Now withered and sinking, like a wayward seal.

It could be said, I left it long ago; long before I slipped aboard that rotting merchant’s boat. To the place that stares along, away, and is ever marching, to the golden sky and vast wonders - for now to be left unsaid.

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Omar Marchand

The Ocean Home

Anthony Rhone

weight the tree once had to carry was now gone.

When my mother dropped me off at camp once more I said goodbye and she replied; I was happy to hear her speak to me again. The month followed the same routine as the previous month. Every day was the same, and so was the final day. Again David walked into the theatre to deliver his speech with the same careful tone, the same exact words, and the same reassuring look in his eyes that this is just a phase.

I finished the movie with success, and though I knew I would have passed my second time I didn’t feel relief. As my mother walked out of the room with David there was a radiating smile on her face.

“That’s my boy!” she said. “I knew I didn’t raise a gay son.

I’m so proud of you.”

As the bell chimes wake me from my reverie, I find Julia crying. They are not tears of sadness but of joy, for this is what she has been asking for since freshman year of high school.

“Ben, you may kiss the bride,” the priest continues.

And, so I do. She looks back at me, smiling and mouthing the words “I love you.” I know she loves me, but she loves me for the way I present myself—not who I am—and same with mother and everyone else in the room. r

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Muse T iana P ugliese If I could reshape the world it would resemble you Moutains would be formed from the mold of your shoulders and trees would only grow leaves the color of your eyes The wind would mimic your laugh Soil would blend to the shade of your skin and the salty oceans would taste like your kiss

The beauty mark by your eyebrow would be the north star and your freckles would make the constilations The lines on the palms of your hands would be your map and your smile a compass pointing you in my direction

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Tiana Pugliese

The sun would adjust to the temperature of your body heat so every ray felt like you are standing next to me The night sky would be painted the tint of your hair and the moon would match the pearly whiteness of your teeth

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K at h y U r s o Wipeout

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