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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

JOIN US NEXT YEAR...

MYRIAD Mission Statement

2016

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 the community and is committed to providing equal opportunity for all individuals regardless of ethnicity, religion, age, gender, sexual orientation, or physical/mental disability.

Acknowledgements The Myriad staff wish to thank the following people for their commitment and support: John Fordiani Joyce Dallal The Students of Art 143 The Union Newspaper Staff and Faculty Advisors The Humanities Division

YO U M AY S U B M I T: • 3 pieces of artwork • 3 poems • 1 short story (less than 5000 words)

Please include your full name, student ID, title of work(s), and contact information.

Submissions will be collected midway through the Spring semester during week 8.

All written entries must be typed and submitted in .doc format. All artwork must be submitted in .gif, .jpg, .bmp, or .png format.

w ww.m yri adecc.com

Table

of

Contents

OR L A N D O M U RA L L E S . ............. 1

B R A NDO N JOSEPH PARK . . . . . . . . . 22

JUAN CIGARROA . .................. 4 0

MI KE G I B S O N...................... 57

A N G I E RA M I RE Z .. . . . ............... 2

R A BYA ZUB ERI .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

DAVID GRAHAM DI XO N . . ......... 41

MA RL I N A MO S S B E RG . ............ 6 3

J U L I A N - A DA M D . RE Y E S . ...........9

J A ME E PA LMER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

YUKO SHIM ADA .. . ................. 4 2

S T E P H A N I E G UE RRE RO . .......... 6 5

A LI FA RRO KH Z A D. . . .............. 10

WINTER

PALO MO

CHRYSALI S

JAN GSEU N G

AR T

M AU I T R EE

THE EYE

O N PO ETRY

FLI G HTLESS SO NG BI RD

BAD ASS

THE DAY

TACO STAND

ZACHA RY J ACOB RUIZ . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5 SAF ET Y F IRST

FERN AND O VAZQU E Z . ............ 4 3

DAVI D RA MO S ...................... 6 6

"D O YO U K N OW?"

W I LLI A M WA L KE R. . . .............. 11

J O SE PH L. WHIT ED.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 T H E SLU M S

L EANN M CEL HANEY . .............. 4 5

DI E G O T E RRY....................... 67

COCO ON

OR LY N J A M E S M ATUTE . .......... 12

R E NÉ PA R A MORE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 F IERY O R B IT

M IKE PHIL L IPS.. . .................. 4 6

A B N E R G O N Z A L E Z . ................ 6 8

NOT IN F EELS

PAU L A G E E RL I G S . . . . .............. 13

MO NIC A B E NDER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 9

KHED RA GIPSON.................. 47

A S H L E Y C H O I . . ..................... 6 9

A R I AN N A V I L L A S O R .............. 14 YA DIR A AGREDAN O .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 C O SEC H A ET ER NA

NICHOL AS PACHECO . ............. 4 8

KAT I A S A RRO C A. .................. 7 0

STALKER

ELY S E ROYC E . . . . . . . . .............. 15

E R IN A SHLEY YAM AS AKI. . . . . . . . . 31 C O M E B AC K TO ME

VINCENT M AR T INDA L E............ 4 9

RA N DY J A ME S ...................... 71

AD O PTED )

S ON I A C A S TI L L O.. . . . .............. 17

A N HU....... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

M ANUEL DOM ING UE Z............. 51 MA RI A H . A N DRA DE RE Y E S...... 7 3

I D IED FOR B EAUT Y #2

A D ED IC AT IO N TO THE NAV Y SEALS

G O NE WI TH THE WI ND

ARR O W

HO PEFUL

HO PE

WALLFLO WER

M OR NING GLOW

LOVE M AKES 5 T H GR ADER S PUKE

M ANGO, M Y PASSION FR UIT

M AY DAY

JOY

ANNA’ S HUM M INGBIR DS

CHAO S

SENTIM IENTOS ATR APADOS

MAT T HE W N A KAYA M A.. ........... 18 A N A K J I MENEZ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 ME ME ME

HHCITA .. . . . . . . . . . . .................. 5 2

G I L B E R T O C A S T RO. ............... 74

B LO OD M OON )

T O N Y M A U RI C E S M I T H .......... 19

L AYL A MO NT UFAR .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 GO IN G F O R GOYO

S T EFI M ARIE RUB I O. ............. 5 3

KY L E MI T C H E L L B I T T MA N ........ 7 5

LIFE O N M Y PLAN ET: C ON C LU SIO N S

BL A I Z E A L I - WATKI N S. ............ 2 0

J ACLYN S A NT IAGO.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 SO L ITARY P REFERENCE

EU GENE CHANG .. .................. 5 5

O RL A N DO MURA L L E S . ............ 8 2

EYE SEE YOU

CH R I S T O P H E R P I G AO . . ........... 21

DE VI N L A NDGREN .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

C AM IL L E AL IGU E . ................. 5 6

E DI T O R B I O......................... 8 3

NATURAL C AR NAG E

NO MO PH OB I A

SEL F P O RT R AI T

WE WI LL

SEPARAT IN G SPACE

EDEN

O UR SPOT

THE CLO UD

REST

PATH OF THE WAYWAR D WANDER ER

TR AIN OF THOUGHT

SUM M ER

M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Palomo ANGIE R AM IR EZ

W

e were born one week apart. He went first, to make sure it was safe for me.

Papa’s dog had puppies and my parents gave them all up except for one. He was white with black spots and they named him Palomo. I was brown with pink spots and they named me Alejandra.

He learned to walk before I did and taught me how. Mama never let me go into the front yard, she said it wasn’t safe for her little flor. So Palomo and I played in the backyard and sometimes I lay down in the grass with him and rested my head on his belly. I remember Mama saying to me, “Don’t play with him, he’s going to bite you.”

Palomo had a favorite pelota amarilla. We had so many but he thought they were all his one favorite pelota amarilla. I threw it and he chased it and I chased him, over and over until the sun went down and Mama called, “Alejandra! Stop playing with that dog and come inside. It’s time for dinner.”

If I knew, I never would have stopped.

1

A ngie R amirez

O rlando M uralles

W I N T E R • O RL AN D O M U R AL L ES

One summer day I threw the pelota amarilla over the fence. Palomo raised an eyebrow and said with his eyes, “Why did you do that niña?” I did not hear him because there was a shout from the other side. “Ay! What was that?” I ran to peek through a hole.

A skinny boy with funny hair that went everywhere searched the sky. He rubbed the back of his head with one hand and in his other he held the pelota amarilla.

“Lo siento!” I shouted through the fence, “I threw it too hard.” He looked toward my voice and saw my eye. He came over and put his face up to the hole. Palomo tried to stand up and see too but I said, “Stop pushing me, nosy! There’s only room for one.

Don’t worry, I’ll get your pelota amarilla back.”

“Who are you talking to?” the boy asked.

“Palomo,” I said.

He nodded in solemn understanding.

“Me llamo Jose,” he said.

“Me llamo Alejandra,” I told him. “Can you throw the pelota amarilla back please?

It’s Palomo’s favorite.” He tossed it over and Palomo spun around, chasing the sound.

He jumped like a see-saw.

2

M Y R I A D 2 0 1 5 • P alomo

3

The first day I went to school Palomo went with me all the way to the front gate. My parents never let me go out alone, and that day my brothers walked with me. I patted Palomo’s head as he poked it through the iron bars, scratching the spot behind his eyes, how he liked. But he frowned.

“Don’t worry Palomo, I’ll be ok.” I said.

He nudged my hand with his wet nose, “I don’t trust anyone but myself to keep you safe, niña.”

I told him, “I’ll be ok. You taught me good. ‘Stay away from bad smells and don’t eat anything green.’ Easy.”

My brother Ricky said, “Stop talking to that dog, he doesn’t understand what you say anyway.”

I said, “Yes, he does.”

“Don’t be a tonta Alejandra, dogs can’t understand people,” he said. But I looked back at Palomo and he told me with his eyes that he understood. He cocked his head and grinned, “Ricky doesn’t know that I see him eat his boogers. He does it when he thinks nobody is watching.” I giggled until Ricky asked me what was so funny and I snorted “Nothing!” through my hands.

Jose and I were in the same class. We sat next to each other and he drew pictures of the teacher and gave them to me. They were so funny, but I tried not to laugh because I liked Mrs. Smith. I didn’t even mind how she called me Ah-lay-hawn-druh.

Sometimes Jose came over to play with me and Palomo. The first few times he visited Palomo didn’t like him, but eventually he got used to his smell.

Jose once said, “My dad doesn’t like dogs. But I like dogs. I like Palomo, at least.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Your papa doesn’t like dogs?”

Jose said, “No. I don’t think he likes anything. He doesn’t like me or my mom.

Sometimes he yells at her and calls her bad names and she says, ‘Please, not in front of Jose.’ Sometimes he stops but sometimes not. But even when I’m not there I can still

hear them. He would never let me get a dog. But that’s ok because you and Palomo are here and I like you. You’re my friends. Right?”

I couldn’t believe it. “Your papa calls your mama bad names? Like how my brothers always call each other? Sometimes Papa yells too, but he yells at them to stop fighting and go clean their room.”

Palomo just dropped his pelota amarilla at Jose’s feet, stuck out his scratchy pink tongue, and said with his eyes, “You’re my friend. Please throw the pelota amarilla now.”

Jose picked it up and he threw it and Palomo chased it and we chased him, over and over until the sun went down and Mama called, “Alejendra! Jose! Stop playing with that dog and come inside. It’s time for dinner.”

I listened from then on to see if what Jose said was true, that his papa really yelled like that. I couldn’t hear anything, but Palomo sat down beside me, twitched his ears, and said with his eyes, “No niña, you’re not doing it right. Let me show you.” So he showed me and then I heard. I thought Jose’s papa must have been like my brothers as a boy but his papa never told him to stop fighting and go clean his room. That’s why he was still fighting, and his room was probably still messy.

Jose and I were in the same class every year until high school. He never stopped drawing his funny pictures and I never stopped laughing at them. He never stopped coming over to play with Palomo and his papa never stopped hating dogs.

Sometimes after Jose went home my brothers would run their hands through their hair to make it stick up everywhere and imitate him. They made me so angry I would cry and shout at them, “Stop it! You’re stupid!” and they burst out laughing and hooting, acting even more stupid until Papa shouted, “Silencio!” and told them to do their homework. I would run to Palomo and hug him and dry my tears on his fur and he would pant in my ear, “Why do you do that, niña?”

Then one day, when I was doing math in the kitchen, Mama wandered in and blurted out that “we need to start planning for your quinceañera, and we need to think of all the people we want to invite and what colors we will use to decorate the house and we need to start thinking about your dress, oh my god your dress! we need to pick out your dress, and we need to hire a DJ and we need to hire a caterer and—and—” and I let her do the talking because it made her happy and I liked that. I didn’t see what the big deal was though; it was just my fifteenth birthday.

But the day of my quinceañera felt like a BIG deal and I got so nervous with all my abuelas and tias and primas fluttering around me and cooing at how pretty I looked. I could barely stay on my feet. Mama said, “You’ll have such beautiful children, hija!” And I gulped and smiled and thought, “But I don’t know if I want to have children. I don’t even know what I want to do after I finish school.”

The DJ Papa hired was testing his microphone, saying, “Si… Si…” over and over, and his voice boomed from the speakers and rattled my brain. I felt like I was drowning, and I looked for Palomo. My parents locked him in the garage, so I said, “Excuse me, I have to use the bathroom,” and gathered up my dress. I snuck into the garage and

A ngie R amirez

A ngie R amirez

“Thank you,” I said.

His eye blinked in reply.

“How old are you?” I asked.

He looked down and stepped back, thinking. His lips moved and his thumb touched each finger, one by one.

“Five,” he said.

I paused and touched my fingers.

“Me too. Maybe we will be in the same class when we go to school in September.”

He nodded again. His funny hair that went everywhere bobbed up and down.

Someone shouted from his house.

“Good bye,” he said, going back.

“Bye,” I said. Palomo nudged me with his wet nose and dropped the pelota amarilla at my feet. I picked it up and threw it and he chased it and I chased him over and over until the sun went down and Mama called, “Alejandra! Stop playing with that dog and come inside. It’s time for dinner.”

4

5

Palomo knocked me over.

“Hi Palomo,” I said, hugging his neck, “I’m sorry they locked you away.”

His eyes shone in the dark and they said, “That’s ok, there’s too many people out there for me anyway.”

“I’m scared Palomo,” I said, “I don’t know why, but I’m scared.”

He licked a black spot on his white fur and glanced back at me, his eyes still shining.

“It’s just too bright and too noisy, that’s all. Nothing to be afraid of.”

I nodded and let go.

If I knew, I never would have let go.

When I went back out Mama cried, “Dios mio! You’ve got dog hair all over your dress!

Why did you go and see that mutt? We locked him in the garage for a reason! No, no, don’t answer me. Just come here and let me clean you off. Rosario! Come help me with this loca.” So they cleaned me off and pushed me back out into the crowd where everything swirled past in a chattering, colorful blur, like a flock of parrots. The DJ stopped saying, “Si,” and started the music. Someone sat me at the head of the table spanning the yard, piled high with food and a chubby muchacho of a cake. Everyone came up to me with smiles and gifts and had their turn to pet me.

I kept looking for Jose. I wanted the next person in line to step aside and for him to be right there, but when I thought that he might really be next I got so scared that I prayed he never came.

When I saw him, he was standing in a corner of the yard with a strange older boy I had only seen once or twice around school. He wore a dark leather jacket and swaggered up and down the hallways like he owned them. His name was Miguel. Or Ricardo. I couldn’t remember. I know Mama didn’t invite him. Jose and the boy were leaning on the fence, and the boy was speaking and gesturing and Jose nodded at everything.

Then Tio Juan came up and gave me a huge bear hug and all I could see for thirty seconds was the wiggling end of his blue handkerchief poking out of his suit jacket.

When I surfaced, I looked back and saw that Jose and the boy had gone. My stomach turned over.

That night, after everyone left, I pulled the smile off my face with a pair of pliers. Mama helped me out of my dress, wiping tears from her eyes and saying, “My little hija. Oh my little hijita. Becoming a woman so quickly! Before I know it, I’ll be a grandmother!” I thought, “I don’t feel like a woman. What is that supposed to feel like?”

I went to bed and slept like a roca.

Jose didn’t come over again after the party and he stopped sitting near me in class. He didn’t draw a single funny picture of Mrs. Jackson’s mole with its one black hair. When I tried to talk to him after class he hurried out before I could reach him, and when I knocked on his door his mother answered and said he wasn’t home. One day I saw the boy with the dark leather jacket lounging on a street corner with identical boys in identical dark leather jackets. They looked like their fathers had never told them to clean their rooms either.

The boy saw me.

I crossed the street and kept walking, and he called out, “Hey, chula! Where you going in such a hurry?”

Something tightened in my chest and I sped up.

“Hold on, girl! I just want to talk for a minute,” he called.

I didn’t turn. I heard motion behind me, and my heart leapt. I broke into a run just as a steel manacle snapped shut on my arm. He whipped me around, putting me face to face with his grin.

“You better listen when a man talks to you,” he said through clenched teeth.

I gulped and said, with my bravest voice, “What do you want?” It sounded like a chicken squawk.

“Why so nervous, sweetheart? Didn’t you hear what I said? I just want to talk to a pretty girl for a minute, that’s all,” he shrugged and waved a hand to show he was harmless, but he kept hold of my arm.

“I don’t want to talk. Let me go!” I shouted.

“You’re even prettier when you’re angry,” he grinned again. I tried to break free but his grip was iron.

“You’ve got some fight in you,” he said, “I like that. What’s your name?”

“None of your business! Now . . . Let. Me. Go!” I screamed.

His smile vanished and he wrenched me closer, “You don’t want to make a scene.”

His voice dripped ice. He held me against that cold jacket and caressed my cheek. I trembled, so close to home but completely alone. I thought of what Palomo would do.

I bit his hand.

My teeth clamped on the web between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed together as hard as they could, grinding until my tongue tasted blood. The boy wailed and pushed me away, doubling over his hand.

I sprinted all the way home, slamming the front door and locking it with fingers that felt like putty. I leaned against the wood, breathless, shaking, the taste of iron mingling with my tears. Palomo bounded over and I leaned into him, warm and solid. He put his head next to mine and said, “It’s ok. You’re safe now, niña.” I held onto him until my parents came home.

When I told them what happened Papa flew into a rage and called the police. Mama cried out and hugged me and sighed, “Thank God you’re safe!” But the police did nothing and Mama couldn’t hug me tight enough.

I didn’t go anywhere alone for half a year. If nobody was home and I needed to go out, I would go with Palomo. On the seventh month, when I began to feel safe again, I went for a walk with him to the store. It was summer, the same month I threw the pelota amarilla over Jose’s fence. Palomo and I walked in silence.

If I knew, I never would have left.

We went into the store and bought milk from stone-faced Mr. Kim. They must have forgotten to teach him how to smile when he was a baby. But Palomo liked him and wagged his tail whenever he saw him, and Mr. Kim didn’t make Palomo stay outside like the sign on the door said he should.

A ngie R amirez

A ngie R amirez

M Y R I A D 2 0 1 5 • P alomo

6

7

As we left the store Jose appeared. He sauntered down the street, wearing a thin mustache of bold peach fuzz and a dark leather jacket. He was still skinny and his funny hair still went everywhere. His voice was different though.

“Alejandra,” he said, stiffly.

I stopped.

I shouldn’t have.

“Hello Jose,” I said, “Why haven’t you visited? Palomo has missed you.”

“Did you miss me?” he asked.

Something jumped inside and came out as a laugh, “Of course, I missed you.”

“I wondered . . .” he said, looking at the ground.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You haven’t visited either,” he said.

“But how? I can never find you,” I blurted. “You leave class before I can talk to you.

I knock on your door but your mom always says you aren’t home.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, “Your dress was pretty.”

I paused and looked at him. His voice still wasn’t right.

I said, “It was a nightmare to wear though.” I laughed a little laugh.

He smiled, but without his eyes. Palomo shuffled over and sniffed at his feet, curious about something.

Suddenly he said in his old voice, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I asked. Palomo pricked up his ears.

Jose didn’t respond. He took a step backwards. Then I saw him. He stalked toward us with that grin. I turned to run but two other leather jackets came up behind me. My heart twisted like a pretzel. Palomo growled, white teeth flashing, black spots bristling.

I looked at Jose, pleading with my eyes. He looked away. The boy reached us and clubbed Jose on the back. “Good work,” he said, “We’ll make a man out of you yet.” He glared at me and pulled his other hand out of his pocket. He tapped a scar between his thumb and forefinger and said, “I’m going to make you pay for this.”

I looked at Jose again and said, “Why?” The boy spoke for him, “Because he ain’t a stupid brat no more. He’s becoming a man. A real man. A man who knows how to look out for himself and his homies and who ain’t gonna take shit from nobody, especially not some bitch who thinks she’s too good to talk to anyone but her stupid perro.”

He thrust his hand into a pocket and pulled out a little snub-nosed pistol. He slapped it into Jose’s hand, closed his fist, lifted his arm, and pointed it at my chest. He let go and said, “Do it.”

Jose’s hand trembled, “I . . .”

“Don’t back down now!” the boy spat in his ear.

The color drained from Jose’s face and puddled in his shoes.

“I ca—” “Goddamnit! Do it!” the boy growled.

My hand fell limp. Palomo snarled and shot forward. The gun barked.

She looks familiar. That face, those hands, the way she rocks back and forth . . . Oh, that’s me. Why am I screaming? Look, I’m fine. Why the fuss? Who’s that coming out of the store? Is that Mr. Kim? He’s got a shotgun! Oh my g— A second shot rips the air. Mr. Kim levels the barrel at the boy and his friends. He still hasn’t figured out how to smile. They sprint off—laughing, cursing, hooting—and abandon Jose. He is rooted to the spot, pistol at his feet, swaying in the breeze. His eyes swim. They look at something on the ground. I look where he looks. White with black spots and red spots.

I crawl over, a ringing in my ears.

“Palomo?” I shake him. He lifts an ear at the sound of his name.

“Bad dog, Palomo!” I pull him into my arms. Red stains my clothes, my hands. It’s warm. “Why did you do that!?” He rests his head on my belly.

“Bad dog!” I scream, “BAD DOG! STUPID DOG!” I hit him. I hit him again. I hit him again and again with whole fists that feel like putty because he’s a stupid bad dumb dog for doing that and I’m so angry I’ve never wanted to hit anything so much in my whole life but my arms won’t do what I say anymore and they’re wrapping themselves around his warm soft wet white black red fur and squeezing like they’re attached to a drowning body but nobody is drowning, there’s not a drop of water in sight, but they don’t know that, they don’t know. But now I know. I know and I want to stop, I want to let go, I want to leave, but I can’t.

Palomo looks at me and says with his eyes, “Why do you do that, niña?”

Their light goes out.

A ngie R amirez

A ngie R amirez

M Y R I A D 2 0 1 5 • P alomo

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Do You Know?

AL I FAR R OKHZAD

9

A li F arrokhzad

J ulian - A dam D . R eyes

Through the window, I can see nothing.

I can hear the thunder I can hear the wind I can hear the rain I am thinking of the garden outside I am thinking of the flowers.

I am thinking, how to save them?

Somebody must know.

Do you?

CH RYSA L I S • J U L IAN - ADAM D.R EYES

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Cocoon W IL L IAM WAL KER

I feel myself hardening.

Like dead skin compounded By the layers.

I play back in my mind All the times I’ve been knocked down Boiling, ready to act in haste.

The phoenix rising from the depths Spreading like venom Through the bloodstream.

I’m changing.

No longer can I suppress this dark force It grows ‘til I am no more.

W illiam W alker

NOT IN FEEL S • OR LYN JAM ES M ATUTE O rlyn J ames M atute

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Stalk er AR IANNA VIL L ASOR

He’s sweet and funny, a little shy But holds his gaze when I’m talking He shook my hand and I can’t deny I stared as he was walking The way he smiles and furrows his brows And throws his head in laughter I’d say he’s cute but not aloud That he is all I’m after I see his face when I’m asleep I wish I had a picture I have his pen and orange peel But nothing any weirder He walked my way and I swore I smelled The scent of manly power – A tinge of cool with silver bells My God, he brought me flowers!

P aula G eerligs

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I D IED F OR B E AU T Y # 2 • PAU L A G EERLI G S

A rianna V illasor

I am unsure of how to act When he puts his arms around her But rest assured I will not crack And attempt to try and drown her

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Adopted ELYSE R OYC E

enthusiastically no matter how many times you are asked. Never talk back. Always be respectful. Keep smiling. It will help people get past your less than appealing age. Be affectionate but not too much so. Eat whatever is given to you, even if you don’t like it. It is better than nothing. You know what that’s like. Don’t eat too much either though. That’s another problem in itself. Don’t be the first to say I love you.

You will seem over eager and scare them away. Call them Mr. and Mrs. until they instruct you otherwise, hopefully that will be sooner than later, if at all. Never forget that you are a guest first and foremost. Don’t get too comfortable. I hope for your sake it works out this time. If it doesn’t, it’s okay. You did your best. Do better next time. Someone will want to keep you. Eventually.

15

E lyse R oyce

E lyse R oyce

W

hatever you do, don’t talk about your past. Ever. It’s uncomfortable. Smile more. Brush all of your hair, not just the top layer; normal people notice things like that. Appear presentable. You will be judged by the way you look.

It’s just how things are. Don’t think too much of it. Seem happy. Talk. Silence gives the impression you’re broken. You don’t want to do that. Do work around the house without being asked. Wash the dishes. Take out the trash. Etcetera. Observe how things are done so you can do them properly in your new home. Say please and thank you. Always say you’re sorry, even if you aren’t sure what for. Never ask for anything. It makes you look needy. No one wants needy. Alternatively, don’t do anything without first asking. Be agreeable. Do as you’re told. Did I mention smile more? I’m not telling you all of this for my own benefit, you better be paying attention. I am. Keep your head out of the clouds. Focus. Pretend like you belong.

Blend in. You’re going to feel awkward. Sometimes. Don’t worry about it. It will get easier. Be sociable. Don’t be shy. Make friends at your new school. Share even if you don’t have much. Never get into fights no matter what the other kids say; most of it is probably true anyways so, really, how can you even be angry? Listen to your teacher. Do your homework right away. Study as much as possible; get good grades; everyone wants a smart kid. It will be good for you in the long run anyway. It’s okay to play sometimes. Do so quietly and clean up when you’re done. Never cry, even if you have a nightmare. You need to look after yourself. Be independent. I know it will be hard at times but be brave. Go to bed early. Wake up early so as not to appear lazy. Always wear clean clothes. Wash them in the sink daily if you need to to make sure you have something to wear at all times. I know you don’t have much and this will be difficult but don’t wear the same thing two days in a row. It’s frowned upon.

Never get too attached. You will only get hurt if it doesn’t work out. Don’t expect gifts for your birthday or on holidays. Remember, no one owes you anything. You are lucky enough to have food to eat and a place to live. I hope you realize how lucky you are. I do. Your brothers and sisters won’t be going with you this time. You will be alone. You may be able to talk to them but then again, you may not. It’s best not to make a fuss either way. Bathe often. Be thorough but quick. Remember to wash behind your ears. Don’t waste water. Brush your teeth. Floss whenever you can. It will help with that smile of yours. Expect a lot of questions in the beginning. Answer

16

S onia C astillo

M atthew N akayama

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NAT U R A L CA R NAG E • SO N IA CASTI LLO

B L OOD MOON • M ATTHEW NAKAYAM A

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Life on My Planet: Conclusions TO N Y M AU R IC E SM IT H

The graffiti is drying on the walls, While paintings and air-conditioned rooms Linger in my mind like bad dreams.

Oh! Now I respect the moment.

We hope more than live— Already in tomorrow and today isn’t over.

The present flies away like a city pigeon, Forgotten in a mundane world of imaginary doves.

19

For the time being I stare out of windows, Watching free souls write their names on billboards Like our ancestors inside caves telling stories of forever, Symbols stained in rebellion that translate into nothing.

What will the dust say?

How can I explain later what was there one minute and gone the next?

Time, please chip away at something called my soul, You cruel, unforgiving, ever moving thing.

EYE SEE YOU • BL AIZE AL I-WATKINS

B laize A li - W A T K I N S

T ony M aurice S mith

Let us hate art Because that is all we can control.

Time is not ours to have.

What can we own that is not borrowed?

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Nomophobia C H R ISTO P H ER P IGAO

You are the vain of my existence, both a blessing and a curse.

I hold onto you so tight, I’ll never let you go, So small and delicate that you fit in my hand.

I need you the most when I’m lost around these massive lands.

The way you glow at night illuminates the room; Being brightest, so bright, I’m dependent on you for news.

You have a keen sense of humor, communication, and facts That make me feel smarter, minus the mind that I lack.

Dependent on you each and every second, My mind has no thought whenever I forget you.

Have I become so inept in the past few years?

Have I become a blank slate for the real world we’re in?

C hristopher P igao

21

I know so well that you can’t love me back.

You give me information at a finger snap.

And when you die, I won’t feel any shame.

The object of my affection can be replaced just like that.

brandon joseph park

I have a conscience. I have a mind.

But with you by my side, my mind seems to fry.

I didn’t have you back in my youth.

So why am I sad when you’re out of juice?

JANGSEUNG • BR ANDON JOSEPH PAR K

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Art R AB YA ZU B ERI

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MAUI T REE • JAM EE PAL M ER

J amee P almer

R abya Z uberi

He loved to paint so much mthat he began to paint himself His body was the canvas A razor was the brush And his blood was the paint He loved to paint so much mthat he became a painting

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Safety First ZAC H ARY JAC O B R U IZ

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Z achary J acob R uiz

Z achary J acob R uiz

B

e sure to look both ways before crossing, with or without an adult, but never cross without an adult holding your hand to make you feel safe; absolutely no running is allowed; if ever an elderly woman in a glossy, yellow vest gestures with a whistling head tilt, as if casually greeting you, follow her; if a car passes during a Hail Mary play, all players are to step off the field until the car is gone, then resume play; don’t trust just any adult; remember, the brighter the clothing, the safer you are; offer assistance to any elderly person trying to cross, to make them feel safe; never say a word, not one word; always wear your seatbelt; don’t be rude to pedestrians, especially the elderly, because you’re sure to get your keys taken away, knowing you; don’t let her walk on the outskirts of the sidewalk, if she seems worth it; hold her hand to make her feel safe; remember, on the gray you’re safe, in the black, get back; Haha I like that; Say “Nowhere” respectfully, when asked where you are from, they don’t mean what you think they mean; if you see something, just look the other way, not one word; when drawn into a scuffle, curl all ten fingers, like the gears in a mechanism, and with your thumbs to the side of your palms, lift your right fist just under your eye, and your left fist to the side of your lips, to make you feel safe; don’t wear blue; don’t wear red; don’t wear purple; the brighter the clothing, the safer you are; stay away from drugs and alcohol, especially in the black; always wear your seatbelt; just give them what they want and they will go away, hopefully; never say a word, not one word; don’t be no bully; don’t be no bitch; if you see someone who looks affiliated, ask him where he is from; do not wear blue, where most wear red; get a tattoo or two, to let others know where you are from, and make you feel safe; do not wear red, where most wear blue; carry a .45 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver, to make you feel safe; load six rounds of .45 ACP ammunition into the revolver, to make you feel safe; place both hands around the handle of the revolver, making a shadow puppet of some sort, and extend your elbows then squeeze; absolutely no running is allowed, except during a Hail Mary play; if a ball rolls onto the black, look for an adult to retrieve it; if you squeeze, they may put you away, to make them feel safe; Never stop opening the passenger door for her, it makes her feel safe; keep an eye out for rodents and house pets, they’re quick; make sure the seat is the appropriate size for the child’s height and weight; when the times comes, teach them that in the

gray they are safe and how much you like that black rhymes with back; hold their hands to make them feel safe; to make you feel safe, hold hers; green means go, red means stop and yellow is a dare; soon, you will not have to worry about rude pedestrians; if you come across a ball in the black, retrieve it for the children at play; do anything in your power to prevent him from squeezing; remember, the brighter the clothing, the safer; when an accident occurs, calmly exchange information with the driver, or drivers, involved; not one word; by now those pesky, gun toting drivers should show you some respect; avoid alleyways, whenever possible; Look for law abiding youths that will hold your hand across, and make you feel safe; maintain your daily laps and stay actively running; Ok, I think I’m ready to go; wait! Don’t you think that shirt is a bit too dark?

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RENÉ PARAMORE

joseph l . whited

FIERY ORB IT • R ENÉ PAR AM OR E

T H E S L U M S • J O SEP H L . W H ITED

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

N av y S e a l Dedication Poem M O N IC A B EN D ER

We’ve heard the stories, we know the fight, we will be strong and full of might.

Through the phases we will learn, our body and mind will severely burn.

As a team we will make it through, our trident strong we will pursue.

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From Chicago, Boot Camp, to Niland’s sands, our team grows stronger with all the demands.

Memories of hell week with boats in our head, and diving with draeger’s, the road we have tread.

With taking flights on San Clemente, and getting beat on the grinder aplenty.

Our team will only become stronger, with our training so much longer.

So many memories are left unsaid, for in our hearts they are embedded.

A bond between brothers, that’s what we are, from all over the nation so vast and far.

Our team has come to land here at home, Sea to air to land, our spirits shall roam.

We are the strong, we’ve gone through the ordeal, for we are the frogmen, the United Navy Seal.

COSEC HA ET ERNA • YADIR A AGR EDANO

YADIRA AGREDANO

MONICA BENDER

It will be tough, we won’t be frail, we will not quit, we will not fail.

Our team will conquer these phases here, strength and commitment will not disappear.

We will be beat, but we won’t quit, uniforms are clean to avoid that shit.

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Come Back

to

Me

ERIN ASH L EY YAM ASAKI

I can’t fight back the tears as I watch the morning news, seeing yet another “Semper Gumby” wife left widowed by this senseless war, watching the widow cling to the folded up flag that kept her husband’s coffin warm.

Another roadside bomb went off in Afghanistan today.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the last of the marines’ names were read in memoriam.

Thank god it wasn’t you.

Just hearing your voice tell me, “baby everything will be okay, I’ll be home soon,” is not enough.

I need to have you next to me.

Each day I pray that you’ll come home to me.

Keep safe, my angel.

Sleepless nights and a restless heart till you come back to me.

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I cling to these memories when I feel lonely.

Your hazel eyes staring into mine, that crooked smile of yours brings so much joy to my life.

I long for those brandy-soaked lips to kiss me.

I’d give anything to feel your touch.

These nights get colder without you by my side.

Your battered, stained “marines” shirt still keeps me warm.

It’s so hard to sleep unless I’m wrapped up in you I can still smell the scent of your cologne on the pillow I cling to.

E rin A shley Y amasaki

ERIN ASHLEY YAMASAKI

I spend hours a day thinking of you.

Clenching the coffee cup you’d drink from each morning, reminiscing about the simpler days— how you used to drink straight from the milk carton and leave a mess for me to clean.

Our lazy Sunday mornings aren’t the same without you here with me, spending the day playing in a sea of sheets.

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ME ME ME • ANA K JIM ENEZ

AN HU

ANA K JIMENEZ

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S E L F P ORT R A I T • AN H U

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Going

for

Goyo

L AY L A M O N T U FAR

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L ayla M ontufar

L ayla M ontufar

I

ran as fast as my child feet could take me—heavy, salty tears glazed my cheeks and fueled my need for immediate isolation. I stopped at our nearly dilapidated wooden gate, its banana-yellow paint peeling off like a fresh sunburn. I took one last look behind at the dramatic movie scene playing out in our driveway. Mami and Papi stood together, eyes wide and faces red-hot from the confrontation. Their older, delicate little bodies could burst from the excitement, I thought. I could no longer hear what the policemen were saying. They had Goyo. I saw his small figure trembling with confusion, his back hunched forward, arms crossed, the storm cloud of intense and scary adult voices hovering over his little 8-year-old body. I heard my Aunt Esther spit venom that could sting even the most unfeeling Scrooge.

“He is not your son. He never was your son,” she growled at my parents as if the words themselves couldn’t cut deep enough. I knew Mami felt the pain of her words like a knife in her back, but she always made it a point to get through any situation and cry about it later.

“You gave him to us so that he could live a better life.” Papi was always Mami’s ambassador. Mami hardly spoke any English but projected her feelings through him.

Biologically, Goyo and I were cousins. Spiritually, we were meant to be related. We were inseparable as children and it was clear to anybody who knew us that we were each other’s best friend. I was three years old when he was born into our circus. Our mothers had given us to our grandparents, Mami and Papi, from birth while they went out for better jobs to help raise us “behind-the-scenes” with financial security and occasional presence. We had been brought up as siblings and nobody could tell us otherwise. However, my aunt and her army of blue henchmen were certainly giving it their best shot that day.

It was such an intensely hot day, the perfect day for hell to have a picnic at our front door. Goyo and I had been sitting on the hood of an old abandoned car left near our trailer, eating fried chicken and sharing our dreams. He was my best friend; I was his hero. We were inseparable. He was the only one I could talk to and I was the only one he could confide in with his secrets. We were happy. We were ignorant, and we were happy. That’s when it happened. That’s when the patrol cars showed up. That’s when his mother, my Aunt Esther, showed up. That’s when, not only my innocence deserted me, but my crippling fear showed up.

None of us could predict it. Not Mami or Papi, not Goyo, not even me. It was an ambush. It was walking up the stairs, not realizing you had anticipated one more step then there actually was and your foot goes falling through the air. For that moment, you felt so deceived, so foolish. The events of that afternoon were such a sudden shock, such an unspeakable and swift betrayal, it seemed my aunt had planned it just that morning over coffee. She was here to reclaim her son as if he were just a loaner to us. Never having expressed the slightest interest in reconnecting with Goyo, it was no wonder we stood there now, mouths agape, trembling in our anger and her treachery. I turned back to the door, suddenly realizing I had gotten lost in my thoughts. I intended to go inside, to shut myself in the room Goyo and I had shared for years. But my feet were glued to the gravel.

I closed my eyes... I opened them slowly, shaking my head vigorously as if I could shake that awful flashback away from me.

It was pitch black out now, as I laid in the back of my car. With Papi in the passenger seat, and my boyfriend Eder driving us along the highway, we were embarking on a rescue mission—another rescue mission. We were going for Goyo. Ten years had passed since the incident that shook our family down to its core, and Goyo was now somewhere in Buckeye, Arizona. He was living with his mother, stepfather, and five siblings. He was the only child forbidden to speak to us, but he somehow managed to borrow a phone from a schoolmate one day to deliver a shocking message.

“Layla, it’s Greg. This is an emergency. Please come and take me away.”

Greg. It was his birth name. The name his mom had ordered my family to call him by because “Goyo” was too affectionate a term that reminded her of us—the family he used to know when he was loved. Greg. It was his slave name.

I received his message and alerted Papi, and just like that, we headed for the road.

It was about 2 a.m. I sat up, my body exhausted but mind wide awake. I glanced in the rearview mirror at Papi’s face. His fine wrinkles served as more than telling details of his age. The fine lines on his forehead told me troubling thoughts and unspoken anxieties had tried too many times to push their way past his mind. I knew he was having doubts, because I was having doubts. But Goyo was 18 now, and nobody could stop him from leaving. But was this a mistake? This was maybe the thousandth time we’ve attempted to save him. Had Goyo grown so accustomed to the abuse and the beatings, he would no longer recognize love? Could he see the way out, if it presented itself? Or was his fear of being caught too great to set aside? I shook the thoughts from my head. I had been rambling on in my own mind for hours before I fell asleep in the car again. The trip was a silent one, except for the occasional pit stop and pep talk.

I woke up in a dry heat. We had finally arrived in Buckeye, Arizona. It was time. We had it all planned out. We would show up on a “surprise family visit” and bring him home. Just like that. It was a simple plan, yet a truly terrifying one.

We drove up the long dirt road, which seemed endless. There was nothing but four or five houses in this depressing desert for what seemed to be miles. We crept along the narrow path that led to my aunt’s house, the enormous rocks on the ground

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37

making the ones in my stomach feel even heavier. We had arrived, and I could feel I was about to throw up.

My aunt, uncle, and all of my cousins were working hard on their truck, sweating heavily and covered in oil. We stopped the car in the driveway, and were welcomed with wary confusion. I instantly felt my body tense up, but I continued to walk with confidence. I approached my aunt and gave her a hug.

“What are you doing here?”, she demanded, rather than asked.

“We came to wish you a happy birthday.” Wow, that was fast. I had just remembered her birthday was a few days before.

She looked at me with suspecting eyes. They invited us into the house, where we were immediately offered water and distractions from what I was sure was our very obvious agenda. Everybody knew. Nobody would dare speak of it. We were there to rescue Goyo and everyone knew it. The issue sat uncomfortably in our laps. We had sat in the living room for 20 minutes. It seemed like four hours. I was sure the anxious sweat on my forehead provided a clear passageway into my troubled thoughts. I could have fainted from the strain of having to lie and pretend we weren’t there for what we were actually there for. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours, and hours felt like days. I had just about had it with the false hospitality and false camaraderie. The moment had come. I stood up silently and felt my stomach drop down to my hips. I went over to Goyo, but not so close as to arouse suspicion. I motioned for him to get up so that we could leave. Then my worst fear danced before me. He shook his head “no.”

I motioned even stronger now, frantically waving my arms while still trying to remain unseen by his mother. Fear had paralyzed him. He dragged us out here to save him but with a swift motion of his head, he changed his mind. His paranoia and fear outweighed his desire to be reunited with love. At this point, my aunt had caught on. Of course, she was furious. She angrily but calmly showed us out and made it a point to say that we were no longer family. We had all failed. It took 20 seconds to destroy any chance I had of ever seeing Goyo again.

As we began our long, silently depressing journey back home, I couldn’t help but think back to my ten-year-old self on that fateful day. I was certain my mind was too small and fragile to understand what was going on. The truth is, I was afraid to admit I understood everything. I had looked forward to the days where I would be saving Goyo for years and years to follow. I had imagined the moment he would run into my arms, grateful to be with his best friend again. I had never imagined he would be the one to throw it all away. The one who craved his own freedom as if it were something he could taste in his mouth. Not a day goes by where I don’t dream of going for Goyo again, of saving his life. I’ve learned since then, that it’s okay to dream of a day where Goyo could save himself.

M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Solitary Preference JACLYN SANTIAGO

There you are, But I will remain here In my corner of the universe And revel in my synthetic happiness.

Ignore the regret that is building up In my mind and bear the pain in secret.

Pretend that your smile was a friendly hello And nothing more. You could’ve been my reason But now we’ll never know.

There you were, And there you’ll stay.

JACLYN SANTIAGO

L ayla M ontufar

M Y R I A D 2 0 1 5 • G oing for G oyo

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JUAN CIGARROA

DEVIN LANDGREN

T HE EYE • JUAN CIGAR R OA

S EPER AT I NG S PAC E • D EVIN L AN DG REN

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

On Poetry DAVID GR AH AM D IXO N

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FLIGHT L ESS SONG B IRD • YUKO SHIM ADA

YUKO SHIMADA

DAVID GRAHAM DIXON

Oh, high Ideal! that burns within this Heart; My Universe! My Immortality!

Through dreary days of mediocrity, You continue to burn, when all is dark.

Even when I’m put out, and am alone; When self-killing thoughts make me cry or moan; When Pessimism holds its reign steady, The tiniest spark of Melody’s tone explodes!

The smallest foot-hold of the World’s beauty, The slightest friendly touch truly unloads Everything crowding this Heart! This ideal Heals me. It’s the reason I remember, That no matter how small I think I feel, My core is Love, the greatest burning ember.

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

We Will F ERNAN D O VAZQ U EZ

She will learn how to be communal, friendly, warm, unselfish, sociable, and interdependent. He will learn how to be a man, and she will learn how to be a lady. That is what you will learn, we say. You are one of billions: ordinary, we say. You will decline and be taken to rest. You will wither and learn to breathe through a tube and utter your last words. This is how it ought to be, we say.

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F ernando V azquez

F ernando V azquez

Y

ou will be one in a million: a miracle, we say. You will be healthy and taken to rest. You will grow and learn to walk and say your first words. That is how it ought to be, we say. But his room will be white until he can say “blue.” Her walls will be white until she can spell “pink.” He will play with a football with other boys, building his body, and she will play with dolls with other girls, rehearsing her strokes.

He will learn that girls are delicate and she will learn that boys will be boys. He will watch movies with heroes and she will watch movies with damsels. He will learn to conceal his self, and she will learn to express hers. He will learn how to talk with averment and decisiveness, and she will learn how to walk with posture and finesse.

That is how it ought to be, we say.

He will learn that boys do not cry—become fearless, we say. She will learn that girls are empathetic—be nurturing, we say. He will learn how to claim his space and she will learn how to sit to save space. He will not learn how to love and she will learn how to love too much. He will learn how to be a professional, let his hands tell his story. She will learn how to present herself, let her face tell her story. He will learn how to be a strong leader, she will learn how to be a bitch. He will not be smaller, but bigger and broader.

She will not read words, but study pictures of other women thinner than herself.

What can she do differently? She will love herself to the fullest and be an inspiration to some. She will love herself to the fullest and be a bitch to others. He will learn to use goods “for men.” She will learn to apply goods “for women.” That is how it ought to be, we say. He will dress in pants and shoes, causally representing his masculinity. She will dress in skirts and heels, intentionally presenting her femininity. He will tell you to smile more and she will comply. He will marry a woman, and she will be taken by a man.

That’s how it ought to be, we say.

He will sleep on the left side facing the door and she will sleep on the right side facing the window. He will not know how to mend a tear, or how to cook, or how to clean, and she will not know how to fix a faucet or how to fix a broken door or how to fix a flat tire. That is why they have each other. He will worship the Lord, and she will worship him. He will be successful in his trade and have a superior answer to all problems at all times. She will abide by him, no questions asked because that is how it ought to be, we say. He will learn how to be competent, assertive, independent, masterful, and oriented.

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Arrow M IKE PHIL L IPS

This needs to be sharp.

This needs to be right.

This will take time.

This will take dimes.

This can be plastic.

This can be wood.

This should be cake.

This should not break.

This should not break.

LEANN MCELHANEY

G O NE W I T H T H E W I N D • L EAN N MCELHANEY

M ike P hillips

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46

H OP E F U L • KH ED R A GIP SO N

K hedra G ipson

N icholas P acheco

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HOP E • NICHOL AS PACHECO

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Wallflower

49

Among the Flowers on the wall I’ve chosen my plot, and unless it is to get punch I stay true to this spot.

As the music rumbles the room I will sing and rap, Always mindful to keep the wall to my back.

It is not wise for me to move my feet As I was born with two lefts and three seconds off beat.

I love the oldies But I can not boogie, I love new rap But I can not dougie.

My friends nor I don’t seem to mind.

We go out every weekend, They stick to their method of revelation and I stick to mine.

VINCENT MARTINDALE

VINCENT MARTINDALE

VIN C EN T M AR T IN DAL E

But it is never all bad For I choose my plot wisely; Always the spot with a beautiful rose beside me.

I’ll exclaim to her that I cannot groove and when she asks for examples I’ll show her my killer moves.

She will joke and jest As I stand there tired, out of breath; Damn, I truly gave it my best.

But her laughter and smiles offer a chance one only granted To flowers who cannot dance.

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51

HHCITA

M anuel D ominguez

C H AOS • M AN U EL D O M IN GU EZ

EDEN • HHCITA

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Our Spot ST EF I M AR IE R U B IO

53

Did you know?

I loved hearing your voice, as I counted the bright stars.

We would go on talking and telling stories and singing our favorite songs.

We would lie on your blanket and used mine when it got cold.

Then to finish off our time together, you would sing a lullaby as I began to sleep.

You would set up the alarm in your cell phone to 4am.

Did you know?

I’d run to my house before the sun rose, because my parents never knew about our secret meetings.

Do you remember?

Because I do.

Every detail.

From start to finish, I remember.

S tefi M arie R ubio

S tefi M arie R ubio

Do you remember?

The beautiful twinkling stars, the ones we watched at midnight when the clock hit 11:55pm?

I would always bring a blanket and meet you at our favorite spot.

You were always there, waiting for me under the big bushy tree with your blanket lain on the green grass.

We would count ‘till the time hit midnight.

We would lie down and tell stories to each other.

We would like to ask, “Do you remember...?”

And sometimes I would lie to you and say no, even though I remembered every detail.

Do you remember?

When it hit 4am, you would give me a big bear hug and as we ran down the hill, you would say: “See you later!”

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REST • CAM IL L E AL IGUE

E ugene C hang

T H E C L OU D • EU GEN E C H ANG

C amille A ligue

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Bad Ass M IKE GIB SO N

57

M ike G ibson

M ike G ibson

M

itch slid behind the wheel of his black-and-white and eased down Rancho Boulevard towards the station. It was a muggy Friday evening in September in Aurelia, Iowa and he had just written his last traffic ticket of the day to young Jimmy Schulte. Second one in less than six months for that crazy kid. Jimmy’ws Daddy wouldn’t be happy. Terry Schulte had been out of work for close to two years now, since Geronimo Lumber started laying people off.

Sergeant Matthews would be proud though. First time in four months that Mitch had met his ticket quota. Not that I should use the word “quota,” he thought, chuckling.

It’s “target.” Whatever he called it though, it didn’t feel right to be handing them out so freely. People were really struggling and he felt bad doing anything that would add to their misery.

His thoughts drifted to the weekend ahead. He would actually have two days off in a row. Been over three months since that had happened. Summer months in Aurelia were busy ones – the annual fair, the bowling tournament, and, of course, the NASCAR races over in Newton, where practically all the state’s police agencies were deployed.

Last year, some crazy redneck jumped off the roof of his motor home into an ice tub filled with bottles of Miller Draft. It took 454 stitches for a team of doctors at Newton General to close him back up.

He hadn’t gone three city blocks when the dispatcher’s voice crackled over the radio. “All units, Code 62 fight at Louie’s Lounge, Central and Highland,” followed by a short pause, “Mitch, you may want to respond to this one.”

“10-4, on my way,” Mitch replied, slamming the mic hard back into the cradle. Damn!

He thought. So much for going home on time tonight.

He hit the siren and leaned on his accelerator, speeding down Rancho to Central, hanging a hard right. He zoomed past the street side entrance to Louie’s, hopping the curb as he whipped into the parking lot, pulling alongside another unit parked right up against the exit door. Mitch heard yelling coming from inside. He clutched his baton tightly and raced inside.

His eyes had to adjust to the sudden darkness. Flailing arms and legs came into view through the hazy, smoke-filled room. Bouncer/bartender/owner Louie Mauck was wrestling with a burly, bearded biker on one side of the pool table. On the other side, Officer Jim Cantrell had a skinny, tattoo-covered guy pinned face-down on the floor,

desperately trying to handcuff him as he kicked and swung wildly.

“Get off me, goddamnit! I was defending myself!” he screamed.

Mitch ran to the officer’s aid. He helped him get the skinny guy under control and then went over to help Jerry, still struggling with the biker. Once both brawlers were cuffed, Mitch motioned to Cantrell.

“Here, you take this guy and I’ll get skinny.”

Cantrell nodded and escorted the biker outside.

Mitch grabbed the skinny guy with both arms and led him to a table on the side of bar, plopping him down hard on one of the solid oak chairs.

“You dumb ass!” he barked. “What in the hell am I going to do with you?”

“Mitch, I’m telling you the God honest truth! That mother fucker started it! I was just defending myself!”

“Yeah, I heard that already, Frankie. But your credibility isn’t exactly great around here these days. How many times have I been out on calls involving you in the past six months, dickwad? How many?”

“Ahh, shit, I don’t know, Mitch,” Frankie responded, hanging his head a bit.

“I’ll tell you, Frankie. Four times! Four fucking times! This is number five! When are you going to get your shit together? Stay here, I’ll be back!”

As Mitch walked briskly across the bar towards the side door, he saw Jerry bent over, sweeping up broken glass from the floor. Three other patrons who had been watching the action a few minutes before were now seated back at the bar, chatting excitedly among themselves.

“I’m sorry, Louie,” he said. “I want to say this won’t happen again, but I know you’ve heard that before.”

“It’s all right, Mitch. It happens. It’s not your fault.”

Officer Cantrell had the biker guy seated on a wheel stop right next to his cruiser, taking notes on a small black pad as he talked to him.

“What happened, man? How’d this start?” Mitch asked him.

“The guy started mouthing off to me! We were playing a game of pool for ten bucks and he accused me of cheating! I told him to go fuck himself and he started getting all up in my face! I pushed him back and told him to get his ugly mug out of my face and he took a swing at me! Then it was on, man!”

Mitch studied the biker’s face. He had a few scratch marks on his cheek and a slight cut on his forehead. Other than that, he seemed okay.

“I wanna press charges! That dude attacked me, man!”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mitch said. “Didn’t you just tell me that you pushed him first?

That would make you the aggressor.”

“Ahh, bullshit, man! He was breathing down my neck! What was I supposed to do?”

“Well, for one thing, you could have backed away,” Mitch said. “You could have told the bartender. You could have called us. You had a lot of options, my friend, but you made the wrong decision, now didn’t you?”

“Ahh, no way, dude! You ain’t turning this around on me! I have witnesses! I want his ass thrown in jail!”

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“Well, if that’s what you want, pal, how ‘bout we do this? We all go down to the jailhouse together. We lock you two up in separate cells and hold you ‘til Monday morning when the courthouse opens. Shall we do that? Or, would you rather we try and settle this here?”

The biker looked down for a few seconds, shuffled his feet on the pavement, and shook his head slowly.

“Nah, nah, man, I don’t want to go to jail. “I’m on parole,” he muttered. “I can’t go to jail.”

“See, now you’re starting to make sense,” Mitch replied. “I’m sure the other guy feels the same way. So, let’s say we let bygones be bygones and we can all go on our merry way. What do you think?”

“Yeah, man, I’m good with that.”

Mitch looked over at Cantrell.

“Why don’t you unhook him and I’ll go talk to the other guy? Have a good night, partner,” Mitch said, as he walked back towards the bar. “And don’t let me see you getting into trouble around town anymore. You hear me?”

“Yeah, you got it, man. Thanks.”

Mitch went back inside and approached Frankie. His head was hanging way down now, practically between his legs.

“Okay, Frankie, let’s get these cuffs off you,” he said, as he helped him to his feet.

“Thanks, man. I’m so sorry about this.”

“Save it. I just want to go home and spend the rest of the weekend with Marie and the kids.” Mitch thought about Marie and the sweet little peck she gave him on the cheek this morning before he left for work, just like every morning, and he wished he was with her right now.

“You’re coming too,” he said. “And don’t say another fuckin’ word.” He held up a hand as he spoke. “You’re coming.”

No further words were spoken between the two on the ride back to the station.

Frankie stared out of the passenger window.

When they were growing up in Aurelia, Mitch recalled, they both attended Benjamin Franklin High, although Frankie never graduated. He started hanging with the wrong crowd, got into booze and drugs in his early teens. Got into a few scraps with the law.

The usual stuff – curfew violations, fighting, petty theft, under the influence, etc.

He did a brief stint in the military, which didn’t work out too well either. His parents thought the structure and discipline would be good for him. So did Judge Robinson.

However, it became just another venue for his bad behavior and intensified his distaste for authority.

Drinking and fighting landed him in the brig on several occasions. So did a little incident involving attempted rape, although it was never proven. He eventually went AWOL and was dishonorably discharged after another stay in military prison. As Mitch looked back on it now, Frankie was never really any good.

Mitch reflected on his own role in all of this. Marie would always tell him to let Frankie learn from his own mistakes, that he should practice more tough love. But, invariably,

he would always end up bailing Frankie out of tight spots. But, isn’t that what brothers are supposed to do? His parents had given up on Frankie long ago. If he was to do the same thing, what would become of him?

Frankie was snoring loudly as they pulled into the station parking lot, his head gently bouncing against the passenger window.

“C’mon, bro,” Mitch whispered, as he opened Frankie’s door. He leaned down and lightly kissed him on the forehead before giving his shoulder a little shake. “Time to wake up, Frankie. I’m taking you home now.”

The next night, Mitch, Marie, and Frankie sat at a table in Rennie’s Saloon, sharing a pitcher of draft. The beer was cold and tasted good. The mood was upbeat, even though half of the people were out of work. Every few minutes, Mitch would walk over to the jukebox, slide another couple of quarters in, and fire up some more Hank Williams or Johnny Cash.

It was getting close to 9:00 pm. Soon, a band would take the stage and the dancing would begin. Mitch held Marie’s hand under the table and stared across at Frankie, smiling.

“You dumb son-of-a-bitch!” he blurted out, shaking his head and laughing. “That guy could have ripped your head off. You’re lucky I got there when I did.”

“I’m always lucky you got there when you did,” Frankie retorted, with a hearty laugh, stretching his arm across the table to connect his beer mug to Mitch’s with a loud clink.

Suddenly, the sound of jangling guitars filled the room. People rose to their feet and started filling up the dance floor.

“Well, who’s first?” asked Marie, holding her hand up daintily.

“That would be me, darling,” Mitch replied, gently taking her hand and escorting her to the dance floor.

From that point on, Mitch and Frankie took turns dancing with Marie. The beer kept flowing, the laughter got louder, the music sounded better, and the dance moves grew crazier. By the end of the night, no one was feeling any pain because there was no reason to.

The next morning, Mitch stumbled downstairs to get a handful of Tylenol for himself and Marie. He looked over at the couch where he expected to see Frankie lying. But Frankie was gone. The blankets he’d been sleeping with were neatly folded beneath his pillow.

Mitch kept thinking about Frankie throughout the day. He thought of the fun time they’d had last night. He thought of the barroom brawl the night before. He thought back to the time when they were kids and had built that treehouse together in the big fig tree in the yard. He tried calling Frankie several times on his cell. He left a few messages. None were returned.

The next day, he thought about Frankie on his way to work. Another cell phone call.

Another message left.

It was an extremely busy day. He was working the swing shift and seemed to be racing from one call to another all day long, including a few interesting ones. Charlie Datmer’s kid’s boa constrictor got out of its cage and was terrorizing the neighbor-

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hood. Jim Fenton’s 93-year-old mother had locked herself inside her apartment and couldn’t figure out how to unbolt the door.

At about 9:30 pm, he heard a call come over from dispatch.

“Strong arm robbery at 343 Cedar Court. Victim at the scene.”

Mitch grabbed the mic.

“10-4, Unit 78 responding.”

Mitch gunned the engine and zigzagged his way down Tolliver Street. He could feel his heart racing.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” he yelled, as he zoomed around an old blue hair doing 20 in a 40.

He arrived at the scene within four minutes. Two units were already there. As he drove up, he saw two officers talking to a middle-aged woman with bleached hair that matched her white Capri shorts. She was waving her hands around and crying hysterically.

As he approached, Mike Cleary turned towards him.

“Mitch. It sounds like Frankie,” he said.

Mitch grimaced and shook his head. His face reddened and he could feel the perspiration building up on his brow and a knot developing in his stomach.

“Which way is he headed?” Mitch demanded.

“We’re not sure. Calm down, man.”

Mitch grabbed the woman’s arm. “Ma’am, which way did he go?”

“He drove off that way,” she said, sobbing loudly and pointing back towards Tolliver.

“Mitch! Let one of us go with you,” Cleary called after him.

Mitch knew Tolliver led to Rancho Boulevard, the quickest way out of town. Siren wailing, lights flashing, engine roaring, he was on Rancho within two minutes. Traffic was light at that time of night and he made quick progress down the boulevard. Just past the Hargrove intersection, he spotted it. The green Impala with plastic sheeting on the rear window. He knew that car from a mile away.

He was on its tail in no time. He got right up on the bumper and began flashing his lights. He grabbed the mic and switched on the P.A. “Frankie, pull over! Pull over, goddamnit!”

But Frankie kept going. In fact, he sped up. The closer Mitch came up on his bumper, the more he accelerated. He had to be going over 90 miles an hour now. Mitch stayed with him. Driving at these speeds through town could get either of them killed, but goddamnit…

He followed the Impala to where Rancho intersected Blaine Boulevard at the city limits. He began to back off a little. Then he pulled his patrol unit over to the side of the road. He got out of the vehicle and watched as the Impala sped off into the distance, its tail lights disappearing into the black night.

Mitch quickly jumped back into his vehicle and grabbed the radio mic.

“Dispatch, please relay a message to State police. Be on the alert. Green 1995 Impala sedan, license plate 6MSA255, heading northbound on Rancho Boulevard at a high rate of speed. Driver evading pursuit after strong arm robbery in Aurelia. Exercise

extreme caution. Suspect is armed and dangerous.”

“10-4. By the way, sorry about that, Mitch,” came the response from dispatch.

“Thanks, dispatch. It is what it is,” Mitch replied stiffly.

Mitch sat in his patrol car for a good five minutes staring down the highway solemnly, as if he was saying goodbye to someone he would never see again. Then he swung his vehicle around, made a full U-turn, and headed back towards town.

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

The Day M AR L INA M O SSB ER G

Tell me about the day Your soul was a turquoise sky And its warmth sparkled and shone Like a constellation between your eyes And your palms were soft Like rattled stones And your hips swiveled and swirled For petals filled your bones

When dreams tangled your hair And stardust caked your feet Singing amidst crumbs, Confetti in the backseat But fires burn out And children trip and fall While blindly grasping for this light You might just lose it all So darling please Tell me about the day Like a person, It had to go away

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When you laughed until you were sick And you did, at every chance When just glancing at a pretty weed Made you want to dance

M arlina M ossberg

M arlina M ossberg

When your eyes were fireflies And anything but dull You needed no other half For you were already whole

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MORNING GL OW • DAVID R AM OS

DAVID RAMOS

S tephanie G uerrero

TAC O STA N D • ST EP H AN IE GU ERRER O

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

5

th

Love Makes Graders Puke D IEGO T ER RY

I hope she didn’t see me put my booger under my desk, then she’ll never love me.

I’ll give her my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then she’ll love me for sure.

I can’t eat anyways, I’m still woozy from last night.

I watched a movie, where a guy died to save the life of his wife before he yelled “I love you.”

And I puked out my brain.

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And I puked out my balls.

If she saw me put the booger under my desk, Rejects my sandwich, And tells me she doesn’t love me, I’ll puke out my heart.

Mango,

My Passion Fruit ABNER GONZAL EZ

I take notice from across the room, A delightful sight full of excitement...

A delicious mango, Beautifully ripe with a tanned peel.

I approach and gently grasp it, Feeling every curve, smelling every inch.

As the desire to taste accumulates, I begin to peel off the layers.

Piece by piece, I undress this fruit of passion And expose the flesh underneath.

A private show just between us two begins.

My hands transform into pedestals, As the fruit falls willingly into my palms.

My lips approach and make contact, Leaving the sweetest of tastes in my mouth, And dancing on my tongue.

So my tongue dances back, Creating a tango with the mango.

Tempt me no further, For I have given in.

If devouring you gets your juices flowing, Then prepare to be eaten like you’ve never been eaten before.

A bner G onzalez

D iego T erry

Then I watched a movie where a girl lay naked in satisfaction after she yelled “I love you.”

M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

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JOY • KATIA SAR R OCA

A shley C hoi

K atia S arroca

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M AY DAY • ASH L EY C H O I

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

A n n a ’ s H u mm i n g b i r d s R AN DY JAM ES

The roof fell apart last night while we slept.

It is a surprise we did not hear.

We dreamed, under the hands of nature.

We sit half-awake, mesmerized.

You were right, the wood was on its way to rot.

Nature made the executive decision.

Now, stratus clouds drift in a rugged frame, soft and exposed.

You were right about the roof, and the first to venture out of bed.

Pant-less and goose-fleshed, I warn you of splinters.

Your slippers scrape across the floor.

The afternoon matures.

Anna’s Hummingbirds perch along our roof’s new mouth as I sweep up debris.

You search for an upright roofer until evening.

You need a haircut.

I let boredom lead to silence.

I do not wait for you to decide which side is yours for the night.

The birds have long departed.

I do not hear you remark on the moon.

I am asleep.

We slept and feel no more refreshed than when delicate fixtures the night before pinned our bodies to a storefront.

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We have stayed together, expanding left to right without censure. Buttons hug harder, pull strings exhaust at a greater rate, and last night hit well-worn marks.

R andy J ames

R andy J ames

Your hand caused the small of my back to shiver.

I directed fingers from the valley to the ridge.

Fingers, yours and mine, clasped a promise lost years, some months ago.

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gilberto castro

maria h . andrade reyes

PATH O F THE WAYWARD WANDERER • GIL BER TO CASTR O

S ENTIM IEN T OS AT R A PA D OS • M ARIA H. ANDRADE REYES

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Train

of

Thought

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K yle M itchell B ittman

K yle M itchell B ittman

“S

tand clear of the closing doors, please.” That’s my cue. I grab the lever, push it forward, and my subway train is in motion, slowly entering the hollow, dimly-lit tunnels of New York City’s underground. Heading into the familiar darkness, I think: Why am I here? Am I here only to exist? Do I have a purpose in this world? Every day, I feel more and more convinced that this world is comprised of shepherds and sheep, and we all exist to constantly question which of the two we really are. I am nothing more than a sheep to my own thoughts.

My wool seems white like everyone else’s. However, I always feel like a wanderer, a drifter, or an outcast; I feel different. I can’t seem to connect with my fellow sheep. They all appear too pre-occupied with their purpose on the busy paths they follow and I’m left feeling useless and forgotten as I’m camouflaged in these dark subway tunnels. I can’t shake the damn feeling that I’m meant for something more than transit operations, primetime television, and fast food. Am I stupid for thinking like that? For thinking that God or some other asshole, eye-in-the-sky is just watching me, observing every one of my fuck-ups and waiting for me to one day wake up and realize my purpose or my full potential? How many more bridges must I burn, and how many more bills must I pay late, or times must I forget my mom’s birthday before I can wake up and have a purpose like the other white sheep?

These are the unfortunate thoughts that keep me up most nights. Well, that and Wild Turkey. I can’t tell which one carries more blame because the two have developed quite the symbiotic relationship: the whiskey picks my brain, the brain pours my whiskey. Hell, I would’ve brought my flask today if I knew I was going to be put on the express track.

It’s almost too easy of a drive. I only hit about half the regular stops giving me five to fifteen minutes between them and it’s the F-Train, a line that I’ve rode since I was a boy. The F used to take me from 63rd to Vern’s house in Brooklyn in under twenty-five minutes on a good day. Back then, I remember I would wait for Julie to get off the L at 1st and from there we’d catch the F and take it the whole way down to Coney Island.

That used to be our thing. Every Friday night was “Coney Night.”

“Hello?”

“Luke! Baby, where are you?”

“Jewel, it’s a little loud in here.”

“Where are you?!”

“I’m… at a bar. On Houston, I think. I’m in the Village. I know that.”

“Okay… Well, it’s Friday. Why aren’t you here at 1st ?”

“Oh, shit. You’re right. Alright, I forgot.”

“You ‘forgot?!’ God damn it, I-” “Hey! I didn’t exactly have the best day today and I just kinda forgot. Okay?”

“What do you mean? Did something happen at work?”

“Yeah. I got fired.”

“You got fired?! How the fuck-” “I don’t wanna talk about this right now, alright?”

“Look, I know you’re upset. But that doesn’t mean you get a pass on life tonight and you can just drink it all away at some shitty bar. You’re gonna’ bounce back, I know it.”

“How?! How do you know?! What’s the fucking point, anyway? Even if I get a new job, you know it’s not gonna last very long. Just like every other God damn job or test I’ve ever tried to take. I’ll just fucking fail. There’s no reason for our existence and it’s pointless to try and make one!”

“Babe, don’t be like that. I understand-” “What do you understand?!”

“I understand you’re upset, ok! Now, let’s just go to Coney-” “Fuck Coney Island. It’s a place for kids. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Well you sure as hell aren’t acting like an adult.”

“I don’t know, Jewel. I don’t know.”

“You always do this and expect me to be the good girlfriend and accept your ranting self-pity shit. It’s always something! And when I try to help you, you push me away. What the fuck is your problem?! You know what? Maybe when you figure it out we can go to Coney again someday. Goodbye, Luke.”

Nowadays, the L takes me to my AA meetings on Bedford, and the F only takes me back to my locker at the West 4th St. Station. I know the MTA Transit System better than the back of my hand. Or myself, for that matter. The tunnels and tracks have become fogged mirrors that reflect who I am now. After spending this much time underground I’ve begun to identify the dark as a friend, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it can also mean personifying the light as an enemy. I see nothing for me in the streets overhead. The light burns my eyes when I try to identify with the happy people filing through the bright streets of the Five Boroughs. Down here, I can chase the darkness for miles and miles and lead all the busy people to their busy stops so they can get back to their busy lives. Down here, I have a purpose. I am the calm shepherd of the busy commuters. However, I feel confining my worth to these tunnels does not suffice as a true “purpose.”

I grab the lever and slowly bring the train to a halt as I approach the station.

“Now arriving: Jackson Heights-Roosevelt Avenue. Connections available to the E, M, R, and 7 trains. Next Stop: Roosevelt Island.”

After the announcement the train hits a complete stop. I step over and stick my head

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out the right-side window to watch the hustle and bustle of New Yorkers enter and exit my train. When I observe the people like this, the subway station interactions play out like a silent film. The sounds of chatter, footsteps, and turnstile rotations combine into one static score for this scene. Through the rapid passing of hats, suits, and handbags, I watch as a young redhead draped in a semi-formal combination of dark jeans and a small, brown purse held over a grey button-up blouse and knitted light-purple scarf stands near a trash can and hurriedly attempts to finish a Starbucks coffee before hopping on the subway. As the green, brown, and white cup falls from her hand I can see her soft, pale face as it reveals a warm, satisfied smile, presumably due to the finished coffee. Amidst the dull yellow lights and charcoal-colored walls, scripted with the black and white spray paint that illegibly represents New York’s finest freelance artists, this woman stands out like a beacon, radiant with color that creates a unique, alluring glamour in an ordinarily lifeless, insipid environment. We make eye-contact for a moment as she gently dabs her lips with her scarf and my lips start to form a smile but the moment vanishes as she quickly turns away toward the train’s doors leaving me to wonder if she was embarrassed or repulsed by the sight of me.

I turn away from the cold, monochromatic subway station and bring my head back into my front car. I bury my head in my palms and reflect upon the moment I almost shared with another living person. If I can’t even offer so much as my own smile to someone, what the hell can I offer? I push the tips of my fingers into my closed eyes and take a deep breath. I’ve lost touch. I simply do not fit in with these busy lives comprised of husbands, wives, and Nine-to-Fives. I am alone. I fear too many more of these small rejections will leave me with a weight too large to carry myself.

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.” The automated recording advises immediately followed by the frantic shouting of a man.

“Hold the door!” I hear him yell as he swipes his Metro Card at the turnstile.

I’m powerless to pick and choose passengers; I’m only here to drive. If one of his kind fellow New Yorkers wants to step up and grab the door in his trying times then that is strictly up to them. The riders remain paralyzed.

“Hold the fucking door, assholes!” The man reiterates as the palm of his hand slams on the outside of the doors that have closed just a moment too soon. Each subway rider has decided that they are indeed too busy for this man’s plight.

“Fuck! Thanks for the help!” The man preaches to the riders as he slaps his hands down hard on to his thighs in a fit of defeat. His hands remain there as he’s now hunched over, catching his breath. Don’t worry, Buddy. You can grab the next one. You don’t want to be on this one anyway; there's nothing special here.

As my subway car creeps into motion again, heading back into the darkness, the reality of my routine begins to contradict my thoughts: I believe myself to be the shepherd of the MTA subway riders, but the subway riders do not fear their shepherd nor do they respect him. They may see me for a minute. The minute fades away and I remain unknown. How then can I be a shepherd? I must surely be nothing but a sheep; and I surely am no different. The question remains: who is our shepherd? Is it the train?

Is it the tunnels? Is it the city of New York? Is it God? No, it’s the light. The light is our shepherd. The darkness and I follow the same path through the tunnels toward the lights that illuminate each and every subway station. The light keeps the dark contained beneath the streets and keeps it running through these tunnels. The light has no shepherd though. The light is omnipotent. It is capable of deciding where we will go, when we will go, and how we’ll go. The light follows no one.

I take another deep breath and try to focus my attention away from my thoughts.

The solitude these tunnels provide can really get the best of anyone after too long. I stare ahead toward the tracks and the fast, stagnant scenery of dirty, concrete walls rushing past me. I’ve spent the worst half of the last six years down here operating these trains and I’ve still never figured out how the fuck people are able to vandalize every single one of these tunnels. Sometimes, it seems one piece can stretch on for miles, and no matter how many times try, I can never manage to read a damn thing on these walls. It leaves me thinking about how maybe some people just exist to sneak in to my tunnels and vandalize.

Shaking my head out of a daze, I quietly laugh aloud to myself as I realize the irony of being a train operator who can’t control his own train of thought.

“Train of thought…” I mumble to myself, followed by a sigh.

“And there you have it. Cogito ergo sum. Or as he would say it, Je pense, donc je suis. And what does that mean, Class?” Professor White asked us.

“I think, therefore I am.” The class and I respond in unison.

“Very good. Alright, that’s it for today. Make sure you finish reading Descartes and then move on to Nietzsche and Sartre. Quiz on Wednesday! Don’t forget!”

I made my way through the crowd of students rushing to the exit and approached Professor White’s desk. “Professor, could I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure. What is it, Lucas?”

“Why am I here?”

“Because you registered for PHIL-101 and you paid your tuition fees.”

“No, not in your class. I meant...in life. Why am I here? Is there purpose for my actions?”

“Hm... I see. It sounds like you’re searching for reason.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m just trying to make sense of everything. I mean, I read Sartre’s work. ‘Existence before essence.’ He’s using reason to say there’s no point, right?”

“Sure. But that’s only one train of thought. David Hume believes that human actions are governed by desire, not reason. So maybe desire is that ‘essence’ of existence.”

“So… I’m here to desire?”

“You could be. Personally, I theorize that I’m here to think.”

“Like Descartes?”

“A little bit. Every philosopher has different view. Son, the truth is philosophy can’t tell you exactly why you’re here. It’s a study, not a science.”

Maybe I am here not only to exist, but to think. I think, therefore I am. I suppose Professor White and Descartes could be right. But neither of those scholars ever of-

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fered me an answer as to why I’m here, if only to exist and think. Is the point of existing and thinking so that I may desire? Am I not meant to act? I do have the desire to be something greater than a lost sheep but I lack the means to offer much more than my own isolation, depression, and confusion. Am I too late to change? Can I ever become a shepherd?

“CR-3906. This is the RTO, Queens Unit. Come in, CR-3906.” A loud voice on the intercom commands. I jump back and let out an “Oh, shit!” startled by the sudden voice.

I grab my receiver and fumble with the buttons before I respond, “RTO. This is CR3906.”

“CR-3906. Immediate alert to sub-levels two and th-” The voice begins, before it's cut short by enormous amounts of static.

“-levels two and three prepare for stop.” The static’s roar loudens.

“I repeat. DO NOT proc-” The transmission goes silent. There’s a gigantic boom that’s followed by a violent shaking. The rumble throws me forward, hitting my forehead on the display screens above me. I attempt to regain my balance and put my hand to my pulsing temple. The train rattles once more causing me to stumble forward and hit the speed control, pushing the lever all the way forward. Shit. The train begins accelerating through the darkness. I regain my balance and my vision refocuses and I see concrete debris and subway tracks falling from a hole in the tunnel above me.

The huge crater-like chunks fall and smash as they hit the ground about two hundred yards ahead of my car. I yank the lever all the way down and grab the emergency brake valve. The screeching of the brakes burning along the tracks is near deafening, intermingled with the slow collision of thirty year-old subway cars and the cries and pleas of the frenzied New Yorkers. The train meets an unnatural stop with the help of the concrete mountain of wreckage, crashing most of the cars into one another.

I grab my flashlight, flip up the cover and hit the Emergency Door-Release button. I leave the operator’s cabin and head out the door of the first car with all of the frantic passengers.

“I’m sorry for the disturbance, everyone” I begin, before I realize my words have no bearing over the vocal panic of the riders. I’m interrupted before I can speak again.

“Are we gonna die down here?” An elderly man asks me, followed by, “What happened up there, young man?”

“Sir, I honestly don’t know what happened. But you’re going to be fine. Please, let’s just exit the train and we’ll figure it out,” I reply, trying my best to sound as calm as possible.

“Everyone, please move toward the rear car! All the doors are unlocked!” I reiterate, shouting to the crowd as I repeatedly pass my hand over my forehead wiping the excess blood on the back of my shirt in a small attempt to curb some of the bleeding.

My wound isn’t exactly gushing but it’s bleeding enough to give me a headache far worse than any hangover or bar-fight I’ve ever encountered.

I race through the rest of the cars continuing to direct the passengers to the train’s

rear exit. At the exit, a few passengers and I help lift some of the women and children down from the subway car.

“Easy does it; careful stepping on the tracks there, Kid,” I advise, letting go of the arm of a small boy wearing a bright green hat with the North Face logo printed very clearly.

“Thanks, Mr. Hero!” The small boy replies.

“Excuse me? What?”

“You’re the hero.”

“No, Son,” I reply with a feigned smile, “I’m... I’m,” I mumble, losing my concentration in this boy’s hopeful, blue eyes. “Sorry, I’m not a hero. I’m just the transit operator.”

I stare for a second longer, rethinking my claim. “Well, I mean, do I look like a hero?

What does a hero even look like, anymore?” I ask the boy.

“You don’t have to look like a hero to be one!” The boy replies with a giggle, “My dad used to say ‘It’s not about how you look, it’s about how you act!’”

Dumbfounded by a child, I jokingly reply “And here I thought I would need a cape and tights to be a hero…”

The boy laughs before cheerily replying, “Nope, no cape! Thanks again, Mr. Hero!”

He then runs into a warm embrace by what appears to be his mother. I lose my focus as I stare at the sobbing mother squeezing her boy tightly, only breaking her hold to plant kisses atop his head by the dozens.

“Happy birthday…” I mumble in a daze.

I shake my head again and look around at the rest of the crowd, lit up by the faint light of the train’s rear cabin. I see a variety of other people holding their heads and arms, holding back the bleeding from their own injuries. I see one man simply sit down on the curb by the wall and light up a cigarette. My ears tune in and out as they drift from conversation to conversation.

“Dude, what the fuck just happened?!”

“Janet, are you alright? Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise ya.”

“Holy shit! What do we do now?”

“Oh my god! Oh my God!” “Daddy!!!”

Despite the chaos surrounding me, everyone has the same look on their faces; the look that shows me they are lost. They were all abruptly thrown off the same track and now stand here, motionless. These ordinary subway riders were not used to the dark. They had no understanding or respect for the dark. This darkness had suddenly seemed to become their new shepherd and they were fearful. They had never faced the darkness and took it head on like I have. They were the ones who confined themselves in the narrow corridors of the subway cars where the aisle lights were always on allowing them to ignore the darkness outside and giving them the freedom of their leisure as they awaited their return to the light. I knew what I had to do.

I turn my flashlight on and wave it over the crowd.

“Excuse me! Excuse me! May I have everyone’s attention?! Please remain calm,

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everybody!” I yell to my riders, “Please remain calm. My name is Lucas Kagan and I’m here to help.”

Once more, the crowd roars but this time their shouts are directed toward me.

“What the hell happened? What’d you do?” A rude, green-suited gentleman asks.

“Look, sir. I don’t know. The crash happened just as quickly for both of us. But I do know there was construction this week on the A, C and E lines. So I imagine one of the upper-level bridges has collapsed and I can only hope that no workers were hurt.”

“What do you mean it collapsed? How the fuck does that happen?”

“Where do we go now?”

“Are we stuck down here?!”

I wave my hands over the crowd and calmly attempt to appease the angry riders.

“Please, remain calm, everyone. I’ve been with the MTA for six years now and I’ve never seen anything like this, I’m sorry. But I know all the ins and outs of these tunnels, and I can tell you folks that this accident has already been reported and paramedics should be waiting by the Lexington Avenue Station’s emergency exit. So if you will, please, remain calm and follow me.”

They calm down, and I jump off of the train. As I make my way to the front of the crowd, I’m stopped by a gentle tapping on my shoulder. I turn around and to my surprise, it’s the red-haired woman I saw earlier on the subway.

“Hi. He- I mean, ‘Hello.’ Hello, M-ma’am. May I help you?” I ask, stuttering in bewilderment.

“You already are. Let me help you, now.” She replies, taking off the scarf from around her neck. She motions me to lower my head with her hand and reaches up and ties her scarf around it as a make-shift bandage. I check to make sure it’s tight enough. I chuckle quietly, imagining the heroic aesthetic I must be carrying now. Mr. Hero, indeed, I think to myself.

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing. Now get us out of here!” She says with a smile. I return the smile as a pleasant tingle courses through my body. Before I can even think to ask her name, she turns around and merges back into the crowd.

After a mile’s walk through the dark tunnel we reach the emergency stairway. There’s decent lighting in there, more so than the tunnel but not enough for me to go without my flashlight. We finally make it and I open the last door as the sun’s overwhelming, radiant light shines directly into our corridor. A drive-by symphony of thank yous and smiles passes me. As I look around me at the busy sheep flooding back into the bright streets as we leave the darkness, I realize why I’m here. My name is Lucas Kagan and I’m here to help.

SUMMER • OR L ANDO M UR AL L ES

O rlando M uralles

K yle M itchell B ittman

M Y R I A D 2 0 1 5 • T rain of T hought

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M Y R I A D 2 015 • E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E

Editor Bio

E KD yle I T O RM itchell BIO B ittman

PHOTO BY JOH N F O R D I AN I

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T O R I N L E E ( N O R T H ) is probably somebody, and maybe there is or isn’t a reason for it. He may or may not read (a lot, perhaps, or perhaps less), and of course writes, maybe (we think), at least a sentence every now and then or now, right now, at this very instant, and now it’s gone. He divides his time generally into two categories--sleeping and waking (how to tell which from which?)--and most of his activities fall somewhere within the two, except living, which somehow overlaps both, it seems like. The probability that he will eat falafel on Monday or Wednesday is significantly higher than on any other day of the week. This is a waking activity. Usually. Did you know the moon smells like gunpowder?

We are certain of this.

R A N D Y J A M E S ( E A S T ) is a first time editor with Myriad. He journals, reads and blogs often. An English–creative writing major, James is a fan of remarkable literature and poetry, regardless of genre. He strives to become an established published author and professor. He plans to transfer to San Francisco State University.

J A Z M I N C R U Z ( W E S T ) is a collector. She is very lionhearted about it and that can be explained. She dedicates most of her life to saving lonely pebbles, fallen flowers, and dead butterflies from science. In the safe place of her shelf, among the other little sad souls, she covers them with a life-giving glittery substance and sees them spring. Now she does not know why she does what she does but this has never stopped her anyway.

She goes on collecting artifacts and when the fancy strikes her, she also reads and writes occasionally.

CHRISTOPHER RAYA (SOUTH) Inconsistent, misanthropic, self-deprecating, unusual, albeit occasionally cunning. Christopher exists in a perpetual state of profound apathy but with occasional bouts of passion and hard work manages to slip through the crevices of the system and somehow thrive in a world that seems all too familiar and surreal at the same time. A fan of Richard Scarry who also provided him with the dream of crafting children’s literature, but also a want to delve into and write about the darker aspects of human nature. A dualistic approach that may or may not work. Only time will tell. A constant question that he asks himself is “What will I be?”

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E L C A M I N O C O L L E G E • M Y R I A D 2 015