New Literati Fall 2017 Web Issue by New Literati

NEW LITERATI fall 2017

Copyright © St. Edward’s University All rights reserved The New Literati web issue is an annual publication of St. Edward’s University. The views expressed in this publication are those of indevidul artistas and suthors that do not nessisarily reflect the views of the editors, staff or university. St. Edward’s University 3001 South Congress Avenue Austin, Texas 78704 Cover by Amy Tondre

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS To our beautiful staff, wow, yâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;all are wonderful. We are so happy to have such a wonderful and supportive staff and such talented and dedicated editors. Every piece of creative work in this issue is something to be marveled at. We like to think of New Literati as a beautiful reminder to all that people with completely different interests and personalities can come together and create something amazing and creative. New Literati would not exist without the people that made it and helped get it off the ground, so thank you all. To our contributors, thank you for submitting to our semester issue. Your work was chosen out of a number of submissions, and we believe the work published in this issue is amazing and reflects the creativity at St. Edwardâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Your work has helped keep our publication thriving, and we hope you continue to submit to us in the future. Much love, Logan and Amanda

EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS Editors Logan Stallings Oliver Davis CJ Shaleesh Amanda Markoe Amy Tondre Dunja Sissoko Anthony Daniel Bailey Stephens Staff Sarah DeWhitt Miguel Escoto Kristyn Garza Rebecca Harville Vanessa Lopez-Campos Alexandra Mojica Katie Okhuysen Angelica Perez 6

Bryce Robinson Logan Robichaud Sierra Rozen Chase Walentitsch Nicole Zodrow Gianni Zorrilla Contributors Sydney Chandler Jared Cobble Nico Escalante Jose Flores Allyson Garcia Allanah Jackson Stephen McCray Gavin Quinn

Table of Contents POETRY 11 I Envy the Spider’s Ability to Swallow Its Home Whole by Sydney Chandler

13 The Silent “r” by Jared Cobble 16 In the Middle of Somewhere by Miguel Escoto 17 Tree Slices by Miguel Escoto 18 Home Sweet Home by Allyson Garcia 19 The Woods by Kristyn Garza 20 105 or 106 by Stephen McCray 21 Misters Straight, Young and Roof by Stephen McCray 22 Self-Portrait as My Mother’s Lime Tree by Gavin Quinn 23 Deer by Bryce Robinson 24 K by C.J. Shaleesh

VISUAL ART 27 Green Collage I by Chloe Halstead 28 Blue Pastel I by Chloe Halstead 29 Adoration by Hailey Strader 30 Neon Flowers by C.J. Shaleesh

32 Mandala by Marcelo Salinas VillaseĂąor 34 Still by Nahomi Gomez 36 The Austin Chronicles by Charlie Eckman 38 Speckled Forest by Chase Walentitsch 39 Tea Bouquet by Chase Walentitsch 40 Alien Wasteland by Amanda Markoe PROSE 49 Thyme and Dough by Sydney Chandler 62 The Wonder of Thought by Nico Escalante 76 A Guide to Becoming a Writer: Youth

Edition by Jose Flores 79 Nightmare: A Short Story by Kristyn Garza 90 On the Virtual World by Allanah Jackson 92 A Couple of Old and Dear Friends by Nicole Zodrow

POETRY

I Envy the Spider’s Ability to Swallow Its Home Whole by Sydney Chandler I dream of taking to my childhood home with a fork and a knife. I dream of carving at the windows that never opened, of lapping at the grout which stained the borders of kitchen sink, of devouring old photo albums with a glass of milk in hand – I wonder if the photographs would stick to my teeth like gum.

broken plates crosses in closets wild parakeets from Northern Australia – whiskey glasses spinning chairs chained armoires filled with Father’s Father’s things I would

chew on the dildos in Mother’s closet, ‘toys’ my little sister called them one day, Lonely Barbies in the night. I would swallow the memories of Lonely Mother, with Loving Husband, the man existing always in different time zones across the sea. I remember my ear to her door, my Lovely Mother crying with her Lonely Barbie Dolls, crying to the song of the crickets outside.

I would swallow it all. Know this: a web without its spider is not an abandoned piece of property, but instead a ghostly graveyard for the arachnid who once spun it. For the spider will never abandon its home once its web is woven. Even if the threads are damaged, the arachnid will not leave until the web has been devoured, digested, recycled within hard shell. I envy the spider for its ability to eat at their memories â&#x20AC;&#x201C; to swallow their houses, their histories, on silver silken thread.

Jared Cobble The Silent “r” The Silent “r” It may not be said, but it is heard. Heard by the women who were raped. Heard by the men who were savagely beaten. Heard by the children who lost their innocence too young. Heard by our ancestors who fought for our rights. We continue to fight for our rights, So why give them the right to use the silent “r”? They try to be our equals, but remember you made us separate first. They think they understand our struggles, The White Man’s Burden. “Whaddup my nigga?,” a phrase thrown around freely, But you have been free far longer than we have. We search for Truth in the sky, among the stars where our ancestors lie. No longer bound by chains, except for the ones we place on ourselves. Nigguh. Nigga. Nigger. It is all the same unless you understand our struggle, But do not try because you will never understand. The Black Man’s Burden. The “r” may be silent, but it is time for our voices to be heard.

Accompanying “The Silent “R”” by Jared Cobble Picture by Lamara Parnell

In the Middle of Somewhere Miguel Escoto A fool moon. A wise sun. She dances somewhere in between the dusk of destruction the dawn of peace I whispered to her: Flirt with them, baby. Make the Days kiss the Nights Make the Nights kiss the Days back. Show them that face you made in the afterglow of when we made love The eyes of step-by-step instructions on how to turn a bloodthirsty King of the 10th century into a skinny hippie that cried after writing this poem on a sheet of tree. The smile of a detailed rubric, outlining the five simple ways to get to heaven—not the least of which is wrapping duct tape over one’s mouth until understanding when a person’s day begins and when another’s ends. The nose twitch which jammed every automatic and semi-automatic assault rifle on the face of the planet for the duration of time it takes you run your fingers from one end of my chest to the other A goddess of fools. A muse for the wise. She dances somewhere in between: the dusk of destruction the dawn of peace

Tree Slices Miguel Escoto Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m wasted. Gnaw at my millennial jaw with a post-consumer saw. My words are the raw, impractical cause of this tree sliceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s funeral cost. Gnaw at my jaw with a saw. I am raw, I am cause, I am cost, wasted.

Home Sweet Home Allyson Garcia

Does sliding my fingers through her hair feel like home, or does home feel like sliding my fingers through Her hair is splayed on sheets and in my mouth, as I search for the warmth of her hand to clasp to mine, where it is Home sometimes feels like gentle shakes of laughter as our bodies rock in delight at the dullest joke ever to pass the threshold of My mouth is drawn to hers by a force I can feel pull me forward; not controlled by my brain, or any part of me, but by Her heart is my home

The Woods Kristyn Garza Crimson the white fluff that lay on yonder tree tinted with a ravaging red. Silence cuts the cool crisp air like a shriek in the night it is not dark and yet Fear claws at my soul, turning it a heavy onyx. Voices, I hear them all around me surrounding my thoughts and clouding my mind they whisper of oncoming sorrow, of uncertainty piercing my poor heart with cold icicles of terror I attempt to clod my way through the thick gloom, gloom that has seeped into the already cold air turning everything frozen. I cannot run, cannot move the voices grow with every struggle I make and so, I crumple to the ground, sprawled on the soft white blanket that covers the earth looking up at the pale, ocean sky. The tree branches lying overhead mock and jest at my pain like cackling hyenas stalking their weak prey. I hold my hands to my ears unable to take much more Fear, finally, I close my eyes and see the white fluff that lay on yonder tree and ravaging red. Crimson.

105 or 106 Stephen McCray I spit on the concrete and heard it sizzle. “It’s too damn hot” I muttered. The cicadas screamed in pain as the sun beat down on their last leg of life. The buzzards cawed overhead as they circled the dying calf. “At least something gets to eat” I cried. The mirage of green could be seen off in the corner of the land. My skin was blistered and burnt to a crisp. “That’s what I get” I sighed. My double coat of denim wasn’t enough to keep those rays out. The ground was cracked and thirsty. “Five days of this shit” I grumbled. The thermometer read 105 or maybe it was 106.

Misters Straight, Young and Roof Stephen McCray We danced to that slow song That we both knew by heart. A stiff drink and a whispered yes We called for our ride. The sounds of shirts hitting the floor With Mr. Strait and Mr. Young in the back The streetlight illuminated us both. It was a California wildfire. All the peaks and valleys met with a pang of nostalgia for those before her, And those before me. Her kiss on my neck And my hand on her hip. It was the most natural thing a human could feel. I reached for a pack and a lighter She grabbed her phone to set an alarm. It was done, We were threw. The rain must have woke her. She must have dressed Then sprinted for the door. That Old Tin Roof sang what I already knew: I had held her long enough.

Self-Portrait as My Mother’s Lime Tree Gavin Quinn Fingers running over muted brown bark, smooth in the passing and coarse on the close. My eyes follow where my limbs cannot go, Forests of verde brillante above A hidden world known only to small eyes. No other life here, Just patches of grass We planted under The Mexican Sun. She tells me the place is full of beauty, Even though the tree does not grow its limes. It doesn’t know its fruit yet, she tells me. I wish you could take it when you leave home. A thousand suns go Over and around the tree, Every day it glows. I am gone now, but she tells me of limes. It’s all from her little tree, she tells me. I think that every day, she grows more proud.

Deer Bryce Robinson I want to be the white tailed stag

jumping

Over a fence in the forest, Like the one who stopped me for a second the day I searched for solitude patiently waiting for longingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s evaluation. All at once

With timelessness in mind

I saw the meaning of a blossoming flower As I watched the deer leap to the other side, Perfect, selfless logos in action â&#x20AC;&#x201C; my ultimate desire, No longer asking questions, Disappearing between the trees

K C.J. Shaleesh Your message is in my inbox It has been sitting there for three months I dare not read it I already know what’s inside You finally gave me the closure I wanted The closure I demanded for a year and a half Your words explaining How you could end five years of love By simply refusing to say anymore words I don’t want to read your explanation Over and over again When I’ve already heard it from your friends I don’t want to hear how You wanted to end love So we could independently Deal with our individual pains I don’t want to know That you were fighting depression and an eating disorder All alone How you forced people to go away from you How you didn’t want me to support you With my recently shocked and shattered eyes

That couldn’t even cry For family and friends that had recently died At the time I don’t want the closure you gave to comfort A now ruined me I don’t want your official end I want to argue With you Or against you So let’s be at a forever impasse

VISUAL

Green Collage I by Chloe Halstead

Blue Pastel I by Chloe Halstead

Adoration by Hailey Strader

Neon Flowers by C.J. Shaleesh

Mandala by Marcelo Salinas VillaseĂąor

34 Still

by Nahomi Gomez

The Austin Chronicles by Charlie Eckman

Speckled Forest by Chase Walentitsch

Tea Bouquet by Chase Walentitsch

Alien Wasteland by Amanda Markoe

PROSE

Thyme & Dough by Sydney Chandler I’m driving down I-95. It’s late. The stars out here, Denna. Their light isn’t real, you know. Their fires burned out millions of years ago. But we still see them. Anyone who says they don’t believe in ghosts has never taken the time to look up. We see the ghosts, their eyes on fire. We look up and we see the stars. The stars look up – what do they see? I see the ghosts, like I see the ghost of you in the young cashier at Seven Eleven. You, in the girl driving the jeep with no doors, her red hair trailing behind her like a comet, a cigarette clinging to the edge of her lips. You, in the stars. The ghost stars. I wonder now, as I look through Old Sam’s window, if the ghosts of light we see today are more beautiful than the actual stars had been. Ghosts are more beautiful than flesh and blood I think. Because memories, they can be altered. Nothing exists on this stretch of road. I think even if a coyote, or one of those infamous desert tumbleweeds, strode out across the road this very second, I wouldn’t see it. I’ve gotten used to the nothingness: the blank emptiness of the road, the dark stitch of the horizon beyond. I’ve grown fond of it. I’ve grown fond of the stars. I’m tired. My eyes, they feel so heavy, so half-driven. They work so hard, our eyes. Taking in everything around us, siphoning through billions of particles of light before

settling on a mere ten percent for us to focus on. Our eyes decide what’s important for us to see. I see a light. A light, growing as I drive closer. A light, stretching outwards across this wasteland, as if to meet me, as if to greet me, to envelop me in a yellow embrace. The neon sign reads Thyme & Dough, and underneath it, an OPEN sign flashes red, blinking on and off, like breath. I pull off the side of the road into the empty parking lot. The willowy coffee house before me, lit up by its yellow neon sign, looks not built of saw and hammer, but rather, grown. Grown out of the very dirt and impressive array of potted plants and trees gathered at the base of the building. The plants engulf its entirety. Tall stalks of ivy seem to hold the walls in place; thick ropes of leafy braids. A rectangular garden, sanctioned off by an aged picket fence, brims with lush plant life – lemon trees and purple orchids, rows of herbs and strawberry bushels. The coffee house looks to me, alive. Looks the way a building would if our people were taken off this earth, and the Mother was allowed to reign freely again. Something green, something growing – a curious ornament on this desolate stretch of road. I step out of my truck. I bend down, stretching my legs. I do not know how long I’ve been on this length of road, Denna. I feel even the days have passed in night, the ghost stars ever constant. I am tired. I am hungry. And a fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds nice. A fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds, magnificent.

The girl opens the door for me. The girl, swathed in a pink cotton apron, some form of green frosting swirling across its center, greets me with a broad smile. “Come in now, come, come,” the girl ushers, as if she has been impatiently awaiting my arrival. I step out from under the stars, and into the small interior of the coffee house. I am immediately greeted with the smell of warm honey and freshly baked bread. A hint of peppermint wafts its way above the scent of baked goods. The smell of peppermint – it reminds me of you, Denna. It reminds me of Mom. A sumptuous collection of potted plants lines the yolky yellow windowsills of the coffee house. Lavender and roses, thyme and bushels of basil, all stand perkily in their pastel ceramic pots. A fully grown peach tree, its limbs weighted with its fuzzy, bulbous fruits, leans at a precarious angle in the corner of the shop, its tall limbs bowing forward, brushing fingertips with the slanted ceiling. A thick carpet of ivy obscures the back wall, and threaded between the ropey stalks are blooming rows of daffodils, their fanning buds perfectly formed for one to blow away, to make a wish. The bell above the door jingles as the girl pulls it shut behind us. The sound, so fragile, like the flicked end of a diamond earring. The girl skips around the counter, splaying her small hands out over the wood. “Welcome Mister, I’m Georgia,” the girl practically sings, her

voice carrying itself around the room as if her very words bear wings. “Welcome to Thyme & Dough. What can I get for you?” I step up to the counter. The girl, Georgia, looks to be no more than fifteen years of age. Tight pigtails pull the skin around her eyes taught. Her smile is painted a chalky, petal pink. I stare at her, searching for you. But all I find are freckles, of which you have none, and cherry round cheeks shelving a pair of bright green eyes. Your eyes are dark, are brown, like mine. Still, I can’t help but search. I finally look away. That is when I notice the heap of fur on the ground by my feet. A slinky coil of orange cat lies dangerously still on the wooden floor, its paws splayed out before it, its eyes halflidded, glassy. “Don’t mind Shanks,” Georgia coos, waving a hand dismissively. “He’d sleep all day if he could!” He’s been asleep longer than a day, I think, taking care not to notice the lack of movement in the old cat’s chest cavity, where breath should have been ballooning out, in, and out again. “What can I get for you?” I look to the menu, a bright wooden board hanging above Georgia’s head. I order a veggie wrap, two berry scones, and large coffee, black, to go. Although Georgia is clearly not yet eighteen, there seems to be no one else here. Besides

Shanks, that is, who may or may not be sleeping. The plants and fruit trees are also present. And as I wait for Georgia to get my wrap, I get the feeling that the foliage surrounding me, the vivid green limbs and magazine ripe fruits, are more alive than just – alive. Sentient, in a way. Listening, with their leaves. I take two large gulps of my heavily caffeinated coffee. “Here you are!” Georgia smiles, having wrapped my food up into a paper bag. I reach into my pocket, fishing for my wallet, but Georgia waves me off, her tongue clicking disapprovingly against the roof of her mouth. “My Grandma GG kept this place going until she plopped over dead. And Grandma GG, she always said to me: Georgia, meet kindness with kindness.” Georgia reaches across the counter and takes my free hand in both of her own. She stares up at me, her eyes searching my own, her eyes driving through my own, as if the girl has caught a glimpse of something nestled deep inside me, something I may or may not know exists. “You have kind eyes,” Georgia finishes, as if the four words are the proper answer to all the mysteries in the world. At half past noon the following day, I come across a green billboard on the side of this ever-elongating road. ENTERING BISBY IN TEN MILES, the sign reads in block white lettering. POPULATION: 274. Two. Seven. Four. Could you imagine, Denna, growing up

in a town so small? Not even a dot on the map, but imagine instead a particle of sand, a tip of a hangnail, something a cartographer would weigh over in his hands, deciding on whether to include such an insignificant location on his precious piece of design. In this country, two-seven-four might as well equal zero. Two-seven-four might as well equal ghost town. Equal dead zone. Equal secrets locked in boxes shaped like cookie cutter houses: okay, Andy’s father is really his Uncle Jimmy, yes,

Rob cross dresses, but only when the moon’s full, no, I didn’t cut myself Mom, I walked into a razor blade, come on, Jilly’s not pregnant, she’s just got wide around the midsection, no, no secrets are kept here in Bisby, a town this size is too small to house secrets, SHHH, Cleveland tried to put a bullet in his head, but he missed, but he was a lost cause to begin with.

He was an insignificant number four on the end of twentyseven. WELCOME TO BISBY, the second sign reads. JUST ANOTHER SLICE OF THE PIE. This town has been abandoned, I think. The main street is rutted and pock marked with potholes. I guide Old Sam slowly down the broken asphalt. The road is lined on both sides with small boxy shops, their roofs all flat and made of stucco, the stuff the color of putty. Although it is a clear, Sunday afternoon, I see no one walking up or down the streets, no one busying themselves in the shops, no one maneuvering around the potholes in their cars. No one,

Denna, at all. I notice most of the shops are boarded up with wood or black swathes of tarp. I do not know why this place has been abandoned. I try not to wonder why. I try not to think back on our childhood home as I drive through the ruins of Bisby â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the home I dream of every now and again. I dream of eating it, Denna, did you know? Eating at the shut windows and the grout around the kitchen sink. Eating it all up with a fork and knife in hand. I want to digest it, I think. I want to shove it down, to swallow it whole, to absorb it in the lining of my gut, somehow. Mom, you, me: we abandoned that place, Denna. Like these shops, this road, out here in two-seven-four Bisby. I wonder if a part of Dad still lives in that old house. I wonder if his ghost sunk into the walls. I pass an old church, its mahogany doors leaning open, like a slack jaw mouth. And next to the church, decorated with rich, lively green foliage, is none other than the coffee shop. The coffee shop, Thyme & Dough. I pull to a stop in front of its familiar neon yellow sign. I know itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not plausible for this shop to be the shop I stopped at the night before. But Denna, this shop is exactly the same. The garden, the ivy â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a woman opens the front door. Garbed in a pink cotton apron stands a woman in her later years. Her back is hunched over like a sliver of moon, her hair a salty white.

“Come in now, come, come,” the old woman croaks, ushering me inside with a wave of her hand. I pull the keys out of Old Sam’s ignition, and follow the woman inside. The coffee house looks exactly as it had miles down the road. The peach tree in the corner is in full bloom – its fruits glistening with moisture. “Welcome son, I’m Georgia. Welcome to Thyme & Dough.” I stare at the old woman, trying to obscure my puzzlement. The woman cocks her head to the side like that of a bird’s. She smiles a broad, genuine smile, revealing a set of nubby teeth. “Didn’t expect to find anything open here in two-seven-four Bisby, now did you?” I cannot answer. I just nod my head foolishly. The woman’s green flecked eyes are sunken deep into her brow, but they still hold the shine of a young girl at heart, perhaps a girl of fifteen years of age. “What can I get for you?” A dash of orange fur and tail careens its way across my dusty sneakers. The cat leaps up onto the countertop, rubbing its small head against the woman’s arm. “Don’t mind Shanks,” Georgia coos, her hands playing

through the kitten’s fine fur. “He’d run around all day if he could!” I stare at the kitten. The kitten stares back at me. It purrs, the sound like a honey bee buzzing beside my ear. “What can I get for you?” I do what is left for me to do. I order a veggie wrap, two berry scones, and a large coffee, black, to go. I feel the plants in their pastel ceramic pots watching me, listening to my breath, as I wait for Georgia to gather my meal. I take a hesitant sip of my heavily caffeinated coffee. It tastes just the same: a bitter, uneventful swallow, tinged with the hint of honey pecan. “Here you are!” Georgia smiles. She hands me my paper bag. I reach into my pocket, fishing for my wallet. The kitten mews from his place on the counter top. The old woman looks at me, shaking her head. “My Grandmother GG kept this place going until, bless her heart, she plopped over dead. Right there, right there where you’re standing.” Georgia signs the cross against her pink cotton apron, its fabric coated in a swirl of green frosting. She reaches across the counter, taking my free hand in both of her own. I look down at her hands. They are calloused, and warm, a map of watery veins winding their way under the thin surface of her skin. “My Grandmother GG, she always said to me: Georgia, meet kindness with kindness.” She pats my hand then, caressing it with her pastel pink painted nails. “No need to pay today, son. For you, you have kind eyes.”

It does not surprise me when, the following day, I happen across Thyme & Dough. I have rerouted myself from the I-95 onto the I-10. The sun is heating up, Old Sam’s air conditioning doing no more than blowing hot air into my face. The only station Old Sam seems to enjoy is 91.5, an old country station wracked with static and old men’s drawling hymns. I’ve stopped only once today, to relieve myself, and to watch a red hawk pin its wings to its back, dive down into the scrubby earth, and engulf a field mouse in its talons. The bird took no notice of me. The field mouse squealed, then went silent. I’ve parked below the neon yellow sign of Thyme & Dough. I expect Georgia to open the coffee house door, to usher me inside. But the porch door stays closed. The cicadas sing around me. I step out of Old Sam. I bend down, stretching my legs. Denna, I wish you were here with me. I would order you a small coffee with soy milk – I know lactose does not sit well in your stomach. I would order you your coffee and I would stare into your eyes. I would try to apologize. Somehow. I would hope that you would give me some explanation for your leaving, but I know you. You would not say a word. You would instead play with a strand of your long dark hair. You would let the silence grow. You would sip your soy coffee slowly, deliberately – you would comment on the honey pecan aftertaste. I walk up to the door of the coffee shop. I let myself inside.

The peach tree greets me with its fanning of leaves, its limbs no longer weighted with fruit. It is bare, like the back wall of the shop is bare, the ivy no longer threaded through with blooms of daffodils. The smell of warm honey and baked goods and peppermint overwhelms my senses. And underneath it all, like a cobwebbed box forgotten under the basement stairs, is the smell of something sour, the smell of something pungent. I take slow steps up towards the counter. I lean over the counter top, pressing up on my toes. Behind the counter, splayed out like a modern piece of art on the wooden floor, is a set of human bones. The skeleton is arranged as if it were sleeping, its fibulas and tibias, its fine, pointed digits, laying crossed against its chest. A pink cotton apron, some form of muted green frosting swirling across its center, lies over the ivory bones like a shroud. I make my way behind the counter. The bones are clean, they look as if they have been polished, void of any sign of hair or tissue or skin. I do not know why I bend down. I do not know why I reach for the hem of the pink cotton apron, and lift it, an eddy of dust floating up from its surface, whirling around in small particles before my eyes. I do not know why I expect exactly what I find, nestled inside the ribcage of the skeleton, curled up where a beating heart should rest. A small animal fetus, its delicate limbs half formed and pulled into its stomach. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s red gummy exterior swathed in a translucent, rubbery sack. I watch, as

if from very far away, as one of the fetus’s limbs kicks out, and then, as if in acceptance of its situation, the limb goes still. Georgia and Shanks, one long lived, the other not yet born, lie still and placid on Thyme & Dough’s giving floor. I, someone, a wanderer, a stranger, lean hunched over their remains. Again, I do what is left for me to do. I wrap the bones and the filmy residue of the cat into the folds of the pink cotton apron. I carry them outside, careful not to disrupt them, and bury them in the garden, beside the roots of the lemon tree. Then I re-enter the coffee house. I fill a paper bag with a veggie wrap and two raspberry scones. I make myself a fresh brewed cup of coffee, black, to go. I fill a cup of coffee up for you too, Denna. I leave it on the counter, a carton of soy milk beside it. I place a ten-dollar bill on the countertop, and decide to water the various array of plants in the coffee house. I touch the leaves of each plant as I do so, the furry ligaments of the lavender stalks, the fanning limbs of the bushels of basil. Grandma GG, she always said, meet kindness with kindness. I guess that’s what I’m working to do. I leave Thyme & Dough as dusk gathers its billowing skirt across the sky. The stars, the ghost stars, are out again, Denna. I don’t know if they know I exist, but I’m happy to be under their brilliance. I know they’re there, and that’s what’s important. I know you’re out there, somewhere, and that, Denna, is more important than anything.

A few days have passed. I have the urge every now and again to drive back the way I came, to re-visit the coffee shop. But I somehow know, and I do not know how I know, that if I turned backwards, Thyme & Dough would no longer be there to meet me, to greet me with its yellow neon sign. Maybe a lone peach tree would stand where a building once stood, a building grown out of the ground by way of dirt and vine. Maybe an orange cat would stride across the road, but I wouldn’t see it. I’ve gotten used to the nothingness, Denna. The blank emptiness of the road, the dark stitch of the horizon beyond. I’ve grown fond of it. I’ve grown fond of the stars. The ghost stars, Denna. They remind me of you. It seems everything does, these days. And as I drive onward, Old Sam’s rubber wheels carrying me kindly across this wasteland, I think, Denna, of a fresh brewed cup of coffee, black, to go. I am tired. I am hungry. And a fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds nice. A fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds, magnificent.

The Wonder of Thought by Nico Escalante Cast of Characters: BOY: Young student, vibrant facial and body reactions to what is happening around him. Seems to be at the mercy of THOUGHT. GIRL : Young student who wears a sundress with something purple in the outfit. Shyly flirts with and invites BOY from afar. TIME: Constantly judging and critiquing. Walks a step ahead of the others and has a series of watches on his/her person that he/she keeps checking. THOUGHT: A meanderer with seemingly no place to go. Light hearted and goofy but second guesses any action that might cause harm or difficulty. Dressed similarly to BOY. CREEP: sketchy looking dude wearing sunglasses LADY: unexpecting lady holding a purse Setting: Campus Time: The present. Scene One

(BOY, TIME, and THOUGHT stand at BOYs locker as he gathers his things. Seeming like a group of friends the three walk and talk about the night before, bantering and badgering along the way. TIME walks one step ahead of the other two at all times) TIME Why are you both so tired? I’ve been up for hours. (Checks pocket watch) THOUGHT Hmm, I wonder if staying up so late with you had anything to do with it. (Lightly punches BOY on the shoulder) It was worth it though. That was a damn good game. Honestly, too bad it didn’t go into overtime. TIME Overtime? Yeah right. I was not going to devote one more moment of my attention to such a vulgar waste of me. (Checks wristwatch) THOUGHT Hardly a waste. Those were our favorite teams. That might’ve been the game of the year. (Bell rings)

TIME (Looking at watch) I’ve warned you, if you keep this up you’ll be late for class every day. THOUGHT Actuuallly… We we’re thinking of ditching class today. The teacher is super boring and it’s much cooler to hang around the courtyard instead. TIME The courtyard? Really? I can think of a hundred better uses of me than that. THOUGHT Funny you say that because I can think of a thousand better places WE’D rather be than stuck in Mrs. Montague’s English Lit class. It Shakespeare week and we… actually, what am I doing? We don’t have to explain ourself to you. You coming or not? TIME (slightly annoyed and sighs) You know I am. right)

(The three exit the stage to the

(The three walk back on the stage from the left and see GIRL on the far right. GIRL seems as if she notices BOY and wants him to walk over but does nothing extraordinary to indicate as much.) TIME Ohhh, now I see why you wanted to come to the courtyard. Very cool. (Looks back at BOY and THOUGHT approvingly) (Checks another watch and speaks) Well you know what they say, there is no me like the present! Let’s go talk to her (TIME walks towards the girl while BOY and THOUGHTS stay behind) THOUGHT (Talking directly to BOY with both of his arms on each of BOYs shoulders as one giving a pep talk would.) Alright this is it! There she is in the courtyard just like I said she’d be, looking beautiful as ever. This is our chance, time to work our magic. walk towards GIRL)

(BOY and THOUGHT begin to

THOUGHT WAIT!

(stops BOY with frantic urgency. Boy seems taken aback) Fix your hair! How could you expect a girl like that to give you the time of day looking like you just got out of bed. (BOY agrees, fixes hair, slides hands up and down shirt, takes a deep breath and takes another step) THOUGHT WAIT!! (Stops BOY again in same frantic manner) Tuck in your shirt, man! What is this amatuer hour? This is her were talking about- the girl of your dreams. Show a little dignity man? (BOY appearing a little more nervous, tucks in shirt, checks his breath, takes another deep breath and steps towards GIRL) THOUGHT WAIT!!! (Just about tackles the BOY to stop him) What are you going to say to her? You weren’t about to just walk up to her and what… be yourself? That’s insanity man! A girl like that doesn’t want to talk to just any average Joe. She wants someone who will stand out, someone cool and interesting!

(Says quietly and off to the side as if thinking) Unfortunately, you’re neither of those. (Ponders for a second a lights up with an idea) I’ve got it! You can tell her a joke! Girls absolutely love a guy who is funny. They fall head over heals for them all the time. Yes, a joke. That’s the key. That’s how we will win her heart. (BOY and THOUGHT take a step towards GIRL and stop. THOUGHT looks at boy with a wild face of bewilderment) THOUGHT What in the world, are you serious right now? You don’t know any goddamn jokes! (GIRL seems a little disappointed and both her and TIME check their watches. Moments later TIME and GIRL exit stage) THOUGHT Ahhh forget it (Throws both hands outward in classic “who needs ya” way) She probably had somewhere important she needed to be. We’ll talk to her next time we see her.

(BOY and THOUGHT walk over to stage left and talk. TIME eventually walks in and joins them) TIME What the hell was that? Where were you? I stood over there with her for what seemed like an eternity! And, coming from me, that’s DEFINITELY saying something. Girls like that don’t wait forever, they have better things to do. THOUGHT Hey get off our case, she was clearly in the middle of doing something else. TIME Something else? What are yo-- she stood there waiting for him! (Looks directly at THOUGHT. Conversation happens outside of the realm where BOY can hear. Stage goes dark except lights on TIME and THOUGHT) You need to stop getting in this boy’s way. THOUGHT (unfazed and casual) Psssh, it wasn’t me. She seemed like she didn’t wanna talk. Why would we put ourselves out there knowing there was a good chance she would just shut us down? Not to mention we don’t even know any damn jokes giving us no clear way to convince her to like him. It was honestly best he didn’t talk

to her, if you ask me. Anyway, we talked it over and decided, if it happens it happens, if not, it wasn’t meant to be. TIME (looks at THOUGHT in sheer disbelief) What are you telling this poor kid? That was the situation was perfect, and YOU let the moment pass. All he had to do was talk to her. Just needed to put himself out there. (TIME checks watch) You HAVE change whatever it is you tell him- start being positive and reinforcing. If you don’t figure out how to let him take some chances, he is going to wake up one day and realized I passed him by and he’ll have nothing to show for it. THOUGHT (taken a little by surprise) Hey man, it was just one time. Why don’t you relax a little? TIME (enraged) Don’t you get it? That’s the point! I don’t relax! I keep going, on and on, at a steady pace, forever! It’s up to you, and him, and everyone else to make sure they keep up with me. If not, I am just going to fly by and y’all will live your life too full of doubt to notice. (TIME walks off angrily) THOUGHT

(BOY involved again, THOUGHT is a little uneasy) Nahhh, we made the right choice. No girl wants to talk to a guy in the courtyard anyway. It’s too corny. (Pats BOY on the back encouragingly) Who needs girls when you’ve got the sweet company of introspection at your side. stage)

(THOUGHT and BOY exit the

SCENE TWO (TIME, THOUGHT, and BOY enter the stage and stand in line behind LADY to get food) THOUGHT Now what in the world could be taking so long? It’s just ordering food, how difficult could it be? TIME (Checking watch) You know, for once I actually agree with you. People waste me on the most trivial things. I mean it takes someone forever just to figure out what it is they want to eat. Do I want fries or onion rings? Ketchup or mustard? An apple or an orange? Imagine what humanity could achieve if they put me to good use and towards things that actually mattered. They

could cure cancer, colonize mars, understand… (LADY finishes order and walks away. THOUGHT interrupts what TIME is saying) THOUGHT She left! Let’s order chicken wings! TIME (Hand on his head) Well at least you were decisive about it. THOUGHT (in deep thought) But what sauce should we get? (TIME sighs heavily as BOY and THOUGHT talk together. Meanwhile CREEP walks on stage wearing sunglasses and tries to act casual. THOUGHT notices him) Get a load of this guy? his attention)

(nudges boy on the arm to get

TIME What do you mean? THOUGHT He’s wearing sunglasses…. Inside! We love these people.

They’re utterly ridiculous. TIME Maybe he’s just got sensitive eyes. THOUGHT Yeah and maybe it’s just always sunny in Douche-adelphia. (THOUGHT looks at BOY for approval and BOY shrugs and they both laugh) (CREEP starts walking towards LADY trying to be inconspicuous) THOUGHT Wait… is that guy about to? TIME Sure looks like it. (CREEP snatches the purse away from LADY and runs off stage) TIME (looks at BOY and THOUGHT in wonder and urgency with watch in hand) So what are you going to do? This is happening, I can’t stay with you for much longer. hesitates)

(BOY starts towards CREEP but

THOUGHTS But… Chicken wings… (TIME looks back at THOUGHT with pity and disapproval and with BOY runs towards CREEP off stage. THOUGHT thinks for a second, takes on last look at the food stand, and jogs after them) SCENE THREE (TIME, THOUGHT, and BOY enter the stage in high spirits) THOUGHT Holy crap that was amazing! Did you see how we wrestled that creep to the ground!? The lady was so happy to get her purse back! She even said she has a granddaughter who goes here that she wants to hook us up with! Said her name was Violet. TIME Funny. The way I remember it was that HE got her purse back and YOU were more interested in… what was it? Chicken wings. You cared more about chicken wings than doing something brave. THOUGHT (as if he didn’t even hear what

TIME said) We were so badass! Like out of a movie or something. One second we’re standing in line, then some dude steals a purse, and bang! We spring into action. Like goddamn Bruce Wayne. Actually, what am I talking about? We were freaking Batman! (Jumps ahead and puts both arms on waist like superman) Man I don’t think anything could stop us right now! (GIRL walks on the stage across from them wearing something purple and shyly looks at BOY) TIME Well here you go Batman, lets see how quick and brave you are now. THOUGHT But… Uh… wait no…. I think we’re reading Hamlet today and Mrs. Montague will kill us if we skip again. We should probably… (TIME and BOY take a few steps forward and look back at THOUGHT pathetically and walk up to GIRL) (BOY and GIRL start talking and GIRL eventually laughs. He points out her the purple of her dress and she nods) THOUGHT Wait what… what’d you say? Did you just make her laugh? (stops and thinks)

You know what, I knew we were hilarious! (BOY, GIRL, and TIME begin to walk off stage) THOUGHT Wait up! Tell her about the purse. Tell her how brave we are!! (THOUGHT does a little skip and then runs after the other three off the stage)

A Guide to Becoming a Writer: Youth Edition by Jose Flores A Guide to Becoming a Writer: Youth Edition Be born; if possible be born into multiple different cultures. Expose yourself to different ideas, concepts and situations. Reserve all judgements of people in a manner similar to that of Nick Carraway. Show no sense of harsh judgment in order for people to look at you as a kind of personal journal. Memorize everything. Every story, every word and syllable. Continue being a receptive antenna in order for people to want to keep you around. People love talking about themselves. Learn to code switch. Adapt with the situation, the type of language and environment. If you find yourself in an illegal situation or anything out of the ordinary do what needs to be done to get out alive and to avoid jail time. Remember everything. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll make for a great story later on. Try to network in the world of writing. Realize: No one takes you seriously because youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re too young. Think: I have to make up for my lack of age somehow. Pick up hobbies: skateboarding, freerunning, gaming, boxing, drag racing, baking, painting, drinking, filming, robotics, volunteering, farming, construction, selfdestruction, develop an addiction, drop the addiction, join a gang or two, watch the gang dissolve into prison sentences or death, never go to jail, never die but learn how to die, sleep in the streets every now and then, live in luxury, live in

poverty, party, don’t party, get held at gunpoint behind a taco stand, music, poetry, rap, Beethoven, only read dead writers, join a religion, drop the religion, look into science, stick to science, take everything at the extremes, appreciate the normal, find beauty in everything. Experience every experience there is to experience. Develop an array of memories and stories to draw from when writing. Write what you know. Know everything you possibly can. Go through love and heartbreak. Go through intense pain and euphoria. Learn about yourself so that you may learn about others. Don’t take artistic classes. Take fact based classes: biomedical sciences, physics, history and psychology. Watch the news. Realize: There’s so much to take from in reality that it’s a shame to not do so. Avoid reading living writers and art classes in order to not regurgitate what has already been said. Think: If people wanted to read something that sounded like someone that was alive and famous, they would go to that person that is alive and famous. Be different from what’s out there currently. Realize: Homosexuality, drugs and sexual activity is no longer edgy. It’s the norm. Write: Anything that people are actually afraid to talk about. Anything that makes people nervous deep inside. Death, self-destruction, religion, reality and the unknown. People want to get away. Use your words to tie them to reality. Make your words something that helps them fight their demons and whatever they are avoiding in life. A young adult novel is in their life for a season. A life changing book is with them for the rest of their lives. Write something new and refreshing. Show the

world what the youth can do. Write something that’s actually taboo or different. If soccer moms in their 40’s read, it there’s no way it’s edgy. We connect with people through loss, not through what we have. We have sports cars? Cool story bro. We lost a loved one in the drug war in Mexico? I honestly know how you feel. You’re the youth. So be the youth. Change the current structure of writing. Don’t imitate the past and sure as hell don’t imitate what’s currently happening in art. If it’s on time magazine or a New York best seller it’s too late. It’s old. It’s a has been. Be doubted in the world of writing. You haven’t even hit 20 yet. To the world you’re just a child. But think. Think: You’re not even 20 and you’ve already experienced enough to make up for 100 normal lives. As it stands, you’ve already done more than those hipsters who sit at coffee shops will ever do. Realize: Time and knowledge is now on your side. Use your youth, your time and energy. Create. Create: Something that’s truly new and different. Something that has never been discussed in a president’s speech or a times magazine. Something that will have to be discussed or at least acknowledged by a presidential speech and time magazine. Look at your idols. Determine their level. Surpass them. Be the youth. Don’t let the older generation tell you what to be. They look down at you as it is. Why pander? Make the next biggest hit. Use their doubts as fuel. Create, create, create. Actually DO. No talk. Just action. You’ll get there someday. You’ve got time on your side.

Nightmare: A Short Story by Kristyn Garza Part1: Pain. There’s red, searing, blistering, hot, ripping pain. My eyes flutter open, brows furrowing in exertion and I can’t see a thing. The radiant fluorescents blind me and I blink away the foggy haze that is clouding my mind. I’m keenly aware of a beep beep beeping coming from somewhere to my left, it’s steady rhythm sounding like a booming drum pounding in my skull as if to warn me, though my thoughts are too muddled to interpret as to what. As my eyesight clears I’m looking up at a white popcorn ceiling with bright flickering lights. I try to wiggle my toes that are so numb from the frigid stale air that reeks of disinfectant and latex but I am only able to manage a twitch. I use my hands, which are laid neatly on either side of my body, to try to pull myself up but I vainly grasp at thin, rough sheets with weak fingers that shake from the effort. I am now conscience of a tube that is crammed down my throat and my eyes widen in panic. I try to look around but I can’t move, my neck has been braced and I can now feel the web of tubes and wires that lace my body. My breath quickens and tears begin to fill my eyes as I silently scream, help me, someone please help me! I sense movement to my right and hear a wooden chair grate against the floor accompanied by the sound of someone’s breath catching and, a moment later—a sob. Then I see him. My dad is hovering over me, shaking arms trying to keep me from moving, eyes spilling over with despair and he smiles.

“You’re okay”, he breathes, lips trembling as a new spout of tears ruptures forward, “You’re going to be alright my baby.” I stare up at him with questioning, frightened eyes but I can’t say a word. I grab at him, imploring him to answer me though he can’t hear a thing. He tries for a smile but only manages a weak grimace as he takes my quivering hands in his, “You-you were in a car accident hon. Some drunk rammed you from the side an-and the car flipped…”, his voice broke and he looked away shaking silently, “Baby you had a rollover. The car tipped and you, you were crushed.” I closed my eyes and suddenly I could see glimpses: the radio playing Twenty One Pilot’s Goner as I sing along so blissfully unaware then a crash, the feeling of being frozen in time then bang, the crunch of my head on the roof of my Sentra, the feeling of being cut over and over by shards of glass that are flying around like we’re in a tornado, seeing red from my own blood mixing with the earth as the whirlwind finally comes to a stop nearly three hundred feet from where I was just moments ago, my blood mixing with the damp glass covered dirt that readily soaks up what’s left of my draining life, then complete and total black as I hear the faint sound of sirens in the far, far off distance. I begin to cry, hot tears streaming down my face, collecting in my neck brace and I can feel my face burning from how badly I want to scream. My dad strokes my damp hair back from my tear soaked face and tries to comfort me with a hug so light and awkward I felt like I’d shatter at any moment. “Don’t worry my baby, everything is going to be okay now. The good news is that you’re alive.” He kisses my forehead and I feel almost at peace, like I’m back home watching Parks and Rec and

laughing with him as we veg out with leftover pizza and Dr. Pepper. He strokes my face like he did when I was a child who’d woken from a bad nightmare and needed a kind hand to fix all my troubles. “I should go get the doctor and let him know you’re awake. I’ll be right back hon”, as he stands and moves to go he turns back and murmurs, “I love you.” I hold up my right-hand thumb, index, and pinkie to sign I love you back. As the door clicks shut behind him I sink into the bed feeling somewhat tranquil, in a state of bleary calm. As I stare at the wall that has doctor’s charts and calendars with patient schedules I feel a sharp pain stab me in my chest and suddenly my breathing quickens and I begin to shake. I furrow my brows in confusion and grab at my stinging sternum with a shaking hand, my legs leaping rhythmically in jerking motions uncontrollably. The tube in my throat prevents me from screaming but my entire body begins to howl in torment as it convulses and thrashes. Daddy help me! No one can hear me. I feel a boiling hot fluid building up in my chest and I have an unbearable feeling of drowning, though I should be perfectly fine lying comfortably in my hospital bed, awaiting the doctor to come tell me that I’ll be fine, that I’ll be able to go home with my dad in a week, that I’ll graduate high school in a month, that I’ll go off to college, that I’ll meet someone nice and get married, that I’ll have a family, that I’ll grow old and live my life and—live. Because I’m fine. I feel the scorching fluid rise and begin to bubble out the sides of my mouth, shoving against the tube that is blocking its route of escape. I try to cough and spit and yank at the tube to come out of me but I have no control anymore. Help! Help! My eyes bulge and the veins in my neck threaten

to burst open with how much is spilling out of me, foam rolling down my face and staining the white cotton sheets red. Red. I try to claw at my wires, try to roll out of bed and crawl for help but my body ignores my plight and begins its own throes thus leaving me staring wide-eyed at the popcorn ceiling Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d just woken up to moments before, my body thrashing to the rhythm of an unhinged beep-beep beeping monitor in overdrive. My dad bursts through the door with a doctor and an army of nurses barreling into each other to get to me but I already know. My dad is held back, screaming and straining to get to me but the doctor orders him out of the room as he pulls out his many medical devices, vainly thinking he could possibly help me now. A millisecond later and the chaotic room is filled with the stagnate sound of a long, somber, continuous beep. My body stills and relaxes, my hospital gown and sheets covered in my own internal scarlet. My eyes stare into nothing and blackness creeps into my vision until I fall into a cold slumber with the sound of silence except for the whimpering cries of my father as he sinks to the ground in anguish. Part 2: I awaken to the sound of hurried feet scraping against the linoleum floor and the hushed, grim whispers coming from all corners of the room. I open my eyes and see a legion of doctors and nurses that have descended upon my space, tainting it with unsolicited intrusion, all with clipboards in hand that they furiously scribble pointless observations onto. The only source of silence is coming from the corner of the congested room in which my father sits, staring at me from afar, eyes cold and distantâ&#x20AC;Śso very much unlike him.

My brain burns with memory: memories of being cradled in a football hold as my father turns on ESPN, of the feeling of my dad’s strong arms holding my blankie-covered, four year old body as it thundered raucously in the middle of the night, of sitting on the couch being taught how to play poker at the age of nine on a rickety old TV table, of my dad making a sour face at being forced to attend my choir concerts but smiling from ear to ear as soon as my foot touched the first step of the stage, of my dad taking pictures with me before taking me to my first Homecoming. All of this came rushing back, straining my brain that throbbed and stabbed little knifes of pain into my conscious. I sat up, surprisingly without difficulty and tried to smile reassuringly at him, but I felt something was horribly wrong. No one stopped, no one jumped for joy that I was better, that I was awake, they all just kept milling around the room, zipping in and out of the hallway and barking orders at each other. “Hello”, I tried to say, but my words were not heard by anyone as far as I could tell. “Hello?” I looked down at myself and saw to my horror that I could see straight through my hands that were balled up into fists that scrunched and hugged at my queasy stomach. Tears began to fill my eyes that threatened to spill over in a rushing torrent of grief as realization dawned on me. “I’m dead”, I whisper, half to myself, half to some unseen force that has put me in this position. I jump out of the hospital bed and stumble onto the cold, tiled floor. Everything is cold. I turn back around to see myself lying lifeless and open-eyed while nurses check my body, though the action is futile at this point, and I finally understand why my father had looked so sullen before: I was

wrecked. My body was covered in blood that had already managed to crust over, making my hospital gown cling to my twisted body that bent at awkward angles from the convulsions, and dry film from the scarlet froth that inevitably took the breath from my chest covered my agape mouth and percolated down my neck. I covered my mouth in horror at what this new reality was. “I’m dead”, I said again. My fingers dug through the strands of my sable hair, tugging at them, making me want to scream. I look around at the circus that continues around me, oblivious to my plight and an involuntary sob escapes from my quivering, blue lips. A doctor somehow made his way to my father through the chaos of the horde and bent awkwardly to address him directly, “I’m sorry for your loss Mr. Ramirez. After intense evaluation, we’ve discovered that your daughter had some internal bleeding that was missed during her scans, thus causing her to drown due to her lungs being filled with blood from the blunt trauma she endured from the accident.” My dad made no indication he was listening but the doctor trudged on, no doubt calloused to this sort of reaction, “We’re going to clear the room to allow you your goodbyes, then we can give her to your funeral directors in preparation for her arrangements. Now, another colleague of mine will be waiting in the hall to hand you her death certificate, this must be registered within five days from now Mr. Ramirez. Do you understand this, sir?” My dad takes a long while before slowly nodding his head, all the time never breaking his gaze from me. The doctor looks pleased with his response and lays a tentative, awkward hand on my father’s shoulder, “And again, I’m so sorry for your loss”. The doctor gathers

his clipboards from the wall and, along with the rest of the physicians, hastily retreats into the hall, no doubt moving onto the next patient like I never existed, forgotten in an instant. My father is left in an eerie silence. For what seems like a century he is still, watching me like I’ll get up at any moment and scream psych! and we’ll laugh uncontrollably like we used to, but I don’t. Even though I try to will myself, to plead with myself to wake up, to get up and walk over to him and say, “Daddy I’m so sorry”, I don’t. I don’t. His slouched frame finally gives and he begins heaving and blubbering, his hands shadowing his weathered face so consumed in grief it makes my heart ache with every raspy, shaking breath he takes to continue his wailing. His wailing for me. “Oh, daddy”, I sob, rushing over to his side, collapsing to the floor next to his old man shoes I so often made fun of. “Moria”, he cries, shouting for me to awaken, to live. “I’m here daddy, I’m right here”, I choke out as I take his hands in mine, crying uncontrollably, feeling like my heart has turned to stone. He doesn’t feel my touch. He doesn’t hear me crying out louder than him. Silence slashes through the stale air that now smells of something retched, though I have a feeling I know from what. He haltingly stumbles out of his chair and tumbles onto my lifeless body, leaving me staring after him on the cold floor, tears beginning to dry on my face. I see him take my lifeless hand in his and he kisses it furtively with a sorrowful face that is so scrunched in pain I fear that this look will permanently consume him, forever altering his appearance. I slowly make my way to his side, crying silently as I do so. I want to scream. I want to scream so damn loud that the entire world shatters so that everyone

can know this pain. My pain. My father’s pain. I sit on the stained hospital bed on top of my lifeless body, directly in front of my father. I stare into his red rimmed eyes and will him to look at me, to see me. “Daddy”, I whisper, “I’m still here.” He lets out a sob and buries his head in my ebony curls. “Dad!” Tears of red hot anger and frustration begin to tumble from my already tear soaked eyes. “Dad. Dad…don’t just sit there God damn it! Look at me! Please look at me! I’m here! Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!” I’m pounding on him with all my might and yet he doesn’t ever flinch. He doesn’t know. “Please, please see me.” I’m crying uncontrollably. My tears are blurring my vision and the room is spinning with angry swirls of darkness. “I’m scared…daddy I’m so scared.” I try to take his hand like I used to when the darkness consumed me in a nightmare of mine but he doesn’t feel me. He continues to sob into my hair that no doubt still smells like our home: sandalwood and vanilla. The dark is creeping in even closer now. It’s spilling from the corners of the room and bellowing into the center, climbing like a smog that strikes fear into my heart. My dad lifts his head and takes my face in his hands. “I will forever love you, my Moria, my baby.” He kisses my head and lays me back down with shaking hands. With trembling legs, he moves to stand and go, though reluctantly so. “No”, I breathe, “Dad, no, please stay with me.” I try to reach out to him, to hold him back, but I recoil when the darkness moves hungrily closer to me, surrounding me. I stare at my father’s retreating figure and I’m angry. I’m angry that he can’t see me. I’m angry that I died. I’m angry that the driver from the accident was so stupid. I’m angry at the world for doing this

to me. But most of all, I’m angry at myself…for being so damn scared. In a panic, I scream to no one in particular. “Help!” Silence. I’m almost consumed by the darkness; it’s at level with my chest now and is slowly creeping up my neck. “Hello?! Someone…anyone…please…help me!!” The darkness is almost about to suffocate me, though I’m tilting my head back like a young girl about to drown in a deep pool, desperately trying to delay the inevitable. “Please”, I whimper, “Please help me! I’m so scared. I— I don’t want to disappear!” As I take my last breath, the darkness about to devour me completely, the room explodes in a giant orb of luminescence made of rays of pure energy. And I feel…light; a heavy, leaden burden lifted from me. And I am, in a word, warm. The darkness is gone and in its place, there is a presence of light that is touching everything in the once dank and hopeless room. This light is turning everything a brilliant translucent color of purity. I feel no fear. I am free. A gentle voice speaks, though I know not from where it comes from. It says, “Do not fear Moria. You are indeed free. Your time has come to release your hold on this world, to release your hold on your father.” “I don’t understand. I don’t have a hold on anything. Please take me as you wish.” The color of the room brightens to a gentle pastel as I feel the voice smile sadly, “I’m afraid that is why the darkness came in the first place. You should have returned home the moment you ended but you didn’t, you stayed. That was your choice. You chose not to let go. There is no room here for those who have already been ended. You must release.” I turn to look at my father who’s frozen as if suspended momentarily from time. At that moment, I know what this voice says is true. I don’t

want to let go. I don’t want to say goodbye. I want to stay. “Daddy.” The voice speaks, “Do not be saddened by this parting, for it will not last. Think of this as…until next time. I know you will be with him again and he will readily come to your side again.” I don’t want to go, but I know what will happen if I stay. I’ll eventually disappear and then when the time comes for my dad to go, I won’t be there to greet him. I would never want to leave him all alone. “Okay, I’ll go. This is what’s best for him. However, I can’t help but ask…can I just say goodbye? A proper goodbye? Please. He needs this. I need this.” The color of the room turns a soft blue and my father begins to move again, unfrozen, but he stops, seeming taken aback. The breath catches in my chest when I see him turn around and stare wide-eyed at me. He sees me. “Moria?” His pained face breaks into a beaming smile that brightens his whole appearance even though fresh tears are now pouring from his eyes, I feel that they aren’t from sadness. I can’t keep from smiling back, from ear to ear, “Yeah dad, it’s me.” He moves forward and hugs me, “My Moria!” I hug him back, knowing that this is the last embrace I’ll have for a while. I nestle my face into the crook of his neck and inhale his smell of detergent, Polo Blue cologne, and vanilla. “I love you daddy”, I whisper into his graying ebony hair that’s the exact same shade as mine. I feel the tug of the voice, beckoning me back. I pull away enough to look my father in the eyes, eyes whose green effervescence always soothed me and managed to keep the monsters in my head at bay. “I have to go now, daddy. I’m being called back, but I needed to say goodbye to you.” He shakes his head vigorously and begins to sob, “No, Moria, don’t go.” His hurt face pains me but I

know I must go. I’m finally ready. I finally understand. “I have to daddy. I know you don’t want me to go, I don’t want to go either, but I’ve already gone. Don’t you see? Now I have the lovely pleasure of waiting to see you again and when I do, daddy, I swear that it will be the happiest day of my existence. For now, though, I do have to go. I’ll always be there, waiting for you to join me, but until then, I get to see you live the rest of your life in happiness with me kept alive in your thoughts.” He hugs me tightly and shakes with tears, “Okay baby. If that’s what needs to happen then okay. I’ll miss you! I love you Moria.” I hug him fiercely as the tug begins to feel like a strong pull, “I’ll miss you too. I love you daddy! Goodbye.” I pull back and kiss his forehead, the room exploding in multicolored light. We release and I am pulled back into the corner of the room that is sparkling with light. I see my father waving goodbye to me with a sad but accepting look on his face and I know in my heart that he’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. I give myself to the pull and I am welcomed in a warm colorful embrace with just me and the voice, going home. I feel good. I feel free. The nightmare is over. I’m going home.

On the Virtual World by Allanah Jackson In the virtual world, meaning is hard to grasp. The moment it seems to find a place to dwell, it moves again, on the tip of someone’s keyboard whim. In this way, it’s sort of like spoken language - ever morphing as we intimate and imitate. But in another way, it’s different. In spoken language, you and I create meaning as we exchange. We use symbols (words) to represent our thoughts, feelings, ideas. The movements in our bodies imply the meaning of the symbol as we understand it. The tiny curl in the corner of your lip - you think it’s funny, I do too. That is, I think it’s funny, in an ironic sort of way. Not the sort of funny that laughs out loud, just the sort of funny that curls my lip. The same sort of curl as your lip, I think. Perhaps we know what each other means. This knowing what each other means is imperative to society. For, in the moments of understanding, we generate more meaning and realize potential for action. You say “come” and draw me forward with your hand. Now I know to follow you. Who can imagine what may come of us moving forward together? We might call this communal meaning. There is another sort of meaning – the personal. We make personal meaning on our own through our sensual experiences. There’s a poem you’ve read about lipstick and car crashes. You read it while riding in a dark blue volvo to your grandmother’s house for Christmas. Lipstick and car crashes and dark blue volvos remind you of winter and grandmother. Only you can tell us why.

The virtual world is beautifully rich with possibility for personal meaning. In his profile photo, my friend hugs his dog. When I think of him, I think of them. But the problem is obvious of course; the virtual world lacks bodies. Personal meaning remains personal until you share it with another body in space and time. You must corporeally experience meaning simultaneous with another for it to be communal. Because meaning does not dwell in words; it dwells in minds, hearts, eyes. Bodies. Meaning grows from experience and association. Words are just our little magic tricks for sharing meaning. They don’t have it on their own. Words have definitions. And definitions change as meaning changes. And meaning changes as we share our personal meanings with one another - breathe them in, learn them, make them our own. Personal meaning shared in the virtual world remains personal. I may read your post and find it refreshing; I may incorporate your idea about life into my regular thoughts. But we haven’t experienced meaning together in commune. We haven’t generated meaning together. So your meaning is still your own; my meaning is still my own. But maybe not. Maybe we can generate meaning together in the virtual world. Maybe as you read this now, we are generating meaning together. You and I in communion, here on this page. This page is something like a virtual world, isn’t it? Maybe it’s all the same, the virtual world, the physical, the personal, the communal. I find it hard to tell. I see us hung, suspended between worlds, our minds expanding into infinite abstraction, our bodies moving, growing, dying.

A Couple of Old and Dear Friends by Nicole Zodrow As she gathered her things from her room, Janet glanced at her worn-out garnet shoes. Once they were vibrant and all the other socialite girls, outside of her twelve sisters, would look at them with envy-filled eyes masked with admiration. Now, they were unwearable and not even any girl that Janet recalled from her debutante ball would wish to wear or be seen with them. Once, she thought of her shoes as the source of her life. Now, she found herself standing on her own feet and her hand no longer reaching out desperately for them like she would if her throat screamed for water. As she picked them up, her fingers brushed against the torn silk and the memories that were associated with them flashed like the photographer’s camera as he took her family’s picture. Some of their shared moments were fun, taking the spotlight as she danced the Charleston for one, but those jolly scenes led to unhappy ones. Even then, she felt in her soul that she couldn’t part with these shoes without saying goodbye. Placing them back in the box that they came in, she sat down on her bed and gave her eulogy. “Well, it has been a blast with you two. I remember when Father gave you to me, I felt like I was the luckiest girl in all of Manhattan. When Valentina-” she paused to catch herself, “when Valentina found a place where all of us could show off our dancing without all of stiff and modest society breathing their outrage on our necks, you two made me feel

like I was dancing on the brightest stars in the night sky. Then when things went wrong that one night, when I found out what Valentina was up to, you held me up as I ran. I felt like I could’ve looked at you two as horrible reminders of what happened and what could’ve happened and then thrown you out. But I never could. Then one night in that horrible flat, you made me think about my sisters and how they would want me to hold on. So I did. I held on. I held on to how I would save them and I held onto you two as a reminder of them. You also would remind me of what I would do if I came out of this situation alive. I would take you two and my sisters out dancing. We would look at the bad memories in the eye and dance them away with new memories. And we did. One funny thing about it is this; I did not expect to find a dancing partner during this whole thing.” Janet looked behind her and smiled back at Mark, the inspector her father hired to find her and the man she ended up entrusting to look after her sisters during the time when Janet was away. “Just saying goodbye to a couple of old and dear friends.” “Sounded like they were very special to you.” “You assume correctly, Inspector.”

Artist Statements for Visual Art Green Collage I (pg 27) Blue Pastel I (pg 28) “Experimenting with color is how I create. I like to use odd colors to create a conversation that is unconventional, confusing, and sometimes garish. I prefer to create these uncomfortable combinations as a way to showcase the dynamic power of color. I hope these experiments with color broadens the appreciation of odd color conversations.” - Chloe Halstead Adoration (pg 29) “I made this piece for my significant other. Outlined with Pentel Arts Pocket Brush Pen, painted with cheap watercolor.” -Hailey Strader Neon Flowers (pg 30) “Neon Flowers is a culmination of pictures of coral and creatures in the Dallas World Aquarium. This displays how beautiful the wildlife of the sea is, even under artificial lighting.” - C.J. Shaleesh Mandala (pg 32) “As this piece represents a great deal about what my statement as an “artist” could be, I’ll talk briefly about its elements and the relation to my person. This piece titled “Mandala” is a combination of photography and digital drawing that I like to call “photodrawing”. This mix of

mediums feel about right when it comes to explaining my features and background due to my “mestizaje” and curiosity towards the experimentation. Since I was a kid, the inclination towards mixing every discipline that I practiced helped me reach new ideas and become a more authentic person. This practice of experimentation also has given me a better knowledge about my essence as an individual. Continuing with this concept of mixing, I then took something representative of Texas (as I was new in town) and used its shape to create a mandala that had elements/ patterns that mirrored my person. Details in said mandala are mountains, which represents the city where I came from (Monterrey, N.L., Mexico); plants, which intends to tell the love that I have for nature; eyes and hands, representing the two senses that I appreciate the most; and abstract figures that were created with an energetic, positive, and spiritual intention. This piece took me a month of good work to complete, and although it was a difficult challenge, the journey was incredibly satisfying (as well as the result).” - Marcelo Salinas Villaseñor Still (pg 34) “What should have been never ending fields of green was not what was discovered. A spur of the moment capture on a bus in Southern Japan produced the most unexpected sight, statues of children.” - Nahomi Gomez The Austin Chronicles (pg 36) “I have been without a DSLR camera for many years now. This has forced me to make an art of the very film I use as

much as the details that I intend to capture with it. When I am not using dedicated experimental or expired film I have my own process of accelerating the aging process of new mid to high ISO film by exposing it to heat. Through this and adjustments to my exposure/aperture settings I can control the amount of hue, fade, and photon grain of the images. Because film is such a versatile physical format, I refrain from much if any digital editing in my pictures once they are scanned. This is also because I typically aim towards creating images that make the viewer feel as if you were viewing it in another decade. Here is a small selection of some of the photographs I’ve taken in Austin with my aging film manipulation techniques.” - Charlie Eckman Speckled Forest (pg 38) “This piece was made using individual dots of paint in which took me over a week to make. When creating this I did not plan it out at all and instead went with where my imagination took me. It consists of a mountain, trees, and a vague reflection on a body of water.” - Chase Walentitsch Tea Bouquet (pg 39) “This piece was inspired by seeing splatter paintings and I wanted to create one myself. I used a wet tea bag to create the color by splattering it on the paper. I then outlined the colored portion, and drew in a flower, eventually creating a bouquet.” - Chase Walentitsch Alien Wasteland (pg 40) “The pictures in this photo series were originally taken

in the The Pinnacles in Western Australia. The rocks are limestone formations, and the area is swarming with flies that have no idea what personal space is. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s almost identical to the scene in Beetlejuice where they leave the house, and everything is orange, and the sandworm roams and screams at Barbara. Being there felt like being in another planet, but I wanted to enhance this feeling in this photo series. These edited images are what I picture a deserted planet to be like, where aliens once inhabited but have since moved on. The result is creepy, and it feels like thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a story behind these rocks, like they were carved to represent something.â&#x20AC;? - Amanda Markoe