THE LITERARY AND ART MAGAZINE OF IDYLLWILD ARTS ACADEMY
Parallax 2017 Editor-in-Chief: Danae Devine Junior Editor/Dramatic Writing Editor: Emily Clarke Poetry Editor: Evan Lytle Fiction Editor: Campbell Dixon Nonfiction Editor: Kalista Puhnaty Editorial Staff: Mila Clendenning Jiménez, Hana Desjardins, Emma Smith Visual Art Editor: Linda Santana Layout and Design: Omar Razo Creative Writing Department Faculty: Kim Henderson (Chair), Abbie Bosworth, Christopher DeWan, Derrick Ortega, Marianne Kent-Stoll, Mara Lund Montaño Visual Art Department Faculty: David Reid-Marr (Chair), Jana Baker, Daniel Donovan, Shaunna Lehr, Terry Rothrock, Linda Lucía Santana, Kyle Thomas, Joann Tomsche, Melissa Wilson, Rachel Welch Parallax Award Guest Judge: Ed Skoog Idyllwild Arts President/Head of School: Pamela Jordan Idyllwild Arts Academy 52500 Temecula Drive PO Box 38 Idyllwild, CA 92549 (951) 659-2171 Parallax Online: www.parallax-online.com Copyright 2017 Idyllwild Arts Foundation All rights reserved. No work is to be reprinted without the written consent of the author and the Idyllwild Arts Foundation.
In memory of
Arthur Pembrook 1995-2016
Idyllwild Arts Class of 2014
2017
PARALLAX The Literary and Art Magazine of Idyllwild Arts Academy
PARALLAX 2017 CREATIVE WRITING 11 13 14 15 18 19 27 28 29 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 46 47 48 49 50 52
Earthlings [A Tribute to all the Water Protectors fighting the Dakota Access Pipeline] Emily Clarke Emblem for Glasses Delany Burk Farsight Delany Burk Smoke Contagious Sun Danae Devine Marble Alex Bishop Mrs. Bland [An Absurdist Play] Erin Ulm • WINNER OF THE 2017 PARALLAX AWARD - Selected by Ed Skoog Household Anatomy Emily Clarke lover’s remorse Serena Woosley Earnings to Growth Campbell Dixon Such A Visual Creature Danae Devine reminiscence Serena Woosley Eggs Benedict Delany Burk Nonfiction! Haile Kusama Dancing in Dreams of Regret Emma Smith The Cat Erin Ulm Sounding Jazz Eleonora M. Beran-Jahn Summershat Haile Kusama Happiness Blue Tomoka Takahashi • NON-MAJOR CONTEST HONORABLE MENTION Love Is Acupuncture Danae Devine Kiss Kalista Puhnaty Oranges Alex Bishop Content Scales Hana Desjardins Valtari Jack O’Connor • NON-MAJOR CONTEST WINNER Countdown Emily Clarke
VISUAL ARTS 57 58
Georgia Audrey Carver Untitled Grey Stevenson
59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88
A Destructive Construction Qianhe Mike Fan Untitled Dongling Guo Opposition Rudy Falagan Tenon Pot Qianhe Mike Fan Beware of Christ Benjamin Cruz Order Xiaoxue Zhang Sam Audrey Carver Carriage at Mana Adrian Hernandez O Povo Poderoso Adrian Santana Surrender Frankie Song Bond Qianhe Mike Fan At this Moment Tiva Tao La Luna Adrian Ocone Sprays Rudy Falagan Look through the Surface Meicen Deng Alone in the City Ordy Chen Nine-tailed fox teapot Yin Weng In Water Kyu Jin Lee Self-realization Tiva Tao I Pray Only at Night for This is When I Feel Most Alone Benjamin Cruz Four-goat Square Zun Frankie Song Man of my Dream Audrey Carver Bismuth Öykü Seran Harman Seeds Rudy Falagan Purity Ring Benjamin Cruz Winds 1 Yijia Sun I see myself stabbing it & there is blood coming out Tiva Tao Neurosis Öykü Seran Harman Peter’s Denial Benjamin Cruz Winds 2 Yijia Sun
Idyllwild Arts Academy provides an ideal environment for high school students interested in developing as writers. Our Creative Writing major, combined with the college-preparatory academic program, prepares students for writing fields in college and beyond. We study all literary genres and round out our students’ education with public readings, a student-run print and online literary magazine, and excursions to cultural and environmental experiences. Idyllwild students take charge of their own education by participating in writing workshops and literature seminars, and shaping individual tutorial projects around personal goals. We place equal emphasis on writing and reading, studying writers from many eras, continents, and sensibilities. Students develop an expansive background in literature and the fine arts, varied historically, intellectually, geographically, and culturally. Classes are small, usually fewer than ten students, with department enrollment no greater than twenty-two students. Creative writing teachers at IAA are a mixture of full and parttime faculty who are experts in their field. Distinguished and emerging visiting writers teach master classes and provide feedback to students. Students participate in competitions appropriate to their level, and senior creative writing majors are accepted into a variety of well-respected writing colleges and universities in the United States and beyond. Please direct questions to Kim Henderson, Creative Writing Department Chair, at: khenderson@idyllwildarts.org.
CREATIVE WRITING
Earthlings[
]
A Tribute to all Water Protectors fighting the Dakota Access Pipeline
Emily Clarke
Pure Mother, draped in shades of billowing flora, so lavishly dirty Home longs to be a soft, rounded edge She yawns and we suck her breath into our greedy mouths, claiming it as our own Her skin is clay, it echoes with the slap of our bare feet on hard ground, And crumbles apart with each selfish step we take Our Mother’s veins are violent, silver rivers We slurp and dribble, lapping at her blood to survive Blood is human currency, we love to watch it clot, it dwells inside centuries of memory A woman post-labor kisses her baby, blood clinging to her proud mama mouth and smudging her child’s skin like watercolor Coyote cleans the thick bloody fur of her mate with a gentle pink slobber until he is pure and healing A boy gazes at his reflection, red rusty gushes from his nose; the results of his attempt to protect a little sister, he holds his head high Blood clots at the edges of travel stop bathrooms, the plastic shell of a tampon rests lifeless at the bottom of a trashcan: womanhood leaves stains Our bodies are handfuls of clay, pinched from the organs of our Mother; her heart, her lungs, her uterus Layers of her rippled skin fade from green to brown, her scars are paths for us to walk Cruelty is human currency,
11
we love to watch ourselves topple like dominos Our Sacred Mother is hemorrhaging Thick, black poison has flowed inside her rushing veins and created a corrupted, dirty bloodstream We have left her in ruins with steel and plastic, we have sliced open her skin, time after time, and allowed wicked greed to consume her body Mother, teach us to respect, teach us to grow, teach us the power of our bare hands, teach us to protect a home We have forgotten how to cherish, we have forgotten how to cushion Teach us to heal you, teach us to heal ourselves We must learn to bandage our past without discarding it Mother’s breath has slowed, her blood has been poisoned with immoral oil; The Black Snake Forgiveness is human currency, we love to watch our tall glasses overflow with water: it is ice cold in our throats
12
Emblem for Glasses
Delany Burk
She’s looking at you from across the room It’s farsight She can’t actually see you You look back at her but she can’t tell You smile at her skinny pink laugh And she smiles as if she can hear your thoughts No mistaking it
13
Farsight
Delany Burk
Set me down in a puddle Where birds circle And minds are caught A soul slips from the top of a sun cup Residents are tears pouring down A white sand face Boulders topple from floating pillars And moss grows on wings Set me down on the treetops Of a forest buried in the earth Where spider webs hang Where your mind relaxes Where jagged mountains run for miles Where three moons glow hazily overhead And the rings of Pias can be seen all day This is farsight
14
Smoke Contagious Sun
Danae Devine
Smoke Faceless Nebula Breath For supper Having shoulders Knees Elbows Wrists Collar bones Shoulder blades Active Full Of body Angular, sexy Innocent Compounded Into thousands. A spark of flame took One Big Vomit And like acrobats Smoky bodies ascended Their heavy heads cover the whole horizon Mouths open for feeding But the sun God’s pupil, slips From their lips Smoke is a new god Smoke’s laugh radiates heat Smoke expands in our mouths We are items With more potential energy Than before the smoke came to us We are Smoke’s soldiers Its neural system Smoke covers the sun And the sun turns red Its skin has burned off And tells us to shush Smoke covers the moon
15
And the moon turns orange An orange moon is gentle We may ask For a bite of it When Smoke blows upwards It reaches below To hold our hands We feel its large thumb Offering momentum We lose our faces We are all wrists and ankles When Smoke sleeps In daylight We wake up In soft hued rose rooms Wooden chairs and sliced apples Have expressions We want to be hot Black gas We want to be bigger animals We place chairs in front of windows And sit there for hours Drink wine with pomegranate Tipsy and ethereal Because as red as it is We try to catch the sun move At least an inch When patience fails us We choke our plants’ necks Out of confusion A red sun’s godlike hands Knock at our windows And the plants assume still Even better Their shadows have faces That we do not have Without Smoke Some train With their bodies bound, hearts open Splitting themselves Like smoke clouds do And tickle each other From across mountains When the sun is a beaming cherry We want to sip at least a small part of its blessings
16
It doesn’t blink Maybe it pulses The red sun An endless consumer Of sleep Yanks our tired minds out of our heads And pleasures in our Individualistic Dreams When Smoke clears The sun has a large smile We cry and tremble And forget to drink water We get bored of playing With each other’s bodies Sitting still And barely whispering Thus burning bones Cuddled around growth Sleeping.
17
Marble
Alex Bishop
A deadly invitation with human perception has Led me to believe we were made In a factory. Wooden crates stacked against the walls Spilling chunks of cracked sinews. My elbows lock into my sides, arms falling Straight down in a line I was made of a block of stone My neck an outcropping for my Head, it can be nestled into the crevices Of my clavicles. We were all made from blocks Of different types of rocks, stolen from The waiting hands of purgatory people. Although it would be tough to maintain These machines, keep the tools sharpened The only perfect beings being Adam and Eve Back when every single tool was sharpened To perfection, and from then, we can see How some people receive sharper tools And how they come out more ideal. In my case, perhaps a couple Machines needed parts replaced A dull tool taken to my face, I got a nose too big. Now I’m not one to complain, But I can see the crystalline veins Of marble form When fingernails rake down my back And leave crimson entrails. Or how some brand new machine bit Carved my forehead quite big, Or another, that carved away the hope Of ever having an ass. The idea of being built from stone Is not an easy one Just that premonitions Have already been carved in.
18
Mrs. Bland[
]
An Absurdist Play
Erin Ulm
WINNER OF THE 2017 PARALLAX AWARD • Selected by Ed Skoog Cast of Characters MRS. BLAND: 38 years old, an elementary schoolteacher. JILL BEAN: 6 years old, a student. ROSE-BEA DRUSDALLAJIN: 7 years old, a student. NELLADIE HECKANTT: 6-and-a-half years old, a student. MRS. CANNIMAN: The substitute bus driver-turned-janitor. A 77-year-old woman. Place An anonymous schoolhouse in an anonymous town. Time Midsummer
Scene 1:
The Last Day of School
Setting: A small one-room schoolhouse. The classroom has some desks, a bookshelf, and a tiny threadbare rug. Everything is covered in ashes. On Rise: A schoolteacher, the titular MRS. BLAND, walks onstage. Her face is covered by a large plastic mask with a hole for the mouth, nose, and eyes. Her body is covered head to toe in clothing. MRS. BLAND walks to the far right of the stage. She pauses, waiting. A few seconds later, her eyes widen, as if she has forgotten something. Quickly, she runs offstage. A bell clangs. She runs back in, palms covered in ash—she wipes them on her long, baggy woollen pants, muttering.
MRS. BLAND (to the audience)
It finally happens and no one’s around to even ring the bell. No one. I suppose I should be sad, but there’s no point, really. Three children—JILL, ROSE-BEA, and NELLADIE—shuffle onstage. They are covered with ashen sheets from head to toe, tied around their waists, ankles, and wrists with rope, instead of clothing. There’s two little holes for eyes. They look like ashy little ghosts. Quietly, they sit at their desks.
MRS. BLAND Good morning, girls. CHILDREN Good morning. ROSE-BEA Can we take these things off now?
19
MRS. BLAND Do you have any clothes on underneath, Rose-Bea? ROSE-BEA No. All my other clothes burned off yesterday. JILL It’s a travesty. That’s what Mom would call it. A travesty. MRS. BLAND Very good, Jill! What does “travesty” mean? Tell it to the class. JILL Something bad. It’s when something bad happens. MRS. BLAND Very good, needs a little polish, but very good anyway. NELLADIE I don’t feel good. MRS. BLAND What? NELLADIE I don’t feel good. MRS. BLAND I’ll get you a trash can, dear. Poor kid. We’re all a little sick today. MRS. BLAND goes offstage, then comes back on dragging a little tin bucket. She pulls it over to the side of NELLADIE’s desk, then goes back to the front of the room.
ROSE-BEA Mrs. Bland, I’m not sick. MRS. BLAND Yes, yes. Whatever you say. JILL Where are my parents? MRS. BLAND I thought Mrs. Drusdallajin was going to drive the bus. Didn’t she, Rose-Bea? ROSE-BEA No. She wasn’t even home. Yesterday, she and Daddy went to a play, and she didn’t come back after the hot flash.
20
MRS. BLAND Oh. Well, who drove you, then? JILL Mrs. Canniman. NELLADIE Mrs. Bland, why are my ears bleeding? MRS. BLAND I don’t know, dear. But I have a game we can play. JILL points outside the window.
JILL Look! The sunflowers are glowing. ROSE-BEA They’re not supposed to do that. MRS. BLAND Pay no attention to that. It’s not our business. MRS. BLAND walks over and pulls the curtains closed, blocking the sight of the sunflowers.
JILL Mrs. Bland, why were they glowing? MRS. BLAND You’ll know when you’re older. JILL Where are my parents, then? I wanted to see them, but I couldn’t. They weren’t anywhere outside or in the house— MRS. BLAND All in due time, Jill. Now, do you remember Felony Teens? The last episode? NELLADIE’s hands are on her ears, covering up the blood.
NELLADIE I like that show. MRS. BLAND Do you remember the ending of the last episode? ROSE-BEA I can only watch that show with Nanny. I always fall asleep….
21
JILL I do! Blam, blam, blam! And the barrels were full of them! MRS. BLAND Very good, Jill. Aren’t you a good student today? JILL Do I get a sticker? MRS. BLAND No, we’re fresh out. I stuck the last one on the janitor in memorial. NELLADIE What? MRS. BLAND You’ll find out when you’re older. But we’re going to do a play. Play a play. ROSE-BEA Mama goes to plays. She leaves me home with Nanny because they’re boring. NELLADIE What’s the play about, Mrs. Bland? MRS. BLAND Well, it’s about the last episode! We’re going to play like the ending. JILL Where are the barrels, then? In the last episode there were barrels. MRS. BLAND The barrels are coming. First, let’s play like you’re the characters, all right? Take your pick. JILL I’m Joessa! ROSE-BEA But Joessa’s the one with curly hair. JILL So? NELLADIE I’m Oppit, I’m Oppit! NELLADIE pauses to throw up in the tin bucket, then straightens up again.
22
ROSE-BEA Fine. I’ll be Nastea. She fights pirates. MRS. BLAND digs around in the pocket of her skirt. She brings out a plastic red gun and holds it as if preparing to shoot at the children.
MRS. BLAND Ready? ROSE-BEA, JILL, and NELLADIE pat their desks in excitement. It is a clumsy drumroll.
CHILDREN Yes, yes! ROSE-BEA begins to mimic the guttural voice of her character.
ROSE-BEA (as Nastea)
Look here, Captain Warborrel! You’ll never catch me! ROSE-BEA stands up and runs around the desks with her arms held out as if flying. NELLADIE and JILL stand up, too.
JILL
(mimicking fiery JOESSA)
Quick, Nastea! Go get the cheese reserves from the safe! NELLADIE (confusedly)
Wait, what safe? That was in episode fifty-six. NELLADIE grabs the bucket and throws up some more.
MRS. BLAND Hurry, children! Play your roles! JILL (as JOESSA)
C’mere, Oppit, my trusty pal! We’ll fight off nasty Warborrel and his crew together! NELLADIE runs to JILL’s side.
NELLADIE (as Oppit the Radioactive Fire Cat)
Meow, meow! MRS. BLAND All right. I will play Captain Warbarrel.
23
ROSE-BEA Captain Worborrel. MRS. BLAND Yes. Now…. MRS. BLAND squints intensively as she steadies her gun’s aim.
MRS. BLAND (as Captain Worborrel)
You’ll never get my cheese reserves! Arr! MRS. BLAND pulls the red trigger of her plastic gun.
MRS. BLAND Blam, blam, blam! All the children swoon and fall down.
MRS. BLAND (as Captain Worborrel)
Arr! And into the barrels they go! The children jump up, the game having ended.
JILL That was fun! Now what do we do? MRS. BLAND Now we do it again. But even better this time. NELLADIE quietly vomits into her trashcan, then wipes a bit of blood from her mouth.
NELLADIE (shakily)
I don’t want to play. I want to lie down. MRS. BLAND All right. That will be fine. You lie down, Nelladie. NELLADIE lies down on the floor, arms at her sides, legs together. She is stiff as a board.
JILL She smells funny. ROSE-BEA Don’t be rude! If we don’t say anything about it, maybe Mrs. Bland will let us go and touch the glowing sunflowers.
24
MRS. BLAND No one will go touch the glowing sunflowers! Right now we need to play our game. JILL But we need Oppit! ROSE-BEA Pretend he’s dead already. MRS. BLAND Good improvisation, Rose-Bea. Now, let’s start again. ROSE-BEA begins to mimic the guttural voice of her character.
ROSE-BEA
(as Nastea)
Look here, Captain Warborrel! You’ll never catch me! ROSE-BEA runs around the desks with her arms held out as if flying.
JILL
(mimicking fiery JOESSA.)
Quick, Nastea! Go get the cheese reserves from the safe! As the children are playing, MRS. BLAND quietly puts the plastic gun back in her pocket and pulls out, from another pocket, a real one.
MRS. BLAND
(as Captain Worborrel)
You’ll never get my cheese reserves! Arr! MRS. BLAND pulls the trigger of her gun, aiming for JILL’s head. JILL falls down dead immediately upon the bullet’s impact. MRS. BLAND shoots ROSE-BEA before she has a chance to react, then NELLADIE, who is still lying flat on the floor, blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth.
MRS. BLAND
(to the audience.)
They wouldn’t survive! That’s my reasoning. No one was here to ring the bell! Who would take care of them? No one! That’s all! No one! MRS. BLAND puts the gun to her temple and pulls the trigger, then falls down dead.
25
Scene 2:
Mrs. Canniman
Setting: The interior of the one-room schoolhouse again. On Rise: The elderly janitor, MRS. CANNIMAN, stands in the doorway, gazing resignedly at the corpses. There is a wet cloth—blackened with soot—in her wrinkled old hand.
MRS. CANNIMAN They’ve gotten blood all over themselves, all over. I told Bland that if she were to do this it’d be too messy and I’d have to clean it up. Who cares about the children, really? What about me? Grumbling, MRS. CANNIMAN hobbles over to the corpses and begins to clean them.
END
26
Household Anatomy
Emily Clarke
My elbows were born before me, they were long, awkward, and double-jointed My knees were born five minutes before my elbows, and all four joints lived together for seven years until I escaped the bull carcass that was our mother and joined my appendages When I was a toddler, I lived underneath the outhouse spiders spun carousels inside and I weaved lies for days, surrounded by soil and the will to survive I searched for something better than poetry, but there were nineteen stanzas in Oklahoma, sixteen in California, and nine in Arkansas The highways between the 44 sisters I never knew I had were drowning in Denny’s pancake syrup, they were just as sticky as my dad’s casino money There were times when I lay awake for hours in early morning listening to the coyotes steal beer from the refrigerator outside Milky howls were Indian legends but underneath the kitchen flooring, I kept my own box of origins I danced with the afterlife after hours when mom was asleep Clean white dove feathers taught me to tiptoe when I paced ovals on the roof of the house, lips sucked onto a rich orange light in the 4 a.m. glow Now I’ve learned to be a fool and a companion I’ve learned to let myself simmer Family is both the stew and the fire that warms it Home is raw like meat
27
lover’s remorse
Serena Woosley
electric light lies awake thick icing swells through the break in his skin I try to tape us back together; reattach the string pulling pulling finally split what is lost is free from repetition the cool night will not bring back the coo of his voice, the spray of my innards fitfully restrained I take the blame inside, poached blood thickens gurgling, singing: take me bright day, our day, Sunday until light ceases dancing I see him in white goodbyes and salt pools I smell him in green and choked inhales powdered sugar through the last straw; bent
28
Earnings to Growth
Campbell Dixon
She stands next to the bed before getting in. I take a gentle hold of her arm. My fingers wrap around it like the stock of a rifle. The bump at the top of her wrist sits under my pointer finger like a trigger. She leans down and kisses my forehead. There’s mint on her breath.
The yellow of backyard flood lamps is replaced by dull white light until there is only a moment before the alarm starts the day.
“I heard you moaning,” she says.
Natalia wakes up early. I watch her tip-toeing around the room, getting dressed, brushing her hair. She doesn’t make a sound on the new carpeting. My bags are already packed. I lay in bed for an hour more making plans for my bonus. An anniversary gift, a new car, a designer daycare. What do we need?
“Don’t turn the light on.” She gets under the covers and lays her head on my chest. “What happened?” she says. “I’m responsible for keeping my tribe safe, but we’re so powerless with our clubs and rocks.” “You’re fighting?” she asks. “We’re running from the fact that we only exist in a dream. I can feel myself rolling around under the comforter. But I can’t save myself because if I wake up, it’s all over. Everyone dies. Cavewomen and children are so vulnerable.” “You’re safe in the halls of our cave.” “What time is it?” I ask. “Almost one.” “Let’s get some sleep, then.” I have to push her hair away from my face, it’s a beautiful mop of wires. But she’s so inviting for a woman with hair so bristly, a real soft-body. Every part of her is perfectly smooth. I could be kissing her inner thigh or her cheek and not know the difference. She spends a half hour on the lip of the bathtub moisturizing her legs with extra- virgin olive oil, lathering up her arms, her elbows, her shoulders. It’s a morning ritual. She sleeps now, her back inflates against my belly. There’s silence from the baby monitor. Seconds pass like coffee dripping into the pot, they barely add up to hours. The room turns pale as the sun rises.
I get dressed and check in on breakfast. “You’re up so late,” she says. She pours me a cup of coffee and tops off her own. “No, I was up since you got dressed. You’ve got on black panties under that dress, don’t you?” “Elliot, I woke up at six. What have you been doing?” “Thinking about you. Good morning.” I take a kiss before my coffee breath takes the fun out of it. The town car arrives at nine. The driver carries my bags from the front door without a word. Michael asked after this guy especially for me. He said I’d appreciate his professional demeanor, but Michael doesn’t know what professionalism looks like. Natalia gives me a kiss at the curb. Dewy clings to her and paws at the top of her bra that peeks out from her tank top. “Kiss Dewey,” she says. I kiss him and grab his whole hand in mine and give him a little handshake. There’s nothing like my baby’s hand. Hector greets me from the driver’s seat once I get in. His suit looks like a three-for-one. I remember getting out of college and going to warehouse sales, spending my last three hundred on a three-for-one deal and realizing that I still needed a pair of shoes.
29
“Hello, my friend.” I expect an accent but he doesn’t have one. “My boss recommended you,” I say. “He tells me you’re a professional.” “He means I’m quiet. But it’s not that I don’t talk, it’s that he doesn’t shut his mouth.” “I’ll pretend like I didn’t hear that.” We stare at each other through the rearview mirror. His skin is smooth but pools up under his eyes. His eyebrows hug the precipice of his deep set eye sockets. I don’t like silent rides. He starts the engine and tugs us forward and Natalia is already up the steps with my baby. My last view is caught between my kid’s bulbous forehead and my wife’s back. Her shoulder blades flirt as she walks away—she keeps her chest out.
Our factory operates upstate, deep into farmland. We drive past bare rows of dirt that are unplanted or infertile. “My dad was a farmer,” I say. “He went on to program farm equipment. It’s all computerized now.” Our freedom to reach into the soil and pull up roots for dinner is made obsolete by the arms we give computers. I try to get life to keep on living for Dewey back at home. A potato stabbed with toothpicks should be sprouting in a cup on the window sill. I want him to watch things grow. “Ah,” Hector begins, “My grandfather was a cheesemonger. Very good business. We had a prosperous goat farm.” “Where are you from, Hector?” “Normandy.” “I just got back from Spain. My wife’s family is Euro-pean, too. She’s Spanish—we were visiting her family in Madrid. You ever been?” “I’ve barely been home since I graduated high school.
30
That was about forty years ago. I’ve no time for tourism.” Under the cloud cover, the green of life has faded from the farmland around us. Rows of carrot tops and webs of seeking pumpkin vines are washed out by the gray sky. The body of a tractor reflects only pale white light and the farmer who straddles it hunches over the steering wheel. His posture withers as if fed like the leaves on autumn sunlight. But the changing leaves of the pear trees that line the road are vibrant; sparkling pom-poms cheering my progress through the valley. The reds and oranges and yellows flourish against this dreary backdrop, celebrating the passing of time. It is a rich show of maturity. I tap Hector on the shoulder, leaning between the front seats to point at the solitary farmer I’ve never seen before. “That’s the American farmer,” I say. I never used my imagination so much until Dewey was born. It comes in handy babbling to him while we sprawl on the carpet. I tell him about spaceships and dinosaurs and tiny cavemen who get to marry princesses. In the car now, it comes in handy just the same. “He bought it away from savages who spilled blood and picked berries for millions of years. He beheads chickens with hand forged blades for the dinner tables of his state. He puts people to bed, full bellied.” “There is no livestock in sight,” Hector says. “That man is a vegetable farmer. This world you describe—it is a cartoon. Put your seatbelt on, please. We’ve got a few hours to go.” I soften my lower back and sink into the rear of the town car. The driver is too reasonable for my kind of fantasy. Dewey is too young to understand it. Natalia thinks the natural world is quaint, something of the past. No one wants to remember the capabilities of their own hands. I learned to use them as a child, then I grew up and bought landscapers and handymen to keep my house in order. The man on the tractor drifts into the past behind us, still gray under the gray sky. The Brooks-Deringer furniture factory is a gated airplane hangar converted in 1950. Hector opens the door for me with a cigarette already lit in his mouth. He leans
against the hood of the car, arms crossed. Black hairs on his arms reach out on goosebumps.
perfect for meetings; discrete, slow release. I suck aggression out of the puck.
Inside, Michael introduces me to men in hard hats. He brought me here for publicity only, what do I care how the furniture is made as long as it’s selling. I shake hands with them, lean in close and almost smell the grease stains on their blue collars.
After the meeting, Michael invites me for a smoke. The younger guys stick around, mull about. They light each other’s cigarettes.
Laborers usher wood shavings and sawdust into corners of the factory floor with leaf blowers. Their pale blue safety masks remind me of the hotel men I wrote copy for in Shanghai before I landed a job with B&D. They insisted I wear a safety mask as we walked about the city to keep pollution out of my lungs. After we closed, tea was served at a little round table. Cigarettes were lit. I extended my silver zippo over the center of the table, they all leaned in at once to suck from the flame. Everything, from the stroke of the iron that soothed their suits, to the knots in their ties, to the strands of gel-crisped hair that clung to their scalps, indicated efficiency. It was hard to remain patriotic in the presence of such a gladfaced, productive people. They walked without the mucky confidence that hobbles empires, without the hearty western posturing that scares people off the paths they walk. Staring down from my hotel room, I watched them move about the streets. They didn’t coalesce in masses like New Yorkers, clubbing each other with sluggish gaits, but floated in between their neighbors with tight strides like the teeth of giant weightless gears.
“It wasn’t until senior year of college when I had my first cigarette,” I tell Michael. His jacket is draped over his shoulder, his sleeves are rolled up: the costume of celebration.
Michael leads us past the florescent-bulbed foreman’s office into a conference room lit by skylights. In the middle of the room is the company’s first ever dining set, one hundred years old, a redwood masterpiece shaped to sit the men who would make it last.
“When my dad found the pack sticking out of my shirt pocket he crumpled it up with one hand,” I say, “and tossed it into the fireplace. It burned up right there with the yule log. He told me that smoking was pointless. He said, ‘Imagine being out of breath when you walk up a flight of stairs. You’ll get tired making love to your wife.’”
“Don’t look so sour,” Michael says, patting me on the back. We take our seats. “You know about the new showroom out west? Guess which ad man they picked to run it?” He’s grinning like the models who pose in our catalogs. Senior partners shake hands and pour coffee for each other and join us at the table. The meeting begins, and financial limitations are problems of my grandfathers. I take a nicotine lozenge. They’re
“It was in senior year when Natalia and I decided things should get serious. We flew home from New York over Christmas break so she could meet my dad. I bought a pack of cigarettes for us when we landed at O’Hare. She’d taken it up the year before during finals, and I decided to join her.” “My first cigarette was over Christmas break in middle school,” Michael says. “A menthol I stole from my grandma. Eleven years old, Christmas morning. Naturally, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and had a smoke. Why the hell not?” He takes a big fat drag. “I vomited right there on the living room floor.” We laugh. The wind blows smoke north, the sky is dark but we are rich.
“So that’s why you quit,” Michael says, chuckling. “Because Dewey was born,” I say. I gesture for the cigarette. “But why not, it’s a special occasion.” Michael’s cigarette is moist. The smoke is stinging but I can deaden that, it’s the rush that damns me. My vision frays into gray spots at the edges and I almost buckle. The day at the airport, the day Natalia met my family,
31
I decided I’d propose. We smoked and watched people arrive in America. People laid about over luggage and hugged. She took my hand under her shirt to warm it against her belly. I pushed my fingers into the waistband of her panties and hung my thumb gently in her belly button. She took the cigarette from my other hand and flicked it into the gutter. I take another drag of Michael’s cigarette and feel weightless in a sickening way. That night, that first night home after a semester of young sex, her candied body wouldn’t stick to mine. We went at it in my childhood bedroom. I grappled with her legs. They felt like an infinite circle. When I followed her thighs to her calves, I found more calves and more thighs. She tugged me on top of her, away from frantic searching, and her hands on my back explained how to love her. She tried to eat me, to push me into her completely. I gave in. Her power came from her tender little gut, where tiny cells began stacking. It wasn’t important that we never used a condom until I opened my eyes to see hers still shut tight. The only thing I could tell was that she knew something I didn’t. I remember very clearly ignoring the revelation, pushing it away to think about when I was an older man. I slid down her chest and laid on her belly. She hugged my back with her legs to calm its heaving. Her fingers settled in my hair. Her belly lifted my head up and down and lulled me to sleep. “How is Natalia?” Michael asks. He takes the cigarette and flicks it away. “I bought our house,” I say, “but she built it. She filled it with furniture and portraits and sculptures and Dewey.” My head spins.
I visit my father at the condo I rented him. He picks me up at LAX, but I choose the restaurant because I can afford to buy that privilege away from him. Wealth has become seniority. It’s a cafe, upscale since the remodel. Thirty-two dollar fillet of sole on the menu, fifteen dollar burgers, aioli on the fries. “LA bores me,” he says. “You like the beach.”
32
“It gets old.” “What way is that to thank me?” “I only half-asked for this,” he says. “I mentioned someplace warm to go when the lake freezes over.” “And I’ve got you in Malibu, the best place in a town with the best of everything.” “Your mother hates sand. It ruins the whole city.” “I know she’s not that insistent. What’s your real excuse?” “I read too much, don’t work with my hands enough. I haven’t led a real household since we left the farm. Why don’t you move me back with that money? I don’t need condos or fancy dinners.” “I brought you to this place to celebrate. I’m in charge of the showroom. The new LA showroom. They gave it to me at the meeting last week. Everyone was there.” “That’s something to be proud of, son. That’s what I like to hear when you come visit.” “So why don’t you manage construction? If you’re so bored, if you wanna use your hands again, this is perfect. You hire the contractors, you rent the equipment. Shit, you’re my dad, hammer the nails if you want to. I just want you happy.” “Productivity is satisfaction,” he says. “But don’t curse, we’re at dinner.” I can tell he’s excited. “Then it’s a done deal,” I say. “Might as well be.” We shake. His glass of merlot wobbles but I settle it. He looks shaken, but he’s only fifty. “You’ve already had too much to drink,” I say. He insists on paying the check after dinner. “I’ve got a job for the first time in fifteen years. Let me take you out.”
I’ve wanted to do something like this for a while. A gift to make up for my childhood. He never looked at me once how I look at Dewey. But now he seems happy. His old age and my success keep us smiling at each other. “Natalia and I will fly out in a couple weeks to find a place. We’ll be around for Thanksgiving. Tell mom.”
women sit with their backs arched and their smooth legs crossed. Their top buns are taller than the skyline in the windows behind them. I’m not used to working alongside so many of them. Luckily, experiences in the flesh don’t tempt me like they did in college when I met Natalia. Being apart from her is more powerful than the yearning these women put in my belly. I do love her, after all. I like the permanence of marriage, I like being proud to be monogamous.
There is grass here where there wasn’t in our loft. The new possibility of garage space is taken up by the equipment I bought to try gardening.
She calls. I lean back and kick my feet on the desk.
This morning I cut my hand on the rip cord starting the lawn mower, and Natalia nursed my cut. My strength is clumsy. All these dollars spent and titles racked up and I am still at the mercy of the world while she simply lets it grow around us. When I lift Dewey into my arms, I chase after his head to support it, but the child is hers when she holds him. She steers his body in the way I want control over mine. I’ve started building a muscle shield to protect them from the dangers of this rugged west. Lats, biceps, triceps, pectorals, hundreds of thousands of contractions, thousands of grams of protein powders, branch chain amino acids, egg whites, creatine. I want to steer my body well, that’s all I’ve wanted since we had Dewey, but now it’s urgent in this new land.
Just the idea that she knows about them puts me at ease.
Natalia finds me in the garage benching two plates. Weight has no meaning to her. She isn’t impressed. I rack the barbell. “How does working out fit in with the secret smoking you’ve been doing?” she asks. She sets an open water bottle down on the Craftsman. I take a sip. “I don’t remind you of the Marlboro man?” I say. I step in for a kiss. “You stink,” she says.
The women who power walk around the showroom are hired to be pretty. It’s not something I like to look for in job interviews; I want to run a meritocracy. Michael says this is the only thing clients need but won’t ask for. These
“How much eye candy have you hired this week?” she asks.
“Darling. These women have no lasting effect on me.” I smile. I miss her, and it’s not that I’m horny. Our love started with sex but with diligence has stretched beyond it. “Our anniversary’s coming up,” I say. “And that’s exciting.” “Let me take you on a little vacation.” “Our last getaway was so expensive.” “That’s not something for you to worry about.” “You don’t need to spend so much, a nice dinner in is fine.” “I bought us a trip to Catalina. Three nights in February.” “Save the money for Dewey’s college. I don’t care where we go, as long as we’re together. Let’s go camping, let’s rough it.” She can be so irrational. She’s a vegetarian, for example. It’s unnatural and she knows it; she feeds Dewey chicken and meatloaf for dinner. We’ve got the stupid luxury of keeping miniature farm animals in the backyard. Dewey chases his teacup pig, Geoffrey, around the backyard like a pet dog. I’m tired of having to explain my commitment to her.
33
“You’re my wife,” I say. “I do things for you. It’s an instinct. It’s habitual.”
Dewey stays with his grandpa on the mainland. We take the ferry from Long Beach. There’s a cloud in front of the sun and I take off my glasses to see a crowded island. I carry our bags and have her check in while I take a smoke break on the beach. It’s tiny, made smaller by kids running around, soaking up the Pacific Ocean. I insist on a five-course meal for dinner. She’d rather eat bacon and eggs at the counter of a diner than chatting over a candlelit steak. Tonight we eat seaside. I feel as calm as a glass of water. The ravioli is so delicious, I well up with tears in a moment of total gratitude. A chef is in total service to his client. So much work is done for me to sit down and love life for an hour. I don’t deserve this pleasure. I am so giddy, I tip with fifties.
She drops her towel and lays at my side. “I certainly enjoy the privileges of a beautiful wife.” She exhales. I reach my hand under her back and guide her onto me. “You didn’t know me very well before we got married.” She kisses me slowly, soft-lipped. “And now, you only seem to know that I’m your wife.” We exchange a shiver of warmth between us.
She still says I never really knew her. It seems dramatic. I call to talk to Dewey, but sometimes I can get answers from her. “Should I have seen it coming?” I ask. “I’ve explained this already.” “Maybe I’ll understand this time.”
Her salad is light; I imagine flicking it across the room with one finger. The plate would shatter easily against the exposed brick of the kitchen. Her ears look delicate with diamonds in them. She takes her main course back to the hotel in styrofoam.
“There’s no way you would’ve known,” she says. I tuck the phone into the crook of my shoulder and put a frozen burrito in the microwave.
She’s got bare feet; so short without heels on, I can rest my chin on her head. I love her most when she is under my jaw. She gives me the gift of keeping her safe—it’s something she knows will assure my sanity. It keeps me lapping at the pleasures of domestic life. She nudges me backward with a nod. I hand her the conditioner and step out of the shower. While she dries off, I smoke a cigarette and comb my hair.
I hear Dewey cooing in the background. I picture him sitting on the floor of my old living room fiddling with blocks and train engines. He’s a boy at his mother’s house. “Am I on speakerphone?” I ask.
She finds me in bed, wrapped in a towel. “Check out the stars from our balcony. They’re bright on the island. ” “You always think whatever you’re staring at is so beautiful,” she says. “At least that’s how you look when I’m naked.”
34
“Why not?” I say.
“Sorry,” she says. I hear a beep. “I’m a person who has to grow as much as you,” she says. I wonder what Dewey understands of this. He might grow up to hate me. “I want us to get married.” “The first time wasn’t enough? I wish I wanted to say yes.” “We agreed we still love each other.” “Months ago.”
“Let’s get dinner sometime. How about breakfast?” I say. “I don’t think that would make you feel better.” “I want to kiss you all the time. What am I supposed to do getting into bed without a little spoon?” “I don’t want to hear that.” “You’re not so gentle anymore.” “I’m just not romantic. Getting married out of college was perfect for you, but I didn’t know what it would mean for me. Let me put Dewey to bed.” The microwave beeps. The burrito lays on the rotating tray and steams up the glass. It looks cozy even though it’s alone. “You were always planning things for us,” she starts again. It’s been building. “Marriage was just being in bed together or sitting at the dinner table or fawning over our son. That doesn’t need to be improved on.” “You used to be romantic.” “We had only been dating for eight months when you proposed. Love still got me high. And now it doesn’t do much except unify our bank accounts. I haven’t been using your money, by the way.” “Well, you should. Why else would I have made so much?” “Goodnight,” she says.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to make myself cry. The house was meant for us, now there’s no one to eat up its luxury. Dewey’s a weekend son now. His mom is not my wife. There’s no one to protect anymore, nothing to be scared of. I try to drift off. From under my eyelids, I hear the beat of drums I haven’t heard in months. There’s nothing chasing us. I hear the chant of lonely men in caves celebrating.
35
Such A Visual Creature
Danae Devine
I kissed him and whispered the prophecy The eye is: The most beautiful organ dissected or not dissected The mind’s showcase, the performer, the supermodel The emotional freak The fetus: Born out of milk and that which perceives aesthetic and is pleased by it to an infinite and lovable degree The teardrop The traveler Love’s lover and executioner Every time your eyes close your organs are shaken into place I said, one day we will learn to set our eyes farther and farther apart, meaning one here and one where the edge of life is shrinking And then I split his forehead with a knife and inserted a note
36
reminiscence
Serena Woosley
goosebumps on my belly remembering your fingers there the heater is on memory of her moon mouth spitting fume peach dirt clinging to the cracks in her scarface memory of your smokescreen, loud steak of your skin resting on my chinny chin thrum voices ebbing through my mind-hole pull rope becomes slack in our stomachs I see it sunspit soaring above your angelhead take a juicy bite your red animal heart, cruelly playing with the stain on my left knee dryer sheets collecting lint, coins, and threads yanked with your hazed gracelessness “forgive me,” you say “I always will” I collect you you paint her in purple and keep me blank, white, like a sun orb, a star, the last nebula I pull on your jacket’s zipper, gently as if to say, “don’t go” the thread unwinds, flaking into colored dust
37
Eggs Benedict
Delany Burk
This ain’t no call back to the 70s burlesque dancers, or the rocker bohemia hair, this ain’t no pullout of the small intestine tugging knives off of shelves and guitars off racks, black kneeboots from dusty closet backings standing shirtless, pulling golden manes, screaming moaning groaning. When your children run wild and you let it all hang out, leanin’ back in the blue light. She understands heaven’s storefronts and plucks daisies from the river bank. Blind eyes ping off walls you seem to see all. Your large shoes fall to the floor your hard times, acid trip hat on his curls, pushing through ocean chocolate. The record spins and my mind drifts to the parties, busses, and orange stage glares the large open mouth gaping curves of naked chests and jutting hip bones. This, a call back to that smokey height. That cowlick push and swirl, that pretty pink electric, and your flame driven flow once you asked me if I remembered the rumbling laughter of the trees and I said no having only ever seen your face and tasted your tongue but now you sit and listen. You ended in a bar fight, or at home with a shot to the back golden tendrils fall through time to reach me, addicted to your grit you are the shiny silver Messiah sitting high upon your cross
38
Nonfiction!
Haile Kusama
A salesman chokes on a lemon wedge meant for his iced tea. The lemon chokes on the pesticides from the GMO company. The GMO company chokes on their money. There’s a woman on the third flight of stairs to see a view she’s never needed, thus she will be disappointed, and a child who trusts in the power of power, which is possibly trivial. At that very moment, Shelly is a mannequin who named herself. She was rejected by a salesman in a meeting in Miami, after being presented by a man named Sheldon (he throws Shelly into the pool when he goes back to his apartment where a mattress lays with purple sheets). Soon before, you want to want things that matter, and it is that matters matter, but the world isn’t as great as alpine spring water.
39
Dancing in Dreams of Regret
Emma Smith
In dreams where there is nothing to see and the wind doesn’t blow The thoughts turn to nothing but twists and turns of the body Wisps of gold that lace through fingertips and purple that wraps our stomachs There is no way to turn back time, not while the clock ticks forward The power of time is beyond those of this world, we cannot change it Memories are the things that pull us out of our imagination and into thought But the world where you see the stars falling backwards will always protect you This world brings you to a castle that holds the world together What might be this world, well it’s ours, the one where we live and breathe Earth is our world and yet our dreams separate us until the end The golden cogs turn to red then to gold then to red then to gold and from there There is a pause and a reset as the cogs turn backwards, spinning faster and faster Space and time go hand and hand in a waltz that shows their love And this land of dreams makes the wedding rings around their fingers
40
The Cat
Erin Ulm
Look at that window. Look at how there’s cream on the sill. The cream—if you come closer, you can see—is in a saucer. A little yellow one. It’s got flowers, little roses, patterned on it. Do you like it? I like it. That’s why I put the cream in that saucer out of the three other ones I have in my cupboard. The cream is white-and-blue, blue-and-white. A light, airy blue, and a yellowy creamy white. Look at how the sun shines gaily on the blue-and-white cream. Now look at that cat. There’s a scrawny one by the dresser. Its tail is curled around its paws, which are blue. The cat is blue. The cat is blue like the cream, which is also white, but the cat, unfortunately, is not white. Look at the cat. It is licking at the cream in the yellow rose-patterned dish. The roses are not yellow. The dish is yellow. The cat’s ribs are poking through its skin, if you hadn’t noticed, because I haven’t fed it for a week or two. See how sharp its eyes are? It’s not quelled yet. It feels like a roast chicken not yet in the oven. Good kitty. But look, now! The plot, like fabric or cream, is frothing marvelously. The cat’s tongue, which is gray and barbed, is lapping up the cream, the blue-and-white cream. Its pupils are slitting and thickening! What pleasure thrums through your ribs at that lovely image? No, don’t tell me. It’s too wondrous to put into words. I’ll tell you a secret. There’s a yellow canary mashed into the cream, the dish of blue-and-white cream. Isn’t that sweet? Don’t I take care of it? The blue cat, not the yellow canary. It was dead already—the canary, not the cat— and it slammed into my window, the window with the sill with the dish of cream. You can still see the smudge, that pinkish thing. See?
41
Sounding Jazz
Eleonora M. Beran-Jahn
The piano is being stepped on by tarantulas Closeted instruments fear persecution A safe falls down a flight of stairs The color blue comes to mind when I think of jazz: Section of music with no structure Save the one played by drums The streets are deaf to bouncing feet underground Butterflies of smoke float from golden noise The safe opens to reveal blank sheet music The audience is perplexed with the harmony created Running up the steps towards the smoky blue hue Notes trip over themselves And fall to pieces before they reach eardrums Scrambling back to the safety of their creators They choke up and beat out louder than before Blasted up the stairs by a blowing wind Tarantulas frantically stomp with joy Bodies move with the rhythm of baps and booms Ghosts are left alone Given a drink and time to converse Eyes sucked-in by high notes Blue floats in the air like tension Anticipation For the next section to send chills down spine
42
Summershat
Haile Kusama
Lemongrass took the sky and drew it over a baseball bubble-sea; balance on the thumbprint of a silent caster flake, flailing from the Hella-yella swimsuit. Polyester smoothie fix, picnic made of silver niche, children have too much to taste, October Jet-fish lagging. They have left themselves below! They sag and fault and know how to see the world in California. Candy filled shells to shelves again, in this way they preserved them, for the salty blanch of birthling’s bling, Of super-fresh toothache delight
43
Happiness Blue
Tomoka Takahashi
NON-MAJOR CONTEST HONORABLE MENTION In a mysterious forest in Palm Springs, there was a blue bird with a red band around its neck flying around a tree. It went around in zigzags and curves, and did 360 degree spins. It flew like an airplane. Bluebirds are very common, but ones with red bands around their necks are rare and almost impossible to find. They are called “Bonheur birds.” This bird is very special since it is believed that it brings happiness to your loved one. I took out my Nikon camera and tried to take a picture, but the bird saw me and flew away as if it was mocking me. I needed to take a photo and show it to my beloved Karoline, who loved the color blue and birds. I would do anything to make Karoline happy, just like she made me the happiest person in the world for having her as a wife. Her eyes were lucid blue like the Caribbean Sea, her voice was like an angel singing a lullaby, and her heart was pure white like snow. She was my treasure that I wanted to keep forever but I couldn’t because, in two months, she would slip out of my hands because of Stage IV lung cancer. So I decided to search all around the world a month ago. I went on and off lots of airplanes and boats. I went to Africa, Japan, the Amazon, the Grand Canyon, Pembrokeshire Coast Path National Trail, Verdon Gorge, Seljalandsfoss Waterfall, Antarctica and other places that people can’t imagine traveling. People kept telling me that it was impossible to go to those places in a month, but I had to make it possible for Karoline. Even when I was sick, I lied to airplane companies and forced myself to ride on planes. Not only that, I injured myself a lot. I can’t hear from one of my ears, my back hurts, I twisted my ankle, and I broke my right arm. But I didn’t stop and kept moving to the next destination. Worst of all, I kept running out of money, so I had to sell my family’s inherited items in order to get money for transportation. Though I was going through a rough time, I didn’t care. It was all for my sweet Karoline. I had to find it quickly so I could see Karoline before I lost her for eternity. All I could think about was her sweet smile that caught my heart and her staring at me with such caring eyes.
44
My journey mainly took place in places that were near nature, so I made tents, found water and food with my bare hands, didn’t get to take showers at all for a month, and slept less than two hours every day because I was thinking about where to go next. My mind and my body were old and stiff like the Tinman in the Wizard of Oz. Then finally, I went all around America on airplanes. I was pickpocketed, started a fight, got a mugshot, and a criminal record. A lot of chaos happened but I never gave up and kept looking for any clues for the Bonheur bird. Then, I decided to get information from local people since they know the location better than me. Finally, I got information from a hiker in Palm Springs who said they saw a Bonheur bird. After flying all the way to Palm Springs, driving for four hours, and walking for a day, I finally found a blue bird. But apparently, the bird didn’t want me to take a photo! I wondered if I should just leave the bird and go back to see Karoline and spend time with her. Then suddenly, I felt guilt rising in my mind. Something inside me kept telling me, “No! I want to see her smile no matter what, so I will take a picture of it even if it comes to using dirty tricks.” Something inside me kept popping up images of her smiling with sad eyes as if all hopes were crushed. I clenched my fist and made up my mind that I would not go back empty handed. I got fruit out from my bag, laid it under a basket trap I made and waited for the bird to come fetch it. When the bird was caught, my heart and hands were trembling. My heart filled with accomplishment and my face naturally smiled. I lifted the basket desperately, which I suddenly regretted doing because the bird quickly flew away! Next, I got mud, put it all over my face, hid in the bushes, and tried to take a picture of it. When I zoomed in the camera, the bird was in front of me but the next second, it disappeared. Suddenly, something wet and smelly was rivering down my face. I looked up and the bird was flying above me, singing like it was mocking me. I stood up, wiped my face and yelled, “Hey! You want to play a game of tag? Well sure! Come at me!” I took out my camera, switched it on, and zoomed in. While I was getting ready to take a picture, I had a clear image in my head of Karoline smiling. I was drawn back to reality
when I saw a black figure in front of my camera. I slowly lowered my camera and saw the bird in front of me tilting its head. Then, the bird sang and started to peck the camera lens. While it was pecking the lens, the image of Karoline smiling slowly faded away, leaving behind nothing but the sensation of losing hope. I tried stopping the bird but by the time the bird stopped, the lens was shattered. I couldn’t take any pictures, there was no hope for me, and no hope that I could share them with her. The only choice I had was to give up and return to Karoline empty handed.
day talking about my journey. Even though I didn’t get to bring back pictures, it seems that I got to bring back happiness from the bird. After that, I tried my best to make the remaining month the best month that Karoline had. I invited our friends to visit Karoline, bought a thousand roses, and made a handmade yearbook. I had lots of fun spending time with her. Even though it was only a month, it was the most memorable month in my whole entire life.
A wave of thoughts came rushing into my mind, telling me that my whole one-month trip away from Karoline was just a waste of time. That I was not a worthy husband because I couldn’t even bring one single thing that made Karoline smile. My knees fell to the ground, my head pushing against the ground as I gripped my hands and covered my head tightly. I wanted to cry but I also felt like my emotions were running away from me. I looked around quickly, my mouth shivering. I couldn’t tell what kind of facial expression I was making. Soon, I grabbed my chest and started to pant. I felt like my lung was pierced with knives, my legs crushed by elephants, my heart carved by a wood carver, my throat nailed by thousands of glasses, and my eyes swallowed by darkness. As I was getting a panic attack from guilt, the only thing I thought was that when I flew back to see Karoline, she would be disappointed.
When Karoline passed away, I kept having flashbacks of our happy moments and started locking myself in a box full of despair. I didn’t want to accept the fact that she was gone but I had to because I know that she wouldn’t want me to keep clinging onto the past. I barged into her empty room without permission from the nurse and started to pack her belongings that were left behind neatly while thinking about her. I missed how she decorated the room with flowers to cheer herself up, how she made bracelets in her bed to give to the children in the hospital, how she made a scarf for me, her lavender smell, her relaxation candle, and a big teddy bear I got her on our first date at a carnival sixteen years ago. As I packed, tears were falling out of my eyes, and I couldn’t stop myself from letting out a trembling whimper. I missed her beautiful laughter and how she gave me happiness. The more I thought, the more I felt like my hope was taken away.
On the flight back, I gazed out the window into the darkness. My ears blocked every sound around me, leaving me to think about Karoline’s disappointed expression in utter silence. When I finally came to Karoline’s hospital room, she limped toward me, tears falling from her cheeks and hugged me tight like an anaconda. She started to whimper and get angry at the same time. She sobbed, “I was so worried about you! I was worried that you might not come back, or got into some accident! I don’t need a bluebird to make me happy. I am the happiest person on Earth because of you. You are my happiness.” When she said that, my whole body got its emotion and energy back and my mind started to become clear. I realized that just like she was my happiness, I am her happiness. I formed a smile, my back straightening, and my grip loosening. I slowly placed my hand around her as we hugged, cried and laughed. We spent the whole
Her room was clean, white, and empty like my heart. The only place I had left to clean was a cabinet. In the cabinet, I found a flower lying down with a note that said, “Thank you for bringing me the bird. I love it. Thank you for marrying someone like me. I am the happiest person in the world. I love you!” I couldn’t stop myself from clutching onto the note and falling to the floor. I cried and wished she was standing next to me, comforting me like usual. Suddenly, I looked back at what she wrote and noticed the part about the bluebird. I didn’t know what she was talking about until I heard a small whistle from behind me. As soon as I looked back, it started to sing a song and flew towards me. It had a red band around its neck and it was blue. The happiness had come to comfort me.
45
Love Is Acupuncture
Danae Devine
I am swimming in love What I thought was space has filled up with my raspberry cardigan smile And her curious tapping touch Let love pulsate in the head and hang hot tendrils from my collarbone Its giant foot, a soft bed My blanket carves a pair of dimples into my chest and laps the blood droplets I whisper heartbeats in my sleep and love wakes me up It unzips my knees, and though I squeal in pain, cotton stuffs the wounds like packing a faux rabbit. Compassion tugs at my blood I am a heavy leaf received in liquid I curve in circles at the slightest touch of warmth And point when it’s cold My blooded cheeks and blue eyes puff me into an opal When I was little an atmospheric soup hugged my face—love told me that one day you will be a woman. But until then I am made of soft atom rings Anxiously retying the umbilical cord around my ankle I cry in bouts I am a fragile doe curdling under the sunlight
46
Kiss
Kalista Puhnaty
I found the next heart before I finished reassembling My skeleton, which had already been left in pieces. Scotch taping the shards to pipe cleaners In a rush to fix myself up for him because patience is not a virtue That belongs to me. I have no virtues, I bathe in vinegar. I sit in front of a mirror and paint on a tragedy. Listen to the babygirl heartbeats Between my silicone-coated thighs, my eyes glassy With suppressed naturalness, bubbling just beneath The surface, my hair is made of aluminum. To kill a jailbird is to bury the bones of the unloved. I will Put on a costume and shave my head I’ll wrap my lips around the tip of a pen and suck Out all the ink, staining my pretty gums purple for a fortnight. I was born to become fearless, I was trained to become fake. Skin on skin, bone on bone, I am an ivory prostitute With coffee-stained teeth. I scream in sunlight With wrought-iron tattoos, gnashing the bitten-off Nails that fell out of my lap and onto the carpet two days ago. Kill me with calcium and cartilage, I wouldn’t mind an overdose. I’ll wear what you want me to wear if you pay For it in lip-bites. I don’t mess with boys like him, I keep it cold. The screen door keeps the outside world Out of focus. To dance in denim fishnets and swim In crocodile leather, to drown in morning makeup routines. Submit to everyone, submit to no one. Succumb to cold, Melt in heat. I am accelerated, higher up, and the people Are afraid, so they throw my bloody skin in the ditch and Stuff the same old shit in my mouth. They cover the eyes Of the children. “Don’t be like her,” they say. Don’t be like what? I am nothing, a measly pile of shadows, That’s what they say. I am the dark, the unknown, My daydreams are pulling my death away from me. I am the full moon, worshipped and distanced and fickle. I pull And push away, kiss me and it will not be returned.
47
Oranges
Alex Bishop
A flame flickers Gas lit, blue bases A hug on a white candy stick But it’s not quite a sugar high Barely detected by blood Taste is felt in the lungs As it’s lifted, it’s a long, slow drag. Leaning on crisscross coat hanger wires A children’s playground Shields sparks from cold wind The bittersweet air of the smoke-free Inquiring glances turn To stares, leaning back Legs too long, feet hanging from shins Buckets of fake, silica sand Sneakers meant for teens Aged up Feet last, head first Taking that sweet sip An off-brand tube in a knock-off town Gag, retch, smothered Smoke streams from nostrils Hair hangs past eyebrows singed Someone missed the act of looking cool By struggling to click that lighter And when it was lit Careful footsteps traced the sandbox Hanging from lips, don’t fall Tube tied with clear cord, the other end wrapped Around teeth, a facade never lit Staring up, big balls of fire Replicate the miniatures between fingertips Crisscross wire digs inwards Pressing bulky shoulder blades Wings trapped underneath skin An inability to fly Just to smoke the stars.
48
Content Scales
Hana Desjardins
Cry champagne tears In an ocean of liquid Liquor liquid liquid Saltwater champagne fish Golden Bellini Garibaldi Suspended and swung Invisible strings In a sea uncontrollable Rough waters swinging Back and forth and back and forth Champagne fish moving in champagne waters Pop the cork and Spi i i i i ll No longer clear glass Fingerprinted opaque Don’t tap the glass, sweetheart It’s not good for the champagne Fish bubble and fizz and spill And coral burns in your tummy When you drink it all at once An ocean of worlds all live in my tummy My vision is tilted in tides No celebration Or special occasion Just Baby squids Squirting ink in my eyes
49
Valtari
Jack O’Connor
NON-MAJOR CONTEST WINNER The rain rattled the shingles of the roof, and the water rushing down to the ground blurred the window panes. Inside, the Keeper of the tavern polished a glass and watched the distorted world hidden behind the gray. Beyond him, his room was painted in the orange glow of the fireplace. The wood had long since combusted, but the heat still warmed the wooden chairs around the old tables that were scattered about. The heat clung to the walls, the beams, and the dusty staircase in the far corner behind the bar. The light touched the ship’s wheel mounted beside the window and the fishnets that hung from their resting place along the ceiling. The wooden boards in front of the bar still creaked from where the Sailor had stood. His glass still waited to be cleaned. The Keeper’s pocket watch on the counter struck the top of the hour. Night had fallen. The clouded sky of gray had become splotches of black. The Keeper set his glass down and stepped away from his spot behind the counter and walked across the floor. The only sound was the beating of the rain and wooden floorboards quietly creaking beneath his shoes. As he swung open the wooden door to his tavern, he invited the rain in. It clung to his clothes and beard. It spilled in and scattered across the floor. The Keeper just stood there and looked down his street as the town fell into darkness. One by one, the candles in the windows were snuffed out, and the rain concealed each building. The faint glow of the distant moon shone against the shingled rooftops and they were all that were left. Far beyond the town, where the roads ended and gave way to the dirt and grass, a single house stood upon the cliff overlooking the sea. The house was dying. It was a place where care had been forgotten, where the windows were broken and the chimney had fallen. Time still rolled by and took something from that house. When the final light died from the very last houses of the town and the night held the world in her arms, and the ship had long since sailed from the shore and disappeared into the mists, the Girl ran from the house
50
on the cliff. She ran through the grass and the dirt, before collapsing at the edge of the precipice. In her hands, she held the empty glass bottle, and the Keeper watched her as she held the bottle to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. She sang into the bottle with a shaking voice and quickly sealed the vessel. The Keeper watched as she finished her song, her plea, her only wish. He watched as she corked the bottle, and before releasing it into the crashing waves below, she looked to the sea and said to herself, “Just one more day.” She cast the bottle into the rolling waves and embraced the rain which drenched her clothes and clung to her face. She sat and waited for the sea to answer and only when she heard this answer would she stand and walk back to the house that time still claimed. An answer that the Keeper never heard, for he no longer wished anything of the sea. He wished for her happiness, but he knew all too well, that was something the sea could never truly give. He watched her stand on the cliff and turn back to the house. The door, which barely stood, closed behind her. The Keeper closed the tavern door behind him and stood once again behind his counter. With a glance at the window, he witnessed the rain ascend towards the sky. The droplets left his body and the floor and traveled in streams towards the crack under the door before ascending back to the clouds. The beams of blue light cast themselves across his wooden floor as the moon fell from under the clouds. The beams climbed to the fishnets hanging from the ceiling as the moon submerged beyond the horizon. And the sun glowed once again. His patrons had returned and the Keeper served them with a smile on his face, but sorrow behind his eyes. For he knew after the conversations that he repeated, and the words he had said for too long, he knew that fated patron would arrive through his door and take his final drink again. But he observed his patrons as they sat at his tables, and drank his ale and shared stories of the sea. He watched
and could only watch because he knew that there was nothing he could do to change the course the world had written.
The Sailor sipped the last of his drink and said to the empty space behind the counter, “Farewell.”
Hour by hour, the sun fell closer and closer into the sea, and hour by hour his tavern slowly grew quieter as the last of his patrons gathered their belongings and quietly filed out.
The Keeper watched him stand and bundle his coat before stepping out of the tavern for the last time.
After a heavy breath, the Keeper began his ritual of gathering glasses and wiping the tables. He glanced out his window to see the young Sailor leave the safety and warmth of his home on the cliff by the sea. He turned, embraced and kissed the Girl who clung to him for the last time, once again. When he left, her body shook as she slowly closed the door of the house. The Sailor trotted through town, glancing upwards at the sky which had began to darken with the gray clouds. The Sailor poked his head into the tavern and asked for a final drink before his voyage.
Again and again and again. Every night the ship would set sail and never return. Every night the Girl would weep at the cliffside, begging the sea for just one more day, and the sea would answer. Again and again and again and again... Until— The sun had fallen, the Keeper’s tavern was empty and remained in silence. Worried and fearful, the Keeper rushed to his door and looked out into the street. The Sailor was not here. The sea had chosen.
The Keeper could tell from the look in the Sailor’s eyes, he did not know of what was to come. He never did. Only the Keeper could foresee the depths that awaited his vessel.
The Keeper left the confines of his home and cautiously walked the dark streets of his seaside town. He found her on the cliffside, staring longingly into the sea, which had now denied her her wish.
Yet, the Keeper nodded and poured him his drink. The Sailor thanked him and looked to the window. “I think it’s going to rain,” he said.
The Girl had collapsed in the grass. Sitting in the rain and watching the rolling waves, which took from her the most cherished thing in her life.
“There’s so much that I wish I could tell you,” the Keeper whispered. The Sailor looked at the Keeper, but his eyes cut through him. The Sailor didn’t truly see him. “I wish you could hear my words.” The Keeper did what he had never done before. He interfered. He couldn’t stand in his place and watch these events unfold. He had seen the Sailor leave this land every day, and every night he would watch the Girl weep and sing and the sea would answer. But this couldn’t be the answer she truly wanted, could it? As he abandoned his place behind the bar, the Sailor’s eyes did not follow the Keeper’s presence. They remained fixated upon where the Keeper had stood. The Keeper shifted and spoke into the Sailor’s ear. “Don’t leave her.”
Seeing her closely now, for the first time, the Keeper’s breath caught in his throat as he saw how much she resembled someone he had long since lost. A fragmented memory he had tucked away, not daring to picture. And yet he found himself gazing into the form of his own, remembering his distant prayers to the waves, which the sea had silenced long ago. In her eyes, he could see both himself and the one he had lost. She turned when she sensed the approach of the Keeper, who sat with her and wrapped his arms around her shivering body. “I know,” the Keeper whispered as she wept. “I understand.” There was nothing that could be done. The Keeper knew all too well that this grief could be delayed, as the sea had allowed. But nothing can stop reality. Nothing can stop time, the taker of all things. And nothing can stop grief, but this time, it was a storm to be endured with someone.
51
Countdown
Emily Clarke
Your face: raw and homeless, a burger with a fried yellow yolk, slapped like thick rolls I want to slobber Baby black hairs are rivers twisting through your navel Your hands are infant bottles, teach me to drink! Suckle on ink cartridges Tell yourself to behave, breathe On that day your eyes were dim caves holding my face underwater I learned that our van days were stupid, we should’ve coughed up our guts during those rusted riffs It took two years for me to learn how to live on a plate and become your meals Your mouth braided words like flaked charcoal on my blank canvas skin and I ruined every inch of your home with pleasure until the day you wore my red blister ribbon tied in a knot around your fat limb Courage became distorted inside your ribcage birdcage and I felt tall City lights ate you up, crunched on your tightly sewn skin like leather How do I compare? Welcome to the New Year, leave your shoes at the door.
52
53
54
Visual Arts students at Idyllwild Arts come from all over the world, creating a rich cultural and aesthetic mix. Their backgrounds are an important part of the community of visual artists and the school as a whole. The training they get at Idyllwild Arts gives them a broad foundation in the formal and theoretical aspects of visual arts. The faculty also come from many different backgrounds, which means the students are exposed to a broad spectrum of disciplines, including: drawing, painting, sculpture, printmaking, ceramics, digital and darkroom photography, jewelry making, architecture, and all periods of art history. All of the faculty are practicing artists who show their work regularly. This is an important part of the instructional environment, as it means they are engaged in the same or similar challenges that the students face every day in the studios. There is an emphasis on sequential instruction through the grade levels, so that all students feel they are developing a solid visual language, while they are also encouraged to develop a strong individual voice, which reflects their life experiences. This balance of the formal, practical, theoretical and imaginative aspects of art making is central to the way we teach and learn, and means that graduating seniors are not only well trained artists but are also aware of their place in the world. Please direct questions to David Reid-Marr, Visual Arts Department Chair, at: davidr@idyllwildarts.org.
VISUAL ARTS 55
56
Georgia Audrey Carver
[Acrylic on Canvas]
57
Untitled Grey Stevenson [Mixed Media]
58
A Destructive Construction Qianhe Mike Fan [Digital Photography]
59
Untitled Dongling Guo [Graphite on Paper]
60
Opposition Rudy Falagan
[Graphite on Paper]
61
Tenon Pot Qianhe Mike Fan [Ceramic]
62
Beware of Christ Benjamin Cruz
[Laser Cut Wood]
63
Order Xiaoxue Zhang [Oil Painting]
64
Sam Audrey Carver
[Oil paint and lace]
65
Carriage at Mana Adrian Hernandez [Oil on Canvas]
66
O Povo Poderoso Adrian Santana
[Ceramic with Underglaze]
67
Surrender Frankie Song [Acrylic on Canvas]
68
Bond Qianhe Mike Fan
[Ceramic and Sculpture]
69
At this Moment
[Pen on paper]
70
Tiva Tao
La Luna Adrian Ocone
[Etching with Aquatint]
71
Sprays Rudy Falagan [Acrylic on Canvas]
72
Look through the Surface Meicen Deng [Acrylic Painting]
73
Alone in the City Ordy Chen [Graphite on Paper]
74
Nine-tailed fox teapot Yin Weng [Ceramic]
75
In Water Kyu Jin Lee [Acrylic on Canvas]
76
Self-realization Tiva Tao
[Reduction Woodcut]
77
I Pray Only at Night for This is When I Feel Most Alone Benjamin Cruz [Sewn Bible Tracts]
78
Four-goat Square Zun Frankie Song
[Reduction Woodcut]
79
Man of my Dream Audrey Carver [Copper Etching]
80
Bismuth Öykü Seran Harman [Acrylic Painting]
81
Seeds Rudy Falagan [Charcoal on Paper]
82
Purity Ring Benjamin Cruz [Copper]
83
Winds 1 Yijia Sun
[Acrylic on Canvas Panel]
84
I see myself stabbing it & there is blood coming out Tiva Tao
[Acrylic on Canvas]
85
Neurosis Öykü Seran Harman [Acrylic Painting]
86
Peter’s Denial Benjamin Cruz [Laser Engraved Soap]
87
Winds 2 Yijia Sun
[Acrylic on Canvas Panel]
88
Parallax: Knowing how far an object is away from you, by measuring the angle between two different lines of sight (aka, your eyes) in relation to said object. (i.e. So nearby objects have a larger parallax than more distant objects when observed from different positions, in other words, parallax can be used to determine distances). For the past four years, I have been designing Parallax. Since taking on this project, I have attempted to conceptually explain what Parallax looks like (in the visual sense), as well as using the idea of sight as the ‘jumping off’ point to explore different versions of what sight is (or can be), depending on different points of view. They could range from the silly, all the way to the obscure and weird. All in the name of Art and Inspiration! The idea behind this year’s book is to show what we see when our eyes are closed. The initial thought is “well, black” (or darkness), but upon deeper exploration, we realize that the palate of colors are rich and almost indescribable. With that said, please enjoy this book, as it contains many wonderful pieces of art and literary works. I hope it stirs your creativity, and inspires. Until next time, keep your head in the clouds! Omar A. Razo
A WORD FROM THE DESIGNER
XALLARAP