Vortex 2022 by Scottsdale Community College

two thousand twenty two

vortex is spiraling energy, like a whirlwind or a tornado that exists throughout all of nature. The Milky Way, our greater home, spirals. Moving water spirals as it fows over and around things. Our bones spiral.

ON THE COVER

DEAD RECKONING

Beverly Robb | 1st Place | Painting & Drawing Oil on Canvas

The Maricopa County Community College District (MCCCD) is an EEO/AA institution and an equal opportunity employer of protected veterans and individuals with disabilities. All qualified applicants will receive consideration for employment without regard to race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, age, or national origin. A lack of English language skills will not be a barrier to admission and participation in the career and technical education programs of the District. The Maricopa County Community College District does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, sex, disability or age in its programs or activities. For Title IX/504 concerns, call the following number to reach the appointed coordinator: (480) 731-8499. For additional information, as well as a listing of all coordinators within the Maricopa College system, visit www.maricopa.edu/non-discrimination.

TWO THOUSAND TWENTY TWO PUBLISHER: Scottsdale Community College VORTEX TEAM: Kim Sabin Anna Dragon Cindy Kiefer Ana Cuddington Ronald Zhang Jared Aragona Cameron MacElvee Sandy Desjardins Robert Mugford

Ted Uran Rachel Brace-Stille Roger McKinney Peggy Deal Lisa Peace Robert You

DESIGNED BY: Visual Communication: ART286, Graphic Design IV INSTRUCTOR: Peggy Deal STUDENTS: Nicole Kalucki Gary Lidman PRINTED BY: Visual Communication: ART294, Digital Output INSTRUCTOR: Bernie Fritts STUDENTS: Christina McGarvey Erika Cooper Mathieu Neyson Jeremy Guy PRINTED ON: BizHub C1070 Press with Fiery Controller, Scottsdale, CC Print Lab Printed on 80# Endurance Digital Silk Text WITH APPRECIATION TO: Kidist Abate for her amazing photography. Thanks to Konica Minolta for Kermit the Press. ©2022 Scottsdale Community College 9000 E. Chaparral Road Scottsdale, AZ 85256

DEDICATION TO VORTEX FOUNDER

The 2022 Vortex is dedicated to its founder Sandra Desjardins for the tireless hours she spent bringing her unique vision for SCC’s creative community to life. Sandy, we honor your legacy by continuing to celebrate our outstanding creative writing and art students. Your seeds of abundance have ofcially sprouted! This publication exists because of you. Thank you.

VORTEX 2022 “The creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifcations and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.” — Marcel Duchamp You hold in your hands a very special edition of Vortex Literary and Art Journal. Not only does the 2022 edition celebrate the outstanding contributions made by this year’s creative writing and art students at Scottsdale Community College, but it also marks the beginning of a student-designed and produced publication. As our brilliant Vortex 2022 design leads Nicole Kalucki and Gary Lidman write, this 2022 issue is “created by students, celebrating students.” This issue also marks a passing of the torch of sorts from its founder, Sandy Desjardins, to me. Sandy started the Vortex contest and magazine over two decades ago as a means to honor SCC’s creative students. What began on stapled copier paper grew into a sleek award-winning publication under Sandy’s expert supervision. When I was asked to step in and help out after Sandy’s retirement, I jumped at the opportunity. I felt honored to carry forward Sandy’s vision for our creative community. I soon learned that Vortex would be transitioning to an online format, which did not come as a complete surprise. I was aware that an increasing number of college and university creative writing programs were making similar transitions for budgeting purposes. However practical, part of me still felt saddened knowing Sandy’s beautiful legacy of hardcopy Vortex publications had ofcially come to an end. Then, something magical happened. Dr. Cindy Kiefer, our English, World Languages, and Journalism Division Chair, reached out to Peggy Deal, the head of SCC’s graphic design program, and asked for assistance. Peggy agreed to not only help us design an online version of Vortex, but she ofered to contact Konica Minolta to see if they might sponsor a printed hardcopy version produced on our campus’s presses. Cindy and I, along with our division’s senior secretary Anna Dragon, soon learned that everything Peggy Deal touches turns to gold. Konica Minolta agreed, and Peggy solicited her two star-students Nicole and Gary to head up the design and layout of the Vortex 2022 print publication. We were back in business! Week after week, our Vortex team would meet and discuss our shared vision. We wanted to continue Sandy’s dream of “growing the seeds of abundance” as she stated in her farewell Vortex 2021 letter to readers. We reached out to SCC’s art faculty and asked them to take on the task of soliciting, judging, and curating outstanding student artwork. They agreed. We worked hand-in-hand with Gary and Nicole as they listened to our needs and delivered beautiful new logo, cover, and layout options. Cindy, Anna, and I often left our Vortex meetings knocking on wood to protect our good fortune. Student submissions came rolling in, despite the fact that our community was still dealing with the efects of the pandemic. Our dedicated faculty (and retired faculty) judges stepped in and volunteered their time over spring break to read and select winning entries.

LETTER FROM THE VORTEX COORDINATOR To say this entire process has exceeded my expectations would be a gross understatement. While I believed I could help carry part of Sandy’s Vortex vision forward, I never dreamed I’d be involved in growing and expanding its purpose. With that, I introduce to you the 2022 Vortex Literary and Art Journal—an interdisciplinary collaborative project showcasing SCC’s Creative Writing, Art, and Visual Communication students’ creative work. We are so proud of what we have been able to accomplish together! Like famous assemblage artist Marcel Duchamp, our SCC creative community used the best of what we had on hand to shape something fresh, exciting, and thought-provoking. The creative act is collaborative. As Duchamp stated, artists can conceive their work alone, but they need the eyes and ears of their spectators to truly participate in the larger conversation. Our brave student writers and artists have started that conversation on the following pages. Their work reminds us that we are all connected through our shared humanity. My sincerest thanks to Sandy, Cindy, Anna, Peggy, Nicole, Gary, Jared, Cameron, Robert M., Ted, Rachel, Roger, Lisa, Robert Y., Ronald, Ana, and our talented contributing SCC student artists and writers. Thank you, too, to you, our beloved community. This is your journal. I hope it makes you as proud of SCC’s creative programs and students as it makes me.

Kim Sabin Vortex Coordinator

VORTEX 2022

TABLE OF CONTENTS CREATIVE NONFICTION 13 18 23 27 29

“The Perfume” Stephen Rubin “Denali – A Love Story” John Anderson “Unfolding Rennie” Robert Rosen “What Was Stolen, What Was Gifted”

“Cat Lady”

Ariane Lee

Kathy Dwyer

PAINTING AND DRAWING C 32 33 34 35 36

“Dead Reckoning” Beverly Robb “Hidden Smiles” Ericka Oden “Trio” Elaine Karcher “Kitchen (Me and Mama)” Xianna Montoya “Between a Rock” Joanne Gallery “Close Up of the Desk” Natalie Hazzard

SHORT STORY 39 45 47 8

“Pink Cadillac” Kristina Morgan “Good Bones” David Hofmeister “Remnants” Katy Schultz

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SHORT STORY CONT’D. 52

“When Death Moved In”

“Sugar Cookies”

Ariane Lee

Steven Herrera

PHOTOGRAPHY 60 61 62 63

“Nest of Needles” Lori Dortch “Sonoran Moon” Brielle Walkney “The Future and The Progress” “Boardwalk” Melissa Kennedy

Lori Dortch

NATIVE VOICES AND VISIONS 66 68 69

“Grafti Man” Mateo TreeTop “Good Ways” Carlos Mendivil “Running Wild” D Gonzales

SCULPTURE 71 72 74 75

“Emergence” David Zwicky “Enmeshed” Katy Schultz “Hope” Emma Brown “Never Forget” David Zwicky

VORTEX 2022

POETRY 77 79 81 82

“Self-Improvement” Kristina Morgan “Message Read” Antonio Folcarelli “Better” Ann Capps “Untitled” Ariane Lee

GRAPHIC DESIGN 85 86 87 88

“Michael You Would Fall” Sunny Sabin “Indianapolis 500” Nikolas Williams “Tulip Fields of Holland” Nicole Kalucki “Anaglyph Skull” Gary Lidman

PLAYS AND SCRIPTS 90 “The Madness into Creativity” Audri Fox 92 “Wendie” Clif Mendivel 106 “Deus Ex Musica” Malichi Greenlee

WRITERS’ AND ARTISTS’ STATEMENTS 108

©®®

1 THE PERFUME

CREATIVE NONFICTION

Stephen Rubin | 1st Place

hen I was young, my father owned his own chrome plating company and was very successful selling to customers like Schwinn Bicycle. We lived in a large, two-story house flled with nice furniture; my parents each had a new 1955 Cadillac, and we went yachting in our 36 foot Rammer Cabin Cruiser. I had all of the building blocks, Lincoln logs, plastic soldiers, and Tonka trucks a kid could want. I remember Dad had planted roses along the verge of the back patio. But then one night his business caught fre and burned to the ground. This was before business insurance existed, so we lost everything. My grandmother provided us with a place to live, a third story apartment in the building she owned. My grandfather had purchased it just before the war. We had three bedrooms, a small dining room and kitchen, and a single bathroom with a free standing bathtub on claw feet. We took with us some pictures, a few of my toys, and an upholstered sofa and chairs that were very uncomfortable as they were always wrapped in a heavy clear plastic. Everything else was left behind, victims to repossession and foreclosure. My older brothers shared a bedroom with bunk beds and a closet too small for their clothes. My bedroom had a window where I often sat looking over the fat roofs of the two story apartment buildings that lined the street. I could see the people in their apartments and would make up stories about them. This room served as my bedroom and the family television room as well. My bed was a vinyl sofa. I felt no sense of shelter in this place except when I was in my room with the door shut. The kitchen was at the back end of the apartment where the back door opened to a small wooden landing and the wooden stairway that led down to the second foor landing and from there down to the ground and back yard. I remember the mornings that time of the year in Chicago when windows and doors were left open, a time before air conditioning. The warm breeze entered our kitchen blending with the scent of reheated cofee and the odor of cold cigarette stubs. Every morning, when I came downstairs, my mother would be sitting in her corner where the end of the kitchen table adjoined the wall, clutching at her housecoat below her chin as if chilled, her thin body buried in its wrapping. Her posture was brittle and rigid. She raised the cup to her lips and blew across the surface of the hot cofee as she cautiously sipped from the rim. Then she tapped the pack of Chesterfelds in her palm, pulled out the last cigarette, and put it between her lips as she crumpled the empty pack and dropped it in the wastebasket at her side. A double row of amber medicine vials lined the sill ordered according to their timing and frequency. She raised the Zippo in front of her face, and her lips adjusted the end of the cigarette to the edge of the fame. She took a slow deep drag closing her eyes as she leaned back as if swooning, her cheeks hollowed by the drag that pulled the orange glow up the cigarette. I watched as the thin column of smoke purled up from a lipstick-stained butt, her last smoke among the others piled in the Bakelite ashtray.

VORTEX 2022 She then returned to her muttering and the relentless voices only she heard. Her raspy words spoken too soft and rapid to be understood were what I always heard when frst entering the kitchen. Her familiar quarreling seemed to never stop. Often I created images for her voices, animated persons with whom she carried on her endless conversations, voices that were her sole possession that maybe had some similarity to someone she knew and who was familiar with her past. I observed her distantly as an acquaintance, like that kid I saw daily from the opposite side of the school playground, the kid with whom I rarely spoke. We sat in the room’s sudden silence which was heavier, denser, more absolute than when we spoke. Though I had just entered the room, I felt a hurried panic to leave. Time moved too slowly when I dreaded stepping we were together, and I dreaded stepping into one of into one of her private her private fantasies that took us anywhere but here. shifted uneasily. The vinyl seat pulled at my bare fantasies that took us Icalves, each new position more uncomfortable than the anywhere but here. last. I felt a sudden alarm in her silence, and my heart began to kick with the sharp cloying in my gut. Her face held an obsessed, vacant expression bordering on a trance. She turned to me, her noncommittal eyes seeing something beyond me as she robustly exhaled. Her mind was held captive in memories she believed had occurred but likely hadn’t. Most often, she remembered herself as the leading character in a scene from one of her favorite television dramas, which she believed she had actually lived. Her words meant little to me, but it was her facial expressions that were impactful. It was how she contorted her face that hinted at what could come next, as if she were in the throes of losing control against me. “You know,” she said, pausing. “You were due on Mother’s Day.” I saw the beginning of a smile tremble briefy on her lips before it vanished. She squinted and took another drag. Again, we sat in silence, an hour in a moment, my mind fumbling in need of a response. “Uh huh,” I stammered. “You know what today is, don’t you,” she said. “Of course, you do. You wouldn’t forget.” “Sure,” I muttered defensively. “Sure, I wouldn’t forget.” I had begun my shopping that Saturday back in April when I rode my bike to the Five and Dime and spoke to the old lady at the cosmetics counter. She had that grandmotherly patience with a small smile that ended in commas and pufy powdered cheeks with a smudge of pink rouge brushed across the ridge under her wet looking green eyes. “Hello there, young man. How can I help you?” she asked “How much is that perfume?” I asked, pointing to the display behind her

CREATIVE NONFICTION where they kept the good stuf because it was so expensive. “Which one? There are several here,” she said, turning toward the bottles like one of the models on a television game show elegantly gesturing at the prize to be won. “That one, on the top, the big one, please,” I said pointing. “Oh, you have good taste. That’s the best one of all. It’s made of real lavender. Here, smell.” She pressed the silver bulb on a tasseled spray atomizer. The aroma took possession of me. Yes, this was the one. “How much does it cost?” “This one is quite expensive. It’s ten dollars,” she said. “Thank you, Ma’am.” I choked with disappointment as I knew I couldn’t save that much on my allowance of a quarter each week, and certainly not in the limited time I had. “That’s more than I can save before Mother’s Day. Which one can I get if I have, say, seven dollars?” When I went back to the store, I stopped my bike several times on the way over to check my pocket to make sure the money hadn’t fallen out. Everyday when I got home from school, I’d go into the bottom drawer of my dresser and take out my cigar box where I kept all my special processions including the money I was saving, counting and recounting to be sure I could aford the seven dollar perfume. It was still expensive but didn’t smell as good as the lavender one. That same lady was there and smiled at me as she wrapped the box in nice gift paper and didn’t charge me a penny extra to do it. I felt awkward by the directness of my mother’s gaze. The skin at the nape of my neck tingled like something was crawling there. I desperately wanted all this mandatory and painful scene to be over, to get away and be alone in my room. She exhaled a stream of smoke, her chin uplifted regal-like. “You were supposed to be a Mother’s Day baby but came a week late. That was a miserable week. I was so big and uncomfortable. But then there you were.” She rolled the ash of her cigarette into her ashtray, took another big drag and smashed it. A slight eddy of smoke rose. She pulled another pack of Chesterfelds from a paper bag, carefully pulled the tiny ribbon that held the cellophane, opened the pack, and lit up. “So you know what today is,” she said. My mind fumbled to fnd a response. “Uh huh. Here, see I remembered,” I said proudly placing the beautifully wrapped gift on the table. “I knew you wouldn’t forget,” she said. “I remembered, and the nice lady gift wrapped it for me,” I said, my voice trembling. I pushed the small rectangular box across the table at her. She let it sit there, making no move to retrieve it. “Well, that’s so nice of you, honey,” she said. “What is it?” She asked this each year, What is it? And always asking me Do you know what day it is? I didn’t know the right

VORTEX 2022 response, so I stayed silent as she began slowly pulling of the wrapping paper, careful not to tear it. “You were due to be born on Mother’s Day,” she repeated, more to herself than to me. “But you didn’t come till the following week.” I felt embarrassed and confused that she was repeating this. She extracted the bottle, and aimed a spray between us, waving her hand to fan the fragrance toward her. Her face suddenly puckered into a wince, and then realizing I had seen her reaction, she quickly reshaped her expression into the slender smile. “Why, isn’t this a nice perfume,” she said. “It certainly makes a statement, doesn’t it? I’ll need to put this away and keep it for special occasions.” “Yes, special occasions,” I said, returning an equally insincere smile. “Well, very nice,” she said again, distracted. She placed the bottle on the table and pushed it to the side. “Why don’t you go of and play now?” I went back to my room, closed the door and took a deep breath of relief as I sat down on the foor to play with my plastic soldiers. But my attention was elsewhere. I had anticipated the sweet, candy-like smell from when the store lady sprayed it for me. But it wasn’t that. It was the lavender fragrance of the perfume I couldn’t aford. The ten dollar plus tax one. She wrapped the expensive perfume, and now I couldn’t do anything about it. The following Saturday I rode my bike back to the Five and Ten to tell the lady about her mistake. Since I had already given it to my mom, I couldn’t bring it back. “I can pay you a little each week, if that’s okay,” I shyly told her. “You’re a good kid,” she said plainly, not talking like a sales lady. “Thank you Ma’am. Here’s my quarter for this week. My dad gives me a quarter allowance each week. So I can bring you a quarter each week until I get to ten dollars. Is that okay?” I was so nervous and had no idea what I could do other than what I ofered. “Oh, there’s no need.” she said. “I forgot all about the special sale we were having that day. So, you were a lucky boy. The lavender perfume was seven dollars for that day only.” She smiled the words at me. I never did smell that fragrance again until that one day Minnie came. She had worked for my mom since my older brothers were little, and then when I came along, she took care of me. I loved Minnie, her soft confdent voice and incredible patience. She didn’t shy away from any question I asked, but she often giggled at my innocence that could have been ofensive to someone else. She felt each question needed to be answered with understanding explanations. “Minnie, your skin is so dark, how do you know when your hands are dirty?” I had asked her one day. “Darlin, it don’t matter what color yo skin to know yo hand’s dirty. I know my hand’s dirty just like yo know yo’s dirty.” She opened the palm of her hand towards me, and I

CREATIVE NONFICTION opened mine next to hers. We smiled at one another. I was with Minnie during each day when she cleaned our house and did the laundry. When I woke from a bad dream, her smiling face was there; her calming voice settled me. She was a master at treating skinned knees and always had a Bandaid in her apron She told me about her grandparents freed from slavery and sang me the songs she learned from them. “You smell so nice Minnie,” I said that day. “Just like fowers.” “Oh,” she said. “Thank you. Your Mama give it to me on Mother’s Day. Wasn’t that sweet? She said she thought it was just what I’d like.” She smiled big like she did sometimes for my mom. I saw how happy Minnie was, but I felt like the breath had been kicked out of me. I thought about all those tense days of saving and fretting about getting my mother her gift. She didn’t just expect it, she demanded it. I had wanted to make her happy, but happy didn’t come along very often. Too young to have the words to describe it, I had already begun to realize at eight years old that my mom and I lived on opposite sides of a thin and impenetrable veil. I knew that trust was dangerous and caring made me vulnerable, a victim to disappointment and ridicule. Except with Minnie. Life is survival before anything else. I left home at about ffteen after my mom slammed my head into the edge of a wall. I walked twelve miles to my dad’s and stepmother’s apartment, and they sent me to a boarding school. I think that I have always been haunted by those years with my family. I had come along ten years after my two brothers, and they and my parents had already bonded as a family. They had very little interest or involvement in what I did, and I grew up among them as a nameless shadow. And having gained no more than an abstract idea of what afection I grew up among them was, I grew my imagination to sustain me with my thoughts, my writing, animals and nature. Looking as a nameless shadow. back, I realize that if the perfume was a gift for the woman who had cared for me and raised me, then it had found its way to the right person .

2 DENALI—A LOVE STORY John Anderson | 2nd Place

s we ascended from the Kahiltna Glacier, a constant 20 mph wind had been banging away at us for the better of six hours. The day had been a slog. This was day fve of our climb as we moved of the top of the 11,000 foot glacier trying to reach the safety of the upper base camp 2 at fourteen (14,000 feet). The ultimate goal was to summit Mt. Denali (McKinley), North America’s tallest peak. The big mountain tops out at 20,320 feet and was so massive it could create its own weather system. Its land mass is the size of the state of Delaware. The climb was not a technical climb, per se, such as Everest or K-2, where ropes and carabiners and ladders were involved. It was more of an assault, with long sustained days of walking. And because the mountain was so far north, the oxygen levels were extremely low and extremely dangerous the higher we climbed. The slow ascent was designed to allow climbers’ bodies to acclimate to the thin air. Our client group was made up of fve fat cat oil executives from Texas. They were paying $20,000 each for their great life’s adventure of reaching the top of the mountain. Theirs was a world of ego, a world where money equaled power. You could almost see them sitting around their clubs after their adventure, crowing to anyone who would listen. They rubbed me the wrong way from the moment I met them. “Alaska ain’t so tuf. Why, we thought about breakin’ up some of that mountain and usin’ it for ice cubes to pour our bourbon over,” cackled Tilman, their team leader. He was a tall, imposing man with a crooked nose and a crooked personality, whose swagger told everyone HE was in charge. As he bit of the end of one of his Cuban cigars, he surveyed the landscape. “We should be up and down in about seven, eight days. Right, son?” he asked me. “I promised my wife we’d be in Paris by the end of the month.” I didn’t respond. I nodded politely and shook my head as I walked away. A normal climb took between twelve to fourteen days. I was one of three assistant guides. All of us just a whisker under thirty. Alaska at the time was a young state… in many ways, as were we. It had been a state for just over twenty years. The population was young too; the average age was 26. Alaska was just getting its traction as an economic giant. The Trans-Alaska Oil Pipeline had just come online, and all that oil money was starting to pump through the economy. We were at an age of self-discovery, searching I guess for some greater meaning to life.

We were at an age of self-discovery, searching I guess for some greater meaning to life.

CREATIVE NONFICTION Marta, our frst guide, was a German immigrant. She was stocky, confdent, strong, and had a no-nonsense demeanor. She had no fear. None. The other assistant guide was a woman named Ellen. She had a personality that matched her red hair; a little fre, but not too much, just enough to let you know she meant business. She had long pig tails. She smiled with her eyes, which were bright blue and, in combination with her hair, always seemed to make you feel happy. She’d once managed a team of sled dogs for the New Zealand Science Team at the South Pole. I was a thrill-seeking scientist new to Alaska. My biological research career, however, was in the past tense. It pained my mother, the nurse, horribly that my fve years of college earning a science degree had foated away like smoke from a campfre, gone on the wind. Nevertheless, on the frst day of the climb, perched on a mountain glacier at 7,300 feet above sea level fanked by two neighboring peaks towering well over 17,000 feet, it was not hard to I felt as though I was get a sense of being insignifcant in this world. I felt as the luckiest guy on though I was the luckiest guy on Earth. It just made me earth. It just made me feel alive. Our team leader was a barrel-chested Swiss immigrant feel alive. named Claud LaMay. He was 35, had a big black beard, an oversized personality, and had pretty much written the book on how to guide a successful climb of Mt. Denali. He was a legend in his own time. LaMay was always the frst out of the tent in the morning. He was a born leader and if there was a problem, he was always… always the frst to respond.

As assistant guides, we were essentially chief cooks and bottle washers for the expedition. Our job was to set up and break down camp, melt snow, and cook. We also had to make sure the oil boys were happy, make sure they got their money’s worth, and make sure they made it to the top. This was my second trip up the mountain. It was Ellen’s and Marta’s frst. The camp at 14 had an NPS (National Park Service) presence. There was a radio communications tent and a medical research team. The camp was situated in a football sized feld where climbing parties could R & R, lick their wounds from the frst part of the climb, and get ready for the assault on the summit. As we dragged into camp, LeMay began barking orders. “Get the tents sent up over there behind that little ridge. It will give us a break from the wind. I’ll report into the Ranger Station,” he said as he pulled ice chunks of of his thick black whiskers. “I’ll get a weather report for tomorrow.” The three of us got the tents up and began melting snow to cook the evening meals. “I’m worried about that Tom guy,” Ellen said as she wolfed down her dinner. “He could barely keep up the last few hours; he’s the weakest of the fve. He dropped his climbing poles four or fve times and fell at least twice.”

VORTEX 2022 “I saw you back there,” I said. “Shit, there is no way he will make the big climb up that headwall tomorrow. That SOB should not be out here. He’s twenty pounds overweight and out of shape.” “What was LaMay thinking, allowing that guy out here?” Ellen moaned. “He can’t seem to breathe very well, either.” “Every day he’s worse than the day before,” I said. I had a bad feeling in my bones. “We are going to have to haul this guy’s sorry ass up the big hill tomorrow.” Five days into the climb and all of the bravado had gone out of the Texans. About seven the next morning as we were preparing breakfast, one of the oil guys poked his head out of his tent and started screaming. “Help! Help! Somebody get over here now!” As I got to the tent, I could see the guy was panicked. His dark eyes darted back and forth from me to the inside of the tent and back again. His face was beet red, and he spit as much as he screamed. “Something’s wrong with Tom! Something’s wrong with Tom!” A minute later Ellen skidded up to the side of the tent. She calmed the guy down, got him out of the tent, and led him over to where LaMay was rolling up his sleeping bag. When she got back, she scrunched into the tent next to me. I looked straight at Ellen, shook my head and mumbled the words, “This guy’s dead. He’s not breathing, he’s got no heartbeat, and he’s as white as a ghost. He’s dead.” A deafening silence hung in the air between us for a very long minute. “You better go get LaMay,” I grunted. “He is going to have to deal with this.” We passed the next two hours trying to stay busy. We dealt with the four remaining Texans, who were really spooked, while LeMay sorted things out with the medical teams and the Park Service. The weather was down and combined with the thin air at 14, there was no hope for helicopter support to remove the body. “Park Service says these weather conditions will hold for the next fve to seven days,” LaMay said. “No chance of getting any air support for the foreseeable future. We can climb, but they can’t fy.” It was decided that LeMay and the four oilmen, along with Marta, would try for the summit. There was still $80,000 worth of climbing deposits in play, so the group would continue. It would be up to Ellen and me to descend back to Base Camp 1 at 7,000 feet with Tom’s body. “I’m not sure I can do this,” Ellen said. “Jesus Christ, it’s going to take us two full days to get down. We’ve got a dead guy wrapped up like a mummy tied into this small toboggan. The weather is shit. This is going to be a real test,” she growled. I didn’t answer. I just looked at her, shook my head, looked at the ground, kicked a pile of snow, and walked of. I knew this was going to be a test. I knew Ellen in only a casual sort of way before this climb. We had mutual friends but didn’t travel in the same circle. I shared the same fear, but somehow, I trusted her and was pretty sure that we could do this. It would have to be a team efort. By late morning, we were of.

CREATIVE NONFICTION The frst hour went well. The mid-day clouds helped warm the temperatures into the mid-20s. Winds were light as we started our descent. But as we rounded the shoulder of the ridge called Windy Corner, the wind picked up the light snow on the trail she would help steer. I was behind, with rope taut to keep the sled in a controlled descent. Part way down the ice feld, the 200-pound sled began to slide sideways. It kept jerking me of my feet, bashing me down onto the ice. We would slide twenty or thirty feet, which would in turn pull on Ellen’s rope, knocking her over as well. We had to jam our ice axes into the icy side hill to arrest our slide. Once stopped, we would start again only to have it happen again and again. This went on for over two hours. When we fnally made it of the ice feld to the snow-covered glacier, we collapsed into a giant snowbank, out of the wind. “We’ve got another twelve hours down this damn snow feld to base camp,” Ellen snarked. “Tomorrow is going to kick our asses. Let’s take a thirty-minute break, eat something, and try to make another two hours before we quit for the night.” I didn’t say a word. I was pissed at the world. My right knee was swollen and sore. I’d been knocked around and dragged for the past three hours. Here we were risking our lives dragging this goddamn dead Texan who had more money than sense, down North America’s tallest peak. What the hell am I doing out here? I screamed to myself. Two hours later as we made camp, I set up the tent while Ellen melted snow and cooked what was a tasteless, dehydrated noodle something or other. Between us, we drank a warm half gallon of Tang, the sickly-sweet orange favored circus water concoction that was invented for the early astronauts. To this day, I cannot even stand to look at it. We crawled into our sleeping bags, and I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. We were on the trail early the next morning. Overnight, four inches of snow had fallen, and by 10 am the wind had picked up again. We were now in a mini ground blizzard. Ellen was still roped to the toboggan. She was about twenty feet ahead of me. She would disappear into a cloud of snow for as long as ten minutes at a time. I’d get a glimpse of her red parka coming in and out of the whiteness ahead. Sometimes the tug on the rope was the only thing that told me she was still there. By now the dead oil man strapped into the toboggan had long ceased to be anything but cargo. As callous as it may seem, we were concentrating only on ourselves. We were both pushing our own limits. We snacked on dried fruits, nuts, and granola bars, eating on the move, not stopping as we struggled down the mountain—Ellen still leading the way. The Kahiltna Glacier is a dangerous place. It is a large bowl, anywhere from a half mile to four miles wide and forty some miles long. It’s flled with deep unseen crevasses that were covered by snow bridges. The trail skirted big avalanche felds that roll of Mt. Hunter and Mt. Foraker, fanning into the valley. Ellen was like a bloodhound on the path of an escaped convict. She never varied. How she stayed on that trail I will never know. After almost twelve hours, just before dark, we struggled up the last little hill into the Kahiltna Base Camp. The rangers took our cargo, gave us a big meal, and stufed us into our sleeping bags in the back corner of the medical tent. We didn’t say more than fve words to each other.

VORTEX 2022 The next day we learned from the camp at 14,000 that LaMay and the oil execs had experienced worse weather. Upset by the death of their friend and dangerous weather conditions, they’d canceled their summit attempt and were on their way down. We were ordered to wait for their return. Ellen and I spent the next two days relaxing, reading, talking, and catching up on sleep. Less than a week later, of the mountain, we were back in Anchorage eating very greasy food of of real plates with knives and forks instead of eating glops of rehydrated mush out of bags with plastic spoons. Quite a luxury. We learned that Tom had died of acute pulmonary edema, a not uncommon cause of death attributed to the thin air on the mountain. This was my last trip as a mountain guide. I reevaluated things and started a small construction business building homes, a much safer occupation. LaMay continued his guiding career on Denali. He died This was my last trip two years later, on the slopes of Mt. Everest after his as a mountain guide. team had made the summit. The remaining Texans few home, without the ice of Mt. Denali for their bourbon. As for Ellen, she stayed in Alaska. She expanded her engineering degree and created the science and math program at a career and technical school just north of Anchorage. We were married a year later. At last report, we were living Happily Ever After.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

3 UNFOLDING RENNIE Robert Rosen | 3rd Place

n a Tuesday in 1987, my ofce phone rang. A voice on the other end said, “We have a little boy who needs a home.” The sentence took my breath away. Julie and I had become impatient with nature’s resistance to add children to our lives. Deciding to take an alternate route, we applied, submitted to background checks, and passed the house inspection to become foster parents. Starting with that Tuesday call, it happened quickly. On Wednesday, we met a smiling, round faced 3 ½ year old bowling ball of a boy carrying a frayed teddy bear by one of its arms. René came running into the playroom flled with well-loved toys. It was love at frst sight. René rushed to Julie and motioned for a boost up into her arms. I took a seat on the foor and grabbed a dingy Tonka truck. It took several “brrroom brooms” to grab René’s attention away from Julie’s hair and glasses. Julie put him down and he came over to my spot to play. On Thursday, we bought a car seat, a race car bed frame and mattress, kidsized clothes, toothbrushes, no-tears shampoo, and Raf cassettes. We hit the grocery store and made guesses on what a 3 ½ year-old would eat. On Friday, René’s 17-year-old birth mom, Margo, put a faded plastic elephant toy box into the back of our minivan. She lifted René up, buckled him into the car seat, and kissed him goodbye. “Be good to Mama Julie and Daddy Robert,” she advised her son. Then she moved close to Julie. “The life you’re giving him is what I needed,” she whispered. Margo stepped away and waved as we pointed the van home. We were parents for

the frst time, even We were parents for the frst time, even if it was just foster parents. As we drove home, Julie looked at me, if it was just foster and then back at René. René responded with a big smile. He then took the colorful toy harmonica next to parents. him, held it like a gun and said, “piooou piooou.” Julie and I burst out laughing. A topic of conversation on our way over was about banning war toys from the already growing collection of playthings. Julie and I were the babies in our respective families. We didn’t know shit about kids, let alone what living and raising one was like. All we had were preconceived ideas and a short note from Margo that told us that René did not like green foods and he would tell us what he wanted by pointing. René was an extremely happy little boy. He was afectionate with an easy, quiet laugh and a hearty appetite. He was also quickly comfortable with

VORTEX 2022 adults and dogs. His speech was mono-syllabic. He called himself “Nay” and relied on pointing to communicate. He knew to put his hands together in prayer when we went to our Unitarian Church services. He loved the predictability of bedtime for brushing his teeth, saying “night night” to the dogs, and curling up with both of us and a book for the fve minutes it took to begin his long night’s sleep. We learned what we could about René’s early life. The last place he lived was a teen shelter. Margo was 14 when she gave birth to him. She was kicked back and forth between parents and relatives’ homes. At 15, she was pregnant again and got married. She then had a third son at 16. The marriage did not last, and at 17, she found herself homeless, losing custody of her two younger children to her ex-husband, and struggling to make it through a day. She knew it was time to give up her oldest son to a family who could provide a future for him. René was loved but neglected. Chronic ear infections left him hearing only mufed sounds. We entertained him in crowded county medical waiting rooms until he was ftted with a set of ear drum tubes. This intervention made an instant diference, not just in his hearing, but in his whole demeanor. His smile now was communicating amazement with everything he could now hear. Words and how to say them were no longer hidden. His speech and vocabulary built quickly with the help of a speech therapist. In the evenings, he was allowed to stay up as long as he was talking. René became a part of us, and us a part of him. There was no hesitation when ten months later adoption papers were signed. His new birth certifcate announced that his name was now Rennie Harris Rosen and Julie and Robert Rosen were his parents. Rennie made us a family. When you have biological children, their looks, movements, laugh, and speech patterns as well as their physical and academic gifts are not such a huge surprise. With adopted children, they’re all a surprise. The unfolding origami of Rennie was always a wonder. When he was small, I so wanted to crawl into his head to see how it worked. When he was a teenager, I wanted to crawl in there again, this time to tighten a few loose nuts and bolts. Unlike his adoptive parents, Rennie was stronger, faster, and more coordinated than his peers. His athletic gifts dominated his identity throughout his adolescence. After seasons in soccer, football, and karate, he found his way to a dance studio. Here, he discovered a place where his natural skills shined the brightest. Julie and I, with four left feet between us, had nothing to ofer other than taxi service and cheering at recitals. If anyone made fun of him for his ballet skills, Rennie would shame them by challenging them to perform a pirouette alongside him. Despite these gifts, Rennie’s growing up came with insecurity and a difculty to bond. In his drive to stand out, he invented stories about himself and me, as well. Early on, there were stories about me being a CIA spy, which I am not. Later, there were claims about him dancing in music videos and movies, which he did not, and being struck by lightning multiple times, which never happened. We had recurring discussions about

CREATIVE NONFICTION truth and lying. We have family jokes referencing stories he made up. When Rennie turned 16, we received a large envelope from the adoption agency. Rennie’s origin story was part of our family narrative. He knew he was adopted, and we shared photos from his frst days with us. He never had questions about his birth parents. He seemed satisfed with the little information that we had. What we did see were his deepening opinions against abortion and premarital sex as he grew into his teens. The three of us unpacked the envelope. Inside were thirteen years of birthday cards and letters from Margo asking question after question about his life. At 16, it took threats and bribes to get Rennie to read and write for school assignments. This day was diferent. Rennie immediately began writing a return letter. The words poured out of him like water through a fre hose. He wrote ten pages describing his life, his interests, and his hopes. He expressed longing to know more about Margo with a question, more like a plea, for any information about his birth dad. There were holes in Rennie’s self-identity and a longing we had never seen in him before for answers to secrets kept from him. In the months and years that followed, Margo and Rennie established a relationship. It began with letters, then phone calls, and later, visits. Margo’s history unfolded with stories of health challenges, a house burning down, a preteen daughter she was raising herself, and a career as a long-haul trucker. Information on Rennie’s birth father was sketchy: only a frst name and his being a classmate of Margo’s at the time of her pregnancy. Much later, Rennie would move in with Margo after his tour in the Navy ended. He would join her as a partner in over-the-road trucking. Julie and I met adoptive parents and adopted people as we networked with friends, coworkers, and others we met along the way. We listened attentively to stories among adopted people willing to share details of their lives. Many of them confessed to being a “hot mess”— directionless, listless, and hurting as teenagers and young adults. They would go on to explain that it took confronting feelings of being rejected by their birth family and abandonment to turn things around. This was a revelation to Julie and me. Rennie’s later teens and young adulthood years were fraught with challenges. There was running away and begging to come back. There were loser friends, poor judgments, and being victimized by thieves. These were behaviors that we could hardly support or resolve with tough love or counseling. The insights we had from other adopted people helped fll the gaps on what was going on. Rennie successfully made it out the other side of his personal unfolding as an adult. He is a married man today, gainfully employed with a loving wife, raising two bright children. He is a warm and wonderful son. There is one more part of the unfolding of Rennie I want to share. In 2017, Rennie, then living in Texas, called, and asked if Margo could park her car in our driveway for a few weeks as she was on her way to Phoenix to pick up a rig.

VORTEX 2022 The last time Julie and I had seen Margo was for fve minutes, thirty years earlier. Before dropping her car of, we all met for lunch at Bobby Q’s, ironically on Mother’s Day. We got there frst. We looked up, and there was Margo, walking towards us with a duck-footed gait we immediately recognized as Rennie’s. Across from us sat a 47-year-old female version of our beloved son. Everything about Margo was familiar. Here was Rennie’s smile, his shoulders, his hands, and even his hair line. His voice infections, his laugh, and his sighs were coming from Margo. Emotions spilled over into tears. We thanked Margo for her bravery and her generosity that made us a family. Margo choked We thanked Margo for up seeing answers to thirty years of questioning her decision and surviving through days and years of her bravery and her and doubt. We toasted to the joint love of our generosity; that made regret shared son.

us a family.

Julie and I left the restaurant breathless and hand in hand. Once in the car, we called Rennie just to tell him how much he is loved.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

WHAT WAS STOLEN, WHAT WAS GIFTED Ariane Lee | Honorable Mention

ow is irrelevant unless one frst speaks of the past.

My now is not as fragile as it was 49 weeks ago. COVID came to visit my body and never left. It is the worst sort of house guest, one that bangs up your furniture and leaves her jagged emotions in jars in your fridge to be opened up months later, moldy and unrecognizable. What COVID stole from me is far less onerous than what it gave me. I can smell and taste everything as before except bitterness. It’s startling to accidentally sink a tooth into an aspirin and not taste the face pinching bite of alkaloids. I avoided red wine, dark chocolate, black cofee, and arugula my whole life. The crisp taste of citrus and earth and oaky barrels and forals and bouquets that the world talked about with such reverence used to be covered by green tree wood sap bitterness, but no longer. I may have lost one of my taste modalities, but I gained a new friend last New Year in the twisted form of crippling OCD and anxiety. The infammation of the nerve endings in my brain that caused issues with my taste and smell perception also caused my amygdala to run on overdrive. As I recovered from lung damage, my brain drove itself into the ground trying to protect me from everything. Almost 20% of people who have recovered from COVID have been diagnosed with a mental illness within 90 days of recovery. That’s Almost 20% of people one in fve. Twenty in a hundred. Two hundred in a thousand. I’ve accepted being a statistic, no matter who have recovered where I draw the line.

from COVID have

My pseudo-phobia trigger, the thing I was a bit afraid been diagnosed with a of, but could usually avoid—no big deal— became mental illness within the stuf of my compulsive nightmares. Weekly, devastating, hours-long panic attacks drove me to 90 days of recovery. curl on my couch in the smallest ball possible, barely functional for days at a time. Heart racing, tripping over its own beats. Sweat cascading down my breasts and back. Unable to eat. Unable to drink. Unable to shower. Unable to think beyond “what if.” WHAT IF IT GOT IN THE HOUSE AND EVERYONE DIES. Unable and unwilling to fall asleep JUST IN CASE. Unable to be HERE. I was the walking undead. I was alive, but not ALIVE. I had a pulse, but no heart. I’ve always been an aware sort. My therapist says it’s because I feel I am

VORTEX 2022 connected to everything and everyone. We are one, the universe and I. When one moves, we all move. I am aware of any small change in the equilibrium. I am the Golden Ratio personifed. And because everything in my universe has a label so I can place And because it neatly in the card catalog of my life, I named my everything in my anxiety Arlo.

universe has a label so I can place it neatly in the card catalog of my life, I named my anxiety Arlo.

Arlo’s an asshole. Arlo is clever simply because I am clever. Arlo knows all my weaknesses. Arlo celebrates in my uncertainty. Arlo is the third person in my marriage. Arlo and I battle daily. Arlo is my unwanted house guest. When I think I’ve kicked him out a door, he sneaks back in through the foorboards under the sink.

Two months ago, I tried an SSRI for the frst time. My now is less raw. Blistered scabs instead of open wounds. Arlo is alseep, but not gone, a dragon under the mountain, a dragon in my brain. The sensation of being chased by a cheetah on the Serengeti within 30 seconds of being woken up is dissipating. I can breathe again. I can go walking at dusk with my husband without feeling like I’m going to die. Words spill from my fngertips again, like water returned to an unused fountain. I feel human. I feel creative. I feel safe. I feel ALIVE. So I write.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

CAT LADY

Kathy Dwyer | Honorable Mention

“Y

eah, I guess you can have that too,” my little sister said reluctantly. I watched as my friend Dianne reached up to remove the two dusty mid-century cat carvings that hung over the framed copies of my college diplomas. This was the second time in fve years that my sister allowed me into our family’s house in Old Town, Scottsdale to remove some items she threatened to sell on Next Door. I knew that she had inherited the house after our father died, but she did not exactly inherit the contents. As I entered my childhood home, my eye went to the entrance wall decorated with a fourfoot wooden carving of a large cat with three matching kittens. These sculptures brought back memories from over ffty years ago, when I had asked my father about getting a family cat. I was around four or fve years old, and the oldest of three children. We lived on Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, and I was obsessed with drawing animals. I sketched cats, deer, bunnies, bears, and dogs that I saw on television, but never the scary massive water bufalos that hauled two-wheeled carts down the street. When I asked about getting a pet cat, my father didn’t answer me right away. But the next day, he drove his white VW bug to Baggio, a local town outside the base, and bought the four-foot mahogany cat sculpture with three wooden matching kittens. “Well now, you have a cat. With kittens, even,” he said as he placed it on the living room’s woven grass rug. These odd-looking wooden pets traveled around the world with us from the Philippines, to California, to Hawaii, and fnally, Arizona. My dad placed them at the entrance of our Scottsdale home in 1971, and I dusted them carefully as I grew. My father rarely showed direct afection for us kids, so this gesture meant the world to me. Thinking that this was my last chance to remove items reminiscent of my childhood, I decided, for no apparent reason, to ask to take all the cat-related items from the Old Town house. I did not realize the size of our parents’ collection until I started searching room to room. I left with a box flled with cat ashtrays, porcelain sculptures of cats, carved cat plaques, and a very modern early 1960s Swedish teak cat. I went home and placed them all on shelves in my living room overlooking my real cats. This strange cat collection was a mystery to me. I never realized how much my father liked the eccentric, independent, furry creatures. I knew little of his childhood in Chicago. He was the youngest child of six. His own father died when my dad was only fve years old. The only childhood story he shared with me involved him walking home from school while a neighborhood cat would jump from a fence on to his shoulders trying to get into dad’s house. Decades later when my widowed father realized that his health was failing, he decided to look at assisted care living facilities. One place stood out to him, I thought for the quality of living conditions. It had great food, a wide variety of activities, and enjoyable company.

VORTEX 2022 Then I remembered the large, gray tabby cat blocking the elevator while we took a tour. Dad noted how the residents simply walked or wheeled around the cat as not to disturb it. There were two other residential cats and a small white dog named Daisy. One afternoon when I went to visit my father after he’d moved in, I felt reassured and pleasantly surprised. He was in his bed reading his Wall Street Journal, when the large 21-pound gray tabby, Max, pushed open the door, hopped on his bed and plopped on top of Dad’s newspaper. My very orderly, security-conscious father simply scratched Max’s velvet ears and smiled. As I went to leave after our visit, Dad asked, “Could you leave the door open a bit, so Max can come and go as he pleases?” To my relief, my dad was able to get some comfort from Max who seemed to be giving him the emotional support that he was never able to get from his own family. For almost thirty years, my father had served in the United States Air Force as a pilot through World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Tragically in 1971, he was forced to retire to Scottsdale due to a military plane crash (the only time he was not the pilot, he told us) that crushed his left leg. Both of my parents became full-time homemakers, caring for our family of six and living of of my dad’s pension. My father was in constant pain, but he refused to take his medications. He was worried that drugs might control him. Our house was completely dark in sunny Arizona, and we learned to keep quiet so as not to disturb him. He had iron bars installed over all the windows since we were living of base and there were reports of crime. He mounted large “No Trespassing” signs in our front yard. My parents became very paranoid about our relatives and neighbors “getting information,” and we were not allowed to have school friends over. As an adult, I suspect my father may have sufered from undiagnosed and untreated PTSD, with his increasing anxiety, multiple ER visits, and his increasingly difcult behavior. My own relationship with cats began when I was forced to adopt a kitten from my coworker. I fnally had my own apartment in a beautiful pre-war historic building in Manhattan. She had rescued a six-month cat who was pregnant and delivered three little kittens in her kitchen drawer. I read about caring for cats on the internet, just as Howie, a male tabby, was delivered to my apartment lobby in a diaper box with air holes punched out. Early that morning, I left to purchase cat supplies and returned to fnd Howie was the cutest troublemaking, fuzzy furball I ever met. He refused to sleep in his new Ralph Lauren cat bed, instead sleeping on the middle of my back. This wasn’t a problem when Howie was a mere two and half pounds, but as he grew, his eleven pounds became an issue. A year later while visiting the vet’s ofce with Howie, I “accidentally” adopted another rescue cat who I named Bob. Bob kept Howie company during my long hours at work. Howie and Bob moved with me to various apartments in New York City, summered with me in Northern Minnesota, and settled down with me in Arizona after my father passed away. Most mornings, I am awakened at 4:30 am by all twenty pounds of Bob’s long orange hair, purring loudly and pushing me over on my side in my warm bed so that he can cuddle next to me. Howie barely stirs, sleeping quietly on my pillow. I laugh as I consider my two roommates, worried I’ve become a “cat lady.” Then I arch my back so that Bob can take advantage of the warm spot I’ve created for him. As he settles in and releases a contented sigh, I wonder instead, if maybe I just inherited my father’s genes.

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2 HIDDEN SMILES

Ericka Oden | 2nd Place | Graphite

3 TRIO

PAINTING AND DRAWING

Elaine Karcher | 3rd Place | Acrylic

KITCHEN (ME AND MAMA) Xianna Montoya | Honorable Mention | Acrylic

PAINTING AND DRAWING

BETWEEN A ROCK

Joanne Gallery | Honorable Mention | Acrylic

CLOSE UP OF THE DESK

Natalie Hazzard | Honorable Mention | Watercolor and Acrylic

©®® ©0® ®@ '1 -

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VORTEX 2022

THE NATIONAL LEAGUE OF AMERICAN PEN WOMEN Scottsdale Community College’s Creative Writing program gratefully acknowledges our continuing relationship, frst established by SCC Professor Sandra Desjardins in 2013, with the Scottsdale Branch of The National League of American Pen Women. This vital and vibrant organization holds dear their mission, “to encourage, recognize, and promote the production of creative work of professional standard in art, letters, and music, and through outreach activities provide educational, creative, and professional support to members and non-members in the disciplines. The core values of the NLAPW are respect, knowledge, creation, and preservation of the arts.” For the past several years, the Scottsdale chapter of NLAPW has selected one Vortex First Place winner in letters, art, or music to receive a generous cash prize designed to encourage student writers, artists, and musicians to keep creating and honing their craft.

2022 AWARD This year the Scottsdale Branch of NLAPW presents the 2022 Vortex Award in the Category of Letters to Kristina Morgan for her First Place Short Story, “Pink Cadillac.” Congratulations, Kristina!

1 PINK CADILLAC

SHORT STORY

Kristina Morgan | 1st Place

shared a room in the psychiatric hospital with Bethany. Bethany is bipolar. In a manic state, her speech is so fast that it barely makes sense. Most of what she says is gibberish. However, she managed to alert the staf to the fact that she was afraid of me. She told them my stare was mean and that I called her stupid because she couldn’t talk properly. Neither of these things was true. Well, maybe the stare was. It drove me batshit crazy how she wore her t-shirts inside out, tags showing, and put her underwear on over her cotton slacks. “Annie Cobalt,” the nurse said to me. “We’re moving you out of Bethany’s room and into Gladys’s room because everyone else is afraid of you. Gladys is fearless and not one to push around.” The patients were afraid of me: afraid I would turn my stare on them, sling profanities, spit on them when lockdown became too hard. I have schizophrenia, and when I was sick with psychosis, I was hard to be around. I barely The patients were noticed the other patients put as much afraid of me: afraid distance between me and them as they I would turn my could when walking in the hall. They also never looked me in the eyes but would bow stare on them, sling their heads as if in reverence; at least that profanities, spit on is what I liked to tell myself, reverence them when lockdown instead of fear.

became too hard. It is true: my illness had left me unkind. Once, I took a swing at Penelope when she came too close to me. Fortunately, I just punched air. When I wasn’t sick, I thought of others often before myself. Did my friend with a cold need groceries? Did a friend with a broken arm need help washing her hair? I would genuinely want to know how they were and if there was anything they needed from me. I was good at making good. Sick, I was consumed with myself. My emotional pain left me hanging from a tree of doubt. I felt that I could not move on in life. I couldn’t be bothered by interactions with others. I didn’t think I could ever wave hi or have a small conversation about food. Psychosis was worse than just being antisocial. When psychotic, I was locked inside a hard shell of plaster. Nothing could touch me, and I could touch nothing. It was a stalemate of reasonable thought. I knew I couldn’t move into sound judgment anytime soon. I tried to spread my wings, only to fnd there were none attached. I would crumple to the foor sobbing, saying that if I couldn’t be a bird I would die. I begged someone to please kick me senseless. Living with schizophrenia is like slathering toast with hot sauce; I am bland and then fre is added to me, igniting me in my hard 39

VORTEX 2022 shell of plaster. “Move the broad from my room immediately!” Gladys stormed into the hall, leaving me alone in the room we had shared for one night. Her words to the psych technicians were deadened by the glass partition separating us from staf. The staf couldn’t hear the power in her voice. She raged, her face contorted in a frightening way like a mad clown, red lips in a straight line, eyes wide open, almost bulging out of her face. She ran her fngers through her hair as if she was going to pull strands out. I thought to myself, I am no broad, I am just eighteen. I did tell Gladys to choke on her snoring, in the middle of the night, wishing she would so I could sleep before morning swept the dust from the foor and the nurse shouted for us to come swallow medication. Gladys was thin and frail, swimming in a housecoat the color of salmon with a voice as large as the Liberty Bell on a clear morning of quiet birds. She sang a cappella at all meals. I didn’t recognize the songs, but they were beautiful. Often, they were about pretty women who are scorned by their lover for not behaving like a lady. She wore lace socks that frothed over her white slippers and gloves that ran all the way up her arms to her elbows. She used her red lipstick to brighten her lips and also to lengthen her brows in perfect arcs above each eye. Day two of living with Gladys was no better. Gladys told the psych tech that I told her to fuck of. The word “fuck” splintered in her mouth. It didn’t ft her the way it ft the vocabulary of my punk self. And I had told her that. She got it into her mind that I smelled like shit and started draping toilet paper over me where I lay in bed. What the hell. I kicked her and told her to fuck of.

We stayed to scream at each other long enough to become friends.

They didn’t move me from the room. We stayed to scream at each other long enough to become friends. We were in our bedroom both leaning against the wall, our pillows behind us. “So, kid, I like your grufness,” said Gladys. “And I like the fact that no one is like you.”

We were lucky. It took only a week for us to fgure out we liked each other. I loved her authenticity. She loved my fghting spirit. I would joke with her and call her sleazebag. She would come back at me with “ho bag.” I learned to tolerate her snoring, and she slipped me her elephant pills. I swam in my bedsheets, my feet tangled in sand. I was the only one able to stand up to Gladys, and she was the only one able to stand up to me. She would thrust her tiny self at me as if to embrace me in a tight hug, only to slap at my stomach, saying I was too skinny and needed to be fattened up. I would say, “What? Like Gretel? You need me fat so you can eat me?”

SHORT STORY I told her she was the only one who looked beautiful with red eyebrows. She would tell me she learned it from her mother. I asked if she was close to her mother. She said, “Not a chance.” I didn’t push her for any more than this. All I knew was Gladys’s mother was dead and that Gladys liked to speak to her ghost. The staf thought she was just talking to herself, but I knew diferent. Gladys told me her mom spied on her, wanting to make certain she wasn’t being mean to the neighbors. We ate separate from the rest of the patients and picked at the food on each other’s plates. She always went for my fsh and me, her beef. I once freaked out because there was a worm in my salad. She said I should be glad that the whole worm was there because, “Wouldn’t it be terrible to fnd half a worm?” Eventually, the staf caught on to the fact that Gladys was feeding me her pills. It took them a couple of days to recognize I acted as if I were stoned. I would sit in the middle of the room on the foor cackling. I stumbled when I walked. I drooled and couldn’t put a full sentence together. They asked me why I acted fucked up (fucked was my word). I told them I was taking Gladys’s pills. I immediately regretted that. From then on, Gladys was forced to tip her head down, stick out her tongue, shake it so the nurse could be certain she swallowed it all. At Christmas, we strung the tree with popcorn and construction paper cutouts. The scissors were annoying because they were children’s scissors; not sharp at all and barely able to cut. One morning, Gladys got caught eating popcorn from the tree with an empty strand of string in her hand. I asked my grandmother to please make popcorn balls for Gladys as a Christmas gift. She did and wrapped them in red cellophane. I placed them under the Christmas tree. Two days later, they were still under the tree. I asked Gladys why she had left her Christmas gift untouched. She said it was because she couldn’t chew apples with her gums. I laughed and told her they were popcorn balls not apples. She was delighted. Gladys told me that one day her son would pull up to our window in her pink Cadillac. She said she would drive away with her song. I couldn’t imagine it. “I didn’t know a Cadillac could be pink.” “Yes. A big boat of pink. It was the only one on the lot.” “I think of you more as being a bus rider rather than a car driver.” “What? You think this old biddie can’t steer? Push on the gas pedal and go?” “Do you even have a license?” I asked. “Of course I have a license. I would show you if my wallet wasn’t locked up.” “I can’t imagine you driving away.” “What, you think I’m never going to leave this place? That I’ll always sleep with a plastic pillow and eat overcooked broccoli?”

VORTEX 2022 “No. But—” “But I’m certifably crazy?” “Maybe. But—” “But what, Annie? It is possible to drive away. And I will do that in style with my pink Cadillac.” I didn’t believe her. I didn’t believe this small, tiny, frail woman doped up on pills and in and out of hospitals because of schizophrenia since she was sixteen could possibly drive. I also didn’t believe there was a pink Cadillac. Cadillacs were either red or black. I also didn’t believe

there was a pink Cadillac. Cadillacs were either red or black.

Time hung itself in the ward as the calendar moved on. Gladys sang. The rest of us paced up and down the hall. We ate three meals a day with Lorna Doone cookies for snacks. I would hoard the Lorna Doones so I could eat many all at once, making myself full. I liked feeling full. The weight of it helped keep me tied to the ground. Full, I was somber and still. Empty, I ran circles around Gladys. I was the only one who ran in circles. One patient would bang his head against the wall, throw a fst into a door, jump from chair to chair, and burst out laughing. Another patient would lie in the middle of the foor stretched out like a snow angel. She was an obstacle to walk around. I don’t know why she believed no one would step on her. The two phones on the wall rarely rang. I wondered if people outside simply forgot about us. I imagined everybody had a plan to steal my soul and my ability to think; my loved ones included. For a while I thought telephones sent rays of electricity through my ears and into my brain. Eventually, after being on meds for a while, I considered using the phone. I didn’t realize for a long time that it was up to me to make phone calls to the outside world. I thought I had been forgotten. The staf encouraged me to call someone. “Why not your grandmother? She visits you after all.” So I did. Using the phone was magical. I was connected to someone. And my grandmother said I love you before hanging up. Her words lit me up. Time read like a single storyboard, the frames never wavering in their ink. I was glad to write Gladys out of the story of mentally ill people in the hospital. I imagined her in Target shopping for purple items and socks. Writing was something I did to soothe myself and to rocket myself safely out of the reality I was in. Unlike swallowing a glassful of pills hoping I would die, I could write, I want to die but today is not the day. I tried pills in the past, but they make me very sick, changing my reality immediately. My body spasms over and over again. My mind feels poisoned. There is an odd metallic taste in my mouth. Someone fnds me and takes me

SHORT STORY to the emergency room where my stomach is pumped. It is painful to have a tube shoved down my nose, making its way to my stomach. I write this and feel no physical pain. I write, now I am alive. I sit at the table in the corner of the hall and write Gladys and myself out of the hospital. We move from the store to a bench in the middle of the park. There is always a little dog. Being a patient in a psychiatric hospital is hard. The days wrap around each other while ofering little. There is no puppy to welcome me. There is no garden in which to watch my tulips bloom. I am stuck sleeping with a plastic pillow and begging for just a little bit more dental foss. They shine a fashlight across my bed every half an hour as I sleep because I was suicidal and because they want to make certain I’m not doing anything with my sheets in order to hang myself. Being suicidal is a constant I live by. I am terrible at dying. I’ve attempted to kill myself thirteen times. Once, I tried to cut my wrist and then every other time it was with pills. I fnd the world to be an odd place, a place that I have trouble showing up in. Most people appear to be happy. I am not. I’ve even seen homeless people who are full of smiles. I can’t imagine how hard life is for them. On a hot day with the air conditioner working overtime, Gladys’s son, Bob, comes to get her. Despite the heat, he wears a tan jacket and black slacks. His blue, button-down shirt is tucked neatly into his pants. He has short, black hair, a small nose like Gladys’s, and stands over six feet tall. I know this because he is taller than me, and I am six feet tall. “I can’t believe you’re going, Gladys.” I have tears in my eyes that are sliding down my face, dangling at my chin. I swipe them with my sleeve. “You’ll be all right, kid. We all have to get healthy sometime.” “I want to get healthy and go with you. Please Gladys.” I don’t know why I’m saying this. I don’t want to go with her. I have my grandmother. What I said is just my way of telling her I will miss her. “Do you want to see my car? Come look out the bedroom window.” I do. A pink Cadillac is sitting proudly in the parking lot. “Oh my god. It’s for real!” I squish my nose to the glass wanting to reach out and touch it with my hands. “You didn’t believe me?” “I didn’t believe most of your stories.” “Ah. Well, there you have it.” She picks up her small pink suitcase. Bob picks up the larger one. The nurse comes out from behind the partition with Gladys’s After Plan, covering a single piece of yellow paper. “Be well, Gladys,” she says. Gladys turns away from her. Gladys has never liked her. She is the one who made Gladys

VORTEX 2022 wag her tongue. Gladys says goodbye to me as the glass door clicks open. Freedom. She is no longer restrained behind a locked glass door. I return to the window in our room. I am astounded when Gladys gets behind the steering wheel. She will steer her way out. I don’t think I would trust Gladys to pull away. But she backs out and does just that, drives in a straight line through cars sitting silently in the parking lot. Gladys got well. I watched it happen. She went from imagining a sniper was going to kill her to feeling safe. The CIA was no longer interested in her, and a rattler was no longer going to slither its way out from under her bed. She didn’t have complicated conversations with invisible people, some telling her to blind herself. My grandmother not only came to visit me, but she had been the one to drop me of here. I didn’t have a snake under my bed; I had an ogre in the closet. I wanted to die but I didn’t want to be eaten. My grandmother had found me in a hot bath with a lamp plugged into the wall sitting on the edge of the tub and a long-serrated knife in my hand. She had also watched me cower behind the couch attempting to hide from people she couldn’t see. I whispered softly to the dog I didn’t have. I cried because I knew my grandmother was not going to wake up; here she was, stepping out into another day. I loved living with my grandmother, but I didn’t think she was always safe being around me. Monsters hunted me and would kill anyone who got in their way. I have been in the hospital for a month now. The monsters have dissolved, and the ogre has disappeared. My grandmother will pick me up today in a Honda. We will have a quiet dinner and watch Jeopardy together. Tomorrow we will go grocery shopping. I will be able to choose my own cereal. I plan to sign up for a writing class at the community college. My story will be simple. I will turn it into poetry. Other than walk Gracie, the Shih Tzu my grandmother bought me upon my release from the hospital, I can’t think of a better way to spend my time. Time is miraculous to me. I walk into minutes of the day and look forward to the changing hours.

2 GOOD BONES

SHORT STORY

David Hofmeister | 2nd Place

“A

s you can see, she’s got great bones.”

No matter how hard Pim grinned, Raz could not help but feel like he was being sneered at by the realtor. His pale skin was as oily as his hair. Worse yet, he possessed a rather annoying, habitual need to stroke the overgrown scruf sprouting from his chin. More of-putting than his sales tactics, though, was his invasiveness. He was like an oldschool Ringmaster scanning the crowd for rubes to feece, spewing any oratory vomit necessary to line his pockets. Raz had never been subjected to a colonoscopy, but he imagined it was a lot like listening to Pim’s sales pitch. Pim was a slippery little shit like all his caste were, and Raz had no intention of getting conned by the pudgy bastard. “This place defnitely has a lot of potential,” Nilly added. She continued her inspection, no doubt envisioning the various knickknacks which would accompany the inevitable remodel. She cracked her patented, crooked smile. The same one which had melted Raz’s heart the frst time he saw her, all those years ago. Raz knew he was in trouble. “Like I said—good bones,” Pim reiterated, a subtle note of smarminess present in his voice. “And I love the color of the place. We won’t even have to repaint. Just a light touchup.” “Yeah, it’s great. Not exactly sold on the price, though...” Raz was feigning his dissatisfaction, though. Truthfully, the place was a bit of a steal. Market value in the area being what it was, when all was said and done, they could end up making out like bandits if they ever decided to sell one day. Still, best to be pokerfaced in these situations. “Well, what if I were to knock two percent of my commission?” “Five sounds a lot better.” “Five. Are you fuckin’ serious, right now?” Pim’s beady black eyes narrowed with disdain. “Who do you think you’re dealing with here? Fuckin’ fve. I should fay you for trying to pull that bullshit with me.” “Don’t come at me with that,” Raz fred back. “You’re not nearly high enough in the hierarchy to be hurling insults at me.” Raz ground his granite fsts together, prepping for a fght. “Okay, okay. Calm down, already. No need to get your panties in a bunch.” “What was that?!”

VORTEX 2022 “Baby,” Nilly interrupted. “Breathe.” Realizing his mistake, Pim began walking his comments back a bit: “Look, I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, alright? Wasn’t my intention. But,” he said, licking his slimy lips with his forked tongue, “here’s what I can do. How about I go ahead and knock of three percent for you, yeah? Best I can do.” An ambiguous expression crossed Raz’s face. Whether he was coming around to the ofer or conveying his general disgust for Pim was anyone’s guess. “Alright, then. You’ve got a deal,” Raz said, extending one of his enormous hands. Pim followed suit, meeting Raz’s hand with his clawed hand. He grimaced in pain at the raw power behind his client’s handshake. “Damn. You Nephilim really got a grip on you, don’t ya?” Pim said, fashing two rows of needle-pointed teeth. “Yeah, I guess so. Tell you what, though — it pales in comparison to an imp’s silver tongue.” The pair shared a brief laugh. “So, where’d you fnd the place?” Nilly asked. “Saoirse? Oh, she was out jogging late one night,” he answered, waving a cool hand towards the young Irish woman bound naked Ancient runes carved to the wooden table. Ancient runes carved into the oak burned with orange hellfre.

into the oak burned with orange hellfre.

“Humans are so frail. It’s almost not worth bothering to possess them,” Raz said.

“Actually, Saoirse put up quite a fght. As you can see from her muscle tone, she’s much more capable than your average beer-gutted American. Trained in jiu-jitsu, too. Took forever to subdue her.” “Seriously?” “Carved right into her muscle memory. It’s a brave new world, my friend,” Pim answered. “Still, once I cast the curse, she went out like a light.” “When can we move in?” Nilly asked. “Well, it depends on how long it takes to harvest her soul. These younger models can be tricky. So, I’d say you can take possession in about, oh, two weeks, if that works for you?” “Sounds good. Just give us a call when she’s all cleared out.” “No problem,” Pim said, reaching out to shake their hands a fnal time. “And thanks again for choosing Hellbound Homes for your relocation services.”

3 REMNANTS

SHORT STORY

Katy Schultz | 3rd Place

y Dairy Queen uniform, now a size too small, clung to my belly. A crease cut into the soft fesh where the waistband of my pants was too tight. I pulled the hem of my shirt, but the cheap polyester clung, damp with sweat. I was tired, my feet hurt, and I just wanted my bus to arrive so this day could end. I took a sip of Diet Coke and set the cup next to the bag containing my cheeseburger and fries. I was sick of cheeseburgers, but they were free, and it was not like Gram was going to make me dinner. It had taken all summer, but I’d almost saved the thousand dollars that I needed for frst and last month’s rent on an apartment in Portland that would get me out of Newport. Once there, I’d get a better job and start saving for college. A family of tourists carrying chairs, sand toys, and a squawking toddler walked between me and the street toward the sea wall. The father wore a loud Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned, his pale belly protruding over the top of his khaki cargo shorts. A teenager wearing cutof jeans and a black Metallica t-shirt walked behind them. “I don’t want to go to the beach. It’s so boring,” he complained, not looking up from his phone. The bus appeared around the corner, just as I saw my mother, walking on the street between parked cars and the slow-moving trafc. I watched as Destiny slowly shufed closer, speaking to someone that no one else could see, gesturing with her hands in what looked like an involved conversation. As she stepped between two parked cars and onto the sidewalk, the man in the Hawaiian shirt put a protective arm around his wife and moved to the side, giving my mother a wide berth. Destiny stepped toward me to avoid the oblivious teenager, who still hadn’t looked up from his phone. I pressed my back to the bus stop, but with nowhere to go, we froze and stared at each other for a long moment. Pain and abandonment echoed in the space between us. The bus’s air brakes drew my attention, and I thrust my bag of food into her arms as I stepped past her and onto the bus. I stared straight ahead and refused to cry as the bus slowly made its way down Main Street. I hated her. I hated that my crazy mother lived here and that I was trapped here, our lives still entwined. I hated that everyone gave up on Destiny. Gram and Aunt Linda had quit trying to help her. They had given up on their own daughter and sister, and barely tolerated me. Destiny had escaped this town when she was eighteen, but returned pregnant with me at twenty. She left me with Gram before I was a year old, but selfessly bestowed two virtues: a fear that I would inherit her schizophrenia, and her frst name. I didn’t want either. The size of Newport all but guaranteed everyone knew of the crazy lady named Destiny. When I was in second grade, Todd Jenkins, who was in the 5th grade, made the connection and told everyone at school that she was my mother. They were cruel in ways that only kids could be. They pulled on my braid and teased me until I cried. I don’t know when the mental illness took hold of her. I want to believe that she didn’t

VORTEX 2022 know what she was doing when she named me Destiny. What kind of mother names her daughter after herself? It was normal for a man to name his after himself, but Destiny wasn’t normal. Perhaps Perhaps she thought son she thought that I’d be a do-over; a second, unbroken that I’d be a do-over; version of her.

a second, unbroken version of her.

I stepped of the bus just as the sun was setting. By the time I reached our apartment, the sky had turned shades of pinks and yellows. Light from the lone window cast a soft glow over the combined living and dining areas. As I shut the door, the Pomeranians, Aunt Linda’s evil beasts, didn’t assault me with their usual yapping. Instead, they growled at me from each end of the couch where they guarded greasy bones, leaving dark stains on the cushions. I walked around them and into the kitchen. From the dishes left on the stove, it looked like Gram had fried pork chops and potatoes. I looked in the fridge, hopeful that she’d left a plate for me. Disappointed but not surprised, I closed the refrigerator door and straightened the driftwood and sea glass magnet. I grabbed a packet of ramen from the cabinet and passed the snarling Pomeranians. I snarled back. “Don’t growl at them. They didn’t do anything to you,” Aunt Linda said, standing at her bedroom door. It was only 7:00 pm, and she was already wearing her lavender housecoat. It hung open over a dingy t-shirt. I could smell the wine on her breath. “That’s your dinner?” she asked, motioning toward the ramen package. “Don’t you get free food at work?” “I gave it to Destiny. I saw her today. She looked hungry.” She hadn’t really looked hungry, but I wanted Aunt Linda to feel bad. “You are an idiot,” she responded. “She doesn’t care about you. She doesn’t care about anyone. You’d be better of if you just accepted that.” I turned to argue, but her door clicked shut before I could. I climbed the stairs to my loft and sat on my bed. It was just a futon cushion set on the foor. I pushed my back against the half wall that separated the loft from the living room and ate the ramen raw. I sprinkled it with the favor packet and listened to the Pomeranians gnaw on their pork chop bones, licking the fatty marrow from inside. If I were lucky, Gram and Aunt Linda would stay in their rooms and not return to the kitchen to look for more wine. On more than one occasion, they had screamed up at me in the loft, accusing me of stealing it. On more than one occasion, their accusations were correct. It was a week before I saw Destiny again. She wore her blue fannel and the darker of the two pairs of jeans that she owned. She was set up at the park’s

SHORT STORY edge, facing the sidewalk. My mother survived by selling trinkets to tourists; pieces of driftwood, shells, and junk that she held together with wire to look like fsh and sea stars. She scavenged discarded items from the beach where tourists had illegal bonfres in front of their overpriced rentals. She collected what was left after the fre was put out, and the ash blew away. Remnants were all that were ever left after the tourists had gone. Items that no longer belonged to the tourists, but instead to the beach. They lingered, left behind in this in-between, much like the broken, the homeless, and the crazy; no longer belonging to the past, yet having no They lingered, left real place in the future. Destiny gave the discarded behind in this inobjects a purpose. She was the collector and creator. In her hands, the objects reappeared, not as worthless between, much like junk, but as part of something with a future. Destiny was a spectacle. She was also invisible. As with most homeless, people didn’t want to see her. I watched as several tourists walked past her until fnally, a woman stopped to look at her crafts. I craned my neck as my bus passed, and the woman opened her wallet and handed Destiny a bill. That night, I ate my cheeseburger and fries for dinner.

the broken, the homeless, and the crazy; no longer belonging to the past, yet having no real place in the future.

The weather fnally turned, and a thick blanket of fog sheathed the coastline in gloom. I was downtown, loitering on Main Street to avoid going home. Destiny sat on a bench across the street. Nearby, Todd Jenkins stood on the sidewalk outside his parent’s shop, talking to a police ofcer. Destiny was carefully placing her trinkets into a box, nervously watching the two men. Todd pushed his chest out and put his hand on his hips. “She can’t sell her shit here,” he said to the police ofcer. “And that is why I told her to move on,” the policeman replied. “She is just going to come back tomorrow.” As Todd got louder and angrier, Destiny became more agitated, rocking forward and back, shaking her hands, and then clenching them into fsts before calming to place another piece in the box. The policeman shifted from one foot to the other. He looked at his watch, impatient and tired of waiting. The policeman dropped to one knee and tossed several pieces of her wares into the bin. Destiny reached for them, covering the remaining pieces with her arms. The policeman finched, lost his balance, and fell back, landing hard on the curb. The policeman fumbled for his mace, and I dodged two cars as I ran across the road, placing myself between my mother and the policeman. “It’s okay,” I said, a bit too forcefully. I knelt between the policeman and Destiny and placed my hand on her arm.

VORTEX 2022 My mother recoiled and stared at me for a beat, then lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut, giving us both a moment to accept that my touch had made her cringe. “It’s okay,” I said again, but this time to her. “Mom, we have to go now.” She looked between the policeman and me as Todd helped the policeman stand. Destiny nodded and let me place the rest of her treasures in the box. I picked it up, but she pulled it from my hands. I followed her to her storage unit. I knew she lived there, alone in the dark, damp, and cold space. I knew because I’d watched her come and go. Someone had to. I wanted to ask her why she didn’t try to get better, but we both remained silent. Destiny unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her. The idea of eating another cheeseburger and fries made me sick, but so did the thought of ramen for dinner again. The #4 bus was early. I watched it drive away as I climbed down from the intercity transit connection a block away. It would be another hour before it came back around. I looked down the street toward Destiny’s storage unit and wondered if she was in there. It had been six days since I had seen her. I watched from the corner, where I could see the rental ofce and the bathrooms. The door to her storage unit was propped open, but there was no sign of her. After ten minutes, I walked closer and pulled down a red “Notice of Eviction” taped to the door. I peeked inside. I was curious how Destiny lived and wanted to know why she chose this life over life with me. Cushions laid along one wall, and mismatched boxes lined another; pieces of plastic, rocks, shells, and sea glass were visible in each, all sorted by color. One box held white handles from discarded buckets children used to make sandcastles. Deeper in the space were several large sculptures, standing three to four feet tall. They held bits of metal, rounded pieces of sea glass, and plastic, some recognizable and some beaten by the surf for so long that they had lost their identity. Found objects scavenged and reimagined, becoming something new: a dog, sitting and waiting, looking up as if toward its master, and a large bird, a raptor with a sharp beak and ferce talons, wings open as if about to take fight. My heart raced as I stepped further into the space and approached the largest sculpture. It was a child, a girl with a braid woven from rope and dried seaweed. Her skirts were made from layers of gauzy fshing line that almost appeared soft, and eyes that were fxed, looking down, made of lucent sea glass that was both the color and sadness that my mother and I shared. I let the bag of food drop from my hand and shoved the sculpture until it fell over. Pieces shattered and few into the far corners of the unit. How dare she? This child had no say; it didn’t ask to be made. Destiny lovingly pieced this girl together, creating something beautiful and worthy. How could she create this girl and abandon me? Only remnants of the sculpture remained—illusions of what should have been. My vision blurred with tears as I stepped back into the boxes along the wall knocking one over—shells spread across the foor. I dumped each of the boxes, kicking through the broken plastic and splintered driftwood, scattering them throughout the space. My

SHORT SECTION STORY breath was ragged as I stepped toward the dog and the bird and smashed them both to the foor. As I stood, gasping in the middle of the mess, guilt crept over my skin and settled in my chest. All this junk, cast of and dismissed by others, Destiny—my mom—lovingly reworked it into beautiful pieces of art, precious and unique. Why couldn’t she have shaped me, too? Why did she choose to save other people’s junk when she couldn’t even save her own? In the silence of the storage unit, I looked at how she was living. Her bed was a few thin threadbare cushions, covered with a worn sleeping bag. Makeshift shelves supported concrete blocks and held a pan and hot plate. The only food was a box of cereal and a few packets of ramen. We were more alike than diferent. Everyone had abandoned her, just as she abandoned me. But we were entwined in this life, bound together, and no one else was going to help her. With the eviction notice still clutched in my hand, I wiped at my cheeks and walked to the rental ofce. I slapped the eviction notice down. “Why is 34F getting evicted?” I asked. The man behind the desk looked wearily from the crumpled notice to me. “Destiny? She owes three months back rent.” He shufed a few papers and added, “With late fees, she owes me $785.” My heart sank. I pulled my debit card from my back pocket. “I’ll pay it.” As I waited on the bench for the #4 bus, I realized I had left my cheeseburger in my mom’s storage unit and would have to eat ramen for dinner again. I lowered my head into my hands. I was tired, my feet hurt, and I just wanted this day to end, and I wanted a mother to make me dinner and tell me I could go to college. I stood and followed the tourists’ path over the sea wall. I listened to the incessant cawing of gulls screaming from the sky, overlooking the town and the rugged edge of the shoreline. A remnant of a recent bonfre, a piece of driftwood, rolled in the surf, crashing in, and rolling back out, incapable of directing its destiny. The waves were unrelenting, yet constantly shaping a new identity. One of many discarded remnants tumbled by the sea, perhaps reforming as part of undiscovered treasure.

WHEN DEATH MOVED IN Ariane Lee | Honorable Mention

eath wasn’t what I expected. First of all, there were no robes, no scythe, no skeletal hands reaching for me through back-lit fog. No eerie soundtrack, no scratchy voice whispering my name in the dark. Not a whif of the supernatural, even. In fact, Death was exactly opposite of skeletal and supernatural. With patient eyes, the giant black woman in front of me waited. The loose, foral dress she wore reminded me of my late grandmother’s wallpaper, all pink peonies and red cabbage roses. It hung to her knees, and her odd, dainty feet were slipped into a pair of what looked like cheap Old Navy fip fops. Neon-yellow, plastic hoop earrings hung from in between her mass of perfect braids. Everything about her was bright and very undeathlike. She smelled like freshly baked cookies. She’d just told me she was Death, and here I was staring like an idiot. She didn’t seem to mind, nor be in anything close to a hurry. I cleared my throat, too loud. “Death, huh?” I’m not known for witty repartee on the best of days, much less when chatting with Death. “Mhmm.” Her face was wide like the rest of her, with deep crow’s feet that showed as she smiled at me. “What do you want with me?” Wow. Clever. I sounded like a bad superhero movie. Maybe I should have deepened my voice like a Superman villain. “Isn’t that obvious, child?” The bemused look on her face continued and I wondered how many times she’d had this exact conversation. “So, you’re here to kill me?” “I don’t kill anybody, child. It’s simple circumstance that kills people. I’m just here to make sure it’s easy as possible once you’ve gone on from this world.” “When am I going to die? Soon?” “I don’t have the faintest.” She blinked a few times, clearly waiting for the next question. “Are you just going to hang around until then?” “More than likely,” she said. And that’s how I got Death as a roommate. Chronic anxiety is a really strange thing. Some moments you spend wondering what’s going to harm you immediately, and the next, you’re fying high with the wind at your back. And by wind at your back, I mean you are able to get out of bed in the morning without feeling like you’re being hunted on the Serengeti within 30 seconds of the covers being thrown back. You try your best to press forward and toward progress, but you’re always, always aware that “the big bad” will happen eventually. It’s guaranteed to

SHORT STORY happen. Probably soon. In fact, you’re certain that it might even be today. I spent literal years wondering about death, and here she was right in front of me, sipping on a Coke. I decided I couldn’t just keep calling her Death if she was going to be here for who knows how long. Granted, my goth friend, Michelle, would have loved it as much as she loves black mascara, but not all my friends were as tolerant of the things in this world that aren’t quite normal. “So what should I call you? I can’t just walk around calling you Death all the time.” “Well, child, what name do you like best for me?” I thought for a moment, faces and names sweeping through my mind. It fnally settled on the aging secretary from my elementary school. Her wide hips were like a boulder in a stream while us kids split and swarmed around her every day. “What about Violet?” “I like Violet just fne.” And that’s how Death became Violet. Violet stared into the tarantula tank, her braids hanging so close they touched the glass. A carefully manicured fngernail reached out and tapped the glass. Once. Twice. “It’s a tarantula,” I said, looking over her broad shoulder. “I know that, child. I know a spider when I see one. I think it’s dead.” “Don’t you know if it’s dead or not? It’s kinda your job.” “Oh, no it’s not. She’s the one that takes care of the animals and plants, not me.” “She?” “Mother Nature, child. She takes care of almost all the living creatures on Earth. When humans got around to trying to extend their life by any means necessary, she handed it of to me. Then religion only made things more complicated. She prefers things nice and simple.” “Simple, like, I don’t know...wiping whole islands of the map with a tsunami?” I quipped. “Sometimes she just doesn’t know her own power. It’s like when she plays Minecraft and uses too much TNT. One block blows a nice little hole in the ground, but 300 of them is overkill.” And that’s how I found out that Mother Nature plays Minecraft. We settled into a routine. Violet was always up before me. I’m really not sure she even slept, considering she was always awake in the middle of the night when the fears drove me to double-check the locks on the back door one more time, for the third time. When I had a hard time getting out of bed the next day, somehow, she always knew. She’d try being quiet but the sound of a hot, sizzling cast iron pan being banged on the stove is hard to ignore. Soon the smell of bacon or eggs or wafes would waft through to the

VORTEX 2022 bedroom, and I’d drag myself after it bleary eyed and crusty lipped. The day after I bought a new cofee pot (mine had been broken for years at this point), it had been a rough night and an equally rough morning. I didn’t sleep much and when I did, my dreams were laced with fears even I didn’t have the right words to describe to anyone. I would wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, breathing like a winded racehorse only to fall back asleep and wake up again an hour later in the same state. I’d fnally made it to the kitchen from the bedroom foor, and Violet handed me my favorite mug. I sat at the wobbly table face-down in the steaming cup. The warmth of the ceramic made me feel a little more alive, and I rubbed my fngers over the etched words on the outside, stimming my way back to reality. When I could put words together coherently, I thanked her. “Oh, my...god…this smells so good. Perfect for today. How did you learn to make cofee like this?” “Child, I’ve been drinking cofee since before you people were walking upright.” One moment Violet was as wise as the oldest tree, the next she was a kid who’d just seen its frst butterfy. I didn’t have many One moment Violet friends or family and Violet became all of that to me. We were sort of inseparable. I just naturally grew to was as wise as the love Violet’s company. She was THE constant presence oldest tree, the next in my life, dragging me into the cold for the frst she was a kid who’d snowfall of the year to stick out our tongues to catch snowfakes, or out to see my friends when I would have just seen its frst rather stayed home catatonic on the couch in front of butterfy. the 3rd season of BBC’s Sherlock on Netfix. Some days she’d disappear for a few hours, but she always left a note. DON’T FRET, BE BACK SOON, CHILD It was nice having someone worry over whether I was going to worry or not. And she knew by now, that I always leaned towards worry when I had a choice. Violet never called me by my name, only “child.” Sometimes I tried to get her to tell me more about what she did and who or what she was, but I never got very far with it before she cut me of. A few glasses of wine (or if I’m to be honest, Mt Dew) and I’d be of to the races, rapid-fring questions at her like a strung-out attorney. “Okay, so people die all the time, all over the world, right? You’d have to be everywhere all at once. Ghana to Brazil to Algeria to Alabama and back again. Not everyone dies at the same time of the day, so you’re busy 24/7/365 every year, for all the years, right?” Violet just looked at me with those large placid eyes and waited for me to

SHORT STORY continue. Once I was on a roll with the questions, I found it hard to stop. “So, I have a theory.” I was a little smug and a little tongue in cheek, but I did really have a theory. “Do go on,” she said, sipping on the large glass of extra sweet tea that seemed to materialize next to her on the couch side table whenever I got in this mood. “Well, after a lot of thought, I came to only one conclusion, the only thing that makes sense… I think you’re related to Santa Claus. No, ugghh, stop laughing, hear me out! You both can travel all over the world in a single day, bending time and space or whatever it is you do. Some sort of quantum physics stuf, I guess. Who else can do that? Nobody I can think of. Well, I mean God, but if he was doing your job and Santa’s job, where would that leave you two? Bored, I think. So, what ARE you, really, if you’re not Santa’s second cousin?” “I am what I am, same as you.” And she would say no more. The days turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into years. I glacially stopped looking for doom around every corner, convinced that every car ride, noise in the night or persistent cough was my last. The nightmares grew less and less. I even had happy dreams now and then. I went out more with my friends, even calling them frst to make plans instead of waiting for them to call me. Violet rarely went with us, mostly she just shoo’ed me out of the house so she could bake cookies. I’d open the door to a warm house and a plate on the counter stacked with snickerdoodles. For the frst time since I was a kid, I felt safe and warm and whole. I felt real. I guess you could say Death taught me how to live again. The end came when I didn’t expect it, in a way my anxiety never could have guessed. As she held my broken head to her chest, Violet rocked and sang me a lullaby. Everything grew really bright and loud, but as it faded, I heard her above the whooshing sound in my head. “Don’t worry, my dear Wren. I’ll be right there when you get where you’re going.”

SUGAR COOKIES

Steven Herrera | Honorable Mention

he small kitchen is clean, the appliances are simple, and the counters are worn. A little girl with blonde pig tails sits on a pillow at a small, round dining room table for four, quietly humming a tune of her own making. Her feet gently swing back and forth. Her head down, a pencil in her delicate left hand, her bright blue eyes focus on her work, and her tongue pokes out to one side when making S’s and M’s. They are the hardest for her and take extra attention. The oven is hot and flls the air with the wonderful aroma of sugar cookies. Her mother, tall and slender, arms folded, watches her daughter with adoration as she waits for the next batch to fnish. Then she asks, “Rosie, what are you writing?” Rosie looks up with a toothless grin of an eight-year-old and answers, “I am writing a letter to Grand Ma Ma. My teacher says if you really love someone or have something important to say, a letter is the best way because they are forever.” Her mom replies, “You have been writing a lot of letters lately.” Head back down, Rosie explains, “Momma, that’s because I have a lot of people to love, and I like doing it, except for S’s and M’s. They are the hardest. When will the cookies be done? They smell so good?” Her mother says in a motherly tone, “You know the rules. They’re not done until the last batch is out of the oven. One more to go.” With a sigh, Rosie thinks: They smell so good. It is hard to wait. What a dumb rule. Then she replies, “I know Momma.” They both hear the door at the same time. Rosie squeals, “Poppa!” and looks up and notices in her Poppa’s hand is the biggest black gun she has ever seen. Her mother’s knees buckle. She recovers and turns to the oven to take out the last batch of cookies. Time moves like it is in slow motion. The instant confusion caused by the rife and the smell of oil sucks the sugar out of the air. Rosie stares at her Poppa’s face and sees a look in his eyes she does not know. Her mother wipes her eyes with the kitchen towel, and with a broken voice says, “Please put that in our bedroom and come sit down. The cookies just fnished.” Poppa quickly complies and comes into the kitchen to give his wife a hug that, to Rosie, seems to last forever. Then Rosie says, “My turn, Poppa.” Rosie notices the hug is diferent. She doesn’t know how or why, but it is diferent. Rosie asks, “Momma can me and Poppa have cookies now?” Then she notices the tears in her momma’s eyes and asks, “Momma, did you get something in your eyes?” Her mother says, “No dear, I am fne, just happy to see your father. Sit down.

SHORT STORY I will get the milk.” Poppa sits in his usual chair. Rosie hops up onto her pillow. Her mother sets three glasses, a bottle of milk, and the plate of cookies on the table and joins them. Rosie is the frst to speak, “Poppa, why do you have that giant gun?” Her mother replies, “Let’s talk about something else.” Her father says, “No, it is important Rosie understands what is happening. Rosie, my sweet Rosie, the gun is to protect our liberty. There is a man called President Putin. He is the President of Russia who is trying to take away our liberty. All the men are getting rifes. It is the only way we can protect our liberty. He is a powerful man. Soon, you and your momma will have to go to Poland until President Putin changes his mind and leaves.” Rosie interrupts and says, “But Poppa, Grand Ma Ma, lives in Russia. Why can’t we go there?” Her mother interrupts and says, “Let’s not talk about it. It is hard to explain, and the cookies are getting cold. They are best warm.” They eat the cookies. Rosie is back to humming her tune, deep in thought. Her mother and father leave the table to go into the living room and talk quietly while Rosie starts her new letter. Her father walks back into the kitchen, kisses her on the top of her head, and gives both pigtails a gentle tug, frst to left then to the right. She smiles. Then he says, “I have to go out for a bit and will be back later tonight. I love you. Be a good girl for your momma.” “Love you too, Poppa,” Rosie responds through a big toothless smile. He then gives his wife another hug that lasts longer than the frst and gives her a kiss. He gets the rife and walks out the door. Mother clears the table and does the dishes while Rosie resumes her tune and gets back to writing. Later that night, as the father is walking home, to his horror he sees the apartments across the street are demolished. All the windows in their building are broken out. There is a sea of blue fashing lights on the street. The scene is chaos. He breaks into a run for home, tries to break through the security line but cannot. He asks one of the men, “What happened? I live there and points at the broken glass. My wife and daughter are in there!” The soldier looks him in the eye and speaks, “Those heartless dogs used a thermal bomb on the building across the street from yours. Anything living within a block is probably dead. Dead from sufocation.” The father pleas with the soldier, “Please let me through. It is my family. Please, I am begging you!” “I am sorry,” replies the soldier, “only military are allowed.” The father thinks and says, “I am military. I just joined tonight for the cause. That is where I am coming from,” then shows him his freshly printed ID.

VORTEX 2022 The soldier looks at his feet and says, “I am sorry. You may pass.” The man runs to his apartment. Strangely, everything seems normal except for the broken glass. His hand is shaking so badly as he struggles to get the key in the door. The building is dark, so he gets the Her skin is blue, and fashlight they keep by the door, turns it on, and to his she is motionless. Her horror he sees his wife on the kitchen foor. Her skin is and she is motionless. Her face is still beautiful, face is still beautiful, blue, but her eyes see nothing. He stands up and vomits in but her eyes see the sink, then turns to the table and sees his precious Rosie, face down on the table, next to her delicate blue nothing. hand lies a pencil, and under it is the letter. It reads: Dear Predsent Puttin, Hi, my name is Rosie. I am writing this letter so you can help me. My Poppa brought home a big gun today cause he said you wanted our libirtee. I don’t know what that means. Does libirtee mean you are hungry? My mommy is a reelly good cook. Everything she makes tastes good cept peas. We have an extra chair. You can have it and eat with us and you can have all my peas. Does libirtee mean you don’t have a bed? My bed is kida small, but it feels good. You can use it. I sleep with my mommy and Poppa when I am scared and don’t think they will mind. Does libirtee mean money? I am saving money for a puppy. It has to be a small one cause we live in a partment, and cant have a big dog. My Poppa says he likes big dogs best. Does libirtee mean love? We have have a lot of love. I love my momma and my Poppa, and they love me. My Poppa loves my momma, and my momma loves my Poppa. We have a lot of love. We can love you too. Is that what libirtee is? You can have all these things. If libirtee is something diferent please let me know. I think if we have it, you can have some of ours. Love Rosie P.S. The peas are a secret. After reading the letter, the father falls on his knees and weeps.

SECTION

1 NEST OF NEEDLES

Lori Dortch | 1st Place | Van Dyke Print

2 SONORAN MOON

PHOTOGRAPHY

Brielle Walkney | 2nd Place | Gelatin Silver Print

3 THE FUTURE AND THE PROGRESS

Lori Dortch | 3rd Place | Gelatin Silver Print

PHOTOGRAPHY

BOARDWALK

Melissa Kennedy | Honorable Mention | Digital Photography

VORTEX 2022

NATIVE VOICES AND VISIONS The “Native Voices and Visions” category of Vortex Art and Literary Journal was created by Professor Sandra Desjardins in 2014 to “allow an opportunity for Scottsdale Community College’s American Indian students to share their stories, culture, history, and/or experiences.” Each year, Professor Desjardins coordinated with Ana Cuddington, the Director of the American Indian Program at SCC, to award scholarships in writing and art to winning students. We are proud to carry forward this opportunity in partnership with Ms. Cuddington and SCC’s American Indian Program.

2022 AWARDS First Place – Mateo TreeTop of the Hukapapa Lakota Tribe of Fort Yates, North Dakota for his poem “Grafti Man” Second Place – Carlos Mendivil of the Southern Cheyene and Arapho Tribes of Oklahoma for his poem “Good Ways” Third Place – D Gonzales of the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community of Arizona for his photograph “Running Wild” Congratulations, Mateo, Carlos, and D!

©@® ©©® ·®® 7 - J

SECTION

GRAFFITI MAN Mateo TreeTop | 1st Place Lines from a mined mind a mind of and beyond his time speaking, seeking, understanding what the world should be, what it isn’t. That is why he is dangerous He speaks the truth Seeking out the lies Understanding the ways in which they control you Tagging his name in the embers In the burning embers of Red, White and Blue Grafti Man starting to write his tunes Remembering when Tina Smiled. He continued tagging his name On the airwaves, in paper Speaking to Blue Indians About Living in Reality, and The Industrial Slave. How he took AIM at Uncle Sam trying To send a message:

NATIVE VOICES AND VISIONS Uncle Sam, I grew up in the Baby Boom Che days, Listening to Elvis I was part of his frst wave. Was part of your naval crew in the 60’s from that I learned what you do. When the fag is desecrated, you burn it. But you see you have been desecrating your fag for years with your racism, sexism, classism you drag your colors through the social mud, you know you should burn them let me help you. John Trudell, AKA Grafti Man

GOOD WAYS

Carlos Mendivil | 2nd Place Good ways, my ancestors spoke with hand gestures. And faced the storm head on like bufalos in bad weather. Beautiful aesthetic genetics minimized by genocide. I’m that warrior on the front lines reincarnated and redesigned. Burdened with the weight of the world on my shoulders. A scarred aura, from the generational trauma that lingers overhead like vultures. The truth is making excuses isn’t conducive to my sobriety. Creator let this sacred sacrament enlighten me. And unearth the full potential inside of me.

3 RUNNING WILD

NATIVE VOICES AND VISIONS

D Gonzales | 3rd Place | Digital Photography

1 EMERGENCE

SCULPTURE

David Zwicky | 1st Place | Cast Glass

2 ENMESHED

Katy Schultz | 2nd Place | Cast Iron

Side A

SCULPTURE

Side B

3 HOPE

Emma Brown | 3rd place | Cast Iron

SCULPTURE

NEVER FORGET

David Zwicky | Metal and Cast Glass

©®®

1 SELF-IMPROVEMENT

POETRY

Kristina Morgan | 1st Place At my parents’ insistence it began with makeup and the weight of false eyelashes. The disheveled hair I hid behind, tamed and straightened. At six feet tall I was a hanger designers draped clothes on.

I twirled in expensive images that women bought, I strutted in skimpy fantasies that men thought were real. Maintaining model weight I ate only yogurt-covered raisins. At night I dreamed of food— hamburgers and chocolate shakes. I woke panicked, pinching for fat. It began with a hammer, a few knocks to my elbows left bruises. I was not good at breaking bones. The blow to my leg didn’t do it. Maybe I wasn’t determined enough. I was better with razor blades, cutting soft stars into my body, carefully drawing straight lines into my forearm and abdomen, never deep enough to require stitches. I felt nothing, as if my skin didn’t belong to me. Like I was a rubber doll. Cutting was a fascination, an empowerment, my body my own. I hated myself at 16.

VORTEX 2022 At 18, I swallowed bottles of Tylenol and Sudafed. My body screamed don’t do it but my mind locked on do it. Overdoses convulsed my life for years. My obsessions had control of me like the scale and the mirror. I was their accomplice. I left behind the hammer and the blade, not wanting the statement scars made, pain seen in hatch marks scratched into my arm. I felt shame in making my loathing darkly visible. my hurt stepping over my disembodied youth. I can’t remember why I fnally stopped. God didn’t come to me and say, You are better than this. God accepted me, wrapped me in ethereal cotton. My body no longer felt dangerous. I collect myself. I see out. even breath feels diferent to me, it comes easily. I am not choked with self hate, my obsessions released. I fnally came to this place of calm and grace in a life that is my own.

2 MESSAGE READ

POETRY

Antonio Folcarelli | 2nd Place How much easier, Simpler it’d be if you said You hate me. Dissolve my emotional investment, For me. Help me Put it in the red. Often, an impression of your company Grazes my mind, and conjures Archived thoughts, sealed moments. I like it. I sink in its steaming bath, Strawberry-favored Blow Pop Rough against my Tongue – I think that was your Flavor of choice. Inevitably, ice fragments churn in, Diminishing into tepid water. Some days I stay submerged Until chills set in. Squirming Like a bruise is massaged. What if, instead, scarlet light difused Onto a lone basin, and your likeness Returned from its soluble murk Blank.

VORTEX 2022 Indiference Shares vertices with Distance and disappointment. Each ofer a sliver of hope, And nausea, in equal parts. I don’t think you hate people, Not remote friends, at least. So consider it a favor. Extenuating circumstances. Make it irresponsible to talk to you. Just Don’t be too specifc About my shortcomings. I think about the cowardice Involved, but I’ve lived with An acerbic ending. No one taught me how to play Tin can telephone. When morning broils my bedroom, Nerves fortify, and I consider: Some burnt bridges can be Leapt across. Even Overexposure leaves Phantoms.

3 BETTER

POETRY

Ann Capps | 3rd Place That day was the last day you called our house your home. If I had known, I’d have hugged you a little harder, held you to my heart, and felt it break with the knowledge of goodbye. You had youth and the fre of desire for both adventure and a handsome boy. Late, we raced through the terminal to the gate, not knowing that the tether wouldn’t loosen over time but would be quickly cut whether I wanted it to or not. Perhaps it was better that way. Preparing for your departure would have been like anticipating pain – seeing the needle before the shot. Your frst summer season of independence led to a long autumn away. I missed you deeply, yet discreetly, only half-hiding the pain that pummeled my heart. Over time, I accepted and admitted your adventure had led to lasting love. Our home will always be your home, and even though I hadn’t known our summer farewell would be a goodbye. There’s blessing in the not-knowing, a soul-saving, a sort of sorcery so parents don’t fall apart.

UNTITLED

Ariane Lee | Honorable Mention My mother is of the earth baptized in the holiest of holy water consecrated under Catholic hands, she gave up on it all years ago her gardens are now her cathedral pungent dirt her communion after confession I’m four, recurring dreams of a belly swollen with my sister I toss in my sleep, slippery sheets trapping me visions of her misshapen body cut into pieces by burglars standing on our brown ottoman, I look down onto her severed parts in buckets the bright red one holds her talking head, hair dry always telling me not to worry, everything is going to be just fne comforting me even in my nightmares Decades later, I watch her watch the deep waves of Lake Superior eyes unfocused and focused in equal measure she asks me if I believe I dodge and ask her why she still believes after all she’s seen all that has been done to her she says standing here, how could I deny the glory of God? He created all we see powerful, peaceful, ancient real I nod like I understand this rare glimpse of her faith all I see is an inland freshwater sea carved by glaciers bottom temperature holding steady at 39 degrees

POETRY too cold for bodies to rise or decay facts coming lightning fast to the forefront of my brain water and stone and sand and geology I’m her agnostic daughter, lover of science memorizer of all that is tangible and corporeal riding the faith fence unable to take a leap of conviction even though she’s holding my hand The night her father died I had the nightmare again her loving face surrounded in a red plastic halo telling me everything is going to be just fne that this hurt will be an unsealable, bleeding wound but that my cherished grandpa was with God and would see me soon enough I chose to believe her atheist to agnostic in one dream conversation that is my mother’s comfort, a band-aid for my scattered heartaches she loans me strength, pulled willingly from her utter certainty as solid as the bedrock under Lake Superior

GRAPHIC DESIGN

1 MICHAEL YOU WOULD FALL Sunny Sabin | 1st Place | Procreate

2 INDIANAPOLIS 500 Nikolas Williams | 2nd Place | Adobe Creative Suites

GRAPHIC DESIGN

3 TULIP FIELDS OF HOLLAND Nicole Kalucki | 3rd Place | Photoshop

stroll through the

TULIP FIELDS

HOLLAND 87

ANAGLYPH SKULL

Gary Lidman | Honorable Mention | Illustrator

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SECTION

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1 THE MADNESS INTO CREATIVITY Audri Fox | 1st Place INT. BEDROOM - DAY A bleak 10 by 10 bedroom with paint chipping of the walls and foorboards ready to spring back into the trees. The CLATTER of a typewriter can be heard in the background. Piles of worn, overread books on the foor in one corner, the other a twin bed too small for a grown 26-year-old man. CLATTER, CLATTER. In the opposite corner, a bulky typewriter sits on a surprisingly well-organized desk. Above the desk are two sagging overstufed bookshelves, a pinboard with notes and rejection letters from every major and minor publisher. A calendar is pinned on the wall. January. CLATTER, CLATTER, CLATTER. JAMES, at the typewriter, fnishes typing “Inside the Madness by James Oliver.” James roles in a new crisp piece of paper from the sizable pile next to the typewriter. James starts to calmly type. INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT – February. CLATTER, CLATTER. James swiftly types then suddenly stops. James rips the paper out, crumbling it, then throwing it onto the growing pile by his feet. Frustrated, James runs his hands down his face. Deep Breathe. He then rolls in a new crisp piece of paper from the decreasing pile next to the typewriter. INT. BEDROOM – DAY – March. James paces the foor. He holds half of a manuscript and a red pen. James paces to the right. The red pen is tucked behind his ear as he fips to the next page. James paces to the left. CLICKING the pen over and over. Irritated, James scratches out the whole page with the red pen. He places the pen between his lips. Then throws the manuscript against the wall. Paper fies all over the room mostly falling onto the bed.

PLAYS AND SCRIPTS James kicks the bed frame in dissatisfaction. INT. BEDROOM – DAY – April. James blankly stares at the typewriter with his arms crossed. He picks up a book from one of the sagging bookshelves. James quickly fips through the pages. He slams the book shut and throws it over his shoulder. James picks up another book and does the same. And another. And another. He stands up and starts throwing all the books of the shelves until they are bare. James turns around and looks at the pile of books. In aggravation, throws his chair on top. James tugs on his hair and yells in frustration. INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT – MAY. CLATTER, CLATTER, CLATTER, CLATTER. James is swiftly typing on the typewriter, while anxiously chewing on the red pen. CLATTER, CLATTER, CLATTER. James runs his hands in his untamed hair and over his restless eyes. CLATTER CLA-. The typewriter stopped functioning. James continues to click the same letter over and over again with no result. Frustrated he knocks everything of his desk, but the typewriter. James roles out the last page of his manuscript from the typewriter. He illegibly writes “The END.” on the bottom of the page. James adds the fnal page to his manuscript and sets the fnished project on his bare desk. James stares at his fnal project with his arms crossed. James takes a deep breath before throwing the manuscript into the fnal corner of the room where 5 other manuscripts lay on the foor with the same exact title “Inside the Madness by James Oliver.” James picks up a crisp piece of paper and a book from the foor. James takes the book and slams it against the keys of the typewriter then rolls the new piece of paper in. CLATTER, CLATTER, CLATTER. JAMES STARTS TO CALMLY TYPE. “INSIDE THE MADNESS BY JAMES OLIVER.”

2 WENDIE

Clif Mendivel | 2nd Place EXT. GREAT CITY OF GIZA - DAY

SUPER: EGYPT: 25 to 75 BCE. The great SPHINX sits with the HEAD of ANUBIS. It is surrounded by palm trees, temples, and pyramids. PEOPLE shufe throughout the city as it fourishes with life from the Nile. EXT. SUNDECK - CONTINUOUS QUEEN AMUNET, 30s. Her body is painted gold and black like the Egyptian Cobra. She saunters onto a sun deck overlooking GIZA. HORUS (V.O.) Queen Amunet was the ruler of the great city of Giza. And all of Northern Egypt. Her beauty was so bright. No man could ever win her heart. Many have tried, all have failed. OMAR, 9, dashes out onto the sun deck hugging Amunet frmly. HORUS (V.O.) (CONT’D) For Queen Amunet’s heart belonged to her only son, Omar, the future Pharaoh. INT. TEMPLE OF AMUNET - CONTINUOUS Amunet stands in front of a polished gold refecting dish. She leans in for a closer look. HORUS (V.O.) Amunet had it all: power, beauty, wealth. But it wasn’t enough; she wanted more. Amunet places a single fnger near her eye. HORUS (V.O.) (CONT’D) Amunet wanted eternal life. Never aging, staying young and beautiful forever. But Amunet is beginning to see the early stages of aging, as time waits for no one. She pulls her skin upwards removing her wrinkles. INT. CITY OF THE DEAD - RITUAL ROOM - NIGHT A dozen KEMITES surround Amunet on their knees praying as she reads from the Book of The Dead. HORUS(V.O.) The only god dark enough to grant such a wish would be the great god of the underworld, Typhon. Amunet knew it would not be easy. For the price of eternal life requires the soul of a Pharaoh.

PLAYS AND SCRIPTS INT. TEMPLE OF THE PHARAOHS - DAY THE GREAT RED CROWNED PHARAOH, 50s, sits on a thrown-over-looking Egypt. HORUS (V.O.) The Red-Crowned Pharaoh hears of this Queen of Giza. Seeing a chance to unite all of Egypt under his rule. The PHARAOH’S SON, 20s, kneels in front of his father. HORUS (V.O.) (CONT’D) He dispatches his eldest son to bring word that Queen Amunet will be his bride or his slave. EXT. TEMPLE OF AMUNET - NIGHT The Pharaoh’s son, and a MESSENGER, 50s, ride their horses straight to the temple doors. They come to an abrupt stop. The Pharaoh’s son speaks from his horse. PHARAOH’S SON I have come with a message from the Great Red-Crowned Pharaoh for your queen. INT. TEMPLE OF AMUNET - CONTINUOUS The Pharaoh’s son stands in front of Amunet. AMUNET (Ancient Egyptian) I was expecting your father. Amunet lifts her right heel as she removes her robe. The Pharaoh’s son is mesmerized by Queen Amunet’s beauty. AMUNET (O.S.) (CONT’D) But you’ll do. The Pharaoh’s son steps forward. INT. TEMPLE OF THE PHARAOHS - DAY The messenger shivers in fear. He hands over a box to the Pharaoh. The Pharaoh opens the box. We see his son’s decapitated penis along with a letter. SUPER: COME NORTH AND THE NEXT COCK I CUT WILL BE YOURS. HORUS (V.O.) The Pharaoh orders the advancement of his entire army north to Giza. EXT. EGYPT - DESERT - NIGHT The moonlight illuminates a desert sea of sand. The Pharaoh rides leaving behind a

VORTEX 2022 plume of dust. EXT/INT. TEMPLE OF AMUNET - SUN DECK - NIGHT Amunet stands on the sun deck. A sea of fames lights up across the desert. The Pharaoh’s army is vast. One of the Queen’s MEDJAI, 50s, bursts into the room. MEDJAI My Queen— Amunet turns around. AMUNET Prepare the men for battle. MEDJAI But my Queen, the Red-Crowned Pharaoh’s army vastly outnumbers us! Amunet turns back around gazing into a sea of red fames. AMUNET Where is my son? EXT. THE GREAT CITY OF GIZA - CONTINUOUS The Pharaoh stands in front of his army. He overlooks the massive city of Giza. He raises his sword high above his head. A great horn is heard echoing throughout the city. PHARAOH (Yells) Victory or death! With the lowering of the Pharaoh’s sword, the army dashes forward. INT. TEMPLE OF AMUNET - NIGHT The Pharaoh pushes open Amunet’s chamber DOORS. He strides straight to Amunet. PHARAOH (Ancient Egyptian) Be my bride, Amunet. And together, we can rule— Amunet draws her sword. The Pharaoh stops, drawing his sword. Amunet steps down from her throne. They begin to circle one another. The Pharaoh strikes up, left, down, right. Amunet blocks the attacks. She swings back slicing the Pharaoh’s cheek. PHARAOH (CONT’D) (He wipes the blood)

PLAYS AND SCRIPTS Nice defense, my Queen. (He smile/smirks) My turn. The Pharaoh swings his sword. Amunet blocks, countering with an attack. The Pharaoh knocks the sword out of Amunet’s hand. The sword slides across the foor. The Pharaoh punches Amunet. She drops onto her back. He places the tip of the blade near Amunet’s throat. PHARAOH (CONT’D) (In ancient Egyptian) Last chance, my Queen. Join me as my bride. AMUNET (In ancient Egyptian) Never! EXT. THE GREAT CITY OF GIZA - NIGHT Balls of orange fames pierce the night, landing around the city exploding. People run wildly avoiding the explosions. INT. TEMPLE OF AMUNET - NIGHT The Pharaoh brings his blade back. The room shakes from an explosion. At that Moment Omar dashes out lying on his Amunet’s chest. Amunet grips Omar frmly, hugging him tightly. The Pharaoh looks at Omar then grabs him by the neck, picking him up. Omar fghts the Pharaoh, the entire way. The Pharaoh saunters over to the sundeck placing Omar near the edge. PHARAOH You took my son. Now I shall take yours. AMUNET No! The Pharaoh turns around. PHARAOH Then be my bride, Amunet, and together we can rule it all. And you shall have whatever you desire. Amunet stands up and saunters over to the sundeck. PHARAOH (CONT’D) It’s okay my Que— Amunet places her lips upon the Pharaoh’s lips, giving him a long kiss.

VORTEX 2022 She slickly and swiftly removes a knife impaling the Pharaoh’s guts. AMUNET Never! The Pharaoh backhands Amunet and releases Omar’s hand. Amunet reaches for Omar, just missing his hand. She watches as Omar falls. AMUNET (CONT’D) (Yells) Omar! The Pharaoh then drops to his knees. PHARAOH (Coughs up blood) You bitch! Amunet stands above the Pharaoh. AMUNET (angry) I love my people. I love my city. And I love my son! As for you. I have other plans. Amunet picks up the Pharaoh’s sword. She whacks him unconscious. EXT. EGYPT - GAZA STRIP - NIGHT Amunet escapes from the city with Omar’s lifeless body and the dying Pharaoh. She rides her chariot through the desert. Only a single fame pierces the night as she’s surrounded by a sea of darkness. INT. CITY OF THE DEAD - RITUAL ROOM - NIGHT Candles line the walls; their lights illuminate gold Egyptian hieroglyphs. The Pharaoh looks around, perplexed by his surroundings. PHARAOH Wha— What is going on? A KEMITE, 60s straps the Pharaoh’s wrist down, Egyptian SYMBOLS surround him. PHARAOH (CONT’D) Release me now. You shall never... (Coughs up blood) ...have my soul! My Medjai will— The Kemite stufs a cloth into the Pharaoh’s mouth. KEMITE (To Amunet, speaking Egyptian) We must hurry, my highness.

PLAYS AND SCRIPTS Amunet cuts the Pharaoh’s hand, drawing blood. She then cuts her hand, drawing blood into a cup. She hands the cup to the Kemite. INT. ALTER - CONTINUOUS Amunet begins to read from the Book of the Dead. AMUNET (In ancient Egyptian) Come forth and reveal yourself— A swirling tornado spins up from the ground. It forms the shape of TYPHON, the Demon of Death. TYPHON Who has awakened me? For they shall pay the price with their soul! AMUNET It is I, Amunet, Queen of Snakes and Ruler of the Great City of Giza. TYPHON Speak, my Queen, for what do you desire? AMUNET I ofer you the soul of the Great Red-Crowned Pharaoh. All I ask— Typhon glances at the Pharaoh. TYPHON —Your desire is more than what you ofer. AMUNET I bring forth one of the greatest, if not the greatest Pharaoh to ever walk Egypt. TYPHON You cannot ofer something you do not possess. AMUNET (Desperate/Angry) Grant me eternal life. Return my son’s soul. And I will serve you for all eternity. TYPHON The sun will rise above a new Egypt in the year sixty-two, sixty-two. Every soul of a frst born, born to a pureblood Pharaoh shall be mine. Or you will never lay eyes upon your son’s soul again.

VORTEX 2022 Typhon brings forth Omar’s trapped soul. AMUNET (Happy/Crying) Omar! Amunet drops to her knees. OMAR Mother? Where are you? Omar looks around perplexed, desperately trying to fnd his Amunet’s voice. TYPHON Do we have a deal, my Queen? AMUNET Yes! Yes, we have a deal. TYPHON Then drink from the cup, my Queen, and see your desire. Amunet drinks from the cup. With the slam of Typhon’s staf, the Pharaoh’s eyes rollback, his soul, is sucked out. Amunet swings a dagger, piercing her gut. With the opening of his palm, Typhon releases a red mist that Amunet inhales. BEAT: A FEW HOURS LATER... HORUS, 30s, the Pharaoh’s top Medjai, enters the ritual room followed by the HIGH PRIEST. Amunet, on her knees, the dagger protruding from her gut. The Pharaoh lies on the ritual table. HORUS (Ancient Egyptian) We are too late. The High Priest fnds the Book of the Dead near Amunet. TYPHON (V.O.) Remember! A soul... (Fading away) ...for a soul! HIGH PRIEST It has begun! INT. BASE CAMP - RITUAL TENT - NIGHT Oil lamps illuminate the High Priest’s tent. He fips through the pages of the Book of the Dead.

PLAYS AND SCRIPTS BEAT: The High Priest silently reads from a passage. Suddenly, he closes the book and turns to a kemite. HIGH PRIEST (Ancient Egyptian) Get me Horus... (At the Kemite) ...Now! MOMENTS LATER: Horus enters the tent. INT. TEMPLE OF AMUNET - RITUAL ROOM - CONTINUOUS Horus painted gold with black Egyptian symbols. He lies on the ritual table. HIGH PRIEST (Ancient Egyptian) You will need this. The High Priest paints The Eye of Ra on Horus’s chest. HIGH PRIEST (CONT’D) The Eye of Ra will guide you to the Pharaoh. You must fnd him before Amunet does. HORUS (Ancient Egyptian) So where is his soul? HIGH PRIEST (Ancient Egyptian) Lost in another body. Most likely reincarnated. HORUS Have you done this before, old man? BEAT: HIGH PRIEST No! I have no idea what I’m doing! Horus’s eyes go wide. HIGH PRIEST (CONT’D) (Taps Horus’s chest) Good luck. The Priest begins to read from the Book of the Dead. Horus’s soul gets sucked into the Multi-soulverse.

VORTEX 2022 INT. ROOM - BED - MORNING SUPER: THURSDAY, 10TH SEPTEMBER 2020: THREE THOUSAND YEARS LATER ETHAN, goes by “E”, 20s, springs up, sitting in a cold sweat. He wears a symbol of the Red Crown Pharaoh around his neck. Ethan’s cell phone rings. He reaches for it. Ethan sees a picture of his mom, ANA. RING: RING: FADING AWAY: RING: EXT. EGYPT - GIZA - DAY FLASHBACK: A young Ethan, 6, sits on Ana’s lap. Ana holds an old Egyptian tablet with hieroglyphs. ANA Did you know this was the great city of Giza? Once ruled by the great Red-Crowned Pharaoh. The Pyramids stand tall in the FAR ground. YOUNG ETHAN He was real? MOTHER As real as... (Kelly’s voice) ...your phone. FLASHBACK ENDS: INT. ROOM - BED - CONTINUOUS KELLY, 30s, lies in bed half-covered, exposing a thigh. She ass-bumps Ethan. KELLY(O.S.) Baby, your phone Ethan reaches for his phone. ETHAN (Tired) Wassup, John? JOHN (V.O.) E! Where you at, man? You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. Ethan looks at the clock. ETHAN (Awake) Shit! I’m on my way. EXT. STREET - ETHANS HOUSE - CONTINUOUS

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PLAYS AND SCRIPTS A black BMW sits parked on the corner of the block, the engine idling. We see Amunet in the driver seat. She watches Ethan. POV: AMUNET: Ethan exits his house walking over to his CAR. He enters his vehicle. Ethan starts up his car, driving of. POV END: Amunet puts on a pair of sunglasses, then follows Ethan. INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY Ethan enters the cofee shop. The shop is full of life. The sound of chatter is heard in the background. JOHN, 20s, waves from a table. Ethan waves back, he walks up to the counter. Amunet, unaged, turns to face Ethan; their eyes connect. INT. TABLE - CONTINUOUS John sits with his surface studio open. Ethan sits across watching Amunet. JOHN Bro, where were you? You’re like an hour late. ETHAN I’ve seen her before. JOHN (Looks back) Who? That hot Egyptian chick? ETHAN How do you know she’s Egyptian? JOHN How— How do I know she’s Egyptian? Bro, come on man. JOHN (CONT’D) She has tanned skin, silky black hair. Not to mention the black eyeliner. ETHAN You can tell she’s Egyptian from all that? JOHN E! It’s like Ankhesenamun standing right in front of you, bro. ETHAN Who?

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VORTEX 2022 JOHN Ankhesenamun! Brandon Frasier? The Mummy, The Mummy two, and three? ETHAN You know she was only in the frst two, right? The actress is from Venezuela. She’s Venezuelan. Not Egyptian. JOHN Really? (Murmur) Fuck! EMPLOYEE (O.S.) Medium black, no sugar, almond milk for, A? Ethan gets up. ETHAN Besides she looks more like Ruby. Ethan WALKS over to the counter. He reaches for the cup. A hand reaches also. Amunet looking down at her phone. AMUNET Oh, I’m sorry. ETHAN No, it’s fne. I think he said, “E.” The employee places another cofee cup down on the counter. EMPLOYEE (O.S.) (At Ethan) —I didn’t say, “E.” But I have another medium black... Ethan looks at the employee. EMPLOYEE (CONT’D) ...no sugar, almond milk for, E? ETHAN (At employee) Thanks. (Turning toward Amunet) Have we met— A MAN, 40s, now stands next to Ethan. MAN No, can’t say we have.

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PLAYS AND SCRIPTS Ethan watches as Amunet opens the door, exiting. John leans on Ethan’s shoulder, with his cell phone in hand. JOHN You’re right, she does look like Ruby. ETHAN I’m telling you. I’ve seen her before. JOHN Where have you seen her before? Ethan looks at John. ETHAN In my dreams, for the past 20 years. Ethan walks of. INT. TEMPLE OF AMUNET - NIGHT DREAM: FLASHBACK: EGYPT: 25 - 75 BCE Ethan pushes open Amunet’s chamber doors. Amunet stands wearing only a robe. AMUNET (Ancient Egyptian) I’ve been expecting you! Ethan strides straight to Amunet. Amunet lifts her right heel as she removes her robe. INT. RITUAL ROOM - CONTINUOUS Candles line the walls; their lights illuminate hieroglyphs. Ethan looks around perplexed. A KEMITE, 60s straps his wrists down. Egyptian symbols surround him. ETHAN (Confused) Wha— What is going on? The gust of wind blows through the room. The candle fames are unmoved. AMUNET (O.S.) Hello, Ethan. I’ve been searching for you, for many, many moons. DREAM ENDS: FLASHBACK ENDS: INT. ROOM - BED - NIGHT Ethan springs up, sitting in a cold sweat. He looks at the clock. SUPER: 3:00 A.M.

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VORTEX 2022 ETHAN Ugh! Ethan lies back down. INT. CLASS ROOM - DAY Ethan sits at a desk with his Surface Studio open staring at a picture of Queen Amunet. The world goes silent. AMUNET (V.O.) (Faded whisper) Ethan! John sits next to Ethan. Ethan jumps to a startled refex. JOHN Whoa, whoa, whoa! You okay there, E? I called your name like fve times. Ethan looks at John and nods. JOHN (CONT’D) Hey, so I wanted to ask you. When you said you dream of that Ruby chick— ETHAN —Who? JOHN The hot Egyptian chick from the cofee shop. You said you dream of her. Now, did you mean that metaphorically, like you dream of meeting an Egyptian girl or do you really dream of her? At that moment Amunet enters the classroom. John looks towards the front of the class. JOHN (CONT’D) No fucking way! ETHAN What? Ethan sees Amunet, his eyes wide, his pulse racing, palms sweaty. JOHN (bites tip of the pen) Twenty bucks say I nail her before the end of the semester. Amunet begins writing on the whiteboard, pauses. JOHN (CONT’D) I’ll be getting an A from... (Winks and kisses at Amunet)

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PLAYS AND SCRIPTS ...Ruby. Amunet continues to write on the board. She turns around. AMUNET (Ancient Egyptian) Hello, class. AMUNET (CONT’D) My name is Professor Wendie Amunet. I’ll be your Egyptian Historian this semester. Amunet locks eyes with Ethan. John looks at Ethan, with a smile. THE END INT. CITY MORGUE - NIGHT The song “Zombie” is heard in the background. Bloody autopsy utensils lie carelessly on a mayo tray. A hand reaches for an autopsy instrument. The coroner, RICKY, 30s, takes a bite from his sandwich. A BODY, male, 30s, lies dead on a cold table. Suddenly, it springs up. MALE Ah...! RICKY (Scared) Ah...! HORUS (Ancient Egyptian) Yes! Yes! I am alive! (Laughs) It worked, old man! RICKY (CONT’D) (Still Scared) Ah...! Horus looks around perplexed. HORUS (CONT’D) (Ancient Egyptian) Where... Where am I— Ricky’s eyes roll back before passing out.

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3 DEUS EX MUSICA Malichi Greenlee | 3rd Place

FADE IN: EXT. DREAMY PARK - NIGHT A LONELY MAN pelouzes at a piano. He sees a dull rose on the piano shelf, stops his music, and slams his head to the keys. A RUNAWAY WOMAN appears. Arm on suitcase, leg bouncing. Waiting for the train. Lonely Man is fabbergasted by her presence, and his music stumbles to an end. The Woman pays no attention. The Man frantically fips through sheet music and lands on, “For the One” He looks at her. She checks her watch. Oblivious. He sets down the music, psyches himself up, and breathes. Hands shaking, he fumbles the frst chord. He whips his head to her. Nothing. Relief. He starts again. Music fowing. INT. UPRIGHT PIANO - CONTINUOUS Within the piano, a CREATURE rises to life, expanding within the space, unraveling many arms, and revealing an inhuman face. With its many spider-like arms it plucks the piano strings and reaches for an ELECTRIC BLUE glowing canister labeled “SEROTONIN,” and releases the valve. EXT. DREAMY PARK - CONTINUOUS The Woman lays eyes on Lonely Man for the frst time. His eyes meet hers. He continues playing. INT. UPRIGHT PIANO - CONTINUOUS The Creature releases a HOT PINK split canister. “Estrogen/Testosterone.” EXT. DREAMY PARK - CONTINUOUS The Woman starts to move in. The Man plays with more razzmatazz. INT. UPRIGHT PIANO - CONTINUOUS The Creature eases out a little “Adrenaline” from a red canister. EXT. DREAMY PARK - CONTINUOUSTheir hearts beat. Sweat beads on Man’s brow. The Woman is an arm’s length away.

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PLAYS AND SCRIPTS INT. UPRIGHT PIANO - CONTINUOUS The Creature pulls on one last valve labeled “Oxytocin.” EXT. DREAMY PARK - CONTINUOUS The Woman makes her way to the piano and sits beside the Man. The music slows. She takes the rose. With the fnal chord of the song her hand lands on his. He stops playing. INT. UPRIGHT PIANO - CONTINUOUS The piano is empty. No Creature or canisters insight. FADE OUT.

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VORTEX 2022

WRITERS’ AND ARTISTS’ STATEMENTS John Anderson | Page 18

John Anderson is a retired home builder who has been living in Phoenix for the past 3 1/2 years. John and his wife lived in Willow, Alaska for 40 years before moving to the desert. John’s work has appeared in several newspapers and a handful of magazines After taking a long creativity break, John is pleased to have started writing again.

Emma Brown | Page 74

I am a sophomore at Scottsdale Community College, and I’m majoring in biology. I am in my second semester of sculpting, which has been an amazing experience. I was born and raised in Scottsdale, Arizona, and I’m very excited to continue with sculpting. Media: @instagram.com/emma_laurel_brown/?r=nametag

Ann Capps | Page 81

I am a middle school teacher taking creative writing classes as a creative outlet. I enjoy using words as a “paintbrush” to create art.

Lori Dortch | Page 60, 62

Evolving, growing, feeling and sensing, I snap pictures, write and experiment with selfhealing through visual storytelling. Attempts are made to live in the moment, while nostalgia summons me back to her seemingly curated past. When not reminiscing, hopeful future entices me forward. To honor myself, I’m pursuing an art degree — fnally joining together what trauma formerly impeded — while unconventionally trudging forward into uncharted waters as an empty nest mother. Pressing in, I must experiment with failure and success by exposing myself to historically creative techniques and mechanical processes. Expression through photographic composition, coupled with symbolically meaningful text, is my soul.

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WRITERS’ AND ARTISTS’ STATEMENTS

Kathy Dwyer | Page 29

After moving around the world as part of a military family, Kathy Dwyer settled in Scottsdale in 1971 and loves the beautiful public libraries and the city’s insightful urban planning. She lived on the East Coast and worked as non-proft manager/director in Central Park, American Museum of Natural History, Intrepid Sea Air Space Museum, and South Street Seaport Museum. Seven years ago, she moved back to Scottsdale to care for her ailing Father and work/volunteer at Scottsdale’s McDowell Sonoran Conservancy. Kathy is inspired and thankful for her insightful gifted professor, Kim Sabin, and her wonderful talented creative classmates. Media: @linkedin.com/in/kathryn-dwyer-7a0ab6a/

Antonio Folcarelli | Page 79

I was born and raised in northern California, but my writing fourished at Scottsdale Community College. Writing runs in the family, English is my major, and I want to do as much with it as possible!

Media: @antoniojfolcarelliportfolio.wordpress.com/ Media: @instagram.com/antonio.ofcourse/

Audri Fox | Page 90

I am a dreamer, I am a reader, who is irrevocably in love with flm. There are three things in this world I know for sure. First, I am a dreamer constantly living in between worlds of imagination and fantasy. Second, I am a reader today, so tomorrow I can lead. Last, but most importantly, that I am completely and utterly in love with flm.

Joanne Gallery | Page 35

What I need most of all is color, always, always.

D Gonzales | Page 69

I like to create things that make people think and wonder about their lives and to look at things in a totally diferent way for their future.

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Malichi Greenlee | Page 106

I am in my second year at SCC in the School of Film and Theatre. While my main focus is motion picture production, I have studied story theory and screenwriting as well, and in my free time, I also write music. After I graduate I plan to continue creative writing, whether it be for my career or my own personal interests. Media: @vimeo.com/user161373084

Media: @instagram.com/malgreens8/

Natalie Hazzard | Page 36

I enjoy using my surrounding as inspiration and recently I’ve been focusing on capturing objects in close detail to fne-tune my art capabilities. I use a variety of mediums in my work to execute my work such as charcoal, ink, and watercolor to experience everything I can in the world of visual two-dimensional art. Media: @instagram.com/nataliehazzard/

Steven Herrera | Page 56

Sixty-one year Old freshman, pursuing my new found passion: “Writing”

David Hofmeister | Page 45

Much to the detriment of my skin, I am a lifelong resident of Arizona. To escape the hellish heat growing up, I became obsessed with flm and books. Storytelling has been the love of my life. I challenge myself to write stories worthy of the reader’s time. Furthermore, I hope my love for the craft rings through to them in a meaningful way. Storytelling is not limited to the page, though, something which I have learned as a flm student pursuing editing. My goal is to bring those two mediums together and make art that inspires in these unprecedented times.

Nicole Kalucki | Page 87

Graphic design truly is my passion, as I’ve found even the most challenging and tedious of tasks just make me want to work harder and become better. I am also passionate about continually learning new techniques and honing my skills, which is why I am currently pursuing design, creative branding, and digital process management. Media: @nhkdesigns.com

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WRITERS’ AND ARTISTS’ STATEMENTS

Elaine Karcher | Page 33

Creativity. I really love to see people doing something creative that benefts everyone. It is public art that makes me want to be a better person and reach out to others bringing something good to them. Several years ago I helped orchestrate two public pieces in an elementary school setting and found it to be very rewarding. My two degrees are in Art Advertising and Interior Design. After studying art for years and attending workshops, I value my continued education taking painting classes at Scottsdale Community College.

Melissa Kennedy | Page 63

I am a graphic design student at SCC with a passion for photography. My work combines both of these skills to create vibrant and unique images.

Ariane Lee | Page 27, 52, 82

I am an aspiring writer of urban fantasy fction. How this Midwestern farmer’s daughter ended up loving to write about the big city, no one knows. I spend most of my time traveling with my husband, hanging with my willful coonhounds, and trying to get the words in my head down on paper before I forget them.

Media: @instagram.com/perpetualentanglement/

Gary Lidman | Page 88

I am extremely passionate about graphic design in all aspects from print to digital. I love facing new challenges head on and am constantly pushing the limit of what I can do as a designer. Media: @gmldesign.co

Clif Mendivel | Page 92

I like to create things that make people think and wonder about their lives and to look at things in a totally diferent way for their future. Media: @instagram.com/pakajahjuana_productions/

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Carlos Mendivil | Page 68

I am a proud member of the Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes of Oklahoma. Currently, I am attending Scottsdale Community College pursuing a AAS degree in Network and Systems Admin.

Xianna Montoya | Page 34

I am Xianna Montoya, and I am an artist based in Arizona. My artwork surrounds memory and familial bonds with a focus on capturing nostalgia and hidden emotion. Media: @instagram.com/xianna_art/

Kristina Morgan | Page 39, 77

I write because I must. I’m a poet who just happens to write personal essay and short story, also. Writing is a matchstick waiting to be struck. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than to toil over words, and yes, I mean toil! My thanks to Sandra Desjardins for always being in my corner, pushing me. I am a better writer because of her.

Ericka Oden | Page 32

My name is Ericka Oden, and I am a sophomore studying business and entrepreneurship at SCC. Drawing and painting is a true passion of mine, and I am excited for the opportunity to share that with other SCC artists!

Beverly Robb | Page Cover

I have been taking painting classes with Robert You for several years since retiring from teaching art to elementary and middle school students. I am married and have three grown sons. In addition to painting, I spend time golfng, hiking, and sewing. Media: @beverlyrobbart.com/

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WRITERS’ AND ARTISTS’ STATEMENTS

Robert Rosen | Page 23

I am a writer, videographer, son, husband, father, grandfather and retired corporate hack. Within each of those titles are great stories. I work to fesh out their humor, drama, lessons and entertainment hoping that they will bring readers something to enjoy with the added goal of evoking emotions and deeper thought. Media: @anysummersunday.com/ASS/product/why-did-you-let-me-do-that-and-otherstories/

Stephen Rubin | Page 13

After more years then I care to reveal, I have found writing. And now I can spend all my days learning and fnding more skills. And enjoying that special Buzz that comes every time I put pencil to paper.

Sunny Sabin | Page 85

I love combining heart and humor in my artwork. I’d say my biggest infuences are nostalgic song lyrics and personal memories from my own childhood. My favorite pieces to create involve a visual narrative. Media: @sunnysabin.com/

Katy Schultz | Page 47, 72

Being an artist and writer is as much a part of my identity as is being a mother, partner, and friend. I strive in my creative endeavors, as well as relationships, for honesty, vulnerability, and bravery. Living and working within these parameters strengthens these connections and drives my work deeper and results in more fulflling and consequential pieces.

Mateo TreeTop | Page 66

I am Mateo TreeTop I’m Hunkpapa Lakota from Fort Yates, North Dakota. The reason way I have written this Spoken Word Poem was that I was researching a man Named John Trudell and was inspired by his poetry and style. He was a modern Native Leader that is controversial, due to him burning an American Flag, which is the subject of this poem. Trudell had his own reasons for his actions which I hope this poem will inspire others to look into Trudell’s work to learn more about him and his way of thinking.

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Brielle Walkney | Page 61

I have been shooting flm for the last year as a hobby and have furthered my education at SCC. Photography is a way as an artist to empower and express myself; as well as push myself to learn constantly. My long term goal is to receive my BCBA and open a business that empowers individuals with autism through the arts. Media: @instagram.com/g0ldenwalrus/

Nikolas Williams | Page 86

I got my start in art with drawing and painting. Eventually I developed an interest for digital art and design. Most of my inspiration comes from Art Nouveau, movie posters, and metal/rock band shirt designs. One of my favorite things to design is posters. When designing a poster, I strive to go beyond just making an efective design. I try to create something that will make an impact, something that will be memorable. Media: @nikolaswilliams.myportfolio.com

David Zwicky | Page 71, 75

I am retired from working in the hospice feld and recently returned to Phoenix after years. Now focusing my energies on my life long interests in writing and creating art. Media: @zartsspace.com/

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9000 E. Chaparral Road Scottsdale, AZ 85256 www.scottsdalecc.edu The Maricopa County Community College District (MCCCD) is an EEO/AA institution and an equal opportunity employer of protected veterans and individuals with disabilities. All qualified applicants will receive consideration for employment without regard to race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, age, or national origin. A lack of English language skills will not be a barrier to admission and participation in the career and technical education programs of the District. The Maricopa County Community College District does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, sex, disability or age in its programs or activities. For Title IX/504 concerns, call the following number to reach the appointed coordinator: (480) 731-8499. For additional information, as well as a listing of all coordinators within the Maricopa College system, visit www.maricopa.edu/non-discrimination.

Vortex 2022

Articles inside

“Better” Ann Capps

“Wendie” Clif Mendivel

“Deus Ex Musica” Malichi Greenlee

“Message Read” Antonio Folcarelli

“Good Ways” Carlos Mendivil

“Denali – A Love Story” John Anderson

“Remnants” Katy Schultz

“The Perfume” Stephen Rubin

“Good Bones” David Hofmeister

“Unfolding Rennie” Robert Rosen

“Self-Improvement” Kristina Morgan

“Pink Cadillac” Kristina Morgan