SCC Vortex by Scottsdale Community College

VORTEX 2018

Vortex

2018

A collection of Art, Essays, Plays, Poetry, Scripts, & Short Stories

A 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 flows over and around things. Our bones spiral.

The Maricopa County Community College District (MCCCD) is an EEO/AA institution and does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, age, disability, or national origin in their programs or activities. For Title IX/504 concerns, call the following number to reach the appointed coordinator: (480) 731-8499. For additional information visit: http://www.maricopa.edu/non-discrimination.

A Publication of Scottsdale Community College

Vortex

Writers and Artists Acknowledgment Poetry Alexia Jones for “City Code” ©2018 Krysta Evans for “1994 Toyota Pick-Up” ©2018 Rosario Escarcega for “Es Dulce” ©2018 Robert Buchanan for “Ordinary People” ©2018 Antha Perkins for “Trust” ©2018 Bree Hoffman for “Temporary Man” ©2018 Stephen Rubin for “Splintered World” ©2018 Karyl Krug for “The Wrong Guy” ©2018 Short Story David Bertoni for “An Operetta on the Ocean” ©2018 Emily McNeill for “Delilah” ©2018 Rosanna Moss for “Is All Illusion?” ©2018 Antha Perkins for “Whale Bones” ©2018 George Kallas for “Upon the Mountain” ©2018 Creative Non-Fiction Bree Hoffman for “Rage” ©2018 Max Biederman for “The Road Shamal” ©2018 Kevin Abblett for “O Mother, Where Art Thou?” ©2018

Taylor Paulson for “Swipe Left” ©2018 Cielo Aguilar for “La Paletera” ©2018 Thomas Hartwell for “Perfect for Me” ©2018 Jonathan Sanborn for “Soul Power—A Musical of Faith and Funk ©2018 John Hull for “Gun Health” ©2018

I want to thank all of our student writers and artists here at Scottsdale Community College! It is because of them that we are able to create such an eclectic and high quality anthology. The writing and art in this journal represent a wide range of subjects, styles, and experiences which allows us to think, question, and feel.

Without our artists’ visions and revisions, without their insights and sensitivities,

Art Keith Seidel for American Bald Eagle ©2018 Tristan Wright for Abandoned ©2018 Rosanna Moss for Alice in Wonderland ©2018 Angelika Zgainer for Buddha in Jaipur ©2018 Elaine Karcher for Crested Butte Coffee Shop ©2018 Junko Kinoshita for Falling in Love ©2018 Ellen Nemetz for Fascination ©2018 Stephen Hoffman for Dada Knows Model ©2018 Rebecca Ruhm for Nest ©2018 Kathy Dioguardi-Newman for Reluctant Witnesses

assistants! Buffie Diglio manages all Vortex contracts, processes winners’ awards,

without their devotion to art, we would all be diminished as a community of learners and as human beings. I am deeply indebted to our very smart and dedicated executive administrative ticket sales, designs and prints award certificates and guest name badges, and maintains the website. Anna Dragon is the friendly face at the office window; she answers questions, processes all of the paperwork with contest participants, and organizes the RSVPs. And Michelle Blake graciously assists all of us with the countless tasks Vortex requires. I also want to thank Shachi Kale, the graphic designer of Vortex, for her beautiful spirit, artistic innovations, and remarkable skill and long hours spent on the design of Vortex. Still, none of this would be possible each year without the endorsement from our president, Dr. Jan Gehler. Her far-reaching vision for what makes an academic institution a strong community has touched every part of SCC. I am also grateful to Dr. Stephanie Fujii, SCC’s Vice President of Academic Affairs, for her support of Vortex and its significance to our students. I also want to thank Susan Moore, Chair of the English, World Languages, and Journalism Division, for her continued enthusiastic backing, and Dr. Larry Tualla, Chair of the English

Department, for his support. My gratitude also goes to our amazing judges: Dr. Cameron MacElvee, Robert Mugford, Joshua Rathkamp, and Dr. Rhonda McDonnell, all of whom sacrificed a portion of their Spring Break for art’s sake! And I want to thank my wonderful colleagues at SCC who continually encourage our students in their writing and artwork!

Cover

Back Cover

Sandra Desjardins Vortex Coordinator

Support the Arts!

Vortex Donors 2017 - 2018

We need your support to keep the fire of creativity burning in all of our talented students for many years to come.

Eleanor Babbitt

Friends of Vortex Pledges

Robert Mugford

Dr. Judy Balan

Dr. Stephanie Fujii

Richard and Ann Pihl

Please consider a tax-deductible donation to Vortex.

Danielle Boyd

Dr. Jan Gehler

Janet Robinson

Robert B. Buchanan

Paul and Martha Gould

June Rudyk

Sirio Calogero

Doris & Martin Hoffman Family Foundation

Jeanne Sabrack

Kathryn Kinney-Foe

Angelika Zgainer

Your support helps to pay for supplies, special programs, annual events and the very book you’re reading. For more information on how you can show your support for education and the arts, please contact Sandra Desjardins at (480) 423-6415 or visit our website at: http://mcccdf.org/colleges/scc College: Scottsdale, Designation: “Vortex Student Publication”

Ana Cuddington Sandra Desjardins Stanley P. Desjardins Joyce Erbach Judy Feldman

Val Kossak

Jennifer Watson

Robert Lewis E. E. Moe

I am deeply grateful for and indebted to you, our donors! Because Vortex depends on donations, we exist entirely because of your generous support of the arts. Albert Camus once said “Real generosity to the future lies in giving all to the present.” So I thank you for giving our students a glimpse of what is possible through encouraging their passion for writing and art.

A Special Thank You to the following for their contributions to the Vortex Awards Event: Barbara Olsen for her extraordinary table floralscapes Vases Courtesy of AJ’s Purveyors of Find Foods Embassy Suites by Hilton Scottsdale Resort and Shelley Brown for their support of Vortex

“It is in Apple’s DNA that technology alone is not enough—it’s technology married with liberal arts, married with the humanities, that yields us the results that make our hearts sing.” Steve Jobs, in introducing the iPad 2 in 2011

“In my own philanthropy and business endeavors, I have seen the critical role that the arts play in stimulating creativity and in developing vital communities…the arts have a crucial impact on our economy and are an important catalyst for learning, discovery, and achievement in our country.” Paul G. Allen, Co-Founder, Microsoft

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Nancy Neff, Executive Director, Institutional Advancement and Community Engagement (IACE), for her generous support of Vortex. Kim Herbst (IACE) for her suggestions and guidance. Steve Heywood with Americopy for printing Vortex. Ronald Zhang, for his design of the online contest submissions and his technical support. About the 2018 Vortex Graphic Designer Shachi Kale Shachi is an artist, graphic designer, and children’s book illustrator. You can see her work at www.shachikale.com or on instagram @shachidreams

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents Creative Non-Fiction

Short Story

“Rage”

“An Operetta on the Ocean”

Bree Hoffman- First Place.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

David Bertoni - First Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Abandoned

Crested Butte Coffee Shop

Tristan Wright.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Elaine Karcher. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

“The Road Shamal”

“Delilah”

Max Biederman - Second Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Emily McNeill - Second Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Alice in Wonderland

“Is All Illusion?”

Rosanna Moss .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Rosanna Moss - Third Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

“O Mother, Where Art Thou?”

“Whale Bones”

Kevin Abblett - Third Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Antha Perkins - Honorable Mention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

“The Monster In Me”

Dada Knows Model

Cicely Winder - Honorable Mention . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

Stephen Hoffman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82

“Underneath the Blanket”

“Upon the Mountain”

Konrad Ashby - Honorable Mention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

George Kallas - Honorable Mention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

Buddha in Jaipur Angelika Zgainer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

“ Pain and Grace” Rosanna Moss- Honorable Mention . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

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Native Voices and Visions My People Daniel Wheeler .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

“Wanted Beauty” Shinaya Dawes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94

Silence Preslie Thompson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

“Ordinary People” Robert Buchanan - Honorable Mention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

“Trust” Antha Perkins - Honorable Mention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107

“Temporary Man” Bree Hoffman - Honorable Mention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108

“Splintered World” Stephen Rubin - Honorable Mention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110

Vegetative State

Poetry “City Code”

Richard Rosenberg. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

“The Wrong Guy” Karyl Krug - Honorable Mention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113

Alexia Jones - First Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98

Fascination

Reluctant Witnesses Kathy Dioguardi-Newman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

Ellen Nemetz. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100

“1994 Toyota Pick-Up” Krysta Evans - Second Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101

“Es Dulce” Rosario Escarcega - Third Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102

Plays and Scripts “Buddy’s Guide to Romance” Robin Hartwell - First Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117

Nest Rebecca Ruhm.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 8

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Table of Contents Western Wall Judy Feldman.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

“Swipe Left” Taylor Paulson - Second Place.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130

“La Paletera” Cielo Aguilar - Third Place . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

Falling in Love Junko Kinoshita. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146

“Perfect for Me” Thomas Hartwell - Honorable Mention.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147

“Soul Power—A Musical of Faith and Funk” Jonathan Sanborn - Honorable Mention

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163

American Bald Eagle Keith Seidel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172

“Gun Health” John Hull - Honorable Mention

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Writers’ and Artists’ Personal Statements

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173

185

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Score

Fuel the Fire Emmett LaFave Presto 160

Flute

b 4 &bb 4

∑

Clarinet in B b

& b 44

∑

Trumpet in B b

4 &b 4

∑

Bass Trombone

The National League of American Pen Women We gratefully acknowledge the contributions to SCC writers, artists, and

Bass Tuba

Timpani

? b b 44 ^ Œ Ó b œ f ? b b 44 ^ Œ Ó b œ f^ ? b b 44 œ Œ Ó b f

∑

Cymbals

∑

b 4 &bb 4

∑

Glockenspiel

the continued support of these dynamic and creative women! Harp

award for “Fuel the Fire”

∑

Bass Drum

Emmett LaFave is the recipient of this

∑

Pen Women– the oldest women’s arts organization in the country. We appreciate

This year’s award is in music.

student in writing, art, or music at the Vortex Awards Reception.

∑

Snare Drum

Each year, the Scottsdale Branch of American Pen Women honors a winning

Triangle

musicians made by the Scottsdale Branch of The National League of American

Awards

^ ‰ j‰ Œ π œ œ œ œF ^ ‰ j‰ Œ œœœ œ F π ^ ‰ j‰ Œ π œ œ œ œF ^ ‰ œ œ œ œj ‰ Œ F π

Piano

Violin I

44 œ Œ Ó f b 4 ∑ &bb 4 ? b b 44 b b & b b 44 ? b b 44 b

‰ ‰ ‰ œœœ œ œœ œœœ œœœœ π ‰œœœ‰œ œœ ‰œœœ œœœœ π

‰ ‰ ‰ œœœ œœœœ πœœœ œ œœ ‰œœœœœ œœ œœœœ œœœœ π ∑

∑

Œ Ó

∑

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ nœ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ nœ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœ œ œœœœœœœ œœœœœœ w b 4 ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ &bb 4

Violin II

b 4 &bb 4

∑

Viola

B b b b 44

∑

Cello

? b 44 bb

Double Bass

œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ nœ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ nœ œ œ œ nœ œ œœœœœœœœ œœ œœ œ œœœœœœœ œœ œœ f œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ nœ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ ? b 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ nœ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œœœœœœœ œœœœœœ bb 4 f ©FiveUnite

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Vortex 2018 Creative Non-Fiction

Rage Bree Hoffman – First Place Our home was haunted by the time He was finished with it. An upturned casket of books and picture frames. My mother had never been good at picking the men whom she brought into our lives, but He had surpassed even the lowest of expectations I’d had for Him when she found the drugs wrapped in plastic among the landscape blueprints in His office. Within the month, He would burn my mother’s clothes in the bathtub, cover our belongings in candle wax, bar the entrances of the house with pieces of furniture, break the windows, kick a hole through the lock on my bedroom door, and

Technology can be our best friend, and technology can also be the biggest party pooper of our lives. It interrupts our own story, interrupts our ability to have a thought or a daydream, to imagine something wonderful, because we’re too busy bridging the walk from the cafeteria back to the office on the cell phone.

raze my world to ash like a firestorm with a name. When the police arrived, they said we were lucky we weren’t home at the time. They also asked my mother what she had done to provoke Him. No one would be able to protect us from this. Regardless of circumstance, I believe that there are an insurmountable number of devastating thoughts and demons fighting to escape from the body and mind of any sixteen-year-old girl. But words failed me then, when I stood beside my mother at the wavering precipice where a part of us both died, where we did not know which things to grieve first. As we left that house for the last time, I was no longer a teenager. I was a harbinger

~ Steven Spielberg

to something eternal and boundless, which had coiled in the incongruous pit of my stomach like a restless serpent. I would never forgive Him. Instead I would bathe in the fury, refusing to let it die and refusing to live in its absence. Wishing that at sixteen years old, I’d had enough courage and awareness of my own ferocity to break my knuckles against His flesh the way He had broken through the meticulous veil of our lives, which I had used to keep intruders out for so long before Him. For years after leaving Him, we were poor, and the fatigue of my mother’s working limbs clung to the damp walls and popcorn ceiling of our single bedroom apartment. I shared my mattress with dust mites and bed bugs, and in the confined corners of my room, dim light

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Creative Non-Fiction

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struggled through the metal bars on my window. I named the cockroaches who did not fear the single fluorescent light bulb of the kitchen, and I counted the splotches of white in its discolored tiles. For the days my mother took the car, I fought the sounds of arguing neighbors with the blaring of the television, waiting for days to bleed together as I was trapped in a room that kept getting smaller. What was meant to be a temporary home would evolve-- and the four walls would gradually shrink inward, inch by inch, for three years. It’s a strange thing, to feel relieved when someone has died. Especially when you have envisioned and begged for their suffering for so long that the reality of the situation causes you to look at your own hands as though you would find them stained red; taking credit for what your mind has craved for so long. I didn’t know whether I could wish someone dead with the agonizing desire of my own rage, but I wished that I could. And I do know that I’m glad He’s dead. After our first year in the confines of that miserable apartment, we were out to dinner with family one night when my mother’s phone rang. The phone displayed the familiar name of His adult son, and as the knot churned in my stomach, my mother excused herself. She was gone for what felt like hours, each minute ticking away in arduous lethargy, and in many ways she’s never come back from that phone call.

noose when she had spoken those words, but still she continued. “That’s not the only reason His son called.” My mother’s voice lowered, and the shine of her eyes could very well have been the fluorescent reflection of unshed tears, but I didn’t notice. She began to ask me questions. Had He ever touched me? Made me do something I didn’t want to do? Had He hurt me? She had only then discovered He had raped His younger sister as a teenager, as He had raped His daughter when she was my age. Did He do to me what He had done to them? For a moment I wished it could be that simple. I wished that every symptom of distrust was the accumulation of a single nightmare instead of a lifetime of irreparable trauma whose roots were now untraceable and lost in the past. I cannot say what forgiveness tastes like, but I can tell you that rage swells like bile in the back of my throat-- metallic, bitter and corrosive. And even though my mother’s guilt-ridden tears were not mine to endure, she grieves anyways in stunned, whispered penance: “I’m sorry, B. I’m so sorry.” The fire in her flickered that night-- crackled, and then died. The rain started up again. I imagined her tears taste like ozone. Without remorse, my thoughts went back to Him. Details about His death revealed it was accidental. He didn’t kill Himself, but

“Wendell’s dead.” The words felt sticky, hard to grasp and harder yet to swallow. It had been raining, and I found her standing in one of the many obsidian puddles that had gathered near our car in the parking lot of the restaurant. She spoke the words beneath the harsh, cascading yellow lights above our heads, our faces shrouded in shadow. My mother repeated the words, convincing herself of their truth before continuing, her features murky and her voice hollow, like knocking on the door to an empty house. “He was found in a hotel room. They say He went on a bender. They don’t know the cause of death yet. It could have been a suicide, they’re not sure yet, except...” She continued speaking, but the words trailed off somehow. In that moment it didn’t matter to me how it happened, only that it did. There was a lot of blood, she said. I

He did die in pain. I carried that with me like a candle in the darkness, a torch of proof that some kind of divine justice could smite the wicked, as though I had ever believed in such a thing in the first place. And yet I could not swallow that bitter, corrosive taste, which would follow me in car rides and while reading books, in classes or in libraries. There was no one to answer for my mother’s defeat, nor the way she still doubts her decisions and has sworn off letting any men close to her. Meanwhile, I was lost in dark visions of red, where I spat on His grave and extinguished His name from the mouths of others, because what else is there to take from the dead? My mother’s guilt and shame fill each room to this day. She is plagued by close calls and potential disasters that could have happened, though for my sake she swallows it, tucking it between her ribs until she sees past me. He did not hurt me in the way

remember my feet taking root, snapping back into my body, tethered like an elastic 16

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she fears, I tell her. At this revelation she exhales her held breath like sweet scented anguish and my only desire is to tell her I told you so. But her shame and fragility do not extinguish late into the evening; instead they re-ignite and burn down to the wick until she is so lost in her own self-loathing that I decide to become vengeful enough for the both of us. On that day, where we walked through no man’s land, which by then only slightly resembled the skeletal bones of the house we had once shared with Him, I understood the difference between my mother and me. Family and friends alike, who came to help us scavenge through the remains of a past life, in that rotting corpse of matted carpet and crumbling drywall, regarded the both of us in transparent pity. But I was the one who did not need it. I was devastated but I survived-- if only to spite Him and all of His attempts to destroy an unshakeable foundation whose bones were reinforced with steel. It has been several years since His death and I still do not know what forgiveness tastes like, and I do not know that I ever will. But I do know what it is like to rise from the ashes of ruins left by an uninvited ghost, and how to stand on broken legs until the creaking joints and rattled bones learn to knit themselves back together once more. My rage is righteous and raw, and He did not have to rape me in order to force the weight of His malice into my body. He does not deserve my forgiveness, or my mother’s, His sister’s, or His daughter’s. Forgiveness is not the answer to a yes or no question. It is not black or white, good or bad, right or wrong. Forgiveness is not a requirement of my happiness, and forgetting Him will be easier than absolving Him of the damage He’s caused and the people He’s ruined. To this day, the thought of Him makes me feel like I am sixteen and defenseless all over again. But with experience comes new perspective-- one that has convinced me to let dead things stay dead.

Abandoned

Tristan Wright

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the train across the river to the main Rabat train station. By the time I arrived, the sun

The Road Shamal

had set, so I found a quiet spot in the corner and ate the last of my salami and cheese from Italy and slept a few hours before the next train north. I was awoken by the janitor

Max Biederman – Second Place

who wanted to water the plants I was sleeping against. I pulled my valuables out of my underwear and made my way to the kiosk to buy my ticket.

I got out of the back seat of the car and hugged my friends goodbye; afterwards, I

In the morning light, I was a bit disappointed at how familiar everything

watched the van that was our home for the last few weeks disappear towards the coast.

seemed, the Starbucks with a line out the door, the unmistakable McDonald’s arches

Once the car became a small dot on the horizon, I turned where the road forked,

peeking over the surrounding wall of the station, the men in suits glued to their

stretching towards the Atlas mountains, and started walking west, hitchhiking. The

smartphones. This did not remind me of the place William Burrows and Paul Bowles

road north from the Sahara is not a very busy route, mainly because the roads through

wrote about. Albeit they wrote of a Morocco that existed over 40 years ago, one of the

the mountains are old, and for the most part, all the people heading north use the

reasons I had chosen this place was because out of all the places I have visited since

coastal roads. Unfortunately, I was new to the logic of hitchhiking Morocco’s complex

leaving the states, I expected these cities to be less dictated by capitalism than what I

roads and didn’t know how long it would truly take to get back to the north. Luckily,

was used to. The slow ride out of the capital eased my fears, and the city slowly faded

all I had was time. Wherever I ended up when the sun went down was where I would

into rolling hills and dirt roads parallel to the train tracks. For next few hours, I didn’t

set up my tent, and the next morning I would wake up, and walk until a car stopped or

turn away from the window, taking it all in. The train tracks cut through the Moroccan

the sun set, whichever came first. I didn’t get to speak English for another two months,

countryside, connecting even the most remote villages. The donkeys forced to carry

and I picked up new words in Arabic every day in the cars, caravans, or semi trucks that

mountains of produce from village to village, the women permanently bent over the

would offer me a ride. In the nine months I spent in Morocco, the two months I spent

crops, the kids exposing their bottoms to the passing train all gave me a glimpse of

returning north were the most humbling and revelatory I had ever experienced.

the country I would come to love. Morocco was the first country I visited where I felt

I had spent New Year’s Eve at the airport and made it my goal to learn as little as possible about the country before arriving in order to avoid forming false expectations for my time there. I had connected with an elderly English woman on the internet who actively searches for young travelers who are looking to work long term at her

completely out of place, in an unfamiliar country where I knew not the culture nor the language, and it gave me an intense feeling of desire to learn as much as I could about this exotic place. Over the next few months at the eco-village, I would be working harder and longer

eco-village in exchange for a bed and food. Upon arriving in Rabat, I would have to

hours than I ever had in exchange for absolutely no money, but I gained so much in

make my way up the coast to a small port town called Asilah. It was a quick flight

the knowledge that the English woman shared with me. Living in the country for so

over the Mediterranean, and before I knew it, I exited the airport into a swarm of taxi

many years and looking through the eyes of a foreigner, she had picked up on the small

drivers all looking for a fresh tourist to transport. They yelled over each other in a slur

formalities and the strange commonplace customs; she became a great resource for me

of languages. I made my way past with my minimal baggage, and I was armed with the

to dip my toes into Moroccan culture as well as traditional natural building. After I

first words in my linguistic arsenal “La shukran” (No, thank you). I followed the signs

left her village, I needed money and began searching for an actual job. Asilah, although

with what I assumed was a picture of train to the station and paid a few Dirhams for

being a small city, attracted expats from all over the globe, and luckily I had found a job working at the only hostel in town. My coworkers in the hostel became my close friends

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as well as others who had been charmed by this small fishing town and had settled

up the neighboring dune to watch the sunrise. The desert is one of the greatest natural

down and adapted to the Moroccan way of life. Some of my friends from the hostel

wonders; just like staring into a canyon, or down a mountain, it felt as though I was in

along with a few of the volunteers from the eco-village decided to take a short break

a boat looking around and the ocean stretched into the horizon. The solitude which it

from work and go down to visit the Sahara before the heat became unbearable.

had instilled in me foreshadowed the theme of my following adventure.

We started our pilgrimage to the desert at the world annual festival of Gnaoua, which is the music performed by the indigenous North African people. Groups traveled

watered the camels, we set off and ate as we rode. We arrived in the village faster than I

from many countries to perform in the old Portuguese colony of Essaouira, said to be

had hoped; I wanted to see more. We were to head back to the coast and return north,

the sister city of Asilah, and it was there where we spent our last night in a bed before

to return to our jobs, the lives we had built for ourselves in Asilah. Our vacation was

pitching tents on our route east. The road inland from there goes straight through the

over, but because I had fallen into the monotonous routine working the same job, I had

Atlas mountains to the desert. Public transportation between rural villages was a long

almost forgotten my sense of exploration that I lost once I had settled in Asilah for so

and confusing process, especially for foreigners, so we all decided it would be best to

long. We loaded the van and put the dunes in our rearview mirror. Getting into the car

rent a car between the lot of us and drive to the desert.

I knew I had already made the decision. I told all my friends my plan and while making

My traveling companions all came from different cultures, but the one thing we had in common was the fact that we were enchanted by the curious medinas and abundance of hospitable locals. And while we were there, we considered it home. For every one of us from different continents and cultures, the week-long drive down south was a beautiful one, the conversation switching through languages as often as we switched

The temperature rose quickly, and as soon as we finished our morning tea and

a few jokes, they wished me luck, and once we arrived at the fork in the road, we said our goodbyes. One road went straight to the ocean, the other, to the right, went north through the mountains. I stared up at them, and while their size made them look close, I knew they were still very far away. During my long trek north, I came to a very profound discovery. Those who have

through towns. We enjoyed the tranquility of camping as well as the chaos of the

very little often share the most, which proved true time and time again during the

outside markets, and traveling together gave me a chance to become acquainted better

journey. The days it took me to reach the mountains, I followed curving roads which

with the friends I had made, but it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t until I began traveling alone that I truly

were more or less parallel to massive, seemingly dry, riverbeds that were lush with

started connecting with the locals. Once we arrived in the southmost village bordering

trees and bursting vegetation that is fed annually from the winter rains. While some

the desert, we rented a half dozen camels, a guide, and a few hours before sunset, we

places would have pools of mostly stagnant water, for the most part, the stream was

set off towards the dunes to spend the night in the desert. We arrived in a clearing

no bigger than a few inches. I would often take breaks from walking and waiting for

and set up our camp in the shadow of an adjacent dune. We spent the night playing

a ride inside the riverbed where the grass was soft and the temperature much cooler

instruments; the guide sang traditional songs for us and taught us the Berber alphabet.

than the surrounding rocky landscape. As I would rest under a tree, the local villagers

We passed around his homemade booze and listened to him curse the king and his

would routinely walk by, and the majority of people who saw me would stop and talk

predecessor; he told us of his dream of an independent Amazigh nation succeeded

with me, invite me to their house for tea. Because it is a Muslim country, the duty of

from Morocco. We were slightly let down because of the clouds covering the stars,

hospitality is strong, especially towards foreigners. One of the rules I had set for myself

but luckily we were awoken in the dead of night and invited outside by our guide.

was to try and accept every invitation I received. This meant that multiple times a day I

The clouds had cleared and revealed more stars than I had ever seen, so far from an

would be invited for tea or invited to meet someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s family over dinner, even wedding

artificial light that the Milky Way was clearly visible. We all stayed awake and climbed

invitations, all in the first few hours of knowing these people. After walking through the

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oasis, I realized that much of the riverbed land is divided into large patches with heavy rocks. A man I met in the riverbed explained to me that the land was divided between

to process before the next corner turned. I walked down the corridors of tents, tables,

the villagers and passed down through the family and once a year they grow what they

and trolleys. One man unloaded bound chickens from a pickup truck while another

can in the little fertile soil they had, but the higher I climbed in the mountains, the

man methodically picked them up and decapitated them. Another man set up a chair

larger was the stream of water.

behind a curtain where he pulled teeth. A group of sitting women were laughing

One thing that the country is notorious for is their vibrant markets; each village that hosts the weekly market, or “suk,” is usually named after the day of the week it is held on. For example, the first suk I attended in the Atlas was when I had arrived in a village named Had al Sharquia, which means Sunday of the east, as opposed to the suk Had al Gharabia on the western coast. While it does cause some confusion geographically when many villages have the same name, it provided me with a great opportunity to visit a market every day as well as providing me with ample traffic to each of my destinations. I spent two weeks getting through the Atlas mountains and tried to get to a market every other day, which allowed me to always have fresh food as well as enough time to get to know each place I stayed. The further into the mountains I got, the harder it was to find flat ground free of rocks. This forced me to ask the owners of the little farmable land there was if I could set up my tent, which was the size of a coffin, in a small crop free area in exchange for a day’s work. If the family had daughters, I would usually be allowed to sleep outside but was always invited to share meals. But if the family had no children or sons, I would usually be invited to sleep inside. This was a trait I found consistent throughout the country. It became natural for me to wake up whenever the sun rose, due to the transparency of my tent; my biological clock eventually adjusted to the rural way of life, and as the sun rose, I packed up my site and headed for the main road. Even though most vehicles going towards the villages are usually packed well over capacity, it never took long to get a ride on the market day. The more rural the village I visited, the more of a celebrity I felt. A group of kids would follow me from the outskirts of the village, and each time I would turn my back, the gang of giggling children got bigger and bigger, and once I penetrated the mass of people, I was quickly spotted as a foreigner and dragged from one tent of goods to the next. It was the rawest form of the economy I had ever seen. 24

Every direction I would face there was more and more visual stimulation that I tried

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and weaving prayer mats, everyone shouting prices over each other. Smoke from the grilled meats at points became so thick that my eyes began to water. A teenage boy maneuvered his cart of CDs through the hundreds of people like a leaf on a stream while blasting his music. Before I had realized it, the market turned into the old medina where parts seemed like crumbling ruins next to small rooms with men working thread through ancient looms or spinning pottery on foot-powered wheels. Metal workers’ hammers were in concert with the carpenters’ power tools. After one wrong turn, the stream of shoppers spit me out a side exit of the stone walls of the old city center. Behind the medina, there were the motorking drivers who would deliver people’s groceries to their homes if their cars couldn’t fit or if they walked to the suk. While the group of drivers all waited for the shoppers to finish, they all sat under a fig tree passing around their sebsi pipe. As I walked by, I was waived over to have the typical conversation, which I had memorized at this point about what I was doing here, where I was from, if I was married, where I had learned the language, followed by the classic invitation to meet the family. Of course, I accepted, and we talked about where I had been and where I was going next over a pot of mint tea; I played soccer with the two sons, and the wife taught me how to make couscous from scratch. I had been invited to dozens of encounters like this, but each time, I felt the excitement they felt to show me their way of life. One son would take me on a tour of his fields, passed down through the generations, and show me his house that he and his father built. Each thing he presented or explained to me widened his smile a bit more. A trait I noticed quite often was the eagerness to share their culture. The high Altas soon turned into the Riff mountain chains, and the locals’ skin turned from a dark brown to a light caramel color. The vegetation became more forgiving, and within a day of exiting the Atlas, I found myself surrounded by trees and green grass; in contrast to the previous desolate desert landscape, the soft grass here felt like a new mattress. This allowed me to rely less on the hospitality of others

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when searching for a place to sleep and begin to reflect in solitude about the past weeks before they came to an end, now that I arrived in a more high traffic area as I approached the north coast. Even though I had many encounters with the locals as well as strolling through suks, a good eighty percent of my time was spent alone: alone at a campsite, alone walking down a barren stretch of road, alone exploring the ruins of old Kasbahs, alone picking fresh figs, alone navigating the ancient medinas, alone climbing the ongoing road wrapping itself up a mountain, alone with my thumb and arm numb at my side waiting for someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s generosity on the empty roads. All the solitude had taught me more about myself than I had expected. After days and weeks inside my own head, I began to understand myself much better, my needs and desires as well as my insecurities and fears. I had learned the difference between solitude and loneliness, and even though I was alone for such a long time, not once did I feel lonely.

Movie Poster: Alice in Wonderland 26

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“O Mother, Where art Thou?” Kevin Abblett – Third Place

enough “people” to contend with at home without adding in the dramas of my prepubescence. We didn’t know it at the time, but through Mom’s therapy, the doctor revealed to us that her condition was the result of a childhood filled with constant sexual attacks from her father. The indications for the origin of mom’s condition came during her first year

My mom suffered from what they then called “multiple personality disorder.” The reality of my mother’s condition lacked the glamor of its television counterpart, Sybil,

all strangers, forced to explore that unfamiliar and terrifying landscape together. In

as none of her personalities ever wrote best-selling novels or scored recording deals,

those days, Mom would disappear, and a stranger would take her place. It took copious

but her life was every bit as dramatic. I can’t recall the first time I experienced one of

group counseling sessions and a Herculean effort on all of our parts to begin to develop

her “transformations,” when she first went dark in front of me in mid-conversation, her

a dialogue with Mom in addition to all of the different people in her head. Eventually,

eyes sinking into a shadowy place where she went for several moments before fluttering

as that first year came to a close, and the tumultuous pattern of our lives settled in, we

back to consciousness like an amnesiac, frightened, not knowing where she was, or who

gradually came to some mutual understandings. We came to know several of Mom’s

my sister and I were. I know I couldn’t have been more than eight because it was that

more regular personalities and began developing friendships with them. Most of the

year that my parents got divorced, and by that time, Mom was already taking regular

time, these personalities somehow knew enough to know what things were okay to

trips to the local psych-ward. We were used to the hospitals by that time, my sister and

tell to us kids and what things weren’t. Most were of an age that could see our fear and

I; all through my younger years, Mom would disappear for days dealing with her eating

didn’t want to do anything to exacerbate it. Most times.

disorders, teetering back and forth between anorexia and bulimia as she struggled

As therapy sessions poked deeper and deeper into the bowels of mom’s psyche, more

through the experiences masking her true condition. We had already met our first

and more personalities began to appear. I lost count after 36, but I recall that number

therapists by the time that Mom’s real issues started, so it was no surprise to us when

was continually growing. There were my friends, like Kyle, a boy about my own age,

we began to see our childhood security dissolve beneath us. Fear dominated our minds

whose enthusiasm for my toy collection was so infectious that I’d entirely forget that

during those first uncertain years as Mom’s condition worsened, and we wondered if

it was really my mom who was scrambling around the floor playing with me and not

she would ever be well again.

Kyle. His voice was deeper than Mom’s, husky even inside her delicate frame. He was

Mom’s descent into madness slowly settled into my childhood like a menacing

of therapy, when all of her different personalities first began to appear, when we were

transfixed by the complexity of my action figures, all the moving parts and accessories.

relative we didn’t want but had to take in nevertheless. We would visit her periodically

He’d tell me stories of his own simple GI Joe action figures, and for those few brief

during “good times” when the combination of drugs and group therapy ensured some

moments, we were best friends, playing together. Nikki was my mom’s Picasso, carving

measure of security against the threat of revealing how bad her condition had become.

out the mysteries of her mind in shades of glorious pink, blue, and green Crayola. She

I remember seeing her change from one personality to another, how the familiar face

was one or two years my senior with scarlet hair. We were both artists, and we’d sit at

of my mother would wash away, replaced moments later by the quizzical stare of one

the kitchen table together and color and draw for hours. She’d draw out the inhabitants

of her many strangers. It was always unnerving, there was never any warning, no way

of the forests spread throughout my mom’s mind, giving faces to the names of so many

to tell who the next player on the stage of her face would be, and no way to know how

of her constantly evolving avatars. We spoke the same language, and I finally had access

long they would stay. I didn’t have many friends through this time in my life as I had

to this realm that I had so longed to see: Nikki painted a light into the void where my

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mom had disappeared and the insanity had began.

every bit like a wounded beast, trapped and moaning, as they waited for the cool calm

However my time with these friends wasn’t to last as everyone inside that everchanging terrain seemed to understand that our mom was the most important thing, and that maintaining her identity and the work of raising us kids was the common goal that nearly everyone could comprehend and support. My friends began to recede, and it seemed that every effort was taken to limit the amount of “social” time that we were allowed to spend with her different personalities. I have to admit that there had been joy with them, friendships, but also sorrow, and powerful trauma. Looking through Nikki’s sketchbooks, I found a vision of my mother’s tangled identity, a vision that brought me peace in a world of chaos, but there was also pain, tortured images

a varied and quixotic thing. Multiple Personality Disorder is a controversial affliction, and one with a host of different potential treatments; none of which are seen as wholly authoritative. Dr. Samsky took the volatile road of hypnosis, first befriending and gaining the trust of Mom’s different personalities, and then getting them to agree to his methodology. As they did so, they all began working together to help unravel that network of abuses that to this day still haunts my mother’s consciousness as well as my own. As these explorations into her past continued, more and more personalities began to

of her childhood nightmare that I should never have seen, all sketched with a child’s

manifest themselves; like an onion with all its many layers, mom’s consciousness was

hand. These sketches detailing her torture scarred my young mind, which had barely

being peeled apart, but with each new layer gone, her insanity seemed to worsen. There

contemplated kissing, and was still a million miles away from thoughts of sexuality. I

was no way for us to see the method to this madness, however, as our time with her was

remember I had great fear, too, like the day when Kyle had to use the restroom, and we

limited to one or two weekend-long visits per month, prescribed all too hesitantly by

stood by helpless as his screams erupted from the sealed door because he was forced

the California custodial authorities. To us, it appeared as if Mom’s fragile sanity was

to face the horrible reality of his body. I remember scenes like these, and the arrival of

dissolving more and more. When we’d see her, it became more difficult to get back to

many new strangers--children like us and younger, so young, in fact, and frightened that

our essential mother. Other personalities, older personalities who resembled her, would

they were wholly unable to take care of themselves, let alone us. It was terrifying when

often take over as my sister and I would visit, waiting out our father’s inevitable return.

they would appear, and in extreme panic and confusion, we’d have to wait for our mom

When she wasn’t hospitalized, Mom was on her own, struggling to maintain home and

to return, or for someone else to come along and help us through our ordeal.

sanity, with only the thought of us and of our well-being standing as the rock she’d cling

Fortunately, there was help to help guide my mom’s recovery, one who stretched out a friendly hand and lead her through that cavernous maze of a her psyche. Dr. Samsky had been there for Mom and for us from the beginning after her first year of shifting

of the Demerol drip to sedate her. We learned quickly that the therapist’s toolbox was

as her mind floundered with the atrocities that were every day coming to light in her therapy sessions.

On occasion, Dr. Samsky would see us kids too when mom had a particularly

terrains, frightening new realities, and the strain of maintaining her identity—all while

bad week, or if we’d experienced something particularly traumatic. It was in these

holding down a job and trying to cope with raising us kids all became too much for

sessions that he first laid out the ground plan of his treatment methods for me. We

her. As she broke down, we were up-rooted, taken to live with our father in the bloody

used Nikki’s drawings, and he’d walk me through the landscape of Mom’s madness. He

wreck that had become his life since his wife went mad and destroyed their marriage.

explained that there was in fact a forest in my mom’s mind with vast trees stretching

As we struggled to adapt to life with Dad, Mom’s battle continued unabated. Living

out as far as the eye could see. There were glades as well, meeting and resting places

the life of an out-patient resident at the psych-ward, her therapy sessions would run

where the different personalities could go to rest, or get away from their fellows. Most

for hours at a time, several days a week when she was at her best. And at worst, she’d lie

poignant was the “theatre” which lay behind my mother’s physical eyes. This consisted

thrashing and howling under leather straps in the hospital’s “Time Out” room, looking

of two chairs sitting behind those lidless portals, allowing the more outgoing of Mom’s

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personalities to peer out on us and this world. It was from here that mom eventually

and work through the difficulties of our environment, but these new doctors favored

learned to gain some measure of discipline. From these windows, she eventually learned

sedation, and our daily cocktail of pills began to resemble a bag of Skittles.

to wrestle back control of her consciousness from whichever personality had usurped it; this was a powerful symbol of hope to us kids when it finally manifested, but that was still a long time coming. At the outskirts of this little village were dense forests, rows of tightly bound trees stretching in dark and craggily queues back into the depth of mom’s sub-conscious. Here and there in these tangled groves we’d see the figure of a small child, hiding or scrambling behind the labyrinth of trees. Dr. Samsky explained that their work, his and Mom’s, was to help coax out all of these still hidden specters into the light of consciousness. Only when the depth of her affliction was brought fully to self-consciousness would she be able to pick up the fractured pieces and begin to reclaim her life.

Finally the years of therapy began to pay off, though the evidence was slow to

with Dad, and had forbidden us to visit Mom. It was a time when it seemed she needed us more than ever. We hated our dad then and blamed him for Mom’s insanity and for the prison sentence that my sister and I had been forced into. We knew that if he’d only let us spend more time with her, she’d be able to recover, but our pleas fell on deaf ears. We didn’t realize that this wasn’t our father’s fault; it wasn’t even his call to make. The hospital doctors on Mom’s end, dad’s own personal therapist, and people far less understanding than Dr. Samsky were making these decisions, arguing that it was better for us to keep our distance during these darkest days of her recovery. My sister and I hated them all and their villainous attempts to deny us access to Mom; we were her best lifeline.

and the long-standing sanctions dividing our world from our Mom’s were finally, graciously lifted. On a cold night, like so many others in the distant hills above Simi Valley, Dad’s and my sister’s constant fighting came to a head. She struck him in the face, and I remember looking into the tears and puffy-faced eyes of my sister struggling against the wall before Dad--her throat bulging from the strain of his hands clamped violently around her throat--fell, and choking, she ran off into a wilderness of that night. She went to the police, who, in her present state, found it easy to acquiesce to her requests to be returned to our mother. At the court hearing a month later, the judges stable environment of Mom’s on-going recovery.

It would be another month and a half before I would be able to join them.

Dad didn’t recover well from that gruesome night, both of us spending several weeks of that time period in and out of psychiatric hospitals ourselves. The courts at this point left the decision to me, which parent I’d rather be with: the choice was easy, and very soon I was back in the loving embrace of both my mom and my sister, on whom I had come to rely so heavily to protect me from the violence and insanity in our lives. In our absence, Mom had made remarkable strides. Dr. Samsky’s magic bag of tricks was really paying off as more and more often Mom was able to wrestle control back from her many personalities. Her condition, coupled with the outcome of her constant therapy sessions stretched her mind well beyond the limits of sanity, and somewhere, out beyond the confines of this world and its rules, the schism in her mind began to mend.

Things came to a head with Dad in those last couple of years. I was in the grips

Ironically, as her personalities multiplied and as each day more tortured memories

of a torturous puberty, having become a complete introvert, cutting myself off from my

returned, her mind split into infinite shards of pain, and my mom began to once again

own mind and my peers. I did everything I could to hide from the world and from the

shine through.

changes that were ravaging my body. My sister was far beyond these trivialities. Hers was a story of an angry teenage rebellion as she battled against the tyrannical rule of our father. And as if to help, the doctors gave us all kinds of medications to help us deal with the strain. In the early days, the focus of our therapy had been on helping us talk 32

At the close of summer vacation in my twelfth year, the damn finally broke,

likewise found little difficulty in allowing her to return to the remarkably safer and

reveal itself. There was a time-period, when I was eleven when my sister and I still lived

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Without having actually witnessed it, I never would have guessed how

effective Dr. Samsky’s treatment would end up being. I could never have believed that it was only through worsening her condition, only through deepening her insanity would he be able to help Mom carve out her sanity once again, but it did. Not only Creative Non-Fiction

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did she maintain more control over which personalities got to manifest themselves

The Monster In Me

and when, but eventually, within the first few months of our return to living with her, as quickly as it had first split, the fractured remnants of her sanity snapped back in

Cicely Winder – Honorable Mention

place. I know on the surface that these experiences were terrible, that no family should ever have to endure what we did in the horrifying years of Mom’s affliction, but every day I am grateful for the experiences we shared, for the terror and the relief. We had no certainties that we would ever be able to find our way through those dark years, but the remarkable strength of our familial bond held us tight and kept us afloat as we weathered the unrelenting storms of all the indescribable turmoil. We are stronger today and closer to one another than many families I’ve met, and that is due in large part to the trials that we all struggled so long to endure.

I was about ten years year old when I first started to experience hints of what was about to develop into my bipolar disorder, and it would be 13 years until I finally accepted treatment. For over a decade, I struggled with this strangely magnetic sickness while letting it take control of my life. As beautiful as it is terrifying and as blissful as it is wretched, my bipolar disorder is a part of me that will never leave. For too long I let myself collapse under the weight of my mental illness and let it drag me to within an inch of my sanity and my life. Yet after all of this, I’m still here. I am here, I am I alive, and I am better for it. Every step on the path that led me here has been vital to who I am today. After many years of denial, I have finally come to realize that my bipolar disorder is not something to hide or be ashamed of, nor can I discount the beauty and strength it has given me which has made me realize that my “sickness” is really an irretrievably essential part of myself. At the same time, I have come to recognize that this part of my “self ” requires constant attention and maintenance if I want to live my life freely. When the first shadows of what would become my symptoms began to affect me, I still viewed them through the bubbly lenses of a child’s point of view. I started to notice a weird pattern. One day, I would be happy as could be, spending my summer days elated playing outside, with the sun pressing warm kisses to my skin, and life was everything I could ask it to be. The next day I would spend inside, barely leaving my room, with my motivation sapped and what felt like a heavy weight resting on my chest. Why was I so tired? Why couldn’t I just stay happy, like other kids? Was I doing something wrong? I started to feel like my life was spinning around in a circle I didn’t know how to stop. This feeling progressed as I grew up and my sense of confusion stayed with me. One day in the blink of an eye, I would go from feeling fine to suddenly wanting nothing

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more than to curl up in a ball in a dark corner and stay there hidden away from the rest

and the roughest patch of my life, I thought, was over. I had reached point where I

of the world. The more I was depressive, the more I felt alien from myself. I led a fairly

was in a good relationship; I was keeping up with my classes, and I was living on my

mundane life, and I had good friends and a family who loved me. I had no reasonable

own. My life had become more stable, so in response I had become happier. Little by

reason to be sad, so who was this girl crying and screaming into her pillow, and what

little, I convinced myself that I had managed to somehow strong arm my way out of

the fuck was her problem? Some nights I’d spend clawing at my own skin, unable to

depression. I would experience longer and longer stretches of what felt like a “normal”

shake this feeling that there was some thing, some monster that had taken my mind and

happiness. If I had a day here, or a week there, where it seemed like my monster was

my body hostage and I had to get it out by any means necessary because it wasn’t me. It

returning, so what? Normal people get sad too, sometimes. Normal people get excited

couldn’t be. Still, the monster kept getting stronger, and the days I was tired began to

and happy. I was normal. I was fine.

outnumber the days I was happy.

Then one day my world came tumbling down when my relationship of six years with

An unexpected benefit began to show itself, however. These days, if I was happy, I was completely happy. When life was good, it was breathtakingly beautiful. These

emotions came tumbling down. I could no longer ignore what I was feeling or pretend

times became precious to me. There was a field surrounded by trees in the backyard of

that it was nothing. I was exhausted. I had been worn down by all the years I spent

my family’s house, and some nights in the summer I would walk around it, just at the

pretending I was fine while ignoring my “bad” days and the energy sapped from me

edge of the forest, strolling and gazing up at the stars with every sense heightened. The

during my too “good days.”

damp grass crunching beneath my feet, the heavy herbed scent of the forest, the breeze gently swaying the trees before coming to brush against my skin: all became ecstasy. I imagined myself expanding in all directions, growing with every step and spilling out into the sky. Stretching my limbs through the immense vacuum above and below me, I could feel an infinite space around my every side. I was huge, I was life, I was everything. I was manic, but I didn’t know that yet. Those were the days I lived for. I tried anything and everything I could to find a way to make myself feel the way I

Still, the decision I made then to visit a therapist was a scary one. It legitimized what I’d gone through, but it also gave me the permanent stamp of having a mental illness. Unlike depression, bipolar disorder is not something that can be cured with a few years of medication and therapy. It is a lifelong condition that requires constant maintenance. It’s been a year now since I first started my medication, and I am happy to say that I’ve used it to help build a life I never could have had before. I do still have what I call “mini” manic or depressive episodes. I’ll feel the familiar change in mood,

wanted to on cue, but nothing worked. On the bad days, there was nothing I could

but it’s now been dampened to the point that it doesn’t significantly interfere with my

drink or smoke that could take away the weight I felt on my chest. On the good days,

life. What I do have is this new lease on life that has given me the freedom to follow my

there was nothing I could do but hope that this time I would stay happy. This cycle

dreams and start to become the person I’d always hoped I could be.

exhausted me emotionally, physically, and mentally. Embarrassed that I couldn’t control how I felt, I told myself that I was being overdramatic. If I admitted that I couldn’t control my own mind, I was admitting to letting the monster win. If I just tried hard enough, I could find a way to be normal.

But even now it’s hard to tell where I begin and my mania or depressiveness ends. What I’ve come to realize is that it’s a blurred line, and this is not something with a clearly defined border. I still sometimes question myself; did I really act that way just because I was feeling impulsive? Or was I having a moment of mania? Am I a deeply

And eventually, as I grew older and graduated high school, it seemed like that was

my boyfriend ended. I was devastated, and the wall I had been building against my

emotional and impulsive person because I experience mania? Is this some sickness that

becoming a reality. The hormones and turmoil of my teenage years had died down,

really is damaging my inherent self, something I should never cease fighting? Or am I

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more prone to manic depression because I have the personality for it and it has really been a part of me all along? Am I my manic depression, or is it me? These questions still sometimes haunt me.

Underneath the Blanket Konrad Ashby – Honorable Mention

In the end, I’ve concluded that the answer lies in the middle, but asking these questions is still pointless. My mental illness is not some separate monster taking control of my mind. My mental illness is me, but it’s me amplified. My mental illness is

I was only a child when the numbing fuzz of depression took me away from the

something that needs to be taken seriously and cannot be ignored, but not every effect

world I loved. I watched from a distant window as the people around me whirred

it’s had on me has been bad. I’ve experienced a feeling of connection to the universe

through the days and years like revolving doors without batting an eye. Depression

during my mania that will always stay with me. Its dangerous qualities have even given

is not a howling beast or a solemn vow; rather, it is a suicidal parasite that hollows its

me a drive and resilience that is a force to be reckoned with. If my depressive episodes

victims, and I have seen too many friends crumble under its insurmountable pressure.

hadn’t dragged me to the verge of death with their crippling numbness and if my

Like shambling addicts without a drug, we stumbled throughout the modern world

depression hadn’t forced me to face the demons hiding within myself, I wouldn’t have

looking for some sense of clarity in the motion blur of modern life only to find our

the deep appreciation for life that I do now.

demons and let downs under every stone. Despite the isolating nature of depression, my

I will forever be grateful for the medication that has undoubtedly saved my live and

fellow dissociated youth have forged a strong bond through fellowship and expression

allows me to live not solely driven by the intensity of my highs and lows. However, I

that seeks to call attention to the nature of our time and sing eulogies for those whom

wouldn’t change a thing about my experience. I firmly believe that I wouldn’t be the

society vanished away without a sound. Throughout this unforgettable and eternal

dedicated, strong, and driven person I am today if I hadn’t been forced to go through

struggle pressed upon me, I have not only learned the pain of isolation, but also the

this. And if I’m honest, I’m happy that the medicine I’m taking only makes these

value of friendship and laughter and the way to find happiness in a world full of such

episodes less frequent and more manageable, instead of taking them away completely.

pain and confusion.

If it did, I would be losing a piece of myself, something I was given that made me able

The story of my depression begins when I was a child just entering school. Like

to experience life through a wider range of perception than most and has helped me

most children in elementary school, I tried to blend in the best I could, but I had my

now to exist with a greater appreciation of the world we live in, with all the tragedy and

exceptions. I had my fun playing make believe with my friends and building fleeting

beauty that it holds. Now that I’m more stable and out on the other side, I no longer

narratives of super heroes and forgotten kingdoms found in the playground sand. It

view my bipolar disorder as a monster. I’ve even started considering it a gift.

wasn’t long until the school troublemakers saw me as an opportunity to score some points with their peers, and as soon as the first comment was made, the bullying started. It took years of harassment to even realize I was being targeted. The comments and rumors spread throughout the school like a plague, and before I knew it, I was thrown into a group of kids branded “the weirdoes.” At first, I was rebellious and demanded a fair chance to redeem myself, but justice is seldom found on a playground, and I sank into the grave that was dug for me. Although I was hesitant initially, by the first grade, I was wearing the title of weirdo like a glove. I was eccentric and finally found

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an identity in being explosively unique. I was loud, obnoxious, and most upsetting to

avalanches where I had mental breakdowns in my room and lost a piece of myself every

my upperclassmen--I caught people’s attention. I wore shirts with wild logos of obscure

time. Any notion of hope was deemed to be a chemical reaction and unfit for practice. I

foreign cartoon shows and told too-wild-to-be-true tales of my journeys through a

continued on this way for the majority of my preteen years and was struck off as a youth

fictional town that was walking distance from my house. The bullying didn’t get easier

vying for attention. The process reached its final stage when all my elementary school

to deal with, but I felt a drive to keep moving. With this new explosive persona, I

friends who had shared this struggle with me moved away one by one in a tragedy only

found a couple of people stepping out into the light with me. Two peers of mine joined

fit to be staged by a cruel genius god with a knack for timing. I was completely alone

my posse, and together we formed a strong circle of people who would fiercely fight

with nothing to tether me to reality, and on that sinking loneliness I entered high

against childhood’s odd struggle to retain social invisibility, a fight which I would soon

school.

learn cannot be won. As our little squad flew through the years, the bullying revved up to a massive crescendo during the last days of elementary school. I recall my friend being pelted with rocks on his way home and punished when he tried to stand up for himself. Rides home on the bus were a conversational battlefield where I hopelessly tried to remain out of gossip-filled talks and lame insults. The last thing I can remember in elementary school was a girl pushing me to the ground and telling me that nobody would ever love me; those words shot through my body like a bullet in my spine and created a system of self- loathing and separation that would manifest itself into my depression in the years to come.

my loose skin and grow wings to fly above the trenches that shackled me to my fate; I was wrong. The corridors of high school became packed highways of prying eyes that zoomed by like headlights on a passing train, consumed by motion blur and lost in its movement. Classrooms were isolation chambers where I could hear my own lose thoughts rattling in my head, trying to force some kind of reaction to start. There was nothing left of the excited kid who played fantastical games in the playground and there was not an ounce of love left in my body. I hated the world for pushing me into the pins and spitting tar into my eyes, I hated the people around me for being happier than me

By the time I entered middle school, my scars from those earlier days had congealed

and not giving me a second glance, and most of all I hated myself for being so naive to

into my appearance. My haircut was odd, my clothes were fit only for comfort, and my

think I deserved to hate anything. What was once a beautiful collection of memories

personality was volatile and explosive. As I walked through the crowded hallways from

and cherished moments that rang out in a chorus had become a dissonant cacophony

class to class, I saw the world recede until I no longer felt the sensations around me. I

of white noise that swallowed every ray of sun and every scream of desperation into

watched some strange entity pilot my body from a distance, as I separated completely

a buzzing that numbed my senses. I had long given up on any notion of returning to

from the world. It was numbing and frightening, but it was the only solution that could

reality; this was my bed and I would lay in it. I persisted simply because the breeze was

stop the crushing anxiety that day to day life had become. I gave up on any notion of

not strong enough to tear me apart. While much of this was based in some abstract

self-improvement and came under the realization that the people I so adamantly fought

semblance of reality, it would take a miracle to make me realize what was happening

against were actually correct: I had become something fundamentally different, and it

was as much an illness as a punished fate.

was the loneliest feeling in the world. What used to be a childish optimism was now a leaking vessel, and nothing was very much fun anymore, even if I was smiling the whole time. I felt some kind of shadow over everything I did, and life lost saturation. Breezy days became hurricanes, and the wonders of the world became party tricks, as I tumbled through the months like a pebble down a mountain. Thoughts were stepping stones to 40

I had told myself that in high school things would be different, that I would shed off

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Near the end of my freshman year of high school, I thought I ought to kill myself. It wasn’t some grand gesture or cry for help, but it simply seemed to be the next logical option. I walked into my room and kicked off my shoes while I flicked on my computer screen. There was a little jumble of pixels on my dirty computer monitor that represented an incoming message. Hours later as I planned to get this thing over with, I Creative Non-Fiction

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found myself face to face with that dot on my screen. It was like looking into the eyes of

consumer with no sense of mercy--tear people limb from limb while they never made

a deer caught in the paralyzing glow of headlights, and I was mesmerized for a reason I

a sound, people lost to the static fuzzy nature of it all, and when people see these

cannot decipher to this day. Needless to say I opened it, and it was an invitation to meet

wounds for what they are, they tell them their victims chin up as if they are not already

two people my friend had recommended to me. I gave it a shot, and it saved my life.

dangling their head between the lion’s jaws. People under this shroud suffered a horrific

Those people would create a support group that would remain essential forever. It was

pain underneath a blanket of wasted Saturday afternoons and weakly woven hobbies,

strange jumble of people who all had their own fair share of mental health problems/

rocking back and forth, crying and whispering to themselves that they are not alive yet.

emotional distress. For once in my life I had a family of people who I could relate

It was a fate we all shared and remained so in fear, never to remove each other’s feeble

to, and it wasn’t group therapy either. We were all deeply sedated and burnt by the

hiding place.

effects of depression and isolation, but we maintained a sense of dark, ironic humor as dissociated youths in the modern age. As I transitioned on through high school, these bonds would be tested along with my own will to go on.

We became done with the pain before we were old enough to supposedly know what real pain was. I had friends disappear all together, and I’ve seen people slowly trickle

My depression would peak in sophomore year when an emotionally abusive friend

out of will power. Without any direct results the will to go on is always fading, and

of mine would attempt to tear my support group and other friends away from me in

I had to find something to grab onto fast. Senior year came before I knew it, and I

an attempt to keep me all for himself. After finally cutting him out of my life while

needed something to pour my ambition into. Oddly enough I had never considered

dealing with the swarming thoughts in my head, junior year rolled around, and I was

the option that was right in front of me: music. I had been playing for years but never

burnt out. I had tried giving in to my depression, tried fighting back tooth and nail, but

had considered it as a real option before but I saw something in it I hadn’t seen before;

I finally lost my will to do anything. I sat in teenage angst day after day, waiting like a

a raw form of expression free of any shackles, one where any thought could be given a

Pavlovian dog for the tolling of the school bell that would lead me home into my own

powerful form and be shot like a bullet into the listener’s mind. So I and a group of like-

world where I could pretend to escape from myself. I watched those I cared about fall

minded people formed a ragtag group of musicians and began my latest and greatest

harshly to the poisonous cocktail that is self loathing and time. One of my friends was

attempt to scream loud enough to be heard.

sent to inpatient care at a psychiatric ward when he told his parents he wanted to see a therapist. He developed issues with dependency and emotions that he still struggles with to this day. One by one, I watched suicide attempts and hollow shells of people whir by on a carousel of grim reality. I saw those parts of people lost to this state of mind, and I saw myself lost in it as well.

After years of this muted suffering, my friends began to lose the fire within them.

I’m now out of high school and have a wealth of experiences under my belt. I’m not burnt out anymore, I’m not cynical either; I’m just tired. I want to move on and beat this demon, yet it follows me in every walk of my life, and the feelings it brings never subside; rather, they only get quieter. I have learned to deal with the hand that was given to me, and my friends provide a strong support system. Every passing day

I realized that those who suffered from depression and other mental illness often

is another ticking on the clock that I have let swing by, but is also another day I have

suffered in complete silence. All of us would live with masks of smiles and laughter

survived against insurmountable odds. I look at people with admiration now at how

while our general discontent with life swallowed what remained behind the facades.

far they’ve come no matter their situation. Being alive is the hardest thing possible, and

We had become too good at hiding it in our youth when being asked questions about

we do it everyday without any sense of recognition. I have seen the jaws of depression

ourselves was terrifying and could mean the disruption of our delicate little universe

rip the life out of my friends’ eyes and have seen the cold deal of life crush people in an

we built for ourselves. I had seen the most terrifying killer of all time--this cosmic

instant without a second thought. In the modern world, life is running at a blinding

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pace, and it can be easy to lose ourselves and what we love, depression or no. So many have been lost to the wandering blind eyes of day to day life. These are difficult problems to solve, and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s important we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t turn our heads the other way and avoid the problem ahead of us. I was only a child when depression gripped me in its vice and bled me dry. I thought that my life was over when I was nine years old, and now I am in college and have never felt more alive in my entire life. It can be difficult to see through the sickening haze of the past and to lose the phantom weight of those we have lost, but we must, or we will lose the things that compose us. Life is not made of these dark moments, rather the space between them, and in a delicate waltz of persistence, the mind swirls around the drain but can find itself somewhere its never been. As long as we keep our love for this world, for these people, for the laughably bizarre and surreal nature of existence and for ourselves in sight, this world becomes the most beautiful and simple thing we could ever have.

Buddha in Jaipur Medium: Acrylic Size: 48x60x1.5

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Art

Angelika Zgainer

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clicking sound from deep in the back of our throats whenever we jumped or ran in

Pain and Grace

slow-motion. It was already eleven, as I pushed myself up from the kitchen table and made my way

Rosanna Moss – Honorable Mention

towards the hall, dizzy and short of breath with each tiny step, trying to reach my bed. I wasn’t feeling well, and knew I had been up long enough and needed to rest. But within

It’s an ironic thing to have a memory of an event that I hardly wish to remember and yet to walk around at 53 years of age wanting others to know what happened to me and to know who I really was before my fall into the abyss of despair. I’m not pining for youth and beauty as happens to most of us when we approach the menopausal years, but maybe it touches on that, too. It probably touches every aspect of my being, but with this, I can only allow the physicality of it to live in my present awareness. It was a rainy Monday in Phoenix in July, and the monsoonal winds were blowing across the roof of my motor home. It was the kind of rain that belongs to the lower desert and only lasts long enough to lift a warm, moist, sweet scent of creosote and leave it hanging heavy in the air. It was two weeks since my surgery – a simple thing really, just enough time to implant a computerized box smaller than my palm into the left side of my chest. I hadn’t faired as well as expected, but since there wasn’t anything I could explain without sounding like a hypochondriac, it was better kept to myself. I was already teetering on that fence with the sensitivities I dared speak of in mixed company, and I felt alienated from the whole medical community for my opinions about western medicine. I hadn’t the strength to drag myself from bed in weeks, and I desperately needed a shower, so I decided today was that day. I had a light breakfast, a microwavable bowl of oatmeal but not a drop of caffeine. I only drank bottled water. I was afraid of anything that might elevate my pulse as I was feeling these tiny flip-flops under my left breast that appeared as little blips of colored light in my mind’s eye. I could attach musical notes to each blip of red, blue, or green light when describing it, but that would sound crazy, perhaps as crazy as a little computer attached to my heart implanted in my body. The thought still pulls me back to a popular TV show of the 70s about a woman made bionic, whose feats of unmatched physical strength reverberated like sonic waves bouncing off sheet metal in the wind, something we imitated as kids with a guttural 46

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a few steps, a white-hot bolt suddenly shot through me. I had just made it to the side of the bed when another shock hit, instantaneously blinding my mind with a blast of white current, blazing down my left arm as it shot out my fingertips. “Help! Help!” I screamed, but nobody came. I grabbed my cell phone from the bedside table and pushed the three numbers of my lifeline, 9-1-1. How can my neighbors not hear me? A noticeably calm woman answering the emergency line immediately put me through to the fire department as another shock blew through my chest with a sharp snap, leaving a tiny trail of faint gray smoke that hovered above the incision area. I threw the phone on the bed: something was terribly, horribly wrong. I screamed at the top of my lungs as the shocks kept coming no matter how much I tried to breath and calm myself, and my pulse raced dangerously out of control. I could barely hear the woman still on the phone saying she would stay with me until the ambulance arrived, but I didn’t dare touch the phone or anything metal. In my mind, each shock felt like lightning, and I became terrified to make the slightest move. Each shock rattled my jaws and multiplied my panic. I started to plead desperately for divine intervention. Please, please, someone, help me. Please guardian angels, don’t let me die. Oh, please god, don’t let me die. I counted the twelfth shock before the ambulance arrived. I realized my home was locked, and I didn’t know how I would be able to get up from the bed to let them in. I was most concerned about my pet Lovebird that was still out of her cage. Alarmed and confused by my screams, she kept flying from the top of the window over my bed to land on my head. The paramedics came around to the bedroom window and began pushing my newly installed air conditioning unit out of the way. It spilled water onto the floor beside me, and I feared I would surely die of electrocution. “Stop!” I yelled, explaining I would try to let them in from the other side. Slowly making my way across the bed, I was paralyzed by more shocks. Finally, reaching the side door to the patio, I paused in front of the shiny silver latch on the screen and willed Creative Non-Fiction

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myself to lift the lock and push open the door. My bare feet landed on the metal step

It took me a couple of weeks and with some assistance from a home health nurse

and even the emergency team was afraid to touch me as they saw me hit with another

before I was able to see my cardiologist, but when we finally met he was very calm as I

shock.

excitedly expressed my fear that the device had been trying to kill me. With his head

After twenty-one excruciating shocks, I was finally inside the claustrophobic rear of the ambulance. I struggled with two more near-fatal hits as a young female EMT tried

people have heart failure as weak as mine, they run a forty percent chance of acquiring

to strategically place the needle into my trembling vein that would deliver the antidote

an even worse arrhythmia, and that’s exactly what had happened in my case. Despite the

to my heart’s threatening arrhythmia. “Please hurry and put it in, oh my god, please

ablations he had done surgically prior to implanting the pacemaker/defibrillator, I now

hurry.” I sobbed hysterically, sounding like a junkie anxious for a fix. I was beyond terri-

had AFIB. Although my doctor had authorized adjustments to the device at the emer-

fied by the possibility of another shock, desperate for the magical potion to release my

gency room, it took me months to recover my faith that it would not harm me again.

weak and defenseless body from the constant attack of a device meant to be life saving.

It’s been early a year since this horrifying incident, and I still have moments when I

“Can someone please hold my hand?” I called out in anguish, as the male on my right remained hidden behind the gurney. The woman to my left shook off my hand as I reached out. “I’m trying to do something!” she reprimanded me as she turned

worry something may trigger a repeat performance, but I do my best to calm myself and breathe through my fear until the situation passes. Life is far from simple, and human beings are extremely complicated. Thankfully, we

away and quickly moved out of view. I burned with a red-hot mix of anger and shame

are more than our mundane existence in a composite of sinew, blood, and bone. We

for their obvious apathy. I feebly attempted to wrap my arms around my exhausted

are this and much more, with a rugged mind that is well suited to assist us in healing

body only to experience a needle-like twinge from the incision on my chest. I dropped

from any traumatic experience. We can take any amount of time to do so, but there are

my arms in pathetic surrender, sobbing and shaking my head from side to side. The

instances when we take relatively no time at all. I call this grace. It is an act of grace that

ten-minute journey felt like an eternity in a black hole of loneliness and dread. I was

spares us our life when all signs point towards doom. From accidents, to illness, and

hysterical as they settled me into a trauma room and hooked up IVs of fluids, but noth-

natural disasters, we are besieged by any number of events that prove just how fragile

ing took away my overwhelming despair. I lay there like a neglected infant crying for

our human life is, yet we can only comprehend this truth when it touches us personally.

the comfort of human touch. The horror of my morning had become a repetitious story

down, he agreed that in a way it actually was, and then, quickly explained that when

It’s been little more than half a year since this incident, and I have had only a handful

for every medical person who entered the room, their emotionless faces as dull as their

of visits to cardiac rehab, but I’m thankful to be feeling better than I have in quite some

drab scrubs.

time. I have no miraculous story to tell of spontaneous healing or remarkable return to

Beyond exhaustion, I couldn’t calm down until hours later when I was finally given

greater health: just one woman’s survival from a terrible event and the day-to-day steps

a private room at the culmination of a glaringly bright and endless hall on the fourth

of continued healing. I know that every day, in a far larger world, there are many more

floor. I felt they had taken me farther into the dark and incomprehensible distance

women of untold strength who survive incidents of varying degrees of abuse, usually

between myself and my family who lived in another state. I had never felt this alone,

at the hands of someone they know, yet they continue to care for others. I was once

a captive held in the pale solitude of gray hospital walls. I had survived this shocking

one of those women, too. I have often questioned the meaning of those experiences

experience, but my heart was never going to be the same. I had yet to realize that this

and survivals in my past while in the process of a deeply personal search for metaphys-

incident would slow me into an invalid’s crawl while dulling my mind like a well-worn

ical answers on my path of healing. I hope one day to have the ability to share these

pebble in the driest riverbed. This would be the lonely desert where I lost my once lively

thoughts with coherence and wisdom that might make a difference in the lives of oth-

heart. But this is not where my story ends.

ers. In the meantime, and with growing compassion for the unceasing natural healing of

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body, mind, and spirit, I look with humility to the bravery and respect for the personal courage of those who have made the decision to act upon their inner calling: to assist in the comforting of all human suffering in the mysteriously evolving and enigmatic healing of our shared world.

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“Our sorrows and wounds are healed only when we touch them.” ~ Buddha

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There’s no story if there isn’t some conflict. The memorable things are usually not how pulled together everybody is. I think everybody feels lonely and trapped sometimes. I would think it’s more or less the norm. ~ Wes Anderson

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family, in friendships, in professors, but especially in that world so denied because it is

An Operetta on the Ocean

unproductive, inefficient, out of reality: philosophy.

David Bertoni – First Place

Speaking of these voids of mine with a dear friend, I came to meet you, Lorenzo. We started talking; then that whirlwind of thoughts told me that I needed you. All this

I have always had a particular curiosity for everything around me: nature, how it was and how it will be in the years to come; the objects, as they were designed and created; the systems, the beliefs, and religions that make the world in which we must have faith to live in the culture and society. Sometimes I question too much, in an overbearing way, hungry for answers, to find the essence of truth behind what a person says or believes. I realize that nobody knows the nature of what he thinks; there is always a margin, a gap between his conscious and over-conscious state. In my younger years, I preserved my search: I thought I could find answers with philosophy while I found questions, the charm of the vexation.

I realized how I had changed after just over a year in Arizona and with the experience of a trip to the Philippines where someone called me an “American.” Disheartened, I had lost my personality. I was closed-minded, I avoided certain foods, the dirt bothered me, and the affection shared by Filipinos seemed to me anomalous, intrusive, after I had become accustomed to the individualism and human self-detachment of American society. This disoriented me; it was like a slap in the face that showed me who I was unconsciously becoming.

was nourishing; otherwise, I would have not come back since the first meeting, there in Volpaia, your home. Your teachings are unusual, especially for a society that wants us all as carbon copies. You showed me how to open myself to complexity and to appreciate the differences that are inscribed in each one of us. I had and still have the feeling of being over-valued for the person I am, and I wonder why you have given me so much time? I’m just a student at a community college in Arizona, and my philosophy path is unrivaled compared to yours that you’ve dedicated a life to. Perhaps, you project yourself into me, as I do in you, because I have your same philia, and I would like to lead a life, a path of studying similar to yours.

Studying the logic of business, I realize the lack of affectivity and detachment from reality that pervades this society. I’m learning how the financial world functions, which relies on its fundamental principles, and the United States is the cradle of this dimension. You showed me bridges between the thought of the philosopher and that of the entrepreneur, maintaining the gap the distinguishes them. However, for how they may seem to be in opposition, we have managed to conduct a dialogue between these worlds finding points of contact without canceling each other. You valued my doubts; you accepted me for how I am, irreducible to customs. You have accompanied me by reading myths from the past, thoughts of the ancients who speak to today, and the

I returned to my home in Bologna for a few months; I felt the need to rediscover that

possible consequences of the future. During our first meetings I was dazed, I could not

spark of humanity that I had buried, conditioned by the social environment. I went

guess a conclusion to what you were saying; I even felt lost but then followed a sense of

back searching for who I was, the origins of my behaviors and ways of being and the

lightness, elevation, or rather, I perceived something liberating.

emotions that I was denying. Of course, a culture in which one must always be efficient does not take emotions into account: they distract from being productive and have no benefit for the economy. The part of me that I had buried was still in Italy, in the

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When you told me that you had some materials to work on and that you were willing

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to try to make a game, something beautiful we could create and shape, I almost did

held back, sometimes you put pressure on me, recording and writing your expectations.

not believe it. I was disoriented and amazed. You proposed to write a book about our

You wanted me concentrated, and I had to keep other readings waiting, which winked

meetings in the form of a dialogue, with my questions, naive for lack of knowledge,

at me from my bookshelf. Follow Dante’s advice, you told me: “do not take care of

followed by your answers, which always led to other, which widened the horizon,

them, but look, and pass.” Our moments were of full creativity, and I could not allow

opening one door after another, and because it was a game I took it seriously. This is

myself distractions. During day I was studying for my exams; it was my job. Then during

how we started our writing on the “body.”

my few free spaces and during night, I allowed myself to read, study, and be creative, letting my thoughts extend with the questions; then I forwarded that to you.

Who am I to deserve all this? I kept asking myself, walking at home like a hitchhiker carrying the thoughts, the reflections that you had revealed to me, hanging by a thread.

I looked at the stars and I thought of you. You were the owl guarding me at night.

Then I would transcribe our dialogues; I would reconsider them, reread them, and pick

Between one lap and another in the water of the pool swimming towards the horizon, I

up the texts you told me to read. The mornings of our meetings seemed as seconds, like

knew you were at the opposite side of the world, but I felt close to you. The moon, with

we were disconnected from the chains of time; then it was our body that brought us

its changing, is faithful and in continuous relationship with us. The moon that you saw

back to earth, reminding us that we had to eat. Or it was the horizon of the blue hour

before going to bed then came to my side and so followed the morning with the sun

that darkened, and we could no longer read due to the lack of natural light. Thus, our

and again the moon, never the same she is, always mobile and inconstant among the

dialogues ended, and the word passed to the moon.

constellations and the fixed stars. But what is it to give them motion? What is it that makes me have this vexation in my stomach that drives me to navigate without knowing

Days passed and I realized that we would not be able to complete the text that

where the port or destination is, if there is one?

gradually grew in our hands. We had a limited time, and in August I came back to Arizona for my studies. Then we began to talk and plan, to build ways to communicate

Four months of intense work, of reflections on new and exciting concepts of

with the ocean in the middle, to exchange thoughts with the time split: when it was

philosophy. We had written, corrected, re-read, modified, understood and translated

day by my side it was night by yours and vice versa. It was a new game for both of us;

thousands of words. We called her “Operetta,” our creature that was growing in our

we had to hang on the thread that bound us, keep a contact and write a book; it seemed

hands, an affectionate endearment, as if to minimize what we were doing together

like a titanic business. I had to read and understand what you were teaching me, listen

or maybe for superstition, because we already had the feeling of writing something

to your voice several times in the recordings. And you had to strive to use technology to

important. And we too grew up with her. We talked about the body, the great

transmit concepts of philosophy. In some recordings, I sometimes heard a soft song of a

“dismissal” of Western society, the body that nobody cares about, because one is too

bird, the rustling of the wind, the crunching of some leaves, the flowing of the water as

busy at work, to accumulate capital; the body as a signifying place for an action that

you were watering the moonflower, and with a smile, I projected myself there with you

should tend towards the well-being that no economy can afford to deny; the body we

in Volpaia.

ignore until we get sick. The questions were enriched by the answers and the answers by the questions. Chapter after chapter, the concepts became more concrete.

You scolded me when I went for a walk on Camelback Mountain; sometimes you 54

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I saw the world with new eyes, shinier and open to reality. Taking a walk in the

days, we went to Nice. We had not spent an empty moment, even in the car during the

desert, among the cacti, the agave, and the florid parkinsonia, I could smell the sun

trip, connecting threads between one thought and another, passing from philosophy

coming directly to my skin, and my eyes rejoiced at the fullness of the flight of an

to psychology, considering sufferings and personal aspects that sometimes hurt when

emerald-colored hummingbird, and here I thought about you. I remembered that

you go too in depth but that demand to be brought up to the surface, and when you see

afternoon under your portico there in Volpaia when you indicated the red of the

them under light, analyze them, you can have a liberated mind and feel good. This is the

redbreast, of the importance of the correspondence between words and reality, what

gift you gave me, to have the courage to look into myself. And there, in an instant, after

they symbolize. You poured me coffee, because you wanted me awake, and you made

the dark, thick and saturated fog, finally between the shoulders of the Ligurian green

me notice the white of the coffee cup, and you told me that behind that white there

mountains, there was a glare of crystalline light from the golden cloth: the sea.

were pages of chemical formulas to obtain and replicate that color, but with the body there is no connection . That white does not take into account my affections, it is objective, it is one among many. Different, however, would be a coffee cup of a whiteeyes-of-Benedetta color, the girl I liked in elementary school, so as to recall with words memories, bringing them back in the present even though I know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never see the same eyes of the same Benedetta . This is the tragedy of time, everything passes. Even when you try stopping it, or at least slow it down for a few minutes, or at least seconds, it continues to flow. It flows in moments of joy, but also in those that are difficult and painful. It flows.

In Nice, we kept the thread of our speeches, between one bookshop and another to contemplate great French philosophers; I felt joy in the vast amount of culture. How many worlds between those pages! I thought that I would never be able to read them all. In Piazza Massena, we shared a smile at the disproportionate statue of Apollo, then the seven illuminated, metaphysical buddhas, hanging in the sky that accompanied our gaze from below to that full moon of January. The moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reflection followed us along the Promenade, and we talked about his being so different from himself, his illusory shifting, the truth of the moon, different from any order that pretends a priori truth, which depends on its certainties made firm, immobile, hard.

And so the month of December arrived and with him my return to Italy. Finally, we could meet again in person and resume our dialogues on the body. We had to reread, correct, dialogue, dig again into philosophy and our thoughts. Already during the plane trip I foreshadowed our meetings. Our chapters were already at a good point, but the rereading we made together was a dive into ever wider, crystalline waters. Aristotle, Plato, Nietzsche were always with us, an adventure that stretched without measure. But we were only granted a month, a time so short and intense, so we had to plan the days in detail to meet, yet many things had happened. In Volpaia, there was a gelid air, the objects and even the pages of the books conveyed their cold, but there was a slight

On the seashore, between one wave and another, the perpetual flight of the seagulls, the innocence of a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes, the love of a couple under the light of the sunset, and us seated on the heated stones in the sweet winter sun, with our Operetta between us, and as I read, I took notes, and I realized how the experience always escapes. The sun is so fast moving through the sky, and I get a bit of sadness to think that none of this, nothing will ever be repeated. How can we be happy, if we are as fragile as this impalpable sea foam with respect to the entire sea?

warmth near the fire or under the blankets. The warmth of the cat who came silently to listen to us talk about philosophy: she approached me slowly, at first hesitant but at

If we were to give a date of birth to the Operetta, we could say that she saw the light

the same time she was looking for a contact, so she climbed on my lap and let herself

and was completed in those days. Then as it so often happens when you write a book,

be caressed falling asleep with our voices. To have a time only ours at least for a few

a story, or just something for yourself, that thing becomes something else, something

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else from you that you have written, and in so doing, it has changed in your hands,

a book, to share with others and give voice, legs, and life to thoughts. There is always

something else because also you are no longer the same. So, we let her go. In December,

a narrative behind the content, and for a moment we think of fooling time by setting

we sent the text to a publishing house in Rome, as when one entrusts a small message

thoughts on paper. But then we change ourselves, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time who changes us. A gesture,

inside a bottle to the sea to see what will happen. We waited, without any answer for at

the courage to leave a mark on a white piece of paper, to write a poem or a story or a

least a month. I came back to Arizona. Then something happened.

letter, the beauty is in rediscovering that self that one was that day, in that period and in that place. Retracing and reliving moments of joy or pain, and communicating with

One morning in February we were contacted by the publishing house. We were incredulous! But really us? They read our Operetta and chose it for publication. Six chapters in the form of a dialogue between the professor and the student. The editor liked this strange text full of questions and doubts that philosophy continues to try to

that person we were and that we continue becoming, always in transformation, that elusive lunar being that each one of us is. I pull the rope to make the bell jingle three times and here you come Lorenzo with open arms, making me feel always accepted, and so our dialogues begin.

answer, to which we have tried to give voice. They told us that they would publish it and distribute it in the main Italian bookshops; they would make the e-book version, and they would present it on national Italian radio and TV, at the International Book Fair in Turin, Rome, Frankfurt, London and New York. We are still astonished by this result, but proud of being able to instill in the reader a little doubt or curiosity.

One of our first meetings comes to my mind. I remember having arrived riding my bike in Volpaia, starting from my house, all uphill among the wheat fields, the curves, the scents of summer, freshly cut grass or sticks that were being burned, and occasionally I would gather and eat some freshly ripened blackberries. Then the final stretch, the steepest hill of all, a path of trees and leaves on the ground, I would almost hunch with the bike if I did not incline my body forward, and if I pedaled too hard, the small rocks would make the wheels slide; I had to find the right balance. And there I was at the top, under your portico; I waited before calling you, and I slowed down my breath admiring the landscape and retracing the road to my house. Above the wooden table, there was a book with a pen inside to keep the sign of a page, two chairs facing each other, an orange juice, coffee cups, some biscuits and a swatter, to tell me that you were waiting for me. But what intrigued me was that book placed there on my side of the table. I read your name on the cover followed by the title â&#x20AC;&#x153;Nietzsche and the cures of the self.â&#x20AC;? I thought about how beautiful it must be to have written and published

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Delilah Emily McNeill – Second Place 1964

The day before my birthday, we met up in front of the grocery situated between our houses. My hands were sweaty and ignorant of the fall weather, fidgeting with the ends of my coat. When Del arrived, she was smiling brighter than the reflection off the sliding door panels. I could only return it, and the anxiety of being seen together somehow fell away. “Hey, Annie, you been waitin’ long?” Del asked, her feet carrying her to me like she was pulled by a string. Her curly red hair fought valiantly against its prison, a single band squeezing the strands too tight at her scalp only for them to explode out in a firework behind her shoulders. “Nah, not really,” I said. My insides squished together in a yarned ball of wracked nerves. I wasn’t supposed to be here — my dad never liked how close we were. “Good,” she said, her hand fluttering once over the bag slung across her shoulder. Her eyes sparkled when she leaned closer and nudged my arm with her elbow. “C’mon, I got somethin’ for you.” I made a face, crossing my arms beneath my chest. “Is it something you shouldn’t have got me?” “‘Course it is. You wouldn’t have expected anythin’ less. But before we get ta that...” She grabbed hold of my wrist, dragging me into the store. She shoved chips and Coke into my arms, dropping them down to me from the shelves as she walked through the

Crested Butte Coffee Shop Medium: Acrylic on Canvas

Elaine Karcher

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which happened to be the exact amount of change in our pockets. Del was lucky like that, and she put undoubting faith in that luck.

Size: 24”w x 18”h 60

aisles like a summer storm. The total at the cashier was three dollars and twelve cents,

The rush of chilled air blasted against us when the sliding doors threw us back to Art

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the real world beyond the Winn-Dixie’s pews of linoleum aisles and altars of cashier

from it all until I lay awake at night, wondering why I couldn’t sleep. It took me a long

counters. Pulling my coat closer around myself, I flipped up the collar to block the slap

time to realize that we both saw New York and my mom as one and the same.

of frigid wind. We stood on the sidewalk, watching the people fuss over carts, stacking their bags into cars. Del pulled at my sleeve, and I knew the smile that would be there without having to look. Raised brows, eyes open and excited, the lipstick lined oh caught in the perfect picture of a question she hesitated in asking.

more than the fuzzy image of whirling city-life in my mind. Every important event in my life since, I’d thought to take a picture of it. The things I would need to remember, to never forget, because the mind is both weak and clever, and tells lies in its own

Between us and our lake, there was a single car hop that was empty this time of day, the white buildings of Braxton County High, the football field, the shining beacons of aluminum bleachers that glistened in the sun past the barrier of thickened trees. “Race ya,” Del said, and we did. We ran to it, delighting in that our dew-slicked Coke would explode like the champagne adults drank on the New Year’s Eve.

creative license to sugar-coat or strike me down with guilt. I kept a scrapbook of my photos, so I didn’t lose the clarity of my memories to lies. When Del gave me more film for my birthday, I thought she was the only one who could ever understand me. “What’re ya thinking ‘bout?” Del asked me then, the two of us content cats balanced

Inside a hole in the tree was a little metal box, our stash, built up over weeks of collecting — the Blackjack gum, stacks of wrapped Pez, bubble gum cigars, beer nuts, and Turkish taffy; the Sugar Daddy’s and Necco wafers brushed against the Camel smokes and pinched matches, the in-between of high school and the largeness of college.

on a tree branch. I fiddled with my camera — a Model 100 Land Polaroid — biting my lip in focus while I set the new pack of film inside the body. She waited for me to finish before I answered. When the back cover clicked back into place, I thumbed plastic in my hands. “What would your mom think if she knew?”

We wrestled like boys on the edge of the water. She pinned me into the dirt, her lips asking the oh question again. I answered it that time, pressing our mouths together as though we were crushing grapes to wine. The photo I took that day was of our crossed feet splayed out to mimic the sun’s departure into the trees.

It wasn’t what I wanted to say. I wanted to ask whether her mother would be expecting us for dinner. Del tilted her head, a spring of sunlit hair dipping in front of her eye. There was no hesitation in her answer, but then, everything she did was decisive. “Well, she wouldn’t like it.”

I looked down, picking bark off the tree. “Does it make you feel guilty?”

I was not native to West Virginia. I was an outsider from New York where life

“Nah. It’s mah life, ya know? She migh’ not agree, but she gets ‘dat.”

thundered through the streets in a ceaseless roar. My dad and I showed up here a year ago after my mom died, and I was still getting used to the slowness of the days. New York was a foreign planet now, closer to the sun, spinning through its mornings and nights. It was easy to forget things I thought I’d remember: the sound of trolley bells, the clanking of workers in the streets, the blaring horns and neon lights, the taste of chain food and the smell of smoke and gasoline. Dad said he liked Sutton better. I agreed with him in the beginning, glad to be away 62

I wished I’d gotten my camera before we moved, because then I’d at least have had

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Our feet swung under our perch, occasionally brushing each other’s leg. The small things didn’t feel wrong; the touches that became conversations, the warm breaths into one another’s ear, the split milkshakes and penned dates on photos. It was putting a label to the thing that made my stomach clench. I hated caring about what people thought, but I needed the acceptance or I wasn’t myself. “Just ‘cause everyone thinks they’re right don’t mean a thing. No one really knows Short Story

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anything,’ Annie,” she said, and pulled me closer so that we leaned against each other

“Dad, she’s—”

until dusk turned the world to blue.

“This isn’t what your mom would have wanted.”

My mouth snapped shut, cutting off anything else I could have said. I could say

It was our pastime to live in our own world where time sped up again as it had for me in New York, transcending beyond Sutton to the inside of my camera.

parents was all I had left, and nobody wants to disappoint the dead.

She showed me the different sounds of a quieter life, how to listen for the bugs and the crunch of dirt beneath our feet. We went out for Shirley Temples, balancing the sugar-cherry on our noses, twisting the stems into knots with our tongues. We ducked outside our homecoming dance, toes pressed together, hands clasped, singing along to a muffled version of Elvis’ “Heartbreak Hotel” outside the gym while we spun one another in the dark. Each of these moments I was sure to save, carefully taping them into the white pages of my album. Autumn morphed the town and brought it to a stop, like a train’s engine freezing up

“This is what I want,” I said. I could make him understand. He shook his head. “You’ll feel different later. You’re still a kid. You don’t know what you want.” “This is what I want,” I repeated, but he wouldn’t look at me. Every insecurity prickled under my skin, made my head fog and chest constrict against my ribs. My body was too big, my insides hollowing. There was an urgency then, to become a woman instead of the child my father saw.

the brakes. The night my dad found my photo album of Del and me, I recognized the

grief in his eyes, the confused brow as he raised it back at me. I knew he’d seen the one

I rang Del that night, telling her to meet me at the lake. She showed up a few minutes

where she was kissing my cheek, another where we lay atop one another, hands clasped. “You can’t do this,” he said, closing the faces of us between the pages, his five-o-clock shadow moving with his mouth, but I didn’t hear the words. lost. His grey hair seemed greyer, gaze dark and sunken in.

“My dad found out.” The words burned my tongue like frostbite. a’right?” “Not really. He’s disappointed in me.”

He leaned forward. “People weren’t made for this. I know you know right from wrong.”

“He ain’t mad?” Relief spilled over her features like the first rain of growing season, assured that the seeds would grow.

I clutched the hems of my shirt, fear rippling through me. My blood retreated away from my skin, hiding in a way I could not. “You won’t find friends here. They’ll lash out, go after you and Delilah, and they won’t take pity.” He stopped to see if I would say anything. I didn’t. “Maybe you won’t care about this right now, but one day you’ll want children to love and watch grow up. Delilah will grow out of this, and I don’t want you to be the one stuck on it.”

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after I did, her winter coat curling up against her neck.

She was closer to me in the span of a blink, her hand resting on my elbow. “You

“We aren’t doing anything,” I said, but I was defending an argument I had already

nothing when he brought up Mom, because she was always right. The approval of my

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I couldn’t look her in the eye. “Del, stop, I think…” Del moved her arm so my fingers brushed hers, the first bit of warmth to touch me that night. I snatched my hand away. She stared at me as though I’d hit her. “They’re as dumb as a box o’ rocks. Don’chu go taking the same ideas as them.”

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“No, he’s — what we’ve been doing isn’t normal,” I said. I didn’t want to say that.

“Well, I don’t!” Her shoe slammed down onto the ice, the slap of rubber sole against

When she was upset, she fell deeper into an accent and lost control over her practiced

solid water that sounded dull, echoing her words to my deaf ears.

words. Her big brown eyes flashed like they were the shimmering wings of cicadas. “My ass it ain’t normal,” Del hissed, and she lunged forward, grabbing hold of my forearms to press our mouths together. I stumbled and stepped back, trying to push her away. Our feet slid from the snow settled on the dirt to the ice frosted over the lake, forcing me to scramble to keep upright on the new terrain. of myself. Then, in my defensive anger, it didn’t feel like a lie. But my insides twisted, churning a growing vortex in a storm. “How can you say ya don’t care about me?” Del demanded, fists clenched to her sides. The top of her wild red hair was pushed under a hat, but the rest seemed to spill out, curly red snakes poised to strike. “You’ll do anythin’ to please him, even if it means lyin’ through ya teeth.”

was only a couple weeks into the expected freeze, something we had both forgotten in our screaming match. nothing had happened. I shrieked, but my hands covered my mouth like I could do something if I only pressed harder. The seconds it took me to dart forward are the seconds it took to miss Del’s hand reaching back up, and I crawled forward until the ice cracked into poprock candy beneath my feet. Pushing myself back from the edge, my blood became the water beneath the ice. Del didn’t reappear after that. My frantic thoughts told me she couldn’t find the opening she fell in, that she was banging on the underside of the ice somewhere, screaming for me to find her. I crawled

My temper tightened my chest, and a flare had been struck. “I am not.” “You are, you’re a damned coward,” she said, sucking in her breath so her chest expanded, her jacket fluffed as if it was the feathers on a bird to make it seem larger. I remember thinking she could sprout wings and take flight at any moment and leave me there without ever looking back. But I was not the coward she said I was; this took guts to tell her. “Do you see anyone else like us? We’re supposed to date some greaser or—or a football player or something. We’re not normal.” I inched back, away from her and her hands that reached to touch me and pull me back. She took a step forward to mirror my retreat. Even in her anger, Del could look worried, her gaze flitting over me. “Do ya’ll see me carin’ about what the hell normal means? We all weird as hell, and we’d been that way since the day we born.” “I care about normal,” I said, lowering my voice as if this was a secret, as if someone else would

forward, shaking. There was more cracking. Water seeped from the hole, forcing me back, drenching my knees. “Del,” I said, because she would answer me. Because this was a prank, a joke, and she’d laugh and tell me I was an idiot for being so scared, same as all those times she turned on horror flicks. I stood on wobbly legs made of gelatin and ran, stumbling back to the town, shouting for help. In New York, there would have been help. The world moved faster there. The city expected tragedy, human error. Here, an old woman stared at me from her porch, holding her knitting, startled. A cat crossed the street, and a man slept, propped against the side of a building, beer bottles lying at his feet. I knew Del would be gone, that in any other city she might have lived; in Sutton, I might as well have pushed her in myself. I ran through the street, screaming until I couldn’t hear myself anymore, until lights went on in houses, until sirens echoed and searchlights scanned the now-still water over the lake.

hear and understand.

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expression so that there was no trace of fury left. The ice had frozen over the lake, but it

She was gone, the ice slipping back over the hole that swallowed her as though

“Stop it. Maybe I don’t care about you like that.” I spoke in the moment, a denial

I don’t think we even heard a crack, but something like realization opened her

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and I had not reached back.

I woke one morning to the obituary. Black, black ink, bolded and unforgiving,

I grabbed her hand, but it was stiff and unwelcoming to mine.

printed Del’s name in an ugly font, too easy to read. I sat at the kitchen table, fingering the top, right-hand corner of the daily news back and forth between my twitching fingers. When they began to ache, I stopped and looked down at the wrinkled paper, thin and withered as the skeletons of leaves. The funeral was open casket. I’d heard that people see a body and they say it looks like they’re sleeping, but if she’d been asleep, I’d have thought she looked dead. Her fiery red hair was tamed down, flames extinguished beneath the water. Her eyes were closed, but I didn’t want to see them, distant and blank, unable to meet mine. I didn’t come to talk, or to sob over her body. I didn’t come to do anything. I wanted her to reach for me again. Del had not been confused. She had a way of making everything so simple, made it all normal. She’d bought me film. But love was not the word. Love was meant for marriage and future children, and of people being proud of that. Love was reserved for them, not us. “I…” I couldn’t speak, my throat constricting around my breath, because my mother had told me lots of things before she died. I remembered them all now, what she’d told me about life. People say you can see what someone loves the most by the pictures they take. I could have laughed. All my photos were of Del. I wished she would glare at me, curse me out, tell me how I had ruined it all. I stared at her body, her lips that once adored mine, the sun-born freckles that looked like foreign spots on her ashen skin. My knees shook. “I was wrong,” I said, and wiped my tears away with my coat. She trusted the ice she stepped on to carry her weight, to hold her above the blackness of the water, the indecision of my heart. What I gave her was an unfeeling torrent of falsities filling her nose, her throat, her lungs. My words were the ice that blocked her escape, that gave no affection; she drowned in search of it, reaching for me, 68

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individual’s needs to enhance the consumed “medicine” and effect a desired healing.

Is All Illusion?

Every ceremony has the vibrational power to alter the energy field of its participants by rearranging the patterns of illness and balancing the frequencies of health and well-

Rosanna Moss – Third Place

being.

Maya gripped the knees of her crossed legs, as she anxiously sat among a group of twelve men and women, awaiting a cup of brown brew making its way around the solemn circle. She studied their individual faces, some middle-aged like herself, while others appeared somewhat older, and the only couple present was decidedly in their twenties. Each face exhibited a similar look of half-reluctant determination, as they brought the cup to their mouths and drank of the foul-smelling liquid, before gagging and coughing, then quickly handing it off to their neighbor. A Peruvian woman named Flora, refilled the cup from a large cauldron and with a wink, handed it to Maya. She slowly raised it with eyes closed while internally begging an unknown deity to please! keep her from vomiting on either of the women seated next to her. She had decided beforehand it would be best to down it like a shot of tequila, but the smell nearly kept her from being able to gulp the noxious concoction, though she was surprised by its relatively bland taste, an earthy mix of plant and soil. Once everyone drank their portion, they were instructed to choose a hammock but to remain seated on the floor next to it, back up against a wall or post, and simply relax with eyes closed or open, as they preferred. Flora moved across the well-worn floor made from Barrigona (“potbellied’) palm trees as she came to a corner of the veranda. She picked up a small harp and began playing with the intention of easing the participants. She was accompanied by another woman’s soft drumming, her hair pulled back in a solid white bun and face deeply creased, as though assigned each line by her days in the Amazonia. Maya gently closed her eyes, as the women began to sing the Icaros, ancient “songs of healing” to call in the elements of nature. Shamans know to set their intention for protection and create a safe space for everyone, including themselves. Through use of the Icaros, they can direct the energy of a fresh running stream to cleanse the ceremony or ask for the spirit of a plant to assist the overall process. The skilled shaman can sing on behalf of an 70

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Maya overheard the first of her group vomiting in the background as she felt her own stomach begin to twist and turn. Turbulent churning rose to her throat, and she explosively released the liquid contents into one of the plastic buckets strategically placed along the perimeter. A young girl rushed around with wet hand towels and carried away the filled buckets along with their poignant aroma. The feeling of sickness slowly lifted as the gentle tune of the Icaros moved the participants into silent reverie. Maya, now feeling lightheaded and more than a little dizzy, turned her gaze toward the singers as faint rainbows began to form like bubbles from their lips. Gradually, the colored bubbles became brighter as they grew and rose into the space surrounding the women. Shades of purple and green streamed forth from the shamans’ mouths and ran feral through everyone’s hair. The singing intensified and filled the neon atmosphere with elongated musical notes stretching over waves of sheet music, narrowly escaping collision with bouncing treble clefts. Sweeping and swerving flashes of electric-blue light traveled throughout and beyond the rainforest jungle. One by one, the members of the group began to stand and ground themselves. They stretched with deep inhalations to help clear their minds, and shakily, climbed into their hammocks. Maya knew if she didn’t get up soon, she would spend the rest of the afternoon on the floor. Slowly, she raised her body from the meditation cushion and cautiously maneuvered her limbs into the hammock, allowing the swinging action from her final movement to cradle her into the padding of soft blankets. The “songs of healing” changed imperceptibly, as jewel-toned blooms burst from twisted vines that sprouted from the wood pillars and waist-high walls surrounding the covered patio. Fluorescent hummingbirds darted among the blooms and zoomed across the hammocks, hovering overhead, as if personally welcoming each participant. Hidden flocks of birds joined in the chorus from their perches in the surrounding trees. And Maya thought her heart would explode from the rising joy that filled her expanding body, mind, and spirit. Short Story

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Maya tried to prop herself up and watched as the shaman-istas began to walk about. The white-haired woman moved slowly among the hammocks, peacefully singing while gently striking her drum with a rattle. Yet Maya, unable to speak, felt a peculiar threat for domination of her energy as soon as she met the old woman’s gaze. The scratching and sifting of the instruments lulled Maya as she lay back and raised her eyes to the swirl of colored lights dancing across the beams directly above her. Maya was unaware of the old woman’s half-smile, or how much time had passed as she became concerned, but the sound of the rattle and drum swept over her like a sweet dream, gently releasing the support of her arms and lowering her back into the hammock. She finally resigned herself to the steady drumming and the simultaneous rush of water filling her head and overflowing her entire body. “Are you ready, Maya?” a wise, and otherworldly voice, made its all-embracing presence known to her consciousness. “Well, you certainly have my attention!” she found herself replying aloud, but not that anyone in the group would’ve noticed. They were content with their own personal universes magically unfolding before them. “Are you frightened?” she sensed the discernably strong yet feminine spirit, question her. “I am.” She couldn’t believe the immediacy of her honesty. Then, the spirit revealed itself as “Mother Ayahuasca,” and Maya became mesmerized by the transformation of a multi-colored entity manifesting through a translucent haze. “I have much to teach, if you will only drop your fears.” The plant-spirit communicated through a form of internal dialogue, Maya recognized as similar to her own telepathic ability, but this was much stronger – this was no still, small voice! “Your energy is amazing!” Maya acknowledged the plant-spirit, and became open, as a child, free from her normal filters. Suddenly, she feared she would speak a thought that could make her seem immature. And she didn’t want to offend the plant-spirit, or do anything to…

spirit helped Maya to ease up on herself. The mystical powers of hallucination transitioned seamlessly into the magical plant’s spirit-guided tour. Maya’s self-healed energy body was led up from her childhood through deeply cathartic encounters with simultaneous revelations for her entire lifespan, including a trip into the projected life of her future self. She was moved to uncontrollable tears of emotional pain just as easily as those of profound joy, for extensive periods during the hours of her inner travels. Throughout all this incredible, transpersonal journey, her perception of time and space was severed from the standard experience of human existence. And though she could hardly discern the incomprehensible vastness of knowledge being transmitted by the otherworldly intelligence, she was utterly transfixed by the ease with which she absorbed every facet. “This is why you came here, Maya,” reassured, the mother plant-spirit. “Thank you so much for sharing your profound wisdom; I can only hope to apply this knowledge in my personal life.” Maya knew the enormity of Mother Ayahuasca’s gift. “Allow what you have learned to transform your consciousness.” The plant-spirit confirmed what Maya knew to be true. She was taken aback with her love for the amazing plant-spirit, that was much more than that, but words were impossible to describe it and this incredible experience of self-healing. “All will change, Maya. Trust and know, this is why you came.” Suddenly, Maya felt overcome by a wave of self-love and forgiveness, and she knew beyond a doubt that her decision to participate in this mystical ceremony was, in fact, a gift of profound love to her authentic self, one which she had chosen to give herself long before her birth into this life. When Maya left the ceremony, she was still walking on an ethereal cloud of love and gratitude. This was more than a passing feeling, and she could see how it extended beyond herself, touching all whom she came in contact, even the briefest of encounters.

“I know all of who you are. Do not fear yourself, or what comes naturally.” The plant-

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Back at home, she returned to a meditation class she had been attending for

Whale Bones

some time, and was astonished when the instructor asked her directly if she would like to facilitate her own group. Apparently, there was a night each week when the

Antha Perkins – Honorable Mention

instructor would not be available. Maya immediately, and wholeheartedly, agreed to the opportunity. There was a new authenticity to her being; an authority of deep commitment, and she knew this would be a mainstay in her life for a long time to come.

There is an ocean buried beneath the Sahara that is filled with water from an age when the area was inundated by the sea. Dry dunes of sand and whale bone graveyards hide it

“We live in illusion and the appearance of things. There is a reality. We are that reality. When you understand this, you see that you are nothing, and being nothing, you are everything. That is all.”

like a secret to be kept from the passage of time while the sun blazes above, cursing any who seek to disturb its prehistoric, cerulean treasure. In the desert, memory is ancient; once you become part of it, you’re pulled under by a surging riptide, bound by ropes

– Gautama Buddha

and chains to the sinking anchor of a colossal trench that grows forever deeper. Even if you escape, you’ll find that your body has been filled by it—the desert pours itself into you like a landslide, replacing everything you once were with scorching sand until your heart has room for little else. I know you understand this, too. We have both been swallowed by the greedy mouth of the desert. You study the well-preserved bones of the whales with hands that seek not to disturb the clay of their tombs; you uncover the past and swim further into that abyss. I met you there at the bottom, brushing away the gritty layers of time that gathered on their fossilized bones. “You can almost smell the salt,” is what you told me, red knees planted in the blistering sand beside the partially-excavated skeleton of a Dorudon. I recognized it from samples I’d handled at the lab—a primitive whale around sixteen feet in length that inhabited warm seas during the late Eocene. I’d never seen one resting in its own grave before, rooted to the hard clay as if the desert was refusing to give it up. At the lab, the specimens we received were always cleaned prior to arrival, freed of any mud and rock that could get in our way. But the grit didn’t seem to bother you—your face hovered so close to the rough bone that your chapped lips almost grazed the whale’s ribcage, the tip of your brown ponytail bathing in scorched dirt.

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I remember thinking you looked split between two different dimensions—your physi-

“I hope so,” I said, and the smile you gave robbed all traces of homesickness from my

cal body described the distant past as if your soul was trapped there, separated from our

chest.

time by millions of years. I know now that there’s a sense of insatiable longing in you for what is gone: your clothing, gaudy and old fashioned; your computer keyboard, fitted

with the replica of a typewriter; music recorded later than the 60’s, unknown. You are a breathing anachronism, out of time and out of place everywhere but in that prehistoric

The days we spend on the ancient seabed of Wadi El Hitan are sun-stained and arid.

graveyard.

I begin to understand that the sun is a tradesman who deals in both life and death, wandering around the world each day to embrace the Sahara as it arrives home. It leans

“I don’t smell anything,” I said, and I had to fight to keep the jealousy out of my voice.

much closer to the ground here than anywhere else on Earth, burning life on the surface

I couldn’t see the landscape like you could, couldn’t feel what had once been there as

until all that remains are ashes of sand and scattered bone.

though I’d been alive to witness it. I didn’t know what you saw through your eyes—you spoke of the ancient rock in terms of scent, taste, how the flesh might have felt weld-

You welcome the conditions of this landscape as if you had been born from its inferno.

ed to the bones you caressed in your hand. I looked at the desert and saw a maroon

You tell me that you forget to feel the salty burning of your flesh and blistering of your

wasteland of heat waves and barren earth. I wanted to learn how to experience it as you

feet; it takes only days for me to understand what you mean. Sweat becomes a perma-

did—as something vibrant and overflowing, a living garden fertilized by rich history

nent property of my body, as unnoticeable as the blood in my veins and muscle insulat-

and secrets.

ing my bones. The heat washes over me in waves; I learn to ride out the shifting of their tides through observation of the desert, how different degrees of sunlight radiate off the

“You’ll learn,” you said, only then lifting your face to look at me. “It’s hard not to,

surrounding rock like ripples in a lake.

spending every day out here. You start to forget the whales aren’t still alive.” You got to your feet and held out your dirt-covered hand as though it didn’t even occur to you I

We are surrounded by evidence that this land was once hospitable. Seashells, primitive

might not want to touch it; I did. Your calloused skin aged you well beyond what was

swamp trees, and crocodile bones rest amongst the whales in the remnants of a lost

suggested by the scant wrinkles on your sunburnt face. “I’m Relisys. You must be the

coastline. I walk along the sand dunes and imagine myself as a bottom feeder scraping

new addition to the team.”

the ancient sea floor, nothing but an indistinct shadow lurking beneath the feast of marine life that swims above. With anticipation, I wait for them to die; when their bodies

“Misha. Just got in an hour ago.” The stark absence of mud on my new clothing gave

are devoured on the seabed of that shallow ocean, it is where their bones will remain for

away my newcomer status like a sign.

millions of years.

“Well, Misha,” you said, reaching up to adjust your white sun visor, “they said this is

It is on the day we find the near-complete skeleton of a Basilosaurus protruding from

your first time out. I think you’re going to find that fieldwork is a lot different from the

the parched topsoil that my connection to the desert solidifies. I see more than mere

stuff you do in your cozy lab.”

bones and rock, feel more than just the sand stuck under my fingernails and ancient stone against my palm. Like you, I have the urge to bend down until my face touches the fossilized bone, my warm breath disturbing the infertile soil in which it rests. I lick

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it, almost expecting to taste soft tissue; for a moment, I close my eyes and pretend that

your suitcase. “Leaving, I mean.” With your back facing me, your voice is thicker than

I do. There were once formidable muscles and slick blubber on these bones, squishy

the clay we’ve been digging up for months. “I wonder—what will it be like, going back

organs, and a heart pumping blood through the whale’s primitive veins.

to the city?”

Our eyes glisten with excitement as we begin to remove the dry mud to unbury the

“Lonely,” I say. You and I have plane tickets to different destinations. I pick up the fin-

skeleton. This kind of work does not happen quickly, but with each passing day our

ger-length tooth of the fossilized Basilosaurus you keep on your desk and slip it into my

hands steadily uncover more of the encasing sand that guards the whale’s history. It is

pocket—it’s the only one you haven’t packed yet. You told me once that you feel closer

the first major find I have taken part in excavating while you have years of experience;

to the past when you keep their bones nearby; I cannot help but wonder how close you

the difference in skill is obvious in the way you move your fingers, knowing just how to

will feel to them when you are on the other side of the world.

get the dirt from each groove. “Do you miss where you’re from?” you ask. I have wanted to ask the same of you; it is With this discovery, I begin to feel I have a place here.

strange to imagine you anywhere but here.

I think of my city, of the noisy buses and gridlock traffic honking at the throngs of people who live lives too busy to consider the ground beneath their feet. There are modern

But we are not meant to stay. The looming date of our departure evolves a primitive arm

commodities I miss—air conditioning, cell service, plumbing, cold water to drink. It

that grows new inches every night; it reaches for us with the persistence of changing

snows in the winter there, a phenomenon of which the Sahara has no knowledge—the

ocean tides and dread distends my stomach beyond what I can bear. I come to think of

sun loves this desert with a passion far too deep to leave it alone, cold. But, in the city,

the society I’m from as a distant future in which everything moves too fast while the

there are no dunes of sand, no stars in the sky, no buried ocean, and no you.

Sahara remains a secluded wormhole back in time. I have become too accustomed to the shifting sands and hidden ocean beneath my feet to feel I belong anywhere else.

“No,” I say. “Do you?”

In your tent, I watch you pack your bags with the slowness of grief, and I know you feel

You give a half smile as you shrug, zipping up one of the smaller pockets of your bag.

the same as I do. It is the first time I’ve been in this room and had the option of sitting

“No,” you say. “After all these months, I’ve started to think of this place as home.”

on one of your chairs—on any other day, they serve as makeshift bookshelves for your stacks of note-filled textbooks and handwritten reports, piled up too high to fit under

I try to smile in return, but only one side of my mouth cooperates. I put my hand to the

your fossil-strewn tables. The unusual bareness of your tent reminds me of the clinical

car keys in my pocket. “Come for a drive with me.”

tidiness of the old lab where I feel my time was wasted—fieldwork has taught me that the dead are far less eager to share their secrets once you’ve ripped them from their

home. It is impossible to know how long we drive—time itself becomes inconsequential.

“It’s going to be hard,” you say, shoving a worn-out pair of muddy hiking boots into

There are more stars above us than all the grains of sand in the Sahara; when we finally

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stop, we fall onto our backs in the cold nighttime dunes and stare up at ancient lights,

in your yellowing bones like a careful lover. In the ultimate artistic interpretation they

some of which have traveled for billions of years just to reach us. A seemingly limitless

memorize you, press pen to paper and write your body as it looks from the inside; this

flood of constellations puncture the night’s darkness in a shimmering white dance while

kind of intimacy is not for the living.

the desert stretches forever before us, creating an estuary where past and present spill into one another like liquid. There are whale bones at our feet and galaxies above us

I want to be loved by the desert like this. I want to touch it in the same way you touch

and we are buried at the bottom of that bottomless trench; I don’t believe there is life

the bones of the whales, to breathe the Earth’s history through me like smoke. If I die

beyond this.

here with you, I feel I would be content.

“If I could choose to die anywhere,” I say, “it would be here.”

My grip on your hand tightens. “Would you stay here with me?”

There’s a carefulness in your movements as you turn to look at me with the same curios-

“What?” you say, and you look up.

ity you have for ancient stones. With sand running through your fingers and the tooth of the Basilosaurus in mine, you say, “I can see why. After being here for so long, it starts

“Here, in the desert. Would you stay here with me?” I run my fingers along the jagged

to feel like this is where everything is.”

edge of the Basilosaurus tooth. It’s still sharp, but I wonder if it will be enough.

I tilt my head toward you. Your face is illuminated by the Sahara’s night sky and I know

You pause, taking time to consider your answer. “I mean, if I could, of course I would.”

I would not be able to see you this clearly by the light of any other. “We’re part of that,” I say. “Just being here. We touch the history of it every day.”

“We could, you know,” I say. The tooth is heavy in my hand. “Stay, I mean. And maybe in another million years, someone could discover us like we discover the whales.”

You brush a strand of hair from your face and look at me. “For now. I think this place will forget us when we leave.” You exhale a quiet sigh. “Well, maybe not—we’re taking

“Misha,” you start, but I never find out how you might have continued.

its fossils.” I thrust my arm. I don’t expect the Basilosaurus fossil to cut through flesh as well as it I smile and touch your hand. It’s clammy and speckled with grains of dirt, with uneven

does; time has dulled it down to brittle stone, but human throats are softer than any-

nails so broken from constant digging that I can’t even imagine them polished, long.

thing it would have faced while it was alive. I feel I’ve given new life to it—dredged it

The cavity of my chest may be filled with sand, but you’ve dug out a tunnel and built

up from the dry ocean floor to be used for its intended purpose.

your home deep within. There is no question why what I feel for you is the same as what I feel for the desert. You are part of it just as I am, and I wish to keep you both.

Lying at the bottom of an ancient seabed, the desert swallows us as our bodies are carved by the teeth of a prehistoric whale.

It is because of you that I discovered this: that only the dead can be beautiful. There is no point in life when one is treated with such care, or studied so meticulously—trained, gloved hands slide across decomposed matter, taking note of each individual groove 80

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Upon the Mountain By George Kallas – Honorable Mention A coolness falls on the Rockies as the sun sets on another April evening. A tan Honda Civic is parked on a mountain side lot overlooking the city of Denver. Smoke creeps out of the passenger’s cracked window mingling with the lyrics of “Thunderstruck.” Orange cinders glow brightly as paper and plant burn down. Vicky blows wavy circles of smoke as she holds the joint in front of her admiring it. It’s all right, we’re doin fine, fine, fine. “God bless the state of Colorado,” she proclaims. She covers a cough with her right hand while extending her left to the side. Another hand takes the joint. “How about God bless Mandy?” another voice responds. “After all, she bought it with the money she was saving to get those amazing heels at the mall. You’re lucky they wound up on sale.” Mandy takes a hit from the joint and exhales perfect rings. You’ve been Thunderstruck. “Who’s Mandy?” Vicky asks. “Me!” Mandy exclaims before muting her car’s stereo. “Christ, Vicky! How are you already so stoned that you don’t remember--” Vicky’s laughing cuts off Mandy-- “You didn’t forget shit, did you?” “The stupid look on your face was so worth it.” Mandy squints a dirty look at Vicky, now playing with her long, auburn hair. Mandy playfully smacks Vicky’s denim clad shoulder. Vicky slaps back, harder, against Mandy’s bare arm. They proceed to give each other death stares for several seconds before bursting into laughter. They turn their attention to the descending sun outside the front windshield, allowing its red rays to wash over them.

Dada Knows Model Medium: Oil over Acrylic Size: 30” X 16” 82

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Stephen Hoffman

“You’d think I’d stop falling for that after the first few times,” Mandy says as she fixes her mussed-up raven hair. The car is filled with a brief tranquility before Mandy breaks

Art

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it. “So how long do you want to stay out?”.

weekend spa trip this morning. They figure if they get you they’ll get me when the time

“At least another couple of hours. We’ll get something to eat after this,” Vicky says, holding the joint in front of her once again. “Is this the legal stuff ? Because it’s damn

“Are they wrong?”

good!”

“Oh no, they hit the mark there.”

“Well, we’re not twenty-one,” Mandy replies as she works her hair into a ponytail. “So, no.” They giggle, but not for long. Mandy quickly glances at Vicky then stares back out the windshield. She braces herself by gripping the steering wheel.

Mandy smirks. “Well, maybe I should show them the right way to my heart,” She answers, patting the ACDC logo on her chest. They laugh for a full minute before Mandy grounds the conversation once more. “They’re trying to buy you, huh?”

“You sure you don’t want me to take you home when we’re done here?” Mandy elaborates when Vicky turns her head to look out the window. “I mean, isn’t your mom trying to do like, family dinners now? If we don’t go home soon, chances are there’s going to be a fight.”

“Yeah,” Vicky responds flatly. “Mom took me on a shopping spree last week. Not long after that, I found car prices on my dad’s laptop.” “So you’re saying you’ll have a car for us to stink up for a change?” “Assuming I don’t use it to get onto the interstate and drive.”

“There’ll be a fight whether I’m there or not, and you know it,” Vicky says,

“What about UC Denver?” Mandy sarcastically asks.

maintaining her outward gaze. Mandy looks down at her knees, attempting to formulate a response. She manages to come up with only a question. “Did either of them get the papers?”

“They’ll find a way to move on without me.” Mandy’s smile fades as her eyes fill with concern. “Where would you even go?”

“You know they didn’t!” Vicky snaps over her shoulder. “They’re both too stubborn. They haven’t even said it.”

“Anywhere but home.” The two revert to silence once more. Mandy turns in her seat to search the back of

Mandy nods before responding. “So, they’re going that way?”

her car, littered with CD cases, shopping bags, wrappers, her backpack, and a blanket.

“They probably won’t do anything until Jack and I finish college.”

“What’re you doing?” Vicky asks.

Mandy looks at Vicky in confusion. “Not out of the house?”

Mandy moves the blanket off the driver side back seat to find her purse. She

Vicky turns toward Mandy. “Divorce is expensive.” Vicky puts out the joint in the ashtray on the dashboard. “They’ll want to make sure we have our degrees first.” “They do realize you’re about to be a college student, right? And that Jack’s only two years behind you?”

rummages through it. “If that’s how you feel about home”-- she pulls out a gold colored key-- “then we just have to change what home is.” She extends the key to Vicky who stares at it blankly before blinking rapidly. “What is it?”

“It’s just UC Denver. I could be in kindergarten, and it wouldn’t change anything.”

“You screwing with me again?”

Mandy nods as she looks down. “When we first met.” She lifts her head back towards

“No, this time I’m actually having trouble telling what it is.”

Vicky “You saying this is my fault?”

Mandy can no longer hold back a smile. “It’s a key. To our apartment.” Vicky can

Vicky turns to Mandy. “Are you kidding? My mom showed me three tickets for a 84

comes.”

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only stare in confusion while Mandy giggles. Short Story

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“What do you mean by ‘our’?”

her head to the floor in shame. Mandy sits cross-armed and legged, staring out the

“I decided that I’m going to go to UC Denver, too.”

windshield. Vicky stops Mandy as she reaches to start the car. “When did you find out?”

Vicky sits up straight in her seat. “What?” “I talked with my parents. They may have preferred it if I went out of state, but this way, I’m saving them a fortune on tuition.” Vicky turns her head to the side, processing

Vicky sits up straight. “They give a reason?”

this new information. “So they helped me find a two-bedroom we could use to split

Mandy releases her keys. “Something about ‘not enough extra-curriculars’ or some

rent. We move in a month after graduation.”

other bullshit.”

Sobered by this news, Vicky looks at her. “Mandy, what the hell did you do?!” Mandy’s grin fades, her arm lowers. “Well, I guess I wasn’t waiting for a thank you.” She tosses the key into a cupholder. “Why are you freaking out?” “Because I’m the one who’s supposed to go to the local college and get some general degree. You’re supposed to go to Stanford and actually do something with your life.” Mandy scoffs. “And here I thought you’d be happy to hear that I won’t be leaving.”

Vicky stares at Mandy, now looking out her door window, before picking up the key in the cupholder. She twirls it in her hand as Mandy looks back at her, careful not turn her head or let Vicky see her. “So,” Vicky states flatly, “what does the building look like?” Mandy maintains her outward glare. “What building?” Vicky takes Mandy’s arm, opens her hand, and places the key in the palm before closing it again. “The one with our new place.” Mandy turns toward Vicky, now

“Not if it means you giving up your fut-!” “I’m not giving up anything!” Mandy exclaims. She backs into her seat defensively.

sporting that smile that somehow makes her freckles shine.

“I can still get a Business degree. Only difference is where I get it.” Mandy opens a

Mandy smirks. “Hand me my backpack.”

cigarette box, revealing several joints. Vicky grabs the box before Mandy can take one.

Vicky grabs it from behind her seat, along with a half empty bag of Cheez-Its. She

She closes the box and puts it inside her jacket pocket. “A degree from Stanford will

carefully puts the bag to her mouth, keeping crumbs to a minimum as Mandy removes

guarantee you a job wherever you want!”

an iPad and places it on her lap. She tosses the backpack behind Vicky’s seat with one hand while unlocking the tablet with the other. After touching the screen several more

“Quit exaggerating.”

times, she turns it to Vicky. A three-story Brownstone is on the screen. Vicky’s eyes dart

“More than a degree from Denver will.” Mandy looks out her door window.

back and forth, analyzing every detail of the picture.

“Seriously Mandy, you know I don’t want you to do this, especially for me.”

“No balcony?” Vicky asks.

“Didn’t realize this was about you.” “No, it shouldn’t be! So if you need to reapply, or call some department, or whatever, we’ll do it toge-”

The shouting is suddenly replaced by silence. Vicky sinks into her seat, turning

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Mandy’s face instantly blanks. “I tell you I found us an apartment, show you the building, it’s not a run-down crack-house, and all you can say is ‘No balcony?’” Vicky removes the cigarette box and offers it to Mandy. She rolls her eyes. “The

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t get in!”

Mandy keeps her hand on her keys. “About a month ago.”

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landlord said that a lot of tenants use the roof to grill or grab a smoke. We also get a key that unlocks the door to the roof. Happy?” Short Story

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Vicky’s smile returns. “Yep. Has everything I need.”

Mandy looks down for Vicky after rising several feet. She pauses when she sees Vicky

“Of course. Forget central heating and air. Forget a laundromat being only two blocks away. Forget that it’s in a good neighborhood, that it has a roof where we can smoke weed.”

having dawned on her. “You sneaky bitch,” Mandy chuckles to herself. She resumes running up the path at full speed.

“You saying that wasn’t the first thing you checked for?”

Mandy reaches the trail’s end, which is little more than several picnic tables along the

Mandy squints at Vicky. “Shut up.” They chuckle as Mandy turns off her iPad and returns it to her backpack. A look of realization dawns on Vicky’s face. “Holy shit!”

center of the flattened peak. One is closer to the edge than the others, a mere foot from the rock border that separates the plants and cliffside from the site. Sitting on top of the table is Vicky. She turns her head toward Mandy, resisting the urge to breathe heavily.

“What?”

Mandy walks over to Vicky.

Vicky turns toward Mandy. “We’re going to be roommates. Like, real roommates! Just us.”

“You took our shortcut, didn’t you?” Vicky grins. Mandy chuckles as she looks away. “Damn cheater.”

Mandy smiles as she tosses her backpack on top of the blanket. “That just hitting you?”

“Look who’s talking.” Vicky extends her arm. Mandy hands her the cigarette box. “Now get up here already.” Mandy takes a seat next to Vicky. Her hands grasp the table

Vicky chortles. “Oh ho, I can’t wait to tell my parents that I’m getting the hell out of

as Vicky struggles to get the lighter to light. One hand feels the familiar carving of “M and V, BFF’ 12” and “Property of Mandy and Vicky 16.”

their house.” “Maybe leave the talking to me. My parents agreed to cover our first month’s rent if

Vicky lights the joint and takes a hit off it before passing it to Mandy. They repeat this process several times while overlooking the Denver cityscape, watching the sun

your parents can cover a month too. Which means---” “No telling them off yet. Got it.” Vicky holds up the cigarette box and shakes it. “Can

make its final descent. “Hell of a view, ain’t it?” Vicky asks.

we at least celebrate?” “I will”--Mandy snatches the box from Vicky--“but you’ll have to catch me if you want some.” Mandy removes her keys before exiting the car.

“Hell of a view,” Mandy confirms. “I still can’t believe the park’s closing this place to the public,” Vicky complains. She takes a long drag before passing the joint back to Mandy.

“Bitch!” Vicky exclaims while unlocking her door. Vicky pursues Mandy up the steep mountain path. Mandy looks back and snickers,

“Well,” Mandy begins, “in their defense, the only people who come up here are

seeing the distance she’s managed. Vicky sprints as fast as she can to catch up. She loses

teenagers who want to drink beer, smoke joints, and carve their names into the tables.”

her footing and trips, but is uninjured. Mandy stops.

Mandy and Vicky laugh.

“Guess I’m celebrating alone!” she taunts before continuing her ascent. Vicky pats the dust off her leggings before turning around to take an alternate path, hidden more by neglect than the local shrubbery. 88

is no longer beneath her. She takes several steps back before stopping, a realization

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“Yeah, this place really is a dump.” Mandy pushes Vicky’s shoulder as she takes a hit. “Still, makes you wonder---” Mandy holds the joint in front of Vicky. “What else is going to change?”

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Vicky stares out into the horizon for several seconds before taking the joint. “Well not this, thank God.” “Yeah. You’re right.” Mandy looks at Vicky who is staring at the joint. She places her hand on Vicky’s shoulder. “And neither will this,” she says while shaking Vicky. Vicky takes one last, deep hit from the joint, and throws it over the cliff. “All right.”

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She says as she jumps off the table. “Let’s go grab a bite. I’m fucking starving.” “Fucking starving, eh?” Mandy asks. Vicky nods. “Taco Bell it is then.” Mandy and Vicky walk back to the car, talking and laughing the whole way down. Vicky turns up the stereo and sprays the inside with Febreze while Mandy opens the car

Native Voices and Visions

doors and throws out all the trash into a nearby waste bin. She returns to Vicky, now swishing mouthwash behind her lips. Vicky passes the bottle to Mandy. They both rinse their mouths for several seconds before spitting.

Not only are there before and after, but there are also beginnings and returns. Not only is there the creation of the humans, formed of corn or clay, with a breath of wind or a god, but there are mythic destinies. Sometimes myth is formed by the body and what happens to it, especially in the realm of pain, depth, and birth. Phantoms of generations past are in our bodies. These explain us to ourselves.

Vicky enters the car after closing the passenger side door. Mandy gets in after, carefully placing her backpack on the car floor behind her seat. She starts the car, turns on the headlights, and drives away from the park entrance laughing with Vicky, making sure not to toss the backpack around. On one side, her birth control and spare clothing, and on the other, some magazines and a Stanford acceptance letter.

~ Linda Hogan

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Native Voices and Visions

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Honoring our Native Voices and Visionsâ&#x20AC;? was created to allow an opportunity for American Indian students to share their stories, culture, history and/or experiences. Each year, Ana Cuddington, Director of the American Indian Program at SCC, awards scholarships in writing and/or art to winning students.

If you are a member of a federally recognized tribe and attend SCC, you can submit artwork and writing in the Native Voices and Visions section of Vortex. For more information contact Ana Cuddington at ana.cuddington@scottsdalecc.edu or call the American Indian Program at 480/423-6531.

My People

Daniel Wheeler

Medium: Color pencil Size: 8x10 92

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Wanted Beauty Shinaya Dawes for my grandmother 3. My grandmother names me Nizhoni– beauty walking around me. My love blooms out of flowers, ashes, I am grief walking miserable territories. Alone.

1. Two days old. Unnamed. Abandoned. Breaking the window, my grandmother rescues me, my mother running running away. She is gone before I have memory.

4. I am the outside child, born there, raised here. My grandmother’s love inhabits my dreams of home. I love my winter eyes, with beauty surrounding me everyday in this world.

2. I am the winter child, my cries break silences that spread across everything, trembling. A mother whose face I cannot know is gone. A child unwanted, am I a blessing, a curse? A name I can’t make out.

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Vortex 2018 Poetry

It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there. ~ William Carlos Williams

Silence

Preslie Thompson

Medium: Bronze Size: 9x12inch 96

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Native Voices and Visions

Poetry

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City Code

I was assaulted by two men in an unchangeable moment of terror and helplessness, yet no witnesses spoke up,

Alexia Norton Jones – First Place

my spirit echoed with the reminder of the price of being born female and brown.

It’s ok to hit women where I live. I spoke up and I got hit, I complained and ended up handcuffed; black women don’t have a voice here we are expendable, I could’ve been killed.

Cuts and bruises of no concern to nurses and doctors, police questioned no one, violence and danger are the zoning code here.

It’s ok to scream at women where I live. Drunken, violent men are rulers, Chollo hide by the side of the pool, (it’s too dangerous near the outdoor grill) children play in fear. It’s ok to threaten women where I live, shove women, push them to the ground— I was even prettier on the gurney, apartment windows closed to anyone speaking up. Black woman in a red state, I had no business moving here. It’s ok to stalk women where I live; the long walk to the mailbox is a minefield (black men know this—a city with two laws, unequal and unjust) the pavement did not get softer no matter how many times I landed. As long as no one is accountable, “None of it ever happened.” 98

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Poetry

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1994 Toyota Pick-Up Krysta R. Evans – Second Place

In the grey mist of the perspiring sky, Red dirt turns to clay. Your pickup’s tires stuck in the grips Of unforgiving mud, but you just laugh And climb out the window Into the metal bed behind the cab. I follow. I always follow where you go, Like the smoke sewn on the edge of a fire. The night casts shadows on your face, But your bright eyes beckon me to move In closer to you. Your beard tickles My cheek when you tell me about your dad, And how you’ll never be like him. The calluses on your fingers, from plucking Guitar strings, feel rough Between my knuckles. I cling to the climax Of every breath you breathe, Dropping an anchor with each exhale Trying to slow the rotation of the earth Beneath the stuck tires. But the earth keeps turning.

Fascination

Medium: Acrylic on Linen Size: 16x30

100

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Ellen Nemetz

Art

Poetry

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101

Es Dulce

The reason not clear, but it didn’t matter. Just laughter for laughter and laughter replied.

Rosario Escarcega – Third Place

They walked in the house, Mama Lola to cook, my uncle and brother to ready their day.

We stood on the earthen sidewalk My uncle, my brother and me.

I stayed on the porch that we painted that weekend. A rhapsody of our sweat, laughter and pride.

Admiring my uncle’s first house Our home.

The blue and copper sang my uncle’s words to me “Es dulce” I began to understand.

The early morning sun reflecting Hues of family and love.

I looked across the front yard at Mama Lola’s garden. A gale swept through caressing a tune from the flowers.

“Es dulce, mijo” my uncle said to us. Like mama Lola’s empanadas de miel y manzanitas.

The colors whispered my uncle’s words again “es dulce.” I understood more clearly.

My grandmother’s turnovers were sweet Filled with apples, honey and sage.

Mama Lola and I dove into the garden. Down with the spiders, the ants and the soil.

But I didn’t understand how a house could be sweet.

We weeded and planted in the rich pregnant loam. We sweated and sang our praise to the earth.

I pictured my uncle a mouth full of house A joy burst within me, my laughter exploded.

I thought this is great, this is sweet. This is sweet. This is sweet! I yelled “Mama Lola, nuestra casa es dulce!“

They turned their faces, stone gray at first, then a pale yellow smile, then a blue and a green.

“Si mijo,” she answered, “es dulce.” “Es Dulce.“

They joined in my laughter colors exploding like the Fourth of July.

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Ordinary People Robert Buchanan – Honorable Mention

“And expressions of discontent, no matter how beautiful, never solved the riddle of the world...” David Means 1. Sister My mother was motionless behind the wheel, I sat next to her waiting in the parking lot while the police handcuffed my stricken sister and took her to the mental hospital. Neighbors had reported she was in the backyard screaming at the imaginary dark helicopters descending on her. As always, I rode emotional shotgun, in agony as the officers put the cuffs on her, terrified and alone in the back of the police car. We saw her illness begin long before, her mind slowly filling to the brim with the voice of wounds that seeped in through the relentless years. We could not save her.

Nest

Medium: Digital

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Rebecca Ruhm

Art

Poetry

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105

Trust

2. Son Ours was a family held hostage by our son’s addiction, tortured with his psychosis and rehabs, broken marriages and lost jobs. A ringing phone could assault us with fear that it might be the police or the psych ward, but at least we’d know where he was. Beyond anyone’s help he went crazy and lived on the streets. We were told to keep away for our own safety. We could not save him.

Antha Perkins – Honorable Mention

Falling backwards off the stairs my vision dwindles to dark the only hand extended toward me is the slap of a door slammed shut.

3. The Riddle This life I have lived draws itself together, in this far flung home of misfortunes, sad and limitless in the embrace of the heart and human connection that carries the silence, the bells, the assuring voice of my unsettled soul’s submissive calm. My granddaughter reaches for me.

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107

But my dreams would lose their luster, sinking into the measureless hope of a seven-year-old girl.

Temporary Man Bree Hoffman – Honorable Mention

I was busy chasing beyond the dial tone, begging not to ask for my portion of his heart. I waited for years, until wishing grew lonely, extinguished by a desire to sleep without dreaming. I waited but the phone never rang.

I knew it was too early for the phone to ring, and yet my excitement was restless and tangible like my thick knots of tangled hair that my mother fought to conquer with the gnashing fangs of a comb, each night for the past seven years. From room to room I carried the untethered phone, pressed close to my chest like the soft edges of an old teddy bear, waiting because my father said he would call. In the space between hours my world was colorless, a blur of grey that lapped at my ankles like shallow water. I waited for the familiar sound of my father’s voice to soothe the ache in my chest as it crawled into bed beside me the further away he went In dreams I chased the temporary man who wore bitter aftershave and reserved a place for only me atop his shoulders. I imagined places without adventure or warmth, willing to trade them for a kinder world where we occupied the same space and slept under the same roof. 108

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109

He silently pushed his clothes into a small suitcase. I knew he would never return. And that night when I crept into their room I was shocked to see them on their backs rigid and pale as the dead, they who could not love a child. I crawled into bed next to him and curled up there, his arm cradled around me as if losing something precious he never owned.

Splintered World Stephen Rubin â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Honorable Mention

Angry words thrust from the frayed shadows of my parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; inevitable fracture. Their frigid detachment, a tangled reminder of how splintered we had become. Terrified, I was a child shrinking smaller and smaller into impermanence, tortured by braiding threads of guilt for not being good enough. I sheltered myself in seclusion, a place less lonely. The cupcake from the day old bakery, a last moment frenzied inconvenience, its crown of heavy fancy frosting, a single candle snuffed after my hurried wish and returned to the back of a drawer for next year.

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But for that time, I was protected from all the breaking that closed in around me.

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111

The Wrong Guy Karyl Krug – Honorable Mention

He was a frat rat fry cook slumming for the summer over a vat of boiling lard. I was a waitress because I had to be, on hot, humid nights at a Mexican restaurant serving deep-fried avocadoes, margaritas, and stars. The Talking Heads provided the backbeat to dirty dishes crashing into bus tubs, cooks shouting “order up,” and sly flirtations behind two swinging doors. He stood me up on our first date and I didn’t care. His preppy ass was all wrong for a bohemian dancer who wore whirling skirts and ballet flats under a starched blue waiter’s apron. He said he no-showed because he was afraid and I laughed. I knew his promise to pick me up was as insubstantial as the smoke rings he blew after a drag on a Marlboro Red.

Vegetative State Medium: Cast Bronze Size: 24” x 16” x 13”

112

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Richard Rosenberg

Art

Poetry

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113

He asked to try again and I said, Okay. That first kiss flash-fried and plated my expectations of a buttoned down boy dunked in grease and privilege. Summer ended somewhere between tips and trust funds, we were driving in his red Volvo. I got out, but it took years.

Reluctant Witnesses Medium: Mixed Media on Canvas Size: 36â&#x20AC;?x36â&#x20AC;? 114

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Poetry

Art

Kathy Dioguardi-Newman

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Vortex 2018 Plays and Scripts Our stories come from our lives and from the playwright’s pen, the mind of the actor, the roles we create, the artistry of life itself and the quest for peace.

Buddy’s Guide to Romance Robin Hartwell – First Place

~ Maya Angelou To make a great film you need three things – the script, the script and the script. ~ Alfred Hitchcock

116

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Playwriting

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Setting: The entryway of a store. Fluorescent-reminiscent lights, perhaps some signs advertising current sales. On Rise: BUDDY, NATHAN, and ROSA enter the store. NATHAN and ROSA are visibly in a bad mood, but BUDDY doesn’t seem to notice. BUDDY Okay, my dudes, I just need to pick up a few things. You two just chill. I’ll be a few seconds, tops. Right.

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

Buddy’s Guide to Romance BUDDY NATHAN ROSA

NATHAN BUDDY (As he exits, singsongy)

(Neither of his friends responds) Eh? Okay, whatever. (BUDDY exits. There’s a tense silence between NATHAN and ROSA.)

Characters Mid-20s, male. A wild card. Fun to be around, but at what cost? Mid-20s, male. Anxious and emotional. Dating Rosa. Mid-20s, female. Tightly wound and a little unhinged. Dating Nathan.

So?

Place The entryway of a store. Probably a department store akin to Walmart or K-Mart, but open to director interpretations.

So?

ROSA NATHAN (Imitating her)

ROSA So, are we going to talk to each other? Because you can’t mope like a baby all day. NATHAN Oh, I absolutely can, I’m a pro at it. Watch, here I go. (He mopes theatrically) ROSA You told me you didn’t want anything for your birthday. I didn’t.

NATHAN

ROSA You said, very specifically, that under no circumstances was I to get you anything for your birthday because you said, and I quote, that you “hated the fuss.” Am I wrong? NATHAN Yeah, I said it, but I obviously didn’t mean it. Oh my God, you’re impossible. 118

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ROSA

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119

NATHAN That’s what people do. They say, “Oh I don’t want anything,” and then you get them something anyway, and it’s super romantic because you knew them well enough to— Are you a child? Are you an actual child?

ROSA

I didn’t agree to be an accomplice!

ROSA

Fine, just a second.

BUDDY

Why are they in your pants?

NATHAN

BUDDY Because nobody ever expects the Pants Technique, bro! I sew some secret inside pockets and if anyone says anything, I just tell them I have chunky thighs, and how dare they point it out.

BUDDY

NATHAN Are you telling me you have special crime pants?

ROSA I am not the irresponsible one. You don’t cook your own meals, you don’t clean your own messes, you never wash your socks—

ROSA And what do you do when people see you with your hands down your damn pants?

BUDDY Look, could you two maybe break up in the car?

Wink at ‘em. Can we go?

BUDDY ‘Cause I have a few hundred dollars’ worth of stolen goods down my pants, and we need to go. What the fuck?

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BUDDY

NATHAN I am not going along with this, Buddy! I’ll never survive in prison!

NATHAN (To BUDDY, Offended) Do you wanna back off? Why are you in such a hurry?

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ROSA

BUDDY Right, that’ll go great. I’ll go back and start pulling CDs out of my pants like the world’s worst Santa Claus.

(To ROSA) Were you taking it out on walks or something? What? No, we need to go now.

NATHAN (Also whispering, angrily)

What is wrong with you? Put everything back!

(BUDDY re-enters) Okay, let’s go.

BUDDY (Whispering frantically to his friends)

(Loudly, in case anyone was listening) HAHA, YEAH, THAT EPISODE OF GAME OF THRONES WAS CRAZY! (Whispering again) Would you two chill for five seconds? You are the worst accomplices!

NATHAN It was a goldfish, Rosa! How do you lose a fish? It could happen to anybody!

NATHAN

Are you crazy?

Oh my God, shut up!

NATHAN I’m the child? You’re the one who’s so irresponsible you lost our pet. Pets get lost. That could happen to anybody.

ROSA

ROSA He’s right, his living habits are disgusting. His cellmate would kill him on the first day. NATHAN (To ROSA) Really? You can’t even take my side in the middle of an actual crime? BUDDY Are you two trying to get people’s attention? God, it’s like you’ve never robbed a place before.

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121

ROSA Oh, I’m so sorry that I’m not joining in on your little crime sprees, Nathan.

ROSA (To NATHAN) Did you know he was going to do this when you drove us here?

I’m not having a crime spree, but if I was—

NATHAN

What? No!

ROSA I would have thought you’d at least give me a, “Hey, just a heads up, my friend is about to commit a felony,” but I guess you won’t even tell me when you want something for your birthday, so— NATHAN He didn’t tell me! I don’t know why he didn’t tell me, but he didn’t tell me. (To BUDDY) Why didn’t you tell me?

Crime? My birthday surprise was crime?

NATHAN I can’t believe this. I’m going to get arrested on my birthday. BUDDY Shut up about getting arrested, you absolute narcs! I really thought you were both going to be cooler than this.

NATHAN

BUDDY (Attempting to lead NATHAN out of the store) And you’re surprised! Happy Birthday! I’ll give you a CD or something when we get to the car, but right now I think the guy I made eye contact with in the music aisle is tailing me, and I can’t tell if he aims to tackle me or get my number, so if we could just…

(BUDDY turns back around immediately) BUDDY Listen, let’s nobody say things we’re gonna regret. You guys are so serious. Loosen up, steal something once in a while. Really brings a couple together. (Holding out hand like he’s trying to start a cheer) Teamwork makes the dream work. Can I get a hell yeah?

Oh my God.

NATHAN

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NATHAN

ROSA You are not cool. You’re too spineless to be cool.

If I say it, can we leave? Yes.

Okay, he’s independent.

BUDDY NATHAN BUDDY (to ROSA)

ROSA You’re so weak-willed that if you were born a twin, your brother would have absorbed you in the womb.

BUDDY (Hand still out for cheer)

NATHAN Because it’s really just like you to back out on a friend who wants you to be an accomplice. You’re never there for someone when they need you, are you? 122

Hey, I’m cool!

NATHAN Hey, I am not spineless! I’m independent! I’m— (Grabbing BUDDY’s arm) Buddy, tell her I’m independent.

ROSA (Threateningly) Buddy, get back here or this won’t be the only birthday surprise we have today.

All right, you wanna play this game, Rosa?

BUDDY Is there anything from my pants I can give you two to get you to shut up? Oh yeah, I grabbed some makeup on my way back, Rosa. (He checks his pants) What brands do you like? ROSA I don’t want your crotch lipstick! We’re in public, you animal!

BUDDY

I dunno. It was a birthday surprise.

NATHAN

Playwriting

You promised. Playwriting

BUDDY (To NATHAN)

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123

NATHAN (Pats BUDDY reassuringly as he turns back to ROSA) Okay, well, in that scenario I would also be a baby, and it’s not weird for a baby to lose a fight against another baby. And another thing— BUDDY (Forcibly getting between them) All right, look. Item one: You two are a god-awful couple and you should’ve broken up three weeks before you started dating. (Both NATHAN and ROSA try to interrupt him, but he puts a finger over their mouths) But, item two: we can’t have that conversation right now because we are getting some major stares, so I need us to shut up and— ROSA (To NATHAN) We’re going to rot in prison, and it’s your fault. What did I just say?

BUDDY

NATHAN I hate the way you do your hair!

BUDDY (Attempting to placate at first, and becoming increasingly frantic as the argument escalates, continuing until ROSA’s final line) Okay, okay, okay, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY O—

(BUDDY puts his head in his hands and takes a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself. NATHAN and ROSA both slowly turn to look at him. There’s a pause, then BUDDY moves his hands away, smiling brightly.) BUDDY Well, at least you finally have something in common.

BUDDY (Awkward jazz hands)

NATHAN You son of a bitch, this is why I’ve been going through deodorant so fast the past few months, isn’t it? You’ve been helping yourself to our relationship and our bathroom supplies? That’s the issue you have with this?

ROSA

NATHAN I have a lot of issues. I’m going through them alphabetically. D for deodorant, F for Friendship, which for a guy named Buddy, you’re surprisingly terrible at. BUDDY Okay, well, first of all, words hurt. And I don’t think you two get to be so high and mighty when last I checked, you were both banging me on the DL.

NATHAN I threw away your CD Collection!

ROSA But we were just going behind each other’s backs. You were two-timing two people. Who even has that much free time?

ROSA I threw the goldfish out the window!

BUDDY Look, I’m a scoundrel and everyone knows it. That’s kinda my thing. Maybe I don’t have— (With finger quotes) “moral integrity” but at least I’m consistent. You’re the ones with the problem.

NATHAN I broke every bulb in the house! ROSA I’m cheating on you with Buddy!

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NATHAN

ROSA (Dripping with malice) I guess you really do know what “brings a couple together.”

ROSA I set your tweed jacket on fire!

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So am I.

Surprise!

ROSA You wouldn’t even be good at crime sprees if you had them!

ROSA You dress like an idiot!

(NATHAN stares at her, stunned)

ROSA You couldn’t have mentioned that at some point?

NATHAN Honestly? I hope so because compared to you, that’s starting to look almost appealing.

NATHAN You’re insufferable.

BUDDY

Oh, Jesus.

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NATHAN And you need to have two affairs? What’s so great about her that I’m apparently not enough for you? ROSA It’s not an “affair,” we weren’t banging Cary Grant in a penthouse. This is just cheating. (To Buddy) And you literally never even thought, “Hey, what a wacky coincidence, I’m screwing them both, might as well let someone know?” BUDDY Sure, goddamn, next time I’ll put it in the Christmas cards, but can we please—

BUDDY My dudes, I feel like you’re both forgetting… BUDDY …that I needed to make a quick getaway, like, five minutes ago…

BUDDY The guy from the music aisle’s still watching, I ROSA think he’s just too freaked out to come at me Fine, I’m crazy, but God, at least I commit to it. now— You’re too wishy-washy to even be basic. If either of us are Buddy’s type— (He makes the “call me” gesture at the music aisle guy) NATHAN You are not. You were complaining about crime sprees before. At least I’m open to suggestions. BUDDY ROSA (To self) I’ll bet you are. This is the worst day of my life. BUDDY So, while everyone is distracted, can we table this convo for later, or never, and focus on what’s in my pants? Let me rephrase that. NATHAN You know, I really would have been your accomplice if you’d just told me beforehand.

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BUDDY

(NATHAN and ROSA both start to get closer to BUDDY, who protests indistinctly under their dialogue)

ROSA Oh, come on, I’m way more fun than him. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve killed a few goldfish in my time.

(Overlapping dialogue ensues)

NATHAN I am plenty pretty! If anything, you’re the crazy one.

I really don’t.

NATHAN You think I’m fun, right, Buddy? We have fun.

NATHAN Who did you start having an affair with first? It was me, right?

ROSA Oh please, we both know I’m the pretty one.

ROSA He wouldn’t, he’s a coward. I could do it. I’m apparently crazy. You need that in a partner.

Playwriting

NATHAN Buddy, come on, who drove you here? I can be a good accomplice, I can learn. Heck, I’m learning right now! ROSA I’m the pretty one. I’m the smart one. Is this even really a competition? NATHAN She doesn’t appreciate you. I appreciate you. I appreciate the crime pants. I wanna know more about them, actually, if you ever wanted to— (At this point, both NATHAN and ROSA are touching BUDDY)

Nope! No!

BUDDY (Smacking them both away) (Pointing at NATHAN)

(Pointing at ROSA) No! No more pants technique, no more arguing, no more nothing! Just listen! (He pulls them together in a huddle and takes a deep breath) Okay. So maybe this day went a bit… (Distressed sound effect to imply “badly”) And we’ve all been through a lot, both in general and specifically in the last few minutes. Emotions are high. But you know what? I think we can agree that despite everything, between the three of us there’s a lot of love. (NATHAN and ROSA both place a hand on his chest. BUDDY carefully removes them) And what I really need right now, more than anything, is for us to use that love to work together. So, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna to count to three. And on three, we’re gonna run. And we’re gonna run like hell to the car, and drive away, and nobody is going to jail and we’ll all be a little bit richer and we’ll never talk about this ever again. (Softly, but with feeling, putting his hand out again) Now please, for the love of God, can I get a hell yeah? Playwriting

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(NATHAN and ROSA look at each other)

Hell, yeah.

What are you doing after this?

ROSA (sensually) NATHAN (To Buddy)

BUDDY Oh my God, I hate you both. One, two three, run! (BUDDY bolts out of the store. The alarm goes off. NATHAN and ROSA, unprepared, run off after him in a panic.) BLACKOUT

Western Wall

Medium: Oil Size: Diptych - 16”X24”

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Art

Judy Feldman

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Characters: FARREN: 20, witty, attempting to discover friendship and relationships, but is looking in the wrong places, unconventionally attractive and isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t aware of that last part. CHAD: 24, SoundCloud DJ, likes to hook up with girls and then ghost them. Also enjoys Olive Garden un-ironically. SERVER: 22, hates her job, would rather be writing or making art. Always wants to help other people who are having a bad time at the Olive Garden where she works. (ABOUT THE SERVER: She never goes too far away during the play. She keeps an eye on Farren throughout the play and takes note of her discomfort.)

Swipe Left Taylor Paulson â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Second Place

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Can I grab you two anything to drink? 2

FARREN: Just a water for me.

SERVER: Setting: An Olive Garden Restaurant at 9:36 pm on a Tuesday night in January.

And for you?

Enter CHAD and FARREN, not at the same time. CHAD:

CHAD: Ditto. SERVER:

Hey, baby girl! You must be Farrah, right?

Okay, I’ll have those right up.

FARREN: Actually, it’s Farren. But you’re close! I suppose that means you are Chad, from Tinder, right? CHAD:

Exit SERVER. There is a brief, uncomfortable silence. FARREN: So… What kind of music do you like?

Yeah, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out, sweet cheeks. Enter SERVER SERVER:

CHAD: I really like Insane Clown Posse, Nickelback, and Skrillex. What about you? FARREN:

Hi, welcome to Olive Garden. How many today?

Well, I try to keep it fresh, but right now I’ve really been digging Jeff Rosenstock and

CHAD:

Mom Jeans. I also got back into Glocca Mora and Dowsing, and AJJ.

Just two.

CHAD:

SERVER:

Oh, are you one of those hipster chicks? You know, the kind that liked the band before it was

Right this way.

cool and whatever?

SERVER grabs menus and shows the two to their seats and exits.

Enter SERVER.

CHAD:

SERVER:

You know, you remind me a lot of Linda.

Here are those waters for you. Are you two ready, or do you need a minute?

FARREN:

Who’s Linda?

I think we still need a moment. Thank you.

CHAD:

SERVER:

My mom. No problem. Take your time.

SERVER renters, with a notepad and pencil.

Exit SERVER.

SERVER: Can I grab you two anything to drink?

CHAD: FARREN:

So, like, what do you want to do with your life?

Just a water for me.

FARREN: SERVER:

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I’m studying theater right now. My focus is acting, but really I’d like to write and direct as well.

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CHAD:

FARREN:

Good luck getting a solid job with that.

I just don’t like it. Sorry. FARREN:

CHAD:

Great, thanks. Well, what are you planning on doing?

Wow, that’s pretty racist.

CHAD:

FARREN:

I dropped out of college to be a DJ.

What? FARREN:

Enter SERVER.

Oh. That’s… great.

SERVER: CHAD:

Are you two still doing all right?

Yeah, I’ve got so many followers on SoundCloud. You should check it out; my DJ name is DJ J-A-Y-D-E-E, but the Es are the number three. I’ma be droppin that fresh mixtape real

Oh, we are just peachy.

soon. Enter SERVER. SERVER:

FARREN: SERVER:

Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay? Exit SERVER.

Are you ready to order?

FARREN:

So, uhh, what’s your sign?

I’ll just have the unlimited salad and breadsticks.

CHAD:

SERVER:

I’m a Pisces. Why does that even matter?

Okay. And for you?

FARREN:

CHAD:

I’m a Leo. We aren’t compatible.

I guess I’ll have the chicken fettuccine alfredo. Extra parmy-parm on that bad boy.

CHAD:

SERVER:

You’re really going to judge me over something so arbitrary like that?

All righty. I’ll have those right out. SERVER takes the menus and leaves. CHAD:

FARREN: I’m not judging you on anything. I may not wholeheartedly believe in things such as horoscopes and such, but I do genuinely believe that the time of the year in which someone was born does

So, you into anime?

affect the surroundings which they grow up around.

FARREN:

CHAD:

I’m not, actually. It’s not really my thing.

Oh, you’re one of those chicks, the “Astrology Hoe” kind. It’s a good thing you’re a hottie.

CHAD: Why not?

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CHAD:

FARREN:

Nah, you can just keep your fucking alfredo, I’m out of this motha fucka. And you know what,

I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.

I’ll even pay for the meal. Because I’m a fucking gentleman.

CHAD:

He pulls out $20 and puts it on the table.

Why wouldn’t it be? I’m out of here. Bon Appetit, bitches!

FARREN:

Exit CHAD.

I mean, you’re dismissing my opinions and objectifying me at the same time. You could at least wait until the food gets here. SERVER:

CHAD:

Well, my shift’s over. Actually, I was off before your food was ready.

Damn, don’t tell me you’re one of those feminist bitches.

Taking off apron, sits at table with Farren.

FARREN:

I comped out your meal, so you can just keep whatever money he left on the table. Don’t worry,

Excuse me?

I made sure I stayed to make sure you were safe. We see a lot of bad dates here, so I do my best

CHAD: You might have a great ass, but you really seem like one of those man-haters. I bet you don’t

to make sure that the woman is okay. FARREN:

shave your armpits.

I seriously appreciate that. Do you think I was too rude?

FARREN:

SERVER:

Why is that even important?

Nah, that guy was a prick anyways. I mean, I’ve seen people throw food at each other before, but

CHAD:

you just spilled the tea. You’re fine, trust me.

Honestly, I doubt you’ll put out tonight.

FARREN:

Do people seriously think that Olive Garden is romantic? Seriously?

Was that part of the plan or something?

SERVER:

CHAD:

I don’t know, but I would never take a date here. Especially not someone like you.

Well, duh, why else would I take you out for dinner?

But you know what? Why don’t we just take the money he left to pay for dinner and get some ice

FARREN:

cream?

Maybe to get to know me?

FARREN:

CHAD:

Ice cream sounds so fucking good right now. I’m Farren, by the way.

I don’t need to get to know you in order to see that you’re just a massive bitch. SERVER enters.

SERVER: Farren, I’m Emerson, but people usually call me Em.

SERVER:

They exit together, their infatuation with each other is very noticeable.

Okay, here are the salad and breadsticks for you, and here’s the alfredo.

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FADE IN: INT. BEDROOM- DAY EMILIA, a young teenage Mexicana, lies on her stomach as she draws in a notebook on her bed. Headphones are plugged into her ears as they blast Selena’s “Dreaming of You.” EMILIA (SINGING) Late at night when all the world is sleepin’ I stay up and think of you... and I wish on a star, that somewhere you are thinking of me too. We see Emilia drawing a sketch of a boy with the name ‘Bobby’ with assorted hearts all around. EMILIA (SINGING) (CONT’D) ‘Cause I’m dreaming of you tonight till to—

LA PALETERA

Emilia’s DAD comes through her bedroom door.

Cielo Aguilar – Third Place

Emilia pulls her headphones aside.

DAD Emilia! Mija, ya esta la comida! EMILIA What, Dad? DAD Food is ready. C’mon, a comer! She slams her notebook shut and gets up to follow him. INT. KITCHEN-DAY Emilia sits at a little wooden table as her dad brings her a plate of food. DAD Es mi favorito, tu sabes, mis noplalitos! EMILIA We always have nopales. It’s not that special anymore.

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DAD Hija... Always special. Siempre esta especial.

EMILIA I’ll come, but only to help you. DAD Ah, mija! Ya lo sabia.

Her dad takes a seat across her. DAD (CONT’D) Y porque no estas hablando en espanol? You have to practice your Spanish.

EMILIA Que sabes? What do you know? DAD Nada. Nothing. Eat, mija. Then we’ll go.

EMILIA I do practice! Quando?

DAD

EXT. PARK-DAY Emilia swings on a swing set on the playground. Her headphones are plugged into her ears. In front of her, she sees her Dad standing at the edge of the park with a mobile freezer of fruity popsicles. He waves at her and she waves back.

EMILIA All the time! What about you? You have to practice your English. DAD I do! All the time I say, I am US citizen!

To her side, she watches a group of boys play soccer on the field. Her gaze follows one boy in particular--Bobby, a young teenage white boy.

They burst into a light chuckle. DAD (CONT’D) Una risa! There’s my happy girl! Despues de comer voy a trabajo. Want to come with me?

Emilia!

Emilia’s gaze at Bobby breaks, and she looks over to see her dad waving her to come over.

EMILIA To work? Which park are you going to?

She reluctantly jumps off the swing and walks over to him. EMILIA Are we leaving?

DAD Pues, tu favorito, the one where your boyfriend plays. Dad!

DAD Not yet, can you take over for a bit?

EMILIA

Take over?

DAD No es verdad?

EMILIA Okay, okay.

DAD Good! No boys. That’s my girl! So, no quieres ir conmigo?

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EMILIA

DAD Tengo ir al bano. Just to the bathroom, two minutes.

EMILIA No! He’s not my boyfriend!

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DAD

DAD Gracias hija, here!

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4. EMILIA Queires comprar una paleta?

Her dad takes off his cap and apron and puts them on her. DAD (CONT’D) Now you’re official! La Paletera!

BOBBY You should come play with us. Jugar. El futbol. Do you want to?

EMILIA Stop, Dad, c’mon...go pee.

Yo? No...

DAD Okay! I’ll be right back!

BOBBY C’mon! I’ll buy us paletas...I’ll go get my money from my bag. Are you gonna be here still?

Her Dad speed-walks away. Emilia takes a look inside the cart of frozen treats. All flavors from coconut to mango flavored popsicles fill the dry-iced cart.

She nods again, sheepishly. BOBBY (CONT’D) Okay, I’ll see you later Emilia!

BOBBY Hey, do you have strawberry? Emilia looks up. Bobby is standing in front of the cart. Her jaw drops a little and she stutters her words to reply. Uh...

EMILIA

He runs off. Emilia exhales once he’s gone. Her dad gets back. DAD You make a lot of money, mi paletera?

Her eyes dart back down. BOBBY Have you come to this park before? I think I’ve seen you before.

EMILIA No, nothing. Nobody came.

EMILIA No, uh, no hablo ingles...

DAD Oh no? Y tu novio?

BOBBY Oh, you don’t speak English? That’s okay. A lot of the boys I play with speak Spanish. I’ve learned some.

Dad...

EMILIA Almost. Quince minutos mas?

BOBBY Ah…uh, que es tu nombre?

DAD Espanol! Of course, mija. Go play. Keep the outfit, it looks good on you.

EMILIA

BOBBY Emilia, yo soy Bobby.

Emilia looks for Bobby in the field as she walks back to the playground. The boys are getting picked up by parents and are leaving the field.

Emilia nods.

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EMILIA

DAD Hija, it’s just a joke. You ready to go home?

EMILIA Perdon, no te entiendo... No se...

Emilia.

EMILIA

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6. She chuckles.

EMILIA (WHISPERS) Of course.

EMILIA Yeah, let’s play!

She pulls out her head phones and plugs them in. She hums to the tune and sits down on a swing.

The two get up from the swing set and start passing the ball back and forth as they head to the field.

Her eyes watch the sand under her feet separate as she swings slowly back and forth.

FADE OUT.

EMILIA (SINGING) (CONT’D) So I wait for the day, to have the courage to say how much I— Her shoulder is nudged. Emilia looks beside her and finds Bobby on the seat next to her with a strawberry popsicle in each hand. She pulls out her headphones. BOBBY Are you singing, Selena? Emilia nods. BOBBY (CONT’D) I brought us paletas! Fresa! Your dad just gave them to me. He’s nice. Emilia looks over to her dad. He grins while he waves at them. She takes the strawberry popsicle from Bobby. Gracias.

EMILIA

BOBBY De nada. You know, your Dad said you speak English. Emilia’s eyebrows perk up. Her lips tighten. BOBBY (CONT’D) So, you wanna play? Quieres jugar conmigo? She smiles and looks at Bobby. She blushes and blinks as he smiles back. BOBBY (CONT’D) Well, Paletera? Your dad told me to call you that.

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Perfect for Me A Musical

Thomas Hartwell â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Honorable Mention

Falling in Love

Medium: Oil on Canvas Size: 18x24

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Junko Kinoshita

Art

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CHARACTERS AMY: (Female, Mezzo). Mid-twenties. Indecisive and not easily satisfied; scared of her emotions.

MUSICAL NUMBERS

THE GUARDIAN: (Male, Tenor). Playful, crafty, mercurial, more so than the situation probably warrants. Amy’s Heavenly Guardian in the afterlife.

Opening (Infinite Regrets)................................................................Amy, Guardian Perfect for Me...........................................................................................Amy, Kate

KATE: (Female, Soprano). Mid-twenties. Warm, easily contented. Amy’s wife in an alternate universe.

Looking For Chorus..........................................................................Kate, Guardian

SAMANTHA: (Female). Mid-twenties. Amy’s current girlfriend. Non-singing role.

Argument (Perfect for Me Reprise)...................................................Kate, Guardian Finale.................................................................................................Guardian, Amy

SETTING A waiting room in the afterlife.

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I–1–2

I–1–1 GUARDIAN Oh, I’m sorry—was I not clear? YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’VE SHUFFLED OFF THOSE MORTAL COILS, AND JOINED THE RANKS OF GENERATIONS PAST, YOU’VE CROAKED, YOU’VE FRIED, YOU’VE BREATHED YOUR LAST, YOU’VE BOUGHT THE FARM, BIT THE DUST, CASHED THE CHIPS AND KICKED THE BUCKET!

ACT ONE SCENE 1 (The empty stage. AMY enters, lost and confused) AMY I WAS SLEEPING, SAMANTHA WAS BY MY SIDE. WHERE AM I NOW? WHAT IS THIS PLACE? WHERE AM I, WHERE AM I, WHERE AM I— (from the rear of the stage, a heavenly GUARDIAN appears and approaches AMY cautiously) HI, THERE.

I don’t understand—what’s going on?

AMY

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AMY

Why?

GUARDIAN It’s simple logic. IF LIFE HAS INFINITE POSSIBILITIES, THEN IT MUST ALSO HAVE INFINITE REGRETS. And the last thing we want is any of those. So I’m here to make sure you get the best of all possible lives in the great beyond. Now, c’mon—infinite realities, finite time, I’m afraid. Let’s begin the presentation.

AMY

GUARDIAN Well, let’s just say YOU’LL BE SLEEPING FOR A VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY— (pauses, counts the ‘verys’) VERY LONG TIME… Aw, geez…This isn’t easy to say. YOU’RE DEAD…

What?

AMY

GUARDIAN Oh, it’s a simple process. You see, floating out there in this strange thing we call the universe exist countless realities all of which have managed to produce their own unique version of you. So now that you’ve corked it, it’s my duty to share the multitudes of lives you’ve led.

GUARDIAN Oh…you don’t know, do you? Well, let’s see…what do you remember last?

I WAS SLEEPING…

GUARDIAN IT MAY COME AS A SHOCK, I KNOW, BUT WE’VE GOT SOME MOVING ON TO DO, SO SIT DOWN, RELAX, ENJOY THE SHOW AS I PRESENT: THE INFINITE YOU.

GUARDIAN

(AMY jumps back in alarm) SORRY, THIS IS PROBABLY STRANGE. HI, THERE! I DON’T MEAN TO INTRUDE, BUT YOU LOOKED SORTA LOST. AND I THOUGHT…

WHERE AM I?

AMY

Fuck!

(He moves to an old-fashioned slide projector)

My infinite lives are on slides?

AMY So we haven’t gone digital yet.

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AMY GUARDIAN

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I–1–3 AMY Wait—how does this work? If there’re so many versions of me out there, how do we have time to look through them all? GUARDIAN Well, as your humble guardian, I’ve taken time to filter out some of the…harsher realities. Like this one— (activates a slide) Where you’re a convicted murderer. AMY

Yikes.

Oh, God.

AMY

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Shit…

GUARDIAN (can barely contain his excitement)

AMY

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AMY

GUARDIAN

AMY

GUARDIAN I mean, that’s totally better than your life. With—what was her name?

Samantha.

(KATE enters, separated from the main action, unaware of either AMY or the GUARDIAN)

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I know.

Cool, right?

GUARDIAN (clearly getting giddy) Oh, you’re gonna love it. See, first we have you—plain, regular, ordinary you, the life you’ve always lived. And on the other end…Well, why don’t you see for yourself?

Holy crap.

AMY That’s—that’s Katherine Macaby. That’s Kate.

What.

GUARDIAN

GUARDIAN No, I’ve filtered all of those out and managed to narrow you down to a few choice realities. In fact, I’ve managed to get it all the way down to two—but I’ll need you to make the final decision.

What are the realities?

GUARDIAN

GUARDIAN (practically jumping up and down with glee) See—in this other reality—you and Kate—oh it’s too good—you and Kate got married.

AMY

(to the next) Or this one—where you’re into anime.

Right?

AMY I—we dated. In high school. I can’t believe this. (to GUARDIAN) What’s she doing here?

GUARDIAN (moving to the next slide) Or this one, where you’re a white supremacist.

That’s unpleasant.

I–1–4

AMY

GUARDIAN Yeah, her. I mean, you guys never even got married or anything like that.

No, we didn’t.

AMY

GUARDIAN So this is way better. Here— (pushes AMY towards KATE) Go talk to her. Go!

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I–1–5

I–1–6

AMY

But I—

Yeah, I suppose so.

KATE Amy, relax. I’m here now. Everything’s going to be okay.

AMY

Wait—

(She takes AMY’s hand, who is visibly uncomfortable with the sudden physical contact. AMY quickly pulls away)

(but he’s gone. A pause as KATE awakens and turns toward AMY)

Hello, Amy.

KATE

AMY Kate!—I—uh—Oh God. (She spins away, blushing; then regains composure, tries to think of something to say) So, you dead, too? (quickly) Oh, Jesus. KATE (laughing) Will you relax? It’s fine. (beat) So you’re from a world where we’re not together?

Who did you end up with?

KATE

AMY WHEREVER WE WERE, WHATEVER WE DID SINCE ALMOST THE DAY WE MET,

YOU GAVE ME YOUR DAYS AND I RAN OFF INSTEAD. GOD, I WISH I WERE DEAD… (beat) Oh. Right. (AMY moves downstage, talking to herself) WHY IS SHE HERE? WHAT HAPPENED TO SAM? JESUS CHRIST—DEATH IS FUCKING SURREAL! THIS IS UNFAIR— WHY SHOULD I CHOOSE?

KATE

AMY

KATE So we both picked people with gender ambiguous names. How very bisexual of us.

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KATE JUST TAKE A BREATH, YOU’RE GONNA BE FINE. THINK ABOUT US, AND WHAT YOU LEFT BEHIND…

YOU WERE PERFECT FOR ME AND I WAS PERFECT FOR YOU, HOW COULD WE NOT HAVE WORKED, HOW’D WE GET UNDONE?

AMY Well, not “end up” really, we just live togeth—Sam. I’m with Sam.

That short for Samuel or—

AMY THIS IS INSANE, SEEING YOU HERE, WHY DO I FEEL LIKE I’M LOSING MY MIND?

I NEVER FELT LIKE I NEEDED MORE THAN WHEN I WAS HERE, HAPPY WITH YOU. WE EACH WENT OUR OWN WAYS, AND YET…

AMY Yeah. You ended up with a guy named Alex. Not that I stalked you or anything.

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AMY

GUARDIAN

Have fun!

Samantha.

(laughing)

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I–1–7 AMY (CONT.) CAN I DECIDE? DO I KNOW WHAT I FEEL?

I–1–8

What?

KATE (pulling out of the embrace)

SAM WASN’T EVERYTHING, BUT SHE PUT UP WITH ME, AND LOVED ME, FOR GOOD OR ILL.

AMY I’m sorry, you can’t expect me to decide that quickly—

I WAS HAPPY WITH SAM— BUT DID SHE EVER KNOW? WE’D FIGHT AND WE’D ARGUE, BUT STILL…

Typical.

AMY WAS SHE PERFECT FOR ME? AND WAS I PERFECT FOR HER? WERE WE EVEN AWARE OUR LIVES HAD BEGUN?

KATE PERFECT FOR ME. PERFECT FOR YOU.

What’s that supposed to mean?

OUR LIFE’S JUST BEGUN!

KATE I don’t know why I’m surprised. I knew this going in—

OUR DAYS TURNED TO WEEKS AND I THOUGHT THINGS WOULD LAST. WHO’D GUESS IT’D END QUITE SO FAST?

She’s scared of emotions.

KATE Amy, forget about that. Whatever happened in your world—it’s not there anymore. Focus on what’s here. (beat) Focus on me. (KATE embraces AMY, still lost in her thoughts. The GUARDIAN reenters and taps AMY on the shoulder)

Pretty great, huh?

Uh, we’re kinda having a moment here—

So you’re ready to choose?

What—No!

What?

KATE

GUARDIAN

AMY

GUARDIAN

KATE

Bingo.

AMY

What? Am not!

GUARDIAN Sorry, kid, two against one here. Also, I binge-watched like thirty thousand versions of your life last night so I’m pretty sure I know what I’m talking about. AMY Look, I’m just—how am I supposed to choose a choice I never even knew I made? God—why did I have to see you again? I thought I had my life figured out, but—

AMY

You have regrets? What a shock.

GUARDIAN

KATE Amy, that’s why we’re here. Just tell me what it is you want. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM THIS? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT DO YOU NEED? WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?

AMY GUARDIAN

(KATE and the GUARDIAN get on either side of AMY)

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I–1–9 KATE & GUARDIAN WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM THIS? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME/HER? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT DO YOU NEED? WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?

KATE WHEN DID YOU TELL HER YOU LOVED HER?

Wait, you haven’t told her?

GUARDIAN You haven’t watched Up in a decade because the opening makes you cry. KATE I used to tell you I loved you and you’d just respond “fine.” Do you have any idea how much that hurts? GUARDIAN You don’t listen to Oasis because “Wonderwall” made you feel things.

GUARDIAN

I…We fought.

AMY Look, I don’t know what I want, or how to feel, or anything. Every time I think I do, it goes away and I’m just filled with…regrets. Tons of them. GUARDIAN Well, if you wanna deal with those regrets, why not go to the source?

It’s—it’s complicated.

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That’s seriously screwed up, girl.

GUARDIAN

AMY GUARDIAN

AMY

KATE WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE YOU DIED?

KATE (back to AMY) Look, I married you in my world, flaws and all. But you still pushed me away. We have a chance now to fix that. Let me be a part of your life—let me help you.

WHAT DO YOU TWO HAVE?

Shut up.

Shut up!

KATE (to GUARDIAN) Okay, I’m actually, like, trying to make a point here.

Leave Sam out of it.

AMY

I…I—

KATE You don’t commit to anyone because you’re scared of feeling something—anything!

What? These are valid arguments.

I – 1 – 10

AMY

GUARDIAN HOW MUCH IS SHE WORTH TO YOU?

Everything. She’s worth everything.

BUT IS SHE PERFECT?

AMY GUARDIAN & KATE

KATE Isn’t that what you need? Someone who’s perfect?

AMY

GUARDIAN Someone who makes you forget any regrets? Someone who makes you comfortable, assured?

KATE I—I don’t know— AMY

AMY

GUARDIAN We can give that to you. Pick the reality where things are perfect. Maybe it’s with Kate, maybe it’s with someone else. We can find it. Just choose another life. WHAT DO YOU SAY? Playwriting

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I – 1 – 11 KATE

I’D BE PERFECT FOR YOU…

WHAT DO YOU SAY?

GUARDIAN Okay, look, will you hold on! (She stops, he readjusts himself) Thank you. First of all, I’m still just in here— (He puts a finger on AMY’s forehead) So you’re only hurting yourself. Second—look, do you know why you dream?

AMY

What am I looking for?

GUARDIAN

KATE

GUARDIAN Nobody does. Some people think they’re premonitions. Others, just random energies in the brain. In the 1900s some quack said they were all about sex, but no-one listens to him anymore.

AMY

What do I need?

Why are you telling me this?

GUARDIAN & KATE

No—I don’t want that—I don’t want that!

AMY

(By this point the GUARDIAN and KATE have drifted to the rear of the stage, out of the action. SAMANTHA calls from offstage)

Amy, are you okay in there?

WHAT DO I NEED?

GUARDIAN You’re back in your bedroom. You slept off the fight.

WHAT DO I/YOU NEED?

(AMY starts hitting him repeatedly across the arm) Ow—hey—waitaminute!

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AMY

GUARDIAN WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM HER? WHAT DO YOU WANT?

AMY

GUARDIAN

I thought I was fucking dead. What the fuck!

SAMANTHA

GUARDIAN WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM THIS?

AMY

Are you telling me this was a fucking dream?

AMY

GUARDIAN Would you—I’m trying to—just listen. Others say that they are just what they are. Random jumbles of thoughts and memories our brains have to process. They come out in the only way they can—in stories. And like all good stories, they’re there to tell us something. NOW, FAR BE IT FROM ME TO SAY WHO IS RIGHT AND WHO IS WRONG. BUT SUFFICE IT TO SAY YOU SHOULD KNOW WHERE I BELONG.

Amy, everything all right?

SAMANTHA

What…what’s going on?

Pretty cool, right?

AMY

No?

YOU’D BE PERFECT FOR ME…

PERFECT… PERFECT… PERFECT… PERFECT…

I – 1 – 12

AMY & GUARDIAN

GUARDIAN WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?

AMY

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I – 1 – 13 SAMANTHA

Amy!

See you on the other side, kid.

GUARDIAN

(GUARDIAN makes his way offstage. SAMANTHA enters. AMY sits, dazed) SAMANTHA Amy, there you are—didn’t you hear me calling you? Everything all right? (No response, AMY stares blankly) Amy, are you okay? (Still no response) Amy? (Finally AMY lifts her head up and looks at SAMANTHA)

Will you marry me?

(simply)

AMY

Soul Power – A Musical of Faith and Funk

(blackout) END OF PLAY

Jonathan Sanborn – Honorable Mention

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Cast of Characters: ANNOUNCER:

Charismatic preacher-style male

MACHI VELLI:

Charismatic Bruno Mars-type political leader of Soul People, male

Music Numbers:

Song - Soul Power – Lack of Afro Mix Music by Kokolo

THE PROPHETESS:

Spiritual leader of Soul People, female

NO FUNK DOUG:

Skeptical dissenter of Soul People, male

Song – Dirty Business

EPI NEPHRINE:

Fearful member of Soul People, female

Music from Knucklehead by The Sound Stylistics

OPPRESSOR:

Egyptian tough guy, male

FUNKY MUMMY:

Good dancer, female

Lyrics by Machi Velli

Place: Soul Train Studios, Los Angeles, California Time: 1972

Original music composition available by request only.

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1 2

ACT I - In a Deep Funk Scene I

ANNOUNCER

Setting:

Center stage is a microphone stand and trappings of a small stage.

At rise:

ANNOUNCER is standing in front of microphone in spotlight. Rest of cast (except FUNKY MUMMY) is in shadow behind him.

…the Great Negotiator.

(music starts – “Soul Power – Lack of Afro Mix”)

Yeah!

ANNOUNCER

He’s the ultimate outsider and lady satisfier.

Brothers and sisters, are you ready to get funky?

Yeah!

CAST (shouting)

ANNOUNCER He’s got so much gold he ain’t got no time for silver.

Then I got a story for you! It’s a story of soul.

(CAST continues to cheer)

ANNOUNCER

He’s got small hands, but a big obelisk.

(CAST continues to cheer)

ANNOUNCER

And it’s a story of love.

Ahhh, yeah!

He’s bringing the motion to Goshen. CAST (shouting)

Woo hoo!

ANNOUNCER

Brothers and sisters, he’s the Pharaoh of Soul. He’s the Drumpf! (CAST continues to cheer)

(CAST continues to cheer)

ANNOUNCER

And the people? They’re the people of God. And they got it bad. The Libtards of Egypt have been keeping the soul brothers and sisters down for 200 years. And now they’re in the deepest funk the world has ever seen. They are oppressed, repressed, suppressed, and depressed. Where will their help come from?

…the Job Creator…

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CAST (shouting) ANNOUNCER

It’s a love between a man and a people. Not the freaky stuff, but a love that no one could have ever imagined. The man is not just any man, I tell ya. He’s the Swamp Drainer…

Yeah!

CAST (shouting)

Woo hoo!

ANNOUNCER

It’s a story of power.

CAST (shouting)

(Lights go down. ANNOUNCER becomes MACHI VELLI lying on the ground. OPPRESSOR has his foot on his head. CAST is surrounding the scene. Lights go up and the music fades out.)

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3 THE PROPHETESS

OPPRESSOR

We need to focus on the day when the Lord will deliver us to our own land, the Promised Land, flowing with milk and honey.

Bake the cake, you bigot! MACHI VELLI

MACHI VELLI

I can’t. My religion forbids it.

Where every man, woman, child, and mentally unstable person can have his or her own spear.

OPPRESSOR Your religion is a joke. Maybe that served you in 2500 BC, but this is 2000 B.C., and we believe in reason, science, and tolerance. MACHI VELLI

We’ll have as small a government as possible with a massive military, of course.

OPPRESSOR Silence! (pushes foot down on head) Only certain select groups qualify for official oppression status. Cushites, eunuchs, and people from Babylon who’re cool and don’t actually practice Babylonian stuff. THE PROPHETESS

ALL SOUL PEOPLE Of course! THE PROPHETESS It is good to long for these things but…but…

We’ll bake your cakes, just let him go.

(She goes into a trance like state with one outstretched arm.)

OPPRESSOR Wise choice. (releases MACHI VELLI) One day, you’ll learn what tolerance looks like. (slaps MACHI VELLI, starts to walk away) Thousands of years from now, everyone will be speaking Egyptian and no one will remember your silly religion. Mark my words! (exits stage left) THE PROPHETESS (rushes over to MACHI VELLI) Machi, are you okay? MACHI VELLI If we could just fight back!

I see a little fox coming to me. He reaches for my hand, and I take hold of his paw. We’re walking together and then we’re running. Faster. Faster. We’re flying now, like a bird! We’re flying across the Red Sea! Into the Sinai. It’s beautiful! Down below I can see a Desert City of tents. And around the city are herds of beauty contestants as far as the eye can see. We start to go down into the city. Now we are going into the largest tent. It’s not just large, it’s huge! And I see piles of gold! Gold! I see a great throne. It’s made of porcelain. And sitting on that porcelain throne is the Prince of Desert City. Power radiates from his being. He is a man of chaos, but a man of strength. He’s releasing little birds from his hands with messages called tweets that tell the world of his wisdom and power. And the fox turns to me and speaks and says, “This man, the Drumpf, will give you the promised land. The time has come. But it is not where you think. It is… MACHI VELLI

EPI NEPHRINE

What? Where is it?

But the Libtards took all our spears away!

THE PROPHETESS

NO FUNK DOUG

The Promised Land is Egypt!

Without a well-armed militia, we would be crushed!

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We can be free to worship God as we please. MACHI VELLI

But you’re oppressing us!

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THE PROPHETESS

(She falls to the floor. ALL SOUL PEOPLE gasps, NO FUNK DOUG runs over to help her up.)

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MACHI VELLI IF YOU WANT TO DRAIN A SWAMP, YOU GOTTA GET IN THE MUD POWER DON’T COME EASY WE GOTTA GET OURSELVES A STUD

(inspired) This is it! We don’t need to wait anymore. The Drumpf will help us overthrow the Libtards! We can make Egypt our promised land! EPI NEPHRINE

EGYPT WE’LL MAKE IT GREATER EGYPT NEEDS LIVING WATER IN EGYPT WE IN A DEEP FUNK GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE THEN GET DOWN, DOWN, DOWN TO DIRTY BUSINESS, DIRTY BUSINESS

He’ll appoint strict constructionist judges that reflect our values! THE PROPHETESS And finally get out of the deep funk and worship God as we please! NO FUNK DOUG Wait a second! Listen to yourselves! You want to go out to the Sinai Desert and get some sleazy rich guy to come here and overthrow the most powerful ruler in the world? And all because some little fox told you to do it? We should never trust (pause) fox news. MACHI VELLI

(Shouting) I need a funky mummy now! (FUNKY MUMMY enters from stage left. Dances and then is joined by cast except NO FUNK DOUG to continue dancing) SO RAISE YOUR HANDS AND PRAY AND GET DOWN, DOWN, DOWN TO DIRTY BUSINESS, DIRTY BUSINESS EPI NEPHRINE

And what is the alternative? Wait another 200 years for someone to come and tell Pharaoh to let us go? That’ll never happen. EPI NEPHRINE

Pack your bags everyone!

We have to do something!

MACHI VELLI

THE PROPHETESS God has given me a vision. As the Prophetess of Soul, I tell people every day that God wants them healthy, happy, and rich. And they believe me. You should believe me, too. NO FUNK DOUG

We’re gonna go find The Drumpf! And he’ll become our next Pharaoh! THE PROPHETESS And then Egypt will be our promised land!

I don’t know what you saw, but I do know we’re the children of Abraham. We got soul. If God wants us to rule, we’ll rule with integrity and humility. We don’t need someone slimy Drumpf to help us.

(everyone except NO FUNK DOUG walks off stage left) NO FUNK DOUG Ugg! Wait for me!

MACHI VELLI Get off your high horse, Doug. Everyone is slimy underneath. I ask you, who among us hasn’t paid off a porn star to keep her quiet? (everyone nods in agreement, music starts “Knucklehead” by The Sound Stylistics. EPI NEPHRINE and THE PROPHETESS get behind MACHI VELLI as back up dancers.) Look where acting nice has gotten us for the last…two…hundred…years. Here’s a little lesson about how the world works. Without power, we keep getting screwed. It’s time for us to do a little compromising so we can get the power. Let me tell you that politics…

(runs off, stage left)

CURTAIN

(music fades out)

IT’S DIRTY BUSINESS – IT’S HOW REAL STUFF GETS DONE DIRTY BUSINESS – NO ONE SAID RULING’S FUN

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Gun Health John Hull â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Honorable Mention

American Bald Eagle Medium: raw edit Br to jpg Size: 1.85mb 300ppi

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Keith Seidel

Art

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Gun Health

At rise.

Setting:

Lights up. JACK is sitting at his computer. ANN enters.

Area staging. The scenes flow seamlessly into each other as characters move in and out of action. February in Arizona, shortly after a school shooting in a nearby town. JAIME and JACK are having a discussion over social media.

ANN: Hey, Honey. How are you holding up?

Characters: ANN:

40+ Caucasian female. Jack’s mother. She is worried about her son after a recent school shooting.

JACK:

20+ Caucasian male. Attempting to discuss gun control vs. gun ban. Hoping for positive change. In High School, he was victim to rumors of being involved with planning a school shooting.

JAIME:

Role Open. A work acquaintance of Jack’s. Anti-guns. (If cast as male, change pronouns where appropriate.)

JAYE:

Role Open. Tries to influence Jack into planning a school shooting. (If cast as female, change pronouns where appropriate. Jack still says “man” as a casual term for friend.)

FACULTY:

JACK: I’m all right. ANN: If you need to talk about it, please, let me know. I know what these shootings bring up for you. JACK: Thanks, I will, Mom. ANN: I love you!

30+ Caucasian male. Faculty at Jack and Jaye’s school.

JACK: Love you back! JAIME enters, typing on her phone. JACK and JAIME do not face each other. JAIME: Seriously, how many more children have to die before everyone realizes we need to get rid of guns? If you don’t agree with me, then do me a favor and unfriend me now! JACK: (Sighs) Okay, if you’re so unwilling to have an open discourse with someone who has a different viewpoint than you, I think that speaks more to your character than his. How are we supposed to have any positive change with totalitarian thinking like that? JAIME: How is gun violence positive? JACK: I’m not saying it is. I’m just saying it’s not so black and white. For example, I’m from a small town in Arizona where a lot of my friends live on ranches. When they turned 14, they had to start carrying on the property because they had to start going out alone. The gun not only protected them, but also the livestock that was their family’s livelihood.

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JACK: JAIME: Nobody should have access to AR-15s! JACK: I didn’t say they should. I said that we need to have an open conversation about the genuine issues to move forward with any positive change. JAIME:

Okay, I’m gonna offer you my evidence. (Rises and addresses the audience.) Sophomore year of high school I needed help. I was 14. My mom was so busy being a single parent that she wasn’t home to see me. I don’t blame her; I thank her. She saved me from my dad. My three-year-old niece had just been molested. Now, my friends didn’t know this; they just knew something was up. Now, add to that my family’s long history of chronic depression. I was suffering and having a difficult time finding a reason to go on, and this wasn’t the first time either. However, I didn’t talk about it because I didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. Then, my friend Jaye flipped my world upside down.

All guns kill!

Setting: High School Courtyard. JAYE enters. JACK:

JAYE:

Guns don’t kill, people use guns to kill.

Hey, Jack, what’s up?

JAIME:

JACK:

Which is why guns should be banned!

Nothing.

JACK:

JAYE:

Proving, once again, that as Americans, we care more about guns than we do about mental health.

You good? JACK:

JAIME:

Not really.

But, if we remove access to guns, there won’t be any more mass shootings.

JAYE:

JACK:

Is it the breakup?

No, they’ll be replaced with mass bombings, stabbings, and chemical attacks.

JACK:

JAIME:

Nah.

There’s no evidence of that!

JAYE:

JACK: You’re right. However, if someone has reached the point of feeling like hurting other people would be the answer, not having access to guns will not stop them.

Do you have to visit your dad this weekend? JACK:

JAIME: He canceled.

Yes, but if we remove guns, we can start to give proper care to those that need it!

JAYE:

JACK: Are you getting bullied?

No, we won’t.

JACK:

JAIME: Nah, man. It’s nothing like that.

You don’t know that.

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JAYE:

(JACK moves to leave.)

You wanna talk?

JAYE: JACK:

Hey, it doesn’t have to be guns. We could mix together—

Nah, man, I just…wanna be alone right now.

JACK:

JAYE:

Stop it! I’m not doing anything like that, man! I’d hurt myself, I’d kill myself, before I ever hurt someone else!

Alone to think, or alone to plan?

ANN enters.

JACK:

ANN:

To clear my head, man. Look, I’m sorry to worry you. I’m not gonna do that.

Jack!

JAYE:

JACK: (Waves.)

No, I know, but there are other ways to ease the pain. JACK:

Look, I gotta go. Mom’s here to pick me up.

I know. I punch walls, I scream, I cut, I—

JAYE exits.

JAYE:

ANN:

No, man, I mean, my dad’s got guns.

Hey, Honey! Is everything all right? JACK:

JACK:

What?

Yeah. JAYE:

ANN:

Yeah, man, we’ve got a full gun locker upstairs.

Are you sure? You don’t seem okay.

JACK:

No! Don’t even joke about that fucking shit, man!

I’m fine, okay?

JAYE:

ANN exits.

I’m not saying kill yourself. JACK:

JACK:

I know you aren’t! There’s no way we could—

(Addressing audience.) I didn’t turn him in. I was too busy worrying about my own shit to see that he needed as much help as I did. I thought, He doesn’t mean it. He’s just trying to make me feel better, like a good friend should. Luckily, one of our friends overheard us, and they did turn him in.

JAYE: There’s no guards. I’m right down the street from the school—

Setting: The High School offices. FACULTY enters and sits.

JACK:

FACULTY:

No, man! We’re not shooting up the school! Janet, please send in Jaye.

JAYE:

JAYE enters and sits opposite FACULTY.

Fine, man!

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FACULTY:

FACULTY: What was said?

Hello, Jaye.

JAYE:

He said he was mad that Rachel broke up with him. And, and, and that he was mad at his dad. That, that people were bullying him, and that he wanted to do something about it.

Hey. FACULTY: Do you know why I’ve called you in today?

FACULTY:

JAYE:

And what did you say?

No.

JAYE:

FACULTY: I see. Well, yesterday, at the end of the school day, we received word that you might be involved in planning something…harmful to your classmates.

I said that he should talk to faculty. That he needed to talk to someone. FACULTY:

JAYE: You did?

What?

JAYE:

FACULTY: Yeah, man.

A student told us that he overheard you telling someone that your dad own’s guns and that you don’t live very far away—

FACULTY:

JAYE:

Okay, I’m going to need you to do me a favor, Jaye. The police are waiting in another room. We are waiting for your parents to arrive, and then you’re going to go with them to the station to deliver a statement.

That’s a lie; that’s bullshit, man! FACULTY:

JAYE:

Jaye, please calm down.

No, man! He didn’t mean it. He’s just feeling down right now.

JAYE:

FACULTY:

No, man! Who was it?

It doesn’t matter. It’s a very serious matter.

FACULTY:

FACULTY escorts JAYE out.

I’m not at liberty to give you a name.

JACK:

JAYE:

I was questioned. Our friends gave their statements. Jaye gave his statement and was questioned again after me. Of course, there was nothing in his statement that matched what everyone else was saying. Charges were filed against Jaye, but not against me. Didn’t much matter though. The media had already come in and interviewed students, released false statements, and unverified “facts.” My name had been dragged through the mud, and people were already viewing me differently without seeing me or getting my side of the story. After several days away from school while investigations were happening, FACULTY set up a meeting with me and my mom.

Was it Jack? FACULTY: Why would you think it was Jack? JAYE: Because he was the one who was talking about it to me.

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Setting: A conference room. ANN and FACULTY enter. ALL sit. FACULTY:

FACULTY: (Sternly.) Including turning him in. (Pause.) Our other option is for you to withdraw him and place him in another school.

Hello, Jack. Hello, Mrs. Drino—

ANN:

ANN: How is that an answer?

Miss.

FACULTY:

Ms. Drinovsky, the students are scared, their parents are scared and—

What?

ANN:

ANN: They should be scared of Jaye!

It’s Miss, not Mrs.

FACULTY:

FACULTY: Oh, Ms. Drinovsky, my apologies. Let’s begin, shall we? While the police found no evidence of Jack’s involvement—

They are, and Jaye has been expelled. Now, we really think it’s best if—

JACK:

ANN:

Because there was never any evidence to be found.

And what about my son?

FACULTY:

Yes, please, Jack, let me finish. And all the statements point to Jaye, except his own—

Ms. Drinovsky, we are concerned about what will happen if Jack returns to school. ANN:

JACK:

He’s not a monster! He needs help. He needs counseling!

Because I only ever talked about killing myself, not anyone else!

FACULTY:

Do you really think we’re equipped for that? Our staff is not trained for that!

Yes. However, with the media coverage, the talk at the school, and the outcry from the parents— ANN:

ANN: Well, since it seems that yet another man lacks the concern to help my son, I guess I’m forced to do it myself. Again!

And what about the outcry from this parent?

ANN and FACULTY exit. JACK:

FACULTY:

(As he returns to his original position within the space.) The system failed me, and now I fight to better that system. I needed help, and they swept me under the rug so they wouldn’t have to deal with me. So, please, tell me how we’re going to fix the issues! Because I support better gun control, but I also support the right to own and carry. What I don’t support is the way our society sweeps mental health under the rug like the pile of dog shit that nobody wants to deal with!

Yes, Ms. Drinovsky, I’m getting to that. Our options are to give Jack a 10-day suspension— JACK: What? Why? I didn’t do anything!

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JAIME: (Not typing.) Oh, wow. No. No, no, no, no, no. I didn’t mean for this to get so heated. I’ll just delete his post. Maybe he won’t repost. (Click.)

Writers’ and Artists’ Personal Statements

JACK: You deleted my comments. All of them. (Mimicking JAIME.) “If you don’t agree with me, then don’t talk to me.” I just didn’t think you’d remove my freedom of speech in the process. (To audience.) Tell me more about how guns are the problem.

Kevin Abblett

Blackout.

I am an artist, a student and a seeker of wisdom. In my time at SCC, I have learned

End.

I’ve learned throughout it. I thank Sandy Desjardins and Robert Mugford most of

that I am also a writer, and that I have something to say about my life and the lessons all for helping me find this realization and am so thankful for their tutelage. I am also thankful to Scottsdale Community for allowing me to participate in this contest and for helping me along this path of continual self-discovery. Thank you all!

Cielo Aguilar I am a passionate film artist pursuing a career in screenwriting.

Konrad Ashby I hope someone can find value in the things I have created selfishly.

Eleanor Babbitt I am a native Arizonan and oil painter. My purpose is to take images and recreate them in a magical, unique, vivid and colorful painting that catches the eye, holds the viewer, and transforms a room.

David Bertoni I was born in Los Angeles, California in 1997. I live in both Italy and Arizona. By the end of May 2018, my first book on philosophy “Il Corpo Efficace” is being published in collaboration with professor Lorenzo Barani.

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Max Biederman

Krysta Evans

I am Max.

I am a third generation Arizona native with a deep love for the beautiful desert. When I was growing up, my family inspired a passion in me for the western way of life and

Robert Buchanan

cowboy heritage. Riding horses is a crucial part of who I am. Most importantly, I am

I am a creative writing student at Scottsdale Community College. I am happily retired

married to my best friend, and we have a one year old puppy whom we love so much.

from a career as a business executive and now develop my writing craft to share my life

I am fortunate to be able to pursue multiple goals of mine, whether that is accounting

experiences and connect with others.

(my major) or creative writing! I believe this helps me to be a well-rounded individual!

Shinaya Dawes

Judith Feldman

Writing wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always there for me, but my transferring from an all Native American

When I create a painting, I try to evoke a place where the viewer would like to spend

school to a regular school made me express it more, only because I had no friends to begin with. But writing and reading always made me comfortable, and they suited me. Over time, I started making friends, but I liked being alone. I was always in the library reading a book or writing a short story or writing sheet music. I also liked art, but I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really paying much attention to it then like I do now. Being a Native American

some time. Strong colors always play a large role in each work. Often, the scenes I depict reflect memories of travels to France as well as recent trips to other countries. Sometimes, my dog Cleo, or another four-legged friend will find its way into a painting!

woman who only knew the Navajo language at first, I had to struggle with learning

Joanne Gallery

English over time because I wanted to become an English teacher. That is still is my goal

I paint recognizable images with an abstract feel and texture.

today.

Robin Hartwell Kathy Dioguardi-Newman

I am a student studying theatre and writing at Scottsdale Community College. My

My art is influenced by my experiences and the feelings that accompany them. I

script most likely says more about me than my personal statement ever could.

enjoy working with strong colors and texture to create visual and tactile interest. It is important to me that the individual who is viewing one of my works is able to construct

Thomas Hartwell

her/his own story, even though my own may be very clear in my mind. There are times,

I am a performer, director, writer, and composer with aspirations towards writing for

however, that whimsy takes over. When that happens, the story is influenced by music, phrases, poetry, and the real world around me. But, inevitably, the resulting work is always influenced by my personal reaction to those elements.

musical theatre; I have far too many interests and avocations than is probably healthy. I believe strongly in the power of the arts in society, and in the importance of sharing art with people throughout the world.

Rosario Escarcega I have done many things, but the main thing is I need is to be creative. 186

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Bree Hoffman

Alexia Jones

I’m an aspiring writer who spent most of my childhood either swept up in elaborate

I am hopeful I have lived my life answering “Life’s most persistent and urgent question:

daydreams or with my nose in a book only to realize later on that I had a knack for

what are you doing for others?” as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. once asked. I am a

putting my own words on paper. I hope one day my words might strike a chord in

human rights, civil rights, and animal rights activist who loves books, words, and

others the way they have with me.

writing. I am a beginning poet. I live with one of the rarest diseases in the world called Hypokalemic Periodic Paralysis (Hypokpp2). As a rare disease advocate, I hope to

Stephen Hoffman I had the honor of being asked to present my view of “What is Art?”at the 2017 Vortex

lesson the stigma of living with the tenuousness of genetic illness. Writing is freedom.

Awards Reception. I summed it up with Milton Glaser’s words on his poster: “Art is

George Kallas

whatever.” After a successful career in dentistry, I have spent the last 16 years exploring

I am an English (Creative Writing) major. I have been writing for a little over a year

the world of art through Scottsdale Community College’s Art Department classes

now, have an Associate’s Degree from the College of Lake County in Illinois, and my

as well as exploring the world through travel. To participate in life is my passion each

proudest accomplishment to date is placing third in Creative Non-Fiction at the 2017

day, reaching out, understanding, expanding, creating adventures in discovering all the

Illinois Skyway Conference Writers’ Festival and Writing Competition.

world of art and people has to offer.

Elaine Karcher John Hull

I am a returning adult student to SCC taking painting. I have degrees in Art

My play comes from two main events. The first was a conversation I had over social

Advertising and Interior Design with a minor in Art. After years of working,

media regarding gun control and school shootings which sparked my desire to write

volunteering, and raising my child, I am painting using acrylics again. It is exciting to

this piece. However, at that time, my voice was silenced.

be taking classes and working with a teacher who is challenging me. I love color and

The second was an extremely painful event that I endured during high school. Nobody

continue to explore its possibilities.

wanted to hear what I had to say. My voice was again silenced. Now, more than ever, I feel I must speak out about so many complex issues we face that are not simply black and white. I feel that when we fall into an “us or them” mentality in politics, it is harmful for everyone. To combat this, I seek out open, respectable discourses with all those whom I meet.

Junko Kinoshita I have been painting since 2009, and I started drawing a couple years ago. I have been attending SCC since 2015, and I enjoy the art classes very much.

Karyl Krug I am a woman, wife, mom, and retired Texas criminal law attorney. I am also a bibliophile and a cinephile. My hometown is Austin, Texas. My husband moved us to Scottsdale in August 2011 when I was 51 years old. That was a drastic change and very hard on me, but I think I’ve got it together enough now to pursue interests that were

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sidelined when I was a busy graduate student, law student, mom, and then attorney. Creative writing is something I have always wanted to try, and I am lucky to have found an inspiring, dedicated mentor in Sandra Desjardins. This is my second semester at Scottsdale Community College where I am taking a second creative writing class, as well as Spanish 102 from the superlative Dr. John Ellis. My son Andrew is a student at ASU, his dad’s alma mater. My husband Richard, ASU class of 1972, retired after 33 years as a Southwest pilot in 2015. For years he told me stories about how the SCC

Rosanna Moss I am a full time Honors student at SCC. I am studying film and screenwriting with the Scottsdale School of Film & Theater as well as exploring creative writing and art.

Ellen Nemetz I am a contemporary representational artist painting a variety of subjects, including

mascot Artie the Artichoke came to be in the 1970s. Now I am a proud Artichoke!

landscapes and figures. I see realism as a powerful creative force with nuances of value

Emmett LaFave

and color. My media of preference are oil and acrylic. All my works are thematically

I was born in Scottsdale, Arizona, to two music majors. I started piano lessons at age 8 and began creating music at the same time. Creative and compositional skills were nurtured in me by my father, Kenneth LaFave, who has a Masters in Music Composition. Throughout school, I composed pieces for my school orchestras, some of which would go on to win awards at school competitions. After graduating high school, I attended SCC for two years pursuing a degree in music. In 2015-2016, I attended the U of A on a composition scholarship. I intend to return soon to finish that degree. I am most inspired by composers such as Tchaikovsky, Schoenfield, and Piazzolla and also have a love for Gershwin and jazz. I recently began songwriting in additional to writing

and hue. I strive to evolve and grow as a painter, pushing composition, altering light interrelated in that they are based on my external environment as well as on selfexamination. In my most recent body of work, I use reflections as a metaphor for memory. These reflected images establish a link between the landscape’s reality and its reflection. Each memory is like this reflection of landscape in moving water: beautiful, ephemeral, and inaccurate.

Taylor Paulson I enjoy punk rock, professional wrestling, coffee, and feminism.

orchestral works, and I intend to continue writing in both styles. I am always seeking to

Antha Perkins

broaden my musical horizon and am touched by all styles, forms, and genres of music.

I am a computer programmer who loves writing, coding, calligraphy, and horror stories. When not behind a desk, I can often be found scouring rock and mineral shops for new

Emily McNeill I am an anthropology major, and I love spending my free time watching documentaries

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fossils to add to my amateur fossil collection.

and petting cats, as well as collecting an excessive amount of tea in my pantry. I adore

Richard Rosenberg

collecting old books and have a special place in my heart for running in the rain,

I have been creating sculpture at Scottsdale Community College for about 20 years,

daydreaming, blatantly ignoring “Keep Out” signs, and spending some quality time

working in various media including stone, welded and cast metals. My interest in art

with a trashy romance novel.

dates back to when I was a child. The art I create represents my mood and spirit at the

I aspire to write my own trashy novel one day, and to fulfill my lifelong dream of

time. My work is often contemporary and abstract with an organic nature. In addition

traveling the world to gain life experience and further inspiration.

to my art, I spend time gardening, focusing on cacti, succulents and desert adapted trees

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and bushes. This past summer, my garden and sculpture were featured in The Arizona Republic and Phoenix Home and Garden Magazine.

Stephen Rubin I haven’t been writing long, but with each attempt, I discover a bit more about myself as

Keith Seidel Nature and wildlife photography is my specialty having re-explored my skills with art instructor, Rick Burress. I am also working on a degree in film and cinematography. I enjoy capturing images of nature and wildlife to share with people the wonderful life in forests.

one would with a new friend.

Rebecca Ruhm

Preslie Thompson I’m currently pursuing my Associates in Fine Arts and plan on transferring to ASU in

Growing up in the rural farmland of Bloomington, IL gave my imagination wings.

the Spring semester of 2019 to obtain my Bachelor’s degree. I express myself through

I was always a lively and immensely curious girl, eager to learn the mysteries of the

life drawing and sculpture. I use my art as a way of healing and bringing people

universe. But my childhood was also a place of horrors. As a child I lived with a

together. I want to share my passion with the world by becoming a high school art

psychopath for a father, and this vast scope of trauma from my father’s abuse influenced

teacher and running my own art gallery for young developing artists.

me to recede inward and share through writing and mixed media art as an escape and a cry for help at times. As a writer, artist, and filmmaker, I take on being a window to the deep trenches of the soul. I am a truth seeker and a futurist, and I live my life with the intention of being the space for vulnerable and open sharing.

Robert Wheeler I’m currently attending Scottsdale Community College majoring in communications. I am from the White Mountain Apache Tribe.

I look to create powerful conversations around ending childhood abuse, investigating the cycle of the abuser, while creating a clearing for healing and restoration for humanity. “The truth will set you free, but you have to endure the labor pains of birthing it.” Iyanla Vanzant

Jonathan Sanborn I am a husband and father of two. I direct a non-profit that helps foster children. I’ve been a pastor, businessman, and a global trainer of community leaders in developing

Cicely Winder I’m a music business major at SCC, and I’ve been writing since high school.

Tristan Wright I am a self-taught motion designer. I have always loved creating visual art and have developed a passion for creating abstract designs. I also dabble in animation and some photography.

countries. Since my childhood, I’ve been attending the theater and have now finally, at this time in my life, embraced this side of who I am: to explore fun and (hopefully) thoughtful shared experiences.

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Angelika Zgainer As a result of my travels around the world, days spent in museums, and exploring different, beliefs and traditions, my deeply rooted philosophical, spiritual and romantic ideas make me want to explore various expressions on the canvas. I find my own voice in an expressionistic art form by using bold colors and strong brush strokes to express moments in my life, rendering myself to my analytic and emotional mind, to tell my story in a lyrical way without words. I constantly like to explore new techniques and approaches in colors, surface, and design. My emphasis is on composition, lines, movement and proportion. Image transfers and mix media as well as metal embossing and ceramics capture my interest at the current time.

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