The Ana Issue #5 by The Ana

ISSUE 5 The Ana

THE ANA \T͟ HƏ\·\ˈĀ-NƏ\ PRONOUNCED: AH-NUH (NOUN) 1. A collection of miscellaneous information about a particular subject, person, place, or thing. 2. The Ana is a quarterly arts magazine hell-bent on redefining art and literature. We act and publish in line with the notion that everyone’s life is literature and everyone deserves access to art.

While all rights revert to contributors, The Ana would like to be noted as the first place of publication.

Cover design by Hannah Keith & TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter Typesetting and design by Hannah Keith & London Pinkney Set in Georgia (Matthew Carter, 1993) and Futura (Paul Renner, 1927)

Editor’s Note

Hello All, Welcome to Issue # 5 of The Ana! This issue is a special one for the editors and I because it marks our first year of publication. As we were creating this issue I couldn’t help but stop and ask the other editors, “Can you believe we’ve been doing this for a year?” Wrapped in this question is all the gratitude and love I feel for our contributors and the folks who have supported us, and the folks we had the privilege of supporting in return. As we approach the global anniversary of the day that changed our lives—a day that introduced terms like social distancing, contact tracing, and worsened some’s agoraphobia— I hope we all can find the time to take a breath and think of the bonds we’ve formed one the past year, how they allowed us to keep creeping on. When reading this issue, the editors and I noticed how much of the work explores all the different ways humans connect. Whether we do this via podcast, party, or exploring our own family history, we are drawn to one another. Thank you to the contributors in this issue for exploring what it means to connect. Until we can be in person again— once again— I am sending love from across the Interwebs.

Much love, London Pinkney Editor-in-Chief

THE ANA Issue #5 February 2021

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Editor-in-Chief London Pinkney

Managing Editor Hannah Keith

Fiction Editors Santos Arteaga TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter

Poetry Editors Oli Villescas Carlos Quinteros III

DIPTYCH ESSAY

Fully Half by Pacifico Geronimo III

Half Full by Pacifico Geronimo III

ESSAY

Poppy by Alexandria Eby

FICTION

Crepe Myrtle by Serena Menaged

The Blue Letter by Isaak Lusic

Real News, Roundtable Live by Zac Russi

NON-FICTION

The F***ing H by Guadalupe Campos

POETRY

Understand by Sylvia Sรกnchez Garza

In This Poem the Metaphor is the Frog by Jennifer Pappas Yennie

Spiritless Stone by Sylvia Sรกnchez Garza

We are they by R. Shawntez Jackson

Remember by Sylvia Sรกnchez Garza

VISUAL ART

Palm of Your Hand by Avery Borders

Scrambled by Mackenzie Goffe

Wild by Gavril Brown

Flashback by Avery Borders

Untitled by Austin Inman

Cast Off by Avery Borders

Tethered by Gavril Brown

Untitled by Vanessa Hardin

Funky and Camp: A Conversation with Megan Murphy by TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter

Contributors

Crepe Myrtle fiction by Serena Menaged Every year I long to see our crepe myrtle bloom. It is bittersweet, the time when ours blooms. It signals the sunset of summer, ever threatening in its reminder that Autumn is on its way. I will soon assist with packing the garage full of our lawn furniture, deflating pool floats, taking in countless pots of herbs to keep warm for winter, and before I know it, putting up Halloween decorations. My mom says our crepe myrtle is slow. Slower to bloom than the other crepe myrtles on our street, something to do with the soil or the variety or the way it’s pruned, I don’t know, I’m not a gardener. Mary’s always blooms earlier. All summer I stare at Mary’s crepe myrtle from the shade of my front porch as I turn the endless pages of my summer reading list. I am jealous of Mary’s crepe myrtle. Her whole garden, really. Her hydrangea bushes are so full and their sweet scent surprises me each time I walk by, our hydrangeas have no scent at all. Her roses, of red and pink, are peppered throughout the garden as accents. In the spring her white tulips stand taller and straighter than our purple ones that always seem to bend just before they reach their true height. But it is her crepe myrtle that holds my attention the most each time I spare a glance across the street between sips of iced black tea. It appears to bud and bloom all summer, continuously taunting me with the presence of its dusted pinkish-purple petals. Ours only blooms once, early August, into strong pink petals, a color I can only think to describe as if pink kissed red, and red kissed back. So opaque it reminds me of children's clay, thick and malleable. Unlike Mary’s delicate tissue paper petals, that if touched, would surely turn to dust. The second time I did acid I was fixated on our crepe myrtle tree from where I sat in the pool. I wanted to eat it. To leave the pool, sopping wet in a bikini, I would scurry around the fence and reach up on my tippy toes to pluck a petal. It would turn to clay in my hands, I would squish it between my thumb and forefinger rolling the petal into a ball and flattening it out again before taking a small bite. It is doughy, but granular and softly crunch between my molars, like sand in your sandwich at the beach. I swipe my tongue across my teeth, gathering up all of the chewed petal pieces before swallowing. I smile and turn to face Mary’s across the street and say, “I bet you don’t taste like this.”

Palm of Your Hand by Avery Borders

The Blue Letter fiction by Isaak Lusic

Inspired by Cab Calloway, Son House, Robert Johnson, et al.

“Don’t go there, or you will never return," Buddy asserts in a sober tone. As long as Wyatt has known Buddy, ever since he started working at the Hound

Dog, Buddy was never sober. He was always drunk, jovial, and carefree, but not now. “Don’t go there Wyatt. You will not return if you go see Ma at St. James,” he stares unblinking, reiterating in his gravelly voice. Buddy was never shy from talking nonsense, but never has he done so with such a stern and sober composure. “B-But I just want to make sure Ma is doing okay,” Wyatt mutters, fiddling with the letter in his small lanky hands. Buddy raises his eyebrows for a moment before they settle back into place. He leans further on the old, weathered wood bar, which faces daily use and whiskey spills making it appear almost rusted like a forgotten pipe. “I don’t know how to tell you this son, but no one ever leaves St. James. That letter may not say it, but it is essentially a death certificate. How did Charley look when he handed you that letter?” he says in a hushed voice. Wyatt looks down at the unopened, corpse-blue letter. In pristine, bright red ink, “St. James Hospital” is typed in the top left corner, and a dark crusty red scrawl in the middle presents the address for the “Hound Dog”. There isn’t even a name written, it’s just the address. It’s as if they didn’t care who got the news but sent it only out of formality. “Well he didn’t have his cheery smile that he normally does when he stops by here. Pretty melancholic actually, he didn’t even whistle a song.” Wyatt looks up at Buddy, “I didn’t think much of it until you mentioned it”. 3

Buddy smirks as he chuckles to himself. “Avoided eye contact right? Charley always loves to strike a conversation, no?” He takes a sip of his drink as he waits for a response. “Yeah, you’re right," Wyatt says. "Well, do I just wait for Ma to come back to help run the bar? I know that I’ve been working here ever since she took me in, but I sure don’t know all the things that she does about running the place. How am I supposed to continue on without Ma?!” Tears form at the corner of his eyes. Sighing, Buddy takes another swig of his drink and nods, still looking down, lost in thought trying to find the right words. He leans in and whispers, “You know ‘bout the first time that I met Ma, don’t you?” Wyatt shakes his head. Buddy’s smirk grows into a full smile. “Well, Ma came to this town all alone with just her suitcase and the clothes on her back and let me tell you something. She was a stone-cold crazy bitch, still is if I can be perfectly honest,” he chuckles. “But it is because of that that she was able to make herself. She didn’t stand for anyone’s bullshit. She could sense when someone wasn’t treating her respectfully or rightfully, and she made sure that they did quick. That’s the reason why she left her man and home, she doesn’t take any disrespect. She knows her worth.” Buddy looks down as he swirls his drink. “You know that I didn’t want to help her at first with her business venture, right? But Lord, she couldn’t take no for an answer. No matter how many times I told her, she kept coming up to me asking when I would close the deal with her to open up the bar. It was the first bar here, and she made sure that it stayed that way.” Wyatt nods. “Ma is always persistent.” Buddy points at the sole decanter at the top shelf of the liquor selection. “Boy, give me another shot, but of that booze!” “But the scotch is only for special…” Buddy furrows his brow. “I don’t see why this ain’t a special occasion. You already forget what I just said?”

Wyatt didn’t remember much of his day after receiving that pale colored letter from Charley. Actually, to be honest he didn’t remember waking up this morning too. His mind has been so preoccupied with worrying about Ma. Balling his hand into a fist, Buddy pounds the bar counter. “If I had my way, I’d tear the whole building down! That place has never brought any good news to anyone, and I don’t see it doing so anytime soon. I don’t know what to tell you Wyatt, but Ma isn’t…” “Listen Buddy, you know I can’t give out the good stuff without Ma’s approval,” Wyatt says. Buddy sighs while shaking his head. “Whatever you say, Wyatt. Listen, she won’t mind too much, ‘specially after all I’ve done for her. Can you give me just one finger of that…” Wyatt glared at Buddy. There was always a point where Buddy got to be too much. He was always obsessive about his way. No wonder he and Ma got into it so many times. The amount of yelling that Wyatt had to ignore or walk away from was innumerable. Just two old stubborn folk unable to change in their ways: Ma’s tight control over her scotch or Buddy never letting Ma get another kind of whiskey except for the one that he likes for the bar. God dammit if Wyatt was gonna go against Ma by not running the bar as she would. “Buddy. You know the rules. Only Ma gives out the scotch.” Buddy rolls his eyes as he takes the final sip of his drink, “Sure thing, sonny.” Wyatt and Buddy remain silent the rest of the night. Wyatt begins closing down the bar and starts by cleaning all the glassware. Eventually Buddy stands up and walks toward the swinging doors. He turns back with a frown. "I know you ain't gonna listen to me Wyatt, so leave first thing tomorrow morning. The sooner the better. It'll take you all day to walk there to St. James, but it's just a long straight shot, until you gotta make a right, but you'll know when to do so. But when you realize what I’ve been telling you, can you please come back so that we can commemorate her Wyatt? Maybe then open up the…” 5

“Goodnight Buddy.” Wyatt continues wiping a glass without looking up. Buddy shakes his head as he sighs, “Goodnight Wyatt. If you see Ma, tell her I say ‘hi’.” He pushes through the swinging set of doors and into the darkness of the night. Wyatt doesn't sleep much tonight. He finds himself lying there with his worries wantonly wearing him down. Every breath he takes gets cut short with a quick reminder that Ma could barely breathe. His head aches with the constant barrage of instances that he could have helped her while she struggled the past few weeks. He tosses and turns in his sheets trying to shake off the blues of regret and remorse. His eyes only stay shut for moments until they snap open every time he has the horrendous thought of Ma possibly… He couldn’t take it anymore, as soon as the sun shows itself, he would leave to find her. The room screams in silence with no respite, it is only dulled by the whirling deliberations of dread, depression, and despair. The clock next to his bed continues to function, but there is no ticking coming out of it. No coyotes howling as they normally do every hour of the night. The house doesn’t even creak with the wind brushing past it. Everything stands still, but he is too focused on his whirlwind of thoughts. What would Wyatt do without Ma? He already doesn’t know how he lasted in the streets before he met her, but now? There are even more responsibilities and unknowns that he has in his life. Wyatt lays there with the weight of anxieties on his chest. No matter how much he wants to move or call out, he can't do anything. No matter how much he tries to ignore it, he can only focus on the humming that sounds within his room. No matter how much he knows it isn't real, he keeps seeing a silhouette leaning in the corner of his room. No matter how much he squints to get a better look, the figure is only a shadow. A shadow with a speckle of gold where the mouth should be. Wyatt stares at the figure until he finally falls asleep. He already has too many things to worry about in his life.

A loud knocking on the bedroom door jolts Wyatt awake. Wyatt looks at the window, and there are just hints of sunlight starting to break out. “Buddy doesn’t come in this early for a drink,” Wyatt thinks to himself, “who could that possibly be? Charley usually just leaves the mail at the porch.” Some more pounding on the door seems to shake the whole room. The pounding grows louder and louder to the point where Wyatt isn’t sure if it is coming from the door or from his mind. Eventually Wyatt stumbles to the door and opens it. There is no one there. He could have sworn he just heard some pounding on the door. “Well, good enough of a time as any to go,” Wyatt mutters. He grabs the sallow blue letter and puts it in his pocket. Just to be sure to prove to them that they made a mistake. There is no way that Buddy is right. Ma is alright, and he is going to see her. The sun begins to peek over the horizon as Wyatt leaves the bar. The hospital is many miles away from home, but that doesn’t matter to him. As long as he gets to see Ma, that is all that matters.

It has been a couple of hours since he had left the Hound Dog. Buddy said that St. James was only a straight shot line, until you gotta make a… well Wyatt wasn’t too sure which way it was to turn, but Buddy said that he would know where to go. The dirt path plains have been so boring and dull he’s found himself whistling a wandering tune that matches his own wandering thoughts, just to keep himself sane. He couldn’t understand how Ma was able to get herself all the way to the hospital when she had been coughing and wheezing for the past couple of weeks. Lord knows she nor anyone has a car to drive her out there. The town is a small one, about fifty or so people. Honest people, and none of them can afford the new luxury of a car that the city folk rave about. None of them wanted such a frivolous thing either. No one left the town, so what was the point in getting one? Everyone only knew two places: the town and St. James. It took a while before Wyatt noticed the sign marking the crossroad. The wooden pole seems to almost have grown out of the ground like this. The pole’s two 7

arrows point to two different directions, one on top of the other. Strangely though, neither arrow has any words on them. He looks around and the whole landscape appears to be the same. He can see his footprints that lead him here, so knows where he came from at least, but where does he go now? “I’m not even halfway through, as far as I know, but already I am at a loss. How did Ma know where to go? Or how to do anything for that matter,” Wyatt mutters to himself. The sun beams directly above him, so it is at least noon. Plenty of time to still get to the hospital, that is, if he can ever find it. Looking right, and then left, there’s still nothing in sight. Almost out of the blink of an eye, there was a man sitting down, leaning on the pole with a guitar case by his side. Wyatt swears he didn’t see any silhouette when walking up to the sign. He is sure of that, but where did this man come from? He wore fancy clothes, the type that Wyatt only saw during church. The black box-back suit matches his sleek shiny straight-laced shoes. The man dons a black Stetson, tilted downward and blocking his face from Wyatt’s sight. “I almost thought you were never gonna notice me,” the man chuckles. The brim of the hat lifts slightly, revealing the man’s mouth and a gold tooth flashing in the overbearing sun. Wyatt rubs the back of his neck nervously, “Yeah, I don’t really know how I didn’t see you. Sorry to bother you sir…” “It’s Coyote” He interrupted “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Coyote” The man laughs, “No I’m Mr. Johnson, but I would prefer if you called me Coyote, however. Now what are you doing all the way out here boy?” Wyatt found himself at a loss for words. Who is this man? He’s never seen anyone like him back at home and what is he doing here in the middle of nowhere? Shouldn’t this man have a family to be taking care of? Or a job to keep himself busy? Who just sits around doing nothing? He could be just a bum, but even then, how did he afford such a nice suit and shoes? If he needed money, he could always go into town to gain some 8

pity. Ma definitely would have taken him in. After about a minute of silence, Coyote’s smile drops. “I asked you a question, boy.” Wyatt is taken back a bit. “Oh, I’m sorry. Um… I’m-I’m trying to find someone.” Coyote grins again. “Aren’t we all? We all need someone in our lives. Is it a girl you're after?” “No… well yes, but not in that way. I am looking for someone special to me. Her name is… well she told me to call her Ma, but her name is Lucille. Lucille Rainey.” The man shrugs. “Never heard of her, but I wish you luck, sonny. How long have you been looking for her?” “I just left today for her, but she’s been gone for about a month.” “Where she at?” Wyatt looks down on the ground, and mutters, “St. James…” Coyote once again smiles which sparkles from his precious tooth. “Now ain’t that a shame. You’ve heard what happens to folks that go there, right?” “I know, and I don’t care. She’s fine ; I know it. I’m gonna bring her back and even if she ain’t fine, I am gonna make sure she gets better.” The man shrugs. “Suit yourself, I ain’t in any position to stop you, but lemme ask you something.” Wyatt nods. “Would you do anything to make sure she gets out of that hospital?” “I’m.. I’m sorry?” Wyatt stutters as he takes a step back. “You heard me, boy. In this world, it is give and take, there’s always an exchange in order for anything to happen— a transaction if you will.” Coyote lifts his head up, revealing his whole face. His eyes, cloudy and white, stare blankly at Wyatt. “You see, I gave up something in order for me to fulfill my passion.” “Wh-What was that?” Coyote smiles as he pats the guitar case next to him. “Guitar. I am a master, one could say. All it took was something that I rightfully took for granted.” 9

Wyatt turns a few shades paler as he stares at Coyote. “What kind of deal was that?” he whispers, mortified “Well, we can’t always reveal secrets now can we? Like I said, there is always a give and take. Now as I asked you before: What would you do to make sure that the person you are looking for, this ‘Ma’, gets out of St. James Hospital?” Wyatt stood silently before Coyote. What is this man’s intention? There is an air of mystery that he is too fearful to breathe in. Wyatt tries to hold back tears, from either fear for this man or emotions for Ma, he wasn't sure. He shakily answers, “I... I don’t know. I just know that Ma has done so much for me, that I don’t think she deserves to be in the position she’s in. I wish I could switch places honestly, ‘cause I know she could take care of me better than what I’ve done for her in the past few weeks.” Ashamed of his cowardice, Wyatt dips his head down in his best attempt to hide his forming tears. He has to be strong, if not for himself, then at least for Ma. Coyote leans in. “So, given the chance, you would ‘switch places’ with Ma?” “Well, sure, but she is already at St. Jam...” The man nods and smiles, “Don’t you worry about that. Most people get what they want when they put themselves to it.” Wyatt tries to pull the letter from his pocket to ask Coyote for directions, but like a plucked note, he was gone. He found himself holding the letter in the middle of nowhere, in front of that same crossroad pole. Without a thought, Wyatt turns right and runs as fast as he can, hoping to finally see Ma. No one knows how long the building has been in the Delta area, it’s always been there as long as anyone remembers. The place appears as ancient as the land that it’s built on, yet still durable enough to continue standing tall. A mountain could learn from its experiences. Once upon a time the building’s exterior had presented itself white, but now its walls are a dark blue mottled with patches of lichen covering the edges of its length. 10

Wyatt didn’t even realize how dark it had grown until he noticed the single flickering lamp directly above the double door entry. The windows of the hospital merely suggest there is light and activity inside, but at first glance, the whole place appears abandoned. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was since no one, not even the doctors, want to be in there. The name “St. James Hospital” is displayed above the lamp in thin rusted metal, pathetically grasping the walls. They dangle sadly and sway with the slightest breath of wind. To Wyatt's surprise, a clock looms at the top of everything presenting the hospital, which reads… strange. The clock reads midnight, but this didn’t make sense. He had left first thing in the morning! Wyatt surely hadn't been walking all day, granted it was a long while of walking, but not the entire day. Twelve bongs echo throughout the land as the clock strikes midnight. Wyatt grips the door handle for the duration of the twelve rings, an eternity it felt like. Breathing in deeply, he swings the door open and finds himself inside the lobby. There is an almost astounding absence of sound inside the building. Nothing moved or changed with his entrance. A receptionist’s desk stands to greet whomever enters the ancient building behind a glass pane. But no one is behind the desk to greet him. A long hallway spans across the hospital with innumerable closed doors scattered across both sides of the building. Each side of the hallway is dimly lit by bare lightbulbs, but even then, every other bulb is flickering or burnt out. Both sides were identical in their lineup of doors, lights, and cross paths of other aisles. The layout of the hospital could make anyone lose themselves easily among its uniformity. A sign-in sheet rests on the edge of the desk. There were numerous names that were scrawled on the paper. Out of obligation, Wyatt writes his name on a line, right beneath a “Mr. House”. He waits around restlessly for a few moments, hoping someone will emerge to help him. Though this is the lobby, there aren’t any chairs for him to persuade his patience. There isn’t even a clock to help gauge the passage of time for anyone who found themselves here, awaiting the inevitable. After an unknown amount of time, Wyatt peers over the desk counter hoping to find a directory or anything. Stacks of empty blue envelopes, not unlike the one Wyatt has in his pocket, sit 11

alongside a fountain pen spilling a tiny pool of bloody ink on the desk. It seems that all of the envelopes have the return address in the same pristine red ink. There is no other paperwork, files, or anything on the desk. Even if there were a receptionist, it seems like they wouldn’t have much to do. Suddenly, a wailing echoes throughout the hospital, followed by harsh coughing and wheezing. Wyatt flinches— he knows that the voice is familiar. It has to be Ma. He has never heard Ma in such pain before, but he is certain it is her. The echoes of the wailing make it hard to distinguish where they are coming from. No matter what though, he runs with a feign certainty of where she resides. While running through the halls, he realizes that all of the rooms have names next to the doors to distinguish themselves. Some have titles like “Doctor” or “Nurse” while others are names of presumably patients. So many names in so many rooms. There seems to be an endless amount of people here. Wyatt did not want to imagine the amount of people who are in the same predicament that he found himself in. How many of them are missing a loved one that they took for granted? How many of them believed they lived in a fairy tale that was devoid of suffering or sorrow, or at least in one where they would never experience those. Wyatt felt so stupid, he should have known that good times never last forever, even if he desperately wanted them to. More wailing and coughing continues, guiding him to finally see Ma. He almost runs past it, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees her name: “Lucille Rainey.” The cacophonous echoes grow louder and more intense. Surrounded in the sonance of Ma’s agony, he quickly grasps on the door handle and suddenly silence settles itself in place. Sound seems to dissipate. Wyatt stares at the brass doorknob in his hand, his grip causing his hand to become pale. They are finally going to see each other again. Everything would hopefully go back to normal. Wyatt promises that he will do more around the bar for Ma. Her joints are only able to keep her portly body up for so long, especially with the years of hard work that weigh down on them. Sure, Ma will be a bit paler and more ragged under her eyes than normal, but she will still have that homely smile that always assures Wyatt that everything is okay. Her beautiful brown 12

eyes would bring him peace of mind once again. Wyatt will bring Ma back home, and everything will return to normal. Wyatt opens the door. He finds himself in an empty room with a single long metal table holding a corpulent body covered in a stained white sheet. The room is not as dim as the hallways, in fact it is overbearingly bright, bright like the morning sun, emanating from a single light bulb dangling directly above the table. He whispers to himself that this could be anyone, but in his heart, he knows who it is. Somebody is there in front of Wyatt on that long metal table. Somebody is motionless on that table; he stands there just as motionless. The thin white sheet covering the body seems overused from constant recycling. The table has trails of blood that cover its edges which follow down its legs. Wyatt’s heart is the only sound he can hear, not even his own breathing. He can’t tell if he is breathing. Is he even breathing? Wyatt walks towards the table and looms over the covered body. Blotches of diseased thin yellows, with crusty macabre red trails, and drops of depressed greys display throughout the once white sheet. He grabs the corner of the sheet. “It can’t be her. It can’t be Ma, she is stronger than just the flu,” he thinks. “She built the whole bar by herself! She can outdrink anyone in the Delta area, especially Buddy. She was the reason why a fight never broke out at the Hound Dog. No one ever wanted to get in her way! I must be in the wrong room!” Wyatt yanks the sheet off, and before him lays his own gangly weak body. He was the figure on that long table with his lifeless gaze staring back. He looks frantically around the room as the brightness of the hospital lights overtake him. The last thing Wyatt hears is a man laughing, and sliding guitar notes echoing, echoing into the unknown.

Scrambled by Mackenzie Goffe

Understand poetry by Sylvia Sánchez Garza Why look for him in there? It is but a sacred shell overflowing with families and strangers filling the hard, wooden pews. Filing in the confessional booth ─ falling on knees before a man of white cloth, reciting and repeating bead by bead ─ Singing sins in melodic, memorized prayers. Santa Maria Madre de Dios ruega por nosotros, pecadores… Why look for him in there? He lives inside of you ─ inside the depths of your soul — where no one else can go. He's in the atoms and molecules that you breathe ─ the translucent mist in the shape-shifting clouds that envelope you; the sparkling water that you drink. He's in the grass, in the trees, and in the dancing flowers that sway in the soft breeze — brushing past you. They understand. He's in the simplistic songs about shooting stars ─ and in the miraculous sea turtles crawling towards the crashing ocean ─ 15

singing praises as they make their victorious swim. They understand. He's in the red, candescent cardinal Perching on the windowsill saying good morning and winking at you, and in the majestic pelicans serenading each other in languages only he understands as you cluelessly slip by. They understand. He's in the breath that goes effortlessly through your body and through the cells pounding through your purplish, blue veins giving you goosebumps and sending chills down your back. Look deep into the depths of your soul He is every minute particle of you, of me, of us ─ A sacred shell? Why look for him in there?

In This Poem the Metaphor is the Frog poetry by Jennifer Pappas Yennie It was an innocent walk taken by an innocent family in April, the year of our lord 2020, week 6 (or was it week 7?) of the global pandemic. There we were: walking innocently across the bridge, children tucked neatly into the double stroller, dog tugging at the leash, husband and wife… We were nearly across the bridge, about to dip down the ramp flanking the creek when someone spotted the frog. Maybe it was me (the wife). Maybe it was the dog. But the frog was no more: clearly hit by a car, supine in the road with all four legs pointed like cathedral spires towards the heavens. “Look, a dead frog” I told the family. We peered, innocently, at the large, semi-smashed creature. It was a thing of interest, curious to be found up here so far from the creek. Who wouldn’t innocently peer, speculating on the narrative? But then Everett burst into tears, his 4-year-old heart broken at the imagined suffering of any creature, big or small. Javis followed suite in a false blubbering of sorrow meant to match his older brother’s. Misery loves company, the two-year-old must have thought. Panicked by the unexpected onslaught of grief (real and mimicked), the husband and wife started spinning the boys a yarn: “That frog had a good life, bud, he must have been old, look at how big he is! No way that frog was young; he was probably a grandpa!” As if the geriatric frog’s life meant less than say, a young, virile frog in the prime of his youth. 17

Or so the logic goes. But Everett’s tears were real and would not subside. (Javis blubbered convincingly for only a while more before devolving into farce…) He wanted nothing less than that frog to come back to life, or at least be buried with dignity. So, I (the wife) told another lie about animal control coming to scoop him up to deliver home: to frog heaven. It was all very elaborate. It was all very similar to the stories we tell ourselves about the victims of COVID-19. They were old. They had three or more pre-existing health conditions. Translation: they were on their way out anyway. Who are we (the young, the healthy, the insured) to be bothered too much about a thing like that? Sometimes, after watching an ethically ambiguous film (Yorgos Lanthimos’ 2015 The Lobster for instance) my husband will turn to me (the wife), credits rolling on the screen in front of us, and say, “What was the moral?” Translation: What did we learn here? And I usually have an answer. I sometimes even crack a joke with my answer. But this time, I (the wife) am tongue-tied and worthless, desperately hoping (convoluting the metaphor here just a tad), that once the credits roll on this here global pandemic I have a better answer than: “I dunno, babe, we all just wanted to go to the beach.” 18

Wild by Gavril Brown 19

Fully Half essay by Pacifico Geronimo III

I’m a few years old, sitting in a bathtub full of warm water and bubbles, a rubber toy gripped in my hand, and the drip from the spout is creating a sound so loud it very nearly becomes the room with each new drop. The toy I’m holding is a hollow, rubber skipper. He is wearing a yellow rain slicker and matching cap, his little rubber hand raised to his little rubber face and his little rubber mouth is open in an O, as if shouting through a storm. His skin, which is really just paint, is the same color as my mom’s: whitish pink, or pinkish white. The same color as most all of the adults in my life, except for my father. If the universe were simple, I might be a color halfway between my mother’s white and my father’s dark, but my arms against the porcelain are as dark as dad’s. The universe, it seems, is a trickster: I am half white, and not white at all. My penis is under the surface of the water, darker even than the rest of me. I flick it. I submerge the rubber skipper to place him near to it, and he is a head taller, like a grownup standing beside a child. But like the shouting skipper, my penis has a character to it, this thing between my legs has a mysterious personality. It resembles the plant from a movie I love, a plant from space from a movie my parents for some reason allow me to watch, who starts out so cute, just an eyeless, voiceless bud, pursing its green lips for sympathy, trying to get its owner to feed it more blood after it tastes a drop from his sliced finger. That plant loves blood so much that by the end of that film it is begging to be fed entire human bodies. I’m pretty sure my penis will never learn to speak, so I wonder if it isn’t, as far as body parts go, entirely pointless, just there, under the bubbly bath water, more like a plant in real life than the monster plant from the movie; more like the mushrooms that grow from the moist dirt under my father’s cars on the side-yard, after a monsoon. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the dripping stops, and it is as if the silence in the room has risen up like a wave. Water sags on the lip of the spigot. I lower myself into the 20

warmth of the bath, starting to suspect no one is coming for me. I wonder if I will be forced to climb from the tub and dry myself. There, in that roaring silence, I recognize the sound of my parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; voices in a faraway room, and with more than a little relief, I lift the skipper to a perch at the edge of the tub, free to turn my concerns to those of a tiny man on the edge of a giant, surging sea, and just like that have forgotten all about the secret truth I just found, here, at the center of my universe.

Half Full essay by Pacifico Geronimo III I discovered pretty early on how fun it is to make shit up. I wasn’t dumb about it, like the kids at school who claimed they saw fish with huge dorsal fins in the irrigated grass on our playground or boasted about how their dads had won the lottery and were driving golden Corvettes, but only on weekends. Those kids lied for no reason. Or maybe they lied for obvious reasons, to get attention, or to impress somebody. Not me. I knew making shit up worked best when the person you were telling could participate, so it had to be believable. I made shit up that, if you could buy it, made the world a more interesting place to be. There was one person with an unwavering appetite for my lies, and that was my mom. She was my audience of one. I told her I was reading books for enjoyment at school before I could even read a sentence, instead piecing together narratives by looking at pictures and returning home to lay out intricate plots for her, entire children’s stories I’d made up. “Can you believe it,” she’d say to my dad, “he got all that from a book at school!” If my mother could be counted on to enjoy my lies, my father was a tougher sell. Something about the way he was always averting his dark eyes made me think that those eyes held great power, as if by simply allowing them to settle on something he could reduce it to rubble. Come to think of it, the only times my father’s gaze remained on me for more than a few moments were times when the look inside those eyes would scare me half to death if I dared to stare back. He knew about this power. He seemed to feel bad about it. And he did things to mitigate, hiding them behind a pair of his Ray-Bans, or the viewfinder of his giant RCA video-camcorder. But I still remember those rare occasions when my father’s eyes finally homed in and clamped down on me. My mother called those his doll’s eyes, a reference she’d taken from a movie about a giant, killer shark. I knew what she was talking about. When he was mad, my father’s pupils and

irises were one, so inky black they seemed either bottomless as the Mariana’s Trench at night, or walled off, shallow as a razor blade. I learned to save my embellishments for my mother, my friends at school, my little brothers. When I was with dad, I kept my story straight. At school, I told my friends that my dad had brought home a video game just like Mortal Kombat, but better, with more violence. I described the characters in detail — the reptilian guy who fired green flames from his mouth, the character with metal hands and wolf head, the woman with double jointed legs and a scorpion tail — all of them half breeds and half-truths, a mix of things I’d seen before and things from my head. Sometimes I woke up in the morning and bullshitted about dreams I’d had the night before over the breakfast table, about deep sea snails with luminescent eyes or birds big enough to pluck me from bed and fly me over the city at night. What difference did it make if I’d dreamt these things in the middle of the night or in the two seconds before I let them fly out of my mouth, just to fill a silence? For all my tall tales, I was often bothered by a thirst for the truth. I can remember several instances of pretending to sleep in the presence of one or both of my parents, laying there with my eyes closed, and I remember hoping — this seems strange to me now — but I remember hoping for one of them to slip up and give the game away, so to speak. Maybe, I imagined, in that private darkness behind my eyes, maybe they aren’t really married. Maybe they aren’t really even my parents. Maybe this Santa Claus story they’ve been telling is a giant lie they’re using as cover for some darker truth about the world. (When I eventually pressed my mother on this topic, explaining how I knew it was impossible for one man to see everywhere, she told me he had little spies, tiny spiders and flies that watched me from the walls. I’ll admit this gave me pause, allowing me to believe in the Santa myth for a good year or so longer than I otherwise might have, and forever altering my feeling about tiny indoor spiders). Maybe the best lie I heard told to me in those early days, my favorite kind of lie overall as a kid, was told by a little girl I went to pre-school with, at a Montessori school I remember only for the ivy plants that overhung the patio on which I spent most of my recesses. I don’t remember her name. She had curly hair that shined different colors under different light and puffy skin so white she looked cold all the time. She pointed to 23

a sparrow hopping across the lattice overhead and said to me “that bird, it came because I called it.” She then imitated the bird’s song, claiming that if I did it with her, more birds like it would come, thinking we were birds, they would come to talk to us. I liked that kind of lie because it was a call to action. As I got a little bit older, making stuff up, even to audiences who seemed eager to believe, became more difficult. Eventually my teachers called my parents and told them I needed to be put in a special reading group before I fell critically behind the others, causing my mom to question whether my teachers knew what they were talking about because of all the books I’d pretended to summarize for her. My friends from school came to my house for a birthday or sleepover and asked whatever happened to the video game I’d told them about, the one that was better and more violent than Mortal Kombat. It was time to reckon with the difficult situations I was putting myself in. It was time to find a different way of expressing myself. Strangely enough, it was my father who offered the way forward, the way for my constant stream of make-believe to keep flowing. He woke me one morning with his eyebrows raised, his exceedingly rare happy self as he whispered for me to come with him. Before I could climb from bed, he gestured toward my little brother beside me to let me know we should be careful not to wake him. I nodded, and followed my dad’s lead, dropping my feet from the queen-size bed I shared with my brother, out into the hallway, across the house and into the kitchen. It was winter in Arizona, one of those Sundays my mother had to go into the office to check on her post-op patients. She was an ophthalmologist. Her patients called her Doctor Wendy Wootton; she’d declined to take my father’s last name because her name was already associated with the business her father had started, years before. In front of the refrigerator, there was my dad’s RCA camcorder atop a tripod, facing nothing, except a blue sheet he’d hung from the wall and an oscillating fan atop a pile of books. I looked to my father, who patted me on the shoulder and directed my attention to the logo on the front of my pj’s — they were my blue super man pj’s. The iconic red and gold “S “ was emblazoned across my chest. With the stringed instruments that open “Ride of the Valkyries” lilting over my dad’s big speakers in the living room behind us, the blue sheet on the wall undulating 24

slightly, into the left of frame I drift, arms extended in front of me, little fists balled, my black bowl cut fluttering in the fan-made wind, a seven-year-old, brown-skinned, halfFilipino Superman. I’m smiling into camera, showing the gaps where my baby teeth have fallen out, and my father is repeatedly directing me to step back because, in my over-zealousness, I keep drifting forward so my legs are visible, plainly planted on the ground, destroying the illusion of flight created by my upper body hanging into frame, an illusion my father has gone such lengths to create. By the time the big brass hits in Valkyries, my father is laughing and explaining to me I don’t have to sing, we can hear the music so I don’t have to sing it, but evidently I’m just too damned excited, because I keep right on singing the instrumentals, while pretending to fly, my attention fixed on the task at hand, until my three year old brother walks into frame gnawing on his fist, looking between me and my dad off-screen, glancing into the camera with the profound indifference of a baby. Wind created by a cheap electric fan, an aerial skyscape created by a thin sheet tacked to a wall, these elements still contain considerable appeal for me, even now. The idea of trading so little for so much. Of fitting the sky, the wind, and the hero’s journey, into a young family’s kitchen, into a color television, into a piece of plastic the size of a small book, with its slow spinning rollers recording a spontaneous vision through tiny plastic windows. My father never taught me how to throw a baseball. He never said word one about talking to girls, or how to treat a lady. He never walked me through tying a tie, or showed me how to do my taxes or explained to me what rejection felt like. But what I wouldn’t give for the chance to tell him I understood now. I understand. That graduating from Berkeley and marrying a brilliant, beautiful white woman who would go on to become a doctor and you yourself becoming an architect and raising a family in this country as the first generation, the first to grow up here and the first not to have to fight in a war in a very long time, that that was a very noble place indeed to want to call home, to call for a breather, to hang your Mission Accomplished banner. How might have he reacted if he’d heard me arguing that, whether by ignorance or malice, failing to grade our family’s progress in this country on some kind of curve would be yet another item in the same dirty, racist schematic that had been used 25

against us since 1956, when Lolo and Lola first arrived here with their three infant children. A schematic which, by the way, belongs now where it has always belonged, behind museum glass. My father’s name was Pacifico Geronimo Jr. He was named for the sea. Pacifico. The word meant peace, tranquility, a respite from the storm, not to be mistaken for the way it was adopted during American occupation of the islands from which we originate, when the army sought to pacify the people. What I learned from my father is how to listen to silence. My mistake, it turns out, was not in telling lies, but in not telling them with the urgency of a person trying to survive. My lies would need to become so potent, so believable, even I could appear to forget — who we were, where we’d come from, why we’d come. In his final silence, my father taught me that not having your own truth, in America, is a fate worse than death.

Flashback by Avery Borders

Spiritless Stone poetry by Sylvia Sánchez Garza Please listen… it was never even my idea to be here. My marble, resin, plaster, and stone will someday be gone like my original bone erased from the face of this bruised and bleeding sphere. Crying red tears for healing, longing for forgotten freedom, vanishing in historical hallucinations. It wasn't my idea to be here. Are you listening? I am nothing but rock ─ spiritless stone screaming. I have no feelings, no emotions ─ Pinch me, topple me, break me… I care not what you do, nor of my irony. Peace and equality, optimism unspoken? I'm not meant to illuminate, year after year, standing stoic. Please… cut me, smash me, destroy me ─ bloodless and unheroic.

Untitled by Austin Inman

Poppy essay by Alexandria Eby Once, as a little girl, my mom woke me with the news that I was skipping school for the day. She told me we were taking a field trip to the country, and to be in the car in five minutes. She was smart; she knew I wouldn't have time to ask questions. We followed along dirt roads and four-way stops, singing along to George Strait and counting the number of cows we passed along the way. It was fun, but I remember feeling anxiety in my stomach as I thought about the spelling test I was missing. I worried that my mom hadn’t bothered to call the school to excuse my absence. I wondered if I should have packed an overnight bag, and when we’d ever get around to eating breakfast. Every time my little forehead would wrinkle, and a look of concern would cross my face, my mom would turn the music up and roll the windows down. It went on like this for hours until we pulled up along a field of wildflowers. “What are we doing here?” I asked, concerned that pulling over on the side of the road was illegal. The “no trespassing” sign seemed to be screaming at us. She put her arm around me. “This is your assignment,” she said proudly. I rolled my eyes. I had learned all about the wildflowers of our region in a science class years before. There was an entire project on it – one she didn’t bother to help me with. I had taken a bus across town to a botanical garden, where a saint of a woman used her lunch break to help me identify my samples. I’d gotten an A+ for my effort. “It’s important for you to run in this field until you feel free,” she stated. She looked at her watch and smiled at me. I didn’t understand. “Listen to your mother,” she prodded. A chronic rule follower, I obliged. At first, I was timid. I felt like I was being watched. The field was buzzing with the kind of bugs that swarm, bite, and annoy. I was still wearing the shorts I'd slept in, so my legs chafed against the edges of the grass. Sweat was already forming along my hairline and I felt itchy all over. But something changed as soon as I disappeared into the field. The flowers grew taller than my head. All I could see around and above me 30

was a mess of color and sky. Five minutes in, I felt hidden enough to start running. I ran between the rows of flowers, my arms stretched to the sides of me. When a breeze hit, I would stand still to cool my body and allow the flowers to brush my skin. I twirled slowly and the flowers seemed to sway along with me. I danced that way all afternoon. It was two days later when I learned that my field trip was the impulsive decision my mom made after another bad breakup. I sat in silence as her ex moved his things out of our house. I was supposed to watch him and make sure he didn’t steal anything, even though I knew he wasn’t the type. As he left, he shrugged at me and I shrugged back in return. He told me to remind her to pay the water bill. She told me to never rely on a man. “Remember the joy of the field when you think you need a man,” she said. “Remember that you found that joy all on your own.” As irresponsible as her trip may have been, that day in the field did instill a lot of inspiration in me. Formerly an uptight, perfectionist, straight-A student, I transformed into a popular, artistic, straight-A student. I began writing poetry and kissing boys. I began getting published for writing poetry about kissing boys. True to my mother’s advice, I didn’t rely on any one boy. In order to prevent myself from having feelings for one, I held hands with several. And I wasn’t interested in competing with girls for the boys’ attention, quite the opposite, really. Every boy I was interested in became my competition. I made sure I wasn’t just the smartest girl in the class; I had to be smarter than all the boys I kissed, too. My hard work paid off. I got accepted into a private high school, and since I couldn’t depend on my mom to pay the tuition, I entered a scholarship competition that required me to make my career choice at age 13: journalism. It was a natural choice, with the writing talent and all, and I knew it was something I could make a living doing (unlike majoring in English, as my English teacher had warned me). Just like that, my path to independence was set. My mom was ecstatic. She’d continue to be proud of me throughout my high school and early college career. She kept every newspaper and magazine clipping when I got published. She 31

attended the awards ceremonies when I won and bought me beer when I lost. She’d nod approvingly when I’d bring a boy into my room on a Friday night, but looked disgusted if I’d bring him back over for dinner on a Sunday. As laidback as she was, she still had her rules. They paid off. In college, my ability to stay undistracted and out of serious relationships meant that I worked twice as hard as my closest competition. With more time to research, write, and edit, it wasn’t even close. I had every internship offer a journalism student dreams of. I was in New York for a publishing internship the summer of my junior year when I got the call. I’d been seeing a boy in the graphic design department of my job. It was a workplace fling that was born out of convenience but transformed into something much more. I knew when I began turning down drinks with other men that I was in trouble. I’d wait by the phone anticipating his call on the weekends. I’d walk by his desk hoping he’d ask me to lunch. In between my meetings, I’d make lists of interesting facts I could share with him. It all felt so urgent, like I needed him to know me and to love me. I had never wanted so badly to be loved. In between every word I typed seemed to be a space only he could fill. The night I received the call, I had carefully organized my apartment to seem interesting. I bought a few books he had casually mentioned during one of our coffee runs. I bought the wine I remembered him ordering at a restaurant a week before. I made sure I was perfectly waxed, moisturized, and manicured. The night fell right into place, and as he came inside me, he whispered “I love you” into my hair. I was floating peacefully to sleep in his arms when my phone rang. A weird thing happens when someone you love dies. The sun keeps rising and setting. Work keeps piling. People keep walking around sharing the most insignificant stories and laughing as if your entire world didn’t just shatter. When I got the call that my mom had died of a heart attack, I couldn’t move or breathe. I sat there in shock, afraid that if I let out the breath I’d been holding in my chest, my heart would drop into my stomach. The man I was convinced I loved only hours before came out of the bathroom smiling. He didn’t know the news I just received. He couldn’t see the tears 32

streaming down my face in the dark. But because he smiled in the most painful moment of my life, I hated him. I screamed at him to leave my apartment. Since I couldn’t catch a flight back home until the next morning, I called up one of the men I’d been ignoring to soil my bed a second time that night. This one didn’t need to be told to leave. He went to grab his clothes right after his deed was done. When I returned to my mom’s car the day of our field trip, it was around dusk. I was sunburnt and chigger-bitten and beaming. She asked me if I was happy, and I nodded vigorously. “Can we take some home?” I asked. I wanted a token to remind me of our perfect day. We walked back into the field and picked dozens of flowers, and my mom taught me how to bundle them into a bouquet. I didn’t realize until years later that she should’ve taught me how to choose just one.

Cast Off by Avery Borders

Real News: Roundtable Live fiction by Zac Russi 2.7M viewers at time of stream Lights. 4k resolution lights.

1080p brightness lights.

Whatever we’re working with lights.

Bright pixelated light fills our screens.

Four men and two women, names listed under the theater-view box on our browser windows. The Great Santorini, Bernhard Cartwright, Tim Tilsdale, James Jasper, Veritable Truth, and of course, our illustrious host Cedar Hernandez. Comments and chat sections turned on for subscribers only. Adverts tailored to our past viewing experiences. Ten second musical overture soundbite, ending with vocal clip, chopped and screwed and dripping with reverb, Cedar saying: Welcome to Roundtable Live, tonight we’re sitting down with members of Magic Under Duress, a group without borders in a world of nothing but, along with acclaimed scientist Bernhard Cartwright. A light, high-pitched voice pans from left speaker to right and back: Yeaaaa, thank you, thank you, thank you, now let’s open those eyes folks! An ominous, plug-in distorted voice echoes: And keep them open. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. Musical overture ends. Round mahogany table, center of the shot, we get to see each of their faces. It’s the kind of television trickery that successfully carried over from the small screen to the smaller screens, from one box to another. We want it all. Cedar: First, I have to thank you all for being here. I know everyone has such busy schedules these days. Especially after the Fall, your services became, well a necessity. I know I’m thankful.

Santorini: It is truly nothing to I, the Great Santorini. What a flight, such beauty in the night sky, such mystery. He is the only one at the table wearing the classic garb, the black suit, the white button down, the bow tie and golden cuff links. He twirls his mustache like a cartoon villain and dramatically shakes his left arm in a snaking wave towards Cedar. He snaps his fingers back and forth, voila, a single red rose appears, as though from nowhere, and he holds it in her direction. She jumps back, her arms retreating, almost falling from her chair. She says: That’s so nice of you Gerald, but I’m deathly allergic to roses. The Great Santorini blushes and shakes his hand in a small circle until the rose has evaporated. Tilsdale: Wow Santorini, nice parlor trick, pal. Thanks for having us on the show Cedar, it’s an honor. I can only speak for myself here, but when I was a kid doing backyard birthday parties, I never expected that there would a need for me, you know? It was relieving, you know, to find out that this thing I do, this thing we all do, yea even you Bernhard, this alternate thought thing, magic, whatever you want to call it— this shit has a real purpose now. Tilsdale puts his hand on Bernhard’s colorful Christmas sweater covered bicep. Bernhard shakes a little. Tilsdale removes his touch, ending the gesture, which to us, seems forced. Bernhard scoffs and fumbles around with his hands on the table, before moving them up to his cheeks, grappling the in-seem of his lips and pulling them apart in the shape of a smile. He grunts and puts his hands in his lap. He says: Yes, well, very funny. I don’t know why I’m here. Cedar: That’s actually a great lead in. Bernhard Cartwright, you’ve said in multiple interviews that you don’t feel the same as the rest of the magicians in the union. I think I speak for all of us here and millions of streamers worldwide when I say that the Cure was an undeniably magical act. We wouldn’t be sitting around this table without it. 36

Can you say a little about what it’s been like to be thrust into the public eye, post-vac? Bernhard: Yes, it’s been, a task. I’m not a, how they say, ah, a people person. Jasper: That’s ironic, considering the service you’ve done for humanity. Bernhard: Sure, yes, well, I get your joke. I suppose I’ve always spent an inordinate amount of my time on this planet engaged in solving puzzles. As a young tyke I was obsessed with coding my very own homebrew web-games, determining the murderer in a movie as fast as I could, well, I even put a fair amount of effort into debunking charlatans like that David Blaine fellow that this man seems to adore. The Great Santorini: Blasphemous! Oh. Please pardon the interruption. But do go on, sir. We thank you for your great service. Cedar: I’m sure the larger demo of our subscription base doesn’t follow the history of magic. To clarify, Blaine pioneered a resurgence for new media. Bernhard, I can understand the desire to cut through the theatrics of media— Jasper: Can you? Cedar: Yea, James, I really can. I’m in this role because I love talking to people, but I could definitely do without the more over-produced aspects of the medium. Bernhard, what was it about the virus? Were you just trying to prove a point, like with the Blaine debunks, or did you set out mindful of the greater good? Camera zooms around the table, giving brief glimpses of nodding heads, assenting in grateful delight, an obvious after effect, before finally landing close on Bernhard’s face. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. He presses a pointer finger to the bridge of his marbled wood, wide-rimmed hipster glasses, pushing them up to his forehead. They fall back down. He harrumphs. 37

Bernhard: Yes, well, you see, it was more about the obsession than anything else. When government officials and scientists alike, these were people I respected for the most part, the scientists anyway, well, when they said there was no chance for a cure, I took that as a kind of personal challenge. No chance. There’s almost always a chance, it’s just a question of what level of effort are we willing to exert to change that probability. But oh, what price will we pay for playing at godliness? So, yes, my obsessive nature. That. It has the effect of avalanche, once I get going on a thing, it’s like I can’t, rather I will not be stopped. Not until I have solved the puzzle. James Jasper: I hope the streamers at home are taking notes. Be obsessive. Don’t listen to government officials and reputable scientists. If you believe in yourself, you can solve any problem, you can fix it! Tilsdale: He looked for something that didn’t exist, right, like Santorini over there with his little red rose trick. There wasn’t a cure to be had before old Barnhard here pulled it out of the ether. Bernhard: Yes, well. Picture in picture insert in the lower left-hand corners of our screens, the upper righthand corners of our screens, somewhere on our screens: a Real News Rap Up of the day Bernhard went to the White House, flash clip of the press conference, flash clip of the crowd, lingering clip of 4 star decorated, Army General P. Sanderson ugly crying through bursts of laughter, such wild abandon dripping down his face, such joy. Freeze frame on the joy, zooming until the joy covers our screens. All we see is the joy on the General’s face. A cascade of colorways. A drop in the quality. DOOM. DDDoOM. DOOM. Lights. Cedar: Our subscribers have first-look access to a special event with Bernhard this 38

Thursday at 7 standard. Remember, all you have to do to subscribe is press that little red button on your screen. We have work-pay programs if you’re low on funds. Speaking of funding, let’s talk a little about Magic Under Duress as a whole. Veritable Truth, you were one of the founding members of MUD, what called you to establish the union? How were you able to secure Big 4 corporate funding? Tilsdale: She’s a straight up beast, that’s how. Lights down. DOOM. DOoM. doom. Camera refocus on Truth. She shoots a fuck-youtalking-bout look over at Tilsdale. Truth: We saw an opening and we took it. The reality with the whole thing is that our government, I mean, let’s call a spade a spade, the face of neo-liberal capitalism had been falling apart for such a long time that people were ready for something new. We were offering folks a way out of their shitty nine to five lives, we were saying, ok, you’re right, everything is trash, but what if we start from scratch? What if we actually manifest our destiny, instead of playing into this colonial ideology of Manifest Destiny? Are you following me? Just let me know if I should slow it down. Tilsdale: Emphasis on the manifest here, right T? Truth: Right, T. So, essentially everyone in big government had given up. The factions were so divided, so uncomfortable in their opposing viewpoints— look, we all know now that there wasn’t much to be done within that framework. These were true-believers, I should know, I was one of them. I lost a brother in Civil War 2. It was. It’s. It was a rough time for me. Overhead pan, pullback to full view of the round table, all eyes on Veritable Truth, who, we can tell, is looking not straight forward, but deep into the past. Camera zooms back to close in on Truth. She itches at a circular object hanging from a wire like a necklace. A gold locket. 39

Truth: Look, I’m not going to rehash for the viewers at home, if you’ve been in a coma or something, watch a couple Rap-Ups on the last decade, alright? Cedar: I’m so sorry for your loss, Veritable. And you don’t have to get into it if it’s too painful. It’s just that I don’t know that I’ve seen you speak about that before, about him, and we don’t have to talk about it, but, if it helps to frame the building blocks of MUD, I’m sure the world wants to hear it. Truth: My brother’s death is a travesty, that’s all there is to it. As I’m sure y’all already know, this isn’t my birth name or face. And I don’t plan on identifying myself on a substream platform, my brother neither. X. We’ll call him X for the purpose of this conversation. And the shit suits him, he was an activist too. Not the kind of activism you’re thinking of, he never listed himself as an activist or a radical in a bio or whatever. He was out there in the field, making the impossible possible. When the states started breaking down, X took it upon himself to consolidate the leaders. People in power, right? From their areas, first on a server, then they met for real at one of the Hunker Bunkers. X brought people together and said, whoever doesn’t want to change, fine, leave em. He gave everyone exactly what they wanted to hear. He said, why don’t we just break up? Tilsdale: The states were like franchises you know, each land mass serving as production and distribution centers. The Alphabet Boys were fine with it as long as each of the Big 4 corporations got a split of the land. Easy, you know. They always want the same shit. Land, space, time. These MF’s want it all. Truth: They want it all and then some. This is getting off topic, but I’ll just say this, X died securing the policy initiative to begin the splits before The Fall. We know. What we know is. He was there the day the Big 4 fractured. We know it was some of the Alphabet Boys who got him, might be the feds, might be Google, or whoever else it might be. Regardless, the people finally got the deal, like, why not? Why not split this thing up? 40

It seems silly now that we couldn’t pull it off sooner. Tilsdale and I formed MUD around that time and alternate thought became a legitimate option. Bold bright-blue banner with clickable links flies across the tops of our screens before centering above Truth’s face. We see layers of wording, logos over language, links taking precedence after a matter of moments. You Know You Want More…It’s Always Better Knowing Than Not Knowing… Know More: Real News Rap Ups The Fall Who Are The Alphabet Boys? Civil War 2: The One W/Out The Guns

Cameras flash and flutter into a cascade of tiles, which when flipped, reform into a psychedelic swirl, the Big Money Bank logo glimmering behind a curtain of neon CGI pattern overlays. A small coin in the middle of our screens expands. Zooming into the center we see a capital letter M, the script spiraling out and around itself from the left leg of the letter, a hypnotic wave washes over us, we’re listening on a holistic level, our bodies feel a humming, it starts around our temples, the feeling warm, like the sunshine before the heat of a winter day, it feels close, like the hug of a loved one, it lasts for what feels like forever, but only seconds pass, until… Welcoming Voice: It’s Big Money BWAAAAAAI! Come and get your moneys. Come on now, that’s right, that’s what you like, come and get your moneys. Bad credit? Good news. It’s Big Money Bank, baby we can make it work for you. The coin spirals inwards, the M becoming indiscernible, the humming inside of us skips and sputters, its going too fast, we can’t keep up, the warmth now an oppressive heat. Then. It stops. Blank screen for less than a frame. doom. doom. doom. Cameras realign, overhead pan, falling close over Cedar, who smiles as she moves a strand of curling hair from over her eye. Cedar: Can someone say more about alternate thought? 41

Jasper: Alternate thought is basically a big flaming middle finger to the new religion of science and dogmatic pragmatism. Truth: Thank you Jimmy, but it’s more— Bernhard: What they call “alternate thought” is simply thinking outside of the box. Sorry to cut you off, Ms. Truth. Truth: That’s fine Bernhard, really. Honestly, I would love to hear your take on this. Everyone at MUD sees you as a real pioneer of alternate thought. Bernhard: Yes, well, thank you for that. Too kind, far too kind for an old octopus like me. Well, you see, alternate thought, it’s a full stop on circular logic. Insanity is in fact repeating a thing again and again, well, and hoping for something different. We get stuck a lot, we as in humanity, like a child, a teenager experimenting. Throughout history, we see it often really, in periodic events like The Dark Ages, the so-called Enlightenment, even more recently in the 4th Industrial Revolution, though we were only stuck for forty years or so in my lifetime— we are truly moving at an exponential rate now. But as we saw at the turn of the millennium, a lot of the old ideology was stuck, like a wrench in the gears. I grew up in what is now the East Coast Coalition Corps, all over it really, but New York primarily, Manhattan to be specific. My father was a lawyer for one of the Alphabet Boys’ earlier incarnations. I would often sit outside of board rooms, ostensibly doing my homework, though in reality I was listening, taking notes. Tilsdale: What I wouldn’t give to have switched shoes with you back then Bernie, to be a fly on those walls, you know, that shit would have been hugely helpful when we were hoping to interface MUD within the capitalist system. That’s my whole thing you know, making use of alternate thought inside the old walls. Old radicals said it couldn’t be done. Ha, look at me! 42

Bernhard: You would have seen the barriers as they were constructed. The big corps were litigating to undermine any organization they deemed threatening to profit and scale. As I’m sure Mr. Tilsdale and everyone at this table discovered through trial and error, alternate thought struggles to flourish within the framework of many of the oldworld-isms. Capitalism, racism, socialism, classism, communism, etcetera, etcetera, and of course, I won’t forget to mention the old-world religions. While many of these ideologies contained within them myriad pathways, some “good” and some “bad”, if you enjoy such moral value judgements, well, the fact is, they weren’t working anymore. We saw twenty years ago the results of those old-world systems, we called them symptoms. Rampant houselessness, addiction at every corner, mass-murders, teen suicide, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Jasper: You’re not lying, tiger. The issues were stacked on top of issues for a while there. We didn’t have a clue where to get started. I just remember sitting in front of my screen back in the mid 20s, thinking if I don’t disappear the public data record, who will? All reset papa, all reset. Tilsdale: Yea, you know, it’s like before, at the end of 20th century there was still this hanging veil of the great lie that was America, holding back the vision, and we joke now about 2020 and hindsight and hardy har har, very funny, but that’s when people began to see. Like, really see it. I don’t know who I’m quoting here, so don’t quote me, but someone smart once said, “Crises precipitate change.” Zoom out. Tilsdale picking at his ear, wearing his best I-told-you-so face. Left eyebrow lifted, lips tight and pulled into a side angle smirk. Cedar slowly sliding a finger up her prompter tablet. Truth opening her locket. Zoom in close on the locket, not a face inside, not her brother’s face, not a person of notable importance, no— yes a slurry, yes a moving gravel pit, yes an animated pile of wet dirt. We can see inside the locket, the picture, it is a picture of a mudslide in motion. She shuts the locket with a snap of her fingers. Zoom out. Close in on Bernhard’s face. 43

Bernhard: Yes, well, that’s very astute Tim. The thing about alternate thought is it can be taken literally and at face value. When presented with a wall, a block, instead of going through the wall— breaking the wall down— instead we go around the wall, we imagine the wall doesn’t exist at all, we retrain our thinking to displace the meaning behind the word “wall” entirely. Our screens go dark. A bright light moves out from the center. We see the picture of the mudslide in center of the center, it morphs into a movie pic, a clip of a livestream, a wild and tumbling mud slide in action. We don’t know in which city it is— it could be anywhere, anywhere where the rain is unyielding. Where the dirt and the dust of development form a wave, we hear a sound like a dirge, draining down the streets. ……….Doom. Doom.

Doom. Cameras back on, high pan shot of the Roundtable.

Bump to a close shot of Santorini, rolling his cuffs down, some kind of bird beaking out from his left shirt sleeve, we see him shove the bird back down, patting his forearm with an implied love. Santorini: Not yet, not just yet my queen. Yes, good sir, the walls had grown impossible in the minds of the many. The devastation widespread. The anxiety transcending class and caste. The world in need of magic and miracles more than ever, it was during this time that I first donned the title of The Great Santorini. Cedar: Now that’s a question I always see in the comments of your channel. Who were you before? Where did you come from? One stands out specifically: bro, you pop out your moms with a tux and a mustache? Santorini, it’s not often we see an unknown in their early 40’s become a stream star, especially with your particular brand of old-magic enthusiasm— can you take us back to when it all started for you? Tilsdale: It’s hard for me to picture, like difficult even, what a pre-Santorini Santorini would look like. I’m imagining corduroy pants and fluffy plaid polos or something, 44

you know, you give off a strong Paul Bunyan vibe. Wait a goddamn minute, was that— was that a dove? Do you keep a live dove in there? How does she breathe? Santorini: You should know Timothy; a magician never reveals his tricks. As I was saying, before the plague, the only grand illusion I could manage was convincing a four top to splurge on a bottle of something Italian. Then my hours were sawed down the middle. And of course, the rolling mess of shutdowns and re-openings, like tidal waves of misplaced hope. So much time, I had all the time in the world. As my bank accounts diminished in stature, the structure of my days became a haze of existential dismay. I became enthralled with the old magic clips, David Blaine, as Bernhard so distastefully mentioned, but more so the lesser knowns. The occultists. There was a similarity to these people, they believed, or we the audience believed that they believed. What strength of will they had! I thought to myself, I can believe too, I can transcend the boundaries of this mortal coil. And by the middle of the second year, I was putting on webcam shows. More tutorial than trick based. I took Carlotta on as type of familiar and she was a real draw for the followers, let me tell you. Jasper: Right, fuck, I mean, first time I heard of Santorini it was a meme on a message board with him and that bird. Everyone remembers the “magic-man-meme” right? We thought it was funny at first, like who TF is the big goon in the Houdini outfit running sleight of hand how-tos with this little blue bird. Then I was subscriber. I was a fan years before we met. I gotta tell you Santorini, your vids were a huge inspiration for me and my crew. Like, huge! We needed— actually, let me speak for myself— I needed someone telling me, “You’ve got this, Jimmy. You can pull this disappearing act off.” And, I know you weren’t like, explicitly telling me to erase the data record, but that’s what I was hearing when I watched your channel. Roundtable is momentarily muted. Picture in picture pop up, top right of our screens. Real News Rap Up: All Reset, The Day the Data Died. Video footage of locations housing the Big 4 server farms, huge warehouses, some underground and underwater, some seemingly skyscrapers, all humming with electricity, the blistering buzz of 45

implied information. Flash to CCTV clip of a crowded train, everyone looking down at their devices. Flash to a server farm, buzzing like tinnitus in our collective ear. DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM. Silence, the shot goes deathly silent. Flash to the crowded train, people looking around themselves in a state of confusion, down at their devices, back up. Silence, until a woman speaks, the text overlayed across our screens: Alright, something’s uh, happened to my apps. They’re all gone, like, ugh, gone from my phone. She looks back down to the phone in her hand, the man next her says: Yea, what the fuck, mine too. Flash to freeze frame of an old Real News headline which reads: Worldwide Purge of Unnecessary Data Underway. Picture in picture pop up diminishes to a clickable icon. Sound up on Roundtable. Jasper: I’ve always wanted to thank you Santorini, for the validation. So, thanks, bruv. Good looking out. Cedar: It’s so touching to hear you five speak about one another. I’m wondering, who else was helpful to each of you in your personal journey? Or, if that’s too wishy-washy, is there someone that you view as an inspiration, as far as alternate thought goes? Jasper: I’m sticking with Santorini. Dude’s a fucking legend. Santorini: Mr. Jasper, sir, seriously, you’re far too kind. Well, you see, aside from the Houdinis and the Blaines, as I said, I grew up interested in the occult. Especially the multi-mediums, yes of course I idolized Jodorowsky, Rasputin, these types of men, but I was also infatuated by the ideas of Alfassa, you’ve heard of Auroville? Cedar: The only name that rings a bell for me is Rasputin, he was a kind of Russian wizard, right? Subscribers, please drop your questions and comments in the chat! What about you Vertible Truth, who inspires you? Truth: I’m inspired every day when I see communities question their leadership, not 46

out of some half-assed sense of entitlement, but from a more genuine curiosity. I’m inspired when I see or hear a person espousing alternate thought patterns in casual conversation at a food dispensary, or when they’re asking: how can we make this better for more people, how can we make this, whatever this is, hit for the people that want it to hit. And while we’re here on this platform— Truth looks directly into the camera, staring at us, staring at her. She grabs at the locket for a moment, then lets it go. She says to us: I just want to thank all of the viewers here with us today, and anyone who watches this before the next data purge. If you take just a little time out of your day to think about someone else’s perspective, that’s a huge win for us at MUD. Taking that time. Thinking about how small we are and yet how simultaneously vast. Thinking about our collective pain. Our individual pain. Our joy. Letting go is an act. All you people out there, letting go right now, you inspire me. Zoom out to pan of whole table. A moment of silence. Zoom in, close in on Tilsdale. Tilsdale: Look, I can’t follow that and sound even half as good, so, you know, I just want to echo what T was saying. Alternate thought relies on all of us, even when we’re engrained in a standing system. Every thought is a kind of magic. It exists both with and without our interference. But the thing is— you know what? Actually, you know, I’ve got one. This woman from back when I was a kid, my mom’s friend Francine, we all called her Frankie. Anyway, my mom was very political, I won’t say which side, but she was a real true-believer type. My mom would rant on and on about how we needed to help flip more people over to her side of the political spectrum. I remember one night, Frankie was over having drinks, you know, the two of them hung out a lot, even though they had these opposing viewpoints. Well, my mom is deep in her rant, when Frankie says to her: you know you all want the same things right? She says: you want to provide a good life for your families, you want a support system, you want to be loved, you want some sense of validation. Cedar: Sounds like a smart woman. 47

Tilsdale: Yea, you know, she really was. Anyway, that moment always stood with me. Shout out my mom’s friend Frankie, a true innovator of alternate thought. Cedar: What about you Bernhard? Bernhard: Yes, well, there have been a great many people whose thoughts I admire. Alternate or status quo. All the usual suspects, I fear. Ah, let me ask you this: do any of you have cats? Cedar: Like a pet cat at home? I do, Curie, after the scientist. Bernhard: A fantastic name for a cat. I mention cats for this reason: it is clear as day that cats think in an entirely different manner than we, as humans, do. You only have to try to train a cat to do what you want to see their thought process in action. My cat is called Estraven, after a character from a Le Guin novel. He, no matter my efforts, will stop at nothing to knock over full glasses of liquids. If the glass is empty, oh, he couldn’t be bothered, the little bastard. Close in shot of Cedar smiling, Bernhard smiling, Truth smiling. Flash and a pan view of Jasper whispering something to Santorini, who lets Carlotta loose from his sleeve. She flies over to Tilsdale’s shoulder. He flinches and gives the bird a well-well-well-wouldyou-look-what-we’ve-got-here face. Cascade of tiles on our screens. Darkness for a moment. A personalized ad tailored to our recent watch histories and subscriber status. Some of us will switch to another tab, another video, a game. Some of us will step away to eat, make a call, get back to work. Some of us will fall asleep, some of us will die waiting, while most of us will just keep watching.

Tethered by Gavril Brown

We are they poetry by

R. Shawntez Jackson There are rings of fire we must pass through to find peace. Matter must burn away in compressions strong enough to form diamonds in order to keen our eyesight and invision success on changed footing. But we worry about the lick of the burn, and how much of the scare tissue can we hide. But that is the most important & dangerous part of sunshine. is Showing your skin— scared and all— because you're still breathing Your heartbeats are strong like African drums. Your pulse runs like the gazelles of the Serengeti Find home from your core & Stand in the light Let your tattoos tell your story And give praise For we are the examples of the press and purification. Of the beauty for ashes we hear tell of. For We are They that passeth through the eye of the needle and lived. 50

Remember poetry by Sylvia Sánchez Garza Is your mother here? She's been gone for days? Scratching the grey on his head, he lies back ─ comfy in his makeshift hospital space. I sit down, picking up his paperback, positioned right next to the oxygen. The nurse walks in, checking his blood pressure. You feel alright? And gives him medicine. Again, he asks… She's not here… I answer. Remember? She's gone... I haven't seen her. No??? He says… She was just here yesterday. Where's your mother? Have you seen my daughter? Holding his hand in mine ─ it's me, I say. Trying to remember my face, unclear ─ With watery eyes... I smile. Yes, She's here.

Untitled by Vanessa Hardin

What The F***ing H non-fiction by Guadalupe Campos

Hands: Mami’s hands are like sandpaper. The skin on them is chapped and cracked. Her nails are long and thick. They rarely break and are the best back scratchers. Her hands are almost always warm, and when they aren’t I intertwin my fingers into hers to pass my heat onto hers. When mami pinches my cheeks, her hands unintentionally scratch my skin. And I never flinch away. Why would I? These hands are full of love and warmth and everything. They hold me. These are the hands I grew up with. They fed me. Changed my diapers. Brushed my hair when I didn’t know how to. They existed even before I did. These hands are the hands of someone who cares. Someone who has to constantly come into contact with chemicals to feed a family. That’s why, whenever mami’s hands accidentally scratch my cheek I lean into them and smile. Haunt: The moment my eyelids touch, I am no longer on the twin mattress on the floor. There is no blue and black deer blanket engulfing me. There is no me. Only eyes. Watching. Constantly watching. There is a lady wearing a pastel yellow dress. She is talking to someone. The eyes start to move forwards zooming in. Zooming into this woman. And her skin peels off. All her muscles are visible. The eyes zoom in more. Her muscles melt off and only vessels, bone and organs exist. But she is still talking. I can hear her voice. No body flinches. This is normal to them. The eyes see her heart pumping and her lungs inflating, deflating. Then she turns and looks at the eyes. She shrieks. Eyes rolling back and her bones disintegrate with the wind. Her organs splatter on the floor and her blood bubble. The person she was talking to turns their head towards me. Suddenly, I have a body. Their face is white and their eyes glow red. They rush towards me and I fall. Fall. Fall. Into the abyss. And it repeats with different people.

House: My dad always says, Cuando regresamos a La Romera… Cuando vamos a México para vivir… Cuando. Cuando. Cuando. The more he says it the less I believe him. Especially when I stare at this light blue house. The light blue house my dad paid other people to build while he’s been in the US. The light blue house with cracked walls and fading paint. The light blue house with glass windows and no screens. The only house with glass windows in La Romera. The light blue house with a squeaky gate that doesn’t welcome its owner’s daughter. The only house in La Romera with locks on its doors. The light blue house with tiled floors. All the other houses here have cement and dirt as it’s floor. The light blue house with a shower inside it. In Mama Vega’s house, we use buckets to pour water over ourselves. The light blue house with no doors inside. Everything is connected and there is only one bed. A bed that no one uses. Whose bed even is this? The light blue house with three rooms. Papi says that the room without a window is mine. The room without a window has no light coming in. It is dark. It is hot. It is humid. It smells like furniture even though no one has ever lived in it and there is no furniture inside of it. The light blue house where the bathroom is next to the kitchen and there is no door dividing them. The light blue house that no one lives in. The light blue house my dad says is where we are all going to move to. The light blue house that I am meeting for the first time. The light blue house that has a painted portrait of my parents smiling. Mama Vega told me that she had it made and that all the artist had to reference my parents were old pictures of them. The light blue house I am greeting alone with an illiterate uncle I only met two days ago. Haze: I sit in the front of the row, second row to the right. I’m in college algebra because my counselor wouldn’t let me not take a fourth year of math. I’m on my period and my cramps are kicking my fucking ass. My stomach is flipping frontwards and backwards and inside out. My eyebags feel like they are weighing down my face and the hot room is cold on my skin. A shiver licks my back and I feel like puking out all the food I didn’t eat during lunch time. I leaned back and mumble to the guy behind me, I think I’m gonna pass out. He nods and yawns out, Yeah, me too. We are not on the same page. My eyesight starts to blur. Fuck this I’m gonna ask to go to the nurse’s office. I stand up 54

and the world tilts to the left. I take one step after the other and warm jelly starts to leak out from between my wobbly legs. I end up in front of the math teacher’s desk. He looks at up at me with a dead stare and says, What? I stare back and ask in a weak voice, Can I go to the nurse’s office? His response is immediate, No. Fuck this guy. May I go to the bathroom? If he says no, I’m walking out. Fine, he says as he goes back onto his computer and asks me for my name. Guadalupe Campos, I say as spit starts to leak from my glands. You only have two more bathroom passes left. Use them wisely, he says. I think, Suck my fucking dick. And I wobble my way out the room. The light outside is blinding and I walk two doors to the right with my head down. I open the door to the bathroom and it’s dark. It smells like shit. And looks haunted as fuck. The walls all have carvings on them. There’s three different layers of paint. One of the sinks is plugged with wet paper. I rush to the farthest toilet and gush out spit. Nothing is coming out. I push the stall door open and splash water on my face. I look at myself on the reflective fake mirror made of polished metal and my skin looks yellow next to the green walls. A sudden wave of exhaustion slams onto my shoulders and I curse at gravity for existing. Fuck this I’m going to the nurse’s office. I’m in the second farthest building from the bathroom and this is the biggest school in the city ready to faint. WHOOP WHOOP! Let’s do this shit. I slap my cheeks and walk outside. Each step I take feels like I’m walking on cotton as my head starts to float around my shoulders. I look up at the sky and don’t hear the parrots flying by. The blue sky starts to fade into white. White. White. White. And suddenly all my surroundings are non-existent. Is this how I go? I can feel the hard floor under my soles and thank fuck once more for knowing this high school like it were my own home. I squint my eyes, and everything starts to blur back into focus behind tears. I go up two small steps and put all my weight onto a light green heavy metal door. It smells like hand sanitizer and I start to shiver. A lady with a bun on her head and a mole on her face glances at me. Input your ID number, so I can call your emergency contact, she says as she points at a number pad. Suck my fucking dick, math teacher.

Hold: Mami’s been crying for days. She’s been staying in the room on her bed. Soft weeps spill from her mouth and onto the bed sheets as her shoulders tremble. And maybe it’s because she wishes to hold something. And maybe it’s because she wishes to be held. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. It seems like I can’t get the right words to comfort her. It seems I can’t do the right things to make her feel better. How can she be doing chores when she is so vulnerable right now? Mami’s been falling apart for days and her smile has chipped away to the point where it’s non-existent. Deep bags have been carved under her eyes and her gaze is distant. She clutches a picture of her mami. I wonder what it is she is thinking about. I wonder if she’s even thinking at all. I wish I could hold her tight and give her a piece of me to help her rebuild herself. What does it feel like wanting to go back to your home country? It’s been more than a decade and mami hasn’t gone back to Guatemala. What would it feel like to go back to a motherless mother country? Would you even want to go back? Mami still does the house chores, but I wonder how she can keep going when she’s so exhausted. I wish I could give her what she wants the most, but she can’t meet the person she misses the most anymore. Hug: You walked me home even though I live two streets away. We bumped into my mom and the pack of kids she used to babysit. My little sister started at our locked hands and I thanked fuck for having told my mom about us. The light turned green and the stick figure gave us the sign to cross the street. We split from my mom and kids and went towards my home a different route. When we reached the tall black gate, we both stopped. I didn’t take out my keys. We both stood there looking at the door and I was both disappointed and relieved that I was home. I swallowed my spit and mumbled, Bye. You nodded awkwardly and I took out my keys. I opened the door and you pulled me into a hug. I froze in social awkwardness and decided to hug you back. You kissed the top of my head and I panicked so I kissed the first thing that was in front of me. Your shoulder. I kissed your shoulder and you laughed at me. I pulled away and quickly rushed to my apartment and you continued to laugh. 56

How: And I’ve been feeling off this week. And I don’t know why. Everything's the same. Classes have been the same. The weather in SF has been the same. Dinner has been the same. My hair has been the same. The carton of milk has been the same. Nothing is out of place. Everything is as usual. But there’s something in the air and it’s making everything shift. Maybe all the furniture in the apartment has been moved to the left by an inch. Maybe all my clothes have one more wrinkle than usual. Maybe there is one extra grain of salt in all my food and it’s too much for my tastebuds. Maybe my glasses prescription has slightly changed. Maybe my pillow was flipped to the wrong side. Maybe the fog is a bit thicker. Maybe my hair is a bit longer. And maybe it’s all of the above and that’s why I’ve been feeling like something is off. Something from me has been missing. And I don’t know what. The shadow behind me has felt it too. The aura around me is different. How do you explain that to someone? How do you explain that everything is the same, but there is something missing, and you don’t know what the hell it is? And lately I’ve been feeling like crying. And lately I’ve been wanting to mourn the you that is missing, but I don’t know what you are to begin with. And then I get a call. It’s dark and the only light on is the dim Ikea paper lamp. I’m alone in the apartment and I’ve just arrived from class. I’m sitting on a dining chair and papi sounds exhausted. His voice is raspy and way too soft. I can hear the frown in his voice. You’ve been missing for a week. You no longer exist in this world and he was going to keep it from me until the semester ends. Hell: We were both stuck in a pearl white Thunderbird plopped in the middle of a parking lot on a hot summer day in Southern California. The dark purple tinted windows were rolled a quarter way down so we wouldn’t suffocate. You opened your mouth and the words vibrated out from your vocal cords the way notes echo off a hollow violin. Do you think we’re in hell? It took a moment for my middle school brain to process what you’d said. I asked, What do you mean? You continued to look out the window and rephrased your words, Do you think there's a hell? Like the one in the 57

bible. Like the one la doctrina preaches on and on about. Do you think it exists? A warm gust of wind twirled your hair. I opened my mouth. I don’t know. A car passed by and you said, I don’t think the hell the catholic church speaks about is real. I said, Then what do you believe? You turned to look at me, your black eyes tired and expressionless. I think you might have been high. I think we’re in hell. I think we’re currently living in hell. This. This right here is hell. I asked, Cuz it’s hot? You shook your head and said, No, not cuz it’s hot. Cuz this sucks. Cuz life just sucks man. And like I think this planet is hell. There is no heaven nor hell. There is only this and reincarnation. And depending on how much of a good person or crappy person you were in your past life, when you die you end up getting reincarnated into a good environment or a crappy one. There is no great oasis waiting for us when we die, just the end of another vagina. The hell in the bible isn’t real. This place where we’re currently living in is hell. You went on not noticing you were repeating yourself and I stayed silent as your words sunk in. You planted a seed of doubt into my brain and you probably don’t even remember. Hard: I used to climb on the tall metal poles that connected the old swings. They were upside down V’s on each end of the middle pole that held the swings. And I would look at them and be like, Oh hell yeah. I’d grab the worn-out cool metal. I could feel the years of dirt and rust stick to my hand. I’d wrap my legs around the pole and like a caterpillar, I’d pull my legs closer to me scrunching up my body and move my arms up stretching myself out. Then, pull my legs in closer to me and then stretch my arms up. Scrunch, stretch, scrunch, stretch, scrunch, stretch. And Ta Da! I’d reach the top. I’d let go of the pole with my left hand and grab onto the pole behind me that was much closer at the top. I’d unwrap my legs from the pole and hang myself from the top looking like the letter Y. Both arms outstretched above my sides holding on to the poles while my legs dangled. I was much higher, and the wind felt so fresh wrapping its arms around me. I could smell the mix of molding rainwater and sweat. And it was beautiful. But it never lasted long. Eventually my arms would start to feel tired, so I’d grab on to one single pole again and wrap my legs around it. Then, stretch, scrunch, stretch, scrunch, stretch, 58

scrunch. I’d unwrap my legs about halfway down and hop off the pole. A lunch lady who was watching would step onto the blacktop where I was and start scolding me telling me, Don’t you know how dangerous that was? You could have hurt yourself. You could have fallen and broken something. You could have- Weeks later my mom would be told about what I’d do during recess and lunch. How I’d climb the swings, the tetherball poles, the tall metal slide, the pull-up bars. Mom would scold me and hit me for doing something so dangerous. And the next day there was a lunch lady now looking over the swings to make sure I wouldn’t climb. So, I got a spork and went to the field where most of the boys played. There would be three different games of soccer going on in the open grass area while the baseball field was empty. Kids used to play kickball there, but someone ended up losing a tooth, so they stopped letting anyone play on the baseball field. There was a tall palm tree and dirt surrounding it. There was a really old lunch lady who would watch over this section. Everyone just called her abuelita. She was also the nicest lunch lady. The first day I was banned from climbing, I squat right in front of her and the palm tree, took out my spork, and started to scrape at the dirt. I didn’t have many friends. The boys had started to bully me ‘cuz of my long hair and the girls were all really obsessed with some show on Disney Channel. I couldn’t relate to them at all since we hadn’t had cable in years. So, I scrapped and scrapped and scrapped at the dirt while imaging myself climbing the poles and being able to finally breath as I looked down at everything and everyone below. They all looked so small and insignificant. The bell for recess rang and I had just barely made a dent on the floor. Abuelita looked at me and I looked at her. Then I waved and left to class with dirt under my nails. I’d go to the same spot every day and dig. My mind wandered and abuelita would stare off at the distance looking at all the boys kicking a ball. Eventually I started to find rocks. The first time I found a rock I was so surprised I raised it up and screamed, Ira abuelita una roca! She smiled at me. Her cheeks wrinkling even more as she showed me her teeth. Que bonita. I grinned back and gestured for her to take it. Entonces te la doy, I said. Ay deberas? Gracias mija. Aqui la voy a guardar, she said as she took it and placed it in one of her purple apron’s pockets. Abuelita’s collection would grow bigger and bigger and the hole 59

grew deeper and deeper. The school banned digging not long after a kid playing tag tripped over all my holes and abuelita was moved to the bathrooms surrounded by concrete. Hair: I shared a table with three guys in my Life Science class. I was resting my head on my crossed arms on top of my backpack as I watched the teacher take her time setting up the projector. My eyes were slipping close when something cold brushed the middle of my forehead and I heard a crisp, snip. My eyes widened and I instantly sat up. A small group of inch long strands of brown hair dusted the table. I looked up and saw one of the boys from my table retract his arm with a pair of bright red scissors in his hand. My mouth dried as my head screamed. Another boy, the one who sat across from me, reached out towards my backpack’s strap, and dragged it to the center of the table before my trembling hands gripped the material. I yanked it back towards me while the boy with the scissors desperately snipped one of my backpack’s straps. Fuck off pendejo! My scream was drowned out by the laughter of classmates having their own conversations. I clutched my backpack up to my chest trying to hide it inside me while I tried to steady my breathing. Don’t cry, Lupita. Don’t you fucking cry, I thought. I stared down at the top of the table and my teacher turned around to face the class. Okay, everyone quiet down and take out your notebooks. Today we’re going to- My fingertips were cold as I hesitated to take out stuff from my backpack. What’s wrong Scorpion?, the boy who sat next to me asked with a smirk on his face. I moved my long braid away from him and ignored him. Don’t. Just don’t, I thought.

Funky and Camp: A Conversation with Megan Murphy interview by TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter

This interview was conducted on October 10th 2020 via Zoom. TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter: Who is Megan Murphy? Megan Murphy: Wow, that’s a question I ask myself everyday when I wake up and I still don't know if I have an answer. I feel like I am a lot of things, especially currently, I feel like there's a lot going on. Constantly changing what I am and what I’m doing. I would say that I am a visual artist who likes to play with a lot of different mediums of art. I’m a big fat homosexual. White and Filipino-American. I’m an organizer. I’d like to think I’m a good person. I’m also an Aries. And that's my highlight reel. TMRC: Aside from your drawings and paintings what other kind of art do you participate in? MM: I feel like I’m really indecisive. So I can never decide what platform of art I like to do. So I kind of just mess around with literally any medium that I see, that I'm like, “Oh! That looks interesting.” So in the past I've done a lot of wood working, I’ve done set building before, I do like making big installation pieces. I love hands-on stuff. I feel like it's fun to play with physical things and create art through crafting. But right now I do a lot of painting and ink drawing like you said. I also recently got really into textiles. So I started making tiny carpets. Yarn is really fun. I also make jewelry. I’m also trying to do digital art now. Like I said, if I see anything that looks like fun, I’m just like, “Oh, I wanna try that out!” TMRC: Speaking of jewelry, you have a very eclectic sense of fashion. It feels like artistic expression is just always dripping off of you. Even right now, you’re wearing some 61

skeleton earrings—which are very cute, by the way. Can you talk about what drives your sense of style? MM: I feel like my sense of style is something I kind of personally developed just as I became more confident in myself, honestly. I feel like I've always been very artistic. And I've always loved drawing and been into creating visual pieces. But for the longest time that wasn't something that wasn't super reflective of how I dressed. It wasn't until I graduated high school and got more into community college that I really started actually playing with my wardrobe and feeling more confident. I feel like that's common for a lot of people too. You get out of high school and you get away from everyone you’ve known for twelve years of your life and you’re like, “Oh, it's the time!” I feel like my outfits are inspired by the things that inspire my art. I love bright vibrant colors, I love really fun patterns, I just love playing around with things in my wardrobe. If it’s funky, I want it. TMRC: What would you say your overarching goals in life are? It’s okay if you don't have an answer to this question. MM: It's funny that you said, “If [I] don’t have an answer,” because I've been thinking about that a lot lately. In general, my main goal is to

Courtesy of Megan Murphy

serve any community I'm a part of.

For me, as a queer person, as someone who is mixed white and Filipino, theres a lot of communities that are very big parts of me. I want to be able to help these communities in the ways that they’ve helped me develop as a person. I want to be able to work and give back to these communities as much as I can. I feel like that's one of my biggest overarching goals: serve the Filipino community as well as the LGBT community. TMRC: You spoke a little bit about this before, what sort of things do you draw influence and inspiration from? MM: So much! Again, literally a lot if it is from being mixed white and Filipino and also being a little homosexual growing up, ya know? I feel like those are two really big things that, when I look back on my inspirations, they're always connected to those things. This is such a gross answer, but unfortunately—well, not unfortunately—anime was a really big inspiration for me growing up. I feel like that's a thing that's pretty common for a lot of Asian-Americans. And specifically, unfortunately, Asian Americans that aren't Japanese and Korean. You tend to cling to the first Asian thing you see in America, which for a lot of Asian-Americans it’s anime, it's K-pop, it's these ideals of Asian-ness. So I clung to Anime. I loved the colorful visuals and the overall style. And when I got into middle school I got more into experimental-weird Anime. Which really inspired the way I draw. There’s a lot of animators, like Satoshi Kon, Junji Ito, and Koji Morimoto. And being a big fat homosexual, I love all things camp. I love the camp aesthetic. I love campy horror movies. I love over-the-top, pushing boundaries. Camp. Leave it at that. TMRC: Speaking of camp—and you mentioned weird earlier—your art has a unique and striking quality. What would you say camp is your art’s aesthetic or would you give it another label?

MM: I feel like it's pretty safe to call my style camp. I tend to really love exaggerated and over-the-top colors and looks and just kind of pushing that. I also do really like to play around with the idea of horror, in some sense. Almost pushing what is naturally making things look “unnatural” and a little creepy with how excessive it is and how bright it is. Almost offensive to the eyes. TMRC: Are there any artists who match your aesthetic? MM: A lot of Japanese animators. Masaaki Yuasa—I really love his animation style. He plays with vibrant colors and really weird shapes. He was always a really big inspiration for me. There's a lot of current artists too, that I follow that have a similar aesthetic or that I try to take inspiration from, like a friend

Courtesy of Megan Murphy

of mine, @laschicaspeligrosas on Instagram. Other artists are @plastiboo, @masa.toro, @tiny.tattooer,and @betsy.cola. And also, @kurboi who is this Filipino artist that does really cute 50s and 60s themed Filipino drawings that are really colorful. I love his style. TMRC: You’re living in San Francisco right now, and you're originally from which city? MM: I’m originally from Los Angeles, California. I am dead center Los Angeles, I can't even say West or East LA because I’m literally in the middle. TMRC: Do you think the cities you’ve lived in have impacted your style?

Angel Eyes by Megan Murphy Published in Issue # 2 of Ramblr Magazine

MM: Absolutely. Growing up in LA, there's that stereotype of people from LA being really fake and kind of over the top sometimes, and I feel like that's kind of true. In high school, there were a lot of people trying to be really over-the-top with their style and the ways that they drew. That was something that pushed me growing up, being in art scenes in LA. Seeing a bunch of dumb young teens trying to push the envelope and be real wacky. When I was growing up in high school—and honestly still probably now—there was a really big camp aesthetic in a lot of young queer spaces. So that was also something that pushed me a

lot. In San Francisco you see a camp aesthetic too, among queer people. And unique and colorful aesthetics. Also, it's important to mention that the really big Filipino population in the Bay Area helped me get a better understanding of a lot of the ways I've been inspired through Asian culture. It’s made me have a better focus on how exactly I want to be drawing things in relation to my identity as an Asian American and specifically as a Filipino-American. And that's something I’m taking into consideration now and figuring out. TMRC: Do you have a favorite piece of your own? MM: It's funny that you say that, because it also reminds me that I write. I forgot, until you said that, to mention that I also do a lot of written pieces and screenwriting 65

sometimes. Like I said, if it looks fun and artistic, I will do it. As far as visual pieces, I really liked “Angel Eyes” a lot. That was one of the first pieces I fully completed. It gives a good portrayal of what I want my style to be and what I try to do with painting, drawing, and ink and pen work. I tend to cling to really bright colors and an unnatural look. As far as writing, I liked my piece in Transfer Magazine called “It Started in a Car.” I’m really proud of that piece. I really tend to reflect back on my identity as Filipino-American and also as a queer person. That piece is a really nice reflection and ode to being a queer Filipino and the ways that has complicated things in my life. I’m really happy with that piece. TMRC: Is there anywhere specific you’d hope your art could take you? MM: To the moon, baby! That's something I’ve been thinking about more and more lately. One of my biggest focuses is community-based things. If I’m able to use my art in a way that serves the community, whether that be through being able to open art galleries and host events for people to show their own work in. I’m also super into film making, another aspect I forgot to say. I really like the art department of films. So being able to create more films that have a queer perspective or a Fil-Am perspective. And being able to help publish pieces, whether they be visual or written. I would love to be able to help people create more pieces and get their work out there. That's one of my main goals in creating art. To get to a place where I can help others. TMRC: That’s amazing and I'm sure your art will get you there one day. MM: Thank you! TMRC: Last question, if your art as a whole could talk, what would it say? MM: [Audible screech] Honestly, yeah, I feel like it would give a good ol’ scream. Most of my art is just a reflection of what I’m feeling and how I’m doing. A lot of my art is very personal 66

and I feel like it tends to be an outlet for me to put out emotions. So I genuinely think it would give out ol’ screech. Just a good ol’ yell, a little howl into the night. TMRC: Thank you so much for giving me your time today. Are there any final thoughts before we end the interview? MM: Look out for my work. Follow me on instagram if you want. My art instagram is @koalajamboree.

Megan Murphy is an emerging artist based in San Francisco. You can find Megan Murphy’s work on instagram @koalajamboree.

CONTRIBUTORS Avery Borders is twenty-four years old and currently resides in Dallas, Texas. She works in mixed media collage to create snapshots of her brain activity as she lives with Bipolar Disorder and ADHD. Through her art, she hopes to inspire and demonstrate to others that living with mental illness is not the end all be all and, in fact, can even lead to creating something beautiful. She has been creating art since 2018, has recently been featured in her local Frisco Art Gallery Artober virtual event, and will be a featured artist in the January 2021 edition of Okay Cool Magazine. She recently participated in her very first art fair and couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be happier with the results. She is now working daily in her studio on her next project. Gavril Brown is a freelance graphic designer based in New York City who makes designs for small businesses. His main goal is to open a studio of designers that would make affordable quality designs for small businesses. Gavril is very involved with volunteer and mentorship programs such as New York Cares, Project Excel, Equity Through Design Mentorship, Reach Out America, and Feed the Children. He has won two silver keys from the Scholastic Arts and Writing Awards. Instagram: @_gavrildesigns_ Guadalupe Campos prefers to go by Lupe. She says one of the main reasons is because hearing her full name reminds her of her mom scolding her when she was little. Lupe is a Latina from Santa Ana with a BA in Creative Writing that is kinda just sitting in her drawing notebook. She is a socially awkward mess and being in quarantine is not helping her in any way. Her 1st published work called, "What The H," is in San Francisco State University's Transfer Issue 119. It's free to download, so feel free to give it a read or not. You do you. Instagram is @handmade_eyebags. Alexandria Eby has been addicted to storytelling since she was a small child creating her own books from construction paper and recording her own radio show on a tape recorder. Her work has themes of heartbreak, motherhood, childhood nostalgia, and navigating the world as a woman. She works in advertising by day and writes both fiction and nonfiction by night. She currently lives in the Midwest with her husband, son, and two black labs. You can visit her work online at www.alexandriaeby.com.

Sylvia Sánchez Garza holds a B.A. in English, an M.A. in School Administration, and a Ph.D. in Leadership Studies. Her novel, Cascarones, about the cultures and traditions of growing up in South Texas, has won several awards. Her poetry has appeared in Unique Poetry, and her short story will be featured in an anthology by Philomel Books in 2021. Website: sylviasanchezgarza.com Twitter: @sylviasg4 Pacifico Geronimo III is a graduate of the MFA program at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Their work has been published in Unbound Magazine (University of Oregon), Two Hawks Quarterly (Antioch University) and most recently with Grand Journal, which is the literary journal for One Grand Books and a new literary magazine by Aaron Hicklin, former editor-in-chief of Out Magazine. They currently live with their partner, Fatima, in Eugene, Oregon. Self-taught multi-media artist, Mackenzie Goffe, has been inspired and creating since she was young. Initially drawing influence from the bold colors, stark features and exaggerated expressions of classic cartoons, her focus became to capture the absurd. While exploring a number of channels, including traditional and wearable art, she has been featured twice in RAW artists visual art showcase—both displaying and selling original pieces. She hopes to establish her voice throughout multiple mediums during her artistic journey in order to share the vision of her spirited and vivid ideas. Instagram: @dielaughing.art Vanessa Hardin is a socially awkward, nerdy, queer who studies geography. They enjoy screaming, photography, and hanging with their dog. If you interact with them, chances are they will either ramble on about geography or ask if you want to feel the tumors in their neck. Instagram: @sadandhellarad. Austin Inman is a visual artist living in San Francisco with his boyfriend of 3 years and an abundance of houseplants. He makes art depicting cute subjects surrounded with sinister iconography to evoke a sense of childlike wonder coated with a layer of occultist melancholy. Instagram @jankycosmos.

R. Shawntez Jackson is a native of the Eastbay. An award winning poet, playwright, spoken word artist, actor, educator and father of Wordsi2i.org. He is described as a vivid story-teller creatively framing and displaying some of the best and worst details of relationships, religion and sexuality. Isaak Lusic is a graduate of California State Long Beach with a Bachelor's Degree in English Literature: his biggest accomplishment so far in his life. When it comes to reading or writing, he is a Romantic in all the definitions and he hopes to find peace in this world full of chaos. His preferred drink is one shared with colleagues, while his favorite activities include reading, writing, and drinking (in no particular order). Serena Menaged is a writer and photographer living in Queens, New York. She studied English Literature and Photography at Baruch College. You can find her photography on her instagram @serenamenaged Zac Russi lives and writes in Berkeley, CA. Jennifer Pappas Yennie teaches high school English in Southern California where Poetry Friday is a weekly staple for her students. In her free time, she freelance writes for arts and culture magazines, enjoys hiking, exploring, and doing science experiments with her two young sons. Her poetry has appeared in ZYZZYVA; Transfer; Look-Look Magazine; and Eclipse Literary Journal. Some moons ago, she earned her BA in creative writing from SFSU; she still misses living in the city. She currently resides in Laguna Hills with her husband, two sons, Weimaraner, and panther chameleon: Buster Scruggs.

The Ana Issue #5

Articles inside

by TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter