Aztec Literary Review Fall 2014 by The Aztec Literary Review

AZTEC LITERARY REVIEW

VOL. V 1

~AZTEC LITERARY REVIEW FALL 2014~ EDITOR IN CHIEF Richard Freeland

MANAGING EDITOR Tess Van Grootheest

LITERARY EDITOR Rafael Baron

SOCIAL MEDIA EDITOR Allison Tester

SENIOR STAFF WRITER J. D. Stewart

COVER ARTIST Rebecca Wallace

ASSISTANT LITERARY EDITOR Stephanie Hanawalt

CONTRIBUTORS Isabella Dumon Andrea Wilkum Brent Jensen Kelly Ferguson Miranda Lockman

~TABLE OF CONTENTS~

TERRIFYINGLY SHORT STORIES CONTEST Bedtime Stories………………………………….. Alex Diaz, p.6 Little Boy………………………….……..…..Anica Stemper, p.6 Adieu!…………………………….…………….Kaitlyn Smith, p. 7

FICTION Jisatsu Keihatsu………………………………….Josof Syed, p. 8 Helpless……………………………………….Sammi Rudkus, p. 21 Backwards Compatible…………………..Brian Jennings, p. 26 Part and Party………………………………...Sam Eggleton, p. 30 Mashed…………………………………………….Jason Credo, p. 31

POETRY The Sound…………………….Amanda Elizabeth-Abend, p. 40 Reimagining “I Speak of Blood”…..…….Simon Shieh, p. 42 Falling Through a Cloud……………………Simon Shieh, p. 44 I Burn The Flag……………………….Vanessa Rodriguez, p. 48 Ten Commandments…………..…. Stephanie D'adamo, p. 50 Haunted………………………….……. Stephanie D'adamo, p. 59 Hey Dad................................................Marisa Davila, p. 52

Once Morning Comes………..…..Tess Van Grootheest, p. 56 Luna Llena………..………… Amanda Elizabeth-Abend, p. 57 Beatrice……………………………...………… Anna Alarcon, p. 60 Dark Minds…………………………… Vanessa Rodriguez, p. 62 Sunshine State of War……………..Stephanie D'adamo, p. 63 Loose Change…………………………Cassandra Beckwith, p. 65 Tombs for the Living……….……………Barrett Stowers, p. 66 Sanctify……………………….…………….Elizabeth Harvey, p. 68

LETTERS FROM THE EDITOR………………….The Editor, p. 69

~T E R R I F Y I N G L Y S H O R T S T O R I E S~

1st PLACE: Bed Time Stories Alex Diaz

Every night when I go to sleep, I switch off the light and quickly leap onto the bed. Tonight, it was waiting there for me.

2nd PLACE: Little Boy Anica Stamper

When I walked within the woods many years ago I came across a little boy who ran as I called so: “Oh won’t you stay and play with me? Why are you so scared?” Then he turned so I could see him vanish in thin air.

Now I’m walking in the woods, all covered in snow I see the boy once again and run as he calls so: “Oh won’t you stay and play with me? Why are you so scared?” Never walk those woods you see for he waits for you there.

3rd PLACE: Adieu! by Kaitlyn Smith

The sky was dark, stars were bright. I could see skeletons hanging by the moonlight. One by one they swayed, then a creepy howl echoed my way. I followed the sound by the light of the moon until I saw a house with many rooms. I crept inside to sneak a peak. To my surprise I heard a creak. I crept up the stair one by one and in the room there was a hum. I peaked around to see what was inside, sitting there was a girl who cried. I whispered hello and the girl replied "Get out, get out, they all have died." I turned to run but with no adieu, because something caught my shoe. I screamed and fought with all my might, but my tongue fell out and I lost my sight. "Goodbye, goodbye" the little girl said. "I told you they are all dead."

Jisatsu Keihatsu Josof Syed

6:30 A.M. I wake up. Shower. Pour myself a cup of coffee. And leave for work. I don't know how many times I have repeated this pattern. I lock up my apartment and head downstairs. The cold breeze pierces my skin, but I am used to it. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all part of my daily routine. The cold. I walk a steady pace through the streets of New York City. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a foggy day and it seems as if the season never changes. I never take the time to notice this before. Its only 7:30 A.M, but the streets are filled with people heading to work. All dressed formally. I pass the same citizens I see every day on my way to work. The man who dresses just like me. He wears slacks, a dress shirt with a tie, and blazer over his shirt. He carries the same suitcase I am holding, and the dress code is strictly black-and-white. It's like staring straight into a mirror. He is heading the opposite direction. The woman who is dressed equally professional is heading to the subway I usually catch, which stops at 7:45 A.M. I cannot remember how long I've been taking this route to work. It takes me approximately fifteen minutes to reach my destination via subway. I sit silently in my seat waiting to arrive on 5th street. I notice I'm not the only one silent, but the whole subway train is quiet as a deserted labyrinth. My whole career, I have traveled silently with my head bowed down, patiently waiting. The surreal silence never occurs to me. I raise my head from its bowed down state and stand up. I take long glances at all the people who are silently sitting and waiting on the subway. The way the passengers are sitting quietly reminds me of a still painting. Instead of fruit baskets, the subjects are monotonous humans, with their hands on their laps, staring blankly onto the 8

ground, waiting to get off at their stop. There is no color. Black and White. What are we doing? I think. I get off at 5th street and walk up the stairs into the bustling streets of New York City. The streets are active, but everyone keeps to themselves. No one stops for a conversation, or even a simple greeting. Everyone has their own motive for the day, and they stick to it without distraction. There it is. My place of work. New York City Police Department. It’s a pretty large building. I have been working here for about thirteen years, and I have been appointed to as many as five-hundred cases throughout my career. I enter the building of my workspace. Angela greets me. The new receptionist of the building. “Good morning Detective Harper.” “Good morning.” I reply. I forget her name at that moment. She must feel like a robot. Repeating the same two words followed by a last name she could care less for. Angela taking calls from people all over the city, begging her to help them with an emergency. They all think it’s an emergency. She can't help anyone, other than redirecting their call to one of the officers or detectives in the building. Poor Angela. She will probably work at this location for three months tops, until she goes clinically insane from a combination of work and her personal life. I try to walk toward my office, but she interrupts me. “You have a message waiting for you on your desk, along with the keys to your car. It's back from the shop.” “Thanks.” I walk into my office, and see a manila envelope on my desk. The words “URGENT” is written in red on the envelope. I stare at it blankly. Whenever someone wants me to help them

with their troubles, I am contacted over the phone, or a message is left on my answering machine. A manila envelope waiting for me on my desk is a sure sign of trouble, because it's not a part of my daily routine. I slowly tear open the seal and take a look at the documents waiting for me. There are photos of mutilated children and women. Multiple photos. I start to read the note that is attached, “There is no escape. As a group, we have been on the run for twenty years. We try to keep a silent tab, but there are people who do not want us to continue our beliefs. We have never committed any felonies, and we have stayed out of the public eye for quite some time. Please Detective Harper, we need your help in protecting our people, because we will soon perish without it.” It was signed Sakuya Yureii from Jisatsu Keihatsu. I keep thinking about the name he mentions at the end of the letter. I look at the photos again. Body parts are disassembled, and lined up in unique formations. The photos are starting to make me feel nauseous. I put them down and reach into my drawer. I pour myself a shot of whiskey and quickly drink each golden drop of liquid out of the glass. I look at the return address. I grab the keys off my desk, and head toward my car in the parking lot. The car is parked all by itself on the bottom floor of the garage. It’s a 1967 Lincoln Continental, chrome on an allblack paint job. The car was involved in a car chase a week ago, but it has now been repaired and cleaned. I open the car and the scent of a new-car-smell lingers in the interior of the car. The smell is also mixed with the clean leather scent of the seats. I start the engine of the car, and I can feel the engine running smoothly. The sound coming out of the exhaust is not disturbing, but subtle. I sparingly depress the gas pedal and exit the garage. My destination, Jisatsu Keihatsu. I drive towards Upstate New York to find this group of people who are under attack. I drive for hours until I reach farmlands. The weather

begins to intensify. The day started with a cloudy morning, only to rain by 11 A.M. The sound of the rain ricochets on the hood of my car. I squint my eyes to look through the rain infested windows, but I can’t see a damn thing. There is no sunlight illuminating the unpaved roads. I stop the car, and decide to step out and see if I can get a visual with my own eyes. The rain begins to pour on my head, until I realize there is a dimly lit farmhouse maybe a hundred yards away. I begin to drive towards the only source of light, hoping to find my group in distress. I park my car outside of the farmhouse, and knock on the door. “NYPD! This is Detective Harper responding to the letter sent to me.” I try to yell over the natural sound of the heavy rain. The door opens up, and it is a young Japanese woman standing in front of me. When I first catch a glance at her, she smiles and bows politely. “Detective Harper, we have been expecting you.” She has the greenest eyes, they should be considered emerald. She is something out of a romance novel. She didn't have a huge grin, but a subtle enticing smirk. “Please, come in. Mr. Yureii has been expecting you. Take a seat while I get him.” The room is definitely not what I was expecting when I was looking at the exterior of the house. I thought it was a farmhouse, but the insides magically transform my thoughts. The inside of the house looks like a 5-Star hotel. Complete with a lobby. The lobby is packed with people from diverse backgrounds. One thing I notice is the colorful range of clothing each person is wearing. Some of the men are wearing Hawaiian Shirts of different colors with white flowers of all shapes and sizes. Many of the women are wearing colorful sundresses. Nothing compared to my black and white suit. They are all having intimate conversations with each

other. The other room that is connected to the lobby seems to be a bar, and it is also filled with many people. I could hear live Jazz music playing from the stage in the bar. “Mr. Harper?” I hear a voice behind me. I turn around to see who is said my name, when I notice an old man in horn-rimmed glasses. He is short in stature, and he has his hands pressed together, while bowing towards me. He is dressed casually just like the other people in the room. “Nice to finally meet you Mr. Harper, I am Sakuya Yureii. I am the owner of this establishment. Why don't we have a seat at the bar?” “Sure.” I follow him to the bar and order myself a whiskey on the rocks. Yureii orders a glass of milk. The bar’s theme is different to the bars I usually frequent in New York City. There are neon lights all around the room. There is a distinct smell in the room as well. A woody-peppery smell that reminds me of pine trees. A smell that can only come from incense. “I hear you are in need of some help. From the look of the letter you sent me, it sounds urgent.” “Yes, there have been multiple kidnappings that led to the death of members in this society. As of late--” “Society?” I interrupt. “Yes, this is a branch off the Jisatsu Keihatsu Society. A group that has history from the late 1800s Japan.” “Right.” I didn't want a history lesson. “So is there anyone you think that would try to intentionally harm your group?”

“Countless people cannot accept us as a religious group because of the actions we take as members of the Jisatsu Keihatsu Society.” “And what kind of actions are we talking about?” “It’s hard to explain, but it will be easier if I ask you this question first. Do you believe in reincarnation, Detective Harper?” “You mean like, coming back to life after dying?” “Exactly what I mean, only you return as a different vessel.” The hairs on my body start to raise as he says the word “vessel”. “No I don't believe in that.” “Well, Jisatsu Keihatsu directly translates into “Suicide Enlightenment”, and the group members intentionally take their lives so their soul can take another form.” I am completely caught off guard. “Are you telling me you are a suicidal occult group?” “In some ways, yes. But we do not forcefully put people in situations that will make them kill themselves. We do not encourage suicide at all. In Japan, suicide has been a tradition for many people in the country, and it is considered a great honor to take your own life if the moment ever arises. The Japanese used it as a tactic in war, killing themselves before they can be captured by the enemy, which usually leads in a much more painful death. Even the Kamikaze jets from Japan knew what they were doing. The act of taking your own life is only between you and yourself. In the end, it is the group member's personal choice to take their life.” I didn’t have any words to respond. I am struck. A Suicide Pact. I begin to realize why the people of Jisatsu Keihatsu society are being targeted and killed. They are killing themselves.

“I fled Japan and came to America for the freedom of religion. I began to realize there is no escape. People will never understand our society, which is why I went into hiding. But people are always sniffing around trying to save people who do not want to be saved.” “This is a lot to take in.” “I know. I didn't mean to press this on you. The Jisatsu Keihatsu Society usually keep matters private, but there has been a surge of new group members, and people are starting to figure out who and what we are.” “I can't believe this.” “It's hard to believe, but… I can show you. You'll need another drink.” He motions the bartender with a finger, and, right away, a fresh shot of golden liquid is poured right before me. Yureii leads me out of the bar and into a white corridor. The corridor is aligned with at least fifty rooms left and right. Each room has a window, so the residents can be viewed. The doors are not locked, which I notice when people are free to exit the room. We come to a room where there is a man sitting in a seiza-style. He is kneeling on the floor while folding his legs underneath his thighs, resting his buttocks on his heels. His hands are resting on his thighs. He has a small sword right in front of him. His eyes are closed and it seems like he is meditating. He seems to be at peace from the look on his face. “His name is Rick. He came in last week, saying he heard of Jisatsu Keihatsu from a friend, and wanted to join the cause. I personally talk to each of the tenants who come and join the society. He is diagnosed with extreme depression, and he is interested in taking his own life.” I am still in shock. Rick disassembles his robe to reveal his abdomen. He picks the sword up, points the sword towards his abdomen, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it out. As soon as he disperses his final breath of air from his lungs, he plunges the sword deep into his

abdomen, and makes his sword follow a horizontal line across his stomach. I start to get sick from the sight of suicide. I look around for the nearest trash bin, and let out whatever I had eaten last night. Yureii pats my back and says “It's over now son, you'll be okay.” Rick was not in any trouble. He did not want help from anyone, and Yureii didn't force Rick to take his own life. There is no crime, but, in that room, a body was lying still, blood seeping out from underneath his downward facing body. I am still in disbelief, but I turn to Yureii with tears nearly streaming down my face. “What do you guys do with the body?” “That decision is left with the person. A questionnaire is given to all the tenants, where they let me know what they want to do with their soul-less bodies. Some want to be buried, and some want to be cremated.” I shake my head, but I’m not disagreeing. “Why haven't you committed suicide yet?” `

“I ask myself that same question every day, but the answer seems to be the same. It’s just

not my time yet.” “Isn't that the whole point of suicide? Leaving this life before your time truly comes?” “That is the essence of suicide.” “I'm still having trouble believing all of this.” “I know it’s hard. But it’s what they need.” “So people are attacking your society because you kill yourselves?” “Precisely. I don't know who's attacking us. The Jisatsu Keihatsu Society always makes it a goal to keep to themselves. People who usually join as members take their life about a week to

three months later. If people start to question our existence, we move. We have been stationed here for less than a year, and we are already having trouble.” Yureii leads me deeper into the corridor. We come to the last room in the hall. This room is bigger than the others. It still has a glass window for viewing, but it is much larger. Inside the room there are a couple of members sitting side by side. Some of the members are holding each other's hands, and some are sitting in corners of the room. One thing is for certain, all the members in the room look content. There is a pit in the middle of the enclosed room, and inside the pit is a multitude of burning charcoal. I couldn't smell the carbon monoxide from my side of the window, but I could sense the members suffering, comfortably. “Some members don't want to be alone during suicide. The Jisatsu Keihatsu community allows members to find others who would like to take their own lives together. As a society, members can find other members to accompany them in suicide.” “This is nuts.” “No, this is Jisatsu Keihatsu.” Within thirty minutes, the people in the room were not a part of this world anymore. They lost consciousness, slowly drifting into their own personal coma. They were long gone. Existence ceasing to prosper in that room. We head back to the lobby to talk more about the case. I am anxious to get the hell out of dodge, and leave this freak show. It begins to rain harder. TRSTSTRTRSRSTTSRTSRRSSTRS. I hear a loud crack in my ear, while the objects around the room start to rattle. DRDRTDTRSD! DTSRTDTSRD! “It is time for me to nap now. My daughter Midori will accompany you until you feel like it is time for you to leave.”

There she is again. Her name is Midori. Her skin is pale, but her dark brunette hair and emerald-green eyes complements her features. She is wearing a green kimono dress with white floral patterns. She walks up to her father and kisses his forehead and helps him off his chair. Yureii leaves his beautiful daughter with me. “I'm glad I get to see you again today.” I say and smile. She smiles back and blushes. “Can I buy you a drink?” We walk to the bar, and, to my surprise, it is still packed with tenants drinking and having a good time. Everyone is smiling. They are all at peace. Girls are dancing. Dancing with men. Dancing with women. I almost forget I am at the headquarters of a religious suicidal group. We take a seat at the bar. “What would you like to drink?” I ask Midori. “A Martini.” “Can I get a shot of whiskey and a Martini!” I yell to the bartender over the loud jazz music. The drinks are brought to me, and I hand Midori her Martini. “Thank you!” I look at Midori. She is the most magnificent being I have ever encountered. We talk about the Society. Her feelings about it. Her father being the leader of the occult group. When she describes her feelings about the issue, she is calm about the whole thing. She understands what her father is helps people come to terms with their own personal life. I couldn't keep my eyes off hers through the entire conversation. She kind of even says all of this with her beautiful smirk. But then, she starts to cry. Profusely. She wouldn't stop crying. “Hey, it’s okay.” I say.

I get up and start to hold her. I start to caress her soft brunette hair. She cries on my shoulder. It feels like she is crying forever as I hold her. My shirt is starting to soak up the tears leaving her eyes. She picks her head up from my shoulder and looks me in the eyes. “Do you want to get out of here?” She whispers into my ear. I nod. She takes me by the hand and we go towards the lobby, and this time taking the stairs to the second floor. She unlocks the door of her room and opens it. She turns around and stares at me while biting her bottom lip. I inch in closer towards her. Our lips meet. We enter the room kissing passionately. I start to untie her kimono revealing her black lace bra and thong. She starts to undress me. We move on to the bed. She gets on top and starts to kiss me. The rain and thunder continues to escalate. Our breathing has a symmetrical rhythm as we make love that night. I wake up to knocking on the door. Midori gets up and I have another glance at her beautiful figure. She puts her kimono back on without her underwear. She answers the door, and it is Yureii. “Is it done?” He asks. “Yes.” I hear this, and I start to put my clothes on as fast as I can, stumbling in the process. Maybe it was the couple of drinks of whiskey. Midori closes the door and heads back to bed. “Was that your father?” “Yea, he was just checking up on me. Where are you going?” “I have to leave. It’s starting to get late, and I have to solve this case.” “Please don't leave, it’s raining so hard right now. You won't see the roads!”

“I'm sorry Midori. I'll see you soon.” I give her one last kiss and I head out. I enter the lobby, and there is Yureii standing right in the middle, staring off blankly into the window. I try not to make eye contact and exit, but he stops me right when I get to the door. “Detective Harper! I hope you don't intend to drive in these conditions.” I look back at him. “I have to leave if I ever want to solve this case Yureii. I'll be in touch.” “We'll be in touch too.” I run to my car under the heavy rain. My shoes sinking into the mud as I make my way to my car. I start my engine, and it runs strong. I drive off into the rain looking for the roads. I cannot see for shit, but I continue to speed off. I have this strange feeling one of the Jisatsu Keihatsu members are after me. I try to look into my rear view mirror, and I swear I see a glimpse of a shadow moving behind me. I look back, but nothing is there. I look back to my windshield, when suddenly my car crashes right into a tree. The impact propels me right out of my seat and through the window. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I hear muffled voices. I am in a dark enclosed space. I cannot see anything, but I am comfortable. The muffled voices become louder as I try to figure out what these sounds are trying to convey. Suddenly, the voices start to become clear. “Push! You’re almost there!” The doctor says. “uhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” “One more push, Stay with me! Last Push!” “uhhhhhhhhh!” She starts to breathe heavily.

I see light for the first time. The doctor pulls me out of my comfortable habitat. He brings scissors close to my belly, and cuts the cord that is attached to my belly button. This is the worse pain I ever felt in my entire life. I let out the loudest cry I can scream. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Congratulation, you are now the mother of a handsome baby boy! Would you like to hold him?â&#x20AC;? The doctor hands me away to the woman lying on the bed with tears streaming down her face. She holds me in front of her, staring right into my eyes. She locks me in her gaze. I've seen those emerald eyes before.

Helpless Sammi Rudkus

And in my mind I still need a place to go, All my changes were there. – Neil Young

“Don’t mourn me.” It wasn’t said with arrogance; no one would have accepted it as arrogance anyway, not from Duke. J. Andrew “Duke” Caraway was a renowned novelist and columnist, and had been for the last three decades, though the narrow description never appealed to him. He preferred to be known as an historian who utilizes the art of fiction to create an approachable body of work. “Write history as it develops,” he would say, “or else risk it later being told as a tale unrecognizable by those who experienced it.” He had received countless awards for his contributions across media, and had been nominated for countless others. Upon receiving his third Peabody he had only to say, “To think, I could have stayed in bed this morning.” When visitors to his home implored him to produce his Nobel Prize for inspection, he directed their attention to a custom ashtray placed as the centerpiece on the coffee table in his sitting room. Duke had recently been diagnosed with an incurable disease of the blood. He called it cancer because he was certain that was what anyone who could avoid bombs, bullets, or moving vehicles long enough would die from eventually. But he refused to distinguish himself in his

final hours. He believed the cancer consuming the world had finally been kind enough to catch up to him. “Don’t mourn me,” he repeated. His companions all gathered to hear what they feared would be Duke’s last words. Words were the commodity on which Duke had built his empire. Friends, admirers, and critics alike had known for years that this day would eventually come, but no one seemed prepared. They couldn’t begin to imagine what he might have to say, but there was conviction among them all that being present at this very moment to witness the last ounce of gold to depart from his lips was a story worth savoring. Save for a few personalized requests for appearance, Duke was rather loose with the guest list. He had issued an open invitation to all published writers, so long as their medium was respectable. The invite read:

“You are cordially invited to celebrate the life and death of J. Andrew Caraway, as told by J. Andrew Caraway, with a eulogy delivered by J. Andrew Caraway. Aspiring writers need not attend. Those who have not challenged themselves to rise above tabloid and newsprint may gaze with wide wonder from the front gate. I look forward to seeing those of you who know you are welcome. I look forward to surprising those of you who think you are welcome. Hors d’oeuvres at 8 p.m.”

“Don’t leave here and tell those clowns at the gate what good friends we were or give them sorry excuses for anecdotes to peddle to their dogs. You know damn well you’re no friends of mine.” Of course this drew laughter. “You might wonder why I’ve asked you here. I presume it’s at least partly the reason you made the journey.” Duke lived with his wife of 27 years on a large plot of land that happened to occupy the point where Nevada, Idaho, and Oregon meet. He liked to joke that he bought it for the sake of giving state tax collectors hell, but there was something fitting about not being able to settle him within arbitrary boundaries if not of his own creation. “The fact is, I’ve got a lot of booze stashed away, and apparently I haven’t the time left to drink it.” The event was taking place deep out on his land, far from the main house. He’d hired caterers and bartenders, had a banquet room constructed from what appeared to be no more than stilts and a heavy plastic draping, and propped up a stage complete with a podium flanked by banquet tables filled with hired hands in penguin suits meant to laugh and clap on cue. The podium appeared to prop Duke up. His tired eyes sat deeply within a withered face, seemingly competing with an exhausted body to mime the frivolity of youth. “And I’ve never known a finer group to drink from the flowing rivers of poison that spiderweb across our once-great nation,” he went on, “so it’s only fitting I share with you what remaining poison I possess.” Duke shifted his weight from his left to his right, then continued.

“With so many flailing about in the ocean, taking on each wave as though one had not just passed and another would not soon follow, it is a pleasure to be among company that seeks out the mouth of the river. Greater still are those of you that fight the current in search of the tributaries, and the idealists among you who still believe you can find the mythological spring.” Stillness consumed the attendees and staff alike. All eyes were on Duke. The small lump that had occupied his throat for the last several days was now a barrier between his words and his audience. He barked viciously at the servers. “Keep their glasses full, god dammit! I’m not paying you to ogle my tired ass.” A soft clamoring resumed among the banquet staff that offered Duke the strength to continue. “So what do you do when the current gets too strong or the waters get too deep? What do you do with what you’ve found once you climb ashore? How do you reconcile the fact that your discovery can’t stop the river from feeding the waves?” Duke paused long enough to raise his glass of scotch to his lips. He was trembling now. The thought of the podium failing and crumbling beneath him was more conceivable to his faceless audience than the idea of Duke collapsing beneath his own weight. One of the tuxedos to his right made an attempt to steady him, but Duke would have none of it. The commanding thud of his glass on the podium caused piercing feedback through the PA. He erected himself, took another drink from his glass, and continued. “Honestly, I don’t know what you do. And I don’t know why you think I would. You’ve come here to watch me die, yet you pray to whatever god you love that I won’t go just yet. I want to tell you to keep swimming, but we all eventually get tired and none of us can keep from drowning.”

Duke’s face collapsed into his hands. He laughed, then stopped suddenly. His laughter filled the open space again. He closed his eyes, drew air quickly into his lungs, held it briefly, then let his shoulders fall. Blue, blue windows behind the stars, yellow moon is on the rise. He hummed a few bars before raising his eyes and peering through his audience. He gave two sudden shakes of his head, so awkward they appeared as twitches, gripped the edges of the podium, and screamed into the microphone: “I WANT ALL OF YOU FUCKERS OUT OF MY HOUSE.” Then, as almost a whimper, “But I’ve never wanted you closer.” ~~~~~~~~~ He let the memory of the night play over again in his head, this time even more briefly than the last. Now he thought less about his words and focused more on their faces. With his eyes closed tightly, he squinted to make out the guests within the recent but fading memory. They were only a blurry mass now, yet the hired help appeared crisp and clear. In this recount of the evening, it felt as though the exhaustion had left him, as though his spirit was not imprisoned within a dying old man. He sat on the same spot the podium had stood a week before - - deep out on his land, far from the main house. The big birds flew across the sky throwing shadows as he nestled the barrel of the shotgun beneath his chin. Babe, can you hear me now? Baby sing with me somehow. Duke closed his eyes and firmly squeezed the trigger.

Backwards Compatible Brian Jennings

Error – non valid entry. The man in the faded yellow Hawaiian shirt falls from his chair – the chair leg breaking, arms rowing through the air, one leg cart-wheeling, knocking cups, a vase, along with all the important documents he had been sifting through on the counter through the air, his head smacking hard against a dark brown coffee table, the kind with glass partitions in the center, glass shattering, his body bouncing once, until the coffee table itself folds in – and he comes to a halt like a frozen program on a scrambled monitor. I stood there with my coffee cup, the kind that has quaint printings emblazoned on them, mine said: I’M AWAKE, in vertical black New Times Roman font, half raised to my lips, but I wasn’t sure. I mean, what the hell just happened?! My heart began to beat faster. I could feel perspiration beading on my upper lip. Look away! There; his laptop on the counter, just about to tip over into the kitchen, shoved away when he fell, the new database I had built for his company blinking for a password. Then, my eyes creep back to the man. His light brown hair tussled as if he had been napping and not falling. Alive, and not dead. Put the damn cup down, do something! I looked down at the cup and my hand, willing myself to move. Error. This action is not compatible with currently installed software. “Jeff. Jeff!” My mind reels. I’m hoping for a response from the man in the coffee table. 26

Call someone, or maybe a neighbor? A neighbor; Superman maybe, I could be that lucky – he happens to live next door. He happens to hear me yelling through the thin apartment walls. Suddenly, the Monet knockoff above the stained yellow sofa will explode as he charges through the wall. It will be like the lobby scene in the Matrix where the shards of pillars destroyed by gunfire expand outward in slow motion as Trinity runs along the wall to deliver an upside down, around-the-pillar-scissor kick-to-the-face of a bad guy, while Reeves’ hail of spent bullet casings tink-tink to the ground in symphonic harmony to the pump-pumping rhythm of another guy being struck by a barrage of bullets, followed up by a slow rolling wave of fire as the elevator erupts, the door bursting out – bullets and fire and shards – but with Monet; I will duck and probably spill my coffee. I should prepare for this.

Error. Man, what are you doing?!

Code corruption. My lungs are congested with adrenalinated tension. I try to repeat his name, but I’m wheezing and crouching at the same time. Evasion of base data. Stop. There’s a minute I just stare, my mind loading up, too much raw information, too many directions. I sift through it all: There was this one time on Law and Order where the lead detective, what’s his name? What’s his damn name?! He – the guy – is in the middle of an arrest where the suspect was wounded in a chase. He’s alone and he can’t go for help and leave the guy. And he doesn’t have a phone. Phone. 27

I feel my pants pocket and pull out my phone. “9-1-1, state your emergency.” “My name is Peter Evans, I’m with Digi Tech. A man . . . ah, his name is Jeff Birche, has fallen. He’s unconscious.” He’s dead and there are no parameters, no files, associated with this event. “I’m at 149 Bentington Street. Alameda.” Uh-huh. Check his pulse. Ok. I’ve seen it done once on that doctor’s show. The one everyone calls in to ask questions? The

Doctors. He, the doctor guy, Travis Stork, Ph.D., or is it M.D.? He had this woman in a chair on the set, a blonde in a red blouse and she was talking about hypothermia and heart irregularities. No – he was talking about it. She was a survivor from a ship wreck off the coast of Alaska. Barely. And he was demonstrating checking her pulse. Just so. “Yeah, I feel a pulse. But I don’t think he’s breathing.” “Sir. You’re going to have to listen to me very carefully. Sir?” Every episode of The Doctors flashed thru my mind; each after another in rapid succession, my mind ablaze of snapping synapsis, of electro-memories syncing data between way-points – like telephone repeaters relaying inter-continental calls: Online. Offline. Out dated brochures on the magazine rack at the dentist’s office. Reruns of

Gray’s Anatomy. Programming jobs in plastic plant offices and remote warehouses in Union City, full of dingy yellow signs stamped on bulky quadra-motion machines that lifted and tilted 28

and ran down conveyor belts like runaway megladons, highlighting electrical currents and mop buckets against a background of outline people in odd postures, and First Aid – return-to-it’sproper-place – signs hanging next to employee change rooms. And the time I fell from the slide in the 6th grade and had to see the school nurse, and when she left to get her box full of magic ointments and all-purpose, cure-all band aids, there was a spiraled binder on her desk – flipping through it, I saw stick figure caricatures of big people holding down small people as they shook, and other people tying rope around black spattered inkblots on legs and arms and a lot of small text surrounding each incident no-one would ever read critically, but sticks in your mind; words like ‘apply direct pressure’ and ‘above the level of the head’. It’s all there, every little detail of every experience, driven up from the well of my complete consciousness, bubbling up to overflow. I was routing as much of it as I could to temporary files labeled ‘Usable’, or ‘Partially

obstructed. Fragmented’. And still, CPR just didn’t make sense. Error. Core overload. Eminent shutdown. I blinked my eyes. “Sir, medics are on the way but I need you to begin CPR.” And then I turned the page. The lingering scent of disinfectant in the office like a chemical cocktail of Lysol and hand sanitizer, settling in on a point right behind the eyes, how all doctor’s offices would smell my entire life – and the book! Data points established between cross

referenced sources. There it was in that small binder in the cramped bay of the Nurses office; pages 15 – 17, right after the Heimlich Maneuver and before Treating Second Degree Burns. CPR: 30-2 ratio, head back, small breaths and shallow pumps. “Operator, excuse me while I put you on hold.” 29

Part and Party Sam Eggleton

The nihilist sat in the corner, biding his time. The existentialist left early because there was nothing going on. The imagist saw what was happening, and did nothing more. The Marxist invited everyone he knew. The capitalist collected money at the door. He and the exhibitionist got in a fight; the exhibitionist thought they should have just left the door open. The realist knew what was going on, the optimist made the best of it, and the pessimist thought it was a bit of a drag. The musician gave it all life, and the artist couldn’t help but capture it. The author was the host, and spent most of the time giving directions on how to get there. The actor did the inviting and drew everyone’s attention to the scene. The stoics just admired from afar. The theists called the author a liar and said it was really the landlord’s party, I mean, he is the one who owned the place. The atheists spent most of the time outside, they didn’t believe there was anything going on inside. The deists all said that they would go and even pitched, but none showed up. Thank god the author married a magician. Magicians always bring everyone together, even for different reasons. Some have their minds blown by cheap parlor tricks, others appreciate them for what they are, and others seek to exploit how they happen. The best part? The rest of the world continued on, completely oblivious to it all.

Mashed by Jason Credo

A single strand dangled over her forehead. It moved fluidly across her face as she sped around the kitchen, putting onions in to a pan and mashing potatoes in a bowl. A voice spoke to her in her head, just take it, Shawna. He won’t care. It’s been years since your date; it’s normal

to be nervous. Just take half. Shawna put the bowl down on the counter next to the oven timer and opened a drawer. In it, was a plastic bag with a white pill. Through the bag, she broke it in half, pulled out a section and placed it on her tongue. “Here goes nothing.” She swallowed. Knock. Knock. “The door’s open!” Shawna yelled from the kitchen. The oven timer was beeping, the sink overflowed, and only half of her face was made up. Knock. Knock. Knock. “I said it’s open!” She shut the oven off, turned on the garbage disposal, and managed to draw on the other part of her lips on. Knock. Knock. “Guh…you’d think they’d understand the meaning of ‘it’s open’.” Shawna stopped by the mirror in the foyer to make sure she looked “presentable.” Only one eye had eyeliner while the other eye only had a curled eyelash. She had decided that she wanted to take after one of Picasso’s paintings and threw caution to the wind, “Fuck it,” she said and grabbed the door. “Vick!” Her date had come early, one whole hour early. Vick was a tall, brooding young man;

face as white as death, and sleek black hair as slick as oil, “Why are you so early? I thought I told you 9pm? I barely got the fish in the oven.” “Sorry…I guess I couldn’t wait to see you,” his smile was radiant. The incandescent porch light reflected off his pearly fangs and made him appear ethereal and ghostlike, “Did you need any help preparing dinner?” Shawna flashed half a smile and coughed into her elbow. “I mean, you’re here, so why not. The kitchen’s this way,” she started down the hallway and made a left to the kitchen. Vick, however, stayed beyond the threshold of the house. “Shawna?” His voice carried down the corridor. “Yes?” She came in to the light of the hallway with the bowl of mashed potatoes in her arms, mashing them with her free hand. “You didn’t invite me in…” His fingers traced the outline of the door, calculating. “Sure, I did…” Shawna walked closer to the door. “Not, formally, no.” He wiped the dust from the door on his pants and looked deeply in her eyes, as if attempting to hypnotize her. “Why would you need some formal introduc—no way? You’re shitting me, right?” “I just think it’s polite, that’s all…I don’t want to be rude to your home.” Shawna put the bowl of mashed potatoes down in front of the mirror and crossed her arms in front of her chest. She walked inch by inch until she was mere centimeters from Vick’s face, still holding a place beyond the threshold of the house. “You’re not what I think you are…” “What do you think I am?” “Oh, please. This isn’t some horribly written book aimed at pre-teen girls hoping to find a guy who broods through half of the series…what the hell are you?”

“European?” Vick appeared seemingly troubled. What is she playing at? “Why not walk through the door then?” “Because it’s rude when you’re not invited in.” “The kitchen’s this way…” she pointed in down the corridor again. Vick didn’t move. Shawna looked at him quizzically, what should the next test be? She grabbed her phone out of her pocket and held it up to take a picture. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” “Why? Because you won’t show up in it?” A flash went off on her phone as she snapped the picture. There he was in the picture, tall and lanky as ever. The flash, however, reflected off his pale skin and made a demonic figure appear on the phone, “Oh…well shit.” “I’m just super pale…if the flash is on, I look absolutely terrible. Can I come in now?” “Just walk in…Put one foot in front of the other and walk in. It’s a pretty simple process.” Vick lifted his right foot and began to walk in to the house. The room was still. Shawna held her breath and kept her eye on his foot. Yet, he remained outside her house. “I’ll just say it then…Are you a vampire?” Shawna has had it with these games. First a werewolf copped a feel and now a vampire is trying to pass off being a human, why her she thought. Of all the people in the world, why her? Vick became stiff and took a step back. “Vampire? Really? What world do you live in? It’s because I’m white, isn’t it?” “That’s the argument you want to go with? Are you sure?” He began to walk away from the house when Shawna picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes, “Think fast!” She flung a spoonful of spuds at Vick and upon making contact with his arm, smoke escaped from his skin. He yelped with pain and began to flail his hand about, attempting to shake off as much of the potatoes as possible.

“What the hell?” He screamed back at her. “Garlic Mashed Potatoes, BITCH!” In the darkness, Vick’s eyes began to glow red and his feet hovered ominously above the ground. His body jetted forward towards Shawna, but his body smacked into the invisible force field of the threshold, “I knew it!” cried Shawna. Vick was almost unconscious, lying still on the porch. Shawna knelt down and pushed her back against the doorjambs, “You could have just been honest with me.” Vick picked himself up and sat on the porch bench across from where Shawna was sitting. “Oh, please. I’ve seen the turn of the century, wars fought, blood shed around me…I’ve seen people lie to get a promotion and people kill for respect. Honesty? That shit goes out the window.” Vick cupped his face in his hands. “You’ve only been a vampire for a hundred years? That’s pretty young considering…that’s what, two wars? I thought you’d be from the fifteenth century or something. You’re from the twentieth. Big woop, you’re not as old as you think and not nearly as wise. Honesty isn’t the best policy, but it’s still pretty important in my book.” Shawna scooped mashed potatoes with her fingers and licked them clean. “Must you do that with your hands? Didn’t you have a spoon a second ago?” Vick groaned in disgust. “Sure. But this is much more satisfying than using a spoon.” She gathered another scoopful and moaned with satisfaction. “You’re such a child.” “Oh shut up you pitiful grandpa. Live a little! Oh wait, you’re undead.” “That’s real mature of you. Pick on the undead vampire at your doorstep while simultaneously forbidding him entrance into your home.”

“Hey, you were probably planning on biting my neck the second you got in here! I’m on to you pale face.” Vick got up from the bench and moved to the opposite side of the door to face Shawna. “I really wasn’t. I really like you,” he moved his hand to the door and attempted to hold her hand, “I really want to hold your hand, but the door. Not being invited in. Makes it difficult.” Shawna hesitated and thought intensely about holding his hand. “Answer me a few questions…” Shawna kept her hands folded in front of her. “Sure.” Vick put his hands on his lap. “What is fact and what is fiction? Cameras?” “We show up in them, as you saw. But the flash bounces off and back at the camera.” “Sunlight?” “Poof!” “Crosses?” “Lies. I’m pretty religious.” Vick reveals a crucifix around his neck. “An undead vampire believes in Jesus…there has to be some sort of religious argument in there.” “Possibly. But I hate debating politics and religion.” “Fair enough. Wood?” “Poof.” “Garlic?” “Burns like a bitch. It also doesn’t help that I was allergic to it before I was turned.” Vick giggled. It was a heartwarming giggle, genuine. Shawna pushed off the door and sat with folded legs. She looked at Vick endearingly.

“Do you remember? Being turned?” “Yes…” “Tell me about it?” Shawna put aside the bowl of mashed potatoes and wiped her hands on her pants. “It was the night before my twenty-third birthday. 1914. I went out for a walk to meet my friend, Lorna. She had told me to be surprised when I got to her house. She only lived a few blocks down, so I didn’t bother rushing. The lamps began to flicker. Each one I passed went out. At the time I thought nothing of it, they went out all the time. I got to her house and as I was about to grab the doorknob, everything went black. I woke up the next night buried under a mound of dirt. I clawed up and up towards what I hoped was heaven, only to find out that I was earthbound. When I got out, no one was there. I was alone. I was somewhere in the forest just outside of my town. I was able to make it to Lorna’s house…she was upset that I didn’t make it to her place the previous night. She was so mad, so, so loud…” A tear escaped Vick’s eye and his voice became muddled and hoarse, “I wanted to talk to her, apologize and she invited me in. I hugged her tight and tried to form a coherent thought,” his voice became deeper and vicious, “but all I could here was the throbbing, the throbbing of blood in her neck. The rush of blood in her carotid filled me with anguish and lust…I couldn’t control myself, Shawna. The next thing I knew Lorna was on the ground, pale and limp. I left her there, Shawna. And I didn’t care. Because I. Was. Hungry.” Shawna gripped the wooden spoon in the bowl of mashed potatoes and scooped some to her mouth. “Shit…For reals?” Shawna licked the spuds from her lips. “Yes…you probably shouldn’t let me in. I’m a monster.” Vick buried his face in his hands, once more. Shawna tapped at his head and offered her hand.

“Not all monsters do monstrous things. You obviously did at some point in your life, probably more than you’re willing to admit, but I think you’ve changed. At least that’s what I hope.” She smiled at him, her hand still outstretched, waiting and willing to accept his. Vick interlaced his fingers between Shawn’s, “Will you come inside, Vick?” Vick smiled and they both got up from the ground. In her other arm, Shawna held the now half empty bowl of potatoes. She led Vick through the threshold and into her home. “Thank you, Shawna. You’re so…what’s the word.” “Awesome?” Shawna giggled. “I was going to say foolish.” Shawna’s eyes widened as Vick’s face transformed into the demon that flew towards her door minutes earlier. His teeth elongated into fangs that sought for arteries and fresh blood. He squeezed her hand with a vice grip and pulled her into his body, refusing to let her go. Shawna’s body went stiff, “You girls are always so vulnerable to sob stories and shit. One hundred years and you really do learn a lot.” He aimed for her neck and began to sink his teeth into her neck. “You’re not that old!” Shawna arched her head back and struck his nose with her skull. Vick faltered back and shattered the mirror, “Eat Mashed Potatoes, bitch!” Shawna pushed the bowl in to his face and the fluffy, airy potatoes then muffled his screams. She grabbed the wooden spoon and broke it in half. She pinned Vick against the mirror and removed the bowl from his face, “You know…I really did like your story. It nearly made me cry. I think I might steal it and make it into a movie. Think of all the foolish girls that would fall for someone like you described. Tortured, brooding…Then again, it’s been done before.” Shawna jutted the spoon in to his chest and she could feel Vick’s body go limp. But it didn’t go poof. His body slid against the wall and was sprawled across the floor of the foyer.

“He didn’t go poof…He—he, he didn’t go poof!” Shawna’s vision became clear and she shook off a daze she never knew was there, “Oh god…” The pill wore off and she became overwhelmed with clarity unbeknownst to her since birth. She knew what she had to do. “I have to hide the body.”

The Sound Amanda Elizabeth-Abend

[The sound / the song] of life begins with the crack of vinyl as the needle drops, the flick of a match and the explosion of flame, and wind-chimes, glittering in the wind. plates as they shatter, watches the donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tick, the sink that drips, jangling bangles and wooden door beads and the strangeness of silence as I drive alone without music, the sound of my life beats to the rhythm of snare, [El] cajons and tablas and midnight rainsticks and bean pods -by the light of the full moon, to the tambourines and maracas and fire dancers and the wolven howls of hairy hippies, we dance and writhe under the sparking skies, sighing with the sea, gently, whispering [evermore] -to the heart that beats in my chest with passionate desire, for YOU, 40

to the person I have been and to the person I will be; let the page be guitar and my pen be the keys.

Reimagining “I Speak of Blood'" Simon Shieh

Author’s Note: “The original poem was written by a man named Xu Lizhi. On September 30th, 2014, Xu committed suicide. His death is one of over 22 suicides committed by Foxconn workers since 2010, and his poetry is a testament to the struggle and exploitation of millions of migrant workers throughout China.

Blood tickles my tongue, I taste a scarlet verse breaking with laughter: its words choke on rice wine, its page is gilded with the red and gold brushstrokes of a cracking urn

But I only utter the wail of my mattress when I level her bones, the silence of a girl spooning daylight from her metal bowl.

I watch boys meet the city in the throat of a bottle staggering into government offices, chased through a paper maze. 42

I pass a grandfather whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s told that his jade is glass and watch him wonder how heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d ever know for certain.

I hear girls floating through halls on grey whispers weaving fantasies beyond the gates of husbands and sons

they paint their cheeks a sleepless pink on Saturday nights, and sing to dormitories where boys shuffle their fate in a deck of cards.

When I speak of blood, listen for the songs sewn shut, for the crimson secrets dripping from my tongue.

Falling Through a Cloud Simon Shieh

I. A trance in the witchgrass watches its own flare on the cusp of the Colorado River.

Two boys ambled up the hill to talk through the troughs, shoveling the debris of what they had done; removing the fangs to watch the skin blossom in soprano red.

II. While they talked they shuffled in place, meeting their gaze no more than was needed to share in the tremor of memory.

Did she say anything? Why didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you do anything?

I don’t know.

III. Night lowered in sea-grey clouds, the boys tongued their porcelain plates like lazy toads.

He’d showered without combing; nothing on his body read blood or smitten rage, his gaze was washed clean as dew-dropped glass and everything that moved was the bucking heel that had grazed his jaw.

IV.

What will happen now?

They will wonder how much you’d had to drink, what the nature of your relationship was and why I couldn’t raise myself to her sound.

She went with me so easily; her skirt, the way she offered her gaze to my lips. 45

V. Daylight gnawed its way through the clouds, she rolled against a dream and woke. Before she saw, she knew that the maw of being had turned its teeth against her.

She knew it by the chopping breath, by the head frozen mid-bolt in the verminâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mad dash, by the fall of loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first sting.

She felt his pain give under the weight of her stride and wished that pain could be hers to give, wished she too could take something that never was but the sweetness of drifting through a cloud.

VI. Hairs lifting all over, she paused at the river, unable to reflect the twitch above her eye against the dead water lurking in the riverbed.

If they ever met again, she thought, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d bring him back to this very spot, lure his gaze to that tadpole there watch him wonder at the drowsing tide nudging the yolk toward the claws of the shore let him cry and reach for her deny him water when he begs to drown leave him gasping in the heart of a cloud.

I Burn the Flag Vanessa Rodriguez

I burn the flag, The flag of my stars and my blue skies For the red of children and students That have died under her shadowed cloth. I will not stand For the white of the evil in this world. I will not stand For the falsified webs that are woven by empty promises, Toothless mouths and chapped tongues, red ties and blue egos.

We burn our stars, We burn our skies Since no one will be punished. In lands of devils and angels, we are the ghosts That wander footlessly under downtrodden graves Holding coffins smaller than I against our bony shoulders, And we cry “O Fury! You grand spirit, ‘tis you that births our boiling blood!”

Cutting tongues against the songs, yanking teeth against the anthem, We will not stand for lies and we will not stand for deceit. 48

Our wants stretch beyond the stripes, beyond the gray sandpaper that live to be knocked down by our frailing body. And Justice cries as we gouge out her eyes, Liberty weeps as we extinguish her torch, And Eris will roar with us as our soil turns against us.

We will not cry Hither to freedom No more.

Ten Commandments Stephanie D'adamo

I was sitting outside in the sweltering hot at the edge of a canyon at the edge of a table the edge of—what?— smoking stale cigarettes and trying to forget

But a fly— a billion in one— dropped from the Universe: fell in my eye, only to land squarely on his back. On his back! Mind you...

An enormous struggle ensued in my oculus but even as all his scrambling legs beat the air, one wing was helpless—all cocked and crooked

simply stuck, in my view. 50

And I heard: they can die from exhaustion; like this, on their backs!

And I heard: I could open my lens and scream to upright him, the damned fellow: I could save him from dying in my pool of tears like this; on his back!

And I reminded myself:

It's none of my business It's none of my business

As I got up to pluck out my eyes.

Hey Dad… Marisa Davila

Hey Dad Nana said we had to go, The Court says we Belong to them now. My new home smells different, like the flowers in spring, Cherry Blooms, Daffodils, Marigolds

Hey Dad I learned to spell my name, It’s my First day in Pre-K. Every morning I paint with many colors, Suns, Trees, Flowers, Bees

Hey Dad I can Add and multiply, I know all the Presidents by name. I turned the last few names into a neat little rhyme, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Regan…

Hey Dad I road my Bike without training wheels, Brother made me Crash my bike into a parked car. I ninja rolled onto the grass like the actors in movies, Lights… Camera… ACTION!

Hey Dad I learned to Crochet, I played the Flute today. Sara stole the song I was supposed to play at the school assembly, Hot Crossed Buns, Hot Crossed Buns

Hey Dad I had my First Kiss, it wasn’t that great, I started My Period on my birthday. I don’t know how to work the Tampax Tampon, Get into comfortable position, Insert Applicator… Hey Dad a Guy broke my heart, I’m being bullied, when do the good times start? They said I have lice, I’m awkward, I’m a slut, I stare at my Girl Scout pocket knife Cold, bare, inside my skin

Hey Dad the Police came by for you again, You failed your parole, They said you can’t have visitors today. The metal gate closes in front of my face Separated from you again… Hey Dad I’ve been getting Good grades,

I made the Soccer team. I assisted in a goal, at my thighs expense, Jen’s Dad lied, Hydrogen Peroxide itches and burns

Hey Dad My best friend stopped talking to me, They made me Head Drum Major in Marching Band, no it’s not lame. That same day the pee stick said positive, After the procedure I vomited in the bushes, Taste of death and IV fluid

Hey Dad I Graduated with a 4.0, I joined the Marine Corps. I learned to carry a fifty pound pack long distances, “TIGHTEN” – “UP!” Hey Dad I had my First kid, The father made me a single mother, I married a Christian man, My tattoo covered body standingNext to his family, Lead to Unfriendly Whispers Hey Dad I bore another babe,

I got a Divorce, He became abusive, Alcohol makes even the greatest men angry, The Babies cry, I answer them alone, Hey Dad I had my third kid, I married again, This time this one will stick, He loves my mistakes I don’t judge his Polar opposites Hey Dad I’m going to college, My first born started Kindergarten, She asks why her dad didn’t want her, I give her no answer That same question in many waysI often ponder

Once Morning Comes Tess Van Grootheest

On top of cold snowy mountain tops, ominous glowing among the horizon seldom bores anxious youngsters. Covers to forehead to dodge cold encounters, no shadow does hover. Domes of snow cover homes, concealing those enclosed from storms or the moon, or drones of the mysterious outdoors. Snow topples through one lamppostâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s glow, clouds of cold onrushes through the soft yellow fog. Of one gloomy storm, mountain youngsters doze, hoping of frolicking across snow covered grounds once morning comes.

Luna Llena Amanda Elizabeth-Abend

On prayer bead wishes with tea-stained kisses following our bliss(es); Together, we sing/sang.

And from/with the softest of lips; while the moon eclipsed/under the lunar eclipse our hearts and the ships/skiffs (our beating hearts skipped) and together, we dance(d).

Caressing hands the strong firm grip of a man, both (of us) simply understand (together) we cry / speak / touch

When the sun sets on the peak (where it touches the sky, where the horizon and the ocean meets,) penetrating eyes of Teak,

see(ing) [right] through me.

In front of our own reflections we saw in ourselves that immediate connection; (and) with no objections we [made] love(d).

Haunted Stephanie D'adamo

They all sound like the same divorced thoughts those wailing spirits of Ireland, Transylvania, Boliviaâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

Like that couple arguing in an upstairs apartment

screamingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;but far enough away so that you can't quite

make out their curses.

Beatrice Anna Alarcon

I remember Her face, rising up from my subconscious, Like a moon over mountains. Olive skin and hair as dark as flint, She used to smile showing all her teeth. Beatrice.

I remember Now, picking avocados from the tree In her yard, breaking them open With our hands and eating them Just like that. Beatrice.

I remember The summer we had grown wild like wolves, Ran barefoot in the streets and Fell asleep, supine, on the grass. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d thought, This is how it will always be. Beatrice. 60

We were close, so close. I told her everything. We sat on her porch like stray cats And fed each other understanding. We never knew how starved we were until we met. Beatrice.

We were close, so close. We forgot where I ended and she began So close that her arm was my arm, My hands were her hands, Knit together like wild clematis. Beatrice.

We were close, so close. Close as two trees in a rainforest, Close as two vibrating atoms in solid matter. And now, standing in front of her years later, I struggle to remember her name: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Beatrice.â&#x20AC;?

Dark Minds Speak Alike Vanessa Rodriguez

Dark minds that speak alike Are the most complex In the hatred that is etched in their walls And shed in the ash coating their necks.

Dark minds that speak alike See the light in their voice And braid the frailty of their scars Into the black ink and shining colors Of seas outside the stars.

Dark minds that speak alike Are the most difficult to find In their lips and in their eyes The lives they leave behind.

Sunshine State of War Stephanie D'adamo

We say nothing while the world is weeping: we speak silently— the way honeybees visit roses: all hesitant and packed with need—hovering over our words like drones.

while the world is wasting: as filthy silver citadels lick the sky, arching their backs heavenward to offer up our. . .

Fathers of nowhere! While the world is watching: I will tell you how to hide the worms of your death!

As the whole of the city flaps mad: transmogrified into a man with insulation caught in his shirt— 63

driven into war by a thousand tiny, useless, cuts

Become one of the hollowed onesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; open your mouths on this the last day of the world.

Find a lollipop sweeter than the sunset on THIS last day of summer: Listen as a child to the red translucence clicking against your teeth. Make music from the echoing of bones.

Loose Change Cassandra Beckwith

I am currently worth four hundred and sixty five dollars in change. I crave that tangy copper taste on my tongue. I will be the self made man, hungering, hunting, consuming my value. I wet my lips. My mouth pools. Never swallow coins, they said. I find that easy to forget. Darkened concrete platter, thick abalone water quenches the curb where it lays. The penny. The main course. I crouch low to claw at its flat sticky surface, pop it in my mouth, swallow. Hemingway must have consumed a whole pirate ship, Eliot must have thrown dinner parties at London banks. I snap my teeth, lick the curb to recall the bliss. Never swallow coins they said, but when I move, I hear them in my stomach.

They clap for me.

Tombs for the Living Barrett Stowers

Rest easy tonight in your wall covered in rust. The rain would wash out the bones, bringing all the dead from their homes, robed in ancient treasure, stealing back the riches of their conquests. All the artifacts broken into fragments, disintegrated into dusty ash, and burnt down with the rest of Rome. But after all the fires and storms, seven hills still stand where he lays. Seven hills and these altars. The dead couldn't stay in their homes, so instead we built tombs for the living and adorned the tarnish in illuminated shelves; invoking ancient gods to reclaim their spoils. Denarius once bought horses. Today it'd buy kingdoms. But boil it down with the rest and they're all the same price. Now dress as a priest or general, your fame is the same to the dead and the living. Your ashes would have spread throughout the world, 66

but the rain kept you at bay. Still the seven hills still stay as our tombs, and your home is Rome with all its domes. Carved into immortal marble, your image will scarcely shatter. And who are we to live among someone loved by the gods?

Sanctify Elizabeth Harvey

I’ve settled in to accept this contemplation: I am bestowed unto This by You. Shaped. Censored. Immaculately- flawed and dissolved porcelain and wine. Paraphrased against cerement. Divulge the chasm of this touted tenement. Over-flown deluge of morality; this water will not be parted. Admit no admission. They are the God I’ve known: unspoken virtue undermining what’s taught; A torch’s scorch muffled when I was learned to conceal it. Oh, attest these inalterable truths are not sanctity in diminutive design! Oh blasted with ecstasy! Oh, see what I see. And more ardently: I will capitalize on the powers of my parent’s divinity. If This is the truth, then who are You?

LETTERS FROM THE EDITOR

“Tiny hands, Tlacuilo had, With which, wielded weapons Sharper than the spearpointPierced the minds of Peaceful sleepers’ Tinny heads.”

-Unknown Editor

THE cover is a conundrum, I know. A headdress, yes. A shield, a spear, invoking fear, but then a pen? Calligraphy callously splayed upon your page- why would a warrior carry that? And where are his brazen brawny warrior’s arms? Here here, soothe yourself- that’s not just an Aztec warrior. Our cover is also a Tlacuilo scribe. The Tlacuilo, born wroughters of the art writ crossed the soul of the Mexica people, constructed ornate codices and held an arcane status among their people. That’s right- the Azteca made more than just war. The maths, the sciences, the stars- these all bore advancement by the Aztec people. To answer your question, yes, cough cough, we are the ones with the edgy

new proposal for the San Diego State mascot symbol, the Tlacuilo. The Tlacuilo were latent artists, represented their culture, did not sign their work. Silent orchestrators of legend. So what does this have to do with you? With the Aztec Literary Review? How are we like the Tlacuilo? We were not born artists, although some of our faces could be called art. We can’t claim to represent the entirety of San Diego State’s culture, as vast and frat-party laden as it is. And we sign our work. So what gives? You give. You give us the work, you represent the people of this California state college. We can’t take credit for your work; each piece a unique vote for the literary climate of our biannual review. We are like the Tlacuilo in a sense- and you our divine Meso-American muses. With your work, we can represent the grand, the gullible, the wheezing, the quixotic nature of this campus- we can represent your disgust towards sexual assault, indignancy towards tuition hikes, admiration towards a lover. Anything. Every fall and spring, the Aztec Literary Review sets out a blank canvas. I invite you to possess our able hands and fill it with something new. That’s what I want, as the new Editor in Chief: something new. A unique literary experience that integrates timely expression and timeless musing. And I want you to have it. Hope you enjoyed the new Editorial Board’s premiere issue! We’re like the cover. Confusing at first: a tradition being re-imagined often is.

Richard Freeland Editor in Chief

DISCLAIMER: Each piece of work in this literary journal remains the intellectual property of its author. Reproducing any portion of this publication without proper citation or explicit permission of the author is the crime of plagiarism. Otherwise known as cowardice.

-Aztec Literary Review Editorial Board

Special Thanks to Professor Bailey.

“And passing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.”

-Wordsworth