THE ALTERNATIVE 2018 Visual Art and Literature
ABOUT THE ALTERNATIVE The Alternative, Eastfield College’s student-produced visual art and literature magazine, was first published in 1990 to highlight student writing and artwork. After a three year hiatus, from 2007-09, it was restarted in 2010, receiving an honorable mention for general excellence from the Texas Community College Journalism Association. The college has published a student literary magazine under five other names, starting with The Villager in 1971. It was changed to Goat Leg in 1976, Epoch in 1980, Et Cetera Ambiance in 1988 and Visions in 1989. This year’s edition features a variety of works including drawings, music, poetry, and photography. It would not have been possible without the collaborative efforts of students and advisers from the following disciplines: Visual Arts, Digital Media, Music, English and Journalism.
DESIGNED AND PRODUCED BY THE ADVANCED DIGITAL PUBLISHING CLASS, DIGITAL MEDIA DEPARTMENT, DIVISION OF ARTS AND COMMUNICATIONS Carlos Aguirre
Merry Fuller
Daisy Araujo
Cameron Jones
Travis Beasley
Lindsay Merrell
John A. Chavez
Kevin Meyer
Amanda Coffman
Suzeth Montero
Mateo Corey
Ziko Rogers
Alfredo Diaz
Rahul Van der Zande
ARTS AND COMMUNICATIONS DIVISION ADVISORS Iris Bechtol, Gallery Director David Danforth, Digital Media Program Coordinator Lori Dann, Journalism Faculty and Program Coordinator Danielle Georgiou, Interim Associate Dean of Arts and Communications Elizabeth Langton, Student Publications Manager Larissa Pierce, English Faculty Oslynn Williams, Digital Media Faculty
2..........Untitled - Lucina Lankford 3..........Little Colored Girls - Ejay Moore 4..........SantoNino, Durango - Jennifer Retiz 5..........Love Is All I Have To Give Today - Joshua Scott 6..........Untitled - Tam Ngo 7..........DACA - Judith Mendez 8..........Amerikkkan War and the Worrier - D’Qwaylon Rose 9..........Isolated - Aaiyja Bircher 10-11....Lessons My Father Taught Me. . .- Liberty Daye 12.........Vessel - Miguel Corrales 13.........Betrayal - Gregg Skaines 14.........DateNight - Vasquez 15........Tribute to Elie Wiesel - Amanda Sparks 16.........Fake Love - Joanna Enriquez 17.........Untitled - Pa Lar 18.........Cat Treats - Jacqueline Farina 19.........Untitled - Jonathan Asberry 20.......You WIll Miss My Future - Janalyn Ware 21.........Washed Up - Gregory Skaines
22........Still Figures - Jacqueline Farina 23........K N I V E S - Alejandra Pena 24.......The Night Sky Full of Stars - Jennifer Retiz 25.......Between Heaven and Hell - Ronnie Steed 26........Now Boarding - Earline Jones 27........Collard - Joan Deichert 28........The Hallway of Dreams - Roxanne Beeson 29.......Stack 1 - Wilfred Bellinghausen 30.......Untitled - Nancy Greene 31.........A Tail of Obsession - Brianna Byrum 32........Bailamos - Ray Guerra 33........The Fall - Ziko Rogers 34.......The Pure Heart - Elizabeth De La Cruz 35.......We Were Friends - Aria Jones 36-37.Leach - Aaiyja Bircher 38........Me Too - Keiyana Sherman 39.......My Connection - Kristen Foster 40.......The Civil War - Allison Lee
Little Colored Girls
Untitled Lucina Lankford
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Mixed media sculpture
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With every pen I drain, I ease my pain Every page I fill increases my will--to live I’ve seen things done & done things unseen Danced with demons on a midsummer night’s dream To not write… to not write? With every unwritten verse, death I invite The ink spots on my soul bring words to live on paper pristine and pure Like me--before my purity’s cure To not write flirts with danger To not write causes me to sleep with anger And he is no kinder a bedfellow than those who collect little colored girls like matchbook covers Unholy unloving lovers Taking raping little colored girls--their souls draping over the backs of chairs While the unholy has no cares But how could he care? That would deem him human A hue-man, one of my own hue and family name Showing no pity or shame for what he does to little colored girls Their baby bodies he unfurls, like human flags Spirits he drags Through the muck and mire of his unhealthy desire Her cries for mercy fall on deaf ears His agenda mute to her tears No one believes her and she wonders why No one protects her & her soul cries A piece of her dies as she strives to survive and just stay alive We can save the dolphins, clean the ocean, preserve the rainforests and protect our world But who on earth will cherish little colored girls? That’s why I’m here – why I survived To help other little colored girls keep their hearts alive To hold them and tell them, no it wasn’t right To mold them and show them they are precious in God’s sight This is my purpose – to save the world And I plan to start with little colored girls Lovingly dedicated to all those little girls who have been “colored” by abuse of any kind. Namaste`
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by Ejay Moore
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- Jennifer Retiz - Photo
Love Is All I Have To Give Today www.eastfieldcollege.edu
by J oshua S cott
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Love is all I have to give todayThat, and my smile besidesThat, and my smile, and all my criesAnd all the feelings insideBe sure you count- Should I forget Someone the sum could tellThat, and my smile, and all the feelings Which in my heart it dwells. .
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SantoNino, Durango
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DACA
by Judith Mendez
People come into my life thinking I have this wonderful life. When in reality I am completely broken.
Untitled Tam Ngo Mixed media sculpture
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I am a fighter, a dreamer. Even after losing my home, my family. I continue to strive to make something out of myself. I am going to do great things. Because I am another dreamer out of the millions that come to America.
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Only a few have stayed to listen to my story. And I am the happiest person when someone sits down and simply listens, only to finally tell me that I am an example of The American Dream.
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Amerikkkan War and the Worrier by D’Qwaylon Rose
Ralph Ellison once wrote, “For we are a young though a fast-rising people.” A quote that shouts, let’s keep it equal The knowledge it secrets subliminal, penetrated sharply like the knives edge of an unknown assailant Prevailing through time, branded Searing the millennial mind, careful not to fret the pestilent past As the millennial generation is simply a baby bomber sequel As love and drugs are placed on the same steeple Unconscious people implicated to appear equal American love, drugs, and well-meaning hugs, evoke fading love Though underlying mugs, undermine the hugs While young in age, many trade the knowledge of a sage, for an age of ignorance Ill-learned concerns, discern the illogical thought process Brought about by the Amerikkkan consciousness Displayed with three “K’s” and two A’s, nonsense
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Isolated
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Aaiyja Bircher Ink on paper
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I’m just keeping it Honest.
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Lessons My Father Taught Me By Virtue of Muhammad Ali’s Philosophy by Liberty Daye
He’d say: “The hands can’t hit what the eyes can’t see. Be deliberate and concentrate.” His hands moved back and forth at an even pace. He tapped his feet on another beat. I’d flail around missing his hands nine times out of ten. Frustrated but still swinging like I had a fighting chance.
“Baby-girl, you just stung me.” I giggled audibly. “You’re already a champ.” Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. The hands can’t hit what the eyes can’t see. Repeat after me, If my mind can conceive it And my heart can believe it – then I can achieve it.
Punching the air with so much force, I spun three-sixty. “There you go baby-girl, that Swing would make even Ali proud.”
I was just six-years-old in those days. Now I’m older than my daddy was back then. Those lessons were no more about boxing... He was teaching me the value of endurance, life experience.
“Eyes-up, head down, Let’s see power and coordination. You’re gonna need this as long as your livin’. Let’s see precision.”
“Keep moving even when you lose sight. Sooner or later, you’ll catch the rhythm, Never stop aiming.”
He’d ask me: “Who are you?” I’m the greatest! “I can’t hear you ...” with a smile in his voice. I spoke up, I’m the greatest, I’m the Champ!
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“Now keep your rhythm while swingingSay it again. “ This time I felt it within. He said, “Darn right, you are. And good looking too, just like your old man.”
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His chant would begin again. Giving me a chance to sync back in. Razor sharp focus; his voice hypnotic My swing caught the rhythm, Making me feel like I was soaring. Alternative 2018
His voice echoes; “you’re the greatest, and a praiseworthy session, my daughter.” With pride, I said, “Thank you, Daddy.” That’s how I remember Muhammad Ali, The Greatest Champion of all Time. Peace to his memory deserving the utmost praise. Leaving the earth as a legend, far more than just a boxer ever could. I remember my father’s words – I’m not defeated. I take position; eyes up, head down. It’s a frame of mind. That’s the lessons he was teaching me. .
This poem is written in honor of my loving father, Henry Maurice Vance, by virtue of Muhammad Ali. A permanent inspiring melody in the back of my mind, it reminds me of a rhythm - like jazz, even when I feel the blues, I’m learning endurance.
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“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” My daddy would say repeatedly. His voice thumped like jazz music. Each syllable spoken rhythmically.
Expressing confidence that never faded. My resolve didn’t either. I surprised myself, My precision was accurate With a one, two, three, I smacked down the butterfly and – bee.
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Betrayal
by Gregg Skaines
Thoughts and feelings Events and emotions Spun by words Encased by books Sealed by ink My memories My inventions Once held close Bound with neat, stiff covers On crisp, clean lines. Those works all but lost Until discovered By another And brought to my attention. He dangles them there Like scraps of meat As I circle and salivate below. He is an old friend And so I assume He would happily give them back
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But as I wait with bated breath To recover years of memories lost He sneers with hate And an evil grin He hides them from my view.
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Vessel Miguel Corrales Ink on paper
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You are horrible Disgusting Pathetic Says he
And refuses to give back What is precious What is sacred The pieces of my life. Defeated I stand Lost and confused My heart crushed Beaten Abused Why does he do this? I thought him my friend And I fear the worst My writings My memories My works of art On fire Smoldering Forever lost. In my time of trouble Turmoil and confusion Instead of offering a hand He has pointed and sneered Turned his back Walked away Clutching in his fingers Years of my life That once was lost Which he had found Stolen from me Never to be recovered. . www.eastfieldcollege.edu
Can what is lost be stolen? Indeed, I believe it can.
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Tribute to Elie Wiesel by Amanda Sparks Weary traveller, O traveller Your journey was long Your battle was hard They will sing your song And tell your tale For millennia
Rest now, Weary traveller, And notice the light Of a cloudless night Peace now, You have earned your sleep.
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- Vasquez - Photo
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DateNight
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Fake Love by Joanna Enriquez The touch of your heart is cold and painful Almost like hearts and daggers but with spikes that are fatal. You said that it was my fault How could it be? If all I ever did was beg you on the phone and cry at night praying on my knees! I guess that’s what they call fake love. Love that cures you but in the end You’re left off with a bad flu. As a matter of fact, I wasted my time on you. But that is okay because I know I will find someone new. Your choice of words does not express your true feelings But that’s okay because in every heartbreak there is healing.
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Pa Lar Mixed media sculpture
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Untitled
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Untitled by Jonathan Asberry
And that’s the thing they don’t tell you about broken hearts. One day you will find the strength to start picking up the pieces That splintered glass will reflect more light than it ever has before. You’ve lived. You’ve loved. You’ve learned. You’re infinitely more beautiful.
Cat Treats
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Ink and marker on paper
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Jacqueline Farina
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Washed Up
- Gregory Skaines - Photo
You Will Miss My Future by Janalyn Ware
It hurts me to know you are gone While other lives keep marching on I think about you all the time Especially when I hear the church bell chime I see your face when I look in the mirror My likeness to you couldn’t be clearer I wish I could hug you for even a moment But I know that you must begin your atonement I never knew how much I would lose A stiff drink I could certainly use The answer is not at the end of the bottle But sometimes I feel like my life is full throttle
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As for living without you, I will just have to endure My love for you will never end And I know the day we are reunited my heart will finally mend
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You’ll never be forgotten for that I am sure
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K N I V E S
by Alejandra Pena My mother’s hands feel like sad poetry. They’re the oven that took Sylvia Plath’s life. The oven after it’s been hit with a baseball bat. Rough edges everywhere. Black tar grease stains. She is the metal, but she is also the dirt. My mother’s hands work for everyone except herself. They were stolen decades ago. Maybe they were never hers. They belong to my grandfather, my uncles, my father--every man walks in and slices his share. When my brother hits puberty and his weight becomes her burden. Slice. Brown women are born with hands but are taught to let men take them. My father’s grandmother still cooks for my uncles. She is 90, and her hands shake as she rolls the tortilla dough. I tell her to sit down, but she tells me to watch, that it will be my turn soon. I look at my hands and find they’re still there. My mother’s mother still has hands but is missing fingers. They’re calloused, stung, a brown shade of bile. She is 60 and is a wild woman. A chingona. A puta. She has hair as black as coal and as thick as a wire coat-hanger. I was 6 and watched her yell “No, No, No!” to blank stares until her no’s became a maybe, and then a yes. She lost her thumbs but kept her middle fingers. I was 12 when I watched her use them. My mother did not continue this fight. When my grandmother would yell, my mother would caress my hands. She would teach me softness, sacrifice. She would make me drink milk with honey. “Es buena para tu piel.” It is good for your skin. Like a farmer fattening his pig before the slaughter.
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Still Figures
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Jacqueline Farina Graphite on paper
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But I say no. I unlearn the rite that has been passed down from generations of brown women. I sow the cuts the men leave when they grow tired of waiting for the slaughter. I teach myself the strength my mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother have. The immense labor. The resilience, the endless love. And perhaps there is strength in softness. In milk and honey. In martyrdom, in sacrifice. Strength requires the wielding of a knife. It requires power. Softness is choosing not to use it, in not drawing blood. So I hide my knife and I do not draw blood. The generations of women before me are stronger than I will ever be. They had knives wielded against them but still chose to not wield knives of their own. This is softness as strength.
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I am 20 and my hands are my own, but they have almost been robbed. Brown boys hold them as artifacts. They compare mine to their mothers and their aunts and their sisters until it’s time to draw blood. A ritual. A sacrament. I am scared that I one day will give up and get used to this.
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Between Heaven and Hell
The Night Sky Full of Stars Jennifer Retiz
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Digital photography
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My eyes open from what seems a decade-long sleep. My body aches. Everything feels so real, yet it is as if I am in a dream. Where am I? It’s pitch black and extremely cold. The hardwood floor is ice to my bare feet. Panic starts to set; I calm myself; alright Ronnie, use your other senses. Overcoming this huge bombardment of fear and vulnerability, I begin feeling around. The walls are covered in old crumbled paint, but they are only a few feet apart. The air is thin and smells of rotten wood. With my back against the wall, I start inching forward. Feeling for a closet door, I notice there is none. The walls go on for what seems forever. I yell, “Hello!” The echo of my voice traveled further and further until I could no longer hear. I am in a hallway, a hallway that seems to have no end. This must be a nightmare, but why can I not wake up? Crutching my way along the walls of this hall, petrified and unaware of where or what hell I am in, hopelessness fills my body. Suddenly, a light appears at a distance. Though it is dim, it is something other than darkness. I began approaching the light as quickly as my weak body can move. The closer I got, the more I could discern its shape. It is a hanging lantern, with a flame lighting a faded painting. A man appeared in the painting; covered in black, his head is filled with white hair, and he is seemingly aged. I reach for the lantern and manage to grab it. Glancing down, the man in black is now pointing toward the direction from whence I came. I decided to continue the path I have been traveling, knowing the direction the man in black pointed was a dead end. Guided by this lantern, I have now walked for what feels a few miles. Wait. There is something in the distance. It appears to be the end of the hallway, just a wall like the one before. Fearing I am trapped, I run. Using all my strength, I sprinted until I was back at the painting. With no other choice, I decided to follow the man in black. Hopeless, I plead, “Please God help!” I heard no response but the sound of my own voice echoing off the walls. Further I traveled this dark hall; I noticed something different this time. I could not have missed this. Three doors, back to back, along the left side of the hall. As I moved closer to the first, it abruptly swung open. Immediately, different color lights flashed and the stench of cigarette smoke clogged the air. I slowly look inside. This room is filled with people doing drugs and partying. I know these people, but they are all in chains. I call out to them, but the music drowns out the sound of my scream. Suddenly, the room bursts into flames. The people scream in pain, but for some reason I am paralyzed. The odor of burning flesh is almost impossible to bare and the heat nearly melts my skin.
The horror within the room is unimaginable. Finally, the door slammed shut, locking itself. I tried to grab the handle only to burn my hand. Trembling in fear, I dropped to my knees and wept. The only thing left to do is to go on from here. Standing in front the second door, I open it. Inside sat an obese man watching television. As my vision adjusted to the dark room, I noticed he was filling himself with food. So much food that his belly has torn open. He continued to stuff himself. Nude girls danced on the television, but they were dead. Their flesh rotten. Disgusted, I closed my eyes and shut the door. This door too locked itself. Prepared for the worst, I opened the third door. In it was a charming man with very expensive clothing and jewelry. He was in the restroom looking in the mirror. For unknown reasons, he was wearing sunglasses. Looking down, he took the glasses off. As he looked back into the mirror, his eyes were pitch black. Emptiness filled his soul. Chills ran down my spine as an unsettling feeling gripped me. Wanting to see no more, I shut the door. Pass the doors, a wall emerged. Closing in on me, I ran back toward the painting. The man in black was now pointing in the opposite direction. Tormented by the horrors I have seen, I could hardly walk. I fell to the ground covered in my own vomit. Looking up, I see three other doors. These were painted white. I could sense the hope emitting from their presence. Crawling toward them, the closer I got the stronger I felt. My spirit lifted high. I leaped from the ground to a full sprint. Soon, I stood in front of the first door and it opened. There stood my friends, laughing and enjoying one another. Their smiles lit up the room. This door did not close. I did not want it too. Curious, I went to the second white door. Inside was my family. My two nieces, ages two and three, playing on the swing set. My sister was standing nearby; they called to her. Asking, “Where is uncle?” My sister just brushed their hair and said, “Uncle loves you.” Tears fell down my cheek; I have never missed someone so much. Wanting to just watch them play, I knew there was one more door. I began to open the third door, and I could hear someone weeping. In this hospital room, my mother stands hugging some stranger in the bed. I could make out her cries. “I love you son. I love you son.” Then I noticed she was hugging me. There I laid lifeless, bruised and cut up. I could hear the doctor tell the nurse, “Cause of death is car wreck.” It seems I had enough drugs in my system to kill a man and ended up crashing my car. The doctor explained it was a miracle I did not die from overdosing. Suddenly the floors started to tremble, the walls cracked and began to tear down. In a flash, I woke in my mother’s arms.
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by Ronnie Steed
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Now Boarding
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As I sat nervously amid the hustle and bustle that is Dallas Ft. Worth International Airport, I folded and unfolded my boarding pass what seemed like a hundred times. I made origami-like flowers from the boarding pass; I made paper airplanes; I made fans; I made triangles, rectangles and squares. Rarely were my hands still. Not only were my hands busy creating paper masterpieces, but they were also sweating. By the time they announced my boarding group, Group A, my boarding pass looked as if I found it in a puddle after it had been chewed by a golden retriever and tucked into a fraternity’s futon for two weeks. Flying always made me nervous, so I enjoyed a feast for the senses to distract me while I waited. The airport was alive. It inhaled the fresh-faced, optimistic traveler ready for his next adventure. It exhaled the travel-weary, the exhausted, ready for a nap in her own bed. DFW Airport was a large organism, encapsulating all that humanity is – the good, the bad and the ugly (not to mention the unwashed and the rude). Ticket agents, dressed in the colors of their respective airlines, dealt gingerly with lines of disgruntled customers, smiling. They were always smiling while I’m sure in their heads they let loose a barrage of expletives, the likes of which would make a sailor or a rapper blush. The air in the concourse hung thick and heavy with the mouth-watering aromas of unctuous goodies, such as fresh baked pastries, French fries, burgers, pizzas and the like. Waitstaff could be seen rushing about like surgeons in an episode of one of those popular hospital-based shows. “Get me an order of cheese sticks and boneless wings for Table 7! STAT!” The determined click, click, click, click of the flight attendants’ heels as they made their way to the gate was the perfect soundtrack to one of my favorite pastimes; people watching. Wondering where my fellow travelers were going and why frequently proved quite entertaining. Imagining someone else’s itinerary allowed for some fascinating inner dialogue. The young man, seated across from me, literally twiddled his thumbs the entire time we waited. His crisp, blue button-down shirt had been starched to within an inch of its life, probably by his grandma. The baby blue shirt was a striking and beautiful contrast to his caramel-colored skin. His slacks, also clean and pressed, were a camel-colored khaki, with a crease that would have made my military dad proud. The thumb war going between his left and right hands made me think he was probably a little nervous about flying himself. As if on cue, he looked up from his battle and gave a little half-hearted smile. I tried to smile back without looking weird. I nailed it. He looked like a nice young man. Where was he going? Why was he going? I mused to myself, “Oh, he’s definitely flying to Indiana to donate a kidney to his twin brother, who is in the Witness Protection Program for... well, I can’t say.” I giggled at my own goofiness. In my imagination, the adorable little brown-eyed girl with her very own bright pink Trolls suitcase was clearly the star of some new Disney show I’d not heard of yet. Her divine dark brown face bore dimples that resembled two tiny craters
when she smiled. Her black hair was a mess of long ponytails, adorned with bright barrettes. She was slightly pudgy and dressed head to toe in varying shades of pink. She looked like walking cotton candy. I couldn’t hear her conversation with her agent? Mom? Manager? All I could hear was the lilt of the sweet/shrill voice that most little girls have from the ages of 2 to about 7. She was most likely jet-setting off to Disneyland or Disney World on her first press junket. I imagined her scrawling her name on her creepy ‘Toddlers and Tiaras’-style headshots in black Sharpie just like her mom/manager taught her. I hoped she’d be happy someday. She probably wouldn’t be, but I hoped for her anyway. Seated to my right was a man I can only describe as ‘mantastic’! He was gorgeous. He was the type of good looking person I wanted to smack for being so good looking. His physical perfection was an embarrassment of riches. I was convinced there were 15 angry not-so-attractive men around the world suffering because the Adonis next to me had usurped their looks at creation. It didn’t seem fair. His coal black dreadlocks brushed against the collar of the athletic fit t-shirt he was wearing. He clearly had been sculpted from exotic bronze clay found in a magical cave on an island in the South Pacific somewhere. His muscular torso boasted perfect pecs, washboard abs and strong defined arms. His long legs were encased in a pair of expensive blue jeans. His clothes fit as if he had been poured into them, and they took his shape. His breathtaking dark brown eyes sparkled with life and mischief. His smile seemed warm and genuine. He took a phone call, and I got to hear his voice as he told his mother he was at the airport already. The sound that emanated from his perfect lips was the sound of soulful angels, not too deep, just right. He sounded like if Barry White had been able to dial it down about 4 notches. He smelled remarkable. His scent was a heady mix of musk, soap and the slightest hint of men’s cologne. I wanted to put my nose in his neck and take a long inhale, but I thought that would be off-putting. He had several tattoos, one of which was a small heart with the initials ‘EM’ inside. Who was ‘EM’? Was Adonis flying to see him/her? Was his mother aware he looked the way he did? Was she apologetic to the 15 dudes walking around lacking in the looks department? Just as I was about to start my Adonis-driven inner soliloquy, I heard, “Now boarding, Group A. Now boarding, Group A.” I reluctantly moved from my seat and went to stand in line to board the plane to San Francisco. I mentally thanked everyone who had provided me with places for my mind to rest as I awaited my flight. I didn’t know any of those people, and their stories could have been (and probably were) miles away from the yarns I spun about them; but just for a little while, we were all part of that organism, and I was grateful.
Collared Joan Deichert Collage on paper
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by Earline Jones
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The Hallway of Dreams by Roxanne Beeson
The beauty of the doors on the left never cease to leave me speechless. I intentionally leave these doors open because subconsciously, these are the doors that need to be more inviting. These doors hold hope, dreams, and proof that, through determination, there is light at the end of the tunnel.
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Through these doors are things that bring me the most solace and comfort. The first door on the left is God, the place where I find the most comfort and joy. God is a relationship where there is no judgement or harshness, only love and understanding. Taking a few steps further is the door to my marriage. All the good qualities that could be provided in one man lay beyond this threshold, walking with me through the good times as well as the bad. Through the third door is my future, the goals I work towards, places I want to see, and the dreams I hope to accomplish. The hopes and dreams of the future are what keeps me chugging along at a pace that is faster than most are accustomed to. Almost like The Little Engine that Could. These are the things that push and drive me to continue even when the demons on the right side beckon me to let them come out and play.
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Each door on the right is different in its unique way, or maybe they are really all the same and I just choose to view them differently. I have struggled with why I have not lumped all three of these doors together. As much as I want to believe that there is nothing but black and white, right or wrong, I am constantly reminded that there is a gray area that leaves so many more questions than answers. Part of me believes that the demons behind each door hold their own redeemable qualities, but the truth is simply that these doors need to remain shuttered and locked. Yet, the redeemable qualities always call to my heart
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the most, crying out that everyone and everything can be saved. If only it were that simple. The doors on the right houses the demons of the past, padlocked and all in their own individual abyss. Keys to the locks have been thrown away, hopefully to never be found. These doors tell the story of where I have been. Each is padlocked to varying degrees. The first door on the journey is the door that holds my daughter. For reasons I have not yet determined, it only has one lock holding me from prying it open and unleashing the glorious craziness that is my oldest child. Door number two houses my childhood in all its wonder and excitement. This door is still a reminder that some things are better left in the past, especially when I cannot differentiate between the good and the bad. The third door has markings where I used a pry bar to pull off the first padlock; now it has ten padlocks and wood screwed in across the door frame so that I have no choice but to really think before I unleash the demon that is my ex-husband.
Stack 1 Wilfred Bellinghausen Acrylic on board
Once, and only once, was there a mistake made when I intentionally opened this door. It was out of sheer necessity and nothing else. Unfortunately, no matter how absent or useless a father has been in his child’s life, a parent still has to make that call. Then human nature takes over with the insistence that everyone can be saved and deserves forgiveness. That became the initial thought--he had changed and that there was a chance to put that part of my past to the side by forgiving, forgetting and moving on. Oh how wrong I sometimes am in my endeavor to do well, to be better. It is no wonder that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. The intention was misplaced and ended up raining havoc like the world has never known, at least not the world that I know. While this particularly evil door has been slammed shut once again, there are still ongoing ramifications from it having been opened. There is one good thing that came from this...the realization that it was not him that I needed to forgive in order to forget and move on; it was myself. Every time the hallway comes into view, the struggle begins with the calling of the doors. Sometimes it is a gentle whisper; other times, it is the roar of a lion. The difference between the sides are as obvious as night and day. The only question to answer tonight is which door will call to me this time?
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The dream begins as it always does, with that God forsaken hallway. It starts off simple enough, staring down a hallway that contains three doors on either side. The wooden doors are antique white, with brass door knobs and ornate gothic designs wrapped around each door, as if the designs themselves are the only thing holding it together. All six doors were exactly alike in the beginning; however, over the years they have mutated based on the demons or angels that hide behind each one. The dreams change from time to time; sometimes just a regular dream, sometimes nightmares. Walk through the doors, and be introduced to my angels and demons.
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A Tail of Obsession by Brianna Byrum
Untitled Nancy Greene
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Foam core and contact paper
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I watch you from outside your window. It’s open just a sliver, and I hear your voice as you mumble to yourself about your day. You talk about how work went and the people you met on the bus. I’m sorry Tom from work is being an ass again. I would kill him if you asked me to. The sound of my breathing mixes with the swishing of branches above me, and you go on with your routine... oblivious. I have been with you for half of your life, and I cannot remember a moment in my life that mattered before I found you. I’ve watched you sleep. Eat. Talk. Laugh. Smile. Sometimes your ignorance of my presence causes me anger, but I always forgive you. I don’t have any other choice, you silly woman. I belong to you, and you belong to me. I have been in your house while you were gone. Silently making my way through the rooms and basking in the warmth of the sun. A sad substitute to your touch, but I’ll take what I can get and await your return. Finally, here you are. I love you. I hate you. And I will never leave you alone. Now please open your window. It’s freezing out here. I’ve been meowing for hours, and my paws are shaking.
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Bailamos Ray Guerra
Classical Guitar
Classical Guitar
Classical Guitar
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The Fall Ziko Rogers Digital illustration www.eastfieldcollege.edu
Guit.
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We Were Friends
The Pure Heart
by Aria Jones
by Elizabeth De La Cruz Nine long months The time is due He gives a breath He then turns blue For every breath It’s a breath of death
We Were Friends. Self-care was what I was aiming for, I’d see you, we’d apologize. You messaged me, I was writing a paper. I “didn’t sound like” myself. Expletive, expletive, expletive. I replied.
Now he lays still at rest With oxygen and a feeding tube For a long day He lays in his cube He waits for the day He can go home to stay
Expletive, expletive, expletive. Block list, bitterness. 50 hours of work, 12 hours of school. I didn’t have time, I wasn’t really listening. You didn’t sound like yourself. I heard extraordinary rage. I didn’t hear extraordinary depression.
The time has come To repair his heart Like a corpse he lays While godly hands fix the part Now he plays and lays With a smile on his face and off to a new start.
Not enough people did. You had no idea I had been there. In the in-between, success and failure, life, and death. You didn’t make it. Our goals and expectations exceeded the reality, of being tired, upset, angry, depressed.
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I didn’t know how to read between lines, take time, value friendship, quell resentment.
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I knew how to focus, write the paper, make an A.
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by Aaiyja Bircher
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Sharing has never been appealing to me. I see people share pictures, life experiences, and personal struggles on social media. I cannot envision the appeal. I find it difficult to share things about myself, but this is me attempting to be open. I’ve only lived for nineteen years, but these nineteen years haven’t been a cakewalk. I’ve only lived seven of my nineteen years alone. Aside from family, I have lived with a bit of a shadow. A shadow is a man that only I can see. He’s always around, and his mere presence terrifies me. He has become such a major part of my life that I have, not so fondly, named him Leach. It’s appropriate to call him Leach because his presence feels like the draining of my own existence. This is an introduction to Leach. Unfortunately, once a person has met him, his only desire is that he leaves.
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I was about twelve years old, sitting alone in my room playing with my dolls. This was usually my routine on a Saturday. I enjoyed playing alone. My sister is afraid of dolls, so she usually went off to harass and torment our brothers. I remember looking up at the window, where I had stationed my Bratz doll as a watchman over the Land of Willows Peak. I saw something move outside the window, so I sprang to my feet to look outside. I figured it was my sister hoping to scare me. She can be a practical joker when she puts her heart to it. I didn’t see anyone outside the window, so I turned and sat on my bed slowly. It bugged me at first, but I quickly got over it and returned to the floor to play with the dolls. Just then, I could smell a foul stench. I remember the smell vividly. It was thick and breathtaking. It smelled like someone lost his lunch onto a pile of dead skunks. I quickly stood and what I saw made me leap onto my bed. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t run. I just sat and stared. There was, what appeared to be, a man standing before me. He wore dark, dusky-looking clothing. He wore black combat boots, covered in mud or animal dung. His pants were oversized black jeans covered in soot. He wore a long black cowboy duster trench coat that seemed to blow in the wind, but there was no open window. Except for one eye, a dirty black Stetson hat covered his face. His eye had a terrifying hazel center with layers of various brown tones leading outward. I couldn’t see his skin. Even considering his eye, I couldn’t see his skin. As quickly as he appeared, he was gone. I thought meeting Leach was a one-off. I never thought he would appear again after that day, so I didn’t mention anything to anyone. I was twelve, and I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Leach would visit me at random times and not only when Alternative 2018
I was alone. Leach appeared once when I was fifteen years old. We were all getting ready to go and visit my grandparents. My sister and I were in our room putting on shoes. She was rambling on and on about the Pikachu Pokémon and its ability to defeat all Pokémon. I didn’t engage in the argument because I am not a Pokémon fan and, quite frankly, I didn’t care. I listened quietly and kept trying to fit my foot into a shoe that should have been handed down to my sister a year ago, As I lifted my head, I could smell the stench of Leach in the air. I closed my eyes and prayed he would leave, but the smell grew stronger and stronger. I could feel my stomach begin to swirl and nausea set in. I stood and started to walk with my eyes closed. My sister questioned my actions, but I ignored her as I was on a mission for fresh air. Just then, I bumped into someone. I was afraid to open my eyes until I heard my dad’s voice. He was asking where I was going and I laughed and proceeded forward. Just as I left the small narrow hallway, I locked eyes with Leach. He was standing there staring at me with the one visible eye. I turned around and ran back into my room. My sister was still sitting there, talking to me as if I hadn’t left the room. I felt safe because I wasn’t alone so I sat on the bed and waited for her to get ready. As I entered the mind-numbing conversation of Squirtles and Charmanders, I noticed Leach standing against the wall that faced our beds. I motioned for my sister to look at the wall. She glanced over and kept talking. I asked if she saw something but she replied with a resounding, “WHAT” and proceeded to defend herself in her own argument. I sat staring intently at Leach as his presence began to drain the life out of me. I felt like all my sadness was building up in my throat. I was weak from the extraction of joy from my soul. Just when I felt I couldn’t handle it anymore, Leach disappeared. It was time to tell my mother about Leach. I didn’t want to tell my dad because he usually lives life in a constant state of sarcasm. I struggle to understand what he means most of the time, so any feedback from him would be irrelevant or misconstrued. Around this time, I was seeing a therapist regularly for my depression, anxiety, and Asperger’s Autism. The therapist asked the most asinine questions, and my sister and I would pretend not to notice that she suffered from an acute case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. The simple rearranging of her pencils could derail our therapy session for thirty minutes. I figured this would be a good time to bring up Leach to my mother. She usually
sat in on our sessions. Sometimes she would pretend to read a book, but she mostly kept my sister from doing things to set the therapist off. I remember looking over at her and asking if she could smell something. She immediately looked at my sister because, well, she had a reputation. She told me she didn’t smell anything, and I told her that I smell death. In her mind, this stopped the therapy session in its tracks. She took over, immediately asking what death smelled like. I described the smell to her and told her I only smelled it when Leach was around. She asked if I saw him right now, and I replied with a simple nodding of my head. By then, my therapist finally arranged her pencils and joined in on the discussion. She asked a multitude of questions but didn’t offer any solutions. Instead, she wrote a stronger prescription. The entire ride home was a mirage of questions. My mother wanted all the details on Leach. She wanted to know when I saw him and how I felt when he was around. She was investigating whether he came around when I felt a certain way or simply when I felt alone. Sometimes, I think Leach worried her more than he worried me. My mom went into protection mode when she learned about Leach. We devised a look when Leach was around so she could get me out into the fresh air. She hoped it helped with the sickness I felt when he came around. It didn’t, but it made her feel helpful; I think she needed to feel helpful. She eventually started to back off more and let me deal with Leach in my own way. I started ignoring him. Instead of considering that weird eye, I pretended he wasn’t around. When I was around a lot of people, I began making myself busy or went off to process the moment on my own. My mother suggested that I refrain from being alone so much. She feared my feelings were manifesting him and that I didn’t like being alone as much as I thought. I’ve been trying to follow that advice, but it still doesn’t completely rid me of my “dark passenger”. I was getting ready for one of my little brothers’ basketball games when Leach appeared. I remember riding all the way to the game with the stench of his presence sitting next to me. I could function with no problem. I did great until my brother went for a layup. As he went down the court, dribbling circles around players from the other team, I saw Leach standing between my brother and the goal. The thought of him terrorizing my brother was too much to bear. I screamed, “Get away from him!” Most people hadn’t heard me speak before, so they were startled. The gym went silent as my brother lifted his body in the air. When he came down, his body went right through Leach and Leach was gone. The referee felt my outburst was uncalled for and took the points away from my brother’s team. I was immediately removed from the
gym. The embarrassment alone was enough to send me into hiding. My brother’s team lost the game by two points. The entire ride home was quiet and unsettling. Everyone wanted to know why I did it, but I had no excuse I was willing to share. I still refrain from sharing. I avoid feeling vulnerable, and I especially dislike the world knowing what I deem to be my weakness. I still see Leach. He still has an awful stench, and he still glares at me with contempt from that one terrifyingly ugly eye. Fortunately, I no longer see him as a threat to my life. Instead, I see Leach as an extension of myself. I see him as an annoying big brother no one can see but I can smell. He’s never tried to hurt me, so I guess Leach is just an example of my need to rush to judgment. I judged him based on how he looked, so he terrified me. I often wonder if I had only perceived him as a friendly soul, maybe he would be gone by now. Alas, I remained saddled with my “dark passenger”, and the rest of the world gets to live their lives without this constant image of death saddled to their psyche. I no longer wonder if he is a punishment. Now, I just wonder if he will ever leave.
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Leach
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Me Too by Keiyana Sherman Remember when I was 8 you told me that I was a beautiful little girl? And when I smiled, you said it brightened your world. Remember when I spent the night at your house? And when you touched me, you said I had to be as quiet as a mouse. Remember when I was 9 and you told me to strike a pose? And then you said “Let’s take another one, this time no clothes”. Remember when I cried, you said you would take away all of my toys? And then you got on top of me and said “Don’t make any noise”. Remember when I was 12, you said that I was your favorite cousin? And then asked to suck my breast when we were in the kitchen. Remember when I cried and you said I was being bratty? And then you took me to your room so we can play “mommy & daddy”. Remember on my 16th birthday you said I was getting “thick”? And then later on that night, you sent me an unwanted dick pic. Remember the day you moved away?
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Now I’m 25, suffering in silence just to keep the peace in the family. I wonder when you look at your daughters, do you think about what you did to me?
My Connection Kristen Foster Acrylic on board
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And then before you left you said, “Let’s try something new it’s gonna be our last time anyways”.
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The Civil War by Allison Lee The Civil War The rifle shot The cannon boomed The scream of agony Then, all was silent, Retiring for the night Angels swooped For those who stooped
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And fell, forevermore
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