The Alternative by The Et Cetera

Alternative 2015

About The Alternative The Alternative, Eastfield College’s studentproduced fine arts and literary 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.

Editor / Designer

About the editor

Monica Bolton

Production Consultant Gail Johnson

Publications manager Elizabeth Langton

Faculty Advisers Iris Bechtol Lori Dann David Danforth Larissa Pierce

This year’s edition features a variety of works including drawings, paintings, poetry, photography and short stories. It would not have been possible without the collaborative efforts of students and advisers from the following disciplines: Art, Digital Imaging, English and Journalism.

Monica Bolton

A wise person named Douglas Engelbart once said, “The digital revolution is far more significant than the invention of writing or even of printing.” That is one of the many quotes Monica has referred to while enjoying her newfound passion. She served as editor of The Alternative and a designer for The Et Cetera student newspaper. Monica is pursuing her associate’s degree in digital imaging technology at Eastfield College and plans to graduate in May 2015.

All contributions in this magazine are the works of Eastfield College students. Opinions expressed in this magazine are those of the writers, photographers and artists and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Dallas County Community College District, Eastfield College and the magazine staff.

3737 Motley Drive, Mesquite, Texas 75150 972-860-7130 eastfieldcollege.edu

Poetry

Table of Contents

The Woods | Susanna Carlton.................................................................................................................... 9 Depression | Anthony Cardoso Castañón ............................................................................................... 20 Devil in Disguise | Alex Courson............................................................................................................... 26 Irish Funeral | J. Gomez........................................................................................................................... 13 Time Spent in a Bar | J. Gomez................................................................................................................ 12 Cleansing Waves | James Hartley.............................................................................................................. 2 Denial | Michael N. Lay............................................................................................................................ 32 Homesickness | Bridget Menard.............................................................................................................. 16 Weak Foundations | Bridget Menard ...................................................................................................... 17 Cast My Cares | Crystal Poole.................................................................................................................. 23

Short Stories

In a Handbasket | Samantha Berry........................................................................................................... 28 My Lost Daisy | Ryan Cook........................................................................................................................ 10 Childhood | James Hartley........................................................................................................................ 18 Unsung | Caitlin Piper............................................................................................................................... 24 The Frightful Fiend | Diana Rodriguez........................................................................................................ 6

Essay

The Momo Shop | Christina F. Smith........................................................................................................ 14

Artwork

City Signs | Marlon Bell............................................................................................................................. 34 Long Bridge | Marlon Bell......................................................................................................................... 34 Swept | Marlon Bell.................................................................................................................................. 19 Beautiful Roses | Shelbie Caudle.............................................................................................................. 27 Spring 1 | Andy Carrizales......................................................................................................................... 21 Spring 2 | Andy Carrizales......................................................................................................................... 21 Groovy | Ilka Chavez................................................................................................................................. 37 Boys Singing | Meagan Corey................................................................................................................... 25 Girl at Festival | Alli Gilbreath..................................................................................................................... 6 Infestacion | Andrea Gonzales.................................................................................................................. 35 Untitled | Samantha Mancha................................................................................................................... 10 III | James Moore...................................................................................................................................... 35 Untitled | James Moore............................................................................................................................ 35 Rushing Mist | Elisa R. Morris..................................................................................................................... 3 A Brighter Side | Elisa R. Morris................................................................................................................ 22 Holy Guacamole | Sidney Murillo............................................................................................................. 15 Hidden Kitesurfer | Michael “Tony” Neese................................................................................................. 9 Picture in Picture | Michael “Tony” Neese............................................................................................... 31 Sandra y Juanita | Edith Perez.................................................................................................................. 35 Untitled | Anna Saroni................................................................................................................................ 8 Owl | Nathan Tatom.................................................................................................................................. 35 Bhangra Dance | Kathryn Vestal............................................................................................................... 33 Tucking Hair | Stormy Wallbrecher............................................................................................................. 4 Lip Biting | Stormy Wallbrecher.................................................................................................................. 5 Hands Rubbing Shoulder

Cleansing Waves By James Hartley

Many times I dreamt of water To wash away my deepest sorrow And the weight the world has thrown on me, I dream I could wish it away. The fire that consumes my spirit, It tries to kill me but I remain, Praying for the waves to come and heal me, To cleanse my spirit of my pain. God, cleanse my spirit of my pain. I search for oceans, But all are still, I search for seas, But they have all become dry, Empty and barren. I cannot find the waves to wash me, Cleanse me of this past I hold, Cleanse me of the weight I bear. God, Cleanse me of the weight I bear.

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Rushing Mist | Elisa R. Morris

“Many times I dreamt of water To wash away my deepest sorrow.” Spring 2015

Tucking Hair

Stormy Wallbrecher 4

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Lip Biting

Hands

Rubbing Shoulder

Spring 2015

Girl at Festival | Alli Gilbreath

The Frightful Fiend

by Diana Rodriguez

There have been many times when I felt like death was just around the corner. But never like that moment, when my heart was beating as fast as a gazelle running from its predator, when I saw my life flash before my eyes. It was a Saturday night at my aunt’s house, and the whole family had met for a fiesta. Yes, there were a lot of eyes present, but none of them were vigilant enough to protect us from our inevitable fate. My three-year-old cousin Alexandra, my sister Leslie, and I were having fun playing Tic Tac Toe in a secluded room upstairs. Being a mature seven-year-old, I had an unnecessary advantage against my fiveyear-old sister, Leslie. While we played, Alexandra was entertained by her colorful crayons; there were just a bunch of scribbles in varied colors on a sheet of lined notebook paper, but she claimed her painting to be better than the Mona Lisa. After our short-lived amusement, we were getting hungry. We decided to go downstairs to snatch some food, but first we cleaned up our mess: a combination of choppy crayons and loose paper. As we wandered towards the exit, she saw it ... “Aaah! A bug!” Alexandra exclaimed. An enormous roach, crawling on the floor stopped us in our tracks. “We are done for! The door is the only way out, but there is no way to get there!” I said with quaking fear. We leaped faster than lightning toward the bed. As we tried to shelter ourselves from the monstrous insect, we fought for the blanket and Leslie accidentally tangled herself into it and fell to the floor. As she was getting up, she glanced at the wall and saw a second roach approaching. She screamed, but no one came to our rescue. Our screams drowned into the loud music downstairs. Alexandra began to weep and I tried to calm her. As the oldest, I had to keep the peace.

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I quickly made a plan in my head; it was not the best plan, but at least it would soothe them and buy me time. My plan was to wait for the roach to crawl under the bed so we could make a run for it. Of course, my plan did not work out exactly how I had predicted; the roach decided to do its own thing. It began to put its disgusting legs all over my favorite bed sheet as it made its way up the bed. As we kept moving farther and farther from the gruesome pest, I reached for a paper that was laying on the night table and got ready to attack. I quickly grabbed the paper, skillfully folded it, courageously scooped the bug up, and threw it out of sight. As I informed little Alexandra about my victory and inhaled relief, I noticed that the second roach started crawling toward us. Shielding our bodies from the repulsive creature, we saw it stop abruptly. Fearfully, we had the bed sheets up to our necks. The roach sat viciously, as if waiting for us to forget about it so it could strike. As we tried to calm down and think of a plan, we ignored the bug in front of us. We laid down, still covered and stared at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity. Suddenly, I looked at the wall and the roach jumped. I shrieked in fear and everyone looked in the same direction. The bug opened its wings and flew toward us. The events happened so fast that there was no time to react. As if in slow motion, the insect drifted above our heads. We tried to scream, but the fright was so great that we made nothing but a squeak. The bug was so close to our faces that its wings could almost blow our hair to the side. We thought it could not get any worse, but it did. The horrifying beast landed on Leslie’s nose and started to crawl all over her face. She hollered once she

felt the bug’s legs on her cheek, and as she saw it, she fainted. Alexandra cried again and we ran toward the door. We were almost out when I stepped on the roach I had thrown with the paper earlier. I stopped, screamed, and jumped in disgust. Alexandra, not waiting any longer to escape, ran downstairs and called for help. Meanwhile, I was stuck upstairs freaking out about the bug’s guts all over my bare foot, as well as having to deal with Leslie too. My mom went to the bedroom . Meanwhile my aunt, still incredulous, hollered to my mom that there was nothing to worry about. “You kids should all learn to be less noisy and start considering everyone in your surroundings!” she yelled. Once Alexandra returned with my mom, who still believed we were fooling around, Leslie opened her eyes and began to cry. My mom, affirming that the danger had passed, fell to the floor and soothed our sad souls. She walked over to the two bugs and killed them with two mighty stomps. At that point, we were all safe and the nightmare had ended. From that day forward Leslie has had a phobia of bugs, especially roaches. She cannot bear to look at them. Alexandra and I still have a good time remembering that day; although it was filled with fear and agony, it is now just a bad dream that can easily be turned into a funny incident. We were all scared, but when we think of the events that happened that night, we giggle until our stomachs are in pain. That near-deadly experience made me realize that fear is as big as we let it become. Bad days have to end sooner or later; we just have to decide when to end them. That was one scary but interesting night that I will never forget.

Spring 2015

Untitled | Anna Saroni

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Hidden Kitesurfer | Michael “ Tony” Neese

The Woods

By Susanna Carlton

There was something mystical about them. Something that made your imagination run wild and your heart beat faster. It made you look twice at everything. The smallest noise scared you to death. In the woods your imagination had control over you, not your mind. You could run as fast as a deer and as softly too. You were part of the woods. You could forget everything except here and now. There were pine trees looming over you. They hid the sky, as they stood so strong and proud. They vowed that nothing could bring them down. And standing there beneath them, feeling such security, you’d wish that nothing ever would.

Spring 2015

The Lost Daisy

It may seem like a tall tale to say that when I was young I had my first run in with Cupid’s arrows. Well it darn sure isn’t a small one since nothing like it ever happened again, not in my last years of elementary, not in high school, not even through my college years. Funny thing is it was a short encounter; like a tumble weed catching a

while back I was told by one of my relatives,

though heck if I can remember which one, that life is like a Western movie. If that’s true, I can’t

breeze and then rolling in front of a stage coach, it was a total surprise that caught me off guard but was over just as fast. It was a clear summer day in June when I got the inkling to ride out in

be too sure as to why that is. I reckon

the good weather. Like I said, I’m

its cause every day you wake up

no cowboy, but when you’re a

in the morning knowing you’re

little buckaroo of nine and the

facing a world that’s always

future is as wide as the Great

trying to get at your throat.

Plains of Texas before you,

Always seems ready to bite

you tend to think of yourself

like a snake looking for his

as the second coming of

evening meal or a bandito

Wyatt Earp. I didn’t have a

closing in on your cash,

horse, but I did have a pristine

knowing that all that stands

and very reliable bike that I

between him and a new bottle of

called Red Beam. And though I didn’t

whiskey is his knife and your neck. Or maybe cause you can compare it to a wild stallion. You can

live out in those bygone plains, I

Untitled | Samantha Mancha

try and tame your day like you would a horse, but no matter what precautions you take or kindness you give, you’re always taking the chance of falling off or getting bucked out of your saddle and into the stars.

did grow up in a quiet and safe neighborhood that, at the time, boasted of a park that was just

as vast and as pretty as anything you’d see in the movies. The fields stretched out nearly as far as the town limits. There was a creek for skipping stones while the frogs croaked their pond songs, and there

Me? Hell, I tend to think that if a fella’s going to look at the world through the brim of a ten-gallon hat, it’s probably cause he’s lived his life on his own terms. That he rides with nothing but wits and grit, but looks back behind him every now and then to see if anyone’s chasing him. When he does, he finds that nothing’s closing in ‘cept his own regrets. I myself am no cowboy, but I can relate to

was even a sand box for playing volleyball in. Yes sir, it was our little slice of Heaven, and I was free to take old Red Beam down to it whenever the mood struck me. Some bacon on toast and a kiss from momma was all the fuel I needed to set me off on my way. I tell you there is nothing like riding a big kid bike down the mini concrete roads of your neighborhood park. The day didn’t seem like it was going to

the notion of riding too fast and not looking back

be any different than any of the dozen other times

soon enough.

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I rode around in a giant circle, without anything

the hills at that very moment, then I’m not who you

particular on my mind ‘cept how great the freedom

think I am.

of it all felt. But on this particular ride, something caught both my sight and my ears. It started as a blur and a faint whisper, like the cooing of a small bird trailing within the clouds, and I made my way toward it. Eventually, the blur got more focused as I was getting nearer and nearer and the sound kept on growing just like my heart rate. Finally I saw her, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She looked to be about my age, and she was sitting on her knees right by the sand box where a baby acorn tree was just starting to grow. She was singing to herself while picking daisies out of the ground. She had what I can only describe as the most angelic voice, one that I was sure Heaven was probably missing from its chorus. Rare is the day that I don’t wish I could remember the exact song she was singing. Maybe it was something she made up since I didn’t recognize the lyrics, but I was mostly paying attention to her vocalizations. She got up to stretch herself and the little dress she was wearing, and the notes she was singing rose with her. She began waving her arms around to the tune the good Lord was giving her, and Iittle by little I was wishing I was one of the flowers she was holding next to her heart. It was like she was trying to sprout wings and fly up to whatever cloud she fell to earth from. I don’t rightly know if what I was feeling was some kind of puppy love or just a deep fascination, but whatever the case Red Beam and I were frozen in our tracks. I was watching a real live Broadway performance play out in front of me, and I didn’t want it to end. But just when I thought time had broken itself for me and her, I sneezed and her head shot up like a stray bullet. She was staring right at me. Our eyes met like the moon meets the earth, and I tell you right now, if my heart didn’t feel like it was going to burst out of my chest and run for

Suddenly a thousand different scenarios started playing in my head like an old-timey slide show. One involved her screaming and calling for her mother cause a peeper was spying on her from afar. Another had her continuing with her song with a grin on her face and red blush appearing on her cheeks. The best was her asking me over and us talking about who we were and where we lived, which to make a longer story short, resulted in us becoming friends, then sweethearts, and finally man and wife with two or three kids and a little house out in the country. Sad as it is to say, nothing like that happened. No, like the cowboys of my favorite movies, I just gave her a slight wave, then hitched up old Red Beam’s kick stand and rode away without a second glance. I never saw her again. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know why I didn’t introduce myself to her, cause I do. It’s because even as a nine year old, I knew that some things are better left as they are. That moment of watching that girl in her natural state of bliss and beauty was so perfect that I just didn’t think it was going to get any better. She could have ended up being the love of my life, but then again she also could have been just another passing acquaintance, another tumble weed just rolling along not wanting to pay anyone any mind. Still, it was one of the first times I can recall truly regretting a decision that I made, but hey, it was still my choice. But if I ever saw her again, I would choose differently, because a cowboy always has his horse, his hat, boots, a rope and a gun, but he doesn’t always have a gal. Today, I have a car, a pair of shoes, a hoodie, a cell phone and a right hook, but where are you now my daisy girl? I hope you’re still singing.

by Ryan Cook

Spring 2015

Time spent in a bar By J. Gomez Eyes pace the room, weary from alcohol and my present companyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s charm. I extend my intoxication as women cloud the table with warm inebriated ease and the harmonics of clattering knees.

I sit back against the eyes tilted across the beer my mouth takes apart drink and then a drink consumes your words. Brain unhinged, words undue the buttons of my throat as they graciously spell and quiet my addiction to melodrama.

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Irish Funeral By J. Gomez Memoryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s phantom acquires its exit through an uninhibited window, silencing your time on this plane. The crying begins as recollections are held ransom behind tapestries, banging around the home of this grievance party. At 3 a.m. we arrested the clocks to signify when you passed between our two worlds. We sabotaged the reflection of our mirrors carefully under cloth, preventing your metaphysical residue from clinging to its earthly memories. Spirits spill sentiments between floor boards and brew aggression that brawls within broken glass. The party burned for two days and then laid his body to rest. Columns of kin corrupt uncomfortably padded pews, brandishing bourbon aroma, exercising booze lit tears. Taper wax descends a candy wick delirium. Sobering sobs strip and humble us before a perforated Christ. Lips crucified in gloss. Carnations and chrysanthemums decorate our remembrance and close the casket of his time.

Spring 2015

The

Momo Shop

by Christina F. Smith

Momos are one of the most beloved traditional foods of Nepal, the country in which I was raised.

You don’t need to look for one. They can be seen everywhere, large stacked steamers, nearly as tall as the person tending to them, stand out like silver flags against the busy Kathmandu streets. Placed strategically outside of the shop, they threaten to take over the already narrow sidewalk and signal you to stop and desert whatever plans you had previously made; those things can wait. Squatting over an open kerosene burner, the pot lets out little squeals and puffs of steam that can be heard above the raging, bubbling water in the base level. Then one on top of the other, the steamers are stacked, each one filled with doughy, white dumplings. Small holes on the base of each pot allow the steam to travel up the levels, working its 100-degree magic on each momo. The lid sits on top, trying to contain the luscious, spicy aroma. A futile attempt; it escapes anyway, and fills the crowds with hunger that did not exist a moment earlier. It’s impossible to say no to this smell, and if you do, you will regret your decision all day and crave momos all night. I take a seat inside on a bench next to some fellow addicts. The surprisingly short cooking time never seems short enough. A woman yells from the back kitchen. Her 15 year old son emerges and grabs a large, flat, circular spatula, a smaller version of what is used to take pizza out from an oven, shiny silver to match the pot. He quickly removes the lid and jumps back a foot to avoid being scalded by an explosion of steam. The dumplings have now cooked to be the perfect pale golden, almost translucent, and dripping with juice from the meat inside. He expertly scoops them up with his spatula, 10 at a time, and serves them on tin plates. Each plate gets a small bowl of achaar. Can I tell you about the achaar? Just as every momo shop has its unique way of preparing the meat and folding the dough into the perfect shape, the dipping sauce, or achaar, is different on every street corner. Some offer a chunky green chili sauce, others have a minty flavor. There are milder versions that I drink straight from the bowl like soup and ones that will set your tongue on fire, orange tomato laced concoctions and curry-like sauces that overflow with spice. To me it makes no difference; I wish I had the recipe for each one. I’m handed my plate and immediately I stab one of the little pieces of heaven with my fork, twirl it around the achaar bowl until it’s fully coated and then pop it in my mouth. The momo explodes with juicy, savory flavor as I bite into it. Momos are typically made with ground buffalo meat, though chicken and vegetable versions exist. The meat is delicately spiced with just the right amount of onion, garlic, coriander, cumin and ginger. I think that if I were on death row and asked what I should like to eat as my last meal on earth, this would be it. Breaking only to ask for more achaar (twice), I finish my meal in record time and walk to the back kitchen where the round, smiling mother is kneading a sticky lump of dough for the next round. Even though the shop is the size of a matchbox, it’s always packed with locals and travelers craving their fix. The shop owner’s day is long and busy, but she works with the calm focus of someone who takes pride in her craft and enjoys making others’ days brighter.

“Dhanyabhad” she says, not bothering to wipe the flour off her hands as she takes the 40 rupees that I hand her.

“Dhanyabhad” I reply, sincerely thankful for the bliss I have just experienced. Back on the street, my craving has been satisfied and I’m determined to continue my day with focus. That is until I round the corner and the next silver pot knocks me off my feet.

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Holy Guacamole | Sidney Murillo

Spring 2015

HomeSickness I take a walk around the crawfish pond, Narrowly avoiding the ruts and stray hooks That sprinkle the damp mud like land mines. I swing on the back porch And let the wind chimes serenade me As the moisture in the air settles on my skin. I listen as someone sings, As someone teases the keys of a piano, As laughter travels down the narrow hall. And then the past escapes me, And mosquitos crawl across my bare legs, And screaming makes its way into every room, And the tinkling chimes hurt my ears. I now spend my visits elsewhere, Smoking cigarettes that the damp air left stale, And drowning the bitter taste with cheap beer that I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t carded for. I thought of that house as my home, Yet time and death and regret has wrecked that. You were my home. You radiated the warmth that the fireplace could not. You created the notes that harmonized with the wind chimes. You were that house, personified. And when we entered your walls, After placing you into the ground, There was a silence shared by us, Children who had been raised in your embrace, And I knew then that a rot had set in.

By Bridget Menard 16

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Weak Foundations Don’t ask me why I’m shaking. Why my hands tremble as I hold this sheet of paper, either violent enough for everyone to see or slight enough that only those close can catch. Why my body quakes, limbs convulsing and joints creaking. Why stillness is foreign to me, even with a steady heartbeat and untroubled thoughts. Perhaps I was built on a weak foundation, cobblestones without mortar, bricks constantly shifting. The slightest breeze will bring me down. Perhaps my blood flows faster, ready to explode from my veins. My heart beats harder, the vibration travels, and threatens to fracture my bones. Perhaps God wound me up like an old-fashion toy, before setting me loose on the world. The crank turns endlessly, showing no signs that it’ll ever stop. I would give anything to build something, without having the pieces tumble clumsily from my grasp. I would give anything to hold my hand steady, as the person I love slips a ring onto my finger. I would give anything to take control of this body, to feel strong and solid, to stand here without feeling so fragile. So I beg of you, please, don’t ask me why I’m shaking.

By Bridget Menard

Spring 2015

Childhood I vividly remember my childhood, those priceless times in my life where there were no cares. Not those times when grades felt like the weight of the world; nor those where the home drama bogged down my life and made things difficult. No, I’m talking about the times when those things didn’t matter. The true spirit of adolescence was the times when things were real, when there was no filter. Those times when I wasn’t in the game to try and please someone else, but rather there to make memories or simply to enjoy life or even more often just to feel. To me, that was what childhood was. I recall, as if it were just yesterday, the first time I fell in love, and the time my first love made me feel my first heartbreak. I remember the burn of those tears in my eyes as that teenage boy tried to process why he wasn’t good enough. I remember, as though it just happened, when my best friend Jake and I were almost arrested for vandalizing public property. As far as we knew the things we were painting under that bridge were just pretty cool paintings, but the police didn’t seem to agree with us. I remember that fear and that adrenaline rush as we ran as fast as we could, and that relief, that feeling of being free and rebellious when we realized we were away free. That raw, unfiltered emotion. I could describe to you even today, as the weight of independence tries to plant roots of struggle into my life, that time when I wasn’t worried about grades or money. Those moments in junior high school, when I was more focused on girls and bands and what party my friends and I planned to crash. Those moments when real choices were made. Choices like not taking a hit from that joint, but not hesitating to kiss that girl. That choice that the small guy who kept calling me names wasn’t worth a fight, but that guy who

was bigger than a skyscraper at only fourteen wasn’t too big for me to handle (and boy was I wrong about that one). Those decisions that were real, not influenced by financial needs or any sense of responsibility for my actions. I remember playing music and acting in theater because I felt like it, not because it would look good for colleges. I can still feel the crazy, insane motivation that drove me into trying out for track team because I wanted to impress that girl, and dropping out of track team when I realized that girls like football players and not track runners and that I had neither a desire to run nor to suffer multiple concussions to get Anna Reed’s attention. Still, I can remember two years ago, at the age of twenty four, hearing that same girl, Anna Reed, whom I had fallen in love with in the eighth grade, say the words “I do” while standing across from me at the altar. Yes, that was a moment of what I would describe as a part of my childhood, my youth. Still, with all of those memories, the one I hold most dear is somewhat cliché. It was the point that I realized I was going to pursue my dreams to change people’s lives for the better, the moment I decided to help people find relief from things like depression and anxiety. Jake and I were both seventeen. We snuck out of Jake’s house, took his dad’s car, and went for a long drive. It wasn’t the first time we’d done this. It had turned into a kind of rite of passage, though that may not be the best way to describe this time. Perhaps it was more of a celebration of a completion of a rite of passage. Jake and I had both just received notices that we had been awarded full-ride scholarships to the same school for our achievements in arts: Jake in choir and me in

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By James Hartley orchestra. Jake already knew that he was going to major in engineering, while I had no clue what I was going to do. So we went out on the road with no particular destination in mind. We talked about life, the past, the present, and the future. As we drove toward a tunnel, Jake dared me to stand up in the car, stick my head out the sunroof, and scream. Of course, never being one to turn away a dare, I did it. I watched from my vantage point as the tunnel grew closer. As the wind blew through my hair and the tunnel grew closer, I felt something grow in my chest, some emotion that I cannot to this day describe. I screamed at the top of my lungs as we went through that tunnel looking at all the graffiti art that was on the walls. I saw one that caught my eye. I saw a picture of a boy, a teenager, crying. The caption read â&#x20AC;&#x153;Help.â&#x20AC;? I saw that and knew without a doubt in my mind that I wanted to help people. I wanted to heal. I wanted to find a way to take people who had hit rock

bottom and pull them up from that pit and show them that the future is always worth fighting for. I cried. Tears of joy streamed down my face, stained my cheeks and burned my eyes. I failed in my attempts to choke back those tears. Why did I try, though? They were tears of joy! I finally knew what my purpose in life was. I finally realized what I was born for, why God had seen fit to make me the man I was, to give me the experiences I had and to put me in the place He did. Childhood is something I think on often. The choices I made then, the things I felt, the way I acted, the things I learned, the hurt and the joy and the pure, raw, unfiltered emotion all made me the man I am today. The heartbreak and the love, the sadness and the joy, all brought me to a place in my life where I realized who I truly am.

Swept | Marlon Bell

Spring 2015

Depression by Anthony Cardoso Casta帽贸n

I am drowning I tried to care but fell into despair I should be crying but look forward to dying I cannot be helped by a simple prayer Acceptance is all I need The worst thing to feel is rejection Do not let my beauty mislead Put away your accusation I think differently Open your mind and listen Do not mock or take advantage of my state, treat me gently Love me through the destructive thoughts I live in The way I am might be crazy to you Your acceptance, support and respect is overdue

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Spring 1 | Andrea Carrizales

“Do not let my beauty mislead.”

Spring 2 | Andrea Carrizales

“Do not mock or take advantage of my state, treat me gently.” Spring 2015

A brighter side | Elisa R. Morris

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Cast My Cares By Crystal Poole Worry and fear took over me for a long time. The devil had me sick, trying to make me lose my mind. “My mind,” such a terrible thing to waste. I went around with a smile on my face. But you could never tell what I was going through. I didn’t know what to do. I made it my daily routine to worry about family, friends, money and every little thing. Mentally wavering, my confidence was not in You. But you God, You guided me and told me exactly what to do. I learned to cast all my cares on You. Will I continue to worry? No Will I continue to walk in fear? No I finally realized that we do not have to question God. If He said it, He will do it, because He is God. Anything that we ask of Him, He will do it. We must say it and not doubt it and believe in our hearts that He will see to it. Because it says it in His Word in I Peter 5:7. “To cast your cares upon Me, for I care for you” That’s what He wants us to do. And we will God. Cast all our cares on YOU.

Spring 2015

Unsung by Caitlin Piper

Ignoring the sea of people milling around him, Trevor lurches forward and plucks the half

finished cigarette out of the gutter. It’s smeared with bright pink lipstick at one end and caked with dirt at the other. He sticks the lipstick end in his mouth and, scraping the other end clean, touches his lighter to it. It’s too wet. It doesn’t light. Cursing, he tosses it to the ground and shoves his way through the crowd, heading for the subway. That job interview had been his last chance. He’d known that. Alan had been pulling strings and kissing ass for two months to get it for him. So why had he tried so hard to sabotage it? It was the interviewer. Had to have been. The guy was only a few years older than him, but he dressed like he’d never left the 80s, with his slicked back hair and smug shark’s grin. Trevor had wanted to punch him in his stupid face on sight. The guy had to have known his history, had to have known every little screw-up that led to this point in his life. Even if by some miracle he hadn’t glanced over Trevor’s disgustingly long rap sheet, Alan must have described it to him in fleeting detail, using words like “resourceful” and “inspirational” to describe him. Fucking Alan.

stale cherry cough drops lingering on the back of his tongue. Maybe it’s better that he told old Gordon Gekko to go fuck himself back at the interview. He doesn’t need these people. He doesn’t need Alan and his disgustingly transparent pity. Alan is just a waste of skin and hair gel whose only talent lies in his uncanny ability to ruin perfectly good silences. Fuck Alan. Trevor clenches his hands until the bones creak. The entrance to the subway is just right there, and traffic isn’t slowing. He steps purposefully onto the street, deaf to the horns and screeching and unrelenting noise of the world around him. Darting down the stairs, he steps onto smooth concrete and is swallowed up by the subway.

“He He throws himself down on the first available bench to walks. He gather his bearings. Some college-age kid is sitting in wanders. He the middle of it, scowling his mirror-like watches. No one’s below sunglasses as he clutches looks like a laptop bag looking. No one’s towhat his chest and taps on an expensive-looking phone, a following.” bulky duffel bag resting at his

Trevor stops at the edge of the sidewalk, staring up at a sky the color of slate as a bus lumbers past, belching up curls of blue-black smog that hang in the air overhead. It’s going to rain soon. Silently considering the traffic before him, Trevor scratches his cheek. He’s shaved for the first time in months, and the itching is beginning to drive him crazy. He fumbles through the pockets of his frayed suit jacket, running his hands over his face and plunging his fingers into his receding hairline when he finds them empty. He’s out of cough drops. Some asshole in a suit begins to screech into his cell phone behind him, squealing to someone named Edna about how she can’t do anything right. Trevor chews the inside of his cheek,

feet with its strap curled around his ankle. Trevor scoffs. Sunglasses underground. What an asshole.

Trevor winces as a train screeches to a halt nearby, the sound amplified in the sprawling maze of concrete. Like clockwork, a crowd rushes past in both directions, splitting cleanly around the bench. Sunglasses Kid looks at his cellphone and abruptly stands up, melting into the river of bodies as he presses the phone against his ear and disappears.

He’s left his duffel bag.

Trevor stares at it intently. He eventually sidles over and runs his hand across the weatherbeaten exterior. Whatever’s inside is hard and small and rectangular, shifting with a whisper when he presses his fingers down. He bites the inside of his cheek. No one’s looking. They’re too busy staring at their feet and ignoring each other. Sucking air in through his nose,

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he loops the strap over his shoulder, walking stiffly up the stairs and onto the street. Staring straight ahead, he fights back the urge to break into a run. He walks. He wanders. He watches. No one’s looking. No one’s following. The crowds thin. The traffic quiets. Trevor ducks into an alley and drags in a breath, sliding to the ground as his fingers fumble with the zipper. He rips the bag open, wrenching his neck to look inside. It’s nothing but a bunch of old books. Dime store novels and self-help pamphlets that look as if they’ve been through dozens of owners. Sitting on the top, screaming up at him with cheery yellow bubble letters is a hardback entitled Keys to a Long and Happy Life. With a manic, ear-splitting laugh, Trevor grabs the book and flings it sideways into the wall. Its spine crunches before it claps to the ground, sagging on its pages in a pile of rat droppings. Panting, Trevor kicks the duffel bag away, sending books sliding as he buries his head in his hands. This is what he’s become. A bitter old bastard sitting in a pile of trash and roach shit with $20 to his name and a lifetime of unpaid debts on his addiction-rattled shoulders. Disgusting.

In the seconds leading up to the explosion that marks the final entry on his extensive rap sheet, that earns him a spot in countless “World’s Dumbest Criminals” lists and whose retelling draws a long and hearty laugh out of his father when the police come knocking on the old man’s door, Trevor realizes where he needs to go and what he needs to do. In the seconds leading up to the explosion that transforms him into an immortal laughingstock, a would-be bomber whose only victims were himself and a few pigeons with the unfortunate luck to be bathing in a cloudy puddle nearby, a man whose sole defender would be ridiculed for refusing to look past his “inspirational” story to see him for who he really was, Trevor knows that he can end the day a new person. In the seconds leading up to the explosion that damns him, Trevor is sure that he can finally become worth something, that he can finally surpass everyone’s expectations and become a man worthy of praise and adoration, and beams as the first and final tear spills scorching down his cheek.

The vibration of his cellphone pulls him out of stupor. He reluctantly pulls it up after it’s gone still, straightening when he sees the name on the caller ID. Frantically running his fingers over the buttons, he presses it to his ear as the voicemail begins to play. His breath catches in his throat, and Trevor is completely oblivious to the tangled mass of wires spilling from beneath the mountain of old, beaten books in the duffel less than a foot away. In the seconds leading up to the explosion that kills him, rupturing his lungs and bowels while simultaneously sending all three pieces of him flying sideways into the street, Trevor’s eyes grow hot. In the seconds leading up to the explosion that jars an old building from its crumbling foundation, sending spiraling clouds of dust and rubble in every direction as a passing car is knocked skidding and battered into the center of the road and its driver’s eardrums pop, Trevor decides that he might still have a chance.

Boys singing | Meagan corey

Spring 2015

The Devil in Disguise By Alex Courson

The flowers that fall beneath the trees, Bring the smell of death, that brings me to my knees.

The breeze that gently rolls through the plains, Like a specter slowly haunting with its gaze.

The denial is through, while the shock sets in Making way for the anger, to boil within

I stare at the cross that lies under the oak. My mind, steeped in memories begins to float.

Judgment is upon me, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m going to hell. For I am my own judge, and jury as well.

But I am not shaken, not even stirred, For the public eye, the line has always been blurred.

They found her in blood, right next to a letter Explaining her choice, and why it was better.

The decision was easy, my fury had hit its peak The hardest part, was practicing her handwriting for a week.

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“The flowers that fall beneath the trees.”

Beautiful Roses | Shelbie Caudle

Spring 2015

In a handbasket By Samantha Berry

espite the kingdom he had built on the foundations of love and goodness, it was clear the Lord had a sick sense of humor. Either that, or he was very anal retentive. For why else would he establish Hell in the form of a democracy? President Camio the XIII toyed with this thought as she sipped her morning tea. Then again, she mused, “democracy” in hell was a farce; a cruel joke God played on sinners to make them hope there was still a chance at salvation. In her two-hundred and thirty eight years as president, Camio had not once seen justice served. Rather than vote on the guilt or innocence of a soul, the High Court of Hell collaborated on what they thought to be the most ironic punishment. Generally they were rather uncreative: an orgy until they died of exhaustion for a rapist or being encased in molten gold for a thief. The latter must have been a favorite of the judges. There were so many statues of thieves that demons had to resort to slapping wings on them and selling them to Heaven as “angel sculptures.” Any position of power in Hell was secured by a form of nepotism. God worried that the most powerful of demons would band together to reclaim their place in Heaven. So to appease them he created a system to oversee the lowest humanity had to offer. This way the formal angels could exercise their brutality and feel superior whilst doing so. As a safeguard in case they began to feel the need to expand their authority, a forced reincarnation would be placed on those who got too powerful. Living out so many of these cycles mellowed President Camio. She no longer found the joy in punishing the wicked. Her change in outlook also affected her appearance. Most demons hold little resemblance to

their charges, often replacing skin with burnt leather and hair with tendrils. Instead, she had the form of a young woman, but with a birdcage where her ribs would be. She could only assume this was another divine amusement; a play on how she felt trapped in her position over Hell. Lately she had taken to housing a small, black thrush there. If the faithful wished to remind her of her position, then she would subvert it towards a bit of happiness. The sweet scent of cinnamon tea served as a respite from the dingy walls of her office. “Better to look imposing and foreboding,” her secretary would say. What rubbish. How was she supposed to get any work done if the atmosphere was constantly dragging her down? Perhaps she could add a few flowers. Something beautiful and alive to remind her of the peace her position was supposed to keep. After her morning treat Camio went back to signing the mountain of forms on her desk. There was no longer a reason to read through each one. Hundreds just like them had passed across her desk before. Requisition forms for the newest torture devices, appeals from lower-level demons to be promoted, plans for optimizing the volume of souls processed, everything pointless in the long run. Nothing ever changed in Hell. He wouldn’t allow it. A small ball of fire erupted in the middle of her desk, singeing a bundle of forms and erasing at least a good half hour of work. From it stepped out a small imp holding an envelope as big as his body. The creature placed it down and attempted to straighten out the creases that had been accidentally made.

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“Pardon me, mistress, but a special case

needs your attention …” Camio lightly drummed her nails across the dark stone desk. “Nergal, what have I told you about ruining my paperwork?” The small demon Nergal cowered as it bowed its head in shame, “Apologies Madam President, but Lord Satan said…” “And you would listen to my vice president’s orders over mine?” “N-no mistress, but he said you would want this right away…” “Well tell him that I want you to use the door next time.” She snapped her fingers and forced the imp back through a similar portal he used to enter. Truthfully, she did not care much about whether this useless paperwork was destroyed. However, to let it slide would be an admission of weakness, one her traitorous vice president would take advantage of. Still left in the ring of ash was the file that apparently demanded her attention. “Special case,” was what the messenger called it. It really should be labeled as an exemption. Each of these cases fell under one of two categories; either a child or a pregnant woman had committed a grave sin and was requested by heaven to be pardoned. This was merely a formality, for the Innocents Protection Treaty of 308 B.C. prevented anyone under the age of thirteen (including unborn children) from being tortured in Hell. This particular trespasser was an eleven-yearold boy who had practiced his cruelty on numerous small animals before graduating to a boy several years his junior. His victim was found with the skin removed from his legs and multiple stones shoved down his throat. The president scribbled a note on the corner of his dossier ordering it to be forwarded

to the Department Head of Unusual Punishments. Hopefully this would jumpstart his inspiration to spare the wardens from carrying out the same stale tortures that only added to the monotony of her presidency. Normally the boy’s case would be weighted by the rehabilitation he would have faced until his adult life, but fate decided no mortal court could judge his crimes, and he was in a fatal accident on the way to trial. Heaven declared that as a child, his soul was beyond the jurisdiction of Hell. As the Lord declared all children as innocent beings, he could not be tried for actions he surely did not understand. Camio snorted at the appeal. Yes, this was clearly a bastion of purity who had merely lost his way. If she wasn’t allowed to punish him, perhaps they would let her hire him as a consultant. She rubbed her temples in an attempt to stave off the headache only responsibility can bring. While it was amusing to ponder how the child would fare as a demon, the reality of the injustice unraveled her from within. Because his evil nature could not be contained until adulthood, he would be given a pass into Heaven, lording over those whose souls have been trapped in the web of bureaucratic tape. At present the offending soul had been automatically transported to Hell. Upon noticing a child, the gatekeepers would seal it and await the angels sent to retrieve it. Per custom, President Camio was expected to be present to greet them. She beckoned to the corner of her office and a gargoyle hiding in the shadows stepped forth. “Tell the gatekeepers to hold the soul for me. Archangel Gabriel sent word that his couriers will be late. I’ll keep it here in my office to ensure its safekeeping.” “Yes, madam,” the creature replied with a flourish. He backed into his corner and exited through another portal of flames, leaving a black mark on

Spring 2015

the obsidian tile. “Why does Hell even bother having doors?” The solid oak doors of the office were blown back off their hinges. A retinue of angels followed, closely surrounding a man in a silky white suit. His guardians resembled floating suits of medieval armor, held together at their joints by radiant, shimmering cloth . The archangel’s appearance changed based on who viewed him in order to make himself as pleasing as possible. President Camio hid a smirk to herself at the giant eyeball hovering over an empty suit. By now she had learned to control how her mind perceived him, allowing herself a little humor in such a vile place. “Where is the child?” Veins of anger surrounded the deep golden iris. “Child? Dearest Gabriel, you make it sound like I took an innocent babe.” She absentmindedly inspected her nails, taking care not to make eye contact. Her bemused look would betray the cool steel of her voice. “As a minor under the age of thirteen years, he is innocent. According to the treaty, he belongs to us.” “And as a child-murderer he belongs to me.” A small jar holding an iridescent orb sat proudly on the desk. “The treaty states that he is immune to torture. Does it look like he’s in distress?” She lightly stroked the top of the lid, and the orb made no movement in response.

“GIVE ME…”

Sounds of clanking metal interrupted the seraph’s tirade. The black thrush Camio housed began to throw itself against the walls of its cage. Camio reached down to where her stomach would normally be and unlatched the door. Disjointed movements followed the bird as it awkwardly stepped across the desk, pausing when it came to the item of contentment.

“Silence.” Its eyes gleamed when speaking, illuminating a deep and sonorous voice. It didn’t enter through the ears, but reached from the soul to wrap around one’s consciousness. “Your Grace!” Archangel Gabriel bowed itself against the floor, with the suits of armor crumpling to follow it. “I said, silence.” The thrush stretched out its wings and then began to pick between its onyx feathers. “I apologize for my appearance. My son has a prior engagement that needs my attention. However, your petty squabbles could be heard across all existence.” “My Lord,” the great demon caressed the bird that housed her boss. “I was only trying to find another solution to this … issue. Why should we reward a soul whose malevolence rivals that of my generals?” “I created the treaty because I find it distasteful to inflict an eternity of punishment upon one who has barely lived a sunset.” “Then listen to my proposal. I do not wish to torture the boy. I just find it distasteful to allow him into Heaven. My demons are busy enough with the rate human society is falling. It is my last thought to add to their workload. Instead we should keep him in stasis, or perhaps put him someplace empty. Create a plane of pure nothingness. What better punishment to give to those who sin for attention? They can stew with their thought for the rest of time.”

“Interesting.” The creator of everything tapped at the desk, apparently finding it delightful to play the part of an inferior being. “Let us try it. I’ll give it one hundred years. If this plays out the way you expect it to, we can consider giving it a permanency.”

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“Gabriel, I leave it to you to get this situated. Try to make the prison as simple as possible. Even the slightest crack could prove thrilling in a tomb of monotony.”

“At once! Your trust in me won’t be misplaced.”

A column of light surrounded the archangel and his entourage, carrying them off to their most holy of missions. “Perhaps this responsibility will placate him. Camio, next time please try not to threaten the balance of power. You aren’t the only one who is tired of your job. My lieutenants are just looking for a reason to invade your domain.”

“I’ll try, my Lord.”

Satisfied with her promise to attempt to play nice, his Holiness left to help his only son. The president’s pet collapsed into a heap, its body exhausted from playing anchor to God. Cradling it softly, Camio placed it back into its gilded home.

“Shh, little one. You had a big day.”

She reclined in her great armchair, beaming over her victory. It may be small, but has any revolution ever started with a leap?

Picture in Picture | Michael “ Tony” Neese

Spring 2015

Denial By Michael N. Lay

She gets close enough to diagnose, But never close enough to touch. She gets close enough to feel,

She gets close enough to diagnose,

But never close enough to act.

But never close enough to touch.

She gets close enough to know,

She gets close enough to feel,

But never be known.

But never close enough to act. She gets close enough to know,

She is empathy with a catch,

But never be known.

But never sympathy. Her fake will fool you.

She holds the fire close in her chest

Her real will woo you.

As sparks fly out when her guard is

Her love will confuse you.

down.

Her denial will abuse you.

And that is why you love her,

The worst part is, she doesn’t know how

Because she is only half fake,

to stop.

Half real, And you never can tell which.

She gets close enough to diagnose, But never close enough to touch.

She will love you till her love runs out,

She gets close enough to feel,

But never take an ounce in return:

But never close enough to act.

Selfishly selfless,

She gets close enough to know,

Because denial feels so right.

But never be known.

“She gets close enough to know, But never be known.”

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Bhangra Dance| Kathryn Vestal

Spring 2015

City Signs | Marlon Bell

Long Bridge | Marlon Bell

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III | James Moore

Infestacion | Andrea Gonzales

Owl | Nathan Tatom

Untitled | James Moore

Spring 2015

Sandra y Juanita | Edith Perez

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Groovy| Ilka Chavez