Toyon Volume 62 by Toyon

TOYON: VOLUME 62

VOLUME 62 2016

2016

Toyon Multilingual Journal of Literature and Art Humboldt State University

2016 - Volume 62

2016 Toyon Staff Managing Editors..................................... Clayton Ellis ........................... Angela Compton Copyeditor................................................ A.J. McGough Acquisitions Editor............................ Michael Robinson Creative Non-Fiction Editor................. Jasmin Arnold Poetry Editors ................................................ Bri Lucero ............................... Jocelyn Aguilar Fiction Editor.............................................. Clarissa Call Translation Editor............................... Andrea Curtade Visual Art Editor...................................... Dane Manary Special Theme Editor.................................. Luke Wages Spoken Word & Audio Editor...... Rose Christy-Cirillo Web Manager............................................. Gabe Pacana Archive Editor................................................ Jade Mejia Circulation Manager...................................... Nils Rabe Events Coordinators................................... Ryan Silva ................................ Marin Hilger Social Media Manager......................... Marley Coody Office Manager......................................... Amy Whitney Internal Communications Manager........ Elena Kay Faculty Advisor.................................. Dr. Janelle Adsit

Award Winners Jodi Stutz Award (for best work of Literary Poetry)

Ode to a Himalayan Blackberry by Marcos Hernandez Richard Cortez Day Advisor’s Prize (for best work of Fiction)

Fog by Stephen Sottong Toyon Staff Award

(for best work of Visual Art)

Emociones Mixtas by Ashley Underwood

Redwood Empire Mensa Award (for best work of Creative Non-Fiction)

Kitchen Theater by Katherine Robinson

Russel McGaughey Award (for best work of Literary Criticism)

A True Exhibition of the Southern Gothic Genre by Alejandra Muneton-Carrera Multilingual Award (for best work in Translation or Multiple Languages)

Chicomecoatl, I Welcome You by Paradise Martínez Graff

Contents Fiction Fog | Stephen Sottong

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Just a State of Mind | Zack Anderson

The Big Story | Raymond Collins

The Bridge | Robert Papadopoulos

A Common Occurrence | Michael Masinter

Creative Non-Fiction Kitchen Theater | Katherine Robinson

Chicomecoatl, I welcome you | Paradise MartĂnez Graff

Poetry A Nice, Cold Glassa Lemonade | Paul Swietek

Christmas Scotch | Jeffrey Hassman

Spitting Embers | Janet Calderon

An Afternoon at Samoa Beach, CA | Kirk Alvaro Lua

Poetry | Ember Griffith

My Favorite Things | Adam Samara

To Find Life | Sierra Howard

Wingless | Michael Riedell

Fate Tends to Drift | Joseph C. Mayer

Ode to a Himalayan Blackberry | Marcos Hernandez

Art Dragonshadow | Oskar Azucena

Sly Sea Wolf | Sadie Finney

Rhododendron | Elisa Griego

Las Mujeres | Daisy Ramirez

Entropic | Sasha Honigman

Celestial | Alejandra Muneton-Carrera

Translation Fresca Brisa | Grecia Romero Sabillion English Translation

Virgen de los Abismos| Kirk Alvaro Lua English Translation

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Virgen de los Senos | Kirk Alvaro Lua English Translation

Literary Criticism (online only) A True Exhibition of the Southern Gothic Genre | Alejandra Muneton-Carrera Sex, Gender, and Femininity: Crucial Aspects in Angela Carter’s ‘The Magic Toyshop’ | Marley Coody Contributor Biographies

Editors' Page

ello, fine friends, and welcome to the 62nd issue of Humboldt State Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Toyon, a multilingual journal of literature and art. Founded in 1954 by HSU students, Toyon began as a way to give voice to emerging writers and artists in the Humboldt area. Today, more than 50 years later, Toyon remains student-run and as dedicated as ever to publishing the works of the brightest and most auspicious writers and artists for youâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;our most loyal and dedicated readers. We, the Toyon staff members, are tremendously pleased to present to you fine works of poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, literary criticism, and visual art. We encourage college students, community members, and all humans of the world to submit original pieces for upcoming issues. We are very excited about continuing to publish works by artists from diverse backgrounds. This year we are proud to bring you Spanish language pieces that are also translated into English, and spoken word pieces, filmed and available for the first time ever on the Toyon website for your listening and viewing pleasure. Our online presence is always expanding so that readers and viewers (and now, listeners!) can enjoy the magic of Toyon via the web. As you read and view the marvelous works presented here, we hope you too will feel as delighted by them as we are. Thank you! The Editors Arcata, CA December 2015

Fog

by Stephen Sottong

he six a.m. traffic report blared from the clock radio. Yet another wreck at the intersection of the Harbor and San Diego Freeways. Jeff sat up in bed and squinted at the milky glare coming through the sliding glass doors. Rising, he opened the door to the balcony. The morning air already carried the exhaust of a million commuters. Sun reflected off a thick blanket of fog that ended several stories below his floor. June gloom. Another lovely day in LA. Jeff leaned on the railing and stared into the swirling, grey murk. Traffic would be gridlocked. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d have to take the light rail, and the Blue Line would be crowded with other commuters like him trying to avoid the clogged freeway. He stretched. Lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s normally hectic pace, once again, shifted into overdrive. He returned to the bedroom to begin the morning routine. Half an hour later, breakfast bar in mouth, coat slung over his shoulder, Jeff jogged down the corridor lit in colored patches by a geometric stained glass Art Deco window. He pressed the call button for the elevator and waited. The residents had been assured the lift was completely modernized when the old downtown office building was converted to condos, but it still moved at a speed reminiscent of its vintage faĂ§ade. On days like this, Jeff sometimes wished his life moved at a pace in keeping with these surroundings. 13

The bell sounded and the elevator doors slowly parted. Jeff squeezed through before they had fully opened and pushed the lobby button. As the car descended, he finished putting on his coat, leaned against the brass rail and tried to catch his breath. The car shuddered and he felt an enveloping chill, as if the fog had penetrated the building. The rumble of the air conditioning muted. Lights flickered. He glanced at the ceiling wondering if there was a brownout, hoping he wouldn’t be stranded in this box. The vent cover was brass scrollwork. Jeff wondered why he’d never noticed it before. The car resumed steady movement. The doors slowly opened and he squeezed through them into the lobby. A uniformed doorman held the outer door for him and wished him “Good day.” Jeff walked through and paused, turning to stare at the unexpected figure. Shaking his head, he walked quickly to the light rail stop. Foot traffic was heavier than usual. Figures passed Jeff in the thick fog bundled in coats and hats. Jeff could not remember when he’d seen so many people wearing hats. It must be yet another fad he had no time to contemplate. At 28, he felt older than his years — out of touch with his era. He pushed past the surprisingly slow pedestrians. Workmen had been making repairs at his light rail stop the last time he’d used the system, but Jeff had not expected such an extensive remodel. They’d lowered the platform several feet and removed the ramp. He checked the street signs. This was the right place. A bell sounded 14

in the fog. A red light rail car approached. The color momentarily surprised him, but he remembered that a couple of the Blue Line cars had been repainted some years ago for an anniversary of the old Red Car line. Jeff thought the changes to the cars had been cosmetic, but this car had steps, and the door was as unfamiliar as the wooden bench seats inside. The car prepared to move. A boy of about 12 in a weather-beaten coat and wool driving cap rushed aboard, pressed past Jeff, and hunkered by the window next to him on the seat, pretending to sleep. Jeff sat, immobilized, disoriented. A man in a hat and uniform coat walked purposefully down the aisle and stopped in front of Jeff. “Where you headed?” “To the transfer station for the west bound cars.” Jeff reached for his transit pass. “Watts station, twenty cents.” Before Jeff could react, the man turned his gaze to the boy on the bench next to Jeff. “He yours?” “No.” The conductor leaned over Jeff and grabbed the boy by the ragged collar of his coat. “You tryin’ to freeload, kid?” “No, sir.” The boy’s voice was small and quavered. “Then where’s your fare?” “I got it here somewhere.” The boy, still half in the air, fished through his pockets. Jeff reached in his back pocket for change. He 15

quickly sorted out four dimes. “Here. For both of us.” As he handed them to the conductor, he noticed the profile of Mercury on the coins. The conductor dropped the boy, turned, shook his head, and mumbled, “Another humanitarian.” The boy sat and readjusted his cap. “Thanks, mister. He likes to toss kids off while the Red Car’s running.” “Nice guy.” “I’ll pay you back. Honest.” Jeff watched the fog-softened cityscape pass the car window. “Don’t worry about it.” “No, honest. Twenty cents is a lot. Most folk’s ain’t got a dime to spare. I’ll make it good.” Jeff smiled. “Okay, next time I see you.” The boy looked out the window, watching the people on the fog-bound sidewalks. “Ain’t seen you on this car before.” “I think I may have gotten on the wrong train today.” The boy nodded. “Happens. There’s a lotta trains. Where ya headed?” “I’m catching a train west to El Segundo.” The boy tilted his head thinking. “You don’t look like somebody who’d work at the refinery.” Jeff looked from the fogscape to the disheveled boy. “I don’t. Where are you going?” “Long Beach. Gonna try to pick up some work at the Pike.” The name triggered memories of talks with his 16

grandmother about riding a rickety roller coaster at the beach. Jeff stared at the boy blankly as the pages of his grandmother’s cherished photo albums turned in his mind. He looked round at his fellow passengers. Their hats and coats, the women’s purses and hair, the careworn expressions – nothing like the rush hour crowd. He blinked hard and took in his surroundings again. They remained stubbornly unchanged. Leaning against the wooden bench, he tried to slow his heartbeat. The boy gave Jeff a puzzled look. “You okay, mister?” “Yeah.” He turned back to the boy. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” The boy shrugged. “No good goin’ to school. No future there.” “Why?” The boy tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “You one of them rich folks?” “No, I’m not rich. Why do you ask?” “Way things been goin’ lately, only rich folks have time for school.” Jeff took in his fellow passengers and leaned close to the boy. “Trust me on this one: there’s no future working at the Pike. Times will get better. If you don’t have an education, you won’t be ready when they do.” Jeff reached into his back pocket and, to his amazement, pulled two more Mercury dimes from it. “Take this. Go back to school. Believe me, you’ll regret it as long as you live if you don’t.” The boy stared at Jeff, warily at first, then pushed 17

the dimes away. “I don’t need it. School’s close. I can hoof it from here.” The boy got up, crawled over Jeff and headed for the door as the Red Car rolled to a stop. “I sure hope you’re right, mister.” The car stopped, and the boy walked into the fog. Jeff sat back, watching the foggy dreamscape roll sedately past the car, breathing in the unfamiliar smells, expecting any moment to awake. “Watts,” the conductor said. Jeff rose, looked once more around the car, and stood by the door as it rolled to a stop. The familiar sight he knew as 103rd St. Station appeared through the fog. He walked out onto the pavement and stood there, alone, cocooned in fog as the car pulled away, unsure what awaited him. From his right, voices rose. Jeff moved toward them. Slowly, the fog dissipated. A fast moving woman bumped into him without a word. Jeff let out a long breath and joined the crowd milling on the platform. A boy with a backwards ball cap talked on a cell phone. Jeff reached into his back pocket and pulled out his change. The familiar face of FDR appeared on the dimes. He shook his head and waited for a southbound train. A blue car arrived and he pushed aboard with the rest of the herd grabbing the overhead bar for the trip, one stop, to Rosa Parks station. Amid the swaying crowd of travelers trying desperately not to notice each other, Jeff still felt in the wrong time. Exiting as the last wisps of fog burned off in 18

the morning sun, Jeff crossed the tracks and took the escalator to the upper level. At the top, a train had left seconds earlier. Angry commuters, cursing their slowness, queued for the next train. Jeff moved to join the queue at a pace slower than usual. He stepped aside as an old man in a driving cap, one hand on a cane, the other on the arm of an equally old woman, walked in the direction of the down escalator. The man looked up, stopped, and put a hand on Jeff’s arm. Jeff looked at the stranger’s face. The man gazed back at him, open mouthed. The woman on his arm looked at the old man and tugged at his sleeve. The man’s mouth moved, but no words came out. He looked down, reached into his pocket, pressed something into Jeff’s hand, and folded Jeff’s fingers around it. He patted Jeff’s hand and finally said, “Thank you.” The old man took one last look at Jeff, shook his head, and obeyed his wife’s persistent tug. Jeff watched, bemused, as the couple walked away. He opened his hand and saw two dimes. Jeff ran in the direction of the retreating figures. The sound of a train bell stopped him. Looking at his watch, he realized if he did not catch this train he’d be late for work. He took one last look for the couple, but they were out of sight. He ran for the train. Jeff slipped into the familiar plastic seats as the train headed west. Gazing out the window at the offices, hotels, and warehouses that sped past, he looked beyond them, to the coast, hoping for fog.

It’s Just a State of Mind by Zack Anderson

e rises in the dead of night, sweat-soaked and panting. He sits up in his bed, wincing at a headache worse than any he's felt before. In a painful instant, his senses – previously dulled – return with a vengeance. A wretched odor assaults his nostrils. He can taste the dampness in the air, feel the uncomfortable heat on his skin. He can hear an array of troubling sounds coming from somewhere far away – sirens, screams, windows breaking, all melding together to form a feverish symphony. And he can see his bedroom, though, to be honest, he isn't quite sure it's his bedroom. Clothes – not his – are scattered over the stain-covered carpet. The wallpaper is peeling off in sheets, exposing damaged drywall. In a hole in the wall, he thinks he sees something – a rat, perhaps – scampering out of one shadow and into another. He shudders. He distinctly remembers falling asleep in a space very much unlike this one. Vaguely, as if remembering a dream, he recalls the smell of lavender, and the feel of soft blankets draped over his body. His gaze shifts sideways, falling upon the woman in the bed, lying beside him. She resembles his wife, Julia, though only just. Aside from her general shape, and the 20

somewhat familiar structure of her face, she looks like a different person, a separate entity altogether. She is sickly thin, pale – her face drawn and hollow and dried like a raisin. Her hair – which he remembers to be brown and full – is gray and thinning. What's left of it is plastered to her sweaty brow in solitary strands. Her eyes are closed, and her body is still. For a moment, he thinks she might be dead, though the subtle rising and falling of her chest convinces him otherwise. Gently, he places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “Julia,” he hisses, surprised at how raspy his voice sounds. “Julia...” But she doesn't budge, even when he begins to shake her, chanting her name louder and louder with every jostle. Her head lolls from side-to-side, though she remains fast asleep. Finally, he gives up, releasing her and feeling, once again, the headache he's been trying to ignore. Dazed, he climbs out of bed (not the king-sized mattress he remembers, but what looks and sounds like a creaky fold-out sofa) and stumbles towards the bathroom, his undershirt and boxer shorts both damp and matted against his skin. He flips the light switch and catches himself on the counter, just as he feels his knees beginning to shake, threatening to buckle. The fluorescent light overhead flickers to life. Though the light is dull, it is blinding, and only intensifies the pain in his head. The bathroom becomes ugly under the glow. The tile 21

is chipped, the counter top is stained, and from his place over the sink (which itself is filled halfway with opaque water) he can see the toilet, surrounded by flies â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the source, he surmises, of the awful aroma he'd awoken to. He looks at the cracked mirror over the sink, at his reflection. But it isn't his reflection; it's as though he's looking through a window, at a man he doesn't recognize. His face is long and covered in scabs. His skin seems to be stretched thin over his skeletonâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;no fat, no muscle, just bones barely held upright. Gone is his luscious hair; he is bald, though that isn't the most alarming thing he sees. Opening his mouth slightly, he notices that a number of teeth are missing, and the ones that remain are yellowed and crooked. He blinks, hoping uselessly that when he opens his eyes, everything will be as he remembers. But nothing has changed in that fraction of a second, save for the headache, which seems to have somehow tripled in intensity in that meager span. Ignoring his ghastly appearance, he turns his attention instead to the medicine cabinet on the wall above the light switch. The wood-panel door dangles on a single hinge. When he grabs it, it breaks free of the wall entirely. He lets the door fall and explores the cabinet. There are three shelves, all of which house collections of solid gray pill bottles. Frantically, he begins to snatch bottle after bottle from the cabinet, tearing off the lids and examining the contents, until he finds something that closely enough 22

resembles aspirin. He pours the bottle's entirety into his clammy palm and shoves as many of the pills as can fit into his mouth. With his mouth full, he dips his cupped hand into the sink's brine, bows his head, and lifts the water to his dry lips. He washes down the pills, feeling them tumble down his throat, some alone, others wedged in side-byside. He forgoes his hand and plunges his face into the sink, letting it soak, contemplating leaving it there in the hopes that the experience might yank him from this nightmare. But slowly, coming to terms with the fact that he may not be dreaming, that this may, somehow, be his life, he lifts his head. There he stands, monitoring his headache. Already, the pain is less severe, though he knows all he did was dull it, stave it off for only a little while â&#x20AC;&#x201C; this was, of course, assuming that the pills he ingested were in fact aspirin and not something else. He backs away from the counter a step, finding that he can stand now, as his shakes appear to have subsided. Cautiously, he takes a step towards the bedroom. Briefly, he considers returning to bed, in the hopes that he'll awaken to find everything as it was, as he remembers. But in a flash, the pain in his head returns, a thousand times more powerful than before, now far beyond anything he could have ever imagined. He needs to leave. He has no destination in mind; he yearns for a change of scenery, maybe some fresh air. Kneading his brow with bony fingers, he leaves the bedroom. 23

The hallway, living room, and kitchen all pass by in a scattered blur. He forces his way out through the front door and stumbles down the porch steps, somehow managing not to collapse onto the lawn. His hands are on his knees, and his head is down. He is breathing heavily. Gradually, he becomes aware of the grass; the once-lush lawn is now dry and yellow. The blades crunch beneath his feet, jabbing at the soles as they bend like straw. He looks up, at the world before him. A nearby sign reads: MATTSON AVENUE â&#x20AC;&#x201C; his street. Somehow, his suburban neighborhood has devolved into a grimy slum. The lawns are dead, and many of the windows are broken or absent altogether. What were once vibrant houses are now flimsy shacks, looking as though they might cave in on themselves without much provocation. He walks up the path, to the sidewalk, where he sinks to his knees. He feels like he might cry. But then, he hears something a short distance away. He glances over quickly; a lone figure is walking, slowly, down the street towards him. He begins to panic at the sight of the stranger. He stands and takes off running in the opposite direction. His head pounds with each step. Finally, winded, he falls to the pavement. Gasping for air, he rolls onto his back, and stares up at the night sky. Usually, he can see stars. But now, they are hidden above a thick shroud of smoke which seems to blanket the road. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, the stranger he'd seen approaching is standing above him. 24

He screams in alarm. The stranger is tall, thin (though not unhealthily so) and clad in a tan suit. His face is pale, round, and cleanly shaven. He is smiling; everything about his demeanor projects a disarming, friendly air. “Michael,” he says softly, offering his hand. Michael takes the hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Vaguely, he is aware of lights popping up all around him, as his neighbors – no doubt roused by his scream – peek out through their windows. “Having some trouble?” the stranger asks, once he and Michael are face-to-face. Michael sighs, desperately. “I guess.” The stranger's smile widens. “Relax,” he urges. “This is just a slight...mechanical failure. Nothing that can't be fixed...” Michael shakes his head, confused. “Fixed?” he echoes. “What...?” “It'll just take a little calibration,” the stranger explains. He reaches up, feels the back of his head. “These things aren't perfect, you know.” Cautiously, mirroring the stranger's actions, Michael runs a hand over his smooth scalp. To his horror he feels three lumps – cold, metallic nodes which seem to be jutting out from beneath his skin – at the base of his neck. “What...?” he begins, weakly. “I know it's confusing, but you must listen...” “What is this?” Michael asks, gesturing wildly at the houses around him. “Is this real?” The stranger smiles – though his smile seems much more sinister now. 25

“Real?” he asks. “None of it is real, Michael. This world – yours, the good, the bad, the love, the hate, the sky, the street – it's all just...” He pauses, searching for the right word. “It's just a state of mind.” “But...” Michael mutters. The stranger's sentiments offer little clarity. But the stranger hushes him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It'll only take a moment,” he assures Michael. “You'll be right as rain...” But the sound of his voice triggers something, and Michael's head feels like it might actually explode. Moaning like a lunatic, he tears past the stranger, resuming his aimless run. “As you wish,” he hears the stranger say. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a black, windowless van appears, rolling up onto the sidewalk, blocking Michael's path. A door opens, and men in black uniforms pile out. Michael has no time to think as the men seize him and propel him forward into the bowels of the vehicle. They clamber in after him, surrounding him. Everything is dark. And it stays that way for some time. Slowly, Michael opens his eyes. He's in his room, and he stares straight up at the ceiling – painted a soothing shade of green – for some time. His headache is gone. So, too, is that awful aroma, replaced now by the faint, pleasing scent of lavender. It is over-encompassed, however, by a much more tantalizing 26

smell – that of frying bacon. He sits up, relishing the crisp sheets, the soft bed. The windows allow the sunlight to invade the room, embellishing it, creating a bright, warm atmosphere. The walls are intact and the carpet is clean. The dirty clothes are nowhere to be seen, stashed in the wicker basket by the closet. Timidly, he feels his head, running his fingers to his delight through thick, tangled locks. He feels the back of his head and neck; the nodes are gone and the skin is smooth. Dragging his tongue through his mouth, he finds that all of his teeth are intact and smooth. He swallows; the faint taste of toothpaste lingers in the back of his throat. Then, he looks sideways. Julia is gone; he can still see her imprint in the mattress, the crease in her pillow where her head rests, comfortably. A voice – hers – calls out suddenly from the kitchen. “Michael?” she asks. “Are you up?” Michael opens his mouth to speak, but for some reason, he can't think of anything to say. He can hear footsteps in the hallway, growing louder, coming near. Julia appears in the doorway. She is fit, full of color, and wearing, apparently, nothing but her bathrobe. Her thick hair lies damp along her back. Michael smiles upon seeing her. She smiles too, though there is concern in her eyes, something close to nervousness. “Honey,” Michael sighs. “How are you feeling?” Julia asks. 27

“Fine. I just...” He stops, unsure of what to tell her. He isn't quite sure himself what exactly has happened. It feels like a nightmare now – the pain in his head, the smelly, dingy house, and those nodes, almost like electrical outlets, in the back of his head. Maybe that's just what it was, he concludes, a nightmare. The notion is comforting, and he accepts it willingly. “I just had an awful dream.” Julia nods, as though she's already aware. Was he speaking in his sleep? Had he awoken her, wailing like a madman and muttering gibberish? He is nervous now, ashamed, unsure of whether or not to address his behavior. “Well, it's over now,” Julia says, clearly, as if she's trying to convince him. “You're awake.” She seems willing to move past it. Michael is more than happy to oblige. He sniffs the air. “Something smells good...” Julia smiles. The concern fades in her eyes slightly. “That, Mister Nightmare, is breakfast,” she says. Michael grins hungrily. “Is it ready?” Julia nods eagerly. “Come, let's eat.” Michael leaps out of bed and follows her to the kitchen, the smell of bacon growing stronger and stronger all the way. On the kitchen table, breakfast is laid out. There's bacon, eggs, toast, and a steaming cup of coffee – Michael's favorite morning meal. He sits down at his place, snatching up the newspaper that's been set beside the coffee. He sits back, plucks a strip 28

of bacon from his plate, and scans the front page. The headlines are reassuring – unemployment at an all time low, the President enjoying staggeringly high approval rates. There is a cheerful article near the bottom about a girl, rescued from a collapsing building by dutiful emergency personnel. No mention is made of the cause of the collapse, but it doesn't matter, for no great loss has been suffered. Michael glances up from his newspaper. Julia is sitting across from him, smiling sweetly, not eating. “What's the matter?” he asks. “Aren't you hungry?” “I'm just,” she says, “glad you're okay.” He offers a smile in return. He reaches over, his smile turning into a mischievous grin, and steals a bacon strip. “I'll take that as a 'no,'” he says, playfully, to no protest from Julia. He takes a bite. But the food tastes like nothing. He chews, grinding it into a dry, ashy powder. He notices the newspaper. It's blank – just a stack of empty pages. Confused, he looks across the table at Julia. She is thin, gray, lifeless again. Past her, Michael can see cabinet doors swaying on their hinges. He sees shelves, stocked with nothing but gray, identical packages. And out the window, he can see the smoggy, grainy sky. This isn't a nightmare. It can't be. To his horror, Michael feels the headache returning, little-by-little, and the bathroom's dreadful aroma, etching its way up into his nose. Panicked, hopeless, he shuts his eyes, hoping beyond all hope that when he opens them again he will be back in the home – his home – that he remembers so 29

fondly. There will be Julia, lively as ever. And there will be sunshine – bright and pure. And food – fresh bacon. And coffee. And newspapers. Now without hesitation, determined, with the memory of the dearly-held components of his life offering him strength, he opens his eyes. The light is blinding, at first, but he adjusts quickly. All is right. The food is fresh, the sun is shining. And Julia sits across from him, in her bathrobe and colorful. But she isn't smiling. She's panicked. “Are...are you alright?” she asks. “I'm fine,” says Michael, casually, as though nothing had happened. “You just... you just had this look in your eyes...” “A look?” Michael repeats. “What do you mean?” “I don't know,” Julia sighs. She softens. “You're sure you're alright?” Smiling, Michael reaches across the table, takes her hand in his, and squeezes. “I'm fine,” he insists. “Never better.” They finish breakfast and move to the living room, where they sit on the couch, Julia with her head on Michael's shoulder. The television is on, but Michael isn't watching. He's looking around the room, at the bookshelves, at the rug on the hardwood floor, at the curtains, which are drawn to block the gleaming sunlight. He savors the cushions beneath him, and the weight of Julia's head on his shoulder. It's all so perfect, so comforting. He can't imagine things any better; he doesn't want to. 30

He closes his eyes and leans his head back, so that he's facing the ceiling. And he knows that when he opens his eyes, everything will be the same – everything will be just as perfect, just as good. He opens them, stares at the ceiling, then down at his wife. She's transfixed, captivated by the television – what appears to be the news. “Can you imagine?” she murmurs, after seeing startling footage of foreign slums. “What?” he asks. “Living like that,” she says, nodding at the screen. “Can you imagine?” He shrugs. “I suppose.” “It's so terrible,” Julia continues. “I don't know how they can stand it.” “Well, I'd imagine it's...” Julia looks up at Michael, awaiting his insight. But he is quiet, lost in thought, lost in a memory, one that already feels so far away, so distant, as if it were a dream. Maybe it is one. He remembers the words, mulling them over, chewing on them for a moment, while Julia considers to stare at him, expectantly. “What?” she asks, finally. “You'd imagine it's...?” He smiles. “It's just a state of mind.”

Dragonshadow by Oskar Azucena 32

The Big Story by Raymond Collins

e was tall like a Redwood tree, his arms were thick like the cables that suspend the Golden Gate Bridge, his police record was as long and crooked as Highway 1, and he could run faster than the Santa Ana winds that blow hot and dry out of the mountains, across the bottom of the state, and down to the sea. They called him Big ‘cause that was what his mama called him when she first caught sight of the 23 lb infant that she a had just borne. Unfortunately, he was none too bright, having an IQ lower than the belly of a Death Valley rattlesnake. In fact, it was in Death Valley when he first exhibited his incredible strength. He was only three years old when he was carrying his mama across the hot, flat sands, and they were getting real thirsty. That was about the time he saw a rock, a large rock–maybe a hundred pounds or so. He set his mama down in his shadow to protect her from the heat of the midday sun. (He had a large shadow, you know.) Then, not knowing any better, he picked up that rock and started to squeeze. By and by, the dang thing started to leak a stream of water and not much later, the two of them had enough water for a shower. His mama was amazed, but Big didn’t know any better so he didn’t think much of it. But then, Big didn’t really think much anyhow. Mama did some thinking, though. She heard there 33

was a brand new highway being built way over to the other side of the Mojave Desert. She figured a lot of big rocks would be needed for building a new highway so she and the boy kept moving until they got over there. When they arrived, they found a little shack near a quarry where they settled down for the next number of years and sold water to the road crews and all the people driving through on this fancy new road. Big saved what was left of the rocks he had squeezed dry, and one day when Mama had gone to visit the neighbors, he made a wonderful gravel path that wound around the shack and then out back into the desert behind, and then between and around all the the individual Yucca plants for miles. (They had sold a lot of water.) By the time his mama came home that evening, she was amazed and pleased to find a big and beautiful park out behind her homely little shack. Well, Big just kept getting bigger and he kept getting stronger, and by the time he was ten or so he began to realize just how fast he could run. One day there was a bunch of local fellas gathered on the porch of his mama’s water store just chewin’ the fat. That’s when that warm wind that blows out of the mountains on down to the sea started acting up. Before too long it was really whipping and Big told his buddies that he bet he could run fast as that wind could blow. He didn’t even wait to wager on it. He took off and was out of sight before anybody could say “Look at him go!” It wasn’t but an hour and a half later that he was back wearing a Venice Beach t-shirt and carrying a Mason jar full of salt water just to prove where he had been. He said he would have 34

been back sooner but he had trouble finding a Mason jar. There was a rumor that went around when Big was about fifteen that he had gone to race the wind again, and he got so far ahead of it that when he got to the edge of the mountains, he stopped and waited for it in the last pass before the mountains opened up to the valleys down below. Well, the rumor goes that he had grown so big by that time, that the wind couldn’t get around him as he stood in the middle of the pass. Without the wind to blow it away, the fog rolled in all over the bottom of the state and the air cooled down so much that they had the earliest frost in history down in those valleys and it didn’t warm up until Big moved out of the way. (Personally, I think that’s a little far fetched.) Well, some day when we have a little more time I’ll tell you about all the banks Big wound up robbing – cause he could – after his mama took off with some old geezer fella. And all the jails he broke up bustin’ out of ‘em and how, in the end, he got tired of being just one foot ahead of the law and took off running one morning. He didn’t stop ‘til he got to the top of the state, in an area of large forests and trees that he had to look up to. To make it harder for the authorities to track him down he figured what he needed was a last name. He thought on it a bit (he had learned a little about thinking by that time). Then he decided that because he had spent so much time running that ‘Foot’ should be his last name. Then he grew a lo-o-ong beard and slipped away into those forests, rarely to be seen again. 35

Sly Sea Wolf by Sadie Finney 36

The Bridge

by Robert Papadopoulos

n Pasadena, California there’s a bridge that serves as the major east-west thoroughfare between Eagle Rock and Pasadena called the Colorado Street Bridge. The bridge is 1,486 feet long and is known for its Beaux Arts arches, railings, and lighting. I only recently learned its official name as it has been colloquially referred to as Suicide Bridge going back as far as the Great Depression. Pedro lived with his father in a small house tucked away in the hills of Altadena, all the way up Allen Avenue. His parents were separated and he lived with his father. I heard his mom was bipolar once but I have no way of knowing if that was true or not. His dad was a nice guy though, he was always polite to me the few times I met him. I never met his mother and Pedro never talked about her. I remember being at our friend Nico’s house, which was just down the road from Pasadena High School when I heard that Pedro’s mom had committed suicide. Nico lived in a big house with his mom and grandmother. Everything inside was really old and smelled like cats. Nico had a newish car—a Kia or a Hyundai—that was pretty thrashed. He treated it with that level of privilege typical of somebody that knows something is replaceable. Nico had basically taken over the garage, and it was where he kept all of his bikes. He had a bit of talent when it came to BMX, which he was usually too intoxicated to employ. We used to hang out in the garage with the tools, 37

spare parts, and cigarette butts scattered about, sitting on whatever was available. That day, we were sitting on our white five gallon buckets drinking sprite with promethazine and codeine cough syrup, smoking weed and cigarettes. Nico got a text message from a friend of ours, Calista. Calista, many years later, would disappear after picking up a particularly dedicated Heroin habit at Cal State Long Beach -- but who could’ve predicted that? “Holy shit,” Nico said, breaking a silence that was was too stony to be awkward. The silence continued because everybody was in their own heads, wading through their own thoughts, and Nico had a tendency to exaggerate, “hole-lee-fucking-shit”. I clambered around looking for my pack of cigarettes which I had put somewhere stupid and was having the hardest time finding. I eventually found them under the bucket I was sitting on. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, and went through my mental routine in which I told myself I needed to quit, again. “What happened, bud?” “Pedro’s mom fucking killed herself.” Silence. A good minute of it. I didn’t really know what to think. I was having a hard time feeling any sort of way about the death of a woman I had never met. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must feel like to lose a parent to suicide, so my emotional response was almost non-existent. An attachment to somebody requires a history, and those histories evoke emotion. If I choose to reminisce 38

and think back to when I was a child, I can remember holding my mother’s hand as I walked to get a puppy from a family down the street, or the times my father would throw me in the air and catch me. These memories produce a feeling that I equate with love. I lacked the history with Pedro’s mother to achieve any kind of reaction at all. I lacked the empathy to feel my friend’s pain. Of course, I could logically understand the pain of losing a mother to something like suicide must be horrible, but I could not feel it. “I’ve uhh...never met Pedro’s mom,” I said lamely. “Me neither,” Matt agreed. “Let me have one of your cigarettes though.” Matt was a small kid, with a chubby face that usually had a fair speckling of acne. Much to his chagrin, people frequently asked Matt if he was Chinese. Matt was Indonesian Dutch, and he was very proud of it. There’s no nice way to say it, but he was a little fucking thief. He stole from everybody. I knew for a fact that he was in the habit of stealing stuff from Nico’s house. He’d never stolen anything from me, though. I always wondered why. I could never figure out if it was because he knew better, or if he just valued our friendship. “Dude, he just brought up somebody’s mom dying, and you’re gonna use it to make a play to bum a cigarette?” I was a little bothered by the way our friend’s mother’s suicide just drifted right by him. He lazily replied, “You gonna use it as an out not to give me one?” Earning him a look from Nico. “Have some respect for the dead,” Nico said. 39

Holding his phone and staring at the screen with a furrowed brow. “Have you met his mom then?” Matt asked. “No.” He kept looking at the screen like he was trying to find something to say. “So what the fuck do you care then?” “Because he’s my best friend.” Nico was staring at Matt now with a look that said, “are you fucking kidding?” Matt looked exasperated. I looked at Matt and wondered for the hundredth time what it must be like to steal from people that trust you. At times it seemed like Matt had almost no conscience. I remember when he stole our friend’s wallet out of his pocket when he passed out after drinking and then helped him look for it the next day. “So what happened?” I asked. “I don’t know. Calista said she was texting Pedro’s girl, that fuckin’-what’s-her-name bitch, and then she said that Pedro’s dad came and swooped him because his mom killed herself.” Another moment of silence, and when it seemed like Matt wasn’t going to say anything, I decided to be the one to take the responsibility of moving the conversation onward. “Poor fucking Pedro, dude.” The cigarette finished so I lit up another one with the butt of the first -- this seemed like the kind of conversation that excused chain smoking. “How’s he holding up?” “I don’t know he hasn’t answered me.” Matt was browsing craigslist on his phone and 40

seemed completely unperturbed by any of this. Nico was obviously bothered by it, but seemingly out of a sense of loyalty towards Pedro. This suicide, although I did not know the woman, struck me. It reminded me when I tried to take my own life the year before. “I wonder what made her do it?” “Pedro said she was bi-polar,” as if this was supposed to explain itself. “Yeah, maybe.” I wasn’t convinced. “But there had to be some sort of catalyst.” “I don't know, man; I just hope Pedro is okay.” He went back to staring at the phone screen. I had to get up and take a walk down the alley behind the garage and smoke to myself for a few moments to gather my thoughts. The alley way was lined with trash and spotted with garbage bins. There were a few parked cars, but not many since it was the middle of a work day. A few years ago I had tried to take my own life by swallowing 50 pills of a prescription medication I had. I remember what my catalyst had been. It seems mundane, petty, even cliche’d now, but it was because things hadn’t worked out with a girl that I cared about. She was damaged, in retrospect. It’s horrible to say, but we came from different worlds. She’d been horribly abused and I had been relatively sheltered. It took me years to realize that when you love somebody you’re basically volunteering to share their pain, and her pain was something I hadn’t been ready for. The things 41

that had been done to her opened up a world of cruelty to me that I hadn’t been able to imagine. The feeling of impotence concerned with the whole ordeal may have been the worse part. There was nothing I could do for her. I kicked a rock down the alleyway, lost it, and started kicking a new one, smoking as I went. When things didn’t work out, I had invested so much of myself in trying to help somebody else, I decided I’d rather eat a bottle of pills than spending the time and energy to rebuild myself. I remember the dark room I was in, the only light coming from a computer screen. I remember the bottle of pills, which I naively thought would just put me to sleep. I remember lying on the bed and telling myself “it’s over”, even smiling as I closed my eyes with some kind of macabre sense of relaxation. But it was just beginning. I got the most violent spins I’ve ever felt and ran to the bathroom to vomit. Shortly after, I went into statusepilepticus, during which the seizures were so violent that I smashed the bones in my face to pieces. I remember every second of being unable to control my body and watching it destroy itself. I remember it until I blacked out and woke up six days later in the hospital with a face I didn’t recognize due to the swelling. I hated thinking about it. I kept it down deep. My family didn’t discuss it. I didn’t want anybody to know it happened. I wish I could just erase it. Sometimes I wish I could just erase everything and start over. When I woke up, my mother and father were there. 42

The doctors hadn’t been sure how I’d wake up. Luckily, my body was still fully functional. I felt guilty. They told me that I could have just as easily woken up with half of my body completely paralyzed. My parents didn’t have to speak a word to me, because the pain due to fear of loss was written on their faces. How could I have done this to the people I love? It was tantamount to an act of betrayal. What had driven me so low to believe that, for that instant, I had no one, and that it was not worth living? The emotional trauma I inflicted upon my loved ones is something I would never forget and is enough to make me trudge through life no matter how inadequate I feel. So why did she do it? That is what I couldn’t help but wonder. What was her catalyst? Was it the feeling of isolation? Why did I even care? A week or so later, I still hadn't seen Pedro, which was completely understandable given the circumstances. I was sitting in Calista’s backyard on a dirty plastic chair that seemed to be part of a white plastic lawn furniture set. The table was next to me, but equally dirty. It was mostly brown from being outside for so long, and covered in spider webs. There were three other chairs, Matt was in one and Calista was in the other, while the last one was out in the middle of the yard. The backyard was a veritable junkyard. There were rusted pieces of metal which seemed to lack any applicable purpose all over the place, trash that had been forgotten on days like today, and innumerable cigarette 43

butts lying about. Although the yard was a pigsty, it was much cleaner than the inside of the house which smelled like cat excrement from the three or four cats living inside. There’d frequently be cat shit or throw up left where it lay for weeks. Calista lived with her father for reasons that were never entirely clear to me. Her mother was rich and lived in the hills of Pasadena. She was a large woman with a very masculine body and presence. The complete opposite of Calista that, at one point, was absolutely beautiful. All I can remember about her these days is her brown hair, and her eyes. I can’t even remember what color they were anymore, it’s been so long, but I’ll always remember how the first time I met her they seemed to look right through me. Her name is a greek derivation of ‘most beautiful’ and for a while she lived up to it. She was an alcoholic. Calista’d been drinking a fifth of Popov a day since she was sixteen. Somebody told me that her father used to touch her when she was younger. There wasn’t even a shower in the house she lived in, there was a bathtub that everybody shared, and the tub was absolutely disgusting, like it had never been cleaned. You’d never know any of this by looking at her though. She always smelled clean, with a hint of cheap perfume, and never looked greasy or dirty. Despite all the chaos in her life, she still managed to get straight A’s while we were at school together, and got into a good college. It was there she found Heroin, and everything remarkable about her faded away along with the girl I loved. 44

It was 11:00 A.M on a Wednesday in July and we were chasing Jack Daniels with warm Dr Pepper. Calista lived in Sierra Madre on a street called Windsor in a house that is no longer there. Another friend of ours had lived down the street at the end of the block, but he violated his parole and the feds came and took him away. The judge gave him 17 years and I never saw him again. If I had known that morning was going to be the last time I saw him, I might’ve hugged him goodbye. He barricaded himself in the house and they brought a swat team to come and get him. The SWAT team shot tear gas in and dragged him out and that was it. I remember because a week or so later, I went to smoke with his uncle and went into the house which had all the windows and doors open. When I got inside my eyes watered up and I started coughing. The tear gas lingered for quite some time and the family had to live in it. Whenever I’m anywhere near that street, I think of my friend and wonder where he’s at. I had just come back from the liquor store and was gutting a swisher. “Matt let me get a little weed for this here.” “I don’t have any.” He was on his phone and didn’t look up. “Quit trying to smoke for free.” “Nah, I really don’t.” He was still trying to avoid eye contact by staring at the phone, but it was obvious he wasn’t doing anything on it. “Why do you do this every time?” After going back and forth for a little while he coughed some weed up and 45

between his and my own we had enough for a nice little blunt. “You hear anything about Pedro, Calista?” I asked, still curious. “I heard his mom jumped off Suicide bridge,” she said while drinking deeply from the Jack Daniels and following it with a small sip of Dr Pepper. Matt spoke up “Kind of cool isn’t it? I mean it’s called Suicide Bridge but I’ve never known anybody to jump off of it. It’s almost like knowing a celebrity.” “You are such a fucking asshole. Our boy lost his mom and you’re making jokes” “I’m not joking, you guys just don’t want to say it... he hated her anyways.” “Even worse. They never had a chance to reconcile.” “He hates her in the kind of way I don't think they were gonna reconcile.” I was gonna lay into him about being an asshole but Calista took the opportunity to speak up. “We’re all gonna go to the Arroyo tomorrow if you wanna tag along.” “Fuck that shit,” Matt said. “I’m not about to walk with Pedro under Suicide Bridge, what kind of bullshit is that?” He looked at both of us in turn, “You don’t think that’s fucking creepy? Walking with a kid to look at where his mom died?” “I don’t know,” she said, “but it was his idea.” Nico was the only one that could drive so we all piled into his car and drove over to the Arroyo. The 46

Arroyo Seco is a long, dry gulch of protected parkland. We occasionally go over there at night to drink because nobody bothers anybody. The Gulch is surrounded by urban development, but for the most part maintains some semblance of an ecosystem, and is crowned by Suicide Bridge hundreds of feet above. We walked for a while making small talk and drinking and getting high en route. Eventually we were almost directly below the bridge and Pedro stopped. “This is where she fell.” I looked at Calista “Matt was right dude, I should’ve stayed home from this shit.” We were under a large pine that was conspicuously missing some of the branches in an almost straight line. There were rocks and sand underneath the pine, some of them were discolored. “This is where the bitch died.” “Let’s go, buddy, this is stupid,” Calista said. He didn’t answer. “Fuck her,” he muttered to the discolored stones, ignoring everybody around him. I huffed, “For fucks sake,” and pulled out my cigarettes while he stared, transfixed at the spot where his mother allegedly hit the dirt. “Let’s get out of here.” I lit two, and gave one to Calista and started walking back with her the way we came. Nico and Pedro were still there, Nico saying nothing and Pedro just staring, going through an emotional roller coaster that I couldn’t begin to understand. I held Calista’s hand for what might have 47

been the last time before we went our separate ways. I looked up at the bridge again and it looked different then than it ever had before. After that day it became something supernatural. I marveled for a moment longer at the great white arches that spanned across the gulch as they held up tons of steel and concrete. From far below, I could see the barrier that Pedroâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mother would have had to climb over in order to jump. I thought about the moment she looked down, and wondered what was going through her head. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but consider the fragility of the human psyche. As a species, we were capable of amazing achievements, the bridge itself was a testament to that -- each arch a modern Atlas. However, achievement can only be reached if weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re able to carry the weight of our own experiences. It had stood all of these years without falling or wavering, and I wondered if I would be able to do the same, or if life would one day overcome me as it had her.

A Common Occurrence by Michael Masinter

was tired and disenchanted by the drudgery of the day, and rain had begun to fall. It was late in the year so the entire town had gone dark at five-thirty. Every streetlamp and headlight was mirrored in the black pavement. I took a final glance, as I always did, at the picture of my wife on my desk before locking the office door. It was quiet outside, and cold; I could barely see the keys in my hand through the clouds of fog streaming from my mouth. There was a silence, broken only by the rain and the splashing of passing cars. Standing beneath the green awning, I put my briefcase over my head and walked quickly across the empty lot to my car. Inside, I listened to the rain pitterpatter against the metal roof while the engine warmed up. I could still see my breath as it moved through the dim green light emitting from the radio dial. The seat was cold and coarse, my clothes were damp and dirty; I felt uncomfortable in my itchy skin. This feeling of restlessness had been plaguing my body all throughout the day. The sensation was like wearing an outfit that was too small, making every movement an uncomfortable task. I felt confined and I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find an explanation. I had recapped the days of my week in search of a reason to be worried or something that I had forgotten, but there was nothing. I reminded myself of that now as the anxiety came to the foreground of my mind and 49

filled the cavities of my chest and stomach. My heart beat began to match the rapid rhythm of the rain, and the windows of my car were now translucent from the heat of my anxious breathing. My eyes shifted over to the temperature gauge. The engine was warm so I turned on the defoggers and shifted into reverse. Tensely, I backed out of the space, impatiently trying to allow time for the windows to clear. At the bottom of the exit driveway I peaked in between the scattered drops of water on my window. I pulled into the road. The lanes were indistinguishable beyond the reflecting lights of oncoming cars, so I drove slowly. The noisy chatter of the intensifying rain and the low visibility created a sense of isolation, which added to my already increasing feeling of claustrophobia. Suddenly, the image of my wifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face came into my mind, and I became extremely anxious to arrive home. I began to drive faster. I turned on the radio to calm myself down but could not settle on a station. I kept shifting my attention from the road ahead of me to my frantic fingerâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;seemingly operating on its own. When my hand returned to the wheel, it had settled on the retro station. I turned the volume up just loud enough so I could hear the music over the pounding rain. I focused my eyes on the double yellow lines in order to keep certain of where I was. In the distance, I could see that the road was coming to a curve so I began to slow down again. Halfway into it, I realized that the turn was much sharper than I had anticipated, but this realization came 50

too late. My tires began to lose traction and I could feel that I was no longer in control of my car. The screaming of my tires became loud and drowned out the sound of my music and the rain. I knew that I would crash. My mind quickened, time slowed, and I wondered in that moment what I would hit and hoped there would be no one else hurt. I could see nothing outside—green and red traffic lights streaked across every window of my car, enveloping my small world. I told myself to relax my body and prepare for impact when I remembered that I was not wearing my seatbelt. Too late: impact. I felt gravity lose its grip as I was lifted from my seat and projected toward the windshield. I felt nothing as I went through, watching the shattered glass form a wave-like tube around my body. The last thing I heard was the sound of Louis Armstrong’s voice singing “What a Wonderful World.” Yes, it is, I thought to myself. The surrounding trees, lights, and black sky became visible too me again. I watched calmly as the blacktop neared, my body now drenched in water. Relax, I told myself, you won’t feel it, shock will set in, just lie still and someone will call for help. I was calm. The only movement I made was to cradle my face in my arms as my body violently collided with the cold, uncompassionate concrete. I felt nothing; only heard the sound of my flesh tearing and my limbs smacking repeatedly against matter denser than my own while tumbling and sliding down the road. Time quickened. The rain became louder. I could feel the biting cold in contrast with the warmth of the blood 51

that freely flowed from my battered body. My mouth filled with the taste of salt and minerals from the blood and concrete. My tongue flipped around in a panic trying to gather the shards of shattered teeth. I moved nothing else but my eyes in search of the onlookers, there were none. I lay, breathing slowly, listening to my heartbeat through the puddle of liquid I was in. It was then that I noticed the feeling of restlessness had gone out of me. I was calm. I closed my eyes and tried to rest. I tried to ignore the thought of shattered bones and torn flesh. I tried to ignore any thoughts of regret or wishes for anything different. I tried to ignore these things to avoid any onset of pain. I was calm. The image of my wife’s face came into my mind again. She was smiling at me. Golden sunlight framed her beautiful face. It was the day of the picnic. “I love you,” I whispered aloud, “I’m sorry…”

Rhododendron by Elisa Griego

Las Mujeres by Daisy Ramirez 54

This year's Toyon Staff Award Winner for best work of visual art could not appear in the journal. However, the Toyon staff wishes to acknowledge the work of artist Ashley Underwood here.

Emociones Mixtas by Ashley Underwood

Entropic

by Sasha Honigman 56

Kitchen Theater by Katherine Robinson

’m eight years old and I’m working on my spelling at the kitchen table. My dad comes in from the living room behind me and says, “don’t go anywhere!” I slump in my seat because I know exactly where he’s headed, down to the depths of his basement library, to pull up probably the oldest most boring book he has. He comes back up with a collection of poetry, which is even worse than when he brings up the Shakespeare. “That’s my last duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive…” he reads aloud to me from the spotlight in the kitchen. I can still hear and see him standing there, pointing to an imaginary painting on the blue kitchen wall behind him. I sit quietly and listen, my back pressed against the hard wood of the kitchen chair. He was always interrupting my homework for our kitchen theater sessions. Fuck, I was just trying to learn how to spell “tomorrow.” I didn’t need to be listening to Shakespearean monologues and old English poetry. “What was Browning talking about?” my dad asks me. “What’s going on in this poem?” I shrug. I wasn’t really listening in the first place. “They’re negotiating a marriage. Here, listen carefully this time.” This time, I do listen. The poem is still lost on me. We go through a few more rounds of our kitchen theater with an intermission for my actual 57

homework, and he finally retires the book, and I learn how to spell words with double consonants. I’m eleven and I have to write a book report every month. This is a nightmare. I sit at the kitchen table for hours the night before its due typing on my mom’s laptop. Every time I think I’m done, my dad proof reads it and turns it back to me for editing and we cycle like this for hours until eventually I’m screaming at him. This is when I start hiding my writing from him. I’m thirteen and I can’t even be in the same room as my father. We don’t talk any more so he quietly leaves books on my desk that he thinks I might like. Animal Farm by George Orwell and The Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters. Sometimes he leans against my door frame and tells me about the latest book he’s found for me and I just sit and wait for him to leave and close the door behind him. I don’t read the books but I make space for them on my shelf with the others. I’m fifteen and my high school English classes start piling on the assigned reading. Animal Farm, The Great Gatsby, Julius Caeser, and I pull the books off my shelf for the first time in two years. I bring them to class every day and make a very convincing show of reading them. I notice my dad’s notes in the margins. I use them to cheat on the open book tests. I scan the book for pieces he’s highlighted and annotated “The fault, dear Brutus is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings.” That part must be important. I slip it into my essay as a quote. I’m sixteen and my dad is teaching me how to drive. 58

These driving lessons are the only times we see each other since I moved in with my mother. I can see how hard he’s trying to make amends with me. How hard he’s always tried, but I’m still sixteen and angry. We drive to a local Barnes & Noble and he goes to the classics section and I pick through the YA fiction. I like the romantic books. I read lots of Maureen Johnson and David Levithan. He likes Charles Bukowski and essay collections. I take a stack of books to the café, buy a coffee, sometimes hit on the barista. Then I sit there and read the first chapter of every book I pulled from the shelf, I put my coffee receipt in the front cover of the book that I like the best, with the Barnes & Noble logo sticking out and I meet my dad at the car. He sticks the book he likes in his jacket and then slips it in the trunk of the car in a way that he thinks is subtle. We do this nearly every night because the five-finger discount never expires. We both pretend we don’t notice. This goes on for eight months, just car rides and shoplifting and coffee. I’m eighteen and I’m sitting in the back of my English class. “That’s my last duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive…” My teacher reads from the front. I open my textbook for the first time all semester to read the poem I’d heard ten years earlier. I find that I can still hear it in my father’s voice. When I get home that evening I pull out the old anthology of English poetry my father had given to me. The cover is purple with gold lettering and all of a sudden 59

the book looks like royalty. What a shame to leave it sitting here, untouched for five years. I read “My Last Duchess” one more time. Then I read “A Woman’s Last Word” and then I read on to “Porphyria’s Lover.” Then I call my dad, and I go to his house for the first time in 6 months. I read “Porphyria’s Lover” to him while standing in the kitchen, right underneath the domed ceiling light. “The rain set early in tonight, the sullen wind was soon awake” I read aloud to him from the spotlight. He pretends he hasn’t heard it before. Then he reads to me from “The Post Office” by Charles Bukowski. Just the first and last few lines. Then I read to him from Hamlet, “Alas! Poor Yorick, I knew him well…” He reads to me from 1984, the section about doublethink, and our kitchen theater goes on and on without intermission.

Celestial

by Alejandra Muneton-Carrera 61

Chicomecoatl, I welcome you. by Paradise Martínez Graff

“If we are interested in building a movement that will not constantly be subverted by internal differences, then we must build from the inside out, not the other way around. Coming to terms with the suffering of others has never meant looking away from our own. And, we must look deeply. We must acknowledge that to change the world, we have to change ourselves—even sometimes our most cherished block-hard convictions.” – Cherrie Moraga in This Bridge Called My Back

esitant to cherish mis raizes gringas, my suffering, I tell Antonio, “By ‘White-Passing,’ I mean that I pass off as white, but I don’t refer to myself as white.” My voice now bangs on the walls, my volume, thunderous and surviving, pleading for help, but no one hears my call. I feel too strongly, to speak, so I stop. I hold my palms together, as if ready to pray - for nourishment, for fire, to the Aztec goddess of maize, my skin and soul, Chicomecoatl1—I pinch my lips with my index fingers and Breathe. We have been together for six months. Almost two full seasons, yet Antonio still reads my Latin lathered lips, my Rs rolled into handmade corn tortillas, as “güera.” Simply “güera.” No, he does not say “güera2” nor “güerita3.” To him, my freckled masa colored curves 1Chicomecoatl/Xilonen: “The sprouting and harvesting of maize was metaphorically associated with ongoing cycle of birth, destruction, and regeneration of life.” 2 Güera: Blonde girl 3 Güerita: Blonde little one

whisper “white.” He does not use my words, to refer me as I would like, for we use different tongues. So in between my pause he says, “But you’re still white.” A further paleness suddenly takes over me. My voice fades and my hands slowly fall on my quads as I sit at the edge of Antonio’s frameless mattress. I want to explain the pieces of Mexico within me - the southwest of California and Tijuana, where I grew up, and my Mexican parents - these snippets of my story that will justify my Chicana4 identity. I tell Antonio, “I know, I’m white. I receive white privilege. I’m aware of that, but I don’t refer to myself as white.” I’m being loud again. I pause, lower my voice, and raise my words. so as not to keep Peter – Antonio’s roommate upstairs – from texting him to keep me quiet again. I take a deep breath to regain my strength, to recollect mi historia, but I cannot find the words, only the feelings, only my experience. I tell Antonio, “I didn’t grow up with Englishspeaking parents. I grew up with Spanish-speaking parents who migrated to this country from Mexico, illegally, and alone...I know I have white skin. I know why my sister tells me she wishes she had lighter skin since lighter skin and anglo features are idolized around the world. Okay? I understand, but when someone calls me white, it offends me. I don’t, and never have, identified myself with white people...My parents weren’t raised by white culture. I always saw white people as smarter 4 Chicana: coined during the Chicano Movement by Mexican American women who wanted to establish social, cultural, and political identities for themselves in America.

than me, more capable, better speakers. That’s what they taught us. My father’s machismo, my mother’s docility, and their aggressive behavior, followed them from the colonized lands of Mexico to the colonized lands of Southern California. Am I supposed to erase that reality because, to you, I am white? Tell me what that means, Anthony.” I Pause. I Breathe. White faces surround me. White spaces, include me, seclude me, you from me, and I from you…How do I begin this revolution, if we are divided? Anthony remains seated on his desk chair facing me, with his legs open, stationary - as he was when we began this conversation. He sits slouched, and repeats, “Buuut youu’re whiite.” His words sting. My eyelids shut down, quickly, like two steel doors. I shake my head quietly. My shoulders drag to the floor as my own doubts weigh down on me. I pull my heavy hands over my face and inhale in order to exhale anxiety. He says, “Just imagine if I called myself BlackPassing.” “What?” I scoff. “Yeah, I mean, I’m black, well no, actually I’m brown, but I don’t act according to black stereotypes. Does that make me Black-Passing? Or imagine if a White guy grows up in a community predominantly inhabited by people of color. Does that mean he’s not White?” 64

I acknowledge he has a point, but only to myself, for this is a point that requires further reflection. He wants me to think of myself, white complexion, freckles, mais coated skin, layered over HERstories5 and absent HIStories6 of RAZA7, that I so boldly stand for. But I refuse. Before he begins again, I interject by mumbling, “Yes, fine, referring to myself as White-Passing is problematic. Can we not talk about this further?” Antonio’s gaze remains fixed on me until I look away from him and begin to pull school supplies out of my backpack. We say nothing. I read articles off a clipboard, glancing up at him from the queen sized mattress, a pile of clean clothes beside me, while he sits on his chair, slouched, and staring expressionlessly at his open closet. It takes him around ten minutes to move. He pulls out a sheet of paper, and begins writing. When I’m done, I go to the bathroom. I take my phone with me, and skim apps while sitting on the toilet. I quickly recall having urged myself yesterday to reread today’s horoscope – February 2nd, 2015 – to see if anything it says aligns or follows the later part of today. I click on the pink Horoscopes box on my home screen, and hope the Wifi works, or my phone manages not to die. It opens and reads, “Look to others, especially a close partner, for inspiration today, as they may be 5 HERstories: recognizes that history was historically a male dominated field 6 HIStories: recognizes the pronoun in the word “history” 7 RAZA: A term used by latinos to identify themselves as a united community

a foundation of new and original approaches to life and circumstances. You may find them somewhat abrupt in explaining themselves, but that’s impatience born of the fact that they may see things very clearly at the moment. Avoid confrontation while getting the details of what they have to say, and don’t take it personally, it’s only intended to illuminate and help.” It aligns, so I smirk. Seconds later, my phone dies. When I return from the restroom, Antonio is laying on his bed glaring at the white wall perpendicular to his bed. His shirt is off, he lies on his stomach, hands on his chin, still pensive. I connect my phone to his charger and tell him in a non-threatening voice about my coincidental horoscope. When my cell lights up I call Antonio over to his computer where my phone is charging. He crouches down, and as he reads, I stare at him - his scruffy beard, sleepy eyes, calm cheeks, until he smirks. He does, but says nothing, so we crawl beneath the sheets. We stretch our limbs around each other’s contours, silently waiting on each other to speak. I kiss the outline of his nose, hoping affection will break his daze. When I ask why he’s silent, he responds with, “You asked me not to speak.” I look at him without words, eyes quiver, my words lost. I think…. White faces surround me. White spaces, include me, seclude me - you from me, and I from you - How do I begin this revolution, 66

if we are divided?

Antonio, unconsciously, was challenging me to collide the two narratives de mis jefes. Padre - Chichimeca Jonaz, and Mexican, and Spaniard, and migrant, and Brown brow. Madre – Mazahua or Nahuatl or Otomi or Purepecha and Spaniard, and Mexican, and German and Japanese. No, it was not my parents he was pushing me to think of. It was not Mother – a light skinned threat – una concepción – not planned, or desired, whose womb I existed in during the years she trudged alone across the border. It was I who needed me, to think of me and ask me what I needed. I have come to find Chicomecoatl, goddess of nourishment, fire, providence, energy, community, abundance, fertility or strength. In my mais colored skin. I have come to find that my internal differences “from the inside out, not the other way around,” ask me to question why I cried in Antonio’s arms that night and confessed, “I’ve always hated being white.”

A Nice, Cold Glassa Lemonade by Paul Swietek

Lazing in the sultry summer shade, Ignoring obligations I have made; I need a nice, cold glass of lemonade To ease my mind. The hammock swaying softly in the breeze, Lends an air of effervescent ease. I need a nice, cool sip; give me a squeeze; My throat’s bone dry. These are the days of summer haze: I’m dreary, dazed; I try my best to shake this feeling of malaise. The clouds up in the sky don’t wonder why A sombre sigh Should pass the lips of such a listless fool as I, But still, I sigh. Lazing in the sultry summer shade, With ardent apathy my stock and trade. Bring me a nice, cold glass of lemonade To ease my mind Before I die To ease my mind; My throat’s bone dry, But still I sigh. Before I die, I sigh.

Christmas Scotch by Jeffrey Hassman

Of course, Mother’s late again! The winter air is biting down, coals dying without a sound. Father drinks his Christmas scotch, watching brothers savor new favorite gifts. She’ll find her way, I hope, I wish. * “She’ll find her way.” I hope. I wish. Brothers savor new favorite gifts. Father drinks his Christmas scotch, watching coals dying without a sound. The winter air is biting down. Of course Mother is late again.

Spitting Embers by Janet Calderon

The mother, smile strained, tried to balance her daughter and son on each hip. They swayed. The children were her music, often loud enough to drown the TICK TICK TICK that sounded in her head. Sometimes their melodies werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough. Certainly never loud enough once the father arrived home from work. The embers that flew out of his mouth always caught her fine paper instruments and set them ablaze. The guitar behind her ear, the piano sitting atop her head or the drums nestled against her neck- all charred to ashes. Instruments gone, the TICK TICK knocked too hard against the inside of her skull. It cracked the motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s jaw open to allow her own sparks to spill out, too. Whenever this occurred the children would hurry into the nearest dark closet. The room had become too bright for their eyes. Often, it was the father whom would take them out again. Stretched their lips over tiny teeth as they bounced upon his round hill or were thrust into the air above his clouds. But music and clouds cannot forever forestall the coming flames. Embers and sparks huddled together in the living room, relatives joining them now and again. Over the years, the parents stoked a fire that eventually flickered too quick out of their mouths, their ears, their eyes, their fists. Their daughter and son could no longer hide in the dark. No longer did there exist any shelter. One last grand fire took their home, their parents, and burnt them altogether. 70

An Afternoon at Somoa Beach, CA by Kirk Alvaro Lua 1. We faithfully come back to bed after defeated days, return weary and go to bed hungry. The pessimistic glasses are stacked and scattered. Dollar store wine half empty glasses, finger stained and with a few dead ants, deceased friends from the uninvited party last night. The deep bowls filled with peanut shells and orange peels and more bowls. The plates reused and unwashed, the stage for many meals from bell peppers and eggs to the lonely baked potatoes that have sat in our stomachs. The curved spoons and bent forks and dull knives, these musical utensils stay sunk below at the bottom of the sink that has echoed our fights and breakdowns

as they got drunk by the drain. All these weeds of human existence are piled on the counter, on the table, on the mind, on the ignored bills, and on the unopened letters from our mothers.

2. A burnt Christmas tree lies on the beach while blades of grass pierce through the sand to be taken by wind. As the old crow, drunk with lonely hunger, caws, the waves ignore the world while dogs shit and look for phantom limbs, driftwood. The sun and sky drown in the ocean. It is 4 pm and the day at the beach with cheladas, tortilla chips, salsa, and cigarettes that only kept fingers warm, is over. We shake the blankets and sheets. We had made a new bed if only for an afternoon. She rolls the windows down in the car. 72

The sand has become jewelry on her body, on her neck and the tops of her breasts, shoulders and thighs. Her lashes resemble palms while the ocean smell stays asleep in my hair. We pull out of the parking lot as the check engine light stays on.

Poetry

by Ember Griffith It is in the way you move; The smooth shadow of your clavicle, The curve of your wrist as you write. It is in the look that passes between us; The green glint of your gaze, The curled line of your lips. It is in the hopes we murmur; Promises between our pillows, Words tangled in skin and sheets.

My Favorite Things by Adam Samara

Warm coffee, the first smoke of the day, wearing fresh clothes fresh out of the dryer, waking up next to you. There is a problem as coffee gets cold, the first smoke feels like the last, fresh clothes eventually become stale, but that face never gets old.

To Find Life by Sierra Howard

"Go find something to do," She'd say, with a nod Of her head in that austere way. "Go find something to do," She'd say, "I don't Care what just go outside for the day." "Go find something do to," She'd say, and I'd think To myself, 'but there's nothing to play' With that she'd point, out over the sink "There's a whole new world out there just waiting for you to think, Of things anew that couldn't possibly make sense. Try envisioning the world Through a whole different lens. Go find a place that calls to you, let your mind sail aloft and the nature pour inside you Let your imagination not get caught Within the tangles of reality The lackluster of sensibility. With the whip of the towel, and A shoo out the door, for life's an adventure, You just have to explore.” 76

Wingless

by Michael Riedell If you’ve ever seen a boy hustling down the sidewalk on a skateboard, barefoot and armless, with just the bumps of his shoulders under his T-shirt, you’d know why my pastor’s wife, bright-eyed and saved, told our youth group about the teen she’d seen that day, how the Lord works in mysterious ways, how we are all like wingless angels, that anything is possible if we believe and have faith in Him. And if you’ve ever known a woman like her, you’d know why I didn’t tell her, You should see him light a cigarette or smoke a joint and pass it to you between his filthy, miraculous toes.

Fate Tends to Drift by Joseph C. Mayer

while atop a ginormous tower I crouch down and fiercely latch on I gaze down over the edge with staggering eyes over my distant town, I don’t know how I got here this may be a dream, but why does everything feel so real, I can feel the wind with its salty breeze, then below I specter what would become of me if I fell, my fear of heights has never been more real. I see a city continue in motion with cars stopping and going with dots of people flooding the skinny sidewalks, and an ocean on the other side of town with countless tiny waves crashing into the docks and destroying hopeful sandcastles. I see everyone doing their daily routines I used to be one of them, another sheep in the herd waiting to be shaved for pricey fur. I have never seen a more a beautiful site of my town 78

I have never felt more alive until now, never before have I been this high on the pedestal of observation, with an awareness far beyond the average Joe, as I lean to look straight down I admire Toni’s my favorite pizza restaurant, it lies in between the old beaten up laundry mat and RJ’s liquor store; where my dad buys his daily cancer-sticks, then feelings of nostalgia came coursing through my veins those after-school slices were prime and those arcade games were my favorite escape, oh those were the good ol’ days full of innocence and Christmas candies, in that moment I was so happy that I lost my focus and grip and I slipped falling gaining speed through grey clouds and mist I was moving so fast that time froze to a halt specs of dust floated off the bystanders below as they turned to scream silent echoes of awe

a part of me must of wanted to die I mean why would I be here to begin with, but I realized there was no turning back, no matter how badly I fought to stop or to fly back up, I was still falling watching the white light grow brighter, I noticed my soul become reprogrammed into peace, to enjoy what little moments I have left to just be

I spread my arms and legs and thought to myself, bring it on fate and as soon as I was about to crash atop the roof of my past I woke up saying â&#x20AC;&#x153;thank you, God,â&#x20AC;? for a second chance.

Ode to a Himalayan Blackberry by Marcos Hernandez

To thee, O’ most loved and loathéd berry! The sight of thy blackness stirs my hard heart A brew—sour sweet—of memories varied. The touch of thy thick thorn tears me apart, And I become actor of the child’s art. To thee, O’ most loved and loathéd berry! The taste of thy sour blood tugs my stone soul Awake—softly off sweet Lethe’s ferry. Thy aggregate forms from thy cane I stole, These shall be my currency come next toll.

Fresca Brisa

by Grecia Romero Sabillon La hoja danza con el viento y canta con las estrellas. Vuela en extrañas tierras y en vientos con ritmos diferentes. Cada día es una nueva aventura y la hoja lo sabe, está lista para luchar. Algún día la hoja podría caer pero siempre se levanta, aun cuando las estaciones vienen y van. El invierno se acerca, la hoja ama el verano. La hoja podría cambiar su color, su forma sin embargo, sigue siendo una hoja, una hoja confiada porque aún si cae y vuela hacia un agujero negro o se incendia en el agua, sabe que nada puede pasar si su Padre, su increíble Padre no dice algo. Por eso la hoja puede vivir gozosa cada milisegundo, brillando con el sol cantando con la fresca brisa. 82

Cold Breeze

An English Translation The leaf dances with the wind and sings with the stars. Flying in different lands feeling different wind’s rhythms. Everyday is a new adventure and the leaf knows that, it’s ready to fight. Sometimes the leaf may fall down but always it stands up again, even when the seasons come and go. Winter will be soon the leaf loves the summer. The leaf may change its color, its form however, it is still a leaf, a leaf with confidence because it knows that it can fall and fly into a black hole or catch fire in the water but nothing could happen if its Father, its amazing Father don’t say something. That’s why this leaf can live full of joyness every millisecond, shining with the sun singing with the cold breeze. 83

Virgen de los Abismos by Kirk Alvaro Lua

Ángela perdió las alas volvió serpiente llamó a un dios que no respondía, tomó a la tarde entre las sábanas, se dijo: no quiero repetir esto hasta el infinito, sólo entonces las plumas se multiplicaron en textos… “Quién no tiene alas no debe tenderse sobre abismos”.

Our Lady of the Abyss An English Translation

Ă ngela lost her wings became a serpent called out to a god who never answered, she took the evening between bed sheets, she said: I do not want to repeat this until infinity, only then her feathers multiplied into wordsâ&#x20AC;Ś One who does not have wings should not lie down over abysses.

Virgen de los Senos by Kirk Alvaro Lua

No volverás a tocar mis senos aquellos que te sorprendieron bajo la blusa roja aquellos que balanceaste como esferas de cristal blando transparencias, luces que aparecieron al cerrar la puerta. No volverás a besar mis senos que te permitían entrar a un sendero donde la parra se enlazaba para construir techos y de tu boca escurría el vino.

No volverás a ver mis senos aún en el lugar donde siempre me hallabas. Subiré a un barco donde los marinos perderán su ruta como si mis senos cantaran, y ahí seré mujer de nadie y de todos.

Our Lady of Breasts An English Translation

Never again will you touch my breasts those that surprised you under a red blouse those that you balanced like spheres of soft crystal transparent, brilliance that appeared to close the door. Never again will you kiss my breasts that permitted you to enter a path where the vine linked to construct roofs and wine trickled from your mouth.

Never again will you see my breasts still in the place where you always found me. I will climb aboard a ship where the seas will lose their route as if my breasts could sing, and there I will be no oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s woman and everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s.

Contributor Biographies Zack Anderson I grew up in the central valley (Sacramento area) and quickly developed an interest in writing. I tried throughout high school to write stories, often as a means of coping with the pressures of modern teenage life. Other outlets included water polo and the piano, which I have played for a long time. Coming to Humboldt State has been a dream-come-true, and I've grown so much as a student and a writer in just a few semesters here. Kirk Alvaro Luaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work has appeared in The Acentos Review and A Sharp Piece of Awesome. He is from Madera, California. He is currently attending Humboldt State University where he has earned a BA in Writing and is studying for a Spanish minor. His first teachers of poetry were his parents. His mother taught him how to write and his father taught him how to say fuck it. Oskar Azucena I was born in the Mission District of San Francisco, CA. I attended Waldorf School until I went to Humboldt State University where I received my bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree in Environmental Science in 2012. I enjoy writing poetry and making short animations (vimeo.com/ oskarazucena). I am working as an English Teacher in San Francisco. Janet Calderon Jan Calderon- daughter of Geronimo (no, not that one). Currently working towards a B.A. in English with an emphasis in crying over student loans at HSU. Probably spends more time imagining herself writing than actually writing. Does math for fun in an effort to better understand the universe. Efforts don't always pay off. Raymond Collins, having received a BA from Stanford in '71 and an MA from HSU in '86, has spent his adult life working as a coach, a cook, a carpenter, a carver of totem poles, a commercial catcher of fish and a cultivator of cannabis, proving to all his inability to focus or hold a job while pleasing his parents no end. Now he thinks he is a creative writer. Sadie Finney I was born and raised in Bishop, CA. I began junior college in 2009,

and graduated in 2013. I transferred to Humboldt State University to further my education. Raw emotion is what seeps from every pore, & art has always been my passion. I will be graduating this May with a Bachelor’s Degree in Studio Arts. Elisa Griego I have always held a strong interest in art and the biological sciences. Even from a young age, I was quite observant and soft spoken, so as a consequence, I always felt at home drawing and studying the diverse life around me. This intimate, careful observation is just as much an art, a science, and a connection to nature. Ember Griffith Ember is a creative writing student at HSU, and will be finishing her degree in December. She spends her free time writing fiction and poetry, painting, and spending time with her dog and her horse. She hopes one day to have novels published and start a tea shop. Jeffrey Hassman Born and raised in Bakersfield, CA, Jeffrey Hassman spent his time hiding from the dust storms and rolling clouds of smog, writing science fiction short stories, film and literary criticism, and watching far too many bad movies. Marcos A. Hernandez Last year, Marcos Hernandez hopped a Greyhound from Los Angeles to Humboldt County, and has little intention of going back. He currently resides at a picturesque patch of land on Ole Hansen road, under the shade of infinite redwood. He loves long, contemplative bus rides, amber ale and Blondie’s artichoke, jalapeno and spinach dip, among other things. Traffic, smartphones, and unscuffed Doc Martens annoy him. Oh, and people who order cheese pizza, too. I mean, come on. Be creative! Sierra Howard I was born and raised in a very small town in the Northeast Kingdom. Early in my childhood I fell in love with reading, and soon after, writing. When I discovered the excitement of traveling and adventuring, I found myself unable to sit still any longer. The world has more to offer than I’m sure I’ll ever achieve, but to me the point of life is to try.

Sasha Honigman I am an artist currently focused on my photographic expression. I work to capture the surreal and enjoy abstracting my reality. I intend to create images that hit people viscerally as well as conceptually. I hope to inspire feeling, thinking and questioning by creating work of which meaning is not concrete. For me, the process of art making is just as much "art" as the work itself. Currently, I am experimenting with melding the past and contemporary by digitally photographing old 35mm film slide projections to build conceptual narratives through thoughtful use of color, light, and juxtaposition. Paradise Martínez Graff Me llamo [ my name is ] Paraíso Martínez Graff. I am a 22 year old chicana from Iris avenue, located 4 exists north of the U.S. and Mexico border. I was born into a family of 7. Youngest. The whitest looking; mestiza. Green eyes go back to my grandpa from Alabama, who married my abuelita. Two Mexican and American parents bred me into sexism, into racism, into ableism, and homophobia. Raised by a single mom. Neglected by mommy and daddy. Daddy issues. Slut issues. Codependency issues. Issues. “Where’s daddy?” I write, just as Cherríe Moraga writes, “for the daughters”. I write for all the perdidas, malditas. I write ONLY for my self, which means I write of the me who I find in other womyn and men. I write for my truth and my liberation. I write por mi gente. I hope to continue to write and meet my favorite authors like Moraga, Anzaldúa, and others who have helped me arrive at myself. I have friends, *shout out to my homies*, who have told me “I’ll be waiting for that book, bitch.” Knowing I am supported, and have found the courage to support myself, I will write my book. I will tell my story. Along the way I hope to continue to find mis raízes - my roots in México. I hope to touch lives along the way. I hope I have touched yours. Michael Masinter After receiving his BA in English at HSU, Michael Masinter taught in Thailand where he stayed at a Buddhist monastery. In meditation he saw that identity is constructed by narrative, and that the consumer narrative is a cause of alienation, dissatisfaction and environmental

degradation. Currently back at HSU in the Environment and Community MA program, he's exploring the use of literature and writing to generate ecological awareness of human-environment interdependency. Joseph C. Mayer My name is Joey Mayer and I am a Music Major here at Humboldt. I appreciate all forms of art, and every form I witness inspires my music in many ways. I love having exciting fast-paced conversations with people and if I meet you, I will probably end up asking you what it is that you love most. It’s amazing to me to see what people are passionate about. Robert Papadopoulos is 25 years old and a student at HSU. He's currently studying English and Computer Science and hopefully going to grad school for Computer Science next Fall. He grew up in Monrovia, California and enjoys reading, gardening, and other shit. Daisy Ramirez Raised in an image based society, I internalized self-hate. At a young age, I learned that I was deemed undesirable, by some, because of my weight, class, race, and sexual orientation. What does our culture teach us about desirability, specifically in women? In this painting, I depict women that are deemed undesirable by some because of their body types. They are considered “ugly” because they too fat or too skinny. Michael Riedell I'm a poet, songwriter, and teacher of English and Creative Writing who arrived in Mendocino County with my wife after we graduated from Humboldt State. I read locally often, publish in magazines only occasionally, and am a three time first place winner in the ukiaHaiku contest. My first book of poetry is The Way of Water (Slow Mountain Press, 2014). Katherine Robinson Katherine Robinson grew up in Crockett, California. She is a student at Humboldt State University. She enjoys traveling and slam poetry. Grecia Romero Sabillon Hi. I am Grecia, future Industrial Engineer, possessing a poetic heart. I am an exchange student from Honduras studying at HSU. I

love to sing, write and be spontaneous, ah! — and I love coffee. Life is stunning because God is with me and I know that I can count on my family. I have an adventurous spirit and a smile on my mouth, but also in my soul. Adam Samara I am a fourth year college student, majoring in Wildlife. Born and raised in a small town called Prunedale, CA (yes, I understand you don't know where that is) where I spent most of my life. Science, history and literary studies are my favorite educational subjects. Whenever I have free time, I often spend it either playing video games, outdoors or writing poetry. Stephen Sottong My novelette "Planetary Scouts" was one of the winners of the Writers of the Future contest in 2013. "Dinner Date" appeared on September 23, 2013 on everydayfiction.com. The flash fiction "Friends" is in the anthology 100 Worlds. "Aftermath" appeared in the Alien Tech edition of the WereTraveler ezine. Paul Swietek Hi, my name is Paul Swietek and I have attended Humboldt State University since Fall 2013. I am a student of English and History, and love to spend my time reading, writing, exploring nature, and listening to music. Ashley Underwood "Pigs have been seen flying, the forecast in Hell is chilly and yes, Ash Underhill has a third addition to the Toyon. Some would say, “not bad for a Hobbit.” I say "where there’s a quip, there’s a way." Ash has always seen things a little differently; she hoped that R2D2 and Luke never destroyed the Death Star, that E.T. ended up working at A&W, and always lamented on just why those pesky kids were so darn meddling. Long live Lemmiwinks!"

Acknowledgements Carly Marino Christopher Villa Corey Lewis Cyril Oberlander Jim Dodge Lina Carro Maia Cheli-Colando Matthew Brunner Stephanie Gâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Schwind Teri Bronder-Lewis Associated Students Bicoastal Media El LeĂąador HSU English Department HSU Marcom Lost Coast Communications North Coast Mensans

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