Westwind Fall 2016 by Westwind: UCLA's Journal of the Arts

Westwind

Fall 2016

Westwind

UCLAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Journal of the Arts

Los Angeles is a crazy collision of intersections, and Westwind, UCLAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s student-run journal of the arts, strives to capture this spirit. We seek to provide a platform for the weird and wonderful voices found all over the greater Los Angeles area in whatever form they arise. For over fifty years, Westwind has been printing poetry, prose, art, music, and everything in between. Help us attempt to define the undefinable that is Los Angeles. Anything goes. Westwind is made possible with the support of UCLAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s English Department. Print journals are currently available in the English Departmental Office.

Front Cover and Illustrations: Hyangsook (Sookie) Kwak

Faculty Advisor Reed Wilson

Managing Editor Natalie Green

Layout Design Dylan Karlsson Sophie Mirzaian

Blog Editor Erika Salazar

PROSE Senior Editors Sophie Mirzaian

POETRY Senior Editor Dylan Karlsson

Staff Nahal Amouzadeh Lyndon Adolf Apostol Nathan Bang Julia Bare Winston Bribach Clarissa Cervantes Emily Guo Micaela Harris Justin Kawakami Grace Li Audrey Miano Emily Parsons Evan Pavell Kalyce Rogers Erika Salazar Rachel Sweetnam Amara Trabosh Jess Vidal Melissa Villalon Shell Yang Anne Youngdahl

Staff Zach Connor Naiomi Desai Julia Eberhardt Lauren Finkle Tatianna Giron Elizabeth Hsieh Chase Maser Shannen McKee Pauline Pechakjian Euince Shin

Editor’s Note It seems almost too obvious to say fall quarter was rough. Too much of a blanket statement for an amalgamation—and mess—of feelings and events that don’t begin or end with election day but instead hit harder because of it. But what will never feel too obvious is how much we need art and publication platforms in times that feel especially hateful and hopeless. I have never been prouder to create a community with the Westwind staff than right now. Walking into the basement of Humanities once a week provided me with a purpose, and I hope each of our readers can find something in this journal to push them forward, too. Thank you to every member of this community, from editor to contributor to reader—please share your thoughts and art with us and with the world. We think your voice is important. Natalie Green Managing Editor, 2016

Fiction This fall has imparted on us a myriad of surprises. At the start of the season, for example, I had no idea I would be writing this letter; much of the community surrounding Westwind didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t expect our recent election to play out as it did. The fiction pieces in this issue are also loosely tied together by this same theme of surprise. Naturally, these surprises come in many forms, from self-discovery in the mundane, to excitement at the reveal of a mysterious secret, to the worrisome results of ambiguous communication, to horror at oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own doing. We actively seek the feeling these stories produce in the literature we consume, and we find it in that which resonates with us most. But the beauty of surprise and the shock that frequently accompanies it lies foremost in the opportunity for reflection and change that it presents. In the coming years, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s important that we maintain this sense of shock and use it as a driver for more significant change. We can do this through the news we hear, the people we meet, and at this moment, through the stories we read. Sophie Mirzaian Senior Fiction Editor, 2016

Poetry Recently, the Westwind poetry staff was greeted with an influx of fresh faces, ready to read through a growing pile of submissions. Crafting a literary journal is an ever-evolving question of tiered representation that, of course, begins with the work of the staff itself. Our work involves continually re-evaluating what we present to our readers and how we represent our artists and community. This year we have felt the waves of political chaos, a chaos that makes communities of artists and writers feel increasingly insecure. But our response, like so many other wonderful organizations, is to fortify and spread that groundwork for the literary arts. The selected pieces contained in the journal reveal the intertwined functions of language and the body, where a paragraph can contain the evidence for a black body being erased, where an exchange of words can summarize a relationship, or where words can take the body to the realm of fantasy and back again. We present here selections from these poet’s body of work, as they show that it’s the practice of poets to fortify and reveal the workings of the body, and the body’s language. Dylan Karlsson Senior Poetry Editor, 2016

Table of Contents Primaries

Christian Rios

Trash Biscuit

Emily Adams

The Kitchen

Nicole McKeon

Narratives

Nicole McKeon

Three Beggars

Nicole McKeon

Making a Desert

Nicole McKeon

La Petite Mademoiselle

Lana Bella

Emoji Code

Marina RomanchuckKapralau

In My Own Hands Thomas Feng

Ownership

Teresa Cordova

Roots

Teresa Cordova

Prunus Serrulata

Kyra Morling

At Summer Camp

Kyra Morling

II.

Kyra Morling

Unfortunately,

Kyra Morling

The Dutchman

Bryan Firks

Dark Words for an Artist

Omar ZahZah

Lost and Found

Omar ZahZah

Dead Dog Opera No. 10

Alberto Ramirez

Primaries By Christian Rios You would think that politics stays on CNN, or on FOX. However, it’s a lot closer to my home than you think My backyard doesn’t have monuments, or any cherry trees. Rather, a rusted up Chevy and an aguacate tree. Every now and then, my father’s leathery hands pluck the single seeded berries and serves it to us. Before I dig into the plate, he is quick to remind me, “Disfrútala. No fue fácil de crecer.” A reminder that grounded me to the Earth. My family isn’t into politics, but the elections could not seem to get away from us. Like the cast of a shadow, or how the tip of your nose is always in your line of sight. We tried to forget about it, but it’s just impossible to ignore. “Ese hombre es el diablo,” my mom said. I looked at her, and back at my plate. I thought to myself, “His plans are unrealistic. I shouldn’t worry.” Playing myself. I was drowning in politics now. I looked at the television set, and there he was suited up with his red tie. His pockets as green as the aguacate I was eating. What started off as a joke, now became a reality. What if he used his small hands to pick up mi familia, and place them over that wall? It’s hard to tell now. I guess I would have to wait, and try really hard to tell which Facebook news stories are real and which ones are not. And pray that when the time comes, that the cheeto-colored businessman is eating a plate of aguacate.

Trash Biscuit By Emily Adams Their parking spots were like childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shirt sleeves, tight and bright and not fitting right. Los Angeles had done it again. I tried one hundred times to park on that block with six spots. But to be one of the six was to do the impossible. To be one of the six was to make it. To be somebody. It was a gimmick that played on the insecurities of a self-loathing city and I had seen it before. A gimmick I knew very well, being a city-dweller myself, but a gimmick I could not bear to beat. I wanted to be one of the six. The lot was behind the storefront, tucked away between a chain-like fence and a rotting non-GMO compost site. There was room for little else but tiny men in tiny cars, stuffing their dinosized dreams inside. Size mattered, as it does, and in this case, the smaller the better. I would drive up, drive away, and drive home; pull away defeated, watching the people and their screens fade in my rearview mirror. I could see from the street that there were only six spots for five customers, saving one for the woman behind the counter. The wizard of espresso and Colombian dreams snuck her kale-fueled, environmentally-friendly Honda Fit into the first spot in the lot, leaving less room for me. Through my car window, she appeared to be wearing a hat, large and pointed, with the scent of alternative milks and fresh

grounds kissing her nose. There was a mole on her chin that grinned as she frothed foam for the five who’d taken my spot. For the following three weeks I tried and for the following three weeks I failed. I wanted so badly to be one of those six in that shop. But luck wasn’t mine to be had, so I surrendered to the Starbucks two streets down. There I parked in thirty seconds and had a steaming hot double shot in thirty more. Although the wizards weren’t wizards, burning their beans and selling Gold Stars, I felt at home in mediocrity. Perhaps I didn’t need my wizard and her high-priced beans. However, I couldn’t kick the urge to go back. The promise of exclusivity, should I end up on the right side of it, called me to that lot of six spots. I imagined the vegan, buttered flakes of a croissant, melting away on my tongue, of gluten-free sprouted oats satiating my high-class hunger. I was better than Starbucks and it was about time the world knew. The next day, I scoured the streets determined to make it happen—it, whatever that was meant to be. In that lot, I waited and waited and waited. Me—so LA—as NPR’s Terry Gross’s voice soothed my worries. I drummed the wheel, listening to strangers debate the ethics of fish farming, ready to close my eyes and wait longer. But then it happened. I was awoken by an engine. One of the six engines was gearing up to get out. There was an opening and it was my opening. I would finally be one of the few. I eagerly watched as my spot unveiled itself, then turned into

the space with thoughtless invincibility fueling my tank. I would squeeze my grizzly bear SUV into this hole fit for a maggotâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;I would! So I wound up the steering wheel, this way and that, inching my way into the lot. As I did, Gross spoke louder, her voice cushioning the scratching atrocity outside and silencing a fear I had so soundlessly suppressed. The noises, the havoc, I ignored it all, comforted by NPR and blissful in ignorance. Bliss that was staunched when the wizard herself tapped on my window. Tap Tap. I winced, shutting off NPR. Suddenly Gross smacked her lips like a hunted snipper-do-da in the Indian Ocean, mocking me and my coffee stirred idiocy. Smug Gross and the smug wizard, laughing at me and with each other. That wizard who wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a wizard at all but had the mole to fool you into thinking so. I was forced to pull out. The car shrieked as I did, nearly missing the pointed tip of that little witch standing by. In that second, I could have weathered another hit, a corporeal casualty, well-deserved and desperately tempting. But cowardice kicked in and drove me far from that place, knowing her little mole, as dark as her roast, housed all of the evil in her shop and that lot. How stupidly intoxicated I was, intoxicated by the aroma of magic beans. Intoxicated by beans. Beans that were finally meant to be mine. I was enamored with beans. I was putty in the poor, seedy palms of beans. I was ruthlessly swayed by beans.

Led straight to a body shop, paint-chipped and rearwindowless, by beans. I had been blinded by beans. There was no other option but to let the beans be and return to the comfort of powdered lattes, cellophane-wrapped breakfast cakes and tasteless people. It was back to the Starbucks for me. It was back to mediocrity. So I sat at my communal table, sipping my mortal roast, imagining myself in that little shop, gilded in exclusivity like I had days and days before. I sat and I imagined the selective few, entitled, peering out their freshly Windexed windows that very second. The same second that I sat, picking away at my stale scone, picking away like those beans had picked at me. That shop of empty dreams and empty cups, of empty promises and empty people. This I told myself as I was joined by a homeless man praising the egg biscuit he’d stolen from the trash. Starbucks was home to all, myself rightfully and unfortunately included. “Take a piece little lady, take a piece!” he said as he broke off a bite. Empty beans and my empty dreams, I repeated. “I said take a piece! Get some of this goodness or it’ll be gone!” He held a generous sampling out to me, willing to share rediscovered flavor lost to a condemned bin. He wanted to share with a hopeless stranger. Perhaps it was desperation that led me to try. A day of

distraught wrongs that led to a rightâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the first and rightest of rights Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d made in a long time. If Starbucks was good enough for this man and his trash biscuit, it was good enough for me. I smiled with cheddar stained teeth and a mouthful of garbage yolk as I decided that mortality tasted alright.

The Kitchen By Nicole McKeon The kitchen is sweat flurry and the metal clink of knives. I am standing between a couple at war. We have been drinking tequila. My upper lip feels grainy and I don’t know if it’s salt or pieces of my own chewed up lip. You are in the living room, sitting on a boy’s lap. He places lime slices on your tongue. I am at the counter cutting a vegetable, gnarled and weather-beaten. I taste bile in my throat as E smashes plates next to me. K is setting fire to onions at the stove. I taste the heat between the two. The space is infected, dark moss growing over nostrils. No one can breathe in this tropic war zone. My hands are shaking, dancing the knife over the wrinkled skin in front of me. Stray words bounce off the metal in my hand. It is just the three of us in the kitchen. Even the low-bellied cat has left. I want you to climb out of the boy’s lap. I want to curl up into your soft stomach until the stinging onion air doesn’t make me cry. But I hear you laugh and I slice down. The bodies next to me are saying words and pressing against objects. I think I’m supposed to put these grey clumps somewhere. Instead I watch them slide into hands, under water, onto plate. They’ve stopped fighting but it still tastes like I’ve licked an electric fence. And now we are all sliding, into chairs. The cat’s tail brushes against my knee, painting fur on my skin. We pass bread like Sunday school kids, polite and sweating. Everyone swallows their bread in one communal gulp. I don’t really feel hungry anymore.

Narratives By Nicole McKeon The metal box rattles beyond potholes the moon builds condos in my eye sockets. I remember whispered fever dreams of face and finger as I feel my skin separate from muscle bone I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know which is left behind

My cranium is wide open as my parts are shifted around I can feel my sponge weight in someone elseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands as they ask me how many eggs I have left there is red around my thighs

I forget what cars sound like engines purr in my stomach lining ripped apart as claws sink in I am bloated misted teeth

I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember where I left my body highway underpass undermelt there is a fire somewhere between my chest and feet

five without blood I still see saucer eyes in liquids and my belly grows bigger inside me

Three Beggars By Nicole McKeon i The mirror is s h a k i n g I steady it with my hand look everywhere but my eyes chin – waxy hair – straw man neck – neck – neck – I turn the light off when I leave ii. The water is too hot I feel my skin peeling in strips bits of freckles in the tub I scrape my nails against the cracks in the walls There are voices in the shower head the water is pink

iii. There are other rooms inside the walls the empty one with the chandelier has ghosts deep in your chest

dirt lungs

When I asked the wall to send me away it shattered The chandelier wobbled

(gold)

iv. i am face down on the tile it smells like bleached feet the door is locked my heartbeat is resting on my tongue i could cough up organs and flush them i am taped together v. three walls begging my hands my mouth â&#x20AC;&#x201C; evil wet

Making a Desert By Nicole McKeon when I met Her, the sand was in Her mouth it hadn’t made the long trek from head to toe yet Her mouth was heavy when She spoke I could feel the weight of it pulling Her down I felt heavy too. Do you know what it’s like when the sand fills your body? you become a doll tossed among sweaty hands that pull at your seams dirt appears under your nails when She wakes and in your sheets you don’t wake and when you disappear into the sand storm you are drained She laughs: tears can’t morph this desert into ocean

La Petite Mademoiselle By Lana Bella The photograph turned white, her face skinned cool and turned whiter, like raindrops on winter snow. Primrose lips galloped speech of still, wildabandoned eyes cast tensile strength through orchid easel frame. Glissando of mandolin rotted between shades of sepia and mulberry, “Não Me Toques” strutted at the smooth where her fingers twitched downwards the calm of hymn-bundled grist. Small and shifting, she stepped back to the hushed gray, into a parable pouring out of that very world.

Emoji Code By Marina Romanchuk-Kapralau Erica never texts; she only sends emoji. She thinks it’s stylish and convenient. I think it is stupid and extremely time-consuming. But she is my best friend, and according to the unwritten laws of friendship, I have to deal with her strange whims just as she has to deal with mine. My phone vibrates and displays a face with a dripping tear. Something happened. I send back one fat red question mark, two fat red exclamation marks and an angel with wings and a halo. This is supposed to mean, “OMG, what’s wrong baby?” A split heart, a hamburger, and eighteen glasses of wine arrive immediately. No interpretation needed—Erica and Alex broke up again; when she’s miserable, she eats her feelings and drinks her feelings, too. I send her back an emoji that I call “The Cry”; it really does look like that one from Edvard Munch’s famous painting. Congrats, Munch, you drew the first emoji—if I could text you now, I would include applauding hands in the body of the message. In a minute, I receive a running boy and two dancing blondes with little horns on their cute heads. OK, this either means that she is dancing the can-can in cabaret, or that Alex had a threesome with two hot blondes. I’ll go with the second explanation, since it has happened before. He might have slept with brunettes, but the creators of emoji probably think brunettes can’t be so blunt and

have threesomes with other women’s men. I send Erica a face with one tear dropping from its right eye, and a pig face—referring to Alex, of course—and get back two zodiacs, Pisces and Leo , split up by a lightning, and then…a tomato? OK, Erica, I see what you are doing here—your horoscopes didn’t match, this is the reason why you broke up. OK, yeah, OK, blame it on a horoscope, at least for now. I freeze for a moment trying to figure out how to understand a tomato, but give up quickly—she pressed the key by accident. Girl, you need to get your shit together, so here is your tomato back, along with a cherry, grape, strawberry, eggplant, and an arm that is making a fist. This is my way of saying, “Sober up, eat vegan, and take your ass to the gym.” But in response, I get a cocktail glass and a syringe filled with blood. I don’t think she got my hint… She then sends me scissors and a picture of a mountain. I don’t get it right away, but maybe she is cutting Alex’s pictures? They should really add more emoji for emergency situations like this. I make my last attempt to cheer Erica up and send her a chocolate bar. When a bathtub and a knife arrive, I realize it’s time to stop the game. I text back: “I’M COMING OVER.”

In My Own Hands or, five variations and a postlude for solo piano By Thomas Feng One funny thing I’ve learned about composing is that even after a piece is finished (sometimes *long* after), what it means to you can still change, beyond even what you originally intended. And so it is with this piece, which I finished last week just in time for my senior recital. In some ways it still sort of feels like it all came together by accident, despite what I’ve been told about it by people who liked it. I had a handful of ideas to spring from. I wanted to write a musical “open letter,” a piece that would say what I wanted to say to people that, for one reason or another, I couldn’t reach. I wanted to write some kind of valediction, as I approach the final few weeks of my undergraduate career and will be saying a lot of goodbyes soon. I wanted to capture something of the young person’s struggle for self-sufficiency, of loneliness and finding strength within oneself. The piece eventually took the form of five progressively difficult variations that the right hand plays alone; only when it can no longer manage on its own does the left hand enter to “save” it. Hence, the title: only you can save yourself. But this conceit occurred to me only as the piece was almost finished. And besides, it’s a pretty loose premise that you can take or leave.

In the end the piece really turned out to be “about” none of these things I set out for it to be “about,” though in a way they all found their ways in. The original notions of using only the right hand to express the intimacy of letter-writing, of writing a set of individually addressed variations to specific people to tell them specific things, of writing a solo piece to express solitude — they are all there, but together they don’t mean what I thought I put them together to mean. So the seeds for the piece are taken from what I have been living lately. But what it means to me, beyond some clever little anecdotes, I couldn’t tell you. As far as I’m concerned, that’s something I’m okay with — having lived with it for a few days now, I find it meaningful nonetheless.

In My Own Hands or, five variations and a postlude, for solo piano Thomas Feng (2016)

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Ownership By Teresa Cordova Body: the physical structure of a person or animal, including the bones, flesh, and organs. Example: “It’s important to keep your body in good condition.” Nobody likes majoritarian pigs. What do you say to this challenge? Pinky up. I’ll drink to that. What makes you nervous? You are the one, the robber. I accept that my cynicism is consequential to your innate heritage. Only after your hailing me am I present. Don’t touch your holster. Hold my hand and count to ten. Maybe if you would have just waited—add me to the long list. Rest in peace Prince Jones, we love you. Look into the mirror. What do you see? I see you treat your body like your temple. The phenomenon of your smile is curious, with its incessant violence that continues, after my death. Blood stains have a long life. Even after my body decayed; the stains became my family’s family. I lied; I challenge you so that means I challenge all of America. What are the semantics of the word body, in a police report, if you never actually own one?

Roots By Teresa Cordova After Jeffrey McDaniel “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” – Audre Lorde I’m from god damn those Millennials, they want everything for free. I’m from Amor, you got a runny nose? Vicks VapoRub fixes everything. I’m from pick a wave of feminism or it will acquire you. Don’t you dare free the nipple; there is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women. I’m from *NSYNC’s live hit single “Bye Bye Bye” on VHS. I’m all colored skin pinned against a white wall in 2016. I’m from the land of who is free? And home of who is brave? Let’s make Donald Drumpf again. I’m from 1997 Slip’N Slide plastic burns on my skin, but they were still so much fun. I’m a bread-winner in my twenties. I’m from I might have to freeze my eggs by the time I’m done with a Ph.D I’m from you are the only Mexican eating at this Mexican restaurant in Beverly Hills, but you still do not belong here. Excuse me miss, where are you from? You look exotic! Oh, Mexico? I’ve been to Cabo once. Muy nice.

I’m from real HOPE in 2008. I’m from whispers of it’s risky if we fund for homeless housing. I’m from you are all lazy thugs, thanks for not evading your taxes, though! I’m from his salary is higher than hers. I’m from #SayHerName Sandra Bland, Sandra Bland, Sandra Bland. Don’t try to be avant-garde, it is more avant-garde to not try. I bet Karl Marx was a goth. I bet Langston is still singing The Weary Blues.

Prunus Serrulata By Kyra Morling This is about a man who could point to the trees and tell you the story, all the while I was busy digging towards his roots. There was a glisten in his eyes when he changed the subject from topics deemed too personal. So I got to know him through the Cherry Blossoms.

At Summer Camp By Kyra Morling Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s got a lazy eye, and I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know where to look. She says that is how she sees the world truly twisted. She braids her hair to the side and she says she will never fall in love. I tell her I would like to be her. She says I am not seeing straight.

II. By Kyra Morling I looked to Them for some connectivity. She laughed and paused after saying that my sentiment made her breathe in the carrot she was chewing. . . a shortness of breath, a shortness of joy. I think about whenever he was seeing a new girl his scraggly half grown out beard would be shaven off to convince himself of his capabilities. I always look at him when he played notes, taking note of the cleanliness of his sandaled feetâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;orderly, cut and defined. I felt weird that I was looking at his feet. I feel her staring, wishing, hoping, repeating. She makes promises to herself and swears herself sideways only to return to the seat beside her window. She will try again tomorrow. She told me about the free prayer that you can get when you dial two at a pay phone. I wondered if it was a robot or if it was an actual person. I got up and put quarters in the meter and waited for the dial tones to link up with the receiver. I was convincing Them I was capable of making the change if this wish came true just this time, just this time. I do not know what I was hoping for but I was disappointed to hear a human voice on the other side.

Unfortunately, By Kyra Morling I am still stifling fantasies. Do you know the feeling of knowing youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll miss a moment before it even ends? The anticipation of knowing youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll enjoy a moment later. Using time as a crutch for pleasure?

Watch The Dutchman

The Dutchman By Bryan Firks Garrison Grey rolled his cloth out on the table. There’s the extractor, retractor, and the trocar. The gooseneck and calvarium clamp. The aneurysm hooks and, of course, the brushes. Down at the very end. His brushes. Every size for every occasion. He flicked the tip of one, checking its firmness. He watched the fleshy flakes fall off the sides. You can get some decent money with a degree in mortuary science. Garrison Grey certainly did. And the best part was, he got to make something. Every day. Impressions, he called them. He rather liked that word, impressions. Reminded him of The Dutchman. Garrison Grey knew his impressions were art. Look at his tools—thick brushes, nice round palette, and the canvas—right there, under the chartreuse blanket. It was really somewhere between chartreuse and olive, but not quite fern. Exotic. Nobody came down where Garrison Grey worked. Too cold, they thought. Smelled like something. This was his place. His studio. But even with his studio and his brushes, there was a problem with the impressions themselves, and Garrison Grey knew it. They didn’t last. The impressions were gone when they went away in the

boxes. Yes, he knew they got some exhibition time. A museum of black and tears; he’d never been, only heard. An artist should never visit his own exhibition. His work went on display upstairs, the centerpiece of the gallery among the vases and veils. But exhibition was over in a few hours, and his work went away, into more boxes, deep, deep down where no more eyes could see. But Garrison Grey didn’t let this bother him. He had another occupation. On the side, of course. There was money in this other occupation. A good deal of it, if he were to brag. But the best part was he got to make impressions of a different kind—ones that were meant to last. He kept these other impressions in their frames, inside one of the large capsules in the wall. Kept them cold, preserved. Nobody checked, really—this was his studio, after all. He took them out when it got late, and spent all night working on them. His latest was The Potato Eaters. A perfect replica of The Dutchman’s fine original. How striking. Pensive. The Dutchman was Garrison Grey’s favorite artist. Look at his style! His form. You can have nothing but respect for The Dutchman. Garrison Grey had other names for him too, of course. The Vincent Van, or sometimes just The Van. But The Dutchman was his favorite. Lots of money in his name, and easy enough to make the impressions. Impressions of post-impressionism, Garrison Grey liked to call them. Made him chuckle. But enough about The Dutchman. Garrison Grey liked to think about his other occupation too much, when he should be working on his first one. The one he got a degree for. He re-checked

the brush, no fleshy flakes anymore. He attached the trocar to the pump-tube, and waited for the crimson and scarlet to ooze out. He glanced at his canvas, still under the chartreuse-olive blanket. The Dutchman made such excellent use of chartreuse and olive. So mature in his strokes—and Garrison Grey knew just how he did it…No! Forget The Dutchman until tonight, get to work on this impression. Garrison Grey started with the wrists, his usual routine. Some shading, fleshy pink, a little dirt. Well, isn’t this a clean one. The blanket fluttered over his hand as he worked. He liked to keep the blanket on as long as he could. Didn’t want to bias the impression by staring at the original too long. He continued up the arm—a little indigo and azure here— oh, that’s no good. Fleshy pink to balance it out. Bruises and boils, the B’s they shouldn’t see. Now on to the hands. Most important part of the body, according to Garrison Grey. So much to work with. Crinkles and creases and cracks. These were tired hands, though. Going to take some work. And fingernails that long? Must’ve been an inch, flaxen-mustard yellow. That won’t work with the palette. Need to cut them off. But that’s not a job for here, have to take it upstairs. Work around it. Garrison Grey carefully lifted the chartreuse-olive blanket back over the arm. He left half the hand out, a reminder to cut the flaxen-mustard fingernails. He removed the blanket slowly, carefully off the face. Always careful when dealing with the original. Slowly, carefully…

Garrison Grey took a step back. He almost dropped his thick brush. Several fleshy flakes fell to the ground. Orange hair, slicked back. Not even marmalade, this was orange. Sunken cheeks, more than usual—it’s only been two days. Orange beard, too, flecks of gray. It looked like The Dutchman himself. No, no, this can’t be. What’s The Dutchman doing here? He died on July 29, 1890. No, this isn’t possible. He’s gone. He’s been gone. He can’t—does he know? Garrison Grey looked at the glassy emerald eyes. He knew. Garrison Grey briskly shuffled over to the large capsule in the wall. Punch in the code, open the door. Good. Still there. The Potato Eaters right at the top, where it should be. Striking. Pensive. He walked back over to The Dutchman on the table—no, it’s not him, stop that. Roll out the cloth again, smaller brush now. Detail work. Garrison Grey leaned down over the orange beard with gray flecks. Pale face, sunken cheeks. Same orange hair, slicked back. For the first time since he got his degree in mortuary science, Garrison Grey didn’t know how to start the impression. He tested the fleshy pink right below the cheekbones. No, no, that won’t work. Try spruce inside the sunken cheeks. Yes, that’s it. Looks just like him. No, no. Stop. It’s not The Dutchman. Don’t encourage it. Remember, he doesn’t know. Can’t go showing him the techniques, now. Secrets of the trade—of the other occupation. Stay focused now. Mix sepia and beige, the usual combination.

Just like any other canvas. Right there under the chartreuseolive blanket. Don’t stare too long at the original, it will bias the impression. But he kept staring. What was The Dutchman doing here? He had no business here. This was Garrison Grey’s studio, his place. Cold and smells like something. The beige and sepia on his detail brush left more fleshy flakes on the floor. Look at the orange hair, slicked back, the orange beard. How did he know? Garrison Grey decided he had to see something. Just for good measure. He walked back over to the large capsule on the wall. Three letter code, open the door. He shuffled through the other impressions in their frames. Starry Night, The Potato Eaters. No, no, not those. Where are they? Self-Portrait with Straw Hat. Self-Portrait with Pipe and Glass. Ah, yes, here they are. All here. All sold. Wait, here’s one more. Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear…yes. This is the one. The best seller. Garrison Grey left the large capsule door open and walked back to his canvas, the best seller in hand. He grabbed an aneurysm hook and two positioning devices, and hung the painting on the white wall, right above his canvas. He examined his old impression for a moment. One of his finest to date. Look at the strokes, perfect form. Graceful. Poignant. The Dutchman couldn’t have done better himself. Garrison Grey looked back at his canvas on the table. Uncanny resemblance. He kept staring at the face, the sunken cheeks, the orange-not-marmalade hair. The orange beard with

gray flecks. Remember, don’t stare at the original too long, it will bias the impression. Too late. Garrison Grey began with a spruce shade, carefully at the tip of his detail brush. Just a little, to accent the sunken cheeks. Tiny strokes. Soft. Graceful. Look at this! He was making an impression of his own impression. Made him chuckle. He applied some sand tones to round out the features, to complement the orange hair and beard. Yes, this is it. Now, if only he had the hat. The indigo and black hunting hat. Someone upstairs might have one. No, stay focused. This could be the best impression to date. Even better than the one on the wall, hanging from the aneurysm hooks. Garrison Grey kept working into the night, until he had just one thing left—arguably, the most important part. This was where the money was. The reason behind the best seller. He grabbed his cloth, letting the extractor and gooseneck clatter on the table. He wrapped the cloth over the ears of his canvas, tucking it under the chin and tying it with a knot. No. Inauthentic. Look at that bulge underneath the ear-cloth, left side. It couldn’t be there. Garrison Grey removed the cloth, and observed the left ear of his canvas. Fully there, fully attached. But then he noticed something that must have been invisible to him before. A great boil, right where the left ear should be. In fact, it replaced the left ear entirely. Bruises and boils, the B’s they shouldn’t see. Garrison Grey went over to his tools on the table. Skip past

the calvarium clamp and the trocar. Yes, here it is. The scalpel. A traditional tool, helpful in times such as these. He shuffled back over to his canvas, the chartreuse-olive blanket falling off the side. He leaned down over his canvas with the scalpel in hand. Time to remove the boil, and make it look authentic. That’s the trick, really. Authenticity sells. Yes, keep going, just like that. Adding new colors to the palette. Crimson and scarlet. Looks like some infused indigo as well; it has been two days, after all. Keep going, remove the boil. Take it all the way off. Nothing left. Then the cloth will fit, no inauthentic bulge. The crimson and scarlet was getting on Garrison Grey’s smock, and the floor. But he was almost done. Thirty-nine…and forty. It’s off. Pull it away slowly. Quite a bit more crimson and scarlet now, not to worry. Now there is authenticity. And what a nice palette, too. Grab the cloth from the table, and wipe off the unnecessary crimson and scarlet. Play with it a little on the face, though, adds some nice hue with the sandy complexion. Now it’s time to put the cloth around the head, tucked right under the chin. Looks just like the impression on the wall. Two fine impressions, in one room. The Dutchman as the inspiration. How striking. Pensive. Garrison Grey stood hunched over the canvas, crimson and scarlet dripping from one side. The chartreuse-olive blanket had completely fallen off, revealing the flaxen-mustard fingernails and the fleshy pink fingers. Slowly, carefully, Garrison Grey tied the

cloth around the chin. There. Garrison Grey took a step back, and looked at his masterpiece. This was, indeed, his best impression to date. Better than his best seller on the wall. Better than the twenty-seven frames inside the capsule. Better than the other canvases, buried below the ground. He smiled. The Dutchman himself would approve. This one was going to last.

Dark Words for an Artist! By Omar ZahZah Last night, alone, The Stars wiggled out Of their leashes, Moonlight spilled On the frostâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Did you paint That glorious picture? Or trace the lines Of my ill bowels? Either way, I saw your mark.

Lost and Found By Omar ZahZah I found a book of music I can no longer play I opened it up and the notes Fell out I reached down to grab them But they ran off In all directions And grew And changed Some became a new door Some became the outside And some became a little path To walk back on So I walked back All the way back Through time And time was a song You shared with me

Dead Dog Opera No. 10 By Alberto Ramirez for Nicole February 9, 1922 Dear Federico, My sincerest apologies for the lapse in time since I last wrote to you. It has been far too long. Absentmindedness is my only indiscretion at my age. Forgive an old man. Tomorrow I turn ninety-nine years old. If you live to be my age, you will forget everything. God takes back all of your memories before you die, as if your life was a borrowed book. But God rewards you in old age, too, for having survived. I do not mean with earthly possessions. My villa, nested in the soft, bosomy hills at Lago Bracciano, my collection of rare, medieval musical instruments, the royalty rights to my catalogue of music—three jovial operette and sixteen opere serie, the life’s work of old Maestro Gifaldi—shall be bequeathed to my loving daughter, Signorina Madeline Gifaldi, when I die. I care nothing for these material things. And you, Federico, my loyal, young protégée, shall inherit my golden baton, which once belonged to W.A. Mozart, with which he conducted The Magic Flute on the night that it premiered in the year of our Lord 1791 at the Theater auf der Wieden. There is one more thing: You shall inherit a secret, Federico, which I vowed to take to the grave, but alas cannot. I shall reveal it unto you in the pages that follow. Promise me that you will not

speak a word of it. No one must know. Promise me that after you’ve read this letter you shall burn it and devour the ashes! Promise me! There’s a good man! And I shall hold you to it. — When I was a boy growing up in Rome, I was the star pupil at the Giordano Music Conservatory. Maestro Pugliesi, head of the conservatory, was a brilliant man—rigorous, and prone to frequent, violent outbursts. “You must learn your scales, boys!” he’d shout, whacking his pupils on their little fingers with his baton. “Or be condemned to mediocrity!” One evening, after a very long day at the conservatory, he became very angry with me and admonished me for taking my God-given musical talent for granted. Mind you, I was only nine years old at the time, but I recall the moment vividly, the pain and humiliation of it is still with me ninety years hence. I was sitting at the piano, tinkering with the keys, making up silly little melodies, when Maestro Pugliesi grabbed me by the wrist, yanked me to my feet, and, in a hushed voice, said: “You are a lazy little urchin, Gifaldi! You shall never be a great composer, because you refuse to sacrifice for your music! Do you know what it takes to compose a great opera? I do not mean your run-of-the-mill concerto, I am talking about a truly great opera.” He flashed a libretto dating back to the late 1500s and quickly tucked it away. “Dead Dog Opera No. 10,” he whispered. “It is said, in certain inner circles, that this is the greatest opera ever composed and that only a select few—extremely wealthy

and powerful people, nobles, aristocrats, the College of Cardinals, captains of industry, and the like—have ever seen it performed. God Himself wanted to see this opera, but couldn’t get a ticket! “Little is known about the opera itself, because anyone who ever saw it was sworn to secrecy. Its composer was a Spaniard named Baltazar, later to be christened The Venerable Baltazar—an illiterate, deaf mute farm boy from Seville who supposedly sailed to Mexico with Hernan Cortés in 1518. He later returned to Spain and took monastic vows at the Monasterio de Santa Maria de las Cuevas in Seville. The story goes that he spent fifty-two years (an Aztec century) cloistered within its walls, wandering the grounds of the abbey, jabbering in a strange, dream language, humming florid, New World melodies. Then, one day, in the year of our Lord 1573, Baltazar simply walked out of the monastery and traveled afoot to Madrid, where it is said that the very first opera, Opera Perro Muerto No. 10, composed by The Venerable Baltazar, was secretly performed. “It is said that Mozart and Beethoven themselves, upon hearing the overture, spit and cursed and seethed with envy and were inspired, out of sheer spite, to compose their finest masterpieces, so intent were they on outdoing this particular opera. They of course failed. It is said that this opera pre-dates Dafne, the supposed “very first opera,” and that its composer, Jacopo Peri, wept uncontrollably after hearing it, knowing that he would never in his life compose anything quite as beautiful, majestic, or heartbreaking—an opera about the fall of the Aztec Empire and a dead dog.”

I did not understand much of what Maestro Pugliesi had said but was left with a lifelong yearning, an obsession with seeing this mythical opera about the Mexican hairless dog. And tonight Federico, tonight I saw Dead Dog Opera No. 10! Upon forfeit of my tongue, I am not to tell a soul about what I saw. And yet if I do not put ink to paper, I’m afraid no one would ever believe me. A wealthy and powerful friend of a very wealthy and powerful friend gave me the ticket—a scarlet stub, about the size of a lira banknote. A tall, silent messenger, dressed in a plague doctor’s costume, came rapping at my door at midnight. Without saying a word, he proceeded to blindfold me and escort me out into the street. I could not see a thing, but put my faith wholeheartedly in my seeing-eye, opera chaperon as he led me through the narrow, winding, cobblestone streets of Rome. After walking for what felt like kilometers we finally stopped, met up with a group of blind-folded operagoers—this I could only surmise, judging by the sound of our collective, labored breathing from the brisk walk we’d all just taken to get to the rendezvous. I heard someone speaking in Latin, saying ‘Okay, take them down, careful, the steps are slippery,’ as we descended into a dark, damp-smelling, underground place, deep beneath the city—the Catacombs of Rome! Down there we were led by torchlight, and as we stumbled along that ancient, subterranean skull-and-bone littered cave, my blindfold slipped, and I swear to you I saw His Holiness himself, the newly ordained Pope Pius XI, walking right in front of me,

among the other blindfolded operagoers! When we ascended, our blindfolds were removed and we found ourselves standing in the middle of Teatro dell’Opera di Roma. The interior of the opera house had been transformed into a temple house, a dark and mysterious sanctuary in the heart of Tenochtitlan, circa 1519. The stage curtain is dyed blood-red and embroidered with wild, Mexican flowers—Birds of Paradise, Poinsettias, and Laelia Orchids—luminous, hummingbird feathers, and strings of golden bells. And dangling ominously from the ceiling were brightly painted, papier-mâché sculptures, the winged pantheon of Aztec gods. The theater air smelled of sweet papaya and maize. We took our house seats as the curtain rose and Dead Dog Opera No. 10 began. The temple orchestra played a hypnotic overture on Aztec instruments—clay flutes, conch shell trumpets, rattles, wood-log and turtle-shell drums. We heard music from another time. The audience wass entranced and transported into the past, to the height of the Aztec Empire. Baltazar, a twelve-year-old boy and porter for a physician in Cortés’ expedition party, sits at the bow of The Caravel—sea spray and wind blows in his young face and in his curly, black locks. He sings a song of love for Spain, sings innocently of new adventures yet-to-come in the New World. Turtle-shell drums usher in a ragged, Spanish army— mercenaries and criminals turned soldiers of fortune—led by the usurper, Hernán Cortés. Having traversed a thousand kilometers of savage, Mesoamerican jungle, the expedition party at last

reaches the magical, island capital of the Aztecs, the shimmering jewel that was Tenochtitlan. Cortés plants his flag, La Rojigualda, at the gates of Tenochtitlan and sings out, “We Spaniards know a sickness of the heart that only gold can cure!” Conch shells blow, King Moctezuma II appears on the balcony of the royal palace and calls out to Cortés, “I confide to your care my beloved children, the most precious jewels I can leave you!” Believing that Cortés is the Aztecs’ long awaited god, Quetzalcoatl, King Moctezuma waves his hands, the gates of Tenochtitlan open and Cortés and his ragtag army of Conquistadors waltz into the city unopposed. Comets rain across the sky—omens of the end—and somewhere a weeping woman cries, “Oh, my sons and daughters, we are all lost!” A formal medley was played on rattles and flutes, a banquet scene—a royal feast in honor of Cortés—where they roasted Xoloitzcuintli, Mexican hairless dogs, a rare delicacy reserved for religious ceremonies, for royalty and for the gods. King Moctezuma, in full ceremonial dress, sits at a banquet table, surrounded by his royal court—high priests, Eagle Knights, concubines, and the Queen. Cortés sits opposite Moctezuma, with La Malinche (his infamous Nahua lover and interpreter), his Conquistadors, and the boy Baltazar. King Moctezuma claps his hands, sings, “Bring in the dogs!” Servants march onto the stage carrying a dozen Mexican hairless dogs in wooden cages. It seems that Mexican hairless dogs are hard to come by these days. Maestro Pugliesi said that when the opera

was first performed at the Royal Opera House in London, the dogs appearing on stage were understudies, little gray Whippets; when performed at the Vienna State Opera, Tyrolean Hounds; and when performed at Palais Garnier in Paris, shaved black Poodles. That night, the Mexican hairless dogs were Italian Greyhounds. Corpulent Cortés’ eyes grow bigger than his stomach as he sings an oddly romantic song about sucking the marrow of life from each dog’s bones. Offstage, we heard whimpering and yelping as the feast was prepared. Servants return with roasted Xoloitzcuintli lying on earthenware platters—pitayas stuffed into their mouths like apples crammed into the snouts of suckling pigs. Dead dog was served! Cortés takes one bite and sings, “Gold is fine, the world agrees, but give me Xolo meat, if you please!” He, of course, says “please,” remembers his manners, because as you know, “Cortés” means “polite” in Spanish. But after the feast, Cortés promptly orders his men to take King Moctezuma hostage for a ransom of gold. Meanwhile, in the heart of the city, Cortés’ army of Conquistadors—armed with Toledo steel, the harquebus and the crossbow, Andalusian war horses, fire, smallpox, and Catholicism—plunder to their hearts’ delight. We witness the fall of the Aztec Empire. The temple orchestra played a haunting melody, accompanied by the distant screams of raped indigenous women, the wailing of castrated Aztec warriors, and the cries of infants cast headlong into the murky waters of Lake Texcoco.

Young Baltazar—ashamed of Cortes’ betrayal of the king, ashamed, too, to call himself a Spaniard, flees Moctezuma’s palace, scampers pell-mell through the city streets, passed drunken Spaniards and Aztec fires—bonfires of burning Aztec bodies. The curtain fell at intermission, but we could not move. I cannot stand to see the second act, and yet I must. I have no choice in the matter. We are all slaves to this opera. — After intermission the curtain rose, and the music was light, the sound of predawn. Mist swirls atop Lake Texcoco. Baltazar rows a canoe across a narrow inlet, past a chain of floating gardens. He paddles up to the banks, hides the canoe in the reeds, and is greeted warmly by an Aztec boy and his Mexican hairless dog. Baltazar, it seems, has been taken in by the Aztecs as one of their own! “Tenoch!” sings Baltazar in Nahuatl. “You must hide! Take Toton and go south. Cortés has heard rumors about a fat little zcuintli who’s been seen roaming the banks of the wetlands.” “Yes, we go now brother Baltazar!” sings Tenoch, in a prepubescent, castrato voice. It seems that Cortés’ lust for gold was equaled only by his ravenous hunger for the tender meat of the Mexican hairless dog—a historical fact corroborated in the ancient Chichi Codex. Tenoch and Baltazar bid a sad farewell to one another; then Tenoch and Toton climb into the canoe to make their escape, paddling off into the darkness. A spring time melody, airy and whimsical, flutters in our

ears. The sun is rising over Tenochtitlan. Tenoch and Toton walk hurriedly along the banks of Lake Texcoco. “We cannot play fetch today Toton,” sings Tenoch, “or chase rabbits. We must flee the city. Cortés is looking for us.” Clay flutes twittle a deceptively innocent tune, a startled flock of widgeons take sudden flight from the reeds and Toton perks his ears. “Oh, it is too late,” cries Tenoch. “He has found us!” Looking pathetically to the sky, Tenoch prays to his pantheon of Aztec gods, and turns abruptly to face the interlopers—six Spanish Conquistadors. He who trespasses in Heaven trespasses against God! The audience held its collective breath and waits for some Aztec god from a machine to come down and save this poor boy and his beloved dog, but nobody comes. Poor Tenoch stands definitely on stage, throwing stones at the Conquistadors, but they quickly overpower him, cut him down with rapiers, snatch up little Toton by the tail, and carry him away. As he lays dying in the reeds, Tenoch cries, “Toton! My child!” The curtain fell…the Teatro dell’Opera di Roma went dark… the Old World, classical opera tradition is dead, dead as dog…and I weep with those who weep… Federico, my dear boy, remember your promise! You shall not speak of this to anyone. You shall not speak of conquest! You shall not speak of regicide, or infanticide, or genocide. You shall not speak of the rape and murder of indigenous men, women

and children. You shall not speak of the death of this ancient, Amerindian culture. You shall not speak of dead dogs or of operas about dead dogs. Keep your tongue, lest you lose it. And for Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sake, remember to burn this letter once youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve read it. Burn it and eat the ashes! Yours eternally in music, Maestro Gifaldi

Contributorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Notes Emily Adams is an aspiring comedy writer and performer studying Literary Arts at Brown University. She believes that humor can bring comfort, discomfort and everything in between. Laughing truly can be the best medicine. Lana Bella is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and an author of two chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016) and Adagio (Finishing Line Press, forthcoming), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 300 journals, including 2River, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Columbia Journal, Poetry Salzburg Review, San Pedro River Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, The Ilanot Review, The Homestead Review, The Writing Disorder, Third Wednesday, Tipton Poetry Journal, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere. She resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps. Teresa Cordova has received her B.A. in Creative Writing with a minor in Business Law from Cal State University Northridge and is currently pursuing her M.A. in English, also at Cal State Northridge. Her work has appeared in Angel City Review, as well as In-Flight Literary Magazine.

Thomas Feng is an award-winning composer and pianist, currently working on the accompanist staff at the UCLA Herb Alpert School of Music. Visit www.thomasfengmusic.com for more information. Bryan Firks is a third-year Film and Communication Studies double major who directs short films as often as he can. With a serious background in Lego building and a not-so-serious background in video game design, he hopes to collaborate with artists of all kinds through feature films. He would feel equally at home in Middle-earth, Hogwarts, or the Death Star, should he ever have the opportunity to visit. Hyangsook (Sookie) Kwak is currently studying, learning, and working towards receiving a degree in Fine Arts (B.A.) and Sociology (B.A.) during her years at UCLA. She enjoysâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; among many other thingsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;practicing, sharing, participating in, collaborating on, thinking about, experiencing, and making art works (photographs, video/media, stories/writing/poetry, drawings/paintings, music/sounds, dance/performance, etc.). Sookie cares about trying a wide variety of exciting, unfamiliar, embarrassing, challenging, fun, strange, and also engaging practices and approaches, in order to better understand and appreciate people/ideas/things/cultures/events/relationships/ places/etc. that are important/inspiring/relevant/interesting to her. Sookie also really wonders, talks, worries, hopes, and stumbles about a lot.

Nicole McKeon lives in the shadow of a big blue church. When not writing poetry, she can be found reading (space operas and articles for graduate school) or playing with her seven year old dog. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in West Trade Review, Transfer Magazine, Uncanny Valley Magazine, These Fragile Lilacs, and Westwind. Kyra Morling is from New Jersey. She is an an actor, artist, activist, and is a theater major at UCLA. Alberto Ramirez was born in East Los Angeles, California and graduated from UCLA with a degree in English. His first novel, Everything That Could Not Happen Will Happen Now (Floricanto Press 2016) was released in October of this year. Christian Rios was born in Lynwood, California and is currently a fourth-year English major at UCLA. His parents were immigrants from Jalisco, Mexico. During that time, he was held in a detention center and placed into an abusive foster home. Once reunited with his motherâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the household providerâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;he was motived to pursue higher education and use that knowledge to expose the realities impoverished families face.

Marina Romanchuk-Kapralau is a recent UCLA graduate with an English degree and creative writing concentration. Originally from Ukraine, she now lives in Los Angeles with her fiancĂŠ and their baby turtle Dinosaur, and works as an administrative director and an editorial assistant. As a world traveler, the only destination she finds unattractive is the comfort zone. Omar ZahZah is a PhD student in comparative literature at UCLA and a member of Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) and the Palestinian Youth Movement (PYM). Their chapbook, 13 Almost Love Poems, is now available.