Westwind Winter 2018 by Westwind: UCLA's Journal of the Arts

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

WINTER 2018

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. Cover Image: Illustration by Eric Fram Designed by Dylan Karlsson

Faculty Advisor

Reed Wilson

Managing Editor

Dylan Karlsson

Outreach Coordinator Amara Trabosh Blog Editor FICTION Senior Editors Emily Parsons Winston Bribach Staff Jovanna Brinck Abigail Duran Jodi Scott Elliott Elise Escamilla Shanahan Europa Natalie Finander Amara Trabosh Erika Salazar Rachel Sweetnam Maris Tasaka Christine Nguyen Suren Najaryan Jessica Humphrey Cole Sabala Marie Kim Nick Versaci

Suren Najaryan POETRY Senior Editors Tatianna Giron Eunice Shin Staff Sarah Al-Quatou Peyton Austin Kerianne Brennan Katheryne Castillo Genevieve Finn Eric Fram Rhiannon Lazair Elizabeth Lim Johnathan Lovett Eve McNally Tulika Varma Creative Nonfiction Editor Erika Salazar Arts Editor Eric Fram

Editor’s Note This past winter, the Westwind staff began the process of undergoing an overhaul of our mission statement. It’s a task we don’t take lightly, as with any substantial transformation to the journal and its trajectory, it begins with long discussions and re-evaluations of our current process. The pieces included in this journal contain all the struggle and conflict of the winter, of being caught between two inevitables. In “Long Distance Charges,” a relationship is examined over phone, the tie between the couple pulling and loosening in dance. “Famine” takes us wandering across the page with the wry cynicism of the Russian formalists, searching for a sense of center. Despite the anxiety of the winter, the transformation and renewal that comes with this struggle gives it all a sense of purpose. As I look forward to the spring, I remain grateful to our staff and all the writers and artists who dedicate their work with this same generative spirit. I also give thanks to Eric Fram, whose wonderful illustrations act as a guideline through the journal. Take hold, and we’ll see you on the other side. Dylan Karlsson Managing Editor, Winter 2018

Fiction “Oh, how fun!” This is the response I often get when I tell people I write creatively. As far as I can tell, they think that because fiction is fun to read, it must also be fun to write. And of course, writing fiction can be fun. If it weren’t, why would we do it? (Certainly not for the cash.) But it can also be incredibly challenging and time-consuming. It can mean staying up all night trying to get one sentence right, re-reading what you’ve written until it doesn’t make sense anymore, submitting a story you’ve worked really hard on to a journal, only to get turned down. If you’re serious about writing, sometimes it isn’t fun at all. Still, “fun” seems like the wrong word to describe creative writing, even at its best. Maybe that is because it’s all the un-fun parts of writing— losing sleep, editing relentlessly, facing rejection—that ultimately make it worthwhile. The fact that it isn’t easy to produce a piece of work you are proud of only makes the accomplishment more satisfying. All the writers in this journal have worked incredibly hard to bring their work to you. I hope they had fun in the process, but more than anything I hope that they are proud of what they have written and know that their efforts will not go unnoticed or unappreciated. Emily Parsons Senior Fiction Editor, Winter 2018

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll keep it simple. The stories published in this Winter edition of Westwind are the ones we, the editors and staff, felt the most passionate about. They are also the stories that most entertained us. Those are perhaps the most telling attributes of a story well-told: emotion and enjoyment. Some invite us into a dreamlike environment where a child picking flowers takes on an eerie Picnic at Hanging Rock quality. Others give us pretentious middle schoolers, that girl you hated in high school, and, of course, vomit. I hope you like our wide-ranging fare. Winston Bribach Senior Fiction Editor, Winter 2018

Poetry Submitting any creative work is hard whether you are a beginning writer with not that many pieces under your belt or whether you have created a million, applauded pieces. The art of writing is often tied to the art of revision and receiving critique. Poetry is no exception to this statement. This winter, we received many poems from people of many different walks in life, all of whom have mustered up the courage to open themselves up for possible rejection and possible revision. For that initial burst of courage, we applaud everyone who submitted and encourage everyone to keep writing and keep submitting. As someone who has distanced herself from the actual creation of poetry for the last three years, I truly respect all of the people featured in Westwindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Winter Journal. All of the poems have expressed interesting themes and thought-provoking ideas spanning from social issues, form, reclamation of the self, physical manifestations of the past, and so many others. I myself feel inspired to return to writing poetry after editing pieces for most of my college life, a sentiment that feels like coming back home regardless of terrible my efforts will be. The poetry featured in this issue is infinitely different, poetic, and infused with so much care and worth; definitely more than anything I could ever hope to write. Hopefully, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see the merit within these pieces and feel inspired to write and submit in the near future, just as I have. Eunice Shin Senior Poetry Editor, Winter 2018

Poetry is powerful. As both a creator and consumer of poetry, this is a fact that has been proven to me time and time again, through my own cathartic experience in putting words to paper, as well as the way those same words can induce a plethora of emotions and responses in the reader. The issues that the poems in this issue address range from the barriers of institutional racism to middle school nostalgia to the California wildfires, each of the poems in this issue have something unique to offer. While thematically, they’re diverse, they share something in common—their words are all capable of punching you in the gut. Sending shivers down your spine. Changing the way you view the world, through even the most mundane interactions. As senior poetry editor, I’m immensely grateful to be able to facilitate this experience. I’d also like to thank the poetry editorial staff for their hard work and dedication to the submission and editing process. Due to their careful selection, I truly believe the poetry pieces in this issue offer a variety of perspectives that appeal to a diverse audience. That being said, I hope you, the reader, find a piece in this issue that speaks to you. Tatianna Giron Senior Poetry Editor, Winter 2018

Table of Contents 13 15

Sing to You Lunchtime Education Eric Fram

16 20

Salty, Twisted Love Daisy, Four Times Kurt Klaus

Mango Harvest Tatianna Giron

27 29

Joining the Work Forced Hung by the Jury Isabella Antinoro

AbiLaura Emily Parsons

35 37

25 Reasons Mexican Kids Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Prosper 1995 Ford Mustang Karen Castillo

The LA Heat Got Too Hot Emiliano Gomez

Wild Awakening Talin L. Babakhanyan

Long Distance Charges Amara Trabosh

Famine Gabrielle Craft

How to Escape Los Alisos Andria Ozimek

Black Cat Rory Meagher

56 57

youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re running out of tomorrows fire! fire! fire! Max Yu

Wiglaf Alberto Lugo

Cell Signals from Above Aubrey Freitas

65 66

For Vincent SoCal Joy Ride S.J. Grab

67 69

in face station [untitled] Eve McNally

Sing to You By Eric Fram

Did you hear me sing to you? Did you tap your toes? Did I disrupt your sleep? Did your last breath incise your last dream? Are you still in that dream? Lullaby lilt lifted my limbs in a silver sling and I slept in a cotton ball bulb until woo! a Locomotive boom and the finale thumps, heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pounding and a too-hot sun deliver me past you. If you could pause time, would you like my company another year? Should I hold your hand? Would I be your tether? Will you leap prostrate to Heaven? Will you grow wings on the way? The whistle sang its sweltering incline across the sky for me, gasping light through a funnel flare, a blazing blare that floated me outward.

Did you sublimate with the sky? Did you rage, or did you drift? Are you the chill smoothing my shoulders? Are you worm food? Soil multiplies around my home of root cocoon bloom belowground, bedrock billowing like slippery cirrus. I rest and rise with the radiant breeze. Do you watch the Earth spin above you and feel my footsteps sift your plot? Are you beating your way out? Howâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the weather down there? We are whirling, hand in hand, over candlelit continents. It is a celebration. Does the mausoleum smell like you? Do you visit me like I visit you? Can you hear my song? I hear you.

Lunchtime Education by Eric Fram

Slow descent served soft on styrofoaming at the mouth hungrily snorts Pixy Sticks in middle school cafeteriasâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; ketchup-stained noses askew from bully blue knuckles and fingernails chewed flat smearing saliva on an iPod Touch me please! an emo bandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 10-year return on investment in a future of Pop Rocks drinking the Kool Aid dip-dyed blood red tendrils and guylined cars at the drive-thru that refract in rearview chopped into a word salad mixed green light red light ablaze across cafeteria tables.

Salty, Twisted Love By Kurt Klaus

From the way Khaliq ate his pretzels, Ambella surmised he must be a god, or, at the very least, some sort of Arabian prince. Inadvertently, he seduced his secret admirer with lunchtime delectables daily. Time: 12:17. Location: Third row, second column of the Kennedy Middle lunch tables. Wearing one of his eight various, solid-colored turtlenecks, Khaliq would slowly open his Ziploc bag of salted pretzels. Then, one by one, he would use a perfectly pink tongue and an average of 7.6 seconds to lick the pretzel bare. Completely bare. Never a single salt grain left. This, Ambella’s observant eye knew for fact, despite its viewing point residing a startling 25 feet from the action. Regardless, after the licking, Khaliq would soak his naked pretzel for three savory seconds on that infamous, perfectly pink tongue of his. Six chews and a gentle coaxing of the throat later, the process would repeat itself, over and over until the bag was emptied and Ambella’s heart was full. Simply put, Ambella was in love—in love, obsessed, and determined, like only a schoolgirl can be. She’d watched him every lunch since he moved from Saudi Arabia 43 days before. Watched him and calculated and planned until she was ready. Khaliq had no clue who Ambella was— which was fine, since no one did—but Ambella aimed to strike down that cumbersome obstacle. She planned to capture her Arabian prince. “Do you mind if I sit here?” Time: 12:16. Location: Third row, second column of the Kennedy Middle lunch tables. Ambella stood behind Khaliq. Her sweaty hands clasped themselves tightly by her waist and her razor-nicked legs crossed uncomfortably

against each other, creating a perceived shyness that was half feigned and half actuality. She wore black flats, a patterned skirt, and a yellow shirt, not to mention the $1.29 plastic headband in her hair that she, quite frankly, had no idea the name of, but assumed it something French like “corbusier” or “pomme.” She’d never worn any of these items before— she’d seen Lucy Swanson and Harriet Mueller wear them though, and figured they served the best chance of impressing a boy as dazzling as Khaliq. It seemed to work for Lucy Swanson and Harriet Mueller at least. “Huh?” Khaliq said. He turned his head, and when he did, Ambella ensured hers was tilted at the optimal 55-degree angle. “Do you mind if I reside here for the remainder of this lunch duration?” Ambella used the extra chance to improve the loquaciousness of her speech. Lucy Swanson and Harriet Mueller always used big words their parents said in meetings, like “boo-shwa-zee” and “ka-pree-shussnest.” Khaliq stared for a second, nodded, then turned back to his unopened bag of pretzels. He spoke very little English. He also sat alone during lunch, just like Ambella. That day, however, they were together, and while Ambella grinded over her next move, Khaliq gulped. It was a hurried, fleeting gulp, and it told everything. Unfortunately for Ambella, she was too busy impressing him to notice. Eyebrows scrunched in extreme focus, she placed shaky palms on knocked knees and squatted onto the lunch bench, like a “real” lady. She proceeded to cross and uncross her legs, each position feeling more uncomfortable than the previous. She was sweating and Khaliq had hardly even looked at her. Instead, he pulled out a pretzel. A salty, twisted pretzel and Ambella’s mind was foggy and confused and whirring and loving and nervous and obsessed and— Mesmerized. It wasn’t until pretzel number five that Ambella gathered the presence of mind to say something. “I got a hair straightener for Christmas you know!” she blurted. She didn’t actually, and she barely knew what one was. But she’d overheard

Lucy Swanson say it once to Greg Pesky by the water fountain. The next day Lucy had bragged about how they kissed and how she accidentally got his gum in her mouth, but that it was an extremely fulfilling experience regardless. Turning his head to her, Khaliq nodded quick little nods, unsure of the proper response. When it came to styling, his knowledge stopped at combs. Ambella forced a hair flip. “Yeah, it’s super greg-air-y-us and uses these things and straightens it or curls it really fa-seesh-us-ly and everything like that. It’s really complex and expensive.” She made several awkward attempts at leaning her chin on a balled-up fist. It looked nonchalant. It looked cool. A shy batting of eyelashes served to emphasize the fact. “I, um,” Khaliq started, confused. Long and arduous, Ambella’s words mixed and jumbled and clashed in his brain. As for her gestures, they sparked a flurry of questions: Was his chin going to need support like that too? Did she have something in her eyes? Should he help? Flustered, Khaliq looked downward and shook his head side to side rapidly. This girl was a blinding stage light and he couldn’t see. He couldn’t see at all and he was scared. “I-I must go.” Fumbling, he zipped his pretzels and picked up his backpack. “Project,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” Hands clenching the backpack’s straps, he shuffled toward the woodshop. There, things made sense. There, he could see. “I shop at Forever 21!” Ambella called after him. “And my favorite color is pink…” It was no use. Ambella put her head down. She soaked her inner elbows in tears. And when the bell rang, she sprinted away from the table in the third row, through two cheaply painted red gates, down three and half crumbly, cracked suburban blocks, and to the squeaky door of her blue and white house on the corner of McDonald and Dali. Time: 12:17. Location: Third row, second column of the Kennedy Middle lunch tables. Ambella wore a tattered Led Zeppelin t-shirt and her over-sized P.E. shorts. Her hair was frazzled like usual. She flaunted tattered tennis shoes

that had experienced thousands of steps, and, as for the “corbusier” or “pomme,” she had chucked it in the trash the second she got home the day prior. Spotting Khaliq, she breathed heavily, temple pulsating. He sat tauntingly on his pretty little throne, playing with pretzels and girls’ hearts. He’d had her on a string, oh yes he had, but now she’d show him. She’d show him who Ambella Marchant truly was. Determined, she marched to Khaliq’s table. She knocked a pretzel out of his hand, grabbed the bag, and dumped the contents into her mouth. Eying him down, she chomped violently, mouth open, the mashing of teeth a statement to Khaliq—to the public. In one gulp, she downed the mush of watery grain and subsequently positioned her chin at the optimal 55-degree angle. Simply put, Khaliq was mesmerized, and if it wasn’t for the stomach full of finger-induced vomit raining down upon him, he would’ve gladly dipped Ambella in his arms and kissed her passionately on the mouth—under dozens of bland, bumptious, blinding stage lights that, together, they could undoubtedly conquer.

Daisy, Four Times By Kurt Klaus

Daisy picked sunflowers and they felt like gold. The sun glistened on her blonde hair as she ran through the meadow, uneven stems in sweaty palms. Full speed, she wrapped herself around a much larger, teenage girl. The girl had her brown hair braided neatly back and wore a long blue dress. Lifting up Daisy’s petite body, she brushed stray strands behind Daisy’s ears. Daisy was beaming from restranded ear to restranded ear. “Look, Sissy, I got these for Mommy!” “Good,” said Sissy, kissing Daisy’s forehead. She rubbed Daisy’s back as she cradled the girl in her arms, thinking back to the summer days when she too had brought back flowers from the meadow. “I’m sure she’ll love them.” “I love you,” Daisy said. She landed a small-lipped kiss on her sister’s cheek. Sissy smiled. “I love you too, cutie. Let’s go home to Mommy for lunch now, okay?” Daisy nodded. Sissy repositioned the girl in her arms and carried her down the hill. In accompaniment with rocks lodged in the soft turf, holes caused by moles and chipmunks littered the face. Walking down diligently, Sissy warned her little sister about the tiny, sunken obstacles. “You want to grow up big and strong, don’t you?” Sissy said to Daisy. She nodded fervently, eyes wide. “Good. Then make sure to always watch out for these holes coming down, okay? Promise me that.” Daisy super duper ultra pinky promised, and when they got home Daisy and Sissy talked for hours about astronauts, presidents, and all the other things Daisy could be when she grew big and strong. *

Daisy picked sunflowers and they felt like gold. The sun glistened on her blonde hair as she ran through the meadow, uneven stems in sweaty palms. Full speed, she wrapped herself around a much larger, teenage girl. The girl had her brown hair curled and wore a white, polka dotted skirt and high heels meant for a lunchtime date. Lifting up Daisy’s petite body, she brushed stray strands behind Daisy’s ears. Daisy was beaming from restranded ear to restranded ear. “Sissy, Sissy, do you think Mommy would like some more flowers?” “Of course she would,” said Sissy. “We always want that centerpiece looking beautiful, don’t we?” “You’re beautiful,” Daisy said. Sissy stroked Daisy’s cheek. Then she checked her watch. “Let’s get you home sweetie, okay? Your big sister has somewhere to be.” She positioned Daisy in her arms and hurried down the hole-covered hill, high heels and all, not wanting to be late for her date. Mind on sandwiches, iced coffee, and the boy with the perfect laugh, Sissy neglected the advice she’d given her sister just one day prior. * Daisy picked sunflowers and they felt like gold. The sun glistened on her blonde hair, but fell dull on a hairless patch on the right side of her head. Three stitches called the bare spot home and they drank to new life. Full speed, their host ran through the meadow and wrapped herself around a much larger, teenage girl. The girl had her brown hair down and her arms crossed in a red jacket, chilly from the breeze. She opened her arms to Daisy and lifted her up. As usual, she brushed stray strands behind Daisy’s ears. When she reached the stitches, however—the ones Daisy had received the previous afternoon for a cut suffered on the hill—she hesitated for a moment, then resumed. Daisy was beaming from restranded ear to restranded ear. “I got these for Mommy, Sissy. Aren’t they beautiful?” With sweaty palms, Daisy displayed half a dozen uneven stems.

“Cutie,” Sissy said, rocking her sister, “don’t you think Mommy would want a different kind of flower? Maybe some daffodils? You’ve already gotten her sunflowers twice now.” Daisy furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?” “I mean, don’t you want to add another type of flower to the centerpiece? Don’t you, cutie?” She kissed Daisy’s hair. Daisy shook her head. “I’ve never gotten her sunflowers. Never ever.” “What do you mean?” Daisy crossed her arms. “Stop playing tricks on me. It’s not nice. You hate my flowers. We’ve never even been here before.” “Daisy, look at me.” She forced her searching eyes into Daisy’s. Sissy’s were wide, pupils dilated, instincts fully kicked in. “We’ve been to the meadow the past two days.” “Stop it!” Daisy yelled. She threw down her fistful of flowers. “No we haven’t! You don’t think my flowers are beautiful! Mommy would but you won’t let me.” “Daisy—” “I’m telling Mommy! I’m going to tell Mommy!” Tears streamed down Daisy’s burning cheeks. She thrashed about in her sister’s arms. “Shhh,” her sister tried, stroking her hair. “It’s going to be alright. It’s going to be—” Her hand grazed the bare spot on Daisy’s head. It lingered. * Daisy picked sunflowers and they felt like gold. The sun didn’t glisten off her hair—it had been shaved off, necessary for the recent removal of a blood clot. After months of medical scans, a doctor had finally spotted the inconspicuous blip while looking for the cause of her troublesome shortterm memory. Still, unabashed, Daisy ran through the meadow, uneven stems in sweaty palms. Full speed, she wrapped herself around a much larger, teenage girl. The girl wore all black and forced a smile. They hadn’t been to the meadow in nearly three months. She wanted desperately to

restrand Daisy’s hair, to lay her golden, wind-blown wisps behind her ears, but the closest she could do was stroke her scalp, her shaven scalp that wore two patches of stitches: three on her right side, and a line of six near the top left. Daisy beamed from barren ear to barren ear. “I got these for Mommy, Sissy!” Daisy screeched in glee. “Won’t she think they’re beautiful?” She held up half a dozen sunflowers—half a dozen uneven stems. “Yes,” Sissy said. She shut her eyes, pushed in her lips, and nodded quick little nods. “She’ll love them. So, so much, Daisy.” Daisy twisted her eyebrows, noticing her sister’s mood change. “What’s wrong, Sissy? Don’t you think they’re beautiful?” Sissy opened watery eyes. One hand under Daisy’s bottom and the other on a smooth cheek, she forced those watery eyes into Daisy’s own, contrarily full of hope. “I do, Daisy. The only thing I’ve ever seen more beautiful is you.” Daisy yelped in joy and tied her arms around her sister’s neck, kissing her face uncontrollably. Once Daisy was content, she asked her sister why they’d never been to the meadow before. It was so peaceful after all, and the uneven stems were so, so beautiful. Sissy wiped her tears and said she didn’t know why, and that Daisy was right—it was so peaceful and the uneven stems were indeed so, so beautiful. They’d be back though, Sissy promised, they’d be back as many times as they needed to. Both sorrowing and encouraging, the doctor’s voice constantly looped in Sissy’s head, offering that, just maybe, the meadow could bring back Daisy’s memory. Just maybe… and that was enough. With great care, Sissy put her little sister down. She held Daisy’s hand through the meadow, down the hill, and to the house where their mom was waiting, hoping for the day when Daisy would bring her daffodils that felt like silver. And as the days passed by, Daisy and Sissy continued to talk for hours—about astronauts, presidents, and all the other things Daisy could be when she grew big and strong.

Mango Harvest By Tatianna Giron

in my house, there are always mangoes & my mother taught me how to consume them: first, slice the fruit down its center partition into threes. Then, excavate orange-fleshed mesocarp with metal spoon. the middle slice—the seed —reserved for last. peel off skin, & suck on seed until molars dig grooves into seed-coated endocarp.

but I have hungry hands,

when I dissect mangoes, I always aim too close to the center, carving off scraps of fibrous seed

& insatiate appetite,

when I eat mangoes, I carve out space for myself in cocooning pit, until I bore too deep—tearing my thin flesh

(my mother always told me I needed thicker skin)

breached bare, I try to fill that space with faces & bodies

drown myself in succulent nectar

overdose on dopamine seeds & asphyxiate on serotonin skin needing more more more â&#x20AC;&#x201D;find myself handing spoons to hands that whittle me hollow.

Joining the Work Forced By Isabella Antinoro

Apartment Eviction Can’t pay the rent yourself a few nights a week seven is just a few right? out of the kitchen to the bathroom water running so you can’t hear yourself saying that’s disgusting why don’t you stop lights red, all you see is red even when it’s green so you get hit when you’re driving and hit when you’re sleeping with strangers who love nothing about you happy to leave you with less than they agreed to so you drink the bottle in just one glass that slipped off like your clothing because you have to pay rent thinking maybe I can sleep with the landlord what’s one more when there’s already so many cuts on your skin from forgetting the glass that slipped your mind and there’s a mess that follows like shadows of people you used to be careful when you were ten and kisses didn’t taste like money and alcoholic fathers staying late at

work longer nights because the landlord is gay so you can’t pay with your body emblazoned in bruises and skin-covered bones that feel like they’re breaking but not as much as your heart when your mother asks how’s your job in the city and all you can say is “it’s fine.”

Hung by the Jury By Isabella Antinoro

Penitent children cross streets without looking but where is their mother inside, she is she putting her head on a sofa with lacerated arms passed down from her mother with hidden secrets in the cushions and bloodstains in the seams A laughter from the street echoes through an open window sunlight is muted by clouds there is a sinewy glow on her face mistaken perspiration the taste of salt but the smell of ammonia The corners of her mouth leak upon her blouse with sleeves rolled up high in another world sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been unmasked

The curtains near closing but await no applause for the woman as a mother as a junkie undercover as a whore as witch as a singer off-pitch as a sinner as a child as a victim on trial with a judge who never came leaving the verdict to a jury egregious and in a hurry to chortle and chide and make game of the night The jurors rise the music now cued, they cavort to an outrĂŠ tune the woman stands in wrinkled trepidation ruminating in the front of the room Ill-stricken to a murmur too incoherent to comprehend her dissertation condensed into a plea of a return Her crystalline thoughts reflect the faces of her children their still harrowed looks bring her head to the sky emptied of its stars waiting to hear God

AbiLaura By Emily Parsons

Every night since she started studying for the AP exams, my sister Abilene had fallen asleep with her glasses on. They left red imprints on the bridge of her nose: the battle scars of an Ivy-league-bound senior, so dedicated to her studies that she dozed off only in the early hours, face down in her book, glasses pressed up against chemical formulas. At least, this was the version of events she sold our parents. It wasn’t a hard sell—they never watched her long enough to see that Abilene’s “studying” really consisted of drawing in the margins of her AP prep book, slamming her head onto the page, bemoaning the futility of chemistry/ calculus/physics, and finally falling asleep with her glasses pressed against the freshest doodles. One night, I asked her how she could accept the praise Mom and Dad gave her for being “such a dedicated student.” “Better to let them think they understand you, sis,” she said. “As long as you know something they don’t, you’re in control.” “If you want to know something they don’t, shouldn’t you be studying more?” “What’s the point? My acceptance to Hogwarts is coming any day now.” “Harvard.” “Same thing.” Her nonchalance about attending one of the most prestigious universities in the world grated on me as I plodded through her old copy of The Grapes of Wrath, part of my vast inheritance as a younger sister: first toys, then clothes, and finally schoolbooks. My friends said I had an unfair advantage because Abilene, who routinely set the curve on English and math tests alike, had taken all the

same classes I was in now and had filled her books with notes. Clearly they had never looked inside her Grapes of Wrath book—I’d just come across a page on which Abilene had drawn purple circles with numbers and symbols on them, with the caption, “Grapes of Math.” While I found those and other insightful annotations, Abilene looped furiously in her prep book with two markers at once. “Why aren’t you in bed already?” she asked. “I have a test tomorrow.” “So?” “So, I have to do well. It’s worth 20% of my grade.” “You don’t need to study for an English test. Just make up some symbols and talk about—what book is that?—the Dust Bowl.” “Easy for you to say,” I wanted to snap back. Abilene “made up some symbols” and her paper became the model for every English class at our school—mine included. I worked hard on my analysis for weeks and my teacher said, “Good try, Abi… Laura,” and my parents said, “You might just have to settle for Yale, honey.” But I never snapped at Abilene. It never got to her, which only infuriated me more. I read by the light of Abilene’s old lamp until I heard the sound that meant she was asleep: soft but troubled murmuring. It was usually nonsensical, though sometimes I could make out names. This was my cue to remove her glasses before she rolled over. She had already shattered two pairs, and if she broke the third my mother said she wouldn’t pay for new ones. Abilene didn’t have the money. She was saving up for Harvard. Not the actual tuition, just the merchandise— Harvard sweaters and scarves and hats. All month Abilene had been waiting coolly for her acceptance letter, leafing through the mail with a glimmer in her green eyes. I imagine she looked the same way three weeks ago when she broke up with Bryan, her boyfriend of two years. To Abilene, the Harvard freshman class would be like an algorithmically

filtered pool of eligible bachelors, and if history told us anything, she would have her pick of them. But I suspected that, unlike “4.0 unweighted GPA” and “2300+ SAT score,” “ability to deal with Abilene” was not a Harvard admissions criterion. Maybe her ex “only” had a 3.9 and a 2100, but he hit dealing with Abilene out of the park. Bryan knew when to indulge her whims and eccentricities and contradictions, and when to rein them in. Most impressive, he never lost his patience with her. That was more than I could say. When her friends asked about the breakup, she said: “I’m holding out for a nice Ravenclaw boy.” They assumed this was a joke meant to hide the truth: that it would be too difficult to maintain the relationship once she moved to Cambridge. But Abilene wasn’t joking, not really. She really believed that at Harvard, she could do better. I wished I had the same assurance about guys, about college. About anything. I absorbed and repeated her advice back like mantras—never change for someone else; always say what you think; never back down— but somehow I could never perform them with conviction. I hated the strange looks I got when I wore Abilene’s old doodled-on jeans, or when I said I didn’t like the movie everyone else loved. I wanted to have strong convictions and to stick to them, but the truth was I didn’t know what I thought about anything until Abilene, with steady but laughing eyes, laid it out for me. As I wondered why I’d done it all—why I’d followed advice I didn’t understand, read books with notes I hadn’t written and wore clothes that didn’t quite fit me, not knowing where Abilene ended and I began—I considered not taking off her glasses at all. It wasn’t like she would notice. Besides, with her luck she would probably win a huge scholarship that would render the little chore I’d performed all those nights entirely pointless. I closed my book and was about to turn off my lamp when Abilene murmured my name. Had she read my mind? I’d been awake too long.

“Laura,” she said again. “What is it?” I asked. “You’re not going to take my glasses off?” she asked, her face toward the wall. “You knew I did that?” “I knew I didn’t.” “All right,” I said. Her cheek was pressed against a page of her calculus prep book, one about derivatives. Maybe she was trying to tell me something: no matter how much I studied, I would still be a derivative version of her. Maybe that should have made me angry, but I was too tired. All I could think was that at least she needed me for something—I was the only one who could save her glasses. For the night, that was enough. As I reached out to take the glasses, I felt something wet on the frame. Abilene turned to face me, her eyes red. “I didn’t get in,” she whispered. “They sent the rejection weeks ago.”

25 Reasons Mexican Kids Can’t Prosper By Karen Castillo

Juan Felipe Herrera, you told it how it is. *** Because we were raised on tequila instead of breast milk. Because we played with canicas instead of board games, even when it was raining. Because we climbed lemon trees like our ancestors were climbing fronteras through us. Because the grass stains on our pant knees predisposed us to crawling. Because we had so many tortillas that we’re growing as fast as the maiz does. Because Factory 2 U clothes didn’t make you popular in elementary school. Because our abuelitas said to go to “escool” instead of school. Because brand name Lunchables were too expensive for a criada mother and jardinero father. Because our counselors helped us get high school diplomas but not university acceptances. Because the too-white and too-dark kids weren’t mixed enough for la raza cosmica. Because there are so many brown kids that we’re a blob instead of individual faces. Because we were told to get better jobs than our parents but never given the tools for them. Because our government contemplates taking our documents since our parents have none. Because we’re too short to reach white professional positions. Because we love our mamás more than a 9-to-5 job.

Because we love rancheras more than the Pledge of Allegiance. Because there are no accents allowed in the US despite this being native land. Because we were told that our race was conquered, not conquistador. Because our skin looks like the soil stolen from our ancestors. Because we’ve become the majority, but there’s still a trace of Malinche blood in us. Because they’d rather have us as pack mules instead of presidents. Because our hands look better holding machetes instead of college degrees. Because they’d rather us kill each other in the streets instead of them doing it directly. Because our sicario relatives are more immoral than racist, murdering cops. Because you can still hear El Grito every time we say our last names.

1995 Ford Mustang by Karen Castillo

Hands, unlike lips in their calluses, knuckles of dry blood, dry scabs, sweat and sweet drip from open palms like trickles of rainwater streaked slowly against the once-crystalline, now-opaqued car Windows, fogged from our heavy breaths, and hard hands still pressed softly against me as honeyed whispers free float and shimmer dimly, suspend in time like our fixed gazes, then finally fall against the outside Pavement, very much like calluses in the small sandpaper bumps made from the way you lift and sift through the thin, golden strings of me, holding and molding and unfolding me with Hands, those bridges that melt utility and sensuality In the way the fingers lift heavy objects while working, and then return like homing pigeons to hold fruit in front of my ravenous mouth.

The LA heat got too hot By Emiliano Gomez

The LA heat got too hot So I took pain killers to stop feeling Eight grams in, and the sun felt good— At least I imagined it did— The noise shut off, my head stopped; No thought, pound, blare, opinion, hate or love The LA heat got too hot So I dove headfirst into a rock pool, And I wished for a vertical plummet Into freezing water, where the snap of a neck —and the slash of breath—mixed to please My desires—to end, truncate, terminate, finish The LA heat got too hot So I played some sports And jumped in pools and stayed indoors And rocked out at rock concerts To avoid burning (my reputation as a socialite) For an indulgence of the society I despise The LA heat got too hot So I took it—I took my shot— Which never made it—Bullet got stuck— In the tree behind me—Glimmering: Scarlet against birchwood, iron replenishing the weeds— Where God said turn back to Hell & Rot.

Wild Awakening by Talin L. Babakhanyan

She walks deep canyons cracked into the making of the Earth Each step draws a live breeze grazing past the soft of her ankles Barefooted, she settles into the deeps of dry air Leaning into generations, she empties jar onto earth and root Water rakes down Running brooks turned rivers She is enamored of spreading leaves, The flowering trees, The height of oranges atop branched wood Wrists laced with steadiness Gathering from the stem She wakes air with each fruit she picks Delivering dust into the calling skies

Long Distance Charges By Amara Trabosh

When John calls, Amy is lying on the floor in the middle of their hallway a few feet from the kitchen in darkness. The nearby sink boasts a mountainous pile of every dish and utensil from their cluttered apartment; she’s been eating off napkins for at least a day. If John were home, he wouldn’t have tolerated her mess. She lets the phone ring five times before she’s able to recover the strength to move her hand. “Hello?” “Amy! Amy!” He must be drunk, since it’s one in the morning in New York. At least she thinks he’s in New York, but at this point in his tour, it could be anywhere. Amy used to follow him when he went on tour. She didn’t have anything better to do then, but now she’s trying to restart her own career, trying to be her own person because she and John need to be less “unhealthily codependent” in the words of her therapist. “Yes, I’m here.” She almost laughs at his puppy-like greeting. From his end, she hears a high-pitched voice say, “John, why are you on the phone?” His muffled voice responds, “Room service.” Amy doesn’t know if she cares enough to interrogate him about the girl’s voice, so she asks, “Are you at the hotel?” “Yeah. Are you home?” She doesn’t want him to know she hasn’t moved in the last three hours and has been lying in darkness because she couldn’t muster the energy to stand and flick the light switch. She thinks of the stack of dishes mere feet from her and then the trashed napkins. Her therapist would be ashamed. “How’s New York?” “I’m in Virginia.”

“Close enough.” They have the same time zone at least. “Not really.” He sounds annoyed, and then says something to the other girl that Amy can’t make out. Obnoxious snorting laughter sounds. John can be funny, but not that funny. She imagines an insipid fan with a head of cotton candy, touching his arm and throwing her blonde hair back in wild laughter at every sentence. She wants to hate this girl, who must contain less brain cells than an ant if she believes his pathetic excuse of “room service.” “Were you about to ask me if you can hook up with some random girl?” She’d often wondered before if he cheated on her on tour, surrounded by adoring beautiful fans, keeping it secret, too worried it might break her. But this call almost comforts her that maybe he hasn’t. “Maybe...” his voice trails. “Is she pretty?” “I guess.” She rolls her eyes at the noncommittal words and asks, “Blonde?” “Yeah.” She sighs, “Of course.” Amy has never been blonde, but John’s string of blonde exes backs up what he’s told her about his preference. The phone clatters, set aside, and his voice is muffled again. “Hush. Do you want food or not?” She wants to scream at him, but the feeling just isn’t there. “Just do what you want.” She ends the call, dropping her phone near her head. Her eyes close, as she tries to breathe slowly like her therapist taught her. It doesn’t work. Tears pour from the outer corners of her eyes, dripping into her ears as she blinks rapidly at the ceiling. Even though the feeling makes her skin crawl, she doesn’t wipe them away, wallowing in her own pain and discomfort. When John calls again, she answers this time after only two rings. “Wow, three minutes? You’re faster than I remembered.” “What a greeting.”

“You called for permission to get with another girl.” The words feel like something that should be yelled, but her voice remains flat. “Maybe, but you know I didn’t.” “Okay.” “You don’t sound mad. Are you sure you’re okay?” “I’m glad. I guess.” He pauses before saying, “I kissed her.” This kind of admission of guilt deserves a thrown glass or slammed door or an overturned table or anything, except what she says, “I figured.” A silence falls. She can hear his haggard, drunk breathing. She pictures him in his leather concert jacket and embellished jeans lying on the bed too worn out to change or even lift the covers. This, this is the moment for confession. “I fucked a producer.” A much longer pause hangs in the air between them, and all the space of the miles and miles between Los Angeles and New York or Virginia or wherever sinks in. She hadn’t wanted to do it. It wasn’t romantic or anything. The producer had asked in every way except directly asking the question and so she had consented. It didn’t much matter to her, but it was the first time she’d ever cheated on John. She’d cheated before, just not on him. Those relationships had been brief, superficial, not like theirs, her first and only stable relationship. It felt like it should’ve been momentous, but it wasn’t. She’d never been in a situation to cheat on him before. She wonders if she would’ve made the same decision earlier if presented the opportunity. Maybe if she knew she had John to come home to, she would’ve told the producer to fuck off. She didn’t feel any different after the encounter. She still didn’t have her own album, and the bed was still empty when she collapsed on the permanently unmade covers, but she knows sharing this information won’t make this particular situation any better. To fill the void, she gives an empty laugh. “The sad part is. I didn’t even get a second meeting.”

“That bastard.” She wants to laugh, to appreciate his words, but she can’t. He should be screaming at her. She wants him to scream. She did something unforgivable, and yet he ignores it. “What are you doing right now?” he asks. “Lying on the floor in the hall.” “For how long?” “Since I got home. Three hours maybe.” “Did you eat dinner? You really should.” “I will,” she lies. “I’m serious, Ames. I worry about you, especially alone.” “I don’t want you to,” she says, even though deep down she does. She revels in the attention. There’s something about being the most important thing in someone else’s life that offers a permanent high. If only it were enough. “Are you angry?” she asks, scared of the answer but in electrifying anticipation of the hard truth. He must hate her, or worse, pity her and her inability to function. “Of course.” He’s fighting back words, leaving the fight for another day. “I’m sorry.” She actually is sorry. She can’t take it back, can’t go back to the innocent, early days of their relationship before the crying, the fighting, the separation. The darkness had always been there. She just hadn’t let it show. “Don’t be,” he says. “I can’t help it. I’m sorry.” “I know. I know. You can’t help anything.” His bitterness echoes through the phone. She doesn’t want to start that fight again. “How pathetic is it that we couldn’t even make it a month?” They laugh together.

“Pretty pathetic,” he replies. “Maybe I should’ve just gone with you.” “Maybe.” They both know intellectually why she doesn’t and why it’s better in the long run. Despite what her therapist thinks, they do listen to advice sometimes. She wonders what her therapist will think of this latest outcome of cheating. In a way, it is the therapist’s fault by encouraging Amy’s independence and so their separation. “So you kicked out the blonde?” “No, she’s right here. I’ll put her on,” he jokes. Even so, Amy tenses for a brief moment. He lets out a breath of laughter. “Of course I kicked her out.” “Good.” A sigh of relief passes over her. At least she cares enough to be glad he didn’t sleep with the other girl. It’s not ideal, but it is enough for now. Amy lifts her hand and wipes away her dried tears. “I miss you.” “I miss you too.”

Famine By Gabrielle Craft

There is a famine across the land.

The people wander in the desert.

The trees of compassion and empathy have dried up

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;they must eat the thistles of self-pity, the briers of cynicism.

Abundant waters have receded;

generosity of spirit and wisdom

no longer carve a path through fruitful soil:

fellow-feeling has been sucked from its

depths. The people travel wearily in desolate places,

to look a friend in the eye is an offense

and a secret wish,

but any stranger could be a source of misery.

Fear,

the desert is rank from its pestilence.

A haze drops like a shroud over the land,

the haze of addiction and escapism,

the shroud of despair,

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;the people are glad of its bitter embrace.

How to Escape Los Alisos by Andria Ozimek

Imagine the trailers are filled with actors on some movable, changeable film set. Pretend the empty dirt lot is a canvas and the sticks you collect are paint brushes. Imagine cameras everywhere, forget the crew are felons. Pretend there are street lights above exposing this horror scene. Imagine the billiards room unlocked, like new, without its dusty curtains covering its past caught in the cobwebs that are hanging from the rusted chandelier. Imagine not having to go to the jacuzzi to find hot water. Forget those times the homeless were there to bathe. Imagine the little girl across the road without that burn mark on her chin. Pretend her daddy isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a smoker and he bangs on your door for sugar, not foil. Imagine that your other neighbor no longer asks you to watch her baby.

Pretend someone will be there to watch you. Forget that you gave a stray cat your last can of tuna. Pretend you are an actress on set, imagine youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the star.

The Black Cat By Rory Meagher

He was born under the shadows of a human structure, a canopy of wooden planks and cold, smooth cement. Born unto the soft dirt, made warm and moist by the entry of his eight older siblings. He was the last one out, small and black and slimy, but she licked him clean like all the others. His mother was his world at first. She was big and never-ending, soft with black fur and green eyes. He had five brothers and three sisters, and they were better at getting to the milk. He had to fight them to get his share. But at night they slept with him against his mother’s warm belly, and she watched over them, her green eyes glowing in the dark. In the daytime, light pierced through the planks above and made long lines in the dirt. When the humans walked over the cement steps, their footfalls echoed like thunder and then the planks groaned, and dust drifted down in clouds, little particles floating along the lines of light, disappearing as they crossed into darkness. Every day he stared out at the green grass shining brilliantly in the sun, and he wondered what was Out There. He liked playing with his brothers and sisters, but they always won. And one day, they beat him and scratched him so bad that he ran away. He ran out of the shadows, out into the vibrant green world, and he kept running. The grass stopped, and he ran onto the tough cement, jumping down onto the asphalt, stinging his paws with pain. Then a big machine screeched up next to him – so loud that his hair stuck up, and he sprinted across the street, until he was under the shadows of another machine – this one was asleep. He stayed there, on the cool, hard ground. He thought about going home, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to be a big, proud cat – wild and dangerous and free, hunting for food and leading a pack. He found some grass to eat – it was chewy and dry, but he

ate it, and he stayed away. For three days, he stayed away – exploring the grassy parts, hiding from the humans, running from the machines – until he got so hungry that he went back. When he returned, the entrance to his home was walled off with bricks. He looked around, ran out to the street, and came back from a different angle. The bricks were still there, red and gleaming in the sun, laced with a white web in between each rectangle, holding them sturdy and permanent. He rubbed his head against the wall, turning, walking alongside it, leaning on it. The wall smelled like the streets and the sidewalks, but underneath that, he smelled home. He smelled his mother’s fur, and he cried out. With his ear against the wall, he heard them cry back. He ran around the corner, scampering across the path to the other side – more wall. He leaned against it and cried. They cried back, and this time, he could hear each one of them, and they kept crying. He put his paws against the bricks. He scratched at the red rocks and cried in pain. He looked around and circled back. Then he started clawing at the grass next to the wall – but he couldn’t tear away the earth like big animals can. The grass was thick and tough, and he kept scratching at it, making little progress. Then a human came yelling, and he ran away as fast as he could, into the parking lot behind the building, dodging under dead machines, weaving behind a dumpster that smelled like sour milk, crawling under an old curling fence, and onward, until he was certain that the human was gone. He started eating grass and bugs to survive. He came back to the wall the next day and the next, and each day he cried, and they cried back, and then the man came out and threw something at him, and he ran like hell, tearing through the grass, heart pounding with fear and excitement, until he was alone. When he slept, he curled himself into a ball, and he wrapped his tail around his legs and leaned his head against it. This was the only way to stay warm. On the third day, he went back to the wall, and it was silent. He knew what that meant. For many nights afterwards, he would hear them crying

in his dreams. He didn’t understand why the wall had to be there, but he knew that it was the human’s choice, just like the machines were the human’s choice, and the cement and the asphalt and the buildings and all the hard, dead surfaces were the human’s choice. Behind the parking lot, there was a narrow alley riddled with potholes and gravel – this is where he began to live, and this is where he would spend his youth. There were small backyards bordering the alley, but many of them were paved over with asphalt so that the humans could keep their machines there. He only moved at night, becoming a shadow among shadows, lithely sliding between fence-posts like a ghost. He nibbled on grass, jumped onto picnic tables for scraps and crumbs. He learned to live on the tough ground, the lifeless asphalt that didn’t give in or give back. His paws grew tougher. He hunted rats by the trash cans in the alley. He killed rabbits and birds. When it rained, he lapped up the water that collected in the potholes. He slept under machines. His fur smelled like gasoline, and he had to lick himself clean, but he never did as good a job as his mother. Sometimes he saw other cats. They lived in windows, and they were different colors – white and orange and gray and spotted. They were fat and bored. They watched him. He wasn’t sure why, but he hated all of those cats. He kept on moving. Every night, he padded down the endless alley, not even sure what he was looking for. Sometimes he sat down and stared at the metal trees that the humans had made. They had glowing parts that made the alley orange at night, and if he looked close enough, he could see bugs circling the glowing parts. The bugs were almost as small as the motes of dust that had drifted down in clouds through his old home. They floated in and out of the light. When he was watching the bugs one night, he heard a crying and howling cat-noise. She was a mother-cat, howling with fear and hate and pride. He crept stealthily toward the noise. There were long shadows from the buildings, and the black vines between the metal trees made stripes on

the ground. The noise echoed out from a gravelly lot behind the building to his right. He peeked around the corner. The lot was cloaked in darkness from the shadow of the garage, but he saw animal-shapes throbbing and thrashing. He tightened down on his haunches, his eyes zooming in, and then he saw the rats. They were attacking the mother-cat and her kittens. They were the biggest rats he’d ever seen, bigger than the kittens, and the mother-cat was fighting them off, but there were too many. She was a black cat, her green-gold eyes glowing in the dark like his mother’s. His heart pounded faster and faster, and then she howled in pain, and he ran into the lot. He swatted a rat aside, and then he bit into another one, shook it and threw it. Sharp teeth sunk into his back leg – he howled and kicked it off. It came back anyway, black-eyed, gray-haired, and pink-tailed, dragging its fat belly against the gravel. He lunged forward and bit down on the rat’s head, ripping it off with a jerk of the neck and spitting it out. Blood dripped from his fangs. He swerved to his left, claws coming out as easy as his hot breath – and he scratched at them, striking and slashing, creating a perimeter and pushing it back. He growled like he had never growled before – and the noise reverberated off the concrete walls and echoed down the alley. The rats began to retreat. Then he ran back to the mother – she was trying to gather in all her kittens. She had three, but it wasn’t enough – she was too distressed. He chased after the rats. They had gone under a fence, which he couldn’t fit under, so he sprinted around it and crept down a cement slope that got darker and darker – his eyes focusing and zooming in on the shapes – they were running towards a hole in the cement wall, and the one in the front was carrying a kitten in its mouth. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to fit in the hole, and he knew that he couldn’t knock down the wall, but he was big and strong now – he was faster than them – and he wasn’t going to let them escape. Leaping forward, he landed claw-first on two of the trailing rats, spiking them

and grinding them into the ground. The rest of them turned back. He jumped ahead, blocking off their path. The one in the front dropped the kitten and hissed at him viciously. He slashed the rat with his right paw, knocking it down with a spray of blood, and he reached for the kitten, but then his back stung with pain – horrendous pain – rats were pouring out of the hole in the wall, climbing onto his back and biting him all over. He howled and rolled, frantically trying to shake them off. He tumbled and tumbled to the bottom of the hill. Scrambling to his feet, he found himself free, and he bounded up the hill. He leapt forward and grabbed the kitten with his mouth, and he jumped away, running with all his might, climbing the mountain of cement out of the darkness until he reached the top and ran around the fence. When his paws hit the gravelly lot, he slowed down and approached the mother. He laid the kitten down in front of her and looked back – nothing had followed him. The kitten was bloody and quiet. She nudged the kitten with her nose and licked its head. She kept doing this, and he kept looking back. When he turned to face her, she was watching the kitten – its little body softly rose with breath. She picked up the kitten with her mouth and trotted back into the shadows, where she had hidden the rest. He stayed where he was. He kept looking back, but nothing had followed him. As his heart slowed its mad drumbeat in his chest, he began to relax, and as he relaxed, he began to feel the certainty of his wounds, the slickness of his bloody fur, and the pain – the pain was all over. She came out of the shadows. He stood still as she circled him. Then she leaned into him, so hard that he almost fell over, and she said with her green-gold eyes that he should follow her. They ducked under a small wooden structure, and she sniffed him and licked his bloody fur and kept at him, trying to lick all his wounds, until he nudged her away. Then she went to her kittens and tended to them. He watched her with her kittens for a moment. Then he settled in, slowly, painfully lowering himself down, resting his chin on his paw, facing out – trying to stay awake in case they came back. After a short

while, the mother and the kittens fell asleep, but he stayed awake as long as he could, until his eyes stung with pain so badly that he gave in. It was almost dawn. After he fell asleep, he had a dream, and in that dream he saw his family – his mother and his five brothers and his three sisters, all of them grown older and bigger, black and strong and beautiful, and they were running in the grass, and they were proud of him, and they wanted him to run with them. He woke up wearily, eyes groggy, bones cold – his body burdened with so much pain that he couldn’t move. There was a human face up close to his. The human was female with blue eyes, and she had her hand on him. Her hand was soft and her voice was soft. He hated humans, but he was too tired and hurting to attack her. He didn’t know where the mother-cat had gone, but the human lifted him up. He cried out in pain, and she cradled him carefully. She stroked his neck, which hurt him and soothed him all at once. She took him to one of the machines, and inside, there was an enclosure where the mother-cat and the kittens were resting. It was a blue and gray box with slotted walls and a cage-like door. He was glad to see them, but only in a vague, sleepy way – there was a fog descending over everything now – and the female human was saying soft things to him. He sensed that he had finally passed the human test, whatever it was. She laid him down in the front of the box and closed the door behind him. It was dark except for the horizontal lines of light that fell through the slotted walls. The mother-cat was in the back corner with her kittens resting against her. Then the machine woke up and growled to life, throbbing with breath – a sputtering, struggling breath, like his own. His eyelids were batting slowly, and a heavy sleep began to weigh down on him, but he knew that he might not wake up from this sleep – he sensed it as simply as anything else. He looked at the mother-cat. She looked at him with her green-

gold eyes, and she made him feel warm again. He turned to the kittens and he stared at them, the little babies â&#x20AC;&#x201C; their black fur matted with dry blood, breathing softly, half-asleep. And then he cried out â&#x20AC;&#x201C; because he wanted them to know him â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and they raised their weary eyes up until they met his gaze. He cried out again. And this time, they cried back, and he limped over to them, staggering through the lines of light, and when he got to the dark corner, they huddled against him. And he felt bigger than the world.

you’re running out of tomorrows By Max Yu

Time is inherent regret you can only Keurig your courage so far A discount fuck equates to six good hits at best i’d choose nothing else over an oz of dro and a fifth of rotgut the carrion sunbathe on my windowsill mother says to carry on, ha so i bite the skin off my mind scraping violence off my mettle roll a benjamin fuck my septum shake the epsom through the pipe resort to ISO 70 for botched green dragon crumbs haunts my empty grind ate the lock, i get off to the bind we live in a world that pushes everything to tomorrow a dark culver alley behind a café where ten dollars get you an artisan cup and a bathroom ‘course that makes sense the sign’s written in Papyrus ignore the pain into your liver its half life runs into centuries you say you’re ready for an eternity of missed connections and regrets but just look at your hands.

fire! fire! fire! By Max Yu

a thick santa ana splits my head open as i bike against the traffic scene a beginning dignity abandon stupidity the world is packed with potential plans none of which execute my run in pursuit of tired dreams and overplayed music iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve stopped searching for an exit giving up the things iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve claimed as Polaris tears register a blip on my radar i leave it for tomorrow

Wiglaf By Alberto Lugo

Farewell brave Beowulf, beneficent king, generous in gold-gifts , Lord of the Geats! Thou wert to me as a Father, true and mighty in words and deeds. Strong warrior! In your youth you survived many battle-rushes, storms of war, times of strife. And now, old war-king, you seek the flames of combat and have found a foe to match your many battle-years. Oh boastful Beowulf! Our bountiful gain is your great loss of glorious life! What grieving thoughts does that troubled mind, aged in angry sorrow, hoard deep within? Dear leader, dost thou seek Death, Heavenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s light? Why rush to find a final, fateful feud? Proven yourself bold in battle and valor you have, too many times to count. Your deeds heroic are as the stars! Wise war-champion, why seek a foolish quarrel? Hatred drives the cloud-snake and anger, though righteous, drives you thus to battle. And as the flames of your foe tear your battle mask, I see the flames of vengeance rage within your eyes. Let not that blood-dance dwell within you, consume your spirit, lest your strength be seized away against passionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s success. Oh world, oh life! As rats in the light, these cowardly men, my battle-comrades,

hand-picked for glory by Hygelacâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kinsman, have fled in fear, having seen firelight, glaring flames, engulf our lord, good warrior. The angry, kill-greedy air-wolf â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fire bites the ringed leather, resolute armor of noble Beowulf! Alas! His battle-rod, like his battle-men, fails him! That strong-edged sword, bravest war blade, breaks upon the barrow-warden, as the spirit of my strengthless battle-brothers breaks upon seeing their hall-lord face the hoard-tyrant. Though every man must meet the end of his life, it cannot be your time my lord! It is not fitting that a noble friend, glorious and true in spirit, great in courage, brave and battle-hardened, worthy warrior-ruler, mighty war-king, kind in gifts and deeds, die in battle, troop-less and abandoned. And yet time and terror prey upon my head-shield, that I should not live to see my fame before my sleep-eternal. Oh life! Oh time! The treasures of this world, I have enjoyed but only winters few! What good are unheard melodies, of glory sweet? Songs, honor, and fame are but little solace to men when their eyes have shut in endless sleep. Little have I drunk of battle, and the bristles on my fair chin are few. To live, a friendless coward, and die alone, or die a hero, and live forever, famed in treasure-song, I must decide! To see Death clench tight my lord, and not to act is life lived no more! Not long ago, did I with life

vow to pay full price my king, when he promised fine treasures, rings of gold, gleaming armlets, jeweled mail-shirts, many war helmets. The spirit rises, yet sorrow sinks the soul that, in fear of life-less sleep, shrinks in cowardice. Almighty Lord, shield-bearer, Heavenly ruler, Host of angels, grant me strength! That I should give my hall-lord that which is his! If You too wish to take that which belongs to Thee, let it be in service of my spear-king! Oh Fate Almighty! Grant me victory in battle! Forward: This monologue is a tribute to the character of Wiglaf in the Old English epic poem Beowulf. At the conclusion of Beowulf, Wiglaf is first and briefly mentioned when he decides to aid the poemâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s namesake in his fatal fight against the Dragon. Hence, this monologue is meant to take place as Wiglaf resolves to bear arms besides Beowulf. Like Beowulf, the poem is written in Old English verse form.

Cell Signals from Above By Aubrey Freitas

I’m currently saving up all of my allowance money because everybody laughs at my old iPhone 4 when they see it. They tell me that I’m definitely way past my free upgrade time or that I should just buy out my contract or that I might as well start using a flip phone. I get it. It’s old and lame and the camera quality is really, really bad, but it’s my backup phone, and I happen to need it until I save up enough to buy a new one. What those judgmental assholes ask me after hearing my explanation is usually some variation of “what happened to your old phone?” a story I’m always happy to tell. I was in Argentina over the summer, volunteering with Saintly Children Abroad to help teach underprivileged kids how to read and write in English. Usually I really get people with this opening sentence. They realize that I’m actually a really nice person and that they’re actually an asshole for laughing at my bad phone. They become way more sympathetic after that. I explain how on weekends we had days off, and how the other volunteers and I would go exploring around Cordoba to see all of the sights, tourist traps included. Here, they usually say that they’ve never been to Argentina, and then I get to tell them all about an incredible experience that they’ll never have. It’s my payback for the phone jokes. I was in Alta Gracia one Sunday, where I lost my phone. I make sure they know that Alta Gracia means “higher grace” in Spanish, because after living there for a month and a half, I’m extremely cultured and my Spanish is muy bueno. I explain how Alta Gracia is a very religious place, if you couldn’t tell by the name, and how there’s a very famous church there with a painting of Mary on a mirror that, legend says, just appeared one day. The locals say it was a sign from God. Here, the snoops either say

how incredible that is or tell me that they think that’s a load of bullshit. Since it was on a Sunday, there was a large mass being held right outside of the church. The church was really small, only like twenty people could fit inside it, so it obviously wasn’t practical for services. Here, they usually ask, “Why don’t they just expand the church to make room for more people?” And I tell them, “I don’t know, but stop interrupting me because I’m getting to the good part about how I lost my phone.” We didn’t attend the mass, because not all volunteers could speak Spanish—not me, of course—but the other volunteers, so we stayed a little bit behind the crowd by this huge basin of holy water that people drank from and would wash their faces in when they left. I forgot to mention before that the whole trip I was WhatsApp messaging this really cute boy from my hometown back in California. We were talking for about a month, so, yeah, it was pretty serious. He kept telling me that he wanted the two of us to hang out more once I got back to the U.S., but I knew that he was basically asking to be my boyfriend. I would message him “Good morning” every day, keeping in mind the four-hour time difference, and he would always reply with “Sup.” He was so cool. Of course I told the other volunteers about him and showed them pictures, but none of them wanted to give him a chance because they thought our conversations were shallow. I thought he was a really nice guy. Like, he had such a way with words. We talked about our favorite mixed drinks and Cotillion—I don’t know how much deeper a conversation can get. Here, the person listening would usually nod, probably so that they feel less uncomfortable about hearing about my love life. So of course I was messaging David, that’s the guy’s name, while I was at Alta Gracia. The mass ended and people started rushing out to get to the fountain of holy water that me and all the other volunteers were standing by. Obviously I wasn’t paying attention, because I was messaging David, and a woman bumped into me for absolutely no reason. Like, if I’m not paying attention, then she should be paying attention, otherwise

that’s how accidents happen, right? So I was shoved forward, and my phone fell into the holy water right after it had buzzed as David sent me another message. He had just sent his daily “Sup,” so I asked him, “What are you doing,” and now I’ll never know the response. At this part the nosy people usually give me a “damn that sucks” face, or a “wow, I can’t believe that happened” face. Because I was so mad, and irritated, and just in, like, complete disbelief that that had happened, I yelled out “Fuck!”—like who wouldn’t, honestly? My phone was ruined—and leaned over the water basin, my hands reaching in to see if I could grab it. I know that people in Argentina speak Spanish and all, but they curse in English just like we do. Everybody turned towards me, and some of the old grandmothers covered their mouths with their head scarves. I told them “lo siento” and “perdón,” then made the sign of the cross so that they knew I was a good Catholic girl. They definitely forgave me after that. That water was really cold, by the way, and people were drinking from it, so I still can’t believe I touched something that unsanitary. That’s just how strong I thought my relationship with David was. So, needless to say, I wasn’t able to message David for the rest of my trip. It sucked, and obviously it still sucks, because I’m now stuck with the crappiest of crappy iPhones. I guess it wasn’t all bad, though, because when I came back home after the summer, I found out David actually had two girlfriends already. I was, like, the third one he was trying to add to his trio of three blind mice. What an asshole. If I could go back in time, I’d tell the lady that bumped into me “thank you for saving me.” She really came out of nowhere. It was like a sign or something, for me to stop messaging Douchebag David. Like God really had my back with some guardian angel. I may have a shitty iPhone, but at least I don’t have a shitty boyfriend like Miranda Castillo and Kimberly Wilson. They’re clearly better at sharing than I am. But, anyway, that’s the story of how I lost my phone. Here, whoever is listening usually stops talking to me because I have really long answers to simple questions.

For Vincent By S.J. Grab

You were always lit From both ends, Burning hot Toward the center. Your bowels twisting, Meeting in unexpected places, As was your desire For asymmetry. You needed The crook of an arm To make the lee For your island. Finally, Your words spent, Your brain not quite sober, Your atoms sprayed Like ocean Against ragged rocks and Blood patterned hardwood Like fireworks, You colored the sky.

SoCal Joy Ride By S.J. Grab

A long-eared hound sticks its head out the window; grinning and growling it sucks in the day. You know itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a fine time to lock in a loose line and bomb Signal Hill all the way to the bay.

in face station By Eve McNally

drains thirst for babies tonight in my 1/4th of the bed i scare-think of the creatures (lizard and snakerat variety) nesting in the under-sheet feet-side of the bed eager for chew, for the first toes that stretch down and meet them notice how: i sleep folded-leg. in this house there are 3 drains i only worry about the one

too small babies drain like water those 16 pounds floating?

do not put babies in the tub

thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my baby brother

keep the stopper in .

in the Windstar, we take our seats see mom kick out the door a yo-yo goes spinning or thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dad summersaulting down the porch steps tears into his shirt: in two dad puts holes in the wall

never in any of us

let in.

i think through walls of the critters heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll

afterdark all the sheets pillows comforters towels i press my flat-hands down on mattress-cheek to zero the scale

become too heavy

[untitled] By Eve McNally

eli comes out each waistline curvedside and come tracing whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the way woman is ? from our samemom

we accept the bodies

wear them to the best of our knowledge the knowledge that we borrow because we are too young

we cannot have our histories

sitting in crayola-stain, I contemplate both trace

and stain

soon, trace permits itself, makes its way through joins into me felt shesayshermotherwouldkillusifsheknew

there heavy in its first time

Contributors Notes Isabella Antinoro practices writing and various forms of art as avocations in the midst of struggling to take both or either (or anything for that matter) seriously enough to pursue. She is trying to drop out of college to work as a beekeeper in Italy in the coming months, but the timing is dependent upon the passing of her dear friendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grandfather. She is wildly excited by tea, dressing expressively, and canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go to bed without flossing. Talin Lilia Babakhanyan is finishing her last quarter studying English at UCLA. She was born in Granada Hills, California and is a native Los Angeleno. She appreciates the creative aspect of worship music. She also loves a good cup of tea, writing, playing piano, photography, and fashion. Karen Castillo is from San Bernardino, CA and daughter to Mexican and Salvadoran immigrants. She is 21 years old and majoring in creative writing at UCLA. Besides being a bookworm, she is also a beer enthusiast and classic rock aficionado. Gabrielle Craft is a 26-year-old English major in her junior year at UCLA. In her writing, she likes to keep ideas about human connection, family, and love at the forefront of her mind. Alongside being a full-time student, Gabrielle is also a wife and mother to a rambunctious 4-year-old daughter. She would like to say to other students, especially nontraditional ones like her, everything will turn out all right, just keep moving forward Eric Fram is a third year English major with a concentration in creative writing. He is the Senior Editor of Westwind Arts and a member of the Westwind poetry editing staff. He has been published by Westwind and Plum Tree Tavern. Follow him on Twitter @ericsfram

Aubrey Freitas is a small-town-raised girl exploring the jungle that is Los Angeles. She’s currently in her third year of studying both English Literature and Psychology at UCLA, with hopes of minoring in la lingua Italiana. Her work has been published across magazines, websites, and blogs, including Her Campus, LOCALE Magazine, Healthy UCLA (Mind Well section), and Her Blank Canvas. She is the founder of the non-profit Warm Hearts to Warm Hands, which teaches people the skill of knitting in order to donate handmade clothing to homeless shelters. Aubrey also has an immense love for Pride and Prejudice, hot tea, and the human body. Tatianna Giron is a fourth-year English major. Her poetry explores the intersections of family relationships, mental health, and cultural identity. She is currently writing a senior research thesis on white male privilege in 1960s American novels, and pursuing a concentration in Creative Writing. Emiliano Gomez grew up in the Rural Northern Valley of California, next to rice fields and peach orchards. His academic hobbies include sonnet writing, creative poetry, and philosophy; his ultimate goal is to be one with Essence. His writing is inspired by his cynicism, optimism, emotion, disenchantment, and multitudinous self. S.J. Grab has trouble staying put. Raised in southern California, she earned a teaching credential at UCLA, then her R.N. license at Saddleback College. She’s taught school on Lana’i and the Big Island, retracted human hearts during cardiac surgery and worked at Catalina’s marine lab. She’s currently in San Luis Obispo County, raising Gopher the Puppy as well as human kids. Her husband has kept his prenuptial agreement: she has never had to cook dinner.

Kurt Klaus is a first-year student at UCLA. He loves Excalibur, his goldfish, and is writing a fiction novel titled Socks. Currently, he doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life—he really likes writing though, so maybe that’ll be it. Alberto Lugo is a fourth year undergraduate at UCLA majoring in English with a minor in Philosophy. Alberto is a member of UCLA’s traditional Mexican folk dance group: Grupo Folklorico de UCLA, UCLA’s Mariachi UCLATLAN, and a playwright and director for 2018’s Night of Cultura: UCLA’s Latinx Theatre and Performing Arts group. As a Leader for Destino at UCLA, a faith-based Latinx Christ-centered group, Alberto believes that it his duty to live life in the pursuit of Justice and Beauty, while spreading his experience of God’s love to the world. Thus, upon graduation, Alberto will be pursuing a degree in law as well as a career in creative writing with the ultimate purpose of creating a just world in which everyone may express their love for themselves and others via their creative powers. His primary academic interests include literary and aesthetic criticism, ethics, and political theory and philosophy. His most recent publication, Ethics and Immigration: A Moral Argument for Immigration Reform, may be found in the Spring 2017 edition of UCLA’s Undergraduate Law Journal. Eve McNally is a third-year at UCLA studying English and Sociology and would like to thank her educators. Rory Meagher is from Allentown, Pennsylvania, and he studied Creative Writing at Susquehanna University. His short stories have been featured in Cigale Literary, Oatmeal Magazine, and Flock, among others. He currently lives in Los Angeles, where he works at a restaurant and writes and acts and performs stand-up comedy.

Andria Ozimek is an American poet, social work enthusiast, and Orange County native. She obtained a Bachelor’s Degree in English with a concentration in creative writing at UCLA. She worships Oscar Wilde, Jimi Hendrix, Michaelangelo, and coffee. Emily Parsons is a fourth-year English major with a creative writing concentration at UCLA. She made her writing debut in first grade with the story “There’s a Pig in my Bed!” but has been in a slump ever since. Now that she has finished her honors thesis, she plans to sleep for the entirety of spring quarter, maybe with some coffee breaks in between. Amara Trabosh is a third year English major at UCLA. She wrote her first story in second grade, drawing the majority of the plot and characters from Gail Carson Levine and J.K. Rowling. She named her cats after Jupiter’s moons, hoping for intrepid adventurers and instead found petrified homebodies. Amara has worked as an editor for Westwind for almost two years and aspires to a career in publishing. Max Yu is a third-year theater major. He is a writer currently writing essays, poetry, and zines.