Yahara Journal 2013 by Yahara Journal

Madison College's Fine Arts & Literary Journal

Yahara Journal 2013 A literary and fine arts publication

Editor

Zina Schroeder

Staff

Alex Balchen Sean Fitzgerald Robin Gee Brittany Hoban Jessica Peterson Torrie Ramirez Melissa Thao

Advisor

Doug Kirchberg The Yahara Journal consists entirely of Madison College student work. It is made available by the Student Life Office and funded by Student Activities Fees. Opinions expressed in this journal do not represent those of the Madison College administration, faculty, staff or student body.

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Table of Contents

Poetry Teal Rowe • Cygnet ....................................................................... 5 Misian Taylor • Pink, Please ......................................................... 6 Misian Taylor • About My Mother and Storms ...........................8 Misian Taylor • 1.78 Deaths Per Second..................................... 10 Judy Brickner • Dominion of the Planet..................................... 12 Anthony Anderson • Overlapping Footsteps............................. 13 Anthony Anderson • The Cassette Tape..................................... 14 Mathew R. Johnson • Full Moons and Whiskey .........................15 Christa Parmentier • Milwaukee................................................ 16 Mitchel Gundrum • A Simple Correspondence ......................... 18

Prose Mathew R. Johnson • Markets of Bagram.................................20 Alyssa Lovely • The Cottonwood Tree ........................................ 23 Mandy S. Hunter • A Chance at the Sun.....................................30 Andrew N. Thomas • The Silver City.......................................... 35 David Bauman • Into the Fire: Sparring with a Master............38 Candis Klaila • The Whaler ........................................................ 41 Candis Klaila • A Proper Prescription of Light and Vision ....... 43 Amber Weinman • The Meaning of Mud....................................46 Rhea Lyons • The Cocky Jockey..................................................49

Artwork Callie Strouf • Listen Up ............................................................. 53 Callie Strouf • Smokin’................................................................. 54 Jack Suda • Still Life ................................................................... 55 Sophorn Tep • Origami .............................................................. 56

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Table of Contents MandiLyn Krueger • Johnson Public House at Sunrise............. 57 Evan Halpop • Rock Out .............................................................58 Jorge Abelardo Lara Santiago • Mascara................................... 59 Jorge Abelardo Lara Santiago • Imagine Pengiuns...................60 Eugenio Rodrigo Carapia • Azteca Warrior............................... 61 Jessika Warnberg • Fruit Fly......................................................62 Pete Sandker • Foxes At Sunset ..................................................63 Pete Sandker • It’s Getting Late..................................................64 Pete Sandker • Tidepool.............................................................. 65 Scott Showers • Hand of Time on My Hands ............................66 Scott Showers • The Duke........................................................... 67 Peter Faecke • Untitled ...............................................................68 Gretchen Hedrick • Spring..........................................................69 Sylvia Lim • Dramatic Moment with My Lovely Puppy............ 70 Deidre DeForest • Cowboy Up ....................................................71 Emma Krantz • Vortex ............................................................... 72 Anna M. Thiessen • Untitled....................................................... 73 Timothy Mulligan • Teardrop..................................................... 74 Megan Ripp • Nature ................................................................. 75

Staff Robin Gee • Beachwalk .............................................................. 77 Brittany Hoban • Aang Can Save the World.............................. 78 Alex Balchen • Summer Pollen.................................................... 79 Sean Fitzgerald • Sanctuary .......................................................80

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Poetry

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Teal Rowe

Cygnet Hark, the vernal cygnet cries Enrobed in feathers grey. Soft, she wades among the reeds Awakened by the day. The morning dew did seem to her To melt without a trace; Down with it went early dreams Together to someplace. Faced a dawn she had not known A sun that shone on white; Gave more than ever thought she could As day succumbed to night. But dark and down once more the stars That sparkle in her eye; Longed she did for former things Safe havens of respite. But dawn has danced and dusk has sung Here traced their orbits â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;round. And find the swan now, once again, Lies soft upon the ground.

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Misian Taylor

Pink, Please We live on the lip of a monstrous vase that our children like the heaviest flowers keep slipping into. Today, we did the funeral work for Isabella – born still as her mother’s breath when I had to ask, “What is the name of the deceased?” I am not supposed to be here. The Florist isn’t supposed to enter until pg. twohundredandeighteen when this mother comes in to pick out a rose boutonniere for her daughter’s First prom. They are not supposed to be here; surrounded by all the fragility of heavy heads on skinny stems. They do not want to see the trash bins of yellow daisies and wax flower in the alleyway behind this place. They are supposed to be at home; sitting on the couch in the middle of All this rain like this is Just rain and not a complete lack of sun. They are supposed to be on the internet looking up ideas on how to paint the nursery. They are supposed to be brainstorming names still. They are not supposed to know the name Isabella yet; not supposed to know how it falls off the tongue heavy as headstone. The mother, she is a front yard flood in spring. She will be afraid to grow anything here again. Her shoulders are strung with her husband’s right arm. He is shaking like the support beam of a house on fire. She is burning faster than wallpaper. I want to jump over the counter. I want to hold them. I want to scream LET ME

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Misian Taylor BE THE ONE WHO HOLDS YOU BOTH UP. NEITHER OF YOU DESERVE TO HAVE TO BE THE STRONG ONE.YOU BOTH ARE ALREADY SO STRONG – LOOK HOW ALIVE YOU STILL ARE. IF YOU NEED IT, I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO GO LIMP AT THE HEART. CRUMBLE INTO YOUR SOBS; I’LL HOLD THE ROOF UP. BURY YOUR FISTS IN MY STOMACH UNTIL YOU CAN STOP REPEATING HER MIDDLE NAME. I swear, I am not trying to make anything better. I promise, I know I don’t know what this must feel like. I just want to make this feel less Impossible. But I can’t. They don’t know I have an apron on. I am ordered to smile like a bouquet of tulips bent toward a light bulb. I say, “I am so sorry.” I have never had honest words sound like such frauds. I say, “What do you need?” They say, “Flowers.” I say, “Do you have anything in mind?” They say, “Pink, please; lilies.” They say, “What else do you think would make it pretty?” I do not say “baby’s breath.”

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me.

Misian Taylor

About My Mother and Storms When I was eight, I learned that love is a basement in rural anywhere – on a day with hesitant yellow skies, every breath is a gathering funnel cloud – it is the only safe place in miles. Whenever I leave the house, I leave with everything: a small brass elephant, toothpaste, a fat vial of lavender, and at least my three favorite books. My back has become an altar for everything I love. I may carry it slowly, but always with a spine straight enough that if god is a violinist, she can pluck every wishsong from my vertebrae. My mom used to sit on the porch steps with a cigarette between each finger as she watched the storm gallop in. She’d welcome the clouds back like old friends; put a menthol to her lips like putting the kettle on and sit for hours having mute conversations with herself. Meanwhile, I would be in the basement with a mouth full of sirens, screaming at her up the stairs to hurry inside before the twister ate her up. She never listened. She said the sister lakes would drown the twister’s sorrows before it ever had a chance to swallow us; said don’t scream so loud I can’t hear the thunder. Natural disasters were the only thing my mother never feared at least they never pretended they loved her. Her bloodline has always been a broken cabinet of dolls that’s why her smile always seems painted on. We are all born houses; small structures where we can call our souls home every birthday. My mother

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Misian Taylor was burned down so young, after so many fires it’s hard to re-build when every scrap of lumber looks like a matchstick. Now, she is only basement. She is a roof of clouds. She is why “safe” and “loved” mean the same thing. She is why I am trying to be less vaulted ceiling and more concrete. She is the foundation of a home I am trying to be.

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Misian Taylor

1.78 Deaths Per Second & Don't Tell Me They All Died Old & Peaceful in Their Sleep I missed my bus today and walked into class fifteen minutes late all sheepish grin and small wave. I am perpetually off time. I had been doing homework on the boney futon lazy sprawled out over the dogs and a sunpuddle reading They Poured Fire On Us From Sky with a mouthful of bullets and a stomach full of salt rock. Heavy with a Westernerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s guilt; my heart, a leather holster missing its pistol. How lucky I got to be born here. How lucky I am to Not live in the bloodstain that never actually stains, never has a chance to dry always a mess of body and boundary a tangled wreck of politics and power. How soft the skins of chess pieces. How they are so easy to replace. How Not Heart a number sounds; how not Family not Little Boy not Only Daughter not Papa two million sounds. It doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sound like a chorus of mothers on the other end of the telephone wire and it Should. Those were two million mouths that are now only skulls.

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Misian Taylor We Americans Think all of our best love. Our empathy gets pulled from our frontal lobes with the plastic hook of a credit card; we buy rubber bracelets and magnets to show what good Samaritans we are: We say, “Those poor kids,” and then catch the bus to class like no one’s dying.

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Judy Brickner

Dominion of the Planet Eyes that once echoed enchantment are now colors lapping on optic nerves. The brow is no longer able to beguile beast or recall that primates groomed each other to form social bonds, or to remember Australian pelicans nesting in communes. Columbus founding Republica Dominicana in 1492 was a bit of a corkscrew to the brain as our youngsters feel that date is exclusively theirs – selfish children that they are. The environment is viewed as an argument with loopholes of avoidance violently scraping collapsing knees. If only faces would crack open like Dominicans revealing beauty and minimal decay, the dominion of the planet would not have become a maelstrom of hopey-changey illusions, raping then shaping into dust. Hispaniola’s white teeth tiger the temperance of tourists, but the world’s population can’t reach a quasi-religious decision to save themselves as monopolies and billionaires grapple for power, leaving caustic gunk and tar balls splatting on shores. The islander’s mouths milk music, but we the people are unable to find harmony in a sustainable future as chemical waste and climate chaos and seismic human error silence Dominican lips lauding their lineage (and ours). Habitat becomes a habitual ball-busting jocularity of past cultures, represented by inter-tidal oysters and mussels that no longer thrive in close proximity to coral and Alaskan ice caps that melt into millennia. Native hair no longer highlights heaven – only fog and carbon and scars remain. From afar, California Redwoods long survey a people greasing the skids of no return. To have beautiful starless skin no longer shimmer Sahara leaves us grappling for a dead-end end zone. Soon we will simply be celestial nebulae and miasmata, our world morphed into soullessness and carelessness and barrenness. The symbol of perfect fulfillment no longer exists.

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Anthony Anderson

Overlapping Footsteps Words, Melt from, Your lips,

Into a pool

of absurdity,

Leaving stains

Blemished remembrance,

Etched, Into the

pages of stories, written by, The footsteps

of those,

Who walk

throughout time.

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Anthony Anderson

The Cassette Tape The reel of emotions, no longer heard by the masses Trapped in obsolescence, Searching for a place to be remembered, Silent is the air which surrounds its loneliness A sorrowful illumination that sheds upon An essence of what was and never shall be again, Like all that grow old left standing solely In the path of its own invisible footsteps that Bare no existence of the travels itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s taken Replaced by the new, which walk the same line In the repetition of history Created, Loved, Forgotten, The cycle of progress in its circular motion Weaving a skewed perception and notion The impulse to need To advance and exceed Leaving all in the wake of technological tides Drowning in the pollution of progress, Yet thinking weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re soaring with wings of triumph, On the surface lie lies, which in our mirror image Reflect what leads Our subconscious to perceive, We are that tape That tape is we Waiting to become A memory

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Mathew R. Johnson

Full Moons and Whiskey Another full moon passing from horizon to horizon, Bringing to boil the wild in jackals and men. Howling, screaming, mixing the pale glow with whiskey and nicotine highs to thin the blood and clot the rivers of thought flowing from the mind. Allowing only drops of words to trickle their way to the tongue. Brain muted, eyes glazed and red, heart beating double time to provide raw feeling to the mouth. The rest of the body left numb, arms as clubs, legs as rubber. Only anger pumps to extremities. Striking out at loved ones. Friends are disguised as enemies in the haze of smoke and booze. Men become the wild, primal, territorial, fearful beings of shadows. Howling at the sky and at each other. A dangerous mix, this full moon and whiskey.

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Christa Parmentier

Milwaukee I only know you as a child knows her mother, intimately and without perspective. Your raspberries grow wild along County Line Road, there is an abandoned silo somewhere along the way, this all used to be farmland. Our friends are white, black, poor their parents are divorced Catholic survivors of polio who walk with loose swinging legs and crutches, teach us how to play baseball. The mothers feed us grilled cheese and ignore us. We play all day and past dark outside, junebugs haunt the screen doors at night, fireflies and one terrible summer there were swarms of flying ants that tangled in our hair like the birds in Hitchcock. We light firecrackers get baseball cards from the cops and George Webbâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sells burgers for a dollar when the Brewers are on a winning streak. Fall, then winter piles the snow high. We dig forts and fly with plastic sleds down hills where the bad kids live. There is a park with a high toboggan run and another with a pond we skate on, a stone warming house that sells thin hot chocolate with tiny chalky marshmallows floating in the watery foam. Summers we venture downtown. Fireworks are downtown, and

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Christa Parmentier crowded festivals for cream puffs, Germans, Greeks, Italians. Downtown, whose freeways move in fast confusion, whose hissing buses number into the hundreds, that in the daylight smells of yeast and garbage. At the lakeshore we climb giant rocks, screaming like gulls as the cold spray hits our rolled up jeans. There are rich people out in sailboats, teenagers diving into the crashing waves, all exotic. We cruise malls and long avenues, cloistered, we suffocate in the family car. We return home to await low rumbling thunderstorms, tornado warnings that send us down into the basement, hoping for the roof to get torn from the top of the house, bright starlight shining down.

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Mitchel Gundrum

A Simple Correspondence To Life, Why does it always seem, you make man crutch on hopes and dreams? And make him witness pain and hate? Eternal Peace? You make him wait. You let him love, make no mistake, but soon enough, his heart will break. He’ll work hard – he’s the New World’s pawn – for things he can’t take when he’s gone. His friends will leave before he does, and he will suffer, just because. Sometimes he’ll lose, sometimes he’ll gain, but really, it is all in vain. But yet, one thing remains unknown; It seems your fate controls my own, so: When he takes his final breath, why do you leave? Yours Truly, Death To Death, It seems that you have fared, to ask what man has never dared: Why do I take away sweet death, and burden man by giving breath? Why do I make man toil so? Make him be born, and make him grow? And why then, when he nears the end, do I pass him to you, my friend? I make man suffer while he lives, so he may earn the gift you give. For until he knows how to cry, his soul is hard; he will not die. Therefore, the reason I incline to let man on earth but for a time: May he find love that trumps all strife, and that is all. Yours Truly, Life

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Prose

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Mathew R. Johnson

Markets of Bagram Afghanistan is a world unto itself. It is a country that has suffered turmoil and strife for decades now and extremism from all sides. Many in the country have little knowledge of the villages just miles down the road due to the rough terrain and danger of travel. The danger derives from being caught in the middle of two nervous, arrogant, and aggressive forces. However, while Afghanistan’s turbulence is well reported and remarked upon, some of the most interesting places in the country can be found in the markets. It was the first hour of patrol and there were still at least eight hours to go. We had left before we could eat at the dining halls on post and now had a choice between eating our Armyissued “Meals Ready to Eat” or stopping at the Bagram markets. We preferred the latter, so we took up a security position at the beginning of the avenue that led through the market, dismounted a provisions team to wander into the market and buy us kebabs. I sat in my turret and watched down the street, and took in the wonder of Afghanistan. The market was starting to get busy, as it always did at this time of night. It was my favorite time to be there. With the sun going down, the bright and colored lights came on and brought a sense of carnival to the streets. Adding to this were the large crowds that started to gather to buy their evening meals, conduct their business, and interact with their neighbors. My friends disappeared into the crowd. It was hard not to remember New Orleans as I looked down the street: the bright lights, the open buildings, shops and restaurants lining the street, the bustle of life and excitement, and everything showing clear signs of age. The haze of smoke from cooking and heating fires cloaked the decaying architecture. Driving through the markets were the “jingle trucks.” This nickname had been in Afghanistan much longer than we had. The jingle trucks were impossibly ornate; they appeared to be fuel trucks and were decorated by their drivers with extraordinary

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Mathew R. Johnson care. The tanks, iron gray in color, would be caged in metal art; generally cut into the shapes of hearts, teardrops, stars, darkly outlined eyes, and occasionally small swords. The cabs were always brightly colored. Above each cab, there would sit a metal crown, lined in shiny tinsel. They were beautiful as they carried their goods down the road to Kabul and Charikar. Filling the streets between the decorated vehicles were motorcycles and Toyota Corollas coming to the market to wash away the Bagram dust. The cars were generally packed with passengers, and those that werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t would stop to pick up strangers on the side of the road. It was a pleasant sight, and something that would be peculiar in our country. Some drivers waved at me, others flipped me off â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a gesture that was foreign to Afghanistan before we came. Before long, I was enveloped by the smells of the night: the burning fuel from the generators, the sweet aroma of the food, and the stench of rotting trash that lined the streets. A passerby remarked that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to see the beauty in Afghanistan, but I found it impossible to miss. However, the beauty is haunted. All around me, there was good will. Not always towards my cohorts and me, but towards each other there was camaraderie and community; before we came, they were a strong people. Despite their strength and fellowship, there were always the signs of a troubled past that showed through like scars. Literally, in the case of the many men we saw in their forties who were missing limbs. We all assumed that these men had fought against the Soviets, but it was impossible to be sure. These atrocities could have just as easily been caused by the civil wars, disease, or us. The intense poverty that the Afghans lived in was even more unmistakable and saddening. Around the market was a town that had been constructed from the trash of the nearby U.S. base. The Afghan police worked out of a station that was formerly a metal shipping container, and the kids tried to sell us bottled water that had been stolen from the post. At night, the kids would walk around the market with their blue UNICEF bags and ask for school supplies. Most of them would stand next to the trucks and yell up to us asking for pens and notebooks. Some knew enough English to try to explain how they were students and how much

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Mathew R. Johnson they needed it. We rarely had enough to give them, and would instead offer candy. The candy was well received, but it was not sufficient. As a soldier and a student, it was always heartbreaking to turn away the children who were interested in their future. In watching the markets for an evening, a person can see the strange place that is Afghanistan. It is a world of immense pride and strength with dangerous and unpredictable undercurrents. It is a place where the modern and the ancient worlds are colliding, and the people are trying to build an identity out of the debris. I cannot quite place the feeling of observing the Afghans as they go about their lives. It is a feeling of terrible sadness for their poverty and struggles and of profound admiration for their tenacity and their character. On a billboard in the market there was a young man wearing a hip v-neck shirt, sitting in a garden, and joyfully talking into a cellphone. Underneath this billboard was an old man, in a traditional salwar kameez, next to hand drawn cart full of stones, lying down to rest on the street. This is the market of Bagram; this is Afghanistan.

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Alyssa Lovely

The Cottonwood Tree There’s something funny about human nature. When thinking about killing another person, people usually tie emotion and sacrifice and often religion to the act, considering they have led a relatively normal lifestyle. They take time to think about it, rationalize, and justify. But when faced with your own life on the line, there isn’t time for that. Killing another is like plucking a daisy from its bed. Humans put their own lives before others’. It’s instinct, the act of killing, as long as it’s to protect your own life. This thought steadied my trembling finger as I readied it to pull the trigger. Last June, I quit my job. I worked at a fast food chicken restaurant in the middle of a little town in New Mexico completely surrounded by desert. I didn’t have much of a reason to quit, other than my boredom finally got the best of me. That left me with little options, growing up in a town whose main attraction was the 24-hour 7-Eleven. Boredom could not be escaped. After I quit my job, I turned to the desert. There, boredom eroded my mind as I spent my days wandering through miles and miles of cacti, one scraggily twisted plant after the other. It was monotonous, it was mundane, but it was all I could think of to do with my life. There were no other jobs that would satisfy me, and I was not about to spend my summer vacation locked up in my basement. I would sometimes see my friends at night, but I usually opted out of their activities, which typically included plucking unsuspecting frogs from their murky hideaways. So I went to the desert. Eventually, I almost grew to the point were I was fond of the desert. It was a consistency in my life, and it gave me something to do. The first two weeks of summer were spent walking. I would walk miles and miles, carrying a gallon milk jug full of water. Nothing ever changed; the cacti were always in the same place I left them the day before, the animals always scattered as they heard my footsteps crunch against the dry dry desert. It was on one of my routine walks that I met Jeb. I saw him lying under a cactus. I had the immediate

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Alyssa Lovely impression that this was a character who would add purpose to my life. He had a large beaten up cowboy hat shading his eyes, and his clothing was tattered and torn. His red button-up checkered shirt stood out against the brown desert like a red marble in a pool of sand. His face appeared to be carved out of wax. Tiny nicks littered his nose, forehead, cheeks, mouth, and the drooping circles under his eyes. He wore a scraggily grey speckled beard that reached his chest. This man was worn. When I saw him there, I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Who was this man who was interrupting my normality? I was unprepared for this. But I had been waiting for this, expecting it even; I just hadn’t realized it yet. When I saw him there, he ignored me at first, pretending to sleep. I knew he was awake, he just didn’t want to deal with a strange kid, I suppose. Eventually his eyes opened in acknowledgment of my presence. I asked him what his name was. “Jeb,” he had said. I told him mine. “And what are you doing out here, kid?” he asked. I told him I was out of a job and needed something to do. After that, he didn’t say anything for a moment. He only stared, taking in the lanky, awkward kid in front of him. I felt as though I were under a microscope as his eyes raked my body from head to foot. This was judgment in its purest form. First impressions are always the most vital. I stood and waited for his assessment, expecting him to tell me to go home and smoke some dope or something. Anything that would get me out of his hair. Then he said something that threw me off guard, “How would you like a job, kid?” I weighed my options. What else was I doing? This guy would give a purpose to my summer, I just knew that whatever job he had to offer would be more fulfilling and substantial than me just wandering around the desert. I told him I would. He rustled around a large cotton bag that rested to the right of his leg, and pulled out a small square package wrapped in brown paper and twine. “Every day, you pick up a package just like this. Then, all you gotta do is walk through the desert, just like you’ve been doing. Walk along this path for three miles until you reach an old cottonwood tree. Place that package in the hole in that tree, and you’re good to go. Come by next day and do it all over again.

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Alyssa Lovely Job pays fifty bucks a trip. Only rule is you can never open the package.” Great, so I’d still just be wandering around the desert. I considered his bargain, and because it seemed easy enough, I accepted. He smiled as though he knew I couldn’t deny it, and told me he’d see me same time tomorrow. The package was heavier than I expected. It was just a little brown brick, seemingly harmless, but who knew what secrets it held. My mind wandered as I began my journey through the desert. My first thought was drugs. “Only rule is you can never open the package.” Jeb’s words echoed through my mind as curiosity pulsed through my veins. I decided that drugs were too obvious. It had to be something more secretive, more old westerny. I could tell that Jeb was an old-western type of guy. There had to be more mystery attached to this package than drugs. My next thought was money. This job was worth a lot of money, maybe the fifty dollars a day was just a percent of what is wrapped in the depths of my little brown brick. But why would he trust some kid he met while napping in the desert with that kind of money? Why would he trust some kid he met with anything? My only guess was that he was too worn to do it himself anymore. Whatever its contents, I soon diverted my thoughts of the package to the journey I was taking. How long was three miles? I never measured the distance I walked on my daily routines. I carried this brick from cactus to cactus, passing one old tree stump after the other, and eventually found the lone cottonwood tree. As directed, there was a hole in the middle that was perfect for this little package. It fit snugly in the little crevice. I waited for something to happen, then, disappointed, turned around and dragged my feet as I thought about the three mile trek home and wondered if this was a complete waste. But it didn’t matter. For the first time this summer, I realized I hadn’t been bored. I did this job day after day after day. Curiosity began to weigh heavily as I became more and more attached to the task. Jeb never said much to me; he just pulled out the fifty dollars from the day before and slid it into my hand as I took the next package. The only words he would say were “You didn’t look, did you?” I always told him no, and he knew it was the truth. I began to tell some

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Alyssa Lovely of my friends that I delivered packages for an old man out in the desert. They all laughed. They told me this was a game, that he was messing with my head. Then I showed them my growing pile of cash. They told me to get out of the job. Whatever sort of business this was, I didn’t want to be involved. I didn’t listen. My curiosity was still looming during my long walks in the desert. One day, I decided to talk to Jeb. As he handed me the package as usual, I looked down at the lumpy brick in my hands, fingering the twine that held it all together. “Jeb, what is this? Why do you have me deliver this mysterious brick every single day?” I glared at him with a look that unmistakably said that I meant business. He looked at me apologetically, as if he had been expecting this question to come at some point. “You really don’t have to worry about that kid. The less you know the better.” I wasn’t going to stand for that. I wanted answers! “Jeb, you can’t expect me to accept that answer.” He sighed, knowing I was right. “Have you ever waited around after you dropped off the package?” He asked me sincerely. I thought for a minute. I guess I hadn’t. I had always just left the package in the hole and turned around. “I guess that’s what I’ll have to do to get answers.” With the package, I turned away from Jeb and started walking. “Wait, kid. Take this. Use it only in an emergency.” I was shocked as he slid a shiny, metal object across the ground, stopping at my feet. I picked it up and gently brushed my hands against the handle, the barrel, and the trigger of a small handgun. I nodded and carefully placed the gun in my back pocket, ready for an adventure. It had been four hours since I had arrived at the lone tree and placed the package in its usual spot. I found a large cluster of bushes and weeds that concealed my body while I patiently waited for something to happen. Finally, just as the sun had set and the stars were beginning to creep across the sky, I heard voices. I could not distinguish words, but it sounded as though there were two of them, one belonging to a male and one to a female. I looked around for the owners of the voices, and two tall

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Alyssa Lovely dark figures appeared beside the cottonwood tree. I could not make out their faces, but they were clothed in long, dark robes, which brushed the dry desert floor. I watched as a glowing orb emerged from the hole in the tree and landed smoothly in one of the figures’ hands. My jaw dropped as the orb was split in half and one piece was given to the other figure. If my eyes weren’t mistaken, the figures proceeded to swallow each half, the glowing light still visible through their bodies. As quickly as they had come, the figures turned and started to leave the cottonwood tree. In a frenzy, I staggered to free myself from my hideaway and follow the mysterious figures. I rushed to follow these figures as they soared across the desert faster than any normal human. They seemed to glide across the ground, constantly adding space to the gap separating me from them. I made sure they were always in my sight, made easy by the faint glow still illuminating from within their bodies. Eventually the figures stopped. I approached their campsite with caution, keeping a safe distance from them, but I needed to get closer to hear their conversation. The female spoke first. “I feel it getting stronger, Ryaak. Tell me, when will it be ready?” “Soon, Lyiada. The power is increasing, but we must wait for it to be perfection. In order for this to work, we cannot take any chances.” “I’m tired of waiting. I hate it here. I hate these creatures. And I hate making a deal with one of them. Why can’t we just dispose of him?” I had a sickening feeling that the female was speaking of Jeb. “We still need him, Lyiada. We must continue to shower him with riches while he is the sole owner of the power. Without him, we will never make it home.” Lyiada let out a heaving sigh. “When we are ready, Lyiada, I will let you do the honors.” The figures laughed, or at least I thought the noises were laughter, but they sounded more like insidious shrieks. I trembled and reached for my gun, just in case. These people were talking about killing Jeb. Did they know who I was? Would they kill me too? “Shall we start?” The male figure rose, and the female

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Alyssa Lovely copied his movement. They began to walk, but stopped suddenly. Out of nowhere, a large silver object appeared in front of the figures. Its stature was massive; smooth wings jutted out from the center, surrounded by small blacked-out windows. Jets rested under the wings, ready to blaze fire the moment the object was started. This was a spacecraft. The figures moved towards the front of the craft and placed their hands on the hood. Suddenly, the glowing that rested in their stomachs rose from their bodies and entered the center of the craft. Immediately, the spaceship lit up. Red lights dotted the wings and top of the ship, followed by blue trailing lights throughout the circumference of the craft. It was magnificent. “I feel funny, Ryaak. Like I’m being watched.” “That is because we are being watched, Lyiada.” All was still. I didn’t dare make a move. My fingers curled around my gun, ready to be used if need be. I saw the figures turning, locating my position. This was it. I pulled out the gun and centered in on my target. I would shoot the woman first. If they made any advancement on me, these creatures would be history. My fingers steadied around the trigger, ready to fire. In a flash, I was knocked off my feet. The woman was on me, and for the first time, I could see her face from the glowing spaceship. It was long and thin, with two slits for a nose and snake-like red eyes. Her skin radiated a purple hue, and her lips stretched around dozens of piercing fangs. This face was not human. The stench of the creature’s breath penetrated my nostrils. This was surely the last thing I would ever smell, as those fangs seemed ready to pierce my skin. Why did I ever listen to Jeb? Why did I get myself into this? I should have just pulled the trigger when I had the chance. Suddenly, the creature lurched off my limp body with a shriek of pain. “Lyiada!” I could hear Ryaak’s feet as they thrummed against the desert, rushing to his partner’s aid. What had happened? I rose to my feet once more, trying to make sense of what was going on. In a flash, a man darted towards the creatures and struck them again. Could it be? “Jeb?” My voice was hoarse as I called for the man who put me through all this. I saw his eyes catch mine with terror. He never

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Alyssa Lovely intended for this to happen. “Kid, watch out!” I had only a moment to see the male creature coming towards me before I was surrounded by blackness. I awoke with a start. The sunlight burned my eyes as they adjusted to the light, having just been immersed in darkness. My head throbbed, and as I rubbed it, my fingers were drenched with a cool, wet sensation. As my vision came back, I saw a figure standing above me. “Took long enough kid.” Jeb towered over my body, an empty bucket in his hand. That explained the water. “Jeb, what happened?” I jumped to my feet, expecting the creatures to come at me at any moment. “Relax, kid. It’s all done. Those things are gone.” Jeb sighed and sat against a tree. Somehow, we had made it back to the cottonwood tree. He pulled out an apple from his pack and, with great strength, snapped it in half. “Eat some food. You’ve been out for a while.” He tossed me half the apple and I gratefully took a bite. “Jeb? Were those aliens?” I felt as though this question was unnecessary; I already knew the truth. “Yeah, they were. And I was helping them.” Jeb picked up a rock and threw it into the desert out of frustration. “Why?” “Because I could. I had the power to fix their ship. They needed to get home, and they needed a part of it to survive. And they offered me a lot of money. So I thought, why not?” “How did you get the power?” “No matter, kid. Let’s just say it was a gift. You wouldn’t understand.” I grimaced. I was sick of hearing those kinds of answers. “Is it all over? Are the aliens dead?” “Those two are. As far as I know, they’re the only ones on the planet. But more will come. They don’t take too kindly to those who kill their kind.” There’d be more. This thought echoed through my mind as my body shuddered. “So what happens now, Jeb? What can we do?” “Nothing, kid.” He took a bite of his apple. “We wait.”

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Mandy S. Hunter

A Chance at the Sun Dr. Hazel Lyman, forty weeks and four days pregnant, wished desperately that it wouldn’t have been considered unprofessional to slip her shoes off during lecture. She caught sight of her profile reflected ad infinitum in the mirror-lined walls of the lecture hall and experienced a moment of vertigo. Having been raised in the middle caste, Hazel was no stranger to the use of mirrors, but they and the full-spectrum fluorescent lights were relatively new additions to the funding-starved college and lacked the intimacy of the same comforts used at home. Steeling herself against the wave of nausea that threatened to climb up her throat, she worried briefly that her discomfort showed on her face when she noticed Nate Bosky’s inability to meet her gaze. She dismissed the thought when she caught the male student’s furtive glances toward the impressive bosom she had recently developed. The new breasts, coupled with the “verdant glow” associated with increased levels of chlorophyll during pregnancy, were probably the cause of his sudden shyness, she decided. Nate’s physique, tall and thin, betrayed the fact that until his mother’s recent re-marriage, he had spent his childhood under the incandescent bulbs affordable to the lower castes. Only his new stepfather’s status had assured him a spot at the college. Ignorance about reproduction, among other things, still ran rampant in the lower levels of the Soil and Hazel imagined he was still getting used to seeing women, pregnant or not, working outside of the home. Hazel couldn’t hide her grin when she felt the warm trickle snake its way down her thigh. Dismissing her confused but delighted students twenty-five minutes early, she phoned ahead to let the hospital know she was coming Top Soil to deliver. Excitement eased the first few pangs of labor, but still she hurried.

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Mandy S. Hunter She didn’t want to be delayed by the thick throngs of pedestrian traffic that clogged the Under Soil corridors. She had spent her extracurricular hours tutoring overprivileged and unmotivated high school students for their University Above entrance exams, working to earn enough credits to afford to have her baby born in the sun instead of the Under Soil, beneath the artificial lighting. Whiny, entitled brats, Hazel thought. Disturbingly exact replicas of their affluent “too posh to push” Top Soil parents who chose to reproduce by paying doctors to tend clippings of themselves. She thought about how amazing (though unappreciated) it must have been to spend their entire gestation luxuriating in the very upper tiers, closest to the sun. Dodging and weaving through the crowd, Hazel’s thoughts turned to the Physical Anthropology lecture her labor had interrupted. She wondered if in the pre-civilization dawn of her species, Homo Plantarum, her ancestors had felt much like she did now, navigating a sea of bodies for a chance in the light. In her mind’s eye she pictured the roiling breeding ball of humanity that must have smothered the surface of the Soil 200,000 years earlier. The abundant sunlight had encouraged unrestrained reproduction and those trapped in the suffocating mass had often turned to cannibalism. When the bodies writhing above them filtered too much of the sun, those entombed beneath would latch on to one another with the jawless, lamprey-like mouths usually used for extracting nutrients from the soil. Hazel shivered, imagining delivering her baby amongst a pile of other people, clutching the child to her chest lest it get eaten. Thank Sol for the mandates that had been put in place limiting all but the upper castes to one birth per woman, she thought. It was only through strict regulation that overpopulation had been overcome and such barbarism curtailed. The sharp stab of a contraction brought Hazel out of her reverie and she was glad to see she was nearly Top Soil. The soldier guarding the gate had noticed Hazel’s swollen belly and was already filling out her Pass Above when she neared the barricade. Tendrils of her hair began to stand on end, awakened by the faint wisps of sunlight making their way into the corridor from Above. She flushed a deep emerald, the chlorophyll running

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Mandy S. Hunter through her veins gorging itself on the sunlight she had so rarely experienced. The very rich considered it the ultimate display of wealth to build roofs on their homes, demonstrating a disregard of the very thing so many others coveted, so Hazel had only felt the sun’s rays when traveling to and from their mansions to tutor their little clones. She showed the guard her identification card and sun purchase receipt and he stamped her pass before handing back the bundle of documents. “Good luck!” he said affably, before turning to the next person in line. Hazel followed the flow of pedestrians moving beneath the great canopy that mirrored the sunlight back to the higher tiers. She leaned against one of the support beams as another contraction struck and panted through it, bracing herself for the quarter mile walk still before her. The contractions are still five minutes apart, she thought, I can make it. Ten minutes later she arrived at the registration desk in front of the Birthing Field. She smiled broadly at the receptionist, Mary Callow. Hazel and Mary had become friendly acquaintances over the last eight months, chatting when Hazel stopped by when journeying back home from her tutoring sessions to make payments towards her sun purchase. They’d marveled together over the lack of canopy and the absence of any shadow marring the field. “Can I help you?” Mary asked, not meeting Hazel’s gaze. “Mary, it’s time! The baby’s coming. Soon, too, I think,” Hazel said, sliding her receipt across the desk. Closer to the unobstructed sunlight than she had ever been, Hazel’s body hummed with energy. She felt the baby engage in her pelvis and laughed. “Now, Mary, my baby’s coming now!” “Hazel, I’m so sorry,” Mary began, “but an Upper Tier woman has gone in to labor today. Your spot’s been sold.” “There’s been a mistake,” Hazel said, only slightly nervous now. She had a receipt; her payments had been made. Surely Mary would see reason. “Upper Tier women have cuttings made. The field’s empty but for two women.” Hazel doubled over, her body convulsing with effort as she tried to delay the baby’s birth.

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Mandy S. Hunter Mary hurried around the desk and tried to lead Hazel back further under the canopy. “She’s decided she wanted to go ‘natural’ for this one, Hazel,” Mary said softly. “It’s her fifth baby, see, so it’s the last one she can have. She came in here an hour ago, going on about getting back to Sol and whatnot. But not so much that she wanted to labor in the middle of the lower castes, honey. She bought all of the spots.” Later, Hazel would wonder why she didn’t just have the baby under the canopy. After she had had to sell her home and possessions to pay for her “sun theft”, after she and her baby had been demoted to the lowest caste, so far Under Soil neither of them would see sunlight again, after she’d been forced to resign her teaching position and accept work in the mines, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been close enough to labor there on the shadowed edge of the field, closer to the sun that most ever dreamed to be. But something flared inside of Hazel that day, her baby’s birthday. Pulling her arm free, she stumbled out onto the field. Under the full radiance of the sun, each hair on her head stood on end, increasing its surface area, seeking to absorb this feast of light. As she neared the other woman, she heard a man shouting, and realized with a vague indignation that she had earlier mistaken the Upper Tier woman’s husband for a second woman on the Birthing Field. Men weren’t allowed on the field to provide privacy to the other laboring women, she thought, and then realized the foolishness behind that thinking. Today they owned the field and could do as they liked. Hazel saw the man’s soldiers hesitate on the edge of the field, their master’s directives warring with their reluctance to enter such a taboo site. Most of the soldiers had been appalled when they witnessed their employer striding onto the field an hour earlier. Hazel lay on her back, propped on her elbows, and felt her baby slide from her body. Lifting her daughter − her daughter! − from the grass, the odor of her mother’s sap reached her baby’s nose. The infant’s wide, toothy gullet sought her breast. Hazel quickly wiped the caul from the baby’s skin, freeing the little girl’s hair to seek the sun.

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Mandy S. Hunter Their eyes met, mother and daughter, twin sets of green eyes shining with exuberance and light and love. And as the soldiers, having overcome the anathema of trespassing on the Birthing Field, neared the pair, Hazel whispered to her baby: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Radiant. Your name is Radiant.â&#x20AC;?

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Andrew N. Thomas

The Silver City It seems a shame to throw all this away, yet I find my hand resting on the ice cold dumpster as I prepare to toss away today’s corporate excess. With a strain of the shoulder and a gnarly odor pushing its way through my nasal cavity, I dispose of enough packaged waste for myself and the rest of the block to have one hell of a picnic. If only. If only there was that kind of decent human behavior to be found in a place like this. I pull a small reward for a long day’s work from my front coat pocket and press the plastic filter to my chapped lips. It’s nights like tonight that I hate living here. The walk home succeeds in reaffirming this hate. The suffocating mist combined with the mismanaged meth houses creates a smell that the dumpster can only dream of excreting. The cracks in the sidewalk attempt to trip my scuffling feet as if I need any help floundering. The street lamps combine with the neon of the pawn shop to light my way home. A silence rings through the silver city. It’s far too late for any sane person to be out. Only the desperate, the drunks, and the poor find themselves wandering about at this hour. Where I belong in all of this I’m not quite sure. My eyes are itchy from all the nicotine but I can still see this place for what it really is. It’s greed. It’s addiction. It’s neglect. It’s −. “Eellech!” My collar tightens. Spinning and flailing, I cause the coat to fall from me. “Give me your money.” “I don’t have any.” I look at him, and despite how dark the ally that I now find myself in is, I notice the small trembling reflection of a folding knife. Frozen where I stand, I find my feet are far too tired to run. “I said give me your money!” “I don’t have any.” “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know you got a job.” He’s been watching me. “True, but that doesn’t mean I have money.” The banter gives the feeling of some joint being cased.

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Andrew N. Thomas Frustrated he lunges forward forcefully pinning me against the dirty concrete wall. His intentions are well shown by the cold metal that has become one with my chin. “Now.” “No, seriously. I don’t have anything. Just look.” I begin to reach for the wasteland that is my back pocket. “Whoa there, boy. Where you going with that hand?’ “My wallet.” “I can’t have you reaching into your pockets now can I? Which one is it in?” “Seriously?” The edge of the steel turns. “Ok, ok, ok. The left one” My heart is racing and yet I’m starting to feel a strange sort of confidence. Powerful almost. Maybe if I just-- wait. Don’t be stupid. If he wanted to hurt me he would have done it by now. Right? “Andrew” he says snidely as he dissects my Velcro wallet. “Well you weren’t lying. All you got is an ID, a credit card, and some receipts.” A look of frustration comes shooting across his face as he recoils in anger drawing the knife away from my face. Spinning full circle he chucks the wallet to the ground. The empty thud must feel to him like a cold slap in the face. I pick it up as it settles near my feet. “Hard day?” I ask hoping it will lighten the mood. “You got that right. Man I can’t even fucking rob someone right.” He slumps to the ground in defeat. There he is. The decent man who was hiding behind that cold piece of steel. I choose to join him as I take a seat on my side of the small damp ally. I look at him as he stares at his dry hands and the knife that now rests on the concrete between his battered work boots. There he is and here I am. Two sides of the same unusable coin. So scratched and rusted that not even the coin slot can recognize us. Now dusty and discarded we sit here underneath the machine we were once designed for. Scratching my head I feel as though I am

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Andrew N. Thomas finally in the company of my people. The greedy. The addicted. The neglected. I reach for the treat hidden in the fold of my cap, and pull the lighter from my pocket, extending it out in a gesture of peace. “Yea?” “Yea.” “Man I hate this city.” “Yea.” A spark flies and for the first time tonight we are both getting a taste of warmth.

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David Bauman

Into the Fire: Sparring with a Master The blue mat was dotted with masses of white cloth, the undulating blobs of cloth were mostly young men, some of them visible in their pajama like uniforms called a gi. The mat was slick with sweat and anyone entering the gym surely would have claimed the air stank with sweat. But the men training did not notice. They were taking huge gulps of the gym air as though it was the most precious of resources. A round timer previously set to six minutes went off and the white blobs slowly separated, revealing very exhausted warrior hopefuls. The men hurried, as there was one minute between rounds to gulp air and whatever water was left in their sports bottles. Off to the side a lone man sat calmly with his legs crossed, awaiting his next challenger. David looked over to the lone man and could not help but admire whatever it was that kept him from exhaustion. The man was his instructor. He was not much older than David, but he had a way about him that commanded respect. He did not know if it was his physical endurance or if it was his flawless technique that separated him from the mass of soaking wet, heavy breathing warriors. He concluded it was most likely a combination of both, but he knew it was his technique that had the strongest effect. The instructor had begun training as a boy in his homeland, a place much harder and colder than here. He never spoke of his training, but David had heard stories of training all day without breaks, and having to face the whole gym one challenger after another. Although he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know exactly what methods were used to hone the older warrior, he admired how the teacher could control his opponent with minimal effort. Submitting them quickly while the others struggled against each other. David was new to jiu-jitsu, but had already fallen in love with the sport. What he loved most about it was its contradiction. Jiu-jitsu means â&#x20AC;&#x153;the gentle artâ&#x20AC;? in its original Japanese. Derived

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David Bauman from the samurai arts, it seems far from gentle at times. It was this mixture of hardness and gentleness that David loved, as he fashioned himself a sort of warrior-poet. Jiu-jitsu allows the trainers to expend all their energy against their opponents and practice debilitating moves against their opponents while not harming or being harmed. This is because it uses locks, chokes, and a system of conceding called “tapping’’. The form of jiu-jitsu he was studying is Brazilian jiu-jitsu, a form developed by a skinny man named Carlos Gracie. When the young frail Gracie began studying with the Japanese men, he took to it well because it was developed to allow a smaller man to defend himself against a larger opponent. The instructor, who was still cross-legged on the mat, called the students back after a too brief respite. He paired them into groups of two; these pairs would be facing each other in six minutes of combat. Two by two, the students found places on the mat until there were three left. David knew that as one of the three he may have to face the instructor. Just as the thought entered his mind, the instructor asked him if he had ever rolled with him. David looked around slightly panicked, hoping someone would step in and take his place. When no one came to his aid, he quietly muttered “No.” The instructor smiled and said “Good”, and then told the remaining students to pair up. As he knelt before the instructor, it seemed a million thoughts collided within his mind. He knew the chances of becoming injured were the smallest against the instructor than with anyone in the gym; it was actually the instructor he was worried about. He knew that if he performed a move wrong, and used his strength instead of proper technique, he could injure his opponent. This is always a consideration, but the thought of the shame associated with hurting the instructor left him motionless. He must have resembled a deer in headlights, because the instructor’s smile widened and he said “Relax,” and they touched hands. Immediately after touching hands, David’s body tensed while the instructor’s seemed to relax and melt to the mat. His body eased out of its cross-legged position in the same motion he grabbed David’s lapel and sleeve. David realized he was being pulled into the guard of the instructor, a position that would allow

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David Bauman the instructor to control him and submit him at his will. With a millisecond to react, he grabbed the pant leg of the instructor and shot his own leg over the instructor’s. His previous background as a wrestler made him much faster than the others scrambling into position. But this seemed to have no effect on the instructor, who wrapped his leg around David’s, trapping him in half guard. David repeatedly struggled to release his leg to no avail. He then tried to pin the instructor’s hand so that he could perform an elbow lock called a Kimura. With no success, he tried a collar choke, but the instructor seemed to be a few steps ahead of him. With about thirty seconds left, the instructor seemed to come to life. He quickly swept David. With the instructor on top, he passed David’s half guard, pinning the bottom leg, which David quickly realized was the problem with his prior attempt. Then the instructor slowly put David in a Kimura. He had moved his body and used the leverage to pin down the arm instead of wrestling it with arm strength like David had. When David was nearly about to tap the instructor, he seamlessly moved to a collar-choke, this time grabbing it deeply and pulling David’s body to his while extending his elbows. As he struggled, David noticed the difference in the way the instructor executed the techniques. While he had used maximal effort, the instructor used leverage and technique to make the submission nearly effortless. As they stood, a feeling of dejection fell across David. He hung his head as he realized he was toyed with, like how a cat toys with a mouse. Again, it seemed the old Master read his mind, as he said: “Did you learn anything?” “Yes,” said David. “I learned to pin the leg as I pass, and to use my body to pin the arm in the Kimura, and to grab deeper on the collar when performing a choke, and to pull them to my body”. The instructor smiled again and said “Good” as they left the mat. The instructor could still sense the frustration in David and remembered when he was a boy training in Brazil and how his spirit had been broken by the older boys training. David felt the hand of the Instructor when he turned, the Instructor said “My teacher told me it’s like you are a samurai sword and every time you tap, it’s as though you are thrust into the fire and hammered out to be made stronger. He also said the strongest swords go through this process tens of thousands of times.” And they both smiled as they left the mat.

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Candis Klaila

The Whaler Sitting in the first forward facing seat provides a view of the ear of a man I see every night. An orange hairy ear. He, as always, is rumpled – dust streaked with sweat. Thin to the point of vanishing. He is the husky shade of burned leather that a lot of the homeless are around here. We sit in the same spots. He looks dangerous, so no one ever sits near him. I am not afraid of him and also like my solitude, so I always take the same vacant seat after his. Always the same. Same acidy smell, a smell of scalp and salt. Same twitching lights. Same smiling advertisements. Same time. Same tired people leaving their service industry jobs, just like me. Same signs going past the fingerprinted windows. Same suffering heat. Same. Same. Same. Always the anxiousness of possibly missing the last bus of the night and then burdened with the choice of a $25.oo cab ride home or a two-hour walk through the worst parts of town at close to midnight. Tonight I had made it and climbed aboard the great white whale home. For nearly three years, I have stared at this same ear. But it wasn’t the ear tonight that was drawing my attention. It was the huffing and heavy breathing of the man. His uneasiness. Though rather crazed he was normally quiet the 20 minutes I would spend with him. He was rocking with an urgency. Five fat cigars were being squeezed in his hands. Their wrappings becoming wet with the sweat from his hands. The bands fallen off. The paper beginning to unravel and expose their inner selves. Even at this late hour the temperature outside was easily over 100 degrees and the buses this late ran without air. I wondered if they’d been a gift or perhaps he panhandled for change to gather this bounty. In a slow uneasiness, he twisted his neck back over his shoulder to look at me. “Where is your baby?” he said, squeezing the five cigars even tighter as his hand shook in anger. “Sorry, you’re mistaking me for someone else. I don’t have

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Candis Klaila any children,” I replied politely but not making any eye contact in hopes of cutting the conversation off right then. It didn’t work. He became even more agitated. He leaned in closer, where I could hear the dryness of his mouth stretch and click. “You need to go find your baby. You left it somewhere.” I leaned a bit back. Part for safety, partly because of the sound and the stale air from him. “No. Sorry, not me,” I said – I was getting anxious myself, a bit worried, a bit scared. His voice more urgent. “They have been telling me every night you have to go back to get your baby. I know the way now and can show you if you’ll get off at the right stop with me.” He was right, in a way. I had lost a baby, almost three years previous. It was in the third month, a common time for the pregnancy to terminate itself. These things just happened in the path of nature. Lost in thought of the timing of life, his hand was yanking on my arm before I even saw him stand. The cigars smashing everywhere. His other hand yanking at the cord to bring the great whale to stop to let us out. “You have to listen, we need to go now. I know where the flames are! I know where your little girl is!” At this point he is yelling unintelligible words, almost foaming at the mouth. I pulled back to cower, unprepared for this onslaught. Had this man spent the past three years waiting for this very day? Had he carefully planned everything, rehearsing what to say each night as I did nothing more than stare at his ear? The driver and another man were up out of their seats as soon as the bus came to a stop. It was a grapple of hands and a bit of a wrestle, but my attacker lost. With the two of them it was rather easy to eject the crazed thin man from the bus. In a city like this one I am sure they deal with the mentally unstable and possibly dangerous a few times a day. The door closed quickly behind him. The two came back to make sure I was all right. I felt the rush of relief that he was gone. As I leaned forward to open the window to let some air in I was stopped dead in my tracks. The driver, the man and I all stared as to what I found on the seat. Five broken and ragged cigars. Arranged to spell out the word “HELL.”

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Candis Klaila

A Proper Prescription of Light and Vision “You’re lost in your own head too much. That is our basic problem.” “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.” He tilted his head down and lifted his eyes over his glasses to meet mine. A clear surrender in our little personal battle. With a firm pat on my shoulders, he let out a tiny defeated sigh that followed with a squeeze of his hands and I knew he was being very serious. I felt his dear and loving hands then stroking my hair as he pulled me in for a hug. He’d been eking out a path in the trail of thought to where the relationship was going wrong. This was an ongoing grumble of a quarrel that held out passively as we’d gone about doing the things that had to be done in order stay functional in life. Both of us in hushed voices discussing our fate over selecting loaves of bread. Expressing our feelings of distinguished distance in the waiting room at the mechanics, as the oil from my automobile was drained into a large black pan like sickly thick syrup. Staring silently in different directions, we held hands tightly waiting for our turn to cross a busy intersection. Things weren’t really wrong with us, but they just were not right. I always wondered if he understood me. “You know exactly what I mean, don’t play the innocent fool. Your eyes go all soft, and I know you’re lost in your head again. I don’t feel like you’re listening to me. You’re never in the present.” The conversation was broken by the clear ringing call of his name over a speaker in the pharmacy. “Look, my prescription is ready, wait here, OK?” I watched him move smoothly away from me, down the aisle, and out of sight on his mission. I stared up at the aching

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Candis Klaila white light that rained down from neatly organized rectangles in the ceiling. ‘No one looks up anymore,’ I thought. ‘I will make it a point to look up more. I will make it my life’s work to make sure others are aware of the importance of up as well.’ Glazing over the idea that he will be impressed with my goal, a new glint caught my eye. Upon the shelf laid out before me, in the muddled cluster of last minute Christmas gifts, toys and broken ornaments, I found this little LED lantern. It was styled like old timey lanterns were – chromed, glassed and domed, but with a light that does not blow out! An eternal light! Here in my hands I knew was a hero of the people! I imagined myself searching for a long lost child in the northern woods. A mother sobbing and a father’s spirit crushed. The crunch of fallen snow under my feet. Darkness hissing up tight beside me. The light of my brave little lantern casting a circle about the found cold boy. Barely alive and just declared safe as the edge of its protection caught the gleam of wolves’ eyes alert that they will have to find another meal for tonight. Their defeated exhaled breath a last ghostly goodbye dancing around our protected zone just before they turn to move on. This little lantern could be used to cast the shadows of hand puppets across the indoor wall of some bleak industrial utility building. The group of us sullen and cold, huddled for warmth against the brash and the bright of ice cold rain pummeling the rooftop. Its abrasive sound sure to drive us mad if it wasn’t for our sweet bit of entertainment. The captive audience’s jaws gapped in awe with the animated elders’ retelling stories of their youths; of innocent kisses, their hopes and wishes, of long somber rides on Sundays and the tapping feet of bleating baby goats. With the twisting of fingers we cast the pictures, connecting their past with our futures. A brief relief for all. Or perhaps I could stand out on the shores of Lake Mendota some night. Pitch black. The lonely wail of wind. A ship lost on the water, the crew hopeless. By my honor and my might I raise my sole lantern in the darkness. A beacon of hope for those poor men. Standing at the edge of the lake, arm out stretched, lantern high, skirts blowing around me, my scarf wiping back and

- 44 -

Candis Klaila forth, ice slicing at its woven comfort! In their exhaustion and destitute they see that single light! Its reflection refracted as a spark of hope in eyes of those that were assured their doom would bloom below the waves. Voices are raised and orders are barked out. Scurrying! Hurried! Hearts skipping beats! Breaths held. Their faith an episode of absolute. The ship heaving over the swollen waves, heading blindly toward the gleam, not knowing if I am mermaid or maiden! Maker or saint! End or hope... And then those familiar dear and loving hands slide over my hips as he comes up behind and puts his arms around me. A kiss on the top of my head. “Nice lantern,” he says, “You could be quite forlorn with that.”

- 45 -

Amber Weinman

The Meaning of Mud The trees and foliage of the Cherokee marsh were particularly green today. Normally, it would be a joyous and exciting green, unpredictable and full of life, but today it was sickly. Despite the bright leafy biosphere, the tall marsh grass had begun to turn tan. The once abundant and lively glade had withered into a collection of dry, wispy husks, protected by a barrier of the uncomfortably bright green trees. There had been no rain for days, but still the dampness from the decaying fallen tree, ridden with moss and various insects, intertwined into the fibers of my mud stained jeans. On the ground I was able to make out a few partial mud-preserved paw prints. Twigs snapped from the opening to the path at the opposite end of the clearing. A familiar face showed through the leafy barrier and walked over to me. I looked at the ground, slightly miffed that my little glade was being intruded. Next to me, I heard the log gurgle as he sat down. An uncomfortable expression flooded his face, even though I could tell he was trying to fight it back. He was wearing a crinkled white dress-shirt and messy black pants with debris from trudging through the marshy path. His black pants were muddy and wrinkled. Raggedy, old, and scuffed — his shoes didn’t match his dressy outfit. His hands were resting, clasped together on the front of his lap. It was silent for a while until he finally spoke. “It’s nice here, you know. In this clearing I mean,” he commented softly while staring at the ground, possibly at the imprints in the mud. His face was sympathetic now, but I could still see that he was uncomfortable. “Yeah, I come here a lot when I need to think,” I replied. “Your dad told me where you might be.” “Ah, I see.” “You shouldn’t wander off without telling anyone,” he said disgruntledly while shifting his old shoes in the mud. “Sorry, but I needed to leave for a while,” I focused on the path leading out of the clearing.

- 46 -

Amber Weinman “I know you’re upset, but hiding away isn’t going to help.” “I’m not hiding, I’m reflecting,” I snapped bitterly. “I’m not trying to make you mad, but everyone else is just as upset and they need you to come home,” he explained as he shifted his position to face me, his expression stern now. I sighed, saying nothing, and stood up from the soggy log. “You really didn’t have to come out here, especially in your nice clothes,” I commented, referring to the once nicely ironed dress shirt and pants. “Yes I did, I wanted you to come back and you were taking so long. So I felt it was necessary to come get you,” he explained. He made another uncomfortable face and lost it’s sternness. Most likely deciding it was better, he stood up next to me in an attempt to get me to leave. “Too bad about the clothes though,” I commented, trying to delay my departure from the little clearing. “Clothes are just clothes to me, I can always get another pair of pants if the stains don’t come out,” He reached his hand out to me, to help me off the soggy log. It was almost impossible to see light through the shield of foliage above. Time hides itself in the trees; it could have been hours since I started sitting on that log. “Ready to go back?” he asked politely, noticing I looked a little disgruntled. “Ready as I will ever be,” I said as I sighed again. We walked together to the opposite side of the clearing where the small muddy path leading outside of my little wooden refuge. Brushing extra clumps of dirt off of my pants, I looked back again, at the paw prints in the mud. They seemed to be frozen there, waiting for something, so they could sink into the earth and be freed of their entrapment. He gently tugged at the sleeve of my sweater, reminding me that we were leaving. Silently, we walked down the path together. It was getting brighter as the trees were thinning toward the end of the path. “How is the little girl?” I asked shivering. It started to feel cold as the wind picked up. The clearing protected me from the unforgiving winds but after sitting on the wet log for so long I wished I had worn something warmer.

- 47 -

Amber Weinman “Well, she is okay. Her parents are furious though,” he said with his hands crossed around his chest, trying to keep warm. His face became a mix of anger and sadness. “I suppose they would be, considering that he was such a big dog,” I whispered. It was a big dog. While it was still a puppy, not even a year old, it was a German Sheppard. “I still can’t believe you had to put him down, he was such a nice dog. The little girl was teasing him,” He muttered angrily. “It wasn’t her fault, he just wasn’t social enough. It was my fault he was so skittish,” I muttered, while my eyes retreated to the ground. My face turned bright red. “You shouldn’t put the blame on yourself, your parents should have helped you with him. It was their dog after all,” he said, trying to cheer me up. We reached the end of the path. The sky looked dark and threatening. The wind whipped through my hair, sending a chill down my spine. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, too much has gone on today,” I told him. He looked at me apologetically, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” “It’s all right, life is meant to go on. Things happen that are not always fair or opportune. He would want to be free and happy, so I need to let him go,” I told him. I took a deep breath and looked forward. The path connected to a bend in a road. It had little dark spots littering its pavement from the rain starting to lightly drizzle. Just down the road, on the right, was my house. Before, it was exactly the opposite of where I wanted to be, but now it looked warm and inviting. Walking further down the road toward my house, it started to downpour on us. The wind had died down at least, so it wasn’t as cold as it could have been. I don’t think he cared anymore that his pants were wet. Instead he just kept walking next to me, probably intent on a change of clothes at home. I lightly chuckled to myself and kept trudging soggily home with him.

- 48 -

Rhea Lyons

The Cocky Jockey Some of you may read this tale and assume the worst of me. You might accuse me of being a narcissist or a liar…or both. To that, I can only respond with this: I am telling you what I know, and I just so happen to know that I am extraordinary. Being an Aries, the “baby” of the Zodiac, I tend to go through life experiencing each moment with a sparkling newness that permeates through to my surroundings. I’ve always had the uncanny ability to harness each new encounter with a certain verve and vitality that unravels a perfect breeding ground for enthralling situations to thrive. With fortitude and knowingness, I’ve persevered through good times and bad; each step, a wave rippling through the ocean of where dreams meet reality. Just two days after my birth, I chose to walk. Here, I feel most people would write “learned” in lieu of “chose,” but walking (like most things in my life) wasn’t something I needed to “learn”; it was residing within me, always. Thus, I chose to walk; I chose to pull myself up on my own two feet and position myself a little closer to the stars. In those first few steps − my heart, pounding with the satisfaction of knowing that I was, and always will be, the master of my own destiny − I made the decision, of my own volition, to ride: to become the world’s youngest equestrian. Within a week’s time, I had booked enough interviews with local news programs to really raise awareness for my cause. You see, I did not own a horse, nor did my parents. I was born into a family of immigrants; they were migrant workers who were continually “strapped for cash” (as the proverbial “they” say) due to the low wages and poor working conditions offered to people of the sort. One might have been content to accept this fate, but I chose to accept that I would own and ride a horse. Penniless and a bit jaundiced from the recent act of being birthed, I walked into the arms of the media without a hitch. Donations started flooding my home and, although my mother wished to use the money to purchase household goods and a green card extension, she allowed me to follow my passions − nay, my providence.

- 49 -

Rhea Lyons A bit into my second month, I was introduced to what would become the first (external) major player in my life’s odyssey: a dappled mare dubbed “Shorty,” a retired war horse and survivor of a mine explosion in Calabasas a few years prior to my birth. In the beginning, I had some trouble wrapping my head around the reasoning behind her moniker. At 17-hands high, Shorty certainly was not short in stature and, although she could appear a bit curt and standoffish at times, the blithe shakes of her mane as she frolicked through the pasture proved she did not possess shortness of personality. Why, then, was this mighty mare called such a name? Shortly after first hearing of Shorty’s existence and its coincidence with mine, I chose to meet with her. Our first meeting was a cool one; we both chose to keep our distances and observe each other from afar. We wanted to reserve true interaction for when the novelty of such encounters wore off and, being toothless (as I had not yet chosen to grow teeth), I made a personal decision to wait and meet her face-to-face until I obtained my full smile. I was choosing to live my life under the words of my parents’ landlady who said, “A smile is worth a thousand words.” I hoped those thousand words would one day be enough for Shorty. I spent my days concentrating on my smile. I worked diligently on weekdays, gnawing on plastic car keys and exhausting each knuckle of the frozen teething ring my mother picked up at the Y. On weekends, I made routine visits to Shorty’s stable where we stoically observed one another, both knowing that our days of collaboration − call it kismet − were nearing their horizon. On the dawn of my tenth month, I chose to allow my eighth tooth to emerge. These eight opalescent wonders formed an astonishing smile, and as I stared at my reflection in a dirty mirror at the local flea market, I could hear those thousand words erupt from between the perfect dimples in my cheeks. I was finally ready to look Shorty in the eye and take my rightful position upon her dappled back. Just after my accomplishment was made and my hopes had come one step closer to blossoming into fruition, my parents’ landlady − the woman from whom I had borrowed my life’s motto

- 50 -

Rhea Lyons − came to our room in the boarding house with a telegram that had been delivered while my mother and I were away at the flea market. It was addressed to me, and it contained an explanation for the previously inexplicable name that had been bestowed upon my equine soul mate. Shorty had died. It seems that Shorty’s name was created in reference to the amount of time she had left to roam these pastures we call Earth. In surviving the mine explosion, toxins entered her body and my dappled darling was saddled with a rare cancer, the knowledge of which had been held captive from me. I did not get to ride Shorty and become the youngest equestrian ever to have existed, but her presence in my life showed me that my true destiny could be met not in dreams, but in reality; for reality is a dream and dreams are reality. All was one, and one was me: I was all. Shorty’s death was a kick in the teeth, but it was a catalyst for the formation of my first major decision. After hearing the news in the telegram, I chose to never play games like the one I played in waiting for the perfect moment to share my thousand words with Shorty. I would become a soldier of life, in the name of my retired warhorse, and I’d fight for and capture the vigor of each moment, every time I came across a new beginning, middle or end. Those thousand words did not need teeth to speak: they were within me all along.

- 51 -

Artwork

- 52 -

Callie Strouf

Listen Up

Photography - 53 -

Callie Strouf

Smokin'

Photography - 54 -

Jack Suda

Still Life

Graphite on paper - 55 -

Sophorn Tep

Origami

Origami - 56 -

MandiLyn Krueger

Johnson Public House at Sunrise

Photography - 57 -

Evan Halpop

Rock Out

Photography - 58 -

Jorge Abelardo Lara Santiago

Mascara

Scratchboard - 59 -

Jorge Abelardo Lara Santiago

Imagine Penguins

Prismacolors, pen & pencil - 60 -

Eugenio Rodrigo Carapia

Azteca Warrior

Acrylic - 61 -

Jessika Warnberg

Fruit Fly

Electron Microscope - 62 -

Pete Sandker

Foxes At Sunset

Watercolor - 63 -

Pete Sandker

It's Getting Late

Watercolor - 64 -

Pete Sandker

Tidepool

Watercolor - 65 -

Scott Showers

Hand of Time on My Hands

Pencil - 66 -

Scott Showers

The Duke

Pencil - 67 -

Peter Faecke

Untitled

Oil - 68 -

Gretchen Hedrick

Spring

Oil - 69 -

Sylvia Lim

Dramatic Moment with My Lovely Puppy

Photography - 70 -

Deidre DeForest

Cowboy Up

Oil - 71 -

Emma Krantz

Vortex

Ink - 72 -

Anna M. Thiessen

Untitled

Ink, watercolor - 73 -

Timothy Mulligan

Teardrop

Etched metal - 74 -

Megan Ripp

Nature

Photography - 75 -

Staff

- 76 -

Robin Gee

Beachwalk

Photography - 77 -

Brittany Hoban

Aang Can Save the World

Screenprint - 78 -

Alex Balchen

Summer Pollen In New York, during the long hot sweaty days, central park is the only getaway The green blades of grass, millions of tiny blades, feel coarse against the knees The light breeze, cool against the skin, makes the trees groan like ocean waves The sour smell of citrus travels through the air, and the bitter taste of menthol and cheap alcohol, ruptures the mouths of a young man and woman These two are just one of many couples in central park, all young, blissful, ignorant and flirtatious, and in the mood for love these creatures populate the watering-hole, as the day is about to come to an end, with a clementine souring above them bright, heavy and luminous, it slowly falls from the heavens, like Icarus The sky, once a glorious shade of amber, turns into a bitter shade of violet The men and women migrate back from where they came, to plant the seeds for another day, leaving no one to grieve for the loss of daylight.

- 79 -

Sean Fitzgerald

Sanctuary I’ll tell you what I need. Five windows of honesty. Three to look through and two to leave open wide, the wind refreshing in this brick and mortar home. I’ll tell you what I think (not that you give a damn): Let your heart hang open, just for a minute. You might be surprised what sticks around. Oh motivator, Fear: I’m planting you on the far side of the garden. I’m sure I’ll visit from time to time. Winding trails I’m building to protect my precious home.

- 80 -