SandScript 2020
SandScript is published annually at the end of the spring semester. All works of prose, poetry, and visual art that appear in SandScript are created by students attending Pima Community College.
SandScript is published annually at the end of the spring semester. All works of prose, poetry, and visual art that appear in SandScript are created by students attending Pima Community College.
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Sand Script
ART & LITERATURE 2020
1
Editor’s Note on
the Cover
The cover represents our current state
of affairs. In 2020 we have endured
so much. Although this image is not
a direct depiction of the coronavirus
outbreak, it is a depiction of a brutal
part of history. It’s a reminder that
we have endured. We, the world, have
been through war after war and have
endured. This image struck me the
first time I saw it, pre-pandemic. The
use of the white space, the finer details
throughout the piece, all of it hit me.
This was an image that did exactly
what we as a staff sought out to do with
this magazine. It blended the triumphs
and pitfalls of the human experience so
beautifully. What I take away from this
image is: we will continue to endure,
and we will persevere.
Ulises Ramos
War is Over Only If...
Etching on Zinc Plate, 11”x18”
2
About SandScript
SandScript is the art and literary magazine
of Pima Community College, Tucson, AZ.
SandScript is published annually at the
end of the spring semester. All works of
prose, poetry, and visual art that appear
in SandScript are created by students
attending Pima Community College. The
editorial board consists of Pima students
and a faculty advisor.
SandScript has received the first place
award in the national contest for collegiate
magazines held by the Community College
Humanities Association in 2015, 2016, 2017,
2018, and 2019. The Community College
Humanities Association canceled the
literary magazine competition for 2020,
noting that most community colleges
canceled their magazines for the year.
Students interested in participating on the
editorial staff of SandScript take Literary
Magazine Workshop (WRT 162) in the spring
semester. This course is limited to twelve
students. Student editors, all of whom
have strengths in different art forms, learn
through engaging in the editorial process
with their peers. In 2020, the SandScript
staff moved the magazine’s process into new
territory by reviewing submissions through
a staff-developed anonymous digital voting
form. Each vote for submissions of poetry,
prose, and visual art was followed by an indepth
discussion that took place in person.
When the coronavirus pandemic broke out
in the U.S., the team decided to move to both
our meetings and the magazine to a digital
platform as part of the nationwide effort to
limit personal contact to combat the spread
of the virus. As a result of the chaos suffered
by the students as they moved, lost jobs,
gained jobs, shifted priorities, and learned
how to take courses online, most of the text
in this edition was accepted with only minor
grammatical edits.
Since SandScript was published during
the pressures and limitations of a global
pandemic, the 2020 team had to make many
difficult choices. One of those choices was
to publish an exclusively digital magazine
for the first time in the twenty-seven-year
history of SandScript. Unfortunately, these
new adaptations cost the staff the time
needed to judge and award the traditional
prizes. Although the staff grieved the loss
of the physical publication they’d been
crafting, they moved quickly and decisively
to transfer their work to digital platforms.
Also, due to the Stay-at-Home mandate,
the staff had to cancel the May Unveiling
Ceremony that publicly celebrates Pima’s
student artists for their talent and effort.
Despite these losses, the staff’s flexibility,
innovation, humor, patience, and tender
care for the artistic submissions of their
peers was a breathtaking feat of fellowship.
Their perseverance was an inspiration
during these troubling and uncertain times.
—Faculty Advisor, Frankie Rollins
3
Frank Cortes
Gateway
Photograph
4
Special Thanks
Lee Lambert, Chancellor
Dr. Dolores Durán-Cerda, Provost and
Executive Vice-Chancellor
David Dore, President of Campuses and
Executive Vice-Chancellor
Pima Community College Foundation
Kenneth Chavez, Dean of Communications
Division
Pima Community College Board of
Governors:
Mark Hanna, Demion Clinco, Maria D.
Garcia, Dr. Meredith Hay, Luis L. Gonzalez
Dina L. Doolen, Marketing and
Communications
Angela Moreno, Communications at
Downtown Campus
Rachel Araiza, Human Resources Specialist
Leigh Ann Sotomayor, Center for the Arts
Manager
Aztec Press
Josh Manis, Business Manager, Aztec Press
Pima Community College Faculty and Staff
Steve Jones at Arizona Lithography
Maggie Golston, English Faculty, Discipline
Coordinator for Creative Writing, and
former SandScript Faculty Advisor
Joshua Cochran, Department Head for
English Faculty at West Campus and former
SandScript Faculty Advisor
We are on social media!
Please like, follow, and share.
_sandscript
Consider supporting student artists by making a donation to SandScript.
For information about making a donation to SandScript, please send us an email at
sandscript@pima.edu.
All donations will go towards student awards and are not used for production or printing.
Donations can be tax-deductible.
5
Editor’s
Letter
Hi friends! I hope this letter finds each
of you safe. I never thought that I
would need to begin the majority of my
letters and emails in this way, but here
we are. I want to start by acknowledging
the pandemic that we are currently living
in. I think that it would be a disservice to
you, myself, and us as a community to not
acknowledge it. As Creatives, I think that
we are also generally aligned with empaths.
I know that, personally, my mental health
has never been shakier and more turbulent.
I am taking the necessary selfcare I need,
but it would feel disingenuous to not
acknowledge that things do not feel stable
currently. Everyone has been affected by
the coronavirus in one way or another.
There are some who are fortunate enough
to be able to quarantine and continue on
with their work, academic obligations, and
keep their families safe. However, there are
some who have lost jobs, homes, and family
members due to the pandemic. I want to
take a moment to show respect for all of the
losses, both physical and spiritual.
6
We turn to art for guidance and support.
The contributors of this magazine have
gifted us with their art, their stories, and
their perspectives. From the beginning
of the semester it was always our goal
as a staff to produce a magazine that
celebrated the human experience. The word
“celebrate” is used in an odd fashion here
in our magazine. We are not focused on the
happier and lighter moments of our time
here, although those are some pretty great
moments to revel in. We celebrate, too, the
darker parts of our time, the hidden truths,
and the moments when we question the
faith we have in ourselves, our religions, and
the universe. We celebrate the entirety of
the spectrum that is our existence because
we all fall somewhere in between the
happier, lighter moments and the darker,
questioning ones; and it is here in the
middle that art is made. This is where art is
understood. Where we are understood.
I want to thank YOU, the reader, for
following us on this adventure into new
lands as we pursue our first ever online
venture as a magazine. It feels amazing
to be a part of this historic moment in
SandScript history; although, I wish it was
under better circumstances. Nevertheless,
we march forward. Thank you for showing
your support to these creators. Thank you
for showing your support to SandScript.
And, most of all, thank you for simply just
being here and being you. Thank you. There
simply are not enough words in the English
language for me to express my gratitude to
the communities in Tucson for continually
showing me that we are truly in this all
together, and it is together that we will
make it out.
xoxo,
Christopher Valenzuela
Editor-in-Chief
7
Contents
Meet Our Artists 266-273
Meet Our Team 274-280
Pull Quotes 16-17
Poetry
9-8-8 Christopher Valenzuela 18
A 4 & 20 Blackbird Kind of Pi Graysen Norwood 158-159
A Modern Love Tale Cade Walsh 80
A Question of Faith Missy (Tamara) Fowler 264-265
A Shout of Silence Cade Walsh 262
Abiding Effects Cara Laird 42-43
After the News Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith 196
Afternoons in the Park Missy (Tamara) Fowler 64
all the things i never say Christopher Valenzuela 62-63
Am I Enough? Joshua Lindley 74
Atomic Prosperity Reno Roethle 219
Awe Matthew Martella 187
Bottom of the Bottle Christopher Valenzuela 76-77
Boundaries Were Nothing Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith 83-85
c’est la vie (that’s life) Christopher Valenzuela 79
Clouds in the Class Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith 108-109
Colors of a Bruise Angelique Matus 202
Creosote Joy Wendy Wiener 112-113
Danny’s Baboquivari Misha Tentser 180
Darkness Matthew Martella 58
Dead Past Courtney Hayes Armstrong 86-87
Dear Abilify Elliana Koput 115
December 14, 2012 Emily Gill 118
Deluge Mason Carr 121
Desire and Tequila Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith 122-123
Eagle Feathers on Black Sands Joseph de Leon Reilly 132-133
Elizabeth Cara Laird 154-155
Family Voting Wendy Wiener 136-138
8
First and Last Love Anissa Suazo 23
Giggles and Stomps Anissa Suazo 142-143
Giuseppe Giampaolo Steve Nagy 106
Good Deeds Courtney Hayes Armstrong 156-155
Grief Distribution Cara Laird 171
I Too From Earth Gaze Upward Jack Davidson 172
In Memoriam of My Mother’s Mothers Kat Johnson 174-175
In the Dark Cara Lair7 176
Inadequacy Missy (Tamara) Fowler 183
Intimate Animus Charles Sublette 199
It Would Be Nice George Key 220
Jist Wait’n George Key 200-202
Lazy Bones Courtney Hayes Armstrong 212-213
Liber Somnia Reno Roethle 216-217
Looking Through the Blinds Angelique Matus 214-215
Magic Months Emily Gill 141
Memories of Lost Destiny Brooks 224
Miles From Home Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith 222-223
Mirror, Unbroken Emily Gill 228
Nympha Nervosa Elliana Koput 230-231
One Last Goodbye Missy (Tamara) Fowler 236-237
Partial Family Portrait Steve Nagy 232-233
Poem of a Clueless Man Graysen Norwood 239
Polaris Reno Roethle 227
Quantum Bet Steve Nagy 240
Reality Emily Gill 244
Remembrance of Winter’s Loss Joseph de Leon Reilly 71-73
Safe Emily Gill 168-169
Saint Augustine Green Courtney Hayes Armstrong 234-235
Scars Steve Nagy 243
Skythrone Misha Tentser 246
Sweet, Sweet Saguaro Courtney Hayes Armstrong 248-249
That Moment A.Z. Chance Martinez 250
The 21yr Childhood Kat Johnson 254
9
The Executor’s Song Steve Nagy 256-257
The Jurassic Period Maria Raygoza 184-185
The Sculpture Missy (Tamara) Fowler 48-49
The Stars Destiny Brooks 60-61
The Voice, Lost; Inspiration, Found A.Z. Chance Martinez 88
The Way I Speak Amanda Valdes 46-47
The Wet Dollhouse Courtney Hayes Armstrong 39
Trapped Yareli Sanchez 258
Voices Kat Johnson 45
We Wendy Wiener 68
When the Dog Bit You Misha Tentser 260
Who Am I? Missy (Tamara) Fowler 252-253
You Shouldn’t Be You Matthew Becker-Stedman 20
Fiction & Essay
A Death in the Desert Lee Fike 24-36
A Wedding Lee Fike 51-57
How to Exercise Self Discipline Matthew Becker-Stedman 116-117
I’m Right Here Heidi Saxton 91-104
I’m With You Christopher Valenzuela 124-131
Lady-Girl Renee Terry 145-153
Rhinocerous Tears Courtney Hayes Armstrong 162-167
Smoke Break Heidi Saxton 188-195
The Flip of a Coin Ian Washburn 204
We Expect the Coming Rains Christine Early 206-209
Your Call is Very Important to Us Kimberly Laney 178-179
Visual Arts
A Study of a Stoic Kathryn Robertson 105
American History Scroll Jack Davidson 261
And Then She Looked at Me Eva Kamenetski 19
Aphrodite’s Rose Kelly Franck 57
10
Autism Collection: Eugenio’s Family Ana Mary Garza 66
Autism Collection: Humankind Ana Mary Garza 67
Autism Collection: Inside Out Ana Mary Garza 67
Autism Collection: Protection Cloud Ana Mary Garza 66
Benedict Cumberbatch: A Study Kathryn Robertson 86
Blossoming Maya Kendrick 22
Borderlands Elliana Koput 137
Breakthrough Sergio Peraza-Jimenez 139
Bungalow After a Rain Storm Jack Davidson 264
Cactus Juice Brianna Vega 26
Calm Taylor Tang 148-149
Caras Ulises Ramos 205
Celebrations Frank Cortes 261
Change for Breakfast; Growth for Dinner Elliana Koput 255
Chicago, 2019 Jackie Cabrera 126
Chloe Kelly Franck 198
City Hound Frank Cortes 34-35
Clouds Rick Larke 82
Cogburn Brianna Vega 102
Communication Tina Kennedy 208-209
Confined Affection Rhea Stanley 207
Contemplation Myryam Roxana Freeman 128-129
Crown Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum 221
DAY-OR-NIGHT Charles Sublette 18-19
DeathClassic Joseph Roland Ewing 251
Deep Sea Amy Nagy 186
Desire Myryam Roxana Freeman 125
Determination Myryam Roxana Freeman 131
Dimension Mackenzie Harrison 242
Dimensional Guitar Kathryn Robertson 30
El Tianguis Luis Angel Figureoa Medina 252
Everything’s Blue Maya Kendrick 52-53
Falling Tina Kennedy 237
Family Ana Mary Garza 81
11
Ferns Rick Larke 197
Figure Confined Sergio Peraza-Jimenez 155
Forgotten Frank Cortes 147
Fruits Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum 15
Funk Head Vanessa Ibarra 93
Gateway Frank Cortes 6
Geometry and Nature with Metal Kathryn Robertson 49
Girl’s Team Connie Nicholson 108
Give In, Part 1 Izzy Orozco 40
Give In, Part 2 Izzy Orozco 41
Gossip on Yellow Chairs Connie Nicholson 190
Great Horned Owl Grace M Johnson 160
Green Guy Joseph Roland Ewing 185
Grim Amusement Brianna Vega 182
Habu Sake Brianna Vega 211
Happy Rick Spriggs 60
Head Cheese Vanessa Ibarra 75
Helping Hands Rhea Stanley 69
Hibiscus Sivanes 144
Hide Out Charles Sublette 222
Hit and Run Maya Kendrick 143
HSWW Alexandra Roussard 44
I Heart Calizona Vanessa Ibarra 27
Imagining Tina Kennedy 43
In the Cards Brianna Vega 173
Into Light Kelly Franck 214
Ivory Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum 119
Just a Taste Izzy Orozco 120
Kauri Tree Rick Larke 234
La Sagrada Familia Tom Webster 174
Life of the Party Jessi Moreno-Rosas 225
Man is God’s Religion Jack Davidson 247
Mask Maker Ulises Ramos 210
Masked Self-Portrait Taylor Tang 151
12
ME Jennifer Prybylla 259
Mexicanas Myryam Roxana Freeman 233
Midnight Oil Maya Kendrick 178
Mindspace Tina Kennedy 286
Moonrise Charles Sublette 248
Mort Alexandra Roussard 135
Octopoda Suppression Alexandra Roussard 213
One Day Closer Ulises Ramos 78
Origins Ana Mary Garza 81
Palmistry Hand Kelly Franck 167
Pancakes Kelly Franck 189
Panteon Nacional Luis Angel Figureoa Medina 110-111
Plexus Eva Kamenetski 133
Portale Jack Davidson 70
Puft Alexandra Roussard 38
Purple Dragon Grace M Johnson 94
Pushya Vincent A. Jones 114
QueenSarahCathrine Luis Angel Figureoa Medina 89
Reign - Lust Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum 217
Reminiscent Eva Kamenetski 24-25
Rhealism Rhea Stanley 194
Sea Creatures Amy Nagy 230
Self Portrait of a Carvers Head Ulises Ramos 162
Slatt Joseph Roland Ewing 181
Smokey I Sandy Delligatti 241
Snowy Owl Grace M Johnson 161
Space Man Lost in Space Zack Ellingson 157
Space Octopus Zack Ellingson 226
Street Food Deli Wurstel Connie Nicholson 166
Sunset on the West Side Vanessa Ibarra 33
Sylvan Portrait Jack Davidson 29
Symmetry Frank Cortes 238
The Kids Luis Angel Figureoa Medina 104-105
The Red Door Reno Roethle 50
13
The Wishing Tree Tina Kennedy 170
They Climbed It Anyway Elliana Koput 65
Think Outside the Trash Kathryn Robertson 122
Those Squeaky Floors Eva Kamenetski 56
Tree as Reflection of the Universe Jack Davidson 113
Tucson Beauty Jackie Cabrera 152
Two Butchers Connie Nicholson 193
Untranslatable Eva Kamenetski 177
Untruth Taylor Tang 203
Ursus Alexandra Roussard 229
Vanitas Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum 134
Want Charles Sublette 245
War is Over Only If... Ulises Ramos Cover
Water Lily Sivanes 168
Weightless Charles Sublette 164-165
Woods Amy Nagy 140
Wooly Tina Kennedy 37
Wrath Rhea Stanley 90
Yellow Chairs Convention Connie Nicholson 97
Youth Mariachis Connie Nicholson 101
14
Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum
Fruits
Painting, Watercolor on Paper, 15.98”x10”
15
Pull Quotes
A Death in the Desert by Lee Fike
“I was there for a ceremony, one that was rare and tragic to my clients, but was for me
something with which I was all too familiar. In some strange way, it made me the host
and them the guests.”
A Wedding by Lee Fike
“Like every part of the desert, this place was full of life and death, both at the same time.”
How to Exercise Self Discipline by Matthew Stedman
“Let the needle slide in. The pain is unavoidable, no matter how carefully the nurse
handles your arm.”
I’m Right Here by Heidi Saxton
“‘You hear me, Stevie? Even if you take a beating, you always finish the fight.’”
I’m With You by Christopher Valenzuela
“You feel like you spent years nurturing this special part of who you are and it’s not even
yours anymore.”
Lady-girl by Renee Terry
“I kneeled on the bed and reached across to grab her flailing hand. The bedclothes were
cold and slippery.”
Rhinoceros Tears by Courtney Hayes Armstrong
“It was a sight that left Ryan with both a yearning for her own father to hold her, and an
immediate, visceral reaction to what that might feel like.”
16
Smoke Break by Heidi Saxton
“Maybe if she got to know me, she could adore me like I adore her. Maybe she could get
lost in my words. Maybe she could be hungry for me like I am for her.”
The Flip of a Coin by Ian Washburn
“Steve knew the look on George’s face in a flash, it was that face he got when he had an
idea, an idea that was really gonna cost him.”
We Expect the Coming Rains by Christine Early
“‘What happened with Frankie, it wasn’t just the same as what he does with all the girls,’
she said quietly. ‘And if it was, you think I can move on from it so easily?’”
Your Call is Very Important to Us by Kimberly Laney
“Master of sarcasm that she was, he knew this was an inside joke for him and him only.”
17
9-8-8
Christopher Valenzuela
POETRY
Bang!
That’s it
The End.
18
VISUAL ART
Charles Sublette
DAY-OR-NIGHT
Photograph
19
You Shouldn’t Be You
Matthew Becker-Stedman
I once told myself
in view of a mirror
an insect must become a chrysalis—
the pupa of
oneself—
I have spun the web of comfort
silken strands a coffin bringing life
to lay down with dying breath
in struggle of rebirth
POETRY
worth remaining—
do not move from this,
it will break the trace
of all that has transpired
conspired
against the person I do not
understand the origin of change.
the transformation that has taken hold of roots—
not as water but as parasitic bites--
sharp and staunch in the sinew,
the meat of stasis.
why do you resist
inevitable as change, as dark and light.
to complete
is not to become new,
is not to become whole,
is to become you.
20
VISUAL ART
Eva Kamenetski
And Then She Looked at Me
Photograph, Gelatin Silver Print , 8”x8”
21
VISUAL ART
22
Maya Kendrik
Blossoming
Painting, Watercolor, 11”x14”
First and Last Love
Anissa Suazo
I grow
then falter,
then fall
in the fall,
to your hand raised out.
The foliage,
destined
to slow,
dance
around you and
your lover.
My cracking passionate colors
crumble against their smile,
and for a moment,
a slow moment,
POETRY
their smile makes your heart falter,
then fall,
in the fall.
The dance ends
on their infinite black hair.
And I fall
in fall,
to your eagerly waiting hand.
“It’s your first and last love,”
I tell you within my amber limbs,
as I land upon your palm of fate.
23
A Death in the Desert
Lee Fike
VISUAL ART
I
left the highway and took a county
road north, roughly paralleling
the desert river—tall, leafy cottonwoods,
mesquites, and desert willows tracing a
thin green line in the valley between blue
mountain ranges on either side. A Turkey
Vulture floated in lazy circles on a thermal,
high above the desert floor. The pavement
turned to sand and dirt almost immediately,
and the smooth, sweeping curves of the
empty road reminded me of my youth, when
I had lived in this desert, an hour away from
the city. The sun was perched on the peaks
to the west when I came to a side road,
marked by a low wooden sign— “Flanagan”
was painted on it, in white paint with drip
lines. Just the sign I was looking for.
I took the sandy road, slow across
the washboard, uphill into the gloom of the
mountain shadow.
An old ranch on the side of a little
hill. A large adobe house with a rusty
corrugated metal roof. A barn opposite,
across a large barnyard, with more
Eva Kamenetski
Reminiscent
Photograph, Gelatin Silver Print 8”x8.1”
24
machines than animals in and around it.
Two or three small outbuildings in a rough
circle around the house. The road led into
the circle and up to a couple of hitching
posts, backed by manzanita and jojoba
bushes, in front of the big house. I parked
beside two big 4WD pickups and one SUV.
Two faded, abandoned cars slumped off
to the side. A transmission and an axle
with rotting tires were lying on the ground
nearby, partially covered by the tall bunch
grass and short prickly pear that was
growing around them.
Two dogs stood up and began
barking at me from the porch of the adobe
house. One, a medium-sized short haired
black-and-tan mix with long legs and a long
nose, stopped barking in a few seconds and
looked over his shoulder at the front door.
Smart dog, I thought. Alert the human but
hold off on charging to kill the stranger
until Dad comes out to assess the situation.
The other one was all black, smaller and
fluffier with a shorter nose, some kind of
Pomeranian-meets-Jack Russell Terrorist, as
we say in the vet world. This one ran down
towards me, still barking and growling
ferociously.
The human came out directly, a
partially bald white guy, fat stomach,
wearing suspenders that held up baggy
gray trousers. “Shut up, Jack!” he yelled at
FICTION
25
Brianna Vega
Cactus Juice
Drawing, Pigma Micron, Paint Markers, 5.5”x8.5”
VISUAL ART
his little Jack dog, who was now circling me
and growling. I had carried my big canvas
veterinary bag with me as I got out of the
car, and now I kept it low in front of me,
holding it in my left hand with my arm
extended, keeping the bag between me and
snarling Jack.
“Come on up, Doc!” the man called.
“He won’t hurt you.”
I started around the hitching posts,
keeping my bag between Jack and my legs,
but Jack kept circling around, barking like
mad, charging from different directions,
trying to get behind me, trying to get past
my bag. “Uh…How about you bring a leash
down here and catch him up for me? He’s
feeling a little nervous about things,” I
called back to the man. He was Flanagan, I
assumed—I’d only talked to his wife on the
phone—but we’d obviously not made it to
the introduction stage yet.
“Oh, he’s alright,” Flanagan yelled
from the porch.
I looked at the dog at my feet again
as we continued our strange little dance. He
was still snarling and trying to maneuver
around my big bag; I was moving my bag
enough to keep it between him and me,
while simultaneously keeping an eye on the
rest of my surroundings, which were so far
proving to be nothing but hostile territory.
Jack was a cute little thing, but when a dog
acts aggressively around me, I tend to take
what he tells me at face value. Maybe he
just wanted to sniff me; then again, maybe
he had some more nefarious desire, one that
perhaps included biting a hole in my leg and
tasting my blood. A quick glance back at
the porch revealed Flanagan still standing
there, rubbing the black-and-tan’s head
and observing Jack and me with a bored
amusement. No help there.
“You’re a sweet little devil, aren’t you,
Jack?” I whispered calmly to the dog while
fishing a slip-lead out of my bag. Even little
dogs can hurt you if they bite you. But I’d
worked with all kinds of dogs for years, all
kinds of animals, for that matter, and I knew
that keeping fear out of my voice, as well
as a sense of humor, proceeding cautiously,
and understanding their psychology would
go a long way. “Yeah, you’re a handsome
little shit, and I say that as one handsome
little shit to another,” I said, smiling,
breathing, and using a quiet, dreamy tone
26
Vanessa Ibarra
I Heart Calizona
Sculpture
of voice, as I flipped the loop of the slip-lead
over Jack’s head with a small motion of my
hand. He turned to bite the lead, but I gave it
a little jerk, both to secure it around his neck
and to get it out from between his teeth. He
stopped and looked at me. I immediately
started fast-walking up to the house, not
giving him time to rethink his efforts to
chew my lead in half. He pulled back on the
lead for the first few steps, but I kept going,
bringing him with me, and in about three
seconds flat he started trotting with me up
to the house, a new understanding in his
eyes.
Up on the porch, the man nodded
to me and then shot an “I’m disappointed
in you” look at Jack. Apparently, he’d been
expecting a better show.
“Mr. Flanagan, I presume,” I said.
“Derek Esayer.”
“Ray,” he said. “Come on in.”
We all went into the living room,
where a woman was sitting cross-legged on
the floor with a Malamute dog lying on his
side in a dog bed, in front of the sofa. The
dog made no move to get up.
Malamutes aren’t super common in
Southern Arizona; they’re the wolf-looking
dogs that pull sleds in Alaska and the Yukon,
and they have very heavy, thick fur to keep
them warm in cold climates.
“Hello,” I said quietly. The woman
was wearing jeans and an Oxford shirt, and
she had tears on her face. She just looked at
me and at Jack, standing there on his—well,
my—lead, panting at her.
“OK if I sit here?” I said, gesturing at
the sofa. I was used to this. The last thing
people thought of when a vet came to their
house to put their dog to sleep was manners.
They were dumb with fear, sadness, and
even horror. They didn’t mean to be rude
or uncaring, they weren’t trying to be
unwelcoming. It was just that in this black
moment, which I understood perfectly—I’ve
had animals that died from euthanasia, too,
and nothing in my life has been sadder—
they did not see themselves as hosts. Their
hearts were full of grief, and complex
feelings of guilt, and maybe even full of
some forced realizations about life, death,
and where we are all going. They were never
going to ask me to sit down—it just didn’t
occur to them—so I asked permission, and
then made myself at home. I was there for
FICTION
27
FICTION
a ceremony, one that was rare and tragic to
my clients, but was for me something with
which I was all too familiar. In some strange
way, it made me the host and them the
guests.
“Yes, please,” said the woman.
I sat down and reached slowly
to take off Jack’s lead. As it always does,
walking along with a large man who has
a rope around one’s neck had changed his
attitude about me. Dogs have no shame in
ceding authority to a stronger power. They
just want to know where they stand in
the hierarchy of domination, and our little
interaction had made that clear to him. He
looked at me for a moment and then went
and sat down by the woman. The man
remained standing up.
“Derek Esayer,” I said, looking at the
woman.
“Evie Flanagan,” she said.
Now that Jack had calmed down,
I moved down to the floor, sitting on the
other side of their big dog.
“We’re so grateful for you coming
all this way, Dr. Esayer,” she said. “We just
didn’t want to have to take him to the vet
clinic for this. He gets afraid when we go
there.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I agree. Of all the
things a vet can do for a dog, this is the one
that’s most important to do at home.”
“We don’t want to do it, but we just
think he’s suffering,” she said. “We tried
everything! The vet says there’s nothing else
we can do.”
I nodded again, I was nodding along
with everything she said and staying silent.
This was the time for her to tell her story
and for me to listen.
“He can barely get up, he barely eats,
he poops on himself,” she said, starting to
cry. “He stays in one place all the time. He
used to be so active! And now he just seems
miserable, all the time.”
I reached out and stroked the
Malamute very lightly, barely touching him.
I ran my hand along his head, neck, and
body. He didn’t react. He was breathing and
staring straight ahead, and not much else.
“What’s your dog’s name?” I said.
“Buck,” she said.
I looked around at the room. Big TV
across from the sofa, gaudy Indian paintings
on the walls, men wearing immaculate
feathered headdresses dancing, sitting on
horses holding lances, women in front of
teepees decorated with bright designs--the
kind of paintings that look “white-washed,”
for anyone who’s ever been to Taos Pueblo
or has seen old, historic photographs of First
Nations villages and people. Ray was still
standing in the middle of the room, looking
lost. The long-legged black and tan dog, who
turned out to be named Festus, had come
over to sit with Evie and me. She licked my
hand once and then sat down by Evie. I
didn’t see any bookshelves.
Evie was giving me a look, though.
“Buck, like in The Call of the Wild?” I
said.
She smiled, as Ray took this
opportunity to jump into the conversation.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “She read the book and I
saw the movie.”
She looked at her husband a moment,
her smile gone. “We saw the movie,” she said.
“All happy families are alike; each
unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,”
Tolstoy wrote, a truism that I couldn’t argue
28
VISUAL ART
Jack Davidson
Sylvan Portrait
Etching, Aquatint, 10”x 12.5”
29
FICTION
Kathryn Robertson
Dimensional Guitar
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 11”x14”
30
with after doing house calls for so many
years. “Good name,” I said, rubbing Buck
again. He rolled his eyes so he could look at
me without moving his head and panted a
few breaths, then closed his mouth again.
I filled out the consent form with
information they gave me—Evie told me
Buck was 13 years old and was a neutered
male. I filled in their names and phone
numbers. Ray told me he already had a
grave dug, so I noted that on the form.
Home burial. When it was finished, I held
the paper up, with a pen, waving it gently in
front of me. “I need a volunteer to read this
and sign it,” I said.
Ray came over and took it. “Always
gotta do the paperwork, eh, Doc? CYA?
Cover your ass?”
“Well, for some things, you want to
have a document that shows that everyone
agrees about what we are doing, since there
is no going back. We…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I was just
yankin’ your chain,” Ray said, talking over
me.
“No, no,” Evie said. “Finish what you
were going to say, Derek.”
If “CYA” means “make sure people
understand what is happening,” then yes,
that’s exactly what I was doing. But the
euthanasia consent form also forced people
to confront their animal’s death, and it often
had them facing their own mortality. A
powerful piece of paper, indeed.
I looked at the two of them for a
moment. It was getting darker outside.
Festus-dog was now lying down close to
Buck. Jack was quiet but vigilant, still
watching me and my canvas bag, which
I had kept closed; I didn’t want any
inquisitive dog noses going into it and
making chew toys out of my expensive
medical equipment. Little Jack sat in his
spot by Evie and studied the bag, the power
object that had thwarted him.
“I was just going to say that when
we talk about this, we use words like, ‘put
to sleep,’ and ‘saying goodbye,’ which are
nice ways of speaking,” I said. “But this
paper uses words like ‘death’ and ‘dead,’ so
that there can be no mistaking what we are
talking about and what we are about to do.”
Evie took the paper and read it. “It’s
only two paragraphs, Ray,” she said.
“I know,” Ray said.
Evie finished reading the consent
form, and then she looked at me. “Do you
think we’re doing the right thing? Do we
have to kill our dog?”
“Is that what the paper says?” I said.
“No, it says that we consent to
euthanasia,” she said, looking at the paper in
her hands, “and then in parentheses, it says
‘humane death.’”
“Amounts to the same thing,” Ray
said.
I waited, listening, but no one spoke.
The atmosphere was full of sadness, which
was appropriate. It was also full of a lot of
other emotions: guilt, anger, regret, shame.
“My answer is yes, you are doing the
right thing,” I said quietly. “And no, we’re
not killing your dog. Words matter. Killing is
violent. Euthanasia is merciful.”
They just stared at me. I imagined
their feelings. How were they supposed
to know how to do this? It went against
everything they wanted.
“You have told me that he is showing
every sign of pain and suffering,” I said. “He
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31
FICTION
is old. He can’t do any of the things that
he’s been doing all his life. He’s suffering,
and you can’t stop it. And he’s going to die,
whether we euthanize him or not.”
“That’s kind of one of the things
we’ve been talking about,” Evie said, looking
at her husband. “Is Buck in pain? It doesn’t
seem like it, but how would we know?”
“Great question,” I said. “Here’s how
you wouldn’t know. He won’t tell you, in
the English language, that he hurts. He will
never change his pleasing facial expression,
the way I would.” I made a grimace and a
show of holding my back. “And he will never
show pain the way I usually show it, which
is by being irritable and hateful to the
people I love the most.”
Wan smiles.
“We know that dogs are capable of
feeling pain, just like we do, but they will
almost never do things that show it. They
hide their pain. They act as though they live
under the law of the jungle. You know the
law of the jungle?”
They stared at me silently, not
ready or willing to be students answering
questions.
“The law of the jungle says that if
you show any weakness, someone will kill
you and eat you. There’s an old saying.
‘Don’t limp around lions.’ That’s how dogs
think.
“We humans, of course, live under
a different law. I myself live under the law
of my wife. If I show any weakness or pain,
she will tell me to stay in bed, she will bring
me chicken soup, she’ll rub my feet and call
my clients and tell them I can’t come see
them today.” Evie and Ray looked at each
other, perhaps recognizing one of their own
secrets, or maybe wishing some of these
secrets were theirs.
“So of course, I show my pain and
weakness. Dogs don’t, not unless we have
the eyes to see it. And when we see an old
dog who can’t get up, who limps, who seems
to find it difficult to lie down, who is moving
very slowly, who won’t eat, who doesn’t do
the things that he’s loved doing his whole
life—that tells me they’re in pain.
“‘Euthanasia’ comes from the Greek
for ‘Good Death,’” I continued, still in a quiet
voice.
“Good death,” Evie said. It was kind
of a question, and kind of a wondering that
there was any such thing.
“Buck is going to die here at home,
pain-free, being held in the arms of the
people he loves most; being held in the arms
of his mother, as we say.” Evie looked at me,
eyes brimming. All the dogs were asleep
by now. “They’ll never say that about us.
We’ll probably die at TMC, being tortured
to death, with people yelling and pushing
on our chests, machines beeping, and bright
lights shining in our eyes, all kinds of weird
things.”
“You’ve got a way with ya, Doc, I’ll tell
you that,” Ray said. Maybe there was hope
for him yet, I thought silently to myself.
Evie handed me the signed consent
form. I opened my bag and pulled out a
syringe, screwed a hypodermic needle to it,
and started drawing up some fluid from a
vial.
“So, I’m going to give Buck a sedative
first. And when I say ‘sedative,’ what I mean
is a big dose of pain-relieving medicine, a
sedative, an anesthetic, an anti-anxiety
medicine. These all work together to
32
FICTION
Vanessa Ibarra
Sunset on The West Side
Painting
33
VISUAL ART
make sure he is out of pain. He won’t feel
anything.”
I focused on preparing the sedative.
I looked at Buck. He was big but had lost
weight. He probably weighed about 70 lbs.
In the vet clinic, they would have weighed
him on a walk-on scale so they could
calculate the dose of the medicines, but this
was one of the many ways house calls were
different. I didn’t think Buck, or any sick
and painful animal, would like to be picked
up and held, squirming, while I got on their
bathroom scale. So I always estimated the
weight of the animal. I studied Buck for 10
seconds, thinking of other animals about
his size and what they’d weighed, thinking
about how much of him was fat (not much)
and how much was muscle (not much of
that, either; he had wasted away), seeing
how thin he was, thinking of what would
be my low and high guesses and coming up
with an estimated number of pounds.
In the early days of my house call
practice, I had used standard dosages for
sedation and anesthesia. They worked fine,
in my opinion, but it wasn’t working for
the human clients. When animals—dogs,
cats, humans, horses—are anesthetized in
the hospital for surgeries, the clinicians
usually use the minimum dose of sedation
required to intubate the patient and begin
gas anesthesia. This means that there is
always some involuntary motion, maybe
some vocalization. As the conscious mind
relinquishes control of the body, it—the
body—makes little motions and sounds.
That’s normal. The animal doesn’t feel
anything. They’re unconscious. Their
conscious mind is offline, so to speak, but
the lower brain centers that control motion
Frank Cortes
City Hound
Photograph
34
and muscle activity are the last part of the
brain to become anesthetized. They find
themselves unmoored from the conscious
mind that normally controls them, so there
are a few jerks and squeaks.
But anesthesiologists in hospitals do
not do their work in front of a distraught
human audience of family members. And
that is exactly where I did all my work. The
Flanagans, like all my clients, had probably
never seen any animal become anesthetized,
for good reason. It’s not usually a spectator
sport. In a hospital, the workers focus
keenly on the state of the patient, watching
for anything going wrong. It’s not a time
to answer questions from amateurs and
entertain the hoi polloi.
In house calls, any motion, any
sound made by my animal patients would
have convinced their loving owners that
their animal was suffering greatly, no
matter what I said to the contrary. And,
given what we were doing, in addition to
the fact that any weird motions would
cause great angst with my beloved human
client observers, overdosing was not a risk.
Our patient was not destined to wake up
from the sedation in any event. So I didn’t
monkey around with dosages. I loaded my
patients up, and they very quickly became
profoundly anesthetized.
My technique had incidentally
taught me how amazingly safe common
veterinary anesthetics were. I used a
dose that would have anesthetized a
200-pound animal on a sick, 70-pound
Buck, and although he became profoundly
anesthetized, it didn’t kill him. Good
to know.
“I’m just going to give him this
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35
FICTION
sedative under his skin along his back,” I
said. “Like where he might get a Rabies shot.
This is not IV, it’s just under his skin. Hurts
less that way, but it will take a few minutes
to work,” I said, as I slowly injected the
sedation.
And then we waited. I gently touched
Buck, I told him that he had been a good
boy, that he had been the best dog ever. The
Flanagans became quiet, watching their dog,
lying motionless.
“You did good,” I said, stroking him
with a light touch, barely skimming the
hairs. The light from the windows got
darker and darker, but no one turned on the
lights.
He took a deep breath, and his
body subtly relaxed even more. “You did
everything just right,” I said to him. My
voice got quieter. “You brought love, and
beauty, and grace to this family.”
Evie, already sitting close to him,
picked up his head in her arms and put her
face by his, silently weeping.
My voice got even quieter. “We can
say, ‘Thank you. Thank you for coming to
the Flanagan party. It would not have been
the same without you.’”
The room was still and dark. Buck
was barely breathing, totally anesthetized.
“No more suffering for you, little
one,” I said, now whispering. Ray still stood
by, motionless, but only Evie could hear
me, and Buck, if he was hearing anything
at all. “I’ve got a lot of friends where you’re
going. You say hi to Aussie, and Sandy, and
Zammer, and JaRoop for me. You tell ‘em
I’m coming. You tell them I didn’t forget
what we said.”
Evie was whispering to him, too,
and salting his face with her tears. “Thank
you, thank you, thank you…” I think she
was saying.
It was dark. I put on a little headlamp
from my bag. “He’s ready. I’m going to give
him this last injection.”
Evie nodded silently; her face still
buried in Buck’s.
“Once this goes in, it works really
fast. This will end his life. This won’t hurt
him at all.”
Evie nodding.
I put a Nye tourniquet on Buck’s
back leg while I whispered to him, “This will
be me, too, Buck, soon enough. You just get
to find out first.”
And then I injected the euthanasia
solution into his saphenous vein, in his back
leg. It went in smoothly with no reaction
from Buck.
And then he stopped breathing.
“He’s passing away right now,”
I whispered.
I touched his chest with
my stethoscope.
I clicked off my headlamp.
All was dark.
The room was silent.
A beautiful life had ended.
36
VISUAL ART
Tina Kennedy
Wooly
Painting, Oil on Board, 10”x10”
37
VISUAL ART
Alexandra Roussard
Puft
Painting, Oil and Gold Leaf
38
The Wet Dollhouse
Courtney Hayes Armstrong
My father carves every wooden shingle by hand
stands, never sits, a lonely night watchman on shift
shavings float down upon the Cabernet leather of his tasseled loafers
splinters wedge under his champagne and chardonnay thumbnails that dislodge inside the
cologne-infused pocket of his monogrammed shirt when he reaches for his shiny Zippo lighter
and he chips and chisels, the original square shapes not good enough for his only child, his doll,
or maybe it was the raw reality that leaving them as they were wouldn’t dare take up enough of
his sober time
So, he took the small silver hand saw and shaped each square into opulent, ornate diamonds
POETRY
I remember his hands shaking like fireflies in a mason jar in a humid Crete, Illinois backyard
plagued with zips of energy that barely allowed him to hold the innocuous white bottles of
carpentry glue whose shape only reminded him of seductive glass that housed
salty scotch and frisky whiskey and brutal bitters and
how dry his mouth was
So, he licked the rim of his empty glass and the mockery of ice turned into lacy, liquid diamonds
I am the puppeteer
pretending to live inside the Merlot walls of the dollhouse
my clumsy, unforgiving fingers danced the doll up lush, paisley Pinot carpeted steps
porcelain legs held on by mere ribbons of fraying cloth and yet, somehow, she was still
more beautiful than I would ever be, and I could only, and simply, smile, as the watchman’s love
poured down my face
So, he wiped my cheek and kissed my tears and turned them into mystical, magical diamonds
39
VISUAL ART
Izzi Orozco
Give In, Part 1
Diptych Oil on Canvas, 18”x24”
40
VISUAL ART
Izzi Orozco
Give In, Part 2
Diptych Oil on Canvas, 18”x24”
41
Abiding Effects
Cara Laird
POETRY
We used to road trip through Mexico.
My mom driving
a beat up, but reliable, Datsun.
Me in the passenger seat breathing
her secondhand smoke.
Or if we had friends with us: in the backseat, reading a book.
I was maybe 9.
We had friends with us.
We sat three across, our moms in the front seat, taking turns
driving and smoking, smoking and driving.
Between two small towns,
somewhere not far from Guadalajara
the road was barely paved, chunks
of asphalt between potholes.
Immersed in the world of
The Babysitter’s Club - all of a sudden
motion sick for the first time in my life
I puked on my shoes
and the empty glass coke bottles
and the crumb coated chip bags on the floor.
42
Tina Kennedy
Imagining
Painting, Oil on Board, 10”x10”
VISUAL ART
After, I could not read my book
even on a smooth road.
For the rest of the trip, it was Spanish on the radio or
old Johnny Cash tapes, or nothing.
I played slug bug with the other kids
bruising our arms:
VW Bugs being very popular in Mexico, at the time.
Or I slept,
drowsy with motion
and boredom.
Road trips still make me sleepy.
I can finally read in a moving car again
without puking but
I can’t stay awake long enough
to finish a chapter.
43
VISUAL ART
Alexandra Roussard
HSWW
Painting, Watercolor
44
Voices
Kat Johnson
The walls are said to hold the distant echoes of the revenants.
When the air holds a magnetism that seems to beckon our youth,
they are reaching cautiously, with icy fingers, past the cloak of eventide.
POETRY
They slip into shadows that resemble their old outlines and steal the laughter of night creatures who
trade the secrets of a waning moon.
Those quiet, alluring whispers between faded wallpaper and cobwebbed corners.
And when we stare into our stained-glass mirrors, absentmindedly,
intoxicated by our ego,
they fall hushed,
mistaking our vanity for a bold invitation to bear company.
45
The Way I Speak
Amanda Valdes
Naturally I’m a fast talker
I use a lot of gestures
My words don’t articulate as clearly as I want them to
I’ve become too used to being cut off mid-sentence, I’ve been too used to people not hearing me.
Not being quite loud enough.
I’ve become too used to being told what I say is not important, so I now only allow myself to
speak when I think people will pay attention.
POETRY
I speak quickly because I feel that I’m taking up too much time in a conversation, that I’m taking
up too much air.
In a conversation I wait for them to ask me questions,
wait for them to start the conversation because apparently nothing I say comes out the right way,
apparently, it isn’t important.
My words are a ticking time bomb ready to explode.
My words stumble on each other like a runner trying to make it past the finish line,
so I can finish on time, so I won’t be cut
off or interrupted.
When I try speaking at times, my tongue becomes a fish out of water.
My words become knocked
Down
dominos
When I speak, I only speak up to get it out of the way. So people can stop asking why I’m
so quiet. They ask why I never speak.
I tell them, I had a voice, but someone ripped it out of me I don’t know where it went.
46
I have been a mute only living through observation because I’ve never had the voice to speak to
gain an experience of my own.
I can’t tell you how many times people have told me, “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you
speak”
And I can’t help but think that I now speak in written words and not so much actual words. You
won’t hear my voice but you’ll hear it, you’ll feel it.
Until I discovered poetry, I realized I hadn’t been able to write more than one word replies.
With poetry I don’t have to hold back what I want to say on the inside.
The way my words now end up colliding like newlyweds on their honeymoon,
Poetry is my excuse to use my voice again.
With poetry I found out my voice can come out of hiding, can be found again, can be restored.
I find that I can only get people to listen when I’m speaking in similes or metaphors.
I hope one day soon my sentences will slow down and I won’t have to feel like there’s a
stopwatch tied to my chest
POETRY
With poetry I don’t want an excuse to be silent anymore,
I want to be able to use my voice to fill the room with air without feeling like I’m suffocating.
I want my voice to leave people silent, to leave them speechless. I no longer want to feel like my
words are meaningless.
This is how poetry has restored me.
My words don’t stumble as much with poetry, a clear conscience where they aren’t afraid to hide
the truth anymore.
Poetry gives me the space to not have to worry about my sentences feeling like a countdown.
Poetry is the only way I allow myself to speak. This is how poetry found me.
This is how I speak.
47
The Sculpture
Missy (Tamara) Fowler
POETRY
Her voluptuous body
radiates warmth from an inner glow,
a vision in blue-lined marble.
She is powerful and fearless,
boldly facing the world in all her glory.
He believes he could mold her further,
shape her to his vision of perfection.
But his hands are not those of an artist—
clumsily selfish, chipping off piece by piece,
chiseling away at this sculpture.
Each day thinner and weaker,
the cuts grow deeper,
cruel words breeding fractures.
Eventually one small nick
could break her like cheap porcelain.
Yet, on and on he hammers away.
Day after day she sits alone,
discarded and forgotten,
serving no purpose
except to give him an outlet
to express his frustrations,
his own failings as a person.
She anxiously waits for those days,
wills herself to be invisible so that perhaps
by some miracle he truly forgets her—
wondering when the day will come
that she becomes too brittle,
cracking apart till she is irreparable
so that he, at long last, discards her
and her flaws and imperfections—
when she will be so far gone
that her shape is unrecognizable,
too much for him to bear.
He cannot begin to understand
she’s not who she was—or—
who she longs to be.
He leaves her misshapen,
blaming inferiority of the material
and the poor tools he was given.
He’ll cast her aside without care.
She hopes that happens soon.
When the day came to pass
taking her by surprise
a most brutal crushing blow
in one motion everything she was
all the potential of what she could be—
48
VISUAL ART
Kathryn Robertson
Geometry and Nature with Metal
Sculpture, Steel, 2”x1.5”x2”
Shatters
An explosion of jagged shards in every direction
one for every part of her that was destroyed
settling, blanketing surfaces in white
a frighteningly cold, crisp, blizzard.
From the worst of the pain imaginable,
she becomes beautiful again
peaceful as a winter’s night.
The calm after the storm.
49
VISUAL ART
Reno Roethle
The Red Door
Photograph
50
A Wedding
Lee Fike
It begins like this—tall Cottonwoods, Sycamores, and Arizona Ashes, murmuring in
a light autumn breeze. Their voices originate in their roots buried beneath the river,
the power of that water rising up into the canopy to whisper its tale through the shimmering
leaves. I listen to the story as if in a dream, told in the language of the canyon, its native
language of rock and wood. Their tale will soon be over for the year, as the leaves fall, some to
the creek-side ground, beginning their journey from the tree crests to their roots, while other
leaves land in the water, floating away to fertilize downstream lands. The leaves will molder in
the lonely earth, the shaded, sandy, riverine soil, and will finally become the earth itself, as will
we all, following nature’s cycle of creation, growth, maturity, senescence, death, and rebirth,
into a new form. The trees give back more than they have taken from the earth; they add
their chlorophyll-derived energy, new carbon chains, new nutrients for the next generation.
Their moist, wooden roots break the bedrock, millimeter by millimeter, making new resources
available, adding to the never ceasing flux and flow of the biome, the inexorable force of life
that the earth longs for, aches for. Life wanted to happen here; it wants it still, here on this
planet, bathing in the warm light of this sun. It began with a desire as dire as sex, an urgent
urge that could not be denied.
And what about us, the human animals, the builders and destroyers, the talkers and
occasional listeners? Somehow, we, too, will nourish our next generation. We will feed them
with… what? Truth and love? Or will it be lies and ruined dreams? A nutritious heritage of hope
and success, or the poisons of hatred, regrets, and a legacy of failure? Will they be able to build
on what we have left them, or will we leave them to rediscover life for themselves?
*
51
FICTION
VISUAL ART
Carmen and I rode up the creek
towards the mountains, winding through
the trees, crisscrossing the creek as we
searched out the smoothest trail through
the boulders. The horseshoes made their
characteristic click-clacking on the stones,
together with the slow-motion ker-PLUNKs
when the nine-inch diameter foot of a
thousand-pound horse plopped down
into two feet of water. We were still in the
urban-ish area, but we saw almost nothing
of the city. We were in a long and narrow
piece of wildness, a desert place that was
sometimes dry, sometimes a nicely flowing
stream, and sometimes a flood like the
wrath of God. Today the water was tame
and fresh, and the world smelled like horses,
and green, and love.
It was our wedding day—long in
the making, short in the planning. We were
going to be married at my house, which
would now be our house, the house built
by my great-great-grandfather Jesús
Ignacio Olivares Ramirez. There wasn’t
much left of the original house. It had been
rebuilt several times over the centuries,
although there was still one section of
non-weight bearing adobe wall by the old
kitchen that my grandfather told me was
the original. And he’d still let me climb on it
until I was six.
Our friends and family were getting
the house ready for the wedding and the
party, their gift to us. Everything was
taken care of. So I left on Easy right after
breakfast. I picked up Carmen at her house,
a quarter mile upstream, and we headed
into the mountains.
*
Sabino Creek rises from icy springs
Maya Kendrick
Everything’s Blue
Painting, Watercolor, 8”x8”
52
high on the slopes of the highest mountain
in the Santa Catalina range, Mt. Lemmon,
home to the southernmost ski area in North
America. The climate there resembles parts
of Canada more than southern Arizona; as
close to heaven as we can get, around here.
The creek leaves its alpine forest home
in a hurry (as the young are wont to do),
plummeting down from high escarpments,
carving narrow chutes through the steep
granite massif. It drops 6,000 feet in
elevation in only seven miles, watering in
turn conifer trees, then oaks and junipers,
then continuing to change life-zones
with each drop in elevation; manzanitas,
shin-daggers, century plants, and finally
ocotillos and prickly pears, where it ends
up serenely flowing out onto the floor of
the Sonoran Desert. It continues south
two miles to Carmen’s house, built in 1979,
another quarter mile to mine, 200 years
older, and then it gradually and gracefully
sinks into the sand, accepting its fate and
its all-too-short lifespan, contributing to
the underground river that goes through
Tucson, the Rillito, and continuing
on, enduring the purgatory of every
misunderstood and abused desert river,
until at last it finds rest in the Sea of Cortez.
*
My Easy horse and Carmen’s horse,
François-Marie, whom she also called
Twinkie sometimes, were old pals now.
François-Marie was a sorrel quarter horse
mare, shorter than Easy by an inch or three,
a little stockier, and a couple of years older.
They walked close together, side by side,
when the trail was wide enough, sometimes
making Carmen’s and my legs rub together.
Their sizes were similar enough that nobody
FICTION
53
FICTION
got too pushed around. Easy was a highenergy
Appaloosa, a young six years old, but broken country. We left the trail and went
along the base of the mountain, rough,
he was calmer with François than he was up a small wash that appeared to lead to
with anybody else; normally he was a fast a dead end. But in less than a quarter of a
walker, thinking more about seeing what mile, a hidden passageway was revealed.
was around the bend than taking time to There was an opening to our left, an overlap
smell the roses, but Twink was like a big between the stony walls that led to a hidden
sister to him; he liked being around her, and oasis, invisible from the main trail. It was
even if he was rowdy, she maintained her a little valley that reached into a nook of
queen-like composure.
the mountain, an acre or two in size. The
So, we
granite cliffs rose
all walked along
sharply in an irregular
companionably. The
circle on every side,
sun dappled through
completely enclosing
“Like every part of the desert, this
the trees and the
the pasture except for
place was full of life and death,
stream kept up its
the narrow entrance
both at the same time.”
white noise. This
we’d come through on
was what we loved,
its southeast side. It
a respite from the
was our own private
modern world, moving through this demiparadise
with the rich sensations—the
light of late autumn.
sanctuary, lit this morning by the low angle
sounds, sights, smells, and feelings of travel
We hobbled the horses, took off
on horseback—of another time, an atavistic their bridles and put on halters with short
dream that she and I had been in before and lead ropes hanging, loosened the saddles
a dream that Carmen, Holly and I had all
a bit and left them to graze. Carmen and I
shared, together and in every combination climbed up onto a pile of boulders and sat
of twos.
side by side, 10 feet off the ground.
It didn’t take too long to cover the
“So,” Carmen said. “Today’s the day.”
two miles from her house to where the
“Today’s the day,” I said. I leaned into
mountains abruptly erupted from the
her, put my arm around her, and gave her a
ground, shooting up steeply. It was here
long kiss.
that the Forest Service land began. The river
She took a deep breath, looking at
continued upstream to a recreation area,
me and our secret valley with a happy smile.
but we turned east at the Forest fence and “This is such a beautiful place.” The entire
rode along it, a hilly, rocky route, until we area was quiet, far from traffic noise, and
came to a gate.
here, behind the mountain walls, it was even
“Ah,” Carmen said, “so this is where more peaceful.
we’re going.”
She scooted a few inches away from
We’d come this way before. Through me on the rock, making room so she could
the gate was a faint trail that led northeast hug her knees to her chest—one of her
54
comfort poses. “I came here a time or two
with you and Holly, remember?” she said.
She had taken her baseball cap off
and was letting her hair move in the faint
breeze.
“Yes, I do remember.”
“And I imagine you came here with
her before I even knew you, too,” she said.
I nodded. Holly was my late wife, my
soulmate, my friend, and the mother of my
daughter. Carmen had been friends with us
both. Holly had died over three years before.
Ovarian cancer. “Yes, we did. She loved this
place,” I said.
The sun got higher. It was warm
but not hot. We watched the horses nosing
around the ground and scraping at the rock
with their front feet. The sun glinted on bits
of mica in the mountain walls surrounding
us and made the angled quartz inserts shine
with a clean white light.
We were quiet then, but it felt like
there was something to say. I had brought
my saddlebags up onto the rock with me,
and now I opened them and pulled out some
little boxes of food; multi-grain crackers,
brie, pears, blueberries. A big bottle of water.
I moved over to create some space between
us and laid the food out on the rock. I spread
some brie on a cracker and handed it to her,
leaving the box with the fruit in it open. She
smiled and said, “Thanks,” and took a bite.
“I know we’ve talked about this,” she
said, “but now here we are at the day, and
I’m still… I don’t know. I love you, I want to
marry you, and yet there is a part of Holly
that is still here for me.”
I looked at Carmen in her riding
clothes. She was wearing a white, long
sleeved western shirt with snap buttons,
jeans, and boots. She was strong and brown,
like Holly had been, but she was a little more
filled out. She was born almost two years
after Holly and now she was 38, twice the
age Holly had been when I met her. I was
52. Carmen had been a good friend to us, a
frequent visitor in our home, and we in hers.
I nodded. “Yes, she is still a part of
me, too. She always will be, because of Beck
and also just because our marriage was a big
part of my life.
“But then again, I don’t think you’ve
spent the last 20 years being a nun,” I said
with a smile. “We both have history.”
“Well, yeah, but still… I mean, I know
it’s right, I think you and I are perfect,” she
said, “and yet, there is this added dimension
of sadness and loss and maybe a few tiny
shades of guilt and betrayal of my friend.”
“Guilt?”
“So… here’s the thing,” Carmen said.
“I’m just going to say this to get it out. In
actually marrying you, I feel like I’m taking
over something that’s not mine. I want to
be—I want to continue to be—with you,
and I know, I already spend a lot of time
with you in your house and with Beck, but
somehow, to actually marry you and move
in with you, to become the ‘lady of the
house,’ to become the step-mother, it feels…
well, it feels great, but it also feels wrong
somehow, like I’m erasing Holly. Replacing
her.”
The horses had wandered a little
bit around the park, and now they drifted
closer to us, listening to our voices. Like
every part of the desert, this place was full
of life and death, both at the same time.
Walk just about anywhere in the Sonoran
Desert and you’ll find a ton of life, a huge,
FICTION
55
Eva Kamenetski
Those Squeaky Floors
Photograph, Gelatin Silver Print 8”x8.1”
VISUAL ART
diverse array of life forms, and you’ll also
find death everywhere; trees with some live
branches and some dead ones, every kind of
cactus with both living specimens as well
as dead cactus bodies lying casually on the
desert floor. Death seems to be a part of life
here, and the desert doesn’t let us forget it.
There are plenty of dead plant carcasses in
wetter, more temperate climes, of course,
but in those places, they tend to be covered
up with climbing vines, moss, grasses,
bushes, and sprouting trees greedy for the
additional light that the absence of the
fallen trees allows in. The dead are hidden
by the living.
There is no hiding death in this
desert. Indeed, the dead form a part of the
structure of the desert itself, they are as
much a feature of the desert as are the
living. When the big plants of the desert die,
the first thing that happens is that their
green, watery skin shrivels and falls off.
Then their moist innards dry up and blow
away, and ultimately what is left is their
secret, inner structure. Their backbones,
their skeletons; the spirit that let them live
for so long in this place somehow remains.
A hidden beauty is revealed; the complex
weavings of cholla wood, the long, straight
spinal columns of saguaros, their spindly,
fragile ribs ordered together to form a
powerful tower.
In life, these plants were hardworking,
their green skins harvesting the
energy of the sun. They busily stored up
water to fight the arid heat; your basic,
journeyman plant, doing its thing.
In death, at last we see the true
power of what was holding them up the
whole time.
*
“Holly had her place here,” I said,
“and before her, my parents, and my
grandparents, and their parents before
56
them, all the way back, for generations. That
house is made of adobe, it is made of the
earth of this place, with a history extending
back uncounted eons.
“It feels to me as if none of us really
own it—it’s truer to say that it owns us. And
it, and I, and everyone who is a part of this
place, including Holly’s spirit, all the way
back to my ancestor Olivares-Ramirez, who
came with de Anza, all welcome you as the
next Mother Superior of our—your and
my—house.”
She sighed and moved closer to me. I
pulled her even closer, crushing her against
me, and I put my hand low on her abdomen,
still flat today, but soon to become swollen
and round.
“When are we going to tell people?”
she said.
“I think who we tell is the question.
Beck, and…”
She thought for a moment. “Hey,
Easy,” she whispered, looking at the horses.
Easy lifted his head at just that moment,
looking at us. “I’ve got some news for you.”
“Oh, please. That guy’s a
blabbermouth. Tell François-Marie instead.”
“Our friends are pretty smart. They’ll
probably figure it out when they start
hearing a baby crying in the house.”
“They might just think it’s me—you
know I cry all the time.”
“Hmm… True. How about the shitty
diapers? Will that differentiate you and
your son?”
“My son, you say? Ah, yes, our son,”
I said, tasting the words as they rolled
over my tongue. “He was proven to be well
endowed on that last ultrasound.”
“Just like his father,” she whispered,
holding my head close with her hand.
“Remind me again about that…”
*
Our clothes made an adequate bed
on a clean spot of desert sand—no withered
cactus skins with a few stray thorns left; I
checked—and we melded together with an
urge as powerful as an ocean wave, with a
force as gentle as a late autumn sun, with a
mutual care and technique that kept most
of the sand off us and out of us—but with
enough sand to keep us grounded in this
smooth-rough world.
She didn’t let this interrupt our
conversation. “I know I can’t be Rebecca’s
mother,” she said.
I gazed into her eyes from an inch
away, smiling.
“But I don’t think I need a title to
pour love out on all those that I call mine.
And I call you mine,” she said, snuggling
closer, even as we were making love, even in
the very act, her lips touching mine as she
spoke, breathing her words and her ideas
with our rhythm, breathing her love and her
life into me. “I call you mine, you and all of
yours, and I make myself yours, me and all I
have.”
“And I, you, likewise, to include us
all,” I said. “We are all of them…”
“…united in love and purpose, for you,
for me, for everyone…”
“Amen.”
FICTION
57
Darkness
Matthew Martella
Darkness has a soul.
POETRY
It is not evil.
It is without action, intent, or meaning.
Darkness simply observes,
Beholding the dancing expressions of light.
Light is said to be the infinite one,
But without humble darkness’ stage,
What games could fractal rainbows play?
Do not fear that deep, beautiful soul.
That infinite eye that beholds all light.
58
VISUAL ART
Kelly Franck
Aphrodite’s Rose
Sculpture, 5”x15”
59
Rick Spriggs
Happy
Sculpture, Ceramic and Copper, 14” high
VISUAL ART
The Stars
Destiny Brooks
The stars litter the midnight sky
Creating a beautiful work of art,
An everlasting story
The stars provide a pathway to a world of light
Where darkness isn’t feared.
Alone I sit, cold and in pain
Curious of the wonders above
Curious of how my life could have been
My tears dry up as I look upon the twinkling mass of petite lights
And I stare and wonder
60
I wonder whether it’s freedom I look upon
Or entrapment
Whether given the choice would they leave, or would they stay?
It was a choice I had to make for myself...
Like the stars I provide light for not only myself but for others
However, my world is surrounded in darkness
But it’s the darkness that allows people to see the real me.
In the light, I hide the pain that has haunted my life for as long as I can remember
But as darkness falls, I feel everything I have endured slip between the cracks in the walls
I have created for myself
I’m in a frozen state, never sure what may become of me until the day the little light in me burns out
and I cease to be who I am now.
A pawn in a game of time...
POETRY
Forgotten and casted away to make room for the new...
To make room for the better...
Although the stars provide light, hope and a pathway to better,
They like us won’t last forever,
They’ll tire of their prisons in the sky
Only visible when the sun cascades into a journey of sleep
They like us can only shine for so long before the darkness wraps its arms around it and
extinguishes
what little light it has left...
We all have a light in us, some shine greater than others, but we’re all the same
So, as I stare upon the stars, I look upon my choices: Should I stay, or should I go?
Would life be better without me or would people miss me like they would if the stars were to
disappear?...
61
all the things i never say
Christopher Valenzuela
POETRY
I drink a lot of coffee because hey at least I’m not addicted to cocaine anymore and
somehow it feels better to say I drank 4 grande iced coffees instead of I took a full 20bag to
my nose last night.
I’m doing fine as long as I’m not worrying about what I say what I do what I think what I
wear if I’m being too gay if I’m not being gay enough and honestly I don’t know if I can be
left alone with my thoughts most of the time.
I love my friends but sometimes I wonder if I am even good enough to be their friend I
wonder if I am too dumb or too uninteresting for them to really like me because how can
people like this want to be around people like me.
I want to fall in love but there is some part of me that feels like I don’t deserve to drown
myself in it like I want to and so I block myself off from others because that feels so much
easier than trying to let someone in again only for them to leave.
I am gay and I only say that because it is just so much easier than explaining that I am
like water I am fluid in all aspects of who I am and who I love and who I fuck and my
preferences change day to day and moon to moon.
62
Sometimes I feel like I got to spend all this time nurturing and loving this queer part of
myself only to be forced to share it with the rest of the world so that they can use it to give
themselves substance and damn that’s fucked up because I shouldn’t have to feel like I
can’t ever really own myself.
Sometimes I think about all the “straight” men I have “corrupted” and I cry because maybe I
was only trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t worthy of knowing what love felt like and
why would I do that? Because hurting myself is easier than letting other people hurt me.
Sometimes I wonder if my friends will ever really understand who I want to be when I
grow up because it feels like I am in the wrong for wanting to be so ambitious and for
wanting to leave a me-shaped imprint on the minds of those I meet. But what does the
imprint of someone who is so fluid even really look like?
POETRY
Sometimes I just sit in my shower and let the water hit my face while I dissociate and think
about all the things I’ve done wrong because I didn’t make time for the gym this week, or
last week, and I ate that whole plate of French fries but didn’t eat a salad and maybe having
an eating disorder wasn’t such a bad thing to have if the alternative is this.
Sometimes I think about just taking a shot or buying a bag and setting up lines because
I’m bored with my routine and all I do is wake up and go to school and go to work and
smile and wave and pretend like I’m not actually falling apart and it feels like I have no
fun anymore and didn’t my friends call me more often when I was this manic dream that
couldn’t remember if today was last week or next month and I miss not feeling anything
because at least I never worried about if I was good enough on the outside.
63
Afternoons in the Park
Missy (Tamara) Fowler
POETRY
Walking in the park
kites in both your hands
A basketball tucked
Under your left arm.
I’m trailing behind
Making sure you don’t
Drop or lose our stuff.
It is what you are
Good at most often,
Losing anything.
Last week you even lost
Your wallet on your own bed.
We pass the giant
Sprawling juniper
Up the gently sloped
Hill that we prefer
With fewer trees here
Less chance of a kite
Getting stuck again.
You get kites prepared
Launching them high up
Tethered down to you
By the thinnest line
Like you’re tied to me
Fragile and rigid.
Your face lights up and
My heart breaks open
Because you rarely,
Hardly ever, smile.
But when you do it
I treasure every one.
A pigeon flies past
Children giggling
Playing on the slide
Breaking me from my
Contemplation of
The lines of your face
Sharp and soft combined
Playing in the park
We become kids too.
64
Elliana Koput
They Climbed It Anyway
Photograph
VISUAL ART
65
Ana Mary Garza
Autism Collection: Eugenio’s Family
Sculpture, Clay, 19”x6.10”
VISUAL ART
Ana Mary Garza
Autism Collection: Protection Cloud
Sculpture, Clay, 10.6”x5.7”
66
Ana Mary Garza
Autism Collection: Inside Out
Sculpture, Clay, 8.4”x4.3”
VISUAL ART
Ana Mary Garza
Autism Collection: Humankind
Sculpture, Clay, 16.1”x9.8”
67
We
Wendy Wiener
We is the label on the family box
that contains layers of right and wrong, good
and bad, who we accept and who we
reject. The lid fits snugly. Smugly
POETRY
We passes from generation to
generation, from home to
home. It goes along when travelling,
domestic or abroad
We allows no space for discussion or
dissent. We has no room for why. We
is simply the way things are done. It’s
how we live and we die.
But maybe, just maybe, someone needs
to look, to see if perhaps things have changed
Find twine and tie the lid down tight, then
continue as always
Maybe this is the time to untie
the knot, to pick off the tape
and open the box. Dig through the layers
of always
But maybe, just maybe, someone wants
to peek, to seek the reasons for
these rules. Tape the box shut and continue
as always
Air out those family biases and
convictions that have lived through time
Withered thoughts without purpose
On its contents a new light shine
A senseless idea
An unwarranted fear
A prejudice held so dear
Oh, the possibility to be free
from what is no longer We.
Return these feelings to the box, marked
We: This ignorance is now history
68
VISUAL ART
Rhea Stanley
Helping Hands
Drawing, 18”x24”
69
VISUAL ART
Jack Davidson
Portale
Color Woodcut Plate, 6 3/4” x 8 1/2”
70
Remembrance of Winter’s Loss
Joseph de Leon Reilly
Stay safe,
I went away to the north,
North to get an education.
I love you!
Stay safe,
Six classes and a passion,
Scholarships and hard work,
Passionate in our future.
I love you!
POETRY
Stay safe,
Long months away,
We talked less than before.
I remembered to call every week.
Every week getting longer,
Away from your side.
I love you!
71
I love you,
Inscribed on a small band,
Rose gold to compliment sage eyes,
Forged into a puzzled ring.
You would never be bored,
Afterall, you had my heart on your finger
A small band complicated and tight,
Stay safe.
POETRY
Stay safe,
Classes went well,
but you needed help.
And so, six plus stipend and a job.
Grades fell hard,
But you were well.
I love you.
I love you,
Meals became short.
You needed my coat,
To Maryland for a military ball.
Have fun!
You went with a friend,
But would not call.
Short on time,
…please stay safe.
72
Stay safe,
You needed more,
But you wouldn’t call.
I hope your dad is okay.
I sold what I didn’t need,
More hours to work.
I love you.
Stay safe,
My parents called me home,
Only after seeing skin and bone.
I’ll be home soon.
I love you…
POETRY
I’ll keep her safe,
I left my future in the January snow,
With a tear in my eyes I saw the picture.
An invitation with you in white dress,
In the arms of uniformed man,
With love,
…Lexi?
Stay safe.
I left that place with nothing but a suitcase,
Leaving only a walnut box and rose gold ring in the snow.
…I loved you.
73
Am I Enough?
Joshua Lindley
POETRY
Am I enough?
Once promised yearning of your sweet embrace
Forbidden feelings falling from your face
The mask slips from an endless life of faux
Must the many moon passes frighten you so
Am I enough?
A soft touch cooling the skin, boils the blood
The thoughts of you coming in like a flood
The dreadful denial eating through the soul
When the brash babbling banter takes its toll
Am I enough?
Will a champion best the trials of your heart?
Stone fracturing, removing the rampart
Rise the conqueror of scattered debris
Am I enough for you, to be set free?
74
VISUAL ART
Vanessa Ibarra
Head Cheese
Painting
75
Bottom of the Bottle
Christopher Valenzuela
You put your hands around my body. Keep me close. The same way the men in
those novels your mom used to read keep their lovers. You put your lips to my neck
drink me.
You let me warm your body, fill in all the spaces you didn’t know were left
empty and you won’t ever know that they’re empty
not if I’m right here to fill them up.
POETRY
I promise to never let the world hurt you.
I promise to keep you here with me. I promise
you’re beautiful. I promise to never flood you
like the monsoons in summertime. I promise
all sorts of things, intoxicated in your touch.
And we dance and sing and play and laugh and time
is anything but linear
when I’m here with you.
And this is euphoria. This
is what the poets and the storytellers have all been chasing. And
you found it, bottled up here with me.
You put your hands around my body. Keep me close. The same way the men in
those novels your mom used to read keep their lovers. You lose track of all your days they
seem to blur into one.
You think
I’m to blame and so you say that we’re done.
You make excuses for why I’m no longer around, but you can’t seem to think
about anything else. And all your friends can do is talk about the nights when we
flooded their feed. And I am needy,
so I show up to all the
places they invite me, knowing damn well that you’ll be there
and hoping you
76
might see me. And maybe
you think to yourself I wasn’t all to blame. Maybe there are plenty of fish out there,
but we don’t have the hooks and lines to reel them in. So you reach out for me
wary of what I might do. But I take you in
wrap you up in my scent
hoping you’ll realize that I meant all those things I promised.
You
put your lips to my neck
drink me
You let me warm your body fill in all the spaces you now know are empty, but that I can
fill
until
they are
overflowing.
And this is euphoria.
You put your hands around my body. Keep me close. The same way the men in those
novels your mom used to read hold their lovers.
And I don’t keep all my promises.
Your empty spaces are left at that.
Cold and barren
POETRY
but you still cling to me because I am strong and proud and selfish
and oh, so needy. I need you just as much as you need me. And I want you to
drink me let me fill those spaces
but soon those craters become
caverns and those caverns
become canyons and I am not a
river that runs into the ocean.
So now we are both just spent lying on the floor in the aftermath of our dance.
I am empty
so are you.
Still you put your hands around my body. Keep me close. The same way the men in those
novels your mom used to read keep their lovers. But you never read those novels so
you don’t know what comes after all the crying and the kisses in the rain and the ecstasy.
77
VISUAL ART
Ulises Ramos
One Day Closer
Photopolymer Plate, 10”x11”
78
c’est la vie (that’s life)
Christopher Valenzuela
C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la
vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie.
C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie.
C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est
la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est
la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.C’est la vie.
C’est la vieC’est la vieC’est la vieC’est la vieC’est la vie
C’est la vieC’est la vieC’est la vieC’est la vieC’est la
vieC’est la vieC’est la vieC’est la vieC’est la vie.
C’estla vieC’estla vieC’estla vieC’estla vie
C’estla vieC’estla vieC’estla vieC’estla
vieC’estla vieC’estla vieC’estla vie
C’estlavieC’estlavieC’estlavie
C’estlavieC’estlavieC’estla
vieC’estlavieC’estlavie
c’estlaviec’estlavie
c’estlaviec’estla
viec’estlavie
c’estlavie
c’estla
viec’
est
la
v
i
e
POETRY
79
A Modern Love Tale
Cade Walsh
POETRY
Forsaken now as he was in
The past
A heavenly cry
A heavenly groan
He lies on the bed
As she moans
The cloth falls to the carpeted floor just
As the stars had fallen in the twilight
Hour of that
Forsaken evening
Could she hear the thoughts layered and
Rattling around like a scrap of parchment
With the name of the dope dealer around
The corner who would always treat you
Like an actual fucking human being
Lost in the wind
But she was prey, indeed so as he said
In the jungle where they found themselves
Clothes clustered on that carpeted floor space
He entered and felt the force
Almost immediately
Could he not do this here, at this time, at
This place, with his palms laid bare to the
Creator
Visions thrust into his mind like the
Strokes he was about to perform
in sacred ritual
But he was paralyzed, still
Lilies floating on the bright blue surface
Of that lake he had envisioned not too
Far in the past
Was this to be as the millennium
Marched onwards
Looking up, cursing the heavens with
A cry and a moan
Cut down like wheat from a scythe of
Stars
Oh how the ancients feast
Oh how they revel in the capture of this
Deranged beast
80
Ana Mary Garza
Family
Sculpture, Clay, 10.6”x7.8”
VISUAL ART
Ana Mary Garza
Origins
Sculpture, Clay, 21.6”x5.3”
81
Rick Larke
82
Clouds
Digital Photograph, 8”x10”
Boundaries Were Nothing
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith
I imagined the clouds were the Angel of Independence in Mexico City.
Wings, arms ready for the next day,
the next earthquake,
the next time smoke from Popo infused
the car horns, the future crowding into el metro.
POETRY
When I was 18, I spent the summer there with my mother who libraried her days in
academic adventures. Most of my days were filled with journeys through los calles
with the almost-grown children of my mother’s old law school friends.
One thought himself a formula one driver,
because at 18 who does not believe they cannot be anything but beautiful
and bullet-proof
Another a wanna be banker, financier -- a nerd who spent a grip of time
getting ready to venture out into the incredible pollution:
No wrinkles on his clean clothes,
his hair in perfect resistance to the mythic winds.
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The young woman was on summer break
from some boarding school near New York. A bad seed?
Her mouth was a ripe papaya.
Some nights the four of us ended up at wild parties,
the loud music vibrating everyone’s desires.
And there, in rooms crowded by privileged youth,
I sensed that boundaries were nothing more than suggestions,
inconsistent reckonings.
POETRY
As long as one kept the drugs discrete,
or did not end up naked,
passed out in a pool of vomit in front of Bellas Artes,
all was in play.
Mota was passed around, some pills came out,
and there was never enough ice to keep the cans of beer cold.
Some boys put on lipstick and the girls danced with each other
all night long,
Prince’s music making everyone forget the devaluation of currency.
And as long as I did what my mother wanted--
meet others and practice my Spanish,
what was the problem?
Really?
Of course later it became obvious--
health and joy are never as interesting as that which
seduces damage.
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We all hated walking back to the car,
knowing it was too late to sleep.
The drives home were fast and quiet.
Wheels screaming and no one saying nada.
What graceful words can be shared at 90 miles per hour
on an empty 6 lane boulevard
that circled its own history?
Because it is known that no one should believe
too dearly in a life that could vanish.
They all knew I would leave before September,
going back to a regular life,
and each of them looking at each other’s eyes,
and understanding they will be taken out of this life and destroyed.
One day they would arise and look like their fathers,
work where their fathers worked,
behave like their fathers.
POETRY
Men who were too old at 45, men who imposed an order above all else.
Starched shirts, coming home and napping in the middle of the day,
maintaining the expression that says,
“I just watched a car hit a stroller and no me pasó nada.”
That summer ended.
None of us old enough to understand
little of hope’s indifference.
My inner Boy Scout repeating melancholy I who had been we.
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Kathryn Robertson
VISUAL ART
Benedict Cumberbatch: a Study
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 11”x14”
Dead Past
Courtney Hayes Armstrong
We should have cornbread sometime, you and I
Shoot the breeze, chit chat, you know, chew the fat
And think back to when we were high, bright eyed
Wine and grey salt lines of sweat on your hat
Handsome you, when you winked at me, I’d winked at you
Climbed to the top of the loft of nude wood
Cocky you, wanted me, I’d wanted you
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But I knew we never could, never should
You ever return to that yellow barn?
I heard it call you when I grabbed your hand
Knives sharpened and horses squealed in alarm
You spared the mares but cut my virgin land
It would be wrong to ever dare abstain
Here, shuck this corn and we’ll go once again
I would slather you with melted butter
Let it drip down my forearms onto you
Merely larded sticks on one another
I’d beg, plead, please, anoint me all of you
No words this time, only hot silent vows
Closed eyes, wide lips peaking above my hips
The stars our sole witness, duct tape on mouths
Our breath caught in twinkling celestial fists
The memory razors me into lamb
I traffic the blood with a tourniquet
Your love too strong for the cloth-covered dam
Your marrow my heart’s only ligature
Am I wrong? Are you wrong? Were we so wrong?
Wait, I can hear the stars singing our song
POETRY
Boy, you’ve changed, but not into a man
With your towheaded views yellowed by hate
A fisherman in fields of maize, stagnant
Rubbers glued to the muddy stalks of fate
Loneliness does not make you waterproof
It can not extinguish love’s pheromones
Jump free out of those soggy socks and boots
Leap into my pan of pure masa love
You won’t, you can’t, you wouldn’t ever dare
That would paint you hungry, unsatisfied
So, you smeared suicide into the air
Made me bleed to prove I, too, am alive
Forgive me, I send you one last invite
We should have cornbread sometime, you and I
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The Voice, Lost; Inspiration, Found
A.Z. Chance Martinez
POETRY
Who are you? You—who couldn’t choose?
You, who dared light that fuse,
Only to lose and lose, over and over!
Seemingly faster and faster––
A wild thing with no master,
It is your voice—your voice that sings––
Which rings, through my mind,
This is why, you, I seek to find!
Freedom of this bind; once, my muse
But alas, simply, only, a fleeting ruse,
But one, again, I’d choose, for you
Inspire such love, pain, joy; yet you
Know not what you do, for you
Of so very few, but again, alas
This feeling too, shall inevitably pass!
So, to another, who shall inspire;
Feeding an ever-growing, ravenous pyre
Consuming, entirely, frail sanity
Seeking out any who would free me––
Calling out any, who’d make that choice!
Screaming out; a dying plea…
Then, only then, did vision come to me;
There! hidden in front of me; the voice
Inside which continued to hide,
Found, before one drowned—rejoice––
You were never that face; another––
You were one and the same; together
In that place, the face in the mirror;
That needn’t ever fear, for no matter
Your voice, true, begs to be let go—
Begging, needing to scream to show
A daz’ling display of fireworks…why
Can we never, truly, fully see that voice
That echoes inside of me—a cry
Begging to be found in every dying sound…
Singing, only wishing, yearning to be free;
Our voice, our rock, hidden upon the ground
Needing, waiting, ever-lively, ever patiently
To be found; truly, undeniably unbound—
Free…to be, to sound, for all to see
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VISUAL ART
Luis Angel Figureoa Medina
QueenSarahCathrine
Photograph, 8”x10”
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VISUAL ART
Rhea Stanley
Wrath
Drawing, 18”x24”
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I’m Right Here
Heidi Saxton
Steve brushed the small gash on
his head. His fingertips came
back sticky, coated in wet, hot blood. Steve
planted his palms in the gravel and pushed
his thin body up. His vision blurred and he
swayed to the left, reaching out towards
the hot metal pole holding up the swing set
to steady himself. Blood poured from his
forehead onto the rocks in heavy splats. His
stomach turned at the red splotches. He
didn’t notice the crowd of sweaty fourth
grade boys gathering around them. All he
could hear was his heart. Thud. Thud. Thud.
He grasped the hot metal pole
holding up the swing set. Steve looked up at
the goliath boy. I need to get out of here.
The goliath was only one year older
than Steve, but he had almost thirty pounds
on him. The goliath’s shirt rode up exposing
his large belly. He barreled towards Steve
hunched over like a football player going in
for a tackle. He pushed Steve to the ground
and grabbed onto a fistful of his shirt with
his beefy, dimpled hands. The goliath hit
Steve in the face. He could taste blood. He
wiggled out of the goliath’s grip and scuttled
away.
The students booed when Steve ran
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towards the fence lining the playground.
“Yeah run away, coward!” the goliath
screamed after him. The crowd cheered.
Coward.
Steve didn’t turn back. He clambered
over the chain-link fence protecting the
playground from the decrepit neighborhood
surrounding it. The blood from his forehead
mixed with tears streaming down his face,
but he kept pushing forward, forward,
forward. His tennis shoes pounded against
the cracked asphalt and his feet ached and
his heart slammed against his ribcage. But
he kept running.
He slowed to a jog once he got close
to his house and used the hem of his shirt
to wipe the remainder of the blood from
his face. By the time he reached the bottom
of the crumbled brick steps in front of his
house, his whole family was standing on
the porch. It wasn’t very often Steve saw
them all together. They almost resembled
a family, a broken one perhaps, but one
that might actually love each other. His
older brother, Justin, had one arm wrapped
around their mother and the other slung
through the shoulder of his backpack.
Steve’s oldest brother, Toby, sat on the
top step looking down at him. She must
have taken Justin and Toby out of school
early so she could gather them into her
performance. Steve watched his mother
twist her face into one of despair.
“I’m too upset to even look at him
right now,” she wailed. She was only thirtysix,
but she looked old, older than Steve
had ever seen her. Her sweatshirt hung
loose around her small frame. He could see
the heavy bags under her eyes beneath
her makeup and the gray on the top of her
head growing into her dyed-brown hair. She
pulled a cigarette and a lighter out of the
back pocket of her velvet sweatpants.
Toby looked bored, but Justin’s eyes
were wide as though he were truly moved
by her act.
“Look at you, Steve. Your shirt’s
covered in blood.” She looked down at
Toby’s disinterested face and back towards
Steve’s bloody one. “I don’t know why I even
bother with you.” She pushed Justin away
and looked at all three of them. “Any of you,”
she spat, slamming the screen door shut
behind her.
Justin winced. Toby stood up from
his perch on the steps and sauntered down
to Steve. Toby was tall for fourteen with
a bit of muscle, bleached blonde buzz-cut
hair and a diamond stud in his right ear.
He was wearing a wife beater and low
riding sweatpants with the waistband of
his boxers peeking out the top. Toby’s face
looked just like the pictures of their dad
that were littered around the house. He
tried hard not to with the hair and earring,
but the resemblance was undeniable.
Steve once asked Justin why Toby
wanted to show everyone his underwear.
“Toby just wants to look tough,”
Justin told him. “You know that piercing he
said he gave himself in the bathroom? I was
at the strip mall with him when he got it.
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Sometimes it’s just easier to pretend, Stevie.”
Steve thought Toby did look tough
towering over him.
“Mom got a call from the school,
one of the kids told a teacher you got into
a fight. This is your first fight, yeah?” Toby
cracked a smile and clapped him hard on the
back. “Ten years old. Good shit, Stevie. Next
time don’t run away like a little bitch. You
hear me, Stevie? Even if you take a beating,
you always finish the fight.” He picked Steve
up and threw him over his shoulders in a
fireman carry. “Let’s get ya cleaned up.”
*
On a humid Saturday afternoon in
July, almost three years later, Justin and
Steve celebrated their birthdays. Steve’s
birthday was three weeks after Justin’s, but
Mom always had their parties together to
save money. Steve begged Mom for a party
all on his own, but she called him selfish.
Justin pulled Steve aside before the
party started and promised him it would be
fun.
“I didn’t really invite anyone,” Justin
explained. “It’ll basically be your party. We’ll
just be sharing a cake.” He looked down at
his feet.
Justin had the same dimples and
blue eyes. He was tall like Toby but much
thinner. Sometimes when Steve would look
at him, he’d be scared that Justin would
be carried off by the wind. He was wearing
his nice button-up that Mom bought at
Ross and jeans for the party. She liked to
take care of him. When they were younger,
Vanessa Ibarra
Funk Head
Sculpture
VISUAL ART
93
Grace M Johnson
Purple Dragon
Hand Drawn, 8”x10”
VISUAL ART
94
Justin would sit at the edge of Mom’s bed
and watch her curl her hair instead of
playing with Steve and Toby. At one-point,
Steve was jealous of perfect Justin, the
favorite, but he liked spending time with
Toby more anyway.
Toby ran up behind the two and put
Justin in a headlock.
“I have gifts for the birthday boys,”
he said, tussling Justin’s hair. He pulled two
boxes out from the drawer behind them.
“Here you go, Stevie. Open that baby up.” He
winked.
Steve ripped the Christmas wrapping
paper off his box and pulled out a fresh pair
of Nike track shoes. He traced his finger
over the bright white fabric. They looked
expensive, too expensive for the stained
salmon carpet in the hallway and peeling
wallpaper. Steve went in for a bear hug.
“Thank you, Toby.”
“No problem. You’re a real runner
now. Gonna be the fastest boy out here.”
Steve watched as Justin carefully peeled
the paper off his gift and lifted the lid off the
box. Steve stood on his toes and peered into
Justin’s box. Inside was a slightly beat up
laptop and Moleskine notebook. He looked
between Justin’s frowning face and Toby’s
cocky smirk.
“How did you pay for this?” Justin
asked.
Toby shrugged.
“You’re the smart one, Justin. You’re
gonna get outta here. I know it. I just wanna
help you do it. Same goes for you, Stevie.
You’re both getting out of here. Oh, I almost
forgot!” He rolled his sleeve up to show a
new tattoo. It was all three of their initials
messily printed on his forearm. “We gotta
stick together.” He put his arms around
Justin and Steve. “We’re family. I’ll fight for
both of you. No matter what.”
“The smart one,” Justin muttered. He
smiled, but Steve thought it looked empty.
Later that night, they cut the grocery
sheet cake down the middle. Mom had
written a fifteen for Justin on one side and a
thirteen for Steve on the other in rosy-pink
frosting. She placed it on a bulky table she
had Toby move to the small concrete patio
behind their house. The thick, checkered
vinyl tablecloth Mom always used for
birthdays was ripping down the center and
the weathered plastic chairs sat unsteadily
on the patchy yellow grass surrounding
the concrete. The boys from Steve’s class
huddled around the cake. Steve thought
they looked more excited to gorge on the
cake than to mumble along to Happy
Birthday. If it weren’t for Toby kicked
back in his chair, laughing and smoking a
hand-rolled cigarette, Steve would’ve been
miserable in the trashy backyard.
*
The first time Justin came home
high, Steve was fourteen. He almost got up
and crawled into Justin’s bed to hold him,
but he couldn’t get his body to move.
Justin had come home late that
night. Steve heard him in the bathroom
throwing up before he saw Justin’s outline
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stumbling around their room. Justin
couldn’t stand up straight, and he collapsed
into bed. He let out a soft cry like a wounded
animal.
The next morning when Steve saw
him, he wanted to say something, but he
didn’t know how. He wanted to tell Toby.
Toby would know how to fix this, but Justin
looked fine. Steve kept his secret, but it kept
happening. Eventually, Steve stayed up
every night waiting for Justin to shuffle in,
collapse on the bed and cry out quietly in
pain.
Steve was angry at Justin, or maybe
just at himself. He couldn’t tell. But when
Justin would sneak in at night, Steve
wanted to scream at him to stop, but he was
too afraid. He said nothing.
*
In high school, Steve joined the track
team. He loved the way running made him
feel. When he really pushed himself and all
he could hear was his heartbeat. He stopped
thinking about Mom coming home high
late at night, Toby failing to find a job or
finding Justin sobbing in the bathroom, the
homework he didn’t finish or the money
he didn’t have. The thudding in his chest
drowned out all the other noise and he felt
weightless. He could outrun anything. When
Steve laced his tennis shoes, he was free.
The summer before junior year,
Steve was out running every morning at
4:30 when all the dingy houses were still
sleeping. This was the perfect time to break
in the new pair of red tennis shoes Toby
96
Connie Nicholson
Yellow Chairs Convention
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 16”x20”
97
FICTION
in the new pair of red tennis shoes Toby
bought him for his birthday. He liked to
start slow, a leisurely jog, no music, just
him and the asphalt. During the silence, he
would let all the thoughts rush in at once
and submerge himself entirely in them. If
I don’t get a scholarship, I’m never going to
college. Justin cries every night and I pretend
not to hear him. Toby is going to be stuck
here forever and I can’t save him. I caught
mom stealing money from Toby. Where
does she disappear to? Why does she hate
me? Just before he drowned, he would run
harder and faster until all he could hear was
his heart slamming in his ribcage.
When he came back home an hour
later, two policemen were outside. His entire
body tingled and the hair on his arms stood
up. He climbed the stairs up to the porch
and approached the officers. The older one
noticed Steve first. His face was creased in
a permanent frown framed by an unkempt
beard. Steve noticed that he missed a button
on his uniform. His partner was younger
and clean shaven. He rocked back and forth
on his polished boots, like a puppy dog
eagerly awaiting dinner. The officers asked
to be let inside, said that they needed to
speak to Justin. Steve gave the screen door a
harsh shove and gestured for the officers to
enter.
“I’ll go get Justin.”
Steve rushed into Toby’s room. It
smelled like weed and dirty laundry. Steve
jumped over the piles of CDs and movies
scattered on the floor.
“Toby, wake up,” he whispered
harshly. “The cops are here and mom’s not
home. Please, Toby. They want to talk to
Justin. I don’t know what to do.”
Toby squinted up at Steve. “The
cops? What are you—”
“Toby, please, I’m scared. Help me,” he
said, hiding his shaking hands in the pockets
of his running shorts.
“Hey, Stevie. Pull it together, bud. I’ll
fix this. I just need to… Go talk to the cops
and tell ‘em Justin will be out in a minute.
Be cool.”
Steve explained that Justin
needed to get dressed and offered the
cops something to drink. The older officer
declined.
“We won’t be here for very long,
sport. Just need to have a quick chat.”
Steve perched awkwardly on the
plastic covered floral couch. Every time he
readjusted, it made a terrible squeaking
sound.
“He’ll be out in a second,” Steve said
for the third time.
Toby walked out of the cramped
bedroom, Justin in tow. Toby stood with
his back straight, pants pulled all the way
up, and marched forward. He was taller
than both officers, but he looked infinitely
smaller, like a child trying to keep pace with
adults.
“I’m Toby, Justin’s older brother.
What seems to be the problem?”
He sounded like he was reciting
lines from a bad cop movie. Steve glanced
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between the cops and his brothers, fighting
the instinct to run out the front door.
“We have multiple reports of
students saying they saw an adolescent
male selling cannabis resin on school
property. One of the gym instructors
found a backpack under the bleachers,”
the younger cop said, appearing to get
more excited at each word. “The instructor
conducted a search of the backpack and
found one kilogram of cannabis resin, along
with multiple assignments with your name
on them, Justin.”
“They found two pounds of hash in
your backpack, kid,” the older cop explained.
He sighed deeply. “We’re here to bring you in
for questioning. Justin, how old are you?”
Justin opened and closed his mouth
before looking at Toby. His eyes were wide
and glassy. He looked scared; the most
scared Steve had ever seen him. Smart,
thoughtful Justin was hunched over
panting like a beaten dog. Toby had the
same terrified look in his eyes, but his voice
was steady.
“He’s eighteen.”
“Great. Justin, we’re going to have
you get in the car now and take you down to
the station for some questions,” the younger
cop said, placing a firm hand on Justin’s
shoulder.
Steve squeezed his eyes shut. This
can’t be real. This can’t be real. He could
hear Toby protesting, begging to go with
Justin.
Thud.
He could hear Justin let out a soft
whimper.
“Please, Toby. I can’t.”
Thud.
He heard the screen door hit the
metal frame and then the car door slam
shut.
Thud.
“Justin, I’m right here,” Toby
screamed. “I’m coming to get you.” He looked
back at Steve. “Get up, Steve. We need to
go. Fuck. Steve, go start the fucking car.” He
paused. “I’m gonna fix this. Steve! Where are
you going?”
But it was too late, Steve couldn’t
hear him anymore. He was out the door,
feet pounding on the asphalt. I can’t be
here. Before he even knew where he was
heading, he saw his old middle school in the
distance. He slowed to a walk, instinctively
reaching for the small scar on his forehead
and shuddered. He threw his body against
the chain-link fence. He looked out on the
street in the direction of the police station.
You can’t run. They need you right now. He
took one last look at the playground before
heading to the station.
*
Steve sat on the thinly padded
benches at the front of the police station.
He watched the receptionist eat a tuna
sandwich. He licked his fat fingers after
every bite. The whole room smelled like
tuna. Steve couldn’t look away. If he did,
he would see Toby pacing the room in his
sweatpants and t-shirt. Every few minutes,
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Toby would sit down on a bench and run
a hand over his buzzed hair, stand up and
walk to a different, equally uncomfortable
bench.
Finally, Toby settled on the bench
next to Steve. Toby pulled rolling paper and
tobacco out of his pocket and, with shaky
hands, sprinkled the tobacco onto the thin
paper. He placed the cigarette in his mouth
but didn’t light it.
“Stevie, I don’t know what to do. I
think I’m gonna call mom.”
An hour later, a beat-up yellow
Cadillac pulled into the parking lot and
dropped Mom off at the front door. Steve
could feel Toby getting angry already, but
he was too scared to look so he watched
the receptionist finish off the last of the
sandwich.
She stumbled into the building
wearing stilettos, too high for a forty-twoyear-old
woman, and the same short dress
she left the house in two days ago. She
pointed to Toby.
“How could you do this? You let this
happen. It was your drugs, wasn’t it?” she
slurred.
Steve stopped listening. It hurt too
much to hear her yell and to hear Toby’s
voice crack.
“I’m going outside,” Steve said,
standing up. He paced the parking lot. I can’t
be afraid. I need to be strong like Toby.
Shortly after their mom arrived,
Justin shuffled out into the lobby.
“Oh, my baby!” she cried and lurched
forward into a hug.
Justin pushed her off.
“Let’s just go,” he said.
Justin refused to talk about it for the rest
of the week. He lay on the bed, unmoving,
in the room he shared with Steve. Steve
took refuge in Toby’s room, sitting on the
floor, asking questions Toby didn’t know the
answers to.
Later that night, Toby went to talk to
Justin. Steve could only make out some of
their whispers.
“It isn’t mine,” Justin whispered.
He said something else about a favor and
money, but the sound of Toby pacing on the
creaky, wood plank flooring made it almost
impossible to make out.
“Listen to me, Justin. We’ll lie, tell
them that the hash is mine.” Toby was never
very good at being quiet. “You know what
I always tell you. You’re getting outta here.
I’m stuck, Justin. I’m telling them it’s my
hash, and I put it in your backpack without
you knowing.”
“Stop,” Justin hissed.
“Shut up, asshole. We’re in this. We’re
family. It was my hash.
The next day, the family met with a
state-appointed attorney. He looked as if he
had just woken up, tousled salt and pepper
hair and sloppy clothes, but it was four in
the afternoon. Justin sat in between Toby
and Mom, and Steve squeezed in next to
Toby. The attorney sat slumped across from
them in the cracked leather breakfast nook.
“It was my hash, sir,” Toby said. He
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was wearing nice jeans and had taken the
diamond stud out of his ear that morning.
“It’s important that you keep the
story straight,” the attorney explained.
“Justin says it wasn’t his and he didn’t sell it.
We can work with that. Don’t change—”
“It was Toby. Of course it was Toby,”
Mom said. “Look at him.”
She was also pretending, Steve
thought. Pretending like she cared about
Justin, about any of them. “Okay. Then I
recommend you make a confession and
we’ll move on from there. You will be tried
as an adult because you are over the age of
eighteen.”
Steve was terrified. His eyes darted
between the attorney’s hands gesturing and
the linoleum covered table.
“I’m gonna be fine. It’s my first
offense. They won’t put me in jail for
something stupid like this,” Toby stated.
“It’s hard to say. If you cooperate
with the police, plead guilty, it will be on
your record and you still might go to prison.
Possession with intent to sell is a felony
here.”
Prison. Steve stopped listening
and let the word roll around his head.
The meeting went on for another fifteen
minutes, but Steve was long gone. He only
realized the conversation was over when
Toby laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Take care of Stevie, Justin. You hear
me?”
*
The courtroom was stuffy.
Connie Nicholson
Youth Mariachis
Painting, Oil on Board, 6 3/4”x11 3/4”
VISUAL ART
101
Brianna Vega
Cogburn
Drawing, Pigma Micron, Paint Markers, 5.5”x8.5”
VISUAL ART
Everything was either brown or puke green.
Steve was sitting on one of the plushy green
benches behind Toby and his lawyer. Toby
looked small, smaller than Steve had ever
seen him in Dad’s suit. Steve did his best
to dress up but the only nice clean shoes
he had were the running shoes Toby had
bought him. They looked pristine next to
the stained brown carpet.
“All rise for the honorable Judge
Day.”
The judge loomed over the court in
his stiff black robes. He reminded Steve of
an executioner, and as the judge raised the
gavel, Steve imagined it coming down like a
guillotine on Toby’s neck.
Steve couldn’t focus on any of the
words. He could only drown in his own
thoughts. He’s going to prison and it’s all
Justin’s fault. My fault. Why didn’t I take the
blame? I’m a minor—maybe they would’ve
been nicer to me. My fault. Toby is going to
prison. Save him. Save him. Save him.
“How do you plead, Mr. Toby Miller?”
Thud.
“Guilty, your honor.”
Stop him. This can’t happen. Toby
will be stuck here forever.
Thud.
“Very well. Mr. Miller, you are hereby
sentenced to three years in a minimumsecurity
prison and charged with a five
thousand dollar fine.”
Coward.
*
The week after Toby left, Justin
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moved into Toby’s room. The summer
ended, but Justin never went back to school.
Steve would come home from practice and
find Justin in the same place as when he
left for school that morning. Justin must be
curled up in Toby’s bed all day. He certainly
smelled like it. That’s what Steve thought
about during his runs. What is Justin doing?
Throwing his life away after Toby saved it.
I should help him. Eventually, the running
didn’t calm his brain. He went faster, but the
thoughts kept building, inescapable. It was
time to talk to Justin.
Steve felt a sharp pang of guilt
looking at Justin lying motionless on the
bed. He navigated the piles of laundry and
clutter on the floor, and stood over Justin.
“He was wrong, you know,” Justin
said, opening his eyes to look up at Steve.
“Wrong about a lot of things. He pretended
to know what to do and how to fix
everything, but he was wrong. Wrong about
the big things.”
“Justin,” Steve sighed.
“Sometimes you should just give
up. The beating isn’t worth it. In the end,
you hurt more people than you help when
you incapacitate yourself for no reason.
You can’t save everyone, you can’t just go
around fixing problems for people, because
when you’re gone—” he whimpered. “When
you’re gone, they can’t fix the problems
for themselves. Stevie, it was my hash, my
weed. I was selling. I needed the money to
buy,” he stuttered, looking up at Steve.
“It’s okay, Justin.”
“No. It’s not. I lied to him and he
sacrificed his future for mine. And Stevie,”
he whispered, “I—I wouldn’t have done the
same.” Justin rolled over, turning his back
to Steve. “He fixed my problem but there
are more, and they just keep piling up, and
I can’t save you. I can’t save myself. I’m just
like her. Selfish. Pointless. It’s all pointless.”
“Let me help you.”
“You can’t, Steve. Not with this,”
Justin whispered.
Steve could hear his heartbeat get
steadily louder and his feet itched to move.
He tried to listen, listen to Justin, listen to
himself. Maybe Toby was wrong, and he
shouldn’t have saved Justin the way he did.
But it doesn’t really matter now.
He laid down next to Justin on the
unwashed sheets and stared at the same
cracked ceiling Justin had been looking at
for a month.
“Okay.”
I can’t fix every problem. But Toby
was definitely right about one thing. I can’t
run from this. Even if I can’t fix this for
Justin, I won’t let him do it alone.
Justin’s breathing shallowed and
Steve could feel him shaking. He reached
out for Justin’s hand. He repeated what he
heard Toby say.
“Justin, I’m right here.”
FICTION
103
VISUAL ART
Luis Angel Figureoa Medina
The Kids
Photograph, 8”x10”
104
105
Giusseppe Giampaolo
Steve Nagy
& then there was Giuseppe Giampaolo
whom we met 20 years previous
when we were all clients at the methadone
clinic. Since then, Giuseppe Giampaolo
we would see on occasion on the
Sun Tran 15, Giuseppe Giampaolo
POETRY
with his carpenter’s tools & belt & hugeass
orange bucket from Home Depot. We laughed,
seeing the thinning & graying & turning to a
half strawberry & half platinum blond of
Giuseppe Giampaolo,
6’4”, 240 pounds of linebacker brawn,
with a once scarlet mullet of a mane,
widow’s peak down to the eyebrows.
Totally ginger. Totally sanguine. We
broke into loud laughter (people
looked at us but we couldn’t give two shits).
We remembered taking bets at the
methadone clinic of who could guess
the name of Giuseppe Giampaolo.
Of course, no one could guess the
name “Giuseppe,” let alone, “Giampaolo”
& as we kept laughing,
Giuseppe Giampaolo
smiled & flipped us off at
Speedway & Campbell where he got
Off the 15 at Taco Bell…
We gave him back the bird.
We swear we saw fresh tracks
on the freckled forearms of
Giuseppe Giampaolo.
106
Kathryn Robertson
A Study of a Stoic
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 11”x14”
107
VISUAL ART
Clouds in The Class
Connie Nicholson
Girl’s Team
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 16”x20”
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith
All of the students looked like clouds when
they wrote. They composed the sky
and one asked can we
write motherfucker, or chinga?
The more years I taught
the less I knew.
They probably asked wanting my reaction
more than any sense of real rebellion.
108
They arrived on time, books in order, clean shirts
none of them smelled of cigarettes or mota.
They reeked of toothpaste and fabric softener,
and dark eyeliner won the face paint tournament.
Some shared what they produced.
Is this them? Or what they practice thinking?
We all wanted to hear,
and what does a 50 year old
teacher want to hear?
What could surprise me?
Rolling Bob Marley-size joints in the car?
A boy kissing a boy with spring tenderness?
A lonely uncle sleeping
without his pants on the couch?
The pet mutt carrying
off the familia’s roasted chicken?
POETRY
One student wrote about being a goth
for two months, their longest
commitment to anything.
Another described her tired
grandmother’s efforts to contain her. The padre
coming over for empanadas and
faith sessions.
When I retired part of me asked,
who could abandon such beautiful days?
109
VISUAL ART
Luis Angel Figureoa Medina
Panteon National
Photograph, 8”x10”
110
VISUAL ART
Luis Angel Figureoa Medina
Panteon National
Photograph, 8”x10”
111
Creosote Joy
Wendy Wiener
Creosote bush after a rain
Musical with resins and phenols
A scent so intense
Like a djinn spiraling in
Redolent with pine bark and myrrh
POETRY
Dance with this plant, this amazing plant
Let it drip-drop its essence on you
To encircle you with a sensual scent
That whispers desert secrets so true
A mystical treasure in common dress
Conjuring skills to survive
Larrea tridentata (whoosh)
A bit of magic will help you to thrive
A mild toxin from the roots tells other plants to scram
Shallow roots that vacuum the rain
Quicker than other plants can
Dancing branches lithely bend
Trickling water from their ends
Tiny leaves sporting resinous coats keep
Browsing animals at bay, but
Creosote’s a welcome mat for
Burrowing animals in need of shade
112
VISUAL ART
Jack Davidson
Tree as Reflection of the Universe
Etching, Aquatint a la Poupee Coloring, 11 1/4 ”x16”
Dig your burrows under my roots where you will be hidden and safe
This in turn will loosen my soil so rain can penetrate
Welcome microbes and fungi too to our symbiotic community
Where each one can be unique, yet live in desert unity
Dance, dance, dance in the rain
In creosote-infused joy
113
Vincent A. Jones
114
Pushya
Painting, Acrylic on Canvas, 20”x16”
Dear Abilify (),
Elliana Koput
A masochist’s hypothermia,
I needed your arms like a bird’s nest
needs a blizzard. From wall to wall,
spitting cheeks, we danced across fine
ice with bruises, green like Christmas pines.
The sidewalks were caressed by soft
white sheets; mine were stained red
when you climbed into bed with me.
On frigid nights, we sipped paper bags,
and into my blue ears, you whispered
sweet nothings of conviction. Spring
finally came in hues of pink and pleasure.
You melted like every speck of sleet
from the serotonin season that we’d
grown so stuck in.
POETRY
115
iplineSelfDis
line
How to Exercise Self Discipline
Matthew Becker-Stedman
iplineSelfDis
line
1. Take the
Self
stack of paperwork. It’s thick and
Discip
you’ll slice
papercuts into fingertips with the flip of the pages, the corners
stained wet with spit. Grip the pen in your hand, cheap plastic
grinding against your palm. You need to be honest with your
ipline
answers. There are a million possibilities
Self
and it only takes one
Dis
wrong utterance to change the outcome. Write words like they are
a permanent tattoo upon your forehead. People will see and make
judgements. This is a death waiver.
lineSelfDiscip
2. Do what the nurse tells you. There is a dress code, a costume
the theatre production. Play the part, rehearse your lines, the
show must go on. Put your valuables an unmarked bag. Wallet,
ID, phone. You won’t know where they are until days later. Try
iplineSelfDis
not to worry because there are more important things at hand.
Change into the thin gown that shows too much skin for the
professionalism of the environment, the tight socks with grips on
the bottom, the shower cap that won’t feel a drop of water. The
lineSelfDiscip
mirror will ask you to hesitate. It begs you to examine yourself.
Look away.
3. Let the needle slide in. The pain is unavoidable, no matter
ipline
how carefully the nurse handles
Self
your arm. Grit your teeth. Stare
Dis
at a wall. Hold your mother’s hand. Delicate veins show through
transparent skin. When was the last time you had water? Did you
eat after midnight? There will be blood on the sheets. They didn’t
line
ask for your
Self
blood type. The needle separates
Discip
skin, replaces silver
with red, the process is a process. Remind yourself there years
of training behind their actions. There are schools and degrees and
certifications for mutilation. It is not mutilation.
iplineSelfDis
4. It is not mutilation, it is election. You made this bed, lay in it.
The blankets are the sky, soft and never ending. Remember that
116
ESSAY
ciplineSelfDis
lineSelfDiscip
this is a choice you couldn’t avoid, that had to be made. You didn’t
cipline
make the hotel bed before you left.
Self
Will you ever feel the plush
Dis
embrace of your sheets back home again? One last sleep and this
is the bed you do it in? Try not to let your mind take over. The
moment will be as patient as you are.
lineSelfDiscip
5. It’s time. Let them help you from the bed. Did you already say
your goodbyes? There is only one you need to say. The IV pole will
drag behind you. Don’t let it slow you down. There are too many
cipline
things in your way. Say goodbye again,
Self
because it might be the last
Dis
one and you aren’t sure. You won’t be sure of anything with the
anxiety coursing through your veins, a paralyzing anesthetic.
6. Let the nurse guide you. Take her arm and wear it like a life
lineSelfDiscip
vest, keeping you afloat amid the debris of a sinking ship. She
is all you have this moment. This is the moment that makes
a difference. What will you tell yourself as you walk this short
hallway to the OR? What will you believe as they lie you down
ciplineSelfDis
on a cold slab that feels six feet underground? You will need
something. Something to keep you from turning and running. The
truth is, nothing will stop you from doing what your mind and
body are telling you to do. It is you who must stay. You who must
lineSelfDiscip
continue walking. You who must bear the sting of the needle, the
slice of the knife, the pull of the stitch. You who must lay down your grave and envision it freedom.
cipline
7. Comply when they strap your
Self
arms down. They are preparing
Dis
your wings for flight. Respond when they ask how you feel.
Ignore the commotion around you. The nurse is there for you.
Grip her hand and listen to her words. You will be fine, she says.
line
Your thoughts
Self
will tell you otherwise. Don’t believe
Discip
it. Believe in
her. Believe in the surgeon. Believe in your choice. Believe in your
strength.
cipline
8. Get through it.
SelfDis
9. Come out on the other side, alive.
117
ESSAY
December 14, 2012
Emily Gill
POETRY
A boy I knew told me
the bullets from an automatic weapon
sound like a jackhammer against
the wall. He said that’s how you know
it’s happening.
I don’t go to the movies anymore.
It used to be my favorite place;
a quiet dark theater, a way to lose myself in
another world. Now it makes me feel trapped
despite the blinking red exit signs.
The idea lingers
in the back of my mind,
always. I have not felt safe
since December 14, 2012.
Two hours later, my teacher
telling us of six-year olds murdered
in their elementary school classrooms.
I went home and cried.
What are my tears, compared
to theirs? I see teenagers on television,
first demanding, then begging
for change. No one does a thing.
I want to scream, but why
should my screams matter
when theirs didn’t?
The stories keep coming. This time
a high school, an airport, a concert,
a church even. I am angry.
I am sorry, sorry I can’t stop this,
sorry money matters more
than the lives of children.
I remember, being in school,
we read a story in English class:
Suffer The Little Children by Stephen King.
I don’t go to the movies anymore.
I’ve tried, but instead of the film
on screen, all I see is blood.
118
Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum
Ivory
Drawing, Charcoal on Toned Paper, 12.68”x10”
119
Izzy Orozco
Just a Taste
Drawing, Ink on Bristol Paper, 14”x17”
VISUAL ART
120
Deluge
Mason Carr
I.
Before the flood
on the bad days
she dreams of the endless
flat yellow
landscape the color of
the rattlesnake’s belly
She lies still
her skin a blanket
of endless flat yellow
and the land curls
around her
in predatory embrace
squeezing
her stomach in its grip
Her heat-caked mouth
stretches open to scream
and then
She wakes up
II.
Through the looking
glass beside her bed
she watches the endless
flat yellow
Sand grains catch the air
disturbed by the howling wind
flying off to breed
the flat yellow
elsewhere
III.
On the good days though
before the flood
she dreams of the after
Of an endless
shifting blue
She lies on her back
floating on the sun
soaked sea
She savors the moist
terroir on her tongue
Below her beasts’ circle
and their skins are cloaks
of endless shifting blue
Below her
a shadow rises
and eyes closed she smiles
and then
She wakes up
IV.
Before the flood
she dreams of the after
What will she dream of
then
when the after
Comes
POETRY
121
Desire and Tequila
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith
VISUAL ART
I would steal bottles
of Patron for you. That is what I yell to my wife,
as I wash the dinner dishes. It is my grito of desire.
She responds, she’d rather
have me jack a vacation of walks
on tropical island beaches.
That requires imagination and leaving
the casa I explain. And tequila will
redeem and save, this I know,
because that sentence is number
six on tio Ricardo’s list of “Top Eleven
Reasons to Drink Tequila.” He
composed the list on business cards.
He was serious about desire and tequila.
Kathryn Robertson
Think Outside the Trash
Pine, Epoxy, Recycled Glass and Glass Bottle, Fairy Lights
Sculpture, 2”Lx2”Wx2.5”H
122
My wife thought tio Ricardo was
gorgeous, so that allusion is powerful
like a summer storm in the mountains. When I met
my wife, I know she thought I had uncles and
aunts, but soon she discovered
I had tios and tias tambien. Bonus.
learning my family history requires
ancestral trigonometry.
And when tequila and whiskey join together the result may be tres leches pasteles
and rhubarb pies, and corned beef hash paired with chimichangas.
At our wedding, the line of guests
waiting to eat the wafer reached outside
the church. The priest forced into retrieving
more wafers. My brother and I the
only two who did not take communion.
Two heathens invading the sanctuary. There my
brother looked bored, asked if I had any tequila left
in my Virgin de Guadalupe flask? Claro que si. That was a
classic Ricardo move too. We both fired
back the smoothness, the room so
quiet we heard the candles and eternity.
POETRY
123
I’m With You 1
Christopher Valenzuela
ESSAY
The day begins like all the others…slow. The sun comes creeping in to steal you
from your sleep. You feel your muscles ache with that second day burn from
the gym. You can’t quite remember your dreams, but you know they left you wanting. Your
alarm hasn’t gone off to rocket you into your routine, so you lay there. You lay there and
you scroll through your social media feeds looking at pictures of happy people, people who
know who they are, people in places you only wish you could go. You see birthday wishes,
celebrities waxing poetic about how they’re just like us, another pop song hit number one
on some chart, your friend’s adventures from the night before. You double tap each picture
you see because you hope if you send out enough love, it might get sent back to you. And
you spread love so thin it might as well be called likes. And you like every picture on your
feed.
1. Title taken from The Garden of Eden by Ernest Hemingway. “I’m with you. No matter what else
you have in your head I’m with you and I love you.”
124
Myryam Roxana Freeman
Desire
Photograph, 8”x10”
125
VISUAL ART
Jackie Cabrera
Chicago, 2019
Photograph
126
Your alarm goes off and you head
into the bathroom, your cat following,
stretching and yawning in kind with you.
You hit shuffle on your playlist and start
your shower as the familiar beat echoes
through the room. The water from your
shower is hot, but it doesn’t burn, and the
pressure is almost perfect. You stand under
the steady stream and think about the day
ahead of you. You think about work, about
classes, about your friends and how much
you miss being around them, about your
mom and your sister and your nephews and
how you should tell them you love them
more often. You think about everyone but
yourself as water washes over your face,
slowly becoming more lukewarm as the
minutes tick by.
You look in your closet, towel
wrapped around your waist and body still
dewy. You look at your work uniforms and
feel something inside churn at the thought
of the khaki shorts and the purple polo,
but you’re off today and don’t have to wear
them. You look over your t-shirts and jeans
until your eyes reach a small brown skirt.
It’s perfect. You grab a button-down shirt to
wear with it and a pair of underwear from
the bin on your shelf. You set the clothes
aside to be steamed out. You look in the
mirror.
This is where you begin to think
about yourself. You see the fat around
your waist, even with the towel covering
it. You see the bags under your eyes that
restless nights and early mornings bring
with them. You see the different colors of
your skin tone like a rushed paint job on a
hot summer day. You see your brown eyes
that remind you of chocolate ice cream,
but someone once told you they looked like
honey and whiskey. You smile at yourself,
let the smile work its way into those
chocolate ice cream bowls until just enough
light reaches them you can almost make out
the honey and whiskey.
You start with moisturizer that is
supposed to even out your complexion.
Then you dab concealer under your eyes
and along your forehead and chin. You take
a sponge and push the cream around and
inward, working it until it almost perfectly
blends in. You brush foundation on your
skin, smoothing it out here and there until
you can barely remember what color those
bags and blotches were. You add color to
your eyelids, reshape the shadows of your
face, and bold your eyebrows. You do all
of this with the skill of an experienced
architect. You know just what lines of your
face need to be accentuated, you know
every flaw that needs to be covered. And,
finally, you grab a tube of lipstick. You paint
your lips until they seem naturally plump,
like you were somehow born with a pout
that you can’t help. You smooth the color
until it’s a perfect shade of red, the matte
finish reminding you of felt on canvas. You
look at yourself in the mirror and you smile,
but this smile doesn’t work its way to the
eyes; it already lives there and the lines at
the edges of your eyes where it pulls your
face up are proof. This smile radiates from
within.
You get dressed and you can’t feel
the fat that lives on your waist, your legs
don’t feel as bulky in stilettos, your feet
don’t feel as big at such an intense incline.
You spend most of the day alone.
Your friends all have work or other
ESSAY
127
ESSAY
priorities, but sometimes it’s nice to have
some time to yourself. You head to a café
and find a table on the patio. You decided
to start reading more Hemingway a few
weeks back because it felt like the Real
Writer TM thing to do. Turns out even after
finishing two whole books you still don’t
like Hemingway. You’re reading The Garden
of Eden and you feel uncomfortable at his
depiction of what you assume to be a queer
woman. She’s manic and chaotic in all the
worst ways. And then you begin to wonder
if your friends view you as this type of
manic and chaotic.
You think about when they say, “Hey
sister!” when greeting you. You can never
tell if they’re being genuine or not because
for so long, they poked fun at it. Now all
you hear is the irony those words were once
laced in.
You sit there, drinking your iced
coffee and reading some cis-gendered
straight man’s view on the queer experience
and you wonder if all straight people think
this way. Surely, it’s not, but suspicion still
clings to your thoughts anyway.
You notice the looks you get from
across the patio, the looks of older women
who whisper things about your skirt. The
looks of men who don’t like the face you
meticulously painted on for them all. The
looks of children who wonder why a boy is
wearing girl’s clothes. You notice all of them
and wonder if your friends ever notice when
people stare at you this way. Why would
they? They’re not socially conditioned to
look out for these stares. They haven’t
trained themselves to know when these
stares are just looks, and when they’re about
to be threats. They never felt the need to
know how to throw a punch in case it ever
came to that. You make eye contact with
one woman in particular and you smile back
at her. You’ll catch more flies with honey
than with vinegar. The line from a movie
you watched over and over as a child plays
through your head. She sneers a bit and
begins to talk to the women at her own
table. They all slowly turn to look at you,
one by one.
A group of friends want to go out for
some drinks at the bar down the street later,
you text them back that you’ll be there and
go back to reading your book. You decide to
go with them because they’re your friends
and you love to spend time with them, but
they don’t realize they picked another place
128
Myryam Roxana Freeman
Contemplation
Photograph, 8”x10”
primarily frequented by heterosexuals.
They haven’t thought about it because they
don’t have to. They just enjoy the bar and
the drinks are cheap. They’ve never really
had to think about what the target audience
is, but the target audience isn’t you.
Later, when you get to the bar, you
order an old fashioned. The bartender gives
you a quick look of surprise. He thought a
boy who looks like you wouldn’t want such
a manly drink. You don’t say anything. You
give him your card to leave a tab open. You
know from experience when you’re dressed
the way you are in a place like this, you
might need more than one drink to really
feel comfortable.
One of your friends comes and finds
you, they want to introduce you to some
coworkers they have. You approach the
group of people and smile, give them your
name. They smile back and tell you their
names, but you don’t register what they
are because you’re too busy shaking their
hands, making sure you have a firm grip
like your father taught you. Every time you
shake someone’s hand, you remember when
you learned that a firm handshake shows
you’re proud of who you are, that you have
confidence. When you learned that no son
of your father’s would be a pussy boy with a
limp handshake.
“This is my gay best friend,” you
hear your friend say and you feel the
familiar sting of the label, but you brush it
off again. Sometimes you wish you could
just be someone’s best friend, but it always
feels like you’re required to put gay as the
identifier.
“You have to tell them about what
happened at your job the other day,” your
friend says.
“About my nails?” You look down
at your hands where you had recently
removed acrylics. The nails still have the
dried dust and glue on them. It won’t go
away until the nail has grown enough.
“Yes! I cannot believe they pulled
that.”
The boy and girl stare at you, waiting
for you to let them in on the story.
“Well, essentially what happened
was they gave me a paper saying I needed
to remove my acrylic nails because they
were against health code,” you begin the
story. You feel like you’ve told it a hundred
VISUAL ART
129
ESSAY
times since it happened. “Which is fair, they pause every now and then to explain your
are. And so, I told them that the female
pronouns are interchangeable because you
employees were all wearing them and if I
don’t really identify with either masculine
needed to remove mine then they should
or feminine. You don’t explain that even
have to remove theirs. After all, it is health some gays who do identify as strictly
code, right?” You pause, waiting for them to masculine sometimes interchange their own
either laugh or agree. They just nod their
pronouns, it’s simply part of the vernacular
heads and keep listening. “My managers said of the culture. Sometimes you even throw
they would ‘make the rest of the staff aware in a witty reference from gay pop culture.
of this rule as well.’ So, now I’m just waiting None of them get the joke. All of them laugh
for everyone to remove theirs too.”
and say, “You’re so gay! I love it!”
“Can you believe that?” your friend
You feel the familiar pang of
begins. “They are totally only doing it
loneliness for a split second. Their words
because you’re a boy. That’s so wrong.” The burn like the shower water should have.
other two chime in with their agreements You laugh and shrug your shoulders, “I sure
and apologies.
am! Just your friendly
You smile and
neighborhood faggot.”
thank them. You hold
You look around,
back your comments
hoping someone else
“You feel like you spent years
on how you’ve heard
is listening and feels
nurturing this special part of
the same apologies
all the same things
who you are and it’s not even
and cries of outrage
you feel when you’re
yours anymore.”
again and again, but
in a space like this.
they’re never been
All you see are the
directed at your management staff. You
familiar stares from new faces. You don’t
hold back the feeling of wanting to point
notice that your friends make a face at the
out that not one of the women at your work word faggot. They don’t know you spent
refuted the removal on your behalf. They all years cowering away from it, that when
chimed in with rebuttals of “I’ve always had you use it now it’s an act of defiance against
them,” or “I was hired with mine on.” All of people like Hemingway. People who have
them said to you they thought management this skewed sense of what it’s like to be
was being unfair and you should be allowed queer and deal with the facts of living life.
to wear them, but none of them said it
When you get home, you go into your
directly to management. None of them
bathroom and you turn on the sink. You
thought it was their cause to join. They just feel the water warm under your hand. And,
begrudgingly mumbled their displeasure at just as slowly as the day began, you remove
the situation.
the paint from your face. You spent all day
The conversation continues and
smiling and laughing and shrugging off the
you offer your responses here and there
comments about your gayness. You feigned
when it matters. You tell stories and have to the confidence this painted face could give
130
Myryam Roxana Freeman
Determination
Photograph, 8”x10”
you. The confidence of someone defying
roles set forth by a patriarchal society.
You’re the poster child for living your most
authentic self, loving every part of your
feminine and masculine nature. You got
just as many cheers as you did sneers, and
that feels like a small victory. Slowly, you
begin to recognize the inconsistencies in
your coloring, the darkness that vacations
under your eyes. You begin to recognize the
boy who lives under the martyr. And you
know you’re not really a poster child for
anything, but sometimes you feel like you
have to be. Sometimes you feel like you’re
not allowed to own your gayness without
the rest of the world owning a part of it too.
You feel like you spent years nurturing this
special part of who you are and it’s not even
yours anymore. You feel just like a tube of
lipstick. Something your friends can paint
on to prove their substance. They’re so deep
and cultured because their gay friend wears
makeup and dresses. They can’t possibly be
homophobic or bigoted when you’re their
friend. They’re allowed to poke fun at gay
culture because you feel the need to be
self-deprecating about your gayness when
you’re around them.
You throw on a large sweater
because it makes you feel daintier than
wearing a shirt and sweats; and you lay your
head down on your pillow. Your eyes begin
to feel damp as you think about it all over
again. You think about work, about classes,
about your friends and how much you miss
being around them, about your mom and
your sister and your nephews and how
you should tell them you love them more
often. This time when you think about it all,
there’s no shower to wash the tears just as
quickly as they come. There’s no extra water
for you to hide behind. And you feel lonely,
because out of all of your friends you’re the
only one who feels a little queer at any given
moment of the day.
VISUAL ART
131
Eagle Feathers on Black Sands
Joseph de Leon Reilly
POETRY
In the eyes of a child in an abandoned museum,
Dusty, broken, never cleaned,
A framed painting on textile and canvas,
A memory of my Grandfather’s stories.
Not of the young doctor conscripted,
Laying as men died, not once remised.
No, but of the boy who fought for those men sent off.
A soldier who sought a better tomorrow.
The man who saw friends leave among waves,
Who separated from his wife forcibly,
Who sought hope in a land of prosperity,
Who fought for the freedom of his island home.
Yet only a child, what did I see in the stories of my Grandfather?
In those far off islands where men died,
In that scene of war,
132
Eva Kamenetski
Plexus
Photograph, 6.7”x10”
In those cliffs where men went and where they died?
VISUAL ART
To what did those childish eyes of mine reveal?
Not the horrors of war,
Nor the savagery of man,
Neither. But only their valor.
Amongst cliffs of black and brothers in arms,
Five men placed an icon,
Braving promised death and torrents of fire,
They ascended for those fallen below.
A flag raised against tyranny,
A reposting of wrongs,
A symbol carried by every man under it,
That symbol that lay to rest all who fell with it.
That field of blue standing in vigilance,
Emblazoned red in the blood and bravery of those men,
Over the white of those innocent left behind.
Left there on those rocks rallying men.
That icon they raised for both me and you.
133
VISUAL ART
Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum
Vanitas
Painting, Watercolor on Paper, 14.6”x10”
134
VISUAL ART
Alexandra Roussard
Mort
Painting, Watercolor and Gold Leaf
135
Family Voting
Wendy Wiener
The month is November
The year is forever
The subject: our right to vote
We welcomed a daughter in July ‘93
Snuggling her, in November
We voted
POETRY
March ‘96 another daughter is born
With one in my arms
One holding his hand
That November
We voted
‘98 midterms we’re at the polls
When from my side a little voice tolls
I’m 6, I can color the circles
You’re a little too short, to tell the truth,
You can’t see over the voting booth, but
Nearly 2001, the new century begun
Slid it into the ballot box
Proudly slapped on the sticker
I voted
she stood by my side with a gleam in her eye
picked up the marker
and carefully voted
Colored the right spots
No fair, I want to do that too
The same height rule applies to you
136
Elliana Koput
Borderlands
Photograph
VISUAL ART
In 2002
Slid it into the box
Sweetly pressed on the sticker
I voted
by her father’s side
noting the look of pride in his eyes
she gently took the pen from his hand, and voted
Colored the right spots
137
2004, 6, 8, 10 Like this, we voted
November 2012, at age 19, her own ballot she excitedly voted
November 2014, at age 18, her own ballot she delightedly voted
In 2016, with hopes so high, for
President the four of us voted
One would advance a woman’s place
The other a misogynist, a total disgrace
We voted for safety in this world
For all women, for all girls
Hope quickly faded and turned to despair as new reality sucked out the fresh
air. For days weeks years democracy cried under storm clouds of despicable lies
POETRY
But in 2018 we returned to vote
coloring the circles with earnest hope of
electing women and men-not-just-white
to rescue us from our current plight
so all people would be represented
In 2020 we’ll vote once more to end this era of misery, hoping to finally close
the door on this chapter of American history
Democracy:
It’s messy, it’s maddening, it
can be morally saddening
But
You can speak up
Write letters
And bicker
You can snicker
And after you vote
You can put on your sticker
I voted
138
Sergio Peraza-Jimenez
Breakthrough
Drawing, Charcoal
VISUAL ART
139
VISUAL ART
Amy Nagy
Woods
Painting, Gouach on a Wood Panel
140
Magic Months
Emily Gill
Autumn arrives, source of my soul’s delight,
crisp leaves floating down from their former homes.
First chill frosts my windows during the night,
come morning, through this world aflame I roam.
The muted sunset in late afternoon
reflects shimmering gold in my wild eyes.
On a black pavement sea, under full moon
watch me dance beneath a star speckled sky.
Such jubilation do your short days bring,
sweet Septembers, Octobers, Novembers.
As I skip, a hangman’s song I sing,
like aching bones, my soul remembers.
Alas! Bright yule and pine announce your end.
Farewell decay, rebirth, my dearest friends.
POETRY
141
Giggles and Stomps
Anissa Suazo
I miss the time,
of quick and quaint adventure.
Giggles
and stomps,
POETRY
wiggles
and flops.
Shoe laces knotted.
Hot summer
heat blotted,
like ink
seeping
groves,
on the dirt
dusted clothes.
Now all is just
piling
bills and
vitamin pills.
I miss the time,
of imagination forming potential.
142
Maya Kendrick
Hit and Run
Photograph
The far
near the backyard
and the fetched,
VISUAL ART
trench.
Or the words that
stretch,
like the easel sketch,
the truth from low
to
Now all is just boxed
in a frame
and without aim.
Gone is the time,
sand that quick
in the wind that rises,
and turns the page.
high.
flew by,
143
VISUAL ART
Sivanes
Hibiscus
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 16”x20”
144
Lady-Girl
Renee Terry
Phase one to befriending a
tarantula, be still. Phase two,
smile. Phase three, offer a flat hand for her
to investigate.
I slid soundlessly off the wooden
stoop by the tin door of the shed and
lowered my torso to rest on my forearms in
the sand. So pretty—the luxurious fur on
the spider’s legs and back spiked, as though
coated with a hair gel, and picked with a
comb; the rich copper, brown, and orange
colors on the body and legs. Such confidence
when she walked, keeping her eight graceful
legs in motion, no hurry, we’re cool.
“Hey, lady. Tonya?” I breathed gently,
lifting a soft waft of fuzz by her face and
looked for the witness mark of her slightly
shorter starboard leg. She must have lost
the appendage in a tussle a year or so ago.
Maybe the leg would be fully restored after
her next molting. “Not going to stop and say
good morning?”
Tonya’s butt lifted as she picked
up speed heading for her hole by the
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145
FICTION
cinderblock. The sun had only been up an
hour, so she was probably returning home
from a wild spider night partying in the
stones by the wash. Tonya was such a slut.
I rose from the ground and brushed
the grit from my elbows. The unending
cloudless blue sky promised another dry,
one-hundred-ten-degree day. Swell. Can’t
wait. It had been four months since I got
here, and it seemed like yesterday, and,
simultaneously, that I had been here
forever. Maybe a time-bending, folding in on
itself Einstein thing.
Here. Griswold, Arizona, taking care
of demented Grandma Missy in a trailer,
miles out of town, with the nearest neighbor
a rumor to the east. I never went that way—
the washboard rutted dirt road hadn’t been
scraped since the rainstorms last spring.
Thinking about why some government
contract employees might come out to blade
a path no one drove on, it came to me why
I talk to spiders. I also spoke to Grandma
Missy and Lilith, the former demon dog
who showed up at our doorstep, broad and
black, but who now had the idea of where
dinner came from and acted accordingly.
Of the three, Lilith listened the best, while
Grandma talked the best. Tonya was Tonya.
That being said, I was thankful
Grandma hadn’t had a bad day since
Sunday, and it was Tuesday. No bathroom
fights changing pants, no silverware in the
toilet tank, modest marching around all
night trying to find her circadian sleep cycle.
I went back into the dusty shed
to finish sorting the box of photographs.
Searching the top stack, I wondered if
Grandma had a picture of me. I wasn’t
sure my family had many photos of me,
so finding one here would be borderline
supernatural. Mom never bought my
brothers’ or my school pictures, and I was
very seldom doing something around
the house in Ohio worthy of a by-myself
picture. No running around third base,
no second chair clarinet. This was me
vacuuming; this was me hanging up
laundry.
There was a Yellow Pages phone
directory for Griswold and the surrounding
communities in the box. It was probably
less than one-hundred pages, and that
included advertising. The newer phone list
from 1971 was in the trailer, on a bookcase
holding up a fallen framed print of two
ducks and a goose, torn from a children’s
book. The caption read, “Duck, duck, goose.”
When I asked Grandma if there was a phone
number so I could get pizza delivered out
here, she told me I’d be lucky to get buried
out here.
I continued my search in the
photo box and lifted a green fabric bound
scrapbook holding the covers tight, so the
loose pages and pictures didn’t fall out.
There were black and white photos that
looked pre-1950, yellowed prints of men in
old military uniforms, and even tintypes of
unnamed solemn children, set-jawed men
and tired women staring at me from history.
I slowed my picture turning when I got to
the brightly colored Polaroids of the 1960s.
There were younger family members in
platform shoes and plaid bell-bottom pants,
the older women in print house dresses, the
men in pleated pants and tucked-in, shortsleeved
Grandpa shirts. So many grinning
children, birthday cakes, and chopped off
heads. Mostly, Uncle Phil, he was so tall that
146
Frank Cortes
even when he stooped low, only his smile
and chin would be visible in the photos. I
recognized most of them from Dad’s side
of the family—strangers to me except for
funerals and infrequent Christmas holidays
when the dinner was served at Phil’s largerthan-anyone-else’s
home. If Uncle Phil cared
enough to send pictures to Grandma, why
wasn’t one of his kids here, instead of me,
caring for Grandma?
Continuing my rummaging, I
stopped at two photos of Grandma,
her sister, Elisabet, and her brother-inlaw,
Randall, and set the journal on the
overturned milk crate. Her love for her
sister was what had brought Grandma to
Arizona—first to help Elisabet take care
of her terminally ill husband, and then, at
his passing, to take care of her sister. My
parents were mad at Grandma for selling
her house in Ohio, and squandering her
money helping Elisabet with medical bills
and overdue property taxes on the trailer.
I guess they thought the proceeds should
have been their inheritance.
The first photograph was of
Grandma, Elisabet, and Randall in front
of a Mexican-style restaurant that had a
matador and bull mural painted on the
Forgotten
Photograph
outside stucco wall. The two women were
standing behind the slumped man in the
147
VISUAL ART
wheelchair, and the painted red matador’s
cape swept above Grandma Missy’s head.
The picture must have been taken just
weeks before Randall’s death. Grandma
and her sister seemed well; they still had a
healthy weight but nervous waiting-for-theroof-to-fall
smiles while Randall was all in.
He personified that poem I read at school
about not going gently into a good night. His
head rested against the chair back at an odd
angle because I imagined he couldn’t lift it.
The bright noon sun reflected on the black,
bruised pattern on his forearms. I wondered
that someone who was that thrashed by
cancer could still curl his lip in anger.
The second picture was taken at
least six months, maybe eighteen months
later, because snow covered the peaks of the
stark blue mountains in the background,
and there was a low winter sun. Elisabet
had probably already had her heart attack
because she was thin, and her smile was
accepting, unlike Randall’s demeanor had
been. I would have to wait for a lucid day to
ask Grandma why she didn’t bring Elisabet
back to Ohio after her husband’s death, why
she didn’t come home. But I respected it was
a twelve-year-ago decision, and it must have
made sense at the time. Probably had to do
with money. Hand-to-mouthers make a lot
of compromised choices.
Last Sunday, or maybe Saturday,
Grandma had a wakeful, focused day. I
told her about Tonya, and we talked about
as much family as she could recollect. The
best part of being in this dreadful coffin of
a trailer was when we could visit like that,
me telling her who she was when she was
young—that she had finished high school,
and enough nursing school to be certified.
That she wanted to be a Licensed Practical
Nurse but that she married and had
children and put them first. Then just like
she knew my thoughts, or maybe I knew her
mind, she said, “Don’t you stay here when
this is over. No matter how it ends, promise
me you’ll leave.”
She put out her hand, and when I
took it, Grandma Missy pulled me near. I
looped my finger gently around the bent
hook of her little finger. “I will. I promise I’ll
go and not look back.” As if not looking back
made it more a pinky promise.
Taylor Tang
Calm
Painting, 20”x16”
148
Keeping of one mind, Grandma felt
my distress because she had said, “Don’t
worry, you’re a strong one.”
The sun must have ducked behind a
cloud because shadows replaced the patches
of light filtering between the dried wood
planks and window that made up the east
wall of the shed. I swept up the scrapbook
and photos. It didn’t seem a good idea
to bring the pictures in the trailer. They
were safe if they remained in the box on
the shelving. I wanted to bring one of my
paperbacks with me to read, hide it in my
bedroom, but Grandma might find it and
wash it in the sink, or encourage Lilith to eat
it, so my books stayed behind.
I kicked my shoes off and entered
the trailer. The thought of bringing in some
shitty-dust Hantavirus from the shed’s dirt
floor was right up there with my fear of
scorpion stings, and black widows. I knew
to choose my Arachnida friends wisely.
Still, after moving to Bumfuck, Arizona,
the cumulative worries of living alone with
Grandma had given me a chest-pounding
hyper-vigilance that hadn’t plagued me
since I was seven years old and convinced
me a Babadook lived in the shadows created
by my baseboard nightlight.
I drew a calming breath, stepped
forward, and felt an icy rush of slime.
Anticipating the texture of the worn
living room rug heightened the shocking
sensation of cold on my bare foot.
“Ugh!” I half jumped then slid,
toppling into the rocking chair. I tried to
catch myself and reached for the wall. The
straight-edged armrest gouged my torso. I
lifted from the overturned chair, rubbed my
tender ribs, and turned to see what caused
my slide. “Damn!”
Bending low, I could see the puddle
on the floor had a viscosity that lifted it
from the threadbare rug. There was no
texture or chunks in the fluid, just white
strands suspended in the liquid. Lilith
turned away from me and bumped against
the end table, her tail thumping a bass
rhythm on the trailer floorboards.
“Did you do this? Liiiillll-ith?”
My voice lowered. Instead of her usual
dismissive are-you-still-here attitude with
me, her head dropped forward leaving the
black furry twin peaks of her shoulders and
butt. “I’m not mad. You okay? What did you
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149
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eat?”
I looked about the floor for any halfchewed
remnants. Retrieving the dustpan,
trash basket, and a piece of cardboard from
the kitchen, I squeegeed a volume of the
gelatinous egg white goo onto the dustpan
and into the can. Gag me special.
“Grandma, you’re too quiet in there,”
I said more to myself than Grandma—
wherever she was in the trailer. Lilith
turned in response. Her muzzle matted in
white, her black hair showed through like
dirty snow. It wasn’t frothy, and she wasn’t
drooling, so it probably wasn’t rabies, which
would have been a damn good trick because
she seldom went outside. I stepped closer,
crouching for a better view.
“What did you get into?” I extended
my fingers tentatively like Adam in the
Sistine Chapel. Even without rabies, she
could still bite me really good. She didn’t
lean in toward me friendly, so I crossed to
the bathroom to get a washrag.
“Grandma, what is going on here?” I
stepped around the door frame. “Grandma?”
She lay still on her bed, her face
turned up, mouth agape. White blotches
spotted her gown and legs. A large porcelain
cream tear-drop shape smeared from her
cheek and extended into her matted frenzy
of white hair, which had transformed into a
dirty gray hank of rope.
“Oh, no, no, no.”
I winced at Grandma’s forearms. A
sheer white film that lifted and crusted like
peeling burned flesh blanketed her arms.
Long rake marks from her elbows revealed a
pink flesh tone. Lilith joined me, her coarse
hair bristling against my bare leg, causing
a tickling shiver that radiated up to my
shoulders.
“What is that?” Lilith didn’t respond
and skulked to the foot of the bed. The
sweet rose fragrance that had been a mild
undertone in the sour bile stench of the
dog’s vomit permeated the stuffy, hot
room. It was like the funeral director had
been left out, and black flower wreaths had
been brought directly to my grandmother’s
hospice. I couldn’t open the window because
the last repair was a solid sheet of glass in a
wood frame.
As I stepped to her bedside to inspect
Grandma’s arms, her blue eyes blinked
open, and her maw snapped shut, then into
a smile. I hadn’t recovered from my start
when she grasped my wrist and yanked me
closer. Her hand was alien; wet and cold and
fleshless like a bat’s grasp. I struggled.
“Look what I can do.” Grandma
smoothed the sludge on her arms briskly
and called out to Lilith. “Show lady-girl what
we do.” The dog stayed obediently at the
foot of the bed but turned her face away.
“Show lady-girl.”
Lilith looked at me for a reprieve, and
I looked back at Grandma.
“Dog!” she snapped. Lilith inched
closer to Grandma and sniffed her forearm,
like a Royal Court sycophant, then bowed
and dutifully licked her hand. Grandma
threw back her head and squealed. She
reached under the sheet and came up with a
handful of slop and pasted Lilith across her
ear and jaw with it.
“Stop, Grandma! Don’t do that to
Lilith.” I kneeled on the bed and reached
across to grab her flailing hand. The
bedclothes were cold and slippery. “Ugh.
Stop that. You won’t be happy until the dog
150
VISUAL ART
Taylor Tang
Masked Self-Portrait
Drawing, 11”x11”
151
bites you.” Her greased forearm slipped
from my grip.
“Dog likes it!” Grandma’s hysterical
giggling continued. “She likes it!”
“Lilith doesn’t like it!” I clutched the
fabric cap sleeves on her nightgown and
pulled her across the bed away from Lilith.
I spat through clenched teeth, “She comes
to you because she wants to please you. No
one likes being tormented.”
I looked around to
see the source of this slimy shit storm and
saw my empty lotion bottle by her pillow.
“Grandma, the whole bottle? That was
brand new.”
“You left it out for me.”
“It was in a shopping bag, in a
shoebox under my bed!” I screamed.
While I started to collect the slimy
bedclothes for the laundry, Grandma lay
still, staring at something near the closet
door.
“What else is in this goo?” I pinched
a thicker lump of gunk and smooshed it
between my index finger and thumb.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Fucking Crisco!” I followed
her gaze to an open blue three-pound
canister on the floor. The white slope of lard
in the can ended in a frenzied hole where
Grandma had dug out handfuls. “How am I
going to clean this up?”
“Didn’t do it.”
Not knowing where to start, I
dropped to the floor in frustration.
If this was cooking oil, I could
start cleaning it up with sand or
wood shavings from the shed.
But Crisco? Maybe if I left
everything as is and put broken sticks and
crumpled tumbleweed throughout the
trailer, I could call the Sheriff or the church
ladies for a well-check, and they would take
us to a mental hospital in Tucson. My low
laugh was between a sob and a giggle. I
stretched onto my back.
152
Jackie Cabrera
Tucson Beauty
Photography
“I can’t take it,” I said. “I’ll clean this
up in a bit. Friday or Saturday.”
“Me too.” Grandma went to her knees
and rolled to her side next to me on the
floor. “What’s so funny?”
“You should get a towel. With your
sloppy nightgown, you’re going to look like
a doughnut rolled in nuts and brown sugar
when you get up. A crunchy donut-stick.”
Grandma retrieved a towel and
spread it out next to me.
“Dog likes it.” Grandma started again.
“Came to me and licked my hand.”
“No, Grandma. Lilith came because
she loves you. Period. You took advantage.” I
wanted her to understand. “Some people do
things they don’t want to do for people they
love.”
Her manner, her body was engaged,
but Grandma’s eyes were unfocused,
tracking side to side.
My chest caved with pain. “Love
compromises. You end up like a dog,
vomiting on the floor,” I said more to myself
than her.
Grandma tensed, a spark of
understanding, a flash of shame? “The girl
did it, not me.”
“Oh, right, the other grandma.”
“It’s a little girl who’s bad.”
“Yeah, well, you tell that little girl to
knock it off. I’m serious. I’ve had enough
sweaters in the toilet, lace-less tennis shoes
in the refrigerator.” Fatigue that stops
crying and hysteria and laughing set in, and
I lay empty.
Grandma looked puzzled. Her head
turned back and forth like a newborn
listening for a voice, looking for a mother.
When she saw me, she smiled and said, “I
love you.”
I lifted onto my elbow and waited
until I had her attention. Her vacuous
marble blue eyes returned to the center as
she studied me. I’m sure she didn’t know me,
but she responded with a smile when I told
her I loved her too.
Grandma said, “Whenever I have a
good thought, you are there.”
Oblivion darkened the fleeting
moment.
We lay together on the rug at the
foot of the bed with our feet in the hallway
until the sun was on the other side of the
trailer. I watched the patterned wallpaper—
there were fairies, and disembodied eyes
peering through the rose and teal foliage—
and listened to the exertion of Grandma’s
breath. Living here had become a forever
time out.
Hearing her soft movements, I
turned on my shoulder to see what she was
doing. Intent as a scientist—did Madame
Curie have white hair matted in a sticky
braid? Grandma studied her index finger
and thumb. She pressed a dirty pearl of
shortening between them then released her
fingers slowly to test her resistance theory
from the viscosity of the grease.
“You like that?” I lifted a splotch
of the fully-hydrogenated fat from her
forearm and smeared the tip of her nose.
“Like Lilith?”
Grandma ignored me with a
scientist’s focus and calmly observed,
“Fucking Crisco.”
FICTION
153
Elizabeth
Cara Laird
POETRY
i.
All the voices in a courtroom
combining: a pointed finger.
Elizabeth sits, stunned, eyes swollen
sleepless, carefully applied
mascara streaming and smeared
nails bitten to the quick of chipped
glitter polish
missing her baby
in a childlike way—she is still a child, after all—
wanting
what is yours because it is yours.
The judge asks Elizabeth,
does she understand?
A whispered yes, a nod:
a lie.
ii
Elizabeth’s baby falls asleep
across town
surrounded by the wrong
smells and sounds
in a stranger’s arms.
154
Sergio Peraza-Jimenez
Figure Confined
Drawing, Chacoal
iii
Elizabeth cries in my little square illusion
of privacy
in what used to be a warehouse of goods
now a warehouse of good intentions
and pain. Her mother
is embarrassed, but
not for the reasons she should be.
She is skilled in denial.
The cycle continues.
This girl does not know how
to be a mother—I tell her
she can learn. But
her own mother
has been telling her otherwise
for so long.
I can see Failure bright
as a neon sign
in her tear filled eyes.
VISUAL ART
155
Good Deeds
Courtney Hayes Armstrong
I remember my father boasting that he had the IQ of a genius,
smirking
schooling me that people were allowed into Heaven
based on how well they treated their animals
I might have been six
POETRY
And the incessant grass of depressed grey
shag that crawls across his empty apartment in contempt
the only furniture a plastic patio set, mismatched
and one glorious, serious necessity—
a pinball machine
I remember playing with the cherubic boy
whose essence dripped flowery fabric softener
and I linger for hours in the aisle of fruitless detergents
unscrewing countless green plastic lids, sniffing, huffing, desperate to free the hologram
of that nameless babe out into my world for just one sticky second
And the enchantment of the pinball as it shoots like a cannon
from the metal coils of spring, as it smacks plastic and spanks dense flippers
fevered lights and sirens that sing out our only faults,
that we are sweet and young
but to my father, our happiness is too sweet, too young, and much, much too loud
I remember my father’s eyes wet with arcing voltage, throttling,
full-tilt fury
and he grabbed my cat and cast it over scolded railings of ornate pretension
fear paddled the insides of my stomach, bobbed and then retreated
I had blocked my father’s entrance to Heaven
156
VISUAL ART
Zach Ellingson
Space Man Lost in Space
Illustration, 8”x10”
And he crags above me, a volcano swarming with frothing fingers of ire
fists balled into bases of question marks and he asks me,
“Who do you think you are?”
and I stand, stagnant in brackish silence, because, I simply
do not know
157
A 4 & 20 Blackbird Kind of Pi
Graysen Norwood
Four & twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.
A very special pastry for a very special king.
POETRY
For the king had royal counselors, but one of them untrue.
To take the kingdom for his own is what he planned to do.
Those loyal to the royal could not get a message through,
For the royal counselor traitor screened all the messages too.
Now the king he liked mathematics, so mathematicians in their attics
Put a code into equations, informations and persuasions;
Indications with these clever tricks to open up a pastry pie.
With three point one and four one six this message passed the traitor by.
Four & twenty blackbirds baked in a pi.
Those loyal to the royal found some blackbirds that could sing
With sweet voices born of pigeons. (This was a very special thing).
These birds would sing sweet voices sitting high upon their stools
To call out fifty shieldmen loved by wise men and by fools.
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So, a wizard in disguise
Brought the king some royal pies
As an old & simple baker man who bore the royal mark,
A frail and harmless man that left the traitor in the dark.
Four & twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
VISUAL ART
The king, he opened up the pi, three point one & four,
And opened up the pastry pie, the blackbirds sang a little more.
Devoted little pigeon birds
Upon a backless chair
With all the royal words
And of the treachery now aware...
By the four & twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,
That when the pi was opened who all began to sing.
(A very special pastry for a very special king.)
159
VISUAL ART
Grace M Johnson
Great Horned Owl
Hand Drawn Illustration, 8”x10”
160
VISUAL ART
Grace M Johnson
Snow Owl
Hand Drawn Illustration, 8”x10”
161
Ulises Ramos
Self Portrait of a Carvers Head
Rod’s Bod, Danish White, and Black Slip Ceramics
Sculpture, L12”x W8” x H14”
VISUAL ART
Rhinoceros Tears
Courtney Hayes Armstrong
“T
here are two things I will disown you for, Rhino,” Ryan’s father said. “Don’t ever
marry a black man and don’t ever get fat.”
The buildings outside the car window sped by so quickly that Ryan could see only the
horizontal lines left in their wake, like those used to show motion in a cartoon, charcoal streaks
void of any true color or dimension. She rode beside her father, silently. She had no other
choice. She patiently waited, to be spoken to, to be given permission to speak. In all true loyalty
of her six-year-old innocence, she adored her father. And however unrequited, empty, and cold
it may have appeared, William loved his daughter, as well. Just not without a few exceptions.
Ryan was confused about several things.
“What does disown mean?” she asked first.
162
“You won’t be my daughter
anymore.”
“Whose daughter would I be?”
“Well, if you married a black man,
you’d be Tyrone’s daughter.”
“What’s a black man?”
“You don’t know what a black man
is?”
“Preacher Snyder?”
“Ryan, you’re smarter than that.”
She scooted down in her seat, flushed
with embarrassment. His words, fiery
embers that shot at her fragile armor of
self-confidence, tarnished the silver vigor
that should have been much brighter, more
resilient at her young age.
“Clothes don’t make someone black,”
her father continued. “It’s the color of the
skin.” He downshifted his 1972 Volvo at
the approach of a red stoplight. He raised
an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Who’s
that little boy in your class, the one who
played Santa Clause in the Christmas
performance? He’s black.”
Ryan thought back to her school’s
holiday recital, and of her Kindergarten
classmate, Courtney White, the lucky,
cherubic boy who had been chosen to wear
the coveted fake beard and red suit that
all the other students had been denied.
Because of this, and maybe solely this,
Courtney was now the most popular kid in
class. Ryan loved the way that he took time
during every recess to draw for her. Only for
her. Vibrant, colorful hopscotch pads, whose
squares and triangles somehow became
castles and meadows, their symmetry and
detail far more elaborate than she was able
to draw.
Now that her father mentioned it,
Ryan realized that Courtney’s skin was, in
fact, black.
“But Courtney is my friend,” she said.
“Of course he is, honey. Even I have
black friends. I’m not a bigot. But I didn’t
marry one of them and neither will you. And
don’t you dare get fat.”
William steered the Volvo into
the parking lot of a small, family-owned
“ice house”, the lone convenience store in
the small town bordering San Antonio.
Its small, dilapidated brick structure was
autonomous and determined, ignorant of its
impending demise when franchises would
soon encroach and swallow up the area.
“Stay put,” he told her and got out of the car.
The summer day had crisped and
cooled, its edges brown and mild, in search
of someone to allow it to finally rest. It was
the time of year, and time of day, when
Texans sat with their arms out, eager to
embrace the early night’s warmth, and
Ryan allowed herself to be hugged in return
by the placid, heated air of the evening’s
arrival.
She picked at a scab on her elbow
while a man walked by, his arm around a
young girl, perhaps his daughter. It was a
sight that left Ryan with both a yearning
for her own father to hold her, and an
immediate, visceral rejection to what that
might feel like. Her body recoiled as if
it were happening, the act artificial and
uncomfortable, and she instantly took back
the thought.
It wasn’t that her father was an
unlikable guy. Just the opposite. He had
been voted “Most Popular” in high school.
“Most Handsome” in college. “Most Likely
to Succeed” while getting his masters at
FICTION
163
FICTION
Harvard Business School. But all was lost
in translation when it came to affection,
accolades or positive reinforcement for
the one person who could have benefited
most: Ryan. His only daughter. His only
child. William was determined to rear her
unspoiled, tough enough to endure any
of the cruel hardships that she would
inevitably encounter in life. He also, just
simply, lacked the sensitivity that a young
girl needed. Nurturing wasn’t part of his
skill set. And because of this, Ryan was
destined to spend the rest of her life trying
to gain the smallest sip of approval from her
father.
He walked out of the shop, his
confidence aglow from the overflow of his
charmed life.
His biceps protruded from the tight
sleeves of his Boston Marathon t-shirt, his
quads bulged beneath his corduroy OP
shorts. He held open the door for a young
woman and smiled at her. His wide grin said,
High School Valedictorian. Summa Cum
Laude. Purple Heart in Viet Nam. The young
woman batted her eyelashes and smiled
back at the stocky redhead. She giggled as
he blew her a kiss and then pretended to
trip over a curb going back to the car.
Whatever William wanted, he got. In
whatever William attempted, he succeeded.
And whatever William told Ryan, she
believed.
And from the truest, warmest, most
vulnerable recesses of her six-year-old
mind, she believed that if her father loved
her, then she, too, was significant, worthy,
lovable.
He hopped into the car without
glancing at his child in the passenger seat.
164
Charles Sublette
Weightless
Photograph
He was holding a package of candy. Ryan’s
stomach started to flutter.
Oh goody, she thought. A treat.
Her father, still silent, began to
unwrap the bar. Ryan wiggled excitedly
in her seat as she recognized the small
rectangles that were labeled Bit-O-Honey.
He popped one piece of the
confection into his mouth and worked its
stiff, nougat texture with his teeth. Ryan’s
mouth watered as she anticipated her
father giving her the next piece.
One for you, one for me, she thought.
Her dad brought the next piece to his
nose, inhaled its molasses scent, and softly,
almost daintily, placed it on his tongue.
Okay, two for you, two for me.
He took the third piece to his mouth,
bit it in half, and pulled the remainder of
the taffy into the air, looping its texture into
a beautiful arc, before finally placing that
entirely into his mouth as well.
Ryan’s eyebrows furrowed.
Hey, it’s my turn.
She opened her mouth to say this,
but then quickly snapped it shut. A few
months earlier when visiting New York with
her parents, they had gone to the Statue of
Liberty. It was the last trip the three would
make together, the last hurrah before the
Big D. The divorce. Ryan had fallen in love
in the gift shop with a small glass replica of
the green lady. She had made the mistake
of using three horribly dirty words: “I want
that.”
Her father had punished her by
refusing to buy her the miniature, or
anything else for the rest of the day. He
hadn’t even allowed her a glass of water.
Ryan learned her lesson. She now
VISUAL ART
165
Connie Nicholson
Street Food Deli Wurstel
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 36”x42”
VISUAL ART
sat, excruciatingly still. Coffee-flavored
sunlight streamed in through her window,
cinnamon-colored dust illuminated by its
rays. The breeze suddenly sucked it all out
the other side, through her father’s window.
In the coolness, Ryan sweated.
She wondered if still there were a
chance that her father would give her a
piece, find her deserving. She had behaved
perfectly that day, adhered to all of his
codes of behavior. No excess fidgeting.
No loud bodily functions. She had done
absolutely nothing that would indicate
her age. She figured she had earned a small
reward, one small edge, of a piece, of a bite,
of a Bit-O-Honey, at least.
Ryan just knew that the next piece
was hers. She watched as her father threw
it up into the air and opened his mouth wide
to catch it. It landed on the pink pillow of
his tongue.
Darnit, she thought. Cool, but darnit.
Her mouth watered again. She
watched him take not only the fifth segment
of confection from the wrapper, but the
final, sixth piece as well.
Ah, she thought. He’s going to split
the last two between us. She suddenly felt
ashamed that she had gotten mad at her
father, that she had doubted his love for her.
He had been saving the last piece for me.
William shoved both pieces into his
mouth.
He then crumpled up the wrapper
and tossed it onto his oiled dashboard.
Ryan had never known her father to leave
trash anywhere inside his vehicle. The
discarded paper lay perfectly at her eyelevel.
It taunted her with a fruity, zealous
laugh. She forced herself to look away from
it. She didn’t want her father to see her
disappointment. She knew that she must
have done something wrong. It had to have
been her fault.
She looked far away, up into the
now dark sky. A lone star shone, like heated,
166
crystallized sugar before it hardens into
another substance. A glass-like shard
flashed at her in acknowledgment, urged her
to not let her father see her disquiet. Ryan
didn’t want him to feel bad that she felt
bad. But an anger welled up inside of her, a
disease of unsteady waves that ebbed and
receded. She had a conflicted, underlying
sense that her beautiful, wondrous father
had been toying with her.
“You know, Rhino,” he said as he
reversed the Volvo out of the parking space.
“Self-control. That’s what it’s all about.
See there. Look at those fatties walking in
the crosswalk.” Ryan looked out the front
windshield and saw two young women
strolling across the intersection. Happy
women.
“There they are, two hippos, taking
their sweet time. Maybe if they walked
faster, they’d lose some weight,” he
continued by mouthing the words towards
the women. “They obviously don’t have the
willpower to put down the Pop-Tarts after
eating the first one. Disgusting, aren’t they,
Rhino?”
She hated it when he called her
Rhino, but she would never admit it.
She knew what he was referring to, the
rhinoceros. Every time he called her that,
she thought of the animal. Senseless.
Reckless. Enormous. She was ashamed to
be compared to such a beast. It wounded
her, splashed her armor with acid, further
mottled it because of the reason for the
name. Rhino wasn’t a term of endearment.
It wasn’t something cute. It was because one
night, Ryan had foolishly let her guard down
when she thought she was simply sating
a primal need, hunger. But to her father,
she had been inappropriate, gluttonous,
repulsive, when she had eaten two pieces of
pizza all by herself.
“And Rhino, you’d better learn to
have some self-control or you’ll be just like
them.”
She sat and looked at the smiling,
laughing, happy women in the crosswalk.
She thought of the rhinoceros, but
differently, now. Noble. Majestic. Serene.
She saw beauty outside her window, outside
her world. She yearned to be a part of it, to
be whole, to be loved, among the beautiful
beasts.
Kelly Franck
Palmistry Hand
Sculpture, Painted Wax, 4”x7”
FICTION
167
Sivanes
VISUAL ART
Water Lily
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 16”x20”
Safe
Emily Gill
Door locked,
porch light on, windows shut tight,
shades drawn. Check inside
the closets, the cabinets, under
the bed, behind the sofa. Hear a sound,
freeze, heart pounding out
a war song, battle ready.
Your stomach drops, bile rises
168
in your throat. Grab a knife
for protection. Decide there is
no one, nothing, but remain
terrified by every shadow, branch scraping
the window, creak of the floorboard.
Check the door again, feel the lock
with your fingers, seer the image of security
into your brain, it is locked.
Do not check the door again. Pace for five
minutes. It’s locked. It’s locked. It’s locked.
Nothing. Everything. I just am, you say
with a scream scratching the back
of your throat. Swallow it back, remind yourself
you are not dying. You are safe.
The door is locked.
It’s late now. Shut yourself
in your bedroom. Push the dresser in front
of the door, just to be safe. Look under the bed
one last time. Swear you heard someone
in the hallway, move the dresser, look
but there is no one, nothing.
POETRY
Reassemble your barricade then climb
into bed, let the weight of the blankets
smother you. Squeeze your eyes shut
pleading with your mind to cease the reel
of violent possibilities, the nightly show.
Lie in the dark, the silent stillness, wondering
if you locked the door.
A magnetic force pulls you to the door, you must
check, to be sure. To be safe.
Call your husband at work, even though you swore
you wouldn’t, asking one last time
when he will be home. Late
he tells you. What are you so afraid of, he asks.
169
Tina Kennedy
The Wishing Tree
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 30”x40”
VISUAL ART
170
Grief Distribution
Cara Laird
My friend’s garage was full
of brand new, achingly unused
nursery furniture, baby clothes.
She cried showing me the
video baby monitor
they would never use;
I am sure she imagined her baby
on that screen
rather than attached, strung like a puppet
to the NICU monitors
high pitched beeping
harsh tape all over his
fragile, new skin.
She could not keep these reminders
and also, could not explain
to dozens of strangers
why she didn’t need them.
She might splinter - actually crack open,
bleed her fury at their
well intentioned feet
if one more person told her
her baby, dead, is god’s will.
I fit everything into my truck
piece by piece, a Tetris challenge
to get it all in one trip
so she could be finished
with this minuscule, massive portion of grief.
I carried it all away
and sold every last piece:
each hand crocheted blanket
every single “little brother” onesie.
I suggested she do something joyful
with the money.
So, she took her family to California,
sat on the beach
watched her older children
splash wildly, so very alive
pictured her lost son floating on the waves
headed out to sea.
POETRY
171
I Too From Earth Gaze Upward
Jack Davidson
POETRY
When the sun sinks out of view
and the earth does turn to night anew,
it is in this gentle, still and quiet desert air,
distilled and floating-- filled
with perfumed scent so very rare,
the plants breathe in sweet life again.
They hold themselves upright this night,
feeling not alone and thus beholding
the images they are, of each and every star.
172
Brianna Vega
In the Cards
Drawing, Pigma Micron, Paint Markers, 5.5”x8.5”
VISUAL ART
173
Tom Webster
La Sagrada Familia
Archival Pigment Print, 15”x15”
VISUAL ART
In Memoriam of My Mother’s Mothers
Kat Johnson
Sometimes my mother’s voice
takes to the center stage of my mind.
Her rosary dangles from the rearview mirror, swinging back and forth
as if it were a pendulum being used to induce hypnosis.
She steps valiantly into a singular spotlight.
Her actions are completely independent of my own vain influence; they are practiced.
Her phantom is opaque and I can hear the click of her heels across the stage.
She takes a deep breath and in an act of love,
or of obligation, she says,
174
“Do everything in the eyes of God and teach your daughter the same.”
She says it slowly with the strain of our ancestry hanging heavily on each word.
It’s mesmeric and her voice sounds like mine,
except it’s deeper and filled with all the whimsy of a timeless soul.
Her voice carries the weight of her mother.
POETRY
We speak in the tongues of our predecessors.
Their stories are preserved in old fables and the
masa that gets stuck between our fingers while we roll tamales in the afternoon.
My mother’s voice has borne every truth.
One day, in a voice that is deeper and filled with all the whimsy of a timeless soul,
I will take my place in the middle of the stage.
While my daughter faces the fluidity of her world, foregoing the rosary,
opting instead for the clarity of herb and Whitman, I will appear to her and say,
“Do everything the god within your veins deems holy and teach your daughter the same.”
It will be in the tongue of my mother bearing the weight of her mother.
We the women of the church, we the women of brujería,
speak through our children as if they are limp, empty poppets.
It is the psalm of our ghosts.
175
In the Dark
Cara Laird
POETRY
He calls my name in the dark.
I wake and hurry half asleep
to soothe his mind,
to smooth his hair and sheets.
He rests his head on my chest,
lulled back
to his sleep
by his first
favorite
lullaby.
This is my work, always:
answering to my name called out
in the dark.
176
Eva Kamenetski
Untranslatable
Photograph, 8”x8.1”
VISUAL ART
177
Maya Kendrick
VISUAL ART
Your Call is Very Important to Us
Midnight Oil
Photograph
Kimberly Laney
Greg sat on the windowsill of his second story apartment’s bedroom gazing out
at the complex below him, with a half empty water bottle in hand… He did this
almost every day and in doing so, had become familiar with the moves of his neighbors’
choreographed daily routines. As the sun began to set and the busy street roared with rush
hour traffic, the waitress from the breakfast place two streets down would gather as many
of the half empty water bottles and fast food wrappers from her car as she could hold, and
clumsily walk them to the dumpster, stopping to pick up the trash that fell out of her grip
after every couple of steps. Sometimes, she’d make it in time to run into Simon from the A
building when he takes his chubby Chihuahua, Uma, out to do her business. Around this time
178
on weekdays, the girl who lived in the
apartment directly below Greg’s would
sprint out to her car, backpack bouncing
ridiculously with each stride, it seemed
as though she was always running late.
Greg couldn’t help but smile as he saw
her jet out to her car below him. He liked
her, Downstairs Girl. She always lit sweet
smelling incense when she’d get home as if
to let the complex know she’d got in safely
and she played her music just loud enough
for Greg to sing along from his room above.
She had good taste. He wondered if he’d
ever get the opportunity to tell her.
A bead of sweat dripped from
Greg’s forehead down to his brow. His air
conditioning was set to a cool seventyone
degrees but when he waved his hands
in front of the vent, no air came out.
Frustrated, Greg returned to his windowsill
and dialed the complex’s maintenance
number. It rang twice before a woman’s
felicitous voice took over.
“Thank you for holding. Your call is
very important to us.” Her cadence made
Greg believe that his call was important to
her, and that soothed him some.
It was his day off from the MVD
and since he hadn’t worked up the energy
to leave his home yet, her voice was the
first he’d heard all day. He was grateful
that it was such a pleasant one. After her
message, the phone rang twice again before
repeating.
“Thank you for holding, your call
is very important to us.” Greg could have
sworn he heard her smile through the
phone.
She was bubbly, he could tell—and
somehow, he just knew that she had a sense
of humor that matched his entirely. She
was a perfect combination of friendly and
sardonic and knowing that, he couldn’t help
but laugh after the phone rang twice again
before she graced his phone once more.
“Thank you for holding, your call is
very important to us.” Greg heard the dry
humor in it now. Master of sarcasm that she
was, he knew this was an inside joke for him
and him only. He felt her laughing about it
on the other end of the phone. A breathy
laugh, full and absolutely content.
He found himself fantasizing about
what their life together might be like. He
tried to picture how her soothing voice
might sound if she were to sing to him. He
imagined she’d have similar taste in music
to Downstairs Girl. Maybe she’d have long
brown hair like hers too. Although she’d
light candles instead of incense and would
never run herself late.
Greg wondered what she was
picturing from her end of the phone and if
she’d be disappointed when she saw him.
No, she was without a doubt into short
guys. He knew it. Just another perfect thing
about her.
“Thank you for holding, your call is
very important to us.” He could listen to her
all day. In fact, he hoped he might get to. He
had so much to tell her.
Taking a deep breath and gripping
his half full water bottle close, he spoke out
to her, “I love you.”
“Uh, thank you for holding. This is
Josh. How can I help you.?”
FICTION
179
Danny’s Baboquivari
Misha Tentser
POETRY
dusty carpet floors
and deer skulls on the walls
I lean against the worn wooden bar—
a perfect stranger, melting into
the surroundings like a Dali painting
anonymous by way
of being unremarkable
a face, a place, a mood
I take a shot and a beer
drink quietly while absorbing
the madness all around—
the dancing, the yelling, the ruckus
brings me peace
to see the people releasing
all that they were told
all of those words dissipating
like puffs of smoke
I think of Siddhartha
sat underneath a tree
in meditation and reflection—
could this noise be my tree?
this soundtrack of working people
blowing off steam
the solo bartender says to me,
thank you for your patience
unaware that for me,
time has twisted and contorted
beyond recognition
for I could sit here twenty years
feeding off this racket
subsisting on liquor and beer
until my liver failed
and the rest of my body
sunk into this bar stool
becoming one with
this place I call
a piece of home
180
VISUAL ART
Joseph Roland Ewing
Slatt
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 6.6”x10”
181
VISUAL ART
Brianna Vega
Grim Amusement
Drawing, Pigma Micron, Paint Markers, 5.5”x8.5”
182
Inadequacy
Missy (Tamara) Fowler
Inadequacy,
The plane seatbelt straps
That just don’t reach
The scale that refuses
To budge at all
The breath that you
Can’t seem to catch
The pants that try as
You may just won’t fit
POETRY
The ring that is forever
Too tight to wear
The plastic chair
On the verge of collapse
The stares of strangers
Never minding their own
The need to turn sideways
Through the doors at home
Yes,
I know inadequacy
With stubborn, endless intimacy.
183
The Jurassic Period
Maria Raygoza
I am a Brachiosaurus
I am unusual and tall
My legs are short
my neck is long
I dine on trees, leaves and plants
Ginkgoes and Cycads are a treat
I am a mighty dinosaur
I am ready to stretch
POETRY
I am a Brachiosaurus
My name stands for arm lizard
I have 52 teeth in my mouth
And I am 50 feet tall!
Everyone around me is different
There is a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors
We are either carnivores or herbivores
But we all reside on planet earth
The world is beautiful
Green surrounds us, waterfalls all around us
Its peaceful and serene
The world is still
At night everything is silent
Everyone is under the spell of slumber
Or eating a last snack,
Before drifting on to sleep
184
Joseph Roland Ewing
Green Guy
Painting, Acrylic on Pad, 7.5”x10”
VISUAL ART
We peer at the dark sky
Its limitless and magnificent
There are 10,000 stars
And the moon is beaming upon our skin
There is a big bright star today
And it is getting brighter
And brighter
And brighter
185
Amy Nagy
Deep Sea
Painting, Ink, Charcoal, and White Pen
VISUAL ART
186
Awe
Matthew Martella
In the coming and going
Of all things
The impermanence of all forms
There is suffering in
Holding on to anything
POETRY
Like a fistful of sand underwater
Everything is undone
In time
But there is infinite sand
Infinite forms will be made
Peacefully behold the
Coming and going of them all
There is contented joy in awe
187
Smoke Break
Heidi Saxton
FICTION
I
always work weeknights in our
tiny hole in the wall restaurant.
A modest brick building wedged between
a gift shop and a modern grocery store.
Despite the outward dingy appearance, the
inside was warm. Honey colored wallpaper
lined the dining area, bright colored tissue
paper banners and potted plants hung from
the ceiling, dated mesquite tables, creaky
chairs and booths were placed haphazardly
on the deep orange floor. Tourists and
residents alike flooded into the small dining
room on busy weekends when we make
most of our money. That’s why I prefer
weeknights. Never too busy. There are
rarely more than ten customers at a time,
so I get to slip out the back door, light a
cigarette, and let my mind wander.
The regular weeknight staff was
small, only three of us each night, just
enough to keep up with the regulars and
occasional walk-ins. In the kitchen, there
was me and one other line cook, Tony, and
a waitress, Kelly. Tony’s hefty and solid, a
staggering six-foot-six, 280 pounds, middleaged,
dark-skinned Mexican from Nogales,
just two hours away from our small
restaurant in Tombstone, Arizona. The
opposite of Kelly, who is bubbly and goofy,
standing just above five-foot-three with
shiny hair down past her shoulders, which
she kept in two matching braids framing
188
Kelly Franck
Pancakes
Painting, Gouache on Watercolor Paper13””x10”
her soft face. She’s much paler than I am,
skinnier too. I like to think that dainty Kelly
would fit perfectly into my arms. I’m more
like Tony; tall, dark, and stocky.
Two years ago, when I first started
working there, just barely seventeen, I
was afraid of Tony. I was the first woman
to work in the kitchen. I started as a prep
cook on busy weekends, dicing onions and
peppers, and washing the dishes at the end
of the night. Most of the other men in the
kitchen barely paid any attention to me
scuttling around them, trying desperately
to keep up. On my third shift, Tony watched
me trip on the uneven terracotta tile and
spill menudo all over the floor. I had never
been so embarrassed, my face almost as red
as the soup coating the tile.
“Aye, Mija, it’s okay. What’s your
name? Carmen?” he said as he pulled me up
off the ground. “Let me help you clean this
mess up, okay?”
I remember telling him I wanted to
quit. He listened silently, helping me with
the dark stain on my uniform. He convinced
me to stay and swore he would teach me
how to be the best cook in the restaurant.
He took care of me, and he kept his promise.
He taught me how to season food from
smell alone and how to multitask so I could
keep up with the orders. In a few months,
I could run the kitchen by myself and was
promoted to line cook.
That’s when I met Kelly. She got
hired just a few months after me. When we
both got switched to weeknights, she and
Tony became close, and he took care of her
like he took care of me. All of a sudden, I had
friends, people I was excited to see every
day. Kelly was so charming. I loved listening
VISUAL ART
189
VISUAL ART
Connie Nicholson
Gossip on Yellow Chairs
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 16”x20”
to her and Tony talk. She would tell stories
about college and her family. How could
anyone not like her?
*
Even if weeknights were slow, there
were always the regulars. Housewives
coming in every Monday and Thursday to
gossip and drink margaritas, old married
couples, businessmen in cowboy hats,
and anyone who wanted food past nine
o’clock paraded in to keep us mildly busy.
But that Tuesday was particularly dead. It
had been raining all day, and the narrow
streets were flooded. I had only seen three
customers brave the rain and shuffle into
the building. It was just me in the kitchen
scrubbing lard from pans left to soak in
the sink by the morning staff. As I cleaned,
the steamy water scalded my hands and
little flakes of burnt food caked onto the
pans lodged themselves underneath my
chewed-up fingernails. I cracked open the
foggy window above the sink to let the cold,
moist air in. The smell of rain temporarily
overpowered the stench of Mexican food
that filled the cramped kitchen. I used to
love the scent of Mexican food, it reminded
me of my Abuelita’s kitchen, but after two
years, I was tired of going home smelling
like beans. I could hear Kelly out in the
dining area chatting up Tony over the
soft Latin radio station that played the
190
same four songs blending together into a
creamy mix of bandolas and violins. I didn’t
like being alone in the sweltering kitchen
waiting for customers. I wanted to be out
there with her.
I finished washing the last dish
and felt the familiar buzzing in the back
of my head and snuck out the back for a
quick smoke. I didn’t bother to wash the
grease off my hands, just wiped them on my
apron, and sat down on the curb behind the
restaurant, scraping at the asphalt with the
bottoms of my boots. I liked the alleyway. It
was a nice break from the rowdy restaurant.
It was dark and quiet, lit only by a dim
yellow street light.
I fished around in my pockets for a
lighter and let my back slump against the
exterior wall. I took a few drags, let my
mind drift. I found myself thinking about
Kelly, as I often do. On weeknights, she has
to bus tables as well as waitress, so she gets
a little dirtier. She wears less makeup, and
under the smell of her flowery perfume,
there’s a tinge of sweat. I couldn’t help but
think about the lines around her eyes when
she smiles or how she hums softly along
with the radio while wiping down tables.
My fingertips felt tingly, and there was a
fluttering deep in my belly. Instinctively my
eyes shut, and I imagined, for a moment,
that she’s humming to me, and for just a
second, I didn’t feel so alone. Then I heard
Tony’s boisterous laugh coming from the
kitchen.
I took another drag before discarding
my cigarette on the ground and stamping
it out with my heel. My feet felt heavy as I
dragged myself back to the kitchen.
When I stepped back inside, I saw
Kelly laughing with Tony out in the dining
room. She was curled up in one of our
cracked leather booths that lined the wall.
She swatted at his arm, playfully, and stood
up to wander over to help a customer. My
eyes trailed along behind her as she walked.
I tried to focus on dicing the bright red
bell peppers, but they reminded me of her
lipstick from Friday night.
“Carmen, what the hell are you
doing? You’re bleeding!”
Tony came up from behind me and
clapped me hard on the back. I looked down
and saw the blood dripping on to the cutting
board. “I’m so sorry, Tony. I didn’t—I wasn’t
paying attention.”
I scraped the peppers into the
overflowing trash and tossed the dirty
cutting board into the sink. Tony looked out
at the dining area toward Kelly and looked
back at me.
“You know, I was talking to Kelly
earlier, and she plays for your team,” he said,
winking at me, “you should try talking to
her, Mija.”
I rolled my eyes, but my palms were
suddenly sweaty. It’s hard to keep a secret
here, especially since you could tell just
by looking at me. Short hair, boyish, and
awkward everything about me screamed it.
Kelly must know, so why didn’t she tell me
she was different like me? Why didn’t she
tell me she liked girls too? The thought of
not being so alone excited me.
The night trudged on, and I thought
more about what Tony said. My work
got sloppier. When Kelly handed me an
order ticket, I got caught up in her loopy
handwriting. The words melted into a note
for me. Once I started thinking about us
FICTION
191
FICTION
together, I couldn’t stop. The thoughts
drowned out the sound of meat sizzling, I
couldn’t pay attention to chopping onions,
all I could think about was her.
It was like this every shift I worked
with her. She would stroll into the kitchen,
excitedly wave at Tony and me, and clock
in. Then I would spend the whole shift
watching her work.
When Tony caught me staring, he
would laugh and punch me in the shoulder.
“You should make a move, Carmen.
You never know what could happen.”
The more he said it, the more I
thought he might be right, but I was worried
it would change everything, so I just stared
at her from across the restaurant.
*
On Wednesday, a little while after I
clocked in, Kelly glided in through the back
door, her tennis shoes squeaking on the wet
tile.
Tony, I did it! She squealed. I got the
job! You were right. They said I would be a
great fit for the team. I think I’m going to
take it.
“Congratulations, Kelly,” he said,
lifting her into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of
you. You work so hard. You deserve this.”
I looked back and forth between
the two of them. My chest felt tight, and I
couldn’t see straight. I dropped the knife
I was using to slice thick strips of cooked
pork.
“Oh, Carmen, I didn’t notice you.”
Kelly spun around. “I applied for a job at
the pizza place opening downtown. They
pay five over minimum. Anyway, I just got
a call back from them this morning, and
they said that I got the job if I still want it.
And of course I want it, not that I don’t love
my job here, it’s just, I’m trying to move out,
and I could use the extra cash. It’s an extra
five dollars an hour. I mean, come on.” She
walked over and punched in her time card.
“Who wouldn’t take that opportunity,” she
continued, but I stopped listening. I felt like
I was slipping and couldn’t hear her over the
rushing sound in my head.
“That’s really exciting,
Kelly,” I sputtered. I smiled tightly.
“Congratulations.”
As she pranced out into the dining
room, Tony put his arm around me.
“Are you okay, Mija?” he asked.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I
whispered.
“I promised her I wouldn’t tell
anyone in case she didn’t get the job. She
needs the money, Carmen. Don’t be selfish.”
I pulled away from him and leaned
against the peeling wallpaper.
“I’m going out for a cigarette.”
He shouted something at me, but I
was already out the door. I slumped against
the wall and sharply inhaled the cold
night air. I was breathing like I had run a
marathon. I clutched my chest, desperately
trying to catch my breath. It felt like
someone was grabbing my heart and ringing
it out. I thought about never seeing her
again, and I closed my eyes, fighting back
the tightness in my chest and the prickling
sensation behind my eyes.
I sat out there for a while longer,
not bothering to pull the lighter out of my
pocket, tugging at the fraying edge of my
baggy uniform. I thought about what to do.
Maybe I should shoot my shot, ask Kelly
to hang out. What’s the worst that could
192
Connie Nicholson
VISUAL ART
Two Butchers
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 16”x20”
happen? I looked down at my yellowed
fingertips, dissecting every look, every
smile, every word she said to me, trying to
decipher how she felt about me. I pieced
together clues. She always laughs when I
joke around with Tony, but she doesn’t talk
to me unless he’s there. She helps me clean
every night when we close, and her hand
brushes up against mine while we do dishes.
Could that be an accident, or maybe she
feels the same jolt of warmth that I do when
her hand bumps into mine? Maybe if she got
to know me, she could adore me like I adore
her. Maybe she could get lost in my words.
Maybe she could be hungry for me like I am
for her.
Tony flung the creaky metal door
open.
«Carmen, get back in here. We have
customers.»
I pushed myself off the ground,
littered with cigarette butts, feeling jittery.
“Loquita,” he muttered.
I spent the rest of the night arguing
with myself, and finally, I decided to tell her
how I felt about her. If I asked her out at the
193
VISUAL ART
very least, I would stop worrying so much
about whether or not I should do it.
When it was time to close, Tony
pulled out the mop bucket, and I settled
down next to the sink. I turned the water
as hot as it would go and scrubbed the
remaining dishes until my fingers turned
pruney. I traced the edge of the rusted sink,
trying to decide what to say to her.
I gathered the plates and started
loading them into the leaky dishwasher
when Kelly walked up behind me.
“Hey, Carmen,” she said in her sticky
sweet voice. “I need to talk to you about
something.”
I could hear my heartbeat in my
ears. Was I too obvious? Was she going to
call me creepy for staring? I dropped one
of the ceramic flower painted plates, and it
shattered in the sink.
“Oh god, are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.” I quickly picked up the
thick pieces and set them to the side. I
looked sheepishly at the grimy floor.
“Are you sure?”
“What can I do you for?” I cut her off,
cringing inwardly at the awkward phrasing.
“Oh, uh, yes,” she began.
My mind raced with the possibilities
of where this could go. What if she asked me
out or said she hated me?
“I need to ask you a favor,” she
continued.
“Yes,” I said a little too eagerly.
“Can you not tell anyone else about
the pizza job? I don’t want it to get around
before I get the chance to put in my two
weeks on Friday.”
I froze.
“Carmen?”
“Right, no, yeah, totally, I will, uh, not
tell a soul. Not me. I’m a good secret keeper,”
I blurted.
She laughed, and it sounded like
Christmas bells.
I’ll see you tomorrow, Carmen.
*
I decided that Thursday, I was going
to tell Kelly how I felt.
She clocked in a few minutes after
me and went to the employee bathroom to
change into her work uniform. I followed
her, bouncing on the balls of my feet, ready
to spill all my feelings. I opened my mouth,
but Tony called my name and told me to get
my ass back to work.
I waited until she slid into one of the
wood chairs near the kitchen, and I went
out into the dining area.
Rhea Stanley
Rhealism
Drawing, 18”x24”
“Hey, Kelly,” I started, but then the
194
front door swung open, and Kelly turned
around to help the guests.
Finally, an hour before closing, I got
a chance to talk to her. I invited her to take
a break and have a cigarette out in the alley
with me. She looked confused but agreed to
meet me back there in a few minutes.
I waited out there in the cold,
fidgeting with the buttons on my uniform.
When Kelly finally opened the door and
peeked her head out, I felt dizzy and placed
my hand on the wall to steady myself. It felt
strange seeing her there. I had imagined it
so many times, but now she was so close,
right there next to me, just inches away.
“Do you come here often?” She
elbowed me in the shoulder and gave an
exaggerated wink.
I laughed a little too loud for a little
too long. My laugh sounded raspy and deep
compared to her soft giggle. I cleared my
throat, feeling around in my pockets for the
pack of cigarettes and handed her one. Her
fingertip touched mine when she grabbed
the cigarette from my hand. I shuddered.
It was quiet for a long moment while
she stared at me. The yellow street light
splashed across her cheeks, highlighting her
dainty features. This is it, I thought. She’s
been looking at me for so long, she must like
me. Ask her. Ask her. Ask her.
“So, do you have a light or what?” she
asked, letting out an awkward laugh.
I pulled the lighter out of my pocket.
Idiot, I thought to myself.
We made small talk about Tony and
her new job for a while. She did most of the
talking, but I didn›t mind. She was funny
and clever. I was obsessed with the sound of
her voice and the way she moved her hands
when she spoke. The conversation died
down, and I could hear the sound of traffic
from the alleyway.
I tried to tell her that I wanted to
ask her something, but the words got stuck
in my throat, and all that came out was a
funny sound.
“What did you say?” She asked.
“I was wondering, since you’re
leaving, if you wanted to hang out
sometime?”
She looked confused.
“Tony told me you like girls. I, um,
also feel that way. I mean, I like girls too. I
like girls like you and I, um, like you, and I
thought since you also like girls, you might
want to, like, hang out, like, outside of work.
You know, like uh—like a date … maybe?”
Her eyebrows furrowed, and she
grimaced. “I’m not—”
“Or not. Maybe we shouldn’t. I
don’t—” I stuttered.
“It’s just that I’m not into you. I’m
flattered, but I like,” she paused, “more
feminine girls.”
I was suddenly aware that I probably
smelled like sweat and refried beans and
that my hair’s frizzy. I felt like throwing up.
Kelly looked embarrassed for me.
“I should probably head back inside,
get ready to close up.” She turned towards
the door. “I’ll, uh, see you in there, Carmen.”
Hearing her say my name felt like a
punch in the gut. I crumpled to the ground,
my body in too much shock to cry. I stood
up and went back inside to help Tony close.
I did the dishes alone.
*
I called out sick on Friday, but Tony
knew. I’m sure everyone knew.
FICTION
195
After the News
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith
POETRY
The room was gorged
with bad light, the heat of
a summer full of work.
You arrived
after the cop shows, telling
me, that my dirty
laundry made your eyes
water. Then you would
take off your clothes
in that room, tossing them
with the sound of riots.
The walls bending
like mis-hit nails. You
stretched and I reached,
in that place,
did we love?
Did we ever?
196
VISUAL ART
Rick Larke
Ferns
Photograph, 8”x10”
197
POETRY
Kelly Franck
Chloe
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 16”x20”
198
Intimate Animus
Charles Sublette
I acquiesce your temperance
Your skin cast in gold, it puts marble to shame
How can I get enough to satisfy my fantasies
Love and lust woke me up to passion and pain
POETRY
Pink dandelions float in bubbles of amber brilliance
Waiting to shiver away
Translucent walls shatter around me
Turquoise lions eat your blemished tattoos
don’t hit me with those soft laced eyes
I am ready for absolution
Under powerless sculpted brilliances
199
Jist Wait’n
(Reflection of an Aged Flatlander)
George Key
Sit’n here, in my new place, where they say I’m better off in.
Maybe I am, sept no one visits like they said they would.
Now I remember, when I was an old man, much younger than me now,
I’d be sit’n on the front porch in my favorite rocking chair.
That darn old crooked-tailed cat, what kept the field mice
out of our Johnny Cake pan, I never could understand
why it would take off like greased lightning. Ma told me once why
that dang cat took a fright to that chair each time I commenced t’ rock’n.
POETRY
Well, none of that don’t make no never mind anyhow.
Now see, I be hold’n my dobro, twist’n them thar pegs,
tight’n them thar strings til they sung out jist right purdy like.
Wipe’n her down with my kerchief, ever so gently.
Not that she was ever dirty or noth’n, jist purely out of love.
I be rock’n with ease as each day slid on by, jist wait’n,
look’n out at the world and then back to home again.
Jist watch’n the corn grow while strumm’n my dobro,
til all the birds quit sing’n, jist to listen.
Our closest neighbors didn’t live close out thar like they do in here.
I’d be count’n their dusty cars as they’d roll on by, to or
from town, one at a time and then sometimes even two.
Dust would rise above the tall trees where the Redtail nested,
down ‘long the crick bed, near the bridge my father built to get us home.
Giv’n me a heads up that another one was com’n, long before
I was able to hear that rumble of them tires on the gravel.
I’d only count them thar rattle traps as they crossed the
200
imaginary finish line. . . marked so plainly by My mailbox.
T’was one of them thar O’ fishal U’nited States Postal Service ones.
It were My mailbox on my land, mounted pre . . .cariously so, on
an unpainted fence post where My Name Was painted for all to see.
It sits on the road, right thar, where My driveway meets up to
our strung- up fence, where it finds the corner of the field.
Back then, one tall pitcher of ma’s lemonade and a few or
so sips from my old crock jug, got me through most any day.
As the sun fell low, blue sky bowed to star-filled darkness.
Still, I be count’n occasional headlights, then finally, none.
A whole new world made way for the dance of a thousand fireflies.
I’d light my kerosene lamp, warm’n my hands by the glass chimney.
Find’n peace in the song of the unoiled, wooden rock’n chair.
Sudden-like the squeak stopped, and so did I, scared like a pig
in a light’n storm, clutch’n my dobro tight to my chest, for the last time.
My kids and them thar doctors come out and took me here to town.
I’m sure they meant well. They say it’s for my best. Maybe not, then
again.
They sold my place, my land, and most all my everythings.
I could only bring what fit in the steamer trunk, to this so-called place of
rest.
POETRY
My dobro I wrapped up in Ma’s quilt. It fit in that old trunk jist fine.
“See . . . my dobro hangs yonder thar on the wall.
That’s it, see . . . right thar.” Still as a church mouse,
a little rusty, and sorta kinda like me, collect’n dust.
Jist kinda the way things turned out, while sit’n and wait’n.
Through all that, I managed to hold on to a small plot of My land,
right thar where Ma was put to rest. I surely be spect’n that
when my day comes, God will’n and the crick don’t rise,
I’ll be take’n my place, under the big Oak, longside Ma.
201
Colors of a Bruise
Angelique Matus
POETRY
each house we moved into was always new,
yet the presence always remained the same.
always,
toxic and sad. Yes,
always sad, and angry.
like a Selena song that we would
rewind, and play. rewind, and play.
except,
there wasn’t anything beautiful about this.
purple and black,
our pink tea party table that had been kicked to
the kitchen,
from the living room.
I always saw mom crying.
too afraid to comfort her, instead, I
would pretend I didn’t notice.
no more than four, what could I do?
sometimes it was a broken window,
or a thrown Tapatío bottle.
are you ok, mom?
Ophelia and I sat playing tea party,
when the normal arguing sparked.
then there he came.
the man with the devil’s temper
yet, who held my love.
dad.
are you ok, mom?
202
Taylor Tang
Untruth
Drawing, 8 1/2”x8 1/2”
VISUAL ART
203
The Flip of a Coin
Ian Washburn
FICTION
Two men, without a penny
between their names, shuffled
along a sidewalk that was richer than them,
although looked just as poor. A small glint
on the ground ahead caught the eye of the
shorter of the two. He dashed forward and
picked it up before the glint reached the
taller one’s eyes.
one inquired.
“What’s that you got there?” the tall
“Nothin’.”
“Well, it’s gotta be somethin’! Can’t I
just have a looksee, Stevey?”
Steve pondered it half a second and
then covetously revealed the coin in the
palm of his—
The taller one plucked it out of
Steve’s hand so quickly he would’ve missed
it if he’d blinked!
“George, give it back! You said youse
was just going to look at it!”
“I am jus’ lookin’ at it!” George said,
holding it up to the heavens and well out of
Steve’s reach. “How about we flip the coin to
see who keeps it?”
“But it’s my coin! I found it!”
“True, but I think I gotta better plan
for it than a handful of candy!”
Steve knew the look on George’s
face in a flash, it was that face he got when
he had an idea, an idea that was really
gonna cost him. But Steve wasn’t about to
let him get the upper hand again. At least
figuratively.
“You’re on.”
“You call it, Steve,” George slickly
smiled.
“Tails!”
George flipped the coin. As it
somersaulted in the air both men watched
intently. George’s hand shot out for it
prematurely, and Steve tackled him. The
coin hit the ground while they wrestled
beside it. It bounced gracefully towards a
sewer grate. As it gently tottered towards its
doom, the two men scrambled to it in vain.
That glimmering bit of metal fell into
the void with a soul-crushing ploop.
The two men sat in defeat on the
curb that was now as broke as them.
Steve shrugged, sniffled, and sighed,
“Well, the good news is we don’t have to
fight over who gets the coin anymore!
The bad news is we don’t have the coin
anymo—”
George socked Steve in the face,
knocking him out cold.
“Heads. I win.”
204
VISUAL ART
Ulises Ramos
Caras
Mono-print on Watercolor Paper, 22”x22”
205
We Expect the Coming Rains
FICTION
Christine Early
The dulcet ring of the service bell alerted Joey to the presence of a car in the lot of
the service station his father owned. It was past eight pm now and very few people
ventured this far to the outskirts of town at this time of night. Brushing his greasy hands onto
the front of his coveralls, he peeked his head out of the small office in the station and peered
through the front window. The light from the station made it a little distance into the lot, just
this side of the pumps, but Joey was just able to make out a white Chevy parked outside. Lisa’s
Chevy.
Pushing through the front door, Joey wiped his brow where sweat had quickly
accumulated. He reckoned it was about 80 degrees outside. Not too hot, but sticky. It didn’t
often get humid in this part of Arizona, but July brought heat, and with it, wicked monsoons
that ravaged the valley and made the air thick.
Lisa was leaning against the outside wall of the station, barely illuminated by the little
bit of light that made it outside, lazily smoking a cigarette. “You didn’t have to come out all this
way to see me tonight, Lisa,” Joey said, leaning in to kiss her. As he did so, Lisa turned her head
and Joey’s lips fell solidly against her cheek. “Lisa—”
206
Rhea Stanley
Confined Affection
Drawing, 18”x24”
“We can’t keep going like this Joey.
It’s not working,” Lisa said, staring up at
him. Joey met her gaze for a moment,
quickly looking away when her stare
seemed to look into him instead of at him.
He’d worried this was coming for a while.
Lisa had been distant, ever since what
happened with Frankie. On the horizon past
the pumps, lightning flashed boldly. Joey
wondered briefly how far away the storm
was now.
“Something’s gotta change,” she
continued, bringing her cigarette slowly to
her lips. “I just can’t keep doing this.”
“We’ll get married, then,” Joey said. “A
big church wedding, like your ma’s always
talking about. And we’ll get a house, a real
beautiful place, and we’ll finally have a
home together.”
“Joey, I can’t.”
“We can start our family, Lisa,” he
continued. “A girl for you and a boy for me,
just like we talked about. Maybe I’ll open my
own service station, Lis’, and you can take
care of the home, like we’ve always wanted.”
“But I don’t think I want that, Joey,”
Lisa said. “Not anymore. And I don’t think
you want it either. I need you to respect
that. I need you to respect me.”
Joey felt the breath leave his lungs
and for a minute the world seemed to stand
still. He choked in a breath, threading his
fingers through his hair roughly. “Lis’, I
do respect you. You gotta know that,” he
said. “If this is about what happened with
Frankie, don’t you think you’ve let it affect
us long enough?”
“Us? This didn’t happen to us, Joey, it
happened to me,” Lisa hissed, turning to look
him fully in the face, her eyes narrowing
dangerously.
“I’m sorry. Look, I already told you he
was drunk,” Joey said, trying to fight down
the guilt that rose like bile in his chest. “He
VISUAL ART
207
FICTION
was just goofin’ with you, you know how
Frankie is. He does that with all the girls.”
“Oh to hell with Frankie, Joe,” Lisa
snapped. “This is exactly what I was talking
about.”
“Lisa—”
“No, Joey. I need you to listen to me,”
she said, her voice thick. “I need you to really
listen to me. I’m tired of having to pretend
like everything is ok. Everything is not ok.
It’s not. Don’t you understand?”
Joey saw the first tear as it slipped
down her face, glittering in the light that
filtered from the shop window. He opened
his mouth before closing it again, unsure of
what exactly to say. He swallowed thickly,
his saliva doing little to sooth his dry throat.
He glanced at Lisa and decided on a simple
“I’m listening,” casually leaning back against
the wall of the station behind him.
Lisa nodded slowly, drying her
cheeks on her jacket sleeve. “What
happened with Frankie, it wasn’t just the
same as what he does with all the girls,” she
said quietly. “And if it was, you think I can
move on from it so easily?”
Lisa looked down at her cigarette,
worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
“When I was four, my mother got me my
first doll-baby,” she said, her gaze focusing
on something unseen in the distance. “It
winked its eyes and cried and drank when
you held its bottle to its mouth. It even
pottied like a real baby. I loved it more than
anything, took it everywhere with me.”
The wind blew lightly, carrying with
it the smell of creosote and wet earth. Lisa
shivered and pulled her jacket more tightly
around herself, clearing her throat before
continuing.
“And when I was six, my mother gave
birth to Charlotte and she was so beautiful.
A real-life doll-baby, just like the one I loved
so much,” she said. “From the first second I
saw her, I knew I was going to grow up to
have babies of my very own. I was going to
feed them and cradle them and love them
more than anything else on earth. But
after everything…I can’t, Joey. After what
happened with Frankie, it’s like a part of
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me has gone and I don’t know how to get it
back. I don’t know how to fix this.”
Joey reached out and pulled her into
an embrace and the dam finally burst. “I
don’t know either, Lisa,” he said, his voice
hollow as Lisa broke down into his shirt.
The pair stood like this for what seemed like
an eternity, Lisa’s pained sorrow and the
not-so-distant rumble of thunder the only
things filling the silence of the night. After a
few moments, she started to pull away and
Joey loosened his grip to allow her to slip
out of his arms
“So this is it,” Joey said, watching as
Lisa scrubbed her face with her sleeve. She
took a long drag of what remained of her
cigarette, its cherry flaring angrily in the
dark.
“This is it,” she nodded, blowing
smoke from between her pursed lips.
“I love you, Lisa,” Joey said softly. The
pain in his chest only seemed to get worse
every time he breathed in. “I think I always
will.”
“I love you, too, Joey. I do,” Lisa
said, flicking the butt of her cigarette to
the ground, grinding the life out of it with
the heel of her boot. “But I have to love
myself, too and if I have to stay in this town
one second longer, I feel like I might just
combust. I have to go now.”
She leaned up gently and kissed Joey
on the cheek and as her lips left his face, she
spun away from him quickly and walked
to her car, the heels of her boots thumping
soundly on the asphalt. Not turning to
even spare him one last glance, she ducked
swiftly into her car, started it up, and pulled
out of the service station onto the 90,
heading in the direction that would take
her downstate, away from town. Away from
him. As Joey watched the two red spots that
were Lisa’s tail lights grow smaller on the
lonely stretch of road, the clouds above him
finally let loose and wept.
VISUAL ART
Tina Kennedy
Communication
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 36”x36”
209
VISUAL ART
Ulises Ramos
Mask Maker
Relief Woodcut, 11.5” x 10.5”
210
VISUAL ART
Brianna Vega
Habu Snake
Drawing, Pigma Micron, Paint Markers, 5.5”x8.5”
211
Lazy Bones
Courtney Hayes Armstrong
She was the first to wake and bumbled
blindly down the charcoal hallway, ammonia-chafed
fingers against plaster that guided her like flesh
caressing bumps of calloused braille
stiff darkness smothered
suffering lives inside the home’s inferno—
dared—
damnit, turn on the light
POETRY
liquid strands of faint honey sunshine
steered her shaking clutches as the brush bristles
raked lemon fine wicks of the child’s hair and feebly aligned
nubby buttons on powder blue seersucker
whispered to the child spelling words like live, die and hurt
waved good-bye at the bus’s crying lanterns
starched a load of laundry soiled with shame
bleached the whites
He was the last to rise and swayed and lurched
maddened by the ferocity of one tangerine ray that peeped
past the claws of the damask drapes and scratched
swollen eyes until he guzzled again from the liquored spoon
slugged late to work again and ranted
profanities to anyone and to no one and the abyss
breathed out pilfered cigarette stench into his mitt
slid back home exhausted from hustling Joes
212
VISUAL ART
Alexandra Roussard
Octopoda Suppression
Mixed Media
hissed at the television clouded in grey political angst
slung gruesome names at the women, his woman, her spirit
gulped her gifted food and stolen body
sneered through soot and ashen blame
She was the most unproductive person he had ever met—
worthless, psychotic white trash—he haughtily
heckled while she breathed and dreamed
readied her exit while finally peaceful in bed
213
Kelly Franck
Into Light
Paiting, Oil on Canvas, 12”x12”
Looking Through the Blinds
VISUAL ART
Angelique Matus
1.
I heard girls marry someone like their dad.
oh, god I hope that’s true.
papi and mom love each other plenty,
can you not tell? for them
it’s been 20 years.
If I shall marry someone like papi, i’ll be lucky,
like mom.
a man whos big and strong,
handsome and funny.
who smells of, and sells of mary-jane
to provide for his family. and who keeps us safe,
yes, keeps us safe.
if I shall marry someone like papi, i’ll be lucky,
like mom.
214
and if he breaks a window it’s okay,
it was in the heat of anger.
he still loves me.
and when I cook him food, and set the plate in front of him
and he throws it on the floor,
or gives it to our dogs,
Its okay. Maybe I undercooked it, or
maybe too burnt.
Its okay, he
still loves me.
and if he ever strikes my face,
or pulls my hair,
or grabs the glass chili bottle from the table, and throws it at me
its okay. Maybe, I should’ve listened or kept my mouth shut.
my tears will dry, and my bruises will fade away.
afterall, he will still love me.
I heard girls marry someone like their dad,
oh, god I hope thats true.
I love papi, very much.
what could be so bad loving a man like him too?
VISUAL ART
2.
My child,
Is that your idea of
love?
215
Liber Somnia
Reno Roethle
POETRY
it rained in hell, awoken from a dream
the white creature stood before the trench
arms outstretched toward pale sky, a pillar
of light reached down through cracked overcast
from the breach, molten steel poured heavy
engulfing the hole where he’d slept
a monster survived that day, to plunge the world into darkness for a second time, Herr Wolf
his mother saw a ghostly figure
as if dreaming, her son waved goodbye
his arm hanging by skin, “look mother”
it swung like a marionette
before the shell struck, premonition
he said, “I saw my mother standing there”, on the field of Verdun
in shock, he ran, a mortar exploded where he’d stood
a young soldier, The Great War
a woman in dark red gown
at the Battle of Nations, magnificent crown and golden mantle
face sorrowful, looked down with sad eyes
upon a white eagle she clasped to her bosom
facing death, he prayed, beholding her beauty the Battlefield Apparition of the Virgin Mary
she took his pain away and promised him home
Polish soldier, 1813
216
VISUAL ART
Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum
Reign - Lust
Painting, Watercolor on Paper, 8”x11.56”
in battle, the perceptive will know
when smoke turns day black, in the ancient land of Babylon
I laid in a body bag, an omen
of the flaying, foretold years past, my flesh be rent
I survived, clapping figures lined the road
beyond the sanguine pools of blood, hate
spewing from hot barrels, and iron fist of the machine
there is something fragile
it speaks in dreams, urging attention, beware
the dark ritual of war, for this is what will become
217
VISUAL ART
Tina Kennedy
Mindspace
Painting, Watercolor and Ink on Paper, 12”x12”
218
Atomic Prosperity
Reno Roethle
The doomsday clock ticks down to midnight and
the government thinks you should know. Heaps of uranium
sit in cooling tanks; without electricity, they’ll melt. T.V. broadcasts
its message, they can reach everyone, to make sure you know to be
afraid. A reactor exploded in Ukraine, but it’s safe to breath, that’s not what you
should fear. Meltdowns are secure, reactor life extensions; economical. Nuclear
decay, in decaying facilities. Fear the despot in his desert palace, who keeps his
people from the brink of chaos. Fear the idea of peace, which works
against our bottom line, but don’t worry about the poison air.
We have
enemies
that you
must be
aware of,
without
them you’d
be free.
Our missiles are pointed
at their
cities,
but they
are bad
people.
Mutually
assured
destruction
keeps the Peace.
When rockets trace the blue, we hold hell in our pockets, in the megaton range.
On the trigger is Dead Man’s rotting Hand. We can scorch the earth, and in fact, it’s policy;
to burn everyone, piece by piece for peace. Titan, Polaris, Trident, Satan, and Topol all stand ready to
annihilate...as the guardians of peace.
POETRY
219
It Would Be Nice
George Key
I don’t need
to feel respected.
But that would be nice.
POETRY
I don’t need
to be included.
But that would be nice.
I don’t need
to belong.
But that would be nice.
I don’t need
to always feel good.
But that would be nice.
I don’t need
to be touched.
But that would be nice.
I don’t need
to be heard.
But that would be nice.
I don’t need
to always smile.
But that would be nice.
I don’t need
to be liked.
But that would be nice.
I don’t need
to be loved.
But that would be nice.
220
Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum
Crown
Painting, Watercolor on Paper, 8”x10.91”
VISUAL ART
221
Charles Sublette
Hide Out
Photograph
Miles From Home
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith
Maybe you’re 19 on the back of a motorcycle
after a night of free beer and random lips.
The driver is a character out of a New Jersey opera
named “Stupidlandia,” and the words “slow down”
or “I’m too scared to breathe” could never form
as the motorcycle dances through traffic
like schools of yellow tails in coral.
222
The driver torques the throttle like he hates
the grip, the machine explodes through
molecules of speed, and whines
through the air becoming the beast
of time in calculus class, assignments not completed,
homework, red-marked to its borders, and that Arizona
is thousands of miles from his home. There,
he’d never ride a motorcycle into the
beauty of a dry spring Arizona night;
head floating with hedonistic beats and his hair
alive, planning its escape from the scalp.
Somewhere, say after two miles, you give yourself
over to any fate; that involves asking forgiveness
for these selfish choices to scream near the moon,
which wouldn’t dare singe your wings.
POETRY
And as you dart between sedan and coupe,
truck and curb, you sense the ability to
actually, reach out, at speed,
and caress a car you’re passing, and it takes
all your will to hold back your left hand;
the one that knows nothing and is often
ashamed of itself, from petting a sports car.
Some miracles are about water changing or dividing; cripples
becoming dancers or inept athletes saving the season. Others
are about events not unfolding into tragic predictability
and nothing at all taking place; arriving home whole,
smiling, thanking fate for its gentle touch,
its gracious understanding of silent idiots.
223
Memories of Lost
Destiny Brooks
My eyes were brimmed with fresh tears,
My back pressed against the cold stone wall,
It feels as if it has been years.
Years since I last heard your voice...
Fate is funny,
It seems as if you weren’t given a choice.
POETRY
A choice to live on...
The countless flowers wilt with depression beside me,
And I pick one up with gentle fingers.
The petals tilt their faces down and dive, drifting slowly in fall,
Just as my tears do,
And I can’t help myself, I call.
I call out to you,
Praying you would...Could...hear...
But my voice does not reach your ears
So, I sit,
My back against the cold stone wall,
With new tears brimming in my eyes.
With memories rushing past then fading.
Fading like the gentle pink in the petals of the flowers I hold,
Rushing past like the years that slipped by...
224
VISUAL ART
Jessi Moreno-Rosas
Life of the Party
Painting, Acrylic on Canvas, 50”x30”
225
VISUAL ART
Zach Ellingson
Space Octopus
Digital Illustration, 8”x10”
226
Polaris
Reno Roethle
The shining
North Star. Guide
travelers with your
brilliance, across the
ocean, from afar.
Deep below the depths,
black water hides terror,
unleashed in a few steps.
Gracefully, your MIRV’s fly,
launch in arcing parabola.
Poison ash from the sky.
Silent and deep, from the
ocean you rise. With a
hellish rumble, your plume
tracing. Oh, your guiding
light, is melting our eyes.
POETRY
Hydrogen warhead, fire from the sea.
Thermonuclear furnace, our creation meant
to be. Polaris, guide us to destruction with nuclear
fusion.
You shining beacon
of mass murder,
technological
perfection.
227
Mirror, Unbroken
Emily Gill
My sister is my broken mirror.
In her eyes, I see my grief reflected back at me.
I have tried to pick up the shards,
to put the pieces back together with superglue and sheer will
but the cracks keep forming and my fingers bleed.
Crystal ball, endless retrospection, release me.
POETRY
Only my sister understands
how it feels to mourn a mother who is not yet dead.
Our collective memory seared with sleepless nights,
faces pressed to pillows wet with tears.
The day my sister became a mother
I was there, where our mother should have been
holding her hand, feeding her soft encouragements
and crushed ice. She made carnal, womanly sounds
but she did not cry. Childhood was over now,
I knew, for us both. Some things
cannot be unseen, unheard, unknown.
A being emerges from the depths of my sister,
an alien, a glob of flesh, a baby.
The doctor holds her in the air, a humble offering.
The baby is screaming, crying at her own birthday party.
I am crying too, but I am also smiling.
She is my sister, she is my mother, she is me.
She is a clean slate,
a mirror, unbroken.
228
VISUAL ART
Alexandra Roussard
Ursus
Painting, Acrylic
229
Amy Nagy
Sea Creatures
Painting, Watercolor and Gouache
VISUAL ART
Nympha Nervosa
Elliana Koput
I.
There was a fish tank at the brewery,
Filled with Bluegill, Sunfish,
Smallmouth bass, Hermit crabs,
and maps on the wall that sat
in layers, reverberating noises,
voices, laughter. My head
submerged. Kitty cocktails,
little wisps of yellow light
beneath my eyelids and blood
made its way across the front of my
230
white dress. “That’s an awful habit,”
said Mother and she took me to the
bathroom to wrap toilet paper
around my naked fingertip.
“This is where we are now,”
she pointed with her fresh manicure
to the west edge of the water and
smoothed over top my anxious, snarled hair.
“Sometimes it helps to think of the beach”.
II.
Silence strikes out among crashes
of lakeshores at night. Pockets of sand
where fish lay their eggs and
turtles come to bathe.
Dissociation, humidity, cherry cough syrup
and we lay bouncing by the boat.
He asks me if it was okay.
To his beckoning call, I float,
on the shore, through the night sky.
I say maybe. I mean no.
“Are you sure? It will be fine.”
He assures himself that it is okay.
My eyelids baptize themselves
one last time. Blood creeping
along through my white underwear.
POETRY
In the bathroom I rest my head by the vent
on cold marble tile where the air
moved back on my anxious, snarled hair.
“That’s an awful habit,” I say,
wiping between my legs. And again, at my eyes.
231
Partial Family Portrait
Steve Nagy
On the left stands my Uncle Tibor, circa 1982.
Dressed like a Franciscan friar, he is proud of
the pleats he has sewn into his brown serge habit.
POETRY
It pleases him to think that somewhere,
someone is beating a woman with a razor
strop. He hopes she is kneeling on all fours.
He hopes she is that squat Polish washerwoman
who left him one afternoon at the beach.
Soon he will swear he hears her footprints and,
in falsetto, he will begin to sing: “My love, My love/
O Song of Bright January Moon/Come Thunder/ Bring
me a summer poem/ Sing me a soft October tune.”
That will be the time to return him to the asylum.
Six years later at midnight, turning forty, Uncle Tibor
will hang himself in the zoo with the knotted cord he
wears around his waist. His note shall read: Reality
Demands the Sacrifice.
I am 20 years old and standing next to Uncle Tibor.
I am dressed like John Travolta in my cream colored
three-piece suit. It’s the summer of amphetamines and
archaeology and alcohol. I am an actor with a soul patch,
working at the gas station while prepping for my roles in
Look Homeward Angel, St. Joan and The Jew of Malta.
232
Myryam Roxana Freeman
Mexicanas
Photograph, 8”x10”
VISUAL ART
It’s the summer I swim myself slim, the last time I will
ever weigh a mere 200.It’s the summer My True Love sends
me the “Amsterdam Letter,” with windmills, and Vermeer and
canals. My True Love will write about an unexpected meeting
at night that ends with morning coffee and fragrant hands and
a new love that, back then,” dared not speak its name.”
It is my first kind of loss that, one day, will become part
of a collection. My pillow will become a bag of onions.
233
Rick Larke
Kauri Tree
Photograph, 8”x10”
VISUAL ART
Saint Augustine Green
Courtney Hayes Armstrong
The moon lit the mist with its frosted rays
and turned it into fingers of cinnamon sugar
before it finally dissolved into snowy confetti
shot from cannons at carnivals onto streets of papier-mâché
but when it landed on my tongue, it wasn’t sweet, it was soapy
like the first time I tasted Mexican candy at the dulceria
234
I am the child hiding, perched on haunches
high up in the boughs of the Mesquite tree
scabbed knees raw and bleeding, and yet, I force myself
to be strong with bark, solid with trunk, opulent with green
while tiny crimson droplets splatter on the tattered leaves around me
scarlet polish that paints my bare toes and tickles my pink feet
One lone cry of blood fell down below to the candy-apple green
blades of Saint Augustine grass, the length of crayons, sharpness of steel
where that wet, red pearl landed and glistened softly
among the brindled twigs of camouflage for lizards’ tails
and I wished I was just small enough to hide there
or ride away on the backs of roly-polies, in a carefree caravan to absolutely nowhere
I see the sweaty panes of glass on my bedroom window
lollipop-checkered curtains pulled back with lilac ribbon
framed in delicate lace icing the color of pale sky
that is too frilly to do anything other than
merely muffle the screams and pain
and too many no’s
POETRY
The calico cat climbed up its course of the tree
tip-toed across the wickerwork of my trembling pulpy limbs
his warm breath nuzzled and heated the cold crook of my arm
primal, fluffy comfort that promised me of another tomorrow
a day when we would play our games of hide-and-seek and have tea parties
where I was the princess, wearing a crown of love and secrets never, ever told
235
One Last Goodbye
Missy (Tamara) Fowler
POETRY
Lost
Staring blankly into a void;
Voices calling, echoing around
but never penetrating the fog.
The mists swirling and twisting tendrils,
endless shades of grey.
Faces morph and distort
at the edges of my vision
familiar but somehow—wrong.
Grasping hands reach out for me
pulling this way
and that way
harder, faster until in an instant—
I am nothing
Shreds of thoughts
pieces of memories
drift and float to rest
on the ground
like winter’s first snow.
236
Tina Kennedy
Falling
Painting, Oil on Canvas, 11”x14”
VISUAL ART
Suddenly, a shift in the air
and with the new day
the sun rises
breaking the dark haze.
Tiny footprints left behind
in the remnants on the ground
lead into the distance.
Alone I stand, gazing.
The pair of tracks—
I recognize them.
It’s ok now...,
A whisper lingers on the wind.
...I’m free.
237
VISUAL ART
Frank Cortes
Symmetry
Photograph
238
Poem of a Clueless Man
Graysen Norwood
There was a man who thought himself the greatest in all things.
He did not know that in the choir he croaks more than he sings.
When a festival of poets held a contest in his town,
He devised a plan to be the man—
A poet of great renown.
But alas his thoughts were about himself, how great his poems must be,
With not a thought ‘bout a poet’s muse nor words of poetry.
And many an obvious rhyming word this clueless man did miss
Declaring his poet’s greatness in a poem that goes like this:
POETRY
I am the perfect poet, with perfect meter, perfect rhyme.
Compared to mine, the works of others, a literary...misdemeanor.
So, I will sit upon that chair,
That one over...across the room,
And weave a tapestry of words,
Like a weaver with his...equipment.
I am the perfect poet, with perfect meter, perfect rhyme.
Compared to mine, the works of others, a literary...misdemeanor.
(AUTHOR’S NOTE: the obvious & useful rhymes he did miss: a literary crime…that one over
there…a weaver with his loom)
239
Quantum Bet
Steve Nagy
A man goes to bed young and wakes up old.
He pees himself in his sleep.
He dreams of naked young women and wakes up crying.
POETRY
He sees a church and wonders if he is allowed in.
He hears the murmuring of his ancestors.
He wants to chant in Latin and set them all straight.
He wants to go home with a young struggling family.
He wants to compete with the kids for love and candy.
He wants the parents to scold him and set him in a corner.
He walks to the park and sees men playing chess.
He wants to be rook and directly attack the king.
He wants to be a swan in the pond and dive for a big fish.
He knows his cat will die.
He’s looking for a box in which to put the cat.
If the man opens the box right,
he and his cat will always be alive.
240
VISUAL ART
Sandy Delligatti
Smokey I
Photograph 21”x11”
241
VISUAL ART
Mackenzie Harrison
Dimension
Drawing, 8.5”x11”
242
Scars
Steve Nagy
When I read your note
the other day, I heard
again, our two voices
twined together as
fragile as the memories
that crash against us
more roughly now
that we’re older.
You sound every bit the
woman I remember:
we used to dig into
each other
by the handful
by the mouthful
in cold water flats
on rooftops and fire escapes
POETRY
Nights at Saint James Street Tavern
we used to meld into the
the woodwork together
while Smiling Walt Harper
massaged his piano
to a song by Mr. Sonny Lane Slim
Forgetting for now
why we and our busy lives
Left each other.
243
Reality
Emily Gill
I didn’t fall in love, I sat next to it
on a couch that badly needed cleaning.
POETRY
We met at a party. Not a ball or soirée,
just some grungy basement
with plastic cups and loud music.
When we kissed
our teeth clanked together.
Nicholas Sparks didn’t write our love story. It wouldn’t
make suburban mothers cry into their popcorn
or spur envy in the hearts of adolescent girls.
You’re not fantasy, not even close.
You forgot my birthday once, in the morning
your breath smells, and your mother
hates me. The gold ring you gave me
never fit right. I keep it in the bedside table
that once belonged to your dead uncle, next to the bed
where we make love, where I vomited last year
after you gave me the stomach flu.
244
Charles Sublette
Want
Photograph
VISUAL ART
245
Skythrone
Misha Tentser
In the shadows of the Adirondack peaks,
dew drips from the foliage
as we bushwhack up an unmarked trail
in jeans and ratty tennis shoes.
Sam’s dad, a large flannel-clad man with a bushy beard,
guides my best friend Sam and I up a steep cliff
named none other than Skythrone—
a receded seat in the rockface overlooking
the Ausable river and the two-lane highway below.
POETRY
Sam and I are too young for such an arduous hike,
a sheer rockface shooting up 300 feet,
but we pave on, with the awkward confidence
of two 13-year-old boys on an adventure.
We round the top and take in the view;
we’ve hiked other paths before,
but have we ever stopped to listen
to the way the breeze makes
the trees sing in unison?
I look out at this expanse of unapologetic green
and try my best to emblazon it into my memory,
like a mental postcard
saved for eternity,
accessed during the tough times ahead.
Sam and I sit together,
munching PB&Js’ in silence
exhausted and speechless
two kings
on a throne in the sky.
246
VISUAL ART
Jack Davidson
Man is God’s Religion
Etching, Aquatint, 9 1/4”x9 1/4”
247
Charles Sublette
Moonrise
Photograph
VISUAL ART
Sweet, Sweet Saguaro
Courtney Hayes Armstrong
The saguaro donned its top blossom like a tea hat
tipped slightly to the right in a polite, lady-like nod
all that was missing was a lacquered visor
to defend against the amber pencils of light
that fired down from the guns of the torrid sun
She wished her bonnet had a veil of black lace
a comedic screen for drunken mosquitos
to bounce and flop into before returning to the cusps
of the dust devils that blistered and whispered
yellow snow of palo verde blossoms across her face
248
Her arms were crooked in defiance
one bent down upon hips that were void
skimming a belted waist where fat was denied
there was no time for gluttony in the desert
only the minimal allowed to survive
Inside her abdomen, an owl’s home
carved by a crew of selfish gilded flicker
a labor union of ruby mustaches and copper caps
who hammered and peeked with their beaks and bills
naturally devised chisels harder than steel
POETRY
Hawks and wrens pried at her brittle spines for a meal
others dwelled, leases signed on the prickly dotted line
ravens sang lullabies while their mates feathered the nests
with twigs and sticks by the neon bulb of the moon
a sleepy opera that urged her noble ribs and bones to swoon
A crass smile formed on the saguaro as she curtsied
to her dwellers, her invaders, her lovers, and the wind
wiggled her topmost blossom, promising more than just nectar—
life—
and one last hop
249
That Moment
A.Z. Chance Martinez
POETRY
Their—
Eyes locked.
Hearts pounding,
sweat dripping,
lips parting.
Words—
Whispered—heard.
Names screamed,
curses slurred—
passion thrived.
Then—
Parting onwards.
Love, is said,
cries were made—
hollow; dead.
Those—
Holding—sobbing,
speaking soft
fragile words
only break onwards.
Another—
Meeting; reminiscing—
kindling burning!
Passion hot;
sweltering.
Moment—
Eyes meet
breathing one,
hearts racing—
forever there.
Following—
Regret—shattering.
Gazes held—
flames
fade to pitch.
After—
“I’m sorry?”
Eyes away,
“Forgive me…”
“I… Goodbye.”
250
Joseph Roland Ewing
DeathClassic
Drawing, Charcoal on Paper 7”x10”
VISUAL ART
251
Luis Angel Figureoa Medina
El Tianguis
Photograph, 8”x10”
VISUAL ART
Who Am I?
Missy (Tamara) Fowler
I am a mother.
I always have been.
The oldest of three, then the oldest of seven.
I’m supposed to
“Know better”
“Do what’s right”
“Look after the others”
A second mother for siblings, cousins, friends, lovers.
I am a martyr.
Punished for the wrongs of others,
yet the one everyone always turns to for help.
252
From my own children to the children of others,
I am
the teacher,
the nurturer,
the carer,
the giver,
the maker,
the earner,
the keeper,
the finder,
the hider,
the seeker,
the cooker,
the cleaner,
the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker…
POETRY
I can do it all.
I am the wiper of tears and the bandager of booboos.
I am the taker of temperatures and the maker of all betters.
I am the manufacturer of goodies and treats, always ready to feed hungry bellies.
I am a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a partner, a friend.
But—
I am a mother most of all.
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The 21yr Childhood
Kat Johnson
POETRY
I was created in the depths of a golden valley.
Made of the love and blood of freshly damp Earth and the
collective whispers of the divine.
The Great River yawned and I emerged,
barreling from its mouth.
Pure, amongst my sins and imperfections,
I grew learning the lessons of the white fire I rolled in my palms.
I don’t remember what it felt like to be young,
but I know what it feels like to be free and that is almost the same.
The magic of casualty is that I am reborn again and again,
like a phoenix bursting from the ash,
to re-live such wild and ageless youth.
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VISUAL ART
Elliana Koput
Change for Breakfast, Growth for Dinner
Photograph”
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The Executor’s Song
Steve Nagy
I know my sister thinks I did it
just because--she yes--she took care of them all—
let’s just say they--those jewels—that opal that cut diamond that Russian amethyst—
those jewels—they belonged to my Aunt Lydia.
My Aunt Lydia promised them to ME.
Same as those Easter eggs from the Ukraine
before my sister Melinda’s girls got to those sable hats & furs.
POETRY
But I was named Executor & what my sister Melinda—
Poor Suffering Servant Florence Nightingale Melinda—
always working 3rd shift on her 2nd job with full union pension
& her 1st job too—where she goes & sleeps at the expense
of my taxes & everyone else’s taxes—
Any ways
I mean—yeah—Little Melinda Nightingale
& her government-kept-ass might have
taken care of those people—Mom, MeeMaw
& Aunt Lydia—
Any ways
what Old Government-kept-Fatass
doesn’t understand is that I’m The Executor.
& Uncle Spaghetti promised my boy Mark Francis
he could have Uncle Spaghetti’s Knights of Malta
medal & his Cross of Malta & Uncle Spaghetti’s
ceremonial sword from the Knights of St. George.
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But my boy Mark Francis never got any of that stuff.
Same way with my Uncle Spaghetti’s Purple Heart Medal
nor his medal from the Battle for Hamburger Hill.
Not the raccoon coat. None of my Uncle Spaghetti’s fedoras.
No. Nothing. No, Melinda made sure that her boyfriend,
Pork Butt Pete & his Neanderthal sons from his 1st French whore
of a wife got everything.
& all those years my sister Melinda & Pork Butt Pete
& his boys ate off—how they ate from—how they
ruined Meemaw’s Waterford Crystal—Waterford Crystal
Great Grampa Morgan Morgan brought with him on the boat.
Or how my sister’s family lived at Grampa Morgan Morgan’s
house all those years--eating off of MeeMaw’s milk-fired
Von Steuben Pottery & breaking most of it, ruining everything—
wearing my Aunt Lydia’s mink & sable & fox furs—
taking what they wanted when they wanted.
Stuff like my daddy’s Army uniforms & his hunting knives
& rifles & Daddy’s railroad caps & cowboy hats &
Daddy’s Billy Eckstine shirts.
POETRY
& how about my poor brother Jimmy’s Shakespeare brand
fishing rods & reels & how about those lures & flies my brother
Jimmy made himself? What about poor Jimmy’s stamp & coin collections?
No--my boy Mark Francis never got any of that stuff.
No--but what Pork Butt Pete & my fatass sister Melinda—
that poor suffering servant Melinda Nightingale—
Don’t understand is that
I took them—
that opal that cut diamond that Russian amethyst—
because they were mine.
I’m The Executor.
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Trapped
Yareli Sanches
POETRY
i was born with wings, wings i have yet to know how to use
i see everyone flying, all i want to do is join them
i wonder when it will be my turn
i have yet to know how to use my wings
i wonder how i will learn
i wonder how with all this weight on my shoulders
i feel heavy, my heart’s pounding looking over the edge
Not knowing if i fall will i fly…will i fly
i am here standing tall with my knees shaking,
i see everyone flying
All i want to do is join them
i don’t want this moment to last, feeling so hopeless, too scared to jump too scared to fly
Not knowing if i fall will i fly…will i fly
Nothing’s behind me, so why do i hesitate
Everything’s in front of me, so why do i hesitate
My hearts pounding looking over the edge
Not knowing if i fall will i fly…will i fly
i am here standing tall
With my knees trembling i see everyone flying
As my wings open for the first time
i see my wings feeling free, with the desire of freedom
All i need to do is jump, to fly with everyone
As my wings open for the first time looking over the edge
I take my first leap to freedom…
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Jennifer Prybylla
ME
Drawing, Craft Paper, 60”x40”
VISUAL ART
259
When the Dog Bit You
Misha Tentser
Tell me again
how you felt alive
with the prick of a needle,
the kiss of a flame,
you sprinted the streets of Chicago
until you collapsed on the ground
wishing only for salvation
from what you called “it”
POETRY
the way “it” infiltrated your life
bit by bit
and then all at once
as you sat in front of the mirror
blade in hand,
carving initials into your skin
tell me again how you laughed
when the dog bit you
or cried when mom took away the knives
tell me again how to hold you
as you press tighter and tighter
tell me again how to love you
with my whole being
tell me again how I fell for you
head over heels
tripping on my words
as you sat patiently
looking directly into my eyes
with the warmth of the sun
tell me again how we sat by Lake Michigan
eating hot dogs and drinking rum
your smile setting my world ablaze
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VISUAL ART
Frank Cortes
Celebrations
Photograph
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A Shout of Silence
Cade Walsh
POETRY
Screaming,
I am screaming as the reality of the
wretched world comes careening into
my very being.
Why can no one hear?
Why must I be alone while I shed a
single tear?
Lights shift off and on while the
preachers sing their songs and stuff.
Their reality into mouths wide open.
My mouth lies here open,
Screaming,
but no one is around.
Can I hear?
I blindly thrust my hands to my face and
Find,
I have no mouth.
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VISUAL ART
Jack Davidson
American History Scroll
Etching, Double Register Print, 11 3/4”x17”
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Jack Davidson
Bungalow After a Rain Storm
Etching, Aquatint, 7 3/4”x8 1/2”
VISUAL ART
A Question of Faith
Missy (Tamara) Fowler
Faith is what calls to one’s soul
A guide for hand and heart
The compass in the dark
Sometimes its given at birth
The faith of your parents passed down
Taught from when you are small
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But for me, faith was a journey
And it doesn’t look like the faith of others
It’s embodied by nature—
It’s not prayers and psalms at all
But a daily honoring of the things that keep me going
The spirits of the elements that coalesce within
Earth gives me strength and grounding
Supportive and nurturing, where all things come from
A shelter, a home to return to each day
POETRY
Air gives me wisdom and cleverness
A stiff breeze pushing me along to learn more and more
The wind in my sails
Fire gives me passion and ambition
Burning the ground beneath me so I cannot stagnate
The candle flame in my soul
Water gives me life and love
Washing over me soothingly and blending with tears
The fountain of emotion in my heart.
The universe takes my hand and leads me on this journey.
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Meet Our Artists
Alexandra Roussard (She/Her) - Alexandra
Roussard was born and raised in Tucson,
Arizona. She hopes to one day be writing
and illustrating children’s books, animating,
and doing independent work on the side.
Amanda Valdes (She/Her) - I am 22 years
old, I am a first-year student here at Pima
working towards a career in Graphic Design.
Writing has become one of many outlets
of self-expression along with music and
creating.
Amy Nagy (She/Her) - Attends Pima
Community College.
Ana Mary Garza (She/Her) - Ana Mary
Garza was born and raised in Mexico, lived
in Canada, now settled in Tucson where
she began to establish herself as an artist.
As seen through the “Autism Collection”,
she materializes her personal family
experiences through her Art.
Angelique Matus (She/Her) - Sometimes it’s
hard writing and sharing my most private
experiences and feelings, but I’m thankful
that what was ugly to me, I was able to
paint it in a way that’s beautiful to read.
Anissa Suazo (She/Her) - Anissa Suazo
is a poet, art lover, and cat mom. She
is currently an English Major at Pima
Community College and aspires to be
a songwriter and producer amongst a
plethora of other dreams. Suazo’s poetry
and craft is experimental and explores the
deep emotions that are attached to fleeting
moments in everyday life.
A.Z. Chance Martinez (He/Him) - A.Z.
Martinez is a young writing tutor with
aspirations of professional writing.
Creatively oriented, with a drive for
creativity and telling stories.
Brianna Vega (She/Her) - After graduating
high school I joined the U.S. Navy as a
helicopter mechanic. My four-year contract
finished and I decided to continue my
education in the fine arts program.
Cade Walsh (He/Him) - Cade is a current
student at PCC studying anthropology.
Born and raised in Tucson, Cade draws on
his experience and recovery from addiction
to express his thoughts through poetry.
Cara Laird (She/Her) - Cara is a Tucson
native. She studied creative writing at PCC,
Sarah Lawrence College, and the UA. A long
time ago, she wrote some prize-winning
poetry. Now she is a homeschooling mom,
trying out this writing thing again.
Charles Sublette (He/Him) - Charles
Sublette seeks to find humanity’s hidden
truth through various mediums and forms.
For more works and to keep up with the
artist please go to www.instagram.com/
charlessublette
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Christine Early (She/Her) - I am an Arizona
native and I love this state. I currently live
in Cochise and work in Willcox as a Medical
Biller. I’ve loved fiction writing for as long as
I can remember.
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith (He/Him) -
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith grew up in
Tucson, and after teaching at Tucson High
Magnet School for 28 years he should be
learning new skills like cooking but instead
he reads what he wants and tries to write
every day.
Christopher Valenzuela (He/Him, She/Her)
– Christopher is a nonbinary creative who
is becoming increasingly more interested
in hybridizing his poetry and stories with
visual mediums. His work mainly focuses
on his past struggles with addiction,
alcoholism, and discovering his queer-self.
Connie Nicholson (She/Her) - Connie
Nicholson’s medium is drawing and oil
painting. In her subject matter she focuses
on everyday people in their everyday
surroundings. An avid photographer as
well, she bases most of her paintings on her
photos, drawings and journals from her
travels.
Courtney Hayes Armstrong (She/Her) -
Courtney Hayes Armstrong was a finalist in
the 2020 Tucson Festival of Books Literary
Awards Competition, for poetry, and in
the 2016 competition, for fiction. The only
things that she loves more than writing are
her sons, Hayes and Blaze.
Destiny Brooks (She/Her) - I’ve been writing
since grade school. When my talent was
noticed, I was advised to keep writing and
that’s exactly what I did. My specialty is
fiction, but I occasionally dabble in poetry. I
hope one day to be published for the world
to see.
Elliana Koput (She/Her) - I am a
multifaceted creative that finds inspiration
in the mundane and the metaphysical. It is a
great pleasure to have had works chosen for
this project, and I hope that observers find
themselves inspired to express themselves
always.
Emily Gill (She/Her) - Emily Gill was born
and raised in Massachusetts, although she
currently lives in Tucson with her husband
and their cat. In her free time, she enjoys
reading, cooking, and spending time in
nature.
Eva Kamenetski (She/They) - Eva
Kamenetski is a Russian-American visual
artist who explores gender identity and
sexuality, and finds inspiration in everyday
objects, minimalist desert landscapes,
and organic and geometric forms. She is
currently working on a multimedia project
encompassing photography, video, audio,
and storytelling.
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Frank Cortes (He/Him) - Frank Cortes
graduated from the University of Arizona
with a B.A. in English Literature. He
practices photography, writes literary short
stories and poetry. He currently lives in
Tucson, but dreams to relocate to New York
City, a perfect amalgamation of insanity
and beauty.
George Key (He/Him) - Key draws from real
life experiences and interactions with the
subjects. Inspired by instruction to evolve
a piece through rewrite processes and the
affirmative support of his daughter, Mrs.
Stephen (Sarah) Garber, these works have
endured the arduous journey to publication.
Grace M Johnson (She/Her) - I am Grace
M Johnson, a student at Pima, and I have
been drawing for at least 13 years now. My
favorite things to draw consist mostly of
cats (fanciful and realistic), birds of prey
and robotic creatures I have made up called
Mechnicians.
Graysen Norwood (He/Him) - Born near
Chicago. I process the world around us in a
duality of standard and alternate realities.
One of the things I do is interpret old
nursery rhymes and such in an alternate
reality. I borrow from the old & make
something new... and I wonder... Do you ever
dream in color?
Heidi Saxton (She/Her) - Heidi is a Tucson
native and soon to be Pima Community
College graduate. She is pursuing a master’s
degree in Education and a minor in English
Literature. This was her first experience
with creative writing, and she has
discovered a new love.
Ian Washburn (He/Him) - I am a native
Tucsonan, and enjoy reading comics,
listening to music, and writing short stories.
I often think in images and try to capture
those vivid pictures in my writing to be able
to share it with others.
Izzy Orozco (She/Her) - Originally from
Santa Maria, California, Tucson has been
my home for 15 years now. My favorite
mediums are oil paint, charcoal, and ink. I
am thankful for my parents and instructors
at Pima who have been my biggest
supporters.
Jack Davidson (He/Him) - Jack Davidson,
born in New York State, educated in the art
of printmaking, attended the University
of Arizona, State University New York
and Pima Community College, also holds
a degree in Landscape Architecture.
Anthroposophical concepts often inform his
printed images.
Jackie Cabrera (She/Her) - Attends Pima
Community College.
Jennifer Prybylla (Us/We) - I have been
creating for as long as I remember, as a way
to cope with the stresses all around. “Me” is
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an inside look into my life and what makes
me who I am.
Jessi Moreno-Rosas (She/Her) - A Mexican
portrait artist who brings her pieces to life
with her warmth and soul.
Jhanire (Nettie) Gastelum (She/Her) -
Nettie Gastelum is an aspiring illustrator,
digital and print comic artist, and
YouTube artist. Her illustrative narratives,
spanning portrait and still life, explore the
relationship between life, death, love, and
religion.
Joseph de Leon Reilly (He/Him) - A Library
Sciences & Creative Writing student here
at Pima Community College. He hopes to
embrace his passion for literature in his
own projects and in his future studies.
Joseph Roland Ewing (He/Him) - With
over 7 years of drawing experience, Joseph
Roland Ewing is a junior fine arts student
developing his portfolio. He utilizes his
inventive style when transforming the
human figure into something weird and
exotic.
Joshua Lindley (He/Him) - Joshua Lindley
is an inspiring writer. He enjoys writing
poetry and stories in his spare time.
Kat Johnson (She/Her) - A contemporary
poet whose work typically combines
surrealist dream tones with edgy themes.
Inspired by artists like James Tate and
Billy Collins, her work presents social
commentary in an unconventional,
refreshing way.
Kathryn Robertson (She/Her) - My name is
Kathryn Robertson. I have been an artist my
whole life, however, I only started painting
in 2012. I graduated in 2016 and took a break
from school for two years, and since 2018
I have been going to Pima Community
College where I have been learning many
different paintings and drawing techniques.
This education has been invaluable to me.
I enjoy learning all types of expressions
of art, whether it be sculptural or 2
dimensional because it allows me to use my
creative freedom.
Kelly Franck (She/Her) - Kelly Franck, was
born in Sedona, Arizona. During high school
she attended Verde Valley school, sparking
her love for art history and oil painting,
immersing her in the arts. Currently Kelly
lives and works in Tucson, Arizona. She is
attending Pima Community College earning
an Associates degree in Studio Art. Kelly
has been influenced by her teachers at PCC
pursuing a degree in teaching in higher
education. In 2019, Kelly was awarded the
honor of being chosen for Pima’s literary
magazine, SandScript, and two paintings
were included in this publication. In the Fall
of 2020, Kelly plans to attend the University
of Arizona, in Tucson to obtain a Bachelors
in Art History. Her goal is to eventually earn
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a Master’s in Art History to teach on the
university level, or working in a museum
setting. You can follow her Instagram
@-kelly.franck.art
Kimberly Laney (She/Her) - Attends Pima
Community College.
Lee Fike (He/Him) - Lee studied French in
Tunisia and marine biology at El Centro
Intercultural de Estudios de Desiertos
y Océanos in Puerto Peñasco, Sonora.
He taught horseback riding in Colorado,
patrolled the Demilitarized Zone in Korea
(he says it’s actually pretty militarized,)
and was an underground miner in Pinal
County, Arizona. He walks barefoot in the
desert mountains, studies the moon and
the clouds, has autopsied a rattlesnake, and
once danced naked atop one of the seven
hills of Rome. This is his second appearance
in SandScript.
Luis Angel Figureoa Medina (He/Him) -
Attends Pima Community College.
Mackenzie Harrison (She/Her) - My goal for
this piece was to depict Organic Chemistry
in a whimsical manner. I wanted to combine
two things that normally wouldn’t make
sense together, like carbon rings and
animals. I chose the lyrebird because
their long-textured feathers contrast the
structured chemical forms of the organic
compounds.
Maria Raygoza (She/Her) - I have written
poems my whole life, But I’ve been afraid
to share my art with the world. I’ve met
amazing people these last few years that
taught me not to be afraid. Now here is my
gift to you.
Mason Carr (He/Him) - Mason Carr is
a born-and-raised Tucsonan who loves
discovering new things about his beloved
hometown. He is currently pursuing an
education in Political Science. In his “ample
spare time,” Mason continues to develop his
writing, with the ultimate goal of publishing
and selling himself out to the amorphous
beast that is artistic capitalism. He was
honored to see his first published stories
accepted to SandScript last year and is
very pleased to be accepted again this year.
He looks forward to making writing his
successful side-hustle.
Matthew Becker-Stedman (He/Him) -
Matthew Becker-Stedman is a writer, animal
lover, and video game fanatic. He lives in
Tucson, Arizona with his boyfriend and
seven reptiles/invertebrates. He hopes to
increase LGBT+ representation in writing
and video game media through his stories.
Matthew Martella (He/Him) - I’m an old soul
who wants to share what I see and feel with
other beings. Poetry is a great way to do
that! Namaste. Om Mani Pedme Hung.
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Maya Kendrick - Maya Kendrick is a
multi-media artist and photographer from
Arizona. Maya aspires to inspire the young
and the old, all whom search for the deeper
meanings in this life; whether it be literary,
with the paper bound words she puzzles
together, or through her other numerous
passions in the art fields. Maya works
primarily in oils, although she has ability in
watercolor, acrylic, sculpture, poetry and
photography. Her work could be portrayed
in multiple ways, however, her goal is to
fabricate her art in a way that reflects raw
emotion, and portrays nature’s deep desire
for humanity to step beyond old ways, and
discover new paths, towards a brighter
future, for us all.
Misha Tentser (He/Him) - Misha is a
Russian-American bartender born and
raised in Tucson. He finds inspiration in the
unique strangeness of his hometown, his
storied childhood, and the people he’s met
along the way.
Missy (Tamara) Fowler (She/Her) - Nontraditional
student Missy Fowler is a
sophomore at Pima, transferring in the Fall
2020 semester to the University of Arizona
to major in Creative Writing. She hopes to
put her tragic life story and traumas to use
helping other people through her writing.
This eternal optimist is the founder and
President of Pima’s Creative Writing Club,
Chair of Student Senate, and Secretary
of the Pima Student Advisory Board. She
stays busy while maintaining her position
as an honor’s student and Phi Theta Kappa
member.
Myryam Roxana Freeman (She/Her) -
Myryam Roxana Freeman, mother of three
boys, skilled in visual and digital arts, plus
tattoo design and application. Born in Agua
Prieta Sonora, raised in Cananea Sonora,
and Central Oregon. Her art is inspired by
her family and friends.
Renee Terry (She/Her) - Renee Terry is a
novelist and author of short stories. She has
taken writing classes at Pima Community
College for personal development. Renee
supports the arts in Tucson and is grateful
to the college for providing venues for
students to display their talents.
Reno Roethle (He/Him) - Reno Roethle lives
in Tucson, Arizona with his wife Katyusha.
He is a Science Fiction lover and a big fan
of cats. He plans on attending the UofA
in spring 2020 to work on his bachelors in
writing.
Rhea Stanley (She/Her) - I started art classes
one year ago and continue to be inspired
by where I could be one year from today.
There’re so many layers of art I am dying
to get into, this is just the beginning for
me. Simply putting life into whatever I’m
working on has ignited a passion in me.
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Rick Larke (He/Him) - Attends Pima
Community College.
Rick Spriggs (He/Him) - Rick Spriggs has
been doing art most of his life. He is now
focusing on ceramics and digital painting.
Sandy Delligatti (She/Her) - A recent Pima
graduate, Sandy works at her home studio
with various media - photography, painting,
ink drawing, stained glass, mobile sculpture
and ceramics relearning Southwestern
ancestral techniques.
Sergio Peraza-Jimenez (He/Him) - Sergio
Peraza-Jimenez is a 20-year-old student
at Pima Community College; his work is
primarily focused on creating a striking
visual image derived from life.
Sivanes (She/Her) - I am a Tucson-based
retired pediatrician, avid gardener and new
artist. Started to paint with watercolors in
2018 and progressed to oil which is now my
preferred medium. My flower paintings are
oil on canvas using alla prima technique and
are inspired by the serenity and the beauty
of botanical gardens.
Steve Nagy - Steve Nagy is a retired teacher
living in Tucson, Arizona.
Taylor Tang (She/Her) - Taylor Tang was
born in Tucson, Arizona in 1995. Her art
portrays a unique perspective, leaving the
viewer questioning what is truly before
them. She elicits complex emotions in
viewers and creates works of complete
devastation, hope, or perhaps both.
Tina Kennedy (She/Her) - Tina Kennedy
was raised in California’s Gold Country. She
has lived in both isolated, awe-inspiring
landscapes and urban environments. Our
relationship with landscapes and with each
other is a theme in much of her work.
Tom Webster (He/Him) - I am a retired
anesthesiologist and now volunteer in the
Digital lab at PCC and take photography
classes.
Ulises Ramos I as a young artist from
Mexican descent, I don’t only represent my
cultura background but also a long tradition
of printmaking. That is my goal in life, to
preserve and develop such a traditional
method important for me and the art world.
Vanessa Ibarra (She/Her) - Chicano artist,
Vanessa Ibarra uses clay, oil paints and
various other mediums to express themes
of nature, female empowerment and dark
humor in her work. Born and raised in Los
Angeles, she relocated to Tucson and began
studying and creating art in 2017.
Vincent A. Jones (They/Them) - A watcher
of the stars bent on conveying the Absolute
to the eyes that seek it.
Wendy Wiener (She/Her) - Wendy last
attended Pima College thirty years ago,
majoring in Construction Technology
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and helping to build two houses with the
Build-A-Home program. Currently she is
majoring in English, working on balancing
her academic writing and editing experience
with more creative pursuits.
Yareli Sanchez (She/Her) - As a young
immigrant woman, Yareli Sanchez (23) has
always tried to overcome challenges with
the constant burden of anxiety. Yareli
continues to attend Pima Community
College and is taking a big step in achieving
her future goals.
Zack Ellingson - I strive to be as wild and
creative as possible. Seeing everything come
together once colored is just so satisfying.
Personally, I use everything I create as
building blocks in progression. My goal is to
take something from everyone’s advice!
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Meet Our Team
Editor-in-Chief
Assistant Editor
Christopher Valenzuela is a nonbinary
writer and creator who plans on
transferring to the University of Arizona
where he will double major in Anthropology
and Creative Writing. He hopes to use his
writing to create space for queer identities
to live and breathe in the Literary World.
Through his ever-evolving understanding
of culture, both past and present, he hopes
to dismantle traditional views on the queerself
and the perception of queer people as a
whole.
Anissa Suazo is a poet, art lover, and cat
mom. She is currently an English major at
Pima Community College and aspires to
be a songwriter and producer amongst a
plethora of other dreams. Suazo’s poetry
and craft are experimental and explore the
deep emotions that are attached to fleeting
moments in everyday life.
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Managing Editor
Social Media Manager and Poetry Editor
Robert Bendele is a sophomore in his final
semester at Pima hoping to transfer to
an undecided-upon university in order
to obtain a degree in English. He enjoys
reading and is passionate about music
(especially classical). Being a firm believer in
the value of constant self-improvement, he
plans to one day master the guitar, as well
as publish at least one novel.
Robert Quintana is an English major at
Pima Community College who will be
transferring to the University of Arizona
in the fall of 2020. He plans to double major
in Journalism and Environmental Science.
During high school, Robert was part of his
high school’s yearbook class. He was in
charge of getting interviews and stories due
to his outgoing personality and his status
as the Varsity Cheer Captain, because of
that title, he was well acquainted with the
student body and helped promote sales of
the yearbook at school events.
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Prose Editor and Industry Outreach
Coordinator
Callene Ross is a sophomore who plans on
transferring to the University of Arizona
for a double major in English and Creative
Writing. She was a “Speak Out” Creative
Writing Scholarship 2 nd place recipient
for her short story, “Once is Enough,” a
recipient of the All-Arizona Academic Team
Scholarship, and has two flash fiction works
published through Sweek.
Prose Editor
Laura Barlow is a lover of the arts.
Although an accounting major at Pima
Community College, her passion since
young has been writing, poetry, and
drawing. Originally from Massachusetts,
she loves the desert landscape of Tucson
and plans to transfer to Arizona State
University. This is her first time working
with an editorial group for literature.
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Prose Editor
Poetry Editor
Manuel Alvarez is currently an English
major at Pima Community College. He plans
to transfer to the University of Arizona.
Some of his hobbies include writing,
listening to music, and reading.
Wendy Weiner last attended Pima College
thirty years ago, majoring in Construction
Technology and helping build two houses
with the Build-A-Home program. Currently,
she is majoring in English, working on
balancing her academic writing and editing
experience with more creative pursuits.
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Poetry Editor
Poetry Editor
Non-traditional student Missy Fowler is a
sophomore at Pima, transferring in the Fall
2020 semester to the University of Arizona
to major in Creative Writing. She hopes
to put her tragic life story and traumas
to use to help other people. This eternal
optimist is the founder and President of
Pima’s Creative Writing Club, Chair of
Student Senate, and Secretary of the Pima
Student Advisory Board. She stays busy
while maintaining her position as an honor
student and Phi Theta Kappa member.
Joseph D. Reilly is a sophomore of Pima
hoping to transfer to the University of
Arizona in 2021 with a focus on Creative
Writing, Linguistics and Library Sciences.
He hopes to pursue his passion for writing
and seeks to improve himself through
editorial work as part of our SandScript
staff. As a well-meaning if harsh critic,
Joseph serves as our resident Simon Cowell.
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Visual Art and Prose Editor
Visual Art and Poetry Editor
Lee Fike, a veteran of the United States
Army, studies creative writing and
literature at Pima College. He holds a BA
from New York University and a DVM
(Doctor of Veterinary Medicine) from
Colorado State University.
Noël Borane is an English major at Pima,
hoping to transfer to the University of
Arizona to earn a double major in English
and World Literature. She hopes to have
a career in publishing or as a teacher like
many of her family members. Some hobbies
of hers are dancing, cooking, painting,
listening to music and reading of course!
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Graphic Design Editor
Faculty Advisor
Cynthia Drumond is a business
administrator, entrepreneur, and currently
pursuing a new career as a graphic designer.
She is passionate about how brand identity
can enhance the customer’s experiences and
build a bridge between a company and an
audience. Through emotional engagement,
she provides strong visual concepts in
various media. When she isn’t working, you
will find her gardening, cooking some family
recipe, or listening to a good Bossa Nova
song.
Frankie Rollins enjoys the privilege of
teaching honors and creative writing to the
intelligent, artistic, and progressive students
at Pima Community College, both at West
Campus and online. Rollins has published
a collection of short fiction, The Sin Eater
& Other Stories (Queen’s Ferry Press, 2013),
as well as two novellas, Doctor Porchiat’s
Dream (Running Wild Novella Anthology 3,
2019), and The Grief Manuscript (Finishing
Line Press, 2020).
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