Mariposa Literary Review - Estrella Mountain Community College

poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Division of Arts, Composition and Languages
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Estrella Mountain
Literary Review

fiction
A Split Second
Ashly Elliott
My Condolences
Ashley Spring
Unamused
Tara Robinson
Fire and Brimstone
Natalie Folks
Spanish Lanterns
Monsi Monique Adrian
The Time We Lived
Julie Moore
The Boy
Gloria Bonnell
Well, At Least You Aren’t Dead
Shannon O’Connor
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47
The flower icon indicates the award winners in each category.
non-fiction
Desiderata
Petra Maloy
Choosing the Avatar
Gloria Bonnell
Moonlit Sunset
David Sky Nuñez
The Melting Pot
Yvette Banuelos-Gonzalez
Why Did I Move to the United States?
Ngoc Trinh Tran
It Started Like Just Another Sunday
Charles Lee Rogers Jr.
Father
Joseth De Santiago Navarrete
Danny
Monsi Monique Adrian
Whispers of Rain
Ashley Tucker
poetry
The Fountain
Ariana Dudley
A Solitaire in the Storm
Wanda Leske
Culture
Devin Sanford
Sleep so loud
Christian Mandeville
Survivors
Christopher Whitelaw
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poetry
Listening to Logic
Joe Neal
Wish
Tierra Beasley
Underage Gambling
Tiffany Davis
My Home
Allison Phillips
Skin
Ronald Jones
N*2 = Stupid
Jessyka Lanks
The Econ ‘n’ Me
Sarah Routolo
And the House, Too
Tara Robinson
Layla
Freddy Ramirez
Free to Speak
Sandra Herrada
War
Briget A. Ledger
I Am My Own Masterpiece
Christina Moreno
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36
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39
40
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44
44
47
49
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51
visual arts
Manikids
Joshua Morrison
My Mind
Taylor Ventittelli
Vanity
Shannon O’Connor
Raven
Lauren Mosco
Nothing, AZ
Mary Ann Padglick
Burning Man
Brett Medina
Lone Tree
Travis Hamm
Laundry
Julio Carrillo
Water Stain Three
Gloria Bonnell
La Scala
Audrey Dorado
Spooklight
Erick Sanchez
Abandoned Drag Race Tower
Isaac Bartelt
It Is Pretty Ugly
Evelyn Ruiz
Harley
Jason Williams
Cata
Faustino Obela Lopez
Introspect
David Nuñez
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
A Split Second
first place fiction
Ashly Elliott
“Amber, tonight is going to be awesome,” I said.
“The red planet,” she whispered, eyes glossy.
Mars would be in the sky for only one hour that night, and
the air was thick with excitement. All day, the science nerds
of the school would suddenly lift their heads to the heavens as
if there was some high-pitched whistle only they could hear.
That night, they would come in sleepy droves, filling the city
streets. We planned to be there right along with them. But
one thing stood in our way. My mom.
I stood in the kitchen, pleading with her.
“Absolutely not!” she bellowed, her purple face framed
by strands of wild hair, creating a striking resemblance
to Medusa. “No daughter of mine is going to be walking
around the middle of town at one o’clock at night!”
“Mom!” I whined, even though I could hear the finality
in her voice.
“You’re only nine years old. It’s dangerous,” was
what she said. What she meant was, “What would the
neighbors think?”
That was my mother for you. I could commit murder
and it would be all right, as long as the neighbors didn’t see.
I rolled my eyes and stalked angrily from the room. Forget
the neighbors. We were going to see Mars, and that was that.
That night, Amber stayed at my house. We waited until
everyone was asleep before tiptoeing stealthily out of the
window and off the rooftop. The classic escape route. My
mother wouldn’t discover this until I was far into my teenage
years. After that, there would be no more nighttime adventures,
but for now, the way was open. We paused at the bottom,
listening and waiting. Tiny beads of sweat gathered on my
brow. My heart was pounding in my chest, but my mother’s
room remained dark. I sighed, relieved. We were safe.
We set out, marching with our eyes stretched heavenward,
an invisible force driving us on. The night air was muggy, and
I could feel my Winnie the Pooh night shirt clinging against
my shoulder blades. Our slippered feet were deafening on
the quiet city streets.
Then the countdown began. We had exactly sixty minutes
to find the red planet or lose it forever. The seriousness of the
mission weighed on us. We looked at each other and a silent
understanding passed between us. There would be no time
for joking around tonight.
Five minutes passed, ten minutes… thirty and still nothing.
“Where is it?” my friend asked me in the high-pitched
voice she often adopted when nervous.
I looked at my watch. “Don’t worry. We still have time,”
I told her, but my stride was a little less confident. Were we
going to make it?
My lack of confidence sprouted into a full-blown panic
attack as the top of the hour approached. Every house was
in the way, every tree a personal annoyance. Our view was
blocked on all sides. There were a couple of false alarms, and
then… the hour was up and we’d missed our chance. How
could this have happened?
I kicked a crumpled Coke can lying in the gutter. Years
of soccer practice sent it skittering almost out of sight. The
metallic grating sound echoed through the dark.
“Let’s just go home,” I choked, ignoring the prickling
sensation in my eyes.
We started back, smaller somehow, as though a great
weight had been placed on our shoulders. I could feel my
heart splintering. But as we rounded the next corner, I felt
Amber’s nails dig into my arm painfully. I skidded to a stop
and all the breath whooshed from my lungs.
There it was, in matchless glory. It seemed as though it had
stayed just for us. I stared into the eye of God. For a split
second, all the secrets of the universe hovered above our heads.
“It’s… so bright,” I whispered. “I didn’t think it would be
so bright.”
Mars winked.
I couldn’t take my eyes away. I wouldn’t see it again until
my mother booted me off to Yale. It would look different
through the eyes of a telescope. More concrete somehow,
less magical. Science would eventually turn that bright red
glow into nothing more than a pockmarked piece of rock.
But that night I had to believe. There was something more
than textbooks, more than a lonely mother that hid behind
appearances. There had to be.
Amber’s grip loosened on my arm. “Is that… the radio
tower?” she asked.
I stared up at the fading red light, smiling softly, and closed
my eyes before it vanished completely.
I didn’t care what it was. n n n
Desiderata
first place non-fiction
Petra Maloy
“Soft breath kindles my inner fire, lighting the sky of my
mind, placing constellations behind my eyes, by which the
soul now charts its course.” The room is dark and humid,
all of us are stretched out over our mats. Candles surround
the perimeter of the room. There is just enough light to
check our forms in the mirrors. The fans overhead give a
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little relief, but the heat doesn’t bother me – it’s cleansing
and intense. “Bask in the warmth of your own rising sun.”
Standing at the front edge of my mat, hands together in
prayer position, I take a deep breath and lift my hands up
towards the sky and arch my back slightly. As I exhale, I fold
down over my legs. Placing my hands on either side of my
feet, I jump back into plank and bring it down, hovering
right over the mat, then slowly scoop up into “upward dog”.
Delicious sweat drips down my spine. My arms are tired
and my back is sore, but I feel strong and powerful. “Use
your breath to unify your thoughts and emotions, drawing
your focus inward.” Each pose is challenging. My legs
tremble and the pace of my breathing increases. I need
this adrenaline rush every day. Spinning, kickboxing, rock
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
climbing, swimming, Pilates: I love it all.
Jumping back 17 years to where this love of exercise grew
out of an unhealthy obsession.
One Sunday a month my family would go to my
grandparents’ home for dinner. The food was always
fantastic, but it took forever until it was ready. To kill
time we would go in the back room and play board games.
During one particularly close game of Connect Four, my
grandma came in and told me she wanted to show me
something. She led me down the hall to her room and
closed the door. Her room was very feminine. Family
pictures that spanned the years covered one wall. I loved
looking at them. Picking up her jewelry box she said,
“Petra, you are far too husky. You eat too much and your
Manikids
first place visual arts
Joshua Morrison
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
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My Mind
second place visual arts
Taylor Ventittelli
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
weight has become an issue.” Sitting there on the edge of
her pink duvet-covered bed, I instantly felt self conscious.
“You are only going to get bigger. If you ever want to marry,
you have to change. Your mother obviously doesn’t care to
tell you these things because she has the same problem.”
I looked up at her in disbelief. I thought my grandma
liked me. She was just standing there looking down at me
with that shiny pearl lipstick and blue eye shadow. Her
eyebrows were arched up in the, “I’m telling this to you
for your own good,” way. She was still holding on to that
jewelry box when my mom knocked on the door. “Oh, I
was just showing Petra some of my treasures.” Lies. My
dad was always doing the same thing. Who doesn’t love
contemptuous words of advice?
My dad was proud of my healthy appetite and made it a
point to give me extra helpings. But he would also buy me
exercise equipment and work out videos. I was confused and
frustrated with my changing 12-year-old body. I needed
loving advice, not criticism. From what I can remember,
my mom was either at work or napping, so my dad became
the dominant parent. The night when I started my period
I went to find my mom. I started to open her door and
my dad barked at me to leave her alone. I told him I really
needed to talk to her and he asked me why. I reluctantly
told him and he said she would not want to be awakened
for that and that he could tell me what I needed to know.
My personal and intimate boundaries were just ripped from
me. My body wasn’t mine. It belonged to my parents and
my future husband. That was what I was taught. My father
would talk about women on a daily basis. They were objects;
they were for a man’s pleasure. My father said, “You see that
girl right there she is probably good in bed,” and “Wear this
red lipstick; it makes your lips look plump and kissable.” I
remember driving down the street with him one day and
he honked at a woman walking on the sidewalk. I was so
embarrassed and told him that it was rude. He told me
I was wrong and that girls like it. Apparently, I would be
wrong about lots more. If I ever expressed my opposition
or uncomfortable feelings, he would twist it into, “There is
something wrong with you if you are thinking that way. I
am only giving you an example. You need to repent of those
evil thoughts.”
“Your mother doesn’t really love me.”
“I married her because everyone likes her, but she’s
different around me.”
“I wish she loved me, and gave me what I needed.”
“What did I do to deserve the way she treats me?”
“Why can’t she lose weight or take care or herself?”
“How come she can’t call me at work and talk dirty to me?”
“She’s not a good mother.”
“I could be at work having an affair, but I care about
my vows.”
“Why is she so frigid?”
“She needs to tighten her muscles down there, so sex
is better.”
“What am I doing wrong?”
“You will be different. You will please your husband. You
will learn what not to do from your mother’s example.”
“You are so beautiful.”
“When you get married I will tell you the things that
men like.”
“Why can’t she understand me like you do?”
“Do you know the difference between right and wrong?
What would you do if I came into your room tonight with
an erection?”
Poison poured over me year after year. Innocence melted
away. I became quiet and passive around him at all times.
The idea of womanhood was devastating. I knew that after I
became a mother, my body would be ruined and I would be
seen as a disappointment.
When I turned sixteen I started to express my opinions
and concerns a bit more. I didn’t agree with the way he did
things. He made me feel upset and uncomfortable. I told
him I was a young adult and that I could make my own
choices. He told me the idea that society had about someone
being considered an adult at 18 was ridiculous. He told me I
would have to do what he said, 18 or older, and that he would
not respect my wishes until I became a mother.
The middle of my senior year my dad arranged for me to
move out of state for school, with a family friend (who turned
out to be a child molester). I freaked out. I wanted to attend
school instate near my friends and boyfriend, Joseph. I had a
local scholarship. I wanted to have roommates and I wanted
to get a job. Why couldn’t I make these choices? They were
good choices. I was an excellent student and a hard worker.
Joseph and I decided to get pregnant. We would get married
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and I could get away from everything.
I had met Joseph in Spanish class, junior year. He sat
two seats behind me. He was always trying to get a reaction
out of me. He would say silly things or act up in class to
get my attention. He had to take his hat off in class and
sometimes had the craziest bed head. That tall, handsome,
backpack-wearing boy. Hat backwards and hands shoved in
his pockets. As soon as he flashed that dimpled grin, I was
his. There was a familiarity to his embrace. Our souls seemed
to know each other.
“As you find the truth, you will find it in support of
all existence. You will find it in every rock and tree, feel
it in every song and smile, recognize it in the light behind
every eye, shining toward you until you can no longer
refuse to see.”
I wanted to feel safe and healthy. I didn’t choose this
way of living. I felt ashamed of my experiences and blamed
myself for it continuing. Why didn’t I tell my mom or a
friend? Why did he get into bed with me at night and just
stare at me? How come I couldn’t close my bedroom door?
Why did he think it was okay to pull my pants down and
spank me on the bare butt as a punishment at 16? Was I
bringing this on myself? How come he did these things to
me and not my sisters? Am I forgetting other trauma? Do I
really want to remember?
Our parents were rightly devastated for our “accidental”
pregnancy. We had made a mistake and unfortunately
became pregnant. Or so they thought. Was it selfish to bring
a sweet baby into this world to two young jobless teenagers?
Yes. However, our many trials and struggles through the
years made us close and strong. Our kids, all four of them,
know that their parents think the world of them. Our kids
know their parents love and respect each other. They have
love and health and safety. I’ve been married almost 12 years
now. The first 4 years of my marriage I saw my dad. But now
I do not. I revert to a little scared girl inside, who can’t speak
up for herself.
I was in the hospital after the birth of my first daughter
six years ago and I got up to use the bathroom. I was
alone with the baby and didn’t want to leave her. She was
sleeping so I hurried. When I got out the nurse came in.
“Oh did he find you?” she said. “Who?” I asked. She
explained that a man came to the nurses’ desk and asked
where my room was. She had not recognized my last
name and told him to try another floor. She was tired
and felt bad that she had given him bad information.
“What did he look like?”I asked. “He has salt and pepper
hair”, she said. Instantly I lost my legs and felt panicked.
I was so scared he would find me and my baby girl. The
look on my face must have alarmed the nurse because she
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
helped me sit down and told me she would get a security
screening on my room. No one could come in unless
they were on my list. I have never had a panic attack
before or since then. I decided that if my body did that
on its own it was for a reason.
I still have to exercise every day or I feel ugly and fat.
I’m hoping that sooner than later I will be free of this way of
thinking. I’m sick of my dad coming up in all my writing. He
still has power over me. It pisses me off. n n n
The Fountain
first place poetry
Ariana Dudley
In my search for the fountain
I’ve fallen on words
I’ve crossed oceans of prose
And rested on pastures of poetry
I’ve fought demons of doubt
And slayed and striked out useless definitions
Added in, then taken out periods where commas deserved to be
I’ve coerced similes
And told them to be like metaphors
Persuaded analogies to take rest upon my shores
But for vain reason
They dried up like old lesions
A scar in the sand, changed and faded by the seasons
I’ve looked up and wished upon stars
Connecting them in cursive
To give them purpose
Writing love stories in the sky
Directing my telescope made of deeper meaning
A calligrapher’s pen to demonstrate a lust for dreaming
And weaved a theme upon Shakespeare’s universe
I’ve sacrificed my life for free verse
Took words at their worst and cleaned them up in context
Perplexed by their own beauty
They turn to me
Bribing me to make them better
And with no effort
I earned my wings
Took flight and landed upon a tree of knowledge
Planted by the fountain
I etch my discovery in stone
Words and thoughts and depth alone
Carved in the bones of humanity
A mirror reflective of literary vanity
My words trickle down the fountain
This is how you will remember me
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
My Condolences
second place fiction
Ashley Spring
She’s doing that thing again—tapping her fingers as
if on a piano, to whatever mental music she’s conjured.
Chipped black nail polish, and I can’t tell if she’s hitting
the keys right but she’s concentrating very hard. Her head
bounces from side to side to the same rhythm, causing
her short bangs to slide along her forehead. Cadence’s
appearance is something that she never seems to put much
effort into. The black, green and blue masses of her hair all
stick the way she slept on them.
We’re waiting for Anatomy to begin, always arriving before
the rest of the students who trickle in near the final bell. It’s
always interesting to watch Cadence contemplate. Her eyes
focus hard on something far away, but she’s completely and
eerily aware of everything going on in her peripheral.
She doesn’t even need to look down for her left hand to
slide across the table and take mine. I swallow the impulse
to pull away from her clammy hand, but manage to shimmy
them under the table before anyone notices.
“Hey, Melanie, are you free next week?” Cadence asks
me, smiling.
“Yeah, I think so.”
I’m thinking back on a discussion we’d had about keeping
our relationship a secret—for the sake of avoiding ridicule.
She scoffed at the time and said “let them ridicule!” loudly,
with a grin, but I convinced her not to tell anyone. Apparently,
she didn’t consider hand-holding a very intimate activity.
The tiled room is a dull roar of teenage trivialities that seem
to bounce off the walls and echo in my ears. What shoes to
buy for prom—which was almost four months away—who
had won the basketball game last Thursday, who was dating
who, etcetera. I tried to tune out the two boys sitting across
from us at the black-topped table. They’re always loud and
obnoxious. Joshua on the right, flexing tight biceps under
his over-shirt, turned his whole body to Benjamin, a member
of the varsity soccer team, wearing his uniform shorts and a
wife-beater.
“Did you hear about Nathan?” Joshua doesn’t bother to
lower his voice.
“Oh yeah,” Ben says. “Kyle told me coach found out he’s
a fudge-packer and lost it. The school says he’s gotta let him
play anyway, but the way I hear it he’s making him turn in
and shower before the rest of us.”
The two aren’t even remotely concerned that everyone
around us can hear them. The pride in their words irritate
me, so I begin scribbling with my free hand in my book—a
little stick figure stabbing other, more buff stick figures in
their empty round heads. The hand I hid beneath the table
was beginning to tingle and I realize too late that Cadence
is gripping it hard, cutting off the blood flow to my fingers.
Before I can stop her, she snaps at the two across from us,
“Your coach should be fired.”
I pull my hand quickly out of hers, sitting completely still
and watching them. Cadence doesn’t flinch. Both boys turn to
glare at her, strings of angry curses on the tips of their tongues.
“Anyway,” I cut in, as if I had been part of the conversation
all along, “we have ten minutes to label all of the bones on
this skeleton and I can’t afford an F.” I could afford an F. The
homophobic, movie-cliché jocks couldn’t. They laugh that
this-girl-isn’t-worth-our-time-anyway kind of laugh and the
rest of the class passes without a massacre.
A week passes and Cadence and I are finally able to arrange
some alone time. In the privacy of her room, while her mom
was at work and her sister at school, we lie together on her
crimson bed, holding hands. She idly runs her fingertips over
my arm or toys with the ends of my hair.
Cadence raises my hand with hers toward the ceiling. “You
have beautiful wrists,” she says.
I don’t know what to say—compliments always
embarrassed me. I watch as she twines and untwines our
fingers, unable to remain still.
“I was thinking of going to the school to complain about
the coach those assholes were talking about during class,”
Cadence lowers our hands, kissing the inside of my wrist
lightly and then smiling up at the ceiling. “Can you imagine?”
I can imagine Nathan. Imagine him dropping out of sports
and hating life and resenting everything that he is.
Cadence allows the subject to pass after my prolonged
silence, and I cast a glance at her to see if I’ve somehow upset
her, but she seems satisfied picturing her personal vendetta
against the coach.
The strange dull glow of the purple light bulbs lit up
the whites of her eyes. Almost a whole hour passed in
relative silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The red of
her walls and bed and floor look burgundy under the
purple glow, interrupted by varying posters of gothy
bands and then bright rainbows of Japanese cartoons like
Fruits Basket. When she fidgets even slightly I move to
fit her, shifting my weight onto my side and resting my
head on her shoulder.
The room is warm. I must have dozed off because when I
come to, my body is stiff and foreign and Cadence is over me.
Not entirely—not in a looming, creepy way, but her arm is
propping her torso up and her eyes are staring at mine.
She jerks away from me, sitting up straight.
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

“I was going to… wake you up,” she says, changing her
words at the last second. “It’s almost six, and I thought I
should walk you home before it gets too cold.”
I try to make myself as small as possible walking into the
cafeteria. I keep hearing the word “dyke” mingled in with my
name and I try to hide my face with my hood while glaring at
the indifferent, generic linoleum.
No matter how many times I circle the large hall, I can’t
find Cadence. Maybe that’s a good thing. The less I’m seen
around her, the better. What if my brother found out? The
little brat is only two years younger than me, and as such he’s
wormed his way into High School just in time to potentially
ruin my life. He could find out from whispers of whispers,
and then word would inevitably get to my parents.
I don’t see her until after school. Those who aren’t busy
whispering as they pass me load into buses and cars, trudging
over the gravel. She comes right up to me, hunched and timid
and staring at her Vans. I still have to look up to see her face
even with her head hung, and before I can utter a word she’s
talking in quick, hushed tones.
“I’m so sorry, Mel. I didn’t think he would tell anyone. I
completely understand if you’re angry with me.” Though she
doesn’t say his name, trying to absolve him of the blame, I
know she means Sho, as he’s the only person she really speaks
to outside of school besides me. Her tone is so worried and
tense that I almost feel guilty for being angry with her.
Some students have gathered at a safe distance to listen to our
argument, and it dawns on me Cadence’s words have confirmed
for them what was only a rumor before. I close my mouth
quickly, shooting a glare at the onlookers, then at Cadence.
I walk past her without a word and start down the street.
I hear her footsteps at my heels, slow and steady against
the pavement. When I offer a glance back at her, she’s still
staring at the ground, apologizing to it quietly, hands fisted
in her pockets.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” she says.
“I know that,” I tell her.
Worse than my girlfriend blabbing to the whole school
about our abnormal relationship is my brother, my own flesh
and blood, opening his mouth to our parents.
The lectures are endless. Sin and hell and unnatural and
gross and “just a phase.”
Every time they call her “that girl” my throat burns and my
nails dig into my palms. She is naïve, sure, for not realizing
this would happen. She thought so foolishly that like those
stupid Japanese cartoons, we would somehow rise above all of
this crap and come out unscathed. But she wasn’t “that girl”
and I wasn’t “that girl.”
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Everything rings in my ears—mom’s angry yelling and
Dad’s muttered suggestions that sound like “therapy” and
“Sunday school.” My brother’s quiet pity at the fury he had
unleashed rings the loudest. Appliances in the kitchen buzz.
The manicured nails of my mother’s dainty hands tap and tap
and tap with no rhythm at all.
“We aren’t going out,” I say. Everything rings in my
“Why would you even think that?
It’s just a prank. And anyway,
Cadence has a boyfriend. You
ears—mom’s angry
yelling and Dad’s
know that kid Sho that’s always muttered suggestions
coming over?”
“That little Oriental?”
“He’s half-Chinese, yes.”
that sound like
“therapy” and “Sunday
Mom looks suspicious, but at school.” My brother’s
the same time smug satisfaction quiet pity at the fury he
boils in her eyes. This way she
could still hate Cadence, still
mutter her prejudices behind my
had unleashed rings the
loudest. Appliances in
back and feel somehow justified. I the kitchen buzz. The
regret allowing her that. manicured nails of my
I throw some kind of bogus
homework excuse at them and
scurry off into my room, hoping
mother’s dainty hands
tap and tap and tap
never to have to emerge again. with no rhythm at all.
We spend the next week or so being especially careful not
to sit too close or be seen alone. After things relax and I am
able to breathe more evenly, Cadence invites me to stay the
night with her at her grandma’s.
“I want to talk to you,” she tells me. “It’s important.”
Her grandma lives alone, and isn’t all that old. All of the
previous generations of Cadence’s family had kids at 17, and
so the grandmothers, moms and aunts all look like sisters
instead of parents.
Her grandmother’s house is immaculate. Every surface is
polished and shinning. Despite Cadence’s insistence, I can’t
bear to walk on the fine tile with my shoes on, so I abandon
them at the door before following her into the kitchen. We
sit around the small square table for a dinner which looks
strangely appetizing for something with absolutely no highfructose
corn syrup or melted cheese.
Her grandmother introduces herself as Helen, and she
knows the truth, as Cadence is hard-pressed to keep her
mouth shut with her family. Helen keeps saying things like,
“God loves all people” and “What shall be, shall be.”
As we eat, Helen scrutinizes us. “So, how long have you
girls been friends?” I don’t miss the double meaning.
“For about a year and a half,” I say, shoveling the greens
into my mouth to avoid the true answer.
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
“But we’ve only been together for four months,” Cadence
says. As she speaks she smiles at me and reaches out to brush
strands of hair out of my face, then places her hand on top
of mine in plain view of the woman across from us. There’s
enough time to retreat, but I can’t move.
I forget to chew and roughly swallow the large clump of
solid vegetables. I try to smile and her grandmother smiles
wider. It looks unnatural.
“Oh,” she says. “That’s nice.”
The following silence was too short.
“Melanie—” her grandmother just won’t shut up, “—has
Cadence met your parents yet?”
I stare at her.
“Mel’s parents aren’t very supportive of us,” Cadence
chimes in for me yet again, squeezing my hand as if to
comfort me.
“That’s too bad,” her grandmother says. “Maybe they’ll
come around. You know, I could have my church pastor talk
to them if you’d like, Melanie. There’s nothing wrong with
curiosity, after all. It’s natural at your age.”
I carefully extract my hand from Cadence’s and gather my
fork and cup, stacking them on my plate and standing to
leave the table. I glance over at Cadence, her plate empty.
She looks confused as I take her plate. I offer to take
Helen’s as well and she hands her carefully stacked dishes to
me. Cadence’s face lights up with something that isn’t surprise
and she folds her hands in front of her while I take our dishes
to the sink and rinse them off.
I can hear Helen muttering in an almost insultingly
surprised tone. “Such a polite girl.”
Courtesies such as these are a habit my parents drilled into
me. They are determined to mold me into a fine young lady
who will one day marry a strapping young man and have
perfectly mannered children. I never want to raise children—
whether or not there is a man involved—so I’m destined to
disappoint my parents anyway, but for some reason I still
rinse my dishes.
Once it gets late and Helen has gone to sleep, we settle into
the couch in the den. For a couple hours we watch The Day
After Tomorrow, fretting for Jake Gyllenhaal’s always-at-risk
life and mental health. The silence drags on after the movie.
Once the music from the credits dies down, Cadence prompts
me to speak by fiddling nervously with the gold tassels on the
couch cushion and grinning at me.
“So, what’s so important?” I ask.
Her smile falters and her eyes move to stare at the ceiling,
digits tapping at her sneakers. “Before I tell you, I want you
to know that I have no expectations.”
Dizziness swims in the back of my eyes and the instinct
to run is making my legs shake. Whatever she’s going to say,
it will ruin everything. It’ll shatter perfect, private images
of sitting together in her room, lounging in that perfectly
ordinary loveseat and laughing together at the pathetic plots
of late-night sitcoms—of destroying her kitchen in our
botched attempts at making waffles for lunch, covering the
custom tabletop in batter and broken eggs—of every private
moment we have ever shared.
She doesn’t seem to notice my panic.
“I love you,” she says. She doesn’t skip a beat. “I’ve been
thinking about it for weeks. I don’t expect you to feel the same
way, I just thought it would be fair to tell you. To… keep you
informed, I guess. I know that sounds stupid,” She chuckles
lightheartedly, as if we’re discussing goddamn cartoons on
Adult Swim. I only notice that I stopped breathing when I
suddenly gasp and choke on the poisonous air.
My brain begins toiling over the past four and a half months.
I can’t remember a moment in that time that I hadn’t been
with her or thinking about her, but it was all wasted. It’s time
that we would never be able to spend anywhere but in private.
She doesn’t understand at all, and she never will. My
mother, my father, the school…this has to end eventually.
I have to wake her up and at the same time get out, get out,
get out. My breath almost hurts coming out and I have to
slide off of the couch to work off some of the adrenaline.
Everything aches and tingles.
I look at her with hard eyes, and for the first time since I
had ever known her she is looking right back into me. She
can see it before I say it. Her body is hunched forward, arms
wrapping around her middle, and she stares at me helplessly.
I can’t fathom how things got this far.
“I hate you.” I tell her. n n n
Choosing the Avatar
second place non-fiction
Gloria Bonnell
I have a blog site, sort-of. I mean it really exists, my web
log, it’s just not ‘there’ if you know what I mean. I’ve sat on
my bed with my laptop and ‘piddled around’ with it. I even
bought domain space. I tried to organize some files, build a
cool-looking background and set up a comment application.
Since I started this work, though, it has languished. I just
can’t go any further with the project. There are too many
questions blocking my view of the path to completion.
The main question for me – that thing that keeps me from
moving forward on perfecting my website – is “What do I
want to say?”
I asked my husband what he thought.
“You should say what you feel like saying.” He was busy
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

epairing his bike in the garage.
I bent over to look him in the face. “Well, that’s easy for you
to say.” Sometimes I wish I could get more from him.
I tried again the next day. “Honey, do you have a minute?
I need to talk about my web space.” I shook his shoulder. He
looked up from the tire he was changing. “What do you think
about a butterfly-themed page with conversations on saving
the eco systems?” He gave me a blank stare. I knew I was lost.
Here’s the problem: saying something, among all of the
words and images on the web, feels like a hopeless endeavor.
With so many people saying things, I find myself stopping
my writing, looking out the bedroom window and asking
myself whether or not there is anyone out there taking the
time to listen. Even bright messages, clarion calls trumpeted
in the clearest tone, if heard, probably fall into the dark
void of deafening busyness in today’s over-paced world. No
one has the time to follow through on calls for personal or
community victories. We are “on the treadmill,” (or the
keyboard, as it would be for me).
The other day, after reading to my granddaughter, I
realized that it’s lovely to think that there is a Dr. Seusscreated
Horton character running around our little digital
internet existence like a tiny software application bot,
frantically searching for that one still, silent voice, working to
save the world from certain and immediate annihilation. An
elephant “bot” treading lightly on our websites, searching for
the country music, Billy Gilman “One Voice” that the whole
world needs to hear to continue to exist. Maybe I could be
something like this. Read and read, search for and find lifesaving
entries, then bring them together and shout “we are
here. We are here!”
I called my sister to talk to her about it but her phone
message said she had gone to Brazil and would be back in
two weeks. Why didn’t I know she was going to Brazil? I
wondered what difference my plan would make and put the
idea on hold.
Anyway, my difficulty, in giving in to the black hole blogengulfing
abyss of silence, is that in life, saying is often equal
to being. Not saying, then, for me, would be the equivalent of
dying. Shakespeare’s Hamlet, that Prince of Denmark, caught
in his existential soliloquy before the suicidal Ophelia, once
questioned life with his famous question, “To be or not to be:
that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms
against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.”
The Welsh poet Dylan Thomas once described his work: “I
hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry
is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation
and victory, downthrow and upheaval, and my effort is their
self-expression.” It was in his villanelle, “Do Not Go Gentle
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
into That Good Night,” that he wrote, “Though wise men at
their end know dark is right, because their words had forked
no lightning they do not go gentle into that good night.” Will
I ‘go gentle into that good night,’ or will I ‘rage, rage against
the dying of the light?’
His words are full of anguish, and so true. “I can’t do it,” I
said out loud to no one in particular. “I can’t go gentle.”
It was Zeus, throwing forked thunderbolts and splitting
open mountains, who eventually ruled in peace over the
Gods and earthly kingdoms of his world. This is what I see for
my website. My words would be thrown like lightning bolts,
illuminating the night sky and piercing through mountainous
falsehoods to their utter and complete annihilation. I
wondered about that as I sorted socks on the couch.
“Can you hand me that match over there?” I pointed in
the direction of my husband’s left ankle. “No, not, - not that
one. Yeah, there, oh you’ve got it. Thanks.” I folded the socks
over each other and tossed them in the basket. “So, babe, do
you think I’m a good writer? I mean good enough to really
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
Decadence Begets Decay
third place visual arts
Shannon O’Connor
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
make a difference?” I searched for the ankle sock with the red
toe thread.
He looked up from his book. “Huh?”
There it was again. Another ‘huh.’ I considered it for a
minute, decided it wasn’t significant, and pressed on with my
question. “A good writer. I’m asking you if you think I’m a
good writer.”
“Sure, sweetie, didn’t you win that one,” he made a rolling
motion with his hand, “thing... back in Indiana?” His brow
was wrinkled and his eyes had that ‘I’m going to die, now,
aren’t I’ stare.
“You mean the city-wide competition for fire safety?” I
looked disgusted.
“Yeah, that one.” He shook his head, encouraging my
agreement.
“Well, yeah, I won that but it was in the sixth grade.
Remember?” I sighed and silently finished the socks, at
least the ones with matches. I decided to give it some more
thought.
We each must determine what life is for us. The
French philosopher, Rene Descartes, voiced that famous
phrase, “Cogito ergo sum” – ‘I think, therefore I am.’ His
acknowledgment that thinking was vital to existence, laid a
foundation for human expression in the modern world. We
are because we think, not because we breathe or eat or do any
other bodily function. The use of our minds is what brings us
into the reality that allows us to exist.
The thing is, if Descartes had only thought, and not spoken
or written, we would be without one of the greatest and most
often repeated truths of all time. We would literally become,
as a people, like Rodin’s bronzed effigy of man – The Thinker,
a permanently frozen society of verbal paralysis. We, as a
modern people, would have only the E. C. Segar philosophy,
verbalized by his cartoon character, Popeye: “I yam what I
yam.” There would be no thought expressed regarding who,
as a people, we really are. We would be left with the idea that
the value of our very existence is based on our birth alone.
I thought about this as I did the dishes.
Not that I don’t value the very essence of life, human or
otherwise, but aren’t we all, without exception, contributors
to the mass of human expression? The reality of our nature –
that we hear and see, feel and touch – means that we receive
input from our fellow wanderers regardless of their intent to
give or not. As living, breathing beings, we then give that
same sensory experience to our peers.
Wouldn’t remaining silent in this sensory world, seeing as
we exist, be similar, not to death, but to committing suicide?
In this regard, do we truly have the right to remain silent?
Knowing then that I rage, that I exist, and then that I want to
exist, the question becomes ‘to what end?’
Understanding that for me, being is living and living is
saying, when I question my blog site and what it is that I
want to say, what I am really questioning is what I want to
be in that virtual, electronic world. As I ‘worm hole’ from
my bedroom off into the electronic-written world, like a
digitized “Tron” cyber-cyclist, entering a game of life and
death, I feel angst over what my words and images are going
to say. Who will I become? What avatar will I assume? The
questions paralyze me.
Vishnu, the second god of the Hindu triad and the god
charged with the preservation of the cosmic order of the
universe, is said to have been ten earthly incarnations, or
avatars. Although his world of second-level expression was
organic, there are many similarities to digital avatar identities.
For example, Vishnu incarnations appear when the earth
forces have become unbalanced and the evil forces of the
universe are gaining favorable ground with the populace.
Isn’t that when we, as a people, feel an urgent need to express
ourselves? I’ve had that experience.
“Sweetheart, why is the milk on the counter?” I asked.
“Huh?” he responded.
“The milk,” I answered, “it’s out.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said as he turned from his online
poker fantasy game and gawked into the kitchen.
The hypnotic look on his face was too much. I put the milk
away and immediately went to my bedroom and blogged -
balancing earth forces once again.
A metaverse is a fictional virtual world where avatars
interact, kind of like Wal-Mart on a Saturday night. A
dashboard is part of a networking, digital nervous system,
allowing communication and information to flow quickly
and efficiently from one application to another. Like a human
nervous system, the dashboard sorts through every bit of
input, analyzes the most pertinent data and displays that for
the user, or avatar.
The dashboard could be compared to a Barnes and Noble
for readers where all of the books are brought to one location
and the reader can sort through and “pop-in” to become
what is most pertinent to them, or, for you non-readers, an
all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s a one-stop shop for virtual world
interaction. No more deciding on a new avatar identity for
each and every application. One go-anywhere, easy-to-use
persona popping around that virtual world. Navigating the
digital dashboard might be similar to an experience I had a
few weeks ago.
“Have you read anything by James Patterson?” I asked
him, as my finger slowly ran along the spine of the latest
Alex Cross novel. The Barnes and Nobel Patterson selection
was intoxicating.
“I love the way Patterson creates such great characters,” he
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

said, running his finger along my spine and nuzzling my neck
with his nose.
“Alex Cross enjoys the Caribbean.” My mind was filled
with the smell of coconut oil and the sound of gentle waves
washing ashore.
“I, on the other hand, really enjoy great massages.” He
rubbed my neck as he whispered in my ear.
My dashboard was on overload and in danger of crashing. I
realized my situation, sorted what was most relevant, bought
the book and we headed home.
Maybe dashboards will work for avatars, after all. I went
online and created mine. She stood there inside my laptop
and waved at me - twenty pounds lighter with no gray hair or
glasses. I liked it. My son stopped by my bedside to see what
I was doing.
“She looks like your sister.”
I wasn’t happy. My sister is thinner, smarter and richer than
I am. I didn’t want her to be my avatar image, too. I volleyed
his comment. “Don’t you have ball practice, or something?
He took off for the court. I blogged. n n n
A Solitaire
in the Storm
second place poetry
Wanda Leske
He lies quietly
Out of place.
Out of time.
Not meant to be.
The warm bed, the blankets surrounding him
Strategically nested.
The borders meant to keep him safe
In the eye of the storm.
The raging storm is
Swirling around him. Catheters, cords, tubes and twisted lines
Connected to alarms.
He wears a diaper too small for a doll, too big for him.
His skin, so ruddy, transparent and fragile.
With even the softest touch easily torn.
The bruising of entering this world darkens
As a shadow presides over him.
One eye opens,
The other fused shut.
He reaches out for love -
She isn’t there.
Love is away grieving
Another that is even smaller.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Unamused
third place fiction
Tara Robinson
Seven-year-old Adda Egan sat in the study, sprawled
on a Louis XV chair under the bright sunny window, two
markers, black and pink, by her left knee. Resting her chin in
her hand, Adda raised a yellow plastic teacup to her lips and
sipped imaginary tea, her face expressionless. The sound of
sharp heels clicked across the wooden floor of the hall. The
clicking stopped outside the door of the study.
Adda glared at the door as it opened.
“Adda, it is time to—” Adda’s mother, Eunice, stopped and
let out a tiny gasp, her pale eyes flashing from her daughter
to the chair. Eunice let go of the doorknob and grabbed the
delicate pearl necklace at her throat. “What have you done?
What is this?”
“It’s a princess and a dragon,” Adda replied, taking a sip
from her plastic cup. “You have eyes, can’t you see that?”
Eunice swallowed and blinked. “Do you think you are
being funny? Do you think drawing on my fifteen hundred
dollar chair is funny? I am not amused, Adda!”
Adda didn’t blink, “I bought it.”
“And you are going to buy me a new one, you insolent
girl,” Eunice said. She rushed toward Adda and snatched the
girl by the arm. “Get up.”
Adda peered at he mother’s face, much closer now.
Eunice squeezed.
“Get up!” Eunice repeated, tugging. “It is time to paint.”
The mention of painting made Adda’s stomach turn. She
glanced at the window. She wanted to stay and sip her tea
in peace, admiring the image she had marked on the seat
cushion as she did so. The image was a princess, curls flowing
behind her as she ran from a dragon that exhaled fire. The
dragon wore a pearl necklace.
Adda lifted the toy cup with her free hand, glanced at the
interior. Then, she threw make-believe tea at her mother.
Down the long, portrait-lined hall was a bare white room.
Rectangular in shape, there was a door at one end, and, at
the other, a tall casement window with panes that could be
opened like doors to let in fresh air. Adda was forbidden from
opening the window. Near it stood an easel and stool tailormade
for Adda’s stature. Next to the easel was a small drawer
set that housed paints and brushes. Blank canvases were
clustered together and propped up against the wall under a
shelf that held a tin of paint thinner.
Adda spent nearly all of her time locked in the bare room,
painting and painting. There was only the hard stool to sit
on. Often, seeking to relax her tiny aching back, she would
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
lie on the floor or lean against the window, pressing her face
against the pane, looking out onto the green sprawling lawn,
daydreaming of playing like other little girls.
Eunice pushed her daughter into the room. She spun Adda
and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” she said
pointing a manicured finger in her small milk-white face.
“Do not look at me like that,” Eunice said giving the girl a
shake. “You better earn your
Adda stared at the door. keep and paint something Mr.
Her lip trembled. She bit it to Wisely can sell. Understand?”
keep it still. Her eyes began “You should earn your
keep,” Adda replied, regretting
to burn. Then, fiery tears
it even as it passed her lips.
rolled down her cheeks. She Eunice thrust Adda back.
wanted to run, to escape, Her hand twitched. A silent,
tense moment passed as they
but where could she go?
locked eyes. Eunice exhaled
She turned and faced the and felt for the doorknob. “If I
bare room. A scowl took catch you staring off into space
over her crying face.
again, I’ll box your ears.”
The door slammed shut.
The sound echoed off the walls. Then Adda heard the click of
the lock and her mother’s retreating steps.
Adda stared at the door. Her lip trembled. She bit it to
keep it still. Her eyes began to burn. Then, fiery tears rolled
down her cheeks. She wanted to run, to escape, but where
could she go? She turned and faced the bare room. A scowl
took over her crying face.
The bright sunshine from the window burned her
eyes. She squinted and wiped her wet cheeks. The
blue sky beyond became visible. She approached the
window, the heels of her Mary Janes clattering. In
the distance stood a massive oak tree, thick branches
pressing upwards into a lush canopy. Adda pressed her
face against the cool, soothing glass and gazed at the
tree through blurred eyes. Adda spent many afternoons
with her eyes fixed on the tree.
As she gazed at the waving leaves, there was a burst of
movement in the corner of her vision. Two of the stable boys,
one blonde, the other auburn-haired, ran for the tree, chasing
each other. Adda sat up and dried her eyes so she could see
them better.
The two boys beamed, their laughter reaching the bare
room. The forerunner, his copper head gleaming, arrived at
the great oak and shimmied up a branch with ease. The other
trailed him. In the tree, the auburn-haired boy climbed out
onto a branch then swung around, hanging from his arms. He
stuck his tongue out at the second boy, who was making his
way out onto the same limb. The boy let go of the branch and
landed in the grass on his feet. With another laugh, he took
off, the other boy dropping behind him, fast on his heels.
A smile tugged at Adda’s lips. She followed them as far
as the view from the window would allow. When they were
out of sight, she looked back at the oak. She wondered what
it was like to climb out onto a limb. She wondered what it
was like to just sit on a branch and feel the warmth of the
sunshine and the sensation of the wind. Those boys were so
lucky, she thought.
She watched the tree for a long time, the shadows of the
easel changing on the white walls as the sun moved in the sky.
All the while, the urge to go out and march up to the tree
grew within her.
Adda did not hear the door at the other end of the room
as it creaked open.
“—Adda!”
Adda started at her mother’s voice. She whipped around,
jumping back from the window.
Eunice stomped across the room, her shape looming larger
as she neared. Adda shrank. “I—I wasn’t doing anything,”
she cried
“And that is the problem,” her mother said, grabbing her
upper arm. “What did I tell you?” she said shaking Adda.
“Well, what did I say?”
“That you’d box my ears,” Adda said flinching, shocked to
be ripped from her thoughts and back to reality so abruptly.
“You are so lucky that Mr. Wisely is here, otherwise I
would,” Eunice said pushing her away. She smoothed her
dress and breathed, composing herself. “We are taking tea in
the west drawing room. Come.”
Mr. Wisely sat at the table, his arms draped about the
armrests of the maple chairs. Adda sneered at the drawing
room and its formality, the white paneled walls, high ceilings,
leather sofas flanking the fireplace, the portraits of her
forefathers. All of it made her want to throw up.
“Ah, Adda, there you are,” Mr. Wisely greeted Adda,
looking up from his watch. He rose and smiled a prim,
closed-lip smile. He took her hand and shook it. She recoiled
slightly, but Mr. Wisely did not seem to notice.
He and Eunice exchanged customary air kisses. “Please,
sit, Mr. Wisely,” she said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Adda,” Eunice directed her daughter. Adda took a seat
between the two of them, glaring at their profiles as they
made themselves comfortable.
“We have much to discuss, Ms. Egan,” Mr. Wisely began.
“I have a few shows and openings in the city this weekend,
you see. Many of my best buyers will be in town. It just
seemed an opportune time.”
“Opportune time for…?”
“Well, Adda’s name isn’t what it used to be, Ms. Egan,” Mr.
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

Wisely said tilting his chin down. “We all know she is gifted,
and she has been very successful.”
“Obviously,” Adda muttered under her breath.
“But her sales have been slipping,” said Mr. Wisely. “With
all the business coming this way, it seems the opportune time
for a private event, a showing of a grander nature. A gala!”
Eunice’s eyed widened with delight. “Well that sounds
wonderful. I could not agree more.”
“Yes. …And you have such an impressive estate here,
Ms. Egan.”
Eunice presented a demure smile. “Thank you, Mr. Wisely.”
“It would be the perfect venue for such an event.”
Eunice blinked, processing the idea. Her head bobbled.
“This Saturday?”
“Yes. I know it’s sudden. I’m sorry to spring it on you, but
I think this kind of showing could be just what Adda’s career
needs at this critical juncture. It is critical. You understand
that?” he said leaning in.
“Of course,” Eunice nodded. “Nothing is more important
than her work. It is forefront.”
Adda rolled her eyes. Money was forefront, to Eunice and
to Mr. Wisely.
“That’s good to hear,” Mr. Wisely said, rising and buttoning
his ash-gray coat. Eunice rose too. “It’s such a nice time of
year,” he said, strolling to one of the enormous windows.
“What would you think about hosting the event outdoors?”
“Outdoors?”
“On the front lawn. We could have a spectacular tent.”
“That sounds… lovely.”
Adda didn’t bother to look at them. She chose to direct
her attention at something much more interesting, her
fingernails.
“Yes,” Mr. Wisely continued. He tapped is lip with his
index finger. “But that oak… It’s such an outrageous tree. I
don’t think a tent could work.”
Eunice blinked again and jerked to the window to see the
tree. She crinkled her nose. “I have always hated that tree.”
Adda looked up from her nails.
“You could get rid of it,” Mr. Wisely proposed.
“I love that tree!” Adda said jumping to her feet, her palms
flat on the table.
“Oh, Adda,” Mr. Wisely said returning to the table. “You’re
just darling. Well, I must be off.” He collected his hat and
gloves from the table, winking at Adda as he did so.
“Will you not stay for tea?” Eunice asked, feeling for her pearls.
“I’m very busy,” Mr. Wisely said putting on his hat and
gloves. “But I will see you Saturday!”
When Mr. Wisely departed, Eunice hurried to the door
and rang a bell that called for the butler, Victor.
He arrived, dressed in his pristine uniform.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
“Yes, Ms. Egan?”
“Victor, the oak in the front, I want it gone,” Eunice said,
waving her hand.
Victor scrunched up his forehead. “Gone, madam?”
“Yes, gone! It is hideous. And it is taking up valuable space.”
“What would you like us to do, madam?”
Eunice gritted her teeth. “Burn it down for all I care. Just
be sure that it is gone by Saturday. And put some of those…
those grass squares in its place.”
“Sod?”
“Yes. Sod. Put that over the spot. Go now.”
Adda watched the whole scene, bewildered.
“Adda,” her mother said, twisting to see her. “It is time to paint.”
In the bare room, Adda faced her mother.
“I don’t want you to tear out the oak tree.”
“Adda, don’t be silly.”
Adda fumed. “No. You don’t be silly,” she said, stomping
her Mary Janes. “The oak stays.”
Eunice’s pupils narrowed. She grabbed Adda. “That tree is
coming out. Do you hear me?” she said, rattling her. “Out!
I have had enough of you talking back to me. Get in there
and paint.”
The door slammed. The echo shook Adda. And then, there
was the familiar click.
Adda clenched her hands. She couldn’t contain herself.
The rage poured out and she unleashed a piercing cry. She
collapsed to the floor and banged it with her fists, screaming
a raw, throat-ripping scream.
When Adda’s tears ceased and the streaks on her cheeks
dried, she got up. She approached the easel, looking at it with
reproach. Her lip twitched. She stopped.
Adda sprinted for it. She seized the drawer set. With
a huff of breath, she heaved it at the opposite wall. It
hit with an explosive sound. Tubes of paint and brushes
shot across the room. Some half-open tubes splattered
the walls with purple and red. Drops wet Adda’s forehead
and hair.
Sunlight from the window caught her eye. Unrestrained,
Adda walked to the casement window. She flicked the lock
and opened it. Cool twilight wind swept over her face,
extra cool where there was paint. Adda closed her eyes and
breathed. When she opened them again, her sight filled with
the great oak. The setting sun left the spreading branches of
the tree lit in a pink hue.
Adda arched her brow, enamored with the color. She
wanted to capture and keep the brilliant evening colors, the
heavy canopy, the subtle strength of the wide branches – all
of it. She yearned to climb out onto a bough and sit, taking
in the light, listening to the gentle rustle of the leaves, feeling
the tree bark.
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
15

16
Raven
Lauren Mosco
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
If her mother could only see the tree the way she saw it.
Then, maybe she would reconsider. Then, maybe the tree
could stay.
Adda had an idea.
She ran back to the center of the room, bending over to
collect all the paints she had scattered. She set a handful
on the stool, then repositioned the easel right next to the
window. Next, she heaved a large blank canvas from the
stack and dragged it to the easel. She started with pink. Sweat
dampened her skin as she worked, taking in as much of the
tree as she could before the sun departed.
The sky became black long before Adda finished. She
stood back from her work. It was a soft vision of the oak,
the branches reaching towards an unseen heaven. The bulk
of the foliage dark, secretive in some places but seeming to
call, to invite the onlooker to learn the secrets of the tree, to
stay and revel in innocence. Adda smiled to herself and set
her brush down.
The door opened behind her. She turned and found her
mother entering the room.
“Good girl,” Eunice said striding toward her. “I knew that
with the proper motivations you would paint. Let me see.”
She stepped beside Adda. The contented smile on her face
faltered. Then it turned to a scowl.
Adda furrowed her brow at this and shot her eyes back to
the painting. Had she missed something, some imperfection,
perhaps a spot of canvas showing through?
“What is this?” her mother said.
“It’s the oak tree,” she answered, taking a step back.
“The oak tree…” her mother repeated, her pale eyes still
on the canvas. “I told you,” she said, “to paint something
we could sell. I am tired of your games, Adda! How are we
going to survive if you paint trash like this?” Eunice flew for
the easel. She seized the canvas and lifted it high over her
head. “What is this supposed to be? A message to me? You
do whatever you like because you are a prodigy?” She spat
the word.
“No!” was all Adda could manage.
Eunice, eyes wild, smashed the painting down over the
stool, shredding the canvas with the force of a bullet. Still
not satisfied, Eunice clawed at the scraps until they were
indiscernible, mere pieces of fabric wet with paint. Eunice
panted and narrowed her eyes on Adda. She brought her
hands to her pearls, smearing them with pink pigment.
“Mom,” Adda sobbed. “Why?”
“Got to bed, Adda,” Eunice demanded, chest heaving.
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

Adda made a tiny ‘o’ with her mouth, searching for words.
“Go!” her mother screamed. “Go!”
Adda lay in bed on her side, her face against her wet,
tear-stained pillow. A sliver of moonlight from the window
illuminated her little form as it trembled under her thick
pink comforter.
Adda shook her head, trying to rid herself of the
images that flashed in her mind, images of the painting
being destroyed.
“Why?” she sniffled, squeezing her eyes shut.
At once, Adda stopped. She reopened her eyes, her
face motionless but glistening. She yanked off her covers.
Rustling out of bed, she walked to the window. From it she
could see a hint of the oak tree, calm in the night. Not even
the leaves stirred.
Adda tilted her head, deep in thought. She nodded to
herself. “I’ll make her understand,” she whispered to the tree.
“No one is going to burn you down.”
The next morning, Adda dressed in a zombie-like fashion,
going through the familiar motions, her eyes dull, tired, but
determined. She heard Eunice’s heels clicking in the hall,
coming to fetch her. Adda dashed to the candle at her bedside
and placed the nearby matches in her pocket.
Silent, she followed down the long, lavish hall to the bare
room. Eunice opened the door. Adda entered, not looking at
her, and strolled to the easel. It was splattered with pink paint.
“I do not know what you were thinking with that stunt last
night,” Eunice said to Adda’s back, “but I am unamused, Adda.”
Adda also was unamused, fondling the matches in her
pocket with her fingertips.
Eunice sighed. “I do all of this for you, Adda …the parties,
our home. I push you so that you can have a life other children
can not even fathom.”
Adda swallowed.
“You just do not understand how lucky you are.” Eunice
turned to leave but stopped. “The tree comes out today.”
Adda’s mouth tightened. She gripped the matches.
The door closed. The lock clicked.
Adda took in a deep breath, then rushed to the window.
Air swept into the room as she opened the windows. She
snatched up the stool and positioned it under the opening.
Adda hurried to the shelf and hauled down the tin of paint
thinner. A warning on the label read, “Danger! Combustible
liquid and vapor!”
Adda removed the lid and poured out the liquid. It
trickled over the coarse canvas cloth. Satisfied with the
empty container, she set the tin down and backed away. She
took the matchbook from her pocket. Without a hesitation,
Adda struck a match. She stole a peek at the tiny glow, then
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
flicked it at the canvases. The liquid ignited. Flames went
up. Adda rushed back from the heat. Black smoke marred
the walls and ceiling.
Adda’s eyes lit up. She had to force herself from the sight,
darting to the stool. She scaled it and dove out the window,
landing in the soil of the rose bed outside. Adda pushed
herself to her feet and scampered for the oak. Adda struggled
up a branch, then crawled out onto a bough that extended
beneath the canopy of the tree. She settled on a perch that
allowed her a wide view of the burning bare room.
The interior glowed orange as the fire burst forth. Flames
slapped at the brick exterior from the open window. Inside,
the easel toppled over. An eruption of hot blaze seized and
devoured it.
Adda stared on, consumed by the sight, barely
acknowledging the wind tousling her hair or the tree bark
digging into her haunches. A wave of gratification came over
her. A smile grew on her lips. The paints and brushes were
gone, no more. The easel was gone too. And soon the entire
room would be just a wretched memory. Outside, though,
the oak still stood.
A faint shriek pulled Adda’s eyes from the inferno.
To her left, Eunice dashed down the stone steps of the
entryway, her long dress fluttering behind her. The young
maids, all dressed alike, their hair up, barreled after her,
crying like frightened kittens. Victor and the chefs flew
down the steps and surrounded the women, herding them
from the house.
This puzzled Adda. She glanced back at the fire. The rooms
neighboring the bare room were now flush with orange heat.
Adda let go of the branch she had been gripping and gawked.
She looked back at Eunice and the others. “What were they
doing?” she thought. They were supposed to discover the fire
and extinguish it. She only wanted to burn her paints and
materials, nothing else.
Eunice ran, struggling through the grass in her heels. She
pivoted, her hair loosening from her bun. Strands lashed
her face. She clasped her gasping mouth with one hand and
scanned over the façade of the house, eyes wide with shock as
the fire spread.
Adda’s breath quickened. The fire roared in her ears.
Her mother’s wide eyes reminded her of… of her own.
They glistened with tears, like Adda’s had so many times
before. Deep down, Adda wanted to revel in her mother’s
pain, but couldn’t.
Eunice saw Adda then, and their equally pale, pale eyes
reflected the same orange of the fire as it consumed their
home. Time halted. Eunice dropped to her knees, her eyes
heavy, boring into Adda.
Adda looked away. She exhaled fire. n n n
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
17

18
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
Moonlit Sunset
third place non-fiction
David Sky Nuñez
My little fists pounded on the cold glass that trapped
me outside. Through the fence behind me I could see the
dirt road out of this hell, and the surrounding forest lit up
brightly by the full moon. The gray glow still cast a thousand
shadows into the night though, that could have been teeming
with wolves, bears, mountain lions, or even the rabid
neighborhood dog. My fears were swelling inside me like a
balloon and ready to explode. At that exact moment, Justin
spoke through the arcadia door loudly. “Look, that bear is
coming to get you!” He pointed, and my eyes followed to the
many shadows the forest cast behind me. My imagination of
such a thing boiled over my innate fear. Being only a naive
9-year-old boy, I began to cry, and Justin just laughed, sipping
at the can of Budweiser in his hand. He spoke again, “It’s
getting closer,” and no matter how hard I screamed, I could
not drown out his sick laughter. I searched frantically on the
patio for shelter, but the only companions I had outside were
stacks of firewood and cobwebs. I looked inside with the
strongest look of distress a son could have as water spilled
from my eyes, and my mother paid no attention. I didn’t
exist, but I still screamed as loud as I could. Justin continued
with his game, yelling through the glass, “Here he comes!”
I put my hands, soggy with tears, against the glass, and slid
down against it as I fell to my knees. In despair, I sobbed and
stared to the ground, sharing my falling tears with the dust
and dark crevices across the patio wood. I was alone. The bear
was coming to take me, and I was ready to go. Because of
that night with Justin, I strived to be moral, grew stubbornly
outspoken, and became more compassionate toward those
important to me.
The most substantial change that came from that night was
my newfound desire to be moral. I remember that before the
event, I was cold enough to even steal from my own mother.
The garage door reverberated a hum through the walls as I
waited patiently for Mom to enter the house. With cunning
ears, I could interpret the jingling key chain and claps of
Mom’s footsteps to determine when she was destined for a
snooze. As she thumped up the steps, the ominous silence
returned to the midnight, and I safely crept out of my room.
Flawless in execution, I roamed across the house until I found
my hands around the black leather purse Mom left lying
conveniently on the counter. Quickly, I fumbled through the
bag for cold metal coins and snatched all I could carry in one
hand. I ran silently back to my room and stashed the money
behind the closet door, along with the rest of the currency I
had stolen every night before. I didn’t consider stealing an
immoral action at the time.
After that traumatic night with Justin, I had flipped this
nature of mine on its head and became a moral individual. I
had morally chosen to protect my sister from the many fights
my mother and Justin needed to have every night. I remember
the thuds I could hear through the thin wall, followed closely
by the shattering of plates and glasses. As shouts of dismay
echoed through the house, I desperately stuffed towels under
the door of my sister’s room, trying to keep the violent noise
out. My sister sat snug in the opposite corner, engulfed in
her bed sheets, whimpering at each crashing wave of yells and
explosive bangs. I stood near the door, constantly fixated on
the long gold handle waiting for it to twist and let Justin
into my struggling safe haven. I knew his immoral evil self
was founded at the bottom of every bottle and can, and
understood he chose to become that demon. I have never had
the will or desire to choose his path since that night he locked
me outside. In my tenacity, I now attempt to be moral with
every decision I make.
Becoming independently outspoken was another attribute
I gained after that night with Justin. Before the event, I was
too afraid to speak up, even when I felt terrified for my life. I
remember one horrid night, driving home early from a family
event because Justin had inebriated himself once again. Mom
was the one driving the worn old vehicle down the unlit
highway, and Justin did his best to argue so blaringly loud
that the car became a noisy hell. I sat, weary in my backseat
corner, clutching the seat belt as the tension in the car rose
steadily amidst the thick scent of alcohol. Quickly and
without reason, Justin reached across to the wheel and yanked
it toward him aggressively. I felt the inertia tug me helplessly
around as we swayed dangerously about the tarmac. I bit my
lip as a nervous tear flowed down the crook of my eye and
found myself too afraid to speak up.
Being locked out and terrorized that night with Justin
changed how I felt about making my thoughts known
though. On yet another night of vulgar argument between
my mother and Justin, I clearly made my mind known. I
had grown irritatingly tired of the nightly conflicts and was
not going to sit myself aside while their petty war was waged.
I stood, proud and a mere four-feet-tall between the ugly
wallpaper of the trailer, staring through Justin with ungodly
scrutiny. Below the dim yellow incandescence, I bellowed at
him judgingly, “Why do you always do this? What purpose
does it serve?” He squawked back at me with some drunken
stupidity, as if to calm or intimidate my defiance toward him.
I shouted back at him with pride in my logic, “ …And NO, I
don’t understand. What the hell is this thing you call family?
All for your damned cans!” Pointing to his beer, he sneered
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

at me with anger and brutally forced me back into my room.
I had grown a spine, and spite strong enough to be honestly
outspoken about the ill morals around me.
In time, I also grew compassionate for others because of
the effects the event with Justin had on me. Before the effect
of that event, I had copious resentment for my mother and
her decisions. Mom and I were riding once again along the
monotonous road, silent in the aftershock that Justin had
sexually assaulted my sister and was being processed by the
judicial system. Breaking the solemn sound of wind rushing
past the car outside, Mom spoke with false sentiment, “Sky, I
know what he did was wrong; but I, I still love him.” My brow
dropped with frustration, and I tritely uttered back through
the dry air, “I know.” I turned my head away from her, staring
out the window to the beautiful desert dirt with my new hate
for Mom’s naïve nature. In that tactless moment, I would
have mistakenly said that I regretted who my mother was,
but in time, after the event with Justin, I came to understand
the compassion the world around me required.
I learned long after the entire era of Justin that I actually
needed to be compassionate toward all I had hated. The same
loving mother of mine, who I couldn’t trust in action, needed
to trust her well-being in my hands if she suffered another
terrible seizure. I could now understand the innocent fear in
her vivid eyes as she held my arm to keep my attention. We
stood together on the sticky linoleum floor, and she explained
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
to me intimately what desperate action I would be forced to
take if she collapsed unconscious again. Every word echoed
through the kitchen and ultimately took refuge in my soul
as worry, knowing she had already endured seizures before.
After a sincere while of listening passed with the ticking of
the wall clock, I gave Mom the first, truly heartfelt embrace
I had missed in the adverse tides of the past. With more
comforting love than I can rightly explain in words, I
confirmed optimistically to her, “ Mom, if anything happens,
I’ll take care of you; don’t worry.” In that moment, I accepted
that she was the only mother I had, and I better treasure her
for her faults and all, as long as I was capable. From that night
with Justin long ago, I learned that any revenge or spite I felt
only held me back, and that compassion for the hardships of
life itself was more important.
That one night of trauma and terror became a crucial
turning point for me. After that event with Justin, I
developed a strong conscience that made my moral decisions
a necessity. The heartless taunting of that night could have
been detrimental to my development, but I turned it into
something that gave me confidence in myself. I also evolved
into an empathetic person, seeking understanding before
judgment. Standing on that porch, I thought the creatures of
that night were the most dangerous things. But I now know,
the most dangerous thing is to die without a memory telling
you that you should have lived. n n n
Nothing, AZ
Mary Ann Padglick
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
19

20
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
Culture
third place poetry
Devin Sanford
Culture
Is it Kenta cloth and tribal drums?
Or is it ghetto-fabulous city slums,
Shields and spears,
Or nickel-plated guns?
Sometimes I wonder,
If where we are at is where we are from?
Hunting lions of the plain,
Or on the corner kicking game
Run and chase to catch our meals
Catch a case from bogus deals;
Is it culture that we steal,
Or is it culture that makes us real?
Fire and Brimstone
honorable mention fiction
Natalie Folks
Greg was awash in a sea of agony. The ebb and flow crashed
over him, sending his brain reeling as he fought to break free.
The white-hot pain was all around him. His strength sapped,
he let his body go limp. It was then that the darkness closed
in and Greg surrendered to it.
When he opened his eyes, Greg flinched; light blinded
him and he closed eyes. Lying still, he waited for the pain,
but it didn’t come. He breathed slowly, trying to reconcile
himself with what had happened. The ground beneath him
was soft; his hands curled into it, recognizing the sensation.
Grass? I was just in my car. How did I get here?
A thousand questions ran through his mind and he
stretched carefully, trying to figure out what had hurt so badly
only moments before. The only thing he felt was tingling in
his arms and legs as if they had been asleep, but no pain.
It was completely gone; a mere memory. Sitting up, Greg
opened his eyes and looked around. His car was nowhere
in sight and he was in the middle of the most spectacular
meadow that he had ever seen.
The grass was lush and green. A line of trees enclosed the
meadow in a perfect circle, growing tall and plentiful; he
couldn’t see a thing past them. They swayed softly in perfect
synchronicity. Inside their circle, the only thing he could see
was a pool of water, not far from where he sat. Greg stood
slowly, a little disoriented. He felt groggy, as if he had been
asleep for a very long time.
He made his way over to the pool, stomping life back
into his legs and feet. The water was clear and flawlessly
still. It looked very inviting and Greg realized then just
how thirsty he was. Kneeling at the edge, he leaned over
the surface, his mouth dry and throat aching. The water
reflected as perfectly as a mirror. He could see the blue
sky and the white clouds above him, drifting lazily as if
floating in the water. He frowned and leaned in farther.
Disconcerted, Greg touched the surface. Not even a slight
ripple responded. The clouds continued on their journey,
but his face wasn’t looking back at him.
He checked from every angle, but his reflection was never
there. Finally, his thirst got the better of him. Dipping his
hands in the water, he cupped them to bring a mouthful
to drink. He felt no temperature change, nor did he feel
the cool wetness. His hands came up dry and the surface
remained still. Gripping the edge of the pool, he dunked his
head into the water and opened his eyes. He looked down
at the surface of the water and up at the blue sky and white
fluffy clouds.
Greg jerked his completely dry head out of the pool
and stood, stumbling away. “What the hell?” The sound
of his voice shocked him as it shattered the quiet of the
meadow. There’s something very wrong here. The meadow
was completely silent. There were no birds chirping in the
background; there was no wildlife at all that he could see.
Even the trees’ leaves were rustling in the breeze that he
realized that he couldn’t feel.
“Hello?” he called out, not really expecting an answer, “Is
anyone there?”
“Hello, Greg.”
Startled at the sudden voice and presence behind him,
Greg nearly fell over. He spun around and his breath froze in
his lungs. Standing in front of him was the most shockingly
gorgeous woman that he had ever laid eyes on. Any concern
over where he was left him as soon as her eyes caught his.
Her black hair was smooth and shining in the soft sunlight,
and her flawless skin had him itching to touch it. It was her
piercing blue eyes that had him captivated, though. They
were mesmerizing, and for a moment, Greg forgot how to
breathe. She held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity,
and just when he thought that he was going to drown in their
depths, she spoke again, breaking him out of his trance.
“Welcome, Greg.”
He fumbled for a response, “How do you know my name?”
She gave him a look of pity, her features softening. For a
moment, he thought that she was going to embrace him; that
sent a thrill up his spine. However, she kept her distance.
“Do you know what happened to you, Greg?”
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

He shook his head, a lump forming his throat.
“You were driving home and you lost control of your car.
You hit a tree and went through the windshield.”
“Am I…” he swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice
steady, “Am I dead?”
Greg’s legs gave out and he sank to the ground. This can’t
be happening!
“I am very sorry, Greg, but this is real.” She knelt beside
him, her movement as graceful as a dancer’s, and put her
hand on his cheek. Gently, but insistently, she turned his
face and their eyes locked again.
A sudden shock ran down his back and through his arms
and legs. Greg stiffened as the meadow blurred around him
and changed. He was back in his car and it was careening off
the road. His body wouldn’t respond as he tried to turn the
wheel and avoid the tree that was rushing to meet him. In
the moment he hit the tree, everything seemed to slow down.
He watched as the hood of his car collapsed in on itself and
the jolt sent him soaring over the steering wheel. His seat belt
hung by the seat, dangling uselessly, and he cursed himself for
not putting it on. Every thought left him as his head hit the
windshield and shattered it, sending glass flying along with
him. Debilitating pain struck him as he hit the tree and fell
to the ground, broken.
Gasping, Greg found himself back in the meadow, curled
in a ball. The woman was still beside him, looking down on
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Burning Man
Brett Medina
him sadly, but with a strange gleam in her eyes. Greg felt tears
trickling down his face and swiped at them, embarrassed, as
he sat up.
“Do you understand now, Greg?”
“I died.”
“Yes.”
A sudden shock ran down
“Where am I, then? Is this
Heaven?”
his back and through
Her responding grin was icy. his arms and legs. Greg
“This is whatever I make it to stiffened as the meadow
be,” she walked around him,
blurred around him and
moving like a predator stalking
its wounded prey.
changed. He was back
Greg watched her out of in his car and it was
the corner of his eye, trying to
careening off the road.
ignore the feeling that the wall
of trees surrounding him was
closing in. Something about the place felt like a prison and he
struggled to keep his composure. Was it just his imagination,
or was the sun dimming?
She spoke again, “We’re going to be to be together for a
long time, Greg.”
Greg shook his head. “No. No. This isn’t real!” He
stumbled to his feet and staggered away from her. “This is
all a dream!”
She followed him calmly, and when he looked back, Greg
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
21

22
Lone Tree
Travis Hamm
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
saw that not only the meadow was changing, but she was
as well. Her beauty was still as breathtaking as when he
had first seen her, only moments...hours...days ago? Now,
however, she was menacing. The calm of the place had been
shattered just as quickly as his windshield. He ran for the
trees, desperately looking for a way to escape.
The branches tore at his face and hands as he ran headlong
into the forest. He clawed his way through, changing direction
in hopes of losing his captor. Sweat poured down his face,
mingling with his tears and burning his eyes. Finally, when it
seemed like he could go no further, Greg noticed that it was
becoming lighter. He sprinted forward with one last burst of
speed and broke through the cluster of trees and into an open
area. Panting, he took quick stock of his surroundings. What
he saw made his heart skip a beat.
“Welcome back, Greg,” she stood there, watching him calmly.
Anger boiled in his veins and Greg lunged at her. She was
quick, amazingly so, and before he knew what was happening,
he was stumbling forward, trying to regain his balance when
she deftly side-stepped his charge. He fell face-first into the
pool, arms outstretched as if they would be able to break his
fall into the water.
Greg felt an odd sensation as he plunged into the water,
eyes still open. The next thing he knew, he was lying face
down on the ground, his arm twisted behind him. He had
fallen into the water, only to find that it had spat him back out
on the other side into the very same world that it reflected.
He struggled to get free, but she was also amazingly strong
and held him there without much effort on her part.
“Why are you doing this? What the hell is this?”
“Think, Greg. Think about what you did the night that
you died. Think hard.”
Greg closed his eyes. Flashes of memories from the car
crash came to him, but he mentally pushed them away, trying
to remember what had happened before that. Faces, blurry
and fleeting, were there: friends. Slowly, they began to come
into focus. He had been with his friends.
“Come on, Greg! Think harder!”
His surroundings focused then. The place looked familiar,
but Greg felt like he was trying to remember something that
had happened long ago. He racked his brain, trying to place
what the room was.
She jerked his chin up. Greg looked at her and flinched,
trying to turn his head. Her blue eyes were full of fury. “You
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

were with your friends, Greg! What was that day?” Her mask
of calm had slipped and her voice was cutting.
“It was… It was my birthday.”
“Yes. Now, what were you doing?”
He closed his eyes again, trying to escape her glare, but he
could still feel it burning into him. “We were celebrating:
drinking.” Everything became clear; he was standing at the
bar with his friends.
The alcohol burned his throat as he threw back a shot,
one of many. His eyesight was slightly off-kilter, and he was
struggling to stand upright.
With slow, precise movements, Greg slammed the empty
shot glass down on the damp and sticky wood of the bar.
“Well, sirs, I do believe that I have celebrated enough for one
night.” He dug through his pockets for a few seconds before
pulling out his keys, almost falling over when they caught
on the edge of his jeans. “I’m going home, passing out and
sleeping for about 15 hours.”
The responding drunken protests were half-hearted
and Greg brushed them off. “My place is just down the
street,” he told them over his shoulder as he left the bar and
stumbled out to his car. It took a few moments for his eyes
to focus long enough to be able to fit his key into the hole
and unlock his car.
“I shouldn’t have been drinking, but I still don’t
understand.” The tears were hot on Greg’s cheeks as the
entirety of the situation came crashing down on him. “How
does that have anything…”
“That wasn’t the end of it, Greg. Keep going.”
Greg stared out through the windshield, squinting to see
the road better. He rolled the window down, trying to keep
himself alert. ‘Just down the street’ was actually more like
‘across town,’ and he was having a hard time just keeping
his eyes open. “Music,” Greg mumbled, and turned up the
volume on the car stereo.
A whiney love song, sung by a boy too young to really
understand what he was even talking about, was playing.
Greg groaned and reached for the dial to change the station.
The numbers were jumbled on the panel and he leaned in
closer. Finding a station that was playing good music, he
turned his attention back to the road. “Shit!”
Greg braked and yanked the wheel to the side to avoid the
blurry object in the middle of the road. Deep red light lit the
intersection. The tires squealed. A muffled thump filled his
ears, the radio long forgotten in the moment. Shocked sober,
every instant was crystal clear.
He watched in horror as the body hit the hood of his
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
car and was thrown to the side. The squealing of the tires
stopped when they hit the grass. Greg saw the tree in front
of him, but it was as if his brain was no longer controlling his
body. When his car hit, Greg once again felt every agonizing
moment until he fell, mercifully unfeeling, onto the mangled
metal that used to be the hood of his car.
Greg opened his eyes. “Shit! I can’t…” She let go of
his chin and he let his head drop into the grass. “I killed
someone, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
When he looked up at her, there was no pity left in her
eyes. They were an icy blue now and flickered like fire. “This
is my punishment, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Only moments before, panic had sat like a lead weight in
his chest. Now, he felt like an empty shell. His limbs were
heavy and sluggish in reacting. He got to his feet and looked
her in the eyes, ignoring the shiver that ran down his spine.
“What, no fire and brimstone?”
She grinned, cruel and humorless, “This is more fun.” n n n
The Melting Pot
honorable mention non-fiction
Yvette Banuelos-Gonzalez
When did I make the transition? When did I go from being
a Mexican who happens to live in America, to a Mexican-
American with almost no sense of her culture? I found me
asking myself this one day. I have always considered myself
Mexican before anything, but when I think about it, I don’t
live my life as one, or even act as a Mexican usually does.
Discovering this saddened me very deeply. The thought of
losing touch with my culture, and my roots is very hollowing.
This led me to an even greater question: how did this happen?
When I think about losing touch with my culture, I think
about language, which I believe is one of the most unifying
thing a culture can have. When I was younger, Spanish was
the only language I spoke, but now I mostly speak English.
My parents speak Spanish primarily, but they can speak a
bit of English. I still speak Spanish, but I don’t think you
could really call it that. It is extremely broken and mixed with
“Spanglish.” Spanglish is pretty much Spanish with many
English borrowings. When I speak to people who only speak
Spanish, I am very embarrassed, because I feel like a disgrace.
One of the biggest problems I have is that I try to learn words
that I don’t know by asking my parents, but my mother has
become so Americanized herself that she ends up giving me
a Spanglish word. When I try to ask my father, he doesn’t
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even understand what I’m trying to find out. My only other
resource is the internet, but it is often wrong or it confuses
me even more. This struggle with language has often made
me not want to pursue it any further, but I can’t seem to let
myself do so.
My decaying language resulted from my parents’ desire to
make a better life for my siblings and me. They didn’t want
us to be discriminated against and they wanted us to have all
the opportunities in the world. They also wanted us to be seen
for who we were, not just what we were. So, as soon as they
were able to, they made my sister and I American citizens. They
made sure when we went to school, we had everything that we
needed and that we blended in. This led us to drift even further
from our culture. We not only started speaking as Americans
did, we started dressing like them, and liking the same things
that they did. We looked to pop culture as a model of what
we should aspire to have and to
When I think about losing be. As we got older, the people in
touch with my culture, I our lives became more culturally
think about language, diverse and the gap between
who we were and who they, the
which I believe is one of
Americans, were, became more
the most unifying things a prominent. We saw the lives that
culture can have.
they lived and the things they
had, and we couldn’t help but
want to be like them. We knew that the only way to have what
they did would be to be as American as we could and work
hard to overcome our handicap.
Our schooling played a big part in this facade that we had
built up in our minds. All we learned, day in and day out, was
American customs, and that America was good and everything
else was bad. I distinctly remember one day in grade school
when I was in history class and we were discussing the Mexican
Revolution. My teacher was extremely ecstatic about “our”
victorious win over the evil Mexican army. As everyone cheered
for America’s victory, I couldn’t believe how everyone in class was
so riled up about it, when I thought it was a travesty. The saddest
thing to me was that at least 90 percent of the class was Mexican
and we were being fed the idea that Mexico was the bad guy. All
through school, this was the message that was conveyed to us.
Even though I tend to place the blame on everyone and
everything around me, I know that this is my fault as well: I,
after all, allowed this to happen. I let myself be brainwashed
and instead of asking why, I accepted everything for what it
was. Instead of pursuing my culture, I turned from it and,
to some degree, I was ashamed of it. In all honesty, I never
thought I had drifted so far until I started working at a portrait
studio. All of my coworkers were white, and most of my
customers were white as well. Although we had many things
in common, I was constantly noticing that they had customs
that I couldn’t relate to. They did things that I had never done,
and they liked things that I had never heard of. I had never felt
like such an outsider in my life. Up until then, I had never felt
like a minority, but now I couldn’t help but feel that way. What
made things worse was that I no longer felt like I could relate
to the Mexicans who would come in. Because I was the only
Spanish speaker working there, whenever a Hispanic would
come in, they were sent to me. As much as I tried to relate to
them, we had very different beliefs and points of view. I could
see that when they looked at me, they were disappointed by my
desertion of my culture and my heritage. But, when I looked
at them, I saw everything that I used to be and everything that
I had fought so hard to overcome. These constant occurrences
led me to feel like I could no longer relate to my Mexican side
or to my American side.
Realizing how far I had drifted from my roots made
me appreciate my people more than ever. I finally saw the
beauty in our land, people and traditions. Because I had
felt so shunned by my American counterparts, I embraced
my Mexican heredity for what it was. I no longer felt
ashamed of what I was. A new sense of pride overcame
me and although the damage that I had done with my
language had already been done, I decided that I was no
longer going to let it take the back seat. No matter how
ridiculous I sounded, I was going to keep speaking Spanish,
because that’s the only way it will get better. Today, I live
my life as a Mexican with American tendencies. I can’t
change who I am and I would never want to. My culture
has helped me become the person I am today and has made
me appreciate all that I have. n n n
Why Did I Move to
the United States?
honorable mention non-fiction
Ngoc Trinh Tran
Many people have asked me why I moved to the United States
of America. It can be hard to answer that question. Frankly, I am
not young enough to start everything from the beginning in a
new country. When living in Vietnam, I had almost everything
that made me seem to be successful. I had a happy family, I had a
stable job with a good salary, I was respected by students and their
parents, and I was loved by friends and coworkers. However, I
decided to move to the United States with my own family after
thinking about it for a very long time. It is for my two sons, my
husband, and even for me.
According to Vietnamese culture, a woman is considered
to be successful when her children are successful, too. Which
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success is more important, my success or my kids’ success? As
for me, it is my kids’ success. Consequently, I agreed to leave
my homeland and bring my children to the new country with a
new language and a new culture. In Vietnam, there is a proverb
that says, “You are as intelligent as a frog sitting at the bottom
of the well.” The meaning of the proverb is that the knowledge
you have as an individual is very, very small when compared
with the knowledge of others. The United States of America
is famous for its cultural diversity because there are a lot of
people from many countries around the world living in the
U.S.A. This is an ideal environment for my children to observe
how the different peoples in the world work and practice
their cultures. Each culture has its uniqueness, so it is very
interesting to discover it. When communicating with students
of various nationalities, both of my sons have enlarged their
understanding about languages, traditions, customs, clothing,
and even food of some countries. Since moving here, they have
realized there are a lot of things that they have to learn and
practice so that they can develop their personalities and behave
appropriately in certain situations to make people who have
different cultures than them feel comfortable. They really feel
excited to learn something new from the people around them.
Every day, after school, they often tell us about the new things
they studied in their classes, or learned from their teachers and
friends. I hope they can successfully adapt to multicultural
conditions when they go to work. The United States of America
is a member of the Group of Eight countries, and is considered
to have one of the largest economies. There is no doubt that the
United States of America is one of the countries where science,
technology and economy develop the most in the world. Any
person living in the U.S.A., and having a dream of gaining
knowledge in a particular field of study, has a lot of chances
to get it and apply it to their lives. And so do my kids. The
thing that affected my decision to take my sons to the U.S.A
most is the techniques the teachers in the U.S.A. use to educate
students. The teachers encourage and support their students’
creativity. This effective method of studying has aroused my
kids’ curiosities about their surroundings. In addition, the
teaching techniques in the U.S.A. stimulate the students to
make discoveries of their favorite fields, which is very useful
for them to build up their practical skills. My kids have made
a lot of positive changes since they started school in the U.S.A.
They have many opportunities to use new hi-tech equipment
at school while studying and doing their assignments. They
can freely express their ideas about any subject or any field
they are researching, which they could not do when studying
in Vietnam. My kids have really found inspiration in their
studying. With the educational background from Vietnam and
the effective methods of learning in the U.S.A, they have made
a lot of progress in their behaviors and their studies.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
My two sons have certainly benefitted from moving to
the U.S.A. How about my husband, though? My husband’s
mother, sisters and brothers moved to the United States of
America in 1990, so he did not see them for a very long time.
For 18 years, my husband refused to move to the United States
of America with his family because of me. After the agreement
for him to move to the U.S.A. from the American Consul in
Saigon, we decided to get married. And, three weeks after
our wedding ceremony, he had to leave Vietnam with his
big family for the United States of America. To many people
in the world, living in the U.S.A is their big dream. Many
Vietnamese people who were living in a developing country
in the 1980s and 1990s seized any chances, sometimes it was
their once-in-a-lifetime chance, to move to the U.S.A. My
husband’s mother, sisters and brothers wanted him to move
to the U.S.A. with them at the time. They said he would
sponsor me to leave Vietnam for the U.S.A., and reunite with
me when he met all the requirements. But he disagreed with
them and decided to stay with me in Vietnam because of
his love for me. You must imagine how his mother, sisters
and brothers became angry with his decision. They thought
that he did not love them. They were afraid that he might be
caught in a poverty trap by continuing living in Vietnam. On
the day we said goodbye to his big family, his mother did not
say any words to us because of her anger and sadness. After
the airplane carrying them had taken off, we came back home
and my husband began to cry. It was the first time I ever
saw him cry, although I did know that he loved his mother,
sisters and brothers a lot. He always wished to live with them.
However, he felt that he was responsible for me when we got
married, so he had to refuse to go with them to the dreaming
land to stay with me in our homeland.
Many years later, once his mother phoned us from
the U.S.A., she sadly told us that someday she might live
lonely in a nursing home because all of her children left her
home for their own families. My husband felt worried a lot
about his mother’s situation, and he was upset whenever he
thought about her. I loved him and I sympathized with his
thoughtfulness. Thus, I told him that I wanted our family
to move to the U.S.A. to live near my mother-in-law so that
we could take care of her when she needed it. My husband
did feel extremely happy when he met his very big family
after a very long time of living separately, especially when he
saw his mother again. I cannot describe how he was during
the time. His relatives, most of whom had not seen him for
over 30 years, also expressed their joyfulness when meeting
him again. Being his wife, I felt pleased with giving him an
opportunity to show his love and his gratitude to his mother.
If I told you that I agreed to move to the U.S.A. just for my
sons and my husband, it would be a lie. Learning English since
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very young, I had always wished to have an occasion to travel
to some English-speaking countries to practice English and
experience their cultures that I had only read about in books or
watched in films. Listening and speaking to native speakers has
brought me a lot of excitement, because I discover that the ways
people speak English are very different from what I studied in
the books. It is very interesting to meet and talk with them,
which gives me a chance to enrich my vocabulary. Through this
way, I can study some new words and expressions, even slang,
and know how to use them suitably. One more thing that made
me agree to move to the U.S.A. was that I wanted to know
whether I could begin my life in a new country when I was
not young. I liked challenges, and I wanted to rediscover my
inner strengths as well as my abilities. My life would become
very boring without dreams and challenges. Pamela Vaull Starr
said, “Reach high, for stars lie hidden in your soul. Dream
deep, for every dream preceded the goal.” Actually, dreams
and challenges can inspire me to find out myself, keep me from
boredom, and reconnect me with the real passion for working.
At present, I am coming back to school and trying my best to
study so that I can catch up with everybody else. After a short
time of studying in the U.S.A, I recognize that my pleasure is
to rediscover myself, defeat my unexpected fears, and learn new
things from the people around me. Truly to say, it is not easy
for me to restart my new life in a new place because everything
is completely different. However, I think that nobody gets
something without paying for it. Perhaps the hardship helps
me to rise above the difficulties I am facing. It forces me to
work continuously towards my goals and have a determination
to accomplish all I set out to do.
It is very early to say if it was right or wrong when I decided
to move to the U.S.A. But, I felt very happy that I could give
my two sons a chance to build a strong foundation for their
future. Similarly, it was my decision that expressed my love
to my sweetheart when I let him reunite with his big family
in order that he could carry out the responsibility of a child
to his mother. And to me, the journey that I am going on
seems to be very long but interesting. It requires the utmost
skills and endless efforts from me. I will try, try, and try again
because according to a proverb, “Where there’s a will, there’s
a way.” Wait and see! n n n
Sleep so loud
honorable mention poetry
Christian Mandeville
Awake again
And again and again
Another week insomnia’s slave
Nightmares jolt a crippled heart
With twisted fragments of empty sky
And screams rising across the wasteland of lives.
Awake again
Sleep won’t trick me
Tired eyes defiant though nodding
Watch out sandman
Never try to trick the ninja
I sleep with caffeine pills beneath my pillow
Six shots loaded with you in mind
Stay the hell out of my mind.
Survivors
honorable mention poetry
Christopher Whitelaw
Brothers and sisters,
beautiful plants of decadence.
Unleash your acid tongues unto the World.
Refuse the draping cloths it demands you wear
to disguise your wounds.
Children born from fire,
let your screams echo throughout eternity,
like a guillotine executing each virgin mind
plagued with ignorance.
Leave the pages of your past open
to reshape the future.
Ready your weapons of provocation
and leave no enemy untouched.
We,
as ambassadors of an unwanted youth.
We,
as witnesses of the unthinkable.
We,
as every face left scarred in the darkness
of your collapsed paradise.
We come to bring not peace
but a sword.
We are the Survivors
and with our torches raised
to illuminate the midnight sky,
We will carve our names on the flesh of
forever.
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Laundry
Julio Carrillo
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Spanish Lanterns
Monsi Monique Adrian
Lanterns lit the walkway up to the old Spanish house, the
house on Amor de la Vida street, and the beautiful moonlight
gave this eccentric fortress a romantic glow. Belonging to one
of the most influential aristocratic families in Spain, the house
was over-laden in anticipation for the evening’s festivity, and
the bustling and excessive chatter of servants added to the
enthusiasm of the atmosphere. The front garden radiated
emotion, and the excess of Christmas lights and candles
hanging from the branches of the olive trees gave the house
an idealistic aura.
The brisk night could not have been finer, the occasion no
more the grander, but as Salina watched all the flurry down
below from the hovering tower of her home, she could not lend
a hand to the excitement. She only felt numbness in her heart.
She sighed and rested her head in the crook of her arm
on the stoned edges of the balcony trying to be mindful of
her hair and not to disarray the
Off in the distance, tendrils cascading her face. She
knew that her family expected her
she heard the sound
to be presentable, but 19 years of
of the strumming of her life had been playing the role
a guitar. She opened of the respectable daughter of the
Bennaba family of Seville. She
her eyes and turned
had grown weary of the many
toward the sound, her social gatherings, and although
brown eyes wide. There she had avoided every suitor so
was nothing more that far with her cunning rhetoric and
sly mannerisms, her family was
Salina loved than her
mindful of her tactics.
Spanish heritage. She She was one part woman, and the
loved to dance the other part very much the little girl
who still wanted to ride bareback on
flamenco style, letting
the ocean shore, with her long thick
her wild side erupt from
hair flowing like a kite in the wind,
the crevices of her skin, all the while laughing as loud as she
and allowing herself wanted. She had trouble acquiescing
to the consensus and wishes of her
the sensation of such
father, and her rebellious nature
throes of passion.
and hearty appetite for adventure
had been forgiven in the past.... But
her life was on the precipice of change. Salina was reaching
an age when she could no longer craftily get her way out of
the dull and uninteresting walks in the garden with “eligible”
bachelors, and now was confined at dinner parties to sitting
between monotonous men who frequented her life. She was
the apple of her papa’s eye, and the pearl that he would have
sailed the seven oceans for. But his name and reputation were
to be beholden in the realm of his friends.
Salina had often in her life escaped to the confines of her
quiet tower to reflect on her life and cry her lonely tears.
She was Salina Bennaba de la Seville. Strength flowed in her
blood, and the Bennaba family showed no weakness. She had
often witnessed her mother face scorn and reproach from
other women within the circle of aristocracy, but her mother
had always held her head up high and proudly smiled at the
face of adversity.
Salina turned from the giggling servants and laughter from
down below, and she turned to the west, walking to the other
side of the tower toward the shore. This was her freedom…
she could taste the salty ocean air; she could feel the cool
breeze caress her skin; and as she breathed in, she could hear
the sounds of the waves crashing below. She closed her dark
eyes and surrendered to thoughts of the abyss, of being freed
from her fate of endless servitude to a family that had sold
their souls for the riches of glory. The cool wind blew on her
face, reminding her of the times she had been careless and
free. She thought back to when she was a child, and the times
when she would run to sit on her papa’s lap.
“Mia, what did I tell you about playing around in the
flour?” Salina could remember the little wrinkle that would
appear between her father’s brows whenever he was angry with
her. She was covered in flour, the white powdery substance
puffing like white clouds from out behind her as she bounced
up and down in his lap. Her father’s consternation would
build as he thought about how little time the servants would
have to get her ready for the guests soon to arrive. She giggled
and placed her little finger in the groove of the fold on her
papa’s tan skin. He smiled, the slow curve of his lips turning
upward as he tried to contain it. She smiled in her innocent
way, with her tiny straight teeth and her thick long curls all
bundled up around her face.
“But papa, I like helping Teresa cook food.” Her father had
forgiven her then and with a quick kiss on the forehead had
pushed her on her way and walked off with a powdery white
smile on his face.
Salina smiled sadly to herself and was brought back from
her memory. Off in the distance, she heard the sound of
the strumming of a guitar. She opened her eyes and turned
toward the sound, her brown eyes wide. There was nothing
more that Salina loved than her Spanish heritage. She loved
to dance the flamenco style, letting her wild side erupt from
the crevices of her skin, and allowing herself the sensation of
such throes of passion.
She could hear the Spanish flamenco music drifting in
the wind, and as she leaned toward the sensational music,
her mind became transfixed on the power of its sound. In
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the distance, Salina could see a bonfire, and people gathered
around dancing and laughing. She was pulled in, and before
she knew it, she was picking up her skirts and rushing down
the stone steps of her high tower with an urgency she had not
felt in a long time.
She could feel the numbness of her heart fading, and
oh how she loved when her heart sped in anticipation of a
new escapade. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she
hesitated but for a split second, looking at each door. The
wooden door would lead her back to the party and the many
suitors who were waiting anxiously to glance at her Spanish
beauty. The lone stone door, over burdened with moss, would
lead her to her freedom.
She picked up her skirts once again, and smiling, she
rushed toward the stone door. She kicked off her sandals and
buried her toes in the sand, taking in every breath as though it
was her last. She raised her hands toward the sky and laughed.
She turned toward the strumming of the guitar once again,
and could hear the passion that was flowing from the singer’s
voice. The flamenco music enraptured her and the strong
voice reined her in with its powerful and compelling pull. As
she neared, she could hear the beautiful Spanish rolling off
the man’s tongue, as though it was his last song.
The passion was immense and it brought chills of ecstasy
upon her bare skin. The people had sat down to listen to the
man, and they were all as enchanted as she was by his strong
and fervent voice. Now standing outside the circle of people,
she felt eyes upon her, as though they were bearing into her
very soul. Then she saw him. He was watching her with a
look that she had never seen before on anyone looking at her.
Within her circle, she was Salina, the beautiful head-strong
lady of one of the most powerful families in Spain. But here,
in this circle, she was unbeknownst by this man it seemed.
No one dared stare into her eyes as he did. She expected
him to look away but he did not. The fire dancing in his green
eyes drew her in, and she could not look away. He was sitting
by the man that was singing, and in his lap was a beautiful
flamenco guitar. The rich music that came from his fingers,
playing on its strings, made him all the more beautiful to her.
Salina tilted her head as she often did when she was intrigued,
and his sly smile made her bite her lip to hide her smile. The
mysterious guitar player leaned back against the nearby rock
all the while staring at her. He was wearing a white shirt
with the embroidery of the Spanish descent, brown pants,
and no shoes. His clothes were not new, but showed a careful
insistence of being cared for. His hair was dark and longer
than the proverbial shorter hair and sideburns of aristocratic
men. His face was clean-shaven and his skin glowed with the
youthfulness that could only come from the freedom of the
outdoors and happiness of a well-lived life.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Her eyes followed his strong fingers fervently playing on
the guitar, up his tanned arms and to the broad shoulders
that were flexing to the rhythm of his playing. She looked at
his face and as he leaned forward, wisps of his bangs fell in
front of his green eyes, those eyes that were still looking at
her, penetrating her very soul.
She sucked in a breath, for she could not measure his
look. It was not a face of anger, but neither was it a look of
pleasantry that she was used to when looking at the face of a
man. His strong jaw line showed signs of flexing as if he was
trying to control himself. The soft features of his face and
smooth skin made her long to touch and trace the contours of
his face. His harsh stare seemed to look into the deeper things
of her heart, and his lips were set in a grim line, as though it
pained him to look at her, demanding and insistent as though
she was already his.
He was beautiful. A strong and defiant man she sensed,
and she could not find the strength to turn from him. The
music drew her in, however, as a new and commanding song
began. Finally, she looked away and the words of the song
flowed through her. She closed her eyes. The man sang.
I’ll be sentenced to death
If they see me talking to you
But my killers can get their knives ready
For I am as tough as stone
I’ve been through so much torment and pain
So I wouldn’t feel, oh my lover
So I wouldn’t feel the wounds in my heart
I’ll be sentenced to death
If they see me talking to you
Water Stain Three
Gloria Bonnell
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La Scala
Audrey Dorado
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
But I will be as tough as stone
She was beautiful. How long he had waited for this chance
to talk to her, to be close to her. Many times, he had witnessed
her riding her stallion proud and strong upon this very shore.
She never ventured this far from her castle into the realms of
the village people alone, and he wondered if she was missed.
She was wearing a red dress, her hair tied back in an exotic
bun, and she had a red rose tucked behind her ear as most of
the Spanish women did when going to a party. Her dress was
filled from the bottom with the layers of black and red folds,
and her arms were encapsulated in long dark gloves. Her olive
skin, red lips and sparkling eyes captured him, for he had never
been able to witness her beauty so close. His eyes followed the
long dark tendrils around her picture frame face, and he had
the urge to pull her hair free and watch it fall around her waist.
Try as he may, he could not take his eyes away from her.
He had heard of the rebellious and strong-willed Salina, of the
Bennaba family, and her beauty was known far and wide. He
could now see that the words were true. Yet, it was not this
look that had entrapped him to her the most, but it was when
he saw her in her tower, her hair down and freely flowing in
the wind, and the strong and proud mask rinsed away. She
transformed into an angel of light when she was in that tower,
away from the eyes of her family, and he felt he knew her then.
Her soft and rich voice had been what drew his eyes toward
that tower when he had first sailed to this country and had
walked the beautiful shores of Spain. Since then, he could not
find the will to leave. He could not shake this longing to make
his presence known to her, and to be the one to embrace the
wild nature that her family had attempted to conceal.
He smiled looking at her now, watching the sparkle in her
eyes as she came to life, transfixed in the song of Amario,
the man who had befriended him. Amario had found him
battered, worn and estranged on the street with nothing to
eat. He had been delirious and worn from his journey here,
and had taken nothing with him from his trip from the
highlands, but for the clothes on his back.
He somehow knew to come to Spain. He knew that his
mother was from these parts, but his father would have him
learn nothing of his mother. When he has been thrown out,
he found the awakenings of his soul calling him to come to
these distant shores. Like the wings of the heron calling forth
in the morning, he took flight here as if it were his home.
Wanting nothing to do with his calling and the life that he
had left behind, he found himself in a strange place and was
sorely in need of restoration, and Amario had been the man
to provide it. When he had woken from his state of stupor,
he was laying on the floor around a bed of candles. He had
been awakened by the sound of the sweetest music he had
ever heard. He was not accustomed to the string instruments,
being raised around the resounded beating of the drums and
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the bagpipes. This instrument was captivating however, and
he found himself so drawn into the playing of this beautiful
sound, that he lost himself for a moment and felt nothing but
the sensation of the music. He forgot where he was, forgot
who he was, and forgot his troubled past. For a moment, he
resurrected himself in a halo of light and warmth that filled
his heart and soul.
He could not contain himself, and the newness that came
from listening to this music. Before he realized it, he had
abandoned his strewn covers and had followed the music with
his hand outstretched. He opened the door and stepped out
into a landing overlooking the beach, and was momentarily
awe-stricken by the beauty of the sunset. There he saw a man
sitting on the ledge of the porch sill with one leg resting on
the ledge and the other dangling down, and in his lap was the
most beautiful guitar he had ever seen. The beauty that came
from this instrument was due to the callused and tanned
fingers of the older man playing the guitar. With the touch
of the master’s hand, this guitar’s value and worth became
priceless in his eyes. The hard lines around the man’s closed
eyes was pronounced in his playing, as the music flowed out
of him and the rough edges of his mouth showed signs of
wear and tear from a lifetime of laughing.
With his eyes still closed and the nimbleness of his fingers
continuing to project the music, he said, “I see you have
awoken, Señor. Por favor siéntate. Take a seat and do tell me
your name.”
He took a seat and quickly said, “Kendrick, my name is
Kendrick.”
Amario stopped playing and opened to reveal soft brown
eyes that revealed everything that he was feeling. The look
was a look of questioning, concern, and a bit of amusement
at Kendrick’s dishevelment. Kendrick ignored the look and
before impending questions could ensue, he replied, “Thank
you for your hospitality sir, but how much for that guitar?”
The man chuckled and an even more amused look came
upon his face.
“I do have money,” Kendrick said quickly. “Well, at least I
used to…but I can assure you, I will work hard for that guitar.
You have no need to worry or concern yourself with those affairs,
though my present circumstance seems to prove otherwise.”
Amario‘s bemused look quickly abated from his eyes, and
he studied Kendrick closely. “Señor, me das lástima. Not
everything can be bought with money. Some things in life
are too precious to give away at any price. Let me show you.”
And thus he began to play again. Kendrick found peace
that day on the landing of that old porch overlooking the
beach while the falling of the sun shed silhouettes upon this
Spanish man. He had never felt more at peace, and more at
home. It was that night that Amario begun to teach him how
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
to play the music of his Spanish culture. It was this music
that had led her to him, and looking at her now, he felt an
immense joy, pride and determination to win her affection.
She was now sitting within the circle, for some women
had spotted her and ushered her in. Her chin was resting on
her knee and her eyes were closed as she enjoyed the music.
When the music ended, she looked at him again and she had
tears in her eyes. He smiled at her, and in the crook of her arm
she tilted her head and smiled back.
They both knew that this was the beginning of something
to an end. Yet, they could not deny the attraction, the heat that
flowed between them. A love that could not be haphazardly
dealt with, when two passionate people held the emotions of
love within the grasp of their outstretched hands. Their world
would be ignited with fire by the subtleness of fate. n n n
Listening to Logic
Joe Neal
Head tossed back in an attempt to be rid of emotion.
Inhale the breath of life, sometimes tainted by the
obscenities of the day to day,
Choke on the blackness that compresses my chest.
But still I inhale,
Wait, I wait for the exhale, if it ever comes.
Quietly listening for the clues my subconscious leaves like
a trail of bread crumbs to the Great Epiphany
My soul tells me to strive,
My heart tells me to forget,
My body tells me to move,
But, my logic!
My logic tells me to lie silent in a catatonic state, never to
strive, move, or even love again.
To spend the rest of my days in the forest with only a pen
and a hatchet, to write down my philosophy and bring it
back to this civilization,
And maybe, Just maybe
I could have some other soul understand.
Understand what I halfway understand
And I would take years upon years to write volumes upon
volumes…
But wait.
I would spend all this time and pour forth all this
unspoken, unknown knowledge.
And I feel I would stumble on the final epiphany,
To burn all my volumes and to weep
To weep for a life well wasted
For a wasted life well spent
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
And should the last ember of the last volume die like the
rest of them,
A cry
Not of utter despair,
But of utter euphoria,
Releases from the deepest center of my soul.
I would throw my body off of this cliff and I would fly
into the heavens
To find nirvana in this existence
This instance,
But that’s what my logic tells me.
Since when does anyone listen to their logic?
Listening to Logic
The Time We Lived
Julie Moore
Sarah hated hospitals. Every day, she swore to herself that
she was going to leave and never come back, except that it
wasn’t going to happen. As long as her mother was there,
Sarah would be, too.
So she was stuck. Stuck with the overpowering smell of
all the chemicals—formaldehydes, antiseptics, and sterilizers.
Matched with the bleak fluorescent lighting, there was
enough of a sensory overload to make her practically crazy.
What bothered her most, though, were the patients.
She knew that was horrible, but she would never forget
the time that she had gone to the ice machine and turned
the corner straight into Mrs. Jenkins, a stroke survivor. Sarah
could only stare in horror at the decrepit old woman slumped
sideways in her wheelchair with a thread of saliva dribbling
off the edge of her chin, before running back down the hall to
go cower in her mother’s room. Afterwards, she was plagued
by nightmares for weeks, where her mother’s laughing face
would transform into the withered and drooping mask of
Mrs. Jenkins.
Walking down the hallway, Sarah shivered as she
remembered her most current nightmare. She was so
preoccupied, she didn’t realize that someone was talking to
her until he tapped her on the shoulder. Startled, she turned
to look at Dr. Matthews, the doctor who was ‘taking care’ of
her mother. She felt her face involuntarily scowl as she looked
at him. He was an older man, probably about fifty or so,
heavyset with peppered gray hair and light brown eyes.
“And how are you doing today, Sarah?” He gave her a
broad smile, showing a small gap between his front two teeth.
“I’m fine. The more important question is, how my mother
is doing,” Sarah never felt comfortable around Dr. Matthews.
She didn’t trust him. He spoke in big words that she didn’t
understand, and said there was nothing to worry about. He
was an overeducated liar.
“Well, we got a couple of discouraging tests back,” he
hesitated, then added quickly, “but there’s probably nothing to
worry about, it’s just a small hiccup in your mother’s recovery.”
Sarah crossed her arms and furrowed her brow. “So she’s
getting better?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say better,” the doctor said as
he clawed to loosen his tie. Sarah could see beads of sweat
gathering along the edge of his receding hairline.
“So she’s getting worse.” Sarah glowered at the doctor, but
she could hear the tremor in her voice.
“Let’s just say that right now she’s in stasis.” Dr. Matthews
pulled up the clipboard that he had clasped at his side and
flipped through some paperwork. “Neither progressing or
regressing in health, but if things don’t turn around soon, we
will need to be much more aggressive in our treatment.”
“Which means?” Sarah’s eyes narrowed at the doctor’s
attempt to dance around the subject.
“It means,” he sighed heavily and dropped the clipboard
back to his side. He looked at the clock on the wall behind
her as she spoke. “The cancer is much more aggressive than we
previously anticipated. Your mother is not responding to any of
our treatments and it seems that the cancer is actually spreading.”
He cleared his throat and looked awkwardly at the tile
floor. “Would you like to tell her or do you want me to do it
for you? I have had some practice with this kind of situation,”
he finished, before finally actually looking at her.
Sarah didn’t notice. The room was spinning and she was
having trouble breathing. She put her hand to her head to
steady herself and said with a shaky voice, “No. I’ll do it. I’ll
tell her.” She didn’t say anything else as she turned around
and walked back to her mother’s room. Her body was numb
and her ears were ringing. Every step felt like her legs were
filled with lead and jelly at the same time. She wasn’t sure
how she made it through the door without collapsing, but she
knew she couldn’t let her mother see her this way.
“Hey mom, how are you feeling?” Sarah plastered on a
smile as she entered the small room where her mother was
being held prisoner.
“Still a little tired, but good,” her mother said, smiling over
at her daughter.
“That’s good. Did you want me to call Dad and let him
know you’re up?”
“No. Don’t bother your father. He’s been busy at work with
the Murphy case. He’ll check in when he gets a chance.” Her
mother touched the end of a lily petal in the bouquet lying
beside her bed. The bouquet had five blooming lilies erupting
in pink and orange, set off quite nicely with some daffodils
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and baby’s breath. They were a gift from Sarah’s father, and
even though they only came in yesterday morning, they had
been in the hospital longer than he had.
Sarah looked at her mother. She looked so different now
than she had before coming in. She was still beautiful, with
her bright smile and Romanesque features, but it was a ghost
of the woman she had been. Before the cancer, her mother
was the most alive person Sarah had ever met. Her amber eyes
always sparked like an untamed fire, her cheeks were vibrant
with color, and her golden hair tumbled around her face
untamed. Now, her eyes were empty, her cheeks were sunk
in, and what was left of her frayed hair was limp and dull.
She used to look like me, Sarah thought, remembering
how sick she used to get of hearing that comment from
family members. Now she’d give anything to hear that again.
“What should we do today?” she asked briskly, snapping out
of her reverie. “Should we watch TV, read, or go exploring?”
Her mother’s eyes lit up, showing a spark of the life that
was hidden deep underneath the cancer.
“We could go out for a little bit. I wouldn’t mind leaving
the room for a while,” her mother answered.
Sarah hadn’t taken two steps when she heard the door click
open, followed by a man clearing his throat. Her whole body
tensed as Dr. Matthews stepped in. It hadn’t even been five
minutes, and he was here to steal her mother away.
“And how are you feeling today, Mrs. Clarke?” he recycled
his previous greeting, flipping through his clipboard.
“She’s fine,” Sarah said tersely, earning a confused appraisal
from the doctor.
“Sarah!” her mother said before replying to the doctor,
“I’m fine, thank you. We were just about to go for a walk.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but, actually, we‘re
going to need to run a few more tests, and after that you may
be a little worn out. It might be best to put the walk off until
later.” He put the clipboard on the table next to her mother
clumsily, breaking the stem of one of her lilies.
“Of course it might,” Sarah said, picking up the broken
blossom and stalking out of the room. “I’ll be back in a
minute. I need some air.”
Sarah fumed the whole way down the elevator and out
to the small garden behind the hospital. She’s never going
to get any better, Sarah thought. Every time her mother got
any piece of her old self back, the doctors had to steal it away
again. Just like when we first found out about the cancer, she
went in laughing and came back broken.
Sarah collapsed on the bench underneath the big oak tree
on the outskirts of the garden. She studied the lily as she
twirled it slowly between her thumb and forefinger. It really
was beautiful; burnt orange with specks of chocolate dotting
the petals. It was so delicate that a scar was left anywhere
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
she pressed too hard. Sarah wondered how much longer
she was going to be at St. Mary’s, and whether leaving really
was going to be a good thing. She stayed there for a while,
thinking about what Dr. Matthews had said, and what that
meant for her. When she
couldn’t stand it any longer, Sarah looked at her mother.
she decided to go check and
She looked so different now
see how her mother was
doing. Mom had been there than she had before coming
for her all those years, now in. She was still beautiful,
it was Sarah’s turn. with her bright smile and
When she got back, she
Romanesque features, but it
found her mom awake,
looking sadly at the wilting was a ghost of the woman
bouquet.
she had been. Before the
“They need water,” she
cancer, her mother was the
said, trying to touch up the
sprigs of baby’s breath. “We most alive person Sarah
forgot to give them some had ever met. Her amber
yesterday.”
eyes always sparked like
“I’ll get some for you,”
an untamed fire, her cheeks
Sarah said, grabbing the
brown plastic pitcher from were vibrant with color, and
the bathroom. “We should her golden hair tumbled
just get you some plastic
around her face untamed.
ones,” she joked, “they
would last longer.” Now, her eyes were empty,
“Don’t you tell your her cheeks were sunk in, and
father that,” her mother what was left of her frayed
said, as she pulled out the
hair was limp and dull.
broken stem and tried to
rearrange the bouquet to fill
the empty spot. It didn’t matter what she did though, with
the lily gone, there was a gaping hole and it could never be as
beautiful as it was. “I don’t want plastic flowers.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with them?”
“They aren’t real,” her mother said, playing with a soft
green leaf.
“But they last forever.” Sarah said. “They won’t break or die.”
“True, but they aren’t really alive,” her mother said, placing
her hand in her lap. “They’re just an imitation.”
“But they die,” Sarah said, her stomach tightening as she
looked at her mother. She rested her head back against the
pillow, and Sarah realized how tired she really looked.
“You can’t be afraid of death, Sarah. Otherwise you’ll miss
out on all of the truly beautiful things the world has to offer,”
her mother murmured, looking out toward the window. “It
doesn’t matter how long things last, it matters what they give
while they are here.”
Sarah’s eyes followed her mother’s to the window, and
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Spooklight
Erick Sanchez
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
they both sat in silence, watching the sun float in through
the blinds. Sarah shifted uncomfortably, and said in a toobright
voice, “I’m going to go get you some water then.” She
clutched the pitcher to her chest and fled the room.
As soon as she was outside, Sarah closed the door and
collapsed against it. Her mother knew she was dying and
could accept it, why couldn’t Sarah? She closed her eyes and
rubbed her fingers against the sides of her head. It felt like all
of her thoughts were beating against her temples, trying to
break through her skull.
“Sarah? Are you all right?” A familiar voice echoed through
the buzz in her ears.
“Dad? I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything OK?” She
worried that something had happened while she was gone,
and the doctors had called him. She didn’t know why else he
would have been there.
“Everything is fine.” He said. He saw the panic in her eyes,
and hurried to calm her down. “I just came down to see you
guys. I put some extra hours in on the case last night so I’d
have some free time for you guys today.”
“Oh,” Sarah said. She wondered how much extra time that
actually meant. “Did you get a chance to see mom?”
“I did, but she was asleep. I went and grabbed some lunch
because I didn’t want to wake her.” He absently checked his
watch as he spoke to her.
“No, because then you’d have to stick around for awhile,”
Sarah thought bitterly as she looked at her father. She hated
the way he did that. For as long as she could remember,
her father had this nervous habit of checking his watch
compulsively. Her mother always said it was because he was
busy, but it told Sarah she was an inconvenience.
Sarah scrutinized her father, waiting for him to realize that
the timepiece on his wrist wasn’t going to make her disappear.
He was everything you’d expect a lawyer to be. His suit was
clean, pressed and stylish. He was professional, but not so
much that you’d think him pretentious, with a handsome
face whose scholarly features mixed just enough with roguish
charm to help win any jury to his side.
“Well, you’d better get going then,” she said, voice tight.
“You don’t want to be late for any meetings or anything.”
“Actually, I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you
too, let’s go to the lobby and relax for a bit.” He looked
at her like he’d never seen her before, and threw out
his ‘case-closing’ smile. Mom always said it was this
smile, not his smarts, that won his lawsuits, but Sarah
thought that if that was true, her father spent way too
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much time in the office. Professional teeth-whitening
was what, a two-hour procedure? She could feel the heat
rising in her cheeks as he led her down the hall away
from her mother.
The squeaking of her father’s leather Italian shoes
on the newly polished tile was the only sound made on
the long walk to the lobby. “He puts so much into his
appearance,” Sarah thought as she remembered the time
her mother had come to her regional soccer tournament.
Her mother had shown up looking ridiculous, with black
and red body paint all over her face. She made an even
more convincing demon than did the mascot parading
around in his uniform. Sarah thought it was hilarious, but
Dad would have died of embarrassment.
When they reached the lobby, her father held the door
for her, and then took a seat stiffly beside her on one of
the green plastic chairs. Neither of them spoke, but Sarah
noticed that he looked like he was trying to piece together his
opening address for one of his juries.
Sarah’s painstakingly studied the parenting magazine on
top of the table in front of her. The woman smiling up at her
from the cover was just beginning to blur in her vision, when
her father cleared his throat.
“So, how have you been, Princess?” Again, he focused on
his wristwatch as he spoke to her. Sarah didn’t say anything.
She wasn’t going to have a ‘heart-to-heart’ with someone
who wouldn’t even look at her. After a few moments of
silence, he continued. “Sarah, I know this had been hard
for you—”
Sarah could tell he was being sincere, but she couldn’t
hold back the scoff that escaped from her lips. She could
feel her whole body start to tremble as her father looked
over at her with surprise and hurt in his emerald green
eyes. “Look, honey, I know I haven’t been around much
but—”
“Much?” Sarah said. The tension and anger that had
been building up inside her exploded. “You haven’t been
around. Period.” Her voice was rising with every word.
She saw several waiting visitors turn to look at her, but
she didn’t care. “We’ve been in this hospital room for
over two months--two months, dad, and I think I’ve
seen you maybe ten times. Mom’s seen you even less
because she’s sleeping every time you come. And you
think just because you send in flowers every week that’s
OK.” Her nose pricked as tears gathered in the corners
of her eyes.
“That’s not fair,” he said. His tone was firm, but his face
was clouded. “You know that I work.”
Sarah didn’t let him finish. She could feel her cheeks flush
and hear her voice rising, but she didn’t care.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
“Fair? Really, Dad? We’re in the hospital because Mom
is dying! Do you think that’s fair?” Sarah gestured around
the lobby. “Do you think it’s fair that I wake up in this
horrible place every day, wondering if maybe she’ll start
getting better or if—” her voice broke as she considered
the alternative. She dropped her face into her hands just as
the woman on the cover of the magazine started swimming
on the page.
Her father was silent while Sarah tried to regain her
composure. She sat, head in her hands, her mind still
spinning with thoughts of death, anger, emptiness, and
hurt, until she finally spoke. “Life isn’t always fair, Dad.
You, more than anyone should know that. I’ve read the
profiles and verdicts of some of your clients. You’re
good at what you do, I’ll give you that.” She glared at
him through her tears. “But the reality is this: we don’t
always get what we want, and people aren’t always what
we need them to be.” The venom dripping from her
voice made him drop his eyes down to the small table
in front of them.
At least it wasn’t his watch, Sarah thought furiously
before standing to cross the room. As she left, she glared
sullenly at each member of the presiding jury of the waiting
room. When she reached the door, she took one last look
at the crumpled figure in the green chair. Her father’s head
was hung in his hands and his body was wracked with silent
sobs. Sarah’s stomach churned violently as she stepped
outside and wondered if ‘fair’ might have been exactly what
he needed right now.
When she got back, the lights were dimmed and Dr.
Matthews was nowhere in sight. Good, she thought as she
made her way over to her mother’s side. She was sleeping
peacefully on the bed, a small smile dancing on her pale
lips. Sarah wondered how much blood they had taken this
time. How is she supposed to get better if they keep taking
everything she needs, she thought, looking at the plastic IV
burrowed in her mother’s skeletal hand.
Sarah sat that way for what seemed like hours,
listening to her mother’s soft breathing and thinking
again about St. Mary’s. It was then she decided that worse
than anything, worse than the room, Mrs. Jenkins or Dr.
Matthews, was the crying. She realized she hadn’t gone
one day without hearing sobs escaping from at least one
room. Sometimes it was just quiet sniffles behind pulled
curtains. Other times it was worse: full-blown wails
streaking through the corridors, only slightly muffled by
a closed wooden door. It didn’t matter how, she knew
that soon her tears would join those of the thousands of
others that had been shed by families that had loved and
lost, and changed forever. n n n
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
Wish
Tierra Beasley
I wish i could forget you,
i wish Mr. Clean made an eraser that could wipe you from
my memory, you know what i mean?
Like erase the holidays spent
Like whip that smirk off your face
Like don’t look at me with those eyes
Like take your hands off mine
and the way you used to look at me from across the room,
undressing me with your eyes,
and in my mind i’d see the events play out
from your car, to your house, to your couch, to your bed,
and maybe even the shower some nights
i mean, I just want to forgot how i kissed you in front of
strangers, in front of God
i wish you weren’t even a memory, i wish i didn’t know you
don’t get me wrong, i don’t wish you dead, just out of my head!
and i wish that wishing on stars could send you so far into
oblivion not even whispers had a recollection of your existence
but instead of forgetting you, you invade my dreams
you stalk my thoughts
on the street, random faces become you
my stomach turns to knots and i am sick to death of seeing you !
i try as hard as i can, but i can’t forget you
i cant forget the nights we spent in your room, never alone
because one of us invited sin
but neither of us would take the blame
so we kissed, closed our eyes,
we laid there, concealing our regret in each other
lips to neck, hands to chest, hips to hips
and at the end of the night we rationalized
only realizing that we were compromising ourselves
i sigh, i weep.
i can’t forget how you stripped my soul down to nothing,
breaking my walls, making me weak and helpless,
how you tortured my heart til the blood turned black, cold
like my thoughts
i just wish we were a story never told,
never heard,
never formed,
never created,
never spoken,
never dreamt,
never every synonym for “nothing”
i just wish i could forget you
Underage
Gambling
Tiffany Davis
You sit by yourself to indulge
Your demons.
Punishing yourself
The teeth of jealousy feed off
You matter.
But you show no green,
Careful to hide the holes
In your reflection.
A veiled cover only to
Smother your soul.
The imperfections that create you
Make you.
Just a boy or maybe a man,
You deny your inadequacy
To fault your peers.
Be gone with the honesty and
Kill them with kindness.
You’re so real at being fake
You flatter your own worst critic.
Deception is not an art only
Conquered by women and
The leaders of faith.
Idle hands create your canvas.
Better your name to ring in their ears.
Than to grace their lips like razor blades.
Keep them talking.
But they don’t have to guess
Because you in fact don’t
Sit alone.
Only in the corner or your mind,
They cannot come.
And they won’t hold your hand.
A fool’s game they make
The rules.
No coddling or nurture,
The game aims straight for your throat.
Rip out your larynx to
Belittle your mind.
The masses create the genre of thought.
You win this game if
You live by their lives.
Envy motivates the dice
For the game you play.
Hiding from yours and living
By the corrupt life.
Congratulations and salutations
To the suffocated youth.
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

The Boy
Gloria Bonnell
The blow across his jaw was unexpected and came swift
and strong. He staggered from the force of it.
“Boy,” Vance yelled. “Get to work. I didn’t bring you out
of no orphanage down here to freeload off my land.” The boy
was shoved by Vance and fell hard across the row of tomatoes
where he worked, crushing the plants.
“Damn it, boy,” Vance accused. “Now you’ve gone and
ruined my tomato crop.” He grabbed the shovel from the boy
and threw it further out into the field. His big, lanky frame
shadowed over the boy; his ruddy complexion, aflame with
rage. He picked the boy up by the shirt, spun him around
and shoved him forward. “Go get that while I fix this mess
you made.”
The boy scrambled to his feet and hurried after the shovel.
He didn’t look back.
Vance turned his attention to Junior. “Junior, get over
here. You’ve got a problem with your tomatoes.”
Junior was stooped down holding a kitten. It followed him
everywhere on the farm. He quickly put it down, grabbed
the shovel and got back to work. Digging on the irrigation
ditch, getting it ready for tomorrow’s supply from the water
authority, was his job. Vance was clear about that. He had
been told why he was there. He was big, strong and dumb.
Vance made sure he knew all of those things, especially the
dumb part.
“You think I can’t see you over there wasting my time?”
Vance directed his fury at Junior. “Get over here.”
Junior sighed, threw down his shovel, jumped the ditch
and hurried toward Vance. “I’m on my way, Vance. Right
away.” The kitten trotted by his side. Before he got to Vance,
he scooped it up and put it in his bib.
“What the hell you doing with that cat? Get rid of it.”
Vance picked up a dirt clod and threw it at the kitten, hitting
Junior in the arm.
Junior rubbed his arm, looked over at the boy and
unconsciously checked on the kitten in his bib pocket.
The boy, fully aware of the conflict, dropped his head
and kept working.
“Your tomato plants are falling over. Get that taken care of
right now.” Vance pointed at the fallen plants. “Look at that!
How are we going to harvest this crop with neglect like that?”
Vance kicked the dirt in the row, throwing up dust.
“Crap, I’m going in for a break. Get this place in order. I’m
running out of time.” He crossed the field and stormed into
the farmhouse. Once inside, he stood at the window, watched
Junior, and fumed.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Junior watched Vance storm across the field, scatter the
chickens across the farm yard, and go in the house. He
dropped down in front of the tomato plants and started to
fix them.
“Junior?” The boy called out across the rows.
“Yeah, boy,” Junior looked up from his work and swiped
his brow.
“Why you suppose Vance is so mean?” The boy stopped
working. A small breeze stirred up dust, irritating the boy’s
eyes. He rubbed them with his fist.
“Well, I guess he just don’t know no better.” Junior glanced
toward the farmhouse. “You best get busy.”
“Someday he’s gonna get what he gives out, Junior.” The
boy furrowed his brow. “I done dreamed about it.”
“You don’t have enough sense to dream up stuff like that,
boy.” Junior pulled at a few weeds that were sheltered under a
plant. “They told us when we got you at that orphanage, you
was dumb, too.”
The boy turned back to his work. “I got plenty sense,
Junior. If I could, I’d do him in.”
Junior shook his head, “Yeah, me, too.”
The kitten, hidden in Junior’s bib, jumped out. Scared by
a shadow, it hopped off, claws open and hair raised, to hide
under a tomato plant.
“It’s okay little kitty. There’s nothing here to hurt you.” As
Junior beckoned for the kitty to come to him, it slowly crept
out from the plant’s shade. Junior patiently beckoned it to
continue.
Vance, seeing the interruption, silently exited the
farmhouse, picked up a shovel and worked his way toward
Junior, creeping slowly row by row. The shovel’s blade was
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
Abandoned Drag Race Tower
Isaac Bartelt
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
swift and sharp. “That cat’s not gonna keep you from working
no more,” Vance said. “Will it, now?”
Junior looked up in shock. Vance towered over him. His
big body blocked the sun, and his face was shadowed by it,
but Junior could still see the grin. “Now you can get busy and
do what you’re supposed to do.”
Junior’s face was steel. “You’re right, Vance. I’m not gonna
be stopped for nothing now. I gonna do it.”
“Throw that thing out for those damned buzzards.” Vance
yelled over his shoulder as he walked back to the farmhouse again.
The heat and misery of the afternoon bore down on Junior
and the boy. The storm clouds grew, but instead of relief,
brought more humidity. The silence of their labor was as big
as the sky overhead, and was broken only by the sound of
tools hitting dry ground, and the buzzing of flies.
Junior?” The boy, leaning heavily on the shovel’s handle,
looked fretful.
“Yeah, boy?” Junior took a bandana from his back pocket and
wiped down his face and arms. His eyes scanned the horizon.
“Tell me again about Roy Rogers,” the boy asked earnestly.
“I can’t remember all about it.”
“All right, but you gotta promise you’ll keep working while I
tell you.” Junior stepped across the rows to be closer to the boy.
“Roy Rogers was the greatest hero of all time,” Junior
began. “I learned all about him from my Momma. She read
me stories about him.” Junior glanced toward the house.
“She’s dead now, ya know.” He looked around again and
worked the soil a little.
The boy kept working. “Yeah,” he muttered.
“At least that’s what I heard,” Junior reached down, pulled
a weed and sighed, “from Vance.” He paused for a moment,
and considered the boy. “Anyway, one day there was going to
be this big flood. The dam was going to break. Everyone in
town was going to die unless Roy Rogers and his horse,”
“Trigger,” exclaimed the boy.
“Yeah, Trigger,” agreed Junior, wiping his face. “Trigger
and Roy Rogers, they saved everybody. They rode into town
and warned everyone about the dam and got everybody out
before it broke.”
“Those people needed saving, huh.” The boy glanced at
the farmhouse.
“Yeah, Roy and Trigger, they did the right thing.” Junior
stopped working and looked around, studying the farm.
“That’s a good story but it’s making me thirsty.” The boy
looked toward the farmhouse again and licked his dry lips.
“Sure do wish that irrigation water would get here.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna be a good day when it does.” Junior
shoved his bandanna in his pocket and returned to his row.
“Junior?” The boy was standing in the field, thinking.
“Yeah, boy?” Junior looked back over his big shoulders.
“Thanks.” The boy smiled.
Junior looked away.
The sun melted off the side of the sky while Junior and
the boy toiled side by side. There was no more interference
from Vance, which they took as a blessing. The buzzards
sensed the twilight and gave up their search for carnage.
Slowly the night awoke to the carol of frogs in the ditch
bank and the flickering of fireflies. The sun’s retreat brought
welcome respite from its relentless assault. Junior and the
boy rested on their shovels.
“You know, boy, I heard I grew up in Chicago.” Junior
sighed. “I’m going back there someday. Vance says that when
he sells these tomatoes I can go. Him and me gonna split the
tomato money fifty-fifty. That should be enough to get me
outta here. I got me a little stash over in that Oldsmobile.”
Junior gave a few more whacks at the weeds. “Between that
and the money from these tomatoes, I think I can go. Anyway,
boy, let’s call it a day.” Junior collected the boy’s shovel and
started for the farmhouse. A dim light shone through the
kitchen window.
“Do you think we can use any of the water, Junior?” The
boy begged as he tagged along.
“We better wait one more day, boy. We’ll get more water
tomorrow, and then I think it’ll be okay to clean up a little.”
Junior reached out to the boy and rubbed his head.
“Okay, Junior.” The boy shrugged his shoulders and gave a
resigned look. “Tomorrow.”
“You wait out here on the porch. I’ll see if there’s any
food today.” Junior stooped over to get a good look into the
farmhouse window. “He’s in there at the table. Can’t tell what
he’s doing. I’ll be right out.” The porch creaked. The screen
door banged shut. Junior was inside.
The boy collapsed on the porch in exhaustion, grateful for
the break from Vance. He stretched out on the porch. The
frogs were calling so loud it was hard to think above their
clamor. The night sky erupted in a celestial show of stars. The
full August moon danced with the lightning and clouds in
the eastern sky. A gentle breeze stirred the dry leaves of the
cottonwood, releasing some to flutter down to the ground.
The night overpowered the boy. He rolled over on his side
and drifted asleep.
He was awakened in the morning by the smell of water.
He stretched his sore and aching body, then crawled to
the ditch, fell onto his stomach and placed his arms in the
cold, murky stream rolling down the canal. He let them
dangle there to be moved by the swift flow of the water
then scooped that cold water on his face and let it run
slowly down his neck. He looked up and closed his eyes as
the sun broke the horizon. The boy welcomed its rays with
his wet, smiling face. The water had arrived, and with it
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came relief. It brought relief from thirst, relief from dust,
relief from the overbearing heat, and relief from working
the dry, hard ground.
He jumped up. The gate needed to be placed in the ditch
or the water would just roll on by.
“Junior,” he yelled as he ran toward the Oldsmobile. “The
water, the water!”
Junior came stumbling out of that old car, fastening his
clothes as he ran. The irrigation gate was heavy. He muscled
it into place and the water poured into the field.
The farmhouse door banged shut. Vance was up and back
in charge. “All right, now let’s fill the water tower. Boy, go
get the buckets. Junior you climb on up there and thread the
pulley. I’ll get ready to scoop.”
The boy ran fast to where the buckets were stored under
the old Oldsmobile. There were three, one for filling, one for
dumping one for transport. It was always the same. Vance
stood at the ditch and filled the buckets, the boy ran the full
buckets to the pulley and hooked them up, and Junior, up
on the tower’s tresses, raised the bucket and dumped it into
the deep water tank. The boy ran the empty buckets back to
Vance. They worked in silence.
The water tower was slowly filling up: three feet, five feet,
and then eight feet deep. They kept working. The sun kept
moving across the sky. The dirt from the irrigation ditch
settled to the bottom of the tank and the water was clear
and cool. Even though it was filling up, now more than ten
feet deep, there was still more than half way to go. It was
hard work to pull the buckets up the twenty-foot high tower,
dump the bucket and drop it down to the boy, but Junior was
glad for the water.
“Hurry up, boy,” Vance said as he plunged another bucket
into the cold irrigation water. “Junior, what’s taking you so
long? Not that I’m a bit surprised,” he chided. “You’re slower
than a one-legged dog scratching himself.”
Junior struggled with the rope. “This here rope is twisted
and it’s jammed in the pulley.” He leaned out across the tank
and continued to pull on the rope. “It stuck tight.”
“Am I the only one around here with any brains?” Vance
asked as he hustled over to the tower. He worked his way
up the trusses to where Junior was struggling with the
jammed pulley. He shoved Junior aside and off the tower.
Junior fell the twenty feet to the ground and hit hard with
a sharp yell of pain.
“Junior!” the boy exclaimed as he rushed to his side.
“Junior, tell me you’re alright.”
“I’m okay, boy,” Junior said as he struggled to get up.
“Here, take my hand.” The boy strained as he helped
Junior to his feet.
“You better not be hurt!” Vance yelled down from the
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
tower. “You all get out there in that field ahead of that water
and work those weeds until I get this pulley fixed.”
The boy held out his arm and Junior leaned on him for
support as they struggled to the field. The water was ahead
of them. They carefully made their way to the dry end of the
tomato rows and started working.
“I’m just about done with him,” Junior said as he chopped
at the weeds.
Vance struggled with the pulley. The irrigation water
continued to run through the ditch. “That water is gonna
be gone before this tank’s full,” he complained to no one
in particular. He balanced himself on a cross beam and
reached out across the tank to grab the pulley rope right at
the neck. He pulled hard and strained, arching his back.
The knot gave and as it did, he lost his balance on the
beam and fell into the tower with a splash. He yelled for
help again and again.
The buzzards circled, looking for carnage. The storm
clouds teased in the eastern sky. The flies buzzed. The sun
bore down. Junior and the boy kept working.
“Junior?”
“Yeah, boy?”
“What would Roy Rogers do?” The boy asked as he looked
toward the water tower.
Junior looked at the boy, then back at the water
tower. “Aw, hell, boy. Why you asking a question like
that? Let’s go.” n n n
My Home
Allison Phillips
Quiet footsteps float softly to my bed,
It would make sense if it was just in my head.
With closed eyes tight, I hide under my pillow.
I can feel the frigid breathing in the walls,
Ear-cringing scratches down the hallway,
The door handle shakes menacingly;
Hinges creak and houses do settle,
But these night terrors are not so easily explained.
While I sleep, the dark is waiting
To poke and slap me out of my escape for peace.
Even awake, I sense the shadow watching
And slip away out of the corner of my eye.
Sounds of music play when nothing is on,
Familiar voices calling when no one is around.
This is the norm,
This is my home.
Even when it’s scary,
This is my home.
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It is Pretty Ugly
Evelyn Ruiz
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
Skin
Ronald Jones
I ride by night, he finds shade in the day
They look while we walk, they don’t know our pain
They haven’t shed our tears or had sleepless nights
They don’t feel our hurt and don’t dream our frights
Just two different people going two different ways
One runs and fights
The other bought his way
Both of them are cursed
‘Cause colors equal to dirt
They try hard to hide, but evil does its work
And the way that it feels, every time not the same
Endure it all so when you make it
they’ll remember your name
Don’t let your faith be determined cause the color of your skin
It Started Like Just
Another Sunday
Charles Lee Rogers Jr.
It was March, spring had just begun, and it was a Sunday.
I woke up, and walked outside to feed the horses. It was
important they ate early today. We were going to a gymkhana
that started at one o’clock. After feeding the horses, I could
go back into the house and have my breakfast. I had a bowl
of cereal, and then I took shower.
I went back out and started loading up the saddles and
other tack we would need for the day. My dad drove the
truck around as I directed him while he backed up to the
trailer. All we had left to do was load up the horses. There was
about an hour before we needed to leave. Our horses were
all registered quarter horses. Bessy, my horse, stood about 16
hands two. She was coal black, long, sleek, and fast. Wort was
a bay with a black mane and stood about fifteen hands two
inches. She was not as fast as Bessy; however, she was a little
more agile. Felina, another bay with a black mane, stood right
at sixteen hands. She was slower than Bessy and faster than
Wort but not as agile as either. Sindin was my mother’s horse.
Our family joke about her was, “She was a quarter horse
and three-quarters mule.” She stood about fifteen hands and
looked more like a plow horse than a competitive horse that
you would have wanted to use: that is, if you wanted to win.
She was a good horse, just not when compared to the other
three. Sindin weighed about two hundred pounds more than
the other horses.
We went back into the house and waited about 45 minutes
before catching the horses. We all went out together and
caught the horses. Mom, Dad, my two sisters, little brother,
and I ran them in from the field, and into their corrals. We
put the halters on the four we were taking and loaded them.
The first two we loaded were Bessy and Wort; these two have
traveled a lot together and trailered well side-by-side. The last
two to be loaded were Sindin and Felina. These two horses
would sometimes act up when they were in the trailer. They
were always loaded in the back. It would be easier to remove
them if a problem did occur during transport. It was basically
a safety issue as to why they were loaded in the back.
We arrived at the Western Saddle Club arena at about 12
o’clock, high noon. It is not there anymore. It would have
been right in the middle of what is Highway 51, also known
as the Piestewa Freeway in Phoenix, Ariz. Its approximate
location was 18th Street and Myrtle. We unloaded the horses
and began the grooming process. We needed to brush them,
clean their hooves, doctor any sores, and apply fly wipe to
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their heads. My sisters and I finished the grooming while our
parents entered us in the gymkhana.
At the gymkhana, there was a jackpot event called the
rescue race. This was a timed event where one rider rode,
crossing the start/finish line, and up the arena past another
line. There, the second rider mounted, and they both rode
back across the start/finish line. The fastest time would win.
It was a jackpot event. This meant it would pay cash to win.
The number of entries would determine how many places
would be paid.
My usual partner, David Toledo, was there. My younger
sister’s partner, Jim Banderett, was also there. They would be
our toughest competition. It was about ten minutes before
the start of the rescue race. David and I decided to go over to
the practice arena and do a couple of practice runs. However,
before we left the paddock, I had my dad tighten the cinch
on my saddle.
Bessy had dropped her head and she would not move. She
spread her feet wide and lowered her head. Something was
wrong, but I ignored it. I kicked her a little, and nothing
happened. I then kicked her a little harder, and still nothing
happened. She still had not moved. Not paying attention to
her warning signs, I then kicked her hard with my spurs, and
my life has never been the same since.
She reared as quickly and as violently as any horse had ever
reared. The saddle horn hit me in the stomach and knocked
me backwards off the horse. I fell from a height of about ten
feet and landed flat on my back. Luckily, my dad was standing
right there and pulled me to the side before the horse landed
on me. She landed on her back in the same exact spot, falling
from a height of about fifteen feet. The horse landed, rolling
away from me. She avoided rolling on top of me.
I immediately turned a gray, pale color, my lips were
purple, and my eyes were glossy and dilated. I could not
speak and started throwing up what looked like blood. I
heard someone yell, “Call for an ambulance.” I then heard my
dad say, “We can’t wait for an ambulance. He may not have
that long. Someone just bring a truck over, and let’s get him
to the hospital.” Jane Parrish then brought her ’72 metallicbrown
Chevy Blazer over. They lifted me into the back of the
Blazer, for what still is the roughest ride I have ever had in
the back of a vehicle. My mom rode to the hospital with me.
I was now able to speak a little. I told my mom that what I
threw up was a Milky Way candy bar I ate. She asked how I
was feeling, and it scared her when I said, “I’m hurt bad.” She
knew I would not have said this if it had not been true. She
yelled up to Jane, “Hurry up. We have got to get there,” as she
did her best to control her emotions.
When we arrived at the hospital, I was placed on a gurney,
rushed in and immediately given top priority. This was
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
John C. Lincoln Memorial Hospital at Third Avenue and
Dunlap. They took my blood pressure, and then they started
screaming out orders. The nurses never said aloud what my
blood pressure was, but they wrote it on the bed sheet I was
lying on. I looked and saw that it was 70/30. I knew this was
not good. I was hooked up to an I.V. and then another, and
still another. They took a few blood samples and rushed them
to the lab.
Now, I will get to the
part that hurt the most. The She reared as quickly and
doctors knew I was bleeding
as violently as any horse had
internally. However, they
did not know exactly ever reared. The saddle horn
where. The doctor took hit me in the stomach and
a four-inch-large bore knocked me backwards off
needle and injected it into
the horse. I fell from a height
my abdomen. Out of this
contraption, a plastic tube of about ten feet and landed
extended farther. They flat on my back.
were trying to use this
contraption to find out exactly where the internal damage
was. After three of these probes, the doctor started the fourth.
This was where it got painful. When trying to remove the
needle, the plastic extension got stuck. It was stuck bad, real
bad. I weighed about 95 pounds at this time. It took six men,
that each weighed over 200 pounds, to hold me down – and I
was trying to cooperate. I watched as this contraption pulled
the skin of my stomach upwards six to seven inches. Finally,
it released its internal hold it had on me.
The doctors stabilized my condition and scheduled me for
an emergency exploratory surgery. Exploratory surgery was
just what it sounded like. They knew something was deathly
wrong, and if it was not corrected, the patient would die.
They just did not know for sure what the problem was yet.
The doctor’s best guess was that it was my liver. This was
where they started their exploration. They saw it was not
my liver, so they kept on exploring. They went across my
abdomen and saw my spleen was not just damaged; it was
busted into several pieces. With no chance of repairing the
organ, the doctors decided a splenectomy was the proper
course of medical treatment.
The surgery was very successful from this point on. During
the surgery, I received three pints of whole blood. By my
research, that was close to fifty percent of the total blood in a
ninety-five pound person.
I was in the hospital for ten days and not allowed to eat
for the first three. This was the first time I had ever noticed
how many food commercials there were on television, and
damn, that food looked good. A friend of mine, Jeanine
King, had made me some homemade candy and brought it
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to the hospital for me. I never told her that I was not allowed
to eat anything. However, my parents told her, and it made
her cry. No one meant to hurt her feelings. She felt bad for
bringing food to a starving friend who was not allowed to eat.
I told her, “It was all right. I knew you meant well.” She still
felt bad about it.
My ten days in the hospital were over. Finally, I was
released. The Phoenix professional rodeo, the “Rodeo of
Rodeos,” was in town. My only request was that I wanted to
go watch the rodeo. My surgeon said to me, “You must really
be a cowboy.” He approved of going to the rodeo. However,
I would need to attend the rodeo in a wheelchair. This had a
secret surprise that was nice, due to the fact I had the best seat
I have ever had to watch the rodeo.
I have now lived about 37 years without my spleen. I am
relatively healthy except for the injuries and other surgeries I
have had. Life without a spleen does have a few drawbacks.
I cannot sell plasma. I can donate whole blood only half as
often as a person with a spleen is allowed, and when I need to
urinate, I am unable to hold it for very long.
Although the day of this accident has changed my life
forever, I will always remember and never forget, “It Started
Like Just Another Sunday.” n n n
N*2 = Stupid
Jessyka Lanks
It’s ok to call your friends that, if they wear the same shade.
If others say it, they feel your blade, tongue, speak, words of stupid.
Think, before you spew the word vomit of slang.
Darkness, a hidden snag.
Two words, ignorant, derogatory….sound familiar?
Drag yourself up from the level that you’re at.
Father
Joseth De Santiago Navarrete
When the word hero comes to mind, immediately we think
of the men and women in uniform, who we have been taught
since youth to see and admire as heroes. Firemen, policemen,
paramedics and such are those commonly portrayed to be the
faces of those greatly admired. In my mind and world, the
only hero I have ever turned to in life is my father.
I once heard a quote stating that when a man becomes a man
he no longer sees his father as the superhero he once considered
him as a child; he sees his hero as a friend and a common mortal
with worries and fears, weaknesses and faults. I’ve seen myself
progress in a world filled with worries, obstacles, and suffering
– more than what an average individual should encounter. In
this struggle, my adversary has strangled me with fear, blows
that break one’s soul and will to continue, and at times defeat
seemed certain. My father is hand that will forever be present
with me, offers its everlasting support and guidance. In my
corner, he is the rock that holds me up. I have an infinite
amount of respect for what he stands for, and how to this day,
he continues to inspire me with his persona and ingenuity.
My father’s struggle began in a small ranch in the outskirts
of a small Mexican town – a town filled with beautiful
landscapes and scenery, beautiful forests with majestic tress
that tower above the clouds, large lakes and rivers and streams
filled with all types of plants and fish surround the town like
a fortress. As a young boy, he was cruelly abandoned by
his parents like an orphan, and left with his grandparents.
Unfortunately, due to their old age, even with their good
intentions, they could barely fend for themselves, let alone
take care of another. At the early age of seven, no longer
a child, he was forced to be a young man. He worked jobs
that boys of the age of 15 would do. I can only imagine my
father at seven. I see a vivid picture of him standing over the
fields with sweat on his brow and shirt, with the smell of the
damp soil pouring into his lungs with every strike made to
the ground. He never took breaks, only stopping for food
and water, no matter the time, place or weather. Even if
clouds darkened the skies, none clustered his mind. He was
determined to never stop until the job was done, as if his life
depended on it, because his life did depend on it. At the age
of 13, he bought his first truck, which shows how hard work
and effort pays off. A young entrepreneur, he was making
his own luck in life despite not being able to attend school.
He taught himself all the subjects needed: math, reading,
writing, some science, and a bit about politics. To this day, he
continues to impress me with his knowledge on life and its
concepts, and how quickly he obtains it.
An incredible athlete, to this day he beats me and my
brother at a dead sprint. He made a name for himself in his
region. At the age of 14, he was scouted by the local grown-up
teams to be part in their soccer teams because of his remarkable
talent as a goalie. After a couple of pueblo championships, it
was not long until his talent got him noticed in the state,
and soon a one-in-a-million chance came around. It seemed
that, after all his hardships and difficulties, God had paid
attention. PUMAS, one of Mexico’s greatest soccer clubs,
heard of the young prodigy that lived in the mountains. They
invited him to participate in their camp for up-and-coming
soccer players. This was his chance to fulfill his dreams and
do what only a handful could ever experience; but, as his
luck would have it, disaster struck. His grandmother caught
a life-treating illness and my father had to reject the offer and
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find more work to pay for her medications. I cannot help
but wonder what could have gone through his mind at that
moment. Being struck with the news of the only woman he
ever came close to calling mother was hit with an illness.
At the time of the illness, there was very little hope. As a
result, the news of his life-long dream would not be a reality,
a dream all too real that could give him everything he could
have ever dreamed of.
Knowing my father, it was an instant decision. His mother
was the only choice. As soon as he could, he said his goodbyes,
sold his truck and left some money to his grandparents. With
only a bag filled with clothes and a few dollars, he commenced
his journey to the United States. Now 15, but more of a man,
his thoughts and vision were clear. He made up his mind
on what he needed to do and nothing could hold him back.
He stood at 6’1,” with a muscular physique given to him by
the soil and fields in which he labored daily, and his mind as
sturdy as the house he built for his grandparents. That home
to this day stands, stands for more than just a building, but
an example of how even when the thought of hope seems in
vain, a positive structure of a man can be built. He made his
way across most of Mexico, and without the help of anyone
or a coyote, he crossed into a strange, new land following his
only guide – his heart.
I would like to say that my father got to go back to his
grandmother and see her one last time. I would wish to say
that his grandfather did not die out of sadness, but in the end
that wouldn’t be the truth. My father worked day and night,
gathering an immense amount of money, but it was in vain.
Medical help could not save her and the cure for a broken
heart has never been developed. Over the next several years,
he visited 33 states of the U.S., working in every single one
of them – from a dishwasher in New York, to a mechanic
in California, to a Tobacco cultivator in Florida, to a field
worker in Washington state. He has done it all with more
stories than any child’s book could carry about friendship and
life, hardship and success.
I could not imagine the pain of being without my father. I
would be lost, my body paralyzed by a poison’s bite that only
life can inject in one’s heart. I now see why he chose to work
so much – to lose his pain, and keep himself alive and find
himself, somewhere in a land where he was literally lost. But
loss is part of life, and so is gain. At the age of 19, my father
had found what he never figured was out there for him.
It was a calm evening in Florida. My father was out for a stroll,
just out of work when he saw a damsel in distress – my mother,
at five-feet tall, but a fury of a woman, with a light complexion
and long red hair. She had hazel eyes and a smile that just won’t
quit. It seemed she had some car trouble, and my father, the
amazing car wiz, with a tweak here and there, he had her back
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
on her feet. MacGyver status. He had her back on her feet in no
time. After a series of dates, marriage followed, and my mother
gave my father six children and the large family of his dreams.
Now life has been good to my father. He works for an
emergency crew for SRP. Whenever there is a natural
disaster, he’s on it with his crew, ready to take charge of the
situation. A man of a million talents, he’s certified to work
on and handle any situation. He is an electrician, plumber,
CDL drivers license holder for heavy machinery; he’s a tree
specialist, contractor, dealer, and just about anything. He was
the cofounder of two famous taxi companies in the Valley –
Aguilas Radio Taxi and Koras Radio Taxi. He was owner of
a tire shop and mechanic shop, which I take charge of when
he’s out on duty. Ever since I was young, I have been taught
to work. From the early age of 10, I was up at 5 a.m. on
the weekends, following my father around everywhere. He
taught me and my younger siblings about what it takes to
make a living. Now that I am 18, I have an immense amount
of knowledge about things, and have made a small fortune
for myself. To be humble and to help others when needed is
a guide I know very well. I feel privileged to have been given
a father like mine. The morals and lessons given to me, I will
forever keep. The immense amount of respect and loyalty for
him by many are unmatched. Willing to receive any order
and follow it to its end, I am prepared to go head first into
any situation. Hard work will always show results, as seen by
the fortune it has made for me. But my greatest fortune in life
is my friend, my mentor, my father. n n n
Harley
Jason Williamson
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Cata
Faustino Oblea Lopez
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
The Econ ‘n’ Me
Sarah Routolo
Flying, soaring
About to touch the sky
Our “noble” men in
Office would rather just be high
Buying, trading
It’s easy to graze
Little did we know
It was the free market’s grave
Stuck in a wallet
Where a quarter means shit
And our pockets are
Raped by Uncle Sam’s dick
Excuse me?
Getting taxed on sneeze
Fuck that rule
And all your policies
What an incestuous pig
The good ole Sam
Gives a whole new meaning
To getting screwed by the man
They make us
Break us
Basically rape us
Pillage and purge
Everything we know as worth
That social Darwin
Taught us fight or flight
But these days I have
To fight to get a flight
A chance to leave
A chance to be
A chance to truly experience
What it means to be free.
And the House, Too
Tara Robinson
It was you, blue, roaring beast,
Who brought us,
Together,
And took us,
Apart.
We met on your pale shores,
Where you tickled and caressed our bare feet.
We married on your steep borders,
Where your salt sealed our kiss.
He loved you,
And I,
Loved him.
He wanted to know your depths.
I could not stop him.
He sailed and dove, reveling,
In your tempestuous nature.
It seemed he preferred your unrestraint,
To my own reserve.
Is that why you took him?
To keep his love with you,
Forever?
To steal his love for me,
Away?
I see you beyond the windows,
Of our old summer house.
I see your white waves,
Reminding me of what I have lost,
And of what you have gained.
You can have the house,
too.
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

Danny
Monsi Monique Adrian
My heart began to speed up and the pangs in my chest
started to grow deeper, carving into my chest. I felt a canyon
beginning to form. Yet, I calmed myself and willed that I
would not let the tears that were beginning to brim, to spill
from my soft brown eyes. I squared my shoulders and walked
through the familiar door – his house, the house of my beloved
friend. Danny Brown was in his last stages of life, and the
somber faces around me were mixed with smiling faces trying
to keep the mood light and spirits high. My baby blue shirt felt
so contrasted against the darkness that threatened to envelope
me. I wished I had worn black. I smiled too, and everyone who
was already there greeted us as we entered our pastor’s home.
We were ushered into the living room where Danny’s hospital
bed stood. I stared at his almost lifeless form and instantly felt
the pangs again – pangs of regret, of time wasted – time that
would never be wasted again.
I sat beside his bed and put a smile on my face to hide my
sadness. He wasn’t looking, but I could feel him saying like he
did so many times, “Now take that frown off your pretty face.
Those stars shine just for you.” How many times we watched
for shooting stars, and this alone was enough to put a smile on
my face.
“Hi, Danny, it’s Monsi. Sorry, I haven’t been able to come
over sooner. I’ve missed you.” Then I began to rattle off
about nothing, and everything, and things that didn’t matter
anymore. “You remember when we were in the van and I
started singing, and you gave me a funny look? Then I shut
my mouth.” I laughed reminiscing about this moment. “But
you surprised me by saying, ‘Why don’t you sing like that in
church?’” I started to play with the covers on his bed, nervously
trying to keep my mind away from the bleakness. I counted the
stitches on the hem. “Yeah, I looked at you like you had two
heads and then you spat through your teeth on me and I had
to hit you with my purse.” I snuck a glance at him. “Danny,
if you’re listening, blink your eyes.” He blinked. I grinned earto-ear.
“Blink twice if I’m annoying you.” He blinked twice. I
laughed and then began to sing to him:
Life is easy, when you’re up on the mountain
The talk comes so easy, when life’s at its best
But it’s down in the valley, with trial and temptations
That’s when real faith is put to the test
But the God of the mountain, is still God in the valley
When things go wrong, you’ll know that he’ll make them right
But the God of the good times, is still God in the bad times
The God of the day, he’s still God in the night.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
A tear trickled out from his left eye and I wanted him to
open his eyes at least once more, so that I could see those
baby blue eyes I loved so much. All these memories that were
swirling around in my head were enough to make me feel the
bleakness of the night dragging me down to endless solitude.
I didn’t want to think or be around anyone. I wanted to make
it all disappear. Yet, I couldn’t help thinking back to the time
when Danny and I were at the
park and everyone was playing My heart began to speed
volleyball. Danny couldn’t play
up and the pangs in my
and instead we just went around
the park – him in his wheel chair
chest started to grow
rolling right beside my long deeper, carving into my
strides.
chest. I felt a canyon
“I don’t want to die.” My head
beginning to form. Yet, I
swiveled to him quickly. “Danny!
Don’t talk like that. You still have calmed myself and willed
plenty of time.”
that I would not let the
He just looked at me sadly. “I tears that were beginning
don’t think it’s fair. I haven’t even
to brim, to spill from my
been kissed.”
We grew quiet and the motor soft brown eyes. I squared
from his electric wheel chair my shoulders and walked
hummed over the cracks of the
through the familiar door
sidewalk.
“Monsi?” he said shyly. – his house, the house of
“Yes?” I smiled. The wrinkles my beloved friend.
in his forehead became more
pronounced as I saw him struggle with the right words to say.
“If I hadn’t been born with this illness…would you have
married me?”
I looked away and down at my feet, then back at him, only
then to look up at the blue sky. I wondered that many times
– if things had been different in his life, would my life have
been different? Had he not been inflicted with the anguish
and misery of this incurable disease of muscular dystrophy,
would I have been his wife? I could not know, and that is
what I had told him.
Sitting by his bedside now, and seeing his lifeless form, I
wished that I had told him something different. I wished that
I had told him yes, because at 23 years of age, his life was
swiftly coming to a halt. I wished that I had given him the
kiss that he would never have.
More people started to come into the room and were
crowding around his bedside. I wiped the tears from my eyes,
leaned in quickly and kissed him on the cheek. His face was
warm and his skin was soft. I lingered my lips on his soft,
reddened cheeks, and imagined my life with him. I was only
17, but I felt like a woman losing the love of her life.
“Danny,” I whispered against his cheek, “I would’ve
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married you, with all my heart.” I stood up and walked
away, out of the room, down the tiled hallway, and outside
to the cold brisk evening air. I began to breathe hard, and
when I saw more people getting out of their cars to walk
toward the house, I dashed down the sidewalk toward my
car. I slammed the door and continued to breathe hard.
The catches in my throat made it hard to swallow. The
tears fell quickly.
I went back to the church the next day again to clean.
My pangs had disappeared, swirling down the white tile as I
vigorously scrubbed the shower in my pastor’s office. There
were many ladies that had been coming throughout the week
to clean the church, and I did not know at the time that it was
in preparation of what was to come. I just knew that I wanted
to be there every day, and if this helped my pastor’s family, then
I would continue to do it.
I sang to myself, loving the prelude of echoes that
escaped from my voice and into the chambers of the quiet
shower. It made me think of the mountains and fresh pine,
and I forgot why I was on the floor of a shower scrubbing.
This illicit moment was not because of pain, I told myself.
I felt the presence of someone, and I turned around to
see Lydia staring at me from the open doorway. It was a
horrifying look, a look that said everything without saying
a word, and in that instant I knew. I looked down at the
soapy, but now white and clean tile. I turned away from
her. I didn’t want to hear her say it, those finalizing words
that would make the fresh smell of pine and the sweet
surrender of peace vanquish.
“Monsi?” She stood there for a while but I just kept
scrubbing. When I could hear her footsteps and the
scuffle of her feet die away, I sat down, leaning my back
against the shower door and bringing my knees up to my
face. This was the moment when no words can describe
the magnitude of the moment, of how the emotions
were flying around inside me like bats in an abandoned
building. Fluttering their wings, yet with no way out, until
finally they fly into something; they hit a brick wall. I was
that bat, feeling lost in that abandoned building, but I hit
the brick wall. My wings stopped fluttering, stillness and
then the tears began to fall.
I thought back to the time when Danny had rolled his
wheelchair up to my dad and point blank looked at my dad
and said, “I’m going to marry your daughter someday.”
My dad laughed. “You have any money?”
He looked at my dad with a serious face and said, “I’ve
got lots of money.” I smiled through the tears and sobs.
It slowed down my heart again. I thought of the happy
things, of how despite Danny’s circumstances, he always
had smile on his face. His baby blue eyes, and blonde
hair, the freckles on his cheeks, and how his cheeks would
redden when he was full of laughter. His presence was so
infectious, and his lines to the ladies we’re never-ending,
and oh, he could make us all laugh! I dried my tears and
got up from the bathroom floor. I wiped my snot on my
sleeve. I was wearing a baby blue shirt. Why did I hate this
color so much? I walked out, and the ladies are sitting on
the pews, just staring. They looked at me and we all shared
a familiar, weakened smile. Then we got up and began to
prepare for the funeral.
The day of the funeral was hot and stifling. It was the
middle of May, and the birds were chirping in my window.
I half expected to see gray skies, but the sun was shining. I
turned over to face my purple and pink wall instead of the
sun, but I had to get up. I went to the closet and grabbed a
black jacket, black skirt, and black pair of shoes. My family
drove to the church and the parking lot was packed. I never
saw so many cars in our church parking lot.
I walked into the open doors and saw Danny laying in
the front of the church, in a beautifully-adorned casket with
flowers cascading down the sides. I stopped mid-step, my
dark high heels didn’t make a sound on the red carpet, and
right in front of me was the open aisle. I looked around at
everyone, so many people, just a black silhouette against the
high, white walls.
I took a seat. I can’t even remember who sat by me. All
of it a blur, but all of it still a part of me. The service began
and the preachers that sit upon the platform to support my
pastor are many. I can’t remember them all. I cannot begin
to tell of how beautiful the service was. The words that were
spoken, the love that was expressed to our beloved Danny,
and how many lives were touched that day. All the dreams
that were left behind, and how Brother Booker spoke of
heaven, ever so softy and heart-brokenly, yet joyously. Tears
came to my eyes and the song began to play that spoke of
God’s faithfulness.
We drove to the grave site and my job was to pass out
roses to all the family and the rest to those that wanted one.
Why did I hate red roses? I looked into the face of each family
member as I gave them a rose. I don’t remember why I did, just
that I wanted my eyes to show kindness and let them know
there were others who loved him too. I stepped back and the
words of the preacher went forth. The sun was glaring in my
face, and I tried hard to pay attention to his words but the edge
of this cliff was making me scream inside. Danny was lowered.
I stepped forward to drop my flower. I whispered, “I’ll keep a
part of you with me.” I looked up and the birds were chirping,
wings fluttering, and they are free to fly wherever they want. I
couldn’t help but smile. Danny was the lucky one. Someday,
I would see him again. n n n
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

Layla
Freddy Ramirez
Dedicated to Layla and Ruben Martinez
Soldier who holds her,
You’re the one who did not give birth to her,
but you’re the one who laid her in the ground.
You never heard her screams of birth.
When she came out, she didn’t make a sound,
Not even the slightest noise of her heart pound.
I’m so sorry, so sorry that her silence is “sound.”
Her laughter, the toys, her smile has been planted.
I know she’ll be back, and rise up with a rose for you,
daddy.
Well, At Least You
Aren’t Dead
Shannon O’Connor
It’s been three days, 21 hours, and six minutes since
I finally opened my eyes. With curtains closed tightly, the
darkness in the room makes it hard to see more than a foot in
front of me. But I like it this way. It’s easier to think without
all the sunlight distracting me. The nurses come in with the
most ghastly food I’ve ever seen, and they try to coax me into
eating it. But I’m not used to feeding myself yet, and there’s
no way I’m getting any help from the pity-soaked faces that
come to visit me. I’m sure my own expression isn’t any more
pleasing to look at for them. I keep replaying the accident
over and over in my head, but instead of being one of the
actors, I watch it all take place like you’d watch a scene in a
movie. But as much as I wish it was something I’d seen on
TV, it wasn’t.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said. My
sister’s voice crackled at me through the phone. I had just seen
her about five minutes before, for some sisterly bonding time
through our shared love of the arts. We would get together to
get supplies for our next big masterpieces and talk about the
drama in our lives. Well, she talked about her life. She had
skirted my words of worry and morphed them into the stress
she’d been storing. Again. It was how our talks always played
out and so I just calmly threw in a ‘yeah’ and ‘uh-huh’ at the
end of every few sentences.
“Riley, I’m fine, don’t worry,” I said. I was driving home
and the highway was littered with hurried drivers. Riley had
obviously not gotten all the ranting out of her system, and
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
felt the need to continue with the makeshift therapy session
through our phones. I shifted the phone into my right hand
and continued to fake-listen.
“Roxy, I didn’t mean to change the issue to my problems.
I just want to let you know that I know what you’re feeling
and…” My brain just started to tune her out. I was too busy
slamming on the brakes to avoid the giant move-out-ofthis-lane
construction truck directly ahead of me. My heart
stopped beating for however long it took my car to squeal to
a stop and I held my breath longer than what felt humanly
possible.“Oh my god,” was all I managed to whisper into the
phone. I had stopped just before hitting the truck, maybe
a few inches away. My heart was pounding in my chest as
I drew deep, heavy breaths to get oxygen back to my brain.
“What? What happ-,” is what Riley started to say, but her
question was cut off by the sickening car-crunching sound
and my sudden scream. I may have stopped short, but it
would seem the car behind me didn’t follow suit. The phone
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
Introspect
David Nunez
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had been in my hand one second, but then I wasn’t sure
where it went. Maybe Riley was still on the line. Maybe she
could still hear me.
“I’m okay,” I said between sobs. “I’m okay…”
It seems that I lost my consciousness at that point, since
I don’t remember anything until about three days, 21 hours,
and 10 minutes later. When I first woke up, I hurt. My entire
body felt like it had shattered and had just been left to mend
itself without the use of modern technology. I tried to put my
hands to my throbbing head, but only one hand listened. The
other wasn’t listening to the signals my brain was sending. It
was then that I began to take note of the little machine sitting
next to me, spying on my heart. It started to beep louder and
faster. I scanned the room. Just whose room was this? The
mechanical snitch next to me grew louder, until the door to
the strange room flew open and two men in multicolored
uniforms ran into the room.
“Hi there, honey,” said the taller of the two. He had a
goofy-looking, but somewhat sincere grin on his chubby face.
“Good morning! How are you feeling?” A stethoscope landed
on my chest and he paused his welcoming speech. “You were
in an accident a few days ago. Do you remember?” Another
pause. I just stared at him, my eyelids were peeled back so far
it made my eyes water to make room for a little spotlight. He
continued anyway. “We were worried for a while, but it seems
you’re going to be OK. Can you hear me OK?” He leaned
over me as the other man, man number two, was checking
the machines, my eyes, and generally just poking at me.
“I – I can’t move my arm,” I managed to choke out. The
tears began to form their twin pools underneath my eyes. It
hurt to speak, both out of pain and fear. My heart felt like it
was going to burst through my chest. I looked at their faces,
my eyes grasping for comfort in them. The beeping managed
to pick up its pace once more.
“Calm down, dear,” man number one said. Again, the
beeping picked up speed. “They got you out of your car and
brought you here. You were in pretty bad shape. You were
mostly just covered in cuts and bruises. However, the damage
to the right side of your car was much more extensive.” He
brought back his cheesy smile, but his eye told me it was a
cover. “You broke a few of your ribs on that side, but those
should be healing just fine.” He paused. He looked down at
me from his vantage point and pulled the muscles in his face
into an expression I couldn’t name. “Honey, your arm was on
the side of the car where the car was hit. We had to amputate
it.” He reached down and stroked my hair. I tried to swat his
hand away, but apparently I picked the wrong arm to move
since he kept on petting. I could feel the tears begin their
journey down my horror-stricken face. “I’m sorry, but don’t
worry. You’ll get used to it eventually. You can go back to
living just the way you used to. You’re lucky you still have
that. At least you’re still here.” The tears made my eyes burn.
It seems they didn’t have to amputate my tear ducts.
Almost all my time since then has been sitting in my
dark room, watching my small alarm clock keep track of
the minutes I spend thinking about my life. Sure, there have
been people in to see me in the past three days, 21 hours
and 15 minutes, but I haven’t felt like talking to anyone.
My family has been to visit everyday day I’ve been here, and
they used to try to start conversations about how I was doing
and all the usual junk. When I didn’t respond, they would
talk about what they’d been doing. I didn’t even toss out a
‘yeah’ or ‘uh-huh.’ Soon they just stopped talking all together.
They got tired of their own questions just hanging in the air,
unanswered. Riley was the only one who would still talk to
me, but I think it was more to calm herself than anything
else. She felt guilty, so she came to comfort me. I didn’t listen
to what she said. I just stared at my clock in the dark.
A physical therapist came to see me, too. She was telling
me about some program were I would be learning to use my
left hand just like I had my right. Feeding myself, tying my
shoes, and holding a pencil were things I was just going to
have to do just left-handed from now on. She tried to tell me
that art is a learned motor skill, too. In time, I could be right
back to it. I don’t think she meant that as a pun. She left when
I refused to respond and agree to be helped. I was too busy
thinking. Thinking about how it is, how it was, and how it
never will be. But hey, at least I’m not dead, right?
It’s been three months since I’ve been home. Or something
like that. I haven’t had time to think straight; Riley hasn’t
given me any. After I left the safety of the dark hospital room,
I demanded my room at home mimic it. Unfortunately,
Riley refused to let me keep it this way. She kept prattling on
about how things were going to be just like they used to be
in our apartment. Sundays we would stay up late and watch
documentaries on almost any topic. As long as it was in the
documentary section, we would watch it. Wednesdays were
shopping days. And Fridays used to be my favorite day. It was
art day. The day we would start at noon, and not stop until we
fell asleep early in the morning. But that’s not today. Today
was Saturday. And today it just so happens she planned an
outing for us.
“Alright, don’t peek!” Riley said as she began to push me
out of the car. As soon as I was standing on both feet, she
slipped her hands over my face. I didn’t feel like playing these
games with her, but surprisingly she ignored me when I told
her no. So here I am. Wherever here happens to be.
“Can we just skip past all this and just get to the surprise? I
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don’t feel like doing this right now.” I tried to peel her hands
back but she grabbed my wrist with one hand and kept my
eyes covered with the other. She cheated.
“I promise you’ll like this.” She guided me awkwardly
down the sidewalk a ways before suddenly stopping me. “On
the count of three, ready? One, two, three!” her hand pulled
away and I was facing a giant grey storefront, located between
two others that looked exactly like it. Despite the lack of
signage, the furnishings inside let me know exactly what I was
looking at. I could feel the tears rush to their familiar place.
Without knowing what to do, I just stood there. I could
feel my sister place her hands on my shoulders. I think she
asked me what I thought of the surprise. I thought a lot of
things about it, but I’m pretty sure none of them were as
happy as what she wanted me to say. So I did what I always
did and tried to appease her.
“I love it. It’s great. You finally have your studio,” I
managed to say. I think she heard the quiver in my voice,
because her hands shifted and she was now holding me in a
hug around my shoulders.
I shook myself free from the grasp and walked up to the
door of R&R Studios. Inside, there were two desks. I worked
my way over the furthest one and brushed my fingers across the
polished wood. There were pencils sitting on top and I reached
for one. It felt wrong in my left hand. I put it down and turned
towards Riley. “How did you manage to afford this?”
“Dad leased it. And it’s not my studio. It’s our studio!
We both know you’re the one with the artistic talent! You
gotta help me rake in enough business to cover my half of
the rent.” I could hear the smile in her voice, and it pushed
me too far.
“You have got to be kidding me?!” My voice carried far
enough to hit the other wall and bounce back to me. “You
honestly think I can draw like this? I can’t do anything like
this! I can’t even dress myself! Or do you not remember
dressing me this morning?”
“I didn’t think –” is what she started to say, but I wasn’t up
for one of her woe-is-me speeches.
“No, you didn’t think. Because you never do.” It was my
turn to say what I was feeling for once. She can listen this time.
“It’s always what you think is what’s important, right? I don’t
want to be here, I don’t even want to leave the house. And I
certainly don’t want to draw ever again.” I paused just long
enough to stop myself from crying. “So congratulations on
your new studio space.” I bit my lip and turned my back from
her and the door. She had hung the drawings I had finished
years ago along the interior walls. The people and animals I
had sketched looked down on me in what looked like pity and
mocking smiles. I missed the emotionless face of my alarm
clock, waiting for me back in my gloomy room. n n n
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Free to Speak
Sandra Herrada
I will not be censored
I do not close down
I have more than a word
Inside of me, inside my soul
Where what I mean grows
My opinion counts
Though it’s not welcome
Or accepted by most
I will not be censored
I will not go away
I will stand for what I believe
Give life to my words
The words that breathe reason
A purpose to believe
That what I say matters
I will not close down.
Whispers of Rain
Ashley Tucker
The beating sound of rain, or as my dad calls it, bacon
sizzling in a frying pan, is one of the sounds I most enjoy
in the world. My father, part Native American, has always
been very into Native American culture and would often tell
us the importance of rain to all living creatures. When I was
four years old, he took my family up from my hometown
desert of El Paso, Texas, to the tree-covered mountains of
New Mexico. Up to that point in my life, I had only ever
seen forests on the television. My joy of finally seeing so
many trees and different variants of wildlife remains one
of my most precious memories that will forever be etched
in my mind. However, it was not the raw, fresh beauty
of experiencing a new form of nature that I loved or
remembered the most. It was the rain of the forest that I
found most captivating.
The first day in the forest, we did what most people
camping did, such as setting up the tent and clearing out
the area where we were to sleep and eat. Being only four,
I had to watch my two-year-old sister and stay within the
view of my parents. My family had arrived at the campsite
rather late, so I was not allowed to go exploring until the
next day. I recall having a hard time falling asleep due to
the mysterious and even frightful sounds of the forest at
night, which I was unaccustomed to hearing. The next day,
my father took us away from the campsite to go explore
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the forest. He told us of the various plants that we saw
and some survival stories of his own experiences in the
forest. I was so ecstatic with the nature around me that
I barely recall anything of what he said to me. We were
about halfway into our hike when suddenly we heard and
felt something that sounded like the growing rumble of
some huge beast coming our way, which shook me in my
bones, and then I heard what I thought was the loudest
gunshot in the world. Startled and afraid, I started to run
with my sister to my father. He gathered us in his arms
and we looked at the sky, which was quickly becoming
a dark and angry bluish-purple color with tints of fiery
red. It was the first time I can recall the sky being those
colors all at once, and with such intensity. My father had
us rushing back toward the tent to take refuge from the
storm before it hit us. Unfortunately, the rain of the forest
is quite unpredictable at times, and we were soaking wet
and muddy by the time we reached the tent, much to the
dismay of my mother. So my family sat in the tent to wait
out the storm and my father opened up the window screen
of the tent so my sister and I could look outside as nature
became transformed. The gentle pit-pat-pit-pat of the rain
as it hit the plants surrounding our tent, the new sounds of
wildlife, of creatures that rejoiced the rain, the whispering
sound of the wind as it rushed through the trees, and the
awe that flowed through my young mind during this forest
storm will forever be unforgettable to me. The best part
of this newly discovered joy was that after the rain had
stopped, I was allowed to go outside and walk around to
see the newly transformed forest and breathe in the fresh,
crisp, cool air of the forest. I even got to see some new
animals, such as a herd of deer, which did not seem to
mind people nearby as they grazed; and many types of
birds as they sang their songs of gratitude for the rain.
We stayed for another two or three days, and with each
day that I was there, I went exploring with my father
and he continued to teach me the secrets and joys of the
forest. When I had to leave the glorious beauty of the
forest, I wondered how much longer the forest would
be able to live untouched by the greed and selfishness
of humans. I was greatly saddened as I got in the car
and looked out the window, staring at the landscape as
it slowly changed back from beautiful trees, into desert,
and then finally into the city. Of course, many times after
that trip, I recall asking if we could go there again. But
my parents could never find time to plan another trip to
go camping again. It became many years before I was able
to go back to a forest, but every time I do, the experience
of being in the forest never tires nor disappoints me. It
is one of my greatest wishes to one day own a log cabin
of my own and live in the heart of the forest, surrounded
by the trees and the wildlife it naturally provides a home
for. To be able to hear the sound of the whispering rain
as it renews and gives life to all that lives in the forest, to
breathe the pure and clean air first thing in the morning
as I wake up from a comfortable slumber, and to always
be able to enjoy and be one with the nature I have grown
to respect and love so much, will forever be my most
precious desire in the world. n n n
War
Briget A. Ledger
Abuse from the beginning,
Murder all around;
We teach our children to hate.
Destruction like the wind,
Destruction like a flood,
Destruction of the world.
Blood raining for a thousand years;
the blood of our ancestors.
Wars never-ending;
We teach our children to hate.
Do you know God?
Is he the God I know?
We teach our children to hate.
Destruction like a fire,
Destruction like a flood,
Destruction of the world.
Fire burning the flesh of babies.
He doesn’t believe in my God.
Wars never ending;
We teach our children to hate.
Hunger abounds,
plenty abounds with
All God’s children.
Destruction like drought,
Destruction like fire,
Destruction of the world.
e s t r e l l a m o u n t a i n . e d u

I Am My Own
Masterpiece
Christina Moreno
I am trying to stand still to be portrait, perfect for you,
Indeed, your eyes paint perfection,
No flaws, no bleeds, each stroke is masterfully, carefully,
beautifully, planned,
ALL of this with just one hand!
Slowly, gently,
I turn my head away so you can get my better side,
In reality I want to hide,
From the deeds that run deep those come grab me when
I sleep.
I am the ghost of Picasso’s Scream.
Your canvas will shortly tell a pretty picture,
Glorified with colors that I do not deserve, unheard,
Your red is not for honor,
Oh no, not for me!
Nor for the blood that I want to bleed!
Indeed,
I am transparent,
No colors needed,
To be defeated,
To see me,
All you need is a thought and a pen,
But somehow I don’t blend in.
2 0 1 0 1 1
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Thank you to everyone who participated and assisted in the creation of
this year’s Mariposa Literary Review journal. Special thanks to our creative
and technical contributors.
Review Committee
Carlotta Abrams
Matthew Healy
Michael Bartley
Analicia Buentello
Rod Freeman
Now, as you prime your canvas
You glance at me,
Signaling to put my hands on my knee,
No hesitation just consideration of why I am your protégé,
I don’t want to stay,
Just go away,
Just let me be,
And set me free.
You’re an artist,
One who paints,
Not a poet,
For you will never uncover my true self through your eyes.
For you are not a poet,
Just someone who wants to show the outlines of my shadows,
And yes they are gray not blue of the hue that you drew,
Carefully I sit and I must admit,
Being still is what I do well,
You analyze me for only a second,
Unknowingly scanning for infectious scars,
I am picture-perfect,
For you can not see,
The deeper part of me,
For I AM the poet,
Writing my thoughts from pen to paper,
Entailing sensations,
Imaginations, for the next one to read.
Indeed, I am in need for someone to pass on the seed,
Of knowledge, acknowledge the future generation of
mass degeneration,
No dedication just medication to mask the real need.
And all you see is the portrait that you want me to be.
Linda Keyes
Susan Malmo
Jimmy Fike
Design
Michael Bartley
Editing Assistance
Michael Bartley
Janet Traylor
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201011
thank you
51

Estrella Mountain Literary Review
Estrella Mountain Community College is pleased to
announce the fourth issue of its literary journal, Mariposa.
Featuring the creative writing and visual art of students
from a variety of disciplines across the campus,
Mariposa captures the collaborative spirit of students,
faculty, and staff and provides a creative outlet for the
voices of our students.
For more information, contact the
Division of Arts, Composition and Languages
at 623 935 8444.