Mariposa Literary Review 2011-2012 - Estrella Mountain ...

poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
201112
Estrella Mountain
Literary Review

fiction
Baker Brown
Gloria Bonnell
The Golden Bell
Kristi Boling
He Was My Son
Sandra Herrada
Token
Stephanie Six
I See Dead Celebs!
Christie Hurtado
December Air
Christian Hernandez
The Prisoner
Brett Loree
I Can Feel Too
Susie Ramirez
A Cold Stare
Diana Elizabeth Diaz
non-fiction
Shattered Dreams
Alexandra M. Veloz
Spaghetti O’s and Razor Blades
Jill Starbuck
Life After Iraq, My Journal
Terrance Rowe
Wanderlust
Corrina Paul
Where Am I?
Shaun Ford
After Life
Shane Howato
World Peace to a Dog of War
Levi Espinoza
4
9
12
18
24
26
28
29
34
6
10
14
26
38
40
43
The flower icon indicates the award winners in each category.
one-act play
The Distance Between Father
and Son
Charles L. LeBlanc
poetry
Surviving
Katherine L. Piper
Sweetie
Nicole Rosa
I Have Wandered Through
These Things
Gloria Bonnell
A Truth Theory
Eric Early
Seasonal Love
Kenneth Lang
Remix
Ralphy Ortega
Death is a Fashion Masterpiece
Marissa Pawley
I’ll be your Raven
Carlos Gomez
Addicted
Colleen Shea
My X
Myam Salinas
Tolleson Gem
Lynelle Lansford
Delight
Carolyn Perez
Locked up in my mind
Selina Avitia
Empty
Cole Moorhead
201112
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12
16
23
25
26
28
28
34
38
38
38
40
40

poetry
Hood-Star
Charles L. LeBlanc
Lost
Zachary Cain
Untitled (Time is Like a Promise)
Michael R. Velasco
I Am My Brother’s Keeper
Sarah Routolo
Slumberland
Jeremy Scotten
Why?
Shelby Koneke
When
Jill Starbuck
visual arts
The Time of Night
Victoria A. Dow
Grace Within the Storm
Kaylee C. Myers
Intro
Brett J. Medina
Youth In Revolt
Tierra T. Beasley
Lazy Day
Matt P. Aragon
Sangre Azteca
Faustino Oblea Lopez
Double Quad
Robert C. Jackson
Over The Wires and Through
The Clouds
Jeremy T. Scotten
42
42
43
45
45
46
46
5
8
13
17
21
22
27
30
visual arts
K-Train
Matt P. Aragon
Beautiful Bokeh
Frank Hatcher
Natural Beauty
Erica J. Baumgardner
Toil
Leana M. Leonard
Pretty in Pink
Susan R. Ramirez
Viva La Vida
Casey Lu Raymer
Ayr
Jeremy T. Scotten
32
36
39
40
42
44
47

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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Baker Brown
first place fiction
Gloria Bonnell
Professor Baker Brown hurried across campus, wearing
his best suit, tan corduroy with suede elbow patches – his
uniform, of sorts. It was summer term, and although there
were students scurrying to their evening classes, he found
that he was able to negotiate his way toward Ivy Lane quite
easily. The cicadas were screaming, their rhythms a Sousa
symphony as they marched their way toward the end of
summer, seeking their mates. Professor Brown’s own sound
of corduroy rubbing on corduroy joined the musical display.
The sun, setting over the student union, no longer seared the
young entomology professor’s brow, and an evening breeze
blew across his neck, cooling him. His trip across campus
ended at Ivy Lane, where classroom buildings blended into a
row of brick and pillared residences.
Professor Brown adjusted his corduroy jacket and stepped
off the curb. To the right were antebellum mansions, once
devoted to the tradition and norms of life before the War
Between the States, now devoted to fraternity parties and
the traditions of drinking and mating rituals. To the left was
what the students referred to as “the gauntlet,” the traditional
housing choice of the upper echelon of university leadership.
It’s not a label shared much with professors, “the gauntlet,”
but his status as a junior professor allowed him the freedom
to examine the underbelly of college society and discover the
social and dialectic nuances of the species.
Baker Brown crossed the street and turned left. His
destination was the Federal Style estate of the revered Dean
of Life Sciences, Grant Conroy. He went in response to an
urgent call. The dean needed to see him immediately. Of
course, he asked no questions, but quickly donned his best
and headed out. He hoped that the dean had good news.
Having recently written a research proposal on the mating
habits of the Indian social wasp, Ropalidia cyathiformis, he was
hoping for in-house grant funding to complete the research.
Yet, what the dean wanted was of no importance. He had
been summoned and his response was all that mattered.
When Baker Brown arrived at the imposing brick residence,
he turned off the sidewalk, stepped up to the porch and rang
the bell. The dean answered the door, which surprised him.
He had heard that the dean never answered the door, but
would send his wife, Jeanne, or the butler, Roger, instead.
His preference was to wait in the den, prepared for his guest.
“Baker,” Dean Conroy said. He was taller than Professor
Brown – thinner too, though not by much in either regard.
White hair and a tanned complexion revealed the status and
lifestyle of a university dean at this institution. The dean
smiled at Professor Baker Brown, showing a perfect row of
white uppers.
“Dean Brown, I got your message and came as fast as I
could.”
“Yes, yes, do come in. Here, in the den.” The dean, though
an older man, was agile and quickly led the professor to the
den. “Have a seat. What can I get you? How are you, Baker?”
Baker Brown, having looked around at the books and
memorabilia on display, sat down on the divan next to the
fireplace. The dean took a seat in the tufted leather wingback
chair across from him and clasped his hands in anticipation.
“Oh, yes, a drink. What would you have?” The dean rose
and walked to the bar placed strategically before the entryway
to the butler pantry.
“That’s kind of you. I’ll have tonic water, if you don’t
mind.” Baker Brown tugged at his jacket collar and scooted
around in his seat to adjust his pants.
“Bitter or straight up?” he asked.
“Bitter – lemon, if you have it.”
“An excellent choice.” The dean set about preparing the
drink, his wrinkled hand shaking as he lifted the carafe of
tonic to the crystal cut glass tumbler. “So, Professor Brown
– or may I call you Baker? It’s really much easier that way.”
“Oh, of course, dean. Help yourself. Call me what you
like.”
“Quinine, you know. Tonic water is made from quinine.
Quite interesting, actually. Used to relieve malaria, originally
– in India. The gin was added to sweeten it up a bit. Hard
to believe, but true.” The dean handed Baker Brown his
tonic water with lemon. “Sure you wouldn’t like some gin,
too? I have it in the bar.” He gestured in that direction as he
returned to his seat in the wingback.
“Oh, no. I’m quite content with my bitter.” Baker Brown
sat his drink on the end table’s ceramic coaster and looked
over at the dean. “But, dean, what can I do for you?”
“Well, yes, get to the point. Jeanne always says I should
learn to get to the point.”
“By the way, dean, where is your Jeanne? I would love to
meet her.”
“I drank plenty of quinine while in Arunachal Pradesh,
India, studying Ropalidia marginata. Cures malaria, they say.
Nasty things, mosquitoes – not the wasps I was there to study,
they were amazing creatures. Social wasps. Blood suckers
those mosquitoes, though. I suppose it helped, the quinine
that is. Remote area, northeast India. Unknown languages
and peoples still undiscovered by the modern age, I hear.”
As the dean spoke, Baker Brown observed him. He had
heard that the dean was aging quickly, those interested in
his post swarming around, waiting for the miserable end. It
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looked like their wait would be soon rewarded; his as well.
The dean was frail and his mind was obviously weak.
The dean shook his head. “Those cicadas are quite a sight
this year. Very loud. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d
lost my hearing. Sometimes it’s all I can hear.” The dean
paused and stared off toward the bookshelves. He got up
and ran his finger across the books’ spines. When he found
the one he wanted, he pulled it from the shelf, and turned
to a spot near the end. “Naked as frogs and weak we enter this
life of trouble; Shedding our pomp we pass; so Sémi quit their
skins.” The dean nodded. “Japanese poetry.” He stared over
at Baker Brown, raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Cicadas.
The poem is about cicadas.” He slid the book back into its
spot on the shelf.
“Yes. So it is.” The professor reached for his drink and
swallowed it down.
“Well, I suppose I should tell you why I have called you
here.” The dean paused as he returned to his chair. “I have
read your proposal and, unfortunately, I cannot approve your
request for funding through this college.”
The directness and clarity of his comment stunned the
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
professor. He wondered if the dean was being serious. If so,
it was a death blow to his career in these halls. He placed his
glass back on the coaster.
The dean leaned in toward Baker Brown. “You are probably
aware of the fact that I am aging. It’s obvious. I cannot think
clearly, nor move about as I used to do.”
Professor Baker Brown stood and presented his best
contemplative pose. “It’s a wonderful study and will benefit
the reputation of this institution tremendously, dean.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt, but you see there is another problem
that you need to consider. I am not ready to retire, and if I
allow you to proceed, others will see your genius and I will be
forced out. This, I cannot allow, Baker.” The dean smiled up
at Baker Brown from his wingback chair.
The professor moved to the fireplace mantle where a
display case of insects was mounted on the wall. He reviewed
the species as he considered what to say.
The dean stood and walked to stand by the professor.
“Those are my most exquisite and rare acquisitions. Only one
regret, actually. I have never mounted the species Anobium
notatum.”
The Time of Night
first place visual arts
Victoria A. Dow
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
The professor turned to look at Dean Conroy. “The death
watch beetle?”
“Yes, the same. The attendant of the God of poverty and
misery, whose clicking would betray the presence of the
spirits, or Kami, if you will.” The dean studied his collection.
“A bad omen, from what I understand from my studies
of Japanese custom. Maybe, dean, it is better that you have
never acquired one.” The professor studied the dean.
“Probably so, Baker, probably so.” The dean nodded
and walked over to a cherry wood secretary that stood by
the hallway entry. “Are you familiar, Baker, with the wasp
Sphecius grandis?”
“Of course, the cicada killer. A wasp that hunts down the
cicadae then stings, and paralyzes them to make provisions
for their nests. Amazing creatures. Ground dwellers.”
“Exactly.” The dean pulled out a wood and ivory box,
ornately carved with the image of an elephant standing deep
in a jungle. “I acquired this box while studying in India.”
He turned toward the professor. “The contents of the box,
recently acquired, are most rare indeed, a cicada killer still
unknown by the modern scientific world.” He opened the
box and tilted it toward the professor so that the contents
were visible.
The professor moved closer and peered into the box. Inside
was a wasp species that he did not know. Its antennae were
a golden yellow and perfectly preserved and its blood red
abdomen a brighter hue than anything the professor had ever
observed. Its stinger was larger than he would have expected
for a wasp of this size. “It is an awesome species, Dean Conroy.
It appears that this is one wasp I wouldn’t want to disturb.”
“Quite,” the dean concurred. “Lethal, actually, Baker.
I learned about this wasp while in India and have been
searching for a specimen since then. I recently came into
this one, and had planned on presenting it at the symposium
this spring. But, it appears I have found an earlier venue to
reveal its peculiar qualities.” He smiled at the professor as
he removed the wasp from the box. “Allow me to explain.
You asked earlier where my dear Jeanne was. Well, it appears
that there’s been a problem. Her brindle mastiff, Sandy, has
fallen very ill. She’s quite large you know, professor, almost
your weight, actually.” As he spoke he held the wasp up for
the professor to examine with his eyes, turning it back and
forth in his fingers. “She and Roger have rushed Sandy to the
veterinary hospital. I haven’t heard the outcome, but I can
guarantee it will be disappointing for her.” The dean’s eyes
burned with excitement. “I could only use the smallest part
of the venom from the wasp, in order to preserve an adequate
supply for my next,” the dean gleamed, “demonstration.”
The professor, blocked by the dean from leaving through
the hallway entry, scanned the room for an alternate exit.
“It will do you no good. I’ve locked up everything. There’s
no escape, Baker. One sting and it’s over. I’ll explain it very
well, and you’ll look marvelous.” The dean’s temples pulsed
from the exhilaration of the moment. “It’s a perfect plan
and I’ve studied every detail. I’ll explain that I wanted to
share my discovery with you, but unfortunately your clumsy
inexperience proved fatal. Sad, I’m sure, but legendary, I
suppose.” The dean lunged toward Professor Baker Brown,
and grabbed the lapel of his corduroy jacket, seizing it with
a firm grasp. He drew Baker Brown closer and lunged for his
chest with the wasp, held like a dagger in his hand.
Professor Baker Brown twisted away and as he did, the
wasp, intended for the professor, found its mark in the tanned
flesh of Dean Conroy’s hand.
The dean fell to the floor, his last breath taken before the
impact.
Professor Baker Brown looked down at Dean Conroy
who lay twisted on the polished oak, the dean’s expression
one of shock and surprise. Baker Brown studied the wasp,
whose blood red abdomen protruded from the dean’s hand.
Cicadas screamed, but not louder than his heart pounded in
his chest or his breath sounded in his ears. He looked about
the room, and saw his glass on the end table. He walked over
to it, picked it up and regarded it. He pulled out his shirt tail,
wiped down the glass and returned it to the bar, then stepped
over the dean, and quietly walked out the front door.
He took a moment on the porch to breathe in the vibrant
evening air. Darkness had crept over the community and the
air pulsed with the evening sounds of cicadae and sororities.
The professor walked down the sidewalk of the Federal
Style estate and turned to his left. He traveled down “the
gauntlet,” careful to keep a relaxed pace until he arrived at the
antebellum quarter. The streets were swarming with students
and he slipped into their world unnoticed. n n n
Shattered Dreams
first place non-fiction
Alexandra M. Veloz
Ever since I was a little girl, my parents, family members,
teachers, and classmates have always labeled me as a “dreamer.”
As a child, I would create the most extravagant stories to
accompany the pictures I would draw, or the cartoons I
would watch on TV. When I started going to school, I held
great ambitions for myself and my education, setting goals
about the job I would have and the college I would attend.
Unfortunately, my dreams were abruptly ended when I left
California and slowly, everything in my life turned into a
nightmare.
estrellamountain.edu

In the second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Yard, was the first
person to ever tell me that I was smart enough to go to
college. She was one of the adults I adored most in my life at
that time, and with her acknowledgement, I became driven
toward the path of a “straight A” student. This motivation
carried me through middle school, where I was always at the
top of my grade level, and through my first three years of
high school, where I set my sights on attending the school
of my dreams, the University of Hawaii at Manoa. I worked
long and hard to secure my early acceptance and when the
“Congratulations!” letter came, I found out I was moving
to Arizona.
After hearing the news, I was stuck in denial about the
whole situation. Constantly absorbed in self-pity, wondering
how my parents could do this to me, and blah blah blah, I
tried to remove myself from the reality of what was going to
happen in my life. However, when push came to shove and
we did move out of state, I realized that the area and new
development we were moving into weren’t so bad after all.
Even my new high school, Westview, and its faculty seemed
to fit my standards! So really, this move wasn’t going to affect
my well-earned place at the University of Hawaii, right?
WRONG. My downward spiral began, simultaneously,
with my senior year at Westview. I met Max in my honors
chemistry class during the previous semester, and because
I went to prom with one of his best friends, had gotten to
know him pretty well over the summer. When school started
again in the fall, it just so happened that we had the same bell
schedule, which also meant we had all of the same lunches.
One afternoon while I was sitting with his friends, talking
about the “no texting during class” rule, he randomly asked
me for my phone number. Little did I know he was planning
on using it as soon as fifth hour began to ask me out on our
first date. I was smitten!
After that night on the driving range, we were inseparable
and madly in love with each other. Unfortunately, as
smart as I was, I never noticed how potentially volatile our
relationship could become. The moment Max asked me to be
his girlfriend was the moment I lost myself – my self-respect,
my individuality, and most importantly, my dreams. Soon
I was spending less time at home with my family, or doing
homework, and more time with Max, at his family’s house
or out with his friends. My level of genuine participation
in swim, soccer and student government all began to slip,
and before I knew it, I was skipping school all together –
something that I had never considered myself capable of.
Suddenly, it seemed like I was lying to my parents most days
of the week and that the only thing I could say to Max was,
“I want to do whatever you want to do, baby.”
Words I should have never said, because he sure did take
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
advantage of them. By the spring semester of my senior
year, I was a habitual truant and smoked marijuana almost
daily. Even though my God-given intelligence kept me afloat
academically, all of my teachers, who had such high hopes for
my future, could see what I was becoming – another teenage
statistic. Then, on the night of our
Senior Scholarship Awards Ceremony, As you can imagine,
Max and I learned that I was pregnant,
all of the terrible things
and all of the achievements we were
about to be recognized for vanished
that happen to people
into thin air. We told both of our while engrossed in their
families the next day and were addictions happened to
desperately urged to have an abortion.
us. We started abusing
So three days later, we did; and three
days later I made the decision to each other, both verbally
abandon my dream of going to the and physically, and just
University of Hawaii and accept my
like most crazy, enraged
full ride to ASU so that I could stay in
junkies, we would use
Arizona with him.
Surprisingly, everything went after our fights to “make
quite well during our first semester of it up to each” other.
college. Max was still living at home
and playing golf over at GCC while I was living in a beautiful
town home near the main campus in Tempe. He came to visit
me two or three days a week and every time he did, we’d fall
back on our old routine – skipping school and smoking pot.
Now, you’d think I would’ve figured out that this pattern of
bad behavior would lead to even more horrible things for our
relationship, but no. I was so jaded by “love” that in January
2007, right before the spring semester was about to begin, I
let Max coerce me into trying crystal meth for the first time.
Sadly, my addiction to the drug was so instantaneous that I
had absolutely no way of knowing that it was the beginning
of the end for us.
As you can imagine, all of the terrible things that happen
to people while engrossed in their addictions happened to us.
We started abusing each other, both verbally and physically,
and just like most crazy, enraged junkies, we would use after
our fights to “make it up to each other.” When we lost our
jobs, Max and I started pawning valuable jewelry to support
our habit. Before all of this, Max had given me a gold heart
necklace, two gold rings and a really beautiful watch. I no
longer have any of it. Although Max never agreed, I started
stealing from stores when I would go on binges. One time,
at the Wal-Mart off of 59th Ave. and Northern, I was arrested
for concealing $60 worth of merchandise in a stolen purse. I
spent a night in jail for it and paid over $400 in fines. Oh,
and did I mention that I withdrew from ASU after a year
and forfeited my scholarship? Then, just a semester later, I
was kicked out of GCC for slashing Max’s tires in the school
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Grace Within the Storm
second place visual arts
Kaylee C. Myers
parking lot while I was high.
It seems absurd to me now, at almost 14 months clean,
that I allowed a severe drug addiction, and all of these
horrible consequences, to stand between my goals and me.
That’s just not who I was before crystal meth, and it certainly
isn’t who I am now that I’m sober. Fortunately, now that I’ve
regained my sense of sanity, I have regained the bright visions
I once had for my future: graduating with an Associate in
Arts degree from EMCC, and later, a bachelor’s degree in
education; teaching English at a reputable high school here
in Arizona; driving a nice car and owning a nice home; and
lastly, falling in love and starting a family. All of these dreams
are once again within my reach and I intend on achieving
them without anymore self-inflicted interruptions. n n n
Surviving
first place poetry
Katherine L. Piper
Persona poem: A young teenage boy, abandoned during
parent’s drug binge.
The conveyer belt moves milk, bread, cereal and peanut
butter.
I pay with stolen money,
drug money my parents thought they hid.
Walkin’ to the end of the parkin’ lot,
I pull mac-an’-cheese from one pocket,
and ice-cream sandwiches from the other,
drop um’ into the bag,
then pull out two left handed gloves,
put the right one on backwards.
Me and my steam engine breath,
and maraca noodles share night sounds,
distant sirens, honking, occasional barks.
Bare bulbs cast yellow halos on back alley
business stoops.
Shadows loom from littered dumpsters.
Sour smells compete with nights’ cold dankness.
I stop to catch my breath,
and I hear it.
Muffled crying.
Grunting.
Gravel skittering.
A shadow darts toward me from a dumpster.
The cat disappears; the crying does not.
I set the bag of food down
and walk slowly toward the noise.
Peering around the dumpster,
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matchstick-thin arms pummel helplessly
at a massive back.
I pick up a discarded brick and smash it on the head
of the humping, panting demon.
Get him off. She says. Get him off.
I pull and pull until the dark, bulky man rolls over.
The girl sits up, wiping blood from her mouth.
She says, thanks. Grabbing panties from her ankle
she takes off running.
Stunned, I feel for a pulse.
None.
I swallow the bile that rises.
Man, he shouldna’ been rapin’ that girl.
I pick up the bag of food
and head home to fix supper
for my sister. n n n
The Golden Bell
second place fiction
Kristi Boling
It was unusually warm for a January morning, but Anna
Rose Sinclair didn’t notice. All she cared about was the icy
water flowing hundreds of feet beneath the Eastern Bridge. It
seemed to be calling her name, whispering promises of peace
and happiness; promising to make all her sorrows disappear.
As she stared at the river below her, she thought of home:
Her seven brothers and sisters, each unique and talented,
managing to outshine her in every way; her parents, who were
too engrossed in their careers to acknowledge one of their
many children. To Anna, this wasn’t home. A home is where
people love each other and take notice when someone in the
family is hurting and crying for help. To her family, Anna
was a ghost.
Anna glanced up and took a good look at her surroundings.
The sun was slowly rising above the horizon, and birds were
just waking up and beginning to sing. The cherry blossom
trees stood bare in the chilly winter atmosphere. It was a
beautiful Sunday morning, but it was dull and grey in Anna’s
eyes. She was ready to let it all go; nothing mattered anymore
except the enticing stream of water flowing beneath her. She
began to step onto the ledge and lean over the side. This was
finally it; Anna closed her eyes.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Anna’s eyes flashed open and, startled, spun around to
confront the stranger who hadn’t been there a moment before.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
“W-who are you? What are you doing out here so early?”
she stuttered, scrambling off the ledge to face the boy.
“I could ask you the same question.”
He was taller than her, with a crooked nose and a sheepish
smile. His green eyes beneath his shaggy blonde hair pierced
into her’s. He was wearing a tattered sweater and blue jeans.
He smiled at her and said, “I’m Cody, by the way. Cody
James Hansen.”
Anna did not smile back; rather, she looked him up
and down cautiously, unsure of what to do. Finally, after a
moment’s hesitation, she told him her name. His smile grew
wider and he exclaimed, “Anna Rose! What a beautiful name
for a beautiful girl! Although, considering the circumstances,
I seriously doubt you agree with that statement. I take it
you’re intending to go on a… morning swim.”
With that last comment, Anna turned back toward the
river. “So what if I am? I don’t belong here. I need to die.”
Cody leaned against the ledge alongside her and quietly
asked, “You need to die, or you want to die?” When Anna
didn’t respond, he continued, “Death isn’t something to mess
with. Once you’re gone, that’s it. You’ll never get the chance
to make things right, or to start over new. You’ll spend the rest
of eternity stuck in one place, regretting the moment you ever
even thought about taking your own life.” He gazed at the
river below them, his eyes clouded. “You couldn’t even begin
to imagine how agonizingly cold that water is.”
Suddenly anger shot up Anna’s spine like a jolt of electricity.
Who did this boy think he was? This was none of his business;
why couldn’t he just leave her alone? He knew nothing about
her. She whirled on him, shrieking, “You don’t understand!
I have four sisters and three brothers. Each and every one of
them is special and has some sort of talent. But no, not me! I
can’t do anything! I’ve tried and failed at everything I’ve done.
All of my siblings have at least six gold medals hanging in
their bedrooms, yet my walls are bare!
“My mother ignores me because her clients are more
important than her family, and my father is never home!
I have no friends. Who would want to be friends with the
only Sinclair who will never live up to her family’s great
expectations? They never noticed the fake smiles, the cries for
help, not even the cuts on my arms! To them, I’m nothing
more than an empty shell, a waste of space. You know nothing
about me, so don’t you dare try to tell me I’ll regret anything!”
Cody didn’t even flinch at her words. He just held her fiery
gaze, his face a mask of sorrow.
The sun was beginning to rise higher now. If she wanted to
end this without a big audience, she needed to do it now. But
as she turned around and began to climb onto the ledge, Cody
began to speak again, much softer now. “What about the rest
of your family? What about your grandmother? Whether you
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realize it or not, your family loves you very much. You feel
abandoned and overshadowed by all of your siblings, but they
love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”
Anna said nothing. She didn’t move away from the ledge,
but nor did she move closer. Suddenly Cody snapped his
fingers. “I knew your name sounded familiar! I met your
brother and sister yesterday. Cindy and Elliot, right?”
At this, Anna turned and stared at him incredulously. He
continued, “Yes, I knew you were related! I met them on this
bridge yesterday. I asked them about their family and all they
could talk about was you. Cindy said if it weren’t for your
help and tutoring, she never would have passed her math
class. Elliot never forgot the time you stood up to the kids
who were harassing your younger brother, Jessie; he was so
proud of you. They told me about how you’ve always been
the smartest sibling in the family, and you never fail to answer
any of their questions.
“You were always the shoulder they could cry on, and
you always knew how to cheer them up. Remember when
that boy broke your sister Emily’s heart and you took her
out for the biggest ice cream sundae of her life? She never
forgot that.”
Anna could only stare open-mouthed. She had completely
forgotten about all those things. Cody continued, “Your
family loves you so much, Anna Rose. Your father works hard
so you can live a good life, and your mother used to sing to
you every single night. You could go home right now and love
them back with everything you have, or you could throw it all
away and jump off that ledge right now.”
Tears were streaming down Anna’s cheeks. She climbed
off the ledge and slid to the ground, sobs shaking her entire
body. Cody knelt down beside her and held out a little golden
bell. “I want you to have this. As long as somebody in this
world loves you, that little bell will ring whenever you want
it to. It was my good luck charm, but it doesn’t work for me
anymore. Now it’s yours.” He placed the bell in her shaking
hand, kissed her on the cheek and walked away. His lips were
icy cold.
It was unusually warm for a January morning, but
Anna Rose Sinclair didn’t notice. All she cared about was
getting home to see her family and tell them how much
she loved them. She couldn’t wait to tell them about the
strange young boy who’d saved her life. The tiny golden
bell, which was dangling from her jeans pocket, rang the
entire way home.
When Anna walked through her front door, she was
nearly knocked to the ground by three of her little sisters.
Her other siblings gathered around her in a huddle, all
chattering at once, asking her where she was and exclaiming
how worried about her they were. After escaping their
happy clutches, she smiled at Elliot and Cindy. “I met your
friend Cody out on the bridge just now. He said he met you
guys yesterday, and I’m so thankful he did; he helped me a
lot in these past couple hours.”
Her siblings looked at each other quizzically and nervously
asked, “What are you talking about? We didn’t meet anybody
yesterday.” Suddenly Elliot paused for a moment and finally
said, “Wait a minute. What did you say his name was?”
Confused, Anna replied, “Cody James Hansen. He told
me you three knew each other!”
The color drained from Elliot’s face. Slowly shaking his
head, he told her, “Rose, he was in my high school graduating
class. You must have seen someone else. Cody James Hansen
died in 2006 during our junior year.” n n n
Spaghetti O’s
and Razor Blades
second place non-fiction
Jill Starbuck
It was a typical day for me in 2004. I was at home with
Abby, my daughter. At the time she was not quite one. We
come onto the scene to see me feeding her dinner. Abby sat in
her bulky plastic high chair. There were printed bunnies on a
green rubbery seat cover. She smiled at me, revealing teeth and
bits of half-chewed peas. Her chubby fingers grabbed another
handful, where she squished and popped them in her clutch.
I sat across from her in the most uncomfortable wooden
chair, painted white and chipped in places. My hair was up
in a messy ponytail, cockeyed and crazy with brown strings of
hair, loose and hanging in places. I was still in my sweats at five
o’clock. A trail of today’s menu can still be found on my clothes,
smashed orange something and what might be macaroni give a
pop of color against my oversized black sweat pants.
I spooned Abby a bite of Spaghetti O’s, and red-orange
goo oozed from the side of her mouth. As she chewed she
said, “yummmmm,” and we enjoyed our happy moment. I
heard the doorknob turn and the sound of keys. The white
door to our apartment swung open, and Matt walked in. His
keys were still in hand when he stood in the doorway. He had
a look of construction worker turned criminal about him. He
was tall, shaved head, and tattoos sleeved down his arms. Take
a closer look and you would see “white pride” tattooed across
his neck, and a poorly drawn figure of Donald Duck flying
a space ship up and down his left arm. Today, he was in his
usual work attire, Dickies shirt and blue jeans. As his steeltoed
boots entered the room, you could feel the atmosphere
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change. If this were a movie, you’d hear that slow and dark
tempo, to queue you in that a villain has just been introduced.
I looked up to see Matt scanning the apartment. I could see
him taking mental notes of all the things I did not do today. As he
looked from the doorway, a perfect view of the kitchen could be
seen. He saw dishes in the sink with food still crusted on, empty
juice boxes on the counter, and half-filled cans of a variety of
vegetables peeled open, still out. I watched his eyes shift left
to the living room. Abby’s pint-sized kitchen was out. Miniature
pots, pans and a dish set scattered the floor. Abby’s favorite yellow
stuffed animal, Mr. Bunny, and his friends, Mr. Dog, Mr. Cat and
Mr. Guinea Pig, are all thrown about with the care of a toddler. He
hesitated to speak, and I cringed waiting for it. He pushed the
door shut, and created a burst of air across my face.
Then he said, “Why is our home always such a fucking
mess, Jill?”
His tongue spoke sharply and his accent flooded the room.
It was a Texas sound, mostly twangy, but with a drawl like
you’d hear in the south.
“I just couldn’t get to it today, Matt. I’m just so tired, and I
needed a break,” I pleaded looking for some sort of sympathy.
“You are so damn selfish,” he threw back at me.
He stood firm, and I saw his hands curl into fists at his side.
I opened my mouth to try to defend my so-called lazy
behavior when he cut me off. “You always do this. Make
it about you. Did you ever think about how I feel coming
home to this stinking shit fest? I spend all day around smelly
assholes. Do you think I want to come home to this filth?”
His voice escalated as he continued his rhetorical rant.
In my mind, I hold a silver-plated shield, shoulder high. I
braced myself.
“Do you realize that this is your job? You don’t work. You
can’t just be a self-centered little brat anymore, Jill,” he said as
his brow line lowered.
The shield now felt heavy, not just in my mind. Each word
he threw at me carried a weight.
I slipped and said, “It’s not that big of a deal.”
Matt’s eyes were wide. It was a look of stunned pissed.
“You just don’t get it. It is a big deal because it matters to
me. That makes it a real big fucking deal. That’s what I’ve
been trying to tell you. Are you too stupid to understand
me? You fucking cunt. I don’t want to live in a house where it
looks like niggers live here. Do I look like a fucking nigger to
you?” he said in response spitting.
He was shouting, and his face was now beet red. He didn’t
move his fists that were tightly squeezed at his sides. Abby was
still sitting there in her high chair. She watched with her grey
eyes wide, she stared silently.
“Please…” I said softly.
His voice was still echoing in my ears. Suddenly, he grabbed
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
the bowl of Spaghetti O’s from Abby’s tray and tossed it at
me. It was a low throw that sent the plastic bowl bouncing off
the linoleum floor, but most of its contents all over me. The
walls were splattered in that red-orange goo. I had red orange
freckles appear on my face, and O noodle clusters down the
side of my body. I wanted to cry. Then there was the immediate
feeling of Abby’s eyes on me causing me to turn and look to
her. I smiled. In silence, I took her out of the chair and walked
back through our bedroom to the bathroom. Shutting us in,
I started the shower. As if on auto pilot, I took a shower with
Abby. I dressed her for bed, and even read a story.
After Abby was tucked in, I came out of her room to find
Matt cleaning up the kitchen. I walked up and grabbed a
sponge. I got down on my knees with him and started to clean.
He looked over at me and said, “You know this wouldn’t
happen if you took care of my needs.”
“Why do you hate me?” I asked.
“I don’t hate you,” he said.
“Why don’t you love me anymore?” I questioned.
“You are so self-centered. This is not about you. You’re
always doing that, making it about you, God. When are you
going to realize that things would be OK if you just met my
needs? I NEED the house to be clean. I need for you to be
here to take care of things. I don’t think that’s too much to
ask. Are you stupid or something?”
I left the sponge on the floor. I got up and walked to my
bathroom. I just walked away. I couldn’t take it anymore. I
loved this man. His opinion of me mattered more than my
own at the time. I was starting to believe everything he said
about me. I locked myself in the bathroom. I got out my razor
blade, then one quick slice on the shin, just one. It swelled up
with blood, dripped down and saturated my sock. I stopped. I
put down the blade, and applied pressure to my self-inflicted
wound. Blood just kept coming. It soaked paper towel after
paper towel. I then realized something was terribly wrong with
my situation. I hadn’t cut myself since in four years. I started
to hate myself. I wanted to release all that hate anyway that
I could. I remembered the relief of the blade. But the blood
brought me back to reality. What was I doing in here? Hiding,
cutting and crying? It was time for a change. I sat down on the
pink shag bathroom rug, and in that final moment of silence
it finally came. I let go of my sickness of tears. I heard those
words he screamed in my head again and again. I saw Abby in
my mind. Her eyes were big and wondering, eager to know.
And what could I teach her? All I remember feeling was the fear
of humiliation. Was that a lesson I wanted for her? Here she
was a child knowing nothing of the world. Is this the type of
man I want her to endure? Thoughts of any man treating my
daughter like this, makes me want to go for the jugular. How
can this be okay for me? n n n
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Sweetie
second place poetry
Nicole Rosa
Screams to an empty world
Daddy’s dead, Mamas a whore
Something doesn’t feel okay
But Uncle Launy calls me sweetie.
Been used and broken
12 years old, truths unspoken
I lives in silence day and night
But Uncle Launy calls me sweetie.
Bruised in this single wide trailer
Ignored by family, stared at by neighbors,
Sun glasses don’t hide it all
But Uncle Launy calls me sweetie.
I get yanked to the floor
Hands fight for my pants once more,
He slides between my tired thighs,
But Uncle Launy calls me sweetie.
So big on top of me, one hands over my mouth,
Mama walks in again, then she walks right out,
Tears bring a heavy hand,
But Uncle Launy calls me sweetie.
Suddenly I feel released
Knocks at the door, one word “police,”
They handcuff him, start questioning
I’m so scared, it’s hard to breathe
But Uncle Launy says “Sweetie, don’t speak.” n n n
He Was My Son
third place fiction
Sandra Herrada
The dark brown spots dried up on my hands were only
a reminder of the horrific, vivid image of my son’s tragic
death. My life stopped the moment I heard the gunshots’
endless echo. The sound of my screams weren’t enough to
bury the blast leaving the barrel that shattered my eardrums.
I remember the hand releasing the trigger, dangling for a
slow moment on the index fingertip before dropping to the
floor. I watched my son’s tearful eyes stare into mine as
fear covered his face. His lips fluttered as he tried to speak.
Standing paralyzed, I could only scream his name in my
mind, “Ja...Jason!”
I didn’t realize that my arms were stretched out until he
fell into them. Together, we slowly dropped to the floor, not
realizing I was, then, sitting in a puddle of the blood dripping
from his torso. I tried to stop the bleeding with my right
hand as I wrapped my arm around his waist, but the wound
was too deep and it only filled my hand with his warm blood
as his body went cold. With such little strength, Jason tried
to lift his face towards me, so I reached over with my other
hand to hold his face up. As I stared back into his eyes, I
could only see the baby boy I gave birth to. Once again, he
grew into his first smile, his first laugh, his first everything,
and I couldn’t turn away. He was the little boy who said,
“Mommy, I wove you,” and the grown up boy who said I had
to leave because I was too big for kindergarten. How could I
leave now as I held him in my arms? He grew too fast. Before
I knew it, the memory of him driving his first car, going on
his first date, and going away to college, leaving home for the
first time, filled my eyes with tears. Those were the moments
I knew I had to learn to let him go. And, now, I trembled in
my own fear that I would have to let him go for the last time.
My thoughts were interrupted as Jason finally spoke one
word in a soft whisper as I heard it clearly. That single, last
word blared at me, reminding me from the beginning of what
had happened just minutes before. Tears fell as he looked
into the eyes of the mother who protected and cared for him;
the mother who was always there, never wanting to let go;
the mother he could always count on to help him no matter
what; the mother he loved his entire life, only to look at her
for the last time and say one final word, “Why?”
My mind stopped recording at that instant and reversed
back 23 minutes in time, searching for a reason and an
answer. Why did this happen?
Jason was always a good son. His human nature led him to
care about others before himself, but when he left to attend
Columbia University, everything changed. He changed. The
perfectionist he once was overpowered his gentle personality
when he began to earn less than A’s in school. A girl he was
dating at the time turned him on to drugs, telling him they
would help him stay awake so he could study, but it didn’t
take long before his body needed something stronger and
soon became addicted to heroin. He became dependent on
the drugs and his girlfriend, following her everywhere she
went. Soon he traded classes for parties and then dropped
out when he lost his scholarship.
Jason was forced to come home, but he wasn’t the same
person he was when he left. Throughout the following
months, it had become evident that Jason had serious
problems because he stunk of alcohol and drugs, sleeping all
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day and going out all night. He couldn’t hold on to a job
and we were never really sure when he was working. When
we would question him, he would get angry. His temper
became violent and my husband noticed I was afraid of him.
Five months ago, my husband called home while he was at
work and I didn’t answer. He called my daughter, Marissa,
and asked her to go by the house and check on me. I was
hiding in my room and didn’t know she was there until I
heard voices yelling and glass breaking.
I unlocked my door and ran into the living room where I
saw my daughter pinned up against the wall next to the bay
window. Jason had his right hand around her throat and was
holding her four-year-old son, Chris, by the back of his neck
with his left hand. He was screaming, “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill
you and your bastard son. Don’t think I won’t.”
I quickly pulled my grandson away from him and then
fought to loosen his grip from Marissa’s throat. Once Marissa
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
caught her breath, she yelled, “You’re no longer my brother.
My brother is dead.”
Jason turned to look at Chris and laughed in an evil way.
“We’ll soon see who’s dead.”
Marissa swore she saw a demon in him that day. “That
wasn’t my brother, mom.” She cried in my arms for several
hours, worried of what he might do to her, or worse, Chris.
He ran out the front door, but not before saying he hated
us. That was the last time I saw him… until today.
Chris didn’t have pre-school today, so I told Marissa I
would take care of him while she worked. A little after 11,
I was in the kitchen making lunch. I stared out the kitchen
window, watching the tire swing back and forth, remembering
the days when my son smiled. Then I thought, why is the tire
moving? There was no wind and no one was in the back
from what I knew of. Suddenly, I dropped the plate I was
holding into the kitchen sink and ran into the living room
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Intro
third place visual arts
Brett J. Medina
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
where Chris was watching Iron Man.
When I entered the room, I saw Jason there. He was
standing next to Chris, patting his head with one hand while
holding a gun with the other. I wanted to freeze in place but
I knew I had to get Chris away from him. “Chris, come over
here with Grandma.” Jason held on to him so he couldn’t
leave. I could see that Chris was scared and I felt helpless.
“Son, I’m glad to see you home. Why don’t you and Chris
come into the kitchen and I will make you something to eat.”
“Not hungry, mom.” The voice was deep and harsh. I
noticed that Jason’s eyes were red, lips ashy white, and he was
pale and shaking. My first thought was that he was going
through withdrawals. “Don’t worry. I won’t be staying long.
Just came to keep my promise to my sister and then I’ll leave.”
“Jason, let Chris come to me. Then we can sit down and
talk. You know I’ll help you if I can.”
“I don’t need help. I just need to make sure he doesn’t end
up like me.” Jason looked down at Chris and stared at him so
intensely. Tears began to fill his eyes but he wiped them clean
before they could fall. “He looks so much like me at that age,
doesn’t he?” He was right. Chris did look like Jason.
Afraid of saying the wrong thing, I decided to slowly move
toward Jason and Chris. I’m not sure why, but I knew I had
to get Chris in my arms. Jason didn’t notice what I was doing
because he was still talking.
“I tried to apologize. I wanted to make it right, but every
time I called her, she just hung up on me. She thinks she can
ignore me, but she can’t. Not with mini-me running around.
If she really wants to get rid of me, I’ll help her do it.”
“Jason, you don’t mean that. You’re not well.” I knew
I had said something wrong because Jason violently pushed
Chris to the floor and began swinging the gun around.
“You don’t know anything. Who the hell do you think
you are? You’re nobody to tell me that.”
I stepped back and lifted my hand up in front of my chest.
“OK. OK. You’re right. I don’t know. I’m sorry.” The words
came out so quick from fear.
“No, you’re not sorry…but you will be. All of you
will be.” Jason swung the gun back and pointed it
straight at Chris.
The adrenaline overwhelmed me, my heart beating so
fast it felt like it would jump out of my chest. I jumped
towards Jason holding the gun and pulled his arm up toward
the ceiling. “Chris, run out.” Chris jumped up and ran out
the door and out of our sight. I struggled with Jason to get
the gun away from him. Both of our arms were swinging
above our heads. I remember crying, asking him to please let
go. We struggled in the middle of the living room for what
seemed forever, only to have the gun smacked out of Jason’s
hand when we stumbled toward the ceiling fan while it was
on. He growled angrily and said, “I’ll kill you,” as he threw
his body to the floor to grab the gun that landed near the sofa.
I don’t know why, but I knew that if Jason grabbed that
gun he would kill me and then he would go after Chris. I
didn’t know where Chris was, so I couldn’t take a chance
that Jason would find him. I also went for the gun. I
wanted to keep Jason from getting his hands on it. The
minute my hand touched the gun, I jumped up to try to run
away but Jason was already on his feet. He quickly reached
into his back pocket, pulled out a knife and charged at me.
Without hesitating, I closed my eyes, screamed, and pulled
the trigger. When I opened my eyes again, I realized that I
had shot my son. n n n
Life After Iraq,
My Journal
third place non-fiction
Terrance Rowe
I was finally going home! December 22, 2003, was just
another hot day in Camp Doha, Kuwait. I always thought that
the Arizona summers were hot, but they pale in comparison
to the summers in the sand box. The makeshift airstrip tent
had a thick layer of dust and sand from the sandstorm the
night before on the chairs and fold-out tables. I cleared the
dust off one of the chairs and waited in great anticipation for
my flight to arrive and to take me stateside and out of hell.
My heart was filled with joy and excitement to finally
be going home. My 15-hour journey began with a C-130
military transport plane that finally arrived to take me away
from Kuwait. The huge propellers hummed a deep roar, never
powering down as we all grabbed our ruck sacs, slung it on
our shoulders as if we were making a hasty escape from this
place. But in reality, a plane that large and slow is a huge target
for Rocket Propelled Grenades (RPG’s) commonly used by
insurgents. Once we boarded, the planes loading ramp lifted
and closed with a big thud. One big thrust forward as if we
were shot out of a slingshot, we lifted off the ground at such
an angle and great force that made everyone come close to
vomiting. One officer finally puked into his Kevlar helmet,
which brought a chuckle from a few of us as you could tell
that he was not used to a combat takeoff.
We headed to a small Air Force base tucked away in the
middle of Nowhere, Lost in the Woods, USA (somewhere
on the East Coast). On the last portion of my flight home,
I sat next to a newlywed couple flying to their honeymoon
destination. Of course, I was in my two-day-old battle dress
uniform (BDU) trying not to sit too close in fear of offending
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someone; they suddenly began to engage into a conversation
with me and several of the other passengers joined due to the
topic. The topic of the conversation was “Do you think that
we should be there?” and “What was it like?,” which were and
are difficult questions for me to answer. Many of my final
days in Iraq were filled with my struggle to understand what
we were fighting for and I question the loss of good soldiers,
more importantly, my best friend! I thought carefully on
what to say, so I did not bring dishonor to the good things
that we have accomplished in Iraq. I explained to them my
“personal opinion” and thoughts. Even though they will
never know what they had done for me, these strangers on the
plane supported and encouraged a complete stranger (me),
renewing my pride in serving in the military and defending
the greatest country on the planet. As we began our decent
into Sky Harbor Airport, the adrenaline began to course
threw my veins in anticipation of seeing my loved ones for
the first time in nearly a year. I walked off the plane; several
of the passengers that I had spoken to thanked me once
again, bringing a tear to my eye as I struggled to hold the raw
emotion back. It was as though I had swallowed a giant Pride
and Joy pill and was about to overdose.
Several weeks after returning home, things were going
well, until one early morning while I was getting ready for my
mediocre job with the Motor Vehicle Division. My routine was
the same one that I had done many times before. I entered the
shower to let the warm water trickle down my back and gently
massage my skin. The water suddenly turned cold, startling
me and stealing my breath away from my gasping chest. I was
instantly transported back to Iraq and taking a cold shower; the
rare shower we were allowed to have from time to time from
the filtered river water. Fear and anxiety consumed my every
thought and feeling that my head and limbs were feeling. My
arms and legs were buzzing with electricity, but I couldn’t move.
I tried to calm down by telling myself, “You’re in a safe place.”
But the only thing I was able to do was to gather enough energy
to drag myself out of the shower and sit on the bathroom floor.
From that moment on, my body was functioning on overdrive
and trying to process the information of living on the edge, on
a daily basis, for a year. It is like going a hundred miles per hour
for an extended amount of time, then slowing down to 40 miles
per hour. You immediately recognize the speed difference and
your mind has more time to process the information about the
scenery around. Unfortunately, your mind also begins to try and
re-adjust, learning how to stop the automatic survival mode.
Automatic survival mode; every human being has a natural
feature built into their psyche, Fight or Flight. Police, military
and firefighters all are taught and re-enforce the fight psyche
so they are able to function in an adverse situation. There have
been occasions while driving; I had seen a box on the side of the
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
freeway, without even thing about it, I naturally moved to the
farthest lane away from it. It was an extinctive survival move that
reared its head to let me know that it was still here.
One situation, which scared me and ultimately started my
going to counseling, was on July 4, 2005. My ex-wife (Ann)
and I were living in an apartment complex near Arizona State
University; some kids ignited a package of firecrackers in the
courtyard. I quickly rolled out of bed and low crawled to the
window trying to find out where we were taking fire from. I
say “taking fire” because I literally thought that someone was
shooting at us. Ann asked, “What are you doing?” I whispered
with authority, “Shut the fuck up and get down, we’re taking
fire.” Shortly after this happened, I went back to bed, still feeling
extremely aggressive. It was not that I wanted to hurt anyone;
but when I finally realized that I was at home, no one was
shooting at us, and everything was OK, it made me question
my sanity. The feelings were so real, I actually thought that I
was losing my mind. It is a scary thing to have something like
that to take over your thoughts, emotions and your actions.
I finally went to the Veterans hospital; I was immediately
diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) by
my physician. It was a relief to know that I was not the only
one that has this type of things happening to them, there are
many returning soldiers with these symptoms. I also found
that there are people I can talk to in order to help me with it.
One case in Iraq, which had a major impact on me, has
stuck with me for all of these years since. It was early morning
in Camp Dogwood, Iraq. I stepped out of my tent, fresh tracks
of the scorpions and camel spiders littered the powdered sand
from being busy all night. I stood in the doorway, contemplating
what was going to happen during the day and hoping that it
would be slow. Just then in the distance, I heard the feint rotor
of a Blackhawk cutting through the air. Immediately, I knew
that wounded were coming in! A soldier was flown in after
running over an Improvised Explosive Device (IED) which
detonated underneath the vehicle. In the beginning of the war,
many of the Humvees’ did not have adequate armor on them.
This made the casualty rate much higher than need be, in my
mind. A piece had sliced his artery and he was bleeding faster
than we could stop it; eventually, we lost him! At the moment
the doctor pronounced the time of death, I looked down and
saw a wedding ring on his finger. It really hit me; this is a young
man that was married and has a family that will not see him
again. Sometimes the guilt of the soldiers that did not make it
home, still haunt my dreams to this day.
Next time that you celebrate Veterans Day or Memorial
Day, take a moment and think of a vet. We are just regular
people who are learning to deal with regular life after seeing
the best side and the worst side of humanity. We all have our
demons that we are dealing with in our own ways. n n n
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I Have Wandered
Through These Things
third place poetry
Gloria Bonnell
I have wandered through woods,
Slipped in muddy thawed thatch, soft from rainfall’s warm
wet heat.
Mossy green designs.
Wading, sliding over granite smoothed by babbling streams.
I have wandered through woods,
Soothing sunshine shadows wove an acrobatic feat.
Silent, it enshrined
Shoulders that fell soundlessly from earth’s imaginings.
I have wandered through woods
Stepped on rotted deadfall giving way beneath my feet.
Stumbled over vines
Hidden under layered leaves left seething for the springs.
I have wandered through woods,
Trudged to snowy stands of spruce patch boughs, all bent,
replete.
Coated icy pines
Clustered ‘neath dark barren birch, where vision’s brightness
stings.
Innocent, these woods must be to all our worldly flings.
I have wandered through these things. n n n
The Distance
Between Father
and Son
Charles L. LeBlanc
FADE IN:
GUILT FILLED IS ROBERT
Larry is in the garage waxing his motorcycle. It has been a
while since he has been able to take time out for just himself.
When his son, Robert, comes in from the house.
ROBERT
Hey, dad. How’s it going?
LARRY
I’m good, just doing what I do. Trying to get my bike ready
for the ride tonight.
ROBERT
Well, you know it looks good as always. Hey, dad, you still
gonna put that banging system in it like you told me about?
LARRY
Hell yes, just as soon as mom let’s me spend the money for
it.
ROBERT
Mind if I give you a hand, and oh yeah, can I bum a smoke
too?
LARRY
Sure grab a rag and my smokes are the workbench.
Robert picks up the rag and heads over to the workbench,
takes a cigarette from the pack, puts it in his mouth and lights
it up.
LARRY
I’ll sure be glad when you get a job and keep it. I can’t
afford to buy smokes for me to support your habit.
Robert inhales deeply, lets the smoke out and kneels down
opposite his dad and starts to help wipe down his dad’s
motorcycle.
ROBERT
So how are things going with the club these days, pop?
LARRY
It’s good, I guess. Same ole bullshit, different day. Just
trying to keep it growing, something to leave behind to let
people know I was here.
ROBERT
You know, dad, you don’t need a club for that. The others
and I will do that for you.
Larry looks over the seat of the bikes and smiles.
LARRY
I know, but what I’m talking about is a little different, you
know?
ROBERT
I think I understand what you are saying. It’s like we’ll let
our families know about you, but the club lets the world
know. Right?
estrellamountain.edu

LARRY
Something like that.
Larry stands up, goes to the workbench, grabs his smokes,
and yells for his younger son, Jason, and goes back over to the
motorcycle. Jason pops his head out the door.
JASON
Yeah, dad?
LARRY
Hey, baby boy, can you make me a cup of coffee? Not too
sweet, please.
JASON
Got it.
LARRY
Robert, if you want one tell your brother to make it. You
know he makes a good cup of joe, if you ask me.
ROBERT
That’s OK, pop, maybe later. I actually came out here ‘cause I
wanted to talk to you about something I feel I need to tell you.
LARRY
What is it?
Larry kneels back down and starts wiping down his bike again.
ROBERT
OK, dad, you might want to sit down for this.
LARRY
Boy, will you just tell me and stop being so dramatic, so I
can finish this bike?
ROBERT
Dad, for real, please sit down. I really need you listen to me.
OK?
Larry gets up and sits backward on his bike with a puzzled
look.
LARRY
OK, boy, what the hell is it?
ROBERT
Dad, I really don’t know how to even tell you.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
LARRY
Son, whatever it is, whether I like it or not, I love you.
You’re my son, and no matter what, I got your back.
ROBERT
Well, Dad…
Robert pauses with a look as if life as he knows it is about to
change.
LARRY
Boy, I told you that you don’t ever need to be afraid of
telling me anything.
Robert’s eyes start to fill with tears.
ROBERT
Dad, I don’t like girls…
Youth in Revolt
honorable mention visual arts
Tierra T. Beasley
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LARRY
I know. Now what did you need to tell me?
ROBERT
What do you mean, you know?
LARRY
Son, you have brought home some of the finest girls in school
and every time I ask if you were doing them you always told
me no, and the way you dress didn’t help none either.
ROBERT
But you never said nothing.
LARRY
I just figured that you would tell me if you felt comfortable.
Besides, it’s not my place to tell you how to make you
happy.
Robert looks at his dad with a new kind of respect, grabs him
around his neck and holds him for a few moments.
ROBERT
Dad, I feel so much better not having any secrets from you
anymore.
LARRY
OK, now can we finish this damn bike now? Oh yeah, I’m good
with how you live your life, but at this point, I’m not ready
for you to bring the boyfriend to my dinner table. We good?
ROBERT
Yeah, dad, we all good. Can I have another smoke?
LARRY
Damn boy, you need a job, but I guess so.
Jason steps out the door.
JASON
Here’s your coffe,e dad.
LARRY
Thanks, son…
Robert and his father both pick up their rags and start wiping
down the motorcycle again.
FADE OUT:
THE END n n n
Token
Stephanie Six
The sun began to rise over the Bigor Mountains. Their
snow capped beauty sparkling in the morning’s rays. The
mountain cast its long, daunting shadow over the land as a
thick fog was settled low on the ground.
A call broke out, a cooing bird’s call, echoing itself across the
walls of the thick pined valley. A few moments later another
call broke the silence of the valley, this one echoing back to
the first. The first calls out again, telling the second that it
had received its message; then silence. A few more moments
passed when a large male turkey made itself known in the
valley. Its strut was graceful and eloquent as he flourished his
brilliant brown and tan feathers. The turkey walked back and
forth while shifting its head to and fro before putting down
his tail. The first caller makes itself known again. The turkey
flourished itself once more, walking in a zig-zag motion
toward the caller; showing itself off. Though the turkey stops
again and the caller beckons him closer and the male could
not resist its call.
An arrow ripped through the pine trees, hitting the turkey
on the side, through the wing just under the armpit. The bird
made a cry before flopping to the ground, feathers littered
around it. A young man then appeared from his hiding spot
behind a bush a yard from where the turkey had fallen. He
was of a lean build, so much so that his black tunic and sand
colored trousers looked back and oversized. He pushed his
black hair out of his freckled face as he pulled his bow over
his shoulder. Then he proceeded to scratch his first signs of
stubble on his chin as he pulled a small knife that was wedged
between his belt.
The young man crept towards the turkey, his rawhide
boots making no sound on the marsh land, his eyes shifting
back and forth as he did so. Once he was next to the bird, he
dropped down to his knees and began to clean the animal,
always making a point to stop and check his surroundings.
He flinched as he brought his attention to his hand. A long,
now bleeding knife wound presented itself. Staring from the
knuckle of his thumb and stretching down to his wrist, he
flicked his hand and attempted to wipe away the blood before
proceeding back to his original task. He pulled a small leather
sack from the open neck of his tunic and started to fill as
much meat as he could into it. Careful not to drip any blood
on himself or on the sack.
A loud siren then began to ring out, disturbing the serenity
of the woods.
“Shit!” The young man yelled out as he jumped to his
feet and whipped his body around to where the sound was
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coming from. He abandoned the remaining meat, the sack
only half-way full, and ran as fast as he could toward the siren.
Stopping only for a brief moment to leave the sack and his
weapons in a small cave. The cave was cooled by the stream
that ran nearby so the meat would not spoil if left there for
a few hours. He scooped up a handful of the ice water and
splashed it around his blood-soaked hands, not even stopping
enough to properly wash away the red fluids.
He made his way to a small village. Its buildings were
made of sticks and mud and a large fence surrounded the
entirety of the village. He lifted the bottom of the fence and
slid underneath it, and even with his small frame he had
trouble fitting. He brushed the dirt off himself as he quickly
walked between the mud huts until he found himself in
the town’s center. A large crowd of men stood looking up
to a podium, where their town’s Lord was, Count Micheal
Swargo. He stood tall with his chest forward as his long black
hair was pulled back into an elegant braid. He wore the finest
tailor-made garments with the most expensive silks anyone
had ever seen and the trims were always glittering with small
jewels. Two guards stood on either side of his, their metalplated
clothing shining in the morning’s sunlight.
“Finally decided to show up to the daily reaping huh,
Timothy?” A larger man with a long graying beard said to the
young man, Timothy, as he slipped into the crowd. “Were
have you been all morning?”
“I was out, Rick…got myself a turkey,” Timothy said as he
got closer to the man and ducked his head low.
“You’re already on your last ‘M’ token?”
Timothy nodded. “Casey has been sick for a while now
and I have been either cashing them in for food or trading
for medication. “
“That’s a shame. You’ve been saving those tokens for
months, even before the mill accident.”
Timothy’s eye narrowed for only a second before he
shrugged. “It’s alright, I’ll get them back. Besides it’s what I
have to do.”
Rick chuckled and then slapped Timothy on the back. “If
only your Pa could see the man you grew up to be…he would
be proud.”
Timothy raised his head to Rick for the first time, his eyes
slightly wide, then relaxed. His eyes shifted once more before
his head went straight back to looking at the floor. “Thank
you.”
The sound of wood hitting against wood brought the
two’s attention back to the podium. Swargo had started the
reaping.
“Thank you all for showing,” he said to the crowd, his
voice as smooth and clear as glass. “And thank you all for
your donations.”
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Like clockwork the crowd of men began to pull small
leather pouches from their pockets or belts; Timothy
pulled his from inside his right boot leg. The men began to
rummage around inside the pouches until they came across
a small flat stone with an elegant “M” carved into it. The
stone represented the ability to buy food and prove that you
had been working for the only way to receive a food token is
to work. “M” stood for meat, the most desired of the food
tokens. “F” for fruit, “V” for vegetables, “G” for grain, and
“W” wheat or bread products.
Timothy merged into the crowd more and dropped his last
“M” token into the large offering pale next to the podium
and then went on his way into the village. He curved in and
out of the huts until he came across a tiny wood cottage, his
home, the farthest building in the village. Timothy walked
into cottage, it’s cold damp air was anything but welcoming,
but he made his way to the back room were a young boy, a
few years younger than he, lay wrapped in blankets and pieces
of fabric. Timothy sat next to the boy and stared at the tuft of
sandy blond hair as he talked.
“Hey Casey, are you feeling any better?”
“I’m fine,” was Casey’s only response, his voice wheezy
and raw.
“It doesn’t sound like you are fine.” Timothy reached over
to feel Casey’s head, only to have it slapped away. Timothy’s
eyes dropped.
“Hey, I got a turkey this morning. I know how much you
like turkey...“
“Who cares what I like.”
“I care, and ever since the accident I have a responsibility
to feed everyone in this house.”
“No you don’t, that was dad’s responsibility!” Casey had
thrown himself up into a sitting position. “He only died a few
months ago and you have already taken over his position at
the mill, his village duties, and his house obligations! You’re
not dad, so stop trying to be him!”
“Casey...”
“No! You walk around here like you think you’re dad,
but you’re not!” Timothy didn’t say anything after his little
brother’s outburst. He had never thought that he had replaced
their father, only doing what he must for their survival.
Though he had been expecting this for some time. Casey had
loved their father dearly and after they lost him, Casey had
taken it harder than anyone else in the house.
“Timmy, you’re back!” Their little sister, Lucy, yelled as she
came running into the room. Her tiny seven-year-old arms
wrapped around Timothy’s neck as she clung to his back. Her
hair was the same color as Casey’s, though the large spring
curls and round brown eyes made her look more like a doll
than a human.
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“Oh good, you’re home.” Their mother then came into the
room. She was very tall but also very thin. Ever since their
father had died, everyone could see the stress in her features
and her blond hair thinning. Her fingers were chapped and
bleeding from her laundry and wash services that she had
opened to help sustain the family; Timothy had asked her not
to, though she was stubborn and would not let him take care
for the family alone.
“Before you go to the market, could you sew up Lucy’s
doll? It ripped this morning and she won’t let anyone touch
it but you.” She was about to leave when she stopped and
darted her eyes between her two sons. “Is there something
wrong?” She never was one not to know what was really going
on in her house.
“Nope, nothing is going on.” Timothy blurted out as he
picked Lucy up and walked into the living room. His mother
narrowed her eyes, but did not say anything and returned to
her work.
After stitching up Lucy’s doll, Timothy left his home and
headed to the village’s market. It was lively and everyone
was shoving and rude. Friend turning against friend at an
attempted to receive the scraps the Lord allowed them
to obtain. Timothy joined the fray and bought 10 apples,
three heads of lettuce, four rolls of bread, and three pounds
of grain. He was almost out of tokens at that time, so he
decided to return home so that his mother could make the
family something for dinner, and more importantly, he could
retrieve the turkey meat that was awaiting him in the cave.
“That is a lot of food for one boy.” A man’s voice said before
Timothy was struck in the back of the head. The young man
fell to the ground, dazed, his sack of food lying next to him.
He turned and blurrily saw a few guards standing over him.
“You know the food is for my family,” Timothy said. He
shot the leader of the guards a look. He was Gordanson, a
local thug turned official who always tormented everyone in
the market.
“Hmm. Still seems like a awful lot of food for a family,
don’ it, boys?” The other guards nodded and agreed with their
superior. Gordanson then reached down to retrieve the sack
of supplies. Timothy tried to stop him, though the young
man was merely a fly compared to the much larger man;
and with a simple flick, Timothy was sent flying. The guards
snatched the food, biting into the apples as they snickered
and wandered off.
“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” Gordanson said. “Oh,
and next time you should be more careful at the mill.” He
gestured towards Timothy’s cut hand. “Ya may get blood
on the bread.” He laughed loudly, throwing the remaining
pound of grain at Timothy’s feet. No one in the market tried
to help, no one ever did.
Rick then emerged from the crowd, once the guards were
completely out of sight, and helped Timothy to his feet. “We
pay that damned Lord for protection and what do we get? A
bunch of hired thugs! Come on, Tim.” He lowered his head
to Timothy’s ear. “At least you still have the turkey in the
woods...”
Timothy put a hand on Rick’s shoulder to silence him.
“No. That was the bulk of the food for my family this week,
and I am going to get it back.”
“But the turkey...”
“Forget the turkey, Rick! I worked too hard for that
little bit of food, and I am going to bring it home to my
family tonight.”
The sun was beginning to set on the far side of the village.
The inhabitants were packing up their things and heading
in for the night, as they were instructed to do by Swargo.
However Timothy was just starting his evening. He wore a
thin, black material suit that was stretchy and clung to his
body. It had some slits and cuts in it, for his father had found
it in the woods a few years ago. Something from the old days,
his father had called it, and since it was so rare the family had
decided to keep it and possibly sell it for tokens if they were
in any type of trouble in the future; this endeavor, however,
seemed much more deserving of its aide.
Timothy was about to step out of the front door of his
home when a hand stopped him.
“Do you have to do this?” his mother asked as she stepped
out beside him, her tired eyes looking up to him.
“Yes, they have taken our rations for the week and I am
going to get them back.”
She step in front of him then, her thin fingers gripping his
shoulder. “Rick told me that you had caught a turkey. Just go
and get that. Forget about the tokens, you will make more...”
“That is not the point! If I do nothing, then they will
continue to do things, thinking they will always get away
with it.” He lifted her hand from his shoulder as his features
softened. “It’s alright, I will come back.” He lowered her
hand in his own before releasing it at his arms full length.
“Goodbye...” is all that Timothy said before stepping around
his mother and walking into the village.
He crept in the shadows of the houses in the village,
pulling a navy blue scarf around his hair and face. The village
was quiet, the sound of his leather boot shifting in the dirt as
he walked being the only auditable thing. Once he made it
through village undetected, he started up the cliffs to Swargo’s
estate, careful not to spring any traps or set off any alarms.
The estate was wonderfully more than he had ever
expected. It was made of polished stone and had extravagantly
plush furniture and handcrafted attire. Timothy was able to
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successfully enter the building by hiding in the dark crevices
from passing guards and climbing threw small air vents.
He aimlessly wandered the halls of the estate, all the while
dodging guards, and bypassing the help of the house he
decided to retreat back to the vents finding them not only
more convenient but also safe. He stayed mostly still, moving
only when absolutely necessary when luck finally smiled on
him as a passing butler was carrying a large leather sack of the
morning reaping on a circular metal plate, still bloated from
the morning’s donations. He followed the butler throughout
the building within the safety of the vents, until they reached
a magnificent ruby embedded door. Though as the butler
fiddled with the door’s lock, Timothy simply went on ahead
and climbed out of the vents to wait on the other side.
The room was giant, most houses in the village were not
the size of it; and scattered across the floors and piled against
the walls were food tokens of every letter. It wasn’t the food
that he was originally searching for but it would do. The
door could be heard opening, and Timothy ran up behind
the door, bow in hand. The butler made his way through the
door and Timothy slammed the thick wood of the bow across
the back of the man’s neck. The butler fell unconscious, the
tray that he had been caring falling just as fast to the hard
marble floor below. The young man attempted to catch the
metal plate, though only succeeding in popping it back into
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
the air. The butler crashed to the ground as Timothy forced
on the plate, pacing backwards to retrieve it. However he was
not paying attention to what was around him, and ended up
tripping over a stack of tokens, ultimately making him miss
the tray and having it loudly slamming on the ground next
to him.
Someone had to have heard that, Timothy thought before
scrambling to his hands and knees and scooping as many
tokens as he could into his quiver. Footsteps could be heard
coming down the hall, and Timothy retreated back to the
safety of the vents, fumbling over the mountain of tokens
to its open seclusion. He was able to close the metal gate
behind him before anyone had entered the room. His heart
raced as he crawled for 10 minutes, not hearing anything,
and watching the guards scramble frantically in the halls
below him.
“They’re in the vents!” he heard someone yell, and Timothy
froze, waiting for some type of sign, and when he felt the vent
begin to violently shake he knew they where tracking him.
His only safe haven was lost and he did the only thing he
could in that situation, he left the vents and traveled on foot.
If memory served him, then he only had two more halls to
cross before reaching the front of the building. He quickened
his pace as he carefully maneuvered an arrow from his quiver,
careful not to disturb any of the thin stones that lay inside.
Lazy Day
honorable mention visual arts
Matt P. Aragon
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Sangre Azteca
Faustino Oblea Lopez
He looked around the corner, and once he saw that it was
empty, he quickly made his way down it.
Only one more hallway, he thought as he stopped and
peered down the final stretch of white refractive walls. He
smiled underneath his scarf, this hall was empty too. He
started to make his way down this final hallway when one
of the doors swung open and a large man carrying an axe
stopped him. It was Gordanson.
“So yer the little rat in the walls, huh? Ya know I expected
someone a little...better.”
Timothy drew his bow and shot at Gordanson, though
the larger man was a skilled fighter and was able to deflect
the arrow with the metal gauntlets on his arm. He then
raised his axe and began to charge at Timothy. The young
man effortlessly rolled out of the way, though he had to
carefully extract a new bow from his quiver, he was too slow
however and only managed to pull the arrow half way before
Gordanson was on him and swinging down at his shoulder.
Timothy grabbed at the wound in an attempt to stop the
blood that now gushed from his shoulder. He grabbed an
arrow quickly, spilling a few tokens on the floor, and shot
at Gordanson, but due to his injury the attack only went a
few feet before falling to the ground and was no threat to the
massive guard.
Gordanson chuckled and charged at Timothy, axe high in
the air. The young man dived to roll out of the way once
again, when Gordanson grabbed his wrist and stopped him
from getting away.
“Not this time rat.” Gordanson’s eyes widened at the sight
of the long scab that traced down the intruder’s thumb and
wrist, and then looked into Timothy’s eyes. Timothy swung
his knee up; hitting Gordanson in the left temple. This did
little to help him as much of the bow was absorbed by the
guard’s helmet.
“Gordanson’s got him!” a guard yelled out as a herd of
the bruiting men came running to the aid of their comrade.
Timothy struggled for freedom from Gordanson’s grip;
spilling tokens across the floor. His efforts were for nothing
though as the other guards took his arms and weapons,
dragging him back into the estate.
The next morning Timothy was taken to an unknown
location. His face was covered with a cloth sack and the
guard that had ahold of his arm was jerking him around and
slamming him into multiple objects. He was then dragged
up a small flight of stairs when he was taken across a wooden
floor and tied to a post. A few moments passed and the
whispers of the villagers began to flood his ears; he could only
be in one place, the Village’s center.
The sound of a block of wood hitting a podium silenced
the crowd’s murmurs. Swargo was about the speak. “You are
all most likely wondering why I brought you all here this
morning? It is because someone...” Timothy could only guess
that Swargo had gestured to him for someone had come over
and ripped the sack from his head.
Noise began to break out again amongst the villagers at
the sight of Timothy. His right eye was now purple, swollen,
and shut while his nose bled out down his face and neck.
Timothy looked around at the familiar faces of his neighbors
that started back up at him. Finally stopping in the center
of the crowd were his mother stood silently. She wore a dark
purple large cloth draped over her head as tears rolled from
her eyes.
Swargo tapped his wooden block again and crowd once
again silenced, though this time Timothy could see the
villager’s faces knitted and eye browns pressed together.
“As I was saying, someone stole from my private token
estrellamountain.edu

The next morning Timothy was taken
to an unknown location. His face was
covered with a cloth sack and the
guard that had ahold of his arm was
jerking him around and slamming him
into multiple objects...A few moments
passed and the whispers of the villagers
began to flood his ears; he could only
be in one place, the Village’s center.
vault last night and that is not expectable. Have I not treated
you all with nothing but respect and kindness?” Not one of
the villagers made a sound, none of their eyes unwavering on
Swargo as he made his speech.
“I have treated you all as my children, but you still defy me.
Perhaps I have been too lenient.” He then snapped his thick
fingers and another man walked onto the stage with them.
He was man of a lean build, and was in his late twenties. He
wore expensive leather clothing and a mask that tied in the
back and covered his entire face; only two holes were carved
out of the front where his green eyes shown through. The
masked man was handed Timothy’s bow and a single arrow as
Timothy was positioned in front of his killer.
The crowd erupted into a state of frenzy and madness
as they began to yell and throw their hands around. The
masked man was unaffected as he positioned the arrow
on the string and began to take aim. Swargo continuously
clicked his block but that did little to stop the mob and he
was forced to bring him to bring in his guards, which only
fueled the crowd’s anger.
Timothy, only looked silently at the masked man. His
ears blurring out the sounds of the shouting crowd. His eyes
linked to the man’s green eyes, both just staring at the other
as the man’s arm was fully extended. The air around them
thinned, making it hard to breath as time seemed to halt.
Nothing else existed but Timothy and the man about to take
his life; not the village, not Swargo, not his family, not even
the reality of the events taking place. Just the surreal moment
in time that a killer and victim share before the final act.
Is this what all of those animals felt? Timothy wondered.
The masked man’s arm twitched slightly, it was time.
Though before the man could release the arrow a villager had
broken the moment by jumping up into the wooden stage
and ramming him left shoulder into the masked man’s chest.
The arrow was still released however, taking it’s time slicing
through the air before hitting its target.
The sharp jolt of pain brought Timothy back into reality.
The villagers rioted throughout the center of their world. Most
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
of the men were fighting the guards, showing them the same
cruelty that they have endured all these years. A few other
had taken Swargo and was dragging him through the streets.
Timothy looked down at one of his arrows, that now protruded
itself from his belly, blood being soaked up from this stretchy
black attire. His vision began to blur and then coming back, as
if he were being transported back and forth between worlds.
His heart raced as his body lost its heat and shook violently.
The young man looked back out into the swarming crowd
of people. Their sporadic movement making it harder to see
who was who and what, in fact, was really going on. When
his eyes lay on his mother, she had not moved from her spot,
standing perfectly still in the midst of the chaos. She was no
longer crying though the tear stains could be seen on her dirty
face. His vision began to go again and he shook his head, he
was not ready to let her go yet, not ready to let any of this
family go yet. He had to live; he had to provide for them; he
had to protect them. His vision returned and he once again
looked upon his mother, and she was smiling.
It was not a wide-toothed grin, or one of any particular
joy, but it was faint and quiet. Her eyes were unmoving and
fixated on his. Her features were that of leather, strong and
unchanging, but also fresh and new, like he had not seen her
in a long time. She looked as if she were a tree, strong and
deep rooted to earth, unable and willing to move.
Timothy smiled back to his mother, before his vision
blurred once again and once unheard voices whispered
his name. n n n
A Truth Theory
Eric Early
What moves faster than the speed of light?
Would my answer express you fright if I said…
The speed of darkness?
That indefinite hollow void.
An atypical speed on steroids.
Was Einstein correct in his theory?
Or was his theory created for the weary misguided souls to
follow.
A knowledge designed-made easy to swallow.
Yet to leave you hollow in the metaphysical sense.
Like one plus equals two-I argue three.
For doesn’t the space between the ones contain mass and
volume?
No need to get it right; simply educated to be content in the
afterlife.
Because we all look for the light, but know…
Not even the light cannot escape a black hole. n n n
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I See Dead Celebs!
Christie Hurtado
It was Saturday morning and Jackie was getting ready for
her book interview. She couldn’t believe this was happening.
For the past 12 years of writing, she finally made it to the top.
The editor even booked her a three-night room in the Beverly
Wilshire where she spent the night. How cool was that?!
Four hours later, she was well prepared in front of the
elevator. Waiting for her doors of heaven to open and take her
to her new life downstairs. When the doors finally opened,
she didn’t hesitate as she marched inside. She pushed the first
floor button and the doors began to close.
Jackie was standing in the middle of the light getting
excited and nervous at the same time. Then out of nowhere,
the Pretty Woman theme song started playing. Jackie smiled
and thought how funny that this song was from a movie that
was filmed in this very hotel. She began to laugh so hard that
the elevator started to shake as if there was an earthquake.
When it stopped shaking the elevator didn’t go down like it
should. Instead, it stopped.
The voice monitor spoke through the speakers, “We’re
sorry. It seems we’re having power difficulties with the
elevators. Please remain calm until we get the power back on.
Thank you.”
“I don’t believe this,” Jackie
The Pretty Woman theme murmured. When she took out her
song started playing. cell to call the editor downstairs in
the lobby waiting for her, the phone
Jackie smiled and
made a weird scratching sound.
thought how funny that Then the light began to flicker. Jackie
this song was from a backed against the wall scared of
movie that was filmed in what was happening when she heard
different whispers echoing. She
this very hotel. She began
freaked out and couldn’t stay in the
to laugh so hard that elevator that much longer.
the elevator started to “Hey, babe.” She froze when she
heard someone talk. How could that
shake...When it stopped
be, she thought. She was the only one
shaking, the elevator didn’t
in the elevator. When she forced her
go down like it should. head to see who it was, she couldn’t
Instead, it stopped.
believe what her eyes were seeing, it
was Elvis Presley!
Jackie shrieked! Why was Elvis here? She thought he
died in the late 70s. Apparently it was just the ghost of Elvis
Presley, which was worse! As she tried to back away from him,
she bumped into someone in a white dress. It was Marilyn
Monroe! Holy crap! Then, in front of her were two of the
greatest young female artists who passed away from tragic
accidents, Aaliyah Haughton and Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez from
that R&B girl group, TLC. Jackie tried not to panic until she
heard someone yelling out, “WHO SHOT ME?!”
She looked behind her and it was the well-known rapper
Tupac Shakur yelling out his question to the other ghosts
until someone yelled back, “NOBODY KNOWS MAN,
SO CHILL OUT!!” She looked up in front of her and it
was another well-known rapper and Tupac’s rival, Notorious
B.I.G! Jackie was speechless to say something until she heard
a familiar voice yelling at Notorious, “Will you please give us
some space, fat boy?! This elevator isn’t big enough to hold a
300-pound ghost!”
Jackie yelled out to the comedian who she used to watch in
every movie and show, “Bernie Mac?!”
He turned to face her and went through Notorious like
a ghost should and said, “Hey, what’s up, how you doing?
You’re Jackie, the one we’re all here for, right?”
“Wait what? I mean yes, I’m Jackie, but why are all of you
guys here in an elevator? Shouldn’t you guys be in…you know…
heaven?” Jackie asked while pointing up to make her point.
All Bernie said was, “Is that Michael?”
She looked away and saw the King of Pop Michael
Jackson doing his signature move, the moonwalk. Jackie was
shocked to see this until someone asked her from behind,
“Are you OK?”
Jackie froze to see the hot ghost of Heath Ledger. For a dead
guy he still had that bad boy face that every girl in the world
dreams about, especially when he played that sexy cowboy in
that movie Brokeback Mountain. And next to him was Patrick
Swayze. It’s kind of ironic how he was in that movie Ghost and
played a ghost. Now he is a ghost in reality. Wow!
The ghost of Aaliyah caught Jackie off guard as she hugged
her from behind and whispered, “It’s OK. We’re only here
to tell you something. You don’t have to be afraid. Alright?”
Even though she was a ghost, she was so warm Jackie almost
fell asleep in her ghost arms.
Jackie heard Bernie commenting to Elvis, “Elvis, you
were the man!” Elvis replied back, “Why thank you, thank
you very much.” Notorious and Tupac were arguing with
each other while Marilyn and Left Eye were watching
Michael dancing and singing his beats. Suddenly, someone
yelled out to all of the ghosts in the elevator, “Alright
everyone! Let’s just get over with why we’re here! Where
is that Jackie?”
She got out of Aaliyah’s hollow arms and raised her
hand. The crowd was making an open pathway for the
ghost who called to her and she couldn’t believe who it
was. It was the well known Canadian-American actorcomedian
Leslie Nielsen from her favorite 1980 movie
Airplane! Anyway, he was walking towards her. Walking,
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she thought? Couldn’t he just float over here? When he
got in front of her he asked the question she wanted to
ask all along, “Do you know why we’re all here?” Jackie
shook her head and he answered, “Well, we’re all here
to…” She waited for him to finish what he had to say. “…
to congratulate you on your novel being published!”
What? Jackie was confused. “Huh?”
Leslie replied, “The book “Seek” you wrote, we’re all huge
fans of the story. So we came down from the top and want
to say congratulations. So, congratulations, Jackie! We’re
rooting for you!”
Everyone was patting her on the back, petting her hair,
and giving her bear hugs. Jackie was speechless, scrabbled
with confusion. “Wait! So, I’m not going to die?!”
He laughed and said, “What? Of course not, we’re all big
fans of your book.”
“Surely you can’t be serious,” she asked Leslie? He
responded, “I am serious…and don’t call me Shirley.”
Jackie didn’t say anything after that. All she did was faint.
When she woke up, all she saw was the editor holding her
in his arms and a crowd of people in front of the elevator
peeking to see her. Police were backing them up, when
one of the reporters got through and asked, “Miss, what
happened to you in that elevator?!” He held up the recorder
in front of her to record her response.
All she said was, “I…I saw…”
The editor asked, “You saw what?”
She finished, “I saw dead celebrities…”
They both were shocked and confused. The editor backed
up the reporter and helped Jackie up and took her outside
to get fresh air. On her way out with the crowd asking her
questions and taking pictures on their cell phones, Jackie
heard Leslie’s last words, “I just want to tell you good luck.
We’re all counting on you.”
Jackie turned around and started laughing. The editor
asked what was wrong but all she said was, “Nothing. I just
remembered a quote, from that 1980 movie Airplane.” n n n
Seasonal Love
Kenneth Lang
It must’ve been between May and sometime in early July.
I met a dime piece
Thinkin she’s worth a try.
Never found love during summer so we broke the customary.
Good friends,
Turn to besties like she really was a fairy.
Til I slipped up.
She text me at a wedding we attended
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Flipped the celly I read,
Come and kiss me she said,
And so I did.
Caught deeper feelings now she’s all offended.
Coincidence.
Just fun and she wasn’t down to settle
With the all sweet romance,
Offered like some sweet tea in a kettle.
Cuz when summer dies out and the winter time comin
Ladies sweeter and the heartless receive a beat for ones lovin.
Yet in April, they leave me standing in a puddle
When back in heart warm Feb she stayed beside me just to
cuddle.
Her looks deceive you,
After all she’s not a dime.
Fuzzy for me
Lovey dovey in the winter time.
Come June they get cold,
You can see how they diss us.
Til cold freezes em,
Then they run back for warmth during Christmas.
I recall them sweet and full of love
Those extravagant nights full of nostalgia with emotions that
made me feel so right.
we settled on the rooftop with ice cold pop,
a sparkly scene.
A constellation of stars resemble her I said as she leaned.
The breeze blew and she shiver til my arms grasp and I fold.
Impression of affection
She weak inside and says I’m a star made outta gold.
I have a rep of bein slim-fit, clean, fancy and neat.
That’s why they like me
They get a taste and think that I’m too sweet.
Those tender escorts are private and the secrets unfold,
I have a lot of burdens to bear and share from what I’ve been
told.
With days full of dating,
And lustful nights break through,
Finesse the romantic routine then dipset for the next day new.
Ecstatic sensations I get as the sweetest guy around.
Some hate but most love cuz they see me come above.
One breezy say she melted for me as a bestie she found.
And I have her flyin as she’s streaming high like a dove.
My care is sentimental,
Exchanging hugs and kisses under the moonlight and
sometimes even smooches in the rain like we meant it.
Let loose, rejoice, and love for a great time.
The one I lock my eyes inside a moment,
I’ll make mine.
Lil lady I guarantee you’ll love me. n n n
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Wanderlust
Corrina Paul
Talking about the open road is an easy thing for me. Other
than a day trip to Niagara Falls and a cruise to Bermuda, my
travel has been in the United States. I spent my childhood
traveling across the United States. My mother, you see, was
consumed with wanderlust. She was never content in one
place for long. She could not settle down in one state for any
length of time. My mother was always looking for that elusive
something else. The grass was always greener wherever we
were not. If we were currently in a snowy climate, she craved
warmth, and vice-versa. If we were in California, then she
longed for New York. We moved back and forth from New
York to California twice in a row. There were various other
states for short periods of time. We lived in Kentucky and
Tennessee for a year each. We spent a few months in Texas,
Virginia and Oklahoma. We even spent a couple of short
weeks in Michigan, before she decided she hated it there.
Memories of all of those road trips bring to mind a series
of cramped Chevy Nova’s and one red Pontiac Lemans. I
can smell my mom’s Aqua Net, cigarettes and toilet water
perfume. The noxious odor of my sister’s near constant car
sickness pervades my memory. I can feel the sadness in the car
as my sister and I yearned for the new friends, pets and toys
left behind. We usually didn’t find out that we were moving
until a couple of days before we left.
My sister took each move so much harder than I did. She
was a shy awkward child with undiagnosed dyslexia. She
fought every move tooth and nail. Every trip was endless
boredom and motion sickness for her. She resented my
outgoing nature, ease at schoolwork, even my love of books.
The books kept me occupied throughout days and days of
travel. I dreaded night driving when I would have no light
to read by. I counted the oncoming headlights until I lost
track of the numbers. I stared at the moon and wondered
how it always followed us. I sang along to my mom’s Elvis and
Loretta Lynn 8-track tapes.
Some nights we would pull into a cheap motel. Those
were magical nights for me. I loved each and every one of
those motels, though looking back now I see the sameness
of them all. I explored every nook and cranny of each motel
and flopped happily on each bed. There were other nights
that weren’t so great. Those nights we would stay at rest stops,
sleeping uncomfortably in the car. Every outside noise was
scary, as were the bathrooms, and even the other travelers.
I am really not sure what my mother was looking for.
Different men drifted in and out of our lives, sometimes
moving with us, but usually not. We eventually moved to
Wisconsin. Drawn by the high dollar amount paid to welfare
recipients back then, and the lure of snowy weather, we arrived
in Milwaukee. My mother’s health declined at that point and
state-to-state travel became impossible for her anymore. In
the short four years that she lived there before her death, the
wanderlust did not subside. It was simply scaled down to
drifting from one rental flat to another. She still thought that
she could find that sense of home, behind forever changing
walls and landscapes.
I still enjoy car travel. I love to see the sights and flavors
of different areas. There are still several places that I want to
visit, but I am so fortunate that I didn’t inherit the wanderlust
that ate my mother up. It consumed her, never allowing true
contentment in her heart. I hope that her soul travels freely,
looking for the place that she never found in her life. n n n
Remix
Ralphy Ortega
A Twist Here.
A Turn There.
Swap This For That And That For This.
Kinda Looks That Same.
Sorta Sounds The Same.
But It’s Not.
Pure Creativity.
All Me.
All Original. n n n
December Air
Christian Hernandez
Abby lay in her bed, slowly tracing the patterns and shapes
of the ceiling with her eyes. Her chest moving gently as she
began to regain the feeling in her arms and legs. She reached
up, brushing the hair from her face. She closed her eyes,
reliving the night before, a faint smile forming on the corner
of her lips.
Her eyes snapped open as she heard the front door
shut. She shot up, ignoring the pain and aches on her
body. She held her breath trying to listen. It was too early
for anyone to be home. Surely her mother had no clue
she had disobeyed her and snuck out the night before.
She was sure it. She had made sure of it. Someone was
home however, and they were running down the hall,
fast. Abby barely had enough time to lift herself off her
bed and stagger to the bedroom door. Just as a hand
came propelling through doorway, Abby pushed it shut.
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There was a loud thud followed by agonizing screams of
pain. Immediately she locked the door without delay and
wedged her floor lamp in between the corner of the wall
and the doorway.
“Abby!” her mother screamed. “Open this door!”
She didn’t respond, she couldn’t. There was a knot in
her throat; her stomach had become an endless pit. Her
thoughts going haywire and her body incapable of moving.
Her mother knew.
“Abby! Open this door, now!” her mother continued to
scream as she pounded on the door.
Her breathing became heavy and rapid. She held her
head in her palms as hot tears trickled down her cheeks.
Desperation began to kick in. Her body trembled and she
became nauseous. She needed to get out of her bedroom.
She needed to escape. She couldn’t take another beating. She
refused. Still quivering, she tried to flee from her bedroom
window but her efforts were fruitless. The window would
not budge. She stopped. The pounding and screaming
both had come to a standstill. She stood near her window,
motionless anticipating her mother’s next move. There was
a sudden loud crack, which echoed throughout her room.
Her mother had continued her attack upon the bedroom
door, hammer in hand. Abby screamed in terror. Her body
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
pushed up against a wall, sustaining itself, her hand clenched
over her mouth. Hit after hit, her mother viciously began to
tear down the door.
Abby was running out of time. If her mother succeeded
to get into her room, it would be Abby she would be
hammering down.
“Abigail!” her mother screeched.
Crack! A large portion of the door had been broken
to bits, large enough for her mother to crawl through
and enter the room. Without hesitation, Abby lifted
the chair tucked into her desk and catapulted it out
the window. Glass exploded and cut into her hands as
a flurry of freezing winter wind stung her face. She fell
onto her back, breathless. The sound of her mother
screaming profanities and the howling wind engulfed
her. She crawled over the glass-covered windowsill and
stumbled to her feet. She turned her head, taking one
last glance at her mother, whom was halfway into the
room, her hands gripped tight around the hammer. She
was unrecognizable, almost beast-like. Her face wild and
savage, her eyes beaming with fury. She inhaled deeply,
letting the crisp icy December air fill her lungs. She
squeezed her eyes tightly shut and as she felt her mother
about to reach her, leapt out. n n n
Double Quad
Robert C. Jackson
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Death is a Fashion
Masterpiece
Marissa Pawley
Death is a fashion masterpiece
Composing the rhythm of life
Imagination creates originality
& captures the music in a jar
Paint me a song
The passion fades to a scream n n n
I’ll be your Raven
Carlos Gomez
I’ll be your Raven.
I’ll mock you when you try to build your self esteem.
When you have something that means to you I’ll swoop
down and take it away.
When you look at the mirror I’ll be there and then disappeared.
You’ll try to run away but you won’t be able to.
I’ll torment you at night and be the cause of all your
nightmares.
I’ll stay until you fall to your knees and cry in defeat.
I’ll be your curse, but most importantly your raven.
And yet I won’t leave. n n n
The Prisoner
Brett Loree
His mind raced with possible ways to escape his fate.
Jumping from the window, hanging himself from the
metal bars of the window, hell even bashing his own skull
in was more appealing than the way they were going to
end his life.
He pushed his hand lightly against his pale forehead,
disturbing the raven colored hair that lay against it. “Ugh,”
he groaned, unable to control his vocal distaste for the all
too slow movements of time. His life was about to end,
and instead of being considerate of his wishes, time kept
moving forward in it’s never ending march toward the end
everything.
The man broke his gaze, which had rested firmly upon
the primitive looking stone floors, and examined the rest of
his tiny cell. It was barren save for the bed he sat upon and
a solitary porcelain toilet in the far corner of the room. He
shifted his sapphire blue eyes back to the floor in disgust,
unable to bare the sight of the filthy room. Before he was
imprisoned, he had lived in an immaculate estate in the
northern parts of the country, where every whim of his was
looked after without a single hesitation, however due to his
current situation this was nearly impossible.
Voices filled the little room, and from the right of the cell
came two guards each dressed in black military uniforms. The
man raised his head only slightly to catch a glimpse of them,
but his lack of interest overcame him and he fell back into his
blank stare. The two guards stopped outside his cell.
“Hey you!” one shouted, attempting to stir the man from
his almost trance-like stare.
“Dietrich! You have a visitor,” the other shouted. The man
in the cell stirred at the sound of his name.
“Who is it?” he mumbled almost incoherently. The
guards glanced at each other taken aback at Dietrich’s lack of
responsiveness.
“It is Lord Elian Vetralice,” one of them announced
nervously. Dietrich’s eyes shot upwards at once.
“What?” Dietrich’s voice quivered in surprise. The two
guards shrugged and glanced at each other.
“He said he wanted to speak to you before your execution
this afternoon,” one of the guards said in an icy tone. Without
any further hesitation the men exited the small hallway, and
headed back from whence they came.
Dietrich’s head was clouded with thoughts of his impending
meeting with Elian Vetralice. Unable to comprehend the
intent behind his meeting with a doomed prisoner such as
himself, he drifted back off into a blank stare.
It didn’t take long for his visitor to arrive at his dirty little
cell, his immaculate white clothing shined brightly against
the harsh lighting of the fluorescent bulbs overhead giving
him the appearance of an angel.
He gave a slight cough to catch Dietrich’s attention; his
attempts at a polite introduction were however completely
defeated by the prisoner’s unwillingness to break his attention
from the floor at which he resolutely stared.
“Dietrich?” Elian asked with an empathetic tone.
Dietrich looked upwards at the young man who stood in
front of the cell bars, and jumped with a bit of shock. Not
only did the man’s clothing shine as though it were angelic,
but so did every part of him. His eyes and hair were so light
that they were almost translucent in color, and as well his skin
was as pale and beautiful as an angels.
“I am here, Dietrich,” the man announced curtly gesturing
to himself. “I am the Count Elian Cadence Vetralice,” he
smiled compassionately taking a card key from his suit pocket.
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Dietrich couldn’t help but stare at the man, unable to
comprehend the man’s intent behind his visit.
“What do you want with me?” he asked shakily, unable to
steady his voice.
The Count smiled warmly and slid the card through the
key slot. “It’s alright, Dietrich, I am just here to see you before
you move on.” He proceeded to move into the cell.
The prisoner’s expression became a mixture of complete
confusion and despair.
“What do you mean by move on?” Dietrich questioned
desperately.
Elian chuckled softly to himself. “You know what I mean,
Dietrich!”
The prisoner shook his head still unable to grasp the
concept that The Count was trying to convey.
“I don’t even know you and here you are trying to tell me
that there is some sort of place waiting for me after I die!” he
shouted furious at Elian.
The Count only smiled at the angry prisoner unwilling to
engage in any form of argument with the young man.
Dietrich stood up abruptly kicking at the moldy bed he
had just been sitting on.
“Why do you taunt me like this?” he began to sob, unable
to confront his impending fate.
Elian quickly came to his side, caressing his whole body
in a compassionate hug. Tears ran down the count’s cheeks
silently, and for the first time since his imprisonment, Dietrich
knew that someone understood that he was innocent of the
treason that he was accused of participating in.
“You know don’t you?” Dietrich cried. “I don’t want to die
my lord! My family needs me, how are they going to survive
after I’m gone? How will my son live knowing his father was
executed for treason!” The prisoner collapsed to the floor
unable to hold his own weight.
Elian gently grabbed the man and pulled him from the
ground supporting him upon his shoulder.
“It is alright, my friend. I am here to make sure that your
final wishes are met, anything I can possibly do for you will
be done.”
Dietrich looked into the man’s eyes and saw that he as well
was mourning. Unable to completely understand, he pushed
himself upwards so that he could stand upon his own feet.
“I don’t get it, I have never even met you and yet you are
here trying to help me? Why? What do you get out of all
this?” Dietrich’s eyes widened in accusation. “You want my
wife don’t you!”
Elian laughed again to himself. “Dietrich do you really
think I want something as trivial as sex? That a man such as I
would possibly be interested in your wife when I could have
any man or woman I wished?” He stroked Dietrich’s hair.
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
“No, all I want is for you to know that everything will be
alright once you’re gone.”
The prisoner’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re serious aren’t
you?”
He grasped upon The Count’s sleeve. “Just make sure that
my son lives a good life, and that my wife is happy.”
He paused for a moment trying to express his desires for
his family in just a few words.
“And my brother… he must know how much I love him,
and that I am sorry that I must leave him like this.”
Elian nodded after each request, taking in every word that
the doomed man spoke.
“I will do everything you have asked of me.”
A knock on the bars behind them made Dietrich jump.
“It’s time for the prisoner to be taken to the execution
square.” A guard said nervously.
Elian turned upon the spot shooting the guard a sharp
look that didn’t fail to make the guard soil his pants. The
count nodded curtly and turned to leave, however he at once
turned again and leaned close to Dietrich ear.
“You will be back,” he whispered kissing Dietrich upon
the cheek.
With that, Elian left the cell and Dietrich to his fate.
The guard regained his composure and gestured toward
the hallway.
“Time to move prisoner.”
Dietrich nodded calmly his minded now filled with the
Count’s final promise. He would be back. n n n
I Can Feel Too
Susie Ramirez
Over the passing months, Amanda and I became more than
strangers but still less than friends. She would show me her
world and it wasn’t like looking through clear glass anymore.
It took some time but eventually she started introducing me to
her friends. Mainly telling them I was an old childhood friend
she met through her mother’s side. I stared going to events such
as school functions where no one I knew attended. I was able
to interact with normal people without judgment. My view on
humans began to shift and mom didn’t like it. I found myself
fighting with her, we never did that before.
“I don’t want you going with her so far from home,” mom
tells me from my doorway. What she really meant to say was
I don’t want you seeing her this much.
“Mom, I told you it’s only a few miles from her house. Plus
I’m always back before curfew,” I said, not wanting to start
my night off bad but mom was persistent.
“You could run into problems with a room full of pounding
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Over The Wires and Through The Clouds
Jeremy T. Scotten
meat,” she said crossing her arms looking like a toddler. Who
was the baby now, I thought, wondering if I looked anything
like this when I was upset.
“I can handle it,” I said, sliding on my shoes. “It’s not hard
for me to be around people. It’s kind of like…”
“Michael, you’re living in a fantasy, no matter how many
times you talk to them and follow them you will never be one
of them. You aren’t a normal human being it’s time you start
getting back to what we do best.” She sat down next to me
placing her hand softly on my back. “You belong with people
who know you. People who wait every day for the night. At
night, all she will bring for you is the feeling of loneliness that
I see in you since I gave you that damn address.” I shoved her
arm away.
“I’m tired of waiting. The time of my life is ticking away
every day from me and when I’m with her time doesn’t
seem to matter.” She would never understand she wasn’t
the one dying she will outlive everyone around her. “I don’t
understand you. You used to be one of them. Now every time
you kill it’s pushing you farther and farther away from what
it felt like. Do you even remember what it means to be…?”
I stop; I knew she was thinking it was Amanda’s fault for my
little rant. “Just forget it…” I headed for the door.
“Or you’ll what?” she stands taller than me but my
confidence is too high to beat.
“Let’s just say you don’t want to find out,” my last words
before I dash past everyone that was listening to the argument.
I could hear my mom call me but I didn’t stop. I kept going
and going till I banged hard on Amanda’s front door. Maybe
this was a bad idea being with a bunch of strangers when I was
this angry. What if I hurt someone, or worse do what mom
wants me to do and kill? I could have left and disappeared
to what my old life held for me back at my café but when I
heard her run to the door I knew I couldn’t be anywhere else.
“Hey what’s with the killer knocks?” she said looking
different. She was in a white shirt that fell down at the
bottom of her hips with perfect fitted jeans. Her hair was
parted down the middle with curls all around the tips. She
had red lipstick on that matched her high tops. She looked
like she was displaying herself on purpose for me. I looked
away quick before she might notice. What’s the difference,
she could dress like fucking Lady Gaga and still look hot?
“Sorry, I am just excited to be going to your friend’s party.
I’ve never been to one before,” I say putting away my jaw
dropping face. Please don’t let tonight suck, I pray to anyone
that was listening.
“You are such a liar,” she laughs shoving me back to lock
the door.
“What? No I’m not,” I say trying to sound offended.
“Michael, you have this thing you do when you’re lying. I
caught on to it after the first week.” She leans in looking as if
she was expecting a kiss. I back away and wonder what she is
doing. There has to be something wrong with her otherwise
why would she be all touchy feely. She hated the way my
body felt and was still too scared to say half of what was on
her mind.
“Amanda, is everything OK?” I ask then noticing the smell
of liquor coming from her breath. “Are you drunk?”
“Yeah, it’s something we normal people do. Why Mr.
Michael, do you think I’m drunk for you?” she whispers in
my ear. My fist tightens as her laughter echo’s on in my head.
“OK Amanda, locking the back door on me wasn’t all
that…” A young man comes from around the side of the
house. I recognized him from the pictures in Amanda’s room.
This was Walter. “Hi.”
“Walter, this is Michael,” she said stumbling toward Walter.
I glare as she forces a kiss upon his dirty skin. She looks back
at me as if to dare me to do something. “Ready babe?”
“Yeah, you are coming?” Walter asked holding Amanda
up. It took all my strength not to rip them apart.
“No! He loves to walk, plus Walter, I want some time alone
with you. We never get to spend time alone anymore,” she
says rushing off to his car and fumbling with the door handle.
Why was she doing this? I wanted scream at her to not go just
stay with me forget the party, forget him. Couldn’t she see
that her words hurt? She made my insides want to disappear
till my outsides became nothing.
“Actually, I would love a ride. My bike is in the shop.” I
wasn’t going to let her go without a fight.
“Walter, he’s a liar! Just get in the car!” she said slamming
the door. Walter looked at me with forgiving eyes. I could tell
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he was a decent guy and I had judged him too quickly based
upon Amanda’s description of him.
“Couldn’t we just give him a lift? I mean the party is miles
from here,” I hear Walter say buckling her then himself.
“Don’t worry, he’ll show up.” She watched me in the dark
knowing very well that I was hanging on to her every slurred word.
“How can you be so sure?” he asked backing up.
“Because he knows I’ll be there,” she says then blasts the
music so loud it makes me drop to my knees. When I gather
myself, I see that they were gone and I was alone just as my
mother predicted.
The cup was my only friend. It’s odd shape handle
caressing my fingers making them feel special but no smooth
rich cup could make up for this tightness that I was having
in my chest. She thinks just because spending time with her
makes it all right to treat me like crap? I could overpower her
anytime she just never gave me a good enough reason to snap
her pretty neck. I could do it, with enough practice I could
do what I was raised to do. She would be sorry then. I won’t
go to that stupid party to just be humiliated by her in front of
her all friends. That is what she was planning to do, I could
see it in her eyes. After that disgusting display with Walter
images of that moment are now burned in my memory. I
would have sat there all night feeling sorry for myself when
someone tapped on my shoulder.
“Michael?” A girl with a cheesy black outfit that looked
like she pulled out of Edward Scissorhand’s closet stood next
to me. I could tell just by the way she looked that she was
one of those monster worshipers. They were a humiliation to
their own species. She really had bad timing, this was normal
I would get freaks like her following me around but right now
she wasn’t what I had in mind coming to this stupid bar.
“Yeah,” I said irritated that once again I was one of the
killers with a fan club. I had girls and guys come up to me
many times before wanting to do weird things like casting
non-working spells or seeing me drink animal blood. I
never did any of those but the offers were still on the table
depending what place I was at. I didn’t hide how I felt, if I was
going to suffer than why not bring someone down with me.
“Can I get a picture with you?” she asks waving the camera
in front of my face. Her small jester made me remember why
I was drowning all alone in my pathetic problems.
“Why would you want a picture with me? I don’t even
know you,” I said chugging my drink down.
“Well, actually I know all about you...” she started.
“No you don’t because if you did you would just see me
as a monster and go with the next guy that comes along. You
are so selfish. Haven’t you ever considered that I might be
thinking of you even when you’re not around? I could feel
you reaching out to me when I close my eyes,” I said taking
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
her camera. “You can have your picture.” What the fuck was I
doing? I chuckled to myself thinking this feeling inside of me
may be useful after all.
“Really?” she asks surprised then waving at her group of
friends on the dance floor. They all gawk probably shocked
and jealous that I didn’t turn down her request.
“Come with me. I don’t like the lack of lighting in here,” I
say holding my arm for her.
“OK,” she says. I take her to outside around the side of
the building where it’s quiet and dark. Perfect. A great place
to die and with the moon peaking every now and then made
my skin crawl.
“What do you know about me?” I asked barley touching her
neck listening to the vein where I know has the most flowing
blood. I could tell she was frightened, her breathing shortening
and pulse rose. Sweat starting to make her skin shine. How I
have missed the smell of a woman’s fear. Just because I never
tried a women doesn’t mean I never frightened one.
“You’re a born vampire who has a powerful and old
mother.”
“Don’t talk about my mother. That bitch is the one who
ruined my life by bringing me into this world. Tell me about
why you really came up to me. Was it because you heard
about the rumors about me being a harmless little monster?”
I ask blowing on her ear to make her more worried that I
might go too far.
“Rumors?” she swallowed hard. I look into her eyes and
she knows. When I was just about to sink my teeth into my
dinner for the first time ever I hear my cell phone go off. I
sighed seeing that it was Amanda, probably drunk dialing me
to be her punching bag. I wouldn’t answer it. If she thinks a
simple phone call will make me come running back to her
then she has another thing coming. After countless rings I
decide that she had killed the mood once again.
“I want you to leave this place, forget about these killers
and live a normal life. If anyone ever tries to convince you
to come back, I want you to walk away from them like I am
going to do. Forget me and get new friends.” I commanded
her mind obeying like the good pet she was trying to be.
“Good,” I say walking away waiting for the call to go to voice
mail. After so many rings, it finally does and I wait for her
to call again but she doesn’t. No voice mail, no text, nothing
to tell me that she is all right. The waiting was killing me
so I decide to go to her house at least her room will remind
me that it was all the liquor talking. I pace back and forth,
checking every now and then out the window. Some part
of me hated myself for not picking up but another part of
me said I did the right thing in showing her it was that easy
for me to step out of her life. Then my thoughts began to
get dark, what if…Walter did something or she is lying face
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
K-Train
Matt P. Aragon
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down in her own vomit? After tons of what if’s finally, the
phone rings and I wait no time to answer.
“Amanda?” I hear laughter and music in the background.
“Hey Michael, its Jenifer,” she says making my worry
change from disappointment. The right ring but the wrong
moron. What was she doing with Amanda’s phone?
“Oh hi Jenifer, where’s Amanda?” I ask not caring to ask
how she is. She didn’t seem like the type to drink but so did
Amanda.
“That’s why I called. Amanda left a while ago I think she
said she called a cab but I was checking to see if she was home
yet. She threw her phone at Walter when he offered her a ride
instead,” she says. I think she is being a good friend but what
kind of friend lets her best friend leave drunk with a complete
stranger. Cab drivers could be serial killers too, it wasn’t too
far of a stretch. You take that final trip and never make it
home. Why would she throw her phone at Walter had he done
something? Why do I keep thinking of the worst? It’s like my
mind was set to panic mode and I can’t find the off switch.
“When did she leave?” I ask closing my eyes thinking of all the
horrible things that could happen, that could have already taken
place. I grab one of her silly bears wrapping my hand around its
body. If anything happens to her then it would be my fault for
not picking her up, for pissing her off for some unknown reason.
The bear splits in two, the stuffing scattering to the ground.
“She left about 20 minutes ago. Mike, it’s not my place to
say anything but she seems to be having a hard time placing
you in her life.” A hard time placing me? “I mean I know she
and you are old friends but she isn’t an indecisive person she
always knows what she wants but lately…” I hear worn out
brakes stretch outside. Pulling back the curtains, I see the cab
and a stumbling Amanda falling out.
“She’s here,” I say before hanging up Jenifer still talking.
When I get to the cab the driver was trying to help her walk right
his intentions may had been right at first but his hands were not.
“I got her,” I growl deep giving him a startled reaction. He
doesn’t ask for money instead he speeds off in the quiet 25
mile an hour street. She keeps slapping me away but she has
worn herself out for the night. She refuses to be carried but
when we make it to the stairs, she couldn’t even lift her foot.
I put her in bed trying to help her with taking off her shoes.
“Don’t touch me! I don’t need your help,” she snaps at me.
“What’s your problem? Did I do something to make you
treat me like complete bitch?” I snap back.
“Yes and no,” she sighs looking up at me the light from the
outside street lamp showing her running make up. She had
been crying. She sees the mess I had made with her stuffed
animal. “What did you do to Mr. Benny?” I feel embarrassed
for destroying her property. If she didn’t have a reason to hate
me at least now she did. She waved it off as if she didn’t care
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
“Why do you keep coming?” she asks a dizzy look plastered on
her face. What does she mean? I keep coming back because she
hasn’t dismissed me yet. She had not shown that she isn’t happy
by my being here in fact I felt it was if anything the opposite.
“We were supposed to go to the party and meet some of
your friends.” I said kneeling as if she was the flipping queen
of England. I tried to pick up the mess it had caused with
both the bear and Amanda.
“No. I mean why do you keep doing that?” She points
at me with tears slowly making their way to her chin. I’m
confused but remembering that I was listing to a drunken
person they rarely make any sense. “You look at me with
those eyes and touch me with those hands. I know you
want something from me something more than just hours
of conversation.” I look at myself in the reflection of the
window. I could not see the look that she was talking about
but I knew. I was lying to my own reflection. She looks back
at me with those dashing brown eyes forcing my entire body
to shiver. Why must she bite those lips with such strength,
those soft now pink lips that dare to bleed in front of this
untrusting creature? She was a cruel person to have this
much power over me. No one not even my own mother
could make me suffer as much as she is forcing me to suffer
now. Why couldn’t she just show the same passion I was so
willingly to show her? That’s all I wanted a moment where
she felt the same as I did.
“I just want to get to know you,” I say keeping my gaze
from her.
“Michael, you’re in love with me and you’re my brother,”
she says whispering that last part. She said it, what I have
been hiding for these short months. She saw past all my lies,
I felt like a freak thinking she must be disgusted with me not
as a killer or a human but as the person I have become. I let
myself become attracted to her while she slowly figures it out.
We stay quiet for a long while and then she wraps herself to
sleep. I think she will talk more but she turns her back to me
leaving my heart to hang for its crimes. I couldn’t live without
seeing her every night but what was I to do? She was clearly
set on making me feel more degrading then I was already. She
knew that what I felt was frowned on in both our worlds.
“Amanda.” I gulp hoping she wouldn’t leave me for her
dreams “I won’t come back if you don’t want me too” I
offered hearing her breath slow relaxing every muscle. I get up
to leave making it as far as the doorway and I know it really
isn’t easy to just walk away but this was my punishment. I was
never supposed to be here. I wanted to leave but leaving was
a sign that I would never see her again.
“Michael,” her voice sounding scared. I watch her look
around the room for me. “Stay.” She moved, leaving half of
the bed for me. “Please stay with me?” n n n
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Addicted
Colleen Shea
Bring onto me
The love,
The truth
But there is only
The lyin’,
Addiction,
It’s so exotic.
My body forced to submission,
Swaying, up then down.
Used
This is it,
A hit
Then a punch.
Leave me scarred,
Bleeding on the floor.
My hands
Held tightly together,
Looped with my dread
And
Hope that keeps me together.
Screaming,
Addicted 2
Cursing.
Completely ill-fated,
I want your touch,
My wrists cuffed,
So tense.
Pushed onto my back,
Pulled,
Nails gripping into the skin,
Tossed up against the wall.
Bangin’
Again and again.
You stare with laughter,
Eyes wide then shut.
Dangling,
I hurt,
These movements only make it worst.
Anxiety fills my chest,
Threatened and choking
On my breath.
Down I fall
Stiff and empty,
Slaughtered and beaten.
Addicted 3
So many times
So addicted to the sting
Of the perfect life I thought I once lived.
I wanted you oh so bad!
But
God, I hate you
Don’t want you or trust you…
I stand and dash through this nightmare
Grab my life in which has been stolen,
Lost…
This is me, my existence
Fixed on telling,
Addicted… n n n
A Cold Stare
Diana Elizabeth Diaz
Through the thick smoke of cigars and the addicting sound
of the wailing blues, the Green Mill moves with energy. With
the spirit of sin flying through every soul, everyone is in a
trance with the vulgar things of society. The room is barely
lit, but one young woman seems to always own the spotlight
with her charismatic personality. When she sings, all ears
become her slaves and in return everyone receives goose
bumps. She never wears the same outfit twice, for she is the
reason why such a piece of clothing becomes a trend. When
she dances the Charleston, no girl can out beat her. All the
men are after her, but she has no problem being fierce when
she answers “no.” How a woman of a fresh age of 18 became
so confident is an exciting case, but people love her just as
much as they envy or hate her. Many believe it was those
striking emerald eyes that were given to her, for just one
stare pierces any soul. Her blonde hair is cut into a short bob
labeling her as a flapper, and she represents that well. Every
man who laid eyes on her imagined what it might be like to
kiss her oh-so pouty lips. It seemed that Catherine Thatcher
was in everyone’s mind and mouth.
During the day she was referred to as “Ms. Thatcher” or
“Catherine” while working at the most prominent suit and
tailor shop in all of Chicago, Illinois; the shop, which belongs
to Gabrielle Reynolds, was named after her deceased husband:
Carl’s Suit and Tailor. For this reason Catherine was able to
date many powerful men with wealth who then showered her
with expensive gifts and get-a-ways. However, Catherine was
smart enough to not fully commit to any man, for she was
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only in love with material items.
At night, Catherine’s flapper name was “Cat” for her
feline-like personality. Give her a heavy drink and she has
no problem emptying the shot right there and then, for that
was her specialty. The rest of the women stare at her when
she leans on the bar and smokes her cigarette with such class;
Cat’s smirk just shoos those wondering eyes away.
On a chilly September night, Cat was getting her outfit
together for the night. Her glittery gold dress was just put
on the racks that morning and will be of great importance
tonight. It complements her emerald jewelry given to her as
a gift from a past relationship, and her gold stilettos always
bring a smile to her heart-shape face. It was 10 o’clock at
night and she began to straighten her hair with her blow
dryer. Afterward, she began to apply her make up; she dabs
an ivory tone foundation on her face and lips. Then, she
begins to choose her smoky eye shadow and paints on the
eyeliner. With her lip liner, she forms her cupid bow, and
then with her pinky finger applies some sheer red lipstick.
Once already dressed, Cat fumbles threw her vanity drawers
finding her favorite Coco Chanel perfume and spritz it on her
neck and wrists. She throws over her shoulders a fur coat; it’s
12 o’clock at night and a new day starts, but Catherine’s night
is barely beginning.
The engine roars to life and Cat shifts the gear to drive, and
on she goes to the infamous Green Mill. She speeds through
the almost empty streets of Chicago, for these belong to her,
too. Looking for a not so distant parking space just in case
the bulls bust the joint, Cat parks her car in an abandon
lot behind some dumpsters. She closes all the windows and
hides all her valuable items under the seat and the glove
compartment. Finally, she locks the door and struts down the
alley towards a dilapidated building. She knocks on the metal
door and notices how the cold stings her knuckles. A slit on
the door opens and an eye appears behind it.
“What’s the password?” the eye asks.
“What do you say we go out back to my struggle buggy?”
Cat replies with a teasing voice.
The door cracks open and Cat strides in to see a dark
hallway. With one arm on the wall, she guides herself to the
exciting room that awaits her. She sees a gleam of light and
begins to smooth out her dress and run her fingers through
her hair. “Just take a breath... that’s it. Now, it’s show time.”
she thought in her mind. With a few steps, Cat inhales the
thick cigar smoke and absorbs the electricity of the swaying
music. She observes the bar and sees the usual men and
women spitting their game with one another, buying each
other drinks and eyes being bat every three seconds. This
was Cat’s second home, even though there are people that
hate her guts, she does not mind them since she loves the
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
extra attention. Tonight she feels mellow, but she knows that
priorities come first. She walks up to the stage and smirks at
the band members. They continue to sing and occasionally
give her a smile in return. Cat would never admit that she
loves this African-American band. She was always friendly
with them since they always treat her with dignity and respect.
Everyone behind Cat is dancing the Charleston and a man
lightly touches her arm and asks with a facial expression, “Let’s
dance?” Cat smiles lightly and shakes her head. Her attention
returns to the stage. The song ends and she walks behind the
stage then up the little case of stairs. Everyone cheers and
applauds when the song echoes through the room. The singer
of the band, James, took Cat’s hand and brought her to the
middle of the stage and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the
lovely Cat has arrived and will perform one song for us. It’s
going to be the bee’s knees! Let’s give her a hand!”
Everyone applauds and Cat begins to adjust herself. The
band starts to make a melancholy melody which influences Cat
to sway her body side to side. She looks up at the spotlight and
draws a deep breath and begins to sing from her diaphragm.
She wails away like a cat, but much more beautiful. The entire
room becomes quiet; every now and then the people cheer her
on with an “Amen sister!” or a pleased “Mhmm.” Cat does not
need a microphone; her voice alone bangs the walls and makes
them shiver. Singing was just another beautiful aspect of her...
she was naturally born with this, too.
After she finishes the song, she walks towards the bar and
orders a dirty martini. She takes a light swig and let her eyes
dart across the room. Her eyes chose to look at a man she
could not recognize. The man was talking to one of the mafia
members, occasionally nodding and smiling. Cat tilts her
head focusing on trying to put a name to this stranger, but
none of those features look familiar. He is a brunette with
deep, brown eyes; his jaw is strong, as if chiseled by a sculptor.
Under his expensive Italian suit, his muscular, yet lean body is
clearly defined. His eyes shoot towards her direction, and he
sees two vibrant, green eyes staring back. He looks away, but
then gazes over her face and the rest of her body. He returns
to her face which has a smile on it, and he grins back hoping
she can see his dimples.
“How ‘bout a drink, doll?” Cat looks to her right with
a startled look and sees it is the son of the head boss, Joey
Carranza. “No thanks, I’m Jake,” she replies and tries to faces
the direction of the mystery man. “Listen Cat, I don’t take no
for an answer. Any Jane in this joint would do anything to
be in your shoes. The least you can do is accept a drink?” Cat
chuckles and gives Joey her cold look. “I said no, Joey. Now
scram.” She walks away, then Joey spins her back around and
with one hand cups her petite neck tightly. He brings her face
closer to his and says through his teeth, “Damn it Cat, I said
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Beautiful Bokeh
Frank Hatcher
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
I don’t take no for an answer!” Cat smiles her most innocent
smile and then spits on his face. Men gathered around to stop
Joey from doing any more harm to the beautiful flapper, and
the first one in line is no other than the mystery man.
“Dry up, Joey! You’re only making a fool out of yourself and
the rest of us! You’re lucky your old man isn’t here right now.”
With that Joey departs and the crowd dissipates. Everything
goes back to normal and Cat takes a seat at the bar and puts a
hand lightly on her neck. She looks at the man whose back is
toward her. He looks back at her, but walks toward the exit and
does not glance back. Cat’s mind is in a state of shock, but is
careful not to show it to anyone who is watching. “Why didn’t
he ask how I was? He didn’t even try to converse? This isn’t normal.”
Three weeks pass and Catherine goes about her day
working at the shop. Every once in a while her mind drifts
to that night, but she shakes those images out of her mind
because that is all they are: images. Around noon, Catherine
writes down an order that will be picked up by a woman later
in the day. The entrance doorbell rings and a man walks in.
Focus on her task, she does not greet the customer.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m going to need some assistance
today,” said a man in a cool, yet sarcastic tone. Catherine’s
head shoots up and to her amazement; it is the mystery
man from the Green Mill. He is also taken aback, but only
gives her a smirk and his hand. “I thought I knew you from
somewhere. My name is Matthew Fannin, but you can call me
Matt.” Catherine smiles and shakes his hand, “I’m Catherine
Thatcher, or Cat. So what can I help you with?” Matt looks
around the store and puts his hands in his pockets. He takes
a couple steps forward, and then spins around to face her.
“If you were me, what would you buy from this store?”
Matt looked straight into her eyes with the same cold stare
she uses; she became smitten on the spot. However, this
question was used time and time again. She was trained to
answer this question carefully but with efficiency.
“Well, you seem like a slick person, so you have to carry
that characteristic out. Over here on this side of the wall
are the suits I admire the most. Not many people actually
purchase them,” Catherine shows Matt the price tag and
gently puts it down and pats the suit. “It’s up to you if you
want to buy them or not. We also have others that are much
more affordable.” Catherine smiles and leaves Matt with
some space so he can think. She returns to the front desk and
continues writing out the order form. Matt returns and asks,
“I’m going to buy all the suits on that wall, do you want my
measurements now or after I place the order?”
Catherine looked back at this man in shock. Usually this
act gets customers to buy a pair or two, but never the entire
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collection! She looks at Matt with a doubting look and says,
“Stop fronting, we only deal with real business here.” Matt
chuckles and replies, “This is real business. I really want the
entire collection; you sold it to me with your talk alone.”
Catherine smiles and asks, “Did you not see the price tag?
Each suit is about $500 and there are 12 of them!” Matt
took a step closer to her and lightly brushes a strand of hair
away from her face. “Darling, money lost its meaning to me
long ago.”
While she measured Matt’s shoulders, he asked, “Which of
these is your favorite, Cat?” She looks the suits and ponders.
“I’m going to say the one at the center. I love the colors
black and red. Why do you ask?”
“I’m taking you to the Spiaggia and I want to wear your
favorite suit. What do you think about that?
Catherine giggles and shakes her head, “I’m not really a fan
of Italian food.”
“Who cares about the food? I just want to know this ‘Cat’
and what’s behind this girl I see.”
Catherine rolls the measuring tape and looks at Matt.
“Pick me up at 8 Saturday night. I’m sure you already
know where I live, and if you don’t, I’m sure you can ask your
friends from the Green Mill.”
He laughs and picks up his receipt, “So you’re making
me do my homework... this will be fun. Saturday at 8 it is,
Catherine.”
Matt leaves and the bells chime after him. Cat wears a
smile for the rest of the day; she wonders about what she will
wear and how the date will be. Still, she tries not to think too
much about it just in case he does not do his “homework.”
Saturday comes and Cat follows her routine of pampering
during the day and preparation for the night. She decides
to wear her most daring, yet elegant red silk gown. With its
open back and empire waist, this dress makes heads turn.
She wears her mother’s pearl necklaces and pearl studs. With
wooden spools on her head, she begins to take them down
and lets her curls go wild; soon they will become flat and more
manageable. She applies her red lipstick and mascara with a
bit of eyeliner; her emerald eyes bring enough attention. She
grabs her pearl colored stilettos and clutch bag and decides
to wait half an hour for Matt. Right at 8 o’clock Cat hears a
knock on her door and opens it. Matt is at the door with her
favorite suit, slick black hair, and with those charming eyes
and dimples. “The night is young, Cat.” Matt holds out his
hand and Cat grabs it.
The next couple of months go very quickly for Cat. She
was scared of what her feelings meant since she has never
been in love, and not knowing what to expect frighten her.
Nevertheless, Matt convinced her that she was all he could
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
ever need. With just those words, she fell into a fluffy cloud,
but will end up feeling like solid cement.
It’s close to a year since Cat met Matt at the Green Mill,
and things are becoming tense. Whatever work Matt does in
the mafia is causing him a great deal of stress. During dinner
he barely eats or thanks Cat the way he used to. During the
weekend he spends the entire day out of the house and never
has energy to do anything during the night. “It’s getting old,
sweet heart!” He tells Cat, but she didn’t believe it. At times
she thought he was two timing her, but she knows he does
not have the time for another woman; it was work. Whenever
she asks Matt if everything is alright he becomes agitated
and yells at her. “Stop nagging woman, everything is fine! I
don’t need your help or anyone else!” These arguments then
escalated to physical abuse. After the beatings, Matt begs for
Cat’s forgiveness and she accepts his apologies.
Cat notices she is late on her period and begins to worry, but
does not dare mention it to Matt. She lives in fear whenever he
is around and wishes she could go back to her old apartment.
The weeks pass by and can only hide her stomach for so long;
three months into her pregnancy and Matt notices how she is
sensitive to scents and vomits two to three times every morning.
One day he decides to go to work a little late and watches over
Cat. After she brushes her teeth from the vomiting, Cat returns
to the room and begins to dress herself in comfortable clothing.
She takes off her shirt and Matt notices a round little bump
and feels the blood rush to his face. He makes a noise to let her
know of his presence and she quickly pulls down her shirt. She
stares back at Matt whose face is unreadable.
“You’re pregnant, and you never told me?” he whispers.
Cat is in a state of shock; she cannot reply or even think at all.
He grabs her shoulders and shakes her screaming, “How are
you pregnant without telling me? I can’t be responsible for a
kid; I can’t even deal with you! And now you wound up being
pregnant?” Cat feels like he stabbed her soul a thousand times
with his words. All she could do was look up into those cold
eyes that she once adored.
Matt stuffs all her belongings into a luggage and tosses it
out the front door. He grabbed Cat’s left arm and drags her
outside where a cab was waiting. “She’ll tell you where she’s
headed.” Matt said to the cab man and, like the first night she
met him, does not glance back.
Catherine struggles with her life, but regains her stability.
She gives birth to a beautiful baby girl with Cat’s blonde hair
and pouty lips, but with Matt’s deep brown eyes and dimples.
She names her Delilah Thatcher; Matt never bothered to
keep himself updated about their daughter. When Cat looks
at Delilah, she sees a gorgeous human being, her creation, her
world, and her purpose for living this life she chose. Cat also
sees Matt’s cold hard stare and mocking grin. n n n
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
My X
Myam Salinas
Lights that flicker catch the eye, teasing and tingling my
sensuality
Explosive happiness, insane euphoria!
Oh my god, a rush
I feel it in the pit of my stomach, in the back of my brain.
Serotonin leaves the head, excretes from my arms and legs.
I’m going crazy, I feel so amazed
Hours of inexplicable joy, the sky swirls overhead,
Taking my thoughts to the atmosphere.
I don’t know, meth based heroin-infused drug abuse.
But the drugs abuse me,
Beat me to a slurry of imagination.
Like rough sex, pain and pleasure in one chalky pill,
I face the night and I am about to make love to the MDMA,
Coursing through my sweat,
When I’m down I’m up, and as I reach that peak,
I know I’m on the floor again.
It kills my brain,
But addicted, trapped in my hair follicles,
It is me,
Some things never change and that is ecstasy. n n n
Tolleson Gem
Lynelle Lansford
Barrio Tolleson Chicanos, a town turned into slum
U take a right on 92 nd and see who u really have become
Crack feans around the corner, as a matter of fact one right
down the street
My daddy was a crack addict; they think I am going to follow
the tracks of his feet
But I won’t put my guard down and settle for less
Time to make like a mop and wipe up this mess
I guess since I’m from here, they believe I’m just like them
I say hell na, I’m more like the Tolleson Gem n n n
Delight
Carolyn Perez
Delight is in everything around, in me,
In me the is song playing’ like sweetness,
Sweetness like the whip on strawberry shortcakes,
Cakes the ones I bake out of the oven warm in my hands,
My hands caressing the beauty of man, his body,
Body like mine, and my face with the smile of wonderment,
Wonder in all that I admire,
Admire like that paint on the canvas emotive,
Emotive like the happiness that cause tears,
Tears being wiped off by compassion,
Compassion deep and good as laugher and smiles,
Smiles glinting of the eyes from people I lift my head and
look,
Look around you and there is delight everywhere,
Everywhere like God speaking,
Speaking to hear itself in the passion of the tone,
Tone as a feeling needing no explanation behind it,
Behind it, the darkness in your pain and mine,
there is Delight. n n n
Where Am I?
Shaun Ford
I feel so lost the majority of the time, but I usually find
my way through it. I once was lost in the obsession of meth.
I once loved those thick clouds of smoke I would blow, the
twisting of the pipe, the tingling feeling on my scalp from the
high, and most of all simply the high. Being able to stay up
for hours and sometimes days tweaked out getting everything
done I wanted done. I did get through that though. But, the
hardest experience I have to shift from is the war in Iraq, from
the haunting things I have seen and done.
I deployed to Iraq in September 2006, just after a year I
joined the military, and I was only 19 years old. Right before
my unit, the 19 th Engineer Battalion, 60 th Engineer Company
went to Iraq the unit was training me as a .50 caliber gunner.
There I was sticking out the top of the HMMWV (High
Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle) hatch with a huge
gun in front of me whether it be my favorite, the .50 caliber
machine gun, the 240 Bravo, the M249 “SAW” (Squadron
Automatic Weapon), or my second favorite, the Mark 19,
which is a automatic grenade launcher that looks “bad ass”
when shooting things or in better terms, blowing “shit” up.
After deploying in September as a mechanic, my first two
weeks seemed like hell because of the lack of sleep we got
from the work load and the vehicles we had to get up and
running. There were only two of us mechanics busting our
asses to fix these vehicles and we were just out of our schooling
too. When we got most of the vehicles up and running we
acquired more soldiers to help maintain and run the motorpool
which is similar to a huge mechanics shop, and I got
into a little bit of trouble with my superior officer, so my
First Sergeant made me his gunner, what I was trained to do
prior to deployment. I was actually really happy to possibly
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get some war action in Iraq.
While I was a .50 caliber gunner, as I earlier explained,
for the first six months I was deployed, were some of the
craziest experiences that I knew I would ever go through.
These are the experiences that I have problems getting over
and transitioning from, and all men or women should never
have to go through. During this time of my deployment I was
involved in helping special-forces and infantry. There was this
one time, and only time, I volunteered to help accomplish a
mission to search and seize for I.E.D.’s (Improvised Explosive
Device) and massive weapon stash houses. We had two man
teams, because of the small little huts we were going through,
so I was teamed with a special friend of mine, Specialist Laboy,
to accomplish and help on this mission. It was around sunset
when we kicked down this one hut’s door, I was the first man
in, when I turned to see what was behind the door there was a
kid looking about 15 years old holding a AK-47 high powered
rifle aimed at my head. I dropped to my right knee with my
M-16 A-2 rifle at the ready with Specialist Laboy coming
behind me. As soon as I dropped I started shooting and since
my reaction to dropping to my knee reacted Specialist Laboy
to do the same. Because of the adrenaline and being scared
for my life and my buddy’s life, and a buddy trying to stay
alive and his friend as well, we didn’t see the entire family, a
mother and three very young female children, behind him
having killing all of them. Laboy and I sat there, on this sandy
hard floor soon after, realizing what we had done crying our
eyes out because we had sympathized because he had just had
a child at home and I was living with my godson before I had
left, and couldn’t imagine losing our kids. A special-forces
staff sergeant was trying to contact us through the radio with
no response until he came to our location and taking us out
of the situation and debriefing us letting us, know that they
can’t report this because it could ruin our careers. So everyday
Laboy and I have to live with our decisions we made.
I had also, during this six month time, been involved in
three I.E.D.’s and once again because of my actions just prior
to these incidents had caused me not to get a proper medal or
award, which really sucks sometimes. Anyway, my first two
I.E.D’s, nobody really got injured just headaches and being
very scared from the blast. Then came a cold as shit day in
late February, it was about 1400 (2:00 P.M.), everything
seemed normal when me and my normal convoy people were
heading north to base Meraz. I remember this small village
of, normally women and children, as we took a right on to a
road known as I.E.D. alley, which many roads out in Iraq had
the same or similar names. As soon as I thought something
was wrong was when we passed this village that the woman
and children, normally out, but not this day. I did mention
it to my First Sergeant and he said, “Just keep your ass down,
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
and gun ready.” So, I didn’t think anything was going to
happen after he said that. But, as soon as I started thinking
that, being complacent, and we got a short distance from the
village a “fucking” I.E.D. went off right under the vehicle I
was in. This one was not like the rest, it was huge, and it lifted
our vehicle off the ground, and almost launched me out the
hatch. This I.E.D. knocked me out and caused me to land on
my butt making my back similar to a slinky, but nobody else
got any major injury.
We got to base and I was stuck at the hospital sleeping and
my body trying to heal itself for about five days. The day before
they were going to send me to Germany, and back to the states,
I woke up and felt like walking.
The nurse thought I was crazy I feel so lost the majority of
because I guess I had a major back the time, but I usually find
injury. My First Sergeant came to my way through it. I once
visit me, with some good food,
was lost in the obsession
and asked me, “Do you want to
stay in Iraq but just work in the of meth...I did get through
motor-pool or go home?” And of that though. But, the hardest
course, I chose to stay out there
experience I have to shift
with my brothers and sisters to
complete my time, like I believe from is the war in Iraq, from
every man and woman should the haunting things I have
have to do for this country. seen and done.
After these crazy experiences I
do have crazy things to talk about and negative thoughts that
run through my head on a daily basis, which has caused me to
have PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). There are many
days my back is killing me, where I can barely walk, and my
depression and anxiety does get the best of me. But, I have
begun to get help and make the transition from being lost to
found, and no longer having to ask myself, “Where am I?”
Now I am staying focused and keeping my head together and
working on keeping it that way. This transition is probably
going to be a lifetime to make complete, if I can, and be the
most difficult challenge I will probably ever face. n n n
Natural Beauty
Erica J. Baumgardner
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
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Toil
Leana M. Leonard
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Locked up in
my Mind
Selina Avitia
Locked up inside my own mind
The pain is gone but the scars remain
A smile on my face covers the insecurities
If ignored the memories will fade, of that I’m sure
The only love I know grabs and shakes you and leaves you
empty
I am weak
I am not enough
What scares me the most is that I have accepted that
I am his punching bag
I am her mistake
Worthy of everything, not me
I am not the princess every girl seeks out to be
It’s sad to admit I prefer when he yells and hits
At least he knows I’m there
If completely ignored
I would die at the thought
He doesn’t care
Down on my knees
Tired of being lonely
I’m the one crawling on the ground
When his love makes my world go round n n n
Empty
Cole Moorhead
Tree branches
With grated leaves
Slip undefined into the ground
The earths rising rumbling sound
I’m standing as a chasm quaking creation
Cretins and soothsayers begging for invitations
Crumble consistently into nothing
Singing, fills the air, light switch clicked
This sick song seals silence in place
Cause quietly I’m hymning
Secretly I’m sinning
Part of the Problem
Why didn’t I stop them? n n n
After Life
Shane Howato
Where am I at? Somewhere in the galaxy perhaps? A
gigantic black hole filled with nothing but space and tiny
guiding stars, like a closet filled with an empty space and holes
after pulling the thumbtacks out of the wall? Lonely, lost and
confused is how you can describe the universe, or better yet,
my life. Lies! Is how my life began. “Lies!” Is what I tell myself
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every time when talking to family or friends about who I am
or what I am all about. Yet, no one cares except for me. I am
a single reliant individual who practically raised himself, and
pats his own back when accomplishing a responsibility, or
services to impress those who love me, but most say they do
not even care.
The responsibility in the beginning was knowing that I
was a mistake and not a planned infant. Obviously, I had
to overcome that obstacle by telling myself, “Everything is
going to be just fine”, since no one else told me this while
growing up. Not only was I a mistake, but born with the
umbilical cord wrapped around my neck that could have
killed me at birth. Of course, to state the obvious, doctors
told my parents after getting to me, “You should be thankful
that this child fought to stay alive.” After hearing those
words, “To stay alive,” my mind checks into reality every
time I think about giving up now. However, I question
myself why a fair portion of the world’s society spend
most of their time doing drugs and having sex, instead of
protecting their future lives and families. My responsibility,
however, is based on my life and helping those who want to
fight to change for the better.
After learning of my accidental birth in the beginning,
service was the next step that was also unexpected and thrown
at me at such a young age of 8 years old. The service that was
granted upon me, I can say, changed my life forever! This
service was taking care of my elder grandpa named Walter
Howato. A little background history of this man was the
fact that he was known all over Native American Museums
for his art of old Kachina Doll carvings. Yet, behind closed
doors, he was possible the grumpiest, meanest person you
would have ever met. He spat wherever he pleased, tipped
restaurant waiters and waitresses with a dime or nickel for
their hard work, he yelled at the elderly for being slow, and
even chased around my family members with sticks and
cursed words at them with the obvious answers based on
their appearance. I love this man! Not because he was hated
in my family, but because he taught me the key values of
living a wonderful life. Though it is sad that he never had a
successful life, after spending most of it running from the
F.B.I for kidnapping his own children from his divorced
wife, my grandma Margaret Howato. The basic key values he
taught me was fighting for people or things that would make
me a happier man in my life. I want a successful, happy-golucky,
and passionate wife who had the same passion for
the people or things that made me who I am, pushed or
reminded me to never give up. I want children that will look
up to me as a superhero, who will talk to me about anything
that threatens or scares them, and to protect their future
lives from anything or anyone who try to stop them from
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
achieving their goals. Finally, my grandpa told me the main
key value in his own words, “To accomplish a successful
life and to obtain everything that follows behind it. You
must first protect your life from here on out, and obtain
an education before having everything that I wished I had
when I was your age.” The service that I gave to my grandpa
was listening to his stories and
taking in as much information
from him as possible before
he was lost to me in the year
2000. In the end, he gave so
much to me more than he
knows it, but, hopefully, he
knows it now since the steps
that he provided for me are
being accomplished today.
Finally, after the fact that
my grandpa was no longer a
part of my life, impressing
someone that loves me like my
grandpa did when he was alive
got tough on me while growing
up. No longer could the days of
achieving an accomplishment
make someone in my family say they were proud of me.
All they could tell me was, “Good Luck,” as if everything
that happens to me was an accident and I just got lucky
somehow. Finishing elementary school did not require
any impression since all my family except one finished
elementary, but no one in my family of six finished high
school. Taking this advantage of actually having a reason
to impress my family took it course while attending high
school. The day came when I received my diploma and was
officially announced a high school graduate in the Cardinal
Stadium that I realized. Nothing will ever impress my
family like the day I impressed myself for accomplishing
something that no one in my family could ever accomplish
for themselves. It was confusing at first, but it struck to me
like lighting.
All those years, complaining that my life stunk like a skunks
revolting odor, was actually life changing, once accepted and
taken in with a deep breath. To renounce my dark and lonely
universe began when I was born. I was not planned but I
was brought here by someone to change something in my
life. My grandpa’s stories and key values are the tiny guiding
stars that help me find my path to glory. I spent all my life
trying to impress my family and friends when, in reality, I
was impressing myself by never giving up. The years of
feeling lonely, lost and confused that took over my life in the
beginning, I can say in the end, I am proud to be alive! n n n
Where am I at? Somewhere
in the galaxy perhaps? A
gigantic black hole filled
with nothing but space and
tiny guiding stars, like a
closet filled with an empty
space and holes after
pulling the thumbtacks out
of the wall. Lonely, lost and
confused is how you can
describe the universe, or
better yet, my life. Lies! Is
how my life began.
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Pretty in Pink
Susan R. Ramirez
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Hood-Star
Charles L. LeBlanc
Dedicated to “Meat Man”
My brother from another, deeper than friends
on similar path from beginning til the end.
Growing up, we shared a lot, victories and defeats,
Moving forward non stop.
Hoping for a future, that seemed never to come,
while waiting for the day to lay down our guns.
Keeping it real,
The young Gee’s forgot,
That street knowledge for which we fought.
Hoping heaven has a ghetto, for the thugs and OG’s
Nothing real big,
Just something small for the dead homies.
Someday I too will be heading out,
from earth to heaven still holding my chest stout.
Never no regret it’s always hood life,
nothing compares to when you lose to that neighborhood
strife.
Just choices we made at a young age,
looking for recognition and trying to get paid.
We did it, our names remain,
that true OG status from the hood we claimed. n n n
Lost
Zachary Cain
Are we lost? This is the question I ask you. Let’s think about
it, talk about it, somebody has to.
“Why me?” you ask “Why us? Why now?” Because! We’re
the only ones equipped with the knowhow.
Are we lost? This is the question I ask
you. Let’s think about it, talk about it,
somebody has to.
“Why me?” you ask “Why us? Why
now?” Because! We’re the only ones
equipped with the knowhow.
But right now, look at us man! Lost! The bulk of our budget
goes to our wars, and the rest of it locked up behind corporate
doors as our rich get rich and the poor get poorer!
Fewer kids in college than we got in clink? Now that’s just a
little bit backwards C’mon, think! Lost!
From our infinite mountains of plastic bottles to girls killing
themselves to be 90 pound models,
But who am I to say onto you, the essence of our existence,
or what is true?
Because one man’s word is so easily ignored and less easily
heard when put out to the world, which is lost!
But I’ll be bold, I’ll be heard and I will speak the truth. And I
speak it to you to pass on to our youth.
Lost in our ways due to our father’s ignorance and our
generation just caught in the thick of it all.
But make no mistake we will lead the fall.
Of this nation, this planet, this life as we know it!
Unless we can grab it, expose it and show it for what we
have done and where we have been and changes not made in
history again and again.
But maybe not again, not this time, if we just put the truth
inside a young mind.
For change is in the hands of our children, but resides in our
minds so what are we doing with our time which is precious?
We must nurture and care for and developed the brilliance
that humans are known for alongside resilience.
But we can break free and kick start a revolution where we
are not the problem but instead the solution, where maybe
instead of fighting each other we fight the pollution.
Because this way of life is not in my Bible,
I hope not in yours, but put that aside, religion ignored!
What about our basic human rights? First and foremost our
right to our life!
Go ahead! Go on! Continue this fight and we WILL see the
sky turn to permanent night.
So what do you choose to pass on to your loved ones, the
young ones?
The same screwed up world our fathers passed on to their
sons? Or will it be something new, something salvageable and
worth it. I say onto you…
WE ARE LOST!
ABSORB IT! n n n
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Untitled (Time is Like
a Promise)
Michael R. Velasco
Thought patterns deep,
Out of reach cellular constellations weep,
An enormous abundance of solar flares are falling,
You see I span the globe with the wings that have been fire
started,
Mach 3 when I speak, My breath counter revolves the globe,
Gravity will eradicated,
They are my offerings to the sun god,
My lines are piercing earlobes courtesy of a mouth that house
Beatrix Kiddo’s sword tongue,
The ramifications of denial will not be tolerated,
My mind is food for thought and I’m serving up a banquet,
The removal of all things vital,
To my enemies my lines have been labeled suicidal and upon
arrival, the puzzle pieces of my mind will reshape me,
Reinvented, with a lack of direction,
To me moving weight in the form of kilos is weak,
I’m trying to move the continents simply by blinking,
Tidal waves of emotions resulting from the pendulum that’s
in my mind swinging,
I’ve been known to be manic depressively spastic in the
presence of Greek gods, they have labeled my wordplay recess,
And although my handwriting is terrible,
My words are poetically legible,
And as my train of thought side swipes the globe and reinvents
itself as your equator,
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
My competition transforms into Boris Spassky,
Second place, the first to lose,
This is prohibition 2011,
My words have been outlawed I’ve been labeled a menace,
And as I bomb the suburbs with Mister William Upski I do
realize, my name alone is ambiguous,
And as I disguise my thoughts on camouflage pages you
can realize this is in fact a Jedi Mind Trick but minus the
gullibility. n n n
World Peace to
a Dog of War
Levi Espinoza
We were never really “good people” to start. It just sort
of happened over the course of years, the draft and all the
patriotic lies you could deepthroat. It all didn’t matter, we
were mad dogs reigned in to fight some bullshit war and then
let set upon the streets again after we sufficiently mangled
what our masters wished mangled. Or world peace, primarily
world peace. Not that Brazil wasn’t sufficiently in tattered,
bleeding ribbons held together by those humanitarian
feelings that come long after the radioactive question has
been answered. But yes, world peace, the dream held fast and
dear by men missing chromosomes, it was upon us somehow
and we were out of a job. We weren’t alone; millions of other
draftees were out stalking the streets. Chances are most
weren’t our level of rabble, the three squares and righteous
air up in low-space transformed them into “good people”.
A transformation we’d somehow missed in our drug-fueled
romp through the armed forces.
We’d been living in a state of halfway-homelessness for the
past few weeks, not for the lack of funds- government pension
paid out modestly yet liveable -but out of the necessity of the
road. It was our first time west of the Mississippi, orbiting
around earth notwithstanding, since our glittering youths
in the southwest, naturally our explorer’s spirit needed to be
satisfied. As of now our wanderings had come to an end.
Our car pulled into an outer parking hub– top floor with
a gorgeous view with the sun just beneath the horizon. Rachel
shifted the car into park and the four of us made our way to
the gray concrete, stretching and hemming and hawing as we
acclimated to standing after the two-hundred miles sitting. It
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Viva La Vida
Casey Lu Raymer
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
wouldn’t be too long a change, the ride up the column to
low-space was another twelve, but at least there’d be snacks
and legroom.
We weren’t waiting long outside in the ticket queue
until someone brought up the youngest of us, Kidd,
Japanese ancestry. Old hatreds die hard, old being a decade
and hatred consisting of strings of expletives and glares.
Kidd didn’t mind at all, if he hadn’t had sold his gun week
prior he’d probably have shot them. Instead he took his
verbal licks with a masochist’s pained smile; it wasn’t like
he hadn’t heard worse from Rachel anyway. The fact that
he could have killed them but didn’t excited him more
than if he had the means, the screaming and crying, the
viscera splayed about would have really brought him down
from the place he currently was. The peace wasn’t going
to last.
Old hatreds die hard, old being a
decade and hatred consisting of strings
of expletives and glares. Kidd didn’t
mind at all, if he hadn’t had sold his
gun week prior he’d probably have
shot them. Instead he took his verbal
licks with a masochist’s pained smile; it
wasn’t like he hadn’t heard worse from
Rachel anyway.
A rock flew from the a group ahead of us in line striking
Kidd in the face. Nothing too hard, a scratch across the
cheekbone, nothing he didn’t shrug off with a hearty laugh
and a smile gilded with good-willed malice.
Rachel saw the perpetrator, Rachel went to the
perpetrator, Rachel conquered the perpetrator- a teenage
boy roughly sixteen years of age -from the crowd.
“Say you’re sorry.” Rachel demanded, her grip tightening
around the young man’s upper arm.
“Why should I?” The boy was indignant “My father
was in Colombia when the Emp’ attacked.” The kid was
unrepentant and clearly felt he could force her to give
into the sort of guilt he’d been playing up to make his
nationalism socially acceptable. Rachel didn’t care, Rachel
broke his forearm.
“The man you just assaulted– not bringing up my
ongoing romantic relationship with him– led the squad
that bombed the shit out of Sao Paolo and guaranteed
your freedom.” The boy had quickly transformed into
a sobbing mess on the floor. Rachel didn’t care, Rachel
kicked him in the chest. “Get out of the way, you’re
holding up the line.”
Our ride was free, L.A.’s method of both thanking us
for our service and apologizing for the inconvenience of its
disrespectful youth. The slow glow of the western horizon
made for a peaceful coming-down from our respective
highs. We rose upward from the land and oversaw the
nation we once safeguarded, seeing its glory from our
Pacific Olympus. We were left to live in the margins of
history as the rest of the world reaped our benefits. Kidd
looked in the direction of Sao Paolo and smiled his smile.
I often thought about what we did there and regretted it,
the shameful regret that came from the scorched earth I’d
help sow. The kind of remorse that became a mantra riding
the undercurrent of every thought; something over the past
two years reduced to a dull whine as I lived in my drugaddled
comfort. But I knew every instance of regret I had
could easily be countered, ten-to-one, by Kidd’s willingness
to do it again. n n n
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I Am My Brother’s
Keeper
Sarah Routolo
Walk,
A hundred steps in ten.
Heartbeat
Stumbles
Slowly shifting,
Into caged
Butterflies
Captive in
Intestines,
His stoop
Of doom
Awaits me
Breathing
Or decayed?
Still alive
Or did he fade?
I am my brother’s keeper,
A role a thrust into
Apprehension
Steals my breath
Puts it’s arms across my chest
Squeezes movement from my limbs
From fear of what awaits within
Staggered steps
Grasp the door
Stubborn turn
As it cries out
Creaks.
There it is.
Area rug of flesh,
There’s my brother.
A
Causality
A
Mess.
Heartbeats
Stumbling
Almost stuck
Is this the time
He won’t get up?
Moving closer
Fingers fold
Locks of hair
Breathing stops,
Cough
poetry | fiction | creative non-fiction | original artwork | photography
Choking
He’s still there
I am my brother’s keeper,
Though this burden isn’t fair. n n n
Slumberland
Jeremy Scotten
“Like a nervous child”, he thought.
Eyes clenched, for they’d be open if not
He taps his feet like a hammer taps a nail, shaped like a
thought.
And the harder he taps, the more it rebounds,
Hounding him. At this point it’s annoyance rivals any sound.
His alarm clock systematically blinks from neglect.
A problem he thinks in retrospect, should have been
addressed.
But he’s come too far in his nightly test.
And to end now would surely cause regress.
Awaiting sleep like the topple of a top,
His mind spins with spontaneous thought.
But the fleeting efforts to make it stop,
Only seem to fuel its speed.
So he halts and attempts to embrace it instead.
Eyes, rolling back, as if to peer into his head.
His eyelids force open once again.
Although, now it’s not his room he’s in.
The air is foggy and light is dim….
The colors are dull, and mood is grim.
He’s in the middle of a mangled maze.
He steps, hesitantly through the hostile haze.
Over the walls, he’s sure he sees,
The tops of barely living trees.
They bend and twist and twirl and arch,
To take the shape of question marks.
Roots of all stretch beneath their earth,
Searching for answers or something of worth.
The loose soil beneath his feet,
covers old and arbitrary memories.
Unaffected by his discovery,
he peers into the distance to see what must be…
A cemetery.
“What in this world, that is obviously a dream.
Could lay beneath memories?”
His curiosity is killing him now,
He grabs a shovel and begins to plow.
Digging in the graveyards of his own mind,
he finds apprehension and regret trapped in time.
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Where secrets that once sat gently in quick sand,
Now have long descended to the deepest parts of his land.
“Deeper”, he thinks while displacing the dirt.
Awed by at his own ability to unearth.
His feels his motives slowly shifting,
As the veil of his soul starts slowly lifting.
He anxiously digs, probing and sifting.
“Something of beauty surely hides.
Beneath the apprehension and the lies.”
But no.
He finds the subjective creation-
Of possible and probable, future situations.
He finds no recollection, or possible connection,
Between who he is and who he ought to be.
He finds it hard to see- the line between reality,
And fictional actuality.
“I don’t like it, not a bit.
These traits carve holes in my ship.
And in the rawest, purest form of me…
Couldn’t be further from beauty.
When he sheds his ambiguity.
The shovel drops, and with similar speed,
He falls to his knees,
And now unavoidably beholds,
What seems to be his soul.
It’s not black or white, good or bad.
Nor is it glorious or shameful.
It’s just, I guess… a soul?
And in that moment, a thought appeared.
And in the sea of vagueness, something was clear.
The thought was enough to evoke a smile.
And he was now beguiled.
With a gasping breath, he looked towards his clock
“3:20?... I feel as if there’s something I forgot.”
He shrugs, then places his head atop his hand.
Back again, to Slumberland. n n n
Why?
Shelby Koneke
Why are we as woman of color always tossed in a box?
Why are we asked, are you mixed with white if our skin is
light and are hair is long?
Why are we told we want to be white if we like to add a
weave to our short or long hair?
Why are we labeled as hooker or whore if we’re confident
and sexy?
Why are we considered to be the ugliest group when it
comes to all women?
Why is it that some of our own men of color are intimidated
by our confidence and smarts and take it as arrogance and
ignorant?
Why is it that men of color think that we care when they
date outside their race?
Why?
Because of the power we posse as individuals, the different
beautiful color and shades we come in, we are versatile and
can pull off any look or style whether our hair is short or long,
we have sex appeal that’s classy and we can catch any guys
eye, we are truly unique and beautiful no matter what shape
or size we come in, we can hold our own and uplift ourselves
with so much confidence, and we can do the same thing our
men do just better.
So many why’s and so many answers but the main reason is:
Black Girls Rock!!!!!!!!! n n n
When
Jill Starbuck
When will it be my turn?
When do I get to feel safe again?
My dreams are infested with thoughts of him,
The walking demon of my world.
I’ve tried to humanize him.
Give him excuses to his nature.
Extra chances,
Christian forgiveness,
Pagan Pardons,
Nothing moves me to overcome the evil that has touched
me.
He won’t let me live without knowing its smell.
Breath of a monster sent in envelopes.
The stench contained until my fingers breach the opening.
It is thick, and swimming.
Nauseating,
it is resonating.
I keep expecting this feeling to fade and end.
Much like an echo,
Loud, and full at first,
Then it tapers.
Slowly dissipating,
But it hangs on.
It recharges.
Just as the comforting fade of my fear sets in.
When will it be my turn?
When will I feel safe again? n n n
estrellamountain.edu

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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.
Awarding Judge
H Lee Barnes
Review Committee
Carlotta Abrams
Michael Bartley
Erin Blomstrand
Analicia Buentello
Jimmy Fike
Rod Freeman
Linda Keyes
Design
Michael Bartley
Editing Assistance
Michael Bartley
Karen Harbin
Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Ayr
Jeremy T. Scotten
thank you
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Estrella Mountain Literary Review 201112
Estrella Mountain Literary Review
Estrella Mountain Community College is pleased to
announce the fifth 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 and Composition
at 623 935 8444.
estrellamountain.edu