SandScript 2021

Sand Script
ART & LITERATURE 2021
1

Ashley Carmichael
Magnolia Blooms
Painting, Watercolor
ARTIST’S NOTE ON
THE COVER
This piece is very special to me because
it represents my home. My mother has an
old magnolia tree in her backyard and we
used to sit under it and drink iced tea. One
day I grabbed my sketchbook and started
drawing the beautiful spring flowers. I hope
that when you look this painting, you can
feel the warm energy of the sunreflecting
off the leaves. It reminds me of time spent
chatting with my family and the joyful
feeling of a nice day.
2

ABOUT SANDSCRIPT
The SandScript staff wants to offer our
condolences to everyone at Pima
Community College for the losses and
challenges that you have endured during
the global pandemic. We are honored to
present this assemblage of Pima students’
creative work as a reminder that our
hearts and minds are still flexible and
vibrant, and that together we will build the
next version of the world.
SandScript is the art and literary magazine
of Pima Community College, Tucson, AZ
and is published annually at the end of
the spring semester. All works of prose,
poetry, and visual art that appear in
SandScript are created by students
attending Pima Community College.
Students interested in participating on the
editorial staff of SandScript take Literary
Magazine Workshop (WRT 162) in the
spring semester and apply for the various
roles on the staff. This course is limited to
twelve students. A student design editor is
hired for the design work. Student editors,
all of whom have interests in writing or art,
learn through engaging in the editorial
process with their peers.
SandScript received the first place award
in the national contest for collegiate
magazines held by the Community
College Humanities Association in
2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, and 2019.
(The Community College Humanities
Association canceled the literary
magazine competition for 2020.)
In 2021, the SandScript staff faced all
new challenges. In an entirely virtual
environment, we had to get the word out
to potential submitters without classroom
visits, campus posters, and word-of-mouth.
Added to these limitations was the deep
distress of a student body entering the
second year of a pandemic. Regardless,
we got the work done, and additionally,
we are proud to announce a new digital
archive of previous SandScript editions in a
Pima LibGuide.
For the second time in the history of
SandScript Art and Literary Journal, our
magazine was forced into the digital
sphere by pandemic realities. Under
tremendous pressure, SandScript’s 2021
student staff has exhibited integrity,
determination, humor, and generous care
for the artistic submissions of their peers.
As our work neared completion, it was
clear that every one of us, and frankly,
almost everyone we know, is exhausted
on a cellular level, but we are inspired and
enlightened by the writing and art we are
presenting here. We hope that it will offer
some necessary hope for you, too.
—Faculty Advisor, Frankie Rollins
3

Rick Spriggs
Alive
Ceramic 8”H x 8”L x 6”W
4

EDITORIAL BOARD
Editor-in-Chief & Managing Editor
Raiden Lopez
Assistant Editor & Visual Art Editor
Stephany Rocha
Assistant Editor
Jesse Shinn
Social Media Manager, Director of Achives & Poetry Editor
Maria Servellon
Industry Outreach Coordinator & Prose Editor
Madison Copic
Prose Editor
Iris Hill
Poetry Editor
Ocean Washington
Visual Art Editor
Mariah Gastelum
Graphic Design Editor
Cynthia Drumond
Faculty Advisor
Frankie Rollins
Consider supporting student artists by making a donation to SandScript.
For information about making a donation to SandScript, please send us an email at
sandscript@pima.edu.
All donations will go towards student awards and are not used for production or printing.
Donations can be tax-deductible.
5

Reed Coffey
Symphoricarpos
Painting, Oil on Canvas 24”x36”
6

SPECIAL THANKS
Lee Lambert, Chancellor
Dr. Dolores Durán-Cerda, Provost and Executive Vice-Chancellor
David Dore, President of Campuses and Executive Vice-Chancellor
Kenneth Chavez, Dean of Communications Division
Pima Community College Foundation
Pima Community College Board of Governors:
Catherine Ripley, Demion Clinco, Maria D. Garcia, Dr. Meredith Hay, Luis L. Gonzalez
Maggie Golston, West Campus Department Head
Dina L. Doolen, Marketing and Communications
Paul Schwalbach, Director, Marketing & Communications
Angela Moreno, Communications at Downtown Campus
Rachel Araiza, Human Resources Specialist
Zulma Tapia, Pima Community College Foundation
Pima Post Josh Manis, Business Manager,
Michelle Mire, Advanced Program Manager, Access and Disability Resources
ASL Interpreters and CART for the Zoom Release Party
Pima Community College Faculty and Staff
We are on social media!
Please like, follow, and share.
pccsandscript
7

EDITOR’S
LETTER
We are extremely proud to share this
year’s SandScript 2021 Art and Literary
Magazine with everyone. I am honored
to have been the editor-in-chief and
to work with such an amazing group of
people. Each person brought their own
wisdom, talent, personality, and passion
in breathing life into this publication. It has
been my absolute pleasure to be a part of
this journey with each of them.
2021 is year two of the Coronavirus
(COVID-19) pandemic, so everyone is
still living with challenges and life-altering
events we had never faced before.
Our staff is no different, we have had to
overcome social isolation from friends
and loved ones, illnesses, and deaths. We
have gone through hardships that really
tested our resilience like custody battles,
losing our homes, and having to start all
over in new jobs after losing previous ones.
Living during the COVID-19 pandemic
8

has taught me that life is precious and
can change drastically in an instant. Do
not take your loved ones for granted and
cherish the time spent, because there was
a time that we were forced to be closed
off from everyone. I lost my grandfather
during the second year of the pandemic
(2021), but I was blessed to have seen him
one last time, not everyone was as lucky
to get to say goodbye to loved ones.
Some of these afflictions may have
seemed impossible in the moment but
human beings are more malleable than
even we give ourselves credit for. From
that perseverance we created something
beautiful and transcendent despite
the misfortunes of the world today. The
SandScript team had a vision for what
we could bestow on the world as a part
of history and with brilliant skill and eye
for detail, our design editor, Cynthia
Drumond, made that vision come true.
Thank you to all our artists and authors for
entrusting us with your work, you are all
extremely talented and brave to share
your creativity with the world. As a single
mother raising a young son, I know how
difficult it is to be a student in these times.
We congratulate everyone who finished
this semester, it is an incredible feat.
I hope you all stay well and that you take
time to enjoy those you care about most,
because tomorrow is not always promised.
—Editor-in-Chief, Raiden Lopez
9

CONTENTS
About SandScript 3
Artist’s Note On The Cover 2
Award Winners 14
Editor’s Letter 8-9
Editorial Board 5
Meet Our Artists 174-185
Meet Our Team 186-191
Special Thanks 7
Visual Art
Abigale Robles Sunflowers 21
Abigale Robles A Friday Night Downtown 124
Abigale Robles Masks in COVID-19 132
Abigale Robles A Snake in Chaos 169
Ashley Carmichael Magnolia Blooms 2
Ashley Carmichael Spring Flowers 30-31
Ashley Carmichael The Quiet Observer 32
Ashley Carmichael Desert Blooms 54-55
Avery Goldberg Coming up Pink Poppies 44
Avery Goldberg A Shamble of a Band 87
Brianna Stevens Garden Spirit 131
Clarissa Holguin Whimsical Waves 96
Claudia Nazario Selena 104
Claudia Nazario Franny 112
Cynthia Drumond It is Me 29
Dani Gailbraith-Ritchie Beating.Still 74
Dani Gailbraith-Ritchie Chula Chapala 90-91
Dani Gailbraith-Ritchie Tepalo 103
Danielle Bond V Day A series: 6 120
David Parsons George Floyd- SAY HIS NAME 66
Desert Ehrhart Portrait 135
Desiree Garcia Raven’s Skull 152
George Key Esperanza 172
Grace Johnson Red Eastern Screech Owl 116
Grace Johnson Taurus 127
10

Javier Dosamantes For She Had Eyes 143
Jennifer Prybylla Time 56
Kimberly Calles Solitude 115
Kimberly Calles Metamorphosis 51
Kimberly Griffen No Parking 80
Luisa Espinoza Las Dos Fernandas 52
Luisa Espinoza Los Tiempos Se Van Volando 77
Luisa Espinoza Tentacle Tessellation 100
Micheal Christopherson You Can’t Hide Forever 99
Miyeon Kim It’s Addicted Me 62-63
Miyeon Kim Survival 170
Monica Nelson My Dads Favorite Teapot 147
Mya Palacios Emotional Growth 139
Nathan Coffey Columbia 88
Nathan Coffey Cactus Car 15
Nathan Coffey Huddle 49
Portia Cooper Rocket 59
Portia Cooper Rodent 160
Rebecca Farris Inner Feelings 39
Reed Coffey Symphoricarpos 6
Rhea Stanley Scorned 151
Rhea Stanley Tonight 163
Rick Spriggs Alive 4
Rick Spriggs Life 16-17
Rick Spriggs Red Top 155
Sarah Bryg Light Travels From A Dead Star 72-73
Shelby Quiroz And... Doubt 41
Sivanes Ananda Dutch Windmill at Golden Gate Park 84
Sofia Fetsis Falling Magic 164
Thomas Webster Trichocereus 107
Thurwin Lane John and Rena 65
Thurwin Lane Saving The Heart 140
Ulises Ramos F.E.L.T. 95
Ulises Ramos Dejen Al Musico Dormir 119
Weston Lane Scaredy Cat 20
11

Weston Lane Dotted Cat 128
Weston Lane Feminine Masculinity 159
Yanna Aiken Am I Worth Love 148
Yanna Aiken Am I Worth Life 156
Zevi Bloomfield The Virus 23
Zevi Bloomfield Siren 83
Prose
Chretien Martinez Stygian 67
Courtney Armstrong Fading into the Watercolor 28-35
Courtney Armstrong I Closed My Eyes 38-48
Josie Lugo Adder’s Binds 16-25
Mora Hedayati Mommy Comes Back 62-65
Nadia Celaya-Alcala Mexican American without the American 53-55
Raymond Butler The Little Wind 70-79
Poetry
A.Z. Martinez The Song to Come 86
Alexa Lewis Who’s Counting 57
Arial Autumn 27 58
Carol Korhonen Missing Already 60-61
Chacara Thomas Good and Evil 89
Christopher Valenzuela Documented Thoughts 90-92
Christopher Valenzuela Smoke Signals 97
Courtney Armstrong I Smashed a Fishbowl 101
Courtney Armstrong Hope 105
Courtney Armstrong Drunken Lunacy 98
Courtney Armstrong Oh, Antigua 102
Desert Ehrhart She Was Near 165
Diego Tobin Something Playing in …Reality Is a Flower 106-109
Elena Acuna The Mesquites Keep ...Know Your Sins 162
Elena Acuna Siren Call 171
Esmeralda Garcia It’s A Dream 113
George Key Look Too See 114
Iris Hill Anaerobic 81
12

Jazmin Garcia Two Daises 85
Jazmin Garcia The Blue Carpet and the Cherry Pie 82
Jazmin Garcia Waves 94
Kentaro Herder Water 136-137
Kentaro Herder Strange Weather 117
Luke Cottrell Carousel 118
Luke Eriksson Overkill 122-123
Luke Eriksson More Than Anything 121
M.J. Copic Strength 129
M.J. Copic A Return 125
M.J. Copic Dragons Can Be Killed 126
Mara Durán Time Blurred/Tiempo Difuminado 130
Mark Anthony Ferguson Ripped and Scattered 161
Mauricia Manuel A Body of ... Principles: We the People 68-69
Mauricia Manuel Quarantined 133
Mauricia Manuel Repudiation 134
Michele Worthington Ice Cannot Be Unnmelted 141
Michele Worthington Unshrouded 138
Raiden Lopez Where I Am From 142-143
Salina Riggs-Molina Enrobe Yourself In Velvet 173
Salina Riggs-Molina Groundhog Day 144-145
Salina Riggs-Molina When No One’s Looking 146
Salina Riggs-Molina Options 168
Samantha Barrera The Book of Life 166-167
Sierra Vigil Falling Stars 149
Sierra Vigil A Love Letter From the Sea to the Olive Tree 50
Sierra Vigil A Love Letter From the Olive Tree to the Sea 36-37
Solace Bergman Prettier If You Smiled 150
T. Gullett Lemons and Oranges 110-111
T. Gullett A Consideration of Love and Teeth 26-27
Travis Cooper CA Conrad’s Squirrel 153
Veronica Martinez Pleads to the Virgin Mary 154
Yareli Sanchez Dying 157
Zoe Galmarini Dreamers 158
13

AWARD WINNERS
Visual Art
First Place
Second Place
Third Place
The Quiet Observer
Ashley Carmichael
Time
Jennifer Prybylla
Tentacle Tessellation
Luisa Espinoza
Prose
First Place
Second Place
Third Place
Fading Into the Watercolor
Courtney Armstrong
Stygian
Chretien Martinez
Mommy Comes Back
Mora Hedayati
Poetry
First Place
Second Place
Third Place
Water
Kentaro Herder
Unshrouded
Michele Worthington
Options
Salina Molina
—Awards funded by Pima Foundation
14

Nathan Coffey
Cactus Car
Photograph
15

ADDER’S BINDS
Josie Lugo
Fiction
The pain on her wings returns as
Adder’s mother finishes tightening the
metal binds to keep her wings bound. This
time her mother uses two binds—since
Adder broke the last one in only a week.
Mother stands back to admire her work
and asks Adder to try and move them to
make sure that they are secure this time.
Sirens have overly sensitive wings in order
to detect changes in wind currents, but
while bound she can only move them
up and down slightly, and any chance
of extending them past her shoulder is
impossible.
“Good.” Her mother claps her hands
as if she’s proud with her work. “Now, this
time, let’s try not to break the binds Adder.
Regardless of what you may think, I don’t
have an endless amount and they are
expensive. But if you would simply let me
cut them off like mine you wouldn’t have
to endure this anymore. I know it can’t be
comfortable for you.”
Adder gives her mother a noncommittal
groan and leaves her to put
away the extra bindings and tightening
tools. Just looking at the metal binds sends
a shiver down her spine, so she gives her
mother space to hide them back under
her bed. Having two binds instead of one
is worse than she could imagine. Adder’s
wings are sensitive enough to detect
16
even the slightest of currents in the wind
and the metal rubbing against them as
she walks, or even breathes, makes her
back feel as if it’s on fire. Over time, she
had gotten used to one band—not that it
ever became comfortable—but it wasn’t
as excruciating as this new banding, set
just below the original one, both rubbing
against the sensitive feathers of her
wings.
Even though she would like to,
Adder doesn’t blame her mother for the
bindings. Well, she doesn’t only blame her.
Eons ago, Sirens made up the brute force
of the King’s armies and since then they
Rick Spriggs
Life
Ceramic 4”Hx7”L

have been given a merciless reputation
for killing. Stories after stories of the torture
and destruction caused by her ancestors
has made beings of all shapes and sizes
fear them in groups. Her mother long
ago cut off her own wings—a horrible
procedure that has left her back scarred
and destroyed—to appease the nearby
villagers, but she has never understood
why Adder hasn’t done the same.
The wind is quiet today, like it knows
not to tempt her. Once a year, for the
last twenty-two years, Adder’s mother
removes the binds and allows her to fly
free. Not around the house, or in the
village, in case someone was to see. But
that one day, she wakes up before the
sun shows her face on the horizon, and
travels four nights to reach the Valaryian
Mountains, and stares up at the highest
snow-covered peak from the ground
before flying to touch it. The mountains
are in a constant whirl of snowstorms—
usually more than one on a single peak—
and it takes all the strength of her wings
to fight the black clouds holding cold,
wind, and sleet. Each trip from the ground
to the peak takes a couple minutes and
by midday, Adder finds herself jumping
off the highest points and enjoying the
free-fall until she thrusts her wings out and
glides on a breeze that was only created
from her fall against the side of the rocks.
Then, after a beautiful day of freedom,
Adder is forced to return home and allow
her mother to bind her wings until the next
year.
She hasn’t visited the mountains yet
for her twenty-third year, but with two
binds, she might be inclined to visit soon
for a break from the searing pain. Maybe
this time she will stay there. Maybe this
time, her mother’s guilt won’t convince
her to lower herself back to the ground
and allow her to be bound again.
Maybe—but she doubts it.
Coming out of the house, Mother
hands Adder the basket of vegetables
and goods she plans to sell at the market.
“What does that look on your face mean,
Adder?”
“I was thinking I’ll take my trip to
Valaryian soon.”
Her mother raises an eyebrow, lips
pursed, but doesn’t say anything else for
17

the rest of the walk. It’s a warm summer
morning and without Adder’s wings being
free to provide her with shade, she sweats
instantly as they make the three mile walk
to the inner village market.
Already, the market is crowded
with probably near two hundred beasts
already shopping. Decorations splay on
top of temporary stands and along lights
that straddle the walkways. It takes the
whisper of a nearby lycanthrope scolding
her daughter for Adder to notice the
excessive decorations and creatures
crowding the path. Green and gold
thrown everywhere as if those are the only
two colors that exist. The King’s colors.
Wolves, sabers, and fae of all different
ages crowd the paths to the little stands,
bustling about as if they are at risk of the
sun lowering in the next few moments and
the market closing.
The impending closure is not the
cause of the solar cycle, but for an arriving
guest to the village. The King himself will be
stopping by—that’s what the lycanthrope
mother growled to her daughter who tried
to change back to her human form. All
beasts must maintain the form they were
born in—if they have multiple forms—for
the King. Any other form would be a
threat, like hiding in the shadows, instead
of exposing their true self. How the King
would know—Adder wasn’t sure—but she
was willing to risk the words that fell from
her lips next:
“Mom, do you think you should
unbind my wings?”
“Of course not.” Her mother stopped
walking and stared at Adder as if she
has slapped her in the face and then
demanded she breathe underwater. The
look of annoyance on her mother’s face is
one Adder is familiar with.
“But look how the lycanthropes and
pixies and sabers wander around in their
born-flesh. The binds are not a natural part
of my form.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous. Would you
have me strip naked since that was the
form I was born in?”
The look on Adder’s face must have
been answer enough because her mother
simply exhaled sharply through her nose,
tipped her chin up towards the sky, and
walked away knowing that Adder would
follow. And she did.
When they finally came upon the
empty stand that was left alone for them,
her mother went quickly to work, taking
out every item and elegantly displaying
them for everyone to see. Time seemed
to continue on slowly as words that Adder
would never dare say out loud whipped
and whirled in her mind, begging for
release. It was a useless effort to think that
she could so easily convince her mother
to let her wings go free but she couldn’t
deny that she did indeed have some
hope or the words would never have
made it to her mother’s ear.
Plenty of marketgoers came by to
gently examine the layout and enquire
about prices. Some walk away with
her mother’s goods and others simply
keep their sneers at her high prices to
themselves. Adder’s job of maintaining
guard of the stand is easily accomplished
simply with her presence. As the only
two Sirens in the village, Adder and her
mother are constantly encountering
18

lycanthrope, fae, as well as other shapeshifting
beasts that all sneer that her kind
is no longer revered as warriors but market
attendees.
As more and more villagers fill in the
marketplace, and the sun hits the apex
of the sky, her mother dismisses Adder
for a break. The real reason is because
Adder will scare off potential buyers as
more swarm the stand, but at least her
mother has the decency to lie and tell
her that she should go see about getting
something nice for the house. Just the few
hours she spent at the market this morning
will spread word of mouth and protect
her mother’s work from thieving hands.
A couple of silver pieces are shoved into
her hand and then she is off, wandering
around as if she doesn’t know the exact
location of the supplier she has in mind.
The only bright side of being feared
in her village is the wide berth everyone
gives her as she walks—effectively
protecting her wings from unnecessary
friction of bumping into other creatures.
A quick flutter of her wings and
Adder stops walking. There’s a shift in the
air that she can’t identify—something
not too distant from a warning call that
has her wings moving on instinct without
her permission. She lifts her head to look
around, forcing several others to almost
walk into her, and mumble apologies.
Not listening, she feels another tug at
her wings, the pain of the binds scraping
against them, but there’s nothing. No new
threat.
She can feel it pulling on her like she
is being tugged on the end of a rope;
something deep inside her body that
she can’t identify as either pain or joy.
Vaguely, she is aware that eyes have
started watching her as she frantically
looks for the source calling to her. In her
bones, in her veins, she can feel the call as
if her own soul was receiving the summons
and her wings are frantically trying to
greet it.
Around her an obnoxious loud sound
ripples from every direction. An explosion?
No—clapping. Shouts and cheers and
something in the air with colors of gold
and green and again her wings try to
spread and she can’t control the whimper
that escapes her lips. Adder drops to her
knees, ignoring the miniscule pain that
shoots through her thighs to her hips, as all
her focus is drawn to the metal scraping
against each feather of her wings.
“Look up.” It’s a voice, old and
young, strong and soft, beautiful and
shaky that she’s never heard before.
“Look over there. Find him. Find the mirror
of your soul.”
She does.
The King is nearby—kneeling beside
a mossy troll—a crown of black adamant
atop his head like it weighs nothing. But
that’s not what catches Adder’s attention.
It’s his back that keeps her eyes from
looking away and momentarily dulls her
pain. His wings. Solid white just like her
own, tucked in gently, but free to spread
of his own will.
The scream that leaves her lips
sounds distant even to Adder’s own ears.
She covers her ears, trying to hide from
the sound only to realize that it’s coming
from her. From her own throat as her wings
struggle uselessly against the bindings.
19

Weston Lane
Scaredy Cat
Drawing, Color Pencil 10”x13”
Behind her she can hear her name
being called from a feminine voice, but
the sound only makes her wings more
frantic, wanting to escape before the
familiar voice can appear with its tools
to keep them in place. She throws all
her muscles into the force of breaking
the binds, but the searing pain turns the
edges of her vision black and she’s quickly
gasping, trying to pull air into her lungs.
A figure in green appears in front of her,
yelling something, but she can’t focus on
making out the words. All of her attention
is being pulled to her wings and then
someone touches them.
And the world stops.
White wings that don’t belong to
her are splayed out, stretching wide, and
she can feel the need inside of her to
match—to copy those wings. In the back
of her mind, a primal part of her existence
is telling her to match up her wings to his
and claim him as her mirror: her mate. The
figure comes into focus only a couple of
inches from her face and she takes in the
dark halo around his head, the tanned
skin of someone who spends his time
under the sun, the beautiful green fabric
of his coat, dipping in a low cut to expose
his bare chest.
“Get. Them. Off,” her mirror says, not
to her, but someone behind her she can’t
see.
Despite the tears, her eyes are
locked on his, and she can see the fury
behind them. His hands are cupping her
cheeks and wiping away at the droplets
that escape her eyes and his fingers are
nothing but gentle as he holds her and
tells whoever is behind her to cut the binds
off.
She stops screaming, trying to catch
her breath through her silent sobs, and
hide herself from the looks she knows she
must be receiving. Her mirror mate simply
holds her face in his hands and stares
relentlessly in her eyes. Then the pain
finally subsides. The burning feeling against
her wings breaks away in one spot and
then another. Both wings fly open with a
force that would kill anyone who might be
too close as they copy the male in front of
her.
Her mating ritual complete and the
male in front of her claimed as hers.
Finally, she can breathe with ease.
Air returns to her lungs and her tears dry
on her face. The hands holding her don’t
20

let go but continue to rub small circles
over her cheekbones, trying to soothe her.
She reaches out a finger and touches the
white feathers in front of her. The male
sucks in his breath but doesn’t tell her to
stop, so she continues, running her finger
over his muscles that let him fly. When
he gently flexes the muscles in his left
wing, she feels her right wing mirror him,
matching his movements.
“Adder,” she says. Her voice is hoarse
but it’s the only thing she can think to say
right now. “My name is Adder.”
His lips tug upwards on the side as he
says, “Lorcan.”
“Thank you, Lorcan.”
“Anything for my mirror mate.”
***
Almost two years have come and
gone between Lorcan and Adder since
the mating bond had been discovered
in Adder’s home village marketplace.
Lorcan and Adder spend their mornings
together, flying to near impossible heights
and banking around trees and homes in
the nearby city. Young children come out
in the streets in the morning and scream
with laughter as the King and his mirror
mate fly by with enough speed for the
wind to knock them on the ground.
This morning, a rare winter morning
with the sun melting the snow that had
fallen from a previous night, finds Adder
waking up alone in the bed. A note on the
small table has her name on it written in
the elegant handwriting she recognizes as
Lorcan’s. She quickly sits up, and pushing
through her yawn and groggy eyes, plucks
the note up to read it:
Abigale Robles
Sunflowers
Drawing, Bristol Paper and Micron Pens
My dearest Adder. Despite my
complaints, Lord Breham has demanded
my presence early this morning. I’m sorry
to cancel our flight but I will make it up to
you tomorrow. I will sneak away to see you
as soon as I can.
Adder smiles at the words and
places the letter in the drawer with the
other notes of cancellation, tallying the
missed flights up to eleven since their
time together. Normally she finds herself
going to an early breakfast on days when
Lorcan can’t join her, but her flights this
past week had left frost on the tips of her
wings and today is too beautiful to pass
up. She quickly gets ready and opens the
door to their balcony at the highest level
of the palace and jumps off.
21

There is little wind today which forces
Adder to use more strength for creating
currents, but she doesn’t mind. Any
chance she gets to fly overfills her heart
with joy to the point where she wonders
if this much happiness can kill her. Lorcan
prefers to fly around the palace and
the neighboring city, but Adder prefers
the mountains. They aren’t as tall or as
demanding as the Valaryian Mountains,
and they rarely see any snow, but it’s
better than the straight path Lorcan
desires.
Up and up she flies until she lands on
a cliff overlooking her home. Four large
stone pillars make up the edge of the
palace grounds, and anywhere within
the grey stone she is free to roam. Several
miles south, in the opposite direction of
the nearby mountains, is a small city that
Lorcan enjoys flying through. Between the
two locations lays a dense forest but going
either direction east or west of the palace
greets any traveler with jagged rocks
four times as large and hundreds of times
heavier than they appear.
The small part of Adder that once
existed that missed her mother has now
disappeared completely since being
allowed to fly so freely with Lorcan. Each
flap is a reminder of the binds that once
controlled and limited her.
Leaning backwards, she lets her
body fall, tucking her wings in tight to
increase her speed. Even after all this
time her stomach still tightens at the free
fall until she thrusts her wings outward,
leveling off and forgetting all her painful
memories.
Joy.
Joy is what coats her skin and keeps
her smile permanently placed on her
lips.
She flies longer than usual today, the
good weather pushing her to fly higher
with no clouds as her limit. Maneuvering
around trees that are naked from the sun
melting the snow filled nights, Adder holds
herself in place and watches the city
awaken. She sits on the highest cliff she
can find and curls her wings around herself
simply because she can.
When her stomach finally grumbles
loud enough to bother her, she returns to
the balcony. Lorcan is there, his meeting
with the Lord over, sitting on the bed with
his head tucked into his hands.
“Lorcan, what’s wrong?” Adder lands
soundlessly, her words the only sound of
her approach as she hurries to Lorcan’s
side.
His head snaps up as he quickly
meets her halfway, his hands touching
her face, her arms, her stomach, as his
eyes scan over her body and wings. After
deciding she has no injuries, he lets out a
breath and says, “Where have you been,
Adder?”
Lorcan’s fingers curl around her chin,
forcing her attention on him. There’s an
emotion swirling in his eyes she’s never
seen before so she speaks slowly, not
knowing why she feels nervous. “I went
out flying. I’m sorry I stayed out later than
usual, but the day is lovely and…”
“I flew around the entire village
and palace. Twice. Where were you,
Adder?”
“I went to the mountains.” Heat
floods her cheeks, but his grip on her chin
22

doesn’t allow her to look anywhere but
directly at him.
He drops her face like the contact
suddenly burns him. The seconds seem to
stretch into minutes as she waits for him to
say something. Anything.
“Why?” Lorcan asks, his voice harsh
and unlike anything Adder has heard from
him before.
She opens her mouth to explain, but
he cuts her off saying, “And I don’t want to
hear that it is a lovely day. I want to know
why you risked your life to fly around some
damned mountains. The wind current that
high is difficult to fly against and you could
have tired yourself out and fallen without
anyone knowing where the hell you were.
Or you could have been slammed into
one of the ledges and broken your wings,
is that what you want?”
A small gasp escapes her lips as
Adder tries and fails to come up with an
explanation to soothe him. She tries to
push away any retort of him not thinking
she’s strong or fast enough because she
knows that his worry won’t allow for those
reasons to mean anything. Lorcan knows
her stories about her trips to Valaryian and
even when they fly together, she is always
faster, flying higher than even he dares.
“I’m sorry I worried you. Please don’t
bind me, I couldn’t take it,” Adder pleads.
Zevi Bloomfield
The Virus
Painting, Acrylic 24”x16”
23

Unable to maintain eye contact because
of her growing guilt at being caught,
Adder looks down at her feet, and tries to
blink back the frustrated tears. She wants
to demand why he’s acting this way when
she’s obviously safe now, but she bites her
tongue, not wanting to risk an argument.
Inhaling sharply through his nose,
Lorcan says, “I was worried about you
Adder. You can’t pull a disappearing
act like this. I figured after being here
for a couple of years you would finally
understand what you mean to me. I can’t
lose you.”
Not having any words, she hugs
him—her mirror mate and king—and
whispers into his neck that she is sorry and
won’t fly to the mountains alone again. He
embraces her back, taking in her scent,
and murmuring how he loves her and only
wants to keep her safe.
For two years, she kept that
promise.
For two years she kept by the King’s
side in flights and never took flight by
herself. She even stopped flying off past
the clouds when she was with him so that
her mate wouldn’t worry. They continued
to fly in the mornings but after a while,
every path seemed to have been flown.
Those who lived in the village continued to
wave as they flew by, but no one shrieked
anymore or laughed at the speed in
which Adder passed. Their morning flights
continue but only last a few minutes
now.
As Lorcan and Adder sit for breakfast,
her appetite much smaller than it had
been those first four years due to flying
less now, Lorcan carefully clears his throat,
grabbing her attention. “Adder, my love,
I know you said last night that you didn’t
want to speak of the topic anymore, but
I’m afraid I have to bring it up again. I can
see how lonely you get when I am forced
to entertain Lords all day and I think
having someone to take care of will be
good for you. For us.”
The piece of fruit Adder had just
swallowed gets caught in her throat,
forcing her to cough repeatedly and
take a drink of her water. Once her initial
reaction settles, her jaw involuntarily
tightens as the memory of their
conversation last night runs through her
mind. It isn’t the first time Lorcan has
brought up wanting children, although it
was the first time he claimed it would be
for her benefit. Over the last two years
she has continuously told him no, that all
she wants is to live her life with Lorcan,
but lately the topic has been brought up
again and again.
A child.
Children.
As if they should have more than
one.
Could she truly do it? There’s no
doubt that she loves Lorcan. All the love
Adder can spare in her heart has gone to
him. But she also knows that she has been
bound to this palace in the same manner
her mother used to bind her wings and the
thought of limiting the flight of her child
breaks her heart.
“I told you Lorcan, I’m not interested
in being a mother,” Adder says as calmly
as she can before returning her attention
to her food.
“Adder, do you think I don’t notice
24

you wasting away? You’re bored and
what you need is something to occupy
your time. You’ve tried knitting and sewing
and dancing and even kitchen duty but
nothing has held your attention longer
than a few months.”
This time, Adder has to bite the inside
of her cheek until she tastes blood to keep
back her retort. She wants to roll her eyes
and tell him that of course he doesn’t see
the problem because he caused it. She is
in a nice, comfy, and safe palace, what
more could she ask for. What more could
she possibly long for, he wants to know.
But that is her best kept secret. For
two years she has kept herself inside
the palace and away from windows
with winds that seem to call her name.
Because she knows. She knows that
two years ago she chose Lorcan over
her wings and every day her resolve to
choose him again seems to be fading
away. The more he doesn’t catch on to
her unhappiness the more she begins to
resent him. Adder wants to scream from
above the clouds and demand how
he could notice her suffering and not
guess why. While it slowly eats away at
her, Adder keeps her thoughts to herself,
knowing that if she forces Lorcan to
choose between herself and her freedom,
he’d chose her. And that would surely kill
her.
“Just consider it. I think a child will
be good for us Adder, and I’m not giving
up trying to convince you.” Lorcan gets
up from the table, and after a quick kiss
goodbye, he leaves to begin his daily
meetings.
The rest of the food on Adder’s
plate goes untouched after Lorcan’s
declaration and immediate dismissal.
All the energy feels sucked from Adder
as if her bones have gained weight and
her muscles can no longer support her.
Instead of trying to find some way to pass
the time, she simply returns to her room
and sits on the edge of her bed.
How could she let it get this bad?
For most of her life she had allowed her
mother to bind her wings and then she
allowed Lorcan to limit her, all for Adder’s
perceived safety. She had loved her
mom. And she loves her mirror mate. But
neither has ever tried to answer the call of
the wind like Adder loves to, so how could
she expect them to understand?
A cold breeze slams into her room,
swinging her balcony doors open and
carrying silent words into her bedroom.
She recognizes the voice from that day
at the market four years ago, the one
that brought Lorcan into her life. A voice
with no age, nor species, but somehow
trustworthy.
So, when it tells her to fly away, she
doesn’t hesitate.
25

A CONSIDERATION OF LOVE
AND TEETH
T. Gullett
Consider the sharp smell of pine,
and the soft give of mud underneath your feet.
Consider the sound of bark dragged against a denim jacket,
and how the creek soaks into the hem of your jeans.
Consider your heart in your ears,
pounding away in your throat with something
so heavy you could choke around it,
you’ve always known love would choke you.
You knew it would hit you like a stone, Danny Vance,
you’ve always bitten off more that you can chew.
Always wanted that overwhelming love that dragged you
underneath the waves, the downpour,
down into the hollows and the creek.
You always wanted the love with teeth,
something with bite, weight to it.
Your heart between their jaws, their jagged teeth,
the kind of thing to make you shake and howl,
fulfill the craving in your teeth.
26

So here it is now, the hounds of love
descending from the trees.
Lunging and leaping and gnawing and catching,
swallowing up the man you once were,
leaving something new behind.
You knew, Danny Vance,
knew as well as your own name, own hands,
that you wanted this. Wanted this transformation,
rebirth, what have you, whatever fit right, made
your skin finally fit better than a cheap Halloween mask.
You knew the second the moon changed,
the first time you saw his grin, heard his laugh,
that your heart would fit nice between his teeth.
It’d look good there, better than wrapped around your
mother’s finger or locked away to be forgotten.
So you stay in place for once, why not?
Find the right clearing, the right place, and sink into it,
into him, into the arm around your waist and
the gentle hand in yours. The smell of pine lingers
on his jacket, a solid line of warmth against your back.
27

FADING INTO THE
WATERCOLOR
Courtney Armstrong
Fiction
A small square of paper floated
in his eye, what looked like a miniature
postage stamp hovering in the white void
of sclera where nothing is ever supposed
to be. LSD. He put it there to get a better,
faster high, he said. As if ingesting the
hallucinogenic drug were not enough, the
course of travel from mouth to stomach
too far, too diluted. He feared he couldn’t
escape the pain soon enough. The fear.
Of someday being just like his mother.
Or worse, his father. He always asked
me, which was less forgivable — to be
beaten by someone crazy or by someone
perfectly sane?
***
I remember the first time I saw
him. We were in the fourth grade, I was
nine. Benjamin was tall for his age, a
bundle of twigs always wrapped much
too tightly in a twine of dirty clothes that
were much too small, mismatched socks,
toes poking out the front of his shoes.
Everyone knew that his family didn’t have
money. Not because his father worked
at the mines in San Manuel. Not because
there were eight children. But because
poverty sometimes oozes out of a person’s
essence like the milk in a sickly eye, thick,
oily, so horrible that you can’t not see it, so
mesmerizing that you can’t look away. I
knew this because it was the same thing I
saw in every mirror I’d ever looked into.
But on this day, Benjamin was not in
clothes, but rather, naked, all except for a
diaper. An infant-sized, disposable diaper
whose adhesive tabs had failed to meet
at the sides, where crude duct tape had
been torn off into lashings of long strips
and placed on top as if it were a logical
solution. He sat on a buff of sunburnt,
umber grass where it met the curb of the
street, his pink skin beetling over the top
of the plastic waistband, not fat, but rolls
of pure flesh that had nowhere else to go.
A handwritten sign was attached to his
chest, again fastened with that horrible
grey of tape. Upon it, there were four little
words scrawled roughly in red ink.
I AM A BABY.
It was how Benjamin’s father chose
to discipline him for wetting the bed.
Beneath the damp down of his
straw-colored lashes, the little no-see-ems
swirling at the corner of his mouth, the
sweat pulling at his platinum curls, I saw
something I had never seen before. It
was something so foreign that I couldn’t
28

Cynthia Drumond
It is Me
Painting, Watercolor
29

even call it by name. Something that the
mothers in the neighborhood whispered
about at the bus stop. What the fathers
watched from the corner of their eyes
while mowing the lawns. Nobody looked
at it straight on. No one addressed it. And
I didn’t even know it was a thing. Child
abuse.
I lived across the street from
Benjamin, and I watched, hiding myself
behind the vinyl vertical blinds of my
empty living room. I always felt like the
outcast at school, living in a subsidized
apartment, my mother long-gone, my
father never home. I prayed often that I
was adopted, that my real parents would
show up and rescue me. From my life. But
looking at Benjamin, the ratcheting grip of
the diaper that squeezed and licked his
purple limbs, the shame that flogged his
posture, I knew that what I had was a life
of absolute privilege.
The titian sun set, its russet blood
spread along the splash of the Arizona sky
where it met the horizon, what seemed
like the edge of the world, that long streak
of sapphire ink where I thought everything
stopped, like the outline of a boundary on
a map. I wanted to run to it and jump off,
to be covered in the watercolor, to drift
into the stipple of a calm that I thought
could only be brought by oblivion. I
looked out the glass and knew that if
anyone could relate, it was Benjamin.
***
The next year, he showed up to
school wearing a dress. This time, it was
a punishment from his mother. For what,
I still don’t know. I was eating my lunch
in the bathroom, alone, hiding from the
30
other kids when I snuck out to drink from
the water fountain. I heard a sound from
the boys’ room.
I looked over and saw Benjamin
hiding behind the half-open door, the
weight of its industrial size heavier than
he could handle. The door slipped every
second or two, whispering peesh, peesh,
as the rubber strip at its base swept the
ground, and I pictured his undernourished
arms on the other side struggling to keep
himself hidden.
“Jenny, right?”
I nodded.
He opened the door a bit wider
and waved for me to go inside. I looked
behind me to the empty corridor. I had

31
Ashley Carmichael
Spring Flowers
Painting, Watercolor and Ink 12”x18”
never been inside a boys’ bathroom.
I tried not to laugh when I saw
those funny little urinals. I had only seen
them in the movies before. Benjamin
locked the deadbolt behind me and that
was when I turned around and saw him in
the dress. A frilly, pink, baby doll dress, the
bodice too narrow to contain the expanse
of his torso, pearls of buttons unable to
join, his chest exposed in an upside-down
triangle of flush skin. He didn’t look me in
the eye.
“Can we swap clothes?” he asked
the floor.
I looked down at my corduroys
and t-shirt. The pants would be too short
for him, but Benjamin had worn far worsefitting
clothes before. He finally looked me
in the eye. I saw in them that unnamed
rawness, desperation, torturous grief that
stained him. I knew I had no choice but to
wear his clothes and let him wear mine. It
was as if I were lending him my own skin,
even if only for just a few hours.
***
In return, it was as if Benjamin gave
me everything of himself. And with his
friendship came a perennial light. The
white lips of the school’s walls were no
longer the only things to speak to me,
being ignored no longer my only solace.
For, when one is different from the pack,
singularity is torture — on my own, I was
vulnerable. But with Benjamin as an ally,
we became not just two misfits, but a
possible threat. Never again was I the
target in dodgeball. People stopped
tripping me in the hallways. I wasn’t worth
the effort, and that I could handle. I was
used to that at home.
We met at the abandoned
treehouse every chance we got. I had
more chances than he, and often sat
waiting in the silence of the wood, alone.
I loved the sound of the wind whipping
past its shell, the whispers of breath that
snuck through the mismatched slats far
better than the dead air that lingered
between me and other people, that
starched, stagnant void when I was with
my father, one that told me, shouted to
me, that I was meaningless.
Benjamin brought us a broken
broom one day, the handle splintered, but
the flax of the straw still mostly together.
He told me that his father broke it against
his back. Because he had left a wet towel

Ashley Carmichael
The Quiet Observer
Painting, Watercolor and Ink 18”x24”
32

on the floor.
We swept at the dirt leading up to
the treehouse. We lined a pathway with
river rock and ate kumquats, spongey skin
and all. It was a paradise of imagination.
Of freedom. But at the end of every day,
the sun draped down into folds, while stiff
cuffs of darkness called for Benjamin to
go home. Each time he walked off into
the black expanse of night, I feared it was
the last time I would see him. I knew it
would be the last I would see of him, as is,
for each time he returned, so did a new
set of bruises and wales, puffy scratches,
cigarette burns, a gimping arm, a limping
leg, bandages hanging onto screaming
skin. I don’t think that one single part of
Benjamin’s body had escaped some sort
of pain. Injustice. And his mind certainly
hadn’t escaped, either.
***
It was a year or more before
Benjamin told me about his mother. The
woman who birthed him was, at times,
someone younger than he. At other
times, someone of a different gender.
Someone who got into trouble with him.
Someone who punished him. He called
it “multiple personality disorder.” I didn’t
understand it. When he talked about
her, it was as if she were a child, innocent
and ineffectual as a colorless sash that lay
slack on the floor. But the stories he told
gave horrible life to that piece of fabric,
turning it into a belt, a noose, a sword,
something capable of slaughtering much
more than just one’s spirit.
“And she has a new game,” he told
me.
“Oh.” I knew his mother had a few
personalities that were close to his age.
But I had a feeling this wasn’t a good
game. “What kind?”
“She makes me sit in a chair. She
lights matches and flicks them at me. If I
don’t flinch, I win.”
“What happens if you lose, Benji?”
“I always lose.”
***
Out of the eight children, Benjamin
was the second-oldest, his older sister
institutionalized before he was out of
diapers. From that day, he was at the
top of the line, silently entrusted with the
role of scapegoat. For some reason, as
long as Benjamin took the abuse, the
others were spared. With it came an
entire identity. Benjamin was a literal,
human shield for the younger siblings. His
pain was their salvation. And as he grew
into a teenager, the spankings turned to
punches, the paddling to pummeling. But
as long as the younger ones were safe, he
told himself he could take it.
I only heard Benjamin refer to
his mother by name. Not Mom. Never
Mother. Only Velma. The same went for
his father. Not Dad. Never Father. Only
Jerry. But the words for his father were
tattooed with a venom, a guttural sound
that I originally thought was fear. But I
learned it was a visceral, primal hatred.
Because what his mother did to him,
Benjamin almost denied, defended. What
his father did, an otherwise normal, sane
man, were things that Benjamin could
never understand, horrors that he certainly
could never forgive.
***
I can’t remember when the
33

McAllisters moved onto the block. A nice,
unsuspecting couple with a baby. They
hadn’t heard the gossip about what went
on inside Benjamin’s house. And when the
cherubic, blonde woman at the grocery
store offered to babysit their sweet little
Finn, they thanked the heavens for
sending them an angel.
That angel was Benjamin’s
mother.
***
I spent more and more time at
the treehouse by myself, my teenage
body developing among the raw
bark, often sleeping nights there rather
than be strapped by the loneliness of
my own home. Benjamin showed up
sometimes, late after I’d fallen asleep,
smelling like Boone’s Farm and Newport
cigarettes. Then the other drugs crept
in, pleating a haze over his eyes, a film
over his existence. Jittery paranoia from
cocaine. Swinging from the boughs of
the treehouse after taking multiple hits of
acid. Fits of rage followed by fists of tears
when he was sober. It was as if he could
no longer just be.
***
A baby bird tapped at the
window while I slept. A Gambel’s quail,
a Mourning dove, perhaps a Common
starling. Whatever it was, it drummed the
glass in feathery beats to the rhythm of
“Little pig, little pig, let me in.”
I woke and saw not a trio of birds,
but Benjamin, on the outside of the
encasement, his eyes wet with sleep,
crescents of tears at the corners of his eyes
like hands folded in prayer. It couldn’t
have been any later than six am, the sun’s
shadow a half-cocked rifle leaning in the
corner of the yard.
I crept past my father’s bedroom
and saw the empty bed. The plate of
dinner I’d made him on the kitchen
counter, uneaten. I went to the front door
and called Benjamin inside. He didn’t
come. I called again. I went outside and
turned the corner. Benjamin was covered
in blood.
I rushed to him and as I got just
before him, he fell to the ground. I put my
arms under his and got him to his feet. He
yelled in pain as I touched his arm.
“He broke it.”
“Who broke it, Benji? Your dad?”
“He was wearing steel-toed boots.”
His right forearm was already swollen,
discolored and bent, an arrowhead
without a shaft. He tried to hold it with his
left hand, to keep it stable, like someone
trying to keep from spilling the contents of
a cup, from trying not to make a mess.
We walked inside. I had never let
him in there before. He looked around,
at the Playboy centerfolds scotch-taped
to the walls, the cracked, plastic patio
chairs that bit and smacked my bottom
every time I thought I was about to get
comfortable. The dirt everywhere.
I hurried him into my room. It
was where I pretended that things were
normal. Where I dreamt of another world.
One pink silk scarf, the only thing I had of
my mother’s, of my mother, hung over the
top of the lamp sitting on a cardboard
box, my baby blanket folded neatly on
the floor where I slept.
“He told me I’m a liar,” Benjamin
said.
34

“Your father? About what?”
“He said she didn’t do it.”
“Do what? Where did all of the
blood come from, Benji?”
“I don’t know.”
“Benji, you have to know.” I lifted
his shirt to look for the source of blood.
There were so many wounds, slices and
scars, thick, pink, angry lines betraying the
secrets of Benjamin’s life. But there was
nothing new. Fear paddled my insides.
“Benji, did you hurt someone?”
“No, but she did.”
“Who, Benji? Your mom?”
“Velma. She killed the baby.”
I didn’t understand. I knew his
youngest sister was five. There were no
babies left.
“What baby?”
“Baby Finn. He kept crying and
crying. So she put him in the hamper to
make him stop. Or so that she didn’t have
to hear him anymore.”
I took a breath. But there was not
a drop of air left in all the world to draw
from.
***
Benjamin always asked me, which
was less forgivable — to be beaten by
someone crazy or by someone perfectly
sane?
I could never comprehend that.
How was either forgivable? How was
one better? But to Benjamin, it was a
rhetorical question. He had already
charged, sentenced and convicted
the guilty — his father. No matter what
Benjamin’s mother did to him, she was not
responsible. His father, on the other hand,
was a monster with a brain and a will, able
to spoon out punishments far worse than
anything physical — incessant, calculated
beatings that butchered Benjamin’s
being.
His mother had charged,
sentenced and convicted herself. After
realizing what she had done to baby
Finn that day, she locked herself in the
bathroom. Benjamin broke in the door,
only to find his mother lifeless, lying in a
demise of razors to wrists.
***
I see him on the streets at times,
a resident to the concrete and abyss,
homeless and incoherent, often talking
to the silhouette of himself, an erasure of
existence that everyone else walks right
by. For all the years Benjamin endured
horrid, severe scrutiny and attention as a
child, he was paid back with invisibility in
adulthood.
“Hi Benji,” I stop him and try to
remind him who I am, of our friendship,
but his eyes are always void of any
recognition of me. Of us. Of him.
“You have to do the laundry,” he
says to me the first time I see him. He
says it again, the second time, the third. I
wonder if maybe he does recognize me.
If I remind him of that day we switched
clothes. Or the day he told me of baby
Finn.
I give him some money and offer a
hug. He always accepts the former, never
the latter. I wave good-bye and turn
away from my friend, that young boy who
had no fault in life except to be born, who
suffered far too much, whose then only
choice was to fade into the watercolor of
oblivion.
35

A LOVE LETTER FROM THE
OLIVE TREE TO THE SEA
Sierra Vigil
We live literally a world apart.
My roots will never touch your salty lips,
for if they should
I would shrivel up and surely die.
This fact makes it all the more romantic to me
so, I
turn to face the wind
and
sigh.
The wind,
she tickles me sweet, loves me tender,
leaves me breathless all the while,
but she is not you, that much is true.
My dear
Though, she can make me smile.
Me and the wind
we have been made
for each other since
The beginning
of
time.
36

She caresses my branches
and scatters my blooms
dries my wet tears
all my forms she assumes
too.
But even on the breeziest of days
I swear i can see your face
and still daydream of your playful waves.
Because how I do yearn
for your waves to turn
and find their way to me.
For I stand alone
on this hill I call my home
admiring you from out of my reach.
While you roam free
in Your wild beauty
the loneliest olive tree and his perfect fantasy
called the sea.
37

I CLOSED MY EYES
Courtney Armstrong
Fiction
I stood
at the side of my mother’s bed while she slept
not only staring at her naked body
but at the man who lay on top of her
I imagined how incredibly uncomfortable this must have been for her
squeezed flat against the sheet under the weight of the man’s bovine white skin
her face hidden somewhere underneath the furrows of his neck
I wondered how she could possibly breathe
I wondered who the man was
I stood
within the breath of her bedroom
like a mere patron in a gallery
the backdrop of her art painted on the large wall behind me
only she would color a rainbow with neutrals
splendor reduced to mushroom and taupe
its curves undulated
sighs and whimpers and spankings
I waited
for someone to wake
I waited
for someone to see me
I watched
38

Rebecca Farris
Inner Feelings
Digital Media
39

the heaving of the sleeping man’s torso as he breathed
something more like a cough a sputter a struggle
anxiety tapped my shoulder
each time he exhaled
his weight crushed my mother
I could swear I heard the splintering of a bone
I gripped
the paw of the stuffed bunny I was holding
and rubbed my forefinger among the velvet puffs of pad
I stood
I waited
I watched
a bit of the cotton sheet
was crammed in the cleft of the man’s ass
I had to think that my mother was as disgusted by him as I was
I hoped that her lying underneath him
silent
was not in pleasure but in contempt
I feared it was because she had no other option
the smell of alcohol cocked hard in the air
an overlapping of dried sweat and heat
buckling beneath its weight
his weight
salt
bitter onions
mildew
I tried to squeeze shut my nostrils with just the sheer force of my mind
I tried to shut my eyes
I tried I tried I tried
40

Shelby Quiroz
And... Doubt
Blue Rollerball Pen on Paper 9”x12”
41

***
After the divorce, my mother and
I moved into an apartment. I had my
very own room at the top of the stairs.
My place. It even had a lock on the
door. Inside my room was an over-sized
closet. That had a lock on the door. It
was large enough for my small table and
chairs. Each seat held one of my friends.
The kitten with paws of satin. The puppy
with paws of velour. And of course, the
rabbit with paws of velvet. Which left
one free chair, the only place I was ever
guaranteed to have a seat saved for
me.
“Tennyson,” my mother called from
downstairs. I barely heard it, the walls of
my closet a protector, the words only able
to travel up through the air conditioning
vents.
I put down the book I was reading
and got up from the table.
“Tennyson! Come down here
now!”
I unlocked the closet door.
Unlocked the bedroom door.
At the top of the stairs, I turned
backwards, got on my stomach and slid,
feet first, the rubbing of carpet on my
belly, fuzzy, filtered friction over the entire
front of my body. Pain. That felt so very
good.
“Yes, mother?” I went into her
bedroom. It was empty.
“Come in here. Now.” She was
in the adjoining bathroom. I turned,
walked over to the archway and stopped.
Quickly. Directly inside the door was a
small space with the toilet straight ahead.
My mother was bent over the bowl, her
backside facing me, scrubbing furiously.
She wore only a top, one not nearly long
enough to cover the unclothed bottom
half of her body. I turned and left the
bathroom so that I was standing outside
the door.
“What is it, mother?”
I stood.
“Get in here.”
I waited.
I did not want to go back in there.
I wondered why she couldn’t talk to me
from inside. Or put some clothes on. Or
not be bent over.
I took two steps to the edge of the
doorframe and hovered just outside. I
peeked in to see if she had changed
position, but still, she hunched over,
legs spread wide apart, scrubbing and
scrubbing and scrubbing. I stepped back
outside and cleared my throat, throwing
its sound in her direction, hoping that she
thought I was inside the room with her.
“Get in here.”
I went in.
I closed my eyes.
I stood.
I waited.
“Did you clean your room?” she
asked, her voice bounding from the
depths of the porcelain.
“Yes, mom.”
“Yes, mother,” she corrected me.
“Yes, mother.”
“Did you clean your bathroom?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Did you eat?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Do your dishes?”
“Yes, mother?”
42

“Were you reading, again?”
I paused. I wanted to lie.
“Yes, mother.”
“Oh, come on, Tennyson. Go
outside. It’s too nice of a day to have
your nose in a book.”
“But I don’t know anyone here,
yet.”
“I don’t know anyone here, yet,
mother.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Go knock on doors and try to find
a friend. Now.”
I was six years old.
“Yes, mother.”
The apartment complex was
vast, an exhaustive expanse of somber
sidewalks and mansard roofs. I held my
breath every time I raised my fist to a
door. Doors and doors and doors. Never
knowing what was behind them. Who
was behind them.
“Do you have any children my age
I can play with?” I asked.
A few of the adults looked stunned.
Most were annoyed, waving me off with
the back of a hand. I was hot, tired, and
still alone, so very lonely. I decided to try
one last apartment.
A girl my age opened the door
and I held my breath. Her beauty was
peculiar. Exotic, I thought they called
it. Her hair was black tinsel, a decorative
frame of pixie around the whitest skin,
pure as puffs of fresh cotton. Her eyes
were not simply oval-shaped, but rather
crescents of eggs that had been flattened
by the ballast of her creamy lids and thick
black lashes.
I had seen her before at school,
sitting on the edge of the playground,
alone, separated by not only pillows of
air but a palpable line of demarcation
— she was a foreigner. Her inability to
speak English was apparent not only in her
speech, but in her body language. The
way she looked at the ground. The way
she wore shiny patent leather shoes and
dresses when the rest of us wore Izods and
deck shoes. Looking back, I see the irony,
walking around in leather and rubber,
as if in protection. But not her. She
didn’t know the dangers of living in this
neighborhood. In my world.
We sat on the floor of her bedroom,
both of us flush with the excitement of our
new friendship.
“Kyoto,” she said as she pointed to
her chest.
“Kyoto,” I repeated.
She shook her head.
She said her name again, but I
didn’t notice any difference from the way
I said it.
I tried again and this time when
she shook her head, she smiled. Her teeth
were so very white, the pink rose of her lips
blossomed as she stressed the area of her
name that I mispronounced.
“Kyoto.”
I got it. The k and y were said
as if they were one, their own special
consonant, not a blend of two.
She walked over to her dresser
and grabbed a small, pink book with a
colorful cat on the front. Hello Kitty. The
Japanese character that was so popular
in the late 70s. The doll I had asked Santa
for Christmas. The character in the book
I’d asked for my birthday. The feline on
43

Avery Goldberg
Coming up Pink Poppies
Digital Painting
the lunchbox I’d asked for the new school year.
The gifts I’d never received.
Kyoto brought the book to me on the
floor, and we read through it together. I was
mesmerized. The thick pages were cool and
slippery, and I rushed to touch them. My fingers
brushed Kyoto’s several times in my haste, until
she finally let me do all of the turning.
A woman’s voice called from another
room. Kyoto left and I sat there with the book,
the weight of its pages pressed down on my lap.
I stroked the cherry red of the cat’s bow. I had
an urge like I’d never had before.
I wanted this book.
I needed it.
I pulled up my shirt and tucked the book
into the waistband of my shorts.
***
44

It was a house of contradictions
plaques and degrees
rows of shiny metal squares that housed yellowed paper
Harvard Stanford
and an empty garage whose cars had been repossessed
a bartop
made from discarded bottle caps
remnants of the hours upon hours upon hours of drinking
lined up like dots of candy glazed in a sheen of glue
an over-sized dictionary on a large wooden stand
pages filled with red checkmarks
from the times my father forced me
to look up a word I mispronounced
where I stood and pretended to lecture
where I stood and pretended people listened
supple leather
lamps with tassels
and in the bathroom cartoons copied from the Sunday funnies
drawn in stiff sticky black acrylic
entire comic strips that looked down at you while you sat on the toilet
people
whose names I didn’t know
people
who were there for days or weeks or months
or only hours
and then nothing
I shuffled down the hallways bunny in hand
nothing more than decoration
like the paint on the wall
a guest
a visitor
nothing
nothing made sense
and yet it was all I knew
come here little thing he said to me
it was the naked man with the sheet stuck in his ass
45

I’d been told
he was now my father
I sat right next to him
I didn’t know how much closer I could possibly be
he patted
his leg the meaty thigh that peeked out from his corduroy shorts
I didn’t like the way the material felt against my bare leg
his skin
nubs and sand and spiny hair
he tried to smile
it was always an effort just that
it was no smile I had ever seen before
one I would never forget
his handlebar mustache wrinkled and waved
fingering me to come
closer
he smelled
say hello to Mr. Bill he said
Bill was his name
and its name
oh nooooo it’s Mr. Bill he said
he drawled and dragged the vowel
elongated it
his eyes widened
and his mouth formed an open hole
he thought he was being funny
I laughed the first time I saw the Mr. Bill skit on Saturday Night Live
and now this man sitting beside me
the man living inside my house and my life and my mind and my mother
thought it was a way for us to bond
Mr. Bill
the clay figurine manipulated by a hand
tortured
the malleable creature that had bad things happen to it
over and over and over and
over
***
46

Another divorce. Something called an annulment. Another move. Another
apartment. Back to the same complex as before, though, and even closer to Kyoto this
time.
Not all of our furniture had arrived yet and I lay on just a mattress with my mother,
the full morning sun flashing across my closed eyes, urging me to wake for the day. That
and the sound of humming from my mother’s vibrator.
I closed my eyes, hoping to fall back asleep. I shifted my weight, to alert her. To
stop her.
I pressed my ear into the bed. To mute the buzzing. To block the thoughts. The
pillows hadn’t even arrived, yet. But the vibrator had.
I lay.
I waited.
I fondled the pages of the Hello Kitty book inside my pajama pocket. I carried it
with me no matter where I went, the cover no longer pristine, its pages bent and mounted
by dirt. I dreamt of living between the pages, erect in its world, any world other than my
own. The sharp edges of paper tickled my fingertips as I flicked them into rhythm, a silent
feathering of the pages that went Prrrup, Prrrup, against my skin.
Finally, silence. Finally, I was dismissed.
I walked to Kyoto’s. I was eager to be in the warmth of her home. The kitchen that
always bubbled with pots of food. Faces that were always happy to see me. No words
were ever exchanged, just many nods and smiles. But it was acceptance, the only kind I
had.
I pulled my fist up and knocked on the door. A man opened it. I had never seen
him before.
“Kyoto?” I asked.
He looked down at me and nodded, caressing his hand along the air between us,
coaxing me in. The look in his eyes scared me. I wanted to turn and leave. Immediately.
But I needed to see Kyoto. When I was with her, I could pretend I was like her. Happy.
Simple. Normal. I thrust my hand into my pocket to touch the cover of the book.
Kyoto came from around the corner.
Today she didn’t look happy. It seemed like I had interrupted something. Like she
didn’t want me there.
Today she wasn’t simple. She was wearing lipstick, the color of fire and candied
apples, shocking against the innocence of her snow white skin.
Today nothing about her was normal. She was wearing very short shorts. A lace
halter top that showed the white of her stomach.
She kept pulling at the hem of the short shorts. But they didn’t move.
47

She motioned me inside and nodded her head at the man.
“Father,” she explained to me in stilted English. I had only met her mother all the
times I’d been there before.
He grunted at me, and through the parting of his lips, I smelled a foulness.
She grabbed me by the hand and walked me back to her bedroom. I tried not to
look back over my shoulder at him. I tried. I tried. I tried.
The warmth of her room was what I had missed. She closed the door behind us.
I stood.
I looked at the door knob, wishing for a lock.
I wanted a lock.
I needed a lock.
I waited.
The doorknob began to turn.
Her father came into the room.
he looked at Kyoto
I noticed the lipstick on her teeth
the strap of her top falling down her shoulder
he looked at me
he smiled
I knew that smile
it was one I had seen before
one I would never forget
I stood
I waited
I closed my eyes
over and over and over and
over
again
48

Nathan Coffey
Huddle
Photograph
49

A LOVE LETTER FROM THE SEA
TO THE OLIVE TREE
Sierra Vigil
I am the salty sea
rough and tempest too,
and you are an olive tree
in strong arms you hold the baby doves’ coo.
I’ll lap and I’ll rap at the soft earth that cradles your roots
my gentle knock
a friendly knock
a lover’s game of pursuit,
and you will wave your branches in the same breath,
I’ll see their shadow on the horizon
when the ball falls and the sky turns red.
I can feel your being
though we are apart;
but it’s not something that needs to be seenthe
gentle waves inside our hearts.
So here we are
counting stars
among other pointless things
and I love just being with you -
thank God we’re in the same galaxy.
50

Kimberly Calles
Metamorphosis
Drawing, Pen and Pencil 14”x17”
51

Luisa Espinoza
Las Dos Fernandas
Painting, Acrylic on Bristol 11”x14”
52

MEXICAN AMERICAN
WITHOUT THE
AMERICAN
Nadia Celaya-Alcala
Non-fiction
Spanish was my first language. Coming
from two Mexican immigrant parents, it
was all I knew. It was all I needed to know. I
spoke Spanish because I am Mexican and
I loved it because I felt connected to my
parents and culture. However, that love
for being Mexican turned into a confusion
of who I am and who I was supposed to
be, being Mexican, but being born in the
United States.
I began speaking English when I was
around 4 years old. I began preschool and
I had to learn or drown. Like many children
learning a new language, it came easily.
Soon, it became all I spoke. Spanish faded
into the background of my mother’s orders
and my father’s conversations with my
Nana and Tata, who were also Mexican
immigrants.
Like the fading of my mother
tongue, my heritage began to fade into
the background at school, and school
being where I spent most of my time, it
affected me. One day, I was celebrating
the 4th of July and the next Dia de La
Independencia de Mexico. My culture
felt like it was on the back burner, but I
felt it had to be okay. I lived in the U.S. I
knew I was Mexican. I could love Mexico
and be grateful to live in this amazing
country. However, in the coming years I
would soon learn this “amazing” country
was against me for something I could not
control.
Though I embraced the American
life, it was never enough. My brown hair,
skin, and eyes set me apart from those
in my predominantly white school. I was
ridiculed from a young age for having
full eyebrows and hair on my arm. I soon
began to realize that this country was not
as amazing as I thought it was. I did not
feel welcome.
My first eye-opening experience with
racism was when I was merely 9 years old,
while shopping at ROSS in the perfume
section. The cart was in the aisle of sorts
and my mom was bent over looking at
the perfume selections. She was speaking
to my sisters and me in Spanish. My sister
and I heard a woman rudely say, “Excuse
me.” As she continued to repeat herself
more loudly and aggressively each time,
my sister and I got my mother’s attention,
as it was loud in the store and my mother
could not hear the woman. As we
signaled to my mother, the woman lets
53

out one more, “EXCUSE ME!” in a rude
condescending voice. My family and
I moved out of her way looking at her
like the crazy woman she was. She and
her blonde, white children finally passed
by us. As these movements occurred,
we hear this woman yell one last phrase
directed at my mother, “Ugh, wetback!”
as her children, specifically the oldest one
appearing about 14 years of age, began
laughing and pointing at my family and
me. We were shocked because though
we were young children, we knew the
gravity and intentions behind that word.
My mother raised her voice at her telling
her to shut her uneducated mouth up.
I felt lost on how a person could be so
cruel.
As I grew older, I realized more and
more that the U.S. was not the country I
had presumed it to be. It was full of hate,
racism, and bigotry against my people
and me. I did not want to be a part of
that society. Though throughout my
whole life I hated being called Mexican
American as opposed to Mexican, after
these experiences of racism, I began to
emphasize this hatred to be classified as
“American” even more. I was not and
did not want to be an American. I did not
want to be a part of a country that did
not even want me.
I realized where I belonged. I began
to love my culture more than ever
54

efore. I felt home speaking Spanish and
surrounded by those who understood me.
I did not enjoy the celebration of America
like I once did. I appreciated my parents’
sacrifices for me to live in a country with
more opportunities, but that was the
extent of my love for America. How could I
love a country that hated me?
As a child, I jumped from school
to school, most being private schools
populated by white wealthy families. The
experiences at these schools made it that
much more special when I found where
I felt I belonged, being able to compare
this feeling of community to the opposite
feeling I had felt throughout my time in
private school.
In October of 6th grade, I moved to
the first public school I had ever attended,
Rivera Elementary School. It was filled with
Mexican Spanish speaking people. It felt
loving, nurturing, and it felt like family. Here
was when I felt most utterly and uniquely…
ME.
Though the journey of appreciation
and acceptance of myself and my culture
has been filled with difficult experiences,
I could not be prouder of my culture. I
learned that being born in the U.S. did not
have make me American, nor did I have
to fit into society’s idea of how Mexican I
could really be if I was not born there. My
family is Mexican, my culture is Mexican,
and so am I!
Ashley Carmichael
Desert Blooms
Painting, Watercolor and Ink 18”x24”
55

Jennifer Prybylla
Time
Painting, Oil on Canvas 16”x 20”
56

WHO’S COUNTING?
Alexa Lewis
Statistics show one in three women will have become victims of sexual violence at some
point in their lifetime.
I think of how unlucky I must be to have been sexually victimized three separate times
before the age of twenty-one.
I think about how unfortunate it is to have a friend group of six
And out of us six,
four of us were victims of sexual assault/abuse before we were even eighteen years old.
I was only thirteen the first time,
And nineteen the second time.
Twenty the third time,
And how scary to think that I cannot guarantee it will be the last time.
The numbers just don’t add up,
And it’s only visible if you’re counting.
57

27
Arial Autumn
Twice before and now again
we find ourselves at beginning’s end.
Wars are lost as we have grown,
and humanity is unwittingly dethroned.
Wolves and vampires wait in darkness,
in realms unknown and deepest slumber.
The worlds gone quiet and now we awake,
anew and free with a world to take.
Our cold forests and empty cities,
in hallowed dusks and quiet mornings.
Born to love, lust, and hunt
we preserve what humanity has lost.
Mankind is not on top anymore.
The food chains corrected,
and nature rejoices.
58

Portia Cooper
Rocket
India Ink on Bristol Paper
59

MISSING ALREADY
Carol Korhonen
Those under 21s living at my house
(there are three of them)
have determined and decreed
the proper place for damp towels is
on the bathroom or their bedroom floor
wadded strategically to insure
maximum mildew growth.
Those under 21s living at my house
(there are three of them)
all go to school close by.
The two girls go to U of A
four blocks away, but they drive
or are chauffeured by me.
The 14-year-old boy, a high school freshman,
always needs a ride.
Those under 21s living at my house
(there are three of them)
all dearly love our two big dogs
who shed black and white fur
in copious amounts,
but they never walk the dogs
and never bathe them, or
(god forbid)
clean up the dog run.
60

Those under 21s living at my house
(there are three of them)
Don’t like to vacuum up the dog hair
Except 14-year-old Josiah.
Jo - “I vacuumed almost the whole house,”
me - “Wonderful, good job,”
Jo - “I just kept going ‘til the vacuum sort of stopped working,”
me - “Ah.”
Those under 21s living at my house
(there are three of them)
all love my husband who is forever willing
to help them out, give them money,
complaining bitterly to me later, in private.
Now he complains, “Why didn’t he change the bag?”
as he helps me try to reassemble the vacuum cleaner,
its innards choked with dust . . . and dog hair.
Those under 21s living at my house
(there are three of them)
are all very busy with classes, band, clubs,
and choir plus part time jobs.
They’re hardly ever here.
And when they’re not here,
I miss them.
61

MOMMY COMES
BACK
Mora Hedayati
Non-fiction
Yesterday as I sat eating my lunch,
my four-year-old daughter began bringing
me her stuffed animals one-by-one
to “drop them off” at school. I sighed,
resolved to dive, once again, into playing
“mommy comes back.” The game has
gotten more elaborate over the years
--this particular version involved her roleplaying
several different parents as she
dropped them off with the teacher (me)
and then came back to pick them up,
one by one. Each time, the joy and relief
of seeing her kid again after a long day at
school was still so real it was palpable.
We have been playing “mommy
comes back” in some form or another
since my daughter was 14 months old and
I began dropping her off at the YMCA
daycare for an hour or so each day as I
went to exercise. Every parent knows the
slight panic and heartbreak of dropping
their child off with strangers for the first
time, whether that child is six weeks old
and the mother has no choice but to go
back to work, or 3 years old and they’re
heading to daycare to be cared for by
someone outside of the family for the first
time. For me, who had the privilege to
choose to stay home with my baby for the
first years of her life, it was a much needed
62
Miyeon Kim
It’s Addicted Me
Black Ink on Canvas 21”x26”

eak for my mental and physical health.
And though worth it, it was always really
difficult to hand my screaming toddler off
to the very patient and loving caregivers
in the “bumblebees” room at the Y.
Even now, after a couple of solid
years of preschool under her belt, my
daughter’s trembling lip and brave tears
at drop-off mess with my emotions in a
way that nothing else does. I say, “Have
so much fun today sweetie! I’ll be back!
I love you,” and sometimes I have to
hold back my own tears depending on
my mental state of the day. I think about
how for almost 3 years, we have been
talking about, singing about, role-playing
and processing this transition away from
mom. I think about singing “Grownups
Come Back,” one of the jingles on “Daniel
Tiger’s Neighborhood” (a children’s
show written by child psychologists who
know the psychological toll saying “bye”
to the grownups in their lives takes on
kids) hundreds of times before putting
my daughter to bed. I think about my
chubby little toddler handing me a stuffed
bunny and then waddling out of the
room, pausing for a moment, and then
waddling back to joyfully pick up her
bunny, roleplaying the “mommy comes
back” scene before she even had all of
the words. I think of the cherished noodle
video, that we adored and laughed
at, and look back to watch often and
fondly, which shows my barely two-yearold
daughter sitting in her high-chair and
reciting a whole story about daycare
dropoff with her noodles. I think about my
baby girl who has taken years to process,
63

and who is still processing through play,
the most difficult part of her day. I think
about all the patience and love and time
that has gone into assuring my daughter
that grownups. always. come. back.
And then I think about the children at
the border.
I think about how those ripping the
screaming children from their pleading
parents are not kind ladies in the
“bumblebees” room. They are men and
women who have been able to warp their
minds into believing that these children
are not human in the way “our” children
are. They are trained military personnel,
not child psychologists. They are people
who have been able to fathom a level
of cruelty beyond what anyone wants
to see, and what we in fact often try to
avoid, because it is too painful to know
that this is happening under our watch.
This country was founded on
ripping children from their parents (see
Washington Post’s America’s Cruel
History of Separating Children from Their
Parents). It is something we have always
done and continue to do. We separate
families when we incarcerate parents at
a rate at least five times higher than any
other country. Over 5 million American
children have been affected by parental
incarceration, with black and brown
families being affected most severely. We
separate black and brown babies from
their mothers when these mothers die
in childbirth or from pregnancy-related
causes at a rate 2.5 times higher than
white women. We shackle imprisoned
women to hospital beds while giving
birth, without informing their families,
and then make them turn the babies
over less than a week after birth to be
taken back to prison. This separation of
families is something our current state of
politics still emboldens many people to
do, and encourages the greater masses
to be too numb to care about. To this
day, at least 600 parents of children
who were separated under the previous
administration’s “zero tolerance” policy
have still not been found, and we are
faced with the horrifying reality that
they may never be reunited. “Grown
Ups Come Back” won’t be true for all
children, and this will have lasting effects
for generations, as it has for generations
before us.
My daughter was born by c-section
one week before the 2016 election.
The first thing I remember is her squeaky
cry and her dimpled chin. I remember
laughing so hard (and wincing in pain
because the laughing hurt my incision)
with my husband as she bobbed her tiny
face against my breast like a little blind
kitten looking for milk. She was so fragile.
As we start moving through her fourth
year, I’m amazed at how much she’s
grown, the interesting questions she asks,
and most of all, her brilliant imagination.
But her tininess still amazes me too, and
her dependency. She’s still a little kitten
learning her place in the world. She still
depends on me and her dad for her food,
her shelter, her physical and emotional
comfort. I can hardly imagine her being
64

Thurwin Lane
John and Rena
Painting, Acrylic on Bristol Paper 8.5”x14”
forced from my arms by an unknown
militiaman. But I think this is what we all
have to do-- to use our imaginations to
understand--just like my daughter has
done for years. Because it is not just in our
imaginations; it is real. Sadly this nightmare
is not new, and it is not over just because
there are new people in power.
At the end of the noodle video my
daughter dictates for the mommy noodle:
“I was out exercisin’ -- now I picked you
up!!!” and her chubby cheeks form a
huge grin. Then she imitates a noodle hug
before saying proudly, “The end….of my
noodles.” I want to live in a world where all
stories have happy endings like this one.
To donate to Arizona Justice for Our
Neighbors, a local Tucson organization
helping provide legal services to
immigrants, please visit azjfon.org
Sources:
https://www.prisonpolicy.org/global/2018.
html
https://www.cdc.gov/media/
releases/2019/p0905-racial-ethnicdisparities-pregnancy-deaths.html
https://www.theguardian.com/usnews/2020/jan/24/shackled-pregnantwomen-prisoners-birth
https://www.aecf.org/resources/a-sharedsentence/
65

David Parsons
George Floyd- SAY HIS NAME
Digital Media 81/2“x11”
66

STYGIAN
Chretien Martinez
Non-fiction
The damage that has been done
to the minds of young black men may be
irreversible. We stand as these beasts of
burden, told that we may carry our weight
freely, but is it truly freedom that has been
given to us? Too often we meet men who
wish to block our paths, spit in our faces,
dishevel our spirits, and drive us to an
everlasting anguish - a White Death.
Our color, black. It is synonymous
with evil; the black plague, the black
devil, the black expanse of space - airless,
breathless, a backdrop for the glorious
white stars which grab the eye’s wonder
and the mind’s affection. We are but the
void - nothing, vacuous. Our minds do not
contemplate, nor do they ponder upon
philosophies, or meanings, or emotion.
What is the gloaming without its gloom?
We drag our knuckles not from
stupidity, but from the overbearing eye
of he who has placed such heavy weight
on our shoulders. Could those veiled eyes
beam gossamer then, and touch my
rejected flesh?
This existence isn’t pure. This life we
live is not one of lascivious reverie. Our
very hearts have been ripped from our
chests and compared to those who deem
themselves of the highest form - what
conclusions did they draw? They drew
the ones which allowed them to treat us
as ogres - not human enough to respect,
but close enough to fill with disease. Do
I even value myself? For the Son of the
Father now has blonde hair and blue eyes
for that mythical Aryan to kiss his feet and
feel emboldened. For this image does
the intellectual racist serenade his flock
with scientific riddles, filled with the jargon
of imperial justification - oh, if they only
knew how much we could love them, our
brothers! If only they knew how strongly
we yearn for an eternal embrace.
67

A BODY OF FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES:
WE THE PEOPLE
Mauricia Manuel
Part 1
“We the people, living between litter filled oceans,
Selected citizens born on land
but floating on an endless stream of judgment.”
I worry about the clothes I put on, too much thigh, too much chest?
Too much sunless skin, covered in moles and birthmark, nothing like the rest.
“We are practicing to be perfect, entirely without fault,
Satisfying all requirements of being a standard American with all obstacles included,
while the world conspires against generations of imposed poverty.”
I search for the big yellow clearance sign for clothes, for food, no tag goes unturned.
Always skimming through coupons, hand me downs and day-old dinners without concern.
“We have become crabs trapped in a barrel,
yanking on each other, in fear of someone making it out first.
Programmed to believe that there can only be one winner.”
I thank the creator for scratcher wins, close calls, and found pocket dollars.
For making it home at night, through parking lots, around every corner without a hollar.
“We the people. Are expected to be more than we are in flesh, in mind.
Encouraged to be tranquil during a period of violent efforts. Told that we are liberated
While still enslaved by screens and job demands, leaving our families without us.”
I have been trapped in a loveless marriage, before the rivers dried up, while roads were paved
Been screwed over by broken treaties and gentrification, following too quickly to be saved.
“We, whose soles beat the concrete. We are not in union, but we still create a connective
rhythm.”
68

Part 2
We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice,
insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and
secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this
Constitution for the United States of America.
Part 3
We the people, that have broken and rebuilt this land under death and dreams
People of an accepted ignorance proclaim a fresh start to create more,
A perfect union, hidden under generations of repressed change.
In thought of our future children, saving them from all forms of hatred. We
establish justice for protection and not for power, one that will not crumble under greed.
Justice for the silent mouths and twisted bodies of past and current wars, deserving of
a domestic tranquility. A stillness to the current flow of madness that digs graves and regrets.
Peace is our common defense to an unsavory foundation, to grow in essence and in intelligence.
General welfare is for those bedless and hungry. We strive to be compassionate and courteous,
Blessings without debit. The Liberty, the power to choose another day, another path.
Our children are free to be. We are the change, the justice, the serenity in this world.
We the people embody these morals for the growth of a harmonious county.
69

THE LITTLE WIND
Raymond Butler
Creative Non-fiction
I’m tired of running to stay fit. I still
run, not because I want to, but because
I have to; I don’t have a choice. I was
diagnosed with hypertension when I
was 25 years old and I’ve had to take
medication just to control it. My doctor
said this condition recognizes no class of
people and that exercise is better than
any medicine he could give me. I have
been running ever since. I run because
hypertension runs in the male side my
family. I feel like I race hypertension every
day and I run to save my life.
I am Navajo, a survivor, and running
is an important part of my culture. I remind
myself that running is a reverent prayer
spoken with one’s body. It is a spiritual
exercise as well as a physical one. When
man and woman were created, the
gods discussed who would take care of
their creation. The Little Wind spoke up
and claimed this as an honor. The Little
Wind blew into the man and woman so
now each of us breathe and if we hold
our hand near our mouth, we can feel
the Little Wind as we exhale. We can see
the Little Wind’s tracks on our finger tips’
whorls and arches. With every breath,
I am reminded of the Little Wind, more
so when I run. That is how my father and
grandfather taught me.
This afternoon, I change into a t-shirt
and shorts, to once again shoulder the
burden of my genetics. The entire time
I hear my complacency’s seductive
voice in my head, and I see myself on a
comfortable recliner, nibbling on a light
snack, and sipping an iced beverage. I
add a pair of socks and shoes. Before I
change my mind, I walk to the front yard
for my stretches. I can feel my pride swell
from overcoming complacency. My
grandfather’s image floats across my mind
and I see him nodding. My grandfather’s
teaching is that I am what I choose to be,
but only with my own effort. My father,
echoing my grandfather, told me that
I could be and do anything I wished if I
was willing to work for it. I touch my toes
to stretch and warm up the back of my
legs, feeling the tightness ease away. I feel
the muscles in my lower back resisting the
stretch but gradually giving way. I grab
my instep and stretch my thighs, creating
the familiar sensation of almost pain but
not. I push against the wall of my house to
awaken my calves. I jog in place followed
by some jumping jacks and my heart
rate climbs. It takes me about 15 minutes
to limber up and now a five mile run is in
70

order, as usual.
I can hear complacency purring
sweet nothings in my head. “You know
it doesn’t have to be such a long run.
You’ve already exercised for 15 minutes
and that’s better than most people get.”
“If you listen to that, you’ll end up
being a can of Crisco with legs.” My pride
strokes my self-image. My masculinity
barks like an alpha. I ponder when I let a
part of myself become so militant.
I begin my run toward the west. I
know my grandfather always required
that I run toward the east before the
sun rose to greet Dawn Boy and Dawn
Girl as I ran. White Body comes from the
east and we hail White Body by shouting
as we start our run. White Body showed
patience and understanding when he
explained to The People how to cleanse
their bodies in preparation for prayer.
White Body translated the Holy People’s
speech so The People could understand.
I pray for forgiveness for starting my run so
late in the day and going in the opposite
direction. I shout, trying to keep within my
grandfather’s teaching and I talk myself
into believing that since my neighbors
live east of me, the holy people will
understand.
The sky is cloudy and the
temperature is very nice, hovering
between 70 F and 75 F in the afternoon.
I run in loose dirt and sparse high desert
vegetation. I see only one saltbush. They
are few and far between, although
they used to proliferate along my route.
I run past sand sagebrush, also fewer in
number, but it is a hardy plant that has
some spiritual qualities. Its smoke carries
one’s prayers and its ashes can act as a
form of protection. It is also a medicinal
plant when used appropriately. There is an
occasional plant called Mormon tea, with
its green, straw-like foliage, which makes
a tea that tastes similar to orange pekoe. I
see Navajo tea with its yellow flowers and
remember sipping it while my dad would
drink his morning coffee. Navajo tea is
quite similar to Oolong tea; the color and
flavor are the same. I remember adding
honey to my tea and sitting like my father,
sipping my tea whenever he sipped his
coffee. I pass yucca, displaying its wide,
knife-like bladed leaves, which makes a
great soap if you know how to use it. My
grandparents taught me about these
plants so I notice them.
Melancholy swells within me at the
scarcity of vegetation, yet it is a very nice
afternoon for a run. My complacency
places an image of a warm blanket and
a nice fire in my mind offering up comfort
while it softly breathes, “That hot tea
sounds heavenly. It isn’t like you follow
your belly through a door.”
My knuckle dragging masculinity
chuckles at the notion. “I can hear you
71

laughing, you know,” I tell myself. My
pride, my masculinity, my complacency,
and my self-image begin arguing, posting
images of me across my mind’s eye. I tell
myself to ignore them, even though they
are me.
This area where I am running is an
array of sand dunes and the dunes will
become bigger in the future if the winds
continue as they have been. The drought
has caused the deterioration of plant life
and I think about what used to be. The air
I’m breathing is a dry echo to the lack of
precipitation.
The sand grabs my shoe and forces
me to expend more effort with each step.
I imagine it sucking me into the beauty of
these dunes. The gentle slopes roll along
but at their own pace. I note that they
are multi-faceted. Parts are covered in
ripples and other parts are so smooth I feel
like reaching out to touch them. Particles
of sand reflect the sunlight and seem to
twinkle while other parts gleam a steady
reflection of the sun. The dunes curve,
sculpted by the winds, and casts shadows
in the sunlight that highlight the sparkles,
winking with my every step. It is almost
like gazing at the night sky with its stars
twinkling, but in full daylight. I marvel at
the artistry around me. Whenever Mother
Earth, Father Sky, The Sun Bearer, and The
Little Wind combine their work, creating
such astounding visions, I am reminded
72

Sarah Bryg
Light Travels From A Dead Star
Drawing, Pen and Ink 10”x14”
that I run with beauty all around me. The
Little Wind whirls, picking up sand and
carrying it in a column, as it continues
to sculpt the sands. The Little Wind has
decided to run with me.
It isn’t long before I am breathing
hard, my core temperature rises, and
I begin to sweat. My body, a bipedal
mobile canteen, provides moisture to the
thirsty desert. It wicks away my sweat,
leaving me feeling cooler. I feel the
fatigue in my lower leg muscles and my
hip muscles start to strain. I push myself
since I know I will get to the end of the
sands soon.
I struggle up the face of one dune
and peek down at my feet half buried in
sand with each step. I see another facet
of these dunes. Each step causes the
sand to flow downhill, carrying me down
with it. I have to step faster, to continue
my upward climb, further straining my
muscles.
“You know, you’ll get the same
work out if you walk these dunes,” says
my common sense. “Walking? You can
double time or you can double chin,” says
my knuckle dragger side. An image of
rippled abs flow across my mind but it only
reminds me of the ripples in the dunes.
The undulations of the terrain, like
tan waves frozen in place, sap my will to
soldier on, but fortunately I can see the
edge of the dunes. It’s not endless. It only
73

Dani Gailbraith-Ritchie
Beating.Still
Ink on paper, 4”x4”
feels that way. I’m a mile from home; just
one mile.
“Was it really worth it?” I hear in
my mind. Gulping air, I’m not sure which
part of me had spoken. An image of my
grandfather riding his horse at dawn pops
to my mind. I remember him waking me
at dawn to make me run. He would follow
me on horseback to make sure I didn’t
stop. I became adept at running and
forced his horse to work for its oats. I hear
parts of me chuckling and I join them.
Together we remember that time I saw
grandpa’s horse covered in sweat after
my run. My grandpa smiles and nods to
me as he began wiping down his horse.
These fond memories move to the front of
my mind and I smile to myself, although it
wasn’t fun at the time.
Now I’m on hard packed clay
and running is easier. I can get into the
groove and allow my body to run as it was
designed; for long distance two-legged
travel. My arms, my legs, my breath, and
my heart are now in rhythm. I feel peace
and tranquility ease into place. I am in
harmony and I can run as far as I can
see.
My ancestors walked from place to
place, traveling great distances. Running
grew in importance to honor the Holy
People and to maintain communication
between far-flung communities. I imagine
myself to be one of these runners.
74

To my right is a tall cottonwood
tree, majestic among the low desert
vegetation. It started in a small wash
where it received what little runoff was
available. I salute this solitary denizen of
the desert as I run by. To my left is a stand
of tamarisk trees, native to Africa and the
Middle East, crowding together against a
water retention dike. These trees bloom a
delicate pink, almost tan, flower against
its dark green foliage, almost like the
ground, an Army pink hue, migrated into
the trees. I see birds flitting about among
the branches, their song adding to my
heartbeat and foot falls. The pond is dry
like the surrounding beige landscape. The
pond basin is cracked dirt forming odd
shapes as it dried and curled up after
baking in the sun. I see the mesa still a
mile away, a strange dark outcropping
in the tan of the desert. My legs are twin
pendulums swinging back and forth as the
miles tick by.
The Little Wind moves its hand
across my face. The azure of Father Sky
is overhead extending from horizon to
horizon of Mother Earth. I exist between
their embrace. I begin to understand why
Mother Earth bedecks herself in turquoise
and warm colors. I try to ignore the Sun
Bearer glaring down at me; he who is
the father of the Hero Twins. I move on,
knowing I run with the Holy People.
I reach the base of the mesa where
I intend to run to the top and then some.
I lean forward into the upward slope. My
toes bear the brunt of my weight. I notice
bits of igneous rock and realize the mesa
top is one big slab of the stuff. I wonder
how this could be since every other hill is
the sandstone the southwest is known for.
My mind wanders as I labor up the slope.
It’s not a good thing to lose myself in
thought as the danger of a slip and injury
rises as I climb higher.
I feel the effort of running uphill first in
my thighs, and then my big muscles begin
to feel the burn. The mental struggle to
stay motivated becomes as real as the
struggle of my muscles. I step on bits of
igneous rock, pebble sized, along this trail.
Larger pieces are more treacherous so I
avoid them. I watch the ground in front
of me but the slope is steep and I could
reach out and touch the ground.
Complacency nuzzles my ear.
“You’re running as fast as you could walk
this. It’s better to just walk uphill.”
“Quit now and the hill wins, right, fat
boy?” My pride and self-image combine
forces.
My brain cries for more oxygen, but
my lungs blanch at the extra effort. I peek
up and see I’m halfway to the top. From
the depths of my memory I recall The
Dichotomy, one of Zeno’s paradoxes. It
is a theory of infinite halfway points. No
matter how close you get, there is always
75

a half way point and you never arrive. I
wonder if this is what hypoxia feels like.
“Since you’re always halfway, you’ll
never reach the top. It makes more
sense to turn around and go down.”
Complacency is making sense. I hear a
cacophony of objections from other parts
of me.
Images from the objectors vie for
attention until my eyes sting from the
sweat that flows freely off my forehead.
Almost to the top, I decide I’ll walk when
I reach the top. I can sense the smugness
of my pride and self-image. All that’s
missing is their ability to chest bump. As I
think it, they do it in my mind.
I reach the crest and see
thunderstorm clouds headed my way.
I walk to recover and consider my
options: go home or continue. The
storm is still a ways off so I keep walking;
I can always turn around if the storm
gets too close. I look back at my route.
Walking backwards, I can see, in the
distance, Castle Rock, a massive block of
sandstone. Its four parapets make it easily
distinguishable from the other sandstone
ridges. Slide Rock is near the castle but I’m
too far to see it. Other mesas are clearly
visible miles away, all formed by a slab of
igneous rock and looking very similar to
the one I walk upon.
I turn and see Dook’o’oosliid, the
sacred western mountain of the Navajo,
a hundred miles to the southwest. The air
is clear and I can see the tree line near
the peak. Closer, I see a dark line across
the desert. I recall that this is a fault line
where igneous rock and lava rock rise
to the surface. This fault line is aligned
with the mesa I stand on and I question
whether I am on a volcano. I see Shadow
Mountain further west; a monumental pile
of volcanic cinders forming a dark mound
against the tans and greens. I look the
other way, to the north, and see a dark
peak far in the distance. This peak is very
much like a volcanic peak and I realize
the fault line extends for many miles.
The sacred mountain’s name could be
translated as fire-belted mountain, which
seems to fit with the fault line and other
hints of a volcano which has been hidden
in the past.
The top of the mesa where I walk is
flat and barren except for sparse, shin-high
vegetation. The air is somehow different
and it is refreshing. I see an air navigation
building near the center of the mesa and
jog closer to it. I can see that it’s fenced
in and the gate is locked. I walk around
the entire building looking for an opening
but there is no passage through the fence.
There’s a brick enclosure a short distance
from the building. I move to the enclosure
wall and jump up to peek into it. There is
something blue behind the wall. I grab
the top of the brick wall and hoist myself
76

Luisa Espinoza
Los Tiempos Se Van Volando
Painting, Acrylic on Bristol 11”x14”
77

up, and see a blue propane tank hidden
inside the brick fence. Looking down on
the tank, I wonder if there is a propane
device inside the air navigation building.
There is a bright flash of light and
a crash of thunder, so close it vibrates
through my body. It startles me back into
the moment. The storm I was supposed to
watch has snuck up on me. The hair on
my arm and my head reach skyward. The
wind whips dust into my eyes and the sky
dumps rain on me.
I scamper to the lee side of the
brick enclosure where I cringe, partially
protected from the wind and rain. The
clouds seem close enough to touch, and
lightning plays among them. I imagine
myself struck and my epitaph: Here lies
what used to be a dumb human male.
The thunder is so loud it reverberates
through the brick wall and seems to
rattle my brain. The ravenous Thunderbird
craves the flesh of a buffoon, namely me. I
look up and see lightning running its fingers
through the whirling clouds. In stark terror,
my mind ponders how Monster Slayer, one
of the Hero Twins, could do battle with
the Thunderbird, while my body tries to
disappear.
I crouch down as low as I can
get, hugging my knees in a vertical
fetal position, and imagine myself an
imbecilic electrical conductor. I imagine
the Thunderbird screeches and lightning
flashes across the sky. Each wing flap
creates a roar that shakes me to my core.
I understand why my ancestors believed
in the Thunderbird because I feel tiny
and insignificant, not even a toy to the
Brobdingnagian Thunderbird. I don’t have
the courage to stand up in defiance of
the Thunderbird. My primitive mind tells me
to freeze or run; my cognitive mind asks
where that word came from.
Indecision sits with me and simply
waits while I cower in my poor shelter.
My choices are to stay and get struck by
lightning or run for my life and get struck
by lightning.
“Since you’re going to get struck
anyway, flip the bird the bird. Be a
man.” My pride has more courage
than common sense, I chide myself. My
cognitive side, trying to be helpful, says
I’m having a fight or flight response. I can’t
fight so it is hide from the storm or run.
I bolt from my cover; my feet barely
feel the ground, which is now mud and
rock. All I have to do to survive is outrun
lightning. No problem. The mesa edge
stretches farther away. I marvel at how
my muscles are no longer fatigued. I
imagine myself a live lightning rod as I
pound through the rain; my legs no longer
pendulums but twin pistons driving my
flight. With every step, a life time passes,
each heart beat takes an eternity to lubdub.
I run in defiance, for I will not simply
78

wait for my end. The Thunderbird will have
to work for this meal.
Maybe I got lucky, I’ll never know,
but I’m at the edge and I begin the
descent. I resolve to curb my curiosity
and to stay alert to my surroundings. It
is strange how my curiosity nudged me
out of harmony and I didn’t even realize
it. That is until the Big Wind brought the
Thunderbird and the male rain. Now, I
run pell-mell down the trail I struggled
up a short time ago. I can see clearly
the treacherous rocks and I adroitly
avoid stepping on them. I glimpse how
a mountain goat does it, but only for a
moment. I reach the bottom, and at the
base of the mesa, the Thunderbird seems
far away. The Big Wind doesn’t trouble
to follow me as the male rain bashes the
mesa top. The hair on my arms and head
have relaxed and returned to normal. I
notice I am gulping air and my legs are
quivering. I begin a slow wobble toward
home.
I’m soaked and my clothes cling to
my body. I notice the breeze and realize
the Little Wind is with me again. “I never
left you,” it whispers. I am emboldened by
that but at the same time I’m chagrined
that I was caught with my pants down.
My legs, once pendulums turned pistons,
are simply the things that keep me from
falling. I am back by the cottonwood tree
before my legs recover.
I run on; the way my ancestors have
for generations. This seems to be a natural
part of who I am. Taught to me by my
fathers before me, encouraged by my
mothers, I am a part of my people and
I exist among the Holy People. I, once
again, notice the beauty all around me. A
deeper thought occurs to me. We all walk
in beauty, whether we see it or not.
With my clothes still damp and
clinging to me, I continue toward home,
grateful to still be alive, running with a
greater appreciation for life, a deeper
understanding of my ancestors, and a
new perspective of who I am. I am a more
humble man, still needing to run, but now
it is not such a great burden. The Holy
People have reminded me that running is
truly a celebration of life and I recognize
that they are a part of me. I run to live. I
run to honor the Little Wind.
79

Kimberly Griffen
No Parking
Photograph
80

ANAEROBIC
Iris Hill
I will come over and repot your plants
delicately around the edges
eventually under your roots.
My knuckles will bleed into the new soil
And I will recoil
into the
runoff.
This is the closest I’ll ever get to flourishing,
like a coffee plant in Arizona.
I will grow and bloom,
But I can never provide you with what you want.
81

THE BLUE CARPET
AND THE CHERRY PIE
Jazmin Garcia
The cozy cozy room
paintings on the wall
black and white photos
that familiar blue carpet
gone.
A vibrant blue
existing in the shadow of maggots
numerous and thriving
the blue had ceased to live,
but no one knows when.
Death’s foul room
feeding off sorrow
stealing the blue off the carpet
damaging everything
except -
-the cherry pie in the kitchen
untouched, undisturbed, eternal
so picturesque
even if touched by death’s breath
unchanging, even as the blue decayed.
A glimmer of hope
or dark reminder
so, it joined the blue carpet
similar fates
never to be seen again.
82

Zevi Bloomfield
Siren
Graphite With Colored Pencil and Collage 16”x16”
83

Sivanes Ananda
Dutch Windmill at Golden Gate Park
Painting, Oil on Canvas 20”X16”
84

TWO DAISIES
Jazmin Garcia
Two daisies in a field
growing together
almost identical
away from the rest.
Always together
rain or sunshine
wind or drought
side by side.
The lonely daisy
Outstretched its leaves
Looking for a friend again
Until her arms ached
A pesky weed sprouted
too close to one daisy,
it grew and took hold
pulling them apart.
Now the rain drowned
the sun dried
the wind bent
and the drought parched.
One in the clutches of weeds
the other stood alone
a single daisy in the field
away from the rest.
The single daisy
tired, alone, beat
withered alone
away from the rest.
85

THE SONG TO COME
A.Z. Martinez
Sweet land of “liberty”;
My country, ‘tis of thee––
America;
Land of the Free
I raise up my glass––
toast, and drink
To thee
Raise a glass(!) to (freedom)
Something they can
never(?)
take away
(we pray)
Land of the Pilgrim’s pride
Land where (my) fathers died:
We sing from day to day;
With each added weep
Another joins the fray––
For?
A somber, bitter tale
Told in vitriol and gore
From sea to shining shore
Revolution
Cry the masses
Their drunken delusions rein––
they bring us to; again down they swing
Hear the call:
Raise a glass to freedom
Something
you will never see (again)
O’ say does that star-spangled banner
… yet wave?
86

Avery Goldberg
A Shamble of a Band
Digital Painting
87

Nathan Coffey
Columbia
Photograph
88

GOOD AND EVIL
Chacara Thomas
A response to The Judment Day by Aaron Douglas
They’ve told false tales to tarnish my character
Stripped me of my livelihood
Drained me of my sanity
I don’t blame them
I blame their parents
And their parents
Matter of fact, I blame Cain
For allowing hatred, envy, and jealousy to run through his flesh
Causing a domino effect for generations to come
Hearts are truly made of stone
They may laugh or celebrate the pain they’ve caused
They may even get away with their evil doings here on this earth
For their justice system isn’t for all mankind
Specifically my kind
Still I must warn them
It will come a time
their power will fade-away
Sound the alarm!
Here lies a judge with all powers
Fair and true
I shall drop to my knees and rejoice
Judgement is here to swipe the nations
Dividing the evil from good
For their time is long over due
Work Cited
Douglas, Aaron. The Judgement Day. 1939, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.
https://www.nga.gov/collection/art-object-page.166490.html
89

DOCUMENTED
THOUGHTS
Christopher Valenzuela
Who am I
to call myself Chicano
when for so long I thought
Mexican
was a dirty word
when I thought that el barrio
was a place you escaped from
like a prisoner
those people who
had shackles on them
that looked like flannels
with one button
and when I thought that chunti
meant ugly
Who am I
to look in the mirror
and whisper softly
te amo
te quiero
90

to speak in the same tongue
as people who seem to never waver
in their pride
for la raza
to ask La Virgen de Guadalupe
if she can hear my prayers
when I stumble
through ñ and rr
because I never took the same time
learning Spanish
as I did English
learning how to write poetry
craft story
understanding the ladders that make up
grammar
Who am I
to wear nothing but band tees
and get embarrassed
when banda starts to play on the radio
hoping none of my friends
might see me
at my tio’s house
celebrating life
with my family
Who am I
Dani Gailbraith-Ritchie
Chula Chapala
Painting, Acrylic on Canvas 14”x14”
91

I am raped by white culture
and grow up thinking
that I am La Malinche
not the mother
who helped birth our people
but the traitor
who thinks her own culture
not worthy
of being studied
made to feel like it is my own fault
I take French lessons because Spanish
reminds me of summers
in Nogales
and how small I felt
inside my father’s big house
on top of a hill
with a thousand stairs to reach it
from up there I am reminded
that I belong to
the other side
of the border
I am white (passing)
until I exist
in white spaces
then
I am other
beaner
brown
ese
I am called wetback
because so many who look like me
float across a river
searching for the dreams
that white men sold them
for pesos by the hour
and while their backs are wet
with water
that brings life
the men here have hands
that are soaked
in blood
blood of the past
blood of the present
blood of the future
the same border that is only
200 years old
and cuts deep into the histories
of ancestors that I don’t know of
because it is like an open wound
festering and bleeding
over soils that are not even tended
by the hands that claimed it
as their own
For my ancestors
this is the promised land
Aztlán
but all we are given are
broken promises
from conquistadors
that say we are
illegal
alien
on land that they claim
to have discovered
92

No trespassing
they tell us
trespassers will be shot
(and raped, and maimed, and beaten,
and dehumanized)
Who am I
to question the systems
that shaped me
and gave me these gifts
of anxiety
and depression
and self-hatred
to break cycles
when I keep thinking that progress
is linear
to not remember that
internalized
is another word for buried
and the unearthing
of trauma
that I inherited
feels destructive
because I am
used to seeing myself as the serpent
but maybe I am the eagle too
93

WAVES
Jazmin Garcia
I was standing on the beach
toes buried in the toasty sand
smelling the salty air as the clouds chased the sun.
You shouted my name under skies of peach and cherry
as the waves were crashing.
A love song drifted from the pier,
I looked up while the breeze hugged me lightly
you took me by the hand
and led me to the water’s icy lullaby
as the waves were crashing
I stepped into the foaming sea
and I froze as the water slowly became obscured.
Darkness was approaching and I felt hesitant,
but you said stay with me
as the waves were crashing.
I saw the fading seafoam green
reflecting with brilliance in your eyes.
The chorus of the seagulls filled my head
never letting go while we lost our balance
as the waves were crashing.
You and I were standing under the moonlight.
The water and the delicate wind grew chilly,
it was euphoria: just you, me, and the sea,
you whispered it will be alright
as the waves were crashing
94

Ulises Ramos
F.E.L.T.
Digital Drawing 12”x12”
95

Clarissa Holguin
Whimsical Waves
Painting, Acrylic on Canvas 8”x10”
96

SMOKE SIGNALS
Christopher Valenzuela
I don’t need to fly into the Sun
to catch myself on fire
because falling from so high
is easy
when you’ve practiced a thousand times
I don’t need to light a match
to scritch that scratch
as my own flame strikes hot
only to be tossed aside
when they’re all used up
You see I am good
all on my own
at burning myself
from both ends
hoping that I can meet
somewhere in the middle
But I have to wonder
if you’d be able to see
the stress inside my signals
as I burn
on my own
little island
out at sea
97

DRUNKEN LUNACY
Courtney Armstrong
I envied the dead who lay in release
pillows of silence beneath satin skin
But mostly, I wanted death’s sweat and sweet
quiet to kiss my own black poisoned lips
To drink the pink of my stalled heartbeat
stroke me with fumbles of glass fingertips
Was it a mirage of serenity
where bloodshed struggles sleep without chagrin
If it were delusion I would not plead
show me the moon bit by obsidian
Sated thirst with hunger to end life’s lease
drowned by puce liquor of rue’s sedative
Please give me paradise in a syringe
one last smack of hope for lunatic fringe
98

Micheal Christopherson
You Can’t Hide Forever
Visual Art
99

Luisa Espinoza
Tentacle Tessellation
Drawing, Graphite on Bristol 11”x11”
100

I SMASHED A FISHBOWL
Courtney Armstrong
against the soft of my head
we fish do not swim
here, dry and empty
gasping, nitrite poisoning
steel nautical chain
void of lust — your pet —
you laugh while I worm and ache
for the phantom limb
of you, our past love
covered in mandarin shell
now my flayed skin rains
cold luminescence
please, please, for once just see me
scales and gills and fin
I pick at the shards
but I can never fish out
all the bits of shame
101

OH, ANTIGUA
Courtney Armstrong
The air smelled like lemons. The scent so powerful it was as if strips and spools of yellow
rind twirled in the clouds above. Lemongrass. The natives had to burn it or else it would
devastate the landscape, the way absinthe swirls into an oily stain on artisan glass. Puffs
of smoke dotted the mountainside all the way down to Monserrat. Leaves the size and
shape of elephant ears fell from the dome of dense trees and lay on the ground, discarded
trophies lucky enough to be missed by the spreading fires, only to be scooped up by
happy tourists and smuggled into Chanel backpacks when the guides weren’t looking.
Black pineapple, the gold of Antigua, cut up into the smallest of cubes before the long
hike back down to the bottom. Sticky juice stippled their chins, smoke stung their eyes, and
they looked up at the sky as it squeezed citrus rain upon the mountain for the very first time.
The air is quilted with smoke. It burns our eyes and stains our clothes, two-ply anger
that penetrates our souls. Stupid lemongrass. Brought in by tourists who sneered at our
handsome terrain, unable to see the bronze rivers of cursive that flowed through the sand.
So now we must burn our land, scorch our hands and singe the hair on our arms to keep
the grass from smothering it, from suffocating us. The old trees discard their leaves, futile
and furious effort to hide the soil before the enraged blades devour more. And the tourists
scoop up that fallen foliage to take back to their homes, trophies that they don’t deserve.
They guttle our fruit and smack their lips. They do not notice the beauty, the spirit, the
music of our Antigua. And they certainly do not notice the rain that falls from our very souls.
102

Dani Gailbraith-Ritchie
Tepalo
Pyrography on Wood 12”x12”
103

Claudia Nazario
Selena
Painting, Oil on Canvas Board 11”x14”
104

HOPE
Courtney Armstrong
Damp, cherry-blonde curls clung to her forehead
while her unquestioning freckled fingers plucked the puzzle
pieces
her busy thoughts pacified by the sound of the sleepy raw
wood
that plinked and tinked upon return to their splintered slots
the smell of mold and pinecones repulsive and delightful
dead and yet, somehow alive
she loved the weight of the timbered pieces
the way the acrylic oozed into motley outlines
of green brawny zeal and robust brawn —
the cowboy, the fireman, the doctor and the astronaut —
rosy destinies painted pointedly on the blocks
that promised eternal rainbows of freedom
the women on the puzzle —
the nurse, the ballerina, the mother —
were allowed only simple short hyphens of coal
dashes of smiles that disguised
muzzled mouths and straitjacketed souls
harnessed angels in weathered, tawny leather of doubt
she scooped up the ballerina by the buttery, yellow knob
crudely jammed into its pink satin abdomen
she willed away its corseted pain
and chucked it across the room
and at the same time released herself
because all such beautiful things deserve to be free
105

SOMETHING PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND
ON THE BALCONY, LOOKING AT THE
MOUNTAINS…REALITY IS A FLOWER
Diego Tobin
Standing there bobbing your head
all your organs in a suitcase- skin a big disguise
somewhere that internal voice
in hysterics, is suddenly vacating
the soul’s bordelloit
says drunken things to you, things like this:
You’re sitting in the water, half-dead
acting cruel in a cruel body
taking breaks in between to maintain stamina, the flowers slouch in the vase
and the voice continues like God:
Are these drive-by television ads? Can you hear the radio loud enough? Talking over the
radio- are you in tune?
Are you thinking of a clean getaway?
Are the years hidden in your pockets, weighing you down?
106

Thomas Webster
Trichocereus
Archival Digital Print on Canson Baryta 13”x20”
107

Is your mother bitter?
Have you ended up like father?
Have the roses swallowed you up, when you look too close? Have the creeps and the
shudders torn your pages in two? Has your internal voice coughed up something black?
In other words,
the cloth swaddling the world
becomes undone.
And regarding history and fleshmy
thought bubble
now in a plume of gun smoke, as somewhere in the distance, below
shouts
A woman in the street to her sister, in the desert air
something is playing in the background, while I sit on the balcony watching the mountains.
Suddenly, the voice
whispers of unease in the world opium den,
while everyone in the room begins to jeer
mid-laughter the clock strikes 12
the room can hear everything
and the revisit is cut short, by some suited, cruel-looking men.
The pulsing yesterdayand
yesterday’s decor, yellowed from fire in the sky
sitting outside while metropolitan muzak joins the sobbing trafficmy
true love’s voice disappears down the roadbecomes
the horizon
and its vacuum eyes.
and its vacuum eyes.
108

Sometimes, the voice grabs ahold of another
outstretched hand
and there’s a blossoming Goddess
with her wilted facewho
says sweet nothings about your own history, unrefined.
Sweet nothings and
its petals of reality that have escaped you
SOMETHING PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND on the balcony, looking at the mountains,
Growing, outstretched
Overgrown,
Reality is a flower...
...Are the stars a perpetual audience?
Do they look at you kindly from their banisters?
Does this poem
sound like a
rose hitting the stage floor?
109

LEMONS AND ORANGES
T. Gullett
Hello darling, how are you?
I’ve been busy, if you couldn’t tell
by the ink in the table grooves and the
acrylic on my shirt and the graphite on
my hands staining the curve of my palms.
I’ve been trying to keep myself focused,
busy while you’re away, and I just-
Well to speak plainly, my love,
I feel half-faint from the fixatives, and
half-drunk on paint water and the sight of your face.
I keep trying to work on my lessons,
the poster for that theater, the landscape for
that exhibit, the open-form for that show, but
I keep returning to the curl of your smile,
the dip of your shoulders and the slope of your back.
The camera might wash you out, leach all the color,
but I see the color of your tie in my paint,
your eyes in the bottom of my morning cup,
your hair in the graphite I lay on the page.
No classical muse, maybe, but mine anyways.
Yes, I’m using your mug right now,
Lemons because I’m so bitter.
But, my love, you sweeten just like them
with a bit of sugar and care, a tender touch,
and, honey, it’s far lonelier without you.
110

It may be warmer here, but that means
no place for my sweaters, the scarf you bought
me in ’99, no excuse to slide my hand into your
coat pocket, your grumble about the chill even as
you’d kiss them warm when we got back.
Yes, alright, sue me, I’m nostalgic for our city,
where I ran as a young man and where we got all
tangled up together. Nostalgic for the cold and the cat
on the fire escape and the horrible coffee in the cafeteria
of that place you worked and still work at, but most of all-
I just miss you, plain and simple. Miss your cologne
on my jacket and dinner on your breaks, the taste of honey
custard on your mouth. I miss your shirts next to mine, and
the sound of your laugh underneath the yellowed lights.
Is our Greek place still open? I’ve been dreaming about it.
They haven’t extended my contract yet, no, but there’s been
murmurs. I think I’ll try to come back for the summer though,
work on my plans while draped over you. No, you won’t be a
distraction, well, not much, of one, but… It’s all about balance,
and I think we’re good at that by now, aren’t we?
If you want to visit instead, I found another Greek place. Their
custard doesn’t taste the same, too sweet, but maybe you’d
balance it out, my bitter darling. You could steal your mug back,
even, if you really wanted to, and give mine back. Oranges are
a dime-a-dozen here, so it wouldn’t be that out of place.
111

Claudia Nazario
Franny
Painting, Oil on Canvas 16”x20”
112

IT’S A DREAM
Esmeralda Garcia
TThose brown eyes you wish you could stare into
The unique pools of honey, a different type of hue
It’s a dream
The soft skin you wish to touch
Person whom you love so very much
It’s a dream
The slightest smirk will make you blush
Your heart and mind, it feels like a rush
It’s a dream
Cheek being so softly caressed
Absence of this feeling distressed
It’s a dream
Walking hand in hand
Toes in the sand
It’s a dream
Avoiding to look into the eyes
It’s time to say your goodbyes
It’s a dream.
113

LOOK TOO SEE
George Key
When we open one eye, we clearly see
cousins in search for another church. They
hope to have tickets on the gray dog north.
Perhaps a shower, new clothes, a bar of soap?
When we open one eye, we clearly see
signs mark failed crossings of lower life
of silhouetted fleeing families snuffed,
by those drunken sailors who plead no sight.
When we open one eye, we clearly see
flags marking blue barrels of Christian deeds
quite carefully placed with love beneath a tree
moisten the lips of survivors that flee.
When we open one eye, we clearly see
brothers and sister’s bleed. They, them there, those people
delight in our pain, be it by whip or chain.
All pain be done burnt, strung up, and tree hung.
When we open one eye, we clearly see
Orangutan Towers sitting high looking down
upon those running from death yet to be free
self-proclaimed elector, insurrectionary.
When we open our eyes, we clearly see
the bigot’s motto spewing Langston’s words.
there is no we, they, us, nor team, rather,
me, mine, my fallaciously inflated self.
114

Kimberly Calles
Solitude
Digital Photograph 8”x10”
115

Grace Johnson
Red Eastern Screech Owl
Traditionally Illustrated, Changed to Digital 8”x10” - 8”x91/2”
116

STRANGE WEATHER
Kentaro Herder
for every bird chirping,
there is a brown boy crying
for Coca-Cola
for milk.
if bright brown had to be one name,
I would call it monsoon
where and when a wet dog
turns into mud.
a black shirt drowns in explosion,
bleach is used to tie dye,
a grandfather is still
in war, sun rays abort on beaches.
a jet soars above,
one rock tumbles down a canyon side,
a grandma turns the faucet
of a church sink.
a sheep is hung, and a throat is slit
blood drips into Tupperware,
there is strange weather
in my lungs.
117

CAROUSEL
Luke Cottrell
Carousel winding and troubled children
whine for Mama and Dada.
Carousel winding and exhausted parents
say “you’ll understand when you’re older.”
Carousel winding and jaded teenagers
dream of independence at eighteen
Carousel winding and struggling people
sell their energy and time to keep alive.
Carousel winding and retired wrinkles
form where the grind wore its grooves.
Carousel winding and senile patients
are left to make sense of the traces of memory.
Carousel winding and struggling people
pay another fee to bury their dead.
Carousel winding although
it’s running out of oil.
Carousel winding and the cynical ones
shake their fists at the clinking gears.
Carousel winding and nobody knows
what they would do if the carousel stopped.
118

Ulises Ramos
Dejen Al Musico Dormir
Digital Drawing 6”x 9”
119

Danielle Bond
V Day a Series: 6
Photograph 8”x10”
120

MORE THAN ANYTHING
Luke Eriksson
You and me
naked in a double bed with a plush blanket
and there is a small dog there licking our faces.
We might be on shrooms or molly, but it is an equally intimate experience, sober -
and it is peaking.
The experience
and the dog is barking at us because it does not really know what sex looks like
and we both come and lie back down -
and pass a joint or a cigarette or a nothing between us as you rest your head on my chest
and tell me you can hear my heartbeat,
and every part of my body is holding you -
and we are both still except for the gentle movement of fingertips on skin.
If you let me
I would be whatever you wanted me to -
your gay best friend
your dominator,
the recipient of your redirected self-hatred (you are not the first) -
your shoulder to cry on -
the crying person who makes your shoulder feel needed,
the bearer of your most fucked-up secrets.
The only thing I really just can’t be for you
is someone who has moved on,
and someone who does not see your face in every new person I meet.
121

OVERKILL
Luke Eriksson
Content Warning: Queerphobia, Addiction
They let you up and shove you back down again maybe a dozen times.
The football helmet does not protect your nine-year-old head from the hard ground.
That ugly, ugly word
being chanted with a laugh (with a sick, sadistic fucking laugh)
The world is bad, you think to yourself – It must be
Either you are fundamentally bad or the world is, and you refuse to accept the former
when you’re only nine.
You come to discover that the world was built by and for people unlike yourself and that
you would do well to say no to it.
Participate along with billions of other outcasts in the grand, grand refusal of all that this
world deems good and holy.
It is really a beautiful freedom.
The free fall into the void provides a more thrilling rush than any rollercoaster or
horror flick.
Who is to say if it is wrong that tonight you will ride the train -
The hard drugs and alcohol train of course
right up until the edge of the cliff
looking down into the void
Death, sublime oblivion, nirvana, escape at all costs
Your intellect does not protect your seventeen-year-old head from the excruciating
122

hangover -
As you have countless times before, last night you came so close to never seeing another
tomorrow -
not that you even really wanted to see tomorrow all that much,
you think and rationalize and tell your family members circled around you during the
intervention.
That they don’t, they couldn’t understand. They might as well be villains for trying to
change you
Leave and drink
The voice says, and you oblige -
you keep obliging until the worse possible outcome, the unthinkable loss of the single
human being you loved the most -
and through the burning hell of that most intolerable depression you abandon
everything in search of a new way of being.
You scream “God help me” in the manner of a man falling off the Golden Gate
Bridge.
Now you are twenty and in rehab and six months sober and, even without sex or drugs,
happy -
and you wonder what all that kicking and screaming, and self-destruction was really for,
and that now that you have finally crossed over and seen the other side of pain.
What message could I possibly have given that scared, angry little boy?
You aren’t as alone as you think you are
don’t give up or lose hope,
the strength to love yourself has always been within you.
Trite and cliché I know – probably so much so that he would not listen,
but it is okay,
because I am listening now.
123

Abigale Robles
A Friday Night Downtown
Drawing, Bristol Paper and Micron Pens
124

A RETURN
M.J. Copic
Set out on the open road
Clear blue skies above
Flat desert dirt below
The occasional saguaro
Standing tall and proud
Or not
Fluffy white clouds gather
The words OSTRICH FARM
In bold letters by the road
The Peak rising high
Breaking up the skyline
Tearing it apart
Miles and miles pass in a blur
With nothing to do but
Turn up the radio
And look for dust devils
More cars now, too many
Fast fast fast and we blow
Past the casino, the outlets
Pass by my old high school and
The parks I spent tipsy nights at
Keep going, further still
Merge here, right by the big
Shamrock Farms and ugly
Bridge, the mismatched one,
And finally whip past the roller
Coaster park by the freeway
Turn left, fly by the old liquor
Store that my mom bought
Beer from underage, past her parent’s
Pink house and just one more
Right turn and everything is finally
Orange trees
125

DRAGONS CAN BE
KILLED
M.J. Copic
Do not stray, my child,
This house, it is not safe.
Floorboards creak and shift
And shudder as you pace.
These dark walls are so thin
And, my child, I do not know
What kinds of toothy monsters
May be listening from below.
Shadows creep, so hungry,
Crawling all around the floor
Please, my child, leave me
And run, run, for the door.
If you will not leave me here
Then we must stand and fight.
Chin up, my child, have some faith
Tomorrow we see the light.
126

Grace Johnson
Taurus
Traditionally Illustrated, Changed to Digital 8”x10”- 8”x 91/2”
127

Weston Lane
Dotted Cat
Graphite Drawing 91/2”x111/2”
128

STRENGTH
M.J. Copic
Follow bloody footprints
Ignore the whispered warnings
March up to the lion’s cage
And aid them in their mourning
The lion keepers smile wide
Teeth sharper than their charges
As they point to all the joy they bring
They don’t mention how this started
Look into the lion’s eyes
And see the lies writ plain
These creatures are not happy here
The cages are their pain
Their keepers are not keepers kind
Nor help the way they claim
They rule with fear and iron fists
In their attempts to tame
So push the cage doors open wide
And throw away the key
Run with the lions, don’t look back
Finally you are free
129

TIME BLURRED/
TIEMPO
DIFUMINADO
Mara Durán
Dreams
that
fade
and
give
shape
a
small
illusions
painted
of
colors
Sueños
que
desvanecen
y
dan
forma
a
pequeñas
ilusiones
pintadas
de
colores
130

Brianna Stevens
Garden Spirit
Illustration, Digital, Photoshop 8”x11”
131

Abigale Robles
Masks in COVID-19
Drawing, Bristol Paper and Micron Pens
132

QUARANTINED
Mauricia Manuel
Confined to this house
concealed inside,
missing rain and shine,
whether employed or a child.
Attempting abnormal rituals of sanitizer spritz,
rubber hands, and hidden smiles
expressionless eyes exposed.
Crow’s feet are rare, but warmly welcomed
knowing we are all still reaching out.
Confined to this draining mindset
cornered by fear,
what-ifs and false facts,
eliminating playgrounds from molding minds.
Stuck on exhausted screens
poor connection, virtually distant chats,
searching for new hobbies to counteract the deterioration
in order to defeat covid confusion.
133

REPUDIATION
Mauricia Manuel
How do I present myself to the world, to my family?
Show who I am when I’ve barely had enough time to figure it out.
I’ve been up against the ropes, bound by sealed lips for too long,
shushed and dismissed when my views are too different.
I become a know-it-all when showing passion for facts, “too eager to show off.”
But keeping quiet implies “I’m too good to fit in.”
Sometimes I hold my tongue,
but my temper tends to slip passed gritted teeth.
I’ll kick and curse only to still go unheard,
labeled less of a lady by the ears my venom reached.
Always encouraged by pinched finger tips sliding across lips
silencing my opinions, my plea to be me.
I can smile politely and wait my turn to speak, maybe go unnoticed
or I can be the child my mother forged from observation.
Loud and demanding of attention,
hated by all, but standing with strength.
Cutting others with the sharpness of her tongue,
rolling eyes and snapping fingers until she feels she’s won.
Believing such a hard shell is always necessary loses your courtesy,
the softness gone from your face and mind, becoming an obtuse persona.
I’m only wanting to speak how I feel, say what I want, to be who I am,
without being accused of being my mother’s daughter.
134

Desert Ehrhart
Portrait
Painting, Oil on Canvas
135

WATER
Kentaro Herder
your mother carried you through new moon
and full moon
creating craters
here you are out of your mother’s
cratered womb
your mother birthed you
along a stream
creating a river
here you are raging and choking in your mother’s
quivering rain
your mother shed tears six generations
deep, you seven
creating pain
soiled tears
here you are drinking recycled rain from your mother’s
136

your mother suffered the loss of
blood, fed by the river
creating a sea
thick blood
here you are drowning in a flood of your mother’s
your mother drank from the nearby pond,
birthed by the Earth
creating you
black oil
here you are bathing in
your mother buried by the Earth,
now shallow with no ocean
here you are,
no sea,
no pond,
no tears
creating,
nothing.
137

UNSHROUDED
Michele Worthington
They brought their dogs
as they were told
and all of their belongings, worn
or folded into small bundles,
set upon the station platform
waiting in sepia.
The command to separate shouted
and punctuated by bayonets
pushed the last ones down the tracks
bare and shorn of history
vacant, baskets and blankets left untaken.
Abandoned,
the pack tried to follow
loping faster as the wheels gained speed until
the train was no longer in sight
just puffs of white
and a mechanical scent
of loss
in the desert.
Howls faded into the air
echoes of when
they had fellowed with them over the Bering
and down into the continent
incanting Athabaskan, panting
sheltering together under bellowing clouds
pulling pole sleds covered with cook pots
and cloth dolls and ghost-borne stories
helping hunt the giant sloths and mastodon.
And now the only remnant
of the Pleistocene
is the shadow of the condor
sweeping the periphery
of the hollow west.
138

Mya Palacios
Emotional Growth
Color Pencil and Acrylic 13”x16”
139

Thurwin Lane
Saving The Heart
Conte Sticks on Steel Gray Tone Paper 191/2”x201/2”
140

ICE CANNOT BE
UNMELTED
Michele Worthington
At first, we tinkered
and diverted the flow
of the Tigris
to irrigate rice
Just rearrange the stones
and it is undone
back to the beginning
But slight footprints in mud
can be traced, millennia later
and microbial stowaways
in bilges of ships
can undo the drift
of tectonic plates
in a day and a night
A small campfire
compared to a volcano
is inconsequential
but the conversation around it
builds temples to goddesses
and eventually
a hydroelectric dam
across the Nile
Digging for coal by shovel
has no earthquake Richter
and diatoms ignited
are measured in magnitudes
of parts per million
but inevitably
the heat exceeds
in Fahrenheit degrees
what can be weighted
One mammal alone
from the cut forest
is not missed by the tigress
but its tiny internal biome
finds a preordained
eternal home
all around the globe
Our disaster is not so bad
compared to that asteroid
but history cannot be undrowned
and nothing can be put back
by moving stones
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WHERE I AM FROM
Raiden Lopez
I am from José & Hollyanna,
Virginia & Donald,
Adalberto & Ana.
From the great mountain ranges and Ranches of Cucurpe Mexico and Barcelona Spain.
I am from decedents of Mexican royalty and Spaniard Warriors
From writers,
singers,
musicians,
artists
and architects.
I am from those who envisioned more from their life than those of their parents.
From horseback riders,
cattle herders,
river swimmers,
and dancers in the rain.
I am from sitting around the fire every night,
telling stories,
making music lovers.
From women who believed hard work goes into every marriage and there is no such thing
as divorce.
I am from women who work all day and still came home to take care of their family.
From mothers who taught their daughters and sons it is alright to love a partner but also to
love yourself.
142

Javier Dosamantes
For She Had Eyes
Graphite and Digital 81/2”x11”
I am from strong, valiant men and women who protected their country.
From men who respect their women and treat them like queens because they are
cherished above all others.
I am from Gentlemen and Ladies who wanted their values passed on.
These values have shaped my life and
from the spirit I inherited from those before me
I created my own rhythm I dance to.
143

GROUNDHOG DAY
Salina Molina
On the day I found my first gray hair
Three and a half legs on a coyote
Wandered through my parking lot
In search of a restful place to lay
My face cringed with the uneven saunter
My heart broke at the pack animal’s loneliness
My soul wept for the anxious smile on its face
A dying coyote, always my February omen
On the day I found my first gray hair
Two pieces of first quarter moon
Hung in the air from a bright red string
Like a Raytheon-branded stress ball
Glowing fluorescent neon and needlessly
Forcing me back into a Spencer’s Gifts
So I can pay my formal respects
To versions of myself that never came to be
On the day I found my first gray hair
Sixteen-year-old me ditched class
In the body of a twenty-six-year-old
And felt like an asshole about it, but still
Insisted on grabbing anxiety’s hand, excuses’ leg
So I could run far, far away into an abyss with them
Where we swapped recipes and clicked pens
Sitting in a semicircle to feel less alone
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On the day I found my first gray hair
A queer friendly show about bondage
Freed me ten episodes in, self-imposed
Restraints lifted by appreciative laughter
Now vacant to use as anchors to dream reality
A reality where the feeling of being seen by myself
Is a given rather than an earned privilege
And I never wake up from the dream
On the day I found my first gray hair
One strand of silk began to glow from the top of my head
I learned to treasure the Easter grass I was sprouting
My mind’s pores revealed to me a diamond tether
I discovered a piece of rainbow tinsel growing
Out of my skull, so bright, so shiny, so youthful,
So vibrant, my mirror’s new best friend, wisdom
Fostered by trauma and funneled through a follicle
145

WHEN NO ONE’S LOOKING
Salina Molina
Were you the excited dog in the car next to me,
body happily contorted to maximize the wind on your face
as you barked frantically at all the other cars around you
on a highway so far away, you’d never be able to envision it?
For all I know,
You go for car rides down strange highways everyday
and lick yourself when no one’s looking,
but only if your owner’s car has come to a complete stop.
Were you the baby being pushed in the stroller,
skin red and feet excitedly kicking at the morning sun
like you just couldn’t wait to get at life and all it has
in store for you, on a Main avenue that looks like any other?
For all I know,
you’ll grow up to be happy, successful, and well-adjusted,
your baby feet kicking until the day you die
and filling in all the gaps to make your life whole.
Were you the old man in that window today,
staring, bored, from an unhappy building
trim: red but faded like the Golden Gate Bridge
on a corner near a bus stop 2,000 miles away?
For all I know,
you’ve lived there since the late seventies
and only stay because of the carpet in the living room:
it’s brighter than the rest of the apartment
glowing with the memory of your children’s first steps
and the idea of losing that small piece of magic
that life so graciously blessed you with
once upon a time, is absolutely unfathomable to you.
146

Monica Nelson
My Dads Favorite Teapot
Stippling 8”x16”
147

Yanna Aiken
Am I Worth Love
Colored Pencil
148

FALLING STARS
Sierra Vigil
To: Earth
The crickets sing their melody
stars dive into the sea
simple beauty shrouded in sheer mystery,
divine.
Interstellar pilgrimage to earth
a race to see who can kiss her first.
“We have travelled lifetimes
(just to hold you)
and to lay upon your rocky face
Weathered with reverent age
We have fallen intensely
for your craters.”
Deeper than the ocean
Eternal love unbroken
atmospheric kisses
Set
them
ablaze
“Unpack all our clutter
as we explode
right under
your watchful bright eye,
the prettiest yellow gaze.
We are torn asunder
as we explode with wonder
everything we dreamed of
no more floating restless days”
Yours truly,
Falling Stars
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PRETTIER IF YOU SMILED
Solace Bergman
A response to to Lucille Clifton’s homage to my hips.
these teeth are crooked teeth,
they are chipped perfection,
partitioning tongue and cheek.
they do not stand
in straight lines at attention.
these teeth are sovereign teeth,
they refuse to be bound by metal bars.
they lean and jut like teenage hips
cradled by loving lips. these teeth will
cut through kisses like a knife.
these teeth are biting teeth,
I have known them to
chew a man up and
spit him out like gristle on a steak!
150

Rhea Stanley
Scorned
Oil Painting, 16”x20”
151

Desiree Garcia
Raven’s Skull
Drawing Paper, Ink, Ballpoint Pen, Spray Paint, Wax 28”x 34”
152

CA CONRAD’S SQUIRREL
Travis Cooper
I accidentally kicked a wooden squirrel.
Shmoo said the squirrel cursed me
so I burned it in the firepit,
its chirpy face smiled at me as it blackened.
That night I dreamt of the burnt squirrel,
it took my giant nut—
the one I was saving to pay rent.
It darted to the top of my bookcase
and spoke in a high-pitched helium voice,
“You can have your nut, if you sign the Devil’s book”
Nuts are so expensive these days.
I woke up hungry
Shmoo made blueberry pancakes
She asked where her heirloom squirrel was
I said I didn’t know.
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PLEADS TO THE VIRGIN MARY
Veronica Martinez
I slam my tender wrists onto the cold tile, hoping for the chipped ceramic to
stab through my palms, for crimson to stream down the powder blue counter onto
the floor of the empty bathroom, pooling around my bare feet as I stare wide-eyed
into the reflection of a stranger. The purple marks under my jaw scream and echo
through my conscience and my mother’s voice rattles my eardrums. Hail Mary, full of
grace, the Lord is with thee…His chapped lips hungry against my thin neck have left
a consequence for my actions, the lust churning at the bottom of my stomach now
replaced with guilt. He doesn’t love me. He never will. My lips merely an outlet for his
desire, my body merely an object for his disposal. Blessed art thou among women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus… I pray over the water rushing out of the
rusted faucet. Faith and rigidity ingrained onto my shoulders. Religion, a sharp pain
piercing my side at the thought of his hand gripping my hip and his bottom lip on my
collar bone. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners. Now, and at the hour of
our death…I pray that my body will still be a temple. I pray that God will never tell
them. I pray for forgiveness. Amen.
154

Rick Spriggs
Red Top
Ceramic 11”H x9”D
155

Yanna Aiken
Am I Worth Life
Colored Pencil
156

DYING
Yareli Sanchez
How am I drowning when breathing air?
Trying to breathe
trying to think
something so simple seems so impossible now.
What comes first
breathing to think or to think to breathe?
Something so simple seems so impossible now.
What is there for me to do when I am counting my last breath?
Countless questions
where are my answers?
Trying to breathe, trying to think
think...breathe...think
breathe...think...breathe
think
breathe
...
157

DREAMERS
Zoe Galmarini
We are dreamers.
We want things we can’t have and
people who do not care.
We say things to get us by,
but never stay long enough to hear.
158

Weston Lane
Feminine Masculinity
Digital Painting 8”x10”
159

Portia Cooper
Rodent
India Ink, Fineliner Pen, and White Pen on Bristol Paper, 41/2”x3”
160

RIPPED AND SCATTERED
Mark Anthony Ferguson
When your soulmate leaves you,
it’s like leaving the dentist after having your wisdom teeth removed.
You wake up feeling nothing and no senses seem to work properly.
You feel nothing for quite a while until the pain hits you like a wall.
And when it hits, you find the pain is merciless.
You take old memories like meds to try to soothe yourself,
only to find out that meds don’t work on pain like this.
When your soulmate leaves you,
It’s like leaving the dentist after having your wisdom teeth removed,
A part of you has been ripped out.
When your soulmate leaves you,
It’s like you lose all your leaves, like the trees in autumn after a long, fruitful summer.
Each moment of investment flutters to the ground.
They are raked up, played with, then disposed of.
When winter hits, you try to hide in your new clothes; frozen, stripped, colorless.
Your skeleton feels like a pile of ridiculous sticks in snow,
With the potential to become a snowman, but no such thing is made.
When your soulmate leaves you,
It’s like you lose all your leaves like the trees in autumn after a long, fruitful summer.
Little bits of you lie scattered on the ground.
When your soulmate leaves you,
You feel numb and empty.
Your memories haunt you, perhaps forever.
The worst is when your soulmate tells you they love you while en route to another person’s heart.
You gave all your love like an addict who spent all they have on coke.
You feel lower than the dirt, no, like you’re frozen in outer space,
When your soulmate marries someone else.
When your soulmate leaves you,
You wish the best for whoever they are with.
A part of you is ripped out and scattered on the ground.
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THE MESQUITES KEEP YOUR
SECRETS, BUT THE SAGUAROS
KNOW YOUR SINS
Elena Acuna
The desert is unforgiving
Abuelita leaves out clay bowls to collect rainwater
Lets the javelinas and the coyotes drink it all up
Watches the sky paint the red clay dark
I try to tell her that she has done her part
She can rest now
“The desert is unforgiving,” she tells me
“Los mezquites guardan tus secretos pero los saguaros conocen tus
pecados, Mija.”
I want to tell her what I’ve done
Ask her if she thinks the prickly pears will still bloom for me in the springtime
Welcome me with open palms
How many secrets will those mesquites really keep
When you are caught beneath the moon
Does she tell the coyotes
will I hear it in their howls
The desert is unforgiving
I want to ask her if she thinks it will find a woman worth forgiving in me.
162

Rhea Stanley
Tonight
Charcoal 14”x17”
163

Sofia Fetsis
Falling Magic
Photograph 8”x10”
164

SHE WAS NEAR
Desert Ehrhart
She was near.
I could tell as the air was thickened and moist
and electric, stimulating my senses.
I was once caught on the wrong side, at the wrong time,
wandering the wrong arroyo,
taken down, washed away in a flood
with the rest of the unsuspecting debris.
When she came in, the sky was fierce and pouring, lightning cracking.
The streets already flooding.
With the long drawn out heat of summer,
thoroughly penetrating, beat into everything,
heavy, pressing me further
into the depths of my mattress, sheets strewn far from me.
I was ready for the release.
And as quickly as her presence and the floods poured in,
the sky became clear
and the sun again upon me.
My only memory of her found through the following weeks
in the lush growth and bloom of the desert.
Monsoon season.
165

THE BOOK OF LIFE
Samantha Barrera
There comes a time within one’s life, when you start to reminisce.
Was every hope that came before this moment all for this?
At what point do we reach the chapter when we finally come of age,
where life, it finally all makes sense; where can we find that page?
We spend our childhood years, dreaming of the very day,
that we step into our adult self; oh, how we wish our youth away.
Yet when we peel away the layers of growth and wisdom gained,
it seems within every one of us, our core remains the same.
There long yearns an inner child seeking happiness and love.
Now tell me, in which chapter of life can I find such things thereof?
Although it’s hard to stop and pause in the continuity of life’s book,
I encourage you to find the time to take another look.
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Does love pour from the pursuit of the ultimate career?
Or is happiness defined by the quest of an academic frontier?
Are we fulfilled by our relationships built with family and flames?
Or can these be met with times of friction, turbulence, and strain?
The truth is, life is fragile, and no single source alone,
can be cited to reference all the joy that we long for in our bones.
Life is constant and it is ruthless, we cannot predict the times of plight,
but we can take charge of how the story unfolds, with the words we choose to write.
For you are not a character in someone else’s fiction.
Let your wildest dreams unfold; there is no limit or restriction.
Don’t let life turn the page and simply wait for come what may.
Put pen to paper and write your story, for your future starts today.
167

OPTIONS
Salina Molina
a. Order a fresh limbic system
new on Amazon for $229.50
in a shrink-wrapped,
temperature-controlled box
with all the manuals
and step-by-step instructions
to install it yourself,
or used for $137.74 plus $14.99 shipping
if you’re feeling lucky.
b. Sever all the synapses
that allow information
to zig-zag around your brain
with something heavy and final
like a small pick-axe or some bleach
so the neurons that torture you
each and every day
can feel just as stranded and helpless
as you do at their eternal movements.
c. Immerse yourself in the static of art and music,
poetry and film, hot tea and
blankets that were knit with love,
and enrich your broken life
with neglect, with too many dabs
with gallons of wine, until your brain
is so numb to itself
that you only have to confront
the absolute disarray of your amygdala
in dreams.
168

Abigale Robles
A Snake in Chaos
Drawing, Bristol Paper and Micron Pens
169

Miyeon Kim
Survival
Acrylic, 13”x17”
170

SIREN CALL
Elena Acuna
She ducks in from the cold
Red clinging to her cheeks like it’s never known
Roses
Or blood
Or fire
You assume everyone in the room feels the way you do
Captivated
Awestruck
You wonder what her voice sounds like
The kind that draws fishermen from their vessels to the bottom of the sea
The way her eyes scan the room
How softly she rests her chin against her palm
She is washing over you and it’s easy to imagine the way it feels to drown at the hands
Of a woman like this
She goes as quickly as she came
Takes all of the air out of the room with her as she does
If I existed the way she did
Swallowed up the room as I walked into it
Would it be enough?
A man choosing between a savior and a siren is never wise enough to stay ashore
171

George Key
Esperanza
Photograph
172

ENROBE YOURSELF IN
VELVET
Salina Molina
Surround your mirrors with candles
of various sizes and shapes
and light them as you pass by
so the height of each flame
can illuminate a different part of yourself
you no longer wish to see.
Cloak your eyes in a haze of smoke:
incense, cigarettes, old journal pages,
and good old-fashioned weed by-products,
to further obscure the image you have of yourself
and worsen that astigmatism
that you’ve been cultivating
to keep your vision good and blurry.
Foil your nails with gold leaf
and pretend that your muse
is worthy of being your muse
instead of just someone
you’ve known for years now
who’s only slightly better
at being a person than you are.
Live under a set of standards
revolving around distraction,
“self-soothing,” deep denial,
more distraction, making it to
enrobing yourself in crisp green velvet.
Visually stunning
and aesthetically compelling,
cheap to the touch
enough to make you dislike your face
when you look in a mirror.
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MEET OUR ARTISTS
Visual Art
Abigale Robles – My name is Abigale
Robles. I was born and raised in Southern
California. I have been in Tucson for 3
years now and I absolutely love it here. I
am currently a Business major at Pima. Last
semester I took ART100 with Mr. Marquis.
He helped me find my artistic style and
progress in my artistic abilities. Art has
always been an outlet for me. My family is
filled with amazing Artists. It took a lot for
me to submit my drawings and was out of
my comfort zone. I am so happy I decided
to submit and that I am of the chosen
Artists to be featured in the SandScript.
Ashley Carmichael – Tucson based artist
Ashley Carmichael creates intricate ink
and watercolor art inspired by nature. Her
work focuses on the tranquility of being
in the natural world and the cyclical
stories of growth and decay. Ashley
obtained a Minor in Fine Art from Indiana
University and has participated in shows
by the Southern Arizona Watercolor
Guild. She now works out of her home
studio in eastern Tucson. Instagram: @
ashleycarmichaelart
Avery Goldberg – Attends Pima
Community College
Brianna Stevens – Hello, My name is
Brianna Stevens, also known as Bebe Tea
on social media. After recently graduating
from GCU, I’m currently going to Pima to
continue my character design studies. The
piece “Garden Spirit” was created using
mood boards and my love for the Asian
culture. I wanted to express my interest in
the mythical and fantasy elements. The
main goal was to convey serenity and
calmness. Creating this piece was very
interesting and different for me. This was
my second piece using Photoshop for just
drawing purposes.
Clarissa Holguin – My name is Clarissa, I
love the desert, animals, art and music. I
love bright colors, detail and representing
my Mexican culture with my art. I focus on
making pieces that make me feel happy
or send a message. Overall, I try to enjoy
the journey I took to get to the art piece.
Claudia Nazario – Claudia Nazario is a
California native that took up painting
as a creative and stress-free outlet to
balance her doctoral research and
teaching responsibilities at the University
of Arizona. Very quickly she realized art
was more than a hobby and storytelling
medium. Now, Claudia seeks a way to
marry her academic interests with her art.
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Cynthia Drumond – Drawing and painting
were my favorites hobbies when I was
young. Life brought me discoveries, new
interests and sent me on different paths.
When I went back to college to pursue
a new career as a Graphic Designer,
Art resurfaced, challenging my world
perception. I can not say I am an artist but
a curious explorer!
Dani Galbraith-Ritchie (She/Her) –
Galbraith-Ritchie is a self-taught artist,
goldsmith and small business owner with
a passion for the natural world. Galbraith-
Ritchie is pursuing her Associate Degree
in Business Administration from PCC. She
has further goals to attend Eller College of
Management in pursuance of a Bachelor
of Science in Business Administration with
a double major in Business Management
and Marketing. Galbraith-Ritchie is a
Mexican-Canadian immigrant, raised in
Sedona, Arizona but has lived in Tucson for
almost 10 years.
David Parsons – Attends Pima Community
College
Desert Ehrhart (1) – Desert Ehrhart has had
a deep interest in visual art their entire
life. Their adult work, spanning many
mediums, has been deeply influenced
and embedded in their love of ecology
and plant medicine. In more recent years
this love of artistic expression has taken
them to exploring poetry and other forms
or writing. Currently Desert is weaving their
passions together, working as an herbalist,
a tattoo artist and on a path towards
becoming an acupuncturist. (1) Also on
Poetry
Desiree Gracia – Desiree Gracia was
born and raised in Tucson, her creative
works are influenced by her interest in
psychology and life experiences. She
enjoys experimenting with different
mediums but mostly works with ink or
pencil.
Danielle Bond – Danni B is a Tucson based
photographer who specializes in creative
portraits. Being a young artist herself, she
strives to uplift other artists and push young
adults to pursue their creative passions.
You can learn more about Danni B and
other pieces of her work on Instagram @
dannib_photography.
George Key (2) – Key’s image, Esperanza,
(Hope), reflects upon tragedies survived
and God’s daily bread gift of appreciated
beauty. This consecutive fourth year
of being chosen for publication in the
Sandscript was an honor received in
both poetry and photography. The
challenges of the pandemic, due to a
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Spring 2020 lengthy battle, were answered
with his composition and delivery of the
Keynote address to the graduating class
(YouTube,2020), several degrees and
certificates in Social Services/ Social Work,
and necessary completion of intercultural
perspective in the Fall 2020 Semester. (2)
Also on Poetry
Grace Johnson – My name is Grace M
Johnson and I am a mostly self taught
artist, with a few classes along the way!
I’ve been drawing for as long as I can
remember and being an artist has
become a part of me forever. My art
style usually consists of highly detailed
pieces of mostly birds, dragons, and
robots that I have named Mechnicians.
My artwork tends to exaggerate a bit
too, with very vibrant colors and out of
proportion proportions! I hope you enjoy
the art pieces that I have made with
immeasurable care!
Javier Dosamantes – Javier Dosamantes
is a creative born in Tucson and raised in
Cananea, Sonora, Mexico. As an adult, he
returned to Tucson for school, and now it is
his second home.
Jennifer Prybylla – Attends Pima
Community College
Kimberly Calles – Kimberly Calles is an
art major student at Pima Community
College. Currently studying to get
an Associates degree in Fine Arts
concentration in photography. Her
work consists of mixed media such as
photography, painting, and drawing.
Kimberly Griffin – Kimberly Griffin is a
native Arizonan. She has always been
told that she has a unique way of
looking at the world. Photo was taken
while in photography class at Pima.
Experimentation and happy accidents
result in art pieces like this one. She hopes
that one day, she can make a living
stumbling around in the art world.
Luisa Espinoza – Attends Pima Community
College
Micheal Christopherson – Greetings! I’m
Micheal Christopherson, I’m a student at
Pima Community College and my major
is fine arts. My works consist of a mix of
cartoons, digital edits, and horror. I have
not explored the horror genre in my art
until the start of 2021, and the results have
been outstanding. I am always working
to make artwork that stands out and
makes an impression. If you’re interested
in following more off my work, I post my art
on my Instagram “MikeR0b0.” I also make
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video content on my YouTube, named
“MikeR0b0.”
Miyeon Kim – I got an art award in middle
school and stopped painting after high
school in South Korea. Six years later, I
came to the United States and went to
college in Texas for a few months, but
I had to stop. I started to go to college
again after 10 years at Pima Community
College. It is meaningful to receive an art
award at this college. I’m so glad I didn’t
give up on my dream. This is a great start
to my dream as an artist. I draw myself in
“Addicted”. My friend took a photo of me
using a cellphone on the couch while I’m
laying down. I never used a cell phone this
much before. I admit that I am addicted
to smartphones.
Monica Nelson – Monica Nelson is a
retired educator with over 44 years of
service. She has enrolled in several art
classes at PCC over the past two years
as a “life-long” learner Art has become
a whole new experience for her and has
been especially important during the
pandemic!
This piece “ Emotional Growth” is mostly
colored pencil except I used paint for the
somewhat abstract background.
Nathan Coffey – Nathan Coffey is a
hobbyist photographer living in Tucson, AZ.
He is pursuing digital game development
at Pima with a focus on programming.
Portia Cooper (She/Her) – Portia is a dualenrollment
student studying computer
science and mathematics. She works in
many art mediums, but prefers pen and
ink. Her work is often inspired by folktales
and myths.
Rebecca Farris – Rebecca is an aspiring
graphic artist. Her dream is to one day
make a career out of publishing graphic
novels, and is going to school for her
art degree. She was born in Arizona but
moved to Colorado at the age of 10 with
her family. After some family loss, she
returned to Arizona and moved to Tucson
to finish college.
Reed Coffey – Attends Pima Community
College
Mya Palacios – Hello everyone! I go by
Myabella. Art has always been a big part
of my life and I have my mom to thank for
that. She taught me how to be creative.
Rhea Stanley – I started at pima in 2018
with no drawing under my belt. This May,
I’ve got my associates in fine arts and a
passion for drawing. I’ve lived in Tucson
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my whole life and have a family full of
artists that inspire me every day. I’m
transferring to the University of Arizona this
fall to pursue Studio Art. I’m excited to see
where art can take me.
Rick Spriggs – Rick Spriggs has been doing
art for most of his life. Recently his focus
is making 3D art. Ceramics comprises the
bulk of his current artworks.
Sarah Bryg – Attends Pima Community
College
Shelby Quiroz – Attends Pima Community
College
Sivanes Ananda – I am a Tucson based
artist, avid gardener and enjoy nature and
travel. In my art, I use a variety of media,
oil being my preferred medium. Most of
my paintings are based on photos taken
during my travels and inspired by the
natural beauty and amazing architecture
of places I visited.
Sofia Fetsis – Sofia Fetsis has grown up
in Arizona her whole life, as one of six
siblings. She competitively played tennis
and volleyball throughout high school,
winning several state titles in tennis. In
her free time she enjoys hiking, playing
beach volleyball, working out, cooking,
and artistic pursuits such as sketching and
photography. She loves the warm weather
and sunshine in Tucson, but enjoys cloudy,
rainy days when they come. Sofia will
be joining the nursing program at The
University of Arizona this fall to start her
junior year, and looks forward to pursuing
a career as a NICU nurse.
Thomas Webster – I retired from the
practice of anesthesiology in 2007.
Enrolled at Pima Community College and
received my Associates of Arts Degree
in 2010. Since then I have worked as a
volunteer in the Digital Photography lab at
PCC and taking continuing courses at the
college.
Thurwin Lane – Born on August 1, 1992
at Phoenix Memorial Hospital, Jeanita
Johnson gave birth to her fourth child,
Thurwin Tisbahe Lane. Thurwin has early
memories of living in Phoenix, but he was
raised mostly on the Navajo Reservation
with his seven other siblings. Living on the
reservation made Thurwin strong, allowing
him to excel while serving in the United
States Army as an airborne infantryman.
Growing up on a reservation and serving
in the armed forces left wounds on
Thurwin’s mental health enticing him to
pursue a profession in art. With art Thurwin
was able to understand the experienced
178

trauma aiding him in becoming a good
person for his wife and son. Art created by
Thurwin can be tied to being raised on a
reservation, military service, and his family.
Zevi Bloomfield – Hopes to major in
psychology and become an art therapist
Prose
Ulises Ramos – Ulises I as a young artist
from Mexican descent, I don’t only
represent my cultural background but also
a long tradition of printmaking. That is my
goal in life, to preserve and develop such
a traditional method important for me and
the art world.
Weston Lane – Weston Lane is a proud
Native American student who is pursuing a
Visual Art degree and Film Arts / Animation
degree. He makes digital art, traditional
art, and short 2d animations. He aims
to evoke deep feelings within his work.
He loves to make art and will continue
to do so. His goal is to take part in the
production of an animated project (e.g.,
music video, advertisement, or movie/tv).
Yanna Aiken – Hello, I am a 19 year
old that has been doing art since I can
remember, and seeing it progress and
my art forming it into something, not only
something other people are proud of, but
I am proud of it just the same. So I thank
you dearly for the support through the life
I have lived so far, and the life I will live in
the future.
Chretien Martinez – Attends Pima
Community College
Courtney Armstrong (3) – Courtney Hayes
Armstrong is the recipient of the Fall
2021 Margaret Sterling Award for poetry
at the University of Arizona, where she
is completing her bachelor’s degree in
English and Creative Writing. Her poetry
and fiction were published in the 2020
edition of SandScript. She was a finalist in
this year’s 2021 Tucson Festival of Books
Literary Awards Competition for fiction,
poetry, and creative nonfiction. Her love
for writing comes second only to her love
for her two sons, Hayes and Blaze. (3) Also
on Poetry
Josie Lugo (She/Her) – At 21 years old, Josie
has poured all her courage and trust into
a single goal: create stories about strong
females and prove that they are powerful,
beautiful, and capable of anything and
everything. This story was her first to be
published but she firmly believes that it will
not be her last. As time goes on, she hopes
you will continue to come across her
name and enjoy her work.”
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Mora Hedayati – Mora is a mom, a doula,
and an artist. She is currently taking
courses at Pima Community College to
fulfill her eventual goal of becoming a
nurse midwife. She hopes to continue
expressing her thoughts in writing and
would love to write/illustrate a children’s
book one day.
Nadia Celaya-Alcalá – My name is Nadia
Celaya-Alcalá. I am 15 years old and am
currently studying general education at
Pima. I plan to transfer to The University
of Arizona in the fall to study Dance and
Political Science. Some of my favorite
pastimes are dancing, cooking, and
writing.
Raymond Butler – A Navajo from Arizona
who grew up on the reservation. Retired
from a law enforcement career. Began
taking classes at PCC.
Poetry
A.Z. Martinez – Martinez is a young tutor
with aspirations of professional writing.
Creatively oriented, with a drive for
creativity and telling stories.
Alexa Lewis – Attends Pima Community
College
Arial Autumn – Writing is only one of Arial
Autumn’s many creative pursuits. She also
enjoys painting Gundam Models, film and
photography, and sword play. She is a
world traveler who published her first book
of poetry in 2015. She is currently attending
Pima Community College, while living in
Arizona with her partner and daughter
. She considers all of her poetry a single
anthology, thus she titles her poems with
numbers.
Carol Korhonen – Carol Spitler Korhonen
came to Tucson from Michigan in 1978
after one too many encounters with icy
highways. After ten years of teaching
school and twenty years of practicing law,
she retired and tried her hand at writing.
Some kindly writer friends suggested she
could use some help and suggested a
class at Pima and she has been taking
writing classes ever since. Carol thanks
her husband, children and grandchildren
for their unwavering support and
encouragement.
Chacara Thomas – Chacara Thomas was
born in Milwaukee, WI, in 1996. Growing
up, she developed a love for music,
which transformed into a passion for
creative writing, music production, and
performing arts. As a hip-hop/performing
artist, Chacara uses her voice and lyrics to
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uplift communities, peers, and even herself
at times. She has been a part of several
benefit shows, raising funds for important
causes in her hometown Milwaukee.
She is proud to have performed in Black
Renaissance here in Tucson, AZ, 2019,
contributing to the small community of
local African American creators.
Christopher Valenzuela (They/Them) – is
a Tucson born writer and poet. Their
work focuses on their relationship with
substance abuse and understanding/
deconstructing their intersecting identities
as a non-binary, Chicanx, queer artist.
Diogo Tobin – Attends Pima Community
College
Spring 2020 lengthy battle, were answered
with his composition and delivery of the
Keynote address to the graduating class
(YouTube,2020), several degrees and
certificates in Social Services/ Social Work,
and necessary completion of intercultural
perspective in the Fall 2020 Semester.
Iris Hill (They/Them) – Iris Hill is currently an
English major at Pima Community College.
They plan to transfer to the University
of Arizona to continue their education
in hopes of becoming a middle school
English teacher. They are currently working
on their first book of poetry aimed to be
released come Leo season. They currently
reside in Tucson, Arizona with their partner
and cat, Gaston.
Elena Acuna – Attends Pima Community
College
Esmeralda Garcia – Attends Pima
Community College
George Key – Key’s image, Esperanza,
(Hope), reflects upon tragedies survived
and God’s daily bread gift of appreciated
beauty. This consecutive fourth year
of being chosen for publication in the
Sandscript was an honor received in
both poetry and photography. The
challenges of the pandemic, due to a
Jazmin Garcia – I was born in Tucson and
moved to California when I was 11 years
old. After 10 years of hardship, I moved
back to Tucson. The 3 poems were all
inspired by important events in my life;
falling in love, growing up and naturally
parting ways with my sister, and losing a
loved one. I speak English and Spanish
and come from Mexican descent. I
like art, reading, writing, and watching
movies.
Kentaro Herder (He/Him) – Language was
a barrier between my grandmother and
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me. She and I would sit with a pen and
paper. I’d write the ABC’s while she drew
spirals and asked what design should
be on her next rug. We’d communicate
with nods. This is how I met poetry. I grew
up in Kayenta, Arizona on the Navajo
Nation. I am honored to present my love
for language to you. I am thankful for
the SandScript staff and for the amazing
professors that tug on my words like little
me tugging the frays of my grandma’s
rugs.
Luke Cottrell – Luke Cottrell is a singersongwriter
and visual artist from
Oceanside, CA. He moved to Tucson, AZ
in 2019. Find his music by searching Luke
Cottrell on Spotify, iTunes, YouTube, Apple
Music, etc. Instagram: lukecottrell
Luke Eriksson – Luke Eriksson is a writer
from Lexington Massachusetts, a student
at both New York University and Pima
Community College, and currently lives
in Tucson, Arizona. He enjoys writing
about topics such as longing, addiction/
sobriety, and the passage of time. He can
be reached by email at eriksson.Luke.b@
gmail.com, on instagram at Luke_Eriksson,
or on twitter at ErikssonLuke.
M. J. Copic – M. J. Copic is a writer of
speculative fiction living in Tucson, Arizona.
This is her first publication.
Mara Durán – A wife and a mother is the
one who ensures dreams take their shape.
A psychotherapist by profession. Master in
Brief Therapy, lecturer, workshop leader,
inspirational speaker, passionate learner,
and lifelong lover of letters and literature.
As she writes, she finds worlds that do not
have the words to be described. These
are metaphors, stories, and poems that
encourage us to self-reflect. She seeks to
break down barriers that impede growth
and promote emotional strength in human
beings. She is a collector of memories.
She bathes in doses of reality that splashes
with fantasy while she navigates the
uncertainty provoked by verses, endless
verses, one and a hundred, that awaken
dreams.
Mark Anthony Ferguson – Attends Pima
Community College
Mauricia Manuel – Mauricia Manuel is
a mother of four and has been working
towards her goal of becoming an author.
She is a member of the Tohono O’odham
Nation. Her love for words and history
inspires her writing and hopes for it to be a
positive influence within the community.
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Michele Worthington – Attends Pima
Community College
Raiden Lopez – Raiden is a proud single
mom, a writer, a singer, an editor, and an
honors student at PCC until she transfers
to the U of A fall of 2022, who is working
towards being a book editor and publicist
as her chosen career. “I want to help
others bring their stories to life and be
the absolute best they could possibly be.
That is why I always dreamed of being an
editor, my dream is already coming true
and I’m loving every minute of it.”
Salina Riggs-Molina (She/Her) – Salina is a
native Tucsonan, a self-proclaimed data
nerd, and a nonprofit professional. Poetry
is her voice, her vice, and her means
of creative expression. She’ll never truly
understand the complexities of being,
but she loves the process of trying to
understand.
Samantha Barrera – Samantha Barrera
is a British-born and raised mother of
two. Samantha came to America under
troubled circumstances, but she has not
let adversity stop her from achieving her
dreams. Presently, Samantha is pursuing
her Forensic Psychology degree at Pima
Community College and is eager to
become accepted at James E. Rogers
College of Law thereafter. Samantha
appreciates that we live in a world where
it is easy to lose sight of our purpose
and sense of happiness. Thus, she wrote
The Book of Life to inspire others to take
control of their life, and to encourage
those who are facing their own adversity
or hardship to never cease their efforts in
overcoming.
Sierra Vigil – Attends Pima Community
College
Solace Bergman – Attends Pima
Community College
T. Gullett (He/Him) – T. Gullett is a writer,
artist, and trans creator interested
in sharing stories of queer happiness
combined with genre fiction. Through
his written work, he explores his own
experiences of identity and yearning. He’s
not 100% sure where his time at Pima will
take him, but he’s excited for the journey.
He would like to thank his friends and
family who have supported his creative
endeavors, as well as the teachers who
have played a part in him getting here.
This is his first time being published.
Travis Cooper (He/Him) – Travis is a preengineering
student who has lived in
Tucson all his life. He writes poetry and
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short stories that include paranormal and
macabre elements.
Veronica Martinez – Veronica Martinez
is a 20 year old from Tucson that has
been writing fiction stories since she was
a child, but did not begin to write poetry
until taking an introductory poetry writing
course at Pima Community College in
the Fall of 2020. Since then, Veronica has
found interest and inspiration to write
poetry from daily life and the historical
events that young people are currently
living through. Veronica is now studying
Creative Writing at the University of
Arizona and plans to continue to write
poetry throughout her life, along with
writing horror and fantasy fiction.
Zoe is a Pima 2021 graduate on her way
towards a career in graphic design.
However, you can always find her with a
pen in her hand and a poem on her mind.
Yareli Sanchez – The percentage of
young Americans experiencing certain
types of mental health disorders has
risen significantly over the past decade.
Yareli Sanchez (24), focuses her writing on
depression and anxiety. Yareli wrote Dying
to let the reader know a brief description
of what a person goes through when
having an anxiety attack. Sandscript
published another piece of hers and you
can read it in the 2020 magazine.
Zoë Galmarini – With a strong passion for
the arts and an eye for all things creative,
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MEET OUR TEAM
Editor-in-Chief & Managing Editor
Assistant Editor & Visual Art Editor
Raiden Lopez (She/Her) is an English
Literature major at Pima College, with
plans to pursue Creative Writing at the
University of Arizona to become a book
editor. She is a proud single mother to
an amazing son, who enjoys all types of
music and loves to sing. Reading and
writing are her passions and hopes to do
them happily for the rest of her life.
Stephany Rocha (She/Her) is a Liberal
Arts major at Pima Community College
who plans to study journalism and minor
in marketing and p.r. at the University
of Arizona. She plans to use her degree
to become a media editor or book
editor. Writing is her passion and loves
to read a great book to de-stress. When
she is not writing or reading, she can be
found at work, petting her two dogs or
embroidering a new shirt!
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Assistant Editor
Social Media Manager, Director of
Achives & Poetry Editor
Jesse Shinn (He/Him) can be found
working on his novel, spending time
with his cats, or playing with his friends
online. He’s a liberal arts major with his
sights on an English degree to aid him
in venturing into the world of literary
publishing.
Maria Servellon (They/Them) is pursuing
an Associates in Science and is planning
on transferring to a four-year university
to pursue their studies in Cell and
Developmental Biology. Maria considers
themselves a patron of the arts, and
firmly believes that art speaks for those
who cannot. In their spare time, Maria
does cancer research, watches entire
seasons of animated TV shows, and
orders Thai food through DoorDash.
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Industry Outreach Coordinator & Prose
Editor
Prose Editor
Madison Copic (She/Her) is an English
major at Pima who plans to study
Creative Writing at the University of
Arizona in the fall of 2021. Writing is
her passion, and she particularly loves
fantasy and horror. When she’s not
editing, writing, or reading, you can find
her roller skating at the park, playing
Dungeons and Dragons, or pampering
her cat.
Iris Gonzalez-Hill (They/Them) is currently
an English major at Pima Community
College. They plan to transfer to the
University of Arizona to continue their
education in hopes of becoming a
middle school English teacher. They are
currently working on their first book of
poetry aimed to be released come Leo
season. They currently reside in Tucson,
Arizona with their partner and cat,
Gaston.
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Poetry Editor
Visual Art Editor
Ocean Washington is a young father,
a 3.9-4.0 GPA student, an aspiring
ethnographer regarding human
behavior, a BMX’er, and lover of people
interaction. Ocean’s core competency
revolves around storytelling. His goal
is to enter the film industry after he
completes a contract with one of the
United States academies for military
officers.
Mariah Gastelum (She/Her) is a student
at Pima Community College who is
currently finishing an Associates in
English with plans to transfer to the
University of Arizona and major in
creative writing. “I was really glad to
be apart of the SandScript team and
to have a magazine this year, things
have been out of the norm with this
pandemic. Covid-19 has taught me
how fast it can take a persons life and
how distance gives us more reasons to
love harder.”
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Graphic Design Editor
Faculty Advisor
Cynthia Drumond is a business
administrator, and she is pursuing a
second career as a graphic designer.
During the college years, she worked
as a volunteer managing social
media content, did an internship, and
freelanced developing brand identities,
marketing strategies, and websites.
She won six student awards given by
AAF - American Advertising Federation
in categories such as logo design,
rebranding, poster design, and video
advertising campaign.
Frankie Rollins relishes the alchemy
of working with the intelligent, artistic,
and progressive students in English
and Honors at Pima Community
College. Along with teaching, Frankie
is fiercely devoted to writing and
publishing her own prose, publishing
a flash fiction novella, The Grief
Manuscript (Finishing Line Press, May
2020), releasing a collaborative
video, The Grief Manuscript Video
on Youtube (https://www.youtube.
com/watch?v=j71Y4cEnaqQ) and a
collection of short fiction, The Sin Eater &
Other Stories (Queen’s Ferry Press, 2013).
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