Windward Review: Empathy and Entropy

Empathy and Entropy
WINDWARD REVIEW Vol. 19, 2021

Empathy
and
Entropy
WINDWARD REVIEW
Vol. 19, 2021

Empathy and Entropy
Managing Editor
Dylan Lopez
Co-Managing Editor
Raven Reese
Senior Editor
Zoe Elise Ramos Jmj
Associate Editors
Ellianna Nejat |Sophia Brewer |Nico Montalvo |Chloe Swan-Rybalka
|Cayley Benavides |Mathew Mendoza |Estevan Martinez |Christine
Farrow |Nick Shirley |Cadence Olivarez |Aubrey Arismendez |Charity
McCoy |Renee Hernandez-Garza |Elijah Esquivel |Kristopher Thompson
|Kaylani Phillips|Camille Townsend |Juan Eguia |Danielle Johnson
|Students of ENGL 4385: Studies in Creative Writing: Literary
Publishing, Windward Review, Spring 2021
Art Editor
Sheena Peppler
Social Media Team
Raven Reese | Breanna Gustin | Jay Janca
Assistant Social Media Team
Amanda King | Cheyenne Sanchez | Natalie Williams
Design Team
Dr. Manny Pina | Students of ENGL 3378: Document Design and
Publishing, Spring 2021
Design Leads
Halli Castro | Zoe Elise Ramos Jmj
Faculty Advisor
Dr. Robin Carstensen
Cover Art
Leticia R. Bajuyo “Event Horizon at Peak Shift”, CD/DVD art installation
at SITE Gallery Houston/ Silos at Sawyer Yard, Houston, TX,
Oct. 13 - Dec. 1, 2018; Photography by Nick Sanford; Curated by Dr.
Volker Eisele, Director/Founder of ArtScan

Funding and Support provided
by Texas A&M Univiversity-
Corpus Christi English Department
| Paul and Mary Haas
Endowment
WR is supported by Islander
Creative Writers, the TAMU-CC
creative writing club run by President
Dylan Lopez. Find ICW on
Facebook, Instagram, & Twitter
(@Islander Creative Writers)
Windward Review, journal
and blog: https://www.tamucc.
edu/liberal-arts/windward-review/index.php
Also find us on Facebook, Instagram,
& Twitter (@WindwardReview)
Table of Contents
Letter from the Senior Editor
John Stocks.............................8
Meditation on February Snow
Sergio Godoy...........................9
Glitched Body
Your soft touch on my skin
Out of
Allan Lake...............................11
The Audio Record
Erica Engel..............................12
Functional
Andrena Zawinski.................. 18
Three’s a Crowd
Veins of Coal
Michelle Hartman...................20
Becoming aware
realization
Have a great day?
Becky Busby Palmer..............21
A Mother’s Job
Snakes at Sundown
Love Triangle
Chinyin Oleson......................23
My Day a Misplaced Universe
Belly from Hell
Firecrackers
Cissy Tabor............................26
Magnificent Murmation
ire’ne lara silva......................27
In this dream of blue horses
Macaela Carder......................28
The Ties That Bind
A Whittenberg........................33
Life slips
Jamaican Holiday, 2006
ENDNOTES
Vendela Cavanaugh................34
Unsprung
Floret
Nick Hone................................36
Shadow and Ash

Alan Berecka...........................41
The Hell of It
Ron Wallace............................42
How Not to Be a Housepainter
(For Sioux)
Dragon
Dinosaur
Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton...45
Hanna
Subtropical Herbarium
Theodore Hodges...................47
Red from Shipping and Receiving
Jacob Benavides.....................55
ink
Limb Love
Morning
The Exhibitionist
Jacobus Marthinus Barnard...58
The Aftermath of Childhood
Dear Chamomile,
My First Heartbreak
I am the Rain
Harriet Stratton......................59
An Ear to the Ground
Chad Valdez............................60
Refractions
Nicholas S. Pagano.................69
Celosia
Jane Vincent Taylor................70
Time Off the Path
Some Things I Know About
My Keeper
My Next Door
Leticia R. Bajuyo.....................73
Visual Poetry Using Player Piano Rolls
Longing for Belonging
Cameron Adams.................76
A Paradise’s Memory
Captured by a Student:
The Silhouette Painted by a
Hallway’s Words
Arrie Barnes Porter............77
Ode to a Fat Girl
Jill Ocone............................78
Molly in My Heart
Crystal McKee.....................81
Humanity in Media
Matthew Tavares................84
god’s Current Perspective on Humanity
Pop Quiz
Drive-thru Psychosis
Michelle Eccellente Stevenson....87
What Right Did You Have
Bob May...............................88
It’s Just This Year
Scott D. Vander Ploeg.........98
The Threat of Shelter
Jayne-Marie Linguist.........101
Float
Shawnna
Riot
Devyn Jessogne.................103
Can You Still Believe I’m Sane?
Phantom Illness
Portrait of Your Heart
Katie Higinbotham.............105
Love Letters into the Void
Joseph Tyler Wilson..........108
[Until the wet now January gale]
Pavanne for Jessica
Neil deGrasse Tyson on the Radio
Katherine Hoerth...............110
Beauty As An Invasive Species
Busted Ear Drum
Jimena Burnett..................112
A Triptych Ten Thousand
JE Trask..............................114
Longing for Love
Roleplay: What We Seek What We
Think We Seek
___ by ___
Song – for Jennifer
Danger
Jog from books laptops science
CeAnna Heit.......................119
memory clots

Crystal Garcia.......................124
Transient Lives (Density of Seconds)
Leticia R. Bajuyo..................126
Event Horizon at Peak Shift
Christina Hoag.....................128
The Couch
Mark A. Fisher......................135
all we see or seem
Melody Wang.......................136
Clumsy
fleeting
Minoti Vaishnav...................137
Lasso
Stefan Sencerz.....................140
People on the Beach or Existentialism
in the Art of Walking the Dogs
Hope Meierkort....................148
Of the Earth We Seek
Staring into the Void
Barrio Writers 2021
Raven Reese........................151
Letter from Co-Managing Editor
Ani Eubank...........................150
A Bird
Free and Wild
Austin Martinez...................153
The Window
Julieanne Sandoval.............154
Maybe I’ll Never Know your Name
Emma Ryan LeBlanc...........155
song bird
Ernesto Gonzalez................156
One day
Jacob Claunch.....................157
Why I Write
Take a Smile
Joseph Fulginiti...................158
The Barrio Writers
Julia Fulginiti.......................159
I am The Reader
If I Could Build a World
Mackenzie Childs.................161
Frail Fawns
Leonel Monsivais.................162
My Fairy God Mother
A Voice That Sails The Stormy Sea
Okami
Matthew Gomez..................163
The Memories You Bring Back
Aurora Felicita Salas-Cano....164
My Last Call for Help
Parker
Three in the Morning
Sophie Johnson....................167
Elegy of a Memory
the Real me?
Xander Garcia.......................168
In the wake of my tears
It’s the everyday lessons
Original Song for the Things
They Carried
Contributors’ Notes .................170

Letter from the SENIOR Editor
This 19th volume, Empathy and Entropy 2021, has been ~735 days in the
making. i will let that sink in, mostly for myself. i have written, rewritten, and remixed
this letter multiple times in hopes of publishing in summer 2022, fall 2022, winter
2022, and finally now. In this version, i think of my words as an apology. Please imagine
that we are sitting in the same room and that i am speaking directly to you. Forgive
my misspellings or poorly chosen diction--i have to write this my way. As well, my
words are much less important than the works contained in this volume. But honesty
is all that i love to give and i am grateful for the opportunity to provide honesty to you.
To all contributors and collaborators that have been waiting, you have never
been forgotten. With the amount of time that i have spent reading and contemplating
the works in this volume, i can say that each piece embodies what nothing else can.
Though i have agonized over creating a story around Empathy and Entropy, the pieces
in this volume speak for themselves. There are irreplaceable textures and confluences
of senses and experiences that don’t have a name yet. Though i am a no-one-editor,
each work in here is a world of its own that i haven’t finished exploring and never will.
i have tried for so long to talk to other editors about how much of a difference
it makes when you understand creators, beginners or professionals, as people.
Because there are infinite dimensions in your own work that you don’t even see.
Badness, ugliness, and mistakes somehow become perfect in their material form. This
type of sight takes practice to learn, but at this point, this sight never leaves me. My
only gift is my ability to see these deeper textures. The role of an editor is to share
this sight with readers through the architexture of this journal.
i will say frankly that i wanted to do more to bring materialist influences
into this volume; the contrast of “Empathy and Entropy” is something that i am still
contemplating intensely and mapping out within a humanistic framework. But like everything,
there is a lack of finishment to this creative product of Empathy and Entropy.
Unfinishment seems to be a natural quality of all artforms. Because finality would
entail that a material product is precisely the sum of its parts. When in reality, ink on
paper is so much more than ink on paper;
in fact, it is infinitely more. i will not deny this any longer-- as much as the
concrete world seems to have itself figured out, what is material is infinitely divisible,
and what is supposed by desultory definitions and cultural predicates... do not end
the story of what it perceived in any artform. The materiality of art is so physical and
abrupt in its intentionality that arises both from a skillful command of crafts as well
as an intuition or human ache. This is so much so that the material art becomes immaterial
much more easily (in perception and feeling) than other things of this world.
It cannot be supposed that an artform is not alive enough to have a voice of its own,
nor can it be assumed that an artist knows what they have created in abundance. This
should be freeing.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
My specialty, i hope, is to help creators perceive these infinite textures and
living tissues within their own artforms and others’. But infinity is very hard to work
with when you are an imperfect graduate student editor like myself. This is why the
editorial process of WR is something that myself and my team have been refining
for years. Humanistic editing is the term i started using back in 2019. Back then, my
goal was simple and impassioned: respond to each submission personally, give every
submission your full attention, and assume that you as a reviewer are biased;
in fact, understand yourself as a receptacle of bias; meditate on these considerations
of the “good” and the “bad” in writing for so long that they unwind and
don’t make sense. Then, the “good” and the “bad” in relation to art are seen for what
they are: poles---obstacles---, a cultural dichotomy that prevents the possibility of

seeing the extradimensions or intradimensions to creative activity. You can touch and
feel prejudice as much as you can touch and feel what is material. That is why the
unreal dimensions of art are much more real than the things thought of as good or
bad.
There is a numbness that occurs when the editor does not realize this, there
is a reproduction of the same and more of the same, using more of the same practices
that promote the same. But when “good-bad” terms become non-axiomatic to
your editorial praxis, you don’t have to reinforce cultural expectations that you never
consented to. The editor’s role too is to inspect what they inadvertently consent to by
and through their process.
That is why my style of humanistic editing is never concerned with qualifying
“goodness”. i desire instead to literally make the creative architexture for a space of
creative freedom. Of course this path implies that “freedom” itself is an intrinsic good,
which is a stance that i have to qualify. So, i will note that i am not interested in my
own editorial freedom intrinsically. But my editorial freedom is necessary if i am to
build up a space for creators’ freedom.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Transparency and empathy are everything. That is why i take ownership of
WR’s process-based failures while creating this volume-- it was never in my intention
to take three years to get this journal to print. Make no mistake, i have ruminated
frequently about the feelings and needs of contributors and this has caused me pain.
Because we work with every level of creator/ writer, including some that are publishing
for the first time, which is a daunting experience. And other contributors have
simply been inconvenienced by my lack of tact. Honestly, it hurts me personally to not
have the time to communicate authentically with each contributor, through email or
otherwise. Really, it just burns and i have spent too much time burying myself deeper
into bad feelings in some poetic demise, as i say, drawing pictures of myself along the
way.
As a lead editor, i have clearly made the choice of (in the background) setting
the right foundations/ values for our publication as opposed to setting up for efficiency.
i admit that my emphasis on foundations and intentional work is what has made
production so slow with this volume. But this slowness should not be misconstrued
as a lack of care for you. i believe that you specifically are weaved into our editorial
framework. And you specifically with your patience have assisted us in building up
towards an editing style that is empathetic, nurturing, and socially aware. In fact, the
most painful failures (in embodying this empathetic style) are what we have learned
the most from and used in our building blocks.
We have absolutely not reached our potential yet. i admit that perfection is
my goal--conceptually, with our structure and our ability to reflexively engage with
creators and readers. You might query why “perfection” is my goal. The reason is that
a creative journal is a necessary interlocution, an infinitely dimensioned story where
each contributor is entangled with the existences of other contributors, readers, and
even editors. Some creators do not see the potential in their own work until we provide
this story. Nothing less than the seeking of perfection is a worthy pursuit when
an editor becomes aware of this.
In case no one has told you so yet, every submission that we receive is a
unique lifeform that deserves its own journal or parade of support and adoration. This
much i know. Yet, it is impossible to provide this much to every single person. This is
a tragic thing that i know very well. Still, i have experienced first hand that not-forprofit
creative journals fill a special community need that nothing else does. Thank you
for being an irreplaceable part of our story and growth. With infinite love and infinite
thanks,
Zoe Elise Ramos Jmj

John Stocks
Meditation on February Snow
Still unblessed by the benefice of sleep
I stir, unfurl and sit. Imagining the snow
thickening outside, slowly by degrees, under
a soft, anorthite, yellowing moon.
Night shift workers who sigh as one, across the valley
where the low rumble of a distant train
west bound, through villages, over tors and moors
enables beleaguered Silver Birch and Ash
to shiver off their tremulous white load.
I imagine the empty offices, lights tripped
by foxes, cats, rough sleepers.
The Glen’s in Scotland where at minus twenty-three
half-starved Blue Tits freeze, and tumble from trees.
And I think of my dead father who
sometimes visits me in dreams
as if it is the most natural thing to do,
with words of wisdom, frail as gossamer
that dissipate, like morning mist.
Then, I imagine the underpass, where the lost
battered and bewildered, share their last cider
a rug, a fag, a fix, a slug, a sarnie.
Knowing, someone may disappear tonight
culled by the bitter Siberian wind.
leaving little more than a blanket
a sleeping bag and hope behind.
Trip off the edge of their uncertain world
the fragile, floundering, ship of life.
Windward Review: Vol. 19
8

Sergio Godoy
Glitched Body
It starts by making sense.
I give you sense
and
meaning.
and here you are with all the
meaning and
all the
words that
form you. Look at you.
You have this hair
this eyes
this lips
this ass
You like this toy
that wig
those shoes
You are either
or.
I clothe you, I give you
skin and bones
with my text. I give you
body. I embody you.
Then you stop
making
sense.
Then your clothes don’t fit
you, your skin chokes
you, my words
start killing
you
suffocate.
Will you let me hurt
you?
Will you let my words confuse and
destroy
you?
Divest from the language that created
you.
Don’t let the text confine
you,
be free, unnameable,
untraceable.
STOP
MAKING
SENSE
9
Empathy / Entropy

Your soft touch on my skin
My words are tied to the past
and I
can’t untether myself from them
I can’t I’m not I wish I was I’m
not
free
I am man I am not man I am
body I am not body I am
question I am not an inquiry I
am
me I am not me I am
her I am not her I am
they I am not them I am
and there is no
words.
Sergio Godoy
Caress my tits and
find the words
behind your fingers
as they come inside
me.
That is the only way.
Out of
These systems
there’s chaos.
Let the markets crash to
find the rivers.
Let democracy fail to
walk the forests.
Let your gender vanish to
embrace the mountains
and
once that’s done
let yourself die to
make way for the future.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 10

Allan Lake
The Audio Record
Plane overhead, car on the street,
neighbour at clothesline talks too loud
in, what, Greek? Apartment blocks seem
quiet until we listen. Water running, dripping,
being heated, muffled TV voices, bass notes.
I sit at my desk, a solitary pane from garden,
where birds speak foreign languages that
aren’t taught in school. Clock softly tocks.
Laptop, like me, breathes, vulnerable to viruses
that tell systems to shut the fuck up.
Unlike computers, I have fear but it’s nearly
time for coffee which means an explosion
of sound; I microwave mute muffin as well.
Thinking is dead quiet but I snuffle, sneeze;
it’s pollen season. Rain droplets t-tap
on windows, on leaves, roof, dry earth.
Those beats, syllables born of a bang
on its way everywhere –
silence was unsustainable to something.
11 Empathy / Entropy

Functional
Erica Engel
When they cut her brother down from the tree, his body hit the
ground with the hushed thud of something no longer alive--as if his body was
now a sack of groceries that met the ground after a standard Sunday shopping
trip. Emily had tried not to think about how her grandfather had also
chosen hanging--how did that work? Did the suicidal just go through an arsenal
of potential ways to go and then settle on the one that made them pause?
Made them smile with a contented air and say, “ah, yes, that’s the way.”
In her memory, she was not crying, but like a TV mistakenly set on
mute, she kept trying to hear her voice intermingling with others that night,
but found herself to be soundless and motionless amidst the chaos that
surrounded them. Perhaps she was still hopeful that he was alive, that a last
ditch breath would emerge from his lungs the way it did after he’d dived into
the deep end of the pool one summer and had to be pulled out by the lifeguard.
The breaths never came. He was gone. Her brother was dead.
No one was surprised, no one was relieved, but there was a weight
lifted all the same. His spirit had withdrawn so long ago and now his body had
finally caught up like a badly buffered video. It wasn’t the first attempt--just
the first time he succeeded.
She thought that she had escaped that darkness until she began to
read the articles about genetics and suicide. How could anyone outrun genetics?
The family legacy that had haunted the corners of her mind had always
ignored her, but now, the voices seemed to notice her and to be whispering
to her, well, perhaps, now it was a step above whisper, and it was as if the
voices had become seductive--captivating, tempting, almost inviting.
It had started at the drop off line at Lumi’s school one day during the
fall--it started as anxiety--what if you weren’t around to pick up your daughter?
What would you do?
Then, It would all get worked out, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to
worry about it. Life would go on. Life might even be better for Lumi.
Lumi’s father would have to come back in the picture, and he
would seem to be the more functional parent. Oh the irony. Spite was almost
enough to keep her going, to push back these unwanted cocktail party
conversations with death in her mind, but sometimes, she agreed with them.
Perhaps life would be easier for everyone.
Today was Lumi’s Christmas pageant--she needed to get out of the
car, yet she couldn’t make herself move. That was the stupid depression that
had set up camp in her limbs, and her bones, and her brain.The depression
that was so heavy. She made her way out of the car and into the building
with extremities that felt as if they had been weighed down by every decision
Windward Review: Vol. 19
12

she’d put off, every wrong turn that she’d made. The pills in her purse moved
in rhythm with her walk. She found the sound comforting. Now, they were the
sound of freedom.
Lumi was 5. This would be adorable in the way that childhood up to
about eight was adorable. Then, it all became almost standard, not quite as
cute, in line for posturing teenage fare. It would be a shit show too. These
kind of events were exhausting with their play acting, and fake laughs and
promises to volunteer at the next event. She wasn’t even sure if she would be
around for the next event.
The only seat she found readily available was by the mysterious
single father of the school--dark hair that went past his ears, a Nirvana shirt,
wonderful bone structure. She’d never seen him interact with anyone. Now
she would basically have to give the dude a lapdance to find her way to her
seat.
“Excuse me, sorry,” she said as she tried to shimmy past without
touching him. She was surprised at how vapid she sounded. She pushed
the stupid voices away--I’m at a fucking school event--not now. I’m going to
watch my daughter for crying out loud.
“No problem” he said as he scrunched his legs towards him in fetal
position to let her by in the small aisle.
“Late,” she said, not really to him, but in general.
“Time to spare,” he said staring straight ahead.
The cafeteria was loud, the acoustics not designed for actual conversation
and she felt herself becoming overcome with overstimulation. As she
fumbled with her purse, it dawned on her that he may have been saving the
seat for someone--shit. It also occurred to her just how giant her purse was.
What in the fuck was she thinking she was going to be carrying around when
she bought it? Thoughts like this, that seemed so trivial, would get her down,
would dial those stupid voices up again. She took a deep breath and looked
towards this man who was such a mystery. She’d seen all the mom’s checking
him out, trying to talk to him, and he was polite, nice, but never flirty. He had
to have a girlfriend, or a wife, or a secret gay lover somewhere.
He was much better looking up close. She’d always seen him from
a distance--now he was stuck sitting next to her and her giant handbag with
that giant bottle of sleeping pills with a name on the label that wasn’t hers.
She could feel some of the other women’s eyes on her--she was used to the
judgement, but now it was mixed in with awe and confusion. She glanced at
his hand--no wedding ring.
“I’m trying to have a better attitude about all this stuff,” he said gesturing
towards the makeshift stage.
“Oh, I stopped trying that a long time ago,” she said as she took out
her cellphone and pressed the camera icon.
He smiled. “Oh yeah? How’s that working out for you?”
13
Empathy / Entropy

She put her hands up in surrender. “It’s not.”
His voice was deep--nice sounding. He’d sound good on audiobooks.
She found this admirable, as she loved them. She stuck her hand in her purse
and felt for the pills. They were safe. Good. She wanted to hear him talk
again.
“Do you work?” she asked. Damn, that was abrupt. Of course he did.
Everyone worked.
“Sports writer. Most of my events happen later in the day. So I can
come to things like this.”
“Oh.”
“You?”
“What? Do I work? Yes.” She didn’t offer any more information.
“At least you have a good view for pictures,” he said.
Pictures. That’s what she was supposed to be worried about. She
pressed the photo icon again. It switched to selfie mode. Fuck.
“I feel like people here are afraid of me or something,” he said. He
was not fishing. He seemed perplexed. She took the phone out and began to
press it out of habit more than interest.
“You’re a young, single dad who actually looks good in a tee shirt.
You don’t see that too often. Then you have that slightly 90’s broody thing
going.”
“So I should add a pot belly?”
“Probably wouldn’t hurt,” she said. “I mean, that’s if you want to be
part of the humble brag crowd and talk about how quickly kids read or get
potty trained or whatever. I mean, I don’t have time for that.”
“I should have talked to you sooner.”
She felt her cheeks redden.She wanted to look at him, but she
couldn’t. The play, or pageant, or whatever the hell they were calling it now
had started. A fat woman with over highlighted hair had gotten into her picture
window and she was having a hard time getting a photo of Lumi. Without
speaking, mystery dad, who still had no name, took the camera and got a few
photos of the stage and handed the phone back.
What a man.
Lumi was smiling, laughing, clearly enjoying her turn as an ornament
that was missing from the tree. Her voice was adorably off key as she sang
the Christmas song that she’d been rehearsing for weeks. She hoped that the
voices that had found her never found Lumi. She was not meant for them.
What would Lumi remember about her if she was gone? Sometimes, she was
fun, others, she was sad. Is that how she would describe her mommy? As a
sad lady who used to write, and used to be married?
Windward Review: Vol. 19
14

After the play was over, the kids were allowed to say hello to their
parents. Lumi was perfection and Emily hugged her close and listened to her
excited squeals and giggles, and ‘did you see me?’ that poured out of her. She
was the kind of child anyone would miss. She was an easy child. Emily knew
that if she waited too long, Lumi would never bounce back. She was still young
enough to shake her stupid suicidal mother from her life.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him hugging and kissing a little
girl who looked nothing like him. She must take after her mother. Off they
went back to class, and she sighed at the thought of making her way back
into the reality where handsome strangers didn’t talk to her, and her daughter
wasn’t taking her breath away with her very existence.
She could hear the pills crash against each other each time her purse
moved, so she made it sway back and forth.
“Coffee?” she heard behind her.
“Yes,” she said with absolutely no hesitation. They began to make
their way to the back of the cafeteria--the lunch ladies were beginning to chat
loudly, throwing their pans around creating clatter and clanging. She could
feel the other mom’s eyes on her--these women who had never really paid her
any mind, now wondering, almost out loud, “her?” Those women who had it
all together in their work out clothes or Chico’s catalog outfits were wondering
how the woman dressed all in black was leaving with mystery daddy.
And even though it had been years since she had been able to actively
feel haughty, and a part of her wanted to grin at them, she knew that all of
this was putting off something inevitable. But, coffee would be nice.
…
Now, she could feel his eyes on her as she fixed her coffee. He, his
name was Sam, had not been shy about observing her. She could sense
amusement, surprise? Yes, she was meticulous--it was in her nature, always,
planning down to the last minute or drop of creamer.
“So what do you do?”
She stopped stirring her coffee. “Like, with my life? I’m a writer. I
wrote a novel a few years back. Some asshole even bought the movie rights.”
He sat back, “no shit.”
“Yeah. It didn’t even sell that well, so, it’ll probably be a shitty movie
too,” she sipped her coffee. “You?”
“Me? I’m a sports writer.”
“Right, you said that. Two writers. I’ve seen how that pans out.”
“What do you mean?”
“My ex is a writer. But, he’s never been published. Me selling the novel,
well, that was the beginning of the end.”
He regarded her now. Almost if he was reappraising a property. “He
15
Empathy / Entropy

left because of ego?”
“Oh no. He’s much more cliched than that. He taught English Lit. He
was older than me. He traded up. I hit 27 and he needed a new model.”
She cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure what to make of his expression
now.
“So, Lumi?” he asked.
“She was about a year old when he left.”
She noticed something, a flash of recognition in his eyes, as if he had
just focused, just seen her. It made her nervous.
“OK. Your turn,” she said.
He cleared his throat, shifted in his chair. “Scarlet’s mom?”
She’d put out of mind that the child’s name was Scarlet. Wow. “That’s
the one.”
“How’d you come up with Lumi? My wife came up with Scarlet.”
“You’re stalling.”
“It’s a weird name.”
“Not as weird as a Gone With the Wind reference.”
He nodded. “But is it short for something?”
“It’s Finnish for snow. I loved that. Fresh snow is beautiful, and luminous,
and that’s what she is.”
“She killed herself.”
She exhaled. That she was not expecting. She was imagining the wife
alive--she drove a BMW--she was a doctor’s wife now. She’d started off new
somewhere else. There was a vague scent of cigarettes and self loathing in
the car. She’d left her old life and never looked back.
“Wow.” She waited as long as she could. “How’d she do it?”
He furrowed his eyebrows. Shit. That was the wrong thing to ask.
Way to go, weirdo.
“She took a bunch of sleeping pills. I woke up and she was gone.”
“No wonder you never talk to anyone,” she said finally.
He laughed. “I guess so,” he said. “I’m a real joy.”
“My brother hung himself,” she said finally. “My grandpa killed himself
too.”
“This is really not how I expected all this to go,” he said.
“That’s weird because this is exactly what I expected.”
He laughed again. She wondered if he laughed often--with Scarlet,
or at work, or with friends, because surely, he was the kind of man who had
Windward Review: Vol. 19
16

friends.
“I want to see you again,” he said. “Believe it or not, this is the most
conversation I’ve had in awhile.”
…
That night, as she bathed Lumi, she noticed that the little chorus of
voices that usually whispered soothing ugliness in her ears had quieted down
to let her hear Lumi singing.
“Did you have a good day mama?” Lumi asked.
“Yes, baby. I did.”
She put her baby to bed, stroked her hair, breathed her in as she had
since the day she was born. She was not a perfect woman, or a great mother,
but in these moments, she always wanted to be better. She thought of
Scarlet, waking up to a different world that morning, of how some of this light
that Lumi had would be gone. What had he said? At first, she hadn’t asked
for her mother. It was as if she was waiting for her to come out of hiding in a
perpetual game of hide and seek--then she’d never come back. Those tears
must have been inconsolable.
She found her phone and paced around the house, looked at the
pictures, ran her hands over the counter. She found her purse, put her hand
on the bottle of pills, She pulled them out of her bag and heard them bounce
against each other.
She put down the pills and found his number in her phone.
“Coffee?” she texted.
…
The next day, they’d decided against coffee and instead were sitting
in Sam’s car waiting on their Sonic order. The girls were in school, their last
few days before Christmas break, and Emily felt as if she was going to have
to push back all her plans. Christmas would happen, and even though it was
horrible to think about, she was going to have to make her last appearances.
She could not take Christmas from Lumi.
Now, she sat and watched as Sam tapped on the steering wheel of
his car. His car was littered with newspapers, and scraps of papers with notes,
absolutely no evidence of any sort of female influence, aside from the booster
seat in the back, and the pre programed Disney Sirius XM station on his radio.
She kicked her bag to the side, aching to hear the familiar sound. There they
were, bouncing against each other, the sound of the pills bouncing against
each other almost like a rainstick.
When their food came, she ate almost self consciously, while he
squirted ketchup all over his tots and commenced to pick them out of the carton
with his mouth. He smiled at her. “Sorry, I’m used to eating on the road.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
17
Empathy / Entropy

Andrena Zawinski
Three’s
a Crowd
He slams down a bargain bouquet
on the checkout conveyor belt,
broadcasts it’s the third time
this month she kicked him out,
this urban cowboy sporting
an anchor beard and black stetson
leaning into the woman
in front of him, muttering
he forgot his ring last night.
Fourth deep in line, arms brimming
with a New Year’s resolution in celery,
carrots, kale, Lucky Supermarket’s
“3’s a Crowd” banner flags above heads.
She scans the scandal rag rack for
the latest celebrity downward spirals,
Hollywood’s worst boozers, wives laying
down laws, hoping for a new line to open.
Then those Snickers, nearly forfeiting her
fitness pledge.
He stretches past her for a Coke and
Mentos, pushes nearly spent blooms up
against her produce, asks what she thinks
about jealousy. She announces she is no
Dear Abby of the Checkout, eyes his sad
bouquet, then advises he go for Godivas
and Mum. He flips through Cosmos’ “Ten
Sexy Tips for Bedroom Bliss.”
On the way home, her sister Rosie
phones whining about the her boyfriend,
the latest with the live-aboard
sloop, complaining he was out all night,
star-studded promise ring in the soap
dish, swears his roses won’t fix this one,
not even dancing barefoot onboard
the Bronco’s slick deck, in her arms her
cowboy with a sailboat, then cuts the
connection.
Just then he lets himself into the
apartment, cellophane wrapped
roses in hand, neon clearance tag still
affixed. She plunges them headfirst
down the Insinkerator, petals flying
up against her flushed cheeks, shoves
him out the door, yelling: “The third
and last time this month,” jamming a
chair under the knob.
Digging through her cedar Hope Chest
turned giant junk drawer, she swaddles
herself inside a crazy quilt grandma
made celebrating graduations and
great jobs, all those weddings and
births. Breathing in the long woody
scent fixed in it, she flops onto the bed,
thinking three times really is a charm,
the crack and smack of thorny roses
still spinning inside the disposal drain,
the whir of them a deliriously wild and
final beautiful noise.
Windward Review: Vol. 19
18

Veins of Coal
Andrena Zawinski
Once winter settled across bituminous fields of the mine patch in Windber’s Hunky
Hollow, Marta and Stush shivered inside their weatherboarded duplex, at bedtime huddled
into each other like house wrens under eaves. In the morning, wood burning cook
stoves took the chill off. They cautioned their three girls to tread gingerly across newspaper
covered floorboards they could never afford to finish in the company housing,
theirs nothing like bossmen’s Queen Annes up on the hill with wraparound porches,
fireplaces, running water, and indoor bathrooms.
Some afternoons, alive with sun, Marta would schedule laundry by the way the wind
blew in from the colliery, her kids joining in the dance of clothes hanging, handing up
wooden pins and folding themselves inside fresh sheets between the outhouse and the
smokehouse. In the backdrop Eureka Mine No. 40’s coal cars fed the plant in a relentless
banging, screaming whine of blowers cleaning coal.
Everything on tick to grab-all stores, money moved like water through a bucket with
holes, paycheck deductions washing over mine owners until debt ticked off that never
would while barges swelled with profits fueling steel, rail, and electric industries, as
soot and ash clawed Stush’s and the other miners faces down in the dark holes.
Some three-hundred miles southwest in Beckley, West Virginia’s heart of coal country,
Mack liked to tipple and gamble, get rowdy with other miners after a hard day’s work.
But unlike the Windber women, his Katy was more of a church wife; Mack never knew
she was fettered in silence and fear by The Company Store in a system of Esau. Unlike
Old Testament Esau, who relinquished his birthright for food, her body had been traded
in the backroom to company guards. She had simply entered the only mercantile
for a poke of beans, loaf of bread, bottle of milk to feed children, but was led instead
into what became known as The Shoe Room by double-dealing company men.
Mack’s injuries from a cave-in prolonged his inability to work for some time, so Katy
was issued scrip to get necessities from The Company Store—her flesh settling mounting
debt for just the basics. She never dared tell Mack about what went on in The Shoe
Room, fearing he’d kill someone and end up in prison for what store keeps characterized
as just a bit of hanky-panky one day as they handed Katy a gift box of shoes. She
never wore them; instead, she rigged her own from cardboard, newspaper, and twine
or went barefoot—burying those shoes in bedroom closets with her shame.
Katy’s only sister, Hope, orphaned at thirteen, was duped into going into the Appalachian
coalfields as what became known as a comfort wife; and when she got pregnant,
her baby pilfered and bartered for a rifle and a hog. Bossmen not only were
free to use boys in mines to work rock face chipping, cutting, and blasting; they took
girls like her into the fields, took them across floorboards.
Hope never got any shoes to keep her quiet, but was silenced by a gag of grief
and fear, She was last seen dressed in her Sunday eyelet, not walking on the road
to church, but barefoot along the path toward the roses at the coal drifts, all their
petals laced with black dust.
END
19
Empathy / Entropy

Becoming aware
The Pride Parade, an explosion
of colors too festive
for the misery they represent.
I overhear a woman
expounding on her weight
problems and dresses.
The colonial cemetery two streets over
is watched by jaded eyes
in case the Rebels rise in disgust.
Why do we waste so much time
fighting ourselves and others over
parking, clothes, or house decorations?
Life for most of us is the small unpleasantness
rather than the great tragedies;
the little useless longings
rather than the great renunciations,
the dramatic love affairs of history
not the cheap fiction of corporate-owned media.
Michelle Hartman
realization
most people
have the blessing
of seeing our lives
fall apart
so slowly
we barely notice
but some
see that certainty
an event horizon’s
approach
a matter of seconds
a door slam
lick of flame
a gunshot
What are you doing this afternoon?
I am thinking about reforming
the Weather Underground
and storming a golf resort
with aluminum bats
Windward Review: Vol. 19
Have a great day?
How do you have a great day
when you are old?
It has to compete
with thousands of days
many astounding in themselves.
And memory, that bastard, who
paints with tainted brush
over flaws;
competing with the present,
its dodgy politics
runaway electronics
and no stage makeup.
Today
will have to shine
like a crazy diamond.
20

A Mother’s Job
Becky Busby Palmer
At 13, my mother walked in on me wrapped in a sleeping bag on the floor of
my room, masturbating. She screamed, cried, and led me to believe I had
just killed Jesus or something.
A year later, I found a book of erotica in her nightstand, sitting on top of a
letter she had written, begging my father to try to be faithful again, to stay
for the sake of us children.
At 17, in the moment I gave birth to my daughter, my father smiled and held
up two wiggling fingers, spoke a curse that she would be just like me. But,
for eighteen years, she was an angel.
At 28, after visiting me in California, my mother begged my father to let
her bring me and my three children home. My military husband had turned
me into a golf widow. I had become a single mother and was miserable, far
from the support system at home. Dad had served in the Air Force as well
and liked my husband, mentioned he would have to sell his hunting lease to
make it work. I stayed in California.
Snakes at Sundown
Asim, a pediatrician, has two teenage kids
afraid to walk to their mailbox.
Last year, “Terrorists”
was keyed across their minivan,
bicycles stolen, gas poured on the lawn,
the grass died in the shape of a cross.
Basma, who lost an eye deployed in Iraq,
teaches her kids about the dangers
of hate. They cannot afford
to move away and Teeta lives in the nursing home
just two blocks away.
Next door, a sign reads, “Build the Wall,”
shaded by a large oak tree.
A flag, “Come and Get It,”
hangs from a netless backboard.
As the sun goes down,
chatter from a barbeque next door
grows louder. Hate
snakes over the fence.
21
Empathy / Entropy

Becky Busby Palmer
Love Triangle
I remember the knock on my door at six in the morning. I
answered in my robe. There was a dead woman in the parking
lot, and the police asked me if I knew her. After my husband
had left for work, she had pulled into his spot. Her door was
open and I could see white legs. At first, I thought they were
bleached because the blood had drained from her body. But she
was a night nurse in white stockings. She lived two buildings
away and had been parking here to avoid her ex. In her home,
her girlfriend had been stabbed to death while taking a shower.
A former Marine, a woman, her jilted lover, had waited below
my window, hid in tall bushes and shot her in the head. Then
this wannabe widow holed up in a hotel room across town.
Police surrounded it and her brother was there, pleading with
her to put down the gun, but she fired one last time into her
own head. They didn’t bother to clean up the blood or smatterings
of brains that speckled my car, parked beside the nurse’s.
Brains—a very distinct smell.
Windward Review: Vol. 19
22

Chinyin Oleson
My Day a Misplaced Universe
Because of one tiny screw
My head sat wrong on my shoulders
All day I felt like I had a crick in my neck
While trying to move this way and that
On the way home I retraced the steps I took
Holding my head and looking
Under spotted toadstools
Beneath the robin’s wing
Peeping into rabbit burrows
Scrounging in squirrel nests
No sign of one tiny screw to fix my wobbly head
All I got was dirt in my face
kicked up by a bunny in haste to flee
A tear in my sleeve from a spiky bough
defending its chittering friend
Impish leaves tangling in my hair
Twiggy branches jabbing with pointy elbows
Rough bark slippery
Beneath my feet
Because of one tiny screw
The rest are coming loose
I must get home before my head
Falls off my shoulders
Rolls through the forest and into the field
Gets nabbed by the scarecrow in the corn patch
In exchange for his own straw-stuffed head
Belly from Hell
“This strange thing
must have crept right
out of hell.”
– Charles Simic
The angry moon looks down at this
World of dying trees, boggy lakes, and strange
two-legged beings encroaching on rotting land
that it sends down a rock golem with orders it must
follow to teach the beings that life is a place to have
and not throw away, even cherishing whatever creeps
from dark dank corners dripping slime right
onto clean surfaces where rats build their nests out
of wires, clothes, grass, and the fuzz of
a giant red spotted belly from hell.
23
Empathy / Entropy

Firecrackers
Chinyin Oleson
My parents, older brother, and I used to visit my paternal grandparents
for reunion dinners during Chinese New Year. It was a four-hour drive
from our house. Usually, we stayed for about a week because many of our
relatives lived around the city my grandparents made their home. We would
stay for several days at my grandparents’, a couple days at my oldest aunt’s,
and back to my grandparents’ place.
My grandparents’ house had twelve spacious bedrooms that was occupied
by their eleven children and later, their daughters-in-laws, sons-inlaw,
and grandchildren. Every Chinese New Year, the halls reverberated with
high childish voices, loud talking, the snap of firecrackers from outside, and
New Year programs from the TV; the unity of four generations swirled about
in an alchemy of family relations. In the main hall where the ancestral praying
altar sits, round and square folding tables would be piled high with New Year
treats: thin-skinned mandarin oranges, pomelos as big as my head; clear
compartmentalized plates of sweet pineapple tarts, colorful candy-coated
peanuts, sugared coconut and winter melon strips, roasted watermelon and
pumpkin seeds, melt-in-the-mouth coconut milk cookies, sticky glutinous rice
cake, and more. My grandfather and uncles gathered around these tables to
talk, watch TV, and crack seeds between their teeth.
In the spacious kitchen with ceilings as high as the sky, my mother
and my aunts sat or stood about the giant round table with my grandmother,
taking turns at the ancient gas stove and sink, washing green vegetables,
peeling potatoes, chopping onions, slicing meat, stir-frying garlic, and making
delicate spring roll skins. My cousins and I would chase each other all around
the house, in and out of the many entrances until we fell against our mothers’
sides out of breath from laughter and play.
I was not out of grade school when my grandfather passed away
not long after a stroke. For some reason, we were all at my fourth uncle’s
house. All my father’s brothers were there. I was lounging sleepily on my
father’s lap. Conversation like a roller-coaster rose and fell around me. I
think my grandfather was happy then, when all his sons were by his side.
He was carried out by four of my uncles after he stopped mid-word and
could not go on. He left the hospital only to lay in a fine wooden box his
sons chipped in to buy for him.
I was wearing a lemon-yellow dress with a white Peter Pan collar
and a laced, rounded pocket on the left side of the skirt. It was my
favorite dress. I refused to relinquish it for the navy blue, rough-woven
smock and pants worn traditionally by grandchildren during the funeral.
My mother and grandmother tried to persuade me to change. My stubbornness
reached out and grabbed a hold of the roots of my sudden
rebellion. I sensed sadness in my grandmother. I was being disrespectful,
although I was not happy that my grandfather was dead. In the funeral
procession, I stuck out like a bright, yellow pimple on smooth skin. Bystanders
pointed at me and old ladies clucked their tongues while shaking
their heads.
I had seen my grandfather laying in the box. His face was pale in
Windward Review: Vol. 19
24

a powdery-way. Did Grandma powder his face? He looked like my grandfather
and not like my grandfather. My cousins covered their giggles as
they ran around me, breaking into my thoughts and urging me to go play,
but I was content to stand next to my grandfather in a moment of silence.
From what I still have left in my memories, I was a little afraid of him
before. He was quiet and serious and smiled little. Whenever he visited,
he sat upstairs in a chair in front of the TV and smoked, cigarette after
cigarette, not moving until it was time for dinner. I think he spoke maybe
ten words to me when he was alive. Whenever I was told to get him for
dinner, he would just tap the ashes off the last cigarette and stick it into
the ashtray, stand up, and went downstairs to eat.
After my grandfather’s death, my grandparents’ house became
my grandmother’s house. Everyone still went there for Chinese New Year
reunion dinners and long school holidays. I remember the tall, iron four
poster bed that I used to do a little jump to climb into. The iron bars would
shake, making a ringing sound. The biggest room in the house stored a
mountain of bedrolls, blankets, and pillows. It was a room where I used
to play in with my cousins and once was so exhausted that I fell asleep
on one of the bedrolls one of my cousins unrolled for me. I remember the
chickens and ducks in my grandmother’s backyard pecking at seeds and
weeds. I remember the hen that flew at me, fleeing from its fate. I remember
when there was a shortage of beds, laying in my grandmother’s
bed staring at old pictures and wondering when she was going to show
up to sleep and then falling asleep and waking up in the morning to find
her already gone.
I remember when my cousin Hwa Yong and I received a firework
each. One of those long tubes that shot out colored fireballs into the sky.
We were excited as little boys with sticks, not able to wait till night, we
used them as walking sticks in our imaginary adventures and poked at
flying insects, plants, and each other. By the time night came around, the
part that must be lit to make it work had disintegrated. Left with cardboard
tubes, we continued playing with them until the next day when I
whacked the gate too hard that it bent in the middle, leaving us staggering
about giggling madly.
My grandmother passed away when she was ninety-seven years
old. Although, if it was counted in traditional Chinese years, she would
have been one hundred. I think she would have liked to have lived for a
century. My grandmother’s house is now silent and closed. All her children
have grown and moved on with their own families. Only echoes of the
days past remain in the hearts of all who loved her.
25
Empathy / Entropy

Magnificent Murmation
Cissy Tabor
Whoosh!
Hundreds or thousands of starlings
swoop down toward the earth’s horizon
and sweep upward to the clouds
Protection in numbers from predator
falcons, so in unison these black specs
swirl together as One, thick,
dark murmation
Zing!
Hundreds or thousands of protestors
swarm the chaotic scene, dodging flying
bullets and crackling shattered glass
of downtown storefronts
Boldness in numbers, the unified people
clash against uniformed bodies
of helmets and shields
Bricks hurling through the dark night sky,
objects zinging toward the crowd
as hatred filled chants sting the air,
piercing the heart of the white officer,
his pistol empty of one less bullet
The Black mother on the tv news doesn’t
shed a tear, but the break in her heart
finds familiar ground in my aching one,
a whooshing in my chest
A senseless tragedy, her brown eyed
beauty of 20 years
Yet she talks of helping others
My son knew suffering,
but he rose above it
Knowing not a stranger,
nor wayward soul
All were Love to him
His failings, his inadequacies,
his challenges and handicap
Unknown to most,
never self pity or victimhood,
Only laughter, kind smiles and gratitude
for others
My son, my joy, my heartache
Has died
The officer, the deliverer of unspeakable
words, shedding the news of his death
as he walks out my front door,
a burdensome part of his job
Days filled with chaos, turmoil, confusion
My mind in disorder, void of endorphins
My heart holding an anvil of pain
that sears any synapse still firing
in my brain
I search for relief
As the protestors searching for release
But who will seek inward to calm
the entropy?
We the people
We human beings
We are me and you
one and the same
each beautifully unique
And also all are One
Suffering is felt by all
Am I bringing love to myself and others
or do anger, despair and fear
well up in me
aiming for targets?
What energy do I bring to the universe?
The value of a life is revealed
in how well it was lived
Did you love?
My son did
And so, so will I
The flock of starlings create
gigantic kaleidoscope shapes
of chaotic beauty
Each individual winged creature
twisting, turning, spinning
it’s small body
As all birds come together,
moving as One
Whatever it is you want
it begins within.
Only me, only you, only Love
And together
A magnificent murmation
Windward Review: Vol. 19
26

ire’ne lara silva
in this dream of blue horses*
there are no roads only undulating land in every direction only
bodies beautiful and blue and lit by the moon only the slight coolness that
night brings after the heat of the day only our sister wind our brother wind
that both blow against us and carry us along
we were not born here but our mothers’ mothers’ mothers called
this land their home the bones of our ancestors do not live in the first few
feet of earth under our hooves but listen close listen close and you can
hear the thundering of their hooves their bones a few feet deeper only a
few feet deeper our mothers’ mothers’ mothers called this their land their
home and the land says oh my long lost long legged children and we the
long lost long legged children whimper mother mother mother to the earth
in this dream of blue horses we are returned to the land of our ancestors
we are wild again but then did we ever lose our wildness we were
only waiting and our children born free do not remember captivity they
would call us feral but we were never truly domesticated we only bided our
time none of us had to remember freedom or our stories or the structure
of our families the knowledge was never taken from us we were only prisoners
to the bit and the bridle and the saddle and the spur but our spirits
were never anything but free and even then we dreamed and we dreamed
and we ran and we ran
in this dream of blue horses in this dream that is our living our
breathing our being we run as one all our bodies all our hooves all our
hearts all our flared nostrils all the stretch and coil of the meat and muscle
of us made one made a river under the light of the rising moon and the
waning sun this was always our land this was always our freedom this was
always our strength we thunder we thunder we thunder
*Inspired by the following article: https://www.livescience.com/9589-surprising-history-america-wild-horses.html
27
Empathy / Entropy

The Ties That Bind
Macaela Carder
Characters: HELEN a woman in her mid-thirties to early forties. NONA,
DECIMA, and MORTA, the three fates. These roles can be played by actors
of any age, they are non-gender specific roles open for interpretation.
Setting: The environment suggests a coffee shop, the stage should
be furnished with only what is necessary to tell the story – minimal furniture
and props. Time: 10AM Today
At Rise: HELEN stands to one side of the stage in an isolated pool of
light by a suggested counter.
HELEN
I want to say something…important, but it just comes out nonsensical. I keep
hearing a calliope playing in the background and the click, click, click, of the
counter. Over and over in my mind until it sweeps away any semblance of
coherence.
[Beat]
The click-clack of pretty math rocks – you know the ones – the turquoise or
aquamarine – rolling them, hoping for a twenty – but end up with a one.
[Beat]
The buzz of the fridge as I stand gazing into its depths – debating between
cucumbers or coffee brownie bliss yogurt. Rather have pizza.
[Beat]
The thump, thump, thump of his heart as I lay on his chest - both of us sweaty
and sticky and satiated, caught in the after. Wondering what he’s thinking.
[Beat]
The motor from the fluffy thing that makes biscuits on my stomach. Curling
up soft and warm and safe.
[Beat]
The sound of the car lock and the anxiety it brings – thinking of that long ago
worry – will I get yelled at as soon as it walks in. Always the crack of eggshells,
shortness of breath, coldness of hands, expecting the disappointment
yet still disappointed.
[Beat]
Dial tone on an old rotary phone, the sound of the wheel making its way back
to zero as I dial my grandpa.
[Beat]
The rain pounding on the roof making a lake of the parking lot watching a
boat – or leaf – drift away down the sewers.
[Beat]
The popping of my ears as the plane gains altitude taking me far away from
here – to new adventures.
[Beat]
Windward Review: Vol. 19
28

Clickety-clickety-clack of my keyboard finishing a review that’ll never be
read, two thumbs up or rather what the fuck are you thinking – over, and
over, and over, and over again.
[Beat]
The burble of the tea kettle as I stand staring – waiting for the water to boil
– only to walk away and forget it and have to start all over again…
[Beat]
I’m sorry, what was your question?
Recorded Voice
Do you want cream in your coffee?
Helen
Yes…a little.
[Helen takes the coffee and crosses to Nona, Decima, and
Morta who are seated at a table. Nona is unwinding yarn from a skein, Decima
is knitting a large misshapen scarf, Morta is dismantling the bottom of
Decima’s scarf. A mug of ale is in front of Nona, a cup of tea in front of Decima,
and a glass of wine in front of Morta. All drink heavily throughout.]
Morta
He said he was getting Mucinex, but I bet that motherfucker was buying
more hot wheels.
Helen
My cheeks are rosy – they feel hot. Can you tell if I’ve been smoking? Did I
say that out loud?...Nope. Good.
Morta
Not one week after bankruptcy, that ass hole is spending money again – his
latest money-draining hobby is – get this - collecting hot wheels.
Those toy cars?
Decima
Morta
Yes, those toy cars. He even moved his Star Wars figurines off the mantle
to display them.
Helen
So, in Great Britain when you’re at the grocery store…do they walk down the
left side of the aisle with their baskets or the right side of the aisle?
Ack! What a waste of space.
Nona
Decima
I wouldn’t imagine those toy cars take up all that much space.
I meant the husband.
Nona
29
Empathy / Entropy

Helen
What goes through a person’s mind as they make life altering decisions? Is
it a coherent, reasoned, and logical argument – or is it a sudden enlightenment?
Morta
I can’t, I just can’t anymore…if he hadn’t stopped paying the mortgage, we
never would have had to file. My credit cards were almost paid off – so close.
I should have just taken care of it myself – sold that lousy place.
Helen
If he’s sleeping with other women, he should just let me know, because I’m
not so sure I’m good at sharing. No, you did the right thing, your name wasn’t
even on that mortgage, it wasn’t your responsibility.
Decima
Well, but you lived there with him for a few years…so…
Nona
Oh, be quiet. A real man would have taken care of his finances properly.
This man-child is going to be the ruin of you.
Helen
Once the silver dulls, he won’t find me shiny anymore. Responsibility has
nothing to do with gender!
Morta
He is a man-child. I’m tired of living with his mess…I’m done. I wonder
which is cheaper, a divorce or a hitman?
I know someone who can help
Nona
Decima
Oh, pshaw. What lawyers do you know?!
Wasn’t talking about a lawyer
Nona
(They all stare at Nona)
Helen
I wonder if I was stung by a puffer fish? My lips are tingly…Uhm, what?
Nona
Ja! Back in my village, we had someone who could take care of these things.
You know, whenever there was a husband beating his wife, while the law
couldn’t do anything, Herr Fleece and Frau Lint could. Most reliable team in
the area. You see, they were doing this for fifty years or so, it started with
Frau Lint’s louse of a husband.
Decima
And let me guess, Herr Fleece was passionately in love with Frau Lint. He saw
how that brute of a husband treated her and he just couldn’t bear it anymore.
So late one night, while that drunkard Lint stumbles back from the pub, Herr
Fleece leaps from the shadows and says, “You don’t deserve, her, so now she
Windward Review: Vol. 19
30

is mine.” And he plunges a knife into his chest. Lint gurgles and slumps to his
knees. Fleece spits on his crumpling body and races to Frau Lint’s side and
declares his undying love.
[Beat]
Nona
No. Herr Fleece is Frau Lint’s older brother, their father sold her to Lint for
two kegs of ale. Herr Fleece saw the bruises on his sister’s face and planned
his demise--
Decima
--Was it a bloody and vicious ending to his pathetic life?
Nona
…no…actually a well-planned and meticulously slow poisoning. Looked like a natural
death. But, of course, everyone in the village knew the real story and that’s
how the business got started.
Morta
So, hypothetically speaking…what are the prices for a hit?
Helen
I need to apologize to Santa’s reindeer. I only ever left out a carrot for Rudolph.
Nona
Ach, well. Depends. Three chickens and a goat will get you a blow to the back
of the head in the dark of night.
Helen
Flippant tea-totaling nonsensical prat!
Nona
A slow poisoning made to look like a lingering disease usually costs about a
barrel of smoked eels and two pigs.
Helen
If they knew in the 16th century that sperm was responsible for the gender of
the baby…would Henry VIII have kept on blaming his wives for daughters?
Nona
Five cases of apples will get a glockenspiel dropped on your head.
Helen
I remembered to shave my right pit and my left leg – but I forgot the rest.
Nona
And for a cherry strudel, Frau Lint will cut off his balls with a rusty knife.
(Beat. All stare at Nona)
Morta
So, in dollars, how much is a cherry strudel worth?
(All freeze except for Helen who notices the yarn and
knitting for the first time. Throughout the course of the monologue, Helen plays
with the yarn and slowly wraps it around herself)
31
Empathy / Entropy

Helen
How can forces collide to create a hummingbird yet destroy a mountain? Did
they make the coffee I drink? Who even thought up the idea of roasting these
beans, grinding them, and then putting them in water? Was it destined to be
that way? Couldn’t they have just as easily tried that with a peach pit? Does
it matter?
[Beat]
So soft…and itchy. It seems thick and indestructible, but it isn’t. It’s easily destroyed
– by time and by flying monsters and violence. It bleeds fluff and fuzz
from its veins. It can be twisted and turned to create…this, whatever this is?
With missed stitches and holes and loose ends. Can those loose ends be woven
into the tapestry or should they be severed?
[Beat]
Who decides how it looks, is there a pattern or is it chaotically created? Is this
predestined to turn out like this? What prophecy can warn – not everyone
wants to be a scarf…
[Beat]
It suffocates and warms – it binds and holds, always threatening release,
but not giving it. Picked a part one by one – what seemed binding and sure
is ephemeral – fleeting. False?
[Beat]
Things mentioned in passing…are they more real than planned prose? An
accidental, “I love you,” might be the epitome of truth while a rehearsed
verse rings false.
[Beat]
I’m time-bound, knotted into a place not of my choosing. But it’s known
and therefore…safe?
[Beat]
The calliope and the counter. The math rocks of one or twenty. Pizza not
yogurt, Nona. Fuzzy motors. Anxious car locks. Dead dial tones. Boats and
leaves and planes, oh my. Two thumbs up or fuck off, Morta. Forgotten
gurgles destined for repetition. Decima, a heartbeat against my ear?
In all certainty, maybe? I know when you leave…and you will leave – from
holes and knots I’ll bleed fluff and fuzz…Fickle are the ties that bind.
(Blackout)
Windward Review: Vol. 19
32

Life slips
like two weeks like five years like coupon clippings
From a thick Sunday pull out
Shiny, vivid
Promising bargains in primary colors
Coupons expire
And expire and expire
A Whittenberg
Jamaican Holiday, 2006
Sister, bring me one of those pink shells
Washed up on a far away beach
Here’s 40 dollars, fix my hair into 1000 braids
Show me some of that black magic that’s been
Melanined out of my immediate family
Dance, my sister
Dance my spirit round your bones
Break the illiterate silence and contorted sterility of
My 21st century over-Americanized ethnicity, Sister.
ENDNOTES
On that gorgeous spring day, the strong sun mocks. It was so close to
her June birthday. Couldn’t she have lasted two more weeks? Who knew she
a timebomb? Who knew she had this hidden defect? I should have been born
clairvoyant.
That day, distant relations ate sloppily. Macaroni salad slid off their
spoons onto their chins.
They made it a party. There was chicken: fried, braised, broiled, roasted
So much damn food.
Anger is my favorite part of the grief process. I do it well.
The hincty lady down the street came by fussing for her pan.
She had left her pan. She had to have her pan. I’d lost a person; she’d
lost a pan.
I gave her her pan, told her where to shove it, slammed the door.
I was old enough to know that pets, flowers, people die, but not mothers
Daddy’s usual husky, tender voice offered no solace. He crumbled like toast.
My brother contacted his therapist.
My sister still walks around with her face.
Daffodils bloomed.
And Otis Reading played on the stereo that Fa Fa Fa Fa sad song.
33
Empathy / Entropy

Vendela
Unsprung
what if our demons were the size of fireflies,
and we treated imperfections like florescent sprigs of holly?
love was divine and we didn’t cry
afraid of the price to pay
for the truest meanings in life
thoughts drip down my pillowcase
stuck in neverland, my wasteland’s no wonderland
reality biting our fingernails and wondering why
i am existing under the burden of shame
finding penniless words from thin air
no one ever thinks to skip on stepping-stones
saying prayers for little black rain clouds
because we won’t be in heaven
when beggars can’t be choosers thanks to rainbows sent from god
in exchange for making him proud
will i rewrite history with more pity
does my honesty sound like self-preaching?
i wonder why my petals don’t sprout
but spend dedicated time fighting efforts to stay alive like the last leaves of fall
energies futile to the point of leaning on empty wishing wells
bound forever to rebirth in spring light
finding yellow painted sunrises over wide horizons
and green blades of grass oblige my vying senses
reminding agony and beauty though they’re endless
the pieces of me aren’t brokenbandages.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 34

Cavanaugh
Floret
what if our demons were the size of fireflies,
and we treated imperfections like florescence sprigs of holly?
we kill moments of kindness so shyly
afraid of the price we pay
for a bite of the good life
thoughts drip down my pillowcase
stuck in neverland, my wasteland’s no wonderland
silence left after inevitable goodbyes
existing under the burden of shame
but still i find words from thin air surviving,
derived from anxious states of mine
homey things make my petals sing like
saying prayers for little black rain clouds
that haven’t reached heaven
because beggars can’t be choosers when rainbows sent from god
are an exchange for making him proud
will i rewrite history with more pity
does my honesty sound like self-preaching?
I never thought narcissism was to despise yourself
dedicated time fighting efforts to stay alive like the last leaves of fall
energies futile to the point of leaning on empty wishing wells
sweet like honey and golden as saplings
yellow painted sunrises blooming over wide horizons make me happy
oblige my vying senses, calming the reckless inner messes
reminding agony and beauty though they’re endless
the pieces of me were never broken, just bandaged.
35
Empathy / Entropy

Nick Hone
Shadow and Ash: A 10 Minute Play
CAST SIZE: 6-7
FATHER
Desperate to keep his family alive in the face of insurmountable odds,
he will do everything he can. His love sustains him, but there is so much
despair. How can he continue?
ELDERLY
A long-term resident of the area, he is as stout and unmoving as the trees
in the forest. He has weathered ages coming and going and plans to endure.
It’s all he can do
CHILD
Disconnected from her world, she stands alone where she should feel
safe. The fear that accompanies this solitude is clear, as is her anger. She
is youth, she is a fighter.
REPORTER
The world she expected is not the one she ended up in. Her curiosity and
dedication have taken her far, but she is tired.
FIREFIGHTER
A soldier in a never-ending war, the weight of the world sits on their
shoulders. They do what they can to bear it, but it has left them numb.
DANCERS
Can be performed with one or two dancers depending on situation.
SETTING: The end of the world. Or the place where memories go when you
don’t think about them. Purgatory. Oregon. California. Too many places
TIME: Now, and the future.
The sound of the burn, a constant and powerful crackling fills the space.
Smoke and fire fill the back of the theatre with a dusky orange glow.
Silhouetted against the glow are five people seated onstage, staggered
and scattered. They are draped in darkness; their features in black. The
sound of a newscaster giving a report on the severity of the fire begins,
after a moment it overlaps with another report on worsening weather
conditions. And then another on the progress of the climate’s descent
into chaos. During this cacophony, a single dancer runs onstage and begin
a slow modern dance. They are running, trying to escape something,
and yet cannot make any progress. What do they fear, and why they can’t
leave? They come to a moment of stillness, and the news reports stop. A
low, almost imperceptible cello begins to play a mournful solo. This continues
underneath the action, swelling and quieting to emphasize loss,
and the motions of the dancers. This cello accompanies it all, the good
and the bad, but must never be the focus until the very end. A beam of
light pierces the smoke, illuminating FIREFIGHTER sitting in his chair.
FIREFIGHTER
There has been something like 100 billion people to have ever lived. 100 billion
souls. How many of them are remembered? There are whole generations
that exist only in darkness now. As shadows of their former selves, you know?
All because their memory has died along with them.
-
FATHER is illuminated. He stands from his chair. As each person speaks, their
column of light fades away and allows the next to erupt.
FATHER
A life lived and then erased. Gone to a place where it can never be retrieved. If
a person’s memory dies, did they ever exist?
-
The dancer exhales, and move quickly, then freeze. Light strikes CHILD, still
seated
Windward Review: Vol. 19 36

CHILD
Where do the untold stories of forgotten souls go?
The dancer pulses, we see REPORTER.
REPORTER
When we lose their memories, are they gone? Or just somewhere else?
-
A final light strikes ELDERLY
ELDERLY
A world all their own, full of shadows. Shadows and ash
-
The dancer melts away, and a new beam of light pierces the smoke, illuminating
FATHER. He stands from his chair. These beams are sustained.
FATHER
I think we lost everything. We barely made it out.
-
Another beam of light lances through the smoke and illuminates ELDERLY,
also standing
ELDERLY
This, my house, this was a wedding gift from my ma to my pa, back a long old
time ago.
-
Another beam illuminates CHILD
CHILD
This is my first trip up here, to see the farm, to see my dad
-
Another beam illuminates REPORTER
REPORTER
When I flew in, you could uh, you couldn’t see the ground.
-
And finally the last light illuminates FIREFIGHTER
FIREFIGHTER
The fires started to die down on the 6th day
ALL
Where do the stories go?
-
The people onstage are all lit, and they seem to know the other are there.
They don’t see each other, but there is a sort of desperate need to communicate.
Their lines begin to almost layer on top of the others. The light begins
to slowly get brighter, and the sound of the fire gets louder
FATHER
I think we lost everything. We barely made it out.
ELDERLY
This, my house, this was a wedding gift from my ma to my pa, back a long old
time ago.
REPORTER
When I flew in, you could uh, you couldn’t see the ground.
CHILD
This is my first trip up here, to see the farm, to see my dad
FIREFIGHTER
The fires started to die down on the 6th day
-
The stage is filled with light and sound. ALL begin speaking simultaneously.
FATHER
I think we lost everything. We barely made it out.
ELDERLY
This, my house, this was a wedding gift from my ma to my pa, back a long old
time ago.
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Empathy / Entropy

REPORTER
When I flew in, you could uh, you couldn’t see the ground.
CHILD
This is my first trip up here, to see the farm, to see my dad
-
The lights turn the dusky orange of the background, and the stage becomes
painfully bright, almost blinding. The cello becomes frantic. The noise becomes
almost too much to bear. Everyone is obscured, then it all goes black.
There is silence for a moment, then all onstage begin a slow inhale, gaining
volume and power in a crescendo.
FIREFIGHTER and CHILD
Where do the stories go?
-
There is a sharp exhalation of breath, and with it comes light on FATHER, still
standing before his chair
FATHER
I think we lost everything. We barely made it out. Jesus Christ, I could feel
the heat from my bedroom, All we had time to grab was a suitcase of clothes
and the dog and we just ran. No matter how far we drove in any direction, it
was still there. We could have gotten out sooner, it’s-it’s my fault we didn’t.
I told my family to stay cause I heard looters were clearing out evacuated
houses, and that wasn’t going to be my home, you know? Least not if I’ve got
something to say about it. We’ve been through fires before, and the damn
governor orders evacuations every time. Evacuate my ass, I decide where I go.
If I’m going to abandoned everything I’ve worked my whole life for, I’ll decide,
not the government. But I’ve never seen anything like this. I looked outside
and my heart dropped into my shoes. I could barely think. All I could do was
keep my eyes forward and move, cause if I stopped… I didn’t know if I could
move again. It isn’t- It’s not normal. When all you can see is smoke and fire,
your mind empties out. There’s a pit in your chest. It’s primeval, instinctual.
Driving through it felt like hell on earth. And with the whole goddamn state
on fire, there was no way to outrun it. There was nowhere for us to go. We just
had to keep driving. My wife tried to comfort my daughter, but what do you
even say? After about an hour or so I saw this boathouse on a little lake, and
I pulled up to it. I figured if it’s over water, it’ll be harder for the fire to get to
us. And maybe we can wait it out. We can just wait till it’s safe then drive out.
I’m so worried about my family, my daughter. I just don’t know what else to
do. How do you fight something like this? All I can see around us is fire. I can’t
even see the sky. I’m supposed to keep my family safe. What the hell am I
going to tell my daughter? How do I tell her I failed to keep her safe?
-
Behind him, and during his story, the dancers begin a pseudo-pantomime of his
words. Their bodies tell his story in their own language. They are filled with the
same sort of rage and need to survive. They dance to a climax, then FATHER
and his chair crumble into ash.
REPORTER
Words spoken by the voiceless, heard in the ceaseless empty.
-
ELDERLY is seen once more, standing beside his chair
ELDERLY
This, my house, this was a wedding gift from my ma to my pa, back a long old
time ago. She was the only lady contractor in the tri-county area, and she got
told over and over that no one would buy houses made by a woman. So she
builds this place, and boy did she build it. Local fellahs came in the night and
tried to firebomb the house, and- nothing. They barely left a scratch on the
place. Which, let me tell you, was not how they fared once Ma came after em.
I’ve lived here my whole life. I can’t imagine no other place bein home. This
house is a legacy, my Ma’s legacy, her gift to this family that’ll last for generations.
I’ve raised a family here, watched my kids grow up and start their own
families. Watched my grandkids learn to walk on the same floors as my own
children. All in these same rooms. This house is in my blood. It’s a part of me.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 38

So when I hears on the radio that we’ve gotta leave, all pack up and get out of
dodge cause of the fire, I know that ain’t meaning me. This is a house made to
last, I owe it to my kids and grandkids to defend it like my parents did for me.
I’ve had a long life, and I don’t want to see a world where my family don’t live
here. If the good Lord sees fit for this to be my time, so be it. Thie house was
where I was born. Seems like a mighty good place to die too.
-
The dancers perform a more sentimental, familial dance during this. They build a
legacy and vow to defend it, and to love each other forever. They know nothing
of calamities to come.
ELDERLY and his chair collapse into ash.
FIREFIGHTER
How many years have faded away, forgotten by the living? Known only to
dust.
-
CHILD is seen, she is still seated. The dancers stand on either side behind her
CHILD
This is my first trip up here, to see the farm, to see my dad. He- He and
my mom split up when I was really little, so I haven’t, like, actually met him
before this. To me, “Dad” was just a name on a birthday card for most of
my life, not actual family. Its always just been me and my mom. But then I
had this idea, maybe I could come live with him for a summer. You know,
get away from the city, spend time outdoors, and like, get to know him. I remember
thinking “what have I got to lose? Its just a summer, and if it sucks
you can come back home.” I cant get that memory out of my head. Running,
packing my things, coughing and crying from smoke, all I can think is “what
have I got to lose? Its Just a summer” And I know this isn’t my fault, but I
just can’t stop thinking that this was my idea. I decided to come here. And…
as I was getting on the plane to come here my mom took my shoulders and
said “you’re sure you want to do this?’ and the look in her eyes? It was like
she felt something was going to go wrong. And I told her yes. And said I
loved her. And then I walked onto the plane without looking back. And I am
so afraid that I wasted my last chance to see my mom’s face. That I wasted
all my choices, my whole life. And as we try to outrun the fire, I keep picturing
my mom’s eyes. They were really worried. My dad got us to a little house
on the beach with some other people, but no one is saying anything. I’m
only thirteen years old. I really don’t want to go.
-
The dancers perform a complex and restrained exploration of power and loss.
Of blame and guilt and longing for what could be. CHILD dissolves into ash
FIREFIGHTER
Known only to the dust
-
Light is found on REPORTER, fidgeting in their chair
REPORTER
When I flew in, you could uh, you couldn’t see the ground. There was this layer
of smoke over everything, I didn’t even know we had arrived till we dipped
down through that smoke and a whole city just popped into view. Once I
got down there, I had to keep wearing a mask in my car, like an n95 mask,
because the ac system just couldn’t filter out the sheer number of like, the
number of particulates in the air. I drove to a refugee center, just outside of
Portland, I wanted to see how the people displaced by the fire were taking it.
And, It was odd, honestly. The skies were full of smoke, people were sleeping
in their cars and on sleeping bags in a parking lot, but there was still hope.
I uh, I found this set of sisters. They had to be in their mid-seventies or so,
and they had 3 birds and two dogs with them in their sedan where they were
sleeping. Their home, their entire town, had been burned to the ground the
previous week. And yet they were so full of life. They still had hope. I saw that
everywhere I looked. There was despair, anger, fear yes but there was always
hope. Even when we had to move the whole camp because the fires got
closer in the night, they always tried to have hope. Right up to the end. We
39
Empathy / Entropy

couldn’t outrun it. It surrounded us, cutting off all the roads in and out of the
last place we set up camp. We tried to get help from the fire services or like
the national guard but no one could get to us in time. I… I finished my article,
though.. I put every bit of my time here on the page. Then I buried it, hoping
that someone might find it once we-I… I never thought I’d write my own obituary.
But I want these people, me, to live on in words. My words. if we give the
dead a voice to speak with, could we finally hear them? Would we listen?
-
Here, the dancers perform an interpretation of refugees running, building,
tearing down, running again, and resettling. It’s a never-ending, tiring cycle.
But it’s all they can do. Once finished, REPORTER crumbles into ash, the
dancers disappear into the darkness
FIREFIGHTER
If we give the dead a voice to speak with, could we hear them? Would we
listen?
-
Light is found on FIREFIGHTER, the only one left onstage. He knows this,
and it weighs on him. He looks to where the others have been. He is numb
FIREFIGHTER
The fires started to die down on the 6th day. For the first few days we couldn’t
even get helicopters to the center of the burn because the heat was so powerful
the rotors would warp and fail. I didn’t even know a fire could get that
hot. Ive never seen anything as bad as this one. I’ve flown fire rescue for a few
years now, and… its never easy, you know? Your job is to go to the worst spots
of the burn and get people out. But flying over this was like flying over another
planet. There was just nothing left. We had received a distress call from a
little ski lodge bout two days ago, and we was headed there to get the folks
out. When we arrived at the lodge, I had to double check with the dispatcher
that we were in the right spot, because we couldn’t see any buildings. There
were a couple cars and one fire engine, but other than that? Dispatch said it
was the spot, so we fly over again and I finally saw the foundation of a little
boat house on the beach. Scorched as black as the earth around it. We landed
and… like I said its never easy. But this was bad. One of the other guys was
poking around the rubble, and he started to find wedding rings. Half-melted
and burned but they were about the only thing we could find. The fires got
so hot even the bones must have burned away. There were supposed to be
around 20 people there. And we didn’t even find nothing to bury. Nothing but
ash. We still haven’t even found out what their names were. I wonder what it
was like, in their final moments. Who did they think of? What did they regret,
who would they miss? All those fears, those loves, those memories. Lost. All
just turned to ash
-
The dancers perform a complex and restrained exploration of power and loss.
Of blame and guilt and longing for what could be. CHILD dissolves into ash
END OF PLAY
Windward Review: Vol. 19 40

The Hell of It
Alan Berecka
To survive, operators learned early in their careers
to glance back often at the observation board
where the bosses sat and listened in on us
as they checked our keying, waited to hear
policy upheld politely with a smiling voice,
any mistakes or cross words became faults—
red marks that stained and ended careers.
If no boss sat on the board, we could
have some fun, like that night some drunk
called in from a bar saying he lost his quarter
in the phone and asked me to dial his number.
But a few days before Ma Bell had directed
all of her operators to no longer place calls
for folks claiming to have lost change in pay phones.
All we could do was to offer to mail the change
back to the customer, because, truth be told,
it had gotten to where only lost quarters
were going into her payphones, and Ma Bell
couldn’t abide any more damned lies.
Upon hearing my cheerful recitation of
the new policy the drunk screamed,
“Well fuck you, operator!”
and slammed the receiver back
into its cradle. I double-checked to
make sure no one was listening in,
and then, for the hell of it,
I hit the call back button.
Amazingly, the drunk answered. “Yeah?”
“Hey, this is the operator, and I just wanted
to ask you a question, sir?”
“What’s that, operator?”
“Well, I was wondering if you are
naturally witty or if you read a lot?”
The drunk’s rage flared.
He screamed, “Fuck you!” and slammed
the receiver even harder. Well,
it worked once,
so I hit the call back button again.
“What now!” roared the drunk.
“Aw nothing. I just wanted
to compliment you on your wide and
varied vocabulary.”
The drunk started to scream fuck you
but realized he couldn’t or he’d
prove my point,
so he just screamed, “FA, FA, FA… “
as he did his best to rip
the phone off the wall
until the line finally went dead.
A day or two later some man
in a shaken voice he was at a
hospital, told me had to break
some bad news to his wife. Their
child, an accident. Could I please
put him through? I looked back. A
big-haired hard ass sat at the board,
taking notes. I thought about the
odds, one operator in a hundred,
maybe I could dial the number, and
keep my job, but when my eyes met
the boss’s, she shook her head and
mouthed the words, “No, don’t!”
straight at me.
I wish I could say at 22, I was brave,
not worried about the bills I had to
pay; but I only offered to mail the
quarter back, offered to let him speak
to a supervisor who’d charge the call
to his home account.
I wish I could say the hard ass finally
melted, but all I can say is when that
man hung up, exhausted in his frustration,
the click echoed in the pit of
my stomach as my gut went numb,
but, I had saved the richest mother
in the world twenty-five cents and,
the hell of it was, once my fault-free
observation was logged,
I got to keep my job.
41
Empathy / Entropy

How Not to Be a Housepainter
(For Sioux)
I found the photograph in a drawer.
He and dad sitting on a bench
with the spit and whittle boys on Market Square.
Cowboy hats shading their eyes in black and white,
his arms folded across the chest
of his western shirt,
Dad’s right hand lifted to conduct the conversation,
both men laughing.
And fifty years fell like a judge’s gavel.
He pulled off his sweat-stained, Resistol straw hat
and ran his fingers through iron-grey hair,
placed it crown down
beside an open can of dark green paint
and reached under his coveralls into his shirt pocket.
He produced a half-empty pack,
tapped out a Lucky Strike and fired it up.
Ron Wallace
Half a century later,
I still remember working with him that summer,
brushing green onto the window trim.
I still recall the smell of cigarette smoke and fresh paint
and me saying,
“I need a pair of those coveralls.”
He placed the weathered hat back on his head
and poured more white paint into the tray for his roller.
“No you don’t,” he said
through lips clinched to hold the cigarette,
smoke curling up into his eyes.
“You ain’t gonna paint houses and pour concrete
or saw 2x4’s and pound nails in planks
all your life, boy.”
I focused on keeping the trim green
and the boards white.
“Save your money from this summer,
get your ass in school, be somebody.”
I moved from the windows to the wall trim.
“Maybe after next summer.”
He rolled the ivory paint onto the wall next to the trim I’d finished,
dropped the cigarette,
and stepped on the butt with his sharp-toed cowboy boots.
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42

“Your daddy and your momma want you in school
this fall.”
I moved up the step ladder to reach the trim below the green shingles.
“I’ve had about all the school shit I can stand.”
He nodded,
kept the white rising up the wall
with the long-handled roller
not acknowledging my manly remark.
Easing down the ladder,
a drop of paint fell on the hair on my shoulders
and bled through to my Bad Company tee shirt.
“Damn it to Hell,” I swore, manly once again.
He lay his roller in the tray,
and said, “Let’s grab a cold drink.”
Zipping the coveralls down, he grabbed another Lucky,
before popping the top on a couple of Cokes.
Handing me one, he blew smoke into Oklahoma sky.
I took a long draft and watched the smoke disappear.
He opened his left hand wide.
“Look at them fingers, boy.
I beat every one of ‘em flat with a goddamn hammer over the years.
You think that was my game plan?”
I looked at the literally flattened fingertips
and swallowed another pull of cold Coke.
“I was gonna ride rodeo,
saddle broncs in Calgary and Cheyenne.
I wasn’t gonna be doing this piddling shit my whole life.
It would just pay my entry fees.”
I didn’t know what to say, just sorta mumbled something about wanting to
play ball.
“Ball players and bronc riders get old, son.
If you don’t get in school pretty soon, you never will.
You’ll look up one day, and you’ll be sixty-eight,
still hammering nails and painting boards,”
he threw another butt on the ground,
“smoking these death sticks
and driving a piece-of-shit Chevy.”
“ I sure don’t plan on doing this forever, Sioux,” I said.
He coughed and spat phlegm.
“Me either.
Turpentine’ll take the paint outta your hair,
but that shirt not coming clean.”
I glanced at the green stain.
“Lotta pretty girls in college,” he grinned.
Get back on the ladder.
We’ve got two more walls to go.”
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Empathy / Entropy

Ron Wallace
Dragon
Who knew that the dragon was dust
that he would lay every wild warrior low
under a pillow of stone?
We didn’t fear his flames
simply rode our horses hard
into their shadows painted on the morning air.
No one could convince us
what thieves were the setting suns.
And not one among us
believed dusk would steal away our light
while we played games of little consequence,
unaware
somehow
the trophy we desired most
would be Time.
We seemed content to watch days blow by
like plastic Walmart bags
snagging on a barbed wire fence for a moment
before snapping free
and bouncing in a dismal wind
down the highway side,
leaving us
bereft as beggars in their wake.
Dinosaur
The world is, too often, confusing
incomprehensible,
fucked-up and complicated.
It’s not easy being a curved cap bill
in a sea of flat ones, a pair of roundtoed
boots among the square.
Some days,
I dream that I have fallen through the CDs,
through the discarded cassettes
and VCRs
only to land in the midst of Hoyt Axton,
CCR and Three Dog Night,
piled among stacks
of eight track tapes.
I rise
and half expect to find my footprints
pressed into the detritus
of books by Steinbeck
or Whitman’s poetry,
preserved in a museum as evidence
that once we read
turned actual pages,
where Tom Joad, Owen Meany,
and Gus McCrae
sat on shelves
undigitalized.
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44

Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton
Hanna
Someone found the body by a cotton gin
near Chapman Ranch. In the fall
cotton balls tumble and clump
like wet snow in the flat Texas roads.
The queen plush sits on a throne
of autumn, wears a bright, plastic
crown. Expect Hanna to make
landfall noon on Saturday –
80-100 mph winds
stroking the face of Gulf waters –
foil pressed onto brushed metal.
They called the Rangers in to assist
with the investigation – the black
bear sleeping in a kiddie pool,
protesters heckling staff
leaving the Chinese consulate,
slate morning dawning on straight line
leather skin makes with a harvested field.
An iron grating leaves a scarlet
silhouette. Dressed up in clothes
left by patrons of their 70 year
laundry business, Chang Wan-Ji
and Han Sho-er become viral
Instagram models. The white
umbrella opens over carmine
cellophane. Storm surges flood
the Art Museum first floor
and parts of downtown. A protester
shot and killed in Austin. A DNA
study showed widespread impact
of African slave trade. The wind
stays in the trees.
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Empathy / Entropy

Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton
Subtropical Herbarium
Sabal palmettos point wispy eyes at sky
and dream cloud scuds as closing arguments
against the salt-bitten heat
of incarceration. Pluck their
terminal buds, taste them transform
into hearts of palm as you crush
meat between molars: tender harvest
that kills the tree. Because of this
they grow so tall, unfold
vital organs to the secret sun.
The anacahuita, however, sheds
fleshy blooms like an abundant
white sadness lost in seasons’
borders, petals
filling the lawn with their soft flames.
If you pick the olive-shaped fruits
eat them one by one
sweet dizziness enters the tongue
unwraps balance from the surface
of your spine, releases fickle attentions,
melancholia, precariousness,
and emotions
of uncertainty
to roam and ravage the body
until it forgets the limits
of its own definition
until it becomes
some
body
else.
When you find – not yourself –
but the mauve cool
of phanera purpurea, the swelling
in your mind begins to ease, ulcered
walls regain shape, soft lily
flowers press skin and draw
deep violet from flesh
into sparkling plant cells.
These bright butterflies
named alibangbang in the Philippines
leap into heavy summer shadow
where violence as much as joy
languish in each others’ sweltering
thick arms, magenta flashes
dart between the limbs,
draw your troubled
mind out into
the searing
light.
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46

Theodore Hodges
Red From Shipping and Receiving
“I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only
as one who has seen its brutality, its stupidity.”
- General Dwight Eisenhower
SERGEANT MICHAEL SANDERSON
5TH RANGER BATTALION, A COMPANY
OMAHA BEACH
(FORCE DISPLACED BY WEATHER CONDITIONS, ORIGINAL LANDING SITE
5 MILES WEST AT POINTE DU HOC)
JUNE 6TH, 1944
“Clear the ramp god damnit! Clear the fucking ramp!” the squid was forced to
scream his abuse over the motor raging and sea water splashing inside the bay.
He wasn’t a squid, not really, but my old man had served in the Marines back
in the Gr- the last war- and called Navy guys that. Shit, what were we even calling this
now? Great War Two? I’ve been at this job, doing the world tour of killing Germans that
is, for two years now. Two years. Yet, I never thought about it. What the hell had I
been doing? More of what you’re about to do, I reminded myself.
None of that really mattered though. Just the stupid kind of stuff that always
ran through your head when the killing was about to start. The North Atlantic was
pissed today, and that stole any real significance to concerns like naming conventions.
Orders had been to wait for the weather to clear before we tried our hand at Normandy.
That was, until the days had started to drag. General Eisenhower apparently admitted
he was getting impatient, and miraculously the met reports showed up an hour later
signifying that we were open for business. The ocean, for its part, begged to differ.
Christ, the Navy LCVP (Landing Craft, Vehicle and Personnel) smelled bad.
Besides the already potent stench of sea water, which I didn’t love, guys were spilling
their guts all over the place. What it accomplished was little more than pushing some
others over the proverbial edge. Well, that, and making sure all our boots had a fresh
coat of breakfast and stomach acid to accompany the sea water soaking in.
Armored walls ran up the sides of the LCVP and over our heads. Ostensibly,
they were supposed to provide cover for inserting forces. I had seen and used a lot of
stuff that the Army liked to put “supposed” around, so I wasn’t holding my breath. As it
were, we would all be finding out how reliable the equipment was. If you managed to
avoid catching an AT round, machine gun fire, or a bomb on the way in, it worked as
advertised. If not, well nobody would be able to file your complaint.
“Sergeant!” Miller, the youngest guy in my squad, said, “I’m… I’m scared!”
“Shit son,” I replied without thinking as usual, “I did North Africa and Italy, and
I’m still inches from shitting my britches.”
A few weak laughs came from that, and another Ranger decided it was a good
time to add his breakfast to the ankle-deep sea water/vomit hybrid sloshing around.
“Weather resistant” was what they had said about our boots. My socks, very much
soaking wet, put the lie to that claim. I started to feel something like growing excitement
as we made our final approach to the beaches. At least all I’d have to do there
is not die. Compared to sitting in the tub of human juices, I was opting for German
machine guns.
Moments like these always reminded me how far from Iowa I was. I wanted
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Empathy / Entropy

to go home. No, I needed to go home. My boy just turned two last week: another
memory stolen from me. If today went like I thought it would, I might never be there
for one of his birthdays. Had it really been that long? Margaret was pregnant when I
left. Now, James was a big two-year-old, and all I knew of my own son were the bits
of information she sent in letters. Not even a fucking picture.
Margaret wasn’t sounding any happier about me being away either. Terms
like “divorce,” “separation” and “Red from shipping and receiving” were thrown around
a lot. “Red from shipping and receiving” was also twenty years older than my wife.
None of it had stopped her from having a few “moments of indiscretion” with him over
the last two years. God damn, if the Nazis didn’t make punching their ticket easy. All
I had to do was think about “Red from shipping and receiving” whenever I felt any
doubt.
“Here we go!” the squid screamed once more.
The LCVP struck the surface hard enough to knock me down and right into
the soupy fluid below. Our ramp released from its’ housing, hitting the beach with a
wet plop of sand and salt water. But we weren’t on the beach. In fact, we were about
fifty meters from it. Shit, that fucking idiot dropped us on a sandbar, I raged. Today
was going to start with us swimming ashore instead of getting dropped there. How
many would make it through the rough waters? That was anyone’s guess.
Enemy machine gun teams were right on the money though. 8mm rounds
spat from German MG42s and ripped through the densely packed Rangers in front.
Turns out the armor worked pretty good, not one bullet punched through the walls.
They just ricocheted around, shredding bodies with abandon.
“Oh shit, oh fuck, oh god dam-“ the squid was stammering when he realized
his error.
“In the water!” I screamed.
“I can’t swim!” one voice came through the racket.
“I’m hit!” another added.
“It’s swim or die! In the water god damnit!” I said, putting an end to their
complaints in the way only Sergeants could do.
We started tossing ourselves over the side or through the bodies of our formerly
living comrades. I opted to go over the side. A burst of MG42 fire sprayed towards
me for my trouble. Close calls came with the business, but that was closer than I ever
wanted. One of them even skimmed my boot sole as I was going headfirst into the
Atlantic.
Sea water was changing to red, like an algae infested pond, once I flopped
in. My gear was heavy at the best of times. Getting it soaked through didn’t do me any
favors either. Saltwater flowed into my mouth, and even though I knew I shouldn’t, I
inhaled. It tasted just like water impregnated with human blood would taste like: coins
and salt.
Fear managed to get me moving again after the shock settled in. Before I
knew it, I was ripping my gear off with desperate wrenching movements. Ruck sack,
bandolier, weapon, helmet, all of them were thrown off as fast as I could manage.
When I was finally light enough to fight my way to the surface, I did so with frantic
flailing motions.
Most people inhale when they get above the water line. I decided coughing
would be better. It was a god damn miracle that I hadn’t died down there, and I had
enough saltwater to entertain a family of Marlins in my stomach. The coughing and
sputtering continued for a few moments while I took in the scene. In short, it was a
massacre.
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First off, I was not where I was supposed to be. I didn’t know that because
someone told me, or that I had a map in hand. I knew it because there were tanks
in the water too. Pointe Du Hoc wasn’t supposed to have tanks. At best, I had drifted
to the Omaha side of the beachhead. Worst case, I was in hell itself. The dead bodies
and screaming men floating around tempted me to believe the latter.
In absence of any better idea, I started to swim towards the beach. You
would not believe how many corpses I was forced to push past in that desperate
flight. They were already cold to the touch when I was forced to shove them out of
the way. One of them decided he wasn’t ready to die yet, and started grabbing at me
while shouting for help. That was stupid for a whole truckload of reasons. All I did to
respond was ram a fist into one of his wounds. He squealed in pain from my abuse,
and stopped pleading for me to help him. I continued my recently adopted hobby of
oceanic aerobics without looking back at the man. There was nothing I could do for
him anyway.
If the water wasn’t cold and bloody enough, the beach would certainly do
the trick. Men lay scattered across the expanse, some dead, some dying. Rangers,
1st ID, and 29th ID, boys were huddled up behind tank traps like rats hiding from
a homeowner. I scrambled behind one myself. Machinegun fire was annihilating the
beachhead, and the artillery was starting to make itself known. Officers were trying
to get their Sergeants into the fight, but they were resisting as much as the privates
were. One found me and started his pitch.
“Sergeant!” he pulled me close to scream in my ear, “we have to get off this
beach!”
“Yeah? No shit sir!” I retorted.
“Where is your weapon?”
“Out in the water! Want me to go back for it?”
“No, cut the shit! Get ready to move on my go!”
“Sir?” I asked, grabbing the officer’s shoulder to get his attention since he
had turned away.
“What Sergeant?”
“Where the fuck are we?”
“Omaha, Dog Green! Any more insightful questions, or are you ready to get
back to the war?”
“No sir.”
I knew this man, but I wasn’t sure if he knew me. Lieutenant Milani was his
name. He was a platoon leader in 2nd Battalion’s A Company, and an Italian one at
that. I served in 1st Battalion, so we were hardly well-established friends. Milani also
had gained a reputation for being particularly straight laced on regs. It didn’t win him
any friends amongst his men, but the officer caste loved him. He was right though,
damn it, we needed to get off this beach. Chances of survival dwindled by the millisecond.
God decided to get off the crapper in that moment and give us a tank. It
had somehow managed to struggle out of the water from its landing craft’s premature
deployment. The bulbous green war machine was one of those flamethrower Shermans
that had earned their keep in North Africa. Somehow, the tank had maintained
its monstrous fuel trailer too. We had armor at least. That raised our chances from
nonexistent to grim. It was now or never. Lieutenant Milani opted for now.
“GO!” he yelled, and we went.
There was somewhere near thirty of us before we started pushing up beside
the tank. By the time we reached halfway, we were at twenty. MG fire and artillery
detonations were reaping a bloody toll while we fought our way forward. The results
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Empathy / Entropy

of their labor lay in bits and pieces scattered across the beach. Some of the pieces even
managed to scream.
Say what you will about the ocean, but at least I didn’t get teeth and entrails
splattered on me while swimming through that. The smell was as you’d expect. If I
wasn’t on a mad dash for my very life, I might have added some vomit or tears to the
mix. Instead, I settled on what “Red from shipping and receiving” was doing to my wife.
Always managed to keep my head in the game, that.
“Blow the wire! Bangalores up!” Milani said when we finally reached our first
stop.
Nobody was there to do it, but I pretty much knew how they worked. Plenty
of the dead had them, so I pilfered corpses to recover what I needed. With one of the
Bangalores in hand, I ripped the pin free. Then a grunt, and I flung the explosive up to
the wire. All I had left to do after that was take cover behind the berm.
BOOM
BOOM BOOM BOOM
At least the explosives worked. We now had a clear path to the rock faces that
would lead us up to the bunkers and trench lines above. I still didn’t have a weapon.
That was rectified in the same way I got the Bangalore. A Thompson .45 automatic
SMG was my killing tool now. Compared to the M1 Garand I had ridden in with, it was
an improvement. What we were about to attempt would be up close. Auto guns were
better for that kind of work.
“Keep moving! Grab ammo and keep moving!” Milani said.
I followed the crazy Italian up to a draw in the rock wall. Apparently, the guys
in 1st and 29th knew about this, so I just fell in and hoped we had the juice for it. Another
MG was set up there, and we made short work of it with smoke grenades and our
small arms. Three guys bought it before we were done, but we had a route up. That
was the best news I heard all day. Second best was one of them had a helmet that fit
me. No, never mind, that was third. The Thompson was second.
“Of course, a miserable bastard like you had to live Sanderson,” Milani said
with a dry chuckle while we waited just under the crest of the draw.
“So, you do know my name?” I said, honestly surprised he did.
“Guys like you, well, us officers hope we don’t get them.”
I laughed, “Shit sir, I’ve been doing this since Africa! You should be honored!”
“Let’s make sure I have plenty of time to reconsider my harsh words,” Milani
muttered, then, “Rangers, 1st, 29th, let’s get this done. You know the drill: grenades,
flamethrowers-wait, do we even have one of those?”
“Yeah, I made it sir,” one of the soldiers farther back said, brandishing the
nozzle of his flamethrower.
“Would have been too much fun without you. Where’s the tank?”
“Sir,” I pointed at the burning carcass of the Sherman well below us, “wouldn’t
count on that.”
“Typical,” Milani grunted, “move out!”
All of us lined up as wide as we could with fresh troops behind. If one of
us went down, the second man would take up our position. There might have been
enough for a covering element, but every second we wasted dicking around trying to
get them emplaced was another one we gave to the German’s to rally. Yet again, now,
or never.
Milani was the first out, and I followed him close behind. Fire erupted from a
nearby trench line as we pushed forward. Four more of our people took the rounds in
stride and rolled limply on the soil to a dead stop. I wanted to get rounds on the Jerries
if I could, but there was no time. Some of the less brave souls in our ad hoc force had
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50

decided discretion was the better part of valor and stayed back. A few even chose to
fire their weapons at the Nazis while we ran to the nearest bunker. I swear, people like
that made it a fucking miracle we were winning this war.
“Grenades!” Milani said.
I had a few on my person, and without preamble, lobbed them at the trenches
outside the gargantuan structure. The MG teams were in there, still spitting death
to the guys below, so they needed to be removed from play ASAP. Miraculously, a few
other guys did the same, and we huddled in cover with our hands over our heads.
Chunks of concrete and less savory elements of the human composition
rained down on us with the blast. When it settled, we popped up over the edge of
the trench line. Some of its inhabitants lived in various stages of agony from minor
to severe. We ended their pain with bursts of fire from our rifles and SMGs. One guy
even had a Browning Automatic, and he spent no more than a round or two on those
he killed.
“Flame!” the Lieutenant barked.
The burner was laying in a heap between us and the draw’s crest, so that
option was no longer available. Milani stared for a moment, and his features darkened.
Then he looked at me. We both had sub guns, and that was the best option now that
we were short a fire bug. All I could manage was a tired shrug and a few words.
“Don’t even say it. Might as well get this over with.”
“Hell of an example for the men, Sergeant,” Milani said with a grin.
This was an old game, between officer and sergeant. If all went the way
things were supposed to, he made decisions and I leashed him when necessary. Unfortunately,
that’s not how it shook out most of the time. But for now, we both played
our parts. Two young men trying their best to lighten the tremendous load of battlefield
leadership.
“Sir,” I said, reloading my Thompson, “if they need me to pep them up right
now, we’re right and truly fucked.”
“I’m ashamed to hear such words from a US Army Noncommissioned officer,”
he said while we scaled the wall.
“All that motivation shit is as much for us as them. They know what to do.
Whether or not they do it is on each man’s conscious.”
“Whatever you say, old timer,” the twenty-three-year-old Lieutenant said to
me, a twenty-five-year-old Sergeant.
“Fuck you… sir.”
We were at the bunker’s rear door now. I pulled my Thompson’s magazine
free one last time to make sure I was good to go. That was the second time I checked
since we started talking, but I wanted to be absolutely certain I was going in with
one in the pipe and twenty-nine on backup. Good chance I’d need every single one of
them. Those bunkers looked filled to the brim with krauts.
With a nod from Milani, we tossed grenades in the door. They cooked off
with clouds of dust, spraying from the innards of the concrete eyesore the Nazi’s had
crafted with the help of local slave labor. Voices still were in there though. They didn’t
sound like they were giving up either. I couldn’t blame them. Would I in their shoes?
Of late, both sides had a problem with the whole alive thing. If you had been around
for a bit, it got harder and harder to see the point in saving the miserable bastards.
Nazis that didn’t get the point this deep into the war probably deserved the lead pill.
God damn fanatics rolled around in my mind with the sentiment.
“No time like the present,” I said with look at Milani, and surged forward.
The Nazis did a hell of a job building their fortifications. That was on my mind
as I came in. A T-shape formed the terminus of the entryway, sheltering the inhabi-
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Empathy / Entropy

tants from the worst of our grenades. No doubt they weren’t happy at the interruption
to their slaughter, but they weren’t dead. If we needed confirmation, an officer inside
began shouting out commands in the mongrel tongue of the people who had made
“Red from shipping and receiving” a possibility.
I was first in, and there was no shortage of targets. Six of them cowered
behind ammo boxes while one still sprayed fire into the poor bastards on the beach.
He got it first. My Thompson chattered like the nickname “Chicago Typewriter” it had
earned in the twenties. The gunner jerked, and red puffs of blood vapor erupted from
his chest. Holding the trigger down, I swept the weapon across the room until the action
locked back empty.
Explosions and gunfire still ravaged the beach below, but nobody was fighting
back in this bunker anymore. Milani was busying himself checking the room for intel
while I reloaded. German cries for salvation always triggered my selective hearing. One
half of my next magazine ensured they didn’t need any more assistance this side of the
grave. War is hell, so they said.
“Holy shit!” Milani yelled as I raked the bodies with .45 auto rounds, “What the
fuck are you doing Sanderson?”
“Sir, I know you’re new to this, but I’m not wasting time on checking pockets
for knives and letters to their sweethearts when we’ve still got a war on.”
“You are way out of line, Sergeant,” he said while grabbing my shirt collar.
“Let go of me,” I warned.
“Or what?”
The Lieutenant earned a headbutt for his efforts. His nose cracked, and blood
ran from it. I had hoped he would get the idea, but he wanted some more by the look
in his eyes. A fist cracked into my jaw, knocking me down. It hurt. Nonexistent lights
danced in my vision when I hit the blood-soaked floor. I managed a grunt while I
rubbed at my jaw. That would bruise for sure.
“Don’t get up, Sanderson,” Milani said to me with a hand raised and his other
firmly on his Thompson’s pistol grip, “Maybe the Germans do this kind of shit, but we
don’t. Gunning down innocent POWs is too far.”
“Innocent? For fuck sakes sir, how long have you been in uniform? A year? Six
months? Isn’t this your first time in actual combat? What do you know about ‘what we
do?’”
“I don’t have time for you to lecture me about the horrors of war, Sergeant.
Just stay here. You’ll get a nice ticket home. Well, probably not home, but a hell of a lot
closer than I’ll be anytime soon.”
“Look, sir,” I stood up, “I’m willing to let this go if you just turn around and we
walk out just like we came in. Make an issue of this, and half the Regiment will have
you on their shit list.”
“Why would you say that?” Milani asked, seeming uninterested.
“If you think I’m the only one who has finished off a job like this… Well, I don’t
know what to tell you.”
Milani was a proud man, and it showed itself in his response, “Spare me,
please. Guys like you always have the same soap box they stand on. ‘Had to be done
sir.’ Get over it.”
Desperate, I changed tact, “I was your age in North Africa, you know that?”
“Why should I care what you have to say?”
“Just listen god damnit!” I shouted, “I was twenty-three when I killed my first
man. We had just finished off a firefight with the Jerries and found a bunch of wounded
in a fighting position that had taken an arty shell. They were fucked up, bad, and we
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52

didn’t have enough water to spare. You can’t imagine the heat there sir. A day without
water and you’d be a goner. So, my LT gave us the nod.”
“Bullshit.”
“Turn around, sir,” I said, all gentility in my voice gone, “Do what I say this
time. Just, just, turn around and we’ll leave together.”
“No, I want no part of this, and you will obey my orders, Sergeant. Or have
you decided that listening to a commissioned officer’s orders is only a formality too?”
Milani was stressed. This was his first firefight, and it wasn’t the kind that any
man should have as his first. Hell, I don’t think anyone should ever have to see combat
like that. We were both young, but experience divided us in the same way years would
in the normal world. That’s why Sergeants existed in the first place. Senior riflemen
that advised officers and kept them on the right path.
Situations like this was where he needed a guiding hand, but he was pushing
it away. All for what? Moral superiority? This was war, and good men needed to do
bad things to survive. Someone had failed in teaching him that, and now I was caught
holding the bag.
I let out a sigh, attempting to bury the hatchet one last time, “Fine, we’ll deal
with that later. I’ll go outside to get the men. We’ve still got a shitload more of these
bunkers to clear out.”
“No, Sanderson, you’re done. I am ordering you to stand down, and if you
don’t…” Milani said, and that’s when he made a fatal mistake; he raised his weapon at
me.
Things had been quiet before this for the US Army. Italy was done and
dusted, and Africa was practically ancient history. Problems had arisen with soldiers,
particularly new officers, lacking combat experience training alongside us veterans in
Britain. The problems varied, but the two most potent had been lack of understanding
and lack of situational awareness. Milani displayed both in that moment, as he was
pointing a weapon at me. A weapon, that he had forgotten to reload amidst the carnage
of the trench clearing. He probably didn’t even notice its’ action was snapped
back.
What happened next was something I regret being forced to do. Milani, by
his naivety, stood alongside the Germans as people who would ensure “Red from shipping
and receiving” kept up his activities with my wife. I couldn’t have that. I wouldn’t.
Maybe if we hadn’t been in such a tight spot, I could have talked him out of it. He was
simply scared, after all. But I did not have the time. If I didn’t make a play, I would
never see my family again. Five murder charges just about guaranteed that by either
a prison sentence or a firing squad.
“Nothing personal, sir,” I said while raising my own weapon.
Milani looked surprised that I had resisted his supposed unimpeachable authority,
“What?”
The LT squeezed his trigger first, I’ll never forget that. I let him, just to be
sure he would. His Thompson let out a dry click. When his gaze returned to my own,
his eyes were wide in fear. His mouth started to move like he was trying to say something.
It might have been “please”, but I wasn’t sure. My own weapon silenced his
pleading with a barrage of slugs into his chest. He fell like any German or Italian man
I had killed. It was anticlimactic, considering the circumstances.
Carnage still raged as I approached Milani. Blood poured over from his lips
almost immediately, and I knew I did some serious damage to his internals. Time felt
out of synch in that moment as I drifted over to his body. I had to be sure he wasn’t
going to get back up. Closing my eyes, I reloaded, then ripped off another burst.
When my own weapon announced it was empty, there wasn’t much left of the once
handsome Lieutenant’s skull. Nobody walked away from that.
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Empathy / Entropy

I had to get home. “Red from shipping and receiving” wouldn’t stop himself,
and Margret was just confused. She missed me terribly, I knew that even if she didn’t
say it anymore. If I could just get there, just survive another day, I could show her.
Of course, I wouldn’t be the same since I had left, but that was okay. We could find a
way to work it out, and I could be the father that James needed. I just needed to get
there to make it happen, and I’d be god damned before some punk Lieutenant like
Milani was going to stop me.
THE NEXT DAY
I was sitting on an ammo crate when the Colonel came over to me, smoking
a cigarette I had traded one of the supply folks for. The last day’s action had been
unreal. Fifteen more men, three of which were French militia, had died by my hands
since I… did what had to be done with Milani. The show had been mine after that,
and I had led the ragtag troopers to something like “glory,” if that even existed in the
organized massacre of war.
“Sergeant Sanderson,” The Colonel said from behind me.
“Sir!” I barked, rising to my feet.
“At ease, son, at ease,” he said with his “I want to be your surrogate daddy”
voice.
I sat down again and said, “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I want to talk about yesterday, on the beach.”
My blood chilled, “Hell of a mess, sir.”
“No doubt,” he said, “what was that Lieutenant that helped get you guys up?”
“Milani, sir.”
“Damn good man, wasn’t he? Always heard he had a good head on his shoulders.”
“Yes, sir,” I lied, “Army will be less without him.”
“Absolutely, but I’ve got some interesting reports from some of the men that
were with you two.”
“What’s that, sir?” I asked, bracing for impact.
“They said you did a damned good job! In fact, I want to give you a silver
star! How does that sound?”
It wasn’t really a question, so I answered the only way I knew how, “Sounds
good to me, sir.”
“I’ll get the paperwork started then. Stay here, Sanderson. Take a rest. You
earned it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said while he wandered away to continue accosting the men who
did the real work with pointless frivolities.
A pent-up exhale of air exploded from me when the Colonel left. There it
was. I killed a man. In cold blood, no less. Now I was about to get the second highest
combat decoration under the Medal of Honor for it. Jesus, what a fucked-up world. In
the last twenty-four hours I hadn’t traveled far from the bunker, but I felt farther from
home than I ever had before. Most of all, I just felt tired.
I couldn’t suppress an ugly laugh while I thought about my son, despite the
tears running from my eyes. I did what “Red from shipping and receiving” would have
done in that moment: anything necessary to get by. Strangely, I felt close to the man
who was having his way with my wife in the same house my son lived in. We had both
crossed a line, of sorts, and both of us had to determine what life would look like after
that in our own way.
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ink
Jacob Benavides
Limb Love
At eleven, I split open my leg
ripping the hairs and sinews,
writhing in a crimson stain,
young taut flesh on a cold bike peg
striking, like a wooden matchstick,
pulling into unstaunched iron pools,
running readily.
black stitches crossed an angry wound tame,
a wilted match seeking
a lifetime for another flame.
And this isn’t the end.
This flesh will catch forevermore,
I struck it open again, at seventeen, I’m never meant to heal
In a rage, enflamed, irate
(Full disclosure).
gouged with a ballpoint pen,
Closure is a body forever sore.
and it wasn’t on purpose. No
I fell from my own precipice
from a delirious desirous mind,
and violent is the fall
from physical brain to
immaterial heart,
then to that same wound,
same left leg
(at this point it became an art)
a stout flame lit
with a rotten egg shout,
the bleeding stream was hot,
I had to suck it dry,
kiss it closed,
kiss it out.
I turned twenty,
same gash, same wound, same scar
popped back open (I’m used to it).
Instead, I was pushed,
prodded, paraded off the edgeand
I fell far.
The flesh sprung forth and wept,
bleeding the sametasting
the samestriking
a match that wouldn’t catch,
heat without a flame,
but now a different tongue for that same wound.
can’t I bleed into someone else’s mouth?
I’ve already swallowed
choked,
nearly drowned.
Morning
Hear the drip
Dropping drips
Sipping a drip
Scalding my lip
In a fresh drowsy coffee pot pool
In the lonely silver morning’s lull, languid skin.
Slight in sight,
Inhale earthy ground
Grinding ground
Grounded gravel
Grinds out a grin
Cold wood, meet damp delicate feet,
Hot coffee’s singular seismic whisper,
Meet a cold glass, tiny fractals and fissures.
A mighty shatter, a morning’s sound.
I seem to prefer lukewarm tea now.
55 Empathy / Entropy

The Exhibitionist
I love this Tyrant.
A diving lover, a copy editor
A crashed body flayed open
Partially, full twilight sleep eludes,
It’s the same scene, but different attitudes.
The O.R. is an exhibitionist’s heaven.
a brilliant wreck,
They’re the best damn clown surgeon,
a streak on the asphalt,
“Please, come cut me open,”
engulfed oil flames in chromatic stains.
A heavy light, bright sight
but unnerving,
pearly gates of a precious hell.
Medicated masks like specters
Anesthesia like air,
Cotton gauze to pad a fractal heart.
It’s a candied circus tent,
for buttered popcorn exhibition,
a body willingly lent
to a mother’s child,
a teenager’s rebellious leaning,
a lover’s morbid fascination.
Art
At the sake of danger
at the sake of a lark.
Insipid I don’t sleep
I refuse to die,
I refuse mortality.
To a voyeur’s deferred dreams,
syrupy sweet anatomy,
a youthful cavity.
The air thick with sugary scent,
syruped synapses build, build
I want to be emptied out then filled.
A week of motion suspended in a second.
In a hunk of metal, garbage
In a hospital bed, bloody bandage.
I inhale, breathe
I seethe
Fruit for anesthetic teeth.
I have an open wound that never shut
Please, Bite me
Sink into me.
Too much?
Never enough.
No, never enough.
Maybe a stray spark,
firebreather’s revenge
a scorned lover afterdark
And aesthetics are never enough,
The spectral eyes now blur
in the surgical fray, undeterred.
The circus tent was set ablaze,
burnt caramel and roasted peanut
crunchers dissipate. all that remains?
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A bloodied body on a table.
A cadaver displayed for those clowns’
faces, bent balloon animal frowns.
No, no
No, Novocain
My lungs are soot
ink sacks ripped, dripped open
on buttered parchment (family fun).
In the crash, in the operation
In the hospital, in waking sleep
In the circus hallucination’s sweets.
My heart throbs in my belly,
Amid yesterday’s lukewarm coffee
A brew of awful niceties.
He looms, wretched, in the dirty operating room,
A room of my own doing, a room for me
I spit at him and he spits right back.
Its caught in my fickle breast but I say,
A finger from my heart to my throat,
Pricked in ribboned flesh, was glass.
a menagerie’s bloodied long smashed filament.
Death came at last,
swift, slipped down a throat
washed down with bitter coffee,
jagged toffee, sweet saccharine,
sugar free
beams launched in strange mercy.
Or maybe it’s a shattered ribcage,
glittering in a crimson pool,
peppered bone in bodily barrage.
Death came after all,
after the hurt, love, fun,
unlike a lover undone.
“I am love.”
He responds with sickly death,
sticky breath dripping down,
down
out.
chromatic.
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Empathy / Entropy

Jacobus Marthinus Barnard
The Aftermath of Childhood
Little stickers on the ceiling, we watch
The stars and moon, so bright, for a midnight
Head bedded to the floor, I raise my palm
Outward, grasping for the falling sky,
Hoping to catch what once was mine
A dream from time so long unseen
I pray, my dream, come back to me.
Dear Chamomile,
You were the bedtime story I was never given as a child.
My First Heartbreak
It’s a rare event, this sweet twist that comes with shedding new
skin and looking at yourself from the outside. A cicada you are
and will always be. To magnify my summer doting and leave
pieces of yourself for me to discover for weeks
I Am The Rain
I will follow you on all your most heartfelt moments, clouding the good
in torrential swafts of black and grey.
Blue will descend, on your homes and on your hearts.
In your weakest moments, I will be there. With a tear stained face,
chest quivering from the touch and knees soaked through to the bone
in cold and wet.
In these puddles of mud, I will wring you out, dirty your skin and enter
the shadows of your smile.
You will sink. Deeper and deeper into my abyss.
In this pavement puddle, you will drown in contempt.
Not because of me, but because of you.
I am the rain. I cannot tell you what to think. You did this to yourself.
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Harriet Stratton
An Ear to the Ground
From the plane’s window seat, I see all
ten thousand acres of the family ranch,
wing shadow skims the treeless plain,
a gravel road that used to take me home.
At pasture level, a switchgrass whorl
(pronghorn bed) invites me to lie down.
On a clean sheet of sand, I rest
my head, ear to the ground.
Buffalo grass curls, big bluestem flags
above roots that drop deep anchor
against the blows of the wind. I can hear
the grass grow, rootlets pulse and dig;
sands creep, reach an angle of repose,
only to avalanche, grain by grain,
downwind. In the present, sandhills hiss—
a tense monologue of persistent shift.
In past tense, these sandhills whisper —
fill my ear with names that here, I have loved.
When I rise, I hear a swish. It’s as if time itself
sweeps my imprint from the land.
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Empathy / Entropy

Refractions
Chad Valdez
Eddie went through his rifle and pistol, being sure that they were clean
and the slide slid back smooth. With the old truck loaded up, a relic that his uncle
had left, Eddie drove to his older brother, Asher, across town. Their auntie had
called Eddie in tears early that morning, telling him about a coyote problem they
were having. The two of them grew up on their family ranch on the reservation
and moved away a year ago, separate apartments in different parts of town.
Even after Eddie graduated high school two years ago, the smell of home followed
him, the dirt and the stink of the sheep became even stronger when he
heard his auntie’s voice again. Eddie had hopes of attending community college,
but each year that came to apply, he convinced himself of a reason to wait.
Asher stumbled out of his apartment with sunglasses on, a still buzzed
walk with his rifle case in one hand, and his pistol in the other. A neighbor eyed
him the whole walk down, until Asher turned around and Eddie heard, “What
the fuck are you staring at?” His neighbor slammed his front door as an answer.
Damn it. He thought he could depend on him this one day to be sober. It was
already making out to be a shit day. Asher jumped in and gave him a slow side
smile befitting of a drunk.
“You stink,” Eddie said.
“I texted mom to ask if we could bring Budda along. We gotta stop by
and grab him.”
“Why’d you do that?” Eddie asked.
“Because he’s our little brother and kind of a little bitch. He needs to see
what it’s like out there. Maybe he’ll get his first kill. We were about his age when
we got ours.”
Budda was ten and grew up with a different dad, an actual dad that was
there and hadn’t disappeared as soon as he heard the words, “I’m pregnant”. He
also had what felt like a different mother after her big religious ‘breakthrough’,
while the mom they knew was either absent or high when they were growing
up. They hadn’t been around him much and Eddie had always felt bad about
neglecting his little brother. His first word was “Budda” while trying to pronounce
brother pointing at Eddie. That became his nickname, and he’d been stuck with it
since. Last Eddie saw him was his ‘graduation’ from elementary school to middle
school. Asher said it was too stupid to even attend, telling their mom, “When we
went from elementary school to middle school, we hadn’t seen you in months
because of all your problems.”
Eddie could not relate to his little budda, who grew up in town, in a
nice house, with everything he needed and wanted. He even had an edge over
them in skin, much lighter than his brothers, the result of his white father. While
Budda’s skin was called honey colored, Eddie and Asher were mud. Jealously
darkened around Eddie. He had always been a momma’s boy and it hurt to see
Budda get the attention he had always craved. If he wanted to come, then he’d
be Asher’s problem.
He drove to where Budda lived with their mom and his dad. After a quick
honk, Budda raced out of the door in fancy boots, hiking shorts, and a bright
button up shirt. This fucking kid.
“Hi guys,” Budda yelled while hopping into the backseat. Asher winced
from a hangover headache that made Eddie smile.
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“Hey little Budda, nice shoes,” Eddie said.
“Thanks, you too.”
Asher stifled a laugh while Eddie wiggled his toe in his torn-up converse.
Their mom came running out in nice jeans and a t-shirt that said, “Carson
Elementary”, Budda’s school. Eddie rolled his eyes at the sight.
“You forgot your water,” she said to Budda, handing it to him and giving
him a kiss on the cheek. “You boys be safe, okay?”
Asher smiled at her and said, “Course, ma.”
“Okay, no speeding. And don’t be out there late.” She walked back to the
house. “Oh, do you boys need waters too?”
Eddie had already started driving away.
The ranch resided on the Navajo reservation, miles from any sort of civilization;
the closest gas station was 50 miles away that was run by an old glonnie,
a Navajo word meaning drunk. The last hour of driving went slow because of the
unkept dirt roads that lead out to their ranch on the rez, common problems while
driving out here. Near the house on the ranch, dried blood stained the wooden
fence that kept in the sheep. The smell of copper was condensed to this area.
They were usually met by their auntie’s dog, begging for scratches and food, but
he was nowhere around.
“That coyote probably went out to the canyon, I can see prints leading
that way,” Asher said while tracking the ground from his passenger seat. Budda’s
confused face in the rearview mirror tried to stay in line with the trail. How many
times had he even been out here?
“Do you know what coyote prints look like, Bud?”
“Kinda like dog prints?” Budda asked.
“Coyote prints are more narrow.”
“Stop here,” Asher said after they drove a few miles away from the
house.
They were in a canyon close to the base of the mountain. They all got
out, gathered their things and surveyed the land. Asher took a swig from a leather-covered
flask that he pulled from his back pocket. Eddie didn’t say anything,
but thought the sight eerily familiar. He reminded him of their uncle drinking from
a flask the same way Asher just did when the three of them would be out here.
The breeze brought the smell of pine and small wisps of red dirt that swirled in
the air around them. He took in a deep breath of the crisp surroundings. Him and
Asher grew up on this land, learning how to survive on it and how to thrive on it.
Budda wrinkled his nose at the smell. Eddie grunted and took out a backpack to
put in all the extra ammo they had, but didn’t need, and gave it to Budda to carry.
“I wonder where that mutt is?” Eddie asked.
“You mean this one?” Asher said with a grin, pointing his lips at their little
brother.
Eddie ignored him, but Budda shrank away from the comment. Jealousy
and spite were stronger brothers than the three of them at times.
“The dog probably went and died somewhere,” Asher told Eddie. “Mean
old bastard. At least there’s no shortage of rez dogs that auntie can choose from
to keep around the house.”
Eddie agreed with him there. All she had to do was leave out some old
food and the dogs would flock to protect their new caregiver and her resources.
“Come on, let’s get going,” he said while patting himself down to be sure
he had everything, his last pat on his pistol.
“Can I carry a gun?” Budda asked while pretending to pat a pistol on his
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Empathy / Entropy

own hip.
“You ever shot one before?”
“No.”
“Then no,” Asher said to him.
The brothers walked with Asher in the lead and Eddie in the middle, with
Budda last and falling behind. Asher tracked signs of coyotes along the bottom
floor of the canyon. Their uncle had always joked that Asher must be an animal
too, saying he must sniff and lick the ground since the tracks he followed were
damn near nonexistent to Eddie. They headed upwards into the mountain, north
was the trail and the west and east were mirrored images of desolate nature.
Eddie talked to his little brother and tried to teach him what he could. He figured
it’d be better if he knew a little something.
“Walk with your toe down first, then your heel. It’s quieter,” Eddie told
him.
“Like thi—”
“And breathe in through your nose and out your mouth. You’re breathing
too loud and scaring everything away,” Eddie interrupted.
“Okaaay,” Budda said. “Walking’s hard.”
“You should roll up your sleeves too,” Asher chimed in. “You’re too light,
you’re probably reflecting light back to the animals.”
“I’m not even that much lighter,” Budda said more to himself. Eddie
wanted to say something, but just kept walking, breathing in through his nose
and out his mouth. Asher occasionally drank from his flask. Should Eddie say
something to him about it? Conversations with drunks about their drinking never
went well for anyone. Asher paused every few yards, seeming partly unsure as
they went on and becoming a little more unbalanced each time. An owl hooted
somewhere near them making both Eddie and Asher stop walking. It felt as if a
rattlesnake had coiled around Eddie and started squeezing. The trees were clear
and the skies were empty, the owl hid, but he knew it was there.
“What’s wrong?” Budda asked.
“Do you know about owls?” Asher questioned in response.
“I know some funny jokes about them.”
Eddie sighed, feeling sad for his little brother. “Do you know what they
mean in our culture? To our people?” Asher asked in anger.
“No,” Budda said turning away from him.
“Death,” Eddie said. “They mean death.”
“They’re evil?” Budda asked.
“No, just bad omens. But seeing as we’re out here to kill something,
maybe it’s a good sign,” Eddie told him with a reassuring smile that tried to set
his little brother at ease. Asher’s face was stoic, but his constant blinking was a
tell. Eddie told himself that as much as he was telling Budda. They kept pace;
the quiet sounds of nature were interrupted by Budda’s loud breathing when he
would catch up.
“Should I be in the lead tracking?” Eddie asked Asher.
“What, you think I can’t do it?” Asher asked him while stepping over a
bunch of cacti.
“You’re drinking. Probably haven’t stopped for a few days.”
“If you got something to say to me, why don’t you be a man and just
fucking say it?” Asher told him, turning around.
Eddie wanted to tell him off here and now. Budda caught up and stopped
between the two of them, balancing as if he was on an edge. Tell him how he’s
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throwing his life away down a bottle, just like their uncle who clung to it like a
dying man to water.
Asher moved out of the way and motioned at Eddie to go in front of him.
“You think you’re better than me baby brother? You’re going nowhere just like
me and just like uncle. That’s what they all expect from us right? Another drunk
Navajo with some dead sheep on the rez. How you gonna lead us?”
Eddie stayed rooted to his spot while imagining the rot inside his big brother.
For a moment, the liquor was personified, beckoning him but stayed screwed
up. The whiskey colored skin shined bright. Gold tequila was beside them, fidgeting
with his jacket zipper, eyebrows furrowed downward. He imagined swinging at
Asher. He was stockier than him and would put force in his left hook to his face.
If he hit it right, he’d probably get some teeth out of him. Asher would tackle him
and they would go rolling down the mountain they were walking up, hitting rocks
and cacti along the way and screaming words Budda had probably not heard yet.
Goddamn drunks. He motioned at Asher to keep going and stayed silent.
They ascended halfway up the mountain when Asher told them to stop
and take a break. There were miles and miles of different colored greens of trees
and bushes, but they were a stark contrast to the red and brown dirt that washed
over everything. The swirling of them were like Christmas lights Eddie had seen in
movies. This felt like the Christmas tree he never had.
“Here?” Eddie asked Asher, the tension thick in the crisp air.
Asher didn’t say anything, only nodded his head. There was a moment
of question from Asher as he tried to decide whether to put his bag down or not,
weighing it in his hand. Was this the best spot they could be in?
“Lil Bud, lie on your stomach on that rock and watch for movement. We
might be here awhile so get comfy. And don’t move around too much,” Eddie told
Budda, making the decision himself. Asher set his bag down and dug around in
his pocket and pulled out a coyote caller. A nice surprise from what he was usually
holding onto. He moved backwards into a juniper tree that concealed him. Eddie
laid next to his little brother, setting his rifle on his shoulder and the barrel onto his
backpack for support.
Asher leaned his own rifle against the tree and blew into the coyote caller,
a high-pitched squeal let out into the world around them. The sounds from Eddie’s
childhood flooded in, these same cries outside of their Hogan on the reservation
along with barking dogs and occasional sounds of fighting and yelps. Keeping
watch through the scope of his rifle, the cries echoed through the mountain while
an invisible race of sound flew through the canyon below. They stayed calling until
the sun passed over them in the blue sky above, their eyes constantly searching
beneath them. Why the hell did he let Asher keep tracking? He should have just
taken over the lead and dealt with whatever fit Asher would have thrown. Sure,
he wasn’t the best tracker, but probably damn better than someone that only saw
in blurs. They would need to hurry back to the truck to miss the night. Asher blew
one more time before stopping and waiting.
Budda fidgeted with the dirt and pebbles on the ground. Eddie wanted
to say something to him, maybe ask him about school or friends or anything.
Budda started whistling a tune, a song that their mother loved. “I’ll be There” by
the Jackson 5. Eddie was entranced by it easily. He remembered her playing it in
their tiny kitchen when he was a boy, she danced with him and spun him around,
danced with him and sang with him, danced with him and loved him. He wondered
if Budda took over his role of repeating the lyrics back to her. “I’ll keep holdin’ on
(holdin’ on),” they would sing. Asher appeared between the two of them cutting it
off. He held his hand over Budda’s mouth. He was saying something to Eddie, but
he didn’t register it.
“What the fuck are you letting him whistle for?” he said with a loud whis-
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Empathy / Entropy

per. “And why the fuck are you whistling?” turning his attention to Budda. Eddie
broke out of his memory and realized what happened. He cursed himself for
being so stupid. He knew better than to let Budda whistle but wandered into
a maze in his own head. Their uncle told them that if they ever wanted a hard
death, to just whistle out on the rez and evil would come running for them.
“Don’t ever whistle out here again,” Asher told Budda before moving
back to his refuge.
“Why can’t I whistle?” Budda asked Eddie, more angry than hurt.
“There’s things out here that don’t like whistling. You’ll attract them.”
“But—”
“Hush, mutt,” Asher said from behind them.
Budda went back to playing with the dirt and pebbles.
After more time had passed, dirt slid down from behind Eddie. He knew
that Asher was standing and would want to move to a different spot. The cool
shade they were experiencing was nice on the skin, but it came at a cost of it
getting too late. It was dangerous to be out on the reservation at night and even
though they argued, they both knew this. Something moved far below them and
Eddie quickly put his hand up that quieted the noise. It must have heard Asher’s
impatience too. He pointed to a hill downward, not taking his eye from the
scope. A flash of light brown sauntered between bushes, its ears perked up and
sniffing. Eddie reached over to Budda and touched his shoulder. He motioned at
Budda to cover his ears.
The boom of Eddie’s .30-.30 cracked the air around them, a ripple
followed by a thud sounded throughout their land. The coyote jumped and ran
back down and around the hill.
“You missed,” Budda said with disappointment in his voice. Eddie smiled
and stood up from his spot, he stretched out and wiped the dirt and pebbles
stuck to his shirt and skin.
“Come on.”
They walked to where the coyote had been, Eddie pointed at the blood
soaked into the dirt. “Can you track that blood?” Budda nodded his head with
awe and walked wherever there was a pool of red, with Eddie and Asher right
behind him. Asher pulled out his flask again and Eddie stopped him, letting Budda
get ahead of them a few yards.
“Hey, come on, I’m serious now, I’m worried about you. You’ve been
sipping at that this whole time.”
“Don’t worry about it, Eds,” Asher said with a slur and a smile, “It’ll keep
me warm tonight.”
“We shouldn’t be out here at night, you know that. Don’t be like uncle,”
Eddie told him.
“We still got time,” Asher said, sounding like he had a mouthful of syrup.
The moon had appeared at some point, the white next to the changing sky,
“But we should get a move on. Hell, maybe you can even lead us back,” he said
with a final wink and moved to keep walking.
Eddie stayed behind Budda, who skipped with excitement at being able
to track something. There was a yelp behind him and he stopped, but there was
nothing there. He had kept close to Budda, letting Asher fall back so they had a
chance to cool off.
“Wait,” Eddie said. “Come here.”
Eddie jogged back and rounded the hill they passed that was thick with
trees. Asher sat on the ground with his back against a tree and held his ankle.
“What happened?” Eddie asked, kneeling beside him.
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“Just tripped. Twisted my damn ankle,” he said while trying to stand.
“You fucking drunk. I told you this would happen,” Eddie said, stepping
back while his brother tried to stand. He felt something underfoot and moved to
reveal the flask on the ground. He picked it up, ready to yell more, but the cap
stopped him. The lid had the initials ‘J.B.’ scratched into it. John Begay—their uncle.
He unsnapped the leather covering and slid the flask out slowly, like pulling
a splinter from a finger. He hoped that the dreamcatcher that had been on the
side of their uncle’s flask wasn’t there. It was—the colors faded and the outside
beaten and used.
“Did you find this with him?” Eddie asked.
“Drank himself to death in the middle of nowhere. It was thrown against
the rocks.” Asher winced while bracing against the tree, keeping his weight off
his one leg.
Eddie was quiet. He figured that was what happened, but Asher had
never told him he found him, just that he was gone. Budda’s loud breathing was
the only thing connecting them in that moment. They can’t turn out like their
uncle. Angry and drunk. He was worried about his older brother, he was the one
that was supposed to take care of them, but he carried the poison of their family
heritage with him. Eddie threw the flask as hard as he could and it flew through
the zephyr, a metal ding reverberated as it landed on some rocks. Budda tugged
on Eddie’s sleeve. He pointed towards the thicket of trees in the direction of the
thrown flask. Two large yellow eyes feasted on them. The rubbernecking head
of an owl was swiveled around with its body facing the opposite way.
“It’s still here,” Budda said.
“We should go,” Eddie said to break the gawking of the néʼéshjaaʼ. He
grabbed Asher’s arm and put it around his neck. “Keep tracking, Bud,” he told his
little brother. They started walking again, slower, the head of the owl followed
them as they went.
At the bottom of the crevice, Budda turned and stopped. Eddie walked
up behind him and over his shoulder was the coyote whimpering and trying to
kick away from the brothers. Eddie and Asher stood behind Budda who was
rooted to his spot, shaking slightly, tears percolating in its pouch. Asher pulled
out his pistol and stepped towards him. Eddie put his hand on his older brother’s
shoulder—he knew what had to happen, but his body stopped Asher when his
speech couldn’t.
Reliving the past this much should not be happening. The details of his
first kill stuck with him, his uncle being the drunk back then while Asher judged
him and watched over Eddie. The smell of the blood and the cry that was louder
than the gunshot replayed in his head for years. His uncle laughed at him if he
brought it up. Soon Asher did too. Then it was something Eddie laughed at as
well. But the laugh was empty, and when it happened, he pictured the splattered
blood on the dirt.
Asher shrugged his hand off and held out the pistol for Budda’s small
hand to grasp.
“I don’t want to,” Budda pleaded.
“You have to,” Asher said.
Budda took it and was gentle touching it. The memory of Eddie’s uncle
doing the same to Asher and himself continued intruding Eddie’s thoughts. Their
uncle held up the gun for him and flipped the safety off. He told him to do it or
else. Eddie wished he would have just said that it’s okay. It’ll make you stronger.
It’s for the better. Anything to help a child kill a living thing. They had no shadows
anymore, the light around them fading quicker and quicker as the sun descended
below the horizon.
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“Why don’t you guys like me?” Budda asked through tears.
Eddie thought the question was just in his own head, himself asking that
when he was young and his finger on the trigger. Their uncle laughing in reply,
“Well maybe if you kill the damn thing, you’ll be better.” If he wanted it dead, he
should’ve done it himself.
“You’re our little brother, we love you,” Asher said. “But you gotta man
up. Just kill it and you’ll feel better.”
The crack in the dark air resonated through all of them as the whimpering
stopped. The pistol end smoked until the breeze took away the wisp. Budda
hadn’t even touched the trigger on Asher’s pistol. His bewildered face must have
wondered if he did though. Eddie lowered his arm that held the pistol that just
fired. He holstered it and took away the gun from Budda, shoving the butt against
Asher.
“What the fuck, Eddie, he was supposed to do it?” Asher said.
“Fuck you.”
Asher shoved Eddie down and Budda started to cry. Eddie ran at Asher
and tackled him, knocking him to the ground and hitting him twice in the jaw
before Asher blocked the next one and threw dirt into Eddie’s eyes. Eddie stood
up wincing and was met with a hook to his ear. Eddie fell and Asher advanced at
him, but a kick to his already twisted ankle splayed him in the dirt next to Eddie.
Another kick to Asher’s face quieted him and let Eddie get on top. He pulled him
up by his shirt and hit him again. His knuckle sliced open on a tooth and sent
blood spewing onto Budda’s shirt. Budda pushed Eddie off of Asher. The three
brothers laid in the dirt, breathing in the dust, while an owl hooted above them.
“It’s this way,” Eddie said, sweeping the flashlight around on the ground.
Budda was behind him with Asher in the back, limping and quiet. The sun was
a memory now, the shadows consumed them as they walked in the dark of the
moon. Coyotes howled to break the silence at times, Eddie imagined they found
the one dead in the canyon. Other times he thought they might be calling out to
them, angry, sad, wanting revenge. There are worse things out here though.
“Are you okay?” Budda asked.
“I—” he stopped when he realized that Budda was talking to Asher. Eddie
kept moving forward, not wanting to look back at his big brother. He didn’t
want to argue anymore, he just wanted to go home.
“I’m okay,” Asher said.
“Are you okay, Bud?” Eddie asked Budda.
“Yes… I’m sorry I was scared.”
“You don’t have to be sorry about that,” Eddie said. “We all get scared
sometimes. Just have to learn from it.”
“He’s right, Budda,” Asher said.
Eddie still heard the slur in his speech. He ignored Asher and focused
on getting them back to the truck, but the land seemed to change at night.
The landmarks he remembered as they were tracking the coyote felt switched
around, as if someone had come and turned everything just a little, enough to
get them lost.
“Do you think mom and dad will be mad we’re not back yet?”
Eddie didn’t like when Budda referred to his dad as all of theirs but
thought better not to correct him. “Nah, she knows it might’ve taken all day.
Don’t worry, we’ll get to the truck and I’ll call them and just say you wanted to
spend the night with us and our phones died or something. We won’t get service
until we get closer to town anyway.”
They walked with the quiet deafening them, tense and thick, only the
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sounds of their steps and the breeze touching the mountain was there with
them. Eddie swept his light across the trees. Was that an owl sitting in the tree?
He decided not to check and hoped that he was just scaring himself. Better to
keep that locked away.
“What is it you’re following to get us back to the truck?” Budda asked
Eddie.
“I’m just trying to remember our way out here right now. Occasionally
I’ll spot some footprints so I know we came from that way.” He didn’t want to
add that sometimes they didn’t match their feet size or shoes, but he figured if
he didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t be true. He wondered if Asher noticed this
too, or if he was still too drunk to see where they were going.
“Hold on,” Asher said to them, farther back than Eddie knew he was.
“We should keep moving,” Eddie told him.
“I know, Eds,” Asher said. “Just for a sec. My ankle.”
“Here,” Eddie said and took Asher’s arm, putting it around his neck. He
carried most of his weight with the stench of alcohol stronger from leaking out
of his pores. They walked with Budda standing next to them, in a line with no
one in lead.
“Do you remember where you found him?” Eddie asked, not even realizing
what came out of his mouth.
“No. Maybe. I’m not sure. It was late at night and I heard gunshots and
went
looking. I was scared.”
Eddie was quiet. He never thought of his big brother being scared. Did
Budda think that too?
“Did he kill himself? I figured he’d die of alcohol poisoning or from being
too big of an asshole.” Eddie asked. Their uncle was still blood and that meant
something, even if he grew to dislike him.
“I checked him over. No blood or anything. But his gun was spent. The
slide was locked back and the clip was empty,” Asher said, his tone quieting as
he went on.
They heard the owl again. Its hoots slipped into the quiet, not intrusive,
almost a whisper. Eddie was scared. That and what Asher told him kept running
through his mind and gave him chills. Why would their uncle shoot off his gun so
much? It didn’t sound like something he would do, he always made every shot
count and never wasted ammo, counting each bullet whenever they returned
from a hike or a hunt.
There was a tree that was burned from lightning that Eddie thought of
as striking on their way in and seeing it again he told his brothers, “I think we’re
on the right track.”
Every sound was amplified here, the canyon bringing them the calls
and the crunches and the creaks. Eddie imagined the moon eyes of the owl
observing them, its head contorted to consider.
“Why shouldn’t we be out here at night?” Budda asked when he was
closer to Eddie.
“So we don’t get lost like this,” Eddie lied.
“That’s it?”
Asher caught up to them, closer to Budda now. “Because of the yee’
na’aldlooshii.”
Eddie’s emotions jumped from fear to anger. “Don’t fucking say it,” he
told him.
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“We came from that way. We need to round that hill.” Asher said pointing
ahead.
“I got it,” Eddie said.
“What’s that?” Budda asked.
“Nothing, leave it alone. We’re almost back.” Hopefully.
“It’s an evil Navajo person,” Asher told Budda. “A shapeshifting witch.”
Eddie stopped. “What the fuck, Asher?”
“A skinwalker?” Budda asked more to himself. “I thought mom was just
telling me those stories to scare me. Are you just trying to scare me too?”
“Yes,” Eddie said before Asher could reply. “It’s okay, we’re almost back.”
“Try pressing the alarm,” Asher said.
“Key FOB is dead,” Eddie said.
Asher giggled. Budda chuckled too, which made Eddie smile. Eddie
laughed a little, snowballing onto theirs. They started full on belly laughing,
it wasn’t even funny Eddie thought, but it was too late. Their fear, anger, and
fatigue compounded into laughter. The gut hurting, side splitting laughter. They
were still walking while laughing, holding on to each other for support until the
laughter died.
“There,” Budda said, pointing ahead of them, excitement in his voice.
The truck was a ways away and when he shined his light over it, some glare
reflected back. “Come on.” Now Budda was leading them, almost skipping ahead
of Eddie and shining his own flashlight over it.
Then there was a whistle.
They all stopped walking. They knew neither of them did it because it
came from their left. Eddie felt as if it was directed right into his ear, reverberating
off his drum. If he turned, he’d be face to face with it. He pulled out his pistol
and kept it in his hand. They shined their lights on the hill to their left—nothing
there. He motioned Budda to keep going towards the truck. They kept walking,
still sweeping their lights around, waiting for something to jump out at them, for
the owl to answer its question of who. Another whistle, this time from their right.
Asher cocked his gun.
The hundred-yard dash from where they were to the truck felt lengthier
than the entire walk of the day. They were sweating and gasping when they
reached the truck, each of them touching a part of it like it was the safe area in
a game of tag. Eddie unlocked the door and pushed Budda into the backseat
along with his rifle and Asher’s. Asher took the passenger seat, still searching
around them with his light, the barrel of the pistol followed wherever the light
shone. Eddie started the truck, the small stutter that sounded made his heart do
the same, if the truck was dead, so were they. The roar of the engine dashed the
thought, he put it into drive and lurched forward, the tires spinning for a second
before they caught, and they drove off.
“Fuck,” Budda said in the backseat. Eddie and Asher laughed again at
hearing him cuss for the first time in front of them.
“You did good out there, John,” Asher said to their little brother. They
had never called him by his real name before. It surprised Eddie as much as it
must have bewildered Budda. John carried burdens, but Budda was their little
brother.
“I like Budda more,” Budda said.
“Me too.”
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68

Nicholas S. Pagano
Celosia
The cock’s comb dries in the sun—
Like a fire burns, the flower becomes
a red brushstroke. Laying in that bright arc,
It can only soak and seep in turn, until
Not even light has room to lay like dew
On any of its petals. Plucked and dried,
Day to dark, where the moonflower comes
With a yellow tongue to mourn the curled stem,
To sing forgiveness in the cool night air.
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Empathy / Entropy

Jane Vincent Taylor
Time Off the Path
We all agreed to step off the path
hike and help each other down
steep leafy banks, slide creek-wise
stealth as bluff creek deer.
We listened to water burp and breathe
over fallen blackjack oak, pinon pine.
Far away we heard a dog we called coyote.
Two ducks were bathtub toys gone free together.
We knew their floating thoughts.
One of us was for the moment just a child.
The one with a brand new walking stick was old.
One of us was ghost disguised
as a small crochet of gnats
delicate and slap-worthy
as summer spirits always are.
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70

Jane Vincent Taylor
Some Things I Know About My Keeper
She knows nothing about orchids
and how we live - nodal, sympodial
how we find a way to bud and flower
in a dry pocket of rhizome roots
My new keeper also lives on the lip
and shape of air, moist and steamy
She sleeps and wakes and sleeps
then spends her small energies
moving me from table to desk
to counter top, to ironing board
She’s decided I do best in east light
and company of birds, the ones
she prays to for blue renewal
and scolds for red wing avarice
In the night I hear her dreaming
of her silken self, her orchid days
Few words pass between us
I say anthur cap and sepal, she says
over a pot of fennel tea, wren
rock dove, shantung maple tree
When she sits with her white page
I do my best to scent the room
Labellum, I suggest, but she says no
that word won’t do, won’t work today
My keeper is an old inflorescine
dictionary, a leathery leaf
Together
we help each other breathe.
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Empathy / Entropy

Jane Vincent Taylor
My Next Door
maybe endless love awaits us
Barry Lopez
Sometimes I suspect the neighborhood Facebook app
deliberately stirs up trouble. Someone fears a beat up
truck, or a blue Sedan parked too long on a side street
or a foreign face, or a lost coyote in the park at night.
Today’s report: 40 Robins gathered at the corner
of May and Grand. Are they a gang, feathered swoop,
a band, a February orchestra? Are they a day patrol,
a committee, an ad hoc hoard? Is this a red breast
pop-up shop, a Monday ideation breaking up our
worries? Are they immigrant angels, an artist’s
installation made of beaks and tiny beating hearts?
I applaud this news, this naked wonder on Next Door.
And at my own bronze feeder two wrens so in love
they have no time to be the subject of a post, just
a duo, a couple, and a remembered winter quote.
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72

Leticia R. Bajuyo
Visual Poetry Using Player Piano Rolls, 2021
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Empathy / Entropy

“Interdisciplinary artist Leticia R. Bajuyo’s visual poetry uses player piano
rolls. These pieces explore sensory expectations and organic meaning-making
capacities. The materially tangible, spatially disorienting,
poetic, and musical combine into a singular artform.”
- Zoe Ramos, Sr. Ed.
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74

Leticia R. Bajuyo
Longing for Belonging
Growing up in a rural midwestern town on the border of Illinois and Kentucky,
I began creating and tinkering long before describing these explorations
as art or a studio practice. After graduating from the University of Notre Dame
with a BFA and from the University of Tennessee Knoxville with an MFA, in 2001,
I became a tenure track professor at Hanover College in Indiana. The creative
problem solving underway in the studio, in my home, and in the classroom was
and is foundational to my approach to my vocation.
While I work with a variety of media and in sizes ranging from miniature
to architectural, Sculpture continues to be my interdisciplinary nexus for collecting
stories about potential, perception, privilege, and pleasure. In my artwork,
compassion and empathy fuel my studio production as I combine disparate objects
and remnants of past yearnings. The objects and stories are dusty trophies
for a forgotten competition that find space in my studio where I reassess
their current silence.
As materials migrate from one role to another role in search of belonging,
these objects are akin to characters who are in search of an author as I create
aesthetic and harmonious visions where everything convincingly fits together
in a unified whole; however, the ease and harmony of the surface contains and
occasionally reveals the reality of struggles, pressures, fears, and disappointment
within. My artworks are crafted to be desirable while being self-reflexively critical
at heart as I reflect on issues of identity and value that emphasize thin line between
desire and discard.
During the summer of 2021, I started a new body of work during a
residency at Fountainhead in Miami, Florida where the environment and community
fostered the first components of this growing series of raw and vulnerable
visual poems. These collages are made from player piano rolls, ink drawings, and
beeswax. While displayed in different manners, each visual poem explores the
tension between art and craft, between desiring and discarding, and between
longing and belonging. Once, these player piano rolls were the desirable mode
for sharing music and singing along with the melody. My visual poems address
the misplaced desire for a sepia-toned yesterday with the impact of cultural capital
and assimilation that tries so hard to fit into today.
These player piano roll visual poems build upon my use of another device
for storing and sharing data – CD/DVDs. When I explore these concepts
with donated discs, the collection becomes a visually displaced consciousness
and collective memory that is woven into a fabric. By designing shiny tunnels and
horns with visible construction methods, my CD/DVD installations foster awareness
of the thin line between desire and discard. Although these discs and player
piano rolls still hold coded information, their use as memory storage devices
have waned; however, their potential to present value and to reflect on change
continues.
For more images of my work and information about upcoming
exhibitions and public lectures, please visit www.leticiabajuyo.com.
Thank you to everyone at Windward Review who continue to support, challenge,
care, and hope! It has been an honor to be a part of this publication and I deeply
appreciate the empathy you extend to your communities as we strive through
the entropy that can cover up and at times overwhelm truth. Thank you for including
me and my artwork.
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Empathy / Entropy

A Paradise’s Memory
Cameron Adams
Shades of goldenrod, lavender, crimson, and rose danced in
the sky over the azure body below. The sky’s snowy pillows were either
invisible or dead. Normally a shame, but today, a beauty. The quartz
beneath was as creamy as milk and finer than salt. The reeds a vibrant
celadon; yet broken at just the right places. I’ve never seen this place
before, but it all seemed too familiar. Almost as if it were the future’s
memory, but it lived only in the present.
Captured by a Student:
The Silhouette Painted by a Hallway’s Words
Apathetically, in a world he stands
bereft and isolated from the rest. Not
charismatic like his peers. Often called
“dysfunctional” and “stupid” and mental” and
“edgy.” He tries a personality that’s
flamboyant, but learns what stupid
gimmick it is quickly. A load of rubbish and a dash of
hocus-pocus lead to a façade considered
idiotic. He fools no one into believing he’s
jubilant as he is just an insignificant
kink in the school’s overtly pompous and
lavish style. There, it is too easy to
masquerade as the classic high school student; a
neurotic and diligent and happy and even
optimistic person. But a body covered in a
pale confetti is not something easily
quieted in the school’s halls. Those scorning
rumors. Why was everyone so
skeptical that the action considered most
taboo actually occurred? What possible
ulterior motive could justify and even
validate this sort of harm? It’s not just on a
whim that someone noticed his nonxanthic
skin. And, in a moment, he was
yanked and all that was left was
zilch.
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Arrie Barnes Porter
Ode to A Fat Girl
In your dreams, you are thin,
Like the children starving in Africa.
Ghosts come to sit on your bones,
Sluggish benedictions of missing fingers and
Toes and hands that prop up bone-ful chins.
Amicus Curiae.
In your dreams, you are thin
Like your brothers and sisters,
Not the purveyor of acreage
Wafting around your middle
That cannot be cinched by a corset Oflag.
Thighs whistle
Against ignitable skin,
On legs you open, quickly,
Because he pays attention.
Pagan Maecenas of female bodies.
“You’re pretty for a big girl,”
He whispers.
In your hood, they
Bring black hands to black mouths,
Thro’ their heads back and cackle,
Gathering dark worlds against you.
“Just push back from the table, baby.”
As tho it’ll free you from yo’ nightmares.
You try not eating,
But the hunger grabs your innards
And squeezes.
You swallow
Small white pills,
In brown plastic bottles,
To ease deceit on your way to beautiful.
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Empathy / Entropy

Molly In My Heart
Jill Ocone
It is a frigid, monochrome Saturday in early December 1979
when my father drops me off somewhere around three in the afternoon
at the house of one of my third-grade classmates for her birthday
party. I scamper up the stairs and Molly opens the front door to greet
me with wide eyes.
“Happy Birthday!” I exclaim as I hand her the present I had
carefully wrapped in colorful balloon-patterned paper with a giant red
bow, which she clutches to her chest. I take a few steps into her
house, and the acrid combination of stale cigarette smoke and vinegar
in the air immediately sours my nostrils. I gaze around the dingy and
dark parlor, hoping Molly doesn’t see my wrinkled nose, and do not
notice any balloons, streamers, or the slightest indication it is Molly’s
birthday.
The console television set’s black-and-white screen, the only
source of light in the room, captivates the father. He guzzles from a
beer can then wipes his chin with the bottom of his undershirt and
grunts while flicking his ash onto the carpet without ever acknowledging
my presence.
Before I have a chance to take off my coat, a raspy, female
voice from a face I never catch sight of suddenly squawks from somewhere
down the tunnel-like hallway. “The backyard, Molly! You and
your friend go outside to play.”
“I have to listen to Mommy,” Molly sighs as her trembling hand
grasps mine. She leads me through the unkempt kitchen, past an overflowing
litter box and a trash can whose contents have spilled onto the
floor. The hinges of the back door with the torn screen loudly squeak
as she pushes it open. We walk down three wobbly stairs to the yard
where tiny snowflakes swirl here and there in the crisp air.
The dilapidated swing set is barren of any swings or slides.
Random car parts, empty glass bottles, rusted cans of all types and sizes,
and deflated play balls litter the lot that is surrounded by a broken
and corroded chain-link fence.
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Molly tears the paper from my gift and the corners of her mouth
turn upward as she glimpses the Hollie Hobbie sticker album and assortment
of scratch-and-sniff stickers I chose for her at the local gift
store earlier that day.
“This is the only present I got to open this year, and I love stickers.
You’re my best friend,” she quietly reveals with her eyes turned
towards the ground.
“You’re my best friend, too,” I softly reply through my unspoken
bewilderment.
She crumples the wrapping paper into a ball and tosses it to
me. We laugh and play catch for a little while then play tag, but all of
my running around doesn’t prevent the blistering chill from seeping
through both my thick coat and my mittens and freezing my bones
to their core. Molly wears only a blue and yellow striped long-sleeve
t-shirt, stained brown corduroys, and torn sneakers with frayed laces
that keep tripping her up when she runs. She crosses her arms tight
and through her chattering teeth she yells, “You’re it!”
All we do is play outside, just Molly and I, for the two-hour duration
of her birthday party that is devoid of snacks, soda, ice cream,
goodie bags filled with favors to take home, and other guests.
As dusk approaches, I pick up a stick and poke a small leaf
through its tip, then I hold it out to Molly and sing “Happy Birthday” to
her. She closes her eyes, makes a wish, and blows the leaf off the stick.
I hear a familiar car horn echo from the street. I hug Molly
goodbye then she darts into her house as I scramble through the cluttered
yard, then the busted gate to my father’s waiting Volkswagen. I
notice as he pulls away that Christmas lights twinkle from every house
on Molly’s street except one.
Hers.
I cannot stop shivering when I get home, so my mother draws
me a warm bath. As the tub fills, she asks about the party. She enrages
when I tell her that Molly and I played outside in her backyard the
entire time.
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Empathy / Entropy

“What kind of people are these!” she explodes as she dials Molly’s
phone number, forcefully circling the rotary with her index finger as
it tick-tick-ticks with each spin.
After thirty rings, she slams the receiver down then forbids me
from ever going to Molly’s house again.
Molly is frequently absent from school for the remainder of
the school year, but when she is there, I no longer notice her tattered
clothes or her stringy hair. Instead, I share my lunch with her, play with
her during recess, and sit next to her whenever I can.
Molly is my friend.
The following September, Molly and I are assigned to different
fourth-grade teachers. We say hello to each other when we pass in the
hallways, but that’s about it.
Like many childhood friendships, ours fades with the passing
of time. Molly ended up dropping out of school during our sophomore
year, and I have no idea where she went, what happened to her, or
where she is now. More than forty years have passed since Molly’s
birthday party, and I’ve been haunted by it ever since.
While our paths went in separate directions decades ago, Molly
has never left my heart.
I’ve prayed a thousand times over for Molly to be okay, to be
loved, and to enjoy a real birthday party with a mountain of presents
and an enormous birthday cake like she so deserves.
I really hope God answered my prayers and that all of her
birthday wishes came true.
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80

Humanity in Media
Cold.
Crystal McKee
Limp.
The last breath to be taken on this Earth was trapped within a
throat. Burning lungs expanded in desperation, but the only result was
breathless gasps.
Choking.
Coughing.
The attempt to draw life in was only weakened with each
wheeze while death greeted the body I sometimes wish could have
been mine. I occasionally wonder if my cousin struggled to breathe
the same way I had when I stepped aside to answer the phone. I
wonder if the situations had been reversed- if it had been my frail body
discovered in the wreck- if he would lose the sensations in his legs. If
he would crumble and fall to the ground, landing on his knees just as
I did. If he would desperately cling to fond memories while his consciousness
slowly slipped away to a void unbeknownst to the living.
I had never believed tunnel vision to be as intense as they
say; however, I experienced it at that moment. The questions I asked
myself acted as pollutants to my mind, turning my dread into a fire
that wavered, swelled, and consumed me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t
think, and as I collapsed in the middle of my high school basketball
practice, I felt just as lifeless as he had become. I can’t describe what
I thought at that moment as the shock ran my tear ducts dry. The
world around me felt numb, unfair, and my frustrations only began to
fester and block out the sounds of concern from my peers. Although
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Empathy / Entropy

the noises of the basketballs bouncing off the uneven, wooden floors
ceased, and my teammates surrounded me, I felt utterly alone.
Empty.
Broken.
Despite being years ago, while I was still a freshman in high
school, the call remains fresh in my memory. My mother was on the
other line, and I could hear her struggle to articulate her words. Her
unsteady breathing mocked my own, but in a shaky voice, she was
able to reveal what had happened. Brandon had been in critical condition
after a head-on collision. I remembered mourning over the other
victim of the casualty; a sweet girl, not much older than my cousin,
who had served as valedictorian for her graduating year. Part of me
expected the same treatment to be given to my family. I was naive to
think that they would understand they were not the only ones in pain;
however, human nature does not always allow us to be forgiven. They
will make no exceptions for a man painted in a villainous light by the
media’s hand.
“A Drug Addict, Under the Influence, Kills Valedictorian in Car Crash.”
The headline appeared on Newsday and had been shared over
various media platforms before he was pronounced dead. My cousin
was never blessed with a comfortable life; being born to a rarely present
father, losing himself to worldly temptations to escape from life’s
burden, plagued with mental illness. None of these serve as excuses
for his previous transgressions, but I was there while he got clean.
Throughout my life, it had been me and my brother who watched his
redemption from a front-row seat, offering our hands as support. Although
I was young, I understood. We were present for the first overdose,
and the last before he agreed to attend NA meetings. We calmed
him from his manic episodes during periods he refused to take his
medications for Bipolar, fearful that they blocked his creativity-- that
Windward Review: Vol. 19
82

they added to the depression he bore. However, it was these prescription
medications that the media hugged dearly in order to make false
accusations and sell a story.
His toxicology report cleared him of the blame, but the media
refused to retract their statements. Instead, they clung to his criminal
record from when he was a minor, turning his community against him
and leaving him abandoned at the hours of his death. While he insisted
that his medications limited his abilities, the Brandon that the media
refused to acknowledge had many artistic talents. Even when he
claimed to be at his worst, his penmanship was remarkable, as he had
gotten plenty of practice graffiting on government property. He was
my creative muse, my outlet for art, and the one who taught me the
basics of necessary elements like shading. Brandon had the capability
to make anything a canvas; human skin, a truck, paper, wood, and
the portfolio he put together after becoming a tattoo artist proved he
had worth in the field. Although he was troubled, he inspired me. His
strength to continue despite being dealt an unfair hand in the game of
life was admirable, and I looked up to the man regarded as a criminal.
His funeral was not the first I attended, but his death stripped
me of firsts later in life. My first tattoo that was meant to be designed
by him, my first lessons in drawing techniques, my first apprenticeship,
my first time learning to drive, among various other promises, were
taken to the grave alongside him. With his death also came the end of
my venture into art, as it has been years since I have touched the unfinished
pieces we have never finished. My cousin was gone alongside
my muse.
I still lay, mindlessly scrolling through Pinterest for tattoo inspiration;
however, my skin remains untouched by ink.
... As it may for eternity, while my shoulders seep with the
emotional weight of not being able to live up to my childhood expectations
and artistry promised to me all those years ago.
83
Empathy / Entropy

Matthew Tavares
god’s Current Perspective on Humanity
i need to let this out
i made a mistake
all too similar
all too familiar
all too predictable.
They pretend to know
how this will end.
Perhaps with fire
but most likely water
and nothing will live on,
they say.
Chasing has become sport
for them,
doesn’t matter what
they’re after,
desire is the motivation and
satisfaction is an illusion.
They’ll keep running
even if i were to cut off their feet.
Have i made it too obvious?
Was there something i should’ve left out?
To them, it seems i have
for all their
philosophy, poetry, pornography
it’s like they are
searching for something
i never hid.
That world, those people, my children.
So overcome by what cannot be
maintained, fulfilled
will faithfully
one day
implode.
They understand this as fate
faith is for the weary.
Those paralyzed by fear
to the point where
even the destruction
is discomforting/is comforting
Their existence is not so
simple.
Neither fire
nor water
will be their end
but smoke.
Windward Review: Vol. 19
84

Pop Quiz
Matthew Tavares
What is the difference between living for others and living for yourself?
A. loneliness
B. regret
C. nothing
D. everything
What can be understood but never taught?
A. love
B. hope
C. nothing
D. everything
What is remembered but easily forgotten?
A. the sun shines on all of us
B. this will all be over soon
C. nothing
D. everything
What are you?
A. molecules and isotopes
B. a soul
C. nothing
D. everything
What matters?
A. nothing
B. everything
C. nothing
D. all of the above
What is god?
A. comfort
B. fear
C. nothing
D. everything
What is real?
A. this moment
B. this moment
C. this moment
D. this moment
85
Empathy / Entropy

Matthew Tavares
Drive-thru Psychosis
Okay but seriously, don’t you see it too? See what?
That’ll be $12.89.That red-orange light, just there,
dangling over the horizon—how it bends in the same
space that we do. Of course I see it, who cares though?
You had the Sprite, right? Yeah, Sprite. Nah man, this
is big, I can feel something ripping inside my head.
What do you mean, big? Ketchup or mustard? Both please.
Like monumental, like heartbreaking, that light, it
means something. What could it possibly mean? I don’t
know, man, but look how it bends. It’s like a bridge
between us and something. What do you think that light
on the horizon is a bridge to? Here’s your food sir. Probably
oblivion, from the looks of it. What makes you so cert-
Have you ever really thought about oblivion, I mean
can you even? I don’t know and I don’t know how you can
find it in a sunset. It’s in the way that it bends, so much
hope and so empty. And how does that break your heart?
Because man, how can everything, all of this violence
and beauty, end in nothing? Who knows man, but can
you take your food now you’re holding up the line.
Windward Review: Vol. 19
86

What Right Did You Have
What right did you have to rip apart the
fabric of our collective conscience?
To wrench neighbor against neighbor.
Trumping this country into a selfish
wasteland
of
rottenness.
Michelle Eccellente Stevenson
What right did you have to snatch this
most sacred office and drive it into anarchy.
Intent on taking it from order to chaos
and hurl it into a
pit
of
inequity.
Where being rich was the sole qualification to gaining access.
Where being closed-minded was a prerequisite to opening the door.
Where being a coward was the foot that kept the door ajar.
What right did you have to disavow and rip us from the
international understanding of a climate that is in crisis?
Stripping protections from that which cannot battle,
so that your affluent sycophants could
hoard
their
millions.
What right did you have to incite and applaud
the disgusting rant of your small-mind?
Wielding and thrusting the loathsome, heavy hand
of the almighty superiority, of race and wealth, erupting into
hate
and
violence.
What right did you have to stab and
plant your vile words that burrowed
under my skin, infesting me with boils that burst
and ooze until the wound is indistinguishable
from
the
flesh.
87
Empathy / Entropy

Bob May
It’s Just This Year
CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)
CAM
RON
TIME: The end of 2020
PLACE: The living room of Cam’s small apartment
(AT RISE: CAM (20s) is discovered in the living
room of his tiny apartment. He is pacing
back and forth, checking his watch.
There is a knock on the door. CAM opens the
door and RON (20s) enters carrying
a brown shopping bag,
a Big Lots bag, and a McDonald’s bag.)
RON
I’m sorry, buddy, for being late.
CAM
You were supposed to be here an hour ago.
RON
I couldn’t get away from work. And I needed to do a few things and get some
lunch. I got us some Big Macs and fries.
CAM
Why didn’t you answer my texts? Or my calls?
RON
Velma’s got my phone. Hers ain’t working.
CAM
Damn, dude, I thought you were backing out on me.
RON
You need to chill, man. You’re gonna have a heart attack.
CAM
You’re right. I’m sorry.
RON
Come on, sit down and eat.
CAM
Thanks. I am hungry.
RON
You mean hangry.
CAM
It’s just this year. It’s been tough.
RON
Are you sure you want to do this?
CAM
It’s the only way.
RON
I didn’t ask that.
CAM
My child has to eat.
(RON sits down and begins to take the
food out of the McDonald’s bag and
puts it on the coffee table. CAM sits too.)
(Pause)
(Both men eat during the following.)
Windward Review: Vol. 19 88

RON
Get a job.
CAM
I had a job. This pandemic hasn’t been kind to the restaurant business.
RON
Still no unemployment extension?
CAM
Nope. And your Republicans in Congress won’t pass another stimulus package.
RON
Hey, easy on the Rs.
CAM
I don’t understand how anyone can vote Republican. Unless you’re rich. And
you and me ain’t rich.
RON
You know why I do.
CAM
Yeah, you support smaller government …
RON
That’s right.
CAM
… except you Rs are consistently trying to dictate how we all should conduct
our personal lives - like with abortion.
RON
I got my conservative judges to cover that.
CAM
You got ‘em, all right. Three of ‘em.
RON
Damn straight. Trump said he’d do it and he did.
CAM
And you got to own all the rest of the Trump bullshit, too. The lies. The tweets.
Kids in cages.
RON
All you bleedin’ heart Liberals sound like broken records.
CAM
(laughing)
Boy, “broken records” sure dates your Fox News ass.
(beat)
I don’t even know why we’re friends.
RON
Because I bring you Big Macs.
(beat)
And other goodies.
CAM
What is it?
RON
It’s gold.
CAM
I wish.
RON
Open it and see.
RON (cont’d)
It’s worth more than gold.
(RON hands CAM the Big Lots bag.)
(CAM takes out a four pack of toilet paper from the bag.)
89
Empathy / Entropy

CAM
Thanks, my friend. I’ll think of you when I use it.
RON
Why are you so uptight today?
CAM
Money hassles, COVID worries, and election fatigue.
RON
I thought we agreed not to talk politics.
CAM
We did.
RON
So, why do you keep bringing it up?
CAM
Sorry if the truth hurts.
RON
Cam, stop.
CAM
Sorry, Ron.
RON
Don’t bring it up no more. It just pisses you off.
(beat)
(beat)
CAM
Did you bring your mask?
RON
You know I refuse to wear a flippin’ mask.
CAM
We’re going to rob a bank, and with COVID, we have a golden opportunity not
to stick out as we enter the bank with a mask on. Everyone else in the damn
place will have one on. If you walk in without one on, you’re going to stick out.
RON
Well, don’t worry, they won’t even let me in if I’m not wearing one.
CAM
Then, how the hell are we going to rob the bank?
RON
I don’t wear a mask for the same reason I don’t wear underwear. Things have
to breathe.
CAM
How can you be pro-life and unwilling to wear a mask?
RON
I brought something better than a mask.
(RON pulls a rubber mask of Donald Trump
out of the brown shopping bag.)
CAM
Is that a mask of Donald Trump?
(RON puts the mask on as he speaks.)
RON
Hell yeah. If Patrick Swayze and Keanu Reeves can wear Presidential masks in
Point Break to rob banks, you and me can do the same thing.
(He pulls out another rubber mask.)
Here’s one for you.
(He throws the mask to CAM.)
CAM
Oh thanks, I get to be Joe Biden.
RON
You election stealers need to stick together. Put it on.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 90

CAM
We didn’t steal the election. If we had, why didn’t we steal back the Senate and
why did we lose seats in the House? Donald Trump lost the damn election fair
and square.
RON
He only lost when the illegal votes were counted.
CAM
All votes are legal.
RON
Not the mail-in ones.
CAM
I’m not doing this with you again.
(beat)
And we’re not wearing rubber Presidential masks to rob the Regions Bank.
(RON takes the mask off as he speaks.)
RON
Then, you’ll be robbing the bank by yourself because I refuse to wear a mask.
(beat)
CAM
Do you want a beer?
RON
Yeah, what kind do you got?
CAM
I ain’t got no beer. That’s why we have to rob the fucking bank.
RON
I thought you needed the money to buy food for your baby.
CAM
I was speaking metaphorically.
RON
Well, I don’t speak no foreign languages.
CAM
Please, I can’t do it alone.
RON
No, I got principles.
CAM
I know you do and I’ve always respected that about you.
(beat)
Thanks for the burger. And the toilet paper.
RON
You know, we really are a lot more alike than not.
CAM
Yes, we are, about a lot of things. Like cars.
RON
Chevys are better than Fords.
CAM
Piss on Fords. F - O - R - D … fix or repair daily.
RON
Kansas City Chiefs.
CAM
Super Bowl Champs.
RON
Hell yeah.
(pause as they eat)
(They slap hands in a high five.)
RON (cont’d)
I still don’t like them NFL players kneeling during the National Anthem.
91
Empathy / Entropy

CAM
Black lives matter.
RON
All lives matter.
CAM
Which means black lives matter.
RON
I never said they didn’t.
CAM
Did you bring your gun?
RON
I’m locked and loaded and packing heat.
CAM
Okay, cowboy, let’s go get some money.
RON
Finish your burger.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 92
(beat)
(RON pats his side where the gun is under his shirt.)
(pause)
CAM
I will never understand people’s fascination with firearms.
RON
How else are you gonna rob a bank?
CAM
You know, if we get caught, we will serve more time for armed robbery.
RON
Why do you always think the worse? We ain’t gonna get caught.
CAM
Oh, are you doing it now?
RON
I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna do it. I just said I wasn’t wearing a damn mask.
CAM
Do you really believe that God will protect you from COVID if you don’t wear a
mask?
RON
Okay, Mr. Atheist, don’t you start putting down my religious beliefs again.
CAM
If God will protect you from COVID, why doesn’t he protect you from all things?
RON
He does.
CAM
Then why do you need a gun?
RON
To help you rob the damn bank.
CAM
You can wear a bandana. And look like a real cowboy. Just like Butch Cassidy and
the Sundance Kid.
RON
Those dudes were real men. They didn’t wear masks.
CAM
Come on, if we’re going to do this, we have to leave now.
RON
Where are Elizabeth and the baby?
CAM
At her mother’s.

RON
Her mom’s a Republican, ain’t she?
CAM
Yeah, but she wears a mask.
RON
She probably voted for the socialist Biden, too.
CAM
This country is already socialist.
RON
(smiling)
Here we go again.
CAM
What do you think social security is?
RON
I’ve heard it all before.
CAM
Or Medicare? Even money allocated to fix the damn highways is socialism. For
Christ’s sake, Jesus was a socialist.
RON
(laughing)
You left out the stimulus package. Ain’t it socialism, too?
CAM
Here’s a new one for ya. All us fools in the Red States, like Arkansas, AKA welfare
states, take money from the Blue States that make up most of America’s GDP.
So, you and me are both lousy Socialists.
RON
AKA. GDP. Where did you hear that bullshit?
CAM
MSNBC.
RON
Fake news.
CAM
You sure got all the Trump talking points down.
RON
And you got all the Pelosi talking points down. Come on, Cam, chill.
CAM
Forty-six is greater than forty-five.
RON
Seventy-three million people agree with me.
CAM
There are eighty million on my side.
RON
We ain’t ever gonna get on the same page politically speaking. And it don’t matter.
We’ve always been there for one another when it counts.
(beat)
CAM
Do you remember in high school when we got busted for throwing paint on the
Toad Suck logo in the middle of Front and Oak Streets?
RON
You mean when “I” got busted.
CAM
Exactly my point. You took the fall and let me run.
RON
And I never squealed on you.
93
Empathy / Entropy

CAM
We were best buddies.
RON
We still are.
CAM
I liked you even when you stole my high school girlfriend.
RON
I didn’t steal Linda.
CAM
What do you call it then?
RON
She came-on to me.
CAM
You could have said no.
RON
Would you have said no?
CAM
Probably not.
RON
It don’t matter, it didn’t work out between her and me.
CAM
Good.
RON
What’s your point?
CAM
I don’t got one.
RON
Yes, you do.
CAM
No, I don’t.
RON
Then, why did you pause before you answered?
CAM
I didn’t pause.
RON
Yes, you did.
(pause)
(pause)
(pause)
RON (cont’d)
You’re doing it again.
CAM
I was just thinking about Trump grabbing women by the pussy.
RON
Locker room talk. You and me have said worse.
CAM
You and me ain’t the president.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 94

RON
Trump ain’t the president anymore.
CAM
Did you just concede?
RON
Do you wanna smoke a joint?
CAM
How the heck can you afford to buy weed?
RON
I’m an essential worker.
CAM
I guess being the manager at Big Lots has its perks.
RON
That’s what all of Velma’s family thinks, too.
CAM
You’re a good man to help all those in-laws.
RON
What little reserve I had in the bank is going fast. Feeding all of them costs a
lot.
CAM
Come on, let’s go rob a bank.
RON
You know you can get baby food at the Pentecostal Church food pantry.
CAM
The food pantry don’t pay the rent.
RON
You’re preaching to the choir.
(beat)
(beat)
CAM
Are you just going to hold that thing?
RON
What?
CAM
Light the joint.
RON
Oh, yeah.
(RON lights the joint and takes a hit.)
CAM
You’re just using the mask as an excuse not to rob the bank, aren’t you?
(RON passes the joint to CAM. He speaks as he holds the smoke in his lungs.)
RON
No, it’s my right to choose.
(CAM hits on the joint throughout his next line.)
CAM
Oh, so, you can choose not to wear a mask and kill people, but a woman
doesn’t have the right to choose what she does with her own body.
(CAM passes the joint to RON.)
RON
I guess I walked right into that one.
(RON takes a hit.)
CAM
Yea, choose wasn’t a good word.
RON
Have you applied for SNAP?
95
Empathy / Entropy

CAM
Did you know that Walmart has made billions in this pandemic and most of their
employees are on SNAP?
RON
More MSNBC BS?
CAM
Actually CNN.
RON
They’re worse.
CAM
It’s the same thing with McDonald’s and I’m sure with Big Lots, too.
RON
Pandemics are huge moneymakers for big corporations.
CAM
And banks too. Come on, let’s go rob the Regions.
RON
(Quietly)
Velma tested positive today.
CAM
(Quietly, as though he’s saying “I’m sorry.”)
For COVID?
RON
(Still quietly)
For COVID.
(beat)
(The exchange between the two men builds in volume
and intensity until CAM hits RON.)
CAM
If she’s got it, then you got it, and you just gave it to me.
RON
You should have been wearing your fucking mask.
CAM
And because of you, Becky and the baby will get it.
RON
They ain’t here.
CAM
And now, who knows when I’ll see them next.
RON
Trump got over it in a couple of days.
CAM
That orange fucking moron had top-notch medical doctors giving him million-dollar
treatments that you and me can’t get or afford.
RON
He ain’t a moron. He’s the smartest person to ever be president.
CAM
Sure, just ask him.
RON
He’s done more for this country in four years than Obama did in eight.
CAM
It’s a cult. You’re in a damn cult. When he asks you to drink the Kool-Aid, you
won’t hesitate, will you?
RON
Fuck you, Cam.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 96

CAM
Damn you for bringing that virus into my house.
RON
I don’t have the virus. God will protect me.
CAM
Oh yea, will God protect you from this?
RON
(softly, not angry)
Damn, dude, that hurt. You still got some pop in your punch.
CAM
I’m sorry, buddy. It’s just this goddamn year.
(CAM punches RON in the face.)
(beat)
(pause)
RON
Are we gonna rob the bank?
CAM
Not now, you’ll expose everyone in it.
RON
I’ll wear a damn mask.
CAM
Let’s finish smoking this first.
RON
I love ya, man.
CAM
I love you, too.
(CAM has had the joint this entire time.)
(CAM takes a hit. Beat.)
(As the two men smoke, the LIGHTS fade to black.)
THE END
*For performance rights, please contact the author at bmay@uca.edu.
97
Empathy / Entropy

The Threat of Shelter
Windward Review: Vol. 19 98
Scott D. Vander Ploeg
It has been commonly understood that three necessities must be met for
life to continue: food, water, and shelter. Of the three, shelter has been
misunderstood the most. Water is in fact at odds with shelter, is considered
the universal solvent, and regularly and inexorably damages what structures
we build. Housing is our most expensive cost, uses up precious resources,
and is often an extravagance that serves our egos more than it serves our
humanity. It is a shock to read that we might do well to lessen the degree
to which we make our domiciles the be-all-end-all of our existence. To do so
would mean to embrace less shelter and more new-thought sanity.
In Barbara Kingsolver’s 2018 novel, Unsheltered, the main characters living
in our century inhabit an inherited house that is falling apart. The house
needs more repair than the family can afford, and therefore their shelter is
threatened by entropy, perhaps represents entropy. The novel also relates
the story of another set of characters living in a house on the same location,
but well over 140 years earlier. The house needed repair then, was torn
down and rebuilt.
Willa: ‘I’m just sorry for the mess,’ she told him, but in this place
of flotsam far in excess of her own she was starting to feel a whole
lot less embarrassed. ‘I tried to keep things in categories bet we’re
on deadline, with the house coming down. At the last minute it got
chaotic.’
Christopher: ‘Oh, it’s fine. Chaos gets me out of bed in the morning….’
(451)
Kingsolver would, I believe, be comfortable in crediting entropy for the cause
of the difficulties that Willa Knox and her predecessor, Thatcher Greenwood,
endure in the realm of homeownership. Before launching her career as a
novelist, essayist and poet, Kingsolver studied biology, earning a BA in Science
and a master’s degree in ecology and evolutionary biology. She was
a university science writer and often invests her fiction with issues related
to biological processes, such as the path of migratory monarch butterflies
(Flight Behavior), or the habits of hermit crabs (High Tide in Tucson). In
2007 she published a work of non-fiction, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: a Year
of Food Life, which chronicles her family’s attempt to become locavores,
relying on seasonal food within a hundred mile radius.
In this novel, Thatcher is a public-school teacher in Vineland, New Jersey, an
experimental utopian community that consists of a large portion of missionary
Christian zeal extolled by its leaders, who are unhappy to hear him give
credence to the concepts of natural selection and adaptation as explained by
Charles Darwin. In parallel, Willa is contending with her son’s recent loss of
wife by post-partem depression suicide, the resulting baby, her daughter’s
unsettled life-style, her husband’s professorial popularity among the throng
of coeds he teaches, her father-in-law’s COPD illness, a lack of financial
resources, and the dilapidated house. Orbiting Thatcher are his demanding
wife, his dissatisfied mother-in-law, a troublesome sister-in-law, and unexpectedly
Mary Treat, a neighbor who is a self-taught naturalist conducting
experiments and exchanging letters with other scientists, including Darwin.

Kingsolver is also politically savvy. The book’s title reverberates with the social
problems of 2016, and yet today: economic hardship leading to homelessness,
immigration restriction and the separation of families, the feeling of
being unprotected from the storms of governmental abuse. The restrictive
and oppressive leaders of the utopian community are parallel with the newly
elected Trump administration and its cruel indifferences. In the Greenwood/
Trent narrative, the town leader shoots a political opponent in the head, a
mortal wound; in our previous election era, the country’s leader boasted he
could shoot someone in a crowd on 5th Avenue and not lose any voters, i.e.,
face no consequences for his crimes (23 Jan 2016). Kingsolver is among the
first to use fiction to create a context for interpreting the Trump phenomenon.
Willa’s daughter, Tig, articulates the shelter-entropy problem the family faces:
…I’m saying you prepped for the wrong future. It’s not just you. Everybody
your age is, like, crouching inside this box made out of what
they already believe. You think it’s a fallout shelter or something but
it’s a piece of shit box, Mom. It’s cardboard, drowning in the rain,
going all floppy. And you’re saying, ‘This is all there is, it will hold up
fine. This box will keep me safe!’ (308)
Where is the empathy? It is not obvious. It is not certain. The fact that Darwinian
theories of evolution became accepted by most people as factual suggests
that the authoritarian theocratic principles of denial were shrugged off, like
chains of servitude, and that more humane beliefs replaced them. Willa and
her family struggle through, adapting to their circumstances, finding ways to
live with the chaos of entropy.
The Anglo-Saxons metaphorically posited that life is a sparrow that enjoys
warmth and light for a brief period as it passes through a hall into a room and
then out through another door, into winter again (Venerable Bede, Historica
Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum). In this formulation, the hall is where dinner is
served and the hearth blazes forth warmth and the people gather in community,
while outside the winter is the unknown and lacking in the good fortune
of what is celebrated inside.
It is tempting to catalog literary materials that yield a realization—sometimes
for the characters and sometimes for the readers—that love is a counter to
chaos, that it can encompass and embrace the problematic, threatening,
entropy-driven universe. It is a shock to readers of Joyce’s Ulysses to find
Leopold Bloom returning home after his day-long peregrination through the
dangers of Dublin, like Odysseys returning home from the Trojan Wars, to
confront the imagined probable infidelity of his spouse, Molly, and to accept
the situation without recrimination—to love her in spite of and maybe because
of her dalliance with Blazes Boilin, her devilish representative of hell and damnation
(chaos).
Or consider the outcome of the primal couple in Paradise Lost, who exit Eden
hand-in-hand, alone and together, ready to face the harsh existence separated
from God, forced to endure the exertions of labor, both hers in pain at childbirth
and his in effort and toil in work. It is “the rarer action” that they do not
blame each other for the fall from grace, but learn to celebrate the original
sin as it paves the way for salvation and reunion with their Maker. In many
narratives, life and love win over entropy and chaos.
99
Empathy / Entropy

When Willa learns the house had belonged to Thatcher, she sees the historical
fact as a lifeline, a life-buoy-doughnut sent from the past, because the
fame of his story may yield support in the costs. When she learns instead
that Thatcher’s house was demolished and a new one constructed, she finds
it best to allow it, too, to be razed, the pieces sold off to pay for the demolition.
In preparing to empty the house before it is destroyed, she finds a scrap of
paper that contains a passage from Willa Cather’s, My Àntonia, which her
mother wanted read at her funeral. The excerpt advocates for a perspective
about death that amounts to being “dissolved into something complete
and great.” Willa Knox had forgotten it, even though it was one of the few
things her mother had asked of her. Her daughter, Tig, tries to excuse her
grief-stricken mother by saying she had too many things to keep track of at
the time of the death, but Willa-mom says:
“No.” Willa wiped her face with the back of her hand. “It was here
in this box, with these completely unrelated things that weren’t important
to me, inside other boxes of completely unrelated things. I
had too many things. Just too much goddamn stuff.” (448)
She also finds some drawings that Thatcher made, as part of a debate over
“Darwinism versus Decency” he was forced to participate in. Among the examples
of natural selection is the milk vetch, aka Astragalus iodanthus, the
picture including the caption: “appears to thrive in hostile conditions.”
In the end, Willa and her husband move into an apartment. Her daughter,
Tig, lives in a cottage that was reputedly on site in Vineland back in Thatcher’s
day. It is tiny, a downsizing from past living arrangements. She takes
on the rearing of her brother’s son, and that part of the novel ends with the
baby struggling to learn how to walk. The last section returns to Thatcher
and Trent, as he prepares to leave Vineland in exile, divorced from his wife
and his former family’s interest in societal elevation. He is off on an expedition,
and Trent is planning to winter in the swampy ecosystem in coastal
northern Florida. She suggests he meet her there when he is done with his
travels, implying that they will share in a love that had been brewing all
through the novel.
The tiny-home movement, the idea of downsizing, is becoming a powerful
choice for many. This is what Tig sees as our future if we don’t:
‘Mom. The permafrost is melting. Millions of acres of it.’
Willa tried to see a connection. ‘And I’m just worried about my
house. That’s your point?’
Tig shook her head. ‘It’s so, so scary. It’s going to be fire and rain,
Mom. Storms we can’t deal with, so many people homeless. Not
just homeless, but placeless. Cities go underwater and then what?
You can’t shelter in place anymore when there isn’t a place.’ (409)
Windward Review: Vol. 19 100

Float
I see myself in the painting.
A shadow of indigo and suffering
Staring back at me.
Waves beseige my body.
I can’t
Breathe.
I swim in a sea of pills
That don’t work.
That I won’t take.
Polar opposites
Of my mind
Rock me into a treacherous sleep.
I struggle in the water for days- months,
Not knowing where I am
Or who I’ve become.
I reach the easy white shores
Of a place I’ve never been before.
I am at peace.
Velvet sand squishes in
Between my toes
And I smell the salty air.
The sun emerges from
Hallowed depths of the dark
And gloomy blues behind the clouds.
Warmth
Engulfs my body
And gives me a motherly hug.
Polar opposites
Of my mind
Quell.
I swim in a sea of pills
That work.
That I’ll take.
And this time, I’ll float too.
Jayne-Marie Linguist
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Empathy / Entropy

Jayne-Marie Linguist
Shawnna
So when did you know?
My voice shook like an
Earthquake in California
And tears ran a marathon
Down my face.
1800 miles of static on the other
End of the receiver,
Only to be cut short by a mother
Who doesn’t care enough
To try and understand.
No one cares enough
To try and understand.
But her words bring me
Comfort, and living my life
In the back of the closet
Isn’t as lonely as you’d think
With her,
And girls,
And boys.
I’ve always known.
Riot
my bags
are ready by
the door to say goodbye.
i don’t belong here anymore.
don’t cry.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 102

Can You Still Believe I’m Sane?
-
Six stale, half empty bottles of water,
four bone dry large iced coffee cups,
clumps of hair and dirty pajamas,
stray loose leaf with ink smeared ramblings,
a hot pocket sleeve, and a tube of chapstick.
I make myself ill just looking at it.
How could I bring myself to tell you
that this is who I am on occasion?
That this ugly, vulnerable side I hate
is only sometimes a dormant roommate?
I want you to believe I’m sane, unphased.
I have to show you the tangible proof,
even though it makes my stomach turn,
my back swim in an ice cold sweat,
my fingernails pierce the flesh of my palms.
I’ll close my own eyes and turn away,
not able to bear the horror on your face.
I wish I was able to brush my teeth before
you arrived and moved in immediately.
I deny you of course, making this worse.
Silently, heart slowly beating in my chest,
I shuffle my sweatpant legs toward my door.
Should I have lit a candle?
Devyn Jessogne
Phantom Illness
-
You were on the tip of my tongue.
I tasted you like a droplet of grape medicine,
potent and cloying in your sweet empathy.
You were coating me in healing,
only to trigger my reflux and disappear
as quickly as you had arrived.
Leaving an aftertaste like bitter alcohol
and masked by a bold label
that warned me of consumption.
The side effects are nauseating.
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Empathy / Entropy

Devyn Jessogne
Portrait of Your Heart
-
In a gold frame, gilded with jeweled finery I could never mimic,
a portrait in oils much brighter than I’d ever been before.
So well painted I could hardly recognize my reflection,
could gray eyes shine like the moon, brown hair be warm?
I never look into glass, and see something worth admiration.
To make somebody immortal through art feels misleading.
This singular image captures the image of an ageless angel,
not the reality of crumbling bones and graying roots.
This wasn’t the grotesque rendering of my insecure mind,
but an acrylic rendering of your heart, reflected in my smile.
You painted me, an Italian model bathed in golden sun,
and to see me through your eyes feels a lot like love.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 104

Katie Higinbotham
Love Letters into the Void
To my neighbor who sings—truly—like nobody’s listening,
Sometimes it’s a bit too early. Sometimes I roll over at 7AM and try to pretend it’s
not happening when you step into the shower, right on the other side the wall from
our bed. My partner confirms it’s not a dream, groaning from under the blanket as
you hit your first belt note.
I’ve often tried to figure out what you might be singing. It’s eerily familiar, like the
handful of times I attended teen youth group on Wednesday nights and swayed in
the crowd between the hormonal sweat and my sins to the waves of live Christian
rock.
I guess I just love that you’re happy. Or that you sound happy.
It’s something rare these days—outright, unwarranted happiness. I used to sing
loudly in my apartment, too. I used to practice my arias from voice lessons, sing and
cry after breakups, cling to a guitar in the absence of an arm around my shoulder. I
used to dance, too.
Only your bellowing, cascading and predictable “Whooooaaaa,” sailing between our
thin apartment walls reminds me of these buried selves.
&
To the repairman who fixed my phone for only $20 when everywhere else quoted
$75 just to open it,
That $800 iPhone I had just finished paying off after two years. It doesn’t take much
to see my bank account flash before my eyes, but I got lucky. When the phone hit
the hardwood floor it had made this sound like certain death, like if phones had fragile
human spines. It fell flat on its back and the impact echoed off my ceiling. I kept
looking at my stupid, empty hand, as empty as the fridge, the gas tank.
You said I got lucky this time, that all you had to do was adjust the battery, and I
told you, as I looked you in the eye and handed you the cash plus a meager two
dollars I called a tip, God, thank you. You have no idea—and you smiled. I could see
what it might have looked like even underneath your sterile white KN95. I couldn’t
finish the sentence but you jumped in, yes, I do, we need our phones.
I need to tell you now that I can speak again, what I meant was, you have no idea
how much I need that phone as I gobble up my $1,200 a month lick my fingers
clean, using Facetime as a stand in for the feeling of my mother’s, my father’s, my
sister’s arms because it’s now too dangerous to touch those you love, as I remember
there are those few who are fair and kind, it keeps me from—you have no idea.
&
To my neighbor who slams the door,
It’s every time you leave. It doesn’t matter where you’re going. You leave the same
way every time, feet pounding down the stairs, running. Slam. Maybe I’m simply
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Empathy / Entropy

triggered because in my world door slamming is a message. I’m not coming back, it
says, We’re done here, it says, I’m too angry to stay in this room but I love you too
much to hit you. A rush of air and a slam. It feels like you’re always leaving. And I’m
always here, still, glancing up from my laptop for a moment to listen to you leave.
Safe travels, again—
&
To whoever-you-are who smashed my car window,
Make it make sense. You didn’t even steal anything. And maybe that’s what’s most
insulting. Is what I have to offer not worth your time?
As long as you’ve broken the glass, as long as it’s down and glittering over the
backseat, as long as the cameras in the park and ride are only decoys, at least take
my phone charger, a blanket, my CD collection, the tactical knife...I appreciate that
you left everything intact, though. Left the passenger registration in its neat little
envelope and everything.
I have a hard time parting with even the things that don’t matter, finding evidence
that my world has been touched by unfamiliar hands. The only evidence you left was
shatter, before, with reasons only the gods of 3AM vandalism know, you took off.
I imagine you running, dressed all in black, of wiry frame, perhaps male, perhaps a
mask, perhaps you’re tired of masks and I wouldn’t even blame you, running into
the black, out of the lamplight and away from the crime scene. And you remind
me of myself, running like that. I never ran from broken glass, only other kinds of
wreckage, littering mildewy bedrooms like confetti.
All my love to you.
&
To my landlord who sends emails whenever a car is parked incorrectly,
If I had a nickel for every time, I’d have at least a dollar, minus the thousands I’ve
already handed to you to keep living here.
P.S. the garbage is overflowing again. That’s your second favorite topic to send
emails on, so I thought I’d let you know.
&
To Amanda Gorman,
Now you’re a stranger to no one and everyone. Watching your hands dance just
beyond the inaugural podium, behind the chest-high bulletproof glass, I feel as if we
talked just yesterday, as if we’ll meet again tomorrow.
Someone else who calls themselves a writer will post on Facebook about your poem,
how it wasn’t really a poem, how it wasn’t literary, or how it was good “for an occasion
poem.” Why nothing is ever good enough, I don’t know. What I do know is that
for five minutes and thirty-two seconds you made all of us bulletproof.
&
To a face I try to blur with flame,
You’re a stranger now, though you didn’t used to be.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 106

With every good wish—you used to sign.
“Wish” used to mean something more romantic, a deep unfulfilled desire. Your wish
was more like shopping online, knowing you can’t afford something, and adding it to
your “wish list” anyway. A hollow virtual gesture, clicking that heart shaped button.
Or worse than that, because we know how it got worse than wishing, like shoplifting.
No, not shoplifting, but staking out a store you plan on robbing. Like approaching the
counter with a toy gun that looks slightly too real to question.
Later, you’ll deny you were ever there and the charges against you will be dropped
due to lack of evidence. But I’ll still be there, burning what I finally understand cannot
be called love letters.
With every good wish—
&
To the hit-and-run driver of a black pickup,
Who knows where you were speeding from, swerving between lanes, and who you
were speeding to as you smashed into the side of my partner’s car on the freeway.
As he spun a hundred and eighty degrees toward the ditch, your wheels spun north,
doubling their speed.
Luckily for you, no one saw your plate. Luckily for him, my partner righted his car and
came to a stop on the shoulder, sitting somehow unscathed in a totaled car and you
have subtracted yourself. Totally gone.
I will be as brief as the moment you collided with a part of my world too valuable
to imagine losing. As brief as the snapping of the driver’s side mirror detaching, the
bending of the frame, the embedding of black paint into red: I hope it was important.
I have to believe it was important, whatever kept you driving.
&
To Amy Winehouse,
Amy Amy Amy. In two years I’ll be the same age as you were when you drank your
last drink, all alone in your Camden Town flat, not the vision of yourself everyone else
saw, the jet black beehive, the landscape of tattoos and the Monroe piercing, thick
wings at the outside corners of your eyes meant to transport you elsewhere, I guess.
The world hollowed you out until you were bones and rotting talent, and I think about
that every time I reach for a drink I don’t need. I hear you growling in my ear the
limited words you left us—black,
black,
black.
Your mother wrote a book about you after you died. She wrote that you were full of
life like a hurricane, raging and raging until you raged yourself out. When I don’t know
what else to do,
I put you on and I rage.
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Empathy / Entropy

Joseph Tyler Wilson
[Until the wet now january gale]
Until the wet now january gale
Extinguished this last known ember
from the previous thousand years
Pavanne for Jessica
In the aftermath
Of an overloaded heroin
Needle
Mere words
Refuse
To Dress up grief
But I think now
Of her beautiful small
Sibilant squeak of a laugh
That she attempts to hold back
Like a contagious cough
Behind her creamy hand
But often couldn’t
And so out it came
Like a floral sunrise following a charcoal night
Like a bleeding rainbow
Sopping up a
Fierce storm
Like a short poem
Written after a loss
So sharp and dear
That mere words
Refuse
To dress up grief
Windward Review: Vol. 19 108

Joseph Tyler Wilson
Neil deGrasse Tyson on the Radio
One
Let me paraphrase
Because I only understand part of what he said
The female interviewer asks him to explain
Light as it relates to the Big Bang Theory
And he says that light is coming to us from the beginning of it all
That the star we see when we look at the star we see isn’t really there
That we are separated by time and distance and
The illusion of knowledge
Two
I look at an old picture of my brother Paul and me
He a bundled infant and I
Perhaps three
Am searching up to the sky with my eyes
There is no contextual architecture for me to imagine
Why or what I am scanning
Three
There is this mixed batch of photographs in my bottom desk drawer
Including one of three smiling girls embracing with entangled arms
Like vacationing lovers on a white sand beach
Catie and two others whose names I can’t recall
A short blonde Brazilian girl with a nose ring
Purple lipstick and a tattoo on her upper thigh
Who as an exchange student once late in the night knocked
On my front door on Manitou Street
Asked me to hold her while she wept
And a Thai girl with big wet moony eyes
Who went through a deep blue period and then
Departed one morning
From my creative writing class and never returned
I bumped into Catie last year on Facebook or she bumped into me
Eventually I mentioned the image of her with her friends that
Resided in my oak desk in the back of my classroom
That I hadn’t really looked at in maybe five years
She couldn’t recall any of it
So I searched through the pile until I found it
Took an iphoto and sent the image off into space
Like the Voyager Golden Record
With stick figures of the human form and the music of Mozart
Toward Catie in Austin
Over two hundred miles and eighteen years away
She texted back “It’s not me and I don’t know either of them”
Four
Tyson says that light
Is speeding toward us from the past
I say the past is speeding toward us
Like jingling sounds from a darkened room
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Empathy / Entropy

Beauty As An Invasive Species
For the feral swans of Houston
Katherine Hoerth
What to do when beauty’s on the loose?
In the chaos of that hurricane,
the flood rushed in and swept the swan away
from the hotel fountain and her mate
with a force like love or lust or nature,
all equally destructive. Mute, with wings
clipped and useless, who would have thought such beauty
could survive the wilds of this city?
Now beauty’s leaving feathers everywhere
scattered like white stars across the darkness
of the night. Now beauty’s turning tawny
with the mud and dust of Houston’s streets.
Now beauty’s found her voice again—she’s hissing.
Now beauty’s learning to defend herself
with a beak that’s more than ornamental.
Now beauty fills her belly and devours
musk grass, water lilies, arrowhead.
Now beauty stretches out her milky wings,
takes up more space within this crowded city.
Now beauty’s brooding in the bayou’s crooks,
displacing spoonbills, cormorants, herons.
Now beauty’s getting ornery, aggressive—
ruining picnics and romantic strolls.
She’s feral, nesting in the city parks;
she’s hatching chicks whose wings were never clipped.
Beauty’s daughters soon take to the sky
and fly above this city with its smog.
Now beauty’s on the loose. She’s blending in
with clouds, migrating as her heart desires.
Oh dear, our world will never be the same.
Hunters of southeast Texas, grab your guns.
It’s open season for these feral swans.
Beauty on her own’s a dangerous thing.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 110

Busted Ear Drum
My eardrum is the eardrum of the nation—
busted open, ruined, and eroded
from an infection made of apathy
anger, or grief that we can’t exorcise
from the body. Mold has settled in.
The air is humid from the standing water
of what we leave unsaid, unheard, undone.
One January morning, pressure built,
rupturing the fragile peace of skin.
It hasn’t healed—not even a scab.
It’s an open wound I tend to every
morning, noon, and night, worry
over, trying to forget about.
I can’t hear the music of the world
anymore, its song of suffering.
Instead, I hear the ringing of tinnitus.
And at first, it felt disorienting—
the muffled soundscape of a world so loud
with grieving mothers shrieking Aleppo
from grief and hunger, shrieking in Reynosa
in the wake of gunshots, shrieking in Port Arthur
as policemen shoot into the night.
But now, that distant humming in my ear,
that almost silence is a sort of comfort.
I can fix it, miss, the surgeon says,
as he pencils in my surgery
where he’ll open up my skull and force
me to hear again this loud, loud world.
I nod, agree, because I know the sound
of change needs billions of open ears
with drums intact that beat and beat and beat
truth into the brain, wake up the heart,
to listen to the chorus of our earth.
Katherine Hoerth
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Empathy / Entropy

A Triptych Ten Thousand
I.
“At every pore with instant fires”
Some ten thousand fires
My body takes on a new radiance
What transpires …
In these flashes of heat ...
Jimena Burnett
dampness/sweat/perspiration ...
forming in the crooks of my ... elbows
at the backs of my knees—down the bony furrow of my back
—down the bony furrow of my life (sweat)
—along the nape of my neck (sweat)
—tracing the arcs across my upper lip (sweat)
all signs ...
these salty beads of (sweat)
all totems … all portents
of decline
Simply the way a feminine body languishes
so I am told,
A hazy narrative of how to be forgotten,
rendered inconsequential/obsolete
a patriarchal interpretation,
Like so many histories of patriarchy,
inaccurate at best,
at odds with
my body’s own grace/beauty/truth/power
at odds
with some 10,000 things about me,
about us
II.
Dear body,
how resolute you are.
I have questions
I want to know:
Why?
Why now? Why this?
Why wasn’t I informed?
If the hue of youth is of morning dew ... what is the color of age?
What is the color/shape/taste/sound/smell/feel
of a woman beset
by ten thousand instant fires?
What is seeping out and away in these fiery sessions?
Windward Review: Vol. 19
112

What is being forged/tempered in this crucible of flame?
Once this slow distillation comes to a halt, what and who remains
to emerge, phoenix-like, sybyl-like, from the embers and the ash?
What exactly is it that transpires, these 10,000,
These instant fires?
Who remains to seize the day?
Who will care to notice?
What of pleasure?
Of rough strife?
Finally, dear body, will this incandescence, some ten thousand little fires,
light a way onward for us ever together to cross
the darkling plains that come our way?
III.
On second thought, do everything in increments of 10,000. Build, live
through, put out 10,000 fires. Not just fires, everything. Love. Love
10,000 times. Lay your heart bare, make it vulnerable to 10,000 shocks,
10,000 heartbreaks, curl your body around your lover 10,000 times.
Know that when it rains or when you cry, the drops of rain or tears come
in parcels of 10,000, buy 10,000 umbrellas, handkerchiefs, galoshes. In
the rain, in tears, or in the tub, bathe 10,000 times. Emerge squeaky,
shiny, fresh, wrung-out, clean. If you still are dripping, use 10,000 towels.
Wash 10,000 pairs of socks, the sheets, washrags, 10,000 towels. Hang
all them out to dry under 10,000 suns, flap, flap, flapping in the breeze,
knowing that they are only tethered to this Earth by clothespins and
circumstance.
Clothespins? Circumstance? Gravity?
What is it that tethers you?
Make a pie, but don’t make one or two, just a pumpkin and/or a blueberry,
make 10,000, make every pie on Earth or, if you prefer, make the same
pie 10,000 times, the apocryphal apple everytime. Slice, slice them all,
slice them each into 10,000 slices. Eat 10,000 slices of pie, 10,000 pies,
tasting every fruit, every Eden, every crust, every bit of Earth, every sun,
every drop of dew, every juice.
Then drink. Drink tea with lemon and honey in sips of 10,000. While the
tea leaves steep, unfurling/uncurling, think 10,000 thoughts, then use
your breath, the in and the out of it all, to shoo each thought away.
Shoo, shoo, shoo …. 10,000 times until your mind for a moment rests,
untethered, unspooled, undone.
Then at 9,999 of any old thing, take that next step, then step again, slice
again, bake again, breathe again, break again, bathe/wash again, rain
and taste again, steep, sip, drink again, think again, love again, emerge
again, do it all again. Start over. Begin again.
No one’s keeping count.
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Empathy / Entropy

JE Trask
Longing For Love
Every cindered child longs for love,
No matter our flaws or sins: a death-row inmate
Taking his final walk still longs for love;
Men lost in the desert still search for love’s pathways.
Longing encodes, trenched in our nucleus,
As vital as the reason leaves lean to the sun
Or birds migrate. Without love, existence
Diminishes, life-force decays, weakens.
Though our bodies wither, sick and wracked,
Longing remains, stalwart, immutable;
Even in the cooling body after
Death, the strings of DNA still long.
Every version of me still longed for love;
My need withstood, embedded deeper than pain,
Deeper than loss or emptiness. I took
Energy from this need, it fed and sustained
A broken psyche, gave me a reason to move,
To breathe, passion to remain extant;
I dreamed of a metamorphosing kind of love,
Healing rain to nourish my famished wasteland.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 114

JE Trask
Roleplay: What We Seek
What We Think We Seek
“I want to fling your feet to the ceiling,” says he,
“And dance like salmon leaping up a stream!”
“Or just the lean in a sweetheart’s tuck,” says she.
“The sun must be the sun, must shine with heat
And not care if those below are sweltering;
Let’s spin like twin tornado stars,” says he.
“The moon gives us light when we most struggle to see
And reveals her mirror gift in cool evening;
Steps gentle and exact still move,” says she.
“A volcano does not bow to a snowflake,” says he;
“It cannot be tamed but must erupt in glory!
And all who see it stand in awe, or flee!”
“Ships seek safe harbor when a storm is coming,
But on a temperate day, the white sails gleam,
And skiffs again cut clean through the waves,” says she.
Time seals the moment in resin / the pendulum swings;
A song began – it is already ending;
“How she felt in the lean of our lover’s tuck,” says he;
“How he once lifted my feet to the ceiling!” says she.
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Empathy / Entropy

_____ by _____
JE Trask
Because the poem is raw and unpretentious
it stands in a spotlight and begs to be heard
like I a child by a swimming pool about to dive into the water:
Hey Everybody! Look at me! –
only wanting to share the leaping, rush of air, splash,
how the water ever so gently restrains this body’s descent,
as my mother once reached out her arm to bar her firstborn
from wandering into danger.
Joyfully, there are no origami giraffes here to interpret,
just a fresh pile of laundry warm from tumble drying,
like I once dumped on my bed on a cold day and fell on top of.
This is how we sometimes love,
become a vulnerable, crumpled pile ready to be straightened, folded,
or draped floating in a high, safe place;
if we find ourselves in caring hands
we may later appear to others with straight lines and smooth contours.
If we’re lucky, our older selves will remember
every one of our discoveries deserves to be celebrated.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 116
Song – for Jennifer
Standing in the terminal
waiting for my early morning train,
watching numbers on the monitor,
swallowing two aspirin.
My eyes are bloodshot,
my arm covers my wide yawned teeth
and my skin gets tired tingles
of searching for bedsheets –
businessmen around me –
students and tourists, too –
I’m glancing at the fringes,
daydreaming I see you
come rushing up to grab my hand,
pull me from this hall,
but I know you’re far away
as I fix back on fiery red numerals.

JE Trask
My left hand rests on my suitcase handle
as my right accepts free WI-FI;
we were so good together,
but we were better at goodbye.
The day we met was a different tired;
we stayed up all night talking;
you wore dinosaurs on your shirt,
silver earrings dangling.
I was sure I could topple one more windmill
with my crooked pool cue.
You were sure the Grand Ball was still waiting
and any slippers would do.
We bathed in a pool in a hidden grotto,
we kissed in the frond of a giant fern.
Your skin was soft as orchid petals
and mirrored the flickering candle’s burn.
Pan played a ditty with his flute,
Venus harmonized on her lead guitar.
You gave me a Starburst from your purse
and said let’s have breakfast for dinner.
I still don’t know where we got lost;
we somehow forgot to try;
we were so good together,
but we were better at goodbye.
There’s a fast blur of swamps and farms.
The train is only half-full;
I can stretch out my legs
and my seat is comfortable
but I can’t seem to close my lids on you yet;
I imagine you walk through the carriage door
and lay your head on my lap
and say I don’t want to fight anymore,
but I see you’re far from here
as I study the windowpane
and squeeze my hands together
as if my body is trying to pray.
I don’t know if I can explain
why anyone would choose,
instead of the ache of impending disaster,
the ache of certain doom.
You pulled away you scared me
like I stepped from a roof to nothing but sky
and I wanted to say I need you
but I was better at saying goodbye.
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Empathy / Entropy

JE Trask
Danger
After Leap Before You Look by Auden
What you sensed when you scrambled
up those slippery rocks in Fiji
or when we’re jitterbugging fast
at the edge of control –
at such a dangerous pass
a joy that cannot be found
in any safe place enters us.
I don’t care how we say it
only that it’s raw, candid –
what we’re afraid to mention –
felt so deeply we shake –
there’s no safe path that leads to love.
Jog from books laptops science
deer stare whisper we bled you lived
one day you may stumble on such sharpness
Windward Review: Vol. 19 118

CeAnna Heit
memory clots
you know
wishing my
dissolve into
father spoke I was
father’s love burned
tongue blisterful it kept
remember the trees shade
teeth I was
syllables to give him spine
I was ash
body could
branch when
sky my body my
held on the
growing earthless I
of yellow that hurt the
wishing I had more tender
buckling branging
out & wished for sea end I wish for any
my spine a crush of flowers my
curled
for the sun
turning
other pulse when I first spoke love
spine
broke
turned
my throat bent
toward the skies
replacing oil like
turn the lights off
the dishes right I would
whatever he said
I wish for
crave
escapism
my throat whirs
father cared for cars
blood father says
when you go wash
have believed him
in every memory of him
the truth: chattering
the truth: perhaps we just did not
[mouth do you]
know what to
escape?
do you want to engorge full
fuck the
truth?
119
Empathy/ Entropy

Dear family,
I want to see you again very badly. I sometimes think maybe if I don’t
see you, I might lose you or lose the image of you I keep in memory that
chiseled and chipped fragment that follows me. Memory washes in and
out like the tide but never brings back anything small enough to carry. My
hopes to carry you with me like starfish washed up on the beach those red
limbs shivering the tongue too heavy to hold in the shapes it might make
the blood is leaking out of you is water, is flood.
bleeds fresh
a memory
me back to
a house
your throat
is a lie.
to read this
I see father again
where time
the first
feathered
speak
time with
again?
you must know
at the edge
has no edges
like children
crystalline
shimmer will
memories like
of oceans. why
sister let’s
can I never cut
rewrite that
shards of glass
is where memory
hurt curved
ribbons pulling
these seaweed
moment when
you ever
the wash to sand
narrative the shore
a jolt out of
Windward Review: Vol. 19 120

we are in the room we were not in the
whitewalls chattering
room you were
us sisters
close and jarred fingers
in the room crashing split like the groove in
parent’s voices outside ripping imperfect wood, you
I’ll hold you sister keep you didn’t want them to
in distant places sycamored crack in the grey
bind my hands to yours in ash
light
the remains of a word
window
we are in a room
the organ sat
white-eyed, you and I,
waiting & you
flutter, rash, what is that wanted to claim
against the wall pounding wild flowers words
voices & words like ash like they belonged
& me asking you, can you to us lay that river to bed
keep us in? your face the salt-fed womb
washed in green our mama, estuaried, salt-cheeked
our papa, you are unrooted sister limbed inlet
stomata between them brushed salt sun glance
121 Empathy / Entropy

lungs can breath / the ash
lungs can breath / the ash
lungs can breath / the ash
a thousand cuts
a thousand cuts
a thousand cuts
feet on the edge of a door
scrunched toward the sun
curled string
ember a tongue
a body / under pleasure
clouds in a car & gone
for fear of springs
do not bleed for fear of springs
for fear of springs
do not swallow glob the speech
do not swallow glob the speech
do not swallow glob the speech
heart clogged up
on the tongue
heart clogged up
heart clogged up in
her eyes fell
lungs can breath / the ash
lungs can breath / the ash
lungs can breath / the ash
ember a tongue
ember a tongue
ember a tongue
do not bleed
do not bleed
curled sring
do not bleed
curled sringcurled sring
on the tongue
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older sister:
older sister:
“Remember, when we were
small we were in the room
white-walled, unspoken
the walls crashing with voices
voices that rip and curl. You are
scared and I told you I’d hold
you I murmur, bind our hands
under the table lacking words
words coming up ashes.”
“I was with you
white-eyed in the room
and what is that against
the wall? We were thinking
somehow it was from them
that tremor what did it mean?
older sister:
wash each word in green
little sister:
from the window from
the willow can you
“Remember when he used
to call me golden goose?
They were throwing things
between me above me the
red vase on the wall it was not
was you thought at all it was
calm I held up my hands like birds and
white wordless
offerings.”
this poem is for you
muttering shaking is for
snapping of voices is for you catch me
holding branched green words from
the window wall for you I was not in
the room for you I was not
older sister [much
older now]:
I was older than
you I sat at my
computer hunched
formless mom & dad
the familiar hum of
red murmur stream,
you went downstairs
why did you why I
jelly-boned, grey
eyed I was older
I knew
123 Empathy / Entropy

Crystal Garcia
Transient Lives (Density of Seconds)
Is this what a glitch in the matrix feels like?
Time can be so dense.
No wonder we all seem to experience déjà vu.
Hasn’t it all happened before?
It’s March again.
So much happens
in an hour—
even more in 24
and days accumulate
into weeks then months.
A year since last March…
the beginning of a viral era.
Everything is supposed to move
the same way yet it all feels
different now.
Different is okay.
Change is constant anyway.
Most times I simply do not
or how to feel.
That’s “normal” though, right?
know what to do
Normal is futile.
It definitely never meant a damn thing
to anyone who has ever felt different…
Abnormal, weird, or strange.
We are called out whether we like it
or not.
Let’s find out what boxes we don’t fit into.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 124

Why are we putting all these things
into boxes anyway?
We imagine we’ll figure this out together
yet together means we are to be
Too often we break ourselves down
before even trying to build ourselves up.
accepting of each other.
Here we are in the middle
of this uncertainty,
wanting to hold each other yet
it’s not wise to get so close.
An internal conflict that seems universal;
what is the solution when going against
the other side
of YOU?
Wait, can’t we still remember
what comfort felt like?
Yes, we can. The idea of it:
Even the memories
will start to fade
& it’s all so
solidified in our minds,
however not fully tangible
enough for us to grasp.
fleeting.
Nonetheless, we exist.
We are here.
Never meant to only
live in our heads.
We have always worn masks.
Why do we believe
it feels better to hide a part of who we are?
Our greatest battles are within
& we prefer others not get a glimpse.
A gradual descent
into clandestine parts
of ourselves
make us wonder:
Who are we really?
Sometimes life seems
like it’s always falling apart
into chaos and disorder
yet we’ve simply been
standing still.
Our energy has perpetually been bursting
at the seams!
As we wonder,
we usually wander…
adventures are all around.
Our collective energy is powerful:
nurturing vulnerability as it is strength.
We are both fragile and strong.
This duality we are born with
is supposed to guide us
to speak and act with empathy.
125
Time keeps going
even when the world
finally felt like it had
stopped…
…
..
.
..
…
here
we are.
Nothing ever
makes much sense
when you spend so many
seconds overthinking it.
Empathy / Entropy

Leticia R. Bajuyo
Event Horizon at Peak Shift, 2018
Windward Review: Vol. 19 126

Photography: Nick Sanford
127 Empathy / Entropy

The Couch
Christina Hoag
The cell phone blared its overloud, overcheery tune. Desi bolted upright
and bashed her head on the top bunk. She seized the phone and slid the
button to answer, more to silence the ringtone as to reply to the call. It was
getting hard, this clandestine living in the police station.
It was the watch commander. “Desi, you’re up to bat. We got a stiff in
an alley, eleven thousand block behind Santa Monica. Sanitation guys called
it in.”
Desi rubbed her already throbbing skull. “What’s it look like?”
“Male, white, twenties. Likely OD. It’s three blocks from the station.”
“Roger that.”
Desi swung her legs off the thin mattress and checked the time. 5:11
a.m. Shit. She’d forgotten to set the alarm again. She had to be out of the
cot room before day watch started arriving. She made the bed, plumped the
pillow and surveyed the room, making sure she’d left no trace of herself. She
stuffed a backpack containing clean underclothes, T-shirts and sweats under
the bunk, pushing it into the farthest corner, and cracked open the door. The
hallway was clear. She dashed into the women’s locker room.
Twenty-eight minutes later, hair dripping like a leaky faucet down the
gully of her back, she was ducking under the yellow tape that cordoned off
the alley behind an eclectic collection of storefront businesses on Santa Monica
Boulevard — a Mexican taco joint, a Thai massage parlor, a Vietnamese
nail salon and a hipster coffee shop.
“Nimmo, West LA homicide,” she announced to the bluesuit, who jotted
the information on the scene log.
Another patrol officer milled around an abandoned corduroy couch upon
which lay a young man, cold and lifeless.
“Coroner?” Desi said.
“They’re heading over,” the officer said. “The sanitation crew had to continue
their round, but I got their contact info in case you need it. How’s Ray
doing, by the way?”
“Good,” Desi lied, stepping away from the officer to discourage chitchat.
She was asked that almost every day, it seemed.
She couldn’t let it slip that she’d left Ray. Cops being the gossips that
they were, it would be all over the department inside twenty-four hours, and
she’d be persona non grata for leaving a hero, a cop’s cop who’d been shot
in the back by a fleeing drug dealer during a raid. The asshole was still in the
wind while Ray was marooned in a wheelchair.
She sized up the deceased. He boasted a tan and a messy man bun with
what was likely a carefully calibrated stubble over his cheeks. He was better
dressed than the typical street OD — a button-down paisley shirt worn loose
over neat jeans, rolled up sleeves, docksiders with no socks — but this was
Los Angeles’ affluent westside. She ran her eyes over his hands, no rings, but
there was a white band on his wrist indicating he usually wore a watch. At a
glance, there appeared no sign of foul play.
She couldn’t do much until the coroner’s techs arrived. The dead were
their domain. She turned to the patrol officer. “Get a search going for any
hypos and shit. You know the drill.”
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128

Over the officer’s shoulder at the far end of the alley, she clocked a familiar
scruffy figure with a balding pate and a curtain of long grey hair floating
around the shoulders of a tattered raincoat. In the invisible world of homeless
street territory, this was his turf. He might have seen something last night.
“Sal!” she called. He caught her gaze and scurried off.
He wouldn’t go far. She strode around her end of the alley onto the
boulevard, sweeping the block with her eyes. In the gap under a bus shelter
wall, she spied a pair of fraying sneakers, the toe of one flapping free from
the sole. She walked up to the structure. Sure enough, Sal was sitting on the
bench. She stood at an angle to block his exit on the two open sides.
“Hey, Sal.”
He answered with a frown.
She caught a noseful of human stink. He obviously hadn’t been to the
rescue mission in a while. She switched to breathing through her mouth as
she patted her jacket pocket for the Vaporub she usually carried for death
scenes and interactions with the homeless, but it was empty. Dammit, the
Vapo must’ve fallen out in the rush of fleeing the house.
“Did you see the guy on the couch in the alley last night?”
He stared at the gutter. A lie was coming. “Nope.”
“Sal, remember how I saved your suitcase when you left it chained to this
very bus shelter and a rook called out the bomb squad? You owe me one.”
He scratched his chin through a thick matted beard. “He was on my
couch.”
“Dead or alive?”
“He was dead when I got there. The sonofabitch died on my couch. And
I didn’t roll him.”
“Was he alone?”
“Far as I could tell.”
“What time was this?”
“Nighttime.”
“Late? Early?”
He shrugged. She wasn’t going to get any more out of him. “All right,
then.” She stepped away.
“Hey, Desi, you ain’t gonna take the couch, are you?” The plaintiveness
in his voice made her pivot. “The lady in the coffee shop said she don’t mind
if I sleep on it. She said I could use it as long as I wanted, and she wouldn’t
call for it to be picked up.”
“Sal, you know the rules. Furniture isn’t allowed in alleys. Sanitation found
the body, so they probably already called bulky waste pickup.”
“Can you do something? I had to fight a couple guys over that couch. I’ll
get that watch for you.”
He’d taken the watch. Of course, he had. “I’ll see what I can do.” She
walked off.
“You’re a cop! You can do what you damn well please!” he yelled. The
words hit her like blows on the back. She felt a pinch of sympathy but quickly
stifled it. If you let it, this job would chew you up and spit you out. She
couldn’t save the world.
When she got back to the dead man, the coroner’s tech assistants were
loading him into their van.
“Hey Desi, I was wondering where you were.” Preeta, the forensic tech,
hooked around an ear a hank of dark hair that had strayed from her ponytail.
129
Empathy / Entropy

“Chasing a potential witness.” She pointed with her chin at the body.
“OD?”
Preeta whipped back the sheet to expose the dead man’s bare feet. Small
bruises bunched around his toes like spoiled grapes. “Third one this week on
the westside. Looks like there’s some bad shit on the street. You might want
to alert your narc guys.”
“Will do.”
She watched Preeta replace the sheet and close the van doors. Another
life wasted by drugs.
“Catch you on the next one, Des.”
She raised a hand in response then gave the all-clear to the patrol officers
so they could resume their watch. A rumble behind her gave her a jolt.
It was the massive, dark blue bulky-waste truck. That was fast. It must’ve
been in the neighborhood. She darted out of its way as it extended its giant
claw to grasp the couch and lifted it, swinging it around to deposit in the rear
bin with a dull thud.
The truck moved off with an engine snort, revealing Sal standing in the
middle of the alley. He glowered at her. There was nothing she could do. He
knew city ordinances better than most people.
She walked back to the station to get started on the report, stopping
in the break room on her way to the detectives’ bureau. She hadn’t eaten
breakfast and her stomach felt like a bottomless pit. She fixed a cup of coffee
and grabbed two strawberry Pop-Tarts then entered the detectives’ area,
greeting several colleagues en route to her cubicle but not hovering to chat.
She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She sat at her desk and powered on the
computer.
Finbar McNab scooted in reverse out of his cubicle on his wheeled chair.
“Early morning jog again?”
“Huh?” What was he talking about?
“The other day. You were in super early with wet hair. You said you’d
been running.”
“Oh. No. Had a callout. OD in an alley.”
He studied her for a second. “Everything all right? You don’t look so hot.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“You’ve been putting in long hours lately, Des.”
“Catching up on paperwork, parole board letters, you know how it is.”
The truth was she stayed in the bureau or break room until the station
emptied so it was safer to occupy the cot room, plus she had no money to go
anywhere even if she had a place to go. Then she had to be up early to avoid
the station’s first wave of arrivals. It must be nice to work a nine-to-five, she
thought suddenly. There was a certain comfort in structured days.
“How’s Ray?” McNab said. “Don’t worry, sooner or later, we’ll get the
asshole who did this.”
“If you don’t mind, I have a report to write.”
McNab threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, just asking.”
He rolled his chair forward and disappeared behind the cubicle wall. Finally.
Desi took a deep breath and pulled up a blank report form, but her
focus was gone.
What people didn’t know was that her four-year-old marriage was faltering
before Ray got shot, thanks to his increasing micromanagement of her
life. She told him she wanted out unless he agreed to go to couples’ counseling,
but he refused. She was pondering her next move when she got the call
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130

from his captain to get to the hospital. She wondered whether he’d chased
the dealer, ignoring department protocols, and hurdled a chain-link fence
right into an alley ambush in some sort of ego-driven attempt to prove to her
what a superior being he was.
She’d stayed, of course. She couldn’t very well leave him when he needed
her the most. But since the shooting, he’d spent more time drunk than
sober and found fault with everything she did. She still had her badge, and
he didn’t.
After yet another fight, the cause of which she couldn’t recall now, her
mouth had launched the words like missiles: “I’m leaving.” Ray hadn’t said
a damn thing. He simply rolled out to his garage man-cave, where he kept
a small fridge stocked with beer, and blasted Black Sabbath, which he knew
she hated, as she packed her life into garbage bags.
Desi had no plan for where to go, but the fact that Ray had offered no
resistance made her all the more resolute. He thought she was bluffing. He’d
see.
As she stared at the report, its blanks waiting to be filled in, she realized
she missed her husband — the old him, the one she’d married, not this new
version, but she didn’t know if the old Ray would, or could, ever return. She
pushed the intrusive nostalgia back into its mental box and concentrated on
the report. She powered through and when finished, went to the break room
to reward herself with more coffee and Pop-Tarts.
Lieutenant Migdalia Machado stuck her head out of her door as Desi
walked by. “Desi, gotta minute?”
Desi turned. “Sure.” She trailed her boss into her office. Machado had
probably seen the stiff in the alley on the incident log when she came in and
wanted the rundown.
“Close the door and have a seat.” Shit. Maybe not.
Machado reached under desk and thumped Desi’s backpack on her desk,
the one that she’d shoved under the bunk in the cot room that morning. Desi
slumped as if a vacuum sucked all the air out of her body.
“Is this yours?”
Desi nodded. “I just put it there for safekeeping.”
“Have you been using the cot room as a crashpad?”
“No…well…”
“Save it.” Machado picked up an envelope from her desk and drew out
two long auburn hairs, dangling them in the air. “There’s only one person in
the station with this hair. I found them in one of the bunks and on the floor.
This explains why you were napping in your car in the parking lot the other
evening, why you’ve been here at all hours, why microwave dinners, mac
and cheese boxes, canned soup and Pop-Tarts have appeared in the break
room, with your name on them although all I’ve ever seen you eat is organic
Whole Foodsy stuff.
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going at home and it’s none of my business,
but you know that sleeping in the cot room is strictly against the rules if it’s
not for official police business.”
Desi didn’t have the energy to lie any longer. “I left Ray.” She suddenly
felt as if an anvil had lifted off her chest.
Machado blinked. “I figured as much. I’m sure he’s not easy to be around
these days.” Her tone had softened.
“Are you gonna write me up for this?” Desi had an unblemished record.
Not one complaint, internal or external, in fourteen years on the job.
131
Empathy / Entropy

“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll pretend this never happened if you find
somewhere else to live and you follow up on this for me.” Machado turned to
her computer and started typing.
Desi decided to wait until she finished to ask her not to broadcast her
marital woes.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about you and Ray,” Machado said, not
taking her eyes off the monitor. Was she telepathic?
“I’d appreciate that,” Desi said.
Where was she going to go? Her credit cards were maxed out and her
credit rating had plummeted. She and Ray were down to a single income,
plus Ray’s disability check, but one of his favorite hobbies these days was
ordering useless stuff from Amazon. Boxes piled up at the door practically
daily. Plus, she’d had to take out a loan to retrofit the house for a wheelchair.
She didn’t have any friends outside the department or nearby relatives where
she could crash for a few days. She’d spent the first night on her own in a
West Hollywood motel that cost a hundred bucks for a room with a stained
bedspread and stale pot reek, then decided to move into the station.
She thought it would be relatively easy to live there, for a short while
anyway, since the station was equipped with a cot room, showers, lockers
and a kitchenette. It would give Ray enough time to realize how much he
needed her. He’d come to appreciate her, beg her to come back. Then she’d
have leverage to get him into therapy and rehab. But she hadn’t banked on
how stressful it would be to evade detection, inventing excuses to be at the
station at odd hours, and how people would pick up on the smallest changes
in habit. She was juggling lies like balls, but her hands just weren’t fast
enough to catch them all. It had been five days, and she still hadn’t had as
much as a text from Ray. Her shoulders slumped.
Machado hit enter with a flourish and twisted back to Desi. “The captain
got an email yesterday from Councilman Hounanian’s office, which he passed
on to me, which I just forwarded to you. Report back to me by end of watch.
Close the door on your way out.”
Desi walked back to her desk calling up her email on her phone. When
the westside councilman called the captain, it always meant some bullshit
complaint from his constituents: graffiti, people living in RVs parked at the
curb, loud parties. She skimmed through the forwarded email and rolled her
eyes. This one was bullshittier than usual. No wonder the LT had palmed it
off as part of a deal. She drew a deep breath. She’d handle this then figure
out where she’d sleep that night.
***
Desi looked around the living room at the expectant faces of eight older
residents of the upscale Brentwood neighborhood who had complained to
the councilman that their cats and dogs had been disappearing. An elderly
lady, a cloud of snowy hair framing a birdlike face, gave her a friendly smile,
which she returned.
“Have a seat, Detective.” Sarah Cohen, the host and group organizer,
gestured toward the dining chair pulled around the coffee table for extra
seating. “Can I get you coffee?”
“No thanks. I can’t stay long. I have witnesses to interview on another
case.” A pre-emptive lie. Desi sat in the indicated chair and Sarah perched on
an ottoman next to her.
The elderly woman nudged a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies toward Desi,
who smiled noncommittally. “So, I understand your pets have gone missing,”
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132

she prompted, flipping open her notebook. She still couldn’t quite believe
she was investigating this.
Sarah unfolded a square of paper on top of the ziggurat of landscape
photography books in the middle of the table. “This is what’s been going
on.”
It was a map of the neighborhood marked with eight numbers and a
corresponding key listing the pets and dates they were last seen.
“Jim,” Sarah pointed to a bearded man on the couch who looked familiar.
He obediently raised his hand, “and I canvassed the area to see how
many pets had gone missing. As you can see, the disappearances started
four months ago. All expensive breeds.”
Jim leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “There’s a pattern that makes
me think there’s something deliberate about it. It started with cats, then
small dogs, then bigger dogs. It’s not random.”
Desi studied the list to verify what Jim was saying, wondering if he was
Jim Hendrie, the noted movie director. She cast her eyes around the circle.
“Has anyone noticed any strangers hanging around the neighborhood? Any
odd bowls of food or water?”
“There’s a shabby Econoline van that parks on my street at night,” the
elderly lady said.
“That ‘shabby’ van belongs to my son,” said a man, whose too-perfect
hairline belied the presence of implants.
“What time of day did the animals disappear?” Desi asked.
“Mostly night.” Sarah looked around the group for confirmation. Heads
nodded.
“I let my dog out at night in the back yard to do his business, and he
never came back,” said a woman pushing large black-rimmed glasses up her
nose. “Mine’s the Pekinese.”
“No unusual barking?” Heads shook.
“Not to sound alarmist, but what if someone’s engaging in some kind
of animal sacrifice cult?” Jim said. “Like santeria or voudou or something.”
Desi sucked in her lips to keep from bursting out in laughter. Rich people
were too much. “Those types of rituals usually involve hens and goats.”
“We’re completely baffled as to why our neighborhood would be targeted,”
Sarah said. “It’s really quite worrying. What will they try next: home
invasions? We have a lot of elderly residents.”
Desi closed her notepad. “There’s been a cat and dog shortage since
the pandemic. People emptied shelters for pets to keep them company at
home, so animals are getting high prices right now. I’d say that’s the motive.
And once their scheme worked the first time, the thieves came back,
getting better and bolder with each theft.
“They probably chose this neighborhood for the simple reason that it
offers easy access to Sunset Boulevard and the freeway, and it’s all single-family
homes with open yards. I suggest checking Craigslist to see if
any of your pets are being sold online. If you find any you think are yours,
call me.”
Sarah bobbed her head at her neighbors. “Good idea, everyone.”
Desi took out a wad of business cards from her pocket and handed it to
Sarah, who took one and passed it on. “I’ll request patrol to step up neighborhood
checks, especially at night. Keep your pets inside or on a leash.
Don’t let them roam by themselves, even in your yard. Somebody could be
luring the animals with food that contains tranquilizers. Take a couple good
133
Empathy / Entropy

photos of them, too, for identification purposes.”
“Do you want to take a look around the neighborhood?” Jim asked.
“Not necessary. I saw it when I drove in.” Desi stood.
“That’s it?” said the old lady. “No fingerprinting?”
“Nothing to fingerprint, ma’am,” Desi said. “Even though we’ll have extra
patrols, the best leads will come from residents. Stay alert. If you notice
anything unusual, call me.”
Sarah accompanied her to the front door and stepped outside onto
the stoop with her. “Thank you so much for coming, Detective. I know you
must have bigger crimes to handle, but for some people, their animals are
all they’ve got. They’re really bereft.”
“I understand.” Desi’s eyes fixed on a burgundy tufted velvet couch
across the street on the curb. She must’ve missed it on her way in as she
was peering at house numbers. “Get back to me if you find anything.” She
started walking across the street then it hit her. The couch. She and Sal
were exactly the same. Homeless. Transgressors of rules. She turned. “Is
someone throwing out that sofa?”
“That’s Jim Hendrie’s. The Salvation Army’s coming to pick it up.”
He was the film director. “Can you tell Jim to cancel the Salvation Army?”
Desi slid into the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic and took out her phone.
“Hey Fin, I need to borrow you and your pickup truck at lunchtime. I’ll buy
the sandwiches.”
***
A couple hours later, Desi wandered through the book stacks to the
section of the library with the Internet-access computers. She spotted Sal
right away. Having stopped at the drugstore on her way over, she daubed
her nostrils with Vaporub before heading in his direction.
“Sal,” she stage-whispered.
He looked around and pursed his lips in distaste when he saw her before
turning back to the monitor.
“I got a surprise for you. In the alley.”
“What — steel bracelets with a nice little chain? Or a card that says, “Go
directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200’?”
“Just come check it out.”
“If I get up now, I’ll lose my spot for the day.”
“Suit yourself.”
Desi walked out of the library onto Santa Monica Boulevard and past
the station, heading to the coffee shop that backed onto Sal’s alley. She
managed to snare a free latte by “casually” pulling back her jacket to expose
her gold detective shield and then waited in the alcove of the rear door
to the alley.
Several minutes later, Sal turned the corner. She ducked back into the
alcove so he wouldn’t see her then peered around the wall to keep him in
view. She needn’t have worried. He’d spotted the couch and barrelled toward
it like a torpedo. He stopped in front of it and stroked the velvet as if
it would purr, then flopped on it with gusto, hands clasped behind his head.
Desi smiled. She pushed open the coffee shop’s door, walked through
and exited onto the street. Now she had to figure out where she was going
to sleep. As she walked back to the station, her cell phone buzzed in her
pocket. She pulled it out and checked the caller ID. It was Ray.
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Mark A. Fisher
all we see or seem
cold metal worlds spin in black emptiness
suffering the weak tyranny of time
long past any hope of renewal
by any ancient orphan children lost in space
where does this path lead?
here, only to here
yet the path continues on
but it too leads only to here
to become alloyed with despair
and forgetfulness
out in the desolate vacuum
peering outwards to the end
waiting for this universe to fade
back into the dream
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Melody Wang
Clumsy
There’s a leak in the ceiling, lively
drip drop drip going unnoticed, as
no one bothers to look up anymore
Overlapping papers scattered on your cherrywood
desk imitate the slow molasses seeping
through untamed landmarks, silent intruder
incanting this fever spell’s stirring
far from quenches what remains
of wood and words and you
fleeting
further down this meandering path
summoner/shade awaits, lilting
echoes seek refuge in the stillest places
even now, a faint recognition ignites and
you (eager to know what once was hidden)
traverse this road guided by wary intuition
intricate patterns emerge from the earth
while northern lights illuminate the shift,
silently gathering all that once was
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136

Minoti Vaishnav
Lasso
Have you seen this show
called Ted Lasso?
Interesting, for to me
it is one of only a few,
scattered art pieces
released
in recent years that
makes me feel loved.
But you
were unmoved?
Yes. I think it’s absurd,
and completely out of sync
with reality.
Not unmoved,
more annoyed.
As a character,
Lasso’s unrealistic.
He’s void
of selfishness,
and focuses his
attentiveness on others.
Absurd!
I’ll never give
credence to the notion that
in any world,
this Texan born male
could thrive so far away
from the Kansas
home he’s made,
and relocate
across the pond,
where he bakes warm, fresh
biscuits for a manipulative blonde.
That’s part of his charm.
Like his name he disarms
you by lassoing you in
with helpfulness instead of harm.
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Empathy / Entropy

Please.
Are we
supposed to believe
that a man
who puts kindness
before shrewdness
can succeed?
It’s idealistic rhetoric
that cannot be true.
A claim too bold
to hold water.
The world isn’t always
skies of blue.
But aren’t we due
for more positivity
on TV?
Perhaps.
But Lasso’s upliftment
is insane.
He wins people over
without exploitation,
and even eases their pain.
And it’s never explained
how this is possible.
You complain
because you believe you must.
In reality, I bet
you were impressed
that his kindness is what turned the odds
in his favor on his quest.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 138
I complain because in an ideal world,
empathy is something people should have.
But they do not.
And hence, I don’t buy
Lasso’s niceness,
nor do I believe
it is cause for applause.
But can we not make the world
a better place
if we create more heroes with an
affinity for sympathy?

Couldn’t we inspire that quality of
empathy in the hearts
and minds of regular folk,
if we consider that goodness is real
and everything isn’t a
stony-hearted joke?
Or just pessimistic.
Perhaps what you need
is a Lasso in your life.
Maybe
I
could be your Lasso?
You’re being idealistic.
I’m being realistic.
Then let me be the
one to assure you,
that even in a world
that seems like it’s dying,
with so many people
lying to get ahead,
that compassion
is not dead.
Lasso isn’t insane,
as you state,
Instead,
He’s an example of
altruism to elevate.
Well, it is true,
that you are frightfully kind,
and your goodness is often unconfined.
Fine.
Perhaps it takes more than one viewing
to understand whether
a Lasso-like personality is worth pursuing.
Shall we then watch it again?
Together?
I was hoping you would ask.
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Empathy / Entropy

Stefan Sencerz
PEOPLE ON THE BEACH OR
EXISTENTIALISM IN THE ART OF
WALKING THE DOGS
On a mission
I like it that my dogs have good manners. So, to teach them a lesson, I
try to utilize every natural “barrier” -- an open door to the house, stairs, a door
step, open door to the car, a gutter in the street, a pier, any drop or elevation of the
ground, a set of poles just sticking out from the ground, and even a line I draw in
the sand. Yes, we try to practice everywhere. So, I do not need to worry that they
will bolt out one day and disappear in thin air or, even worse, will get in a fight with
the rattlers in the dunes or will be run over by a car.
This morning I make them sit in front of the open door until they are completely
calm. Only then we step outside. They follow me to my car. And then they
wait some more, in front of the car, before I invite them in.
All of a sudden, I see two young men dashing cross the parking lot. “Mister!
Mister! May we have a word with you?” I glance around yet see no emergency, So,
at first, I try to ignore them. “Wait, doggies! Wait pysie! Wait!” I whisper gently while
these two keep coming at us in full speed shouting off the top of their lungs, “Mister!
Mister! May we have a word with you?”
I invite the dogs in, settle them down on the back seat, lower the windows,
close the door and only then turn towards them, “What can I do for you?”, I ask.
“We just wanted to know whether you go to church?”
“Yes, I do”, I say, “I go there every day”.
“And what is the name of the temple where you worship?” they continue.
And I give this question some thought. The root meaning of the word “temple” (lat.
templum) is “a part that is cut or carved off”. If you join any temple, how easy it is to
be seduced by the stain-glass windows sifting bright light as if from another world,
and by all tall towers pointing up there, to the sky. Perhaps this is why so many
mystics choose to live in the mountains and deserts with no walls surrounding their
spiritual practice. On a clear night, you can hold the Milky Way in the palm of your
hand.
All of this is a flash in my mind. I turn towards them and respond with my
own question. “What’s in the name? How about logos? And what about practice that
turns logos into the living flesh?”
This seems to puzzle them a bit; they slow down start shifting uneasily
on their feet. Finally, one of them mumbles something that sounds like, “what do
you mean?” “It’s way too difficult to explain in words”, I say grabbing a handle to
the car’s door. Then, after a short pause, I glance at them again, and drop casually,
“Well, maybe it could be demonstrated if you had a moment or two. But, sorry, I got
to go”.
“No, no! Please, stay! Show us what you mean”. And since they ask for it, I
begin with “OM!” (or rather “aeoum”, for) I stretch each vowel to the fullest watching
their faces become pale like white paper. I got you, I smirk inside, and turn up the
heat.
“NAMU!” This could easily take another minute, maybe even two, but mid
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through it I see... one of them starts to twitch, the other one has a blank expression
on his face as if I’m channeling the Satan himself. So, I turn up the heat another
notch.
“DAI!” I dissolve myself in the mantra when one of them bolts, starts running
uneasily glancing back, the other one soon follows him ‘cross the lot.
“BOSA!” I end the mantra for the Great Compassionate One quickly. “Wait
for me”, I tell the dogs, and I take a short stroll to their car.
“Excuse me, gentlemen! May I have a word with you?” I ask.
“Yes! Go ahead!” one of them mumbles uneasily.
So, I ask, “Please, tell me, do you go to church?”
“Yes, we do”, one of them replies.
“And who is your teacher?”, I continue.
“We follow the teachings of Christ?” one of them says and I bow, “Excellent!
An embodiment of logos! A great man!”
“The very best one in every respect” one of them interjects, and I only
smirk for I know I could mess with their heads some more. For example, would Jesus
beat Michael Jordan in the game of basketball without performing miracles? Well,
could he even beat Kobe or LeBron? I doubt it. So, what about that “best in every
respect” stuff. Isn’t it enough that someone is spiritually and morally exemplary? But
this time I let it slide.
“Did not your master teach us to act with love and compassion and not with
arrogance and rudeness”, I ask. They just nod their heads. “So, what would he think
of people who interrupt a busy neighbor on a busy day, ask for the word, and then
run away?”
And they stand there in front of me totally petrified. So, I just nod my head
good bye and turn away to my dogs. The day is sunny, the wind is strong. And we
go on our way.
Jay the chiropractor
seagulls gone . . .
a puppy barks
at the lonely kite
Jay is a chiropractor. Having gotten his diploma and license in Corpus, he
established his practice in B, one of the small communities not too far from here,
maybe an hour inland. Sometimes he comes to Corpus with his two awesome Dobermans,
parks his motor-home on Mustang Island, and unfurls his wings on the
Mexican Gulf. Truly, when the wind is right, there is nothing like kite-boarding in the
ocean. Sure, the waters are choppier than in the bay. So, it’s not for the beginners.
But there is also so much more air and wind. Everything is much more open on the
island.
We meet on a roam. I introduce him to my dogs, he introduces me to an old
lady Maxine and a young pup, Soren. “Soren”, I ask, “as in Soren Kierkegaard?” He
nods, I smile. “You know, I teach philosophy at the university. Not that I know much
about existentialism; but I read a thing or two by the great Dane and a few things
by Sartre and Camus, too”. “Tell me more, please”, he interjects. And now it is upon
me to clear something.
I wish I understood Existentialism better. I tried when I was an undergraduate
student of Philosophy, at the Warsaw University. I read lots of Heidegger,
Gadamer, Shestov and, of course, Kierkegaard with his multiple renditions of the
story of Abraham taking his son to the peak of the mountain just to sacrifice him to
the God. A fascinating story, I thought, but also a homage to insanity. For how could
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Empathy / Entropy

someone who is all-good and all-loving make such a crazy demand. If I were to hear
voices requesting me to literally murder my son, I would hope to have enough sanity
to seek a professional help. This myth seemed to me way too outlandish to really
sink in and shape my world view; I have never connected with it.
I tried to write a paper elucidating some of my insights; following Heidegger
and his work on Hölderlin, I chose poetry as the topic of inquiry. The poets
loved it. A friend of mine, an editor of a well-regarded literally journal, suggested
a few rewrites and encouraged me to submit it for publication. But I had doubts, I
did not feel like I understood what I was doing. Indeed, my philosophy teacher, an
expert on the existentialism and phenomenology, tore my paper apart and gave me
a “gentleman B-”, mostly on the strength of its length and an extensive bibliography.
It looked like I had no ability to speak an Existentialist language and surely not with
those who were fluent in it. If the measure of understanding is how well you can
explain something to others, I failed miserably. But I have seemed to grasp well
enough that existentialism involves the commitment to authenticity and acting on
our choices no matter how difficult it may be. For Abraham, it was his commitment
to obey the Lord’s, no matter what. For me, it is a commitment to reason, no matter
where reason may lead.
I try to explain it to Jay, not in so many words, of course. After all, we are
roaming on the beach. And he asks, “So what would be a counterpart to existentialism?
The theory of Natural Law?” “Not necessarily”, I reply. “Natural Law theories
are about the content of our true beliefs; existentialism is about how we should form
them.
For the classical Natural Law theorists, the whole world is created by God.
And it’s not like God just accidentally sneezed or belched and that’s how we came
into being. Rather, it was an act of purposeful creation in accordance with a divine
plan. Being a Christian, Kierkegaard accepted all of this including an assumption
that, in a sense, the world is created as our home. This does not mean, however,
that our existence as humans is easy and choices that we must make are simple. For
him, ‘Sunday Christianity’ and state religions, for example the Church of Denmark,
obfuscate our existential situation of “fear and tremble”. They pretend that our relation
to the Divine is as easy as, say, our relation to a piece of cheesecake. To truly
flourish, we have to go through deep doubts and tribulations. And having made a
choice, sometimes we must make it over and over again. Only then our relations to
the world and the Divine can become authentic.
Now, great French existentialists such as Sartre and Camus see things differently.
For them, we are not born into the world created by God. Objective values
and norms are not already embroidered into the fabric of the universe. As Sartre
liked to say, ‘existence is prior to essence’, meaning that we are not born with some
definite “nature” that we just need to actualize. Rather, we are thrown into the ‘absurdity’
of the existence and, trying to make sense of it, we have to ‘invent” values,
‘create’ our nature, and then try to live accordingly. Still, there is a common thread
linking all existentialists; they assume freedom as the root of human existence. For
Kierkegaard, it involves a free authentic commitment to God’s plan; for Sartre it
involves inventing a plan to follow.
He nods and it dawns on me. There is a similarity between a Buddhist approach
to awakening and the existentialist insight about the authentic life. According
to some Mahayana masters, we are already perfect; there is nothing missing about
us or about our lives. But we do not know it and this lack of knowledge creates separation
and doubts. And with the separation comes dukkha-suffering. Sometimes,
we suppress this suffering and pretend that everything is all right. But to suppress a
problem is not the same as to dissolve it. The reality always finds a way to reassert
itself.
On the flip side, we can also accept the fact that we do not yet see eye to
eye with the buddhas and masters, we do not know yet that, in a sense, everything
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is perfect. And this acceptance may create a Great Doubt. And a greater our doubt
is, the greater its resolution may be.
I finish my thoughts right when we see them -- a van stuck in the sand and
a person dashing straight at us. And now we make a choice, too. We stop to help a
fellow human being.
Someone fundamentally stuck
this path and that path . . .
the man stuck
deeply in the mud
I saw him a few times before walking with his badly behaving schnauzer.
The cross on his neck seemed a bit too big. There was another one, even bigger,
hanging from the mirror of his car and the Bible prominently displayed behind the
wind shield as well as some religious books spread on the seats. And a smile would
never leave his face. Well, at least it was always there when he thought I was watching.
Now, I am a sucker for a good philosophical discussion; say, how can there
be One God in Three Persons, or do we have free will, and how is freedom possible
if omniscient God already knows what we will do. I tried to talk with him few times
always with the same result of hearing back the same old clichés that there is nothing
to worry except for salvation. Well, I agree that too much worry may kill all the
fun. Still, when I drive on the beach, I am concerned about crab houses, so I do not
drive too close to water. And I worry about the loose sand, too, for getting stuck is
never good.
Now, to be fair, everyone with any sense of adventure gets occasionally
stuck on the beach. It happened to me twice during the last two years; two times too
many. It happened more before but then I gained some experience and eliminated
some of my blunders.
Most of the time you can dig yourself out if you know exactly what to do.
The crucial point is to remove all the sand from underneath the body of your car, so
the wheels rest firmly on the harder bed and no part of the car rests on the sand. It
takes time, sometimes many hours of it. And it takes lots of effort, too. Sometimes
the hole you end up creating is so huge you could bury a tank in it. Still, with patience
and determination, sometimes it is doable and you can drive safely out of the
hole. Nothing else works. In particular, sticking things underneath the wheels is just
plain waste of time.
Another point of preventive safety, park your car behind the second line of
seaweed left on the beach! That’s the line of a high tide. If you are not sure where
it is, park as far away from the sea as you can! Obviously, this guy had no clue; the
tide is rising and his van is stuck close to the water.
There is no time for philosophical discussions, now. So, I just toss a joke at
him, “It looks like it’s God’s doing”. “How do you mean?” he asks, so I drop a casual
joke, “Well, ultimately, is not it the Creator who caused your van to get stuck? Didn’t
you tell me that all is God’s plan?” Shockingly, he thinks I am serious.
“Yes! The Lord acts in a mysterious ways”, he says. “Hopefully, we’ll be able
to dig her out”. This “we” strikes me as a bit presumptuous. So, I smirk and continue,
“Well, if God is really the cause of everything it would follow that if lightning strikes
a tree, and the tree falls and kills a person, God is responsible for this, too. Right?”
“Sure”, he responds without a slightest hesitation. “Things like these are
obviously God’s punishment for our sins. Like, who knows…” he lowers his voice and
for a short while I wonder what may roll out of his tongue. But I decide to side step
143 Empathy / Entropy

the whole thing with a simple “Yeah! Right!” for I have already started to think about
digging out his stupid van that is not only buried in the sand but, on the top of it, it’s
also being slowly covered by the incoming tide.
But he will not shut up. “You know, there are gays around us and what they
do, and that we tolerate this sin, all of this is bound to bring God’s wrath on us all”.
“Yeah, and some folks even smoke pot,” I smirk. “Especially before making
love.”
“Exactly,” he exclaims and takes a swig from a small flask he keeps in a side
pocket of his overalls, does not pass it on to us.
So, just to shut him up, I throw at him – “But what about if someone innocent
loses life, like a new-born or an innocent infant. Isn’t it really but a tragic
accident? Do you really think it’s God’s will, too?”
“Well”, he continues with the same easy smile, “perhaps God allows for
these sorts of things so we can develop our characters”. “Really? So, what if the
volcano eradicates the entire village buried somewhere in a desolated era and there
is no one around to do anything about it and to develop a character? What then?”
“Well, like I said, God acts in a mysterious way,” he keeps digging.
“So, I hope that people working on Wall Street wear hard hats”, I reply and
this finally slows his down.
“Hard hats? How do you mean?” he asks and I start telling him an old story
about a man in Pompeii who somehow sensed that a volcano was going to erupt.
Thus, he decided to go to Rome to see the Pope and stay with the pious ones.
“Wait a moment”, he interrupts, “the Pope is the anti-Christ”.
“Maybe or maybe not”, I say, “but that’s beside the point. The story I’m
telling you happened long time ago, when Saint Peter was still the Pope. The point
is that, out of the fear of lava and brim-stones, that guy put a helmet on his head,
saddled his donkey, and embarked on his long journey. Mid through, the volcano
indeed erupted but it was too far to hurt him. So, he relaxed, seemingly out of danger.
But the lava set the forest on fire and his donkey got spooked and entered into
the full gallop. And, lo and behold, his helmet got caught in the branches and pulled
him off of his saddle, his legs unable to touch the ground, he ended up suffocating
himself while hanging off the high branch. So, some people wonder, maybe if he did
not have a helmet on his head, maybe then he would have survived. So, this is what
I meant when I said that I hope that people working on Wall Street wear hard hats”.
“Hmm”, he shrugs, “who can truly know about such things? God’s plans are
a mystery”. And it suddenly strikes me that, perhaps, a few stray brim-stones would
not be such a bad thing. At least, they would wipe out his cheap easy smile off his
face. And then we just start digging out his van.
The state park rangers
a gloomy day. . .
just two of us digging
in silence
In terms of pure beauty, nothing matches the West shore of the Mustang
Island with its spectacular sights on the JFK bridge and causeway. Still, the place is
a bit too far aside and, depending on the season, it may be too dusty or too muddy,
too. Also, it’s a bit cramped insofar as our roaming needs are concerned; we prefer
to stretch for miles rather than for quarters of a mile. So, usually, we chose to roam
on the East shore, facing the rising sun.
The stretch around the State Park is among our favorites. It’s but a short
drive from home. It is close to numerous nice places where you can grab a bite on a
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way back, including an independent pizzeria with a salad bar, a sushi restaurant, and
most importantly an excellent coffee shop ran by a very cute and funny barista who
makes the best vegetarian sandwiches in the world. Simply yummy! Most importantly,
it is safe for dogs.
Let me explain. Beaches in Texas are considered public roads; yes, it is the
only place in America where you can drive for miles but a few feet from the ocean.
Not that we do it. It causes damage to the beach and especially crab houses. So, we
usually park away from the ocean and walk. But some people relish in taking a ride
along the shore, sneaking on us and riling up the pups especially when they are off
leash. It is never a good idea when a dog engages into a chase of a moving car or
truck.
The boundary of the Park is marked by wooden poles; not really a sharp divide
but enough of an obstacle to stop the traffic. Once we clear it, no one will sneak
upon us from behind. And I can see the traffic coming at us. So, I can let the Ladies
lose and let them roam free without worrying that something bad may happen to
them.
the dunes meet the ocean . . .
we pause and chant
and move on
This boundary of the Park is where the worlds meet. The land of the dunes
on the West sort of morph into the beach and the Ocean on the East. And the North
and the South are not really separated, either, the poles serving more like an indicator
of the place to rest and meditate than some sharp boundary.
And it’s the place where the forces meet, too. As if the focal point of the
cosmic mandala. Indeed, frequently I feel here a strong presence of the dragons
resting in the dunes. So, we stop, chant sutras and dharanis for them, bow, and ask
them for the right of passage. By now we feel like almost honorary members of the
Dragon Clan and, usually a passage is granted to us and we can roam straight up
North for about 2.5 miles to the jetty.
I remember once, perhaps being too much in a hurry, I forgot to make our
usual offerings and, lo and behold, within minutes the Park Rangers were on our
backs. I did not even realize where they came from. Few days later I skipped the
chant again and again the same story. They caught me with my head in the clouds
and the off-leash Ladies chasing and barking at their track. Total embarrassment!
They wield all the power and could easily evict us from the park. But I only
got some serious tongue lashing that the dogs were so out of control. No doubt,
totally my fault! Though we all know they do not really harm anyone. So, they ultimately
let us go under the condition it will never happen again.
I think of them as our Protective Deities. For they take care of the park
and all sentient beings living here. Sometimes, I see them at the convenience store
standing behind me in line. So, I pay for their coffee and tacos, too, and am gone
before they are even close to the cashier. Then, sooner or later, we pass each other
on the beach, sometimes my head in the clouds again. They just slow down a bit,
roll down the window, wave. “Keep them on leash, Walker!” I hear, “and, by the way,
thanks for the coffee, too”. And they are gone.
Recently, few dragon teeth decayed too far, someone put in a few metal
pipes. The ocean does not like it, I think, nor do I. They sort of stick out like some
sore thumbs. Eventually, there will be gone, too. Perhaps, we’ll have here only wooden
poles again, or maybe no poles at all.
Eventually, I’d like my ashes to be scattered here, too.
Issa’s haiku:
145 Empathy / Entropy

now that I’m old
even the tender Spring days
can make me cry
-- Kobayashi Issa (1763 - 1828)
Author’s renku:
with my granddaughters
we lean over the photos
of Spring dawn
Jay the Chiropractor again
The next time I see them, Maxine has some difficulties climbing up the
steps to their home. I gently guide her up. She says nothing as if the acknowledgment
of my help would be also the admission of her weakness and who would like to
admit something like that. But she looks at me with gratitude, lays at my feet, and
we become friends.
“She is my longest relationship” Jay says, “but her energies these days are
not what they used to be”. These days, when we start a roam, she takes a few steps
trying to follow us. But then, invariably, she falls behind, turns around, and stays by
her home waiting until we return. This all makes me think about the passage of time
and my Ladies, too. They do not have the same energy as they used to have, either.
They are much calmer these days, not so interested in chasing the birds. Anyway,
every time Jay drives back home to B, I do a little chant for all of them, and especially
for the old Lady Maxine. You never know when you’ll have another chance to
hang out with a friend.
Soren is a different story; a young pup with plenty of exuberant energy! He
joins us on every roam, usually running circles around us. I love everything about
him except when he goes into the dunes. I do not want the Ladies to pick up on
this habit. Dunes are the domain of rattlesnakes. It is never a good idea for a dog to
encounter one. I worked hard teaching them to keep clear of the dunes.
When we arrive this morning, Jay is already up stretching his arms in front
of his motor home, his Dobermans roaming around. I am a bit envious, in a good
way, that his dogs never follow moving objects. So, they never have to be on leash.
If my ladies stopped chasing cars, it would save me many headaches.
“Have you already had breakfast?” I ask, he shakes his head and I pull out
a bag full of breakfast tacos, extra ones for his and my dogs. We finish eating, have
some coffee, share a smoke, and I ask, “Have you already seen that castle on the
South border of the park?”
“The castle? What the heck are you talking about, man?”
So, I just say, “Grab leashes for we are going to need them, we’ll be too
close to the Rangers land” and we hit the road.
Mid through the roam he notices, “You seem to have springs in your steps
today”. “Yeah”, I reply, “I’ve been feeling good about my knees recently. So good in
fact, that I seriously cut the intake of my anti-arthritis medication”. “Cut how?” “Well,
I’ve been so pain free I frequently forgot to take my daily dose. So, with time, I just
sanctioned a new norm and now take it only as needed, at average, 60-70% less
than I used to take”. “‘Can be your new vegan life style, too”, he nods his head, “you
do not put inflammatory agents in your body and the body responds. Not bad at all!”
Jay is into a holistic healing; not fanatical about it but he generally prefers not to use
medications, unless necessary.
“You seem to carry your body a bit more straight as well” he says. “And it
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seems like I have gained a half an inch, too”, I reply. “Pretty weird! I thought people
shrink when they become older”. He chuckles, so I continue, “A funny thing has
happened to my back, too.” “Tell me more”, he says. It looks like I have piqued his
curiosity. So, I tell him the full story.
I have had a slight scoliosis since childhood. On the top of it, due to sports
injuries, I also acquired two deteriorated discs in the lower back. In effect, I sometimes
had periodic back spasms and sometimes had to stay in bed or literally in a
traction for days. No amount of abs crunches, stretching, and hatha yoga seemed to
alleviate problems. So, eventually, I resolved myself to living with pain for the rest of
my days.
But then, shortly after I adopted Sappho, pain went away. Jay smirks and
says, “Let me guess! You have adopted dog and started to walk her on the beach
barefooted?” And now he starts to unfold a story that taps into his expertise as a chiropractic
and goes back tens of thousands of years to our ancestors who obviously
always walked and ran barefooted.
These days, too, many African athletes train for most prestigious races
barefooted and win many serious marathons including at the Olympic games. There
is lots of serious research done on this topic, including taking them to sophisticated
labs and videotaping them using a fast-speed photography. A long story short, a
bare foot touches the ground differently than a foot in a shoe. In particular, our toes
work a bit like a pair of additional “springs” that allow our bodies to absorb shocks
better. And this small action of our toes is transmitted on the action of the rest of our
skeletal systems and bodies allowing our spinal cords to get aligned properly. This is
why, when we walk barefooted, many of our back problems are dissolved.
By now we are where we have been headed, by the sand castle. Whomever
constructed it must have taken a big part of the day (never mind that it is autumn
and days become shorter). The towers protrude at least 5 feet up; the dragon itself
is about 25 feet of length, not counting a coiled tail. At one time there were rays of
light and fire springing out from his eyes. Even now, a few days later, there are still
signs of it. And just like this, Jay and I turn out to be kids, still loving to play in sand
with our dogs. And we start digging again.
a busy day . . .
the sandcastle
under siege
147 Empathy / Entropy

Of the Earth We Seek
Even the roads here reek
of death, faint exchanges
of once-life buried
under the asphalt floor. Slow
to their frequency, hear them.
Cars instead race over the graves
of oak trees
and hurry nowhere, the whispers
of skeleton forests stifled
by cold, ash-blackened
concrete: suburbia’s own invasive
species.
Aching for the death
of this modern society
I envision decayed roots
breaking through their ceiling
of cement, winding around
tires, rotting branches
dragging
cars into the foul abyss created below.
The roads will still reek
of death, this time our own
but found in death is life, traces
of former musings
arranged in underground rows
headed west.
Do not stifle them as we did the groves
of times-past, but instead
learn to listen. Trust me—
the trees told me so.
Hope Meierkort
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Staring into the Void
Hope Meierkort
She tucks the worn paintbrush behind her ear, prompting a singular
strand of hair to escape the relaxed grip of her ponytail. It hovers
for a moment, lazily hugging the curve of her cheekbone in a childlike
curl. She mindlessly brushes it away with paint-streaked fingers,
unaware that she has now begun to paint herself. Perhaps she will
continue to do so later, upon having realized what a brilliant idea it
is.
Morning sunbeams cascade through her tiny apartment window
and illuminate the corners of her room. She remembers the fraying
paintbrush bristles jutting out from beside her cheek and reaches
up to feel their familiar texture. Much like the taste of chamomile
tea, or the sound of rain boots plodding along the pavement, it fills
her with inspiration; beauty in the mundane, she ardently whispers
to herself. Specks of dust flirt with the light before settling into the
nearby mug of murky paint water propped recklessly on a stack
of books (mystery novels she’ll find herself reading at dusk, to be
precise).
An idea sits in the corner of her eye, pulled from the depths of her
brain but not quite projected into reality. The blank canvas glows a
starkly white - to some, potential; to her, mockery. It laughs, a twinkle
in its eye, telling her she’ll never amount to anything worthwhile.
In a fit of artistic frustration, she flings the mug of paint water over
her nonexistent masterpiece, silencing the pressure of perfection.
The muddy brown mess runs down the stretch of fabric and pools
on the floor at her feet. The idea retreats into the comforting darkness
of her brain, never to see the light again. Along the walls of her
room rest dozens of canvases, each met with the same dismal ending.
Her frustration, painted in a wash of swampy greys, browns,
and greens, is on display for all to see. Another wasted canvas, she
would normally sigh.
Yet there was something about those sunbeams, or perhaps it was
the quaint cup of chamomile, that shifts her perspective that morning.
Her frustration quickly subsides and, in a flurry of excitement,
she hurries around the room piling the rejected works of art into her
arms. She hangs them on the wall in a disorderly fashion, careful to
leave no spaces in which dust or wasted ideas could settle. Arrang-
149 Empathy / Entropy

ing (and then rearranging) her paint water mural, she searches for
meaning in her work. By some chance, she hopes a lack of inspiration
itself could be inspiring, so long as she doesn’t let the moment
slip by.
After hours of thoughtful planning, she takes a deep breath and
steps backward, viewing the wall in its entirety: an anarchic nebula
of earthy tones. Golden brown hues concentrate in the center of
the wall, encircled by diverse splashes of green. Spanning outward,
hints of blue melt at the edges and outline the galaxy-like design in
what looks like a perfect tidal wave.
Before her exists a chaotic mess of lost potential and forced meaning.
Her hopes of creating an unforeseen masterpiece disappear as
she faces the reality now consuming her bedroom wall, but her disappointment
is only momentary. She remains focused on the impossible,
and her eyes wander to a swatch of color moving in the corner
of the mural. Blinking in disbelief, she begins to turn away, confident
that she is simply seeing things. Another sign of movement freezes
her in her place as the colors no longer shy away from being seen.
In a crescendo of wonder, they blend and swirl like shooting stars
meeting for conversation in the night sky. The colors float off the
wall and weave together, wrapping her in a blanket of intimate mystery.
Her eyelids begin to flutter as she is lulled into a deep sleep.
Upon waking, she questions whether or not her experience the night
before had been real. The wall in her bedroom is strikingly bare,
and her canvases rest along the skirting, exactly as they had been
before her spontaneity. But she feels different somehow; all may not
be what it seems. She runs to the hallway mirror, unsure of what to
expect but trusting her instincts nonetheless, and leans toward the
reflective glass. For the first time, she notices the accidental streak
of green paint in her hair and smirks. How ridiculous, she thinks, but
that can’t be it.
Her gaze continues to wander over her facial features before coming
to a focus on the color of her eyes. Previously blue in color, she leans
closer, eliminating the possibility of a trick in lighting. Initially intending
to create a reflection of herself in her work, she instead finds her
art reflected in her own eyes; in her irises swirl a vortex, the colors
in her mural now a galaxy imprinting itself on the eyes of its creator.
Amidst the madness of her world, she created magic.
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Barrio writers
This section features student work from Barrio Writers Workshop,
August 2-6 2021 ; Antonio E. Garcia Arts and Education Center
Against all odds present during the summer of 2021, fourteen young writers
gathered at the Antonio E. Garcia Arts and Education Center in Corpus Christi, Texas
to craft a collaborative anthology of their developed pieces through that first week of
August. Directed by Professor Robin Johnson of Texas A&M Corpus Christi, the Barrio
Writers Camp connects teenage voices to the power of pen and paper through guest
authors, art projects, and workshops led by writing advisors from the local community.
The program operates as a chapter of the national Barrio Writers organization, founded
by author Sarah Rafael Garcia in Santa Ana, California.
Beyond the pressing global issues that lingered into the beginning of August,
the process of gathering, writing, and publishing literary work is already a difficult feat
achieved by few. My personal journey with writing began in a summer camp when I
was thirteen. After that first day of writing exercises and activities, I didn’t consider
pursuing the literary arts past the week’s end. Writing demanded a level of vulnerability
and critical reflection that was never asked of me before, because young developing
voices are too often dismissed for a perceived lack of maturity or life experience.
Although I harbored so much resentment in contradiction of the latter statement, the
absence of literary language and form discouraged my attempts to refute the idea.
It wasn’t apparent until my return to the Barrio Writers camp as a writing
advisor that the process of writing is a collaborative effort, one that we all must contribute
to from our respective fields of study. The benefit of summer camps such as the
Barrio Writers workshop lies in their ability to bridge the gap between teenage voices
and the larger literary world through exposing young writers to the many possibilities
for creative approach and form. The camp held during the summer of 2021 celebrated
local authors F. Anthony Falcon and Julieta Corpus, allowing young writers to visualize
the journey towards publication that they may choose to pursue. Based on the teachings
of these authors from the Coastal Bend, the young writers crafted artistic retablos
as an exploration of the eulogy, all while employing lessons on form, technique, and
style instructed throughout the week. The Barrio Writers camp finally culminated in
an end-of-session open mic, a first of many for these newly-committed writers. Within
a week, the fourteen teenagers that entered the camp left as published, articulate
writers.
But I know it wasn’t magic, as impressive as the next collection is considering
the time frame it was crafted between. Anyone pursuing an art form resonates with
the struggle each student endured during that week; this is the best part of the creative
process! We are all in the same boat, trying to patch the hole in the bottom with
poetry or paintings or music. The inspiration we share, whether in a literary journal or
between strangers at a summer camp, is the inspiration we will receive back; this spirit
of collaboration is integral to all of the authors featured in this journal, but particularly
for the young writers who rose to a challenge matched by few. Continue your journey
with an arm extended outwards, and you will receive the tools you need to craft
your original, authentic voice, despite the forces that would prefer your silence. Your
resilience and enthusiasm is unmatched in this moment, and it is contagious through
the work you produced and graciously allowed us to publish. Thank you again to Dr.
Johnson and the Barrio Writers camp for providing a missing link to the literary arts
rarely available in our South Texas community; it is an honor to display the talent of
2021 Barrio Writers camp amongst our literary collection.
I hope we meet again with more to share!
Raven Reese, Co-Managing Editor
151
Empathy / Entropy

Ani Eubanks
My name is Ani Eubanks and I’m 13. I moved here from Ohio not
too long ago and I already love it here! I just recently got into writing
poetry, and I enjoy it a lot, but I also love that I can combine
writing poetry with my drawings! I use to not care for poetry at all,
but now I love it!
A Bird
A bird can only fly when his wings aren’t broken, so
when they are he sits and rests. But when they heal he
flies over oceans. He is stronger now.
Free and Wild
I am a horse running free and wild. I run across miles
of endless plains of fields and flowers, when I jump I touch
the stars and when I sleep I look into the endless night and
dream. I am a horse running free and wild.
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Austin Martinez
Austin Martinez is a 13-year-old boy who loves acting, computer
programming, and writing. He has written a book called “The First
Week of School” and is currently typing it up and trying to get it
published. He has written a poem for you to read.
The Window
Usually, windows are tools
people use to see the outside
world. But this window is
is different, this one
morphs my reality. It morphs
the way I see the world.
Literally and Figuratively.
Literally it morphs the world,
you can’t see out of it properly.
Figuratively it morphs the
world and the way I see it.
It really helps me notice
all the color in the world.
You can see shades of gray
Quadruplicated on every piece
of glass. As you see
the world differently. All the
thoughts in your head.
Or maybe it’s just me
overthinking like always. But
when you really look at it, and
a friend once said. “You
can’t see anything out of that
window.” And you know what I
say to that. He is absolutely
right. You can barely see in front
of you when looking through that
window. But yet somehow
I managed to write a two page
poem about a window that you
can’t see out of. A window
that morphs the world, a window
that morphs reality.
153
Empathy / Entropy

Julieanne Sandoval
Maybe I’ll Never Know
your Name
Wondering where we’ll end up
As the train station starts to fade away
from the sight of our eye
The morning sun hitting through the passing
trees
The image of your reflection replays in my head
Oh, how long for you to sit beside me
But here we are, sitting across one another, neither acknowledging
one another
On a train leading to our dreams
As we watch the sunrise every morning
To different destinations.....
Caught in a daydream, we lock eyes
Started I look away, as do you
Red flush fills your heavenly face
Side eyeing me
Building up the courage to speak to you
I gave you a small smile
Your eyes widen and a shy smile appeared
Sun rays dancing across your multi-colored eyes
Shades of pink and orange fill the air nonchalantly
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Emma Ryan LeBlanc
I am Emma Ryan LeBlanc, and I live in Rockport, Texas. I love
to read stories so I thought creating them would be a fun idea. I
hope to publish a book of my own in the future.
song bird
their song sweet as honey
it whispers in my ear
they tell me sweet nothings
what I want to hear
they fly away in the night
they’ll be back the next day
my sweet little song bird
don’t fly away
to keep them near me
I hatched a small plan
they wouldn’t be free
but in the palm of my hand
with nowhere to go
but that pretty gold cage
the bird grew sadder
with it’s old age
it’s song turned to cries
something I couldn’t bare to hear
so I let them go free
as I shed a tear
with their song all gone
all used up on me
I let go of my song bird
back to where it used to be
155
Empathy / Entropy

Ernesto Gonzalez
Ernesto Gonzales is a 13-year old who was born on May 20,
2008. He’s been playing baseball since he was 3-years old.
He grew up in Corpus Christi, Texas and wants to become the
greatest baseball player in the world.
One day
One day I was Playing a baseball
game and I was up to bat with
three balls and two strikes. When the
pitcher threw the ball, I swung and
hit a walk off and won the game!
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156

Jacob Claunch
I am a 17-year-old person, I have one biological brother, a father
who got married to someone who has two kids, a son and a
daughter. I grew up mainly in Michigan, so I am adapting to life
in Texas. I go to high school at Moody, and I plan to be a math
teacher and a writer in the future.
Why I Write
Who am I? I’m a face with a name so common yet uncommon
that saying it will be somewhat redundant, but I have
a voice that I hope will stand out. When I was growing up, I
was surrounded by smoke, both literally and figuratively. The
smoke that surrounded me guarded me from the negativity
of the world. When I was ten, the smoke disappeared, and I
was bombarded with the reality of the world. With all the bad
in the world, there are very few good places to go to. Over
time I realized that the only good places were the ones that I
create by writing them. I can make elephants fly and eagles
dive deep into the ocean. I can make everyone happy or make
them sad. I can be the greatest hero, or the worst villain. A
shining star or a lightbulb that’s dull. I can create anything
and be anything as long as I write it down. And that is, to put
it simply, why I write.
Take a Smile
Take a moment and think about something. Think about
why you smile. Do you smile because you are happy, or are
you smiling to make others think you are happy? A smile can
come from anyone no matter what is happening, whether it
is from a loving mother or a person who doesn’t care about
who you are. It takes over 20 muscles more to smile then
to frown, but some people smile to hide a frown, to create
a façade that they are happy to keep the peace or to make
others happy. A smile can be cocky or sincere, cunning or
contrive, real or fake. So, please, the next time you see one,
take a smile with a grain of salt.
157
Empathy / Entropy

Joseph Fulginiti
Joseph Fulginiti is a teenager who was born in Florida and has
moved many times. He loves to read, run, and do math.
The Barrio Writers
Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end
You never know what’s going to happen right around the bend
Where one journey ends, another journey starts
We all know it to be true deep down in our hearts
One adventure will go on forever and ever
Will it ever end? No of course not never
You need to be strong; you need to be brave
Here at Barrio Writers, you’ll get what you crave
You can write whatever you want and share it out loud
Don’t be shy, always be proud
Even though speaking out loud can be scary
Sharing your project can make you merry
Now, this is the end of this poem
Get out there, raise your voice and show em!
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Julia Fulginiti
Julia Fulginiti was born in Pensacola, Florida, and has since then
moved to various states. Her hobbies include reading, drawing,
annoying her family, and playing violin. While she loves the creative
arts (and one day hopes to write her stories), she has recently discovered
a passion for space, and will one day be an astronaut.
I am The Reader
I have lived a thousand lives
In the words that never die
I have felt the burning tears
In the page throughout the years
I am the Reader
I am the proof
I am the pain
I am the truth
I am the sweet uplifting tune
In the night under the moon
I am the song that blooms night
In the joy beneath the light
I am the Reader
I am the life
I am the wish
I am the light
I feel the hate that wants to fight
In the grief that wants to bite
I feel the lies that comes to turn
In the life it shall burn
I am the Reader
I am the fate
I am the grief
I am the hate
I have lived a thousand lives
For I am the Reader
And I will never die.
159
Empathy / Entropy

Julia Fulginiti
If I Could Build a World
If I could build a world,
What would it be?
A place full of wonder,
With dragons and thieves,
Demons and faeries,
A hero or blight.
A place of beauty, so full of light.
Or would it be quiet,
Like a mystery?
An assassin in the night
That no one else sees?
Trickery and lies
Twists and turns
No one knows how this one goes.
Maybe the future is a better place,
Full of science and tech and
Robots and space,
Planets and aliens
Of a whole new race.
What about the past,
Like medieval times.
Swords and armies
Of the conquering kind
A place of chivalry
And knights of lore
All from a time before.
Maybe realistic
The saddest truth
A life buried under the grass
And the agonising grief,
Come soon to pass
Everything full of loss and strain
But most of which will never last.
And finally horror
A scary tale
Of vampires and werewolves,
With sharp teeth and bushy tails.
So pick your favorite world
And polish every piece.
Carefully arrange it
Down to the last leaf.
Add a splash of color,
The writer’s personal touch
Then step back and admire it
Built with all your love.
And when it’s all and done,
Take out a little knife
And cut out the brightest light
For nothing is ever perfect
In any kind of life.
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Mackenzie Childs
Mackenzie Childs, known as Kenzie to her family and friends is a
teenage, aspiring author and aspiring film director. She spends
most of her free time writing novels, coming up with story ideas,
or scrolling through Pinterest for inspiration. She is currently in
the beginning stages of preparing her soon to be five book novel
series for publication and dreams of her books one day being a
major motion picture film series in theaters and streaming platforms.
Frail Fawns
~
Oh how the frail fawn staggers her stride.
Her weak legs tremble with every step
through thick swamp water,
feeling every hidden vine wrap around her hooves,
feeling every sharp rock cutting her skin.
All around her she feels the heat of a fire.
The sky is glowing brighter every second.
She can’t breathe.
Her lungs ache.
She can’t see.
Her eyes sting.
She can’t smell.
Her nose is filled with ash.
All around the frail fawn,
the world burns.
All she can think is why?
Why is the world burning?
Why is the world unforgiving?
Why is the world so cold, yet it burns with so much hatred?
The frail fawn still continues, despite these questions.
All she knows is to keep going…
Keep being strong…
Keep pushing herself…
and maybe, maybe she’ll escape the fire,
maybe she’ll make it,
maybe she’ll grow into who she’s meant to be,
maybe she’ll accomplish her dreams,
maybe she’ll find herself in the ashes of this burning world.
____
161
Empathy / Entropy

Leonel Monsivais
Leonel Monsivais is a 14 year old boy, and his favorite anime is
Naruto. He loves Sailing. He wants to be a chemical engineer. He
loves music.
My Fairy God Mother
Tennis is life
For thy heart
My fairy god mother,
I miss you.
My heart hurts just like when
My sister left to college.
My fairy god mother, how you made
Me smile of the times I see you.
My fairy god mother, how supportive
You were for me and my sister.
My heart still weeps in sorrow
For you. I miss you, Diana. I love you.
A Voice That Sails
The Stormy Sea
My voice brings love and pain, sometimes it does both and it
hurts my heart. My voice from love is soft like a sail, and my
pain from my voice hurts like a storm in the sea. I wish I could
do better with this voice, but I was created to control both. So
my sail must create peace, and my storm must conceal the pain
from my voice.
Okami
Wolves in the moonlight
Stay bright like a shooting star
Like birds in teh sunlight.
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Matthew Gomez
My name is Matthew Gomez, but most of my friends call me Matt.
I’m a big fan of drawing, gaming, and writing. I’m just a normal
thirteen-year-old kid who likes to have fun with his friends :)
The Memories You Bring Back
The memories you bring back
The love you gave us all.
The things you did, mean a lot
Even if those memories were hard to recall.
But it wasn’t the gifts that mattered to me
It was you that had me smiling with glee.
Although you’re gone, I feel your presence near
When I feel you with me, I can’t help but shed a tear.
163
Empathy / Entropy

Aurora Felicita Salas-Cano
Aurora Felicita Salas-Cano is a sophomore attending Harold T.
Branch High School along with being a student at Del Mar College
Nursing Program. She is a Girl Scout, a student council member, an
athlete, an artist, and a musician.
My Last Call for Help
In this world everyone gets new beginnings, one starts when another
closes. Each person is different, some beginnings can feel like a ray of
sunshine in a gloomy day, or they can feel like a dark room that suffocates
the air out of you. Change and new beginnings are never always easy.
People tell you to push through because you are strong, and in reality,
it just feels like they are telling you lies. People say it’s okay, ignore the
negative and be yourself. Well, what is me? It is a question I ask myself
every day. My life goes on and I feel like Evan Hansen; I feel like I’m stuck
behind a glass window waving to see if anyone will notice and maybe
wave back. So, hello, I’m Aurora. I’m A lost girl trying to find herself while
being sucked into her second year in the terrifying, crappy, and anxiety
filled blackhole, aka high school. I just happen to be the “lucky” girl that
so happened to pass her TSI in the 8th grade. I’m the “lucky” girl that
didn’t just have the worries of starting high school but also the worries of
college and medical classes at the age of 14. I’m trapped in a box of dark
anxiety and pressure. You fight to escape. You fight to try and get to that
tiny sliver of light in the far corner. Each time you get closer it seems to
get further and further away. You fight and fight and you try your best at
everything you do but it seems to never be enough as the expectations
get higher and higher. Eventually, you’re overly sensitive emotions tend
to feel dryer and dryer and emptier and emptier. So, what do you do?
What are you supposed to do? I’m banging on the glass just waiting for
someone to notice. So, I guess this is my call for help. I guess my timid
voice has had enough. My body is tired of crying. It’s tired of being overly
sensitive. I’m tired and this is my last call for help. So, hello my name’s
Aurora, not Aurora, I am going to say it the right way no matter how
much it hurts to hear it butchered when someone tries to repeat it. I’m a
girl that loves videogames, anime, and books. I’m a girl that doesn’t have
the worries like drama or boyfriends. A girl wondering if shell get normal
high school worries. I’m a girl with worries of college and failure at 15. A
girl shooing away the crows eating at her last pieces of joy. So, this is my
call. This is my call for freedom. This somehow became a cry. This is my
last call for help.
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Aurora Felicita Salas-Cano
Parker
I will not forget…
My best friend
The best listener
Even though you couldn’t talk back
I will not forget…
My biggest inspiration
No matter your size
You took on the biggest challenges
I will not forget…
The day you left
The day my best friend was taken from me
By the terrible laws of nature
I will not forget…
The loneliness with you gone
My dried eyes after months of tears
I will not forget…
The pain you were in
The relief you must’ve felt
I will not forget…
You, your memory will always be with me
Promise me you will not forget me…
Parker
165
Empathy / Entropy

Aurora Felicita Salas-Cano
Three in the Morning
The fog roles in leaving dew on the grass
The vast lawns littered with gravestones
Fresh healthy grass is feeding on the remains buried there
All she hears is the roar of the crows and the slight reminiscence of the city
The light of the moon gives her glimpses of her horrible loving husband
Beads of sweat fall as she struggles with the saw
Her husband making it difficult making the saw falter every few seconds
Dirt litters her stunning cloth she wore on her wedding day
The pieces make a thump as they drop six feet
As each fall it feels like a strike to her heart
The clock strikes three am as the last piece of dirt is put back in place
In thirty minutes, she knows her fate will be metal, a tree, fire, and death
She runs knowing the people are looking for her
She knows they aren’t looking for her because she’s the lost princess
… but because she is the lost witch.
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Sophie Johnson
Sophie Johnson is a sixteen year old who lives in Rockport, Texas
and is a junior at the local High School. She enjoys observing art,
making art, and breaking the rules of art. She also enjoys sleeping,
but that’s a lot less interesting.
Elegy of a Memory
Sitting with you, I reminisce
On a time that is now dark, but once shone
Brighter than the sun
At noon
How I ache to reach for you
And implement your sweetness back
Into the neurons of my brain
But as time goes on you decay
And I take a step further
To a place
Where the memory of you is as faint as the sun
Through the blinds of a shady window
the Real me?
I miss who I was before you came
I miss the quiet me
And I miss the content me
You make me, Buzz
And you make me crazy
My creativity
Not yet developed and not yet aware of how
bad this monster, how bad You, could get
Is a product of a hidden monster
That I long to hide
But I long to embrace
And I long to accept you
As a part of the real me
But i’m still convinced
the
Real
me
Is an imposter clouded by youthful naivety
How much you made me loathe
And how much you made me question:
Who is
The Real
Me?
How come the Real Me is still someone just shy of a decade
167
Empathy / Entropy

Xander Garcia
My name is Xander Garcia,
and trying to contain my negativity has proven ineffective.
I write because my imagination runs away when it’s neglected.
I love hate and complaints and the shady craft of misdirection.
I love the looming threat of chaos and discontent and insurrection.
It’s difficult not allowing my thoughts to become weapons
And it’s harder on me mentally to arm myself with good intentions.
I’ve been writing since the days I crawled from where the garbage gets
collected.
In the wake of my tears
I carry these reminders of what I’ve done around with me, for
better or worse
I keep a list of what I’ve lost, but I can’t remember where it is.
You keep these reminders at the bottom of a well and shove the
rest into the limelight.
It’s not a winning combination, but it’s worth the attempt.
What else is there to do?
I’ve met a man who has never tried.
Not bad company, for a statue.
Can we lift our legs out of the ground and make something from
this shred of undocumented history?
We can agree to change and to keep reminders and to lose, and to
try and do anything but stand still.
It’s the everyday lessons
Learning isn’t a smooth drive down a road with no potholes.
It’s more like a brick wall that you have to crash into again and again until it no
longer feels like a brick wall.
Learning is an entire process that you have to take apart and put back together
piece by piece.
It’s frustrating and tedious at best, and a dead end at its worst. Some people
find it easy, while others never learn.
I still don’t know which pile I fall into.
The realization will come with patience and attention to detail.
Learning is watching and waiting for the world to make sense.
Windward Review: Vol. 19
168

Xander Garcia
Original Song for the Things
They Carried
In the darkness of a hot Vietnam night waits a surprise.
Kiowa and I have the last lookout shift before sunrise.
We march along the trail with hardly a whisper or blink.
We see nothing on either side where the dense fog sinks.
We both got the sudden urge to turn and leave our posts high and dry.
Our fear was never spoken, but I know it shone in our eyes.
There’s a shadow moving among the sea of grey I think.
A young man walks on the trail from where the dense fog sinks.
He carried an automatic and wore a gold ring on one hand.
I threw out a grenade just to see where it lands.
I didn’t give it a thought- It just sprung into action as if the man didn’t have
hopes or dreams or passions.
My friend Kiowa hears his steps while he tries to flee and gasps and hears a sharp
thud from where the grenade lands.
The explosion makes our ears ring long after it passes.
A silver flash rises, then the dirt cloud crashes.
He wasn’t a person but a problem and enemy.
At least that’s what the lieutenant said to me.
I accepted almost every word with a smile, until I saw the flying wrists of a child.
His jaw and his throat became a single part.
His scattered teeth broke my once-full heart.
His hair was blown back into the base of his skull- One eye shut, the other
a star-shaped hole.
I had a million emotions swelling up inside, but the worst was my remorse for
taking a life. My friend tries to tell me that I did no wrong, that the man would’ve
died either way all along.
Maybe that was true, but how would he know? Tell that to the kid who’s eye’s a
star-shaped hole. My friend made another attempt to comfort me still. With an
oxymoron he said “ It was a good kill.”
“ You write about war, so you must’ve killed somebody.” My daughter said that to
me, but I disagreed. I lied to her without lying, in a way, because I never killed
him, but it was my grenade.
Twenty years later, on very quiet nights, when my daughter’s asleep
I open the blinds.
I look up at the sky and feed it my soul, and all I can see is a star-shaped hole.
169
Empathy / Entropy

These notes have not been updated since fall 2022.
Please look up these creators’ and show support for
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Cameron Adams is Leticia R. Bajuyo is an interdisciplinary artist who creates
currently a student at visual poems, drawings, sculptures, and site-responsive installations
that are inspired by objects that are byproducts
Indiana University-
Bloomington. of human ingenuity and privilege. A Filipinx-American artist,
from small, midwestern town on the border of Illinois
A sophomore,
double majoring
in Biochemistry and Kentucky, Bajuyo presently creates, lives, works, and
and Earth Science. teaches in Norman, Oklahoma. In 2022, Bajuyo joined the
faculty at The University of Oklahoma. Prior to this professorship
in Oklahoma, Bajuyo, served as an Associate Professor of Art – Sculpture at
TAMU-CC 2017-2022. In addition to teaching and creative scholarship, Bajuyo seeks
community and collaboration by participating in artist collectives such as Land Report
and serving on the Boards of Directors for the Mid-South Sculpture Alliance
and Public Art Dialogue.
Jacob R. Benavides
is a recently graduated
Senior at Texas A&M
University-Corpus Christi
studying English Literary
Studies with minors
in Women, Gender and
Sexuality Studies and
Jacobus Marthinus Barnard is a South African immigrant
who journeyed across the world for a better life.
He now finds success as a second-year Honors student
at Indiana University, majoring in Biology and minoring
in Chemistry and Medical Sciences, with the goal of
becoming a doctor. Beyond the physical study of life,
Jacobus finds deep enjoyment in crafting works that
capture the brilliance and beauty of a human moment.
Studio Art. His writing focuses on exploring material and immaterial feelings through
the lens of an early 20 something year old, all the certain uncertainty included.
He is attentive to themes of Queer identity, love, mental health, familial identity,
and the relation of bodies both physical and imaginary within the ever-shifting
landscape of existence in South Texas. Jacob has previously been published in the
Windward Review, Texas Poetry Assignment and in the Notes app on his phone.
He received a HAAS writing award for creative writing in 2020 and is currently
working on a collection of poetry entitled The Melting of Mars (and other bodies).
Alan Berecka is the author of five Jimena Burnett writes poems and short
full collections and three chapbooks. stories, rides horses, plays tennis, and
His latest A Living is not a Life: A teaches in the First-Year Learning Communities
Program as a professor of Semi-
Working Title was published by Black
Spruce Press (Brooklyn,NY) late in nar at TAMUCC. She has an MA in English
2021. The three time Pushcart nominee’s
work has appeared in such attended various creative writing work-
from Texas A&M - Corpus Christi and has
places as The American Literary shops, such as the Summer Writing Festival
and the International Writing Program
Review, The Concho River Review,
The Christian Century, and several
issues of the Windward Review. shop with Brett Anthony Johnston, an all-
with the University of Iowa, a fiction work-
In 2017 Berecka was named as the genre workshop on the Catalog presented
first poet laureate of Corpus Christi
and served in that rule until 2019. and others. She is an alumna of the Coast-
by the Writer’s Studio of Corpus Christi,
al Bend Writing Project Summer Institute.
Her academic, creative, familial, tennis, and horsey endeavors keep her busy. She
has two children, two cats, two horses, one dog, and one husband. She likes to think
of herself as a lifelong learner and a lover of words, creativity, and the great outdoors!

Macaela Carder is a Visiting Assistant Professor in the Department of Theatre
and Musical Theatre at Sam Houston State University, where she teaches classes
in playwriting, play analysis and theatre history. As an independent artist, she
has worked as a director, actor, fight choreographer, and playwright. Macaela’s
current projects include an original musical on the women flour mill workers in
Minneapolis, a new adaptation of A Christmas Carol, and several 10-minute plays.
Vendela Cavanaugh of Lonsdale,
Minnesota is a recent St. Cloud State
University graduate with her Bachelor’s
in English/Creative Writing. Her
work has appeared in the Minnesota
Women’s Press and Upper Mississippi
Harvest Literary Journal, along
with editorial credit in the former.
This is just the start of her story.
Mark A. Fisher is a writer, poet,
and playwright living in Tehachapi,
CA. His poetry has appeared in:
Silver Blade, A Sharp Piece of Awesome, Penumbra, Young Ravens Literary Review,
and many other places. His first chapbook, drifter, is available from Amazon.
His second, hour of lead, won the 2017 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Chapbook
Contest. His poem “there are fossils” (originally published in Silver Blade)
came in second in the 2020 Dwarf Stars Speculative Poetry Competition. His plays
have appeared on California stages in Pine Mountain Club, Tehachapi, Bakersfield,
and Hayward. He has also won cooking ribbons at the Kern County Fair.
Crystal Garcia is a Corpus Christi,
Texas native who graduated in 2012
although strives to continue her education
in being a student of life. She is
a lover of books and all things literature—especially
poetry. Crystal’s works
have been published in Civility and You
2020 (Windward Review Volume 18),
Good Cop/Bad Cop: An Anthology,
and Corpus Christi Writers 2021. She
exercises her ability to pen heartfelt
poetry and also confronts with veracity
the current events of our time. As
a writer and content creator, Crystal
expresses empathy as well as an unfaltering
love for creative endeavors.
Born in Bogotá, Colombia, Sergio Godoy
(they/them) is a Graduate student of
the MFA in Creative Writing at the University
of Texas at El Paso. In the past,
they have worked in documentary filmmaking,
impact producing, and activism.
Now, they’re devoting themself to their
art through writing, photography, performance,
and film. They’re interested in language,
gender identity, social justice, and
the body as a space for liberation. Their
work has been published in the journals
Páginas Universitarias and Plural Personal.
Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton is a Louisville,
KY native who has traveled and
lived in several places, including Spain,
Appalachia, Panamá, Peru, the Philippines, and the Colorado River. Currently,
he is a poetry candidate in the Texas State University MFA program. He has a
chapbook, Rain Minnows, with Gnashing Teeth Publishing, as well as a chapbook,
Slow Wind, with Finishing Line Press. His poetry appears in such journals
as Windward Review, Amarillo Bay, Voices de la Luna, and San Antonio Review.
Michelle Hartman: “My fourth book, Wanton Disarray, along with my other books
Lost Journal of my Second Trip to Purgatory, (Old Seventy Creek Press) Disenchanted
and Disgruntled and Irony and Irreverence, from Lamar University Literary
Press, Wanton Disarray are available on Amazon and at B&N. My chapbooks,
First Night from Red Flag Press and Doors, Dancing Girl Press are available from
me, or the respective presses. Besides the above publishing credits, I am the former
editor for the online journal, Red River Review. I hold a BS in Political Science-Pre
Law from Texas Wesleyan University and a Certificate in Paralegal Studies
from Tarrant County College; who recently named me a Distinguished Alumni.”

CeAnna Heit is a poet, hybrid writer, and MFA alum from Western Washington
University (2021). She has been a poetry editor for the Bellingham Review and
an English 101 instructor. CeAnna is interested in experimental poetic forms and
hybrid creations built of poems, art, and photography; contemporary and surreal
poetry that works on breaking or expanding conventions of form, image, syntax,
or use of space on the page. At WWU, she took multi-genre writing, film, and
queer and native literature classes. She has written a short collection of poems
which was submitted to the button poetry contest. In the collection, she plays
with form by using classic forms like the pantoum, sonnet, ghazal, and rondeau
in experimental ways. One of her favorite books is Eduardo C. Corral’s Slow Lightning
for its use of imagery that transforms the boundaries of time and space.
She is also blown away by Jake Skeets’ book Eyes Bottle Dark with a Mouthful
of Flowers and draws inspiration from the way Skeets’ embodies language, turning,
for example a comma into a physical, corporeal presence in the world. She
loves talking poetry and hopes to teach it in the future. When she is not writing
or reading poetry, she enjoys hiking, watching movies, and playing the piano.
Katie Higinbotham is a writer,
editor, and nature enthusiast
from the Pacific Northwest.
She holds an MFA from Western
Washington University and a BA
from Linfield University. Katie has
served as an assistant nonfiction
editor for the High Desert Journal
and a nonfiction editor for the
Bellingham Review. You can find
more of her work in the Rappahannock
Review and The Offing.
Christina Hoag is the author of novels Girl
on the Brink and Skin of Tattoos (Onward
Press). Her short stories and essays have
been published in literary reviews including
Lunch Ticket, Shooter, and the Santa Barbara
Literary Journal. A former journalist for the
Miami Herald and Associated Press and Latin
America foreign correspondent, she recently
won prizes for essay and fiction in the International
Human Rights Arts Festival Literary
Awards and the Soul-Making Keats Writing
Competition. www.christinahoag.com.
Theodore “Ted” Hodges is a US Army Veteran, Husband, and father of three
boys. He is currently finishing his senior year at Saint Cloud State University in
Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His major interests are Classical and 20th Century history,
ethics, political science, and philosophy. As is reflected in Red From Shipping
and Receiving, his literary focuses are on veteran affairs and what fighting
men and women struggle with every day while at war, and his genre work
follows similar themes. You can find his blog, writing analysis, and news updates
https://theodorehodges.net/ or the Theodore Hodges page on Facebook.
Katherine Hoerth is the author
of five poetry collections,
including the forthcoming Flare
Stacks in Full Bloom (Texas Review
Press, 2021). In 2015, she
won the Texas Institute of Letters
Helen C. Smith Award. Her work
has been published in numerous
literary magazines including
Atticus, Valparaiso Review, and
Southwestern American Literature.
She is an assistant professor
at Lamar University and editor of
Lamar University Literary Press.
Devyn Jessogne is twenty and a second semester
sophomore studying Creative Writing:
Poetry at Columbia College Chicago where she
plans to graduate from in 2023. There, Devyn
works on honing her craft and writes both poetry
and prose on topics that range from sexuality,
mental health, family, relationships and
more. Devyn also plans to one day publish a
book of her own and has been working on that
goal for several years. She has previously been
published in FRANCES magazine, an online arts
journal, and can be contacted for writing work
opportunities and other inquiries on herself and
art via email with devely061329@gmail.com.
Nick Hone (he/him) is an actor, playwright from San Antonio, TX, and is currently
based in Oklahoma City, OK. He is a recent graduate of the University of Oklahoma’s
School of Drama. His work onstage has been seen at Oklahoma Shakespeare,
Lyric Theatre, and the Treehouse Collective. Shadow and Ash is his first play to
be published and was performed originally at the University of Oklahoma in the
2021 Student Playwriting Festival. More of his work can be found at nhactor.com

Allan Lake, originally
from Saskatchewan, has
lived in Vancouver, Cape
Breton, Ibiza, Tasmania
, and Melbourne. Poetry
Collection: ‘Sand in
the Sole’ (Xlibris, 2014).
Lake won Lost Tower
Publications (UK) Comp
2017, Melbourne Spoken
Word Poetry Fest
2018 and publication in
New Philosopher 2020.
Latest Chapbook (Ginninderra
Press 2020)
‘My Photos of Sicily’.
Jayne-Marie Linguist (she/her/hers) is a Texas
A&M University-Corpus Christi alum; she earned
her Bachelor of Arts degree in English and a Writing
for Nonprofit Certification in May 2021. Throughout
high school and college, Jayne-Marie grew to
love poetry as a tool for self-reflection and healing.
She often writes about her experiences with
grief, mental health, and queerness in her poems.
Jayne-Marie continues to write poetry and currently
lives in Corpus Christi, Texas with her cat, Poe M.
Crystal McKee: I’m a 23-year-old from New
York. I originally attended Columbia College Chicago
and have a passion for writing nonfiction and
fiction works. I specialize in the development of
classic literature into film and focus on represen-
Hope Meierkort is a Studio
Arts major at Indiana University
in Bloomington, Inditational
media as well, so keep a lookout for
my case studies! :) My Twitter is @films_lit
if you want to stay updated with my work.
ana. Her fixation on words developed at a young age and lives on in the hours
she spends frantically searching for the perfect word for her poetry and creative
nonfiction pieces. Through telling imagery and often existential language, she
hopes to capture the beautiful, abstract complexities of being human. Beyond
her crafted verse, Hope’s artistic eye expresses itself in her photography, mixed
media, appreciation of nature, and enjoyment of tea flavors with amusing names
Jill Ocone holds a BA in English from Rutgers University and an MS degree in
Curriculum, Instruction, and Technology from Nova Southeastern University. A
senior writer and editor for Jersey Shore Magazine, her work has also been published
in Read Furiously’s anthology Stay Salty: Life in the Garden State, Bloom
Literary Magazine (Volumes 2 and 3), Exeter Publishing’s From the Soil hometown
anthology, Red Penguin Books’ the leaves fall and ‘Tis the Season: Poems for Your
Holiday Spirit, Straightening Her Crown anthology, American Writers Review-A
Literary Journal (2020 and 2019 volumes), Everywhere magazine, and The Sun,
among others. When Jill isn’t writing or teaching high school journalism, you
may find her riding her bicycle alongside the beach, fishing with her husband, or
making memories with her nieces and nephews. Visit Jill online at jillocone.com.
Chinyin Oleson is an English major minoring in psychology and gerontology
at St. Cloud State University. She enjoys traveling to other lands,
many of which are found in her head. In the future, she hopes to publish
a book of short stories and a book of poems, or a combination of both.
Nicholas Pagano has been writing
for over 9 years and is currently
enrolled in the MA English
program at New York University.
Nicholas’ poetry has been published
in student run literary journals
at both New York University
Becky Busby Palmer writes slice-oflife
poetry and short stories. She has
her MFA from Texas State University
and is a proud Osage writer. She has
three children and six grandchildren.
and the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, as well as Beyond Words Literary
Magazine. He has work upcoming in The Lamp. Nicholas lives and works in New York.
Scott D. Vander Ploeg is a recently retired scholar and college professor
of English/Humanities. An emerging creative writer, he previously wrote
literary criticism on Renaissance figures such as John Donne, Bill Shakespeare,
and John Milton, and contemporary authors Neil Gaiman, Bobbie
Ann Mason, and Johathan Franzen. When not writing, Scott walks in
Nature Preserves in Lake Co. IL and Brevard Co. FL. He is an amateur
thespian, a jazz drummer, and a practioneer and sifu in Tai Chi Chuan.

Arrie Barnes Porter loves words.
She writes poetry and fiction and is
published in various literary journals.
She has reviewed books of fiction
for Angelo State University and
worked as a Gemini Ink -Writer in
Community. She is the former host
of the Coffee Loft – Open Mic—Atlanta
Georgia, and creator of “Voices,”
a Dreamweek Event in San Antonio,
Texas. Arrie is the creator of Nubian
Notes, a magazine now maintained
as a “Special Collection” at the John
Peace Library, Institute of Texas Cultures.
She has conducted interviews
and written articles for the San Antonio
Express and News and the San
Stefan Sencerz, born in in Warsaw, Poland,
came to the United States to study
philosophy and Zen Buddhism. He teaches
philosophy, Western and Eastern, at the
Texas A&M University, Corpus Christi. He
has numerous publications in professional
philosophy journals (mostly in the areas of
animal ethics, metaethics, and philosophy
of religion). He also published also numerous
refereed poems, short stories, and
essays that appeared in literary journals.
Stefan has been active on a spoken-word
scene winning the slam-masters poetry
slam in conjunction with the National Poetry
Slam in Madison Wisconsin, in 2008,
as well as several poetry slams in San
Antonio, Austin, Houston, and Chicago.
Antonio Report, formerly the Rivard Report. Arrie developed two commentaries for
Texas Public Radio-The George Floyd Protests in the Pandemic and Juneteenth,
It’s Complicated. She holds a MA/MFA degree in Literature, Creative Writing, and
Social Justice and is a Professor of English at Our Lady of the Lake University.
ire’ne lara silva is the author of four
poetry collections, furia, Blood Sugar
Canto, CUICACALLI/House of Song,
and FirstPoems, two chapbooks, Enduring
Azucares and Hibiscus Tacos, and
a short story collection, flesh to bone,
which won the Premio Aztlán. She and
poet Dan Vera are also the co-editors
of Imaniman: Poets Writing in the
Anzaldúan Borderlands, a collection of
poetry and essays. ire’ne is the recipient
of a 2021 Tasajillo Writers Grant,
a 2017 NALAC Fund for the Arts Grant,
the final Alfredo Cisneros del Moral
Award, and was the Fiction Finalist for
AROHO’s 2013 Gift of Freedom Award.
Most recently, ire’ne was awarded the
2021 Texas Institute of Letters Shrake
Award for Best Short Nonfiction. ire’ne
is currently a Writer at Large for Texas
Highways Magazine and is working
on a second collection of short stories
titled, the light of your body. Website:
irenelarasilva.wordpress.com
Formerly a teacher of Fine Arts, Ms.
Harriet Stratton retired to practice
what she taught and to pursue
her passion for poetry, natural landscapes
and studying birds. At work
on a poetry manuscript, she’s a member
of a Poetry Collective associated
with Lighthouse Writers Workshop in
Denver. Published in literary and local
journals, Harriet is proudest of a
protest poem that appeared in The
Colorado Independent just before the
last election. She lives on a sandstone
butte shouldering Pike’s Peak.
Michelle Eccellente Stevenson is a
mom, wife, abstract artist, writer, TEDx
Speaker, and Founder of Cultivate Caring.
Michelle’s Bachelor of Arts degree,
with a dual major in Political Science
and Sociology, gave her a peek into the
window of how connected we all are.
The bulk of Michelle’s career was spent
in the training and development sector,
working for major corporations as an
educator. She now spends her time trying
to make sense of the world through
art and writing. Color and mood define
her visual art pieces and themes of humanity
bind Michelle’s literary works. A
contributor to numerous art exhibits and
literary publications, Michelle can be followed
on social media @MESStudioArt.
Her TEDx Talk ‘How Caring Connects Us’
is on YouTube and she invites you to
join her on social media @CultivateCaring
to discover how you can care more
about yourself, others, and the world.
Cissy Tabor grew up among
mossed filled trees along bayous
in south Louisiana and now enjoys
living in coastal south Texas. She
wrote for several years for a local
lifestyle magazine, The Bend. Now
intrigued with poetry she delights
in the challenge of flipping words
onto a page with shape, music and
imagery. Cissy continues to experience
fun in learning as an active
participant of the Writer’s Studio.

John Stocks is a UK based Poet who has had work published in magazines
worldwide. He has been widely anthologised. Since 2010 John has appeared in
the UK ‘Soul Feathers’ anthology, alongside Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Seamus
Heaney, Carol Ann Duffy, Maya Angelou, Sharon Olds and others. He also had
the honour of sharing a page with Maya Angelou in the anthology, ‘Heart Shoots.’
Both anthologies were available in all major bookstores. Other anthologies that
John has featured in include: ‘This Island City’ the first themed poetry anthology
of poems about Portsmouth, the Cinnamon Press anthology, ‘Shape Shifting’, the
Northern Writer’s anthology, ‘Type 51’, and the Toronto-based Red Claw press
anthology, ‘Seek it’. In May 2013 john had a poem in the international anthology,
‘For Rhino in a Shrinking World’. In 2016, John had poems published in an
International Anthology for Seamus Heaney, the annual literary review of The
Long Island Poetry Collective, New York, and, ‘Trainstorm’, an anthology of Railway
Poetry, published in South Africa and London. Recent work has appeared
in ‘New Madrid’, ‘In Flight Literary Magazine’ and others. John is the poetry editor
of Bewildering Stories magazine. He is returning to poetry after a hiatus,
during which he completed an enovel and three volumes of historical prose.
Matthew Tavares is a
twelfth-grade English teacher
in San Antonio, Texas. His
work has been published
in various journals such as
Voices de la Luna, Sagebrush
Review, High Noon,
The Journal of Latina Critical
Feminism, and The Thing It-
Jane Vincent Taylor lives and writes In
Oklahoma City. She teaches creative writing
at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. Jane’s
recent collection is Let There Be Swimming.
Her book, The Lady Victory, was adapted
for the stage at Michigan State University
Drama School. See more about her poetry
projects at janevincenttaylor.blogspot.com
self. He holds a BA in English Creative Writing from the University of Texas San
Antonio. He is currently pursuing an MFA from Our Lady of the Lake University.
JE Trask: James’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Mudfish, The
Windward Review, The Heartland Review and elsewhere. He was a 2021 Pushcart
Prize nominee and his poetry has received awards from the Austin Poetry
Society, the San Antonio Writers’ Guild, and Jersey City Writers. He is a
veteran, and a recovering MBA holder and corporate minion, currently living
in San Marcos, Texas. His poems explore the loss and reclaiming of the emotional
self, new, dead and revolutionary Romanticism and intuitive imagination.
Minoti Vaishnav is a short
fiction author and poet whose
work has been published in
eight print anthologies in 2021
alone. She is also a television
writer most recently staffed on
The Equalizer on CBS, a former
pop star with three albums under
her belt, and a documentary
television producer who has
developed shows for Netflix,
NatGeo, Travel Channel, and
Discovery Channel among other
networks. Minoti also has a
Masters degree in Creative Writing
from Oxford University and
is an alumna of the ViacomCBS
Writers Mentoring Program.
Chad Valdez is an enrolled member of the
Navajo Nation currently residing in Las Cruces,
New Mexico where he is pursuing his
MFA in fiction at New Mexico State University
and works as prose editor for Puerto Del
Sol and teaches writing courses as a GA. His
writing has appeared in the Crimson Thread.
Ron Wallace is an Oklahoma native and
currently an adjunct instructor of English at
Southeastern Oklahoma State University, in
Durant, Oklahoma. He is the author of nine
books of poetry, five of which have been finalists
in the Oklahoma Book Awards. “Renegade
and Other Poems” was the 2018 winner of the
Oklahoma Book Award. Wallace has been a
“Pushcart Prize” nominee and has recently
been published in Oklahoma Today, Concho
River Review, Red Earth Review, Oklahoma
Humanities Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Borderlands ,and a number of
other magazines and journals. He has just finished editing Bull Buffalo and Indian
Paintbrush, a collection of Oklahoma Poetry.

Melody Wang currently resides in sunny
Southern California with her dear
husband and wishes it were autumn all
year ‘round. Her debut collection of poetry
“Night-blooming Cereus” was released
in December 2021 with Alien
Buddha Press. She can be found on Twitter
@MelodyOfMusings or at her website
https://linktr.ee/MelodyOfMusings
A Whittenberg is a Philadelphia native
who has a global perspective. If she wasn’t
an author she’d be a private detective or a
Joseph Wilson taught Senior
English, Advanced Placement,
Film Studies, and Creative Writing
at Richard King Highschool
for 42 years. He created and edited
the art and poetry magazine,
Open All Night, for 40 years. His
work can also be found in Corpus
Christi Writers 2018, Corpus
Christi Writers 2019, Corpus Christi
Writers 2020, Corpus Christi
Writers 2021, and Corpus Christi
Writers 2022. He writes poetry.
jazz singer. She loves reading about history and true crime. Her other novels include
Sweet Thang, Hollywood and Maine, Life is Fine, Tutored and The Sane Asylum.
Andrena Zawinski, veteran teacher of writing and activist poet, was born
and raised in Pittsburgh, PA but lives and writes in the San Francisco Bay
Area. Her poetry has received awards for lyricism, form, spirituality, and social
concern. Her latest poetry book is Born Under the Influence from Word Tech.
Previous collections are Landings from Kelsay Books, Something About from
Blue Light Press, Traveling in Reflected Light from Pig Iron Press, and a flash
fiction collection, Plumes & other flights of fancy from Writing Knights Books.