Art | Fiction | Creative Nonfiction | Poetry | Scripts
PUBLISHER
Julie Amparano García
C0-Editors-in-Chief
Shane Douglas | Rhea Shenkenberg
Design Team
Micaela Caceres | Design Director
Julianna Stachiw | Design Editor
Emilly Vargas | Design Editor
Copy Editors
Sam Calleja | Christine Krenke
Fiction Editors
Chloe Berzoza
Sam Calleja
Shane Douglas
Christine Krenke
Poetry Editors
Micaela Caceres
Thomas Mann
Rhea Shenkenberg
Julianna Stachiw
Creative Nonfiction Editors
Micaela Caceres
Sam Calleja
Rhea Shenkenberg
Scripts Editors
Chloe Berzoza
Christine Krenke
Thomas Mann
Julianna Stachiw
Social Media Manager
Emilly Vargas
Front cover image: You Don’t Have to Drop By by Hannah Suddarth
Back cover image: Three Jacks by Hannah Suddarth
CANYON VOICES is a student-driven online literary magazine, featuring the work of emerging and established writers and artists. The magazine is supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts, & Cultural Studies at Arizona State University’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts & Sciences. Click here for submission guidelines.
From the Co-Editors
We are proud to present to you Issue 30 of Canyon Voices. The past sixteen weeks, our team has reviewed the most submissions for a single issue in Canyon Voices history. As our team worked tirelessly on the issue, we invited ourselves to think about the purpose of creating and curating a literary magazine. Why do we do what we do? In an era of high speed global connection, literature brings readers and writers together to a singular thought in time. The internet connects our ideas, but written words are what connects our souls. This magazine holds the very essence of what makes humanity special. Artwork can express emotions in a way that transcends language and cultural barriers. This is what this magazine is about. It is about connection and understanding.
These past few semesters have seen Canyon Voices move away from grouping our pieces by genre and toward a more organically flowing organization, based around the themes and messages our writers and artists communicate through their work. This is because we feel the strength of literary magazines is in bringing together works from all over the world to converse with each other in one continuous journey for readers to follow.
Thus, as we combed through this semester’s many wonderful submissions, we looked for an overarching theme, an idea, an aura. An invisible string to connect all the works together to tell the story of this issue. We found pieces that were bittersweet yet soothing; pieces that were gloomy, lonely, and scary, reaching into the darker aspects of human existence; and pieces that were warm and joyful, full of determination to keep moving forward. The powerful ideas expressed throughout these works led us to the connective theme we present to you in Issue 30. From dusk, to night, to dawn, please join us for a journey into the darkness and on through to the hope of morning.
As with all creations of art and literature, each stroke and every line counts toward the strength of the whole. This magazine would not have been possible without our many contributors, to which we extend our deep gratitude. It is immensely important to us as editors to uplift the voices of emerging writers and artists. We are honored to be trusted with your wonderful and powerful creations, and we are proud to showcase your exceptional work in our magazine.
Lastly, we extend our gratitude to the dedicated staff of Canyon Voices. This magazine would not have been possible without the hard work of our team and the leadership of Professor Julie Amparano. We appreciate everyone who poured their time and energy into putting together this magazine.
Without further ado, let us turn the page and begin our journey . . .
Sincerely,
Shane Douglas
Rhea Shenkenberg
Evening
Timothy Sandefur | poetry
Like the moon distant, silver face veiled by clouds, yet pulling at the sea with unrelenting force and silent grace in the sunset she entrances me, gathers the sky’s smoky silk and diamond stars about her, and with a gentle smile banishes the depths of black. I and all the world pause to stare, beguiled at this placid wonder. How she soothes my fevered mind after blazing day has left me parched; how she draws me to her without a word, but by the way she waits, patient, for the earth to see what matters is love and light and serenity.
Not a Goddess
Timothy Sandefur | poetry
“Any dreary goddess in a million might condescend to be adored by you, and even grant your prayers; just as every diamond’s just a carbon rock that shines like ice eternally. But only we can lie in bed tonight and breathe these breaths of the few allotted us. Every deity’s the same, every atom, too, but this eve it’s ours alone. No, put away your earnestness for now and listen, please. I ask you for no magic spells, no haunted ecstasies that blur transcendence into lofty purple just for ordinary space. Build me no altars, buy me no rings. Simply touch my face, my hands, and let me know I really stand in this place, not so much adored as understood; not some noumenal queen or gleaming star a million lightyears distant, still and cold with vacuum. I want to be a part, mattering and first of all, a woman, and myself. From you I ask no sacrifices, just be as and what you wish to be and take what gives you pleasure, nothing more, and nothing less. Let us be mere mortals, now, not ‘beyond,’ or ‘above,’ but flowing, fleeting beings, delicate, impermanent; and if mortality means spending what is ours on what cannot again belong to us, then you and I will be richer than the clouds and skies, the stones and stars that have no now; boring things that only last forever; that cannot feel a second melt together.”
Giselle Torres
Desperately Finding Myself | mixed media on sketch paper
Her Name is Beatrice
Sara Napier | creative nonfiction
As a sheltered 19-year-old, most of my social circle existed within four chapel walls every Sunday morning.
The devout daughter of a church elder, I spent most of the free moments of my week either in services or preparing for them. I’d practice music, plan activities for the youth group, and write ideas for small dramatic sketches about topics I was far too naive to understand properly.
I was praised for my work converting “sinners” just like me, who were almost too young to know how to sin yet and too inexperienced to know what we were all in there asking forgiveness for.
I wore their projections like ill-fitting clothing and walked around in their endless expectations with focus and grace like a catwalk model forced into shoes the wrong size at the défilé. I drank from their compliments like the thirsty stranger I was, so eager to please and parched for love, attention, or anything that felt real at all.
Standing on stage at the start of every service, I picked up my instrument and stood behind the microphone. From there, I could see every face in the room that wasn’t up there with me.
It was on this stage, that I saw her stumble in that morning. As usual, she was late for Sunday service. And as usual, she called out to me by name and waved emphatically as soon as there was a break in the songs. I waved back and set about starting the next song.
We called her “Angel Stories” – a halfhearted nickname drummed up by one of my bandmates after they’d been cornered by her and forced to listen to her talk about her favorite thing: angels. And, of course, we only said that behind her back.
Angel Stories saw angels everywhere, and she wanted you to know about it. She was the butt of the jokes for many congregants, not least of these being our own pastor. These grown adults, old enough to be my parents and grandparents, took pleasure in cracking jokes that peers my age would find childish.
They made comments about her clothing. They made comments about her curly hair and her love of whimsical hats. They made comments about her breath and how it often smelled of drinks much stronger than communion wine.
And yet, I liked her. Unlike me, she had lived a real life, and it showed on her face, in her clothing choices, and in my all-consuming question of what drove her to carry what she always had in her water bottles.
My 19-year-old self didn’t understand what she was searching for every Sunday. A devout church girl, I never even said a swear word. I turned down parties where I knew there’d be alcohol. I didn’t have the cultural or personal knowledge to understand her.
And yet, I could never shake the feeling that she and I were cut from the same cloth.
I came into that building hoping my talents were well received. So did she.
I planned my outfits meticulously for Sunday service. So did she.
I was desperately trying to figure out how to get someone to really see me and maybe even love me. So was she.
She turned to Jesus, looking for a friend. But Grey Goose and her angels answered instead.
I turned to rooms of strangers, looking for a family. But compliance and loneliness answered instead.
On that day after service, the moment I’d feared finally happened. A church elder told me it was so good to see a young woman like me who wouldn’t end up like Angel Stories.
I was stunned at the comparison. I was not confrontational at all, and yet, before I knew it, I found myself saying back to him, “Her name is Beatrice. And she’s my friend.”
Sometimes, she felt like the only true one I had there.
Where was nostalgia? The left behind desire to connect.
People don’t describe easily a world which continues to exist even when no people are crossing.
This poem is a work of blackout poetry sourced from page 18 of Kelsey Lewin’s Animal Crossing. Grammar and punctuation have been adjusted for clarity, but all words remain in their original order. You can find the original work on the opposite page for reference.
"real-time clock" meant that they could have a persistent world¹⁰ that followed in-step with the time and date of the real world. Its comparatively high memory capacity meant that changes to that world could easily and permanently be stored and retained. It also meant they might be able to utilize the online capabilities of Randnet.
With a nod of approval to develop the project for the Nintendo 64DD, he and Nogami began to imagine what such a game could be like, and how it could use the advanced technology of the 64DD.
"We were consciously trying to create something in a new game that you couldn't easily reduce to a single label," said Eguchi. There was no "genre" at first. As he so eloquently put it, the youngest stage of the game was a place where multiple people could simply "do stuff and hang out."
The concept of communication between people was the game's biggest theme from the start, drawing on both Eguchi's nostalgia for the community he left behind in Chiba, as well as a desire to connect more closely with people he wasn't typically able to play with like his wife and kids. However, "community" and "communication" are broad terms that don't really sound much like they describe a video game, and might not be easily
10 A virtual world which continues to exist and develop even when no people are interacting with it.
ANIMAL CROSSING
Brigitte De Marco
View of Four Peaks | acrylic
Brigitte De Marco
Grand Understanding | acrylic
Tabitha Graf
Mushroom | embroidery
Backyard Sestina
Ari Leigh | poetry
When I was a child, I spoke to trees. They never spoke back–not in any language I could understand–but I knew they heard me. They watched me play pretend, a made-up boy who poisoned an imaginary king. The pine held at its roots my houses made of sticks.
A tiny child, with arms and legs like sticks, I used to climb a skinny sweet gum tree. I used to make a wish and split two pine needles in half, blow dandelions. Language didn’t rule my life yet. Back then, boy meant only not me, whereas girl meant me.
I never asked, What does it mean to be me? I peeled buds, tore the bark from sticks, sometimes used sticks for sword fights with the boys. I craned my neck to see the tops of trees. They swayed and whispered in their wordless language, an oak telling its secrets to a pine.
When I was young, I never used to pine for ways to fix the broken parts of me. Even today, I don’t quite have the language to name what’s wrong. There’s something always sticks inside my throat. Might I be like the trees who don’t define themselves as girl or boy?
Sometimes I wish I could have been a boy, assured and beautiful. For years I’ve pined to speak with a voice deep as the roots of trees, dig out unwanted parts inside of me, have arms like sturdy branches, not like sticks. I can’t translate these feelings into language.
Between earth and the sky, or truth and language, might be where I am–not girl, not boy. Throw words at mental walls and see what sticks. Just like a tree is more itself than pine, willow, or sycamore, I’m only me.
I used to be a child who spoke to trees.
Now that I’m grown, I stick to my own language. The names of trees and how to be a boy: Live oak, magnolia, pine, sweet gum, and me
Hazael Gomes
Unknown | acrylic
The Shuddering Goat
Leroy Hood | scripts
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
NORM: Male/male identifying. His age is hard to place. Bedraggled.
BARTENDER: Male or female. 40’s. Steady and dry.
RIP: Male. 30’s. Self-styled alpha.
STORY: Female/female identifying. Late 20’s. Ready for anything.
WILL: Male/male identifying. Late 20’s. Awaiting instruction.
SETTING: The Shuddering Goat - an easy-to-miss dive bar.
TIME: 10:00 PM on a Thursday night.
NORM and BARTENDER are working on a crossword puzzle together. NORM is seated at the bar sipping water and BARTENDER is behind it, holding the puzzle.
NORM: Fuckin’ hell.
BARTENDER: We’ll circle back. Let’s try 25 down, the hint is “dim.” 13 letters.
BARTENDER: Uhhh, no, there’s an “M” here where the first “E” would be.
NORM: Fuck off there’s a “M.” Lemme see.
RIP enters. He’s on his phone, concerned by something. NORM takes over the crossword while BARTENDER greets RIP.
BARTENDER: Hey there, welcome in. (Pause.) What’ll it be tonight, sir?
RIP: (Preoccupied.) Uh, yeah, uh, bloody bull if you can.
BARTENDER: I can. Wanna start a tab?
RIP: What? Nah, I’ll... (He trails off.)
BARTENDER: All right. Four twenty-five. (Begins gathering ingredients for the drink, but is missing the bullion.) Be right back.
BARTENDER exits to the back. RIP puts a five dollar bill and a quarter down on the bar. NORM looks up from the puzzle and sees the money on the bar. He sidles over and pockets the cash. RIP is too engrossed with his phone to notice. NORM looks RIP up and down. RIP finally notices him.
RIP: Uh, hi.
NORM: Norm.
RIP: . What?
NORM: I’m Norm.
RIP: Oh. Rip. (RIP attempts to return to his phone, but Norm’s presence distracts him. Annoyed:)
Something you need help with?
NORM: You look like you take care of yourself, Rip. You work out?
RIP: Yeah, I do.
NORM: Good for you. That’ll show ‘em. I mean, it doesn’t exactly fix the problem, but, you know.
RIP: ... What problem’s that?
NORM: Well. You still look kinda... off. Don’t ya.
RIP: What?
NORM: Your body. How it looks. Working out only does so much.
RIP: ... What are you talking about?
NORM: Something about the way you’re put together, it looks wonky. Clothes hang weird on you. You’re fit and everything, but there’s still that, whaddyacall, like a, a wrongness
RIP: What the - what are you...? Are you being funny? (Pause.) Look, why don’t you just fuck off, man?
NORM: Oh, I’m gonna fuck on. See, your friends, they’re probably mostly used to how you look by now, but you know it’s still in the back of their minds somewhere.
RIP: (Getting in his face.) Don’t talk about my fucking friends. Who the fuck are you, saying this shit to me?
NORM: (Self-explanatory.) I’m Norm.
RIP: I oughta tear your head off.
NORM: You probably could. ‘Course, you’d look weird doing it.
RIP punches NORM. NORM falls on his ass, holding his nose.
NORM: Ow. Hey. Why’d you hit me for?
RIP: Shut the fuck up or I’ll do it again!
NORM: That’s not the rules, man.
BARTENDER re-enters.
BARTENDER: OK, what the hell?
NORM: (Pointing at RIP like a tattling child.) He hit me. After he’d paid and everything.
RIP: This fucking guy’s out of his mind!
BARTENDER: (To RIP.) C’mon, you can’t hit Norm. That’s against the rules.
RIP: He was saying, he was saying stuff about... about how I look!
NORM: Yeah, that was the angle, dumbass.
BARTENDER: You paid the five twenty-five, didn’t you?
RIP: Sure I paid, it’s right - - (Notices the money’s gone.) Where’d it go? I put it right there!
NORM: I grabbed it.
RIP: You what?! (To BARTENDER.) OK, now the lunatic stole from me, too!
BARTENDER: Norm. I think maybe he was just paying for his drink.
NORM: Ohhh. Well, shoot. (He pops to his feet and pats RIP on the shoulder.) My bad. Thought you were paying for my services.
RIP: Your services?
NORM: (To BARTENDER.) Fill him in, I’m getting ice. (He exits.)
BARTENDER: (Begins making the bloody bull.) I’m sorry about this. Norm’s got a gig here where people come in and pay five twenty-five so Norm will... say stuff to ‘em. Stuff that messes with their head. But the rule is, you can’t hit him.
RIP: He... he does what?
BARTENDER: Yeah. That’s why he hangs around - he doesn’t even drink. So it was just an honest mistake.
RIP: But that’s crazy. Why would anyone pay for that?
BARTENDER: I don’t know, but they sure do. Ol’ Norm’s got the sight.
NORM re-enters with ice on his face and shuffles back to his seat.
RIP: It’s still a fucked up, mean thing to do to someone.
NORM: Better than going around hitting people.
RIP: Not really. What if someone came in here and did that to you?
BARTENDER: No, Norm’s the one who does it.
NORM: Yeah. Your question doesn’t even make sense.
RIP: Sure it does. What if I came in here and was like, hey, you’re, you’re fucking ugly or something like that?
NORM: I don’t know. Maybe the universe would explode.
BARTENDER: It’s best not to try it.
RIP: You’re both crazy. I want my money back. (RIP takes the money from NORM.) I don’t look the way you said. I look normal. And you are ugly.
BARTENDER: (Setting the drink on the counter.) This one’s on the house if you still want it.
RIP takes the drink and throws it behind the bar where it shatters.
BARTENDER: Real nice. Thank you. Great patronage.
RIP exits, enraged and near tears. BARTENDER begins cleaning the mess.
BARTENDER: God in heaven.
NORM: Fuckin’ hell.
BARTENDER: From now on, please be sure what they’re paying for before you start in on them.
NORM: Fine by me.
BARTENDER: Guessing you’re done for the night?
NORM: Nah, I still got a couple more in me. If anybody shows.
BARTENDER: All right. Y’know, I was thinking, we can get you a bed if you’re staying upstairs longterm.
NORM: What would I do with a bed?
BARTENDER shrugs and continues cleaning. NORM returns to the crossword puzzle. Beat. STORY and WILL enter. STORY looks excited, WILL’s just tagging along.
BARTENDER: Welcome to The Shuddering Goat. Lemme finish cleaning this up and I’ll be right with you.
STORY: (Looks around, spots Norm, then whispers to WILL.) I’ll bet you that’s him!
WILL: That’s who?
STORY: Norm! He’s who I was telling you about!
WILL: Oh.
STORY: I think the place is named after him. I’ve been researching it. At Delphi, they the oracle was gonna speak because a goat would shudder. And Norm, he’s got this way of seeing what’s wrong with you. Like a reading.
WILL: “What’s wrong with you?”
STORY: Yep! He’ll say or do things to you that, y’know, exploit your biggest issues.
WILL: (Affectionate.) But Story, you don’t have any big issues.
STORY: (Annoyed.) There you go again. I told you not to be so nice, Will. And everyone has issues. My friend Grace told me all about when she came in and Norm did her read. It changed her whole life. She realized how superficial she was after Norm threatened to throw battery acid on her face.
WILL: Oh. Cool.
STORY: And at five twenty-five? It’s a steal. Oh my God. OK. I’m ready. (Steels herself. Gets ready to approach Norm, but she balks.) Ugh, I’m so nervous! You go first, Will.
WILL: Are we sure it’s him?
STORY: Find out! Then you can have him do yours. This could honestly be really good for you, Will!
STORY gives him a quick peck on the cheek and sits at a table. WILL hesitantly walks to the bar.
BARTENDER looks at him expectantly. NORM doesn’t look up from the crossword.
WILL: (To BARTENDER.) Hey. I’m here for, uh, the deal with the guy. (Whispers:) The guy who does the... readings? You know what I’m talking about?
BARTENDER: Sure. Would you like a drink to steady you a little?
WILL: (Laughs weakly.) Yeah, yeah, okay. Maybe just a... Jack and coke for me?
BARTENDER: You got it. Six fifteen for the drink, five twenty-five for Norm.
NORM: (Not looking up.) Cash.
BARTENDER: Cash for him.
WILL gives the bartender his card and roots for the cash. He has a five but no change. He looks to STORY who tosses him a quarter. He fails to catch it, scrambles to pick it up, then puts it onto the bar. NORM sets the crossword puzzle down and slides off his seat, then walks over to WILL. He takes the cash and gets uncomfortably close to WILL, looking him up and down.
WILL: Hi, there.
NORM: Howdy-do.
WILL: Are you okay? What happened to your face?
NORM: I hit a guy in the fist with it.
BARTENDER sets down WILL’s drink, startling him. WILL picks it up.
WILL: Thanks.
WILL looks to STORY who smiles encouragingly. He turns back to NORM, gives a little half “cheers,” and drinks.
NORM: (Suddenly energized, backs away a bit.) OK. Yeah, OK. I got you. I’m gonna tell you a little, uh, anecdote-y kinda thing. All you gotta do for now is listen. Sound good?
WILL: (Relieved.) Sure. Great.
NORM: Sure great. So. There was once... this guy. And his name was... Edward Something-or-Other. And he was a British guy. And he was a British guy during World War I. He served in Paris for a bit, with the French army. And back then, back during World War I times, things were much more different from the way they are now, y’know. Because folks were still a little out of the loop about some stuff. For instance, back then, if you had the PTSD, they’d just call you a coward and shoot you. BANG!!
WILL jumps. NORM laughs and pats his shoulder.
NORM: Sorry, sorry. You’re a good man. They’d shoot you, ‘cause they hadn’t hear of the PTSD yet and they didn’t know the difference. So they’d just execute these guys, which was kinda shit-assed of ‘em, if you ask me, but nobody did. And that’s the way it went. And this guy, this Edward guy, he wrote this mem -uh, mem... what is it.
BARTENDER: “Memoir.”
NORM: Yeah, this memoir about his time stationed with the French army, and he tells this story all about how he was eating breakfast in camp one day, y’know, sitting in a tent or whatever, eating his breakfast. And he sees this kinda procession coming around the corner outside and they’ve got this young soldier they’re dragging along with ‘em.
RIP enters under a blue light, playing the role of the young soldier in the story. He’s slowly being marched forward by two invisible soldiers. Tears streak his face and he’s wet himself.
NORM: They were gonna execute him, ‘cause he’d abandoned his post and you just didn’t do that shit. And this young soldier, he’s, y’know, he’s crying, carrying on, dragging his feet, pissing himself... he’s not doing good with the whole thing. Probably he had the PTSD, but nobody noticed ‘cause of what year it was. And Edward, that British guy, he’s watching this procession and he starts to feel for the young soldier. He thinks he might not be a such a bad kid, just ‘cause he abandoned his post, y’know.
WILL turns and watches RIP with sympathy, half-playing the role of Edward.
NORM: But then the French general, he shows up all the sudden Walks out of his tent and sees the procession, too.
STORY stands up, playing the role of the general. She observes RIP.
NORM: The general’s name was Maud’huy. And General Maud’huy, he was a good general; everyone was always like, “This guy’s really good.” And General Maud’huy tells the procession to halt for a second and he walks up to ‘em.
STORY walks up to RIP as he halts. RIP slides to his knees.
NORM: And the young soldier’s all crying and carrying on, but Maud’huy stands him up and brushes him off.
STORY helps RIP to his feet. STORY lip-syncs NORM’s dialogue for the general.
NORM: And General Maud’huy looks the young soldier in the eye and says, “Hey, look, y’know? They’re executing you, ’cause you abandoned your post. And that’s a bum deal. But what you gotta understand is... armies are made up of some strong men and some weak men. And the strong men, they’re gonna do their jobs either way. But the weak men, they need outside, uh, incentivizers. So when we execute folk, the weak men see that and say, hey, we better be sure and do our jobs. And if they didn’t do their jobs, we couldn’t even have a army or anything like that.” And the general asked him, “You got a family?” And the soldier, he nodded, y’know. And the general told him, “If you’re thinking they’re gonna hear you died some kinda coward’s death, don’t worry, they won’t. I’ll make sure they won’t. Because your sacrifice today, it’s not not meaningful. It’s just as meaningful as dying out there on the battlefield. Because you too... are dying for France. For all your brothers. And for France.” (Pause.) Yeah. “For all your brothers. And for France.” So Maud’huy gets done telling the young soldier all this, and the soldier, what does he do? Well, he kinda straightens up. He stops crying, stops pissing... and he looks the general in the eye... and by God, he shakes his hand and thanks him.
RIP shakes STORY’s hand. STORY touches RIP’s cheek.
NORM: And then the young soldier walks off to be executed, but this time he’s in the lead and no one’s even dragging him.
RIP exits, his head held high. STORY watches him go, contemplatively.
NORM: General Maud’huy watches ‘em go, and Edward, y’know, he’s still sitting there, still eating, still watching the general. And he sees General Maud’huy take a deep breath and pull out his pipe. And then they hear the gunshots.
The sound of gunshots.
NORM: And they know that that young soldier is dead now. And when General Maud’huy hears the gunshots, he nods to himself, kinda like he’s saying, “That’s the way it went.” Then he lights his pipe. But as he lights it, Edward can see that the general's hands, they’re shaking. (Pause.) That’s it, that’s the end.
STORY sits as the blue light fades. WILL turns back to NORM.
WILL: Am... am I that young soldier?
NORM: What? No! Weren’t you listening? He died before you were even born. Plus he was French No, I just want you to tell me what you think of the whole thing.
WILL: Oh. What I think of it. Well... I think it’s interesting.
NORM: “Interesting?” Fucking everything’s interesting, man. What do you think about it?
WILL: Well, I think it’s... I think it’s interesting! I’m sorry, I guess I can’t see what you want me to say.
NORM: It’s not about what I want. It’s about what you THINK! C’mon, spit it out, no wrong answers, go, go, go, go, go!
WILL: (Quickly.) I mean I guess it speaks to a sort of uh uh brutality, but there’s also a sense of of of honor, so to speak, which in our, uh, our current... cultural... zeitgeist is - -
NORM: (Falls face first to the floor and beats it with his fist.) OH GOD, OH FUCK. HE’S WEIGHING EVERYTHING. HE’S RUNNING IT THROUGH ALL THE FILTERS. IS THIS WHAT CHRIST DIED FOR?
WILL: OK, OK. I get it. Nothing I can say’s gonna satisfy you.
NORM: (Picking himself up, suddenly deflated.) No, you’re right. You can’t satisfy me. You probably don’t satisfy anyone. (Pause.) Maybe it is just interesting and that’s all there is to it. But I don’t know. I think maybe there’s more. Anyway. Why don’t you go away now and come back when you have a goddamned perspective.
NORM sits heavily, returning to the crossword puzzle. WILL looks to the BARTENDER, who directs him back to his seat. WILL goes and sits down next to STORY, crestfallen. Instead of comforting WILL, STORY seems put off by him. She stands up, fixes her hair, fixes her clothes, takes a breath, and crosses to NORM.
STORY: (IE: the greeting from Cheers:) Norm!
NORM doesn’t look up.
BARTENDER: He hasn’t seen the show. Something I can for get you?
STORY: (Without taking her eyes off NORM.) Yes. An Irish car bomb.
BARTENDER begins making the drink. NORM has yet to look at STORY. STORY has yet to look away from NORM. STORY pulls out $5.25 and slaps it on the bar.
STORY: My name is Story and I’m ready to know what’s wrong with me.
NORM looks up at STORY. STORY looks at him right back, unblinking. NORM closes his eyes, then looks at her again. He shakes his head, looks again. BARTENDER gives STORY her drink which she downs in dramatic fashion, then sets the glass down daintily.
STORY: Well? Do you have something for me, or are you gonna stare at me all night?
NORM winces.
NORM: Uh.. why don’t you tell me a little about yourself first.
STORY: Oh, so that’s it. I’m too self-interested! Or is that...? But OK, I can tell you about me, of course! My name’s Story, like I said. I work in advertising. I’m a big-time extrovert. Everyone will tell you. But I still enjoy my alone time. What else? I’m an ENFJ on Myers Briggs - I know some people's shift, but mine’s always the same. My enneagram is eight wing seven. My favorite color is wine. I’m a Scorpio. I’m probably one of the ones that gives us a bad rep. (Laughs.) Uh... I make friends fast, but I think I’m tough to really know. My favorite author is Margaret Atwood, I never miss Bachelor and my biggest celebrity crush is Timothée Chalu - -
With zero warning, NORM gets up from his seat and goes to exit.
STORY: Hey! Where are you going?
NORM: (To BARTENDER.) I’m done for the night. Headed upstairs.
BARTENDER: See you tomorrow.
STORY: Hey! You didn’t do my read!
NORM: Yeah, I’m not gonna.
BARTENDER: Norm reserves the right to refuse service to anyone he chooses.
STORY: But... that’s not fair! I paid!
NORM: You can keep your money. (To BARTENDER.) Matter of fact, their drinks are on me.
BARTENDER: You got it.
STORY: Please, Norm! I’ll pay extra if you want! Wait. Is this part of it?
NORM: No, really, I’m not doing it.
STORY: But maybe that’s the lesson, is I need to - -
NORM: No, I’m saying no! I’m NOT doing yours!
STORY: (Pitifully.) But... why?
NORM: Because... because it doesn’t matter what I tell you, it’s just gonna become this thing you tell yourself about yourself. Another cute little thingy that makes you you. It’s bullshit and I don’t wanna be a part of it. The problems you got, they don’t make you any kind of a cool anything. You gotta fix ‘em.
STORY: Oh.
NORM: For you, (Indicating Will.) for him, obviously. See, I already said too much. Go and no more sinning or however it goes. Timshel. I’m done.
STORY looks at the ground, stricken. A long beat.
STORY: (An epiphany.) Because I make things... into a story.
NORM: No.
STORY: No, no, I get it. Of course! I can’t help it, it’s who I am! God, it’s literally my name. I’m a born storyteller! How did I not realize this until now?!
NORM: That’s not what - -
STORY: You don’t have to say another word. Thank you so, SO much, Norm! I really get it now! Oh my God, I’m gonna go home right now to journal! (She goes to exit.)
Today is the last open day of our little museum in Phoenix. It is not permanently closed but will soon move to a new building downtown. And when it does, I hope to be placed near a window, able to see and hear outside, just like here—a post office, a boutique salon, a brown-stoned savings bank whose new fancy door chimes when it opens and closes. Creosote bushes were removed to make room for the new hotel construction.
Workersinhardhatssmashpasteintothestucco façade.
October weather is unpredictable in Phoenix. A heat wave has been knocking neighborhoods off the grid all month, yet overhead, it is gray and drizzly. In the past two weeks, at least three dozen truckloads of sports cars rattled through the bumpy road outside the museum.
When I overheard these sports cars were to be exhibited for an "antique" car show, I could not help but grin at my reflection in the window glass—my face has not ignored the passage of time; it has recorded it — through faded hues, furrows, erosions, and a scarred mouth left ajar. A vestige of an antique era.
A boy with his mom stops in front of me. I stare back at the boy. He wears a yellow shirt and tilts his head, both arms dangling on the sides. He looks about twelve or thirteen years old. Strange indeed, I rarely see black eyes and hair like them in the museum.
I feel like an old storyteller eager to spill out
everything lest my stream of memory trickle and vanish into a sea of oblivion. Today, I feel like telling the story to someone who looks dear to me.
***
My people also had black eyes and hair. But we are an ancient people.
Hohokam means "something that is all gone." Well, of course, that wasnot what my people had called themselves. They also did not know that one thousand years later, this land was given the name of a mythical Egyptian bird consumed in flames, only to emerge from its funeral pyre.
My people had never heard of a ship named the Mayflower, not even the Santa Maria. Later settlers have imprinted this New World everywhere with their own names, on streets, avenues, towns, bungalows and high-rises, from A to Z.
Many people do not care what happened to a land. They just want to own it.
But if people are not worried about ownership, they do not care about names, just like my people.
***
A vendor is selling popcorn bags at the museum entrance under the dark green awning. The door is pushed openwith a breeze that brings a hint of butter and popcorn.
Well, I remember those days when my people loaded me full of corn kernels and left me in a dancing fire. The popping kernels somersaulted inside me. Does it taste as good as those days? And how about beans and squashes, which thrived anyway without receiving abundant rainfall?
The desert groaned from its scarcity of water, but what seemed infertile to many could appear bountiful to the ingenious eyes of those willing to eke out a living.
Digging by hand remember they did not have oxen, mules, and horses at that time my people engineered waterworks on the continent. Thousands of miles of slack-jawed canals. They used sticks and stone hoes to dig, and large woven baskets to haul dirt. And canals today still follow the same routes, now lined with a thin layer of concrete.
When I think back to my younger self, I hear the feathering sound of the canal water waves imbuing the starry night. During the day, I see myself leaning against an adobe wall trellised with shadows of cacti and ocotillos. The roundhouse my people lived in was made of mesquite posts, willow, and arrow weeds, enclosed with dirt and straw to keep the rain out.
The villages were swarmed with life. Babies cried. Children bickered over games. Teenagers dressed in tanned deerskins and shell bracelets to look attractive. Women crushed seeds with stone manos and metates while gossiping. Men circled a hole and poked it with agave sticks until arabbit,orabadgerwasscaredup,andthechase was on until the animal was caught. They would all gather in the ball court, talking and laughing
about the happenings on the hunting trip, as people act about in baseball stadiums today. *** The rain outside the museum stops. Water drops crawl downwards along the glittering window frames. The wind blows away the rain, making noises in the aspen trees, as if warbling a song. It makes me want to sing again in front of this boy with black hair.
He leaned over me to see what was inside my belly, and slightly rolled his eyeballs. I might have disappointed him because of my monotonous, dingy, and dry emptiness.
Does he know that I once brimmed with exuberant and mysterious songs, when I marched with my people on the roads? They sang with their strongest voices when they made pilgrimages to the salt flats in the west.
When a man first sang a song, he turned to the Master of Souls and belted out the words. When a man set foot on his first pilgrimage, it was like a warrior's first time on the battlefield. A boy would need to walk the same path four years in a row to become a real man.
Who would not dream of joining hands with them on the road singing this song?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
All earth sounding, On top, circles stomped. On top, eagle down puffs, Cloud enters.
Finally, that spring, I was picked to go west on
the pilgrimage. If there's one thing in the world that makes me want to bounce off the walls and forget I'm made of buff clay, it's that!
Out among my earthy buddies, I was yanked off the ground by a muscular hand, which belonged to a man with a husky voice. I heard his voice before expounding the pilgrimage, about how the high tides left salt deposits in an arid landscape like silver moonlight.
His name was Growling-toad. Short and stout, there was certainly something in his countenance and manner that commanded great respect.
At the top of the first mountain, Growling-toad put me down, then held hands with other elder leaders, and sang. Shadowed with birds' fleeting wings and warmth of the song, the earth cracked when the men kneeled.
Zigzag Connected, On top, I pause. Here beside me, Black cloud floats zigzag, Pleasant to watch.
It was the first time I saw the southwest from the mountaintop. The Salt and Gila rivers and the canals glittered like veins on a brown leaf sprawling through the thorny desert. My heart was brimming with tears of pride when Growling-toad filled me with water from a stream and held me to his chin. I clung to his arms, wiggled up-and-down and side-to-side. Being near him was like having a gust of wind in your ears.
With one hand shading his eyes, he looked forward for a glimpse of red hue showing the arrival of the Red Bent –
Red Bent, Red Bent. Inside songs sound, And I am sad, I circle behind. Oh, what can I do? Now, enter, and then, many songs know.
Words cast magic spells in songs. Many songs of my people were about places and must be sung in the correct order.
In such a way, they would know a place without traveling there. The monotonous desert made it easy to miss the way. The sequence of these songs would assure them where to stop next. Postcards from a journey could get lost in the mail, but I have never listened to my people sing these songs in the wrong order. ***
The sun beats down outside the museum. The boy waves his hands, signaling his mom that he needs more time with me.
She comes and puts her hand silently on his shoulder. A good-looking woman, she has wide almond-shaped eyes and is wearing a round turquoise pendant. A gust of wind could flutter her black hair like a blooming desert lily.
I remember that delicate touch from another woman's billowing hair, when she kneaded and twirled me with her adept hands. Her name was Quail-On-The-Roof, Growing-Toad’s wife. If looking closely, a tiny groove in my neck could be found. It is where Quail-On-The-Roof’s thumb pressed before putting me into the soft, cracking fire pit. The air was full of aroma, fresh roasted cholla buds cooled in a pan.
Finally, she took me from the fire and held me up like a baby against the sunlight. She squinted at
my lurid, red-on-buff color and gave a little sigh of relief. Later, she hung a string of turquoise through my two scrolled handles.
Later, I lost the string. ***
The hour of my birth coincided with an eclipse of the sun. Quail-On-The-Roof did her best, kneeling to the ground with her pregnant belly, and praying. After the passing of the eclipse, she painted a sun and a toad on my foot. Toad is her husband’s name.
Her mother, a midwife, taught her many things to prepare for the coming labor.
Fromtimetotime,shecleanedmeinsideand out and filled me with dried herbal leaves to scent the house.
Yet the Master of Souls had another plan. Six weeks later, she died in childbirth after struggling for three sunrises and sunsets.
I lost her.
That day it rained too, mournfully, and quietly. Growling-Toad sat on sodden buckskins and stared sullenly into the canals.
Such weather drove away his worry about the prolonged drought, which was the only good thing to be said of it.
My people believed the future is only possible because of the lost. ***
When I first reached the salt flats, three years passed after her death.
Growling-Toad carved a quail on the giant angular boulder.
And it was the third quail in a row on the boulder. One for each year.
In the distance, boys gamboled on the craggy salt flats, chasing each other with joyful abandon. The vast whiteness in an eternal quietude seemed awakened by the youthful revelry.
When night fell, a thin line of receding water blended with the indigo sky, thick with stars, and a wet moon lightening the earth.
Growling-Toad lit a good fire and sat next to the boys. He taught them how to build trail shrines with stacked rocks and to interpret the meanings of those petroglyphs engraved on boulders by my people.
Some were written to their amusement, some remain mysteries to this time.
I prefer to keep their secrets until the future comes.
At the end of the salt flats, By the hidden spring, We stopped singing and scattered, Here on our seats, our poor scraping sticks lie, With song marks where they lie.
That hidden spring is probably where I lost my turquoise string.
Whenever I think of Quail-On-The-Roof, my heart is full of stones. ***
Things did not get better after our salt
pilgrimage. After a long dry spell, huge flash floods came crashing down the canals and devoured the crops.
Children starved in the villages.
Who would have thought that the greenest oasis the desert had ever seen was destroyed by too much rain?
In the place where my people had lit their bonfires and drank Saguaro wines for one thousand years, some songs had to end.
Sometimes, the Master of Souls wants us to challenge him; other times, He wants us to obey.
Giant torrents forced their way into the deserted villages. The walls of the adobe hut quivered, finally fell over, smashing to pieces.
I was intact, except for a fracture in my mouth.
That was the last time I saw the village, strewn with withered flowers, slouching into the blue mountains.
They have gone, The bird of the sky, They have gone, The animal of the earth, They have returned. Along their own trail.
Many years later, a muddy boot kicked the sludges above me.
The man jumped off his horse and squatted.
The early morning rays almost blinded my eyes when he pulled me out of the dirt. It reminded me of the moment Quail-On-The-Roof lifted me out of the fire pit, the piercing brightness after the solar eclipse.
The sky outside the museum is gathering dusk. The wind is up again.
The boy leans closely to his mom. His eyes blink fast for answers.Hemight be wondering--Where did Hohokam people go? Is this old chap confused and sleep-talking, making the past always seem best because it is long gone?
Well, time is ephemeral and playful, like water slipping through one's hand.
Maybe I should keep the last drop of the water to myself? What would I tell him about the crossing of my people, when the winds went slack and the desert whimpered? It is bitter-making, yet I cling to them with everything. And still I wake up at night and lie there listening for the creak of the salt beds, the splash of rivers, the clank of corn husks, the sounds of men marching towards my homeland.
The songs are ending as they go their separate ways.
From the center of our songs, the wind comes, Flowing back and forth, Erasing the tracks of the people, Ready to place them here again.
Leaving
Allison Dean | blackout poetry
A friend had said: “I can do with a hand leaving family behind.”
His home was lonely, sobering. The young life.
Receiving a job was exciting but intimidating. His first brush with a world, entrusted with a role, enthusiastic and quickly growing.
This poem is a work of blackout poetry sourced from page 13 of Kelsey Lewin’s Animal Crossing. Grammar and punctuation have been adjusted for clarity, but all words remain in their original order. You can find the original work on the opposite page for reference.
a friend suggested he try to find a career in video games, something he knew Eguchi to enjoy.
"I loved video games, but I never had a console... I always went to the arcade to play," Eguchi said years later, recalling this story. "I had actually never heard of the Famicom or NES! But I thought, hey, I like games... so let's see what I can do!"
With a degree in computer graphics in hand, he applied to Nintendo later that year. Leaving friends and family behind in his home prefecture of Chiba to work in Kyoto was a lonely, sobering experience for the young Eguchi. He'd spent his whole life in Chiba, 300 miles away, so receiving a job offer from Nintendo was exciting but intimidating. His first brush with a Famicom system, then nearly three years old, wasn't until he arrived at Nintendo, where he discovered a colleague playing Super Mario Bros. The Super Mario Bros. series would become his first credited project, doing level design work on Super Mario Bros. 3 and eventually Super Mario World, shortly thereafter being entrusted with a director role on Star Fox for the Super Nintendo. Enthusiastic and creative, Eguchi quickly became a staple of Nintendo's growing development staff.
A few years and several games later, the now-senior Eguchi and the still-fairly-fresh Nogami worked together on Yoshi's Story. Like many games in development around this time, Yoshi's Story was originally slated
Denise Milinovich
Peace Party | Watercolor
Tabitha Graf
Rabbits | relief print
Hazael Gomes
City Blots | digital painting
Amber-Colored Lens: A Collection of Fleeting Feelings
Carlie Gerberick | creative nonfiction
Amber: a mixture of orange and yellow. Pure chroma hue. The color itself, even when not visible, is alive. Color as a feeling. As a guiding light. I find it in the simple things: like when your coffee is the perfect shade, or when a stranger compliments you on something odd like your upper cheek dimples or crooked teeth. When their tone proves that they mean it, because why would a stranger lie about the beauty of your imperfect teeth or cheeky smile? When someone says you smell good, or when they accidentally brush the side of your arm and tell you how soft you are. The way that plants are green but share your aura color. The way they flourish off your energy. When the world seems to move like a ballet that you’ve choreographed. How concerts are comparable to meditation. My eyes closed and my head up as I sing my heart out—as if they’re singing to an audience of one— as if nobody is singing at all and it’s just me. The sandstone outcrops at Reds Rocks Amphitheatre —they are not red. Once darkness falls and the lights bless their margins, when the music amplifies and spreads, they too become amber I become it.
That mountain town that stirred my soul that woke up something inside of me. The free yet damaged souls that occupy its space. That bartend or snowboard. This idea of a seemingly simple life. How burnt amber sunsets and stars open chakras. The sky seems bigger and closer here. How looking up at the starry Colorado sky seems novel because you live underneath L.A.’s light pollution. How I will only go to visit because I’m aware of the loss of charm that subsequently follows all good things.
Bleary eyes experiencing a slow awakening from a deep meditative sleep. A sheet of crisp linen adorned with saffron, and honey crystallized into warm, glowing jewels. The gentle birth of a Sunday morning. Being in love on a Sunday morning. Seasoning our senses as it might, yet still in tune with the thrumming pulses of many fears. Warm in every way. Twirling bodies in unison intense and wild. The melancholy of happy music with sad lyrics. A shared passion that knows no war. When six o'clock strikes and the last light of golden hour sweeps across your face. Soul and bones sinking into comfort. Truth imparts if only through a glimpse of light. Bees' sweet nectar gently streaming into a late afternoon’s Lipton tea. Sugar that caramelizes. Akin to belly laughs and the continuous flow of conversation. The color of mood. Loves color.
A friend who picks you up from LAX and arrives with a smile and an oat milk latte. Airport friends are top-tier humans, I don’t make the rules. How we continually grow and lift each other up without competition or comparison. How we built something so beautiful all because I sat down next to her as a Freshman at Pasadena Community College and asked her on a Starbucks date. She is left brain and I’m right, but somehow; we meet in the middle on just about everything. The kind of friend who would help you bury a body cherish your move-a-body friends. Just like Christina was Meredith’s person in Grey’s Anatomy, she is mine.
When all it takes is rewatching New Girl for the twelfth time and eating Mac and Cheese from bed to cure a bad day. How lip gloss solves problems, like the sweet of Japanese plum wine. How a vintage jacket can make you feel ten times cooler than you are, in the same way, that perfectly parallel parking, or getting a new tattoo can. Screaming Anything, Anything by Drama Rama with your windows down and a closed fist that doubles as a microphone because sometimes it feels good to yell at the world.
Like running into open arms or seeing a baby pit bull and turning to mush—there’s something about a baby pit bull. When it’s 60 degrees and you create the perfect temperature via car heaters and open windows. Like showers with windows. The luck of finding an apartment with a bathtub suitable for a 5foot-10 woman. It’s the little wins. How it's normal to draw a bath before you plop in, but I prefer to let the water slowly trickle over me and watch the circle close in around my belly button. The 2-minute time frame I have until I realize that once again, I wasted a shitload of water, only to nearly pass out.
The way The Girl from Ipanema sounds on vinyl the harmonic distortion, the crackles, and pops, the added richness almost ambery. Scattered books and burning candles. Brick walls and high ceilings. Aged books with annotated pages how I am charmed by the words that one thought deserved a bumpy ink line. The smell and lovely chaos of a used bookstore. The transgressive thrills of Bukowski. When you start the dance floor because someone has to. How the thrill of a new crush is matched only by the irksomeness of having one digest those butterflies; I warn myself.
A child on the pier with an Ice cream cone; even better an old man walking alone with an ice cream cone. Both heart-warming and somehow incredibly sad. But that old man smiles at the young boy who drops his cone, reminded, that the pain is equivalent to that of heartbreak. How it prepares us. How nothing sweet can stay but the moments we taste it, never cease. How it splatters and drips. Cracks and leaks. But if we try just one more time maybe we can get it right, maybe the spillage will be less severe this time. How chocolate turns to rocky road, and cones turn to cups because they’re less messy. We learned this. We know this But who wants a cup over a cone? I’d rather leak and crack than play it safe. The sweet taste that frames what some call magic, what some call passion, what some call the real thing—there’s no substitute, nobody truly likes stevia, they just tolerate it.
Children jumping on Autumn foliage crunching their veins in black-and-blue toenails and with tarpit soles. Unafraid of splinters or broken toes. Unaware that childhood courage never survives that bruised bones and scraped elbows turn inward and we wear our childhood scars as memories that mock; that tell us who we once were. It’s not until you arrive in the future that you can connect the dots of the past. The art of balance, of up and down.
The primal nature of water like the buildup of a wave and the brief peace after it crashes. How that alone encapsulates the very essence of life. Like embracing the curls and punches of life. That they sometimes create the most beautiful explosions. Chaos as art. The transitory serenity found in between life’s hurricanes—the undisturbed moments of calm and creativity that make life worth living. Sunsets, sugar, showers, sheets, Sundays, stars, and song. It’s the simple things—it always was.
I sit on my back porch counting waves of indecision floating by trying to capture them in my grasp. Too many years have passed. There are no tears left to cry.
My mother once told me about the sun, how it rises each day in the east.
I have not seen its shining glory for many days now.
Old folk sing songs of regret, yet I have not found my voice.
A black cat walks by. I bend down to pet him.
He strikes with a swift paw drawing blood.
My hand hurts.
My head hurts. What have I done to deserve this?
A brisk wind picks up.
Swirling leaves fly byslapping my face with fierce abandon.
The day grows cold, I am colder still.
I am ice that forms on the eaves of time. Winter cannot be far off.
I reach for a thought one last time. It escapes me yet again. It is time to go inside. It is time to leave the porch.
Crowded
Timothy Sandefur | poetry
Feels like forever since it’s been the two of us. Once upon a time we could always find a moment when we could be alone, never mind the stress. We could sit, just we two, at a diner holding hands, as lovers do, saying nothing. Felt like you and I were the Only Ones.
But now, under every word I hear the echo of her name, and every time I try to touch you, I can feel her watching. It’s as if two plus one was subtraction.
You know what I miss the most? How the quiet sounded before our silent moments got so crowded.
V Holecek
The Cave | acrylic and alcohol ink on canvas
Space Thoughts
Naomi Guevara | fiction
Isaw the fear in your eyes as I unclipped my tether, and all I wanted to tell you was that it was going to be okay. I mouthed the words to you, but I’m not sure you saw it through my space suit. I should’ve mouthed something a little more meaningful. Something significant. Something like, I’ve loved you from the moment I met you. That’s pretty cliché, so it’s probably a good thing I didn’t.
I will admit, I’m terrified right now. My oxygen supply is beeping at me, telling me that I’m running low.
I’m going to die alone, in the dark, and it’s starting to send my body into a panic. I don’t regret what I did. It was either letting you go or letting both of us die.
The day I met you, it was Dr. Leonard who introduced you to me, and when he said you were going to be on my crew, time slowed down. The thought crossed my mind that I had never seen the wonder of space reflected in a human being until I saw you.
I can feel the air inside my suit starting to get thinner. I’m half-tempted to just take off my helmet and let my head explode, but I don’t think I can, because who knows what will happen when I die out here. I’ve never been super religious, but the thought that I’ll just glide into a void is the thing that frightens me the most.
I should’ve told you that I thought the most beautiful thing about you was the way your nose crinkled when you talked about stars. Actually, it was pretty hot. I don’t want to use that word because if there is a heaven after this, I think God might shake his head with embarrassment as he watched me objectify you in my last moments. But putting that thought aside, you were genuinely one of the most beautiful people I’d ever met. From your eyes to your stupid grin to the way you said my name when you were annoyed. I wish I could tell you that I’m smiling right now as I think about it. I take it back. I’m glad I didn’t tell you. If I had, you might have dived into space with me and the thought that you wouldn’t have made it back home makes me want to dissolve.
My body is still moving towards an endless abyss. In a way, it feels like flying and I don’t think I’m scared anymore. It’s strange, waiting to die. I keep thinking what it might have been like if we both made it back home. Would I have gotten the courage to tell you how I felt? Maybe we would have gone to that old diner on Calvert Street that you kept telling me about. Maybe I could’ve met your mom. I wonder if she would have liked me.
I think I’m going to do it. There’s no point trying to slow down the inevitable. My gloves are pretty thick though and I’m shaking.
No.
Shit.
No.
I can’t do it.
For some reason, I keep thinking I’m going to see our spaceship, and at the last minute I’m going to get rescued. I feel so embarrassed, and I’m so glad you’re not here. I made a sacrifice, and I was supposed to die with a little bit of dignity, but now I can feel my shame running up my face and pour out of my eyes.
I can’t even wipe my eyes.
It’s getting cold. I didn’t realize how cold it was going to be and there’s that incessant beeping now. In a way, it’s kind of poetic. I always thought of what kind of music they’d play at my funeral, and I think I prefer this. Most astronauts don’t get to be buried out in space. Sailors have the sea and climbers have their mountains. What do we have? Dirt?
I actually count myself lucky. The beeping has a rhythm to it that is starting to lull me to sleep. It’s not as cold anymore. I think I see the Sun. That’s odd. I thought…
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Did you know that space has sunrises? I didn’t, but here it is. I hope you see it from where you are. I hope you know I’m watching it too.
I’m praying to a God that I’m not sure I believe in that you make it home. I hope NASA figures out their shit and gets you back into orbit. Do me a solid. Find someone who thinks your God’s gift to humanity. Leave this stupid mission behind and walk barefoot on the grass. Watch that new movie you wouldn’t shut up about. Look up at the night sky with the wonder you had when I first met you.
I hope thinking this out loud gets to you somehow. Maybe you’ll feel it when you meet that person who laughs at your cheesy space jokes or when you hold your child for the first time. Maybe you’ll feel it when you say my name to people who thought they knew me. Maybe you’ll feel it when you see the golden streaks that line the sky on your evening walk.
At any rate, I hope you know I thought about you before the end, and it made it a little less frightening and more like saying goodbye. And who knows, maybe we’ll find each other in a different life. A life where I turn over in bed and find you just within arm’s length. A life where I get to hold your hand. A life where goodbye isn’t a word I know.
In another life, if God ever allows us that, I’d recognize you instantly. I’d recognize you, run to you, and the first thing I’ll do when I get to you is wrap my arms around you and never let you go.
Tear-Stained Pages
Christine Tabaka | poetry
I cried / when I heard you met your fate. So many lines to write / so little time between pages.
Each day a page. Each decade a chapter. The book / a story of your life.
I’m trying to remember the first time we met. Was it at Chapter 8?
We did not expect to meld into warmth, but fate took over. Ours was a love song written on clouds / lofting high.
Time got in the way / we drifted apart. I thought of you often. I missed your smile.
The funny way you tilted your head when pondering a situation. Serious was your color of thought.
Did you ever finish your great mystery, the one you started before you left?
Just yesterday I was thinking about us. Of times and places in our youth. I picked up the paper to see your name.
You decided life was too much. You made the final choice your own.
Picking the optimum weapon / an appropriate ending for your thriller. A best seller to the end. I cried
V Holecek
Wayfinder | acrylic on canvas board
Sitting in the Shower
Zariah A. Perilla Best | poetry
Sitting in the shower
The water whispers
Are you pretty?
Are you wanted?
Are you enough?
You seemed enough for him
Wash the sins off your skin
Wash the tears off your cheek
The water muddied of memories
of what just happened late this night what you went through this past hour
You cried to God during You prayed for that to be over
For you to be over
but he didn’t stop until he was satisfied
Satiated his demonic greed
Of the flesh of youth that you possessed
The water feels harsh
You are ruined
You deserved it
He stained you
Tarnished you
You feel a lifeline
Mother’s hand
Mother’s Hand
Zariah A. Perilla Best | poetry
Mother’s Hand
Scrubs you gently
She washes your hair
Your back
Your legs
Your face
Mother’s Hand holds you close
She kisses you upon your head
Blessing you
Renewing you
Loving you
Mother’s Hand
Helps rebuild you
Swaddles you
Reborn in innocence
Baptized in Love
Mother’s Hand
Understands your needs
She erases the horrid memory
She replaces the skin the man touched with forgiveness and acceptance
Mother’s Hand
Rekindles your trust
She brushes your hair
Humming lullabies
Mother’s Hand
Rejected once
Was there
Open
For Mother’s Child
Munchbud Ink
Hornbill Gold | digital art
Love and Justice
Gianna Montiel | scripts
EXT. LATEST VICTIM’S HOUSE — NIGHT
FADE IN:
On a hot Florida summer night in 1979, an early middle-aged dark-suited detective, MARSHALL STEWART, leaves his car on the opposite street in front of the house colored with red and blue police sirens. He is whistling “Heigh Ho” from Snow White and tossing his keys back and forth between his hands nonchalantly. MARSHALL enters an elderly woman’s house, the front door splayed open with beat cops, crime scene analysts, and other detectives walking in and out.
INT. LATEST VICTIM’S HOUSE — NIGHT
ALDEN ALLEGRETTA, a raven-haired detective and MARSHALL’S partner, stands beside a photographer taking pictures of the newest victim's bedroom. ALDEN takes MARSHALL aside upon seeing him.
ALDEN
Aren’t you supposed to be suspended?
MARSHALL
Suspended, not suspended, what does it matter when innocent lives are at stake? Besides, I couldn’t let you take all the credit without me.
ALDEN smiles with a roll of his eyes.
MARSHALL (in a bored, but playful tone)
Let me guess. It was Colonel Mustard in the lounge with a dagger.
ALDEN
More like Colonel Unsub in the bedroom with a whip and a lot of blood.
MARSHALL
Who’s the vic? She a stiff?
ALDEN (shooting him a warning glance)
No. No, she’s not. Her name’s Carmen Saldavar. Hispanic female. Late 50s. She’s on her way to the hospital as we speak.
MARSHALL
Did they find anything yet?
ALDEN
They’re working on it right now, but I doubt that they’re going to find anything. Guy’s always clean, you know that.
MARSHALL
True, but something feels different in the air. I can’t quite put my thumb on it.
MARSHALL raises his eyebrow at the dark joke that he just dropped, grabbing an evidence bag with two bloody, severed thumbs, wiggling his eyebrows.
ALDEN chuckles, blows out an exasperated breath and shakes his head.
ALDEN
I want this bastard to screw up so bad. Just once.
MARSHALL
Well, if my perception is correct, today’s the day.
MARSHALL and ALDEN walk into the bedroom where the victim had been found, inspecting the bloody bed. In his head, MARSHALL imagines the perpetrator tying the woman down and beating her until she loses consciousness. Her screams muffled by a dirty rag taped around her mouth. The perpetrator unfastens her restraints after he’s done and cleans the area, vanishing back out of the window, into the night without a trace.
MARSHALL takes a deep breath and keeps a stoic expression as he begins to canvass the room. He grabs a bag of sunflower seeds from out of his suit pocket, grabbing a handful of them and
popping one or two at a time in his mouth. MARSHALL looks around for a bag to spit sunflower seeds and grabs a random evidence bag.
ALDEN shakes his head and chuckles grabbing a pair of gloves from another nearby analyst and puts them on as MARSHALL inspects the scene and spits some seeds into the evidence bag.
MARSHALL (to ALDEN)
This person is devolving whoever they are. Left everything here.
MARSHALL and ALDEN glance at the wall above the victims bed with dried velvet blood.
ALDEN
Devolving is one way to put it.
MARSHALL
Run a background check on Saldavar, see what she’s been up to.
ALDEN takes a small notebook out of his suit pocket and takes notes.
CRIME SCENE ANALYST (to Marshall) Detective?
MARSHALL Speak.
The analyst holds up a plastic bag with the words evidence stamped across it with a silver necklace inside and hands it to MARSHALL.
MARSHALL grabs it and inspects it for a second, he pauses, as if pondering something in his mind before he speaks again. His playful mood is still present, but he’s visibly confused.
MARSHALL
This from our vic?
CRIME SCENE ANALYST
From the unsub.
MARSHALL quickly hands it off to ALDEN.
ALDEN
Finally, man. It’s about damn time.
ALDEN looks closer at the necklace through the plastic.
MARSHALL doesn’t bother to look, he shovels some more seeds into his mouth and keeps his mouth shut.
ALDEN sets the necklace on a nearby table and begins to pace about the room, stepping over glass and tattered bed sheets.
ALDEN
There have been four victims over the course of eight months. Which leaves two months of careful prep and planning for each victim. All of em’ rapists, molesters, etc. Sedated, beaten, and they have their…They-Well you know.
MARSHALL looks at the necklace on the table, realizing that he needs to get out of that house.
ALDEN notices MARSHALL staring off into the distance, spitting seeds into his bag.
ALDEN
What’s the matter with you, O Favored One? Thought you could solve this thing in two seconds flat?
MARSHALL Quiet. I’m thinking.
The ATTORNEY GENERAL walks through the front door and shouts, pulling their attention away from the scene.
ATTORNEY GENERAL (shouts in anger) Stewart! Where the hell are you?!
MARSHALL clutches the sunflower seeds and plastic bag to his chest.
MARSHALL (in a whisper) Who snitched?
ALDEN (laughs)
Use the backdoor. Be quick before he catches you.
MARSHALL
You’re a doll, Allegretta. I know you’re married and all, but I think we could make our relationship work.
ALDEN
As long as I wear the pants.
MARSHALL claps ALDEN on the shoulder moves over to the table with the necklace.
CRIME SCENE ANALYST
Detective Allegretta? Can you come and check this out?
ALDEN
Show me what you got.
MARSHALL, seeing that no one’s paying attention, discreetly grabs the plastic evidence bag with the necklace and hides it up his sleeve.
MARSHALL sneakily slips out of the bedroom and makes a break for the back door.
The ATTORNEY GENERAL comes barging in, anger and annoyance written on his face.
ATTORNEY GENERAL
Where the hell’s Stewart?! I know he’s here.
ALDEN
Sorry, sir. I think you' re mistaken. Haven’t seen him.
ATTORNEY GENERAL
Just because he’s your partner, doesn’t mean you’re doing him any favors.
END SCENE
MARSHALL enters an office elevator, pressing a button to floor 40. Just as the doors begin to shut, a young woman dressed in a dark green blazer, matching skirt, dark red heels puts her hand between the doors.
ALINSTRA pauses, as if stunned by MARSHALL's presence. She takes a moment to compose herself and walks inside next to him.
MARSHALL
Where are you headed?
ALINSTRA's blood-red lips part into a wicked smile after glancing at the panel.
ALINSTRA
Same floor as you, sugar.
The elevator doors close and they stand in silence as the elevator climbs. ALINSTRA eyes MARSHALL up and down.
ALINSTRA (CONT'D) (Extending her hand)
Alinstra Fox.
MARSHALL clasps her hand in his.
MARSHALL
Marshall Stewart, big fan.
ALINSTRA removes her hand and tilts her head in surprise.
ALINSTRA
Is that right? For being a fan, I don't believe I've seen you around. Lawyer? Prosecutor?
The elevator floors climb higher.
MARSHALL'S words are easy, but there is pain in his eyes.
MARSHALL
Unfortunately, no. Detective. Just swinging by to return a little something to a special someone.
MARSHALL produces the pendant in its evidence bag.
ALINSTRA (Feigning surprise)
However did I come to lose that?
MARSHALL
These things do tend to fall off by themselves, you shouldn’t judge yourself too harshly.
(Beat)
Figured the least I could do is return an old flame’s necklace.
ALINSTRA
And I suppose you'll be wanting something as a reward?
MARSHALL
A confession and compliance would suffice. It’d sure make my day.
The elevator doors ding open. Top floor--40.
ALINSTRA's heel moves towards the opening.
ALINSTRA
And if I'm feeling rebellious?
MARSHALL moves to block the door, allowing the doors to close behind him.
MARSHALL
I would suggest not, I’m certainly not undermining your ability to put up a fight as a woman, but it’s a free country.
ALINSTRA's lips form a small smirk. She taps the elevator button for the lobby, and the lift hums to life.
ALINSTRA
How did you manage to find me?
MARSHALL
Now don’t go playing coy, you wanted me to find you and not to brag but being a detective has its merits.
ALINSTRA
I thought you’d have a much easier time finding me being the blessed profiler you are. Between the less-than-subtle letters and your anniversary gift to me, I thought I might have to commission a blimp next. No offense darling, but you might be losing your touch.
MARSHALL
Cutting off your defendants’ thumbs outside of court? I'd say you’re not at the top of your game either.
At this, ALINSTRA's eyes grow fiery and her smirk falters.
ALINSTRA
Well, you’re not exactly the poster boy for the FBI. You’re supposed to be upholding the law and yet here you are talking with a “psychotic vigilante.”
MARSHALL (sighs disappointedly)
I remember a young woman who used to have boundaries. She believed in the supremacy of law and order, for what?
ALINSTRA inspects her nails without a care, she smoothly skirts passed MARSHALL’S question.
ALINSTRA
I remember my dad had told me that having thumbs is what makes us superior to animals. Take that away and you’re nothing.
MARSHALL
So that’s how you viewed them? As animals?
ALINSTRA
They certainly weren’t human. They’re lucky I didn’t kill em’.
The elevator dings open. Two people give MARSHALL and ALINSTRA a smile and attempt to walk into the elevator.
ALINSTRA (CONT'D)
Occupied. Take a hike.
They share a look between each other, but walk away and wait for the next available elevator.
Without breaking his gaze from ALINSTRA, MARSHALL reaches over and taps floor 40 once again. The doors slide shut.
MARSHALL
So revenge? That's it?
ALINSTRA
All I did was show these people who they really were. Animals. And let’s not pretend we don’t know why I am the way I am. (with a dry chuckle) Your profile should have told you that.
MARSHALL's confidence wavers, as ALINSTRA strikes a nerve.
ALINSTRA (CONT'D)
You're not the only one who remembers what I used to be, and how I wish I could return to my blissful naivety. Back to a time when I didn’t feel so dirty and used.
ALINSTRA is tearing up now, her voice quavering with equal parts torment and anger.
ALINSTRA (CONT'D)
But when I watched those people walk when they should’ve been locked up for life-
(shakes her head)
And knowing that it was the same man who hurt me, I couldn’t-I can’t bear it. Then, learning farther down the road that he sunk his teeth into another girl HALF my age...
(She swallows a sob.)
ALINSTRA (CONT'D)
The law is manipulated in every which way, if you have enough money and power.
Tears begin to fall down ALINSTRA’S cheeks with no sign of stopping.
ALINSTRA
You want to know why, Marsh? I do too! What is the point of me being a prosecutor if it doesn’t do anything? The world is still the same!
ALINSTRA rakes her fingers through her hair.
ALINSTRA (CONT'D)
I’m so tired of feeling the way I feel, watching these bastards use something I’m passionate about for their gain and if no one is going to fix it then I will.
The elevator door dings open. Top floor. A man attempts to board the elevator with them, but MARSHALL flashes his badge.
MARSHALL
FBI. Wait for the next.
The man seems puzzled, but yields as the elevator doors close once again. MARSHALL taps the lobby button again.
MARSHALL (CONT'D) (Sighing)
Why me, Alison? Huh? Why would you bring me here?
ALINSTRA
Alison. Haven’t heard that one in a while. What good did she ever do? She wasn’t someone you could count on to avenge you.
(with a sad, tired smile)
It’s not a lot, but a little bit can go a long way when you’re running on faith and mine’s running on empty.
MARSHALL (states matter of factly)
You need my help. That’s a cute thought.
ALINSTRA's voice has reclaimed her seductive edge and she smiles.
ALINSTRA
Oh, I expect you to.
MARSHALL Is that so?
ALINSTRA (CONT'D) (Moving closer, nodding her head)
Something tells me if you thought Alison was that far gone, you would've brought backup. You wouldn’t have taken that necklace behind Allegretta’s back.
MARSHALL simply stares at her in both shock and awe.
ALINSTRA
You've got your confession. If you arrest me, don’t forget to read me my rights.
(Beat)
I've been robbed of them before.
ALINSTRA's hand snakes into his pocket and withdraws his handcuffs.
MARSHALL makes no move to attach them. Instead, he opens the evidence bag and withdraws the necklace holding it up in between the two of them.
ALINSTRA is taken aback by this, but she turns around and MARSHALL clasps the necklace it around her neck. Her fingers touch the silver chain and she turns around to look at MARSHALL.
ALINSTRA (Smiling slyly)
Maybe you aren't losing your touch after all.
ALINSTRA opens MARSHALL’S hand and places his handcuffs in his hands.
The elevator dings open.
ALINSTRA and MARSHALL are holding hands and she lightly touches her lips to his. A woman on the phone waiting to board sees them with wide eyes and turns towards the stairwell, not wanting to interrupt their moment.
ALINSTRA
Thank you.
MARSHALL stays silent and makes no move to leave as ALINSTRA exits the elevator and saunters away with her head held high.
The elevator doors slide closed on MARSHALL.
Julia Porter-Kaplan
I Fought The Law (Federal Reserve Bank of Saint Louis) | photography
It was in the Air
Zariah A. Perilla Best | poetry
The Girl on the Stand is Shaking.
Her face blank, but her body gives her away
She pledged the Truth
The whole Truth and nothing but the Truth
The Proceeding Starts
That afternoon there was a date
It ends in disaster
Before that though
She felt it
In the air
The air was buzzing with bad news
She shouldn’t have gone
He wasn’t that nice
Didn’t open her car door
Immediately put his hand on her thigh
She was shaking then too
She felt it in the air
They were supposed to go to a nice restaurant
She got to choose off the dollar menu
But she wasn’t hungry
She was too nervous
She felt it in the air
She didn’t drink
She didn’t smoke
She didn’t scream
She was fully clothed
Until she wasn’t
She cried and said no
She had her location on
She did what she was supposed to
She was a nice girl, A Good Girl.
She knew better
She didn’t sleep on first dates
At this point in the proceeding the girl is crying
She needs a minute
Her cheeks flushed
She’s still shaking
She quickly walked out the room
Refusing to catch anyone’s eye
Her shame bare faced in a room of strangers
The only one she remotely knows
Is the one she wishes she never met
He plead not guilty
That’s why they're here
That’s why she's here
The truth will come out
Forgive me Father
Zariah A. Perilla Best | poetry
He said, I need to pray for forgiveness. He said, it was his fault, he wasn’t there for me. Growing up, he should have taught me better. If he was there, he could have taught me to stay away, to know people’s true intentions. He wasn’t there to protect me.
He says, God was there though. He says, I need to commit myself to God’s love. that God will forgive me, forgive me for this. The act that I prayed for God to stop. I need to pray that he forgives me for something I didn’t want, that I cried, that I fought against, that I’m ashamed about.
Forgive me. Forgive me for something out of my control but in God’s.
He said, that he’s just telling me this for the end. It’s coming.
He said, he just wants to see me up there, He said, he cares if I make it in.
He said. He said, He said. He says a lot, that’s just it. It’s always he said not that he did. Maybe if he just says it enough, time will forgive him. Like God did.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I must respect thy father. Exodus 20:12.
Munchbud Ink
Flesh Sifter | digital art
Tear at that Which Protects You
Mycelium Spring | poetry
I would like to carve out my heart. I would like to place it on your dining table. I would like you to see it palpitate and know that I am alive.
But if I show you my beating heart...
Will you not gasp as I extricate it from my ribcage?
Will you not turn away at the sight of my blood?
Will you not see the pulsing muscle and think it grotesque?
I shun my knife for fear that such a sight would frighten you
But should you wish to see it I would have it out in seconds
Cast your gaze upon that centermost piece of me and I shall bask in the glory of being known
The choice is yours
To leave me to bleed alone, weeping from my chest
Or join me in my violent joy and delight in crimson awe.
Lost Lamb Out to Pasture
Dakota Allred | poetry
V Holecek
Apostles| acrylic on canvas board
Munchbud Ink
Shushfauna| digital art
CPTSD
Mycelium Spring | poetry
An angry man is in my house
I feel his presence here
But just like when you see a mouse
He always disappears
He slams doors and stomps and rages
He guilts and manipulates
When things are going poorly
he even runs away
I hear him Monday morning
I see him Friday night
I can feel him in the air and in the way I say goodnight
He lives inside my house
He lives inside my bones
He lives inside my past
But calls my mind his home
Holger Pleus
Close Encounter | photography
The Worst Thing To Be Is Content
Dakota Allred | poetry
When you finally know someone You’ll know how to kill them.
Edge of a sharpened blade, Exploitation of their fear, Exact strings of words
That will undo all of the loving But none of the knowing.
To love someone is to fight the endings You see in visions while you hold them.
Dagger’s embrace, Poison’s kiss, Betrayal’s... Hesitance: Is love worth fighting instinct?
Will destroying them completely Complete you?
You’ve dismantled enough rib cages
To know that the heart isn’t what feels. Science says that’s the brain. That can’t be. You have one of those.
V Holecek
Verlassen| white charcoal on black cold-press paper
The Undertaker
Ben Ketcham | fiction
Kurtis didn’t mean to kill The First one.
It was an accident, really! You could even call it self defense, if you squint and turn your head. The First had snuck into his cemetery, flashlight and shovel giving him away in the moonless night. Kurtis was scared, and nobody had ever told him what to do if a grave robber broke in here. He panicked, and he did the first thing he thought to do to end the threat. But the human body is fragile, and a shovel to the back of the head is a lot of force, when a fall from standing is all that it takes, sometimes.
Kurtis was never quite sure if it was the swing or the fall that killed The First. But he’ll never forget the sounds that each made in sequence. The dull gong of the metal on flesh, like the bell of an old chapel. Ding dong, the bell tolls for thee. The first notes in a symphony only he will hear. Or the sound of his body hitting the ground, a tangle of limbs flopping down on the dirt, thuds and thumps oddly soft against the patches of grass that Kurtis maintained in the early hours of the morning. He didn’t hear a groan, or a cry, or a sob. He just watched as blood slowly oozed out of the wound at the back of The First’s head, soaking into the collar of his shirt and jacket, dark material stained darker, indistinguishable from normal fabric in the inky black of a cold November night. He knew The First was dead as soon as he hit the ground. Klang, Flop, Thump.
Kurtis didn’t really think after that. He just grabbed his wheelbarrow, hoisting The First
into the loam he kept there, his future topsoil staining with blood and offal. He had heard that dead bodies were heavy, but that didn’t prepare him for how unwieldy they were to move. Limbs were such a tricky thing to work around, flopping every which way as the trunk was hoisted from the ground, and they seemed to constantly counterbalance from where he wanted to move them. But you don’t get to be an undertaker by being frail. In the end, not much difference between a body and a bag of dirt, and Kurtis had lifted plenty of those in his time.
Digging a grave took hours. It was boring, repetitive, and grueling work, each shovelful of dirt making a soft sound as it was thrown from the ground into the air. Kurtis didn’t mind it, though. The digging let him turn his brain off, just three motions all that he can think of. Shovel in, hoist, throw. Shovel in, hoist, throw. Shovel in, hoist, throw. Over and over again, as worms wriggled out, making way for their nearest dinner guest. He had to stop at some point though. He had to think again.
When he came back to himself, standing six feet under and caked in muck, he was surprised by how normal he felt. He had always heard that killing someone was life changing, this thing that you’ll never move past, this grave sin. But as he hoisted The First’s corpse into his grave, it didn’t feel like he’d done anything wrong. As he filled the grave with shovelful after shovelful of dirt, his muscles burning under the familiar strain, he felt normal. When he looked at his hands, he didn’t
see bloodstains, just dirt.
In the morning, there was a new grave, no epitaph listed. It sat among others of its type, bodies that couldn’t be identified being given a final resting place. Some of them had dates of death, and approximate ages listed. Many of them were just blank. Forget-me-nots were planted in beds at the foot of each slab of stone, soft blue blending into dull gray.
The cemetery was almost as quiet in the mornings as it was at night. There were more people there, but no one much cared to break the silence. It was just soft footfalls, and quiet contemplation. Muffled sobs and the soft clink of pennies against stone. No one visited the newest grave, but then again, very few visit the blank graves. Most days the only one who saw them was The Undertaker, as he trimmed the grass and watered the flowers.
But there were always new graves, and new people to grieve. And like he had done many times before, The Undertaker stopped beside a grave. The grave itself was unremarkable. Grey stone, fresh dirt, new flowers. He only stopped because of the person knelt beside, wailing for all she was worth. He didn’t know who she had lost, but he was drawn by her cries, rising high and above the low noise of the rest of the graveyard. He waited behind her and to the side, just listening. He waited for her to notice him standing there, her frame wracked with sobs even as she tried to keep them down, a decrescendo until she blended back into the background noise of somber observance. That was when he spoke.
“You know,” The Undertaker’s voice came out quiet, a soft baritone, but the woman still flinched, like she didn’t really expect him to speak at all, to break the silence that had fallen between them. “There was always something calming about graveyards to me. I used to come here as a kid just to sit and unwind.” The woman, of course, looked at him like he was crazy, leaning slightly in the other direction, just like the grieving always do. “I’m serious! For somewhere that’s supposed to be all doom and gloom, it really is one of the last really peaceful places left. I would come and sit, and just listen. Something about the sounds that you can hear in a graveyard is just ... beautiful. Like music.” And The Undertaker and The Grieved sat together, listening, until The Grieved took her bag, stood up, and left without a word to break the silence.
The Second was done on a whim.
Kurtis watched the teenager scale the stone wall around the grounds. He never saw much need to invest in any more security than that, at least for the grounds themselves. The only people that tended to break in were stupid kids and the homeless, and Kurtis had never really cared to chase them out before. Most kids ran long before he actually reached them, when they saw his flashlight shining through the dark, and homeless people were usually just looking for a place to sleep that was safe and didn’t smell awful. Kurtis didn’t mind. Cemeteries were places for resting.
The Second came in alone, though. He had the look that teenagers get when they know they
are doing something they shouldn’t, glancing every direction, but still not noticing when Kurtis’s light went out. Kurtis thought he was here on a dare, or he just wanted to get the thrill of sneaking in somewhere, and he thought this was a place he would never be caught. Most kids think nothing bad could ever really happen to them, that they’re invincible. Kurtis supposed that it didn’t really matter, in the end. It won’t really change what happens.
The Second went down in much the same way as the first. Clang-thud. Thump. He was easier to carry, even if he was fighting weakly, his low groans sounding into Kurtis’s ears, each feeble cry a new note in this symphony of sounds he was collecting. The dirt seemed to disappear under his shovel, the grave carving itself into existence for The Second, or perhaps Kurtis was just excited this time, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he lifted one pile of dirt after another, burning the sound of the shovel breaking the Earth’s seal into his brain.
The Second had moved slightly when Kurtis pulled himself out of the ground. He could see the trail of soil as The Second tried to drag himself away, dirt and blood and spit mixing into a thin line of mud behind him. He just clicked his tongue, shaking his head slightly in exasperation. Teenagers. The Second was a little harder to lift the second time, but that’s alright. You don’t get to be an undertaker by being frail. Kurtis thought he heard something snap when he threw The Second into the hole. One more sound for the symphony, one more note. He gave a soft smile as he filled the pit, as the soft rasps of The Second’s breath disappeared beneath 6 feet of gravedirt.
Nobody noticed that there was a new grave right next to The First’s. Just another wordless grave, another stone watcher of the dead to stand vigil. Forget-me-nots bloomed, fed by the forgotten. Watered by the one who remembered.
The Grieved was back when The Undertaker stopped by her grave again. He sat next to her silently, setting his watering can and his shovel stained by work on the ground next to her. She did not flinch when he began to speak again, his voice just one more amongst the soft murmurs being thrown around the stone and the blooms and the dirt.
“Growing up, I used to collect sounds, like some kids would collect stones. I would throw stones in the creek near here, listening to the plunks they would make when they fell, cataloging how each would change in pitch depending on size and shape, material and how I would throw them. I had a dowel from my father’s workshop that I would wack on trees, and I would delight when I could find a hollow tree, because its sound was so much more than a normal tree. I used to light matches, listening to the rasp of the sandpaper and the crackle of the wood as it burned down to my fingers, the heat and the noise performing some sort of duet on my senses, my own little Bolero.”
He paused then, sure he had her attention. She was staring at him now, looking away from the stone that had so well held her attention before now. There were clear tear tracks down her
face, carving trails of mud through the dust that had lightly layered over her face while she had been sitting here. He gave a soft smile, glad she decided to stay here to hear him talk. He was always disappointed when they decide to leave part way through his tales, like a record scratching right before the climax of the song, a bridge to nowhere.
“I used to hunt, to feed the family. There was a forest just off the edge of our property, and I would go out in the early morning hours to find a rabbit or two, maybe a deer. The world is so quiet in the early hours of the morning. Every so often a bird chirps, or something rustles through the bushes, and those sounds stand out so crisply in the brisk morning air, an aria of nature. And, of course, the retort of the gun cuts through it all, a thunderclap on a clear day.” He didn’t tell The Grieved that he would volunteer to go hunting, that he used to listen to the animals too, after he had shot them. Each whimper, timed to the pulses of blood dribbling out of them, until they had no more noises to give him. He didn’t think she would appreciate it.
“One of the sounds I can remember most clearly is my mother’s breathing. She caught something when I was younger, and it made
her lungs crackle like paper. She’d breathe in, and I would hear the bag inflate, and on the exhale, I could feel the creases, folding in her. I would make her tea, the whine of the kettle and the clink of honey being stirred into a glass serving as the background for my thoughts, that I could soften the paper with milk and honey, I could smooth the folds with hugs and warmth. Of course, milk and honey only do so much. I’ll never forget the sound of her last breath, one final rasp, soft, like I really had been able to smooth some of the pain away.”
The Undertaker took a deep breath, as he always did after these stories, just to remind himself that he could. And then he stood, picking up the shovel and leaving the watering can next to The Grieved’s grave. He smiled, offering her a hand.
He heaved her to her feet, surprising her with the strength he hid inside his frame. You don’t get to be an undertaker by being frail, after all. When he spoke, his voice was warm, like his smile was coloring his words as they left his mouth. “Speaking of, I should have some tea in my quarters. Let’s get you out of the cold.” And Kurtis led the way to his cabin, hand in hand, already wondering how The Third would sound.
Kacie Lynn
Untitled | illustration
Giselle Torres
Rotting Monarch | mixed media
Ladybug
Dakota Allred | poetry
Forget-me-nots by the fire hydrant out back where my dad was vaping. He wanted to have a conversation with me, really he just needed a puff.
Tiny spiders keep crawling up his legs and he stomps to get them off.
He says something and a fly lands on his shirt, then another, and another.
The black paint on his vape is chipped from where he’s held it so often.
At least it’s not cigarettes anymore.
He insists he’ll quit soon.
He’s somehow gotten to talking about some controversial nonsense I’m looking at beetles.
They’re fiery red and they crawl through the cracked flagstones around us. I should shout at him but we are not equals. I am the ladybug sitting on the rocks next to him; if I argue he will startle and then crush me.
marlboro red
Charlie Pluto | poetry
Kacie Lynn
Grasping at Fractals | paint marker
The Man Behind the Door
Brian Drew | poetry
There is a man behind the door, Yelled the children of the cul-de-sac, Their eyes wide like black little dots, Dilated with terror, the sides of their mouths Contorted and twisted into a bizarre scowl. But the adults paid no heed to the scattered panic; They saw that the children had let their minds race ahead, Leaving behind their credence at home.
But the door they spoke of, In that horrid drag, That pitiful facsimile of ideal Americana, Which rested down the avenue, At the edge of sight and mind.
It was not until the late of night, One fateful December, When rumors came about, Of a voice emanating behind the door. It started when the old man mowed the lawn, As a gesture of goodwill, By that decaying wreck that sat at the edge of the 'sac, And he heard ghostly whispers That came from behind the door. And when he spoke of it to the others, They treated him like a child, Seeing that the old man had lost his credence some forty years ago.
But then came a woman, Walking her mutts down the avenue, She saw with her own eyes a shadow lurking underneath. And when the others came to look, They saw the distorted shade Of a man behind the door.
And the cul-de-sac reeled, The neighbors congregating near the door, Some speaking in crude hush tones,
That the house belonged to a maniac Who hacked and slashed the innocent behind the door. And others believed that it was the site Where Old Nick was worshiped as king, And others thought it was the place Where the men in black spread pestilence and war, And those who would open the door would never be seen again. Some swore to God that they saw faces in the windows, And others swore to God they heard the wailing of something inhuman. The children sang songs of the door, The adults shuddered at the door's presence, And the elders lavished their dying thoughts on their memory of the door. And the stories spread like a melanoma, Its sickly tentacles reaching far beyond that dingy little 'sac, To the neighboring avenues and the contingent towns. The streets became highways of words, thoughts, ideas, and whimpers, That twisted and distorted until everyone, Of every town, Of every nation, Of every creed, Of every race, Of every class, And every way, Heard of the man behind the door. But they never saw the same man, And some men were vile, And some doors were marble, But all were of the man behind the door.
Until one day, A lonely traveler, His eyes weary but his mind content, Came to peer behind the door. He arrived in the town, And saw the children now shattered adults in a shattered world, Pointing their withered fingers wayward to the edge of their sight, To the home that sat at the edge of the avenue, That sat at the edge of the mind. And the traveler walked to the door, His hands trembling, sweat dripping like tears from his palms.
The crowds of the tortured and the damned, cursed By the knowledge of the man behind the door, Congregated in the streets
To watch as the traveler approached the wilted grey Of the house's foundation.
He looked at the horrid little drag, Reached his hand to its red-stained knob, Stained with the blood of thoughts and the weight of fears. He twisted his wrist slowly, Pushing the door forward as it dragged on the floor, Each inch a malice, and he pushed in. And he looked, and he beheld, Nothing.
His eyes perched, His mouth dry, His mind racing, But he could discern No signs of any occupation.
As his pupils dilated to match the dark of the room, He saw the teetering of long legs and the scurry of rats Along the long-decayed home of phantom families now passed.
He stopped, And the stories that tormented his mind Flushed down the ether of the material. And in that silent dark space, A fear gripped him, His body seizing, Palms trembling, Mouth whimpering, Terrified beyond reason Not of the man behind the door, But of those who thought there was.
Holger Pleus
Moor Railway | photography
Brad Wu
Patience and Time | oil painting
Holger Pleus
Spinning Wheel | photography
Denise Milinovich
America | Watercolor
The legs do not obey
Vyacheslav Konoval | poetry
The heart refuses, and the company is pushed to bankruptcy. He is laughing in spades.
The random people appointed to lead a scumbag, ministerial friends, in the spirit of embezzlement-waste, solemnly sing about viburnum «In the meadow».
The property will soon be tied around the neck, valuable in supporting millions, where to get it, the owner is poor, it's a shame.
American Girl
Ava Scolaro | poetry
I am free, my only American Dream.
I'm free as I covered myself at seven from prying eyes at the pool.
I'm free when I'm nine crushing on the boy next to me.
I'm free when I binge drink in a basement at 14.
I'm free at 17, trapped in my bedroom.
I'm free as I lay in bed, and getting up is a risk I won't take.
I'm free when I read stories about people centuries ago.
I'm free when men twice my age whistle at me.
I'm free when no one believes me.
I'm free when my dead-end future catches up with me.
I'm an All-American Girl, and it's all I'll ever be.
Hannah Suddarth
Caroline Waits for Her Headache to Fade | Oil on Canvas
Repression
Ava Scolaro | poetry
You can’t take back a life you never lived.
Driving down a suburban street as snow falls,
The face of the driver blurred into oblivion.
Picnics under weeping willows, the food is unfamiliar.
Red lines under videos of people I’ve never seen before.
Bits and pieces of video games, Which button lets you go left?
Music saved to my phone wields unfamiliar tones.
Familiar aches in my temple forbid me from the depths of my mind.
All too familiar 4am presents herself as a stranger.
The family on the Christmas card showcases an imposter.
The mind may forget- but muscles do not.
Ink dances into the shape of a name I learned to be mine.
The hallways lead me to class in a blur.
I can’t name roads, but I know how to get home and back.
My phone password typed by the mind of my thumb.
The moon reminds me of memories that are not mine. The sun moves with disregard of my distress.
Stars hold fate of a past life, muddled over my present.
Pictures of my doppelgänger line my walls, Surrounded by familiar faces.
My new life of pitied glances,
A far cry from the beaming eyes staring down at me.
Drawers filled with cotton, Bands I’ve never heard of, Sports I’m sure I don’t play. Team uniforms represent mundane numbers.
My sanity drowned by my mother’s yelling whispers, begging to remember.
It’s so close, achingly hard to grasp, as I climb closer and closer, smiles and laughter sprits further and further away.
Not even the calm of stain glass windows can settle my hazy heart.
The maze of my mind skewed by fits of laughter and bursts of unforeseen emotion. Rights and lefts guided by confusion. The bush morphing into an unbeatable labyrinth, happy to have me in its grasp.
Like a hawk, the eyes of judgment follow my path.
Dreams of parties I didn’t attend haunt me.
Ghosts of the past whisper sweet nothing as I shut my eyes, phantoms of the future discard my being. Masked faces mocking my stance.
It could’ve been a love a lie a loss a little bit of everything really.
In truth it was a disaster a death a denial and a lot of nothing.
It’s like a swirl of endless emotional, ecstasy ending in the pit of a pot.
Wouldn’t it be wondrous to wish? To wish on a star or the moon or to the everlasting sea that hangs above our head?
But what was it that willed us to wish?
It was the reason and it was also the reason why we still have our hearts held in the hollow hole which is our chest.
I’d rather it be ravenous rapturous and relishing.
Explosive or euphoric and exclamatory.
But instead, it is lopsided lumpy and lonely.
Your Pulse
Ruby Lazcano Cortez | creative nonfiction
Ba-dump…..Ba-dump….. Ba-dump.
Sleep always seems to escape me. Doesn’t matter what I do or what I take. I always end up staring at the ceiling. Focusing deeply on my heartbeat. I don’t know exactly when it started … a day after your passing? A week? All I know is whoever I’m with or close to, I can’t go to sleep without first making sure I can feel their heartbeat. And it’s all because of you abuelita.
I remember my heartbeat thumping roughly in my chest as I stared at you, it was the first time you had confused my name for my mother’ s. I laughed it off. But I knew deep down something was wrong. You were getting older, forgetting small things. I couldn’t be mad. You were my Abuela.
Again my heartbeat quickening slightly as I stared at you, watching as you grew confused, your temper growing quickly before my mother walked in. The way my heart beat faster seeing the recognition in your eyes. Your anger dissipating as you understood that you had gotten my name wrong. It made my worry grow but I pushed it aside, hoping for the best. Until we couldn’t ignore it anymore. You confused me with my mom all the time, rarely calling me by my name. It hurt to see that you called everyone else by their name, smiling at them while looking at me with wary. Each time you did my heartbeat quickened as sadness and
slight jealousy began to creep over my shoulder.
The first time you confused my name, I laughed it off thinking nothing of it, I mean, how could I be mad? You were my Abuela, calling me my mother’s name. You were confused, your temper growing quickly before my mother walked in. I remember seeing the recognition in your eyes, your anger dissipating as you understood that you had gotten my name wrong. We quickly noticed the change, but you brushed us off whenever we asked, so we stopped, watching you closely in case of another occurrence. We were quick to notice something was wrong, you confused me with my mom all the time, rarely calling me by my name. It hurt to see that you called everyone else by their name, smiling at them while looking at me with wary.
Not long after you were diagnosed with some level of dementia and cancer, (they never told me how bad it was but I could guess) things started to change for the worse. Each time you called me a different name I would just smile and pretend that was my name trying to keep that smile on your face. But your anger came quickly. I would let it slide, understanding that you were going through something that would cause a lot of strong emotions, but I’ll never forget the first day you accused me of things I wouldn’t dream of doing.
I was sitting in my room watching the newest episode of my favorite show when you called my mother's name loudly. I quickly stood up from my chair, paused the show, and ran out of my room. I remember hearing my controller drop to the floor behind me, but I didn’t care, my heart beating rapidly as I ran down the hall to the room next to mine.
“Manina! Estas bien?” (“Manina! Are you okay?”)
You were urgently looking through your drawer, anger seeping from your small form as you looked up, your finger pointing at me as you yelled, “No fue suficiente que me golpeaste, pero ahora me robaste el dinero mientras que me duermo!” (“It wasn't enough for you that you hit me, but now you stole my money while I was sleeping!”)
I remember the confusion and hurt I felt as you continued to yell at me, zoning out everything around me as slightly as I stared at you, and then I saw your hand raise towards me. I stepped back, bumping into my mother and aunt, their aprons filled with flour from the tortillas they were making from scratch. I remember them pulling me behind them, my aunt rushing to calm my nana down, the only words I heard from my aunt as my mom pulled me back into my room were, “Mama, tu pulso esta muy alto, calmate porfavor.” (“Mom your pulse is too high, please calm down.”)
I was told to stay away from you for the time being, but how could I? No one could take care of you, they were all too busy at work. I
had to suck it up and smile, but I never forced myself, I did it because I love you.
That wasn’t the last time you accused me of things. I was confused but I forgave you, our talks after, (which included your apologies), made me do it, I mean how could I be mad at you? It got worse over time, your anger grew more but you never treated anyone else like you did me. Even when you did I would stand in front of them, making you direct your anger towards me. I slowly got numb to your insults and apologies, but I could still never hate you.
I remember that time you were talking to my friend's mom, the horror passed through her face as you told her about the time I ‘hit’ you and ‘robbed’ you. She left with her daughter not long after that, and my friend told me she had to cut communication with me because of what I did. I remember looking at you sadly, but I didn’t say anything. My mother fixed the mess and I got to see my friend again, but the hurt it caused me didn’t fade away.
Years went by and you got sicker, your dementia slowly getting worse. I took care of you, even if you didn’t want me to. I kept going for those small moments we laughed and relaxed. I remember that our favorite time together was watching Coco. You fell in love with the movie, and you would ask me to sing “Remember Me” with you, even though you would forget the words and mumble gibberish, my hand clasped tightly in yours, your pulse beating slightly against mine. Then you forgot about the movie. I showed it to you again, but it wasn’t the same.
Then you had trouble moving, staying still in bed, and barely talking. We understood what that meant, you were getting closer to leaving us. Everyone took care of you, taking turns, but I was told to stay back. The fight we had a few days before you became bedridden is still fresh in everyone's mind, everyone agreeing to keep me away from you for a bit, for my mental health, and for your health.
The last day I saw you breathing, I decided to come into your room and sit there, holding your hand as the family sat on the other side of the room, murmuring, sadness in the air. You moved slightly to look at me, your hand squeezing mine slightly as you looked at me, a tear falling from your eye. I don’t know what you meant to say but I took it as a “I’m sorry.” I smiled back at you as you let go of my hand and looked back up, I quickly went into my room, crying before wiping my eyes and taking a deep breath, choosing to stay strong for my mother who was taking it the hardest.
“Ve mirala y dile que la perdonas por todo lo que te haya hecho y que la amas.” (“Go see her and tell her that you forgive her for everything that she has done to you and that you love her.”) Those were the first words I heard as I stepped out of my room, my aunt staring at me, a pleading look on her face before she walked away heading towards her siblings. I remember the heart-clenching feeling I got as I stepped closer to the room you were staying in. Yet as I stood there, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I just stared.
My mother and aunts ushered me, but I still couldn’t speak, my hands shaking slightly as
I asked them to leave the room. They oblige as I sit down once again, squeezing your hand, my index and middle finger on your wrist, lightly pressing it as I feel your pulse. I stayed there staring at your hand, my words loud in my head, but my mouth clenched shut. I squeeze your hand after a while, sitting up and kissing your forehead, “Te perdono Manina, vete en paz y sin preocupaciones.” (“I forgive you manina, go in peace and without worries.”) As I walked out of the room I hoped even though I didn’t say them out loud you somehow heard me.
I don’t remember how much time had passed by as I sat in my room, staring blankly into space when a wail sounded from your room. I quickly rush out of my room, stopping before the doorway as my mother kneels before your bed, calling for you. I don’t know how I walked forward, my head rushing with screams of your name, my body telling me to stop as I stood next to my mom, grabbing her hands and wrapping them around me, letting her cry into my stomach. I remember staring at your hand, my hand reaching towards yours, my fingers once again touching your pulse line. Nothing. I could feel the tears in my eyes but they never fell, everything in me screaming at me to let myself cry but I didn’t. I only looked at you, praying to my brother to let you know I forgive you and love you. In that moment I could have sworn I felt something touch my shoulder, and I accepted it as you getting my message. The last time I saw you was at the funeral. As we all stood around your casket they talked about how you would have complained about the makeup, a sad smile on everyone's face as they caressed your face. I was the only one
staring at your wrist, my hand touching your cold one, once again, touching your pulse. Nothing. I let go of your hand, the rest of the stood as I watched as your casket got carefully placed into the hearse to be cremated.
I didn’t cry until my friends pulled me into a hug, the last one holding my head towards his chest. At that moment I broke down. Hearing his heartbeat broke me down, heartraking sobs spilling from my lips as my friends led me away from people, comforting me until I was okay.
Years have gone by since you passed away. I’ve thought back to when you were alive, the fights, and the happy moments. I asked myself many questions, but I’ve let them go unanswered, letting bygones be bygons. I continue to love you, remembering about you as the days pass. Yet, I can’t stop checking for pulses whenever someone sleeps soundly beside me. A part of me wishes it was your heartbeat, but I know you're happy now, and that comforts me. I will forever love you Nana, and I hope that in the future we can meet each other and watch Coco one last time.
V Holecek
Untitled 181 | charcoal on paper
Remembrance
Ari Leigh | poetry
I wanted to forget you in the woods, but there you were. In every leaf and shadow, in the contrast between light-soaked bark and shaded trunk, in ripples in the pines, in heavy-lidded oak leaves and the sudden brilliant yellow-green of sweet gum leaves, your eyes looked back at me.
Above the muddy water pooled in raw and injured clayfive purple dragonflies.
For you, I left the purple morning glory blooming in bare clay, the bitterweed and fleabane on their stems, the kudzu flowers, purple tongues all whispering your name.
Hannah Suddarth
In a Brown Study (Panel 1 and 2) | Oil on Canvas
Losing You
Rachel Hard | poetry
oak tree weeps
embracing it’s leaves in hopes they never fall but the fall is inevitable at this time of year
oak tree weeps
blinded by the beautiful arrays of color that smile faintly moss crawls up her perfect imperfections
oak tree weeps in this beautiful season of grief she stands tall.
Snowfall
Rachel Hard | creative nonfiction
The time we had was brief. If I had known this were the last two hours we would spend together in person, I would have made this time more memorable and treated it with value. I never fully understood what goodbyes meant, and frankly, I still don’t.
It’s cold tonight. It is so cold that the wind pinches my cheeks, and they become numb to the point where I can barely speak when I step outside. But that won’t stop me from visiting my dad. I cannot wait to see him. Living so far from home, spending time with him has been difficult. He also works full-time, so we often play phone tag. I tried calling him, but there was no answer; two minutes later, he tried calling me, but there was no answer. But it’s okay because that’s what holidays are for. It’s always definite during the holidays that we get to see each other.
I always think back to the first time I received the news. “Daddy has cancer.” At nine, you never fully grasp the idea of potentially losing a parent. My dad has always been a healthy and athletic person. He and my mom would run marathons at least twice a year. He always cared for himself, so I never saw losing my father was even in the cards. Even knowing he had cancer, he still looked like my dad. I remember the first time I visited him after his first chemo session in the hospital; the thought of him looking different, whether that meant he would be bald
or pale, made me extremely uneasy. Luckily, the chemotherapy he was taking wouldn’t affect his hair. I remember feeling somewhat relieved that he looked like himself. My dad looked like my dad, and I never thought that would change. It felt like he wasn’t going anywhere because he still looked healthy. Yeah healthy.
I drive up to his house. The place looks exactly how I remembered it a year ago. Nothing has changed, and that is what I love about visiting home. As I pull into the driveway, I see the Christmas lights peeking through the blinds. The snow is already piling onto the roof of my car, and I haven’t even been here for more than a minute. “A white Christmas it will be,” I say.
My family always limited me to the information about my dad’s health. Especially my dad. I know now it’s because he didn’t want me to worry about him and focus on my life. However, I found it incredibly frustrating when other family members knew what was happening months before I did. Thank god for my mom for at least giving me some idea, or I might not even have known he’d had cancer in the first place. She always tried to keep me out of the shadows without stepping too far. Although I enjoyed her being honest with me, I’ll never forget how I felt when she told me my dad’s cancer had become terminal. Terminal. That word destroyed any hope twelve-year-old I still hung onto. My stomach twisted into a million
knots, and I cried all night.
I have to prepare myself for the unknown when walking into this household. The unknown, AKA. Stepmother. My stepmother and I have a complicated relationship due to her drinking problems and the fact that she always has found excuses to shut me out of her and my dad’s life. I’m not sure what she’s had against me, and I try not to hold grudges, but I sometimes find it difficult with this woman. Before I came back home, my dad and I originally made a plan for me to go up to their house for at least five days while I was back. A week before I left Arizona, I got a text from him saying plans had changed, apologizing, and I could tell he felt terrible. Apparently, Chara (my stepmom) wanted alone time and said I could only visit on Christmas Eve. Make that make sense; oh wait, it doesn’t.
This wasn’t new. I’ve had to deal with this since they started dating. It got to the point where my mom ended up getting full custody of me since I was rarely welcomed in her home.
The door opens …
Due to my dad’s cancer being terminal, he had to go through multiple surgeries during my high school years. His cancer was spreading like garden weeds throughout his organs. So quickly, doctors struggled to keep up. I remember one of his most intensive surgeries. He was taken to Sloan Kettering Hospital in New York City, which is known to be one of the top cancer treatment centers in the country. God, I hate hospitals, though. I wasn’t a fan of the smell of the fluorescent lights and long
hallways. Not to mention, every time I’ve visited a hospital, it most likely was because my dad wasn’t doing well. As much as I hated the looks of the place, I knew he was in good hands. His doctors gave me a little science lesson that day, one I wasn’t quite prepared to take notes on. Of course, doctors have absolutely no filters most of the time and tend not to sugarcoat. I’ve grown used to adults’ sugar-coating information to keep my “fragile” mind safe, so this was a change of pace for me that, frankly, I don’t think I was prepared to hear. This surgery involved multiple fatality risks since they had to take his organs out of him and put them back into place. I’m not religious, but I would be lying if I didn’t say I prayed that day.
My dad let me in the house, although he didn’t look like he did the last time I walked there. He’s pale, and his face looks gaunt. I’m realizing I prepared myself for the wrong type of unknown. Nothing could prepare me for this. Although quite taken aback, I stare at his smile and his eyes, the same ones I’ve seen and laughed with my entire life. He’s still my dad. I smile back. “ I missed you, Daddio,” I say. “I missed you too, kiddo.” He replies.
His surgery and recovery went well, and for the next few years, life was great. Doctors were saying this surgery might have saved him an extra ten years. He turned fifty, so at this rate, they thought he could live well into his sixties and potentially his seventies. For the first time in forever, I didn’t have this cloud of worry hanging over my head; instead, there was a ray of hope. Life felt easy and right. Hope looked good on my family.
It always felt nice to have quality one-on-one time with Dad. Sitting on the couch with him and watching goofy films were things we had permanently bonded over. I’ve been waiting for this day. He was waiting to giggle and hear his contagious laughter. One of our favorite films we’d watch at least three times a year, specifically on Father’s Day, was Troll 2. A movie my dad says, “It’s a movie so bad that it’s so good.” And he was right. From the acting to the terrible scripting and sound effects, what’s not to love? He puts Troll 2 on the TV, and the giggle fest begins. My heart feels full seeing him smile. By his looks, I know he’s not doing well, and I know he’s hurting, but right now, my dad and I are together, which is what matters.
It was my sophomore year of college when the cancer started spreading again. At this point, none of the treatments were working anymore. The doctors are saying he may have about six more months to live. How did it go from ten years to six months? I was so confused and frustrated that my tears didn’t even form in time. The life I knew to feel easy had come crashing into a nuclear warzone of emotions. One no outsider would even dare to enter. If it weren’t for my family, my boyfriend, and therapy, I wouldn’t have known how to escape the depression I fell into. I felt so selfish to cry because I wasn’t the one dying; it was my dad. I didn’t feel I had the right to be this upset if he was sick. The worst part was that he was hurting, and I was hundreds of miles away. I wanted to go home so badly, but finals were just around the corner, and my dad told me it would make him feel worse if he knew I skipped them to see him. I listened and stayed in Arizona.
My mom constantly gave me updates; when he was feeling up for it, I’d call my dad to check on him. Talking on the phone took a lot out of him, so our conversations were always sweet yet brief. Like always, he never spoke about his sickness; he was more concerned about how I was doing. Classic Dad. You wouldn’t think he was sick to begin with because of the way he talked. He made our conversations feel like they’ve always felt. It was comforting. So comforting, I dreaded the conversation that was to come from others about him, especially with my stepmom, because, like the doctors, she held nothing back. She called me one day after class to let me know we didn’t have much time left and if I wanted to see him, it would have to be soon. I called my mom in tears. She already heard the news. Her voice cracked as she said, “I hate that you’re hurting. I’ll get you home as soon as possible, sweetie.” I got on a plane the next week and returned to Vermont the longest plane ride of my life. My head was racing with a million thoughts. It wasn’t until I saw my mom that my mind went still. I started to break down and cry in the middle of the airport. My therapist says It’s essential never to hold those tears back because releasing them can be the best kind of natural detoxification you can give to your body and mind, boogers and all, which is gross yet oddly pleasant.
The clock reads 7 pm on my phone. I made plans with my mom’s side of the family on Christmas Eve night but felt guilty for wanting to leave. Nothing my dad has said makes me think this way, but it’s just that I know I won’t see him again until February, and by that time, who knows how long he’ll have. Chara must be in a good mood tonight because she just offered me to stay the night. I politely declined and told her
I actually should be going. It’s been two hours, but I just got there.
I go in for a hug before I leave. He feels so frail and skinny. I could feel his backbone sticking out; he was so cold. I now know what dying looks like. My dad was dying. Of course, I’ve always known this, but it’s never felt so real or close.
The minute I got home, I was told by Chara that I needed to quarantine at my mom’s for two weeks before I could see my dad. She was my dad’s security guard. No one was allowed into the house unless they got past her first. Those two weeks went by fast, and I was so ready to see him by then. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy, oh no. Turns out I got COVID! Woohoo! So, of course, another two weeks ago, but this time exceptionally slowly. During this “second” quarantine, I called my dad when he was up for it. It was now February and close to his birthday, so I called him to wish him a happy birthday. He was so pleased that day, although he sounded fatigued. We talked about our usual. I told him I withdrew from school this semester because of everything that’s been happening. He understood. He knew school was my priority but knew that I was struggling with everything going on.
I’m in my car now, and all I can think about is how weak he felt when I hugged him. The tears start falling one by one uncontrollably down my cheeks. I wipe them off so I can see the road clearer. As my eyes begin to clear, I see snowfall. Softly and slowly onto my car windshield. Each snowflake gracefully lies before turning into water droplets. It’s hard to admire
such beauty when all you can think about is losing your father. This may have been the last time I ever got to see him. I just have this feeling that I should have stayed a little longer. I can’t explain it, but only that It felt like a permanent goodbye. My mom hollers to me to come downstairs. I walk down, and with each step, I feel my stomach curl more and more. She sits me down on the bed. “Chara says she is no longer taking any visitors. You can’t see your dad anymore. I’m so sorry. This is so unfair to you.” She starts to choke up, and I stare at her in awe at what she just said. I could hear my heart pounding; the room felt so quiet. Then I start sobbing in her lap. A twenty-one-year-old adult curled into her mother’s lap. That felt right. No words could explain what I was feeling that day. I flew out there to see my dad, and I couldn’t even see him for a minute. Just like she’s done my entire life, she’s shut me out of his life again. It was pure torture in my eyes. Reality started to kick in as I realized I could never hug him again. We were all furious that day and with my birthday coming up, my mother said, “Fuck this; if you can’t see your dad, we’re getting you out of this state.” We went to South Carolina the next day, accompanied by many loved ones and family. It was a great way to take my mind off of things.
At this point, my dad was in an unconscious state, but we were told he could still hear. Once in a while, I had sent him recordings of my voice, asking him how he was doing and telling him how much I missed him. I even sent him the sounds of the waves crashing when I went to the beach since there’s none in Vermont. It's just something to soothe him, at least. I struggled to keep it together that whole week, but I was thankful to have my family with me.
He passed in his sleep on February 19th, 2023, at 5 am, only two days after my birthday. I like to think he held it out. “A warrior,” my grandparents and I call him. He fought to the end, and I am so proud to be his daughter. Although that day was probably the worst day of my life, the thought of knowing he wasn’t in pain anymore brought me some peace.
I had a dream the night I got back to Vermont. The snow fell slowly like it did that Christmas Eve night. In the dream, my dad stood out the
window, staring at the snow. He looked healthy. I stood beside him, and he smiled at me with that familiar grin. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he says. I wake up. The trees are blanketed with snow, and everything looks exactly like it did in the dream. Some may say it was just a dream, but I know it was a sign from him letting me know he was okay. Every time the snow falls, I think back to last Christmas Eve and that dream, reminding myself that there was never supposed to be a goodbye. My dad didn’t go anywhere; he’s always been right here.
It moves on
Yuda Wang | poetry
Beneath the same sky, stars spun from dreams unknown, Bright constellations pulse in unique undertones, Waltzing through the boundless ballroom of space, Dancing to melodies only they embrace.
Each tongue, a river, carving paths through the soul, Flowing with words that hold stories untold, Mingling in oceans of yearning and lore, Weaving cities of hope, temples evermore.
But like mist in the dawn, the grandeur fades, As a people forsake the paths they once made. Ancient tongues turned to whispers, dimmed and frail, Traditions erode like castles to gale.
Songs once sung now sigh in despair, Mourning a culture that hangs in thin air. Through the fall of empires and vanishing rites, We stand unbroken, igniting new lights.
For loss is a cycle, not the end of our thread, Old songs may fade, but new ones are bred. We rise from the silence, we dance through the pain, Creating, re-shaping our paths once again.
What are we but living, yearning, fleeting things? Mayfly creatures in twilight’s brief swing, But still, we’ll keep praying our voices remain That for those who come after, there’s joy in the rain.
Izabella Wiley
a desert's nightfall | photography
I am Enough
Kessiah Meeks | poetry
I stand before you, in all my blackness, and all my womanness, I am not limited by the representation, or lack of, I am bigger than the comical narratives, Bigger than being strong, or black, or dark skin, or light skin
Bigger than the constraint of being pretty for a…
I am beautiful
More beautiful than flat irons, and hot combs on Easter Sunday More beautiful than the ridicule behind, “you must be mixed with something” … I am secure
More secure than the insecurities I once absorb from society’s ignorance
More secure to choose self-preservation over self-deprivation
And I will continue to make spaces for my sisters that stand behind me
We must allocate these spaces to strive
Black Girl Magic.
Magic Black
We thrive here
Even in such limitations.
We are here between the crossroads of being black and being a woman
And no. it is not the same
We are constantly overlooked
Underappreciated
And adversely overrepresented, limitless allegations of A jezebel, a matriarch, a mammy, and a Sapphire.
We are neither
And We are all
As everyone else is
We are vulnerable
And there is strength in our vulnerability.
Statue of Artemis (Huntington Gardens)
Julia Porter-Kaplan | photography
Brigitte De Marco
Playful Saguaro | acrylic
Adaptation
Cassandra Brandt | poetry
I recall my Darwin on the darkest of days
Looking down on my lifeless legs
These arms that once showcased my strength “It’s not the strongest that survives–
But the one that’s the most able to adapt to change”.
I wouldn’t say I’ve reached sage stage
Amor fati; love my fate
But I could take or leave em some days- these arms and legs
I’m still top of the old food chain
I’m human; brain my biggest flex anyway
We didn’t earn our place with muscles but minds
And these can be cultivated to beautiful places with time
These appendages could be amputated instead
I still wish on dandelions
When my world blows them my way
But I don’t wish for more
Than the warmth of the winter sun on my face
It dries the tears I still cry
Because growth is hard as hell
But the alternative to adaptation is
Becoming a ghost in this shell
In my dreams I’m always walking
But I don’t wake in heartache
I appreciate the memory and embrace the Change
I’ve been gifted with time to pursue my real passions
Opportunities for mental growth like few can imagine
Obsession with motor function insults my best asset
And it’s all but subsided as I’ve prioritized, grown and adapted
Almost irrelevant to this talking head
Pity Party
Cassandra Brandt | poetry
She extends her invitations every day
Bugging me belligerently from the back of my brain
Oh baby girl, just hate the big bad world
It’s caused you so much undeserved pain
When the skies are blue and my heart is light
She makes me dread the weight it takes on in the dark of night
When her voice is loud; it screams and cries
Calls every limitation in my life to mind
And oh it’s so easy to give in to her arguments
I often still finish in tears when she starts it
She swears it’s some kind of catharsis
But I don’t enjoy these pity parties
So I train my brain to leave that place
Endure the flaming arrows of fate with grace
Leave Pity to her tears and save my face
I have left behind those party days
I don’t have the time to waste on activities so trivial
And I know where it will go if I entertain her a little
So I choose another thought and I get to work
I put more on my plate now than before I got hurt
Because distraction is the purest antidote for what ails you
And when it’s more than a means to an end it never fails to
Provide an outlet via education and production and creation
Fill a hurting heart with self worth and validation
So party hard Pity but leave me out
There is so much in my power despite your doubts
I still aim to gain more than I have lost
And I can’t do that while carrying your cross
Legs
Cassandra Brandt | poetry
Now I never cease to be taken by surprise
Every time they look down on me with pity in their eyes
Because I know if they could see inside
Their own surprise would be more than mild
This is me living my best life
And don’t get me wrong I had wilder times
Whirlwind romances, an exciting career, travel
Living it up until that the car hit loose gravel
Knocked me off my ass and into this chair
Stripped me of almost everything about which I cared
But new perspective was waiting in a searching mind
That had been preserved though the body defiled
But a new kind of joy was waiting in the wings
Unattached to typical shallow strings
Because you don’t know who you are until life breaks you
If it doesn’t you’ll never comprehend the true grit that makes you
This enormously adaptable human being
Surviving and thriving and in no need of pity
Almost impossible to see the light when you’re deep in hell
It’s hard to find the hero stuck deep in yourself
It’s hard to reach up and pull someone else out
But it eases your pain and it heals your self doubt
To search for that peace and pay forward what you find
To put to work what you got left: your mind
I have learned to exist just fine in mine
Still they look on my body so sedentary and supine
Look at my mobility equipment like I’m so confined
No this body is just a vessel for my brain
Don’t worry about this chair it’s just my legs
I still enjoy a good meal and the sun on my face
Got a brand new career that validates
Really just leave your pity at the gate
You know what they say about assuming shit mate…
Mixed Feelings
Dakota Allred | fiction
Two medium popcorns and two medium drinks. That’ll be $23.48. Any syrup in the drinks? It’s an extra $5 each, $10 if you want happiness.”
“I’ll have some fear in mine, please,” Josh said.
Cassie looked down, hesitating. “Some courage for me, if that’s alright.”
The tired cashier confirmed, “So, fear in the Coke and courage in the Fanta?”
“Guess so,” Josh said, his face unable to mask his annoyance.
“Your total is 33.48.” The cashier began scooping popcorn into buckets and preparing their drinks.
“I thought you said you’d try fear this time,” Josh whispered loudly to Cassie.
Cassie winced, noticing the cashier slow down to eavesdrop. “Josh, I’m already going to feel plenty of fear. You know I don’t like horror movies.”
“You don’t even know if you like horror movies. You just drink courage the whole time and then complain the plot is bad.”
The plots were bad, but Cassie didn’t say so.
“The point of horror movies is to be scared!” Josh said angrily.
Josh had gotten his drivers’ license this summer, and was now an expert on all things. Cassie knew arguing with him was pointless. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll try it next time.”
“You better.”
The cashier placed the food and drinks on the counter. “Enjoy the movie.”
Miranda woke up feeling sick. Not just physically, but mentally. Swamped with fear, pain, and shame. There was a warm cup of tea on her nightstand, and she started to drink it. Her husband made her tea every morning. Ginger. It was supposed to be good for headaches and nausea. Maybe it was just a placebo, but it always helped. She was happy to have him.
They’d been married for six years now. Miranda would easily consider the last four of those the best years of her life. The first couple had been rocky, but ever since it all came to a head and Liam had promised to do better, their marriage had been heaven. Every morning a cup of tea and kisses before he went off to work. Even when he was busy, there was always a cup of tea.
Head clear now, Miranda got dressed and went to the kitchen. Liam was already awake, watching the news on the couch. She got to work on breakfast.
“They’re saying they’re close to making apathy,” Liam said offhandedly. “I know you don’t understand how it all works, but distilling emotions is really quite complex. Trying to distill apathy is like trying to make white by mixing colors together.”
Miranda had heard this about fifteen times before, but she loved to hear him talk. She’d also
learned not to interrupt. And not to burn the eggs.
Today was the fifth anniversary of Grandpa Ronnie’s death. Wade was holding a picture frame and a tin of pills. The sixteen-year-old boy in this picture, sandy blonde and smiling wide, had been devastated when the old man next to him had passed away. A light in his eyes had gone out that day. He was sure it was never coming back.
It was back now. His doctor told him so. Indeed, with a clean-shaven face and a freshly swept house, there was no sign of any distress on Wade’s part. He’d emerged from the darkest part of his life and just kept going. Nothing bad had happened at all. He felt normal. Numb.
Wade threw the tin he was holding at the wall. Tiny white circles scattered and rolled around the floor as it came open. He was tired of feeling like everything was okay.
“Now, now. It’ll still be cake,” Mrs. Weaver admonished. “And it’ll still be yummy. But it’ll never be done if you keep pestering me. Go play while I bake, alright?”
Sally and Soren shared a concerned look but agreed to go play anyway.
“Momma, did you buy happiness to put in the frosting?” Sally asked.
“It made the cake taste extra yummy at Mary’s party!” Soren added.
Mrs. Weaver tried to keep her face neutral. “I’m sorry, girls. I couldn’t get any happiness for your birthday. The store was all out.”
“All out of happiness?” Soren exclaimed.
“This is a cat-stra-sto-phe!” Sally said, her blue eyes wide as saucers. “The cake is ruined without happiness in it!”
“The Revenant” wasn't any more interesting than “Behind You.” Or “Un-Exorcised.” Or “Fall of Endless Night.” The characters were flat, the plot was riddled with holes, and Cassie’s boyfriend yelped at every cheap jump scare. The syrups the movie theater served were relatively cheap, but there would still be an extra charge for any refills. That meant Cassie had to ration her drink to last the whole movie or risk watching in fear. Normally, she was quite good at that. But this “Revenant” guy was scary. She’d guzzled down almost all of her drink a minute ago during a chase scene. It seemed silly now, but she knew (if not feared, yet) how things would be when the liquid courage wore off. Josh would make fun of her again. Maybe he’d tell his stupid friends what a coward she was again. And she’d cry alone at night wondering how to make him happy. Again.
Cassie took the last sip of her drink. She stood up.
“Cassie, sit down.”
“...No. We’re done. Don’t call me.”
Josh stared at her blankly as she left the theater, screams echoing behind her.
“If you hadn’t undercooked my eggs, I wouldn’t have been in a bad mood!”
“My eggs are not the reason you mouthed off to your boss, Liam!”
“I would still have a job if you would just do yours!” Liam roared. Miranda saw him move but froze in place. No matter how many times this happened, her reflexes never sharpened. She felt her cheek ache and her head jerk. She recoiled, but waited.
Like clockwork, Liam’s eyes filled with guilt. Remorse. He nearly started to cry.
“Miranda... Listen, I don’t want to fight. I just lost control, is all. How about I make you some tea and then we can talk this out, alright?”
“Whatever.” Miranda’s head was pounding again. Maybe tea would help.
---
“There are five stages of grief, Wade. Some people get stuck in one of them as they’re processing. You’ve gotten stuck in the ‘depression’ stage. The way to fix that is we can artificially boost you into the last stage: Acceptance. You’ll take one pill every day until you’re able to wake up without this hopeless feeling you’ve been telling me about. Then, you’ll take some grief in small doses to help you naturally process things.”
“Why can’t you just give me happy pills?”
“Happiness is a terribly addictive substance. We don’t prescribe it in large doses unless absolutely necessary. You just need to be able to move on.”
cream on the side and cherries on top and sing “Happy Birthday” while the twins blew out their seven candles. It didn’t matter. There was no “smiley syrup” to top it all off.
There had been some at the store. Somehow, they were never out. But every year since its invention, it had gotten more and more expensive. Now, Mrs. Weaver simply couldn’t afford happiness anymore. What a failure of a mother she was. She could buy them the toys they’d wanted and the sneakers that lit up when they walked, but because she couldn’t buy that syrup, Sally and Soren’s birthday was ruined. She wondered if maybe they would have preferred to have a spoonful of syrup and nothing else.
It wouldn’t be enough. Mrs. Weaver could make the cake blue and purple. She could make it half chocolate, half vanilla. She could serve it with ice
Josh felt Cassie’s absence in the empty seat next to him. He’d barely touched his drink. The movie had been a lot scarier than he thought. Now his pulse quickened further. It was hard to breathe. Everything around him became white noise. He was alone. Completely alone. His friends would say, “Good riddance.” If that’s what friends were, screw them all. He loved Cassie. How did he mess this up? Why was he such an idiot? He always did this! She was the one good person who tolerated him and now he was back to fake smiles and assholes. What had he done wrong? Why couldn’t he stop crying? Why were his hands shaking?
Miranda’s hands trembled as she took a sip of the tea Liam had made her. He sat across from her. She couldn’t lift her eyes to look at him. The ginger was stronger than usual. It wasn’t unpleasant, though. It was nice of Liam to make her tea when he was in such obvious distress. She
smiled up at him. She couldn’t believe she’d gotten so lucky.
Wade hadn’t felt this good in years.
Wade had to search every desk drawer in his small bedroom before he found the other tin of pills. They looked the same as the “Acceptance” ones, but the label on these was something Wade had long forgotten. “Grief.” He put one small white circle in his palm. Before he could second guess himself, he put it in his mouth and swallowed hard.
Someone had put a black hole inside Wade’s ribs. Tears streamed down his face. He missed Grandpa Ronnie. He missed him fiercely, like he had all those years ago. He’d forgotten what it was like to ache like this. He’d really loved his grandfather. It hurt so much. A warm feeling chest, though the tears didn’t
“Fear not, citizens of Stufflandia!” Soren the Brave exclaimed. “I am here to save you from the evil Mr. Squiggles!”
“Save us!” Sally wailed, shaking a pile of small stuffed animals in terror.
“Charge!” Soren cried, running valiantly at the teddy bear sitting on a throne of foam blocks. She missed the beast with her foam sword entirely, and it sat undefeated.
There was silence for a moment as the two girls looked at each other, eyes wide.
Downstairs, icing the cake, Mrs. Weaver heard her children laughing.
Izabella Wiley
goblins in the sand | photography
Desert Queen
Beth Henshaw | poetry
Traffic cone orange was my first favorite color. As a kid, I always ran out of the orange crayola first. Stealing my brother’s peach crayon was my first ritual. How was I to know this would lead me to live in a slickrock desert with cliffs the colors of my beloved crayons.
I am a desert queen, calloused and curious. I walk with the wisdom of a barren landscape, dotted with life. I walk with a heart full of hope.
The tangerine canyon walls know patience, as do I. We wait for water with our toes buried in the salmon sand, without worry.
I have weathered months of quiet solitude in the desert as if it were my duty to the little girl who smashed orange crayons into paper. That girl who knew nothing of native orange. The girl who thought her favorite color could only be found on highways when the road workers came to town.
That little girl is here with me now in the open desert with towering apricot cliffs sprawled out in every direction. We belly laugh at the globe mallows glistening. We giggle at the rocks the size of buildingsall a wildly bright orange against the gentle blue sky.
We are as soft as the setting sun’s glow. Held by the coral cliffs, we bow our heads in thanks. Gathering sand in our hands, we cover our legs in a blanket of earth. Resting our heads against the sun kissed rocks, we lay awake, fighting sleep. Not wanting to miss a second of this show of traffic cone orange.
Holger Pleus
Feeding Doves | photography
A portrait of my parents before me
Kristen Therese Chua | poetry
It’s easy to forget people were young once
Especially your family, my family
Especially when my idea of my mother is
Prudent, formal, a sensible pantsuit, a stethoscope
She smells like the hospital, she’s wearing heels
They click as she walks down the hallway from the garage
The door swings open and the idea of my father walks in too
He too smells like a physician, his accent’s gone, a sterile quality
My parents smile at me, not a wrinkle in their lab coats
Pristine and proper, the swoop of my mother’s hair steeled in place
Hairspray and hair gel, my father’s curls hidden under the layer of
Professionalism, gone with the water
Gone in this photo, my idea of them erased
Since when were parents ever young?
Hard to imagine but easy to indulge when I’m seeing
My parents, their hair swept away in the rush of the wind
Clinging to a guard rail, their mouths agape, water scattered
Across their front, as they barrel down Splash Mountain together
I can hear the echo of their laughter as it turns to screams
Of glee and see the waves speckle the glass of their spectacles
They can’t see now, they don’t know now, how far they are for the bottom
And I’m sitting there, maybe somewhere in the back row
Allowing myself to let go, my hands above my head, granting gravity
A chance to take away the idea of my parents, take me along with them
And together we three race to the end, hair plastered to our scalps
And everyone smells like a river under the sun
And my parents won’t see me as we disembark
Though soon they’ll bear me, for that was their idea
Kept hidden, but I can see in this moment from Disney
From whose love I am born from
Lynz Ramish
Breathless | colored pencil on paper
The heart beats the both
Tajalla Qureshi | poetry
The Heart beats the both!
Hey!
You are a fragrance,
Fragrance of Love and Romance
Glimpses of eternity entertain the dazzling dance
The sensation of beauty compels him to glance
Her imperfection imprints the divine phase
Dwells deep in his heart to rephrase
Overwhelming vibes unable to trace
Ah! Her melodious voice grabbed the grace
Rosey lips are the secret cluster
Utterance utters and flutters
His heart leaps the holy luster
A sudden blink of eye mutters
Eyes appealingly invite to that windy night
Fragrance of love decides, the delicious bite
Sweetness smoothly strikes, and the innocent fight
Even the Moon and stars blush, a bit bright
Heart speaks to the heart
Eyes dream the dreamy start
One heaps and other leaps the art
Darkness drives and enchanting smiles on their part
Innocence glitters till the love twitters
Drops of holy concerns swiftly glitters
A warmth hug energizes the skinny splitters
Essence of Love ignites the artistic flutters
Hence!
The birds and butterflies visit the ravishing slide
A window of melodious miles opens to guide
All up in their minds, the love stuck inside
Her expressions and his eyes hold the holy tides.
Starry Night Skin
Charlie Pluto | poetry
growing up i had really bad acne it started in early middle school and progressed to my junior high
i was a cheerleader for some time in the 5th & 6th grade co-captain actually i, being young and ignorant, didn’t wear sunscreen this caused my acne ridden forehead to burn burn darker than the rest of my face giving me one of my biggest insecurities at the time
8th grade rolls around a few days before my 14th birthday you, i, and 2 friends who i happened to date at some point or another went to the denver aquarium we’re a group of mostly fags and i learn you were question your sexuality and i would be you potential type i, was rebecca lewis’ questionably queer type
we all go back to your place and play truth or dare as middle schoolers do you ended up being my first (well first three) kiss(es)
though we kissed on the lips a few times that’s not what stuck out to me that night you kissed my darkened acne ridden forehead because you saw the night sky where i saw insecurity it was because of you i came to love my constellations realizing my skin was splattered with stars
Charlie Pluto
starry night skin |
Lynz Ramish
Irreversible | acrylic paint, colored pencil and sharpie on paper
A magical lapse of love
Tajalla Qureshi | poetry
The morning bells in the soft ears for so longing, As it dwells in the heart for its belongings
The more it bells, the more it mingles and attracts And swings in the middle for being reflect
Like a dress of lights and delights sent by Mavin Ella’s love rings high, as the melodies whisper
More than an ember of embrace slightly kisses her Eyes with sweet honey from hives of heal
Seems, she seats between an orchard of Lillies And reads the cozy letters of Young Mavin, Moving fingers from the first letter to the end one Pleasure is priceless and moments are in a bun
Mavin’s fingers pour perfume on letters for her
With love lights and a fusion of fireflies as flur Sending sensations of moonlight, as she strikes
Ella’s eyes, tinny chin, and red cheeks are in likes
A sweet love song is written here with inner charm And the fragrance of holiness hurries the warm
As holdups for years to come and clasps the urge Mavin knows her eyes submerging the merge
Tabitha Graf
Pink Poppies | acrylic
Constant Craving
Sophia McGovern | creative nonfiction
Perfect plum, hanging on the tree, I long to taste you.
My body is ripening with expectant life, and you should fear me. I do not crave anything pickled or fried, tangy or spicy. Instead, I think only of you. Of walking barefoot in the grass of your orchard, the chill air of fall quickening my pace as I search and search.
There, in the center of a cluster, you will blush, supple in the morning light. My hand will rise. My fingers will grasp your curves, twisting you away from the safety of your branch. My teeth will sink into your flesh, and your blood will drip ecstatically down my chin.
Please know I am not to blame for this violent end, nor is the little one kicking with pleasure inside of me. Encouraged by human hands, your mother-tree raised you to be destroyed–either to rot on the ground, forgotten, or give some animal, like me, the earthliest of delights.
For now, though, soak in the sun and the rain you love so much. Cherish your sweet days of flowerhood and savor your dalliances with pollinator-suitors. Feel your body transform with absolute magic, shedding the skirt of petals you once knew.
Perfect plum, though I hunger for you, I can never have you. In a desert, far from your home, I must walk to my fridge instead. There, hand on my growing belly and linoleum underfoot, I will settle for one of your uglier, less fortunate sisters.
Mother’s Pomegranate
Jiacheng Hu | poetry
As I split open the pomegranate, reminding when I was a young boy, that first tasting, red lanterns out of the window, reflecting a warm and sweet daylight we were bathing.
It was you who broke the round belly for me. Oh! Jade and agates tumbled beside my feet. Red as your lips where you pointed and told me, say this round, swollen husk was its belly, say the children brimming within, are all its seeds.
We chewed eagerly, I chewed for my curiosity. I was only worrying about it : "Don't swallow it, don't swallow it, the children's bones with pity!" The flesh, dry and bitter while seeds are juicy.
But once they got separated for too much long, They turned the same bitterness at the tongue. Today, the sun has been tiring, tough ages come for the pomegranate trees and so their beauties, the crystal clear seeds have no one to pass me on.
After I left, recalling my mother in the memory: "But I only got one seed, and that's you, Jeffrey." My mother you were saying that in mourn, and oh! How I am the only bitter heart you've borne!
Tabitha Graf
Pomegranate | oil pastels
To Live in Tedium
Allison Dean | blackout poetry
Crossing a very inconvenient world, a game that never ends. You’re satisfied. It’s easy to live, yet nothing in it: chores and tedium.
The soul is what you make of it.
A slice of communityof the world.
This poem is a work of blackout poetry sourced from page 3 of Kelsey Lewin’s Animal Crossing Grammar and punctuation have been adjusted for clarity, but all words remain in their original work on the opposite page for reference.
I N T R O D U C T I O N
"ANIMAL CROSSING IS A VERY inconvenient world," admits series director Katsuya Eguchi. Some say it's a game that can never be completed, and others say it's a game that ends when you're satisfied. It's an easy world to live in and yet nothing in it comes easy. Its critics say it's a game of chores and tedium, and its biggest fans say it's an extension of the soul. In fairness, these are all probably true, because Animal Crossing is not a game that forces you to do much of anything. Much like life itself, Animal Crossing is what you make of it.
That's...a weird way to describe a video game, but no matter how you slice it, Animal Crossing is tough to explain. You move into town as the sole human in a village full of anthropomorphic animal neighbors, each with their own personalities. It's a small, simple community where everyone knows each other, and that's all you get---there's no exploring the rest of the world. The game is set on a clock system synced to the real world, so when there's a holiday in the real world, there's a holiday
Holger Pleus
Working Hands | photography
Hazael Gomes
Hyacinth | digital art
Leave it by the Beach
Mia Perias | poetry
Let’s go down to the beach
Leave our worries
Let’s go have fun
Let’s not have to cry
Let’s go down to the beach
Leave everything
Let’s meet by the deep blue sea
Feel the breeze
Under the sun
My feet by the shoreline
Just one more step into the blue
Just one more step and then I’m submerged
My aches and worries
They’re now a memory
I hold in me
Let me stay beneath the waves
Let me stay by the golden sand
Let me stay back and dream
Come along with me
And let’s go
And let’s make
Some more happy memories
No need to cry
It will all be okay
I long to stay
But I know that we’ll have to go away
So maybe again one day
We can meet by the deep blue sea
Come along with me
And let’s go
And let’s make
Some more happy memories
Even if it hurts
It will all be okay
I wish we could stay
But you know that soon I’ll have to go away
If you forget me one day
May that memory rest by the beach
Alyx Germonchik
Old Dreams | digital art
The Japanese Garden (Huntington Gardens)
Julia Porter-Kaplan | photography
Tabitha Graf
Crane | relief print
Broken Wing
Anna Pellerin | fiction
The blue jay’s screams tore through the house before Dorothy could explain herself to Momma.
“Calm down!” Dorothy said as the bird thrashed inside the canary cage, shrieking when his wings slapped the metal bars. The force of his fighting made the eleven year-old stagger.
“What are you doing?” Momma shouted as Dorothy stumbled into the kitchen. She sat at the island, hands pressed over her ears. She flinched when the bird gave another piercing cry.
“What are you doing?” she repeated.
“Do we have bread?” Dorothy asked, barely audible above her bird.
“Dorothy, don’t give that thing our food!”
“I wanna calm him down. He’s hurt!”
Dorothy plopped the canary cage onto the island’s plastic countertop, then dashed into the pantry.
“Put it back outside now,” Momma said as Dorothy returned, a loaf of plastic-wrapped white bread in hand.
“He’s scared!”
Dorothy tore open the bread’s packaging, seized a slice, and shoved it between the bars
of the canary cage. She yanked her hand back as the jay lashed blue, black, and white wings at her. As the bread flopped onto the cage floor, the jay flew up, hovering over the bread before collapsing onto it. He ruffled his feathers, then pecked at the bread, again, again, and fell quiet.
“I did it,” Dorothy breathed while Momma cautiously pulled her hands from her ears. The girl smiled and pumped her fists into the air. “I did it!”
“Where’d you find that thing?” Momma asked.
“Out in the yard. I got Toto’s cage out of the shed.”
Momma had scooted to the edge of the island, as far from Dorothy’s new pet as possible. Envelopes, a notebook, pen, and cellphone were scattered across the countertop, covered in a smattering of glossy quills. Momma’s eyes were narrowed, making the purple skin beneath them pooch out.
“So you bring it inside?” she asked. “Dorothy, why would you mess with that thing? It’s a wild animal, and birds carry diseases. And now its feathers are all over my house.”
“He’s hurt,” Dorothy repeated.
The jay’s eyes reminded her of pennies, copper-colored and perfectly circular. A ring of red-veined white encompassed his irises, and his plump gray chest heaved. His right wing
stuck out at an awkward angle, the feathers rumpled like he’d slept on them for too long.
“His poor little wing,” Dorothy said. “We need to take him to a vet.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, his wing really looks ” Dorothy began, only to snap her mouth shut when she looked up.
Momma grimaced so hard her wrinkles cut channels through her forehead. Dorothy choked the rest of her sentence down so quickly her stomach clenched.
“Dorothy.” She grabbed one of the envelopes, whisking away the feathers, and shook it.
“Baby, I’m trying to pay bills. Daddy’s late on child support again, so we can’t afford much of anything right now, let alone a blue jay.”
Dorothy’s shoulders tightened around her neck, her gaze dropped to the floor. Momma hadn’t been complaining about Daddy lately, so Dorothy had been sure he’d been being good about child support.
Her feet were dirty from her trip outside, bits of grass stuck to her toes, dirt smeared across her skin and the tile floor. Dorothy pouted. Momma would be angry about that, too.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything about it,” Momma said. “Please, just leave me be for a bit so I can take care of this.”
Paper rustled, and Dorothy lifted her head. Momma was still scowling, but she’d shifted her focus to the bill in her hand. The paper
stuck far enough out of the envelope for Dorothy to spot the red “OVERDUE” superimposed over “Mortgage” Momma’s least favorite bill.
As Momma scrutinized the numbers, Dorothy reached across the island for her cellphone. Momma’s gaze darted back to her as she typed in the passcode.
“You know you’re supposed to ask to use my phone.”
“I’m sending pictures of my bird to my friends.”
Dorothy exited the calculator app and opened the camera. She snapped a few pictures, then typed into her friends’ group chat, “I got a new pet!”
The school year started in a few weeks, and for once Dorothy was excited. She hadn’t seen Claire, Natalie, or Georgia since the beginning of summer. Three weeks ago, she bumped into Claire and Natalie at the grocery store, but Dorothy didn’t count that.
Her last few messages had gone unanswered, but Dorothy knew her friends would want to meet her new pet. She loved playing with Claire’s cat when they had sleepovers, and the other girls used to enjoy playing with Toto when he’d been around.
“Why?” Momma said as Dorothy pressed send “You’re not keeping it.”
“Why not?” Dorothy asked. “I haven’t had a pet since Toto. That was forever ago.”
“Pets are expensive, and blue jays are wild animals. They’re not meant to be pets. Besides, blue jays are mean. They attack other birds. I’m gonna take a shower. I need a break.” Momma dropped the mortgage bill, sighing. “I want that thing back outside by the time I’m out. Clean up all these feathers, plus the dirt you tracked all over the floor.”
She stood, plucked the cell phone from Dorothy’s hands, and walked to the bathroom. Dorothy watched her go, then turned back to her blue jay. His eyes weren’t big and bulging anymore.
“What does she know?” Dorothy leaned towards the birdcage. “I don’t think you’re mean, I think you’re a cool birdie.”
The bird chirped, low and crooning.
“We’re gonna make good friends,” Dorothy said. “Aren’t we?”
Powder-gray carpet crunched as Dorothy walked her blue jay through the living room. Most nights, Dorothy fell asleep on their stiff beige couch waiting for Momma to get home from waitressing at Josephine’s Diner. Before the divorce, Dorothy, Momma, and Daddy sat on the couch and watched television together. Lately, when Momma was home she was too tired or busy with bills for television, but now that she had the blue jay, Dorothy had someone to watch cartoons with again.
She approached the wooden console standing against the back wall. Their old, square television sat on top, an island in a sea of
picture frames. Dorothy selected a frame, fingertips disturbing dust, and held it in front of her blue jay.
“This is my favorite part of our house. You can meet everyone else through the pictures. This one’s me and my friends.”
In the photograph, nine-year old Dorothy, Claire, Georgia, and Natalie sat on a picnic blanket in Langan Park, Barbie Dolls in hand. Dorothy’s doll wore a highlighter-pink looseleaf dress. She leaned over Claire’s shoulder, pressing a construction paper crown onto her Barbie’s curled, golden hair. The purple paper matched the doll’s sparkling tulle gown. All of the girls were friends, but Dorothy and Claire were best friends. It was part of why Dorothy had been so surprised to see Claire and Natalie together at the grocery store a few weeks ago.
The two girls had been in the breakfast foods aisle, picking out boxes of Lucky Charms and Captain Crunch. Claire and Natalie glanced at each other as Dorothy questioned how they were and if they’d been getting her texts. They didn’t answer, and the smile that strained Dorothy’s cheeks wavered. She told the other two girls to text their group chat so they could make plans together, then hurried back to Momma. At home, Dorothy opened the chat to no new messages. She told herself that they must not have had a chance to send a reply yet, but after days of silence, she began to lose hope.
“I miss them,” she said. “I hope they answer my messages about you quick.”
Dorothy set the picture down and reached for another.
“This,” she announced, “is me, Momma, and Daddy.”
The picture was taken on her sixth birthday. Dorothy sat on the couch between her parents, smiling to show off the spaces left behind by three baby teeth. The cage was in her lap, and a pudgy canary peeked from between the bars.
“That’s my first birdie, Toto,” Dorothy said. “He was my birthday present from Daddy that year.”
Momma had been the one to suggest the name “Toto.” The joke made Dorothy laugh, so she went with it. The background of the picture was littered with a pair of Daddy’s shoes, his briefcase, and different copies of The Community Gazette. Daddy let her use his old newspapers to line Toto’s cage; she would have to figure something else out for her blue jay. Momma tore the bills to shreds as soon as she paid them. Maybe she’d let Dorothy have the scraps.
Her parents separated a few months after the picture was taken. At the beginning of the divorce, Daddy called every night to ask Dorothy about her day, her friends, how school was going, but she had only heard from him twice this summer. Momma only mentioned him when he was behind on child support. Part of Dorothy still considered Daddy part of their family, even though Momma had stopped when they’d separated. She loved the picture –it was one of the few reminders Dorothy had left of Daddy. He didn’t take her to the park
and push her on the swings anymore. Toto had been gone for years.
“Dorothy?”
Momma’s voice echoed down the hallway. Dorothy put the frame down, wiped her dusty fingertips against her t-shirt, and scrambled away from the console. Momma got angry when Dorothy messed with the family portrait.
Momma stepped into the living room, body and hair wrapped in thin pink towels. She scowled when she saw the blue jay.
“I told you to get rid of that thing.”
“Have my friends answered me?”
“Not yet.”
They must not have seen her texts. The girls couldn’t keep ignoring her once they saw her pet.
“I’m trying to name him,” Dorothy said, looking down at the blue jay. “I’m thinking Gus. He’s fat, like the mouse from Cinderella.”
“That would be cute if you were keeping it.”
“It’s better than ‘Toto.’ He was a good birdie, even if his name was dumb. I miss him.”
“You still think about that bird? You were only sad for like, a day after I let it out.”
“You did what?” Dorothy asked, turning back to Momma.
When Dorothy was seven, she came home from school one day to find the canary cage empty. She cried into Momma’s shoulder, asking what happened to her pet. Momma rubbed her back and told Dorothy that it was going to be okay. Ever since, Dorothy had been under the impression that Toto died and Momma didn’t want to tell her. It never crossed Dorothy’s mind that Momma let him go.
“Baby, come on,” Momma said. “You’re so smart, I thought you figured that out forever ago.”
“Figure out what?” Dorothy demanded. “Figure out that you let Toto fly away? No, I didn’t think you were mean!”
“Hey.” Momma’s tone sharpened. “Watch it, little girl.”
“Why would you do that?” Dorothy asked, tightening her grip on the canary cage. She loved Toto. He used to eat birdseed out of her hand and sing as he flew around her room. Dorothy had been sad about losing him for much longer than a day.
“Let me explain a real-life adult thing to you,” Momma said. “When little kids get pets, they’re not the ones actually getting a pet. The adults are. I didn’t have time or money for a bird. I never even agreed to that bird, Daddy bought it without telling me.”
“So you just let him fly away? He was an inside bird, he probably got hurt outside. I can’t believe you!”
Dorothy stomped past Momma, into her bedroom, and slammed her door.
Dorothy tucked her chin into the crook of space between her kneecaps, blinking to soothe her stinging eyes. She sat on her bed while her blue jay pecked at the last of his bread on the nightstand.
How could Momma let Toto fly away? That was the meanest thing she could think of.
At least Toto hadn’t left Dorothy. That was more than Daddy had done.
Her bed sheets were Hello Kitty patterned. They were the same sheets Dorothy had had since she was five. Cartoon cats were mottled blue and purple with marker-ink bruises; tiny holes pockmarked the fabric. She’d asked for new covers the last time they went shopping, but Momma told her it would be an unnecessary expense. Her friends’ sheets were intact. Her friends had nice toys, and pets, and married parents.
Sniffling, Dorothy stood and went to the canary cage. The blue jay cocked his head as she approached, and Dorothy forced her trembling lips to smile.
“Sorry about that, birdie. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
His right wing lay flat against his side, mottled cobalt feathers hugging the gray curve of his body. Maybe he didn’t have a broken wing, after all. Dorothy hoped not, considering they couldn’t afford for a vet to make sure.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “I’m glad I found you. We’re gonna make good friends, I promise.”
The bird hopped and flapped his pretty wings. Dorothy giggled. She pushed a finger into the cage to stroke his head. Toto used to press his head against her hand when Dorothy pet him. Maybe her blue jay was affectionate, too.
The bird shot forward and snapped at Dorothy’s finger. She tore her hand away with a squeal.
“Dorothy?” Momma called. “What happened?”
Dorothy stared at her blue jay, bleeding hand held in front of her. The bird stared back, clicking his red-streaked beak.
out without her. Her “friends” didn’t care enough to text her back. She didn’t want to be alone at school. Even if she couldn’t bring him to school, coming home to a friend was better than nothing.
“Wild animals aren’t meant to be pets,” Momma said. “You wouldn’t want to be stuck somewhere you don’t belong, would you? No one reacts well when they think they’re stuck.”
She turned the faucet off, drew Dorothy’s finger to her, and pressed a kiss to the torn skin. Concealer was smeared under her eyes, camouflaging the lavender skin. Her night shifts always went into the morning. Dorothy wouldn’t see her again until tomorrow.
“You’re okay,” Momma promised. “I’m off to work. There’s pizza in the fridge for dinner. Wrap your finger up in a Band-Aid, and use a ton of Neosporin. I meant it when I said birds carry diseases.”
“I warned you that blue jays are mean.”
Dorothy wiped the tears from her cheeks with her uninjured hand. She sat on the bathroom counter, wounded fingertip stuck beneath the flowing faucet. Momma, dressed in the black polo and skirt of her waitress’s uniform, pulled their first aid kit from a cabinet beneath the sink.
“What’d you expect to happen, baby?” Momma asked.
“I wanted to be friends,” Dorothy said.
She didn’t expect much from Daddy anymore, but she always hung out with her friends over summer break. Now they ignored her and hung
“‘Kay,” Dorothy said.
“Yes ma’am,” Momma chided.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Love you,” Momma said as she left the bathroom. A minute later, Dorothy heard the front door open and shut.
She cradled her finger against her chest as she fished through the first aid kit for a Band-Aid and the disinfectant.
“I saved his life,” Dorothy grumbled, ripping the Band-Aid free of its packing and globbing
Neosporin onto the pad, “and this is how he repays me?”
Dorothy wrapped the medicated bandage around her finger, wincing at the slimy feeling. She hopped down from the counter, padded into the hallway, and inched into her room.
The blue jay was twitching his wings and turning in tight circles within the canary cage. Dorothy glared at him.
“Are you gonna attack me again?” she asked. “‘Cause I don’t trust you anymore!”
The blue jay continued to spin, turning his head from one side of the cage to the other. He didn’t look like he was in pain. It looked to Dorothy like he was trying to find a way out.
“You don’t wanna be in there,” she said.
“Momma said you think you’re stuck. You don’t wanna be stuck with me, do you?”
The bird chirped.
Dorothy crossed her room and grabbed the canary cage.
Since the divorce, Dorothy had gotten used to being alone. She’d lost Toto. She and Daddy barely talked. The girls she’d been close to for years didn’t want to be her friends anymore; she couldn’t afford their trendy toys or clothes, while their parents still doted on them. Dorothy had only known the blue jay for a couple of hours. Giving him up wouldn’t hurt as much as losing the others had.
She carried the blue jay out of her bedroom, through the house, and out the front door. She set the cage down in the front yard and fiddled with the latch until the door sprang open.
The blue jay whizzed out of the cage, singing loudly as he burst into the sky. The fading sunlight made his feathers glow, blue fire enveloping a match head. He flew up and away from the house, past the oak tree at the edge of the yard. Dorothy tipped her head back, watched the blue blaze disappear, then went back inside.
Brigitte De Marco
Purple Wren | acrylic
A Butterfly
Allison Dean | blackout poetry
Lookadmire a butterfly: simple life, tiny surprises. Discovering the new season, the course of the year.
What’s changed is alive.
A traveling visitor, you come back over and over again.
Slow communication: this sounds like the creators.
Lookdon’t explain.
It just is.
This poem is a work of blackout poetry sourced from page 8 of Kelsey Lewin’s Animal Crossing Grammar and punctuation have been adjusted for clarity, but all words remain in their original order. You can find the original work on the opposite page for reference.
look at you as you run past, or stop to admire a butterfly. The simple life you live is full of tiny surprises, and because the game runs in sync with real-world time, you'll be discovering new things at different times of the day and with each new season.
"Try to check-in on your town every day, even if just for a bit," producer Takashi Tezuka advised players in a 2001 interview right around the game's release. "We've prepared a number of unique events that happen throughout the course of the year, so even if playing every day is hard, just checking in periodically can be fun, to see what's changed."
Animal Crossing is alive. Nearly every day you're greeted with something different than the day before, whether it's a traveling visitor peddling rare items, a fishing tournament, or a special holiday. You can't see it all unless you come back to it over and over again. It's a slow and satisfying burn.
Perhaps you've read all of this and you still don't "get" it. I've waxed on about feelings and community and communication, but none of this quite sounds like a video game. Here's the thing: No one really "gets" the original Animal Crossing. Not its fans, not its critics, not the people in charge of promoting it, not even its creators. Nearly every review boils down to "look, I don't know, I can't explain why it's fun, it just is, okay?" In fact, I think it's going to take a whole book to explain.
ANIMAL CROSSING
From Idea to Reality:
A Deep Dive into Dakota Allred’s Writing Process
By Christine Krenke
Dakota Allred goes into detail about his prose and poetry pieces featured in Canyon Voices. Discussing how he gets his inspiration, plans his stories, and submits his works for publication, Allred provides helpful advice for writers of all experiencelevels.
Mixed Feelings is one of the multiple pieces of yours that was selected for publication in our magazine this fall 2024 semester. What inspired you to write the short story?
Have you ever heard of or read "Fable Haven"?
I’ve heard of it and I really want to read it.
It’s a young adult series. I wasn't a Percy Jackson kid or a Harry Potter kid. I loved Fabel Haven. It's a book that involves fantasy hidden within the real world. And in that book series, there is a potion maker called Tanu, who makes lots of different potions to do a lot of different fantastical things. One of the potions that he has is bottled emotions. I don't think I did it consciously, but looking back at it, I’m like, that's probably where I got the idea from. Basically, I just took that concept and then got rid of all of the other fantasy stuff in Fable Haven and put sort of like a realistic fiction, sci fi spin on it.
Well, that's some really cool inspiration –I want to read the book now! So after you get your inspiration like you did with this particular story, what does your writing process typically look like? Does it differ between poetry and prose?
So there's this concept between like a pantser or
a planner. Like, do you do write by the seat of your pants or do you actually plan stuff out? And most of the time I am the former. With prose, I tend to plan things out a little bit more. But with mixed feelings specifically, I have a brainstormed document that just has the four different narratives and then bullet points of what I wanted to hit each one. And after I made that document, I wrote the story all the way through. With poetry, I use notes from my notes app. And boy my notes app on my phone is a mess. I'll just write down anything that, like, inspires me throughout my day. And then whenever I want to write poetry, I'll go in my notes up and pick one. And then from that line I'll just go until I'm done.
Nice! Speaking of poetry, you submitted the poems “Lost to LAMB” and “Out to Pasture,” and I noticed that they were structured side by side on the same page. What was your reasoning for organizing them in that way next to each other on the page rather than two separate pages?
Yeah. So “Lost to LAMB” and “Out to Pasture” is a form of poem that is called a contrapuntal and contrapuntal poems are two poems that read by themselves and also side by side. So you can read them individually and then all the way across. It actually took me a while to figure out how to format them that way. It's tricky to give the individual poems the same meaning as altogether instead of having one of them kind of fall by the wayside. But I wanted them to be a cohesive piece as well as individual ones
Wow, that sounds really difficult to write. That's super impressive! And then Ladybug and The Worst Thing to be is Content were your two other poems that you submitted that were accepted into our magazine. Do you have any favorite lines from those poems and if so, why are those your favorite lines?
Yeah, I think my favorite lines from "The Worst Thing to be is Content” are the first two. “When you finally know someone, you'll know how to kill them.” I like them the most because that idea was mainly the inspiration for the poem. I'm such a nerd. I play a lot of Dungeons and Dragons and one of the characters that is in one of my campaigns has this power where any time she meets somebody she knows how to kill them. And so it makes it hard for her to make friendships. That's where the idea of the poem came from - this fictional character. And so that's my favorite line because it inspired it. And then from Ladybug probably the last two lines: “I am the ladybug sitting on the rocks next to him. If I argue, he will startle and then crush me” because I think that a lot of times the hardest thing for me when I'm writing a poem is ending it. I always struggle finding like a good beat or like a spot to end it. And I think that this is one of my poems that I feel like the ending is like very solid.
I loved those lines of Ladybug when I read it, and they were my favorite, too. So now I want to shift the direction of the conversation to be about publication. AAM so as Canyon voices the first place where you've been published or have you
had your works published previously these works or other works published in different places.
This is this is my first rodeo. This is almost the first place that I've submitted to that wasn't a scholarship. So this is the first place I've ever submitted like actual fiction or poetry that I wrote instead of like an essay. Um, and yeah, this is, this is my first time being published. That's so cool that we get to be the first place to feature your work.
Do you have any advice for beginning writers that haven't been published before?
I mean, I guess my advice is I wasn't planning on submitting things because in my head, like, I'm not going to lie. When I got the email, that was like, Oh, we're going to publish mixed feelings. I went back and I reread it and I'm like, Oh, there's so much in this that I could have made better before I submitted it. But it's, it's that mindset of like, it'll never be perfect by my standards and it'll you can grow it through the revisions. A thousand times and it could come out completely different and you'll still want to change things. So once you're content with a piece, I guess it's better to just try than it is to kind of sit on it forever.
That resonates with me so much as someone that's like a perfectionist and waits forever to submit anything. Now, I want to end on a fun note. Mixed Feelings begins with two characters, Josh and Cassie, who are ordering food at a movie theater. What is your favorite snack to get when you go to the movies?
I am a sucker for popcorn, specifically movie theater popcorn…It's not like a movie without the super buttery popcorn!
The Powers of Creation and Community: An Exploration of
Alyx Germonchik’s Art
By Shane Douglas
Alyx Germonchik goes in depth about her love of art and creation, viewing it as the ultimate freedom and a way to touch lives. As a self-taught artist and an active member of online fandom communities, she encourages artists to be kind and patient with themselves when honing their skills, and to find people who inspire and uplift them, since she believes the symbiotic relationship between an artist and their audience is precious.
How long have you been creating art? What drew you to it in the first place?
If you consider plasticine monsters with uneven amounts of limbs and weird heads art, then I started at age five. My imagination unnerved my grandparents. The actual artistic path I consider to have begun at 14 with “How To Train Your Dragon 2”; thus started the journey into fandoms. Art account, subscribers, drawing requests, all that jazz. There were only traditional drawings however, and only dragons. Human anatomy—scary and unnecessary, no thanks. That changed with Gravity Falls in 2016, which also coincides with me getting a Wacom tablet and hopping to digital. My milestones keep step with the timeline of my interests, yes. And what drives me to draw is adoration (read, hyperfixation) that’s so all-consuming I have to convert it into something tangible and lasting.
What typically spurs on your creativity? What does your art process usually look like?
The overflow of emotions born from some fictional story and characters spurs it. My capacity for limitless empathy (in other instances pretty draining) lets me experience lives of fictional characters on a personal level. I’d cry, get chest pains, get insomnia, feed off a
character’s joy, etc, etc. I love feeling this range of emotion if it’s born out of fiction, not real life. When I’m that deep is when fanart usually starts happening. By that point I’d have also found a bunch of other people inspired by the piece of media, which urges me further. Shared interests connect easily, which is fascinating, and our united desire to expand upon existing content inspires to both contribute and uplift other creators.
My art process is haphazard and random, entirely. Sketch, splash colours on it, add layer effects and shift colour curves until I get somewhere, go back to cleaning up sketch, splash colours with a bit more precision, do the effects and curves 100 more times; it’s usually like that. The tablet I draw on doesn’t convey colours the same as PC and phone, so before posting online it’s back to the blasted curves. By that point my brain’s warped the image, frustration mounts. But we persevere. The negativity connected with any piece evaporates pretty quickly after it’s
finished. Sometimes I get lucky and a piece comes together like magic. I love the feeling of adventure it gives.
What was your thought process when making the pieces you submitted to this issue?
These are very personal and have little to do with media or any community. Drawing myself is a new and uncomfortable territory. My emotions have always vented through fictional characters, which I consider a good coping technique, since it makes me find perspective, separate from the issue, and translate thoughts into words and visuals. It’s also immensely gratifying if your inner turmoils give birth to art your fellow fans can enjoy. The submitted pieces though were born of love and grief too impossible to project onto anyone but us. “Sunset” was drawn for Valentine’s day, “Old Dreams” is a birthday gift, and “I Don’t Get It” was me processing the fact none of my proclamations of love will ever reach the receiver.
Who are some of the people/artists that inspire you?
Let me give the spotlight to my sworn sibling. His easy-going, “screw around till you find out make something” attitude towards any creative craft, his tendency to analyze narratives to the deepest details, the way he forges his experiences into words worthy of being tattooed, time and time again—art talks with that man are insightful and awe inspiring. He’s not afraid of paint mediums while I stick to digital because there’s all manners of “undo” and “redo” buttons. The images he paints are surreal and mysterious but do convey feelings, enigmatic but readable, it captivates me, I strive for the same. Not to mention he’s one of my biggest fans, and I’m his, this sort of relationship is crucial for every artist.
Which of your pieces are you most proud of, and why (doesn’t need to be out of the three you submitted)?
Those that were done in one sitting, in one night, on a single rush of inspiration. They invoke such fascination in me! Back during lockdown such pieces weren’t rare since there was an option to wake up at 3 pm any day after going to bed after sunrise. Plus, 2020–2022 were the years I drew more than in the rest of my years alive combined. The pieces may not have ended up the most representative of my skill, but their value was through the roof. They hold the memory of that adoration powerful enough to keep me awake all night, and I couldn’t grow frustrated with them the way I do when a piece has to be dropped and revisited over and over and over because I can’t get it right.
What do you hope people take away from your artwork?
Whatever they take away is good enough. The fact they see it at all is the goal reached. I never minded reposts of my artwork, credited or not, for that very reason—if something I created touched lives, it’s served its purpose, wherever it ends up. This philosophy works for me because I make fanart, which is intrinsically not my brainchild. The original pieces in this issue though— well. I hope people see them and think, “love is beautiful, these two are beautiful,” something to that effect.
There’s not enough context in the standalone pieces for the viewer to suspect death has any role to play, so if they blissfully ignore the tragedy it’ll be okay. (Just a few months ago I wouldn’t have said this.) Propagating fondness, she’d like that. I find I’m plenty satisfied with the idea that people outside of my circle of friends and followers will see Rayna; more people will know she was important, more people will know that she was.
What do you enjoy most about creating art?
Art is the ultimate freedom in my opinion. When I paint stars on a sky, I’m god. I script a comic, I steer the character towards some conflict I have the power to get him out of. I can fix mistakes
and undo death, draw hugs and feel hugged. Art is my safe place. It gives a challenge, and it gives control; it can be both stressful and reassuring. It’s fulfilling, it’s a skill I learned entirely on my own, social media platforms built from total zero, so every bit of praise and opportunity it earned I deserve in full. I hang my favourite stuff up, and it’s enough to look at the walls when I feel lost and unaccomplished for the self-deprecation to lessen. I created this out of absolutely nothing, and made so many people’s moods better over the years. It’s quite epic.
What are some of your plans and hopes for your future in artwork?
The answer to that stems from the issue I whined about in “What’s my art process like.” I’m hoping one day I’ll have developed a definitive step-bystep, cemented my colouring style and approach. The current arrangement is pretty draining and hindering. I see the direction where it’s all headed though, closer and closer to that art goal. I’ve a solid idea of how I want my art to look, and I want the drawing process orderly, all the colouring issues conquered.
Well, also, the current lack of time and energy, plus internet algorithms killing engagement… knowing for a fact there are plenty people out there that would love seeing new fanart, but capitalist monkey brains bury me in favour of easy bucks—well it sucks, in a similar way and reason most things do on this earth. I’m worrying if drawing is something that will stick with me for decades to come. If fandom life is something that’s to survive the onslaught of adulthood. I want it to, I do hope it will. Being unable to draw for months at a time felt like rotting. So how about we don’t lose crucial bits of our character to growing up?
What advice do you have for new and emerging artists?
These will apply to hobbyists only, I feel. Or maybe not. Anyhow, here are some things: Treasure the freedom of creativity, don’t give it away too soon. If you can afford it, don’t jump
into taking commissions, don’t go to art schools, take criticism from trusted sources only. Explore, let drawing be an outlet, be cringe, be yourself, find niche interests, find like-minded peeps. Make things you want to look at and shove in other people’s faces! Grow at your own pace, do what you feel will make you a proud artist.
Be unafraid of being unoriginal. Especially when learning, especially during art-block. Tracing and redrawing is, in my opinion, an unreasonable and harmful taboo. Simply don’t post traced work anywhere posing as your own and you’re golden. Newer generations of artists forget not everything has to go online, it’s definitely a good thing to remember. Everyone trains, it takes everyone a different amount of time to master something. Looking to other artists’ work to improve yours is super beneficial, speeds the process along. I trained my human anatomy on Gravity Falls, funnily enough, considering there’s little anatomy to speak of. I copied screenshots off a screen to my notepad in pencil, pages upon pages of redraws. Then redraws from memory, then my own ideas, but still in the same style as GF, gradually inching away from potato noses and noodle arms. My next obsession—Pacific Rim—being a movie with real life actors wasn’t as daunting anymore. Excitement bubbled instead—new opportunities to improve my humans! At a certain stage, screenshot redraws become way more than just copies—they have flavor to them, the artist’s original vision. Different colours, shapes, a fresh take on the background, the character’s face changed to fit the style—that’s hot stuff, loved in fandom circles. TLDR: plagiarism is a scary word that doesn’t apply to you as long as you’re honest, respectful, and your goal is to improve, not make money. And, honestly, sometimes your mental health desperately needs something pretty to come out from under your hand. Especially when you’re a beginner who’s only starting to believe they’re an artist.
Something I was forced to think of while writing that last bullet point—don’t use A.I. For any purpose, don’t. There is plenty material out there made by real people to benefit from, not to
mention that cycle of inspiration and education should feel too fascinating to break. The gratification and skill gain from, say, a reference for your piece being generated by that insulting amalgamation, is much, much lower. When I say something along the lines of “use every tool available” A.I. does not count in. It’s a parasite, and everyone who uses it becomes one.
When you’re a beginner, you want everything everywhere all at once, overflowing with ideas you cannot yet execute. It may be very hard to be kind to yourself and patient. One day, trust me, you will be able to parse which ideas are on your skill level, and which are far above and will only cost you confidence. Write all of them down though! You may never return to them, swept away by the current of new ideas of tomorrow, but if you do—you will be amazed how far you’ve come and what you’re capable of. Things unreachable now will be child’s play to future you.
I think it’s really important for a beginning artist to assemble a support net, be it your sibling, closest friends or a fandom community. The first two are clear cut, so I’ll talk about the third example, and I can talk about it for hours. Pros and cons of posting things online are many, both. On one hand, it’s often frustrating, detrimental even; inexperienced folks can surely develop dependence on likes count and such. A lot of the success here falls on luck and correct timing, things out of our control. It’s taxing. Simultaneously, it can totally be helpful if one looks at it through the right lens. No piece of advice is universal, this one definitely isn’t. You have to dig around inside yourself and determine if not getting immediate recognition will crush your spirits.
Building a network is hard with original art, fanart greatly simplifies this step. Personally, I draw to satiate an ever-present itch, but I make finished pieces to leave a trace in people’s lives. If your goal with art feels similar, you want someone to be touched by what you create, then I suggest starting with fanart. There is more space for interpretation and imagination than
you might think. It will never feel like you’re constricted by any guidelines, especially if you dabble in alternative universes. Once you gain an audience that sticks around for your skill, for the way you interpret the world, for the person that you are, then—and that’s the very best part of being a content creator—you can branch anywhere, and they’ll be there, feeding off your excitement, you feeding off theirs. That symbiotic relationship, when done right, is precious.
Continuing with the subject of posting online for a moment more—there’s this interesting issue I’ve faced many times. This works with an audience of any size, it’s more of a “brain hack,” bear with me. Personally, until I post a piece, I can’t let it go, I keep working on it till either I hate it or turn blue. However, when something is out there—it’s done, no more editing, bury your regrets, reap the rewards, move on to the next thing. This helps get your perfectionism on a tight leash. Furthermore, setting up deadlines for yourself that other people know about keeps you fit and determined. Your followers need sustenance! Yet again though, keep a close watch on burn-out, and—
Don’t demand too much from yourself. Art teaches self reflection and patience. Be kind to your brain and hands. Take breaks if annoyed, restart if lost, give up if uninterested, return when inspired. Your best will eventually be enough for translating these thrilling images from your mind to other minds. Making art mustn’t be a chore or a torture device. Take the most out of tools provided by the mighty Internet. Relax, figure out why you draw, and enjoy your godly powers.
Finding the Poet Within:
Understanding the Writer in Caitlin Schneider
By Rhea Shenkenberg
Caitlin Schneider does a deep dive into how her love for poetry has developed over time. She talks about how this love of poetry caused her to write “Transient Devotion”, a poem featured in this issue of Canyon Voices. Schneider discusses how she found her inner poet and the importance of reading poetry aloud. She also bestows valuable insight to other poets.
What is a general background about yourself?
I am twenty years old and was born in Washington State. I moved to Arizona when I was little, but I refuse to call myself a native Arizonan. I have always had a deep connection with nature as I felt myself the most calm and at ease when I was in the forest and in a natural environment. I always loved helping people and connecting with those around me and poetry always allowed me to do just that.
When did you first develop an interest in writing poetry?
I first developed an interest in poetry when I was in the fourth grade, there was a poetry slam and I just loved saying my poems out loud and seeing how others enjoyed my writing. Later, when I was in middle school, I truly enjoyed and found a lifelong interest as
it helped me express who I was and how I felt without being direct.
Do you have any people/poets/writers that have inspired you?
Edgar Allen Poe and Oscar Wilde are my two favorite poets, but John Green is my favorite author as ‘Looking for Alaska’ was a piece that influenced my writing the most. With its genuine style and true reality of life for the positive and negative outlets that we all struggle to find. Oscar Wilde inspired me
because he too highlights the world for how it is, but also how it could be if we allowed ourselves to be intertwined within ourselves and the world around us. He states that the “rarest thing in the world is to live”, which is so true. We are only here for a short period of time, and it is important to make the most of it.
What helps you get out of writer’s block?
What helps me out of writer's block is I always start with a song if not the beginning of my writing, I try to find connection throughout all pieces of art. Music specifically helps me connect on a deeper level to my poems to hear someone else attempt to express the stories within their experience.
What is your favorite part of “Transient Devotion”?
I have two favorite lines from my piece, "Transient Devotion". They are: “You tell me what you see in the darkness as our souls are parting for the final time” and “Your hands are as cold as they were when I first met you”. I like both of these lines because it shows the beginning and the end of someone or something beautiful.
What do you enjoy the most about poetry? What about writing poetry?
What I enjoy most about poetry is the realness in experience that it brings to the readers and since it is so objective it helps us all connect with similar experiences. Poetry, much like music, is an escape to express the wounds within. That is what I love the most about poetry- the ability to heal, connect, and express.
Do you enjoy reading your poems out loud at a poetry slam or other events?
I truly enjoy and love reading poetry out loud because it allows all of the nonverbals of paper to be expressed and shown. Even though poetry is objective, it allows not for readers but for the author to express how they felt and what they went through during the writing process and their experiences be known and be able to be connected with.
Any advice you would like to offer other poets?
The advice that I have for other poets is be willing to take criticism and alter your work because of it- but still be able to understand and show the true meanings of your poems. However, know who you can trust with your poetry, and if someone is able to understand what it is that you are trying to portray. The next bit of advice is be yourself, be yourself fully and put a piece of yourself into your work – if you cannot see yourself in your work, it is not your work to be written.
CONTRIBUTORS
SCRIPTS
Leroy Hood is an actor, playwright, and voiceover artist working in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. He was homeschooled and began writing in high school when he repeatedly committed mortal sin by rewriting all of the dialogue in the terrible unpublished plays he was cast in locally. He graduated with a BFA in acting from Texas Christian University in 2016. Some of his favorite playwrights are Tracy Letts, Edward Albee, Marsha Norman, Martin McDonagh, Sarah Ruhl, and David Mamet.
Gianna Montiel is an Arizona native as well as a new alumnus of Arizona State University with a degree in Journalism and Mass Communications with a minor in English. She graduated in May of 2024, and is pursuing a career in journalism while writing whenever she can. Gianna has always loved to write. She’s seen the power that simple words on a page can have on the human soul and it’s fascinated her. She’s currently writing a manuscript for her very first book. She hopes that when people see her work, they see a little bit of her in it, and most importantly that they see the message behind it.
FICTION
Dakota Allred is a Creative Writing major specializing in Fiction at ASU Tempe. Under the artist name “Seth Storm,” he has produced two musical albums, “Prelude” and “Bardic Tales Vol. 1.” Narratives in music has always fascinated him, and now he works to create narrative in poems outside of music and in larger written works as well.
Naomi Guevara has a bachelors in English and is currently an M.F.A student at Wichita State University. She loves to go for long walks and enjoys staying in and reading during rainstorms. She is on the constant lookout for her next adventure.
Ben Ketcham is an up-and-coming author coming out of Arizona State University’s creative writing program, earning his Bachelor of Arts in English. He spends his free time playing games and devouring whatever book he can get his hands on, as well as writing and running games for his friends and family. His writing deals with all things macabre, unsettling, and spooky.
Anna Pellerin holds bachelor’s degrees in creative writing and English from Spring Hill College. Her short story “Broken Wing” received the college’s Richard S. Lynch award for best short story during the 2021-2022 academic year. Currently, Anna is an MFA student at Wichita State University studying fiction. She is the managing editor for the university’s literary magazines, Mikrokosmos/mojo.
Brad Wu, 16–years old, attends AZ College Prep High School in Chandler, Arizona. Passionate about sharing his voice with the world. He is creating a portfolio filled with short fiction and art.
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Carlie Gerberick is a graduate student at the University of Denver, pursuing a degree in Professional Creative Writing with an emphasis in fiction. Previously, she studied advertising at California State University, Fullerton, where she discovered a passion for the written word during her senior year while taking a creative writing course as an elective. It was during this time that the voice behind her ribcage revealed itself. Carlie’s writing style typically blends genres, including creative nonfiction, realism, fiction, and prose poetry, allowing her to explore complex themes with depth and nuance. Her current piece, Amber-Colored Lens: A Collection of Fleeting Feelings, examines the warmth and transience of life’s moments through a tinged lens. In her free time, she enjoys exploring Colorado’s stunning landscapes, which serve as a source of reflection and inspiration for her art.
Rachel Hard lives in Vermont and is currently studying to be an art restorer. In her free time, she loves to write poetry and read. Her father, Brian Hard, is her biggest inspiration as a writer, and she knows he’d be proud that her piece is in the CanyonVoices magazine. If you’d like to reach out to Rachel, her email is rhard21702@gmail.com, and her Instagram is @rachel hardvt.
Ruby Lazcano Cortez is a third-year ASU Psychology major, pursuing a certificate in creative writing. Ruby enjoys her time playing video games, reading, writing, watching, and anime. She hopes that when she graduates, she’ll be able to move back to Mexico, where she’ll continue to pursue her career in Psychology, as well as complete and hopefully publish one of her fiction pieces.
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Sophia McGovern is a creative nonfiction writer and occasional poet living in Tempe, Arizona. She founded little somethings press, which publishes flash fiction and memoirs, poetry, and art in handmade books, assembled with upcycled materials by the community. Her bookmaking, poetry, and zine workshops have received grants from the City of Tempe and the Mesa Arts Center. Her writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, won community contests, and performed in literary events around the Salt River Valley. She received a 2024 Research and Development Grant from the Arizona Commission on the Arts to develop her creative nonfiction work. Her writings can be found in awfully hilarious volume II, The Arizona English Journal, The Dreamers Anthology, and elsewhere. In her spare time, she collects yarn, paper goods, and hobbies.
Sara Napier is a copywriter, editor, and storyteller from the U.S. Southwest. In her decade of experience, she has worked with small businesses and international corporations (including Issuu, where you're reading this now!) in the U.S. and Europe. She is currently an English major at Arizona State University, exploring creative writing and falling in love with the written word all over again. In her spare time, she loves playing music, traveling, writing, and spending time with her loved ones.
POETRY
Dakota Allred is a Creative Writing major specializing in Fiction at ASU Tempe. Under the artist name “Seth Storm,” he has produced two musical albums, “Prelude” and “Bardic Tales Vol. 1.” Narratives in music has always fascinated him, and now he works to create narrative in poems outside of music and in larger written works as well.
andt was born and raised in Globe, Arizona, she left home deswoman in her early 20s, only to have the career cut short he sustained a spinal cord injury. Adapting to life paralyzed down brought many challenges which the author eventually ng a published writer and getting involved in advocacy for mmunity. You can find her books on Amazon.
h Allen Yuan. Credits include oetry and 2 for fiction besides nadian Poetry (2008-17), cations across 51 countries. 022.
Kristen Therese Chua is a graduate of Oklahoma City University where she received her BFA in Acting and minored in Psychology and English. She is now pursuing her second bachelor’s in English, Narrative Studies at Arizona State University and works as an Associate Editor for Hayden’s Ferry Review. Her writing has been published in The Scarab (ed. 38-40), Seasons of Therapy, The Amulet, and Pierian Spring. Kristen also currently works as an Arizona-based actor who has appeared in productions across the valley as well as out of state. More about her performance career can be found on her website: www.kristentheresechua.com.
POETRY
Allison Dean (he/she) is an interdisciplinary artist from Arizona, currently in his undergraduate senior year at Arizona State University. He will graduate in the spring with a Bachelor of Arts in Communication, a Minor in English, and a Certificate in Communication Training and Assessment. Allison has long held a passion for the arts, and has recently begun to pursue artistic expression in a variety of different forms. She is currently working on i sing (a collection of blackout poems from Kelsey Lewin's book Animal Crossing), as well as a variety of video essays discussing whatever works of art she finds compelling. You can follow him on Instagram @allisondeanart for updates on his work.
Brian Drew, real name Brian Cedillo, is an aspiring writer and film maker based in Yuma, Arizona. Brian’s experience of America is heavily influenced by his upbringing in southern Arizona. He writes in the tradition of Southern Gothic literature akin to William Faulkner and Cormac McCarthy, exploring the essence of the American experience and the profound impact of our nation's history on its people. He publishes his work through CoverFly, where his short story, Fear Thy Nature, is 11th on the site for dramatic prose; it is also a semi-finalist for the Cinematic Short Story Competition. You can follow him on X at The Plainsview.
Rachel Hard lives in Vermont and is currently studying to be an art restorer. In her free time, she loves to write poetry and read. Her father, Brian Hard, is her biggest inspiration as a writer, and she knows he’d be proud that her piece is in the CanyonVoices magazine. If you’d like to reach out to Rachel, her email is rhard21702@gmail.com, and her Instagram is @rachel hardvt.
southwest writer based in Page, Arizona. She is tudent at Western Colorado University studying work is shared on her blog https://empathicou can follow her on Instagram @blog by beth.
POETRY
Jiacheng Hu, an international poet from China, he is currently a junior student majoring in Economics at Arizona State University. His works, both in Chinese and English, have appeared across regions such as Chinese mainland, Hong Kong, and the United States. He previously held the position of president of the Xi'an JiaoTong University Suzhou Academy US Center Literature and Culture Society. Notable publications include poetry pieces 'The Statue of Clay' (Chinese Poetry Association), 'Mold' (The Chinese University of Hong Kong Press), and the translation 'Selected Poems of Richard Shelton'.
Vyacheslav Konoval is a Ukrainian poet. than 70 literary magazines. Vyacheslav's Spanish, French, Scottish, Italian, and Polish the Federation of Scottish Writers.
Georgia. They received their creative in 2021. As a student, they contributed The Peacock’s Feet, Georgia College’s hey are now rekindling their passion for s for healing, discovery, and meaninga horse farm outside of Atlanta. They drink nstantly, and are learning to garden.
Mia Perias is a sophomore at Arizona State University majoring in Media rts and Sciences. Currently, she is Vice President of the Devil's Inkwell, a reative writing club at the Tempe Campus. In addition to poetry, she likes o write short stories and fanfiction.
ee more works on her portfolio: Mia Perias. ttps://sites.google.com/view/mia-perias/homeabout-me
POETRY
Zariah A. Perilla Best is a graduate student at Wichita State University. Her series of poems in this issue’s of CanyonVoices are about sexual assault: It was in the Air, Sitting in the Shower, Mother’s Hand, and Forgive Me Father.
Charlie Pluto is a Colorado native that moved to Arizona in the summer of 2021. Charlie’s passion for poetry came about as a coping mechanism for their mental health, sexuality, and overall queerness. You can find more about Charlie on their instagram @charlie.plut0
Tajalla Qureshi reigns supreme - a literary enchantress who weaves tapestries of thoughts and emotions with the finesse of a master artisan in the realm of words. She is a gifted wordsmith from Pakistan. Thereupon, she is the visionary Co-Founder and Co-Editor of The Wordsmith Magazine, where words are woven into magic. Her pen swings across the globe, leaving a trail of mesmerizing poems and columns that captivate readers worldwide. She is a multi-talented creative force who wears many fedoras with elegance and flair. On the flip, her writings have been glorified in Pakistan, Germany, Canada, Africa, America, and India in many Epapers, Anthologies, Magazines, and Websites. She was highlighted as the top-ranked Author in many poetic presentations and poetic competitions at international forums. Coupled with that, her articles have been printed in German Magazine and American Newspapers and her poetry has been published in more than 30 International and National Anthologies, in German, Indian, Canadian Magazines, and African Newspapers. Like a shooting star, her literary presence blazes across the sky, leaving an indelible mark on the hearts and minds of all who encounter her work.
POETRY
mothy Sandefur is an attorney and author in Phoenix, who has ublished biographies of Frederick Douglass and the poet-scientist Jacob onowski, as well as a book of poems called Some Notes on the Silence elsay Books, 2022). Originally from California, he has taught classes on w and political philosophy at Pepperdine University, George Mason niversity, and Arizona State University, where he held the Goldwater hair in American Institutions for the 2023-24 academic year.
y a junior at Arizona State University
pursuing a master’s degree in Forensic Psychology through Barrett Honors College. She currently is a registered behavioral technician in Phoenix, Arizona and hopes to obtain a government career after completing her masters degree. This is her first time being published and is excited to see what her future writing endevors hold.
Mycelium Spring (fae/faer/faers) is a queer 4+1 student pursuing faer bachelors and masters in Communication at ASU West Valley Campus. This is faer first submission to a publication, but fae has been doing art and writing poetry since middle school. Mycelium is committed to radical kindness and the joy of being unapologetically enthusiastic and weird. As a neurodivergent child, fae often learned to hide faer interests and eccentricities. Spring has found faerself liberated by embracing the things that make fae strange.
Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 & 2023 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars Award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year; selected as a Judge for the Soundwaves Poetry Contest of Northern Ireland 2023. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020” and “2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 16 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Sand Hills Literary Magazine, The Phoenix, Eclipse Lit, Streetcake Experimental Writing Magazine, Carolina Muse, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review.
POETR
Yuda Wang, born in 2005 in Chifeng, China, is currently degree in Computer Science at Arizona State University (ASU) in China, Yuda developed fluency in both Chinese and Engli deep appreciation for the dynamic nature of cultural evolution history and is particularly intrigued by how traditions adapt an over time.
ART
Brigitte De Marco is an Arizona-based artist specializing in vibrant acrylic landscapes. She is also the CEO and creator of Prickle & Pine Designs LLC. Having graduated from Northern Arizona University with a teaching degree, she taught art for 8 years before deciding to pursue her own artistic practice. She opened her art company Prickle & Pine Designs in 2022 and has since made art her full time job. As a full time artist, she designs and executes murals, provides art education opportunities to her community, and connects with locals at art markets where she offers original artwork as well as a line of products designed in her style for her company. Brigitte believes that captivating art can transform a space, create joy, and remind us that beauty is all around. She says she is “Endlessly inspired by the natural diversity in Arizona: the striking contrast between the desert cacti of Phoenix and the mountain pines of Flagstaff.” With the use of bright colors, expressive movement, and exaggerated texture, she aims to encourage other people’s appreciation for the beauty of the Southwest.
ART
Alyx Germonchik, or Fid hivemindscape as known online, is a molecular biology major, 24 years old, asexual, working in a lab as part of a cancer research and treatment center, testing patients for STDs. Free time of hers is spent on participating in and contributing to fandom culture, which Alyx isn’t ever ashamed to gush excitedly about. Since childhood she has had two lives: the “real” one, and online one, neither less tangible or important than the other. When things would get overwhelming, too taxing, too upsetting, Alyx would switch to Fid, or vice versa. It worked, and it works still, so no wonder she thinks so fondly of social networks, communities and connections experienced there over the years. She long has decided the meaning of existence is in touching other lives, leaving marks on souls. In her case - via making art, inspiring people, and being a caring friend. Life takes sharp turns. Sometimes too sharp. In spite of being queer in a most heterosexist culture, government upheavals, neighboring civil war, sudden death of her partner and future, medication and underlying certainty that she is witnessing humanity’s end - that desire to create persists. It fades and reignites, constant cycle; art remains as part of her very being. As a self taught artist, she clings to it as the one achievement that is wholly hers, a comfort and a certainty that cannot be taken away. True, future is murky at best, but Fid promised her soulmate that she would not disallow herself happiness, so dreaming, hoping and living is a must.
Hazael Gomes was born in India: Kerala-South, and brought up in Darjeeling-North, where the culture, weather, and people are as diverse as it gets! They got exposure to a spectral range of cultural-ethnic diversity. Gomes is an Anglo Indian and was a voyeur always external even when immersed within the setting they were observing, learning, adopting, adapting, and growing from and with. They were a storyteller as a youngling making up bedtime tales for their sister and performing elocutions, dramas, and stories. This delving and dwelling in art inched them towards beginning paintings when they were in their teenage days and has found great inspiration and voice through it since their multi-lingual skills often complicated sentimental expression. Currently, Gomes is pursuing their PhD at UGA, Georgia, Athens, in Theater and Performance Studies and still has spare time to continue with these passions.
ART
V Holecek is an American visual artist, making paintings, drawings, and sculpture. Media includes acrylic paints, charcoal, colored pencils, polymer, stone, and paper clay. His subject matter is a blend of several elements. Among these elements are the “dream state” explorations in the Surrealist tradition, capturing and refining those vague images that linger in the mental periphery in that space between dreaming and waking. These visuals include a lot of what could be called a Cold War stylistic sensibility, frequently bringing a mechanical aspect to the composition. This aspect is frequently informed by his time serving in the United States Air Force, where he worked mainly on Cold War Era systems and technology. Both of these are anchored together by an aesthetic interest in the occult. Arcane characters and symbols make frequent appearances, both actual and fictional.
Munchbud Ink, or more officially, William is a digital illustrator who graduated from High Point University with a B.A. in Design Studies with a concentration in Graphic Design. He continues to pursue his art under his brand name, Munchbud Ink. He enjoys creating characters and creatures with psychedelic, surreal, horrific, fantasy-like, and decorative themes. He is grateful to be featured once again in CanyonVoices Literary Magazine! Website: https://www.munchbudink.com/ Socials: linktr.ee/MunchbudInk
Inprnt: https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/munchbudink/ Tee Public: https://www.teepublic.com/user/munchbud-ink
Kacie Lynn is an artist, illustrator, and writer. They work cre inspired by fantasy elements and lgbtq themes. Much of her w fractals, the diverging path, the nonlinear experience of experien
ART
Denise Milinovich began Earth Creation Art at her mother's knee. They collected clay from the river beds of the Arizona desert to form their pots and storytellers. Indian Ledger Paintings occurred later as she watched her mother paint pots. It piqued her interest in illustrating those images that are important to the Keetoowah women in their roles as historical recorders. Her personal Indian Ledger Art is about people making sacrifices for one another to preserve both the dignity of the individual as well as the integrity of their culture.
Holger Pleus is a freelance graphic desi Germany. He has always been curious ab points of view. His use of the camera and the subsequent processing steps is in constant development. Recently, his work has focused a lot on structures, so it makes sense to focus on this through the stylistic device of black-andwhite photography. His work can be found under: https://www.deviantart.com/re-inventing or https://www.locationscout.net/@holger-pleus
Charlie Pluto is a Colorado native that moved to Arizona in the summer of 2021. Charlie’s passion for poetry came about as a coping mechanism for their mental health, sexuality, and overall queerness. You can find more about Charlie on their instagram @charlie.plut0
Julia Porter-Kaplan is a 19-year-old photographer, pilot, and a political organizer and activist. She prefers to shoot landscape photos, and almost always on film. She took two years of darkroom photography in high school under Claire Warden, where she fell in love with the medium. Her second favorite hobby is obsessively over-editing a photo in lightroom for 3 hours. This is her first publication.
ART
Lynz Ramish is an artist who specializes in her love of movies. Originally from South Carolina and Savannah Georgia, she’s recently relocated to Brooklyn New York, where she hopes to build a career in designing posters for independent films. Two huge inspirations to her as an artist are Stanley Kubrick and Andrew Wyeth, and she wouldn’t be the artist she is today without their influence.
Instagram: @Lynzramish
Tumblr: talkiewalkie
Hannah Suddarth, born in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, and currently based in Phoenix, Arizona, completed a Bachelor of Arts in painting at the School of Art at Arizona State University in 2022. During her time there, she expanded her knowledge in oil painting and drew inspiration from artists like Alice Herbst and Georges Seurat. Since 2018, Suddarth has focused on creating art centered around the visual complexity of rabbits. Her work was featured in the fall 2021 Canyon Voices Literary Magazine volume 24. She also participated in the group exhibition “Perpetual” at Gallery 100 in 2022 at Tempe, Arizona, and featured work in the 2024 group exhibition “All Eyes on You II” at Modified Arts gallery in Phoenix, Arizona.
Giselle Torres is a 26-year-old artist, performer, and ASU alum with a BA in Theatre. Giselle has been making drawings since early childhood and performing in theatre since she was 12. Her recent theatrical performances include “Anita the Musical” from Borderlands Theatre and “Ghosts of Bogotá” from Stray Cat Theatre. Aside from art, Giselle likes to play obscure walking simulations, watch makeup tutorials, yodel with today's youth, and listen to music. Her artwork is mostly inspired by the very music she listens to, ranging from Doom/Death metal such as Disembowelment and Funeral, to current alternative music acts such as Fleshwater and Narrow Head. Giselle started using pen and ink as her primary medium but recently she started using alcohol markers to experiment with color. Giselle hopes to express herself with her drawings and make more friends along the way, you can find more of what Giselle is up to on Instagram @gisellespider art
ART
Izabella Wiley is a student pilot with a passion for exploration, photography, and creativity. Currently based in Nevada, she enjoys capturing the world from both the ground and the sky.
Brad Wu, 16–years old, attends AZ College Prep High School in Chandler, Arizona. Passionate about sharing his voice with the world. He is creating a portfolio filled with short fiction and art.
STAFF BIOS
Publisher
Julie Amparano Garcia
Co-Editors-in-Chief
Shane Douglas | Rhea Shenkenberg
Design Team
Micaela Caceres | Design Director
Julianna Stachiw | Design Editor
Emilly Vargas | Design Editor
Copy Editors
Sam Calleja | Christine Krenke
Fiction Editors
Chloe Berzoza
Sam Calleja
Shane Douglas
Christine Krenke
Poetry Editors
Micaela Caceres
Thomas Mann
Rhea Shenkenberg
Julianna Stachiw
Creative Nonfiction Editors
Micaela Caceres
Sam Calleja
Rhea Shenkenberg
Scripts Editors
Chloe Berzoza
Christine Krenke
Thomas Mann
Julianna Stachiw
Social Media Manager
Emilly Vargas
Event Coordinator
Chloe Berzoza
FOUNDER
Julie Amparano García is the founder and publisher of CANYON VOICES literary and art magazine. Serving in the School of Humanity Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Amparano García oversees the school's Writing Certificate Program and teaches a variety of writing courses that include scriptwriting, cross-cultural writing, fiction, persuasive writing, and the Canyon Voices course. She received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Antioch University in Los Angeles in 2006 and is working on a collection of short stories and a play about children and war.
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Shane Douglas is a fourth-year English Creative Writing major at Arizona State University. She is one of the current editors-in-chief of Canyon Voices, which is the second magazine she has had the pleasure of working on as an editor, the first being her high school’s own literary magazine, Shadows She has greatly enjoyed her time working on Canyon Voices for three issues now, curating and designing in order to bring this project to life each semester. She believes in the power of stories to touch hearts, expand minds, and bring people together. Outside of school, she enjoys reading, writing, and listening to music. She hopes to one day be a published novelist.
Rhea Shenkenberg is a third-year undergraduate student at Arizona State University pursuing a major in Forensic Psychology with a minor in Criminology and Criminal Justice. After being an editor for Issue 28 of Canyon Voices in the fall of 2023, she realized that she truly enjoys working in the literary world. To continue this newly found passion, Rhea worked as an editor for Issue 30 of Canyon Voices Outside of being an editor-in-chief for Canyon Voices, Rhea’s favorite hobbies include hiking with her dog, spending time with friends, and hanging out with her family. After finishing her undergraduate degree, Rhea plans to attend law school and earn her Juris Doctor degree.
DESIGN EDITORS
Micaela Caceres, better known as Mickey, is a third-year ASU student pursuing a double major in Forensic Psychology and English. This issue of Canyon Voices is her first time as an editor in a literary magazine, as an editor for poetry and creative nonfiction She’s learned to utilize her artistic prowess to design the Canyon Voices literary and art magazine this semester. Typically, she spends her days putting extensive effort into her studies, but when she has downtime, she spends time with her closest friends Mickey is creative, often imagining what to write about, what to create using paints or paper, or journaling and documenting her inner world. She prides herself on her care, authenticity, and dedication to herself and others
or editor and specializes in social media, this is her in creating the magazine from scratch She is mester as Senior majoring in English minoring in tegic Communications. Emilly is also the first one in llege. She is very passionate about being part of lowed her to further indulge herself in all types of hopes to attend law school full-time after she has ng of 2025. Emilly also encourages anyone thinking o it!
COPY EDITORS
Sam Calleja is a senior pursuing a BA in Forensic Psychology and a certificate in Creative Writing. He had the pleasure of working as an editor on Issue 28 of Canyon Voices and was thrilled to return for Issue 30. Being on the staff of this literary magazine has allowed him to gain hands-on experience in evaluating, editing, and publishing a diverse body of creative works. The knowledge and skills he has gained from his time with Canyon Voices will be invaluable to him in his journey to becoming an editor and (hopefully) a published novelist in the future. When he’s not reading or i i S usually be found rock climbing, baking, or hanging out
e is a Barrett Honors student majoring in Literature with a iting at ASU. In and out of school she works on creating e books and young adult realistic fiction novels. Christine has ative and opinionated pieces on marketing, food, and pop companies Adams Edge Marketing, Hope Health and acy, and Hamilton Paw Print. When she is not working on tine writes songs on commission for bands and manages a e An avid movie and TV show watcher, Christine’s favorite are Everything Everywhere All at Once, The White Lotus, ast Airbender.
ITORS
Chloe Berzoza is a Senior at Arizona State University, graduating this 2024 Fall semester with a degree in General Studies. Chloe has always had a love for reading and writing, and has enjoyed her time apart of Canyon Voices edited team Her contributions to the magazine include being apart of the Fiction and Scripts team, as well as being the events organizer for the Dead Poets Masquerade. Chloe, at her core, is a creative and loves to see how people express themselves within their writing and artwork
Mann is a senior at Arizona State University West Valley studying linary Arts and Sciences He’s passionate about learning all things nce, specifically history, public policy, and political economy how d economics influence each other. Thomas also expresses his through crafting, writing, and woodworking. Canyon Voices grew kills in examining, editing, and understanding all forms of art fiction to pencil sketches. He has some ideas of what he'll do after college like wiring, public service, or something related to social science like a history museum One of Thomas’ favorite quotes comes from an interview with the writer John Green: “I’m trying to make the case that humanity is worth it. That humanity is worth the trial and travail and suffering and injustice and oppression, the catastrophe and horrors that we visit upon ourselves and each other That, despite all of that, it’s a blessing to be here and humanity can be good news.
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anna Stachiw is an English major attending her second year at Arizona e University. While this is her first time being an editor for a literary azine, she has experience in writing poetry with one achieving an award. Her aspirations of becoming a poet and writing horror novels is sparked by her love for tragic, dark, and unsettling content Her hobbies include training in the gym, reading, listening to new music and doing sfx makeup.
Canyon Voices literary & Art magazine is dedicated to shedding light on the works of emerging and established writers and artists. Founded in the spring of 2010 at Arizona State University’s West campus by one professor, Julie Amparano Garcia, and six students, this journal strives to bring the creativity of writers and artists to light within the community and beyond. Supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Canyon Voices accepts writing and artwork from writers and artists from all corners ofourplanetandfromallwalksoflife.
The work of maintaining and producing this magazine is entirely student driven. Since its formation,CanyonVoiceshasexpandedintoafull credit, hands-on class. Students build a full literary journal each semester, heading every aspect of production, including soliciting submissions, editing, marketing, design and layout,andpublication.Westrivetobringyouan eclecticrangeofvoiceseachsemester.
O U R M I S S I O N
At CanyonVoices our mission is to provide an online environment to highlight emerging and establishedvoicesintheartisticcommunity.By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language,style,culture,andgender.
SUBMITTING WORK
To submit your work, please send it to CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com. Be sure to attach all the work you wish to submit to the email. Your submission should include an author biography and a photo, which will be included in the magazine should your work be chosen for publication We are affiliated with Arizona State University, and we uphold academic standards. If your work is accepted, we reserve the right to make minor superficial changes (ie: grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc.). You will be contacted should your work require more extensive edits. We accept simultaneous submissions.
All documents submitted should be double-spaced with a 12-point font, in either Times New Roman, Arial, or professional equivalent font. Poetry may be single-spaced. All written documents must be submitted in (.docx) format. The artwork may be in JPEG/JPG format or included in a (.docx) with the medium used written. All work submitted must have a title. If a submission exceeds the maximum permitted for the genre, the pieces will not be considered for the CanyonVoices Literary & Art Magazine.
FICTION POETRY
You may submit a maximum of two stories per issue Each story may be 20 pages or fewer.
You may submit a maximum of six poems Each poem must not exceed two pages per issue.
EXPLICIT MATERIALS
CNF SCRIPTS
You may submit a maximum of four stories per issue Two pieces may be 20 pages or fewer.
You may submit a maximum of two scripts per issue Scripts can be a maximum of 15 pages; no more than 15 pages.
ART
You may submit a maximum of ten pieces Please include details on the medium of each piece.
Because this is a university magazine, submissions containing sexually explicit material and explicit language will be reviewed and determined eligible for publishing depending on the context of the material. Material deemed inappropriate or gratuitous will be rejected.
READING PERIOD
Our editors read and review submissions in August through mid-October for the fall issue. The reading period re-opens in January through mid-March for the spring issue. Your submission must be submitted before the general deadline provided to be accepted for the particular publication issue
