Canyon Voices Issue 9

Canyon Voices

Issue 9

Spring 2014

Canyon Voices Letter from the Publisher Dear Reader, This issue comes to you after a massive reorganization of the magazine. Back in 2014, when it was first published, Canyon Voices was featured on a website. This was the only platform we had.

Along came e-magazines with all the cool features like flipping pages, the ability to include video and audio. We decided to go back in time, take those magazines from the website format and convert them into flipbooks.

The work in this issue comes from two sets of student editors and designers. The stories, the editing and selections were made by student editors in the Spring 2014 class of Canyon Voices. Then, in 2020, I had a talented team of New College Undergraduate Inquiry and Research students. NCUIRE students take on projects that give them real work experiences. This team worked to transform Canyon Voices’ Issue 9 from a website to this beautiful flipbook.

I want to thank, again, the students who took this class in 2014 and worked to select the artwork, the poetry, the stories and scripts in this magazine. You can learn about them by visiting the About Us section at the back of the magazine. In addition, I want to acknowledge and give my gratitude to my NCUIRE students who selected the cover art and the covers for each genre section. Kristina Rasmussen was our rock. She continued to work on the magazine long after the semester ended and is an amazing editor with a keen eye for details. Sophia Steuber had a bold vision for the cover art. She made selections I never imagined and created wonderful covers. Yumna Samie was equally gifted. We owe our unique cover to her imagination. Denise Parker pitched in where needed.

I hope you enjoy Issue 9 in its new incarnation. It is a testament to the creative spirit of students at our School of Humanities Arts & Cultural Studies at ASU.

PUBLISHER Julie Amparano García Editor-in-Chief Kristina Rasmussen Design Director Yumna Samie Fiction & Creative Nonfiction Editor Denise Parker Poetry Editors Sophia Steuber Scripts Editors Yumna Samie Art Editor Julie Amparano García Alcove Editor Kristina Rasmussen For original editors, see the About Us section

Mark Pack

FICTION | PATRICIA FRIEDRICH

Wet Bleach and Forget

By Patricia Friedrich

Constance feels an almost irresistible urge to scream when three fingers of her left hand get caught in the top drawer of Victor’s bureau. But she doesn’t shriek or cry out; instead, she lets one and one only teardrop wet her rosy cheek. It is ten-fifteen on a rainy October morning, and she busies herself with putting away her husband’s laundry. She is proud of the way his clothes look – spotless and wrinklefree. By now, five years into her marriage, her hands permanently smell of bleach, but the result is worth it, she thinks with pride.

She loathes seeing men pricked by crooked collars, shamed by stained lapels, or embarrassed by unpolished hems. Those domestic mishaps compromise a man’s dignity and, plainly speaking, make the wives look bad, she ponders. Her Victor, on the other hand, is always perfect; she will not have it otherwise. Everyday she inspects his clothes to make sure no button is coming loose, no elbow is wearing thin, and no hemline is unravelling. That habit has become almost an addiction, but one whose results, she is confident, have helped him ascend fast in his white-collar career.

Today, however, she is skipping the practice. After yesterday’s incident, she feels justified. She thought nothing of it when she first heard the cracking noise of paper as she palpated Victor’s suit pockets. She almost threw the little note away without looking, but she had done that once before, and her husband had yelled at her for it. This time she unfolded the paper and found Victor’s messy handwriting screaming in red ink. The note contained a phone number and the words “new cell” prefacing them.

Constance had a nagging feeling, similar to the kind she got when pure cotton shirts were pressed and proper but not flawless. In those instances, it was necessary to starch them some more, spray them with a little water, and use all the weight of one’s body to make sure the rumples went away. She used the side of her hand to iron the note, and she placed it on the table to look at it as if she were considering where to start the job.

She picked up the phone and almost without thinking dialed the numbers that looked at her dispassionately from the note. On the other side of the line, a voice answered immediately and without saying hello: “Calling from your house line? Is the wife not home?” Careful not to gasp, she gently put the receiver back on the hook and, efficiently as always, went to check on the lace curtains, the ones that reminded her of her wedding dress, which were sure to need a little washing.

So today she will not check pockets although she knows she cannot avoid the task forever. Today she will fold socks because socks carry no secrets. She will wash tee-shirts because they have no pockets, and she will bleach and scrub her bed sheets with vigor because they are filthy. And the urge to scream will go away, just like it did when she caught her fingers in the top drawer of Victor’s bureau.

Please read about the author in the Authors Alcove section.

(Wet, Bleach and Forget first appeared in the Fall, 2010 issue of The Linnet’s Wings)

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

FICTION | J.S. BURNS

County Line

By J.S. Burns

The night began with a pair of big floppy breasts in my face. My buddy Skinny Schultz sat across the booth watching us with a meth-mouthed grin on his sunken pockmarked face. He and I were in a strip club called the Busy Body Lounge, which was a sketchy place, even for our standards. If you were looking for trouble in Brown County, Ohio, then the Busy Body was a sure bet. A musty combination of smoke and sweet perfume hung in the air. Like a French whorehouse. Of course, I’d never been to France, but that’s how I imagined it would be. Hell, other than visiting granny down in Lewis County, Kentucky as a kid, I’d hardly made it out of southwestern Ohio.

“The $75 drink, and we can go to one of them private booths,” the stripper said. Ever since my wife Ann had left me a few months earlier, I’d been blowing all of my money at this type of establishment. That Ann, she was a real bitch.

I wasn’t saying a whole lot to the stripper. She’d told me her name was Candy, by the way. They all seemed to have names like Candy, Brandi, Cinnamon, and Sugar. I’d already bought Candy a $30 drink, which was the minimum at the Busy Body. Usually, I could stretch the $30 drink a few hours by acting real gentlemanlike, asking lots of questions about what they liked to do for fun, or what their hopes and dreams were. Real pointless shit like that. But not Candy. She’d sucked down half the drink as soon as it was placed on the table by some sour-faced hag with grey hair, and then crawled atop me and began telling me how a more expensive drink would get me a better time. That had pissed me off, so I’d

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decided a fake conversation wasn’t worth the energy.

“Feels like a sledgehammer,” she said. She had a hold of my crotch, as her porno-red nails scratched around the fly of my jeans. It was true.

I was harder than a piece of rebar down there.

The speed always did that to me. I’d begun experimenting with it around the same time I started frequenting the nudie bars.

That’s how I’d met Skinny Schultz. At first, I’d thought he was just some creepy perv who sat alone in the corner of the Busy Body. But then one night, weeks earlier, he happened to introduce himself in the restroom. Stepping up to the adjacent urinal, he’d extended his free hand and said, “Name is Schultz, nice to meet you.” When I asked if he had a first name, he shook his dick a few times, zipped his saggy-ass jeans, ran a dirty hand through his mop of ratty brown hair, and said, “Just call me Schultz.”

Believe me, I was a pretty thin guy myself, but Skinny Schultz looked like an Appalachian version of one of them emaciated Africans you see on the television, his rail-thin frame seemingly collapsing under the weight of his clothes. He also had these eerie rat eyes that watched me in the mirror as I backed over to the sink to wash my hands. Had there been at least one other person who I could’ve seriously called a friend in those days, I might’ve put an elbow through the bridge of Skinny Schultz’ nose. But I wasn’t thinking all that clearly back then, and I was god damn lonely to boot. So rather than simply going back to the bar and spending the rest of my rent money, I finished drying my

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hands, tossed the paper towel on the floor, and smiled like the Joker, as I said, “Schultz, they call me the breeze. How about you buying me a beer?” Any respectable man would’ve taken one look at me and just shook his head in disgust at my sorry ass. But Skinny Schultz wasn’t exactly a great specimen of humanity. Without cracking a smile, he bounced his bushy eyebrows up and down several times like groovy wooly worms, and said, “That sounds like a bargain too good to refuse, Mr. Breeze.” Later on that night, he introduced me to what he called “Stove Top Cristy,” which most folks simply called meth or crank. We’ve been good drug-buddies ever since.

“You don’t say much, do you?” Candy said.

I thought about it a second, smiled, and just said, “Nope.” Besides, the truth was, Ann was on my mind a bit more than usual that night, so I wasn’t much in the talking mood to begin with.

Candy pushed her stinky tongue in and out of my ear and said, “Is my big boy playing hard to get?”

What bothered me was how quickly my marriage had managed to unravel over something that was, in all honestly, fairly damn innocent. Like these things tend to, it had happened when Ann came home early from work one day while I was giving her boney cousin a back massage. Of course, I understand that things probably didn’t look on the up-and-up, with her two-bit tease of a cousin sitting on my lap while I helped her relieve some tension in her shoulders. I’d nearly shit my pants when I looked up and saw Ann, slightly bug-eyed, standing there in her bloody apron – she worked in the meat department down at Gipson’s Grocery. She’d gotten right to the point. “You’ve got about two minutes to scrape your shit up and get out of here, both of you,” she’d said before anybody had a chance to start explaining. Then, looking at me, she’d said, “Out, or I’m calling my brothers.” Her brothers had roughed me up a few times in the past when,

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in a heated moment, I’d had to get a little handson with Ann. Anyhow, when I’d asked why she was giving me the boot, she just shook her head in disbelief and said, “Because you’re abusive.

And unfaithful.”

“Getting low, cowboy,” Candy said as she made of show of holding her glass up and sloshing the last little bit around in circles. What really bothered me about Ann was what she’d said. I mean, “abusive” I could handle. Hell, we all have our faults. But “unfaithful” was simply unacceptable. Since when was a lousy damn backrub such a big deal? It sure as shit didn’t break any martial vow that I knew of. That Ann, she was a real bitch.

“Let me guess, you’re one of those strong and silent types?” Candy said with a bit of a snicker under her breath. This here Candy was starting to get on my nerves. The speed also did that to me. Put me on edge sometimes, and got me a bit hot-tempered. Her questions were starting to make me grind my jaw, and I was sure that the recent sensitivity I’d been experiencing in my mouth was nothing more than the byproduct of always gritting my teeth at all the dumbasses out there.

A few minutes later, Candy asked. “One more?”

I wasn’t buying anymore damn drinks, and told her so. She climbed down off me, adjusted her glow-in-the-dark heels, and stalked off in a huff.

I noticed that she’d left a Bic lighter and a pack of Marlboro’s on the table, so I put them in my pocket. Then I told Skinny Schultz that it was time for a bump, so we went out to his car.

Skinny Schultz had this 1968 Plymouth Road Runner that would flat-out shit and git. It had a 426 Hemi under the hood. It was painted candyapple red. It was one sweet ride, and I wasn’t sure how a derelict like Skinny Schultz ever afforded it. All I had was a Chevette that was the color of a cum stain. It was a complete bucket of SPRING 2014

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shit, so I never offered to drive when we went out.

he nearly cracked his head on the roof. “God damn you, man!” he said.

Skinny Schultz climbed behind the wheel, and I got in the passenger seat. We rolled down the windows to let in some night air. It was one of those clear September nights with lots of stars in the sky. We were in the back corner of the Busy Body’s parking lot. It was quiet back there. Just a handful of pickups and worn-out cars around.

Skinny Schultz got the meth ready, and we began passing a little glass pipe back and forth. It was the fifth time we’d gone back to the car that night. We’d been hitting it hard lately.

I smiled real big like the Joker and said, “I tell you who she ran off with?”

“I ever tell you about Ann?” I said. All that meth had my head humming like a band saw. I was staring straight ahead through the windshield, watching the blinking lights of a plane passing overhead, which made me wonder where all those rich people up there were headed, probably drinking champagne, holding hands, and generally smiling at their good fortune and happiness.

“You say she’s a real bitch, Mr. Breeze,” he said through pursed lips. When he was tweaking, which was more often than not, Skinny Schultz had this way of talking out of the corner of his mouth, like he was a Chicago wiseguy or something. Anyway, we both laughed. I guess I’d said that plenty of times, how she was a real bitch.

“I tell you who she ran off with?” I said. I had the visor down, looking at myself in the mirror. I’ll be damned if I didn’t have another fresh scab on my face. It was the fourth one in the past few weeks. I had no idea how they were getting there.

I itched my cheek and looked over at Skinny Schultz. He was fumbling his shaky fingers through Candy’s pack of smokes that I’d snatched off the table. I gave him a second, and when he didn’t answer, I reached over and flicked the shit out of his ear. He jumped so hard CANYON VOICES

He stopped rubbing his ear and said, “We’ve been over this, Mr. Breeze. Swine Plank. She left you for Swine Plank.” His name was Mitchell Plank, but I called him Swine Plank. He was a longtime deputy sheriff in Brown County, Ohio, and happened to be the one who’d come by the house the last time I’d gotten a bit rough with Ann. I guess that’s how he and Ann first got acquainted. All I knew for sure is that I would’ve given anything to stomp his ass into bacon bits.

I reached over and turned up the radio, which was playing a song by Bachman-Turner Overdrive called “Let it Ride.” I loved that song, and started singing along with the lyrics. You can see the mornin’, but I can see the light, Try, try, try, to let it ride … Skinny Schultz shot me a weird look with his weird rat eyes. He was still fidgeting around with Candy’s pack of smokes. I opened the mirror again, picked at a freshly forming scab on my neck, and cranked up the radio a bit more. Babe, my life is not complete, I never see you smile… Try, try, try, to let it ride…

“Keno!” Skinny Schultz suddenly yelled.

I startled and spun sideways in the sear. “The fuck’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“Jackpot, motherfucks!”

“The hell you saying?” I said.

Skinny Schultz turned on the dome light, and held up a square of wrapped plastic. On his lap were shreds of paper and plastic, the remains of Candy’s pack of smokes. He bounced his bushy eyebrows up and down and said, “Looksie, looksie, looksie what your friend had stashed.”

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In between Skinny Schultz’ hairy little fingers, I could see glass-like shards sticking out of the package. “Meth?” I said.

“Yes siree,” he said, “but not just any meth.”

He sat there staring at me with a goofy smirk on his face, like he knew something that I didn’t.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Skinny Schultz killed the dome light, turned down the radio, and twisted his head from side to side, a sharp series of cracks coming from his neck. Then, in his serious wiseguy tone, he said, “Well, it’s like this, Mr. Breeze. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the stuff I’ve been getting has a brown tint. Like dog shit. I think it’s cut with kitty litter. Don’t get me wrong, it’s alright, but this here – this stuff right here in my hand – will blow it right out of the water.”

“Really, that much better?” I said.

He briefly paused to think about it. Using the back of his hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from his forehead, he said, “Well, it’s like this, Mr. Breeze: We’ve been living on Chef Boyardee, which, you know, is just fine and dandy. Until you try Wolfgang Puck. This, my friend, is Wolfgang Puck.”

I chuckled and said, “What about Emeril Lagasse?”

“Nah, fuck Emeril Lagasse,” he said. “Listen, what I’m saying is, this shit ain’t been cut. At all.

This came from the hands of a real cook. It’s pure unadulterated ice, Mr. Breeze.”

When I tell you that the meth we’d been smoking had been working just fine, I mean it. But when Skinny Schultz and I helped ourselves to Candy’s stash there in the parking lot of the Busy Body, and I inhaled that first hit of purified ice, it was like the sky parted and God, in all His glory, rode

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down out of the clouds on a wild stallion and sprinkled me with divine seasonings. Little bubbles tingled throughout my body, like someone had replaced by blood with expensive champagne. Through my newly awakened eyes, the world took on the vibrant hue of some exotically new color. I felt like the President of Earth. Unstoppable. If I could’ve created the ultimate version of me, this would’ve been it.

I can’t really speak for Skinny Schultz, but I sensed that he was experiencing something new and profound, too. He took hit after hit, until he was nearly blue in the face. His beady little eyes bounced around his head like something you’d see on a video game, and he had this permanent smile on his face that didn’t move, even when he talked. And he talked his ass off. Unrelenting chatter. Like one record-setting run-on sentence.

Everything, every circumstance in life, was shrouded in nothing but pure optimism and joy.

I’m pretty sure this had turned into the best night of our lives.

And then, well, it all began to turn to shit. It happened about the time I looked in the mirror again, and noticed that my face was actually bleeding.

CRACK! A loud bang came from the driver’s side of the car, and I felt the car gently rock from side to side. I looked to my left, and I’ll be damned if there wasn’t Candy, standing just outside Skinny Schultz’ driver-side door.

“Thieving motherfuckers,” she said through the open window.

“Duh fuck”— As the words left Skinny Schultz’ mouth, Candy reared back and began kicking the shit out of his car door.

“You …” she said.

KICK!

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FICTION | J.S. BURNS

“...little…”

KICK! “…thieving …”

KICK! “… motherfuckers!”

And with the final KICK!, Candy lost her balance and went down on her ass.

Skinny Schultz was quickly out of the car. He bent down in a hurry, and rubbed his palm over the surface of the damaged door. Then he stepped back and rubbed his temples, as he bounced from foot to foot like a retard. Then he bent down to examine the door again. I was still sitting in the passenger seat, watching him through the open window. And just when I swear it looked like he might start crying, Candy drug herself off the ground, leaped on his back, and wrapped both of her arms around his scrawny neck.

“You bitch,” Skinny Schultz managed to grunt.

Candy locked her legs around his waist, clamped down hard, and clung to his back. Skinny Schultz stumbled backwards several steps until Candy’s ass was up against a pickup truck. Somehow, he managed to stay on his feet, which was impressive given the size differential. In heels, Candy was a head taller, and probably outweighed him by twenty pounds.

“Get the fuck off me,” he said in hoarse voice, while grabbing at Candy’s arms and trying to shake her free. “Fuck you!” Candy yelled, a forearm leveraged across his windpipe.

Skinny Schultz bent at the waist and pushed her ass up against the pickup truck, trying to break loose, but Candy held on tight, riding him like a little pony. “Fucking criminal!” she screamed.

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Candy unlocked her legs, got her heels planted on the ground, and held tight to her chokehold.

Skinny Schultz got himself to an upright position, reached behind his head, and began pulling the shit out of her curly blonde hair. I mean, he had two healthy fistfuls, and pulled so damn hard, let me tell you, that his feet were nearly off the ground. “I’ll tear,” he gasped, “your slutty head off.”

I thought he was on to something with the hairpulling, but Candy wouldn’t let go. If anything, it just seemed to piss her off more. She cranked down hard on his chicken neck and slowly said, through clenched teeth, “Crush … your … fucking … THROAT!” Skinny Schultz’ meth mouth was wide open, and his tongue was sticking out like a ghoulish jack-o-lantern. Panic spread over his face. He took a deep gasp for air. And then he let go of her hair and began blindly swinging wild hammer-fists at the sides of her head, which were about as effective as trying to take down a buzzard with a flyswatter. Eventually, he reached back and tried to work a thumb into one of her eye sockets.

This whole time, I was just sitting there watching. When it finally occurred to me that I ought to haul my ass out of the car and help, I heard the sound of shoes crunching on gravel, and looked over to see a big fucking bouncer come running across the parking lot. “What the fuck’s going on out here!” he yelled in a deep voice.

As the bouncer made his way to them, he looked over at me and said, “Stay put, twerp.” I listened to what he said, and stood there next to the car with my shaky hands in my pockets. Candy was still wringing the guts out of Skinny Schultz, and before the bouncer could pull her off, she clamped her teeth on the side of Skinny Schultz’ head.

When Candy’s grip was broken, Skinny Schultz SPRING 2014

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cut loose a high-pitched cry that reminded me of a coon I’d once found stuck in a steel trap. The bouncer gave Skinny Schultz a short little slap to the face, and said, “What the hell’s wrong with you, freak?” Skinny Schultz sucked hard trying to catch his breath, and his throat finally made a sound like a clogged toilet breaking free. “This slut,” he screamed, “just bit the ever-living shit out of my ear!” The bottom of his ear was mangled, and blood dripped from his ear to his shoulder, leaving a stream all the way down to his pale forearm.

Standing behind the bouncer, Candy pointed a finger back and forth at us, and yelled, “They pinched my shit!”

“Shut your whore mouth!” Skinny Schultz yelled back.

The bouncer slapped Skinny Schultz upside the head, a little harder this time, and said, “What kind of fag picks a fight with a lady?” Skinny Schultz got all teary-eyed and moved backwards a step, wiping blood from his ear.

“Look what you did, you skanky bastard,” the bouncer said, holding out his palm. Skinny Schultz flinched. “That’s your filthy blood on my hand.”

Skinny Schultz starting stepping backwards, and the bouncer said, “No, no, no. You’re gonna come here and wipe this shit off.” Skinny Schultz stopped, a tear running down his cheek.

“Now!” the bouncer’s voice boomed.

Skinny Schultz stood there a second or two longer, and then took a tentative step toward the bouncer. Then another. And when he was finally close enough, he held out the bottom of his shirt.

Quickly, the bouncer leaned back for momentum, and then came forward, thrusting both of his hands against Skinny Schultz’ chest. I

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heard the air leave Skinny Schultz’ body like a whoopee cushion, as he flew backwards, landing on his ass with a thud. The bouncer laughed, his meaty shoulders bouncing up and down, and said, “I’d rather wipe my ass with my bare hand than touch your shitty shirt.”

Candy said, “What about him?” pointing a finger at me. By this time, a small group of onlookers was starting to gather in the parking lot, and I’d been slowly inching my way toward them, hoping I might be able to fall in and sneak away undetected.

But the bouncer turned in my direction. “Yeah, what about you?” he said. “You like beating up ladies, too?”

I held up both of my hands in the surrender position, and said, “I’ll just leave, dude.”

He walked over toward me, and said, “You think it’s just that simple, shit-for-brains?” Looking around at the crowd, which was beginning to grow in numbers, he stepped up directly in front of me. “And don’t ever call me your dude,” he said. “Do I look like someone who’d hang out with you, you piece of shit?”

He was a muscled-up motherfucker, that’s for sure. College-aged, most likely, and clearly spent a lot of time doing bench presses and curls. He had a pale shaved head. A walkie-talkie was clipped to the waist of his jeans, and he was wearing one of those super-tight designer teeshirts that all the mixed martial arts guys liked to wear. I, on the other hand, was wearing a stretched-out tee-shirt with “Zombie Kung Fu” stenciled across the front, which I’d bought in Cincinnati, years earlier, from some far-out, curly-headed guy who was selling random shit out of the bed of a tiger-striped pickup truck.

“I don’t want any trouble, man,” I said, still holding my hands up in the air. He was close

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enough that I could smell his cologne, and he kept inching toward me with his chest all puffed out, so I kept backing up, slowly trying to circle away from him.

A streetlight must’ve reflected just right, because he stopped and said, “Good God, your mangy-ass face is bleeding.” Some people in the crowd laughed. “You been pawing at your face like some dirty dog?” he said.

“Knock the shit outta him!” Candy yelled. She’d moved over with the group of spectators. Some static came over the bouncer’s walkie-talkie, and I heard, “Number three, this is base command.

You got it handled out there?”

He unclipped his walkie-talkie, held it to his mouth, and said, “Base command, this is number three. It’s just those two skinny weirdoes who’ve been hanging around. Got it handled.” I looked around and saw Skinny Schultz seated on his ass, his back up against a car. He had his shirt off, and was holding it against his ear.

“Copy that, number three,” the walkie-talkie chirped.

Clipping the walkie-talkie back to his waist, he looked down at me and said, “You even smell like a damn flea bag.” The crowd, which had grown to ten or fifteen, laughed. “Should I kick the shit out of you like some worthless dog?” he asked.

“Kick the shit out of him!” Candy yelled.

“SHOULD I?” his voice thundered across the parking lot.

“No,” I said.

He stepped forward and shoved me backwards.

“Then you answer me next time I ask you a god damn question!” he yelled. “You got that, pooch?” He glared at me, squeezing his hands into fists the size of cantaloupes.

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I hesitated, and then said, “Yes.” Laughter came from the crowd, and someone hollered, “What a little bitch.”

The bouncer was having fun by now, and started strutting around with a cocky smile on his face.

“Look, do you want me to pound your ass?” he said, stepping back in front of me. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Pound his ass!”

By this time, I was done beyond the humiliation, and could feel my meth-ridden insides seething.

In my mind, I sized him up. While I was tough as shoe leather in those days, I didn’t way more than 150 pounds soaking wet. He went at least 230, and was a few inches taller. If he saw me coming, I’d be lucky to land one decent shot before he slammed me on the ground and hammered my brains out. But for a second, I seriously thought about throwing a punch.

Instead, I said, “Why don’t I just leave, and not come back?”

“That wasn’t the question, mongrel,” he said. The crowd laughed some more. He gave me a good shove backwards and said, “The question was, do you want me to pound your ass?”

“No!” I finally shouted. My eyes watered a bit, a lump formed in my throat, and I ground my jaw so hard that I felt one of my teeth crack. I could feel my body trembling by this point, and actually wondered if all the meth and adrenaline might give me a stroke.

Putting his hands on his hips and jutting his chin out, he smirked and said, “Then you get down on your hands and knees and beg like a good little doggy.”

To everyone’s surprise, I actually started to make my way down to my knees, and someone from the crowd hooted, “Look at this shit!”

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“You,” the bouncer said, looking over and pointing a beefy finger at Skinny Schultz, “you get over here on your knees, too, and sniff his ass like a dirty mutt.” The crowd roared at that one.

But before the bouncer turned back to me, I came up off the ground like an over-fueled rocket blasting off, and stepped into an upper cut that originated down by my feet. He never saw it coming. It hit pay dirt squarely on the bottom of his chin, landing with a stomach-turning thwack.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m just a scraggly bean pole, but that one punch would go on to become legendary in Brown County, Ohio.

He took exactly one step back, and then his entire body went rigid and he tipped straightforward, falling face first like something you’d see on the television. As soon as he hit the ground, I was on him, repeatedly driving the heel of my cheap work boots into the back of his head.

I remember a female voice screaming, “Oh my God, he’s not moving, someone stop this!” And a male’s voice responded, “Call the cops, I’m not getting close to that crazy fucker.”

I reached down and jerked the walkie-talkie off the bouncer’s waist, held it to my mouth, and shouted into the handset, “Base command can suck my dick!” Then I leaned down and bashed it against the back of the bouncer’s head a few times.

Something in my brain finally clicked into synch, and I figured it was time to get the hell out of there. I had no idea where Skinny Schultz was, and as I started running toward his car, I didn’t particularly care. I’ll never know how it happened, but somehow I managed to make it to his car without being gang-tackled. I got behind the wheel, and there were the keys in the ignition. Sweet.

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As I threw the car in gear, I realized that I’d probably broken my damn hand to pieces on that big bastard’s face. It was swollen and covered in blood. I stomped on the gas, and people scattered like roaches. But before getting out of the parking lot, I saw Candy standing there, pointing at me and shouting. I shifted the car into neutral, and jammed on the brakes. Sticking my head out the window and looking directly at her, I licked the blood off my busted knuckles and flicked my tongue like a snake’s. When the side door of the Busy Body flew open followed by two other bouncers, I slammed the car in gear and peeled the tires all the way out of the parking lot onto the main road.

I had pulled over on the grass alongside a onelane country back road, trying to work the cramps out of the backs of my legs, when a car slowly crested the hill behind me and started flashing its reds and blues. Since tearing out of the Busy Body, I’d spent several hours just driving around Brown County, Ohio. First, over

by Ann’s, who lived with her mom. All the lights had been out there, so I just turned into their gravel lane, hopped out to piss, and then headed over toward the Lake Drive-In Movie Theatre. I thought about pulling in there, parking in the back row, and laying low for a while, but I didn’t have much cash left in my wallet, and the Plymouth was running low on gas. Plus, if the law came looking for me, I’d never be able to get out of that damn place. So I decided to just cruise the back roads until something came to mind.

When I started coming down – hot flashes, a thick gravy-feeling in my head – I pulled over and tried to scrape together one last hit, picking little pieces off the floorboard that were probably just gravel and shit. And when I’d finally gotten ready to get back on the road, I couldn’t even push the damn clutch to the floor without the backs of my legs seizing up with cramps.

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FICTION | J.S. BURNS

My first instinct was to run – either in the car or on foot – but before I could make a decision, the cruiser pulled up directly next to me, so that its door was even with mine. It paused a brief moment, and then swiftly pulled a little further forward at an angle, so that its nose was blocking my front end. He hopped out wearing a highcrowned, wide-brimmed felt cowboy hat – a flashlight in one hand, a handgun in the other – and I knew it was Deputy Mitchell “Swine” Plank. Christ, I was done for.

“Well, howdy doody,” Deputy Plank said in a slow southern drawl, as he stepped up to my driver-side door. From his manner of speaking to his way of dress, Plank thought he was a real modern-day cowboy, and everybody in that part of the county knew it. “I’ve been bird-dogging you for about fifteen miles now,” he said.

He ran the beam of his flashlight over the interior of the car, stopping on me. Then he leaned down and titled his head to get a better look and said, “They always say you shouldn’t corner something that would normally run from you.” Holding the beam on my face, he said, “But the way I see it, sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got.” He gave me a little wink.

By then, I was pretty much shot. The cramps in my legs hadn’t let up yet. My right hand was puffed up like a dead groundhog. My bowels gurgled. My head throbbed. And I could feel something backing up into my throat. I’m not sure I’d ever felt worse in my life.

“This is how it’s going to work,” he said. “I already know you’re 90 proof, partner. Hell, you’re glowing like a Martian. So when you step out of that car, you need to think long and hard before you decide to get frisky. After what you did to that boy in the parking lot tonight, you might be thinking you’re a real swinging dick.”

Working his jaw in little circles, he spit a stream of brown tobacco juice on the ground.

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“But just remember – there ain’t a bull that can’t be rode.”

He got me out of the car and cuffed. I didn’t give a damn. I was so spent that a jail cell didn’t sound all that bad. Standing at the back of his cruiser, he spun me around, and we were eye to eye. The brim of his cowboy hat was rolled up high on the sides. He wore a cotton vest over a denim long-sleeved button up, which was tucked into a pair of Wrangler’s, which were cinched tightly with a big shiny belt buckle. He had on some pointy cowboy boots. In the flashing lights of the cruiser, I could see tiny veins on his cheeks.

Working the chew around his jaw, he said, “I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to do about you, boy.” I was assuming he would simply take me to jail, so his comment gave me pause.

He walked around to the driver-side of his cruiser, leaving me cuffed there at the back. He reached inside and killed the flashing lights, leaving us illuminated by a three-quarters moon.

I looked over my shoulder, down at the embankment that led to a small creek, and thought about running. My legs felt better after getting out of the car. I thought I might be able to get the jump on him. My body tensed.

“You know, if you find yourself in a hole, the first thing you ought to do is stop digging,” he said. I slowly turned my head in his direction, and heard him un-holster his gun. “You’ll just be running toward your grave. And it won’t necessarily be because of this,” he said, holding his gun up so I could see it. “The shape you’re in, and with those cuffs, you’d be lucky to make it down to that creek without falling on your face and becoming kai-yote bait.” I knew he was right.

He walked over and took the keys from the ignition of Skinny Schultz’ Plymouth, and then walked back to the cruiser.

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FICTION | J.S. BURNS

“Take a ride with me,” he said. He reached down and opened the front passenger door of his cruiser.

I hesitated, and then walked around to the passenger side and said, “Up here?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Up here with me. We’ve got us a few things we need to discuss.”

Deputy Plank drove the backcountry roads in silence, spitting tobacco juice into a Styrofoam cup that sat in the console, and listening to some honky tonk music that amplified my headache.

He had a toothpick in his mouth, and every so often, he’d run it around the rim of his cup, making little scratchy sounds. I sat in cuffs, my head leaning against the passenger door. Miles into the drive, I finally decided to break the silence. “You wanted to talk about some things,” I said.

Without looking my way, he reached over and lowered the volume. “Oh, we will, partner, but I decided to come at it a different way,” he said.

“I get the feeling you’re not taking me in, or we’d been there by now,” I said. “Where we going?”

He didn’t say anything, just reached over and turned the music up. Up ahead, I could see the first traces of dawn, the eastern sky beginning to turn the color of cotton candy. I wasn’t sure where we were, or where we were headed. As the windy back roads cut through dense forest, none of the occasional green and white signs rang familiar.

A short while later, I said, “Where the hell you taking me?”

Pausing a moment, he reached down and killed the music. “You like rodeos?” he said.

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Annoyed, I shook my head and said, “Never been to one. Why?” He pulled a package of Red Man from his vest pocket, replenishing his jaw with three fingers worth of stringy chew, and said, “Ann asked me to take her. Next weekend.”

Before I had a chance to respond, he slowed down and turned onto another side road, this one gravel. “Here we go,” he said. “This here is called Suck Run Road, which you might want to remember for later on. Kind of a doo-doo name for such a pretty stretch, if you ask me. Ain’t a road less traveled in all of Brown County.” He didn’t say anymore about Ann, and neither did I. About a mile later, Suck Run Road cut down through a heavily wooded ravine, the elevation dropping sharply, gravel crunching under the tires. At the bottom, we crossed an old wooden bridge that had no guardrails, and then began a steep climb up the other side. At the top, the road curved hard before leveling out. The trees thinned, and I could see that dawn had broken.

The road straightened into a clearing that was flanked on both sides by large fields. He brought the car to a stop and killed the ignition there in the middle of the road.

“What, you fixing to shoot me, leave me out here in the middle of nowhere?” I said with a nervous chuckle.

“I actually thought about doing just that,” he said. He was staring at me now, his eyes flat and serious. I felt my stomach kick. “But I decided you’re not worth shooting.” He looked in the rearview mirror and adjusted his cowboy hat.

Looking back at me, he said, “And I’m not taking you in, either, because I don’t think you’re worth wasting a cell on.”

He got out of the car, and when he came around to my side, he was holding a billystick. Opening

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FICTION | J.S. BURNS

the door and leading me out by my arm, he said, “It’s time we talk, boy.” He slowly turned me around so that my chest was up against the car.

“But before we do that,” he said, “I’m going to take these cuffs off. You try to get slick, I’ll get up under your ribs with this nigger knocker. I’m not given to surprises.”

After he got the cuffs off, he nodded toward the front of his cruiser, and gave my back a slight nudge with his club. I started walking, and he trailed several steps behind. When I heard the sound of his cowboy boots disappear, I turned to see where he was. He had hopped up and taken a seat on the hood of the cruiser, his cowboy boots resting on the front bumper, his billystick resting on his lap.

“Take a load off,” he said, patting his palm next to him on the hood. I obliged, walking back and scooting my ass up onto the hood of his cruiser.

We both sat there staring down the long gravel road.

He took a big breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth. “I like it out here.”

Pointing off to his right, he said, “I do some deer hunting in that field right out there. Get out there at six in the morning, and not a single car passes through here ‘til close to noon. You can hear ‘em coming a mile away on this gravel.” He removed a toothpick from his mouth, flicked it over toward the ditch, and was quiet a spell.

“You’re a puzzle, you know that?” he said. I glanced over, out of the corner of my eye, and he was looking straight ahead. I started to ask him what he meant.

“Sshhhhh,” he said, cutting me off and bringing a raised index finger in front of his mouth. I looked over, and he eyed me while reaching down and opening his package of chew and pushing some into the side of his jaw. “Just listen,” he said. “If God thought you should be talking more than

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listening, he’d given you two mouths and just one ear.”

I waited for him to continue, but he just sat there quietly, gazing out at the horizon, as if he were in deep thought. I sat there without saying anything, occasionally glancing his way. He looked older than I’d thought he was, his sandy brown hair graying around the parts that fell below his hat, the corners of his eyes stretched with crow’s feet.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever understand guys like you,” he eventually said. “You had the kind of woman guys would give their eyeteeth for. But you couldn’t keep from laying your god damn hands on her.”

Up ahead, a white-tailed doe was slowly working its way through the field, headed toward the road. Deputy Plank brought his billyclub up to his shoulder, aiming it at the deer like a shotgun, and made a little shooting noise with his mouth.

I thought about reaching over and jerking it out of his hands, slamming it against his throat. But I could hardly bend the fingers on my right hand, and figured I’d just end up getting shot.

“That’s how my old man was,” he said. “Used to knock the hell out of my mother, slam her up against the bedroom wall so hard that it’d rattle the pictures off the living room walls. She’d walk around looking like a plum, always making up excuses.” He took his club and tapped it against his boots, knocking off a few pieces of dried mud.

“When she finally got the courage to take me and my sister and get the hell out of there, he fell apart within six months’ time. It was all booze, drugs, and jail up until the very end, when they found his truck wrapped around a tree at the bottom of Buzzard’s Roost Overlook. Even though he’d driven that road nearly every day, he’d forgotten about the curve.” He paused a moment and said, “Or did he?”

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FICTION | J.S. BURNS

The only sounds were the ting of the engine cooling, and the coos from a line of mourning doves that sat perched atop a rusty woven-wire fence.

doesn’t happy over night, so I suspect you got some hard knocks along the way.”

He continued, “You know, I always dreamed of coming home one day when I was bigger and stronger, catching him in one of his fits, and taking him down to the barn and wearing him out with a tobacco stick.” He turned in my direction, looked me in the eye, and said, “Damndest thing is, I never got that opportunity.” Looking down, I could see his hand clutching the billystick, his fingers white around the tips.

“It means that when your mother squeezed you out, and you first came into the world as a naked little thing, I’m guessing you weren’t such a vile little worm,” he said.

I started to step down off the car.

“Sit back down,” he said. “Otherwise, you’re fixing to tempt me.”

I stopped mid-motion, with one boot on the ground, and slowly eased myself back onto the hood of the car.

When I was seated again, he said, “After what Ann told me about you, you’re one lucky sumbitch that I’ve become a bit more religious in my fifties. I’m learning that it doesn’t take a very big person to carry a grudge, and that’s a damn good thing for you. Otherwise, I’d done stripped you naked and chain-drug you down this road.”

I finally got the nerve to say something. “Look, man, I might’ve gotten out of line with her a time or two, but you don’t know the whole story,” I said, my voice shaking. “And I don’t care anymore. Just take me to county.”

Deputy Plank cocked his head at an angle, and gave me a look like he couldn’t believe I was actually opening my mouth. “I’m not taking you to county,” he said, a faint smile forming on his face. “But what I’m about to do, little guy, is give you some charity. See, the way I see it, meanness

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“What’s that mean?” I said.

“So because of that, I get some charity?” I said.

“What’s that all about?”

He reached his hand into his pocket, and I could see his fingers digging around. “Well, since I’m trying really hard these days to be a more generous man, I’m giving you two things this morning,” he said. “You might even view it as compassion.”

Slowly scooting down off the car, he stood and pointed down the gravel road. “See that tiny sign way down there, a few hundred yards away?” he said. It was too far away to read, but I could see a rectangular-shaped sign attached to the top of a steel post.

“That’s the county line,” he said. “Brown County on this side, Adams County on the other.” He stopped, as if he were waiting on a response. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing.

He said, “That county line marks a clean slate, partner. A gift. I’m giving you the freedom to walk down there, step across it, and start over.

And when you do step across it – and you will – you’re not coming back to Brown County. Ever.”

I said, “I don’t get it.”

“Oh, I think you do, buddy,” he said. “Like my granddad used to say, life’s a lot easier when you plow around the stump. Think of Brown County as the stump. You get that now, don’t you?”

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FICTION | J.S. BURNS

I thought about what he was saying. “You’re telling me that if I walk down there and not come back, you won’t take me to jail?”

He took off his cowboy hat, and rubbed a hand through his hair. Putting his hat back on, he spit a stream of brown saliva on the ground, and used the toe of his boot to cover it with dry gravel.

Looking me in the eye, he said, “You don’t hear for shit, do you? I’m giving you something more than just a get-out-of-jail card. I’m giving you a second chance, a new start. I’m giving you your life.”

I thought about it some more, and couldn’t believe that, after all the hell I’d raised, and after having the misfortune of being picked up by Swine Plank of all people, I might actually avoid spending time in jail. “Okay,” I said. “I can do it.

I can be gone and stay gone.”

“But there’s one condition,” he said.

“What’s that,” I asked.

“Before you start walking down to that county line, you’ll peel off your shoes and all your clothes and leave ‘em here,” he said. “Now you might think this is strange, but it’s for your own good. I want you to leave this county the same way you came into it, naked and with no baggage. Got it?”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I said.

“Afraid not,” he replied.

I looked out across a field, way back to where it met a line of trees, and thought I could see a wooden deer stand built into the fork of an oak tree. I wondered if that’s where Plank did his hunting. Above the trees, the sun warmed the air, the sky a perfect blue. Despite the fact that I felt like shit, it was as good a day as any for a walk.

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And if the crazy bastard wanted me to do it in the nude, well, hell, I guess I’d just have to do it.

“Fine,” I said.

He reached into the pocket of his jeans, and came out with two quarters. “Here,” he said.

“Before you get undressed, here’s the other thing I thought I’d give you. After you cross the county line, you’re only several miles from a small town.

There’s a pay phone there. Call somebody, if you want. But don’t come back.”

I took off my boots and all my clothes, and tossed everything over in a ditch. Completely naked and with fifty cents in my hand, I began walking down the gravel road, headed toward Adams County, the gravel hurting the bottoms of my feet. Idling along in his cruiser, Deputy Plank followed about thirty feet behind.

Painted on the sign were the words, “ENTER ADAMS COUNTY,” below which were the words, “LEAVE BROWN COUNTY.” Like an order. An admonition. When I reached it, I stopped and turned. Plank brought the cruiser directly up to me, close enough that I could touch it.

He got out of the car. Standing there with his arms resting atop the open doorframe, he said, “Remember, partner, you so much as step a toe back in Brown County, you’ll be dipping your toe in the wrong Rubicon.” Pointing his handgun at my head, he said, “I’ll track you down and put one right between your eyes. That’s a promise.”

He brought his gun down, and I stood there a moment.

“Go on, now,” he said. As I started to turn, he said, “Wait, one last thing.”

I turned and faced him, half wondering if he might change his mind, and just go ahead and shoot me.

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“You like Bluegrass music?” he said. “Not so much,” I answered.

“You should,” he said. “There’s this song. It’s called, I’m Using my Bible as a Roadmap. It’s by a band called Reno and Smiley. Listen to it. Let it sink in. It might be useful.”

Turning toward Adams County, I could feel heat from the cruiser’s engine on my bare ass. Lifting my foot across the Great Divide, I wondered what lay ahead. Was this the end of the line, or was the party just getting started?

About the Author In southwest Ohio’s vast expanse of cornfields and future meth labs, J.S. Burns spent many of his teenage years dreaming of owning a bad-ass hotrod that would make him irresistible to the girls who hung around the cruising loops that had overtaken many of the small towns. While he never owned a Plymouth Road Runner or got run out of Brown County, Ohio, he and his friends did spend a lot of time cruising around in his sweet Honda, which had an unprecedented boomin’ system in 1992. J.S Burns now lives with his awesome wife and amazing daughter in Covington, Kentucky. He works as an attorney, having received his juris doctorate in 2002. Life in an office has fueled his addiction to everything outdoors, from running and golfing to gardening, hiking, and hunting. His most recent hobby is beekeeping. His fiction has appeared in Carpe Articulum, Splash of Red, Foundling Review, and Troubadour 21.

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FICTION | ABBY HOGELIN

Routine Adjustment

By Abby Hogelin

Mary Ella both looked forward to and dreaded when her friends came over to play Scrabble once a week. She began every Wednesday morning by washing dishes from the night before, usually just a couple of plates and the Corning Ware bowl she baked the casserole in.

She scratched at the cheese stuck on the inside of the bowl; it never came out in the dishwasher if she didn’t scrape it first. She hated cleaning the house top to bottom, but if she didn’t do it, her friend Ruby would think she did nothing but watch TV soap operas all day, which wasn’t true; Mary Ella never cared for that dramatic filth. She thought those women needed to learn a little self-control before jumping into bed with every man who said she was beautiful. Those women didn’t know what love was.

When the dishes were done, she wiped off the mahogany dining table before spraying it with Pledge to make it shine and smell like lemons.

She and Clyde had been married 47 years, and they knew that love was about staying true to each other during all the ups and downs of the relationship. They had been through a lot together–like when Clyde’s brother Jesse died in Vietnam, or the time their oldest daughter Gloria decided to drop out of Okalona High School three months before graduation, or when twentyfive of their tomato plants got wiped out by a blight. They had gotten through those times, so Mary Ella knew they could handle anything life decided to throw at them.

“I, for one, am glad we stayed together,” she said aloud. “Lord knows I need someone to keep me company as I get older.” She stopped, afraid

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Clyde had heard her from the living room. She had to remind herself not to talk out loud anymore since Clyde had retired from the lumber mill last month and stayed in the house all the time. The newspaper rustled a little and then everything went quiet again.

She wiped her damp dishtowel across the vinyl seat cushions. She didn’t consider Clyde and herself yet to have reached old age, they were just 65, after all, and had all their original teeth still.

That was why she and the other women played Scrabble instead of Bridge or some other oldlady card game. Or heaven forbid, dominoes.

Eighty-year-old grandmothers at Whispering Pines Nursing Home played that and she certainly didn’t want to be lumped in the same category with them. She kept active; she went to aerobics class every Tuesday and Thursday to keep herself fit. An active body ensures an active mind, she thought. That was why she never had time to clean, but Ruby didn’t understand. She had been widowed since before any of them had kids and said she could never bring herself to remarry; she loved Jim too much. Now Mary Ella thought that was taking things too far. Jim had been dead more than thirty years and she still couldn’t move on? Mary Ella wondered what she would do if Clyde died. She would be sad, but she saw no reason in mourning for the rest of her life.

When she got to the chair at the head of the table, Mary Ella found a handful of tiny screws and nuts in the crevice between the cushion and the chair back. Probably from one of Clyde’s model kits, but she couldn’t tell which one. She

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swept them into a leftover cardboard Velveeta box and set it on the side table next to some tiny plastic engine parts and a broken radio with the wires hanging out. If that man couldn’t learn to keep his hobbies contained in one room, she would– she didn’t know what she’d do. Or if he could just pick one and stick to it, she’d be happy. But no, one week it was ships in a bottle, then it was model trains and airplanes, then he got the idea to fix the radio they bought when they first married. It was enough to drive any woman batty, and Mary Ella thought she had more than the usual amount of patience compared to other women.

In the chair facing the front window she found Leroy’s banana-colored chew toy that was in the shape of some animal face, maybe a lion? She couldn’t tell anymore because it was covered in little white indentations where the dog’s teeth had almost pierced the rubber. Leroy’s nails clicked on the linoleum kitchen floor. It was almost time for his morning walk. He was a white mutt with brown and black spots, pointy ears, and a rough coat that never laid down in the same direction, like shag carpet.

“Leroy,” she said, loud enough so that Clyde could hear, “why are you always leaving your toys in the dining room? You know they don’t belong here.” She carried the wet toy away from her face between her index finger and thumb, through the living room, where she stopped briefly in front of Clyde.

“Can you believe that dog, leaving his dirty toys where we eat?” she said and shook her head.

Clyde looked up for a second, smiled and grunted, but didn’t say anything. She thought he would talk more now that he was retired and they saw each other all day, every day, but instead he just sat in his recliner reading or holed himself up in the study, straining his eyes over one of those model kits. She continued CANYON VOICES

walking to the laundry room, where she dropped the chew toy in a pile with others that were equally unidentifiable. While there, she put a load of clothes on to wash and hummed a little tune under her breath as she loaded the machine. “I’ve got rhythm, I’ve got music, I’ve got my guy, who could ask for anything more?”

Mary Ella didn’t have rhythm, nor could she sing that well, but she liked the song anyway.

When she got back to the living room, Clyde was gone. His green slippers sat neatly at the foot of his recliner. She called his name as she walked through their bedroom to the bathroom, but he didn’t answer. He’d better not have left the house again without telling her. He wasn’t in the study, where freshly painted plane parts sat drying on toothpicks on the desk. Creased instructions and diagrams labeled “F-4 Phantom” lay unfolded nearby along with some clippings from the Okalona Observer. “Leroy?” she called, then she noticed the dog’s leash was missing from the peg by the kitchen door. So he had gone off with the dog again. She preferred to walk the dog herself; it fit better in her schedule. Three times around the neighborhood was 45 minutes, then she would be back in time to fix lunch before noon. But when Clyde took him, there was no telling when he’d be back. Sometimes they went as far as the park or Ashbury Cemetery, and she never knew when to start fixing lunch when he stayed away longer than an hour. Oh well, lunch was just going to be leftover vegetable beef soup today; she could leave it simmering on the stove all afternoon if that was how long he wanted to stay away. Still, she found herself looking through the blinds every few minutes, hoping it would be a short walk today.

At 12:17, she spotted him slowly walking up the sidewalk, his back hunched in his gray corduroy coat. It was early March, and winter weather hadn’t left Okalona yet. She predicted that they’d have another week or two of cold cloudy weather

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before spring arrived. He held the leash limp in his right hand and stared at the ground as if he were looking for loose change. Even Leroy seemed to drag his paws. She went back to the kitchen and got the soup out of the refrigerator while they came inside. Clyde cleared his throat and coughed twice as he hung up the leash.

“You’re back,” she said from behind the refrigerator door. “Where’d y’all go today?” She put the bowl on the counter then crouched beside the dog. “How you doing, Leroy? Did you have a nice walk?” she said and ruffled the fur around his face. Leroy panted and licked her fingers, but he didn’t act excited or energetic like he did after their walks together. She wondered how much exercise he got when he went with Clyde. Neither of them looked any better when they got back.

“Just to the park,” Clyde said, and coughed again.

“I hope you’re not getting sick,” Mary Ella said as she poured the soup into a Dutch oven. “You must be tired; sit down. Soup will be ready in a minute,” she said and twisted the stove knob.

Clyde sat at the kitchen table with his legs spread and knees slightly bent, his hands clasped between them. She noticed a grass stain on his left knee and black mud stuck to his boots.

“You’re gonna get dog hair in the soup,” he said.

“What? Oh, forgot to wash my hands,” she said and turned away from him, toward the sink.

“You been wrestling with the dog or something?

You got grass on your pants.”

“Uh, I fell. Leroy pulled the leash too hard and I lost my balance.” It sounded unlikely, but Mary Ella didn’t press him for details.

A few minutes later, Mary Ella ladled the soup into bowls and sat down opposite from him and

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watched him while they ate. When they married, she knew he’d always be handsome. His graystreaked brown hair lay in smooth wavy lines across the top of his head; she had been relieved when she realized a few years ago that he would never go bald. Now his skin hung loose from his jaws. He didn’t have many wrinkles yet except for a deep crease on each side of his mouth and the diagonal gash on his forehead where a flying splinter had cut him 12 years ago. *** The women usually started their game at 8:00, but Janice arrived at least fifteen minutes early.

Mary Ella was putting away the Ranch dressing and bacon bits when Janice knocked at the kitchen door. They had been friends since they were thirteen, and Mary Ella liked her best, though she would never tell the others. A petite, plump woman with bobbed red hair, Janice looked only about fifty. She immediately began helping Mary Ella bus the table, raking leftover bread crusts and green bean strings into the garbage. That’s what they all liked about her; she was so helpful.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“I hardly know, I’ve been so busy scrubbing everything,” Mary Ella answered. She lowered her voice and eyes. “Clyde’s been acting real strange lately.” He sat in the living room, where Bill O’Reilly shouted from the TV. “He hardly talks to me anymore.”

“Well, maybe he’s still getting adjusted to being at home all the time. When Howard retired, it took us six months to get a regular routine going.”

“That’s just the thing. We’ve got a routine– avoiding each other.” She paused to wipe her

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hands on a striped dishrag. “I’m just worried he’s unhappy.”

Glenda and Ruby arrived at the front door, and Glenda’s voice filled the foyer. After setting the game on the dining table, they entered the kitchen.

“It smells good in here. Did you have lasagna for supper?”

Mary Ella scratched the back of her neck and said, “We did. It was just a frozen one, though.

Did you get your hair cut? It looks nice.”

Glenda patted the top of her curly black hair with the palm of her hand. She was a tall, highwaisted woman with a large bosom and a commanding voice. “I sure did. I went to that new place, Snips and Such, you know, on Anderson Street. A girl named Allison did it. Not bad for someone straight out of cosmetology school.”

“You’d never know it to look at your hair,” Janice said.

“I could never go anywhere new to get my hair fixed.” Ruby said. “Sarah and I have such a longstanding relationship, she’d probably take it as a personal offense if I stopped going to her.” She was a slender woman with pale yellowish skin, and she was the only woman in the group who didn’t dye her hair.

A few minutes later, they were settled around the dining table drinking sweet tea and mixing the letter tiles. They had played Scrabble every week for sixteen years, ever since Janice’s youngest son left for college. They didn’t mind that Glenda usually won; she had been an eighth grade English teacher for 35 years and knew words the other three couldn’t pronounce, like xyst and yttrium.

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“Did you hear about Lucille Kornegay?” Glenda asked. She didn’t wait for them to answer. “I heard she got caught stealing kiwis from WinnDixie this week.” She nodded, her eyes wide.

“She was stuffing them in her bra, but they caught her on the video camera. I know, because my cousin’s ex-wife Linda works there and she saw the whole thing.”

“It’s about time somebody turned her in for shoplifting. They’ve been turning a blind eye to her for years,” Mary Ella said. She spelled “rake” on the board.

“It’s because they got that new manager–what’s his name–Mr. Marshall, something like that.

They sent him from corporate to figure out why they were losing money. He said he came to root out the corruption.” She used Mary Ella’s “k” to spell “drink.”

“I guess that’s good, but I feel sorry for the Kornegay kids, knowing their mama’s going to be fined now. They never look like they’ve had enough to eat,” Janice said and laid down “pansy,” using the s to spell “rakes.”

“Would’ve been better for the kids if she had died. Then they’d at least get some food in foster care,” Ruby said. She was always saying shocking things to try to get a rise out of them.

Clyde walked into the dining room, biting a spotted banana in his hand.

“You need something?” Mary Ella asked.

“No, just hungry.” He pointed at her letter tray with his free hand. “You can spell ‘candy,’” he said.

“Don’t give away my letters.”

Clyde smiled, walked into the kitchen, and came back with a bag of sour cream and onion chips.

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FICTION | ABBY HOGELIN

“You’d think I never fed this man, the way he snacks between meals,” Mary Ella told them.

“I’m just trying to stay in shape: round,” he said, patting his belly. They laughed and he wandered back into the living room, leaving a trail of crumbs on the carpet.

“I don’t think it should be a crime to steal food,” Glenda declared, laying “eulogy” on the board, “especially if it’s something healthy like kiwis.

Did you know they have more vitamin C than oranges?”

Janice lowered her eyebrows as she looked at her tray of letters and said, “I don’t care if it’s a crime or not, it’s still a sin. Besides, how would farmers make any money if all their food was going for free?”

“It wouldn’t be free for everybody. I’m just saying, if people know you’re having trouble feeding your family, they should look the other way when you help yourself to some extra food.”

Clyde came back, asked who was winning, and guessed correctly that it was Glenda. Mary Ella had trouble concentrating on the game; twice, she started to put down tiles when it wasn’t her turn. She kept thinking about providing for family. Clyde never made much money at the mill, but they always had plenty of food for the girls. Would she have stolen if they didn’t have enough? No, she could have gotten a job substitute teaching at the elementary school or a daycare somewhere. She would have done anything to avoid the humiliation of stealing.

But something else was bothering her, humming in her ear like a mosquito she couldn’t shoo away. How could Clyde be so witty around her friends but not say two words to her when they were alone? Was he upset about something?

Lonely? She was more than willing to talk to him, but no, he chose to talk to her friends instead.

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They probably thought nothing was wrong. It was all an act for company. When the women left around 9:30, Janice turned toward Mary Ella and raised her eyebrows as if to say, “I didn’t notice anything different.” Of course not, Mary Ella grumbled to herself. She said goodnight and noticed sticky rings on the table where their glasses had been. She would have to clean again.

Mary Ella went to bed that night with a headache and overslept the next morning. When she awoke after 9:00, Clyde had already gotten out of bed.

She ran her hand lightly over the cool sheet where his body had been. He had been up for a while. Then she remembered that it was Thursday and aerobics class started at 10:30. She didn’t know where Clyde was, but she didn’t have time to think about it as she rushed around getting ready, pulling on sweats and pushing a headband into her hair.

By 10:25, she had made it to the basement of the Methodist church, where Janice had already arrived and was doing warm-up stretches on her exercise mat. She sat on the floor with her legs spread in a wide V as she leaned her torso toward the floor. Mary Ella had no idea how she had stayed so flexible over the years, especially after giving birth to five children.

“Didn’t think I was going to make it this morning,” Mary Ella said.

“You always say that and still get here with five minutes to spare.” Janice laughed. “I saved you a spot on the edge, where nobody’ll see if you mess up.”

“Thanks,” Mary Ella said as she shifted into a lunge. “Today I meant it though. Clyde didn’t wake me when he got up. He disappeared again.”

“Did he take the dog?”

Mary Ella thought about it. “No. Leroy came

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running when I fed him.”

The aerobics instructor arrived then, a blond pregnant woman in her thirties who could lift her knees higher than any of her middle-aged students. It was enough to make anyone sick.

“Maybe he went to Claudette’s Kitchen for breakfast. You know how he loves their biscuits and gravy.”

“But I would have gladly made them for him if he’d asked.” Mary Ella knew what Janice was thinking but was too nice to say: maybe Clyde liked their biscuits better. Mary Ella prided herself in her cooking and thought that was a major reason Clyde married her in the first place.

Everyone knew the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.

As they exercised, Mary Ella felt a coldness grip her stomach and refuse to let go. If Clyde didn’t like her cooking anymore, was there something else about her that he wasn’t pleased with? Was he just tolerating her because that’s what he was used to? By the time Mary Ella arrived home that afternoon, she had formed a plan. She’d make him the best dinner he’d had in months: ham, mashed potatoes, red eye gravy, carrots, and biscuits. No more using canned ones, either.

These were going to be from scratch.

Clyde closed the front door loudly when he walked in at 2:00 pm, but she barely noticed; her hands were coated in flour. This time she didn’t quiz him about where he’d been. Let him be, she thought. He’ll come around when he sees all this food. And if that didn’t work, well, she didn’t have time to think about that, the oven timer was going off.

At the dinner table that night, Mary Ella watched as Clyde ate quickly. He even went back for a second slice of ham and another biscuit. She

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couldn’t remember the last time she saw him eat so much or with such enthusiasm.

“Good biscuits, Mary Ella,” he said when he was finished.

“As good as Claudette’s?” she asked. She stood beside his chair to take his plate to the sink.

“Better.” He pulled her onto his lap. “You’ve always been my favorite cook.” Mary Ella was surprised and pleased by his affection. She stood up, and Clyde went back to the living room to turn on the TV while Mary Ella bused the table, smiling to herself. She still had it. But his unexpected attention didn’t last; he withdrew into his model world again.

The following week Mary Ella felt odd somehow, like her brain was a plateful of loose spaghetti with thoughts going in every direction and turning and crossing on each other. Clyde didn’t seem to notice when she left one morning to buy groceries and came back an hour later with only a box of Wheat Thins and some razor blades. She had wandered the aisles of Winn-Dixie, overwhelmed by all the choices yet unwilling to buy them. Nothing seemed necessary anymore.

Mary Ella wondered if she were having a stroke, but she thought body parts usually went numb when that happened. Still, when she returned home, she went to their bedroom and lay on top of the quilt with her shoes on and waited for the spinning in her head to start.

Later, when Clyde entered the room, she sat up quickly and pretended to adjust the lampshade on the bedside table and polished the little brass knob with her shirt sleeve. He didn’t say anything as he looked through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and returned a few minutes later with a pair of tweezers. Mary Ella smiled a little. His thick fingers were too big to pinch those tiny model plane parts.

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FICTION | ABBY HOGELIN

On Wednesday, when Mary Ella did her preScrabble cleaning, she walked into Clyde’s study, where she noticed the framed picture of his brother Jesse had been moved from the wall to the desk, covering his model airplane instructions. A faded yellow newspaper clipping lay nearby: Jesse’s obituary, dated March 10, 1972. Mary Ella’s eyes jumped to the calendar on the wall. Thirty-eight years ago.

He didn’t say anything, just kept facing the wall, breathing heavily. The overhead lights were off, but the lamp on the nightstand cast a pink glow on the wall behind him.

She had driven halfway to the cemetery before she realized that she still wore her faded periwinkle bathrobe and slippers. She slowed down half a block before she caught up with Clyde and Leroy on the sidewalk. He walked in the same slow plodding way she had seen him last week. She rolled down the window and said, “Come on and get in the car, Clyde. I’ll drive you.” He looked up and his face looked boyish, questioning, and startled.

“It’s not just Jesse,” he said and sat up suddenly, hanging his legs over the far side of the bed. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Come on,” she said again. “Put Leroy in the back seat.”

“What’s going on, Clyde? Why have you been so distant?”

Reluctantly, he opened the door and got in, but he still had not said anything. When they got to the cemetery, he led the way to his brother’s grave, and just stood there for a few minutes, staring at the worn gray tombstone. Jesse had only been twenty-four when he died. Mary Ella stood a few feet behind him, watching as he pulled a gray model airplane out of his coat pocket. The same kind Jesse flew, she realized.

Clyde set the plane near the base of the tombstone, then turned toward her and said he wanted to go home and lie down.

“I don’t know. It’s hard, everything’s hard. I don’t know what to do with myself.” He turned to face her.

When they got back home, Mary Ella followed him to the bedroom and watched as he kicked off his loafers and lay on his side on top of the quilt.

“Come on, Clyde. We can work through this, like everything else. Talk to me. Say something.” She moved a little closer. “I know you miss Jesse, and I’m sorry I forgot about the anniversary.”

“You just came back from walking. You need to rest. Lie down again.”

“No, Mary Ella. I will not have you treating me like a child,” he said, turning his head towards her slightly. She felt her shoulders tense and her eyebrows push down.

“Since the retirement?”

“I guess, but that’s not all.” He got up and poked two fingers through the cracked blinds, but there was nothing to see outside except a cold cloudy day. “I never got to say goodbye to my brother. I never thought about him enough in these thirtyeight years. I never stopped to think about anything. And now my job is over and all I have left to do is die and join him.” He ran his finger along the dusty windowsill.

“That’s not true–”

She lay beside him, put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Clyde let’s talk about this.”

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He turned towards her, but didn’t make eye contact. He seemed to be staring at the carved oak headboard behind her. “Why do I get to have

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FICTION | ABBY HOGELIN

a long life, with a family and kids and a career and he got none of that?”

“I don’t know honey. But we’ll get through this together.”

Clyde grunted, a low animal growl and muttered something Mary Ella couldn’t understand.

“What did you say?”

“It’s just like you, to have a cliche for every occasion. I should have known you wouldn’t understand. Why am I saying this?”

“I do understand. I don’t know what to say. I don’t have answers. Nobody does.”

Clyde jerked his head up toward the ceiling.

Mary Ella noticed tears in his eyes. She watched him rock himself back and forth, heels to toes and back again. She tried to think of something to say.

When he had calmed down a bit, she said, “Clyde? Do you still love me?”

He turned his head toward her. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? God, when will you realize that a marriage is about two people?”

“I cook for you and clean for you, raise two healthy, beautiful daughters, and you don’t even thank me. Why do you ignore me?”

“Excuse me for being preoccupied. I just lost my job and Jesse–” “Died over thirty years ago. And you didn’t lose your job, you retired.”

“They let me go early. Ray said they could have kept me until 68 or 70 if it weren’t for budget cuts.”

“So? That doesn’t mean you’re dying tomorrow. ”

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“That’s just the thing, you keep acting like we’re dying, what with your Scrabble games and rigid schedules and going to bed at 9:30. Don’t you want to do anything more?”

Mary Ella looked away and her stomach grumbled uncomfortably. She thought it must be close to lunchtime, but she didn’t feel like eating.

“This is what I’ve always done. I can’t imagine any other life.”

“Can’t you try?”

Mary Ella sighed. How had this turned into her problem? She was supposed to be helping Clyde get over being depressed. “I’m fine. I don’t need to change.”

“You have to. Our lives have changed. Are you coming with me?” He slipped his shoes on.

“Where are you going, Clyde? Don’t leave.” She knelt on the bed in front of where he stood.

“Europe, Portugal, China. I don’t care. Don’t you ever get tired of living in the same place all the time, seeing the same people?”

“Portugal? Where did that come from? Clyde, you’re not making any sense. Come sit on the bed and let’s talk about this.”

“I don’t want to sit down anymore. I won’t take orders from my wife.” He ran both hands through his hair as if he were trying to straighten the waviness.

Mary Ella was struck dumb. She stared at the floor to the left of the bed. Her vision focused on the carpet, on all the pink and gray and navy fibers twisted together, inseparable by color until now. How could he say such things? She never ordered him around, did she?

Mary Ella didn’t know how much time passed while she sat looking at the carpet, nor what

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FICTION | ABBY HOGELIN

Clyde did in the meantime. She just noticed that after a while, Clyde had sunk onto the bed next to her, leaning on arms stretched out behind him.

Mary Ella didn’t know when she began to cry, either; she sort of awoke to her face all watery and vision indistinct.

“I didn’t mean it, Mary Ella,” he said. “I just feel like I’m losing control lately, and I need to be able to feel like I’m doing something again.

Something important. Something you need me to do.”

“I need you to stop scaring me with these outbursts. We haven’t had a fight like this since the girls were little. I need you to talk to me, not just the dog. I need–” “That’s enough.” He took her hands. The thick fingers felt smoother than she remembered. “I understand.”

About the Author Abby Hogelin is a 2012 graduate of the MFA program at Georgia College & State University.

While at GCSU, she served as Assistant Fiction Editor of Arts & Letters: A Journal of Contemporary Culture and Circulation Assistant for the Flannery O'Connor Review.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

FICTION | DONNA BOWRING

The Face of Love

By Donna Bowring

The noon hour had come and gone. Lunch grew cold as I waited for my husband to come in from the fields. Never in our fifty years of marriage had Jamie missed a meal. I tossed a sweater around my shoulders and started across the pasture.

I had not seen a day more beautiful in what seemed forever. The sky was a pure blue without a cloud in sight. Wildflowers pushed through the soil that had held them prisoner all winter.

I got to remembering back to the day I first caught sight of Jamie. Mother had set me to sweeping off leaves and bits of debris left on the front porch by an early spring storm. Jamie came down the road whistling a tune, daring me to kick up my heels and dance.

He stopped and leaned on the top fence rail; I left off brushing the steps and leaned on my broom. He smiled and asked me would this way take him to town? I nodded and for the first time in my life was dumbstruck. I had never seen anyone like him in real life. He had a face from a storybook, handsome and blue-eyed, with a smile that lit the morning like a sunrise. He thanked me, said he liked my red hair, and gave me a wave as he walked off.

Mother was not pleased. She had been eavesdropping behind the front door screen, and scolded that no proper young man remarks on the color of a girls’ hair the first time they meet.

She did add that he was tall, taller than me most likely.

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Mother feared she would never marry off her tall lanky daughter with the wild red hair. I stood eye to eye with most of the eligible men in town, and most believed the old adage that redheads were sharp tempered and unreliable. My height and my hair; those two faults in my appearance distressed Mother to no end.

Two weeks later Jamie knocked on our front door and asked for my father. His smile that first day on the porch, told me he would come to call sooner or later. My heart told me we would marry someday and raise a house full of children.

I envisioned our future together the moment I saw him, I don’t know how, but it all seemed as natural as winter blizzards and harvest fields of new mown hay.

Mother shooed me from the room, but I peeked around the corner and watched the two men put their heads together in conversation. Father was impressed. In only two weeks Jamie had found a job in the mill and had already begun to lay aside a sum of money towards the purchase of his own plot of land. He aimed to have a fine farm one day, a place that was his alone, that left him beholden to no man. Jamie’s plans were as big as his heart and wide as his smile.

The next month he came courting and the two of us spent all that summer and into the next spring together. We took long walks and discussed the crops that would thrive in the rich, loamy soil of our valley. We attended church with my mother and father, read our prayer books, and sang the old hymns so loud my mother poked me in the ribs and the whole congregation stared.

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FICTION | DONNA BOWRING

We went to Saturday night gatherings in the community hall where Jamie could kick up a jig and dance a waltz with the best of any in town.

Many were the first prize Blue Ribbons we brought home from those long ago dancing nights. And many were the petite and pretty girls in their ruffled little dresses who tried to pry him from my side. He was polite but unmovable.

I remember the day he proposed, a spring day much like today. With the money he made at the mill, he had purchased a good piece of land.

Proud that it was all his own, he asked would I care to share with him?

Of course, I said yes. Mother was beside herself with joy. The burden of worry for my future had been lifted from her shoulders, thanks to Jamie.

Together we sewed my wedding dress while she issued instructions on how to attain a successful married life. I half listened to her because I had my own ideas on happiness.

She planned what flowers would decorate the church and which music selections would be played. She spent endless hours in the kitchen consulting her recipe books for just the right bridal dinner. My father made her stop, warning if she didn’t get some rest, she wouldn’t be around to celebrate anything.

The wedding day was perfect; cherished forever like some scene in a snow globe. Figures of a man and woman under a flowered arch, who would never change, never grow old.

We worked the farm together and Jamie teased me, stating I was muscular as any man, and I answered would he care to arm wrestle. We felled trees, chopped firewood, cleared brush and harrowed the fields, always side by side. We built our own house log by log and brick by brick.

With the help of neighbors we raised a barn and added a chicken coop.

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We had everything we needed or wanted except the one thing we yearned for most. There were no sons or daughters to share the love we had to give.

One morning Jamie said he had an errand to run; I asked what and he smiled and said it was a surprise. After he left, I tried to do my chores, but my mind dwelt on what sort of a surprise he had in mind. I was down on my knees tending my flower garden when he returned with a small child in tow. She looked at me, first with an edge of fear in her eyes, and then with a small smile as I beckoned her to come see the flowers. Her tiny finger traced the petal of a daisy and her smile widened.

That was the day we became caretakers and surrogate parents to a little girl we named Megan. She was the first to join Jamie and me; raised and loved as our own. She had come to us from the county orphanage, as an abandoned, lonely and unloved child. Over the years there were more children; all grown and out in the world now. Those throw-away children had become our beloved family, a part of us forever In all that time I found Jamie to be as down to earth as the soil he tilled. His kind, gentle nature never changed. In my mind, I still saw the young man who knelt on one knee and asked for my hand in marriage.

I had almost reached the field but heard no sound from the tractor. The day was quiet. No bird song came from the trees. No skitter sounds of small creatures in the underbrush broke the silence. I walked faster and finally broke through the stand of trees that edged the far field.

I saw the tractor before I saw Jamie. It lay on its side, a large boulder pushed up against it. He must have been trying to rock it loose when the tractor slid and turned over.

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FICTION | DONNA BOWRING

My heart drummed my chest and I thought surely I would faint before I got to him. I walked around the tractor and saw him. His legs were crushed beneath it, and as he lay with his arms flung out as if ready to fly.

I knelt beside him. His head had turned to one side, and when I touched his cheek it was cold. I turned his head and saw an old man, grayhaired, wrinkled, and burnt brown by the sun.

His blue eyes had opened in surprise, as though death snuck up and caught him unawares.

I looked at him in a completely new light. This old man was not my Jamie, not my boy with the laughing blue eyes. Then I looked at my hands.

The hands of an old woman; blue-veined, and work-worn, with chipped nails and arthritic knuckles. I saw myself as I was now, and the man who lay on the ground was the Jamie I had known and loved for fifty years.

I bowed my head and cried. My heart broken for the lost, laughing boy who had courted me, and for the dear old man who lay dead in the fresh turned soil of a new spring. Yet even as I wept, I knew our love would warm my heart for the rest of my days.

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About the Author Donna Bowring is retired graphic artist who lives in Goodyear, Arizona. She is a widow with five children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She is a published short story writer and is currently editing a memoir/novel in hopes of self-publishing in 2014. She has been a typesetter, owned a small graphics business, and was manager of the Production Department, Student Publications at ASU. She received her BA in English in 1997, attending classes part-time while working full time at ASU. She belongs to The West Valley Inkslingers Writers Group and The Avondale Writers Critique Group.

Originally from New York, she considers herself an almost native, having lived in Arizona for more than thirty years. Reach Donna at Donnapoet1@aol.com.

SPRING 2014

FICTION | VICTORIA RAIBLE

Envy is a Sin

By Victoria Raible

The girls crouch behind the discarded wheel of an old tractor. The rain that had fallen during the early morning hours left the metal of the tire smelling like rust, salty and thick. The girl’s knees are sunk deep in the mud. The simultaneous sense of solidity yet give of the cold wet mud makes the older sister, not yet thirteen, uneasy. She thinks of the chill and weight of the dead calf she had held the winter before. She had cried, feeling guilt in her chest like heavy grain filling a sack. It was to be her responsibility, a cow she could raise and hopefully give to her husband when she was to marry.

She always felt the pressure of responsibility more than her sister, even when she was as young as her. Sarah, who just turned seven, felt the world under her. It lifted her. Even now, the world is driving her, and she is fearless.

“Go take the scythe,” Sarah barks at her older sister. The tool is casually leaning against the burnt red color of the barn’s faded paint. To Noel, it looks like a crescent moon suspended on the branch of a tree. The ruddy paint is a bloody sky, she thinks.

“No. Momma’s going to see us from the window.

She’s probably looking through the window at us right now. We’re supposed to be out milking the cows. And we’d get cut if we touch it,” Noel whispers back, imagining her mother on the other side of the giant wheel listening to them.

“Girls aren’t supposed to touch those tools, Sarah. It wouldn’t be right.”

picks earth out of the grooves of the tire. Her thin finger collects mud under its nail. Sarah can’t stand all of the things that were forbidden. Not just objects, but activities, friends, thoughts, futures. She is too young to understand the weight of these things. She does, however, understand curiosity. She wants to understand the mystery of it all. Everything. And as soon as the scythe isn’t a mystery, she will find something else forbidden to discover. She’s heard rumors of the older girls sneaking off with English boys. She’s seen t-shirts smuggled home with letters like paint saying things she didn’t understand. Pink Floyd. Cancun. Treasures from English friends. Stories of fast food and fast cars.

She sees a future with cars and boys and movies.

A future world that will belong to her. She’s seen the possibilities as they have driven past on the dirt roads, gawking through car windows like staring into a fish bowl. A community unaffected by time, isolated and surrounded by a changing world. “Don’t you want to know everything about how the world works?” Sarah asks her quietly.

She wants to hear Noel answer yes.

Noel searches for the words to explain to her younger sister. She cannot tell her the truth. The truth died with the calf, the calf that she was to raise. The calf would grow as she did. In some years, it would be her future with a husband and children. “You can’t be curious about the world when you’ll have a husband and children to take care of.”

“Who says?”

“Aren’t you even a little curious? Are you even curious about anything?” her sister says as she

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

FICTION | VICTORIA RAIBLE

Noel feels the pressure of everything on her again. She feels the eyes of all of the women at church, their hair fixed under white pressed caps. Their hands folded on their lap with The Bible huddled underneath their crossed fingers.

Their eyes pierce her. She feels the pressure of her future. And her guilt. She feels the guilt of watching the clear and shimmering life leave from the calf’s dark eye. She felt the calf’s head across her lap change from moving and whining to limp. Silent. She sat in the barn on that snow night for hours, listening to the snow softly hit the ground outside. She sat waiting and hoping that the calf would start breathing again. She hoped that air would start flowing through its nostrils, making the flowers on her hand-sewn dress look like they were blowing in the breeze on a summer day. “Everybody and everything says. This is how our world works.”

“You don’t want to touch it at all? You don’t have to hold it or use it or knock it over. Just go touch it. Don’t you want to feel it?” she asks Noel.

She imagines what the wood of the staff would feel like under the soft skin of her finger. She feels the grain of the wood. She imagines what it would be like to touch this forbidden thing. That is not a place for little girls, she hears her mother tell her, your place is with me and will someday be with your own family. You’ll have your own little girls to teach to sew, make preserves, clean the linens, and milk the cows. She imagines a life where she could buy her clothes. Buy her food.

Put her linens in a machine. And never have to see a cow ever again. She imagines what it would be like to make her own decisions. She imagines what it would be like to make a decision right now, a decision for herself.

“I don’t know. Maybe if I just touch it, Mother wouldn’t know.” Noel gives in to her sister.

“Go! Just see what it’s like,” Sarah says as she pushes her sister off her knees.

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Noel stands. She has an uninterrupted view of the barn and the scythe. The air around it seems thick like a memory pulled together from every deep corner of her brain. She imagines deciding to touch the scythe. She imagines feeling it catch on her skin and push a splinter into her. She feels her own blood slipping out of her. She imagines it looking like the blood of the calf, pooling on her dress. She had flirted with breaking tradition before. She can’t do it. She dreams every night of the calf. The calf that had spilled its blood in that barn, blood creeping like ants through the hay and soft dirt. The guilt is what holds her. It keeps her knees buried in the mud and prevents her from going to the scythe.

“I can’t,” Noel says and sinks back to the ground.

She hides behind the tire from the temptation.

“I should be the older sister,” Sarah says through turned down lips. There is empathy in her statement, “I’ll go take it if you won’t.”

Sarah pushes off the tire. Mud sticks to her small fingers and the bottom of her arms. Her feet, bare and covered with earth, tip-toe toward the barn and the waxing crescent scythe. Her footsteps sound like one of the cows slowly walking in the silence of night. Her handmade dress, dripping in a tiny yellow floral, picked up mud around the edges. Her apron, clad in more orange flowers, is tied tight around her young waist. The fabric falls to the middle of her calf.

The swell of fabric on her shoulders swallows her delicate, muddy arms. Two thin braids of blond hair fall across them. Her blond hair matches her pale skin. The bright tone of her skin dances with the orange of her traditional dress. She looks like the sun.

Noel remembers walking to the barn that night, taking almost the same steps as her sister. She went to check on the pregnant cow once her parents had fallen asleep. The thought of raising an animal to give to her future husband kept her

SPRING 2014

FICTION | VICTORIA RAIBLE

up most nights. The responsibility of her future was filling her young stomach with acid. It burned inside her. She didn’t understand how she had a life planned out before she even turned thirteen. She had slipped back into her proper dress over her night gown, her dress that was the shade of blue that reminded her of the sky on a stormy day. She walked past the scythe into the barn that had stood on their property long before her father had been born. She had been praying that the calf would die. Hoped it would be a stillborn. Hoped the frigid winter would take it.

Noel remembers finding it alive and breathing.

The fluids of birth still sticking to its coat. The black coat shining like the river at night. Light catching at the tufts of hair that had been licked up by its mother. Noel looked around for the mother, but it was gone. She approached the calf that was still resting on the ground, unable to take its first steps.

“Don’t!” Noel yells. Sarah’s feet inch their way to the scythe. Sarah smiles back at her sister.

When Noel saw this new and living calf, tears fell from her eyes. She paced around the animal, sharp breaths coming from her throat as she tried not to make a noise that would wake her parents. She settled down beside it and listened to its breath fill the quiet barn. She gathered its head in her arms, letting it rest its weak neck on her leg. Her mind went back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. She couldn’t bear the thought of raising this animal only to give it to her husband. To give everything that should be hers to her husband. Even herself. She let her tears fall on the calf’s soft face.

Sarah steps closer, feet quiet. Step. Step.

Noel stroked the side of the animal’s face, and couldn’t bring herself to decide. She could raise the innocent thing and give it, and everything, to a husband. Or she could decide to do something else.

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Step. Step. Her sister, eyes young and fearless, reaches for the scythe.

Noel reached into the pocket on the front of her apron under the calf’s head. She felt the thin, sharp metal of the blade she took from the kitchen as she had moved through her house, holding her breath, on her way to check on the mother cow. She pulled the knife out. On the knife’s reflective blade, she found the light of the moon pouring through the cracks between the barns weathered wood. She stared at the blade, watching its shape and the light resting on it warp as tears filled her eyes and drained down her cheeks. She moved the blade down, placing it against the neck of the animal. She won’t give up the calf to a man that will steal her life along with this innocent animal.

“I’m about to do it!” Sarah yells, her fingers stretching toward the scythe.

She felt the pressure of her future crushing her.

She looked at the shining light of the mirrored knife against the black fur of the calf. Her breaths moved rapidly in and out of her throat.

The frigid air made her lungs sting. She felt her resolve tense every muscle in her thin arm. She shoved the knife into the animal’s neck.

The calf wailed. Blood pushed in spurts around the blade nestled in its flesh.

Sarah’s fingers are inches from it. They are inches from what is forbidden, from breaking tradition. She touches the scythe with the tip of her finger.

Noel pulled the knife from its neck. The moon's light disappeared under the dark red color that now covered the blade. The warm red rushed out of it, turning the mass of fur and flesh in her lap cold. The tiny blue flowers of her dress sopping up scarlet red turned to rusty brown. The cold night freezing the warm liquid to her legs as it

SPRING 2014

FICTION | VICTORIA RAIBLE

cooled in the winter air. She pressed her palms against the gash. She pressed with all the force she had in her young arms. She sobbed, pressing, but only feeling the calf’s movements fade as the blood ran out of it.

When the barn became silent again, and the liquid had stopped seeping from the animal, she heard the crunch of footsteps through the snow.

She stared up at the gaping barn door. Her mother, a dark shape against the sky, stood at the threshold. Her invisible eyes saw everything.

Noel ached for her mother to say something. She ached for her mother to yell. Ached for her to walk up and strike her cheek until her skin felt hot against the winter air. She ached for her mother to give up hope for her daughter to be good and dutiful. Ached for her to disown her.

But she didn’t say a word.

She remembers snow getting stuck in her eyelashes and in the tears falling down her cheeks as she walked back to her house, her mother’s hand resting on her shoulders. She remembers the pressure of the guilt and her mother’s bony fingers making their indentation into her. She realized the depth of her actions.

Realized she took the life of this animal, something so innocent and helpless. Guilt filled her. It poured out of her as if she were bleeding like the calf that she had cradled in her lap. She regretted trying to make a decision for herself.

She shouldn’t have challenged tradition, challenged the future. She regretted everything.

Sarah wraps her hand around the scythe. She feels the weight of this forbidden object. It is the weight of her action that she really feels. She doesn’t regret, like her sister. She tips it over, lets it fall to the ground. The pressure to be a dutiful girl who will make a dutiful wife and mother holds no power over her. She touches the blade.

She feels the sharpness of her decision. “It’s not

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so scary, is it Noel?” She tries to encourage her sister who she doesn’t know has already lost.

Her mother had slipped through the barn door, seeing Noel in all her shame. Her mother didn’t have to say a word to her. She would never do anything she shouldn’t again. She would accept her future.

Noel feels the weight of everything – the calf, the scythe, the future – but she doesn’t understand the feeling in her gut. Noel looks at her younger sister with envy. Envy that Sarah embraced the forbidden. She feels envy because she sits, respectable and scared, behind the old tractor tire half way between their home, big and wood and menacing, and the scythe. Envy is a sin, she hears her mother’s words in her head.

About the Author Victoria Raible, born and raised in Arizona, is a 21 year old student of ASU’s West campus. Her college career began at Glendale Community College where she was awarded two scholarships for her creative writing. Though creative writing began as a hobby for Victoria, it quickly became her biggest passion, beating her love of film photography. Her main focus in her fiction writing is the development of a concise and distinguishable voice, concentrating largely on personal and moral issues. She is fascinated by transgressive fiction, in particular the works of Chuck Palahniuk, and looks to reference that genre in her own writing.

Victoria will be graduating in the Fall 2014 semester with a bachelor’s degree in English with a minor in Communications.

She plans on going to grad school in 2015 to earn a master’s degree in Communications. Though she is still unsure of what career she will pursue after graduation, she has dreams to publish a novel and many more short stories.

SPRING 2014

FICTION |RUTH CHAVEZ

Foreign Objects

By Ruth Chavez

“Fucking foreigners!” The man growled every syllable of each word then poured Coors Light down his throat. He had a stranglehold on the bottle. If it had been a small child, it would pass out from the lack of oxygen. Grumbling he picked at the label, ripped away slivers of paper and flung them to the Saltillo tile floor.

“I’m sick of ‘em coming over here to my country,” he thumped his chest like a silverback gorilla, “‘land of the brave and home of the free’ messin’ up shit all the time.” His eyes never left the television mounted in the corner. Footage of the search for the suspects in the Boston Marathon bombings was running nonstop.

He pronounced it ferners. I was glad the solid oak bar separated us. Adrenalin pumped through my veins activating my fight-or-flight response. I wanted to correct him. It’s “land of the free and home of the brave.” But I didn’t dare. I was one of them, a ferner.

Sweat trickled down between my breasts and soaked the butterfly applique on my bra. The walls of the European-style pub rushed in to stand next to me, whispering, cajoling, and accusing, pushing me back until I was trapped by the cash register. My body folded up into itself as if I were one of those transformer robots in the movies.

This wasn’t the first time since I started working here that I heard remarks about foreigners.

According to the mayor, “The whole town has to establish a new ‘get tough policy’ with these people who keep crossing our borders.

Something must be done.” Meanwhile, the city

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council was busy debating stricter ordinances and easier verification methods.

When the man staggered in I was busy wiping down tables. Bertie took his order. I would have refused to serve him. It was plain to see he was already drunk. House policy clearly stated it was illegal to serve someone obviously intoxicated.

But Bertie didn’t care. She always said, “The drunker they are, the better they tip.”

This man was no big tipper. I could tell.

The name Sepp was embroidered in red across the white tag of his blue mechanic’s shirt. I wondered if he knew Sepp was German for Joseph. How far removed was he from his own foreign-born ancestors?

Grease and dirt were layered under his fingernails like sedimentary rock deposits in the Grand Canyon. Carbon-14 dating would be needed to decode his years of hard work and unrealized dreams. The same crud outlined his cuticles and filled the cracks of his knuckles.

Chewing tobacco stained his teeth and lay visible on his tongue and lower lip every time he opened his mouth to speak. The look of it made me choke back a gag.

He probably thought there weren’t any real foreigners within ten miles of this place, smack dab in the middle of the country. Certainly not standing right across from him, yet, here I am. A grad student at the university, majoring in political science and economics, repulsed by him and surprised at the level of resentment stirring

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FICTION |RUTH CHAVEZ

in my belly and burning my throat. With some people, it’s always the same, shove that round peg into that square hole with as many others as can be made to fit. Blond hair, blue eyes, and Protestant beliefs, I don’t look like the typical foreigner. I fooled more than just him.

He reminded me of my father, sitting in our kitchen in Dusseldorf, where he would drink Altbier, a mellow German ale, and pound his fists on the table ranting about the Turks and Asians.

His attitude was the same as this man’s.

Foreigners stole all the good jobs and got free rides in education and health care. Now Germany has to bail out the whole EU. I always thought if Papa had been of age during the Second World War, he would have been a proud member of the Nazi Party.

I polished the inside of a whiskey glass, keeping a deliberate distance between us.

Nearing the end of his drink, Sepp picked up the bottle, held it eye-level, and tipped it from side to side. He set it back down and surveyed it like it was an enemy of the state. What tough questions would be asked if he were an interrogator?

His mouth twitched and foamed while he silently chewed words then spit them at the television.

“Bullshit, that’s what it is. A bunch of bullshit.

These people walking all over us. The US . . . of . . . A . . . it ain’t right!” His voice rose above the din. Lacing his fingers, he leaned forward and rested his head on his hands. He might have been mistaken for praying if the bar was an altar.

If he wants another beer, I should say no, I thought. But that would require an explanation.

My accent had faded but was still noticeable, especially under stress. Sometimes even my friends had a hard time deciphering my words. I didn’t want to talk to him. What did I care if he drank more? What did I care if he drank so much he ended up in the river trying to get home?

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There were stories of it happening before to others. It would happen again.

Maybe I should just go to the ladies’ room: sit in a stall, smoke a cigarette, and drink a shot of vodka. The good stuff I carried in my purse, not the watered down crap sold here. The other waitstaff escaped out back for breaks all the time.

Why not me?

Of course, if Sepp didn’t make it home and crashed into someone and killed them or himself, I would be liable. I would be responsible. All because I was a ferner and hadn’t said or done anything to stop him.

Under my breath, I practiced saying, “Can’t serve you,” in the flat-nasally-drawn-out way people in Kansas talked. I would say just that simple phrase and hand him a card with the policy printed on it. That’s all I was required to do. If he went somewhere else and drank until he couldn’t stand, at least it wouldn’t be on me.

The front doors swung open and my manager, Bryan, walked in. He scanned the place taking a head count to determine if it would be a profitable evening. I glanced at him then continued rinsing and stacking glasses. CNN was on in the background. It would loop the same scenes over and over again until there was a break in the story. Sepp sat perfectly still, watching the flickering doll-sized images.

“Hey Angie, what’s with the old dude?” Bryan nodded toward Sepp with a look like he just burped up rotten eggs.

“Having a few drinks, I guess. He’s pissed about what happened in Boston.” I frowned and squeezed a wine glass too hard. A section of the rim snapped off in my hand. “But who isn’t?” I tossed the broken pieces into the recycle bin “That’ll cost you $2.50 you know.” Bryan

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FICTION |RUTH CHAVEZ

scrunched up his nose and finger-tweezed whiskers from his beard.

I could tell he was doing the math in his head to deduct the money from my server’s salary. “It was already cracked. I saved a customer from getting cut.”

“Whatever.” Bryan glared at me. “Well, is he going to be trouble? What do you think? Because I don’t need any.” He turned to face the growing crowd. “Friday is our busiest night and I don’t want some douchebag causing problems.”

Good, I thought, ask him to leave so I don’t have to.

Instead of reading my mind and talking to the man, Bryan plastered a big grin across his face and sauntered over to a bunch of sorority girls.

Bryan was an asshole, and thought he was quite the ladies’ man. He had made passes at me more times than I could count. I spoke with the owners, Lupe and Tito, about his behavior. They said for me to tell him to knock it off, but they never mentioned it to him.

Lupe and Tito loved Bryan like a son. The bar’s intake had doubled since he took over and that was all that really mattered. Now, I just tell him to get lost. He doesn’t seem to mind and always comes back for more. If this happened at home, in Germany, my brother would give Bryan a stern talking to.

I began mixing drinks as the chairs next to Sepp filled up. The customers on either side jostled and shoved him. I don’t think he even noticed.

He sat still, not moving at all, staring at the screen. I’d seen the same look on my father’s face when he sits and thinks, “Alles geht den Bach hinunter,” loosely translated, “Everything is going down the shitter.”

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“Okay Angie, so here’s the deal.” Bryan was back, looking serious and punching his fist into his palm. “Old dude’s gotta go.” He thumbed the air.

“We have the wet T-shirt contest tonight and some of the girls don’t want to participate because of him. He’s creeping out our best clientele. And he doesn’t really belong here anyway. I mean look at him.” Bryan skimmed over Sepp with a sidelong glance. “Just get rid of him. Pronto!”

I shushed Bryan and peeked at Sepp to see if he heard. I don’t know why I cared. But I did.

Sepp lowered his gaze from the TV and studied his working-man hands. After a few seconds he tucked them under his knees and leaned back in the seat.

Before I could stop him and insist he do his own dirty work, Bryan slid into the crowd and was soon rubbing debutante shoulders and drooling over bulging cleavages. I took a deep breath and stood in front of Sepp.

“Sir, I have to ask you to leave. We have rules and you’re too drunk to stay.” I focused on the beer sign flashing just over his shoulder. “If you don’t leave on your own, I will have to call the bouncers.”

Twisting and untwisting my towel, I met his eyes.

“Please don’t make me do that.” My accent wasn’t too strong but definitely there. I knew from the way my Ss drew long and the THs came out as Zs. But what could I do?

“Oh, okay.” Sepp’s eyes drifted away from mine and circled the room as if searching for a friendly face. There were none. Sliding a five-dollar bill under the empty bottle, he pushed away from the bar stumbling as his feet hit the floor. “Sorry, I get kinda carried away sometimes.”

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FICTION |RUTH CHAVEZ

The energy in the room shifted to match a hiphop beat. The TVs alternated between ESPN and music videos. Things were different now. This was a college town and a college bar, for college kids to get crazy drunk, to act stupid, to yell, scream, and laugh, to flirt and have sex in the bathrooms. This was not the bar for a middleaged man who worked hard for a living, upset about foreigners and shit that should never happen here, or anywhere. In here, he was the foreigner. Like all of us, one way or another: someplace, somewhere, sometime.

“Do you need a ride?” I brushed back my bangs and gave him a slight smile. “I can call a taxi. It’s a free service.” I nodded my encouragement, hoping he would accept the offer.

Cheers and applause sounded from the stage.

The first group of contestants for the wet T-shirt competition strutted back and forth as people shot at them with Super Soakers. I stepped from behind the bar and followed Sepp. I watched until he crossed the bridge and was a zigzagging dot on the other side.

As I returned to my station, Papa came to mind again. I wondered what he was doing. With the time difference probably still sleeping off his Friday night. I should call him after my shift ended and check-up on him. Spring would come to Dusseldorf soon and the clouds never helped his mood. It didn’t matter how often I told him without the rain, we get no flowers.

I shrugged and went back to pouring drinks.

“Nope, that’s okay. I live right across the river.” A heavy sadness melted and dripped off of him like candle wax.

“Thanks though.” Sepp teetered through the first couple of steps, caught his balance then made his way to the door and out to the street.

About the Author Ruth Chavez is the mother of three and “Nana” to two granddaughters. After a long career as an engineer in the high tech industry, she retired early to pursue her life-long dream to write full time. Ruth has a bachelor of science in Marketing and is currently working on an academic certificate in Creative Writing. She won third place in poetry in the Arizona Author's Association 2013 Literary Contest. She is a volunteer reader with the Four Chambers Literary Magazine, a new Phoenix based start-up magazine soon to publish it's second issue highlighting Arizona Authors. Ruth lives in East Mesa, Arizona where a view of the Superstition Mountains offer daily inspiration for poetry and fiction prose.

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SPRING 2014

FICTION | NINEB DANIEL

Iraqi Fairytale

By Nineb Daniel

Once upon a time in Kirkuk, Iraq, just north of the Gulf War battlefields in Baghdad and Kuwait, there lived three little schoolboys, Aziz the Arab, Baze the Kurd and Shimsha the Assyrian. The three would wake up on every school day morning, meet up at one another’s houses and then walk through the streets of Kirkuk towards their local school for yet another tedious lecture from their instructor.

For most kids, the last year of elementary school was a rough and turbulent time filled with many changes, and things were no different for our heroes. The three had been dealing with all of the more sophisticated responsibilities introduced in their new class: the challenging assignments, new teachers and complex quizzes, along with the other hardships they had slowly become accustomed to over the years such as the long walk to school, the unpredictable weather, the occasional corpse of a fallen soldier lying dead on the road, and even Miss Yohanan’s awful lunchtime cooking!

However, things weren’t all that bad. At least the three had each other, and for as difficult as the year had been, the last day of the school was about to begin. We now join the first of our three heroes as he heads out of his home for what has all the makings of being an exciting final day of class.

But for real though, Miss Yohanan did not know how to cook. Like, at all. Forget the Gulf War and the petty global politics surrounding the CANYON VOICES

Middle East; how Miss Yohanan was still employed is the real mystery surrounding Iraq.

“Yulla yimmy, I’m heading out,” Aziz said as he made his way to the front door. Maybe this time he’d be able to take two steps out of the house before his mom could begin what Aziz had always referred to as the “verbal onslaught.”

“Wait!” His mom cried out just as Aziz managed to unlock the front door. There was no escaping the onslaught this time. His ears were already quivering as his mom continued, “Make sure to lock the door before you go out, you never know what could happen! And are you going straight to school or are you going by that boy Baze’s house again?”

Aziz sighed, “No, yimmy, I’m going straight to school. I promise.”

“Oh I bet you are!” His mom shrieked, “You better not go by that boy’s house! You know how foolish those Kurds are. And this Baze is the most foolish Kurd I’ve ever seen! He’s the Kurd to end all Kurds, I’ll tell you that much.”

Aziz rolled his eyes as he agreed to obey his mother’s wishes. Of course he was still going to disobey his mother and pick up Baze before heading to school, but she didn’t need to know that. It wasn’t in our young hero’s nature to be disobedient, but Aziz always put his friends before anyone else.

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He couldn’t understand why his mom and all his uncles thought less of the Kurds. The belief that the Kurdish people were somehow less intelligent than Arabs was so strong amongst his family that the word Kurd had become synonymous for the word ‘stupid.’ Aziz recalled a time where he had brought home a failing paper and his mother scolded him on his grade.

“Ya Kurdi!” She had said, “You need to study harder or else you’ll end up like your friend Baze and his idiot father!”

Aziz somehow managed to make it out of the house with his ears still intact. He traded in the audible abuse his mother was giving him for the familiar view of his grassy lawn and the cracked asphalt of the road in front of his house.

The boy gazed down the hill towards where Baze’s house had always been. Small clouds started rolling overhead and partially blocked out the sun, allowing Aziz to make his way towards his Kurdish friend’s home without having to shield his eyes from the harsh sun.

The boy never quite understood why his mom and his uncles thought so little of his friend Baze, but he never questioned them on it. They were older and wiser, so they must know more about Kurds than he did. Better to let the adults have their say than back talk them, Aziz thought. He had learned this the hard way.

Aziz knocked on Baze’s window and called for him to wake up. “Come on Baze, we’re gonna be late! We still have to swing by Shimsha’s house too.”

The Kurdish boy opened up the window, still wearing nothing but his favorite pair of SpiderMan boxers. “Hm?” he groaned as he rubbed his eyes, “Aziz, why do you do this to me?” Baze

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looked back at the clock hanging on his wall, “We still have another hour before class!”

“I know,” Aziz began as he leaned against the windowsill, his feet firmly planted on the grassy lawn, “We should get to class early today. I have to study for the final. If I fail I’ll never hear the end of it from my mom.”

“You do this every time we have a test!” Baze sighed as he began getting dressed. “It’s not fair!”

Aziz looked down at his watch, “I told you guys I needed to get to class early today. Shimsha better be up by now or else-“ “Shimsha?” A voice from inside the house bellowed out. Baze’s father stumbled into his son’s room wearing his work suit, “Are you two going by Shimsha’s house before school again?”

“Yeah baba,” Baze answered as he struggled to put a shirt that was a size too small on, “It’ll only take a sec to pick him up. You know he lives just down the road. Besides, we have all the time in the world thanks to Aziz here.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” Baze’s father started.

His balding face darkened as he shook his head, “Listen, you two be careful around Shimsha. I know you don’t like hearing this, but he is different from you two, do you understand?”

“Yeah baba,” Baze replied halfheartedly.

“Okay,” his father said, “Please be careful. Have a good day at school, son.” *** The two boys made their way down the street and towards Shimsha’s house. Thanks to his friend’s punctual nature and insistence on being

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FICTION | NINEB DANIEL

early to school, Baze was unable to have the traditional breakfast of his household: two chocolate chip waffles and a glass of OJ. Instead, Baze was munching on an apple that he was able to pick up from his lawn as he crossed the road with Aziz.

present grin on his face. The boy threw his backpack out the window and hopped over after it. Like every school kid in Kirkuk, Shimsha had been looking forward to this day for the longest time. The three boys were absolutely ready for their summer vacation to get started.

“I wonder what he means when he says Shimsha’s different.” Baze questioned as he took another bite of his apple.

“Are you guys ready?” Shimsha asked, grinning from ear to ear, “One more day in Rabbi’s class and then we’re free!” *** The three began their long trek to the local elementary school.

“You know what he means,” Aziz said.

“Shimsha’s Assyrian. He and his family go to St. Peter’s Catholic Church of the East. Neither of us goes there.”

“Well yeah but…I don’t know.” Baze rubbed his temple, “I mean, don’t a lot of kids go to that church? I think Rabbi Nabil goes there too.”

Aziz didn’t really understand it either. Sure, Shimsha could be rowdy at times, but he wasn’t dangerous by any means. And their teacher, Rabbi Nabil, was without question the scariest man on the planet, but he wasn’t exactly cruel.

The boys didn’t know much about Christian faith or how it differed from their family’s Islamic background. Maybe they would understand when they were older…

“Yulla, Shimsha, we only have seventeen hours before class starts!” Baze sarcastically called out when the two neared the Assyrian’s front lawn.

Shimsha had a tendency of leaving his window wide open when he slept, which was perfect for the boys because it meant they didn’t have to get any closer to his house. Shimsha’s parents were not exactly fond of Aziz or Baze.

Shimsha glanced out the window. His face lit up upon seeing his friends, “Shlama-lo habibis! I’ll be out in a minute,” he said with that ever

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“It’s about time,” Baze said, “This year’s been brutal. My brother told me Rabbi Nabil was a tough teacher, but man!” Baze rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a welt on his bicep, “This was from when he whacked me with that ruler at the beginning of the year. It’s still healing!”

“That guy is dangerous with a ruler,” Shimsha pointed out, “Send Rabbi down to Kuwait with his ruler and BAM! Gulf War is over. Go home boys!”

“He can take my mom with him,” Aziz laughed, “Just give her a sandal to throw! There’d be no survivors.”

“Don’t get me started on your mom and her sandals,” Baze rolled up his other sleeve and pointed to another welt, “Remember that time I got you to ditch school so we could go down to Dareshka?”

This Dareshka Baze was referring to was the village over with all of the mountains and camping sites. Dareshka was filled with wildlife and rivers and streams and lush green trees. It was the closest thing to paradise either of the boys had ever seen.

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“That was at the beginning of the school year!”

Aziz exclaimed.

“Still healing!” Baze declared with a sense of pride.

The three boys finally arrived, and stood just outside the school gate as kids of all ages flocked towards the doors. Shimsha noticed Rabbi Aaliyah lecturing a group of students on their use of foul language. She was wearing her usual outfit which consisted of a black dress and a hijab to cover her hair. Shimsha would see the women of his church cover their hair with hijabs but once mass had ended, they were always taken off. The boy never paid attention to it, but on this particular day the hijab Aaliyah was wearing stood out to him.

“I wonder why she wears that all the time,” Shimsha asked, pointing to the instructor.

and her whole body! She looks like a ninja or something.”

The three boys started laughing as they made their way towards the school doors. *** The eight hours of class were torture for our three young heroes. The lunch Miss Yohanan’s had prepared tasted like rubber, while Rabbi Nabil’s tests were still mind-numbingly difficult. The teacher stood over the children with his mighty ruler and his impressive mustache, shouting at the kids for no other reason than to hear his own voice. “Do not cheat! I will hunt you down if you cheat! There will be no survivors in Rabbi Nabil’s class,” He would yell, occasionally slamming his ruler onto a student’s desk for emphasis.

“Psst, Aziz!” Baze whispered. “Pst! Hey, what’s the answer to number four? Is it C? I bet its C.”

“Yeah, my dad says that too,” Baze said, “Women aren’t supposed to flaunt in front of men.”

“Ya Kurdi!” Rabi Nabil roared, his glorious mustache glittering in the sunlight. He tossed his ruler as hard as he could towards Baze. The great, wooden educational tool blasted through the air at Mach 5 speed and scored a critical hit on the young boy’s temple. Baze howled in pain as he clutched his temple.

Shimsha scratched the back of his head confused, “So women can’t show their hair in public?”

“That’s it, Kurdi! You will get no lunch today!

You have forfeited Miss Yohanan’s excellent cooking! There will be no pizza for you!”

Aziz shrugged, “I guess not.”

“I should tell my mom then,” Shimsha said, “I only see her wear those things in church and never at home.”

“So what,” Baze yelped, “The pizza she makes taste like cardboard!” That earned the boy another strike from Rabbi Nabil’s fabled ruler.

And sure enough, there would be no pizza for Baze that day.

“You should see my aunt in Jordan,” Baze started, “Her thing covers her face and her chest

After the grueling test was over, the final bell of the year rang and the children were free. Aziz,

“Oh,” Aziz began, “it’s because women should be modest. That’s what my mom always says.”

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FICTION | NINEB DANIEL

Baze and Shimsha raced down the hall and slammed through the school doors.

“Haha! Shimsha laughed, “Goodbye prison and hello freedom!”

“Until the summer ends,” Aziz somberly pointed out.

The three boys began their long walk home, discussing what they should do with their new found freedom. Should they camp in Dareshka for the entire summer? No, there was no way Aziz’s mom would let him go camping with Baze out in the country. How about a trip to Baghdad? Maybe they could look around the city and see the museums. Of course, as Shimsha pointed out, it would be too dangerous to travel to Baghdad with the Gulf War still devastating the Middle East. Perhaps the war would end before the next school year began and they’d be able to head down to the big city.

Surely there’d be peace in Iraq by the end of summer.

none of their parents were around when they were together had sadly become a normal routine.

Concealing their friendship had become second nature to the kids and it never once crossed their minds why their parents were so against them. It was what it was, and they didn’t pay much attention to it. Maybe they would understand when they were older, but for now they didn’t care. They had more important things to worry about. Unwarranted prejudices and the religious struggles ravaging a nation could wait; they had to come up with a plan for summer first.

“I can’t hang out for too long,” Aziz said, “My mom wants me home before the storm starts.”

“Storm?” Shimsha questioned as he looked up in the sky, “What storm? The clouds are starting to break up.”

Regardless, the boys knew they did not want to spend the entire summer in Kirkuk. The three arrived at Baze’s house first and stood outside the front lawn making plans for the summer.

Shimsha asked Baze if his father was okay with him hanging out by his house.

“Those aren’t the clouds I’m worried about,” Aziz pointed towards the mountains in the west, “you can kind of see those clouds forming over the countryside.” He was right; the clouds in the west cast a dark shadow over the lands and appeared to be making their way over Kirkuk. “I have to be home before the storm starts or else my mom will throw a fit.”

“Yeah, he’s okay with it,” Baze waved the question off, “Don’t worry too much. Besides, my dad won’t be home for a good two hours.”

Baze sighed, “Your mom always thinks there is going to be a storm. She’s paranoid, Aziz. I promise you, things will be fine!”

“Well, if you say so,” Shimsha said with a grin.

Aziz shook his head. His mom did have a habit of worrying, but this time the Arab boy agreed with her. He didn’t want to be stuck out in the streets during the coming storm.

This had become customary amongst the boys.

Their parents did not like one another, and they certainly did not enjoy their children befriending other ethnic groups. Making sure

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SPRING 2020

FICTION | NINEB DANIEL

“If you have to go home soon, we should figure out what to do over the summer right now,” Shimsha stated, “With school out, I don’t know how often I’ll be able to see you guys. Any ideas?”

“So what?” Baze began, “Are we just going to sit around in the city doing nothing because our parents are being hard-headed?”

“I guess so,” Aziz’s muttered, “I mean…Baze, I just don’t know.”

“I’m telling you, we should find a way to make our parents let us go to Dareshka!” Baze said, “Come on, Aziz, you know how fun it is!”

Aziz nodded in agreement but had his worries.

“Well, we don’t have to stay in the city,” Shimsha said, “I mean, we could all go to Dareshka, just not together. I could go with my cousins and, well…”

“Yeah, I guess we can just go with our families…” Baze murmured.

“I don’t think going to Dareshka would be a good idea,” Shimsha said. “My parents don’t want me to go camping with you two over the summer.”

Baze pinched his nose in frustration, “Just tell them you’re going with some of your cousins!

They’ll never know you were with us.” Baze stated. However, Shimsha assured him they would find out.

“Listen, I want to go to Dareshka as much as you guys do, but my parents are serious about this,” the young Assyrian boy looked down at his shoes for a moment, “they don’t like me hanging out with you two,” he said bluntly.

Baze and Aziz both frowned without a response to give. It was the elephant in the room; the proverbial rift in their friendship that none of them wanted to discuss aloud. They both knew Shimsha’s parents disliked Baze and Aziz, how they loathed their Islamic faith. Of course they never understood why, but the two young Muslims were aware of their unwarranted status among Shimsha’s family. The same way Shimsha and Baze knew Aziz’s mother and uncles hated the Kurds and the Assyrians in Kirkuk. And of course, Baze’s father vehemently disagreed with his son’s choice of friends.

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Aziz kicked the dirt around his feet, “but I don’t want to go with my uncles.” He looked up to see the dejected looks on his friends’ faces, “I want to go with you two! Who cares what our parents think, it won’t be fun without..“ His eyes widened as he was interrupted by the screeching sound of Baze’s father slamming the brakes on his ’87 Buick.

“Oh no!” Baze exclaimed. “Baba must have finished work early!”

“What did I say, son!” Baze’s father shouted as he stepped out of the car, “You, go home!” He said, pointing at Shimsha.

“But baba, I-“ Baze began.

“No! Go home, now!” He shouted again. Aziz remained deathly silent as he stared at the ground. Shimsha’s grin had disappeared as a look of agitation took over. This wasn’t the first time he had been talked down to by Baze’s father.

“No!” Baze cried out, “Shimsha’s my friend and I don’t care if you think he’s different! Why won’t you let me hang out with him?”

SPRING 2020

FICTION | NINEB DANIEL

“Because I said so!” His father retorted, “And don’t raise your voice to me again!”

Baze was about to shout back at his father, but Shimsha grabbed him.

“It’s okay, Baze,” Shimsha’s face lit up again, “You shouldn’t talk back to your father like this.”

“But he-“ “I’ll go home for now. We’ll hang out later, okay?” Shimsha’s grin had returned. “I’ll tell you why Dareshka is so gross some other time!”

Shimsha waved goodbye to Aziz and to Baze’s father (who returned his wave with a cold glare) and made his way up the hill towards his home.

“What did I say about that boy?” Baze’s father started, “You shouldn’t associate with kids like that!”

Baze wanted to say something back, but Aziz interrupted him, “There’s nothing wrong with Shimsha!” Aziz shouted. Baze had never heard Aziz talk like this. “Just because he goes to church instead of mosque doesn’t make him dangerous! It’s people like you that hate other people for being different that are the dangerous ones!”

Baze’s mouth had dropped to the floor. Aziz had never stood up to an adult like that in his life.

Baze’s father’s look of disbelief and pure anger would have normally frightened Aziz, but not

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this time. This time was different. Baze’s father pointed to his son and said, “Do you see now what I am talking about?”

Baze didn’t say a word as his stormed to the front door. “I knew my son wasn’t a delinquent.

You’re being corrupted by this filthy Arab just like the rest of the world!” He shouted as he slammed the door shut.

The visage of an undaunted young boy had swept over Aziz’s face as he turned to his friend, “I wish things were different.”

Baze nodded as he placed his hand on Aziz’s shoulder, “Me too, habibi, me too.”

“I should be getting home,” Aziz said. He and Baze both looked towards the west and saw the clouds inching closer and closer, “My mom is right. It’s going to be storming soon.”

And boy did it storm over Iraq.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Nineb Daniel was born in Chicago and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. He is a junior at Arizona State University majoring in English and minoring in Political Science. After transferring from Glendale Community College upon receiving his Associate in Arts, Nineb plans on obtaining his Bachelor’s degree by the end of 2015. An avid reader, he has enjoyed classic novels like A Tale of Two Cities, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Frankenstein among others over the years.

SPRING 2020

POETRY | KAREN BOWDEN

This Mahogany Sky

By Karen Bowden

sings swift climbs and naked pauses behind my ear you hum an ancient tune a riff of long fingers stretch around a fat moon and red melodies edge the night fireflies echo stars to find each other their throats pulsing blue a syncopated fugue tongues the air cicadas fly stitching trees iridescent your fingers enchant my skin and moonlight licks the round dew

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POETRY | KAREN BOWDEN

She Watches the Light

By Karen Bowden

Warmed by the daylong sun she lies on the sand's brow wrapped in the sea's drum and gulls calling the hour.

Salt air washes her lungs.

Small waves cool her thighs.

The wind’s left her undone.

Go home now, her mind cries.

But she watches the light drift away from the cave and behind her closed lids she awaits the next wave.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | RICHARD KING PERKINS II

Vivarium

By Richard King Perkins II

You have a penchant for subdued arrivals so events are already beginning.

The scrawl of corona expects erasing sometime in the evening.

She will not be disappointed.

Fallen leaves dampen further, mute and benumbed, though their indulgence in abstraction will not bring them back to life.

The stain of mulberries renounces a scattering of earth while rabbits return to the clasp of their subterranean utopia.

Superstition invents a thousand tales about this very night though there is no story here worth telling.

But there is a plot at work, mastered by spiders and strange, unseen birds.

Not a fable ……….certainly not, but if you are momentarily distracted by a pluck upon your web, you will miss the meaning.

You are not the protagonist.

The world is full of villains and precious is the insult of your unlikely dénouement.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | VALENTINA CANO

Coherence

By Valentina Cano

Stop-motion runs my head.

My words pause, brake, each letter in a contorted pose until I can get gears that have been rubbed raw working once again.

It is a process of centuries.

One sentence a light-less infinity.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | VALENTINA CANO

Dichotomy

By Valentina Cano

I roam the line between expansion and contraction.

Twisting steps lead me up and down the jagged border, weaving a lace of silence around it as I decide not to decide.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | VALENTINA CANO

For C

By Valentina Cano

I am sliding across your rippling image.

A flash of glass, a rope of bones.

You move like smoke beneath me and I know, in the morning, my hands will be stained with the scent of fire.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | RUTH CHAVEZ

Avon Lady

By Ruth Chavez

Your isolation named itself, with the light tap, tap, tapping, of a woodpecker trying to break free from a tree.

A favored traveling companion—depression followed with a knock, knock knocking, a Morse code SOS distress signal . . . pound, pound, pounding, couldn’t get you out. You, like a mime, grasping for corners, trapped in a closet.

Then, one day, sample case in hand, the door-to-door Avon lady comes walking down the street, bringing sweet relief from All My Children and The Days of Our Lives, soap opera background noise, and a week’s worth of dirty dishes stacked in the sink.

You, perusing brochures and catalogues pointed out coveted purchases of personal care items, oils, lotions and perfumes, lipsticks you’d never wear. But hide well, under the false bottoms of your dresser drawers.

Years later, after you were gone.

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We found it all: like a toxic waste dump, leaking and empty Pipe Dreams’ decanters, Yellow Floral Teapots full of cologne, Liberty Bell bubble baths, bottles of Odyssey perfume, the Anvil and Hammer aftershave on top, holding down the pile.

Dad packed them all in a box and threw them in the river.

He didn’t know about collectibles, or your afternoons – spent at the kitchen table with the Avon lady. Your long red fingernails scratching away skins cells from itches that couldn’t be reached.

We watched from a bridge over time. Blue, green, amber, and cranberry red glass twinkled like a Chihuly exhibit.

Shattered against rocks, fragments spread like your ashes, as suds and foreign fragrances filled the canyons and rushed away— downstream.

SPRING 2014

POETRY | BRETT SALSBURY

The Neighbors

By Brett Salsbury

where strapped into obligations and seats they're colorful & colored. there are drinks, iced with sea salt, we're drowning the culture rookies, vagabonding in the family room & kids enrich the stairtops with their bowl-cuts & curly-hair tutorials /

I just love what you've done with the drapes.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | AMBER BRODIE

Dubrovinik - 2007

By Amber Brodie

All I remember is the blur of froth on waves, lather on top of beer and waxen fog. His large hands floating over me, folding with the night and the Adriatic Sea curling over his left shoulder, one strap of a dress quivering off my arm. Sand so cold between my toes, slipping and muddying my feet. The skin under my skirt feeling every crevice in the boulder and the tiny grains of sand pushing their way off the rim. I had just graduated high school and his skin was the color of unreachable sequoias I remember trying to hug on field trips. I think I remember watching the sky as he was sucking on my chest, because I was getting drunker and he was blurring with the fog. And I remember wanting to go down to the water. Thinking how since the world is round, moving east is actually west and how if I could just dip myself in the sea, I would feel Bodega Bay and grip the time I had bathed in it, had almost drowned under a current that pulled and pushed into me until large hands lifted my shoulders and sifted me out of the sand.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | AMBER BRODIE

Esmeralda Adora

By Amber Brodie

I always loved the curve of her tongue as she would whisper lullabies to me under the cool cotton blankets.

They consumed me each morning – the comforter and her slurring tongue as she wrapped it around each foreign syllable.

When she would touch me, it felt just like when I leaned against the cold fresco of every chapel in Spain, searching among the forbidden voices for her long dark hair.

But I can only find her in that bed, upon that mattress, which was burned before I had my first full moon.

I remember the flames licking the round white corners, can see our imprints melting away like the sound of an s within mist.

And now suddenly I'm the same age she was, knees in the mud of her grave, feeling the hummus of the earth sifting through my hands.

Talking to her name, curling my tongue slowly against the roof of my mouth, wishing I could know how hers felt as it caressed the scalloped edges of the inside of her ruby lips singing her own name: Esmaralda Adora.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | JARED STRANGE

Prague by Night

By Jared Strange

I thought I loved her aglow by daylight Tripped through twisted trails all entranced by tunes Stone figures and domes and spires at their height Shades by dawn, sparkles in the afternoons.

But a finer sight lay dormant below For when Apollo slipped away to sleep Night’s velvet draped down, sensuous and slow On bright Lady Prague, a jewel in the deep.

Against the night her guardians are pale Her streets all flooded with lights white and gold Like fairytale kinder I set my sail And drift through channels magic and crisp-cold.

At the dusty port a home there might be But never the peace of Prague, night and me.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | OSCAR MANCINAS

Untitled 2

By Oscar Mancinas

There are two things my parents did I could never forgive them for: One was hitting me as a kid, two was choosing to live in Arizona, but both are beside the point.

I’m twenty-four now, I’ve been in love at least once, and I write to remember (and to forget) In the springtime my hometown smells like flowers and chlorine.

And people pretend to be in hurry to go back to their childhoods.

To go back to mine, I grab my throat and grab a pen and choke until nothing’s left.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | SEAN PRENTISS

The Deer

By Sean Prentiss

I. During an October dawn, a father pulls the trigger—the pop of the Remington, the recoil of rifle against shoulder, the echo ricocheting across tawny hillsides.

The father lowers the rifle and watches a buck shock into the air, as he thinks of his daughter—a child ballerina —jumping gracefully into the outstretched arms of some future-partner.

II. The buck, into its third winter, runs confused from the burn between its shoulder blades, the rifle’s echo, the swaying of the earth itself.

The deer crashes brush, snapping weak aspen branches, tearing free brittle golden leaves that flutter to the ground—so pure and hushed and decaying.

III. In her leotard, the daughter walks into the garage to grab the father a Pabst and is shocked by the buck hanged from the rafters, the antlers scrap cement as he twists in a whispering breeze.

As the daughter clutches the dew-spotted beer to her chest, she thinks thoughts a ten-year-old mind should never contemplate—Here one day, gone the next.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | KENNETH POBO

Listening: Crimson and Clover By Tommy James and the Shondells

By Kenneth Pobo

At fourteen I go to the Sears record section.

I’ve been waiting for the album, my money shot on this one record.

What price bliss?

At home I play it over and over. Tommy sings about being a tangerine. Of course.

I feel that way often. He takes us down Smokey Roads, his childhood only firewood. My own childhood trots away in old sneakers. I think it will last forever. No one in my family will die. Yet that smell of burning wood. And love.

It wouldn’t be a Tommy James album without love. I think I’d like to be in love. With another boy. In fact, I am in love but can’t say it. Pastor would wash my mouth out with Bibles.

It doesn’t work out. Sugar on Sunday, I’m leaving on Monday. The week offers gym and science. I don’t understand either.

In science we learn about balance.

Mine is poor. In gym we play flag football.

I’m a blocker who blocks nothing. If you want to get by that badly, do it. Music gives what balance I have.

I am unblocked when I listen. A chord pedals to my house, asks can I go for a ride.

I go. Never sure of the way. Like now.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | B. KOPLEN

Much Better than Starbucks

By B. Koplen

Lunch at the Diner, more regular for you than church, tips more generous than tithes; eyes of the waitress, restorative.

Your final bite of pecan pie, its sweet aftertaste, lands you on Main with a smile, a sugary amen. Sunday comes, you want to feel that same way; you yearn for a spiritual hunger to taste as it eases, one course at a time. Instead, you’re busy dodging brimstone, making promises only an angel could keep. And you’re no angel; you can’t be. You love a woman who thinks you’re close enough to skip vespers. And you do. Although you take her to the Diner, any diner would do.

She loves their menu, its good news about steaming grits, hashed brown perfection, pancake ecstasy, its plate from Paradise of bacon and eggs, an antidote to Hell you confront on Sunday. She squeezes next to you, much closer than pews would allow. Hips and coffee cups touch; your hand rests on her sacred thigh and she looks at you as if to sketch you, your biblical aspect, your smile too pure to be caffeine generated, your love Jesus must have sent her there to find.

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SPRING 2014

POETRY | LEIGH CUEN

Almost Lovers

By Leigh Cuen

This is the place you once kissed my neck With unexpected sincerity, Along the brim, where nape meets shoulder, You discovered a tender door.

The magic of lips Unlocked A Secret Passage Straight to the throne, where our naked souls are suddenly helpless.

Here, on the shelf, behind the loves stories and comic books, dreams trapped on paper, I keep words I never told you.

The map is merely a portrait of the places we did not love.

In the kitchen, I host a banquet for one with the sweet wine we never toasted. Ripe harvests se did not reap. spicy blossoms, trampled in the fall. fresh pies without scent, and soup that grew cold.

I’m sorry I loved you.

You deserve answers. But I have none to offer.

So I’ll hold your absence inside me like a secret canyon carved from the impact of a kiss that led nowhere. concave red.

Your love left me smashed to pieces.

I fell, facing the city, my eyes open, landed in the dust.

Stormy winds commanded: “Turn your heart off like a faucet. Go. Go.” The breeze whispered.

But I never told anyone the wind’s secrets.

Sometimes I take out the confessions I never gave you and hold them for a little while, or slip one into my pocket, to keep me company on a dark night.

Only I know the noisy silence.

It almost tastes like the sea.

At the foot of the bed, where We never embraced, I strip down to my supple bones, Shedding sin like wet clothes.

Touching my center.

Then I almost look back, Hoping God has changed his mind.

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SPRING 2014

CREATIVE NONFICTION | BILL VERNON

BEFORE TV

By Bill Vernon

Evenings fell softly, warning that day's end and full darkness were near, bringing us outside, away from the supper dishes in our sinks and the twanging radios spewing out popular music.

The residents of our neighborhood swarmed. The Torinos, the Vernons, the Hales, the Creeches, the Bowmans, the Schreckengasts along South West Street, and those from the houses in back of ours, the Hineses, Humphreys, Logsdens, sometimes those from homes farther away, the Dunns, Bowmans, Davidsons, Horns. We all left our abodes and walked around meeting and talking. Nothing important took place, just the rubbing of elbows and familiar repartee. We knew each other and not just by name, not just to say hello. We knew family relationships, what we might think of today as intimate facts.

We'd be out on the sidewalk, gathered in bunches, making our way from neighbor to neighbor, speaking of work, ball games, children, sometimes lingering closer, asking of somebody's illness, sharing feelings, entering each other's mood.

At sunset we'd sit on a stoop to watch the sun disappear and the stars begin glowing. We might become spellbound then, just sitting there next to each other, our bare arms touching, the warmth of a friend comforting us, the distant sound of tires on Route 42, Cincinnati Avenue, droning as if the day itself were going to sleep and beginning to snore.

Cows were lowing beyond the field across the street, over the hilltop a quarter-mile away, cropping grass in a pasture. Swallows and bats were swooping above us, competing for insects. Squirrels chattered in the trees on the corners, cutting walnuts if they were in season. At the feeders, finches were stuffing in a few more seeds from a day full of pecking. Under the bushes lining our homes, rabbits revealed themselves, leaving their hidden hutches to munch on the clover in our yards. Cats and dogs stayed close to us, ambling around, leaning on our shins.

None of our porch lights were on yet. There was only ourselves, a community of people behaving in a way similar to the animals that we lived among. You'd hear a sudden cough. A fit of laughter from the next stoop over might make you want to walk over there and ask what the joke was. Mainly by this point, though, we were satisfied and silent.

About the Author Bill Vernon served in the United States Marine Corps, studied English literature, then taught it. Writing is his therapy, along with exercising outdoors and doing international folkdances. Five Star Mysteries published his novel OLD TOWN in 2005, and his poems, stories and nonfiction have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Recent publications include stories in Ginosko, Rubbertop Review, Biostories, Dead Flowers to name a few. He plays Uncle Sam in Dayton, Ohio's annual spring festival called A World A'Fair.

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CREATIVE NONFICTION | BILL VERNON

Photo by Julie Arballo

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SPRING 2014

CREATIVE NONFICTION | DANIEL SINGER

Wanna Go Dancing

By Daniel Singer

“Wanna go dancing,” my wife said one afternoon.

I know there should be a question mark at the end of that sentence. I refuse to place it there.

“Wanna go dancing,” she repeated.

This is not a question. It may have the correct appearance of a question and when properly stated, the inflection of the voice will rise at the correct intonation so that it will sound like a question. Any grammarian will testify, in court, under oath, that this is a proper question.

However, I am not writing in the fields of grammar where English professors roam. No, this is a much mistier, higher plane; a place where gods rule and giants clash sending mere men scurrying for cover under the barren rocks.

It is a place where “Wanna go dancing” is a demand and not a question. This is the land of emotion, the province of relationships, the city of co-operation and the street of marriage.

“Wanna go dancing.”

spoke and the silence was deafening anyway, but not for long.

“Why not.”

This is not a question. This is a statement. “Why not” means everyone enjoys dancing. “Why not” means you are impeding my happiness. My wife loves music. It enters her ears and her brain diverts it to the various nerves that travel to her fingers, hips and legs. The sound closes her eyes and makes her body sway like the smallest of tree branches moving rhythmically to the touch of a gentle breeze. I, on the other hand, do not have that feeling. My appreciation is for visual art of the architect or the way two mountain peaks frame the empty blue sky, but when music enters my ears it rattles around like marbles in a coffee can. I can separate and distinguish the basic sounds, but I do not hear the nuances and the small changes that true music lovers thrive on.

“I don’t know how to dance?”

This is not a question. It is a mathematical equation and only has one outcome. In all languages, to all men, it means the same.

“Wanna go dancing”, “What is one plus one”, “Est- ce que un plus un” are all asked in the same tone. Only one result is possible and expected.

The response is waited upon with a knowing look, a tapping foot.

This is not a statement. This is a question. It says “Will you understand my inability or fear?” It is also the correct response to “Why not.” It leaves an opening for a reprieve. This is the diplomat’s language, with the ability to make governments soften their rhetoric and cause armies to stand down while borders temporarily remain unscathed. “I don’t know how to dance?” creates hope and a possibility of reprieve.

“No.”

“That is why we are going to take lessons.”

Not the right answer.

And there it is. That is the end of a carefully crafted Napoleonic campaign. This is the only logical conclusion; an ending as sure as the setting of the sun in the west after it begins to rise in the east.

Author George Barzan once wrote that if everybody thought before they spoke, the silence would be deafening. I did not think before I

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CREATIVE NONFICTION | DANIEL SINGER

“Wanna go dancing.”

studio entrance. I take a deep breath and begin my last walk up the gray mile.

“No.” “Why not.”

“I don’t know how to dance?”

“That is why we are going to take lessons.”

The final sentence has been passed. I have been condemned, not by judge and jury, but by royal decree. It is final. All I can do is wait for the impending sentence to be completed. I despise the day that I first heard that statement, “Wanna go dancing.”

— The Day of Judgment arrives and I am on the lookout for any sign of ill health. A terrible headache could postpone the sentence. An upset stomach or the early signs of Bubonic plague will do nicely. This is the day that my health remains perfect. All future maladies will wait until I want to play golf, see a movie or go to a game. None of the car’s tires have gone flat and my wife filled the tank earlier that day. There is still a sliver of hope. Traffic could save me. The never-ending construction, mass of traffic lights, and other illtempered drivers can slow us down just enough to make us late for our appointment.

The traffic is perfect, but not for me. There is not a construction crew in sight. All traffic lights miraculously change from red to green as we approach. Other drivers are courteous and allow me to go around or move over so that I can speed towards my final destination. We arrive at the dancing studio with time to spare. My last hope is a call from the governor’s mansion or a presidential pardon.

The parking lot appears full, but my wife manages to find the last remaining spot. I slowly get out of the car. My wife runs around from the passenger’s side and lovingly handcuffs her arm into mine. Our feet crunch on the gravel walkway. The other cars flank our pathway to the

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I can see the other wives sitting in the cars, talking furiously with their husbands and pointing at us. There is a man, they are saying, who loves to dance with his wife. I could hear them add, why are you not like him. The men know that isn’t a question. It is a statement. As I pass, a few give me a weak smile and a half hidden thumbs up, but most just avert their eyes.

They do not want to watch.

Dancing man walking.

I hesitate at the door and turn for a last look at life. The sky is a deeper blue and the sun seems warmer than usual. All the nearby traffic has stopped. The silence is not deafening, it roars in my ears. My wife jerks open the door of the dancing studio and I prepare to step into its dark maw. All I can think of in these final moments is that fateful statement that brought me here.

“Wanna go dancing.”

About the Author Dan Singer retired from the snowy climes of Canada and moved to Tucson 7 years ago to spend time with his parents. He attended the University of Arizona, graduating (Magna Cum Laude) with a Major in History and Minor in Creative Writing. Presently, Dan is enrolled in the MAIS program at the West Campus (ASU) hoping to complete an historical fiction novella.

His spare time is spent with his wife, Brenda. Skyping with his kids (back in Toronto), missing his new granddaughter, Elizabeth, and playing with Teddy-Bear the wonder dog. (He is the one not wearing the hat).

SPRING 2014

CREATIVE NONFICTION | SHAUN AL-SHATTI

Al Shaitan

By Shaun Al-Shatti

I open my eyes.

This place... I do not understand. I am trapped in a windless cell no larger than a bathroom. Three white walls surround me - chalky, worn surfaces.

This world is bleached. A waxen curtain is drawn. It is sickly in nature; hardly strong enough to survive a summer breeze. A fan hums in the distance, manipulating the thin screen, pressing and pulling it to its whims, mocking me.

Everything is so far off. A tray lies beside me, a crinkled paper cup thrown clumsily along its borders. A pool of water has begun to form along the base. The water follows the cracks and crevices of the tray, floating through a weaving reservoir of the gods; a glimpse of life in this cold, dead arena.

The paper clothes that I am forced to wear do not provide an ounce of warmth. The freezing air snaps at my skin; I resist the urge to let the numbing cold carve through my body. I must stand for something. Now, even the tiniest victory can drive my spirit. I hear the soft familiar beep in the background. Still alive.

The needle in my forearm shifts. I do not feel it. I do not feel much these days.

The gentle melody of the fan seems to be beckoning me back to sleep. This incendiary combination of mass amounts of narcotics and the pale, washed out ambiance is forging into a symphony, begging my eyes to close.

Suddenly, a shriek pierces out through the night and rattles me out of my drift. There she is again.

CANYON VOICES

That woman. Who is she and why won’t she stop this torture? I have heard her wailing for seventy-two increasingly brutal hours and yet it always strikes me. I wish somebody would take her, move her to another level - anything. I hate the sounds she makes. Her shriek carries throughout the hall and penetrates through my flesh like a gunshot, wrenching through the coal and the ice and into the crux of my heart. I can see that endless abyss. The black eyed angels mock me. I will not end up like that. I must believe. I must hope. Without hope there is nothing. ♦♦♦ I open my eyes.

Rays of light streak through the wooden blinds.

Sunbeams bounce off of the golden walls and peek from side to side like a mischievous child.

The warmth of the morning radiates throughout the room. The glow is palpable. The last fleeting days of the summer truly are glorious. What did mankind do so right to deserve to bask in this glory?

A shrill sound echoes from the background. I fumble around blindly, unwilling to acknowledge what I secretly already know to be true. Just five more minutes.

I convinced myself. Sometimes, it isn’t that hard.

A simple protest is all the conflict the body needs. Anything to justify itself.

Oh, those were a glorious four minutes and fiftyfive seconds. The blaring, metallic cry from the

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CREATIVE NONFICTION | SHAUN AL-SHATTI

alarm disturbs me from my utopia once again.

The alarm is brazen; it does not relent. It implores me to give in. Finally, I submit. The battle is over and that damn plastic buzzer won yet again. With subtle annoyance, I groggily stumble to the bathroom. After an impatient shower and a quick breakfast of eggs and toast, I depart for work.

Routine is such an interesting concept. It has such a negative connotation applied to it, and yet it may be one of the most vital belongings that we possess. People want adventure, people want excitement - something new and fresh. Despite that, or perhaps because of that, the ordinary is what sustains us. Familiarity is our lifeblood.

I am still half asleep as the immense fluorescent sign defiantly stares at me over the horizon: Prime One Mortgage. As I get out of my car I gaze up at the leviathan of a building that I am about to enter. Monstrous. Yet, the white walls seem almost transparent. Age has not been kind.

The old bricks have cracks and chips strewn about. There are visible hints of a pale golden mold growing on the dingy corners. Flourishing in such a preposterous manner. Well done.

As I open the glass doors a familiar sound hits my ears. A cacophony of dissonant chatter, jangling phones, and various clicks and clacks that create a wall of white noise and hit like a Tyson haymaker. Ahhhhh... the life of office work.

I walk past the attractive receptionist and squeeze my way into my home away from home.

My prison. There truly is nothing like cubicle life.

A penitentiary, a reformatory, and a mental institution all rolled into one. What a ridiculously tragic concept. A modern day Bastille. I am convinced that the cubicle is the direct evolutionary result of the medieval dungeon.

CANYON VOICES

I look down at my desk. A combination of time and the games that endless boredom brings have turned this once majestic, polished piece into a shell of its former self. The once amber wood has faded into grey, the life sucked from it. Flecks of primer and wood have chipped off giving it a fragile appearance, as if it could give at any moment. On the desk there sits two objects. In the center, there is a large dark phone with a headset attached to it. Directly adjacent, there sits the stack of flash cards that have already been prearranged for me. Each flash card is empty except for three snippets of information haphazardly written in a bold, black typeface.

Name. Address. Phone number.

Telemarketing is such a unique experience. It is truly absurd to feel such dislike emanate from others. Rage can manifest itself in a much easier fashion when it is directed at a stranger.

Countless times a day I encounter these people.

Their hatred just oozes through the phone. Once, a man became so angry that I had the nerve to call his house that he proceeded to look up the address of our building and promise me that he would come down here with a shotgun.

Incredible.

But, hell, can you blame them? If these people knew that this “Senior Marketing Analyst” advising them to refinance their house, and likely put them into debt, was really just some sixteen year old punk who, in all reality, was completely full of shit, they would be appalled. I, for one, never fault the angry ones. I would rather them take their fury out on me, a faceless nobody, than take it out someone who is likely far less deserving of it. Shit, at least it makes the day more interesting.

I reach into my desk and find an unopened pack of Reese’s Pieces that I had forgotten the night before. I rip it open and pour them onto the desk.

SPRING 2014

CREATIVE NONFICTION | SHAUN AL-SHATTI

Bits of orange and brown scatter about. I begin to sort them into two separate, color-coordinated groups as I grab the first note card.

The doctors tell me I may be paralyzed. They tell me I may never walk again. They tell me I may never speak correctly again.

♦♦♦ I open my eyes.

Worst of all, they tell me that they don’t know why this has happened, and they don’t know how to fix it.

I am lying down on my stomach. I am on a table.

There are people around me. I hazily try to turn my head. No such luck.

How does a perfectly healthy sixteen year old lose all motor and speech skills in the blink of an eye?

My world erupts. A bullet rips through my back.

My spine explodes with a white hot fury. The black-eyed angels dance in my eyes. Unable to see what has happened, I panic. I gasp for breathe and attempt to yell for help. Someone, anyone. What comes out cannot be fathomed as words. Primal, guttural sounds. No syllables are strung together, only a jumble of letters that seemingly trip over each other one by one in an elaborate prank.

They are calling it a stroke. Numbness is to become my life. There is no explanation. This is what I am now? A medical anomaly. Just another lost page in a medical journal. They say it must be God’s will.

I try to move my arm. If only I could fight. My limbs won’t listen. My spine erupts once more. I crank my neck and force my eyes to roll into the back of my head until I catch a glimpse. The pain is unbearable. A large needle has been plunged deep into my vertebrae. A strange luminescent liquid is being extracted from my spinal column.

“Enough,” A deep voice says. “We have enough.”

“You may take him back to his room now,” another voice commands from across the room.

The needle is removed. A shuffling of several feet is heard and my table begins to move. The wheels squeak and squirm their way out of the room. The door is still swinging back and forth when I hear one man clearly tell another, "I have never seen anything like this." ♦♦♦

CANYON VOICES

God’s will? God’s will?!?

I hear whispers that a devil has taken hold of my heart. A curse has been placed upon me. What seemed unfathomable a mere week ago is now a reality. In the Arabic language the word demon is represented with the characters ‫ناطيشال‬, or alShaitan. These days they say that the al-Shaitan lives within me. Every day my father prays for the al-Shaitan to leave, but he refuses to release me. His unrelenting grip clasps onto my core, and tears at my soul. He rips away the flesh and gnaws at my humanity.

This room is suffocating. These bleached walls mock my inabilities. What have I become?

There is no point. I must not reach that dreaded moment when hope becomes hopeless. ♦♦♦ I open my eyes.

I am attempting to convince 476-984-9970, Mr. Parker B. Anthony at 4432 W. Adams Lane to

SPRING 2014

CREATIVE NONFICTION | SHAUN AL-SHATTI

refinance his home. He has a deep baritone of a voice, yet, it holds a certain frailty. He has a 4.5% fixed 15 year loan. I lie and tell him that I can top that. We move through the classic steps. The dance of deception across the phone lines. He gives me a refusal; I give him perfect, unqualified hyperbole. His voice quivers. Like a shark ripping through the crystal ocean, I smell the blood, and in the back of his mind, he senses it.

For the first time in my life, I can actually feel my brain. Napalm echoes throughout my head, short circuiting the wiring; the cogs are rusting; spasms comes in bursts; torrents of convulsions vulsions, the sounds of cannon firering throughout my head. I crumple to the floor, unable to withstand the onslaught.

“Well I don’t know, I may need to talk to my wife about this matter.”

I am in the passenger seat.

“Sir, with all due respect, the longer you wait, the less likely we are able to help you. This is a matter of urgency. This is a matter of preserving your future. Your legacy. When I say this is life changing, I mean it."

“I just don’t understand how you could give me a lower rate...”

“Well sir, it is allal a maaan-nn-ner of fin-nn-nnaac. Yoou k-k-kont van to...”

My voice stutters as the connection between my mind and my mouth is seemingly broken. I regroup and try again.

‘Ssoor-or-y I dd-don-nt-t-t nout-tas nat-at-at...”

What the hell is happening?

“Are you drunk son? Ain’t no way I’m doing business with a drunk!”

The click of the phone shakes me like an earthquake. What the fuck just happened?? I try to stand up. My legs don’t seem to understand. I collapse underneath my own weight like a newborn. Gripping the chair, I pull myself up from the world. My limbs are shaking. My mind is racing. I take two precarious, teetering steps.

One foot after the other I try to command myself.

CANYON VOICES

♦♦♦

My mother is frantic. The Saturn furiously weaves through traffic as if Death himself were pursuing us. The astral cars race past us like stars through the sky. I am confused. I try to open my mouth; I try to understand. No real words come out. This seems to only increase the already skyrocketing level of urgency within her.

Her thin frame has never looked stronger.

I feel my eyes roll to the back of my skull. My mind collapses upon itself and the images dance in my head. I look over the edge of the canyon and see the river. Panic enters my heart as the black eyed angel breaks through. The rowboat flows toward the edge as I sense the darkness pulsating behind me. It can’t end like this. I want to go back. The blackened water rushes below me and the cascade of silence is deafening. I feel the hands of al-Shaitan grip my shoulder. This can’t happen. The force of the push obliterates my being.

I am afraid. ♦♦♦ I open my eyes.

My vision is blurry, but I have no need to see. It is dark, but, I know where I am. The persistent beating of the fan still hums in the distance; these three empty, white walls that have become

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CREATIVE NONFICTION | SHAUN AL-SHATTI

my home. My abandoned empire. My sanctuary.

My prison.

I want nothing more than to stand from this bed and remove myself from this place. If only my body were whole again. If only it would listen. I have been betrayed by the closest person I know.

Myself. I have never felt so alone. Each day I awaken from this endless nightmare, hoping that it is finally over; hoping that it was all a joke.

Each day, I am disappointed. Every sunrise comes and goes and my spirit is pulled deeper into the charred waters. A vicious cycle with no end in sight.

I cannot have peace. My body is at war with itself. Even my dreams do not go undisturbed.

Whether it is a result of the countless drugs I now depend on, my increasingly detached grip on reality, or perhaps a combination of, the beast haunts my thoughts.

The music of the night is intoxicating. The weights on my eyes are becoming heavier. I cannot resist. My body loses consciousness and my mind drifts. ♦♦♦ I see nothing. This world is empty. A void in the abyss.

Deep in the distance I can faintly hear the ring of a phone. It sounds so lonely. I hear a whisper to my left. I turn to look. Nothing. Another mumble echoes behind me; I whip around. Only black.

The ringing grows louder. A soft, fragile chatter murmurs on my right. The whisper’s echo becomes more focused.

“Never seen anything like this.”

A static hum starts to reverberate throughout my head. The ringing grows louder. The whispers are replaced by burning voices. Punishing me.

CANYON VOICES

Doubting me. Pitying me. The ringing grows even louder. Deafening. A metallic beep gouges through the world.

Still alive, I tell myself.

The beep resonates with the static, dissonance and harmony linked together as one. The ringing has become thunderous. A shriek rips through my skull.

I am surrounded.

The world is spinning. I can barely breathe. The natural order is imploding. I crouch with my hands over my head as everything I know crumbles.

An ear piercing eruption rocks my foundation.

The flash blinds me. Yet still I can see them. The empty, soulless, sunken eyes.

A dark force hurls itself into my heart. The alShaitan is here. The rapture has come. My life explodes with the embers of chaos. It wants me and I can do nothing.

The Pandemonium twists around me, writhing at its feet. My will is on fire. My body is breaking.

Everything that I have ever known will cease to exist.

I cannot stop it. The darkness is enveloping my heart, filling it with the coals of hatred and abandonment.

The roaring will not relent. The flurry of the storm tears my skin apart at the seams. Ripping my will. Splitting my mind. The black-eyed angels gash through the abyss, slashing madly through the flames. I pour every ounce of my soul and my heart into this world. I want to live a normal life again. This resolution, this purpose it must mean something. This all must stand for something. I cannot lose to the demon.

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CREATIVE NONFICTION | SHAUN AL-SHATTI

A barrage of thunder ruptures through, annihilating the universe around me. Everything except those eyes. Those burning, vengeful eyes.

The al-Shaitan will not claim me today. Without hope there is nothing. ♦♦♦ My eyes burst open.

Sweat is pouring down my body. My heart is pounding. From one nightmare into another, I hearthe soft familiar beep in the background.

Still alive. The gentle hums of the fan radiate throughout the room. Calming. I look past the paper-thin curtain into the hall. Nurses are bustling about, performing their daily rounds.

Hope is everything, I remind myself.

About the Author Shaun Al-Shatti is an Arizona State University graduate and with a bachelor’s degree in English and a minor in Political Science. He enjoys writing more than anything and his main goal is to be able to write for a living. He is currently a combat sports writer for MMA fighting.com. He can be contacted at shaun.alshatti@gmail.com.

A young nurse delicately slides the waxen curtain to the side and walks towards me. She reaches into her medical pouch and grabs a small silver pin. She gently picks up my arm to perform the same routine test that I have failed for months.

Dejectedly expecting the same numbness that has come the countless times before, she carefully pricks me on the fingertip.

It twitches.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | ALEJANDRO SANCHEZ VEGA

Borders

By Alejandro Sanchez Vega

Characters: U.S. Customs Agent: can be male or female. A white clean-cut square-jawed young man or woman.

Superman: Hispanic actor.

Uniformed Officer Setting: A U.S. Customs office on the border of Mexico and Arizona.

(As the scene starts, we see a handsome young man seated a desk. Above his head is a sign that says US Customs/ Mexico-US border ENTRY. He is a US CUSTOM AGENT and he is preoccupied with paperwork. Next to him is an empty chair. The sound of anti-immigration demonstrators is heard outside in the background.)

(Sound fades in and cuts out as the 2 men enter the room) (ENTER: UNIFORMED OFFICER with a man dressed as SUPERMAN) U.S. Customs Agent: Take a seat.

(SUPERMAN takes a seat. THE CUSTOMS AGENT nods to the OFFICER that he can leave) (Exit UNIFORMED OFFICER) (Customs Agent turns back to Superman) U.S. Customs Agent: Citizenship?

Superman: American.

Customs Agent: You sure about that?

Superman: I’m naturalized, if that’s what you mean?

Customs Agent: I said what I meant.

Superman: What’s this about?

Customs Agent: Well, we’re on alert for illegal aliens claiming they’re on their way to a Comicon convention disguised as superheroes.

Superman: As a matter of the fact, I was actually on my way to fight for truth, justice, and the American way.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | ALEJANDRO SANCHEZ VEGA

Customs Agent: Is that so? Shouldn’t you be flying through the air instead of walking across the international bridge?

Superman: True, I normally fly, but as it happens I ran into some guy in a bar in Rocky Point and I’m pretty sure he slipped a kryptonite ruffy in my pina colada when I wasn’t looking.

Customs Agent: And? Superman: Let’s just say I woke up this morning not feeling so…super. Anyway, unable to fly, I grabbed a cab and headed straight here.

Customs Agent: Wearing that suit?

Superman: What else would I wear?

Customs Agent: I gotta say, it’s not that flattering. Not to mention, what colors are those? They remind of the Cuban flag.

Superman: Don’t you know who I am?

Customs Agent: I could care less who you are. I just need to see some I.D. Superman: You can see that I have no pockets.

Customs Agent: You need a passport. I can’t just let you in based on your word and- (voice dripping with sarcasm) your White Anglo-Saxon good looks? How about a birth certificate?

Superman: Officer, I’m trying to save the world. I’m not running for president Customs Agent: Okay, so what do you call yourself?

Superman: Superman.

Customs Agent: You call yourself Superman?

Superman: It’s an Americanization of my given name.

Custom Agent: Which is?

Superman: Kal El. Customs Agent: What kind of name is that? Where were you born?

Superman: Krypton.

Customs Agent: Hmm Uh…What part of Mexico is that?

Superman: Mexico?

Customs Agent: Listen, buddy. No papers, no papeles migratorios, no admission.

Superman: Like I said, I have no pockets.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | ALEJANDRO SANCHEZ VEGA

Customs Agent: Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn right around and head back to Krypton or Juarez or wherever the hell you came from.

Superman: What? I’ve gotta go. There have been reports of injustice in Arizona and I must do what I can to help protect it, before it’s too late, it could turn in to a police state, like Utah and no one wants another Utah. (Realizing he is getting nowhere, Superman changes tactics) ... Look um...between you and me Lois Lane’s in trouble. And even though some people have questioned my sexual orientation, I’ve got real thing for her. (Agitated, he gets up to leave) Customs Agent: (Lunges for Superman and cuffs him) Hold it, where do you think you’re going?!

You sir are under arrest for illegal entry.

Superman: Are you kidding?! Officer, you’re making a big mistake.

Customs Agent: You have the right to remain silent.

Superman: Don’t you get it, I’m Superman. I need to make it to Tonopah, Arizona, before Lex Luther destroys Phoenix with an oversized magnifying glass he’s mounted outside Palo Verde’s nuclear plant.

Customs Agent: Right, and I am Wonder Woman.

Superman: No you’re not. I know Wonder Woman personally and you look nothing like— (He stops and it dawns on him he knows this agent from somewhere. He begins to sputter confused) Customs Agent: (Realizing he has the upper hand) Lighten up, I’m kidding. Jeez Louise, you superhero wannabes can’t take a joke.

Superman: Let me go! I’ve got to keep the streets of America clean and safe for good people— Customs Agent: Ah hah! You admit it. Just like a Mexican you want take a job from Americans in our time of need.

Superman: I meant mopping up criminals to protect the innocent from the world’s villains!

Customs Agent: Sure, sure…that’s what all you cape-wearing geeks say.

Superman: Wait! You mean I’m not the first superhero who’s tried to cross here?

Customs Agent: Are you kidding? Ever since they blockaded the California border, we’ve been getting all of the nuts coming across here. One guy claimed he was the Hulk, another guy said he was Captain America.

Superman: I’m telling you you’re making a big mistake. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve saved this planet from utter destruction?!

Customs Agent: That’s all fine and dandy. But it doesn’t matter. What matters now is that you’re breaking the law.

Superman: Look, if you’re really going to deport me, the least you could do is send me back to Krypton.

Customs Agent: Sorry, bud, the best I can do is Nogales.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | ALEJANDRO SANCHEZ VEGA

Superman: OK, OK!… Truth is my name is Clark Kent and I was born in Smallville, Kansas. My mother’s name is Martha and father’s name is Jonathan. I work as a reporter at the Daily Planet.

Customs Agent: You’re just making things worse for yourself. Assuming a false identify is a Class C felony. If I were you, I’d quit while I was ahead. {As they exit.} Superman: I’m warning you, the kryptonite is wearing off and I should be back to full strength any minute now.

Customs Agent: Tell it to the judge!

(The Customs Agent escorts Superman to the door and hands him over to the officer. EXIT) (The Agent returns to his desk and picks up his phone) Customs Officer: Joe, it’s me. (Beat) No he won’t be a problem. (Beat) We can now go to phase-two of our plan of keeping Phoenix so hot air conditioning units will run all summer. (Beat) Now tell me where is this green stick I have to go to? (Beat) Yes, yes, Palo Verde…you know I hate Spanish. (Beat) Great see you there. (He hangs up the phone. He take off a wig or a fake mustache. He boldly turns to the audience) Customs Officer: Who knew Superman’s real weakness was “Justice.” (He makes air quotes with fingers) (Picks up the brief case with a blinking light as he laughs manically) EXIT Light’s fade….

About the Author Alejandro Sanchez Vega -- born in Tucson, Az. but raised in Nogales, Mexico -- has worked as a writer for short subject films, music videos and theater. His passion comes from his love for the art of acting. A happily married father of 3 beautiful girls, he wrote Borders after witnessing firsthand the double standard in which immigrants are held within the City of Phoenix and decided to write a script that addressed the issue if a beloved immigrant was on the receiving end of the injustice that comes from stereotyping.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | MICHAEL FLOOD

Another Sunrise

By Michael Flood

Characters: MAN: 40, A man with a purpose. He is calm and, through his serene demeanor, is able to bring peace to those around him.

JESSIE: 40, An unemployed man at the end of his rope.

Setting: Today. A bus stop bench facing East.

(A bus stop bench, early morning. That time just before dawn. Jessie sits alone "reading" the paper. Every few seconds he looks about, then returns to his paper. After a few moments, a Man sits next to him. Jessie stiffens, folds paper, and sets it aside.)

MAN: (Takes out an apple, starts to cut and eat) Good morning.

JESSIE: Uh… hi.

MAN: Don't let me interrupt you.

JESSIE: I was just … it doesn't matter. Sorry.

MAN: No need to apologize.

(They sit for a moment in silence) JESSIE: (Referring to paper) Classifieds. Like it matters, huh?

MAN: Tough world out there.

JESSIE: Getting tougher.

MAN: Used to be a man could easily get a job in his field, especially with a college degree. (beat) College degree?

JESSIE: Huh? Me? Sure. Doesn't seem to help anymore.

MAN: No, it does not.

JESSIE: Been lookin' a long time?

MAN: If something comes along, then fine. If not? (shrugs) JESSIE: It's been more than a year for me. My degrees and my experience and I can't even get an interview.

MAN: All too common story these days.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | MICHAEL FLOOD

JESSIE: Yeah. The longer it goes, the worse it gets.

MAN: It's important to keep a positive attitude.

(Jessie looks at him with a mix of confusion and incredulity) That's what all the books say, at least.

JESSIE: Yeah.

MAN: (A moment of uncomfortable silence, then) Would you like to hear a joke?

JESSIE: Joke?

MAN: You look like you need a little laugh.

JESSIE: (Checks his watch, looks at the horizon) All right. Tell me a joke.

MAN: This man walks into a bar with a dog. He walks up to the bartender and says, "I have the world's only talking dog. Give me a drink, I'll ask him a question." The bartender, skeptical yet intrigued, gives him a drink. The man turns to the dog and says, "What does it feel like when you sit on sandpaper?" The dog says, "Ruff! Ruff!" The bartender is a bit miffed, as would be expected: "That dog doesn't talk, all dogs talk like that. Get the hell outta here." The man replies, "Tell ya what. Give me another drink, I'll ask him a harder question." The bartender looks at him sideways and says, "No. Get the hell outta here." "Come on. One more." The bartender thinks about it a minute, then pours him another. The man turns to the dog again and says, "What's over your head when you're in the house?" The dog replies, "Roof! Roof!" Now the bartender is gettin' a bit pissed, "Get the hell outta here! Hey, Joe! Get this jerk outta here!" "Wait! I tell ya what! One more drink and I'll ask him a question that's so hard you probably couldn't answer it yourself." The bartender thinks for a minute, then says, "Fine. But this is it. Another one like them other two and you're out on your ass!" The man turns to the dog and asks, "Who was the greatest player in baseball?" The dog thinks for a moment, then says, "Ruth! Ruth!" That's the limit, there, and the bartender climbs over the bar and smacks the guy around before booting him and the dog out onto the sidewalk. They are sitting there, man and his best friend looking at each other, when the dog says, "Would you believe DiMaggio?"

(Both men laugh) One of my favorites from my dad.

JESSIE: "Would you believe DiMaggio!" (he laughs a few more moments) I'll have to remember that one for… (he trails off) Kids today wouldn't get that joke. You know, the kids getting our jobs. They have no sense of history.

MAN: Yes. JESSIE: My last boss was barely outta college. Has no clue how to do business! No respect for history. (beat) I know this all sounds very Willy Loman but… (he trails off) You know what he did? Huh? He fired a bunch of the older guys… Sorry, "downsized" due to the economy. He waited a few months then, expanded again. Hired all of his friends from college.

MAN: You have to let it go.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | MICHAEL FLOOD

JESSIE: What?! Let it go?! You don't think that's wrong?!

MAN: Of course it is. Is yelling at me changing anything? Is he going to walk up here now and give you your job back?

JESSIE: (He stands, starts pacing, stewing) He damn well should! That ever happen to you?

Huh? Ever find yourself knifed in the back and laid out on a slab?!

MAN: Sure. Had to move on. It was taking over my life, hating the situation. I had to find some way to leave it behind.

JESSIE: Leave it behind… Yeah. OK. Problem is, we're the ones being left behind! (still pacing, steamed) MAN: (Pause) Would you like to hear another joke?

JESSIE: No! MAN: All right.

JESSIE: (Under his breath) You got over it. I bet you got over it. (to Man) Alright. I'll bite. Tell me, big man, how did you get over it? Huh? How do you get over losing everything? Huh?!

MAN: Need to find a niche. Fill a need.

JESSIE: (Mockingly) Niche.

MAN: Are you receptive?

JESSIE: Huh? MAN: Are you receptive?

JESSIE: To what?

MAN: Everything the world has to offer?

JESSIE: Destitution? Poverty?

MAN: (Moving to get up) I can see I was mistaken. Good luck.

JESSIE: No. Wait. Look… sorry… I just…

MAN: (Sitting back down) I understand. (beat) Well, are you?

JESSIE: What?

MAN: Open to what the world…

JESSIE: Oh. Yeah. I like to think so.

MAN: You either are or you are not. I am. You know what I have found by just listening and watching the world around me?

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | MICHAEL FLOOD

JESSIE: That it's a pretty shitty place?

MAN: It can be.

JESSIE: (Beat as Jessie stares at him) Alright, enlighten me.

MAN: We live in a world in pain. Individually and collectively. The important thing isÐat least, the most important thing to rememberÐis that all I can do is try to help on an individual level. It's all anyone can do. Try to bite off too much and you'll choke. (beat) You're choking, aren't you?

JESSIE: (He wearily returns to bench, plops down) God, yes!

MAN: And it feels like the world doesn't care enough to give you the Heimlich.

JESSIE: It just shoves it down further.

MAN: Individual. It's all you can have any kind of control over. (beat) For what it's worth, that's what I have learned. When I figured that out, though, it changed my life. See, I watched the world walk by me while I floundered, tried to find a new career or a job back in the old one, and I saw the scariest thing I could ever hope to not see. We are in a world infected by a profound contagion that fills the soul, eats it, and leaves us meandering, throbbing shells. That's when I realized my calling. That's when I discovered my next move. My next career.

JESSIE: Yeah?

MAN: I decided that since I see this… since I can recognize it in others… it is my responsibility to help however I can. (beat) Do you know what the greatest feeling in life is? That moment when the pain releases and you feel nothing adverse. Think about when you get a headache, one that knocks you down for the count. Now think of the moment when you realize the pain is gone.

Would you trade that feeling of relief… of freedom… for anything?

(Jessie smiles slightly) That's what I do. I relieve the pain. Help those who ask to find peace.

JESSIE: So… MAN: Yes. JESSIE: Can I ask you something?

MAN: Certainly.

JESSIE: (Becoming solemn as he investigates the man's face) Am I doing the right thing?

MAN: (A little exasperated) Only you can answer that.

(They sit in silence) Is everything in order?

JESSIE: What? Like insurance?

MAN: Whatever you have in place for your progeny.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | MICHAEL FLOOD

JESSIE: That's the real kick in the balls, there. Y’know, when they let me go, they gave me six months' pay but they paid my life insurance for a year. How fucked up is that?

MAN: Very.

JESSIE: That's why I… You know…

MAN: Yes. (They fall into silence staring out. After a few moments) How are you feeling?

JESSIE: Getting better.

MAN: Ready?

JESSIE: Give me a few more minutes. 'Til the sunrise.

MAN: Certainly.

JESSIE: (Beat) What did you do before… well, this?

MAN: That doesn't matter.

JESSIE: Please.

MAN: (Beat) Journalist. Features and reviews. That kind of stuff. You? JESSIE: Supervisor. Manufacturing.

MAN: Was it a good career?

JESSIE: Yeah.

MAN: Friends?

JESSIE: Yeah. Way too many of us in the same boat, though. No one was in a position to help anyone else, hence… (Indicating current situation) It's amazing how quickly you lose touch when you don't see each other every day at work. Not to mention the local friends when you have to move away. (Beat) Sun's about come up.

MAN: It is. (beat) How are you feeling?

JESSIE: Why do you keep asking?

MAN: Did you listen?

JESSIE: Yeah, I did.

MAN: Why are you so resistant to feeling the slightest peace?

JESSIE: I'm not. I didn't think I was, at least.

MAN: It is increasingly difficult, I'm sure.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | MICHAEL FLOOD

JESSIE: Yeah, it is. (beat) So, how does this work?

MAN: Close your eyes.

JESSIE: But, the sunrise.

MAN: No worries. You'll see it. {Jessie closes his eyes.} Breathe. Slowly, evenly. The sun is rising and you will greet a brand new day. A new hope awaits.

(The Man rises, moves behind Jessie. During the next speech he takes a piece of fabric from his pocket and slips it around Jessie's neck. Jessie stiffens and the man calms him as he tightens it slightly. The Man reaches into Jessie's inside jacket pocket, lifts his wallet.)

Feel your pain fading away. Allow your worries to float up and out. No more trouble. No more world grinding away at your sanity. Just the brightest, happiest memories of your life. Your favorite picture of your children. Your wedding day. Your kids' births. The love of those around you.

(Jessie smiles slightly as the man unfurls the fabric to reveal a handwritten "Have a Nice Day" and its ubiquitous smiley face.)

How do you feel, Jessie?

JESSIE: Good.

MAN: (Starting to back away into the shadows) Peaceful?

JESSIE: Yes. (The man disappears. Sunrise overtakes Jessie who remains sitting, eyes closed, smiling.)

End of play.

About the Author Born of humble circus folk, Michael (or Flood on wanted posters) began his life on stage at the tender age of five. By age 14, the habit took on a new form as he saw his first script produced as part of a themed night of short plays. Dramatic successes since include the short plays Mr. Smith (BYOP), Where Were You? and Why Me? (Van Nuys Rep), First National (The New Indies) and Well, It Ain’t Ozzie and Harriet (RROAPS) which also won its panel at the 2nd Annual Arts & Humanities Graduate Research Conference at Texas Tech University. Most recently his full-length play Vicarious Playboys (TTU Lab Theatre) was awarded a Meritorious Achievement in Playwriting by the Kennedy Center. Additionally, he has acted in more than 100 productions with turns in The Royal Family, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Urinetown, A View from the Bridge, I Henry IV, Romeo & Juliet, The Laramie Project, Hamlet, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and the musicals Jesus Christ Superstar, Fiddler on the Roof, Titanic: The Musical, and Grease among his favorites. Oh. Yeah. He’s also a Ph.D. candidate in the Fine Arts Doctoral Program (Theatre: Playwriting, History/Theory/Criticism) at Texas Tech University.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

Diane Miller, Please Press “9” On The Blue Courtesy Phone

By Julianne Homokay

CHARACTERS: Diane Miller: a conservative businesswoman in her early 40s. Looks-wise, think the Michelle Bachmann/Sarah Palin ballpark. Perhaps her suit is Republican Red to prove it.

Intercom: a lovely voice-over voice. Most of the time. (female) Underling: Intercom's assistant voice. (male) Setting: Library. Archival section in the basement, the restricted area.

Gate Agent/Snack Vendor/Deaf Mexican Boy, all played by the same actress.

A Pilot’s Voice, male. Perhaps doubled by the actor voicing Underling.

SCENE The International Terminal at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York.

Perhaps.

TIME Now. Sort of .

DIANE MILLER, PLEASE PRESS "9" ON THE BLUE COURTESY PHONE Lights up on an area of the International Terminal at JFK. DIANE MILLER slumps into a chair. We hear the typical sounds we might expect, planes taxiing, People movers beeping, passengers bustling, but we see no people, except for DIANE. DIANE is fraying around the edges a bit. It's obvious she's been sitting there for a very long time. She falls asleep for a second. We hear a sound as if something was being sucked into a tunnel. The sound stops suddenly. She startles awake.

INTERCOM

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

Diane Miller, please press "9" on the blue courtesy phone.

(This rouses her from her fatigued reverie. A ray of hope! She looks around spots a courtesy phone, and dives on it, pressing "9".)

DIANE MILLER Hello? I'm Diane Miller. Diane. Miller. An announcement came on, I was supposed to press "9" on this phone. No idea what I'm talking about, great, LOVE the competence at this airport. {She hangs up the phone and sits back down. A GATE AGENT, who may have some goth accents complementing her typical uniform, pops up from behind a podium.} GATE AGENT {Into a mic} Just Another Russian Airline Not Run By A Mob Syndicate We Swear It, Flight 355 to London Gatwick, and then onto Moscow. Final boarding call.

DIANE MILLER {As the GATE AGENT is about to disappear behind the podium:} Wait! {DIANE springs over to the podium.} DIANE MILLER Do you know anything, anything about the next flight out to Beijing?

GATE AGENT No, ma’am.

DIANE MILLER They cancelled the last ten.

GATE AGENT

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

I'm sorry, ma'am.

DIANE MILLER You don't know anything at all? {Pause. The GATE AGENT hisses viciously at DIANE, then disappears behind the podium. DIANE rubs her eyes, sits back down.She tries to read, perhaps Capitalism and Freedom by Milton Friedman.} INTERCOM Diane Miller, please press "9" on the blue courtesy phone.

DIANE MILLER You mean it this time? {Diane goes back over to the phone, presses "9".} {Only static this time. She contemplates slamming the receiver back in, but replaces it gently instead.)

Sleep deprivation, that must be it. {She goes over to a snack market/kiosk, sorts through the junk food, chooses a small bag of crackers. The SNACK VENDOR pops up from behind the counter, same goth accents, different apron.} SNACK VENDOR That will be 17 dollars and 95 cents, please. {DIANE gestures as if to say "WTF?", then hands over a debit card. She opens the bag, screams, throws the bag on the floor and stomps on it.} SNACK VENDOR Something amiss, ma’am?

DIANE MILLER Thank you, Ms. Einstein, yes, in fact. That bag of crackers is teeming with maggots!

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

{SNACK VENDOR comes out from behind the counter with a dustpan and sweeps the mess into it.} SNACK VENDOR Good source of protein, don't you think? {The SNACK VENDOR returns to her post. DIANE is incredulous.} DIANE MILLER How about a Diet Coke? {The SNACK VENDOR produces a Diet Pepsi.} No Diet Coke?

SNACK VENDOR Take it or leave it.

DIANE MILLER And how much you want for this? A C-note? 10 large?

SNACK VENDOR It's on the house. {The SNACK VENDOR disappears behind the counter, munching from the opened bag. DIANE is astounded. She opens the can of Diet Pepsi, looks in it, listens to it, sniffs it. She takes a pen light out of her purse and looks in it again. When satisfied the drink is uncontaminated she takes a sip. She'd obviously rather be drinking gasoline than Diet Pepsi. She forces a couple more gulps down. The GATE AGENT pops back up from behind her podium.} GATE AGENT Creaky Lithuanian Tin Can Airways, Flight 506 direct to Vilnius {ha, "direct to Vilnius", ha ha ha ha ha,} now boarding!

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

DIANE MILLER So. Any news on Beijing? Weather delay, State Department Advisory, do you even know how to look it up?

GATE AGENT I would watch your tone with me, ma'am.

DIANE MILLER I have been in this terminal for 36 hours. That is one whole day plus a shift in a factory for someone in a right-to-work state.

GATE AGENT I'm warning you. You don't know who I work for.

DIANE MILLER And the TSA agents won't let me leave this holding area for some reason they're not revealing. So tell your bigwig boss that this is shitty customer service!

GATE AGENT That'll go over well.

DIANE MILLER This is the United States of America.

GATE AGENT Whatever gave you that idea?

DIANE MILLER My lawyers are going to be all over this. And you!

GATE AGENT {Sexy playful} Well, there are plenty of them to go around. Meow.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

(The GATE AGENT sinks behind her podium again. DIANE rubs her face, looks at the Diet Pepsi.)

DIANE MILLER I'm in hell.

INTERCOM You'd think so, wouldn't you. Diane Miller, please press "9" on the blue courtesy phone.

DIANE MILLER Fuck you!

INTERCOM No need to be hostile, Diane Miller. {After a second, it sinks in that INTERCOM is talking back to her.} DIANE MILLER Okay.

INTERCOM Diane Miller, you've been dialing the green courtesy phone. {DIANE looks over at the phone.} DIANE MILLER You call that green?

INTERCOM A nice sea foam green, actually, yes. Diane Miller.

DIANE MILLER Stop saying my name!

INTERCOM

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

That was your name? Wasn't it? Now go find the blue courtesy phone. You won't have to work too hard. {DIANE begins searching the holding area.} {The SNACK VENDOR pops back up from behind her counter with a big wrapped gift.} SNACK VENDOR As a reminder, the Transportation Security Administration asks that you report all suspicious and unattended packages to the nearest agent. Thank you. {The SNACK VENDOR pops back down behind the counter.} INTERCOM Well, Diane Miller, aren't you going to open your gift?

DIANE MILLER It's a suspicious and unattended package. I should report it to the— {DIANE looks offstage.} Where did the TSA agents go? Why is everything locked up? Why am I talking to the ceiling?

INTERCOM Open your gift, Diane Miller. {The GATE AGENT pops up again.} GATE AGENT Best-Seat-In-The-Cargo-Hold Bargain Air, Flight 1557 to Newark, New Jersey, final boarding call.

DIANE MILLER {Finally losing it}

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

What the hell? A flight? To NEWARK? Can't these people take, oh I don't know, A CAB? THE BUS? REGIONAL RAIL? THIS IS THE INTERNATIONAL TERMINAL AT J.F. FUCKING K.! {GATE AGENT disappears behind the podium as INTERCOM buzzes off loudly. DIANE sits, spent.} {She looks up at the ceiling.} DIANE MILLER Hello? {No answer. The terminal is quiet now. She looks over at the gift, retrieves it. She opens it gingerly, wincing when she's afraid it might explode. She pulls out her gift: a blue courtesy phone. She picks up the receiver. INTERCOM buzzes on.} INTERCOM {A vicious voice this time} ---has that package torn into by now, we don't have to test her.

UNDERLING But, you see, I already, um…..

INTERCOM What? Spit it out. {DIANE hears something: the whimpering of a child. She replaces the receiver and goes looking for the source.} UNDERLING We uh...we already sent the boy up.

Do I have a single being working here who is not incompetent?

UNDERLING Most of the good people are promoted upstairs.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

INTERCOM Yeah, no shit. Go get him back. {From behind the Gate Agent's podium, DIANE pulls a cage, something you might crate a large dog in. A DEAF MEXICAN BOY of seven or eight is inside.} DIANE MILLER Oh my God. UNDERLING Boss, I think it's too late.

INTERCOM Fuck me!

UNDERLING And you might have left the intercom on, too.

INTERCOM God damn it, mother fu——! {INTERCOM buzzes off. DIANE kneels down beside the cage. The BOY cowers and whimpers as if he expects her to torture him through the bars of the cage.} DIANE MILLER It's okay, it's okay. Let's get you out of there {She retrieves a nail file from her purse and picks the lock. INTERCOM buzzes back on.

The lights dim, and emergency lights and alarms flash on and off as well.} INTERCOM Diane Miller, press "9" on the blue courtesy phone {DIANE gets the cage door open; the BOY emerges and pulls trinkets from his pockets.} INTERCOM

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

There has been an error, Diane Miller. Step away from the Deaf Mexican Boy and go to the phone. Now please.

DEAF MEXICAN BOY {The voice of a child who's never in his life been able to hear:} Cinco dólares. Solo cinco dólares.

INTERCOM Put the Deaf Mexican Boy back in his cage and stow him underneath the seat in front of you.

DEAF MEXICAN BOY ¿Como quatro dólares?

INTERCOM Diane Miller DIANE MILLER I'm not sure I should do that, it doesn't feel right.

INTERCOM Oh. You're gonna grow a conscience on me now, bitch? Stop fighting this, press "9" on the blue courtesy phone and go gently.

DIANE MILLER Where? Huh? Go gently where? I was supposed to be checked into the Sofitel Wanda Beijing by now.

INTERCOM Well those plans changed, didn't they, honey?

UNDERLING Boss, I don't think she's figured it out yet.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

{The emergency lights stop flashing and the alarms stop droning.} INTERCOM {All warmth and honey voice again} Listen, Diane Miller. I know it's been a long, tiring wait in that holding area. But you've done your time. You know, I can get you priority boarding on one of those First Class cabins on….uh...

UNDERLING {Sotto voce) Virgin Atlantic INTERCOM Virgin Atlantic. You can take a hot shower, eat a gourmet meal, then stretch out and wake up....when you wake up. I'm chilling the Veuve Cliquot for you as we speak, Diane Miller. Remember? Just like all the flights you took when you drummed up those contracts with the Chinese Labor Corporations that make the trinkets the Deaf Mexican Boy sells. Like all those flights to Delhi and Calcutta to secure the carpet factories and garment shops. All the trips you took on behalf of the International Monetary Fund to Moldova, and Albania, and Ukraine, to advise the treasury departments of their governments. You've accomplished a lot in your life, Diane Miller. You deserve to fly out in style.

DIANE MILLER Fly out?

INTERCOM Of JFK. To Beijing. That's what I meant. What did you think I meant?

DIANE MILLER I put the boy back, you get me on the next flight out?

INTERCOM In the cage and First Class.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

{DIANE looks at the BOY.} DEAF MEXICAN BOY ¿Trés dólares? Por favor, Doña. {He hands her a tacky cross. DIANE picks up the receiver. She does not press ‘9".} DIANE MILLER Not gonna do it. I'll stay here in this holding area forever if I have to.

INTERCOM Motherfucking Christ.

UNDERLING It's Him every time {The emergency lights and alarms go back on again as a spot isolates DIANE and the BOY. She grabs him and sits him down with her. We hear a deafening rumbling, say, as if a plane was barreling down a runway headed for takeoff. The emergency lights grow increasingly more intense} {DIANE hangs onto the BOY for dear life. Just when we think it will all burst at the seams, the noise stops, save for the soothing whir of a plane moving through air. The lights give way to something starry and ethereal. The author pictures a disco ball. DIANE and the BOY look up and around.} PILOT’S VOICE Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached a cruising altitude of....(chuckles) who knows, really? If you'll look out your windows, you'll see the galaxies, the universe in all its mysteries, and the answers to life's most niggling questions, such as: who really shot President Kennedy? Was Marilyn's death really a suicide? And what could possibly be the appeal of Red Hot Cheetos? On behalf of myself and your flight attendants, Gabriela, Mikhail and Raphaelle, I invite you to sit back, relax and enjoy this TransUniversal flight. {DEAF MEXICAN BOY tugs on DIANE's sleeve. His voice is clear now, albeit he speaks with a thick Mexican accent.}

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS |JULIANNE HOMOKAY

DEAF MEXICAN BOY Lady! Lady, I bringed something for you. {He pulls them each a mini-can of Diet Coke from his pockets. They toast.} DIANE MILLER Thanks, kid {They drink.} That was easy. {They recline and close their eyes. After a moment:} PILOT’S VOICE Oh, and Diane Miller? Please press "9" on the blue courtesy phone.

(Diane's eyes pop open.)

(Lights out.)

(Sound down.)

END

About the Author Julianne Homokay began her career as a performer following a BA in Theatre from Point Park University.

After a year in the Pittsburgh cast of NUNSENSE, many silly theme park shows, dinner theatre gigs too scary to mention and a stint in a hen suit, Julianne turned her focus to writing, completing an MFA at UNLV. Credits include Venus Theatre, Mill Mountain, the Fulton, American Theatre of Actors, the Blank, the William Inge Center, Ensemble Studio Theatre, the Kennedy Center, SkyPilot Theatre, Whitefire Theatre and several oral history projects for the Bellarmine Forum and Center for Reconciliation and Justice at LMU. She is published by Original Works, Meriwether, McGraw-Hill and 10-Minute-Plays.com. Currently, she serves as Managing Director of North By South Theatre Los Angeles, works on THE LATE LATE SHOW WITH CRAIG FERGUSON, and is an Active Member of the Dramatists Guild of America.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

The Gift

By Nicola Pearson

CAST OF CHARACTERS Angela- a young woman Angie- a dog, played by a young woman.

THE SETTING An airport lounge somewhere on the east coast of the USA. THE TIME The present. {Lights up on a young woman sitting in the center seat of a row of three connected plastic seats. Airport lounge seats. A few feet away, an empty row of three seats sits at an angle to the first. There should also be a small airport trashcan somewhere on stage. The young woman is Angela. She looks anxious.

After a few beats. another young woman enters and hovers close by,looking this way and that. This is Angie. Then, in a blink, she sits next to Angela} ANGELA: {Abruptly} You can’t sit there.

ANGIE: Who says?

ANGELA: I’m saving this seat for someone.

ANGIE: {Eagerly} That’s okay. I’ll move when they get here…. {Pause} ANGELA: {Firmly} I’ve been saving this seat for a while.

ANGIE: {Sliding to the floor; sulkily} Oh all right!

ANGELA: {Looking around} Although if this person doesn’t show up pretty soon, I might just bag it. {Smiling at Angie who doesn’t smile back} Then you can have the whole seat to yourself.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

ANGIE: You got anything to eat?

ANGELA: {Pulling a small bag of pretzels out of her pocket} You want a pretzel.

ANGIE: {Taking one eagerly} Sure. That’ll do. {Another pause} ANGELA: This person was supposed to be here over two hours ago, on a flight from Seattle.

ANGIE: Yeah, that flight was delayed. I know because I was on it. {Nibbles on the pretzel} Sure was bumpy. I got kind of sick. Which is probably why I’m hungry now.

ANGELA: You want another one?

ANGIE: Oh hey, thanks. {Taking another} These are good.

ANGELA: I’m only bothering to wait for this person because he’s bringing me a gift from my brother. {Small laugh} I don’t know what the gift is. {Long pause} But I’m waiting.

ANGIE: Why didn’t your brother bring the gift himself?

ANGELA: {To herself; upset} If only he hadn’t died. I didn’t even know he was sick. I didn’t know anything until I got a letter from this law firm saying Tony had died and left me something important. They didn’t tell me what it was.

ANGIE: Your brother’s name was Tony?

ANGELA: {Contemplatively} My big brother, Tony…..

ANGIE: {With eager curiosity} Did he grow things?

ANGELA: {Overlapping; disbelieving} ….who grew blueberries, if you can believe it! I said, you’ve got to be kidding?! There’s no way you can make a living on five acres of blueberries….

ANGIE: {Overlapping; excitedly} But he loved his five acres in the woods with those big trees – great trees – all down the property line. With that creek that he built a bridge over so he could stand above the water and play his fiddle?

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

ANGELA: {Overlapping} I told him, you’d be better off sticking with your violin. Even if you can’t make it as a musician in a band, at least you can teach!

ANGIE: {Circling her enthusiastically} Hey, guess what?! This is so cool. This is so cool.

This is so cool! I’m your gift. {Angela suddenly looks at her blankly} ANGELA: {Disbelieving of herself} Why am I even talking to you?

ANGIE: {Kneeling on the seat beside her} No, I am. Really. {Tipping up her head and pulling at her shirt collar} Look I’ve got the paperwork right here….

ANGELA: I already told you I don’t like the idea of you sitting up here but you’re going to make it worse if you sit there and scratch……… {Seeing something rolled up protruding from the collar of Angie’s clothes} What is that? {She takes it out some papers} This looks like the paperwork from that law firm. Hey! Were you in my bag before? {She goes through her bag} ANGIE: {Happily} You don’t believe me but I know that I’m right. You’re Angela and I’m your gift. You even smell like Tony – which now that I think about it, kind of amazes me that I didn’t notice that right off. But then I think my sniffer is a little out of whack – maybe from all that throwing up I did on the plane ride…..

ANGELA: {Having found her copy of the letter} No, I still have my copy {Comparing it to the one from Angie} So then how did you…..? {She looks at Angie; pause; then she looks at the paperwork again} Oh, there’s another letter with yours. Dear Angela…… {Pause} It’s from Tony….

ANGIE: {Pining a little} Yeah. I know. I was there when he wrote it. His handwriting’s a bit funky but, you know, he was pretty sick at the time….

ANGELA: {Reads} I guess I’m going to die with us not talking to each other, which is really too bad. I would have liked it to be any other way but this. But we’re here now, and as I drag my sorry self towards the finish line I want to say that for all my screw-ups, for all the things that you think I did wrong in this life, the one thing I’m sure I did right, was be a good friend to you. Fact is, I’m pretty sure I was the best friend you ever had…… {Pause; she is crying} ANGIE: {Laying her head on Angela’s shoulder} He was a really good friend….

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

ANGELA: {Wiping her nose} If you’re going to sit up here next to me then I’m going to have to ask you not to sit so close. I’m sorry but…..{Pause; apologetically)…you really don’t smell that great…..

ANGIE: {Not offended} Yeah, I think I got some of the throw up in my hair.

ANGELA: Plus I wasn’t expecting him to write me. {Bemused} Or leave me anything. {Thinks; sadly} But then, I wasn’t expecting him to die….{Angie touches her; she jumps to a stand} I have to focus.

ANGIE: {Matter-of-factly} Okay. I get that. I’ll just eat the rest of these pretzels….{And she eats} ANGELA: {Reading again} And even though you stopped considering me a friend I know that one day, you’re going to turn around and wish you had your best friend back.

And since I won’t be able to be there to answer that call, I’ve decided to leave you the best friend I have in the world right now. My dog. Angie. {Looks at Angie; shocked} Don’t tell me you’re Angie.

ANGIE: Yup! {Wriggling with pleasure} Isn’t that so cool!

ANGELA: Stop moving so I can check. {Reading a tag around Angie’s neck} Angie. {Bitterly} Great! I get to inherit some stinky mutt just because he named it after me.

ANGIE: {Offended} I am not some stinky mutt! {Proudly} I am a Chesapeake Bay retriever and Black Lab mix, bred specifically for my bird hunting abilities, my good looks and my sweet, affable disposition. And I wasn’t named after you. I was named after a song by Mick Jagger. {She throws her head up and howls} “Annnnngie. Annn-n-ngie…………”

ANGELA: {Turning on her} Stop that! You’ll get us thrown out of the airport…..! {Angie instantly drops her head, cowed} ANGIE: Okay, so maybe my voice isn’t as good as Tony’s.

ANGELA: {Looking around} Where’s the person that came with you? The one that was supposed to meet me and hand me my “gift?”

ANGIE: I expect he’s looking for me.

ANGELA: {Panicked} I hope he didn’t just dump you and run because how am I supposed to give you back if he takes off without talking to me?!

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

{And Angela paces the stage, looking this way and that for the phantom person. Maybe she even grabs a placard that she’d brought with his name on it and frantically holds it out, hoping to find him that way. Angie jumps up and casually trots behind her} ANGIE: I would have stayed with him like he told me to only he seemed busy, talking to this lady he’d been sniffing around on the plane, and I needed to pee. So I took off looking for a patch of grass but then I heard a baby crying and, you know, I just had to track down the sound because I can’t bear to hear babies in distress like that. I ran and I ran until I found this little boy being pushed along real fast by his mother – I think because he’d already done a pee – and through his cries he kept saying, “My duck! My duck!” and I said “A duck? You’ve lost a duck? No problem – I’m on it.” I began sniffing in wider and wider circles around the stroller until I found this yellow fluffy thing – which, I have to say, didn’t look like any duck I’d ever seen before – but it smelled like the kid so I was pretty sure it was his. I retrieved it and carried it back to the baby just as he and his mother were going into a room that had other moms and kids in it as well as a slide, a playhouse and – lucky for me – a small car. I relieved myself discreetly on the floor behind the left rear tire of the car only, for some reason, that made the other mothers in there mad and they chased me out and I got turned around and ended up here. With you. {Pause} Have you got anything to eat besides the pretzels?

ANGELA: {Turning on Angie, irritated} Why are you following me around? Can’t you sit or something. {Angie instantly sits on the floor} Oh. So you’re trained. I guess that’s a point in your favor. {Reluctantly} In Tony’s favor too. Although that still doesn’t excuse him for trying to force you on me like this. Why would he even imagine I’d see you as a gift?!

ANGIE: {Proudly} Because I’m chock full of his love. {Nuzzling Angela} And I’m going to share every bit of it with you.

ANGELA: {Disdainfully} Yes, I’m sure you’re very nice. {Moving away} But I don’t want you. What I want is….{Stops; thinks; sadly} Oh, I don’t know what I want. {She sits and buries her head in her hands} ANGIE: {Sits beside Angela} What you want is for Tony to be here and give you one of those big hugs of his, and no mention of sorry or whose fault it was to come between you.

I know because you’ve been keeping me awake nights with your pining for that little scene. And Tony was keeping me awake days with his pining for the very same thing.

Trouble was, both of your pining tended towards the negative. He doesn’t care about me, she doesn’t want anything to do with me, he’ll never call because he’s too stubborn, that kind of thing. And since we’re all connected……{Shrugs}…….neither of you picked up the

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

phone. {Pause; pensively} Have you ever seen all the connections between us in the ether? You can if you close your eyes part way…..like this….{Which she does}…..and then let them get fuzzy - you know, blur them, just a little….. and….{Excitedly}……see? See that honeycomb of tiny circles, fusing along all around us? {Pause} I can sit for long stretches like this, just watching the world do its communicating. I think I like the fast moving messages the most. Zip. Like shooting stars. Blink and you’ll miss them. I still haven’t figured out what happens when some of the circles just disappear. Do they get swallowed up by other circles and make mixed messages? Or do they just disappear like those bubbles kids blow with soapy water so the message has no chance of being received? {Pause; she opens her eyes and looks at Angela; kindly} You’ll never be able to see it if you have your eyes covered like that. {She nudges her head up under Angela’s hands} ANGELA: {Looking at Angie} You’re a sweet dog, I’ll give you that. But I can’t keep you.

I mean, I’m living in a rental, for crying out loud; no way my landlord’s going to let me have a dog. Particularly a big dog like you. Tony should have known that. {Pause} ‘Course, if I bought that house I’ve had my eye on, I might consider it. At least that has a yard. A pretty good size yard too. Plenty of room for a vegetable garden. You’re not a digger, I hope. {Angie carefully avoids eye contact} No, I expect not. Tony would never have let you dig up his blueberry bushes….

ANGIE: Yeah, he wasn’t too keen when I chewed on them either. But those twiggy branches felt so good on my teeth and the bushes definitely needed pruning….

ANGELA: You know, he accused me of not knowing how to love? It was after I broke up with Ethan, a guy he’d never even met! I said, “You live on the other side of the country.

What do you care who I date or don’t date?! But he cared. He cared plenty. He said, “This one was different, Angie. This one was on your side.” {Pause} I don’t know how he knew that.

ANGIE: Well up until Ethan, you had Tony persuaded that you couldn’t make it as a writer. Ethan came along and, bingo, those thoughts got reversed. I told you, we’re all connected. {Seeing something} Plus Ethan made you sparkle like sunlight on the river. {She trots over to an empty chair, drops down onto her knees and then stretches forward on her belly to retrieve a half eaten bagel} ANGELA: {Sadly} He was right, of course. I don’t know how to love. {Pause; watching Angie} Not since that day when I saw our father, drunk out of his skull, stuffing our mother under that kitchen chair. Some part of my heart stopped that day….{She stops, astonished} You know, I never made that connection until just now.

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

{Angie, bagel in hand, turns and sits on the floor, facing Angela} ANGIE: You never had a dog before, to point you in the right direction. {She goes to chew on the bagel but suddenly stops, very alert} Hang on a minute, hang on…….what is that…..? {She jumps up and runs front of stage; loudly} HEY, YOU! YEAH, YOU OVER THERE WITH THE FANCY LEASH HARNESS THING AND THE TIGHT HAIR CUT……

ANGELA: {Embarrassed} Will you stop…!

ANGIE: {Going on oblivious to Angela} YOU’D BETTER KEEP ON MOVING ‘COS YOU’RE DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF MY TERRITORY THERE….

ANGELA: I mean it, Angie, quit barking……!

ANGIE: UH HUH, I DID TOO! {Pointing} I MARKED THE SEAT WITH THE STINKY GUY IN IT AND THEN THAT BLUE ONE, AT THE END OF THE ROW OVER THERE. AND THE TWO TRASH CANS BEHIND ME? I GOT THOSE TOO. AND, HEY, JUST SO YOU KNOW, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT GOING NEAR THAT LITTLE RED CAR IN THE FAMILY ROOM…. {Angela gets up, crosses downstage, and firmly takes a hold of Angie} ANGELA: {Hissing angrily} Angie, that’s a working dog and he’s working for the cop that has a hold of his leash….! {Apologetically, to the imaginary policeperson} She’s had a long flight…. {And Angela gently pulls Angie back upstage} ANGIE: You’ve got that right. And it wasn’t any fun being trapped in that plastic cage under the plane seat. I could sure use a stick to chase …. {She suddenly turns and runs downstage again} YOU WILL? RIGHT OUTSIDE THE TERMINAL? OH HEY, THAT’S GREAT. YEAH, GOOD BARKING AT YOU TOO. I’LL BE SURE TO AVOID THE AREA AROUND CUSTOMS….

ANGELA: ANGIE! ANGIE: {Blithely} Coming. {She trots back up stage} ANGELA: If I take you back to the apartment and you disobey me like that, you’re definitely not staying! {Angie looks in the other direction} And don’t give me that, “I wasn’t making eye contact therefore I couldn’t hear you” crap. I know that trick.

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SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

ANGIE: Suddenly she’s a dog expert! {She grabs the bagel again} ANGELA: I know it’s frustrating having to sit here and wait! Believe me, you’re not the only one that’s bored…… {Angie is now lying on her back, rolling from side to side, as she plays with the piece of bagel, alternately gumming it and then grabbing it up from her mouth with her hands} ANGIE: {Laughing} Who’s bored?

ANGELA: {Watching Angie; jealously} I wish I had something to play with between my toes……

ANGIE: Don’t you have some paper so you can write?

ANGELA: I should have brought my notebook along. {Long pause} Although it probably wouldn’t have done me any good. I haven’t had too many fresh ideas lately…..

ANGIE: Tony always thought you should write something based on that moment when your heart closed down. Of course, he tried to communicate that to you - but you weren’t taking his messages - so he stuck me with them. Hopefully you’ll take them from me. {Pause} He figured that out a long time ago, you know – about your heart closing down.

ANGELA: Oh, great. Here I am with nothing to write on……{slapping her pockets} ….and no recorder….and so what happens? I start to hear something. {Pause; frustrated} YOU’D BETTER GET HERE PRETTY QUICK MR. WHOEVERYOUARE BECAUSE I’M GETTING A STRONG URGE TO BOLT TO MY COMPUTER….

ANGIE: {Amused} I thought you said no barking…..?

ANGELA: {Thinking aloud} It’s a scene. A scene between two people….maybe they’re lovers? Maybe. We’ll see. About jump-starting a broken heart……(Pause)…..no, no, jumpstarting a stalled heart….{Gathering up her things} Okay, that’s it. Time’s up! You found me easily enough – what his problem is, I don’t know. And I don’t care. Let’s just go back to my apartment and I’ll figure out the details when we get there. After I’ve done a little writing, of course. {To Angie} Are you coming?

ANGIE: {Stops playing} Sure! {Stands, bagel poking out of her mouth} ANGELA: {Taking the bagel} What is that? {Disgusted} Don’t eat that! You don’t know where it’s been! {And she throws the remainder in a trashcan}

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SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

ANGIE: Yeah, I do. It’s been right under this chair…..{She trots over to the trashcan and peers mournfully down at the bagel} ANGELA: {Thinking aloud again} Now I don’t have a leash or anything to tie you with so you’re going to have to heel or something……{Angie instantly trots to her side} I’m impressed! You really are a good dog. {Stroking her hair} Tony must have known his stuff…..

ANGIE: {Enjoying being petted} Mmmmmmm. He gave me lots of positive strokes.

ANGELA: {Enjoying her} You’re so soft. And shiny. And your coat’s a beautiful color….

ANGIE: {Proudly} Chocolate…

ANGELA:….with that hint of red. Tony should have called you Cinnamon.

ANGIE: Tony didn’t love cinnamon.

ANGELA: He must have fed you some good dog food for a coat like this.

ANGIE: {Shrugs} It was okay.

ANGELA: {Moving forward} I don’t think my budget will run to expensive dog food, not if I want to buy that house. {Thinks} I guess I could use my leftovers to improve the quality of what I can afford….

ANGIE: Now we’re talking.

ANGELA: {Walking and talking excitedly} You know what would be fun? If the two people in my scene were dressed like mechanics and the heart was in the form of something that looked like an engine…….

ANGIE: Interesting. So are we talking a play here…..? {And they exit together} THE END

About the Author Nicola Pearson is an award-winning playwright, whose plays have been produced extensively in Washington, Oregon, Alaska, New York City and Sydney, Australia. Nicola is also the author of The Callum Lange Mysteries, a detective series, which is currently being published in serial format in the Concrete Herald newspaper. Nicola divides her time between selling her husband’s pottery and writing, and with the release of her first novel, How to Make a Pot in 14 Easy Lessons, believes she has found a way to do both.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

Haboob

By Norman A. Bert

CAST OF CHARACTERS CARLOS: 40s, a construction worker JAKE (Jacob B. Winsong III, also known as “Red”): 30s, a homeless man RAY: 50s, a construction foreman ROSE (Rosemary Winsong)-:80s, a bag lady, Jake’s aunt J. B. (Jacob B. Winsong):30s, a hotelier, Jake’s grandfather and Rose’s father JACOB (Jacob B. Winsong, Jr.): 10, J. B.’s son and Rose’s brother, grew up to be Jake’s father

SETTING: The play takes place in Lubbock, Texas, in 2013 and 1928.

A set with three locations simultaneously represented. The primary location is roof of the old Hotel Coronado {previously Winsong Hotel} in the present. In this location there’s a brick structure that houses the stairs from the lower floors. A backpacking tent is set up on the roof with a few belongings scattered around it. A second location is the sidewalk in front of the run-down hotel building, again in the present. The third location is again on the roof but in 1928 when the building is brand new.

{On the roof of the old Hotel Coronado at 4:45 p.m. on a Friday in 2013} CARLOS {He enters from the stairs. He sees the tent.} Ah shit! {Walks over to the tent and kicks it.}

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SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

Hey! Anyone in there.

JAKE {From inside the tent.} What the hell! Cut it out!

CARLOS {Kicking the tent again.} Come outta there. Who’s in there?!

Jake {Crawling out} What the hell, man? What’s your deal?

CARLOS You gotta get outta here. Clear out. Take your junk. Don’t give me no trouble.

JAKE Fuck off man. I’m meditating here. Praying.

CARLOS Praying?! Find a church.

JAKE You find a church. I gotta tent.

CARLOS You’re a vagrant. A trespasser. I could have you arrested.

JAKE Wouldn’t be the first time. Go ahead. Time the fuzz gets here, I’ll be done worshipping— done with my ritual, y’know?

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

CARLOS You’re done now. Fold it up. Pack it up. Scram.

JAKE You see that out there? That brown cloud to the north?

CARLOS Looks like a dust storm.

JAKE Not just any dust storm. Dust storms are peanuts. That there’s a haboob. A wall of dirt you can’t walk through, boilin’ up like smoke from Satan’s kitchen. Won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face. Dirty wind like the farts of Ishtar. Dirt in your ears, your eyes. Dirt everywhere.

CARLOS I gotta get home. Gonna get into traffic. Wife’s gonna be worried. Gonna miss supper.

JAKE Traffic? This is Lubbock. Whatta we got? Ten cars?

CARLOS Okay, look, buddy. Tomorrow this building’s comin’ down. They got charges set all around it right now. Dynamite. This time tomorrow, it’s a pile of rubble. All I gotta do is secure the floors—make sure there ain’t no settlers here—like you—then I got a weekend.

JAKE Well I’m here, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til my ritual’s done, and you’re stuck. {CARLOS throws up his hands and goes back down the stairs. JAKE goes about setting up his ritual. Attention shifts to the sidewalk.} RAY {He enters and yells toward the upper stories of the building.}

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SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

Carlos! Hey, Carlos! Goddammit, where you at? CARLOS! {Frustrated, he looks around for something to throw. He picks up a half brick and winds up to throw it at the upper stories. As he’s doing this, ROSE hobbles in pushing a shopping cart loaded down with clothes and other scavenged stuff.} ROSE Watch what you’re doing there, buddy. Gonna kill somebody, break a window.

RAY Who cares? Half of ‘em broken already. Who the heck are you?

ROSE Who the heck are YOU?! I happen to own this building.

RAY Bull shit. McBogle owns this building.

ROSE The hell with McBogle. I own it. I got the deed. Daddy gave it to me. J. B. Winsong. He built this place.

RAY Yeah, yeah. And I’m Governor Perry. Never heard of no Winsong. Don’t matter. They’re takin’ it down. Imploding tomorrow. Hotel to heap in ten seconds flat. Eight o’clock sharp, and no more Coronado Hotel. Y’oughta come watch. Makin’ way for progress.

Urban renewal. A whole new Lubbock.

ROSE Urban renewal my ass! I got tenants. Where they gonna go? I got rights. I gotta deed.

RAY Okay, you’re drunk. On drugs. Maybe just wacko. Don’t matter to me, lady. Buzz off. {At the roof.}

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

CARLOS! Quittin’ time! Friday! Haboob’s comin’.

CARLOS {Coming out of the building onto the sidewalk.} Hey, boss, we gotta problem. Guy campin’ on the roof. Says he can’t come down. Some kind of ritual.

RAY Ritual? What kind of ritual? What the hell? Get him outta there. Go on! {CARLOS goes back inside.} ROSE That’s Red up there. My nephew. Jake. One of my tenants. He’s got his rights. Holy man, he is. A shaman. Sadhu. Guru. Whatever. You mess with him, you got trouble on you. {Attention shifts back to the roof where JAKE is sitting outside his tent. He has a joint in one hand and is waving smoking sage with the other. During JAKE’s ritual, RAY exits to the building followed by ROSE, now walking with a cane.} JAKE O Great Spirit, Holy One of Israel, Big Poobah, he and she who rides on the wind.

Galloper of the haboob, boobs and all! Hear me, O Wonder of Wonders and Mighty of the Merciful! {Waves the sage.} It’s me y’know? Red! Your messenger? Jake? Your chosen, your man on the street, on the roof, on the lam, on the weed, O holy weed! {Tokes.} Oh speak to me! Speak out of the whirlwind, out of the lightening, out of the fire, out of the depths and the heights. Don’t give me none of that there small, still voice. I wantta hear a real man’s voice, bass—or at least baritone. None of them whiney little noises.

Sing the wind song on this here Winsong palace of wonders. {Waves the sage.}

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

Give me a vision, O most merciful of the follies of fancy. Give me a vision for this sinful city. Give me a Lubbock vision. Make us new, make us snooze, make us lay this nation on its holy ass! We can do it with the power of the almighty Muckety Muck! {Tokes.} And by the way, gotta thank you for this good grace of weed, gift of Gracie, bless her wicked little soul, like a joy in the heart of God, in the lungs and heart of Jake! {Tokes.} But let me get back to the whole banana. The big cahoona, the real deal. {Looking to the north.} Here you come, great genie, blowin’ in on the wings of the wind. You outta the bottle now —blessed be the bottle—and I got me three wishes! {Waves sage once.} First, blow away the riff raff outta this here burg. We got too many crap sitters here in this here town. Can’t be great with a bunch of donks and nokers. {Tokes.} Second— {Waves sage twice.} —blow in a lot of holiness, chase out them do-gooders, them do-badders, them donothingers, and give us some whoopee pie servers. And number three— {Waves sage three times.} —Uh. Where was I? {Tokes.} I got one left, right? Oh yeah. That guy, that tent kicker, whatever. Mexicano. He gotta get home to the little lady. Whoo-ee, bet she’s a looker. Take him home, blow him home on the wings of the haboob.

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SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

{He waves sage, takes another hit on his joint, and then falls into a trance-like state.

Attention shifts to a different part of the roof and to 1928. A father and son enter and look out over city.} J. B. {Gesturing to the horizon.} Whatdya think, Jacob? Whatdya think? Gol dern it but that’s a view!

JACOB Whoo-ee! That’s swell!

J. B. Just look at that out there! It’s Lubbock, son, our city. Your city and mine.

JACOB Look! The college!

J. B. Brand spankin’ new, son. A brand new school and a brand new life for you. You see how Lubbock lies here at your feet? See that?

JACOB Yeah. Swell!

J. B. It’s all yours, son. Jacob’s city. It’s yours.

JACOB Not this hotel, though.

J. B. Course it is. You betcha.

JACOB

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

It’s yours, Dad, it’s yours—the Winsong Hotel!

J. B. Now it is, yes sirree sir. But give it time, kid, and it’s all gonna be yours. Yours and your son’s after you.

JACOB I’m gonna have a son?

J. B. ‘Course you are. And you’ll name him Jacob, just like me, just like you. Jacob Brese Winsong the Third. And it’ll be all his, too. This hotel, this city, the college. It’s a brand new day, you see. We got a brand new hotel, a city on the grow, a brand new college.

Nothing’s gonna stop us now. We’re riding the wind into the future.

JACOB Where we going, Dad? Goin’ to Dallas? Goin’ to Austin?

J. B. Going nowhere but here, son. But Lubbock’s going to the stars.

JACOB {Looking over the edge.} Rosie! Hey Rosie! {Turning back to his dad.} Dad! Rose is down there! She looks tiny! {Back to looking over the edge.} Come on up, Rosie! Come see! We’re riding the wind to the stars!

J. B. {Joining him at the parapet. Calling down.}

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

Yeah, honey, come on up. You know where the stairs are. {Turning back to JACOB.} Tell you what, son. We’re gonna come up here tonight just about sundown. We’re gonna look out over this city. Gonna see lantern and buggy lights that come a-winking from all over like a whole swarm of lightning bugs, coming to see our new hotel, your new hotel— Winsong Hotel. A real hullabaloo, and gol dernit but it’s gonna be a great night! Let’s go find Rosie. {They exit. Attention shifts back to the present and to JAKE who sits rock still, eyes wide open.} CARLOS {Coming out of the stairwell. He sees JAKE.} You still at it? Time to go! {No response from JAKE. CARLOS keeps his distance but looks closer.} Oh my God. Hey! You okay? {Still no response.} Come on, man. Say something. {Nothing.} RAY {He enters from the stairs.} Okay, what the heck’s going on here. It’s late, storm’s comin’ . . .

CARLOS {Putting his arm out and stopping him.} Wait. Hold it boss. I don’t know . . .

RAY

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

{Seeing JAKE.} What’s he doing?

CARLOS I dunno. He’s not movin’.

RAY Is he dead? He’s dead, isn’t he? Just what I need, a dead hobo.

CARLOS I dunno. He’s sitting up, sure enough.

ROSE {She enters from the stairs huffing and puffing.} My good Lord and lungs! Whoo-ee! Where’s the elevators? Elevator’s dead. Y’all killed the elevators.

RAY I told you to stay out.

ROSE {Seeing JAKE.} Oh my God and sweet Jesus! On your knees! Get on your knees! {She cripples down to her knees.} CARLOS What?

ROSE On your knees, you heathen! On your knees or die the death!

RAY

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

What? Okay, this is out of hand. Come on, Carlos, clear him out. Lady, down the stairs.

Get outta here. {But CARLOS is on his knees.} ROSE {Calling to JAKE.} Whatdya see, Red? What’s comin’?

CARLOS God help us!

RAY Stand up! Carlos! For Pete’s sake, man! It’s just a couple of drunks. Get ‘em out of here.

ROSE Rise up, Jake! Rise up, Red Cloud! Speak to the sky! Speak to the earth! Speak to the four spirits of the four corners. Won’t you speak, Jake? {JAKE struggles to his feet and stands with hands stretched out to the skies.} RAY Okay, he’s fine. Get him . . .

ROSE Shut up, you Baal worshipping Cretan! Can’t you see he’s gonna speak?!

JAKE {Waving his arms back and forth.} I’ve seen the moon, Luna in the moon. I’ve seen the earth—Gaia—our mother earth. I’ve seen Mary, the Blessed Virgin Mother of our Lord. She rides the haboob, flying out of the Apocalypse! Rides the beast with the seven horns! Beats him like a borrowed mule! She scatters the Midianites! She plants her loving face on the clouds, on the canvas of the sky, on the bricks of Lubbock, bricks of the Hub.

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

ROSE Her face? You seen her face, you say?

JAKE Printed it on the clouds, on the haboob! Printed it on the bricks, on the bricks and mortar! Holy Seti! Holy Zephyrina! Holy Mother of God! ROSE Where, Jake, where? Where do you see her face?

JAKE {He points to the wall of the staircase.} There! Behold her face, the face of the Virgin, the face of our mother! Holy and pure! The Virgin of the wall! Fall down and worship!

CARLOS The Virgin? Where? {He jumps to his feet and runs to the wall.} It is! {Crosses himself. Repeatedly.} It’s Mary! It is! It’s her! The Holy Mother! Mary in the bricks! The Mary of the Bricks!

RAY Graffiti. It’s just graffiti. Good God! We got graffiti all over the building.

CARLOS {Falling to his knees before the image.} No! It’s Mary. Our Lady of Guadalupe. Our Lady of Lubbock! Her face is printed on the bricks! It’s the finger of God. The angels, the archangels! We’ve been chosen! {He falls to his knees and begins—earnestly and quietly—to recite the rosary.}

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

Hail Mary, full of grace.

Our Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

JAKE {Speaking over the prayer—matter-of-factly.} The haboob. Etched there by the haboob. Pretty simple. The face of Mary—Aphrodite?

Astarte? Whoever—writ by the finger of God in the bricks. Yeah, okay, it’s a miracle.

Amen. {He wanders over and looks over the parapet.} RAY {Cutting off CARLOS’s Hail Mary as it’s still in progress.} Carlos! Drop it! It’s quitting time. I wanna go home. Tomorrow this’ll just be a heap of dust.

CARLOS {Rocketing to his feet.} Never! Are you kidding?! This is a holy place! No one blows up the Mother of God! Not you, not McBogle, no one!

RAY I can’t even see it. You’re making it up. Power of suggestion.

CARLOS

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

The priest! I gotta go tell the— No! The hell with the priest! The bishop! I gotta go tell the bishop. It’s a miracle. Bishop Placido! He has to know about this! He has to know now!

RAY Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Boom!

CARLOS Bishop Placido will stop it. The church will rise up. The pope! The Holy Father! A miracle! I’ve seen the Mother of God! Chosen! Chosen to witness a miracle! Me! God be praised! And I didn’t even take communion Sunday! Holy, holy, holy! {He runs down the stairs shouting.} RAY Oh my God. ROSE Looks to me like you got a little problem on your hands there, boss man. I don’t think you’re gonna knock down my hotel after all. Come on, Jake. Let’s go home.

JAKE Aunt Rose? What’re you doing here? Where am I? What’s happening?

ROSE Come on, boy. Let’s go home.

JAKE Ain’t leavin’. Got my tent pitched here in the garden of the Lord, Eden on the roof, the holy city, comin’ down outta heaven.

ROSE Storm’s gonna blow it away, that’s what. Come on. I’m gonna get sand in my hair. {Slyly.}

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

I got hot dogs at home.

JAKE Hot dogs? Hot dogs with mustard?

ROSE Sauerkraut, too.

JAKE Nasty weather! Got ketchup, too?

ROSE Come on. Let’s go. {The two leave.} JAKE {As they’re going down the stairs.} Can we have some fries with that? How about escargot?

RAY {He looks to make sure they’re gone, then he walks over to the spot on the wall where the face appeared. He scrutinizes it.} Okay, maybe I can see something. I dunno. {And with a scream of wind, the haboob envelopes him.} END OF PLAY

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NORMAN A. BERT

About the Author Norman A. Bert teaches playwriting and dramatic analysis at Texas Tech University. The 30-some play scripts he has written include Riders of the Golden Sphinx published by Baker’s Plays of Boston, America Shows Her Colors, selected for production by Inner Voices Social Issues (University of Illinois), and Scenes from a Romance, showcased by ATHE’s PlayWorks program. Bert’s published books include Theatre Alive!, The Scenebook for Actors, and One-Act Plays for Acting Students along with its sequels More One-Act Plays for Acting Students and New One-Act Plays for Acting Students. He assisted Sam Smiley in the revision and reissue of Smiley’s classic text, Playwriting: The Structure of Action. Bert’s recent scripts include The Gospel According to Jesse, a documentary drama about poverty in America, Pedrito’s Road, a play for young audiences adapted from two novels by Arturo O. Martínez, and Nine Eleven Voices commemorating the 9/11 attack, Tiger Tales produced at California’s Center of the World Festival, and Bhibhatsia produced at New York City’s CringeFest. Bert earned his Ph.D. in dramatic theory and criticism from Indiana University and taught theatre in colleges and universities in Pennsylvania and Montana before moving to Texas.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

The Lobbyists

By Nicola Pearson

CAST OF CHARACTERS Ariel- attractive, early twenties Earnan- good-looking young male Elysia- good-looking young female THE SETTING The inside of a grocery store somewhere in the lower 48.

THE TIME The present. {Lights up on a stage set up very loosely with items indicating a grocery store. It can be as simple as tiered crates placed here and there with cereal,rice, fresh produce, or anything mentioned in the text placed on them. A young woman enters pushing a shopping cart. This is ARIEL.She is attractive and out-going although physically a little demure. She stops and looks out at the audience to talk} ARIEL: {Happily} So today, I’m browsing through this focus group newsletter on-line that’s all about protecting natural habitat in wilderness areas and I stumble upon this great opportunity for a job. It’s up in Alaska, which is exactly where I want to work, and it’s in my field, protecting the environment. Only it reads like more than that, much more than that; it reads like a “girl-who-loves-to-be-in-totally-beautiful-places” dream job.

This small environmental law firm up there is looking for someone with a degree in environmental studies to go into wilderness lakes and…..I don’t know….document proof of the undisturbed nature of the location. They’d fly me in and leave me with enough supplies for a week and I’d keep a journal of the wildlife that comes to the lake to forage and browse and drink; and I’d take photographs and describe the botany of the area.

Basically, they’d have me put together some kind of “before” image that the law firm could use in court against the companies planning to mine those locations; something with a little more oomph to it than “but it’s so beautiful!” And I’m reading this job

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

description and I’m thinking, they’re going to pay me to do this?! I’m already in heaven just picturing myself sitting beside one of those lakes where there are no sounds other than the occasional plop of the water as a lake trout jumps to the surface to grab an insect and I’m pinch-me amazed that I actually fall into the category of somebody qualified to apply for this job! So you’d think that my immediate reaction would have been to fill out an application, submit a résumé and keep my fingers tightly crossed. Only I have this thing in my head called a mind that argues almost non-stop about the financial feasibility of any job I’m considering and, of course, it turns out that this one doesn’t pay much. Not much more than sandwich money for the days I’d be in the woods to be exact. And so then my mind starts spread-sheeting boring things like rent for the months when I’m not communing with nature and emergency funds for when the engine of my beat-up little car freezes in the sub-zero Alaska temperatures and I grab at my hair and tear it just a little because it feels like my mind is getting in the way of my soul! Do you ever have that problem? {And she turns with her cart and starts pushing it around, shopping} {Two people enter; a young man, EARNAN, who is the lobbyist for the mind and a young woman, ELYSIA, who is the lobbyist for the soul. They should walk in proximity to Ariel with Earnan always stage left of Elysia} EARNAN: {Casually} No, I’m just saying that it sounds like a great job but, you know, if you can’t rely on it for grocery money, then what’s the point? {He points at the item Ariel has just picked up} That’s the expensive brand and I’m pretty sure that if you read the ingredients, you’ll find they all contain the same stuff… {Ariel puts it back down} ELYSIA: {Excitedly} Strawberries!

EARNAN: {Following Ariel to the strawberries} Really? This early? They must be from Chile.

ELYSIA: {More excitedly} Organic strawberries!

EARNAN: Oh those are definitely not in the budget!

ARIEL: {Out to the audience} Have you ever smelled organic strawberries?

EARNAN: {To Ariel} Yeah, we know, they smell delectable. But don’t. You’ll just be tempted to buy them. {Ariel goes to put them down} Well, maybe one whiff….{And he inhales deeply over the strawberries; Ariel puts them down reluctantly and moves on.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

Earnan follows, talking to Elysia} I think she should stay with the job that she has here and when she’s saved enough, go up to Alaska and sit in the woods for a week just for the heck of it. No deadlines, no pressure. {Shrugs} It’s ideal.

ELYSIA: {Not moving} It’s stupid is what it is. For one thing, working for the City Council is soul destroying and I should know because I’m the one that’s rapidly withering…

EARNAN: Is that why you’ve been looking so peeked lately? I thought it was because she stopped taking her vitamins.

ELYSIA: I’m the soul lobby, Earnan, I get my nourishment from the things she finds inspiring, things that make her want to flutter her toes together and levitate heavenward, like Tinkerbell. Then I glow.

EARNAN: So her quitting the singing lessons probably affected you.

ELYSIA: Definitely affected me….

EARNAN: {Realizing that she has not moved} What are you doing? We’re over here now.

ELYSIA: The strawberries, Earnan.

EARNAN: {Pleading} Oh come on, Lys. They’re three ninety-nine a pint. No way can she afford them…{Pause; Ariel has stopped and is obviously thinking about the strawberries} She needs shampoo, she needs bread, eggs, rice…..she wanted some of that peanut sauce……{Pause} Even if she borrows her roommate’s shampoo she doesn’t have enough to get the strawberries. Not if she’s going to get oranges too……..{Pause} You want the strawberries? {Elysia grins as she feels him yield} Fine. Get the strawberries. {Ariel moves back to the strawberries} But make sure you get a pint that’s really full. No, that one, over there. And sniff them again, to be sure. {He inhales the scent again too} Well I’m doubly glad now she gave up singing lessons if you’re going to have her eating like this all the time…{They all move on} ELYSIA: She didn’t quit because of the cost……

EARNAN: No. She quit because her overweight, overbearing, retired opera singer of a teacher told her if that her chest was lacking in size what her voice was lacking in range. I would have quit too if I’d heard that.

ELYSIA: You did quit.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

EARNAN: Yeah. Because she made me.

ELYSIA: Who made who now?

EARNAN: Okay, so maybe I talked her into it a little but somebody has to use reason around here. Now she has an extra forty-five dollars a week in her pocket and enough free time to pick up a third shift at the espresso cart. And you can’t say that you don’t like her working that job because I’ve seen how dreamy you get when she talks to the dudes going in and out of that hip bookstore close by. And if she works the extra shift and saves the forty-five dollars instead of spending in on something else then pretty soon she’ll have enough to head up to Alaska on vacation and fill some cirque with a round or two of “The hills are alive….”

ELYSIA: She doesn’t sing “The hills are alive….”

EARNAN: {Philosophically} Well, no, because it’s outside her range.

ELYSIA: And that’s why she gave up singing – because of your negativity. If you just limited yourself to reasoning the affordability of things then she might have a chance; but no, you’ve got to veer off on a self-esteem junket and speak, almost non-stop, on the lackluster subject of, “Things I probably shouldn’t be wasting my time doing since I’m not that good at them.”

EARNAN: {Panicking; to Ariel} That wasn’t on the list! {Looks at her; she is reading the back of the packet} Oh, you’re just reading the back? That’s okay then. ‘Cos the process they use to make that stuff is really noxious……

ELYSIA: Great. {Pointing at what is in Ariel’s hand} For flavored coffee you’ll argue the global ramifications of her choices…..

EARNAN: {Slightly offended} I always argue in the global ramifications of her choices!

It’s not like I don’t use the intelligence she gathers to make my arguments; it’s just that I have to balance that intelligence with reason and logic so that my lobbying can be, you know, skewed towards whatever is going to keep her alive. And hopefully sane.

ELYSIA: Then why don’t you ever lobby in favor of what she enjoys and encourage her instead of putting her down?

EARNAN: Didn’t I just say she could sing while she was on vacation in Alaska? What’s not encouraging about that?

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

ELYSIA: It’s a bandaid, Earnan, that you’re tossing her to put over the gaping hole that you intend to make of her life. I’m over here begging her to do something that will actually make sense out of her existence and you’re like a broker on the floor of the stock market screaming for her to sell her soul while it’s at a premium.

EARNAN: That’s not true…..!

ARIEL: {Frustrated} Will you two quit bickering for one moment! I’m trying to read this magazine…. {Earnan and Elysia stand silent and embarrassed for a moment} ELYSIA: {Quietly} You think my job is frivolous, don’t you?

EARNAN: {Off-handedly} I wouldn’t say that. {Reading over Ariel’s shoulder; to Ariel} No, no, don’t turn the page yet. I didn’t get that paragraph th…..

ELYSIA: {Interrupting} No, you do. You think because I lobby in favor of her pursuing her dreams that my job’s not as important as yours. I always wondered why she had to go with a male image to represent her mind and now I think it’s because it lends you a certain arrogance….

EARNAN: Well I am arrogant, I’d have to agree with that. But it’s not because I’m a guy.

ELYSIA: Oh no?

EARNAN: No. It’s because I know everything. {Pause; Elysia laughs} No, I do. I know everything that passes into her psyche which means that….well, I know everything. {Smugly} I think that entitles me to a little self-importance…..

ELYSIA: {Goading him a little} You don’t know what’s up here, in her soul.

EARNAN: {Arrogantly} Don’t need to.

ELYSIA: You will when her mind turns into a flaccid mass of flavorless Jell-O because she’s done nothing to make her soul sing. {He looks at her for a beat, obviously wondering if she’s right, then suddenly snaps his attention back to Ariel}

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

EARNAN: Okay, I think you’ve read pretty much everything you’re going to be able to read in your time frame. Make sure you put the magazine back in the rack carefully so you don’t dog-ear the corners ‘cos, you know, that puts people off buying it. At least, it would put me off buying it. Not that I’d buy this one anyway, not now that you’ve read it ….

ELYSIA: {Whispering wantonly to Ariel} Read to the end of the page. Read to the end of the page.

EARNAN: {Pushing harder} It’s five of four already and you said you wanted to grab a shower before heading over to the espresso cart. Plus didn’t you say something about stopping in at that bookstore before your shift to see if that guy you like is working….?

ELYSIA: You can fit it all in! Just read to the end of the page. It’s not that much further…..

EARNAN: {Overly secretive} Okay, you’ve got staff at your ten o’clock observing your every move. Check out the cover of the magazine just once more, as if you’re looking for the price, and then…..

ARIEL: {Interrupting excitedly} Hey, here’s that ad again…….!

ELYSIA: {Gleefully} Yes! ARIEL:…with photos of some of the places that are under threat of being mined….. {Earnan moves closer to Elysia} EARNAN: {Curious} How did you do that?

ELYSIA: Do what?

EARNAN: How did you stand away the whole time she was reading the magazine, looking, you know, the way you look…..

ELYSIA: {Very gently seductive} How do I look, Earnan?

EARNAN: {Seduced} As a matter of fact…..very…..attractive, Elysia. {Confused} How come I never noticed that before?

ELYSIA: Maybe you were just too far away. You should come in, right here into the soul, and see what I can see. Pretty much everything looks attractive from here.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | NICOLA PEARSON

EARNAN: {Succumbing} I don’t know. I feel a little awkward just walking away from my responsibilities….

ELYSIA: {Helpfully} I can take care of things….

EARNAN: {Lured} Well, if you’re sure…..{And he steps behind her as she drifts away to take the position SL that Earnan previously held} EARNAN: Wow, it’s nice in here…. {Elysia pushes the cart away from Ariel and removes the strawberries} ELYSIA: Isn’t it though. {Elysia leaves the cart and crosses back to Ariel with the strawberries} EARNAN: {Looking about, amazed} And you can see everything!

ELYSIA: {Excitedly} I know! {She hands Ariel the strawberries and makes sure she has a firm grasp on the magazine. The two women grin at each other excitedly and then Elysia kisses Ariel on the cheek} ARIEL: {To the audience} Wish me luck! {Exits} THE END

About the Author Nicola Pearson is an award-winning playwright, whose plays have been produced extensively in Washington, Oregon, Alaska, New York City and Sydney, Australia. Nicola is also the author of The Callum Lange Mysteries, a detective series, which is currently being published in serial format in the Concrete Herald newspaper. Nicola divides her time between selling her husband’s pottery and writing, and with the release of her first novel, How to Make a Pot in 14 Easy Lessons, believes she has found a way to do both.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | JULIANNE HOMOKAY

WINTER LANDSCAPE, WITH ROOKS

By JULIANNE HOMOKAY

A Dramatic Response to the Poem by Sylvia Plath “What solace can be struck from rock to make heart’s waste grow green again? Who’d walk in this bleak place?” — Sylvia Plath Characters: CORINNE, early fifties.

Scene/Time: A clearing in a forest near a river bend. Rural Massachusetts. Early evening. Winter.

A bank near a bend in the river where the icy water pools in an old mill pond before sluicing down the stone.

Early evening, yet winter-dim. Rooks caw a lonely song in the distance. Ducks squawk busily in the vicinity.

CORINNE stalks into the scene, near sonambulent, scattering seed into the water halfheartedly and without energy. Each time she does, the ducks respond in an endearing frenzy of honks, then relent. She halts, as something catches her eye, awakens her ever so slightly. This thing that holds her gaze doesn’t belong in the riverscape at this time of year. It takes a moment for this beautiful thing to register itself in her mind. Once it does: CORINNE {In a hard, rural Massachusetts accent; as close as she ever comes to smiling with delight:} Oh. {Pause} What are you doing here, you don’t belong here. {Crouching down at the river’s edge, seed in hand} Hungry? C’mon. It’s okay. Let me help you. You must be hungry. {After a moment; withdrawing} Nah. Me neither. {Beat} But I suppose this isn’t quite good enough for you, is it. This Wal-Mart variety bulk bird seed, after all the ducks eat this. Well excuse the hell outta me, Mr. Graceful, Mr. Dancer-Bird. Ayuh. I’ll stick with my ruddies and mallards any day. These guys, they come down here from Canada every winter and it’s like a resort in the Bahamas to them. They swim and play and slide along on the ice like penguins, and they’re certainly not too hoity-toity to accept a little help. You, you look like your fragile neck is gonna freeze and snap right off. So you best put your tail in the air and fly along someplace where wimps live, like Sea World, or New York City. You’re probably a Yankees fan, too. And a drunk. So F you, Mr. Swan, you’re an asshole.

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SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | JULIANNE HOMOKAY {Pause} I didn’t mean that. {Pause} There’s a sun back there somewhere, eh? There’s gotta be, it’s going down so fast. {Pause. Then CORINNE tosses seed into the water.} I’ll just put this out for you, just so’s you know it’s out there. After all, you can’t accept the help if you don’t know it’s there. So. There it is. You take it if you want it. So you can’t say I didn’t try. See, now no one can say I didn’t do all I could. {Pause} Well now. There’s some pale orange peeking through the trees. Stingy sun. Not that I blame it. I mean, look at this place, it is awfully bleak. No, I understand why you don’t belong here. You don’t think I do, but I do. You’re a graceful creature, you need creativity and color, not bony trees, bland grass, hard granite. I won’t say anything when you want to fly away, I didn’t then and I won’t now. Sturge, too. He wasn’t thrilled about your career choice, but he never said anything. And we never said anything about anything else either, not a word, not once. {Beat} I guess, when you think about it, we never said much of anything to you at all, did we. {Pause} But that doesn’t mean we didn’t love you. All these people embarassing themselves on that Doctor Phil show, talk talk, feelings feelings, blah blah blah. It’s evident to me that a lotta people woulda said something to you, something not very nice, and we never did. Your father especially, that was hard for him. So it was a tacit understanding. You knew that. {Pause} I thought you knew that. {Beat} I assumed you knew that. {Pause} So what did we talk about during those Sunday phone calls? I can’t remember. How can I not remember? It was only a year ago, exactly one year ago today, how could that slip away so easily? Help me remember. What did we talk about in those phone calls? {Beat} Nothing? You’re just gonna float there? All right then, if that’s the way you’re gonna be, I can sure tell you what we didn’t talk about. We didn’t talk about inviting me down to see you dance, that’s for sure. And I would have gone, too. I know you know I would rather jam an icepick up a toenail than spend five minutes in New York City, but I would have done it to see you dance. Sturge, well, yeah, it would have been a little much for him, but he always read those reviews you sent. He may not have said anything, but he did, every one. Even after they stopped coming. Long after. He’d take the old ones out and read those over every once in awhile. Nothing, eh?

Well here’s something else we didn’t talk about. I like my vodka and water at five o’clock. I admit it. And Sturge?

Forget it. Let’s go so far. He’s an alcoholic, all right? There, I said it. In the tradition of some great New England men, Sturge can’t even crack a smile until he’s got a pint of gin in him. But neither one of us has missed a day of work in our lives. Your roommate said you had been unemployed for over a year. He said the ballet company fired you because you couldn’t handle the dancing anymore. When did it come to that? You sounded fine on the

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

SCRIPTS | JULIANNE HOMOKAY phone. All those years ago, at that last Thanksgiving when you decided to grace us with your presence, your hands weren’t shaking because you were cold. Were they.

Which brings me to this last topic we never discussed, something you never saw fit to bring up. Why didn’t you tell us what was going on? Why didn’t you ask us for help? YOU’RE OUR SON, we would have helped you, you could have come home, gotten yourself together, we would have helped you get better, we would have helped you start over. Why didn’t you say anything? How were we supposed to know? WHY DID YOU GIVE UP ON YOURSELF? {Watching the startled swan disappear into a patch of sky} No no no, don’t fly away, please don’t, I’m sorry, I won’t yell anymore. Come back. Oh please come back. Come back to me, beautiful swan. {Moment. This can be as long as it needs to be.} Well. {Pause} I’ll wait for you then. {CORINNE lies down in the snow by the riverbank.} I’ll wait right here. {The sun deserts the bleak winter landscape as the rooks caw in the distance, their lonely song.} {End of play.}

About the Author Julianne Homokay began her career as a performer following a BA in Theatre from Point Park University.

After a year in the Pittsburgh cast of NUNSENSE, many silly theme park shows, dinner theatre gigs too scary to mention and a stint in a hen suit, Julianne turned her focus to writing, completing an MFA at UNLV. Credits include Venus Theatre, Mill Mountain, the Fulton, American Theatre of Actors, the Blank, the William Inge Center, Ensemble Studio Theatre, the Kennedy Center, SkyPilot Theatre, Whitefire Theatre and several oral history projects for the Bellarmine Forum and Center for Reconciliation and Justice at LMU. She is published by Original Works, Meriwether, McGraw-Hill and 10-Minute-Plays.com. Currently, she serves as Managing Director of North By South Theatre Los Angeles, works on THE LATE LATE SHOW WITH CRAIG FERGUSON, and is an Active Member of the Dramatists Guild of America.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | CHARISSE WARSCO

Charisse Warsco

Medicine | oil and enamel

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | CHARISSE WARSCO

Charisse Warsco is a born and raised native to Tucson where she is currently an undergraduate at the University of Arizona. Pursuing a BFA in Studio Art and an emphasis in Visual Communication, Charisse also maintains a job that caters to her love of animals, working as a veterinary assistant at Banfield Pet Hospital. An avid animal rights activist, vegetarian, and selfproclaimed gamer, Charisse finds various influences from her childhood passions that now drive her artistically to create personal experiences with her viewers.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | ELVIS ANDREA HERNANDEZ

Elvis Andrea Hernandez

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | ELVIS ANDREA HERNANDEZ

My name is Elvis Andrea Hernandez named after the singer but I am a woman. In 2009 I began taking art classes in college while pursuing my major in business. I decided my minor would be art related and ever since then I have been taking studio courses and art history lecture classes.

The courses vary from drawing to sculpture. I love making things in 2D and 3D, the masters of fine art influence my work. I work mainly in chalk pastel but I also work in both acrylic and oil paint, water color, color pencil, and pen.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | JULIE ARBALLO

Julie Arballo

Julie Arballo graduated from Arizona State University in December 2013 with a B.A. in English. As a former poetry editor for Canyon Voices (Issues 6-8), she was inspired to pursue a career in writing/editing for a publication. Although, like many of you, she is an individual with various interests, and enjoys exploring her level of passion for each to figure out the limits of her talents. To label who she is, or rather what she does with one word for each category, consists of the following: She is a writer, vocalist, artist, entrepreneur, and her personal favorite, an adventurist. Everyday is an adventure, and on those adventures Julie is always with a camera in one hand ready to capture the natural art and beauty that exists around her, wherever that may be, and in the other hand is a delicious cup of coffee. To view more of her work, visit www.jmarballo.wix.com/juliearballo.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | ARTHUR MORALES

Arthur Morales

Arthur Abdiel Morales is a graduate student at the Arizona State University through the Interdisciplinary Studies M.A. program. His focuses include oral history and poetry. He is also the President of the Interdisciplinary Student Association at ASU. Arthur is currently working under the direction of Lecturer Julie Amparano and her Lost Boys Found oral history project. He is continually archiving the amazing stories of the Sudanese people in ASU’s Digital Repository. Arthur has a passion for bringing history to life through written and oral channels. He also has an interest in slam poetry, oral traditions, and philosophy. He enjoys reading, swimming laps, grilling for his family and watering his organic garden.

“No matter where your interest lies, you will not be able to accomplish anything unless you bring your deepest devotion to it” –Matsuo Bashō CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | HYUNJI LEE

Hyunji Lee

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | HYUNJI LEE

Hyunji Lee is inspired by the distinction between experience and memory as two different kinds of human consciousness. Her works explore thoughts and emotions generated between "the experiencing self" and "the remembering self." In doing so, she links the personal history of her own and the collective experience of others by creating a new environment, which is the combination of the true, imagined, and imitated spaces. She strives to evoke the interaction between personal memories and the desire to link personal elements into a shared human experience. Lee earned her MFA from Pennsylvania State University and her BFA from Korea University. She has participated in various exhibitions internationally, including the United States, Belgium, and South Korea. She was a recipient of the 31th Joong-Ang Fine Arts Prize at the JoongAng Culture Media Co. and the Song-Eun Art Award at the Song-Eun Arts and Cultural Foundation (2009). In 2013 she was selected to participate in the New York Foundation for the Arts mentoring program for immigrant artists and was awarded the NYFA Van Lier Fellowship.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | JARED STRANGE

Jared Strange

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | JARED STRANGE

Jared Strange is a third year MFA Playwright at Texas Tech University. He was born in San Antonio, Texas, and spent 14 years of his life in Africa before returning to the United States to pursue a degree in Theatre at Hardin-Simmons University. He has found success as a playwright in a number of venues, receiving full productions of his work in Texas, the Czech Republic, and the UK, and numerous readings across the United States. He is also an experienced actor, director, and dramaturg, an advocate for theatre in education and outreach, a devoted traveler of the world, and a man of faith. The photos featured in this magazine are his first to be published, though “Český Krumlov” did feature in the 2013 Texas Tech University Study Abroad Photo Contest. You can find more of his art, creative writing, and musings about theatre, art, and faith at Dr. Strange’s Epic Blogyssey (blogyssey.wordpress.com).

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | FERESHTEH SOLATI

Fereshteh Solati

[Untitled] | embroidery

Fereshteh Solati was born June 10, 1968 in Tehran, Iran. When I was little girl my mom always instilled confidence in my ability in me. My grandfather was a popular sculptor back home. My uncles are artist as well. My mother was so talented in sewing and knitting that she made unique pieces. I do painting, make sculptures, sew, knit, design women’s clothing, and writing poems.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | TRESSA RINI

Tressa Rini

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SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | TRESSA RINI

My name is Tressa Rini and I am a current junior at Arizona State University. I am majoring in History with a minor in Art History. I hope to go on to graduate school to obtain a Masters in Art History and Curatorial Studies. It would give me the greatest joy to work in an institution as great as the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Art is one of the most important aspects of my life. I believe every one is endowed with tendencies that orient them towards beauty and happiness. Art is a prominent medium in our life long quest towards joy. So much of our world has become geared toward a calculative thinking, I am encouraged to know publications such as this still exist. I am honored to have been chosen to be a part of a work that enables art to continue being an influence in the world.

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SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | JOEL MORENO

Joel Moreno

Joel Moreno is 18 years old and currently resides in Phoenix, Arizona. He is a freshmen at Glendale Community College where he will enter his sophomore semester this fall. He has been previously published in the Spring of 2013 and this is his second artwork acceptance. He is extremely excited that Canyon Voices has accepted his work and considers it an honor and a major step in his pursuit as an artist. He finds getting his art out there as much as possible is one of the best ways to make a name for himself. He also works with many different mediums of art and enjoys learning new techniques.

Art is something he enjoys doing and wishes to make it a career.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | VEDA-ELHAM

Veda-Elham

[Untitled] | embroidery

Photography has always been my escape. People relish in going to the beach to swim and sun bathe, I enjoy going there to capture its beauty. I'd love to turn my passion into a career at some point in my life, but at the moment it's just something I do for fun. Another significant fact about me is that I'm a Barrett student at ASU majoring in Psychology. I'm a hippie in my ideologies and I live and let live.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | LAYNE BAUMGARDNER

Layne Baumgardner

Layne Baumgardner is a recent graduate from ASU's New College. This photo was part of her applied project, required to complete her graduate studies. The series was originally on display in ASU West's Fletcher library, as an accompaniment to a written work on anxiety. The series was a visual interpretation of the written piece, and was meant to express anxiety and identity formation. Layne believes that art should raise more questions than it answers and provide a space for discussion on topics that are not often addressed in everyday conversation.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | CODY DUNN

Cody Dunn

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | CODY DUNN

I am the author of The Old Gray, a book about a WWII veteran who is escaping from a concentration camp in the Black Forest in Germany. I was born and raised in Phoenix, AZ and grew up in a modest Christian home. I give God all of the credit for who I am today, because He is the one who has brought me through the fires and tests, and near-death as a premature infant who flat-lined three times after birth. I weighed in at 1 pound and 12 ounces on Thanksgiving Day in 1990. As I have aged to year 23, I am a humble individual, set apart, yet not of this world. I live in the integrity of God’s way and I live for Him every day through creativity, photography, and the blessings which are anew every day. I am humbled by the acceptance into the Canyon Voices Magazine and I congratulate all of the other candidates who made it in the magazine as well.

Proverbs 16:9, “The mind of man plans his ways, but the Lord directs his steps” NIV Bible

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SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | MIKE MINTY FRESH

Mike Minty Fresh

To those aspiring to tattoo, be humble. Don’t go into it thinking you’re going to be the next big thing because chances are you’re not. Some are lucky and do amazing work right from the get-go, but the majority of us have to work harder and practice, practice, practice. Never stop drawing. The more you draw, the better your tattoos will look.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | ROSALIE MORALES

Rosalie Morales

Rosalie Morales is an ASU alumni who is passionate about art and science. She enjoys exploring nature and photographing her discoveries. Every object witnessed has a story that she hopes to convey in every piece. In the words of Aristotle, “The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.” Rosalie is currently working on her MCAT studies and hopes to pursue her dream in attending medical school and becoming a physician in pediatrics. To view additional photography please visit http://monicoart.wix.com/ monico-art.

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SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | MARK PACK

Mark Pack

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | MARK PACK

Mark Pack is an artist who defines his artistic process as one of cultivation rather than manufacture. Mark seeks to explore our relationship to nature. This alliance manifests itself through painting, sculpture, and installation. In this materialization he is discussing the duality between chaos and control. During this discussion he is thinking about the way we examine nature and take part in. Mark received his BFA in Painting from Northern Illinois University in 2001 and his MFA in Painting from Rhode Island School of Design in 2004, graduating with honors. Since then, Mark has been in numerous juried, solo, and group exhibitions. Mark is currently represented by Graver’s Lane Gallery in Philadelphia. His work is also in numerous private and public collections. Contact Mark at Paintingspecimen092901@gmail.com

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ARTWORK | KAREN MICHELLE SARVER

Karen Michelle Sarver

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

ARTWORK | KAREN MICHELLE SARVER

Karen Michelle Sarver is an MFA student studying Dramatic Writing at ASU. Her plays have been seen in New York, Los Angeles, Seattle, Denver and Phoenix. She lives in a one hundred year-old house in Central Phoenix with her two daughters and four cats--the latter of whom do not read Shakespeare.

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

AUTHORS ALCOVE | BILL VERNON

Once Upon A Time: Bill Vernon Talks About Life Before TV

By Denise Parker

Ever wonder what life was like before television? Writer Bill Vernon gives us an eyeopening interview about the full, vibrant and somewhat goofy lives that people led before smart phones, SIRI, texting and Facebook.

Many people like to write. What gives you your tenacious attitude to write your stories even if you hit major writer’s block or are frustrated with revising multiple drafts?

Your story about a simple time before the world became consumed with technology like TVs and phones was brought to life in these few paragraphs. Did you endure any difficulties writing this story?

Writing gives me purpose, and writing on a schedule every morning structures each day. The impulse to write is basically this: I try to create something with enough beauty to interest readers and myself. I believe that ordinary experience and ordinary things have significances we seldom recognize. Words also have a beauty in themselves and in combination.

If the writer uses words to portray the experience, surprising, worthwhile expression can develop.

Because the story was about a period and a way of life unaffected by television, and not about a particular experience, the description was generalized. There is a time sequence, but not the usual sequence following one character struggling through to complete an action. Yet the story's effect depends on the description being specific enough to evoke a particular experience.

This was the most difficult part to achieve.

People remember different time periods in their life before advanced technology.

What made you decide to share your experience?

The good old simpler days idea. Nostalgia. I had written something like this as a poem and decided to try it as prose. Also, that period of time coincided with the happier days of my youth so the memory resonates whenever I think of it.

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Your author’s bio says that you have studied and taught English literature.

What sparked your interest in these activities?

I wanted to make enough money to live on and support a family, but I also wanted to do work that would benefit other people. Education seemed obviously important and it interested me.

Writing is therapy for many people. What makes putting words onto a page or into an electronic document special for you?

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | BILL VERNON

Words refer to things outside as well as inside oneself. Used as tools to dig into experience, they often reveal unexpected complexities and lead into new understandings and insights. Playing with words lets the mind and emotions grapple with experience.

Do you have any future writing plans like a novel or more magazine submissions?

I'm going to start submitting a memoir made up of 110 stories, including "Before TV Came." I'm also writing a series of follow-up memoir stories about my four Marine Corps years and working on two sequels to my novel OLD TOWN.

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Your piece “Before TV” is a great flash creative nonfiction one. Do you have any advice for those wishing to start or to improve their own story sharing?

Describe personal experiences that come to you through frequently repeated dreams or memories. Their persistence means they are important to you and are good choices for subjects. Try to render them so readers can experience them and you will probably discover why they are important to yourself.

Read Bill Vernon's "Before TV" here.

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DANIEL SINGER

Dancing With Angst: Overcoming Fear With Daniel Singer

By Denise Parker

He can write dialog with the best comic writers of SNL. Like Bob Newhart, and Woody Allen, author Daniel Singer spins his feelings of angst and fears of incompetency, into a hilarious short story that will speak to your heart. Next time someone says to you "Dance like no one is looking...," just laugh and dance anyway.. .

Q. Your story about deconstructing the phase “Wanna go dancing” and the response were quite interesting. Did you endure any difficulties writing this story?

No, once I had the concept, the story almost wrote itself. We have all had someone ask us questions where there was one correct answer.

(Think of dad asking if we would like to help him).

Q. People undergo different anxieties for social obligations. What made you decide to share your experience about the social stance about dancing?

I am an introvert and hate drawing attention to myself unless I can do something fairly well.

Dancing is not one of those activities. We all have these types of anxiety whether it is dancing, public speaking, or meeting new people.

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Q. Many people like to write. What gives you your tenacious attitude to write your stories even if you hit major writer’s block or are frustrated with revising multiple drafts?

You must have spoken to the poor girl who edited my story. I found the editing process enjoyable (my protests were in jest). As for writer’s block, I tend to walk away from my work.

In the case of the novella, I will watch programs or movies from that era and that tends to kickstart the creativity again.

Q. Your author’s bio says that you have a minor in Creative Writing. What sparked your interest in this?

I had to write a descriptive essay (writing 102) about anything that I saw around the college campus and I decided to write about a mesquite tree, but I wanted to make readers “feel” for it.

Anyway, the instructor enjoyed it so much that she entered it into the college writing contest and I won. Before that I had little interest in creative writing.

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DANIEL SINGER

Q. Do you have any interesting stories you could share about your writing process or writing classes? Or perhaps about the dancing class you attended?

Many people have told me that when I write dialogue it is very realistic. I wander around the house acting out both speaker and listener, always out loud. Most importantly, my wife must be out of the house or I would only confirm her belief that I am crazy. After a few moments my dog starts whining and following me around the house. That seems to work for me.

Q. In addition to your historical fiction novella, do you have any writing plans upon completing your program? Perhaps more magazine submissions?

my writing. As for magazine submissions, I do have a couple of ideas percolating in my head.

Q. Your piece is a great example of wit and creativity. Do you have any advice for those wishing to start or improve their own story sharing?

I am a writing novice myself, so I wouldn’t presume to give any major advice, but I do believe work shopping is an integral part of the process. As far as the creative process goes, we all have our own triggers to start our imagination and mine is usually humor or empathy for a character.

Read Daniel Singer's story, “Wanna Go Dancing”

If I can complete this novella and it is relatively painless, then, yes, I would like to continue with

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SPRING 2014

AUTHORS ALCOVE | DONNA BOWRING

A Chat With Author Donna Bowring

By Elizabeth Munoz

How do you feel when someone you deeply love passes away? After the death of her beloved husband, author Donna Bowring wrote the haunting story "Face of Love' about the beauty of her lifelong companion's face. This semester, Donna spoke to Canyon Voice's Elizabeth Munoz about what inspired her to write this deeply personal narrative of life, love and death.

When did you begin writing?

When I began taking classes part-time at ASU pursuing my BA in English. This was in 1988. I took several creative writing and poetry classes.

What inspired you to write then?

After reading and listening to other writers in my classes, I decided that I too had stories to tell.

And with the mechanics of writing under my belt I started talking to readers via the written word.

After moving to Goodyear, I took several more creative writing classes at Estrella Mountain Community College. I began by writing short stories and submitting them to contests and journals. I joined the West Valley Writers Group and from then on wrote consistently; short stories and began a novel.

What inspires you to write now?

Giving readers a piece of prose that will strike an aha moment (I see that! – I’ve been there!). I have years of experiences, images, stories, family happenings, travel and memories I want to share with the reading public.

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Read Donna Bowring’s "Face of Love"

What inspired you to write the Face of Love?

We were given a prompt in our writers group, to look at a familiar face in a different way. I sat down and wrote the story in a half hour.

What was difficult about writing this detailed piece?

It wasn’t until I was almost through with writing the story that I realized that somewhere in the back of my mind rested the memory of my husband who died a few months before the story was written. When I reread the story and came to the end, it hit me that the woman was myself looking at the face of a man I was married to for more than 50 years. Big shock! That had not occurred to me until the piece was finished.

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | DONNA BOWRING

What inspired you to submit this story to Canyon Voices?

How do you feel about being an official published author?

I send my short stories to many places, but am always interested in the literary efforts put forth

by ASU. Many fine writers have passed through the doors of ASU Main and ASU West.

The feeling of gratitude and accomplishment is amazing. I am delighted that people will read my work, and find something of themselves and their lives in my written words.

Do you have any future writing aspirations? Maybe a future novel?

I have a memoir novel, which is now being critiqued by a group I belong to in West Phoenix.

Each chapter has been read and edited, and I am almost finished. I also have many short stories that an editor friend suggested I publish in an anthology. We’ll see what the future brings!

CANYON VOICES

SPRING 2014

AUTHORS ALCOVE | JARED STRANGE

Journey of the Poet: The History Of Jared Strange We were blown away by the beauty of Jared Strange's haunting poem, Prague by Night. We asked him about his past; how his life journey led him to choose the path of the artist. This is the story he told us: Transcript I was born in San Antonio and actually grew up in Africa and I lived there for 14 years; I was in Zimbabwe for five years, Madagascar for a yearand-a-half, and Zambia for eight...my family...at least my parents, live in Thailand...my parents are missionaries, currently missionaries... I liked it enough, I was quite young at the time, I don't remember everything from there (Zimbabwe).

We were there about the time...we left about the time that things started really going downhill, and the economy started to tank, and Mugabe, the President started putting all sort of restrictions on their lives and allowing people to perform their own land reclamation, etc...Madagascar was very tough, very tough

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place to live. Zambia was really amazing. Those were the good years - age nine to 17; the really good fun formative years. But that (missionary work) is not really up my alley. If I'm going to make a difference, in terms of faith and religion ... and bringing people over, it is going to be very in different places, and a very different style ... I am less of a proselytizer and more of a "let me live by example" type dude.

Here at Canyon Voices, we salute Jared Strange for bringing his art to the level of missionary work.

Read Jared's poem "Prague by Night"

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | NORMAN BERT

The Meaning Of Life And Other Useless Questions: The Musings Of Norman Bert

By Harper Macneill

Dr. Norman A. Bert, PhD, is a man steeped in theatre; after all he is the go-to guy who teaches playwriting and dramatic analysis at Texas Tech University. Norman Bert has 30-some play scripts under his belt, including Riders of the Golden Sphinx published by Baker’s Plays of Boston, America Shows Her Colors, selected for production by Inner Voices Social Issues (University of Illinois), and Scenes from a Romance, showcased by ATHE’s PlayWorks program.

just aspects of themselves... and I people the stage with all these souls. What I do is split myself up; I implode... and all those little fragments tear around inside of me like crazy, and become the characters."

We are honored to have Dr. Bert funny play Haboob, in our magazine this spring; and so we asked him "Which character do relate most to in your play?' This is what he told us:

Those characters I like the most...but I also sympathize with Ray, the boss, who just wants to get the job done and can't be bothered with all these weirdos who are showing up on his job site...so I relate to all of them, I think..."

"If I'm not writing plays, I wonder what I'm doing...it's a way of thinking, organizing my world...it's a way of keeping my sanity so to speak. You know, when a playwright writes a play, all the characters come out of the playwright, so they're all little bits and pieces of the playwright. Here it is, I have it actually...this is written by Tina Howe... and she said:

I think that's a really accurate depiction of where characters come from. So which of the characters do I most associate with? I guess the characters I like the most are Jake and Rose...and to a certain extent Carlos.

Read Norman's Play Haboob here

"I think it's true of most playwrights, that their characters male and female, young and old, are

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SPRING 2014

AUTHORS ALCOVE | OSCAR MANCINAS

The Poet Funnyman: Getting Down To Basics With Comedian/Poet Oscar Mancinas

By Harper Macneill

Poet Oscar Mancinas, is one of Arizona's own, a native son that skillfully mixes a love for comedy, with a talent for writing poetry.

According to Oscar, he has been writing his whole life, but within the last three years he says he has really dedicated substantial time and effort to the craft. And then there is comedy....Oscar found that he is a comedian. So how is poetry like stand-up comedy? That's the question we put to him. It turns out the similarities are greater than you expect! Listen to the response he told us click here to listen to Oscar's response Transcript: "The beauty and also wanting to write is that nobody can fire you from writing but also no one hires you for writing...it's like all art forms, it's like one of those things you do it and you are in it until you decide to quit. You know with poetry you've got...you have...you know the most famous poems are obviously like grand extended metaphors...like the poetry of Langston Hughes; a lot of music metaphors between jazz and those kind of things.. and also license and struggle...and that sort of thing. And comedy, it's very much "How do I take this big sort of societal norm, that everyone just kind of accepts?"... and go "This isn't normal!"...or this shouldn't be normal because if you dig beneath the surface, it's kind of insane that we all accept this as fact...and the metaphor comes in. And in poetry

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Read Oscar's poem Untitled 2

you kind of just want to want the metaphor to work. When you come to comedy you want it to be funny. you want the laughs more than anything else. I don't know, the thing about poetry is it is exceedingly difficult to write in. I do enjoy it but whenever I do manage to write a poem that I'm happy with, or even satisfied with... it really is like catching lightning in a bottle...because...I don't know...it's like all the different genres of writing its the one that is most dependent on understanding not only content and flow, but also structure and line... and rhythm you have to conscious things when you are writing them...even when you are writing something as short as the poem I submitted to Canyon Voices."

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | PATRICIA FRIEDRICH

Carnival: ASU Professor An Interview with Patricia Friedrich

By Bruce Kimura

What is a linguist? Let's take it up a notch; what is a socio-linguist? Well a linguist studies language. A sociolinguist studies how language affects and is affected by language. ASU Professor Patricia Friedrich is a sociolinguist who brings her unique discipline into her writing skills. A native of Brazil, Professor Friedrich weaves the language of her stories into a tapestry of beautiful words; a carnival of literature. In an interview with Bruce Kimura, Professor Friedrich talks about how she first began writing..

Tell me a little background information about yourself.

My earliest memory of being conscious that writing involved skill is from 1st grade, when I won an essay competition. But for a long time after that, writing was a school task and then a university one. It was only in grad school that I realized I was a writer. And it was only after my PhD that I thought of writing fiction.

Do you have a writing routine?

I like to write in the morning, and I like to drink coffee while I write. I think it is as important to have a routine as it is to change it from time to time. When you sit at a different place or listen to a different kind of music, you access your creativity in different ways too.

What inspires you as a writer?

Words mostly. I love crafting sentences. I also love the feeling of stepping into an alternate universe, and writing allows you to do just that.

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What was difficult about writing this piece?

The story was fairly simple and common, almost cliche really, so I wanted it to be all about the language. I wanted language to make it less commonplace. It occurred to me when I was doing the laundry, and I just let the story take me where it wanted to go.

Your piece was concise, and every word was well placed. Can you tell us a little bit about the editing process? Did this piece have numerous drafts?

I usually write linearly, but I think each writer should find their method. I do believe in process writing, so certainly this piece went through several drafts. I love working with a word limit, and this was written with 1,000 words in mind. I also like to challenge myself to write exactly 1,000 words for flash fiction. This causes me to consider if every word is really necessary. Good flash fiction is like a shot of good espresso: you have to pack everything in a small space (or cup)!

I know you are bilingual. Do you have a language that you prefer writing in more?

Why? I am actually trilingual, and I am now so happy to be learning my 4th language -- French. I feel more at ease writing in English because it has always been my work language even if Portuguese is my mother tongue. I think Portuguese is a beautiful language, great for

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | PATRICIA FRIEDRICH

music and poetry, so I look forward to writing more in it one day.

Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?

In your opinion, what quality makes good fiction stand out?

Write. If your heart is really into it, find the time.

Write and rewrite. No writing you do is every wasted. It either turns into a more finished draft, or it teaches you something about the craft.

Write even if you feel you are not inspired. Just write.

If it causes you to be late because you can't put it down, the writer did something right. I love when it is polished and you know work went into more than invention. Edits and rewrites are very important.

Are you currently working on anything?

Read Patricia Friedrich's short story "Wet Bleach and Forget" here.

I have a few drafts started. I have quite a bit of non-fiction being published soon, so it is hard to focus on fiction at the same time. But I always find a few minutes every day in the very least.

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SIHASIN

Chasing Hope: An Interview With International Hit Rock Band Sihasin

By Harper Macneill

In 2012, I spent an entire semester looking at a unique musical genre of rock music that is popular in Europe, but very little about this type of rock known here in the U.S. By odd circumstance, this rock genre is indigenous to the United States.The unique rock sound I am talking about, is born of the passion of indigenous people driven from their homeland; it pulsates with the heartbeat of Native American drums; and a yearning for freedom and recognition. This music is Native American rock, and if you haven't heard it, you are in for a treat.

The internationally acclaimed rock band Sihasin, has graciously allowed Canyon Voices to link to their sites. The word Sihasin, is Dine (Navajo) for "HOPE." The brother and sister duo, Jeneda and Clayson Benally, are natives of our state. They have given us an exclusive interview about finding their place in Arizona culture, and what they hope you will gain from listening to their music. It has long been said that after anger comes hope. The Native Peoples in our nation have been badly treated and abused. Yet the music of Sihasin reminds us that we are all children of mother earth, and as such, our lives are inexorably intertwined.

The Benallys have thoughtfully provided Canyon Voices with links to their websites, so you can listen to their songs. Once

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you read the transcript and listen to their interview, please scroll to the bottom of the article for more information; I hope you will all become as big a fan as I am. Please enjoy the music of Sihasin. -Harper Read the interview with Sihasin on the next page.

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SIHASIN

Question: Tell our readers a little bit about music in your lives growing up, and the history of your band.

Jeneda: So, Sihasin has been together as a formal band for two years...but Clayson and I have grown up playing music together, our entire lives; since our instruments were bigger than we were.

Clayson: It (Sihasin) is a Navajo word, and it means "HOPE," and for myself and my sister...playing music for over 22 years as Blackfire, we went through a lot of transitions...and for me the energy of this music is almost a counter to a whole imbalance of energy...so..it's about... I guess it's kinda hard for me to describe, because... you know, when you grow, and you learn, and you acquire new skills... and being a parent, and being a dad...you know, I have a whole new perspective than when I was kind of a young punk rocker...You know for me this step...with Sihasin is about loving, nurturing, being more...uh... there for our community, using the music as a healing tool...and vehicle to just inspire...and give strength back to our people Question: How does being from Arizona fit into your music?

Jeneda: It's interesting that you should ask Arizona fits into it...You know, as indigenous people it's really how...how, how we connect with our homeland...our traditional homeland...because we as indigenous people have been under constant attack, in terms of our culture, our language, our land base, our uh... our identity...our language...everything about who we are as a traditional, land-based, indigenous person, has been under attack for so long...that for me, this...the music that we make as Sihasin ...is a pro...in the way that I see it is a kind of proactive approach...uh, because we need to start nurturing our youth; we need to empower our youth; and we need to inspire our youth...to be that positive change; to make that positive

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change that we need in our communities right now...And so I feel like all across America, indigenous people have been under attack, but then, with our parents generation and the future generations, now is the time that we need to transform that, and utilize whatever tools we can, in order to ensure that will have cultural survival.

Question: Would you say Arizona is a microcosm of the bigger world and how it views indigenous peoples?

Clayson: Our music in Sihasin is a direct reflection of our environment. Our song called Move Along, which is about the issues at the border, and how as indigenous people...and of course we're Navajo...we call ourselves Dine... and we recognize that there were never any formal forms of boundaries...we do not own the earth; we belong to it!...You know, these are things a traditional person understands...and the concept of land ownership, and controlling, and resource extraction...all of those things we see destroying our world, our culture, our livelihood...you know, its reflected in our music...of course it's something that being an Arizona native, in a state that sometimes has racist policies that have been trying to exterminate language, culture...um... you know ...destroy our water...tables...extract uranium, use our people's resources...you know our music is a kind of response to that.

Question: Your music is passionate, tell our readers what you are passionate about.

Jeneda: That, the genocide we're are talking about, I think you find that all over the world; where ever there is an indigenous community...um ... there is this exploitation from outside interests...regarding our environment, regarding our people, regarding our culture...um the natural resources that lie under our traditional homelands.

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AUTHORS ALCOVE | SIHASIN

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Click links below to view Sihasin videos

Move Along Take a Stand Mean Things State of Emergency Hoop Dance with Joe Benally At ASU Global Justice Teach-in To Contact Sihasin: Tacoho Productions Email: bertabenally@gmail.com

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